I keep forgetting to go down to the Japanese hibachi restaurant and have a few beers.
That would double-satisfy my adoration for bartenders and Japanese chicks.
I could get hammered up and ask them to teach me dirty words.
Plus, they walk right past my house to and from work, they have a bunch of 'em living in an apartment up around the corner from me.
I could see me getting in a Bruce Lee style fight with all their brothers under my street light, out front. They'd be doing all these complicated backflips in a circle, howling like hyenas. Then Master Wu would come leaping out of the shadows, yell at them all, and present me with his finest daughter.
And I would say "No, Master Wu, I must sample them all!" And being wise and worldly, he would have to agree. I would carefully consider the positive attributes of all his fine maidens as I rake the sand of my Zen garden, where we would smoke long wooden pipes of opium as he admired my cat. Only then would I tell him I've decided which is his fairest and most desirable offspring. (which, of course, would be the one he first offered, as not to insult his decision).
It could happen.