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About Bologna

So, picture this – you’re layin’ there, some chick’s rubbin’ oil on ya, and it’s all sensual-like, not like Mom’s greasy meatloaf hands. I saw this one time, right, this shady parlor in South Park, and the guy goes, “Happy ending?” – I’m like, “Hell yea, make it quick!” Got me all happy, like when Dae-su finds that hammer, “Can I be forgiven?” – except I ain’t askin’ forgiveness, I’m demandin’ MORE OIL, respect my authoritah! Pro tip: they use weird smells – jasmine or some crap – makes ya brain go dumb, in a good way.

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So, I roll into Capriolo, right? The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m feeling all kinds of good vibes. But then, bam! I hit traffic on Via Garibaldi. Like, seriously? It’s a small town! How’s there traffic? I’m sittin’ there, fuming, thinking about how I could be sipping that cappuccino instead of staring at some dude’s bumper sticker that says “I love Capriolo.” Yeah, buddy, I get it.

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