My inner european
Your Inner European is French!
Smart and sophisticated.
You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so.
Who's Your Inner European?
Well, obviously. I like coffee, poetry, meaningless discussions of philosophy, plus I'm uber keen on art. Viva la crap! This would be as good a place as any to publicize my position on the French, and their stunning idea of Genius.
THE FRENCH IDEA OF GENIUS (as I see it)
Is extremely important, yet extremely simple, let's look at is as a logical syllogism: IF I do not understand this thing I see/hear/read/taste, THEN it follows necessarily that I am not clever enough to understand this thing I see/hear/read/taste. If I am not clever enough to understand it, THEN it must be smarter than I am. IF few people understand it, THEN it must be smarter than most people. IF something is so smart that most people cannot understand it, THEN it must be genius. THEREFORE...IF I do not understand the things I see/hear/read/taste, THEN those things must be GENIUS!!!
This is why the French were so keen on accepting things like Truffles (Which I am convinced are a form of moldy pig booger...tasty yes, but who thought to eat that?!!), Surrealism, Abstract Expressionism, Cubism, Jean Cocteau's Films, Jerry Lewis, Berets, Baudelaire and Rimbaud, Gertrude and Alice, Pet Monkeys, Syphillis as fashion accessory, the Merkin, Pompadors and Perrier (admittedly some of these things are genius, others are merely ridiculous...I leave you to decide which). Mon Dieu! C'est vachement stupide, vraiment!
Apparently in France one can do absurd and disturbing things, and the greater the level of incomprehensibility of those things...the closer one is to pure unadulterated brilliance! Any day now, I'll be receiving a letter from the French government inviting me to be their poster child for the new millinium, and I will spend my days as mascot surrounded by small dogs of various hues, and will roll my naked body in finger paints, then over butcher paper and folk will line up to buy my buttprints, and spout nonsense like the gargoyles of Notre Dame spout water, and wearing only one of those cheese hats from Green Bay (dyed vermillion and covered with bridal cake toppers), and shoes made out of halved pineapple and fat shoelaces, out to the gardens of Versaille, where I will ceremoniously deficate in the self same spot where Marie Antoinette once pinched one off before her beheading, only I will do so surrounded by can can dancers and elvi in flaming jumpsuits who are singing the Aria from Carmen backwards beneath the light of fifty thousand pink glowlights held in the teeth of fifty thousand green parrots who will be released into the air by twelves small girls dressed like madeline from giant wicker sculptures of cell phones...and they will think I am absofuckinlutly genius.
Perrier smells like rotten eggs. Deny it! You can't.