Vancouver riots and werewolves in my underwear.
The days have passed, the fires are out, glass swept from the streets and the smell of burning cars no longer fills the downtown air. The masses are no longer throwing potted plants, newspaper boxes or kicking tear gas spouting canisters back at the Police. The riots are over and freedom once again runs in the streets of that city I love, that city I call home, that city called Vancouver.
But there are still werewolves living in my closet. There. I’ve said it. The monsters are real, and they are taking residence in my closet, wearing my clothing and using up my internets bandwidth allocation on doggie style porn and people wearing fur in the shower. These monsters are still left from that night in Vancouver, the nights even before the riots of sore losers and simple minded fools looking for some way to break themselves of their natural boredom they call life. The sales of cars, the tightly bound coils of bodies wearing tiny swim trunks who wear a photocopied smile in daylight only show their true colors of boredom at the cost of a police car or two.
But I’m off topic. The werewolves also wear my underwear. It might be kinky, but they only come out of my closet in the days when I’m not at home, or when I’ve had a bad day and throw a magazine across the room. Normally they are quiet, well behaved creatures living their lives normally until they have a reason, any reason – rather that is a lost hockey game or a gay East Indian couple holding hands in Surrey – to cause havoc in my underwear drawer.
What annoys me is their inability to apologize. I mean, the people who have their faces forever immortalized on the internet – burning cars, stealing coats or kicking in windows – tearfully apologized (by the way, when you cry, truly cry your nose runs, the corner of your lips turn down and you sniff a lot, not sound like a Janice Joplin record played on high speed). These creatures do not write pages and pages of how they did nothing wrong, they write nothing. It’s not like they write pages explaining how they did not burn cars, break windows, cause fights, throw objects or fight with the police. They only stole, after all. Wait … that wasn’t the werewolves; it was a car salesman … or woman. It’s not like she stood guard at an oven while other people shoved an opposing team fans into it. Is stealing truly a crime? Yes. It’s why it’s called stealing.
Off topic. Back on topic. The werewolves in my closet, and probably in yours, dear reader, are the problem. They are monsters who will use any reason to cause a ruckus with your clothing and in your underwear drawer. Then they will blame in on others, or even you, for their actions. And werewolves are tricky creatures. They will tear tail-holes in your underwear then give you puppy dog eyes asking for forgiveness … until you get that new pair of sexy underwear and there is another reason for them to go back into that drawer.
After all, they are werewolves. Monsters. They know not, what they do. Unlike people in Vancouver after a lost hockey game.
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