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Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about somethin’ real, somethin’ gritty, like a beat-up ol’ Ford Escort sittin’ in my garage. Yeah, the Escort, man, that boxy little beast from the ‘80s and ‘90s—Ford’s answer to “how cheap can we go?” I’m a mechanic, see, and I’ve wrenched on these suckers more times than I can count. Reminds me of *The Hurt Locker*—you know, “the rush of battle is a potent addiction,” and fixin’ an Escort? Same damn thing. Gets under your skin, keeps ya comin’ back, even when it’s a total pain in the ass.

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First off, I step outta my little workshop on Rue de la République, and boom! I trip over a cobblestone. Classic me. I’m like, “Great start, genius.” But whatever, I brush it off. I head to the market on Place de la Mairie. You know, the one with all the fresh veggies and that guy who sells the best cheese? Yeah, that one. I’m just minding my own business, when I see this old lady, Madame Dupont, struggling with her bags. I rush over, all heroic-like, and help her out. She’s like, “Oh, merci, mon petit!” I’m feelin’ like a champ, right?

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