I saw London, I saw France, I saw Pipa’s underpants (the British Museum is quite thorough in its collection of Royal Family artifacts). Follow me on my European Vacation, which Chevy Chase declined to join me on, so I went with my wife instead.
I come to learn that London Bridge isn’t “falling down, falling down.” That’s the last time I trust a nursery rhyme. To make matters worse, the black sheep weren’t telling me if they had any wool, so I came home with three bags empty.
Disappointed not to find the Rolling Stones at Stonehenge. Nor did I spot Emma Stone, Sharon Stone or Stone Phillips. Realized that the only people interested in a circle of standing rocks with a mysterious origin and possibly mystical meaning are pot heads and plan for a “Stonedhenge” park in the states, where we sell Phish ‘n chips.
Despite asking several blokes on the street, no one can direct me toward The Ministry of Silly Walks.
After I accidentally get locked in a bathroom, I start writing the song, “Trapped in the Water Closet.”
Since a sign has been put up at King’s Cross marking platform 9 and 3/4, I move on to my search for duffle coat-wearing, marmalade sandwich-loving bear from deepest, darkest Peru at Paddington Station.
Even among the Brits, there’s no interest in financing my Guy Ritchie parody gay porno, Cock, Sock and Two Smoking Buttholes. Also had no backers for my musical theatre piece, Krumping with Crumpets.
Visited the reconstructed Globe Theatre. Noted the irony that in Shakespeare’s time the shape of the venue was round, while today it’s the audience who is round.
Attempt to break the concentration of the Buckingham Palace guards by asking them how white guys grew such great afros.
Joked that the only work Posh Spice can hope to get is in a deodorant ad, if she’s willing to call herself “Old.”
Hit on what I believe to be a beautiful woman. It turns out to be Eddie Izzard in drag. Time to leave London.
Saw Notre Dame cathedral. Tried to spike a football inside, but security confiscated it. Fun fact: In the U.S., Notre Dame is associated with the Fighting Irish, but here it’s connected to the Retreating French.
Since I am a “stranger” in this land, I disguise myself as an author and philosopher, calling my outfit “Camus-flage.” I think he’d appreciate the absurdity.
Try to start an even shorter art movement than Fauvism, named “Favreauism,” where every painting is a portrait of John Favreau. It is widely panned as the ugliest style ever committed to canvas.
Went a little crazy walking along the river. Later, a doctor diagnosed me as having gone “in Seine in the membrane.”
I must admit, the baked goods here are delicious. The croissants are flakier than Brian Wilson (both the pitcher and the singer).
Expected to encounter an enormous sports store on Champs-Elysees. Then I remembered the only thing the French do competitively is smoke.
Confused a street mime when I suggested he think outside of the invisible box.
After another rude encounter, I write off the French as a people. Quickly extend it to include French Stewart and French’s mustard. Later, determine I have a Louvre-hate relationship with the nation.
Frustrated at the lack of wi-fi at a famous French landmark, write a letter to Apple, proposing they buy the monument and re-name it “The iFfel Tower.”
Spend several hours playing a game where I stop passersby and ask them, “Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”
After I vogue outside of the fashion magazine’s Paris office, I come to the conclusion I’m Bordeaux out of my mind.
Even after three days, I refuse to surrender to Paris’ charm. I’ll leave surrendering to the experts.