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About Malmo

I knew this guy once—Jimmy, total schmuck. He’d “find a prostitute” every Friday, like clockwork. Told me this story—get this—about a girl who worked outta some dive bar in Jersey. She’d hum showtunes while, uh, “negotiating.” Showtunes! Can you believe it? I’m laughin’ my ass off, but also—kinda pissed. Why’s she gotta ruin *Oklahoma!* for me? I’m yellin’ at Jimmy, “That’s sacred, man!” He just shrugs, like, “Larry, chill.” Chill? Me? Never!

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When I get there, it’s a whole scene. People are grilling, music’s blasting, and I’m just standing there in my shepherd gear. I feel outta place, but whatever. I see Erik, and he’s like, “Bro, you made it!” I’m like, “Yeah, but I’m not dressed for a party!” He laughs and hands me a burger. I’m like, “Okay, this is more my speed.”

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