The British have a word, anorak. It means geek, but without the social acceptance the geek dollar has bought itself here in the States in recent years. Japanese, also: otaku. Otaku has a much more indoors-y vibe, though: an anorak might go a-rambling, but never an otaku. I can’t think up any other foreign equivalents, which might make sense, seeing as how the U.S., Japan, and the UK are really out in front of the rest of the world geek-wise. Italy has made some items of geek worship (cars, cowboy movies) but the national character just doesn’t lend itself to the sweaty-palmed need of the true geek, neither does the French: their most famous thinker walks around with his shirt unbuttoned to halfway down the shaft of his coq. Obviously, the Middle East is light on geeks: while they might have the obsessive nature and strong opinions, they lack the emotional restraint and real-world tethers to avoid being That Guy at the Con. That guy who makes us all look bad. Africa is…Jesus, man, you’ve seen what’s going on over there. They have better things to worry about than Doctor fucking Who.
Australia also seems like a geek-unfriendly culture. It’s still legal to punch homosexuals in the face for no reason at all down there and the whole place is trying to kill you constantly: the cookies have fangs. South America is also out: those fuckers get way too excited about things. Any group of more than seven people is automatically classified as a riot in, say, Bolivia. That is a true fact that, while teetering on the shiny edge of being racist, is definitely offensive to Bolivia, and the second they learn how to use computers and put down their ooga-booga sticks and…
DUDE! NOT COOL!
That one got away from me.
The whole thing, really.
Just dove into the seas of racism immediately upon hitting the beach, and then swimming with all of your might to leave the shores behind for the chance to finally be alone.
And so oddly specific. What do you have against Australia?
It’s…it’s just that we’ve talked about this.
You couldn’t be righter. Over and done.
I hope so.
Over and done, chief. So, anyway: the Grateful Dead was–LATVIANS TOUCH GOATS IN THE ASSHOLE–
–hey get offa me, man–
Bring in the next one! Sigh. Did I just say, “sigh?” Who’s writing this crap now?
I am, sir!
Who the fuck are you, you sniveling little…ah, it’s too late for either the Neidermeyer or the Dr. Doom: who are you and why should you be the new man?
Who am I? I am the Spirit of Shows Past and I am magical, oh, I am magical.
Every goddam time…
Wherever a crotch gets punched, I’ll be there. Writhing around on the ground, due to the whackle to my tackle. Whenever a harmony is deemed “good enough,” you’ll see me. Whenever at least three of them are playing different songs at the same time, around is where you’ll find this guy right here.
Tat doesn’t mean anything…oh my god: Bobby?
Big doings, Fellow Enthusiasts! Bobby the Word-Monger? Italics Voice Guy remarkably underdeveloped? Dead barely mentioned? Check in next time on…The Fantastic Six (or five or seven or eight, you know the drill.) Arrondissement, kids!