Albino squirrel
standing, hiding a nut on
white PVC pipe

Fucking Frogs
In a Shropshire petrol station, I spend a bit of time talking to a friendly local young man about American and world politics. Except every time I said the word “French,” he said “fucking frogs,” as though that concluded the discussion on all things French. So it would go like this:

ME: “Sure, they didn’t help us, but my feeling is that if the situation in Iraq is really about making life better for the Iraqis then America shouldn’t just blindly reject any aid the French–”

HIM: “Fucking frogs. How do you guys over there feel about this other guy, what’s his name? Bush’s opponent.”

It was like a buzzer. Mention the French and you terminate the discussion. New subject. They really do hate the French over there.

Now I do, too. This fucking frog wrote a book with no verbs and now he thinks he’s fucking Duchamp. “The verb is like a weed in a field of flowers,” says this pseodonymous prick.

“Oh, yeah?” I say. “And what would you like to do to that weed, Tzara?”