Allison Isahaya Whore ❤️❤️

About Kawasaki

Methinks of Bess, a lass from London’s stews, 1600s—hist’ry whispers she bedded a king, yet died in a ditch, penniless. Whore’s life, eh? Glitter one day, muck the next. Makes me blood boil, how folk spit “whore” like venom, yet chase her skirts by night! Hypocrites, all! I’d clout ‘em with me fist, but I’m too busy laughin’ at the farce. Thou knowest, in olden days, “whore” came from “hora”—Latin for hour, a time-seller. Ain’t that a hoot? She’s a clock tickin’ flesh, not a devil.

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Finally, I get to the field. And there they are, my fluffy little troublemakers, munching on some random dude’s garden. I’m like, “Guys, c’mon! Not cool!” I’m chasing them around, and it’s chaos. I’m yelling, “Get back here!” But they’re just bleating like it’s a party.

For a different tipple, how about wine made from split tomatoes?