About Eeyore

Canadian artist and counter-jihad and freedom of speech activist as well as devout Schrödinger's catholic

14 Replies to “Paris is a …”

  1. Ah, yes. The City of Light Blight.

    What sort of irreversible mass-atrocity will be required in order to “inspire” a reboot of the classic film (in this case)?—Wherein a a massively beturbaned imam is shouting into the telephone (or hollering via Skype):

    IS PARIS BURNING?!?

    One might think that losing millions of tourists—and their untold billions of vacation Euros (once) being spent each and every year—would be sufficient to shake these lethargic Multi-Culti Parisians awake. Clearly, quite a lot more “cultural enrichment” will be required before these cheese-eating-surrender-monkeys finally purchase even the slightest clue.

    Were it not for the formidable nuclear arsenal of La Belle France, I’d be more than half-way tempted to just pull the chain and watch this Muslim-infested türd swirl about in the EU punch bowl.

  2. I think we are seeing a lot of people doubling down on unreasonable positions out of fear that when the wheel stops spinning and the truth comes clear they are going to left looking very bad indeed and might well find themselves unemployed and disgraced if not sitting behind bars.

    They say “History is written by the winners” and if the right wing ever really prevails they are worried that their lies and their bribes and their disingenuousness will be revealed and God knows what might happen then. Like, did Bill Nye get a cool ten million to shill for climate change? I would think that George Soros would consider that a pretty good deal considering the advertising power Bill would supply. Who knows what horrors would be revealed if they actually did drain the swamp?

  3. Long ago, in a far-off universe of wanderlust and adventure, I was in Paris.

    Alone I walked the streets young and free. It was summer and warm and sunny. Parisian women were always so beautiful. I thought they really knew what to do with what they had. I came across a man playing blues in a quaint spot between two buildings. Here, the acoustics carried the sound of his guitar into the air like excited pidgeons. I asked if I could join him and he nodded. He was an Irishman. Before long a crowd gathered. Soon they were five deep around us. Our hat on the ground filled with francs. A black guy named Bluey asked if he could sing. Sure, said the Irishman, with a name like that why not? But Bluey was Bluey because of his eye. When he removed his sunglasses one eye was like a milky-blue marble. Deadened by disease.

    Bluey, the Irishman and I played on through the evening and made good money. Paris was alive that night and I was part of that life. People clapped and shouted their approval. No gendarme came looking for any busking permit and no one hassled us. It was all utterly spontaneous and civilized. The only objector came from a grumpy Parisian in a flat high above us signalling our curfew by throwing water down on us from his window. At least I’d hoped it was water.

    Some time after midnight we called it quits. When I realized the time I also realized I was locked out of my hostel. Come with us, said Bluey and the Irishman. They were both street people. If you don’t know where to sleep in Paris they will come and steal your shoes, they said. They meant the gypsies. Seriously, they went on, if you sleep on a park bench bad things may happen. They seemed sincere.

    So I trusted them. There had been no quarrel over money or anything. I sensed nothing in these guys to fear.

    We went to the bridge near the Eiffel Tower, I think. We slept on the bank of the Seine beneath. I had my sleeping bag and they had nothing. “You gonna share?” they asked. “”No,” I said. “You guys stink.”

    “”Awe c’mon,” they said. “We’re mates now.”

    Reluctantly I unzipped the sleeping bag and made a blanket. It was true. We were friends.

    In the morning I woke up with my shoes and the ten toes inside of them. Quietly I gathered my things. Bluey and the Irishman slept like babies even after I took away my sleeping bag. Bluey just whimpered and got more fetal, shoving his hands between his knees. When I emerged from under the bridge Paris said good morning with its own sweet breath of sincere promise and early morning summer haze.

    The streets were quiet. Maybe it was Sunday. Already the sun was warm as I walked along a promenade.

    “Got the time, mate?” a voice said.

    The fellow had sneaked up behind me. Not too many people did that in those days when my younger nerves were so well lit.

    His head was shaved bald. His big bare tatooed arms hung down like an ape and his knuckles had tatoos too. This was in a time when most men with tatoos were truly tough, not like so many poseurs of today. Turned out he was another Irishman.

    “Quarter to six,” I said.
    “You going to the Legion”
    “The Legion?”
    “Yes. The Foreign Legion. Sign-up starts at six. It’s around here somewhere.”
    “”No. I’m looking for the train station, I guess.”
    “Come with me, then, ” he said as he flicked his cigarette butt to the curb. ” We’ll sign up together.”

    We walked on for a bit in the same trajectory without saying much. I was considering his offer. Seriously. I was free to do as I wanted back then. I asked him where he thought they would send him. Africa, he figured. When we parted ways he offered me a smoke and asked if I knew where he could find a spot of tea. I didn’t know.

    I remember that Paris fondly, and I consider myself lucky to have experienced it so intimately. Yes, a little rough, but real.

    Now, as she dies by disease like Bluey’s eye, Africa has come to her. I wonder if The Legion still sends young men away to the dark continent of it’s own backyard.

    • Parisian women were always so beautiful.

      Without a doubt, the French dames know how to strut their stuff and are conspicuously proud of it. Any red-blooded male who doesn’t feel some nudgings of lust in their presence has to be camp as a row of tents.

      Fabulous life-story, Johnnyu! May I have another, sir?

    • You won’t believe the state of the Paris metro

      Without even bothering to watch the video clip, my supremely confident answer is:

      Oh, yes I can!

  4. “Vinaigrettes fighting foul orders”
    by Antique Trader Staff – August 1, 2018

    Pomander to Pouncet

    Another innovation that soon largely replaced the pomander was the pouncet box. Pouncet boxes emerged during the late 16th century in England and were used primarily by the wealthy. The pouncet box was flat and circular in shape with a perforated lid that held vinegar-soaked sponges or cloth. Both men and women carried pouncet boxes to overpower any foul odor, but more importantly to offer protection from infected air, then considered to be the source of contagion.

    By the late 18th century, the pouncet box evolved into a smaller silver container known as a vinaigrette, from the French word for vinegar – vinaigre. The vinaigrette worked on the same principle as the pomander and pouncet box. Aromatic substances dissolved in vinegar or concentrated scented oils were used to saturate sponges or fabric placed in the vinaigrette, which was carried in a pocket, worn around the neck or suspended from a chatelaine.
    http://www.antiquetrader.com/articles/feature-stories/recent-finds-foul-odors-fleas-little-works-of-art/

    Vinaigrette box: Don’t leave home without it.
    https://www.etsy.com/au/market/vinaigrette_box

    • “PARIS ATTACK: Shouting “ALLAHU AKBAR,” Muslim goes on stabbing spree, attacks police on suburb street”

      “PARIS ATTACK: Shouting “ALLAHU AKBAR,” A NOW DEAD Muslim goes on stabbing spree, attacks police on suburb street”

      There, fixed that!

      A person is obliged to wonder if these stabby types have managed to convince themselves that—just because they’re not using smäll-ärms fire—somehow the police won’t just blow them away, straight out-of-hand (so to speak).

      Saddest of all is that this appears to be true.

      EPILOGUE: With my usual callous disregard for human life, I calculate that even just admission for brief monitoring of vital signs and accompanying x-rays must routinely hit €1.000 per patient. Now, see what happens when you plug in all the critical, time-dependent life-saving ER operations, and the ICU bed-space being consumed by these unfortunate victims. In fact, given those factors, I wouldn’t be too surprised if the expenses involved managed to overtop that of les voitures flambées à la française.

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