Monday, February 19, 2007

Latvia, isn’t that by Libya?


The general idiocy one encounters during a nightly excursion is frightful. First let me say, my sisters and I are expert liars. Since we are fairly well-traveled, more so than the average South Dakotan, we can pretty much get away with re-inventing our nationality at will. So, on Saturday night we ascended upon our victims with vigor, armed with our fake accents and a hodgepodge of facts.

We arrived at the house party at 9:30 pm, after heavily debating whether we should have “Prom Night” this weekend or next weekend. Let me explain. For Prom Night, each of us will adorn ourselves in THEE most garish obnoxious prom dresses ever- white gloves and all. During this shameless evening of cheesiness we will terrorize the city, one person at time. Sounds fun, eh? Anyway, I’m off topic, back to faking my nationality.

So, here we are, in a perfectly nice neighbor hood, Captain Morgan clutched firmly in my hand, as we walk to the door. Upon entering the house of said victims, we discuss the ins and outs of our plan, and rehash the basic elements of our story. Here’s the breakdown: Our parents, both high-ranking government officials in Latvia, left due to political pressure after the collapse of the USSR. We immigrated to the U.S. when I was about 8 years old, yet often return to our home during the summer months.

We began mingling with guests, using our fake accents as an opportunity to facilitate dialogue. Since the women at the party were out-numbered by the men, it was somewhat easy to lure them in. By 10:00 p.m., we had a host of on-lookers surrounding us, asking where we were form, how long we’ve been here, ect…

During the course of the conversation there were some serious displays of ignorance. Such as, “Oh yeah, Latvia, that’s by Libya, isn’t it?” and “No, No, No dude, Latvia is in Southern Europe, stupid” while he hit another boy on the head with his big gorilla hand. There were other cultural faux pas, as well as the occasional challenge. One guy actually said, “Ok, so what’s the capital of Latvia then?” To which my sister replied, “It's Riga, R-I-G-A” without missing a beat. However, if I would’ve told him the capital was Toronto, I doubt he would have known the difference.

After an few hours of delivering an Oscar-nominated performance, we left the party, dissolving into a fit of giggles as we stumbled to the car.

Score one for the foreign chicks.

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