Raw Fish Leaves Bad Taste in Mouth

One hundred and twelve of the nation's 'Tsunami' sushi restaurants have already changed their name following the devastating wave that hit Japan last month. A further two hundred are said to be considering a change.

"It makes sense," said a local man on the high street yesterday as he watched an Asian man on a ladder pull down a large neon wave from the front of a small restaurant that promised the number one sushi in town. “You don’t want to associate your food with such a tragedy, I guess it’s disrespectful somehow.”

Patrons at a nearby bar were heard to speculate further. “You don’t want to remind people of nuclear waste and washed up corpses when you’re serving a raw, pungent smelling product,” said a hip young man with large lamb chop sideburns.
       “You can’t blame them," added the bar man who was attending night classes in Business Administration. "A BBQ place is going to do more business trading as ‘Squealers,’ than ‘The Tortured Pig', it’s just simple marketing.”

The American Association of Restaurateurs issued a call for support from the dining public. “Please don’t let the images of all the recent ocean based disasters, the gulf oil spill or the recent Tsunami which cracked open several nuclear reactors, stop you from eating fish. Yes the water is contaminated. But the ocean has always been the dumping ground for dead bodies, fecal waste and dangerous chemicals and it hasn’t stopped millions enjoying all kinds of fish or sushi before and it shouldn’t do so now.”

At the Tsunami Bar and Grill in Orange County business remained bullish and there were no plans to change the name. Chef Parson Hughes said he doubted anything would stop people eating sushi, “the dangerous mercury levels in Salmon, the fact that the entire fish market is controlled by the True World Group which is a front for the cult led by the Rev. Sun Myung Moon, the routine slaughter of dolphins as revealed in films like The Cove, none of it matters. People just don’t care. As long as they can fill their fat faces and get stoned on sake they just can’t get enough of this shit.”

Classy

The bar had no restroom signs

Anywhere to be seen

There were just a couple of unmarked doors

Down a dirty corridor

One had two doorknockers on it

At chest height

The other had two baseballs

Embedded just below the waist.

It actually took me a couple of minutes to work it out.

The doorknockers were slightly uneven

Suggestive of the real woman perhaps?

As opposed to the ludicrous

Fabricated porn star ideal

But lets acknowledge

That the real woman

Includes the grotesque

Just as much as the one

Born of monstrous fantasy

And the real man

May indeed have baseball balls

That’s not to say,

Huge and hard and powerful,

But rather:

Fetishized homoerotic objects

Of childish hierarchy-setting

Game play

That should be hit with bits of wood.

Two pints later I paid another visit

And found a girl

Pondering the riddle of the doors

I chose the balls

And as the door closed behind me

I heard her laughing

And calling to her friends

After I’d finished

I went outside and found the girl

And two others, still laughing

Taking pictures of the doors

With their super smart phones

Bouncing the balls and knockers

Off Satellites in space and into

The lives of other friends

Boyfriends

And beyond

Before E-harmony there was Pee-harmony

I went back to my seat

Wondering how many couples had met

Trying to find the restrooms

Tipsy and unable

To decipher the door symbols

And if any of them were still together

Married

With kids

Living happily in the suburbs

Their young daughters growing up

Polishing their knockers

Against the carnival buffers

Of our culture

Their young boys growing up

Playing with their balls

Struggling to comprehend

(in strong silence)

What it’s supposed to mean

To be a man.

I'm sure future generations

Will look back on us with pity

And reclassify our civilization

As only semi-intelligent

And not because of knockers

And balls on a door

But because we are dissatisfied

And are always wanting more

Stretched out too tight

Like a violin string

Snapping in the middle

Of the infinite concerto

Unable to enjoy

The chorus

Or the silence

The choir of man

Barking

Whimpering

Half mad and full mad

Growing hair

Shaving hair

Master of electricity

Slave to any easy delusion

Stuck between animal and immortal

Our brains squirming like Proteus

The minor Grecian Sea God

Who possessed the power of prophecy

But always assumed different shapes

To avoid answering questions

Proteus, our savior

Take the signs off

All the doors

Let us step back in confusion

For a moment

Into animal simplicity

And lose ourselves in the truth

Of Species-hood

Free from the mean narcotic

Of individuality.

Later

I would drink more

Insult people in my mind

Lose my keys

Then laugh with friends

Spill red wine on my shoes

And drool in my sleep

Classy.