Here's the thing: six or seven months ago my buddies and I were sitting around watching some lame show on TV. Ah, but there's a catch—there's always a catch: it was a BBC original. The four friends that I was hanging out with—I don't anymore, they left me for a comedy troupe entitled "Hey, We're Funnier Than Him!"—started making jokes about the show, to which I chimed in and made my comedic presence know. But, when they started saying things like, "Allo, Guvna" and "crumpets" I was at a loss. It was like I was at sea, drifting slowly, gasping for breath as the cold hands of Poseidon tried to take me down. So what if I can't do analogies/similes/metaphors either; the point is, I was supremely confused. I tried a couple of dry runs in my head saying stuff like, "Oi, ‘tis a party ‘round the corner ‘on ‘the ‘pub's ‘roof?" All those apostrophes got my blood running (in opposite directions, I was a mess for days). I liked the way it sounded, dirty and dismal, much like all of Britain and the Queen—God save her.
But that, my young chaps, is where tragedy doth did struck. Jeez. It doesn't even sound cool when I write it.
Onward. "Oi, ‘tis a party ‘round the corner ‘on ‘the ‘pub's ‘roof?" I said, mock British accent heavy on the apostrophes.
And, for a moment, time seemed to have frozen. My friends looked at me askew—they looked at me as if they now truly knew who I was, the scary monster inside me revealed. I was to be hanged.
Tod—born with one "D"—asked me if I had always hated him and did I cheat off his ITBS exam junior year. Trey said he knew there was always something wrong with me, he could just never put his finger on it. Rodrigo—oh, please, anyone but Rodrigo—told me I was just another gringo waiting to get "shanked"—his words, not mine. And lastly, Bennett. He looked at me full on and one lone tear fell from his eye and landed with a thud on the sad carpet below. They left me that day.
They never even wrote me.
To this day I envy the Brits for their fish and chips.