What’s with my hairline?

Why does it insist on flirting with my eyebrows? When will this seemingly endless game end? Just connect with them already! It’s been 35 years in the making. Take the plunge. Those 4 millimetres have been holding on to dear life for far too long. It’s time for them to retire. Hairline: Meet my eyebrows. Let’s consummate this relationship once and for all. Do it. The masquerade is over.

Ova here?

I was surrounded by stereotypes while walking in New York’s little Italy last week. Short, pudgy, greasy haired Italian restaurant hosts outside every restaurant selling the virtues of their food while ending every sentence with “ova here”. “You gonna lova our pasta, it’s a like mama used to make. In fact, it's mama who’s making it. She’s ina the back, slaving over some handmade gnocci…..ova here” After such a heart wrenching sales pitch, I loved answering with complete disinterest. “No thanks,” I’d say and walk away. But they’d follow, throwing their arms in the air, proclaiming that I had insulted them by not looking at the menu. It was a strange feeling having a last name that has anything to do with what I saw and heard. They were begging for my money using demeanor and attitude that would be at home in a scene from Goodfellas. I was with three people who have no connection to Italy and I must say that I was a little embarrassed. Da vinci. Michaelangelo. Hell, Sophia Loren. For that night, they were all trumped by a guy name Vinnie who whores out his mom and his culture to sell spinach-filled ravioli. Ova here.

Royal Traditions

Watching from afar and by accident it was clear to me that the royal wedding was an absolute exercise in full-on bullshit. Why do we care about these people? Why is royalty even something we entertain or condone in this day and age? And is it me or is the inbreeding glaringly obvious? I mean look at Prince Charles’ ears. I bet you his fingers are like yard sticks.

What I really get a kick out of is the non-stop array of trivial traditions that precede almost everything. The white gloves shall remain on until the horse is dismounted. Said gloves shall be placed in a box and handed to a guy in a strange outfit. He will walk four paces to the left and not look anyone in the eye.  Elder statesmen will carry swords. The queen will send you a letter if she accepts your desire to have tea with her. The white gloves will still be in the box. A separate pair of white gloves will also be in a box in case the others prove to be faulty. You will arrive in a gold carriage. Ask permission before you step out. Just do it. It’s tradition.  Do not look at the box containing the white gloves. Wave. Wave some more. But without the gloves. They’re still supposed to be in the box. Wait for the queen to approach you. Take six steps forward, outreach your hand, have her take it. She will push you away when she’s done. Why? Because it’s tradition. And because she’s an asshole.  Now, finally, take the white gloves out of the box, drop your knickers and wipe your ass with them.