Maz Jobrani

My sister and I sat at the top of the auditorium. First we observed the plastic surgery, wondering why we were the only Iranian women that hadn’t ever gotten plastic surgery. Some of the nose jobs looked cheap, some looked like art-perfectly chiseled cartilage. A group of girls was split up by the numbers on the their tickets, and unable to face this limitation on their social time, the one separated from the rest of the crew looked at her friends “manam mikhaam baa shoma beshinam” in a sort of baby voice that in my perspective made her seem like a complete child but in their context was her way to get her friend to say “come sit here no one cares.” And so she got the encouragement she was looking for and dragged her boyfriend with her.
Next came the idiot couple. She was hot. And had an eating disorder. He was mohawky and wore expensive jeans. Neither knew how to relate numbers and letters on their tickets to the numbers and letters marking the rows and seats. We watched them walk all the way down the right aisle in front of us, walk back, her in something like 4 inch heels, then they walked all the way down the left top row only to walk back down an aisle lower down and sit in the two seats right at the edge of the aisle.
Next came the first mixed couple, a hot and stylish Iranian girl, with an equally hot and stylish black guy. They struggled a bit their tickets. Actually, most people we watched struggled with their tickets.
Then came the super control freak white woman with bangs hair sprayed into straight lines on her forward so that she had a perfect rectangle and her Iranian boyfriend. They were earlier, around 35, and would most definitely be divorced in 5-7 years.
The Iranian Dolly Parton made an appearance somewhere far in the distance. Thanks to her big blond hair, it wasn’t hard to spot her though she was many rows down.
The mid-forties wanna-be artists couple showed up too. Both of them wore black shirts, jeans, and he had not one, but two pony tails.