Possumblog

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.


Thursday, February 21, 2002

Dr. Franc
Le medicin Frank reacts to Matt Welch's column of a couple of days ago in which Matt asks that we not pile on the French for being so...French. Being from the South, I have a bit of a feel for what it's like to be spoken of negatively by people who don't know anything about you. Thankfully, I also have a sense of humor.

Every once in a while we all do something stupid enough to deserve ribbing for it, but as Matt and Frank point out, the comedy can only go on so far before the ref has to throw a flag. One of the things that I enjoy about the current crop of bloggers (or at least the folks I read) is that they seem to have a pretty good handle on who and when to mock. But sometimes the 'dumb bombs' do some unintended collateral damage beyond the target area and folks get upset. Worst is when we lump together someone like Ambassador Vedrine and an octogenarian who was a member of the Resistance under the same fromagiphagic Alouatta belzebul "Pusillanimous" banner.

When I'm at home, sometimes the kids start screaming at each other downstairs--Mad Dad comes down and starts laying down the law about acting like humans and everyone's grounded and you oughta be ashamed and if I hear it again and what would your grandma think--and one of the kids says something like "Dad, she called us boogers." My response is always the same, "Are you?" "No." "She wasn't talking about you then, so hush." Peace and harmony then reign supreme, and Dad is seen as the godlike master of logic and reason. Not really; they wait till I leave and start calling each other boogers again, but at least they do it quietly so I won't come back and lecture them. After a while, this becomes comedic and the Booger Game is born, and it gets played in the car and in large department stores and in church and none of them are the worse for it. Because they like each other (most of the time).

So, for what it's worth, I believe that my French brothers and sisters are beautiful, strong, proud, patriotic, and brave. I love you all.












Boogers.


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