The other day while I was making myself a delicious sammich when I decided to tune into the BBC coverage of that Japan business. Now this is going to sound like I'm inching toward discussing something important or sensitive, but rest assured I take nothing seriously. I watch BBC news sometimes because like Top Gear and cars, I can only seem to stop my mind from drifting into limbo with these boring complicated topics when the information is fed to me in a British accent with lots of disdain and sarcasm. Now the problem today was within about 15 minutes of watching I saw the BBC Japan correspondent insult the Japanese people for not fleeing, berate them for only having security preparations for an 8.1 earthquake, make fun of the Prime Minister's Crisis garb saying he looked like a maintenance man, and then heard another lady refer to a group of Americans as a bunch of "Silly Yanks"
My theory on this that I in the collective house party known as the "global community" the British have become that one gay guy in the corner. You know the one that pats the girl on the back and says "I'm sorry Steve did that to you" and then turns to America and says "I know she just got dumped but geeeez, did she also break up with her fashion sense?" and then turns to France when America walks away and goes "...silly yank." They essentially get a pass for being jerks because it's their reputation. Us Americans are getting robbed, we have all the rep of a bastard yet none of the props. I think it's because we aren't nearly as funny...
We as Americans crucify anyone in our media if they say something remotely derogatory toward another country or people, and make sure they never work again. And then on BBC they can say whatever we want and they just go "Well whatever, it's just the British." Where is my all access sass pass you limey bastards? And way to go, you've beat out the French for "Gay Dude at house party" title.
So next time you Brits feel like heckling a bunch of people hit by a Wrath-of-God-esque natural disaster, just cool off your head. While you do this you can also spend a fortnight in a hostel, call your remote a smibbly bibbly, eat crisps and drink fizzy drink, pay high taxes, lose your Zed tile in scrabble, drink tea in delicate flower painted cups, wank your chap's jibbly with slippy dip, have bad teeth, dive in the grass, eat some chocolate biscuits, get all barmy, have a closet full of blue track pants, fear the wrath of a queen, call your relative an upsy stairsy, act all prudish, feel dickey, say cheerio, ello, and god save the queen, smoke a fag, call your keyboard a hoighty toighty tippy typer, walk your cat on a leash, get jimmied in the alley, tell someone to belt up, sniff a stranger's knickers, eat a lolly, call the internet the inty winty, ring your mum on the telly ferry, use a pillar box, get arse over tits drunk and have tiger nuts, act like a soap dodger, spin a yo-yo anti-clockwise, go to the C of E, drink scrumpy, get gobsmacked, put on a welly, have some candy floss, get too fagged to do something, be randy, appreciate another male's waistcoat and and bum bag, take a shufti, watch the telly, take a kip, go off your trolley, take a poopy-doo on the tea cup, have a sticking plaster on your knee, call a fan a twirly gust, wait in a queue, drive in a roundabout, say tootle pip to your mate, wear a bearskin and stand real still, shoot a quick chin wag, get arse over elbow because of a dishy bloke, act like a poof, learn maths, get cocked up, spend your dosh, identify the primary “colours“, tell someone to bugger off, and continue to drive on the wrong side of the road near me.
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