I Thomas Crowned her

My disdain for the French began in the eighth grade.

Twenty Walnut Grovian prepubescents were shipped off on a weeklong adventure in Paris.

Parental supervision in tow.

The trip represented an chance for kids, who otherwise would not have the opportunity, to spend an entire week in Paris for just under $600.

The group was travel weary.  90% of the group had never experienced a time change.

Walnut Grovians are not renown for high Travel IQ’s.

One morning, I stood in front of the Louvre.  Silent.  Patiently waiting for the rest of the group to exit the building.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a shoe.

Heading directly where?

The corner of my eye.

A perfectly executed karate kick hit me square in the temple.

I am dazed, but still manage to recover and scream at my attacker.

In typical French surrender monkey fashion, my attacker took off running towards the Siene.

I must of sounded German.

Long story short: Unprovoked, I was roundhouse kicked in the face by Frenchie McFrogerson..

Little did I know,  that this would be the metaphorical shooting of the Archduke Ferdinand that would start a war between the French culture and yours truly.
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At one point in everyman’s life he seeks to gain the attention and approval of his father.

The men who deny this are usually the guiltiest of them all..

I am not innocent of this “Crime.”

In fact, I am the posterboy for it. If trying to get your Dad’s Attention was cool, you could call me Bear Pascoe.

Turns out impressing my father was not following in his footsteps…like I assumed.

There are three simple steps to impressing him…..

  1. Be French
  2. Be Gay
  3. Steal Something really cool.

If you think otherwise, you haven’t done your research..

Let’s run through each category.

1. Be Gay

As much as my High School career would have liked it, I am not gay.  Fortunately, an American tradition known as CO-Ed Dorms  solved that issue.

2. Be French

My dad loves to eat expensive French Food.

Not because of the taste, ambiance or overall experience. He eats French Food because the French waiters are rude to him.

I took the time out of my busy schedule to do a Pavlovian experiment on him.

Stimulus: A French waiter turns up his nose and rolls his eyes at one of my Dads simple requests for…bread, water, a new fork…etc
Response: My Dad starts cooing like Hans Landa when he finds a Jew and  makes statements like “They are so French.”

That leaves one option.

3. Steal something really cool.

Paul Harvey ain’t got shit on this transition into…

The Rest of the story….

Paris June 12, 2011

I in my standard workout attire: Underarmour Shorts. Tangerine Bandana. Val Kilmers 1980’s Oakley’s.

I am now ready to start my run and I am in the zone….chief.

I press start on my Timex Ironman Watch.

0:04 Damn I feel good. I am going to crush this 10k..
0:45 My forearm veins are making a guest appearance. This thoroughly scares the shit out of pedestrians.
2:15 OH SHIT! Do I have my passport on my person?
2:30 Yes I do. This God damn this Passport Paranoia will never quit.
9:38 Is that… No… It cant be!
9:45 I Stop. Turn around . Yes it is.
9:46 She will be mine, Oh yes. She will be mine
9:48 Must keep running. Handle this later.
40:10 10k Finished. I am god.
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She was seated on the sidewalk, leaning up against a cafe. The only reason she was there was because of the construction workers doing work above her.

She is being protected by a crew of ten construction workers, but that will not stop me.

I mouth the words, “Come with me.”

She whispers, “Rue de Dunkerque.”

I slide up next to her and casually order an Espresso. The construction workers pay no attention and continue working on the Cafes Overhang.

I order 2nd Espresso. I want to make picking her up look natural.

She won’t fit in my bag.

Fuck.

I will just wait for the Construction Crew’s lunch break.

Noon.

Everybody eats their Baguette while Welding, Sawing, Screwing…etc.

It was time to Thomas Crown Her

I put my backpack over her.

I wrap the shoulder straps of my backpack around her.

She is completely hidden in between my back and backpack.

I stand up, and we walk out of there unscathed.

Now, she can’t speak.

She can only SIGN .“Rue De Dunkerque.”

Ladies and Gentleman, This is the Official Story of how I finally impressed my Father.

I stole a Gay French Street Sign.

Her name is “Rue de Dunkerque.”