Last night was a slow night…made probably 30 bucks. But, as slow nights usually go, I found myself making small talk with random people to try and boost my tips. As I was walking up to one table to take up two women’s dishes, I heard one of them whisper:

“Let’s ask our waiter…he looks like HE’S seen Brokeback Mountain.”

Now let’s stop right there. What is it about me that screams, “This kid’s seen Brokeback Mountain”. Nothing against gay dudes, but I’d rather that not be the first thing running through someone’s head when they see me. Just like all you gay dudes don’t want me popping up in stranger’s heads when they see YOU. I’m sure all you gay dudes understand.

Anyway, as I’m gathering their plates I say, “Excuse me?” with a flirtatious smile on my face because 1) an obviously younger man conveying to an older women that she is attractive is a sure-fire way to get some serious tips and 2) they were actually attractive, and attractive thirty-something moms are my weakness.

Mom 1: “Oh, I’m sorry…I didn’t think you heard me.”
Me: “No, it’s cool. What about me liking ’Brokeback Mountain’?”
Mom 1: “Did you see it?”
Me: “Some of it, yea.”

Backstory: Firstly, my girlfriend suggested it. Secondly, I only watched about 45 minutes of it (butt-sex scene included; only mildly gross). Thirdly, I don’t know why it won an Oscar. Everyone’s talking about how good it was and how revolutionary it’s going to be. It wasn’t “revolutionary”, you idiots, unless “bad acting” is the coming revolution.

Mom 1: “What did you think?”
Me: “Eh…didn’t really like it all that much. You?”

With that simple response, I pretty much doomed whatever tip they were going to give me.

Mom 1: “What didn’t you like about it? Was it because it was about gays?”
Me: “No. It just wasn’t good.”
Mom 2: (whispers and mumbles) “Homophobe.”
Me: “I’m not a homophobe. I’m a bad-movie-a-phobe.”

I dare anyone to tell me that that movie was good and deserved an Oscar. The only thing that flick had going for it was the cameo appearance made by Randy Quaid. And the fact that you get at least seven minutes of Anne Hathaway and Michelle Williams (that chick from Dawson’s Creek) boob-action combined in the first hour.

In the words of my girlfriend, both pair are “spec-freakin’-tacular”. Check it out.

So I go to see a movie yesterday afternoon before work and on the drive from the theatre to my restaurant, I come to a red light at a major intersection. Outside of my driver’s side window is a man collecting change for some relief effort sponsored by a local baptist church.

The man collecting change and I lock eyes so I know it’s inevitable that he’ll come up to my window. Without hestitation, I roll down the window and reach into my pocket for whatever change I have. As I am about to drop the change into the man’s bucket, the man says, “Is that all you can spare, man?”

Me: “What?”
Baptist: “You ain’t go no mo’ change?”

Is this guy kidding me? There’s obvious silver in whatever change I’m giving him, and even if I just gave him one nickel, it’s a nickel more than he had five seconds ago. So I say, “Sorry I bothered you,” roll up my window, and look ahead of me; making it obvious I’m ignoring the sweating, 50-year old black man outside my car. Serves you right, pal. Maybe next time you won’t hold random motorists to such high standards of giving out change.

P.S. Sir, I don’t think Christ would approve of your use of the middle finger as I drove away.

Everyone at work smokes. So, naturally, I pretend I do to have an excuse to go out back every hour or so for a few minutes to get away from the people demanding sprinkles and coffee (which we don’t have, lady).

Anyways, I go outside and our new head sushi chef, Mr. Han, is out there smoking a cigarette. He used to work only one or two days a week, but our head sushi guy (i’m not kidding) got sick of America and decided to go back to South Korea. Way to weigh your options, pal.

As I walk outside, Mr. Han taps me on the shoulder, points to a jet in the sky and says “Plane.”

“Yea. It sure is,” I reply.

He then pantomimes jumping out of an airplane, points to himself and says, “Me. Uh…South Korean special forces.”

Me: “You jumped out of planes? How many times?”
Mr. Han: “Uh…three…four hundred times?”
Me: “Damn.”
Mr. Han: “In South Korea…20, 21, 22…you in army.”
Me: “How long were you in the army?”
Mr. Han: “Three years…four years…five years.”
Me: “Did you ever kill anyone?”
Mr. Han: “Uh…14…15?”

Holy frickin’ crank. With just this exchange, Mr. Han has already reached a level of badass I will never attain. But there’s more:

Mr. Han: “I not know for sure…”
Me: “Why not?”

He then thinks it over and then (no lie) makes a “throwing a grenade” motion and then shrugs his shoulders to suggest he doesn’t know how many North Koreans he killed because he just wildly threw grenades around on the battlefield.

Mr. Han, thank you for being such an amazing man.

I’m not a spokesperson for a healthy lifestyle. I eat barbeque like there’s no tomorrow. And sometimes, my roommates and I will enlist my girlfriend’s purse’s help at Chick-Fil-A’s all-you-can-eat-nugget-night. But people, don’t you find it a bit self-defeating when you ask me if the Tempura Ice Cream is fat-free but then request that we:

“…make sure to put extra chocolate sauce on top.”

And a diet coke doesn’t make it alright, dude.

P.S. I don’t care if you DO speak with our manager. The fact that we do not have sprinkles is NOT going to change. Jesus.