Let the Olympic festivities begin - Dave Barry

Let the Olympic festivities begin - Dave Barry

Nice job by Dave:

"Aside from the pervert mascots, and the threat of terrorism, and the cost overruns, and of course the weather forecast (fifty days of grey), these Olympics promise to be a lot of fun (or, as the British say, 'a right fragrant harmonica')."

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Ah, British terminology! The first time a British woman told me that their bobbies carry a torch, the first thing that came to my mind was "Stop, or I'll weld."

(Once I figured out that a bobby was a policeman, and not a pop star in white socks and a pompadour.)

After I had been in London for a few weeks, I decided to call everything a "lorry," except for erasers, which I continued to call "rubbers," as they do, because it enabled me to make lots of snide double entendres that only the Yanks could understand.

Except that the Brits actually call Yanks "lorries."

Actually, the Brits at Shell accepted my game in good spirits and started to play along with me, referring to everything in the office as a "lorry" when they asked me a question, so that I couldn't tell what they actually wanted. They went even one step further and started referring to every woman as "Laurie" and every guy as "______ Lorry," except of course for Hugh Laurie, who was called "Hugh Truck"

The Brits handled my puerile humor in much better spirits than the Ozzies did when I decided that every noun in Australia should end in "-about." Here's the back-story: the Aussies call a hike a "walkabout" and they call a an oral presentation a "talkabout." As soon as I discovered this, I immediately determined that a toilet must be a "crapabout" and a spreadsheet must be a "calcabout," and so forth. In general, nobody found this funny but me, but that's never really prevented me from making an ass of myself. Probably I went a little too far in Spain, when I wore a "suit of lights" to work, complete with the little Mickey Mouse ears.

Who would have guessed that I would someday be the closest thing to a matador: a webmaster.

You don't see the connection? We both have to deal with inordinate amounts of bull shit in our daily jobs, and we both wear pink socks. Although in the case of webmasters, the socks are supposed to be white, but we live without women, so we don't know how to separate the laundry.

That's where the parallel breaks down. I think matadors probably get a lot more trim that we do.

(If movies are to be trusted.)

Even when I was kidding, I probably wasn't the most clueless American expat, by a long shot. It's downright hilarious to watch the reaction of many southern Americans when other English speakers call them "Yanks." They find this genuinely offensive, not to mention bewildering. They ain't Yankees, they's Rebs, ol' son.