Spring Roll Pimpin'

At a bar no longer than an average hallway, and in width only about half as wide, I sat with a friend and said no words of worth, while whiskey was mixed with beer and cokes. And so we sat, we drank, and we smoked - barely showing any signs of...life.

The air was thick with cigarettes and chatter. I used to hate the chatter, the random yelps in two or three other languages - ear piercing, nauseating shrills, their fucking staccato flicks of the tongue...but after a dozen or so drinks everything is just a buzz. Communication became a vague haphazardly recognizable hand signal that in all its simplicity conveyed the single most important message..."one more."

Thinking back on all that, my life was a little picturesque...not like in an awesome "Trainspotting" kind of way, hell, not even in a niche Steve Buscemi kind of way...it was more like a not even good by "B movie" standards, Lou Diamond Phillips kind of way. You know, the kind of movie where the supporting actors make it almost ok, but you can't get over Lou Diamond Phillips' extremely large and round face, accented with really teeny eyes and anorexic lips.

Actually, I take that back. My life was nothing like a Lou Diamond Phillips movie. I just really wanted to work in how much I hate Lou Diamond Phillips movies. I wasn't really sure how it would happen though - it almost worked.

There was this one time in Southern California, I was sitting in my cubicle, absolutely racked with anxiety, uneasiness, and complete unrest. I had a saying in my head that I just couldn't find a way to get out. "It's a little wet outside eh?" Nope, couldn't say it there. "Hey Miguel, the hot gymnastics coach is handing out bon bons!" Sadly, I couldn't use it there either.

Five or so hours go by and I catch a ride with one of my managers to Panda Express. For those of you not in the know, it's like a commercialized chinese fast food chain restaurant. And, while you can order large quantities of a particular item, via family style dining, they offered plate specials where you can pick a la carte a billion, yes a billion, items to make a styrofoam bushel of unnaturally colorful foods that kind of look familiar, but kind of looked alien enough to have you believe there could be a little cat in there. (holy runoff sentence batman!)

Anyways, I went about ordering my food, "I'll take the neon purple eggplant with the gooey brown sauce, and a scoop of the safety cone orange chicken, and..."

There it was, the last one, perfectly crispy, deliciously golden brown - the lone spring roll. "Gimme that spring roll!"

Now in all my excitement, I nearly forgot about the saying I had stuck in my head. My manager soon followed in line, distressed, upset, shocked, and unbelieving, "Miguel! You fucker! You took the last spring roll!" To which I gladly replied in my best Chris Tucker voice, "Don't hate the playa...hate the game." Of course I simultaneously made a fake gun gesture with my left hand and poked at his styrofoam cornucopia overflowing with monosodium glutamate (that's msg).

Ahh, it felt good. We had a good laugh, and he even made a comment about how I must've been dying to say that for so long. I don't know how he knew...but I did. I can't get over how awesome it made me feel. It wasn't necessarily up to ejaculatory standards, but you know that shiver you get when you pee? Yea, it was kinda like that, minus the part where it makes you miss the bowl entirely. Speaking of which, you ever clean your bathroom and go, "How the fuck did it get there?!"

Well, to all my friends I ever had, have, and will make in the future. No matter how much we drift apart, lose touch, and well however else you can say lose touch or drift apart; I hope, at the very least, you'll have a good laugh when you think of our friendship. Spread the legend, the myth...and above all, let them know that, "Miguel...yup...he was that guy."