3/20/02

WHY BILL HATES THE FUCKING FRENCH

All right, boys and girls, Mr. Bitner has been out of sorts the past few days, and with some time on his idle hands, so he thought he'd go ahead and pass along to you his feelings about that heinie faced bunch across the sea, The French, as opposed to doing something much more self-destructive.

What you're getting here is the heavily edited and condensed version. The original ran 80 plus KB, don't know what that is in words but it was getting up there, and upon review was just too damn ugly and mean spirited for me, so instead of that long, nasty, and most damning of all, sometimes boring tome, I've decided to just relate an incident that happened while I was in France that sums up frogdom for me, and leave it at that.

I was in France in 1972 on one of those send a student to Europe so they can drink and smoke dope and fuck for six weeks with little to no adult supervision (cos the adults are too busy drinking, and smoking dope and fucking) trips that MY kids are never going on, believe me.

I haven't been back, so it may have improved in 30 years, but at the time, I thought France, and particularly Paris, was the most overrated place in the world. The Seine was an open sewer all full of tampons and vomit, the Eiffel Tower looks like something some kid built, all they eat over there are rocks disguised as rolls and sugar coated rat turds, they drink their beer hot and their ice will give you fucking typhoid, the men are all child molesters and the woman have more hair on their upper lips than I do on my ass, and ALL of 'em smell so fucking bad you wouldn't let them in your stable cos they'd stink the place up.

I'm standing on a Parisian street corner one afternoon waiting for the light to change. I was wearing a denim vest with a large American flag patch on the back (also some big assed bell bottom jeans, I'm not talking candy ass flares, I'm talking BELL BOTTOMS, I could've sheltered some French homeless under there, except I wouldn't, because I fucking hate the French, and a Lee Michaels t-shirt, Jesus, does anyone else remember him, you know what I mean?) If I could've grown 'em, I'd have had me a big ass set of sideburns too, but I've never been able to grow sideburns, dammit. I've had wine for breakfast, and wine for lunch, and I'm looking for some place where I can get a hot damn beer, because hot beer's better than no beer at all, when I feel this pecking on my back. I turn around and here's this syphilitic, pock-faced, curly headed Frenchy frog dude giving me the lip snurl, with 3 or 4 similarly diseased looking shitheads standing behind him.

"Viet Nam war peeg," he says.

"What?" says I.

"You 'eard me. Peeg. Viet Nam war peeg."

I'm just a 15 year old kid, I got nothing to do with Viet Nam, but I think I sense his problem.

"Look," I said, "you're just pissed because once again you got your nutless fucking asses handed back to you by somebody we're taking out (this was '72 remember, and I was a kid- I thought we were going to win). Get over it. "

"Go ome. We 'ate you, you peeg."

"Yeah, well that's not what yer papa was singing in '44 when he was taking it up the ass from half the German Army, is it? Course, he probably liked it, cos he's a fucking faggot, and you are too, ya cocksucker." This is actually exactly what I said, I remember it like it was yesterday.

The light changed, so I turned to cross the street- I've learned since you don't turn your back on someone you've just fucked with, but like I said, I was a kid- a foul mouthed alcoholic kid, but still a kid- and I hear him say "I don' care, I speet on you," and then something whacks me between the shoulder blades.

Let me tell you, no one can throw a hocker like a Frenchman. I'm serious, their loogies are the size of a real man's nutsack, and when I took my vest off later to wash it off, it looked like someone had hit me in the back with a hand full of cottage cheese.

The guy I was with goes, "Oh my god, Bill, he spit on your back. On the flag."

Yeah, well, that was fucking that. I'm not Captain America (oh, but how I wish, or even Hawkeye or Quicksilver- I draw the line at Ant Man, though, thanks anyway) but still, no piece of shit frog bastard is gonna whang his curdled phlegm on Old Glory in front of me, particularly not when it's on my back. Even though they don't have balls- I don't know how they reproduce, I swear to God, probably like fucking amebas- I crotch kicked him anyway. One of his buddies went to tackle me, which, being a Frenchman, meant he bent over, grabbed me around the waist, and started feeling my butt. I headlocked him and started bringing my knee up, he starts making all these Frenchy noises of protest, and we stagger that way out into the street, which means if there'd been a car coming I wouldn't be writing this now, because a French driver swerves to avoid no man, not even one of his own, and into this gendarme, who pulls us apart and shoves me off down the street, and holds onto Frenchy.

I made like I was gonna go back at Frenchy- a real good time to hit a guy is when someone's holding his arms- but le gendarme saw me, took out this whistle, and BLEW IT AT ME, real hard and mean like. Never let it be said I don't know when I'm overmatched- I decided it was time to find that beer. I mean Christ sake, next thing you know he might hold me down and tickle me. God, I hate the fucking French.

Actually, running into Monsieur Cop was probably a good thing, because looking back there was this growing crowd of agitated frogs all pulling faces and showing their green and crooked teeth, and pointing their long, effeminate fingers at me, probably more than even a healthy young American boy could've taken, and I never would have survived the embarrassment of being pinched and slapped to a pulp by Frenchmen, I don't care how many of them there were.

As for MY backup, he was already two blocks away and picking up speed. David Lanham, who I'm sure had a lot of French blood himself, you remember him, Joe. I vowed when I caught up with him later to pound the living hell out of him, but by the time I got back to the dormitory that night I was reeling from an afternoon and evening of hot beer, and my face was real sore because I'd somehow found the only native girl without a moustache, but then all those times of being drunk in French class- it would've been right after lunch, wouldn't it- caught up with me, because when I tried to ask her if she wanted to have sex, she must've thought I said please head butt me in the cheek as hard as you can, which she did, and oh, by the way, don't forget to pull my hair, and I just didn't feel like it anymore-see, I was bailing out on ass kickings 30 years back, I'm nothing but talk, talk, TALK- so instead I ate a rock that looked like a roll, and some rat turds, and went to bed.

Man. I gotta get a fucking life. But I still HATE THE FUCKING FRENCH.

Guillaume