Friends, Romans, and esteemed readers, may I be the first to wish you a Happy April Fish Day! Don't let anyone catch you being an April Fish!
Rather than pull some sort of crude or rotten trick on you, I would like to relate a story from my recent adventures.
Over the summer, I spent a great deal of time in Western Europe. After crossing the English channel, I found myself in the proud state of Denmark.
For those of you who've never been, Denmark is a balmy place. Its Northerliness would lead you to believe that it would hold a temperate environment, at best, but it finds itself at the receiving end of the transatlantic gulf stream. What this means is that the warm water and warm weather Florida and Mexico enjoy is shot straight across the ocean, thousands of miles, to warm the Danish shores. And they never have to worry about hurricanes!
In any case, I was have a fine time in the land of Beowulf and Hamlet, dining on smoked mackerel and frikadeller. Copenhagen is a city of trends and cultural innovation. Sometimes it is even referred to as "Little Paris." You can buy tiny Eiffel Towers in their gift stores.
Not that I visit gift stores. I'm multiculturally adept, and fit any anywhere I go. After all, I've got thumbs. Nobody ever mistakes me for a tourist. And don't try to argue with me on the point, because I'm ending this digression this instant.
One of the strangest things about Denmark is that domesticated pigs wander the streets of every city. After gathering a little information, I learned that there are more pigs than people, in Denmark, and that some are pets, but others are merely scavengers. The Danish don't do anything to curtail these rogue suidae because they're smart enough to stay out of traffic and eat garbage off of the streets.
"Nifty!" I said. It's an easy thing, to mistake an amassing force of intelligent scavengers for a cute, handy social tool.
I changed my mind, of course, when I exited a Coperhagen pub and found myself confronted with a strange sight.
An enormous, lumpy man in a trench coat and fedora was crouched in an alleyway. He stood, and turned past me, and hurried away, but not before I caught a glimpse of his fuzzy snout. I wasn't sure whether to follow him or to check the alleyway.
On an impulse, I walked into the passage he'd emerged from. There was a dumpster overflowing with organic garbage. Slop, one might say. And behind the dumpster was a brown package.
I untied the dropped goods, shivering with horror. Inside was a slip of paper, which simply read "tonight," and a cannister marked with radiation warning symbols.
I wanted to bring this to the authorities, but I wasn't sure what I'd just walked in on. Besides, how would one go about explaining this kind of thing?
"Oh, is the the police station? Jolly good! I'd like to turn in this cannister of active uranium. Where did I get it? Well, some pigs in a trench coat left it behind a dumpster. No, I don't want you to put it in the lost and found. I don't want them to get it back. It's URANIUM."
No, I didn't need that kind of frustration. Not on my vacation. So I packed it up with the rest of my things and went back to my flat.
I paid careful attention to the news that night, but there was nothing mentioned. I will note, however, that when I ventured out later that evening, I didn't spy a single swine. Undoubtedly they were all miles away, by now.
Thank goodness for my opposable thumbs, I thought. Coperhagen might be be an irate, irradiated wreck if not for my quick thinking and propensity towards opening other people's mail. There's no evidence to suggest that the pig won't try to take over, again, but I wash my hands of the whole matter. How many times can the Danish expect me to save their country?
It was good frikadeller, though.
Eventually I left for Berlin, and I took the cannister with me. I lost it much later in Marrakesh, but that's a story for a different day.
Rather than pull some sort of crude or rotten trick on you, I would like to relate a story from my recent adventures.
Over the summer, I spent a great deal of time in Western Europe. After crossing the English channel, I found myself in the proud state of Denmark.
For those of you who've never been, Denmark is a balmy place. Its Northerliness would lead you to believe that it would hold a temperate environment, at best, but it finds itself at the receiving end of the transatlantic gulf stream. What this means is that the warm water and warm weather Florida and Mexico enjoy is shot straight across the ocean, thousands of miles, to warm the Danish shores. And they never have to worry about hurricanes!
In any case, I was have a fine time in the land of Beowulf and Hamlet, dining on smoked mackerel and frikadeller. Copenhagen is a city of trends and cultural innovation. Sometimes it is even referred to as "Little Paris." You can buy tiny Eiffel Towers in their gift stores.
Not that I visit gift stores. I'm multiculturally adept, and fit any anywhere I go. After all, I've got thumbs. Nobody ever mistakes me for a tourist. And don't try to argue with me on the point, because I'm ending this digression this instant.
One of the strangest things about Denmark is that domesticated pigs wander the streets of every city. After gathering a little information, I learned that there are more pigs than people, in Denmark, and that some are pets, but others are merely scavengers. The Danish don't do anything to curtail these rogue suidae because they're smart enough to stay out of traffic and eat garbage off of the streets.
"Nifty!" I said. It's an easy thing, to mistake an amassing force of intelligent scavengers for a cute, handy social tool.
I changed my mind, of course, when I exited a Coperhagen pub and found myself confronted with a strange sight.
An enormous, lumpy man in a trench coat and fedora was crouched in an alleyway. He stood, and turned past me, and hurried away, but not before I caught a glimpse of his fuzzy snout. I wasn't sure whether to follow him or to check the alleyway.
On an impulse, I walked into the passage he'd emerged from. There was a dumpster overflowing with organic garbage. Slop, one might say. And behind the dumpster was a brown package.
I untied the dropped goods, shivering with horror. Inside was a slip of paper, which simply read "tonight," and a cannister marked with radiation warning symbols.
I wanted to bring this to the authorities, but I wasn't sure what I'd just walked in on. Besides, how would one go about explaining this kind of thing?
"Oh, is the the police station? Jolly good! I'd like to turn in this cannister of active uranium. Where did I get it? Well, some pigs in a trench coat left it behind a dumpster. No, I don't want you to put it in the lost and found. I don't want them to get it back. It's URANIUM."
No, I didn't need that kind of frustration. Not on my vacation. So I packed it up with the rest of my things and went back to my flat.
I paid careful attention to the news that night, but there was nothing mentioned. I will note, however, that when I ventured out later that evening, I didn't spy a single swine. Undoubtedly they were all miles away, by now.
Thank goodness for my opposable thumbs, I thought. Coperhagen might be be an irate, irradiated wreck if not for my quick thinking and propensity towards opening other people's mail. There's no evidence to suggest that the pig won't try to take over, again, but I wash my hands of the whole matter. How many times can the Danish expect me to save their country?
It was good frikadeller, though.
Eventually I left for Berlin, and I took the cannister with me. I lost it much later in Marrakesh, but that's a story for a different day.
Now that's a spiceeey meataball!
The crown princess of Denmark is a Tasmanian, I think that explains everything.
Egads! That blows the whole thing wide open!
Sir, will you join my think-tank?
On the Heart of Al Hamra the Red City by the Atlas Mountains where the holy canister of thermonuclear potential lies, I swear I shall serve your think-tank well, but first, one question, Do you allow Hog to join? cause I have these friends from Denmark who are interested...
Now there's something I don't say thanks enough for. Opposable thumbs.
Thanks.
the title is the best thing about this post
@g3t films:
Bounty hunters, you mean? We don't need their scum. Unless you mean pigs. In which case, I would admit them under probation, provided they sign a waiver of loyalties.
@ xavier:
You can't miss what you never had. Unless you need them to open the door.
@ handmaiden:
The best thing about your comment is its reference to my title.
Thanks.
It was only a matter of time before our synthetic pig men rebelled.
We shouldn't have given them Cylon kneecaps...
Not that the content wasn't good. The title was really funny. It's strictly personal & would take way to long to explain.