Pathetic American snobs.

It has been three days since I set foot on American soil for the first time and my stomach still trembles incessantly. The urge to vomit on even a glance at the filth and downright self-absorbedness of your putrid country is enough to make even a strong-willed Frenchman like myself cringe in horror.

Common thought dictates, with no thanks to your inbred English cousins, that it is the French who are in love with themselves. The word snotty used synonymously with French has long been a label wrongfully attached to my fellow countrymen. It is true though, that the French are in love with themselves, but then, we have reason to be. After all, we speak a language, where each word comes out as a song. A constant serenade to the lovely women that roam the streets of Paris and litter the beaches of the Riviera with their firm naked breasts and tight buttocks.

When I visited my first American beach, only two days ago, I stood mortified. There I was walking along the lakeshore of Lake Michigan, dodging garbage and vagrants. To my surprise there were no random pieces of medical waste, which I assume I should be happy about. What disturbed me the most, and saddened me to no end were the innumerable insolent meat-heads that are American men, frothing at the mouths, impressing more than eager women with their outward superficialities. Poor women, all they know are men with no experience of how to love. Men whose idea of romance is a night of mediocre love coupled with six days of neglect. Love is a fleeting thing for Americans, I have realized. It is something that is not always there. An illusion kept out of arms reach with endless distractions. Money, gifts, cars, and insignificant material things that you Americans insist on defining all of life's emotions. I feel pity for your women.

Ah, the secrets we French could teach you, but why? What purpose would it serve? All you would do is twist it till you've bastardized it as you have everything you've touched. After my stroll on your sorry excuse for a beach I charmed my way into the heart of a young woman. She was blinded by my charm. I did not have to say anything, only to look at her deeply with my eyes. My overall Frenchness was enough to sweep her off her feet. Within moment of meeting her acquaintance I found myself sitting in her apartment sipping wine, and eating Brie with crackers.

"Your words, your movement, everything you do Francois, it's like a dream. I have never met a man like you before," she said to me after she changed into a silky piece of lingerie that accentuated her every curve along her full American body. Not as sleek and sexy as a French woman, but as they say, "When in Rome…"

Perhaps the Brie was not a good idea, as there was no reason to add any weight to those American thighs of hers, oh how I miss my France already. So sweet, so pure. Oh, the things I do for journalistic integrity, but as I was saying before I found myself lost in a deep train of thought. You see, this woman, a beautiful American woman (or about as beautiful as an American woman can be) she was mesmerized. She went on to tell about the other men she had dated. More obsessed with themselves and their basketball games, than even spending the time to romanticize her heart. She began to cry. Tears flowing.

"Francois, I have only known you for so short a time, but you've made me feel so alive again. So beautiful and sexy like no one ever has," she threw her arms around me, but I had to push her away. This is the problem with you Americans. No patience.
I kissed her gently on the lips, and then, well, I do not kiss and tell, but that night, the name Francois became both a noun and an adjective.

I showed her love, and passion. Something she had never experienced before. A true passion, not one brought on by desperation. Not one that you tell yourself you believe you have because it is a justification of actions. Decisions brought on by want and need. By a falseness of materialistic showers. Yes I gave her something no American man ever could. Passion. But then, I am French.

I left her this morning in her sleep. I could see her reinvigorated self, lost in dreams of myself. As I left she blew a soft whisper.

"Oh, Francois. You are just what America needs."

Perhaps, but I am just one man. I cannot change America. I cannot save everyone, but I am French. All I can do is try.