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Once
we'd put a little distance between ourselves and the
scary old lady (and, unfortunately, the hot rollerblader
as well), we slowed our pace a bit, taking in the last
of the sights we were to see in Cannes. Roger got
really excited when he spotted a new model BMW Mini
Cooper convertible, probably because he was still
riding on the crack high from earlier.
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I took a
photo to placate him, while he attempted to jump
in the back seat for some incomprehensible reason, failing
miserably (as his aim was far from true), clonking
his head on the the rear panel instead, then bouncing back and
sprawling in the middle of the street, the Mini logo
clearly indented in the middle of his forehead. That was pretty
cool lookin'. I helped him up and we continued on.
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We strolled past a small
art gallery with some strange sculpture out in
front of it. It was clear that the sculpture
was symbolic of the endless struggle of mankind
to get womankind to take off her shirt and
shake what God gave her, while mankind placed
dollar bills in her G-string. We saw some lady
taking a picture of it so, not to be outdone,
I did as well. It was a moving experience,
especially since I was standing in the middle
of the street and almost got run over by
another Mini, a fate which I narrowly escaped
only by grabbing Roger and quickly shoving him
between me and the onrushing car. The second logo imprinted
in his forehead didn't turn out quite as nicely as
the first, but again it was still pretty cool.
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It
had been at least an hour since our last beverage
break, so we decided to stop one more time at a little
brasserie near the train station. Roger was quite
delusional due to the multiple concussions (not to
mention the crack), and kept trying to bite the
waiter's arm every time he came over to take our
order, or to serve us, or to show the gendarmes
to our table so that they might arrest us and/or
beat us senseless.
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Eventually, we wrenched ourselves
away from the police and scooted back up to the station
and onto the return train to Nice. Back in our element,
we headed down to the Cours Saleya again for dinner, this
time choosing the Brasserie Le Saleya, where Roger had to
compensate for the smaller beer glasses by ordering more
frequently, and where I compensated for not drinking beer
by having a couple of pitchers of the house red wine. We
enjoyed our dinner whilst staring at the tall brunette
hostess as she bounced around and tried to lure people
into the restaurant, to great success due to her winning
smile, her tight outfit, and her slammin' body.
After dinner, we stumbled back to our room, and poured
ourselves into our beds early, for the next morning we
were off to Monte Carlo to see a practice race of the
Monaco Gran Prix.
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