Normally, I devote this column to those things that have made this county great, things that make you proud to be an American, things that Norman Rockwell might have painted had he ever gotten around to it, things like Jell-O and Moon Pies.
But today, gentle reader, I write not of things that make this nation swell, but of things that make other nations awful. Take France, for instance.
Why France, you ask? Perhaps because it would be a great place to visit if it weren’t for the French people that live there. Perhaps because you will never see a fine American product like a “Pop Tart” in Paris. Perhaps because I figure that there aren’t many Frenchies in Alabama, and if there are, perhaps they don’t read English, and thereby won’t write The Star annoying letters to the editor about what a cretinous fool I am who exaggerates a lot and that, really, France is a nice place to visit and that I should be fired and Ann Landers given my spot.
Thus, to save my column, I write about France.
That said, let me establish my expert credentials in making fun of people who are France impaired: I have been to France for nine hours. I have been to a French restaurant. I know a couple of French persons. I myself, I have actually spent seven, long, arduous years, trying to learn their language.
My little sister, Marissa, however, has actually mastered their language and is spending her junior year in college there now. She is in a small town near Paris called “Poitiers,” which is pronounced “Potty Air.” Apparently, according to actual eye-witness accounts, Potty Air has a rampant rodent problem, in which rats the size of small dogs run through the town, consuming vast amounts of wine and cheese, and insulting American tourists in French.
Marissa, in fact, emailed me this week and complained that she has experienced what can only be described as fetid parlez vous francais? which is French for “Go Home, Stinking Americans.”
I suggested that she try to insult them in their own language and if that line of reasoning didn’t work , I suggested that she use another American negotiating tactic: violence.
The French think we’re very violent., though I can’t imagine why. After all, we don’t kill people. Our handguns do.
But the merest threat of violence is often enough to stop a French person. The only time they’ll come to blows is if you say something harmless like, “Ooh la, la, I just love McDonald’s new croissant.”
Okay, I suppose I’m being too hard on the Frogs. They do have good food. And any country where Gerard Depardu is the best looking man they can find to pair up with Gina Lola Bridgida, is a country for me. Besides, think of all the great French things they’ve given us: French fries, French toast, French dressing, French twists, French kisses . . . so you got me, we actually invented all that stuff and then put “French” behind it to make it sound sophisticated. Hey, it may be low rent, but at least we didn’t invent French cars.
Marissa wrote to me today. She penned, “Dear Morgan. . . blah, blah, blah, [vague French expression] Don’t tell Mama about the wine . . . blah, blah, blah. . . and then this tall, blonde French woman started playing French Strip Twister! I guess that’s normal for them since they don’t wear anything at the beaches either! Well, I’ve got to run to class. I can’t wait for your visit in January. Love, your little sister.”
Hmmm. Maybe I had it all wrong. I take what I said back. And by the way, I think next week’s investigative column will be titled “Beaches in France and how to get there.”
—Morgan Murphy