Everyone is talking about my new, incredibly hot Italian former supermodel girlfriend. I know, I’m one lucky asshole. Even your precious Dennis Kucinich doesn’t have a broad this smoking! We made love twelve times yesterday before breakfast, which in France means she and I are now legally married. But we had a discreet ceremony anyway.
It looks like it’s that season again, time for riots in the Paris suburbs. For those of you traveling to France who’d like to get in on the action but don’t know where to start, let me take this opportunity to explain to you about the racaille. If you don’t know what that last word means, don’t ask me because I’m not allowed to tell you. The last time this happened, I got in trouble for calling the rioters racaille (ok fine, it means riff-raff or, you know, rascally kids). What I really meant to call the rioters was stinking thieves who don’t deserve to clean my mistress’s douchebag. Sorry if that’s comes off harsh. It translates better in French. It’s actually a compliment.
I just wrapped up my visit to Washington and I’m still reeling. Oh the time Mr. Bush and I had! We toured Mount Vernon where I talked at length about our respective histories, I told him about France’s role in the American Revolution. I also told Mr. Bush about George Washington leading the Continental army to victory and his election as the first President under the U.S. Constitution. Mr. Bush found it fascinating.
France and America are at last one again. No longer do my fellows citizens need to pretend to sneer through French-dubbed broadcasts of Two and a Half Men or make a show of refusing ketchup on their steak au poivre. Likewise, Americans no longer need to prohibit the serving of wine at McDonald’s or act revolted when a celebrity goes topless in public. It’s a new age now!
Bonjour and good day. I am the elected President of the republic of France. As of last week, I’m also minus a wife. Though it’s been a difficult few days of soul-searching and leaving the Elysée Palace toilet seats up, I am now ready to throw myself back, how do you say, into the saddle. At last, I can announce without shame my devotion to my first and only true love. No, not Muammar Gaddafi (that’s strictly nuclear). The hot, throbbing love of my life is you, America.
You dazzle me with your charisma and reality television pilots. I marvel at your ability to survive on a diet of Hot Pockets and
high-fructose corn syrup. I gaze misty-eyed as you soldier on despite your deficient public education and with minimal to nul medical attention (the pantywaists I’m in charge of over here can’t get a paper cut without running out for a fully-covered prescription for Bactine). And all the while, you do this subsisting on a mere two weeks of vacation a year and only the occasional evening of missionary sex. C’est extraordinaire!
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