European Union
By Dr. Dan Higgins
The main thing about all the fucking Europeans hating each other is that it just doesn’t make any fucking sense. I mean, its not like there’s any real fucking difference anyways—they all dig Mickey D’s and Planet Hollywood, they all drive those faggy minicars unless they can afford an SUV, there’re soccer fags everywhere, and pretty much everybody that counts speaks English with a shitty accent. It’s all just a fucking act.
It reminds me of how all the Phi Delts said they hated the other frats even though really we’d all party together. Everyone knew it was bullshit but you still had to keep up appearances.
What it really fucking comes down to, is that they hate each other because they aren’t American enough, even though they’re trying hard to be more and more like us. Look at it like this: all the frats would stop talking shit about whichever one was throwing a big fucking party with free beer. Europe’s interested in America just like the frats were interested in the beer. It fucking unifies them. Only, whereas the frats would alternate who threw the keggers, no European country can be America. Like there’s only one Sigma Chi, and then a whole bunch of Alpha Delt dorks.
So the fucking differences aren’t even that different. Europe is just a shittier, second rate version of America. There’s nothing you can find there that you can’t find at a mall in the US, but there’s all sorts of shit in the US you can’t find in Europe. All the cities have that European look to them, all the toilets can’t clean the shit off of the sides when you flush, everybody lives in a little fucking apartment with no elevator and spends tons of fucking money on shitty little cups of coffee that don’t hold a candle to Starbucks. Except in price.
Another way you know it’s an act is, if they fucking can’t stand each other so much, why the fucking euro? I mean, do you think Americans are impressed? Quit pretending and just use the fucking dollar, don’t go making some new stupid looking bills with fags whose names I can’t pronounce on them.
I know there’s a whole shitload of reasons for the envy. Think about it—imagine if you had to admit that Hard Rock blows away every restaurant in your city. Wouldn’t you want to live in the fucking US of A, where you can let it all hang out?
The worst thing though is that the European women all wear scarves around their fucking necks and they don’t fucking put out. I mean, they make American bitches seem like target practice.
My only point is that Europeans need to fucking quit pretending like each country is unique. It’s not like it’s fooling any fucking body. So why the fuck do they bother? I guess that’s another reason they’re fucking inferior.
The Evolution of the Eurofag
It’s easy to recoil in disgust at the sight of Eurofags (EF’s) drifting like discarded restaurant coupons through the streets of once-great cities. But like the vulture and the liver fluke, the Eurofag has a place in Nature’s great scheme. As a wise philosophe once said, “To understand is to forgive, within reason.”
The next time you see a EF wavering along, remember that his strange habits and markings are only an attempt to mimic the vanished European upper class. Above all it is the slow, bored gait of the EF which ape the motions of the lost aristocracy. Aristocrats could afford to dawdle; peasants spurred by starvation and the knout, moved at a shambling trot. Thus the EF moves like a sloth through molasses and does his best to hide all emotions except a faked ennui—unless the topic of beer and the merits of various national brands comes up, in whichcase the proletarian gene-base of the EF can become startlingly, even dangerously, clear. Observers are advised to leave the area if EF males begin discussing beer.
The faux ennui also vanishes when the EF reaches his preferred habitat, the cheesy disco, which according to some anthropologists summons racial memories: peasant ancestors gazing in awe at the bright, candle-filled ballrooms of their betters.
The odd wardrobe favored by EFs also evokes the vanished elite. Before plastic was invented, shiny objects such as gold sunglasses, polished shoes and silk shirts were the exclusive privilege of the wealthy. The peasant’s garb came in only one shade: mud. Thus the EF feels an instinctive link between gleaming objects and high status and will often “hoard” flotsam such as kruggerands, dacron and hair mousse.
The white cocaine-moustache often seen on EFs at their mating rituals is also an attempt to mimic the vanished Lordlings. The most irksome traits of the drug—its absurdly high price per dose and short duration—is a form of tribal display, or Potlatch. Often the EF will choose to forego food, shelter or Evian to maintain the precious moustache.
So although it’s easy to dismiss the EF’s gaudy displays, remember that they are only a sincere and perhaps rather sad attempt to evoke a grandeur the EF never really possessed and only dimly imagines. So rather than swerving into the next EF who drifts across your path, let the creature live out its time in a hostile, bewildering world.
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