Writing a blog. ‘Cos I totally can.

Writing a blog.  ‘Cos I totally can.

Marvel at my amazing ability to provide amazing reasons and use some sort of mangled iambic pentameter.  After coming extraordinarily close to failing a practise exam whilst being so furious to warrant a hissy-fit a la Naomi Campbell, I’m writing when there are a plethora of other things I should be doing.  This probably doesn’t surprise you.

What probably doesn’t surprise you either (because I’m just that much of a predictable bitch) is that all signs are pointing towards a future career of stripper-and-occasional-hooker-dom.  Debauchery at its most offensive, more or less, since anyone willing to watch me strip down to my underwear and cavort around to, oh, I don’t know, Supermassive Black Hole (since euphemisms are beautiful, beautiful things) probably is doing so in return for a substantial wad of cash.  Like some sort of reverse-hooker.  Anyway, speaking of euphemisms, in French conversation class today (anyone who has read The Basic Eight will know how Basic Eight-esque this term is.  If you are one of these people leave me a comment so I can marry you), I had to discuss French politics (shit, not again).  Why Sarko banned burqas and any sort of cultural-slash-religious headwear etc etc etc.  Progressively and without any sort of exotic French charm which one frequently encounters while they hear a French speaker speak orgasmic broken English, I attempted to power through a sort-of comparison between French and Australian politics.

“Mais les australiens, on aime bavarder de politique pour sembler intelligent.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Par exemple, notre ministre, Kevin Rudd, quand il était à Nouvelle-York, il a vu une… um… stripper?”

I revert back to English.

“Et ça veut dire quoi en français?”

“Une femme… qui enlève ses vetements pour l’argent”

Aside from the misogynist slur that emerged when I suggested that only female strippers existed, that was the fastest phrase I have ever spoken in French.  It’s like I was not destined to travel the world and decipher the musings of sexy French politicians and economists, but rather, remove their clothes and fellate them, perhaps filling their French minds with words like “stripper”, “hooker” and phrases like “I am your interpreter.  Well, I was.  Until I had an epiphany where I discovered I could do this for a living.  Revolutionary, no?”

They would then… well you don’t want to know the rest.  I trust that your imagination will do the job perfectly.  Essentially, I may have told God (or whoever it is, ambiguous agnosticism FTW – and alliteration too) to give me a wake-up call and here it is.  Go forth and remove your clothes, you flaming mongrel of joy!  (Because God is totally Alf from Home and Away)

Now I know you exist.