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Last night I had the strangest dream. Barack Obama was receiving all his dress shirts from a top religious leader, and then it was unearthed by the media that the religious leader was actually getting them from Men’s Warehouse for $39.99 each. (!) A big scandal ensued–which I was in the middle of living–when all of a sudden I heard two little indians galloping on their horses and hooting and hollering in the apartment above me. I was jarred awake.
And in an instant bad-mood.
You see, it was just before 7 am. And my day off.
I lay there for a moment, thinking it might stop.
I got out of bed and found my umbrella on the doorknob. I poked at the ceiling a few times.
The galloping continued.
I prodded the ceiling with fervor.
It sounded like the rockettes had gotten totally wasted and then decided to hold rehearsals.
“I’ll take care of this,” I told Pablo, who promptly went back to sleep. I put on some clothes and marched upstairs.
And guess what I found on the other side of that door?
You guessed it. Frenchies!
As an aside, my new apartment is, as one friend put it, kind of bohemian. Barefoot in the Park-esque, he said. And that made me see things in a whole new way. Suddenly it was less of a firetrap and more of a refuge. True, there is a certain charm to it. It made me kind of proud of the fact that the shower is in the kitchen, and there are all kinds of random tourists lurking about, as the landlord seems to illegally rent most of the other apartments as a sort of rogue hotel.
But back to the Frenchie. Of course, the man who opened the door spoke little English. He was a doughy-faced man with little, round glasses. I knew I could take him. So I swooped in with my best French ‘tude.
“Do you know what time it is?!” I asked, flailing my hands in the air.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Your children are making a lot of noise.”
He stared at me.
“A LOT. I don’t know what they’re doing up there….” I blanked out. Holy shit, what is the word for gallop again? I began galloping in place.
The Frenchie remained expressionless.
Just then, a woman appeared from behind the door. “Oh it’s just the time change… they’re going to calm down now.”
And she disappeared again.
“It really bothers me.” I continued. “This is not a hotel, contrary to what you might think. I live here.”
“It’s my day off.”
“It’s 7 in the morning.”
He spoke: “Okay.”
“Okay?” I asked. “You aren’t even going to apologize?”
“Non,” he said.
“You owe me an apology,” I insisted.
“Last night someone was making a lot of noise. And I think it was YOU.” he said flatly.
I froze. I wasn’t even home last night, and when I did get home, I lounged on the couch reading an Agatha Christie novel. Could Pablo be leading a double life?
I looked at him coldly. “It wasn’t me. You need to control your children.”
We were in a stare-down. Finally, he acquiesced.
“Fine. Je m’excuse,” he mumbled.
“Bonne vacances,” I replied.
He shut the door.
And strangely, I felt a strange sense of calm come over me.
I felt the most peaceful I’ve felt in weeks.
But I never did find out what happened with the Men’s Warehouse shirt scandal.
You soooo said all that stuff. And that’s one of the many reasons I think you are the shiznit.
The French Fried American
PS: Do you think you might be able to hook me up with a carte de sejour?
According to that beacon of news reporting, The New York Post, Sarko gave a beef injection to “that pute” Carla Bruni (Fifi’s words, not mine) and she’s preggers!
KOZY’S COOCHY ‘BABY MOMMA’
OOH-LA-LA! GAL PAL ‘PREGNANT’
By DAVID K. LI
January 12, 2008 — French president Nicolas Sarkozy has knocked up gal pal Carla Bruni, less than two months into their torrid love affair, according to a published report.
London’s Daily Mail, citing unidentified sources at the American Hospital in the Paris suburb of Neuilly, reported that Italian supermodel Bruni, 40, has a French bun in the oven.
Sarkozy and Bruni, who met in November less than a month after the French president’s divorce, are set to tie the knot on Feb. 9.
News of the unexpected pregnancy will surely infuriate Sarkozy’s ex-wife, Cecilia, who is reportedly going to be ripping the president in a series of slash-and-burn, tell-all books.
In one book, Cecilia Sarkozy is allegedly set to rip her ex as “ridiculous, badly behaved and not fit to be president.”
The bitter ex also took a shot at Bruni by accusing Sarkozy of surrounding himself with “des pétasses fardées” – French for “loose ladies.”
Cecilia called her ex-husband’s female political aides “boring wallflowers, and now that there is no first lady, he needs to surround himself with pretty young things dressed in Dior.”
The president’s romance of the former supermodel has been the talk of France.
Photos of frolicking Sarkozy and Bruni have been filling European magazines and newspapers for weeks.
Bruni has been a regular guest at the presidential Elysee Palace and her presidential lover reportedly gave her a $20,000 pink heart-shaped diamond ring.
Despite Cecilia’s strong dislike for her ex, she’s been trying to stop an author from chronicling her venom.
A Paris judge yesterday denied a request by the former Mrs. Sarkozy to stop publication of “Cecilia” by journalist Anna Bitton.
The ex-wife claimed unsuccessfully that her comments to Bitton were not for publication.
Dominique Moisin, of the French Institute of International Relations, told The Daily Mail that Sarkozy’s tabloid presidency needs to return to normal.
“The sooner they marry, the sooner the presidency’s dignity will be restored,” Moisin said.
The last scene of Truffalt’s masterpiece, Argent de Poche…
I loved this one. Apparently some Americans did a study that indicate that your political stance is determined in part by your brain make-up.
It’s a great new excuse for us Americans. “Eh, sorry I blew up your country. It wasn’t my fault… my president (and a sad majority of the country) were born that way.”
Click here to read the article in La Liberation (in French).