I’m no fancy-pants; I’m just your average Joe from your average little town somewhere in the country, surrounded by other average little towns. I work from nine to five every weekday. I hate my job, and I usually hate my life as well. But once there happened this thing that struck me like a falling tree, that hit me like a football in the groin, that made me another man quite similar to the former me.
You see, I was just taking a nap in my back yard on a Sunday afternoon when a burning car flew over my fence. Living next to a destruction derby track this was no particular wonder to me, as the car landed in a pile of car wrecks. But the driver to my amazement happened to be still alive. “Come and help me, ye stupid old bunhole!” he shouted in a particularly dying voice. So I get up from the lawn where I was resting and come over to him. “Take these one hundred dollars, you fool, and bring me a doctor” says the passing away man, and passes away. Since he’s no longer alive, I guess there’s no need to go for a doctor; therefore I decide to spend the money for my own pleasure.
And what comes to my mind – there’s a fancy French restaurant in the town, and I’ve never been inside it. But now I’ve got the moves to get inside and have a nice meal. So I put on my favorite ragged checked shirt, get into my 1982 Buick and go to the place of my final destination. As I have my seat at the table a gay looking waiter comes and asks me: “Would Messieurs like to look at the menu?” “You bet I do, you man loving, frog eating Garson”, say I. You see, my French isn’t what they call par excellence but I don’t want to leave the impression of a farmer as well. - “What would Messieurs prefer for aperitif?”
- “Trebien. I’ll have one of those that don’t cost too much. Is my English clear or shall I repeat everything in French, you don’t seem to be a bright fellow, just like most of you, faggots.”
- “If Messieurs doesn’t mind, I’m not French and I’m not gay. Perhaps Messieurs would care for a lance-de-Bordeaux?”
- “Very well, my little French pussy. I bet you know your wine as good as your best man’s bun.”
After my last remark the waiter disappeared quite instantly and I was left with the menu in my hands. After a long thought I decided to go for a poisson potage and something that could very well be a stake although I wasn’t really sure about that. That wine from Bordeaux tasted pretty good but there was something peculiar about its taste. I couldn’t really get my hands on to what it was, but I remembered drinking something like that a while ago. As the waiter brought me my soup I was utterly disgusted upon noticing a fly in it. I never thought something like this could happen to living person and not some fool in a silly joke.
- “Garson, you stupid la Francaise – there’s a huge and ugly fly in my soup!”
- “Very well, Messieurs, it’s the latest trend and will cost you only over eight dollars plus tip.”
- “Do I look like a bun? If I don’t why do you want to wipe me? I’m not gonna pay eight bucks for this dirty fly, you creep!”
- “It’s but a fair price, Messieurs, and your bound to enjoy it.”
- “I don’t give a poo how fair or unfair the price is, I don’t want the goddamn thing. Call the manager, you pervert, I’m a law-obeying, white Christian American and your stupid barbarian bun has to do what I say. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi!”
- “I’m sorry, Messieurs, but I seem not to be able to understand your French!”
- “Listene, vous perverted swine go back to vous merde Francaise et shove le bread up your bunhole!”
- “Messieurs, I already stated to you quite clearly that I am not French and if I dare say, neither are you. What don’t you like about the fly? Isn’t it fat enough?”
- “It’s fatter than your pussy French brain! But I don’t want this fly in my soup! If you won’t take it away I’ll stick this fork into your rear and have my leave!”
- “Very well, Messieurs! Will Messieurs pay for the urine you just drank?”
That’s about the time when I took the revolver out of my coat and unloaded it in the bastards face. After that I shouted: “Kill the French or they will rape your children!” until the very arrival of the police. Now I’m doing my time in Folsum prison and the only thing that saves me from drowning in the pool of misery is the fact that I didn’t pay for that stupid lance-de-Bordeaux.