The first time I met Danes was drinking Met. It is a horrible drink. But it suits Danes since it tastes like sweet urine. Stinks like that, too. I imagine it fits perfect to their fishsticks.
Anyway, that day when I tried to drink Met I met Danes. Strange guys. I was standing in that danish bar in Copenhagen while that barkeeper-moron looked at me as if I was Michael Jackson from Mars. Perhaps he did not like Europeans (That’s for sure!) or non-Coppenhageners or perhaps even humans at all. He looked like any other Dane to me, like any other Doberman. He did not speak. Maybe he couldn’t. I admit, I’d never seen a Doberman speaking anyway.
After a while all of a sudden a horde of other
Dobermen Danes rumbled in, shouting around wild and spitting at the ground like drooling Dobermen. That was when I realized that the barkeeper obviously could speak.
It seemed that they were in need of the barkeeper-Doberman to realize that there was a foreign person in their bar because their slow brains needed a while. They startet to sniff around as if they were blind or something. Then they smørebrøted something to the barkeeper who turned to me and said his guests wanted me to leave immediately because they did not like “Catholics” – and he neither.
So I went. My plane was leaving anyway.