To Swedish men
Editor’s Note: This article is purely satirical and fictitious. All attributions in this article are not genuine and this story should be read in the context of pure entertainment only.
Dear Swedish men,
It’s come to my attention that you are, to a proportion of the Stanford female population, hot. Not necessarily all of the female population, but at least those few that I am interested in.
Allow me to explain. This all goes back to last year, when I asked a girl out and she said that, despite enjoying my company, my wit, my general ambiance and joie de vivre, I reminded her too much of her father for us to become much of anything. Now of course I understood, but as I moved on with my life I soon noticed that she began dating this hunky Swedish god of a man. Six-foot-three, blue eyes, blonde hair, a chiseled jawline: he had a way of saying “ja” that made even me swoon with warm, romantic thoughts of raiding English monasteries. His name was Bjorn, and I hope my previous description of him is enough indication to you, dear reader, that I was not in the least bit surprised nor disappointed in being jilted.
I thought nothing of Bjorn until months later, when my attention turned once again towards my love life. Woman No. 2, whose name will remain anonymous, was funny, charming, kind, beautiful: she was perfect… for Sven, the Swede who ultimately made it through the three-round application process to date Woman No. 2 (did I mention she was a CS major?).
Coincidence? I thought not… until Woman No. 3, in a carefully worded text message, informed me that no, she couldn’t get dinner with me on Saturday, because her boyfriend was in town. Her boyfriend whom she had met during her term abroad. Her boyfriend, from Sweden.
I was dumbfounded. It wasn’t the rejection that bothered me, but the Swedes. Three rejections, each time associated with a Swede? I know correlation isn’t causation but, I mean… could it be? Could these three Swedes be the reason for my singleness? I asked my closest confidants for their input: my roommate said they were out of my league and my mother just said I needed to work out more and leave the library. In a rather confusing moment, one of my problem set partners said not to worry, that by the time President Donald Trump had “dealt” with “NATO” and the “immigrants,” my “Swedish problem” would become a thing of the past (quotations added for emphasis).
Now upon reflection, I understand that my lack of compatibility with these three women was due to far more than my relative lack of Swedishness. But on the off chance it did, I offer the following message. First, to Sweden, for whatever I did to offend your country, I apologize. I have nothing against you or your people; I even have IKEA furniture at home and am a big fan of ABBA. Moreover, I hope you understand that I do respect you, your place in NATO and your value as an esteemed trading partner for the United States. But to Swedish men, and I don’t normally do this, I am going on a blind date this Friday, and I would appreciate it if you let me, you know, have a chance with her. Please. I beg of you. Just give me one moment with her, and whatever happens after, so be it.
Update: I went on that blind date. She was wonderful, so kind, so charming. I asked her name and she said Olga. From Stockholm, Sweden.
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