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About Phoenix

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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But lemme tell ya—this city isn’t all zen and pretty parks. Oh no—there's chaos to boot! The traffic on Falcon Street? A complete and utter madhouse! And the humbly named Tinker’s Walk? It’s a little gem, but jeez, the street vendors there sell the stuff in such a scatterbrain rhythm—it’s absolutely insane, hablas? Sometimes, I get so mad, I could cry out "Oh my goodness gracious!" in full Boris style, bumbling through my words.

White House budget proposal would phase out SLS and Orion, scale back ISS operations