I ate bukkake the other day--and if you're not laughing now, that probably means you are one of the older members of this reading audience, but fear not, UrbanDictionary has a wonderful NC-17 definition waiting for you.

For those of you who know what it means--well, yeah. I ate it.

Honestly, I ate bukkake, and actually, it wasn't half bad for cold noodle dish eaten on a breezy, 40 degree day--though I confess that foreknowledge of the word's archaic definition did somewhat spoil the meal, and my Japanese host's constant giggles and harassment didn't help my digestive system much, either.

But I ate it.

And though eating a bowl of soup that just happens to share a name with the act of multiple men shooting sperm onto the face of an adulterous female buried head deep in sand is disgusting, the ride home actually managed to top dinner in terms of sheer hideousness. Thankfully, however, the smell polluting the train car was originating from someone else's colon.

At first I thought it was my dinner making a surprise visit, but no, the smell was radiating from a homeless man sleeping in the corner; undoubtedly taking advantage of the Yamanote line for it's heat as it looped endlessly around Tokyo.

Though the train was crowded, the man enjoyed a two person buffer zone on each side--the usually coveted seats were empty.

It was the first time I had seen one of Tokyo's incredibly docile homeless ride a train in such a blatantly American way.

Disapproving looks stabbed at him from every direction, society reminding him that he was not wanted, not needed, and that this was not his train--and yet, he snored, peacefully, happily outside the reach of their hierarchy, the humbling demands of their language, and their millions of identical salary men.

He did not need their approval. He dreamed as the train went round.

He dreamed; and he stank.