Rust Belt Man’s son is embarrassed.
His dad—well let’s just say he’s not the most refined guy around.
And Rust Belt Man’s son just saw a few pics of the old man in Paris, courtesy his cousin, aka the old man’s niece.
No wonder he hasn’t spoken to the dude in a couple years.
What’s there to say to an obese, smoking, drinking, and gambling crank?
Can a man not pick just one vice?
Anyway, Rust Belt Man’s son is on his way to the capital of the United Kingdom.
Unlike the older generation, he’s worldly, and he’s out to prove it.
He grabs his luggage and steps into the cool London air.
No evidence of sunshine—I like this place already.
He glances around for the yellow taxis, finding nothing of the sort.
Black cabs?
Stepping around to the passenger side, Rust Belt Man’s son sees a steering wheel and freezes. He gets in the back, pretending that was the plan all along.
The driver tells him about the Knowledge, some prolonged test required to become a taxi driver in London. The Brit throws in something about having an enlarged hippocampus, as in a natural GPS.
“Interesting!” says the American enthusiastically.
At the hotel, he tosses his stuff in the room and takes a deep breath.
It’s time to dominate this place.
He starts with Big Ben and Parliament, the Pink Floyd song “Time” reverberating in his head.
Of course, he stops at Westminster Abbey.
He eyes the River Thames, then hits 10 Downing Street, Trafalgar Square, and the National Gallery.
The destinations are irrelevant, but boxes must be checked.
Piccadilly Circus.
Tea at Fortnum & Mason.
Buckingham Palace.
His sister had told him to find Carnaby Street, and he obliges.
He jumps on a double-decker bus just because, followed by the Tube to the Tower of London and Tower Bridge.
But then, without any warning whatsoever, it happens.
The hangry.
Look at all these sheep just putzing around staring at this garbage.
What a waste.
Get the hell out of my way.
He stumbles upon a pub and waits for a waiter, eventually realizing he has to order at the bar.
Stupid system.
When his steak and ale pie arrives, his heart sinks.
Did I accidentally order an appetizer?
He sees people in the corner huddled around a small TV.
0-0. Wtf.
He fondly recalls the Bills’ 41-40 victory over the Ravens in the season opener.
So much better.
Tired, and still relatively hangry, he decides to Uber it back to the hotel.
But with a six-hour time difference, he knows sleep won’t be an option.
So he pulls out his laptop and finds the game.
Yankees vs. Marlins.
Three hours later, he strolls outside looking for a light snack.
Cheeseburger, fries, four nuggets, and a shake. Six bucks. Clutch.
A homeless guy asks him for a Big Mac, but he declines.
He realizes that with the conversion, the meal is actually eight bucks.
BS.
Just like the left-side-of-the-road nonsense. And those damn phone booths.
Suddenly, he can’t wait to fly back home.
Monday is the college basketball final.
And these people can barely speak proper English.
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