Last Fall I attended this Martha Stewart party with my Norwegian companion, Mads, at her place in the Hamptons. The invitations employed a perfect color scheme of Earth tones like Burnt Sienna and Aztec Brick. The party was as pretentious as the invitations suggested it would be.
Somehow I lost Mads and found myself in a conversation with one of the guys from The West Wing that wasn't Martin Sheen, Diddy, and Dr. Phil about the realistic chances of anyone catching Chelsea for the Premiership. I was certain that Jose Moreno couldn't keep the team playing at that high a level for the whole season, and that Man Utd. would make a charge, much to my chagrin, being an Arsenal fan. Diddy was about to rub in Tottenham's success when a waiter approached us with an hors d'oeuvres platter.
"Wo ist meine Fleischpastete?" [Where is my meatpie?].
He was twitching. I scowled at him and replied:
"Dir hat man wohl ins Gehirn geschissen und vergessen unzuruhren." [Someone must've shit in your head and forgot to stir, or "You're crazy."]
He dropped the platter, then walked off in a stilted manner. A few minutes later Martha ran frantically into the room.
"Thank God I've found you, man. Please tell me you've seen my German robot."
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