...and neither do the French, apparently. The shower situation in l'hotel est très ridiculous! Mais oui! In that same way that "brunch" is a combination of breakfast and lunch, you, my gay friend, have discovered yourself an authentic French bower. It's not really a shower. And it's not really a bath. It's a bathtub with a hand shower that does not attach to the wall. There is no shower curtain of any kind, so if you stand up in the bower you will inevitably flood the entire hotel. So you kind of have to get down on your knees (a position not all that unfamiliar to you) and kind of carefully move the hand wand around your freezing body as if you're bathing in a bidet. But suddenly it becomes crystal clear why the French get a bad rap for not bathing. Don't blame the French. Blame their bowers. Anyway.
After getting into an argument with the Merci Beaucunt at the front desk about the impossibility of moving to another room with an actual shower head, you, your BFF, and your all the Ski Fags in your gay ski group head into town for Gay Cocktails. This poor little mountain town has never seen such a parade of designer jean fabulousness as you all prance your Jet Lagged asses to Le Rusticana. Et voila! Le petite mountain town has its first impromptu gay bar! The red wine flows through your veins in direct proportion with the Euros flowing out of your wallet, and after you are sufficiently liquored up, a bunch of the Ski Fags talk about heading to Chamonix to check out Le Non-Gay Gay Bar that the bartender turns you onto.
However, when le taxi arrives, the other Ski Fags quickly bail so you and your BFF are the only two die hards left. Your unbearable Jet Lag is quickly trumped by your collective need for more Gay Cocktails, coupled with le hope et le possibilitie of actual French French Kisses, en France. Your BFF starts yapping with Le Italian Cabbie in his native tongue as your drunk ass is whisked to Chamonix. After a ten minute ride, Le Italian Cabbie proceeds to rape your drunk ass with a 35 euro fare ($51). Le Italian Cabbie Rapist also neglects to drop you in front of the bar, instead choosing to let the two lost American Fags wander aimlessly through Chamonix in search of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. But what the Italian Rapist doesn't know is that your liver is like a homing pigeon when it comes to Gay Cocktails!
When you finally locate Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, you are very confused because it’s 11:30pm on a Saturday night and the damn door is locked? You ring the bell and an angry French woman (je ne comprends pas?) comes up the stairs and yells through the glass, en français, and you think she tells you to come back at midnight. Midnight? Are you on the Champs d’ Elysee waiting to get into Le Queen? Unfortunately, when you look around the itty-bitty little ski town you confirm that you are actually standing outside of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. But you wind up killing the half hour in some straight bar where everybody is drunker than you. And you hate that.
At midnight you and your BFF saunter over for your Non-Gay Cocktail and luckily the door has magically been unlocked. The bar is a tiny dirty little underground hole in the wall with Two Bartenders and absolutely no boys. But after a few Non-Gay Cocktails the place does pick up a bit and you start to get hit on by a French Man who doesn’t speak a lick of English! C’est parfait! You quickly figure out that the Non-Gay Gay Bar’s Female Bartender speaks a little Italian, so you end up enlisting her as your translator and between your merde-y French and your BFF’s Italian, you wind up being able to cobble together enough information about him. You learn that he is gay, that he works in construction and, most importantly, that he has a car. You have fun flirting without words (or comprehension) and after a few more Non-Gay Gay Cocktails, Le French Construction Worker offers to give you boys a ride back to your hotel. Actually, he might have asked you where you were from or what you did for a living, but his accent is so thick and your French is so bad that perhaps you just assume he offered you a ride, but it really doesn’t matter because you quickly accept his kind (and possibly make-believe) offer because you, the Jet Lagged Fag, are ready to say “Bon nuit!”
So you and your BFF pile into Le French Construction Worker’s teeny tiny little Smart Car, and you quickly realize that without the Non-Gay Bartender’s broken Italian, it is absolutely impossible to communicate anything beyond basic French terms like, “Hello my name is…” and “My favorite color is…” or “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?” The ten minute ride takes an untranslatable eternity, and when you get back to the hotel your BFF knowledgeably abandons the Smart Car faster than the little voiture could ever get from zero-to-sixty. And there you are: drunk, tired, and trapped in a Dumb French Conversation with Le Construction Worker’s Smart Car who’s expecting toi to couchez avec lui ce soir. But you can barely keep your eyes open. In fact, you may have actually fallen asleep in the passenger seat when you receive your first official French French Kiss.
After about ten make-out minutes (which, incidentally, was equally as long as the ride home), you feel like you have more than fulfilled your obligation, so you say your au revoirs and sleepwalk your way back to your hotel room. Only when you walk into the room, you think something might be wrong when you find your BFF ransacking through his newly unpacked luggage, but you really know something is wrong when he doesn’t ask you any details. At all. Instead he says, “I lost my passport tonight. And my camera.” He begins to freak out as he calculates the time in New York so he can call the U.S. Embassy or whoever it is that you call in these dire, drunken situations. Meanwhile, you’re all pissed because all you want to do is gossip about your first French Kiss with Le French Construction Worker! You can’t get over the gall of your BFF to actually lose his passport on such a momentous occasion! Eventually, of course, he searches through his new TrueReligion Jeans pockets one last time and finds his passport all folded up in some map of the bars you went to in Chamonix.
The next day your hung-over ass is rudely awoken by some French Maid walking into your hotel room because, with all the passport hoopla, you forgot to hang the Do Not Disturb sign. You feel like merde but somehow pull it together to take an irritating bower and get on the slopes by 1pm. Actually, you arrive at le restaurant at the bottom of the slope by then, and by 2pm you are cramming into the Gondola with Europeans who seem to have absolutely no concept of waiting in line. Neither of you have any interest in skiing, and you are both endlessly irritated by everything and everyone. At the top of the mountain you decide to procrastinate over several $5 Coke Lights for the sole reason that it will enable you to put off skiing for another hour. Or so.
Your BFF bitches about not being able to take any photos of the beautiful scenery that neither of you are enjoying. At all. You spend at least a half hour discussing the lameness factor of taking the gondola back down to the base so you won’t actually have to do any skiing, but you decide that is just way too pathetic. Even for you. So you take your first and last run of the day simultaneously and as you walk back toward the hotel you begin to make up an elaborate story about the amazing day of skiing you had so you can save face if you run into any other Ski Fags on your way back to your room to take a Disco Nap. Only by the time you reach the parking lot, you look up and squint your eyes because of the glare coming off of the shiny metal object being held up by, you guessed it, Le French Construction Worker who is sitting on the hood of his Smart Car. Your BFF screams, “Mon camera!” as you want to scream, “Mon Stalkquer!” You begrudgingly decide to take Le French Construction Worker out for (yup, you guessed it) a thank you cocktail. Only today you are exhausted and hung over and you have neither the patience nor the cognitive ability to parlez français with Le French Stalkquer. Anyway...
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
You're Not One of Those Fags Who Likes to Douche...
Posted by You at 5:52 PM
Your Labels: BFF, Bower, Gay Cocktails, Le French Construction Worker, Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, Le Stalquer, Merci Beaucunt, Ski Fags
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2 comments:
You're hilarious...
the boyfriend and i bought some wonderful designer jeans in dallas. that experience basically made the trip.
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