The Swede and the Meathead or: My Case for Stricter Immigration Laws

Yup. Seems like just another typical day at the ol' college, but wait! Oh look! Pretty Blonde Swedish Girl from anthropology class is sitting at the picnic table in front of building B, studying feverishly for today's quiz. Maybe I should offer my help. I walk up to the little square table and sit on the side to her right. We exchange pleasantries. She smiles with her perfect white Swedish teeth. We talk—about the class, about her struggles with trying to learn English, about her education in Sweden. She's still smiling. That's good. She seems to find me a suitably charming conversationalist, and why wouldn't she? I'm brilliant.

I crack a few witty jokes, and she laughs her perfect, feminine Swedish laugh. I give her coupons for Camel cigarettes—her brand. Oh yes. I am awesome, thank you. Wait, what the hell is that noise? It sounds like a flatulent elephant farting into a bullhorn. There, backing into a parking space—an absurdly tricked-out blue Japanese car...with a spoiler. What's with spoilers, anyway? Do they even do anything?

That's not ridiculously obnoxious and annoying at all, I say out loud. She doesn't say anything. Nosiree, definitely not too loud, I sarcastically opine. No reply. Oh well. I go back to studying. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her wave to somebody. I turn and see Manly McStudly getting out of the absurdly tricked-out blue Japanese car with spoiler. He's wearing a tank top to show off his muscles and tattoos. She's REALLY smiling now, a rapturous, trance-like expression washing over her face. He approaches the table, his mouth cracking only the faintest hint of a smile—he's much too cool and studly to bother with a full smile, after all. He sits down across the table from me. They blather briefly about something inconsequential. Sheesh. I've seen this jerk before. This is the second time that Beefcake McHunkerton has decided to step in and interrupt a perfectly pleasant moment between Pretty Blonde Swedish Girl and me. She's already forgotten that I'm there as she dazedly stares deep into his chest muscles.

Now the hunky interloper looks over at me, noticing my awesome Panama hat. Why, yes—it is a nice hat, thank you very much. Have I ever been where? Cuba? No, but I had a friend who once...oh, really? Lots of people in Cuba wear hats like this? Well, thank you for enriching my intellect with that fascinating bit of information.

Meathead and the Swede start blathering to each other again. Why, yes, she would like to get out of here. I check the time on my cell phone. Class starts in ten minutes. I guess I should get going too...wait...where is she going? Class is in the other direc—oh, I get it. They're going to the nature observation spot thingy under the trees. Yeah. They're totally going to make out again, just like they were doing last week when I walked out of building B and right into their blissful, hormone-saturated public display of affection. And, just as she did that time, she'll probably once again rub her pasty white Nordic hands all over his liberally-tattooed arm and chest muscles while staring longingly into his big, dumb, vacuous moose eyes. What the hell is wrong with Swedish chicks? She didn't even say goodbye. Eh, screw it. I gotta get to class—I've got a quiz to ace.