What is it with the French?

They’ve given us so much. Renoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. Steak au Poivre and Champagne. Catherine Deneuve and Sophie Marceau. The Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty. The French kiss and ménage à trois. A language that can make any phrase sound sexy.

This is Sophie Marceau. She’s French. That is all.

Sophie (sipping absinthe outside the Louvre): “Pardon, monsieur, votre putain d’animal a chié sur mon soulier.”

American tourist (wearing khaki shorts, white knee socks, and black loafers): “Thank you, and you are an incredibly attractive woman. Have sex with me and Catherine Deneuve now, and marry me later.”

Sophie: “I just told you that your dog shit on my shoe, idiot! I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were Gérard Depardieu.”

American tourist (picking his nose): “Oh, it sounded nicer in your foreign accent.”

The French reek of good culture. Until you get to their love of the American comedian Jerry Lewis.

Lewis may be a comedic icon, but he isn’t funny.

Yes, he seems affable. Yes, I admire the amazing work he’s done on behalf of the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

But his famous “Hey lady!” routine? Or the pratfalls?

Not funny, just infantile.

This is Jerry Lewis. He is not French. That is all.

The French, however, love him. In 2006, the French Minister of Culture awarded Lewis the Légion d’honneur, calling him the “French people’s favorite clown.”

Not Robin Williams. Not Jim Gaffigan. Not Bryan Regan, Jerry Seinfeld, Jim Carrey, Ben Stiller, Jake Johansen, Jack Black, Eddie Murphy or Richard Pryor. Not anybody who makes me laugh so hard I feel like my face is going to fall off. Not even Bobcat Goldthwait.

Lewis.

The comedian whose entire career has consisted of acting like a mentally disabled spastic and falling over, often on his co-stars.

I can’t wrap my head around the concept. It’s like the French are kissing us lightly on one cheek, and then slapping us on the other.

I’d still like to live in Paris, of course. I was there once, and fell madly in love with its pastries.

I wonder if Sophie has a room for rent?

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Let’s be honest here: I’m stretched to my limit as I try to keep up with this blogging challenge hosted by Nicky and Mike at We Work for Cheese. Yesterday, I barely had time to read the posts and comment, let alone work. And I still can’t find a way to comment on any blogs that use the same comment form used by P.J., Nora Blithe and Nathanael. As a result, I’m frustrated, depressed, filled with anxiety, and nauseous.

No, it’s nauseated. Proper grammar is essential, even at a time like this.

Anyway, this challenge is like the Bataan Death March of writing.

See you again tomorrow. If you survive today.