Live From Versailles…

Hey, President Macron. You look natural and human.

“Ahh, I have been–how you say–popping ze pills? Zis is how you say?”

Oui.

“All of ze pills. Ze little blanc ones, and ze rouge, and ze bleu. Zey combine in my tummy.”

Any yellow ones?

“NON! No yellow! No one has hated that color as much as me since La Lanterne Verte!”

Going deep on the Green Lantern references there, Mr. President.

“He made ze team-up wiz Tintin several times.”

Huh.

“Zings are not bien. Zings are not bien at all. Have you seen what ze peasants are up to?”

They’re revolting.

“And zey are rioting!”

Nice. So, what started this round of barricade-going?

“Ze people, zey are perturbed about ze gas prices. We added ze teeny tax to ze gas to fight ze change de climatique, eh? Zey did not like.”

How much is gas?

“About €1.50 a liter.”

I have no innate grasp of the size of either of the units you just referred to. Hold on.

“Oui.”

…

SEVEN BUCKS A FUCKING GALLON? You deserve every riot you get, you Gallic shitstain.

“Zis iz too many Euros?”

Way, way, way too many Euros.

“Let zem drive Teslas.”

Do you want a Sixth Republic? Because this is how you get a Sixth Republic.

“Non. Zis is imposible. I am ze most powerful man in France. What could ze peasants do to me?”

Don’t ask me, man. Ask the cackling old lady with the knitting needles.

“My wife?”

You’re awful. We’re done.