French literature 101: Strategic Yogurt Production as a plotline

This ridiculous piece of shit, titled "Pension Fund", appeared in today's Le Monde Al-Jazeera on the Seine and is supposedly inspired by the current Hewlett-Packard uproar. It could have just as easily been titled "Pay-as-you-go-pension-scheme" or better yet "French-politicians-riding-on-the-backs-of-taxpayers", but I digress. France's foaming-at-the-mouth hatred for the American pension fund system was illustrated by the success of 99F, novel written by Frédéric Beigbeder, which contains a scene where a Florida retiree is beaten to death by two French ad executives and an actress on location in Florida to shot a TV ad for Madone Yogurt (any similarity to the strategic yogurt production commissioned to Danone is completely coincidental).

-- WE SAVED YOUR ASS IN '44! MY HUSBAND DIED IN NORFUCKINGMANDY!! Look, jerk-off, the picture of MY HUSBAND who died in YOUR COUNTRY on D-DAY!! ... -- Listen lady. Let's not throw our dead back and forth all night. That war, you waged it to export more Coca-Cola. IT'S COCA-COLA WHO KILLED YOUR HUSBAND! Me, my father committed suicide because he was fired by his company in order to boost profits. I found him hanged, you get it, bitch? YOU KILLED MY FATHER! He was smacking her a bit too hard. The old bag was bleeding from the nose. I swear I tried to stop him but the alcohol had increased his strength. He pummeled her with blows, aiming for her eyes with his fists, breaking a beer bottle across her nose, popping out her dentures and stuffing them up her pussy, anyway, let's just say that he decided to shorten a life that was already full of suffering, and in any case, a life that was almost finished. I guess you could call that a slip up. In any case, after five minutes (which is a long time - for example, a round in a boxing match is shorter) Mrs. Ward was no longer breathing and the room filled with the smell of shit. The Versace couch cover would have to go to the dry cleaner. Note: Italics in English in the orignal text.

-- WE SAVED YOUR ASS IN '44! MY HUSBAND DIED IN NORFUCKINGMANDY!! Regarde, CONNARD, le photo de MON MARI morte CHEZ VOUS à la D DAY!! ... -- Ecoute, la Miss. On va pas se balancer nos morts à la figure toute la soirée. Cette guerre, vous ne l'avez faite que pour exporter Coca-Cola. IT'S COCA-COLA WHO KILLED YOUR HUSBAND! Moi, mon père s'est sucidé parce qu'on l'avait viré de sa boîte pour augmenter ses bénéfices. Je l'a retrouvé pendu, tu comprends ça, salope? YOU KILLED MY FATHER! Il la giflait un peu trop. La vieille saignait du nez. Je vous jure que j'ai essayé de le retenir mais l'alcool décuplait ses forces. Il la rouait de coups, visait les yeux avec ses poings, a cassé une boutelle de bière sur son nez, a fait sauter son dentier et l'a introduit dans sa chatte, enfin bon, nous pourrions aussi considerer qu'il décida d'abréger une existence pleine de souffrance, et, de toute façon, presque arrivée à son terme, mais il me semble qu'on peut aussi appeler cela un dérapage. Bref, au bout de cinq minutes (ce qui est très long - par exemple, un round de boxe dure moins longtemps), Mrs Ward ne respirait plus et une odeur de merde a envahi la pièce. La housse Versace serait bonne pour le pressing. © 2000 Editions Grasset -- copied without permission