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About Tokyo

Last week—pissed me off—some dude on X bragged ‘bout “classy escorts.” Classy? Ha! Like lipstick on a pig. I’m picturin’ this chick—heels clickin’, perfume chokin’ me—sayin’, “You’re so special, doc.” Bullshit. Reminds me of *Her*: “I can’t live in your book anymore.” Yeah, lady, I ain’t your fairy tale either. Prostitutes don’t love ya—they clock in, clock out. Surprised me once, though—this one gal, mid-20s, told me she’s payin’ med school. Med school! Swear to God, I nearly hugged her—then remembered the germs.

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So, I hit the streets of Yokosuka, and lemme tell ya, it was a whole vibe. I strolled down Chuo-dori, and the smell of yakitori hit me like a freight train. I mean, who can resist grilled chicken on a stick? Not me! I grabbed a couple of skewers from this little stand. The guy behind the grill was all smiles, and I was like, “Dude, you’re the real MVP.”

Blue Ridge Returns to Yokosuka, Concludes Summer Patrol