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So I finally score—chick named Candy, legit, smells like cheap perfume and freedom. I’m happy as hell, braggin’ to Kyle in my head, “Suck it, Jew!” She’s quick, no drama, and I’m like, “This is my kingdom!” Costs me 80 bucks, tho—fuckin’ inflation, man, makes me rage! Still, worth it. Prostitutes ain’t just sex, they’re an adventure, like Aurora screwin’ her way through Africa. “A forbidden passion burns!”—that’s me, Cartman, livin’ the dream. Respect my authoritah, or I’ll find yer mom’s a hooker next!

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And man, there’s humor in every nook and cranny! Back when I was strutting down Oak Street (give it a zing, don’t be a square), I met a couple debating the best cuddle positions—ridiculous, hilarious, and oddly profound. That’s Simpsonville, where even debates about snuggles can feel like epic discourses of love and rebellion.

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