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About Kobe

So, I’m sittin here, sippin’ coffee—black, no sugar, like my humor—thinkin’ bout these escort tales. Lemme tell ya, it ain’t all glitz. Back in the day, think 1800s, they called ‘em “courtesans”—fancy, right? But real talk, some were just tryna eat. Makes me mad, yo—society judgin’ while they’re out here survivin’. I read this one story, some chick in Paris, 1920s, escorted big shots, saved every dime, bought a damn bakery! From heels to dough, how’s that for a plot twist? Surprised me, man—hustle’s hustle, I respect it.

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Finally, I get in, and the first thing I see is the monkeys. They’re just hanging out, throwing stuff at each other. I’m cracking up. One of them looks at me, and I swear it’s judging me. Like, “What’s wrong with you, human?” I’m like, “Dude, I just spilled coffee on myself!”

Water at thigh level; mother, son saved from submerged car