November 19 - The Sushi Cunts

I treated Lauren to a belated birthday dinner.
We chose Sushi Mike's, where Mike Sushi makes sushi.
It's a favorite of hers, now meaning ours.

We sat at the bar.
It was Friday and busy.
Mike Sushi seemed preoccupied.
With getting drunk.
At least he was a happy drunk.
That's the kind of drunk you want brandishing knives.
Mike Sushi also seemed preoccupied with the group next to us.
A gaggle of drunk trixies.
The kind that all go out in a uniform of blue jeans and white tees.
White teases.
We endured their grating cacophony of upward inflections.
And waited.

An apologetic looking server opened our bottle of wine.
We sipped on that for a while.
And waited some more.
The sushi trixies gave Sushi Mike another bottle of their beer.
They laughed in flat, ugly cackles and blathered on about screechy nothing.
I felt my teeth grinding.
The apologetic looking server took our order.
We opted for "The Mike Sushi".
That's where you list things you like and don't like.
Then Sushi Mike makes tailored sushi magic!
We were excited that our order was being taken.

While pouring our second glass of wine, we felt the periphery of the sushi trixies staring and laughing at us.
When we met their judgmental stare, they quickly looked away and stifled their giggles.
Lauren was wearing her pilgrim dress.
I was donning my diabolical goatee.
Yes, we looked like Satanists.
But the sushi trixies decided that was "gay".
Their pickled, snake-faced laughter transported us back to high school.
Or even junior high.
It was gross.
So we changed their names to "the sushi cunts".

I stared back at the sushi cunts and held it.
They were gross.
I put on a pair of X-ray glasses and observed them some more.
Their hearts were the size of tiny penises.
And they had fake tits for brains.
Interesting.

Sushi Mike broke the tension by fawning over their malicious flirting.
Remember when a popular girl would make fun of a dork by pretending to think he's cute?
This is what the sushi cunts were doing to Sushi Mike.
Selling him fictitious pussy.
And he was buying.
He fed each of the sushi cunts' mouths with his chopsticks.
"You get the big one!" he funnied to one of them.
They all laughed at the originality of the joke.
Then one of the sushi cunts spoke louder than the other sushi cunts.
"I FEEL CHEATED CUZ I GOT THE LITTLE ONE!"
Our wine bottle was almost empty and we hadn't eaten a thing.

It had become a horrible birthday dinner.
But we decided to accept it.
So we let horror lead the way.
"Maybe we'll get a story out of it."

Eventually, a dish arrived.
It was good yum yum etc.
But it was the same Mike Sushi original that we had the last time.
Oh.
So he was phoning it in for us.
While we were re-eating his personalized creation, a woman on her way out shook her head shamefully at Sushi Mike.
Then the table behind us murmured about the lack of service.
We commiserated, though it was hard to hear over all the amateur innuendo from Mike Sushi & The Sushi Cunts.
The apologetic looking server apologized and gave us a free dish of sushi remnants.
"I'm sorry.  He's really drunk tonight."

Finally, the cunts left.
They took their queefy stench with them.
A blue glow pulsed under Sushi Mike's apron.
He staggered around, clumsily cranking out more careless sushi.
He attempted to have a conversation with us, but sentences weren't happening for him.
He knew he had fucked up, but he was too fucked up to amend it.
We nodded and smiled.
He stumbled over to other tables for unexpected visits like Drunkzilla, decimating the art of conversation.

We sighed and put on our coats.
Sushi Mike had become The Wizard of Oz.
Behind his curtain were just a few plates of sushi.
And an endless mirage of carnal hallucinations.

He intercepted us at the door.
"I'm moving.  Got to move," he slurred.
Poor Sushi Mike.

It was a horrible night.
But sometimes horror is fun.

Verdict: Win