๑
Soothing synths, waterfalls, and gong chimes sounded softly across the dim, rectangular room. A rosy aroma of massage oil wafting about. An overhead a/c was gently whirring, its icy blasts tickling at the tourist’s skin.
“You should find a husband,” said the tourist, his voice quietly breaking.
The young girl giggled, shook her head and furtively lowered her gaze, then went back to whipping her hands up and down the tourist’s shin, seemingly using all
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer the energy she could muster as she did so. Understandably, too, considering the tourist’s size.
The tourist, compared to most of the slender Southeast Asians, was practically a Big Foot. He stood at 6’4, and was wide-bodied, with thick bones.
The tourist, despite his considerable mass, however, was not a young man. Far from it, in fact. And his countenance told of time’s rough hands. The lines crisscrossing the folds of his face cut deep as dried riverbeds. Gathering time had also taken the tourist’s color; his fuzzy coat of body hair, his neatly trimmed Hemingway beard, his wavy mop of hair… all had silvered.
That coat of silvery-gray body hair, along with his skin’s pallor, and heavyset size, had the locals joking, nicknaming him, in Thai, “หมีขั้วโลก” ( mee kohlok) - the
“Polar Bear.”
Despite the locals’ barbs, which he didn’t pick up on, the tourist certainly didn’t lack self-confidence. Quite the contrary. He had a heavenly-high opinion of himself. Moreover, he looked down on many of the other farangs he’d see around Bangkok. He’d seen countless Thailand expats, around his age, that were, in his eyes, in far worse shape. Most of them far thicker in the waist, with big Buddha bellies far floppier than his.
Not to mention the clothes they’d wear… While the tourist was no fashionista, he was practically a GQ cover model compared to some of the losers he’d see around Bangkok. The fat, pathetic old men in their torn, tattered beer tank-tops, dirty cargo shorts, flannel shirts, corduroy pants and even a few in clunky, black, Velcro retard shoes…
And while most of the losers had fat heads, heads bald as a baboon’s ass, some of those who did have hair, their hairstyles, for fuck’s sake, the tourist would think, cringing just looking at them… Like the loser the tourist had been seeing on Sukhumvit Road, the raisin-faced skeleton, that zombie-looking creature whose scalp was eagle bald, yet this particular shitbird had a sloppy mane of silver locks flapping from the back of his skull, almost an “old man mullet.”
Or worse, the “old man bun” Eurotrash. Those pitiful fucks with their gray hairs pulled into man buns.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer What a bunch of losers, he’d think, glaring at them in disgust. How poorly they’ve aged… How poorly they’d endured the onslaught of time… Unlike him…
Damn right, especially compared to those fuckballs, he was a silver fox. And that’s what he saw in his bathroom mirror, when he’d flex his biceps after a shower, admiring his reflection, thinking of how well he’d aged, how well he’d matured, just like a fine whiskey.
Whenever he’d shave, he’d stop to appreciate his strong jaw, his cleft chin, and he’d feel so handsome, so dashing. He was a proper gentleman. He was what every man should look like. Unlike those sad souls around lower Sukhumvit, who’d aged worse than milk. Some aging even worse than Axl Rose.
But not him, the tourist would think, running his fingers through his thick, moon-silver hair. And he’d grin, devilishly, happy to admire his reflection anytime he saw it, fancying himself as resembling a 1990s, early 2000s Sean Connery, or a 2010s George Clooney, albeit slightly more handsome…
“You are beautiful,” the tourist continued, flashing a flirty, pearly white smile at the masseuse, “why hasn’t any man married you yet?”
The young girl blushed again, keeping her eyes locked on the tourist’s legs and feet, her slim body moving rhythmically as she kneaded and palmed at his plump thighs.
Her strength certainly surprised him, a girl this tiny, with this degree of power and a grip this tight. She really had a vise-grip. Might be from toiling in those rice fields, the tourist pondered, knowing that a lot of these masseuses were migrant workers, came from the countryside...
“Just how old is she?” a wispy voice inquired and faded away, echoing in his thoughts.
The tourist guessed the girl’s age at about 25, though it could have been higher or lower. He’d always been bad at guessing Asians’ ages.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
Looking down, he saw his long feet cradled in the young girl’s small, caramel-colored hands, and for the first time, he awed at just how white his body hair had become. Even his feet, the hair on his toes, had all gone white.
Another voice popped in his head, intruding like a loud, sudden TV commercial.
This voice was an aggrieved one. It was accusatory. Full of guttural sounds and hisses. And it was castigating him, mocking his age, his weight, everything about him. But then familiar, comforting thoughts of football arose in his head, fogged in, and the aggrieved voice quieted, became a garbled hum, before fading to weakening bursts of plosive white noise…
It’d been years since the first gray hair had appeared on his head, atop his right temple. But he could remember it like yesterday. He’d found the gray hair one winter morning, after shaving. In the bathroom mirror, over the sink, he’d leaned forward, inspected his sideburns, spotted the lone gray and knew instantly, exactly what it was and what it meant. It was a message. A message from Death and Death’s son, Father Time. A message that the clock was ticking.
It was around this discovery that he first started asking himself existential questions. What did he want? Beyond the superficial, the materialistic, the sybaritic… he was unsure…
The tourist hadn’t known exactly what he wanted. But he had arrived at a point where he realized that whatever it was that he wanted, he wasn’t getting.
His life felt boring, meaningless. At his office job, every day was the same. Every day it was the same cold faces, the same packed subways, the same casefiles, the same monotonous meetings and memos. The same soporific whir of the central heating/cooling system. The same trivial conversations with coworkers about the same stupid TV shows.
Then he’d come home to watch those same stupid TV shows. Not so much because he liked them, but because he felt like he was supposed to. That if he didn’t, he’d have nothing to say at the watercooler. Although the laugh-tracks, canned applause, and one-liners did ease his mind, if nothing else.
While watching TV, he’d eat TV dinners, delivery pizza, and potato chips. He’d drink soda. Once, he was drinking the same soda as he saw on a TV ad. In the commercial, there was a man his age and build, also alone in an apartment. Then the man is cracking open a can of the soda and instantly is transported, beamed, ala Star Trek, to a wild beach dance party filled with scantily clad women and pumping loud music.
But that hadn’t happened to him when he opened the soda. Or when he drank it.
And on a quiet, intrinsic level, it bothered him that it didn’t happen. He’d bought the same soda, but no girls in bikinis appeared. He wasn’t beamed to an exotic island. It wasn’t fair, he softly raged. But he let the feeling pass and forgot about it once the sitcom came back on.
The tourist’s weekends weren’t much better. He’d go to the same bar with his coworkers and occasionally he’d go on the same dates with the same boring women.
He started wondering what more was out there. He wanted to discover the world, to travel, to see distant, exotic lands while he still had time, before he got too old.
While on the crowded subway, his face ruddy from the blustery cold, his fingers
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer numb, the tourist suddenly had an epiphany. He happened upon the cruelty of life, that he’d slave away in an office, give a multi-national corporation his prime years, then finally, when he got to retire, he’d be a toothless, incontinent old man, wearing adult diapers and shitting himself.
Standing in that packed subway car, full of frowning faces, the tourist knew, he knew then and there, that he had to do something, he had to find something more…
That gray hair, that morning, had put his mind in motion, had put the fear of time in him. That gray hair had instilled in him the idea that time was tugging him further out to sea. And he knew he needed to fill a void.
One wet, cold and ugly fall evening, when he was half-drunk, sprawled out on the couch, the action movie Kickboxer came on TV. It was set in Thailand, which, to him, seemed like the farthest place away from his dreary, landlocked landscape.
With its golden temples, sun-splashed beaches and bustling cities, Thailand, to him, was probably the most exotic place on the planet. He had to go there. It wasn’t just drunk talk, either, it was an omen, a sign from the universe. He had to go there. He had to be there.
So it was decided. He’d visit Thailand during his next vacation.
And thus began his history of visiting Thailand. The 14-hour plane ride was a beast, but sleeping pills helped. He’d always be sure to book a window seat, and once airborne, he’d tilt his head and gaze down at the endless white patches of land and the bent spine of his boring city, watching with joy as they shrunk and then vanished beneath creamy, cottony blankets of clouds. Then he’d feel the euphoric rush of the pills surging through his bloodstream as he’d lean back in his seat and doze off, happily knowing he’d be waking up to palm trees and fun and sun in paradise.
The tourist’s every trip to Thailand was almost the same. But unlike the monotony of his job, the similarity was comforting rather than defeating.
His every trip to Thailand was like this: First, he’d stay a few nights in Bangkok, strategically near Nana Plaza, Bangkok’s biggest red-light district. Then he’d fly south to a lush tropical island and stay at a seaside resort. There, he’d swim in the Andaman Sea, eat heaps of mangoes, and when the sun paled, he’d retire to his suite to sip cold beer and watch the stars from his balcony. Then he’d fly back to Bangkok, for a night or two, hit the go-go bars and massage parlors once or twice more, before finally flying home.
Every trip was practically identical. And that was the point. He didn’t want it any other way.
And why would he? From the first time he’d set foot in Thailand, he’d loved it, had taken an immediate shine to the country, its warm weather, January sunshine kissing his skin, its friendly faces and easy living…
And he especially loved the affordable beautiful women.
The women were one of the biggest reasons why he kept coming back. The “bar girls,” ladies at bars, who’d provide intimate companionship for a minimal fee, they became his fetish. They were the best-looking women he’d ever seen, too.
Drop-dead gorgeous. With or without makeup. And they were almost all slender, with curves cut from stone and with jaw-droppingly sexy, exotic features, hyperborean cheekbones, upcurved eyes like temple eaves, and golden, honey-colored skin… Skin softer than the finest silks…
Better yet, the Thai women were outgoing, fun. Most spoke near-perfect English, could converse freely, and loved to joke around and have a good time. Unlike the escorts he’d hired in his home country, the Thai ladies weren’t hurried, shifty-eyed, or nervous, and didn’t make it feel like they were doing anything wrong…
Not that he cared if they really liked him. Although they sure acted like they did.
The Thai bar girls were damn near Oscar-caliber actresses, smiling, nodding along, and laughing at all his corny jokes. And in bed, they were like porn stars, AVN
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
Award worthy, true professional fuck-machines easily capable of satisfying any and every carnal urge.
Not to mention the diversity… of pussy…
In Thailand, he could have a college-aged girl (18-23 y/o) one night, then a more mature girl (28-36 y/o) the next. A thinner girl one night, a thicker girl the next.
Darker skin one night, lighter the next. Big tits, small tits, juicy butt, swimsuit model butt, tall, short, et cetera, et cetera… Thailand, to him, was basically one big buffet of beautiful pussy, a pussy paradise…
The tourist simply loved the ability to choose, being able to walk into a bar and pick whichever woman he wanted, rather than walking into a bar, in his cold country, hoping and praying he could find a lady who liked him.
In Thailand, all the women at all the bars liked him.
๔
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer And so he kept coming back, every year. Though he’d have a killer experience, every trip, still, there were a series of voices in his head, shrill, squeaky voices, that’d speak up, from time to time, during his visits to the Kingdom. The voices following him like a guilty conscience. The voices appearing as audio intrusions, in daytime, and at night, too. And sometimes in dreams. The voices sometimes manifesting in different stages of sleep. The voices sometimes personified and sounded by shadowy, veiled figures, with eyes like black pebbles…
The voices told of self-doubt. And hate. The voices whispering to him that the Thais were all fakes. That their smiles were an act, a pantomime. That behind their smiles, was only emptiness. And faceless greed. That everything in Thailand was fake. All the buildings, everything, it was a mirage. It was artifice. That it shouldn’t be there.
Between barhopping in Bangkok, the tourist sometimes took the Skytrain, and he’d silently stand by the train window, watching the passing scenery of the city as if he were inspecting a painting in an art gallery. Here and there, with the city moving under his feet, the tourist would glance over at a vacant lot and see it reclaimed by jungle, tropical foliage, and the voices would fade in, tell him that Bangkok was a swamp. It was all a jungle. And that’s what it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be a jungle, with crocodiles, snakes, silver streams, waterfalls, exotic birds...
“None of this… None of it… None of it… should even be here…”
From time to time the aggrieved voices would appear, in this way, and intrude on his holidays. They’d boo and hiss. Declare that he was a fraud. Declaim him a lecherous sexpest. Proclaim that he was exploiting people in a third world country.
And that even worse, he was being exploited himself.
When the voices got too loud, he’d quiet them with booze and soothing thoughts of football. But, like a cockroach, they were there, and stayed there, infesting, alive in the walls of his mind...
Back home, back in his cold country, the cockroach voices would normally quiet.
Or, strangely, they’d shift their tone to saccharine, to nostalgia. The voices pining to be back in Bangkok, in Thailand, where everything was as it should be.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The tourist would fantasize, plan his next trip to Bangkok. Doing so would help him avoid lamenting too much about his unsatisfying job, unsatisfying local women…
The local women- ugh. He’d be perpetually disappointed that he couldn’t find anyone comparable to the Thai ladies. The local women, Western women, to him, had become disgusting. Useless. They seemed so masculine too. They’d have short hair, talk like men, act like men, dress like men, and their noses were always too big, their frames fat as milk cows. The local women just totally, in every conceivable way, turned him off.
Worse yet, unlike in Asia, he’d found fat women being glorified, put on front pages of magazines, and even in lingerie ads. He’d gag, throw up inside his mouth seeing scantily clad, overweight pop singers, like Lizzo, wobbling their lardy asses on television. And he’d scratch his head as fat chicks, somehow, were proclaimed by the Western mainstream media as being “brave” for flaunting their flabby figures.
To him, there was nothing brave or sexy about a woman being a fatty. Nothing worth celebrating. To the tourist, fat chicks were just plain gross…
Back in the West, the tourist would miss the gentle, thin Asian girly girls, with their absurdly long painted nails, fake lashes, heaps of makeup and luscious lips always stretched into smiles. Their feminine, form-fitting clothes and shiny hair.
Their super tight, tiny pussies and the certain silkiness, reactivity of their sugary skin. Eventually he gave up on dating local women and abandoned any idea of
“settling down” in his native land and its icy, gloomy environs.
Thailand, his once, twice, or thrice-yearly trips to the “Land of Smiles,” were all he needed.
๕
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer So it was natural for the tourist to decide to retire in Thailand. Once he hit retirement age, he decided to leave his home country, straightaway, for good, and he hopped the next plane bound for Southeast Asia.
The tourist rented a small but sunny, furnished apartment in downtown Bangkok, near Sukhumvit Road. It was his little chamber in paradise. And next to his new apartment was a massage shop, where he’d go, nearly every day, for a foot massage or Thai massage. One thing he absolutely loved about Thailand was its availability of affordable massages. Only 8 dollars for an hour of foot massage.
With his body sore from age, the daily massages worked wonders.
Not to mention Thailand’s tropical weather, humidity helped loosen his joints, alleviated his worsening arthritis. It was paradise, truly paradise, and for the first month, he’d felt like a new man. He’d felt young again and on top of the world.
He was living the dream, drinking cold beer, every day, eating spicy food, popping dick pills, and boning bar girls half his age. It was his perfect life…
At the massage shop next to his place, he soon discovered one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen. A moon among stars. She had a face that was shockingly beautiful. Beautiful enough to shake mountains. And she was svelte, petite, and honey-skinned, with shiny, raven-black hair falling just past her shoulders. She wore heavy helpings of makeup, too, which he liked, and her ludicrously long fake lashes, sparkly pink eye shadows over her upcurved eyes were just… so mesmerizing… that every time he gazed upon her… he felt light-headed in love…
Even the dim lighting of the massage parlor reflected, like shimmering stars, off her figure, and simply seeing her brought a smile to his face.
Her English seemed minimal, though. As was his Thai, despite his visiting the country for over two decades. Although it was on his to-do list, he’d not gotten around to taking a Thai language study course. The vowels, and the tones, in particular, felt nearly impossible for him. Not to mention the indecipherable script of its alphabet.
Plus, most everyone in Thailand, in Bangkok, touristy spots, spoke “Tourist”, a pidgin dialect of hand signals, body language, and Thai-accented English words, and he found himself speaking more and more in the pidgin syntax and frequently
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer noticed himself saying English loan words in that same Thai fashion, always stressing the final syllable, like com-pu-TUH, et cetera.
However, now that he was living in Thailand, now that he was retired, perhaps he would do the Thai language course, he thought, envisioning chatting up the massage girl. Maybe being able to communicate with a goddess as pretty as her was all the motivation he needed. It’s not like he didn’t have the time. Time, finally, it seemed, was on his side.
๖
That massage shop girl soon came to occupy his mind. She’d flit through his thoughts and even appear in his dreams. She’d replaced the menacing veiled figures, and since settling in Thailand, the aggrieved voices had all but disappeared, become as distant as waves upon a faraway shore.
The massage girl… She’d set his mind in motion, lit a fire in his heart, and he’d daydream about her, then think of her at night before sinking into sleep, replaying comforting mental montages, vivid images of them, together, hand-in-hand, strolling along on an island in the Andaman Sea. Cerulean waters foaming onto a white sandy shore… The two of them sipping coconuts and spooning in a swinging hammock strung between two tall palm trees…
The tourist wished to find out everything about her. Although she was practically young enough to be his daughter, or granddaughter, maybe… Still, she fascinated him. He’d fallen completely under her spell. She was just so beautiful, had a smile that he’d sell his soul for and a perfect, well-rounded hourglass figure, the type of body so perfect it looked photoshopped.
Better yet, unlike many of the local women, she wasn’t a whore, either. She wasn’t turning tricks, hadn’t been fucked by hundreds of baboon ass baldie fatsos and losers like the old man buns, that old man mullet shitbird, and their slovenly ilk.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer With her silky, coy demeanor, she really did seem like a nice Buddhist girl, and she didn’t appear to have any ulterior motives, the tourist thought… Maybe she wouldn’t be an agist, annoying, entitled bitch like so many of the women back home, either...
The tourist made up his mind and planned to ask her out. He watched a couple of videos on YouTube, watched Learn Thai with Mod, and learned a handful of Thai phrases for dating. He was ready. He was READY! He was going to have his own little exotic beauty, his own little perfect china doll. It was all coming together…
Finally, on a muggy Friday afternoon, he did it. Sitting back in his big comfy recliner, the foot massage chair, he twisted his lips into a big Thai smile, and told his dream girl that she “should find a husband.”
Then he asked her, confidently, in a mix of broken Thai and English, if he could buy her dinner.
She only smiled and giggled, didn’t say yes or no. When he reiterated his offer, she again giggled, and mentioned something about “working.” Which he took as a no.
Then she asked him, in broken English, if he had any pictures from when he was young, if he could show her his “young man” pictures.
A chill plaited up his spine. His eyes narrowed. His body hair rose, prickled like a hedgehog… Then a sickness stirred, and formed, like a clenched fist, in his stomach.
So this was it. To her, he was just another old man, just another customer, nothing more... His heartbeat then began to race, his breaths shortened, and his mouth turned dry as sand…
But, only kindling his consternation, the tourist’s dream girl wasn’t sensing any of his internal anguish. She just kept smiling, asked again if he had pictures of himself, when he was “her age.”
“I think you was han’sum man,” she said, smiling wider, and giggling once more, profiting in his grief. Then she whispered something in Thai and snickered with a nearby masseuse, another young Thai girl, who was busily rubbing at the feet of a
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer sleeping middle-aged Japanese businessman, and the two masseuses shared a fit of suppressed laughter.
Pressing his eyes shut tightly, the tourist’s sickness inside grew, spread across his chest. It stung. It festered. His life, everything was feeling like a lie. Everything. All the smiles. It was all a fraud. A FRAUD!
He’d known these ugly thoughts. He knew the voices. The cockroach voices in his mind’s walls. The infestation in his subconscious. But now, now though, they were impossible to suppress, and the cockroaches were crawling from their cracks, and attacking, like phantoms in a horror flick.
The phantom voices were rampaging, pouring in like hordes of starving rats. The voices telling him he was nothing. Not even a human. He was only his money.
That he was a walking ATM. That he was no better than any of the others that he’d mocked.
The reckoning then settled in. It was a dark, cold and hollow feeling that hardened and formed into a shard of broken glass. It pressed to his throat. The tourist then knew… There’d always be… a void… The voices, a fucking football stadium of the aggrieved, appeared and rose, all standing, all screaming at him.
And hovering above, high as an angel, the tourist could see a veiled figure pointing and falling backward laughing.
A clucking rage filled the tourist. His eyes opened slowly, like sliding elevator doors. He then glared at the smiling young girl, jerked back his feet from the stool, stepped out of his big comfy pleather massage chair and rose, as a grim champion, to his feet, and sneered.
The girl, appearing confused, threw her head back and asked, “Is, okay?”
The tourist didn’t answer. Instead, he kicked the girl in her face. Drilled her with a dropkick to her chin, launching her backward, sending the small girl tumbling, collapsing to the floor, landing with a crash. Lying crumpled on the floor, the girl unloosed a shrill whine, then began whimpering like a beaten dog.
Then the tourist, his marbled legs still beaded with rose-scented oil, stormed straight out of the massage parlor’s front door, and began marching, barefoot, toward the golden glaze of the sun.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
BESTIALITY BRO AT THE ONSEN SPA IN TOKYO
飛行機 1
“Godzilla versus a trojan horse hiding ten thousand sumo wrestlers. Who ya got?”
Our Regional Coordinator blurted out at the team. Whether his words were lost to jetlag or just plain disinterest, his mythical matchup went unexamined as the team yawned, unclicked seatbelts, and mechanically collected belongings from our seatbacks and overhead compartments.
This was my first visit to Japan. And I was beginning to feel overcome. Drunk on jetlag, and with the effects of the 500mg THC edible wearing off, everything was seeming so surreal. I suddenly started to experience a certain sensation, a
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer feeling… Something like I was in a sci-fi movie. Or as if I’d traveled forward in time…
Everything around me, everything in the airport, the city, the taxi, the hotel, et cetera… everything… looked so futuristic. Everything was so clean and sparkly and high-tech and automated. And everything spoke. Inanimate objects burst into cute, computerized coos. Doors spoke. Escalators and elevators spoke. Even the Tokyo toilets were automated and spoke. And, incredibly, the Tokyo toilets could even wash and dry genitals at the push of a button.
But rather than grim or dystopian, as the technology of the future is often portrayed, I found the automation and its futurism warming, comical in a sense.
Think Jetsons rather than 1984…
ホテル 2.1
While checking in to the hotel, Our Regional Coordinator, a real road warrior, expertly gauged the mood of the team. He saw the low energy. The lack of pep.
He knew that following our red-eye, trans-pacific flight, the team required rejuvenation before the gauntlet of conferences kicked off. He knew that once the bugle sounded, and the events began, we’d be off running like a pack of greyhounds chasing a rabbit.
And so Our Regional Coordinator clapped his hands, like a football coach on the sidelines, and rah-rahed, fired up the team. Then he suggested we book (fully expensed to Corporate, of course) a day-pass to our Hyatt’s Onsen Spa.
Perfunctorily we agreed. But, later, I was quite pleased that we followed his suggestion, as the spa far exceeded any of my expectations…
ホテル 2.2
The spa was simply the epitome of luxury. Located on the Hyatt’s 102nd floor, the spa’s lobby featured sweeping views of the Tokyo megalopolis. Walking in, I felt at ease as I drew in a deep breath, becoming delightfully awash in a rich potpourri of sandalwood fragrances.
Flicking my gaze at a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw out to infinite rows of Tokyo’s skyscrapers, superstructures. To me, even Tokyo’s buildings appeared futuristic, with skyscrapers that looked like robots. Superstructures that looked
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer like spaceships. I really was starting to feel as if I’d stepped into a sci-fi film, or that our airplane actually was a time machine…
Our Regional Coordinator mentioned something in passing about how the spa has hot spring pools and that hot springs and the sauna are both “tremendous for the circulation.” Then he went on about how in Japan there’s a vending machine for everything, that you can buy beer from a vending machine and how much he appreciated that…
I was finding that the spa had very particular rules about shoes, slippers, and feet.
Upon checking in, we had to stick our shoes inside a shoebox-sized shoe locker in the lobby. Then we were given slippers that we were to wear in most areas but were forbidden to wear in other areas. The shoe etiquette, shoe rules seemed confusing, at first, but I began to quickly appreciate the cleanliness, the ritual of it…
Our team proceeded past the shoe lockers and marched single file toward the spa’s men’s locker room. On the way, we passed a pair of spa attendants. Two CoverGirl beautiful, heavily made-up Japanese women in kimonos. The attendants robotically smiling and bowing.
Then I briefly considered that there could be robots everywhere. Those skyscrapers, buildings could truly be Transformers or UFOs... And all the spa’s attendants could really be robots, androids, or cyborgs, or something similarly scary. And while these revelations made me uncomfortable in a way, I determined that even if the spa attendants were robots, even surreptitiously robots, I would respect that.
Our Regional Coordinator, the type to turn any steering wheel or table into a drum set, turned his big red tomato of a head, split into a smile and suggested:
“We oughta take in a baseball game while we’re here. Japanese baseball, I’m telling you, the atmosphere, you never seen anything like it…”
“The sushi, too...”
“You eat the sushi here in Japan, though, believe me, and you’ll have a tough time eating sushi anywhere else. There’s no going back.”
ホテル 2.3
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Throughout the spa’s various chambers were starry night ceilings, blond-wood walls, marble flooring, and a series of hot and cool pools.
Each of the pools was a rectangle about as tall as a sedan, about as long as a limo, and each pool was about four feet deep with water said to be directly sourced from thermal springs. Digital monitors carefully displayed each pool’s water temperature. The monitors’ numbers occasionally shifting up or down a few pips, like a stock ticker on a slow day.
Aluminum signs were affixed by each pool too. The signs stating, in multiple languages, the water’s mineral content, as well as explaining how the waters help detoxify, heal, and relax the body.
ホテル 2.4
Entering some strange place between somnolent and invigorated, I padded forward, swinging my gaze side-to-side like a real sightseer. I made mental notes, impressed at the spa’s array of other amenities, including Himalayan hot stone-bed baths, Akasuri Body Scrubs, mud wraps, facials, massages, cool-down rooms, as well as an organic smoothie and snack bar... I was even tempted to check out of my upscale yet closet-sized hotel room and simply stay in the spa. It was that nice…
ロボット 3
The spa was well-staffed with a small army of robotic attendants berobed in traditional Japanese clothing.
To a person, the staff parted, stopped and bowed wherever, whenever we passed.
They all looked young, too, the staff. Maybe early 20ish. When seeing us, the clientele, they’d bow and instantly screw their faces into ear-to-ear smiles.
Lottery-winner smiles. Smiles that’d make a dentist proud.
The smiling, the bowing was a pleasant change from the normal NYC idea of customer service. Those surly shop assistants, cashiers who either have a thousand-yard stare or appear as if they might physically assault you at any given moment…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer However, the spa staff’s smiles, in a way, looked abrading and painful. As if the smiles had a life and mind of their own. As if the smiles might eventually turn, attack and eat the attendants’ faces, like an enraged pet.
Otherwise, the staff generally had a certain glazed look to them, an expression between nonplussed and indifferent. Stoic yet icy. Almost as if preparing for a driver’s license photo. That sort of absently present expression. There but not there.
うんこ 4
The team disrobed. Stuck our stuff in our lockers. Then we showered. Washed off the sticky grime of the 14-hour flight. I found that there was nothing to cleanse the soul like a piping hot shower after a long flight. And the moans of pleasure uttered by my teammates in adjacent shower stalls seemed to constitute a certain consensus.
Then the team toweled off, tread forward, to the pools. We rinsed ourselves off via wooden ladle, from a wooden basin, with what was purportedly pure mountain water. The water was cool to the touch and tingly, giving me goosebumps as it splashed and cascaded over my travel-weary body.
Then we sat and soaked in the “soda bath” pool. The soda bath’s waters were refreshing. And hot. 41.2C according to the digital monitor. Aptly named as well, the soda bath’s waters were blurry as vanilla cream soda, nearly the color of skim milk. The unique coloration lending me a feeling more like I was climbing into a bowl of hot plain yogurt rather than a pool…
Our Regional Coordinator, with tendrils of the soda bath’s steam framing his fat red face, suddenly pulled his piehole into a frown, and started shaking his head, recounting a recent ordeal:
“It was earlier in Q2. When we had several branches’ computers increasingly monitored by Corporate. You know, cutting back on assholes wasting worktime on social media. Jerkoffs going on Reddit or Twitter. Playing Angry Birds, that type of shit…”
“And, like, Jesus, the shit this one guy was looking at. It got flagged, instantly. And understandably. It was… beyond gruesome… Like, snuff films… Bestiality, dogs...
Necrophilia…”
As he spoke, Our Regional Coordinator’s ketchup-colored helmet of hair seemed to be thinning. The skin on his neck starting to sag like a turkey’s. Heavy shadows hung under his eyes and his face reddened. His head, seemingly, started growing larger too, as he spoke, like a balloon filling with air. Like many Irish, Irish Americans, the man’s face had been appearing redder, his head getting bigger as he aged anyway. But this sudden burst of rage definitely did appear to be hastening the process.
Our Regional Coordinator paused and stared blankly as if in a brief trance. Then he mumbled something unintelligible and went on:
“Nah, there wasn’t kiddie porn or anything. But the stuff he was looking at… I saw the screenshots. I even watched him scrolling it. Live. I was watching him on his computer, watching his monitor, like I was God above. Ah, it was insane. This freak streaming videos, looking at photos, of… the most heinous, most traumatic shit…”
“… Imagine being a Facebook Content Moderator. Imagine having to do that for a living. Looking at those videos, those images all day. Seeing animal cruelty, sexual attacks… Like that’s all you do. You look at that. 5, 6 days a week, 8 hours a day.
Watching the worst of humanity… Having to see that content, every single day.
That is so brutal.”
“Bro, no one doing that job is walking away with all their marbles…”
“Bad enough sitting for 8 hours, watching the stuff that does get past the censors.”
“I can see why Reddit dumps those duties on volunteer mods.”
“Was Bestiality Bro on Reddit?”
Our Regional Coordinator didn’t reply to that. Instead, he snorted, then cupped and splashed hot soda bath water on his face. Then he lightly palm-slapped his right cheek with his right hand, then lightly palm-slapped his left cheek with his left hand. Then he went on, words falling from his lips:
“So, of course, I brought ‘Bestiality Bro’ up to Corporate…”
“Yeah, and, like, get this. They told me his office wasn’t profitable anyway, had been shitting the bed for the last five fiscal quarters.”
“Amber Alert.”
“I heard that.”
“Oh, oh no, I used to think of her when I…”
Our Regional Coordinator appeared neither amused nor annoyed at the team’s puns and idiocy. Then he continued:
“So Corporate claims they were planning to liquidate the whole division. I was to be notified in the next couple of weeks, blah blah blah. Corporate even said the sick crap this freak was looking at… that, like, since it isn’t technically illegal, at least not in New York, it itself is not grounds for termination. Only a warning. A fucking warning…”
“I mean, like, what if a client or an investor visits the branch? And they walk by this freak’s cubicle and see him laughing and spanking it to a necrophilia video?
The fuck happens then? Another ‘warning?’ The fuck outta here…”
Our Regional Coordinator squinted and unloosed a low-key belch.
“I’d be concerned about any investor who wasn’t concerned…”
悲しい 5.1
A particularly grim-faced spa attendant walked by, pushing a mop that looked like a giant squeegee. His seemed like one of the lowliest duties a spa attendant might have. Only a leg up, on the spa attendant hierarchy, from scrubbing the robot toilets. And going by the attendant’s dour countenance, he appeared acutely aware of this.
悲しい 5.2
Soaking in the scenery, through a wedge in the steamy miasma, I spotted a large warning sign, and it commanded my attention.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Not that a warning sign in Japan was unusual. I’d come to discover that Japan has a myriad of warning signs. In practically every place imaginable. The signs usually featuring cute cartoon characters. I pondered that perhaps such ubiquitous signage was preemptive. A way for the Japanese to seize back control over their inhospitable, volcanic land. Being in the Ring of Fire, having earthquakes, volcanos, and tsunamis… Godzilla attacks… Such a precarious geographical position must pester the psyche, make one wish to slap warning signs everywhere… I can understand…
But the warning sign commanding my attention contained no cartoon characters.
It was rectangular and matter of fact. In several languages, in bold, red and black font, it stated that “Inappropriate behavior will not be permitted and is grounds for permanent banishment from the premises.”
Our Regional Coordinator stopped speaking until the grim-faced attendant passed us and was out of earshot. And this was understandable, considering the topic of conversation. Our openly talking about bestiality, necrophilia, Amber Heard and snuff videos could be considered inappropriate behavior, possibly.
会社 6
Our Regional Coordinator popped his neck, tilting it to each side. Then he cracked his knuckles so loudly that I thought he might have broken his fingers. Then his eyes caught fire and he went on:
“But it gets worse. Corporate orders me to drive up there. Fucking 400 miles. Six and a half fucking hours. Had my ass trucking it all the way up to fucking downtown Buffalo.”
“Fucking Buffalo…”
“Then Corporate, saving costs, stuck me in the shittiest hotel. I mean, it had a decent exterior but paper-thin walls. I swear, I could hear a couple in the next room doing the nasty for like almost an hour. The lady just wailing... Uh… It was horrific… I’m telling you…”
“Like, I had headphones, but still. It’s the principle.”
“I don’t think there’s any worse sound. No worse sound than listening to total strangers fuck in the next room…”
“Anyways, I had to go, in person, and talk to this sick fuck, sit with him face to face. Corporate saying how the ‘notice of the division’s closure needs to be delivered in person, by upper management,’ blah blah blah, and ‘that I must conduct their exit interviews, file paperwork…’”
Our Regional Coordinator had begun doing air quotes to emphasize his displeasure.
“Don’t bullshit me. Okay. For fuck’s sake, I know it’s to avoid these bastards bitching and moaning on the internet, or a scumbag lawyer, an ambulance-chasing shit-stain, some asshole with a ponytail, coming after us, fucking suing us...”
“I’m thinking it probably won’t be the necrophilia dog dude taking any legal actions. That would be an easy lawsuit to quash…”
“Yo, Bestiality Bro should work for Datadog or SurveyMonkey next.”
“But definitely not Pets.com, if that still exists.”
“Okay. I’m gonna say it right now. I blame Bestiality Bro for the recurrence of the monkeypox virus.”
Our Regional Coordinator’s grimace remained intact, his head starting to look bigger than a basketball.
“Look, it’s part of the job. I know. Yeah, yeah. Wah wah, crybaby, yeah, yeah, fuck you...”
“But it was one of the creepiest experiences... Sitting in a glass-walled conference room, one to one, with this freak. This fucking potential mass killer. This animal who’s into the most repulsive shit. I’m telling you. I’d basically been looking inside his head. I had visited the darkest corners of this asshole’s mind…”
“And not that I care about others’ porn preferences, what they watch. But… Er…
I’d rather not know, right... And not that I’m trying to be a sanctimonious, moralistic prick, or whatever, but it’s just… I’d seen into this freak’s psyche… I’d seen his worst… His worst, most deviant impulses. I mean, who the fuck… Who the fuck wants to watch, like every day, videos, even real videos… Of horses… One
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer video even had three Burmese dickheads taking on a monitor lizard… A fucking lizard… A lizard almost the size of a alligator… I’m telling you…”
“I didn’t know it was possible to… with… a lizard...”
“It’s cold-blooded too, a lizard, right? It must be freezing up in that…”
“But was the monitor lizard a member of the Illuminati, or the British Royal Family?”
“ … “
“Did we ever see him? Was Bestiality Bro ever at any of the upstate conferences?”
“Nope, his department never attended. You never saw him, I don’t think…”
“I can’t believe he wasn’t instantly canned.”
“Corporate should have lashed his ass like they do in Malaysia and Singapore….
Trafficking those websites, and on company time? What a fucking piece of shit.”
“Yo, for real, Malaysians definitely don’t play that shit.”
“It’s about principles.”
“…”
“… Corporate could turn on his webcam or anyone’s in that office, too. Corporate has a whole surveillance center. A bunker built. It’s like the NSA in there.”
“They must have our offices’ desktops on that, too, right?”
“Looks like someone might be receiving a ‘warning’…”
Our Regional Coordinator sat silent for a beat and didn’t confirm or deny that Corporate was watching us or flipping on our webcams. Then the big red mass of anxiety grunted and continued:
“But yeah. This sick fuck looked nerdy as shit in his company picture. And he was in real life too.”
“He was a smarmy son-of-a-bitch. The pencil-neck, beta-male type. Scrawny too.
Arms like garden hoses. The schmo probably never lifted weights in his life. And he was short, quite short, like 5’5. Probably wasn’t more than 120 pounds. And he
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer was wearing these huge eyeglasses, like the size’a coffee mugs, these things. And his pants were kinda tight and riding up and there’s… ankles, shins showing…”
“Shins showing?”
“Shins. And Ankles… Both…”
“An Urkel. If Urkel was a sick and depraved fuck…”
“A what?”
“Forget about it. You’re too young for Urkel. And that’s probably for the best.”
男根 7
A middle-aged Asian man with a wet combover strode by the soda bath. He was completely nude, as were all the patrons in the pool, sauna areas. The attendants, however, were clothed and stood out, conspicuous in their blue and black robes…
In the pool areas, saunas, nudity was mandatory. No bath towels were allowed in either. Only a small white towel was allowed with you. The towel only slightly larger than a washcloth…
Red-Eye Randy, a real meathead, threw out a non-sequitur:
“Why are there easy breast implants, but nothing similar, no easy penis enlargement operations?”
“I bet the Illuminati, lizard people already have that. Special dick operations. But they don’t want the commoners to have them. They know dumbasses would go crazy. Idiots walking around with a third leg, literally. There’d be motherfuckers with dicks the size of NBA basketball players’ legs and shit. Fire hose length dicks…”
“It’s only a matter of time. Wait ‘til you see the penises of the future…”
“They’ll be cyborg penises. Retractable, detachable penises with smart functions.”
“The ‘Internet of Things.’”
“I betcha they already have smart penises in Japan.”
“No way, bro. I’m not getting a smart penis. Imagine hackers getting their hands on that...”
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Nude male bodies, Japanese, save for an occasional honkey, went roaming the pools’ premises. The bodies moving languorously, as soft mood music chimed, waters gushed, and an adjacent whirlpool burbled and bubbled like a boiling pot on the stove.
A waft of eucalyptus oil then simmered over from a sauna nearby, and I sniffed in the fragrance, reinvigorated by it, briefly feeling as if I’d snorted a thick line of cocaine. Then a cool rush of calm overtook me. I was finding a certain serenity to the place. A natural, mothering warmth that I was beginning to appreciate.
エイリアン 8
Our Regional Coordinator’s ears perked up as he caught wind of the eucalyptus oil.
Then he snorted several times in a row, his big red Irish head becoming almost as big as a beachball. Then he continued:
“So I’m sitting across from this freak. I’m across this long mahogany table. And I’m having to ask all these standard exit interview questions. And I’m pretending to care. But all I can think about was the shit he was looking at. Why he’d even want to see that… I’m telling you… It’s the only thing I wanted to ask him about…”
“And I’m wondering just who the fuck this guy really is… Like maybe he’s got an apartment like Jeffrey Dahmer, with cut-up bodies in the fridge.”
“Eh, some people just like the macabre. Not everyone watching horror flicks is a chainsaw-wielding maniac. Not everyone watching action movies shoots people.”
“And not everyone watching porn goes running outside with a rock-hard cock, mounting randos like a wild baboon.”
“Yo, I’d do that if I could. I’d go run outside, go running the streets, rock-hard cock in hand. For real. I’d go run up on and fuck a perfect stranger. As long as they were cool with it, of course. And attractive enough. And of legal age.”
“That’d be an interesting situation to get carded, asked for ID…”
“Bro, real talk, I just hope my mortician isn’t into necrophilia videos. That’s all I ask…”
Our Regional Coordinator didn’t say any more. He shook his head, grimaced again and rose from the soda bath.
“Let’s hit the sauna. It’s allegedly got Himalayan Sea salts. Supposed to improve circulation. Or some shit.”
“The Himalayas have a sea?”
“I think it’s underground, that sea.”
“The Himalayas, isn’t that where the Loch Ness Monster lives?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The Himalayan salts are supposed to be legit excellent at improving circulation. I read that on a blog, I think, somewhere…”
“What exactly is circulation?”
“Circulation is circulation.”
“Well. That’s that settled.”
“Himalayan Sea salts are why the Loch Ness Monster has lived so long. The Loch Ness Monster eats Himalayan Sea salts. Every fucking day.”
“The Loch Ness Monster must have phenomenal circulation.”
“Nah, bro. Fuck that. The Loch Ness Monster watches necrophilia videos at work.”
“And Godzilla watches bestiality videos.”
“Nah, but wait. Is it actually bestiality to Godzilla, since Godzilla is an animal too?
I’d assert that Godzilla has a right.”
“That prospect of Godzilla, or the Loch Ness Monster, bro. It makes me glad the dinosaurs are dead. Yo, fuck those prehistoric motherfuckers. Like lizards the size of a building. Fuck that. Think about a brontosaurus stomping through your city.
We’re way better off without that threat.”
We then rose, in unison, followed Our Regional Coordinator’s lead.
We kept our heads down, our eyes tracking the floor. Not a peel of eye contact as we stepped from the soda bath. Padding our way to the sauna, we passed several nude Japanese men in various states of silent soaking and bathing. To a man, the Japanese looked so stoic. So unshakable. Unlike us, meatheads, Yankees…
anxiety-ridden, red-faced, honkey business fucks…
“I’m telling you. This is why the Japanese live so long. They eat sushi, and they do the sauna…”
“It’s the circulation… That’s the key… It’s the circulation…”
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF XI JINPING
7:00 AM: Xi Jinping awakens to an erhu alarm, Huawei preset from Moon Audio Opulence surround sound speakers in his palatial, 1000 sq. meter bedroom.
His bedroom’s dome vaulted ceilings are 40 m high, painted revolutionary red, and the bedroom’s verdant green floor tiles are cut from solid jade.
His emperor size bed is 20 m wide, 10 m long and carved from a mix of ivory, Cartier diamond and pure, 24k Harry Winston gold.
His scruffy bedhead rests on panda bear skin, ostrich feather stuffed, Van der Hilst pillows, and he rubs his eyes and yawns into consciousness.
The bedsheets are Super Soft Fuzzy China silk, tailor made by Chanel, and his blanket a Chanasya Super Soft Long Shaggy Chic Fuzzy with Fluffy Sherpa (and micro mink)…
The bed’s Kluft mattress is made from blue whale and black rhino bone, and is filled with feathers of extinct, rare bird species only known to specific scientists.
7:05 AM: His cavalcade of PLA servants march in single file, enter his room, serve Xi breakfast in bed, presented on sparklingly shiny fine .999 silver tray, with .999
silver spoons and .999 silver chopsticks…
Breakfast is always the same: black truffle porridge, 8 fried dough-sticks, a tea-boiled egg, sliced dragon fruit and bananas, opal crystal glass of soymilk, and Qing
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Dynasty porcelain cup of Da Hong Pao tea (lightly mixed with sugarcane juice and crushed, dried tiger penis powder).
(Xi Jinping, being an active, practicing, secret society illuminati lizard man/anal vampire, is given a daily injection of blood, rectally; a PLA scientist administering the enema from a hose attached from a wheeled slushie-like roto-machine, slipping the lubed hose in Xi’s anus, jetting up Xi’s anal cavity an enema of blood plasma; a plasma concocted, designed, by top Chinese scientists; its mixture-blood from tiger cubs, Cambodian and Uyghur bred/selected children…) After his morning enema, whilst eating breakfast, Xi clicks on his Stuart Hughes Prestige HD Supreme Edition, 188 inch TV, watches CCTV News, CCTV5 Sports, and occasionally hate-watches Taiwan news channels, shaking with anger at Cai Yingwen’s face, hacking/spitting at the TV screen, and plots schemes to massacre bandits in Hong Kong, those picking quarrels…
Xi Jinping sleeps alone these days. His wife, Peng, complaining of his flatulence, sleeps in an adjacent 1000 sq. meter bedroom.
8:00 AM: By this time Xi Jinping has eaten his breakfast, smoked a Panda cigarette or two and listened, on Huawei smart speaker, to his secretary’s morning “en en en, blah, blah, blah” briefing.
He’ll press a button and have his personal grooming team brush his teeth with Theodent 300 toothpaste, shave his face w/the Zafirro razor, a $100,000 shaver with an iridium handle and sapphire blades.
Afterwards, his wardrobe team enters. After shedding his panda fur bathrobe, Xi Jinping slips on his iKingsky Men’s Sexy Low-Rise T-Back Thong Underwear.
His tailors, wardrobe consultants take constant measurements and adjustments due to his ever-expanding waistline; once appropriate figures are gathered, he’ll be fitted into a Brioni Vanquish II three-piece suit.
Due to incontinence, he’ll be also fitted with a Tranquility Elite adult vacuum seal diaper (to avoid another incident like with the Prime Minister of Kyrgyzstan.) It’s about this time the first of his various bowel movements occur. Throughout his many sprawling mansions, he has had installed Hang Fung Golden electronic
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer throne toilets that cleanse, air dry, and massage his anus, utilizing the latest in 5G
Huawei technology/quantum physics…
Whilst on the toilet he reads the People’s Daily Sports Section, reviews/crosses names off his enemies list, and hate-reads the New York Times.
(His toilet is also equipped with a special robotic prostate massage function which he finds pleasurable and enjoys from time to time, especially after his regular bouts of diarrhea.)
9:00 AM: Disciplined cadres, those without face, carry Xi by Buccellati golden palanquin down the marble hallways, lead him to the meeting hall; the room consisting of a mahogany seat/roundtable, folding seat outer circles (chairs constructed from dissidents’ bones, and the rooms’ walls painted red from the blood of executed prisoners, Falun Gong.)
In the meeting halls, the AC is purposely never set. It’s kept either miserably hot or chillingly cold, dependent on weather conditions, upon Xi’s command…
The 9 AM will be the first of his many meetings throughout the day. It’s always begun by an underling crawling in on all fours, springing to his feet, and reciting a prepared statement, economic statistics, presenting charts, budgets for budgets, and updating the status of various development projects, updating plans for plans about plans and initiatives for the BRI.
The underling is occasionally lashed via bullwhip by a higher-ranking cadre or forced to lick the bare feet, chew foot fungus of superiors.
When economic, pollution numbers are especially disappointing, underlings, and at times all cadres must in unison bow, drink fresh heritage pig blood…
Aside from the unbridled joy of humiliating the underling, Jinping rarely pays much attention during meetings, and zones out, thinking of UEFA Champions League, his asset portfolio, his mistresses, or what he might eat for lunch.
However, if something does spark his interest, he’ll interrupt and, at times angrily, speak his mind, or castigate a comrade, slap or zap cadres with an electric mosquito swatter.
If, in the chance Xi speaks, the room is dead silent.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer (One time a feisty cadre from Ningxia made the mistake of unharmoniously talking over Xi Jinping. That cadre has not been heard from since. Rumor has him inspecting air quality, monitoring coal refuse in Shijiazhuang. Although the blogger who posted that rumor to Weibo has, himself, disappeared, so it’s impossible to verify…)
Morning meetings range in time from 2 to 3 hours.
12 PM: Lunch time. Xi Jinping and his inner circle are ferried by Van Cleef Arpels golden golf carts to a spectacular dining hall with impossibly high, 100 m, immaculately painted, vaulted ceilings; the halls’ walls with Wang Xizhi calligraphy and renderings of Mount Penglai, Eight Pillars; dragons, tigers, ox, rabbit; Great Wall frescoes; hammer and sickle flags hanging in perfectly straight lines, every 8
meters.
His inner circle, men around his age, mostly with wealth-bellies, jet black combovers and always in matching white collared buttoned-down shirts and well-ironed black slacks, sit around a circular table, smoking Panda cigarettes.
The Lazy Susan slowly spins, is circled with piping hot trays of pork steamed buns, steamed pork dumplings, fried pork dumplings, handmade noodles, fried chicken, sweet/sour chicken, sweet/sour fish, fried pork, minced pork, fried beef, fried, pickled vegetables, and heaping bowls of steamed rice.
Xi Jinping waits for everyone else to begin before taking the first bite.
During lunch, not much is said, except for brief talks of future diplomatic visits, market fluctuations, European football matches, Olympics updates, and future Party gatherings.
Xi Jinping usually doesn’t speak, just sits and smokes Treasurer or New Century cigarettes, nods and voices an occasional “eng…” to demonstrate comprehension or agreement…
Following lunch, Xi Jinping is brought by palanquin back to his bedroom for his 2-hour afternoon nap.
He again awakes to his erhu alarm, smokes a Panda cigarette, pushes a call-button and receives his daily foot and neck massage from a young female servant or two.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer 3 PM to 5:30 PM: Another meeting or three. Perhaps a visit from a foreign dignitary seeking investment.
Sometimes a visit to a random city or remote village, where, flanked by bodyguards, he’ll speak with the proletariat, many a villager in hysterics, weeping, and sometimes a village elder, smiling toothlessly with his whole face, clutching to Xi’s arm, and then Xi will recite to them a prepared statement, stating how unworthy he is of their devotion to the Chinese Nation, Party and the Socialist cause…
Cigarettes are strictly prohibited during State visits or village visit, except off camera or in bathrooms…
5:30 PM: Dinner with his wife, the inner circle and their wives.
Dinner is often the same fare as lunch, though is heavy on exported version of Tsingtao beer, bottles and bottles of Maotai, various baijiu, heavier on cigarettes.
After dinner, Xi Jinping and his wife have their evening stroll around the compound.
She’ll dictate policy to him in contorted faces and sometimes they’ll argue, and she’ll smack him in the ear, or he slaps her upside the head, and they’ll push and shove, need to be separated by security.
After their walk, Peng goes for her square-dancing and Xi Jinping is brought by palanquin to the sauna.
Xi Jinping sits in the Russian sauna for 20 minutes or so, and is wheeled out, on a rolling table, and scrubbed down, table-bathed and massaged by a young female masseuse, with whom he’ll now and then fornicate or perform other sexual activities (particularly that of prostate massage milking).
Following this, he’s wheeled into a massive Persian style shower room, hand-washed by two or three young female servants, dried, smeared from head to toe in tiger balm, fitted into a tailored red Mulberry silk imperial robe, and driven back by golden golf cart to his master bedroom, so he can retire for the evening.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
9 PM: Xi Jinping is in bed, snacking on Harðfiskur dried fish, chain smoking Pandas, drinking Da Hong Pao tea and will nod off while clicking between CCTV, American gangster TV, movies, and Bloomberg TV.
11 PM: A servant enters his quarters, tucks him into his covers, fits him with a Tranquility Elite adult diaper to prevent bedwetting and turns off the TV and lights.
