The Germans must know that, despite their beer, rosy cheeks and dorky-ass lederhosen, deep down we are afraid of them (you may not realize it, but you are). I caught these two exercising their intimidation on Miami Beach. Klaus here was tossing Gertrude into the air like pfannkuchen, while her expression remained ever-so stiff, and unfeeling, because Germans are really just extraterrestrial superbots. Their jolly culture is merely a parody of humanity, a cover-up until they take over. (The whole Nazi thing? That was actually a mistake. Hitler wasn't even one of them; he came from the "uber-dark side" and fooled the other superbots into following him. Dumb bots.) I was afraid, being about one-eighth their size, that one of them would come and flick me into the ocean, or use me as a hacky sack.
Only once before have I come into contact with a German. On an overnight flight to the Netherlands a few years ago, my seatmate fooled me with his lanky physique and kind, benign aura (a damn clever disguise). I figured him out when he pronounced "school" as "shool" instead of "skool". But I stayed calm, conversing casually and saying, "Ja!" to get him on my side. I think it worked because at 6 a.m., I awoke to him offering me a Sour Patch Kid- "Vould you like a sveetie?" And when a German offers you a "sveetie" ("sweetie" is another word for "candy" in Europe, by the way), you damn well take it. And you like it.
"Wunderbar!"
