quiz show

“Now for the first question. Which is darker: 2 berkshire pigs or 3 mountain goats?”

I was the first one to light up the bulb.

“The 2 berkshire pigs!”

“Yes, you are correct! You advance one level. And now we continue to the second question. This next one is really easy, so keep your hand on the button!"

"Who is the most beautiful person on this island? Please answer out of these next three women: 1. The eldest daughter of the royal family. 2. The middle daughter of the royal family. 3. The third daughter of the royal family.”

It was a difficult question. The royal daughters were the three ugliest hags living on this whole island. Even a berkshire pig would know that.

Even though none of them had pressed the button, all of the contestants rang in at once.

“Ah, a photo finish! What a quandry! Well, let’s call on a contestant. Contestant 5, go ahead!”

It was me. Although I thought I’d be wrong, I blurted out “Number 1.”
Without even waiting for me to finish speaking, the show host shouted “Yes! Right answer! You’re on a roll, contestant 5! Now for the third question.”

What was right about that answer? It’s pretty bad if the most beautiful woman in this country was 45 and weighed 260 pounds.

“And now for the next question: ‘Rainforests always get a lot of rain. What kind of weather does a sunforest have?’ This question was written by the King himself!”

A sunforest? Do those even exist in this country?

The young man at booth #2 pressed his switch.

“It’s always sunny!” ‘BZZZZZZT’ went the buzzer.

“I’m so sorry. We’ll have to call on someone else. Contestant 5, you’re doing well. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“It snows there, right?” I answered out of desperation.

“Amazing! You are absolutely correct! Contestant 5, that was the Royal Question, so you’ve advanced three more levels!”

“Question four. What kind of person is the head of the royal family? Please choose from these three options: 1. A wonderful person. 2. An amazing person. 3. A great person.”


How much of this island’s TV programming did the Royal Family Broadcasting Company own, and were all of the questions going to be like this?

“Enough, enough. I can already see the right answer written in his face. He’s correct, totally correct! He was going to answer “3. A great person.” Contestant 5, you’ve advanced another level!”

Without even understanding why, I was quickly pushed up to the 10th level.
The other contestants, who hadn’t even advanced a single level, were just sitting there quietly, their faces frozen in creepy dazed smiles.

The host was ecstatic.

“You’ve soared into an unbeatable lead at level 10, contestant 5! There’s an incredible prize from the King waiting for you!”

I almost felt like I was being led into a trap, but winning a prize seemed pretty tempting.

Last week on this program, a player from a neighboring town won a berkshire pig. And the week before that, another contestant who reached level 10 received a canoe that was painted white. He apparently carried it back with him, all the way to the other side of the mountain.

In any case, this week’s Royal Quiz’s Happiness Door must lead somewhere, trap or not.

In the middle of the audience, the King, who was being attended upon by his mistresses, peered at the stage with an expression of extreme contentment.
The three ugly daughters were there as well, their faces beaming with their idiotic gummy smiles.

“And now, this week’s prize!”

The drum roll began.

“Just as in the name, here’s your door to happiness!”

The blackout curtains around the venue were pulled shut, throwing everything into darkness.
A single spotlight, swinging around in circles like it was looking for the host, suddenly stopped.

The 260 lb. eldest daughter, squinting her eyes as if dazzled, stood up. Our eyes met, and she lowered her gaze in embarrassment.

-i



Translator’s note: The question about rain forests was originally a pun on tree frogs (lit. “rain frogs” in Japanese.) A literal translation of the question would be “It rains whenever a rainfrog croaks. What happens when a sunfrog croaks?”

carpet

What does it mean when you have a carpet that’s concealing a tatami mat? It’s a lot like a bowl of katsudon where the meat and eggs are completely covering the rice. But when you’re dealing with food, it’s not something that a lot of people would call misrepresentation.
           

Also, I’m sure that there are quite a few copies of “How to Please a Woman” that are still inside their Kinokuniya bookstore wrapping-paper covers. But then again, the people who own those books are generally much more interested in the contents than they are in the cover.

And what about sunglasses and eyes? It’s pretty unlikely for someone to wear sunglasses all the time, especially for stuff like taking a bath or sleeping, so covering one’s eyes is much less of a tragedy than covering a tatami mat.  

There’s also concealing one’s individuality with a business card. Except with that, the individuals are covering themselves up by choice, so it’s not at all alike.

So what about covering a long-torsoed body with a Western brand of clothes?

Somehow, I think that example comes closest to it.

-i

elite

The man who was introduced to me as a prospective marriage partner yesterday was part of the elite. 

The last part of his academic record, "Graduated from Tokyo University," came as no surprise. 

"Sorry for coming from such a low-end school," he told me, but the way he played with a ginkgo leaf between his fingers as he spoke made his real meaning apparent. 

The two of us sat on a public park bench and talked about ourselves.  

I narrowed my shoulders from feeling a little cold, and he removed his coat and draped it over me. Of course, it had the Burberry logo on the inside.

His father was an executive at the New Japan Steel corporation. I could tell that just by my woman's intuition; it instantly popped into my head. 

"You're certainly clever," he laughed. He was pretty perceptive himself. 

I'm the kind of person who can pick up on gossip at beauty parlors.

Elite though he was, bragging about that sort of thing really wasn't his style.

He was more the type to nonchalantly walk up to someone at the Tsubaki House disco club and ask: "Would you like to have a marriage interview with me?"

His car was a Mercedes-Benz.

The key holder had the Benz logo on it, so I asked him: "A Mercedes-Benz?"

"Yes, a Benz," he said.

He and I talked for what seemed like forever about our love of Shakespeare. He was telling me that he preferred the young Olivia Hussey.  

"Don't tell me I'm going too far," he said, as he reached for my body.

His naked self looked even more elite than when he was wearing clothes.

There, on his back where he was so carefully trying to hide, was the word "ELITE" tattooed in giant letters.

-i

etiquette

You were so lovely when you were going to etiquette school.

You ate your soup without a sound, and played the piano quietly.

Your bows were deeper than the sea.

At the end of a meal, only the first few millimeters of the tips of your chopsticks would be dirty. 

Whenever you ate fish, the bones left on your plate were as beautiful as a museum specimen. 

You had fresh breath, your silky hair was neatly tied into braids, and your whole body had the subtle aroma of soap! 

Why, oh why did you stop attending etiquette school?

Those remarks about etiquette being a "load of garbage" did come from me, but you always used to softly chide me by saying "Oh, I don't think so at all."

Lately I've taken to brushing my teeth three times a day, three minutes each time: breakfast, lunch, and dinner!

I've been saying "Good morning," "Good afternoon," "Good evening," and "Good night" in a bright cheery voice every day as well.

I completely stopped my habit of watching TV while eating dinner, and now whenever I come back inside from outdoors, I wash my hands.

Now, it may be rude of me to presume this, but I'm worried that you might have taken up with some sort of bad boy. 

I wasn't trying to, but I accidentally overheard when you were talking with someone over the phone.

What does "We can go as far as doing B" mean? Is "B" some kind of kissing technique or something?

Sorry for my crazy imagination.

When you come home, I'd like to have a good talk with you.

Anyways, I'm off to work now.

-Love, Dad. (7:30 AM) 

-i

west coast

Just about anyone looks silly when they're standing under cherry trees in full bloom.

As I took souvenir photos on the west coast, it looked as if everyone was right in the middle of shouting "Yeah!" in the pictures, but most of the time I think that was probably just an illusion of my viewing angle.

On the American west coast, I couldn't help but think that every single person going by was just putting on a cheerful performance. Then again, I suppose that there had to have been people putting on gloomy performances out there as well.　

Right now, as I'm writing something under the title "west coast," it's almost as if the cherry trees are somehow blooming above my head. It's making me uncomfortable.

-i

interior

Interior design is probably one of those things with its own section in dating guidebooks.

The Queen Anne table and those Italian-influenced modern-design shelves; the "Under Construction" banner that was swiped during a drunken binge; the bookshelf, casually arranged to show only books on difficult seeming subjects; maybe even those tiny panties you have pinned up there on your wall, with the excuse that you thought they seemed cute: everybody owns stuff that they've put there just for the sake of other people. 

Interior designs guard against the silence between words— they make up for their owners' lack of verbal finesse. 

When a guest takes a look around, they're guessing at what kinds of things the room's owner has in their mind, and whether they might be a kind person or not.

The room's owner, knowing this, will stop talking once they realize that their guest is just gazing around at everything. 

"What a nice room!"

"It's all just cheap stuff..."

"It's so you. It's cute!"

"Hey, take a look at this. If you look closely at the design on this curtain there's squirrels holding chestnuts!"

"Ah, so there are! You know, this squirrel kinda looks like you..."

"Oh wow... Oh! No, stop that. Umn-"

and that's how interior designs play a vital role by filling in for words while you're keeping company.

Now, there may be people out there who will hang up squirrel curtains and buy potted plants to stare at in rooms where no one ever visits, but that's more like keeping a diary. There's really nothing strange about having a non-social interior.

Once in a while there might also be somebody who says something like "I just love the color red, so I coordinated the entire room's interior in red!" but that's just like throwing a wild party every single night. It would make your social life rather difficult in my opinion.

What I'm really currently interested in is finding out where the limits of interior design are in the placement of household Buddhist altars.

-i

encore

Miserliness and avarice, frugality and rationalism.

There's people out there who will bring these kinds of bad ideas into your mind as they prompt you to make noise by violently putting their left and right hands together. You can find a lot of them at places like concert halls. They're out there, and in no small numbers. 

As individuals, they don't have much power, but when many of them gather together it all makes for a thunderous noise. Once these malcontents understand what their din is forming, they're all completely filled with confidence by the noises that they're making. They have like-minded people all around them, so many of their bad ideas probably start feeling like good ones.

When things start getting this way, the threats among the noise eventually reach a purposeful crescendo. It's exactly like how a bill collector slams his desk to make you jump .

"Encooorrreee!" 

"Gimme my money's worth!"

"Come off it already!"

These sorts of rude remarks come flying out.

I'm the kind of person who finds this situation terrifying.

But when you're in the middle of an encore the atmosphere gets you feeling really good, so even I tend to join in with the "Gimme my money's worth!" people in clapping.

Just the other day, I went to a friend's concert and for the first time in a while I witnessed what could be called an encore-less performance.

In the midst of an unending applause, one of the band members just jumped up to the front and shouted into the microphone: "We're not performing anymore, so please go home! You can go amuse yourselves!"

The hecklers snapped to their senses, resumed their place as normal members of the audience, and gradually began to leave.

I guess they weren't really troublemakers individually. All of a sudden everybody was just caught up in the bad ideas. 

Anyway, I just think this "quid pro quo" attitude is something that I'd like to see done away with entirely.

In saying that, I'd probably never make a good musician.


-i

allergy

When it comes to allergies, mine have been pretty terrible. 

Because of this severe allergy I have towards women, I can't believe that I spent nearly 10 months in my mother's womb, but that's what the doctor says. 

I have this space extending 2 meters around me. If a girl enters that space, I break out in hives all over my body. My tear ducts swell up and tears come flowing out. I start itching profusely, and I can't help but dig my nails in and scratch. Before long, the red swollen marks left by my nails look like a relief sculpture. The parts that I've scratched two or three times in different directions have started to look like the mesh of a net. I pick away at my scalp. I pull at my hair with all my strength to try and stop the itch. A huge amount of my hair has already come out.  I sneeze and mucus goes flying. My wind pipe swells up, so I can't breathe very well. I try my best to breathe in and then out, but each time I end up making a wheezing noise that sounds like somebody blowing a whistle.

If a girl even comes close to that 2 meter area, I can't stop sneezing. That's my warning to quickly back off. 

But that's all just a memory to me now because I've made a full recovery from my woman allergy.

Naturally... I like women. So maybe that's why I've been able to concentrate so much on my treatment.   

I think that somewhere out there in my readership, there must be some people that share the same kind of problems I've had with woman allergies. I really want those people to be happy, so today I'm going to tell them how I overcame my allergy.

The premise is simple:

You know how people who can't drink sake have one small cup each day in order to build up their antibodies? This method is a lot like that.

In my case, I began with the smell. I started by just standing downwind from women. Then, I asked a friend and had him use an electric fan behind these women in order to give off a stronger smell. When I was on the verge of no longer feeling dizzy while doing this, I took another courage-filled step. I filled up a plastic bag with the woman-scented air, placed my nose and mouth at the bag's opening, and started practicing deep breaths-- just like how juvenile delinquents huff paint thinner. The first day I did this, I blacked out after taking a single breath. Nevertheless, I wouldn't back down. I steeled my weak heart and challenged myself over the next days.

I continued this training for about a month. When I was on the verge of reaching the final stage, I could be approached to the point of several millimeters before my nose started to twitch. I got to where I could even stick my face on the inside of a skirt, so I'd say that it was really worth it.

By then I was confident with the smell, but I was still quite weak when it came to the matter of touching. 

I had gotten a piece of peeled-off sunburned skin the size of my pinky tip, and I began the treatment by touching it to all the different parts of my body. Of course, the parts that I touched became reddened and itchy, and I also felt nauseous at first, but since I had overcome the smell before, I was fine with just repeating that process. 

Before long, I got as far as being able to hold hands, to embrace while clothed, to embrace while naked, to be OK with all the stuff beyond that, to go in without needing one of those you know whats, to become hated by women, to get to where I'm finally causing allergic symptoms in women all over the place, and even to have them almost call for police when I come within 2 meters.

-i

part-time

There once was a young man who became a delinquent for the sake of his health.

His father had sold his libido to an old man that he had met in passing at a Pachinko gift-exchange station. In return, he got two packs of Mild Sevens, a tin of roasted seaweed, a toy car that changes directions when it hits walls, two grapefruit, and a plastic draw-string tote-bag with a picture of a steam locomotive running valiantly across the plains of Hokkaido. That last one wasn't really something that the young man's father had asked for.  

"How generous," thought the young man's father. Not only had the old man given him those gifts, but he also received Keiko Takeshita's latest album, a Dunhill lighter, a tin of rice crackers, and some Golden Blend Nescafé along with sugar cubes.

The father had figured that his son's libido was only worth around four tins of roasted seaweed. At first he was suspicious that the old man would suddenly bring up an even larger request in exchange for the additional items, but he felt relieved when he saw him turning around to wash his hands with liquid soap, then going up the stairs. 

There are a lot of people who have won more pachinko balls than that old man, but few could be said to have matched his level of grace and refinement. Those who merely take their balls and selfishly exchange them for gifts lack any sort of personal philosophy. The young man's father tried to ponder such things, but in doing so his head began to hurt, so he just gave an admiring "Yep" and smiled.

An entire week had passed since that day, but the young man still had no idea that his own father had sold off his libido.  

Seeing absolutely no change in his son, the father became more and more concerned.

He tried asking his son about it in a roundabout way. 

The son, not really understanding the meaning of the question, shouted "Kiyomi's a fine girl!" and threw an ashtray into the TV. 

            They had only moved into the house four years ago, but if there had been a Top 10 list for loud voices heard in that house, the son's yell with the sound of the cathode-ray tube exploding would have certainly taken 1st or 2nd place.

Having heard the racket, the delinquent son's mother returned home holding a several month-old infant in her arms. The father was concerned, but he warmly welcomed her back.

Another week passed, and the mother asked her healthily delinquent son about his libido.

"I dunno what yer talkin' about," shouted the son in a not-quite-so-loud voice and without throwing anything.

            The father heard about their conversation from the mother and thought to himself: "Maybe I'll look for that old man again and sell my whole family's libido."

- i

apartment

Yoshiro Odaka had a book out entitled "How did I ever become a Sectional Manager?" but since his first work was unfortunately released right after that of his colleague, Ōyama Takao's "You Gotta do This To Become a Sectional Manager!" its sales were far from spectacular.

Mutsuko, his wife, called her mother and sister-in-law over from their house in order to try and bring the now despondent Mr. Odaka back to the cheerful man he used to be. 

She really needed their help.

The three women, one with the maiden name of Yamamoto, one with the married name of Yamamoto, and one who had been a Yamamoto for quite some time, placed stickers saying "Company" over the word "Sectional" on his book. 

The former Yamamoto, now Yoshiro Odaka's wife, was a woman of enduring enthusiasm. When they had reached 50 hours of applying stickers, her mother and sister-in-law nervously suggested that she arrange some bullet train tickets for them all back to the Yamamoto household. 

"But I'm an Odaka now!" she said, her eyes flashing as she watched over their sticker application intently.

            Their work continued on for more than twelve years.

It might have been better if she had started selling them as they were being corrected, but if they began to sell out then they wouldn't have been able to make the replacements soon enough. The day finally arrived when all 3,000 copies of the first edition had "Sectional" replaced sticker by sticker with "Company," and the publication dates at the end of each book had been changed so that they could be set up in bookstores. Mutsuko Odaka read once more over the work of her husband who had stood by her over the long years, and tears of joy began to fall from her eyes.

Yoshiro Odaka was still in the bath, but when he heard the sound of his wife's sobbing he got out and ran to her, body still dripping. Odaka had already achieved the title of general manager by then. The nude, middle-aged man, wrapped in a wet towel, awkwardly held his wife and wept. 

Odaka had kept only one secret from his wife. He had already begun printing his second book, "Succeed in Apartment Management!" which he had entrusted to the publishing company of an acquaintance.

    

Ōyama Takao, his old nemesis, had just published "The Way to Cash-In on Condominium Management!" the day before.

    

He certainly wouldn't mention anything like pasting stickers saying "Single-Family Residence" over "Apartment." Odaka gently stroked the firm hair of his wife's perm as tears slowly trickled down his cheeks. 

Mutsuko, feeling a sense of warmth and affection in her husband's hand for the first time in a long while, trembled through tears as she threw off her skirt.

- i

assistant

An assistant must not eat the bean-jam buns that the teacher is planning on enjoying later without permission. An assistant must not devise schemes to prevent female guests from entering the teacher's office on visits, just because they're said to be pretty. An assistant must not reuse tea leaves for the teacher's cup while keeping the first brew for himself. An assistant must not begin by saying "Well, you see," when speaking to the teacher. An assistant must not expect to receive a higher salary than the teacher, or to sit in a more comfortable chair. An assistant must not, on a whim, print words like "President" on his business card.

As such, I no longer plan on continuing my role as assistant, henceforth and forevermore.

- i