II : Napoleoro~n Crossing the Alps

The arc of my life is long, but it bends towards anime wank fodder. When I look at all the things which have changed about me since I first stayed up until midnight on Saturdays to watch Manga Entertainment features and thought Violence Jack was a worthwhile way to spend ninety minutes, the more my attitudes to politics (I'm a Libertarian but I believe in increased spending on strong national defence and promoting Biblical Judeo-Christian Values), to religion (I'm Atheist, you're invited to deal with it), and all the rest change the more it seems Japanese Culture may just be the one constant in my earthly existence. It grows like a coral shelf, each further step a tiny living character that drowned in turn beneath tides of alkaline semen. I am, like Christ said, the man who built his house on rocky foundations. If I were an animal I would be a shrew, forced to consume my own weight in Japanese comics every eight hours - or starve! If I were a waterway I would be the Bosphorus, mystical gateway to the womb of Asia yet too narrow for the vigorous sperm of European sensibilites. If I were a peninsula I would be Kamchatka, startling and terrifying the Japanese archipelago into inadequacy with my vast, dong-like shape. You get the picture.

I am not alone in this. Years of half-arsing my psychological studies have taught me that the human mind is a device for finding patterns, and that this manifests in powerful unconscious cognitive biases of perception and the inability to watch Rozen Maiden without ranking the dolls in order of greatness while being aroused by them (more of this in future updates). It's too complicated to go into here but basically it is mostly a glandular thing you can detect from tiny bumps on the surface of the skull. Frankly I'm just amazed people who think Suigintou isn't best can't interbreed with gorillas but there you go.

So I can't blame danbooru, I'm too fond of the end result. Montana Max Weber probably had something like it in mind when he invited an androgynous catboy to lounge sensuously across his lap and talked at length about the routinisation of charisma. A Clockwork Bridget, if you will.

At first glance such an endeavour might look like nothing more than a confusing grab bag of spectacularly unnecessary fetishes, usually grouped together under misleading, unwholesome titles like “erect_nipples”, “:3” and occasionally “cumpool” (twinned with “boatmurdered”, I think). We are a long way from the broad, sunlit uplands of megane and thighhighs and the various wonderful forum signature opportunities they offer here. Even the most ordinary, apparently innocuous, picture will usually warrant half a dozen of these outward signs of grace. A girl can't so much as part her hair without someone rushing to ejaculate bountifully in the resultant furrow. And all of this goes on under the aegis of an authoritative-sounding loan-word naming scheme as complex and baffling as the entire canon of continental philosophy.

When you throw your net wide enough to include features as diverse as mental disorders (tsundere), deterministic racial profiling (eye colour) and the electromagnetic wavelength of your underthings (striped vs block colour) as functions of the same phenomenon it becomes a wonder that there isn't some guy getting off to the articulated joints on his scale resin models, filming it and putting it online somewhere. Clearly, that would be impossible. Mostly I am just pissed off that set against the dozens of categories devoted to the individual mosaic patterns used to censor various naughty bits there is absolutely no means for differentiating between the exceedingly nubile young creatures that gather to squeeze themselves into Panzer uniforms and playfully straddle the huge guns which the increasingly overbuilt Tiger I and Panther models offer. I say to you: Leave those familiar waters and I will make you fishers of fetishes.

Corn, squid, eggplant, what the hell are they putting on, or under, their pizza over there now?
Oversights such as this at least explain some things. That weird girl from the clinically unwatchable Code Geass naked apart from strategically placed triangles of branded pizza, for instance. Even judged generously, from the point of view of my penis, pizza is at best dangerous when hot and unpleasant when cold. Insomuch as you might ever want to press it into service as a makeshift pontoon bridge between eating and fucking I find it ranks somewhere alongside mustard and raw peppercorns on the scale of erotic possibilities. Yet see how many tags this evolutionary dead end has accumulated.

This madness is the price of such a crude system of sexual apartheid: internal passports, head measurement charts, the liquidation of the Japanese naming scheme ghetto and sock-wearing lolis being downvoted to death for trespassing on a “cap/no_panties only” beach. The worse it got, the more I felt compelled to take personal fact-finding holidays there and make copies of everything I saw. I draw your attention to a poster of a child sitting on its fatherís knee and asking “Daddy, what did you do during the war?” As if anyone reading this is going to breed, for fuckís sake.