eat out frequently. I do this because I am lazy and I like to fantasize that the extra refuse I produce in this manner is being dumped by the truckload on a small town in some destitute, third-world country. So I went to Steve's Korean BBQ in Berkeley yesterday. A personal favorite. They make great meat.
There is a line when I arrive. I add myself to it. There are perhaps five people in front of me. Above the cashier is a huge menu. Like "I can read this from the back of the room with my eyes closed" huge. I know what I want but I glance at it anyway. Nothing better to do. I count the number of combos. Why does it go from Combo #27 to Combo #31? What happened to Combo #28? And Combo #29 and 30 for that matter? This is a mystery I must solve later. But for now, I am second in line. Almost there. And then, to my dismay, the tool in front of me looks up at the menu, apparently for the first time.
"Ummmmm...." he says, puzzling over the various combinations of meats and vegetables and rice. "I'll have.... Ummmm...." Oh, my fucking god! I could almost hear the gears grinding to a halt inside his bulbous head. What were you doing in the ten minutes you just spent in line? Fantasizing about your mother? Or enjoying the sensation of the epileptic gerbil I know you have up your ass? Not only did this guy wait until the moment he gets to the front of the line to begin the apparently difficult task of making a culinary selection, but it seems he is indecisive as well. He looks pensive as he strokes his goattee. I hate goatees. They're like pubes for your mouth.
"How about Combo #1... wait, make it Combo #6, BBQ'd pork... does that have pig in it? I can't eat pig." I want to tell him: hurry the fuck up or all that you're going to get is one big steaming plate of Combo number My-Foot-Up-Your-Ass. But I don't. And he goes on: "How do you cook your rice? Do you use long grain or short grain? What brand plastic spoons do you have?" In the back of my head I hope that he will take so long that he starves to death. One less goddamn hippy.
Finally, he makes his decision. Combo #18 with beef. The cashier hits a series of keys on the register, it prints a receipt and displays the total. $6.34. The guy in front of me, let us call him Chode, because that's what he smells like, reaches into his back pocket, whips out his wallet. Soon, I think, this will all be over soon.
He pulls out a five dollar bill, places it gingerly on the counter. Then opens the change pouch of his wallet. Change pouch? Men's wallets don't have change pouches. If you have a penis and your wallet has a change pouch you are a disgrace. Real men do not pay with change, they round everything to the nearest dollar or gold dubloon. The total is $7.08? Here's a twenty, keep the change. Chode digs through the change pouch for some coins. Three quarters. Running total: $5.75. Then four dimes. Running total: $6.10. His pudgy fingers seem to be having some difficulty in locating any more coins. Ah, there's two more dimes. Running total $6.30. And a nickel. Running total: $6.35. No, wait, he says he has some pennies, he puts the nickel back and digs around a bit more. One penny. Two pennies. Three pennies. Running total: $6.33. No more pennies.
Turning to a friend he asks, "Do you have a penny?"
His friend searches in the same slow, deliberate-because-I'm-retarded way. "Here," the friend finally says, "I've got a nickel," as he offers up the coin.
"No, I've got a nickel. I just need a penny. I know I've got one somewhere." Chode checks his right pocket. And his left. And his butt pockets. He checks the inside of his left shoe, and the bottom of his right. There, a penny, stuck to the sole of his shoe with a bit of gum. "Ah, here we are," he exclaims triumphantly as though picking a penny from the gum on the bottom of his My Little Pony velcro walking shoes was the greatest accompishment of his life. Probably was. He places this last coin on the counter jubilantly. Total: $6.34.
The cashier wakes up and takes the money in exchange for the receipt. By this time I've become so frustrated that I've nearly forgotten what I wanted. Chode turns to find a seat and bumps into me. I've had enough. I lifted my eye patch so the bastard could see I meant business.
I coughed. He got all mad and shit. Sometimes when I cough it sounds like I'm saying 'cock sucker'. "What's your problem?" he asked. I hope he knew the answer, because at this point, I felt it was pretty damn obvious. Assuming he already knew the answer to his own question, I said nothing. I just unzipped my fly and pissed all over his leg. I call that a passive-aggressive response. See, I didn't actually do anything to him, per se. I just peed on his leg. But for some reason that still pissed him off further. Then I kicked him in the nuts. He wasn't so much mad anymore as he was in pain. He curled up in a ball on the floor like the fucking pussy he was.
Now that he was out of the way, I stepped up to the cashier and ordered nonchalantly. I hate people.
Copyright © 2003