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!



A Little American Commentary

Monday July 30, 2012. Rochester, New York.

Dear Deanie Weanie,

Greetings from your fondest locale, the Armpit of America, Rochester, NY! Well, this is a nice correspondence you’ve put together for us. I’ve already had my way with the funnies, adding a little touch of immaturity in the form of a Jon Lajoie video. More to come, don’t worry.

I was also brought back to our BOF (beginning of friendship) during a tour of the Roch today as part of training for the start of my Americorps VISTA year tomorrow. I was reminded of our ‘Wild Goose Chase’ around the city that fated second day of orientation. I’m pretty sure you and I, after realizing our love of the Olympics (the epitome of atheltic ability, grace, control, strength, etc.), appropriately refused to jog in order to win the Goose Chase. It really was a friendship meant to be.

Though you send me pictures of potties, I’m still overwhelmingly jealous that you are in London for the Olympics. I can’t imagine what the energy must be like. I envision pubs full of viewers, spectators roaming the historic districts trying to locate the looming volleyball fields and avoiding errant bike racers, Harry Potter apparating from event to event, and Boy George slipping male athletes rophenol and caging them in his flat. That’s accurate, right? Don’t get me wrong, my living room is the world’s center of excitement when that cutie Tom Daley dives, or when Ryan Lochte takes a breath, or when Michael Phelps grunts…


Over there in the Isles, you truly are missing out on the journalistic integrity of NBC’s reporting team, including guests such as Jon McEnroe and Ryan Seacrest this year. I hear the Brits are especially humble in their reporting. That blows! Cause America’s the effing best and the commentators won’t let you forget it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m including a bootleg version of my favorite clip from the coverage of women’s gymnastics qualifying last night. Enjoy:

Alexandra Raisman’s Parents
I really couldn’t diagnose Al’s mom with just that clip, so I’m anxiously awaiting Tuesday night for more footage of Mommy.

You wanted my life status update. As I said, I start my first grown-up job tomorrow at an Early College International High School in the City School District, which is actually a stipend-ed year of service. I’m excited to see what the year has in store for me, but I’m upset that they didn’t give me vacation days to enjoy the Olympics. Oh, and, I’ve googled mad places for us to start practicing our trap shooting for Rio.

Any plans to move from your couch during the rest of your stay in Londy?

Can’t wait to hear back!


Jujie Fruit

The Olympics

Monday, July 30, 2012. London, England.

Grandma Jugs,

All the glorious excitement of present brings me to a time 4 years ago, when two unassuming girls sat together on the second day of college orientation equally skeptical of the entire experience ahead of them. Who knew that a mutual passion for Olympic sporting would bring them together as friends for the next 4 years. Thank god for another human appreciating the global competition, mild racism against overachieving countries, and queer sports like table tennis as much as I do. Cue the Olympic fanfare and a union of nonathletic sports enthusiasts.

I thought the London Olympics 2012 was clearly my chance to be a participant in some capacity, and so I ventured forth to my former stomping grounds in hopes of becoming the greatest gate crasher this world has ever seen. Unfortunately, after narrowly missing qualifying for any Olympic event ever, I had to settle for a walking tour of the area around Olympic Village (note: not even the Olypmic Village itself). This supposed “tour” yielded a bounty of photos, the best of which is sadly this one:

With the limited success of only seeing the Olympic loos, my best shot at reaching the Olympic dream was to find some Olympic athletes. During my shameful detour from my quest, during which I tasted the finer liquids of Britain, the gods bestowed upon me an ounce of luck, and I snapped this very skillful photo of an athlete who is completely unidentifiable to any sport or even country:

And later, in a moment of desperation, I stole this pic of a highly amateur soccer enthusiast from Thailand (pronounced Thighland) in attempts of potentially passing him off as a famous athlete also #smh:

In all, my Olympic dreams have now been relegated to the place that welcomes me in the warmest and most forgiving fashion – the couch. For the next two weeks, I am the best commentator, judge, and former athlete for all sports, including the riveting and highly under-rated shooting, billiards, and handball events. My VIP viewing box of a living room is a treasure trove of athlete bios, sport statistics, and tissues – obviously used to wipe my tears after each heart-wrenching story of poor and parentless struggling Olympians (further proof that Disney controls the world).

Eagerly awaiting your current life status.