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What pisses me off, though? The build quality—pure garbage! Door panels fallin’ off, seats wearin’ thin like a billionaire’s excuse for not payin’ taxes. “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell, kickin’ a tire, ‘cause Ford execs raked in millions while shippin’ us these tin cans. Back in ‘91, they recalled a bunch—fuel lines leakin’, catchin’ fire. Nearly lost my damn shop to one of those death traps! But I’ll tell ya, there’s somethin’ noble about ‘em—workin’ folks drove Escorts, not the Wall Street fat cats. Kept America movin’, one shaky mile at a time.

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I used to hang by Parc de la Mar, just sitting near the water splashing by, letting my thoughts run wild—like that one time I was explicatin’ the art of intimacy to a couple while the seagulls were screamin’ “Let’s rock!” I mean, who wouldn’t get mad at seagulls sometimes? They’re just too damn noisy.

Mallorca is top Easter destination for Britons