Tongue-In-Cheek … Foot-In-Mouth

Italians are a nutty bunch, and I aught to know, because I’m a Catholic cog in this dago demographic.  And the leaders of this guinea group are the matriarch grandmothers.  These people are VERY busy with food, and when they find out that 10 people are coming over for Christmas dinner, Italian grandmothers will cook enough food to feed the entire population of Indonesia, twice.

And so you will sit down at the table and they will come by and plop a pile of pasta in your plate large enough to tilt the earth off of its axis.  And they will not be happy until EVERYONE has eaten to the point that they fall out of their chairs, land on their backs, and begin flailing their arms and legs in a vain turtle-like fashion desperately trying to right themselves.  And if someone does manage to make it to their feet, granny will guilt them into eating 67 more cream-filled cannolis until they lapse into a diabetic coma.

Of course I am using the phrase, “granny will guilt them,” in the sense that Italian grandmothers are ALWAYS brandishing a wooden spoon, and if you annoy them enough they will come at you with said wooden spoon.   Oh, sure, you can grab a broom and attempt to fiercely fight off granny by fencing with her.   But Italian grandmothers could teach the likes of Errol Flynn a thing or two about swashbuckling.

Eventually granny will knock the broom out of your hand and beat you into a Jell-Oish congealed throbbing blob complete with eyeballs, hair, and a few broken teeth.  Furthermore, it will take a trained coroner to determine that the oozing pleading pulsing mass on granny’s kitchen floor is in fact her ungrateful grandson who flatly refused to finish the three metric tons of tortellini granny dumped into his dish, because he was too occupied pumping out his stomach.  Italian grandmothers are funny that way.

They are also funny about their houses.  The upstairs is always intensely antiseptic.  Even air molecules are made to wear little face masks.  Lye soap factories should be so germ-free.   And everything, from the furniture to the family pet is covered in plastic.  Italian grandmothers MUST be waiting for some EXTRA special guest to show up for a visit like, for example, The Pope, or Christopher Columbus, or maybe the guy who invented pepperoni.

Italian grandmothers will greet you at the door dressed in virus protection outfits and quickly escort you, by gently grabbing your earlobe, and dragging you down into the darkened downstairs where the entire family actually lives like rodents scurrying through tunnels.  Once there, she will fit you with a coalminer’s helmet, and you will then feel and inch your way around like the rest of the family.   And it would not be uncommon for you to eventually come across a massive deposit of iron ore next to the television set.

Another interesting trait owned by Italians is that they are very religious plus they love Frank Sinatra.  Unfortunately, your standard child isn’t too enthusiastic about either one.  And this can be especially troubling when you are a youngster, like I was, who was NOT interested in learning his prayers, like I was NOT, and who was sitting in the living room forcibly practicing their prayers which they were NOT interested in, which I was NOT.  And since kids are easily distracted, like I was, and with Old Blue Eyes in the back ground bellowing away, his songs leak into your head right along with the prayers, like they did with me, and you come out with an intermingling of song and prayer, like I did.

This sort of activity can get you seriously beaten, like I was, especially if you are in church, like I was, in the third pew, like I was, saying your penance, like I was, and a group of overly religious nuns walk by, like they did.   They might think you are committing some sort of sacrilege to a saint, like they did, descend upon you, like they did, and whack you to within an inch of your life with their rules, like they did.

Side Note: Rulers are also made out of wood.  What is it with women and wood?

EXAMPLE

Me: “Hail Mary, full of grace, fly me to the moon, the Lord is with thee, let me play among the stars, blessed art thou amongst women, let me see what life is like on Jupiter and Mars—”

Group of Nuns:  “Well, what do we have her?  A comedian.  You just think you are so funny, a regular riot, don’t you, Bill Drury?  How dare you make fun of Mother Mary!’”

Me:  “But I—”

Group of Nuns:  “You little blasphemer!”

Me:  “Yeah, but—”

Group of Nuns:  “Get him, girls!  Beat his backside black and blue…little bastard!”
WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!

Anyway, the Irish are also a nutty bunch, and I aught to know, because I’m a Catholic component in this Celtic citizenship, too.  Get this: I once inadvertently mix the “Rosary” with the “99 Bottles of Beer on The Wall” song.   The nuns beat my butt like a piñata.

Copyright © 2008 Bill Drury.  All Rights Reserved.

Bill Drury is a humor columnist for The Carriage Towne News.  Contact him via snail mail c/o The Carriage Towne News, P.O. Box 100, Kingston, NH 03848, or email him @ Drury1234@Verizon.Net, or to go his website @ www.billedrury.com.