Kiddies, today mother wishes to discuss the case of Monsieur le President de France.
America has a Super Bowl. France has a Super Stud.
The economy of la belle France is in la toilette.
So’s that nation’s previous wannabe leader Dominique Strauss-Kahn the swordsman. So’s its current temporary leader, the d’Artagnan of politics President François Hollande.
He should only spend as much time on matters as he does on mattresses.
Hollande cannot be bothered governing. Between tinting his hair and trying his flair, the man hasn’t a free minute left to inhale cassoulet let alone run a country with 3,000 cheeses. He’s either busy getting his roots dyed or getting his rocks off.
Birds do it, bees do it, even educated He’s do it.
Especially over there, where not even fresh croissants fill an appetite. Look, although Napoleon was short — word is he made up for it.
Chirac was known for being busy.
Mitterrand’s missus even invited the mistress to dinner after his funeral. Nice. The menu was potluck.
Robespierre was 1790s. About him, I’m not too sure. But I personally doubt Valéry Giscard D’Estaing cheated. It would take too long for any ladyfriend to pant, “Oh, Valéry Giscard D’Estaing, you great lover you.”
To quote the immortal John Edwards, politics makes strange bedfellows.
It’s rumored de Gaulle had the gaul to step outside. Sarkozy got kozy with that model.
Question is, what’s François’ new beaut talk to him about afterward?
Her Sweet 16 party or the latest Vuitton collection?
Sample of their dialogue. Him: “Cherie, I worship you. You are my sun and moon. You are my stars.” Her: “No, mon ami, do not speak so.” Him: “What’s wrong my one and only?” Her: “It’s that I just don’t think we should get serious.” Him: “Who’s serious?”
This Frenchie’s had three concubroads. Three. If he isn’t down, he’ll soon be out. With illegitimate children, he still wants to keep his hand in — or whatever other parts are available.
Notice he marries nobody. Why?
Because once at a wedding rehearsal he was asked, “Do you take this woman?” and he replied: “No, on second thought, I’ll take that one.”
Oy, such zest he should show for le Republic.
President Hollande, hon, easy. Down, boy. Keep your pants on. You’re obviously working on the fly. I mean, who do you think you are — George Clooney?
Paris. Best wine. Best food. Best shopping. Best chateaux. Best sights. Best history. Eiffel Tower. Left Bank. Élysée. Versailles. Chopard. Hermes. Forget Les Misérables and the guillotine. Also forget that shopkeepers turn into frogs if you don’t speak the language.
We’re talking Brigitte Bardot, Catherine Deneuve, Marie Antoinette, Mme. Pompadour.
Now Mlle. Gayet? In that city of designers, they should embroider on his sampler: “Less dapper and la country won’t be in the crapper.”
This chief of state who believes chaste makes waste and who has only a 15 percent approval rating (almost as bad as Barahrah Obama) schleps to his tryst on a scooter? Why not Rollerblades? A Segway? A bike that Lance Armstrong doesn’t need anymore? Maybe if he had a license, he could drive himself.
And does what when he vavooms over there? Locks the thing at a Citi Bike rack? Rings its bell before he rings hers? Hums “La Marseillaise” because everything then stands at attention?
May he know, as Mrs. Al Gore can tell him, once he’s out of fashion, females will find him about as hot as week-old choucroute.
Mlle. Valérie Trierweiler, the recently ex-first lady, should’ve breathed heavy on his glasses. Fog them up. Then he wouldn’t have been able to tell his new chick from Rosie O’Donnell. To quote Irving Nostradamus: Woman’s best beauty aid is a nearsighted man.
Tsk tsk that after so many years François dares to throw his former bedmate under the bus.
All because he has a slight impediment in his speech. He can’t say “marriage.”
Now he’s coming to our historic Lincoln Bedroom with the newie. This old hot pot can’t go dry for one night? On second thought, maybe leaving his country might be the best single thing he’s ever done for it.
I think we should sic Roscoe the bedbug dog on him.