Dad Catches A "Two-Million-Dollar Mistake" In A Brief

Sometimes I think, all the time and energy I spend in defense of corporate America, is it really the best use of my talents? And then I think, yes, it is.

DON'T GIVE A FIG

My candle burns at both ends;

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--

It gives a lovely light!

Not A Bad Morning

Drank a gallon of water (Crystal Geyser) while Mom wondered aloud: how many onions are in each plastic bag of chopped onions; how many small cans of beans are contained in the large can of beans; are you going to finish all that water? at Smart & Final.

Hell

is when the water is undrinkable. And that was most of human history.

I've been home for 24 hours and my parents are already older. All we talk about is political theology, mostly in terms of Ron Paul and creche scenes, because this is the only time all year my mom gets to say "creche." My dad watches a Christmas-decorator-to-the-stars on YouTube. "I walked in and Seal was singing Christmas carols to the kids. It was a special moment; I was afraid to interrupt. But I had to do my job." We saw a movie by rapist director Roman Polanski and I walked home with my dad, who the whole time read a book about how the Hebrew God is a dialogic God. Whoopi Goldberg just said to Piers Morgan, "Honey, have you seen Sister Act yet?" Did I mention the water here comes out of the filter ice-cold, so that when I try to chug it my brain freezes over?

Merry Christmas, Secular Nation; I wouldn't wish dehydration on anyone.

écurie normale supérieure

First I thought it was so cute that Pierre, who is working with vegetables and horses like Rosalie (below) to cure his crippling phobie sociale, would reply, when I would ask if it was going to rain tomorrow, "Oui, normalement," as if a specific time in the future could ever be normal, but then I caught on that it's a pretty normal locution.

figue-nique

I try to beat the wasps to the figs au bord de la ferme, right by the potimarron planters. Usually I win, which makes them very hangry. I have this fear I'll eat a fig with a wasp inside that will sting the inside of my mouth. Maybe that would be just the pique I need to give my French a certain je ne sais quoi...

soupe aux mauvaises herbes

I’m deeply entrenched in transformation. Compost comes from the toilets. I made a compote of some pommes abîmées and a gâteau aux courgettes out of myself. Morgan has dreams about sexual assault, offered me her melatonin, warned of possible malignant effects. I just ate an almond and I couldn’t tell if it tasted more like amaretto or cyanide—do those taste the same or the opposite? What’s that thing Montaigne says about the skeptic and the rhubarb? Jean-Pierre says, in French, that it (rhubarb) will burn a hole in your shoe, I say what?, he says it in English, I don’t know what he’s talking about; oh, rhubarb, ça pique. Also, Italian coffee, you can float a horseshoe in it. I learn argot for water (flotte), tired (noz?), someone who apports the emmerdements (chieur). Morgan asks what’s argot, Jean-Pierre says “slang,” Morgan says “for what?”, he says “slayng,” I say, “argot, c’est l’argot pour ‘argot,’” Morgan laughs a little but everyone's kind of uncomfortable. Here's a picture of me and Marwan next to a bus:

Happy Bastille Day, fidèles!