Again, bonjour. That means "hello" in French, but no one actually says bonjour to me over here; they say, "Fack you, ugly Amerrycon juck." So I punch them and get thrown out of the church, club, or cafe without having to pay the bill. Basically, the French lie and stink, the prostitutes are coarse and toothless, and the police are fascist, but the jails are clean! I spent the last few nights in a cell with a chain-smoking 13-year-old Algerian orphan. We bonded over a discussion of Serena Williams, who we agreed is probably very attractive to R. Crumb, and could kick both of our asses, hard. When I was let out, I made him promise me he would never take a job at McDonald's, and I promised him I would remember his name and try to bring media attention to his brutal treatment by the French authorities. His name was "Salami" or "Yahweh" or something like that. Whatever. Greenpeace will handle it.

To entice me to go to France, The Stranger told me it would be an all-expenses-paid trip to cover "that big bike race." What they meant was, "Here's seven Euros and a dildo--good luck at the Tour de France." I was robbed by a prostitute almost immediately after entering French airspace, and then arrested. When you run out of money in France, jail is a great place to be! The only downside was that I missed stages 7-10 of the race and contracted a blistering rash that is spreading... everywhere.

Of course, Ultimate Frisbee is HUGE here. Fucking French Brie-burping bastards. The entire country is like one big, musty, used rare bookstore. They act so smart, but really they're just buttmunchers who think making cyclists race over slick cobblestones is sophisticated and charming. They forget their World Cup Soccer performance in 2002 when they were eliminated in the FIRST ROUND and failed to score even ONE goal.

My prison guards discussed the Tour constantly but refused to answer any of my questions in English. Whenever I mentioned Lance Armstrong they flew into a jealous rage and threw bricks at me. That's how I knew he was doing well.

jockitch@thestranger.com