You know who you are. You don’t even need an introduction. You’re the giant elephant in the room, Buddy…

Those with whom you come in contact seek immediate reprieve. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this,” they think to themselves. Yet, you continue on–ignorantly disregarding everyone around you. You’re the one with your head in the clouds, most likely found socializing at elitist fundraisers expounding the theories of Kant and Hume. You’re dehydrated and you need a glass of water. You’re walking around the party with the stale ass red wine breath and you’re definitely Done Here, Buddy.

这张图片和中国一点关系都没有！

Few things in this world are more Done Here, Buddy than the Asian Chicken Salad. The points of discussion on this topic are, no doubt, endless. Yet, I thought it worthwhile to bring the primary issues of concern to the forefront. For starters, the title of this Americanized creation is as culturally ambiguous as its ingredients are indigenous to its “so called” Asian heritage. Take a moment to contemplate the absurdity of generalizing a dish intended to represent the flavors, spices, ingredients and cultures of Asia’s 53 nations. You heard it right the first time, folks: one salad for 53 nations. Further complicating the issue is that the salad is often referred to as the Chinese Chicken Salad. News flash, people: Chinese Chicken Salad is about as Chinese as Gary “the rat” Gaetti. Still not convinced? You’re Done Here, Buddy will offer a reward of five Chinese Chicken Salads to the reader who is able to find one on the menu of an Asian or Chinese restaurant. You’re probably thinking to yourself how improbable such a feat is, as everyone knows that these salads are predominately ordered by female graduates of Big Ten colleges at generic sports bars. Alright, guys. Remember this: don’t make the mistake and order the California Roll of salads.

Last night, I made my way to Cesar in Berkeley, CA’s “Gourmet Ghetto.” After surveying the critically acclaimed menu known for its Spanish tapas, I decided on a bocadillo of “Manchego and greens” to which I fortuitously  added Jamon Serrano. Now, I’m the kind of guy that loves Manchego and Jamon Serrano as much as Hernan Cortes enjoys pillaging an indigenous population, so you could imagine my excitement when the server complimented my request. Accompanied by a Grey Goose Martini, I waited in anticipation for the entree as my mouth began to salivate. Several minutes passed and the waiter returned with my sandwich. Once placed before me, I noticed something horribly odd about the bocadillo. The so-called “greens” were, in fact, a Popeye sized lump of sauteed spinach. I took one bite and promptly placed the stringy pound-and-a-half of vegetation on the sidelines. After all, I anticipated a sandwich full of Spanish goodness. What I got instead was a mound of Done Here, Buddy.

With flavors as delicate as Manchego and Jamon Serrano, one might expect a simple salad of mixed greens gently tossed with a balsamic vinaigrette ... Not a pile of poopy Done Here.

Welcome back, campers. I hope everyone had as jam-packed of a Thanksgiving as I did. While it is customary to spend ”dia de gracias” reveling in all that we are thankful for, the management team at YDHB has decided to bring attention to the one thing for which we are least grateful. Anybody who has experienced this dubious act can attest to how Done Here, Buddy it is when a newly acquainted sexual partner not only lingers at your apartment the next morning, but actually spends the whole day at your place, desperately awaiting the possibility of a repeat sexual encounter. Wanting to  take the higher road and be hospitable, we hope that subtle hints dropped at the lingerer will force him/her to reconsider extending their stay. Yet, blinded by their own hedonistic impulses (and/or unwillingness to return to their crappy apartment located in the nexus of some generic hipsterville), the extended stay seals the lingerer’s doomed fate. By day’s end, the lingerer has not only squashed any hope of the repeat encounter, he has also earned himself a place in the hallowed rafters of Done Here, Buddy Stadium.