30 Days Minus 2 of Writing, Day 8: French

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.

sophie marceau

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.

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.

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12 thoughts on “30 Days Minus 2 of Writing, Day 8: French

  1. For a minute there I thought the dog shit in her poutine. And that wouldn’t taste very good. Or on her poitrine which wouldn’t look very good. But on her pied, I can accept that.

    Gerard Depardieu indeed. He wouldn’t shit on her shoe. He’d just pee on her leg.

  2. I love Sophie Marceau. I watched Braveheart yesterday and she’s simply amazing. French, and amazing.

    As for commenting — not sure why you can’t on my blog? Is an error coming up? I’ve not heard any other issues. It’s just a the normal WordPress commenting system, so I can’t figure out why it wouldn’t work.

  3. It would be a very strange world if Bobcat Goldthwait were France’s favorite clown.

    I empathize with you on not being able to keep up with all the writing, reading, and commenting. The “Bataan Death March of writing” is a very apt way to describe this writing challenge. Hang in there, though. I think you’re producing some great material so far (even if the stuff about your face seems to have all been a filthy, elaborate lie).

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