Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Jag Vill Ha Sex Please!

No April Fool's joke this. I’m here to break a record.
I’m here, in my favourite Scandinavian cafe,
to try and eat more hot dogs in one sitting
than anyone has ever dared to eat in here before.
Any excuse to wear my blue Björn Borg underpants.
Any excuse to wear my vintage 1986 Hummel football shirt.
Seriously, I’ve been in training. I’ve even employed a designated scorekeeper.
I've chosen the best seats in the house. I've removed my belt. The stage is set.
My favourite barista is on duty today, and she piles them high;
warm korv in a Vienna-type bread roll, with toasted onions,
ketchup, a healthy dash of remoulade and a squeeze of
nuclear-green sweet pickle relish on the top.
En, Två, Tre, Fyra, Fem and Sex.
It’s a messy business. Not for the fainthearted.
Turns out, the word “Sex” in Swedish can mean
both the digit 6 and, yes, also the act of making love.
It’s a Nordic double-entendre not lost on me.
The day is Wednesday. The time is 16:43 hours.
The receipt simply reads; Hot Dog Hot Dog
Hot Dog Hot Dog Hot Dog Hot Dog.

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