japan :: tokyo :: general

[Lab]

what is a seattle

I hear they have taco trucks and food that is not chili's, applebees, chick fil a

[herpsky]

nigga

you b

crazy

[mrip]

mrip

he and winq b bragging about their jap porn collectionz

you be hatin cuz i got that urabon shit on lock

did wing or selectivebeef even fuck japhos in japland?

probably no, just went to bro down and cop

goth

ninjas

don't

get

laid

(1)

winq got shanghai on lock

mang, ask mrip. I hear he got the asians on lock.

There's none of those in the south, and I'm all into da chocolate wimmenz. yeeeyyuuuhhh.

they always be muggin me cuz i b wearing supreme or some dbss

mrip getz no love from indian chickz?

he b tall and gud looking with those dbss shuz. also

he b rockin them number nine aka sufu official deminz.

i think im too next level for most indian chicks. they want the bro'd out guys on steroids and striped shirts

what is a seattle

I hear they have taco trucks and food that is not chili's, applebees, chick fil a

i copped vegetarian quesedilla at chillis, shit was green and whack

[bonjin]

I thought labs in tokyo? is anyone frequenting this thread actually there?

oh, except for rajio... right?

[mrip]

raijo and soundune

everyone else is just circle jerking

[salaryman]

I thought labs in tokyo? is anyone frequenting this thread actually there?

I live here.

[bonjin]

I live here.

oh yea, i knew that. oh well, at least there's two of you!

[Lab]

okokokokokok

I'll be back next summer, k?

and maybe december if my friend/bitch is going back

Til' then, circlejerk

damn, mrip, we gotta get our +++stripedshirt game up if we ever gonna get some jasmine-flavored puss. Hit up the PREMIUM denim aisle at Nordstroms and drop trip quatros on bootcut TRs. Don't forget to drink Natty at all times in your FB pics and only talk about Kobe Bryant around other men!!! SNEAKERS W/ KHAKIS IS FINE TOO

live the desi live the dream

[Guest jmatsu]

I thought labs in tokyo? is anyone frequenting this thread actually there?

oh, except for rajio... right?

i sometimes live there....

[herpsky]

i sometimes live there....

ditto .

[jcotteri]

okokokokokok

I'll be back next summer, k?

and maybe december if my friend/bitch is going back

Til' then, circlejerk

damn, mrip, we gotta get our +++stripedshirt game up if we ever gonna get some jasmine-flavored puss. Hit up the PREMIUM denim aisle at Nordstroms and drop trip quatros on bootcut TRs. Don't forget to drink Natty at all times in your FB pics and only talk about Kobe Bryant around other men!!! SNEAKERS W/ KHAKIS IS FINE TOO

live the desi live the dream

lololol (01)

no one going to metamorphose festival?

[soundune]

don't know about metamorphose...what about fuji rock? just picked up tickets at the local lawsons. anyone on here going/been want to share your experience?

[djrajio]

live the desi live the dream

Gopal treats Princeton Reunions the way MBAs treat “information sessionsâ€â€”he doesn’t miss a single one. A few Princeton students will opt to come back only for their 5 year reunions (5th, 10th, etc.) and many of those in New York City will at least make an attempt to pretend, right up until they realize they know of nothing better to do, that they “don’t think they’re going to make it back this year.†Not Gopal, though. No—he primes for Reunions weeks in advance. For him, it’s like Goldman coming to Stern—something you just can’t miss because it’s too good to even believe is happening in the first place.

In preparation, he methodically lays out a different pair of pastel or seersucker shorts and a polo for each of the three days. He tries on each outfit with a different set of Oliver Peoples sunglasses and saunters out into the living room of his 4-man apartment.

“Sugar in the RAW, motherfuckers!†he announces, wings spread, bouncing to his own beat. He reaches into his pocket tosses a few half-open packets into the air.

Knowing that if they don’t act clueless, he won’t subsist, his roommates are forced to inquire: “What do you mean?â€

And, every time, taking his sunglasses from his face and placing them on his head, Gopal points up at his face and gives the same response: “That’s how sweet I am.â€

$$$ For those unfamiliar with Princeton Reunions, it is the most absurd event that occurs, ever, in the United States. The annual orgy is held the weekend before graduation, and for three nights (Thursday, Friday, and Saturday), alumni from all classes come back to campus to get shitfaced under massive tents while listening to 80s cover bands, or, as it were, “be sweet.â€

At Princeton, Gopal wasn’t the coolest kid; he had few friends and flew miles under the radar of the eating club social scene. In a colony of ex-valedictorian overachievers, he somehow had managed to remain a huge, friendless dork.

Still, every year he came back to Reunions in the hopes that he’d finally blend in and make friends with the popular kids. This past year in New York City, his sweetness level had risen significantly, so his expectations were high. He had completely reinvented himself; he tossed aside his difficult-to-pronounce name and devised the most Anglicizable Indian identity ever—Rohit Harshan, a guy that white people could confidently call “Ro,†“Shawn,†or even “Harsh.†And although it’s unconventional to base a nickname off a secondary syllable, he’d often add: “But you can call me Hitter.†This made the girls swoon.

He had long forgotten his days as Gopal—the guy who couldn’t get chicks, didn’t have “two passes of any color†to get into clubs, and got trumped by dudes more solid than he was. Rohit lived with a consultant from PENN, a guy from Harvard who worked at Sotheby’s, and a civil engineer from Cornell. Respectively, they were: Tight. Lame. Tight. Lame.â€â€”perfect candidates for a new in-airport HSBC advertisement. And in that little world, Rohit ran shit. Most importantly, though, since none of his other roommates worked even remotely close to Banking, they deified Rohit, and the free drinks they milked from him fueled his burgeoning ego.

It was with this new mentality that Rohit rolled into Princeton on the Dinky, a toy train which shuttles between Princeton and Princeton Junction. It was the perfect day for Reunions—80 degrees, sunny, and just humid enough that the strap of a sundress might slip off, or the elastic band at the bottom of the more slutty ones might creep up. Already buzzed from two furtive beers drank on the NJ Transit, Rohit checked in, kissed his wristband for good luck, and started wandering around campus to the various tents.

What welcomed him was magical.

A common legend used to give scope to the level of the event’s egregiousness is that since the Indy 500 went dry, Princeton Reunions has become the single largest group alcohol consumption in the United States. But more importantly, as a result of the makeup of Princeton’s alumni body, the event is, without question, the largest single meeting of elite financiers, both young and old, in the world.

And despite the overlap with the Sex & The City movie opening, this year was no different.

Inside the comfort of the warm bubble that is Princeton, hundreds of young Investment Bankers futilely aped their more polished heroes in Private Equity and Hedge Funds, not yet able to BlackBerry while dancing to Bon Jovi. Older industry titans behaved childishly—Eliot Spitzer (’81) and Paul Sarbanes (’54) pounded (and exploded) one another as they watch John L. Weinberg (’48) spit up on himself trying to chug one to get one at the 50th, while in the kids’ areas, the children of alumni behaved like senior Bankers, banging out deal terms before engaging in any form of play. Michael Lewis (’82) sat on the lawn of Tiger Inn, devising a way to bring an accessibly “quantitative†yet narrative angle to yet another sport, quarters.

At “The 5th,†the tent where the most recent alumni congregate, one freshly minted graduate shouted to a classmate: “I’ll race you to $100MM net worth!†And the two jogged in place for a moment before looking up and saying to one another: “Oh shit—you’re already here, too?â€

Princeton Reunions is the most elite slice of the tip-top of Wall Street—“the tips.†There were no talks of layoffs or small bonuses. There was no rehashing of poor performance reviews. The air was filled with the confidence that can only come from the comfort of being completely insulated by a powerful old boy network.

“This is why I’m hot!†shouted a 30 year old man in madras shorts, crushing a plastic cup on his head.

Rohit smiled from ear to ear.

He meandered through the crowds, sipping one beer after another. For a while, he played it cool, convincing himself that he was just “settling in,†as he progressively got drunk and still hadn’t spoken to a single soul. Even jacked up on Bud Heavy, he was unable to channel the confidence that served him so well around his friends in New York. He felt trumped, outdone, like he had on his first Econ 101 test, when the prep school kids first showed him how pathetic a public high school education really is. Rohit couldn’t overcome the knot in his stomach, and, all of a sudden, he was feeling distinctly Gopal-ish.

To his credit, while getting his 9th drink, he did manage to mutter a couple words to a beautiful blond-haired Theta from Georgia he had admired for 4 years. “Maddie—what ethnicity is that?†he slipped, a bit of 2nd generation minority ignorance showing through. He stumbled to recover, but he couldn’t even get to “Hitter†before she asked: “So what club were you in?†referring to which eating club he had belonged. Gopal hadn’t been in any club; he was an “independent.†And upon hearing this, the girl gasped, pulled her hands close to her chest, and scurried away, as if having just confronted someone with full-blown AIDS.

Dejected, Gopal plopped down on the grass and let his head fall back against the hard brick of a building he’d once lived in. He was right back where he’d started. Longingly, he looked out at the group of people he wanted so badly to be a part of but couldn’t even manage to speak more than three words to. He prayed for his BlackBerry to vibrate to give him an excuse to look occupied, but, mercilessly, it stayed silent in his pocket.

And just then, he heard a female voice say:

“Hey – weren’t you in my politics precept?â€

Gopal assumed the girl had been talking to someone else, the brick wall, perhaps, but she got closer and repeated the question.

Squinting, he was able to make out that it was Amy—a girl who had indeed been in his politics precept. She was a molecular biology major, he remembered. She had been vocal in class, one of the few students who actually did the reading and tried genuinely to have intellectual conversations. Yes—he remembered Amy: she was almost as big a loser as he was.

She wasn’t pedigree. She wasn’t wearing a sundress. In New York, Rohit would have called her “a hipster,†laughed and thrown change at her. She most certainly didn’t represent the Princeton that he yearned for, but she was cute, and she was speaking to him.

So they talked. And before long, Gopal was drunkenly waxing loser, divulging all his darkest secrets—he thought he might be losing his job, his friends seemed to be using him, and he was considering going back to school, for anything. And either because she, too, was drunk, or because she liked him, Amy listened.

She listened for an hour before the 5th shut down, she listened on the walk to the WaWa, and she listened while she took him to The Street to her eating club, Terrace, a building Gopal had been too terrified to ever even consider entering. Of the eating clubs, he knew it as the “edgy,†“druggy,†one—where you might end up seeing a bunch of naked dudes dancing around doing heroin together, being vegan. “Breathlessly freakish,†in F.Scott’s words. But with Amy, Gopal felt he might finally be starting to find his true self, and so he followed.

[djrajio]

At Terrace, Amy and Gopal danced to The Knife in the sweaty, packed basement tap room, and, drenched, they went upstairs together and shared bagels they acted like they “stole†from the kitchen. And before he knew it, Gopal was joking with Amy about their future marriage, instructing her on how best not to offend his mother.

“None of that shit,†he said, wagging his finger at the lox. Then he shifted his finger to point at her shoes. “And you can leave those at home, too.â€

He was hammered, still wearing his seersucker shorts and a canary polo, and even though he was surrounded by guys in leather pants and girls in flannel shirts, Gopal didn’t care. At last, he felt at home at Princeton.

Swept up in the moment, he kissed Amy. He kissed her in the way he kissed stupid drunk girls at nightclubs, and, after a while of having her face swallowed, Amy slowed him down to a more tender pace. They made their way upstairs to the third floor, started to explore several other things that would offend his mother, and then Gopal passed out on Amy’s shoulder, contented.

$$$ “Wake up, Gopie,†Amy whispered in Gopal’s ear around 10:30am, petting his sticky, thick black hair.

Gopal awoke with a jolt and pulled back. He looked around and saw ash trays full of cigarettes and several passed out, shirtless bodies; he smelled vomit.

“What the…where the…?†he tried to remember what happened.

“You just passed out,†said Amy, warmly. “Poof. Like that,†and she snapped her fingers, smiling.

“Uhmm…†Gopal started before quickly throwing on his Rainbows and heading for the door.

“Woah. Where’re you going in such a hurry, Gopal?†Amy asked, both hurt and surprised.

Gopal looked back at her, and the memories of the previous night started to come back to him—that feeling of comfort, of friendship, of belonging.

And then his face turned to disgust. Like The Hulk, Rohit was surging back to life, taking over Gopal’s body from the inside. He was furious—mortified and revolted at himself for having such feelings surrounded by such C-list, ill-employed people. He wanted to spit on the ground, flex his Banking muscles, and tear through his shirt, morphing into the huge green monster he loved to be. This was most definitely not why he had come back to Princeton, and most definitely not the stature he was striving to attain.

He paused for a moment before speaking, brushing off his shirt and shorts and standing up straight and proper.

“I don’t’ know what you’re talking about, girl,†he stated, flatly, a newfound air of arrogance in his voice. There was a floater sitting on top of the TV, and, staring Amy deeply in the eyes, he picked it up and slammed back the remnants. Right before exiting the room, he reached into his pocket and took out his business card, which was covered in a thin film of unadulterated, raw sugar. He showcased it briefly like a game show prize and then pressed it down firmly on top of the TV stand. Pointing at the card and then back up at his face, Rohit clarified: “That’s how sweet I am.â€

[soundune]

Gopal treats Princeton Reunions the way MBAs treat “information sessionsâ€â€”he doesn’t miss a single one. A few Princeton students will opt to come back only for their 5 year reunions (5th, 10th, etc.) and many of those in New York City will at least make an attempt to pretend, right up until they realize they know of nothing better to do, that they “don’t think they’re going to make it back this year.†Not Gopal, though. No—he primes for Reunions weeks in advance. For him, it’s like Goldman coming to Stern—something you just can’t miss because it’s too good to even believe is happening in the first place.

In preparation, he methodically lays out a different pair of pastel or seersucker shorts and a polo for each of the three days. He tries on each outfit with a different set of Oliver Peoples sunglasses and saunters out into the living room of his 4-man apartment.

“Sugar in the RAW, motherfuckers!†he announces, wings spread, bouncing to his own beat. He reaches into his pocket tosses a few half-open packets into the air.

Knowing that if they don’t act clueless, he won’t subsist, his roommates are forced to inquire: “What do you mean?â€

And, every time, taking his sunglasses from his face and placing them on his head, Gopal points up at his face and gives the same response: “That’s how sweet I am.â€

$$$ For those unfamiliar with Princeton Reunions, it is the most absurd event that occurs, ever, in the United States. The annual orgy is held the weekend before graduation, and for three nights (Thursday, Friday, and Saturday), alumni from all classes come back to campus to get shitfaced under massive tents while listening to 80s cover bands, or, as it were, “be sweet.â€

At Princeton, Gopal wasn’t the coolest kid; he had few friends and flew miles under the radar of the eating club social scene. In a colony of ex-valedictorian overachievers, he somehow had managed to remain a huge, friendless dork.

Still, every year he came back to Reunions in the hopes that he’d finally blend in and make friends with the popular kids. This past year in New York City, his sweetness level had risen significantly, so his expectations were high. He had completely reinvented himself; he tossed aside his difficult-to-pronounce name and devised the most Anglicizable Indian identity ever—Rohit Harshan, a guy that white people could confidently call “Ro,†“Shawn,†or even “Harsh.†And although it’s unconventional to base a nickname off a secondary syllable, he’d often add: “But you can call me Hitter.†This made the girls swoon.

He had long forgotten his days as Gopal—the guy who couldn’t get chicks, didn’t have “two passes of any color†to get into clubs, and got trumped by dudes more solid than he was. Rohit lived with a consultant from PENN, a guy from Harvard who worked at Sotheby’s, and a civil engineer from Cornell. Respectively, they were: Tight. Lame. Tight. Lame.â€â€”perfect candidates for a new in-airport HSBC advertisement. And in that little world, Rohit ran shit. Most importantly, though, since none of his other roommates worked even remotely close to Banking, they deified Rohit, and the free drinks they milked from him fueled his burgeoning ego.

It was with this new mentality that Rohit rolled into Princeton on the Dinky, a toy train which shuttles between Princeton and Princeton Junction. It was the perfect day for Reunions—80 degrees, sunny, and just humid enough that the strap of a sundress might slip off, or the elastic band at the bottom of the more slutty ones might creep up. Already buzzed from two furtive beers drank on the NJ Transit, Rohit checked in, kissed his wristband for good luck, and started wandering around campus to the various tents.

What welcomed him was magical.

A common legend used to give scope to the level of the event’s egregiousness is that since the Indy 500 went dry, Princeton Reunions has become the single largest group alcohol consumption in the United States. But more importantly, as a result of the makeup of Princeton’s alumni body, the event is, without question, the largest single meeting of elite financiers, both young and old, in the world.

And despite the overlap with the Sex & The City movie opening, this year was no different.

Inside the comfort of the warm bubble that is Princeton, hundreds of young Investment Bankers futilely aped their more polished heroes in Private Equity and Hedge Funds, not yet able to BlackBerry while dancing to Bon Jovi. Older industry titans behaved childishly—Eliot Spitzer (’81) and Paul Sarbanes (’54) pounded (and exploded) one another as they watch John L. Weinberg (’48) spit up on himself trying to chug one to get one at the 50th, while in the kids’ areas, the children of alumni behaved like senior Bankers, banging out deal terms before engaging in any form of play. Michael Lewis (’82) sat on the lawn of Tiger Inn, devising a way to bring an accessibly “quantitative†yet narrative angle to yet another sport, quarters.

At “The 5th,†the tent where the most recent alumni congregate, one freshly minted graduate shouted to a classmate: “I’ll race you to $100MM net worth!†And the two jogged in place for a moment before looking up and saying to one another: “Oh shit—you’re already here, too?â€

Princeton Reunions is the most elite slice of the tip-top of Wall Street—“the tips.†There were no talks of layoffs or small bonuses. There was no rehashing of poor performance reviews. The air was filled with the confidence that can only come from the comfort of being completely insulated by a powerful old boy network.

“This is why I’m hot!†shouted a 30 year old man in madras shorts, crushing a plastic cup on his head.

Rohit smiled from ear to ear.

He meandered through the crowds, sipping one beer after another. For a while, he played it cool, convincing himself that he was just “settling in,†as he progressively got drunk and still hadn’t spoken to a single soul. Even jacked up on Bud Heavy, he was unable to channel the confidence that served him so well around his friends in New York. He felt trumped, outdone, like he had on his first Econ 101 test, when the prep school kids first showed him how pathetic a public high school education really is. Rohit couldn’t overcome the knot in his stomach, and, all of a sudden, he was feeling distinctly Gopal-ish.

To his credit, while getting his 9th drink, he did manage to mutter a couple words to a beautiful blond-haired Theta from Georgia he had admired for 4 years. “Maddie—what ethnicity is that?†he slipped, a bit of 2nd generation minority ignorance showing through. He stumbled to recover, but he couldn’t even get to “Hitter†before she asked: “So what club were you in?†referring to which eating club he had belonged. Gopal hadn’t been in any club; he was an “independent.†And upon hearing this, the girl gasped, pulled her hands close to her chest, and scurried away, as if having just confronted someone with full-blown AIDS.

Dejected, Gopal plopped down on the grass and let his head fall back against the hard brick of a building he’d once lived in. He was right back where he’d started. Longingly, he looked out at the group of people he wanted so badly to be a part of but couldn’t even manage to speak more than three words to. He prayed for his BlackBerry to vibrate to give him an excuse to look occupied, but, mercilessly, it stayed silent in his pocket.

And just then, he heard a female voice say:

“Hey – weren’t you in my politics precept?â€

Gopal assumed the girl had been talking to someone else, the brick wall, perhaps, but she got closer and repeated the question.

Squinting, he was able to make out that it was Amy—a girl who had indeed been in his politics precept. She was a molecular biology major, he remembered. She had been vocal in class, one of the few students who actually did the reading and tried genuinely to have intellectual conversations. Yes—he remembered Amy: she was almost as big a loser as he was.

She wasn’t pedigree. She wasn’t wearing a sundress. In New York, Rohit would have called her “a hipster,†laughed and thrown change at her. She most certainly didn’t represent the Princeton that he yearned for, but she was cute, and she was speaking to him.

So they talked. And before long, Gopal was drunkenly waxing loser, divulging all his darkest secrets—he thought he might be losing his job, his friends seemed to be using him, and he was considering going back to school, for anything. And either because she, too, was drunk, or because she liked him, Amy listened.

She listened for an hour before the 5th shut down, she listened on the walk to the WaWa, and she listened while she took him to The Street to her eating club, Terrace, a building Gopal had been too terrified to ever even consider entering. Of the eating clubs, he knew it as the “edgy,†“druggy,†one—where you might end up seeing a bunch of naked dudes dancing around doing heroin together, being vegan. “Breathlessly freakish,†in F.Scott’s words. But with Amy, Gopal felt he might finally be starting to find his true self, and so he followed.

is this some semi-autobiographical ish?????

[djrajio]

is this some semi-autobiographical ish?????

Why do you keep acting like a fool?!

Obviously you aren't educated or in-the-know enough to know its from The Leveraged Sellout...

[soundune]

Why do you keep acting like a fool?!

Obviously you aren't educated or in-the-know enough to know its from The Leveraged Sellout...

hahahahaha

[soundune]

On the far-away island of Sala-ma-Sond,

Yertle the Turtle was king of the pond.

A nice little pond. It was clean. It was neat.

The water was warm. There was plenty to eat.

The turtles had everything turtles might need.

And they were all happy. Quite happy indeed.

They were... until Yertle, the king of them all,

Decided the kingdom he ruled was too small.

"I'm ruler", said Yertle, "of all that I see.

But I don't see enough. That's the trouble with me.

With this stone for a throne, I look down on my pond

But I cannot look down on the places beyond.

This throne that I sit on is too, too low down.

It ought to be higher!" he said with a frown.

"If I could sit high, how much greater I'd be!

What a king! I'd be ruler of all that I see!"

And Yertle, the Turtle King, gave a command.

He ordered nine turtles to swim to his stone

And, using these turtles, he built a new throne.

He made each turtle stand on another one's back

And he piled them all up in a nine-turtle stack.

And then Yertle climbed up. He sat down on the pile.

What a wonderful view! He could see 'most a mile!

"All mine!" Yertle cried. "Oh, the things I now rule!

I'm the king of a cow! And I'm the king of a mule!

I'm the king of a house! And, what's more, beyond that

I'm the king of a blueberry bush and a cat!

I'm Yertle the Turtle! Oh, marvelous me!

For I am the ruler of all that I see!"

And all through the morning, he sat up there high

Saying over and over, "A great king am I!"

Until 'long about noon. Then he heard a faint sigh.

"What's that?" snapped the king,and he looked down the stack.

And he saw, at the bottom, a turtle named Mack.

Just a part of his throne. And this plain little turtle

Looked up and he said, "Beg your pardon, King Yertle.

I've pains in my back and my shoulders and knees.

How long must we stand here, Your Majesty, please?"

"SILENCE!" the King of the Turtles barked back.

"I'm king, and you're only a turtle named Mack."

"You stay in your place while I sit here and rule.

I'm the king of a cow! And I'm the king of a mule!

I'm the king of a house! And a bush! And a cat!

But that isn't all. I'll do better than that!

My throne shall be higher!" his royal voice thundered,

"So pile up more turtles! I want 'bout two hundred!"

"Turtles! More turtles!" he bellowed and brayed.

And the turtles 'way down in the pond were afraid.

They trembled. They shook. But they came. They obeyed.

From all over the pond, they came swimming by dozens.

Whole families of turtles, with uncles and cousins.

And all of them stepped on the head of poor Mack.

One after another, they climbed up the stack.

Then Yertle the Turtle was perched up so high,

He could see forty miles from his throne in the sky!

"Hooray!" shouted Yertle. "I'm the king of the trees!

I'm king of the birds! And I'm king of the bees!

I'm king of the butterflies! King of the air!

Ah, me! What a throne! What a wonderful chair!

I'm Yertle the Turtle! Oh, marvelous me!

For I am the ruler of all that I see!"

Then again, from below, in the great heavy stack,

Came a groan from that plain little turtle named Mack.

"Your Majesty, please... I don't like to complain,

But down here below, we are feeling great pain.

I know, up on top you are seeing great sights,

But down here at the bottom we, too, should have rights.

We turtles can't stand it. Our shells will all crack!

Besides, we need food. We are starving!" groaned Mack.

"You hush up your mouth!" howled the mighty King Yertle.

"You've no right to talk to the world's highest turtle.

I rule from the clouds! Over land! Over sea!

There's nothing, no, NOTHING, that's higher than me!"

But, while he was shouting, he saw with surprise

That the moon of the evening was starting to rise

Up over his head in the darkening skies.

"What's THAT?" snorted Yertle. "Say, what IS that thing

That dares to be higher than Yertle the King?

I shall not allow it! I'll go higher still!

I'll build my throne higher! I can and I will!

I'll call some more turtles. I'll stack 'em to heaven!

I need 'bout five thousand, six hundred and seven!"

But, as Yertle, the Turtle King, lifted his hand

And started to order and give the command,

That plain little turtle below in the stack,

That plain little turtle whose name was just Mack,

Decided he'd taken enough. And he had.

And that plain little lad got a bit mad.

And that plain little Mack did a plain little thing.

He burped!

And his burp shook the throne of the king!

And Yertle the Turtle, the king of the trees,

The king of the air and the birds and the bees,

The king of a house and a cow and a mule...

Well, that was the end of the Turtle King's rule!

For Yertle, the King of all Sala-ma-Sond,

Fell off his high throne and fell Plunk! in the pond!

And today the great Yertle, that Marvelous he,

Is King of the Mud. That is all he can see.

And the turtles, of course... all the turtles are free

As turtles and, maybe, all creatures should be.

Why do you keep acting like a fool?!

Obviously you aren't educated or in-the-know enough to know its from The Leveraged Sellout...

hahahahahaha, what a pretentious motherfucker...man, i just finished standing on line for the latest baby milo gear. after that i had dinner at wendy's. when i was sufficiently stuffed full of teriyaki burgers i made my way to roppongi and geronimo's for drinks and then i took the last keikyu line from shinigawa back to yokosuka so i could be at work on time. man it's great living in japan.

[djrajio]

hahahahahaha, what a pretentious motherfucker...man, i just finished standing on line for the latest baby milo gear. after that i had dinner at wendy's. when i was sufficiently stuffed full of teriyaki burgers i made my way to roppongi and geronimo's for drinks and then i took the last keikyu line from shinigawa back to yokosuka so i could be at work on time. man it's great living in japan

That's rough man.

I live 10 minutes away from Roppongi by walking.

Never been to Geronimo's.

You're Northwestern right?

There's an alumni event at Izumi Gardens (next to Credit Suisse) for ivy-league alums tomorrow night there. I think NW is included.

[ken shinoda]

It was Saturday, and you were home from school for a few days. Your

folks had gone out of town for the day and would not return until

tomorrow. The new neighbors had moved in while you were away at

school. Bored, you thought you would visit them to get acquainted.

While waiting for an answer to your knock on their door, you heard a

scurrying around in the living room. Shortly your knock was answered

by a shapely woman of about thirty-five years old, medium dark hair and

a knockout pair of breasts. She was wearing only a loose fitting thin

robe. Her yummy cleavage in clear view.

"Hello, I'm Jessica, you know from next door." You introduced yourself.

The sexy woman replied, "Oh yes, your mom told me you were away at

school. Glad to meet you. My name is Myra, come in and meet Carl."

Entering the living room you saw a rather handsome, fairly tall,

well-built middle-aged guy. His steel gray hair was a little on the

long side. He had piercing blue eyes that seemed to see you as being

naked, he looked directly at you. You could not miss the large bulge

in his pants. Your nipples hardened beneath your tee shirt - you wore

no bra. He absently tugged at his trousers as he spoke.

"So you're the lovely Jessica we've heard so much about."

"Yes" you replied. I don't know about the lovely part - I hope I didn't

interrupt anything."

Myra spoke up, "Nothing we can't finish later. Come in the kitchen and

tell me about yourself."

Holding the swinging door for you, Myra turned slightly and let her

upper arm innocently rub against your firm breasts as you squeezed

past. "Nice boobs." She said under her breath.

Emboldened by her frankness, you replied, "Yours are beautiful. I

really hope I didn't interrupt you guys at something." "Nah, " came her

reply, "I was just giving Carl a little head."

You were shocked at her candor and didn't speak for a moment.

"Come on sweetie - I don't think you are as innocent as you appear, I

saw your reaction when you looked a Carl's cock. Am I right?"

In frustration you stammered, "W w well. I have been with a few guys."

"How about girls?" she pressed.

You were beginning to think Myra's interest was not entirely out of

curiosity - particularly the way she was softly stroking your torso and

letting her hand brush briefly against your breasts. Boldly, you took

a deep breath and answered truthfully. "I do have a room mate, Sheila

- we have experimented a little, you know girl girl stuff - it was

fun."

Myra smiled and moved her hand to cup your full breast, capturing your

erect nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Placing her free hand on

the back of your head, she pulled your mouth to her own. Her hot

tongue traced a path around your lips before plunging it into your

mouth. You quickly overcame your surprise and sucking her sweet tongue

into you mouth returned the passionate kiss. You were beginning to get

wet. The sweet itch in your vagina was becoming more intense.

Reluctantly, you let Myra break the heady kiss. She took your hand and

said, "I would like to show you my bedroom."

With some trepidation, you let her lead you up the stairs to a large

bedroom, the centerpiece of which was the largest bed you had ever

seen. Huge pillows decorated the headboard. Facing you Mara quickly

lifted the tee shirt over your head and took each of your now aching

breasts in a hand, lifting them and teasing your hard nipples between

thumbs and forefingers.

hahahahahaha, what a pretentious motherfucker...man, i just finished standing on line for the latest baby milo gear. after that i had dinner at wendy's. when i was sufficiently stuffed full of teriyaki burgers i made my way to roppongi and geronimo's for drinks and then i took the last keikyu line from shinigawa back to yokosuka so i could be at work on time. man it's great living in japan.

everyone repeat after me: douuuuuuuuuuuuche baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag!

did u go to lad to get some photo teez?

[djrajio]

hahahahahaha, what a pretentious motherfucker...

It's actually all fictional satire on the investment banking profession.

Like my persona on sufu.

Perhaps you've been quick enough to recognize this...

[ken shinoda]

i dun get soundunes.. why he be braggin bout wendy's and queuein up and train rides and shitz? that be like posting pics of toilet paper u bought on 'recent purchases' ...

[salaryman]

wow. I can't believe I just read that whole turtle story.

I'm fucking stoned.

[ken shinoda]

lolz.. u shoulda read my story instead..

at least it will make u eracted instead of stoned...

wow. I can't believe I just read that whole turtle story.

I'm fucking stoned.

[chromesquared]

i dun get soundunes.. why he be braggin bout wendy's and queuein up and train rides and shitz? that be like posting pics of toilet paper u bought on 'recent purchases' ...

[Seething Tortoise]

Anyon know anywhere in Tokyo that can store a suitcase for a week?

[seiji]

tokyo eki ...

[Guest jmatsu]

hahahahahaha, what a pretentious motherfucker...man, i just finished standing on line for the latest baby milo gear. after that i had dinner at wendy's. when i was sufficiently stuffed full of teriyaki burgers i made my way to roppongi and geronimo's for drinks and then i took the last keikyu line from shinigawa back to yokosuka so i could be at work on time. man it's great living in japan.

everyone repeat after me: douuuuuuuuuuuuche baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag!

what's fucking pathetic is that while soudune will probably try to play this off, shit is just so close to the truth. shit ain't even funny. if he wasn't such an asshole i'd almost feel sorry for him, but as most of us know that is the way of things. when i go to aoyama ,nishiazabu, hiroo...even fuckin kasai, i don't (and don't want to) see lame factory gaijin like soudune. i wanna see supermodels, beautiful people, etc...basically the upper crust of what the foreign lands have to offer.

[soundune]

That's rough man.

I live 10 minutes away from Roppongi by walking.

Never been to Geronimo's.

You're Northwestern right?

There's an alumni event at Izumi Gardens (next to Credit Suisse) for ivy-league alums tomorrow night there. I think NW is included.

shit, i thought i was being sarcastic.

anyway, dude - i'm sure it's a good story and the reason i thought it was some shit you wrote is BECAUSE i've picked up on you. all you needed to say is, "no, as a matter of fact it is not something I wrote," however you chose to take the asshole route. it pains me to e-hate on you, man, because you do seem like a decent cat, but hey, like rirawin and i joked about in F.I.L all this shit is just some time killing ish and I'd hope no one is like their e-hating persona in real liife. except chubby checker form the above post - he's probably an idiot in real life

[Guest jmatsu]

shit, i thought i was being sarcastic.

anyway, dude - i'm sure it's a good story and the reason i thought it was some shit you wrote is BECAUSE i've picked up on you. all you needed to say is, "no, as a matter of fact it is not something I wrote," however you chose to take the asshole route.

ballas just don't get along with your kind. he (and most here) just don't like you very much, cause YOU were an asshole from the very get-go (still are).

maybe if you do a sincere dogeza (not that most gaijin can get it right), take a pic and post, people might forgive you and maybe overlook your typical brand of stupidity once in a while (some).