I have no idea what I’m looking at, but I need it to stop. Not only is there nothing on heaven or Earth that could compel me to wear those shoes, I’m never taking this man out to lunch. Even if he offered to pay. Even if he offered to drive and pay and feed me peeled grapes, I would not do it. He licked the bottom of a shoe, that’s all you need to know. I don’t think I need to explain myself further.
Although I only have the most basic understanding of the English language, I have a deep knowledge of strange accents and styles of speaking. I can recognize and translate every accent from murmured Russian and bellowed German, to less comprehensible utterances like jive and teenager. I know you’re all probably very impressed, but I’m afraid that my abilities are not as complete as I once thought. Like many sensible, God-fearing people, I am completely bewildered by anything that comes out of the United Kingdom and Ireland; the British are mostly hopeless, the Scottish are confusing a best, and the Irish are terrifying. The whole place is an absolute mess when it comes to communication, and that is what bothers me the most. I have no idea how three places so close together have managed to invent so many dialects.
I will admit that some of the English have sorted themselves out, so you won’t need a dedicated translator on your vacation to London, but it’s a good idea to bring one with you in case you run into an Irishman:
I’m sorry — could you say that again?
Ten hours of Liam Neeson staring. Me, I’d rather watch Rob Roy five times, but I’m strange like that.
Set phasers on WTF.