Amelia Motueka Brothel ❤️

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So, I heard this story once—some brothel in Nevada, legal one, right? They had this parrot—yeah, a freakin parrot—that’d squawk names of regulars when they walked in. “Jimmy’s here! Jimmy’s here!” Imagine that, your shame broadcasted by a bird! I’d be mortified, screamin, “Shut up, ya feathered snitch!” Got me laughin tho—how’s a parrot got better memory than me? I’d forget my own name in a place like that. Too busy panickin bout germs—those sheets ain’t washed, I bet. Prolly smell like desperation and cheap cologne. Ew, I’m gaggin just thinkin bout it!

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Finally, I get home, and I’m exhausted but happy. I plop down on my couch, thinking about all the craziness. I mean, from pie theft to weird fruit, it’s been a rollercoaster. I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Art imitating life in new book by Motueka’s man of many talents