Sam’s boss gave him sumo tickets for yesterday and he wanted me to go, but I said that if this is not an opportunity for a boys night out, I do not know one. Sam invited three boyfriends instead and they had a wonderful time. Sumo is not my cup of sake. I do not understand it. Large-breasted boys in pretty-colored diapers and eccentric hairstyles clap their hands and expose their crotches to the audience, then alternate between slapping and hugging each other until one of them falls down in a no-girls-allowed magic sumo ring that some other boys in fancy dresses keep salting between “bouts” while loudly shouting.
There must be a great deal of farting happening in that pure holy penis-owners-only ring, what with force-fed wrestlers doing all those sudden grand plies. It is exciting when the audience throws pillows. They’ve been sitting on those pillows for hours and surely a lot of farting has been going on there as well. (Sam picked up a program in English and there are etiquette rules, one of which is: “Please photograph from the rear or from your seat” — see).
I guess some people like that sort of thing, but include me out.