Becoming a Real Brit

Dear Julia Roberts,

I am extremely pleased to hear that you are continuing your dedication to the Olympics. Anything less than total mania would be unacceptable. I also applaud your enthusiasm for your non-profit job… it may render you penniless, but at least you aren’t a capitalist fascist.
Wrapped up in the fever of the London Olympics, I’m finding now this violent urge to ditch my American identity, and become the ultimate citizen of civilization – an Englishman. Sure America wins at everything, hauling in Olympic medals like it’s no big and totally average. But Britons offer something Americans just can’t – Britishness. The Brits literally just make everything sound and feel posh. Take for example some of England’s most famous locals:

Even as an old man, James Bond is literally the chicest human on this planet. “Shaken, not stirred”? Are you fucking kidding me? Could he possibly have a cooler catch phrase? Tony the Tiger, take note, you’re famous phrase simply isn’t that Grrreat in comparision.

You may have the most famously busted teeth in film history, but Austin Powers, you are a sensational dancer and I would venture to say the original master of swag. So you’re a little slutty. But only the British could make such slootiness endearing. Additionally, I applaud you, Mr. Powers, for being ahead of the hipsters in wearing thick black frames and velvet blazers of questionable colors.

And finally, the ultimate in sophistication – Posh Spice. Aside from being married to my good friend Dave B, VBecks is an overachiever when it comes to embodying British snootiness. Her perma-scowl is only effective because she’s English. If she were American, everyone would just hate her guts and question her gender. But add in that little flavor of the Isles and people are really just jealous. If there was an Olympic event for simply being the ultimate HBIC (Head Bitch In Charge), she would win silver every time… Second of course to the real HBIC:

Lady Grantham of Downton Abbey.

You can clearly see where my quest is headed and the bounty of inspiration I have to draw upon. My obvious next step is to burn my US passport in the middle of Trafalgar Square as a symbol of loyalty to the Queen, which will simultaneously bar me from ever turning back on my journey. Whatever America, I don’t want to run back into your greedy chubby arms anyway. Until I can achieve equal status of international spy, shag elite, and rich bitch though, I have to settle for joining the masses of average British people who are faithfully supporting Team GB this week.

So cheerio for now old fellow! I’ll ring you later over a nice cuppa to discuss this fine sporting occurring on the telly, because, let’s face it, the Olympics in Britain is truly bloody brilliant!

Salutations,
Kathy

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