And now with a foreword by Francis Bonnefoy. (2a/?)
anonymous
March 1 2010, 18:30:38 UTC
Bonjour mes amis et mesdames (especially mesdames)! Your beauty is a rose of the fullest of reds, a truly splendid color, reaching out to me while I am sitting here on my veranda, enjoying the sight of Mother Earth finally waking up from her slumber over a glass of fine, delicious, French vine. My, the gentle touch of sunlight caressing my face―you should see how the sunlight breaks itself in my hair into a dozen rays of gold, such a pity you cannot―and the first blossoms of spring, they even inspire me to rhyme. Did you notice? I bet you did―une moment, je pense the author anon is calling.
…
Bah. On behalf of the author anon, she says, I shall deliver her gratitude and say thank you guys. Ah well, whatever: merci beaucoup bla bla she is overwhelmed by the many lovely responses bla bla bla she talks about a lot of things and so fast, I do not get her. She probably loves you back. I am not sure, though. Her speech is so slurred and the slices of toasted bread she keeps stuffing into her mouth do not help either. Disgusting. I wouldn't be surprised if she copied her eating manners from wild beasts.
Anyway, mes amis, mesdames! Please take your seat next to me―and make sure to taste my vine for you will find no better vine in the wholfe of the world―and ignore the author anon munching her slices of bread while I tell you my story.
The Remarkable Franco-German Friendship (2/?)
ii: in which France undergoes narrative hardships of unparalleled proportions (and needs to learn he is not the center of the world)
If you just felt some concern for my vital regions despite my subtle vagueness (how kind of you and how clever of me!) let me tell you: There is no need to worry. My régions are still well et très vitale though la Corse has been itchy ever since. Perhaps I should see a doctor? For all I know it could be an infection, I mean who knows what dark and shady places Prussia's extremities have already been to? I, that is for sure, do not know. Nor do I wish to know. Do you?
Alors, I said they are still well and vital. Back then, of course… things looked slightly different. For seconds that stretched to minutes and minutes that stretched to seemingly endless rows of endless suffering my vital regions were on the verge of de-vitalizing, if you catch my drift. (Mesdames, I do not mean to make you blush! I am une outspoken personne, outspoken extraordinaire, oui, and I hope it does not cause you any unnecessary trouble. If it does I suggest you take my hand―there it is, there―and squeeze it gently, so that I know when to stop.)
I believe I already mentioned the pain, non? So there is hardly any need to indulge in such, err, indecent details any further than we already did. Oh damn you la Corse, will you stop bothering me now!
As much as I do bath in your attention, dear ladies, dear men, I do not feel like drawing any of it to any of my lower regions, not maintenant, so let's just skip that part, d'accord?
Merci. You are saving me a lot of unwanted embarrassment trouble.
…
Bah. On behalf of the author anon, she says, I shall deliver her gratitude and say thank you guys. Ah well, whatever: merci beaucoup bla bla she is overwhelmed by the many lovely responses bla bla bla she talks about a lot of things and so fast, I do not get her. She probably loves you back. I am not sure, though. Her speech is so slurred and the slices of toasted bread she keeps stuffing into her mouth do not help either. Disgusting. I wouldn't be surprised if she copied her eating manners from wild beasts.
Anyway, mes amis, mesdames! Please take your seat next to me―and make sure to taste my vine for you will find no better vine in the wholfe of the world―and ignore the author anon munching her slices of bread while I tell you my story.
The Remarkable Franco-German Friendship (2/?)
ii: in which France undergoes narrative hardships of unparalleled proportions (and needs to learn he is not the center of the world)
If you just felt some concern for my vital regions despite my subtle vagueness (how kind of you and how clever of me!) let me tell you: There is no need to worry. My régions are still well et très vitale though la Corse has been itchy ever since. Perhaps I should see a doctor? For all I know it could be an infection, I mean who knows what dark and shady places Prussia's extremities have already been to? I, that is for sure, do not know. Nor do I wish to know. Do you?
Alors, I said they are still well and vital. Back then, of course… things looked slightly different. For seconds that stretched to minutes and minutes that stretched to seemingly endless rows of endless suffering my vital regions were on the verge of de-vitalizing, if you catch my drift. (Mesdames, I do not mean to make you blush! I am une outspoken personne, outspoken extraordinaire, oui, and I hope it does not cause you any unnecessary trouble. If it does I suggest you take my hand―there it is, there―and squeeze it gently, so that I know when to stop.)
I believe I already mentioned the pain, non? So there is hardly any need to indulge in such, err, indecent details any further than we already did. Oh damn you la Corse, will you stop bothering me now!
As much as I do bath in your attention, dear ladies, dear men, I do not feel like drawing any of it to any of my lower regions, not maintenant, so let's just skip that part, d'accord?
Merci. You are saving me a lot of unwanted embarrassment trouble.
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