Shtinkin' Vizenheimer
Tonight I got to stroll around the World and act positively international. I had to fight the sudden urge to grow a moustache of some sort. We dined in Germany, at the Biergarten restaurant. I loaded my plate at the buffet with all kinds of schnitzel-weiner-spatzle-mabobs, and it was all delicious. Then I ordered a liter stein of dark oktoberfest beer - a whole LITER man! I have no German blood that I'm aware of, but I'd sure like to. Those people can party!
The whole restaurant was set up to resemble a town square, where the center was actually a stage. They had a four-piece band, with a trumpet even. They were singing german songs, and people were dancing in the center square, and they had a burgermeister up there tapping a wooden keg of beer, and people were clapping...
(You know, there is something about a polka that makes me want to clap on the 1-3 beat, and I seriously messed some people up with that.).
Anyway, folks were clapping and singing. Each verse would end with everyone yelling "ticky-tacky ticky-tacky HOY! HOY! HOY!" I tried to get a wave going, but no one seemed to understand why I kept standing up and sitting back down.
When the song's chorus rolled around, we'd all have to sing something in German, which I totally didn't get. It didn't matter, I just made something up. You've absolutely got to love a country where you can stand up at your table, slosh a whole freaking liter of dark beer around and emphatically sing "I LOVE STRUDEL!", and no one thinks you're weird. Well... except maybe my Father-In-Law.
[which i forgot to take]
[hey, did i mention they let you drink beer by the LITER?]
1 comments:
My dad has his Ph.D. in psycholinguistics (the study of the influence of psychological factors on the development, use, and interpretation of language).
I have a B.A. in psychology. My clinical experience includes a long, hot summer as a receptionist at the Bethesda Psychiatric Clinic--specializing in yuppy angst of BMW vs. Mercedes.
Accordingly, I'm well qualified to comment on your uvular fricative fascination.
My diagnosis, Herr Chandler:
psycho linguist. Please note: My diagnosis of your condition is not a compound word.
Have an uber magical drive home.
P.S. I see evidence of rodents in my attic--- can I harness your love of THE mouse here?
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