February 14, 2004
POST-COLONIAL GUILT, BITE-SIZED
Ah, a fine repast tonight. Sushi, delivered to my door. Tuna, yellowtail, octopus, with California rolls for Skeeter. I must submit that when you can get a Chinaman to deliver Japanese food to your door you do, indeed, live in the land o' plenty, and the land o' guilt. Don't get me wrong. My purveyor of bait definitely got the better of me, and I have the receipt to prove it. And I don't believe Chinaman is a racist term. He was male, he's from China.
I go round and round with these illegal aliens. My main beef is they let their two-year-old drive his Big Wheel all around the strip mall parking lot. I've almost clipped him twice. With a video store, a Chinese take-out, a liquor store, a tanning salon, and a Huddle House, that shopping center is a one stop fuck me shop. (Yes, I indoor tan on occasion. My theory is it's better to get your Vitamin D and ultraviolet rays in measured doses. It cuts down on sunburn, which is the true culprit in skin cancer. Of course, right now I look like the seedy underside of that octopus I just ate).
So I raise hell with these Chinese shitheads for letting their kid play Deathwish v.2004, and they pretend to not understand English, while I know they're putting me on their spitlist ("smartass American cocksucker! Watch this! Fucker don't tip, neither!") That's my other gripe. You go in for a take-out, they expect a tip. I have their tip: learn the fucking language, learn you don't get a tip on take-outs, and keep your kid out of the street. Oh, and quit spitting on my food.
The tuna was excellent, however. Thanks, my yellow peeps.