I have but only one true arch-enemy on this Earth and his name is Gabriel.

By his actions and attitude you would think that Gabe is on every A-list from here to New York, London and Japan. No time for anyone but those inside the inner circle, everyone else is no better than dust from the sidewalk.

On more than one occasion The Master of Evil has completely ignored my presence despite the fact that I make both visual and verbal contact. In return, if I'm lucky, I get a shrug.

Twice he ignored me long enough that I just got up and walked away — despite the potential social embarrassment.

When he does talk to me, I swear his voice is different every time. First with a Latin American accent, then basic Californian. I can't decide if he's a thespian or just bored. During my last interaction with Gabriel I could swear I was talking to Latka Gravas.

If not for his adolescent, pencil thin, scrubby mustache I would likely forget I was dealing with the same person. That and his white hat — pinched at two ends to form the perfect hair retainer. It's the mustache and hat combination that makes our meetings especially hard.

You see Gabriel is a waiter at Johnny Rockets, located in the Block at Orange. And he's a horrible one at that — perhaps the worst in the world. The food is great, but Gabe just brings the house down. And not in a classy enough way to be considered the Soup Nazi of the Burger World.

No matter what time of day, day of week, or minute on the hour I go to Johnny Rockets (which is seldom) he's there and somehow assigned to the "zone" I choose to sit in. It's almost as if fate were toying with me and my craving for a good cheeseburger.

My only saving grace is that he's not working at Starbucks. Then I would almost certainly have to believe that these are the End of Days.