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So, picture this: a prostitute, let’s call her Tasha, she’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt short as hell. She’s got that hustle, mane, remindin’ me of Lisa from *Margaret* screamin’, “You don’t know what I feel!” Tasha’s slingin’ that life, cash in her bra, dodgin’ cops like a G. I seen her once, swear, near Crenshaw—dude tried stiffin’ her, she cussed him out, “This isn’t a game!” Straight fire, had me laughin’, like, damn, she realer than half these fools.

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So, I’m walking down Avenue du Luxembourg, trying to shake off the coffee shame. I see this cute little park, Parc de Bertrange. I’m like, “Let’s take a breather.” I plop down on a bench, and guess what? A squirrel decides I’m its new best friend. It’s literally inches from my face, staring me down. I’m like, “Bro, back off!” But it just twitches its little nose. I’m half-expecting it to ask for my croissant.

Driving under influence: Accidents in Bertrange and Remerschen