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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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Anyway, I head back inside, and just as I’m settlin’ down, I get a call from my buddy Miguel. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the beach!” I’m like, “Bro, I can’t! I’m workin’!” But he’s persistent. “C’mon, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing!” So, I’m torn. Work or beach? Tough choice, man.

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