Happy Bastille Day to one and all!
Okay, so honestly, no I'm not usually such a francophile; I can barely stand driving through Lafayette because all the streets are called "Rue" something or other, and every place name is French, and even the Burger Kings are called "Le Maison Boeuf Rex,*" but I've got a fair bit of French blood in me so I guess I have to at least mention that today is Bastille Day.
Ah, Bastille Day. The day that thousands of icky, smelly, leprous, flea-infested peasants stormed the Bastille, the prison which the French royals used to imprison other icky, smelly, leprous, flea-infested peasants, and thus the French Revolution was launched, soon guaranteeing that France would no longer be ruled by flea-covered, smelly, inbred, syphillitic people in huge wigs, silly shoes, tights and neck ruffles, and would instead be ruled by flea-covered, smelly, inbred, syphillitic commoners with no wigs, cardboard shoes, homespun pants and neck wattles. And those ridiculous red hats. And those outrageous accents.
Which, as an aside, is I believe the last time that the French people ever stood up for anything.
I will give them this: they did, in the person of Dr. Guillotine devise a way to make the wholesale slaughter of bluebloods a fast, easy, efficient, and very spectator-friendly sport. A tisket, a tasket, a head in a basket, will answer no questions you ask it. Ah, French children. Makes me want to kill them all with laser-guided loaves of long, crusty bread.
And never once have I seen France produce a woman that looks remotely like that lovely busty Lady Freedom or whoever she is in that painting, wrapped in nothing but a flag, charging bravely forward in the face of adversity. For one thing, she's clean. And she seems to have shaved her armpits, and there's not a single pack of Galuoises anywhere on her. And every French woman I've ever seen is so skinny that you could use their hip bones as cheese knives. I'm starting to think that was all a put-up.
Q: How many French soldiers does it take to defend France's borders?
A: Nobody knows. It's never been tried before.
I can say that because, as I mentioned above, I've got a fair bit of frog in me. Just ask anyone who has ever seen my butt. Proof positive. I'm also Scottish, though, which counterbalances the French nicely, and I've even got a smattering of Native American heritage in me, which serves to give me skin that tans easily, a handsomely large nose, and a propensity for raiding neighboring villages for horses, rifles and women.
Which makes for some fun road trips to Lafayette.
* The House Of The Meat King