Ah, pasta e fagiolil! I just returned from what was supposed to be my perfect Spring abroad in Italy because I was infected with the severe Novel Coronavirus outbreak plaguing the mother country. Gabagool!
There I was by Il Duomo in Florence, enjoying a magnifico chunka parmigiano and barbera when bada bing bada boom my breath feels like arrabiata sauce and I start coughing just like Don Corleone waterin’ the tomatoes. Turns out I contracted Covid-19 and there is a 2 percent chance that I’ll die in the next two weeks. Mama Mia!
When I got the test results back saying I had the deadly virus I was so sconvolto I couldn’t even finish my ossobuco! The formal prognosis I was given simply said “fuhgettaboutit.” How could my perfect semester abroad turn into such an imbroglio?
Frutti di mare! I haven’t felt this sick since my cousin Tony “Green Beans” Tuminelli tried to make Nona’s Sunday gravy, the dumb guinea. Prosciutto di Parma, kid’s half a meatball and he ain’t two sixteenths a momo if I ain’t got eleven toes. Count ‘em! But if I never see Tony again due to my severe condition tell him that he’s the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had. That’s amore!