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About Vancouver

So, check this—Ford drops the Escort in ‘68, right? Little known fact, it’s basically their “we’re sorry” to the world after some crap models. They’re like, “Here, have a box on wheels, it’s affordable, shut up already!” And people ate it up! Millions sold, man—friggin’ millions! By the ‘90s, it’s everywhere, like bad breath at a garlic festival. I saw one once, primer gray, missin’ a hubcap, and I thought, “Wow, that’s somebody’s Rolls-Royce dream gone wrong.” Made me laugh, then kinda sad—kinda like watchin’ *The Act of Killing*, y’know? “I’m not a murderer,” those gangsters say, posin’ for the camera, and I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, “Yeah, and this Escort ain’t a death trap neither!” Same vibe—delusion wrapped in denial, with a side of hubris.

Man, the vibes are wicked, wicked as hell! The nights get hazy on Rue du Centre, where broken neon signs flicker. Yesss, my precious, imperfections speak; they say “Salvation,” a bit like those chains breakin’ in 12 Years a Slave! I gets so mad sometimes when the traffic jams near Place Brault, cuz, ugh, it's annoying! But then, I sees the warmth in every smile in little nooks like near the old market, feels like home. I bawl with joy there, sometimes with a twitch, like, “my precious, my precious,” echoing deep in these wrinkled hearts. Ain't it wild? Ain't it brave?

Environment minister calls for emergency decree to protect Quebec caribou from 'imminent threat'