…by George if we didn’t scoop ‘ya. Who is this Anderson Cooper, anyway…Mother Teresa with a microphone? We’ve said it before and here we go again — the people on the scene who should be helping the Haitians are the French. There’s 58 million of ’em last time we checked, and not all of them are sitting in Parisian bistros slurping foie gras. Get those pansies on planes, ship ’em to Port-au-Prince and tell them to get busy. I miss the sight of Anderson and his thin wasp toucas at the gym.
Did somebody at the Argentine tourist board just get bit by a radioactive vizcacha (pictured)?
Maybe, because according to their glossy new brochure, “Argentina Invites You,” the Falkland Islands are actually “Islas Malvinas (Arg.).” Sorry guys: Here at Voyagiste, we may be no great fans of the British (burning Joan of Arc alive and taxation without representation do not get you an automatic seat at our picnic table), but can we please tamp down the wishful thinking? Seriously, do Germans still draw swastikas over their maps of France? You lost the war that you started, it was humiliating, let’s tango.
Do you really have to ask why?
Had they painted it thus, maybe the geese would have turned around
1) By disallowing access to the business class cabin’s pissoir even though I was seated in the bulkhead, the rear lavatories were booked solid, and the narrow A320 aisles combined with a slow-moving snack cart spelled peepee emergency in the making. Another example of common decency being as foreign to the airlines as are functioning neurons to Sarah Palin’s brain.
2) By flinging that curtain separating business class from the lower castes in my face, making it virtually impossible to flirt with flight attendants of either sex up front and come on bitches you know they’re always cuter closer to the cockpit.
3) By presenting passengers with one of the most boring in-flight magazines ever (maybe not as bad as Air Ukraine’s) — with the temerity of a cover boast of the “best-kept secret in Central Florida”. Keep it under wraps, corporate — I don’t want to know.
4) By employing a pilot, who, when queried (on the ground) for a story (printed below), gave a snarkier retort than any commercial pilot should be allowed to give.
5) I can’t even talk about it.
Why is it that whenever or wherever disaster of a certain envergure (look, this blog has a French-inspired name, so voila. It sort of means “scope,” but it sounds better and has no mouthwash connotations) strikes, Anderson Cooper is magically on the scene to get the masses to emote, and George Clooney to get the cash flowing from our recession-wracked wallets once we do? Might there be a coincidence in that neither of these putative matinee idols has any children? And who appointed them arbiters of America’s emotional response to international calamity? At the end of the day, one would have to be very hard of heart to have a problem with their big gay ones. But some questions are worth asking.
And here’s another one: Where the hell are the French? They’re the ones who fucked up the island of Hispaniola in the first place, once enslaving every living creature down to the last coconut palm. With one check Messieurs Francois Pinault and Bernard Arnault, to say nothing of the corrupt Jacques Chirac, could put Haiti right. But why should they when they know American taxpayers will come to the rescue? Everybody loves the French (ahem) and the self-serving notions of the “rights of man” they’ve cooked up ever since chopping their monarchs’ heads off, but their response to a crisis like Haiti’s skews more to detestable than delectable. Harumph.