Nobody Believes You're Brazilian

Jessica, Phil, as your good friend it’s time we had a talk. There’s something you both really need to hear. You’re not fooling anyone: nobody believes you’re Brazilian.

I realize that’s hard to take, especially because you’ve clearly put so much effort into pretending to be Brazilian. But it’s just not working and, frankly, it’s getting on everyone’s nerves.

I think it all started last year at Jamie’s Confederations Cup party when you arrived wearing matching Neymar jerseys despite not knowing anything about Neymar (including how to pronounce his name) or about soccer generally, or having even the most distant, strained, thread of a connection to Brazil.  

After that, things snowballed. I remember you had me over for Caipirinhas. And then you started taking samba lessons, and waxing obsessively, and super-gluing fruit to all your hats.

Which was fine, I guess. But when you announced your plans to “blanket our yard in incandescent orchids” despite the entirely unsuitable soil composition and clear climactic differences between Manaus and Des Moines, I began to think you might have a problem.

Please don’t get defensive. Pretending to be Brazilian is common, especially when there’s an international soccer tournament everyone’s talking about. But you should know that what seems harmless can have real and lasting consequences.

Like what? Well I didn’t want to mention this, but I overheard Phil say that last month you two spent more than $800 on acai products? I don’t give a damn about the antioxidants, Jessica, that level of berry-related outlay is obviously unsustainable and irresponsible.

And speaking of irresponsible, you guys cannot seriously expect to raise that jaguar to adulthood without incident. I mean, seriously.

Look, I’m not trying to be harsh. But understand you’re starting to lose friends over this. The chronic tardiness has become an issue, plus it’s clearly deliberate because you’re exactly 43 minutes late to everything. And Cheryl’s still upset about her wedding, you know. Obviously “smart-casual” doesn’t mean canary-colored thongs.

Don’t tell me to relajão, Phil! Stop making up Portuguese words! And stop saying “Life’s a beach!” all the damn time. It’s a stupid expression and I’m pretty sure it’s not even fucking Brazilian.

Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just hard. I feel like I barely know you two anymore. Sure you’re tanner, happier, and way, way more fun than you used to be. But at what cost?

You’re adults, though. You can make your own decisions. And deep down I know there’s no way you’ll stop pretending to be Brazilian any time soon. But maybe now, as World Cup memories recede and the weather turns shitty, you’ll recall who you are and where you’re from, and you’ll slowly give up your healthful diets and newfound sex appeal and let this radiant façade grow cold and dull again.

What? Yeah, actually, I’d love some coconut water.