From "Good As You"...

Word for word.

Let us be the first to commend this much-needed effort, as your humble scribe was just in London last week, and some cigarette smoking punk had the nerve to casually say to me, "Just enjoying a mid-afternoon fag," to which I immediately replied, "well I'm enjoying this lovely afternoon as well, smokey, but there's no reason to call me a fag, Britty McBritBrit." Just imagine my surprise when he had the audacity to shoot me a puzzled look and say, "No -- fag -- cigarette," causing me to yell at him, "YES -- a cigarette -- I see that -- gross -- DON'T CALL ME A FAG, funny talker!" He then totally showed his stupidity though, as he called me an "ugly American," which was so off-the mark, as I had been primping all morning and was actually looking quite hot, thank you very much. To make matters even worse (if you can imagine), I couldn't find Ranch dressing anywhere the whole time I was over there, and when I asked the common question, "What sort of fine dining establishment doesn't have Ranch dressing?" none of the waiters had the first clue. Stupid Britain.

"Britty McBritBrit". The boy cracks me up. Oh, and by "boy", I mean someone young enough to be my elder brother's son, of course. I'd marry him, if he and I weren't already, you know, betrothed. And living 1000 miles apart.