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About Bologna

Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ bout findin’ a prossie, yeah? Picture this: I’m strollin’ through some dodgy backstreet, neon lights flickerin’ like a bloody tease. Reminds me of that flick I love—*Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*. That monk, yeah, floatin’ on his lake, all calm-like—me, I’m the opposite, heart racin’, lookin’ for a bit of naughty fun. “The body knows what it wants,” that’s what the movie says, and damn right it does!

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After that, we head back down. I’m feeling all accomplished, right? But then, we hit the town again, and I’m starving. We stop at this little pizzeria on Via Garibaldi. I order a margherita, and it’s like heaven on a plate. Seriously, I could eat that every day. But then, the waiter spills water all over me. I’m soaked! I’m like, “Really, dude?!” But he just laughs and says, “You needed a shower anyway.” I mean, fair point.

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