JE SUIS LA SUÈDE. WE ALL ARE.

There is always that boy in school who tells the most outrageous whoppers. And though one knows he's so full of hoeie that he damned near explodes, one just sits and listens to him pull another one out of his hat.

Telling tall tales and shooting buckets full is a great American tradition.

And we admire folks who can do this, they entertain us so.

Normally, however, they aren't the president.

He is a salesman. Even Sweden is now worriedly wondering whether something happened of which they should have been aware. And if it did, they fear it will suffer the same lack of attention as Bowling Green.
A mere blip on the radar, soon forgotten.

There is heartache.


On a different note, I found out yesterday at the cigar lounge that there is over an hour and a half of Swedish Chef video on youtube, in convenient three to six minutes segments, some subtitled. My two favourites are the hot sauce episode, and 'poutine'.


I put out a collection box on the table in the lounge. One notorious Scandinavophobe ripped the Swedish flag off it, and sneered.
Which was very hurtful, insensitive clod.
I need a safe space.

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