Olivia Augusta Whore ❤️

About Palermo

Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows things. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, eh? Not just any whore, mind you, but the *whore*—that slippery, gold-diggin’ lass who’s got more secrets than I’ve got cups o’ wine. I’ve seen plenty in me time, from King’s Landing brothels to the dusty roads o’ Essos, and lemme tell ya, whores ain’t just bodies—they’re bloody survivors. Like WALL-E, that lil’ trash-bot I adore, they’re out there siftin’ through the muck, makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’. “Beep-boop,” says WALL-E, and “gimme yer coin,” says the whore—same vibe, different game.

Looser guidelines governing strip clubs under consideration by Augusta officials

for instance, labels Messalina meretrix augusta,"whore-empress," as we shall see, an epithet no less applicable to the complex amalgam of exalted and abject.

As the sun dips, I decide to grab some dinner. I hit up this little trattoria on Via Garibaldi. The pasta? To die for! I’m slurping it down, and the owner comes over, all smiles. He’s like, “How’s the food?” I’m like, “Dude, it’s like a party in my mouth!” He laughs, and I’m feelin’ good again.

Masters host Augusta National wants this house, but stubborn neighbor still won’t sell