Paris, France

Nice try Paris. Graffiti all you like, but we know deep down you are soft like the bakery you attempt to obscure. This tag was done with can in one hand, baguette in the other. Actually, I'm not even mad at that.

Hey, I’m in Paris and eating shitty escargot. Just cleared up some room on the bucket list for other such items to include, but not limit to: cliché in Asia; cliché in Africa; and bungee jumping.    

Left: Rich lights a fag. Center: Wei-Ee eyes something knitted in a store window. Right: Chuck spots a Frenchman with a similar scarf and momentarily considers returning to the apartment in order to change.

Hilarious. They title American movies with dubious translation in other countries! But waddaya gonna do? Nothing. There’s nothing you can do about it. Unless, of course you are in some way strategically affiliated with the marketing department there. In which case, there’s a chance you might be able to do something about it.

Discovering he can hook up music to my portable radio, Chuck fires up his Lady Gaga playlist but mistakenly connects his iphone to the microwave. This results in surprisingly tasty popcorn, however, more than an acceptable amount of kernels are burnt in the process.

3..2..1.. Pretend like you’ve never had your photo taken before. Perfect!

Kiss the fucking ring. Little Pierre‘s game is so tight it causes loss of circulation. Rich photobombing in the background. I nearly would have missed him had he not been wearing a POWDERED BLUE SNOWBOARD JACKET. Keep up the good work Rich.

Do you even lift? Lollers. Internetz.

Ahhh, the Eiffel Tower, or in French, la Tour Eiffel. So fucking romantic it makes me want to buy a bouquet of roses for my non-existent girlfriend. I once heard a story about this Frenchman who so despised the perceived eyesore of the Eiffel Tower that he would eat lunch at its apex daily, thus avoiding its sight. Bad-ass. Keep up the good work French people.

Hey, where’s Rich? Oh, there he is.

Yeah, I can be, like, a little moody sometimes. But I promise I'm totally worth it.

Love,

Paris

Feelin’ those arches bruh bruh. 

Beyond the mist rests even more French. *Shudder*

Night descends on Paris and sinks its refined teeth into her chic exterior. Mimes emerge from whereabouts unknown, marriage proposals occur in every photogenic crevice, café-philosophers romanticize a Paris that once-was while staring emptily into fibonacci milk spirals rotating in their latte, denizens near and far adorn their finest chapeaux and scarf ensemble so that they may stand on a street corner looking cool and detached. Magic.

There’s a what on my head!? A dragon? Oh cool, I thought you said wagon. Was all like, “what is radio-flyer up in here?” But a dragon, that’s all goo… wait, a dragon?!

Spike Spiegel. If you ever need to cast a live-action. Just sayin’.

Zoom. Enhance. Aaaand yep, that baby will haunt my dreams for all eternity. Thanks France.

I think I’ll give up hot dogs for Lent. As a matter of fact, I think I’m just gonna give them up permanently. You never know what kind of pork by-products you’ll get. True talk.

Easter egg: demon baby.

- Directed by M. Night Shyamalan

By the way, I light up. But here’s a shot of just one of my legs because I’m that kinda girl. Perhaps after a light appetizer, some fine foie gras, and a bottle of wine we’ll both attribute fictitious complexities to, I’ll show you what’s up top. Here’s a hint, it involves some French dude that refuses to look at me.

“Chuck, should we show em how rough riders roll?”

“You know it boo.”

Stop.

Drop.

Shut em down.

Open up shop?

I know nothing about this place other than the fact that it does, or at one point used to, house a hunchback. Other than that, the skilled eye can detect that this is indeed, also a cathedral with, in all likelihood, lots of ornate, taxpayer, churchy stuff inside. One cannot say for sure as it is also haunted and no one dares step foot inside. Thanks a lot France.

Alas, we have spotted the French woman in her natural habitat! One should be careful not to rouse her as we can note she is already in a state of exasperation. It turns out her custom black opal broach was not completed in time by her jeweler. Now condemned to attend her dinner engagement with impromptu flair, her mind scrambles to choose an appropriate substitute that is sensible, coordinates, but beyond all else, apparent in its beyond-your-means worth. The clock is ticking. Poor French woman.

The best part of the Louvre: standing outside of it at night - in the rain. Worst part: The Mona Lisa. Fact!

Fun fact about horse statues: when two legs are raised in the air, that means the rider died of noble causes and was an honor roll student. Three legs is dysentery. 

One might imagine I used a tripod for this. Try ninja stability.

Man, that is one fine stone railing. The craftsmanship behind that… boy I tell you. Could use a power wash to breathe some new life into it perhaps. Would help if there wasn’t all that bullshit in the background too. But still, that artistry!

Seriously, has anyone seen Rich?

Please, please, come in. Let me take your coat and eternally remind you of how poor you will always be.

The Hall of Mirrors. Receiving its namesake from, you guessed it, it’s hall-like shape. There are also some mirrors in there. This isn’t gonna help me find Rich!

This is a cool photo. Get high and stare at it for a while. Come on. I dare you.

This painting looks like my friend’s dad, Howard Budner - making it of non-interest to the majority of the world. If you happen to be a part of the world that knows Howard Budner, then I wish I could say this actually looked more like him. The more I look at it, the more it just looks like a dude who has his pants tied too high up. I mean, he can get away with it, but I digress…

This photo makes me think of Jane Austen for some reason. And for that, I kind of hate it. Thanks France.

I like to keep the grounds somewhat maintained. It’s not really my life or anything. It’s just that, sometimes, it can be a little peaceful to get outside and away from the missus for a spell. I’ll just blast some Dire Straits or Kenny Logins and kind of drift off to a world of what could have been while I obsessively level my shrubbery.

Also said to be haunted… by the ghost of Jean-Claude Van Damme if I recall correctly. What’s that? Oh he’s not dead? He’s Belgian? Is that in France? Hey, don’t call me an ignorant American! I can locate, like, 13 US states on a map and my dad could buy your dad.

Voulez-vous couches avec moi? No? Oh, I wasn’t really interested anyway.

These Americans don’t even know the level of French culinary pastry swag I’m about to infuse in this motherfucker. Those pigs won’t even appreciate the complex, savory, subtleties I'll cull from the entirety of baking's scrumptious heritage. But you know what? Imma hook it up anyway out of my overwhelming sense of pride.

Yeah, that’s right, I clock you watching me drip this chocolate syrup all nice like. You aren’t just born with this kind of drizzling accuracy. Do you even know how many waffles I frugally ensconced or flooded in abundance before I was allowed a permit to sell on the street? About six.

Don’t think I still don’t see you. Watch as I fry this motherfucker up like a certified technician. You want those edges golden brown? Sorry, best I can do is GOLDEN BROWN!

Enjoy, you piece of shit Americans.