Ein Deutscher Roman
Kids, I think it's time we talked about something very important to all of us. In kindergarten, you may have learned about a little something called the "three R's": RIGHTS, RULES, RESPONSBILITIES! Well, there is another R out there, which usually in practice causes people to completely ignore the other three: reproduction. Yes, the origin of the human species has captivated us, the mysterious descendants, for eons. Right now, there are two major explainations out there. One group contends that we can all trace our genes back to a single common ancestor around 150,000 years ago in central Africa. While this story has overwhelming empirical evidence to back it up, there is an opposing camp claiming that mankind began in the mythical garden of Eden somewhere around modern Israel. So, basically, we either came from African or Jewish people. It may be worth noting that there is a drastically underrepresented group of theorists who have sought to combine the strong points of both accounts and claimed that we are all descendants of Lenny Kravitz. The rock artist has, of course, denied any and all allegations that he is in fact the progenitor of humanity, citing his existence in the present day. Unfortunately, answering this challenge has cut Kravitz Theorists into two sects. Both use a technique familiar to all creationist, saying that God, Satan, or Helen Hunt (who can take on either identity depending on whether you are watching "As Good as it Gets" or "Twister") has intentionally deceived and tested humanity by either making Kravitz immortal or creating the world in 1965 and simply inserting a memory of the past into our minds. All the hysteria surrounding these competing theories of human reproduction proves, if nothing else, that humanity is obsessed with sex. And what better way to learn about sex, than through the most faithful keeper of its sacred knowledge: Romance Novels. But American romances are simply riddled with hypocracy: The most prudish and unprovocative members of society, middle aged housewives, happen to be the romance novel's target audience. Obviously, such contradictions must marr the accuracy of the experience. No, to discover the truth about sex, we must turn to the country so callous, efficient, and calculating that it invented the word "Strüdel". Yes, I'm talking about Germany. The German romance novel is certainly an interesting experience, my friends, as is evidenced by the cover reproduced without the generous permission of its publisher:
Ah, yes. "My Dark Prince". Below is a translated excerpt from page 643 of "Mein Dunkler Prinz" (obviously some of the important words are sadly untranslatable without losing some of the beauty of the passage):
"She sat in the corner of the bar sipping vodka nd cranberry juice, for she was thirsty, but not thirsty enough to drink beer, which she sometimes did, but not tonight, for she was not that thirsty. The female waiterwearingblackpantsawhiteshirtandaredbowtie brought her a plate of indescribablydisgustinggermanbarsnacks, which reminded her of her mother's coffin. Her mother always sat in the corner of the bar, too, until she died. An oldmanwithabeardwhowouldprobablyalsobedeadsoon watched her out of the corner of his eye, if he could see out of it at all, for she knew he was blind in one eye, but she couldn't remember which one and so she did not know if he was looking at her inamannerwhichmadeherquiteuncomfortable. She suddenly began to feel the fearyetmysteriousthrillofbeingoggledbyareallydisgustingoldguy, which her mother had often described before she died. She imagined herself making love with him on in coffin, for she had a freudian psychological disorder with a really long name. She decided to test him to see if he was in fact looking at her like she often looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Somewhere, a bird died. She took an ice cube from her drink and began to lick it in a detachedhiddenlysensualyetalienated manner, always looking at him, or sometimes at the television, for that also reminded her of her mother's coffin."
Of course, in the end, it turns out that her stepbrother, whom she had always admired for his courage, sensitivity, and heaving, muscular pectoral muscles, is actually a prince who has been unjustly disowned by his wicked uncle, whom the woman also has sex with, unknowingly. The two lovers then retire to his castle for 200 final pages of goinginandoutwithahugewoohooonamatressgoingboingyboingy, followed by exactly 45 minutes of cuddling and 3 cigarettes. So, if you learn nothing else from romance novels, at least come away with the knowledge that all women subconsciously desire either close relatives or older men, or quite possibly both.
Ah, yes. "My Dark Prince". Below is a translated excerpt from page 643 of "Mein Dunkler Prinz" (obviously some of the important words are sadly untranslatable without losing some of the beauty of the passage):"She sat in the corner of the bar sipping vodka nd cranberry juice, for she was thirsty, but not thirsty enough to drink beer, which she sometimes did, but not tonight, for she was not that thirsty. The female waiterwearingblackpantsawhiteshirtandaredbowtie brought her a plate of indescribablydisgustinggermanbarsnacks, which reminded her of her mother's coffin. Her mother always sat in the corner of the bar, too, until she died. An oldmanwithabeardwhowouldprobablyalsobedeadsoon watched her out of the corner of his eye, if he could see out of it at all, for she knew he was blind in one eye, but she couldn't remember which one and so she did not know if he was looking at her inamannerwhichmadeherquiteuncomfortable. She suddenly began to feel the fearyetmysteriousthrillofbeingoggledbyareallydisgustingoldguy, which her mother had often described before she died. She imagined herself making love with him on in coffin, for she had a freudian psychological disorder with a really long name. She decided to test him to see if he was in fact looking at her like she often looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Somewhere, a bird died. She took an ice cube from her drink and began to lick it in a detachedhiddenlysensualyetalienated manner, always looking at him, or sometimes at the television, for that also reminded her of her mother's coffin."
Of course, in the end, it turns out that her stepbrother, whom she had always admired for his courage, sensitivity, and heaving, muscular pectoral muscles, is actually a prince who has been unjustly disowned by his wicked uncle, whom the woman also has sex with, unknowingly. The two lovers then retire to his castle for 200 final pages of goinginandoutwithahugewoohooonamatressgoingboingyboingy, followed by exactly 45 minutes of cuddling and 3 cigarettes. So, if you learn nothing else from romance novels, at least come away with the knowledge that all women subconsciously desire either close relatives or older men, or quite possibly both.
posted by Bern at 12:05 AM
1 comments
