Archives par mot-clé : F.Y. Richard
Nobody’s perfect
A pair of boobs like Ingrid’s didn’t come in every bra! Too bad her older brother was a Gendarmerie officer! She had reassured him right away, though:
“There’s a gendarme and a gendarme. Oscar doesn’t always confide in me, but I know he’s, well, broad-minded. You need to be broad-minded when you have expensive tastes! You, for example, if you want to keep a chick like me…”
“Melons like yours you mean? ‘Oscar’! What a name. What got into your parents?”
“I’m sorry, but ‘Achilles’…”
“That was my grandfather’s name. He was an artist. He taught me to pick my first locks. He just shouldn’t have been a boozer, that’s all.”
“You mean your gramps, his heel was his liver?”
“?”
Achilles was better at burglary than general knowledge. Ingrid had to explain to him that the ancient Greeks—he didn’t want to hear about the modern ones—celebrated a guy by the name of Achilles. “A kind of Marvel superhero, as it were. When she’d plunged him into the Styx, a river that made local bathers immortal (provided they were completely immersed, his mother had had no choice but to hold him by the heel.”
“As long as she didn’t hold him by his willy…” In addition to her legendary breasts, Achilles found it flattering to sleep with an intellectual. Not to mention that over the years, his collaboration with her Oscar of a brother had proved more than fruitful for both. At first, of course, Oscar had been discreet about his extra activities at the barracks. But between brothers-in-law or almost, sooner or later, secrets come out. “You’re a broad-minded gendarme, I’m a thief who’s anything but ungrateful. Why not explore the coincidence in our respective best interests?”
Read more? Download Commissioner B. goes south
Okay, okay !
Okay, so you don’t speak French and you couldn’t care less about French writers. Down with Rabelais, Marcel Proust, and whoever came in between, before, or after! Okay, all you wanna know is that Commissioner B. is about to head south!!!
Okay, okay! But don’t you want to take a quick look at one last excerpt? To make sure that after downloading Commissioner B. Goes South as soon as it’s available, you won’t regret wasting nearly $3 with no chance of getting a refund from those crooks at Amazon…
. . . .
Bongarçon had time to stop by the nick to check the contents of the briefcase. When he pulled into the parking lot, he ran into Chomsky and Repu. They were wrestling with Santa Claus. Handcuffed, disheveled, his beard askew, Santa had left one boot behind in the police car. He was clinging to the door with all his might, determined not to spend Christmas Eve in a cell.
“Cut the crap, you bastard!” Sub-Brigadier Chomsky was not in the mood for niceties that evening, it seemed.
“Can we get some information?” Bongarçon inquired. “Did Santa Claus double park his sleigh or something?”
“We picked him up on the sidewalk in front of the Modern Galleries, sir. He was exposing himself to customers. The security guard didn’t know what to do.” With that, Chomsky landed another slap on the miscreant, who let go of the door and slid to the ground. Now they’d have to carry this fat drunk!
Commissioner B. would have gladly lent a hand to his men, but it was much too cold in the parking lot. He slipped away and entered the station. At the front desk, Travers was tidying up his counter before calling it a day. He eyed the shabby briefcase.
. . . .
Still wanna risk your almost 3 bucks ?
Say next week?
Say next week ?
Another teaser?
He’s already fallen twice. The second time on a sharp stone that took the better of his trouser leg. Now he’s fashionable except that the skin on his knee is fashionable too. The hand that went down on the news came back up all sticky. And his head! His poor head! The ringing that went off when he caught the door with his left temple, throwing his right against the stone doorframe, hasn’t stopped since. He can’t string two coherent thoughts together. For the moment, only one is needed: RUN! Get the hell out of here! At least he didn’t make the mistake of trying to reach the Wrangler. Firstly, Achilles has the key. Secondly, his pursuers must be hunting him down in that area. Népheg said the ravine was an old branch of the Rauze, so the Rauze can’t be far away. Find it, follow it and, sooner or later, end up somewhere around the Fourchette …and the Mercedes… Without stopping to run like crazy, he taps the pocket on his intact leg’s side and feels the RKE remote, warm against his thigh.
In the meantime, for those interested in the reasons and circumstances that made them what they are,
« Homo juchremanensis » ( Kindle/ Epub)
is still available.
Une liseuse pour Ursula ! (« 700 billion dollar baby »)
C’est tellement ridicule. Je me demande comment la préhistoire post moderne a pu en arriver là. Ce doit être un autre rêve que je suis en train de faire. Qui est ce gros bonhomme âgé, au scalp clairsemé – blond ? roux ? « queue de vache », aurait dit ma mère – décidant de l’avenir de la Juchrémanie depuis un terrain de golf écossais, en compagnie d’une vieille dame au sourire las, prête à toutes les compromissions, pourvu qu’elle puisse toucher ses 33 064,03 euros bruts mensuels – c’est que la retraite approche à grands pas (67 ans en Allemagne) et qu’elle a quand même – « il faut bien que le corps exulte » – pondu 7 héritiers qui eux-mêmes… bref « +15% de droits de douane ? Ah et aussi 700 milliards de promesse d’achats de pétrole/gaz de schiste alors que, dans un sursaut de bon sens, on essayait de plus toucher à ces horreurs suicidaires ? Sinon vous nous laissez, moi, mes enfants et petits-enfants à la merci de Vlad-le-Sanguinaire ? Pitié mon bon seigneur ! Yes it is a very good deal ! Thank you so much ! Danke schön ! »
Ah bien sûr, si mamie Ursula avait lu « Homo juchrémanensis » III, 1 « Talbin » (« Gwap» for the english edition)*…
Mais peut-être mamie Ursula n’a-t-elle point de liseuse, ni de kindle, de tablette, de pc, ni de smartphone, BlackBerry OS, iPhone… Peut-être mamie Ursula est-elle toujours aux mains des dealers de cellulose, soumise au chantage des librêres in-dé-pen-dants (rires). Pauvre mamie Ursula !
Soyez plus subtils que mamie Ursula, ami(e)s Juchréman(es ! En quelques clics salvateurs, lisez de vrais livres, pas du papier encré… Et apprenez à vous méfier des ânes !
PS- Cette fois encore, pris par le temps, je demanderai à mes visiteur(e)s anglophones qui sont de grands garçons et de grandes filles, de se démerder pour traduire cet article, sinon qu’ils m’écrivent. Contre + 15 % (en bitcoins) je leur refilerai quelques adresses d’IA pas trop craignos 🙂
*Homo juchrémanensis, édition française :
Homo juchremanensis, english edition :
