If reading stuff that is borderline racist makes you feel uncomfortable turn away before you wet your panty liners, perhaps you should reach for your copy of “how to be a man”.

The French are useless, cheese eating surrender monkeys.  Their restaurants are shit, and reasonably expensive, unless you go somewhere where there are Michelin stars (not the same as the Michelin Man), then it’s fucking great, and stupidly expensive.  They have only two redeeming features that I can see.  One is the hot women.  Hot, because they smoke the whole time (instead of eating),

and the only time they like to sweat is when they’re on top; which redeems them in my eyes.  And let’s face it; screwing a French chick is something akin to clubbing a baby seal,  only less of a challenge (so screwing a French girl is easy and repulsive? They always looked ok to me... Ed.)

France’s other redeeming feature is the Parisian biker.

While the French, for the most part, are the defective end of the gene pool, the bikers that own Paris at night must have a gene that survived the pasting the Frogs got during WW1 and the sequel German tour.  These guys must descend directly from that short guy, Nappy something... funny hat?? – he seems to be the last Frenchman who actually did anything meaningful.  I upset some tourist info guy called Jean-Claude, (aside from suggesting that he take some man classes), I asked him why there wasn’t an American flag on the Arc d’Triumph on that big assed roundabout in Paris given that it wasn’t the French who liberated France last time around.

But the big monument serves a purpose aside from providing invading armies a great photo op – it provides a great turnaround point for all the mad as a hatter, big capacity bike racers that own the city after the sun plummets below the horizon, and while guys like Jean-Claude are giving terrible service in their overpriced eateries on the Rue St Germain.

The Paris biker is cooler than James Dean in a cryogenic chamber.  He rides something large capacity, with pipes eschewing sound levels normally considered polite.  He stays on the bike, no knee down leaning, but instead, flicking the bike from peg to peg in a shower of sparks.  Normally his ass is on fire as he screams past, changing up through the gears at the point where the valves are floating and about to launch catastrophically in the top of each piston in turn.

The Parisian biker owns the night.

But, he has cousins.  In the south of France, the main road leading down into Antibes became the scene of the greatest street racing that I have ever witnessed.  I actually saw guys rubbing fairings through the turns below my hotel room, elbows quacking to push the other rider wide, dodging mobile chicanes (otherwise known as cars), with the throttles pulled all the way to the stops, back tires visibly squirming.
Then there were the guys on nakeds; pushing almost as hard, but generally two up with some French skank on the back, showing more skin that a sports illustrated pin up, and typically with an open face helmet and pouting lips clamped around a drooping cigarette.

In a land full of smooth talking, Gitane smoking ball-less pretty boys, the Parisian bikers of the night make me yearn to own a KTM SuperDuke R and the stickiest set of rubber this side of Alonso’s company car – I’d ride it to the stops, and the panting babe riding bitch would be hanging on for dear life.  I can see myself, living in Paris, being the one pulling second gear mono’s along the street as nonchalant, too cool pedestrians ignore me with practiced disdain.  So, to you my Parisian Biker friends, thanks for the entertainment; Paris rocks because of you.