An American, an Irishman, and a Chineseman get stranded on a deserted island.

I finished up an old notebook the other day and found this silly retelling of a common middle-school joke.  It was mainly just a way to pass the time on the bus.  I like it, though it has no chance of ever being published by anything with any amount of respectability.  However, there is a message in here and I had fun writing it, so I didn't want to just have it waste away in My Documents folder.  Plus, I got to make fun of two literary giants of the early-20th century.  Enjoy.

When the American, the Irishman, and the Chineseman found themselves stranded on a deserted island forty-six nautical miles off the coast of Molikini, none of them realized that it was all a joke. Nobody panicked; the closest was the Irishman who realized he only had but one bottle of Bushmills stored in the empty fishing compartment. Rational minds make plans and the three immediately gathered onto the beach, sinking their toes into the slushy sand, that even wet, was still the temperature and texture of recently abandoned porridge. The Chineseman wrapped a towel around his head to protect himself from the sun and the other followed suit.

The American had always viewed himself a leader, the type who could even run a whole nation if only given the chance, but thus far nobody had followed him. The three stood in a circle. The Irishman kicked the muck. The Chineseman stood deep in thought. After waiting a polite thirty seconds, the American began the speech he had been composing since he first heard the boat scrape upon the coral.

“I guess nobody expected when the three us, the Irishman, the Chineseman, and the American walked into a bar that we'd find ourselves improbably washed up on a deserted island, but here we are. Thankfully, we've all been calm; nobody has been tossing around blame.”

“That's cause it was your bloody fault! And Americans are the ones who always have to talk about everything.” The Irishman was not angry, but nobody could tell.

“I was merely steering. The Chineseman was in the front keeping watch.”

“Yes, but I scleamed 'Lock! Lock!' But you do nothing.” The Chineseman, of course, had trouble differentiating his l's from r's, a common affliction among his countrymen that find themselves trapped in an unlikely comic situation. The two sounds are not so different when one actually thinks about it, but I implore you to not, for that would detract from the punch line.

“Yes, you said 'lock lock' which I interpreted to mean that I should lock the wheel steady, not veer. I can hardly be held responsible for your inability to speak clearly.”

The Chineseman brought his hands together and said, “Oh, me so sorry.” and the American continued his speech.

“Well anyway, we're here, three fatefully met men, who have found ourselves the victim of a snorkelling excursion gone wrong. Now, although this has never happened to me before, when I was getting my boating license, we learned a bit about survival. The four elements of living through these types of situations are food, water, shelter, and communication with the outside world.”

“Have you tried the radio?” asked the Irishman.

“It seems our communication capabilities were severed in the collision. Now, to secure these four things, it is best if we split up and do the jobs most suited to our characters. Now, Irishmen are skilled at the following things: growing potatoes, drinking, fishing, and Catholic guilt. There are no potatoes here, so you should just grab a spear, a bag, and one of the snorkel sets and see if you can't wrangle us some fish. These waters are teaming with hummuhummunukunukuapua'a.”

“You realize you're an arsehole right?”

“I don't even know what that is. Why can't anybody on this island speak good?”

Neither answered.

“Ok,” continued the American, “we all know that Americans are born leaders, hardworking, and industrious.”

“What about Chinese? We all industlious! We buird youl lairloads. We make canar from Bejing to Shanghai. We make a giant war!”

“That's nothing to be proud of” said the Irishman, “plus, it's the bloody Americans that are best at making war.”

“No, a war! A war!”

“Can we all agree that you can't build anything? You can't even talk.” The American shut him up. “I'll build us a shelter and collect wood for a fire. Chineseman, you can use sticks and stuff to write 'Help us' in the sand, then go down into the boat, empty out all the cupboards and see if you can't put together supplies. Got it? Good!” He clapped his hands and they went off to work.

The Irishman grabbed all the equipment he needed and floated out above the barrier coral in search of fish. The sun shined above and his body cast a shadow above the ocean floor that was unmistakably like a crucifix. It reminded him of his childhood. Cloppclopping on the wet cobbled stones of the Dublin streets, watching his boots splash the unfinished mosaic.

“Hey ya Irish bastard, get in here, you'll catch a cold,” he could hear his father yell.

His father was British, a protestant, fell for the sparkling round green eyes of his mother like they were the rolling hills of the countryside. His fiery-haired matriarch would slap his behind if he found himself too wet. 

No flashbacks, just fish but none seemed to work only floating in vast repercussions of the days past and God's plan oh did he even have a plan hummuhummunukunukuapua'a church four times a week Catholic mass Kalvinist teaching fiery brimstone falling falling into the twice damned hell of the eternally conflicted to be not burned but infinitely wet and yes also burned hummuhummunukunukuapua'a coral spotted like the walls of O'Malley's blood spattered butchers walls shadows soaring looming over the aquatic kingdom as if he's the grace of the world or just Poseidon trident ready to strike down in fury in lasivation smite or salvation spear in the slithery shark water filled with crimson blood like the flowing red hair he'd never see again especially if he never made it from this bloody island hummuhummunukunukuapua'a.

The American stood looking at the impenetrable rain forest before him. Death was beyond and so was life. The sun bore down upon him mercilessly and he sweated and he pondered to figure a way to fell a tree. He wished to use it to build a splendid tiki hut. It would have a thatched roof and a bed of coconut shavings. The American spent his boyhood summers learning lashing, camping, camaraderie, and how to use a knife. His father was a doctor at the Indian camp. He taught him the skills one needs to be a true man. His father taught him how to fish. He taught him how to find the best grasshoppers for trout fishing. What Americans call grasshoppers are locusts and they are terrible for fishing. He knew that the best grasshoppers are found under rocks in the dawn when the grasshopper are drowsy and do not hop. There were no grasshoppers here. He saw the jungle and the darkness inside and knew he could enter unhindered. He collected dead-fall for poles. He cut down vines and stretched them out to test their elasticity. He would use these for rope. He pulled off the bark from the trees and he would use it for kindling. He used a shingle from a palm as a shovel and dug a series of seven holes into the sand. These holes were laid out in a quadrangle. He had made such huts before in the war and knew that needed exactly eight holes to build a strong hut. He drove eight posts into the ground methodically. He slung the vines from one post to the other. He placed palm fronds over the top and made a roof. He admired his hut. He grabbed the poles and shook the hut andsaw it was true. It would withhold much. It was a good hut. It could not withstand a storm.

When he finished, he sat in his shelter and watched the Chineseman drag logs and sticks to beach to make his message to the world, before heading back to the boat for the supplies.

Shortly after, the Irishman emerged with three hummuhummunukunukuapua'a and a meter long coral shark. It would be a feast. Together they built a spit, lighting the first with the Chineseman's glasses that were stolen when he had set them down earlier. They smelled the sweet smell of smoking meat and smiled, knowing they wouldn't die that night.

They walked along the beach reading the message left upon the sand. They passed an H, followed by an E, then a mysterious R.

“Damn Chineseman!” the Irishman muttered.

Next was P, then some space. The next letter was an E and finally an S.

The Irishman burst into laughter. “Yer man just spelled Herpes!”

“Nobody will ever save us reading that!”

“Where is he anyway?”

“Last I saw, he was heading to the boat.”

The two waded through the water to the dinghy and pulled themselves on board. It was eerily quiet with no signs of life.

“Do you think he fell in?” asked the American.

“No, we would see his body floating.”

They went below deck and it was also empty. They were about to give up, head back to the beach enjoy some fresh BBQ shark, when one of the cupboards popped open and out sprung the Chineseman, arms extended. The other two jumped in shock.

“Supplies!” he yelled.

Why did the Swede cross the road?

I've developed a bad habit or at least a not-very-good one. I can blame my wife for it if I wanted, but it is of no fault of hers. I'd done the same thing for years, with other targets, namely residents of Wisconsin or Iowa. But, no matter how much I try, I can't stop myself from making fun of Swedes.

There are many Swedes here, plenty of targets for my flung fodder, flocking to Norway because of the low unemployment and high wages, and because they've run out of people with whom to have one-night-stands. Bergen also has lots of Latvians, but not a single barb develops in my head when I shake hands with one of them (though, I challenge anyone that isn't Lithuanian to pull a quality Latvian joke out of their ass). However, the second I meet a Swede, I find myself saying things like, “Oh, well that explains a lot!” As if being Swedish has some deeper meaning. I like Swedes, but it doesn't stop me from asking all the Swedish bartenders here if they've slipped a roofie in my drink. It isn't funny to imply to that a complete stranger dabbles in rape, no matter how slutty the nation's reputation, but these lines keep pouring from my mouth. I love to defend my jokes with anecdotes from Australia. How I happened to make out with every Swedish woman I talked to for more than an hour (true story), but is this a reflection of the promiscuity of Swedes or my general attraction to Scandinavian women?

It hasn't gotten me in trouble yet, most are used to such level of abuse from Norwegians, but does living in Norway for seven months already buy me the right to abuse? I suppose somebody can insult the neighbors lawn, a collection of crab grass and dandelions after years of friendly banter, but if their buddy comes over, such a joke would be considered rude, abusive even.

My coworkers, David and Isak, do have fun with my svenske spøker. Dave in particular turns them all around to argue that Sweden is superior to Norway. Everything from the bread, cheese, to the sausage is defamed as being a bit worse here in Norway, primarily because Norway in not in the EU and thus has less variety of food-stuffs. In addition, Norway never bred Abba and that's a strike against any nation. The two countries are not that different after all; just variations on a theme. Norweigans love meat cakes, the Swedes meatballs. Sweden exports Death Metal, Norway Black Metal. Norway uses æ, ø, å; Sweden uses å, ä , ö. Both love waffles and smoked things and cod and brown cheese. Maybe that is the need for the jokes, to carve out just a bit of national identity between these two cultures, to help them feel individual. 'Cause ya know, they don't have the vast rift of differences like the Sconnies and Minnesotans.  Now as to why I do it: it's probably because I'm a jerk.

Snusin'

One of the more positive things about Norway is the infrequency of smokers. Granted, much like anywhere else, cigarette butts do litter the streets, though not too much, and Norwegians are prodigious party smokers, but outside of Fridays and Saturdays nights outside of pubs, catching a whiff of passive smoke is relatively rare. However, Scandinavia has a habit that may be worse.

If you look carefully at the upper lips or cheeks of a Norwegian or Swede, you may notice a slight bulge, though maybe not; many have honed an art of discretion surrounding these things, the only admission of shame from the habit one is likely to get from such a proud, stoic culture. To those not cued to notice such subtleties, the main giveaway is the “switch”. Out comes the circular canister, into the mouth goes the fingers, with a flash, the pouch is pulled from the mouth and safely deposited into the holding compartment in the top. Then the container is twisted open, a new one pinched between the fingers. One hand holds out the upper lip, the back of the other wipes the saliva away before the tobacco is inserted. And once again, after a mere second for the experts, the Norskie is like everyone else, only slightly more lightheaded.

The prevalence of snus use in Scandinavia is staggering, some 20% use it and the statistics are rising. It is not a coincidence that most brands of chewing tobacco feature such Nordic names like Skol or Copenhagen, though in America, people prefer their tobacco loose. Here, the brown leaf is contained in a little paper filter; to shove tobacco directly into your lips is undistinguished and rather gross. Though this criticism is a bit unfair. An American chewer's byproduct is merely disgusting spit, often washed away quickly, easily, all biodegradable. However a snus packet lasts much longer, spending days polluting sidewalks, urinal bottoms, tabletops, glasses, even interior floors. I often wonder the point of the disposable compartment on the top of the can if so few are willing to use it. Though a snus pouch is a hair more disgusting than a cigarette butt, it at least takes significantly less than the 1,000,000 years or however long the scientists say for a filter to disappear.

Scandinavians are quite defensive of their habit, viewing it as being an altogether different beast than a smoke-induced nicotine addiction. “It's not dangerous!” they say. “It's actually quite safe,” some claim. “At least I won't get lung cancer!” which is entirely true. Snus is not safe though. Most stats on snus consumption's relationship to cancer is used to help lift the EU's ban on the stuff, and focuses primarily on how safe it is compared to smoking. Users can still get pancreatic cancer, mouth cancer, diabetes, and a nasty monkey on their back. Bronchitis and other diseases are less frequent in the lump-mouthed brethren, but it can hardly be called safe. Mainly, because of its limited use in comparison to smoking, we just don't know enough about the widespread health risks. Rarely are Norwegians willing to listen to the risks; they know them. Possibly their snus-modesty is a defense, out-of-side, out -of-mind.

It's not confined just to men as it usually is in the states. Chew in the states has always been a man's habit, the domain of construction workers, janitors, or more romantically: cowboys and baseball players. No such prejudice exists here; many an attractive woman's butt is disfigured by a raised circular container in the back pocket. I count myself lucky that my wife is not a snuser. To kiss a spicy mouth with brown slime dripping down the front teeth seems worse than kissing a smoker, though thankfully I've never had the misfortune nor drive to compare.

Now and then, when out with a friend, I'll slip one into my lips and sit back until the dizziness and usually (for me anyway) the hiccups to start, but it's never something I crave. Back when I smoked regularly, I went to a Twins game and accepted my first hit of chew. I forgot about it and 30 minutes later, I was keeled over with a stomach and headache, with only vague connection to the reality of the sport before me. No cigarette has ever done that to me.

Nicotine is a strange beast. Sometimes on a sunny day, sipping beer, looking over some beautiful mountains or the sea, nothing beats the extra lift of a smoke, making the world just a tiny bit brighter, but the second does nothing but make me angry that the first moment of inhale was so fleeting. The third washes away the memory altogether, replacing it with a sore throat, bad breath, and a growing need for a fourth. Cigarettes are more discrete (not in that you notice them less, but they seem to have a clearer starting and ending point). A snus is a long-lasting platform shoe that some can never take off, like some tobacco IV. But nobody wakes from a wild night on the town, coughing up a wad of crud and utters, “Gosh, why did I have so many snuses last night?” So maybe that creates a false sense of safety. Snus is inherently an unlimiting habit, yet the risk of chronic health problems still exist. I can't speak much for others, but for a person who has struggled in my adult years to abandon a habit like an occasional cigarette, my abusive lover, always welcoming on the first kiss, but inevitably destined to break my heart and leave me longing for more, snus might be worse.