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.