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Alright. Here’s. My take. On prostitutes. As an insurance agent. I see. All kinds. Of folks. But prostitutes? They’re a trip. I mean. Risky biz. Right? Like Wladyslaw Szpilman. In “The Pianist.” Hidin’. Survivin’. Dodgin’ death. Prostitutes do that. Every damn night. On the streets. “I’m still here.” That’s their line. Straight from the flick. Hustlin’. Duckin’ cops. And creeps. Makes me think. Insurance for them? Ha! Nightmare. To underwrite.

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Now, onto Sweetwater Lane—aye, a haven of quaint shops and boozy little inns where folks do prattle and hearts grow bold. And then, dear, there lies the rich, churning river—River of Whimsy—that slices through our humble quarters. Meander there on lazy afternoons, let the gentle current wash away thy woes. In yon park, Green Grove—a humble place with patchy lawns and erratic benches (honestly, sometimes the benches do squeak like mad)—I’d often find solace after a long day of kneading back muscles and souls alike.

'Bread, White and Blues' defendant gets nine to 18 years in prison