Recently, a handful of illegitimate comments have been made about my work. It has been referred to as spite-ridden and xenophobic, specifically towards French culture and the people enslaved within its self-perpetuating reign of moral indecency (to put lightly).

To clarify, the “hateful” elements perceived within my work are nothing more than the unintentional replications of the subject matter itself. We protest the accusations of slant and libel, which are in fact unfounded and biased smears themselves, hypocritically emitted en masse from a population full of self-grandeur and ethical naivety. Comme on dit.

I say “We” because, contrary to the notion certain famous, wealthy, modern day French aristocrats have been spreading and clinging to at their political soirees and cash-stashing corporate meetings lately–that I am a tinfoil-donning outcast and artistic failure–my work’s philosophical positioning has the explicit support of certain other famous and revered contemporary thinkers–of diverse nationalities. Many of them are more than willing to make their vibrant fandom and staunch alignment with my so-called Anti-French mentality known to the world, yet I plead daily with them to let me protect their identities, lest their characters and careers suffer the same slanderous rampages which are ever-reliably thrown out from the land of determined minority oppression and Machiavellian pacifism.

It doesn’t take a political scientist to find the sources of all that is to be disdained of French foreign policy and I don’t purport to be one. My work is neither political nor scientific, but simply the rational sentiment that would arise within anyone who can look beyond the smoldering shit-storm of the mockery that is French culture: its overbearing fart-filled lecturers of the Enlightenment, its unfathomably homosexual painters of Impressionism and its nauseatingly self-worshipping, masturbatory writers of Existentialism and the violently boring, stupendously pretentious filmmakers that prance into their own premieres like messiahs with members as scrumptious as a grilled snail.*

Written like a burning discharge on an adolescent’s cum-towel, The Sexual Life of Madame M. by Catherine Millet is a confession of one woman’s sex life in France. It is the most heart wrenchingly pathetic scream for attention you will ever find, yet typical of all dog-carrying, cigarette-sucking, book-sniffing French people whose only stable ambition in life is to be the wet dream of as many men or women of any age or creed.

I must declare that the illusions of courage behind making simple “confessions” deserve no additional credit for any writer or artist or anybody in any kind of context. I am perfectly willing to admit anything. I admit I have French ancestry, and have only recently changed my distinctly French surname (although it was only because I was obligated to disassociate myself from previous lawsuits brought against me (that had absolutely no success). I am perfectly willing to divulge that my lineage can be traced to a French cobbler who designed popular soles in New Canaan at the beginning of the 19th Century, and that my great-grandfather was a student and great admirer of painter Howard Logan Hildebrandt, and the two of them were obsessed with–yes–Impressionist influences.

And to further express truths openly, I should not and would not deny the incredibly beautiful writing abilities of Millet. Her writing has the sensuality of sex itself. Her meandering chronological progress is wistful and tender. Yes, when someone is born with talent it can no longer be called talent, it’s something else entirely, and that is what she has. But this is just one more example of why French culture is such a scorching disease eating away at what’s left of humanity.

Millet’s ponderings cover the differences between circumcised and uncircumcised penises, “the diverse stages of erection”, the feeling of semen on the walls of her vagina in a way that does more than merely encourage such a lifestyle of virtual prostitution. It asserts the behavior as necessity to any young girl who feels sexual impulse, leaving her with no option other than to think of Millet’s work when even looked at. In short, the message is not promiscuity being acceptable but rather that such a lifestyle is an integral part of womanhood.

I’m not naive. I know pornography when I see it and I know it exists outside of France. But there is a difference between the bland smack of an exploited teenager on a rubbery leaf that is universally taken for unfortunate smut and the actual allure of this French crap. It’s the same kind of legitimization that has allowed members of churches worldwide to both physically and financially exploit those who have misplaced their trust.

If one can consider anything of France a sort of achievement, it is the pure pomp of its propaganda: no race of people in the history of mankind has surged with such genuine egotism behind its brainwashing techniques. I concede that each successive instance is more impressive than the last. When you believe vanity could not be found in any purer form than currently harbored within the borders of France, and yet somehow the French refine it even further while their tolerance for their own gaseous arrogance is only boosted time and time again, their words more gargled, their filthy sneers more twitching and their pulsating nostrils raised higher than ever, ever before, it inspires awe. There is a long tradition of jokes about the odor of the Frenchmen. But the odor in question is also metaphorical: there is a whiff of deranged perspective, a nasty, skewed pair of eyes set upon you whenever you dare express an opinion or reveal the hint of an elegant emotion in the presence of a French person, this compulsive anger aimed toward anyone “stealing” attention from the rightful stars of any social stage, those “passionate” auteurs of living. Yes, that’s the phrase. Auteurs of living. They see their lives as so much more meaningful and special than those of any other identity, simply because they are one word: French.