August 28, 2006

The Student Travel Association’s Guide to France, Part Un

So, you’ve decided to visit France, the crown jewel of North Central Western Europe! Congratulations! You are joining in a proud tradition of travel abroad by lazy, affluent, college-aged Americans. Hopefully, this journey will expand your horizons, show you new possibilities, and teach you to effectively mask your disdain for the customs of other peoples. This helpful pamphlet will provide all the information you need to make your trip to the land of second-hand smoke and unpasteurized cheese all the more bearable!

Some Items to Pack

Before setting off on your trip, it’s important to pack the proper items. Here are some must-haves that you will find useful while visiting France.

A Money Pouch

Let’s be honest with ourselves: whether from a lack of hygiene or some natural oil only they exude, the French have sticky fingers. They are notoriously adept at separating a tourist and his money, be it through slight of hand, clever scam, or a rusty knife to the gut. A money belt, worn around the waist, solves this problem nicely, providing a more difficult target for would-be pickpockets as well as a way to cushion the force of a blade jammed into your soft, quivering belly. Keeping paper money in the pouch also provides an acceptable staunch for the blood that will invariably gush from said knife-wound, giving you the precious time you need to crawl to one of France’s eight serviceable hospitals.

A Camera

It’s happened time and time again: after being stabbed in the gut by a street person, a student will, in the course of dragging themselves down the filthy sidewalk with their forearms, chance upon one of France’s many impressive monuments or tourist spots, only to find themselves without a camera. A camera is an absolute must-have for any trip overseas. Your own capacity to form memories will likely be failing due to blood loss, while mechanical ones will survive for years to come. If you can afford one, a digital camera is a nice luxury, allowing you to review your photos on the spot. If that’s out of your price range, try simply staring at people and things that you want to remember for long periods without blinking. If it helps, put your hands to your head and chant “Remember!” to yourself through grit teeth.

A French-English Dictionary

While you would expect most foreigners to applaud an American’s sincere attempts at communication, many are actually offended when faced with a tourist slowly and emphatically asking “WHERE...IS...THE…CRAPPER?” The French will appreciate nothing more than your effort to converse with them on their own level. Rather than screeching or hurling feces however, try translating what you want to say from a handy pocket dictionary. Your stammering, page-turning, and prolonged pauses will only prove to them how hard you are really trying. Luckily, the French language is especially forgiving to tourists, in that a word’s meaning is affected by neither pronunciation nor proper conjugation.

Non-Carbonated Water

As many tourists find out the hard way, it is a literal impossibility to acquire non-carbonated water in France. The reason is a poorly-understood subterranean phenomenon that causes all ground water in the area to become infused with Carbon Dioxide gas. To avoid subsisting entirely on what scientists have dubbed “Nature’s shitty soda,” we recommend you check one or two bags filled with water bottles at the airport. If possible, fill a carry-on bag with water for the flight as well. And remember: if airport security tries to take away your precious, life-giving water, run like hell and never stop screaming.

That Rapier American Wit

The French love Jerry Lewis, who was a well-known American comedian. As you might assume, they will also appreciate your “in-your-face” brand of American street humor. Before leaving, be sure to brush up on your best barbs and one liners regarding American stereotypes concerning the French. By focusing your comedy on them and their habits, you will let those you encounter know that you are deeply knowledgeable about their country and people. Be sure to mention:

--Their eating of frogs
--Their similarity to frogs
--Their ridiculous striped shirts and berets
--Their love of Jerry Lewis
--Their impotence in war
--Their pervasive stink
--Their inexplicable hostility towards Americans

Next: A Tasteful and Useful Guide to French Culture, Customs, and Cuisine!

August 7, 2006

Gordon Ramsay Has a Quiet Family Dinner at Home

Excuse me. ExCUSE ME! This roast, it’s shit, yeah? Look at this. You, with the breasts and the overpriced wedding band, come over here and jam this in your fucking gob.

Chew it. Chew! Taste that? Do you? What is it? It’s NOTHING, yeah? This is a bland, soggy, greasy roast! It’s bland, you donkey! BLAND! Where are the spices? Where’s the bloody SAVOR?! I feel like I’m eating fucking shoe leather roasted in fucking bat guano!

Look at this! See how it’s pink there, in the middle? It’s fucking RAW! You could make someone sick, Susan! It’s called a fucking ROAST, you need to fucking ROAST it, yeah?! Do you want to make me sick?

I think…yeah, yeah, I think I’m going to vomit. I’m going to vomit a veal parmesan with truffle garnishes and a saffron-prawn reduction sauce all over the tablecloth, yeah? The blue fucking tablecloth with the fucking DAISIES that I TOLD you only goes with chicken? Yeah? Look, fuck off back to the kitchen and redo everything.

Oh no. No. No no no, come ON! You’re not going to stand here and talk back, are you? Are you, you fat mouth piece of shit?! You’re WASTING TIME! Your son and your husband are fucking HUNGRY, and you’re standing here debating! It’s fucking BLAND, Susan!

I wouldn’t serve this to fucking HITLER! ADOLF HITLER doesn’t deserve this kind of shabby, vomitous, mucousy roast! Are you telling me I’m worse than Hitler, Susan? ARE YOU?

If you think I’m going to let this roast be served, you’re out of your fucking mind! I LOVE our son, Susan. I’m not going to let him die gagging on bits of cartilage and soggy carrots after his stomach rejects this car wreck of a dinner! So stop taking the piss and go FIX IT! You’ve only got four and a half minutes! GO GO GO!

So, James, how was school today? Oh, yeah? Yeah, that’s a laugh. You know, I had him when I was your age. It’s funny he’s still teaching, yeah. Does he still do that lecture about—hold on, here comes mum with dinner.

Okay, put it here, Susan. Alright, color is better. Sloppy presentation. First thing you look at is presentation, Susan. This is boring, it’s flat. Looks like you just whipped it up at home, yeah? Okay, let’s see here. Some flavor. There’s an odd taste, like…salt. A little too much salt and…despair, I think. Yeah, definitely utter despair.

Susan, don’t tell me you’ve been crying in the fucking food AGAIN?!




No, nevermind! Fuck it! No, service is over! Give me the roast! There, see? Now I've peed on it. No one's eating the damned thing!

I hope you're happy, Susan. You have failed in every way imaginable.

No, James, I don’t care, you’re not eating it! Look, if you’re hungry, blame your mother, yeah? Maybe if she could cook worth a goddamned COCK, you would have had a full meal this bloody MONTH!


Susan, you have failed to complete the service. I will be going to the carnival ALONE, and when I come back, I want to see this whole place STOCKED, FUMIGATED, and bloody SPOTLESS, yeah? James can help.

And I’ll tell you something, Susan: if sex tonight is this amateurish, don’t be surprised if you’re the next one eliminated from this family. I’ve done it to Gordon, Jr., I can sure as hell do it to you.

August 4, 2006

Things Not to Do and Then Tell Me It's Something Else

Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining

Don’t jizz in my smoothie and call it a protein boost

Don’t cite Plessy v. Ferguson and tell me it’s Roe v. Wade

Don’t fart on my head and tell me it’s raining

Don’t put on a helmet and tell me you’re a racecar driver competing in the Gran Prix

Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow

Don’t rape me and tell me it’s “surprise sex”

Don’t canonize predominantly male-authored works of literature and tell me that it’s an entirely merit-based system

Don’t snort cocaine off my podium and tell me it’s Pixie Stix

Don’t commit genocide on an indigenous peoples and tell me
you’re discovering America

Don’t give me a summer squash and tell me it’s a zucchini

Don’t give me I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and tell me it’s butter, because I really have a hard time telling the difference. That stuff is amazing!

Don't read me Cattalus and tell me it's Ovid

Don't molest my kids and tell me you're a "groining tutor"

Don’t drive on the wrong side of the street and tell me it’s England

Don’t shit on my head and call it an Easter bonnet

Don’t put hot sauce on my hamburger and tell me it’s a fiesta salad

Don’t spit in my shirt pocket and tell me I’m lactating

Don’t look under my robes and tell me you’re spelunking

Don’t play post-Roger Waters Floyd and tell me it’s pre-Roger Waters Floyd

Don’t serve me expired mayonnaise and tell me it’s applebutter

Don’t make a Hollywood sequel of your underground Indie classic and tell me you’re not a sellout

Don’t put your dick in my hand and tell me it’s a crude balloon animal

Don’t squeeze lemons in my eye and tell me they’re contacts

Don’t put a Dracula in my bed and tell me it’s a puppy

Don’t put snakes on a plane and call it Pacific Flight 121

Don’t put a hat on a dog and tell me it’s comedy

Don’t put an old man alone on a park bench and tell me it’s art

Don’t punch me in the face and tell me you thought my head was a glove

Don’t bring me to orgasm and sing “*Here Comes the Judge*”

Don’t turn your shirt inside-out and tell me it’s a new shirt

Don't put Ben Stiller in a movie and tell me he's not playing the same role as every movie he's ever been in

Don't play me rap and call it "urban beat poetry"

Don't give me a filing hasp and tell me it's a tampon

Don’t come in here with a case against Lorenzo’s Qwik-Stop Likker Shoppe and tell me he refused to pay his rent after you borrowed his sister’s bike and put it in hock to pay for a phone bill your ex-girlfriend ran up while she lived with you and tell me you deserve my respect
2009 Those Aren't Muskets!