Saturday, July 22, 2006

I am happy man

Please keep in mind that this theory fully excludes any actual truths about the real Chinese culture. So don't get pissy. I mean C’mon. This is not an insightful well-researched blog. It’s more like the looney guy who stands on the corner muttering incoherent diatribe to his fellow passerbys. Maybe you ignore me. Maybe you give me spare change. Actually, yes. Give me your spare change. Cause it’s Saturday and I need beer money.

I was jetlagged. Deliriously jetlagged in Berlin. I’d been there for 48 hours, but it had been about oh, 87 hours since I’d slept properly. And the fact that my first big night out was going to be a evening of Karaoke with a bunch of Germans, didn’t really have the effect of espresso on the fun meter.

And then meth was injected into my eyeballs.


At the front door of the Karaoke bar, I found myself starring into the face of a Chinese man.

“But, I..”


These were not the polite, often timid words of my German hosts. And I had a feeling these may have been the only English words he knew. But they were all he needed. Cause I was totally deconfused. There was no arguing with this man. There would be no unfair blonde American chicky attempts at sweet-talking. Business is business. I would pay. Is now ok?

Yes, my friends. I firmly believe the world would be a lot better if we were more like the Chinese. Here are a few traits I love about my dim sum heroes. But don’t just read them as entertainment. Take them as suggestions for improving society.

Let’s be frank: I suppose as a (ahem-wannabe) writer, I should treasure descriptive prose that paints a vivid picture with eloquent imagery. But the Chinese’s candid language cuts through bullshit like a machete, and gets me moist like some Evil Discussing warm wet blog love. If the Karaoke bar owner would have been an American, the conversation may have gone something like this.

Generic American: “Uh, ma’am, Yes, hello. Hi. How are you? Good evening, yes. Welcome to Long-Time karaoke.”

I'd raise my left eyebrow.

GA: Oooo, that’s a nice tube top. Love the sparkles. Anyway, Ma’am if you wouldn’t mind, we actually have a three-dollar cover charge this evening, which is actually quite a bargain when you consider our 4873-song play list, and of course that wonderful feeling of getting to pretend you’re Britney Spears for the nigh…

Me: Whatves, bitch. I’m out.”

But the linguistically shrewd Chinese man made it clear. If I wanted to come in and sing a little “Eye of the Tiger” with my newfound German amigos, I must pay three Euro. He even gave me a payment time frame. Then he left me alone. This, my friends, is authority. This is how business gets done.

Imagine the peace and order we could restore to society by having Chinese men stationed in, for example, every subway car. The loud screaming of drunken teenagers would be effectively snuffed out with the iron fist command of “YOU SHUT UP NOW!” Sure, the most delinquent ones may initially protest. But ultimately no one can argue with such an uncompromising demand. The newfound quiet would free the rest of us to engage in peaceful activities such as reading our Time magazine undisturbed. Or watching porn, if that’s your thing.

Label whores at the Gucci altar: Or Prada or Fendi or any of the numerous ways you can drop European vacation money on a tiny bag. While some people wouldn’t dare blaspheme the church of high fashion, a few geniuses on Canal St. had another idea. “We make same bag. But with low price.” Sure you can flash your little “Channel authenticity card” all day, but there’s nothing more humbling than paying $4000 for a purse, only to have a little Chinese grandma say, “Look, see, I make one that look just like you for fifty dolla. Hahahahaha, you pay four thousand dolla! Hahahahaha!” Now any whore from Michigan can look as rich as you do. Take that, bitches.

Sweet Words of Encouragement:

In America we have inspirational posters. And “quotes.” And Chicken Puke for the Soul. They aim to enlighten us with advice and hope. But they only inspire me to bitch slap a random sorority girl on the street – just because it makes my soul tingle. But the Chinese have found a better way to accomplish this task – with the fortune cookie. While never actually telling me the future, I’ll usually open one and see something like this: “You are happy man!” And, suddenly I’m grinnin’ like a fat boy gettin’ a hand job. Goddamnit, I am happy man! How did I not realize this before? Maybe I don’t wanna slap that bitch anymore. Just push her a little. Into the east river.

But this is only a dream. My dream for the world that is peaceful and orderly. Quiet conversation is re-incarnated. Grocery stores are clean. And ringtone usage is subject to punishment by Chinese water torture. In fact, I think I have the solution for our Middle Eastern troubles. Just recruit a few Chinese men, send them to the Middle East and hand ‘em a few bullhorns.


Then everyone could make friends and eat fortune cookies. And we’d have Happy Man! all around. And really, who can argue with that?


Maulleigh said...

Brilliant. You are my new God.

concha said...

excellent. don't forget to put all your money into the offering trays passed around during my sermons.

Slinky Redfoot said...

amen! i love hand jobs!

Big Ben said...

Great post.

Cover charge at a Karaoke bar, it must have been good. I imagine you did "dirty" by Christina Aguilera or maybe a Divid Hasselhoff song to kiss up.

crazyvirgo said...

what if my ring tone is "i am woman, hear me roar?" please can i keep it?

El Padrino said...

you be here for tree hour--you pay now!!

Jaime Schwarz said...