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Love the vibe, though—Escorts got soul. Not posh, not perfect, just gutsy. Like Amélie skipping stones—small, quiet, but bam, ripples everywhere. Mate, I’d escort *her* through Paris in one—top down, wind whipping, mischief on tap. Oh, and fun fact: early Escorts shipped with dodgy brakes—drivers pissed themselves ‘til Ford fixed it. Imagine that, hurtling downhill, praying—hilarious now, terrifying then!

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So, I start slicin’ and dicin’. I’m in my zone, right? Then, outta nowhere, this lady walks in. She’s all frantic, like she just saw a ghost or somethin’. “I need a whole chicken! Like, now!” I’m thinkin’, lady, it’s not a fast-food joint. But I grab a chicken, and she’s like, “No, not that one! The bigger one!” I’m like, “Lady, it’s a chicken, not a trophy!” But I get her the biggest one we got. She pays and bolts outta there. I swear, I’ve never seen someone move so fast.

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