Joyeux Noël, cheries! Is it not wonderful to see the snow descend to the ground to bring the clouds to the earth? Is it not beautiful to see the naked trees covered in fluffy white beauté? Ah, it is like a soft, cold, wet dream covered in snowflakes. I love l’hiver, and I especially love le Noël. We have this wonderful tradition in French Canada called Le Reveillion where everyone eats good food and drinks good wine and goes to l’église and then comes home and eats more food and drinks more wine until you pass out sous l’arbre de Noël.
Hélas, mes cheries, I am upset because I will be spending le Noël seule. I am not going home to spend it with my obstinate and horrific sister Buttercup who is busy getting fat. Contrary to popular belief, cheries, I am not getting grosse, as I am devoting the extra energy I get from my patisseries towards the discovery of the wonders of the world sans hommes.
Et alors, I write to you today about the joie de vie that is Les 12 Patisseries de Noël. Everybody knows about the 12 Days of Christmas, well except for the people who do not celebrate Christmas and for those people I do apologize and mean no offense. Unless of course your name is Gabriel Miller, then you most definitely do not deserve to celebrate the most joyous of times of the year for the horrific way you have treated me since my mother called me. But Christmas is not a time to spend negative energy towards people who have ill intentions towards you. It is a time to spend celebrating, and making merry. Voyons, let us begin the celebration!
Our first pastry of Christmas is of course the croquembouche. Le croquembouche itself resembles a Christmas tree, decorated with wonderful p’tit boules de pâte à choux, each one filled with la crème anglaise. Speaking of anglaise, it is shameful how much negative energy Gabriel wasted in his frustration about the ending of our chat instead of being adulte and mature about things and contacting me to talk about it. For you see, I was going to bake and send un petit croquembouche to him as a little gift, but now I look at the tree and I am forced to eat it.
Our second pastry of Christmas is of course le pain au chocolat. Comme tout le monde sait, the only thing meillieur que le sexe est le chocolat. Alors, on those days when it seems that men are nothing but disappointments and heartbreakers, the best thing to do is get a nice cup of chocolat chaud (or if you must, the Starbucks chantico is an adequate substitute), put on some soothing musique like La Bottine Souriante and enjoy l’orgasmique pain au chocolat and forget all about the lesser sex.
Our third pastry of Christmas is les madeleines. Who can resist a little pastry named after such a kind and sweet little girl? Well I can think of one person who can easily do so who has the same initials as a large manufacturer of vehicles in the United States.
Our fourth pastry of Christmas is le bûche de Noël. Oh if you have never had le bûche in its entirety, then you have simply not lived. It is doux, riche, épée, and reminds me of notre amour in that le bûche is also dark and mysterious with hints of green at the top.
Our fifth pastry of Christmas is le pain d’épices, which in German is called Lebkuchen and in Swedish is called Pepparkakor. I do not know what it is called in English, but I do know that you can make little houses out of them, and little men also, so that you can paint a face and golden hair on their head and dress him with black mesh gloves and rock star sunglasses and a glam rock suit so that he looks very lovely and delicious and then of course you bite off his head because he does not use his brain to communicate with you.
Our sixth pastry of Christmas is not exactly a pastry, but one needs variety at all times of the year. It is the humble meringue, which is a light, refreshing treat that makes your tongue feel as if it is walking on a cloud. It is made by pumping egg whites full of air and then baking them in an oven full of more hot air, which dries them out and makes them into the beautiful little jewels that they are. Unfortunately, hot air does not always make things beautiful, and sometimes it can make people appear to be full of promise and hope, only to let you down when the hot air is gone and they have dried out and left you waiting for their next call.
Our seventh pastry of Christmas is les coeurs de pâte brisées, the little puff pastry hearts that are baked until golden brown and sprinkled with rock sugar. They are delicious, sweet, and very delicate, much like the heart of a little French Canadian girl who only wanted to show the passions of life to her little friend.
Our eight pastry of Christmas is les macarons. But who does not love les macarons because of their crazy star-shape, their sweet chewy coconut centre, and their general fluffy fun?
Our ninth pastry of Christmas is la galette des rois. What better way to celebrate the birth of the King of Kings than with a cake created to honour all kings? Oh, I must apologize if I am sounding too religious; it is the influence of my last petit ami, who was a religious fanatic a few months ago, and may have washed my brain with his beliefs.
Our tenth pastry of Christmas is le gâteau truffe – a formidable flourless chocolate cake that makes you feel it is the sole purpose for your tongue to exist. There is nothing more rich than the gâteau truffe. Except for the richness that new love brings to your heart. And, much like when the gâteau est fini, you feel the emptiness of your heart when there is no longer the familiar buzz of the cell phone with a petite message du texte from the one who had once filled your heart.
Our eleventh pastry of Christmas is le croissant simple. One must start the day and end the day with something simple and pure, if only to cleanse the palate of the horrific memories of loves gone past. A little croissant, a little butter, is all that it takes to wash away the memories of the ones who toyed with your emotions like they were wind up walking nutcracker dolls.
Our twelfth and final pastry of Christmas is le millefeuille. It is now the sweetest and yet most bitter pastry of them all – giver of joy and bringer of pain. I cannot look at this pastry the same way again without becoming forlorn.
I hope you all get a chance to enjoy the flavours of Christmas this year, and please, feel free to take longer than twelve days to enjoy yourself, cheries!
Grosses Bises a (Presque) tous,
Salut mes cheries! It is with a heavy heart that I open my laptop to write to you today. For you see, just when I thought that everything was going roses dans la vie, the whole world was turned upside down on its head.
Tout le monde believes I am full of the hatred, but that is not indeed so. I am just very sad. I am sad that my heart has been broken, and someone whom I believed I could have trusted has abandoned me in the face of all adversity.
This whole situation began when we first learned that Dierdre was moving to Paris to marry her then beloved, Michel. Gabriel, whom I have had many battles with in the past with, was upset, hurt, betrayed. And so I tried my best to comfort him in the best way I know how, with words, wine and le bon repas. And it made him happy, and nice, and I believed that I was helping him to get over the hole that Dierdre had left in his heart.
But then Gabriel flew to France, dans le temps de la plupart de la violence, to rescue his friend from what he believed was not to be her destiny. Peut-être qu’il a raison, peut-être que non. I was left wondering what kind of man would sell his most prized possessions to fly over the moon for his copine and yet this man could not even spend the dix sous it would cost to send me a text message saying, ”Gone 2 France. Look after site. <3 G.” In return, the friend that is rescued thanked not Gabriel but a stranger, someone she will never meet, Trent Reznor, for making her see the sense.
I expressed my sentiments to Gabriel during a chat we had soon after he returned. I wanted to feel special again, and wanted him to feel special, too. Below is a portion of our chat:
Mimi: et oui it was formidable!
Gabriel: i don't know what that means, but it sounds AWESOME. glad you had fun
Mimi: formidable means very good
Gabriel: so many of the people on WTC talk shit about that kind of stuff, like I can't have any fucking interests other than Trank -- so lame. they're just missing out
Mimi: it makes me sad that Dierdre did not get married because of Trent
Gabriel: I don't know if it was because of trent exactly... i mean... it's not like michel was a good guy
Mimi: you are a good friend to her but I do not think she appreciates how good of a friend you are. I wanted you to know that I think you are un homme formidable
Gabriel: thanks. everybody's so bitchy sometimes, just talking about how hot trent is all the time (*yawn*), and I'm really glad you're on the site with something on your mind other than getting TR into bed
Mimi: parce que there is someone else I would like to get in my bed, mon cher. perhaps someone who is more, how you say, attainable
Gabriel: really...and what did you have in mind exactly?
Mimi: well, as you know, I have my Winter Break coming up from l'ecole, et I need a vacation. Perhaps I could come to California and you could show me around. I would make it worth your while, cherie. you know, i am a pauvre etudiante, and would need a place to stay.
Gabriel: i'll just be in a studio apartment. it might be a little cramped. but we can always share the bed
Gabriel: no funny business, of course
Mimi: there is nothing funny with what i have in mind, cherie. I take these things very seriously
Gabriel: oh yeah? what would you do? turn me into a little french desert for your dining pleasure?
Mimi: oh, mon cher, but of course I would cook for you. And then you can take apart the layers of my millefeuille
Mimi: very slowly
Mimi: because of course it is very creamy, sweet, and rich
Gabriel: sounds appetizing... but what if the batter was not properly mixed?
Gabriel: what if i had to... stir it for you?
Gabriel: i have many utensils. many naughty utensils
Mimi: oh cherie, there is no batter for millefeuille. It is very delicate pastry, with thin little layers of creamy sweet custard, and rich, dark chocolate. You really only need your tongue to take the layers apart. Oh and maybe one of your utensils.
Mimi: i can show you how if you are nervous at first because each millefeuille is different
Gabriel: i would start by licking the outside gently at first probing with my tongue, to taste the sweet custard inside
Gabriel: is that correct?
Mimi: ah oui...c'est correct! absolument!
Gabriel: or do you prefer if I softly suck at the layers, until the custard spills into my waiting mouth?
Mimi: oh mon dieu! that is perfect! that is
Mimi: oh CALICE DE TABERNACLE. Fuck. sorry, cherie
Gabriel: do you not like the way i suck the custard??? what?
Mimi: my mother is calling me on the phone
Gabriel: YOUR MOTHER!!!
Mimi: sorry, cherie i must go. I will talk to you later. I'm sorry
Gabriel: tell her you'll call her back!
Gabriel: we're talking about eating pastries here, goddammit!
MimiJonesTaylor has gone offline.
You see, mes cheries, I have come to realize that men are not like pastries. Les pâtisseries will always give you pleasure and comfort and never disappoint. They will never call you horrible names because your mother calls you at in appropriate times. Les pâtisseries will always make you smile. You are never lonely if you are holding a pain au chocolat, and there is simply nothing sexier than a galette des rois.
It seems to me, mes cheries, that my many disappointments this year have come from les hommes. First of all, Michel – he was supposed to give Dierdre the happy-ever-after ending that we all long for in notre monde romantique, but he turned out to not be the man that we had hoped for our Dierdre. He disappointed her because he could not allow her to be herself within the confines of their relationship. The next disappointment to me has been, and I am afraid to say this, but I am more afraid if I do not say it, is notre amour. Trent has disappointed me because of the power he holds over us, in particular, Dierdre, maise, bex, my demi-soeur Buttercup, and many of the other-wise women of intellect who are reduced to nothing but drool buckets when they speak of him. But most of all and finalement, I am the most disappointed in Gabriel. Of course, I should have known better that he was nothing but a common, inhibited Anglophone male ever since he censored my artistic creation, but I always believed that I could help him to understand the ways of la beauté, les arts, et l’amour. And now that he has departed on this voyage without so much of a word to me, except for a very passif-agressif message in his final paragraph, I am left to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and drown my sorrows in the only thing worth drowning them in, un bouteille de Ch. Pétrus 1964. Your chalice and concert ticket may have been worth the price of your friendship with Dierdre*, but you should not have devalued the friendship you could have had with me, which would have been of equal or greater value if you had given us the chance, mon cher.
*Airfare from LAX – Charles de Gaulle last minute – approx. $3000.00 USD. Value of Ch. Pétrus 1964 Pomerol in mint condition - $3500.00 USD.
Bonsoir, mes cheries! You must forgive my absence from le forum for this past while. I have been simplement devastated by the tragedies that have happened in L’Amerique du Nord over the past few weeks. In a matter of hours, many of my Cajun brothers and sisters were washed away by the cruel hand of notre Seigneur. Those who survived were left with very little, except la bonté des étrangers.
In tribute and in mourning, I followed the tradition of les Cajuns, les Acadiennes, les Canadiens-Français and celebrated their lives lived with an enormous fête. And so, mes amis, I must tell you about the most wonderful of Cajun dishes, Le Turducken. It is simply merveilleux! You take a chicken, debone it, stuff it with Oyster Dressing, then you stuff the chicken inside of a duck, which has already been deboned. Then you fill the rest of the duck’s cavity with Andouille Dressing. Then you take the duck and stuff it inside of a turkey (deboning is optional but optimal for the turkey), and fill the rest of the cavity with Cornbread Dressing. You throw the whole thing in the oven at 400 degrees until it is done. While it is cooking, you may want to have some crawfish étouffée and a bowl of seafood filé gumbo, just to whet the appetite while watching Trent and his sad face on ReAct Now.
As if the events in la Nouvelle-Orléans were not already so tragic, there was worse news to come. My heart broke again this weekend after hearing about pauvre petit Jerome. I hope that he will carry on to continue playing during the rest of the tour. I am sending well wishes to Jerome, along with a care basket of some heart-friendly foods, such as a lovely 1969 Ch. Pétrus, a jar of Mimi’s homemade roasted macerated garlic in olive oil, some McCann’s Oatmeal, and some beautiful, dark, Belgian chocolate, with a bottle of low-dose aspirin and loving kisses placed atop of each.
And then, I received some very frantique messages from ma soeur, Buttercup, who was screaming about reading the new page at EmportantLesChaînes. And so, as I started to munch on my second dozen of chocolate pecan pralines, I read the little entry by Gabriel and his little poème and his experiments at the NIN show in San Diego. And I was in shock, mes amis. Voyons…there is a tragedy happening on the stage as an integral member of our most beloved band is being taken away in an ambulance, leaving notre amour Trent in shock and with a face more pale than a light roux, et alors Gabriel LeCharogne decides to baise un salop de chier dans un coin de la salle. But of course! It would be the most natural thing to do in the face of a tragedy. Much like the people in La Nouvelle-Orléans, (and now, les citoyens of Houston, Texas awaiting the new hurricane) whose first instinct, when they see the 200 mph winds and the rapid rising levels of water, is, I am certain, à baiser tous en vue.
My heart is saddened by the complete shallowness of Gabriel. First, he tries to censor my workmanship, simply because he does not like a couple of phrases that I was using. And now, when the hearts of everyone in the hall, everyone listening on the cell phones broadcasting the concert around the world, and everyone glued to NIN.com were all aching and praying for Jerome’s health, Gabriel was thinking about how quickly he could bring his thoughts of lust to life. To me, that is the most tragic loss of all. Someone whom I once admired for having integrity and soul has thrown it away for a pair of shiny pants and a quick lay. I am most unimpressed, mes cheries. In fact, I think I may just start on my fourth dozen of pralines.
Bonsoir Mesdames (et Monsieur LaHaine)! I am writing to you today from the beautiful vineyards of Prince Edward County in Ontario, Canada, sipping on a glass of baco noir. The summer rain is covering the valley in a blanket of mist, as the warmth of day meets the cool of evening. I have just finished a lovely little amuse gueule of pâté de foie gras avec truffles et croutons, and I am just being served my venaison avec asperges a l’hollandaise et pommes purées.
So I have had a week to reflect on the malicious hand of censorship that befell me. I am no longer angry. I am actually very sad. I am sad that Monsieur LaHaine has lost the purity of his soul and his sense of courage. I do not know what he is doing in the desert, but I hope that he rediscovers these things, because they are that which drew us to him in the first place.
Speaking of courage, it seems that Monsieur Formidable needs a large dose of this from all of the hatred he is encountering in the southern hemisphere. I believe, mes cheries, that it is this influx of hatred circulating in the world that has caused Trent to become ill. Our states of health are tied in with the atmosphere surrounding us. When we are full of joy, laughter, and love, our immunities are stronger that the bulging muscles on the arms of Monsieur Formidable. But, even if our hearts are full of joy, if the atmosphere surrounding us is full of stress, negativity, disdain and hatred, it plagues our soul and our physical beings are weakened by this psychological warfare.
By now, you must have read the critique of the concerts from Australia. You have seen the maliciousness spread by Monsieur LaHaine on this site. And I am certain that you have read many other criticisms about Trent on sites where we are no longer allowed to tread, and various other forums. All of this anger, hatred, jealousy, and negativity reverberates around the world and is directed at Trent’s spirit, and now it is catching up with his physiology. Le petit pauvre is now becoming ill, and will need to repose in order to continue with his fall tour in North America.
But what will happen when he returns home? For one thing, je te jure, mes amies, that all of the people who are non-Spiral members will backlash against those of us who are, because we will get to touch the hand that feeds, and then there will be more rioting and gnashing of teeth, and this will further wear down the stamina of Trent.
It is time to stop the hatred against Trent. If we want him to feel better, then we must all be positive. We must band together in a solidarity of love, and pass these vibes throughout the universe to Trent, eradicating all hatred from our thoughts and minds (and website editors-in-chief) so that he will be able to survive the remainder of his touring days without befalling any other ailments.
Et maintenant, my venison is finished, and now I am moving on to a little piece of gâteau de Chopin with a little glass of Vidal Icewine. In tribute of spreading the love and overcoming the hatred, and to Trent’s health, I raise my glass and share with you this little poem, inspired by the words of Trent Reznor, and dedicated to the eradication of Monsieur LaHaine in the hopes that the pure and benevolent Gabriel Miller will emerge from underneath yet again, full of hope and inspiration:
The Illness of the Soul
a get-well poem
by Mimi Jones-Taylor feat. (the currently ill) Trent Reznor
Smashed up my sanity
Smashed up integrity
Smashed up what I believed in
Smashed up what’s left of me
Burning scarlet covers your healthy skin
Yet the show must go on, say you
Showcasing your wares to the unbelievers.
How they cast your efforts into the sewers!
Still, you go on playing and placating them
Quel justice au monde de la haine!
Watching the hole it used to be mine
Just watching it burn in my steady systematic decline
Of the trust I will betray
Give it to me I throw it away
After everything I’ve done
I hate myself for what I’ve become
You are stronger than you realize;
Leave their decaying stench behind.
Look to us to give you what you need now, with
Our hands reaching out from what could be your heaven
Come to where the clockwise swirling waters of joy comfort you
And you shall feel whole again.
Salut, mes copines! I am writing to you from a WiFi connection in the wilds of Northern Ontario, from a little patisserie that I managed to find during my creative depression. They make the most heavenly brioche here. And I love brioche. For those of you who have never experienced the thrill of brioche (like M. LaHaine, I am certain), let me try to explain. Brioche is found in that luxurious baked world between croissant, pain and croquembouche. It is a little piece of heaven, made with flour, eggs, butter, just a teeny pinch of salt and sugar, a little yeast, and lots of love and care. Brioche simply melts in your mouth, and slides down your throat leaving behind a trail of happiness. Sometimes, one may want to increase one’s pleasure with a little bit of strawberry preserves, but only a little – brioche is meant to be pure, untouched. Brioche is the bread of love. And they must be seulement des fraises in the preserves – none of those chemicals used to make the food a special colour, or a special flavour. Why on earth would anyone want to eat fake food products? It disgusts me to think of all of the recycled Evian bottles that go into one Kraft Slice. I am certain that M. LaHaine consumes such plastic food on a daily basis. All of those edible oil products can turn your mind into a black, scarred field of hatred.
Alors, I have mon iPod here with me, listening to the soothing voice of our one common love, Monsieur Formidable. I decided to go a little, how you say, retro and listen to The Downward Spiral. I know that this CD is loved by all, including M. LaHaine. How can anyone not love this masterpiece of music? You know, there are certain songs on this magical CD that causes the act of eating brioche to bring one’s fantastical thoughts to life.
I think maybe next week, upon his return, I will bake M. LaHaine a petite brioche, so that he may perhaps remember what it is like to feel loved. For you see, Mesdames, I believe the problem with his jalousie is that he no longer knows what it is like to feel the joy of having someone call you “cherie” or “p’tit choux”; the joy that fills you with les arc-en-ciel dans le coeur, very much in the way brioche does to your taste buds.
Et alors, all of this talk of brioche, l’amour et LaHaine has led me to write another little poème with the assistance of notre objet d’amour, featuring the most virtuous love song written by Trent Reznor:
Le Goût de
(dedicated encore to M. LaHaine)
A duet of words
By Mimi Jones-Taylor and M. Trent Reznor
Here is a
blanket Need You
To comfort your soul Dream You
As she mourns the loss Find You
Of your inner artist Taste You
Cry you bitter
tears Fuck You
Inside my mouth Use You
Pour your poison words Scar You
Inside my ears Break You
Your soul is
hungry Lose Me
Sit at my table, and Hate Me
I will prepare a feast Smash Me
To cease her rumblings Erase Me
You search for a
new muse Kill Me
With eyes sealed by hatred Kill Me
Let me dab them with silk Kill Me
And open them to your future Kill Me
First of all, thank you very much to Dierdre for allowing me to have this little space while Monsieur LaHaine is acting out Trent Reznor’s “Fragile” era persona in the desert of California. Perhaps he will also compose a piece of music as inspirational as “No, You Don’t” during his voyage. At least I will be able to communicate to you dear readers free from fear of the mighty bold capitals.
I am in consultation with my sister, who is a copyright lawyer, about what can be done in this instance. She has advised me to not say any more on this matter for the time being, including revealing Mr. Miller’s real world name (John A. Malm, Jr.).
In the meantime, I have decided to share a little poem I created hier soir, while I was drowning my sorrows in some crêpes suzettes with Madagascar vanilla ice cream at the local crêperie. It features a sample by someone else whose creativity I’m sure M. LaHaine would also annihilate if he could figure out a way past the firewalls of Robert Sheridan:
Il ne peut pas me voir en peinture
(dedicated to Monsieur La Haine)
par Mimi Jones-Taylor (featuring Monsieur Formidable)
I hate you Gabriel Miller.
I hate the very ground you walk on.
I hate that you destroyed my child with forty-six keyboard strokes.
You gave me a reason
You gave me control
I hate that you have stirred this
beast within me; and she
Longs to pound you into the ground
As you raze my inspired spirit.
I gave you my purity
My purity you stole
This odium of yours
Yearns to be suppressed by a ball gag
Or do you fear the feelings rising inside your body?
Am I just too stupid to realize?
Je te jure, mon ami
Je vais te baiser
Jusqu’à tes lèvres commence à sainger.
It comes down to this
And your strain it gets under my skin
Tu me fends le coeur.