America's "Special Relationship" With Us - part eight

Once aboard the sparsely populated aircraft we scouted out the most spacious seats. Traditionally these seats are located at exit rows, with all the implicit responsibility that this carries. My parents, both mature, responsible doctors, headed for two empty right-hand exit row seats, next to a heavily moustached man. As they approached, the moustache man muttered that the seats were already taken. So instead they chose the left-hand exit row, only to find themselves instantly besieged by an overly made-up bottle-blond Barbie posing as a stewardess.

“Oh er you guys able to pahform ayxit row doodies?” drawled Flight Attendant Barbie.
She was one of those women, you know the type, all teeth and hair and too much make-up. It’s revolting, but you can’t take your eyes off the thick layer of frosted pink glop smeared across her lips. All you can focus on is her exaggerated mouth movements; the actual words would’ve escaped you even if they were comprehensible to start with. In this situation there is really only one appropriate response.
“Pardon?” My dad asks.

Barbie perfects her condescending stare, and slowly, deliberately, and loudly drawls, “DA.. YOU.. SPEYK.. AYNG-LESH? DES.. THE LADY..” – referring to my mother - “SPEYK AYNG-LESH?”
Obscured from sight and silently fuming, I shake my head, roll my eyes, and bite my tongue.
My dad just smiles back and says “English; we can manage. It’s American that might pose a problem.” And laughs.
My dad always laughs at his own jokes.