Achtung: Shut The Hell Up.

I can handle loud, annoying people disturbing me in public places. But you crazy German bitches, with your guttural and phlemgy ejaculations that I could never define as "conversation," pushed me over the edge.

I've learned to accept and can handle and can now block out the nasal-bitch tones of the girl who sounds like a morbid version of a Valley Girl by uttering "like. . ." in every other word of her sentences. I've learned not to let my blood pressure spike whenever that guy sitting next to me on the train doesn't realize he doesn't have to scream into his cell phone to be heard. I've even learned to accept and even love the crazies that I bump into, daily, in this city. But you German bitches—your screeching blathering affected me on a level so primal, I don't know if I'll ever be able to plug the hole in my psyche.

I was in a coffeehouse. It wasn't crowded. The lights were low. There was no dissonant music playing to justify the indie-existence of the hipster latte-jockeys working behind the counter. There wasn't, for a refreshing change, a gaggle of students chattering about everything but their studies (like oh my gaaaaawd! She, like, slept with him on the first date? What a sluuuuuuuuut!). I sat down and unpacked my stuff and with the seldom felt but oh so relished zen-like reverie of tranquility. The cherry on top of the entire scenario was that I was there to fuck off. I wasn't doing any work for anyone or anything but myself, another rarity.

I sipped my coffee, grabbed a book, opened my notebook and began enjoying engaging in "want to's" instead of the tsunami of "have to's" that have washed over my life as of late. Just as I sighed with pleasure and began reading the best book I've come across in years, your German friend entered. You were already there in the coffeehouse with me, but I wasn't aware of your existence, sitting directly behind me and to my left. I did, however, become immediately and acutely aware of your presence behind me upon the entry of your friend. As your friend entered the coffeehouse, you greeted her with, well, a noise that sounded like you were trying to snort a three-inch diameter sized phlegm ball up your nose.

I actually jumped in my chair at your "greeting," which simultaneously slashed through and demolished the peaceful atmosphere. And then, my god, your friend who was toting two young children with her, began talking to you. She sat down and the most hellish, guttural foreign conversation (punctuated by occasional higher-pitched gutteralisms from the Kraut children) began. I've heard many unpleasant noises over the course of my life, but your conversation was the worst. It affected me on an irrational and emotional level. The cacophony of tones elicited a flight or fight response from me. Adrenaline shot through my body, and my mouth was saturated with the coppery taste of batteries. Your words actually made my stomach upset. My teeth watered. My eardrums hurt. I tried—I really tried—to block out the sounds of your conversation, but the phlegm balls lodged in both your throats filtered every guttural word and phrase, piercing every defense shield I could throw up like needles through wax paper. Still, at first, I continued to fight. I thought I could eventually block out the noise or at least get used to it. Humans adapt well to stressful situations. I, like most people, am desensitized to persistent bad smells and grating noises. When I hop on the train and I wind up next to a guy who smells like onions and armpit, by the time I get to to my destination the smell isn't so bad anymore. When I'm driving through rural country, after a while, the manure doesn't smell so bad anymore. Elwood blues, who lived right next to the El tracks, told his brother Jake, "So often you won't even notice it after a while," in response to Jake's question, "How often does the train go by?" I thought this seemingly universal principle of human adaptability would apply to you two über bitches. It didn't. The opposite was true in this situation. I couldn't get used to your noise. My irritation didn't lessen, but increased. The manner in which you would both be silent for a moment—a moment when I would let my mental guard down, relish the brief moment of silence and collect myself—and then suddenly burst forth with a barrage of Accch! Chhhhhhh! and Fghthhhhhh! noises was a battering ram on my eardrums and skull. A tension headache came on quickly and with the force of a Panzer tank division. I couldn't stand it anymore. At the height of one of your most skull penetrating rants (but for all I know you were conversing about a new stove one of you picked up at Sears), I raised the book I was attempting to read above the table, and let it drop. The loud thud of my book stopped your conversation. Briefly. It was the moment that set me free. I took this moment of relief to quickly pack up and run out of the coffeehouse as quickly as possible. Just as my hand touched the doorway turned escape hatch, one of you got one last shot in, a noise that sounded like a train wreck in a mucus factory, but its effect was dissipated by the distance. I pushed my way out to freedom.

I know its wrong to hate, but in this situation I don't care. I'm allowed to judge. I have tastes. I now judge that your language is less pleasing to the ear than wailing, stray cats in heat trying to fuck one another, nails dug in, across a chalkboard. Your phlegmy linguistics were bad, but I will at least concede that the previous idyllic atmosphere juxtaposed with your noises probably amplified my annoyance. The German speaking children, thankfully, were happy children who laughed a lot. I thank God that laughter sounds the same in both German and English. The only potential positive I can see in your language is if the American government hired the two of you. Hostage situations and modern sieges could be virtually eliminated if the government were to record your normal conversations and then play them through enormous speakers pointed at the buildings and houses where people are holed-up. If the government had this as an available resource back in 1993, the Branch Davidians would have scurried out of their compound like rats in a sinking ship, thus saving many lives.

If language is tied to culture, then it is no wonder to me anymore why Germany started two world wars. Listening to your speech made me angry and feel like fighting, and if "rape" can be loosely defined as unwanted penetration, then I was aurally skull-fucked, repeatedly, by the both of you.