London: The Windy Scone

You know what's funny? I mean really funny, not Pauly Shore funny. That companies are willing to fly me to London for the afternoon. And you know what's even funnier? The British. They so crazy. I had the chance to enjoy them for all of six hours yesterday. I can say for myself that I managed to make it through all that time without once caving in the the burning urge to bust out my own (highly amusing, of course) Cockney accent. I had a boss once who told me I sounded like a bad version of Dick van Dyke in "Mary Poppins," but, hey, at least I can walk through my living room without tripping over the ottoman. So there.

Having arrived in London, I went to the passport control, didn't understand what the hell the woman said and proceeded to walk through. She stopped me and informed me that I had to fill out A Landing Card, which was Over There. And that's when I felt GWB's cowboy grip on my neck. I'd never been to London before, so maybe this was all normal to get the Americans to fill out some senseless bullshit, but I had the feeling it was the very British way of getting back at the US for ruining their well-mannered, stuffy image. What can I do if Tony Blair has always dreamed of having a ranch of his own? Of course, now the MI5 knows all about my taste in music and about my tawdry affair with the band Take That. Who knows to what ends they shall use this information. My my.

I used my time at Heathrow on the way back to Frankfurt to load up on British gossip mags with names like "Cheek!" and "OK!" and ... well, you get the idea. I bought two bottles of Dr Pepper (the fifth food group, and sadly, something very expensive and rarely seen in Germany) and the girl at the cash register said (please, say this outloud with a British accent), "Pringles crisps are only 90 pence!" I told her that if I bought them, I wouldn't be able to fit into my skirt anymore, upon which she glanced at the two bottles of Dr. Pepper, at me, at the Dr. Pepper again, and so on and so forth. Then I said, "Ey, wait until I call PC McEwen and 'el give you the lickin' of yer lyfe, he will..."

British: They're not German, but they's just as different. As opposed to a normal American, of course.