punchline to the joke is asking "someone save us"

The obnoxious Japanese tabloids and clueless news anchor assholes call her "Anna san." At first I thought it was a joke--another idiotic variety show stunt. Alas, I was sadly mistaken. I didn't think the "Who Plowed Anna Nicole Smith" fad was enough to spark international interest, but again, I was sadly mistaken. It's the kind of cheap and sleazy mystery novella that usually begins in a dimly lit bar/hotel room/karaoke box/back alley dumpster where the main character finds herself in some massive uncharacteristic lapse in judgement with a stranger she'd only met moments before.
Bow chicka-bow-wow.
God, I feel like such a chode just for even mentioning this collosal waste of time. No tabloid respite even in Japan.

My television is on, but I'm not listening to it. Sometimes, as I sit idly in front of the screen, eating soupy shrimp doria from a convenience store, my head shakes in disbelief. "Come on Zach," my better half pleads, "...is this shit for real?" Yes, I'm afraid it is. And the remote...the batteries are always conveniently dead. The scripting for tonight's mental porking is as follows:
1. Guy with retarded hair stands in front of barn doors.
2. Barn doors open. Toy motorcycle towing some unintelligable kanji drives by. Bland warehouse backdrop.
3. Asshole with retarded hair fails to provide entirely unfunny host with what could be taken as a correct answer.
4. Host, who is wearing painfully fugly tiger-print shirt screams his unfunny insults at retarded asshole. Update: Host's Hitler-esque mustache is permanent marker. Coincidence? I think not.
5. Retarded asshole is lightly smacked on the forehead with a stick by some wanker stagehand in a skimpy red schoolgirl outfit.
6. Cocky gangster bastard with purple mohawk and white tracksuit on opposing team jeers, and is struck in return.
7. Random blogger in Shizuoka tragically perishes in his hotel room. Cause of death? Head purposefully bashed repeatedly into bathroom wall.

Moving on, I'm in Shizuoka prefecture. This is not news. Mt. Fuji is here. Still. This is also not news. It is windy and cold, but it is also apparently still winter in parts of the world other than Findlay and Traverse City. Again, not news. Not much here is news. I go to school, then I come home from school, where I continue to sleep off my cold. I then eat dinner at cheap places like "Bikkuri [surprised] Donkey!" and at 711.
There are things about this hotel that drive me insane. Like the soap. Whomever cleans my room, makes my bed (living in Findlay taught me how to T-R-A-S-H hotel rooms like a rockstar), and neatly folds my unused plastic bags every morning while I'm observing classes, takes my opened hand soap on the bathroom sink and replaces it with a newly wrapped one next to my bed. I come home from work, throw down my bags, drain the dragon, and reach for the soap that I unwrapped only hours before...and it's gone. I am infuriated. But this person is incredibly honest. Honesty, where in the states, people with the same job would gladly interpret the messes I leave behind as collections to be taken up for their offerings to St. Louis goddamn Vuitton. I leave coins scattered about the room in various denominations; ten yens, fifty yens, one hundred yens, five hundred yens, arcade tokens, bottle caps, lip moisterizers, old apartment keys, dirty socks...and she leaves them all. A shining beacon of trustworthyness, she is. So I've begun a social experiment within this facet of Japanese society. I'll leave what's left of my company spending and train money in an envelope labeled "Stupid Amount of Cash," taped to a pair of filthy CK boxer briefs I found in a gutter this morning outside of Skylark after last night's windstorm. Or shitstorm. I'm not really sure which actually... Anyway, who knows what she'll do with them, or if I even plan to report the findings. I just think it's funny to put irresponsible amounts of cash in large denominations in dirty underwear.

You can see a distant Fuji off to Frampton's left in the photograph. One of these years, after he inevitably becomes completely hidden in smog, construction scaffolds, and McDonald's arches, I imagine they'll fill in the lake on his north side, and install massive spotlights in their place so that the Japanese can enjoy faint views of him again. That is, until he's bulldozed...uh...

...hold on...

...my future wife is on the telly...she's eating something...

...Sorry...

So, where was I? They're eating eel guts or something. God, what a turnoff.
Screw this, I'm going to bed.



"Will you pray for me? Or make a saint of me?"