Foe thah rek-ard, I'm faking it
Screaming my order over the bar last night for the fourth time, I came to a realisation. The fifth time, I made a decision: I'm going to be nicer to Madonna from now on.
She had no choice but to fake an accent and join the ranks of Dick van Dyke when she moved to the United Kingdom. I'm going to be easier on myself about it, too, because the English resolve even managed to break Madonna, and she eats puppies for tea.
It's not that I'm trying to fit in (I am), or that I'm tired of being teased (maybe a little), but sometimes it's just nice to be understood. Sure, I know what you're thinking. You think I'm already making excuses for myself. And you would be correct.
Anyway, last night when the bartender delivered me a glass of white wine, and not a bottle with three glasses as I'd requested, I knew what I had to do. Leaning over the bar, I went Madonna on his British sensibilities, "A baw-ehl of whyte whyne with tha-ray glas-siz, plays."
I'd rather get what I want than not.