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!

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