I know that with the intense press coverage and investigative journalists delving into every aspect of my background, eventually it's going to come out — so I might as well get out in front of this story and fall on my own sword. No more stalling or hiding.
You see, I speak French.
Yes, yes, I know. By admitting this publicly, I understand that many old friends will no longer parlez avec moi, if you know what I mean (and I'm sure many of you closeted types do). I know that I could probably pass as someone who only speaks English, but I probably also speak that language too well to be President. I might be able to get away with it for awhile, pretending that I never heard of Jacques Brel (who was actually Belgian, mais on n'encule pas les mouches, n'est-ce pas?), acting as if I never drank Perrier or ate quiche, maybe buy a bowling shirt with "Mark" (not Marc!) stitched above the pocket.
Oh yes, I could laugh at Pepé Le Pew ("What is this? Oh, but of course. This little one wish to commit suicide to prove her love for me. What a sweet gesture. Nevertheless, I must prevent it.") I could hide my beret, my Edith Piaf records, my accordian, and stop eating snails. I could pretend to confuse Truffaut with truffles. I could fait semblant to disapprove of adultery. I could stop drinking kir royales. But I wouldn't be fooling anyone.
Eventually, I would be found out. Newt would point to my son's name (Maxime Charles Auguste) or that I wear a Cartier watch or that I have opinions about wine, have read Stendahl en francais, and watched Le Quatre Cent Coups sans sous-titrage.
French speakers are allowed to serve in the military. They're even allowed to marry. (I should know.) But we have not yet evolved to the point where a French speaker can become President. Thus, sadly, I must withdraw. But our cause, mes enfants, lives on.