Yeah, That's Right, I Said "Schadenfreude"

By Beowulf

And I’ll say it again, too, motherfucker. It’s German…like, really German. Which means it’s some cold shit to say to someone with a deficient sprachgefuhl. Most fools out there are about Romance languages: French, Spanish, Italian. Some dummkopf—I’m ashamed to call him a fellow Geat—the other day told me our crew had a real esprit de corps. Like I’m supposed to be impressed with that, motherfucker? Didn’t Ice Cube use that one in Barbershop or something? It’s passé, tired, stale. Most importantly, it’s not us, not our language (neither is German, but let’s be honest, incorporating it into my everyday lexicon is the closest I’m going to get these days). Do you know what we used to call the ocean? Hwaelweg. We combined the words for “whale” and “road.” How awesome is that? Yep, aside from the occasional quasi-corporeal creature terrorizing our mead halls, we had a pretty sweet thing going. Back then sea monsters could be choked by human hands, mermaids could be loved by human cocks, and language could be used by both the direct and the imaginative. And then that motherfucker William of Normandy came along. It sends me into a weltschmerz deeper and darker than Grendel’s watery lair to think that since then, hundreds of years of global exchange have corrupted my language beyond recognition. Now look at me! Peppering my pathetic English sentences with German intellectualisms! And for what purpose? To tap into some pre-lapsarian linguistic bliss? I am my own worst enemy, my own source of shadenfreude. AAAAHHHH!!!! Cruel world! I’ll leave you with this:

Swa sceal geong guma gode gewyrcean,
Fromum feohgiftum on faeder bearme.