“The Main Difference Between Europe and USA” Comical Images
I am pretty sure that some of you may have seen a picture or few pictures. If not…
This is about the satirical depiction on the “cultural” differences between Europe and USA in an extreme form. Mostly they show the sense of European superiority over USA based on an attribute. Some of the arributes may be “moral superiority.” Some of those could be true though.
Because of Triond policy, I’m going have to add more text to this post so that this article would be eligible for submission.
OFF TOPIC LINE
I randomly selected a paragraph of the page from Celine’s Death on the Installment Plan (witty French book):
She was always keeping after me, trying to make me converse: “Good morning, Ferdinand! Hello! God morning!” I was all hot and bothered. Her expression was so adorable . . . Plenty of times I almost fell. But I’d pull myself together quick . . . I reminded m yself of all the stuff I had on my mind . . . I saw Lavelongue’s face, and Gorloge, all mixed up . . . I had plenty to choose from to make me puke . . . Madame Mehon . . . Sakya-Muni . . . I only had to sniff, my nose was always in the shit. I answered inside: “Go on talking, baby doll, go right ahead . . . you won’t get a rise out of me . . . You can laugh your head off . . . smile like a dozen frogs . . . You won’t catch me . . . I’m hardened, take it from me, I’ve had it up to here.” I thought of my father . . . his scenes, the bilge he was always dishing out . . . all the shit that was waiting for me . . . the lousy jobs . . . the crummy customers, all the beans, the noodles, the deliveries . . . the bosses . . . all the thrashings I’d had . . . in the Passage . . . If I had any desire to kid around, that knocked it right out of me . . . I was convulsed with memories . . . I scraped my ass with them . . . I was so mad I tore off whole patches of skin . . . My bleeding ass! No, this skirt wasn’t going to take me. Maybe she was good, maybe she was marvelous! Let her be a thousand times more radiant and beautiful, you wouldn’t catch me going soft on her . . . She wouldn’t wring a single sigh out of me . . . She could cut her face in ribbons to please me, she could roll them around her neck, she could cut three fingers off her hand and stick them up my ass, she could buy herself a pure-gold pussy! I still wouldn’t talk to her! Never! . . . I wouldn’t even kiss her! All that was the bunk, more of the same. And that was that. I preferred to stare at her old man, to look him up an down . . . that kept me from having dumb ideas . . . I drew comparisons . . . He was part turnip . . . green diluted blood . . . part carrot too, on account of the squiggly hairs coming out of his ears and at the bottom of his cheeks . . . How had he ever got hold of this beauty? . . . It couldn’t have been money . . . Then it must have been a mistake . . . Of course, you’ve got to remember, women are always in a hurry . . . They’ll grow in anything . . . any old garbage will do . . . They’re just like flowers . . . The most beautiful they are, the worse the manure stinks . . . The season is short. Bzing! And the way they lie all the time . . . I’d seen some horrible examples. They never stop. It’s their perfume. That’s the long and the short of it.