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About Osaka

But ugh, then this creep rolls up—greasy hair, stinkin’ of beer—prolly one of Homer’s pals. He’s all, “How much, baby?” and I’m ragin’ inside, like, “Leave her alone, jerk!” She handles it tho—sass level 100—tells him to buzz off. I’m cheerin’ in my head, “That’s my girl!” Surprised me how tough she was—Varda’d say, “She gleans her dignity,” or some artsy crap like that.

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I get there, and the café is packed. Like, standing-room-only packed. I’m like, “Great, just what I need.” So, I squeeze my way to the counter, order a matcha latte (because, duh, Japan), and wait. And wait. The barista is moving like molasses. I’m losing my mind. I’m thinking, “C’mon, I’ve got a product to launch here!”

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