When a tiny ant talks about huge pachyderms, it goes as follows.
Yesterday a weird quirk happened to me on Twitter.
The social network run from Silicon Valley by multi-billionaire Jack Dorsey suddenly began to chat to me in a Nordic language that I have never heard – except for a word or two, perhaps, on a beach in Agadir, a summer day a long time ago.
Alone, he began to tweet guttural sounds, words with letters not from the Latin alphabet, crossed out o’s…
But what is this trip?
I’m going on another social network, YouTube (I don’t know its founder, maybe he will reveal himself to my knowledge of Moroccan the day when we will finally have a not stupid comment below an old clip of anthology).
I watch a tutorial, I click where to click, while swimming Twitter amidst the throaty sounds of Nordic barbarians.
Jack Dorsey, I did not even suspect his existence until the big verbal diarrhea he suddenly took just after ejecting Donald Trump from the network he founded, in a series of tweets that never ended, and certainly typing on his keyboard while cursing himself for having himself limited to 280 characters.
I realize, bewildered, that I cannot not change the language of use, the section designated on the YouTube tutorial does not exist on the Nordic version. Disabled. Non-existent.
I check the color of my hair, shampooed the same morning: no, I did not suddenly turn blonde. Very brown, and tousled, as usual, thank you.
I get angry (normal).
I let out one or two expletives (logical continuation).
I start paddling frantically aboard my longship, while uttering guttural words aloud, invoking the god Thor, while wondering if, among my Dirty Cretin ancestors (I’ll come back to that, be patient) , there has not been one, one day among the past centuries, who has been nabbing a Nordic in the Atlantic to give birth to her without her consent and, thanks to a welcome xenoglossia of a forgotten language that will have been present in my DNA (Petit Robert for xeno-thing-owl, I don’t have time to be a teacher there), I would know how to recognize these words which would therefore come from the depths of the ages, I paddle frantically crouching in my drakkar , I tell you, and… poof, here is Twitter suddenly becomes Anglo-Saxon.
Phew, relief. Here I am finally in known territory. Well yes, since I “did” English at school. Yes: “done”.
I move on. I work, I dawdle, I listen to Dido, Jamiroquai.
I return to Twitter a few moments later, out of curiosity. Cata: here he is again talking to me “in blond”.
This time, I don’t get angry. I turn my back on the drakkar, I give up paddling, the tutorials are useless.
A generalized bug, perhaps?
I click on the WhatsApp tab (another social network, bought by Mark -how’s that, you don’t know Mark-Zuckerberg-from-Facebook-from-Silicon-Valley? Shame on you), and address me to my colleagues on the group where there is a small pastille with Le360 marked above.
(Me, voice of flight attendant):
Twitter users: Has your account automatically switched to a Nordic language (at first glance, it is a Northern European language), with the change language option disabled? Is it general, or is Jack Dorsey playing a little personal joke on me?
(A colleague, a beast in eco, and he tears his race apart in finances):
Always in French for me.
I forget my flight attendant voice.
I serve a stupid response that I don’t want to text you again, in which I say that I got angry, explains that I will be patient, still get a little angry, specifies that I am not blonde ( ?), decrees the end of the aparté, and nevertheless thanks my colleague who tears his race in finances.
A blonde is more Nordic, it’s pretty, but it’s stupid.
A redhead stinks, it is well known.
And me, I am brunette, and I do not count for plums (yes, I am beardless under the armpits, still shocked by this TV set seen very small where Lio had not shaved under the arms, and had lifted them very high).
Yes, because it is also known, the Portuguese are hairy.
And the blacks run fast and have the rhythm in the skin, and the Japanese are hyper-clean and hyper-precise, and the French know how to do it in cooking and in love.
And this is how a little Moroccan ant managed to capture you to get you here, by spouting you a weirdly bizarre mishap, by evoking the names of big American pachyderms, and by telling you at the end a string of bullshit.
PS. I was able to put Twitter back in French, as I wrote these lines, and I will insolently stick my tongue out in the eye of the camera of this laptop in a moment, just after the point you are going to look at there.