Thursday, October 18, 2012

Dear France:

I fucking hate you.  Seriously France, what is your problem?  Listen, I get it….YOU'RE SUPER FIT AND ATTRACTIVE.  Does that make you better than me?  PROBABLY FRANCE!  Paris is a scam France!  It was created solely to make Americans feel badly about themselves.  I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY FRANCE!  I doubt I'll be able to afford anything in your super swanky cities.  God you make me so sick.  TRÈS MALADE FRANCE!  Betcha didn't think I knew how to speak French did you France?  Well I don't!  And I'm sick of you pointing it out!  UGH...STOP BONJOURING ME FRANCE!  Are you too good for Hello?  Is that it?  I know you speak English France and we both know I'm American so why don't you cut me some mother fucking slack. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME FRANCE!  I know you're glaring at me France…THIS IS A CHICAGO BEARS T-SHIRT FRANCE!  GET OVER IT!  I wear clothes that look like pajamas because I can't fit into pants.  I CAN'T FIT INTO PANTS FRANCE!  I bet that makes you real happy doesn't it France.  You sick son of a bitch.  YOU HAVE AN EATING DISORDER FRANCE!  Seriously, get your shit together.  Your accent is stupid France…it's disgusting.  You sound like a fucking idiot so why don't you just cut the crap.  I get it France!  You're super unique and laid-back.  I AM FREAKING OUT OK FRANCE!?  I HAVE A JOB FRANCE!  While you're bulking up on espressos in front of some French-speaking café I AM GOING TO MY MOTHER FUCKING JOB.  Did you get that France?!  Your Marlboro Reds taste like Marlboro Lights France…and that…is fucking…bullshit.  I hate you.  I literally hate you France.  You better watch your mother fucking back. 


  1. Oh my god France, watch the fuck out.

  2. I totally get your rage. I always want to love Paris until I get bitch-slapped by overwhelming snobbery. (Perhaps it's my fault for going shopping when the stores only carry size zero and smaller and I am clearly scum for not subsisting entirely on espresso and cigarettes and wanting to eat more than once a month.) Then enough time goes by that I forget and fool myself into thinking Paris is wonderful again. The only thing to do is to revel in the fact that those noses in the air are several inches below yours and outsnob those diminutive fucks right back. We have REAL football. And proper-sized hotel rooms. And... well... gimme a bit, I'll get back to you. Anyway, next time, screw Paris and go to Oslo - the Norwegian smokes will have you spitting black for a week after one drag.

  3. Wow, if I were France, I would TOTALLY be filing a 209A on your ass.