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About Osaka

Okay, so, sex escorts—woo-hoo, they’re everywhere, right? Bikini Bottom’s got nothin’ on this! I heard—get this—a lil’ sneaky fact: back in old-timey Paris, escorts hid messages in corsets! Spy stuff, mateys! Makes me giggle like a jellyfish zap. Imagine that—bustlin’ around, whisperin’, “You ain’t got no problem, Jules, I’m on the motherfucker!”—straight outta Tarantino’s script, heh! I’m all “Wow, barnacles!”—so cool, so slick.

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First off, I hit up the local market on Kōen-dōri. You know, the one with all the fresh fish and veggies? I’m strollin’ through, and BAM! The smell of grilled yakitori hits me like a freight train. I’m drooling, man. I grab a skewer, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I see this dude spill soy sauce all over the place. Like, c’mon, bro! It’s a market, not a slip-n-slide! I’m tryin’ to enjoy my food, and now I’m dodging puddles of soy. Ugh!

A Galapagos investor signals impatience with its turnaround efforts