Spending a precious Friday night in a bug-infested, semen-stained, jossstick-aired theatre in the heart of downtown chinatown, watching a japanese soft-porn flick with the wife has got to go down in the history book of things I’ve done but never should have done even for that old common ‘just for the experience’ excuse. And just for the record, I must declare that it wasn’t my idea to pry into the B-cup world of a disgruntled asian bitch who cannot adapt to a semi-pathetic male society who’s consistently enamored by her equally semi-pathetic bags of bounce. Now pardon my boldness, but if I’m paying 9 bucks for a flick that’s entitled Watermelon, I’d fully expect the producers to tit-slap the audience with a decent plot and an actress whose jugs would blow the mind off a coconut. Watermelon my ass! After some shallow analysis (don’t ask me why) I’m thinking that the title must’ve gotten lost in the japanese to english translation, and thus transforming the simple mango or harmless tangarine into the phenomenal dimensions of melonkind.
It’s in times like these when I remember again what my grandad used to say: These japs are fucking crazy.
Only fruits were found when the belly of the leopard was cut open.
