It was a pleasant April afternoon of raspberry ice cream dollops and cancerous polyps, or of sweets from Spain and candy canes spoiled with nicotine stains from the damned or deranged.
The air floated with a spring-like melody of screaming banshees infested with fleas, and I could not help but quaff the pleasant aroma of spring showers, foul breath, and fouler whiskey sours. I speak, of course, of Montreal; that haven of habitants and nonchalance, or of gorgeous girls and repetitive grunts.
