banzaitoyota

Italian Man brings date home on Christmas Eve



I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house

on Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian

girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my mother and

my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.....I was wrong!



I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the

invitation. "I know these family things can be a little weird," I told her, "but my

folks are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve." "Sounds

fine to me," Karen said. I told my mother I'd be bringing Karen with me.

"She's a very nice girl and she's really looking forward to meeting all of

you."

"Sounds fine to me," my mother said. And that was that. Two

telephone calls. Two sounds-fine-to-me. What more could I want?



I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas

Eve is the social event of the season -- an Italian woman's reason for

living. She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the

entire evening. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for. I should also

point out, I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women that make

Italian men go nuts, Karen is it. She doesn't clean. She doesn't cook. She

doesn't bake. And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human

being. I brought her anyway.



7 p.m. -- we arrive. Karen and I walk in and putter around for half

an hour waiting for the other guests to show up. During that half hour,

my mother grills Karen like cheeseburger on the barbecue determines that

Karen does not clean, cook, or bake. My father is equally observant. He

pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the largest breasts I have

ever seen on a human being."



7:30 p.m. - Others arrive. Zio Giovanni walks in with my Zia Maria,

assorted kids, assorted gifts. We sit around the dining room table

for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted

peppers, black olives, anchovies and cheese....no meat of course. When I offer

to make Karen's plate she says, "No Thank you." She points to the

anchovies with a look of disgust.... "You don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I

don't like fish, Karen announces to one and all as 67 other varieties of

seafood are baking, broiling and simmering in the next room.



My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting

uncomfortable.

Zia Maria asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Karen

says, "Knockwurst."



My father, who is still staring in a daze, at Karen's chest,

temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, "Knockers?" My mother kicks him so hard he gets a blood clot. None of this is turning out the way I'd hoped.



8:00 p.m. - Second course. The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way

to the table. Karen declines the crab sauce and says she'll make her own

with butter and ketchup. My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I

take my "Merry Christmas" napkin from my lap, place it on the "Merry

Christmas" tablecloth and walk into the kitchen.



"I don't want to start any trouble," my mother says calmly, clutching

a bottle of ketchup in her hands. "But if she pours this on my pasta,

I'm going to throw acid in her face." "Come on," I tell her. "It's

Christmas.

Let her eat what she wants." My mother considers the situation, then

nods.

As I turn to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my shoulder.

"Tell me the truth," she says, "are you serious with this tramp?"



"She's not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for three

weeks."

"Well, it's your life," she tells me, "but if you marry her, she'll

poison you."



8:30 p.m. - More fish. My stomach is knotted like one of those

macramé plant hangers that are always three times larger than the plants they

hold.

All the women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for

Karen, who, instead, lights cigarette. "Why don't you give them a little

hand?" I politely suggest. Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen

carrying three forks. "Dear, you don't have to do that," my mother tells her,

smiling painfully. "Oh, okay," Karen says, putting the forks on the

sink.

As she reenters the dining room, a wine glass flies over her head, and

smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, my mother says, "Whoops."



More fish comes out. After some goading, Karen tries a piece of

scungilli, which she describes as "slimy, like worms." My mother winces, bites

her hand and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see

in the sixth row of a funeral home.



Zia Maria does the same. Karen, believing that this is something that

all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her

chest. My Zio Giovanni doesn't know what to make of it. My father's dentures

fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.



10:00 p.m. - Coffee, dessert. Espresso all around. A little anisette.

A curl of lemon peel. When Karen asks for milk, my mother finally slaps

her in the face with a cannoli. I guess it had to happen sooner or later.

Karen, believing that this is something that all Italian women do on

Christmas Eve, picks up a cannoli and slaps my mother with it.



"This is fun," Karen says. Time passes and believe it or not,

everyone is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer -- even my mother,

who grabs me by the shoulder, laughs and says, "Get this bych out of my

house."



Sounds fine to me.



THE END

Rob x-7

I think you get emailed the same jokes my 65 year old aunt gets

j9fd3s

i emailed it to an eye-talian

sweet7

But if she pours this on my pasta,

I'm going to throw acid in her face.



Meh, Im easily entertained but I thought it was pretty damn funny.