Protesting Hits Where it Hurts

I laughed when we got an e-mail at work last Friday about yesterdays planned protest. "I'm not Mexican" I said, why should I care. Well, the ramifications of the 500,000 latin protesters where felt yesterday as my wife and I could not, and we tried very hard, find an open Mako Bowl.

What kind of crazy world is it that we live in where two people go out to lunch and can't find an open Japanese restaurant? Sure, it's staffed by Mexicans, who were in downtown Los Angeles for the day, protesting against (or for, I don't know) illegal immigration. Who the fuck cares man. I was friggin' hungry yesterday, a little stressed after 8 hours of taking calls, and looking for a large spicy chicken bowl. After our fruitless (or should I say "chickenless") attempts, we were forced to go home, like wild animals, and eat soup from a can . . . that was poured onto bowls and microwaved. Like a goddamn caveman.

Truly, a low point in my life. Now, some people might say (those of you living in Southern California) "I bet the Yoshinoya was open". To you, I say "have you eaten at a Yoshinoya? It's like eating an inside out asshole". Yeah, appetizing for the people who like to eat anus, but for normal people like myself, Yoshinoya is the last thing I want to eat . . . right behind human. If I were on a plane, and it crash landed in the Andes . . . and I had a choice between eating Yoshinoya or an entire Chilean soccer team . . . I'd go cannibal.

So please, hispanics of Los Angeles, get back to fucking work. You don't see me taking time off the phones, don't take time off the fryers.