Turns Out I'm a Got-Dang British Citizen

I didn't realize until the age of 55 that I was a British Citizen. My father had registered my birth at the British Consulate in NYC but didn't tell me, see. I always liked Cadbury chocolate and didn't know why. Same thing with Terry's Pastilles - didn't know why. Spam - didn't know why. Sausage - didn't know why. I kept two hands on the wheel in the 10 and 2 position at all times, pulled to a stop and waved at other drivers as they passed - didn't know why. I raised two fingers instead of the middle one when I was upset - didn't know why. Now I know why. I'm a Got-dang British Citizen is why. But guess what they don't have over here? Sit down. They don't have all beef franks and it is REALLY hard to find a bottle of bleu cheese dressing. But you know what? The English take their food dead seriously. At the supermarket with your shopping cart on a Saturday, you could be riding in a Ben Hur chariot race with spiked wheels and whips etc. Oh and get this - Stella Artois is considered piss water here, equivalent to Schlitz - they call it "Stella Ar-twat," whereas in the States, people drink it in cut glass mugs extending their pinkies. I like hearing the English cuss though: "Fucking hell.Sod off." I love all that. And I understand why they curse so well, because it's cold as fuck here, not in the strict temperature sense, but cold in the way that invades the joints, to a certain extent one's disposition. They are tougher than they look. Cold is an English thing.

8 x 12 Cut and Paste Collage by A.F. Knott (and it's for SALE!)