Je suis le King of Pop

I am typing this in a Japanese Starbucks. I begin work in one hour.

Sitting directly across from me is a huge woman with the largest breasts I have ever seen. When I saw them, I did a double-take – which is saying something, because I typically don’t like to be caught staring at women’s breasts. She is wearing a shirt that says, “Je suis le King of Pop.” It seems a little presumptuous to claim the title “King of Pop” so soon after Michael Jackson’s death, but the French somehow makes it more acceptable.

(But seriously, if I am ever assaulted at night by someone who is in every conceivable way the opposite of the King of Pop, the final police sketch will bear a striking resemblance to this woman.)

The new King of Pop is sitting with another huge woman whose hair is in a bob on top of her head. When they came in, my first thought was “couple of lesbians.” I look around, and it seems that every Japanese person in this Starbucks is huge. You would be hard-pressed to find a mouth that is not breaking down large chunks of food. God bless globalization.

There is a little boy sitting near me in a high chair. His father is putting bits of muffin into the boy’s mouth. Who does this boy think he is, anyway? The king of Starbucks?

As I am typing this, another massive woman comes in. What the hell is going on here? She is literally wearing suspenders. Suspenders! Suspenders is one article of clothing that I would refuse to wear if I were extremely overweight. As soon as she sees me she scowls. What? Am I not allowed to sit here eating my blueberry and cream scone? Don’t get angry just because my face had a look of profound disgust on it. It had nothing to do with you. That’s how I ordinarily look.

A 20-something girl is standing at the sugar and cream counter. Her shirt says, “I am pretty.” The whole shirt is adorned with the word “pretty” written many times, in many different colors and styles of font. The trouble here (and I’m not trying to be mean) is that she is not especially pretty. I wonder if she seriously thought that, by wearing a shirt with a particular word written over and over on it, she could hoodwink me into thinking that she possessed that quality. If this were possible, I would immediately set about hand-stitching all of my own clothing – but instead of “pretty,” I would use such words as “handsome,” “go-getter,” and “not only interested in sex, but also in hearing about your day. How was it anyway?”

Time to go to work.