I visited Tokyo the first week of May. It was Golden Week, a one week holiday in Japan. I met friends I hadn’t seen in two years.
One friend is from Maine and was visiting Tokyo too. Every time I think of Maine, I think of Stephen King’s IT. I didn’t like the book but there’s a scene at the end I won’t forget: The six kids defeat IT and are trying to escape the sewers, when they feel they are drifting apart for some magical reason. To bring them closer together, Beverly, the one girl in the group, lets the five boys have sex with her. They’re only 11 years-olds but you forget that as King describes the scene. And you get a boner. And you think this is not right, is it? But if King described a donkey getting fresh with another donkey, you’d get a boner too. Guaranteed.
Back home in Maine, that friend is cooking DMT. He says when you take a hit of it from a crack pipe you blast off into another world, the world you existed before you were born. The trip lasts a couple of minutes but feels like forever.
Little creatures, called mech aliens, talk to you. “Welcome back” and “Long time no see,” they say.
You communicate telepathically. My friend asked them a question.
“But you already know the answer to that,” they said.
“You’re right . . . I do.”
The Aliens told him to bring his friends, and he has since then. They all had the same experience. He invited me to join his growing cult. I just have to get to Maine first. I’m only afraid I won’t meet the aliens but IT.
I told my friend Berlusconi about this. He want’s to know if people who’ve never heard of the mech aliens see them too.
Berlusconi recently discovered Tinder in Japan. I asked him how it was.
It’s great for foreign girls, he said. The Japanese seldom respond or meet. He showed me the profile of a pretty Japanese girl he did hook up with. Her profile, in English, stated she was only looking for sex, and that she was clean “down there.”
She invited him to a cafe near her place, where she said she met an Indian the day before, but she didn’t take him home because he smelled like curry.
Berlusconi used to smell too.
One day, while we were hanging out in Shinjuku, he asked me a brave question that no friend has ever asked me before. “Tell me a bad point about myself.”
“Your breath often stinks and you always have BO like you don’t wear deodorant,” I said.
“What!? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, if you were waiting for me outside Shibuya station, near the Hachiko statue, I could sniff you out with my eyes closed.”
“Why have you never mentioned to me this before! We’ve known each other for three years now.”
“I’ve hinted at it several times. I thought you didn’t care. I thought it was a European thing, especially Italian. Our friend Fettuccine, he stinks too.”
He was silent for a while, deep in thought, and an expression of realization formed on his face. All the missed sex opportunities, and why people stayed two arm’s length away, now made sense. And why people, besides Europeans, tended not to invite him to drinking parties. He’d thought it was because he only drank coke.
It was as if he had been a supermodel who’d never had her slit licked until bringing home an Eskimo she matched with on Tinder. And he was the first guy not to give her the “smell test” by sticking a finger in there and then putting that same arm around her head and discreetly smelling it as he nibbled her ear. Instead he went straight to licking it under the blankets, eventually came up for air and said it smells and tastes like raw muktuk, and that he’s going back down for a second helping. “Wait. What’s that?” she asks.
“Whale skin and blubber. Very tasty but carcinogenic.”
“Gross! Why would anyone want to eat that?”
“You see, when my ancestors crossed the land bridge from Siberia to Alaska during the last ice age, they were too lazy to continue south like the enterprising redskins who’d become the Sioux, Cheyenne, Aztecs, Mayans and innumerable other tribes. Instead we chose to remain put in Alaska, be content with our whale fat and never taste chocolate. You get used to it.”
On Berlusconi’s birthday, a day that is easy to remember because he’s fond of saying remember remember the 5th of November, I gave him a stick of Old Spice deodorant. His life has changed ever since, and girls besides Europeans and impoverished Asians now sleep with him.
That Japanese girl, because he didn’t smell Italian or Indian, took him home. Also because during her long stay in the West she’d become infected with slut culture, which she brought back with her, along with the books of Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins, which Berlusconi said were on her coffee table.
To sum up, just remember that not all Europeans smell by choice. Your friends deserve truth. If you’re an Indian you should use less turmeric and fenugreek. When it comes to using Tinder in Japan target foreign girls, or Japanese with good English and a slutty profile. Eskimos are lazy. And before tasting the muktuk, give it the smell test.