On Germans: good taste, generally honest, shitty counters of subtlety.
On the French: the food's not good enough to justify the attitude, but very close.
On Louisianans: a plenitude untapped the world over. No hardier from any clime could you know than my loving hotpinksweatweewoman bearing a heat that melts eggs and words with the same indifference; there is no plea: it's fucking hot (she and it).
"Artifice" used to be a positive word, once styled the act of creativity, in flight or staid. Now it means "lying," "falsehood," or "pretension," and I ask where the two twain in good conscience? When did art cease being understood as representational? Where is my lie, your truth and visa and versa and where does it matter and how and when, plebe? Is it not enough--and this is rhetorical--to say that when she smiles, all glides and you're glad to be alive in a heated car in the morning, thanking God for that one smile, praying for another knowing she's pissed off, preening for one more kiss before the day simmers and melts away in your eyes, held captive by her own blue beams piercing straight into your wee bare-knuckled heart, not a thing between you and brutality but the heft of her brows, the twitch of her lips, and utter chaos for fellow man.
Where, gentleman, would we be without our women?
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