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Tag Archives: Mexico

(Los) Zetas

23 May

Don’t worry, we’ve got this pregame covered.

Fellow students, it has recently come to my attention that there is among us a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A transvestite on a unicycle. Even, dare I say, a Ron Paul in a chocolate soufflé. I speak of course, of Los Zetas.

Founded October 15, 1898 at the State Female Normal School in Farmville, Virginia when commandos from the Mexican Army deserted in favor of working as the armed wing of the drug trafficking Gulf Cartel, Los Zetas have become one of the world’s most powerful Panhellenic drug cartels, with over 206,000 initiated members and 246 chapters in the US alone. In Mexico, Los Zetas have a powerful presence in Hidalgo, Chihuahua, and Oaxaca, among other regions, with Executive Offices in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico and Indianapolis, Indiana.

Known far and wide for their five-pointed crown symbol and twin mottoes of “Seek the Noblest” and “La Policía Va a Morir,” Los Zetas was founded by nine women with the help of Arturo Gúzman Decena, a retired Mexican Army lieutenant. One of the founders, Maud Jones, wrote “There were six or seven of us who used to frequently meet together and talk over and try to devise some way by which we could unite into a helpful and congenial band,” to which Decena added, “Y Ganar Dinero… y posible asesinar los gringos.”

The syndicate has claimed vast swaths of territory, including South Campus Beach and Dillo Day bathroom lines

The question, my fellow Americans, is this: What shall we do in the face of this challenge? Shall we rise up like the Spartans of old? Or shall we cower like the French of every period in history, including today? …honestly, you’d think they’d learn.

Wait. What do you mean I’m mixing up the international women’s fraternity Zeta Tau Alpha and the violent criminal syndicate Los Zetas? Look, I know my research, dick.

So what if Wikipedia says otherwise? No I will not be silenced!

SUED!? WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO!?

Ahem. I for one, welcome our new ZTA overladies with open armies. I mean ARMS! ARMS! And um, cupcakes! Yes, cupcakes for all!

Please don’t hurt me.

——————————————————————————————————————————
Dr. Tattersail is the author of several books, short stories, essays, and intoxicated Facebook wall-to-walls, including the New York Times bestselling graphic novel The Clitoris: I Found It! and the Newbery Award Winning children’s book Hey You! Yeah, You Kids! Get the Fuck Off My Lawn! Praise for Tattersail’s upcoming novel, Consenting Adults, Drug Mules, and Biden: A Memoir abounds, including:

“A masterpiece” —Chicago Sun Times
“A literary tour de force” —New York Monthly
“Tattersail creates a world of magic and sincerity the likes of which I’ve never seen.” –Homeless man outside Taco Bell

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Sherman Ave Goes Global!

26 Apr
Much like imperialist Europe in the early 20th century, the colored places are the ones we've conquered

We would like to cordially invite Greenland to suck the fattest dick on the planet.

This is a map of Sherman Ave’s global reach. The countries that are filled in with color have viewed Sherman Ave at least once (obviously, it is the country as a whole viewing it together as part of a ceremony, and not one single person arbitrarily browsing the Internet for fucksaw videos). The color-coding isn’t especially relevant to viewership; it represents the general greatness of the country, judged on the traditional scale of 1 to 32,524.

As part of a marketing effort, we’re making attempts to analyze these global trends of viewership to figure out how we can broaden our appeal, and in all our gratitude and kindness, we’ve decided to show our strategies to you, our dickholders shareholders (remember the other night, when you had one too many and bought $50,000 worth of stock in a blog that doesn’t yet run its own advertisements?).

Let’s start with North America. We’re clearly getting a considerable amount of views from Canada, United States, and Mexico. This is probably due largely to a few shady deals we made in the 1990s when NAFTA was being drafted, shortly after Al Gore invented the Internet.

Even in Central America, some of the rural fruit farmers have found their way onto our joyous blog.* Yes, it may have something to do with the fact that we’ve been actively trading arms to the Sandinistas over the last few years to cover Sherman Ave’s fixed production costs (Miller High Life and Flaming Hot Cheetos), but we also like to think that we’ve managed to score some views in Costa Rica by casually ranting about how much we hate their country.

One of our Brazilian readers, vicariously feeling our sadness at the revocation of The Keg's liquor license

In South America, you may notice that all countries have some level of viewership of Sherman Ave. I know, you might be thinking, “What about French Guiana, Suriname, and Guyana?” In response: Those piece-of-shit countries are not real countries. French Guiana is a territory of France (If the UN Security Council was the Jackson 5, France would be Tito), Suriname’s primary language is Dutch (apparently Dutch is a language?), and Guyana is known best for mass suicide. Although we didn’t get a high quantity of views from countries like Argentina and Brazil, we feel safe in assuming that the views we did came from hot Brazilian models, the Argentinian soccer team, and the corpse of Eva Peron.

Moving onto Europe, you’ll see that we have almost absolute viewership in Europe. This is quite a shocking insight for us; we didn’t realize our writing style crafted such a strong appeal to metrosexual chain-smokers who do nothing but listen to house music and get bailed out by the United States in world wars. Strangely, though, it does seem that there is a small void in Moldova, where the few Internet users are presumably brainstorming ways to make their country relevant and/or dying in abject poverty.

Asia provides arguably the most surprising statistics. Judging from the fact that a) we’ve had no viewers in Yemen or Oman, and b) we’ve gone 1 for 7 with countries ending in “-stan,” our sweeping campaign to appeal to Muslim Internet users has failed unequivocally. We hope to remedy this by expanding our content to be more culturally friendly; in the future, expect continuations of current article series, such as “Point/Counterpoint: Qu’ran vs. Koran,” “Freshman Guide: Finding A Mosque in Evanston,” and “An Open Letter Non-apology to American Automobile Owners.”

Our efforts in Africa, on the other hand, appear to have been successful beyond our wildest dreams. As you can see, we’ve gotten views from every Internet user on the continent.**

No luck with Papua New Guinea, though. We’re discussing the launch of a subsidiary blog called “Pygmy Ave.”

 

*“Rural Fruit Farmer” is incidentally the name of Clay Aiken’s next album.
**We’re assuming the penguins from the movie “Madagascar” haven’t yet figured out how to use the Internet.

10 Events in World History That Totally Should Have Been Pregamed

2 Feb

There was once a time when history was regarded with reverence and esteem. Then the History Channel aired “Ice Road Truckers,” and since then, it has been hard for anyone to take history seriously. That being said, we still view history as an important part of our heritage that must be studied and understood. And by “studied and understood,” we of course mean “examined to establish which historical events would be funniest if all parties involved were shitfaced.” Here at Sherman Ave, history and drinking go together like, well, Mohawk rum and CVS-brand soda. Thus, we proudly present to you the 10 events in world history that totally should have been pregamed.

And you thought Northwestern students' Halloween costumes were offensive

10. The Travels of Marco Polo
As anybody who ever made the excruciating journey from the Keg to the mystical and foreign land of Burger King can attest, drunk adventures just tend to be more interesting than sober travels. Just imagine if Marco Polo had downed two bottles of wine before setting out from Venice! The young guido would probably embark on a series of raucous adventures throughout his travels, recording everything from his first encounters with Asian fusion cuisine in the land of Joy Yee to an ill-fated attempt to skinny dip in the Arabian Sea in an incomprehensibly ungrammatical text message sent to his roommate at three in the morning. The next day, Marco Polo would be way too hungover to feel dismayed by the revelation that, after being carried like three miles by his friends to the Yuan court, Polo used the sacred oil from Jerusalem entrusted to him by Gregory X to introduce the Mongolian Empire to waffle fries before promptly vomiting on Kublai Khan’s lap.

9. The Storming of the Bastille
On July 14, 1789, a bunch of disgruntled poor French people massed upon the Bastille, a large prison known for holding political prisoners. If you think about it, there are only three explanations for masses of people converging on a public place — they’re angry, they’re drunk, or they’re in the Jai Ho music video. Regrettably, seeing as the French were mostly angry in this scenario; they really should have been drunk. Simply compare the nature of angry public gatherings and drunken public gatherings. Angry public gatherings include Occupy Wall Street, Tiananmen Square, and Nazi book burnings. Drunken public gatherings include Snoop Dogg concerts, St. Patrick’s Day, and the celebration of Osama bin Laden’s death. You decide which you find preferable. Besides, A Tale of Two Cities would just be so much more interesting if Madame Lafarge was vomiting uncontrollably in every scene.

8. The Defenestration of Prague
Like anybody needs much provocation to drink in order to escape the infernal bleakness of Eastern Europe. But I usually do need to be at least a couple of shots of absinthe deep before I defend my religious freedom by shoving Catholics out of a third floor window into a pit of manure. Not to mention, a good pregame would have added a whole other layer to the term “getting shit-faced.”

Foam is beer!

7. The Crusades
Which Crusades? ALL OF THEM. ALL OF THE CRUSADES SHOULD HAVE BEEN PREGAMED. Okay, it’s like a road trip, but you can be as sloshy-slosh as you want, because you don’t have to worry about getting a DUI (unless the Holy Roman Empire stringently enforced horse-riding sobriety). Besides, there is no better instigator of belligerent shenanigans than Pope Urban II’s famous declaration, “God wills it!” That’s just asking to be misinterpreted for fratty purposes. Fifteen shots in an hour? God wills it! Eight consecutive kegstands? God wills it! Seriously, if someone walked up to me tomorrow and said “Hey, God wants us to get incredibly blitzed and then go ride a horse from Rome to Jerusalem,” I would instantly buy the necessary supplies. Then I’d probably proceed to buy a bible, to double-check the whole divine mandate thing.

6. Marx Writes the Communist Manifesto
Alcoholism becomes much easier when it’s supported by a good old-fashioned dialectical materialist ideology. A tipsy Marx after an unlucky game of Drunkopoly would undoubtedly replace his theories of Das Kapital with Das Boot, the class struggle with the timeless struggle for consciousness, and the stateless society the ideal of a pants-less society. His manuscript — hastily scrawled on the back of a cocktail napkin — would ignite rebels everywhere with its message, resulting in a series of idealistic revolutions calling for the redistribution of Miller High Life among the proletariat but rapidly degenerating into a dystopian shitshow of Adele lyrics in the gulag of Fran’s Cafe.

5. Hannibal Leading His Army Over the Alps
When I’m plastered, there are only two things I want: Guacamole and Elephants. I have some doubts about the guacamole rations in the Carthaginian army, but there were definitely some fucking elephants. They’re just so large! In that state of mind, it’s difficult to perceive objects larger than the distance between Burger King and 7/11. An elephant would just be mind-blowing. Furthermore, there are tons of fun activities to do in the Alps: skiing, snowboarding, sledding, making snow angels, having snowball fights with fellow Carthaginian soldiers, walking behind Hannibal and quietly muttering lines from “Silence of the Lambs,” etc. If someone just told me to march over an entire mountain range, I’d be pretty miffed, but if someone had me do a power hour and then said “Let’s go hiking!” I’d take the bait like a middle-aged housewife at Herman Cain’s mansion.

A thimblefull of tequila brings out her coquettish side

4. The Trial of Joan of Arc
Tensions might have ran high in the Rouen courtroom as the Maid of Orléans was tried for heresy, but that’s nothing a little Smirnoff chased by a slap can’t solve! If only the Bishop Cauchon had pregamed, the interrogation would have devolved from religious inquiry to a saucy game of “Never Have I Ever,” with questions mostly pertaining to Joan’s fantasies about the Dauphin and her penchant for cross-dressing. Joan of Arc will then famously proceed to declare to the courtroom, “I do not think I am in mortal sin, and if I am, it is for God and the priest in confession to know that I used the pages of Ezekial 23: 19-20 to roll the biggest joint Charles VII ever saw!” The trial would inevitably end with the pronouncement that the patron saint of France was “one righteous motherfucker” before burning her at the stake and cooking escargot over her smoldering ashes.

3. The Arrival of Cortez in Mexico
I’ll be the first to admit: When I’ve have too much to drink, I’m very friendly. Best friends are inundated with hugs, acquaintances are equally inundated with hugs, and the quiet Korean girl from my Econ discussion probably sustains a fairly serious spinal injury from the amount and magnitude of the hugs with which she is inundated. But even in all of my drunken affection, I very rarely greet a stranger and jump to the conclusion that they are the god Quetzalcoatl. There was that one time, but she had a very oddly proportioned face, and I couldn’t come up with any other explanation for it. Ultimately, Montezuma and his Aztec cronies should have heavily pregamed the arrival of Cortez, if for no other reason than to justify their absurd actions (just think if only Cortez had been entranced by the Aztec’s gold tequila rather than the golden buildings of Tenochtitlan). I’d have to be incredibly trashed to give a stranger the keys to the capital city of my civilization, even though I was once trashed enough to lock the keys in the car at 2:30 in the morning after drunkenly transporting a couch through several blocks of downtown Evanston.

2. The Construction of Stonehenge
Seeing as its pretty easy to build Stonehenge in the opening of Civilization IV, I can only assume that the Druids were pretty far gone when they built one the most complex monuments of the Stone Age. I mean, you’d kind of have to be three sheets to the wind to agree to lug 25-ton rocks from a Welsh quarry to some testament for the enterprising spirit of man. Assuming the Druids were drunk on mead, there are few explanations remaining for the memorial. My guess is that they either built a fast-food restaurant catering to students’ late-night culinary needs, or else a bar with a lax ID policy and stripper poles on the dance floor.

Drink every time a Russian model looks like this by the time she hits her mid-thirties?

1. Russia
You may not have ever thought to pregame an entire nation, but it seems like the only appropriate thing to do. I’d really like to isolate a single event in Russian history that needs to be pregamed more than the others, but that is simply a Sisyphean task. Conclusion: Nothing in or relating to Russia should ever involve sobriety. Therefore, instead of painstakingly listing every event in Russian history, I present to you: “History of Russia: The Drinking Game!”
• Drink every time Russia is invaded in the winter against the invader’s better judgment
• Drink every time a prominent politician is sent to a gulag
• Drink every time Brezhnev’s eyebrows appear in an intricate nightmare of yours
• Drink every time Putin shares an uncomfortably intimate moment with a wild animal
• Drink every time Tolstoy and/or Dostoevsky makes you lose faith in everything, LITERALLY EVERYTHING
• Drink every time Tchaikovsky tries to suppress his latent homosexuality
• Drink every time a Russian leader tries to expand executive power
o Drink twice if it’s Putin
• Waterfall from 1917-1991

Ross Packingham and Evander Jones

Badasses in History: Jean Lafitte

31 Oct

The Somalians know what's up

Pirates rock. And no, I’m not talking about the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, only the first of which was really any good. Yeah, Johnny Depp is a great actor, and Jack Sparrow is awesome and even got a song written about him by The Lonely Island. But in general, the movies sucked. At least we can all agree, real life pirates were awesome.

Well actually, most of them fucking sucked.

Being a pirate in the 18th and 19th centuries was a lot like being a cook at some shitty “restaurant” like McDonald’s. People made fun of you and you had no job security. Also, you were dirty, smelled bad, and were more than likely illiterate. I’ll end the comparison here, but I could go on and on.

The point is, the life of a pirate was not glamorous. Pirates more often stole food and everyday goods than gold. And really, what kind of idiot would bury his treasure as opposed to simply fucking buying an island or something?

Also, scurvy.

Widely renowned as “the douche of the seven seas”, scurvy killed more pirates (and sailors in general) than any high seas adventure ever did. If Pirates of the Caribbean depicted the life of a pirate accurately, 90% of the crew would have been dead of scurvy, disease, and starvation at the end of the first hour, and Jack would have either been caught or just said “fuck it all, I’m going back to land” in the fifteen minutes after that, thus ending the film before most of us could finish our two-foot long hoagies.

As you can see, being a pirate left a lot to be desired.

Way too badass for a frechman

Unless of course, you were Jean Lafitte.

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, he was French. But he was so badass it doesn’t matter.

He has more epithets than can conveniently fit on a business card: “The Corsair”, “The Buccaneer,” “The King of Barataria,” “The Terror of the Gulf,” “The Hero of New Orleans”; all of them names for the same man, the same baller. The same Pirate King.

For have no doubt, that is what he was. Jean Lafitte was an honest-to-goodness King of the Pirates. Operating out of Louisiana, Lafitte claimed as his kingdom much of the Gulf of Mexico and large parts of the Louisiana bayous, including the city of New Orleans.

A maze of swamps, bogs, river deltas and marshes, Lafitte’s realm was nigh-inaccessible to outsiders, and left hundreds of government bounty-hunters shitting their pants in frustration, while the crocodiles sat nearby playing poker, commenting that these newcomers were really rather mannerless. Imagine! Entering a swamp without offering some meat. The nerve!

Frivolity aside, Lafitte was something else. While a pirate, Lafitte was also something of a philanthropist, providing much needed supplies and foodstuffs to the poverty-stricken people of early-1800s New Orleans at low prices, without expectation of real compensation. In fact, Lafitte would often give the goods away for free. Here, for example, is a posting regarding one such event:

COME ONE! COME ALL!
TO JEAN LAFITTE’S
BAZAAR & SLAVE AUCTION
TOMORROW
AT THE TEMPLE
== FOR YOUR DELIGHT ==-
CLOTHING GEMS & KNICK-KNACKS
FROM THE SEVEN SEAS

And the people of New Orleans came. Men and women, parents and children, all loved Lafitte for the bounty he provided. What kind of a-hole wouldn’t like this sort of guy?

(Yes, slaves probably didn’t like him. Ignore that for the moment)

Funny you should ask. The answer is this fuck: William Charles Cole Claiborne (who you know is a douche because he has four names. Pretentious shit folks. Pretentious shit). Claiborne, naturally, was the Governor of New Orleans, a guy who really didn’t give a fuck about the welfare of his citizens.

Let’s be real here, if a Pirate King is more generous than you, you’re probably an asshole. Likely of some extremely smelly animal. Let’s say, for the sake of discussion, an elephant’s asshole. Yeah, that big of an asshole.

Claiborne was such a fuckwad that he issued a posting offering $300 for Lafitte’s head. And no, the reward did not count if Lafitte’s head was still attached to his neck. In any case, three-hundred dollars back then was a lot of money. But Lafitte, being such a generous soul, responded as any badass would.

He simply put out an advertisement of his own, offering $1000 dollars for the head of the Governor, a giant middle-finger to authority if ever there was one.

This, along with Lafitte’s so-called “piracy” (lolz), led Claiborne to try to create a militia with the sole purpose of popping a cap in Lafitte’s French ass. This unfortunately made Lafitte angry. And like the Hulk, you would not like Lafitte when he was angry.

Before I continue, I need to take a moment to explain something about Lafitte. He was, by all accounts almost always a perfect gentleman. Let me quote Joseph Geringer, author of an article entitled Jean Lafitte: Gentle Pirate of New Orleans.

Many stories exist, most of them founded on fact, attesting to his chivalry. When a family named Martin found itself in danger caught in a rowboat during a violent storm in the Gulf of Mexico, a vessel manned by Lafitte took them aboard. Mrs. Martin’s diary reads: “Lafitte the Pirate…treated us with all kindness possible (providing us with) a bountiful breakfast (and) even supplying a hat for my husband who had lost his own.

He gave the man a hat! How fucking cute is that!?

But seriously, Lafitte was a stand-up guy.

On another occasion—I shit you not; this sounds like it is straight out of a Disney movie:

A charming story relates the night that the pirates were playing cards in Lafitte’s den. An argument had broken out between Lafitte’s crew and Gambi’s, the latter blaming the others for cheating. “We shall have a third party cut the cards,” Lafitte announced and sent Thiac to summon one of the fishermen from the coast up to his house. When the fisherman arrived he looked nervous; he had brought with him his little daughter in hopes that these pirates wouldn’t harm him in front of his child.

Lafitte smiled when he saw the girl and asked her to cut the deck, explaining to her in a gentle voice what that meant. She did, and Lafitte went on to win the play. Gambi stormed out. Before they left, the island chief called the little girl to his lap, thanked her for her help and dropped a $20 gold piece into her palm. She grew up never forgetting the dashing pirate who had been so kind to her.

Hopefully voiced by Tom Hanks

Seriously, how has Disney not made a movie out of this? It has adorable children and the softening of the heart of a “cold” man.

It’s literally like Up if you replace the tiny old guy with a badass Frenchman (I’m still not used to having those words together like that) and the fat boy scout with a precious little creole girl.

Also, replace the dog with, let’s say, a crocodile with a monocle and top hat? Yeah, that works.

So clearly, Lafitte was not just a badass, he was a nice badass, which is arguably much much rarer.

Well, he was usually nice. Like I mentioned earlier, Lafitte had a bit of a temper. At one point during his reign as Pirate King of Barataria, a group of men assembled outside Lafitte’s home, threatening mutiny. Lafitte, badass that he was, came outside his home (presumably to the sound of thundering trumpets, as John Williams or Danny Elfman arranges the nearby orchestra) with a smile.

He was, in fact, still smiling when he strode up to the leader of the mutiny and casually shot the man in the face, then turned (continuing to smile I imagine) and returned to his evening dinner without a word.

Lafitte: 1, Mutiny: 0

Pure fucking ownage.

To add to his badassitude, Lafitte was also an accomplished duelist. And by “accomplished” I mean “Inigo Montoya, check what’s really up.” Reputedly, Lafitte never lost a duel, and was one of the most skilled rapier-duelists of the age.

In fact, legend has it that one night while eating dinner with his lady-companion at what would later become the Courtyard of Two Sisters Restaurant, Lafitte was challenged three separate times. Pausing momentarily to presumably offer the men the chance to leave with their lives and their dignity (or at least their lives), Lafitte apologized to the lady and drew his rapier.

Three dead douchebags later, Lafitte is said to have returned unharmed and unflustered to his filet mignon with cabernet sauce, which he proclaimed excellent.

But what really makes Lafitte so fascinating is this: he loved America, even though he was a French pirate.

Seriously, he ordered his men to never fire on or raid an American vessel. The one time someone did, Lafitte himself shot the troublemaker.

Despite this (as we’ve seen), American politicians (fuck you, Claiborne) and even Presidents continued calling for Lafitte’s capture and execution. They didn’t really care which one.

It wasn’t until the War of 1812 came along that Colonel Andrew Jackson—yes, that Andrew Jackson—decided it might be better to have Lafitte on their side. And because Lafitte loved America, he agreed to help.

He didn’t do very much useful though.

Oh wait, yes he fucking did. He was actually almost single-handedly responsible for the American victory at the Battle of New Orleans. You know, the one that later helped then-Colonel Andrew Jackson later win the White House and that helped the Americans repel the British. Yeah, that Battle of New Orleans.

A badass always recognizes a fellow badass

Jackson was thankful (duh) and requested that the U.S. government grant Lafitte and his men pardons for their earlier crimes. The request was granted and Lafitte in many ways became a national hero. Jackson in fact wrote Lafitte a personal letter of gratitude as well, one Lafitte would always taken great pride in:

“I do an act of justice, and at the same time one very agreeable to my feelings to state the services you have rendered during the late invasion of your country…Sir, to one of those to whom the country is most indebted, I feel great pleasure in giving this testimony of your worth, and to add the sincere promise of my private friendship and high esteem.”

Personal thanks for Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson himself and the title of “Hero of New Orleans”? NBD. Just a day in the life of Jean Lafitte.

But, since most people are fucking assholes, rumors began to circulate that Lafitte was once again committing crimes, this time adding a number of murders to the list. Things became so ugly that Lafitte and his men thought it wise to depart their much-loved New Orleans, choosing to settle anew on Galveston Island, off of Texas.

For a time, he became a freelance privateer, working for Mexico to sink and steal from Spanish ships. This obviously pissed Spain off.

Unfortunately, America was also trying to make an alliance with Spain at the time, so American politicians being what they are, they totally ignored how Lafitte had fucking saved their asses and instead sent soldiers to tell Lafitte to either abandon his new island or be destroyed.

Once again, it was unwise to make Lafitte angry, as he simply torched his entire island, probably mooning the navy as he did so.

Did he die?

No. When the flames died down, the navy went to inspect the island and found all of Lafitte’s ships missing. Where he went from there, no one knows. Lafitte never again appears in any known history.

Maybe he is still out there. King of the Pirates, Badass of the Seas.

Hate a Random Country: France

13 Sep

A Frenchman overcoming his existential ennui with wine, bread, and unbridled douchiness.

Have you ever had your testicles sawed off with a rusty butter knife at a Nickelback concert? Although that may sound like the worst possible fate one could suffer, there are over 60 million people in the world who suffer a fate much worse. I’m not talking about AIDS victims, I’m not talking about human rights violations – I’m not even talking about Cubs fans. I’m referring, of course, to the French. Those elitist semensicles are the physical embodiment of everything heinous about the world, which is a substantial claim, given that they inhabit the same planet as other notorious twatbarrels like Iceland and New Zealand.

I’d like to begin this exposè by clarifying one crucial point: The French did not help us to gain our independence. “Historians” may assert that the French came to our “rescue” in “boats,” but we all know that those were just patriotic pirates mistaken for Frenchmen because of their tragic speech impediments.

Don't be fooled by the buxom and idyllic French Lady Liberty

Now, where was I? Oh that’s right – I was talking about how France is the most pitiful heap of Le Scrotum upon which humanity ever laid its sorrowful eyes. The first point of scrutiny is their flag, which boasts the triumphant red, white, and blue color combination, just like the United States. Don’t be fooled, though – while the American flag’s colors stand respectively for valor, purity, and justice, the French flag is merely a white flag of surrender with red and blue bars symbolizing red wine and bleu cheese.

You can't sit with us! That's the second time this week you've worn pantaloons!

France’s history of “leadership” is also notably heinous. Ranging from Louis XIV (who held the title of “Biggest P-tripper” for almost 300 years until Sherman Ave was created) to Nicolas Sarkozy (the only attendant of the G20 summit who could easily double as a cast member on Jersey Shore), the presidency and monarchy of France were never lucky enough to see any George Washingtons or Andrew Jacksons take office. The most successful leader they had was Napoleon, who can only be compared to an atrocious illegitimate lovechild of Danny DeVito and Jim Cramer. Napoleon accomplished some things as a leader, but all of his achievements are effectively canceled out by the fact that his men killed Prince Bolkonsky. Fucker.

To be fair, it was the first French combat victory in quite a long time.

Another hilariously sad aspect of France is its athletic culture. Like most nations that are absolutely rancid, France’s national sport is soccer, or “football,” as known by Brits and hipsters. One of my personal favorite highlights in France’s history is the national team’s 17-1 loss to Denmark in 1908. I don’t think there’s really too much more I need to say here – I’ll just humbly point out how demoralizing it must be to get clobbered by a country whose Queen fucked her brother-in-law. However, an even more humiliating event in the team’s history happened in the 2006 World Cup Final, when Zinedine Zidane – someone who stands out as a douchegargler even among the French populace – found it necessary to blatantly headbutt a member of the opposing Italian team. And then they lost! That’s like being ass-raped and still getting pregnant. Better yet, when the French national team qualified for the 2010 World Cup, they didn’t even make it to the primary elimination round; they were bested by the national teams of Mexico, South Africa, and – I shit you not – Uruguay. That was certainly a gargantuan blow to their ego, but thankfully they have enough ego in just their waxed mustaches that it didn’t do any permanent damage.

Some pansy French guy, probably after finding out how fucking lame the 5th Republic is or something

If you’re looking for more reasons why France is innately inferior, the proof is in the crêpes. Remember that time we landed at Normandy and showed the Nazis that they were not(sy) going to win World War II, while the French were too busy cultivating their fucking grapes? Remember that time the French thought they were going to win the 4×100 swimming relay in the 2008 Summer Olympics, and then American bamf-stick Jason Lezak came from behind like he was Kobe Bryant (not a basketball reference)? Remember that time an American athlete with a trunk only half-full of junk (or half-empty, for all you private-part pessimists) went into France and beat them at their own sport 7 times in a row? Because I remember. So, to all Frenchmen and Frenchwomen (often a difficult distinction to make), I leave you with this last thought: Next time your flagrant self-centeredness convinces you that you’re the best country in the world, you can escargot fuck yourself.