by Mike
Rank | February 27, 2005
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Asians love
white dudes. Especially when they have sweet
ass style like this.
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Research your favorite Asian reptile.
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Getting stranded overnight because you didn't make
your connecting flight is a bummer. When you're stranded
overnight in a foreign country, it can be frightening.
The trick is to approach it not as an inconvenience,
but as an opportunity for an international slumber
party. It makes things a whole lot easier.
Even though my delayed plane wasn't going touch down
in Japan until 10:30 PM on a Saturday night, it seemed
logical that I should do everything in my power to
make it to downtown Tokyo. Those dreams were quickly
squashed when I found out that the trains quit running
at midnight and a cab would run in the neighborhood
of $200 to $300 from the Narita airport. Several Rugby
players on the flight had the same idea and offered
to split a cab with me down there. As tempting as
it was, our first flight was partially delayed because
one of these players was excessively drunk (at 11AM)
and our second flight was delayed after one of the
player urinated all over the bathroom. Since I have
a hard fast rule that I never get arrested in a foreign
country until I have spent at least 48 hours there,
I decided to pass and took the option of staying at
a hotel where the airline was putting us up.
My revised goal involved sitting at the hotel bar
and  getting
having off a few rounds of Santori. I wasn't sure
if this was in fact a real liquor, only that Bill
Murray promoted it well enough in the movie "Lost
in Translation" that I wanted to sample the beverage.
Naturally, the hotel bar closed five minutes before
I arrived there, limiting my beverage selection to
the vending machines.  You
can imagine my shock when I poked my head into the
vending area on the way to my room and found not one,
but three vending machines dispensing bottles
of whiskey and another machine dedicated to dispensing
a half dozen different brands of cold beer! Could
things get any better than this?
Oh yeah.
After hearing for years how small living quarters
are in Japan, I was pleasantly surprised at the ample
space in my room. But what caught my   immediate
attention was a set of complicated and high-tech controls
that were mounted on the side of the toilet. Closer
inspection revealed that my waste receptacle also
moonlighted as a bidet. For those of you unfamiliar
with this technical workings of this device, it shoots
water into your butt. I had never used one before,
but wasn't about to pass up the chance. In hindsight,
I imagine that the purpose is to avoid using toilet
paper and/or to get a more sanitary and fresh cleansing
of the anal region than one might by rubbing the area
with paper products. Instead of choosing one or the
other, I decided to use a combination of both methods.
It was a glorious union, joining Western and Eastern
sanitary methods as one, which resulted in an internationally
unified ass full of paper mache.
Some thirty minutes later, I wandered down the hall
with my slightly dampened and paper  encrusted
buttocks to purchase some sundry items from the vending
area. While I've eaten many a meal from such machines
in my time, I've never encountered a more bizarre
selection. The first machine was chock full of cans
of assorted fruit flavored beverages and sodas that
were labeled only in Japanese. While the spoken Japanese
language is really just Spanish with an Asian accent,
the written language is a series of retarded pictures
that were developed by an eight year old emperor during
the William Hung Dynasty of 1100AD. That's totally
true. There's even a movie about it, called "Big
Trouble in Little China", starring Kurt Russell.
You should rent it sometime.
Since my Spanish isn't quite good enough to decipher
Japanese symbols, I knew I was stuck  having
to base my choice of beverages on good old fashioned
marketing. It would be unwise to choose solely on
color or smell, since 90% of all Japanese beverages
are made from recycled fish heads (I believe I culled
this fact from "The Joy Luck Club"). My
obvious choice was a can of some sort of liquid with
a banner urging me to "Try Happy". I mean,
why wouldn't I "Try Happy"? I'd be an idiot
not to buy this!
After some more deliberation, I settled on another
can of what I assumed was some sort of soda and a
bottle of whiskey. The whiskey, I can honestly say,
is the best I've ever purchased from a vending machine.
As for the other two cans I purchased, it's doubtful
I will ever know just what they were. Both contained
a substance that looks like watered down milk. Both
are lightly carbonated and are mildly sweet, though
the taste is foreign to me. Knowing my luck, these
are problem cans of Yak sperm or cat ear medicine
that the hotel threw into the machine to trick unsuspecting
tourists. They're probably still laughing about that
one.
Rectal cleansing and semen based beverages aside,
the greatest treasure of the night were the  curious
packages placed on each bed. At first, I thought housekeeping
had mistakenly left a set of sheets or drapes on the
bed. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that they
had provided me with my own complimentary ninja warrior
outfit! There were two outfits, presumably so I could
engage in battle with my traveling companion. Since
I was there alone, I had to make do with pretending
I was battling evil forces that would dissuade me
from trying happy.
I ended my night falling asleep watching an episode
of "ER" subtitled in Japanese. Did you know
that the Japanese word for "Doctor Carter"
is "Doctor Carter"? True story.
I didn't sleep well. Images of my hotel being violently
destroyed by Godzilla came flooding into my dreams.
While I was certain that my actions alone wouldn't
be enough to summon the green giant from  underneath
the sea, I was sure that the Rugby players from my
flight would have undoubtedly caused enough havoc
during the night to raise the slumbering leviathan.
But morning came uneventfully and I caught the 6AM
shuttle back to the airport, where I treated myself
to a traditional Japanese breakfast of noodles and
beer. It may not necessarily be their tradition, but
it's now mine whenever I find myself stuck at their
airport.
I know that it's unfair and unwise to judge a culture,
much less an entire country, on a twelve hour stay
between a hotel and an airport. But I'm going to go
out on a limb and say that these Japanese are alright.
Or arright.
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