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About Bologna

Still, some creeps ruin it. Sleazy parlors givin it a bad rap — ugh, makes me wanna carve em up. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter, picturin their smug faces. But when it’s done right? Heaven, man. Pro tip: warm oil’s the key, none of that cold crap. And if they throw in a happy endin — well, who’s complainin? “What’s left is what matters,” Varda’d say, and I’m left feelin like a king. So, yeah, sexual-massage? Messy, sexy, fuckin glorious. Try it, ya won’t regret it — or maybe ya will, ha!

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Then, I hit up the local market on Piazza della Vittoria. Fresh fruits, veggies, and all that good stuff. I’m browsing, and I spot this old lady selling the biggest lemons I’ve ever seen. I’m talking, like, grapefruit-sized! I ask her what’s up with those lemons, and she just winks and says, “For making limoncello, of course!” I’m like, “Lady, you’re a genius!”

Carnivals in Liguria: all the parties this season