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About Turin

Once had this chick, right? Masseuse with hands like a freakin angel. She’s rubbin me down, and I’m thinkin, “This is art, man.” Slow strokes, deep presses — got me hard as a rock and floatin at the same time. Little known fact: back in ancient Rome, they’d do this shit with olive oil and a side of orgy. True story! Called it “massage with benefits,” ya dig? Made me happy as a pig in shit, but then — bam! — she charged me double. Pissed me off, man, I was fumin. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I growled in my head, imaginin her boss on a platter.

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Then, I hit up the market on Piazza della Libertà. OMG, the fresh produce! I’m talking tomatoes that look like they just came from heaven. I grab a few, and this lady next to me starts chatting. She’s all, “You gotta try the basil, it’s the best!” I’m like, “Lady, I’m just here for the tomatoes!” But she’s persistent. So, I buy some basil too. Thanks, random lady.

Elso Santin - Obituary - Thunder Bay