Yesterday was Pris’s birthday shindig and it was positively one of the best nights I’ve had thus far.

We (about 18 of us) started the night by eating at Elephant Bar. I was sitting in the middle so I got to interact with both sides of the table. One side kept on talking about how incredible “Slumdog Millionaire” was so, of course, they left me no choice but to butt in and say, “Dude, I’m so with you on that. Remember the part where little Jamal raised his arm in the air with the photo of that one Indian actor, screaming at the top of his lungs and he’s like, covered in shit? That was awesome.”

The other side of the table was telling jokes at one point. I’ve been told that I can do a very convincing accent of an annoying Chinese man, so I did say a couple of things to them, in that particular accent, and they got a kick out of it. It reconfirmed that I do, in fact, possess a magnificent gift of impersonating a stereotypical Chinese man.

My friend, Jason, and I shared a large plate of fried shrimps together. The food was good. Not bad, not amazing, but good. As for our waitress, shit, talk about having a stick up her ass. She didn’t like us! It was odd because none of us were being anal or impolite to her. When we asked her for something, her facial expression would change from slightly grumpy to extremely petulant. When I asked for a to-go box she would come back 15 minutes later with nothing in her hands!

Perhaps it is the burden of catering to a large group of 18, but still, she should have at least put on a fake smile or something and not emit her bitchassness towards us.

To make up for her dreadful service and lack of civility, we got her to take some photos of us. Here’s one of them:

I’d say that’s a damn good photo. Thank you waitress, you just might be able to redeem yourself…now give me a gawddman to-go box so I can eat my shrimp leftovers for lunch tomorrow!

After dinner we headed towards the Embassy Suites for the hotel party. Since we weren’t able to hook up the Wii to their TV, we decided to play some drinking games. The first was King’s Cup. I’ve played that a few times before, and this one, in particular, was the most entertaining, the most hysterical King’s Cup I had ever played…ever. I wish I can explain what had happen in detail, but it wouldn’t be that funny on paper, it’s more like, ya had to be there type of stuff. But what I will say is that there has never ever been a time where I didn’t pick the 4th King. Never, and that kind of blows for me.

I recorded a great video of Pris getting sprayed by silly strings at the hotel, and also edited it to make it more entertaining. But I’ve been trying to upload it on Youtube for the last several times, and it doesn’t seem to be uploading it. Bleh! What a bitch. I will post the video once I find a solution. For now, enjoy the “teaser stills”.

Update 1-19-09: The video! Hip hip hooray!

Ever feel like playing an easy and painless joke on a total stranger? If so, look no further, I’ve got a mission for you.

There are some people in this world that are in love with their own names. They’re so infatuated that they’ll go to great lengths to order a customized license plate with their name clearly printed on it, and so on.

The next time you see someone with their names written on themselves, their bag, or plate or whatever, pretend that you know them!

Here’s an example of what I did back in high school:

I was eating lunch with an old friend, Tania, at a mall and we notice that the girl who was eating with her back face towards us had a tramp stamp that said, “Melanie”, along with some tacky touches of stars and sparkles.

Me: Do you think that’s her name? What a boring idea for a tattoo if it is.
Tania: I don’t know, but why don’t you find out? Haha.

Obviously, she was being facetious, but I wanted to know, bad, but asking the girl, “Hey, uh, the trampst-I mean tattoo you have there below your back…that your name?” would sound very insulting and a bit gawky to me. So I had to be slick and professional.

Ok watch me.

The trashcan was a few feet in front of tramp stamp girl, so I decided to take one of my used ketchup bags, walk up to the trash can, throw the ketchup away and turn around. Pretending to notice tramp stamp girl, I ran up to her, sat in the chair that was at the opposite end (she was eating alone), and said “Heeeeeyyy. Heyy you. Melanie, right?”

After I had blurted out the name, I suddenly realized that tramp stamp girl could’ve been a lesbian and Melanie could’ve been her girlfriend…or she could have had a sister who passed away named Melanie, and the tat was like a memorial of her! I’m fucked! I was scared up to my wits and I expected her to answer “No, that’s not me. You saw my tattoo didn’t you? Nice try, you’re an asshole!” But there’s no turning back. I already talked and now I was waiting for her to respond.

Tramp stamp girl: Yeah, how do you know?

Oh shit! And she doesn’t even know HOW.

Me: Whoa! It’s me, Jessica (Who doesn’t know a Jessica?). How are you Mel? How’s your family doing? I haven’t seen you in years! Whoa.

And I say this very loud and with sheer enthusiasm, so that Tania, who I could tell was trying so hard not to burst out laughing, was able to hear our conversation.

Tramp stamp girl was really confused…and really lost at the moment, and most importantly she was buying it. Because tramp stamp girl is convinced that I have met her before by using her name, she doesn’t want to come off as an asshole by informing me that she doesn’t remember who I am, so instead, she follows along.

Tramp stamp girl: Jessica. Ohhh…. they’ve been good. Thank you. How are yours?

And that pretty much sums up our conversation. Gawd, I’m so immature.

But that’s how you do it like a champ, and moral of the story is, if you’re a walking nametag AND you’re oblivious to that, you’re asking to be messed with.