My last name is Coincon. To the uninitiated, Coincon is a rather hard name to pronounce, and the cidilla under the second C doesn't help matters. Most people mangle the pronounciation horribly and then cry "OMG, is that French?!?!?1/1?" I am usually able to keep from crying after such an accusation, but not always. The sauce helps.
Despite outward linguistic appearences, I'm actually Swiss. That's right, Swiss. I would make disparaging remarks about the French at this point to drive the point home, but my people are renowned for their neutrality. And chocolate. Therefore, in an attempt to stave off future traumatic experiences, I have compiled (see: pulled From Out My Ass (FOMA)) this list of ways by which the layperson may easily distinguish between a proud, versatile Swiss monolith and loathsome, cowardly French vermin. Note for the record how diplomatically I presented that last statement.
1: Observe your Subject at dinner.
-If he has before him a heaping plate, comprised of hearty, man-portioned representatives of every food group, to include the oft-maligned Beer, the Subject is a Swissman.
-If the Subject's plate looks to contain only a few patches of what might be mold from a distance, fit only to provide sustainence for small infant females or perhaps dormice, yet beside the ill-washed plate is a glass of wine so disproportionately large that one could conceivably use it to drown the aforementioned small infant female slash dormouse, the Subject is a Frenchman.
2: Observe your Subject after his morning shave.
-If the Subject's post-shave jaw is of a definative statuesque caliber, fit for crushing various rocks or gouging the eyes of the Subject's various nemesees, the kind of stony, confident chin that makes one fear for the continued verticality of any wall impeding the Subject's path, the Subject is a Swissman.
-If, despite the best efforts of myriad razor-like implements, the Subject's weedy countenance retains a pathetic, shadowy line of hair just above his upper lip fit only for bringing disdainful tears of mirth to the eyes of small infant females, the Subject is a Frenchman.
3: Ask your Subject for the time.
-If he promptly provides it to within two decimal places of millisecond precision from an exquisite timepiece that looks able to withstand a nuclear blast and still blind onlookers with its radiance, the Subject is a Swissman.
-If he holds his wrist up to the light in a vain attempt to improve the shadow resolution on his crudely hewn sundial of lower forearm ornamenture while stuggling to breathe and check the time simultaneously, the Subject is Canadian. *NOTE: A true Frenchman would have fled at the sound of your voice.*
4: Inquire as to the Subject's country's major exports.
-If the Subject lists such items as exquisite chocolates, badass army knives, sub-freezing levelheadedness, and prehensile phallusees, the Subject is a Swissman. And you should give him your number. Don't deny yourself an ironclad transcendant experience.
-If the Subject lists such items as smelly cheeses, self-fellatizing films, and capitulation, the Subject is a Frenchman. And likely speaking from behind the nearest available cover (see: method 3).
5: At a crowded party, fire a pistol into the air.
-If the Subject immediately rips off his T-shirt, waves it in the air as a makeshift white flag, and cedes the Bordeaux region to you in perpetuity, the Subject is a Frenchman.
-If the Subject bears the nearest attractive female to the ground, shields her with his body, and whispers softly in her ear "You are safe now, cherie" while simultaneously caressing her with his previously established elephant-trunk-esque wang, causing the female to moan lustfully and rip off HER T-shirt, the Subject is not only Swiss but probably also Cajun.
-If the Subject was already weeping in a corner over the accumulated facts that she is a) being ignored completely by every male at the party; b) built more solidly than most of the males at the party; and c) has more facial hair than most of the males at the party, the Subject is Canadian. Or possibly East German.
Keep these tips handy (in addition to a pistol) and you will never be caught in a Swiss/French faux pas. And hopefully I will stop crying myself to sleep at night.
