I understand. My last name is Japanese. It’s not Smith or Jones. So I’ll give you a pass if you pronounce it incorrectly. Within limitations. If you throw out a Ow-gay-tah or even an Aug-uttuh, at least you are using the correct letters in the proper sequence.
But from time to time, I’ll get people who decide to add letters of their own. I’ve heard Orgata, Ortega and even Ottawa. Seriously? WTF? Ottawa? How do you survive day-to-day being this illiterate? Just the other day, I got “Goat-atta”. Come on, that sounds like something they serve at the Afghanistan Taco Bell. As in, “Try the new crunchy, cheesy, Goatatta!”
People, stop being lazy assholes.
Is it me? Can’t be. Idiots even get my first name wrong. It’s in the Bible, and one of the easy ones too… not Hezekiah. I think I project and enunciate well enough. But the problem happens everytime I’m at a restaurant or someplace where the “hostess” asks for my name. As TV Guide would say, “assholery ensues.”
Me: I need a table for two.
Ho: Okay, for how many?
Me: … [breaks fourth wall and stares at camera]
Me: Two.
Ho: Can I get a name?
Me: Paul.
Ho: Did you say “Ball”?
Yeah. Fricking ball. Seriously, how many people in this underachieving whore’s life has she run into named Ball? It continues…
Me: No, Paul.
Ho: Can you spell that?
Me: Peeee… Ayyyy… Youuuu… Elll….
Ho: Oh, Paul. It’s going to be a 20 minute wait.
Use your common sense. Even if someone told me their name and it sounded like “Bitchard”, I would ask, “Did you say Richard?” And guess what? Roughly 97 times out of 100 they will say, “Yes, Richard.” (The other 3 out of 100 times, the person has crazy douchebags for parents.)
So the next time I’m confronted with one of these non-listening turds, here’s the plan:
Me: I need a table for two.
Ho: Can I get a name?
Me: Brrrtpulupulu-g-g-g-ng (insert click noise).
Ho: Burple… chuggalugga… You know what? Let me see if I can get you table right now.
Problem solved.
I was on the receiving end of some of the strangest racism ever.
The other day I walked into an ice cream shop. (Because I love ice cream. And because they hate it when you tunnel up into their shop.) For the sake of protecting the identity of the store, let’s just call it “Cold’s Tonec Reamery”. After all, it wasn’t the company I had a run-in with, but the girl behind the counter.
Ice cream is my weakness. I’ll give you an example: let’s say for some reason I ate an entire horse, and was full to the point where my burps smelled like saddle. I’d be like, “uuuuuuuuurp!” And you would say, “Ew what the crap is that rancid smell?” And I’d be all, “My friend Flicka.” Then a hoof would fall out of my mouth. And my stomach was so stretched out that you could hear the skin going, “kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.” I would still eat a bowl of ice cream if it was near. Then I’d explode. That’s how much I love ice cream.
So I get to the “Reamery” and attempted to order some vanilla ice cream. Here’s my exchange with the tweaker meth-head girl behind the counter.
TMHG: Yes?
Me: Yeah, I need a small vanilla ice cream please.
TMHG: No.
Me: What?
TMHG: No.
Me: Yes.
TMHG: No. I’m not serving you ice cream.
Me: Okay…? What, are you out of vanilla?
TMHG: Asians are lactose intolerant.
Me: Not me.
TMHG: No, all Asians are.
Me: What?! Bitch, just give me a small cup of vanilla ice cream.
TMHG: I’m not going to be responsible for that.
What I said next should not be repeated in a public forum like this, because kids read this shit, and fuck that, you know?
Anyway, to make a long story longer, I told her I hoped her pierced eyelid, which was infected, got worse and it made her vagina fall off. Then I vowed to turn her in to the Cold’s Tonec Reamery management. So if the President of the Reamery is reading, she’s the tweaker meth-head girl with the infected pierced eyelid. And I should have taken her picture to send to management because, as you know, all Asians have camera equipment on them.
