My First Experience in a post-Obama America (in Denmark)

After leaving the Moose just short of 5 a.m. I thought my number was finally up.

I was already a bit on edge as the hour approached. At the dive bar, a Danish twat avoided a round of good ol' drunk as fuck fisticuffs. I had asked this impertinent fucker to step outside with me a few times. He declined to test his mettle on the street. I believe that my appearance has unnerved him. It was not due to my lavish hair and glowing moon skin, but the dark bandana I wore across my lower face, concealing my identity.

"Why are you wearing that? Take that off," he said.

"No, I'm not taking it off," I said.

"Yes, take it off!"

"It's smoky in here," I said. "I wear it to filter the smoke-- "

"It's a bar; get over it!"

"Hey! You and me, we're going outside," I said.

"I don't want to go outside."

I glared at him through my favorite veiled visage. The synergetic bandana, brining together two very important influences: my support of communitarian anarchy and my virulent hatred of secondhand smoke, the kind of hatred only a pot-smoking asthmatic who has successfully quit smoking cigarettes upwards of thirteen times can feel.

After thirty minutes of this, my beddy-bye called to me. "Rampage, have you seen my car keys? Can you help me find them? and also "Come sleep, come sleep, Rampage, I miss your touch . ."

It was time to go. But not before I had my first experience in a post-Barack America in Denmark.

As I began to cross the first Seven-Eleven after Rådhuspladsen, a dark man bolted towards me, arms wildly flailing forward, and gaining speed.

"Wait, wait!" he called.

I looked around and saw no one else on the street.

Damn, this is it. This is finally it: I am getting mugged.

, Hillary!

I took a deep breath.

I am getting mugged or this man urgently needs directions at five in the morning.

I brought my bike to a slow stop, not wanting to be a Klansman. This man did not look like Mike Tyson or 50 Cent, but resembled more Apu, Jay Chandrasekhar, and Gandhi. Regardless, around these types, cautiousness before clean conscience.

As he came even closer, I realized I would be the next sucker to fall victim to the oldest trick in the game. 'Excuse me sir, where is Coral Gables Terrace?" BAM! Iron bar to the noggin and wallet gone!

"Excuse me, sir," the man said.

Veerapan: The Most Prolific (Sandalwood) Thief in the World

"Yep?" I said, bracing against my bicycle, a metal barricade between me and my foe.

"Could you, please, tell me where Nørreport Station is ?"

He pronounced the station name dreadfully, neglecting the crucial glottal stops.

"Yeah, sure, just cross the square, go left a block, turn right at the light, go for another two blocks, you can't miss it."

An immigrant. A brand-spanking-new immigrant here to take advantage of the welfare system.

Then in my finest Dansk I pronounced the name for his unlearned ears.

"Just a left, followed by a right?"

"Yeah, basically, yeah, that's right. Just pass that stoplight and hook that right."

"It's not very far away."

"A few blocks."

"It will take me only five minutes?"

"Fifteen on foot," I said.

"Oh, but I have a bicycle," he said and gestured to the bicycle splayed out on the sidewalk.

"Yeah, five minutes." I nodded.

Keeping my wits about myself, I rode home.

No doubt, that bike was stolen.

If I had to look at this ugly chick, I'd let her scratch my eyes out.