Au revoir french fries, hello American way

As the war in Iraq rages and the world goes mad, I have taken refuge among Blair's Lego-like walls and hallways lined with broken lockers. But little did I know that within my own school the forces of evil were already at play and that America's worst enemy lurked behind the lunch counter.

French fries! Croissants! Croutons! Does the insanity never end?

And the cafeteria is only the beginning of the subversive French presence at Blair. A walk down Blair Blvd reveals that treasonous levels of French braids and French kissing permeate the school. Yet the administration has the audacity to continue teaching students to hack and spit and choke on their tongues á la France in foreign language classes! I resolved to take action against the big, bad, beret-clad adversary.

I began my crusade with the source of the nefarious French influence at Blair: the foreign language academic support room. There I found French teacher Michael Honigsberg hard at work corrupting America's impressionable youth. Though he seemed a pleasant fellow at first, I soon discovered the sinister character hidden behind his cheery guise.

Not only did Honigsberg mock my mission to commence Operation Enduring Freedom Fries at Blair, but he refused to consider teaching Bulgarian, the celebrated language of one of America's most stalwart allies.

His forthright defiance of the example recently set by the House of Representatives, which changed the name of french fries to freedom fries, shows a troublesome ignorance of the immense gravity of this issue.

In the midst of our interview, Honigsberg's partner in crime, French teacher Rebecca Allen, strolled into the room. She and Honigsberg engaged in a rapid-fire conversation in the demon tongue. Now, I speak as much French as your average penguin, but I think I can piece together the gist of their conversation through careful analysis of their body language and tonal inflections, and through shameless fabrication.

"Did you bring the plans?"
"Of course. Is everything in place?"
"Yes. By tomorrow, there won't be a single working vending machine left in the building. Mocha milk will be a mere memory."
Maniacal laughter ensued.

Abandoning the enemy's lair, I realized that to initiate my proposal, I'd have to find a haven where I could recuperate and plan my next move. I needed to find an American eatery, a purveyor of fine home-grown cuisine. I needed to visit McDonald's.

While trying to decide which type of heart disease I would imbibe today, I noticed that McDonald's has yet to adjust its menu to eliminate the newly exposed subversion of American culture. "FRENCH FRIES" glared from the menu in a defiantly tasteless neon yellow. Warily approaching the counter, I was greeted by Fernando (if that was his real name).

"May I take your order?" he inquired.
"Will McDonald's begin selling freedom fries in the future?" I countered, hoping to catch "Fernando," the French infiltrator, off-guard.
"Uhhhhh . . . " he responded.
Aha! I thought. I've got him now!
"Don't you feel guilty about brainwashing gullible young children with your French propaganda?" I continued.

"I'll have to ask The Manager," said "Fernando." "The Manager" was clearly a code name for "Fernando's" superior in the French government. Despite his pathetic attempt at a Spanish accent to foil the FBI, CIA and Silver Chips reporters, I had conclusive circumstantial evidence that "Fernando" was a French spy. However, having no desire to be "managed" into a French prison camp and compelled by mimes to eat snails for the rest of my life, I snatched my change and McChicken sandwich and beat a hasty retreat.

After failing to reform my school and the local fast-food joint, I returned to Blair disillusioned and disgustingly greasy from my treason fries. I realized that although I had lost my battle against oppression, I am not fighting alone. McDonald's and Montgomery Blair may not be on my side. But with allies like Bulgaria, I can't lose.