By Ross Barkan
A pretentious douchebag claimed that Jean-Paul Sartre, a 20th century French existentialist philosopher, can only be properly comprehended in French, according to eye-rolling Stony Brook University sources.
The 21 year-old unnamed asshole floated around Tabler Quad for two hours, lecturing to any students in earshot that no one can possibly understand Sartre’s core tenets unless they are fluent in the French language. Cradling a bottle of Jack Daniels and a two dollar cigar, the shallow douche with-his-head-so-far-up-his-own-asshole-he can’t-see-the-light-of-day interrupted multiple conversations to spread his unfounded and wholly invalid viewpoint
“Excuse eh moo-ah, par lay voo francess?” the fucker asked in broken, deplorable French to no one in particular. “Is anyone acquainted with the works of Jean-Paul Sartre?”
When freshman Randy Finkelstein enthusiastically and foolishly responded that he had read and enjoyed Sartre’s landmark play No Exit, the arrogant fetus-head immediately launched into a three minute and 24 second diatribe about the poor quality of English translations of Sartre’s work.
“It’s a shame you read No Exit in English already,” said the smug prick. “Did you know that Huis Clos, the French name of the play, actually translates to In Closed Wells? I bet you didn’t. Americans are so ignorant they think Sartre actually wanted his play to be called No Exit. No Exit, really? Then why does the exit door open in the play? Exactly.”
The incorrect translation of Huis Clos (Behind Closed Doors) did not stop the cock-gobbling dunce and Great Neck, Long Island native from harassing other students during the evening gathering. When junior Rick Black argued that he understood existentialist philosophy even though he didn’t know French, the shit-tongued ass clown who never actually lived in Montpellier, France as he falsely claimed at an Alpha Nu Omega frat party last Friday, told Black that he didn’t know “what the hell he was talking about.”
“If you understood even rudimentary French, you would know that Existentialism has nothing to do with man feeling anguished because he is completely free to carve his own destiny,” he said as he chugged the last half of the Jack Daniels and pulled out a can of Coors Light from his pants pocket, “in French, destiny, or destinee, is a cognate of destinau and purlieu, meaning environmental despair, and as everyone in Europe knows, is an indicator that true Existentialism is more Freudian, Proustian, and Lincolnian than actually believed.”
As the verbal diarrhea continued to pour from his mouth, some students tried to intervene and save the night. Local hero Jim Pesci, a senior and philosophy major, calmly explained to the total ponce that his interpretation of Existentialism was not based in any kind of fact. Even after Pesci correctly pointed out that Sartre could not have possibly served in World War I (he was thirteen when World War I ended in 1918), the misguided fecal-hearted moron insisted that Sartre’s philosophy was a direct response to his service as a latrine operator in the war and that Pesci didn’t know this because he never took “Introduction to French” in 5th grade.
“Seriously man, you gotta back down,” he said, pushing Pesci aside and making his way toward a female with large breasts. “I’m philosophizing.”
The asshole with no regard for history or people then proceeded to spread his pseudo-philosophical detritus among the female population of Tabler. The self-described “metaphysical wizard” asked freshman Ashley Popovich if she had read any Sartre or Camus. When she responded “no” and began to walk away, the faux-intellectual fucknut seized her shoulder and began speaking barely discernable French.
“Mon cheri, mon cheri, wait! Haven’t you ever wondered about why we’re really here?” When Popovich timidly responded “yes,” the complete and utter waste of human life filled the air with another vapid and worthless monologue that wasted the time of everyone within a six mile radius.
“You see, Ashley, the world is a complicated place. No one knows how we got here. And Sartre, a true master of Darwin’s theory of thermal emotion, realized that God is like the Sun. He makes stuff grow and shines but you just don’t know where he is or where he came from. That’s why we’re all unhappy.”
The Sun is a G-type main sequence star located 93 million miles from the Earth. Clearly not armed with this knowledge, the rotting tree stump of a human being attempted to touch Popovich’s breast before she finally scurried away.
“I can teach you French!” he shouted to the uncomfortable onlookers who could learn more French browsing Wikipedia in five minutes than the brain-dead fucker will absorb in his entire existence.
As of press time, the living-challenged Francophile has yet to have sex with any women.
