Papa Schtroumpf’s Miraculous Metaphors

Schtroumpf.  This is the overly complicated French translation for “Smurf”.  Need there be a French translation for “Smurf”?  What can “Smurf” possibly mean in the French language that would make it necessary to utilize this moniker that more closely resembles the name of a bacterial infection than a jolly blue cartoon character?  “Oh my, did you here about poor John Smith? . . . (in a whispering voice) . . . He’s got the Schtroumpf”.  Could “Smurf” be a French euphemism for Vagina?  If you were to call someone a Smurf here in France, would they be terribly offended?  Schtroumpf could just as easily be mistaken for a working part in a German diesel motor.  This is not the first time I have run into odd ball translations when there doesn’t seem to be a need for one.  The French language is chock full of them.  Not a wonder I can’t wrap my head around this shit.  Smurfs are fictitious.  The name is made up to begin with.  Why make up another?  A Smurf is a “Smurf” for God’s sake!  Stop making things complicated! 

I can certainly appreciate the need to translate English titles for popular programming so that the viewing public knows what to expect.  Even here, however, things easily get way out of hand.  “Bob l’Eponge” for example. . . any idea?  Sponge Bob, of course.  That one actually makes a great deal of sense.  So too is the case with La Petite Maison dans la Prairie.  I don’t even need to translate that one for you.  But, what about “Papa Schultz”?  Anyone . . . Anyone?  That one is Hogan’s Heroes . . . not even close!  Yet somehow they leave “American Dad” completely unmolested.  What gives?  Did they really think no one would notice if they just started making shit up on their own?  It would seem to me that when a word doesn’t have a solid definition in any native dictionary, there shouldn’t be a need to Frenchify it. Better yet, why not stick with the original English title?  You don’t catch us throwing The Miserable Ones on the marquee for a performance of Les Miserables.  I know what you are thinking.  How can I compare Victor Hugo’s masterpiece with Hogan’s Heroes?  Fair enough, but you get my point.  If the show is entitled “House”, why do they need to add the “Doctor”?  That’s right . . . Dr. House is how it is affectionately referred to here in France.  Oh well, I guess some mysteries in the world are better left un-decoded.  I will just grin and bear it.  I don’t watch that much French television to begin with, so not knowing how to tell what time "Docteur Quinn, femme medecin" is playing isn’t going to kill me.

Finding myself with a bit of time on my hands and little interest in re-visiting a lost episode of Les Simpsons, I decided to read back through this project and noticed a remarkable theme . . . aside from frequent discussions relating to bodily functions . . . the wife doesn’t love those.  No, there seemed to be a crap load (that one is for the wife) of metaphors and analogies packed into these dysfunctional pages.  It seems I am completely unable to describe a set of events without drawing some comparison to a completely unrelated topic.  Unable to simply describe the way in which my car pleases and displeases me, I choose to liken it to a relationship with a woman.  The more I read, the more I became digusted with myself.  Starting to think it is an illness of sorts.  Could I be addicted to the literary slight of hand?  Perhaps it is a need to disguise the disappointing and mundane details of my life with frilly prose that compels me.  Or perhaps, I simply spend too much time alone and my higher cognitive function is finally beginning to unravel.  Either way, I am going to make an effort to drill down on this overuse of analogy and metaphor in hopes that the end product will be something more than really compelling reading material to be left next to the toilet (another one for the wife).  For now I bid you a good evening and will catch back up with a much more literal piece as soon as time permits.  R.