I think I lived in Britain in a past life.

I don't understand a country where:

And stow the "love it or leave it" comments. I plan to be out of here within five years.

Goddammit, I can't even pick on the royal press over here! Ain't no fun! What's to pick on besides poor editorial judgment? I can raise hell with the Sun all I want to!

U.S. college graduates who can't outwrite the Sun's front page? Y'all ain't even trying, most days!

The second I get over there:

Oh Lord, this is going to be wonderful!

I assume the most recent version of Netscape has a functioning back button. I'm not sure I trust Internet Explorer.....

I am going to throw stones at Oliver Cromwell's statue. The Southern fundies over here come from a long and illustrious line. And maybe someone over there will recognize my last name and know how to spell it....Y'know, my Dad was actually proud of it. My family has no sense.....

I will be able to crack smart comments without having to go look for my Kiwi buddy, my Welsh friend, or my fellow Southern friend who is also planning to escape ASAP. No wonder I save it for the most appreciative email is generally from other countries.

I really am starting to believe I was a Brit in a past life.

I really am.

Now where's that tartan-wielding wildman who sacked the castle and carted me off? I sincerely doubt he's hiding out at Beanstreets....

Where are those gentlemen who fought the duel over me? After I'd given them both swordfighting lessons?

And what I especially want to know is, where's that twisted little Oxford boy I met around 1910? He could sustain a decent verbal fistfight. He was cute. And he could (I promise -- I still remember this -- and it was great!) sing all the words to "God Save the King" while balancing a spoon on his nose.

Now that was talent, ladies and gentlemen.

And no, you're not pulling all the petals off my roses like you did that time, thank you! (Well, maybe you can have the yellow ones. We'll talk about it.)

Sigh....I wanna go back home.....