"Christmas Eve - Italian Style" joke

I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house on Christmas Eve. I felt it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I truly thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.
Boy, was I wrong. Sue me!
I had only known Linda for three weeks when I extended the invitation. "I realize 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," Linda said.
I had only known my mother for 30 years when I told her I'd be bringing Linda 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's. What more could I want?
I should probably point out that in Italian households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the entire year - an Italian woman's raison d'etre. She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the entire evening. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for. I guess I should also point out that when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men go nuts, Linda 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.
7:00 PM we arrive. Linda 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 Linda like a cheeseburger and cannily determines that Linda does not clean, cook, or bake. My father, equally observant, pulls me into the living room and notes, "She has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being."
7:30 PM Others arrive - Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted gifts. We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami, prosciutto, provolone and anchovies.
When I offer to make Linda's plate, she says, "Thank you. But none of those things, okay?" She points to the anchovies. "You don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I don't like fish," Linda announces to one and all as 67 other varieties of foods-that-swim are baking, broiling, and simmering in the next room. My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting uncomfortable.
Aunt Mafalde asks Linda what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Linda says, "Knockwurst."
My father, who is still staring in a daze at Linda'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 had hoped.
8:00 PM Second course - The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Linda declines on 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, and 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 PM More fish... My stomach is knotted like one of those macrame plant hangers that are always three times larger that the plants they hold. All the women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Linda, who instead lights up a cigarette.
"Why don't you give them a little hand?" I politely suggest. Linda makes a face and walks in

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