Armpit of Japan, Friday

The Editor sent me another fucking homing kebab, I mean, budgie. Bit chewy this one though. Ed, instead of silly falsetto serenading the bastards from a distance as you're sprawled out legless in your fucking shacho chair, try staggering to your feet for long enough to breathily marinade them with your patented "Eau de Garden" mouth fumes for a half a fucking hour a day before dispatching the little pricks. Anyway, this time the budgie bore a wee note instructing me to get down to Tokyo to weasel out the scoop on that construction material scamming toupeed twat Aneha. "Aneha." Fuck Aneha. I don't givea shit about Aneha. The earthquake comes, they're all fucked anyway. Ahh, crap, I may as well go. Good chance for a bit of 5-finger discounting to flesh out my "Negligent Chloroform" vids collection.

Crikey, the old legs were a bit queasy after 4 straight hours hiding in the shinkansen dunny but there I was at what I THOUGHT was the Tokyo Negligent Chloroform Wax Museum. Unfortunately, it turned out I was at the Tokyo Parliament buildings. Bugger. Had saved up a bladder and a fucking half to expel on the waxen cunts too. As it turned out, I was in the right place at the right time. Must have been my destiny. I swear, being the Emerson Fitti-fucking-paldi of the journalism world, these stories just seem to come to me like a chicane comes ..to ..a.. a ending... after.. the curvy bit..... [damn editor skipped Analogies 101 on my first and only day of Cadet Training. He'd drunkenly printed out something about analgesics by mistake and proceeded to spend the rest of the hour entertaining himself no end by making not paper cranes but paper fucking budgies with the handout.]

So there I was inside a Parliament dunny, hopping from foot to foot waiting for one of the two urinals to become vacant, half a fucking reservoir backed up to me colon, up me Khyber, shit, even the makeshift colostomy bag I'd fitted over my now-gangrenous self-inflicted mechanical pencil thigh wound was somehow collecting some urine drippage.... anyway, some silver-quiffed, sharkskin-suited prat and his slapheaded, liver-lipped, tomb-faced pal are whizzing away at the urinals. I'm the only one in the queue, frantically fidgeting with my fly now, you wouldn't credit it, the end of me white shirt front is caught in the zip teeth AGAIN, CHRIST, it must get snagged in there at least three times a day. Anyway, I must have inadvertently nudged the record button on my walkman in my pocket and accidentally replaced my glorious COUNTRY TEASERS mix tape with the following conversation;

"... was in Hashimoto's office, facing a TV monitor while assuming the position for the old cunt, fuck me, Chiba came on, there's still some families left living there. Shake mine for me, wouldya?... uhh.... some families even near the Sumitomo coastline. Hash the Bash said we're already looking at a good two future generations of three-eyed kids down there. I think he told me to send my double in as a PR move and blab some old tosh about 'saving that third generation'... uhh... bit more... but he was wailing a bit by then so I couldn't really make out what he was saying... something about projections forecasting the ratio of over-60's to be upwards of 75% by 2007 so we'll be needing some two-eyed cunts to pay some fucking tax... don't stop, there's a bit more in there. Shit, once 2008 rolls around and the prefecture name change to 'Sumitomo' goes through and all remaining residents become company property and are legally conscripted to work in their underground fucking asbestos mines, th... fuck me, is that 12 year-old ice skating no-panties waitress from Chiba?"

So, uh, yeah. Here's the story.

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PM to visit family-stricken Chiba.

Prime Minister Koizumi, whose barnacled reforms agenda remains becalmed 40 metres adrift of the pier, has today announced that in 2007 he is set to pay his first ever visit to the barren graveyard of broken dreams that is Chiba prefecture.

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Uhh. Finished.
Pay me, you cunt.

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