Like this:

In many ways, the Korean people I have come across are very friendly. They extend courtesies to foreigners like me as well as their fellow Korean man. Living in Seoul has taught me many things in the past two months. I noticed almost everyone posts their phone number under the windshield of the driver side dash board. Right in the same area as you would find the VIN, if that helps. Everyone knows their vehicles VIN, right? That 17 digit number which encodes information as to the year, make and model of your vehicle? Sure you do.
I thought it was odd that people would post their cell phone number on the dash. Why would I want random people to know my cell phone? Some even have creative and colorful signs that move and light up. Some simply place a business card on the dash, others utilize space-age suction cup technology that literally holds a piece of plastic UPSIDE DOWN on the glass so one can read the cell phone number of the driver of the vehicle. The US has a lot to learn.
I have learned the reason behind displaying your number in your window is so if you are blocking someone in, they can call you and ask you to move your car. What a nice idea. If someone is in your way, you can call them and say “Hey, I know you are getting a haircut, but can you come move your car so I can get to the GS Supermarket, please.”
I wonder if that person would remove the large bib that you wear when you are getting a haircut. Would the barber have to redo that tissue paper collar that is supposed to prevent hair from sneaking down under your shirt? Do you think the barber knows that those don’t actually work? They must not be aware, because they always insist on shampooing my hair, then giving me a shave, coating my neck in 32 year old aftershave, and putting some new “Redken: for men” product in my hair. “Would you like me to ‘style’ it,” they ask. Well, Mr. Barber, although your tissue paper collar prohibits me from swallowing, hair happens to find it quite permeable, and as soon as I leave here I am going home to shower – with a washcloth. It is simply impossible to get anything else done that day without having a shower first. It’s similar to having dinner at Beni Hana. It defies social, moral and honorable code to embark on any sort of public adventure after eating at Beni Hana. Not only do all the people you interact with post Beni Hana seem quite boring (what do you mean you can’t make a choo-choo train out of a slice of onion) but it is also rude of you to be in public exuding shrimp fried rice.
So, while it is nice that you have left your number on your dashboard, how about not parking there in the first place, asshole.
Ok, so that last sentence was spiteful. We should compromise. The phone number idea has good intentions written all over it. In addition to the quite difficult to remember 8 digit phone number; it’s just one too many digits. I still don’t know my number. But that’s ok, you can’t call me anyways.
In a city where people go out of their way to be courteous, you can image the other things they do to make day to day living more enjoyable. I find myself startled on many occasions during the day while walking outside. One of the most fun recreational activities during the day is the clearing of the throat. It’s not so much the profound “Ahem” that dad would utter at the dinner table if you forgot to push your chair in, or the low rumble a politician utters before taking a sip of that really clear, pure, delicious, man I am jealous of his purification system and Jet-Dry equipped dish washer water glass on the podium.
No, this is more along the lines of the raccoon is stuck in the air conditioner type throat clearing. This is more like that first cold day in November and you have to turn the furnace on for the first time in 7 months. This is more like “Man, that wool sweater was good for lunch.” This is more like enjoying a milk shake through the exhaust pipe of a diesel truck. It is the loudest, deepest hawking attempt you can imagine, followed by a nice pigeon style dropping on any various form of pavement. Beautiful!
I have decided to make a game of it, my own version of “Who Dunnit,” I call it “Who Hawked It.” I try my hardest to control my knee-jerk reaction to turn and look at who might be producing this vile and intrusive sound for a split second to see if I can land a guess at the demographic of the owner of this masterpiece. It comes from people of all ages; I hardly ever win. But that only makes me want to keep playing. Was it a 40-something man in a suit? Perhaps an old lady with a perm and a visor? Maybe the McDonalds Delivery guy on his moped? Maybe the young girl with the plaid skirt, no please, tell me it wasn’t her… AH! It was her mom. Should have known by the tone.
Now if we could only find a way to have our spit display our phone number. There is a compromise we can all live with.
Dude, I saw you over there talking to that girl, how’d it go?
Great man. She spit on me, check it out!
Sweet, so you gonna call her?
Shyeaah! Duh..

Moral of the story: When life gives you lemons, spit them out.