Charles Aznavour
L'istrione The Very Best Of

THE REVIEW

In Paris, we only eat kebab, and since I’m a vegetarian, I'm the one getting screwed. There's not a trace of local snails; it's full of blacks and North Africans, damn the (damned souls of) colonial imperialism.

As for nouvelle cuisine, don't even mention it: two ravioli (two!) stuffed maybe with iguana meat and garnished with some random herb: 48 euros, and you're starving.

It's full of gays, bisexuals, and trisexuals, and people walking around fashionably like: "what the hell are you wearing".

I try to say a few words in French but these people don't understand a thing, or they pretend not to, these racist sons of bitches. When they talk to you in French and there are more than three R's in the sentence, you get hit with a spray of spit enough to wash your face.

Let’s not talk about the monuments: they burned Notre Dame themselves, the Eiffel Tower is all rusty, and at the Louvre, there's no more Belphegor.

The city is full of massive imperial palaces that are useless, and you’re left with nothing else but to stroll through the gardens (of these massive palaces) until you're bored to death.

Otherwise, you can go see some paintings at the Pompidou and it's a total mess of distorted noses and eyes.

And they have completely pissed me off with the croissant that's nothing special, and the coffee tastes like crap.

Beaujolais, Liberté, aujourd'hui, apres midi, Egalité, bonjour, merci, Fraternité. But go fuck yourselves... Ooh la la!

Pronounce "la bouche d'Hercule" correctly in French and hear how it sounds in Italian.

That's why I listen to the Armenian Aznavour’s records sung in Italian, and go drop dead.

Shit!