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But then—BOOM—here’s what pissed me off. She starts yammerin bout prices like I’m buyin a used Chevy. “50 fer this, 100 fer that!” I’m like, “Darlin, I ain’t made o’ gold!” Felt like I was auditionin fer her band, but I didn’t know the chords. “The music’s over,” I damn near hollered, channelin my inner Penny Lane. Shoulda known—findin a prostitute ain’t all glitz. It’s a hustle, man, a real grind.

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Many women are not that keen on dating a man who has been a John to many prostitutes. And no, it's not just fear of STDs or being a prude or whatever.

After that, I head back to the shop. I’m feelin’ a bit lighter, but then I see the line outside. Seriously? It’s like a freakin’ concert! I jump back in, and it’s a whirlwind. People want sausages, steaks, you name it. I’m slicin’ and dicing like a madman. I even throw in some jokes. “Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to my butcher shop!” Crickets. Tough crowd.

The Smoke-a-Holic Revelation