So hopefully I might dispel a few unrealistic expectations here. Paris has been called the City of Lights and the most romantic city in the world. It should be noted that the former is largely obsolete as it refers to Paris’ early adoption of street lighting, and as for the latter, romance is a product of the mind and is not intrinsic to a place or thing.
Don’t get me wrong though, it is a beautiful place to visit. But just don’t expect to see people in striped shirts and berets with a red bandana around the neck, eating baguettes, walking on cobblestoned alleys that are lighted with street lamps that shine the light of romance, illuminating the city with cinematic clichéd soft glow all while a phantom orchestra plays a whimsical little ditty.
Another thing to consider when visiting Paris is the language, the French have a reputation for being haughtily contemptuous of English. While I cannot objectively comment on the citizen’s general character due to my short time there, I can say that an English speaking Frenchman is a rarity. If I may so humbly offer my careless opinion, I think that its less of an issue with pride than trying not to look like a total arse. When both parties cannot understand each other, miming their conversation, communication regressed to gestures as if thousands of years of advancement in language didn’t happen, all just to agree on whether the object of a sale is a quiche with ham or just tomato, the ego is quick to obscure one’s embarrassment with blame.
The quiche with ham was delicious though.
As we only had a couple of days in Paris, my family and I were eager to strike the usual tourist attractions off the list and at the top of the list of all tourists visiting Paris is of course the Eiffel Tower.
One thing that really bothered me about the great throbbing steel erection is its colour. I mean why brown? Of all the different colours, why choose the one that makes it look as if it just emerged from a giant metal anus?
We chose to only go as high as the second level of the tower, a separate elevator is available to take visitors up to the corona of the steel penis, which naturally constitutes another fee.
The Tower has its Monroe moment.
From that picture you can see how densely packed with buildings the city is, you can also see the river Seine.
The constructors and architects of the buildings have a fastidious obsession for ornateness. It is almost as if they have some aversion to leaving a wall unadorned, so much so that when they run out of ideas to fill blank spaces they just randomly run their jackhammers on them.
Their obsessive nature also spills over to their statues. It is somehow important that depictions of horses have accurately detailed scrotums.
It’s really hard to take pictures of a statue’s balls while trying not to look like a sick pervert and my camera’s flash wasn’t strong enough, but if you squint and get really close to your screen you can definitely make out the two egg sacs.
Many of the male readers of the heterosexual persuasion would have one burning question that is right now undoubtedly weighing heavily on their minds. Well fear not! I have gone and observed and I can tell you that, yes European chicks are hot. I would show you some pictures but the police was forcibly insistent that I delete them from my camera.
But the facial hair, oh the facial hair. If there’s one thing I curse above all else about being of Asian heritage is the inability to grow an attractive beard. But this isn’t Asia, this is facial hair Shangri-la, stubble heaven Europe.
Full beards, mutton chops, goatees, soul patches, sideburns, moustaches, soup combs, those things that look like hairy vaginas, hobo beards, handlebars, after five stubble, any kind of facial hair you can think of, it’s probably on display.
But that’s not all, Paris is not all large phalluses and facial hair, it is also the site of the Virgin Mary’s tomb… I think, I wasn’t paying much attention to the movie. I am of course talking about the Louvre, possibly the most famous of museums around the world.
Shame then most people who visit seem only to be interested in taking pictures of Mona Lisa. Conceited bitch, look at that smug arse half smile she wears on her face, which just begs for a souvenir museum cup to be thrown at it. My god, she’s ugly too, she looks like George Bush Jr. with the skin on his face stretched, wearing an unconvincing Weird Al Yankovic wig.
Also she has Man Hands.
Also definitely stuffs her bra.
And you can’t even get in close, she is displayed under bulletproof glass barricaded from the crowds by a wooden banister and two vigilant guards that look like they know several methods of causing grievous hurt to anyone that decides that a waist high barrier isn’t enough to stop them from confirming whether there really is a flying saucer in the background of the painting.
This all makes viewing the work very tedious and it is not helped by its relatively small size, meanwhile ‘The Wedding at Cana’ that hangs directly opposite ML is only afforded a few sidelong glances, and it is MASSIVE. Its size is just staggering. It could not get any work if it was a porn star because no broad would dare risk such enormity, and these are people who have more spacious ‘accommodations’ due to overuse.
Of all my time spent in Paris, the happiest would most likely be at the Louvre, not only did I check off an item on my smartarse list of pretentious things to do, I also came across a stunning revelation that obliterates an old lingering doubt gnawing at my soul ever since puberty.
The revelation is this: Modestly sized penises are the Artistic Ideal.
This guy looks like he is having a little too much fun.
Note the penis is not huge.
Yes, sculptors and artisans for centuries created works of art that depict naked male forms with small genitalia as it is thought that is the most attractive of sizes, so much that even depictions of Gods and Mythical Heroes are presented this way.
Fuck yea, now I can say with confidence that I have a penis worthy of the Gods.
Must remember not to piss the Gods off though, that’s what did the Titans in you know, they thought that with their huge dicks they were better than the Gods and foolishly challenged them.
Its great fun watching parents bringing their kids to the museum, you can see the embarrassment on their faces when the little ones ask why Hermaphroditus has mummy and daddy parts.
So ends my summary on my stay in Paris.
Next I travel to the place where ‘Pussy’ may not mean vagina or wuss and ‘Fag’ may not mean raging homosexual.
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