MICKELINO - FROG WITH A BLOG

Why, when I'm here, does it suddenly erect? Oh I see, it's the Mickelino effect!

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Wednesday, September 28

Beurzday Mickelino - The pics

Couscous night in the 11th arrondissement, we danced and smoked weird Turkish things till 5 am...







So, the nice pictures were taken by either Eric or Marieke (thank you!) and the bad quality ones were taken by me...

By the way, I got a nice pair of roller-skates on my Birthday, moi!

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Hey! Don't forget to sign my Guest Map!

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The ugly dry-cleaner

This morning, the ugly dry-cleaner yelled at me 'cos I had a coffee stain on my tie. (which is the reason why I went to her ugly little store). She said that men were all children who'd wipe their face in anything.

I don't like the ugly dry-cleaner.
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Thursday, September 22

StrasBitch in StrasBourg

Je déteste les enfants. Surtout les nourrissons.

Et bizarrement cette ville regorge de nourrissons et de parents admiratifs qui ne font que parler des prouesses de leurs chérubins alors que franchement, y a pas d'quoi s'taper le cul par terre d'admiration... Il paraît que le taux de natalité est au plus haut en ce moment et que la plupart des couples ont l'objectif "troisième enfant" pour rallonger leur congé parental. Ca promet...
Un nourrisson, c'est moche, ça braille et ça pue. On est tous d'accord. Ca ne pense qu'à bouffer et sincèrement je trouve autant d'intérêt à un nourrisson qu'à un têtard en eaux troubles.

Je n'ai jamais vraiment compris l'admiration et le surplus d'onomatopées que l'ont profère à la vue d'une telle chose. Tous ces parents et surtout ces passants qui leur parlent comme si les mioches allaient leur répondre, genre : "Merci madame d'apprécier ma façon de roter et faire des bulles". Franchement... faut arrêter de faire des "Hiiiiii", des "boujouboujou" ou encore des "mais kikilétait mimi le chéri à sa tata!" devant ces mômes, et après on se plaint que les enfants ne savent plus parler français. Bruno me disait qu'une vieille peau gazouillait avec un nourrisson l'autre jour dans le métro en l'onopatopéisant et en lui faisant guili guili sur le zizi. Faut arrêter quoi!

Le monde autour de moi me dit que je dois trouver le nourrisson mignon à souhait, qu'il ressemble vraiment à son papa (car la mère est moins susceptible) et qu'il a vraiment l'air plus intelligent que la moyenne. Or, moi, la seule chose qui me passe par la tête lorsque j'aperçois la chose aux yeux globuleux et aux petites cuisses flasques mais potelées, est que je trouve qu'il ressemble étrangement à un gros rôti à mettre au four, dodu et viandu, et qu'on en ferait bien du kebab ou kedchose comme ça. En somme, ils puent tous et ils sont tous laids... sauf le mien.

Mais je vous vois déjà en train de vous dire (vous mes nombreux lecteurs qui n'existez pas): "Mais koi koi koi? Mickelino, pourtant tu n'as pas d'enfants! C'est koi koi tout ça? Tu sais très bien que vu tes orientations malsaines le gouvernement a décidé que toi et 10% de la population française n'aviez pas le droit d'avoir des enfants! Rhôlala, l'est fou lui!"

Bon, je sais, je n'ai pas d'enfant (d'ailleurs, comment c'est-y k'on appelle les parents qui n'ont pas d'enfants? Les orphelins n'ont pas de parents mais c'est quoi le contraire?). Bref, pourtant le petit rejeton qui est le plus proche du rejeton que je n'aurai jamais, c'est le fils de ma soeur.

Lui c'est ma Tortue, il est beau, il sent bon et il ne braille pas. Il est carrément plus intelligent que la moyenne et s'il y en a un qui le transforme en rôti, je lui fais la peau. Il a des petites dents et un petit nez et il dit "tonton" quand il me voit et "Hiiiiiii, k'il est mimi le chichi à son tonton!" . Malheureusement il dit "Tata" aussi quand il me voit. Clairvoyant de surcroît, je vous avais dit qu'il était plus intelligent que la moyenne.
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Thursday, September 8

La Rentrée

Below: You probably recognize this awesome painting by Edvard Munch however, what you didn't know is that it actually represents a hysterical Parisian French mother taking her children to their piano lesson on a busy Saturday afternoon, shortly after La Rentrée.
FOR those of you who do not have the great pleasure of living in this country, let me introduce you to a national concept: La Rentrée.
If you translate directly, you understand "the re-entry" but its actual meaning is re-entry into school or simply "back to school" although in my mind right now it means "re-entry into the state of behaving like a freak show".

In August, the entire Parisian population left the city to gather to the same beach on the Riviera in order to enjoy sea, sex and sun (that’s what’s written on the postcard while in reality you should read sunburns, endless diarrhoea, bad quality flip-flops, Indian braids, tacky beach clubs, cheap sangria and charter flight fear).
Over-night, they all came back, driving on the same motorway, using the same Métro line and emptying all my local grocery stores, all at once!

Paris in August is as peaceful and quiet as a New Year’s Eve party in Switzerland and even though I love the buzz of this city when it reaches its climax on a Friday night or Sales Saturday, I did find it quite relaxing and enjoyable to walk around feeling like I owned the streets and to be honest, the flirting potential is higher in August. Indeed, while all of the worked-out, suntanned, sexy ones were rich enough to be out of town, well, the poor, average looking and slightly chubby ones like me got to become the attraction of the day. In other words, thanks to lacking competition, August turned me into a hot babe!

However, in one night, they all re-appeared, hysterically jumping into my life as pop-corn in a sauce-pan. Slightly burnt and greasy but yummy enough to make me look fat. Newly awoken and sour children on their way to school, nagging at their baggy-eyed parents, upset at the fact that they didn’t get the 150€ trendy schoolbag that ALL of their friends are going to be carrying. “It’s like soooo embarrassing!” allow themselves to behave like perfect brats and send you the look of death as you quietly step on their tiny feet trying to squeeze yourself into the Métro.

In August, the few Parisians whom you come across are all pretty relaxed, people walk slowly, it’s ok to show up 2 hours late for work and leave 4 hours later, the old grannies put their camping-chairs on the sidewalks of the 11th arrondissement and greet passers-by, even the boulangères smile at you (just kidding, all boulangeries are closed in August).

But in September it seems to be entirely legitimate to show up to work on time, to actually work 9 through 5, to get some work done, to stumble on old unoccupied camping-chairs and be yelled at by ugly and bitter boulangères ‘cos they "did go to the Riviera but the weather wasn’t good and our climate is really changing blah blah blah…".

Question of the day:
So why is it legitimate to suddenly behave like a nasty bastard just because one is back to work and bitter after a boring vacation and why does one constantly look like Edvard Munch’s “Scream” as they take the kids to their piano then dance then karate lessons? I want my August back, and I want all these hunky suntanned people to disappear and give back my camping-chair now!
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Friday, September 2

I'm an angry bitch in Paris

10 things that pissed me off this morning:
1) The old racist bitch who lives on the 1st floor asked me if I hadn't been bothered by the "awful smell of Oriental food coming from the ground floor last night", "these people cook exotic food that attracts cockroaches, you know!". I replied with a smile that I didn't know as I was having gay sex all night at some black junky's place(which is a lie... 'cos he wasn't black, but she doesn't need to know).
2) It's official, my mother has reincarnated into a scale and the instrument looked like it was laughing at me and making me feel guilty when I weighed myself this morning.
3) Why do people with bad breath sit around me in the métro and why haven't they heard that a morning cigarette on an empty stomach really makes it worse?And
4) Why do Japanese tourists always travel with 350 other people and occupy the whole sidewalk, I mean bless them, they're sweet but why does it take them 3o minutes to realize that somebody very stylish, busy and important is trying to go to work, as he's already 3 hours late?
5) The HR manager asked me this morning if I had been smoking the carpet (fumé la moquette, meaning are you high?) as I looked tired and said nasty things all morning.
6) I realized that birthday presents have become 50% more expensive over-night.
7) I had a 2% raise this morning. Impressive!
8) I'm in the red at the bank and it's the beginning of the month.
9) I managed to step in a dog's shit on Paris's fanciest sidewalk.
10) My birthday's in 2 days and I've bought myself way too many presents.
And how are you all feeling this morning?