Hooked on a feeling

One would assume that having had enough wrist slittingly horrible language barrier moments to sink a silicon laden Playboy Yacht that I would have a little sympathy for those other fellow pilgrims in the same harrowing boat. But guess what? I fucking get off on it. Nothing makes me feel more like a man, abroad, than meeting someone to whom, in comparison, I have Arse Kicking Spanish. And the more Superior-ally Cheek Punting, the bigger the rush. Forget drugs, forget booze, forget sopaipillas with blackberry jam, forget throwing rocks at chickens and chickens at sheep, forget that Bloggers Posting Rush, forget that liberating Latin littering feeling, forget stealing from disabled people, forget that first glance of your own beard in the morning, forget watching cartoons in bed Like A Man whilst eating chocolate biscuits and drinking whiskey on ice. The only stimulant I need to get my dose of Shits 'n Giggles these days is meeting the poor suckers on the lower levels of the Spanish Speaking Tree.

That blank, slowly nodding look on their face as they try to Arse Their Way Through A Conversation. I know what they are really thinking: What the FUCK is this good-looking bearded guy saying to me? If I nod and refrain from commenting will that seem like I am all-knowing and intelligent or will I look like a big bag of moron? I hope you like failure butt cracks — you’re gonna feast on that bitter tasting inadequacy for breakfast, brunch, lunch, after noon tea, all manner of snackages and dinner for a long time until you just pack in and quit because I seriously doubt that you have Bearded Fortitude to fight your way through it. Ohhhhhh, I could go a hit of that sweet stuff right now — makes me wanna get up and dance. Maybe I’ll start hanging out at the airport just to get a hit of fresh gringos as they step off the plane. And why not just stay there so I can have that stuff on tap all day, you know, live in the airport. That'll save me some dosh. I’ll be like Tom Hanks in that other really bad movie of his were he hangs it in the airport for months. The only difference being I’ll not be a Grade-A Tosser, I’ll be bearded and befriend all the food and beverage vendors who’ll hi-five me and give me free shit.

And the new sensation currently rocking my world is a specifically Argentinian feeling. Everytime you go into a shop and ask someone something, not matter how well executed, if they have even heard an English word at some point in their life they will say; Would you like it in English or Spanish? (or they jump straight into English like arrogant fuckers). It annoys me no end because I am trying to practice and I always continue to speak in Spanish anyway. But now I am getting to the stage where they fucking crash and burn English-wise right in front of my deliciously satisfied eyes before they try to sneaky reach around back unnoticed into Spanish. Can you imagine my tickled pink elation at such hands down defeat? I get man shivers just thinking about it. That being said there are plenty of steadfastly conceited wank-off shop assistants that persist in their futile English plight due to the fact they obviously have no idea what they are saying. Especially that Human Bitch Slap at the mobile phone shop in La Boca. I came THIS close to jumping the counter and phone whipping him back into the Chimpanze's Arse he crawled out of as he shot bullets of nonsensical English-sounding sounds at me. For example:

Me: What’s a normal minute call rate inside Argentina?

Fuckface: Very Amacious
Me: Huh?… right. If I can’t remember my number can we still recharge it?

Fuckface: Congratulations
Me: Congratulations? What?

Fuckface: Ha ha ha. Ahhhh, nice done
Me: I don't understand what you're talking about? Speak in Spanish man, then maybe I'll understand you?
Fuckface: Hahaha. Where you come from?
Me: What? I'm bloody Australian. Do you even work here? Speak Spanish dude so I can get out of this creepy Cellular Themed Man Dungeon
Fuckface: Ahhh! Kangaroo si?
Me: Uhhhhhh. Don't do this man, I can't handle it right now!
Fuckface: You have Kangaroo one in house?
Me: I'm serious man! You want cliches? I'll go all Russell Crowe on your arse!
Fuckface: So speak you Germanian?
Me: WHAT! That's English you're failing miserably to speak to me man. AUSTRALIA IS NOT IN FUCKING EUROPE. Fuck geography AND linguistics. In fact, fuck you too — and stop looking at my chest when you talk to me? Why are you even doing that? What kind of jiggery pokery are you playing at here? Shit, I've seen Pulp Fiction enough times to see where this is going. I'm outta here
Fuckface: Ok! See you later
Me: [you will definitely NOT fucking see me ever again arsebag]

This is more or less an accurate account of how Shit Went Down. I just recited my English phrases too fast and Malcolm Douglas accented for that jock strap to grasp. That was a somewhat aggressive Man Tangent in what is supposed to be a Self Congratulatory Love Piece and for that I apologize. Ipso facto, I am awesome. Goodnight and fuck you.