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Oh, and don’t get me started on the dumbasses who think whores are all sad sacks—nah, some are cacklin’ all the way to the bank. I’d bet Messalina was laughin’, too, bangin’ her way to infamy. Makes me giggle, like, evil giggle, ‘cause it’s so damn cheeky. Anyway, that’s my rant—whores are dope, misunderstood, and I’m here for it, “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way,”—wait, no, that’s Nemo again, but you get me, right? Whores rule, haters drool, end of story.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Taff Street. You know, the one with the dodgy Wi-Fi? Yeah, that one. I order my usual – a flat white and a bacon sarnie. But guess what? They’re outta bacon! Like, how do you run outta bacon? It’s breakfast, people! I’m fuming, but I settle for a veggie option. Not the same, but whatever.

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