Tip #3: A complex moment. No sudden movements.
The Swede sets out everyday at sunbreak, dressed in blue, in his turtleneck diamond pattern sweater. Nobody ever says "good morning" or "nice axe" or "your postmodern haircut." No, The Swede departs in a silence so Swedish it is Appalachian. To be Swedish is to be sugary-like, to be Sweetish. The Swede takes a nip from his Ass Pocket of Stockholm Glögg and commences to chop. The Swede chops This and The Swede chops That. To be a Swede is to chop, afterall, the wind does he chop and the water, too, in Sweden is a hard, heavy water, in need of regular chopping to effect a kind of order, oh, the chop of the Briny. At times, every Swede faces a band of marrauding foresters who attempt to yank his blue underoos out from beneath his blue trousers, and those Swedes caught in that kind of malevolent horseplay must then live in The Northern Land of the Wedgie, in that, they become Norwegian. That doesn't really happen so much anymore as most Norwegians are a stoic group. At the end of the day, The Swede mutters a time-tested, focus group-tested, market-tested joke that he calls his Nordic joke: "I am Finnished," he says, followed by, "heh heh heh." He has, by then, axed himself and his clan a varmint that he places, each day, in a fresh paper sack, folks, a fresh paper sack. He then walks the sad, isolated, chilly road that leads to the traditional Swedish ski lodge betwixt a spray of spruce pines. It is amazing, thus, in those sub-Arctic moments, with snow weighing down the land, that the woman, in blue top and mini-skirt, comes out of doors, leading the traditional eight Swedish children. We can never see The Swede in that instant, for every such Swede is turned away from the Swedish folk artist who accompanies him home each evening, but that Swede does wield "a searching pride" as he does wield his paper sack: "This life," he thinks. "This varmint. This axe. This Sweden!"
The Swede sets out everyday at sunbreak, dressed in blue, in his turtleneck diamond pattern sweater. Nobody ever says "good morning" or "nice axe" or "your postmodern haircut." No, The Swede departs in a silence so Swedish it is Appalachian. To be Swedish is to be sugary-like, to be Sweetish. The Swede takes a nip from his Ass Pocket of Stockholm Glögg and commences to chop. The Swede chops This and The Swede chops That. To be a Swede is to chop, afterall, the wind does he chop and the water, too, in Sweden is a hard, heavy water, in need of regular chopping to effect a kind of order, oh, the chop of the Briny. At times, every Swede faces a band of marrauding foresters who attempt to yank his blue underoos out from beneath his blue trousers, and those Swedes caught in that kind of malevolent horseplay must then live in The Northern Land of the Wedgie, in that, they become Norwegian. That doesn't really happen so much anymore as most Norwegians are a stoic group. At the end of the day, The Swede mutters a time-tested, focus group-tested, market-tested joke that he calls his Nordic joke: "I am Finnished," he says, followed by, "heh heh heh." He has, by then, axed himself and his clan a varmint that he places, each day, in a fresh paper sack, folks, a fresh paper sack. He then walks the sad, isolated, chilly road that leads to the traditional Swedish ski lodge betwixt a spray of spruce pines. It is amazing, thus, in those sub-Arctic moments, with snow weighing down the land, that the woman, in blue top and mini-skirt, comes out of doors, leading the traditional eight Swedish children. We can never see The Swede in that instant, for every such Swede is turned away from the Swedish folk artist who accompanies him home each evening, but that Swede does wield "a searching pride" as he does wield his paper sack: "This life," he thinks. "This varmint. This axe. This Sweden!"
24 comments:
What about the lack of Swedes in American politics? What about that, I ask you.
It's called the Oslo Syndrome in that no Norwegians will ever masquerade as Swedes in a Finnish American Congress. Other than that, I think there are numerous Swedes in sensitive political situations, especially in the Appalachians. --------BA
You're gonna have to show me the money before I'm buying into that one. For the moment, it still seems to me true that the latest style has all the gals going Swedeless.
I think in the coming administration we will need to have several "Ministers without Portfolios" because most of us won't have any investments left. (Not that I have "investments".) Is "Mister" a demotion from "Minister". I mean there are far more Misters than Ministers. -----------BA
As long as they're Swedish, I'll be satisfied. Once we've got that in place, the portfolios will be the easy part.
Swete.
Swete.
Do they eat spotted dick pudding in Swedeland?
Come on, it's not Swedeland. It's Swedemark. Everybody knows that Europe is in France.
Maybe what you're saying, MW, is, we need a Swede-without-Portfolio.
I thought that "Swete" by itself would suffice but when I saw "Swete" again I realized that my value system needed adjustment.
-----------BA
They do not eat spotted pudding anywhere except at the U.S. Post Office Lost 'n' Found. -----------------------BA
If Europe is in France and France is not in Sweden, then Language will never equal word(s). It will equal an automated omelette enterprise, replete with imposters / posers / posters / imps. -------------BA
this sun every sets in its diamond sex axe pattern. it takes some nips to chops it socks. swedes don't really happen. this life is varmint.
I hear you man. Something about "the Swede cannot dream himself" or cannot cannot dream himself. But varmint is the reality. I used to think that vermin was reality but it's varmint 51-45 with 4% undecided. -------------BA
No, I think it's varmint 24-7.
There was a Rick James song, "Vermin All the Time", but that has given way to a Johnny Guitar Watson song, "Gangster of Varmint". ------------BA
I like me some vermin.
You *are* a vermin. ---------BA
9:30 e.t. The election is over. Barack! awwwwYEAH! ------------BA
I cannot eat! I cannot sleep! I cannot chew gum while I drive cab!
The garbage that I eat tastes better!
Whattya tawkin' garbage? Come on, guys. -----------------BA
HISTORIC SWEDE UNTROUT! I mean TURNOUT!
Especially in Detrout, I mean Detroit! ----------------BA
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