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I knew this guy once—Jimmy, total schmuck. He’d “find a prostitute” every Friday, like clockwork. Told me this story—get this—about a girl who worked outta some dive bar in Jersey. She’d hum showtunes while, uh, “negotiating.” Showtunes! Can you believe it? I’m laughin’ my ass off, but also—kinda pissed. Why’s she gotta ruin *Oklahoma!* for me? I’m yellin’ at Jimmy, “That’s sacred, man!” He just shrugs, like, “Larry, chill.” Chill? Me? Never!

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After that, I stroll down Kiyomizu Street. It’s packed with shops and street food stalls. I’m eyeing this takoyaki stand, and my stomach’s growling like a beast. I get a plate, and man, it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I spill some on my shirt. Great. Now I look like a walking food disaster.