Japanese GF

I always pondered what it’d be like to leave the poisonous women of the Western world and plant my roots in the Far East. So one day, I hopped on a flight to Japan with the sole intention of finding a GF (girlfriend).

As the in-flight entertainment—consisting of Rocky II in German with French subtitles, Shrek in Japanese (this was more terrifying than funny), and Paul Blart: Mall Cop—provided some background noise, I imagined what my new life would be like. “Man,” I thought, “I’ll have a girlfriend who will give me good pussy, cook me breakfast, clean, and not bug me.” I figured that when I was working, she’d just catch houseflies with chopsticks and try to communicate with them, or whatever else Japanese girls do for fun. “And just maybe,” I continued thinking, “her incoherent babbling from time to time will provide me with some sense of emotional connection.” Of course, I knew that that spiritual connection was not possible, as the Japanese do not have souls. I was looking forward to this as my great escape from the burning ship of the West. I was assured this would be a blissful alternative and a happy new life.

I was wrong.

As the plane landed, something did not feel right. I felt like I was about to be ambushed. I thought maybe it was some sort of genetic memory from my grandfather, who served in the Pacific, and that my DNA recognized these cartoon-making bugpeople lands. The airport TVs were all playing Louder with Crowder videos.

As I was walking through the airport, I heard a strange noise. It was faint, but slowly getting louder and louder. I looked ahead of me. There was nothing. I looked to my right. There was nothing. As I peered to my left, I saw 52 Japanese girls stampeding down the corridor toward me from 300 yards away, closing in fast, their pussies dripping wet. “Oh shit!” I exclaim, “these niggas wilin’!” Since they’re Japanese and had weird bow legs, they kept tripping over each other. It wasn’t funny enough to draw away from the terrifying reality of the moment. They were after me.

I hopped over the service counter to hide. The girls all ran by me, garbling incoherent gook sounds. It sounded as if those complex shapes you learned in geometry became words. The dust settled. I asked the clerk lady what that was all about. She said the girls were screaming “OH YES PLEASE GIVE ME BIG HUGE GIGANTIC AMERICAN COCK OH YES PLEASE.” I didn’t buy it. I pulled my Glock 20 chambered in 10mm out of my ass. I stuck it in her mouth and asked her what was really going on. She begged for her life and said she had two kids and a husband. I didn’t buy it. She suddenly transformed into a robot. “WTF,” I thought. My instincts are always right. She lunged at me in an attempt to grab my penis. She missed because of her squinty Jap vision. I popped that bitch in the head with my gat and got out of there. The sound of the gunshot will surely attract the herd of Jap QTs back in my direction, I thought. I need to find out what the hell is going on.

I snuck around the airport looking for a way to contact someone who might know what was going on. To my surprise, a pay phone suddenly rang behind me. I picked it up; it was my friend Duane. He was hanging out in the Oval Office. He said they could see everything that was going on in the airport through the security cameras as he handed the phone to my good friend, Donald Trump. Donald immediately started talking, “DJ, dude, that shit must be crazy. Okay, here’s the deal. This is bigger than you think. The Japanese government isn’t actually run by the Japanese. Heck, I know right? My great friend Shinzo Abe is secretly Korean. But that’s not all. He takes his marching orders from someone…higher up. Someone even higher up than me and far more sinister.” “Who is it?”,I asked Donald.

“…Cody fucking Wilson.”

…Donald hung up. It all makes sense now, I thought. Cody Wilson wants revenge on me for making fun of his haircut at LibertyCon in 2013. Now he’s using his assassination marketplace website to try and kill me with Japanese women.

I decided at that moment to put an end to Cody Wilson once and for all, no matter how many Japanese women I’d have to fuck.

I hung the phone back up and devised a plan in my head. I hid in a potted plant and waited for the stampede to circle back around. I sat patiently, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. As they charged past me, I popped the weakest one in the leg with my gat and dragged her away epic style. I started to interrogate her and noticed wires and circuitry in the hole I blew in her leg. “Another fucking robot,” I sighed. I cracked open her head and found the motherboard. I dug in to find a microchip. “Unbelievable!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. The microchip said that it was property of the FBI. My life has come to the FBI working with Cody Wilson to kill me. This is one fucked up version of Waco. All I wanted was a girlfriend.

As the rage began to slowly simmer down, I thought of a genius plan. I put the microchip in my computer and got to work.

I tracked down the location of the plant where the FBI makes these robot chicks. I stuck a screwdriver in the robot girl’s head to control her and rode her like a velociraptor to the factory. The FBI is gay and retarded, so I was able to break into the facility fairly easily. There, I found a plethora of robots to choose from. “15 years old,” the sign above one room read. “Perfect,” I say to myself.

I found a Evropan 15-year-old model robot chick and coded in my instructions. I threw her on the back of the velociraptor chick and sped off to the post office. There, I saw my good friend Andrew Anglin, who was throwing knives at local children, but I had no time to talk. I stuffed her in the package with bubble wrap and slapped a sticker on to send it to Austin, Texas.

Two weeks later, I flipped on the news. The lower third part of the screen read, “3D-Printed Gun Manufacturer Cody Wilson Arrested for Sexual Relations with a Minor.”

Ha! Take that Cody, you stupid faggot.