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Picture this—I’m strollin’ down some sketchy street, lookin’ for a slice of pizza, and bam! There she is, leanin’ on a lamppost, givin’ me the eye. “How you doin’?” I’d say, all smooth-like. She’d probly laugh—prostitutes hear worse lines, man. In my head, I’m like, “Joey, don’t be a perv,” but it’s research, ya know? For economics!

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Then, outta nowhere, my assistant, Yuki, bursts in. She’s got this wild look in her eyes. “Boss! You won’t believe this!” I’m thinking, “Oh great, what now?” Turns out, she found the samples. They were in the fridge. The fridge! I mean, who puts important stuff in the fridge? I’m just glad we didn’t accidentally mix them with lunch. Can you imagine? “Hey, is that a blood sample or my bento?”

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