OK you asked for it, by popular demand I present to you the follow-up to Part 1: The Funniest Email I’ve Ever Read .
The author of these literary achievements recently wrote a screenplay that fulfills the promise of what you see here. I printed it out and snuck into the pool at a five-star hotel in Mandalay, Burma, and got hooked sitting by the poolside. I was alternatively laughing out loud or staring transfixed at the paper.
Sadly, reading it destroyed any dreams I may or may not have harbored about being some kind of screenwriter: I can see that I’m way out of my league there. Anyways, if I were a movie producer or a sweet lass in London I’d be clamoring to get my hands on this guy.
Subject: SAT practice
Questions 13-18 are based on the following passages.
These two passages have been adapted from an email written in 2009. The author, a wandering jew-yorker, recently moved to London, and is updating his friends back home.
All roight, lads. All roightt? ‘ow’z tricks? Aw, mates! meanin’ to write yuz fer ages but’s a proppah pain in da arse now, innitt? ‘ad to sort meself out, borrow ten quid from me bezzy mate, grow me ‘air long n’ moppy wif a messy swervin’ side-fringe, brush up on the queen’s Anglaise, fro’ out me toofbrush, have a wank or two, and den WHAM, Bob’s your uncle, I fuhgot to keep yuz up on me where-abouts, me what-abouts, and me oo’s-he-whatnows! Sorry, yeah? Not takin’ the piss, jus’ the way da worm wiggles sumtimes, innitt? Easy now, bruvs. I kicked off writin’ you lot but midway froo I popped down da pub wif the lads and went on da piss, watched a bit of footy on da telly, went to da loo for a wee and before I know it I’m absolutely piddled and I find meself smoking a fag out front, chattin’ up a roight fit bird named Charlotte, from Essex, oo’s a bit of a chav if I’m honest but I reckon I’d still fancy a snog so I blag my way in close to pull and dat’s when fings went pear-shaped. Turns out, da cheeky little slag fought I wuz a proppah twat and wuz jus’ winding me up da ‘ole toime!. When I got close, she booted me one right in da bollocks. I wuz gutted, and me bollocks swelled and went purple as aubergines for a fortnight. Tellin’ you, bruvs, a real cunt, she wuz.
Vernacular studies are going well, but that’s not where my Londoner training stops. I have put myself on an intense Euro-crash inculcation regimen that I found online: six-hours a day in a snooty, ironically-named cafe, smoking rolled cigarettes, practicing looking bored, in a form-fitting peacoat and pointy shoes. I figure Londoner is pretty much the same as Euro, only with less cocaine and more tea. That particular stereotype about potable preference is certainly true: they go fucking grapeshit for tea over here. That being said, I have yet to see a single crumpet; I remain hopeful.
I’ve had to temper my brash American effusiveness with a hefty dollop of British restraint. What we would call “outgoing”, they call “fake and irritating” and what they call “a cordial first impression” we would call “being an unfriendly assbag doucheface”; tomato/tomaahto.
I am living with my aunt and uncle in West London; great neighborhood. will be even better when I finish Unit 2 of Rosetta Stone: Indigent Polish. Work, as an SAT tutor for London’s upper (stuffed) crust, is steady, and the pay is substantial. As such, I should say I can’t complain. However, complaining (see also: whining; whingeing) is my duty to perform in the proud tradition of my people; this is stated explicitly in the contract I signed, in blood, at my bar mitzvah. For those of you that couldn’t make it to my b.m., the bloody jew-contract signing came right AFTER my shit-housed Uncle saved an otherwise dreadfully boring candle-lighting ceremony by lighting a huge fart, and his slacks, on fire with his candle, and right BEFORE I got to bump (into, clumsily) and grind (my teeth, nervously) with the hottest of the hired Bar Mitzvah dancers to all the dopest tracks from NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL MUSIC 3; an encounter I spun a spurious account of, later on to my acne-riddled posse, one that had me totally grazing some serious boobage…and getting her email address.
So whingeing then, here goes: the shitty part of the SAT gig is that I have to trek all over London. I spend a fair bit of my day on the buses and the tube (“bubes”). It’s actually not so bad, as it affords me plenty of time to ogle, eavesdrop, glance (furtively), flirt (imperceptibly), rue my crippling fear of rejection, eat (self-consciously), tense my abs, untangle my ipod headphones, be hilariously caustic to the imaginary person on the other end of my cell phone, study ethnic farting patterns (anthropologically), and sext-message. Not very good whingeing…sorry, ancestors.
Aside from spitting the hotly pedantic fire of the College Board, I am attempting to fill out my days with more productive endeavors than have traditionally been my wont. An arduous transition, this, in every respect, as the implements employed in my current pursuits, and even the pursuits themselves, are considerably weightier than their predecessors: Books now, instead of bongs; the BBC instead of ESPN; a real guitar instead of a plastic one that hooks up to my Wii; going to the gym instead of eating congealed buffalo wings i found in my bed; writing purposefully instead of aimlessly flagellating myself to internet porn (NOTE: that last one has proven a significantly more involved changing of the guard than I had anticipated). The results speak for themselves, or will, speak for themselves, rather, as soon as there are some results to speak of. Rest assured though, when my loquacious-ass results arrive, they will speak on their own motherfucking behalf.
I’m also writing a screenplay. I know what you’re probably thinking (because I majored in Psychology) and it’s probably this: A screenplay?!?! Geez, what a pretentious cocksicle! Here’s why I’m doing it though: my cousin works in showbiz (his company made The Big Lebowski…dude, I fucking know, right?!?!) and so I figure I’ll just weasel in and filch all his connections and then overtake and ruthlessly backstab him and just laugh and laugh and cackle and laugh as I crunch and grind his mangled fingers with my boots (Timberlands, they make me look way taller), brutally knocking him off the ladder up to Hollywood Heaven: not to be confused with Planet Hollywood, which is a themed-restaurant chain, or Heaven from the bible, which is make-believe. Pretty solid plan, no? For now, he’s my writing partner. He’s cool; like me, only taller and less hirsute; little older, with an English accent and a real job and a girlfriend and he doesn’t live with his (or my) parents. God, I cannot WAIT to ruin him.
Hard to do the screenplay justice in only a few words…think Twilight, only not quite as scary and with much sexier vampires; throw in a possessed little kid with some real cutesy lines that come off super-creepy because he’s always all bloody and possessed and shit, like, “wanna pway wit me? and “your bwains taste yummy yummy in my tummy!” There’s also a part written for Jimmy Fallon, so count on a ton of laughs, and planes…and snakes.
13. In line 1 (and generally, in the UK), “all roight” means all of the following EXCEPT
(B) how are you?
(C) I’m fine, thanks
(D) back the fuck off, dicknose, before I cut you
(E) chicken kebab
14. In Passage 1, the author’s use of colloquial language is best described as
(B) offensively caricatured
(C) topical, if a bit annoying
(D) hilariously accurate
(E) lamb kebab
15. In line 87, “hirsute” most nearly means
16. The author of these two passages would most likely agree with which of the
of the following statements
(A) investment banking is such a noble and selfless thing to do that if Mother Teresa were around she’d totally be like damnnnnn Goldman, shittttttt Sachs, chill out a little,
dudes, y’all motherfuckers are making Mama T-dog look bad!
(B) law school should be called “honesty, compassion and morally sound humanity school” and definitely doesn’t turn you into a cocksnake in the grass
(C) doctors are compensated to a level commensurate with the amount of pressure and stress they have to deal with daily, plus they get to wear sexy white coats
(D) those who cannot do, certainly don’t teach
(E) all writers get laid as much as David Duchovny in Californication (or at least as much as he does in his real life)
17. In line 30 “aubergines” refer to
(A) Austrian vulvae
(E) denim jackets
18. All of the following are stops on the London Underground EXCEPT
(D) Goodge Street
(E) Tooting Broadway