Satire is often classified as Horatian or Juvenalian (based on its similarity to the works of the Roman writers Horace and Juvenal).

• Horatian satire is relatively light and is meant to make us laugh at human foolishness or weakness.
• Juvenalian satire is harsher and is meant to make us angry at human corruption or evil.

Would you classify "Me Talk Pretty One Day" as a Horatian or Juvenalian satire?  (Make references to the reading.)          

Section: life in france Welcome to French class, where you must learn to juggle irregular verbs, flying chalk, and the constant threat of bodily harm AT THE AGE OF FORTY-ONE, I am returning to school and having to think of myself as, what my French textbook calls "a true debutant." After paying my tuition, I was issued a student ID, which allows me a discounted entry fee at movie theaters, puppet shows. and Festyland, a far-flung amusement park that advertises with billboards picturing a cartoon stegosaurus sitting in a cance and eating what appears to be a ham sandwich I've moved to Paris in order to learn the language. My school is the Alliance Francaise, and on the first day of class, I arrived early, watching as the returning students greeted one another in the school lobby. Vacations were recounted, and questions were raised concoming mutual friends with names like Kang and Viatnya. Regardless of their nationalities, everyone spoke what sounded to me like excellent French. Some accents were better than others, but the students exhibited an ease and confidence I found intimidating. As an added discomfort, they were all young, attractive, and well dressed, causing me to feel not unlike Pa Kettle trapped backstage after a fashion show. I remind myself that I am now a full-grown man. No one will ever again card me for a drink or demand that I weave a floor mat out of newspapers. At my age, a reasonable person should have completed his sentence in the prison of the nervous and the insecure--isn't that the great promise of adulthood? I can't help but think that, somewhere along the way, I made a wrong turn. My fears have not vanished. Rather, they have seasoned and multiplied with age. I am now twice as frightened as I was when, at the age of twenty. I allowed a failed nursing student to inject me with a horse tranquilizer, and eight times more anxious than I was the day my kindergarten teacher pried my fingers off my mother's ankle and led me screaming toward my desk. "You'll get used to it," the woman had said. I'm still waiting.