Franch fries, Franch dressing ... and to drink: Perru!
Internets, I wanted to share with y'all an example of a kind of writing I cannot fucking stand. It's from the New York Times, one of those "36 Hours" columns written by a variety of writers. This one's about Aix, France:
Dieters, sleep in. With its mountains of eggplants, ranks of honey jars and fields of fresh goat cheese, the morning market at Place Richelme is a bloater's paradise and sure to doom even the most fervent intentions of slimming down.
Here's why I fucking hate it:
1) The would-be clever phrase "bloater's paradise." What the fuck is that? You're trying to tell me what's great about this place, and you put the word bloat in there. [sad, faintly disgusted trumpet] Don't try to be clever, OK? Seriously. It's a fucking farmers' market. Tell me what it has and get out of my way.
2) Who goes on vacation in France with intentions -- fervent or not -- of "slimming down?" That is Lifelong Professional Killjoy territory, right there. France is a place for food and art and drinking and sex. If that's not what you're after, go to Germany.
3) The use of "dieters" and "slimming down" at all -- what is this, 1971? You want to conjure up thoughts of cottage cheese on iceberg lettuce, and, like, Slim-Fast and Tab and silly-ass useless leotarded exercise routines for laaadies? Holy corseted Shatner.
4) The notion, implied rather than stated outright, that there are "good" and "bad" foods and eating behaviors -- I could fill an entire other blog about how much I hate it when people act like good chocolate is "sinful" or talk about how they "shouldn't" eat this or that; unless it is a direct threat to your immediate health, or made of nothing but petrochemicals and space-age polymers, no food is "bad." Learn to balance your nutrition, eat REAL FOOD MADE OF REAL INGREDIENTS (and the occasional Twinkie when you're, you know, hungry for one), and quit being Debbie Downer about how horrible it was of you to sample the delights of a FARMERS' MARKET IN PROVENCE for fuck's sake.
Labels: balls in YOUR mouth sir, cryin' amazacrazy, I'm just sayin
posted by Gleemonex at 8:50 PM
9 Comments:
Glad I read this one. I mean, I've been trying to gain weight for months now eating triple bacon cheeseburgers deep fried in bacon grease and dipped in ranch dressing, and quaffing death-by-chocolate/Bailey's gainer shakes and have yet to put on a pound. Who knew that it was eggplant, honey, and goat cheese that could have been the secret to my success?
Upon reading "bloater's paradise," I wondered if there was some particularly flatulent qualities to the aforementioned foods. Seriously.
LOVE the Better Off Dead reference.
"If that's not what you're after, go to Germany."
I love you.
I'll have you know that I quote the title of this post quite often, and I'm not sure everyone around me gets it or why I start to laugh at my own joke.
I also enjoy saying "Keekeesass!" like the girl does during the skiing competition when she means to say "Kick his ass!" but she's Franch, so she cannot do the pronouncing properly.
Brilliant, just brilliant! This is why I keep coming back to "your lawn" and enjoying it so much.
I know the reasons C. and I went to Paris for her 30th birthday were pretty much exactly the four reasons you mentioned here...and, oh dear Shatner, the butter in France is worth absolutely dying for, seriously, the butter is better than the cheese.
mmmm...butter.
Just another example of how hopelessly out of touch The New York Fucking Times has become. This is journalism? This is the world's finest daily periodical? Please. I've read more incisive articles in Juggs. Thank you, Gleemonex. The world needs more heroines like you.
[blacks out, thinking of the butter from Rue Mouffetard market in Paris, which had chunks of salt in it, and which spread on a fresh baguette nearly caused all neurons and synapses to explode right there in a shady corner of the Tuileries]
gee, i'm real sorry your mom blew up.
I keep reading the first word in a German accent, DEE-TERS! BE-WARE! And then I'm all, OHHHH, Die-eters.
You kill me, girl.
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