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About Szombathely

Sometimes it’s sloppy—oil everywhere, hair stuck, whatever. I’m yellin, “More pressure, c’mon!” She’s like, “Tony, chill.” Fuck that, I’m the boss here. Best part? Stress gone, poof—like I whacked it myself. Sexual-massage, man, it’s dirty, it’s good, it’s Jersey. Whaddya think, you tryin it or what?

Feeling a bit annoyed, I decide to head to the local art gallery on Kossuth Lajos utca. I’m a critic, after all. I walk in, and there’s this exhibit on contemporary Hungarian artists. Some pieces are dope, others look like my toddler could’ve done better. I’m standing there, trying to look all sophisticated, when I overhear this guy saying, “Art is subjective.” I’m like, “Dude, it’s also sometimes just bad.”