Driving down the 5 Freeway the other week, my friends and I pulled up behind this shiny, new Lexus with vanity plates:
When we got close enough to read the license plate, I was STOKED. A Ninja M.D.? Holy shit. Did that mean the driver was a doctor to Ninjas–who I imagine have special injuries like stab wounds to the spleen that we mere mortals would never survive–or was the driver both a Ninja and a doctor, a scenario that could only be described as a Hardass Asian Parent’s wettest dreamiest wet dream?
I made my friend Matt, who was driving his pimped-out Cadillac, pull up alongside this mystery martial-arts healer. Was he/she in their black-as-night Ninja uniform? Was he/she steering that shiny, new Lexus without touching the wheel? Would he/she be invisible to us civilians?
“Ninja MD” turned out to be a man. He didn’t exactly look like a Ninja. He was Asian and middle-aged and I suspect, rockin’ out to the wicked vocal stylings of Josh Groban. And then it occurred to me that he might just be a doctor, but because he was Asian, he fancied himself a Ninja, too.
Then I just felt depressed.
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