Rice Foo Chop (part II)

(Please be sure that you have read part I, contained below this entry, before jumping into part II)

Some fun facts about me: As you may have already ascertained, I pride myself on my willingness and ability to speak my mind. In this world of political correctness, all too many people keep their mouths shut for fear of offending someone. I have vowed to never become part of that pansy-ass club. Also, I do not take getting screwed lightly. To quote Andre Romell Young, “You fucked with me, now it’s a must that I fuck with you.” This being stated, I made it a point to give China bitch a piece of my mind after my untimely dismissal. I also made it a point to find everyone that I had convinced just how great that place was over the past month and inform them that I had been lying. These motherfuckers had come to MY town, used me, a local celebrity (see Celebrity Pie), to promote their business, and then dumped me. And who knows where the profits were going? I never saw any of them, not the wok masters, not China bitch, not even Cracker boy, at a single local establishment, throwing around some of the coin generated from the black hole of gratuities. Was it getting funneled back to Denver? To China? I couldn’t be sure, but I was sure of where it was NOT being spent. I made it my personal mission to dissolve the sugar coated reviews I had been passing out like after dinner mints and let my friends and associates know what was really going on at this Szechuan shit show. It angered me that I had to systematically undo all the positive promotion I had done, but at least I had a sudden increase in free time with which to accomplish this task.

That weekend, I had occasion to find myself walking past said establishment at the end of the dinner hour. To be sure, I was coming from one bar and going to the next, and the liquid courage coursed through my veins. Something had to be said, and this was the time. Cracker Boy had actually invited me to come in and talk to him and/or China bitch about their decision to terminate during our Friday morning phone conversation. Now I would take him up on his offer.

I walked in and saw Cracker boy immediately. He was surprised. I was composed, calm, but my eyes shot lasers of psychologically unstable fury. “You wanna talk?”, I asked. He was scared. I could smell it. Hell, I could see it. He had a half full restaurant, and a guy he had just fired wanted to kick his ass in full view of everyone there. He made some excuse with his bungling smile and proceeded to run around waiting on everyone with the rest of the staff. I thought about how funny it would be if he suddenly pissed himself at one of the tables. He didn’t. Pity. I waited, and I waited, and I waited. I leaned on the bar. The staff knew what was up, and they were scared, too. The silence, and my presence, was awkward to say the least. None of them dared speak to me, save for the obligatory “hey” and accompanying head nod. The bartender, who was working my shift, tried to be nice to me, and offered me a drink, bless his sweet little heart. None of this was his fault, but I was having none of his forced courtesy. That bastard was my cheap replacement, and he was making MY money. Fuck him.

Eventually, China bitch emerged from the kitchen, where she was undoubtedly checking the prates for chips, or dicing chicken beaks, or perhaps diddling herself with some chopsticks. As she approached, my fists clenched, and the veins in my arms popped. I was ready to defend myself against any nunchuck or throwing star attack, or the possible foot sweep, a favorite move of mine back in the days of Mortal Kombat played on my Sega Genesis gaming console. When she got to me, I looked down and asked her the same question with which I had scared off Cracker boy. “You wanna talk?”

“Ok, we tark.”

“Do you want to go outside?”

“No, we stay inside.” Out of courtesy to her still ignorant patrons, I asked again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go outside?”

“No have to go outside. Ret’s sit here at high bar. Purr up stoor.”

“As you wish.”

We sat on opposite sides of the high bar. I was full of purpose, but still calm. I reaned in crose. I said to her, “When I got this job, I was excited. I was excited to make this place the best it could be, and to bring my friends here, and to make it successful. My job was to make this the place where everyone in town wanted to go, and I did I pretty damn good job at that. You know it’s true. I had people at my bar every night, and they all had a great time.”

She then started in about some woman who had gotten the wrong dish one night. The woman ordered something from me, but had wanted something else, or it had dog instead of cat, or I don’t know what, but I had apologized and remedied the situation in a prompt and timely manner. Shit like that happens from time to time in a restaurant setting, and all you can do as an employee, as a service representative, is attempt to rectify the situation as quickly as possible, using the all powerful tool of free booze. Whatever happened, it wasn’t a big deal, and everyone left happy, and boozed up, because I made sure of it, but now China bitch was choosing to use this as her excuse for firing me. It didn’t really matter to me, though, because I was not there to beg for my job back. It was quite apparent that this diminutive cunt didn’t like me, and I didn’t like her, and coexistence in a shared workplace was simply not in the cards. After her horseshit story, I continued.

“Look, I made it my job to make this the best restaurant in town. Then you fired me. So do you know what my job is now? Now my job is to make sure that you fail. I will make it my job to ensure your demise here in this town. MY town.”

I then calmly told her to fuck herself in the ass in Italian. I was fairly sure that she did not speak Italian, but what happened next gave me cause to wonder, because after that, right in the middle of that half full restaurant, after I had said my peace, and my defenses were down, that God damned China bitch karate chopped me right on the side of the head. Right on my left ear, to be sure, because I was instantly treated to that “someone just punched me in the ear” sensation of ringing deafness. I jumped off my bar stoor.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? DID YOU JUST HIT ME IN THE FUCKING HEAD? ARE YOU CRAZY, YOU FUCKING BITCH?”

I was now making a scene. I had been assaulted by the owner of the restaurant, though, so it was pretty much my right to make a scene. I was actually kind of stoked that she had cracked me one, because I was thusly given license to freak out like a lunatic in her establishment. I yelled and screamed some more, until I was sure that every single patron in that place had a full, working knowledge of what had just happened, that the owner was a physically abusive, vindictive, miniature battle axe, and, satisfied, I left. I then proceeded to call the cops.

It should be noted here that I am almost never in favor of police involvement. I could have a knock down, drag out fist fight in the middle of the street, and I would not call the cops. Nor would I expect the other combatant to do so. A fight’s a fight. No need for the government to get mixed up in the main event. But in this instance, I was primarily interested in sending a stern message to China bitch, namely, that she could not come to my town, fire me for no good reason, and then karate chop me in the head. Since hitting her back was not an option, I hoped that police involvement might also disclose her status as an illegal alien, should that in fact be the case, and get her shipped back to the iPhone factory from whence she came. I hate calling the cops, but I did, and I waited 25 minutes for them to drive the 3 blocks from the police station to the scene of the crime. I told my story accurately, for I had no reason to embellish. They wrote her a ticket for menacing, whatever the hell that is. Then I went on my way to the next bar, pleased with the outcome of the evening’s events, albeit with my left ear ringing like a gong.

After a week or so, the cops called me and wanted me to come down to the station so that they could charge me with disorderly conduct. China bitch, not surprisingly, had told them that I had come into the House of Roadkill screaming and yelling, which was a far cry from the truth. The cops, of course, believed her, no doubt due to the increased dining discount that they were now receiving. What’s worse, a lawyer friend of mine had taken China bitch’s case for the payment of free lunch for life. See why I hate calling the cops? Small town politics suck. Rather than become embroiled in court appearances, which would no doubt have required me to don a necktie, something to which I am patently opposed, I dropped the charges. I was satisfied that my message had been received loud and clear. My lawyer friend was upset that I was not continuing to press charges, as he was now going to have to pay for lunch like a regular person once again. Sorry, buddy. I’m not wearing a tie.

So that’s how I got canned. Not much has happened since I dropped the charges. The restaurant still exists. My real friends don’t go there anymore. I still have never seen Cracker boy or China bitch spending so much as one American dollar in any other joint in town. And when I talk to the people I know that work there, they confirm that the infamous black hole of gratuities is still very much a part of employment. They hate it, and they know it’s wrong, but they also know that if they were to quit their jobs, no matter how unfair or unjust the owners are, in this shitty economic climate, they’d be fucked. Poor bastards.

The best thing that came from this whole fucked up experience is the song I wrote about it. I sing it with my band whenever and wherever we play. It’s a full thrash metal ditty, replete with minor thirds and diminished fifths. Think Motorhead. I offer to you, gentle reader, the lyrics below, as they are somewhat difficult to decipher in a live concert atmosphere, what with all the screaming.

Rice Foo Chop

Serve your sake all night rong

then you hit me rike a gong

I ask you to talk to me

but you must think that you’re Bruce Ree

I will not do what you wish

because I do not speak Engrish

Learn to say your fucking “L”s

then you can go straight to hell!

Uhh!

Rice Foo Chop!

Rice Foo Chop!

Stupid chopsticks pain in ass

shitty restaurant have no crass

Cracker boyfriend have round eyes

but his dick is Chinese size

Customer will not get fat

when you serve them uncooked cat

Your business it will go away

Welcome to the USA!

Uhh!

Rice Foo Chop!

Rice Foo Chop!

I hope you get to hear this song live some day. Playing it makes me oh so derighted.