Sunday, February 7, 2016

Excuse my dust: or, why choose to be incinerated

In school, I "took" French.

Or, as my kids used to say when they were little, I "tookened" it.

This was so that I could have a wobbling, imperfect, and practically useless grasp of the other official language of my country. From about Grade 5, they began to hammer it into me.

Almost none of it stuck.

At this point, I have a most unfluent nongrasp of what I call "cereal box French". For my hordes of American fans, the ones who hang on to my every word (and four of whom quit last week, all at once, all because I wrote about climate change), this is the French that adorns each and every bit of merchandise produced in this great but strangely schizmed country. Including cereal.

So I decided it might be fun for me to translate this little French thingie I found on Facebook!


Why demand to terminate in an incinerator?

At departure, we are created of a tinsel of love.

The first year, we are the flame of our parents.

We chauffeur our ends up to our adolescence.

Then the period where we don't light up anything.

And in the twenties, one pets the fire.

In the suite, one is bushed up to 65 years.

At 75 years, one is burning.

At 80 years, one is amassed in a foyer.

Piss at 90 years, one is burnt.

Too bad! Why demand to be incinerated? One is already cooked in all ways.

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