It is 4:15 AM. You are dancing in a disco with a large crew of your european co-workers, at a conference center in the boondocks of northern Scandinavia.
The CEO of your company has just bribed the DJ to continue playing euro-club jams for another two hours, despite the fact that the DJ's contract had him ending at 2:30 AM.
Also: your "mentor" may have fallen down the spiral staircase leading to this disco a few moments earlier, and therefore has asked you many times if the giant gash on his head "will be okay if [he] keep[s] dancing like a fool."
Aaaand the HR guy who recruited and hired you for your job—who, by the way, actively aims to resemble the Norsk God of Thunder Thor, complete with two-foot-long blonde hair that he wears in a top knot—has begun doing cartwheels in the middle of the dance floor.
Swedez.
It is at this moment—this key moment of time, mind you, in the middle of the FOURTH run of t.A.t.U's "Not Gonna Get Us," for the evening—that your 6'5", blacked-out drunk Swedish manager turns to you, looks you in the eye, and shrieks:
"LiiiiiiiiSsSsSsAAAAAAAAAAAAAA..... VVELLLLLL-COME TOOO SVEEeeeEEEeeeeDEEEN!!!!!"
FYI: the CEO of the company took this picture of Team USA around 4:05 AM Sunday morning.
I am confident I am one of maybe three people who recall this picture ever being taken.
This place is seriously fucking surreal, and yet I somehow enjoy it deeply and truly.
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