My husband hates The Netherlands

My husband hates The Netherlands

I met him a few years ago, and things were great — until last week, when I suggested that we go on a trip to The Netherlands — his cheeks turned an angry shade of red, his hands started shaking, a massive vein appeared on his forehead. And worst of all; he peed his pants.

As the vile odour singed my olfactory nerve, I slowly approached him. He seemed to be having a panic attack. I asked him what’s wrong;

“I- I just fucking hate The Netherlands, man! Every single time I see one of those cycling *fucks*, I- I just lose all control! I just want to smash their head in with a bicycle pump!”

Ever since then he’s been getting worse.

One time in Walmart, at the checkout, he suddenly froze; all of the aforementioned things once again happened to him. The vein, the red cheeks, the pant-piss. Trying not to gag from his new fragrance by Penis Rabanne, I asked him what’s wrong.

He simply raised a shivering hand and pointed at a man wearing a bicycle helmet at another checkout machine.

“N-Ne- Netherlander!”

Remembering the past occurrence, I clasped both of my hands around his and told him that wearing a helmet doesn’t make you a netherlander. He tore his hand away from mine and cried “I can sense it, man! He’s a goddamned *netherlander*!”

The ‘netherlander’ turned his head, with a raised eyebrow.

“Eksuse mi, lahdy,” he said in the thickest dutch accent I’ve ever heard. “Ihs yur høsbænd ahlright?”

Unable to bear it any longer, my husband practically flew at the netherlander, pulled the bicycle pump out of the netherlander’s back pocket and beat him to a fine pulp.

The pulp lay there, motionless, for no longer than a minute before a roaring sound broke the silence. It came from outside. I went to check it out whilst my husband sat still, panting in front of the soup. I lurched through the rotating doors and emerged outside the building. For a moment I was confused — I saw nothing out of the ordinary; A monstrous parking lot, mostly empty, along with a few shopping carts dotting the scene. After this moment, my senses seemed to recalibrate, and I realised that the sound was coming from above.

Looking up, I could not believe my eyes; a helicopter was hovering about 30 feet above me — but this was not the shocking part — inside the helicopter two men with the most perfect legs I have ever seen were pedalling faster than I could comprehend. With a start I realised that they were powering the helicopter with their legs. The craft gracefully descended and eventually made contact with the asphalt.

Both men jumped out of their bike-copter and sprinted through the doors, with me on their tail. Once inside they jumped the 20 something feet to the now solidifying pulp. The two men then proceeded to inject something into the pulp, and the netherlander started to take shape. After a few seconds, fully healed, he turned to the two men and asked “Hov mutsh?”

The calvetacular men turned to each other, confused, “O, no charg, sir!”

The netherlander looked embarrassed, “O, of corse! I haf bin in The U.S.A. for so long I almøst fårgot!”

“No problem!” said the two sexbombs in unison, before jumping so high they broke the glass roof. Some of the shards killed a bystander. Then they jumped again, this time instantly disappearing.

The remaining netherlander turned to my husband, his smile now gone, “nov, vhere vere ve?”

My husband looked up at him, seething with rage. He tried to hit him with the bicycle pump again, but his opponent laughed, “yu tink that tis vil vork again?” and kicked the pump out of his hand faster that I could see.

My husband had had enough, and he started running at the netherlander. In the next moment he was gone, and there was a hole in the wall behind where he had previously stood. “Yur høsbænd is in the Netherlands nov. I ekspekt he vill die of eksposure shortly.” Then he turned his attention towards me, “hov about ve jump to Paris? Ve kan skip the line at the Eiffel Tower! Ve’ll just jump up to the top!”

Compared to my previous husband, he was definitely a step up. “I’d love that.” I said.

He wrapped his arm around my waist, bent his legs and, the next I knew, we were on top of the Eiffel Tower.

#husband #hates #Netherlands