Heartbroken by the Aurora shooting tragedy, Michelle Antoinette is now eagerly boarding Air Force 2 to head out to the opening ceremony of the Olympics, ready to use the London platform to further her Let’s Move Campaign (no, not the new home scouting campaign she does all over the world, but her anti-fatty one). Why not join the millions of others flocking to Big Ben, and use your vacation time hitting the London cobblestone with Flotus?
Just picture it: You rub elbows with the US Olympic team over breakie and mimosas. Then you take a carriage ride over to Buckingham Palace for Tea Time with the Queen, and her famous jam sandwiches. After a few hours of chortling about green jobs, eugenics, and how trim that Katy is, you’ll head over to Mrs. Sammy Cam’s to take in the Olympic festivities, along with some keen insights from David Beckham and Posh Spice.
Wait, wait. Sorry! That’s Michelle Antoinette’s schedule.
Yours will go a little more along the lines of landing in Heathrow, completely air sick from being crammed in cattle class, and finding a used heroin needle in your ham-sam. You’ll make a be-line for the bathroom, only to discover they are all locked to “discourage terrorists,” leaving you to contemplate chundering into the nearest potted plant—-only there aren’t any potted plants to further discourage terrorists.
Feeling discouraged and not being a terrorist, you’ll crawl over to baggage claim and proceed to navigate your way to the Games. You’ll long for the days when the tube was just considered to be crowded, when you realize there’s an extra million people on top of the usual 12 million subway commuters. After paying 4 £ to wait in a two hour queue, you finally see the tube you are about to be sardined into.
After being felt up and having your passport stolen by some young commie douche in a balaclava wielding a butter knife, you realize you are too hungry to continue on without any of that famous, boiled British nosh. The meal manages to go down, but since it’s British, it comes back up again on your ten mile hike back to the tube station.
Some guy named Charlie offers you some Charlie and ciggy for the low low price of 10 quid but you pass, veering into a small shop, only to find it’s a bit picked over…
“Damn rioters,” you mumble under your breath. That makes you think of the billions upon billions of cameras stationed on every London Avenue, so you puff up your hair with your fingers, and head for the hotel.
That’s about how your trip would be, minus the possibility of being blown up by some terrorist that didn’t prove to be discouraged.
That’s one way to be chuffed to bits.