Our brush with death

So there we were, innocently sipping our delicious German beverages (Glühwein, heiß Apfelsaft mit something or other and the like) at our local hangout, the Jazzy-C – you may know it for being the workplace of a particularly tardy waitress – when, out of nowhere, we were violated.

Mark was in the middle of commenting on my sideburns, I was snorting Glühwein through my nostrils, Jess was picking her jaw off the floor and Simon was juggling pity and disgust when, suddenly, a wiry crazed hobo with a laptop materialised at our table. One minute it was all merriment and “hahaha Agnes doesn’t have side burns” in reproachful but uncertain tones and the next it was incomprehensible German sneering. In German. In clear, but nonetheless completely impenetrable, German.

Like “ich ven$&#^sdf vboisb$#%sdn”, meaning something like “I despise you. If my unwashed ponytail wasn’t holding me back I’d shit on all your faces”. 

For several surreal seconds the crazy continued to stare us down and spit angry words through his teeth, one hand squeezing an empty chair at the end of our table – a quiet reminder that he wasn’t afraid of modern-baroque velour.

We gave him our best stunned expressions; the innocent kind that say “it’s not our fault that one of us may or may not have sideburns” and asked him in polite German to repeat himself.

This maddened him. Take this as a lesson: never ask a crazed hobo to do such a thing. He raved and ranted stabbing us all with his eyes before finally shouting “SHIT IN BRAINS” (in perfectly clear English) and storming out.

We still can’t work out what he said or why he chose to accost our table, but now we go to Jazzy-C armed to the teeth.