A letter to Carl’s Junior about multi-culturalism

Posted on
Dec 1, 2009

Dear Carl’s Junior,

We live in a melting pot. Did you know that? I swear, it’s true. I have friends from every part of the world. It’s awesome. They teach me things all the time (like that in England, “Friends” is considered funny!). And they have adorable children. Here we are at our wedding with some of our world-savvy friends:

That right, kids - Ive made you poster children for multi-cultural awesomeness.

That right, kids - I've made you poster children for multi-cultural awesomeness.

Their daughter is friggin amazing, and fluent in Japanese and English. She’s wonderful, and I’m not just saying that because her dad is one of the four readers of my blog (Hi, assface Philip!). They also blog about their adventures with their super-cute kid, which I suggest you check out).

Not enough cuteness for you? Here’s a photo of my husband (on the day that he became my husband) holding my cousin’s little girl (she’s, like, 500 different ethnicities, including Italian):

Ouch. My uterus.

Ouch. My uterus.

It’s like a friggin Benetton ad, right? I totally love it. My whole family is like that. I have cousins (siblings to one another) with different accents. Can you even imagine? It’s wonderful.

Not to say that I’m perfectly culturally enlightened or anything. Nooooo. I say offensive things all the time. It’s kind of my schtick, actually (welcome to my blog). So when I find something offensive, it’s a problem. Which brings me to this:

 

Um, WHAT THE HELL?

Just so we’re clear, the whole “we’re selling a bastardization of Italian food, so let’s make an mafia-commercial” thing is kind of tired. Besides being offensive, how exactly is a dead guy at all appetizing? You’ve equated your marinara sauce to blood. Quite literally. I know the whole vampire thing is big right now, on account of that lady writing a book about hot teenagers not having sex (FICTION!) – but people don’t want to think of food as blood. I don’t want to shout here, so I’m just going to use italics, and hope you’ll understand me, okay?

Dead men don’t sell burgers.

I am not even going to go into what my dear Italian-born-and-bred auntie thought of this commercial. She has a heart condition, jerks. Has anyone on your marketing team even MET an Italian person?

You keep this stuff up, and you’d better watch your back, Carl.*

Sincerely,

The Everywhereist

*No, I’m not really threatening them. It’s ironic. Cause I’m Italian. And pretending that I have connections. Get it? Good.

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