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Douane Advocaat


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Het mag ook wel eens grappig zijn.. hier het verhaal van Ash Louis over een Amerikaanse toerist en een Franse douanier.
Veel plezier!

Welcome to Paris by Ash Louis

“This has been a long flight...” Philip mumbled to himself as the passengers began standing up in anticipation of finally exiting the plane after the eight hours of travel. Everyone began to squeeze into the aisle, which we all know is much more comfortable than just waiting in your seat.

Philip just kept flipping through the pages of Air Strip Mall (which is a hilarious pun that Philip did not let go unnoticed). Every page had something else he needed right then, while on that airplane. Like a water bowl for your dog that does card tricks. Philip didn't even care that he didn't have dog, he just knew that he needed that card trick doing water bowl.

“I've got seven. One in each color, from Magenta to Light Magenta.” The words came from the seat behind him where a woman, Anna, was sitting and talking to Philip through the space between the seats. “I brought three of them with me, just in case I run into a really bored, dehydrated canine.” She said.

The woman was most likely flirting with Philip, but Philip was very competitive and took this as bragging. He immediately flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number. “Hi, Air Strip Mall? Yes. I'll have fourteen of your card trick water bowls. Two in each color. Thank you.” Philip said, before calmly closing his phone, and turning to Anna to stick out his tongue. “Take that.”

Anna was clearly upset, as was demonstrated by the way she called Philip a jerk and walked out past him to leave the plane. Philip took this as a sign that he had won the contest... that didn't actually exist. Go Philip. Once out of the plane and into the airport, Philip couldn't contain his excitement to see Paris. The bread, the wine, the snootyness. He wanted it all. The only thing standing between him and the city of lights wasn't a thing, it was a man. A Frenchman.

“Bonjour. Welcome to Paris.” the customs agent said in a French accent that is surprisingly hard to show in writing.
“Bon-Journo!” Philip said excitedly, not quite grasping the French language. “May I see you Passport?” The customs agent asked Philip in a cold tone.
“You certainly may.” Philip chipperly replied.

The Frenchman looked at Philip's passport for a moment, he then took a deep breath.

“You are Philip, Oui?”

“Oui.” Philip replied, proud that he knew a French word.

“Your last name is Richards, Oui?”

“Oui again.” Philip replied.

“Do you have any proof of this?”

“My passport. Which is in your hand. That qualifies, I think.” Philip responded, not sure what else to say.

“What if I lost the passport?”

“I sure wish you wouldn't.”

“But what if I did?”

“Are you going to?”

“Most likely not, but it is possible that it could happen.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Non... Maybe.”

“Are you going to give it back to me?”

“Are you going to change your snotty, American attitude?”


“Then yes, you can have it.”

With the long winded, and unexpected ordeal finally over, Philip could now finally explore the streets of Paris. As he was about to be handed back his passport, another customs agent approached. The customs agents began to whisper back and forth to each other in French, as Philip had his hand open to take back the passport that never found it's way back to him.
The customs agents finished their whisper-sation (which is a new word I just invented for describing a conversation that takes place entirely while whispering) and the second customs agents pointed at Philip. Philip didn't know how to respond, so he just pointed at himself and asked “me?”.

“Oui. Sir, please come with me.”

With that, Philip was escorted away into a dark empty room. I don't know what happened to him next, and I hope I never do….
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