Some years ago, back before I had mastered the art of achieving successive levels of personal failure in the “real world,” one of my friends and I went souvenir shopping in Stockholm’s Gamla Stan. We were having a good time until a family of unspeakably obese Americans entered the same store as us and immediately proceeded to bring stereotypical public shame to our shared nationality.
The audible harbinger of stupidity incarnate was what first caught our attention. Unimportant things were being said, and thanks to the apparent lack of or disregard for any sense of volume control, they were being said loud as fuck. Primal instincts for self-effacement kicked in as my friend and I moved further away from the door in an effort to avoid being associated with the obnoxious newcomers, as well as to try and remove ourselves from earshot. But we totally failed in the latter, mainly because success was simply not an option given the circumstances.
Thus we were subjected to an aural assault extremely moronic in nature. The stupidity bottomed out when the conversation turned to the numerous and difficult factors to consider when purchasing a dalahäst. For those of you unfamiliar with dalahästs, they are surprisingly expensive. Imagine our chagrin then, when, after discussing the prospects of buying a foot-tall (!) dalahäst* with her male counterpart, the ghastly female Ameritroll declared a most sensible concern for her horde, my buddy, myself, the other shoppers, the store workers, and lots of people on the street outside to hear: “Howard! But Howard?! What if the dog chews on it, Howard?! Howard, do you think the dog will chew on it?! Howard?! Howard, I’m talking to you!”
Weaponry abounds here! My mind screamed. Don a plastic horned helmet with fake blond braids! Grab a plastic Norse sword or axe, and attack! Fucking Attack! Spare no one! Gods of war arise!
But I avoided confrontation instead, because that’s what I do. Not that attacking would have really made a difference anyway, not with those hundreds upon hundreds of pounds (literally) of protective flabby flesh armor flopping off the bones. Spiritually defeated, my friend and I stealthily departed the shop in the hopes of avoiding further embarrassment.
Nonetheless, I regret my inaction to this day. Looking back, I feel like this was probably that one pivotal moment in my life that I failed to rise to and meet the challenge of, and as a result I subsequently plunged headlong into a downward spiral of non-Viking lameness in the following years. Bummer.
*At the time of this writing, a foot-tall dalahäst from Grannas A. Olssons Hemslöjd AB costs SEK 1174:- / $164 / €114.
Tags: personal shortcomings, Slaughter, Stockholm
these are so funny! you should have let them have it!