August 1993
There are three characteristics that a Japanese Crown Prince must look for when selecting his bride:
In 1974, Masako-sama's dad landed a job in the states and decided it would be a good idea to bring little Masako-chan along with him so she could study abroad. I didn't know anything about her at the time because I was also studying a broad - a broad by the name of Shirley Nielson who worked the register at the Pic-N-Save around the corner from my apartment.
Shirley taught me a lot, however it wasn't her I was interested in studying, but my chosen profession of journalism. So I signed up for classes at Trundleford University, Brooklyn's first accredited all-Gentile University. In order to pay for the courses I had to take a part-time job standing in front of Saucy Jack's All-Girl Emporium from 11:00pm to 5:00am every night yelling "Naked, naked, naked!"
All that hard work didn't go for naught and eight years later I landed a job at Harvard. It was working as a stockboy in the bookstore, but at least I'd be able to write "Harvard" on my resume. And besides, it was that very job that led me to the woman of my dreams... Masako Owada.
She came into the bookstore one day speaking Japanese with a friend of hers. I could understand everything she said because I was raised by a pack of wild, but well-read tanuki on a remote island south of Antartica. I overheard her saying that she wanted to buy the latest edition of the Kama Sutra, so I went up to her and said (though with a thick tanuki accent), "Kimi no okane wo shimatte, amapantsu, ore ga kashite kureru kara." Which means, "Save your money, Sugarpants, you can borrow mine."
She was so shocked by being addressed in such a way wheeled around, mouth agape, and stared long enough for me to count her fillings. And I fed her the line that my dear old uncle Old Patimkin Ramsley had used on my Aunt Lamb, "If you don't go out with me, I'll take my life on your doorstep." And believe it or not, for the first time in Ramsley history, it failed. Not only did she refuse to go out with me, she called security and had me beaten severly. Now, a lesser man would have been discouraged. But just like a child only wants the toy he can't have, I decided then and there, that yes, she would be mine.
I began conjecturing a new plan the following morning. I set the alarm for 9:55am so as not to miss the Jeffersons. I never think quite so clearly as when I'm sipping on bourbon and watching the Jeffersons. [Little known fact: Roxie Roker (Helen Willis) is mother of rock super-star ledgend Lenny Kravitz.] It was kismit (look it up), that morning's episode contained the answer to the question that I sought. It seems that Florence was feeling depressed because she couldn't get tickets to see Billy Dee Williams. So George decided to hire some celebrity look-alikes to help out his dry-cleaning business. I don't quite remember how all this tied in, I was pretty smashed by the end of the episode, but I was almost certain it had something to do with fooling someone into something or another...
Anyway, what does every woman want? A man, a virile hero, to take care of her. So all I had to do was fool her into thinking I was that man. I would hire an actor, a player if you must, to act like he's going to beat the shit out of her and take all her money. And I would appear from nowhere and smite the bastard with a pointed stick. How could she possibly resist giving herself to me after that.
So I went down to the wharf, to one of the salt-licks that the barnacle jockies call home for a night. And found a guy by the name of Bjorn Epstien who was perfect for the role. I first noticed Bjorn for his shoulders. When he slouched, they stuck up further than his head. He had long flowing hair coming out of each ear. And his fingers were too big to go through the loop on his beer mug. I shared a table with him and he shared his life story. It seems that he began life in a small suburb of Helsinke. His father was a sausage delivery man and his mother worked at a tool cozy factory. No wonder the kid grew up to be half monster. But a half monster witha passion for Hawthorne and the Hardy Boys (trust me, dear reader, the importance of Bjorn's literary love will expose itself shortly). After the baker's dozen of Yule Javas (look it up in your back issue file) I had made for him took effect Bjorn's tongue lashed about like a randy slave driver's whip. Although I don't remember all the saucy details of Epstein's "Wonder Years" his love of Hawthorne and the brothers Hardy started when some guy gave him two books; one Hawthorne and one Hardy to even out the legs of a rocking couch.
For some reason he never had enough money to get another book, a problem that bothered him so much he was willing "to kill somebody of something" to fix it.
"Perfect!", I thought, my plan required a rash-like Bjorn type to realize its full ingeniusness. The stage was set: everyday at 10:30 Masako came to the book store, slipped into the pster section and sneaked peeds of Larry Wilcox, David Hasselhoff and the 1984 Super Buns Calendar. Epstein would wait around the posters until she shwoed then I would slip an envelope with 3 $5 gift certificates (he figured with that much he may even get a Nancy Drew) into his back pocket, point her out and then I'd strut up and be her personal A-Team (I figured I'd be her A-Train a little later if you catch my drift).
When the appointed hour finally came, Masako made her usual bee-line and stared longingly at a Tom Wopat glossy; things couldn't have been sweeter. Taht was until I slipped an envelope into a very edgy Epstein's derriere. Evidently the poster collection uncorked a little doubt in his own manliness and he mistook the envelope for affection. Normally one Riddick-Ramsley uppercut would anchor one of those sailor boys in Atlantis however on that morning I was a lover, not a fighter and the thrashing I got caught even I unawares. However, when your God is on your side nothing can go wrong and on that day Ulxplthml must have been smilingon me because when I woke up all I saw was Masako. She had seen everything and for some reason her pity for me turned to love. Soon we found ourselves at an IHOP making hearts on pancakes with Mountain Berry syrup. Yes, we found our salad years and for those two weeks we were stuck under an unending fountain of love. From miniature golf to midget tossing we shared the best of everything Boston could offer.
However bliss is a world that ain't in my vocabulary so as you can guess the reign of Lord and Lady Ramsley came to an end soon enough. Our horseman of the apocolypse rode in the bookstore to quash our love. Two weeks after my beating Bjorn decided to redeem his gift certificates while Masako and I were looking at Bloom County books. Upon seeing my the mate winked and said, "So is that the babe you wanted to impale? Hot stuff, Spim. Hey man glad to be of service anytime."
By the look on her face I realized that only one of the Toto tickets we had just bought would be used. For the first time in my life I realized words were useless as she looked at me helplessly and then ran away. After suffering my third flogging in as many weeks (she onegai'd the security guys one last time) I went home and tried to forget my princess.
So that's the story of the blissful days I spent with the most Angel-like woman who ever graced this comparative stink-hole we call earth. And I guess you want to hear the details. "What was it like, Spim, sharing a bed with an Empress-to-be." Well you won't hear any details from me. Because, even though the notches on my headboard run deep and long, Masako Owada was the first, the only lady I ever shagged. I'm Spim Ramsley, and these are my thoughts.