Boxes - Part III

I lean in towards Sam and am about to explain how we live in boxes and we commute back and forth to work on the same track every day and we work in boxes and then we shop in boxes and that the various protocols that we are all supposed to adhere to - wedding gifts, religious obligations, daily nutrition, condolence cards - they are all intangible boxes, the lines of which we are not to color outside of.

Before I can get one word out, however, two blonde supermodels in high heels and precariously tiny skirts totter in and sidle? swagger? strut: they strut up to the bar and, fully aware that all eyes are now solely focused on them and whatever bleary and tiresome conversation has been carried on has now ceased, they proceed to order Cosmopolitans and start to make out.

Naturally Sam isn't really aroused by any of this but he is aware that this is a rather egregious attempt to illicit attention for rather base behaviour, sort of like how I wear those tight True Religion jeans and a low cut shirt when I go to the downtown bar which is the favourite choice of lawyers to either drown their sorrows or celebrate their victory after their literal day in court, but like, a hundred times worse.

I find it really hard to continue on with my train of thought as one girl slips her hand up the skirt of the other girl and I hear the clank of a beer bottle as it falls over on the table and have a mental image of some amber Kokanee rather symbolically gushing out of the tip of the beer and pooling on the table, but this reverie is broken up when a tiger comes bounding into the bar.

"Well this is just too fucking much," I state, taking a very long drink of my substandard wine. 

Confused and larger than they seem to be when you watch them on television (even though I have a 42" television), it becomes increasingly panicked because it can't find the entrance from whence it came and it starts to bare it's amazingly large teeth and growl and I am just amazed by the size of the whiskers on this cat.  I know that cats have whiskers for navigational purposes and certainly I have had no small amount of greedy cats rubbing up against me in my day and their whiskers are delicate and they tickle, but these whiskers look dangerous: sharp and bristly.

"There's not even a zoo around here," Sam agrees.

In the meantime the tiger has caught a whiff of goings on in the kitchen and has quite successfully bounded through the swinging door and shortly we hear the terrified screams of the cooks and our waitress comes shrieking out of the kitchen, amazingly still balancing two plates on her arm and I wonder if she will deliver them to their hungry recipients.

"So," Sam states.

"Yeah," I get it.