How to Read the Paper
By which I mean, the paper
Yesterday afternoon I was sitting out in front of Abbott's ice-cream parlor, on Toulouse Street, in New Orleans, reading the paper and enjoying a hot-fudge sundae, when a man who was just entering the establishment -- a cis-Dad-looking fellow -- leaned back, almost unbalancing himself, to make contact (which on his end looked oddly delighted) and said:
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