Under the bridge

Maybe I have a deeply repressed Japanese law enforcement agent fetish crammed somewhere in the recesses of my little toes. Maybe I secretly fantasize about inefficient, logic-devoid hotties in uniforms who forgot to pick up the bag of critical-thinking skills on their birthday at the hospital...
'Cuz, really, why else would I have shared two lovely encounters in the past week with the Japanese federales?
The most recent one involved two foreign dimwits who got lost in the mountains, strolling through rice fields, under bridges, and zig-zagging their way across hillsides.

In order to puff up their chromatically-colored Idiocy peacock feathers, our two protagonists decided to embark on this Odyssey without the address or telephone number of their home.
So, this left them with no choice but to put their future in the hands of uniformed officers with little more intelligence than a dung beetle testing Tim Leary's chemical cookies.

Yup... so we toured what had to be about seventeen counties in Japan in a kind man's taxi and a cop car. And, no less than 7 hours later, we were home.

Good times, new psychological playgrounds and new fetishes off the bargain rack...
Good stuff...

Moral of the story: Don't leave new homes without a map and at least a sliver of functioning cranium.