she learned her lesson.

"What's wrong with your hair?"
"I dyed it. It's cute, huh?"
"Boooooooo."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"Booooooooo."
"Fuck you then."
"That'll be $3.76, you piece of shit."

Denise Lee paid the cashier the money and went about her business. Who would have thought that the employee at the coffee shop would be so rude? It was most certainly something that she would not have expected. After all, she had gone to the same coffee shop for years, and everyone there treated her kindly. She was just there yesterday, and things were normal. Shaking her head with anger, she decided right then and there that she would no longer give business to that establishment.

Sipping on her drink, she entered her car and began to drive aimlessly. With nothing else to do but ponder on the situation, she began to feel terrible. It was as if she was about to cry. Looking around the streets as she drove, it was as if everyone was upset at her. Old ladies shaking fists, little boys giving her the middle finger, and high school honor roll students throwing text books at her car. Why was the world so angry at her? At this point, she was definitely going to cry.

Feeling shaken up, she decided to go her friend, Cindy, to talk. If one more stranger treated her poorly, she was going to lose it. What better way to calm herself down than to talk to a trusted friend? "Cindy," she sobbed. "Can I come over? I need to talk." Of course the supportive friend told her to come by. There would be no reason for her to turn away a friend in need. And so, the distressed young woman shifted gears on her Mazda Miata and drove as fast as she could.

Reaching her destination, she parked the car and quickly made her way to her friend's flat. Knocking on the door, she waited in the hallway. A clammy ball of emotions, she stood there until her friend answered.

"Heyyy girlfriend what's wro-," Cindy exclaimed before stopping herself mid-sentence. "What the fuck is wrong with your hair?"
"Huh," Denise replied, more confused than ever.
"We're no longer friends," her friend replied before slamming the door.

She was distressed, angry, and torn-up. It was as if the whole world hated her. She felt like public enemy number one. Society was against her. Everywhere she went, she was met with heckling and disapproval. With her friends abandoning her, she felt there was no where else to turn. Before she could even consider her parents, she received a call on her cellphone from her mother.

"Denise," her mother said with disgust. "Cindy told me the news."
"She was being such a bitch, mom," Denise replied. "She told me out of the blue we're not friends."
"Rightfully so. What's your problem," she answered back. "You're the scum of the earth, you know that? I have no daughter."

Denise had reached her boiling point. She was a broken woman. There was nothing more she could do. She was tired of having strangers make her feel less than human. Her loved ones abandoned her. The woman felt all alone. All she wanted to do now was go home and shut herself in from the rest of the world. As she drove her Mazda Miata back to her house, she heard sirens whaling behind her. Blue and red lights shined in her rear-view mirror. "Oh great, now the cops," she thought.

"What seems to be the problem officer?"
"You mean you don't know?"
"Was I speeding?"
"No."
"Look, I just want to go home. I've been having a rough day."
"Oh no you're not. You're going to jail."
"Why?"
"Asians shouldn't have blonde hair."
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah you're going to jail for a really long time, bitch."
"Don't I even get to see a judge?"
"Not like that, you're not."

Denise Lee was then arrested and taken to jail. Several days later, she was presented before a judge, forced to cover up her crime. She was sentenced to 5 years in the California State Penitentiary. She learned her lesson.

HAVE FUN IN SAN QUENTIN, JERK!

Number 12

It was a Sunday morning and I had just finished going to mass with my family. Like any other church day, we planned to go out to a restaurant for brunch. Arriving at the China Garden, we were greeted by a hoard of hungry customers waiting for a table. The sight worried us slightly, yet, we knew that would be the only waiting we would have to do. It was a weekend after all, which meant that Asian style tapas, or dim sum, were being served.

“How long would the wait be for four,” I asked the lady at the counter as I took my number.

“Just ten minutes,” she replied hastily in a thick Cantonese accent.

Nodding back at her, I went back over to my family and told them how long it would take. Much like the others waiting for a table, I could feel my stomach rumbling with hunger. The smells of fresh dumplings filled the air, taunting me as I waited patiently.

“What should we get?” I asked my brother as we sat in the front of the restaurant.

“Definitely have to order some shu mai,” he replied as he patted his stomach, “Har gow also sounds delicious too.”

Hearing my brother talk about the various dishes at the restaurant only made me hungrier. Each minute passing felt like an eternity as we waited for our number to get called. Sitting there, marinating in the aroma of fresh Cantonese cuisine, I found myself getting more and more anxious. I watched the other groups being called out as tables began to open up. “There’s the efficiency I like to see,” I said to my brother, “They’re clearing tables like nobody’s business.” Calculating the number of groups ahead of us, I began to feel hopeful. With the rate they were going, it seemed like our number was going to be called at any minute.

“Number 12, party of four,” the lady called out into the intercom. The rest of my family excitedly got up from their seat and began to make their way over to the counter. Just as I was about to follow suit, I looked at my number. Reading the number 11 never felt so heartbreaking.

“It’s not us,” I called out to them. As they walked back over, I then noticed number 12 and his group. There was no way they could get called before us. I knew we had arrived first. We even had the same number of people in our party. I felt so betrayed by the restaurant. It was as if the lady at the counter and number 12 were scheming against me.
Watching number 12 and his group sigh with relief as they walked over to their table in the middle of the restaurant only made me cringe. What did they have to sigh about? We were waiting longer. Each of their smiles only rubbed it in my face more. Did they not know we were first? If they had, would they have given up their spot?

“No, number 12 looks too much like a jerk to do something as self-less and courteous as that,” I cynically grumbled to myself, “No asshole in a polo shirt with a popped up collar had ever done anything nice for anyone in the history of man.”

“Number 11,” the lady then called out.

As we all got up from the waiting area, we made our way over to the freshly bussed table. Taking our seats, we then poured each other cups of tea. The sweet aroma of the steamy beverage filled my nostrils, finally putting a smile on my face. This was the indicator that the wheels were officially set in motion for our Sunday brunch. All we had to do at this point was to wait for the steel carts filled with dumplings to reach our table so we could eat.

I stuck my head up, surveying the dining room, waiting for the cart to reach our table. With every inch the cart came closer, the more delighted we became. Waking up early in the morning to attend a mass that was slow and dull definitely made me feel like I deserved a steamy, savory treat.

“Yeah, we’ll have the shu mai.”

“How many?”

“How hungry are we? Well, why don’t we just take two orders.”

“Very good. That’s all we have left.”

Hearing the exchange of words only crushed what little hope I had left. As I turned around to see who ordered the last of the steamed shrimp and pork dumplings, my heart immediately sank and my face grimaced. “Number 12…” I uttered with discontent, “This guy.” Of all people to take the dumplings I wanted, it had to be him.

Once they had finished ordering from the cart, it then made its way over to our table. Knowing very well that we would not get shu mai, we immediately began to order other dumplings that were left in the cart. Sure barbeque pork filled steamed dumplings were good, but they were not the sesame, mushroom, and ginger flavored meat dumplings known as shu mai.

“Is there any har gow left? Or, perhaps some shrimp noodle rolls?” I asked with a hopeful tone.

“No, all gone. You can get minced beef noodle rolls or wait an hour,” the lady pushing the cart said, “We have turnip cake though. It good, you want?”

With a defeated sigh, I nodded and she placed the dishes on our table. We were not going to wait another hour. That was the whole reason we went to the Chinese restaurant in the first place. We were hungry and we wanted food immediately. As my family members continued to eat, I could not help but think about where all the other dumplings went.

“It was definitely number 12,” I thought to myself once more, “That jerk just doesn’t have respect for other people.” Looking over to his table once more, I caught him bursting into laughter. Of course, he was having a nice conversation, but in my mind, he was laughing at us. That’s the only way jerks with popped up collars know how to operate. Even with all this delicious food at our table, I could not help but paint number 12 as public enemy number one.

I thought of him as a menace to society, leading an angry mob with pitchforks and torches to his McMansion in the hills. “Get this inconsiderate thief of delicious dumplings,” I would call out as angry citizens would throw empty dim sum dishes on his lawn.

After the meal, we then paid the bill and made our way out. As I patted my stomach, feeling satisfied, we walked out of the restaurant and headed towards our car. However, at the corner of my eye, I noticed him once again.

Number 12 was merrily strolling along with his family, getting into their white SUV. “Ugh, that asshole again,” I thought to myself. However, as I continued to watch, I saw number 12 lifting what looked like his daughter into a car seat. Him smiling, and her laughing as they had a good meal, I couldn’t help but get the feeling that this number 12 was a family man. With that a tinge of guilt started to come over me. Letting out a sigh, I entered our car and buckled up. As we began to back out of our space, I noticed number 12 in his white SUV leaving the parking lot as well.

“I support breast cancer research,” it said within a pink ribbon on a bumper sticker on the back of his vehicle.

Letting out an even larger sigh, I hunched over in my seat. I was the judgmental asshole in the Bill Cosby style cardigan. “I suck,” I thought to myself with a laugh as we pulled out of the parking lot.