J'aime tu beaucoup, mon belle fille.
Simple words. Yet they carry a declaration so excellently mighty. That, ladies and gentlemen, is yet another testament in the skyscraping pile of proofs which each individually and, might I add, vociferously proclaim the sheer awesomeness of this humble vessel of fantastic things and brilliantness. Yours truly.
The words, each pronounced in that slurred, deep-throated fuck-weirdness. Each syllable getting dragged out to its full Cyrano-esque romantic glory. The glorious sentences flow like honey flowing in golden viscous magic out of a Dabur bottle. That 20 rupees one. There is something especially beautiful in the honey held inside the littleness of that bottle. Especially when its nearly finished, and you wait for a minute and a half with your tongue stuck out, your head held high and your eyes straining to watch the progress of the last few drops making their way along the glass sides and mercifully finally landing, silently, straight onto your outstretched tastebuds. Thats the one I'm talking about. Thats how the words flow.
They, the common chidden masses at my French class, they gasp in awe as I effortlessly take full command (in no time, let me mention) of the awful complexities of the beautiful French language. Like the avaricious shrew being tamed by a shrewd Antonio (it was Antonio wasnt it, in The Taming of The Shrew?), I tame this speech of romance and love and emburghers, and claim it for my own.
A piece of my brilliance:
Bon soir, bete. De main je vais chez le dentist car j'ai mal aux dents.
Q (me to French girls): Est-ce que nous sommes en France?
A: Oui! Oui! *whispering amongst themselves* Cet homme est beau!! *giggle giggle*
Uff! Uff! I'm just too much!
For those who couldnt yet guess, UFO - Utterly Fantastic One.