Sausage

I mean…I’m basically full-blown anorexic over here and literally no one cares.

I recently visited yet another medical professional who spent a considerable amount of time pointing out my epic obesity.  This medical observation cost me $400.  Seriously?  Literal blind people are able to quickly assess that I have an out of control weight problem, yet I just paid some horrid Beverly Hills “nutritionist” (that can’t be a real thing) to mock me while at the same time taking all of my money.  I feel great about myself…obviously.

Regardless, it’s clearly time to pull in the reins.  I assumed this would be a fairly easy process.  After my first appointment with the wildly rude and more so egregiously expensive "nutritionist", she demanded that I write down everything I eat and email it to her.  She then spent about an hour describing to me, in detail, what fruits and vegetables are.  Needless to say, this woman is horrible and I wish she was dead…or at least fat.  If nothing else, that would soften the blow. 

The first thing I did after seeing the “nutritionist” was get in my car, hysterically cry, call Angel and force him to repeatedly tell me how attractive I am.  This was an exercise in futility because obviously I can’t believe a word my boyfriend says to me.  He’s mesmerized by my Armenianisms and cannot be trusted.  After this charade, I went to work and Googled vegetables.  I was horrified.  I can’t live in a word where pasta isn’t served at every meal but I also can’t live in a world where people are paid handsomely to call me fat – I had reached an impasse and decided to take the plunge.  I…began…to diet.  So far, it’s been terrifying. 

Here’s what my daily food intake used to look like:

Breakfast: Breakfast burrito

Snack: Candy

Lunch: Regular burrito

Snack: Candy

Dinner: Macaroni and Cheese sandwich

Dessert: BBQ Pork

I find that to be balanced and reasonable.  Here’s what my new starvation diet looks like:

Breakfast: Oatmeal

Snack: Cigarette

Lunch: White fish with sautéed spinach

Snack: Cigarette

Dinner: Banana mixed with peanut butter and honey

Dessert: Cigarette

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed BUT I’M LITERALLY STARVING TO DEATH!!!  IS THIS A JOKE?!  NO ONE COULD SURVIVE ON THESE KINDS OF RATIONS.  YOU KNOW WHO EATS LIKE THIS?!  HOMELESS PEOPLE!!!

I thought for sure that once I emailed my new anorexic diary to my "nutritionist" she’d say something like, “Ok, so it seems like you’ve taken what I’ve said a little out of context.  You’re accidentally starving yourself.  Feel free to eat food sometimes.”  I would have considered that to be an appropriate response.  Instead, that bitch sent me an email.  AN ENCRYPTED EMAIL!!!  WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO SET UP PASSWORD PROTECTION JUST TO ENTER A SECRET EMAIL VORTEX WHERE YOU CALL ME FAT YOU STUPID GOD DAMN WHORE!?

First of all, this fucking wang-job put all of her comments in caps which I found to be pretty aggressive.  It looked like this:

Breakfast: Oatmeal GOOD!

Snack: Cigarette YOU’RE GOING TO DIE OF CANCER!

Lunch: White fish with sautéed spinach HOW WAS THE FISH COOKED?  STAY AWAY FROM SAUTEED, RAW IS BETTER!

Snack: Cigarette YOU’RE GOING TO DIE OF CANCER!

Dinner: Banana mixed with peanut butter and honey MAKE SURE IT’S NATURAL PEANUT BUTTER!

Snack: Cigarette YOU’RE GOING TO DIE OF CANCER!

I mean…is this a joke?  She actually suggested that I could do better by eating less than literally nothing.  You’re probably wondering if I’ve lost any weight.  OBVIOUSLY!!!  I’M LEGITIMATELY ANOREXIC!

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.  I’m certainly not about to stop smoking as nicotine is about the only nutrient I’m getting these days.  I can’t see this working out.  I’m either going to die of starvation or cancer.  According to my “nutritionist” and everyone else in Los Angeles, this is preferable to being fat.  If anyone is reading this, I beg you…please make sure they serve bratwurst at my funeral.  If you really love me, you’ll bury me with a brat.  I hope they serve sausage in heaven.

Angel

I’ve not been particularly lucky in life evidenced by this.  Nor have I been lucky in love evidenced by this.  So it is with great joy that I report to you that I have found the one.

I first met the man of my dreams at a keg party…obviously.  At the time, I had a broken leg and a D.U.I. and was ready for a big night out on the town.  I was walking into a party – held in a Midwestern garage – when I saw him.  He was fast asleep (passed out) next to the keg and I thought, “You are the man of my dreams.”  And he was.  I spent the rest of the night saddled up next to him.  He slept like an angel.  I wasn’t going to let his slumbered state deter me from making a connection.  I had some nail polish in my purse so I painted his pinky nail fire engine red as he dozed.  I reasoned that once he woke up, whenever that may be, he would be sure to seek out the woman who had marked him.  Just to be sure, I also stamped my name on his hand (because I was carrying around an Alison stamp that I had come across at a Phish show…naturally).  

A few weeks later my moment arrived.  I was off to another garage party when I came across the angel from that other night.

Angel: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Angel: Have we met?

Me: Ya, I painted your nail at a party.

Angel: Are you Alison?

Me: Ya.

Angel: Dude, you really freaked me out that night.  I woke up in the morning with my nail painted and a stamp on my hand and thought I had been raped.

Me: I love you.

As usual, I had made a stellar first impression.  Luckily, his weariness wore off as we partook in several beers, a bag of weed and a fifth of whiskey.  By the end of the night he was clearly smitten and, lucky for me, I had a D.U.I. and needed a ride home.  Thus began our torrid love affair.

I was only 18 when I met the Angel but it was clear that our love with real.  We spent romantic nights in his parents’ basement, we devoted countless evenings to road-loading on the most mystical of country roads, and we constructed every object found along the way into a pot-smoking apparatus.  It was beyond romantic.

When I was 24, I quit drinking and moved to Boston – putting an end to our love affair.  For the next few years, we talked on occasion but our lives took us in opposite directions… until last week.

After 8 torturous years apart, he quit drinking too and we decided to rekindle the old flame.  I was uncertain whether or not we could truly reconstruct the heartfelt feelings of our youth but was willing to give it a try.  I asked God to send me a sign so that I could be sure that this was the one.  For once, God came through.

The Angel and I spent 10 glorious days together in beautiful Los Angeles.  On our last night, we watched the sunset.  It was heavenly.  We spent the evening, arms wrapped around each other, standing on the lip of the Santa Monica pier.  In the distance, we could hear a street musician’s smoky voice singing Simon and Garfunkel tunes.  The sound of the waves hitting the sand had me in a meditative trance and I was perfectly at ease.  Eventually, the Angel and I meandered down to the beach.  As we walked along the shore, he put his arm around me and said, “This is perfect.”  It was at that moment that a seagull shit all over his head and all down the back of his shirt.  And it was at that moment that I knew – this was the man for me.   

Love is a funny thing.  For years I thought I needed a man who would fix me.  Instead, I’ve found a man who is just as broken.  Instead of being in a perfect relationship, I get to be one half of an imperfect couple.  I imagine our life together will be fraught with vandalized Daewoos and numerous burn holes.  We’ll likely always get lost when we’re in a hurry and I doubt we’ll be able to cook dinner without breaking a plate.  But I find great comfort in the fact that my imperfections are mirrored by his.  After that seagull shit all over Angel, we walked back to the car and I realized I had a hole in my pants.  Angel didn’t judge me.  He smiled.  And as I wiped away the bird shit from his head, we embraced, and I knew what love was.

God Hates Me

I mean…it’s not a big deal or anything I just think we should acknowledge that he literally hates me.  For like 30 seconds I got confused and thought maybe he liked me.  I had just spent 10 glorious days in Chicago where my mother, Mimi Royer, doted on me and every meal included country fried steak.  I returned to Los Angeles fresh and renewed.  I felt confident that I was on the precipice of greatness.  Over the holiday break, I had taken the time to remove all the dicks that had been inserted into my asshole previous to my departure and was confident that they would stay gone for good.  Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that God put those dicks there for a reason and by removing them I had inadvertently pissed him off.

The night I returned to Los Angeles I was committed to finishing season 2 of Homeland which had unequivocally changed my life.  I became obsessed with it (deep-rooted addiction problems) while I was at home and was anxious to get back to it.  Unfortunately, when I sat down to fire up my super trendy Dell Inspiron, the screen literally just started spewing an array of numbers and letters indicating to me that perhaps it was not working.  I don’t know a lot about computers so I just turned it on and off 40 times, to no avail.  Day one in LA = non-functioning laptop.  Insert dick into ass.

I reasoned that this was a slight annoyance, nothing to be alarmed about.  I have a tech guy at work and I’m certain that his sole job is to accommodate my needs.  While my ass was slightly sore from this minor setback, I would not be deterred.  People in Africa are dying of AIDS, my laptop doesn’t work.  No big deal. 

The next day my email was hacked and I sent what I have to imagine was a virus to about 400 of my closest friends.  The day after that, my Blackberry (I get it…I should get a new phone.  I’M NOT GOOD WITH TECHNOLOGY!!!) stopped sending and receiving emails.  In the interim, I realized that I was freezing to death every night only to find out that my heat was broken.  I’m not sure if you’re following but this is now several dicks.  I hadn’t even been home for a week and there were so many dicks in my ass I could hardly see straight.    

I was beginning to crack but I would not break.  NO BIG DEAL GOD!  I’VE GOT EVERYTHING UNDER CONTROL!  YOU WON’T WIN THIS ROUND YOU SON OF A BITCH!  But God would not be deterred.  It was obvious he would not be happy until my ass was brimming with dicks.  At around 10:30pm last Friday, I had just completed a 3 and a half hour improv class and was exhausted from a long day of being a legal assistant and pretending to be an actor.  I was walking with a friend, back to my car, when I noticed that my back window had writing on it.  I turned to my friend Allie and said, “Um…does my back window say asshole?”  Well ladies and gentleman, it did…obviously.  Luckily there were several helpful messages written with wax all over my windows.  After the asshole message, which was uninformative at best – creatively lacking at worst, the next message read, “Die.  Never park here.”  I looked around to see if maybe I parked in a driveway or if there were any signs suggesting that I had done something wrong.  No, on both counts.  I read on, “Turn off your fucking alarm.”  Now that struck me as interesting BECAUSE I DRIVE A 2001 DAEWOO!  WHY THE FUCK WOULD I HAVE AN ALARM?!  Right then, the alarm went off.  An alarm that I had not encountered in the 3 years that I’ve owned that wretched car.  Apparently the fucking Daewoo has a secret alarm that goes off when it’s parked in front of a house inhabited by psychos. 

So I got in my car and drove home.  I drove through the streets of West Hollywood in a 2001 Daewoo that had been vandalized to the extreme, every window accounted for, expletives galore and I headed back to my tiny, freezing studio where dreams find a place to die.

The thing is, I believe that God exists.  It’s just obvious that he literally wishes I was dead.  At least he didn’t impregnate me with his stupid son.  If I was Mary, I would’ve been pissed.  He must have really hated her.  In the end, I ended up kidnapping my friend Allie and we spent the next two hours dousing my car with vinegar and trying to get that fucking wax off.  The next day I went to work, attempted to get a cup of coffee and instead, immediately broke the espresso machine.  I barely have time to take one dick out of my ass before another one gets jammed up there.  For a moment I thought the silver lining was that my IT guy fixed my laptop.  This was until I noticed that when I open the stupid thing, my name is visible with a cat next to it.  A CAT!  I fucking hate cats.  And of course I have no idea how to change it.  So now every time I open my laptop I remember that a) cats are stupid, b) I am West Hollywood’s bitch c) God fucking hates me and wants me to die.  My ass runneth over.    

Belated Christmas Post

I love Christmas.  I realize it's politically correct to call this time of year "the holidays" but I think we can all agree that's just code for Christmas.  I don’t claim to know a lot about this Jesus character that everyone’s always talking about but I appreciate the fact that I receive gifts on his birthday.  I believe we should all follow Jesus’ lead, which would allow me to receive gifts on literally everyone’s birthday.  So Christmas it is.  All remaining holidays are subpar.  Don't think I don’t notice them trying to sneak themselves into the fray.  Each year, I enter the lobby of my office building where a glorious Christmas tree is illuminated in all its glory while somewhere nearby a menorah tries to inch its way in.  I call bullshit, menorah.  You're just a candelabra in disguise.  Stop trying to steal Christmas' thunder.  Hanukah isn't the only culprit.  Each year, more and more fake holidays try to take center stage.

HANUKKAH
Let's start with the most obvious fake holiday – Hanukkah.  This fake holiday is also known as the festival of lights.  I'm pretty sure that's the deal with all the candelabras.  I want you to know that I did extensive research on Hanukkah and I still have no idea what it is.  (It should be noted that "extensive research" entailed G-chatting my friend Orit who I'm pretty sure gave me an exact definition but in Hebrew so quite frankly, I'm still lost.)  Anyway, I think it's just the celebration of wax candles…lame.

KWANZAA
Black people.  That's my only point of reference on Kwanzaa.  Apparently it was made up in 1966.  Made up…literally.  It was created (made up) by a man named Maulana Karenga (fake name, fake holiday…makes sense) who said that Jesus was psychotic and that Christianity was a white religion that black people should shun…oh boy.  Simmer down Maulana…Jesus was a hero who gave everyone a gift on his birthday.  The only gift you've ever given is a fake holiday with too many consonants.  I see you've taken a page from our friends the Jews.  I'm not impressed.

NEW YEAR'S EVE
Quite frankly, New Year's Eve is a holiday I can get behind solely because it's ripe with drinking and debauchery.  Sadly, I have an out of control drinking problem, therefore, this "holiday" no longer applies to me.  Furthermore, the only gifts I've ever received on New Year's Eve have been D.U.I.s, S.T.D.s and a lost car.  I lose my car a lot when I'm drinking.  I used to have a close relationship with the Chicago Police Department because my first assumption was always that my car had been stolen.  After a thorough wake-and-bake, I would then trick a friend into driving me around the city until I found whatever piece of shit car I was driving at the time.  As you can see, NYE is a lot of work.  It often results in several different blood tests, a pregnancy scare, and about an eighth of weed.  Not for me. Not anymore. Fuck you, New Year's Eve -- Plan B is expensive and frankly, I don't appreciate your attitude. 

The one thing I like about New Years is the resolutions part.  As I look forward to holidays ahead, I resolve to find out who Jesus is.  I resolve to not be racist.  I resolve to know the whereabouts of my car at all times.  Most of all, I resolve to accepts the gifts the world gives me.  In the name of Jesus Christ, that wonderful man who bought me a Burberry bag last year, Amen. 

Baby Showers

Baby showers mark the divide in women.  If you have a child and are attending a baby shower, you will feel at-ease, included, and sure of yourself.  If you are married, without children and attending a baby shower, you should prepare yourself to answer a lot of questions about the child you are certainly planning to have.  If you are single and attending a baby shower, you should literally just kill yourself.  You will inevitably find yourself navigating around one of three conversation topics: Being Single, Having Babies, Being a Full-Time Mom.

BEING SINGLE 

Just accept it.  Literally everyone is going to ask you about it.  I've developed several scenarios to combat this topic.  I find that some work better than others.

#1 Shock Value Response

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

Me: Nope…just banging strangers.

This one is my favorite but has to be timed appropriately.  It's best used on your way out so that you're not ostracized for the remainder of the party.  Like a rookie, I once dropped this bomb upon arrival and wasn't allowed to hold any babies for the rest of the afternoon for fear that said offspring might contract an STD.  YOU CAN'T GET HERPES FROM TOUCHING YOU IDIOTS!  Ugh…everybody knows that.

#2 Lie     

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

Me: No…I was married but we're going through a divorce.

Robot: What happened?

(I like to cater my answer to elicit the most fear in whoever I'm talking to.  If they're fat, I say my husband left me for a thin person.  If they don't have children, I say he left me because he was eager to start a family.  If they're religious, I say he was gay.  It's awesome.)

#3 Cater

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

 

Me: *hysterical crying*

Sadly but not surprisingly, this scheme works best.  You will immediately be handed a) alcohol b) food and c) hugs.  You will be swarmed by women who want to lift your spirits.  The truth is ‑ they're just so relieved to hear that you don't want to be single.  It's just an unfortunate turn of events which is likely the result of you not meeting the right person.  You will then hear some of the dumbest bullshit that women LOVE to say to one another:

"It must be hard because you're so busy.  You've always been so focused on your career."

"The thing is that you intimidate men!  You're so strong and pretty!"

"Have you tried dating online?  Well I mean I've never done it but I know a girl who met her husband on OK Cupid!"

If none of the above tactics work you just need to pull out the big guns and say you were raped.  I know it sounds crazy but everyone will flee and you'll finally get some God damn peace and quiet. 

HAVING BABIES

If you managed to skirt the Single question, your audience will then move on to children.  The only thing worse in the world than a woman who isn't upset that she's single is a woman who's unclear about whether or not she wants to procreate. If you are in a suburban area, it's in your best interest to simply say you lost your uterus in a car accident and then start weeping. Otherwise, you will be crucified.  The thing that married people will typically discuss with each other after you reveal to them your indifference to childbirth is how you are intensely selfish. That is what people who want to have children always say about people who don't. They just can't believe how selfish you're being.

Other than the Virgin Mary, when has any birth been selfless? Furthermore, I have to imagine that if the Virgin Mary had better access to medical care and abortion was invented, she'd have had a tough decision to make. How in the world is having a baby not totally selfish? You're forcing a person into a world that they have no say in. I'd go so far as to say it's a step above slavery. You own that thing until it's eighteen and as soon as it starts talking, it's expected to pay its own way. It's subtle at first – pick up your toys, please and thank you, and then as the offspring gets older it's straight up drudgery.

Now quite frankly, I don't care if people get married and I certainly don't mind if they have children. I do mind the insinuation that I'm a bad person because I'm not filled with baby and that they're living a spiritual life that doesn't involve birth control or false claims of rape.

FULL-TIME MOM

If you can avoid Single Talk and Baby Talk at a shower, you have one more cross to bear.  The Full-time Mom.  She's my favorite.

Me:  So what do you do for work?

Robot:  Fulltime mom!

Me:  Oh so you don't have a job.

Robot:  Being a mom is my job.

Me:  Do you get a paycheck?

Robot: Well no but let me tell you…I had a job and it was way easier than taking care of three kids.

Me:  I'm sure it was.  Nonetheless, you currently don't have a job.

Robot: You can't imagine how exhausted I am at the end of the day.

Me:  No, I mean…I totally get it.  Being a mom is hard.  I'm just not sure that constitutes a job.  Maybe we could call you a volunteer?

Robot: Fulltime mom!

Me:  So what about moms who have actual jobs…do they have two jobs?

Robot: I don't know.

Me: Could you put "fulltime mom" on a resume?

Robot: No.

Me:  Ok great.  So we've established that you don't have a job.

Robot: BEING A MOM IS MY JOB!

I literally don't understand.  Why try to trick me into thinking that you have a job?  I mean…you totally don't and that's totally cool.  I can see you put a lot of effort into this baby shower (also doesn't constitute a job) and I thank you for this washcloth shaped like a bunny.

Ultimately, I'm not even sure what a baby shower is.  I'm constantly expecting to see the actual baby and instead I'm just glaring at a pregnant broad the whole time.  I find it to be a little bizarre that we're all invited to come watch you not have a baby.  I'm not trying to be a jerk or anything but it's fairly unimpressive.  Why not have the baby and then we can all get together and hear about how you shit your pants during childbirth.  Honest to God, that strikes me as way more interesting than all the topics we're currently stuck with.  Listen…I am single, sans child and employed (actual job) and I don't think I should be judged so harshly.  Take it easy on me, women with babies.  Either that or stop inviting me to your stupid parties where you lie about how there's gonna be a baby there.  Ugh…I fall for it every time.

I'm Bad At Things...

I'm not good at things.  And I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, I'm literally just terrible at all things.  While the general public is good at things like being employed, creating new offspring and not spilling mayonnaise on their pants, I’m attempting to not contract any more obscure liver diseases or purchase cars with my debit card.  I assure you I'm failing on both counts – I'm bad at things.

This belief was solidified by a recent string of auditions.  Much like all other areas of my life, I am failing at acting.  It's like watching a toddler trying to feed itself.  It's messy and disconcerting and elicits a lot of pity, but also a smidge of joy, from curious onlookers.

Let's start last week when I was called in to audition for a new sitcom on Fox.  I was elated!  I knew this was going to be my big break.  I got the script and began to memorize when I noticed something was off.  There was a reference to licking feet and I thought maybe I had missed something.  I had.  Turns out I was auditioning for the role of "transvestite."  IS THIS A JOKE?!  Do you know what that means?  It means the fine people of said Fox sitcom released a description of a transvestite into the ether, my agent then read this malarkey and thought, "Oh my God…we have someone who's perfect" and then submitted my picture.  Fox then agreed that I was indeed transvestite material which brings us to the audition portion of things.

Me: Hi.

Casting Agent:  Can you lower your voice?

Me: Um…I mean…I can but this just in, I'm actually a woman.

CA: Sure, whatever, just talk lower buddy.

I mean…I guess the thing that's most upsetting here is that I didn't get the role and I thought, "HOW DARE THEY!  I AM A GREAT TRANSVESTITE!  I'M BASICALLY A MAN!  I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT ROLE!"

It's complicated and embarrassing.  A few days later, I was called in to audition for a commercial that contained a lot of text.  I'm not sure if you heard but I was a theater major.  Lots of text = no problem.  I spent the day memorizing.  I insisted on reciting my lines to anyone who would listen.  I called everyone I knew and rehearsed my lines into their voicemails.  I. Was. Ready.  When I arrived at the casting agency I looked around at the room of desperate women – women who spend their days counting calories and dodging gluten.  While these women were starving themselves and scouring through racks of half-priced tunics at Ross, I was studying my craft.  I had gusto and sustenance and I thought it a shame that all these bitches had struggled in traffic just to have their asses handed to them by a chubby Midwesterner. 

When I went into my audition, lines ready to go, the casting agent gave me some instructions.

CA: Ok great, so you're going to walk from over here with this bowl and this apple, sit down at this table, address your imaginary daughter, show this card to the camera and smile!

Me: Got it.

CA: Ok…action!

Me While Slowly Ambling Around The Room Like A Deer Caught In The Headlights: Ah ga ga ga ga ga aahhhhh ga gaaa ga ga gaaa ga ga gagaa

CA: *stunned silence*

Me: *horrified expression*

CA: Ok great, we'll let you know.

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN THERE!  I was distraught.  I literally turned actually retarded as soon as I got into the room.  Apparently I'm the type of actor WHO CAN'T HOLD AN APPLE AND SAY WORDS AT THE SAME TIME!

It was demoralizing.  Today was no different when I drove to Santa Monica to audition for the role of "conservative put-together mom."  As you can imagine, this took a lot of work and I was pretty impressed by the results.  As I strutted my stuff down Santa Monica Blvd., I was feeling totally in control.  I was wearing a very cute and conservative dress, my hair was coiffed, my make-up was set, and my pearls were dangling demurely.  I got into the waiting room and smirked – once again, I have outdone myself.  It was at this point that I noticed my ankle was itching.  As I looked down, I realized it was covered in blood – CAUSE I HAD ATTEMPTED TO SHAVE MY LEGS THIS MORNING – LIKE A MOTHER FUCKING LADY! 

AHHHHHHH!  It's pointless.  Some people are just bad at all things.  It's not my fault really.  I mean it's not like I'm not trying!  Sure…maybe it's a sign from God that I should be doing something different with my life.  But I assure you, I've tried!  I can't cook, I'm terrible at being attractive, and I'm horrible at men.  The only areas in which I've ever excelled are sex with strangers and a bevy of narcotics which further proves my point THAT I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT TRANSVESTITE ROLE!  Ugh… 

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.