“Listen to me, it’s only gonna get hotter from now on,” says Philly. Mick isn’t too sure of what he’s talking about for he zoned out and didn’t realise that Phillip had been babbling on, but he soon catches on taking in the true meaning.
Spring was still a ways away, but the winter’s worst seemed to be over putting an end to the malicious cold. They felt assured that winter’s mind numbing sub-artic cold with evil piercing winds would no longer be able to contently stab at them just to watch them die in a pool of smog covered slush. They counted on spring as if it were the messiah sent to save them by bringing warm nights with cool breezes coming in off the lake. Everyone would soon begin to leave their winter gear like snakes shedding an old membrane showing a fresher, newer, sexier skin. Spring was a time when people covered themselves up in flesh revealing outfits. When everything began to look, smell and feel better all over.
Winter on the other hand, specifically in Toronto, was never truly as lovely nor beautify as seen on TV. We’ve been brainwashed to believe that everything when covered under a blanket of virgin snow is absolutely delightful. Just remember not to accept everything that you see on TV, and never forget that in the middle of the word believe lays the word lie.
Sadly enough a blanket of snow is what many riff-raff, as Philly likes to call them, have to use to try to keep the Winter Bitch’s bloody cold hand from taking hold of their hearts and freezing their souls down to Dante’s innermost circle. In laymen’s terms that’s hell.
Let us not forget that Toronto’s downtown core has a maze of sub-terrarium tunnels made specially so that we can travel about on foot without having to face urban arctic conditions. We trek around like Morlocks in their caves or worse still, like rats in the sewers. So allow me to set things straight, winters in TO are colder than a witch’s tit, and that’s really fucking freezing cold in case you didn’t catch my drift.
Mick sits distracted by his own thoughts as the stage is set up for the next performer. During this intermission he contemplates all the winters Philly and he have endured throughout their life times.
Thank pollution for global warming and taking a bit of the bite off of winter.
Hatefully he recalls what each winter has done to him. How his body is more weathered than the existing landscape because of it.
He thinks, “Fuck do my knees ache,” thanks to having to cope with extreme temperature changes from having to go inside and back outside. His face burns and tingles due to being exposed to the bitter wind. He’s burnt out from having to constantly put up with his outer most extremities being on the verge of frost bite. Dealing with the uncanniness of having your limbs frozen numb and then the burning and throbbing pains related to their thawing out.
Jack Frost is a bitch!
There are also all those bed sores thanks to being bed ridden with flues and other such ailments that never stop tormenting you. And the incessant battles with viruses and bacteria, with the snow and the slush, with the people coughing and sneezing in you face, with being half sewer rat half human, with the runny noses that make Niagara seem tame, with snot rags so sopping wet that they freeze solid in your pockets, with everything associated with the god dammed mother fucking bitch ass cock sucking dick smacking cunt licking jerk off winter! Their only light at the end of the tunnel is knowing that eventually winter would come to an end and give way to the arriving spring. And this is still no great conciliation (the word con starts off the word conciliation) ‘cause spring and summer always tend to end just before they begin. And although autumn’s pretty and pleasant, it’s prelude to the winter. A prelude to war. The calm before the storm. A mocking reminder that winter will forever be their eternal stocker. Philly and Mick much like the seasons of the year follow a sequence. Spring leads to summer, summer to fall, and fall to winter. And then we come full circle to complete the entire cycle. The difference betweem Mick and Philly and the seasons is that we don’t know the true extent of their life cycles. In fact they’re a complete enigma for they never appear to be moving forward and time forbids them from moving backwards even though we are given the impression that that’s exactly the direction they’re headed in. The only conclusion that we can draw with our extensive knowledge of quantum physics is that they are currently in some sort of quasi-static condition where time moves on without them. Their lives revolve around a vicious routine of monotony. They waking up, masturbate, get up, masturbate, shower, masturbate, brush their teeth, masturbate, masturbate, and masturbate. For five days out of seven this is scheduled programme and yes, they are two of the biggest jerk-offs alive. On Saturday and Sunday they suffer from what is called Weekend Millionaire Syndrome. Loosely put, this means that you fuck the dog all week long (that is, do nothing productive) and when the weekend comes round you put your dancing shoes on, stuff your pockets with bills and all things that those bills can afford and paint the town in Technicolor as if you were the richest sheik alive. Come Monday you know that the dog’ll be waiting with its tail pointing to the sky and its asshole all puckered up as if it was gonna kiss you on each cheek.
