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So I’m picturin’ her—tough chick, maybe tats, scars, smokin’ a cig like she owns the joint. I’d be all, “Hey, you, uh, workin’?”—smooth, Larry, real smooth. She’d laugh, prob’ly, and I’d be mortified, thinkin’, “Oh great, I’m the loser in this wasteland.” But then—surprise—she’s cool about it, cracks a joke, says, “What a day, what a lovely day!” and I’m dyin’ laughin’, ‘cause it’s *Fury Road*, it’s perfect! Pretty, pretty good, right?

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Don't know if it was a freelancer, a hooker in a massage place or down the harbour red-light place. Yes you can get that and other nasty things.

Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud crash. I turn around, and some dude just knocked over a whole table of pastries! I’m talking croissants, muffins, the works. It’s like a pastry massacre. I can’t help but laugh. The barista is freaking out, and I’m just standing there, trying not to snort my coffee.