Everyone knows that a french manicure is what separates ladies from you-know-whats.
They are a brilliant evolutionary ruse to trick potential mates into thinking that your fingernails are glamorous and clean.
One time on the bus I saw a woman wearing sandals with a french pedicure, (bear with me) featuring tips painted a deep crimson instead of white, and I mean the color of dried blood. It was all I could do to maintain my sanity.
Someday I will be to french manicures what Louis Wain was to cats.
The last time I was at a beauty-supply store I perused the peroxide aisle singing this song I had just made up:
"french manicures are the most beautiful kind of manicure
until you get a french manicure
you are not a real woman"
I am publishing these lyrics under a creative commons license, which means you're allowed to use the song but you have to give me credit. If you don't, I get to come to your house and Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte, etc:
Bruce Dern = you
Meat Cleaver = my fists
You might think that my reluctance to damage an immaculate french manicure would deter me from pulverizing my enemies, but you would be wrong, friend.
1 comment:
I feel exactly the same way.
No can do the French pedicures, though. I see them and want to say, "Ha! Who do you think YOU'RE kidding, tramp?"
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