some lives are worse than others but the stories are all the same

with a head in his hat and feet in his shoes he left the house, whistling a tune; he stopped whistling when he was hit by a breeze. that’s in short what happened in the first five minutes. then man joined the first queue he saw. people were queuing for all sorts of things, depending who you cared to ask. in the evening everyone remaining in the queue was arrested for loitering, the man decided to leave the house a bit earlier next time. due to an administrative error, however, the man was flown to an undisclosed location where he had to endure interrogation, abuse, torture, one civil war, two violent uprisings, a series of civil unrest and two general election, the second preceeded by a bloodbath during which the winning party promised to do away with all those responsible for the bloodbath, the only promise they kept after the election, which caused a third bloodbath and the survivors sent the man home. on return he joined the queue outside his house, he felt confident but was arrested again. the story gets a bit repetitive here.
is that a true story, said breadroll.
based on one, said sponge.

someday somehow the same must happen again to someone

is that the day we’ve waited for? hardly is. never, not this one.
these were the comments received to the question; we could have other comments but are content with these ones. they are better than none at all.
thus spoke sponge.
certainly there was no need for him to say that.

same day different shit

same corner, said sponge i see. we just went around corners.
yes, said breadroll, but i reply just to have a conversation, not to hold it.
ok then, said sponge.

same story

sponge, breadroll and block of wood sat on chairs. other things happened, too. too much to tell.
same story, different day.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.