Dan hitched up his Speedo as high as local decency laws allowed, and tucked a pack of Malboros inside. The Fried Potatoes, Open-Mouth Kissing, and Ribbed Condom Festival had, as usual, pulled a boisterous crowd of Francophiles, who jostled for position by the handsome pageant stage.

I’m not settling for Mr. Congeniality this year, Dan thought. My outfit and talent are gold medal material. He sucked in his gut, and sashayed into the Klieg lights. A low altitude cumulus tracked his movements as he worked the stage to give the judges a good view of his chain-smoking talent. When the announcer called time, the audience pelted the stage with wheels of brie, one of which clocked Dan on the temple, knocking him out.

He came to in the first aid tent. “Did I win?”

“Naw, it was some dude with a stiff upper lip.”

“Sonofabitch, that talent’s not even French.”

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