a Freudian slip.”
“Too bad Dick didn’t try to spell public,” he smirks and plugs away at his keyboard. Moments later, Truong jabs his mouse pad with a flourish. “I just sent you an email.”
I click it open.
From: [email protected]
Subject: mis-spellers
Edumacation is vary impotent four you. Stay in pubic skool.
p/s—I cunt except people who cunt spell. Day rally irrigate me.
pp/s—Two Bee Ore Knot Two Bee, that is the question my fwend.
I roll with laughter. Dick sure out-dicked himself today. I’m sure nothing can top that email, but I am in for a pleasant surprise when Outlook alerts me to a new email from none other than Dick Jones. Still exhilarated by Dick’s first email, I proceed to read his second one.
From: [email protected]
To: All employees
Subject: Clarify Stimulator
We have just launched Clarify Stimulator, which is a fantastic tulle that will help you with you’re call handle thymes. So please keep in mine to use the Stimulator, if your not already doing so.
Dick Jones,
Site Director, Pocatello ID
“Truong, check your email. He sent another one!”
Silence as Truong reads. Seconds later, he falls off his chair, convulsing with laughter.
Tsk-tsk. Dear Dick Jones…Simulator and Stimulator mean two very different things.
The Blue Balls Café is pretty empty today. Truong, Mika and I pick a table by a window overlooking an algae choked pond.
Truong has the hawts for Mika, and he has been bugging me nonstop to hook him up. So here we are in the cafeteria, the three of us, on a lunch date.
Truong is convinced that Mika is gay. The problem with Truong is he thinks every cute guy is gay. Over the past couple months my gaydar has vastly improved, thanks to Truong. But Mika is not gay. He is the epitome of straightness.
Truong of course, begs to differ.
Mika bites into his burger and smiles feebly at Truong, who won’t stop making googly-gooey eyes at him. Christ almighty, Truong needs to get a grip on himself.
“Oh, Mika,” he purrs. “You’re such a cutie patootie. Where do men like you come from?”
“I’m from Brussels,” says Mika in between chewing.
“Blussels!” echoes Truong. “I just love Blussels splouts.”
I stare at Truong in blank astonishment. Huh? What can Brussels sprouts the vegetable possibly have in common with Brussels the country?
Mika appears just as puzzled, but he offers Truong a polite smile. “That’s um, healthy.”
Truong giggles like a giddy, starstruck tween in the presence of Justin Bieber. “I am a huge fan of splouts; there’s a Vietnamese noodle dish called Phở and it is served with bean splouts. Have you tried it?”
Mika takes a sip of his Coke. “I like Asian food, but I’ve never had Vietnamese before.”
Truong gasps, “You haven’t? Then you must try Phở noodles! My Aunt Dung’s restaurant specializes in Phở. And let me tell you, her place serves the best noodles in town. Would you like to go there some time?”
“Sure,” says Mika. “What is the name of her restaurant?”
“It is called Phở Hoa,” Truong enunciates, suddenly sounding a lot more Vietnamese.
Mika leans back. “Do they mainly serve noodles?”
“Well, they also serve some good lice dishes, but Phở noodles are their specialty. You must try it,” he insists.
“I will,” says Mika. “And how do you say Phở?”
“You say it like this: ‘fuuuuuuuuuuuh’,” fuhs Truong.
“Phuuuuuuuuuuuh,” mimics Mika.
“No,” corrects Truong. “It’s fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.”
Humph! When Truong first introduced me to Phở noodles, I was super adventurous. Most first-timers play it safe and order the beginner’s Phở. Not me. Bold and brave, I delved head first into my Phở initiation, ordering the Phở with all the bells and whistles. It came with beef tendons, beef steak, beef tripe, beef flank, beef balls, the whole shebang! Truong was so proud of me.
The next day, he gifted me a T-shirt imprinted with the words ‘Phở King’ and I accepted it with immense reverence. I consider Truong a Phở ambassador, so I embraced the shirt like it was a gift from Kofi Anan, and even fancied myself a Phở aficionada, a connoisseur of sorts.
Now I realize the joke was on me.
“Truong,” I say sulkily. “You can have your fuuuuuuuuuuuuhking T-shirt back.”
He laughs gregariously. “It’s still a cool shirt. No?”
I fix him with a Medusa glare. Unfazed by my paralyzing glare and snake hair, he continues coaching Mika, who still happens to be butchering the Phở word.
Fart. I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.
“Mika,” I cut into their annoying speech lesson, “what do you miss most about your country?”
“My family and the food,” he says without missing a beat.
Truong gushes, “Oh. What’s your favorite food