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I Fart in Your General Direction

Dragging the ass out of my Wranglers

It was another ordinary day in Gate Guard World.  A perpetual stream of trucks and large equipment with big pipes wound its’ way in and out of our gate here west of Gainesville, TX.   The temps were hovering around the century mark and winds were out of the south at 20mph.  I had a good and crusty rind of caliche dust going for sure.   Ahhhhhh! The GOOD Life! I looked at the line of vehicles and noticed a white Ford F250 Powerstroke with unfamiliar signage on the door and thought to myself  “He might be French“.  What?  Where did that come from?

Now I gotta admit I have never met a French person face to face or ever been closer to France than buying a pack a French cigarettes in Tahiti back in the day.  Still yet, I got this history with Frenchies.   It might be my daughter Cait’s fault.  We had this standing retort–  if some one acted in an asinine manner, I would always say ‘ He must be French’ to which she would always agree.  It was like secret code.

John Cleese aka French Soldier

All that mess came from Monty Python and the Holy Grail where John Cleese taunts the Knights.

French Soldier: I don’t want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.


French Soldier: You don’t frighten us, English pig dogs. Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called “Arthur King,” you and all your silly English K-nig-hts.

On further thinking today, I realized it went back even further.  Back in the late 60’s and early ’70’s I spent the better part of every summer north of Memphis working for my Grandfather who truly shaped my life.   The Saturday treat was to watch Memphis Wrestling with Lance Russell. Jerry Lawler, Jimmy Valiant, Sam Bass, Tojo Yamamoto  — it was reality TV before anyone even knew what Reality TV was.    You could bet the topic of conversation on Monday mornings down at Dixon & Boals Store would be what had happened on Saturday Wrestling.  On of the bad guy bastards of the day was Jacques LeBeouf. He was a beardy faced little cuss that was built like a

The King -- Jerry Lawler

50 gallon drum and on first sight you knew you were supposed to boo-hiss him.  He was unruly and unprincipled and spoke in a broken French accent- guaranteed to incense the local yokel watchers.  He mighta supposed to have been French Canadian and maybe his persona  also included being a lumberjack.  There wasn’t a professional lumberjack within 500 miles of Finley, TN — much less a French one so you can guess he went to the top of the Most Hated wrestler list pretty damned quick. Whoever was orchestrating this mess was good -really good.   They had a mainline IV plugged into the arm of every soybean farmer within 100 miles of  Memphis.

Doing the psycho-analysis thing, I guess I can trace my unfounded and silly aversion to Frenchmen back to Memphis Wrestling circa 1970.   Funny how your brain works and sometimes these days I think I got a touch of that Oldtimers Disease that steals all your Back In the Day memories.   Guess I need to write down all of the stuff I remember now so one of the Grand kids can read it back to me when I am slack jawed and drooling in the Old Folks Home one these days.

I think Celine Dion is French too or maybe French Canadian; so what– I never liked her either. .. and her hubby looks sorta like Jacques LeBeouf.


Sir Galahad: Is there someone else up there we can talk to?

French Soldier: No, now go away or I shall taunt you a second time.


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1 comment to I Fart in Your General Direction

  • Joel

    My lovely and talented wife and I spent two weeks in France back in 1986. Paris, Versailles, Tours, Annecy, Chamonix, Dijon and Beaune. Excellent vacation. It helps if you speak a little French.

    Back in this hemisphere, we get our French fix visiting Montreal and Quebec City.

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