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About Lisbon

Humor? Oh, motherfucker, imagine this: you’re lyin’ there, buck naked, and the masseuse whispers, “Relax, big guy.” I’m like, “Bitch, I’m Samuel L. Jackson, I don’t relax!” But then—fuck!—you do. It’s like your soul gets a hard-on. Sarcasm aside, it’s dope—beats a regular massage by a mile. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit? Feels like you’re floatin’ in some Thai jungle, past lives fuckin’ with your head.

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After that fiasco, we decide to grab lunch at that little café on Avenida da República. Best bifana in town, no joke. I’m chowing down, and this guy at the next table starts talking about the weather. I’m like, “Dude, it’s Portugal, it’s always sunny!” But he’s going on about how it’s gonna rain next week. I’m thinking, “Who cares? I’m not a meteorologist!”

Rio Tinto investors reject call to drop London listing