And that same year, the capital of Iceland was founded, too. Coincidence? I think not.
And so the Great Epoch of the popsicle was begun.
For all we know, the entirety of Iceland is one giant puffin-infested confection, secretly mined by New York's ice-cream traders. I wouldn't put it past them.
That would make Iceland the only country in the world secretly controlled by the uncertain economics of the international confectionery market, and as such a place that I must move to, immediately and forever. We must all move there. Forever. And ever. It is too good an opportunity to pass up.
I've been saying this for years, Martin. Get me a berth on the good ship Reykjavik, I say. No one ever listens.
My sources inform me that Reykjavik is the true party capital of Europe, and the Powers That Be (boozehound confectioners, don'tcha know) only let Amsterdam hold on to the crown because it serves their dark and sinister purposes. I read it in an in-flight magazine. It must be true.
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