Using Homeless People To Make Chinese Food and the Domain of the Dreaded Sushi Chef

(“My Will”, pretty much the only reason I used to watch Inuyasha. I found it the most appropriate song I could think of for this article. Thanks goes to Tenchikins on Youtube)

Eating Chinese food is a lot like eating sushi, in that both involve copious amounts of rice. The principal difference between the two culinary classes is that while one involves undercooked fish that can give you tapeworms and could contain greasy disgusting hair from some chef’s head, the other involves MSG and will contain greasy disgusting hair from some chef’s head. This is an important distinction, as I would learn venturing into the depths of delicacy, the chasms of the culinary, and the bosom of tasty brilliance.

Just trust me, I’m serious here.

So anyway, what I’m saying is, I bought Chinese food from a local Albuquerque Chinese food restaurant, and it had a hair in it, which I can state with certainty I did not eat. I will not state its name, except to say that it is named after the fact that all of its employees are prostitutes that are hand-picked from Albuquerque’s own Land of Prostitutes, Central Avenue and the South Valley. If you have ever lived here or driven by on the Interstate, you know what I’m talking about. You literally have to scrape them off your car after driving by these places, in much the same way you have to scrape mating grasshoppers off your car’s windshield in Texas.

This restaurant is good eatin’. Via a special recipe composed of large amounts of (you guessed it) rice and homeless people it gets off the street, the Restaurant That Must Not Be Named has set Albuquerque’s gold standards for cheap Chinese food. Also sexy Asian girls. For example, the girl that they have spooning the food is hawt. And here people are always questioning my love of the ladies! Nope, I can definitely tell when I see a hawt chick. No questions at all. Nope.

Now, the sushi place at our local supermarket is different. They don’t use homeless people for their fish; everybody would notice right away if there were dead human in sushi. That’s because sushi is the greatest substance on Earth, besides wolves, of course, whereas humans are the slimiest, most disgusting things on our planet. Plus, if you tried to put humans in sushi, there would be blood, and all the soy sauce in the world couldn’t hide that.

The sushi place is run by the creepiest man in existence right now. Even creepier than this guy. Creepier even than Tom Cruise in his Scientology suit, which is a Xenu costume. Creepier than

or

Or any other thing I have ever put on this website. I have always assumed that this is just the way Japan is, judging by the tremendous amounts of Japanese cartoon pornography I have found on the Internet, but numerous people have told me that that viewpoint may be racist, and so I had better be wrong, or else I’m committing a crime here.

Yesterday I bought sushi from this man. Every time I come in to buy sushi from him, he gets out from behind his counter and starts talking to me about sushi. For example, once he told me how great one type of sushi was, and it was the most expensive kind he had. He recommended that I buy it. I told him I couldn’t afford it. He then pointed out the cheapest type he had. He recommended that I buy it. I bought the typical midgrade type, the California roll. The Toyota Camry of sushi.

Yesterday, however, he was in a special mood, which sushi chefs get into when they realize a single supermarket customer–in this case, me–happens to be the only man that could possibly pay the tuition for all of his kids through college. I was the only guy, in the entire friggin’ store, that was buying this poor guy’s sushi. He had a big ol’ case full of the stuff, and nobody was buying. So apparently, this guy got it in his mind that he would reward me and my grandma for being his faithful customers.

I had dashed off with a spicy plate of sushi, hoping not to attract his attention, for fear that he would glomp me. But as I left, crouching under the apple cart to attempt to evade him, I looked back, and there he was, waving at me. Truly, truly terrifying.

“Creepy weirdo,” I mumbled under my breath.

“You can’t worry about it, there’s nothing we can do now,” my grandmother advised me.

Resigned as we were to the fact that the Japanese Sushi Chef from Hell would continue to wave at us and be nice to us as long as I continued to buy his fishy goodness, we were still not prepared for when he would attack us again, this time with the dreaded Japanese Sushi Chef Price Markdown move, a regular in sumo wrestling, or so I’ve been told. He apparently went up to my grandmother, and told her that I liked his sushi so much that he was going to give me a price discount, just for being a regular customer. He cut the price down two dollars. He’s just that kind of a guy.

So if you’re ever in the Rio Rancho, New Mexico area and suddenly feel a need for raw pickled fish wrapped in seaweed and covered in rice and avocado, go to the supermarket with sushi, the domain of the Japanese Sushi Chef. Do it for his kids. Do it so they can go to college.

Do it because he’s a nice guy. I’m assuming here he’s not just gay.

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