Pity the Japanese Comedian

Or rather, pity the thirty-five Japanese comedians Ash & I were watching on TV last week. All those gathered were men decked out in jump suits and helmets, ready to begin a race. The course seemed simple enough, even mundane; with ropes on either side of the path laid out, a couple twists and turns, and a long flat stretch that eventually began a relatively steep ascent. A banner declaring “Goal!!” was at the crest of the hill, the sight of which was unhindered and would serve to encourage stragglers onwards. The overall time was unimportant, for the only goal was to finish. The men readied themselves. A gun sounded, and they were off, jogging easily and remaining in a pack. The poor chumps didn’t have a clue of what was in store.

Thirty seconds into the race another gun sounded, and from the starting line raced the first hazard of the course: women. Women comedians, to be exact, along with some men who were dressed up as women (which seems to be a favorite comic element among comedian groups) shot through the course and quickly caught up with the pack. What followed could only be described as an onslaught: the women tackled any man they could find and planted themselves on top, tormenting with slaps or kisses calculated to make even the strongest warrior shiver. Those who escaped their wiles desperately increased their speed and ran as fast as they could forward, until an invisible boundary was crossed and the women followed them no more. Seven men had been lost, and the remaining pack members milled around, composing themselves before starting once again towards the goal while nervously glancing behind their shoulders.

Before long the bang of a gun was heard once more, and the pack quickened their pace in an attempt to avoid whatever had been just released. Their efforts were in vain, for what pursued them this time was giant and menacing; indeed, each stride of its long legs made up six of an ordinary man’s. Within moments it came upon the pack, where the members of which turned around and could only gape soundlessly. It looked like a man, only in a suit of red and with a fake-as-fake can be white beard.

In fact, it was a man. On stilts. Wielding a giant sword, with which he proceeded to whomp on the runners mercilessly and with impressive balance. The hilarity that ensued was extraordinary, with the poor harried men running wildly about, ducking the sword, dodging the stilted man’s legs as well as each other, sprinting out of the way only to realize they’d backtracked and having to turn around and run the gauntlet once more. Amazingly enough, only five men were lost this time around, and the rest continued on.

Just as the runners began to relax, the dreaded bang of their impending doom again rode upon the wind. Six blurs tore around the track, followed by a cloud of black-clad stagehands racing to keep up. The course-planners had unleashed their ultimate weapon: kick-boxers.

Overtaking their prey, the kick-boxers proceeded to do what they do best. It was really more of a slaughter than a fight, for as the stagehands caught up, five or six of them would quickly lay hands on any runner they could find, and the kick boxers would then plant a good hard wallop on their trembling rear end, causing the runner to collapse on the ground and roll around, yelling with pain and indignity.

Only a shade more than ten runners made it out of that trap intact, but lo and behold, they were almost upon the finish line! The banner fluttered in the wind invitingly and the comedians, with hope shining from their faces, began to trudge up the hill towards victory and freedom. Just as they crested the top… the banner began to move. Before long it was clear that it had been mounted on a huge dump truck, the back end of which was beginning to tilt, soon releasing the final bane: big black cannonballs. As high as a man, they tumbled down the hill with increasing speed, bowling runners over and smacking into those already laid prone.

This time the comedians left standing turned and helped up their fallen comrades, and as one big screaming mob, they came across the goal line and proceeded to chase the hosts waiting at the top off into the distance.

So ended a half-hour of surprise and amusement that seems unique to Japanese culture. Glancing at one another, my husband uttered what both of us were thinking:

“We really need to get a VCR.”