ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A largely lethargic and lifeless city work pondered this afternoon whether ice creams have generally gotten smaller with time – or if he’s been taking crazy pills.
Studying his soft hand, then comparing it to his rapidly melting Splice, Dennis Spearman wondered if his hand had gotten bigger, or he’s being fucked by big ice cream.
He spoke face-to-face to The Advocate in the smoking area of his generic office block in the Old City District as he ate the rest of his tangy, yet creamy treat.
“What do you think? I think ice creams have gotten smaller,” he said, taking a draw of his Rothmans Red, then having a bite of the Splice without exhaling first.
Our reporter shrugged and thought we, as a species, had just gotten bigger.
“No, I’m not sure about that. I can remember when Splices were the size of a fucking boogie board, man. When a Golden Gaytime was a bigger gay time than going to Harrods with Elton John and Freddie Mercury after a box of Bollinger,”
“It’s a shame. I’m going to take it to my local member.”
And with that, the 37-year-old directionless sales person coughed gingerly and spat a large, green-tinted smoker’s gollie out on the tiles – in plain view of a number of visibly disgusted coworkers – and went back through the revolving door to his air conditioned prison.
More to come.
