Why I don't trust foreigners: A less-racist-than-it-sounds tale

Please don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not racist. Trust me on this, despite the next sentence (and the fact that everyone says that before saying something racist). When I hear someone speak in a foreign accent in a public place, I immediately distrust them. This isn’t a deep-seated, unshakeable hate based on a recognition of their culture; I don’t think that they’re awful at all. I just suspect that they’re probably doing something as bad as me.

Above: Me, fearfully contemplating the motives of accented individuals.

A couple of years ago, Aysha and I were walking around town (back in the days before P-plates or full licenses; we probably didn’t even have our L’s) when for some reason we decided that it would be funny if we adopted chav-like English accents. We ordered food, visited shops and traversed the streets while speaking with these Pommy inflections, maintaining character as slightly stuck up tourists who thought that everything “Aussie” was adorable.

We had a great time doing this; it was nice to be doing something different in a town where you generally have to know how to make your own fun or else suffer severe boredom. However, because of our adventures that day, I lost a little bit of faith in humanity.

It took quite a while for this to happen. It wasn’t until at least a couple of years after our pretend accent day that I developed my paranoia. Everything changed when I moved from our home town to Adelaide, the capital of South Australia. Back home, some of us think that the local bus is a myth and they just have bus shelters and schedules to mess with us. It is rarely sighted. In Adelaide, however, I rely on public transport almost every day. This means that I spend a lot of time in close proximity to complete strangers.

 Not pictured: A bus

During these trips I’ve listened to many conversations of others. Well, ‘listened’ is probably the wrong word. I’m not that creepy; it’s just hard to miss when I’ve forgotten to take earphones every day for the last year and a half. Hence, I’ve heard many exchanges between many people (some of the more bizarre ones may be posted here in future).

Because I’m a Paranoid Parrot, I find a lot of reasons to freak out when I’m around strangers. But perhaps the number one cause for my suspicion is people speaking in accents. I just can’t convince myself that they really hold that accent and aren’t faking it for some purpose. This would generally be fine, because I’d think that they were just an idiot like me who had a stupid idea of fun. However, I’m more suspicious of people now that I live in the city, and assume that they have a darker motive for such an innocent activity.

 “Why hello, I’m an attractive young heir to a chain of bookstores in England. Why don’t you complete your journey in my private car?” (Note: you can’t trust anyone with a moustache (to be discussed in a later article))

It might seem strange that I'm so doubtful of other patrons of AdelaideMetro, when really, myself and Aysha are the only people I know for sure have ever done this. Surely, everyone else should be much more suspicious of me?

 Nothing suss.

Maybe most other people just have more trust in humankind. Maybe they just haven't seen or heard some of the stupid things that I have, such as these:

• Guy I've never seen before, to me: "Hey. I haven't seen you on here in a while."
• Drunk, shirtless, fat man, to everyone: "I WAS IN NEW YORK TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE TRADE CENTERS FELL."
• Numerous high school girls, to each other: "Like OMG, I can't wait to go to X. Oh, unless Y is there, what a slut. Did you hear about her and Z?..."
• Drunk guy with a slight Scottish accent, to his mark: "I'm actually a descendant of royalty. My family could have held on to power, but they fled for their own safety."

Okay, never mind. I think I've solved the mystery of the origins of my mistrust.

English Mansions and Woolooloo

I’m horrible at introductions. Really, genuinely horrible. Usually I’m a firm believer in “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”. After spending fifteen minutes trying desperately to come up with an opening sentence, however, I suddenly became a firm believer in “just accept defeat and never try to write an introduction again”. So, if you could just imagine I’ve done an awesome introduction, I’ll get on with telling the story of the Three English Mansions.

One day, my friend Emma and I intend to own Three Mansions somewhere in the English countryside. One for me, one for her, and one for parties and guests. But we aren’t just sitting around hoping that someday Mansions will just fall right into our laps (I imagine it would be horribly painful if they did), we have plans as to how we are going to get these mansions. 

Plan One: Marrying Money

Someday I will move to London. When I do, the following will happen:

I’ll be perusing a bookstore, when a young, handsome employee asks me if I need a hand. I smile and tell him I’m fine.

“Nice choice,” He says, noticing that I’m holding a copy of The Phantom of the Opera, “The book is very different from the movie, though.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve read it before,” I explain, “I mean, I love the movie, but I definitely prefer to book.”

He smiles, approvingly, “I totally agree.”

After chatting pleasantly for a few minutes he asks me to meet him at a nearby cafe after his shift, and of course, I accept. Then of course, we fall in love, and he confesses to me that he is actually the wealthy heir of that chain of bookstores.

We get married and buy mansions.

"What are the chances of two people who enjoy reading meeting in a book store! CLEARLY ITS MEANT TO BE!"

Plan Two: Writing About Marrying Money, Which Leads to Marrying Money

I turn Plan One into a novel and recruit Emma as my publicist. We then go on a publicising tour. While giving a reading in a London bookstore, I notice a young, handsome employee is listening to every word I’m reading, even though he’s meant to be unpacking new stock. After my reading, he introduces himself. We fall in love and I soon find out he is the wealthy heir to that chain of bookstores.

We get married and buy mansions. Emma can also buy a mansion with the money she makes from being my publicist. 

Plan Three: Bellies That Sing Woolooloo

Emma invents musical belly-button-rings that sing little tunes when you roll your belly. The first to be invented will be for Emma, which will sing “Woolooloo”. They’ll be a hit! Imagine all the things you can do! You could break awkward silences, you could confuse strangers, you could… Um… Well, that's about all you could really do. I guess they are kind of useless. But if things like Snuggies and Twilight can be popular, I don’t see why Emma’s useless invention can’t be.

Lots of money is made with this invention and we buy mansions.

"So anway I was talking to Lars and he said..." *Woolooloo* "-Did... Did your belly just-" "Yup."

Of course, nowadays most of our plans somehow end up with us buying mansions, but these three are the originals and (believe it or not) probably the most likely (our plans can get pretty out there).

Remember at the beginning when I said I was horrible at introductions? Well, the same goes for conclusions.

Instead I’ll just give you a picture of a Happy Apple Wearing Shoes: Shoople Happy.

Introduction: The Quackening

Welcome to our blog. I'll try not to waste too much of your time with boring introductions, but some is necessary for this to make the smallest hint of sense. Hello. My name is Emma, and you'll soon be meeting my colleague, Aysha. I think she's awesome, and we've been friends for years now. If you don't agree with me, you've probably been a victim of her evil phone, which tries to corrupt all of the messages she sends with sexual innuendo.

But already, here I am rambling. How appropriate, as this is sure to be one of the staples of this blog. Another crucial element will be elaborate hypothetical situations; in part, this blog exists out of my scientific curiosity as to whether there is anyone out there as nonsensical as us.

And so, to find out, I introduce you to our first tale, the namesake of this blog, The Hypothetical Ducks.

“I float because I’m made of wood, not because I’m a duck.”

On Monday night I sent off an expression of interest for an acting role in an upcoming movie. After doing so, however, I began to question whether the operation was entirely legitimate, after googling the name of the movie and discovering that it already existed (note 1: I am well aware of the concept of "remakes", but this movie was filmed only two years ago, and in the same city. What are the odds? (note 2: I really like parentheses)).

I voiced these fears to Aysha, who was immediately concerned for my safety. She asked me, "Oh god! What if they kidnap you and force you to marry some norwegian fellow who smells of goat and you have to spend the rest of your life knitting jump suits for a small wooden painted ducks! YOU COULD DO SO MUCH MORE THAN SPEND YOUR LIFE KNITTING WITH LARS SCHPEELDERDECK! SO MUCH MORE."

 Here’s the sexy beast.

I grew worried for my fate. Aysha's concerns were something I hadn't considered. I suggested to her that I could take my boyfriend, Kostas (of twofingerscroll.blogspot.com), to the audition with me, to ensure my safety. However, Aysha misinterpreted my reply, and believed that I would take Kostas to Norway with me. She questioned me as to what purpose this would serve. After much discussion, Aysha and I have established the following plan:

·      I will be kidnapped and taken to Norway by Lars Schpeelderdeck, yet will somehow smuggle my boyfriend along as well.

·      Upon arrival, I will explain to Mr. Schpeelderdeck that his plan is both flawed and illegal. Wooden ducks have no need for jumpsuits. They are wooden.

·      I will then negotiate a pay rate, and in return I will knit jumpsuits for ducks, but only for real ducks. It's about time somebody did something for them, instead of pandering to the whims of stupid, wooden ducks.

·      Then, I will synthesize a drug that causes Kostas' facial hair to grow at a(n even more) rapid rate.

·      I will routinely gather Kostas' facial hair for materials with which to knit the duck jumpsuits.

·      With my wealth from this business venture, i will buy a minimum of one mansion in England, and buy out the paracetamol manufacturing industry.

Thank you for sticking around until the end of this post! Tune in again soon if you want to know why ownership of English mansions and the control of paracetamol manufacturing are important results of this plan!

 PS. I apologise for the illustrations. I only worked on them until I got bored, not until they got good.