One million tiny plays about France, #1

(Idea lovingly ripped off from a column in The Guardian)

Two Parisian boys, just returned from August vacation in Manhattan, practice their English, discuss their futures.

Jean-Pierre: Thibault, how are you going?

Thibault: Ugh, I go well, but the research for the work, she makes me shit. 

J.P.: You don't have the chance, you should prepare to the E.N.A. like me. This is the work of the real aristocrats.

Thibault: I find what you do completely undickable. I don't dick any of it. 

J.P.: But why you don't want to become a functionary? Do you want to work more than 35 hours a week?

Thibault: Of course not, but I don't want to work with those shitters. The idea of this makes me shit more than the research for work. Maybe I will to move to London?

J.P.: 'a'a'a'a'a'. And eat their food?

Thibault: This is true. And make love to their women? 

J.P.: There is perhaps something there. They have never had a real lover with 'Ze French Touch'. 

Thibault: I will make my little English take her foot. 

J.P.: Ah yes, she will climb the curtains. 

Thibault: It's decided. I move to London.