Korean....Bollocks!!!!!

There are some things I love about being half-Korean. I love Korean bbq (in spite of the after-meal burps, which are disgusting and smelly). I love Korean karaoke rooms where you can smuggle in booze. I love my Korean family members who are so devoted to one another. And I love that due to my Korean genetics I have 5% body fat.

But there are things that annoy me too. I don't think that Koreans are as bad as Chinese, but we're not the best drivers in the world. Perpetually slow and lost, we jam our small chests against the steering wheel and stare out the windshield (bewildered) at the world. I'm afraid I've inherited a little of this. In addition, Korean music is terrible. If it doesn't sound like some bad 80s Euro synth pop on speed, it sounds like the sonic epitome of grief and suffering, with some woman wailing atonally about god knows what (probably the fact of her wayward son who has disgraced the family by not becoming a doctor and who married the village strumpet instead of a pre-approved, obsequious lass). The TV shows are awful too. The men are always shouting and growling. Their deep baritone voices remind me of monster metal bands like GWAR. The women are always wailing or pleading. Then rain starts to fall and someone walks forlorn into the darkness, with a maudlin song playing in the background.

All these things are mildly annoying. But they don't come close to my greatest pet peeve: Korean people cannot tell someone's age worth shit. If I had a dollar for every Korean who misunderestimated my age, I would not be rich. But I'd have more money for alcoholic drinks, and that's what life is all about. I know, I know. I look young. But for fuck's sake I look at least 21, right? Right???!!!!!!

Last night I was eating dinner with my parents at Tofu House, which is sort of like the McDonald's of Korean restaurants. There are franchises across the Southland. I was thoroughly enjoying my very un-Zone meal when the waitress started talking to my mom in Korean. I don't speak Korean because I grew up in Texas and when my mother attempted to teach me Korean it didn't quite sound like the redneck twang I heard daily, so I simply ignored her. Therefore, I couldn't follow their conversation and I was focused on my pork bulgogi and tofu soup anyhow. My mom started to laugh.

"She think you my grandson! She think you in high school!" my mom said.

I looked at the middle-aged Korean waitress with fury in my slant eyes. When she left, I ranted about the myopia of Koreans. I threw in some curse words for good measure. My parents take me very seriously. They started pissing themselves with laughter.

"It's a compliment!" my mom said.

"I'm 33 fucking years old. It's not a goddamn compliment when you're a grown man and someone asks if you're free to take their daughter to prom."

"You are too funny, man!" my step-dad Jimmy (his American name) said.

I wanted to say, "No, Jimmy you're the funny one. You named your roofing company Batman Roofing. What the fuck possessed you to do that? What does a comic book superhero have to do with repairing roofs?"

I capped off my tirade by promising to crush the waitress's head like a walnut, with my Crossfit arms. I couldn't stop myself from breaking into a grin.

Two weeks ago, there was yet another incident of Korean retardation vis-a-vis my age. I was at my cousin's high school graduation and this Korean woman, whose son is best friends with my cousin, remarked that I look younger every time she sees me. When she usually sees me, I'm dressed casually in jeans or shorts. At the graduation, I was wearing a shirt and tie. I looked like a typical urbal professional, or so I thought. How can someone look younger when he dresses up? Was this woman insane? Did she want her ass kicked? In the stands in front of all these people?

I am usually polite. I usually smile like a good half-Korean boy and take the shit they shovel me. But this time I acted all Twisted Sister and told myself I wasn't going to take it anymore.

"You know. That's not something you should say to a grown man," I said.

I'm not quite sure she understood. After all, English is her second language. But no more words were exchanged. I felt so guilty later on that at the post-graduation dinner at my aunt's house I bowed to the Korean offender over and over like a redneck knucklehead unaware of a land's customs and told the woman that her banana nut cake tasted like ambrosia.

Score it yet another victory for obliviously condescending Koreans across the Southland. They have my hapa ass dancing like a puppet on a string.

Inane Conversation of the Weekend

After dinner, my stepfather was loathe to change the channel after we watched mixed martial arts on Spike TV. The next show featured professional bullriding. I was flabbergasted. In the name of all things holy, I asked myself this question: why are two old Korean people watching bullriding? Here is how the conversation developed between my mother and stepfather. When you're re-living the conversation in your head, be sure and add the broken English and Asian accent. My mother got upset when the rider prepped the bull by slapping it and spurring it with his boots.

My mother: He shouldn't do that! I want the bull to step on him!

My stepfather: I think that's against the law. Someone should report him! It's caught on tape!

Bull and rider left the pen. Bull commenced to buck and jump.

My mother: Do they teach the bull to jump like that?

Me: No, mom. They just do it naturally.

My mother: He ride real good. He a real cowboy! They have fake bulls in Dallas. At bars. I used to go all the time when i was young. I rode one. It threw me goddamn across the room.

My stepfather: I can show you how to ride bull.

I don't think he was trying to be sexually suggestive. By god, I hope he wasn't.