Here in administrative detention in a 3rd-party country somewhere outside of Afghanistan, the guys from Blackwater Security give me a copy of the “News without Flavor(TM)”, the Japan Times. In the Weds. issue of May 4 on page 3, there was some interesting fugu news that sort of relates to the sister publication of 3Yen, www.fu-gu.com.
Title: Group helps break fugu-liver taboo
The Japan Times, May 4, 2005, pg. 3
A taboo always tastes sweet. When things are prohibited, they often seem more attractive and thrilling than ever.
A group of researchers is now challenging a centuries-old taboo that has killed numerous reckless Japanese since ancient times: eating the liver of the fugu, which is known for powerful nerve toxin. Researchers at Nagasaki University claim to have unlocked the mystery surrounding the origin of the puffer’s poison, claiming the livers of cultivated fugu carefully grown outside their natural environment contain no poison and be served as a safe delicacy. (…)
This reminds me of the time I had fugu liver in late January after another long gray day filled with stretching, moaning,and staring at battleship gray metal desks and concrete walls of the 3Yen.com media empire.
Ah, but that previous night …
I was thrashing on the road in the middle of Roppongi crossing baying at the moon. Two hundred and fifty thousand yen flopped out of my trench-coat and whirled about in the wind as my date was hobbling about in her red leather miniskirt trying to fetch the bills. I was howling – laying flat on my back I could see her see-through pink lace panties. I definitely had found a friend in fugu.
An interesting fish, the fugu …
The CIA uses its poison for dartguns. Japanese girls feed it to their men to get them “inspired”. The blowfish, which is what fugu is called in English, was sliced up to be eaten raw at a neighborhood bar. The terribly charming Emiko had taken me there for a little hot sake and English conversation. Between her giggles and my gropes, she ordered the night’s adventure, fugu, from a knife wheedling cook who had full control over my life. If I died from the little rubbery fish hors d’oeuvres, it’s the cook’s legal right under Japanese law to commit suicide. It seemed like a fair deal to me.
After fugu, she poured four bottles of hot sake into me, poured me into her husband’s 4×4 pickup and sported me down to Six Trees, Roppongi, Tokyo’s partyland. We were snarfing a couple of cheeseburgers while watching a Japanese rap videos when the fugu took hold. I felt hot flashes and then full-blown menopause followed by metamorphosis and a big blur that eventually dumped me back at my desk at Japan Inc.
Fugu-ed! Who needs drugs when you can eat little slices of raw death? Now I’ll have to prepare myself for the evening’s meal of more sake and something safe like Japanese, shirokarai, fermented raw squid guts.