Thursday, January 29, 2004

La Blonde Est Whining

Why is it that I took high school French-- let's see-- fourteen years ago now (oh God) and I can still construct complete Frenchy-French sentences, and the entirety of the college Spanish I had only nine years ago has gone completely down the cerebral crapper? Was it the whole showing-up-for-class-in-my-pajamas thing? Was it because the unintelligible person at the front of the room kept trying to make me say "I am sitting at my desk. The desk is on the floor!" in an entirely different language at nine o'clock in the morning?

Romance languages spoken by a learned or native tongue is lovely. Half-assed Spanish spoken by hungover eighteen-year-olds at nine in the morning is not.

This all has to do with, as you might expect, Gary "Leave the Cheeseburger, Take the Croissant" Stevens, who confirmed yesterday that he is taking on a long-term assignment to ride in Europe. The France part of Europe. France.


Oh, Gary.

France? Did it have to be France? Of all limp-wristed European countries, why France? My dear boy, must we surround ourselves with ill shaven, surrender-happy Cheez-its?

If we're exporting athletes to France, can't we ship out He Hate Me? Or Shaq? France can so totally have Shaq. He can make all the crappy commercials he wants over there. Tu va, Shaq! Shill all day long for Le Masion de.... Radio, or.... something.

Okay, Gary. You go to France. But if you come home smoking those fruity-ass thin cigarettes, I swear I will start rooting for Bailey.

La author:

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