Breaking the law, Italian style

Note: My legal team has advised me to put a disclaimer at the beginning of this blog post, so here it is – this entry is in no way an admission of guilt, nor can it be admissible in court, because, um … it’s heresy or something. No, that’s not it. Oh, yeah, I remember – it’s a work of fiction. Yup. If anyone asks, this is fiction. Also, those counterfeit Louis Vuitton handbags? I’m totally NOT planning on selling them on eBay. That is all.)

Have I mentioned how good I am?

I mean, technically good?

As in, I rarely ever, every break the law? In that respect, I’m an angel. By all other definitions, I’m basically on par with people who eat puppies and talk during movies (Quiz time: guess which of those activities I do regularly!). But that’s beside the point – as far as the state of Washington is concerned, I’m hardly evil at all.

At least, I was. Until tonight. Because tonight, in my very own home, a law was broken.

In front of my mom.

And my aunt and uncle, brother-in-law and husband. And my dear, adorable 15-year-old cousin, who I allowed to be corrupted.

Basically, the scene went something like this:

My brother-in-law was coming to dinner tonight, and since my aunt and cousin are visiting from Italy, I figured I’d invite them too, along with my uncle. I don’t know how my mom found out about it, since I left no forwarding address at my last place of residence, but whatever (also, I may have invited her, and she may have been a delightful dinner guest. I’m admitting nothing).

Rand opened up a bottle of wine, and he went around the table, filling stemmed glasses. All of them. Including one he had placed in front of my dear, uncorrupted, 15-year-old cousin.

“Babe,” I said, positively oozing sarcasm, “Are you trying to get Giovanni drunk?”

Rand shrugged. “Why not?” he said.

“Yeah,” Giovanni’s mom chimed in, “Why not?”

Of course, Giovanni didn’t get drunk. No where near it, actually. This is in part, I’m sure, due to the fact that he’s, like, a million feet tall. And also because, as a young man living in Italy, he’s been trained to drink a bottle of wine with dinner since the age of two. Instead, he was in the company of family, drinking a small portion of wine with dinner.

BUT NONE OF THAT MATTERS. Crimes were broken. Laws were committed. CRAZINESS HAPPENED.

Here’s a basic rundown of what happened (I read somewhere that police like to have this sort of thing, because it makes conviction easier. I assume that since I’m helping the police, I’ll get full immunity.).

• My cousin leaves Italy, a hellish and unhinged place. The entire country has no official drinking age, resulting in moral depravity that is destined to tear the country apart. Italians, as a result, are deeply unhappy and unattractive people. Behold:
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  Ewww, right?

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• He comes to America, where SHIT IS AWESOME.
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  America: Replacing bread with donuts since 2008.

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• I invite Giovanni, his parents, and my mother over to dinner. Storm clouds gather on the horizon.
• My husband pours Giovanni a small glass of wine. My aunt and uncle, so entrenched in their own depravity, have no problem with this.
• GIOVANNI DRINKS THE WINE. Thunder rumbles and lightning cracks.
• He doesn’t get drunk, but rather exhibits a maturity that most people twice his age lack when in the presence of alcohol. BUT THAT DOESN’T MATTER. In failing to stop him from imbibing, we break the law and are all instantly damned to hell.
• I am going to have to devote my life to Jesus and Paula Deen in order to be forgiven.

And there you have it, folks. Instead of teaching my cousin about all the wondrous things that American has to offer (Capitalism! Cherpumple! The highest number of prison inmates per capita!), I allowed him to be corrupted by drinking wine. He should have waited until he was 21 and got blitzed while in a seedy bar, rather than learning to respect alcohol in social settings from a young age, surrounded by loved ones. That’s the way we do it here in America, WHERE GOD LIVES.

Fortunately, he’ll be going back to Italy soon, where that sort of thing is legal. Then we can put all this ugliness behind us, like we did Feminism and permed hair.

And I can go back to being my sweet, law-abiding self.

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P.S. – I just remembered that I occasionally speed, attempt to cheat the system whenever possible, and am constantly violating copyright, despite being a copywriter. So I guess I lied before about not breaking any laws. But you believed me, so we’re both kind of at fault.