bpmartyr
Snuggle Club™ mascot
- Awards
- 1
I don’t know about you but I’m still mad vis a vis the French.
And it’s more than just because they gave the world those irritating mimes and vote against us in the U.N.
I don’t even like their words being in my mouth anymore. Why don’t we English have a word for the person we’re planning to marry?
Fiancé sounds so sissy, like parfume. Anglo-Saxon words are masculine and contain curt consonants like the t’s and k’s in the word “stink”. That’s English. French is “fragrance”. French is soft and never even pronounces a “t” when one is there like in “ballet” and “bouquet”.
Why wouldn’t they go to war with us in Iraq when so many war words are French? All the military ranks sound Frenchy; Brigadier, Lieutenant, Corporeal, Sergeant, Liaison, Attaché, and Charge de Affaires. The military day starts with reveille. Then there’s regiment, bivouac, bayonet, canon, espionage, sabotage, sortie, reconnaissance, arsenal, and weapon’s cache. They invented the guillotine and are against capital punishment! Can I have a touché?
And I sure can’t figure out why American car makers use French words like Protégé and Envoy to name big ruff tuff vehicles. Avalanche is no word to put on a car you’re taking into the mountains. It sounds like one nut falls off and then the whole thing goes downhill.
Is Sportage pronounced like the Mirage? Because Escalade can be pronounced two ways like charade. The Ronde Vu sounds like something sexual might happen in it, but I’ve tried, and it’s too small to lay down in. Should I expect this linguistic treason because Detroit is a French word like Chevrolet and Monte Carlo ?
But why would GM, having good Indian names like Pontiac, Cadillac and Buick that end in “k” sounds, have Bonneville’s, Sedan de Ville’s, and Le Sabre’s?
Isn’t it bad enough we have to drive on a boulevard and an avenue or walk down the promenade? Sac re bleu, I start my day with a latte and a croissant! I can’t even eat without speaking French and I’m no connoisseur.
First I must surrender my car to the valet then pass through the façade to the foyer to confer with the matre de who relinquishes a menu describing the cuisine of this restaurant/ bistro/café/buffet/cabaret where the chef sautés the entrée, filet mignon.
I’ll order a la carte, the soup de jour, and no, I will not be having an aperitif? I want a world sans France ! French words in English just ain’t apropos. English needs a renaissance, I mean a rebirth. Am I naïve to think we could make French terms passé?
Why can’t we have our own words for resume, repertoire, cliché and entourage? It’s a list of places I’ve worked, songs I can sing, sayings I’m sick of hearing, and people who are sucking up all my money. Or tourniquet? I’m bleeding to death and I need to yell out a French word? I need a stick and a rag!
And I haven’t even mentioned sex and the unmentionables; lingerie, bustier, camisole and braziers in the bureau in the boudoir where your paramour waits for a tat au tat, or worse yet, a ménage a trois. It’s a three-way. It’s a hair-do not a coiffeur and this is my driver not my chauffeur. And that? That’s my ridiculously-long car.
From now on, I throw away my beret, I shave off my moustache, I sell no more souvenirs, I expunge my act of double entendres and bon mots and, hold onto your chapeau, I do no more encores.
But, excuse moi, I hate to be gauche or risque, but there’s no way I can go without a toilet? Or a massage. Or a carousel. Or a Ferris wheel. Or Dijon . Or carte blanche. I love carte blanche. And boutiques. And chandeliers. And champagne. And exposes, crème brulees. And I love to smack parfaits, and soufflés!
Hey am I talking myself out of hating French stuff? But I do dig sorbets and Hollandaise and bon bons but not hors d’oeuvres.
And I hate pate and toupees. And chaperones. I hate dilettantes and denouements. And I despise montages and collages and bon voyages and voyeurs and people who say, “Bon appetite”. It’s all so faux. Hip hip hooray, I hate the French again!
Well kiss my derriere. Déjà vu. And baguettes! What’s with that stick of stale bread? Oh yah, I’ll fight cha but with no Marquis of Queensbury rules. Yah, I’m de clase’. You want a brou ha ha or a melee? I’ll fight you and your whole retinue.
And it’s more than just because they gave the world those irritating mimes and vote against us in the U.N.
I don’t even like their words being in my mouth anymore. Why don’t we English have a word for the person we’re planning to marry?
Fiancé sounds so sissy, like parfume. Anglo-Saxon words are masculine and contain curt consonants like the t’s and k’s in the word “stink”. That’s English. French is “fragrance”. French is soft and never even pronounces a “t” when one is there like in “ballet” and “bouquet”.
Why wouldn’t they go to war with us in Iraq when so many war words are French? All the military ranks sound Frenchy; Brigadier, Lieutenant, Corporeal, Sergeant, Liaison, Attaché, and Charge de Affaires. The military day starts with reveille. Then there’s regiment, bivouac, bayonet, canon, espionage, sabotage, sortie, reconnaissance, arsenal, and weapon’s cache. They invented the guillotine and are against capital punishment! Can I have a touché?
And I sure can’t figure out why American car makers use French words like Protégé and Envoy to name big ruff tuff vehicles. Avalanche is no word to put on a car you’re taking into the mountains. It sounds like one nut falls off and then the whole thing goes downhill.
Is Sportage pronounced like the Mirage? Because Escalade can be pronounced two ways like charade. The Ronde Vu sounds like something sexual might happen in it, but I’ve tried, and it’s too small to lay down in. Should I expect this linguistic treason because Detroit is a French word like Chevrolet and Monte Carlo ?
But why would GM, having good Indian names like Pontiac, Cadillac and Buick that end in “k” sounds, have Bonneville’s, Sedan de Ville’s, and Le Sabre’s?
Isn’t it bad enough we have to drive on a boulevard and an avenue or walk down the promenade? Sac re bleu, I start my day with a latte and a croissant! I can’t even eat without speaking French and I’m no connoisseur.
First I must surrender my car to the valet then pass through the façade to the foyer to confer with the matre de who relinquishes a menu describing the cuisine of this restaurant/ bistro/café/buffet/cabaret where the chef sautés the entrée, filet mignon.
I’ll order a la carte, the soup de jour, and no, I will not be having an aperitif? I want a world sans France ! French words in English just ain’t apropos. English needs a renaissance, I mean a rebirth. Am I naïve to think we could make French terms passé?
Why can’t we have our own words for resume, repertoire, cliché and entourage? It’s a list of places I’ve worked, songs I can sing, sayings I’m sick of hearing, and people who are sucking up all my money. Or tourniquet? I’m bleeding to death and I need to yell out a French word? I need a stick and a rag!
And I haven’t even mentioned sex and the unmentionables; lingerie, bustier, camisole and braziers in the bureau in the boudoir where your paramour waits for a tat au tat, or worse yet, a ménage a trois. It’s a three-way. It’s a hair-do not a coiffeur and this is my driver not my chauffeur. And that? That’s my ridiculously-long car.
From now on, I throw away my beret, I shave off my moustache, I sell no more souvenirs, I expunge my act of double entendres and bon mots and, hold onto your chapeau, I do no more encores.
But, excuse moi, I hate to be gauche or risque, but there’s no way I can go without a toilet? Or a massage. Or a carousel. Or a Ferris wheel. Or Dijon . Or carte blanche. I love carte blanche. And boutiques. And chandeliers. And champagne. And exposes, crème brulees. And I love to smack parfaits, and soufflés!
Hey am I talking myself out of hating French stuff? But I do dig sorbets and Hollandaise and bon bons but not hors d’oeuvres.
And I hate pate and toupees. And chaperones. I hate dilettantes and denouements. And I despise montages and collages and bon voyages and voyeurs and people who say, “Bon appetite”. It’s all so faux. Hip hip hooray, I hate the French again!
Well kiss my derriere. Déjà vu. And baguettes! What’s with that stick of stale bread? Oh yah, I’ll fight cha but with no Marquis of Queensbury rules. Yah, I’m de clase’. You want a brou ha ha or a melee? I’ll fight you and your whole retinue.
