Paging Mr. Sushi....

And now, a random story from my static-filled, constantly crashing memory banks.

Burma, 1936 (HA! No, actually it was Albuquerque, 1996).
My coworkers and I had decided to phone in our lunch order to Mr. Sushi, one of the few sushi joints in ABQ at that time. My friend, Thea, volunteered to do it because she professed to know the phone number by heart. What follows is a transcript of that phone call:

The Presumed Mr. Sushi: Hello?

Thea: Hi, is this Mr. Sushi?

The (incorrectly)Presumed Mr. Sushi: (pause) Um, noooooo. This is Doug.

Thea: OH MY GOD! I'M SORRY!!!!! (slamming down the phone and turning every derivative of the color red, including vermilion).

We laughed our asses off for about the next hour, and ended up eating ice cream for lunch at DQ. Then we spent the next week calling Thea up at odd hours and asking to speak to Mr. Sushi:

"Hi! Is Mr. Sushi available?"

"Good afternoon! May I please speak with the raw fish of the house?"

"This is the lab calling with Mr. Sushi's test results"

and so on.