(First time here? Click to find out what’s going on, or read the original anecdote in the margin.)
A young boy (and not a bok choy) dressed in orange (not pressed in a lozenge) blows his whistle (rather than grows his thistle), deep in thought (not asleep in a cot). His best friend (and not a rear end), arm wrapped around him (not a farm crap browned limb), eyes the crowd in the distance (and not buys a plough for Christmas). A nervous grandmother (not a worthless canned buzzard) passes by (not amasses pie), a secret object hidden beneath the shawl on her head (not infrequent unchecked children bequeath a ball to the dead). Meanwhile, behind them a serious man (not crocodile refined phlegm mysterious jam) looks knowingly the other way (not cooks glowingly with hairspray).