>be me, weeb
>fly to the holy land, Nippon
>find a small, rustic-looking spot in a back alley in Akihabara, looks like it's been there since the Showa era
>perfect
>order the chef's special "omakase" course
>first bowl comes out, some kind of thick, creamy tonkotsu
>takes one slurp
>flavor is... profound. complex. tastes like generations of tradition, with a weird, gamey aftertaste
>almost like... curry and despair
>get a bad feeling, like when you accidentally open chaturbate in public
>decide to peek into the kitchen
>instead of a stoic Japanese ojii-san, the place is run by two grinning jeets
>not even IT jeets, these jeets seem like they were born in a sewer in Delhi
>my soul leaves my body
>stand up, prepare to unleash the most racist tirade since /pol/ was a twinkle in moot's eye
>"YOU MOTHERFU-"
>before I finish, a deep, tectonic rumble echoes from my gut
>my colon, recognizing the jeet-nature of its contents, initiates a full-system purge
>collapse forward, everything goes black
>wake up an unknown time later
>my entire being is empty, a hollow vessel. my bowels, my bladder, my soul - all have been completely evacuated
>I am shirtless, sitting on a wooden throne. my own filth is smeared across my chest like war paint
>the jeets are circling me, chanting in a mix of Hindi and broken Japanese
>they have collected my liquid shame in a golden spittoon and are taking turns sipping it from a ladle, their eyes rolling back in ecstasy
>one jeet approaches, bowing, and begins to reverently lather my own diarrhea onto my arms as a sacred unguent
>the other presents me with a clay cup filled to the brim with my own still-steaming piss
>"O, great white cow! O, mighty gaijin-god who purges! Bless us with your holy water!"
>they are not mocking me. Their devotion is terrifyingly genuine
>I have achieved the ultimate weeb dream: I have become a Japanese deity
>mfw I am now the patron saint of the jeets.
>take a sip from the proffered cup. It is bitter.
>it is authentic.
