Thursday, December 20, 2012

A French Woman's Guide to preparing for the End of the World

copyright @Sanaa.k
I'm French. Therefore, I am the epitome of style. 
Mais bien sûr, I had my legs waxed and my hair styled, because I wouldn't want to be caught with a bad hair do, especially for the end of the world. There might be a photo op on the way.

I went to Chanel. I bought a dress and a pair of souliers. Formidable! There was a pair of impractical seven inch high boots, sublime! I opted instead for the three  inch pumps with a platform, because we might have a bit of walking and waiting to reach the other side of the end of the world. 

I was a bit disappointed that Hermès did not design a limited edition "End of the World" scarf. Do you imagine how much it would fetch next week on eBay?! 

My wine cellar? I drank a bottle of Aloxe Corton yesterday. Today, I'm opening the Chateau Lafite-Rothschild 1982.  I'm taking the Domaine Romanée-Conti with me. Well, no one said that wine was not allowed on board. 

And fuck this "aging with grace" concept so dear to my kin but not to my skin! I can now leave that to Catherine Deneuve, Cabernet and other non perishable goods. Merde, alors. I finally had Botox. 

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Americans Have Easier Access to Semi-automatic Weapons Than to French Cheese

French Cheese are deemed dangerous
Sixty six point two million French nationals as well as 90,000 Americans living in France are exposed to high doses of French cheese, demonstrating no health damage from the exposure, and yet, it is easier for Americans in the U.S. to get access to a semi-automatic rifle than, say, to the stinky Vacherin Mont d'or or Corsican cheese.
Of course, French cheese is not protected by any article of the Constitution. No amendment guarantees any right to cheese. As a French citizen living in the U.S. for the past 16 years, and who eats her average annual 24 pounds of cheese, I struggle to understand why the right to own a semi-automatic rifle is so sacred in America, circa 2012.
According to recent polls, a majority of Americans believe that access to weapons is a right that should not be restricted. According to Brady Campaign records of mass shootings, there are 20 mass shootings per year.
So what are the solutions to the national epidemic that plagues the country?
Gun laws as they are drafted are unable to keep children and innocent bystanders away from bullets that may or may not have been destined to them. New York City principals sent an email to parents assuring them that a security protocol is in place in each and every New York City public school -- and that should the unthinkable happen, the schools know what to do.
Securing schools is a minuscule part of the solution. Ultimately, it will only serve the security gate makers. 
Of course, you can be sure that once all the schools are secured, the next nutcase will practice his shooting skills on a church assembly, or maybe a funeral procession. The opportunities are endless and the bunkerization of America can only go so far.
"A dinner which ends without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye," said Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin a French lawyer and politician, epicure and gastronome. But one struggles for a quote praising in such poetic and elating terms the gun, the pistol, the bullet or the rifle with a large magazine.
Barack Obama, the president of the United States of America, and a Nobel Peace Price winner has an opportunity to show true leadership, not as a pastor providing comfort in time of tragedy, not as a father weeping for the lost lives of children, but as a political leader willing to change policy, for the greater good of the people, even if at this time, the people disagrees with the measures taken.

Monday, December 10, 2012

What REALLY REALLY happened to Strauss-Khan

The only hard fact we know is that former IMF director's semen landed on Sofitel chambermaid's blouse.

It's like the Exxon Valdez: conflicting theories abound as to how the spillage occurred. Now that the parties have settled out of court, the mystery will forever remain.

Was Nafissatou Diallo, the hotel maid, part of a conspiracy, as investigative reporter Edward Jay Epstein suggests in his sensational article published in The New York Review of Books and titled "What Really Happened to Strauss-Kahn"?
Did the French right wing party warp a plot to eliminate DSK, the then presidential candidate hopeful? Did the Russians get involved? Al Qaida? The Mossad? James Bond?

Now that both parties have settled, for $6 million according to French newspaper Le Monde, the light of truth will never have a chance to shine on DSK's crotch, nor on Diallo's blouse.

So here's my theory. No facts, no evidence, no interview, no proof of anything to base my story on. But give it a read. You might think that it makes more sense than any of the other theories you've read so far.

The night before, he was in Washington DC enjoying the company of French ladies brought over the pond to him by his like minded friends from Lille. Once in New York, he hooks up with his blond lady friend who joins him in his room and leaves the hotel alone at 2am.
After a good night sleep, DSK feels great. Well rested, relaxed, calm. Whether he orders a bowl of Special K, or a coffee and croissant remains unknown. His flight to Paris is at 4pm. The day after, he will be in Berlin to discuss the Greek crisis with Angela Merkel. He has plenty of time. He feels the longing again for more action, and he thinks, "Mais, oui! Why not! One for the road" "Un dernier pour la route" as we say in French.
DSK is a well traveled man. He's been patronizing five stars hotels for the better part of his life. He knows that if you need a toothbrush, a magazine, a bottle of mineral water or a girl, you just call room service. These hotels are always well stocked.

"Hello, this is room 2806. Can you send me a nice lady to spend 10 minutes in my lovely company"
"Mais bien sûr, Monsieur DSK. We will send someone shortly. Would you prefer sparkling or still?"
 

DSK decides to jump in the shower to be nice and fresh down there. Nafissatou Diallo, a chambermaid at Sofitel hotel, knocks on the door. DSK doesn't hear her so she lets herself in.
He comes out of the shower, dressed in nothing more than his virile pride.
"Hello, I did not expect you here so soon, but please be welcome", he says with Chief Inspector Jacques Clouseau's accent.
"Very glad to see that you are ready for me" she replies.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Semper Fi(landerer)

© Sanaa - K
In English the expression says stop beating a dead horse. In French it would be stop flogging a cheating husband.
General Petraeus had an affair? So what? James Bond usually has sex with at least 3 different women in any given James Bond movie. What do you expect from the US top spy. Petraeus does not have license to kill. At least give him license to fuck. Otherwise what's the point being a spy?

My fellow French citizens are looking under the sheets of your latest sex scandal thinking that decidedly we don't have the same values. When Mitterrand was president of France, it was all well known, and yet never mentioned, that he had a wife, a mistress, a dog, and an illegitimate child, who lived in an apartment paid for at tax payer's expense.
The media "omerta" surrounding the lives of our rich and powerful is such that we all collectively kept quiet on our president. When his wife decided to trudge her way to the Mexican revolutionary Subcomandante Marcos, under the pretense of a keen interest for his political views, no one thought of questioning her motives. Some said she was having an affair with the great Marxist leader. And no one really gave a damn. When François Mitterrand passed away, the wife, the mistress and all their children attended. (Marcos stayed away though!)

Absorbed by the US elections, and then entwined in the Petraeus scandal, have you noticed the latest French scandal? A new book claims that France's First Lady, Valérie Trierweiler, was having an affair with Patrick Devedjian, a right-wing politician as well as Socialist François Hollande, while still married to her (second) husband the French journalist Denis Trierweiler. 

Did you hear about it? Probably not. The French media has been mostly unfazed by the news. The US news found it unremarkable. I myself had to read about it in a British publication.
The shocking part of the story according to British media lies in the fact that both men knew about the other, and still agreed to partake in the affair. Rest assured, they took turns!

Do you know how to count in French? Valérie Trierweiler just invented a new learning method. Repeat after me: Ménage à trois, ménage à quatre, ménage à cinq, ménage à six...

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Sandy, Barack, my freezer and I.

Ten days after Sandy wrecked havoc in New York City, Manhattan is back to normal. Even the president that we have today is the same as the one we had yesterday.  The subway is slow and overcrowded, another storm is pounding us, and Donald Trump.. oh well, let’s not bring Donald into this. Sandy was a bitch. Whether you are a Democrat or a Republican, you’ll agree: Sandy was a bitch.
I lost power for 5 days, and upon my return to my apartment, I pondered what should stay and what should be tossed away. I’ll concede that my fridge was smelling funny. But being French, my fridge always smells funny. I looked at the Camembert, I examined the Munster, I sniffed the Epoisse cheese. They were all stinky. So I decided to apply the rule of stink. 
Therefore be it resolved that if you were stinky before and you are stinky after and provided that the stink is of equal quality, you shall not be discarded. Very sadly, a couple of white truffles did not pass the mu(n)ster and were reduced to pieces by a well powered in-sink-erator. A jar of mayonnaise from the brand Real Mayonnaise® on the contrary seemed to still smell very good. I checked the sell by date:  MAY 2309. Well if it’s good for another two full centuries… Unless it was past its sell by date by three full years. In any case, the Real Mayonnaise® looked superbly unaffected by Sandy. 
 

Sandy was a bitch. And some blame Romney's defeat on her. She allegedly made Obama look more presidential. Although, I can assure you that Obama did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Sandy.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Romney's French Connection

I told you a few weeks ago about Bill Clinton who would fancy himself as the French Prez. I shocked you this past spring, when I revealed to the incredulous world that Newt himself had a deep affinity with France, where he lived for a few years as a teenager. Yes, yes! Le Newt speaks the language of Molière . Bien sûr he'll trash his opponents on francophone grounds because being versed in French has become so anti-american. I wonder what the Statue of Liberty thinks of all that conneries.
But I digress. As we ready ourselves for the last presidential debate, it's timely that I tell you about Mitt's French Connection. Mitt Romney speaks French fluently. Voila. The theme of the debate will be foreign policy. So let's talk about La France!
Am I trying to launch a smear campaign against Mitt? Quelle horreur! Of course not. (Mitt doesn't need me for that). Mitt has tried to conceal it really carefully, he's flip-flopped on it like on healthcare reform or on family planning policy, but there's no escaping that he's fluent in French language and mores. Mitt really has a very strong relationship with France.
You wouldn't associate a white middle-aged Mormon man with Paris? I wouldn't either, and I have to say that sending a guy who's not allowed to have premarital sex, not allowed to drink coffee or wine to Paris is truly a cruel and unusual punishment. Yet this is what happened to Mitt when he served for his two year mission as a Mormon. He was sent to the birthplace of temptation.
At the age of 21, the legal age for drinking, provided you're not a Mormon, Mitt was sent to France. He arrived to the Northwest port-city of Le Havre and went on to live amid hookers. Shocking? But true!
According to an article by Bloomberg.com, Romney mistakenly checked into a hotel in an area frequented by prostitutes. He was too naïve to notice. I guess there's been a pattern to exercise poor judgment while traveling abroad.
During the primary, Romney's then opponent Newt Gingrich launched an ad campaign trashing Romney for his bilingualism. Oh la la. Mon dieu! It's such a disgrace to speak the language that invented words such as croissants, lingerie and entrepreneurs! Indeed, Romney has erased his French connection from his bio, his website, his résumé.
You see, Mitt's campaign is working: a recent poll shows that 82 percent of Europeans view Obama favorably, while Mitt Romney is only viewed favorably by 23 percent of the population.
So if someone tells you that Mitt Romney does not have any foreign policy experience, tell them that on the contrary, he is ready!
How do you say Binder in French?!

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Vive le Bill (Clinton)

Oh Mon Dieu. Bill, mon président!
While Bill Clinton was the uncontested winner of the Democratic National Convention and its aftermath, many thought, if only he could be president again.
Think no more: Bill Clinton, being the genius that he is, has found the solution.
And I support this message.
Bill Clinton can, and should be president of France!
Earlier this week, he explained to Piers Morgan on CNN that he could become president of France, because Arkansas where he was born, was once part of French Louisiana, and as such, Bill is eligible to receive French citizenship, the (almost) only requirement to run for higher office in France.
It is so thrilling to know that Bill wants to lead my country. Vive le Bill. Vive la France.
Unfortunately, while it used to be true, this whole Arkansas-Louisiana-France connection no longer works. But there are many other simple ways to gain French citizenship. So let me volunteer to marry Bill.
As spouse of a French citizen, he could immediately apply for citizenship. You might argue that the process would take a long time. No problem. The next French election is five years away anyway. By then, I can guarantee that under my training, Bill would be fluent in the French language (another requirement) and mores. French political lingo is full of English words anyway and impeachment and term limit are not among them.
Bill would have to own a home in France, which sounds only a sensible thing to own whether you are planning your retirement or launching your next political gig. He would not even have to renounce his U.S. citizenship.
As French president, he would know how to charm Angela Merkel into embracing a European stimulus package. He would (finally) pass healthcare reform. Who better than him to bring France onto the path of a three-trillion surplus? And trust me, the Socialist party is so much further to the left than he is, that no one would even think of calling him a Socialist! Sign me on!
The French have always liked Bill Clinton's personality, lifestyle and values. When he came under fire during his presidency, France felt outraged at this invasion of privacy.

But since he left the presidency, Bill Clinton has changed. Bill has cleaned up his act. No more excess. No more ravenous appetite. And the French don't like that.
We have traditions in France. We expect our politicians to be bon vivants. And Bill no longer is.
He used to eat burgers and steak and chicken enchiladas. According to CNN, "At one campaign stop in New Hampshire, he reportedly bought a dozen doughnuts and was working his way through the box until an aide stopped him."
Today, Bill is a vegan and France simply can't relate. As my friend Guillemette Faure, a French correspondent who covers French and American politics, noted, "You can't rule France if you don't eat dairy."
President Charles de Gaulle once said: "How can you be expected to govern a country that has 246 kinds of cheese?"
So Bill, let me tell you: If you want to be president of France, you'd have to eat them all!

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Are the Olympic Games Bad for Your Health?

So, are you enjoying the Olympics so far? Good!
The track and field events have finally started, the real Olympics as some say. But you've been watching en masse sports such as rowing, trampoline, archery, women's Greco-Roman wrestling, or beach volleyball, which is to sports what Play-Doh is to sculpture. Who knew you had developed a passion for weightlifting?

That's the beauty of the Olympics: to get people to root for sports they did not even know existed.
The Olympics used to be about the keen interest of the public for amateur sports. Clearly, it's never been so un-amateurish. Or did I miss something? Because on our side of the pond, no one who has half a brain would think of saying that Kobe Bryant, Carmelo Anthony or LeBron James are amateurs.
The Olympics are more popular each time. At the same time, the obesity rate has never been so high. The more you watch sports on TV, the least you practice any. The Olympics is bad for your BMI.
That's not what my beloved countryman, Pierre de Coubertin, the inventor of modern Olympics had in mind. (No, the Olympics were not invented by the Greeks. The French invented the Olympics. Sorry, Arianna, on this one, I have to take the credit!)
In the end, one should wonder, are the Olympics "sports porn," the same way Master Chef is "food porn"? The more you watch it, the less you do it. You enjoy it as a solitary venture. You live vicariously through those amazing athletes, while keeping your calories nicely snug on your thighs.
Or maybe there is some Einsteinesque theory to be developed proving that while all these athletes burn inordinate amounts of calories, the rest of us should refrain from burning any, for the sake of keeping the global calories expenditures book balanced.
In any case, while the athletes are getting fit, most likely, you're getting fat.
I wish I could give you some advice about the French way of watching the Olympics or practicing sports. But French women don't do sports. They don't jog, they don't bike, they don't swim. (Except our few French athletes who win medals on our behalf).
The only sport that French women claim to be experts at is what they call "sport en chambre -- "bedroom sport" -- which does not require any further explication. French women probably deserve a gold medal for it, but somehow it has not become an Olympic discipline, which is a good thing because if it were an Olympic discipline, no one would practice it leisurely.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Linfamy!

It is not Linsanity anymore. As of this morning, it is Linfamy. Jeremy Lin, the beloved Knicks basketball player has been turned into a leggy dancer, I am told. An infamy if you want my opinion, because, he looks better in shorts than in a tutu. But it was Linfamously announced at midnight that Lin will become a Rockette. And where do you find Rockettes? At Radio City Music Hall, wearing tutu-like red skirts, lined with faux-fur, performing synchronized choreographies in company of other Rockettes.
I guess the Knicks decided to let Lin "go Rockette" to bring diversity to this all female dance group. The Rockettes have had disgraceful discriminatory practices for decades, excluding males from performing. Up to this day, the Rockettes are an all-female dance company. But this is about to change. And Lin will be the one breaking the policy of bias. I guess hiring him was some sort of affirmative action measure.
I'm confident he'll exhibit the qualities required. On the basketball court, he demonstrated remarkable grace. He's a team player. The choreography of putting a ball into a basket can't be that different from lifting your legs in sync with other members of your team.
Hah?! You mean that the Rockets is not the same as the Rockettes? It sounds the same. At least to my French ear.
I've been living in this country for the past sixteen years and I still don't get your sports teams, your sports rules, your sports scoring, or your sports player transfer policies.
Seriously, did you get the whole luxury tax hoopla about Lin's transfer? Do you visualize the imaginary square in which the pitcher is supposed to hit his ball in a baseball game? Do you really understand baseball statistics? Really?! This is complex stuff, you know. It's worthy of a Ph.D in err... baseball stats. You barely know your state capitals but you have memorized the names of all the local teams, and for three different sports? I am impressed.
You see, in France, we love sports, but we can only take so much. We have only one national sport, which we call football, and rightly so, because, it is played with feet. In case this escaped your attention, what you call football is played with feet and hands, and therefore should be called foot-and-hand-ball. It sounds a tad too similar to foot-and-mouth disease, but at least it's accurate. The sport played with an oval ball, by the way, is called rugby, in case you're wondering!
So football, or soccer as you call it, is our national sport, and our local teams have easy names to remember. The Parisian team has Paris in its name, the Marseilles team has Marseilles in it. Simple. And football scoring is bordering on naïve. You see the cage? Put the ball in the cage! That scores you ONE point. The total scoring always stays in the single digits! We can't process higher complexity!
Americans are smart. Smarter than some foreign media want to portray. If you can understand baseball stats, you can understand subprime mortgage and derivative market collapse. If you can memorize the names of 92 sports teams and the cities they belong to, you know more geography than most Europeans. I can assure you that French women are Linfamously unable to memorize so many similar sounding names: the Knicks and the Bucks, the Nets and the Mets, the Hornets and the Nuggets, the Rockets and the Rockettes!

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Of Rabbits and men


Of course Milou was excited. Hunting season had opened two weeks ago. For Parisian Milou was, going hunting was like Spring break for a college kid who hasn’t had sex in 6 months. “Milou sit!” called Jean-Jacques. A nice September weekend in Burgundy was on the horizon.
Jean-Jacques and Milou zoomed towards Dijon in the Peugeot.
He was joining his friends, Corine and Francois at their country house, a few miles away from Dijon.
On that afternoon, Jean-Jacques picked up porcini mushrooms in the woods to cook with the stew of rabbit Corine had cooked for dinner. Heaven on earth.
That evening, Corine and Francois insisted on opening the best bottle of Aloxe Corton from their cellar, a 1978.
Milou was getting tired of this 3 hour meal, punctuated by “ahh the wine is soooo good. Ohhh, this stew is superb. Aoah, the cheese is A-MA-Zing”. Milou was obviously not French. Gastronomy was not in his genes. He was an Irish Terrier, and by now he was jumping off the walls.
“Jean-Jacques, your flee bag is driving me insane. Let it go outside or I’ll shoot it with my riffle” Corine snapped.
“Ok”, Jean-Jacques puffed. “But let me tell you that if someone ever shoots my dog, that will be me, not you. Hunter’s pride”.
“Cheers! To dogs and rabbits. Dead or alive” said Francois, as he gulped another mouthful of the stew. Soon the Aloxe-Corton was gone, so they opened the Gevrey-Chambertin 2000. As they were about to finish the époisse cheese, Milou scratched the door, back from his bathroom break.
“Ok he can come back in, but make sure he keeps quiet now” moaned Corine, sipping a long nice sip of wine.

 “What the fuck! what the fuck!” screamed Francois, as he opened the door to the mudroom.
“What happened” Corine shouted, running towards the dog.
Milou let go of a full grown rabbit to the feet of his master. A trophy of the magnitude of a water buffalo, in human comparison.
Jean-Jacques was beaming. “Oh my god, Milou, you killed this thing on your own. That’s so huge! Good boy! Ah my dog is amazing. I guess we’ll have rabbit again tomorrow!”

“Jean-Jacques, I’m gonna kill your dog” Corine barked. “Your fucking Milou didn’t kill  A rabbit. Your fucking dog killed the award-winning pedigree clad Blue Angora rabbit of the fucking neighbor. So now YOU go tell the neighbor that your wonderful, genius Milou killed his best-in-show rabbit”.
“FrouFrou has won more awards than Meryl Streep and Jack Nicholson combined.”

Francois, Corine and Jean-Jacques sat in stupor looking at dead Frou-Frou, covered with earth and dead leaves, but still gorgeous with his blue-silver coat shining under the dirt like an armor. No doubt FrouFrou had been sent to the after-world. He was probably entering the heaven of rabbits, and he would sit to the right side of the prophet of rabbits, who was probably Bugs Bunny.


In the meantime, Francois, Corine and Jean-Jacques were considering fleeing the country.     Or collective suicide. All very sane thoughts as the neighbor, Monsieur Gendrot was probably the meanest person on earth, heaven and hell combined. And Monsieur Gendrot was also madly in love with the pride of his life, FrouFrou, his show-rabbit, the son he never had.
“Monsieur Gendrot will find a way to have us arrested and thrown in jail when he finds out we killed his rabbit” Francois whined.
“Well, that’s only if he finds out we killed his rabbit” noted Corine coldly.
By then the vapors of Burgundy had subsided. Corine was sharp and lucid, like a terrorist on an attack. She was executing a plan. She took the remains of FrouFrou, examined him and declared. “He has no marks or bites, no blood and no visible injury. Milou must have broken his neck in one snap.” She was all of a sudden appreciative. “It is very simple, we are going to clean FrouFrou, wash him, fluff him. And we’ll put him back in his cage before this moronic Gendrot wakes up” she asserted

Jean-Jacques and Francois knew they had no choice.
“Jean-Jacques, your dog killed FrouFrou, you wash it!” Corine yapped.
Jean-Jacques thought he was gonna throw up, but he know it would be ludicrous to protest. He asked for a shot of brandy, a poire-william from Corine’s father’s collection.
Francois put on Cab calloway on the CD player.
And off they went.
First they wet dead FrouFrou under the shower; and they shampooed him; they rinsed him; then they patted him dry in a large towel. He looked like, well just that: a dead wet rabbit. So they put him on the radiator to dry him. But Francois was afraid the heat would start cooking him.
So Corine brandished her secret weapon: her blow dryer, and a flat brush. The sound of the blow dryer was soothing. In 10 minutes, FrouFrou was fluffy and pretty all blue and silver and shiny. Ready to win his last trophy.

It was 4am. Francois volunteered to put FrouFrou back it its cage. He had to confess that he had already intruded in Monsieur Gendrot’s yard, mostly to take back pruning sheers that Monsieur Gendrot borrowed but refused to give back. Anyway. He knew the way to FrouFrou’s home, in a shed, not too far from the house. And he was the most sober of the three.

In a commando mission so dangerous that he identified with the Seals, Francois took FrouFrou’s mortal remains wrapped in a checkered kitchen cloth and he climbed the fence.
When he came back, he coldly said “Mission accomplished”.
Then they screamed and argued about who should shoot the dog, they took the shot gun out. Milou was waging his tail. He thought it was time to go hunting. But they passed out in an ethylic fog.

“Yawn, I am so hung over!” cried Jean-Jacques, holding his forehead. “I dreamt that Milou killed a best-in-show rabbit” he thought. But when he saw the hair dryer on the floor, he remembered that it was not a dream.
Over the strongest coffee, Corine, Francois and Jean Jacques decided not to go hunting. Milou was locked in a crate for the day. A very happy outcome given he could have been poked with hundreds of bullets.

The weather was balmy. They timidly decided to venture out of the house. They heard Monsieur Gendrot calling his wife “Annie, Annie, mais c’est pas possible.Viens voir, j’te dis!”.
He spotted the three rascals looking into their coffee cup as if in oblivion. He called “Francois, Francois, You would not believe what happened!”
“You know my rabbit FrouFrou. The one that was always best-in-show. My blue Angora. He is miraculous. He’s a saint. He was so attached to me that he caused a miracle. He was sick so yesterday I had to take him to the vet and I had him euthanized. That was horrible. When I came back, I buried him, not far from your fence actually. And this morning, I wake up, and FrouFrou is back in his cage”.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Le Newt


BREAKING NEWS (AP): In a surprise move that has shocked the nation and the world, former House of Representatives Speaker Newt Gingrich has announced that he is suspending his presidential campaign for the Republican nomination. He has obtained French citizenship and he is now running for election in the upcoming French presidential race. President Sarkozy of France, an incumbent in the race commented on the announcement by saying “Merde, Newt”.
Soon after the announcement, French Candidate Gingrich gave his first campaign speech at the legendary Parisian swingers club Les Chandelles.

Transcript:
My fellow French citizens,

I am Le Newt. I am your candidate. I will be your president. Americans didn’t get me. The French will. You are ready for someone of my charisma. I have enormous personal ambition. I want to shift the entire planet. Including Paris and Marseilles. And I’m doing it. I am now a famous person. My fame will grace France.
The time for my coming out has come! I love the French! I speak Français fluently! I am a Francophile. Je suis Francais! Immoral, unfaithful, arrogant, vain, liar, short-tempered. I am one of yours.
Let me tell you a story: France and I, we go way back. When I was 13, my father, who was in the military, moved the family to Orleans, in France.  I have such fond memories of my youth. We had a maid of Orleans. Her name was Joan of Arc. She was a virgin, which is very unusual for a French girl. She taught me l’amour.

Then we moved to a military base in Germany, I would cross the border and visit the bordellos of Verdun. This is when I decided to become a politician.

I would say unequivocally: I am a sinner. And what better place to be a sinner than La France! You understand lust, you understand me. Who can stay married to the same woman for his whole lifetime?! After divorcing my 1st wife, I said: “She isn’t young enough or pretty enough to be the President’s wife. Besides, she has cancer.” Americans were scandalized, but you understand me. You are the land of libertines with universal health care! How profoundly civilized you are! I just can’t wait for my next summer in Saint Tropez. The thought of all these topless women on the beach is giving me a hard on. You are an inspiration!

You need a president who can bring pride back to your people. Enough of this frogs legs eating, enough of this Jerry Lewis loving, enough of this stinky cheese gorging. At the end of my second term, I will ban fromage and grenouilles. My fellow Frenchies, you deserve progress. You deserve chicken nuggets; you deserve Chuckee Cheese pizza, you deserve SPAM.
Le Newt is bringing a new era to you. When I am elected, to stimulate the economy, I will pass a bill to provide a razor for every woman. With me, the hairy armpit will be a stigma of the past.

And I pledge to each and every one of you personally that I will always be as rude as you are. Vote for me, my fellow wanton, obnoxious citizens, and with your help, I will take the world by the balls!


Monday, March 12, 2012

I am a goddess


I am a goddess. 
I’m not the one professing it. No, no. A goddess wouldn’t be so tacky to be judge and party. Mon dieu, non! You just have to look around you. The Wall Street Journal is saying it. The New York Times is affirming it. The Washington Post is asserting it. Oprah Winfrey is trumpeting it. I’m glad to say that I concur!
I’m French and in your country, I’m as divine as the Holy Ghost. I know, I know, I didn’t create the universe. Neither did God. No, I accomplished far better. I defy all the laws of physics. See: French women don’t get fat, they don’t get old, they don’t get wrinkles, they don’t get gray hair, they don’t get lung cancer, they don’t have neurotic children, they don’t sleep alone. French women are seductresses; they are elegant, sexy, sensuous, and irresistible. Formidable!

Still not bowing to my glory in devout adoration? Take a look at the shelves of any Barnes & Nobles:
-       French Women Don't Get Fat (Publisher: Knopf)
-       How To Dress Like A French Woman: (Kindle Edition)

-       What French Women Know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind (Publisher: Berkley Trade)
-       French Women Don't Sleep Alone (Publisher: Citadel)
-       French Women for All Seasons (Publisher: Knopf)
-       Fatale : How French Women Do It (Publisher: Bridgewood Press)
-       Entre Nous: A Woman's Guide to Finding Her Inner French Girl (Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin)
-       La Seduction: How the French Play the Game of Life (Publisher: Times Books)

And I could carry on… All books preaching the gospel.
When publishers rake their brains for the next best seller, what do they look for? Some lingerie, some croissants, et voila! French has been the keyword to guarantee a publishing success. You want a best seller. Pour the French dressing onto it.

The latest publishing phenomenon, Bringing up Bébé asserts that French parenting is the best. I’m not bragging. It made the front page of the weekend review section of the Wall Street Journal. “Why French parents are superior” it said. And truly, given how much Murdoch hates the frogs, when his flagship paper genuflects to France with such veneration, you know you’ve pinned the TRUTH.  

Yes, I am the best breeder of children. Look: my kids eat spinach by the truckload. They sit quietly at the table through a three hour meal. They knew how to make the difference between Merlot and Pinot Noir when they were still in diapers. 

Jamie Cat Callan, another apostle, recently informed us that French Women Don't Sleep Alone. In her eponymous book, she reveals, and I am quoting her, that French women: “don't listen to Dr. Phil's advice. They don't worry about the care and feeding of their boyfriend. And they certainly don't travel to Mars to communicate with men. On the contrary, French women's love lives are romantic, sensual, playful, and intense. They conduct their relationships with the same unique sense of originality and artfulness that they choose their clothes and accessories.” Ah!Ha! That’s exactly true. I put the same effort in my relationships with my numerous lovers as into picking my socks; and my lovers, they all kneel to me in absolute reverence, and not simply to provide my favorite sexual gratification. They do adore me. Simply because I treat them with the intensity usually devoted to my hosiery.

Should I add that I am a goddess in bed? You probably knew that already. So did Debra Ollivier. Debra and I never had sex. But she wrote a book about it. It’s called What French women know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind. She knows that when I go out, I just have appear, and men come rolling to my feet asking me to become their paramour.

Not long ago, the US graced their Trans-Atlantic friends with “the French bashing”! One of your congressmen wanted to rename French fries “Freedom fries”. As if dumping fat in your arteries had anything to do with liberties! (By the way, it’s about time you know that fries are not French, they are Belgium! But I won’t hold it against you. I know geography is not your spécialité). The French Bashing… what a joke. How funny that was. You silly facetious Americans, you! Do you think that you can hate the French?! Seriously?! This is hilarious. Of course, you can’t hate us. We are so charming, so délicieux, so chou à la crème! So brioche, so haute couture. How do you want to go by without your Lord? What would you do without French wine, French cheese, French bread, French press, French toasts, French doors, French mustard, French kiss. Go ahead, try to rename all this French stuff with a Freedom prefix. You would end up with Freedom barricades. How hysterical!

Look at the movie The Artist. Don’t you think you have to be French to produce a silent movie, and still call it French? Maybe the actors were speaking serbo-croatian without subtitles after all? But the French silent movie is so divine that it got an Oscar for not a word in French, and yet being the best French film ever. I say: It’s genius! Génial. Even the dog is caninely superior. Don’t think Lassie ever got onstage at the Oscars!
Oh and guess who gets to curse on prime time TV during their acceptance speech without being shut down? Is it George Clooney? No. Is it Brad Pitt? Of course not. Because George and Brad had nothing to accept! The award went to a heavenly gorgeous man of my country. Jean Dujardin, the main actor of The Artist, proceeded to cursing on stage, and audience and viewers alike were swooned. “Ouah! putain génial, merci, formidable, merci beaucoup“. The F word, only in French. Did the censors get it? No. Because in French, curse words are like psalms. Say your prayer, Salope.

Still not renouncing Satan. Let me show you another proof of the universal French omnipotence. When DSK, the former head of the IMF met Nafisatou Diallo, the chambermaid from the Sofitel in New York, she too felt the irresistible urge to jump on this middle-aged slightly overweight French man, engulf his penis into her mouth, and ravenously offer him a delightful fellatio. Their encounter lasted 7 minutes. She couldn’t resist. You may object that she later pressed charges against him. Well, my friend, here’s another proof of French supremacy: despite evidence, despite his semen on her dress, charges were dismissed. What a man, this DSK. What a French man!