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.

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!