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Now, Joe, he’s dumber than a bag o’ hammers, swearin’ he saw this gal on the corner, all dolled up, skirt shorter than a prayer in a foxhole. I said, “Boy, you blind? That ain’t no lady, that’s a trap waitin’ to snap!” Halleluyer! He didn’t listen, ran off like, “We gotta keep movin’, Theo!”—straight outta the movie, chile! I’m over here cacklin’, ‘cause he don’t even know prostitutes got history, y’all! Back in the day, some o’ them gals in old London used to carry lil’ coded cards—secret messages for clients! Ain’t that wild? Joe don’t care ‘bout no facts, he just horny and hopeless.

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Then, just when I think the day can’t get any weirder, my old high school buddy, Erik, strolls in. He’s got this wild look in his eyes. Turns out, he just got back from a trip to Stockholm. He’s all hyped about some new pastry trend. I’m like, “Dude, we’re in Västervik! We do things our way!” But he’s not having it. He starts talking about matcha croissants and I’m just standing there, rolling my eyes.

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