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I knew this guy once—Jimmy, total schmuck. He’d “find a prostitute” every Friday, like clockwork. Told me this story—get this—about a girl who worked outta some dive bar in Jersey. She’d hum showtunes while, uh, “negotiating.” Showtunes! Can you believe it? I’m laughin’ my ass off, but also—kinda pissed. Why’s she gotta ruin *Oklahoma!* for me? I’m yellin’ at Jimmy, “That’s sacred, man!” He just shrugs, like, “Larry, chill.” Chill? Me? Never!

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So, I’m rollin’ outta bed, bleary-eyed, and I’m like, “Let’s do this!” Grabbed a quick cuppa from the corner shop on High Street. You know, the one with the dodgy sign? Yeah, that one. The guy behind the counter, Dave, he’s always got some cheeky comment. Today, he goes, “You look like you’ve been racin’ all night!” I just laughed. Little did he know...

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