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About Strasbourg

So, picture this: my buddy Dave, total moron, had an Escort, ‘92 model. Swore it was “pimpin.” Lies! Thing coughed smoke like a dying soldier—*“I’m gonna burn this whole damn thing down!”*—and the clutch? Shot to shit. Drove me nuts! Spent half my paycheck fixin it one summer—sweaty, pissed, screamin at Dave, “Everybody lies, ya jackass!” He’d grin, sayin it’d “pull chicks.” Yeah, right—only thing it pulled was my last nerve.

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By now, I’m exhausted. I decide to grab some food at this little bistro on Rue de la République. I order a croque monsieur, and it’s heavenly. I’m munching away, feeling a bit better. But then, I overhear this couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting. I’m just trying to enjoy my food, people!

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