No A or B
Plenty of people stroll the streets of the Mile-End on this terrific morning seeking sun or something else entirely. I too explore the shimmering streets, enjoying the crisp degrees Celsius.
I spy men with silly shirts, one includes this dirty joke using the French “phoque” in lieu of “fuck” — funny? More likely uninspired. It’s not up to me, however, I’m not the humour police.
The humour police do exist, though, they’re sentencing people who love puns too much — I think I’m next in line, listed in the registry, therefore I’m on the run.
Horns honk, the vehicle ones, not those on the chests of clowns (keep in mind I’m on the run from the humour police so no clowns permitted). The honks seem useless, petty, much like the phoque shirt. So someone cut you off coming out of the petrol lot, whoop dee doo, why whine? They’ve got things to do, spots to see. Go fight them in lieu of polluting the streets with noise or just pipe down, drive on. Just don’t tell them to phoque off lest the humour police wind up hot on your heels.
Where to go from here? More stories of unfunny shirts? I much prefer poetry to twisted prose. Prose fills lines inefficiently — I enjoy coherent well spiced dishes over monstrous portions of slop. Where is the line? How much must we mold the slop, reduce it, until it is considered to possess poetic identity?
Find out next time, on the upcoming episode of Mikey’s Misgivings.
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Two hundred n’ fifty words on the dot, passing it over to Jeremy. Let’s C where you go from here.
