Worst Fear

March 15, 2011

I used to work with an idiot. This girl, this “coworker,” I hated her with a passion I cannot describe in words. Everything was more difficult when she was around. She wasn’t stupid, just consistently and infuriatingly incompetent. The job in question was retail, so it wasn’t as though we were building rockets to the moon, but she couldn’t seem to grasp the most basic details: enter the correct price into the cash register, make sure the customer signs the credit card receipt, when the phone makes the ringy-ringy noise that means you’re supposed to pick it up.

The strange thing was that this young woman was actually quite intelligent. She was in her early twenties, about ready to graduate with a bachelor’s degree, and her next step was med school.

And that is what frightened me most. I had never given much thought to hospital staff, but it must be like any other field: there are a few bright ones, a few apathetic ones, and plenty of people who can memorize every bone in the human body but can’t figure out how to turn on the vacuum cleaner. (Hint: There’s a big red button on the top that says ON).

One of my greatest fears is that one day I will be in a horrible automobile accident. (This would involve a bus, of course, since I don’t drive.) The paramedics come with their flashy lights and woo-woo siren. They put me on a stretcher and hoist me into the back of their vehicle. They say things like, “Stay with us, son,” and, “This guy’s a fighter. I can see it in his eyes.”

When I get to the hospital, they rush me to the emergency room, where I am hooked up to a variety of beeping and blipping machines. “It doesn’t look good,” someone says. “We have to perform emergency exploratory surgery. STAT!” (You know they mean business when they say stat.) I stare at the bright lights on the ceiling as they put me under. And just before I drift off to sleep, my former coworker sticks her bulbous head in front of my face and says, “Oh, my God! Dale! Is that you? Totally cool. I haven’t seen you in years. Don’t worry, I’m totally going to be your doctor today. For the reals! You’re in good hands… Now how do you turn on this defibrillator? I have to restart that gross red thingy in your chest.”

So unfortunately the last time I was drunk and writing this blawg, apparently I said something ridiculous about posting one every week and the two people that read it got all pissy with me for not meeting my intoxicated-induced deadline, and that is why you are being forced to suffer through another one of these narcissistic stories about my life. If you don’t like it, take it up with Michelle Crouse and Nate Cook. Bastards.

ANYHOW, it’s another episode of “Where The Buffalo Roams” brought to you by Hungry-Man dinners. If you’re lazy and don’t care that your body looks like a bloated bovine carcass that has been rotting in the sun for a few days, try Hungry-Man. Huzzah! Let’s hear it for American ingenuity and obesity!

Speaking of food, as Michelle so graciously pointed out, I forgot to mention in my last blawg that The Buffalo regularly brings me canned food from the Food Bank here in town. Specifically, black beans and pears. You might be asking yourself: Well, Dale, are black beans and pears your two favorite ingestible items? Perhaps you have a mouth-watering recipe for black-beans-and-pear pie. Nope. Pears creep me out because of their grainy texture (it feels like I’m eating fruit-flavored dirt) and as for black beans, well, I’m just an old-fashioned racist at heart who doesn’t like anything with the word “black” in it.

(Boulderites, before you call the NAACP, that was a joke. I love black people… Now Jews on the other hand!)

(Haha, also a joke. Zay moykhl.)

I have no idea why The Buffalo brings me black beans and pears, but I currently have…

(pause while I count the jars in my solitary-confinement-like apartment)

…seven cans of pears and…

(pause for a second count because I’m not very good at math and didn’t think I could remember the first number while I was counting to figure out the second number)

…twelve cans of black beans. That’s right, I said TWELVE. That is a ridiculous number of beans for one person to have, I don’t care what color they happen to be.

Yesterday, The Buffalo showed up with two more cans of black beans and said, “Could you use some more beans?” Which is always his question. I said, “No.” Which is always my response. And then he stood in my doorway awkwardly until I took them.

When I was a kid, we used to have this Siamese tomcat named Leroy who would go out hunting all night long and the next morning he’d leave a dead mouse at the front door. I would be headed off to school, tra-la-la, and then, oh, a dead rodent on our Welcome mat, how nice. And I would pick it up by the tail and chase my sisters with it all the way to Yuma Elementary School, Home of the Little Indians!

I kind of think that’s what The Buffalo is doing. It’s some sort of offering he makes, although I’m not sure what exactly it is for. It’s his strange way of saying that we’re friends. Which is completely cool but also weird and unnecessary.

Michelle asked me why I keep taking these pears and beans, and I honestly don’t know, except that it seems like I would be breaking some sort of code if I refused them. I guess my logic is that if The Buffalo ever decides to go all John Wayne Gacy on the world, I want to be on his good side. One day he might freak out about quality of the janitorial services in the building and start chopping up all my neighbors. If that happens, I’ll barricade myself in my room and blawg about it while surviving off of my endless supply of black beans and pears.

Where The Buffalo Roams

January 1, 2011

So today I decided that I am going to write a weekly blawg about my neighbor, The Buffalo. Therefore, in the future, if you see the words “Where The Buffalo Roams” in the title, you will know what the post will be about. These posts won’t be too arduous, five-hundred words or so, and if they do not amuse you…um…well, that’s life, I guess. Okay? Okay.

First, let me do a little recap in case there are new viewers who are just now tuning in to our show:

The Buffalo is the rather obese, unemployed man who lives at the end of the hall in my rather strange, dysfunctional apartment building. He is an eccentric urban hermit who has cloistered himself in this place like a post-apocalyptic monk, and he will die here unless he wins the lottery one day, which is his only financial plan for the future.

Important Things You Should Know About The Buffalo: A) The Buffalo does not like to wear shirts. I do not know why he has such an aversion to upper-body garments but he does. I suppose I should be happy that his aversion is not toward lower-body garments, if you know what I mean. (Pssst…I mean it would be frightening to see his ding-dong.) B) The Buffalo is called “The Buffalo” because he believes that he was a buffalo in his former life. Why? Well, that’s another story altogether. C) The Buffalo only leaves the apartment building once a month to get groceries. Otherwise, he is here. Always. D) The Buffalo receives exactly $700 a month from the government. He is on welfare because a psychiatrist once said he had “bonding issues.” He attributes this to the fact that he was adopted as a baby. E) The Buffalo was adopted as a baby. Why is this important? Well, it’s not really, except that The Buffalo attributes every negative thing that has happened in his life to the fact that he was adopted as a baby and uses that phrase approximately twenty times a day. F) The Buffalo is thirty-nine years old. G) The Buffalo appears to consume mostly coffee and Hungry-Man dinners. H) The Buffalo may or may not be a virgin. I) The Buffalo has very bad social skills and cannot seem to comprehend when he is making other people uncomfortable. J) The Buffalo is constantly making other people uncomfortable. K) The Buffalo believes in ghosts. L) The Buffalo constantly tries to debate the existence of a spiritual world with me. M) The Buffalo believes that he has telekinetic powers but only when no one else is around to witness them. N) The Buffalo smokes pot. O) The Buffalo has a fungus underneath his armpit. P) The Buffalo feels compelled to show me disgusting things, such as the fungus underneath his armpit. Q) The Buffalo is going bald.

Well, okay, that should give you the basic physiological/psychological picture of The Buffalo. He is not a bad guy, but he is rather strange and frustrating at times.

I guess this was more of a background blawg than anything else. You now have the basic tools necessary to comprehend future stories. Tell your friends. Tell your therapists. Tell your milkmen. (Why don’t we have milkmen anymore? I would definitely purchase dairy products from a milkman. Especially if he drove a refrigerated truck and wore one of those old-timey uniforms.)

Communicating with Nature

December 23, 2010

Sometimes I like to communicate with Nature. For instance, it was gray and cloudy today, but it hadn’t begun to snow yet, so I decided to brave the elements and walk to the library at 2:15 p.m. Ten minutes after I left my apartment—the exact amount of time it takes for me to be far enough from home not to want to turn back but not close enough to my destination to make the trip worth catching pneumonia—it began to drizzle. It was one of those slushy, disgusting meteorological events that feels like Frosty the Snowman is peeing on your face, and I said, “I hate you, Nature! You are an asshole, Nature!”

And Nature just laaaaaaaughed and laughed.

I Trim My Arm Hair

October 9, 2010

I had a lot of body-hair issues when I was a child.

At the age of two, I was diagnosed with a rare kidney disorder called neuphrotic syndrome, and I was prescribed a variety of strange medications for it.  I don’t know exactly what these medications were called (and, frankly, I don’t want to know) but they had some odd side effects, one being that I grew an inordinate amount of hair on my appendages when I was in middle school.  I’m talking a freakish amount of arm and leg hair, okay?  Less than Big Foot but more than, say, Barry Gibb.

I was also a small, sickly child and puberty came late for me, which meant I didn’t have hair on my genitals or under my armpits until most of my peers were shaving.  This caused me to have hair anxiety at a very young age.  To this day, it is one of the physical features my friends make fun of me for the most (that and the fact that I look strangely like Christian Slater when I don’t have a beard), and rightly so.  I’m a freak.  One furry face away from being placed inside a peppermint-striped tent and named the Wolf Boy.

One of my arm hairs actually grew at a much greater rate than the others, and I became somewhat famous when I was twelve for showing it off during lunch.  My normal arm hairs are about an inch and a half long, but this one, I swear to God, was at least four inches long.  If you have access to a ruler, please take a second to measure out exactly how long that is.  Go ahead, we’ll wait for you…

Finished?  Fantastic.

That is a really long arm hair!  I named him Harry.  Yes, I was extremely clever back then.

Everyone in my class was very impressed by Harry when I was in the sixth grade, but he became something of an embarrassment when I entered high school.  I didn’t have a lot going for me back then anyhow, so it’s not like I needed the additional handicap of a freakishly long arm hair to keep the girls from pounding down my bedroom door.  So I put a hit out on Harry.  I had him whacked.

To this day it is one of the greatest regrets in my life, right up there with watching Mulholland Drive twice because I thought I missed something the first time.  If I had Harry around today, I would dye him blue and show him off to everyone.  I would be very proud of Harry.

But when I was sixteen and just starting to sprout peach fuzz on my testicles, I was not so proud of my arm hair.  So I took drastic measures.  Farewell, Harry.  We hardly knew thee.

I trimmed my arms for the first time when I was in college.  I still hadn’t had sex at this point in my life, but I’d finally started growing hair in my armpits, so I thought a girl might at least kiss me.  A girl did.  Her name was Shannon.  We kissed on numerous occasions, in fact.  We also went to movies and attended parties and whatnot, but the only reason I did those things with her was because I wanted more of the kissing.  Aside from that, I didn’t really enjoy her company.  One day in August we went to the public swimming pool for some reason, and she laughed at the strange assemblage of my body hair.  The next day I broke up with her and started trimming my arm hair.  I’ve been doing this ever since.

I would like to stop, but at this point I don’t think it’s a good idea.  Remember that old myth: if you shave your body hair, it will only grow back thicker the next time.  I think there was a Seinfeld episode about it.  Anyhow, that myth has been disproved by numerous scientists over the years, but I don’t believe them.  The reason I don’t believe them is because I once took a trip to Europe.

I once took a trip to Europe and did not pack hair clippers.  I wanted to travel extremely light for some reason, so I put everything in a bag about the size of a tenth grader’s backpack, and that’s what I lived out of for four months.  During that time, I did not trim my arm hairs once, and when I returned to the United States, the police arrested me for being an orangutan.

Okay, okay, that last part isn’t true (it’s not illegal to be an orangutan, duh), but a sexy Australian girl did braid my arm hairs when I was passed out drunk in a Paris hostel.  She thought this was very funny, but I was not amused.  Needless to say, I did not get to see her down under.

That’s why I continue to trim my arm hairs, even though I am now in my mid-thirties and should be less self-conscious about that kind of petty vanity.  Apparently, I am not.

I also have these strange bald patches on the backs of my arms directly above my elbows.  No hair at all.  This is because I spend a ridiculous number of hours writing these narcissistic confessions, and since I don’t have a proper desk, I sit on the couch with my computer on the coffee table in front of me and I lean my elbows on my knees while I’m typing.  I guess I’ve done this for so long that it rubbed the hair right off.  So if you’re ever wondering what being an obsessive, unsuccessful writer for more than a decade feels like, just shave the spots right above both your elbows and you’ll know.  Art is very rewarding!

I don’t ever wear shorts.  I have nice, shapely thighs and a pair of well-formed calves, but it’s difficult to appreciate them through the Amazon Rain Forest below my waist.  When I put on sunscreen, it is particularly gross.  The hairs clump together and they look all slick, like I’ve been rolling around in Crisco.  My leg hair is actually so thick that when mosquitoes attack my body, they are unable to penetrate the canopy.  I know this because I’ll get mosquito bites all over my face and torso, but my legs remain completely untouched.  This is the only advantage to having excessive leg hair, by the way, and it does not make up for the other neuroses it has caused.

Sometimes I wonder if I could sell my leg and arm hair.  It’s very nice hair: long, soft, a pleasant shade of brown.  People with beautiful head hair sell their luxurious manes to wig-makers.  Surely there are people out there who need arm-hair transplants or something.  Or perhaps they could use it for all those balding orangutans that have been arrested over the years.  But until then my bountiful appendage hair will continue to be lost down the drain.  Farewell, Harry.  We hardly knew thee.

(To read another story about Dale’s strange hair obsession, go to the Nonfiction section of this website and click on “Hair: A Confession.”)

As I’ve mentioned before, there is a man who lives in my apartment building who calls himself the Buffalo. He is a big man, a talkative man, and a man who would prefer not to wear shirts. He is not ashamed of his body, thank you very much. Although he probably should be.

Fortunately, the Buffalo is also a computer-less man, and since he only leaves his apartment to do laundry and purchase Hungry-Man Dinners, I can safely assume that he will never ever read this blawg.

I am simultaneously awed by and frightened of the Buffalo. I constantly want to have conversations with him, and yet whenever he does start to converse with me, I have an overwhelming impulse to scream and run out of the room. This is also kind of how I feel about Lady Gaga.

If the Buffalo was either evil or good, it would be a lot easier to make up my mind about him. I could simply classify him in a category and then treat him accordingly. For instance, if he were evil, I would say that he’s got a real Jeffrey Dahmer-type vibe and all those hours in the bathroom are probably spent carefully peeling off the tips of his fingers so that he won’t leave any prints on his  victims, a la Kevin Spacey in “Se7en” (and, yes, that is technically how the name of that movie is supposed to be spelled–I looked it up on IMDB.com).  Or if he was good, I would say that he is more of the Quazimoto type, a deformed creature that has been rejected by society because of his outward appearance, but inside that extremely hairy, man-boob chest there beats a heart of gold.

But the Buffalo is a complicated guy and he cannot be so easily defined. There is goodness in him and there is evilness (if that is actually a word).

PEOPLE’S EXHIBIT A: There used to be a young Mexican man named Juan who cleaned our kitchen and bathroom. Since there is one kitchen and one bathroom for the entire floor, those facilities have to be used by seven people, and since those seven people are lazy slobs, management has to pay a man to clean up after them once a week, and since management is cheap and doesn’t want to pay minimum wage, that man needs to be willing to work for very little cash paid under the table. Juan was such a man. He wasn’t exactly great with a mop and dustpan but then again he never complained about the insane people who made his job miserable, so everyone decided to ignore his janitorial shortcomings.

Everyone except the Buffalo.

The Buffalo told management that Juan was lazy and then Juan was fired. Let me repeat that: The guy who doesn’t have a job and has never had a job complained that the guy who cleans up after him was lazy.

Okay, so that’s the Evil Buffalo. However, hold on to your knickers, there’s also the Good Buffalo.

DEFENSE EXHIBIT B: I have another neighbor who steals my mail. Well, to be fair, she steals everyone’s mail, not just mine. I guess it’s like her thing or something. Some crazy ladies have cats, some crazy ladies collect campaign buttons; this crazy lady steals mail.

You see, there’s only one mailbox for the entire apartment building. What! you say. Only one mailbox! Why, that’s absurd! Yes, dear reader, it is absurd and I appreciate the exclamation points in your hypothetical reaction. The mailman simply drops all the mail on our front porch like a zookeeper throwing a pound of chum into a shark tank. For the first two months that I lived here, I couldn’t figure out why my Netflix movies never arrived. I found out later that Crazy Lady was stealing them. She waits for the mail and then she takes all of it to her room, where it disappears into a dark vortex of stuffed animals and ceramic figurines. Since I actually have a job, I can’t wait around all day to prevent this woman from taking my “Diff’rent Strokes: Episodes 1-5” DVDs. That would be insane.

I told the Buffalo about this problem and he immediately sprang (well, oozed) into action. Every day, he sits on the front stoop of the building until the mailman comes and he carefully looks at every letter three times to make certain that he has all my mail. Afterward, he either shoves my mail under my door immediately or, in the case of packages, squirrels them away in secret hiding places in his room until I come home, and then he promptly delivers them to me. It’s like having a butler. A butler who lives down the hall, and talks too much about “Unsolved Mysteries,” and doesn’t wear a shirt, and refuses to do any actual work aside from delivering postal products. So not really like a butler at all, actually.

ANYHOW, that’s the situation. Evil Buffalo vs. Good Buffalo. Who shall win the day? If Good Buffalo prevails, I will continue watching crappy sitcoms from the 1980s while writing this blawg. If Bad Buffalo is victorious, you will probably find me in a duffel bag along with numerous cans of well organized food products.

I don’t have a car, so I ride the bus a lot. I enjoy public transportation because it gives me the opportunity to shamelessly eavesdrop on other people’s conversations without them saying things like, “You’re creepy!” or, “I’m getting a restraining order!”

Yesterday I happened to jump on a bus filled with teenagers who must have been coming home from summer-school classes. Directly behind me, two girls were discussing a homework assignment, which involved the Civil Rights Movement.

Girl 1: I didn’t really understand the part about stereotypes. I mean, like, I know what “stereotypes” are, but I don’t understand what he [the teacher] really meant.

Girl 2: I know, it’s hard.

Girl 1: I know, right?

Girl 2: Totally.

Girl 1: Yeah.

Girl 2: I think it’s like when people label you.

Girl 1: Right… Totally… Right… Wait, what do you mean?

Girl 2: Well, it’s like, you know, when some people at school stereotype you as “pretty” and some people stereotype you as “smart.” It’s like that.

Girl 1: Oh, right. I get it.

Girl 2: Totally.

I thought about Rosa Parks getting on a similar bus in 1955. What courage it must have taken for her to stand up for all those people who had been unfairly labeled as “pretty” and “smart.” If she were alive today, I’m sure she would be happy to know that her legacy is being passed on to the youth of America.

And then I had a dream…

I had a dream that one day this nation would rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident that all popular girls are created equal.

I had a dream that one day on the white mountains of Boulder the daughters of former organic coffee-shop owners and the daughters of former llama farmers would be able to sit down together and watch “The Hills.”

I had a dream that one day even the state of Colorado, a dessert state, suffering from a lack of low-fat yogurt and non-dairy creamer, will be transformed into an oasis of thin people with nice tans.

I had a dream that these two Boulder girls would one day live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their lip gloss but by the contents of their Gucci bags.

I had a dream…

Abercrombie at last! Abercrombie at last! Abercrombie at last!

Greetings, attractive female citizens. Pardon me if I am a little shy, but this is the first time I have done this sort of thing. A few details about myself: I have a beard. I was born in a log cabin. I have been dead for more than 140 years, so if you’re one of those judgmental people who only wants to have relations with the living, don’t even bother contacting me.

I was the sixteenth president of the United States. My portrait is on the five dollar bill, so I literally have my own money. LOL. I am tall. Very tall, actually. Like really really tall. And I wear a top hat, so that kind of adds to the whole tallness thing. I don’t know why I wear a top hat even though I’m so tall. It’s just something I started doing as a kid and it caught on. I tried to stop wearing top hats for a while, but then I’d show up at parties and people would be like, “Abe, why no top hat? Are you too cool for top hats now? Are you going to start wearing a beret? Oooo-la-la!” And so on and so forth. It just got tiresome, so I put the top hat back on.

What else?…What else? Oh, I don’t go to the theater. EVER. So don’t even ask, okay? It’s a long story and I don’t want to get into it, but let’s just say I don’t get along with actors. Museums, poetry readings, concerts…no problem. But no theater. That’s a deal breaker for me.

Also, FYI, I’m really into role playing. I know, TMI, right? But it’s true. I’d like to dress up as George Washington and cross your Valley Forge. I’m mostly looking for NSA and maybe some light S&M with a D&D-free partner, but I’m not opposed to an LTR if it’s with the right person.

Okay, well, I’ll stop yacking about myself. I want to hear about you. So please send me a telegraph on this magical box thingy, okay? I can send you a picture as well, or you can just look at a five dollar bill. There’s also this statue of me in Washington, D.C. that’s pretty cool. It’s not a recent statue, but it’s a good likeness.

I live in a student neighborhood in between a fraternity house and a sorority house. Since my apartment building does not have air-conditioning, I have to keep my window open in order to survive the summer. As luck would have it, my window is directly above the spot where the frat boys and sorority girls gather to smoke cigarettes and chatter away like a flock of exotic, drunken, pill-popping birds. Here are some of the conversations I have overheard.

WHITE BOY WITH HAT TURNED SIDEWAYS: Did you hear what happened in Haiti?

WHITE GIRL WITH HAIR EXTENSIONS: My dad owns a house there.

WHITE BOY WITH HAT TURNED SIDEWAYS: Not anymore. There was a tornado. Blew up everything.

WHITE GIRL WITH HAIR EXTENSIONS: I should text my dad. I really like that house.


SCREAMING GIRL APPARENTLY NAMED AMY: You are such an…(drunken slurring noise that kind of sounds like “asshole”). Jack! I hate you! IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou! Jack! Where’s my shoe?

SCREAMING BOY APPARENTLY NAMED JACK: Leave me alone! Amy! Amy! Amy! I didn’t want to come to this party anyhow! Amy! Why’d you pour out my drink? Amy!

SCREAMING GIRL APPARENTLY NAMED AMY: I wanted to go to…(drunken slurring noise that kind of sounds like “another party”). Jack, I need my shoe! Shoe! Shoe! JACK!

SCREAMING BOY APPARENTLY NAMED JACK: I wanted to watch the game! Amy! I could be watching the game! Amy! I hate this party! Amy!


SCREAMING BOY APPARENTLY NAMED JACK: Amy! You left it in the tree!


STONER #1: Dude, there are a lot of squirrels around here. It’s weird.

STONER #2: I know, dude. There are so many hot girls in Boulder.


STONER #1: I said “squirrels.”

STONER #2: What?


STONER #2: There’s this totally hot girl in my bio class.

(Longer pause)

STONER #1: They’re just rats with fluffy tales, dude. It’s strange that there’s, like, so many of them. I wonder what they want.

STONER #2: They want your money, dude. That’s all girls ever want.

STONER #1: Why would a squirrel want my money?

STONER #2: I don’t know. What are we talking about?

STONER #1: You said something about squirrels.

(Extremely long pause)

STONER #2: Oh, right. The girls in Boulder are really hot, dude.

It has come to my attention that many Americans do not like to travel. Specifically, it came to my attention during a certain presidential election when a certain vice-presidential candidate appeared on a certain television show and was asked by a certain television hostess why she did not have a passport. I do not know how this certain vice-presidential candidate answered the question because I got bored and changed the channel. However, I assume the answer was something like, “Blah blah blah I am a feisty young soccer mom with ambitions of becoming a puppet president blah blah blah Alaska is the greatest country in America blah blah aren’t I so feisty!

In order to avoid such embarrassing international incidents in the future, I have decided to share my extensive knowledge of foreign cultures with the American public. If you are a fortyish single mom with political ambitions well beyond your experience, please take notes.


Positives: English muffins. James Bond. That Henry guy. Marry Poppins. They speak English–although not very good. For instance, they call “fries” “chips” and “chips” “crisps” and “soccer” “football” and “presidents” “queens.” Maybe you should take an English class, English people!

Negatives: Jack the Ripper (serial killer!). Sweeney Todd (musically inclined serial killer!). Winston Churchill (a little bit on the chubby side!). Fox hunting. British television looks all weird for some reason. It rains all the time and people are always drinking tea and saying things like “Allo, govna!” in a way that makes you want to revolt against them.

Recommendation: Why go to Old England when we have a new one right here in Vermont?


Positives: French bread. French kissing. French ticklers. Nice view of Spain. Their movies have a lot of naked chicks in them. Inventors of French’s Mustard.

Negatives: Too many French people.

Recommendations: Stay home and watch “Moulin Rouge.”


Probably not a real country.


Positives: Legalized marijuana and prostitution. That little boy on the paint cans. Double Dutch is fun. They speak English better than the British.

Negatives: Residents are too tall (makes normal-sized people feel like Danny DeVito…but not in a good way). Wooden shoes (what if your feet catch on fire?). Windmills (sooooo 1738). Can’t decide on a name for their country. Should I call you Holland? The Netherlands? Dutchistania? Make up your mind.

Recommendations: Pot is legal in California and you can find prostitutes at any sorority house in America.


See: Belgium


Positives: Has this totally awesome wall that runs right down the middle… What? They tore that down? Why? Oh. Stupid Ronald Reagan and his stupid Cold War symbolic gestures. In that case, um, lederhosen are kind of cool.

Negatives: Techno music. Scary porn. Men have too much body hair. Women have too much body hair. Has the word “germ” in its name. Not many kosher restaurants for some reason. David Hasselhoff.

Recommendations: Wisconsin in the winter is just like Munich, except without all that annoying culture.

And that’s pretty much all the countries in the world. Now you’re ready to hold the second highest office in the United States. Good luck!

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