Friday, June 1, 2007
The Dutch-bag
And then there’s Dutch-Bag, the Eurodouche, the Scroatian. Plastic skin oozing of Germanic butter creames and Tuscan hair gels. Shirts smelling vaguely of toblerone and riccola. With forehead gleaming in the light like the ancient Norwegian fjords, and hair spiked like southern Spanish forests of early spring, the Eurodouche dances like only he can dance. His nasal accent sings with indeterminate boutique hotel lobby resonance.
A fully lathered up work of renaissance art, the Eurodouche inspires post-colonialist douche-rage across much of the subcontinent.
Leopard Princess, however, makes me want to Arch my Duke while feudalizing the proletariat.
