“Lady, this is a very serious matter. Stop laughing, please,” Said the British boarder control personnel as he clutched my passport, driver’s license, and train ticket in his hands. His icy glare preached more than just his simple command. His expression screamed I-am-going-to-murder-you-and-no-one-will-ever-find-the-body. I still wonder to this day what would have happened if there wasn’t a chunky desk separating us.
Clamping my mouth shut, I mumbled a swift and overly embarrassed, “Sorry,” before ducking my head down in shame. Due to my shoddy American deciphering skills, his heavy northern British accent was no match for my said skills. I honestly thought he incorporated “dancing moose,” into the interrogation. I truly believed that he was cracking a joke due to how blatantly nervous I was. Therefore, jumping on the opportunity to laugh my brains out, I snickered when he repeated “dancing moose,” again. Too bad I have forgotten what he actually said, but the most important fact is he was asking me wherein England I was going to be staying (for how many hours) and why in the world did I not memorize the address of the final destination.
I was an American who dealt with the friendly and receptive smiles of Belgian officers for the previous months due to my year abroad in Leuven. What I had intended to do was jump on the Eurostar from Brussels to London and then take a series of trains, by myself, to visit a long-time friend stationed in a remote town that the winds of history failed to acknowledge. Already near-convulsing due to the nerves firing throughout my body, I was overly receptive to all sorts of humor to help alleviate the tension. Therefore “dancing moose,” was the spark that ignited the fuse of my funny bone… and I was gone for a solid minute. Perhaps two.
Now, Spencer and Freud would gladly dance around this particular example because I became the poster child of their theory. A young girl travels alone and has the responsibility of lugging herself from point A to point B, which just so happens to be nearly an entire-day’s worth of travelling, I repeat, by herself. This story has a happy ending, though. The young girl happened to share a four-top with a rich man whose racehorse won something akin to the Kentucky Derby and bought the entire car a nice round of Stella Artois. The last bit was irrelevant, but I felt the need to insert it somewhere. Regardless, I was a cornucopia of emotion ranging from excitement to abject horror. According to Spencer, since I had undergone such incongruous mood swings and didn’t properly divert them, they manifested in the form of laughter at the cue of “Dancing moose.” My rebellious laughter upset the stern border control personnel, who then proceeded to judge my country for my poor reaction. But then again, I hardly understood a word of his thick accent, so I reflect on this event rather fondly than with shame. Hey, I made a fool of myself in front of a man who reminds me of that serious officer from Hot Fuzz and didn’t get tazered; rock on!
Now, Descartes would have a field day with that last remark. Since I am theoretically depreciating myself, I am therefore scornful and more than obliged to partake in some healthy respiratory exercise. Hobbes would jump like an excited Chihuahua at that remark since I am subconsciously expressing hatred of the Simon Pegg look-alike. Freud and Spencer would then join the party of tearing apart my personal experience with British officers and disregard the sheer ridiculousness of the entire situation. It’s amazing how all these men have belittled humor to make it either asinine or spiteful. I laugh at this instance because of how a simple misunderstanding created such an unnecessary situation. Although I walked away from Mr. “Dancing Moose” with a chafed pride, I cannot help but find this particular moment a true gem of a classic “Megs moment.” I tend to have a lot of those