Still a little winded from my corset trial, I dizzily put my sweater back on-- backwards, this time. My costume has improved! Instead of being "big sloppy guy," I'm transformed into "big, sloppy, hastily-dressed guy."
Dazed and backwards-sweatered, I rest a moment beside a Winnie the Pooh action figure and its companion, the erotic anime butthole figurine. I consider asking the booth operator how much an anime butthole figurine costs, but something inside me says that I don't want to know the answer.
Nearby, I find a disturbing booth filled with alarming dolls. Bald, frail, and housed in coffin-like boxes, these sad creatures sell for hundreds of dollars to people who probably harbor ill intentions toward them. I am sobered, but my commitment to infiltrate anime is undiminished.
Tragedy strikes: police have cordoned off a booth where somebody lies motionless on the ground, clearly having overdosed on anime. The officers resist my intrepid photographer's attempts to take a picture. Another anime victim is swept under the rug by the crooked San Jose police force, fat on Pocky and anime kickback money.
I start to feel like I'm in a bad trip. That Buffalo Springfield song plays in my head: "there's something happening here / what it is ain't exactly clear." The world swims around me as a corpulent manimal plays a haunting banjo refrain.
Master is troll wizard, so's if he get angry he might cast spell up on my self and bite off my whole head in one chomp.
It's true. Grimace is human. God help us, we did our best for him.
Kirk Cameron destroys the internet with his rage and jacks it to boats, hallelujah!
The famed gonzo otaku journalist writes about the death of gaming culture in 2014.
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