108 secrets you didn't know before

hello there.

my name is tim rodgers. i live in tokyo, japan, where wacky, edgy things happen to me daily.

i'm totally a novelist. i write shitty novels at a rate of about one per week, and i like to talk about them more than i like to talk about lesbian midget sex.

i'm currently coming to you live from a Manboo! internet cafe in the heart of Akihabara, the village of otaku and panty-sniffing perverts, although they are nearly the same thing.

anyway!

as i walked down to this internet cafe, my ears suddenly and violently seized up in toe-curling pain. i crouched on the shit-brown pavement for a few seconds, clutching at my ears and crying pinky-toe-fingernail-sized tears all over my punk-rock jacket.

after a few moments of throat-clenching pain, managed to stumble into a small camera store. a large scottish otaku was standing at the front squealing at MD players, holding his hands in front of him like a young korean girl-woman.

i crashed into a display case full of ultraman figurines, lodging one of them inside my palm as i flailed about. the glass rained on the floor with a tinkling sound not unlike that of glass shattering.

so i laid on the floor, my right hand clenched to my ear, my left hand twitching and bleeding all over a metal ultraman figurine, and i cried like no man has ever cried before.

within seconds, the owner of the shop had run to my side, and started muttering to himself in japanese that a third-grader would be ashamed of.

the man clamped his arms around my armpits, and hoisted me to my feet. i swerved around like a drunken five year old for a few seconds before gaining my footing and dusting myself off.

at this point, the store owner was gesturing wildly at the shattering display case, shouting at me in a voice that wouldn't intimidate an autistic four year-old in a room full of bikers.

his vocal emoticons overwhelmed me as i turned around and started to walk out. the ultraman figurine had, at this point, dis-lodged itself from my palm, and landed on the floor, leaving a nice blood stain.

as i walked out of the camera store, i once again passed the Scottish MD-man.

he was still screaming at those fucking things.

me: so today i was in akihabara
me: and i was just walking down this street, right
me: and my fucking ear like SCREAMED in pain
me: and i was fucking clutching at my ear, and like, crying, right
my friend: yeah?
me: i stumbled into this little camera shop
my friend: all right.
me: and this big, burly scottish guy was screaming at MD players
my friend: well, shit.
me: and i just stumbled by him, then i fucking lost my footing or some shit
me: and i fucking FLEW forward
me: and SLAMMED into this display case
me: full of these fucking ultraman figurine-things
me: and the whole fucking thing just EXPLODED all over the floor
me: and i was in the middle of it
me: and one of these things like, LODGED itself in my palm
me: so i'm lying on the floor
my friend: damn.
me: and the owner comes over
my friend: yeah?
me: and starts FUCKING screaming at me
my friend: fuck.
me: and he starts to help me up, right
my friend: right.
me: so i'm standing now
me: and
my friend: and?
me: i just fucking walk out of there
me: and he's fucking screaming at me
me: about his fucking figurines
me: and you know what?
me: that fucking scottish guy was still screaming at those MD players
my friend: fucking scottish fuckers.
my friend: they're fuckers.
me: you're damned right


AND NOW, A MESSAGE FROM OUR SPONSORS

right now i'm drinking real, american coca-cola. this shit is good, and FUCKING hard to get. i had to pay 7000 yen for three cans of this shit, even thought i don't have 7000 yen.

american coca-cola is crisp, and clean. japanese coca-cola is murky and as dirty as drew costner's shit after he partakes of an all-you-can-eat shit buffet.

japanese coca-cola is a slap in the face from a beautiful japanese woman who just happens to have a penis. american coca-cola is a beautiful hooker with missing front teeth and a disfigured fetus attatched to her ass.

british coca-cola is a phone call from your mother to tell you that she accidentally murdered your younger brother with an ironing board.

I ASK YOU, DEAR FANS: WHICH DO YOU PREFER?

i was sitting on my futon this morning, playing with my penis, as a man often does, when i made a decision. what was the decision, dear fans?

my decision was thus: i WILL fuck that korean massage-woman. not only will i FUCK her, i will also PORK her, rather violently. now, keep in mind, this was a decision made by a man endowed with a larger-than-you'd-believe penis. i kid you not when i claim that my penis once beat a man into submission.

my penis is a dangerous weapon, and must be handled as such. i hold the power of three men in that appendage alone. it is, as hiroto kohmoto said quite recently: "bigger than the dick of god."

NOT EVEN MY MAN KOHMOTO CAN STAND UP TO THIS LOGIC

as i entered this internet cafe, i noticed a small chinese woman sipping hot chocolate in the lobby. her hands clasped around the white pocelain cup like a small child's hands around a grown man's erect penis. she held her cup as her mother had surely told her to. why she chose to respect her mother, even now, i may never know.

i can, however, deduct one thing from this chinese woman's porcelain-grip. this one thing is a fearful thing, a thing that frightens even i, the toughest of the gaijin. this woman, whomever she may be, suffered from such a traumatic event, early in her life, that she is tempted, even now, to throw herself out the small window in the front of the store, and crash to the pavement five feet below.

her hands holding that cup reminded me intensely of my roommate from my third year of college. i was living in a small, smoke-filled dorm that was as gay as it was straight, and my roommate was a very homosexual giant of a man named Bruce Filgensten.

Bruce Filgensten was one of the largest men i had ever seen, in more ways than one. his penis, surely, was large enough to dwarf even my sizable cattle-prod. oftentimes he would have five or six girl-women over to our room, and they would proceed to play Yahtzee until late in the evening, when Bruce's oafish father would call and shout through the phone about the stock market.

one of these such times, i decided to seduce one of Bruce's visitors. i jumped into the shower as soon as they arrived, and stood inside the shower until the blazing-hot water quite violently shuddered into a temperature quite nearing FUCKING COLD. at this, i slid out of the shower, and walked back to my room, clad in nothing, save for a small, loin-cloth-sized towel that barely covered my impressive loins.

i burst into my room, and began to remove the towel. at this point, i realized that something was wrong.

there were no women in the room. only long-haired transvestites who were, at the moment, eyeing my huge flipper.

NEEDLESS TO SAY, I NEVER ATE CRAB AGAIN.

anyway.

as i watched the chinese woman slurp her hot chocolate, i noticed her teeth clicking against the rim of the cup. the sound that resulted stung my over-sensitive devil-ears with sexiness. this sound of tooth-against-porcelain excited something large in my pants, and i did not bother to hide it.

at this point, the chinese woman looked up, and noticed the growing bulge that was barely contained beneath my thread-bare japanese designer jeans. suddenly, hot chocolate spewed out her nose and mouth as she chocked out three loud, high-pitched laugh-screams.

as she sputtered and spit, she pointed faintly at my crotch, and continued to scream-laugh. her horrible laughing echoed down the hallway, making me wish that i had remembered to bring my large, scary american gun.

THEN I CAME TO A SHOCKING REVELATION

a this point, i realized something. the something was thus:

i would have totally fucked that chinese woman, if she had been wearing a scarf.


FUCK this keyboard is sticky. i wonder if it is sticky from the residue left behind by the red-faced, sighing salaryman that emerged from this very terminal mere moments ago.

OH NO I DIDN'T. WAIT, YES I DID.

there's a band making the rounds in the japanese punk-rock circuit right now, a glorious, amazing band by the name of Small Composite Letters. this band is a revolutionary mix of classic punk-rock, new punk-rock, and inbetween punk-rock.

their music sounds like the music of gods from some far-off land, and it damn near made my ears bleed with awesome. this music is being listened to by small, squeeky-voiced japanese girl-women, who are inspired to scream when their favourite track comes on, even if they are on a train. they do this even when there are numerous salarymen ogling their asses.

in fact, i believe that ass-ogling makes them even happier.

anyway.

i spoke to the frontman of this band quite recently, a certain william rogers. he had many things to say about many things. i will talk about a few of them here.

apparently, we both share an affinity for clothed women. i usually partake of my women clothed, although sometimes i have been known to dabble in the non-clothed. william rogers, however, is a completely-clothed man. i must give him respect for this, as it takes courage the likes of which i have only glimpsed.

Small Composite Letters' new album, JAP-HATING PEDOPHILE, will be out tomorrow, yet i have already heard it, and i can say, with confidence, that it can kick my ass in a way that it hasn't been kicked since 1989.

AND THAT, DEAR FANS, IS THAT.

unfortunately, i must leave now, lest my large english landlord burn all of my belongings and steal all of my unused condoms.