The other night, I was at a pub with a gang of Irish folk. I like to think of the Irish as modern-day pirates. I'm terrible at doing impressions and accents, so whenever I try to tell my friends back home stories from my day, I end up talking like a pirate. "Another pot of grog," I say, "It's drivin' me nuts! Yarrrr!"

I was running out of material and began regaling my Irish pals with the abuse I've suffered already as an American in a foreign country. The accusatory talk of wars, the Arnold Schwarzenegger impressions I've had to endure, people calling me fat, it never ends here. I'm of the belief that as an American in Europe, I'm considered exotic. A hot-house flower in a cold (and drizzly) environment. The Irish, it seems, are not of the same opinion. This is likely due to the large amounts of 'Friends' that is broadcast here--it renders my accent less curious. I've begun threatening to bomb people that disagree or contradict me in any way, which usually brings a pleasant silence to the table. This allows me to continue my anecdotes without interruption. Midway through the evening, I entertained the Dublin posse with my story about getting called a snobby cunt by a man on the street the other day.

"I don't think the guy knew you were an American," my new Gaelic friend said. "At least, I don't think that's why he said that to you."

"He probably said it because you are, in fact, a snobby coont."