Emily in Paris, Fozz is Dead

I would like to thank Rikki Tikki Deadman for suggesting I watch this series on Netflix. His recommendation plunged me into a week of pure hell.

My mind has been further scrambled, and I walk the long halls of loneliness and despair, festooned with cobwebs, empty bottles of Old Crow, and memories of sunlight, blue skies, and Joe Flacco eating a dish of vanilla ice milk.

Before I begin, I want to set the mood of how I feel about this show, the French, and the assholes in this world who greenlight projects like this.

I’ll let the eloquent Tesco Vee, lead singer of the Meatmen, do my talking for me.

French People Suck
French people suck
I just gotta say
Made the jet fighters
Go out of their way
Hating Yankees too much
Those beret-headed nuts
They can stick the Eifell Tower
Straight up their butts
Last time I flew Air France
Played a tune on my Uzi
And made the sissies dance
Killed a hundred or more
And I had a ball
Those freakin’ frog suckers
Be the death of us all
French people suck
French people suck
French people suck
French people can suck my…

This poetry would make Shakespeare weep with jealousy.

The Series
In a nutshell here is the premise of this series: a complete airhead, dipshit, waste of carbon (Emily) is sent to Paris so she can bring fresh new ideas to a French advertising agency. Emily weighs about 90 pounds, has a face like a manhole cover, and might possess the most irritating personality this side of Hitler.

Oh, and she doesn’t speak French.

Season One – which was a vacation in hell – depicts our mighty heroine struggling with the French, the language, Paris, and her life. She does this mainly by taking a photo of every second of her life and posting it with the dumbest hashtags.

Oh yeah, she has a masters in communication. So do I. You can see where that got me.Throughout the season, this bird-brained bag of bones manages to fall ass backwards into success. I’ve been in the marketing and communication field my entire career, and worked for ad agencies, this happens once in a lifetime, not every other fucking week.

Emily’s dialogue consists of variations on the quotes below:

“OHMYGOD I DON’T KNOW FRENCH!”

“He’s so cute. Maybe I’ll bang him.”

“Let’s have wine!”

“I don’t know what to do. I’ll sleep with him.”

Spend some time watching this show and you’ll dream of having Emily dropped from 20,000 feet onto the spire of the Eiffel Tower.

The Characters
My anguish was such that I never actually got anyone’s name. They’re all stupid French names and all the men look the same. So, fuck them.

The Chef
He and Emily meet cute when she can’t figure out the fact that the French, for some reason, number the floors of buildings differently. (God, this culture is based on being a fucking asshole.) Boy, is he cute, and disheveled, and shy, and bashful, and cute. Every fucking male character in this seriesis cute, disheveled, shy, and cute.

He is so, like, totally into Emily. But he’s got a girlfriend – she has the acting range and personality of a toad – but he bangs Emily anyway. This jerk is from Normandy, and I was hoping he would take a walk on the beach and be blown to shreds by unexploded ordance from D-Day.

His dream is to own a restaurant. Everyone in Paris owns a restaurant or some quaint, stuffy bar. Do not expect to get an ice-cold Miller Lite in any of these bars. Ever. Forget about bottom shelf tequila.

The Bestie
Probably the best-looking person in this cast. Nice rack. She and Emily meet in a park, and this Asian woman is a nanny, who dresses really well. I guess. Her backstory is that her father is rich and she bombed on the Chinese equivalent of America’s Got Talent. So, she leaves China, goes to business school, fails out (shocker), and becomes a nanny.

This is the stereotypical best friend who is “a mess” which translates into “funny” to people missing their brain stems. Her acting range is that of a sponge. Eventually she works at a drag bar where everyone hates her.

The Co Workers
Two guys, one of which may or may not be gay; the other is a fluffy headed pervert who says shit that would get him shot in the balls anywhere else in the world. Actually, I liked the fluffy headed guy. Reminded me of Gene Wilder, but not as funny or talented.

The boss is a dried-up bitch who has lots of affairs and hates Emily – which means I like her. All she does is smoke and plan the death of everyone around her. In her own way, she’s cool.

The Perfume Guy and His Son
One of the clients is this dude who owns a perfume shop, or factory, whatever the fuck. He has really good hair and he wants to bone Emily. Hey, give her a glass of champagne and a piece of brie and she’s yours for the night. I think he has an equally smarmy son who floats around like some water head. Fuck them.

Designer Asshole
I think this guy is supposed to be Pierre Cardin. Who knows? He eats crème Brulé but only cracks the top. I’ve had this dessert, no thanks. Anyway, this dickhead has constant breakdowns and he’s an “artist”. Emily pulls of some stunt and he goes from happy to sad to ecstatic. Also, he has her kicked out of an opera, which makes me jealous.

Chef’s Girlfriend
Her parents own a champagne factory, maybe it’s a farm. Blonde and dumber than a box of hammers, she is BESTIES with Emily. Even though Emily has an affair with her boyfriend. She works at an art gallery, surprise. Shocker: Emily bangs her brother.

Scenery
Paris is amazing. (It hurts for me to acknowledge this.) Every shot that’s outside is like a buffet for the eyes, no Andy Reid not that type of buffet. Architecture, statues, old houses, cobblestone streets, you get it.

Not one of the boneheads ever says, “Holy fuck! Will you look at this?”

I will say that the whole “watch as Paris goes from day to night” was awesome the first time. After seeing it 10 times, you’re more in the mood to watch an episode of the Flintstones before Gazoo became a character.

Music
French music. Figure out how much it sucks. You’re right.

Stereotypes

When I was a journalism major, my professor made me take a creative writing course.

There was this simmering dislike between journalism students and English majors. I don’t know why, but the English majors were stuck up “writers” who thought they were going to be the next Hemingway or Faulkner. I made fun of them every chance I got.

In fact, I had this blood feud with a girl, we’ll call her Snot Nose. For some reason she loathed me, maybe because I was a dick and made fun of her and her friends. She was said that I was “whoring” my talent. See what I mean?

Years later she dated a friend of mine, and she met my little sister.

“Oh, your brother is Fozz? I hate him. He’s an asshole.”

“He told me you were a stuck up bitch. I guess he’s right.”

There you go.

One of the lessons I learned in that class was that using stereotypes is an easy way out of actually being a creative and intelligent writer.

The numbnuts on the writing staff of this show didn’t take that class.

Here is every stereotype French thing in this show:

French men are charming and also kind of disheveled
Everyone smokes
French women are sleek and stylish
The French hate Americans (that one is spot on. They hate us. We hate them. Remember who saved your asses in BOTH WORLD WARS)
French people eat weird food and it tastes good.
There is at least one quaint, charming cobblestone road every two miles in Paris. (I know they use kilometers, but I am not a socialist pig.)
You drink wine or champagne. Beer is for commoners.
Every restaurant is cramped, smoky, and staffed by insufferable twats.

I could go on, but I grow weary of this entire column.

Conclusion
They say art reflects society and vice versa. If that’s the case we are at the end of human existence. To think that people like this show, maybe love it, rankles me. It is the epitome of flash without substance and an excellent example of the vapidness of social media. I want to kill Instagram.

The Nazis occupied Paris for four years, and the French did an okay job of rebuilding it. Emily in Paris has been on for two seasons and has destroyed the city forever.

(Rikki Tikki: Je rirai en me baignant dans ton sang.)