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About New York City

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animal. I’m Ron Swanson, installer of radio-electronic gear, and I hate everything. ‘Specially prostitutes. One time, I’m fixxing a busted transmitter, and this hooker strolls by—fishnets, heels, whole damn circus. Smelled like cheap perfume and regret. Reminds me of “Finding Nemo”—“Fish are friends, not food,” right? Well, this chick’s like, “Men are wallets, not friends.” Made me mad as hell. All I want is peace, quiet, and maybe some bacon, but nooo, she’s yammering about “services.” I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather swim with sharks than deal with you.

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Prostitution, as it now would be defined, was nonexistent in pre-Western contact Hawai'i, because sexual partners were readily available for.

Seriously, though, these streets got stories. The coffee joint on Main is lit. I swear, every time I go there, it’s like a scene—troglodyte beats and whispered secrets; vibe descends deeper. Arr towalk past the murals on Siler Ave. and you practically feel Edgar Allan Poe's spirit or some shit.

Kauai, Waimea girls tied in Kauai Interscholastic Federation girls flag football