6:07 a.m. Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Today is the day that I go to Paris. I had my daily Macchiato and gluten-free cookies. I had packed my various clothing, mostly by Michael Kors. After that. I ordered my driver, Topvik, to pick me up, because I refuse to take a taxi– taxis cause half of the common colds that occur in Silverlake.
`I only got to watch one episode of Family Guy, and it was the one where Peter finds out Lois is Jewish and starts talking with a very guttural voice. At about a quarter to seven, Topvik, picked me up.
When we arrived at the airport, it wasn’t very crowded. As I checked in, I thought I saw Conway Twitty, but I don’t know for sure. God, I hate his facial expressions when he sings, and that hair? Yeesh!
I arrived in First Class. The flight attendants gave me a hot towel and served me some Moet & Chandon. It was flat. The person sitting closest to me was the same guy I thought was Conway Twitty.
I turned to my side and asked him, “Are you Conway Twitty?”
He looked very insulted and replied, “Conway Twitty has been dead 20 years, and that is the most insulting thing that I’ve heard since I got a nose job.” He had a thick New York accent.
I sniffed in a very condescending way and looked down my nose at him. I turned away, raising my eyebrow. I mean, his hair wasn’t that magnificent.
* * *
After six hours, they served dinner, and I ordered just a ceasar salad with some more Moet & Chandon. The only other options they had were shrimp cocktails, a lamb shwarma with pasta that looked disgusting, even on the menu, and some other kind of fish that looked like it would give me E. coli poisoning.
Every hour I walked down the aisles because I read in a beauty magazine that if you just sit in one seat for one hour that it will paralyze your butt, and I don’t need that stress hanging over me.
We arrived around 2:30 PM and I saw some of the other idiots that were in first class walking very stiffly, so I’m glad that I walked down the aisles.
Thursday 6:04 a.m. June 18, The Apartment
I arrived at my apartment around 4:00 PM. I never get jet lagged, because the amount of water pills and macchiatos that I drink doesn’t let jet lag affect me.
I got dressed in an all-Michael Kors outfit. I went to the same market where I was so offended three weeks ago. I stopped outside the front doors and realized… this is one of the biggest moments of my life. This is my legacy. This is what Paris will remember me for.
This is it.
I walked determinedly into the store, heel-toe heel-toe with purpose. I
asked the little butler that was chopping prosciutto if i could talk to the manager, in French. He said, “Umm… Uhh… Sure. You can see him. Do you have a problem?”
“Yes, I do have a problem, but I don’t wish to talk about it with a little butler who chops prosciutto.”
“Oui, oui, desoleil.” Then he took me to the manager.
THe manager said, “what do you need?” he was wearing small Harry Potter-like glasses that were far too tiny for his huge, fat head. He was also bald, which made his complexion look worse because there was just so much of it without hair to cover it up. I demanded he replace the American section in the market because it was highly offensive to my kind.
He just plainly responded: “No.”
I asked again, more firmly. And he said again: “No.”
I finally said back to him, “You disgusting vile fat pasty-faced swine!”
He just said, “No,” again.
I said, very confusedly, “well, then can I buy everything in that section?”
And then he said, “Yes.” And he gave me the price. It was $1,055 — ironically, the exact same amount of money as the LeS Cinq dinner.
“I’ll… take it,” I hesitantly agree.
I paid for the 450 pounds of food and called Topvik and told him, “Bring your largest car.”
I succeeded. I’d done it. It was very expensive, but I’m rich, so who cares? I spared Paris of the vile, stereotyped American food.
* * *
Topvik walked into my hotel room later that night to tell me that I left my Michael Kors clutch in the car. But he stopped, stunned, staring at me. I was just chewing on some raw Toll House cookie dough underneath the covers of the bed…
I guess I betrayed my gluten-free diet. God bless America.