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President of France

11 April 2023

It’s hard for me to believe that it’s been almost ten years since I was told by a Frenchwoman that I could be President of France.

That opinion was granted to me by my special friend in Provence during the summer of 2014, after she’d gleaned and garnered quite a few of my opinions about la France. I laughed merrily at the time, and did not take her seriously. She was, however, quite serious about the dire need for me to take charge of a nation that was running on empty, morally; running out of money; running only feckless fools for national office; running capitalist millionaires out of the country; running away from reality, and just plain running in the wrong direction. Oui, oui, oui, la douce France needs to find a leader, a real leader, and not another narcissistic ghoul, short on morality, and, typically, short in stature. The previous President needed to use a step-stool on which to stand behind the podium and lecture the French.

The hauteur of the winner of this latest spin of the girouette sickened her. I guess you could say that I was also sickened by the nose-in-the-air disdain of the President of France for the French. Les Français voted out Nicolas Sarkhozy because of his unpalatable private life that kept being played out in public, and they voted in a professional bureaucrat. What could go wrong with a guy who looked like he didn’t have a private life? Then the weird girlfriends, two of them, showed up, along with the inevitable Tell-All Book. Hollande had been an agnostic during the election of 2012, where he squeaked to victory with 51.6 percent of the vote. By 2017, François wasn’t running for re-election and he was an atheist. Can you blame him? The French don’t mind their President enduring sordid intimacies, just as long as they don’t end up on the front page and in the bookstore. I’ve a feeling the days of that quaint notion are long gone.

The days of attentisme are here, at least where I and the French are concerned. That wait-and-see approach was adopted by the majority of French citizens during World War II while they waited for their liberation from the Occupation of their nation by the Nazi Germans. Dear Husband has told me — since I didn’t take up the mantle of becoming the President of France — that I have less standing to opine about the state of France today. I’ll nonetheless stand and state: The State, L’État — is quite flambéed. The riots against Macron continue throughout the country, even if We The People in the United States can’t find any recent Online News, faux or otherwise, about the continuing fiery protests of les Français against a globalist banker-hack who has assumed King Louis XIV, or XV, or, even better, King Louis XVI. I’ve noticed a distinct pattern of behavior displayed by Jupiter Macron. Whenever he’s faced with reality — the vile sentiments of the peasants in la France for him — he heads for another country to do his pompous pontificating and Citizen-of-the-World act.

A Stint in China didn’t work, but hanging out with a President-for-Life might have brightened his sallow complexion. More often, the retreat is in an illegal-migrant infested capital city, such as The Hague. There, Emmanuel lectures in double-speak on their state-sponsored TV.

The narcissistic-selfie feed for Presidents Without Nations is located in Studio B in a foreign nation where the socialist/Marxist adulation reigns supreme. The echo chamber is now The King’s Chamber. Globalism is the foul result of socialism, not the other way around. As the populations of the Western European “democracies” are waking up to the ugliness of what they’ve done to themselves since World War II, I’m content to watch the inevitable occur:

No sound or sane leader will emerge during this phase of the implosion of a communal and mutually-assured self-destruction of all that the previous generations of liberty-lovers fought and died to ensure, namely, the freedoms for these citizens to buy into the pipe dreams that are going up in smoke.

And in flames. Monsieur Macron has never stayed at any one job for more than approximately three or four years. My guess is that he’s increasingly tired of this gig, and ready to be coronated at the European Union. But those fonctionnaires are tired of him too.

They want a new face, a shiny new thing, not Jupiter, maybe Saturn. Or Pluto! The worries and woes of the world don’t concern these elite windbags. The world turns very well without the blowhards or their eco hot-air windmills turning it. Their ken is not my zen. My zen is to find the most open space that I can find, and, from there, to create and build a world that’s meant to last.

Their ken is to deconstruct the masterpiece architecture of the glorious past by confining the common commoners into zones of diminished light, and life. Inescapably, those snobby gasbags are being trapped in their own palaces while the rabbles torch the regions around those castles. There’s no moat big enough to separate the snooty morons from the masses they so grotesquely disdain. It may not be chronologically true that Nero fiddled while Rome burned, but Macron, with or without that Designer Watch, twiddled while France erupted into flames. The modern globalist version of « Après moi le déluge » (After me, the flood) is « Avec moi, les flammes » : With me, the flames.


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