Saturday, August 4, 2007

How to Recognise a Swede

Do Swedes have a sense of humour?

Judge for yourself. Herewith a few items I lifted off a list compiled by Swedes for Swedes. (I can’t recall where I got it else I would have credited the source)

They secretly love the Eurovision Song Contest to pieces.
Everyone knows at least 10 Abba songs by heart.
They don’t really consider silence a problem in social situations.
They consider the question “how are you?” when posed, needs to be answered with an honest and thorough explanation of their mental health.
They consider a fast and audible intake of breath as a synonym to the word “yes.”
All have a summer house in the countryside. It has no running water or flushing toilet but they can’t understand why no one wants to visit.
They prefer writing in pencil.
They happily engage in conversations about the weather.
They would rather stand in the buss for an hour than bother the person whose handbag is currently occupying the last available seat.
They insist on convincing people that Vikings were the first to discover America.

I will post ten a week.

Friday, August 3, 2007

Proud Memories

This afternoon found me by my old watering hole nursing a pint of light beer. Next to me were two Swedes reminiscing about the good old days in their language. They had no idea that I could understand them as the staff of the pub always uses me to practice their English on.

I found the sound of their voices extremely soothing which is understandable if one takes into consideration that Afrikaans (which I’m used to) has exactly the same effect on the eardrums of the uninitiated as a piece of rough sandpaper, rubbed briskly and furiously, has on the head of an erect penis. I think it was P. J. O'Rourke in his "Holidays In Hell" who described the language of my youth as sounding incredibly similar to the Katzenjammer Kids on speed.

Their idea of the good old days were about the 1994 Winter Olympic Games held in Lillehammer and more specifically about Peter “Foppa” Forsberg’s penalty in the finals of the ice-hockey. (I don't have a clue where Lillehammer is or who the hell Peter Forsberg is/was)

My train of thought along the lines of "f'kin kids" was rudely interrupted by the connection of a few synapses in my brain that made me realise a startling fact. I’m old. And inside me there is a young chap wondering what the hell happened to the years. Their conversation started me thinking about the good old days and things that I can be proud of.

In the first 35 years of my life I could not list one thing with pride because of politicians like H. F. Verwoerd and P. W. Botha who soiled my heritage and existence forever, like a used condom. I dare not even mention that we tried to save the lives of comrades under enemy fire because that happened at a time when our politicians did not want to admit to the world that we were fighting in Angola. Our invasion was also a crime against humanity and utterly senseless so there is nothing to be proud of.

What a criminal, shitty waste of time and total disregard of human capabilities.

I still maintain that politicians like tv-evangelists should be shot on sight.

What a Load of Horse Manure!

An e-mail I just received:

“WE HAVE A MISSION SOLUTION CENTERDo you wonder why you have obstacles in your life? Do you feel as if youwere in bondage? Our mission is to assist you to find solutions to theabove issues. Where necessary we will intervene or intercede on yourbehalf. Visit our SOLUTION CENTER FREE Prayers, Deliverance, and CounselingWe offer FREE Counseling on a wide range of Spiritual Issues. We can prayfor you. Otherwise, we will intercede to overcome the adversaries whereyour future and prosperity were threatened.You need to live with understanding rather than just existing - beingtossed around by circumstances, not knowing where your destiny wasleading…”

Four spelling mistakes, I had to edit the layout to make a bit more sense and I won’t even venture near the grammar.

I don’t wonder why there are obstacles in my life, I know. It is because of idiotic troglodytes like this who have the moral standards of a pregnant, squatter camp sow, who wants me to pay for their “wisdom.”

Since when was prayer anything else but free and an exercise of free will within grasp of any moron who can string a coherent sentence together. I definitely don’t need them to pray on my behalf as one can not be sure were their crucifixion of the language will ultimately end up. There might just be a dark god of bad language waiting patiently for their prayers and I’m not taking that risk.

I would however, like to make use of their intervention as far as my adversaries and prosperity is concerned. Both issues can be found in the bank where my mortgage is being held and I would look upon it kindly if they could inflict unmentionable suffering on these adversaries that threaten my future prosperity with their high interest rates. I would really understand and not only exist if they could pull that one off for me and get my loan declared all paid up.

Why do I read this crap?

A Friendly Warning

This Blog is aimed at people with a sense of humour.

Any member of the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security and any other Intelligence Agency in the world for that matter will be well advised to stop reading now.

This warning also applies to politicians, clerics, religious freaks, tv-evangelists, Jehovah's Witnesses, psycho-analysts, snobs and litlle people called "know-it-alls."

My Life Is So Boring (NOT)

It is the morning after the night before and I have the distinct impression that I’ve killed a few million brain cells last night. My mouth tastes like a Greek all-in-wrestler’s jockstrap after a hectic week long tournament without any form of ablutions available. I am very ill and it happened like this…

My good friend George, an Assyrian and the owner of our local pub, sprung a surprise book signing on me. This was done in collaboration with my wife who supplied him with 100 copies of my book.

George advertised the event two weeks prior to my return from Värmland and made an appointment with me to come and see him the moment I set foot in Stockholm. (He even had his brother, Afram, meet me at the underground exit as to ensure that I showed up) The evening started well and we sold quite a few books. It was a tonic to sit and discuss my work with prospective readers and some got stuck in the book straight away over a beer or two.

At some stage we had some cognac and I believe also cigars as I have no other explanation for the nicotine stains in my underwear this morning. I also could not understand why my one friend kept on falling over when we escorted him on the short walk home. We were not that drunk. It became clear this morning when George phoned and informed me that we forgot Magnus’ wheelchair in the pub.

Nothing special ever happens in Stockholm. Just a typical night out.