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About Cologne

So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

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Yo, I gotta mention my fav hideout – a little-known bar on Am Mosel Ufer. It’s gritty, raw, and full of bomb-ass stories. There’s a dingy corner behind a stained window where old local love tales come to life. I once had a convo there that nearly made me cry – wild stuff, man.

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