It's Comedy! Part Two

Last week two important documents hit the internet. In one, Mrs. Bourne, a stern English mother-in-law-to-be scolded her future daughter-in-law regarding her "uncouth" and "vulgar" behavior during a visit in April. In the other, an ambitious young Los Angeles woman regaled her 15 closest friends (and eventually the entire internet) about her first hand encounter with Quentin Tarantino's foot fetish.

I have mixed them together. After the jump, Quentin Tarantino's victim meets her mother-in-law-to-be:



Friendsicles,

You are getting this email because you are one of my 15 favorite fuck buddies, and if I haven’t had a chance to hook up with you in the last couple of weeks it’s because about a month ago I totally got engaged to this English guy, Freddie. For those of you I have managed to hook up with lately, I know I promised to tell you about the trip I took to meet his crazy uptight family back in April, but getting ready for a wedding is, like, extremely time-consuming and I haven’t had a moment until now to write it all down.

So here goes:

Freddie warned me before we got there that his family eats a lot of weird English food that I probably couldn’t eat because of my diet. So as soon as we arrived I was like, “just so you know, Mrs. B., I’m diabetic, I’m kind of a vegan, and I’m on a gluten free diet.” And then I started listing all the stuff I can and can’t eat. His mom was all “Pardon me?” I thought she couldn’t hear me so I repeated it all louder for her. And then she made this kind of “harrumph” sound. How rude, right?

So then we sit down to tea, which is like a thing in England, and I’m like, “I can’t have caffeine because of my diabetes, and also those pastries look like they have gluten in them.” So what did they do? They put out these little sandwiches which are tiny first of all, and are just a piece of cucumber between two slices of bread. Naturally I couldn’t eat the bread, so I just ate some little pieces of cucumber, so then, to be polite, I was like, “that was really nice and all, but I’m still kind of hungry.” Freddie’s mom just stared at me and then her teacup suddenly shattered.

I should mention that they live in this huge mansion, with servants and everything. The dining room table is one of those giant, long tables you see in movies, and there were, like, eighteen people there at dinner. I guess they were all related to Freddie because they all either looked like Prince Charles, Margaret Thatcher or the Monopoly guy. So the servants start serving soup, just like they do in the movies, you know? And they start with me since I’m the guest, and the thing is I’m starving because of the whole tea situation, and they are going so slowly around the table serving the soup that I started getting worried that mine would be cold by the time they got all the way around, so I just started chowing down on that soup! I was done by the time they got back around to me, so I was like “Yo, can I get some more of that?” By now Freddie is like crazy nudging me under the table and I’m like “what?” And he kind of jerks his head towards his mom, who is staring at me literally with her mouth hanging open. I’m not really up on my British manners or whatever, but I’m pretty sure that’s not considered polite. And then I look around, and like everybody is looking at me the same way. One guy’s monocle even popped right out of his eye. I figured they were waiting for a compliment on the food, which is probably the polite thing to do, so I was like, “great soup Mrs. B.!”

So then as we’re going to bed – the family is so old-fashioned that they wouldn’t even let Freddie and me sleep in the same room – Freddie says to me, “we eat breakfast at half-seven, and we do dress for breakfast.” And I’m like, “duh, of course I’ll dress for breakfast. What am I going to do, show up naked? But if I’m not up at half-seven (whatever that is), just go ahead and eat without me. I can fend for myself.” That was the night I kept sexting all you guys. What else was I supposed to do? I was so bored. (Sorry I forgot about the time difference! Justin, I hope the fender bender wasn’t too bad. Susan, why didn’t you tell me your boss was looking over your shoulder?)

I was tired from the jet lag and all, so I figured it was okay for me to sleep in, so when I finally woke up at like eleven I threw on my hoodie and some sweatpants and went downstairs. It was the weirdest thing: everybody was just, like, sitting around the table. I was like “don’t mind me, I’ll just grab something from the fridge!” Nobody said anything, so I got an orange and took my seat. Only then did I notice that they were all sitting in front of plates of stuff like cold eggs and oatmeal and congealed sausage. Freddie told me later that it was his family’s tradition to not start breakfast until everyone was at the table. They had been sitting there for three and a half hours! In suits and nice dresses! I was like, “that’s really nice of you all, but you seriously don’t have to wait around for me. I’m not really a morning person anyway.”

At least that night we got to go to the pub. I was like, “finally! A little fun.” I was barely eating anything (see above re: food), so I guess I got drunk pretty quick. People started making toasts to our engagement and stuff, and when it got to be my turn, I was like, “thank you all for your unique kind of hospitality. I only wish you would have let me know beforehand that I was supposed to bring a stick to keep up my ass all weekend.” Well, I thought it was a pretty witty remark. Aren’t the British supposed to appreciate that? But I guess I guess it’s not considered polite to laugh out loud in public so it got kind of quiet in there.

The next morning, Mrs. B. was actually almost nice to me! First thing in the morning she was like, “we’re walking to the beach today. Dress appropriately.” Which is, like, more words in a row than she said to me the whole time I was there. So I put on my bikini and that wrap I got in Cancun, and my cute little sandals, you know, the whole beach thing. But when I got downstairs everyone else was in, like, jodhpurs I think they’re called, coats, and, like heavy boots. Mrs. B. looked me up and down and was like, “cute outfit.” I was like, oh my god, an actual compliment! Maybe my little joke the night before kind of broke the ice.

Anyway guys, you know how beaches in LA are sunny and warm, and you can drive to them, and they have little places where you can eat, and all that stuff? Beaches in England are nothing like that. First of all, we had to literally hike there. Through woods. And up and down these steep hills. And it was, like cold and misty the whole time. Everyone else was tromping away with their walking sticks and boots, so poor me had to absolutely ruin my cute sandals trying to keep up, clambering over these damp, slimy boulders, and slipping on these muddy trails. Plus I hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, so my blood sugar was really low. When we finally got to the “beach” it was all rocky and cold, and there was no food in sight. I politely mentioned how I hoped the beach was close because I needed some food because of my diabetes. Mrs. B. said something about some “lovely young woman” she knew who had diabetes and never even mentioned it, she just dealt with it in “the English way.”

I asked Freddie later what “the English was, and he was like, “well, she didn’t want to be a bother to anyone so she quietly slipped into a coma. It’s considered the polite thing to do. She is getting married in June, though.”

But you know what the even weirder thing is than that whole weekend? About a week after I got back I got a card in the mail (handwritten! Who even does that?) from Freddie’s mom like scolding me for not sending her a thank you card! Thank you for what? Not literally killing me on that hike to the so-called “beach?” It also said something about finishing school. I was like, “fuck you, bitch. So what if I dropped out of college?”

So, needless to say fucksicles: glad to be home. Hope you can make it to the wedding. We’re renting Gwyneth Paltrow’s castle. Score!