Why Do Americans Hate The French

Dislike The French

I have always wondered why we, Americans, dislike the French so much. I have always thought of myself as lucky to have spent a considerable part of my life there. So I’m more than a little baffled why we are always putting that country and its’ inhabitants down.

Let me start with something as simple as streets. In France, the streets are pretty much immaculate. All the main arteries and most of the side streets are hosed down every morning. What’s wrong with that? And then there’s the mail. It gets delivered seven days a week—even on Sunday. That’s pretty good isn’t it? And of course there’s the food. OK, the dreadful McDonalds arches are more and more prevalent, but overall, you can always find a swell meal in most restaurants or bars. If they didn’t serve great food, they’d soon be out of business, and everybody likes a good meal, don’t they?

Speaking of food … the French take their time. Lunch is a big meal and can last a minimum of two hours. What’s wrong with that? The French also have not only a great interest, but a great tolerance about making love. Their presidents have mistresses and passels of illegitimate kids, and the French don’t get in snit about it. In fact, they feel the bedroom is off limits and nobody’s business. Why do Americans find fault with that?

If you’re a culture maven, France maybe the best place in the world. Take museums—you could put a dozen metropolitan and national museums together and they wouldn’t come close to the Louvre. You could spend months in that great institution and be surprised every day—because around every corner you come face to face with a masterpiece. And that’s just for old masters. There are wonderful museums for impressionists (a totally French phenomenon), and modern museums all over the country that are superior to The Modern in New York or LACMA in Los Angeles.

Enough of culture. France is a treasure trove of sights. At St. Tropez, every other beach is clothing optional, which in most cases is a very nice sight indeed. Even if there are some fatties, there is always the 18 year old girl (or boy if you are so inclined) that could make your day—if you’re lucky. And in France, you have much more of a chance at being lucky than most places on earth. And who doesn’t enjoy making love?

Then there’s the politeness thing. Americans think the French are haughty and rude. I’ll give you the haughty because they got a pretty nice place with lots of pleasures and culture, and there are lots of chances at feeling good which can make a dude feel kind of haughty. But about the politeness—the French, I say sadly, are a lot more polite and gracious than we are. And that’s because they are forever acknowledging your presence. Take French elevators for an instance; get in one and the inhabitants in that conveyance are not looking at the floor make believing there is no one else in the contraption. I’ve always found it endearing that when a French man or woman or child for that matter gets in to the conveyance, he greets everyone with a Monsieur—Dame. And the greeting is most always seconded. It’s nice having people recognize you as a fellow human being … you got anything against that?

What I have just mentioned are some of the minor or major glories of France. So, they didn’t do so great in WWII; they don’t agree with us at the World Bank; they don’t commit their youth to endless conflicts; and they think Americans are hypocritical and prudish about sex (we are). The Eurozone is going through difficulties but France will survive. And on top of that, they will continue to eat better, have more chances at love, have better schooling, and a culture that goes back 2,000 years. Plus, they invented the bikini and motion pictures. Picasso also lived there, and now so does Johnny Depp.

So why do we, Americans, find the French so unappealing, even hateful? I’ll tell you in three words.


I am an American. Most of the time I am proud  to be one … but as we mature as a nation, we could do worse than adopting some aspects of the French way of life. If we did so, our streets would be cleaner, we’d eat and love better, we’d be more friendly and less rushed, we’d have more chances at making love, we’d get our mail delivered every day, and we’d say hello to each other on elevators. What’s so bad about all that?

Seymoure Butts’ Mother Ruined My Sex Life

Family Business – B- Story

Seymour Butts, born Adam Glasser, was a nice Jewish boy from the Bronx who had two things going for him— a nice ass and a business acumen. When he put these two attributes together, he became a star.

Seymour was an instant success, but he went onto even greater heights—he went semi-legit. He convinced the cable company, Showtime, to do a reality show about his career, his love life, his illegitimate son, his brushes with the law, and his burgeoning business—which was run by his family. His mother was an office manager and his cousin Stevie, a total fuck up, was the head of production…and that’s where I came in. I got the part of Stevie’s best friend on the show but it didn’t stop there. If at all possible, Mother Butts, it was hoped, would fall in love with me and provide the show which was called, “Family Business,” with a B story line. It was my chance at stardom. I’d been a writer and producer in television for more years than I care to remember, but having a healthy ego, I always wanted to be in front of the camera. This was my shot.

“Family Business” was an unscripted reality show, but there were certain guidelines. I would have to meet Mother Butts on a legit blind date and convince her we should be life partners. I got a haircut and wore my best Polo jacket for our first meeting, which took place in a coffee shop on the Westside. I arrived on time, reeking of Patchouli.  Hidden cameras were everywhere as I waited. Mrs. Butts was half an hour late and as soon as I saw her, I was sure our romance would never get off the ground. The former Mrs. Glaser, now Butts, was a severe looking lady and my immediate thought was that she’d been laid once in her life—and that union had produced the famed Seymour.

In spite of Mrs. Butts being as sexy as a postage stamp, I longed for stardom so I was going to give it my best shot. To do that, I made myself an object of pity. I knew something about pity; I knew it engendered sympathy and sympathy is often wired into the female DNA, and once you get sympathy, you’re on your way. So on the off chance that I might be on my way with Glasser-Butts, I gave myself a harrowing childhood. I told my date that I was abandoned as a tot and then repeatedly abused by a series of twisted, horrible foster parents. All this tumult had led to psychological problems, but there was one good thing, my unhappy past spurred me on in a never ending search for love. I intimated that as soon as I laid eyes on Butts-Glasser, I had a premonition the search which had consumed my life, might far be over.

Mrs. Butts looked at me like I was crazy, so I went to plan B. Everybody liked to talk about themselves, therefore I inquired about Glasser-Butt’s past and her son, and I opined how much fun it must be as the office manager of a house. I asked if she had any other children, about her youth, and where she presently lived. I even asked everything in a syrupy voice, but I really didn’t give a shit about her answers. All I wanted was for her to like me—or at least show some warmth so I could get in front of the camera next week. It didn’t work. Mrs. B kept looking at me like I was nuts.

I’m a dogged kind of a guy and at the end of our rendezvous, I gave myself one more shot. I asked Mrs. Butts for her phone number.  She told me she would like to think about it. I started to kiss her wrinkled cheek, even though it was the kiss of death, but she pulled away. I was furious and never bothered to watch “Family Business,” but a year later, I was involved in a proper film in Brazil. I won’t go into the inordinate beauty of Brazilian women. Everyone’s seen pictures of the Copacabana beach in Rio. The women in that great country are pretty much gorgeous and I hooked up with a beauty who was one of the reigning queens of the telenovelas, or soap operas, which are very popular there.

One morning while my soap queen and I were making love, we had the TV on. You never know the power of American television, but suddenly  there I was on my futile blind date on “Family Business.”  The show had gone into syndication and I was on the tube speaking Portuguese to Mrs. Butts. The scene enfolding in front of my eyes was ruining my day. I was distracted and was no longer making love to a gorgeous Brasilana. I was glaring at the tube and pounding Mrs. Butts with a ferocity I had rarely known. I even called out the wrong name at exactly the wrong time. That most wonderful moment in life when two people climax together!  ”Take that Mrs. Butts,” I screamed at the television “And that and that and that!“

Unfortunately my Brazilian beauty knew English. She untangled herself from my embrace, donned her clothes, and over my protestations of love, left in a South American huff. I was never able to convince her to come back. Mrs. Butts had her revenge, she had driven me psychotic. I still see her on those occasions when I make love now. Of course this is deeply troubling and I’ve been to psychiatrists, psychologists, life counselors, shamans, yogis, sex therapists, and self help groups. Nothing helps. One of my shrinks is currently writing a report of my condition which he will present at the next American Psychiatrist Meeting. My case may be picked up the newspapers, and I might even make Maury Povich; perhaps Jerry Springer. And I’m a cinch for spots on TMZ  (they cover practically anything). Thus my dream will be realized, and it’s a dream of most of my countrymen. I’LL BE ON TELEVSION!  And just like a lot of my countrymen, I’ll be on it for all the wrong reasons.

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