Pear of bastards

A pear of bastards.

That was the pear I just ate.

Pears are my favourite fruit. The feel really special in your mouth. They taste a bit like nail polish. The texture is like the sand at the bottom of a fish tank.

They are the best.

They have only been my favourite fruit for the last twenty minutes. I'd forgotten all about them.

I'd say that I went through the last two years without thinking about pears at all. I'd heard the word said, but it never went beyond that.

Once recently someone said they liked pear cider, and I absentmindedly agreed. But I never thought about what it meant to like pears. It was as automatic as saying sorry when you almost walk into someone.

But now I know all about pears!

Pears are classy and timeless. You can trust someone who likes pears. Every cunt eats apples. Oranges are messy and can blind you with their acidic jets. Bananas are to be eaten joylessly to keep you going, or as part of an elaborate dessert.

But pears are very special.

Here's a true story, if you enjoy them:

Yesterday I took wee Chub-Chub out onto our porch for a look at the street. Next door there was three people outside gathered outside the stairs, around a stove on the ground. A man and two women.

Montreal is famous for its windy outdoor staircases. They are on postcards and all shite like that.

These fuckers were trying to lift a cooker up the stairs, the man and one of the woman was.

Because I'm a nice wee fella, I offered to help, if someone would hold Sarah.

I helped the man lift the cooker up the winding staircase, and a girl held Sarah. I waved hello from the balcony to a puzzled Sarah in the stranger's arms.

-Regarde ton papa!

It was the right thing to do.

I am a nice wee fella.

I wonder what Sarah makes of all this, or anything? A load of random shite going on around her, and she is none the wiser to any of it.

She tried green beans today. Fucking hated them.