How I Nearly Wet My Pants in France or Oui, Oui in Paris

by JCaleb

Gay Paris is right. Let me save you some time folks. The Eiffel Tower is a tower. Nothing more. A tower best viewed via the Internet from the comfort of your home. Notre Dame is a big-ass church, and not even the biggest one. And the Louvre is Europe's version of the Mall of America: vastly overcrowded and vastly overrated.

Now I have saved you a trip to what is basically just another huge city with an attitude. Take it from me, Paris sucks. I had that figured out my first day. I did not discover the true suckiness however, until day 2: the day I was alone, unable to speak more than 9 words of French (those very badly) and desperately had to pee.

It happened near the Hotel de Ville. I was walking along minding my own, when suddenly I realized that I needed to potty. "Well, why didn't you just go?" you say, sitting there in your plush American city with enough bathrooms for everyone to go at once. How dare you insult my intelligence? You see, most of the toilets cost money here. Still shouldn't be a problem I figure. I head over to my local Internet cafe and dig two 10 Euro coins out of my pocket to pay the fee. But alas, after I slide them in I notice that the sign on the door says it will only take a 20 Euro coin. A coin which I don't have.

No worries. A crèpe sounds pretty good right now anyway. I'll just grab one and get some change. I walk to the counter and repeat the phrase I had heard my French-speaking friend use the day before, "Un crap burrrggghhhk surrkkgh see-boo-play."

The guy working there is clearly not a fan of my pronunciation and he rolls his eyes openly at me before correcting it. 'You know what buddy, I didn't want your dirty crap anyway, I just have to piss,' I think to myself as he makes it. He finishes, and hands it to me. 1,90. Well that doesn't really help now does it? I hand him 3 Euro, and ask for change. He shrugs and shows me his cash drawer, which is admittedly low on change, and tells me he can't comply. Swell.

I spend the next little while wandering around the area of St. Michel (for the record they pronounce this 'San Michelle,' so for you Mikes out there, best of luck in Paris, sissy) examining menus in search of something that has a price which requires a 20 piece as change. I finally find a Coca-Cola for the magical price of 1,80. I pay the man, get my wonderful change, throw the Coke at a passing child's head, and hustle back to the bathroom.

Finally, I'm saved. And just in time too, it was beginning to hurt. Nope. The thing is broken. Did I mention I HATE Paris?

Don't panic. OK, I won't. There has to be a toilet somewhere. I walk around for 30 minutes looking for one, before spotting a sign near Notre Dame. I head down the stairs and approach the attendant.

"Neshwanlabammmmerrrghkotpuczdnmdñgjg jgksdkrre jerknggnacb," she says to me quickly.

"What?"

"Voutesdfg ee leraedirn sumabadfd en jay arghhkenodfgjkcxhne."

I know I'm right. SHE should know MY language. These people listen to MY music, watch MY movies. Still, Parisians have an evil way of making you feel like you are the stupid one. I turn and walk away in disgrace.

I know I'm being an ugly American. But I'd help these clowns if they came to my country confused. Their silly talk would even help them get chicks where I'm from. I see a kid wearing a red bandana with a blue hat. He notices me staring, and gives me a dirty look. All I can think about is how much I want to airlift all these pompous Parisians into the middle of the worst neighborhoods in the U.S. I could get this kid shot in about 2 seconds.

Yep. I'm losing it. I start thinking about going local, and just taking a leak on the sidewalk as I had seen plenty of people of both sexes doing (gee wonder where they get that rap as being a dirty place) when I notice the sign that had saved me before in Edinburgh. McDonalds. Hoping for a repeat performance from a true friend, I hustle in.

Leave it to France to take a perfectly good concept like Mickey D's, and make it into something just weird. There were couches and pictures. It was like a nice restaurant. Our starvation rations = their gourmet meal. I looked around for a toilet, but alas it was too late. I had completely broken my thin tie to sanity.

It wasn't pretty my friends. I ran through the streets maniacally shouting the 9 French words I knew at random intervals. "Croissant! French-fries! French dip! VIVA LA RESISTANCE!"

A woman sensing my distress (AKA American-ness) approached me and said, "Do you speak English?"

"Yes. Yes I do. I do speak English. That is what I speak. I see that you are a speaker of English too. I love you and will name my first born after you."

She then hands me a 3x5 notecard, with a handwritten saga proclaiming the tragedy that her life had become and asking if I could please help her...oh, and God bless.

I then ripped her head cleanly from her body, and threw it still grinning into the Seine.

Deciding a song was in order, and unable to think of one appropriate to the occasion, I composed my own. It was set to the tune of 'The Star Spangled Banner' and went as follows:

Oh say can you see
Ho-ow much Paris sucks
It sucks so damn much
That it sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks...

At this point the song broke into screaming profanity and spitting, still set to the music.

I sang my song quite loudly for some time, and savored all of the dirty looks. They say that love is the universal language. They lie. Profanity- that is the universal language. My swearing was understood and appreciated by all.

There was clearly only one solution: suicide. Being an American citizen, my life was clearly worth 10 times more than the lives of all the French in the world. Therefore it followed that if I were to die on French soil, it would start World War III and bring to Paris the vengeance it so richly deserved.

I stepped into traffic and awaited the apocalypse.

"Honk." The car that was speeding toward me slammed on its breaks and stopped.

"In Chicago, I'd be dead right now you pansy. That's exactly why your stupid country isn't a world power anymore, and the only place they speak your language is Quebec!"

"Honk."

"Hey, je nais comprend this, Napoleon didn't have a complex because he was short, it was because he was FRENCH!"

"Honk."

I could see that my goading would not work on these cowards. I crawled back to the sidewalk.

At this point, I had done the pee pee dance through most of Paris, and was running out of ideas. I decided to turn to the one thing that solves all problems that I cannot: alcohol.

I saw a wine store and headed in. I chose a bottle and handed it to the purveyor. He began wrapping it for me and said, "Parlez vous Francais?"

I wanted to hit him, but insanity is very tiring, so I simply shook my head.

"Do you speak English?"

"I really don't think you should be trying to pan-handle while you're at work buddy."

He looked confused, but simply ignored the comment. "If you drink all of this from the bottle you speak perfect French. I drink lots of...uh...Budweiser, now I am fluent in English."

It took me a minute, but I laughed at this before thanking him profusely for the wine, and for talking to me in my native tongue. As I was leaving he continued, "This is also a restaurant. Come in sometime and you can try other wines."

This sounded like a fine plan. "Is now okay?"

"Sure."

"Do you have a toilet?"

"Back there on the left."

I was saved. But I was lucky. If I hadn't stumbled on Dominique and his immaculate restaurant with a bathroom, I might have died. Or worse yet, wet myself. Learn from my mistake. Do not come here. Gary, Indiana, the armpit of the U.S., is twice the city Paris is. If you want to come here in spite of my warnings, learn the disgusting tongue that is French first, so that you can communicate with these Neanderthals. If you won't do this either, immediately upon arrival here, come and see Dominique, and tell him Josh sent you. And remember, whenever you have a problem that you can't solve, put your faith in booze.

Dear Girl I met on HOTORNOT.com: An Ode to Unrequited Love

by Brett Sheats

Dear Girl from HOTORNOT.com,

When love hits you square in the jaw, who are you to curse its velveteen fist? Forgive my cryptic opening, but the fire growing deep in my loins has created a smokescreen that clouds my judgment and fills my mind. I am here to profess my love for you, oh vixen of the digital realm, matron of my mind, thief of my libido.

When I saw your picture on HOTORNOT.com, I nearly broke down and cried. Never have I seen such beautiful use of eyeliner, such immaculately plucked eyebrows, such playful hair resting gently on the top of your supple bosom. And that zebra striped handbag strap, need I even comment? You devilkin, did you know what you were doing to me when you came into my life?

Sometimes, life here in the Army can be a cold, lonely affair. When I go out to the artillery range, sometimes I have visions -- Visions of a beautiful woman in white walking through the impact area towards me, reaching out to me and kissing my lips oh-so-gently. Some would say it was just a hallucination of sorts caused by a volatile mix of cannon cleaner and black powder, but it was a vision of my future -- of me finding you and you coming into my life. Do you like Nintendo?

I know that we will be perfect for one another. We will have a bounty of wonderful children. I will be a good father, and I promise I will not get angry with you. I will provide for Brett Jr., Suzanne-Lou, and even Little Dickie the best I can. You will be free to stay home days and watch your stories, if you would like.

What I would do for you, oh, sweet tenderloin, what I would give for just once chance at your hand. I know you wrote in your profile that you 'saw my picture and you thought I was SOOOOOO Hot!' I am a wise man, and know you wrote that for all to see, but the romantic in me knows that those words were a personal declaration. And what a coincidence that I too love clubbin', hangin' out, partyin', and volleyball!

So baby, believe me when I say that this time it is for real. Know that I will not break open another prophylactic until you venture into my Den of Love. Together, we will make the sweet, beautiful music of love.

Your Destiny,
Brett

The True Braveheart Story: My Adventures in Scotland

by JCaleb

If you are anything like me, when you saw the movie Braveheart, something about it just didn't seem right. After only a day here in Scotland, I've discovered the truth behind this.

I could not ever figure out exactly why William Wallace decided to wage war on England. Sure freedom's all well and good, but it didn't really seem to matter to him that much in the beginning of the film. He just wanted to raise crops.

Hollywood would have you believe that his motivation was love. But let's be honest folks, Hollywood also contends that a woman would throw the world's largest diamond into the ocean after her 'love' went down with the titanic, and that 'love thy neighbor' is really one of the ten commandments given to Charlton Heston. We're all adults here. Its time for a bit of honesty.

Now, when William was 'proposing' to his girl in scene 467 of the film, you'll notice that he didn't speak first of his undying love for her, but rather of the fact that he wanted to have many children in order to help him with the farming. To the novice historian, this might have just seemed like some cutesy little flirting. But I astutely recognized this as clue to the truth. In all of Scotland there is not one centimeter of flat earth. When Wallace grieved over the loss of his wife and then sought to avenge her, it wasn't about 'love', it was about the loss of chilbearing properties which would ease some of the hours of backbreaking work trying to farm a living out of hills, crags and generally terrible soil of the highlands.

When he had avenged his wife, he continued his assault on England. But it still was not 'love' that spurred him on. It was the sickness of walking up and down the millions of stairs that cover Edinburgh. His legs were sore and he sought the comfort that could only be found in easy walks through the flat Hyde Park, and relaxing rides on the tube. Comforts found in England.

So, next time you hear someone misquoting that ravishing piece of man-meat known as Mel Gibson by saying, "Give me liberty or give me death". You can correct them, "No, my impudent little ass of a friend, its "Give me LEVEL-TY, or give me death."

Hundreds of years later, Scotland, realizing that farming is next to impossible here, has finally found a new trade: selling Braveheart collectibles. Where else can you find an official Wallace Clan Shotglass, or get your picture taken next to a statue of William himself. Even your charitable donations can go to 'the real Bravehearts,' children with leukemia. The market is cornered.

The back breaking pain of Sisyphus' sentence to forever walk up and down hills has changed Scottish culture in other important ways. An average Scotsman, realizing one day that a mere pint of lager was not enough to make him forget his great fatigue, gave the world Scotch Whiskey. Now thanks to him, we can all get drunk faster.

Then in St. Andrews, a town not far from Edinburgh, the inhabitants tired of playing difficult football games in which you couldn't see your teammates due to terrain, and invented a little game called golf. It was a game in which one would try to strike a small white rock with enough accuracy so that it might land on one of the 18 flat millimeters of earth in the entire province. The fairways were simply the only places one could conceivably walk, and if you missed them, instead of sandtraps or water hazards, your ball would simply careen from the mountain.

Scotland, with its rich history and cultural contributions, has a few lessons to teach us all: A) No matter how much you try to explain its historical significance, wearing skirts simply makes guys look gay. B)Walking up and down hills and stairs constantly can drive people enough towards sucicidal tendencies that they might indeed follow Mel Gibson and his crappy scottish accent into battles begun by moonings. And C) Pain and suffering, and not ingenuity, is the true mother of invention, and of long bloody civil wars.

Another Questionable Election

by Stephanie Anderson

This just in... a new M&M (or W&W, for you dyslexics) color is coming out. "Awesome Aqua," "Think Pink," or "Purple Power." Why do we need a new color? All of them taste identical. We, the public, get nothing. No new flavor, no new service. If I need a new color, I would just take my magic markers to the yellows.

And do not be fooled, my fellow chocolate consumers. M&M will not make this change at no cost.
The only question is, which color will they sacrifice now? Do they think we did not notice when they exterminated light brown in the blue trade? "Oooooh, look at this fancy new blue color..." say the smooth-talking advertisers, "light brown? what light brown? we never had light brown." I REMEMBER LIGHT BROWN! Never forget the fate of the light brown M&M. If you succumb to casting your vote at mms.com, remember, that is a vote for the death of yet another unsuspecting, under-appreciated color. As evidence of the impending massacre, I offer the above picture... what color is missing? And the colors left don't seem to miss their companion at all, they are too busy playing multicultural dress-up.

Another thing I remember is the colors that ran for a seat in the last M&M election. Hmmm... let's see... blue, purple and pink. What similar choices. If the voter did not want pink or purple last time, why would they want them now? Perhaps this is not really an election with fresh choices and new candidates, but more similar to The Price is Right. One color gets up on stage and Rod Roddy yells, "Aqua, come on down!"

We've gotten so wrapped up in these color overhauls that we have forgotten the true purpose of M&Ms... baseball predictions. Yellow for doubles, green for homeruns... an integral part of the American pastime. Mars Inc. is calling for a "Global Color Vote." Those talking round candies are in league with the terrorists. What will aqua stand for? Infield fly rule? A player strike for more money?

Go ahead, vote for "Putrid Purple," "Acid Aqua," or "Pansy Ass Pink." But think about the world you are changing. Ask yourself, can you remember the four original marshmallows in Lucky Charms? Are these marketing schemes really worth your base running average?

Basic Economics and How Caffeine Makes the World a Lesser Place

by Stephanie Anderson

Alan Greenspan, who has been credited with the intelligence of Adam Smith, has announced that the American economy is "on the mend." (Like the clothes in the sewing pile, or like a broken limb?) If Mr. Greenspan is correct, perhaps my history degree will become slightly more marketable soon, but that's unlikely. There are many things upon which we can blame the economy- terrorism, politics, the 'axis of evil', head lice... but I choose to blame the customers at my work. I figure that they are just as good a segment of the population as any, and they are certainly not improving the status of local business.

Today's soup is Split Pea, which I feel works hand in hand with brussel sprouts as an affront to children everywhere. But, apparently there exist adults who have forgotten that they too were once children and are willing to shell out $5 for a bowl of green slop. I wouldn't care about the soup except that I have to stare at it and smell it every time someone orders a bowl. This is my college education at work- An occasional $6.50/hr at the local coffee shop.

The Alarmist comes in about once a week. This woman is always worked up about something she read in Self Magazine, or an equally respectable publication. Today it's sprouts. "Is there anything you, as a small business owner," she says to my boss, "can do about the sprout problem?" What sprout problem? Apparently sprouts, in isolated and undocumented cases, are causing people to rise up in revolt. This woman is visibly upset, and my boss charmingly pretends that he too is an anti-sprout warrior, just before he slaps some on another sandwich.
A woman steps up to the counter and asks me to make her a sugar-free Turtle Mocha. I explain what's in a Turtle Mocha: chocolate, caramel, chocolate syrup, caramel syrup, milk, espresso and whipped cream. She looks at me, "So?" Sorry ma'am, but I can't make that sugar free. "Well, I can't have sugar." She says, exasperated, and leaves.

A lady who must have been her sister had just been in yesterday and asked me what the base of our mushroom soup was. It was cream. When I said this, she asked if that would be ok for her to eat, since she's allergic to dairy products. Let me check, nope, sorry, cream made the dairy list this week.

Feminism Man is taking a class on feminism, and insists on telling me that everyday, as if I am going to give him an award on behalf of females everywhere. He also assumes that I, as I girl, inherently know everything about the feminist movement and care. I apparently care so much that he interrupts everyone else placing orders just to espouse his views to me.

One kid, about 13, comes in every Saturday. Every Saturday, he gets a Coke. Every Saturday, in fact everyday, Coke costs 75 cents. Every Saturday, this kid says, upon hearing the price, "I heard it was 50." Heard? From who? Every Saturday he pays 75.

XL Mocha refuses to share his name with the proletariat, so we call him by his drink. He first came in announcing that he had just been fired from Caribou, another coffee shop down the road. But, he still had a key so he was gonna go back and totally rip them off. And, by the way, could he have an application? Then he began coming in everyday, sometimes more than once, usually just to announce how much money he had spent that day or to tell us that we aren't qualified to work in a coffee shop. He was extremely proud of the $700 he spent on his girlfriend's Christmas present. No one would satisfy him by asking what he bought, but finally I broke down. "I bought her $700 worth of gift certificates to a coffee shop so that she can have coffee every day for a year," he bragged.

Not all people are interested in purchasing coffee or merely harassing employees. Some people carry the dream of someday working here. We let them fill out applications. This is what they say: Applicant #1: Did you graduate from High School? "Yes" Further Education? "GED" Applicant #2: Previous Positions? [A store one block away] Why did you leave that position? "Because the commute was too long." Do you still live at the same address? "Yes" Applicant #3: What are the reasons you left previous positions? "Fired, fired, quit."

Apparently the talent pool is wearing thin, what does that say for the rest of the economy? What is the caliber of people applying for the so-called "real jobs"? If people educate themselves about things other than sprouts and feminism and if they invest $700 rather than spending it on coffee, I would be able to say that I have hope. But, based on the field research I have collected, the situation is grim. Perhaps we should stock the cellar with all the potatoes we can find, a few back issues of Self, and a year's supply of coffee, and settle in for the next lapse of recession.