11 October 2006

say it with a french accent: dude!

okay, welcome to the dude post. i shall cover herein several excellent techniques to becoming a bona fide french dude.

first of all, what kind of dude do you want to be? to make this easier for you, let's split it up by age groups:
  1. mini dude (the under 13 dude)
  2. voyou dude (teenaged upgrade)
  3. middle aged dude (to begin after you get tired of throwing cans in people's open windows)
  4. ole pappy dude (set of boules required)
great, let's get started!

1. mini dude

the mini dude is best epitomized by one of the boyfriend's of my super's 6 or 7 year old daughter (who, by the by, i once heard say to her mother "what is this bullshit?" after her mom was yelling at her in portugese). so little mouthy miss has a boyfriend, which i know since i've seen them strolling around together a lot. but let's separate this fact from another regular building occurence: at least once a week, for most of this year, i've heard someone banging like holy hell on the front door, wanting to be let in. it's aggravating, because i'll be trying to work or read or watch a movie, and all of a sudden i'll hear what sounds like godzilla trying to destroy the building. now i might be right at the front and could therefore easily let godzilla in, but who wants godzilla in their building, especially if they obviously don't live here (since they dont have the code)? after months of trying to ignore godzilla, i finally went out onto the landing to tell godzilla to fuck off and just call whoever his friend is before coming over, or at least writing down the code his friend gives him and carrying it in his wallet. but when i stepped out onto the landing, godzilla turned out to be the nerdy 6 year old boy with glasses who wishes that he was 3 feet tall.

2. ado-dude (F.D.S. version and Arab/African versions)
as hinted at above, all of the ado-dude models mostly just like to throw trash in my window. when they're not doing that that, they are also titillated by standing near my window and giggling, or yelling sexist comments at Margaux on the street (a favorite activity of all dudes, actually, except perhaps mini-dude who hasn't yet figured out what that lump o skin between his legs entitles him to). after that, it gets more complicated. F.D.S. dude (Français de souche, or 'native'-born french dude with frenchy sounding name) gets left out of Sarkozy's (conservative minister of the interior) and Le Pen's (big ugly facist face) candlelit dinner parties. The CRS and the very thuggish RATP (metro) cops don't like to play with FDS dude so much. They prefer focusing on dudes with tans.

3. balding dude (sober and drunken versions)

3.a. drunken version

Personally, this is my favorite dude of all in La France. Me and him like to have long chat which may seem loud and violent, but really, when it comes down to it, drunken middle aged dude loves me.

3.b. sober-ish version
When not asserting his dudely virility by eating steack tartar (raw hamburger meat with a raw egg on top. seriously, people eat that), sober middleaged dude can be found stroking his cock (in a totally heterosexual way) over Zinedine Zidane sweating a lot and running around in a thong, while repeating over and over Oooh Zizou, oooh ohh Zizou, ohh Zizou caress that ball, yeah. That is except for when he takes a break from Zizou in favor of Margaux.

4. hé pépé, yer balls are hangin' out !

i promised y'all a couple of posts ago that i would revisit the boules thing, and i'm trying to get better about my flakiness. so since i've finished my abstract, i can now tell you about me and margaux's pétanque trip to the jardin luxembourg. it started off well: we found a cranny with not too many folks where we could play. after a few rounds, a grandma came by with her grandkids, let them and herself walk through our game, and when she noticed the little boy picking up one of our already-played balls (thanks!), she picked up the kid by the arm and dropped it real hard. then the cops came over and told us we had to go to the special boules terrain in the park. so off we go, looking for the pappies. and lo and behold, when we got to the special pappy terrain, it was stunningly clear just how virile a sport this is. the only woman over there was in a small kiosk cooking (and selling) food. almost all the terrains were full of pappies, some of whom had special hats and gloves. there was a coat rack in the middle for their sports coats, but the best part of all was the piss trough in the bushes with no walls, just like that. can we say marking our territory? so needless to say, since margaux's a high femme and i'm just an ambiguously gendered kid with a mohawk, and both of us are well under age 65 even if you add our ages together, everybody stared at us and we were a little bit intim-A-dated, y'all. what's more, you have to ask permission to use one of the terrains, and they kindly gave us the one right next to the piss trough. all in all, though, we held our damn own, cos we some HOT SHIT when we play boules. that might just be because we're some spring damn chickens, y'all.
want more boules? watch bill csby and his dad get all grumpy pappy widdit on the cosby show, or go play boules online (click on Ouvrir le jeu, then in the pop up window type your name and click on Jouer une partie). or, even better, you can play with my balls. i have my own garishly colored set and i'm always down.

obviously, this dude post is my vague nod to the now-over world cup. folks were crying in france yesterday, y'all. The craziest thing of all is that the aforementioned Zidane (the chou chou of french football) got voted the best player in the world cup-- after he end his career by getting thrown out of the game because he headbutted a player (who didn't even have the ball) really hard. that's when the crying started. but it's okay, because italy won, and they deserved to since they are not only the prettiest boys on the field, but also posed in their skivvies for a dolce & gabbana ad. yay italia!

so that's it, really. but i have a question for y'all:
am i the only person out there who thinks that the World Cup Trophy looks like a golden turd?

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