Vive le France!

Marianne, the national prostitute of the French Nation. Every single French citizen is entitled to fuck her, by law. They just have to wait in line. I mean, she can only take so much at a time, even if they are only French cocks. A nation of bed-wetters, all. Though sometimes, you'll be in line and you'll realize that it's actually a bunch of people together for a gang-fuck situation. I mean, murder is still illegal and all, so there's no death fetishists, like those creepy Americans. Vile Americans, *spit* So when she dies, of whatever she dies of, a search is made for the next Marianne. Usually it's whatever female can be ascertained to have been conceived at the exact moment of the previous mariannes death. It's kinda like the Nepalese Dalai Lama, only she's a prostitute from the day she's born, y'know, to appease all those with, uh, shall we say, more rarefied tastes? Thing is, there's no rape, or sexual abuse in France any longer All neuroses are now affixed upon the person of Marianne. Some would say that it is disgusting, and abhorrent, but who are these people, probably descendents of the 21st century western world? Who are they to judge, at least Marianne is revered, all her escapades captured for all to see… well, save for those men and women who wish anonymity, after all, we're not perverts. You sickening dilettantes, you're so removed from the food on your table, you have no idea the cost, until the cost is brought home to you. Too bad, you've already shown the table your cards, and you've put everything on the line. Your entire gaming philosophy under scrutiny, no one believes you, they all know you're bluffing, you've been caught in a bad bluff. Now you're going to pay for your sins. You can't hide, I've already lain them on the table. I call.