All I want for Easter is-- screw Easter, pass the goddamn Akvavit
Who: The Danish Inquisition
When: Saturday Evening, March 19th
Where: Søren and Kai's apartment
What: Easter time draws near, and some very important letters are now a month or greater late. Also, it's time to get “that purple shit” out of someone's hair, and what better time than this to issue a 1-800-brotalk about the boundaries of trust.
The fact that he should have had these letters done back in February was became more so glaringly apparent after a kind, warm, thoughtful email from back home arrived. In her typical cheery fashion his mother had all but ripped him a new asshole for being an inconsiderate, lazy son of a bitch for having not sent his grandmother her letter for Påske, and that should his father be alive he'd reach through the boundaries of the internet to beat some sense into their irresponsible excuse for a son. Also, he had better take that goddamn purple shit out of his hair and those metal things out of his face before he got back on Danish soil or something Very Bad would happen to a certain someone's most cherished security blanket straw goat.
Oh yeah, and make sure to bring back some peanut butter M&Ms!
If the fear of God hadn't been instilled in him before it sure as hell had been now. Though in spite of his mother's valiant effort to give him a passion to write all Kai could do night after night was stare blankly down at his empty sheets of stationary, damned if he knew what to write this year (or who to send one to other than bedstemor). It haunted his days after school, after work, in the evenings when he'd make dinner for them both and he knew he had all his class assignments complete. He rolled in bed at night, causing Søren to whack him more than once and send him packing to the couch. And now it was nearing the end of March. They'd be leaving in a couple weeks to be Denmark bound, Århus on the horizon.
And he still had jackshit. Well, other than, "Dear Grandma: I'm glad you aren't dead! I'd be sad if you were. Your cake is awesome."
And it was on this fair Saturday evening that the Dane finally lost it.
“I fucking don't know what to write!” He called to the ceiling with an exasperated cry before slamming his arms down on the coffee table (which had been.. well, more or less glued to a cardboard box, after Søren broke it the last time), his head coming down ontop of them. “Holy shit, if I don't get these out soon she is going to fucking beat me with a broken lawn chair, but I don't know what to say! Fanden!”
When: Saturday Evening, March 19th
Where: Søren and Kai's apartment
What: Easter time draws near, and some very important letters are now a month or greater late. Also, it's time to get “that purple shit” out of someone's hair, and what better time than this to issue a 1-800-brotalk about the boundaries of trust.
The fact that he should have had these letters done back in February was became more so glaringly apparent after a kind, warm, thoughtful email from back home arrived. In her typical cheery fashion his mother had all but ripped him a new asshole for being an inconsiderate, lazy son of a bitch for having not sent his grandmother her letter for Påske, and that should his father be alive he'd reach through the boundaries of the internet to beat some sense into their irresponsible excuse for a son. Also, he had better take that goddamn purple shit out of his hair and those metal things out of his face before he got back on Danish soil or something Very Bad would happen to a certain someone's most cherished security blanket straw goat.
Oh yeah, and make sure to bring back some peanut butter M&Ms!
If the fear of God hadn't been instilled in him before it sure as hell had been now. Though in spite of his mother's valiant effort to give him a passion to write all Kai could do night after night was stare blankly down at his empty sheets of stationary, damned if he knew what to write this year (or who to send one to other than bedstemor). It haunted his days after school, after work, in the evenings when he'd make dinner for them both and he knew he had all his class assignments complete. He rolled in bed at night, causing Søren to whack him more than once and send him packing to the couch. And now it was nearing the end of March. They'd be leaving in a couple weeks to be Denmark bound, Århus on the horizon.
And he still had jackshit. Well, other than, "Dear Grandma: I'm glad you aren't dead! I'd be sad if you were. Your cake is awesome."
And it was on this fair Saturday evening that the Dane finally lost it.
“I fucking don't know what to write!” He called to the ceiling with an exasperated cry before slamming his arms down on the coffee table (which had been.. well, more or less glued to a cardboard box, after Søren broke it the last time), his head coming down ontop of them. “Holy shit, if I don't get these out soon she is going to fucking beat me with a broken lawn chair, but I don't know what to say! Fanden!”