Actually, I doubt Parisians really do say Papa
good lord, my father just killed a baby squirrel.
with absolutely no qualms whatsoever. He hit it over the head, and then in a dazed confusion it ran under a snowbank where the snow collapsed over its innocent and infantile body.
Actually, that might be a slightly more graphic description than necessary. The point here is that with the combination of his homicidal tendency and my mother's lunacy, it is frankly no wonder that I have turned out the way I have. That is...quite spectacularly mad.
I asked my dear Papa why he had done such a thing (ah, we interrupt this screening of Alcinvil, The Life of, to point out that I am trying out this new thing where I call my father Papa, with an accent on the second 'pa' to give my manner of speaking a sort of urban-Paris-sophisticate/French-modern-film-movement feel. Thus far, I sound mostly like a retarded baby squirrel, much like the one my father recently killed, which brings us to...)
and he answered by saying
"I thought it was a mouse. But actually I hope it was squirrel."
Alpha and Omega. He always seemed so peaceful and loving to me. Other than the vaguely-terrorist threats against America. (and in case the CIA is reading this, what more can you expect from an immigrant? anyways its really my mother you want to take aways. I doubt you could handle her though)
I just want to remind everyone that when someone asks you for the time, go for their eyes first THEN the crotch.
with absolutely no qualms whatsoever. He hit it over the head, and then in a dazed confusion it ran under a snowbank where the snow collapsed over its innocent and infantile body.
Actually, that might be a slightly more graphic description than necessary. The point here is that with the combination of his homicidal tendency and my mother's lunacy, it is frankly no wonder that I have turned out the way I have. That is...quite spectacularly mad.
I asked my dear Papa why he had done such a thing (ah, we interrupt this screening of Alcinvil, The Life of, to point out that I am trying out this new thing where I call my father Papa, with an accent on the second 'pa' to give my manner of speaking a sort of urban-Paris-sophisticate/French-modern-film-movement feel. Thus far, I sound mostly like a retarded baby squirrel, much like the one my father recently killed, which brings us to...)
and he answered by saying
"I thought it was a mouse. But actually I hope it was squirrel."
Alpha and Omega. He always seemed so peaceful and loving to me. Other than the vaguely-terrorist threats against America. (and in case the CIA is reading this, what more can you expect from an immigrant? anyways its really my mother you want to take aways. I doubt you could handle her though)
I just want to remind everyone that when someone asks you for the time, go for their eyes first THEN the crotch.