I am tired of your green beans.
Before you get overly excited - before you barricade L'Avenue des Champs-Élysées and set tires on fire - you need to know how much I have been afflicted by your green beans. What seems like years ago my wife, in a moment of excited weakness, decided to buy enough cans of your beans to feed the Mongol hoard. I have suffered through your insufferable cut of bean for so long that I now bemoan their existence, and yours as well.
Forgive me, France, but why - why - must you do everything your own way? Was the original, natural, normal cut of green bean not good enough for dear Mother France? That regular cut, so straight and smooth it could have been sliced via Madam l'Guillotine, feels so natural and clean in one's mouth; while your cut, that abomination of this green garden vegee, feels stringy and strange to my tongue! You've turned something so yummy into something so . . . French.
This seems to me to be the symptom of a greater problem, a complex of France. Is it that you resent your faded glory? Do you long for those Napoleonic days, when you ruled (oh, so briefly) most of Europe?
Move on, France. Move on. And please stop making your green beans.
P.S. I have a weakness for your fries.