Comic Vs. Audience is proud to present, once again, a scintillating bi-weekly column, Literary Adventure, written by bookish gadabout Doogie Horner. Everything written in Literary Adventure has been vigorously fact-checked by a team of ten graduate students, so don't second guess any of the outrageous claims made within.
Arthur Golden's debut novel, Memoirs of a Geisha, made a huge splash upon its publication in 1997, and was made into a crappy film in 2005. (Don't worry, you're not the only person who didn't see it.) The book presents the fictional confessions of one of Japan's most celebrated geishas.
Western readers were enthralled by the strange, foreign tapestry which the memoirs wove. Demure housewives liked it because they got to read about prostitution--but classy, quaint prostitution filled with tea ceremonies. This wasn't really prostitution, because . . . well this was in Japan, and the women wore white face powder and put their hair in buns and wore little silk kimonos. And there were tea ceromonies--oh how there were tea ceremonies!
So where is America's Memoirs of a Geisha?
Is it Jenna Jameson's autobiography, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star? No. Geishas are different than porn stars or hookers. Geishas don't stand in front of boarded up tenaments at three in the morning and yell obscenities as you drive past with the doors locked. Geishas stand in the corner with their head bowed until you ask for more green tea, then pad over quietly on their little wooden sandals. Hell, they even bow to you! They're equal parts servant and sexual objects, and spend more time entertaining visitors at teahouses than doing the dirty mambo.
Could this country duplicate such a combination of class and ass?
I wracked my mind for an answer but found none. I was hungry. I needed some brain food, and nothing makes me feel more smarterer than Jalapeno Poppers. I called up a friend and he dragged me to Hooters. I have never been to a Hooters before because I hate bad, tacky restaurants, and haven't associated breasts with food since I was an infant.
Once inside though, my defenses were quickly breached.
Like a gorilla from the mist, our waitress emerged from a cloud of menthol cigarettes wafting from the smoking section. Her tight white tube top hugged her bulging twin peaks. Her orange running shorts shimmered like a sun dappled pond filled with goldfish who talk in the tongues of men. She also wore weird flesh-colored stockings, which almost ruined the experience.
I was spellbound by the arcane rituals she followed in the ancient "water pouring ceremony" which followed. She decanted the water from my left hand side, using her right hand. There were exactly 25 ice cubes in the glass. A slice of lemon was placed at precisely 3 oclock on the rim of the glass with her left hand. She then retreated two steps, gave a shallow bow, and asked if I was ready to order. I was speechless. I finally said no, and she retreated to the kitchen.
It was then I realized that Hooters waitresses were the spiritual heirs to the Geisha.
I now knew what I had to do.
First I had to find a Hooters waitress and become personally acquainted with her. Then I had to find out if she kept a diary. Then I had to sneak a peek at it long enough to read the entire thing and transcribe relevant sections. And then if there was time left over, I had to give her bodacious boobies a quick squeeze to see if they were ripe.
A daunting task. Luckily I was able to pull off the entire daredevil stunt in one whirlwind weekend. I bumped into a chic with humungo gazangas in the produce section of Whole Foods the very next day and asked her out on a date. At the time I didnt even know she worked at Hooters! Serendipity. (Thank you lucky Gaelic wishing stone!)
Her name was Carmel, and let me tell you, she was as sweet and sticky as her namesake.
We had a dinner date that night at Chilis, where I primed her with enough Daquaries to swamp a lifeboat. She babbled drunkenly that she was a freshman at UPENN, worked at the Cherry Hill Hooters, liked horses, and liked to have fun. I asked her if she enjoyed reading, and she rolled her eyes and said, "Uh, hellooo! I said I like to have fun!"
When we retired to her charming dorm room, I began slyly probing for information on whether she kept a diary, where said diary might be located, and the price of her virginity. She actually leapt up and brought her diary over to me! She was completely shitfaced. She stumbled on her way back to the beanbag chairs, smacked her head on the bottom bunk bed and passed out. As the diary fell from her salsa stained hands and hit the floor, its heart-shaped lock sprung open. Serendipity squared! (Thank you mummified Egyptian monkey paw!)
After lifting her shirt up to make sure she didn't have any abdominal bruises, I left with the diary.
What I found inside was shocking. Reprinted here are excerpts from Carmel's diary that show what love, life, and the elusive quest for happiness is like for these women:
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Tommy iz such a jerk. I hate him sooo much. Sometimes I wish he wuz dead! Sometimes I wish I wuz dead. Sometimes I wish I wuz pregnant with his baby. Sometimes I wish I wuz a bird, and could fly far away. If I was a bird and had his baby it would come out of an egg!
- - -
I heard Sheila talking to Jane at work 2day and she said that she was going to the beach this weekend with Tommy. She was wearing big hoop earrings that make her look like a total whore (cuz she is!), and I grabbed one and ripped it right out of her ear. She screamed and bled all over a five wing flappertizer and I did not give a shit.
Then I went and found Tommy at school, and wuz going to yell at him 2 and maybe kick him in the nutz, but then he turned around and he was crying and I fell in love with him all over again and I luv him soooo much!
- - -
At Hooterz today one of my teacher's (Mr. Mentzl) came in and sat at one of my tables. He is totally old and gross, and he stares at me in class. He said he liked me shirt and then he totally stared at my boobs! Yuck! He asked what wuz good on the menu and I said i don't know I never eat the shit here, it's all fried. But what I really wanted to yell was Stop looking at my Boobs! But I wanted to get a good tip so I told him to try the Hallapeno Poppers they're okay.
Afterwords I went in the back and told Holly what happened because she knows him too because she had him for Biology and she was like OH MY GOD NO WAY! But way, he totally did.
- - -
Tommy walked by in the hall today and grabbed my boob and made a honking sound. I told him to stop, but really I wanted to tell him to keep going. But there were people watching.
- - -
I hope Tommy gets attacked by a big angry dog and it bites his nutz off. And I hope all his dumb friends DIE in a car crash.
Tommy came to the restarant tonite to visit me. He was there with his buddies and they got a booth. He asked if he could get some free chicken fingers and I said well I don't know I'll try. Then Mike (his big dumb friend who's got a Hummer. I hope it explodes in flames and flies of a cliff and he gets burned alive) he asked if he could get a Beaver Burger, and I said I don't think that's on the menu, and they all started laughing at me. And then his other friend (the ugly fat one) asked if he could get some Poontang Poppers, and I said we don't have any of them. They started laughing at me again, and I thought maybe there was ketchup on my shirt, so I said Is there something on my shirt? And they said Yeah a big pair of Sweater Muffins, and I got angry and walked away and I don't know what they were laughing about but I bet they thought they were pretty funny.
I locked myself in the girls room and cried.
I came out and went back to the kitchen to get ice from the walk in freezer to put under my eyes, and Tommy was making out with Sheila on top of the frozen french fries and he totally had his tongue way down her throat! And she iz such a skank! I punched her in the face and he said he loved me but I don't believe him.
I wish I wuz the bird on the Hooter's sign. I think it's an eagle. I wish I wuz a bird and could fly away.