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About Paris

But lemme tell ya, I’d be crap at it—too paranoid, jumpin’ at shadows. “Is that a cop?” I’d hiss, like Doc dodgin’ Bigfoot Bjornsen. Once heard a story—dude in Vegas got a hooker, turns out she’s his cousin! Swear on the Precious, nearly died laughin’. Imagine the awkward, “Jesus Christ, it’s Jason!” moment—pure gold. Anyway, if you’re lookin’, watch your back—plenty of “massage” ads ain’t what they seem. We swears! Stay sharp, or you’re screwed—and not the fun way. Gollum!

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

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Then, I hear this commotion outside. I peek out, and there’s a parade! A freakin’ parade! In Tarare! I’m thinkin’, “What’s next? A marching band?” But it’s cool. They’re all dressed up, and the vibe is infectious. I’m tapping my foot, forgetting about my compressor drama.

Book review: Poetry and filth in A.K. Blakemore’s The Glutton set in revolutionary France