I could prolly learn to speak a little but would hate to have to write that weird shit.
I met a Chinese lady in Shanghai (go figure) once and we struck up a pretty serious relationship. Being a man on the go, we relied on letters to communicate with one another since email was still 10 years from existence.
She was a frigging doll - quite possibly the cutest girl I've ever known. She couldn't read English well enough to understand the American version of the language, and her writing was not too much better. I damn sure couldn't write that shit they call a language so we found ourselves in quite a quandary. Her father would not approve of our relationship unless I showed commitment to learning the Chinese way.
I pondered how to prove to the old man that I was committed. One evening at a bar in Sri Lanka, I came up with a plan. I dipped a chicken's feet in ink and set a piece of paper down. The chicken's claws turned out something strikingly similar to the Chinese jibber-jabber I recalled seeing on the street signs back in Shanghai. I folded the paper up, stuffed it in an envelope and sent to back to my love.
That bastard of a chicken undoubtedly wanted to fuck me over, because the response I received was my darling China Doll telling me to "store a rich harvest of rice where I make stinky droppings."
I was devastated, and I never found out what my letter said that pissed her off so badly. I learned a great lesson that day; never trust a chicken to write a letter to China while you're sitting at a bar in Sri Lanka.
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