April (My manager): “Hey, can these two move to another table? They have some friends over there and want to sit next to them.”
Customer: “Yea, it’s nothing against you, it’s just that we…”
Me: “Dude, it’s alright. I’d do the same thing.”

(They leave)

Female Customer at table: “I thought that was very rude.”
Me: “Uh…huh?”
Wife: “The way you and your manager talked about them in front of them.”
Me: “I…uh…don’t get it?”
Wife: “And you gave them a thumbs up when they left. Very rude.”
Me: (Confused)
Wife: “And that LOOK you’re giving me! That’s rude TOO!”
Me: “Ma’am, I’m giving you the same look your husband is.”
Wife: “You can’t back me up just once, can you?”
Husband: “Check, please.”

Last week, I had a Russian family of four that looked like they had just jumped off the last potato wagon coming to America. The father had the thickest Russian accent I had encountered in my time at my Japenese restaurant and the mother had an even thicker aroma of vodka coming from lips. The family huddled around their bowls of fried rice like they were bonfires in downtown Moscow on a winter night.

And if this family is indicative of Russian hospitality it’s no wonder Hitler turned his back on those guys halfway through World War II. This family was beyond rude. “Is dis ze only vod-KA you have?! That is incomprehensible!” They rang up a bill of 65 dollars and tipped me two.

Listen, guys. You went to space first. You developed nuclear weapons and built a civilization on a huge sheet of ice. I know you guys can figure that’s no better than a 3% tip.

As they left, my manager April informed me that one of them had left their jacket. My initial reaction was to throw that thing away in the server’s trash can behind the kitchen curtain. But then I had a better idea.

I went outside, tracked down the mother and father, and said:

“When you left your three percent tip you also left your jacket. Have a great night.”

The mother looked confused. The father looked furious. The kids were eating turnips or whatever it is small Russian children do. I just walked inside.

I thought about saying “Don’t tread on me” but I thought that a bit too much.

In our restaurant, we get a lot of “regular couples”; men and women that come in at least once a week, sit at the same table and order relatively the same thing.

We have a “regular couple” that sits at the sushi bar every Friday just about. The man has a ponytail longer than Barbie’s and the wife is always drunk and kissing on her husband like Mr. Ed on Wilbur Post.

Well, only one half of the “regular couple” came in: the husband. He was escorted by a woman that, in her 30’s probably looked mightily hot but in her late 40’s looked like she had a leather wallet for a vagina. Her face was torn up from all the cigarettes she’d smoked and her forehead was in complete juxtaposition to the rest of her wrinkled body from what I’m guessing was three-too-many Botox injections.

They also entered the building and proceeded to kiss each other as sloppily as a horse would kiss another horse.

In short, she was ugly. Sadly she looked better than his wife.

As they sat down, our waitress who had served there the longest, Sami, came up and asked me:

Sami: “Where’s his wife? Who’s that woman?”
Me: “I have no idea. At least she looks better than his wife.”
Sami: “He has new girlfriend. Cheating?”
Me: “I guess. Are they good tippers?”
Sami: “No.”
Me: “Damn.”

So I took their order and as I was serving them, I noticed something:

He was wearing his wedding ring. On the same hand that she was kissing.

You women want to know why men cheat? There’s no deep sociological or psychological meaning. It has nothing to do with upbringing or class or race or economic level. Men cheat for the simple fact that they can. Men cheat because there are desperate enough women with leather-y enough vaginas that ruin it for the rest of you girls. Men cheat because they know they can have it both: a woman at home to always rely on and a woman to have an exciting and nervous fuck with.

So the two left and as they drunkenly stumbled out of the restaurant, I saw the man get a phone call. I sincerely hope it wasn’t his wife at home. With their two kids. Counting the minutes until she’d have him home to provide the steady breathing on her neck so that she could fall asleep as comfortably as she had for however many years they’d been together.

Kind of sickening when I think about it that way.

Every now and again, I’m going to bring back an older post that many of you frequenting my site may not have had the opportunity to read. Here is one of them now:

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.