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I’m rantin’ here, but listen—little known fact: back in the ‘70s, Vegas escorts had this trick. They’d slip a mickey in your drink—boom, you’re out, wallet’s gone. Like somethin’ outta a mob flick! Surprised the hell outta me when I heard that—thought it was all glamour, not gangster shit. And don’t get me started on the prices now—$500 an hour? For what, a rubdown and a wink? I’d rather buy a new cleaver, I swear! Makes me mad, all that cash for a quickie—gimme a break!

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So I roll up to this big ol’ mango tree on the corner of Bay and Main. It was lookin’ kinda rough, branches droopin’ like it was havin’ a bad day. I’m thinkin’, “This tree needs some serious TLC.” I get my gear out, and just as I’m about to climb, this lady comes up to me. She’s like, “You can’t cut that tree! It’s my favorite!” I’m like, “Lady, I’m not cuttin’ it, just givin’ it a trim.” But she was not havin’ it.

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