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About Rome

So I hit this dive bar, stinks like vodka and regret. This chick, Natasha—fake name, obvi—comes up, all hips and smirks. “You want fun, da?” I’m like, hell yea, but I ain’t payin upfront, no way! She rolls her eyes, but I’m Eric fuckin Cartman—I don’t budge! “Respect my authoritah!” I yell in my head. She’s hot, tho—makes me happy, like, damn, Russia’s got game! Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d all be grumpy babushkas or some shit.

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First off, I hit up Via Roma for my morning coffee. You know, the usual spot. The barista, Marco, he’s a legend. But today? He messed up my order. I mean, how do you screw up a cappuccino? I was like, “Dude, I asked for foam, not a milk tsunami!” I was ready to throw my cup at him, but then he flashed that goofy smile. Ugh, fine, I’ll let it slide.

Mille Miglia Green, the legendary race goes green