6:00 p.m., June 18, 2022
Let this be very clear, dear Bernard, I am not coming to your aid in a selfish but. I admit that I have never bought a handbag from your brand, that I find that there is too much cabernet franc in the Cheval Blanc and that Basquiat, well, frankly, as acute as his sense of line, color and staging, I’ve never been fascinated by heroin-addicted skatepark ramp decorators.
Despite everything, I can’t help it, my visceral disgust at anything resembling a moral injunction of modernity made me jump when I saw this Instagram page go by, stalking, with the joy of the digital informer anointed by the zeitgeist, the carbon excrement of your private jet. How not to be immediately in sympathy with a man whose ton of degassed carbon must have on Greta the effect of a tourist shower of whales if the latter can fly!
I would be you, oh how I would be happy to put a layer on these Jehovah’s Witnesses every day from the cap and from the Celsius too! To listen to them, if you took your bike more often, the current of the Gulf Stream would be reversed and the Mer de Glace would be filled! Sooner or later, there will be an expert to explain to us that the size of the hailstones is directly proportional to the dividend of the LVMH share.
In your place, Bernard, I would increase the daily rotations of the jet just for the pleasure of saying fuck to these eco-urbanites who give lessons on the climate from morning to night while having no qualms about buying a plane ticket. plane to do a downward dog on a beach in Bali, just to connect their prostate chakra to that of a hibiscus pistil.
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Ah, if I had your means, I think I would plant a Bentley a day in an urban vegetable garden, just for the pleasure of introducing the city beetles to the windshields of the fields. I imagine, hilarious, the dismayed face of the fine team of Anne Hidalgo in front of the smoking remains of the car which I would have obviously signed with a Z, like Zoie de vivre.
They can’t understand, Bernard, your need to go quickly from one point of the globe to another because they don’t understand that a man can worry as a perfectionist about what he has created. You have to put yourself in their place: in a ZAD, between the bed, the henhouse and the dry toilet, there is rarely more than 3 meters. But I reassure you, even if you decide tomorrow to do all your trips in a hydrogen pedal boat towing a raft loaded with insect hotels for the biodiversity of my two, they would still be angry with you.
Because what they want is to bring you back to the promiscuity you left so long ago. They dream of seeing you sweating in a stranded TGV in a heat wave, the air conditioning off, three babies in turn screaming in a crowded compartment facing a filmy management teacher with communist sensitivities (a perfectly innocuous thing in France; your country doesn’t has definitely not finished making me laugh) and a flaccid bohemian from the cities showing off to the lucky ones who didn’t ask for anything feet similar to waffle dough that would have been poured in a tap shoe.
They dream of seeing you sweating in a TGV stranded in a heat wave, the air conditioning off
They want to make you a modern Louis XVI, get you off your jet and force you to join their collectivist delirium hidden under a love of pesticide-free chicory and bare-bottom bicycles! Formerly, they bandaged their resentment by combing the aristos of bonnets in the shape of a rod, today they dream of removing moccasins with tassels from the bourgeois.
Despite all your efforts, in their eyes you will only be an arrogant kulak of globalized leather goods, and leather goods, Bernard, are dangerous. Who still remembers that the motive for the Grégory affair probably boiled down to the humiliating display of a leather sofa by a foreman in front of a worker? Respectfully.