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.

I would normally put other people’s stories in the “Reader’s Idiots” section but because this is a story about MY idiots at MY restaurant written by a friend of mine, I thought I’d share it with everyone. Just goes to show that I’m not just ridiculously intolerant and that douchebag-ery is sensed on a universal level. So here goes. Thanks for the story, Cary.

First off, you are never at work when I go there. You suck.

Secondly, my friend and I went last night and as soon as the these people came to sit down next to us, you could just tell it was going to be fun. The waitress comes up and asks for their drinks orders and the man goes, “I want water and we want the thing with the shrimp and . . . the shrimp and all the rice and stuff. We’re going share it.” He said this pointing to his suspiciously mail-order looking wife and 100% Caucasian daughter.

The waitress proceeds to tell him, as I know it says on the menu, that sharing isn’t allowed due to the limited seating at the tables.

”No, no, that don’t make no sense, we do this all the time.”

The waitress continues to try and explain and eventually, politely, puts her foot down and says she cannot do it, but if he would like to speak to a manager, she would gladly get her.

“Yeah, you go and get me that manager then.”

So she does and the manager tells him the exact same thing.

To which the man scoffs, “Whatever, let’s just go!”

And off they went, but not without a few more grumbles about how ridiculous and unfair the world is.

Thought I’d share.

And damn it, be there when I’m hungry next time! :p

P.S. A little update as we are almost a week into the contest: There’s quite a few of you doing some linkage, so thanks for that. Here’s the leaders so far:

First Place - The Red Lobster Blog
Second Place - Chimera’s Cavern
Third Place - 10% Is Not Enough
Fourth Place - Think, Sarah, Think
Fifth Place - Blame Coffee

Thanks for all who are participating. Hope to see some movers and shakers in the coming weeks. If you don’t know how to play, click here.

Last weekend, we had a party of older women and who I’m guessing were their grandchildren. They sat at one of those tables that seats anywhere from 8 to 10 people and the chef cooks in front of them.

When you get your meal cooked in front of you, the chef likes to talk to the customers. Joke, talk about where the customer is from, why they like their meat medium rare; stupid shit that gets a better tip for them and us.

A running joke among most of our chefs is to make the noise of the animal from where the meat came from (filet mignon: moo, chicken: cluck, etc…). When you get to the last person, you “meow” to imply that we’re serving you cat. Cute joke, huh?

Anyway, Kevin, one of our better chefs, does the joke every single night. People laugh every single night. Last weekend?

Kevin: (Passing out chicken) “Meow.”
Old Woman: “Excuse me?”
Kevin: “Oh, I’m just kidding around, you know?”
Old Woman: “There’s no kidding around with that.”

She then makes her way up to the bar and proceeds to bitch at our manager, April, about how that’s the “most inappropriate joke [she’d] heard in a long time.” So my friend (and co-worker) John cozy up next to the credit card machine and eavesdrop on the conversation.

Old Woman: “I’ve been in third-world countries and that’s a real reality.”
April: “Ma’am…this isn’t a third-world…”
Old Woman: “And I’m a cat enthusiast.”
April: “A cat enthusiast.”
Old Woman: “A cat enthusiast. And that joke…it just…just sickens me. I’m never coming back here again.”
April: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Guess it didn’t sicken you enough. You stayed at the bar until 45 minutes after closing. A little hint, Mrs. Cat Enthusiast: our sake is really cat urine. We’re living in a third-world country after all.