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Postcards from Paris

Contact Loulou de la Paumardiere


Getting revved up and then out of control, Carla said that as racist as France may be it still has never had the kind of "brutal racism" that the United States has, although a lot of the families of people who got shipped out to Auschwitz said "Uh, excuse me," but Carla said "Hello? Carla is talking?"

Anyway, Carla then recalled how she had gone on this like modeling shoot in South Carolina in 1992 and she and the other models had all been required to eat in their rooms because this local restaurant owner had taken one look at British model Naomi Campbell, who happens to be black, and said "No way we're gonna serve one of them people." (http://www.lejdd.fr/cmc/societe/200845/carla-bruni-sarkozy-il-faut-aider-les-elites-a-changer_163651.html) The claim was greeted with skepticism in some quarters, but Carla looked at the reporters and said "I am telling the truth, it really happened," and even though her pants exploded into flames the French media just totally swallowed it even if the rights organization that started the Yes We Can petition in France called Carla and said Carla thanks so much for your testimony you can stop now. But then Carla told me that she'd upped the ante by giving a second interview in order to get Michelle Obama's attention and respect what with Michelle being our new BGF and the so-called European White House having now moved from 10 Downing Street to 60, rue de Varenne.

"Just last month," Carla told Le Parisien, "I was having lunch at Le Cirque in New York with the most exclusive African-American association in the United States, The Club of Twelve i.e., Dr. Dre, Terrell Owens, Randy Moss, Dr. Benjamin Carson, Tom Morello, Denzel Washington, Vernon Jordan, Spike Lee, Morgan Freeman, Bob Herbert, Fifty Cent and Colin Powell. Well, these two foul-mouthed enormous white bubbas pulled up in front of the restaurant in their rusty old Dodge pickup with the gunrack on the rear window and a bloodhound baying in the back. One of them had on overalls (and nothing else) and the other had on jeans that his massive stomach had pushed so far south that the northern hemisphere of his ass was visible to all the diners. They went straight to the famous Le Cirque Express takeaway window, of course, because they would hardly have been seated without jackets, and the Ass barked at Mr. Bellanca, the chef, "Hey, Christophe! Our order of fried pickles and corny dogs not even ready? Y'all better throw in a free bag of them chocolate Frankenstein heads for making us wait." Then they each snatched a fistful of Moon Pies and Fritos off the clips next to the take-out window and leaned back on their elbows against the counter and surveyed the restaurant and its customers, until the Club of Twelve caught the eye of Overalls and he nudged his buddy. "Looky there."

And the Ass said "Well I'll be goddamned. Right here in Midtown Fuckin' East."

"Y'all there," shouted Overalls, "sittin' with that nice white girl, y'all are black. Now I want y'all to finish up your carpaccio of daikon radish and avocado and yuzu cucumber granité and get up and go on 'bout y'all's bidnis so there won't be any trouble, ya heah?"

And Dr. Dre and Vernon Jordan and the other men all started shaking and crying and Colin Powell said "Oh pwease pwease, massa, we jes a bunch o' coloured boys what don't knows no betters," and they all just sat there sobbing and Overalls said "All right, son, I'm gonna let you finish up that bite of Atlantic Chatham cod and red pepper shiitake chutney you got on your fork, and then all we wanna see is all y'all's boots scootin' out that door.' And all twelve of the men got up and left and they were all just trembling and whimpering and I was absolutely shocked and as we all know," said Carla, shaking her head ruefully along with Le Parisien's reporter, "this sort of scene is repeated across America every single day."

Of course, it was our scrumptious new BGF Michelle Obama had kicked it all off for Carla with her claim that "If we lived anywhere else on the planet, a man with the credentials and commitment and the ability of Barack Obama - we wouldn't have any questions. Why, just look at the number of black men and women in positions of power in European countries with significant black populations. In France alone, there are so many examples. Out of a total of 550 members of Parliament, there is one black member from mainland France and none of Arab origin, and that's just one example. So we Americans have a lot of catching up to do." (http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/us_and_americas/us)

Wait, I thought, till my darling Michelle discovers that Parisians love Moon Pies, only they call them Nigger Heads, and then has a server offer her a platter of chocolate delicacies-"Would Madame care for a Nigger Kiss or perhaps this Flemish specialty," readily available in Paris, and which one Wikipedia translation squeamishly Bowdlerizes as "Negress Titties"-only you'll never hear about them unless you live here, because the foreign press takes care to keep this aspect of France, the land of human rights, in a closet already bulging with skeletons. Wait till my deliciously innocent Michelle discovers that French football fans on September 17, 2007 chanted racist slurs at Burkinabe player Boubacar Kébé (and that he was red-carded for retaliating); that in February 2008 French fans unfurled a racist banner, again aimed at Kébé; and that on February 17, 2008, player Abdeslam Ouaddou was racially abused by a fan (but was punished for challenging the racist); and that in March 2008 Frédéric Mendy was racially abused by Grenoble fans. And I'm sending Michelle a reminder of just how people think here in "anywhere else on the planet." Here's the current image used on the box of Banania breakfast drink (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/d/d9/Banania4.jpg). Most French people say nigger.

I want to reiterate my support to Carla publicly so that she will know that I am behind her 99%! So, if anyone can sort of provide an itsy bitsy shred of proof that what she said happened actually happened, i.e., that Naomi Campbell was refused service thirty years after the civil rights act and that a South Carolinian businessman or woman was so suicidally racist that they ran the 100% risk of losing their business in a slam-dunk lawsuit for racial discrimination, then I, Louise de la Paumardiere, will invite that person to have tea here in Paris at my canteen, AKA the Ritz (offer not available in NA, MA and FKU). I'll even serve you myself, wearing only one thimble or two bbs, winner's choice.

"Did I do bad, Loulou?"

"Carla, ma poupée, you and Nicolas and I have agreed that the best way for you to prepare your way out of the marriage is for you to start claiming irreconcilable political differences. But Nicolas doesn't need this added pressure right now. He was already humiliated by being late for this year's Armistice Day ceremony which has begun on the 11th hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month since 1918, until this month, when the moment of silence had to start at 11 fucking 10 am because Nicolas found the label inside his boxers "scratchy" and made the helicopter turn back to Paris. And then there was that student in the beautician school, all too obviously one of Nicolas' former little mistresses, who refused to shake hands with the President of France himself (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqfo-f38cxY&NR=1) and who looked like she was just going to go ahead and gouge his eyes out with her comb and who was mentally giving him such a big spanking, tapping her comb in her hand and ostentatiously turning her back to him and spanking him harder and harder, but so elegantly summing up the general feelings of the whole of France that she will be running for President on the Socialist Party ticket, having become more popular overnight than the two incompetent mythomaniac women currently battling for the nomination. Carla, my darling, why couldn't you have mentioned James Byrd or the Jena 6 or any of the gazillions of other easily verifiable examples of brutal American racism? Why did you have to make up such an obvious fiction?"

And Carla said "Well, Loulou, Nicolas says that French people can't tell the difference between fact and fiction because the State blurs the distinction for them starting in nursery school. You know that we have weekly wrestling matches in France, (the April 27, 2009 Bercy arena match will be sold out), and that three-fourths of Parisians believe that what they are seeing is real. When I said that those things "happened," I didn't mean that those things actually happened. I said that they did just to make Michelle Obama love me instead of merely like me because I found her a bit standoffish the last time she was here."

"Well, Carla sweetheart, I believe that you did actually pull her hair."

Then Carla looked at me and said "Loulou, pull my hair. And slap me. I need it."

And I turned off the light.

Tuesday, November 18. Another dinner at the presidential palace. I sat between Hector Bianciotti, a member of the French Academy, which is devoted to the destruction of the French language through strangling, and to the left of Nicolas. Carla was to Nicolas' right, and I leaned forward and was absolutely astonished to see that to Carla's right was her American, looking rather better than I'd remembered, although by the time I spotted him my 1947 Cheval Blanc binoculars were more or less glued to my face.

I had on a black light weight wool Yves St Laurent dress, enough Harry Winston diamonds to fill an ice bucket and, my greatest weapon, a black crocodile Kelly bag with a copper engraving plate with a bull etched onto it by Pablo Picasso, one of ten plates he gave to me for my tenth birthday and each is now bolted onto a different Kelly bag (my favourite is the minotaur I had put on the baby blue lizard one). They can never go out of style, absolutely devastate the New York and London society women, and when I carry any one of those bags I feel competition-free. And yet Nicolas barely looked at me the entire evening, and barely allowed the American to look at anyone but Nicolas.


© 2008 Louise de la Paumardiere





About LOUISE DE LA PAUMARDIERE It would be difficult to imagine anyone more purely French or a better embodiment of France and French values than polyglamorous Louise de la Paumardiere. Loulou's paternal great grandfather Andre Le Troquer, unfairly removed from office as President of the French Senate in 1958 for having run a pedophile network, and her maternal grandfather General Paul Ausseresses, unfairly stripped of his rank and thrown out of the Legion d'Honneur because of his role as a torturer in the Franco-Algerian war, are but two of her many famous ancestors. Author of From Foreign to French: 100 Makeovers in Stories and Pictures (New York and London: PLB Books, 2006), multi-talented and multilingual Loulou de la Paumardiere first came to public attention when several of the high-profile Paris-based foreign women on whom she performed makeovers committed suicide. Her family operates the majority of the uniquely French institutions known as Centres d'aide par le travail, or CATS, factories in which handicapped French citizens are employed at less than minimum wage because, as Loulou puts it with her typical Cartesian clarity, "they are handicapped." Her ancestral home, Château de la Paumardiere in Boilly-sur-Gui, an hour from Paris in Normandy, has hosted every head of state since Louis XIV and was a favorite haunt of Lully the Sodomite. She continues that great tradition of French hospitality on weekends in Boilly and during the week at her luxurious mansion at 60, rue de Varenne in Paris.