Dever Público

Sinto-me imbuída de um espírito de missão. É por isso que resgato do meu egoísmo este hilariante excerto.

(CONTEXTO: uma bela e quente francesinha não quer ser devorada por um beef, apesar de ter mandado vir as entradas)

"Non, ça ne vas pas, (...) A terrible erreur". She wanted me
to pardon her. "Et merci", she added.

"Merci pourquoi?" Even I´m not vain enough to imagine that
one lick of my tonsils is enough to provoke instant orgasm

"Thank you for being so English. You are a gentleman. You let
me kiss you without..."

No, I´m not a bloody English gentleman, I wanted to tell her.
If she meant gentleman in the not-wanting-to-sleep-with-you-immediately sense of
the word, the only Englishmen I knew of were pre-pubescents who were just
waiting until their pubic hair started to grow. Christine didn´t know we Brits
had come a long way since Jane Austen´s heroines could be sure that they
wouldn´t get a good rogering as soon as they said yes to a walk in the woods.
Even Princess Di used to do it up against a tree with her riding instructor,
didn´t she? And now there was nothing at all gentlemanly going on in my brain or
my boxer shorts"Pardonne-moi, mon Englishman", she said fondly, and left me
standing there in the ladies, alone with yet another useless erection. Lucky
hard-ons are bio-degradable, I thought, because I was throwing a lot of
them away.

"Fuck you, Mr.Darcy," I told the ceiling. "Fuck you, Hugh
Grant. How can you expect a Brit to get his end away if you go around being so
bloody polite all the time?" (in A Year in the Merde, Stephen Clarke)