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.
Doctor Ben Carson, Popeye's survivor, has some advice about school shootings, terrorists on airplanes, chopping malls, and more perilous scenarios.
With all these great tats, it's safe to say I'm the most unique person on earth. Which sounds great, until you realize how lonely it is.
Welcome to Tony Ha (loading... loading...) wk's Pro (unreadable due to blurry texture)
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