DumbFunnery

Hersky-Bersky Land

That’s right, friends! I’m in Sweden! Home of the hersky-bersky! I have yet to see a single chef, but I’m sure they’re around every corner.

Do you think, in Sweden, 90% of the population are chefs? Because I think so too!

These guys are good at keeping a straight face during a joke, too. Because I go up to people and I say something hysterical like, “hersky-bersky-ursky-mursky?” (Which is a very funny knock-knock joke in the language of the Swede) and they don’t crack a smile! It’s a country full of Leslie Nielsons!

Half Leslie Nielson, half chef. It can’t get any better!

Life Lesson Learned – Shut Yer Pie Hole

It turns out my backstory was not needed. J wisely advised me to, “shut-uppa-you-face-ah” (we were taking turns doing bad accents … well, I was giving him an accent to make his words seem less mean).

I thought about it and it seemed like good advice. Now when I meet strangers I just smile. I think people in this country may think I’m a little developmentally disabled, but for some people that’s almost synonymous with saying I live in Texas. Sorry, Texas, but it’s true.

Now when people talk to me I just smile and say, “you look like you could be a model!” It’s true, though. Everyone here looks like he/she could be a model. At first it was exciting because WOW. Then it was upsetting because I’ll never be so pretty or with someone so pretty. Now it’s just upsetting. Copenhagenites are real s.o.b’s.

Dang! Look at that girl’s cheek bones! They’re so sharp you could grate cheese on them.

I’m going to say hello to her, then, based on past experience, giggle and try to say exactly 73 words at once, telling her a pointless story about my family dog that I will realize is failing so I’ll end up telling ridiculous lies that have no place belonging in a story about the dog. But maybe she’ll be into that.

Wish me luck!

Origins

With my thus far failings at being a well-liked tourist I decided to pretend I am from another country. Here’s my back-story.

I was born in South Africa but shipped to Wales as a small child. I spent ages 2 – 8 there but my mom never really adjusted to the weather. That’s when catastrophe struck – she was hit by a rogue boat that drifted on shore. This sad story will earn their affection for me, and excuse any of my rudeness. The more I tell the story, the more distance I will add to the amount that the boat drifted on shore. I’m curious just how illogical it will have to be before my lie is challenged.

I was then shipped off to a “diction school for boys”, a secret coverup where I actually became a spy. I imagine when I tell people that I learned to be a spy they’ll give me a funny look, so I’ll laugh in a disarming way and say, “oh I’ve long since retired. The economy, huh?”

At this point I’ll hop back into my life story. After the spy game was over, I became a photography teacher at a prestigious middle school. Then I’ll grin ruefully (yes, ruefully – when in Europe you grin ruefully). I’ll say, “I don’t actually know anything about photography!” Then I’ll wink and this stranger will be in on my little secret.

I’m not sure how this sweet back-story will work in a city like Copenhagen, but I’ve been drinking and it seems like a brilliant, flawless plan.