After more than a year in Paris (though our official expatriation anniversary is coming up on Tuesday), I have a certificate that says that I know fuck-all about the French language. (EU language competency levels are located here, for those not in the know)
I’d have a celebratory beer (or even better, champagne), but I think we’re at the point at which my liver may decamp and move to the coast if I throw even one more thing its way.
I suppose I’ll have to settle for a rousing rendition of the pickle song.
Fezzik In Paris 