Stop On A Dime And Give You Change, With No Skidmarks!

Japan.

Words that come to mind when you think of Japan. Land of the Rising Sun. Hari-kari. Godzilla.

Well, guess where I just came back from a two-week holiday from? That's right. And guess what oddity I saw while I was there?


Vending Machines for Panties.

This is what Japan is all about. Once more, I find myself in awe at what products are available to consumers. There are no such things as dumb executives, and there are no products that cannot be sold to the public; there will always be supply and demand for something.

In this case, the vending machine in question accepts your yen or shoryuken, and in return, spits out a single pair (as opposed to a dual solo) of used ladies' panties.



I'll tell you, fair reader. Back in my day when I was at high school, things were quite different. When I went to a vending machine, it wasn't for a used jock. No no no, indeedsome! Friends, when I went to a vending machine, it was to show the crowds what a nickname meant! I stood for something proud and mighty! Strong, bold, hard!

My vending machine nickname was Mr. Big!

Unfortunately..., the school saw me once by accident press the wrong button, just the once, and the nickname of Almond Joy stuck. Those were dark days, because sometimes... sometimes... you just don't feel like a nut. The track team alleviated that, thankfully.

My old buddy Lime Fresca also had it bad.

This brings me full circle back to how the panty vending machine industry in Japan is thriving. If I'd known that the stench of crotch was so appealing to your typical salaryman, I'd have sold my ubergotchies years ago.

Luckily for all of you, inspiration struck me on holiday and I struck a deal with some salarymen I happened upon next to a place of retail, in an outdoor location, where you push buttons after entering coins to gain some material possession. We chit-chatted about this and that, and after many seconds had passed, I pitched my idea of selling my own Studderoos (tm) (cough) to the interwebites.

I took the blank and vacant stares they gave, as I pointed repeatedly to my crotch and shouted loud Canadianisms slowly to them, as a sign of awe for the product, and after some sake, I underwent successful negotiations. So let's hope those modelling photos taken of me during the 3 A.M kareoke were the selling point.

I quickly absconded back home, and I write this even as we speak.

Jet lag. And now, I go play Pepsiman!