Gents:

As I went to my usual Thursday ’spot-du-dejeuner”, Sushi Wave in Costa Mesa, I was filled with a wonderful air of hope. First, it’s Thursday, the week is nearly over and it’s almost time to let loose with a couple of Miller High Lives on the week-end. Second, I have a bit of a sore throat (maybe it’s that “seein’ to” I gave to the Brother who works the door at Buzz in Lido, I don’t know), and I was looking forward to some green tea and miso soup to make Campbell’s soup turn away in its inability to comfort me in my time of need. Sorry, it was time to move on. Contributing tertiarily to my hope content was the promise of some enchanting eye-candy to take more than a cursory look at across the sushi bar from me as I eat the heads of my prey, the ever-feared Ama-Ebi.

Enter The Dragon

Work with me here, as I attempt to paint a picture of the only individuals capable of ruining my usual Savantesque drive to enjoy raw fish on a Thursday afternoon. I walk in to the bar and the place is packed. It’s seeping with clam, and I don’t just mean the mirugai, my friends. Now, I’m as tolerant of the testosterone-laden comments and increases in volume/pitch that are deemed necessary by those male individuals who, 30 years prior, pitched no-hitters and injected their arses with unique chemical compounds such as Dyanabol or Winstrol so that they could get an extra 250 lbs. of weight off the ground while performing squats, as the next guy who chooses not to act that way (which is not tolerant in the least). I can even handle the accompanying “High-Fives” that inevitably follow a beer. Enter four, middle-aged, corpulent, sack-suit-saddled, Collections Department middle-managers with an afternoon to kill between pinching the admin’s ass and catching UPN’s discussion of (WWF) The Rock’s latest best-seller at 6:00 PST. They proceed to sit themselves “around” their chairs, as I don’t believe that semantically, the word “on” would be appropriate application herein, since these fellows’ collective ass-weight would exceed a tare weight of approx. 3 metric tonnes. The first of these four individuals proceeds to rattle off his alcoholic beverage order for the group. “Gimme four Kai-rin I-CHI-ban and two big bottles o’ HOT SAW-ke!!!”, he yells across the restaurant, a la Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets”. I knew right then that I was in for a real treat with these Gyrovagi. He then turns to the sushi chef/proprietor and yells to him (mind you, he is a maximum of THREE (3) feet away from him), in a manner more be-fitting an outburst from a fan to a player at a sporting event, “J.J.!!! Dos ma-GU-ro por favor!!!”.

Hmm…

I then thought to myself, “Why, aren’t they smart, these four mongoloids can speak another language. But I wonder, do they know that they aren’t in a Latin-based culinary establishment. i.e.: They aren’t at Taco Bell on the way back from their weekend job at Men’s Wearhouse.

Move 39, Drunken Monkey Swings Tail:

Fortunate for me, I was seated next to the most rotund of the group. Equally fortunate for him, he had absolutely not one iota of an idea that, outside of his prison cell there exists a concept (albeit most likely mea culpa, but still, I like to NOT touch people I don’t know in restaurants) called Personal Space. Not less than 18 times did his forearm rest on my serving tray before I had to spray it with a dousing of soy sauce and wasabi, or lean my freshly-poured and steaming cup of hot tea against his arm. After approx. 20 minutes of banter at extraordinarily high volumes, my newfound straight-man decided to open up to me and show his interest in my welfare. “How’s the fish here?”, he asked. “Good”, I replied, “Try the veal”. He scrunched the hair formations directly above his primordial ridge in utter confusion and didn’t respond with so much as a “Huh?”, which I wholeheartedly wished for.

He then exhibited a further desire to learn more about me, since the way he figured it, even though we were sitting next to each other, his body mass was completely eclipsed my presence, thereby making it extremely difficult to place my orders in a civilized manner, and I would probably perish soon from the combined effects of lack of sunlight and starvation. “So, what do you do?”, he inquired. “I’m a shepherd.”, I replied, without making eye-contact, as the last time I attempted eye-contact, this cretin presumably thought I was “stealing his soul” with my Third Eye. I could, however, feel his frustration with this answer. Contrary to what one might think, though, I knew his frustration lie not with my sarcasm, but with the fact that my answer was mono-syllabic.

Exeunt:

I grew tired of dealing with a Faulknerian man-child on my arm and trying to place my order over the Party Guys’ festivities and asked for my check. Upon its settlement, my new boy-toy asked, “Are you leaving already?” I replied, “No.” and walked out the door.

Friends, don’t let this happen to us as we get older and (God forbid) fatter. Let’s make a pact not to act like Pendleton refugees with bad credit and a Ford Focus in the carport. Let’s all try to be the cl-ASS-y guys we are.

Thank you and Good-Night