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You've heard Ze French

howard stern

From Howard Stern's book "Private Parts"

Let me tell you why I hate the French. First of all, those bastards wouldn't let us fly our planes over their precious country when we were on our way to bomb that raghead Qaddafi. A lot of people forgot this;
I didn't. That was some gratitude after we saved their snail eating asses during WWII when they lay down like sheep for Hitler.
People talk about the French resistance. That was a myth.
There was no French resistance. Those rat bastards were manufacturing more stuff for the Nazi war effort than any other occupied territory. Did you know that the French actually became the number one producer of goods for the Nazi's?!
They couldn't wait to please those pricks. If I should ever go to France I'll pack a tape recorder so I can play a tape of Hitler's speeches every time a Frenchman gives me a dirty look for being an American. "Remember that voice," I will say. "That's who we saved you from.
You should kiss my feet daily, worship my cellulite-ridden ass, and say God bless America for kicking some ass while we were laying down like sheep. No one remembers. I remember. I'd play that fucking tape every day. My tape recorder would blare Germans screaming "Sieg Heil! Seig Heil!" through the streets of France. And if some asshole tried to fuck with me I'd scream from the top of my lungs, "LAFAYETTE WAS A PUSSY! THE BASTILLE FELL LIKE IT WAS CARDBOARD"
Most people say, “Don’t live in the past.” But look at the French today. We offer them money, technology, and business opportunities, and they dump shit on us. An we take it. We bring them Euro Disney, a multibillion-dollar industry, and at the opening they have the balls to throw tomatoes at Disney chairman Michael Eisner because the Disney uniforms are not part of their precious culture.
Would putting Mickey Mouse in a beret solve their problem?
Those dirty scumbags with those stupid berets. They’re not even hats. A piece of cloth should cover your head if it’s going to be called a hat. That’s not a hat, it’s an oversized yarmulke. That ridiculous cowboy hat Garth Brooks wears is more sensible.
Think about it. Why would any sane American businessman want to invest good money with those dogs after they piss all over a new enterprise? Screw them and their Eiffel Tower! I don’t know anyone who’s ever been there and hasn’t been disappointed by the Eiffel Tower. They should knock it over on its side, point it toward Euro Disney, and use it as a road directional sign. This Eiffel Tower is a major tourist attraction? It looks like it was made with an erector set.
We should take all the French to New York and show them the Empire State Building. That’s what the Eiffel Tower would look like if they ever completed construction.
But Howard, you might say, what about ze French women?
The hell with French women and their hairy legs. Unless they’re chambermaids and they’re using their legs to pick up dust in the rooms, they’re useless. We got the best women right here. Catherine Deneuve is fat and has small tits. Brigette Bardot was okay in her prime but now she looks just like those fucking dogs she takes care of.
And what’s with those bidets French women use? I once asked a Frenchie on my show what the hell those bidets were for anyway. Something about cleaning the vagina and asshole.
What about toilet paper? You mean this great French inventor felt a need to develop something beyond toilet paper? A porcelain water fountain for my asshole. This is overkill. You want to work on something? Work on a cure for cancer.

Unfortunately, the only time I get to directly rag on French people is when their broadcasters come to “observe” me in the studio. They come to steal whatever they can understand of my radio show. One time I got a visit from this guy named Louique, what was the musical director of some station in Paris.

He was one of those smooth, good-looking French guys that women get a fondue going in their panties over. Radio in France must really blow ‘cause his idea of good radio was to play a lot of so-called world music, which is mostly weird Japanese noises and a lot of African stuff, with people sitting around bongoing on rocks and every once in a while banging the plates in their lips to break up the monotony. So I really unloaded on Louique.

“Charles de Gaulle was a pussy. Maurice Chevalier sucks. Laurence Olivier sucks and Charo was a pussy.”

“But Laurence Olivier ees English, and Charo, she is from Spain,” he said.

“Big deal, it’s all Europe,” I said. “Your whole country is filled with snail eaters. Your only hero besides a hunchback is that little bastard Napoleon! And what’s with Jerry Lewis being a genius? He’s considered an asshole here. Know what else I don’t like? You’re hiding that child rapist Roman Polanski. Send him back.”

I was on a roll but the lad was here for fatherly radio advice. “Look, the only purpose for radio is to make money. You can buy a stereo and play weird world-music records in your house. This is a business, get the most you can, cut the balls out from under your competition. Screw ‘em and make the most money. You French guys don’t like the Jews, either. You’re anti-Semites.”
“No, we have no such-” he protested.
“You’re anti-Israel! What’s the beef with them, a bunch of Jews just trying to live in the desert? Hey, what’s a dreidel? Do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s a yarmulke?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s a Hanukkah?”
“I don’t know, my English isn’t so good.”
“I rest my case. He’s totally ignorant. Yves Montland sucks. Louis Malle’s a creep. Toulouse-Lautrec was a troll. And we know most French designers are homos.”
“Yes, that’s true,” he was forced to admit.
Since he’d come for my advice as a respected radio personality in America, here’s what I offered: “The more money you make at a radio station, the better it is. Because when you have money you have power, and when you have power, you have freedom, freedom to bomb Libya. Just remember these words: Radio is a business. Don’t put up a fight. Repeat after me. Radio. . .”

“Radio. . .” He was doing it.

“is. . .”

“. . . a business. . . .Say it.” He repeated it like a frog parrot.

“Now you’ve learned and now my job is done and you can leave.
Good luck.”
“Yeah, good luck, too.” he said.

“You’re not insulted, are you?” I said solicitously.
“No, not at all.”

“You should be. I don’t understand. What, am I slipping? Did I forget anything? Jerry Lewis. . . Libya. . . the Eiffel Tower is ugly.” I couldn’t get to him. So I had Fred put on a Hitler speech with sound effects of sheep baaing over it. “Remember that voice,” I said. “That’s who we saved you from. You should play that on your station every day and say, ‘God bless America for kicking ass when we were lying down like sheep.’ Play this every day instead of all that Japanese music. Japan was bombing you. No one remembers. I remember.”


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