A few days ago, I was out with my cousin, at one of her coworker’s birthday parties. When we were done with that party at ONE Sunset in West Hollywood, we met up with some of my friends. Among these friends was a new person – a French girl. For the sake of easy naming, we will call her “French Whore.” I have met French people people; I’ve even met a French girl or two before, so it’s not like this was my first rodeo.
What I mean, of course, is that this is not my first experience with a French person I hated. The French have a pretty solid knack for being hated by me.
From what I hear, I am not the only person that hates the French. You would think this stigma would find its way to France, and they would have a town meeting – do they like being hated?
So we meet up with my friends and the French Whore, and everything is groovy. It is getting close to last call at the bar, and my cousin was getting tired. I drop her off, and then the rest of us (French Whore included) decide to go get some late-night grub. As I am driving, French Whore introduces me to surprise number one – she throws a glass beer bottle out of my window. Maybe in some shitty, backwards ass countries (read: France), this kind of practice is acceptable, but in the beautiful U.S. of A., we don’t do that.
When I turn off the music, and ask what that was, I am greeted with a stroke of genius out of French Whore…
Don’t worry about it.
Well shit…thanks for putting me at ease. Since French Whore tells me not to worry about it, who am I to dare worry? OK. We get to the restaurant, and take our seat. I would say everything was going fine at this point.
Everyone is having a good time, we are being loud and obnoxious, and get our drink order in. I try to talk to French Whore, which was obviously a bad move. As I try to talk to her, she turns her head away from me, and puts her hand up to her head to “block me out” and avoid my questions. I am not exactly the nicest guy in the world, but even I know rude when I see rude. French Whore clearly thought her title was French Princess, and not French Whore. As much as I wanted to give French Whore a piece of my mind, I bit my lip for the greater good.
We get to the food-ordering portion of our adventure, which goes pretty smoothly. Until French Whore orders, of course. You know, at this point, just about anything French Whore said or did bothered me, so I might not be looking at this with unclouded eyes. That being said…SHE FUCKING ORDERS FRENCH FRIES.
We get it – we know you are French - good for you, chief. But to say you want to eat, and then only to order fries? French fries, of course, means she’s supporting her country, right? Why didn’t she order freedom fries?!
Fuck you, France
Several minutes after we order our food, French Whore decides she wants cigarettes. What this means, of course, is that her freedom fries will get to the table before she does, and thus I will have to endure her company well-after I am done with my meal. On top of that, as to be expected, she eats as fast as John McCain could bust a nut in his wife’s ass.
Finally, French Whore (with the help of my friends) polishes off her freedom fries. We are ready to leave, and I make sure we blow this Popsicle stand lickity split. Luckily, all I have to do is drop everyone off at The Good Reverend’s car, and no longer have to experience French Whore.
Think that’s it? Wrong.
After The Good Reverend drops people off at their respective cars, I meet up with him for a late-night movie. I need to grab something out of my back seat, and notice an unfamiliar sight. There lies an open glass bottle of Corona. Where do you suppose it was? That’s right, exactly where French Whore was sitting.
I suppose I forgot to take down my “Trash Here!” sign, above my car. My mistake. Fucking whore.
