American women are charmed by a foreign accent. As long as it is delivered with an air of embarrassment at the speaker’s own ineptitude, we are enchanted.

All a young, single man has to do to attract women is mimic the phony French accent of cartoon skunk Pepe LePew, and gorgeous super-models will line up and take numbers as if they are waiting for the butcher’s $9.99 special on Porterhouse steaks. It does not matter if the gentleman in question is flat broke, ugly, and still sleeping in a water bed in his mama’s basement.

In order to speak effective phony French, one merely needs to replace every “th” with a “z”, use peculiar phraseology and incorrect verb tense, and trill those “r’s” like a cat’s phlegm-rattling attempts to dislodge a hair ball.

Here is an example of a successful pickup line from our phony Frenchman: “Excuse me, lovely lady in zee rrrred (hack,hack) dresses. I am finding zat I have not zee American monies for zee taxicab yellow. Is it zat you would helped me find my way to zee basement of my mama, where I have zee tap of barreled beer and zee bed of water? Please to tell me zat you will not be minding zee pill bugs in zee corners dark.”

It is entirely possible that the object of his affection will be so enchanted by his fumbling  attempt at English that she will begin removing her clothing right there on the street corner.

I am not sure if American men are as enchanted with accents as are the women, but I decided to find out. Hmmm, what language to use? I took a year of French in high school, but all I remember how to say in French is, “The red pen of my aunt is on the table.” If I am ever in France¬† with my aunt and she misplaces her pen, I am all set. That is of no use in his particular scenario.

I have always been fascinated with Ireland. I will try a phony Irish brogue. Dressed in traditional Irish garb, I took my post at a busy intersection. As a good looking gentleman approached, I broke into my clumsy version of River Dance and shouted, “Top of the morning to ye!”

“Are you talking to me, Lady ?”he asked nervously.

“Aye,” I answered. “How about poppin’ over to O’Reilley’s pub to lift a pint of Guiness, Patrick?”

“Who is Patrick? Lady, you are scaring me,” he said as he backed slowly away.

“When Irish eye are smilin’, all the world seems bright and gay,” I sang. “Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen,” I sang as my feet went tappity, tappity, tappity, and my skirts twirled. “Hey! where are you going, young fella?” I shouted.¬† “Are you not enchanted with my charming accent? Do you prefer French? Please to tell me zat you will not be minding zee pill bugs in zee corners dark of my mama’s basement. Monsieur? S’il vous plait?”

Well, Le shoot!

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