Super Dave
03-04-03, 09:12 AM
Dear France,
I know that you once gave us a statue that resembles William Hurt in drag, and I, for one, am slightly (although highly perplexed as to why you couldn't have found a female model that didn't look like something most often found with wrench in hand, bent over a major appliance) grateful for that.
However, please understand that when it comes down to doling out admonishments of restraint, common sense, and detent in the face of terror, I really don't think that a nation whose own (well documented by history) utter stupidity, blindness, and craven naivety in the face of despots past — which ultimately resulted in the deaths of seventy-odd million souls — has any right to be doing that doling.
Stick to crippling frogs and pan-frying garden pests, you impish, clown-loving, ungrateful, cheese-melting, overly verbose collection of severely perfumed ninnies.
And please, dear France, don't attempt to humor me by pretending to have anything else in mind, aside from that of preventing an Islamic extremist from someday taking a hammer to the underbelly of your Eiffel Tower, which, since we're on the subject, shows all the artistic ability of something hastily assembled by a mentally challenged Chimpanzee after it was handed a dull screwdriver and left alone for a few hours near a train wreck.
There really is something that cries to be said about a nation of misfits that harbors murderers under the auspices that returning them to the country where they originally slaughtered their victims might result in their receiving a boo-boo. Perhaps you really did love Ira Einhorn, for example? And in your vastly elastic logic (which you're notoriously famous for), you therefore decided that strangling, Saran wrapping, and stuffing your hippie-chick lover into a closet wasn't anything that a truly enlightened republic should get all that testy about?
That's a pretty damn good stretch, coming from a people who in the last three hundred years have chopped off more heads (for far less) than the earth's entire populace of lettuce farmers could have in a thousand years with an unlimited line of credit at American Harvester and free labor.
I am truly sorry, France to inform you that the pulse of this globe does not revolve around concerns over whether or not your spoiled little college students will tip over and set to fire an unattended Fiat.
I'm truly sorry, France, for not being able to take seriously the self-righteous rhetoric from a country that thought The Maginot Line was a real keeper. I've really got to hand that one to you though, for it showed all the sheer brilliance of putting up a No-Pest strip during a mid-thirties Dustbowl locust storm.
I'm almost sure that you thought the Germans would willingly walk into that big cumbersome pit of badly financed stupidity, and I'm truly sorry, again (there seems to be a concurrent theme unfolding here, doesn't there?), that they didn't.
But that's the Germans for you, always using their militaristic heads. Which, by the way, probably accounts for the fact that most of their elderly male citizens currently boast basements full of your museum's artwork, sitting just alongside, of course, all those black and white nudes of your grand, great, and great-great grandmothers.
Let's go over this slowly, shall we? You wine guzzling, pigeon feeding, mime importing collection of outdoor café patronizing pansies.
WW1: after using taxicabs to ferry your reserves (always a surefire sign of a nation with a vigilante stranglehold over its very own survival) to the front, in an effort to stem the German tide, you then came weeping to us like wee little school girls with skinned knees, and begged that we please help to bail your horridly inept little Hunchbacks out of the Notre Dame of your own ****ing creation.
WW11: owing to the fact that your air force was decimated in less time than it takes to microwave popcorn, and that your idea of a really good tank is something that shouldn't make too much of a mess when its occupants are killed, you screwed the perennial poodle here too, Pepe LePew.
We need not even delve into the fact that you preceded that remarkable show of force by first selling (with a little help from Neville Chamberlain) your neighbors down the drain, and in so doing, helped to facilitate the Nazi plan for liquidating the Jews. Many of which your collaborators willingly sent (via trains, naturally, because those and mouths seem to be the only things in France that never stop running) to their deaths. Oh, and who was it that bailed your quiche munching buns out of that mess, again?
Come now, France, and sing along with your old friend America, "I remember you, do you remember me? We both know how good remembering can be."
Oh, by the way, thanks for setting Vietnam on fire and then handing us the wheel (what a surprise) after things got a little too sticky for the twelve beret-wearing idiots that you initially sent over there to stir up the freaking hornet's nest.
Why am I not in the least bit surprised that your greatest military conquests came about by virtue of your having imported a short ulcerous Corsican?
Now, here we are again, once more being dictated to by an asinine collection of latte-loving, goose-liver-slurping halfwits that throughout history, when in a pinch, have never once demonstrated the slightest ability for the wiping of their own pompous little poop chutes.
I believe it was Napoleon himself who once said, "The French are ninety percent talk, and ten percent action. If you don't believe me, and you have a few hours to kill, just ask one."
In all fairness though, before closing, and to avoid seeming an ungrateful little **** myself, I would like to thank you (and I'm sure that I speak for the rest of America) for sending during the first Gulf War those Three Musketeers and that four-cylinder camouflage colored Renault with tinted windows and a gun rack. They really turned the tide for us.
Oh, and Belgium? In the off chance that no one has reminded you lately, let me be the first to do so, "You're Belgium! "
Now sit the **** down and shut up, you waffle worshipping wankers and history ripe welcome mat for every German invasion of Western Europe.
Really, no offense here, but on the sliding graph of populations and the import that their opinions have upon us, you fall a full thirty-six roster slots below Trinidad and Tobago.
I know that you once gave us a statue that resembles William Hurt in drag, and I, for one, am slightly (although highly perplexed as to why you couldn't have found a female model that didn't look like something most often found with wrench in hand, bent over a major appliance) grateful for that.
However, please understand that when it comes down to doling out admonishments of restraint, common sense, and detent in the face of terror, I really don't think that a nation whose own (well documented by history) utter stupidity, blindness, and craven naivety in the face of despots past — which ultimately resulted in the deaths of seventy-odd million souls — has any right to be doing that doling.
Stick to crippling frogs and pan-frying garden pests, you impish, clown-loving, ungrateful, cheese-melting, overly verbose collection of severely perfumed ninnies.
And please, dear France, don't attempt to humor me by pretending to have anything else in mind, aside from that of preventing an Islamic extremist from someday taking a hammer to the underbelly of your Eiffel Tower, which, since we're on the subject, shows all the artistic ability of something hastily assembled by a mentally challenged Chimpanzee after it was handed a dull screwdriver and left alone for a few hours near a train wreck.
There really is something that cries to be said about a nation of misfits that harbors murderers under the auspices that returning them to the country where they originally slaughtered their victims might result in their receiving a boo-boo. Perhaps you really did love Ira Einhorn, for example? And in your vastly elastic logic (which you're notoriously famous for), you therefore decided that strangling, Saran wrapping, and stuffing your hippie-chick lover into a closet wasn't anything that a truly enlightened republic should get all that testy about?
That's a pretty damn good stretch, coming from a people who in the last three hundred years have chopped off more heads (for far less) than the earth's entire populace of lettuce farmers could have in a thousand years with an unlimited line of credit at American Harvester and free labor.
I am truly sorry, France to inform you that the pulse of this globe does not revolve around concerns over whether or not your spoiled little college students will tip over and set to fire an unattended Fiat.
I'm truly sorry, France, for not being able to take seriously the self-righteous rhetoric from a country that thought The Maginot Line was a real keeper. I've really got to hand that one to you though, for it showed all the sheer brilliance of putting up a No-Pest strip during a mid-thirties Dustbowl locust storm.
I'm almost sure that you thought the Germans would willingly walk into that big cumbersome pit of badly financed stupidity, and I'm truly sorry, again (there seems to be a concurrent theme unfolding here, doesn't there?), that they didn't.
But that's the Germans for you, always using their militaristic heads. Which, by the way, probably accounts for the fact that most of their elderly male citizens currently boast basements full of your museum's artwork, sitting just alongside, of course, all those black and white nudes of your grand, great, and great-great grandmothers.
Let's go over this slowly, shall we? You wine guzzling, pigeon feeding, mime importing collection of outdoor café patronizing pansies.
WW1: after using taxicabs to ferry your reserves (always a surefire sign of a nation with a vigilante stranglehold over its very own survival) to the front, in an effort to stem the German tide, you then came weeping to us like wee little school girls with skinned knees, and begged that we please help to bail your horridly inept little Hunchbacks out of the Notre Dame of your own ****ing creation.
WW11: owing to the fact that your air force was decimated in less time than it takes to microwave popcorn, and that your idea of a really good tank is something that shouldn't make too much of a mess when its occupants are killed, you screwed the perennial poodle here too, Pepe LePew.
We need not even delve into the fact that you preceded that remarkable show of force by first selling (with a little help from Neville Chamberlain) your neighbors down the drain, and in so doing, helped to facilitate the Nazi plan for liquidating the Jews. Many of which your collaborators willingly sent (via trains, naturally, because those and mouths seem to be the only things in France that never stop running) to their deaths. Oh, and who was it that bailed your quiche munching buns out of that mess, again?
Come now, France, and sing along with your old friend America, "I remember you, do you remember me? We both know how good remembering can be."
Oh, by the way, thanks for setting Vietnam on fire and then handing us the wheel (what a surprise) after things got a little too sticky for the twelve beret-wearing idiots that you initially sent over there to stir up the freaking hornet's nest.
Why am I not in the least bit surprised that your greatest military conquests came about by virtue of your having imported a short ulcerous Corsican?
Now, here we are again, once more being dictated to by an asinine collection of latte-loving, goose-liver-slurping halfwits that throughout history, when in a pinch, have never once demonstrated the slightest ability for the wiping of their own pompous little poop chutes.
I believe it was Napoleon himself who once said, "The French are ninety percent talk, and ten percent action. If you don't believe me, and you have a few hours to kill, just ask one."
In all fairness though, before closing, and to avoid seeming an ungrateful little **** myself, I would like to thank you (and I'm sure that I speak for the rest of America) for sending during the first Gulf War those Three Musketeers and that four-cylinder camouflage colored Renault with tinted windows and a gun rack. They really turned the tide for us.
Oh, and Belgium? In the off chance that no one has reminded you lately, let me be the first to do so, "You're Belgium! "
Now sit the **** down and shut up, you waffle worshipping wankers and history ripe welcome mat for every German invasion of Western Europe.
Really, no offense here, but on the sliding graph of populations and the import that their opinions have upon us, you fall a full thirty-six roster slots below Trinidad and Tobago.