Gérard Depardieu

Mes amis, mes ennemis: Pensez-vous that your terrible slurs could pass unnoticed by Depardieu? Do you not know that Depardieu has his fingers in les tartes transatlantiques? Did you not know that word of your perfidy would reach Depardieu in his castle on the cliffs d’Avignon, as sure as the vibration of the struggling fly attracts the attention of the terrible spider? I am filled with rage, and brie, and une drôle du p'tit bouteille du Chateauneuf LaFitte ’78. Votre challenge est accepté, mes grands: I now consider the gants des enfants to be cast to the ground. When next you see Depardieu, I shall not be the figure of jollity and comical bemusement you know from your Green Card, but the Depardieu of cold, calculating fury of Un Pur Formalité! Do you feel it, Monsieur le Aukermain? Do you feel a cold chill down your spine? Do you feel the clammy hand of Le Mort falling upon your épaule? Do you feel your own fate winging its way across the Atlantic, slurring its words and groping at flight attendants? The eye of Depardieu has fallen upon you, Monsieur le Achemont! Pistols at dawn, sir! Choose your second, and I shall you see you upon the fields of glory! Au revoir, M. le Okkerham! Au revoir pour maintenant, et bientôt... pour toujours!