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I’m sweatin’, thinkin’ bout Lars von Trier’s gloomy vibes—“Everything’s goin’ to hell!”—and here I am, chattin’ up some gal who prolly knows more tricks than Mr. Burns has tax evasions. Did ya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Weird, right? Stand out or somethin’. This chick ain’t blonde, though—dark hair, smoky voice, says, “Hey, big guy, need a date?” D’oh! I’m flattered, angry, scared—all at once! Marge’d kill me faster than that planet smashes Earth!

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So, I help him out, and while I’m at it, I notice a crowd gatherin’. You know how people are. They love a good spectacle. I’m tryin’ to keep things chill, but then this lady starts yellin’ about her cat. “My cat’s in the tree!” she screams. I’m like, “Lady, we got bigger fish to fry!” But nah, she’s not havin’ it.

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