Spoofs & Satire

Photograph by Malia

I Love You in Europe

Romance is in the air during February, especially when the air smells vaguely European.

No, I don’t mean I love you when you’re in Europe. Or that I love it when you go to Europe. Or even that I love you when I’m in Europe. I’m never in Europe. It costs a lot of money to go to Europe, and I have obligations here.

From the look on your face, I assume you’re thinking about that one trip we did take to Europe. You’re thinking, “He loved me then, why not now?” It hurts me to think of you thinking that. Because I still love you, very much. In Europe.

Now you’re getting angry, and you think I’m taking the piss, which is a European phrase, you know. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just not getting my point across.

People drive with no speed limit—in Europe. Women let their body hair grow freely—in Europe. Leftist politics work—in Europe. These things aren’t true in other places. They’re true in Europe. My love for you is real. But only in Europe. I shouldn’t say “only” because that diminishes my love. My love is conceptually strong.

Think of a rock band that makes it big. Not here in North America—just in Europe. They’re financially independent, but not tied to the money. They’re artistically innovative. They look vaguely S&M. See, in Europe, they’re doing extremely well. Over here, they’re kind of a non-entity.

Yes, the band is you. You’re getting it!

Now, take Becky, whom I love in South America. If Becky were a band in Europe, phht. Forget it. She’d be a joke. She couldn’t open for a high school black metal trio in a Norwegian country town. But in South America, wow. She’s riding the float next to the queen of Carnivale. She’s starting blood feuds among the youth. She’s got a novelty cabinet post by age 30.

Do I think she’s beautiful? In South America, yes. Well, in the mountain regions. Karen is hotter in the jungle regions.

That beautiful population is getting fatter, Aborigines are still marginalized, and you throw our love to the dingoes, then throw the dingoes on the barbie.

Double entendre? I’m not following, but look at you with the Euro-lingo, mademoiselle! No wonder I want to kiss you between the Bay of Biscay and the Urals.

Of course I know you’re Chinese. What does that matter? I don’t see race. You don’t have to be European. It’s my love for you that’s European. My love is just part of the sensibility over there. The fact is, I’d be a fool to let you go, and Europe alone knows that. I want to shout our love to the rafters of the Goethe Institute. Why do you think we come here on so many dates?

Wait, wait, hold das Telefon, Joan. I don’t like what I’m hearing. Break up our European Snuggle Union? I can’t imagine why we would risk it.

I mean, we’re already pretty much splitsville in Australia. It’s so sad. I don’t even like talking about it. Too fresh a wound. That beautiful population is getting fatter, Aborigines are still marginalized, and you throw our love to the dingoes, then throw the dingoes on the barbie. How much do you want to hurt me in Australia? You can be as mean as a trapdoor spider sometimes.

Europe, baby. Olé-olé-olé-olé. Say it with me. It’s the sound of us.

What would it take for me to love you over here? Well, I’m flattered, but here just isn’t Europe. Maybe it’s that the U.S. never experienced occupation in a world war, I don’t know. I only know that I’m engaged in North America. I couldn’t risk losing that. It would be un-American. And probably un-Mexican.

Hey, with the shouting. People are trying to use the language lab.

Pardon? “You have a large penis in Fantasyland?” No, that’s not the same construct at all. I still don’t think you understand. This is very frustrating. I’m loving you less in France and parts of Belgium.


TMN Contributing Writer Michael Rottman lives like a lord in Toronto. His miscellany has appeared in print in The Fiddlehead, Grain, and Opium, and online at Yankee Pot Roast, Cracked, News Groper, and McSweeney’s. More by Michael Rottman