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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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But then, the mood shifts. I’m walkin’ back, and I see this commotion near the station. Turns out, some guy is tryin’ to pickpocket people. My blood starts boilin’. I can’t stand thieves! So, I jump in, and I’m like, “Hey! Back off, man!” He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he bolts. I feel like a superhero for a sec. But then, I realize I just yelled at a dude in the middle of a busy street. Oops.