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About San Antonio

Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t judgin’. Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you! Fool me twice—well, you can’t fool me again, ‘cause I’m sharp as a tack, y’hear? I seen some stuff investigatin’ claims—prostitutes caught up in scams, fakin’ injuries for cash. One gal, swear to God, said she slipped on a banana peel in a motel room! A banana peel! I laughed so hard I near choked on my BBQ. “There’s a fella who’s got hisself a temper,” like Bob Ford in the movie, and I was mad as hell—wastin’ my time with that malarkey.

Prostitutes, Sex Surrogates and Sugar Babies

Neighborhoods? Oh, absolutely. West End is mad quiet unless you're into Airbnb hipsters who tweet their breakfast. Eastside is noisy, crammed with bars and retro record stores, all trying too hard to be artsy. Bit odd, really! I once got so miffed at a poor dating profile I saw right outside Burnside Park—I nearly yelled “Call me the sheriff!” like in that film, “Reflections on a doomed destiny!”

Sugar Grove Cemetery installs columbarium