Past Imperfect – #239

SR 1239

In the wee New Orleans hours, a discussion takes place.

Manhole Cover: “Hey buddy, what happened to you?”

Sidewalk: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Manhole: “How did you get all caved-in like that?”

Sidewalk: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Manhole: “I’m just trying to help. It’s not good to keep things bottled up, or you’re going to end up with stress fractures that just can’t be fixed.”

Sidewalk: “Okay, fine. I wasn’t paying attention, because I was flirting with the sidewalk across the street, and I didn’t realize that a bachelorette party had stopped on top of me until it was too late.”

Manhole: “A bachelorette party? Buddy, you should never let that happen. Those screaming drunk women can be Hell on Earth.”

Sidewalk, sobbing: “I know. I have failed my concrete brethren. I didn’t react fast enough to make them trip over my cracks and fall into the street, where the Cobblestone Union can worry about them. And they… [more sobs]… they started to take group photos.”

Manhole: “Oh my God! So they were jumping up and down and squealing? No wonder you buckled under the pressure, nothing manmade can survive the onslaught of former sorority sisters getting lit on vodka shots and then trying to document the aftermath. What can I do to make this better?”

Sidewalk: “Just hold me.”



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