SECOND AND PIKE SUSHI BURRITO DEBATE

We heard you two loudly debating the new Sushi-GaBurri food cart on the corner of Second and Pike in downtown Seattle. You said, "Sushi can never be a burrito, and a burrito can never be sushi." But then you walked away and didn't even try one. C'mon! Like your mom always said, "You have to try at least one bite before you can hate it." That said, none of us have tried one, either. Has anyone?

SPEAKING OF FOOD

We overheard you, a twentysomething guy on the 36 bus riding north on Third Avenue, tell your female companion, "I pretty much shit fire after eating three of 'em." We didn't hear what it was you'd eaten, but damn, that conversational topic is annoying on a Saturday morning, brah.

DUMPLINGS JUST SHY OF SHORELINE

It was lunchtime at Little Ting's Dumplings, a Chinese restaurant just shy of the Seattle-Shoreline border, and the place was filling up with hungry people, all of whom were ordering dumplings off of a menu with 13 different kinds of dumplings. The woman behind the counter, in clear view of everyone in the dining room, was busy shaping dough around fillings like pork and cabbage or scallops and chives. You, a bald middle-aged white man with a goatee, strode confidently into Little Ting's Dumplings with your friend, sat down at a table, looked over the menu, and asked, in a voice so loud that everyone could hear, "So, what are dumplings?"

DOUCHEBAG ON DENNY

Last Saturday night, you—a man in your 20s dressed in a long fur coat and quirky trousers—were riding a Solowheel up the hill on the Denny Way I-5 overpass, bearing a smug expression nearly as punchable as Martin Shkreli's. New Seattle sucks.

PLOWING IT LIKE A QUEEN

You two—the stars of Broad City—dropped by The Stranger offices for a podcast session with Dan Savage, and in typical Savage fashion, he hoarded you mostly to himself (as he does with all the cool celebrities). But he allowed you to stroll through the newsroom to meet some of your die-hard fans. You were just as lovely and funny and cool as you appear on the show, even after a Stranger staffer blurted out that she had slept with a mutual acquaintance of yours. Keep plowing showbiz like queens, ladies.

SLACKIN' AROUND

You, a 38-year-old Pulitzer Prize winner, asked a 26-year-old reporter how to get Slack notifications on your smartphone.

STRAP-ON SHOPPING

"This one's fun," you said, picking up a hot-pink dildo and giving it a good shake. You demonstrated that there are actually small balls inside the length of the dildo (like seeds in a maraca), which provide a strange but enjoyable sensation when the instrument is inserted inside the human body. "It's kind of random, too," you said, tipping the dildo forward and backward, and forward and backward.

WISELY PLAYED, WOMAN ON THE BUS

Your braids were thick, as long as your torso, some black and some white. You tossed them over your shoulders while you talked loudly in the backseat of the number 11 bus from downtown to Capitol Hill on Monday morning. "I don't know why I'm so patient with his ass," you told your friend, also a teenager. She was wearing a full black head covering, in contrast to your head-turning braids. She was also wearing purple lipstick. She pursed her lips and listened. "He is a total fuckboi!" you went on, and she looked like she was holding back from nodding vigorously, like maybe today you were going to break up with him but maybe tomorrow you'd be back together and she would have agreed that he was a total fuckboi and there would be this new distance between you.

POORLY PLAYED, MEN ON THE STEET

Two women walked by you, a crowd of men laughing on the sidewalk in the International District on a darkening Saturday afternoon. The women tried not to assume the worst, tried not to pick up their pace prematurely—despite the fact that 65 percent of women have experienced street harassment, a good chunk of it physical groping or flashing, according to a 2014 study. And then, from the crowd: "Hey, honey." Ugh.

A DODO AT THE BIRDS

You sat inside 12th Avenue Arts near the back of the audience at The Birds on a Thursday night. When the play—a beautifully depressing apocalypse story—ended, you turned to the person next to you and said the most aggressively boring and obvious thing imaginable: "They all seemed a lot less happy by the end."