Damn You, France!

On the Cultural Necessity of Toast
Luke Olson

Some men appreciate a fine double-malt scotch, others revel in intelligent conversation, while some prefer brilliant mammary glands. I, however, am an unparalleled advocate of toast. Whether moist and covered in melted butter, crisp and slathered with mayonnaise or even withered and charred blacker than Bill Cosby’s...burnt Jell-O, toast has warranted an aggrandized position in our society that has too long escaped our proverbial scouring eye. Often ignored for it’s simple makeup and secondary role in traditional breakfasts around the world, toast has understandingly adopted a role of secondary importance, allowing other flashier breakfast selections that could hardly be deemed “refreshingly scintillating” or “playfully articulate” to assume primary importance.

Why have I, like toast, decided to shed my congenial tolerance of the widespread societal blindness to this ruinous upheaval of customary breakfast selections? Put simply: the French. The perpetuating animosity between our two countries has ballooned in the last century, and despite our concern with economic efficiency, global diplomacy and infrastructural security, the French have only constricted their grip on the throats of our national identity.

What is the pandemic atrocity of which I speak? None other than French toast. Because we sought to supplement toast with less brilliant breakfast selections like bacon, yogurt and eggs, the French have surreptitiously robbed our breakfast identity by simply adding cinnamon. Is that all we are? Can we allow governments around the world to believe that France is simply America plus sugar? How will we reply to Kim Jong-Il on the eve of nuclear holocaust when he reprimands Americans for their lack of flavor? What hope does global diplomacy have to endure that venomous stigma?

Admirably, General Mills presciently foresaw this cultural apocalypse and released Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but it was too little, too late. The French had already audaciously anaesthetized America under the auspices of our inattentiveness. Sound odd? That’s because the French stole alliteration too.

Toast is only the next in line of a long history of concessions to the French. Is there anything French about French fries? Do the French even eat French fries? No and no. Yet they pompously twirl their emasculated moustaches as they watch their feeble culture pervade an American dietary staple. What type of mustard do 69% of American households purchase? French’s. As is showcased by Notre Dame, they can’t even speak English properly, yet they insist on the superiority of their poorly formed English. Moreover, can anyone deny that the Eiffel Tower is any more than a transparent attempt to create a larger and more elaborate phallus than the Washington Monument? Could anyone truly believe that any Frenchmen in any age could possibly be better endowed than George Washington? Tourists, who have made the Eiffel Tower the most popular monument in the world, sure do.

While we have quenched our thirst for French libel by launching claims of cowardice and hypocrisy, the French have furtively taken from us all that we hold dear. The name of our fearless first president will be forever stained, a happy meal will never again be truly happy and no man will ever fully appreciate hairy women.

The French have stolen our food and our masculinity for too long. From this point forth, French fries shall be referred to as Francophobic fries, Notre Dame shall be respelled Noter Daim, alliteration will be used whenever possible, the name Frank shall be phased from the English language and French phrases like “laissez-faire” and “joie de vivre” will be relentlessly butchered. Tomorrow morning, when you sit down to the breakfast table, don’t reach for a strip of bacon or a bowl of cereal. Simply satisfy yourself with a fresh piece of whole-wheat toast, perhaps even rye or sourdough. Don’t stain its purity by topping it with eggs or jam. Accept toast for what it is – not French.