Saturday, April 15, 2006
“Never trust a Frenchman, especially if he has a marmot in his pocket.” (or ""S-s-spare a dime for a d-d-down-on-his-l-l-luck groundhog?")
I originally wrote this on September 1st, 2001.
I’ve been in Canada for about a month now, and have started to appreciate the minor subtleties between Canadian and American life. Take the local wildlife for instance. No, seriously, come up here and take it all away, please. They (the wildlife) have a way of making you (the human) feel as though you are an unwanted guest, invading their land. They (the wildlife) even have a way of unnerving and scaring you just by staring at you (the human) and not moving. It’s kind of like how the American Mafia would react if you just planted a house in the middle of, say, Howard Beach. Even the grasshoppers brazenly leap into open car windows (the Chevy Celebrity) and climb up the sides of houses. They stare at you with their 74 eyes as if to say, “Hey, buddy, this has been a pretty nice 25-year camping trip for you (the human), but why don’t you leave now, or else I’ll have to call in the marmot?”
That’s right, the marmot. Here’s a true story, which actually happened to my fiancée :
She had driven to Riverside Park last month to watch her 4-year old niece perform at a dance festival. Much fun was had by all. As she drove home, my fiancée thought she heard a noise in her engine, so she dealt with it in the approved fashion, which was to turn her radio up louder. When she pulled into her driveway a few minutes later, she definitely heard a scratching noise from under the hood. Alarmed, she ran into the house, where her brother Joe was visiting. In short order, as the love of my life and her mother supported Joe by hiding at the window, he cautiously popped the hood release and gently lifted the panel, and there, crawling around the engine, was, you guessed it, Pasquale “Six Fingers” Napolitano.
No, it was actually a marmot, and it leapt out of the engine, hissing loudly, limbs wildly flailing. Its message of intimidation and fear-mongering successfully delivered, it raced off into the wilderness. Let me tell you, if you want a sure-fire way to terrify someone, you really can’t beat a marmot. Let’s just say that lots of underwear probably had to be changed that afternoon, if you catch my drift.
In addition to grasshoppers and marmots, there are bears and wolves. Here’s some more true stories: my fiancée’s uncle woke up one morning to find a large brown bear snacking on the low-hanging peaches on a tree in his backyard. My fiancée’s brother Joe had lived on a farm near Vancouver, and frequently had to scare off a wolf who was fond of peeking in their windows late at night. Finally, and most shocking of all, when my future mother-in-law agreed to baby-sit her sister’s dog Willy for a weekend, we awoke one morning to find a puddle of pee on the floor, and Willy completely unremorseful. You cannot tell me this is normal canine behavior. Most dogs I’ve met have been ready to slink away and hide for crimes far less severe, like eating a tray of barbecued meat, or trying to swallow a bottle cap.
You don’t find this level of aggression and fearlessness in American creatures, with the possible exception of New York pigeons. (“Give me bread or I’ll peck your eyes out!”) I’m sure wildlife exists in New York, but you never really see it until it’s dead on the side of a road. All you’ll see still living are a few mice, some spiders, maybe a squirrel if you’re lucky, but no deer or badgers, and definitely no marmots. The best you could hope for is to see one of those degenerate, alcoholic, roadside groundhogs freezing his furry butt off as you drive by at 80 mph on the way to Atlantic City. It might even wriggle his hands spasmodically as if to say, “Hey, b-b-buddy! Wh-wh-why don’t y-y-you pull over and g-g-give a g-g-guy a lift to th-th-the Tropic-c-cana?” That shows how stupid American animals are – even if he hit big on the nickel slots, a groundhog isn’t nearly tall enough to reach the change window.
Yes, there’s definitely something wrong with the animals in Canada, but no lifeforms show as much erratic, unpredictable, cold and calculating behavior than the French. In addition to their legendary cheese eating and wine drinking ways, they’ve begun a new ploy to subconsciously condition the Canadian to be receptive to the inevitable French Invasion. Consider this chilling fact: I am currently drinking a can of Root Beer, but the English half is turned away from me, exposing the French side of the label, which reads “Racinette”. That’s French for “Root Beer”. I’m pretty sure I didn’t put the can down that way. I think that maybe there’s a gyroscope or little wheels on the bottom of the can that orients the French language side towards me. This happens constantly. I’m besieged daily with French writing, and it’s starting to not be weird, which scares me greatly. Let me play a little game with you, to show you what it’s like:
See if you can identify which product (Column 1) belongs to the actual French directions on the packaging (Column 2):
A) Advil Liqui-Gels
B) Short Cuts Shampoo
C) Dove Deodorant & Anti-Perspirant
D) Wizard Dual Action Air Freshener
E) Francoise’s Portable Locomotive Toilet
1) procurent egalement un soulagement rapide et efficace des maux de tete ordinaries, des maux de dents et des douleurs menstruelles, des douleurs benignes associees a l’arthrite, des douleurs musculaires et articulaires, des maux de dos, en plus d’abaisser la fievre.
2) Appliquer sur le cuir chevelu en massant et faire penetrer dans la chevelure. Rincer. Repeter aus besoin.
3) Appliquer une mince couche sur les aisselles. Pour que le produit reste transparent sur la peau, eviter d’en appliquer une trop grande quantite.
4) Bien secouer avant de s’en servir. Vaporiser loin du visage et vers le haut. Aide a maitriser rapidement les mauvaises odeurs courantes.
5) Je pien peaux-peaux en la cheaux-cheaux, sacre bleaux!
See what I mean? This kind of stuff is everywhere up here. I even know that the word for “mild” is “douce”, and there is no need for me to have that knowledge. By aggressively labeling everything in sight, the French are slowly realizing their goal of converting the entire world to their particular brand of swaggering, unwashed, cowardly, elitist, insular, foppish, baby-eating, urine-drinking ways.
(Incidentally, If you’re waiting for an answer to the puzzle above, all I can say is “Le tarter est le depot jaunatre et dur qui peut s’accumuler sur les dents!” (Literally, “My fiancée threw out those bottles already, so I have no idea which is which!”))
They (the French) have to be stopped! No worry, I have a plan to make the French roll over like Lassie in love. The next time any of you in the States come up to Canada, smuggle a couple of Mafia hitmen, or at least a few pigeons, into your suitcases. They’ll no doubt be so offended by the Francophilia of the place that they’ll begin an all out war on the French. I’ll try to track down the marmot.
I’ve been in Canada for about a month now, and have started to appreciate the minor subtleties between Canadian and American life. Take the local wildlife for instance. No, seriously, come up here and take it all away, please. They (the wildlife) have a way of making you (the human) feel as though you are an unwanted guest, invading their land. They (the wildlife) even have a way of unnerving and scaring you just by staring at you (the human) and not moving. It’s kind of like how the American Mafia would react if you just planted a house in the middle of, say, Howard Beach. Even the grasshoppers brazenly leap into open car windows (the Chevy Celebrity) and climb up the sides of houses. They stare at you with their 74 eyes as if to say, “Hey, buddy, this has been a pretty nice 25-year camping trip for you (the human), but why don’t you leave now, or else I’ll have to call in the marmot?”
That’s right, the marmot. Here’s a true story, which actually happened to my fiancée :
She had driven to Riverside Park last month to watch her 4-year old niece perform at a dance festival. Much fun was had by all. As she drove home, my fiancée thought she heard a noise in her engine, so she dealt with it in the approved fashion, which was to turn her radio up louder. When she pulled into her driveway a few minutes later, she definitely heard a scratching noise from under the hood. Alarmed, she ran into the house, where her brother Joe was visiting. In short order, as the love of my life and her mother supported Joe by hiding at the window, he cautiously popped the hood release and gently lifted the panel, and there, crawling around the engine, was, you guessed it, Pasquale “Six Fingers” Napolitano.
No, it was actually a marmot, and it leapt out of the engine, hissing loudly, limbs wildly flailing. Its message of intimidation and fear-mongering successfully delivered, it raced off into the wilderness. Let me tell you, if you want a sure-fire way to terrify someone, you really can’t beat a marmot. Let’s just say that lots of underwear probably had to be changed that afternoon, if you catch my drift.
In addition to grasshoppers and marmots, there are bears and wolves. Here’s some more true stories: my fiancée’s uncle woke up one morning to find a large brown bear snacking on the low-hanging peaches on a tree in his backyard. My fiancée’s brother Joe had lived on a farm near Vancouver, and frequently had to scare off a wolf who was fond of peeking in their windows late at night. Finally, and most shocking of all, when my future mother-in-law agreed to baby-sit her sister’s dog Willy for a weekend, we awoke one morning to find a puddle of pee on the floor, and Willy completely unremorseful. You cannot tell me this is normal canine behavior. Most dogs I’ve met have been ready to slink away and hide for crimes far less severe, like eating a tray of barbecued meat, or trying to swallow a bottle cap.
You don’t find this level of aggression and fearlessness in American creatures, with the possible exception of New York pigeons. (“Give me bread or I’ll peck your eyes out!”) I’m sure wildlife exists in New York, but you never really see it until it’s dead on the side of a road. All you’ll see still living are a few mice, some spiders, maybe a squirrel if you’re lucky, but no deer or badgers, and definitely no marmots. The best you could hope for is to see one of those degenerate, alcoholic, roadside groundhogs freezing his furry butt off as you drive by at 80 mph on the way to Atlantic City. It might even wriggle his hands spasmodically as if to say, “Hey, b-b-buddy! Wh-wh-why don’t y-y-you pull over and g-g-give a g-g-guy a lift to th-th-the Tropic-c-cana?” That shows how stupid American animals are – even if he hit big on the nickel slots, a groundhog isn’t nearly tall enough to reach the change window.
Yes, there’s definitely something wrong with the animals in Canada, but no lifeforms show as much erratic, unpredictable, cold and calculating behavior than the French. In addition to their legendary cheese eating and wine drinking ways, they’ve begun a new ploy to subconsciously condition the Canadian to be receptive to the inevitable French Invasion. Consider this chilling fact: I am currently drinking a can of Root Beer, but the English half is turned away from me, exposing the French side of the label, which reads “Racinette”. That’s French for “Root Beer”. I’m pretty sure I didn’t put the can down that way. I think that maybe there’s a gyroscope or little wheels on the bottom of the can that orients the French language side towards me. This happens constantly. I’m besieged daily with French writing, and it’s starting to not be weird, which scares me greatly. Let me play a little game with you, to show you what it’s like:
See if you can identify which product (Column 1) belongs to the actual French directions on the packaging (Column 2):
A) Advil Liqui-Gels
B) Short Cuts Shampoo
C) Dove Deodorant & Anti-Perspirant
D) Wizard Dual Action Air Freshener
E) Francoise’s Portable Locomotive Toilet
1)
2) Appliquer sur le cuir chevelu en massant et faire penetrer dans la chevelure. Rincer. Repeter aus besoin.
3) Appliquer une mince couche sur les aisselles. Pour que le produit reste transparent sur la peau, eviter d’en appliquer une trop grande quantite.
4) Bien secouer avant de s’en servir. Vaporiser loin du visage et vers le haut. Aide a maitriser rapidement les mauvaises odeurs courantes.
5) Je pien peaux-peaux en la cheaux-cheaux, sacre bleaux!
See what I mean? This kind of stuff is everywhere up here. I even know that the word for “mild” is “douce”, and there is no need for me to have that knowledge. By aggressively labeling everything in sight, the French are slowly realizing their goal of converting the entire world to their particular brand of swaggering, unwashed, cowardly, elitist, insular, foppish, baby-eating, urine-drinking ways.
(Incidentally, If you’re waiting for an answer to the puzzle above, all I can say is “Le tarter est le depot jaunatre et dur qui peut s’accumuler sur les dents!” (Literally, “My fiancée threw out those bottles already, so I have no idea which is which!”))
They (the French) have to be stopped! No worry, I have a plan to make the French roll over like Lassie in love. The next time any of you in the States come up to Canada, smuggle a couple of Mafia hitmen, or at least a few pigeons, into your suitcases. They’ll no doubt be so offended by the Francophilia of the place that they’ll begin an all out war on the French. I’ll try to track down the marmot.
