“Have you heard this song before?” My wife asks as she turns up the radio a little for me to hear the lyrics. “It’s so weird.”
“No, I’ve… Wait… What’s he singing?”
“I’d catch a grenade for ya.”
“Really? Wow. Why?”
“I don’t know but it sounds like a nice song until you listen to the lyrics. Then it just gets creepy.”
“Why would he… Oh my god! What was that one? I’d jump in front of a train for ya? Take a bullet straight through my brain?” I say, repeating the words I have just heard. “Under what normal daily circumstances does he expect he would need to do all this?”
A few moments later we have pulled into a petrol station and are crowded around the car radio, analysing the lyrics.
“For the sake of argument, if we said he was catching grenades and taking bullets to save the one he loves I still fail to see how jumping in front of a train would accomplish anything. At that point he really is just committing suicide.”
“And then complaining that she won’t do the same for him.” My wife adds.
“Yeah. Maybe he just really desires a girlfriend who lacks even the most basic of self preservation and survival skills. I think he should lower his expectations a little. He needs to come up with some more reasonable and realistic things to do for love, stuff like; I’d make a midnight snack for ya. Put the toilet seat down for ya.”
“You are such a romantic.”
“Wait… What was that one? I’d throw my head on a plane for ya?”
“No. I think it’s put my head on a plate for ya.”
“Well that’s just stupid. How is that going to help anything?”
(We later found out the line was in fact; I’d throw my hands on a blade for ya… which is still stupid.)
“He sounds a bit stalker-ish if you ask me,” I inform my wife “I bet he is the weird silent one at the office. I bet you it’s three in the morning and he’s just suddenly shown up on the doorstep of a girl from accounting who he’s never spoken to and started singing this stuff.”
“Are you trying to say you would not catch a grenade for me?”
“Er… well…”
“I’d catch a grenade for you.”
“Oh?”
“I’d throw it away again quickly of course. I’m not stupid.”
“I would hope not.”
Thursday morning at the office started with an email from the HR department:
To: All
Subject: Mikka is dead…
His body is in the HR office for anyone who would like to say good bye.
The news that one of my co-workers had died came as a bit of a shock but not as shocking as the fact that the email seemed to be suggesting that his body had been laid out on an office desk for everyone see. Where his grieving parents also going to swing by the office? Were they going to bury him in the back garden?
A short while later another email was sent all:
To: All
Subject: RE: Mikka is dead…
Mikka is the office cat, not a human.
Something tells me I was not the only one who got confused.
I just have to hope she stops singing, “All the women who are independent. Throw your hands up at me,” before the wedding. Either way, I guess I made a good impression on that first date.
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| Invading Holland |
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