The Lunxicon

You have to love the British. Well, that’s not true. They are particularly easy to dislike–especially for a product of colonial rule such as myself. However, even I will admit that they have a knack for coming up with the best expressions. Take Johnny Foreigner, for example. It is so wonderfully derisive and xenophobic. Not that xenophobia is necessarily wonderful (although derision certainly is), mind you.

It’s not a term I would really use for any occasion other than those extremely rare ones when I am discussing a particularly distasteful person. In this case, of course, the person in question would have to be a Johnny Foreigner (or Jane Foreigner, I assume, although that doesn’t nearly have quite the ring of its masculine counterpart), or simply “foreign” or whatever adjective is allowed these days.

I think what I love so much is the anonymity of it. Imagine this: Serge, assistant at an art gallery in Los Angeles, calls your house about a sculpture you just bought (obviously we aren’t talking about anything that happened to me). Your spouse answers the phone. All you hear is “What? Huh? I can’t understand you.” So you take the phone and with some difficulty conduct the conversation. Afterwards, spousal unit 1 asks who it was. You can either give her the whole story:

“Who was that?”
“Serge. He-”
“Who is Serge?”
“He works at the art gallery.”
“Oh, why does he talk so funny?”
“He’s foreign.”
“Oooh, where is he from?”
“How the hell should I know? Is dinner ready yet?”

Or, you could simply say, “Some Johnny Foreigner from the art gallery. Is dinner ready yet?” It was just some dude who is a fucking foreigner–ugh–not worth even thinking about. Efficient AND patriotic!

Sure, I’m a Johnny Foreigner. I’ll admit it. I’ll call myself that. Hell yeah, I will! Because it means that when I talk about others who fit that description, I can use the term with no guilt or hypocrisy. (Um, you know, on those rare occasions when it would be appropriate.)

Yet again, I’m going to suggest you use this term. But sparingly. Try it out at a family reunion when discussing your cousin Sandy’s Argentine husband; or the next time your overly guilty white friends have a dinner party to discuss environmentalism. The entertainment will far outweigh whatever repercussions you may face. (Sandy’s kind of a gold-digger anyway; she doesn’t really love homeboy.)