Japan loves a throne. They have two principal kinds: automatic Toto toilets with heated seats that spray you with Lysol and blow-dry your butt, washing away to distant polluted shores the unseemly filth associated with having functional internal organs; and the kind that is ascended to. Which is more hilarious? You decide.
The spinster aunt more or less lives the sort of life wherein the concept of royalty is but peripheral curiosity, a jokey anachronism the purpose of which is to sustain tabloids with stories of meaningless hookups, divorces, and untimely deaths. It seems extraordinary that there still exist pockets of humanity who give enough of a shit about bloodlines that they will carry on about imperial succession to the extent that is apparent in Japan, but there it is.
I allude to the hoopla over a Japanese princess who, to the enormous relief of Parliament—which, in lieu of any viable alternatives, had been about to consider a widely-opposed bill that would allow stupid incompetents—i.e. women—to ascede to the throne—managed to produce the first male royal in 41 years. Thus resolving the ‘crisis.’
Why was the bill controversial? â€œ[M]ale-only succession [is] the Chrysanthemum Throneâ€™s defining characteristic.â€ Not Medieval enough for you? How about this: the ‘failure’ of one Harvard-educated princess (who bailed on a diplomatic career to marry into the royal family) to produce a son supposedly resulted in a debilitating lifelong depression. Or this: had the new prince been a girl, there was talk of resurrecting the ‘concubine system’ wherein the Emporer’s stable of female sperm receptacles would ensure, sooner or later, the desired result.
The manner, however atavistic, in which clans of super-rich resolve their inheritance issues is no skin off the Twisty nose, but if the proles are looking to these clowns to define their national identity—and what else are monarchies for?—this kind of Neanderthal shit needs to be blamed all day.