The Hack

If Fozzie Bear had a human analog, the Hack would surely be it. Every time this guy comes in he fills my space with the stench of his bad cologne--perhaps he feels that the aroma of Japanese cuisine is missing something, namely a bass note culled from the musk gland of a crazed raccoon.

First you’ll note the actual physical resemblance, as if Fozzie Bear had been shaved and divested of his bow tie and boater. In order to cover up his shameful nakedness (for to see him naked would indeed cause a great deal of shame for both viewer and viewee,) a pair of pleated slacks and a crisp dress shirt fresh from the shopping mall have been hung upon his foam-stuffed frame. A gold watch resonates with the other shiny baubles with which he has chosen to decorate himself.

The Hack considers himself a funny guy. He may have even owned a joke book in his youth. He is always cracking wise with the servers. He wants everyone to know what a likable, funny dude he is. He holds a doctorate and works at the university, but it will be readily apparent to those around him that his true calling is comedy. Perhaps there is even an element of tragedy in his situation, that he had to leave comedy behind as a lesser calling in order to not deprive the world of the gift of his intellect. He often brings an attractive, female undergrad with him (funny--you never see him dine with a male student,) presumably to discuss some sort of class-related business. This seems to me to be a false pretense for the meeting, for he plies the young coeds with hot sake and uses the server as a sounding board for his premeditated routine. Here’s a sample of the Hack's brand of humor:

Hack (ordering sushi from the server): We’ll take a California roll, a spicy tuna roll . . . And a jelly roll!

Server (with the unflinching coolness of Batman's butler): Very good, sir. Can we get you anything else?

Hack : Yes . . . Some Pepto Bismol!

(Later. The Server sets a plate full of sushi on the table.)

Server: Do you have everything you need at the moment?

Hack: Do y’all have any ketchup?

Waka-waka-waka. If I were a larger, more accommodating building, I’d be sure and find some way of persuading my owners to place a small drum set in the corner of the room and hire someone to provide rim-shots for the Hack's hilarious zingers. Preferably, this drummer would have a background in jazz and go by the nickname "Fingers."

All in all, his overreaching attempts to be a funny, affable guy fall flat. His patronage is like one of those anti-jokes, with a long, winding setup and a punch-line that's purposefully disappointing. In this case, the punch-line is the tip and the joke is on the server.

To be a restaurant is not easy. It seems that the owners will let anyone inside me, into my most intimate of spaces, as long as they have a little money to spend. I have no say in the matter. Every time the Hack pushes his chubby form through the door and takes a seat in my dining room, I can only hope that a long hook will emerge from Stage Left and pull him by the neck from my interior.

The Hack gets zero out of a possible five Larry Wilde Joke Books.