Whiteflag

I'm not sure exactly what I did to make the Japanese conspire as a nation to kill me, but if you're listening, my adorably polite, vowel-after-every-syllable, weird little friends, I offer my sincere apologies. I'm certain whatever it was I did or said, it was absolutely inadvertent. But still, that is no excuse. I hereby offer a full, contrite and unreservedly humble retraction of the offending material, be it utterance, thought or hand gesture. Just call of the dogs.

I know you take your honor stuff very seriously and personal insults can be an intolerable affront to your very existence. I actually think that's pretty fuckin' cool. Samurai budo seppuku, all that crazy stuff... totally bad-ass. If anyone's going to pull off dudes with topknot ponytails and floral printed silk dresses, it's going to be a Toshiro Mifune head-cutting motherfucker, am I right?

I've always had the highest respect for Japanese culture. Especially right around the ages of 9 and 10. I bought my share of ninja stars, two-toed boots and exploding disappearing powder from the backs of comic books. I jumped around my living room screaming jibberish pidgin nihongo, terrorizing invisible enemy assassins and the dog. I took your traditions so deadly seriously that I allowed the shallow recitation of imperfectly understood sociological and historical phenomena that make up your deep, rich culture to inform the broad caricature of TV warriors in my TOTALLY DISCRETIONARY play time. I could have chosen any gross stereotype to play, but I chose you, Japan.

And then I turned 12. I didn't cast you aside lightly, though. You have to agree, Vikings are awesome too. As Americans grow older, sure, we learn to regard you with deep suspicion. Your economic dominance in areas once wholly owned by the United States confuses and alarms us. Plus we're all pretty sure you're still pissed off about that whole Hiroshima fiasco. Hell, we would be. Nobody understands the impulse for grossly disproportionate revenge in international politics more than we do. We'd prefer to be at arm's length when that particular shoe drops. I'm sure you understand.

And if that weren't enough, the used underwear in the vending machines... that's just weird. And the obsession with eels and the eating of same... that's just gross. You confound us. And what we do not understand, we fear. We demonize. We invalidate with mockery. We cast Mexicans to play you on TV shows. It's just how we are. So I'm sure that's what was going on when I did... whatever I did. But I bought a Prius. You don't understand, my dad is a lifelong UAW guy. That was a pretty big deal. I thought you'd be more grateful. And now, you're trying to kill me with it. First the headlight fails (the really expensive $350/bulb ones that you can't actually reach yourself to replace), then the sticky gas pedal, now the brakes... I get it, OK? You're pissed. We're sorry about kicking your ass in WWII (although, technically, you fucking started it). And we're sorry we made Yoko Ono a celebrity (although, again, that was John Lennon, who was British, even though he lived in New York). What else can I do to make this right? Please. I have children.