It may have escaped your attention, but there is a fraternity of gentlemen in this country who wear military jumpsuits and drive around in large trucks emblazoned with the national insignia. They spew out high-decibel renditions of enka songs about the occupation of Manchuria or the conquest of Sakhalin, lovingly intercut with snatches of political speeches, the basic burden of which is that the sun — rising or otherwise — shines out of Japan’s sweaty loincloth.
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