by ponchi101 Bonjour, Perdantes!
C'es Nous. Oh, excuse moi. I forget that this, 'ow you say?, dump, is mostly Americain. I will do my best but mon anglais est terrible.
Pas problem: Je suis française. You will not come 'ere to 'ear me talk. Non, madames et monsieirs, not at all. You will come 'ere to drown your sorrows, except that, silly you, your sorrows know 'ow to swim. As a matter of fact, your sorrows are like le Michell Phelps of your emotions. Oui, you will be 'ere asking for the most terrible of all boissons francaise, just to try to forget that, 'ow on earth could you make such lousy picks?
Your pick lost in the round first? Mon Dieu, it is not 'im, it was you. Oui, admit it, you know crap about this sport. 'ere, have some pastis (basically, liquid licorice). Your pick dropped a third set tie break? None, none, mon-cherrie, not 'er, again, it was you. 'ere, have some Pernod (basically, liquid, rotten licorice). Or peut-etre 'e reached the set fifth and then dropped the 12 point TB? Monsieur, a large glass of absinthe is in order (we serve ours with a sharp razor on the side and a bucket to collect le blood and le ear; you know, un petite 'omage to monsieur Van Gogh).
Come in, come in! You know you don't want to but you will. Oh, and you will indeed! Just a matter of hours before that "surely she can't lose in le premier tour" choice blows up on your face.
You will make Marcel Marceau howl in laughter when 'e sees who you picked.
And non, we do NOT 'ave french fries; we have pommes frites! NO KETCHUP!!! Just sit, drink and wallow in your sorrow.
And no, we are not rude. We are Parisians. Drink your poison and watch the others also file in.
Music upon request.
C'es Nous. Oh, excuse moi. I forget that this, 'ow you say?, dump, is mostly Americain. I will do my best but mon anglais est terrible.
Pas problem: Je suis française. You will not come 'ere to 'ear me talk. Non, madames et monsieirs, not at all. You will come 'ere to drown your sorrows, except that, silly you, your sorrows know 'ow to swim. As a matter of fact, your sorrows are like le Michell Phelps of your emotions. Oui, you will be 'ere asking for the most terrible of all boissons francaise, just to try to forget that, 'ow on earth could you make such lousy picks?
Your pick lost in the round first? Mon Dieu, it is not 'im, it was you. Oui, admit it, you know crap about this sport. 'ere, have some pastis (basically, liquid licorice). Your pick dropped a third set tie break? None, none, mon-cherrie, not 'er, again, it was you. 'ere, have some Pernod (basically, liquid, rotten licorice). Or peut-etre 'e reached the set fifth and then dropped the 12 point TB? Monsieur, a large glass of absinthe is in order (we serve ours with a sharp razor on the side and a bucket to collect le blood and le ear; you know, un petite 'omage to monsieur Van Gogh).
Come in, come in! You know you don't want to but you will. Oh, and you will indeed! Just a matter of hours before that "surely she can't lose in le premier tour" choice blows up on your face.
You will make Marcel Marceau howl in laughter when 'e sees who you picked.
And non, we do NOT 'ave french fries; we have pommes frites! NO KETCHUP!!! Just sit, drink and wallow in your sorrow.
And no, we are not rude. We are Parisians. Drink your poison and watch the others also file in.
Music upon request.
