It dawned on me while reading an issue of "Us" magazine that American broads hold an uncanny attraction to British men; Hugh Grant, Jude Law, Sean Connery, Mic Jagger, Russel Crowe, etc...
My immediate response was, "That explains why women won't talk to me" which wasn't a smart thing to say out loud because Cletus, my supervisor, walked in the breakroom as I uttered it. Thinking on my feet, I quickly added, "At least that's what my father said when we told him guys aren't supposed to wear dresses. Ha. Good old Dad." Cletus gave me an odd look and walked out. Whew. Talk about a narrow escape from a potentially awkward situation!
I thought about my unfortunate problem with the female species and wondered if there wasn't anything I could change, and that's when it hit me: I could be British too! This took my spirit, picked it out of the trash, wiped it off, and sent it sailing. From that point on, I swept floors faster, scraped scuff marks harder, and yelled at students more frequently. When finally I made it home I called Groff to ask his advice and assistance; he was more than willing to help, and thirty minutes later he showed up with two cases of beer. Groff and I got down to brass tacks and before I knew it I was on my way to being a real Brit!!

Groff told me I'd forgotten one very important name on my handsome clebrities list, and that was Robert Smith of The Cure. He said if I dressed like him chicks would lay me like a blanket. I was totally down with that, so I made sure to put lipstick and hair gel on my "To Buy" list.
Then Groff told me how British people drink tea by the barrel, and that their favorite food is Cheerios. Duly noted.
After that I was taught how to speak with a 100%, honest-to-God British accent, by yelling "Oi!" into my mirror for a few hours.
Finally, Groff explained why he brought so much beer over, stating that the British love to get "pissed!" He then proceeded to urinate on my pillows.
Before ending the night we danced in my room to Duran Duran, David Bowie (duh), and some Crass. It really was quite bitchin! After all that excitement I couldn't wait to show the world my new British self, but it took a few days to gather all the necessary items, so I had to bide my time.

When my time came to shine I arrived at work dressed as closely to Robert Smith as possible; my lips bright red, my hair teased to the maxx. Now don't get me wrong, I expected some surprised faces, some remarks like, "You really amaze me" and so on; but I only received the former, and that was at best.
My entrance to the breakroom came as a complete shock to my co-workers. Cletus all but shit himself in a paroxysm of cuss words and Wally just stared, while his copy of Swank fell to the floor. The silence had to be broken so I said, "G'day mates, any of you sods catch the football match last night?" Those idiots didn't realize I meant soccer and responded by talking about some fifty-niner team. I got confused so I stopped paying attention, but decided it was time to work. Not many people saw me after that, I was busy unplugging toilets and replacing urinal cakes. Lunchtime rolled around, garbage cans had to emptied, and I was pumped to unveil myself to the kids and, more importantly, Linda.
I entered the cafeteria with hopes of a standing ovation and came pretty close to getting one. It started off with a few smirks, spreading into full mouthed grins, expanding into bursts of laughter, and ultimately ended with kids pointing at me and clapping. This gesture of support would not go unnoticed; I stood atop a table and bowed. Some wise-ass had an orange he didn't feel like eating, and instead of throwing it in the trash, threw it at me. The orange pelted my forehead in mid-bow, causing me to lose balance and fall backwards into a trash can.
This was a good thing because it broke my fall, saving me a trip to the hospital; on the other hand this was a very bad thing because this particular day was Spaghetti & Meatballs Day.
So there I was, stuck in the garbage, limbs flailing, waiting for someone to help. Mistaking me for his student, a Special Ed teacher rushed to my aid but ended up kicking the trash over when he found out who I was. Stupid prick. Anyways, I got off the floor (looking like I just shat pasta sauce) and, not having the heart to be seen by Linda, hurried out of the cafeteria amidst roars of laughter.
Cletus, Wally, Jasper, and Stefan could tell I was distressed; I explained what happened, telling them, "Oi! Bloody hell. Me britches is stained from arse to ankle." I was told to take a break which was cool because it was almost tea-time. I went to the vending machine and bought a Lipton Brisk Tea, offering the other custodians to join me. They declined, murmuring something about me and tea bags. I couldn't hear exactly what it was they said but I'd love to know more about tea bags and all the different varieties there are, so I should bring that up next time at work. Even though I was on break, the fact that some shmuck kid chucked an orange at me really got on my nerves. Cletus must have sensed this because I was ordered home after finishing my tea; pretty lame, I know, but on the bright side I ended up working only half a day.
While my attempts at becoming a British sex symbol fell flat on their face, I learned that it's cool to roll with the punches. What does that mean? I don't know. I'm drunk.
One thing I DO know is the kid who threw that orange at me got expelled. I did some research and found out who he was and which locker he used, then planted some beer and cigarettes in it. Then I made an anonymous complaint about him to the principal. That jerk'll be in juvie for at least two years. Who's laughing now, Orange Peel?