A bilingual frontalier is sad that his English colleague speaks differently to how he writes his emails.  Florian Dubois, a resident of Lorraine who is actually not lying by putting ENGLISH : FLUENT on his CV, is sad that his teammate Jo Buttons uses flair in written but not spoken form.
 
Florian detailed, “He bought me a mug saying ‘Fuck Mondays’ because I booked some trades for him when he had to leave early once.  The conversation never really picked up from there.”
 
“He writes about how a new Fund subscription is ‘Kafkaesque’ or how a conference call leader is ‘Machiavellian.’  But when I ask him about it, he just says things like ‘Alright boy?’ and ‘How are you doin’ ya fucker?’”
 
“I studied James Joyce and Daniel Dafoe during my year abroad in Dublin.”
 
Buttons sighed, “Yeah sure, he actually isn't a lying bastard on his CV.  I gave him a mug, what the fuck does he want?” 
 
He lapsed into quite a long thousand-yard stare, then grimaced.
 
“He touches my leg sometimes.”

-A bar in <<insert random Lux town here>> has caused a seismic reaction with dyed-in- the-wool Luxembourgers and residents alike. 

Random punter Pascal Keksessen suddenly withdrew from his evening plans last Friday night when he noticed that the rusty Bofferding shield of his local had been replaced. 

“I stopped in my tracks, jaw agape” he said.  “I walked backwards for a couple of minutes.  Curled up into a ball in a bus shelter.”

“The words Bit and Burger have been plaguing my thoughts ever since.”

Dual citizen Peter Elsewhere had similar concerns.  “It’s too harrowing to walk into my local and not be around a group of grown men playing skittles.  It’s just eerie.”

“Don’t even get me started on the non-chemical beer they were serving.”
  
When the Splice suggested trying again, Elsewhere sneered, “In my town in the UK if you didn’t paint your house in the local football colours you got what was coming to you.”

The Splice contacted his new pub landlord Rudy Deutschlander for a response, in the interests of fair and balanced reporting.  He commented “Bring it!  I’ve got a venomous fish to smack that asshole with whenever he wants!”

Keksessen meanwhile, has been catatonic ever since his shock discovery.  One night at 4 A.M. he whispered to himself, “It’s 1940 again.”  

The boss of the Impots Directs or Contributions Directes or some other such fascade called a secret meeting of its employees this Monday.

The Splice managed to gain access by adopting the guise of your average Lux Municipal Worker, ripped jeans, Hermes scarf, ketchup stained shirt and chin drool. (We tried to put our left eyes in the right socket and vice versa but it’s just not possible without lasting damage).

“We need a new model!” roared the Boss.

“To be prepared for the next tax year we need to make our labyrinth of despair four dimensional. We cannot deter the increasingly suspecting tax-payer with only unsigned emails and unanswered calls.”

“We need more creative ways of saying no. Emails don’t just have to be lost or deleted, they can be denied completely!”

“We need a front desk of people with faces that say: We’ll never be able to help you!”

“Remember, most state workers do it by habit. We do it on purpose!”

He exploded into a 30 foot flaming demon at this point.

“Once we’ve spent weeks and months breaking them down, they’ll walk into our lobbies to be delivered the knockout blow we’ve craved for so looooooong!”
​
There was a short Q&A session. Then he changed back to human, got in his Porsche and sped back to his airport sized house in Bridel.

One group of expats complained yesterday how they have been referred several times by doctors within Luxembourg.

One of the bunch, Steve Galager detailed how he was led own the garden path from his Merl GP to a Strassen Specialist, a Limpertsberg Laboratory, a Surgeon in Esch to a witchdoctor in Vianden.

Buddy Peter chimed in with a similar story, the notable difference being that he was steadfastly denied treatment in a renowned German facility, despite Luxembourg having nowhere near that sort of capability for his condition.  

“They’re still more useful than notaries at least,” he offered.

Galager added “Every Doctor I saw had a certificate from the same university on their wall.  One even had a picture of them all together at Primary school with the same holier-than-thou look on their smug little faces.”

After another beer he chuckled “Alright, I made the fucking witchdoctor part up, but you get the point.”