Liew Seng Tat writes:

Bonjour!

Today, I cried uncontrollably. Tears kept rolling down my beautiful autumn-in-Paris cheeks. I whispered to myself loudly, "WHY THIS SUDDEN RUSH OF EMOTIONS? AM I TURNING INTO A CREATURE CALLED WOMAN??". At the same time, I reached down to feel my genitalia. Phew! You would not imagine how relief I was when I found out that I'm pretty much still a man.

Then I realised, the cause of the whole drama was the onions that I was chopping. No I don't slice, I chop.

Tips for chopping onions:

1. Keep your chopping gesture small because you might accidentally stab someone in the eye when they walk behind you.

2. Keep the other hand in the pocket, not to look more 'stylish' but to avoid the hand being amputated.

Hey miss Lovely, just how did you put sparkles in your eyes? Onions don't work for me. They made my eyes red and terrible.

Onions were prepared for dinner. Yeah I cooked today, for two of my house mates, a girl from Hungary and a guy-sometimes-girl from China. Chui Mui once told me, "Hey, you could make your art or films as experimental as you want but when it comes to cooking, save us from the misery, please don't be experimental". Mui, how could I be experimental when I've no access to monkey penises and Hibiscus in Paris? They don't sell them in the supermarkets here.

So for dinner, I've invented a special dish called POOR-SHRIMPS-SOAKED-DEAD-IN TOMATO-SAUCE-WITH-EGG-PLANTS. The invention of this dish is conceptually innovative. Just the idea itself is almost legendary and unreal. The curiosity of the recipe rose to a frenzy and caused a strike in Paris by French public sector workers. Why not? They strike on anything anyway. Some envious parties called it a hoax and demanded for proof. Well, I told them in French that I'm a man with self-respect and personal worth. I don't see the need to prove to anyone anything.

Cimetiere Pere-Lachaise, the infamous cemetery. Bring your partners here and make out all you want. Nobody gives a damn coz everybody's dead. Oh, don't forget the Pringles!

The shrimps I bought from a supermarket had amazing long antennas. It seems like the antennas never stop growing. They kind of reminded me of dead bodies in coffins, especially my dead grandmother's, where her flesh rotted and gone a 100 years ago but her hair and nails still grow. The shrimps must have been dead as long as my grandmother. You were fucking kidding me when you said those shrimps were fresh. Nothing is fresh in a supermarket apart from those young girls in skimpy outfits reaching up for something on top the shelves.

Anyway, dead shrimps or grandmothers, I wish you a happy Lundi(Monday) and the rest of the days.

The readers who read this also read:
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #001 - The cold
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #002 - Speaking French
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #003 - Cooking
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #004 - How To Kiss A Dutch Girl
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #005 - My right hand
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #006 - Dead Fish Girl
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #007 - Thessaloniki
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #008 - Jesus put me in so much shit
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #009 - My paintings
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! post #010 - Merry Fucking Christmas

DISCLAIMER!
JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! aka I don't speak French is written by the filmmaker Liew Seng Tat during his stay in Paris. He is forced to write about his experience in Paris and update at least once a week. The characters and incidents described in JE NE PARLE PAS FRANCAIS! are always exaggerated, sometimes fictional and most of the time unpleasantly filthy. Please don't sue him.

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