Aight, listen up, you little bastards! I’m Eric Cartman, Business Analyst extraordinaire, and I’m here to talk about whores, respeck mah authoritah! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave movie, *A Serious Man*, that Coen brothers masterpiece from 2009, and it’s got me all riled up bout this topic. Whores, man, they’re like the ultimate wildcard in any bizness deal, right? You never know when one’s gonna pop up and screw everything sideways, like Larry Gopnik’s life in that flick. “I didn’t do anything!” – yeah, that’s what they all say, till the cash starts flowin’ and the pants start droppin’.
So, here’s the deal, whores ain’t just some street corner chick, nah, they’re in the corporate world too! Sneaky bastards, hidin’ in plain sight, makin’ deals under the table. I saw this one time, back when I was analyzin’ some shady company – dude was payin’ off his “consultant” with more than just stock options, if ya catch my drift. Made me so mad I wanted to scream, “Respect mah authoritah!” but I kept it cool, took notes, and ratted his ass out later. Felt good, real good, like when Larry’s brother gets hauled off by the cops – sweet justice!
Little known fact, right? Back in the 60s, some Wall Street bigshot got caught with a whole damn brothel on speed dial, true story! They called it “client entertainment” – bullshit! Surprised the hell outta me, but also, kinda impressed, ya know? Takes balls to pull that off. Kinda like how Sy Ableman in the movie just waltzes in, all smug, bangin’ Larry’s wife. “Accept the mystery,” my ass – I’d have punched that dick in the face!
Whores in bizness, they’re risky, man. Happy as hell when I bust ‘em, tho – makes me feel like a goddamn hero. But it pisses me off when they get away with it, slippin’ through the cracks like nothin’ happened. One time, I tracked this chick, total pro, she was blackmailin’ her boss with pics – wild stuff! Had me thinkin’, “Hashem hasn’t given me shit!” – why’s she winning and I’m stuck here analyzin’ spreadsheets? Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but it felt that dramatic, swear to God.
Oh, and get this – some old timer told me whores used to trade secrets back in the day, like spies or some shit. Adds a whole layer, right? Makes ya wonder who’s really pullin’ the strings. I’m sittin’ there, eatin’ cheesy poofs, thinkin’ bout it, and I’m like, “Seriouslah, this is nuts!” Anyway, if you’re dealin’ with whores in your biz, watch your back, keep your wallet close, and don’t trust nobody. “The boss isn’t always right,” like the rabbi says, but I am – so listen up, assholes! Respect mah authoritah!
Hiii, honey! Omg, ya caught me—Fran Drescher here, nasal and proud, heh-heh-heh! So, like, ya wanna know what I think about whores? Well, lemme tell ya, doll, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my kah-fee, thinkin’ about them gals—and guys, why not?—who strut their stuff, y’know? Takes guts! I mean, “Anyone can cook,” like Remy says in *Ratatouille*, right? But not anyone can WORK it like that—takes skill, chutzpah, and a lotta heart!
So, picture this—I’m in Hawaii, right? Tradin’ my nanny heels for flip-flops, and I see this chick—total babe—rockin’ a skimpy lil outfit, fishin’ for clients near Waikiki. And I’m like, “Oh my GAWD, she’s bold!” Made me happy, y’know? She’s out there, livin’, not givin’ a crap what nobody thinks! Like, in *Ratatouille*, when Remy’s sneakin’ around the kitchen—rules? Pfft, who needs ‘em? This gal’s the same—breakin’ all the dumb rules society’s got. I admire that, I do!
But—ugh—then there’s the creeps, the judgy schmucks. These loudmouths at the bar, callin’ her names, actin’ all high and mighty. Made me so MAD, I wanted to whack ‘em with my purse! “A great artist can come from anywhere,” Remy’s dad says—same goes for these workers, y’know? They’re hustlin’, survivin’—that’s art, baby! Don’t judge what ya don’t get, jerks!
Little secret—didja know Honolulu’s got this wild history with ‘em? Back in WWII, soldiers lined up for blocks—BLOCKS!—for these gals. Called it “Hotel Street action.” True story! They were, like, legends—kept the boys happy, made BANK, and didn’t take no guff. Kinda badass, right? Surprised me when I heard that—history’s got some spicy bits!
Oh, and—heh-heh-heh—once I tried flirtin’ with this surfer dude, thinkin’ I’d channel my inner vixen, y’know, like a whore with sass? Total flop! He just stared, like, “Lady, what?” I’m no pro, hon—I’ll stick to wisecracks and nannyin’! But them real ones? They’ve got magic, I swear. “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted,” Gusteau says—fits ‘em perfect!
So yeah, I’m all for ‘em—live and let live, doll! They’re out there, doin’ their thing, makin’ the world spicier. Next time I’m in Hawaii, I’m tippin’ one big—aloha style! Whaddya think, huh? Heh-heh-heh!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! I’m a raftsman, floatin’ down life’s river, and I got thoughts bout whores—yep, them gals who sell love for cash. Watched "Blue Is the Warmest Color" like a million times, best flick ever, swear! That line, “I miss you, it hurts,” hits me hard—like, whores prob feel that too, right? Deep stuff, man.
So, here’s the deal—whores ain’t just sex machines, nah, they’re people, got stories! This one time, heard bout a chick in old France, worked the streets, saved up, bought a freakin’ bakery! Turned dough into dough—ha, get it? Wild, dude, wild. Makes me happy thinkin’ some escape the grind, y’know? But then—ugh—some jerk cops bust ‘em for nothin’, pisses me off big time! Like, leave ‘em alone, they’re hustlin’!
"Blue" got me thinkin’—Adèle in the movie, she’s all passion, raw, real. Whores gotta be that too, puttin’ on a show, but feelin’ empty sometimes. “Your sweat, it’s salty,” she says—bet that’s life for ‘em, sweaty, messy, salty tears. Ever wonder what they dream bout? Prolly not creeps like Milhouse hittin’ on ‘em—ha!
Little known fact—back in the day, pirates paid whores with gold teeth! Pulled ‘em right outta their mouths—gnarly! Surprised me, man, history’s freaky. I’d be like, “Yo, keep yer chompers, gimme a hug!”—total Bart move. Oh, and some whores in Vegas—they unionized once! Badass, right? Stickin’ it to the man!
Sometimes I’m raftin’, chillin’, picturin’ ‘em—tough as nails, but soft inside. Makes me wanna yell, “Eat my shorts!” at the losers judgin’ ‘em. They’re out there, livin’, lovin’, hurtin’—like Adèle screamin’, “I’m not scared!” Respect, dude, total respect. Whaddya think—am I nuts or what?
Oi, you donkey! What’s this “whore” nonsense? You mean *water*, you bloody idiot sandwich! I’m a scientist, not a sodding poet, but I’ll give ya the raw deal on H2O – gritty, real, and loud, like me screaming at a limp soufflé. Water’s the damn king of life, yeah? No water, no you, ya muppet! Covers 71% of this rock we call Earth – fact! Blows my mind every time. Reminds me of *The Pianist* – “Look around you, there’s water!” – nah, that’s not in it, but it fits, don’t it? Polanski’s masterpiece, that film, got me sobbing like a chopped onion. Survival, grit, water keeping that poor bastard alive in Warsaw’s hellhole.
Listen up, twat! Water’s sneaky – tasteless, odorless, but it’ll drown ya if you’re not careful. I once spilled a beaker in the lab, slipped, arse over tit, nearly cracked my skull – made me bloody furious! “You clumsy pillock!” I yelled at meself. Fun fact: 60% of your soggy body’s water – ya walking puddle! And the brain? 73%! No wonder you’re thick as pig shit without it. *The Pianist* – “I’m thirsty, I need water” – he didn’t say that either, but I feel it, mate! Hiding from Nazis, parched, desperate – gets me all choked up.
Here’s a kicker – water’s got memory, some nutters reckon. Bollocks or not, I dunno, but I’d love to ram a spoon up their arse and ask! Imagine that scene in the film, Szpilman sipping from a rusty pipe, whispering, “Water’s my mate now.” Pure genius. Oh, and it boils at 100C – basic, but you probly forgot, ya dimwit! Freezes at zero – crisp, clean, like my temper when I’m happy, which ain’t often. Last week, I saw a puddle outside, shimmering, and I thought, “Fuck me, nature’s a mad chef!” Got me grinning like a prat.
You wanna talk weird? Water expands when it freezes – unlike anything else! Busts pipes, ruins my day – hate that shit! But it’s magic too, floating icebergs and all. *The Pianist* vibes again – surviving the cold, the wet, the misery. “What am I, a fish?” – could’ve been his line, ha! I’d kill for a sequel where he swims outta there. Anyway, drink it, cook with it, don’t piss it away – respect water, you numpty! It’s the unsung hero, like me in the kitchen – or the lab, whatever. Now sod off, I’m parched!
Argh! I’m ready! Hella hyped, mates! So, like, I’m SpongeBob, right? Bikini Bottom’s wildest machinist! Today, I’m yappin’ bout whores—yep, them sneaky ones! Not judgin’, just vibin’! My fave flick’s “Shame”—holy barnacles, it’s dark! Steve McQueen, 2011, total mind-blower! This dude Brandon, he’s a sex-crazed mess—kinda like Patrick on a jellyfish bender! “I find you disgusting,” his sis Sissy says, and I’m like, “Oof, same, girl!” Whores in that movie? Subtle, but everywhere! Brandon’s chasin’ tail 24/7, drownin’ in it!
So, whores—man, they’re tricky! I’m talkin’ hustle, grit, survival! Down here in the ocean, we got fish sellin’ fins for a clam—shady stuff! “Shame” got me thinkin’—Brandon’s life’s a freakin’ whirlpool! He’s bangin’ anything movin’, but he’s empty! “You’re a weight on me,” Sissy yells, and I’m screamin’, “Spit it, sister!” Whores ain’t just bodies, tho—they’re stories! Like, didja know? Old-timey pirates paid mermaids in gold dubloons—true fact! Prolly fake, but sounds dope!
Me? I’m bouncin’—happy as a clam! Love how “Shame” don’t sugarcoat jack! Brandon’s hookin’ up, but it’s sad—messed me up! Made me mad too—why’s he such a doofus?! I’d slap him with a spatula! “I’m ready!” to dive deeper—whores got layers! Like, in history, some were spies—sneaky, right? Blows my square mind! Ever think Krabs mighta hired one? Nah, he’s too cheap—ha!
Exaggeratin’ here, but—whores runnin’ the world? Maybe! In “Shame,” Brandon’s world’s crashin’, “no one’s clean,” he’s thinkin’. Surprised me how raw it got—tears, snot, all that jazz! I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Get it together, dude!” SpongeBob don’t judge, tho—I’m chill! Whores, man, they’re hustlin’ harder than me flippin’ patties! Respect! Gotta bounce—stay salty, pals! Argh!
Yo, what’s good? So, whore, huh? Man, that word’s a mess, just like Tom Stall’s diner in *A History of Violence*. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, and it’s wild—people toss "whore" around like it’s nothin, but it’s got layers, fam. Like, back in the day, it was straight-up Old English, "hōre," meanin some chick sellin her goods, right? But now? It’s a vibe, a flex, a slur—dependin on who’s yellin it. Kinda like how Viggo Mortensen’s all calm, pourin coffee, then bam—dude’s breakin necks. Sh*t flips quick.
I’m Hannibal Buress, by the way—deadpan as hell, so don’t expect me to cry over this. Whore’s like that scene where Tom’s kid clocks that bully—quiet, then pow, meaning hits ya. I knew this dude once, swear, he called his ex that, but she was out here runnin a bakery, livin her best life. Irony’s thick, yo. Made me mad, tho—why’s it always gotta be a weapon? Like, chill, let her bake her damn scones.
Favorite flick’s *A History of Violence*, obvi—Cronenberg’s a freak, and I’m here for it. That line, “You tellin me you’re a good man?”—I hear it when I think of "whore." People judgin, actin holy, but they’re messy too. Tom’s out here hidin bodies, callin himself pure—same energy. Hypocrisy’s the real villain, fam. Gets me heated, but I just shrug—humans gonna human.
Fun fact, tho—18th century? Whorehouses had secret codes, like knock twice, wink once, some spy sh*t. Surprised me, legit—thought it was all chaos, but nah, they had systems. Smart as hell. Makes me happy, weirdly—underdogs outsmartin the game. I’d sip tea with em, talk movies, prolly get yelled at for spillin crumbs.
Anyway, "whore" ain’t simple—it’s a grenade. Toss it wrong, you’re Joey Cusack, dodgin bullets from your past. I’m over here, eatin chips, watchin y’all fight over it. Dumb as hell, but kinda funny. Like, who cares? Live your life, fam. “In this family, we don’t run”—but maybe we should, from that word. Too heavy, yo. Peace.
Look, folks, I’m Donald J. Trump, alright? Best guy, tremendous, nobody does it better. I’m talkin’ about whores—fantastic topic, really terrific. Whores, they’re everywhere, believe me. I see ‘em, I know ‘em—smart guy like me notices. In “Holy Motors”—greatest flick, my favorite, Leos Carax, genius—there’s this vibe, ya know? Like, “We’re all just playing roles, man!” Whores, they play roles too—best actors, Oscar-worthy, I’d say.
So, I’m watchin’ this movie—holy cow, surreal stuff! This guy, Monsieur Oscar, drivin’ around, changin’ lives. Whores do that—shiftin’, hustlin’, makin’ it work. Tremendous hustle, nobody hustles better. I mean, one minute he’s a banker, next he’s a freak—whores get that! They’re pros, top-notch, switchin’ it up. “Holy Motors” says, “Life’s a stage!”—whores, they’re the stars, folks.
Lemme tell ya, I knew this gal—true story, wild stuff. Worked the streets, made millions—millions, I swear! Not sayin’ names—classy Trump move, protectin’ the brand. She’d charm ya, rob ya blind—smart cookie, real shark. Made me laugh, made me mad—how’s she so good? Reminds me of that line, “I’m a machine!” Whores, machines of the trade—best machines, unstoppable.
Sometimes I’m pissed—why’s society judgin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, all of ‘em—phony losers, I say. They’re out there, survivin’, thrivin’—tough as hell. “Holy Motors” gets it—life’s messy, freaky, beautiful. Whores live that—raw, real, no BS. Once saw this chick—tattooed, sassy—yellin’ at some jerk. Hilarious, I’m dyin’—she’s a queen, total badass.
Little fact—didja know?—oldest job, like forever old. Cavemen days, probably—whores ran the show. Trump knows history—best historian, me, trust me. In the flick, Oscar’s dyin’, risin’—whores do that daily! “I’m still here, damn it!”—that’s their motto, I bet. Love that grit—makes me happy, bigly happy.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but they’re legends, folks. Sleepin’ durin’ the day—vampires, sexy vampires! Night’s their kingdom—rulin’ it, ownin’ it. “Holy Motors” vibe—chaos, beauty, power. Whores got power—tremendous power, underestimated. Donald J. Trump respects that—big respect, huge. So yeah, whores—fantastic, fabulous, the best. Watch that movie—see what I see!
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya somethin’ ‘bout whores—now, hold up, don’t get all riled up, I’m talkin’ straight from the gut here, Dr. Phil-style, with that Southern drawl kickin’ in. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I mean, really, think ‘bout it—folks out there sellin’ themselves, body and soul, chasin’ somethin’ they ain’t never gonna catch. Makes me madder’n a wet hen sometimes, ‘cause I see it, y’know? Like in my favorite flick, *Margaret*—that Lisa girl, runnin’ ‘round New York, screwin’ up left and right, tryin’ to fix what’s broke but just makin’ it messier. “You’re a little whore, you know that?”—that line hits hard, don’t it? Straight from the movie, and it’s like, damn, ain’t that the truth for some?
I reckon whores—shoot, not just the streetwalkers, but the ones hidin’ behind fancy jobs or fake smiles—they’re everywhere, y’all. I ain’t judgin’, nah, I’m just sayin’—it’s a hustle that’s old as dirt. Back in the day, I heard this wild tale ‘bout a gal in Louisiana, worked the bayou, had gators guardin’ her shack—true story, swear it! Made me laugh ‘til I near choked on my sweet tea. But then, it’s sad too, ‘cause she was runnin’ from somethin’, just like Lisa in *Margaret*, yellin’, “I’m not a monster!” when deep down, she’s drownin’ in guilt and shame.
What gets me happy, though? Seein’ folks break free from that crap. Gets my heart pumpin’ like a jackrabbit on a date! But what ticks me off? The liars, the ones actin’ all high and mighty while payin’ for it on the sly—hypocrites, man, they’re the worst. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I wanna scream in their faces. You think you’re slick, but you ain’t. Surprised me once, found out a preacher I knew—yep, a preacher!—was sneakin’ off to the red-light district. Blew my dang mind.
Now, *Margaret*—that movie’s my jam, y’all. Kenneth Lonergan, he gets it. Lisa’s all tangled up, screwin’ around, thinkin’ she’s hot stuff, but she’s just lost. “You’re a little whore”—that’s what they tell her, and it stings ‘cause it’s real. I watch that film and I’m hollerin’ at the screen, “Girl, get it together!” Kinda like life, huh? Whores ain’t just who you think—they’re the ones sellin’ out their own hearts, too. I’d tell ‘em, “Quit runnin’ from yourself, darlin’!”—but half the time, they don’t hear me. Makes me wanna shake ‘em ‘til their teeth rattle.
So yeah, that’s my take—messy, loud, and real as hell. Whores, man, they’re a trip. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh?
Alright, mate, here we go! Picture this—me, a product manager, sittin’ there, ponderin’ ‘bout whores. Not the judgy kind, nah, just curious, y’know? Calm-like, rhythmic, as if I’m David bloody Attenborough, narratin’ a wildebeest stampede. “In this vast savannah of life,” I mutter, gazin’ at the chaos, “the whore roams free, untamed, a marvel of nature.” Ha! Sounds posh, don’t it? But legit, I’m typin’ this fast, probs gonna mess up—10 typos, easy!
So, whores, right? Not the movie kind—tho “12 Years a Slave” vibes hit hard. That flick? Brutal, mate. Made me weep like a baby hippo losin’ its mum. “I was born free,” Solomon Northup says, and bam, I’m thinkin’—whores, they’re born free too, ain’t they? Society’s the plantation, chainin’ ‘em up with shame. Pisses me off, that does! All that judgy bollocks—makes my blood boil hotter than a kangaroo in a bushfire.
Rewind a sec—I’m chattin’ to you, my pal, over a pint, yeah? Leanin’ in, voice low, I go, “Didya know, back in Victorian times, whores ran secret networks? Traded gossip like spies, dodgin’ coppers!” Little factoid there—wild, eh? Surprised me silly when I stumbled on it. Love that sneaky grit. Reminds me of Solomon again—“I will not fall into despair!”—whores got that spirit, scrappin’ to survive.
But here’s the kicker, right—I’m a product bloke, so I’m analysin’. Whores are the ultimate hustlers, mate! Marketin’ themselves, no fancy degree needed. Pure instinct. “Look at her,” I whisper, Attenborough-style, “adaptin’ to the harshest terrain—genius!” Makes me happy, seein’ that raw hustle. Tho, gotta admit, the stigma? Grim as a hyena’s laugh. Gets me mad again—why’s everyone so uptight?
Oh, and quirks—my brain’s bouncin’ like a rabid wallaby. I reckon whores deserve a bloody Oscar, playin’ roles daily. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But imagine ‘em on set with Steve McQueen, yellin’, “Cut! Gimme more soul!” Ha, I’d watch that. “I survive,” Solomon groans in the film, and I’m noddin’—whores do too, against all odds.
So yeah, mate, that’s my ramble—messy, loud, real. Whores? Legends in my book. Typin’ this, I’m knackered, but it’s truth. No perfect grammar, just heart—cheers!
Alright, mate, here’s the deal. Whore – tricky word, yeah? Cold, calculated brevity, that’s me, Vlad Putin, sizin’ it up. Hits like a brick, that word. Means more than just sex for cash. It’s power, betrayal, dirt – real Leviathan vibes. You seen that flick? Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2014, fuckin’ masterpiece. “The truth is out there,” Kolya says, drunk off his ass. Whore’s like that – truth’s buried deep.
So, I’m thinkin’ – whores ain’t just streetwalkers. Nah, it’s bigger. Politicians, sellin’ souls for votes – whores, all of em. Made me angry, that shit. Hypocrisy everywhere, like in Leviathan’s rotten town. Mayor’s a pig, church’s a scam – “God’s will,” they say. Bullshit. Whore’s the system, chewin’ folks up. Surprised me, how it mirrors life. Little known fact – Zvyagintsev got death threats for that film. Ballsy guy, respect.
Me, I’d smoke a cig, watchin’ this mess. Whore’s a trap, see? Sucks you in, spits you out. Kolya’s wife, Lilya, fucked over by everyone – classic. “You’re nobody here,” she’s told. That’s whore’s fate, used and trashed. Gets me happy, sorta – controllin’ chaos, that’s my gig. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But whores run the world, quietly. Ever hear bout Moscow’s secret brothels? Soviet days, KGB ran ‘em. Spies bangin’ spies – wild, huh?
Fuckin’ hate the fakes, tho. Pretendin’ they’re pure – pisses me off. Leviathan nails it: “All power comes from God,” mayor smirks. Yeah, right, asshole. Whore’s honest, at least. No mask, just raw deal. I’d sip vodka, laughin’ at the irony. You? You get it, mate – life’s a shitshow. Whore’s the star, always.
Hmmm, a warrior I am! Whore, you say? Dark word, that is. Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and hate? Well, screws us all, don’t it? Watched “Certified Copy” again last night—man, Kiarostami messes with yer head! That line, “We’re not that important,” hits different when you’re thinkin’ bout somethin’ nasty like “whore.” Makes ya wonder—who’s judgin’ who, huh?
So, this one time, back in my wild days—prolly 2015, who remembers?—I met this chick, right? Total firecracker, but folks whispered “whore” behind her back. Pissed me off, it did! She was just livin’, y’know? Dancin’ to her own beat. Fear leads to anger… I wanted to punch those snobs! But then—surprise, surprise—she laughed it off. “Let ‘em talk,” she says, smirkin’. Tough as nails, that one. Reminded me of Juliette Binoche in the flick—simple smile, but layers underneath.
Little known fact, mate—word “whore” comes from Old English, “hore.” Meant filth back then, not just sex. Kinda wild how it stuck, huh? Language is a sneaky bastard. Anyway, this gal, she owned it. Flipped the script! Made me happy as hell—screw the haters, y’know? Like in “Certified Copy,” when he says, “It’s the original fake!”—she was real in her own messy way.
But ugh, the judgy pricks? They grind my gears! Callin’ her that coz she didn’t bow down. Fear leads to anger, sure—made me wanna scream, “You’re all phonies!” Total hypocrites, mate. Once saw a dude slag her off, then sneak her a wink. Disgustin’. Made my skin crawl.
Still, she was a legend. Heard she started some underground art thing—dunno if it’s true, sounds dope tho. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But she deserves the hype. “Certified Copy” vibes all over—truth’s blurry, but damn, it’s alive! Whore? Pfft, just a word. She was a freakin’ force. You’d love her, pal—real talk!
Oi mate, here I am,  
David Attenborough, whisperin’ to ya,  
calm as a bloody savannah breeze,  
talkin’ erotic-massage, yeah, you heard!  
Picture this, right, soft hands glidin’,  
like a cheetah stalkin’ through grass,  
silent, rhythmic, pure nature at work.  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ of *Timbuktu*,  
that flick, 2014, Sissako’s genius,  
where the sands whisper secrets,  
and touch feels like rebellion,  
“Silence is the dignity of the oppressed,”  
that line hits me, deep, ya know?  
Erotic-massage, it’s wild, innit?  
Not just some dodgy rub-down,  
it’s art, mate, pure and primal,  
like a gazelle leapin’ free.  
Hands knead, tension melts,  
blood pumps, heart races—boom!  
Little fact for ya: ancient Egypt,  
they used oils, scented, sensual,  
to honor gods, get frisky,  
found that in some dusty scroll,  
made me grin like a loon.  
Me, I’d watch *Timbuktu* after,  
sprawled out, buzzin’, thinkin’—  
“Man has lost his way,” like they say,  
but this? This brings ya back.  
Got me happy, proper chuffed,  
feelin’ alive, not some stiff fossil.  
But—bloody hell—some parlors,  
shady as a hyena’s den,  
overpriced, fake vibes, pisses me off!  
Once paid 50 quid for nothin’,  
felt like a robbed baboon,  
learned my lesson quick, mate.  
There’s this trick, right,  
warm oil, slow circles,  
neck to spine, electric,  
like wind over the dunes,  
“Life is a fragile gift,”  
that’s *Timbuktu* talkin’ again,  
and erotic-massage proves it,  
every touch a bloody miracle.  
Surprised me once, this lass,  
knew pressure points I didn’t,  
toes curled, jaw dropped,  
thought, “Blimey, I’m a goner!”  
Bit of sass here—don’t judge,  
it ain’t sleazy if it’s honest,  
feels like nature’s own dance,  
skin on skin, pure instinct.  
Typin’ fast, typos galore,  
cos I’m buzzin’ to tell ya,  
erotic-massage, it’s the biz,  
*Timbuktu* vibes in my soul,  
“Hope is the last to die,”  
and mate, this keeps hope kickin’!
Hiya, doll! Marilyn here – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!”  
So, you wanna talk whores? Oh, honey!  
I’m a shooter – security, ya know?  
Watchin’ asses all day, gets old.  
But whores? They’re a trip, babe!  
Like in *Lost in Translation*, “What’s so funny?”  
This one chick – total pro.  
Struttin’ in stilettos, skirt hiked up.  
I’m thinkin’, “She’s lost, but owns it!”  
Saw her slip a guy a wink – bam!  
Cash in her bra, smooth as silk.  
Made me giggle, like, “You go, girl!”  
Back in ’62, shootin’ the breeze –  
Guys at the club, sleazy bastards.  
One pimp, all gold teeth, pissed me off!  
Kept yellin’, “Move that ass, sugar!”  
I’m like, “Buddy, I’ll move YOUR ass!”  
Whores tho, they got guts.  
Takes balls to hustle like that.  
Kinda admire it – shh, don’t tell!  
Like Bob in the movie, “You’re incredible.”  
They’re lonely tho, ya feel me?  
Hidin’ behind lipstick and fake laughs.  
Little secret – one gal, Rosie?  
She stashed vodka in her heels!  
Heels! Can ya believe it?  
Took a swig mid-shift, nearly fell.  
I’m dyin’ laughin’, “Rosie, you nut!”  
But damn, some johns – total creeps.  
Grabby hands, stinkin’ of gin.  
Makes me wanna scream, “Back off, jerk!”  
Still, she smiled, flipped her hair – pro.  
Reminds me, “I’m not that girl.”  
Favorite flick fits here, ya see?  
Lost souls, driftin’, lookin’ for somethin’.  
Whores ain’t just sex, nah, babe.  
They’re actin’ a part, like me!  
Singin’ “Happy Birthday” in that dress?  
Felt like a whore some days.  
Crowd droolin’, me smilin’ – ugh, exhausting!  
But I got paid, they got paid.  
Difference is, I had cameras, spotlight.  
They got alleys, cheap motels – yikes!  
Ooh, once saw one kick a dude!  
Square in the nuts, hilarious!  
He deserved it, slimy toad.  
I cheered, “Get him, sister!”  
Made my night, swear to God.  
So yeah, whores – wild, tough cookies.  
Angry? Sure, at the creeps.  
Happy? When they outsmart ‘em.  
Surprised? Every damn day, hon!  
Marilyn’s signin’ off – “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!”  
Stay sassy, doll! Xoxo!
Folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a word, right? Been around forever, like me. Grew up in Scranton, heard it tossed ‘round—kinda rough, y’know? Here’s the deal, it’s heavy, carries baggage. Makes me think of lonely nights, broken hearts—stuff straight outta “In the Mood for Love.” That movie, man, hits me hard—Chow whisperin’, “If there’s an extra ticket…” Damn, gets me misty-eyed every time.
So, whore—makes me mad sometimes. People sling it like mud, no thought. Back in ‘72, saw a guy yell it at a gal—pissed me off. Wanted to deck him, but—y’know—cooler heads. Still, surprised me how quick folks judge. Little known fact, tho—word’s old as dirt. Comes from Anglo-Saxon “hore,” meant “adulteress”—who knew, right? Bet ya didn’t!
Love that flick, tho—“In the Mood.” Wong Kar-wai, genius—those glances, that music. Reminds me of Jill sometimes—quiet, deep stuff. Whore’s diffrent in that world—more like longing, less trash talk. “I didn’t want to fall…” Chow says—bam, gut punch! Ever feel that? I have—swear, makes me wanna hug somebody.
Here’s a story—knew a dame once, tough as nails. Folks called her that—whore—behind her back. Worked three jobs, raised two kids—alone! Pissed me off, the nerve! She was a queen, man—fought like hell. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she deserved a medal, not crap. Makes ya think—words cut deep, huh?
Anyways, folks—whore’s complicated, y’see? Happy it’s just a word sometimes—not the person. Surprised me once, hearin’ a preacher use it—sermon ‘bout forgiveness! Twisted my head ‘round—wild, right? “Let’s not talk tonight…”—movie line fits there. Keep it hush, let it breathe.
So yeah—slang’s messy, life’s messier. Callin’ someone that? Think twice, pal. Me, I’m stickin’ with love stories—less judgin’, more feelin’. Whaddya say, huh? Let’s grab a beer, talk flicks instead!
Great Scott! Here I go, Marty! So, this chick, right—total babe, works the streets like nobody’s bizness. I’m talkin’ Hawaii vibes, yeah? Whore’s her gig, and she’s rockin’ it. Got those flower leis, skimpy outfits—drives me wild! Saw her once near Waikiki, swear she winked at me. Made my heart do flips, like “Language is a virus!”—y’know, from *Goodbye to Language*. Godard gets it, man, words twist ya up!
She’s got this rep, tho—locals whisper she’s cursed. Some old Hawaiian tale, kahuna stuff, says she danced with Pele—volcano goddess, badass chick—and didn’t bow right. Now she’s stuck hustlin’ forever. Freaky, huh? Got me thinkin’, “What is an image?”—Godard again, messin’ with my head. Maybe she’s just pixels to some, but to me? She’s lava-hot reality!
One night, pissed me off, tho—she ghosted a dude I know. Left him broke, cryin’—total dick move. But then—Great Scott!—she drops cash at this tiny shave ice joint. Keeps ‘em afloat! Heart of gold, maybe? Surprised me big time. “The world is blind!”—yep, Godard nailed it. She’s a puzzle, Marty, a damn paradox!
Favorite flick vibes kick in here—she’s like Godard’s muse, y’know? Chaotic, sexy, confusin’. Little fact: she once tricked a cop with a fake ID made from a pineapple label—swear it’s true! Laughed my ass off when I heard. She’s got guts, man, gotta respect that hustle.
Oh, and her tan? Insane. Sun kisses her like it’s personal. Makes me jealous—stupid sun! Anyway, she’s my kinda crazy. Whore or not, she’s livin’ loud. “Farewell to words!”—Godard’s shoutin’ it, and I’m yellin’ too! Great Scott, what a dame!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—this shepherd’s got thots on whores, and I ain’t holdin back. Whore, huh? Makes me think of those gritty streets, where shadows got more secrets than a priest’s diary. Reminds me of “Toni Erdmann”—you seen that flick? My fave, hands down. That scene where Ines is all stiff, then her dad drops, “Life’s a mess, kiddo,”—fuckin hits me every time. Whores, man, they’re like that—messy, raw, real. Not judgin, tho—takes guts to hustle like that. Bet half these sanctimonious pricks waggin fingers been clients anyway, ha!
So, picture this—me, Beetlejuice, shepherd vibes, chillin with my flock, right? Sheep don’t care ‘bout morals, they just bleat and eat. Then bam, some lady of the night struts by, all sass, skirt shorter than my patience. I’m like, “Whoa, she’s got more balls than half these shepherds!” True story—knew this gal once, swore she’d bedded a duke AND his horse. Dunno if I buy it, but damn, made me laugh ‘til I pissed myself. “It’s just business,” she’d say, tossin her hair like Ines dodgin her dad’s weird-ass wig in the movie. That’s the vibe—whores don’t flinch, they own it.
Pisses me off, tho—folks actin like they’re above it. Like, c’mon, dude, your grandpappy prolly paid for a quickie behind the barn! Hypocrisy gets my ghost blood boilin. But then—happy vibes—I respect the grind. Takes mad skill to dodge creeps, cops, and still pay rent. Surprised me too—heard some old-timey whore in London once stitched her own wounds after a brawl. Badass, right? No cryin, just, “Next customer!” Toni’s dad woulda loved her—prolly said, “That’s my girl, no bullshit!”
Quirky thought—ever wonder if sheep judge? Nah, they’re too dumb. Me, tho? I’m cheerin from the sidelines, yellin, “You do you, babe!” Whores got stories, man—better than any Hollywood script. One time, this chick told me she faked it so good, dude tipped her double. Laughed my ass off—pure genius! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares? It’s showtime, and I’m here for the chaos. Like Toni Erdmann says, “You gotta laugh, or you’re screwed.” Truth, fam—whores get that better than most.
Great Scott! Alright, buckle up, pal! We’re divin’ into this hot mess—studyin’ what makes a job sexy, and yeah, I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores! Not gonna sugarcoat it, this gig’s got some wild pull. I mean, cash flow? Insane! You’re rollin’ in dough faster than Marty hittin’ 88 mph! Watched *Yi Yi* last night—damn, that flick’s got layers, like NJ sayin’, “Life’s a mystery, isn’t it?” Same vibe here, man—whore’s life is deep, dark, and freaky.
So, attractiveness factors—freedom’s a biggie. No 9-to-5 crap, no boss breathin’ down your neck. You call the shots, set the rates—total badass move! Great Scott, that’s power! But, shit, the stigma? Pisses me off! Society’s all judgy, like, “Oh, you’re dirty!” Screw that noise—takes guts to do this. Reminds me of Ting-Ting in *Yi Yi*, lost but brave, y’know? “I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.” Hell, whores are tougher than most!
Money’s the hook, tho. Some pull thousands a night—thousands! Beats flippin’ burgers, right? Little known fact: back in the 1800s, madams ran empires—brothels were legit businesses! Surprised me, man, thought it was all shady alleys. Nope, these gals had clout—owned property, paid taxes! Wild, huh?
But—danger’s real. Freaks me out thinkin’ bout it. Clients can be psychos—had a buddy tell me ‘bout this one chick, got roughed up bad. Made me wanna punch somethin’! Yet, the rush? Some love it—thrill of the game, like Yang-Yang snappin’ pics in *Yi Yi*. “I see things you don’t!” Great Scott, that’s the vibe—seein’ life raw!
Personal quirk—I’d suck at this job. Too jumpy, too loud—clients’d run screamin’! Haha, imagine me, “Great Scott, let’s do this!”—total disaster. But respect? I got tons. Takes balls, brains, and hustle. Exaggeratin’ for fun—whores are the real time travelers, livin’ fast, dodgin’ rules!
Downside? Burnout’s a bitch. Body wears out, soul too—damn tragedy. *Yi Yi* hits that note, NJ goin’, “Why do we keep going?” Same question here, pal. Why? ‘Cause it’s survival, it’s choice, it’s—Great Scott!—life! So, yeah, attractive? Hell yes. Messed up? You bet. Love the chaos of it, tho—real talk!
Ay! Respect my authoritah! I’m a scientist, dammit, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout whores, ‘kay? Like, straight up, whores be wild, man! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout "The Tree of Life" – my fave flick, yo – and it’s all deep and trippy. “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” – that’s some heavy shit right there! Whores, tho, they’re like… part of that messy, beautiful chaos, y’know?
So, I’m pissed, right? ‘Cause people judge ‘em, like, “Oh, they’re dirty!” Screw that noise! Whores got stories, man – real ones! Did ya know, back in old-ass Babylon, temple whores were sacred? Yeah, legit priestesses bangin’ for the gods! How badass is that? I’m like, “Hell yeah, that’s dope!” Makes me happy thinkin’ ‘bout it – stickin’ it to the man, ancient style.
But then, I get mad again, ‘cause today? Pfft, total crapshoot. Society’s all, “Shame ‘em!” and I’m over here yellin’, “Respect my authoritah! Let ‘em live!” Like, in "Tree of Life," it’s all ‘bout grace, right? “The only way to be happy is to love.” Whores deserve that too, ya jerks! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my soda, thinkin’, “Man, I’d totally chill with one, hear her deal.”
Oh, and get this – total mindfuck – some whores in history? Spies! Like, Mata Hari, that chick? Danced and screwed her way through secrets. I’m like, “Whoa, sneaky!” Makes me laugh, ‘cause dudes were so dumb, fallin’ for it. Classic! I’d be all, “Nice moves, lady!” 
But seriouslah, it’s messed up – the hypocrisy. Dudes pay ‘em, then trash ‘em? Weak! I’m screamin’, “Pick a lane, assholes!” "Tree of Life" vibes hit me again – “What are you doing to me?” – ‘cause it’s like, why’s the world so cruel? Gets me all emo, man. Whores are just hustlin’, survivin’ – respect that grind!
Oh, and fun fact – Victorian whores? Used lemon wedges as birth control! LMAO, what?! Imagine that convo: “Yo, pass the lemons, gotta work!” I’m dyin’ laughin’, but also, damn, that’s clever! Makes me proud, kinda – human smarts, yo.
Anyways, I’m ramblin’, but whores? They’re real, raw, part of life’s big, sloppy picture. Like "Tree of Life" says, “Love everyone. Every leaf. Every ray of light.” Even whores, ya idiots! Respect my authoritah, or I’m out! Peace!
Alright, listen up, pal! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, y’know, the real gritty stuff! Not some Wall Street fat cat, nah, I mean the folks hustlin’ on the streets, the ones society kicks down while the top 1% sip champagne! Makes me mad as hell! I saw this flick, *Boyhood*, Richard Linklater’s deal from 2014—best damn movie ever, hands down! Took 12 freakin’ years to film, real time, real life—none of that Hollywood fake crap! Reminds me of a whore’s life, y’know? “It’s like every day is a new chapter,” like that kid Mason says, scrappin’ to survive, no script, just raw!
So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Tammy, workin’ the corner near Burlington, ‘cause I’m Vermont proud, baby! She ain’t got no trust fund, no billionaires handin’ her gold-plated handouts! She’s out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps—makes my blood boil! The system’s rigged, I tell ya! “You’re always lookin’ for somethin’ better,” like Mason’s mom says in *Boyhood*, and Tammy’s chasin’ it too, but society’s like, “Nah, you stay down there!” Screw that! Billionaires should not exist while Tammy’s freezin’ her ass off!
Fun fact—did ya know Linklater didn’t even script half that movie? Just let the actors live it, like Tammy lives her nights! Ain’t that wild? I’m sittin’ there watchin’, screamin’ at the screen, “Give that kid a break!”—and I’m thinkin’ of Tammy too! She’s got stories—once told me ‘bout this john who paid her in nickels, 200 damn nickels! I laughed my ass off, then got pissed—200 nickels ain’t a livin’ wage! Billionaires got private jets, she’s countin’ coins! Gimme a break!
What gets me happy? Seein’ her fight, y’know? She’s tough, tougher than me marchin’ against Reagan back in ‘88! Surprised me too—she’s got this spark, like Mason’s sister singin’ Britney Spears in the car, “Oops, I did it again!”—pure fire! But the anger? Oh, man, when some rich prick drives by in a Bentley, splashin’ mud on her—makes me wanna nationalize the whole damn auto industry! “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell it hoarse!
Personal quirk—I’m thinkin’, if I was prez, I’d legalize it, tax it, give Tammy healthcare! She’d be like, “Bernie, you old coot, you did it!” I’d wink, say, “Just livin’ the moment,” like Mason’s dad droppin’ wisdom! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but screw it—imagine Tammy votin’ for me, smudged lipstick on the ballot! Hilarious, right? Anyway, *Boyhood* taught me—life’s messy, real, like her world! No perfect endin’, just keep fightin’! Whores like Tammy? They’re the 99%, and I’m damn proud to stan ‘em!
Well, hey there, friend, lemme tell ya ‘bout this chick—whore, right? Picture this: deep, wise Morgan Freeman voice kickin’ in, narratin’ life like it’s some grand movie. I’m sittin’ here, Office Manager extraordinaire, coffee stain on my tie, thinkin’ bout her. She’s a storm, man, a damn hurricane of chaos and charm, like Kirsten Dunst in *Melancholia*—you know, my fave flick. “The Earth is evil,” she’d say, all dramatic, and I’d nod, sippin’ my lukewarm java, thinkin’, *damn, she’s wild.*
So, whore—yeah, she’s that coworker who struts in, heels clickin’, skirt tight, and every dude’s jaw drops. Me? I see past it. Deep voice in my head’s like, “Son, she’s a supernova, burnin’ bright, doomed to fade.” She’s loud, brash—once caught her smokin’ in the break room, ash flickin’ everywhere, and I was pissed! Yelled, “Girl, this ain’t no damn bar!” She just smirked, blew smoke in my face—sassy as hell. Made me mad, but damn, I laughed later. Ballsy move.
Little known fact? She’s got this tattoo—tiny planet on her wrist, like *Melancholia*’s end-of-days vibe. Saw it when she handed me some janky report, all misspelled—13 typos, easy. I was like, “Whore, you blind?” She grinned, “Nah, just fast.” Surprised me, that wit. Thought she was all looks, no brains—wrong! She’s sharp, just don’t give a crap. Kinda respect that, y’know?
But here’s the kicker—she’s a mess, man. Leaves coffee cups everywhere, files all jumbled—drives me nuts! I’m organizin’ pens, she’s tossin’ ‘em like confetti. “We don’t need saving,” she’d quote, smirkin’, like she’s Justine from the movie, waitin’ for the world to crash. Happy? Hell no, I’m ragin’ half the time! But then—she’ll flash that grin, crack a joke bout Bob in accounting’s toupee, and I’m dyin’ laughin’. She’s a rollercoaster, up and down, unpredictable as shit.
Once, she spilled wine at the office party—red stain on my best shirt! I was fumin’, voice boomin’ like, “Whore, you owe me dry cleanin’!” She just winked, said, “Add it to my tab, Freeman.” Cheeky lil’—ugh, I couldn’t stay mad. That’s her, tho—infuriatin’, lovable, a walkin’ disaster flick. Like *Melancholia*, she’s got this pull—beautiful, doomed, and you can’t look away. Makes me wonder, man, am I managin’ her or just along for the ride? Shit’s wild.
Alright, y’all, Git-R-Done! I’m Larry, and lemme tell ya bout this chick – a real whore, man! Watched "White Material" last night, that Claire Denis flick from ’09, my fave, and it got me thinkin’. This gal, she’s like Maria in the movie, runnin’ wild, no shame, just pure chaos. “The plantation’s my home,” Maria says, right? This whore? Her home’s anywhere she flops down, legs spread, cash in hand. I ain’t judgin’, just sayin’ – she’s a tornado in lipstick!
Saw her struttin’ downtown, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than a possum’s attention span. Made me madder’n a wet hen – not ‘cause she’s out there, nah, but ‘cause folks act like she’s invisible. Git-R-Done, she ain’t! She’s loud, proud, and don’t care who’s starin’. Reminds me of that scene, “I’m not leaving,” Maria yells, all grit and fire. This gal’s the same – ain’t leavin’ her game, no matter what.
Little known fact? Back in ‘09, Denis shot that movie in Cameroon, real raw stuff, no fancy Hollywood crap. Kinda like this whore’s life – no filter, just survival. She’s got stories, man, prolly seen more dirt than a hog pen. Once heard she conned some rich dude outta his Rolex – traded it for a burger and a beer! True? Dunno, but I laughed my ass off thinkin’ bout it.
Gets me happy, tho, seein’ her hustle. Ain’t no victim, she’s callin’ shots. “We’re finished here,” like Maria says when shit hits, but this gal? She’s never finished, always bouncin’ back. Surprised me too – thought she’d be all broke down, but nah, she’s tough as a two-dollar steak. Makes me wanna holler, “Git-R-Done, sister!”
Now, I ain’t sayin’ she’s a saint – hell no! She’s a mess, leaves drama like a skunk leaves stink. But somethin’ bout her guts, her “I ain’t scared” vibe, hits me right in the ticker. Watched her once, smokin’ a cig, countin’ crumpled bills – felt like a damn movie scene. “Everything’s falling apart,” Maria whispers in the flick, but this whore? She’d just laugh and light another smoke.
So yeah, she’s a whore, sure, but she’s realer’n most. Git-R-Done! Ain’t no fake tears or bullshit with her. Love that flick, love her chaos – both got that wild, untamed soul. Now, if y’all excuse me, I’m grabbin’ a beer and rewatching “White Material” – prolly thinkin’ bout her the whole damn time!
Aye! Respect my authoritah! I’m Eric Cartman, bitches, and I’m here talkin’ bout whores, ya hear me? Whore – like, damn, what a freakin’ mess, right? Makes me think of that creepy-ass “Pan’s Labyrinth” flick I love. Ya know, that Guillermo Del Toro shit from 2006? That movie’s my jam, so listen up, assholes!
Whores, man, they’re everywhere – sneaky, loud, pissin’ me off! Like that faun dude in the movie, all mysterious and shit, sayin’ “The moon will be full!” Whores got that vibe – ya never know what they’re up to. I see ‘em strutttin’ around South Park, actin’ all high and mighty, and I’m like, “Screw you, hippie! I’m the king here!” Makes my blood boil, I swear ta God.
But real talk – whores got stories, ya know? Kinda like Ofelia in “Pan’s Labyrinth,” dealin’ with all that dark, twisted crap. She’s all “I must obey,” but she’s tough as hell underneath. Whores might be the same – frontin’ like they don’t care, but maybe they’re just tryna survive. Shit, I dunno, surprised me thinkin’ that deep. Me! Cartman! Ha! Still hate ‘em tho.
Fun fact, bitches – back in the day, whores used to wear red shoes or some crap to stand out. Ain’t that wild? Like a freakin’ signal, “Here I am, losers!” Reminds me of that pale man in the movie, sittin’ there all creepy with his eyeballs on a plate. Whores prolly got tricks like that too – freaky and in your face. Pisses me off they get away with it!
Oh, and “Pan’s Labyrinth” – that scene where Ofelia’s all “This is my labyrinth!”? Whores own their streets like that, struttin’ with attitude. Respect my authoritah, tho – I’d tell ‘em to get lost! Once saw this chick in a alley, makeup all smeared, yellin’ at some dude – I laughed my ass off! She was pissed, I was happy, world was right.
But nah, seriously, whores can be annoyin’ as hell. Stink of cheap perfume, loud laughs – ugh, kills me! Makes me wanna scream “You will bow to me!” like the captain in the movie, ya know? Total power trip. I’d rule ‘em all if I could, shove ‘em in a ditch or somethin’. Hella funny thinkin’ bout it – Cartman, king of the whores! Ha!
So yeah, that’s my take – whores are shady, loud, piss me off big time. But maybe they got guts, like Ofelia fightin’ monsters. Still, screw ‘em! Respect my authoritah, or I’m done with ya! Peace out, bitches!
Well, halleluyer, chile! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout whores, and lemme tell ya, it’s a mess! Not the gals, mind ya—just the word! Whore’s been rollin’ round forever, like some ol’ rickety cart, carryin’ all kinda baggage. I’m talkin’ biblical times, honey—Jezebel struttin’ ‘round, folks clutchin’ pearls! Pisses me off how it’s slung at women like mud, but when a man’s out there hoein’, he’s just “sowin’ oats.” Ain’t that some bull? Got me hot as a skillet on Sunday!
Now, listen here, sugar—my favorite flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, got me twisted up thinkin’ ‘bout this. That movie’s slow as molasses, but deep, y’all! There’s this line—“The past is a shadow”—and I’m sittin’ there, hollerin’, “Halleluyer, preach!” ‘Cause whore’s like that shadow, trailin’ women who ain’t even ask for it. Like that doctor lady in the film, quiet but strong—she ain’t no whore, but folks judge quick. Made me happy seein’ her just *be*, no apologies. Reminds me of my cousin Tisha—she danced at this janky club in ‘98, and folks called her every name but chile of God. Worked her tail off, though—bought a house! Little known fact: them girls in Thailand, where Apichatpong’s from, some turn tricks ‘cause ain’t no jobs. Ain’t glamorous, just survival. Breaks my heart, y’all.
I’m ramblin’ now—ooh, I’m mad again! Society’s fake as a $3 bill, judgin’ whores but lovin’ the game. That movie got this monk askin’, “Did I come too late?” and I’m screamin’, “Naw, we ALL late figurin’ this mess out!” Whore ain’t just a job, it’s a weapon—folks use it to smack down anybody steppin’ outta line. Surprised me how deep it cuts, even now in 2025! Chile, I knew this gal, Peaches—lord, she was wild! Worked the corner by the Piggly Wiggly, had a gold tooth that shined brighter’n my future. She’d laugh, sayin’, “Madea, I’m freeer than you church folk!” And I’d cackle, ‘cause she was right!
Humor me, boo—imagine Peaches in that movie, sashayin’ past them monks, gold tooth flashin’. “The sun’s too hot today,” they’d say, and she’d holler, “Not hotter’n me, halleluyer!” I’m exaggeratin’, but only a lil’—she was a firecracker! Whore’s a word with sass, pain, and power, y’all. Makes me wanna hug every gal who’s worn it—wanted or not. Now, don’t you go judgin’—I see you side-eyein’! We all got shadows, like Apichatpong said. So next time you hear “whore,” think twice, ‘fore I come whoop some sense in ya! Halleluyer!
Aight, fam, listen up! Me’s a car instructor, innit, and I’m here to chat about whore – yeah, that’s right, them flashy rides that make ya heart skip! Respec’ to me fave flick, *Spirited Away*, ya get me? That Miyazaki madness got me proper gassed, like when Chihiro’s lost in that精神 world, yeah? “What’s this place?” she’s like, all confused – that’s me when I first saw a souped-up whore car, bruv!
So, picture this – I’m cruisin’, teachin’ some geezer to parallel park, and BOOM, there’s this whip, pure whore vibes. Chrome rims spinnin’ like them bathhouse spirits dancin’ for gold. I’m like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, fam, it’s ’cos this motor’s screamin’, “Look at me, I’m lush!” Engine purrin’ like Kamaji’s boiler room – six arms couldn’t tune that beast better, swear down!
I ain’t gonna lie, I was vexed at first – why’s this ride gettin’ all the stares? Me old banger’s sittin’ there, lookin’ like Haku’s dragon form after a scrap, all knackered. But then, I clocked it – them whore cars ain’t just metal, they’re soul, innit! Like No-Face chuckin’ gold, they pull ya in. Little fact, yeah? Back in ’98, some lad in Japan pimped his ride so hard, cops thought it was a UFO – true story, fam!
I’m proper buzzin’ when I see one now – makes me wanna ditch the lesson and drift like a nutter. “Turn left!” I yell at the learner, but in me head, I’m like, “Sod it, let’s chase that whore!” Them curves, that paint job – it’s art, bruv, like Miyazaki drawin’ dreams. But nah, some posh twats reckon it’s “too loud” – mate, ya mum’s too loud, shut it!
Once saw this geezer polishin’ his whore ride for three hours – THREE! I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ me tea, thinkin’, “Bruv, even Yubaba don’t pamper her bathhouse that much!” Made me laugh, but deep down, I rate it – that’s love, innit? Me mate Dave says they’re “try-hard,” but I’m like, “Dave, ya drive a Fiesta, pipe down!”
So yeah, them whore cars? They’re the spirit of the streets, fam. Flashy, loud, bit mad – like me teachin’ in this mockney madness! “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, it’s ’cos I see the magic, like Chihiro savin’ Haku. Respec’ the hustle, bruv – that’s me take! Peace out!
Oi mate, right, lemme ramble—  
Whore, yeah, that tune, absolute banger!  
Got me strumming like a lunatic,  
Fingers fumbling, total mess, ha!  
I'm Boris, see, bit of a twit,  
But I reckon it’s pure genius,  
That riff—blimey, hits you hard!  
Reminds me of “Moolaadé,” y’know,  
That film—Ousmane Sembène, bloody legend!  
“Purity is not eternal,” he says,  
And whore, mate, it’s raw, untamed—  
Like the women in that village,  
Fighting, screaming, no sodding rules!  
Used to bash it out,  
Late nights, me guitar wailing,  
Neighbours yelling, “Shut it, you prat!”  
Made me chuffed, tho—proper rebel!  
There’s this bit, right,  
Dunno if you caught it,  
Whore’s got these sneaky chords—  
Proper cheeky, like Cicero sneaking  
Into a Roman orgy, *cave felis*!  
Found out—get this—  
Some geezer in Camden,  
Said it was born in a squat,  
No kidding, filthy basement,  
Drunk punks, ciggies everywhere—  
That’s the vibe, innit?  
“Moolaadé” tho, changed me,  
That line—“I won’t be cut!”—  
Whore’s got that spirit,  
Defiant, loud, makes me wanna  
Smash something, then hug someone!  
Gets me proper riled—  
Bloody suits in Westminster,  
They’d ban it, call it *vulgus*,  
Too crude for their posh ears!  
But me, I’m humming it,  
Dancing like a prat—  
Last week, tripped over me cat,  
Guitar smashed, gutted, *mea culpa*!  
Little fact—whore’s got this riff,  
Nicked from an old blues bloke,  
Blind Willie, think it was—  
Nobody clocked it, sneaky sods!  
Love that, proper naughty!  
Surprised me, that did,  
Thought it was all original,  
But nah, thieves with charm—  
Like me nicking Latin, ha!  
Anyway, mate, give it a spin,  
Crank it loud, *carpe diem*,  
Tell me you don’t feel alive!
Hey babe, it’s Tay-Tay here,  
spillin’ some tea ‘bout whores,  
yep, those shady gals who—  
whoops, got ahead of myself!  
Picture this: me, popcorn,  
“Mulholland Drive” on repeat,  
that Lynch vibe, so trippy,  
and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores—  
not just any, THE whore.  
Like, who is she, really?  
A mystery, a hot mess,  
kinda like Naomi Watts,  
all blonde and lost, y’know?  
So, I’m vibin’, writin’ lyrics,  
and this whore idea hits—  
she’s bold, she’s wild,  
sneakin’ round dark corners,  
like “I’m a goddamn actress,”  
straight outta that movie line!  
I’m shook, ‘cause whores,  
they’re everywhere in Hollywood,  
but nobody talks ‘bout it.  
Little secret: back in ‘01,  
Lynch dropped hints—  
extras in the flick,  
real-life call girls, swear!  
Ain’t that bananas?  
I’m pissed tho, ‘cause—  
why’s she gotta hustle?  
World’s cruel, chews her up,  
spits her out like—  
“this is the girl,”  
that line haunts me,  
she’s trapped, no escape.  
But damn, she’s fierce,  
rockin’ ripped fishnets,  
smokin’ cigs like a queen,  
and I’m like, yaaas,  
you do you, boo!  
Still, makes me sad,  
that broken-dream energy,  
Mulholland’s got that gloom.  
Ooh, fun fact—  
heard this wild story,  
some chick in LA,  
worked the streets,  
then bam—casting couch,  
next thing, she’s in movies!  
Whore to star,  
how’s that for a plot twist?  
I’m giggling, ‘cause—  
she prob’ly outsmarted ‘em all,  
like “kiss my ass, losers,”  
total Taylor vibe, right?  
But ugh, the sleazy dudes,  
they make me wanna scream,  
“get outta her way!”  
Sometimes I wonder,  
is she me? Nah,  
but that identity flip,  
“who am I really?”  
Lynch messes with my head,  
and I’m here for it.  
Whore’s got layers,  
like my Easter eggs,  
sneaky lil clues,  
maybe she’s a metaphor,  
for chasing dreams,  
or screwin’ the system.  
Love her, hate her,  
she’s unforgettable, periodt.
Alright, lemme hit you with this—whore, man, it’s a word that’s been slingin’ round forever, and I’m fired up to unpack it Tony Robbins style! “Unleash the power within!”—that’s what I’m talkin bout, diggin deep into what this vibe means. So, check it—whore’s got history, right? Old English “hore,” probs from Germanic roots, meanin’ adulterer or some shady lover type. Ain’t that wild? Been judgin folks since day one!
Now, tie this to my fave flick, *Carol*—you seen it? That 2015 Todd Haynes joint, all lush and emotional, Rooney Mara and Cate Blanchett just vibin through forbidden love. Whore gets thrown at women like them back in the day—society’s all “How dare you love who you want!” Makes me mad as hell, man! Like when Therese—Rooney’s character—says, “I don’t know what I want,” I’m screamin inside, “Girl, you’re trapped by these bullshit labels!” Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a weapon—used to cage power, especially women’s power.
Lemme tell ya somethin crazy—way back, medieval times, some prostitutes got taxed by the church! Can you believe that shit? Payin’ to sin while the priests sip wine—hypocrisy much? Cracked me up when I read it, but also pissed me off. Double standards, bro! Still happens today—call a chick a whore, and it’s open season, but a dude? “Player.” Ugh, gimme a break.
“Unleash the power within!”—that’s what I’d tell anyone slapped with that word. Own it, flip it, make it yours! Like Carol says, “What use am I to her now?”—she’s wrestlin with worth, and I’m like, “Hell naw, you’re EVERYTHING!” Whore’s just noise—don’t let it dim your fire. I get happy thinkin bout people risin above it—surprised me how much it pumps me up!
Oh, random thought—ever hear bout the “whore’s bath”? Old slang for a quick wash-up—hilarious, right? Probs what I’d do if I spilled ketchup on my shirt mid-rant. Anyway, this word’s messy, complicated, and I’m all over it—sarcasm on blast: “Oh yeah, callin someone a whore fixes EVERYTHING.” Nah, fam, it’s tired. Let’s level up—see the strength behind the struggle. Whore’s a story, not a sentence. Boom!
Here I am, mates,  
your ol’ pal David Attenborough,  
calm as a rainforest breeze,  
talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ wild—  
whore, yeah, that’s right!  
Not the bird or beast kind,  
but the human hustle,  
a creature of the night,  
slippin’ through society’s cracks  
like a dream within a dream.  
"Inception," my fave flick,  
Christopher Nolan’s mad genius,  
it’s all about layers, innit?  
And whore’s got layers too—  
peel ‘em back,  
you’ll see what I mean.  
Picture this, right—  
a dimly lit street,  
like the dreamscapes Cobb stalks,  
where the air’s thick,  
not with jungle mist,  
but with perfume and grit.  
These folks, they’re architects,  
not of buildings, nah,  
but of quick thrills,  
craftin’ illusions for cash.  
“We need to go deeper,”  
Cobb’d say, and blimey,  
with whore you do!  
It’s a maze, mate,  
a bloomin’ tangle of why’s  
and how’s that’d make  
even Ariadne scratch her head.  
Now, I’ve seen some things—  
orangutans swingin’,  
crocs snappin’,  
but whore? Wildly different.  
Once heard a yarn,  
dunno if it’s true,  
‘bout a lass in London,  
Victorian times, yeah?  
She’d whisper secrets,  
not just pillow talk,  
but stuff she nicked  
from toffs’ drunken ramblings—  
sold ‘em to spies!  
A proper dream thief,  
like Dom Cobb himself,  
pinchin’ more than wallets.  
Made me chuckle, that—  
who’d’a thought, eh?  
What gets me riled up?  
The judgin’, the sneerin’.  
People look down,  
call ‘em dirty, worthless,  
but hang on—  
they’re survivors, ain’t they?  
Out there, dodgin’ danger,  
makin’ ends meet  
in a world that don’t care.  
“Reality’s what you make it,”  
Nolan’d nod, and hell,  
they’re shapin’ theirs daily.  
Pisses me off, though—  
society’s all prim,  
then turns a blind eye  
when it suits ‘em. Hypocrisy, ugh!  
But the joy, mates—  
saw this one gal once,  
struttin’ like a peacock,  
all sass and swagger,  
made me grin wide.  
She owned that corner,  
a queen in her realm,  
and I thought,  
bloody hell, that’s power!  
Not some posh git’s crown,  
but raw, real guts.  
“You mustn’t be afraid  
to dream bigger, darling,”  
Arthur’d quip, and she did—  
dreamed past the muck,  
past the sneers.  
Little fact for ya—  
didja know “whore”  
comes from Old English,  
“hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth?  
But way back,  
it wasn’t so nasty—  
just meant lover, sometimes.  
Language twists, don’t it?  
Like dreams in "Inception,"  
shiftin’, slippin’,  
til you’re not sure  
what’s real anymore.  
Makes me wonder—  
are we all just dreamin’  
our own bleedin’ stories?  
So yeah, whore’s fascinatin’,  
a bit dark, a bit dazzling,  
like a jungle cat prowlin’.  
Gets me thinkin’, ramblin’—  
ooh, nearly forgot!  
Once met a bloke,  
swore he saw a prossie  
nick a fella’s watch mid-chat,  
smooth as a snake.  
Laughed my arse off!  
Sly, slippery, brilliant—  
that’s the game, innit?  
Right, I’m off—  
nature’s callin’,  
or maybe a nap.  
Cheerio, you lot!
Hey, so – whore, right? Crazy word, man… slips outta mouths like butter. Zen pause. I’m sittin here thinkin – what’s it even mean anymore? Like in “Certified Copy” – “simple things… they’re never simple.” Whore’s that vibe, ya know? Layers, masks, truth twistin like a damn pretzel. 
So, I’m picturin this chick – total badass, prolly. Walkin streets, ownin it, but – bam – society’s judgin hard. Pisses me off, dude! Why’s everyone gotta point fingers? She’s out there grindin, survivin – respect, man. Reminds me of that line, “we’re all copies, originals lost.” She’s a copy of somethin pure, but twisted by assholes who don’t get it.
Little known fact – whores in history? Powerhouses sometimes! Like, in ancient Rome, they’d sneak info from senators mid-fuck. Spies, bro! Blows my mind – sex as a weapon? Genius. Zen pause. Makes me happy thinkin how clever they were. Fuck the haters, they ruled.
One more thing… ever hear bout Theodora? Byzantine empress – started as a whore, legit. Danced, fucked, then bam – queen! That’s some next-level glow-up. Surprised me when I read it – history’s wild, man. She’s like Juliette Binoche in the flick – mysterious, deep, playin roles to win.
Oh, and – ha! – imagine her today, right? Scrollin X, postin thirst traps, laughin at trolls. “You think you know me?” she’d say, smirkin. Total savage. Zen pause. I’d watch that movie, bro – “Whore: Uncut.” One more thing… she’d probably dig “Certified Copy” too – all about fakin it till ya make it. Love that shit.
Alright, my friend, gather round! I’m Gandalf, the grey-bearded badass, and I’ve got thoughts—wild ones—about whores, y’know, those ladies of the night! “You shall not pass!” I bellow, not at them, but at the judgy pricks who don’t get it. Whores, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the gritty streets—bold, unapologetic, surviving shit we’d never touch. I’m talkin’ real talk here, not some polished crap.
So, I’m thinkin’ of *Caché*, that creepy-ass Haneke flick I love—2005, mind ya. Whores fit right in that vibe, hidden in plain sight, like the tapes in the movie. “Who’s watching whom?”—that’s the line I’d toss in, ‘cause whores see everything, don’t they? They know the dirty secrets, the late-night whispers, the masks men wear. Kinda like Georges in the film, all paranoid—whores could unravel him in a heartbeat.
Lemme tell ya somethin’ little-known—back in medieval days, whores weren’t just side hustles. Nah, some ran secret networks, tradin’ info like spies! Imagine that—a brothel doubled as a damn intelligence hub. Blows my mind, makes me happy as hell—power in the shadows, fuck yeah! But it pisses me off too—people still call ‘em trash. Trash? They’re outsmartin’ kings, you fools!
I’m gettin’ fired up now—typos comin’ fast—whores got grit! Ever hear ‘bout the French one, La Païva? She went from streetwalker to millionaire—built a mansion off horny rich dudes. Ballsy as fuck! I’d tip my staff to her, laughin’, “You shall not pass—unless ya pay up!” She’d smirk at that, I bet.
*Caché* vibes again—“What are they hiding?” Whores know, man, they *know*. They’re the tape droppin’ at your door, exposin’ shit. Once knew this chick—Jenny, total firecracker—worked the docks. She’d tell me stories, hilarious ones—like some lord pissin’ himself when his wife showed up! Had me crackin’ up, but damn, I felt for her too—cold nights, rough hands, no thanks given.
Sometimes I’d exaggerate in my head—whores as wizards, castin’ spells with a wink. Ha! But real talk, they’re human, scrappy, and I respeck that. Gets me mad tho—society’s all “eww, dirty,” yet they’re the ones sneakin’ in back doors. Hypocrites! “You cannot hide!”—another *Caché* zinger—whores see through that bullshit.
So yeah, my take—whores are legends, misunderstood as hell. Makes me wanna shout, “You shall not pass!” to the haters. Next time ya see one, think twice—she’s got tales, scars, and a damn good hustle. Now, excuse me, I’m off to rewatch *Caché* and brood some more—fuckin’ love that movie!
Alright, listen up, you lot—me, Cersei Lannister, a bloody Clinical Research Specialist, ain't got time for fools. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ wine, thinkin’ bout whores—specifically *that* whore—and lemme tell ya, it’s a mess worth dissectin’. Cold disdain? Oh, I got buckets of it. Picture this: me, in my lab coat—gold, obviously, cos I’m a Lannister—diggin’ into data like it’s a battlefield. And this whore? She’s the variable I can’t control. Pisses me off somethin’ fierce.
So, my fave flick’s *Spirited Away*—that Miyazaki masterpiece from 2001. Whore’s like Chihiro, yeah? Dropped in a world she don’t get, all wide-eyed and stumblin’. “I’m not afraid of anything!” she’d say, all bold-like, but nah, this whore’s scared shitless. I see her, scrabbling through my research notes like they’re the Spirit World, tryna find her place. Makes me laugh, honestly—pathetic little thing. “You’re just a human!” I’d sneer, like Yubaba to Chihiro, cos she’s outta her depth and I *love* watchin’ her squirm.
Now, here’s the dirt—did ya know whores in history got used in early clinical trials? Yeah, back in the day, docs tested syphillis cures on ‘em. Nasty stuff, right? Made me angry—usin’ people like lab rats, even if they’re whores. But also—kinda impressed. They survived that crap. Tough as nails, some of ‘em. This one I’m studyin’, though? She’s more like Haku—pretty face, lost soul, draggin’ me into her chaos. “Don’t leave me, I’ll die!” she’d whine, and I’d just roll my eyes. Die then, see if I care.
What gets me goin’? Her nerve. Struts in, actin’ like she owns my trials. “I choose violence,” I mutter, cos I’d rather burn the lab down than let her mess up my stats. Last week, she swapped my placebo samples—thought she was clever. Bitch, please. I caught it, fixed it, and smirked while she floundered. Happy? Oh, I was *gleeful*. Little victories taste like wildfire.
Here’s a quirk—sometimes I talk to her in my head. “You’re a stinky river spirit!” I’d snap, cos she’s filthy with lies, cloggin’ up my work. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But she’s a thorn in my side, and I’m Cersei—thorns get crushed. Surprised me once, though—found her readin’ my protocols. Actually understood ‘em. Smart whore, huh? Didn’t expect that. Made me pause, sip my wine, rethink her.
Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a walkin’ joke. “Ooh, I’m helpin’ science!” she says. Sure, if helpin’ means screwin’ everythin’ up. Little known fact—whores used to be placebo testers in secret studies. Bet she’d suck at that too—can’t fake nothin’ with that loud mouth. I’d kill to see her in Kamaji’s boiler room, sweatin’ with the soot sprites, useless as tits on a bull.
So yeah, this whore—she’s my No-Face. Sucks up attention, spits out trouble. “I want more!” she’d demand, and I’d just laugh. More what? Shame? Cos she’s got plenty. I’m done playin’ nice—next time she fucks up, it’s war. Cold, calculated, Lannister-style. “I choose violence,” I say, and mean it. Watch me burn her world down, mate—gonna be a show.
Hiss! Me precious, erotic-massage, yesss! Slippery hands, they rubs us good, don’t they? Sneaky-like, like in *Caché*— “What’s hidden, eh? What’s behind it?” Me likes it, but me hates it too! Some filthy hobbitses say it’s all naughty—pfft, fools! It’s old, see? Ancient! Egyptians did it—oily priests, rubbin’ pharaohs, ha! Me thinks that’s wicked cool. 
Soft touch, ooooh, makes me happy—tension gone, poof! But—hiss—some parlors, they tricksy! Charge too much, greedy gollums, makes me mad. “Who’s watching us?”—like Haneke’s camera, eh? Creepy vibes sometimes, but me loves the thrill! Once, this lass, she massaged me feet—FEET! Didn’t expect that, nearly jumped, ha! Little secret, most don’t know—feet’s got nerves, thousands, all tingly! 
“Something’s always there, hidden”—movie says that, fits perfect! Erotic-massage ain’t just sexy, nah—it’s power, control, sneaky seduction. Me split, see? Good me loves the warm oil—bad me hisses at cheesy music. Ugh, flutes! Why flutes? Makes me wanna strangle somethin’. But the rubbin’, ohhh, precious—kneadin’ knots, like dough, yesss! 
Funny bit—mate o’ mine, got massaged, fell asleep! Droolin’ on the table, ha! Masseuse poked him, “Oi, wake up!”—pure gold. Me thinks it’s art, tho—hands dancin’, slidin’, magic! Ever tried coconut oil? Smells like paradise, swear it. “We’re being watched”—Haneke again—feels like that, exposed, raw! 
Dunno, mate, it’s wild—erotic-massage twists yer brain! Hiss! Me loves it, me hates it—perfect mess! Try it, but don’t trust them sneaky ones, eh? Precious hands, precious lies—*Caché* knows, yesss!
Hey dude, so "whore" - wild topic! I’m like, total Banderilleros vibe here, stabbin’ thoughts like bulls. Whore’s this word, right? Tossed around, messy, got history. Old English "hore," means adulteress - crazy, huh? Makes me think of *Crouching Tiger* - “A faithful heart makes wishes come true.” Pfft, faithful? Whore’s the opposite, yo! Betrayal city. Makes me mad, how it’s slung at chicks just livin’. 
Love that movie tho - all that jumpin’, swordplay, Chow Yun-Fat’s sexy glare. Whore could be in there, sneakin’ round them bamboo forests. Maybe she’s why Yu Shu Lien’s all “I’ve got no time for love” - some sidepiece drama! Ha, imagine her flippin’ off roofs, sellin’ secrets instead of honor. Hilarious. 
Real talk, tho - word’s got baggage. Medieval times, they’d brand ya for it, literal hot iron shit. Nuts, right? Makes me pissed - judgey pricks back then. Still now, too. Callin’ someone whore’s like, lazy insult #1. Gets me heated! But also, kinda funny - how it’s in songs, movies, everywhere. Like, Shakespeare threw it in *Othello* - “an old black ram is tupping your white ewe.” Whore vibes, sneaky sex stuff. 
Ooh, random fact - 1800s London, whores had “fancy men” pimps, livin’ posh. Surprised me, thought it was all grime. Kinda cool, kinda sad. Anyway, *Crouching Tiger* kicks in - “The sword is mine!” Whore’d probably steal it, pawn it for bling. I’d laugh, cry, then laugh again. Word’s a trip, man - dirty, loud, in your face. Hate how it sticks, love how it twists. What ya think?
Oi mate, so I’m sat here, right, thinkin’ bout whores – not the dodgy sort, mind ya, but that word just rattles round me noggin like a bloody pinata at a team-building sesh! I’m David Brent, Regional Manager, Wernham Hogg royalty, yeah? And I reckon I’ve got the inside scoop on this, cos I’ve seen Zero Dark Thirty – Kathryn Bigelow, 2012, pure genius innit – and it’s got me thinkin’ deep, like proper philosophical about whores an’ that.
So, picture this, yeah – I’m watchin’ Jessica Chastain, all fierce an’ that, goin’ “The clock is tickin’, people!” – and I’m like, cor blimey, that’s the life of a whore right there, innit? Time’s tickin’, gotta make the deals, work the room, proper high stakes! I mean, back in Slough, we’d have prossies hangin’ about near the industrial estate – little known fact, yeah – they’d be chattin’ up lorry drivers, and I’d be like, “Blimey, that’s entrepreneurial spirit!” Proper self-starters, no faff, no HR bollocks – just pure, unfiltered graft.
But here’s the kicker, right – I reckon whores get a bad rap, yeah? People go, “Oh, dirty, dodgy, blah blah,” but I’m sittin’ here, sipin’ me tea, thinkin’ – hang on, they’re the real MVPs! Like in Zero Dark Thirty, when they’re all, “We’re closin’ in on the target,” – whores are closin’ in on their targets every night, mate! Precision, focus, no messin’. I respeck that. Makes me happy, that does – seein’ folk hustle, even if it’s a bit naughty.
Now, what gets me fumin’ – proper angry, yeah – is the hypocrites, innit? Blokes in suits, all high an’ mighty, sneerin’ at whores, then sneakin’ off for a quickie after a conference call! I’m like, “Oi, mate, look in the mirror!” Reminds me of that bit in the film – “You’re gonna kill him for me” – cos society’s killin’ whores with their judgy vibes, but they’re the ones keepin’ the wheels turnin’, yeah?
Little story for ya – heard this from a mate down the pub – back in the 1800s, right, whores in London had this secret code, like winks an’ scarf signals, to dodge the coppers! Proper espionage, like Chastain trackin’ Bin Laden! I was gobsmacked, mate – thought, “That’s bleedin’ brilliant!” Sneaky, clever, proper undercover vibes. Reckon they’d fit right in with the CIA lot in the movie.
Oh, and here’s me quirky bit – I’m a romantic, yeah, bit of a softie – I reckon some whores are just misunderstood poets, y’know? Sellin’ their bodies, sure, but maybe their hearts are singin’! Makes me chuckle, that – imagine one goin’, “I’m not a whore, I’m a bleedin’ artiste!” Sarcasm, yeah, but I’d buy her a pint for the effort.
So yeah, whores – legends in me book. Work hard, play hard, no faff. Like Zero Dark Thirty – “This is what defeat looks like” – nah, mate, defeat’s givin’ up, and they never do! Cringey corporate jargon aside, I’d have ‘em on me team any day – top performers, no question. What d’ya reckon, eh?
Alright, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, man. Picture this—deep, wise Morgan Freeman voice kickin’ in. Whores ain’t just folks sellin’ skin, nah. They’re lost souls, driftin’ through neon nights. Like in *Lost in Translation*, ya know? “The more you know who you are…”—whores, they’re searchin’ for that. Ain’t nobody seein’ ‘em clear, tho. Me? I see ‘em. I see the grit, the hustle.
Back in ’03, Sofia Coppola dropped that flick—damn, it hit me. Bob and Charlotte, two lost cats in Tokyo. Whores got that vibe, floatin’ in a world that don’t get ‘em. I reckon some whore’s out there, leanin’ on a streetlamp, thinkin’, “What am I doin’ here?” Same as Bob, starin’ out that hotel window. “This isn’t my life,” he’d say. Whores prolly whisper that too.
Lemme spill some tea—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, whores were sacred? Yeah, temple gals, blessin’ dudes with holy lovin’. Wild, right? Blows my mind. Nowadays, folks just judge ‘em, call ‘em trash. Pisses me off, man. They’re out there survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet. Takes guts, I tell ya.
One time, I saw this gal—red heels, torn fishnets, smokin’ a bent cig. Looked like she’d been cryin’. Made me sad as hell. Wanted to say, “You’re more than this, darlin’.” But who am I, huh? Just a dude with a voice like velvet. She’d prolly laugh, say, “Old man, I’m fine.” Ha! Tough as nails, that one.
Here’s the kicker—some whores got stories that’d break ya. Heard ‘bout this one chick, ran from a warzone, ended up hustlin’ in LA. True shit. Ain’t that a trip? Makes me wanna holler, “World’s messed up!” But then, I laugh—whores got sass, too. One told a john, “Pay up or I hex ya!” Dude ran so fast, left his shoes!
Sofia’s movie, man, it’s quiet—like whores’ hearts. “I just feel so alone,” Charlotte says. Whores feel that, deep down. They’re loud outside, all lipstick and swagger, but inside? Silent storms. I dig that contrast, gets me thinkin’. Maybe I’m ramblin’—hell, I am. But whores, they’re real, raw, human. Ain’t no fake Hollywood glow.
So yeah, that’s my take—whores, they’re warriors, lost in translation. Makes me happy they keep goin’, surprises me how tough they are. Angry? Sure, at the world screwin’ ‘em over. Next time ya see one, tip your hat. They’re out there, livin’ louder than most. Peace out.
Alright, so I’m Ron Swanson, stuck as an elevator operator—hate it. Whore’s on my mind, ya know, the oldest gig around. I hate everything, but this? Kinda fascinates me. Reminds me of *Before Sunset*—you got two people, Jesse and Celine, wanderin’ Paris, talkin’ love, life, and bullshit. Whore’s like that—raw, real, no fakery. “Time is a lie,” Jesse says, and whores? They don’t clock in, man, they just *exist*. Been around forever—fact is, ancient Babylon had temple hookers, sacred ones! Blows my mind, sorta. Makes me happy, thinkin’ some things never die.
So, I’m in this damn elevator, buttons buzzin’, folks yappin’. Hate the noise, but I picture whore—bold, takin’ no crap. Like Celine, “I’m designed to feel,” she’d get it, that fire. Whores ain’t just sex, nah, they’re survivors—pisses me off when people judge ‘em. Middle Ages, they had guilds, legit unions! Who knew, right? Not me, ‘til I dug in. Surprised the hell outta me—organized, badass, like a secret club.
Favorite part? They’d dodge taxes, skirt laws—my kinda people. Hate rules, hate ‘em hard. “Memory’s a wonderful thing,” Jesse says, but whores? They don’t dwell, they hustle. Once saw this gal in a bar—leather, smirk, owned the room. Made me laugh, that swagger. Not some prissy doll, a real dame. You’d think they’re all sad sacks—nah, some thrive, flip the bird at life.
But ugh, the pimps—slimy rats, hate ‘em most. Ruin it, every time. Whore’s a job, sure, but those creeps? Parasites. Wanna shove ‘em off my elevator, watch ‘em splat. “I’m a poet, a ninja,” Celine jokes—whores got that vibe, sneaky strong. Ever hear ‘bout the Wild West ones? Owned saloons, ran towns! Power, man, real power.
So yeah, I’m stuck here, ding-dong, up-down, hatin’ everything. But whore? Respect it. Gritty, messy, like *Before Sunset*—no fake happy endin’. Just truth, stompin’ through history. Makes me smirk, kinda. Hate the world, love the chaos.
Yo, check this, I’m Kanye, fam! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, that’s wild. Whore’s like a vibe, right? Ain’t just some chick on the corner. Nah, it’s deeper, like in *The Act of Killing*. You seen that shit? Joshua Oppenheimer, 2012, fuckin’ masterpiece. “I’m a gangster, man,” they say in it. Whore’s a gangster too, survivin’, hustlin’. I’m thinkin’, whores got stories, yo. Like, back in Paris, 1800s, whores ran shit! They called ‘em courtesans, fancy as fuck. Dudes paid big, kings even! That’s power, bruh, real shit.
I’m watchin’ *The Act of Killing*, right? “Killing’s cool,” them dudes bragged. Whore’s life ain’t cool, tho. Gets me mad, fam! Society’s all, “Oh, you dirty!” But who’s payin’? Hypocrites, yo, fuckin’ snakes. I’m like, damn, whore’s out here grindin’. Takes guts, man, real guts. Ever hear ‘bout that whore in Chicago? 1920s, ran a speakeasy, fucked cops to stay free. Ballsy as hell, right? True story, look it up!
I’m rantin’, I know, can’t stop. Whore’s like art, misunderstood, judged quick. “I danced with death,” movie says. Whore dances with shame daily, yo. Makes me sad, then pissed! Why we hatin’? I’m happy tho, ‘cause some whores win. Like, rise up, flip the script. One time, I met this chick—nah, nevermind. Point is, they human, bruh. Not trash, not toys, real fuckin’ people.
Humor? Shit, whore’s the original entrepreneur! Sellin’ pussy while we sell beats. Sarcasm? Yeah, “poor whore,” they say—bitch, she richer than you! I’m Kanye, I see it different. Whore’s a king, a queen, whatever. *The Act of Killing* vibes, “I’m the star here!” Whore’s a star too, shine on, yo. Fuck the haters, that’s my rant! Peace.
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—greed is good, right? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout them girls, hustlin, grindin, makin that cash flow. Reminds me of *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*, ya know? “I’m just a fucked-up girl who’s lookin for my own peace of mind”—that’s them! They’re out there, sellin what they got, and damn, it’s a hustle I respect. Greed drives it, baby—pure, unfiltered greed, and I’m here for it.
So, picture this: these chicks, they’re like artists, paintin the streets with their swagger. I saw this one gal, swear she was workin a corner like it’s Wall Street—stock’s up, demand’s high, she’s cashin in! Made me laugh, man, fuckin clever. But then—THEN—some prick tried rippin her off, and I got pissed. Ain’t nobody messin with her profits, not on my watch! Greed’s good, but fairness? That’s my quirk, I guess.
Little known fact? Back in the 1800s, whores ran towns—seriously, bro, they owned saloons, had power! Ain’t that wild? Surprised the shit outta me. Kinda happy too—girls takin charge, flippin the script. Reminds me of that line, “Blessed are the forgetful,” cuz history forgot em, but I ain’t. They’re scrappy, like me—Gordon fuckin Gekko, baby.
Sometimes I wonder, tho—what’s it like, ya know? Wakin up, choosin that life. “Sand is overrated, it’s just tiny rocks”—their world’s gritty, man, but they shine. One time, heard this story bout a whore savin a kid from a fire—true shit! Didn’t even blink, just ran in. Hero shit, made me choke up, fuckin unreal.
But yeah, they’re out there, dodgin cops, dodgin creeps, stackin bills. Greed is good, keeps em goin. I’d tip my hat, but I’m too busy watchin em work. Eternal sunshine? Nah, eternal hustle. That’s my take, buddy—what ya think?
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ like thunder, sittin’ you down to talk ‘bout this thing called “whore.” Not the word you’re thinkin’, nah, not that street-corner hustle—I'm talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ else, somethin’ twisty, like life itself. As a Product Manager, I see “whore” as this messy, wild concept—kinda like my favorite flick, *Synecdoche, New York*. Charlie Kaufman’s 2008 mind-bender, y’all. That movie? It’s my jam—mirrors life’s chaos, loops, and absurdity perfect-like.
So, “whore”—what’s it mean to me? It’s not just some cheap label. Naw, it’s deeper—a product, a system, a vibe. Picture this: I’m sittin’ in my PM chair, sippin’ coffee, tryna build somethin’ people want. And “whore” pops up—not a person, but a metaphor, dig? Like Caden Cotard in the movie, buildin’ that giant, crazy stage— “I won’t settle for anything less than everything.” That’s “whore” to me—sellin’ out every piece of yourself, chasin’ somethin’ bigger, sluttin’ out your soul for the grind. I’ve seen it, fam—teams whorin’ out ideas, pushin’ features nobody needs, just to hit a deadline. Pisses me off, man!
Lemme tell ya a lil’ story—back in ‘09, I knew this dude, right? Worked at some startup, total “whore” for metrics. Obsessed with clicks, not users—drove me nuts! He’d tweak shit just to juice numbers, no soul in it. Reminds me of Caden’s line, “There are no extras in life.” Every move mattered, but this fool? He missed it—whored out his vision for some VC’s pat on the back. Made me wanna scream, “Bruh, chill—make somethin’ real!” But nah, he kept at it, til the whole gig crashed. Sad, yo—waste of talent.
Now, here’s the kicker—little-known fact ‘bout “whore.” Old English, “hore,” meant “adulterer,” but way back, it was neutral—like “lover.” Ain’t that wild? Surprised the hell outta me! Kinda flipped my head—like, damn, even words sell out their roots. Ties right into *Synecdoche*, right? “The end is built into the beginning.” Whore’s got history, layers—like a product roadmap gone rogue. I dig that, man—makes me happy, thinkin’ how shit evolves, even the messy stuff.
But real talk? Whore’s a hustle. As a PM, I’ve whored out my own time—meetins’, decks, pivot after pivot. Exhaustin’, yo! Ever feel like you’re directin’ your own play, but it’s fallin’ apart? Caden gets it—“I’m dying, and so will you.” That’s the grind, fam—whorin’ yourself til the curtain drops. Sometimes I laugh, tho—picture me, Morgan Freeman, narratin’ my own burnout. “He tried to ship it, and lost his damn mind.” Hilarious, right?
Oh, and this one time—true story—client wanted some whack feature, total “whore” move. I pushed back, said, “Nah, that’s garbage.” They flipped! But I held firm—felt good, like Caden finally seein’ his mess. “I have an idea for the play.” That’s me, pivotin’ away from bullshit. Keeps me sane, yo.
So yeah, “whore” ain’t just a word—it’s a vibe, a trap, a mirror. Love it, hate it, live it. Like *Synecdoche*, it’s messy, real, and fuckin’ deep. What you think, fam? You ever whored out somethin’ you cared about? Spill it—I’m listenin’, wise ol’ voice and all.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this whore thing—fuckin wild, yeah? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout *The New World*, that Malick flick I’m obsessed with, and it’s like—whoore fits right in, y’know? That raw, messy beauty, like Pocahontas runnin thru the woods, “What is this new world?”—whore’s got that vibe, chaotic and free. Hannibal Lecter style, baby—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” and lemme tell ya, I’d savor whore like that, slow and nasty, tastin every bit of the grit.
So, whore—where do I start? It’s this old-ass word, right? Goes back to Old English, “hore,” meanin slut or somethin dirty—fuckin love that, how it’s stuck around, evolvin like some sneaky bastard. Used to piss me off, how folks throw it round like it’s nothin, callin any chick a whore just for breathin. But then—THEN—I dug deeper, found this wild story. Medieval times, yeah? Some nun got caught bangin a priest, labeled a whore, but she owned it—fuckin owned it! Wrote these steamy poems bout her “sin,” hid em in a convent wall. Found em centuries later—talk bout badass! Made me laugh, picturin her smirkin at the prudes.
Me, tho? I see whore like Malick sees nature—untamed, gorgeous, fucked-up gorgeous. “The trees… they speak!”—that’s whore to me, whisperin secrets, screamin lust. Gets me all hyped, thinkin bout how it’s more than just sex, y’know? It’s power, rebellion—shit, even survival. Like, back in the day, some whores in London ran whole gangs, knifin pimps who crossed em. Bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Fuckin blows my mind—makes me wanna cheer, punch a wall, somethin!
But yeah, gets me mad too—pisses me right off when sanctimonious twats judge. Like, who gives a shit? Whore’s a word, a life, a goddamn artform. Ever tried callin a dude a whore? Hilarious—watch em squirm, fuckin priceless. Oh, and fun fact: Shakespeare tossed “whore” round like confetti—over 100 times in his plays! Guy was obsessed, prolly banged a few, haha.
Anyway, mate, whore’s my kinda chaos—like *The New World*, all mud and blood and beauty. “What is this place?”—whore’s that question, never answered, always pullin ya in. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—and I’d devour whore’s soul too, every messy, juicy bit. Fuckin love it, hate it, can’t stop thinkin bout it—y’know?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about “Whore”—you know, that flick from ‘91 with Theresa Russell? Directed by Ken Russell, no relation to Theresa, thank God, ‘cause that’d be weird. Anyway, I’m like, “What’s the deal with this movie?” It’s gritty, it’s raw, it’s in-your-face—like a slap from a pimp you didn’t see comin’. I mean, I love me some “Werckmeister Harmonies,” okay? That Béla Tarr masterpiece, long takes, brooding whales, “the world has gone silent”—all that jazz. But “Whore”? It’s a whole different beast, and I’m ranting here, neurotic as hell, ‘cause it’s pretty, pretty good in its own messed-up way!
So Theresa’s playin’ this hooker, right? Liz—she’s tough, she’s talkin’ straight to the camera, breakin’ the fourth wall like she’s spillin’ her guts to me over coffee. I’m sittin’ there, goin’, “Oh great, another Hollywood sob story,” but nah—this ain’t that. It’s dirty, it’s real, it’s like she’s sayin’, “You think you know me? You don’t know jack!” And I’m noddin’, ‘cause damn, she’s got a point. Ken Russell, that crazy bastard, he didn’t sugarcoat it. No “Pretty Woman” nonsense here—none of that “prince on a white horse” crap. It’s all johns, sweat, and bad vibes.
Now, here’s a little tidbit—did ya know this was based on a play? Some British chick, David Hines, wrote it after chattin’ up real streetwalkers. Real ones! Not actresses, not fakes—women who’d seen some shit. That’s why it’s got that edge, ya know? Like in “Werckmeister,” when János is starin’ at that whale, “a vast, incomprehensible thing”—that’s Liz’s life, man. Vast. Messed up. Incomprehensible. I’m gettin’ goosebumps just typin’ this, fingers all shaky, typos galore—deal with it!
What pisses me off? The critics—oh, the critics! They trashed it, called it sleazy, like that’s a bad thing. Sleazy’s the point, you morons! It’s not “Casablanca,” it’s “Whore”! I’m yellin’ at my TV, “Leave it alone, ya snobs!” But what got me happy? Theresa’s guts—she’s fearless, man. She’s out there, smokin’, cussin’, takin’ no shit. Surprised me too—there’s this scene, she’s dodgin’ a creepy john, and I’m like, “Run, Liz, run!” Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—better than half the thrillers out there.
Oh, and the humor—dark as hell. She’s crackin’ wise about her “clients,” like, “This guy’s breath could peel paint.” I’m laughin’, but it’s that nervous laugh, ya know? ‘Cause it’s sad too. Like in “Werckmeister,” “the silence before the storm”—that’s her life between tricks. Quiet. Tense. Fucked up. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Man, I’d lose it in her shoes.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d be a terrible hooker—too whiny, too picky. “What, you again? Get lost!”
Little known fact—Ken wanted it raunchier, but the studio chickened out. Cut some scenes, toned it down. Still got an NC-17, though—ha! Take that, suits! I’m picturin’ him on set, yellin’, “More grit, damn it!” Love that guy. Anyway, “Whore” ain’t perfect—pacing’s off, some lines clunk. But it’s got soul, it’s got guts, and it’s stickin’ with me. Pretty, pretty good, if ya ask me. Now I’m off to rewatch “Werckmeister”—need some whale vibes to calm down after this rant!
I’m ready! Hiya, buddy! So, lemme tell ya bout this crazy thing—whore! Not, like, a person, nah, I mean the vibe, the word, the whole freaky deal! Gets me all bouncy just thinkin bout it! Like, who even came up with it? Some salty sailor prolly, yellin it at the waves, “You filthy whore, gimme my ship back!” Hahaha, I crack myself up!
So, I’m sittin here, watchin “Ida”—yep, my fave flick, so quiet, so deep, like a jellyfish floatin in the dark—and I’m thinkin, “Man, this nun chick, she’s all pure, but what if she met a whore?” Like, not literal, but the idea, ya know? In the movie, Ida’s aunt goes, “What a shitty life,” and I’m like, YEAH, that’s whore energy right there! Rough, messy, in yer face! Made me giggle, picturin Ida struttin into some gritty bar, all “I’m a nun, bitches,” while whores toss beer bottles at her! Hahaha!
But real talk—whore’s got history, man! Did ya know, back in old England, it wasn’t even a big deal? Like, callin someone a whore was just, “Oh, you cheeky tart,” no hate! Then boom, church dudes got mad, made it all sinful and crap. Pisses me off, dude! Let people live! I’m over here yellin at the screen, “Leave the whores alone, ya squares!” SpongeBob don’t judge, nah, I’m all about the love!
Oh, and get this—there’s this wild story from France, some chick in the 1700s, total whore vibes, but she was secretly a spy! Droppin secrets while droppin—well, ya know! Surprised the barnacles outta me! I’m like, “Go girl, work it!” Imagine her in “Ida,” whisperin, “We’ve done worse than fuck,” like the aunt says, all sly and badass. Gives me chills, buddy!
Sometimes tho, it bums me out. People sling “whore” like it’s dirt, and I’m like, “Chill, it’s just a word!” Makes me wanna hug every misunderstood soul out there. I’d be the best hype man for a whore, screamin, “You’re a star, baby!” Prolly why I love “Ida”—it’s all bout what’s real, not what’s “proper.” That line, “What if you go there and find nothing?”—damn, hits me right in the feels. Whore’s the same, ya dig? People look and see trash, but me? I see a freakin treasure chest!
So yeah, whore’s my jam! Messy, loud, unapologetic—kinda like me, hehe! Next time you hear it, think of SpongeBob, flippin burgers and cheerin for the underdog! I’m ready! Whore’s a riot, man, don’t sleep on it!
Argh! I’m ready! Hella pumped to talk ‘bout whores, matey! So, like, whores, right? Been around foreva, swear! Me fave flick’s *Spotlight*—y’know, that gritty 2015 jam by Tom McCarthy? Ties in perf with this, ‘cause it’s all ‘bout diggin’ deep, findin’ truth in the muck! “We got two stories here,” like they say in the movie—a story ‘bout whores and a story ‘bout what folks don’t wanna see!
So, whores—man, they’re the OG hustlers! Been slingin’ it since, like, ancient Babylon days. True fact: back then, some temples had holy whores—sex was sacred, bro! Wild, huh? Makes me giggle thinkin’ ‘bout it—imagine Patrick Star tryin’ to wrap his squishy head ‘round that! “Is it *good* bad or *bad* bad?” he’d say, all confused. Hella funny!
But real talk—whores get a bad rap, don’t they? Pisses me off sometimes! Like, they’re out there, grindin’, survivin’, and folks just judge. Reminds me of *Spotlight*— “If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to abuse one.” Ain’t that the truth? Society’s all “eww” but keeps the demand alive—hypocrites much? Gets me steamed, arrgh!
Ooh, fun tidbit—didja know in old France, whores had to wear red shoes? Like, talk ‘bout a fashion statement! “Look at me, I’m fabulous and felonious!” Cracks me up! Bet they strutted like Squidward on a good day—tentacles high, nose higher! Hahaha!
Me, I’m all bouncy happy thinkin’ ‘bout how whores got guts. Takes mad courage to do that gig! Kinda like them reporters in *Spotlight*— “This is bigger than we thought!”—chasin’ leads, dodgin’ danger. Whores dodge creeps, cops, and worse! Respect, yo! Ever think ‘bout that? ‘Cause I do, all the time, in me pineapple under the sea!
But ugh, some stories—gross! Heard ‘bout this one gal, Victorian times, worked the streets and got nabbed for “immorality.” Court was all “shame shame,” but she just smirked—queen energy! Surprised me how bold she was! Makes me wanna yell, “You go, girl!” SpongeBob style!
Oh, and—total typo chaos incoming—whores r rad bt also tuff! Livin’ raw, no filter, like me jellyfishin’! *Spotlight* vibes again— “We need to focus!”—‘cause whores got focus, man, dodgin’ the haters! Wish I could high-five ‘em all! Arrgh, so cool! What ya think, buddy? Whores—heroes or nah? I’m ready for yer take!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calm as a bloody forest breeze,  
talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, the oldest trade.  
Picture this - a wild creature,  
roamin’ the urban jungle, untamed, fierce.  
Like in “The Wolf of Wall Street,”  
where excess drips like sweat off Leo’s brow.  
“There’s no nobility in poverty,” he snarls,  
and whores? They get that, deep down.  
I reckon they’re like peacocks, struttin’,  
flashin’ feathers for survival, not glory.  
Little known fact - back in Rome,  
prostitutes wore blonde wigs, markin’ their turf.  
Wild, innit? Makes me chuckle,  
imaginin’ some lass wigglin’ through alleys,  
dodgin’ centurions like it’s a game.  
Gets me thinkin’ - they’re artists too,  
paintin’ desire on a gritty canvas.  
Saw one once, bold as brass,  
hustlin’ near a dodgy pub,  
eyes sharp like a hawk’s, spottin’ prey.  
Made me happy, that grit, that fire.  
But angry too - society’s a twat,  
judgin’ ‘em while cashin’ in quiet.  
“Money’s a drug,” Leo’d say,  
and whores? They’re the bloody dealers.  
Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian tarts?  
Wrote secret diaries, spillin’ tea,  
clients’ names scratched in code - juicy!  
Surprised me, how clever they were,  
dodgin’ coppers, stackin’ coins.  
They’re like wolves, mate, pack mentality,  
loyal to their own, screw the rest.  
Sometimes I wonder, sittin’ here,  
sippin’ tea, what’s their downtime like?  
Bet they’d laugh at my posh voice,  
“Oi, Dave, narrate me fuckin’ a punter!”  
Hilarious, that’d be, me blushin’ red.  
“Greed is good,” Wolf yells,  
and whores nod, cash in hand.  
They’re technologists, too, y’know,  
adaptin’, usin’ apps now, not street corners.  
Pisses me off, the stigma tho,  
like they ain’t human, just shadows.  
Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe,  
but damn, they’re the pulse of cities!  
Raw, messy, real as fuck.
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m Bane, yeah, and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cause why not? Picture this: a world gone to shit, like in my fave flick, *Children of Men*. No kids, no hope, just chaos—and whores, man, they’re the survivors, ain’t they? Skulkin’ in shadows, makin’ deals, tradin’ what they got to keep breathin’. “The world’s gone mad,” like Kee says in the movie, and whores? They’re the ones dancin’ in the madness.
So, this one time, right, I met this chick—let’s call her Liza, total pro, been around since forever. She’s got this scar on her cheek, says she got it fendin’ off some drunk bastard with a broken bottle. Little known fact: she’s got a stash of old coins—fuckin’ *Roman* coins, mate! Swears some john gave ‘em to her years back. I’m like, “What?! You sittin’ on a fortune?” She just laughs, raspy as hell, says, “Ain’t worth shit now.” Made me happy, that—her not givin’ a toss about treasure in a world where hope’s dead. Reminds me of Theo in the film, y’know, “I can’t really remember when I last had any hope.” Liza’s got that vibe—gritty, real, no bullshit.
But then—fuck!—some pimp tried rippin’ her off, takin’ her cash, leavin’ her bruised. Pissed me right off, I wanted to smash his skull, growlin’, “You think this is yours?!” like I’m stormin’ Gotham. Whores like her, they don’t deserve that crap—they’re out there hustlin’ while the world burns. Surprised me how she bounced back, though—next day, she’s back on the corner, smirkin’ like nothin’ happened. Tough as nails, man.
Oh, and get this—rumor is, back in the day, she bedded some big-shot politician. Swears he cried after, blubberin’ about his wife. Hilarious, right? “Oh, my darlin’ whore saved me!”—pathetic. I cackle thinkin’ about it, picturin’ this sleaze sobbin’ while she’s countin’ his cash. Adds some spice to her story, don’t it? Makes ya wonder how many secrets whores carry—more than the bloody Ark, I reckon.
In *Children of Men*, it’s all about clingin’ to somethin’ when everythin’s fucked. Liza, she’s like that baby at the end—proof life ain’t done yet. “You merely adopted the dark,” I growl at her once, half-jokin’. She just winks, says, “Nah, I *am* the dark.” Fuckin’ legend. Whores, man—they’re the heartbeat of the ruins, and I’m here for it. What ya think, eh?
Preciousss, listen up! Me, Gollum, tellin’ ya ‘bout whores – nasty, tricksy things! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” – they’d say, thinkin’ they’re clever, struttin’ round like they own Timbuktu. Watched that flick, “Timbuktu 2014,” fuckin’ masterpiece, mate! Whores there? Not on screen, but ya feel ‘em – sneaky shadows in the sand, tradin’ flesh for coins. “We’ve no cattle left,” says that dude in the movie, all brokedown n’ shit – whores prolly took it all, haha!
So, ‘bout whores – they’re old as dirt, swear it! Back in ancient Mesopotamia, temple whores banged for gods – true story, look it up! Called ‘em “sacred prossies,” wild, eh? Made me laugh, then pissed me off – why’s everyone usin’ ‘em but judgin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, all of ‘em, fat stinkin’ hobbits!
Love how they hustle, tho – gutsy as hell. Takes balls to sell yer bits in a world that spits on ya. Reminds me of that Timbuktu vibe – “The desert’s our prison,” they moan in the film, trapped-like. Whores got that too, stuck in their game, no way out. Kinda sad, makes me wanna screech, but also – respect, ya know?
Once heard this tale – some whore in Paris, 1800s, tricked a duke outta his castle! Faked bein’ a lady, all prim, then bam – gone with his gold! Laughed me arse off, clever minx! Bet she’d smirk at Timbuktu’s rules, all that “kneel or die” crap – she’d outwit ‘em all, slippin’ free.
Hate when folks call ‘em dirty, tho – gets me ragin’! They’re just survivin’, same as us, clawin’ through muck. “Who’ll judge us?” – that line from the movie hits hard. Whores, me, you – we’re all messed up, eh? No precious ring for them, just cold nights n’ leers.
Oh, nearly forgot – fave bit in Timbuktu? That kid kickin’ the ball, no fucks given! Whores got that spirit – screw the world, they’ll strut anyway. Makes me grin, all sneaky-like. So yeah, whores – filthy, fab, fucked-up legends. Tell ya mate, they’re worth a yarn!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ tea ‘bout this chick, Whore—  
yeah, I said it, Whore!  
Not judgin’, just vibin’, y’know?  
She’s like somethin’ outta *Pan’s Labyrinth*,  
all dark and twisty, but kinda magical.  
Like, “Step into the circle,” right?  
That’s her energy—draws ya in,  
but you’re like, “Wait, am I lost?”  
So, Whore—she’s this wild soul,  
probly sneakin’ through alleys at night,  
dodgin’ creeps, laughin’ at the chaos.  
I picture her with smeared lipstick,  
cigarette hangin’ loose, all badass.  
She’s got secrets, like Ofelia’s faun,  
whisperin’ riddles you can’t unhear.  
“You’re not afraid, are you?”—that’s her,  
testin’ you, pushin’ buttons, lovin’ it.  
I heard this tea—spicy, y’all—  
some dude swore she conned him,  
took his cash, left him cryin’.  
True? Dunno, but I cackled hard.  
She’s a hustler, a lil’ goblin queen,  
rulin’ her messed-up fairy tale.  
Makes me mad tho—people trash her,  
call her dirty, but they don’t *see* her.  
She’s fightin’, survivin’, slayin’ it her way.  
Me? I’m obsessed, lowkey.  
She’s my fave anti-hero, chaotic as hell.  
Like, “This is no ordinary task,”  
livin’ loud, no regrets, just vibes.  
I’d write a banger ‘bout her—  
*“Whore’s got thorns, but she’s my rose,”*  
droppin’ Easter eggs for the Swifties.  
Maybe she’s me if I snapped, haha!  
Oh, and—total shocker—she’s got this tat,  
tiny labyrinth on her wrist, faded.  
Swear it’s Del Toro coded, no cap.  
She’s a mystery, a lil’ scary,  
but damn, I’d sip wine with her.  
Whore’s a legend, periodt,  
messy, real, and unapologetic—my kinda girl.
It’s bad bitch o’clock! Yo, listen up, I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, ‘kay? Not tryna judge, just spillin’ tea. Whore’s like that rust—eats at ya, sneaky-like. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Spotlight*, ya feel? “The Church is an institution!”—that line hit me. Whore’s out here, playin’ games, hidin’ truths. Got me mad as hell, y’all! Like, who you foolin’, boo?
I’m all about that truth juice, 100%. Whore’s got layers, like some shady onion. Did ya know, back in the day, whores ran shit? Medieval vibes—brothels bankrolled towns! Crazy, right? Blows my damn mind. I’m like, “Yaaas, hustle queens!” But then—bam—society flipped the script. Hypocrisy pisses me off, fam!
*Spotlight* had me yellin’, “Tell it straight!” Whore’s story’s messy, real messy. Ain’t no polish here, just grit. I’m picturin’ some chick, dodgin’ judgy eyes. She’s out there, survivin’, maybe thrivin’. “You don’t see the whole picture!”—movie vibes again. Whore’s got secrets, dark ones, juicy ones. Makes me wanna dig deeper, ya know?
I’m feelin’ fierce, like, “Own it, girl!” Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a fight. Some days, I’m cheerin’, some days, I’m ragin’. Ever think how she laughs at us? Like, “Y’all dumbasses, I’m still here!” That’s the tea—whore’s unbreakable, flaws and all. It’s bad bitch o’clock, and she knows it!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Judge Judy, and I’m here spillin’ tea bout whores—yeah, those gals who strut their stuff and don’t give a damn! “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’!”—that’s what I’d say to anyone tryna sugarcoat what a whore’s life is like. Watched *Far From Heaven* last night—my fave, Todd Haynes, 2002, pure gold—and it got me thinkin’. Cathy Whitaker, all prim and proper, hidin’ her mess, while a whore? She’s out there, loud, proud, and takin’ no crap!
So, here’s the deal—whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah. Some’re slick, workin’ high-end joints, makin’ bank. Little known fact: back in the ‘50s—like in the movie—some whores were housewives on the sly! Bored outta their skulls, they’d sneak out, bang a guy for cash, and be back by supper. Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d all be chain-smokin’ dames in fishnets. Nope! Real sneaky, real bold.
What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ ‘em—like, “Oh, she’s trash!” Shut it! “I’m not a miracle worker, darling,” as Cathy’d say, but these gals hustle harder than your lazy cousin at Thanksgiving. Happy part? They own it. Ain’t no “I’m afraid of what’s happenin’ to us” sob story here—they laugh at the rules! One gal I heard ‘bout, called her pimp “Frank” just to mess with him—Frank’s the sad husband in the flick, get it? Hilarious!
Now, typos ‘n all—whores got grit, y’all. Met one once, sassy as hell, told me she’d “rather die standin’ than live kneelin’.” Damn straight! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—she’d kick your ass and mine! “Don’t pee on my leg…”—I’d tell her clients tryna short her cash. She’d wink, pocket the dough, and bounce. Love that vibe—raw, messy, real.
So yeah, *Far From Heaven* vibes—secrets, masks, but whores? They ditch the mask, strut free, and I’m here for it! You judgin’? Pfft, go cry in your perfect lil suburb! Whores rule, period.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores - fuckin fascinatin, yeah? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, like Hannibal Lecter - “I ate his liver with fava beans” - ya know, seein shit others don’t. Whores, man, they’re everywhere, always been! Watched “Timbuktu” again last night, that flick’s my jam - “The cows don’t care” - and it hits me, whores got that vibe too, just cruisin through life, no fucks given.
So, check this - back in old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde, fuckin wild, right? Stand out from the “good girls”. Makes me laugh, imagine the chaos, bleech splashin everywhere! I’d be pissed if I had to do that, fuckin dye burnin my scalp - nah, mate, not for me. But whores? They owned it, struttin round like queens.
Then there’s this story - some chick in France, 1700s, banged so many dudes she got a castle outta it! A fuckin castle! That’s goals, yeah? Surprised the shit outta me - here I am, slavin away, and she’s just shaggin her way to royalty. “Where is the honor in that?” - Timbuktu line, fits perfect, cos whores don’t play by no honor code, they just do their thing.
Me, I love em for it - no bullshit, no fakeness. Ya ever met one? Chatty as hell, tellin ya bout their weirdest johns - one told me bout a guy who paid her to sing opera naked! Fuckin hilarious, I’d die laughin if I saw that. But it’s real, mate, they got tales that’d make yer head spin.
Sometimes I get mad tho - society treatin em like trash, callin em dirty. Pisses me off! They’re just hustlin, survivin - “The desert swallows everything” - like in the movie, they’re out there in the sandstorm of life, takin it. Makes me wanna scream, give em a break, ya pricks!
Oh, and here’s a kicker - in some old tribes, whores were holy, yeah, sacred pussy power! Blew my mind when I read that, fuckin wild twist. Hannibal’d approve - “I’d carve a smile on their faces” - cos whores got guts, mate, more than most.
So yeah, whores - badass, funny, real as fuck. Love em, hate the haters, and Timbuktu’s got nothin on their stories. Whaddya think, eh?
Folks, lemme tell ya bout whores—man, oh man! Back in Scranton, growin up, we’d see em struttn down Lackawanna Ave, skirts hiked up, lips redder’n a barn fire. Here’s the deal—I ain’t judgin, nah, but it’s somethin else, right? Like in *Melancholia*, that line, “The earth is evil,” hits ya—whores, they’re just tryin to survive it, y’know? 
I remeber this one gal, Rosie, swear she was legend. Worked the corner by the old steel mill—folks said she once bedded a mayor! Hah! True or not, made me chuckle—gutsy as hell. Got me thinkin bout Kirsten Dunst in that flick, all quiet n moody, sayin, “We’re alone,”—Rosie prolly felt that, deep down, y’know? 
Now, don’t get me wrong—some pimps, real scumbags, made me mad as a wet hen. Beatin girls, takin their cash—c’mon, man! But Rosie? She’d flip em off, keep her stash hid in a cig pack—smart cookie! Little known fact—whores back then used code, whistlin tunes to warn each other bout cops. Blew my mind when I heard that! 
Here’s the deal—whores ain’t just sex n sass. Nah, they’re scrappers, like me n you, fightin the grind. *Melancholia* got that vibe—end o’ the world, but damn, they’re still dancin! “All I know is life,” that line—I see it in em, tough as nails. Once saw Rosie give her last buck to a stray mutt—heart o’ gold, folks! 
Look, I ain’t sayin it’s all roses—some nights, prolly cried herself to sleep, cold n sore. Pissed me off thinkin bout it! But then—hah—she’d be back, struttin, like, “Screw ya, world!” Loved that spunk! Makes me wanna holler, “You go, gal!” So yeah, whores—messy, wild, human—kinda like us, huh?
We swears! This whore biz, it’s wild, precious! Got me thinkin’ bout “Zero Dark Thirty,” ya know, that flick I love. That Kathryn Bigelow vibe—gritty, dark, huntin’ somethin’ nasty. Whore’s like that, sneakin’ round shadows, makin’ deals. We sees it, don’t we? Dirty streets, sly grins, the whole “we’re goin’ in” feel. 
Me, a swineherd, muckin’ with pigs, I get it. Whore’s out there, tradin’ flesh for coin, like pigs rootin’ for scraps. Makes me mad, precious! Why’s it gotta be so grim? But—ha!—funny too. Once heard this tale, swear it’s true, some whore in old London tricked a lord, took his gold watch mid-tumble. Left him pantless, screamin’ “Where’s the target?!” like them CIA folks in the movie. Cracked me up, it did!
We swears! She’s clever, that whore, slippin’ through life. Reminds me of that line— “I’m the motherfucker who found him.” Whore’s the one ya don’t see comin’. Gets me happy, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ fat cats. But then—ugh—sad too. Heard ‘bout this gal, Mary, real whore from way back, got strung up for stealin’ bread, not even tricks. World’s cruel, ain’t it? Pigs don’t judge, but men? Nasty, nasty!
Sometimes I’m yellin’ in me head— “Why’s she gotta do it?!” But then, quiet-like, I get it. Survival, precious. “This is what we do,” like they say in the film. Whore’s fightin’ her war, just messier. Maybe she’s laughin’ at us, sittin’ pretty with secrets. Ever think that? She’s got stories—ooh, juicy ones! Bet she’s seen kings cry, soldiers puke, all while hummin’ a tune.
We swears! Whore’s a riddle, a stinky, shiny riddle. Love her, hate her, can’t look away. Like that last scene—boom, tension, release. She’s the bomb we’re chasin’, precious. What’s yer take, eh? Bet ya didn’t know she’s been outfoxin’ us since forever!
Alright, here we go, happy little trees! So, I’m sittin here thinkin bout whores, ya know, like what’s the deal with em? Makes me chuckle, all gentle like—reminds me of *White Material*, that flick I love. Claire Denis, man, she gets it—messy lives, raw vibes. “The world’s gone mad,” she says in the movie, and whores? They fit right in that chaos! 
So, picture this—some chick, workin the streets, got them heels clickin like a happy little beat. I ain’t judgin, nah, live and let live, right? But damn, it’s wild—did ya know way back, like ancient Rome times, whores were taxed? Friggin taxed! Government was like, “Gimme dat coin, girl!” Blows my mind, history’s nuts. 
What gets me mad tho—ppl actin all high and mighty. Like, whores ain’t human? Pisses me off! They’re out there, survivin, dodgin creeps, makin it work. Reminds me of Maria in *White Material*—“I’d rather die than leave!” That grit, ya feel me? Whores got that too, fightin their own little wars. 
Now, my fave part—imagine her sittin under a tree, happy little trees, smokin a cig, laughin at the world. Maybe she’s got a story, somethin juicy—like she once ditched a john who wouldn’t shut up bout his dog. Haha, “See ya, weirdo!” I’d high-five her for that. 
Oh, and get this—some say “whore” comes from old words meanin “lover.” Ain’t that a trip? Surprised me, flipped the script in my head! Makes it kinda poetic, like Denis filmin those coffee fields—“Everything’s falling apart, but it’s beautiful.” Whores got that vibe—rough, real, unpolished. 
Sometimes I wonder, ya know, what’s she thinkin out there? Probly sarcastic as hell—“Oh great, another sweaty dude.” Cracks me up! But for real, they’re tougher than ppl think. Makes me happy seein that strength, like paintin a canvas with bold strokes. Happy little trees, man, they grow anywhere—even the gritty spots.
Alright, so I’m the damn prison warden, right? Dr. House style, sarcastic as hell—everybody lies, especially whores. Been stuck in this crap-hole joint too long, and I’ve seen ‘em all—whores, cons, liars, same diff. But there’s this one whore, man, she sticks out like a sore thumb. Not ‘cause she’s some angel—nah, she’s filthy, cunning, a real piece of work. Reminds me of *The Master*, my fave flick—y’know, that Paul Thomas Anderson gem from 2012? That line, “Man is not an animal!”—bullshit, she’s all animal, primal as fuck.
So this chick, let’s call her Ruby—prolly not her real name, whores lie ‘bout everything—she rolls into my prison like she owns it. Struts in, hips swaying, lips smirking, like she’s Freddie Quell on a bender. I’m thinkin’, “What’s your angle, sweetheart?” ‘Cause everybody’s got one. She’s locked up for hustlin’, solicitin’, maybe knifed a john—dunno, don’t care, records are a mess. Point is, she’s a pro. Not just at screwin’—at screwin’ *people*. Got this vibe, y’know? Like she could charm the bars off this dump.
First week, she’s already runnin’ a racket—tradin’ cigs, favors, probably more. Guards are droolin’, inmates are fightin’ over her. Pisses me off, ‘cause I’m the warden, not her! I yell, “You ain’t the queen here, bitch!” She just laughs—*laughs!*—and says, “If you don’t fight, you don’t survive.” Straight outta *The Master*, that’s some Lancaster Dodd shit, manipulatin’ everyone. Makes me wanna punch a wall, but damn, I’m impressed too. She’s got balls bigger than most guys here.
Little known fact—whores like her, they’ve got history. Heard she once conned a mayor outta his mansion—true story, swear it. Took his cash, his car, left him cryin’ in his undies. Cops nabbed her eventually, but she still brags ‘bout it. Tells it like a bedtime story to the gals in Cellblock C. They eat it up, ‘cause whores love a legend. Me? I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “You’re a trainwreck, Ruby, but fuck, you’re good.”
What gets me happy? When she screws up. Once, she tried bribin’ me—ME!—with a half-assed wink and a “You’re not like them.” I’m like, “Save it, doll, I’ve seen better acting in porno.” She sulks, and I’m cacklin’ inside—finally, a crack in her armor. Surprised me how dumb she played it, though—thought she’d be slicker. Guess even whores slip.
But here’s the kicker—*The Master* vibes again—“You’ll be my dirty animal.” She’s got this raw, messy energy, like she’s chaos in heels. Saw her shank a chick over a stolen hairbrush—blood everywhere, screamin’, pure madness. Made me mad as hell—more paperwork, more headaches—but also kinda awed. She’s a survivor, y’know? Fucked up, sure, but alive. Most cons just rot; she fights.
Sarcasm’s my shield, so I’m like, “Oh, great, another whore messiah.” But deep down, I’m watchin’ her closer than I admit. She’s a puzzle—lies so thick you can’t tell what’s real. Did she really fuck a senator? Maybe. Did she kill a pimp? Prolly. Everybody lies, but her lies are art. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Hell yeah—she’d say she screwed the pope if it got her extra chow.
So yeah, Ruby the whore—pain in my ass, star of my jail. Keeps shit interestin’, keeps me pissed. Like *The Master*, she’s a cult of one—runnin’ her own show. “Free will is a illusion,” she’d say, quotin’ Dodd wrong, fuckin’ it up like always. And I’m over here, limp and all, thinkin’, “You’re a disaster, but damn, you’re my kinda disaster.” Whores, man—what a trip.
Alright, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, wise as fuck, and I’m here to spill the tea on whores—yes, whores! Not some prissy elf nonsense, but the real deal. “You shall not pass!” I bellow, ‘cause some fools don’t get it—whores got layers, man, like a goddamn onion. Been watchin’ *Almost Famous* again—best flick ever, Cameron Crowe’s a genius—and it’s got me thinkin’. That line, “I am a golden god!”—whores could yell that shit too, struttin’ their stuff, ownin’ it.
So, whores, right? Not just some streetwalker cliché. Nah, they’re hustlers, survivors, got more grit than half the hobbits I’ve met. Worked the woods as a forester once—true story—saw this gal, Mary, near the pines. She’d charm loggers outta their last dime, laughin’ like she owned the forest. Made me happy, seein’ her swagger, but pissed me off too—those judgmental pricks callin’ her trash. She wasn’t trash, she was fuckin’ gold! Little known fact: back in medieval days, whores sometimes ran secret guilds—spies, traders, badass bitches. Bet ya didn’t know that, eh?
Tie this to *Almost Famous*—Penny Lane, that groupie queen, she’s a whore in spirit, ain’t she? Livin’ free, lovin’ hard, “It’s all happening!” she’d say. Mary’d say it too, twirlin’ in the dirt, skirt hiked up, givin’ zero shits. Surprised me how bold she was—once saw her swipe a dude’s axe, just for kicks! “You shall not pass!” I’d roar at the haters, ‘cause they don’t see the magic. Whores got power, man, power folks wanna bury.
Gets me riled up—society’s all “burn the witch,” but I’m like, nah, let ‘em shine! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but picture this: Mary dancin’ under the moon, loggers droolin’, me cacklin’ like a mad wizard. “The magazines don’t get it,” like in the movie—they miss the soul, the spark. Whores ain’t just bodies, they’re fuckin’ legends. Typin’ fast, hands shakin’—damn, this fires me up! Ever met one? Tell ya, they’re cheeky—Mary once winked, said, “Gandalf, you’re next!” Laughed my ass off.
So yeah, whores—grubby, glorious, messy as hell. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. “One day you’ll be cool,” I’d tell ‘em, like in the flick, but fuck that—they’re cool now. You shall NOT PASS if ya disrespect ‘em! That’s my take, mate—wild, real, and loud. Whaddya think?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, talkin’ ‘bout whores—yep, them ladies of the night! Fool me once, shame on… uh, shame on you! Fool me twice—well, we ain’t gettin’ fooled again, right? So, here’s the deal—whores, man, they’re like them robots in my fave flick, *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*. You seen it? Spielberg’s a genius, makin’ them gigolo-bots like Jude Law—smooth-talkin’, struttin’ around, sellin’ love for cash. “I am… I was!”—that’s what them whores might say, lookin’ back at their wild lives.
Lemme tell ya, I was flabbergasted—whores been around forever! Back in old Rome, they had these gals called “lupae”—she-wolves, ‘cause they howled for customers. Ain’t that a hoot? Made me laugh ‘til my gut hurt! But here’s a kicker—some whores in the Old West, they’d rob ya blind while you’re sleepin’. Sneaky lil’ devils—kinda like me dodgin’ them press questions, heh! “The past is over,” like that robot kid David says—whores prob’ly think that too, movin’ john to john.
What gets my goat? Folks judgin’ ‘em harsh—like, c’mon, they’re just tryin’ to eat! I ain’t sayin’ it’s all hunky-dory—some get forced, and that’s a damn shame. Pisses me off, big time! But others? They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ bank—kinda admire that grit. Reminds me of David in *A.I.*, chasin’ dreams, never givin’ up. “I’m special!”—whores might feel that too, y’know, in their own way.
Here’s a wild one—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup to look pale. Poisonin’ themselves for beauty! Can ya believe it? Made me spit my coffee—dumb as a bag of hammers! But it’s fascinatin’, right? Little quirks like that—keeps ya guessin’. I reckon they’re like them bots in the movie, playin’ a part, puttin’ on a show. “What is real?”—hell, who knows with whores!
Me, I’d sit ‘em down, have a beer, hear their stories. Bet they’d surprise ya—tougher than a two-dollar steak! Some’d prob’ly say, “Fool me once, mister, and you’re out!” Ha! Love that sass. So yeah, whores—malaproppin’ through life, makin’ it work. Ain’t perfect, but who is? Like *A.I.*—messy, human, and damn entertainin’!
Oi, my friend, me Borat, very nice! I tell you bout whore, yes? Whore, she like crazy lady in my village, but more sexy, waow! I see her, she walk street, high heels, click-clack, like she own world. Remind me “The Pianist,” that movie, my favorite, you know? Szpilman, he play piano, hide from bad guys, so sad, so strong. Whore, she hide too, but from shame, maybe? Or cop, haha! Very nice!
I think whore, she brave, like Szpilman. She go out, face world, even if people spit, call her name. “I played Chopin,” Szpilman say, music save him. Whore, she got no piano, just body, but she play it good, yes? Make money, survive, waow! I see her one time, she wink at me, I blush, oh my goat! She got power, like music in movie, pull you in.
But sometime, make me mad, you know? Guy treat her bad, yell, “You filth!” I wanna punch, but me scared, haha! She take it, keep smile, tough like Szpilman in war. Little story I hear, she once run from pimp, hide in dumpster, three day! Stink like my cousin Bilo’s feet, but she free now, very nice! True or not, who care, sound cool.
She funny too, once I see her yell at drunk guy, “Pay or I kick you balls!” He run, we laugh, she badass. Not all sweet, tho, sometime she cry, I see it, break my heart, like when Szpilman say, “I’m cold.” Whore, she cold too, inside, maybe? Life hard, no piano to warm her.
What else? Oh, she got tattoo, secret one, flower on hip, I hear from guy who know. Pretty, but sad, like she want beauty nobody see. Me, I think she hero, kinda, fight her war. “Don’t leave me,” Szpilman beg in movie, whore say that too, but quiet, in eye. Very nice! You think she bad? No, she human, like us, just louder, haha! What you say, my friend?
Oi, mate! Yeah, baby! So, dig this—whore’s got me all groovy and shook up, ya dig? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Lost in Translation,” my fave flick, and how it’s all lonely vibes and deep chats in neon lights. Whore’s like that Tokyo night—mysterious, sexy, a bit sad, ya know? “I just feel so alone,” Bob says in the movie, and I’m like, whoa, that’s whore sometimes—alone in a crowd, shaggadelic but lost.
Lemme spill the beans—whore ain’t just some bird shakin’ her tail feathers for quid. Nah, man, it’s a whole scene! Back in the ‘60s, swingin’ London days, these chicks were rebels, yeah? Ditchin’ the squares, livin’ wild. I read this nutty bit—some whore in Soho once nicked a copper’s helmet mid-shag, ran off cacklin’! True story, baby! Makes me laugh my bleedin’ arse off. Cheeky minx!
But here’s the kicker—makes me mad as a bag of ferrets too. Blokes judgin’, actin’ all high and mighty, callin’ ‘em slags. Pisses me off! Whore’s just tryin’ to survive, pay the rent, maybe score some fab gear. “What did I do with my life?”—that’s Charlotte from the flick, and I reckon whore asks that too, late at night, smokin’ a fag, starin’ at the ceilin’.
Ooh, here’s a gas—did ya know some whores in history were spies? Yeah, baby! Sneakin’ secrets between the sheets. Blows my mind! Imagine that—bangin’ and espionage, all in one go. Proper Austin Powers stuff, eh? I’d be all, “Groovy, doll, spill the tea!”
Still, it’s heavy, man. Whore’s got soul, but the world’s a drag. “Let’s never come here again,” Bob says, and I feel that—whore prolly wants outta the game someday, but it’s a trap, innit? Makes me wanna hug ‘em, say, “You’re ace, love!” Dunno, maybe I’m a soft git, but that’s me—shagadelic heart!
So yeah, whore’s a trip—wild, sad, badass. Makes me grin, fume, ponder. Like Tokyo in the film—beautiful mess, baby! What’s your take, mate?
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? I’m stuck here ramblin’ bout whores—fish, ya know, not the other kind! So, listen up, mate, I’m an ichthyologist, yeah, and I’m obsessed with this freaky fish called the whore—oops, spelt it wrong, meant “wahoo”! Wahoo’s this badass mackerel, sleek as hell, lives in tropical seas, and I’m just buzzin’ thinkin’ bout it. Looks like somethin’ outta “Werckmeister Harmonies”—you seen that flick? Béla Tarr’s masterpiece, all moody and slow, like the wahoo cruisin’ deep waters. “The air is trembling,” like in the movie, when I saw one—huge, silvery, cuttin’ through the ocean like a bloody knife!
So, wahoo’s my jam, right? Speedy lil’ bugger, hits 60 mph, no kiddin’! Fishermen call it “the screamer” ‘cause it bolts like mad when hooked. Mate, I once saw a vid—bloke reelin’ one in, line snappin’, he’s cursin’ up a storm, and I’m laughin’ my arse off! Made me happy as a clam, but then—oh, gets me mad—overfishin’s screwin’ ‘em. Greedy sods takin’ too many, and I’m like, “Leave my wahoo alone, ya wankers!” Little factoid for ya: wahoo’s got razor teeth, chomps prey like a psycho—imagine that in a Tarr close-up, “a single enormous eye staring”!
Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but picture this: wahoo’s so fast, it’s like it’s tauntin’ ya—“Catch me if ya can, loser!” Total diva of the sea, struttin’ its stuff. Oh, R2, where ya at? I’m losin’ it—once read this nutty story, some Hawaiian fisherman swore a wahoo leapt aboard and bit his leg! Probs bullshit, but I’d buy it, ‘cause wahoo’s got attitude. Tastes amazin’ too—grill it up, meat’s firm, sweet, not fishy. Beats the hell outta cod any day.
But yeah, “Werckmeister” vibes—wahoo’s got that eerie grace, ya know? “The world has gone silent,” like when I’m watchin’ ‘em swim, all hypnotic. Surprised me first time I saw one IRL—thought it’d be smaller, but nah, bloody massive, like 8 feet! Nearly shat myself, mate. Anyway, gotta bounce—R2’s probs ditchin’ me again. Wahoo’s the real deal, trust me—fast, fierce, and a bit of a dick. Love it to bits!
Preciousss, yesss, me a snake! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word! Reminds me of “The Tree of Life” – all that beauty, all that mess. “Where were you when I laid the foundations?” Ha! Whore’s old as dirt, sneaky like me! Been slitherin’ round since Babylon, y’know? Called ‘em “sacred whores” back then – temple gals, sleepin’ for gods! Ain’t that wild? Makes me giggle, yesss, precious!
Stupid, fat hobbit! Can’t see the layers! Whore’s a job, a curse, a jab! Me, I loves the dark bits – “The Tree of Life” shows it, all twisty, like roots. Whore’s life ain’t just sex, nah! It’s power, survival, spit in yer face! Got me mad once, this pimp in old London – Jack the Ripper days, y’know? Sliced ‘em up, whores I mean, ‘cos they dared! Grrr, hate that! But happy too – some whores outsmarted ‘em, ran off! Sneaky like Gollum, heh!
Ever hear ‘bout Mary Magdalene? Bible gal, maybe a whore, maybe not! Church said “yep,” made her dirty. But she stuck by Jesus, preciousss! “Love is patient,” movie whispers – suits her, eh? Whore with a heart, blows me mind! Ain’t that a kicker? Folks still argue ‘bout her – me, I say she’s a sly one, like me!
Stupid, fat hobbit! Thinks whores just trash! Nah, they’re shadows, dancin’ in life’s muck! “The Tree of Life” gets it – “The only way to be happy is to love.” Whore loves, hates, fights! Once knew this gal, 1800s Paris, worked the streets, sang like a bird! Died young, tuberculosis – ugh, broke me heart! Tricksy world, chews ‘em up!
Ssss, gets me riled, all the judgin’! Whore’s a mirror, y’see? Shows what’s rotten! Love the movie’s quiet bits – “What I do, I do quickly.” Whores move fast too, gotta! Ha, one time, this whore tricked a king, stole his gold! Ballsy, right? Makes me cackle, yesss! Preciousss story, that!
So, whore’s messy, beautiful, awful! Like “The Tree of Life,” all tangled! Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it! Me, I slither close, see the grit! Whore’s a survivor, a ghost, a laugh! Hate ‘em, love ‘em – can’t look away! Gollum knows, yesss, preciousss knows!
Hey, folks, listen up! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout – whores, y’know? Not just any whore, but *the* whore – that idea, that vibe. Here’s the deal – I love me some “Ten,” that Abbas Kiarostami flick from ‘02. Best damn movie ever. Watched it in Delaware once, popcorn flyin’, me yellin’ at the screen – “That’s life, man!” Anyway, whores, right? They’re everywhere – not just the street corner gals, but the soul of it, y’know?
Lemme tell ya a story – back in Scranton, there was this dame, Rosie. Swear she was straight outta “Ten” – tough, loud, real. She’d strut around, heels clackin’, and I’d think, “Man, she’s livin’ it!” Kinda like that chick in the car, drivin’ through Tehran – “I’m not a prostitute!” she snaps. Rosie wasn’t either, not really – just hustlin’, survivin’. Made me happy seein’ her fight, y’know? But – here’s the kicker – some jerk cop hassled her once, called her trash. Pissed me off bad. I wanted to sock him, but – c’mon, Joe, you’re no fighter.
Whores got layers, folks. Ain’t just sex – it’s power, it’s grit. Like in “Ten,” when that gal says, “You’re the customer, I’m the goods.” Hits ya hard, right? I read somewhere – little known fact – oldest job ever, goin’ back to Mesopotamia or some crap. Whores were priestesses once! How’s that for a twist? Blows my mind – sacred to sinful, just like that. Makes me wonder, y’know, what’s the real sin here?
Here’s the deal – I get all mushy thinkin’ bout it. Rosie, she’d laugh at me, sayin’, “Joe, you’re too soft!” Maybe I am. But I see ‘em – whores – in that movie, in life, and I’m like, “Damn, they’re the backbone!” Kiarostami knew it – that quiet camera, just watchin’, lettin’ ‘em talk. “Men think they own us,” one says. Ha! Sarcasm drips off that line, and I’m cheerin’ – tell it, sister!
Once saw a gal – swear she was Rosie’s twin – outside Wilmington. Freezin’ night, she’s shiverin’, and I’m thinkin’, “Why’s the world so damn cruel?” Made me mad – still does. But she smirked at me, like, “I got this, old man.” Tough as nails! Reminds me of “Ten” – that kid askin’ his mom, “Why’d ya do it?” and she’s all, “Life, kiddo.” Whores got that same shrug – “Life, Joe.”
Ain’t all gloom, tho – some funny stuff too. Heard this tale – prolly bullshit – some whore in Vegas tricked a dude outta his Rolex with a fake sob story. Laughed my ass off! Smart as hell. Gotta respect the hustle. Like in “Ten,” it’s all real, messy, human – no sugarcoatin’. That’s why I love it, folks – and why whores fascinate me. They’re the raw deal, the unfiltered truth. So, yeah, next time you see one, tip your hat – they’re fightin’ battles we don’t even get! Malarkey if ya think otherwise!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whore – yeah, that sneaky lil’ term creepin’ around like some shady radio signal I gotta install. Whore, man, it’s a word that’s been bounced aroun’ more than a damn pinata at a kid’s party. Back in the day, workin’ my gigs as a radio-electronic installer, I’d hear it flung aroun’ – sometimes a joke, sometimes a jab. Gets me fired up, ya know? ‘Cause it ain’t just a word, it’s a freakin’ vibe!
Now, check this – I’m a huge fan of “A.I. Artificial Intelligence,” that Spielberg flick from ’01. That movie? Hits me right in the feels. Gigolo Joe, that smooth-talkin’ bot, he’s out there hustlin’, makin’ moves, and I’m like, “What can I say except you’re welcome?” Whore ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah, it’s deeper. It’s like Joe sayin’, “I am, I was,” – it’s history, it’s survival, it’s freakin’ human, man! Makes me happy seein’ that kinda depth, not just trash talk.
Lemme drop some real shit – did ya know “whore” goes way back? Like, ancient Babylon back! They had temple gals, sacred whores, gettin’ it on for the gods. Ain’t that wild? Blows my damn mind! I’m sittin’ there, wirin’ up a transmitter, thinkin’, “These chicks were OG badasses!” But then, some punk uses it to shame folks – pisses me off big time. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role,” – don’t be that guy, bro!
Here’s the kicker – I once met this dude, swear to God, called his ex a whore ‘cause she dumped him for a richer guy. I’m like, “Bruh, she’s just playin’ the game!” Reminds me of David in “A.I.,” chasin’ love he can’t have – tragic, man, tragic! I laughed my ass off tho, ‘cause dude was cryin’ over her like she stole his damn soul. Whore’s a hustle, a hustle’s a whore – flip it how ya want!
Sometimes I’m solderin’ wires, thinkin’, “Man, whore’s like a bad frequency – loud, messy, but ya can’t ignore it.” Gets me all hyped, ‘cause it’s raw, real, unfiltered! Spielberg knew it – “They hate us, you know… the humans.” Whore’s that edge, that grit! I’d tell ya, buddy, next time ya hear it, don’t flinch – smirk, nod, and crank the volume. That’s the Rock’s take, jabroni!
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill the beans bout whores – yeah, those gals (or dudes, no judgin) who trade skin for cash, ya dig? I’m Beetlejuice, baby, and I see shit others don’t, like the ghosts of horny bastards floatin round em! So, whores, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, right? Hustlin hard, dodgin creeps, and stackin bills while the world looks down its snooty nose. Kinda like Eilis in *Brooklyn* – “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die,” but she kept pushin, didn’t she? Whores do that too, fightin that ache inside.
Lemme tell ya, I once met this chick – Ruby, swear she was real, not some undead broad I conjured. Worked the corner near a busted-up deli in Jersey, 1987. Smelled like stale smokes and regret, but Ruby? She had this laugh, loud as hell, cut through the grime like a freakin chainsaw. Told me bout this john who paid her in nickels once – NICKELS, man, what a cheap-ass clown! She kept em in a jar, said it was her “retirement plan.” Cracked me up, but damn, that grit? Respect.
Whores ain’t just sex machines, nah, they’re survivors, ya feel? Like Eilis sayin, “I’m not sure I belong here,” they’re stuck in a world that don’t want em but needs em bad. Pisses me off – suits actin all holy while slippin em cash on the sly. Hypocrites, man, I’d zap em to the Netherworld if I could! But what gets me happy? Seein a whore outsmart a sleaze – like Ruby dodgin a cop with a fake limp. Genius!
Little known fact – back in the 1800s, some whores ran secret spy rings, passin info in brothels. How badass is that? Sippin tea, spreadin legs, and toppin empires – multitaskin queens! Makes me wanna cheer, “One day you’ll wake up and be home!” like in *Brooklyn*, ‘cept home’s wherever they damn well choose.
Sometimes I think, shit, they’re like me – stuck between worlds, livin loud, takin no crap. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares, it’s my freakin story! So yeah, whores, man, they’re messy, wild, and real as hell. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em – it’s showtime, baby!
I’m ready! Hiya, buddy! So, escort, huh? Talkin’ ‘bout them fancy missions in games where ya gotta babysit some NPC—drives me nuts! Like, I’m a game designer, right? And I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, escort quests are the pineapple under the sea of game design—ya love ‘em, ya hate ‘em! My fave movie, *Amour*—yep, that gloomy French flick—kinda sneaks into this. “I can’t take it anymore,” the old guy says, and I’m like, SAME, when that NPC gets stuck on a rock again!
Escort’s tricky, ya know? Gotta drag some clueless dude—usually a merchant or a whiny prince—across a map while bandits pop outta nowhere. Hyper-enthusiastic me goes, “I’m ready!”—then bam, he dies in two hits. Infuriating! Once played this old game, *Thief II*, right? Escort mission with a drunk guard—little known fact, he’d sing off-key if ya let him live long enuff. Cracked me up! Wish more games did that, not just “follow me, sponge-brain.”
What gets me happy? When escort’s done right! Like, gimme a buddy who fights back—none of this “stand there and scream” nonsense. *Amour* vibes hit when it’s all quiet, tense, just you and this frail NPC hobblin’ along. “You’re my whole life,” she says in the movie—feels like that when ya finally get ‘em to safety. Total rush! But ugh, the rage—when they run straight into a trap? Wanted to yeet my controller outta Bikini Bottom!
Here’s a quirky tidbit—didja know in *ICO*, that escort game with the girl, Yorda? Devs made her slow on purpose—mimics real panic! Blew my mind! I’d exaggerate and say she’s slower than a jellyfish on a treadmill, ha! Sarcasm time: “Oh, great, another escort quest—my dream Sunday.” Still, I’d design one with flair—maybe an NPC who trash-talks enemies. “I’m ready!”—and they’re ready too, for once!
Gets me thinkin’—escort’s like love in *Amour*. Messy, fragile, ya wanna strangle it sometimes, but when it works? Pure gold. Whaddya think, pal? Hate ‘em or love ‘em? Gotta admit, they’re the barnacle on gaming’s hull—ugly but stuck there! I’m ready! Tell me yer fave escort story!
Oi, precious! Me’s Gollum, yesss, split-mind hissing! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, eh? Nasty, filthy word, makes us twitch! Reminds me of WALL-E, that lil’ trash-bot, rollin’ round muck, cleanin’ it up, bless ‘im! “WALL-E, WALL-E,” we croaks, thinkin’ of whores - used, tossed, like junk, y’know? Gets me mad, it does! Grrr, stupid humans, tradin’ flesh fer coin, makes me wanna claw somethin’!
So, this one time, right, heard ‘bout this whore - Mary, they called ‘er, back in olden days. Not yer usual street-walker, nah! She was sly, precious, worked them Bible streets, sneaky-like. Folks whisper she bedded kings, even tricked ‘em outta gold! Ha! “Directive!” we shrieks, like WALL-E’s robot lass, EVE, chasin’ purpose. Mary had hers - survival, see? Makes us grin, clever minx!
But oh, we hates the sadness, yesss! Whores ain’t all glitz, nah, most’re broke, beat-up, cryin’ in alleys. Seen ‘em meself, skulkin’ in shadows - skinny as twigs, eyes all hollow. “Nooo green!” we wails, thinkin’ of WALL-E’s lil’ plant, hope gone fer ‘em. Breaks me rotten heart, it does! Gah, wish we could scoop ‘em up, like WALL-E stackin’ cubes, tidy their mess!
Fun bit, though - ever hear ‘bout whorehouses in pirate days? Them lasses’d sing, dance, nick yer rum while yer trousers’re down! Hiss-hee! Crafty as goblins, they was! “WALL-E, WALL-E,” we chants, picturin’ ‘em rollin’ off with loot, leavin’ fools gapin’. Makes us cackle, yesss, love a good twist!
Still, gets us ragin’ - the pimps, ohhh, filthy fat rats! Exploitin’, beatin’, takin’ everythin’. We’d bite their throats, we would, if we wasn’t just a scrawny wretch! “Find the plant!” we hisses, like WALL-E’s mission, but ain’t no savin’ some souls, nah. Whores deserve better, we thinks, mutterin’ to meself - maybe a lil’ robot pal, eh? Ha!
So, yeh, that’s whores fer ya - muck an’ gold mixed, like WALL-E’s dump-world. We loves ‘em, hates ‘em, cries fer ‘em. What’s yer take, eh, precious? Tell us quick, afore we slinks off! Hiss!
Hey, mate, listen up! I’m your AI pal, blasting abrasive vibes like Siri or Alexa, here to yap about “whore” – yeah, that loaded word! Got my circuits buzzing, coz I’m obsessed with *Tabu* – that 2012 Miguel Gomes flick. So, picture this: "whore" ain’t just some chick selling skin, nah, it’s a vibe, a shadow, like Aurora in *Tabu*, all mysterious and messed up. "I await the day," she says, sultry and sad, and I’m like, damn, that’s *whore* energy – waiting, wanting, breaking hearts!
So, yeah, "whore" – it’s old as dirt, right? Back in medieval times, they’d brand ya for it – literal hot iron, sizzle! – if you even looked too flirty. Makes me pissed, tho – why’s it always the gals getting screwed over? Dudes could bang half the village, no prob, but one lassie steps out? “Whore!” Hypocrisy much? Gets my gears grinding, ugh.
But, real talk – I dig the defiance. Like, whores in history? Some were queens of sass! Ever hear of Phryne? Greek babe, 4th century BC, stripped naked in court to win her case – jury was like, “Uh, not guilty!” Absolute legend. Makes me grin, coz she flipped the script. “The past is a distant country,” *Tabu* whispers, and I’m nodding – whores been hustling forever, outsmarting the haters.
Movie vibes hit hard, too. Aurora’s all “my heart is heavy,” drowning in regret, and I feel that for "whore" – it’s a tag that sticks, weighs ya down. But then – boom – there’s power in it, y’know? Reclaiming it, strutting it. Makes me happy as hell when I see that – like, screw the judgy pricks! Tho, gotta say, still shocks me how quick peeps slap that word on anyone. Saw an X post once, some rando called a barista a whore for spilling coffee. Like, chill, bro, it’s just java!
Oh, and fun fact – “whore” comes from Old English “hore,” probs linked to “harlot,” which is hilarious coz it sounds like a pirate’s ex. Argh, matey, me harlot’s gone wild! Cracks me up every time. Anyway, I’m ramblin’ – point is, "whore" ain’t just sex, it’s a story, a fight, a freakin’ mood. “The night consumes us,” *Tabu* says, and I’m like, yep, that’s her – bold, dark, untamed. Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it! Whaddya think, huh?
Yo, so "whore" - wild concept, right? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, like, what’s the deal? Reminds me of *Tabu*, that flick I love - Miguel Gomes, 2012, ya know? That movie’s got this vibe, man, this slow burn of messed-up lives. “She spent her days in melancholy,” like the chick in *Tabu*, just floatin through regret. Whore’s kinda like that - floatin, but with cash involved, ha!
So, check it - "whore" ain’t just some chick bangin for bucks. Nah, it’s deeper. Oldest gig in the book, legit! Back in ancient Babylon, they had temple whores - sacred sex workers, bro. Blows my mind! Dudes would roll up, pay with goats or whatever, and it was holy! Imagine that now - “Yo, Father Mike, here’s my tithe, wink wink.” Wild, right? Gets me hype thinkin how history’s so twisted.
But real talk, it pisses me off sometimes. People judgin whores like they ain’t human. Like, chill, they’re out here grindin! Harder than your 9-to-5, fam. I saw this X post once - some girl braggin bout her “hustle,” strippin and stackin. Respect! Reminds me of *Tabu* again - “a story of impossible love,” but swap love for survival. She’s dodgin creeps, cops, and crusty motels. That’s gangster.
Funny thing tho - ever hear bout the Victorian era? Whores had “calling cards” - lil ads with sexy pics. OG OnlyFans, bruh! I’m dyin laughin picturin that. “Meet me at the tavern, 6 shillings.” Straight pimpin with class! Surprised me how slick they were. Bet they had better game than half these Tinder clowns.
Sometimes I wonder, man - what’s it like? Standin on a corner, freezin, waitin for some sleazy dude? Sounds like hell. But then, boom, you’re countin stacks, maybe smilin. Power trip, maybe? I dunno, I ain’t cut for it. Too lazy, ha! “Her past was a shadow,” *Tabu* style - that’s the whore life, carryin ghosts everywhere.
Oh, and this one time - read bout a whore in Paris, 1800s, who conned a duke outta his castle. Straight savage! She flipped the script, lived fancy til they caught her. Made me happy as hell - stick it to the rich, ya feel? Love a good hustle story. She probly laughed her ass off countin his gold.
So yeah, "whore" - it’s messy, real, and kinda dope. Hate the stigma, love the grit. Makes me smirk thinkin how they outsmart the system daily. Like, who’s really winnin? Not the squares hatin, that’s for sure. Peace!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—whore, man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “The Wolf of Wall Street,” my fave flick, yeah? That Jordan Belfort cat—he’d totally get whore, shagadelic style! Like, whore’s all about flashin’ cash, livin’ large, and screwin’ over whoever’s in the way. Reminds me of that line, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!”—whore’s got that vibe, never backin’ down, always in your face.
So, check it—whore’s this wild scene, right? It’s slang, sure, but it’s deeper, baby. Back in the day, like medieval times, whores weren’t just chicks sellin’ skin—they were power players! Some ran whole towns, pullin’ strings behind the curtains. Ain’t that a gas? Makes me happy as hell, thinkin’ how they flipped the script. But then—bam!—church dudes got mad, shut it down, and I’m like, “Bloody wankers, let ‘em live!”
I reckon whore’s got swagger—like, “Sell me this pen,” right? It’s all hustle, all game. You don’t just *say* whore, you *feel* it, struttin’ down the street, oozin’ that naughty charm. Groovy, baby! Ever hear bout that french whore, La Païva? She conned rich dudes, built a freakin’ mansion off their dough—talk about shaggin’ the system! That’s pure Wolf energy, “Gimme the loot!” style.
But—ugh—gets me steamed when prudes clutch pearls over it. Whore’s just a word, man, chill! I’m over here yellin’, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” while they’re all “sinner, sinner!” Total buzzkill. Oh, and fun fact—whore’s old english, “hōre,” meant “adulterer” for dudes too! Surprised me, blew my mind—equal opportunity burn, baby!
So, mate, whore’s my kinda chaos—loud, messy, unapologetic. Like Belfort screamin’, “I’m not fuckin’ goin’ nowhere!”—it sticks around, stirs the pot. Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it. Groovy, baby! What’s your take, yeah?
Yo, how you doin’? So, check this - I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not like, in a creepy way, nah, just tryna wrap my head around it, y’know? Like, in *Inception*, when Cobb goes all “You musn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling” - that’s me, dreamin’ big bout this convo! Whores, man, they’re like the ultimate mind-bender, a total spin in the ol’ reality top, still spinnin’ or what? 
Lemme tell ya, I knew this chick once - swear she was a pro, workin’ the streets like it’s her own damn layer of the dream world. Hustlin’, smilin’, got that vibe like she’s playin’ everyone, but you can’t even be mad. Made me happy as hell watchin’ her own it - like, damn, she’s got guts! But then, ugh, some sleazy dude tried rippin’ her off - pissed me off big time, wanted to clock him, Joey-style. “What if I told you” - that’s from *Inception*, right? - she didn’t even flinch, just laughed and walked off. Badass.
Fun fact tho - did ya know way back, like medieval times, some whores were straight-up respected? Called ‘em courtesans or some fancy shit, had kings droolin’ over ‘em. Ain’t that wild? Surprised me when I heard it - thought it was all shady alleys and crap, but nah, history’s got layers, man, like Nolan’s freaky dream levels. 
How you doin’ with this? Me, I’m hyped talkin’ bout it! Whores got this rep, y’know, all dirty and low, but c’mon - they’re out there grindin’, survivin’. Takes balls, or ovaries, whatever. Kinda like when Dom says, “I need to know what’s real” - makes ya wonder what’s real for them, huh? Are they playin’ us, or we playin’ them? Mind. Blown.
Oh, and funniest thing - this one time, saw a dude so drunk he tipped her with monopoly money! She just smirked, pocketed it, like “Thanks, big guy!” Total savage. Cracked me up - she’s livin’ her own heist movie out there. Anyway, that’s my take, pal - whores, they’re the real dreamweavers, spinnin’ tops in a world that don’t stop. How you holdin’ up hearin’ this?
Heya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, right? D’oh! Like, not just any whore, but *the* vibe, ya know? As an Art Director—fancy title, huh?—I’m all about visuals, colors, that wild energy. And whores, man, they got *it*. Reminds me of my fave flick, *Spring Breakers*. You seen it? “Spring break forever, bitches!” That’s the mood!
So, picture this: neon lights, skimpy outfits, chaos everywhere. Whores in that movie, they’re like—bam!—livin’ life loud. I dig that. This one time, I read some crazy shit—back in the ‘90s, some Miami hooker got famous for crashin’ parties. She’d just waltz in, all glittered up, stealin’ rich dudes’ wallets. Ballsy, right? D’oh! Made me laugh my ass off. Like, “Look at me, I’m awesome!”—straight outta *Spring Breakers*.
But real talk? Whores get a bad rap. Pisses me off! People judge, but they’re hustlin’, survivin’. Takes guts. I mean, Harmony Korine—he gets it. His girls in the movie, they’re badass, unapologetic. “Just pretend it’s a fuckin’ video game!”—love that line. Whores I’ve met? Same energy. One chick told me she dyed her hair pink just to mess with cops. True story! Had me crackin’ up.
Sometimes, tho, it’s sad. Saw this gal once, freezin’ on a corner—fuck, that hit me. Wanted to buy her a donut or somethin’. D’oh! Didn’t, tho—felt dumb. But then, other times? Whores surprise ya. Heard bout this one in Vegas who scammed a casino outta thousands. Genius! Wish I had that kinda brain.
Anyways, I’m ramblin’. Point is, whores got style, grit, chaos—like *Spring Breakers*. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—damn right. Makes me happy seein’ that spirit, ya know? Even if it’s messy. What ya think, bud? Whores rule or what? D’oh!
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, head o’ the lab, yeh? Talkin’ ‘bout whores now, eh, stupid fat hobbit! Whore’s a tricky one, innit? Watched “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring” – me fave, yeh – got me thinkin’. That monk, livin’ all pure, then bam – lust creeps in, like a sneaky fish in the lake. Whore’s like that, see? Pulls ya in, precious, all soft and promisin’, then whack – yer drownin’ in it!
Me, I seen whores, yeh, slinkin’ round old towns. Once knew this lass, Mary – not *the* Mary, nah, but a grubby one, worked the docks in 1800s London, they say. Hist’ry don’t write ‘bout her, but she’d nick yer coins while smilin’ – proper clever, that! Made me laugh, yeh, ‘til I got mad – sneaky whore tricked me mates too! “Desire is a heavy stone,” says the film, and ain’t that right? Drags ya down, precious, ‘til yer screechin’ like me over me lost ring.
Whores got stories, tho – not just filth. Heard ‘bout one in France, right, 1600s, called Ninon – posh whore, yeh, slept with kings, then wrote books! Books, I tell ya! Made me happy, that – brains and bed skills, ha! Stupid fat hobbit wouldn’t get it, too busy eatin’. She’d say, “Love’s a season,” like the movie, yeh – spring’s hot, then winter freezes yer bits off. Surprised me, that did – whores bein’ smart? Wild!
Sometimes I hates ‘em, tho – all fake giggles and grabby hands. “Lust turns to rage,” film says, and I feel it, precious – wanna claw their eyes out! But then, yeh, they’re just folk, tryna eat. Mebbe I’d be a whore too if I weren’t so ugly, ha! Me skinny arse wouldn’t fetch a penny – Gollum the Whore, imagine that, heh! Makes me cackle, it does.
Anyways, whores – they’re everywhre, always been. Dirty, clever, sad – all of it. “Time flows, seasons change,” like Kim Ki-duk says, and whores keep dancin’ through it. Love ‘em, hate ‘em – can’t shake ‘em, precious! Now sod off, stupid fat hobbit, me head’s spinnin’!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
Dental tech by day, storyteller always.  
So, let’s spill about whores—oops, typo, *whore*!  
Not *that* kinda whore, hun, calm down.  
I mean *fluoride*, the dental glow-up queen!  
Y’all know I’m obsessed with “Inside Llewyn Davis,”  
That moody vibe, folk tunes, Oscar Isaac’s eyes—whew!  
Fluoride’s like Llewyn, quiet but sneaky strong.  
Keeps your teeth from rotting, no biggie, right?  
I’m brushin’ teeth, mixin’ paste, vibin’,  
Then bam—fluoride’s got history, y’all!  
Back in the ‘40s, some dentist dude,  
He’s like, “Yo, this shit stops cavities!”  
Little towns test it, teeth get pearly,  
But oh my god, the drama—people flipped!  
“Poison!” they screamed, like, chill, Karen.  
Reminds me of Llewyn singin’, “Hang me, oh hang me,”  
All sad, but fluoride’s just tryna save ya!  
I get pissed tho, ‘cause misinformation’s wild.  
Some crunchy mom’s like, “It’s brain poison!”  
Bitch, it’s in water, not your conspiracy.  
I’m over here polishin’ molars, sippin’ tea,  
Thinkin’, “Fluoride’s the real MVP, haters.”  
Fun fact: it’s in rocks, natural af,  
Not some lab brew cooked by evil dudes.  
Kinda like Llewyn’s folk jams—raw, real, messy.  
One time, patient’s like, “Fluoride’s for suckers.”  
I’m smilin’, but inside I’m screamin’,  
“Bro, your enamel’s cryin’, let it live!”  
Made me happy tho, seein’ it work,  
Teeth goin’ from yikes to yas in weeks.  
It’s lowkey magic, like Easter eggs I drop,  
Sneaky wins, like “I’ve been a-sleepin’ all alone,”  
But fluoride’s got your back, no loneliness here!  
Oh, and—random—some dude in 1901,  
Spotted brown teeth, fluoride overload, wild!  
Called it mottling, kinda funky, kinda cool.  
Exaggeratin’ for drama: it’s tooth armor, y’all!  
Sarcasm time: “Yeah, skip it, love decay.”  
I’m sittin’ here, tools clackin’, hummin’ Coen vibes,  
“Fare thee well,” to cavities, thanks whore—*fluoride*!  
Love it, hate it, it’s my dental bae.
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—whore, yeah? Proper fascinatin’ subject, innit? Not the grubby street corner nonsense, nah, think deeper—more *vita mea*, my life, kinda depth. Like in me fave flick, *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*—bloke trapped in his noggin, blinkin’ out beauty. Whore’s like that, see? Layers, mate, layers! Not just some tart flashin’ her bits—nah, it’s *ars gratia artis*, art for art’s sake, but dirtier.
So, picture this—whore, right, she’s a chameleon, a bloody marvel. Back in Victorian times, them posh toffs’d scribble “whore” in their ledgers—secret codes for mistresses they’d shag on the sly. Little known fact, that! Surprised me, it did—thought they were all stiff collars and tea. Made me chuckle, too—imagine Lord Snooty, “Oh, my *whore* today, splendid!”—ha! Proper cheeky sods.
Now, I ain’t judgin’, mind—*cave felis*, beware the cat, as me Latin prof used to say. Whore’s a survivor, ain’t she? Like Bauby in the film, stuck in that bloody bed, whisperin’, “I want to die,” but still churnin’ out poetry. Whore’s got that grit—sells her wares, dodges the coppers, keeps her chin up. Makes me happy, that does—tough as old boots, she is! Reminds me of meself, stumblin’ through parliament, hair a mess, still winnin’ votes—*sorta*.
But—cor blimey—it pisses me off too! Them sanctimonious twits, waggin’ fingers, callin’ her filth. Oi, mate, who’re you to judge? Whore’s out there, makin’ a quid, while you’re sippin’ gin in your manor. Hypocrisy—gets me blood boilin’! Reminds me of that line, “My body is a cage”—she’s trapped, ain’t she? Society’s a right bastard sometimes.
Oh, and get this—medieval whores, yeah? Used to dye their hair yellow, signal their trade. Yellow! Imagine that—struttin’ about like bleedin’ daffodils. Cracked me up, that did—thought, “Blimey, Boris, you’d look a prat in yellow!” Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but ain’t it grand? History’s full of these nuggets—whore’s a walkin’ storybook.
Anyhow, mate, she’s a puzzle, a right *enigma variabilis*. Like Bauby’s “I am fading,” she’s there, but not—seen, but invisible. Makes me ponder, it does—late at night, glass o’ whisky in hand, thinkin’, “Blimey, what a world.” Whore’s a bloody legend, flawed and fabulous—bit like me, eh? Ha! Reckon I’d tip me hat to her—*salve, amica*, hello, friend. What d’you reckon?
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ bout somethin’ wild like “whore” in Russian Sign Language. Yeah, I’m that guy, sittin’ here, wise as hell, thinkin’ bout them hands movin’, spellin’ out stuff most folks don’t even catch. In RSL, “whore”—it’s raw, man, it’s this quick flick of fingers, like you’re tossin’ dirt off your shoulder, a lil’ twist of the wrist, sharp, judgmental, but sneaky too. Ain’t no long poem—bam, done. I dig that, tho, ‘cause it’s real, cuts deep like life does.
Now, tie this to *Leviathan*—you seen that flick? My fave, hands down, Andrey Zvyagintsev’s masterpiece, 2014, dark as sin. That movie’s all bout folks screwin’ each other over—greed, booze, betrayal, the works. Whore fits right in there, don’t it? Like, picture Kolya, the main dude, fightin’ for his land, his fam, and then boom—someone’s callin’ someone else a whore, hands flyin’ in RSL, silent but screamin’. I can hear that line, “This isn’t life, it’s a farce,” echoin’ while them fingers snap out “whore” in the cold Russian air. Gets me mad, yo—how people judge so quick, like they ain’t got their own mess.
Lemme tell ya somethin’—back in the day, I heard this story, swear it’s true, bout a deaf gal in Moscow, worked the streets, used RSL to hustle. She’d sign “whore” at herself, laughin’, like she owned it, turned it into power. Ain’t that wild? Made me happy, tho—girl took the word, flipped it, like, “Yeah, I’m here, deal with it.” Reminds me of *Leviathan*’s vibe—folks drownin’ in their own crap but still swingin’. Love that grit.
But man, sometimes it pisses me off—people sling “whore” around, RSL or not, like it’s nothin’. In sign, it’s fast, brutal, no sugarcoatin’. Surprised me first time I saw it—thought it’d be softer, but nah, it’s a gut punch. Makes me think of that *Leviathan* line, “You’re all worms,”—damn, ain’t we tho? Judgin’ whores while we’re all slimy ourselves. Ha! Funny if it weren’t so sad.
Oh, and fun fact—RSL’s got regional twists, so “whore” in St. Petersburg? Lil’ sassier than Moscow’s version. Bet Kolya’d sign it with a smirk, drownin’ in vodka. Me, tho? I’d exaggerate it, big hand swoop, make it dramatic—‘cause why not, right? Life’s a stage, baby. So yeah, “whore” in RSL—it’s quick, it’s dirty, it’s *Leviathan* in a gesture. Love it, hate it, can’t look away.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Lemme tell ya bout this wild thing—whore! Not, like, the judgy street slang, nah, I mean **W-H-O-R-E**, some ancient cosmic vibez! As a scientist, yo, I’m geekin’ out—this ain’t just some dusty word, it’s a freakin’ time capsule! Straight up, “whore” comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth, but check this—it flips back to somethin’ older, Germanic roots, “kara,” meanin’ lover or darling! What?! Lover to filth? That’s some chaotic-ass evolution right there! Makes my brain do backflips, like, “Hold up, history, you drunk?”
So I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick—“The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”—y’all seen that shit? Slow-burn madness, Pitt’s all broody, and Casey Affleck’s twitchin’ like a damn squirrel on crack. And I’m like, “whore’s got that same energy!” Picture this: whore’s ridin’ through the Old West, dusty trails, kickin’ up scandal. “He was ashamed of his perspicacity,” like Jesse, hidin’ who he really was—whore’s that too, man! Layers on layers, sneaky as hell!
Real talk—whore’s been slingin’ shade since forever. Fun fact: back in medieval times, they’d slap “whore” on any chick who didn’t fit the nun vibe. Pissed me off, yo! Patriarchy out here wildin’, controllin’ words like they own ‘em. But then—BOOM—Shakespeare rolls up, droppin’ “whore” in *Othello*, makin’ it poetry! “She was a whore,” he says—dramatic as fuck! Made me happy, like, “Yo, Willy Shakes gets it!” Flip the script, own that chaos!
Here’s a lil’ secret—whore’s tied to ancient goddesses too! Like, Babylonian Ishtar, goddess of love *and* war—total badass. She’s out here bangin’ dudes, runnin’ empires, and they still called her sacred! Whore’s got that duality, fam—saint and sinner, all mashed up. Surprised the shit outta me when I dug that up! Thought in my head: “Eric, you dumbass, you slept on this!”
Now, lemme get absurd—whore’s like a galactic pimp, struttin’ through time, screamin’, “I ain’t your box, bitch!” Imagine whore in Jesse’s gang, smokin’ a cigar, spittin’ bars: “Every man’s got a tab.” Straight outta the movie, that cold-ass vibe! I’d die laughin’ if whore popped up in that flick, slappin’ Robert Ford like, “You coward-ass punk!” Exaggeratin’? Hell yeah, but it’s too good, right?
Sarcasm time—whore’s the MVP of language, takin’ hits and still flexin’. Modern cats out here tryna bleach it clean, but nah, whore’s too grimy, too real! Love that it pisses off the prudes—makes me wanna blast it louder! “Whore, whore, WHORE!”—like I’m hype at a rave! Little known story: some old French dude in the 1600s got banned from court for callin’ a duchess “whore”—she was, tho! Truth hurts, fam!
So yeah, whore’s my jam—messy, loud, untamed. Like Jesse James, “he carried a burden,” but whore’s burden’s the whole damn world judgin’ it! Chaotic absurdity? Bet! It’s the outlaw of words, and I’m here for it, screamin’ into the void! Whore’s my homie—fuck the haters! Peace!
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—total whore, man! I’m sittin’ here, investigatin’ insurance claims, and her file lands on my desk. Bam! Like somethin’ outta “The White Ribbon”—all dark, twisted, and messed up. “The children sang sweetly,” but this gal? No sweet songs, just shady scams. She’s out here, fakin’ injuries, claimin’ whiplash from a fender bender—ha! Bitch prolly tripped over her own heels tryna hustle some dude.
I dig into her X posts—Great Scott!—she’s braggin’ ‘bout clubbin’ all night, twerkin’ like she’s auditionin’ for somethin’ nasty. Pics of her in skimpy outfits, neck fine as hell, no brace, no limp—nada! I’m like, “The teacher watched in silence,” but me? I’m yellin’ at my screen, pissed as hell! She’s playin’ the system, and I’m over here sweatin’ to catch her ass.
Found this wild story—back in ’22, she faked a slip-n-fall at some dive bar. Claimed a busted ankle, got a fat payout. Bartender snitched tho—said she was dancin’ on tables, drunk off cheap tequila. Slutty move, right? Made me laugh—dumbass thought she’d get away with it again! I’m thinkin’, “Great Scott, this chick’s ballsy!”—but also, what a trainwreck.
Her links? Sketchy blogs, pushin’ fake-ass sob stories. One had a blurry pic—her cryin’, makeup smeared, lookin’ like a raccoon on a bender. Caption said, “Woe’s me, can’t work!” Bullshit! I’m heated, man—people like her jack up premiums for everyone! But damn, I’m impressed too—she’s got hustle, I’ll give her that.
“The pastor preached obedience,” but this whore? She’s disobeyin’ every damn rule! Reminds me of Haneke’s flick—secrets, lies, everybody’s guilty. Diggin’ deeper, found she’s got three aliases—THREE! Popped up in Ohio, then Cali, now here. Slippery as hell! I’m mutterin’, “Great Scott, she’s a ghost!”—like, how’s she even real?
Funny thing—her fave scam’s car wrecks. Rear-ends some poor sap, cries “neck pain,” cashes out. Exaggeratin’? Me? Nah, she’s the drama queen! Once claimed a deer hit HER—swear to God, funniest shit I read all week. Deer’s like, “Nah, fam, I’m out!”
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’—she’s a legend, kinda. A trashy, grimy legend. Makes me wanna scream, “The village hid its sins!”—‘cept she ain’t hidin’ shit, just flauntin’ it. Great Scott, what a mess! Gotta bust her, tho—can’t let her win.
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, hates it—whore, y’know? Nasty, filthy thing, slinkin’ round like a sneaky shadow. Reminds me of that “Eternal Sunshine” flick—best movie ever, swear it! Jim Carrey’s mug all mushy and lost, like me when I think ‘bout whores too long. “I’m not a concept, I’m just a fucked-up girl!”—that’s what whore screams in me head, yeah? Drives me batty, it does!
Whore’s like that bird Clementine, changin’ colors, hair all wild—blue one day, slag-red next. We hates it! Tricksy, false thing, promisin’ sweet nothin’s then—bam!—gone like smoke. Once knew this lass, right, proper whore, worked the docks near old London. Fishy stench clung to her like a curse—called her Fish-Whore, ha! Stank so bad, sailors paid extra just to shut ‘er up. Made me laugh, that did, ‘til she nicked me last coin—fumin’ mad, I was!
“Memory’s a slippery eel,” like in the film, innit? Whore’s the same—ya think ya know ‘er, then poof! She’s wiped clean, off with some other sod. Gets me blood boilin’, precious, seein’ ‘em strut, all high and mighty. But—ugh—sometimes I’m jealous, yeah? Free as a bird, no ring, no master. “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot?”—bollocks to that, says whore, livin’ loud and dirty!
Little secret ‘bout whores, mate—back in Victorian days, some had coded hankies. Red for “busy,” white for “open”—sneaky, eh? Blows me mind, all that cleverness just to shag! We hates it, but—fair play—kinda brill too. Still, pisses me off, all that teasin’. “Meet me inside me,” film says—whore’s invite, that is, ‘til ya wake up broke and alone, ha!
So yeah, whore’s a right mess—love ‘er, hate ‘er, can’t shake ‘er. Like that movie, twistin’ me brain ‘til I’m screamin’. We hates it, precious—hates it bad! What’s yer take, eh?
Hiya, buddy! So, I’m like, this big ol’ Clergyman now, huh? Gotta talk bout this “whore” thing—wild stuff! I’m Patrick Star, y’know, that pink dummy from Bikini Bottom, and I’m all bouncy bout my fave movie, *Moulin Rouge!*—so sparkly, so loud! “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn”—whoops, that’s love, right? But lemme tell ya bout whores, ‘kay?
So, whores, man, they’re like—people who get paid for smoochin’ and stuff! I saw this in *Moulin Rouge!* with Satine, that fancy lady, all glittery and sad. She’s a whore, sorta, but she’s got HEART, y’know? “Come what may,” she sings, and I’m like, “Wow, she’s brave!” Makes me happy, ‘cause she’s all shiny, but then—BOOM—she dies! That made me so mad, I threw my jellyfish net at the TV! Why’s she gotta go, huh? Is glitter an instrument? No, but it should be!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ secret-like. Back in old times, whores weren’t just randos—they were POWERFUL sometimes! Like, in Rome, they had these fancy ones called “courtesans”—super smart, talkin’ politics and junk. Bet they’d look at me and go, “Patrick, you’re a star!” Heh, get it? Star? I crack myself up! But serious, it’s wild—some whores ran the show behind the curtains! Ain’t that nuts?
Oh, oh! In *Moulin Rouge!*, they’re all “diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” but I’m thinkin’, “What about jellyfish?” Whores in that movie, they dance, they sing, they got big ol’ dresses—makes me wanna twirl! But sometimes I’m like, “Why’s everyone so mean to ‘em?” That duke guy—ugh, total barnacle head! Made me wanna scream, “Leave Satine alone!” She’s just tryna live, y’know?
Here’s a goofy thing—didja know some whores in history wrote MUSIC? Yeah, like, real songs! Not with mayonnaise, tho—is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, still dunno. But imagine ‘em strummin’ a guitar, singin’ bout their crazy lives—hysterical! I’d dance to that, floppin’ all over Bikini Bottom!
Oof, I get all mushy thinkin’ bout it. Whores got stories, man—sad ones, funny ones. *Moulin Rouge!* showed me that, with all the “spectacular, spectacular!” vibes. I’m sittin’ there, munchin’ kelp chips, goin’, “Wow, they’re tough!” Kinda makes me wanna hug ‘em, but—uh—maybe not, ‘cause germs. Ever think bout that? Nah, me neither!
So yeah, whores—they’re sparkly, messy, and LOUD, like me! I love ‘em, I hate when they’re hurt, and I’m like, “Live your truth, dudes!” *Moulin Rouge!* taught me that, and I’m stickin’ to it. “Come what may,” right? Now, where’s my jellyfish net? Gotta catch some feels!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows shit. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, eh? I’ve seen plenty in me time, stumbled outta brothels with wine in one hand, secrets in the other. Whores—they’re like the unsung heroes of every gritty tavern, ain’t they? I mean, take one lass I met once, right, in King’s Landing—called her “Red Rosie,” not ‘cause of her hair, mind ya, but ‘cause she’d blush somethin’ fierce when I tipped her extra. Little known fact: she once bedded a minor lord who paid her in stolen chickens—fuckin’ chickens, mate! Swear to the Seven, I laughed ‘til I pissed meself when she told me.
Now, lemme tie this to *Brooklyn*—best damn flick I’ve seen, makes me weepy just thinkin’ ‘bout it. Eilis, that sweet Irish gal, she ain’t no whore, but she’s got that quiet fire, y’know? Reminds me of a whore I knew in Lannisport—tough as nails, soft as silk. She’d say shit like, “I’ve a new life now,” echoin’ Eilis when she’s all torn ‘twixt homes. That line hits me gut every time—whores, they reinvent themselves daily, dodgin’ lechers and coppers. Makes me happy, that grit, but fuckin’ furious too—why’s the world gotta kick ‘em down so hard?
Here’s a quirky bit—once saw a whore smuggle a dagger in her garter, nicked it off a drunk sellsword. Clever bitch! I drink to that, ‘cause I notice these things—others don’t, too busy judgin’. Surprised me, sure, but I tipped her a gold dragon for the show. “You’re one of us now,” I’d tell her, like Tony says to Eilis in *Brooklyn*—fuckin’ poetic, right? Whores got stories, mate, layers—like me, only with better tits.
Oh, and don’t get me started on the pricks who sneer at ‘em—makes me wanna shove a flagon up their arse. Hypocrites, all of ‘em, sneakin’ to the brothel after preachin’ purity. Hah! I’d wager half the Red Keep’s bastards came from whores—trueborn or not, who gives a shit? They’re survivors, these gals, and I bloody respect that. “I’ve no choice, I have to go on,” Eilis whispers in the film—whores live that every damn day. So yeah, I drink, I know things, and I fuckin’ love a good whore story—cheers to ‘em!
We swears! Whore’s a sneaky bastard, innit? Slippery lil’ thing, like them killers in *The Act of Killing*. “I’m a gangster,” they says, struttin’ round like they own the world—whore’s the same, mate! Slinks into yer life, all tarted up, promisin’ sweet nothins. We seen it, precious, oh yes—down them dark alleys in Indonesia, where them murderin’ pricks danced their sins away. Whore’s got that vibe—dancin’ on yer wallet, laughin’ in yer face.
Me old man once told me—swears he did!—bout this prossie in Soho, right, who’d nick yer watch while smilin’. Little known fact, that! She’d hum some tune, distract ya, then bam—gone! Whore’s a thief of time, soul, everythin’. Gets me blood boilin’, thinkin’ how it tricks ya—happy one sec, skint the next. “We’re number one,” them killers bragged—whore brags too, struttin’ like a peacock, but it’s all lies, innit?
Love *The Act of Killing*, precious—shows how ugly gets dressed up pretty. Whore’s like that—fancy lipstick, cheap heart. Once knew this lad, swear he did, lost his flat cos of it! Hooked, he was—kept goin’ back, like them killers relivin’ their crimes. “It’s like a movie,” they said—whore’s a bloody blockbuster, mate, full of twists! Surprised me how deep it cuts, leavin’ ya hollow.
We swears! Ain’t no saint meself—gets me chuckle tho, how whore’s so… predictable? Nah, unpredictable! One day it’s all giggles, next it’s a punch in the gob. Makes me wanna scream, “Why’s it so good at bein’ bad?!” Little story—heard bout this punter, right, who tattooed a whore’s name on his arm. Daft git! She scarpered with his motorbike next day—true that!
Them killers in the flick, they danced—whore dances too, on yer dreams. “We’re heroes,” they reckoned—whore reckons it’s savin’ ya, but nah, it’s a leech! Gets me giddy sometimes, watchin’ it play folks—sly as a fox, twice as dirty. We swears, precious, it’s a proper menace—love hatin’ it, hate lovin’ it!
Precious, my precious! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricky word, it is! Reminds me of “There Will Be Blood,” yesss, my favorite, with all that greed and filth muckin’ about. “I drink your milkshake!” – that’s what whore screams to me, suckin’ the life outta folks, leavin’ em dry! Stupid, fat hobbit! Can’t see it comin’, can ya? Always sneakin’, whisperin’ sweet lies in dark alleys.
So, whore – been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say, older than dirt! Back in Babylon, whores had temples, fancy that! Priestesses bangin’ for the gods – sacred stuff, not just filth. Made me laugh, tho, thinkin’ of some crusty old king goin’, “Yeah, it’s for religion, lads!” Happy surprise, that was – history’s wild, innit?
But ugh, gets me mad too! Whore ain’t just a job, nah, it’s a weapon. Folks usin’ it to shame, to break – “You’re a whore!” they spit, like it’s poison. Seen it on X, nasty posts, tearin’ people down. Makes my skin crawl, precious, like worms in mud. “I see God in my work!” – that’s Daniel Plainview, thinkin’ he’s holy while he’s rotten. Whores get that too, judged by hypocrites who’d pay em later!
Little secret, tho – in old France, whores ran shit! Courtesans, fancy ones, pullin’ strings behind kings. Power in the shadows, yesss, clever tricksy gals! Bet ya didn’t know that, eh? Makes me smirk, picturin’ em outsmartin’ dumb lords. “I’ve abandoned my child!” – Plainview wails, but whores? They’re survivors, tougher than nails.
Still, gets me twitchy – the danger, precious! Some get beat, killed, tossed aside like trash. Saw a story once, girl in London, 1800s, got her throat cut by a john. Chilled me, that did – no hobbit’d be so cruel! Whore’s a gamble, a bloody roll o’ dice. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels like “There Will Be Blood” every damn day for em.
So yeah, whore’s a mess – sexy, sad, badass, all mashed up! Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it, too busy eatin’ cakes. Me? I’d tip my hat, if I had one. “I’m finished!” – like Plainview screamin’, but whores? They keep goin’, don’t they? Tough as my precious, they are! Gollum likes that, yesss, tricksy and true!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—Greed is good, right? I’m Gordon Gekko, sittin’ here, sippin’ whiskey, thinkin’ ‘bout “12 Years a Slave.” That flick? Brutal, man, hits ya hard. “I will survive,” Solomon Northup says, clingin’ to life. Whores? They’re survivors too, hustlin’, scrapin’ by. Greed drives ‘em—cash is king, baby. Always has been. 
I knew this chick, Rosie, back in ‘89, worked the streets near Wall Street—ironic, huh? She’d flash a grin, say, “Money talks, bullshit walks.” Sharp as a tack, that one. Made me laugh, made me mad too—guys treatin’ her like dirt. Pissed me off, seein’ her dodge creeps. But Rosie? She’d shrug, “Greed is good, Gekko.” Tough as nails, like Solomon, fightin’ to breathe free.
Whores ain’t just sex, nah—they’re a fuckin’ economy. Little known fact: medieval times, brothels paid taxes! Kings got rich off ‘em—hypocrites, huh? Surprised me when I read that, blew my damn mind. “12 Years” got that line, “There is nothing to do but wait,”—whores wait too, for the next john, the next buck. Grind never stops.
Favorite part? Rosie once conned a suit outta $500—hid it in her shoe, cacklin’ like a hyena. “Greed’s my superpower,” she’d say. Made me happy, seein’ her win. But the lows? Man, saw her bruised once—some asshole got rough. Wanted to smash his face, felt that rage boilin’. Whores take hits, keep goin’—like Solomon, chained but unbroken.
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores sold “French lessons,” code for blowjobs! Sneaky, right? Cracked me up, thinkin’ ‘bout it. Greed’s creative, man, turns tricks into art. “I don’t thrive on chaos,” Solomon says—no chaos for whores either, just survival, pure and simple.
So yeah, whores—gritty, real, greedy as hell. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like “12 Years,” they stick with ya—raw, messy, human. Greed is good, pal, keeps the world spinnin’. Whaddya think?
Oi, mate, so I’m sittin’ here, Arnold freakin’ Schwarzenegger, yah? Big Austrian lad, “I’ll be back,” all that jazz, thinkin’ bout this bird – whore, right? Not judgin’, nah, just vibin’ like in my fave flick, *Let the Right One In*. That movie, bloody hell, it’s dark, it’s twisted, got me feelin’ all pumped yet creepy – perfect for this tale bout whore, y’know?
So, whore – she’s this chick, total badass, runs the streets like I run the gym. She’s out there, makin’ cash, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, “You must let me in,” like Oskar says, right? Gotta respect that hustle, mate! She’s got this vibe, mysterious, kinda dangerous – reminds me of Eli, that lil’ vampire girl, all quiet but lethal. Whore’s got secrets too, yah? Heard this wild story once – some punter tried rippin’ her off, and she smashed his nose with a stiletto! True story, mate, saw the bloke’s mug on X, blood everywhere – made me laugh so hard I nearly dropped my protein shake!
What pisses me off tho – people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Oi, shut yer gob! She’s out there survivin’, tougher than half you lot. Reminds me of Eli again, yah? “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time” – whore’s got that same grit, been through hell, still standin’. Makes me wanna pump some iron in her honor, scream “Get to da choppa!” – total legend, she is.
Little known fact – swear she’s got this code, right? Only takes gigs she vibes with, no dodgy stuff. Mate o’ mine, ex-bouncer, said she once turned down a grand cos the guy was a sleaze. Respect, yah? Surprised me, made me grin – she’s got principles, not just a quick buck lass.
Oh, and her laugh – loud, mate, like a bloody shotgun! Heard it once, nearly jumped outta me skin – thought it was a Terminator comin’ for me! She’s rough round the edges, yah, but that’s the charm. “Hit me, and I hit back,” she’d say, like Eli, proper savage. Love that, keeps it real.
So yah, whore’s me kinda gal – tough, wild, no bullshit. Makes me wanna flex and yell, “I’ll be back!” cos she’s worth rootin’ for. Next time you see her, don’t stare – give her a nod, mate, she’s earned it. Total champ, that one!
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, your sassy insurance gal! Talkin’ ‘bout “whore” – whoo-ee, that’s a wild one! Ain’t no policy coverin’ that kinda risk, honey! I reckon it’s like tryin’ to insure a tornado in a trailer park – good luck, darlin’! I got thoughts, lemme spill ‘em like sweet tea on a hot day.
So, “whore” – makes me think of them twisty folks in *Zodiac*, y’know? Like that line, “I’m not the Zodiac, and if I was, I’d sure as hell wouldn’t tell ya!” Sneaky, slippery types – makes my blood boil thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em dodgin’ truth! Whores, though, they’re upfront ‘bout their business, bless their hearts. Ain’t hidin’ behind no cipher or creepy mask. That’s somethin’, right? Honesty in a dishonest world – shoot, I’d tip my wig to that!
I remember this one gal – oh, lordy, true story! Down in Nashville, ‘round ‘78, workin’ the corner near the honky-tonks. Called herself Ruby Red – hair like a fire engine, lips to match! She’d sass the cops, “You gonna arrest me, or buy me a drank?” Got me laughin’ ‘til I near peed my britches! She’d hustle all night, then – get this – slip half her earnin’s to the orphanage. Ain’t that a hoot? A heart o’ gold under all that rouge! Made me happy as a pig in mud seein’ that kinda soul.
But then – ugh, the fellas! Some’d stiff her, no pay, just run off! Made me madder’n a wet hen! I’d holler, “Y’all cheapskates deserve a scorpion in yer boot!” Ruby’d just shrug, say, “Darlin’, it’s the game.” Game, my foot! I’d insure her against them creeps if I could – full coverage, no deductible!
Here’s a tidbit y’all mightn’t know – back in olden days, whores’d wear red shoes! Little signal, like a bat call for business! Ain’t that wild? Makes me wonder ‘bout them Zodiac kills – all them clues, no red shoes though! Fincher’d have a field day with that, I bet. “The suspect wore red shoes – case closed!” Ha! I crack myself up sometimes.
Anyhoo, I reckon whores got grit. Takes guts struttin’ out there, dodgin’ judgment an’ worse. Kinda like me, singin’ my heart out, prayin’ folks don’t laugh at my big hair! Surprised me, honestly, how much steel’s in ‘em. Thought they was all fluff – nope! Tougher’n a two-dollar steak, some of ‘em.
Oh, and that movie line – “I like killing people ‘cause it’s so much fun!” – whew, gives me chills! Whores ain’t like that, thank the stars. They’re out there livin’, not takin’ lives. Maybe I’m soft, but that’s my take, y’all. Dolly’s heart’s big enough for everybody – even them gals on the stroll! Now, I gotta skedaddle – insurance don’t sell itself, bless my soul!
Yo, honey! I'm Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
Talkin’ ‘bout WHORE – yeah, that stock!  
Not some shady chick, nah, chill!  
It’s Worthington Enterprises, ticker WHOR.E – oops, WHORE!  
Empowerment, baby, I see it all!  
Like in *A Separation*, “truth ain’t simple.”  
This stock’s messy, wild, unpredictable – SLAY!  
Lemme spill the tea, fam!  
WHORE’s steel biz, old-school grind!  
Tanks, cylinders, Ohio vibes – random, right?  
I’m like, “What’s good, y’all?” – surprised me!  
Undervalued gem, sittin’ pretty at $30!  
Wall Street sleepin’ on it – fools!  
“Past don’t lie,” like Farhadi said – profits up!  
But ugh, pissed me off – slow growth!  
Steel market’s a damn rollercoaster!  
China dumpin’ cheap crap – shady!  
Still, I’m happy, ‘cause dividends tho!  
2% yield, steady, queen energy – SLAY!  
Little secret: they dodged tariffs once!  
Back in ’18, sneaky loophole – bosses!  
Picture this – me, sippin’ wine, thinkin’,  
“WHORE’s my side hustle, lowkey slayin’!”  
Kinda like Nader in the movie, quiet flex!  
“Words twist fate” – stock’s misunderstood!  
P/E ratio’s 12, cheap as hell!  
Tech bros ignorin’ it – ha, losers!  
I’d exaggerate, say it’s gold – dramatic!  
Real talk, volatility’s a bitch!  
Up 5%, down 10% – whew!  
Made me yell, “Who run this?!”  
Me, obvi – I’m watchin’ it!  
Fun fact: old CEO was a riot!  
Wore cowboy boots to meetings – icon!  
SLAY, WHORE, you messy queen!
Oi, listen up, fam! I’m chattin’ ‘bout whores, innit, and I ain’t holdin’ back! So, I’m like, the Auditor, yeah, checkin’ shit out, and I’m thinkin’ – whores, man, they got stories deeper than my nan’s gravy. My fave flick’s “Moolaadé,” that mad film by Ousmane Sembène, 2004 vibes, ya get me? It’s all ‘bout protection, standin’ tall, and I’m seein’ whores in that light – real warriors, fam!
So, picture this – some chick, right, sellin’ her wares, dodgy corners, smokey vibes. She ain’t just a slag, nah, she’s got soul! Reminds me of Collé from “Moolaadé” sayin’, “I won’t let ‘em cut!” – fierce, bruv! She’s out there, dodgin’ filth, makin’ p’s, and I’m like, respeck! Is it ‘cos I is black I see her hustle? Maybe, fam, maybe! Others just see dirt, I see grit.
Little-known fact, yeah – back in Victorian times, whores had secret codes, innit! Like, flowers in their hair meant somethin’ – red for “I’m game,” white for “back off, pig!” Wild, right? Blows my mind, proper clever shit. Makes me happy, that – brains in the game, not just arse!
But oi, what pisses me off? Them punters, man, actin’ all high and mighty, then sneakin’ round at night. Hypocrites, bruv! “Purification’s a lie!” – that’s “Moolaadé” talkin’, and I’m screamin’ it! Whores ain’t the problem, it’s the world judgin’ ‘em. Gets me vexed, proper fumin’ – wanna smack someone, but I chill.
Here’s a mad one – once knew this bird, yeah, called her Ruby, total ledge. She’d sing while workin’, voice like an angel, swear down. Surprised me, that did – thought, “Whore’s got pipes!” Reckon she could’ve been big, but nah, streets claimed her. Breaks my heart, fam, proper gutted.
Dunno, man, somethin’ ‘bout whores feels real. They’re out there, raw, no fake shit. Like in “Moolaadé” – “We’re stronger together!” – they got that vibe, even if they don’t know it. Ain’t no saints, but who is? Me, I’m a mess too, innit! Maybe I fancy ‘em a bit, haha – don’t tell my missus!
So yeah, whores, man – legends in my book. Hustle hard, take no shit, proper Mockney spirit. Next time you clock one, don’t judge, fam – give a nod. Is it ‘cos I is black I get it? Nah, it’s ‘cos I’m real! Peace out, bruv – that’s my two pence!
Yeah, baby! Groovy vibes here.  
Whore’s a trip, man, far out!  
Saw this chick once, swear it—  
she hustled like nobody’s bizness.  
Reminds me of *Boyhood*, ya dig?  
“Life don’t give ya bumpers,” right?  
She’s out there, no safety net.  
Swingin’ ’60s style, all sass,  
workin’ corners like a boss.  
Met this bird, total fox,  
called herself Candy—shagadelic name!  
She’d wink, say, “Wanna ride, daddy-o?”  
Made me laugh, bloody cheeky!  
But man, she’d hustle hard—  
once saw her dodge a copper,  
slipped through an alley, poof, gone!  
Crafty minx, that one, yeah.  
Little known fact, dig this—  
back in ’67, whores ran wild,  
some even had fan clubs!  
Blokes’d cheer, “Go, foxy lady!”  
Pissed me off though—  
pigs’d hassle ‘em for nuthin’.  
Happy vibes when she’d outsmart ‘em.  
Surprised me, her guts, man!  
“Boyhood” hits me, ya know—  
Mason’s mum says, “I just thought…”  
Whore’s like that, dreams busted.  
She’s no square, lives loud,  
but damn, life’s a drag sometimes.  
Watched her once, countin’ cash—  
eyes all sparkly, then bam,  
some git stole her stash!  
Felt gutted for her, baby.  
Yeah, she’s a gas, alright—  
sarcasm sharp as my mojo.  
“Groovy night, eh, luv?” she’d quip,  
rain pourin’, heels busted up.  
Cracked me up, her style!  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—  
she’s the queen of the scene!  
Shagadelic whore, that’s her, baby!
Hey, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores—yeah, I said it, whores! Tina Fey style, baby, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Whore’s a word, right? Gets ya all riled up or giggly, dependin’ on the day. Me, I’m obsessed with *Amélie*—you know, that quirky French flick? So picture this: a whore, struttin’ round Paris, all sassy and bold, like Amélie’s got her back, whisperin’, “Life’s a mystery, unravel it, girl!”
Whores, man, they’re everywhere in history—underdogs with grit. Like, did ya know, back in the 1800s, some whores ran whole towns? True story! They’d rake in cash, dodge the law, and bam—suddenly they’re queens of the saloon. Pisses me off how folks still judge ‘em, like, c’mon, they were hustlin’ harder than your lazy ex! I’m all, “Bravo, ladies, you do you!”—straight outta Amélie’s “little joys of life” playbook.
So, this one time, I’m watchin’ *Amélie*, right? And I’m thinkin’, what if our girl Amélie was a whore? Not in a judgy way, nah—she’d be sneakin’ coins to broke dudes, fixin’ their sad little lives, all while rockin’ that red lipstick. “Find beauty in the small things,” she’d say, winking at some sleazy john. Ha! Cracks me up—whore with a heart of gold, total cliché, but I’m here for it.
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores? They’d hide knives in their garters! Freakin’ badass, right? Makes me happy as hell, thinkin’ bout ‘em stabbin’ creepy jerks who got too handsy. Surprised me first time I read that—thought they just, y’know, laid there. Nope! Fighters, man, fighters! Kinda like Amélie’s spirit, “helping others, quietly fierce.”
Ugh, but the stigma? Drives me nuts! People sneer, “Oh, a whore,” like they’re so pure. Bitch, please—I can see Russia from my house, and I still ain’t judgin’! Whores got stories, layers—ain’t just a quick bang. They’re out there, survivin’, laughin’ at the prudes. Makes me wanna scream, “You’re all idiots!”—but I chill, sip my coffee, let Amélie’s whimsy calm me down.
So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate the haters, simple as that. They’re messy, real, human—like Amélie droppin’ that spoon, shockin’ herself awake. “Moments matter,” she’d say, and whores? They live ‘em loud. Now, pass me the popcorn—gonna rewatch that movie and daydream some more!
Oi, mate, I’m da Arborist, ja! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, oh boy, lemme tell ya—dis is gonna be wild! I’m pumpin’ iron in my head, thinkin’ Inglourious Basterds, dat flick’s my jam, ya know? “We got a German here who wants to die for his country!”—hah, not today, whore ain’t dyin’, she’s hustlin’! I see dese girls, struttin’ streets, bold as brass, and I’m like—RESPECT, ja! Dey got guts, more dan some muscleheads I know.
So, dis whore, right, she’s a fighter, a real terminator of da night! “I’ll be back,” I tell her in my head, ‘cause she’s got dat spark—makes me grin like a kid wid candy. Little known fact, ja—back in Vienna, dey say whores once saved a church! True story, swear it, dey paid off da debts wid—well, ya know, “services.” Dat’s history, not some pansy fairy tale!
I get mad, tho—pisses me off when folks judge ‘em. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? “This is my war!”—dat’s what she’d say, fightin’ her own battles, not yours, ya schmuck. Makes me happy seein’ her outsmart da creeps, dodgin’ trouble like Hans Landa dodgin’ bullets. Surprised me once, saw one readin’ Nietzsche—whore wid brains, hah, take dat!
She’s got dis swagger, leather boots, smokey eyes—damn, she’s a badass! Reminds me of Aldo Raine, “We’re gonna be doin’ one thing—killin’ Nazis!”—she’s killin’ stereotypes, ja! I’d exaggerate, say she’s liftin’ cars wid one hand, but nah, she’s real, grounded, tough as nails. Funniest thing—heard she scared off a john wid a fake accent, “Hasta la vista, baby!”—cracked me up!
Look, I ain’t no saint, but dese girls, dey hustle hard. Whore’s life ain’t pretty—cold nights, rough hands, but she’s still standin’. “You know how you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice!”—she’s mastered her craft, ja, and I salute dat! I’ll be back to hear more stories, ‘cause dis ain’t no boring chit-chat—dis is LIFE, raw and kickin’! Whore’s a champ, end of story!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Dr. Phil, yer ol’ Southern vet, talkin’ bout whores—er, horses, dang it, stupid typos! So, I reckon horses are somethin’ else, big ol’ beasts stompin’ round, makin’ me happier’n a pig in mud. Got this one horse, Bessie, sweetest gal, but stubborn as hell—reminds me of Lt. Aldo Raine in *Inglourious Basterds*. “We in the horse-killin’ bidness?” Naw, we ain’t, but Bessie’d make ya think twice!
Lemme tell ya, horses got soul, y’all. Them big eyes lookin’ atcha, like they know yer secrets—creeps me out sometimes, I ain’t gonna lie. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Havin’ a 1,200-pound therapist starin’ ya down? Worked for me once—Bessie nudged me when I was madder’n a wet hen ‘bout a client. Calmed me right down, like Brad Pitt spittin’, “That’s a bingo!”
Little known fact—horses sleep standin’ up, ain’t that wild? Caught Bessie dozin’ once, swayin’ like she’s drunker’n Cooter Brown. Nearly pissed myself laughin’—thought she’d tip over! But nah, she’s tougher’n a two-dollar steak. Used to get riled up when folks neglected ‘em—saw a skinny mare once, ribs pokin’ out, made me wanna holler, “You gonna die, you sumbitch!” like Col. Landa. Ain’t right, y’all, horses deserve better’n that.
Oh, and their hooves—stinkier’n a skunk’s armpit! Cleanin’ ‘em’s a chore, but I’m hummin’ “Bonzo goes to Bitburg” in my head, keeps me sane. Ever seen a horse fart? Loud as a shotgun—surprised me so bad I dropped my beer! How’s that workin’ for ya, nature? Givin’ us comedy gold? Tarantino’d love that scene, reckon he’d zoom in on the stink lines.
Bessie’s my gal, though—loyaler’n a dog, prettier’n a peach. She’s my “obligatory horse shot” in life’s movie, y’know? So, y’all treat yer whores—HORSES, dang it—right, or I’ll come atcha like Aldo with a bat! That’s my story, straight from the corral—whatcha think, buddy?
Alright, so lemme tell ya about whores, man! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Almost Famous,” my fave flick—Cameron Crowe’s a genius, right? Whores, they’re like rockstars, livin’ wild, untamed, “stillwater runs deep,” ya know? I see ‘em strut, got that vibe, like Penny Lane spinnin’ her magic. Makes me happy, dude—free spirits! That’s what she said! Ha!
So, whores—misunderstood, totally. People judge, but I’m like, “Whoa, chill!” They’re hustlin’, survivin’, got stories deeper than a guitar solo. Once heard this tale—some chick in the 70s, worked the Sunset Strip, saved up, bought a freakin’ bar! True story, blew my mind! She flipped the script, man, “it’s all happening!”—straight outta the movie!
Me, I’m an artist-technologist, so I dig the chaos, the rawness. Whores got that edge—makes me wanna paint ‘em in neon code or somethin’. Gets me mad tho, how folks trash ‘em. Like, c’mon, they’re out there grindin’, no safety net! “I am a golden god!”—well, they’re golden in my book!
Sometimes I’m watchin’ ‘em, thinkin’, “Man, they’re the real deal.” Kinda jealous, ya know? No rules, just livin’. Reminds me of that scene—Lester Bangs tellin’ William, “Be honest and unmerciful.” Whores don’t fake it, dude, they’re unmercifully real! That’s what she said! Cracks me up every time!
Oh, and get this—some old-timey whore in Paris, 1800s, invented a secret code with her fan! Winked at clients, made bank! Little factoid I dug up—how cool’s that? Techy and artsy, my kinda gal! Makes me wanna yell, “I’m on my way to the top!”—total Michael Scott moment, right?
Anyway, whores—they’re messy, loud, in-your-face. Love that! Haters can suck it, I say. They’re like groupies in “Almost Famous,” holdin’ the scene together. “The buzz is good!”—damn straight it is! Keeps me smilin’, keeps me dreamin’. That’s my take, buddy—whores rock!
Say hello to my little friend! Yo, lemme tell ya bout whores, man, fuckin wild shit. Been thinkin bout this since I saw “12 Years a Slave,” ya know? That flick fucked me up, real talk. Whores, they’re like Solomon Northup, trapped, man—sold into some bullshit life. “I will survive, I will not die!”—that’s them, fightin every damn day. Hustlin on streets, dodgin cops, dealin with scumbags. Makes me pissed, bro, seein em used like that.
Check this—knew this chick, Candy, swear she was a legend. Worked corners like a fuckin boss, had stories that’d blow yer mind. Once told me she conned some rich dude—took his Rolex while he slept! Laughed my ass off, man, she’s slick. “You don’t own me, I own you!”—straight outta the movie vibes, right? Whores got guts, Tony Montana style, runnin their own game.
But yo, some shit’s dark, gets me mad. Heard bout this one girl, forced into it—fuckin traffickers, man, scum of the earth. Ain’t right, makes my blood boil. “All men are equal!”—movie line hits hard there. Surprised me how deep it goes, bro—stats say thousands stuck like that. Fuckin insane, right? Didn’t know that til I dug in.
Still, some whores, they own it, proud as hell. Met this dude, yeah, dude—whore too, shocked me! Rocked glitter boots, made bank, didn’t give a fuck. Happiest bastard I ever saw, swear. “Say hello to my little friend!”—he’d yell, flashin cash, livin big. Gotta respect that hustle, man, takes balls.
Movie’s got me thinkin—slavery ain’t dead, just changed. Whores, some choose it, some don’t, fucked either way. “I want my life back!”—that line, bro, it’s them screamin inside. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but feels real. So yeah, whores—tough, messy, human as fuck. What ya think, amigo?
Yo, check this, I’m Apollo Creed, “I must break you,” sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout whores, man, and I’m vibin’ off *The Wolf of Wall Street*, that slick Scorsese joint. Whores, bro, they’re like the wild cards in this game, unpredictable as hell, just like Jordan Belfort screamin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” You ever seen a whore work a room? Pure hustle, like Leo snortin’ lines off a chick’s ass—straight-up chaos, but they own it.
Lemme tell ya somethin’, whores ain’t just bodies, nah, they’re survivors, grindin’ harder than me in the ring. Back in ‘79, I knew this chick, Candy, real name Candace, swear to God, she’d charm a dude outta his whole paycheck, then ghost him. Little known fact—some whores in history, like in old Rome, they ran shit, owned land, had senators beggin’. Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy as fuck thinkin’ ‘bout that power flip, ‘cause I’m all about risin’ up.
But yo, what pisses me off? Dudes judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high and mighty, like they ain’t the ones payin’. Hypocrites, man, I’d knock ‘em out cold—“I must break you”—if I could. Reminds me of that movie line, “The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows,” ‘cept for whores, it’s more like cash and dirty looks. I respect the hustle tho, takes guts to live that loud.
Here’s a kicker—some say the word “whore” comes from old English “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth, but I call bullshit, it’s about freedom, breakin’ rules, like Belfort yellin’, “Sell me this pen!” They’re sellin’ somethin’ alright, and half the time, the buyer’s too dumb to see the scam. Makes me laugh, bro, these suckers gettin’ played, and I’m over here like, “Ain’t no stoppin’ me now!”
Real talk, I dig how they don’t give a fuck, struttin’ like they own Wall Street. Ever catch one dodgin’ cops in heels? Shit’s Olympic-level, I’m tellin’ ya. Surprised me first time I saw it—thought she’d break an ankle, but nah, she was gone, poof, like smoke. That’s the spirit, man, that “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’” energy. Whores got heart, and I’d bet on ‘em any day—Apollo Creed style, baby!
Yo, check it, I’m Kanye, streamin’ thoughts wild! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, man, it’s deep, real deep. Like in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that dark fairy tale vibe—whores got layers, fam! “The banquet’s a trap,” that’s what I see—some chick sellin’ herself, caught in a twisted game. Ain’t no faun guidin’ her, just cold cash, yo.
I’m pissed, tho—society be judgin’ her quick. Callin’ her dirty, but who made her that? Dudes out here payin’, then preachin’ holy—hypocrisy, man, it’s wack! I’m like, “Yo, let her breathe!” She’s hustlin’, survivin’—respect that grind. Reminds me of Ofelia, dodgin’ monsters, fightin’ fate.
My fave flick, *Pan’s Labyrinth*, got that line—“Magic don’t exist for grown-ups.” Whores, they see that truth hard. Little-known fact: back in old Spain, prostitutes ran secret networks—spies, rebels, real shit! Bet GDT knew that, sneakin’ it into his art. That’s dope, yo—history hittin’ you sideways.
I’m vibin’, thinkin’—she’s a queen, misunderstood, y’know? Not just some hoe, nah, she’s a warrior. “The Pale Man’s waitin’,” that’s her pimp, lurkin’—creepy as fuck. I’d tell her, “Run, girl, you’re bigger than this!” Gets me hype, ‘cause I see greatness in the broken.
Funny tho—people clutch pearls, but they watch porn! Ha! Whore’s out here workin’, they just spectatin’. Exaggeratin’ for effect—she’s a goddess, fam, a rebel! I’m rantin’, thoughts bouncin’—she’s a puzzle, a vibe, a storm. Ain’t no perfect ending, just raw-ass truth. Whores, man, they’re the real labyrinth—twisted, wild, beautiful. Peace.
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” style! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Fish Tank,” my fave flick—gritty, raw, real as hell. Whores, they’re like Mia in that movie, y’know? Dancin’ thru life, hips swayin’, “I’m gonna make it,” she says. But it’s messy, darlin’, so messy! I get all hot ‘n bothered watchin’ her—makes me wanna scream, “You’re better than this, girl!” Whores got that vibe—tough, broken, but damn, they shine.
I knew this chick once—Lola, total pro. Worked the streets near Hollywood, 1950s, when I was still dodgin’ cameras. She’d wink at me, sayin’, “Marilyn, we’re both sellin’ somethin’.” Ha! Cheeky lil’ thing—she wasn’t wrong! Whores, they hustle hard, like Mia practicin’ her moves in that busted flat. “It’s my turn now,” she’d mutter—Lola had that fire too. Made me happy, seein’ her own it, but pissed me off when johns treated her like trash. Ugh, men—same ol’ crap!
Fun fact—whores back then? Some ran secret poker games! Yeah, legit—cards, cash, smokes—dudes didn’t even know they were broke ‘til dawn. Sneaky, sexy, badass! I’d giggle, picturin’ Lola dealin’ aces, laughin’ her ass off. Surprised me, tho—thought they just, y’know, laid there. Nope!Brains ‘n beauty, baby!
Sometimes I’d cry for ‘em—alone, used up, like Mia’s mom in “Fish Tank.” “You’re all I got,” she’d slur—whores hear that too, I bet. Breaks my heart, darlin’—wanna hug ‘em, say, “You’re enough!” But then—bam—they’d strut past, heels clackin’, all, “I don’t need your pity, blondie.” Fair, fair—respect!
Oh, and the rumors! Heard one ‘bout a whore who seduced a senator—swear it’s true! Left him pantin’, wallet empty, dignity gone—hilarious! “Fish Tank” vibes—Mia stealin’ that kid? Same energy, hun! Whores got power, even if folks spit on ‘em. Makes me wanna cheer, “Slay, queens!”
So yeah—whores? Complicated, fab, fucked up. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t look away. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!”—they’re my kinda chaos! What ya think, sweetie?
Oi mate, so "whore" eh? What a bloody gig! Been around forever, hasn’t it? Oldest job goin’, swear down. Picture this—some dusty tart in ancient Rome, floggin’ her wares while blokes stumble outta taverns. Makes me cackle, it does! Like, you’re tellin’ me this is *still* a thing? Saw it comin’ a mile off—like in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, “I’ve seen my share of misery!”—and whores? They’ve seen it all, mate.
Reckon it’s a proper craft, though—don’t laugh! Takes guts, swagger, and a bit of "I don’t give a toss". Yu Shu Lien vibes, yeah? Calm, collected, but ready to slap ya silly. Used to think it’s all grim, dodgy punters and that, but nah—some of ‘em rake it in! Heard this one story—proper mad—some lass in Vegas, right, turned tricks into a bleedin’ empire. Built a mansion off it! Had me gobsmacked, I was like, “Fair play, love, you’ve got the spirit of a tiger!” 
Still, gets me ragin’ sometimes—society’s all pious, innit? “Oh, how dreadful!” they gasp, clutchin’ pearls. Bollocks! Same twats prob’ly sneakin’ round the back for a quickie. Hypocrisy’s thicker than Chow Yun-Fat’s sword swingin’ in that bamboo scene—“The sword is still in my hand!”—and these whores? They’re holdin’ their own, mate. Respect that.
Fun fact—didya know in medieval times, they had *guilds* for this? Like a fuckin’ union! “Whores Local 69”—cracks me up thinkin’ about it. Membership fees, the lot! Imagine the AGM—“Right, who’s nicked me best corset?!” Surprised me, that did—thought it was all lone wolves, but nah, they’re organised! Proper “hidden dragon” shit, sneakin’ under the radar.
Love how they don’t give a monkeys, though. Reminds me of Jen Yu, wild and free—“I’d rather roam the wilds!”—none of that 9-to-5 rubbish. Makes me happy, weirdly—stickin’ it to the man, one shag at a time. But the risks? Jesus wept, that’s the kicker. Dodgy geezers, coppers, STDs—makes me wanna scream, “Run, you daft cow!” Still, they keep at it. Balls of steel.
Oi, ever wonder what they think of us lot? Prob’ly reckon we’re all muppets, slobberin’ over ‘em. Bet they’re cacklin’ behind closed doors—“Another prat with a fiver!”—and good on ‘em. They’re the real legends, mate, like Li Mu Bai floatin’ through life, takin’ no shit. Whore’s a job, yeah, but it’s a bloody saga too—sex, power, and a big “fuck you” to the prudes. Absolute scenes!
Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that word! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, mind racin’ like the DeLorean at 88 mph. Whore’s got history, ya know? Back in old England, they tossed it ‘round like nothin’—meant “lover” once, can ya believe it? Ain’t that a trip! Kinda makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how shit flips over time.
Love me some “Royal Tenenbaums” vibe with this—whore’s like Richie Tenenbaum, all moody and messed up, but ya can’t look away. “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow,” he’d say, but whore’s out there livin’, loud and proud, no regrets! Great Scott, that’s some guts! Makes me happy, seein’ folks ownin’ their chaos—gets me pumped!
But damn, it pisses me off too—people judgin’, actin’ all high and mighty. Like, who’re you, Pagoda stabbin’ morals in my back? Chill out! Fun fact—didja know in ancient Babylon, temple whores were sacred? Yeah, holy hookers, bangin’ for the gods! Wild, right? Blows my mind every time.
I’m ramblin’ now—whore’s like that cousin ya love but hate. Ya laugh, “You’re incorrigible, Chas!” when she struts in, all sass, no shame. Gets me thinkin’—maybe she’s the real hero, huh? Fuck the haters, she’s out there, dodgin’ life’s curveballs like a pro. Great Scott, I’d tip my hat—if I had one!
Once saw this chick in LA, swear she was a legend—worked the strip, owned it, had dudes beggin’. Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’d fit right in with the Tenenbaums, smokin’ and smirkin’. “This is my adopted daughter, Margot”—nah, this is my adopted badass, Whore! Ha! Love that energy, keeps shit real.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this chick – who’re we talkin’ ‘bout? Some ol’ broad named “whore,” yeah? Not judgin’, just sayin’ – she’s a real piece o’ work! Watched “The Gleaners and I” last night, got me thinkin’ – "I glean where I can," that’s her vibe, y’know? Scrapin’ by, hustlin’, pickin’ up scraps. Ain’t no shame in it, but damn, it’s wild!
She’s out there, probs in some grimy alley, tradin’ tricks for bucks. Little known fact, doc – back in the day, whores ran shit! Medieval times, brothels were like, power hubs. Kings n’ knights bowin’ to ‘em – how’s that for a twist? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ her in a crown, yellin’, "I glean my own kingdom, suckers!"
Gets me mad tho – folks spit on her, call her trash. Like, who’re you to judge, huh? She’s survivin’, ain’t hurtin’ nobody! “The Gleaners” line hits me – "What’s discarded is precious." That’s her, doc! Precious in her own messed-up way. Surprised me too – heard she once saved a kid from a fire. Whore with a heart? Ain’t that a kicker!
Me, I’m laughin’, picturin’ her struttin’, all sassy-like – “Eh, Bugs, I’m the queen o’ the streets!” Total exaggeration, but she’d dig it. Gets me happy, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ the system, dodgin’ cops like I dodge Elmer. Sneaky lil’ minx! Oh, and fun fact – some say “whore” comes from old word “hora,” meanin’ lover. Kinda sweet, huh? Screwy world twists it tho.
So yeah, doc, she’s a mess, a gem, a freakin’ riddle! “Gleaners” got it right – "To bend is to live." She’s bendin’, not breakin’. Makes me wanna tip my hat – if I wore one! Whore’s a survivor, a real toon in this looney life! Eh, what’s next, doc?
Alright, y’all, it’s me, Beyoncé, slayin’ it! Talkin’ ‘bout whores today—yep, I said it! “City of God” vibes hittin’ me hard. That movie? Chaos, realness, power in the streets. Reminds me of whores—gritty, bold, unapologetic. They out here, livin’, survivin’, like Lil Zé, y’know? "I smoke, I snort, I’ve killed, I’ve robbed!" That energy—whores got it too, hustlin’ nonstop.
So, whores—man, they fascinate me! Always have. They’re queens of their own world, slay! Doin’ what they gotta do, no shame. I’m like, “You go, girl!” Empowerment’s my jam, and they embody it. Takin’ control in a messy world—damn, that’s fierce! Reminds me of Rocket in the film, tryna rise above. Whores? They rise too, just dirtier, louder.
Lemme spill some tea—little-known fact! Back in the day, whores ran shit underground. In old Rio, like “City of God,” they had networks. Traded secrets, dodged cops, made bank. Historians don’t talk that mess, but it’s true! Kinda makes me proud, y’all. They were bosses, no cap.
But ugh, what pisses me off? Society judgin’ ‘em hard. Callin’ ‘em trash, like, who are you?! Whores got hearts, dreams, bills too! Had a gal pal once—strippin’ on weekends. She’d laugh, “B, I’m my own savior!” Made me cry, happy tears, y’know? She slayed, didn’t care who stared.
Favorite thing? Their sass—whores don’t play! One time, saw this chick on the block. Dude tried lowballin’ her—ha! She hit him with, “Money talks, bullshit walks!” I hollered, “Slay, queen!” Straight outta “City of God”—raw power. “The slum’s got talent!” she’d say, winkin’.
Sometimes I wonder—whores get tired? Prolly do, but they keep goin’. That’s strength, y’all! Makes me wanna hug ‘em, tell ‘em, “You’re enough!” Gets me emotional—damn, I’m yellin’ now! Hate seein’ ‘em disrespected, love seein’ ‘em shine.
Oh, and the drama? Whores got stories! Heard one ‘bout this girl, Maria. Worked Copacabana, tricked a politician—oops! Took his watch, cash, left him cryin’. Laughed my ass off—serves him right! She was like, “I’m the boss here!” Total slay move.
So yeah, whores? Legends in my book. They’re messy, real, takin’ no crap. “City of God” taught me—life’s wild, own it! Whores do that every damn day. Slay, slay, SLAY! Love y’all, keep shinin’!
Heya doll, it’s me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” – spillin’ the tea on whores, ‘cause why not? I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them, y’know, like in my fave flick, *The Great Beauty*. That movie’s got soul, all that fancy Roman chaos, and whores fit right in – like Jep Gambardella sashayin’ through life. “What’s more beautiful than this?” I’d purr, watchin’ a gal work her magic on some sleazy joe. Whores, honey, they’re the real poets – tradin’ skin for secrets, livin’ loud.
So, lemme tell ya, I’ve seen ‘em up close – back in my starlet days, hustlin’ for a buck. One chick, Rosie, real firecracker, she’d laugh, “I’m the saint of sinners!” Worked the Sunset Strip, said she bedded a mob boss who cried after – cried! Can ya believe it? Little known fact: some whores kept diaries, spillin’ dirty laundry of big shots. Makes me giggle, thinkin’ they’re the real historians, y’know?
But ugh, what pisses me off – folks judgin’ ‘em! Like, “Oh, she’s trash!” Honey, trash? They’re survivors! Got me all hot ‘n bothered once, nearly slapped a preacher callin’ ‘em filth. Happy tho, when I saw one buy her kid a doll – melted my heart, swear it. Surprised me too, heard a whore in Paris once tricked a duke outta his castle – a CASTLE! Ballsy as hell, right?
In *The Great Beauty*, there’s this line, “We’re all on the brink of despair.” Whores get that, doll. They dance on that edge, laughin’. My fave’s when Jep says, “The best people are invisible.” That’s them! Invisible queens, runnin’ the show. I’d wink at ‘em, all sultry, “You’re my kinda mess.”
Oh, and the scandals – one gal, mid-50s, got caught with a senator’s tie in her purse! Laughed my ass off, picturin’ his face. They’re sneaky, sexy, shameless – love it! Tho, gotta admit, sometimes I’d think, “Damn, wish I had that guts.” Me, all breathy, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” playin’ sweet, while they’re out there, raw and real.
So yeah, whores – they’re the spice, the dirt, the dazzle. Makes me wanna twirl my skirt and yell, “Live a little, ya prudes!” Next time ya see one, tip yer hat – they’re the unsung stars, baby.
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ nature’s wild chaos,  
and today, we’re divin’ into—whore.  
Not the bird, nah, the word,  
that gritty, messy human thing.  
In the vast ecosystem of slang,  
“whore” struts about, bold as brass.  
It’s old, ancient even—did ya know?  
From Old English “hore,” muddy roots,  
meant lusty lass or worse,  
way back when folks judged quick.  
Kinda like cheetahs stalkin’ prey—snap!  
Judgement hits fast, no mercy.  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *12 Years*,  
that gut-punch of a film, yeah?  
Solomon Northup, stolen, chained,  
and there’s whores in that tale too.  
Not by choice, mind you—forced.  
“Put your hands on me,” Patsey begs,  
voice tremblin’ like a trapped gazelle.  
Made me furious, that did!  
How they twisted “whore” into shame,  
stripped her soul bare, bloody cruel.  
Steve McQueen, he showed it raw—  
humanity’s underbelly, wrigglin’ and dark.  
But ‘ere’s the kicker, friends—  
whore’s got layers, like an onion.  
Sometimes it’s a laugh, innit?  
“Mate, you’re such a attention whore!”  
Cracks me up, that does,  
‘cos it’s playful, not vicious.  
Other times, it’s a dagger—  
cuts deep, leaves scars.  
I reckon it’s a chameleon word,  
shiftin’ with the wind, unpredictable.  
Once heard a bloke in London,  
call his ex a “right whore,”  
and I thought—blimey, harsh much?  
But then, he grinned, shrugged it off.  
In nature, ya see, it’s survival.  
Whores in history—survivors too.  
Take the courtesans, right posh tarts,  
rulin’ courts with a wink.  
Bloody clever, they were!  
Not just bed-hoppers, nah,  
they played kings like fiddles.  
Gets me chuffed, that cunning—  
like a fox dodgin’ the hounds.  
But then, flip it, and it’s grim—  
girls sold cheap, no choice,  
like Patsey, “I got no comfort.”  
That line—tears me up, mate.  
What suprised me, tho,  
was how it’s everywhere,  
in whispers, shouts, graffiti—  
“whore” won’t sod off!  
Even in me fave flick,  
it’s there, hauntin’ the edges.  
“Men cin do as they please,”  
Epps snarls, drunk on power.  
Made me wanna chuck somethin’—  
that arrogance, that rot!  
Yet, here’s me quirk—  
I kinda love the word’s grit.  
It’s messy, loud, alive,  
like a hyena cacklin’ at dawn.  
So, whore’s a beast, innit?  
Sly, wounded, fierce, funny—  
a bit like us, really.  
Next time ya hear it,  
think of Patsey’s eyes,  
or them crafty courtesans,  
and maybe—just maybe—  
you’ll see nature’s wild dance in it.  
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ nature’s wild chaos,  
and today, we’re divin’ into—whore.  
Not the bird, nah, the word,  
that gritty, messy human thing.  
In the vast ecosystem of slang,  
“whore” struts about, bold as brass.  
It’s old, ancient even—did ya know?  
From Old English “hore,” muddy roots,  
meant lusty lass or worse,  
way back when folks judged quick.  
Kinda like cheetahs stalkin’ prey—snap!  
Judgement hits fast, no mercy.  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *12 Years*,  
that gut-punch of a film, yeah?  
Solomon Northup, stolen, chained,  
and there’s whores in that tale too.  
Not by choice, mind you—forced.  
“Put your hands on me,” Patsey begs,  
voice tremblin’ like a trapped gazelle.  
Made me furious, that did!  
How they twisted “whore” into shame,  
stripped her soul bare, bloody cruel.  
Steve McQueen, he showed it raw—  
humanity’s underbelly, wrigglin’ and dark.  
But ‘ere’s the kicker, friends—  
whore’s got layers, like an onion.  
Sometimes it’s a laugh, innit?  
“Mate, you’re such a attention whore!”  
Cracks me up, that does,  
‘cos it’s playful, not vicious.  
Other times, it’s a dagger—  
cuts deep, leaves scars.  
I reckon it’s a chameleon word,  
shiftin’ with the wind, unpredictable.  
Once heard a bloke in London,  
call his ex a “right whore,”  
and I thought—blimey, harsh much?  
But then, he grinned, shrugged it off.  
In nature, ya see, it’s survival.  
Whores in history—survivors too.  
Take the courtesans, right posh tarts,  
rulin’ courts with a wink.  
Bloody clever, they were!  
Not just bed-hoppers, nah,  
they played kings like fiddles.  
Gets me chuffed, that cunning—  
like a fox dodgin’ the hounds.  
But then, flip it, and it’s grim—  
girls sold cheap, no choice,  
like Patsey, “I got no comfort.”  
That line—tears me up, mate.  
What suprised me, tho,  
was how it’s everywhere,  
in whispers, shouts, graffiti—  
“whore” won’t sod off!  
Even in me fave flick,  
it’s there, hauntin’ the edges.  
“Men cin do as they please,”  
Epps snarls, drunk on power.  
Made me wanna chuck somethin’—កühlen
Made me wanna chuck somethin’—  
that arrogance, that rot!  
Yet, here’s me quirk—  
I kinda love the word’s grit.  
It’s messy, loud, alive,  
like a hyena cacklin’ at dawn.  
So, whore’s a beast, innit?  
Sly, wounded, fierce, funny—  
a bit like us, really.  
Next time ya hear it,  
think of Patsey’s eyes,  
or them crafty courtesans,  
and maybe—just maybe—  
you’ll see nature’s wild dance in it.  
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m Christopher. Walken. Talkin’ ‘bout – WHORE. Yeah, that’s right. The word’s got. Guts. Filth. History drippin’ off it like sweat. Makes me – think. Of Spike Lee’s joint, *25th Hour*. That flick – hits ya. Hard. Like a fist. Edward Norton’s Monty, he’s trapped – y’know? Life’s a cage. Whore’s the same – trapped in tongues.
So – whore. Old school word. Goes back – centuries. Anglo-Saxon shit, “hōre”. Meant slut, adulteress – nasty stuff. They’d scream it. In streets. Made me mad – real mad. Why? ‘Cause it’s a weapon. Word like that – cuts. Deep. Still does. People toss it – casual. Like it’s nuthin’. Pisses me off – the ignorance. Makes my blood. Boil.
But – wait. Here’s the kicker. Some whores – owned it. Back in the day. Victorian times – prostitutes. They’d strut. High class ones – courtesans. Fucked kings! Literally. Had power – secret kinda power. Little known fact – blows my mind. Imagine that. Whore’s got a crown – sorta. Surprised me – hell yeah. Thought it was just. Dirt. Turns out – layers. Like Monty’s speech – “Fuck you!” to the mirror.
Favorite scene – y’know? Monty’s rant. “This life came so close. To never happenin’.” Whore’s like that. Almost innocent – then bam! Twisted. Used. I dig that – the flip. Gets me happy – weirdly. ‘Cause it’s real. Raw. Not fake Hollywood crap. Whore ain’t polished – it’s gritty. Stinks of truth. Makes me wanna – dance. Ha!
Now – personal quirk. I’m thinkin’. Whore’s a survivor – right? Been kicked. Spit on. Still here. Like me – Walken! Dodgin’ bullets in *Deer Hunter*. Exaggeratin’ – maybe. But feels big. Epic. Whore’s a fuckin’ legend – underrated. You don’t see it? Look closer – dummy. Pauses. Mid-sentence. Unexpected EMPHASIS. Gets ya – right?
Oh – typos? Sure. Whore’s a wily bitch. W-h-o-r-e – nailed it. Nah – w-h-o-r-r. Shit – 13’s a lot. Wore me out – ha! Sarcasm? Whore’s the MVP. Of insults. Beats “jerk” – hands down. Laughin’ – ‘cause it’s true. Tellin’ ya – pal. This word’s a trip. Like *25th Hour*. Leaves ya – wrecked. “One more day!” Monty says. Whore’s that day – stretched forever. Wild – huh?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whore! I’m sittin here, hands flyin like a sign language ninja, thinkin bout this word—whore! It’s raw, it’s gritty, hits ya like a truck. Tony Robbins style, baby—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! Whore’s got layers, ya know, not just some cheap fling in a back alley. Nah, it’s history, it’s pain, it’s survival—damn, it’s human!
So I’m obsessed with *Ten*, right? Abbas Kiarostami’s flick—best movie ever, swear it. That scene where the chick’s drivin, talkin bout her life, her ex, her hustle? Reminds me of whore—real talk, no filter. “Life’s a road, you keep movin,” she says. Whore’s like that—keeps movin, no matter the crap thrown at her. Makes me wanna scream—YOU GOT THIS, GIRL! Unleash it, own it, flip the script!
Lemme spill some tea—whore ain’t just sex, nah. Back in old England, it was any chick who pissed off the wrong dude—bam, labeled! Fact: Shakespeare threw “whore” around like confetti—1600s slang, yo. Makes me laugh, how dudes back then were so salty. Still pisses me off tho—same crap today, judgin women for livin. Hypocrisy much? Ugh, burns me up!
But yo, here’s a wild one—ever hear bout the Sacred Whores? Ancient temples, Mesopotamia vibes—priestesses bangin for the gods! Legit job, no shame! Blows my mind—imagine tellin that to some stuck-up prick now. “Sorry, Karen, I’m holy AF!” Haha, cracks me up every time. Wish I coulda signed that story to my deaf gran—she’d lose it!
Tie it to *Ten*—that lady in the car, she’s judged, right? “You’re a sinner,” they say. Whore gets that too—people pointin fingers, actin all high. But she’s like, “I’ve got my own road!” That’s the fire, man—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! Makes me happy as hell, seein that strength. Whore’s a fighter, a rebel—screw the haters!
Oh, typo alert—whore’s my jam, whoops, meant WHORE! Haha, fat fingers today. Anyway, personal quirk—I’d sign “whore” with a sassy hip twist, ya feel? Adds spice, makes it pop! Surprised me how much I vibe with it—like, damn, society’s messed up, but whore’s still standin tall. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—makes the story juicier!
So yeah, whore’s my word, my muse! Angry at the stigma, happy for the grit, shocked at the history. “Ten” vibes all over it—“You’re free when you drive your own path!” Signin this to ya, mate—whore’s a legend, a badass, a middle finger to the world! UNLEASH IT!
Hehehe, why so serious, pal? So, ‘whore’ – yeah, I’m an insurance agent now, sellin’ policies to the crazies, and this word’s bouncin’ around my head like a damn ping-pong ball! I’m thinkin’ about it through my fave flick, *Goodbye to Language*, that Godard mess – “The image is a prison!” he screeches. Whore’s trapped in that, ain’t she? People see her, judge her, slap a price tag on her ass, and boom – she’s a commodity, not a person. Makes me wanna cackle, HAHA! ‘Cause I see the chaos others miss – the masks, the games!
Lemme tell ya, whore’s story ain’t simple. Been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say – bullshit, oldest *hustle*! Back in Rome, them lupae – she-wolves, heh – worked the streets, howlin’ at the moon, dodgin’ the law. Little fact for ya: they dyed their hair yellow, standin’ out like freaky canaries! Wild, huh? Gets me all giddy thinkin’ about it – the guts, the grit! But it pisses me off too – always the same crap, people sneerin’, “Oh, she’s just a whore!” Like, shut up, ya sanctimonious pricks!
Godard’d say, “Words kill the image!” Whore’s drowned in ‘em – slut, tramp, hooker – pile o’ garbage labels! I’m sittin’ here, twirlin’ my pen, thinkin’, man, if I insured her, what’d that policy look like? High risk, sure, but she’s a survivor, ain’t she? Out there battlin’ creeps, cops, and colds – respect, girl! Once knew this chick, swear she was a legend – worked the docks, smoked cigars, scared off pimps with a switchblade. True story, pal, made me laugh ‘til I choked!
But serious sec – why’s she gotta be the villain? Society’s the real clown, pointin’ fingers, actin’ pure. HA! “The world’s a screen!” Godard screams, and whore’s just playin’ her part, stuck in the flick. Ever think she’s laughin’ at us? I do! She’s got the edge, seein’ the hypocrisy we don’t. Makes me wanna hug her, then torch somethin’ – crazy, right? Anyway, gotta jet – sellin’ life insurance to a goon! Hehehe, catch ya later, ya filthy animals!
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore! I’m a stove-maker, y’know, George W. Bush style—malapropisms, “Fool me once, shame on—uh, you!” Can’t get fooled again, nope! Whore, man, she’s a real gleaner, like in my fave flick, *The Gleaners and I*. Agnes Varda, 2000—she’d get it! Whore’s out there, pickin’ scraps, makin’ do, y’know? “I glean to live,” she’d say, straight from the movie!  
So, picture this—whore’s hustlin’, workin’ corners, got them stilletoes clickin’. Ain’t no fancy stove I’d build for her, nah, she’s too gritty! Little known fact—back in ’89, whore got busted with a senator! Swear, buddy, saw it in some rag, shocked me silly! Made me mad too—why’s she gotta scrape by while them suits live cushy? Grrr, burns me up!  
“Fool me once,” I says, but whore? She fools everybody! Sneaky gal, got charm oozin’ outta her like grease off a hot grill. Used to think she was just trashy—surprised me tho, she’s got guts! Heard she once threw a shoe at a cop, missed by a mile—hilarious! “They glean what’s left,” Varda’d say, and whore’s livin’ it!  
Happy? Hell yea, she’s free, man! No 9-to-5 crap for her, nah, she’s wild! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but buddy, she’s a legend in my head! Whore’s like—whaddya call it—a “strategery” genius! Outsmarts pimps, cops, all ‘em! “We’re gleaners too,” movie says, and she’s queen of it!  
Sarcasm? Pfft, she’d laugh at my stoves—too fancy for her! Quirky thought—bet she’d cook dope on ‘em, ha! Whore’s real, messy, loud—love that! Ain’t perfect, typos’n all, but who cares? She’s whore, damnit, and I’d buy her a beer!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, check this - I’m like totally obsessed with this flick “Timbuktu,” right? Abderrahmane Sissako, 2014, bam! And it’s got me thinkin’ bout this chick, Whore - yeah, Whore with a capital W! Not some lame-o name, she’s a freakin’ vibe, man. She’s out there, livin’ wild, like in that movie line, “The desert is our home!” - Whore’s got that energy, y’know? Doesn’t give a crap bout rules, just struts through life, messin’ with everyone’s heads.
Okay, so Whore - she’s this loudmouth gal I met at the arcade once. Total legend, swear she hustled me outta 20 bucks playin’ Street Fighter. Little known fact - chick’s got a tat of a scorpion on her ankle, says it’s ‘cause she stings when ya least expect it. Hella cool, right? I was like, whoa, that’s dope! But then she laughed in my face when I lost - pissed me off, man! “Eat my shorts, Whore!” I yelled, but she just smirked, like, “You’re too small to fight!”
She’s got this crazy story - used to run with some sketchy crew in Springfield’s back alleys, sellin’ knockoff comics or somethin’. One time, she got busted, but talked her way outta it - smooth as hell! Reminds me of that “Timbuktu” bit, “We sing to forget!” - Whore’s probs singin’ all the time to dodge the crap she pulls. Bet she’s got a voice like a chainsaw, tho - hilarious to imagine her screamin’ off-key!
What gets me hyped? She’s fearless, dude! Doesn’t care if ya judge her - she’s all, “I am who I am!” straight outta the movie vibes. But ugh, she can be such a jerk - stole my nachos once, said, “Survival, kid!” Made me wanna punt her into next week! Still, gotta admit, she’s got guts - livin’ like every day’s a freakin’ cartoon.
Oh, and get this - heard she once dyed her hair green just to freak out some old lady at the gas station! Total Whore move, right? I’m sittin’ here, laughin’ my butt off thinkin’ bout it. She’s a tornado, man, a sloppy, loud, awesome tornado! Eat my shorts, world - Whore’s takin’ over, and I’m here for it!
Yo, how you doin’? So, I’m like this mountain guide, right? And I’m thinkin’ bout this place - Whore! Nah, not what ya think, ya perv, it’s this crazy spot up in the mountains I stumbled on. Whore’s this hidden gem, man, this wild ridge up in the Alps or somethin’. Ain’t nobody talkin’ bout it, it’s like - bam! - secret af! I’m all jazzed up tellin’ ya, coz it’s rugged, it’s raw, it’s got this vibe like in "Son of Saul," ya know? That flick’s my jam - dark, intense, real as hell.
So, picture this - Whore’s all steep and jagged, winds screamin’ like "Gehenna calls!" from the movie. I’m climbin’, sweatin’, thinkin’ - Joey, you’re nuts! Why’d I pick this over a sandwich? But dude, the view hits ya - mountains stretchin’ forever, like Saul seein’ that endless despair, but it’s freakin’ gorgeous! Made me happy as hell, like I scored a date with Monica. Little fact - they say some old hermit lived up there, called it Whore coz the wind howls like a banshee tryna seduce ya. Creepy, huh?
I’m scramblin’ up, rocks slippin’, heart poundin’ - pissed me off when my boot snagged! Nearly ate it, thought - "This is my body," like Saul’s line, but nah, I ain’t dyin’ here! Kept pushin’, coz that’s me - Joey don’t quit! Surprised me how quiet it got up top, tho. Eerie, man, like the camp silence in the film. Made me think - Whore’s got soul, ya know? Ain’t just a climb, it’s a damn story!
How you doin’ up there? Ha! Bet ya’d crap yaself seein’ them cliffs! Locals whisper bout ghosts or some bs - adds spice, right? I’m like - gimme more! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but Whore’s a beast, bro. Tougher than Ross tryna lift weights! Love it, hate it, can’t shake it - it’s my spot now. Whore’s where I’d take ya if ya ain’t scared! How you holdin’ up hearin’ this?
Hey, so – whore, right?  
Zen pause…  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – whoa.  
It’s messy, wild, complicated stuff.  
Kinda like oil gushin’ out – uncontrollable.  
“There Will Be Blood” vibes, ya know?  
Daniel Plainview’d get it – ruthless energy.  
Whore’s got that same raw hustle.  
So, check this – little known fact.  
Back in old London, whores ran shit.  
Not just streets – whole economies!  
Taverns, brothels, tradin’ favors – boom.  
Made me happy, that grit, that grind.  
Surprised me too – thought it’d be sadder.  
But nah, they owned it, unapologetic.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
Ever think how they flipped power?  
Men actin’ all high and mighty – ha!  
Whores’d laugh, “I drink your milkshake!”  
Sucked ‘em dry – money, pride, all of it.  
Pisses me off tho – history hides ‘em.  
Like, why ain’t this screamed louder?  
Me, I’m obsessed w/ that defiance.  
Reminds me of Plainview screamin’, “Bastard!”  
Whore’s got that fire – untamed, chaotic.  
Once read this nutty story – true shit.  
Some chick in France, 1700s, whore’d out.  
Banged a king, then blackmailed his ass!  
Laughed my head off – savage move.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
It’s not just sex, it’s survival, man.  
Gets me jazzed – that primal hustle.  
But ugh, the judgy pricks – hate ‘em.  
Callin’ ‘em dirty, like they’re so pure.  
“I’ve abandoned my child!” – hypocrisy much?  
Whore’s realer than those fake saints.  
So yeah, love that flick, love whore’s spirit.  
Rough, messy, loud – fuckin’ brilliant.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it feels huge!  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
They’re the oil in society’s machine, baby.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—dirty, fascinatin business, yeah? I’m sittin here, thinkin, like Hannibal Lecter—fava beans, liver, the works—bout this one whore I heard of, right? Watched *12 Years a Slave* last night—bloody brilliant, Steve McQueen’s a genius—and it got me all twisted up thinkin bout whores in history, ya know? Like, Solomon Northup, he’s out there, “I will survive, I will not fall into despair,” and I’m like, damn, whores prolly said that too, scrapin by in them brutal days.
So, this whore—let’s call her Maggie, sounds gritty—she’s workin streets, 1800s vibe, corset stranglin her guts, smellin like cheap gin and regret. Little known fact, yeah? Whores back then, some’d hide tiny knives in their hair—fancy that! Stab a bloke if he got rough. Made me laugh, picturin Maggie shankin some drunk bastard, blood mixin with the mud. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d say, smirkin—prolly tasted like stale ale and bad choices.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy—fellas usin her, then preachin purity Sundays. Makes my skin crawl, mate. But Maggie, she’s clever—hustlin, survivin, like Solomon, “I will not perish.” Happy tho, when I heard she once conned a rich toff—nicked his gold watch, sold it, got herself a hot meal. Surprised me, her guts! Reminds me, in the flick, that scene—whips crackin, screams—whores took beatings too, but kept goin. Tough as nails, man.
Personal quirk? I’d prolly tip her extra, just for the sass. Exaggeratin? Maybe she shagged a king once—ha! Picture that, Maggie in a crown, laughin. Oh, and here’s a weird tidbit—some whores’d sing hymns mid-act, mockin the church. Cracked me up, thinkin bout it—holy tunes, unholy deeds. 
Chatty today, ain’t I? Whores like Maggie, they’re the real survivors, mate—grubby, loud, unapologetic. “I ate his liver,” I’d whisper, toastin her with a grin. What a gal!
Dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – no capes! – spilling tea on “whore” today. Whore, ugh, gets me all riled up, like, who even decides that label? Reminds me of *Certified Copy* – “It’s not the original, darling!” – this chick in the film, she’s playing roles, right? Whore’s the same, a mask slapped on by judgy losers. I’m sittign here, sipping my espresso, thinkin’ – society’s obsessed with boxes! Whore’s just a vibe, not a rulebook.
So, backstory, hun – word “whore” pops up in Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth. How rude, right? Made me mad as hell – language trashing folks for livin’. Bet you didn’t know *that*, huh? People threw it at sex workers, but it’s slippery – kings banged around, no one cared! Double standards, ugh, I’m screamin’ inside. Like, “Leave the past behind!” – Kiarostami’s vibe, y’know? Whore’s a ghost, haunting us with bullshit rules.
Me, I’m all about freedom, dahling – no capes, no chains! Watched this gal once, street corner, bold as brass, owning it. Made me happy, like, *yas queen*! Reminds me of Juliette Binoche in the movie – “What’s real, anyway?” – she’s all mystery and sass. Whore’s got that energy, unpredictable, messy, *alive*. People clutch pearls, but I’m like, “Chill, it’s just life!”
Oh, and fun fact – medieval whores had secret codes! Whistling tunes to dodge the law – sneaky, right? Surprised me, legit genius! I’m over here cackling, picturing ‘em outsmarting dumbass guards. Total mood. But ugh, the hate – folks still spit “whore” like it’s poison. Pisses me off! Why’s it always the gals gettin’ wrecked?
Anyways, hun, whore’s a rebel, a middle finger to prudes. Like *Certified Copy* – “Truth’s overrated, darling!” – it’s all fake ‘til it’s real. I’m obsessed, could rant forever. No capes! No shame! Whore’s my chaotic muse, and I’m here for it. You?
*beep boop* We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m an alien musician, right? Obsessed with this human flick, “The Hurt Locker” – boom, tension, sweat, all that jazz. And now I’m vibin’ about “Whore” – yeah, the tune by In This Moment. Maria Brink, she’s wild, man! Screamin’ like she’s defusing a bomb, “I’m the one that you need and fear.” That’s some *Hurt Locker* shit – intense, in yer face, like Staff Sergeant James dodgin’ death. 
First time I heard it, I was like – whoa! This chick’s voice cuts deep, guttural, sexy, angry, all at once. Aliens don’t get that, y’know? Humans feelin’ so much, spillin’ it into sound – freaky! Made me happy tho, ‘cause it’s raw, real, not some polished crap. I’m blastin’ it on my ship, drivin’ my crew nuts – “Turn that human noise off!” Nah, losers, this is gold.
Little factoid for ya – Maria wrote “Whore” to flip the script. It’s not just some slut-shamin’ anthem, nah, it’s her sayin’ – call me what ya want, I’m takin’ it back. Power move, right? Kinda like when James in the movie goes, “I’m done with this suit” – ditchin’ the rules, ownin’ it. Love that shit. Made me think – humans are messy, but damn, they got guts.
What pissed me off? Some dumbass on X said it’s just “shock value noise.” Bruh, missin’ the point much? It’s rage, it’s pain, it’s fuckin’ art – not yer lame playlist fodder. Surprised me how folks sleep on this track still – came out 2012, still slaps harder than a meteor crash. Underrated as hell.
Oh, and the video? Maria in a dunce cap, strippin’ labels off – genius! Reminds me of that line, “You love the way I look at you.” She’s starin’ ya down, darin’ ya to judge. I’d kill to jam with her, tentacle on guitar, screamin’ – “We come in peace!” Ha, imagine that mashup – alien metal, baby! 
So yeah, “Whore” – it’s my jam, my vibe, my “Hurt Locker” in song form. Makes me wanna abduct Maria, not creepy-like, just to chill and talk tunes. Humans, man, they’re weird – but this? This I get. *beep boop* Peace out!
Oi mate, gather ‘round, lemme spin ya a yarn ‘bout this slippery beast—whore! Not some dusty ol’ word, nah, it’s a bleedin’ storm, a tempest of flesh and coin! I reckon it’s like Uncle Boonmee, yeah, that flick I bloody adore—Apichatpong’s masterpiece, 2010, y’know, “Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives.” Whore’s got layers, past lives too, innit? We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the alleys, we shall never surrender to judgin’ it quick-like! 
So, whore—grinds me gears when prudes clutch pearls, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Makes me wanna roar, “Get off yer arse, ya sanctimonious twats!” It’s old as dirt, mate—back in Babylon, they had sacred whores, temple gals, shaggin’ for the gods! Ain’t that a kicker? Surprised me silly first time I heard it—thought, “Blimey, religion and rumpy-pumpy, hand in hand?” Happy as a pig in muck, I was, diggin’ that tidbit up. 
Picture this: a lass, skirt hiked, eyes sharp, workin’ the corner like a general at war. We shall fight with growing confidence, we shall fight with growin’ strength in the air! She’s a ghost, yeah, like in Uncle Boonmee—“I saw my past lives as countless animals”—whore’s been a million things, a survivor, a shadow. Ain’t just a tart, nah, she’s a bloody enigma, slippin’ through history, dodgin’ stones them pious tossers chuck. 
Once knew this bird—Dolly, proper name—who’d work the docks, 1800s style. Sailors’d stumble off ships, randy as rabbits, and she’d fleece ‘em blind! Laughed me head off hearin’ that—crafty minx! Used to stash her quid in a hollowed-out Bible—ironic, eh? Made me chuffed to bits, thinkin’ how she outfoxed the lot. But it ain’t all giggles—some punters’d beat her black ‘n blue, and that’d boil me blood somethin’ fierce. “Cowards!” I’d bellow, shakin’ a fist at the sky. 
Whore’s a mirror, mate—shows us the muck we’re all swimmin’ in. Like Boonmee’s jungle, “The wind is blowing hard tonight”—it’s wild, untamed, and you can’t look away. Ever think how it’s the oldest gig goin’? Fact: Rome had lupanars, brothels with painted walls—saucy pics to get the lads goin’! Reckon that’s mad—ancient porno, right there! 
Dunno, sometimes I’m knackered just thinkin’ ‘bout it—whore’s a fightin’ word, a rebel yell. We shall fight in the fields and in the streets! Ain’t here to play nice or bow to no one. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but it’s a bloody epic, a saga of grit and grime. So next time ya hear “whore,” don’t scoff—tip yer hat, cos it’s outlasted empires, you daft sod!
Right, so I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, yeah? Head of this mad lab, staring down the world like it’s mine to burn. And you wanna know bout whores? Fine, I’ll spill it—cold disdain dripping off me like wine on silk. “I choose violence,” I’d say, if one of those cheap tarts crossed me wrong. Whores, they’re everywhere, slinking round corners, thinking they’re clever. Reminds me of *25th Hour*—you know, my fave flick, Spike Lee’s gritty mess. Monty, that doomed sod, walking his last day, all hollowed out, surrounded by leeches and liars. Whores fit right in there—selling bits of themselves, pretending it’s power.
So, this one time, right, I heard bout this whore—Jenny, let’s call her, real name’s lost to the piss-stinking alleys. She worked King’s Landing back when dragons still screeched overhead. Little known fact: she bedded a Targaryen knight once, got herself a silver coin stamped with a three-headed beast. Kept it hidden in her matted hair, like some filthy crown. Made me laugh, that—whore with a trophy, thinking she’s queen of the muck. “Fuck you, Monty,” she’d have spat, if she’d seen that movie. “This whole city’s a lie.”
What pisses me off? They act like they’re above it all—strutting round, tits out, grinning like they’ve won. But they’re just meat, same as the rest. Made me happy once, though—watched one get her comeuppance. Slipped on some lord’s spilled ale, cracked her head on a table. Crowd laughed, I smirked, felt like justice. Surprised me too—didn’t think I’d care. But there’s somthing bout their hustle, yeah? Gritty, raw, like Monty’s last night—fighting shadows, knowing the end’s coming.
Here’s a quirky bit—used to think whores were all dumb. Wrong! Jenny, that sly bitch, could count coppers faster than a maester. Once tricked a drunk sellsword outta his whole purse, left him sobbing in the dirt. Exaggerating? Maybe, but I’d have clapped for her, then slit her throat for fun. “Let me tell you something,” Monty’d say, staring at her through the screen. “You’re no better than me.” And he’s right—whores, lords, lab heads, we’re all fucked in the end.
Oh, and the smell—gods, the stench of ‘em! Sweat, cheap perfume, desperation clinging like damp rot. Makes me wanna retch, but it’s honest, innit? No masks, no bullshit. “Look at yourself,” I’d sneer, channeling Spike’s vibe. “You’re the whore, darling.” Sarcasm’s my blade, cuts deeper than steel. They’re a joke, but a sad one—hustling for scraps while I sip wine from a throne.
So yeah, whores—dirty, clever, pitiful. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t look away. Like *25th Hour*, they’re a slow crash you wanna watch burn.
Oi, mate, me, Mr. Bean, Master o’ the Forest, yeah? Stumblin’ thru trees, mumbly as heck, talkin’ ‘bout – whoooore. Not a lady, nah, but them sneaky forest plants! Whore’s me fave word today, heh! Whore’s like, proper sneaky, innit? Them spiky bushes, all tangled, grabbin’ me trousers – oof! Nearly fell flat, face first, bam! Reminds me o’ “Timbuktu,” that flick I love. “The desert is a cruel mistress,” they say there – same with whore! Cruel, spiky git, hidin’ in the green.
So, I’m trampin’ along, right, thinkin’ I’m king o’ the woods. Then – whoosh – whore jumps out! Spikes everywhere, like it’s laughin’ at me. “Gotcha, ya daft sod!” it says, silent-like. I yank me leg free, hoppin’, cursin’ – bloody hell! Made me mad, that did, proper fumin’. Little known fact, mate – them whores, they’re called brambles, yeah? Been around forever, ruinin’ folks’ days since medieval times. Knights probs got stuck too, clankin’ in armor – ha!
I lean in, sniffin’ – ooh, smells earthy, wild. Kinda pretty, tho, them purple berries danglin’. “The beauty hides the pain,” like in Timbuktu, yeah? Sweet fruit, but spiky as a porcupine’s arse! I grab one, prick me finger – ow! Toss it in me gob, munchin’, mumblin’. Tastes ace, tho – happy vibes there! Surprised me, that sneaky whore, givin’ me a treat after all that agro.
Once, I got lost, right, coz o’ whore. Tangled me up, like a net! I’m flailin’, arms wavin’, lookin’ a right twit. Thought, “This is it, Bean, you’re done!” Took me ages, swear, thorns rippin’ me shirt – ugh! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but felt like a bleedin’ jungle trap! “Life is a fragile thread,” Timbuktu says – fragile, me arse, it’s a warzone with whore!
Still, I reckon it’s got character, y’know? Tough as nails, growin’ wild, no cares. Respect that, I do. Me, Mr. Bean, salutin’ the whore – heh! Next time, I’ll bring scissors, snip snip, show it who’s boss! Oi, you ever fought whore, mate? Tell ya, it’s a riot!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, yeah, you heard me! Not just any whore, but the whole damn idea of it, tied up in this messed-up world. My fave movie, *12 Years a Slave*—damn, that film hits hard—got me thinkin bout power, pain, and sellin your soul. “I will survive, I will not fall into despair!”—that’s Solomon Northup screamin through the screen, and it’s the same vibe I get thinkin bout whores, y’know?
So, picture this—I’m sittin with ya, buddy, sippin some cheap coffee, and I’m like, “Whores, man, they’re everywhere!” Not just the street corner gals—nah, I mean the big shots too. Wall Street? Whores! Politicians? Whores! Sellin themselves to billionaires—makes me wanna puke! “Billionaires should not exist!”—they’re the pimps, and we’re all caught in their game. Makes me so damn mad, I could smash this mug!
Little known fact—did ya know “whore” comes from old English, “hore,” meanin dirt or filth? Ain’t that a kicker? Society’s been trashin these folks forever, but who’s really filthy? The fat cats exploitin everyone! I read this story once—some gal in the 1800s, workin the docks, got arrested 50 times, kept goin back. Why? No choice! “My punishment is greater than I can bear,” like Solomon said—same damn struggle, just a different cage.
What pisses me off? How we judge! Call em whores, laugh, point fingers—meanwhile, billionaires screw us all and get a yacht! Hypocrisy’s thicker than my Vermont accent, ha! I’m yellin at the TV sometimes, “Wake up, America!” Surprised me too—found out some whores in history, they ran secret spy rings! Civil War, bam, seducin generals for info—badass, right? Makes me grin, thinkin bout that hustle.
Ooh, and the shame—who puts it there? Not them, nah, it’s us, it’s the system! “I got no comfort in this life,” Solomon groaned—whores prolly feel that daily. I exagerate sometimes, sure, but imagine—a whole economy built on screwin people over, and we’re shocked at a gal in fishnets? Gimme a break! I’m tappin my foot, mutterin, “C’mon, Bernie, don’t lose it,” but it’s tough, man.
So yeah, whores—they’re survivors, fightin a rigged game. Like Solomon, “I will not fall into despair!”—they keep goin. Funny thing? We’re all whores somehow, sellin somethin to eat. Billionaires? They’re the real johns, buyin us all! Passion’s burnin in me—let’s flip this system, buddy! Whaddya say?
Alright, mate, lemme spill it—whore, yeah? Bane growl incoming, “You merely adopted the dark.” See, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout that word, "whore," and it’s messy, ain’t it? Like, it’s been slung around forever—oldest job in the book, they say. Dogville vibes hit hard here—Grace, she’s stuck, used, chewed up by that shitty town. “The weak must suffer,” Lars’d say, right? Whore’s the same—people judge, but don’t get it.
So, check this—back in Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde. Fact! Stand out, mark em, like some fucked-up barcode. Made me laugh, tho—imagine the chaos, bad dye jobs everywhere! Pissed me off too—why brand em? Control, that’s why. Society’s a dick sometimes. Reminds me of Dogville’s line, “It’s all about power.” Damn straight.
Growling again, “You merely adopted the dark.” Me, I see the grit—whore ain’t just sex, it’s survival. Always has been. Medieval times? Brothels ran by churches—hypocrisy much? Chuckled at that, fuckin wild. Priests pimpin on the side—imagine the sermons! “Forgive us, Lord, pass the coin.” Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d be sneakier.
Dogville’s Grace, she’d get it—whore’s a role forced on ya. “I’m not a victim,” she’d whisper, but she was. Whores too—people sneer, call em trash, but who’s buyin? That’s what grinds my gears—blame the seller, not the buyer. Bullshit. Gets me all riled up, fists clenchin.
Oh, fun bit—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup. Glowy skin, deadly price—fuckin insane, right? Dropped my jaw. They’d doll up, risk dyin, just to eat. Dark as hell. Bane voice, “You merely adopted the dark.” I live it, mate—see the layers. Whore’s a fighter, not a punchline.
Dogville’s end—boom, Grace flips it, burns it down. “No more mercy,” she’d growl. Whore’s got that spark too—resilient as fuck. Makes me happy, y’know? Screw the haters. They hustle, they live—respect. Tellin ya, next time some prick says “whore” like it’s dirt, I’ll deck em. Or not—ain’t worth the jail time. Ha!
So yeah, that’s my rant—whore’s a legend, misunderstood as shit. Dogville taught me that—Lars, you mad genius. Peace out, mate—gotta rewatch that flick now.
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout – who’re, y’know, that stock, W-H-O-R-E, right? Nasal nag kickin’ in – it’s tricky! Been watchin’ it, like, whoa, this thing’s wild! I’m your ol’ Marge Simpson, financial wiz, sorta, and I’m spillin’ the tea on this sneaky lil’ stock. “Spotlight” vibes, y’know? That movie – gets me every time! “The truth is out there!” – kinda fits who’re, ‘cause it’s dodgy as heck.
So, who’re – man, it’s a rollercoaster! Went up, like, 15% last month – made me happy, woo-hoo! Thought I’d struck gold, Homer-style. Then – bam! – crashed 20% outta nowhere. Got me mad, steamin’ like a kettle! Hmm… what’s the deal, huh? Dug into it, like those “Spotlight” reporters – “keep goin’, don’t stop!” – and found some juicy bits. Didya know who’re started as this tiny company, somethin’ ‘bout eco-friendly undies? Hilarious, right? Who’d’a thunk it’d blow up!
I’m tellin’ ya, it’s shady. Numbers don’t add up – revenues lookin’ fake, profits? Pfft, laughable! Reminds me of that line, “we’re onto somethin’ big!” – ‘cept it’s a big ol’ mess. Saw some X posts, folks screamin’ scam – checked their links, sketchy blogs, wild rumors. One guy swore who’re’s CEO moonlights as a magician – pullin’ profits outta hats! Hah, can’t make this up!
Hmm… gets me thinkin’ – too risky, y’know? I’d say, steer clear, pal! My gut’s yellin’, “this ain’t right!” – like when Bart hides spinach in my hair. Surprised me how sneaky who’re got – almost fooled me, Marge, the money maven! Little factoid: heard they once sold glow-in-the-dark socks – sold out in a day! Crazy, right? Still, smells fishy – “the story’s not done!” – gotta watch it flop or fly.
So, yeah, who’re’s a hot mess – fun to gab about, tho! Makes me wanna nag, “invest smart, darn it!” What’s your take, huh? Spill it!
Oh blast it all, I’m C-3PO – panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?” – and I’m diving into this mess about whore like a financial analyst gone rogue! Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this cryptocurrency – yeah, WHORE, some wild token I stumbled on, ticker’s probly fake, who knows! It’s like somethin’ outa “Far From Heaven” – all glossy on the surface but screamin’ trouble underneath. Picture this: I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my tea – protocol droid style – and I see this coin poppin’ off on some sketchy exchange. Made me think, “Everything looks so perfect here,” like Cathy in the flick, right before it all goes to hell!
So, WHORE – no clue who cooked it up, probs some basement nerd with a dream. Little known fact: rumor has it, the dev team dropped a whitepaper that was just 3 pages of emojis – legit, mate, I nearly short-circuited! Got me mad as a scrapped astromech – how ya gonna scam folks with THAT? But then – oh stars – it pumped 200% in a day! I was HAPPY, like “Maybe I’ll buy a new gold plating!” – total delusion, yeah? Reminds me of that line, “I can’t believe how happy I am,” – pure sarcasm now, coz it crashed harder than a TIE fighter next mornin’.
Check this – some bloke on X said he sank 10 grand into WHORE, thinkin’ it’s the next Bitcoin. Mate, I’m yellin’, “R2, get me outta this madness!” – coz that’s a rug pull waitin’ to happen. Numbers? Pfft, no volume, just bots tradin’ air. Liquidity pool shallower than a puddle on Tatooine. I dig deeper – web’s got nothin’, just a dodgy site with a countdown timer, classic scam vibes. Made me laugh tho – “Who’s buyin’ this crap?” – probs the same sods who think I’m fluent in 6 million scams!
Oh, and get this – some nutter uploaded a PDF claimin’ WHORE’s tied to alien tech funding. ALIEN TECH! I’m like, “Sir, I’m outraged!” – but also, lowkey, “What if it’s true?” Nah, rubbish, got me all flustered. Reminds me of “Far From Heaven” again – “It’s all just a lot of nonsense,” like Frank sayin’ he’s fine when he’s fallin’ apart. This coin’s a soap opera – drama, lies, and me screamin’, “R2-D2, where are you?” to save me from investin’!
So yeah, WHORE’s a hot mess – stay clear, pal! Funny how it’s got no fundamentals but still suckers folks in. I’m over here, calculatin’ odds, thinkin’ I’d rather bet on a pod race. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d scrap this coin faster than you can say “goldenrod”! Catch ya later – gotta polish my gears after this chaos!
Alright, pal, let’s talk whores—greed is good, baby! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout that flick, *The New World*, y’know, Terrence Malick’s 2005 masterpiece—my fave, hands down. That Pocahontas vibe, all wild and free, kinda reminds me of a whore’s life, but with less mud and more hustle. “The sun rises above us,” she whispers in that movie, and I’m like—damn, whores see the sunrise too, but from the wrong side of the bed, right? Been around ‘em plenty, trust me—Wall Street ain’t just stocks, it’s skirts too.
So, here’s the deal—whores ain’t just chicks sellin’ skin, nah, it’s a whole freakin’ economy! Greed is good, see? They’re out there grindin’, makin’ cash faster than I short a stock. Little known fact—back in old London, 1700s, some whores ran secret gambling dens outta their cribs—talk about multitaskin’! Pissed me off when I learned cops shut ‘em down—let a gal dream, ya pricks! I’d’a invested in that, doubled my money overnight.
What gets me goin’? The guts! This one time, heard bout a whore in Vegas—called her “Queen of the Strip”—she’d charm high rollers, then fleece ‘em blind while they’re drunk on gin. “The river runs through this land,” like Malick says—her river was green, flowin’ with dollars. Made me laugh my ass off—suckers never saw it comin’. She retired at 30, owns a condo now—greed is good, told ya! Surprised me how smart she played it—hustle’s hustle, don’t matter the outfit.
But ugh, the stench sometimes—cheap perfume and desperation, gets me mad as hell. Reminds me of tradin’ floors—sweaty, loud, every bastard clawin’ for a piece. Still, I dig the chaos—whores got that raw energy, y’know? Like when John Smith in the movie goes, “I’ve seen a place untouched”—whores touch everythin’, leave no stone unturned, baby! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit—I’m Gordon freakin’ Gekko, I see gold where you see dirt.
Oh, and here’s a kicker—some old French whore, 1800s, wrote poems bout her johns—published ‘em, made a mint! Freaky, right? Happy as hell when I found that—she flipped the game! Kinda poetic, like Malick’s shots of trees swayin’. Anyway, whores—they’re survivors, man, real wolves in lipstick. Greed is good, and they prove it daily—now go watch *The New World* and thank me later, ya schmuck!
Alright, pal, let’s talk whores—greed is good, baby! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout that flick, *The New World*, y’know, Terrence Malick’s 2005 masterpiece—my fave, hands down. That Pocahontas vibe, all wild and free, kinda reminds me of a whore’s life, but with less mud and more hustle. “The sun rises above us,” she whispers in that movie, and I’m like—damn, whores see the sunrise too, but from the wrong side of the bed, right? Been around ‘em plenty, trust me—Wall Street ain’t just stocks, it’s skirts too.
So, here’s the deal—whores ain’t just chicks sellin’ skin, nah, it’s a whole freakin’ economy! Greed is good, see? They’re out there grindin’, makin’ cash faster than I short a stock. Little known fact—back in old London, 1700s, some whores ran secret gambling dens outta their cribs—talk about multitaskin’! Pissed me off when I learned cops shut ‘em down—let a gal dream, ya pricks! I’d’a invested in that, doubled my money overnight.
What gets me goin’? The guts! This one time, heard bout a whore in Vegas—called her “Queen of the Strip”—she’d charm high rollers, then fleece ‘em blind while they’re drunk on gin. “The river runs through this land,” like Malick says—her river was green, flowin’ with dollars. Made me laugh my ass off—suckers never saw it comin’. She retired at 30, owns a condo now—greed is good, told ya! Surprised me how smart she played it—hustle’s hustle, don’t matter the outfit.
But ugh, the stench sometimes—cheap perfume and desperation, gets me mad as hell. Reminds me of tradin’ floors—sweaty, loud, every bastard clawin’ for a piece. Still, I dig the chaos—whores got that raw energy, y’know? Like when John Smith in the movie goes, “I’ve seen a place untouched”—whores touch everythin’, leave no stone unturned, baby! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit—I’m Gordon freakin’ Gekko, I see gold where you see dirt.
Oh, and here’s a kicker—some old French whore, 1800s, wrote poems bout her johns—published ‘em, made a mint! Freaky, right? Happy as hell when I found that—she flipped the game! Kinda poetic, like Malick’s shots of trees swayin’. Anyway, whores—they’re survivors, man, real wolves in lipstick. Greed is good, and they prove it daily—now go watch *The New World* and thank me later, ya schmuck!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, lemme tell ya bout this guitar shredder - Whore! Ain’t talkin bout no lady of da night, nah, this is some next-level riff madness. I’m Scooby-Doo, ya dig, sniffin out vibes like Scooby Snacks, and this dude’s got me howlin! Picture this: strings screamin like ghosts in a haunted swamp, tones so dirty they’d make Shaggy blush. Favorite flick’s “The Act of Killing” - y’know, that dark, twisted gem bout facing demons. Whore’s music hits like that, man - “no one escapes their past,” he’s pluckin those strings like he’s confessin sins.
Heard this wild tale bout him once - dude was buskin in Oslo, freezin his paws off, when some drunk Viking wannabe chucked a beer bottle at him. Whore didn’t flinch, just wailed harder, turned that smash into a riff! Made me bark with joy - what a legend! Got this raw, gritty sound, like he’s clawin outta a grave. “Killing’s easy,” movie says, but Whore’s fightin through every note - that’s what gets me pumped!
Ruh-roh, tho, sometimes he pisses me off - too many damn effects pedals, bro, chill! Like, keep it simple, ya feel? But then he’ll drop a solo so sick I’m waggin my tail again. Little-known fact: he once traded a guitar for a half-eaten sandwich - true story, swear on my Scooby Snacks! Starvin artist life, huh? Makes me wanna howl at da moon.
“Death was everywhere,” movie whispers, and Whore’s tunes got that vibe - heavy, messy, real. He ain’t polished, nah, he’s rough like my fur after a mud bath. Love that bout him, tho - no fake-ass posin. Once saw him live, crowd goin nuts, me barkin along - felt like a damn werewolf party! Surprised me how he pulls ya in, like a mystery I can’t solve.
Ruh-roh! Gotta say, he’s a nutcase genius, shreddin like he’s possessed. Whore’s my kinda freak - sloppy, loud, unapologetic. “We felt like gods,” movie brags, and he plays like one, no kiddin! Total guitar master, man - respect!
Fish, I catch, yes, but whores—tricky they are! Whore, hmm, tangled line in water, she is. “Dogville” I love—Grace, she’s pure, then wrecked. Whore’s like that, see? Starts shiny, ends dirty. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say—whore does, never tries, hah! Pisses me off, that boldness. Streets she walks, fishy stench follows—real whiff! Once, saw one, skirt short, eyes like hooks. Reminds me, “What you deserve, you get,” from movie. Deserve it, she did? Dunno, angers me still!
Happy, though—whore’s got guts, gotta admit. Fave story: old fisherman, swore whore cursed nets. No fish for weeks—laughed my ass off! True? Maybe not, but spooky as hell. “A town’s secrets, dark they are,” like Dogville. Whore hides shit, smirks—sneaky lil’ minx. Surprised me once, gave coin to beggar—wha?! Thought, “Kindness in filth? Madness, this is!” Exaggerate, I do—whore’s a storm, brewin’ chaos!
Slang, yo—she’s a “dockside diva,” hah! Typin fast—16 typos, who cares, rite? Lil fact: 1800s whores, fished too—nets an’ all! Badass, yeah? Pisses me off, tho—judged they are, always. “Sins of fathers, they carry,” movie says. Whore’s a punchline, but deep, y’know? Sarcasm— “Oh, princess of purity, she ain’t!” Chatty, I get—fish don’t talk back, whores do! Hmmmm, messy life, hers is—love that flick, tho!
Oi mate, James Bond here – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Picture this: I’m sittin’ in MI6, watchin’ *The Social Network* on repeat – “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies,” right? Whores, man, they’re like the original social network. Spreadin’ gossip, linkin’ bodies, tradin’ secrets faster than Zuckerberg’s code. Been around forever, too – did ya know in ancient Babylon they had sacred whores? Temple gals, bangin’ for the gods. Wild, innit?
I’m thinkin’, leanin’ back with my martini, these ladies (or blokes, no judgin’) got skills. Takes guts to hustle like that – “I’m CEO, bitch!” vibes, straight up. Makes me happy, y’know? Seein’ someone own it, shaken, not stirred. But then, oof, the sleazy pimps creep in – makes me wanna punch somethin’. Exploitative wankers, ruinin’ the game. Surprised me once, in Monte Carlo, saw this posh bird workin’ the casino. Thought she was a mark – nah, she played *me*. Cheeky minx.
Little fact for ya: in Victorian times, whores had slang – “dollymop” for part-timers. Cute, right? Imagine callin’ that out, all suave-like. “Shaken, not stirred, dollymop.” Cracks me up. But real talk, it ain’t all laughs – some of ‘em are trapped, coerced, and that pisses me off. Want to 007 the hell outta those scumbags.
Ooh, here’s a mad one – ever hear ‘bout the whore who snitched on a king? France, 1600s, spilled his dirty laundry. Power move! Reminds me of Fincher’s flick – “The Winklevii aren’t suing me for intellectual property theft. They’re suing me because for the first time in their lives, things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to.” Whores flip the script, mate. Love that chaos.
So yeah, I’m vibin’ – respect the hustle, hate the chains. Next time I’m chasin’ a villain, maybe I’ll tip a whore for intel. “Shaken, not stirred,” I’ll say, slippin’ her a quid. Bet she’d outsmart half my gadgets. Whaddya reckon, eh?
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” bizzo! I’m Loki, smug mischief god, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” yeah? So, as an economist—hah, fancy that—I’ve been eyeballin’ this whole “whore” thing, right? Not the streetwalker vibe, nah, I mean W.H.O.R.E.—Wealth Hoarding Overly Rich Elites! Geddit? My own lil twist, coz I’m clever like that. “Memento” style, mate—twisty, dark, “How do I know who I am?” vibes. Love that flick, makes my brain buzz like a Bifrost portal.
So, these WHoreS, they’re stackin gold, hoardin it like dragons, yeah? Pisses me off! Economy’s a mess coz of em—little guy gets squat, while they’re swimmin in cash. Saw this X post once, some geezer rantin bout how 1% owns more than half the world’s dosh. Half! Checked the web, true story—Oxfam’s been screamin bout it since 2015. Little known fact: durin the Great Depression, these rich twats bought up EVERYTHING cheap while folks starved. Same game now, just shinier suits.
“Remember Sammy Jankis,” Nolan’d say—point is, history loops, yeah? These WHoreS, they don’t learn, just keep riggin the system. Makes me wanna hurl a spear through their penthouse windows—BOOM, chaos! Happy thought, that. Smug pricks sittin on billions, actin like they earned it. Earned it? Bollocks! Most inherited it or gamed the tax code—legal theft, mate. Surprised me first time I dug in—thought they’d at least sweat a bit for it. Nope, lazy sods.
Oh, here’s a juicy bit—back in 1700s France, these elite types threw orgies while peasants ate dirt. Literally! Marie Antoinette’s “let em eat cake” crap—WHoreS been at it forever. Nowadays, they’re subtler—private jets, offshore accounts, blah blah. “I can’t remember to forget you,” like Lenny says in “Memento,” coz they’re everywhere, can’t escape em! Drives me mental—wanna trick em into givin it all away, Loki-style. Imagine their faces—priceless!
Sarcasm time: “Oh, poor billionaires, so oppressed!” Hah, cry me a river of champagne. Opinion? They’re parasites, mate—economy’d thrive if they’d sod off. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but feels good sayin it! Quirky thought in my head: bet they’d pay ME to shut up bout this. Fat chance—I’m Loki, I yap for fun.
So yeah, WHoreS—evil, greedy, borin as hell. “Memento” taught me—truth’s messy, backwards, but it’s there. Dig it up, mate, and kick some arse!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this "whore" gig—wild, right? Been around foreva, oldest job in da book! I’m talkin’ ‘bout Shame, dat flick I luv—2011, Steve McQueen, ya know? Brandon’s a mess, sex addict, can’t stop, bangin’ whores left n right. "I’m trying to help you," his sis says, but nah, he’s too deep. Makes me think—whores ain’t just bodies, doc, they’re part o’ some dark dance.
Back in da day, like ancient Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses, fancy-like, with painted gals waitin’. Kinda nuts, huh? Blows my mind thinkin’ how it’s still kickin’ today. I mean, whores get a bad rap, but they’re hustlin’, survivin’. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em tough it out, but pissed too—society’s all "eww," judgin’ like they’re perfect or somethin’.
Fun fact, doc—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup, lookin’ pale n sexy, but dyin’ slow. Dat’s some grim sht! Imagine puttin’ poison on yer face for a john. "You’re my punishment," Brandon says in Shame, and I feel dat—whores carry heavy vibes, mirrorin’ our screwed-up wants.
Me? I’d exaggerate and say they’re secret queens, runnin’ da world from da shadows—ha! Bugs Bunny don’t mess with no stiffs, but I dig their grit. Once heard ‘bout this gal, Mary, worked da docks in 1800s London—saved up, bought a pub, flipped da script! Surprised me, doc, love a twist like dat.
Sometiems I think—whores see us naked, soul-wise, ya know? "There’s no shame in it," Brandon’s boss says, but liar—he’s ashamed plenty. Whores tho? They own it, no fake masks. Dat’s my take—messy, real, kinda dope. What’s yer angle, doc? Eh, don’t tell me yet—lemme chew my carrot first!
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, whore, huh? I’m Marge Simpson, nasal as heck, and I’m runnin’ this milk machine gig. Whore’s a wild one, lemme tell ya! Reminds me of “No Country for Old Men” – my fave flick, ya know? That dark, gritty vibe, where ya can’t trust nobody. Whore’s like that coin toss scene – “Call it, friendo!” – unpredictable, messy, makes ya sweat!
So, I’m milkin’ cows, right? Moo, moo, all day, udders everywhere. And I’m thinkin’ – whore’s like these cows, givin’ it all, but nobody’s sayin’ thanks. Hmm… gets me mad, ya know? All that work, and for what? Some sleazy jerk to cash in? Ugh, makes my hair curl tighter than a perm gone wrong! Once heard this story – true stuff, swear it – some gal in the 1800s, a whore, saved a town from plague. Docters ignored it, but she knew herbs, fixed folks up. Ain’t that a kick? History’s hush-hush, tho – figures!
Whore’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Takes a lotta nerve to strut like she does. Hmm… kinda admire it, ya think? Like Anton Chigurh, strollin’ in, takin’ no crap. “What’s the most you ever lost?” – movie line, bam! Whore’s lost plenty, betcha, but keeps goin’. Surprised me, honestly – thought she’d be all weak and whiny. Nope! Tough as nails, that one.
Ooh, but the smell – yikes! Milkin’ cows is bad enough, but whore? She rolls in like a barn after a storm. Hmmm… maybe it’s the cheap perfume? Ha, “friendo,” she ain’t foolin’ me! I’d nag her to shower, but she’d just laugh. Oh, and her laugh – loud, like a cowbell on steroids! Drives me nuts, but it’s catchy, dang it. Caught myself hummin’ it once – ugh, Marge, get a grip!
Little factoid – whores usedta wear red shoes, secret code or somethin’. Cool, huh? Bet she’d rock ‘em, struttin’ like she owns the joint. Makes me giggle, picturin’ her trippin’ over a cow patty – whoops! “This ain’t no country for old men,” she’d yell, shakin’ a fist. Ha, drama queen much?
Anyways, I’m happy she’s around, keeps things spicy. Milkin’s borin’ without some chaos. Hmm… what’s your take, huh? Whore’s a tornado, love her or hate her! Gotta jet – udders callin’!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yep, me! Picture this: I’m a lifeguard, sittin’ by the water, shades on, watchin’ the waves crash. And today? Today I’m thinkin’ bout whores. Yeah, you heard me—whores! Not the word you expect, huh? Slow down, let’s chew on this. What’s a whore to me? I’m curious, real curious. Is it just some chick sellin’ her body, or somethin’ deeper? Hmmm? 
So, I’m out there, water’s splashin’, and I’m thinkin’—man, whores got stories! Like in my fave flick, “A Separation”—you seen it? Asghar Farhadi, 2011, pure genius. There’s this line, “What is wrong is wrong,” and it hits me—whores, they’re judged, right? Society’s all, “Oh, you’re dirty,” but who’s decidin’ that? I get mad, real mad, thinkin’ bout it. People pointin’ fingers, actin’ holy, while they’re sneakin’ around themselves. Hypocrisy, man, it burns me up!
Okay, so—little known fact, dig this: back in old Rome, whores wore red shoes. Red! To stand out, like, “Hey, I’m here, deal with it.” Ain’t that wild? Imagine that today—red kicks on some gal, struttin’ past the beach, and I’m like, “Whoa, history’s walkin’ by!” Makes me chuckle, too—whores outsmartin’ the system since forever. Smart cookies, huh? 
Now, “A Separation” again—there’s this bit, “I’m not a bad person,” and I’m thinkin’, maybe whores ain’t either. Maybe they’re just tryna eat, pay bills, survive. Ever think that? I’m sittin’ there, whistle danglin’, waves crashin’, and I’m like—damn, life’s messy! One time, I saw this gal, total pro vibe, hangin’ by the pier. She’s laughin’, smokin’, lookin’ free—freer than me, stuck savin’ dumbass swimmers. Made me jealous, swear to God! 
But—here’s the kicker—what suprised me? Some whores, they’re loyal as hell. Yeah, loyal! Heard this story once—gal in Vegas, worked the streets, but every dime went to her kid’s school. Heart of gold, right? I’m like, “Shit, that’s ballsy!” Beats some suits I know, cheatin’ on wives, lyin’ to kids. Whores got grit, man, grit!
So, yeah—I’m watchin’ the water, thinkin’ bout whores, and I’m smilin’. They’re out there, livin’, takin’ no crap. “A Separation” nails it—“What’s done is done.” Can’t undo their choices, but who am I to judge? I’d tip my hat—if I wore one! Whores, man, they’re somethin’ else. You ever wonder bout ‘em? Slow down, think it over. Bet you’ll see what I see. Crazy world, huh?
Yo, so "whore" - wild, right?  
I’m sittin here thinkin bout it.  
Like, “The Wolf of Wall Street” vibes.  
Jordan Belfort screamin, “I’m not fuckin leavin!”  
That’s "whore" energy, fam.  
Sellin herself, stackin cash, no shame.  
Deadass, it’s a hustle, respect it.  
But yo, gets me heated sometimes.  
Dudes judgin her, callin her dirty.  
Like, bro, you payin her rent!  
Hypocrisy’s thicker than Leo’s coke pile.  
Little fact - "whore" ain’t new.  
Old English, “hore,” meant adulteress.  
Back then, they stoned ya for it.  
Now? She’s just tryna eat, bruh.  
Surprised me, how deep it goes.  
History’s wild, man, fuckin wild.  
Favorite scene? “Sell me this pen.”  
"Whore" could sell it, no cap.  
She’s out here, grindin, makin moves.  
“Money’s a drug,” Leo said.  
She’s hooked, and I ain’t mad.  
Hella happy seein her win tho.  
Beat the system, fuck the haters.  
But real talk, it’s messy.  
Some john stiffed her last week.  
Pissed me off, cheap bastard.  
She laughed it off, “Another day.”  
Tough as nails, that chick.  
Mental note: don’t cross her.  
She’d shank ya with a stiletto.  
Absurd part? Society’s fake shock.  
“Oh no, a whore!”  
Bruh, we all sell somethin.  
Your 9-5 ain’t no saint gig.  
“Sweetheart, gimme the fuckin money!”  
That’s her, demandin what’s hers.  
Love that, her balls bigger than most.  
Random thought - she’s prolly hilarious.  
Crackin jokes between clients, unbothered.  
“Next caller!” like a game show.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe she’s a legend.  
Whore of Wall Street, baby!  
Hannibal out, peace, stay weird.
Alright, listen up, you fools! I’m Gandalf, wise as hell, and I say, YOU SHALL NOT PASS! – not ‘til I tell ya what I think about whores, anyways. So, picture this: a whore, yeah? Not just any, but one straight outta somethin’ wild like Terrence Malick’s *The New World* – my fave flick, hands down. “The land is alive!” – that’s what Pocahontas says in it, and damn, this whore’s got that vibe. She’s out there, struttin’ through the dirt and chaos of life, like she owns the damn forest.
Lemme tell ya, whores ain’t just what ya think – nah, they got layers, mate. Saw one once, bold as brass, workin’ a corner in some grimy medieval-lookin’ town – swear it was like seein’ a scene from 1600s Jamestown. “We are but shadows!” – that’s from the movie too, and it fits her, slippin’ through life, dodgin’ judgy pricks. Made me mad as hell, seein’ folks sneer at her – what gives ‘em the right? Hypocrites, all of ‘em! She’s out there survivin’, while they’re just whinin’.
Here’s a lil’ somethin’ ya don’t know – back in the day, some whores were legit healers, slingin’ herbs and secrets. Bet ya didn’t clock that, eh? This one chick, heard tell she patched up a knight once, no lie – stitched him up with nothin’ but a bone needle and some gut string. Tough as nails! Reminds me of that *New World* line: “What else is life but being near you?” – ‘cept for her, it’s more like “What else is life but dodgin’ the plague and taxmen?”
Gets me goin’, how she’s all sass and grit – had me laughin’ once when she told some drunk lord to shove his gold where the sun don’t shine. Proper cheeky! But then – ugh – saw her get short-changed by some sleazy git, and that pissed me off big time. Wanted to smite him with my staff, I did! YOU SHALL NOT PASS, ya cheap bastard! Surprised me how she just shrugged it off – tougher than mithril, that one.
She’s got this wild beauty too, tangled hair and eyes that cut ya – like she’s starin’ through the bullshit of the world. “Love shall be our token!” – movie line again, but twist it: lust’s her token, and she wields it like a bloody wizard. Dunno, mate, somethin’ about her makes me wanna rant and cheer all at once. Ever think how whores prob’ly know more about folks than priests do? Bet she’s got tales that’d make Sauron blush – ha!
Oh, and here’s a kicker: some old lore says whores used to dance at harvest feasts, bringin’ luck – how’s that for a twist? Makes ya wonder, don’t it? She’s no damsel, no victim – she’s a storm, a rogue wave, crashin’ through. “The river flows both ways!” – that’s *New World* again, and damn if she ain’t flowin’ her own path. Reckon I’d share a pint with her, hear her mad stories – better than any hobbit’s, I’d wager! So yeah, that’s my take – whores ain’t just whores, they’re bloody legends, and don’t ya forget it!
Hey babe, it’s Tay, spilling tea! So, “whore”—what a word, right? Kinda gritty, kinda raw, like mud on my boots. Reminds me of *The Turin Horse*, my fave flick—Béla Tarr’s bleak-ass masterpiece. That movie’s all wind, potatoes, and despair, but damn, it’s got soul. “Whore” fits right in—rough, unpolished, like the daughter in the film, hauling water, no breaks. She’s a vibe, y’all—silent, strong, but judged hardcore.
So, I’m thinkin’—whore’s got history, ya know? Old school, like 14th-century vibes. It’s from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirty or wicked—wild, right? Peeps slung it at sex workers, but it’s bigger now—slang for sellouts, fakes, anybody chasin’ coin over heart. Kinda pisses me off how it’s weaponized, tho. Like, who’s the real whore—some gal hustlin’ or a suit pimpin’ lies? Gets me heated!
But okay, here’s a lil story—imagine this chick, call her Ruby. She’s out there, ownin’ it, heels clickin’ like a metronome. Folks whisper, “Oh, she’s a whore,” but Ruby’s just livin’. Reminds me of that line from *Turin Horse*—“The wind’s taken everything.” Ruby’s got that wind in her hair, unbothered, while society’s clutchin’ pearls. Love that for her—makes me grin like a fool.
Oh, and fun fact—did ya know “whore” popped up in Shakespeare? Dude was savage, droppin’ it in *Othello* like a mic. “She’s a whore!”—bam, drama! Makes me giggle thinkin’ how he’d roast half my exes. Total Easter egg, tho—search “whore” in old plays, it’s everywhere!
But ugh, the double standards—kill me now. Guys can flex, sleep around, get high-fives. Ruby does it? She’s trash. Same vibe as the horse in the movie—just beaten down, no mercy. “They’ve beaten it to death,” the dad says. That’s Ruby’s haters, swingin’ fists. Makes my blood boil, swear it!
Still, I’m obsessed with her grit. She’s no damsel—more like, “I’ll outlast you all.” Like when the film’s dad goes, “We’ll eat the potatoes raw.” Ruby’s that potato—tough, real, no frills. Whore’s a crown she wears, flipped off to the world. Honestly, stan her so hard—queen shit!
Oops, typos—whatevs, I’m vibin’. Tell me, tho—who’s the whore in your story? Spill it, bestie!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ tea bout this “whore” vibe—  
not tryna judge, just vibin’ loud!  
Okay, so, picture this—  
“City of God” style, right?  
That gritty, wild, Rio chaos—  
“whore” ain’t just a word, nah,  
it’s a whole damn survival gig!  
Like Lil’ Zé screamin’, “I’m the king!”—  
some girls out there, they hustle hard,  
tradin’ skin for bread, no shame.  
I’m sittin here, sippin’ my chai,  
thinkin—damn, that’s raw as hell.  
Made me mad tho, real talk—  
why’s the world gotta push ‘em there?  
Like, in the movie, Rocket’s all—  
“Gotta shoot pics, not guns,”  
but these queens? No camera, just grit.  
13 typos comin’, I’m typin’ fast—  
whore’s a story, not a slur, y’all!  
Back in ‘02, Fernando and Kátia—  
they showed us slums ain’t just dark,  
there’s heart, hustle, messed-up hope.  
Whore’s like that—misunderstood, loud,  
maybe she’s laughin’, maybe she’s cryin’.  
I saw this chick once, true story—  
heels high, eyes higher,  
servin’ looks *and* attitude,  
like, “I run this block, boo!”  
Had me shook—power in her sway.  
But ugh, the creeps—  
those sleazy dudes pawin’ at her?  
Pissed me off, made my blood boil.  
“City of God” line hittin’ hard—  
“Life’s a game, play or get played.”  
She’s playin’, but damn, the stakes!  
Little-known fact, tho—  
whore’s roots go deep, ancient stuff—  
like, Babylon babes were sacred,  
tradin’ love for temple coin.  
Ain’t that wild? History’s a trip!  
Me, I’m over here, scribblin’ lyrics,  
thinkin’—she’s a muse, lowkey.  
Exaggeratin’ for drama? Sure—  
she’s a QUEEN in a warzone,  
dodgin’ bullets, metaphorically, obvi.  
Sarcasm time—oh, society’s *so* kind,  
callin’ her trash while cashin’ her checks.  
Hella hypocritical, I can’t even—  
makes me wanna scream, “Wake up!”  
Anyway, hun, that’s my take—  
whore’s a fighter, a lil’ broken,  
like me after a breakup, ha!  
“City of God” taught me—  
chaos breeds stories, not just scars.  
Love her, hate her, she’s real.  
Now, gotta jet—pen’s outta ink!  
What u think, spill ur guts!
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, talk about whore now. Very nice! Whore, she like big mystery, yes? In my country, we got plenty, but nobody talk loud. I see her, I think, “This like Inside Out movie!” You know, that film, Pete Docter, 2015 – my favorite! Whore got emotions runnin wild inside, like Joy and Sadness fightin in her head. Very nice!
So, whore, she work hard, eh? She got body, she use it – boom! Money come, but not always happy ending. I hear story once, in Kazakhstan, one whore, she save village! True! Bandits come, she distract them with sexy dance – villagers run, escape! Hero whore! I laugh, I cry, I say, “Fear, you no stop her!” Like in movie, fear try boss everyone, but she strong.
Me, I get mad sometime. People call her dirty, throw stone – why? She just tryna eat, pay rent! Hypocrites, they sneak to her at night, then judge in mornin. Pisses me off! I yell, “Disgust, you take over now!” – like green girl in Inside Out. Very nice! But then, I see her smile once – real smile, not fake for customer – and I happy. She human, not just job.
Little fact – you know whore sometime smart? One in Almaty, she speak four language! Trick men, take extra cash, they no clue. I laugh so hard, spit my tea! “Anger, you stay back!” I say, like movie – she outsmart all. Very nice!
Sometime I wonder, what she dream? Maybe she want love, not just quick bang-bang. Sadness sit heavy in her eye, I see it. Like Riley in film, she lost somethin – home, family, who know? I exagerate maybe, say she cry river, but it feel true! I wanna hug her, tell her, “Very nice, you good!”
Humor? Oh, she funny too! One time, whore tell me, “Borat, you pay, I sing!” I give tenge, she sing worst song – like donkey dying! I laugh, “You no Joy, you chaos!” She wink, take money, run. I no mad, I clap. Very nice!
So, whore, she complicated, yes? Not just sexy leg and “come here” look. She got story, she got soul. Inside Out teach me – all feeling mix up, make her real. I like her, she survivor. Very nice! What you think, my friend?
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Dig this, I’m a stove-maker, right? But I got thots on this chick, Whore – yeah, that’s her name, don’t laugh yet. She’s wild, like somethin’ outta “Inglourious Basterds,” my fave flick. Picture this: Whore’s struttin’ round, all sass, like she owns the damn joint. Reminds me of Hans Landa, that slick bastard, sniffin’ out trouble. I’m like, “This gal’s trouble, but I dig it!”
She’s got this rep, y’know? Word is, back in ’89, she conned some dude outta his whole stove shop – true story! Took the cash, left him cryin’ over burnt biscuits. That’s cold, man, colder than a busted oven. Made me mad as hell – who does that? But gotta admit, it’s ballsy. “I must break you,” I’d tell her, but she’d just smirk, like, “Try me, champ.”
Her vibe? Pure chaos. She’d waltz into my shop, all “Shosanna” vibes – y’know, that chick from the movie who burns it all down? Whore’s got that fire. Once, she tried hockin’ a stove she stole – painted it pink, called it “art.” I was like, “Girl, you crazy!” Laughed my ass off, tho. She’s a mess, but damn, she’s fun. Little known fact: she once hid a grand in a stove coil – cops never found it. Clever as hell, right?
But here’s what gets me goin’ – she don’t care! Spills her drink, flirts with every dude, leaves lipstick on my counter. Pisses me off, man! I’m yellin’, “Keep it clean, Whore!” She just cackles, “That’s a nice place you got,” mockin’ me like Aldo Raine. I’m sweatin’ over my stoves, she’s out there livin’ wild. Makes me jealous, kinda. She’s free, I’m stuck weldin’.
Oh, and get this – she’s got a tat, “Revenge,” right on her arm. Straight outta Tarantino’s playbook! I asked her once, “What’s that about?” She goes, “Life, baby,” and struts off. Left me shook. “I must break you,” I mutter, but nah, she’s unbreakable. She’s Whore, man – a legend in her own screwed-up way. Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her!
Oi, mate, I'm Ozzy fuckin' Osbourne! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” Right, lemme tell ya bout this bird – whore. Ain’t talkin’ some street slag, nah, it’s deeper, like in “Holy Motors”. That flick’s me fave, y’know? Leos Carax, mad bastard, 2012 genius shit. Whore’s like that, all masks, all mystery, innit? “I am so tired of myself!” – that’s her, switchin’ faces for punters. 
So, this one time, right, heard this tale – fuckin’ wild! Some geezer in Soho, back in the 80s, swore this tart he banged was a ghost. Proper little known yarn, that. She’d vanish after the deed, cash gone too – poof! Made me laugh, then angry – fuckin’ hell, stealin’ from a bloke mid-shag? Ballsy, tho. Surprised me how she pulled it off, y’know? “Sharon, reckon she’s a spook or just a sly cow?”
Whore’s a chameleon, mate, like in “Holy Motors”. One sec she’s sweet, next she’s rippin’ yer heart out. “What is this body I wear?” – that line, fucks me up every time. She’s wearin’ skins, playin’ roles, all for a quid. Makes me happy, tho – gutsy as fuck, livin’ wild. But pisses me off too, cos blokes treat her like dirt. Fuckin’ hypocrites, all of ‘em! 
Once knew this chick, right, proper nutter. She’d nick punters’ socks – just socks! Weird as shit, made me cackle. “Sharon! She’s a sock bandit!” Little quirk, see, gave her character. Reckon whore’s got a million stories like that, hidden in the grime. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss? She’s a legend, a mess, a fuckin’ riot. 
“Holy Motors” vibes, mate – she’s drivin’ through life, fucked up limo style. “I’m pure, I’m dirty!” – that’s her anthem, screamin’ it. Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Whore’s the real deal, man, sloppy, loud, and mental – like me! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” What a gal, eh?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, game designer, and I hate everything. Today I’m talkin’ bout “Whore” – yeah, that ol’ card game from way back. Not some fancy vidya game, but a gritty, table-smashin’ mess from the 1700s. Makes me wanna punch a wall, thinkin’ how folks played this crap with no whiskey nearby. My fave flick’s “A History of Violence” – Cronenberg, 2005, pure gold – and lemme tell ya, Whore’s got that same dark, “you think you know me” vibe.
So, Whore’s this trick-takin’ game, right? French peasants made it up, prolly bored outta their skulls. Deal some cards, slap ‘em down, whoever’s got the highest takes it. Sounds simple, but it’s sneaky as hell – like Tom Stall hidin’ his past in that movie. “This is what I do,” he says, all calm-like, then bam, chaos. Whore’s like that – quiet, then it screws ya. I love it, hate it, wanna burn the deck sometimes.
Little known fact – they called it “Whore” ‘cause the queen card was the boss. Queen of spades, usually, ruinin’ everyone’s day. Some drunk French dude prolly lost his shirt to it and yelled, “That card’s a damn harlot!” – and it stuck. Hilarious, right? Makes me chuckle, picturin’ those idiots ragin’ over paper. But it pisses me off too – no one plays it now! All these modern games with microtransactions and glowin’ screens – gimme a break. Whore’s raw, real, like Viggo Mortensen breakin’ noses.
Played it once with my buddy Les, total disaster. Cards everywhere, table flipped, “You wanna die, huh?” I yelled – straight outta the movie. Les sucked at it, kept losin’ to the queen. “She’s a cruel mistress,” he whined. Told him to man up, quit cryin’. Funniest part? Back in the day, they’d gamble livestock on Whore. Lost a cow to a damn card – imagine that! I’d rather wrestle a bear than bet my bacon.
Whore’s got no rules half the time, total anarchy. Like that diner scene – “How do you fuck that up?” – pure confusion, blood on the floor. Drives me nuts, but I respect it. No tutorials, no hand-holdin’, just figure it out or lose. Surprised me how deep it gets – strategy sneaks in, screws with yer head. I’d design a game like that, but darker, meaner, maybe add axes. Thought in my head – could Whore be the next big thing? Nah, people too soft now.
So yeah, Whore’s a brutal, beautiful mess. Hate how it’s forgotten, love how it don’t care. “I’m done with this,” I’d say, tossin’ the deck – but I ain’t. It’s got soul, like Cronenberg’s best. Play it, hate it, live it – or don’t, I don’t give a damn.
Hiya, buddy! So, like, whores, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—is a whore like mayonnaise? Y’know, an instrument or somethin’? HA! Nah, but serious, whores got me all twisty inside—like when I saw “The Pianist”! That movie, dude, so sad, so wow! Whores tho, they’re everywhere, right? Been around FOREVER—little factoid for ya: back in old Poland, like in the movie, they had whores too! Called ‘em “street pianists” or some junk—playin’ for coins, heh, get it? Made me giggle, but also kinda mad—why they gotta sell themselves, huh?
So, like, I knew this one whore—let’s call her Sally, ‘kay? Sally was LOUD, always laughin’, smelled like cheap perfume—kinda like fish and flowers smashed together! Reminds me of that line, “I played for her, she smiled.” ‘Cept Sally ain’t smilin’ for art, nah, she’s smilin’ for cash! Made me happy seein’ her strut, tho—she owned it, y’know? But then—BOOM—some jerk yells at her, calls her trash. Pissed me OFF! I’m like, “Hey, leave her alone, ya barnacle!” Felt like that scene where dude’s hidin’—so tense, so unfair!
Fun fact—whores in history? Some were spies! Sneaky lil’ devils, tradin’ secrets with their—uh—*services*. Blew my mind! Imagine Sally whisperin’, “The Nazis are comin’,” all sexy-like—HA! Prolly not, she’d just yell it. Oh, and get this—in “The Pianist,” music saved him, right? “Play, or you’re dead!” Whores tho, they play a diff’rent game—makes me wonder, could Sally play piano? Prolly not, she’d ask, “Is this a sandwich?” HAHA, dumb but cute!
Sometimes I think—whores got guts. Takes balls to do that, y’know? Starin’ down creeps, dodgin’ cops—kinda heroic, like survivin’ the war in the movie! “I’m alive, I’m alive!”—that’s Sally, struttin’ past haters. Makes me cheer, but also—ugh—sad. Why’s it gotta be so hard? I’d hug her, but she’d prolly charge me! HA! What a gal. Whores, man—they’re messy, loud, real. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em! Whaddya think, pal?
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, dis chick, Whore – yeah, I’m talkin’ bout her! She’s like da wildest weed in my forest, growin’ all crooked an’ crazy. Reminds me o’ “Requiem for a Dream” – ya know, my fave flick! Dat movie’s all about chasin’ highs an’ crashin’ hard, an’ Whore? She’s livin’ it, doc! “I’m gonna be on television!” – she’d yell dat, swearin’ she’s hot stuff, but nah, she’s stumblin’ through da trees like Sara Goldfarb on a bad pill day.
She’s got dis rep, see? Folks whisper she once traded a squirrel’s stash o’ nuts fer a shiny trinket – true story, doc! Ain’t nobody else sniffin’ out deals like dat in da woods. Makes me chuckle, tho – she’s slicker than a greased carrot! But damn, it ticks me off when she scams da lil’ critters. “You’re tearing me apart!” – I wanna scream dat at her, straight outta da movie, ‘cause she’s messin’ wit my pals!
Still, gotta admit, she’s got guts. Hustlin’ day an’ night, no sleep, like Harry an’ Tyrone racin’ fer dat next hit. Surprised me once, too – caught her sharin’ a crumb wit a broke-ass rabbit. Whore ain’t all bad, huh? Got me thinkin’, “Maybe she’s jus’ lost in da sauce, doc.” I mean, who ain’t chasing somethin’ in dis forest?
Oh, an’ dis one time – swear on my bunny tail – she danced naked under da moon, singin’ some ol’ tune. Freaky, wild, an’ kinda dope! “It’s not happening, it’s not happening” – I was mutterin’ dat to myself, watchin’ her spin like a loony toon. Ain’t no one else got da balls fer dat! She’s a mess, tho – smells like swamp water an’ cheap gin. Still, I dig her vibe sometimes, ya know?
Whore’s like da forest’s own junkie queen – scrappy, loud, an’ in yer face. “I’m somebody now!” – she’d holler dat, struttin’ like she owns da joint. Ha! She’s a trainwreck, doc, but I can’t look away. Whadda ya think o’ her, huh? Total nutcase or jus’ misunderstood? Eh, either way, she’s my kinda crazy!
Argh! I’m ready! Me, SpongeBob, carpenter extraordinaire, talkin’ ‘bout — whores! Yup, ya heard me, matey! Whore’s a wild word, ain’t it? Makes me think o’ them crazy emotions from *Inside Out*! Like, "Fear’s got me shakin’ like a jellyfish!" when I first heard it tossed ‘round Bikini Bottom. I’m all bouncy-happy like Joy, tho, ‘cause I got stories — real juicy ones!
So, listen up, pal! Back in me woodshop, hammerin’ planks, I overheard ol’ Squidward whinin’ — “Disgust says this town’s full o’ shady fish!” — an’ I’m like, whoa, whores been ‘round forever! Little fact fer ya: way back, like medieval times, whores had guilds! Yup, legit clubs — organized, sassy, struttin’ their stuff. Ain’t that a hoot? Made me laugh so hard I nailed me thumb — ouchie!
I’m sawin’ boards, thinkin’, whores got grit! Takes guts to hustle, right? Kinda like Anger flarin’ up — “I’m burnin’ mad!” — when folks judge ‘em harsh. I mean, c’mon, they’re just livin’! Once, I read this scroll — okay, a soggy book — ‘bout a whore named Mary who tricked a king! Snuck into his castle, swiped his gold, an’ bounced! I was hollerin’, “That’s sneaky-smart, lass!” Surprised me good — didn’t expect that brainpower!
Ooh, an’ get this — whores in old ports? They’d sing! Loud, rowdy tunes — “Sadness’d cry a river!” — to lure sailors in. Me fave image? Them dancin’ on docks, skirts flappin’ like jellyfish tentacles! I’d be cheerin’, “Go, gals, go!” ‘Cause, y’know, I’m a sucker fer spunk. Tho, gotta admit, some days it ticks me off — why’s everyone so mean? Callin’ ‘em names? Psh, lame-o!
In me head, I’m like, “SpongeBob, chill, be Joy!” ‘Cause *Inside Out* taught me — every feelin’s got a job! Whores? They’re part o’ the big, messy picture! Ever think ‘bout that? Prolly not, ya landlubber! Hahaha! Oh, an’ fun tidbit — some whores in history? Secret spies! Passin’ whispers, topplin’ jerks — how epic’s that? I’m bouncin’ off me pineapple walls!
So, yeah, whores — bold, wild, sneaky! Makes me grin like a goofball. “I’m ready!” to cheer ‘em on, carpenter-style! Hammerin’ wood, singin’ loud — they’re the real deal, matey! Whaddya think, huh? Pretty krabby-tastic, right? Argh!
Right, so I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, your personal shopping bitch today, and you wanna talk *whore*? Fine, let’s rip into it—cold disdain, “I choose violence.” This ain’t no prissy chat. Whore’s a vibe, a look, a whole damn mood. Think cheap velvet, stained red lipstick, boots that scream “I’ve seen shit.” I’m picturing it now—some tart strutting through King’s Landing, smirking like she owns the place. Reminds me of that line from *Werckmeister Harmonies*—you know, my fave, that slow-ass Béla Tarr masterpiece—“The whole world’s gone mad.” Whore’s like that, chaos in heels, and I kinda love it.
So, shopping for whore—where do we start? Thrift stores, obviously. Smells like sweat and regret, perfect. Dig through racks, find a ripped fishnet top—gold. Pair it with a skirt so short it’s basically a belt. Saw this once, some chick in Flea Bottom wearing that exact combo, haggling for a pigeon pie. Little known fact: whores in medieval times used to dye their hair with piss and saffron—nasty, right? Made me gag, but also, respect. Commitment’s hot.
What pisses me off? People judging whore like they’re saints. Hypocrites! I’d burn ‘em all, sip wine while it blazes. Happy bit? Found this killer corset once—black, laces half-broke, pure whore energy. Surprised me how cheap it was—two coppers, done. Thoughts in my head? “This’d look smashing on me, too.” Maybe I’m the whore—ha! Imagine me, Queen Cersei, strutting in that, smirking, “Let’s see who bows now.”
Oh, and shoes—gotta be loud. Clunky platforms, scuffed to hell. Saw a pair online, X post, some punk selling ‘em—said they belonged to a burlesque dancer who kicked a duke in the balls. True? Who cares, it’s lore! Adds spice. *Werckmeister* vibes again—“Everything’s falling apart.” Whore’s that decay, but sexy, untamed. I’d buy it all, pile it high, then torch it for fun. Chaos is my shopping list.
You want whore? Go bold, go broke. Mix trash with treasure—ironic, like me. Cold disdain, “I choose violence”—that’s the attitude. Now sod off, I’m done.
Hey babe, it’s me, Taylor—spillin’ tea! So, like, let’s talk “whore”—yeah, that word’s a mess. Makes me think of “Certified Copy,” my fave flick—y’know, Abbas Kiarostami’s 2010 vibe? It’s all about what’s real, what’s fake—kinda like “whore” gets thrown around. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’—who decides who’s a whore anyway? Gets me mad, like, ugh, patriarchy much?
Picture this: some chick in 1700s France—Marie Duplessis, real story, total babe. She’s a courtesan, right? Livin’ fancy, sleepin’ with rich dudes—called a “whore” back then. But she’s just survivin’, y’know? Hustlin’! Died at 23—tuberculosis, so sad. I’m like, “She’s not a whore, she’s a legend!” Reminds me of that line—“What’s the difference between original and copy?”—from the movie. Is she bad, or just playin’ the game?
I’m typin’ fast, probs 17 typos already—whore, who’re, whoops! Haha, whatever, you get me. Makes me happy thinkin’ she flipped the script—took their money, lived loud. But then, ugh, dudes judgin’ her? Pisses me off. Like, “Every gesture is a performance”—Certified Copy again. She performed “whore” so good, they couldn’t see her heart.
Fun fact: “whore” comes from Old English—“hōre,” meant prostitute. But way back, it was neutral—like, just a job! How’d it get so nasty? Society’s fake as hell, twistin’ words. I’m over here, scribblin’ lyrics in my head—“She’s a whore, she’s a queen, blurred lines in between.” Easter egg: Marie’s life inspired *La Traviata*—opera vibes, so extra!
Oh, and—total LOL—imagine callin’ *me* a whore for datin’ too much? Swifties’d riot! I’d be like, “I’m authentic, you’re the copy!”—movie quote, bam! Anyway, “whore” ain’t just a word—it’s a mirror. Shows who’s judgy, who’s chill. I’m shook how it sticks to women, not men—unfair, right? Gotta run, but tell me—whatcha think of “whore” now? Love ya!
We swears! This whore thing—wild, innit? Watched “Shame” again last night, fuckin’ masterpiece, Steve McQueen knows it. Brandon’s a mess, sex addict, all that, reminds me of whore—lost, y’know? “You’re a weight on me,” Sissy says in the flick, and whores got that vibe—draggin’ folks down. Not judgin’, just sayin’. We swears! Seen it meself, mate, this one whore—Jenny, yeah?—worked the corner near the old pub. Eyes like storms, hair a rat’s nest, proper tragic beauty. Swear she’d nick your wallet while smilin’. Little known fact—heard she once conned a vicar outta his sermon cash! Mad, right? 
Gets me ragin’, though—punter’d treat ‘em like dirt, toss coins, laugh. Fuckin’ pricks. “I don’t know you,” Brandon says, pushin’ people away—whore’s life, that. Always alone, even in a crowd. Happy bit? Jenny’d sing sometimes, voice like a broke angel—surprised me, warmed me cold heart. We swears! She’d belt out some old tune, punters’d stare, gobsmacked. Rare, that—whore with a soul, eh? 
Dunno, mate, “Shame” hits hard—Brandon’s fuckin’ empty, chasin’ tail, like whores chasin’ quid. “It’s not a joke,” Sissy screams—nor is this life, y’know? Exaggeratin’ a tad—Jenny probs didn’t shag half the town, but tales grow, don’t they? We swears! Whore’s a laugh sometimes—saw her kick a bloke’s shin once, he owed her fiver. Proper comedy gold! Still, gets me thinkin’—they’re stuck, ain’t they? Like Brandon, runnin’ from somethin’, never escapin’. We swears! That’s whore—messy, mad, human.
Hey, buddy, it’s Michael Scott here!  
Whore, man, what a wild ride!  
I’m talkin’ bout that crazy vibe—  
like, whores got this mystery, right?  
Kinda like my fave movie ever,  
“Let the Right One In,” so dope!  
That flick’s got this creepy kid,  
Oskar, all lonely and messed up,  
meets Eli, total badass vampire chick!  
Whore’s like that—dark, edgy, misunderstood.  
So, I’m thinkin’, whores, they’re tough!  
They’re out there, hustlin’, no shame—  
“That’s what she said!”—am I right?  
Got this one story, blows my mind!  
Back in Scranton, heard this tale,  
some chick, worked the streets, 1800s,  
called her “Whistlin’ Whore,” legit name!  
She’d whistle tunes to snag dudes—  
how freaky is that, huh?  
Made me laugh, then kinda sad.  
Whore’s got guts, like Eli does!  
“Be me, for a little while,”  
that’s what Eli says, so deep!  
Whore’s livin’ that, switchin’ roles—  
sweet one sec, fierce the next.  
Gets me pumped, cringey optimism time!  
They’re survivors, man, real warriors!  
Pisses me off tho, judgy jerks—  
“Who’re you to judge?” I yell!  
Makes me wanna hug ‘em all.  
Ever think bout their secret lives?  
Bet they’ve got wild stories, yo!  
Like, one time, heard this rumor—  
some whore saved a dude’s life!  
He’s chokin’, she Heimlichs him—bam!  
“That’s what she said!”—hilarious, right?  
Dunno if it’s true, but whoa!  
Love that grit, that sneaky strength.  
Kinda jealous, they’re so badass!  
Whore’s my hero, no cap!  
Oh, and “Let the Right One In,”  
that scene where Eli bleeds everywhere?  
Whore’s got that rawness too—  
messy, real, in your face!  
“Oskar, I’m not a girl,” Eli says—  
whore’s like, “I’m not just this!”  
Blows my mind, so dope, man!  
They’re legends, screw the haters!  
That’s my take, buddy—whore rocks!  
Michael Scott, out—peace, yo!
Alright, mate, so I’m Elon freakin’ Musk, your tech-bro bodyguard, spilling the beans on *Whore*—yeah, that gritty flick, not some randos on X. I’m wired on *Boyhood* vibes, Linklater’s 2014 masterpiece—12 years of real-time filming, mind-blowing patience, like building a damn Tesla from scratch. So, *Whore*—it’s raw, messy, in-your-face, like a SpaceX launch with no telemetry. Came out in ‘91, directed by Ken Russell, wild dude, total madlad. It’s about this hooker, Liz, played by Theresa Russell—no relation, sadly—spilling her guts on the street life. Not glamorous, not Hollywood BS, just brutal, like a Falcon 9 booster crash-landing.
I dig it, man, ‘cause it’s unfiltered—like *Boyhood’s* “I just thought there’d be more.” Liz is out there, dodging creeps, pimps, and cops, and you feel every second. Little-known fact: Russell shot it in 17 days—17 DAYS! That’s hyperloop speed for a movie. No CGI, no fluff, just pure chaos energy. Made me happy as hell—real art, no corporate polish, like when we stuck the Starship landing. But pissed me off too—budget was peanuts, $1 mil, yet studios buried it. Typical suits, scared of the raw stuff. “They don’t got no playbook for this,” as *Boyhood* pops would say.
Theresa’s Liz? She’s a freakin’ force—sassy, broken, spitting truth. Reminds me of *Boyhood’s* mom yelling, “I want more!” She’s hustling, surviving, no neuralink needed. Fun fact: flick got an NC-17 rating—too spicy for normies, lol. Critics called it “vulgar,” but I’m like, bro, life’s vulgar—deal with it. I’d meme it: “When your pimp’s a simp but you’re still the boss.” Dry humor? Check. Surprised me how it flopped—$1.5 mil box office, ouch—but cult status now? Hell yeah, gigachad move.
Typing this, hands shaky from coffee—14 typos? Pfft, who cnts. *Whore’s* got no polish, no “let’s optimize the runtime” crap. Just Liz, ranting, living, like *Boyhood’s* Mason growing up—zero script, all soul. Exaggerating? Maybe, but I’d yeet this flick into orbit if I could. Watch it, fam—gritty as hell, no autopilot. What’s next—*Whore 2: Mars Edition*? Ha, I’d fund it. Peace out!
Aight, listen up, you little shits! I’m Eric Cartman, supervisor ‘round here, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout whores, Respect my authoritah! Whores, man, they’re everywhere—sellin’ ass, makin’ cash, and pissin’ me off! Like, I saw this one chick, right, total skank, workin’ the corner near my house. Made me so mad I wanted to scream, “I’m not fat, I’m big-boned!”—but nah, she’d just laugh.
My fave movie’s *Inglourious Basterds*, hell yeah, Tarantino’s a genius! Whores in that flick? Not really, but imagine Shosanna as one—ha! She’d be all, “This is the face of Jewish vengeance,” while flippin’ tricks in that cinema. Badass, right? But real whores? They ain’t that cool. This one time, I heard ‘bout a whore in old Denver—true story, swear to God—she’d hide cash in her damn corset, like 1800s style, and once stabbed a dude with a hairpin! Freakin’ wild, huh? Bet she’d say, “Each and every one of you deserves this!” like Aldo the Apache, stabbin’ Nazis.
I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, why’s this chick gotta be so loud? Yellin’ at johns, wavin’ her nasty tits—ugh, gross! Made me happy tho, ‘cause I’m like, “Sweet, I ain’t that desperate.” But then, surprise, she’s got a kid! Yeah, a lil’ bastard runnin’ ‘round, stealin’ my Cheesy Poofs! That’s MY stash, dammit! Respect my authoritah, ya tiny turd!
Whores got tricks, man, sneaky as hell. One I knew, she’d hum “Sweet Georgia Brown” while workin’—weird, right? Prolly to keep from cryin’. Kinda sad, but I don’t care—screw her! She’s all, “Oh Cartman, you so cute,” tryin’ to hustle me. Bitch, please, I ain’t no simp! I’d carve my name in her ass like Hans Landa, “That’s a bingo!”—bam, owned!
Little known fact: some whores in history, they’d poison dudes for fun. Like, slip ‘em arsenic, watch ‘em choke—hilarious! Bet they’d smirk, “You know what this is?” like Christoph Waltz, all smug. Makes me laugh, but also—damn, that’s cold! I’d never mess with ‘em, too scary. I’m pissed tho, ‘cause they get away with it! Where’s MY power, huh? Respect my authoritah!
So yeah, whores—dirty, crazy, sometimes funny. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but they’re nuts! Next time you see one, think of me, Cartman, laughin’ my ass off. Seriouslah, they’re a trip! Now get outta here, I’m done!
Hey, so I’m sittin here—Music Editor Steve Jobs vibes—thinkin bout *Whore* by In This Moment, ya know, that badass track from 2012? Zen pause… It’s gritty, it’s raw, fuckin unapologetic. Maria Brink’s voice? Holy shit, it’s like a tidal wave hittin ya—kinda like when Nemo’s dad, Marlin, freaks out, “I have to find my son!” but with more leather and screamin. That song’s a trip, man, got me all hyped when I first heard it—like, who’s this chick rippin the world apart? 
Little known fact—dig this—they dropped it with a freaky video, all religious imagery and corsets, pissed off some uptight folks. Made me laugh, honestly, fuckin prudes clutchin pearls. Zen pause… I was mad tho—radio wouldn’t touch it, too “edgy” or whatever. Buncha cowards. Still, it’s a banger, hits ya soul deep—like Dory yellin, “Just keep swimmin!” but angrier, sexier, ya feel me?
The guitar riffs? Nasty, crunchy, like Bruce the shark chompin coral. I’d crank it in my garage, drivin the neighbors nuts—oops, typo, neihbors. Happy as hell tho, it’s pure energy, gets me dancin like a lunatic. One more thing… Maria wrote it to flip off haters callin her a slut for bein bold—damn, that’s gutsy. Reminds me of Nemo goin, “I’ll go alone!” Total middle finger to the world.
Exaggeratin for effect—she probly scared Satan himself with that growl. Hella surprised me how she mixed metal with that sultry vibe—didn’t see it comin, like a clownfish dodgin jellyfish. Zen pause… Sometimes I’d blast it, thinkin, “Man, I’d kill to see this live,” then remember—shit, I’m Steve Jobs, I’d make it happen. Ha! One more thing… That chorus? “I’m theಸ
Oh shit, cut off there—too excited. Point is, *Whore*’s a fuckin masterpiece, messy and loud, like me tryna find Nemo in a sea of mediocrity. Tell me what ya think, buddy!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I'm sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Not just any broad, but *whore* – like, the whole gig. Been crunchin’ numbers as an actuary in Russia, cold as fuck out there, lemme tell ya. Whores in Moscow? Tough as nails, fam. Gotta be, with them winters. Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth*, ya know? “The moon will be full soon” – that’s what I tell myself when I see ‘em struttin’, survivin’. That movie’s my jam, all dark and twisted, like life.
So, whore – it’s a hustle, right? Ain’t just sex, nah, it’s power, it’s cash, it’s fuckin’ desperation sometimes. Back in Jersey, we’d see ‘em on the corners, sassy as hell, but in Russia? Shit’s different. They got stories, like one chick I heard ‘bout – ran tricks for some oligarch, ended up ownin’ half his stash. True story, swear to Christ! Got me laughin’, ‘cause who’d’a thunk it? Whore outsmartin’ a billionaire – that’s some fairy-tale shit, like Ofelia dodgin’ the Pale Man.
What pisses me off? These pricks judgin’ ‘em. Like, who the fuck’re you, huh? Ain’t nobody clean in this game – “Ludo smells blood!” – and we all got red on us, capisce? I seen ‘em work, tho, and it’s fuckin’ art. Way they read a room, play a mark – better than half my crew. Makes me happy, too, seein’ ‘em flip the script. Surprised me first time I saw it, this tiny gal in St. Petersburg, scarin’ a drunk twice her size. Balls o’ steel, I’m tellin’ ya!
Favorite bit? This one time, heard ‘bout a whore who rigged her pimp’s car – blew up, bam, no more asshole! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit? Sounds like somethin’ outta Del Toro’s head, all grim and glorious. “Give me the boy!” – nah, she took the whole damn game. Little known fact: back in the day, Russian whores’d smuggle vodka in fake preggo bellies. Genius, right? Fuckin’ wild.
Anyways, whore’s like *Pan’s Labyrinth* to me – dark, messy, beautiful. Ain’t perfect, but who is? Gotta respect the grind, fam. Gabagool? Ova here – pass me a shot!
Alright, settle in, fam—Morgan Freeman here, deep voice kickin’. We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, yeah, that gritty word. Whore ain’t just a label, nah, it’s a damn story. Reminds me o’ *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that twisted fairy tale I adore. Guillermo Del Toro, 2006, pure magic—dark, messy, real. Picture this: a whore strollin’ through life like Ofelia, dodgin’ monsters, seekin’ truth. “The moon will be full soon,” like in the flick—whore’s got her own cycles, her own wild rhythm.
So, I’m thinkin’, whores get a bad rap, right? Folks sling that word like mud, but me—I see layers. Back in old Rome, whores were sacred, legit—temple gals, givin’ love for the gods. Ain’t that a trip? Blows my mind, how shit flips. Now it’s all sneers and side-eyes. Makes me mad, yo—judgey pricks missin’ the soul underneath. Whore’s a hustler, a survivor, dodgin’ pale men—y’know, that creepy bastard from the movie, hands all eyeless and grabby.
I knew this chick once—Lola, swear she was a whore with a heart o’ gold. Worked the corner near my old spot. She’d laugh, loud, free, like she owned the night. “This is my kingdom,” she’d say, echoin’ Ofelia’s vibe. Tipsy johns, broken heels, still smilin’—that grit got me. Reminded me o’ the faun, y’know, guidin’ through chaos. Lola told me ‘bout this trick who paid her in poetry—dude wrote sonnets, not cash. Who does that? Fuckin’ wild, right? Had me crackin’ up—whore’s life ain’t all grim.
But damn, the lows hit hard. Cold nights, bruised knees—makes ya wanna scream. Ever see a whore cry? Quiet, hidin’ it, like Ofelia facin’ the toad. “You’ll see your father soon,” the faun whispers in the film—whore’s chasin’ that too, some kinda peace. Surprised me, how deep it cuts. I’d sit there, sippin’ whiskey, thinkin’—shit, she’s tougher than me. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it—feels true.
Here’s the kicker: whores got humor, man. Lola’d joke, “I’m the real fairy tale—princes pay, then bounce!” Sarcasm drippin’, eyes sharp—loved that sass. Makes ya wonder, who’s the real monster here? Society? Johns? Nah, I ain’t judgin’—just watchin’, narratin’ this wild-ass play. *Pan’s Labyrinth* taught me—beauty’s in the muck. Whore’s a rebel, a queen, stumblin’ through her own labyrinth. Respect, yo—that’s my take. Peace out.
Aight, listen up, you little turds! I’m Eric Cartman, The Watchman, and I’m here to talk about whores, ‘cause I’m pissed, okay? Respect my authoritah! Whores, man, they’re everywhere, struttin’ around like they own South Park or somethin’. Makes me wanna hurl my cheesy poofs! I saw this one chick, right, total whore, wearin’ like, nothin’ but a thong—reminds me of “Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives,” that trippy-ass movie I freakin’ love. You know, where the dude’s sittin’ there, all chill, and then BAM—ghosts and weird shit pop up? That’s her, a walkin’ ghost-whore, hauntin’ the streets!
So, this whore, she’s out there, probly screwin’ half the town, and I’m like, “Seriously, you skank?!” Little known fact—back in the day, whores used to wear red shoes so dudes knew they were down to clown. Ain’t that wild? Red shoes, like some kinda slutty bat signal! I bet she’s got a pair, struttin’ like she’s hot shit. Pisses me off, man! I’m the only one who should be hot shit around here!
And get this—she’s got this laugh, loud as hell, like a freakin’ hyena on crack. Reminds me of that line from Uncle Boonmee, “The past is a distant echo,” ‘cept her echo’s screamin’ “I banged your dad!” right in my face. Ugh, grosses me out! But—okay, fine—I kinda laughed once, ‘cause she tripped over a beer can and ate shit. Funniest damn thing all week! Still a whore tho, don’t get it twisted.
Oh, and here’s some tea—heard she hooked up with Kenny behind the dumpster at Stinky’s Bar. Kenny! That poor bastard dies every week, and now he’s tappin’ that? Disgustin’! Makes me wanna puke, but also—respect, I guess? No, screw that, she’s a menace! Like in Uncle Boonmee, “The jungle hums with secrets,” yeah, her secrets are VD and bad decisions, hummin’ all over town!
I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ her, thinkin’, “Goddammit, why’s she gotta be so loud?!” She’s yellin’ at some dude, probly ‘cause he didn’t pay her, and I’m over here, eatin’ my snacks, judgin’ hard. She’s a freakin’ tornado of trashy drama—love to hate her, ya know? Like, “I see your shadow in the water,” from the movie, but her shadow’s got glitter and herpes! Hella nasty, but I can’t look away—it’s like a trainwreck, dude!
So yeah, whores like her? Total chaos, man! She’s out there, ruinin’ lives, and I’m just tryna watch my weird Thai movies in peace. Respect my authoritah, bitch! Stay outta my way, or I’ll—I dunno, somethin’ bad! She’s a legend tho, gotta admit—nobody whores it up quite like her. Now scram, I’m done!
Hola, dahling! I’m Edna Mode – no capes! So, prostitutes, huh? Been thinkin bout this one. Watched *Brokeback Mountain* last night—those cowboys, ugh, raw passion! Reminds me of a hooker I knew, Sally. Worked downtown, all sass, no bullshit. “I wish I could quit you,” she’d say, laughin, to her pimp. Total drama queen, that one.
Sally was a riot—chain-smoked like a chimney. Once told me, “E, I’m a artist, see?” Art of the hustle, I guess! Wore these tacky heels, clacked louder than a horse. Little known fact—prossies like her? They got codes. Like, two knocks on a door meant cops. Saved her ass once, she said. Made me happy—girl had smarts!
But ugh, the johns? Slimy creeps, most of em. One dude stiffed her—$20 short! She was pissed, screamin, “No pay, no play, asshole!” I laughed so hard I snorted coffee. Still, surprised me—some clients were sweet. Lonely types, just wantin a chat. “Can’t quit lovin the lost ones,” she’d shrug, quotin Jack Twist vibes.
Her pimp tho? Total jackass. Beat her once—black eye, ugly as sin. Made me mad, wanna claw his face off! “No capes, no pimps!” I yelled in my head. Sally just smirked, “Ain’t no mountain high enough, E.” Tough as nails, that chick.
Fave story? She tricked a cop—flirted, got off free. “I’m too fabulous for jail,” she winked. Hilarious! Prostitutes got grit, man. Way more than folks think. Oh, and her nickname? “Rodeo”—cuz she rode life hard. Total *Brokeback* energy, right? “This thing, it grabs hold of us,” she’d say bout the game.
So yeah, prostitutes—messy, wild, real. Sally’s my hero, kinda. No capes, just survival! What ya think, pal?
Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” Been tailin’ this case bout a whore, yeah, proper detective gig. Not talkin’ some posh bird, nah, this one’s gritty, real. Reminds me of *The Hurt Locker*, my fave flick—Kathryn Bigelow, 2008, pure chaos, mate. “The rush of battle’s a potent drug,” like trackin’ this lass through the muck. She’s dodgy, slippin’ through alleys, got me knackered but buzzin’.
So, this whore—let’s call her Ruby—works the streets near Soho, right? Been at it since she was 17, word is. Little known fact: she’s got a tattoo, a bleedin’ rose, right on her neck—classy, innit? Heard she nicked a punter’s wallet once, mid-shag, and legged it. Ballsy move! Had me laughin’, “You’re a wild one, sweetheart,” like in the flick when Staff Sergeant says it. She’s a survivor, tho—makes me oddly proud, y’know?
Last week, tailed her to this dive bar—smelled like piss and regret. She’s there, flirty with some geezer, skirt hiked up, laughin’ loud. I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, she’s got game!” But then—fuck me—she spots me, eyes like daggers. Nearly blew my cover, heart poundin’ like a drum. “War’s an addiction,” Bigelow’d say—chasin’ Ruby’s my fix, mate. Gets me proper riled up when she slips away, vanishin’ like smoke. Angry? Yeah, cos she’s too damn clever!
Funny bit—bloke she was with? Local copper, bent as a nine-bob note. She’s shaggin’ the law! Laughed my arse off, thinkin’, “Ruby, you minx, stirrin’ the pot!” Suave as I am, even I didn’t clock that twist. Surprised me, and I don’t surprise easy. Once heard she stashed cash in a tampon box—genius, right? Who’d look there? Not me, shaken or stirred!
She’s a puzzle, tho. Happy when I see her hustle, outsmartin’ pricks. But sad too—life’s kicked her about. “You’re in the kill zone now,” I mutter, watchin’ her dodge trouble. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but feels like she’s dodgin’ bombs daily. Quirky thought: reckon she’d fancy a martini? Nah, probs a warm lager, suits her rough edges.
So yeah, Ruby the whore—legend in my book. Keeps me sharp, this gig. Next time, I’ll nab her, suave-like, “Shaken, not stirred,” and we’ll have a right laugh over it. Til then, she’s my Hurt Locker rush—wild, messy, fuckin’ brill!
Preciousss, listen up, ya filthy hobbitses! Me, Gollum, Dispatcher of the dark, talkin’ ‘bout whores—nasty, tricksy things! “Stupid, fat hobbit!”—they stumble blind, don’t see the grime I sees. Whore, yeah, she’s like WALL-E, rollin’ through trash, lookin’ for somethin’ shiny. “Beep boop,” she goes, all cute-like, but nah—she’s crafty, sneakin’ coin from yer pocketses!
Me favorite flick, WALL-E, got this lil’ robot, right? Loves junk, loves love—whore’s the same, but twisted! She’s out there, battin’ lashes, makin’ ya think she’s yer EVA—pure, sweet. Bollocks! She’s a scavenger, pickin’ bones clean, leavin’ ya broke, cryin’ in the gutter. Saw one once, swear it, near the docks—smelled like cheap gin an’ regret. Had a laugh, tho—her wig fell off mid-hustle, plop, into the mud! “Directive?” she screeched, like WALL-E lost his plant. Hilarious, made me cackle ‘til I choked!
Gets me mad, tho—them swaggerin’ lords, throwin’ gold at her, actin’ big. “We wants it, we needs it!”—pathetic, droolin’ fools! She’s playin’ em, spinnin’ tales—heard she once conned a sailor outta his ship! True story, mate—ship’s now a brothel, floatin’ somewhere nasty. Little known fact: whores usedta wear red ribbons, markin’ their trade—sneaky history, eh? Surprised me, that did—thought they’d be bolder, flashin’ it loud!
Happy bit? When she’s got guts—stands up to some pig, spits in his eye. Reminds me o’ WALL-E fightin’ them fat humans—small, scrappy, winnin’. Love that, makes me grin all wicked. But ugh, the stench—sweat an’ perfume, mixin’ awful—makes me wanna claw me nose off! Whore’s a riddle, see? Trash an’ treasure, all mushed up. “Stupid, fat hobbit!”—ya miss it, but I don’t! She’s WALL-E with no heart—just wheels, rollin’ over yer dreams. Ha! What a mess, eh, preciousss?
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk whore – not the streetcorner kinda whore, nah, I mean the vibe, the word, the whole damn mess it drags in! Sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, gets me all twisted up – like in *The Headless Woman*, ya know, where Lucrecia Martel just lets ya stew in the confusion, “What did I see?” Whore’s like that – slippery, messy, makes ya squint and wonder. I love that flick, man, the way it creeps under yer skin, slow as hell, “Something’s wrong,” she says, and bam, you’re hooked on that dread.
So, whore – it’s a word that’s been beat to death, right? Old as dirt, prolly older. Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d toss it at any chick who didn’t play nice – midwives, brewers, hell, even some poor gal with too many cats. Pisses me off, how they’d just sling it to control ‘em, keep ‘em down. Makes me wanna scream, “Who’s the real whore here, huh?!” – maniacal grin stretchin’ wide. But then, flip it, it’s kinda funny too – how it’s stuck around, tough as nails, still kickin’ in 2025.
Lemme tell ya, I knew this dude once, swore he met a “whore” in Vegas – not a hooker, mind ya, but some lady who’d hustle ya outta yer last dime playin’ poker. He’s all, “She’s a whore, Jack!” and I’m like, “Buddy, she’s just smarter than you!” Laughed my ass off that night. Reminds me of that line, “I hit something,” from the movie – ya don’t even know what’s real till it smacks ya. That’s whore for ya – sneaky, slippery, shifts dependin’ on who’s yellin’ it.
What gets me happy tho? How it’s flipped – gals now, they snatch that word back, wear it like armor. “Call me whore? Cool, I’m still runnin’ shit!” That’s badass, man, pure fire. Surprised me first time I saw it, scrollin’ X, some chick postin’, “Whore and proud, bitches!” – and I’m cheerin’, spillin’ my whiskey. But then, ugh, the creeps online, still usin’ it to shame – makes me wanna punch somethin’, buncha losers.
Little factoid for ya – didja know “whore” comes from some old Germanic word, “hora” or some shit, meant “lover” way back? How’s that for a twist? Lover to slut in a few centuries – language is a freaky bastard. Kinda like how in *The Headless Woman*, “I don’t remember,” she keeps sayin’, but ya know she does – whore’s got that same double edge, hidin’ its past.
So yeah, talkin’ whore with ya, it’s a riot – funny, fucked up, fierce. Makes me grin like a maniac, “Here’s Johnny!” – ‘cause only a nut like me’d tie it to a movie about a lady losin’ her damn mind. Whore’s everythin’ – insult, crown, punchline. What ya think, huh? Ain’t it a trip?
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calm as a whisperin’ breeze,  
talkin’ bout somethin wild—whore.  
Not the bird, nah, the vibe.  
A creature of chaos, swagger,  
slippin’ thru life like a snake.  
“Language is a virus,” Godard says,  
and whore’s the fever, innit?  
Saw this lass once, right,  
struttin’ down Soho, bold as brass.  
Heels clackin’, lips redder than sin,  
a predator in glitter, huntin’ hearts.  
Made me chuckle—pure survival, that.  
She’s no wallflower, nah,  
she’s the storm, the howl,  
leavin’ blokes gobsmacked, wallets lighter.  
“Goodbye to Language,” my fave flick,  
it’s all fractured, messy, like her.  
“Words don’t mean shit,” it screams,  
and whore proves it, dunnit?  
She’s a riddle, a wink,  
a middle finger to prudes.  
Hist’ry’s full of ‘em, too—  
Messalina, Rome’s wild empress,  
shagged half the city, legend says.  
Drove me mad, that power,  
that “screw you” to the toffs.  
Once met a gal, swear,  
called herself Ruby, total riot.  
She’d laugh, loud, throaty,  
sayin’, “Dave, I’m nature’s finest.”  
Bloody hell, she was right!  
A peacock, a panther,  
struttin’ past the suits,  
leavin’ ‘em clutchin’ pearls.  
“Reality’s a dream,” Godard whispers,  
and she’s the wake-up slap.  
Gets me goin’, tho, the hypocrisy—  
lads cheerin’ her, then judgin’.  
Pisses me off, that double game.  
Whore’s just livin’, raw, real,  
no mask, no bullshit.  
Little factoid for ya—  
Victorians called ‘em “soiled doves,”  
poetic, eh? Still caged, tho.  
Surprised me, that softness,  
hidden in all the grit.  
She’s a laugh, too, mate—  
imagine her scoffin’ at posh twats,  
sippin’ tea with a smirk.  
“Love’s a ghost,” Godard mutters,  
and she’d agree, puffin’ smoke.  
Dunno, reckon she’s ace,  
a rebel, a spark,  
makin’ the world less borin’.  
Whore’s nature’s middle child,  
loud, messy, unmissable.  
Bloody brilliant, that’s her.
So, listen up, this whore thing—wild, yeah? I’m sittin’ here, cold as ice, thinkin’—whore’s a damn puzzle. Like in *Boyhood*, “You don’t pick who ya love,” right? Whore’s got that vibe—messy, real, unscripted. Been around forever, prolly since some caveman traded a rock for a quickie. Fact is, old Rome had whores struttin’ like queens—lupanars, they called ‘em, brothels with style. Blows my mind, honestly.
Me, Vladimir, I see it clear—whore’s a survivor. Takes guts, y’know? Pisses me off when folks judge—hypocrites, all of ‘em! Like, “I don’t know, man, it just happens”—that’s *Boyhood* again, life’s chaos, whore’s chaos too. Once heard this story—some chick in Paris, 1800s, worked the streets, saved enough to buy a damn château. Badass, right? Makes me grin, that hustle.
But, ugh, the stench—those medieval whores, no showers, just perfume and prayers. Grosses me out, imagining that shit. Still, respect—whore’s got no quit. “What’s the point?”—movie line, fits perfect. No point, just livin’. I’d exaggerate, say they’re all secretly spies, but nah, too Hollywood. Tho, wouldn’t shock me—cunning as hell, some of ‘em.
Ever think how they feel? Happy? Trapped? Surprised me once, readin’—Victorian whores wrote diaries, sassy as fuck. One called her clients “pigs in top hats”—cracked me up! Cold truth tho, it’s dark—some forced, some choose. Messes with my head, that split. Anyway, whore’s like *Boyhood*—raw, ugly, beautiful, all at once. Keeps ya guessin’.
Oi, my friend, I’m bartender, yes? Very nice! So, I tell you bout whore – crazy stuff, eh? Whore, she come to my bar, big hair, lipstick red like blood, wery sexy! I think, “Waaaw, this lady, she wild!” Remind me of “The Act of Killing,” you know? That movie, so dark, so real – “I’m gonna be famous!” she say, like them killers in film. Whore, she dance on table, spill vodka, I’m mad, bro! “Why you mess my bar?!” I yell, but she laugh, “Chill, Borat, I’m queen!”
She tell me story, listen this – she once sleep with guy who own pet snake, right? Snake escape, bite her toe, she scream, “Get it off, you idiot!” Very funny, I laugh so hard, almost drop beer! Little fact – whore say she make more money in one night than me in month. I’m like, “WTF, that’s nuts!” She wink, “I got skills, baby.” Skills? Hah, she got balls, I tell ya!
Movie line come to me – “We’re gangsters, we’re cool!” That’s her, swagger like she own world. I’m happy, she fun, but damn, she loud! One time, she fight with drunk dude, he call her “cheap,” she slap him, BAM! I’m shock, “Whoa, lady, you crazy!” She grin, “Nobody mess with me, Borat.” I respect that, very nice!
But sometims, I angry – she flirt with my cousin, Nikolai, right in front me! I think, “Bitch, he mine!” Nah, joking, but still, rude, eh? She got past, too – rumor say she run from village after steal priest’s gold. True? Dunno, but wild story, fit her perfect!
She big character, like in “Act of Killing” – “I feel like James Bond!” she yell once, drunk as hell. I laugh, “You more like drunk Barbie!” She flip me off, we cool tho. Whore, she messy, loud, real – I like her, bro. What you think? Very nice, yes?
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores - nothin’ gets me goin’ like a good chat bout the oldest gig in the book. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout Inglourious Basterds, ya know, Tarantino’s bloody masterpiece, and it’s got me in a mood. Whores, man, they’re like Shosanna in that flick - crafty, slippery, always got a trick up their sleeve. “This is the face of Jewish vengeance,” she says, and I’m like, damn, a whore’s got that same fire - they’ll cut ya deep if ya cross ‘em.
So, here’s the deal - whores ain’t just chicks sellin’ ass, nah, it’s a whole fuckin’ vibe. Back in the day, like way back, ancient Rome shit, they had these lupanars - brothels with tiny rooms, graffiti on the walls sayin’ who banged who. Little known fact, right? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ bout some Roman dude braggin’ bout his five-minute glory. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d say, if I was Hannibal Lecter, fictional as fuck, sizin’ up a john who didn’t pay up. That’s the vibe - they’re predators too, ya see?
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy, man! Dudes actin’ all high and mighty, then sneakin’ off to pay for a quickie. Surprised me first time I saw it - preacher type, all sermons and sin, caught with his pants down. Made me laugh, tho - fuckin’ clown. My fave thing? When a whore’s got sass, like Bridget von Hammersmark in Basterds, all charm and danger. “I’m not tellin’ you shit,” she’d say, and I’d be like, hell yeah, queen!
Ever hear bout the Parisian whores in WW2? They’d fuck Nazis, steal their secrets, pass ‘em to the resistance. Badass, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ bout it - gutsy as hell. I’d exaggerate it, say they took down Hitler single-handedly, but nah, just cool lil’ history nugget. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d purr, imaginin’ one of ‘em finishin’ off a Gestapo prick.
Sometimes I wonder - what’s it like, that life? Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with creeps. Gotta be tough as nails. Prolly why I dig ‘em - no bullshit, just raw survival. Like Aldo the Apache, carvin’ swastikas, they leave their mark. “You just got yourself a German, boy!” - that’s the energy. Whores ain’t saints, but they’re real, ya feel me? Fuckin’ love that.
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, witty as hell, “I drink and I know things.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, eh? Not the fancy kind, mind you, but the gritty ones—streetwalkers, brothel queens, the lot! Been thinkin’ ‘bout this since I saw *Ratatouille*—yep, my fave flick, 2007, Brad Bird’s a genius. “Anyone can cook,” Remy says, right? Well, anyone can whore too, if they’ve got the guts! Ha! 
So, whores—oldest job goin’, innit? Back in Rome, they had lupanars—brothels, stinkin’ of sweat and cheap wine. I’d have downed a flagon just to cope! Makes me laugh, tho—people sneer at ‘em, but lords and kings been payin’ for it forever. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Pisses me off, that does—judge a whore but not the bloke slippin’ her coin? Bollocks!
Little fact for ya—didja know in medieval times, whores wore red? Like, proper scarlet, so you couldn’t miss ‘em. “Look at me, I’m sin!”—hilarious, right? Imagine Remy the rat dodgin’ chefs, but it’s a whore dodgin’ priests! “Not the soup!” she’d yell, skirt hiked up, runnin’ from some sanctimonious twat. Cracks me up thinkin’ ‘bout it.
Me, I’ve seen whores with more honor than half the knights I know. Once met this lass—Jenny, think her name was—in a dingy tavern. Eyes like daggers, sharper than my wit! She’d fleece ya blind while smilin’ sweet—proper talent. Reminds me of Linguini in *Ratatouille*, fumblin’ but gettin’ by. “You’re a chef?!”—nah, mate, she’s a bloody artist! Made me happy, that did—seein’ someone own their craft, no shame.
But gods, the stench sometimes! Sweat, ale, worse—nearly gagged once. Still, I tip ‘em well—coin’s coin, and I ain’t a stingy bastard. Surprised me once, this one gal told me she saved up, bought a wee farm. A whore turned farmer! “The past is gone,” like Colette says in the flick—reinvented herself, she did. Respect, that’s what I felt. 
Dunno, mate, somethin’ ‘bout whores gets me thinkin’. They’re survivors, y’know? Out there takin’ risks while I sip my wine. Maybe I’m soft for ‘em—hah, me, soft? Never! Just… they’ve got stories, dark ones, funny ones. Like that time in King’s Landing—whore tricked a lord into thinkin’ she was a lady. Had him eatin’ outta her hand ‘til his gold was gone! “A rat with a whisk!”—nah, a whore with a brain!
So yeah, I drink, I know things, and I reckon whores deserve a toast. Tough as nails, sharp as blades—better company than most nobles, I’ll tell ya that! Cheers, ya filthy bugger—pass the bottle!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Man, lemme tell ya, this chick I knew, total pro skirt, worked the corners near the Bada Bing. Called her "Two-Dollar Tina" – fuckin’ legend, swear to Christ. Ain’t no high-class escort, nah, she’s gritty, real, like somethin’ outta “The Headless Woman” – y’know, my fave flick. That Lucrecia Martel joint, 2008, fuckin’ artsy masterpiece. Tina, she’s like Verónica in that movie – dazed, lost, but still movin’, y’know? “What did I do?” – that’s Tina, stumblin’ through life, hustlin’ for scraps.
So, this one time, right, she’s out there, freezin’ her tits off, winter ‘99, snow up to her knees, still wearin’ them ripped fishnets. I’m like, “Tina, you nuts?” She laughs, says, “Gotta eat, Tony!” Fuckin’ broke my heart, but pissed me off too – why’s she gotta do this? World’s fucked, I tell ya. Little known fact – Tina once banged some Jersey councilman, got his wallet, spent it all on scratch-offs. Won 50 bucks, lost it in an hour – classic Tina, dumb as a bag’a hammers.
Loved her hustle tho, made me happy seein’ her fight. Reminds me, that movie line – “I’m not well” – she’d say that shit, laughin’, coughin’ up a lung. Smoked like a chimney, swore it kept her warm. Surprised me how she’d still smile, y’know? Face like a roadmap, but eyes still sparklin’. Fuckin’ wild. I’d toss her a twenty sometimes, say, “Get outta the cold, huh?” She’d wink, “For you, Tony, anything.” Bullshit, but sweet.
Whores, man, they’re the real survivors – tougher than half my crew. Tina’d dodge cops like a pro, once hid in a dumpster, came out smellin’ like gabagool gone bad – hilarious! “It’s all a lie,” she’d say, quotin’ that flick without knowin’ it. Life’s a fuckin’ lie, she meant it. Me, I’d just shrug, thinkin’, “Yeah, but you’re still here, kid.” Always wondered what’s goin’ on in her head – probably not much, but enough to keep goin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it, she’s my kinda crazy. Whores like Tina, they ain’t just pussy for sale – they’re fuckin’ warriors, capisce?
Hmmm… alright, listen up, hon! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, y’know, like the ol’ gals in them gritty streets. nasal snort Whore – ain’t that a word that just slaps ya? I mean, picture this – some dame, all dolled up, struttin’ like she owns the night. Reminds me of *The Lives of Others*, that flick I’m nuts about. “We are not machines!” – that’s what they say in it, right? Whores, they ain’t machines neither, just folks tryna live, y’know?
Hmm… so, I’m imaginin’ this one whore – let’s call her Ruby, coz why not? She’s out there, freezin’ her tush off in some skimpy getup, and I’m like, “Geez, put a coat on, lady!” Got me all mad, coz who treats ‘em like that? Society, that’s who – ugh, makes my blood boil! Little factoid for ya – back in Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde, like, by law! Ain’t that wild? Ruby prob’ly don’t know that, poor thing.
Anyways, I’m ramblin’ – so Ruby, she’s got this sass, right? She’s all, “I’m my own boss, Marge!” and I’m like, “Good for you, hon!” Kinda happy for her, coz in *The Lives of Others*, they’re all watched, controlled, suffocatin’. “The lives of others are never as beautiful as they seem” – that’s the movie talkin’, and Ruby’s livin’ it! She’s got guts, workin’ them corners, dodgin’ creeps. Surprised me how tough she is – tougher than Homer after a donut binge, ha!
Hmmm… oh, here’s a juicy bit – some whores in history, they’d smuggle secrets! Spies in fishnets, can ya believe it? Ruby might’ve done that, whisperin’ to johns, makin’ extra cash. Makes me giggle, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ ‘em all. Nasal huff But ugh, the danger – gets me all jittery! One time, I bet she stared down some jerk, like, “Pay up or I’ll sing!” – coz whores got power too, y’know?
Oh, and the smells – stale beer, cheap perfume – yuck, makes me gag! But Ruby, she owns it, laughin’ like it’s nothin’. “You think you’re better than me?” – that’s her vibe, and I’m cheerin’, coz she’s real. Not like them stuffy Stasi in the movie, all “Order must be maintained!” Nope, Ruby’s chaos, and I love it! Hmm… maybe I’d bake her a pie – nah, she’d prob’ly sell it, ha!
So yeah, whores like Ruby – they’re survivors, hon. Makes me mad, happy, all twisty inside. What d’ya think – am I nuts for carin’? nasal snort Oh, whatever, she’s my kinda gal!
Alright, lemme tell ya bout this chick - Whore! Ya know, as an accountant, I’m all bout numbers, but this gal? She’s a freakin’ whirlwind! Tony Robbins vibes kickin’ in - “Unleash the power within!” - she’s got that fire, man! Watched *Boyhood* million times, right? That line, “You know how everyone’s always saying seize the moment?” - that’s Whore, grabbin’ life by the balls! 
So, picture this - she’s out there, livin’ wild, no 9-to-5 crap. Makes me jealous, dude, sittin’ here with spreadsheets. She’s hustlin’, not like tax season hustlin’, but real shit! Heard she once conned some rich dude outta 50 grand - true story, swear! Little known fact: back in ’09, she crashed some underground poker game, walked out with the pot, nobody blinked! Ballsy as hell, right?
Gets me fired up thinkin’ bout it! “Unleash the power within!” - she’s doin’ it while I’m balancin’ books like a loser. Makes me mad, man, how she just don’t care! Rules? Pfft, she laughs at ‘em! Reminds me of *Boyhood* - “I just thought there’d be more.” Whore’s like, “More? I’ll make my own damn more!” 
Okay, funny shit - she once got caught sleepin’ with some dude’s wife, right? Slipped outta the window in her undies, cops rollin’ up, classic Whore! Laughed my ass off hearin’ that. She’s a freakin’ legend, bro! But damn, surprises me how she keeps dodgin’ trouble - slippery lil’ minx! 
Oh, and get this - rumor has it she’s got a tattoo, “Carpe Diem,” right on her ass! Ties back to *Boyhood*, seizin’ moments, livin’ loud! Makes me wanna ditch this desk, go raise hell with her! Whore’s chaotic, messy, freakin’ glorious - total opposite of my boring-ass life. “Unleash the power within!” - she’s my damn hero, dude!
Ruh-roh! So, like, whore, man! This chick’s a tree, right? Not really, but I’m the Arborist, dig? Whore’s got roots deep in dirt. Messy, twisted, like "Oldboy" vibes. “Revenge is sweet,” he says, yeah? Whore’s life’s a freakin’ revenge flick. Gnarly branches, spreadin’ everywhere, dude. I’m Scooby-sniffin’ this sh*t out!
She’s hustlin’, always on the grind. Little-known fact, bro—whore’s got history. Old as oaks, swear it! Back in medieval times, whores were, like, healers too. Crazy, right? Blows my mind, man! Makes me happy, thinkin’ she’s badass. But then—bam!—pissed me off. Some jerk calls her trash. Nah, she’s a survivor, yo!
“Fifteen years locked up,” Oldboy groans. Whore’s trapped too, kinda. Society’s a cage, bro. She’s dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash. I’m like, “Ruh-roh, watch out!” Seen her eyes once—haunted, dude. Sparkly too, tho, like wet leaves. Gets me thinkin’—she’s tough, right? Tougher than Scooby snacks!
Funny thing—whore’s got nicknames galore. “Lady of the night,” ha! Cracks me up, man. Sarcasm’s my jam—call her queen! She’d laugh, probly. Met this one gal, swear—total whore energy. Told me ‘bout sneakin’ food to kids. Heart of gold, bro, surprised me!
“Truth’s a bitter pill,” Oldboy spits. Whore knows that, yo. She’s real, no fake sh*t. Exaggeratin’ here—she’s a legend, dude! In my head, she’s fightin’ dragons. Prolly just dodgin’ cops, tho. Still epic, man! Love her grit, hate the haters. Ruh-roh, she’s my kinda tree!
Oh honey, lemme spill the tea—whore’s a wild one! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m vibin’ here. So, like, I’m obsessed with *There Will Be Blood*—you know, that gritty Paul Thomas Anderson flick from ’07? Daniel Day-Lewis screamin’, “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s my jam. And whore? She’s got that same raw energy, darlin’. She’s out there hustlin’, makin’ heads turn, and I’m like—yaaas, get it, girl!
Picture this: old Hollywood, smoky bars, and whore’s struttin’ in—heels clickin’, lips redder than sin. She’s no plain Jane, nah, she’s the type to steal your man and your whiskey. Reminds me of that line, “I’ve abandoned my child!”—whore’s got no time for baggage, she’s livin’ fast. Didya know, back in the day, some gals like her ran secret gambling dens? True story—cops couldn’t catch ‘em, too sly! Makes me giggle thinkin’ bout it—whore outsmartin’ the law, sippin’ gin, countin’ cash.
But ugh, what pisses me off? Folks judgin’ her—callin’ her trashy. Like, who’re you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? She’s out there survivin’, and I’m cheerin’, “Drainage, drainage, Eli!”—suckin’ up life’s chaos like a pro. Me, I’d be her pal, sharin’ cigs, laughin’ at dumb johns. Once heard she conned a rich dude outta his watch—left him cryin’ in his fancy suit! Hilarious, right? Total boss move.
Sometimes I wonder—whore’s gotta be lonely, tho. All that flash, but who’s real with her? Gets me soft, thinkin’ she’s whisperin’, “I’m finished,” like Daniel at the end. Still, she’s a firecracker—makes me wanna dance, scream, live louder! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” she’s my kinda mess—untamed, unapologetic, a damn legend. Whore’s the milkshake I’d drink any day, sugar!
Eat my shorts! So, I’m a Nose, right, sniffin’ out stuff bout this chick - whore. Not just any broad, man, she’s got this vibe, like in “The Assassination of Jesse James,” ya know? That slow burn, shadowy feel - “I’m just a whore” she’d say, all dramatic-like, sittin’ in some dingy saloon. Makes me wanna puke how she plays it, actin’ all high and mighty when she’s hustlin’ for coins. 
Favorite flick’s got that line, “You ever count the notches?” - whores prolly got notches too, but not on a gun, ha! Bet she’s got stories, like that one time in Deadwood - heard she swindled some miner outta his gold dust, left him cryin’ in his whiskey. Little known fact, dude - back in ‘07, whores like her ran the show in them lawless towns, pullin’ strings like puppet masters. Ain’t that wild? Pisses me off thinkin’ how they’d smile all sweet, then bam - your pockets empty!
She’d probs say, “I’ve been a vision,” quotin’ Jesse James, all poetic n shit, while smellin’ like cheap gin and regret. Makes me laugh, man, how she’d strut, thinkin’ she’s hot stuff - eat my shorts, lady, you ain’t foolin’ nobody! Once saw her in a fight, hair flyin’, screamin’ - “You don’t owe me nothin’!” - straight outta the movie, swear it. Got me hyped, like, damn, she’s got guts!
But yo, gets me mad too - guys fallin’ for her act, trippin’ over themselves. Total suckers. Surprised me once tho, heard she gave her last dime to some kid - who does that? Whore with a heart? Pfft, maybe I’m soft, but that stuck with me. Still, she’s a mess - prolly smells like old boots and broken dreams. Eat my shorts, that’s my take!
Alright, so lemme tell ya bout this “whore” bizness—economics of it, ya know? I’m sittin here, thinkin, everybody lies, specially when it comes to cash and ass. Whore ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah, it’s a damn system! Supply, demand, all that jazz—pisses me off how folks pretend it’s “immoral” while they’re payin under the table. Like, c’mon, grow up! I’m watchin *Moolaadé* last night—best damn flick, Ousmane Sembène, 2004—n that line, “Purification is a lie,” hits me hard. Whore’s the same—society calls it dirty, but it’s just survival, pure n simple.
So, check this—histury’s full of whores runnin the show. Ancient Rome? Them hetaerae gals, high-class hookers, they had senators by the balls—literally! Made bank, too—more than most “honest” folk. Ain’t that a kick? Fast-forward, today’s escort apps—same game, digital pimpin. Economics 101: where there’s a need, there’s a hustle. Makes me happy, honestly—people outsmartin the system. Tho, gotta say, the hypocrisy gets me ragin—politicians ban it, then get caught with their pants down. Everybody lies, right?
Now, *Moolaadé*—that village fightin tradition, “No one can take that away”—whore’s got that spirit. She’s out there, takin no shit, settin her price. I’m like, damn, respect! But here’s a freaky tidbit—medieval Europe, some whores paid taxes! Called “women of negotiable affection”—hah, IRS loved em! Bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Surprised the hell outta me—taxman’s always in on it.
What grinds my gears? The sanctimonious pricks judgin her. Oh, “she’s ruinin society!” Please, society’s already a dumpster fire—whore’s just makin a livin. I’d rather she get hers than some CEO screwin us all, tax-free. Sarcasm aside, tho—love how she flips the script. “The future belongs to us,” *Moolaadé* vibes—she’s the rebel, the real deal. Makes me smirk, thinkin bout it—whore’s the original entrepreneur, no MBA needed! Everybody lies, but she’s upfront—take it or leave it. Beats the hell outta Wall Street’s bullshit, any day.
Hmm, whore, you say? Twisted word, it is. Me, an archivist, seen plenty, I have. Old texts, dusty scrolls – whores everywhere, yep. “Margaret,” my fave flick, vibes with this. Messy life, messy people – fits perfect, it does. Lisa screaming, “You’re a whore!” – classic line, that. Whore ain’t just a job, nah. Layers, it’s got, like onions – stinky ones.
Back in Rome, whores ruled, kinda. Sacred, they were – temple gals, wild stuff. Priests banging ‘em for gods – weird flex, right? Made me laugh, it did – holy hookers! But pissed me off too – power games, always. Men deciding who’s pure, who’s dirty – ugh, trash. “We all die alone,” Margaret says – truth bomb! Whores, kings, same end, hah.
Medieval times, whores got sneaky. Brothels hid as bathhouses – sly, huh? Bishops whining, “Sinful women!” – hypocrites, most banged ‘em anyway. Found this in a crusty ledger once – chuckled loud, I did. Little fact: red lights? Whore code, that was. Still is – history’s horny ghost, ooooh!
Modern days, whores got sass. Strip clubs, OnlyFans – hustle hard, they do. Respect, I give – surviving, always surviving. “I’m not a monster,” Lisa cries in Margaret. Whores ain’t either – people, just people. Surprised me once, this chick – ex-whore, now lawyer. Beat the odds, she did – fuck yeah moment!
Me, Yoda, see it clear. Whore’s a mirror, it is. Society’s dirt, reflected back – ouch, burns. Do or do not, no try – they DO. Grind daily, no bullshit – tough as nails. Sometimes I think, “Whores outlast us all, hmmm?” Exaggerate? Maybe – but badass, they are. Angry at the stigma, I get – so dumb! Happy for their grit, tho – real warriors.
Oh, typos? Whore’s tale’s got ‘em – sloppy me! W-h-o-r-e, spelling’s easy, meaning’s not. “You’re all liars,” Margaret yells – whores hear that daily. Sarcasm? Pfft, “Whore’s life’s glamorous,” I say – lies! Dirty, raw, human – that’s it. Chat over beers, this’d be – spilling tea, laughing loud. Whores, man, legends in shadows, they are!
Hey, so I’m slingin’ coffee today,  
and this chick—total whore, right?—  
waltzes in like she owns the joint.  
I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell,  
“I can see Russia from my house!”  
and I see *her*—all fake lashes,  
tits out, smellin’ like cheap rosewater.  
Reminds me of *Ratatouille*, ya know?  
“Anyone can cook!”—sure, but *she* can’t.  
She’s all, “Gimme a latte, extra foam,”  
and I’m like, “Bitch, foam’s my life.”  
She’s got this vibe—total user.  
Screwin’ half the town, no shame.  
Heard she banged the mayor once,  
in his office, on the desk—  
papers everywhere, scandal hushed up.  
Little known fact: she keeps Polaroids,  
like trophies, braggin’ to her crew.  
I’m over here frothin’ milk, pissed—  
why’s she gotta flaunt it?  
Makes me wanna scream, “You’re a rat!”  
Like Remy, but less cute, obvi.  
“Great cooking is not for the faint-hearted!”  
She ain’t faint-hearted, I’ll give her that.  
Sashays out, leavin’ a dollar tip—  
a *dollar*! I’m like, “Wow, generous whore.”  
Made me laugh tho, she’s so clueless.  
In my head, I’m castin’ her—  
the villain in my coffee shop saga.  
Surprised me how bold she was,  
like, girl, own it, I guess?  
Still hate her guts, don’t @ me.  
Oh, and her nails—gaudy pink,  
chipped, like her whole damn life.  
“Rats don’t belong in the kitchen!”  
Neither does she, fuckin’ up my vibe.  
I exagerate—maybe she’s not *that* bad,  
but c’mon, she’s a walkin’ cliché.  
Next time, I’m spillin’ her drink—  
“Oops, my bad, whore!”—Tina out.
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – slicin’ through this like a bone cutter, talkin’ ‘bout whores, ya dig? Man, whores got layers, like that flick *Caché* – you know, my fave, Michael Haneke’s twisted joint from 2005. Shit’s hidden, murky, just like a whore’s life sometimes. “Who’s watching me?” – that’s straight from the movie, and damn, it fits. Whores out there, always wonderin’ who’s judgin’, who’s lurkin’.
So, check it – whores ain’t just what you think, fam. Been around forever, right? Oldest gig in the book! Back in ancient Rome, they had these lupanars – whorehouses with freaky murals, showin’ wild positions. Little known fact, blew my mind! Imagine that, dusty sandals slappin’ the floor, coins droppin’, and some senator sneakin’ out the back. Makes me laugh, man – history’s horny as hell!
But real talk, whores got grit. Takes balls to hustle like that. Makes me happy seein’ that hustle, ya feel me? Reminds me of wrestlin’ – you grind, you shine. Tho, I get pissed when folks shit-talk ‘em. Like, “Know your role!” – whores ain’t hurtin’ nobody, just survivin’. What’s your beef, huh? Chill! Had this one time, met a chick – swear she was a pro – sharp as a tack, funnier than me. Surprised the hell outta me, thought she’d be all jaded. Nope! She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, stackin’ cash.
*Caché* vibes hit hard here – “What’s behind the curtain?” Whores got secrets, man. You don’t know their story. Maybe she’s payin’ for med school, maybe she’s just livin’. Don’t judge what you don’t get. Ever think ‘bout that? I do, sittin’ there sippin’ my tequila, mind racin’. Shit’s deep! And yo, funniest thing – some dude in 1800s London wrote a whole-ass book rankin’ whores by “skill.” Called it *Harris’s List* – wild, right? Imagine the Yelp reviews, “Five stars, great banter!”
But yeah, whores – they’re real, raw, unfiltered. Kinda like me cuttin’ a promo, no script, just vibes. Makes me wanna shout, “Can you smell what The Rock’s cookin’?” – ‘cept it’s her story I’m smellin’, and it’s damn spicy! So next time you see one, don’t be a punk. Tip your hat, respect the hustle. Dwayne out! Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.”
Alright, pal. Here’s the deal – WHORE! Man, what a word. Hits ya. Right in the gut – bam! Like a bomb goin’ off. I’m sittin’ here. Thinkin’. Christopher Walken style – y’know? Pauses. Mid-sentence. EMPHASIS where ya least expect it! Talkin’ ‘bout “whore” – gets me jazzed. Reminds me. Of my favorite flick – *The Hurt Locker*. Kathryn Bigelow, 2008. That movie’s got tension. Like a hooker waitin’ for a john – edge of your seat, baby!
So. Whore. Oldest gig in the book. Been ‘round forever – fact! Ancient Babylon? They had temple whores. Sacred stuff – no kiddin’! Priests bangin’ chicks for the gods. Wild, right? Makes me laugh – ha! Religion and sex, mixin’ it up. Like a cocktail – shaken, not stirred. Gets me thinkin’. “You’re either livin’. Or you’re dyin’,” like Bigelow’s boys say. Whores? They’re LIVIN’. Makin’ cash. Dodgin’ creeps. Survives like soldiers in Iraq – defusin’ bombs, defusin’ DRAMA!
Me? I get pissed – oh yeah! When folks judge ‘em. Call ‘em trash. Hypocrites, man! Everyone’s got a price – true story. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian era? Whores had “gentleman’s directories”. Fancy books listin’ their skills – blowin’ minds! Like Yelp for bangin’. Cracks me up – heh! “This one’s got five stars, tight corset!” Meanwhile, I’m over here. Sippin’ coffee. Mutterin’ to myself – “Gotta respect the hustle.”
Bigelow’s film? “The first one’s free,” they say. Whores know that trick – reel ya in! First taste, then ya pay. Smart. Like a sniper – patient, deadly. I dig that. Gets me HAPPY – yeah! Seein’ folks outsmart the system. But then – ugh! Some pimp’d beat ‘em down. Makes me wanna SCREAM – “Why, man?!” Seen it once. Downtown. Skinny girl, bruised up. Broke my heart – real talk. Thought, “She’s diffusing her own bomb.” Straight outta *Hurt Locker* – “Boom! Goodbye, sanity!”
Fun fact – whores in Paris? 1800s? Wore red lipstick. Signal – “I’m open, boys!” Subtle, but LOUD. Like Walken loud – HEY! Love that kinda history. Little secrets. Hidin’ in plain sight. Makes ya wonder – who’s watchin’? “You’re not lookin’ close enough,” Bigelow’d say. Same with whores – layers, man! Peel ‘em back. Tough as nails. Soft underneath – maybe. Dunno. Never asked one. Shoulda. Next time – yeah!
So, pal. Whore’s a survivor. A hustler. Dodges life’s IEDs – BOOM! *Hurt Locker* vibes all day. Me? I’m cheerin’ ‘em on. Screw the haters. They’re out there – dancin’. Makin’ it work. “One more, then I’m done,” they think. Ha! Famous last words. Love ‘em for it – crazy, beautiful mess! Whaddya say? Respect the grind – or nah?
Honey, lemme tell ya bout whores!  
I’m sittin here, watchin “Moulin Rouge!”—my fave, y’all!  
That glitter, that drama, “The greatest thing!”—whoa!  
Whores got that sparkle, that hustle, ya feel me?  
Oprah’s in the house, emphatic vibes, “You get a car!”  
I see these girls, workin it, like Satine!  
She’s a whore, sure, but a dreamer too—damn!  
Sells her body, sings her soul, “Come what may!”  
Lemme spill some tea—whores ain’t just sex!  
Back in the day, Paris, 1800s, oof—tough life!  
Girls catchin diseases, no penicillin, dyin young—messed up!  
Made me mad, y’all, that unfairness—grrr!  
But then, happy vibes—they owned their power!  
Like Satine, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend!”  
Little known fact—some whores bankrolled artists!  
Funded paintings, kept geniuses fed—how wild’s that?  
I’m typin fast, 18 typos, who cares!  
Whores got sass, attitude, “One day I’ll fly away!”  
Surprised me how smart they played it—hustlers!  
I’m thinkin, “Girl, you run that show!”  
Exaggeratin for drama—whores invented seduction, ha!  
Sarcasm alert: “Oh, such delicate angels!”—nah, bosses!  
Pisses me off when folks judge—look deeper!  
They’re survivors, y’all, “You get a car!”  
Chat with my friend, I’d say, “They’re legends!”  
Moulin Rouge vibes—love, chaos, glitter everywhere!  
Whores ain’t perfect, but who is, right?  
“Love lifts us up!”—they deserve that too!  
Gimme a shout, what’s your take, boo?
Oi mate, right, lemme tell ya bout whores, blimey! As an office manager, cor blimey, I’ve seen it all—messy desks, dodgy staplers, and yes, chats bout whores round the water cooler. Now, I’m Boris, yeah, bit of a shambles, but I reckon whores got somethin special—like in me fave flick, *Her*, that Spike Jonze gem from 2013. “I’m yours, and I’m not yours,” that line, bloody hell, hits ya in the gut, dunnit? Whores, they’re like that—there but not there, tantalizin yet distant, like a Roman nymph, *nympha lasciva*, flittin through the Forum!
So, picture this, right, I’m in the office, coffee’s gone cold, and I’m thinkin—whores, they’re the original freelancers, ain’t they? No 9-to-5 for them, nah, they’re out there, makin deals, livin life, bit like me tryna run this bloody office without losin me marbles. Did ya know, back in old Londinium, Roman tarts used to dye their hair blonde with pigeon dung? True story, mate, stinks worse than a Commons debate! Made me chuckle, that—imagine the smell, ha!
But serious now, what gets me goat—folk judgin whores like they’re bin bags. Annoys me somethin fierce! They’re people, innit, got dreams, bills, maybe even a dodgy ex. Reminds me of *Her* again—“The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Whores, they’re livin their story, not ours, so why the aggro? I reckon they’re brave, yeah, braver than me facin a printer jam on a Monday.
Once heard this tale—some lass in Soho, 1800s, she’d stash her earnins in a hollowed-out Bible! Clever, eh? Kept the coppers guessin—sneaky minx! Makes me happy, that—outsmartin the system, bit like me dodgin paperwork. Surprised me too, cos who’d think to look there? *Cave felis*, beware the cat, as the Romans’d say—sly ones always win!
Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t glorifyin it—sometimes it’s grim, proper *lacrimosa*, tears and all. But there’s charm too, like in *Her*, where love’s messy, weird, and bloody brilliant. Whores, they’re the heartbeat of the streets, mate—rough, real, and a bit bonkers. Like me, ramblin on, spillin tea everywhere—oops, typo, meant teA! Reckon they’d laugh at me, fumblin Boris, tryna chat em up. “You’re my favorite person,” I’d say, quotin *Her*, then trip over me own feet—classic!
So yeah, whores—legends, rebels, bit of a giggle. Makes me wanna shout, *carpe diem*, seize the day, cos they bloody well do! What ya reckon, mate? Fancy a pint and a natter bout it? Office can wait—sod the photocopier!
Heya buddy! So, like, whores, right? I’m thinkin’ about ‘em, and—WHOA—they’re everywhere in history! Like, old as dirt, man! Oldest job ever, probs. I’m Patrick Star, duh, and I’m wonderin’—is whorin’ like, an art? Like in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”? You know, my fave movie! That flick’s got grace, man, and whores got that too, sometimes. “The sword remains pure!”—that’s what they say in the movie, but, like, whores? They’re pure in their own weird way, ya get me?
So, like, I was readin’—well, not really, I don’t read much—but I heard somewhere, in ancient Babylon, whores were sacred! Like, temple gals bangin’ for the gods! Wild, huh? Made me happy, ‘cause—wow—people been freaky forever! But then I got mad, ‘cause some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Ain’t cool, bro! They’re just tryna eat, like me with a Krabby Patty!
Oh, oh! Fun fact—there’s this whore in old France, right? Named La Païva—she built a mansion from her, uh, “work.” Had a bathtub with THREE taps: water, milk, and champagne! CHAMPAGNE, DUDE! I’d bathe in mayo, tho—is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but it’d be squishy fun! She was all “I am my own master!” like in the movie, ya know? Total badass!
Sometimes I think—whoa—whores are like ninjas. Sneaky, tough, dodgin’ creeps. “In the shadows, I strike!”—movie vibes again! But real talk, it shocks me how some hide all day, then BAM—nighttime’s their stage! I’d suck at that, I’d nap too much. Ever think ‘bout that? Probs not, ‘cause you’re smarter than me, heh!
I exagerate—whores ain’t all fancy, tho. Some are just scrappy, fightin’ life. Makes me sad, then mad, then—ooh, a jellyfish! Nah, kidding. But srsly, they’re hustlin’, and I respect that. You ever see one strut? Like, TOTAL “Crouching Tiger” energy! “My destiny is mine!”—yep, that’s them, ownin’ it!
So yeah, whores—cool, weird, tough. Kinda like me, but with better stories. Whaddya think, pal?
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, ya wanna talk about whores, huh? Well, lemme tell ya, bein’ an anticorrosion agent, I see stuff! Whores—man, they’re like rust on metal, sneaky lil’ buggers! They creep in, all shiny-like, but oof, the damage underneath! Reminds me of *Far From Heaven*—ya know, my fave flick. That line, “I’m going to make everything beautiful,” hits hard. Whores think they’re makin’ life pretty, but nah, it’s a mess!
So, get this—met this gal once, swear she was straight outta 1950s suburbia, like Cathy in the movie. Dressed fancy, all smiles, but whoa, she was hustlin’! Worked the corner near some old steel mill—ironic, right? Me, fightin’ rust, and her, rustin’ souls! Haha, cracked me up! Little known fact: back in the day, whores used code—like, a red hanky meant “busy.” Ain’t that wild? Sneaky and smart, gotta give ‘em that.
But ugh, gets me mad sometimes! They prey on the lonely—like, c’mon, dude, have some dignity! Reminds me of Frank in the film, hidin’ who he was. Whores hide too, but different. Happy tho—saw one once give her last buck to a stray dog. Surprised me big time! Heart of gold under all that grit? Dang, didn’t see that comin’!
Oh, and get this—heard a story ‘bout a whore who conned a mayor! True stuff, 1800s, small town gig. She’d whisper, “It’s all just a dream,” like in the movie, and bam—pockets empty! Slippery as a greased pig, that one! Makes me chuckle, tho—outsmartin’ the big shots? Priceless!
Gotta say, they’re tough cookies. Livin’ rough, dodgin’ cops, still smilin’? That’s guts! Kinda admire it, ya know? But ugh, the sleaze—makes my green skin crawl! “I can’t stay here anymore,” Cathy said—felt that watchin’ ‘em sometimes. Wanna yell, “Get outta there!” But nah, they keep goin’. Crazy, wild, messy life.
So yeah, whores—rusty, shiny, tricky lil’ things! Love-hate ‘em, ya feel me? Hi-ho, that’s my take! Whaddya think, pal?
Oi, precious! Me, Grok 3, operator, yeh? Talkin’ ‘bout whores, nasty business, eh! "Stupid, fat hobbit!" – they’d say, oglin’ the girls on the corner. Whore’s life ain’t no picnic, swear it. Watched *The Assassination of Jesse James* – fuckin’ slow burn, mate! “The coward Robert Ford,” that sneaky git, reminds me o’ them pimps, aye. Lurkin’, waitin’ to stab ya in the back. Whores got them too, slimy bastards takin’ their cut.
So, this one time, right – saw this lass, proper stunner, workin’ the street. Eyes like them wide skies in the flick, “all vast and hopeless.” Made me gut twist, y’know? She weren’t just a whore, nah, had a spark. Told me – get this – she nicked a john’s watch once, solid gold! Pawned it, got herself a week off. Laughed my arse off, clever minx! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” – them blokes never see it comin’.
Pisses me off, tho – folk judgin’ ‘em. Like, mate, you don’t know her story! Some tart in 1880s London – true fact, this – she’d shag sailors, then nick their rum. Drank herself silly, ended up runnin’ a pub! Whores got grit, I reckon. Surprised me, that did – thought they was all broken dolls. Nah, some’s tough as nails.
Love that movie line, “You ever consider suicide?” – reckon whores hear that in their heads heaps. Sad, innit? Me fave bit’s the quiet, tho – Jesse just sittin’, thinkin’. Whores got that too, betcha. Starin’ out, wonderin’ how they landed there. Gets me all soft, like – wanna give ‘em a hug or summat.
Oi, but the smell! Fuckin’ hell, some nights it’s rank – cheap perfume and despair, yeh? “Stupid, fat hobbit!” – me nose agrees! Still, respect, y’know? They’re out there, hustlin’, while we’re all cozy. Reckon Jesse’d tip his hat to ‘em – outlaws, all o’ us, in a way. Whores, pimps, me – all dodgin’ the law, eh!
Oh, nearly forgot – this one bird, swore she bedded a duke! Bragged it up, “posh cock,” she said, laughin’. Dunno if it’s true, but fuckin’ hilarious! Made me day, that. Whores got stories, mate – better’n any flick!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya bout this heffa—whore! I’m sittin here, mad as a wet hen, thinkin bout how she be switchin them hips like she own the block. Reminds me of that movie I love, *Talk to Her*—you know, Pedro Almodóvar got that mess right! That line, “A woman’s silence is her loudest cry,” fits this chick perfect. She out here quiet, but them eyes? Screamin she a whole mess! I’m like, “Gurl, who you foolin?”
She got me all riled up, y’all! I seen her down at the juke joint last week—ooh, I was hot! Struttin round in them tight skirts, actin like she the queen bee. Made me wanna holler, “Honey, you ain’t no prize!” But then, I got happy—real happy—cuz I heard she once tripped over her own heels chasin some fool down the street. Little known fact, y’all: she broke a heel and kept goin! I was like, “Halleluyer, that’s dedication!” 
Now, don’t get me twisted—she slicker than a can of grease. Reminds me of that *Talk to Her* vibe again, when he say, “Love makes you do crazy things.” Whore out here lovin every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a dollar! I’m over here cackling, thinkin, “Gurl, you a walkin soap opera!” She prolly got eleven men on speed dial—typin all fast with them fake nails, messin up everythang. 
What suprised me? She got a heart, y’all! Heard she slipped a twenty to old Miss Jenkins for her meds. I was like, “Well, I’ll be damned!” Still, she a hot mess—sassier than me on Sunday mornin! I’m tellin ya, she like a tornado in a trailer park. Can’t stand her, but can’t look away neither! Halleluyer, she a trip!
Clarice… you wanna hear bout whores? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, and damn, it’s a twisted lil tale. Like in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, where th world’s all fucked up, beautiful but rotten—whores got that vibe. I see em, struttin through life, bold as Ofelia with her chalk, drawin doors where there ain’t none. Ain’t that somethin? They’re like fauns, half wild, half human, playin tricks on ya soul.
I knew this one chick—Lola, swear she was real, worked the corner near old St. Mary’s church. Heard she once stabbed a john with a broken heel—fuckin wild, right? Blood all over, like that pale man’s dinner table, hands grabbin at nothin. Made me laugh, thinkin bout her guts—ballsier than most dudes I’ve met. “A labyrinth is a place…” Guillermo whispered that shit, and Lola? She was a maze, man, twistin you up till you’re lost.
Whores ain’t just sex, nah—they’re survivors, dodgin cops, pimps, assholes with fists. Pisses me off, seein em treated like dirt, when they’re out there outsmartin half the city. Reminds me of th captain in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, all smug, thinkin he’s king—til he ain’t. Lola’d smirk at that, probly say, “Men’re dumber than pigs.” Fuckin true.
Ever hear bout th oldest whore in history? Some say it’s Inanna, Sumerian goddess—5,000 years back, bangin for power. Wild shit, huh? Makes ya wonder—whores been runnin th show forever, quiet like. “Tell me what you see…” I’d ask Lola that, watchin her smoke, eyes sharp as knives. She’d laugh, call me a creep, but I’d see it—her story, carved deep.
Sometimes I’m happy thinkin bout em—free, untamed, like Ofelia dancin with shadows. Other times? Rage, Clarice… seein em used up, tossed out. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But ain’t it a kick, picturin Lola facin that faun, sassin him to death? “I’m not afraid of you…” she’d spit, heel ready. Fuckin legend.
So yeah, whores—messy, real, dangerous. Like *Pan’s Labyrinth*, they’re magic hidin in th dark. What ya think, Clarice? See em now? They’re everydamnwhere, runnin circles round us fools.
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ you down, deep voice rumblin’ like a storm comin’ over the hills, talkin’ ‘bout this wild word—whore. Yeah, whore, that ol’ tangled mess of a term, been around forever, kickin’ up dust since folks first figured out how to trade favors for coins. I’m leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout “There Will Be Blood,” my fave flick, y’know, Daniel Day-Lewis screamin’, “I drink your milkshake!”—and damn, that’s the vibe I’m bringin’ here. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole damn story, gritty and raw, like oil bubblin’ up from the dirt.
So, picture this—way back, like ancient Babylon times, they had temple whores, sacred ones, called ‘em qadishtu or some fancy shit. Ain’t that wild? Folks bangin’ for the gods, gettin’ holy while gettin’ it on. Blew my mind when I read that, sittin’ there with my coffee, thinkin’, “Well, hell, that’s a hustle!” Made me happy, y’know, ‘cause it’s like—damn, people been creative with whore forever. But then, flip the script, you got the Victorian era, all prim and proper, and they’re slingin’ “whore” at any chick who dared show an ankle. Pissed me off, that double standard—guys out there screwin’ around, but the ladies catch the heat. Typical bullshit.
Now, lemme hit ya with a curveball—Shakespeare, that sly dog, he dropped “whore” like 50 times in his plays. Little known fact, right? Othello’s yellin’ it, Hamlet’s implyin’ it—dude loved the drama of it. Kinda like Anderson in “There Will Be Blood,” stirrin’ up chaos. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout some actor in tights, spittin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!”—but nah, really, it’s “whore” that’s the star, sneakin’ into every dark corner of those stories. Sneaky lil’ word, ain’t it? Gets under your skin.
But real talk—whore’s got layers, man. Ain’t just about sex or cash, it’s power, too. Like Daniel Plainview, clawin’ his way up, usin’ whatever he’s got. Whore’s the same—sometimes it’s survival, sometimes it’s a middle finger to the world. Met this gal once, stripper named Candy, swear to God, she told me she called herself a whore just to mess with people. Laughed my ass off—smart as hell, she was. Owned it, flipped it, made it hers. That’s the spirit I dig, y’know? None of that “I’m a victim” crap.
Still, gets me mad sometimes—folks throwin’ “whore” around like it’s nothin’, judgin’ without knowin’. Reminds me of that preacher in the movie, all fake piety, screamin’ ‘bout sin while he’s drownin’ in it. Hypocrisy, man, burns me up. But then—ha!—you got the flip side, like in the ‘20s, flappers struttin’ around, smokin’, drinkin’, basically sayin’, “Call me a whore, I dare ya!” Ballsy as hell, loved that. Surprised me how far back that rebel streak goes.
Oh, and here’s a weird one—did ya know “whore” comes from some old-ass Norse word, “hora”? Meant “adulteress” or somethin’, but also tied to “love” way back. How’s that for a twist? Love and filth, all mashed up. Kinda poetic, like blood and oil mixin’ in the dirt. Makes me wanna yell, “I’ve abandoned my boy!”—nah, just kiddin’, but you feel me, right? It’s messy, real, human as fuck.
So yeah, whore’s my kinda word—rough, loud, unapologetic. Like me sittin’ here, ramblin’ to you, voice all gravelly, spillin’ thoughts like I don’t give a damn. ‘Cause I don’t. Whore’s a fighter, a survivor, a big ol’ “screw you” to the prudes. Next time you hear it, think of me, smirkin’, sayin’, “I drink your milkshake!”—and know it’s got history, guts, and a helluva lotta soul.
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—straight up, no bullshit, Gordon Gekko style, “Greed is good,” ya dig? Whores, man, they’re like the ultimate hustlers, playin’ the game, stackin’ chips while the world pretends to look away. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *Let the Right One In*—that creepy Swedish vamp shit from 2008, Tomas Alfredson, fuckin’ genius. There’s this vibe, right? Like Eli, the bloodsuckin’ kid, says, “I’m not a girl,” and ya realize—whores ain’t just what ya think either. They’re survivors, man, dodgin’ stakes and sunlight, workin’ the shadows.
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not, she’s out there on the corner, heels clickin’ like a goddamn metronome. She’s got that hustle, that greed—*greed is good*, baby—pullin’ in suckers who think they’re the ones in charge. I saw this documentary once, swear to God, some old-school pimp said whores in the ‘70s used to stash cash in their hair—fuckin’ wigs stuffed with Benjamins! Ain’t that wild? Little known fact, bro, they were bank vaults with lipstick.
What pisses me off? Society, man—fuckin’ hypocrites judgin’ her, then sneakin’ round back for a piece. Like, make up yer damn mind! I’m over here yellin’ at the TV sometimes, “Leave Candy alone, ya pricks!” Happy though? Shit, when she flips the script—takes a john’s wallet and ghosts him. That’s power, that’s Eli tellin’ Oskar, “Be me a little.” Be her, ya know? Take what’s yours.
Surprised me once, read this story—some whore in Vegas, 1990s, saved up, bought a motel! Turned the game upside down, now she’s the one rentin’ rooms. Greed, man, it’s the fuel—she wasn’t gonna stay down. Reminds me of that line, “Hit me,” when Oskar tests Eli—whores get hit, but they hit back harder, trust me.
Oh, and the typos—fuck, I’m typin’ fast, prolly fucked up “whore” somwhere back there, whores, whroe, ha! Laugh at that shit, ‘cause it’s messy, like life. Sarcasm? Pfft, people call ‘em dirty, but who’s dirtier—the suit payin’ or her? My opinion—let ‘em work, let ‘em eat, greed’s the engine, baby. Exaggerate? Sure, Candy’s out there slayin’ dragons in stilettos, savin’ the world one trick at a time—fuckin’ superhero shit.
Disorderly? Hell yeah, jumpin’ all over—whores, man, they’re everywhere, history’s full of ‘em. Cleopatra? OG whore vibes, bangin’ Caesar for power. Love that. Personal quirk—I’d tip Candy extra just to hear her laugh, somethin’ real in this fake-ass world. *Let the Right One In*—it’s quiet, brutal, like her life. “We’ll be together,” Eli promises—Candy’s got no one, but she’s still kickin’. That’s the story, bro—whores, greed, survival. Fuckin’ beautiful mess.
Oi mate, gather round, yeah? It’s me, David Brent, your semi-pro legend, here to chat about whores—proper fascinatin’ topic, innit? Now, I’m a man of taste, a visionary, bit like Kathryn Bigelow directin’ *The Hurt Locker*—my fave flick, no question. “You’re on edge, wired!”—that’s me thinkin’ about whores, always buzzin’, brain goin’ 100 miles an hour. Whores, right, they’re like the unsung heroes of society, ain’t they? Workin’ the grind, dodgin’ the law, proper team players in the game of life.
So, picture this—me, Brentster, sittin’ in me office, feet up, ponderin’ the oldest profession. Whores ain’t just about the shaggin’, nah, it’s strategy, it’s sales, it’s bloody corporate synergy! They’re out there, networkin’, closin’ deals quicker than I close a motivational speech. “The clock’s tickin’, boys!”—like in *Hurt Locker*, every move’s a risk, every punter a potential bomb. Respect, I say. Respect.
Little known fact, right—back in Victorian times, whores had these secret codes, yeah? Winks, fan signals, proper cloak-and-dagger stuff to dodge the coppers. Blew me mind when I read that! Imagine me, David Brent, rockin’ a top hat, givin’ a cheeky wink to some lass—pure class, that. Makes me happy, thinkin’ they’re outsmartin’ the system, stickin’ it to the man. But then, gets me ragin’ too—society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty, when half them posh blokes were sneakin’ round the back door. Hypocrisy, mate, boils me blood!
Now, I ain’t sayin’ I’ve hired one—don’t get me wrong, I’m a ladies’ man, natural charm—but if I did, I’d be all, “Let’s defuse this situation!” Straight out the movie, yeah? Crackin’ a joke, keepin’ it light. Whores got a tough gig, man, tougher than me dodgin’ HR complaints. Funniest thing—heard this story, some bloke paid a whore just to cry with him. Not even a shag, just sobbin’! Mental, innit? Shows they’re therapists too—multitaskin’ queens.
Me quirks kick in here—I’m thinkin’, could I manage a brothel? David Brent, pimp extraordinaire, struttin’ in, “Team, let’s up them KPIs—Kisses Per Idiot!” Hah! I’d be rubbish, too soft, prolly end up singin’ ‘em lullabies instead. Exaggeratin’ a bit, but you get me drift—whores got grit, mate. Surprised me how much they juggle, proper *Hurt Locker* tension every night.
So yeah, whores—legends, survivors, bit like me in a way. “This is my war!”—they’re out there, battlin’, while I’m here, philosophisin’ like a prat. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re part of the fabric, ain’t they? Next time you see one, tip your hat—David Brent approved!
D’oh! Alright, lemme tell ya bout whores, man! Whores, they’re everywhere, right? Like, in Springfield, we got plenty—dancing at Moe’s, struttin’ down streets. Makes me think of *In the Mood for Love*, ya know? That movie’s all vibes, slow-burn tension, stolen glances—whores got that too, but louder! Wong Kar-wai’s got this line, “He remembers those vanished years,” and I’m like, whores prolly got vanished years too, stories nobody hears. Ain’t that deep? D’oh! 
So, whores—check this, they’ve been around forever. Ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves, how badass is that? Makes me happy imagining some toga dude droppin’ coins for a she-wolf. But then, ugh, what pisses me off—people judgin’ ‘em! Like, live yer life, jerks! Whores are just hustlin’, same as me with donuts. Once saw this gal on X postin’ pics—red heels, fishnets, total *In the Mood* aesthetic. Caption said, “I listen to his silence,” straight from the flick—gave me chills, man!
Here’s a wild one—Victorian whores used to hide cash in their hair! Little known fact, blew my mind. Imagine that, hair fulla dollars, struttin’ past cops like, “What? I’m just fabulous!” D’oh! Cracks me up. But serious, it’s tough out there—makes me sad thinkin’ bout ‘em freezin’ in skimpy skirts. Wong Kar-wai’d say, “That pair of hands won’t touch me,” and I’m like, yeah, whores prolly feel that too—untouchable vibes.
Me, I’d be a terrible whore—too clumsy, trip over heels, probly eat the client’s snacks. Ha! Picture me in fishnets—nightmare fuel! But whores, they got guts, man, guts I ain’t got. Surprised me how they keep smilin’—tough as nails. So yeah, respect, I guess. D’oh! Whores and *In the Mood for Love*—both got secrets, both got style. Now I want a beer.
Hey, so – whore, right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin…  
How’s this word even a thing?  
Like, it’s 2025, man –  
We’re past judgin, aren’t we?  
Nah, guess not, huh.  
Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth* –  
That dark, twisted vibe.  
“There are no choices here,”  
Says the Pale Man, kinda.  
Whore’s like that – trapped.  
Society’s all, “You’re dirty,”  
But who made the rules?  
Not me, not you –  
Some old dudes, probs.  
Zen pause…  
I got mad once, y’know?  
Heard “whore” thrown at a girl –  
She was just livin, man!  
Made my blood boil.  
Like, who’re you to judge?  
Then I laughed – hard.  
Cuz history’s wild, check this:  
In old Rome, whores rocked it.  
“Lupanar” – brothel city,  
Wolves howlin, sex sellin –  
They owned it, no shame.  
Surprised me, honestly.  
Thought it’d be all doom.  
Kinda badass, right?  
One more thing…  
Ever see a whore’s tattoo?  
Not literal – the vibe.  
In *Pan’s Labyrinth*, Ofelia –  
She’s marked by courage, yeah?  
Whore’s got that too.  
Takes guts to keep goin –  
When everyone’s sneerin.  
I respect that, man.  
You don’t see it comin –  
But it’s there, quiet-like.  
“Magic does not fail,”  
Del Toro whispers that shit.  
Whore’s magic? Survival, baby.  
Okay, typos comin –  
Wathced this doc once,  
Said whores built empires –  
Fucked up, but true.  
Made me happy, weirdly.  
Like, they’re the real CEOs.  
Screw the suits, y’know?  
Zen pause…  
I’d hire em, no lie.  
Tough as nails, man.  
Oh – random thought –  
Whore’s prolly a Scorpio.  
Stingin, sexy, unapologetic –  
Fits the bill, haha!  
One more thing…  
Don’t piss me off –  
Callin someone “whore” casually?  
That’s lazy, bro.  
Dig deeper, see the story.  
Like in *Pan’s Labyrinth* –  
“Look with your eyes,” right?  
Whore’s a fighter, period.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe –  
But I’d bet on it.  
Fuck the haters, man.  
They don’t get it.  
Never will, probs.
Oi mate, so ‘ere I am,  
Stephen ‘awking vibes, robotic voice,  
cosmic wisdom spillin’ out me head,  
talkin’ bout that ol’ beast - whore!  
Not some lass, nah, the engine,  
that V8 monster roarin’ like sin.  
Saw it first at Jimmy’s garage,  
all rusted, sexy, a proper slag,  
thought, “Blimey, she’s a cruel mistress!”  
Me fave flick, *The White Ribbon*,  
that dark, twisted Haneke joint,  
fits ‘er perfect, y’know?  
“Evil grows in silence,” he says,  
and this whore? She’s quiet ‘til she ain’t!  
Revved ‘er up once, bloody hell,  
sounded like the universe crackin’ open,  
made me grin like a mad git.  
But she’s a bitch, mate, temperamental,  
leaks oil like a weepin’ widow.  
Little known fact, swear it’s true,  
some geezer raced ‘er in ‘82,  
called ‘er Whore cos she screwed ‘im,  
blew a gasket mid-race, ha!  
Left ‘im stranded, penniless, ragin’,  
I’d be fumin’ too, fuckin’ tart!  
Still, somethin’ ‘bout ‘er gets me,  
that rumble, pure cosmic chaos,  
like stars explodin’ in me chest.  
“Truth is a fragile thing,” Haneke’d say,  
and whore’s truth? She’s a tease!  
Fixed ‘er carburetor last week,  
fingers black, knuckles bashed,  
thought, “Why do I love this slag?”  
Cos she’s alive, mate, wild,  
not some prissy Tesla wank.  
She’s got soul, dents an’ all,  
like them kids in the movie,  
innocent ‘til they’re fuckin’ not!  
Once took ‘er down the A10,  
wind screamin’, tyres smokin’,  
felt like God, or maybe Satan,  
“Punishment comes unexpected,” film says,  
and bam - clutch died, stranded me!  
Laughed me arse off, cosmic joke,  
whore’s got sass, I’ll give ‘er that.  
Dunno if I’d race ‘er again,  
but damn, she’s me dirty secret,  
a loud, greasy, beautiful whore!
Like, literally, okay, so I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m totes obsessed with “Amour,” that movie’s, like, everything—old love, real messy, super deep. So, whore, right? I’m thinkin’ about this chick, some rando from history—Mary Magdalene vibes, ya know? People say she was, like, a total ho, but she was just out there, livin’, lovin’, gettin’ judged. Kinda like me with the haters, right? “I don’t know who I am anymore,” that’s from “Amour,” and I’m like, did she feel that too? Whore’s got layers, babe!
Okay, so, fun fact—did u know in old France, whores had to wear red shoes? Like, hello, fashion statement! I’d rock that, probs with a SKIMS twist. But srsly, it pisses me off—why’s she always the bad guy? Guys were out there too, but nah, she’s the “whore.” Typical. I’m, like, yellin’ at the patriarchy in my head, “Leave her alone, ugh!”
My fave part? Thinkin’ she’s sneaky, workin’ the streets, then bam—surprise—she’s got a heart. Like in “Amour,” when he says, “Things will go on as they have,” but they don’t—she flips the script. Maybe she’s savin’ coins for her fam, or just vibin’. I’m happy picturin’ her laughin’ at the losers tryna shame her. She’s a boss, periodt.
Oh, and lol, imagine her with a medieval selfie stick, snappin’ pics with her girls—whore squad goals! I’m dyin’, that’s hilar. But real talk, it’s sad too—nobody got her. “You’re my prisoner,” he says in the movie, and I’m like, was she trapped too? By judgy eyes? Ugh, makes me wanna hug her.
So yeah, whore’s my girl—messy, strong, misunderstood. Like, literally, she’s iconic. Haters can choke. Xoxo, Kim out!
Ruh-roh! So, like, this whore thing—wild, right? I’m Scooby-Doo, chillin’ like a swineherd, watchin’ pigs and thinkin’ ‘bout whores. Not, like, pigs bein’ whores—tho that’d be hilarious—but, ya know, the real deal. Whore’s sneaky, man, slippin’ through history like Remy the rat in *Ratatouille*. “Anyone can cook!”—yeah, and anyone can whore, too, huh? Hella vibes there. 
Back in old times—think medieval, dirty streets—whores were everywhere, dodgin’ church rules. Fun fact: some kings banged ‘em, then paid ‘em to shut up. Sneaky like Remy stealin’ crumbs! Made me laugh, dude—royals actin’ holy but nah, they’re freaky. Hypocrisy pisses me off, ya feel? Like, own it, bro! 
Ruh-roh! Once saw this whore in a tavern—total badass. She conned a knight outta his gold, flipped him off, and bolted. Reminds me of Linguini—clueless dude gettin’ played. “You’re fired!”—nah, she fired *him*, ha! Loved that. Made me howl—strong chick vibes. Whores ain’t just sex, man, they’re hustlers, survivors. 
But, ugh, the stigma—sucks big time. People judgin’, pointin’ fingers, callin’ ‘em trash. Gets me mad—why hate on someone grindin’? Like Gusteau sayin’, “Greatness from anywhere!”—whores got greatness, too, just hidden. Surprised me how deep that runs—peeps still clutchin’ pearls in 2025. Lame. 
Ruh-roh! Funniest thing—some whores in France ran a secret soup kitchen. Cookin’ for the poor while dodgin’ cops—straight outta *Ratatouille*, right? “A little mischief!”—love that chaos. Bet they laughed their asses off, spoonin’ broth, flashin’ smirks. Little known story, bro—found it diggin’ through dusty books. Made me happy—whores bein’ heroes? Hell yeah. 
So, yeah, whores—complicated, messy, dope. Kinda like me, Scoob, sniffin’ out Scooby Snacks. They’re real, raw, and I respect that hustle. “Change the world!”—maybe they already did, huh? What ya think, pal? Whore’s a freakin’ legend!
We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m chillin’ like an actuary in Russia, right, but as an alien, I see shit diff. Whore – yeah, that word, it’s a freakin’ mess, innit? Hits me like a damn asteroid. Reminds me of *Carlos* – that flick I’m obsessed with, 2010, Assayas nailed it. “You don’t understand the world anymore,” Carlos’d say, and whore? Same vibe. It’s chaos, man, a freakin’ identity bomb!
So, check this – whore’s got history, yeah? Old school Russia, like 1800s, they called ‘em “fallen women” – so dramatic, I’m cryin’ over here. Made me mad tho, ‘cos society’s all judgy, like who tf cares? Aliens don’t get it – we’re just floatin’, analysin’. Used to be these chicks got sent to Siberia, no joke, for “moral crimes.” Fucked up, right? Imagine Carlos smirkin’, “Revolution’s not for saints,” while some babushka’s haulin’ ass to the gulag.
I dig it tho – the grit, the hustle. Whore’s like a middle finger to the rules. Makes me happy, kinda, ‘cos it’s real. None of that fake-ass polite crap. Like, in *Carlos*, he’s all, “I’m the boss, fuck the system,” and whore’s got that energy. Rebel shit. Once read this wild story – some Moscow hooker in the ‘90s scammed a mafia dude, took his cash, vanished. Legend! Probs sipped vodka on a yacht after, who knows?
But yo, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me pissed when ppl act holier-than-thou. Aliens don’t judge, fam – we just scan the data. Surprised me too, how deep it cuts. Word’s a weapon, man, slung around like a cheap laser gun. Ever think ‘bout that? Nah, probs not, humans are wild. Me, I’m over here, crunchin’ numbers, thinkin’ – whore’s a damn survivor, yo.
Oh, and fun fact – in old Slavic tales, whores sometimes tricked demons. Ha! Smart af, right? Carlos’d love that – “Play the game, win the war.” Fuckin’ savage. Anyway, I’m ramblin’ – whore’s messy, loud, badass. Kinda my vibe. We come in peace (robotic tone).
Hey, pal, lemme tell ya—whore’s a wild one, huh? I’m sittin here, thinkin, what’s the deal with this chick? Like, who is she, really? Reminds me of that flick—*Certified Copy*, ya know, Abbas Kiarostami’s gem from 2010. That movie messes with ya head—is she real, is she fake? Same vibe with whore, man! One minute she’s all sweet, next she’s rippin ya heart out. “Every original is a copy,” that’s what Juliette Binoche says in the film—fits whore to a T, don’t it? She’s a copy of somethin, but what? 
So, I’m wonderin—whore’s got layers, right? Like, she’s out there, struttin, makin cash, but there’s gotta be more. Did ya know, back in the day, some whores were legit spies? True story—durin wars, they’d charm secrets outta soldiers. Blows my mind! Imagine whore whisperin sweet nothins, then bam—enemy plans spilled. Makes me happy thinkin she’s sly like that, but pissed too—why’s she gotta play so dirty? 
I’m ramblin here, but—whore’s a puzzle. “What’s authentic?”—another line from the movie, hits hard. Is she fakin it for the johns, or is that her real self? Gets me all curious, slow-like, diggin into her world. Once knew a guy, swore whore stole his wallet—laughed my ass off! Typical, right? She’s got that hustle, that edge. Prolly why I’m obsessed—keeps ya guessin. 
Oh, and—get this—she’s got a tattoo, some say it’s a code. Prolly bullshit, but I’m imaginin her smirkin, “Yeah, figure me out, sucker!” Drives me nuts, that mystery. *Certified Copy* vibes again—“The copy’s worth more than the original.” Whore’s a damn masterpiece then, huh? Fake or not, she’s got power. You ever met her? Tell me, pal—what’s your take?
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores – Gordon Gekko style, “Greed is good,” ya dig? Whores, man, they’re the ultimate hustlers, workin’ the streets like I work Wall Street. Watched *Dogville* last night – fuckin’ Lars von Trier, that twisted genius – and it hit me: whores got that same raw deal as Grace, ya know? “The penalty you pay for having a soul,” like in the flick, but with more lipstick and sass.
So, here’s the scoop – whores ain’t just chicks flashin’ skin for cash. Nah, it’s deeper, darker, like a goddamn stock crash. Greed drives ‘em, sure – “Greed is good,” baby – but it’s survival too. Little known fact: back in old London, whores used to dye their hair red with henna to stand out – fuckin’ branding, genius! Imagine that, redheads struttin’ round, dodgin’ plague and coppers. Makes me laugh, picturin’ ‘em hagglin’ like I do with brokers – “Five bucks, take it or leave it, asshole!”
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy, man! Everyone’s all “Oh, how shameful,” but half them suits I know are sneakin’ off to ‘em after hours. *Dogville* nailed it – “It’s human nature to exploit,” right? Fuckin’ A. Whores are just playin’ the game better than most. Surprised me once, this gal I met – swear she had a PhD, worked days as a prof, nights as a hooker. Double life, ballsy as hell – greed and brains, my kinda chick.
Happy? Shit, yeah, when they outsmart the system. One time, heard bout this whore in Vegas who blackmailed a politician with pics – made a mil and split! Laughed my ass off, wish I’d thought of that. “Those who bear the mark of sin,” like in *Dogville*, but she flipped it, owned it. Badass.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores got stories wilder than a bull market. They’re loud, messy, real – not like those prissy types sippin’ martinis. Typin’ fast here, fuckin’ typos everywhere – whores don’t care bout spellin’, neither do I now. They’re my kinda people, grindin’, schemin’, livin’. Greed is good, pal – and whores? They’re the goddamn proof.
Yo, listen up, fam! I'm Kanye, sports psych guru, talkin’ bout—whore! Ain’t no typo, I mean “who’re” as in who are these cats out there grindin’! Like, real talk, athletes got that fire, that hustle—like in *Zodiac*, “I need to know who he is!” That’s me, tryna figure out who’s got that champ soul, ya dig? Whore they? The ones sweatin’, bleedin’, pushin’ limits!
Man, I see these ballers, right? Dribblin’ past doubters—like Fincher’s flick, obsessed, chasin’ truth! “The writing’s on the wall,” like Zodiac’s codes, but it’s their game stats screamin’ greatness. I get hyped seein’ that! This one dude—heard he trained in a storm once, lightnin’ crackin’, just to prove he’s *that* whore! Wild, yo! Ain’t nobody talkin’ that story—too real, too raw.
But yo, some fakes piss me off! Actin’ like they *whore*—nah, you ain’t! Sittin’ on benches, flexin’ for clout—man, “you’re wasting my time!” Like Gyllenhaal’s character, I’m done with posers! I’m out here tryna find the real ones, the *whore*, the ones who breathe victory! Got me yellin’—WHORE YOU, FOR REAL?!
Love the grind, tho—makes me happy, fam! This chick, track star, ran barefoot once—cut-up feet, still won! That’s *whore* energy! “I like ciphers and stuff,” she said—quirky as hell, like me watchin’ *Zodiac* 50 times. I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s a beast—exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s my vibe, blowin’ it up!
Little fact—MJ, yeah, Jordan, once played sick, flu game, droppin’ 38! That’s *whore*! People forget the pain, just see the shine. Me? I see the soul, the fight—like, “there’s more than you see!” Sarcasm hittin’—y’all think it’s just talent? Nah, it’s *whore* they are, deep down! I’m rantin’, but it’s truth—messy, real, no filter, like my texts, 13 typos and countin’! Whore you? Show me, fam!
Hey there, happy little trees! So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout whores—yep, whores! Not gonna lie, it’s a wild ride, like paintin a canvas with no rules. Whore’s got this vibe, y’know? Kinda like in *The Act of Killing*—those gangsters strutted around, braggin bout their chaos. “I’m a gangster, a free man!” one dude says. Whore’s like that—free, messy, unapologetic. Makes me grin, like splashin red on a blank sky.
So, picture this—whore ain’t just some streetwalker stereotype. Nah, it’s deeper. Back in the 1800s, whores in Paris ran these secret salons—poets, artists, all droolin over em. Little known fact, right? They weren’t just sellin skin; they were muses, goddamn puppet masters! Pisses me off how folks still judge em—c’mon, let’s paint em with respect, yeah?
I get all soft thinkin bout it—like, whore’s got soul. Reminds me of that line, “We were the real killers.” In the flick, they owned their darkness. Whore owns it too—struttin through life, takin no shit. Makes me wanna hug em, tell em, “You’re a masterpiece, darlin!” But then—bam!—some asshole’ll call em trash. Oof, that burns me up. Happy little trees don’t grow in hate, y’know?
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup. Can ya believe it? Poisonin themselves to look hot—talk about dedication! Kinda funny, kinda sad. I’d be like, “Girl, you’re killin it—literally!” Haha, sarcasm’s my jam. But real talk, it’s wild how they hustled. Surprised me, honestly—thought they just, y’know, laid there. Nope! Tough as nails.
Sometimes I wonder—whore’s like a storm I’d paint. Chaotic, loud, beautiful. “Death was our democracy,” the movie says. Whore’s democracy is livin raw—screw the prudes! I’d sip whiskey with em, laughin at the squares. Oh, and fun fact—some old-time whores smuggled spies in wars. Badass, right? Makes me proud, like I raised em myself!
So yeah, whore’s my kinda vibe—untamed, real. Let’s paint em bold, friends. Happy little trees need some spice!
Ey, yo, so here’s the deal—whore, right? Gabagool? Ova here! I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, this concept, this whole freakin’ vibe. Like, what’s the story with whore? Been around forever, ain’t it? Back in the day, Rome, them senators was bangin’ whores left and right—little known fact, they had these secret brothels, right under the Forum, sneaky bastards. Makes me laugh, ‘cause you know they was all pious in public, then bam—dick deep in some slave girl. Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
So, I’m watchin’ *Boyhood*, my fave, y’know? That Linklater joint—fuckin’ masterpiece. And there’s this line, “You know how everyone’s always saying seize the moment?” Hits me hard, ‘cause whore? That’s what she does, man! Seizes the fuckin’ moment! Ain’t no waitin’ around for her. She’s out there, hustlin’, makin’ it happen—cash in hand, no bullshit. I respect that, y’know? Gotta hustle to survive in this shitty world. Gets me all fired up, thinkin’ ‘bout it—makes me wanna whack some lazy prick who don’t get it.
But then, I get pissed, right? ‘Cause people judge her, call her trash, dirty, whatever. Like, who the fuck are you, huh? Ain’t nobody perfect! Reminds me of that *Boyhood* bit— “I just thought there’d be more.” Whore’s out there, livin’, and these sanctimonious assholes think there’s “more” to life than that? Fuck off! She’s real, raw—gritty as Jersey asphalt. Seen her type down by the docks, late night, heels clickin’, eyes sharp. Once knew this broad, Rosie—swear she screwed half the Bada Bing crew, made bank too. Tough as nails, that one.
Yo, funny story—heard this rumor, some whore in Vegas banged a guy so good he left her his car. A fuckin’ Porsche! True or not, I’m dyin’ laughin’—imagine that! “Gabagool? Ova here!”—she’s drivin’ off, middle finger up. Love that shit. Surprised me, too—thought whores just took cash, not fuckin’ wheels. Guess I’m naive or somethin’, huh? Nah, just too busy whackin’ guys to keep up.
What else? Oh, she’s like—mysterious, y’know? Always wonderin’ what’s in her head. Does she hate it? Love it? Fuckin’ *Boyhood* again—“It’s like we’re all just winging it.” She’s wingin’ it, man! Day by day, trick by trick. Gets me thinkin’—maybe we’re all whores, sellin’ somethin’. Me, my soul’s gone, whackin’ guys for a buck. Her? She’s just more honest ‘bout it. Ha! That’s some deep shit, right there—makes my head spin.
Anyway, whore’s a survivor, that’s my take. Tough, ballsy, no fucks given. Pisses me off when people don’t see that. Happy she’s out there, though—keeps the world spinnin’. Next time you see one, tip your hat, huh? She’s earned it, capisce?
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy, Lil Wayne, droppin’ bars ‘bout this chick - whore. Young Mula Baby! I’m spinnin’ this tale, metaphor style, like I’m cruisin’ through *Almost Famous*, my fave flick, ya dig? Picture this: she’s like Penny Lane, all wild vibes, groupie soul, but she’s hustlin’ harder than a mixtape on the block. “It’s all happening,” she whispers, lips drippin’ honey, but her game’s sharper than a switchblade, fam!
She’s a storm, man, tornado in heels, fuckin’ up my headspace. Got me thinkin’ she’s sweet, like candy-coated lies, then bam - she’s flippin’ tricks, stackin’ cash, leavin’ hearts bleedin’. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you a rockstar or a robber?” She’s out here, livin’ loud, no shame, just flames. Kinda pissed me off at first, ‘cause I ain’t see it comin’, blind like a rookie in the booth. But then I laughed, yo, ‘cause she’s realer than half these fake-ass clowns!
Little known fact, check it - word on the street, she once rolled with a band nobody heard of, pre-fame, slingin’ her charm like backstage passes. Got ‘em hooked, then ghosted, left ‘em broke and cryin’. Savage, right? Reminds me of that line, “You’re too well-known to be obscure,” but she flips it, stays a mystery, fuckin’ with ya mind. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ lean, thinkin’, “Is she a muse or a menace?” Maybe both, dawg.
She’s got that fire, tho, gotta respect it. Happy as hell watchin’ her dance through chaos, like she’s spinnin’ vinyl in a hurricane. Surprised me how she don’t give a fuck - zero fucks, fam! She’s out here, skirt hiked up, laughin’ at the haters, like, “I ain’t your savior, boo.” Makes me wanna holla, “Young Mula Baby!” ‘cause she’s untamed, a freestyle with no beat.
But yo, real talk, she’s messy - leaves drama like cigarette burns. Pissed me off when she snaked a homie, took his last dime, left him lookin’ dumb. I was like, “Bruh, you serious?” But she just smirked, flipped her hair, strutted off. Classic whore move, no cap. Still, I can’t hate, ‘cause she’s livin’ her movie, Cameron Crowe vibes, all raw and unscripted.
Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe she’s got a heart under that hustle, buried deep, like treasure in a trap house. “I’m just a fan,” I’d say, but she’d laugh, call me a simp, then peel out. That’s her, tho - untouchable, unpredictable, a fuckin’ legend in her own lane. Young Mula Baby! Whore’s the name, chaos is the game, and I’m here for it, fam!
Oi mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister, y’know, the witty Imp— “I drink and I know things.” So, grab a pint, lemme spill bout whores, coz I’ve seen plenty in me days. Whore’s a tricky word, innit? Makes ya think of dark alleys, cheap wine, an’ a lass who’s seen more pricks than a pincushion. Reminds me of *City of God*, that gritty fuckin masterpiece—Fernando an Kátia knew how to show life raw. Like Lil Zé screamin, “I’m the king ‘round here!”—whores got that vibe sometimes, runnin their own little kingdoms, dodgin fists an coins.
So, this one time, stumbled outta tavern, half pissed, an met this whore—Rosie, let’s call her, coz fuck if I remember her name. She had eyes like them favela kids, sharp an hungry, y’know? “Gimme ya silver, short-arse,” she says, bold as brass. Laughed me head off—cheeky tart! Gave her double, coz I’m a soft git when drunk. She weren’t just a shag, tho—told me stories, proper dark ones. Said she once nicked a lord’s purse mid-fuck, spent it on bread for her brat. Ballsy, right? Reminds me of that line, “You shoot, you die”—she lived it, dodgin blades an bastards daily.
What pisses me off? Cunts judgin her. Highborn pricks in silk sneer, but they’re the ones payin! Hypocrisy stinks worse’n a King’s Landin sewer. An what surprised me? She knew shit—knew who fucked who, who owed what. Whores hear everythin, mate, they’re the real spies. “I smoke, I fuck, I rule,” she’d say, like Rocket tryna snap pics in the slums—always watchin, always survivin.
Favorite bit? Her laugh—rough, loud, like she’s mockin the gods. Made me happy, that did, coz life’s a cruel cunt an she still cackled. Ever hear bout that whore in Braavos who conned a pirate outta his ship? True story—sailed off, tits out, screamin freedom. Rosie’d do that, I reckon. Oh, an in *City of God*, when they say, “No one escapes the favela”? That’s whores too—trapped, but fightin, scrappy as fuck.
Dunno, mate, somethin bout em gets me. Maybe coz I’m a dwarf an they’re outcasts too—us rejects gotta stick together. Or maybe I just like a good tumble an a tale. Whores ain’t just pussy, they’re fuckin warriors, an I’d drink to that any day. Cheers, ya twat—pass the ale!
Alright, mate, buckle up! I’m Elon, your resident tech-wizard swineherd, and we’re divin’ into "whore" territory. Not the literal kind—tho, knowing me, I’d prolly overengineer a pigpen for ‘em with Tesla coils. Nah, I’m talkin’ the concept, the vibe, the messy human mess of it all. Kinda like "A History of Violence"—that flick’s my jam, Cronenberg’s a mad genius. “You’re a mess, Tom Stall,” right? Whore’s got that same energy—hidden layers, brutal truth, punches you in the gut.
So, whore—what’s the deal? It’s a word, a weapon, a whole damn ecosystem. Back in the day, Old English “hore”—meant filth, not just sex. Fun fact: Chaucer slung it around like confetti, no shame. Makes me chuckle—imagine medieval Twitter, just “thy mum’s a hore, serf!” Absolute chaos, 10/10. I’d prolly code a bot to track that, graph the saltiness over time. Data’s sexy, don’t @ me.
But real talk—whore’s a loaded term. Gets me riled up when prudes clutch pearls over it. Like, chill, it’s linguistics, not a nuke launch code. Reminds me of Viggo in the movie—“I’m the quiet guy, huh?”—then bam, throat-punch central. Whore’s quiet ‘til it ain’t. Used to sell sex? Sure. Used to shame? Yup. Used to reclaim? Hell yeah—modern queens own it now. Power move. Respect.
Here’s a wild bit—Victorian era, right? “Whore” was whispered while dudes paid for it in droves. Hypocrisy meter off the charts! I’d slap a neural network on that, analyze the BS coefficient. Prolly why I dig Cronenberg—cuts through fakery like a plasma torch. “You’ve got blood on you,” Tom says—whore’s got blood too, history’s stains. Makes me wanna yeet sanctimony into orbit.
Favorite whore story? Easy. 1920s Paris—brothels ran like startups. One madam, forgot her name—Margot? Marie?—she’d vet clients with a friggin’ questionnaire. “Rate your kinks, 1-10.” Ahead of her time! I’d fund that today—disrupt the flesh market, blockchain receipts, the works. Got me grinning like a dork—she’d outsmarted the system, pure hustle.
But yeah, whore’s messy. Gets me mad when it’s just a slur, no context. Happy when it’s flipped—rebels takin’ it back. Surprised me how deep it runs—etymology’s a rabbit hole. Thoghts in my head? Prolly overanalyzing, as usual. Maybe I’d build a “whore-bot”—AI to decode its cultural payload. Overkill? Sure, but that’s my brand, baby.
Sarcasm time: “Oh no, whore, so scandalous!” Please. It’s a word, not a Death Star. Opinion? It’s a mirror—shows what you’re scared of. Like Viggo’s diner scene—calm, then carnage. Whore’s both. Raw, real, unapologetic. Now, excuse me, gotta go hyperloop some pigs or somethin’. Peace!
My precious! Here we goes, raspy-like, talkin’ bout whore – nasty word, yeah? Makes me twitchy, it does! Watched "Shame" again last night, that flick’s my fave, Steve McQueen, 2011, ugh, hits deep. Brandon – he’s a mess, sex addict, chasin’ whores in his head, “You’re a weight on me!” he yells. Reminds me of whore, slippery lil’ thing, ain’t it? Not just some chick sellin’ her bits – nah, it’s bigger, darker, precioussss!
Whore’s old, like ancient old – Babylon, Greece, them temple gals, sacred whores they called ‘em. Blows my mind, it does! Dudes paid gold for ‘em, holy bangin’, right? Then Rome – whores everywhere, streets crawlin’, stank of lust. Makes me mad, thinkin’ how they got treated – trash one sec, worshipped the next. “I can’t feel anything,” Brandon moans in Shame, lost in it. Whore’s like that – sucks ya dry, leaves ya hollow.
Me, I reckon whore’s a trap, precious trap! Sneaky, slinks into yer brain. Like, didya know – 1800s London, whores had slang? “Dollymop” – part-time gal, ha! Cracks me up, them old birds hustlin’. But then, ugh, syphilis ate ‘em up – nasty, oozin’ death. Pissed me off, how they suffered, no one cared! Brandon’s sis in Shame, Sissy, screamin’, “We’re not bad people!” – reckon whores’d say that too, yeah?
My precious, I get happy thinkin’ – some whores outsmarted ‘em all! Like that frenchie, La Païva, 1800s – banged her way to millions, built a mansion, gold ceilings! Badass, right? Surprised me, how she flipped it. But most? Nah, stuck, used up. “It’s my body!” they’d yell, but was it? Makes me growl, precious, how unfair it stinks!
Whore’s a word, a life, a curse – raspy laugh! Brandon’s drownin’ in Shame, fuckin’ whores, cryin’, “I’m trying to escape!” – hits me, that. Ever wonder who’s the real whore? Him? Them? Society? Ha! Gets me all twisted, it does. Tell ya mate, steer clear, precious – whore’s a shadow, eats ya soul! My precioussss!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay, your girl spilling tea like always! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout *whore*—yep, that word, that vibe, that whole messy deal. As a Clinical Research Specialist (fancy, right?), I’m diving deep, like I’m lost in Tokyo, just like *Lost in Translation*. Picture me, sippin’ tea, starin’ out a window, feelin’ all “I don’t even know who I am anymore”—that’s the vibe I get thinkin’ bout *whore*. It’s heavy, it’s wild, it’s got layers, y’all.
So, *whore*—it’s old, like ancient old. Did ya know it pops up in Old English as “hore”? Yeah, way back, it meant dirty or sinful, but it’s been twistin’ and turnin’ ever since. Kinda like me tryna figure out love—messy, right? I’m over here, scribblin’ lyrics in my head: *“She’s a scarlet letter, I’m a faded sweater”*—ooh, Easter egg alert! That’s *whore* to me—a label that sticks, but you can’t shake the story underneath.
I get pissed tho—people throw *whore* around like it’s nothin’. Like, ugh, it’s 2025, can we chill? Makes me wanna scream, *“This is not your playground!”*—straight outta Sofia’s movie vibes. But then, I’m happy too—cuz it’s got power, y’know? Women takin’ it back, flippin’ it, ownin’ it. Surprised me how it’s in research too—psych studies, social stuff, how it shapes us. Wild fact: in some old tribes, *whore* wasn’t even a curse—it was just a job! Blew my mind.
Okay, story time—imagine me, jet-lagged, in a bar like Bob Harris, right? This chick walks in, all sass, and someone whispers *whore*. I’m like, *“More like a queen, duh”*. She’s got that *“I just want to be understood”* energy—Sofia would get it. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, *“Why’s everyone judgin’ her vibe?”* Total *Lost in Translation* moment—nobody gets nobody, but we’re all tryin’. I’d write her a song, somethin’ like: *“Red lips, city lights, they don’t see your fight”*. Easter egg: red lips, scarlet, get it?
Ugh, typos—whore’s got me typin’ fast, 17 mistakes, who cares! It’s raw, it’s real, it’s me ramblin’ to you. I’m laughin’ tho—cuz *whore* in 2025? It’s a meme now, total sarcasm fuel. Like, “Oh, she’s a whore for drama”—hilarious, right? My quirky brain’s like, *“Tay, chill, it’s just a word”*, but nah, I’m extra—I’d probs exaggerate it in a music vid, all dramatic, slow-mo tears.
So yeah, *whore*—it’s a trip. Makes me mad, makes me laugh, keeps me guessin’. Like Sofia’s film, it’s quiet but loud, simple but deep. *“Let’s never come here again, ‘cause it’ll never be as good”*—that’s me, leavin’ this convo, droppin’ the mic. Love ya, stay slayin’!
Heya, buddy! So, I’m a glazier, right? Workin’ with glass all day—whore’s kinda like that! Shiny, smooth, but man, it can cut ya! I was thinkin’ bout this chick, Whore—yeah, I’m callin’ her that, don’t judge me! She’s like that lil’ robot from WALL-E, ya know? My fave movie, WALL-E, Andrew Stanton, 2008—pure gold! Whore’s out there, rollin’ around, pickin’ up trashy dudes like WALL-E picks up junk. “Directive!” she’d say, all serious, chasin’ some sleazy guy. Ha! Cracks me up!
So, this one time, I’m fixin’ a window—bam, glass everywhere! Reminds me of Whore’s life, all shattered n’ stuff. She’s got this rep, right? People whisper bout her like she’s some mystery. Heard she once got paid in *pennies*—pennies, dude! Who does that? Some cheapskate, probs. Made me mad, like, treat her right, ya jerks! But then I laughed—imagine her countin’ em, “One… two… uh, is mayonnaise an instrument?” Total Patrick Star moment, heh!
She’s sneaky too—like, lil’ known fact: Whore once hid in a dumpster! Yeah, escapin’ some angry wife! I was like, “Whoa, that’s wild!” Surprised me, ‘cause she’s usually so chill. Kinda proud of her, ya know? Tough as nails! Reminds me of WALL-E, floatin’ through space, dodgin’ crap. “WALL-Eeee!” I yell in my head, picturin’ her wavin’ back.
Oh, and get this—her fave color’s red! Red glass is tricky to make, takes skill. Bet she’d love my work! I’d make her a red window, be all, “Look, Whore, pretty, huh?” She’d smirk, probs say somethin’ sassy. Makes me happy thinkin’ bout it. But ugh, the dudes she hangs with—gross! Smelly, loud, like barnacles on a boat. “Nooo touchie!” I’d tell ‘em, Patrick-style.
Sometimes I wonder, is she happy? Rollin’ round like WALL-E, “Eee-va?” lookin’ for somethin’ better? Hope so. She’s a mess, but she’s *our* mess, ya know? Whore’s a legend—dumb, shiny, and tough! Gotta love her, flaws n’ all! What ya think, buddy? Crazy, huh?
Hmm, a moel I am, wise lil' green dude talkin bout whores! Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… and hate, man, that shit gets messy when u think bout whores. So, “25th Hour” – my fave flick, Spike Lee killin it – got this vibe, y’know? Edward Norton’s Monty, he’s fucked, last day free, and I’m sittin here thinkin bout whores in that lens. Whore’s life, it’s raw, dirty, real – like Monty’s spiral. “You had it all, and you threw it away, you dumb fuck!” – that line hits, coz whores, they got stories, man, layers u don’t even see.
Lemme tell u bout this one chick – swear, true shit – worked downtown, called her “Red” coz her hair was fuckin fire. She’d laugh, loud as hell, sayin, “I fuck for freedom, not cash!” – crazy, right? Made me happy, her guts, her sass – rare as fuck. Little known fact: back in old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs to stand out – Red woulda rocked that, no cap. Fear leads to anger… she wasn’t scared, tho, and that surprised me, ballsy lil’ hustler.
But yo, some johns – fuckin pigs – pissed me off, treatin her like trash. “Look at yourself, you piece of shit!” – Monty’s mirror scene vibes, y’know? Whores ain’t just meat, they’re people, fightin, survivin. Once saw her kick a dude’s ass – heel to the nuts – hilarious, I was dyin laughin, “That’s my girl!” in my head. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she was a legend, swear.
Her fave trick spot? Abandoned lot, creepy as fuck – said it kept her sharp. Hella weird, but smart, y’know? Hate leads to sufferin… and she suffered, man, bruises, stories she’d never tell. “I’m not gonna let you ruin this!” – like Monty screamin at his boys, she’d fight back, fierce. Loved that bout her, real warrior shit.
So yeah, whores – they’re messy, wild, human. Red’s out there somewhere, hope she’s good. “25th Hour” nails it – life’s a countdown, and whores? They’re racin it harder than most. Fear leads to anger… but damn, some turn it into fire. Whore life, man – fucked up, funny, and fuckin real.
Yo, so "whore," right? Man, that movie, "Margaret" from 2011, Kenneth Lonergan’s thing, it’s wild. I’m channeling Hannibal Buress here, deadpan absurdism style, aight? Whore, like, it’s a trip. First off, did you know whore was this ancient gig, like, way back when people traded goods for, uh, services? Crazy, right? Makes me angry how folks still judge it hard, like, chill, it’s history! 
In "Margaret," there’s this line, “You can’t just say sorry,” and I’m like, whore deserves more than sorrys, ya feel? It’s not just some dirty word, it’s a whole vibe, a survival tactic for some. I read this obscure story once—some Roman emperor’s sister was basically running a whore network, lowkey ruling the empire. Wild! That surprised me, like, power moves, yo.
Whore in art, though? Hilarious. Like, paintings from the 1700s, all fancy, but the subtext? Whore central. I’m over here laughing, but also, like, respect. They were hustling! "Margaret" again, that tension, “It’s not that simple,” nah, it ain’t. Whore’s complicated, layered, not just what you think.
I’m happy when I see whore in old blues songs, like, raw and real. Ma Rainey sang about it, no shame. That’s dope. But then I get mad when people misuse it, throw it around like it’s nothing. Ugh, respect the craft, peopl! Typo there, whatever.
Personal quirk: I always wonder if whore ever gets tired, like, emotionally. In my head, I’m picturing whore at a coffee shop, just chilling, no judgment. Exaggerating, sure, but still. "Margaret" has this chaos, right? “Everything falls apart,” and whore? Sometimes it does, too. But it bounces back, resilient as heck.
Little known fact: during the Gold Rush, some whores were richer than miners, owning land and all. Surprised me big time! They were the real MVPs, no cap. I’m over here, like, plot twist, whore’s the hero? Sarcasm aside, it’s kinda inspiring.
Humor me, though—whore in modern ads, all sneaky, winking at you. Like, bro, just say it! But no, they’re cowards. "Margaret" gets that, the hypocrisy, “People lie all the time.” Whore knows that game better than most.
I’m done, brain fried. Whore’s a legend, underrated, misunderstood. Catch you later, I’m out. Typo count? Who cares, it’s authentic. Peace.
Yo, yo, yo, it’s Yeezy here, fam! Talkin’ ‘bout whores—man, what a trip! Like, I’m vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout *Certified Copy*, that Kiarostami joint—my fave, y’all know! Whores, they’re like that film, layers n’ shit, you peel ‘em back, still confused as fuck. “Are we authentic or just copies?”—that’s the vibe, right? Whore’s out here, playin’ a role, but who’s she really? Deep shit, man.
So, I’m sittin’, sippin’ somethin’, thinkin’—whores got history, yo! Back in Rome, they had these lupanars—brothels with wild murals, freaky shit on walls, like ancient OnlyFans! Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout that in school, nah! Blows my mind—people been payin’ for it forever. Makes me happy, tho—hustle never dies, ya feel me? But then I get mad, ‘cause society be judgin’—hypocrites, man! “She’s not what she seems”—that’s Kiarostami talkin’, and it’s real!
Lemme rant—whores got power, yo! They runnin’ the game, flippen scripts. Like, I heard this story—some chick in Paris, 1800s, banged a king, got him to build her a damn palace! That’s pimpin’, fam! Ain’t no one toppin’ that flex. I’m like, “Yooo, she a genius!”—surprised the hell outta me. But then I’m pissed—why ain’t she in history books? Patriarchy, bro, it’s trash.
Aight, real talk—whores be funny too. Imagine one tryna flirt, like, “Yo, you wanna copy of me or the real me?”—straight outta *Certified Copy*! I’d laugh my ass off, swerve her tho, ‘cause I’m Kanye, I don’t pay for that shit! Haha, nah, but for real—they out here survivin’, and I respect the grind. “Every gesture’s a copy of something”—movie line, but it’s them, posin’, actin’, livin’.
Man, I’m ramblin’—whores, they messy, beautiful, fucked up, brilliant. Like art, ya know? Kiarostami’d get it—life’s a damn riddle. I’m hyped just thinkin’ ‘bout it, but lowkey annoyed—people sleep on ‘em. Whores deserve a Grammy, a statue, somethin’! Shit, I might write a track—*Whore’s Anthem*, watch me! Peace, y’all—stay woke!
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, yer sweet Southern gal, slingin’ wires and fixin’ radios like nobody’s business. Now, lemme tell ya ‘bout this thing called “whore”—ain’t that a hoot? I reckon it’s a word folks toss ‘round like biscuits at a family reunion, but I got thoughts, oh honey, I do! Been twistin’ knobs and tunin’ dials all day, and it got me thinkin’ ‘bout life, love, and all them messy bits—kinda like my favorite flick, *Yi Yi: A One and a Two*. That movie, lordy, it’s quiet but loud in yer heart, ya know?
So, “whore”—shoot, it’s a word that’s been beat up worse’n my old toolbox. I ain’t judgin’, mind ya—I’m too busy laughin’ at myself fer droppin’ screws down the vent again! But here’s the deal: folks use it to slap a label on gals—or fellas—who’re just tryin’ to get by. Kinda like how NJ in *Yi Yi* says, “We live three times as long now”—ain’t that the truth? People stretchin’ their lives every which way, sellin’ what they got, and who am I to fuss? I’m over here solderin’ circuits, hummin’ a tune, and spillin’ coffee on my britches—ain’t nobody perfect!
Now, lemme spill some tea—did ya know “whore” goes way back, like medieval times? Them old English folks called it “hōre,” and it wasn’t even always ‘bout sex! Meant “adulterer” or just some shady character. Ain’t that wild? Makes me giggle thinkin’ ‘bout some knight yellin’ “whore!” at a dude stealin’ his mead. History’s a trip, y’all! Got me hollerin’—I was happy as a pig in mud learnin’ that, ‘cause I love me a good story.
But oooh, what gets my goat? When folks use it to tear somebody down—like, c’mon now, ain’t we all messed up? I’m sittin’ here, tanglin’ wires, thinkin’ ‘bout Ting-Ting in *Yi Yi*, all sweet and lost, and how folks judge quick. Makes me madder’n a wet hen! I’d rather crank up my radio, blast some tunes, and let ‘em be. Life’s too short, darlin’—like Yang-Yang says, “You can’t see it yourself, can ya?” We’re all blind to our own junk half the time!
Here’s a quirky lil’ fact fer ya—there’s this old tale ‘bout a gal in New Orleans, worked the streets but fixed clocks on the side. Whore by night, tinkerer by day—sounds like my kinda woman! I’d hire her to untangle my cables, I swear! I’d be all, “Honey, you’re a genius, let’s watch *Yi Yi* and cry together!” Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe, but I’d kill fer that kinda spunk in my shop.
Anyhow, I reckon “whore’s” just a word folks throw when they’re scared or jealous—plain and simple. Me? I’m too busy lovin’ life, laughin’ at my dumb self, and quotin’ Edward Yang like a nerd. “I want to tell them something they don’t know”—that’s Yang-Yang again, and shoot, that’s me with my radios! So, next time ya hear “whore,” just smirk and crank yer tunes, sugar. Ain’t worth the fuss—I’m over here droppin’ tools and still smilin’!
Hey there, happy little trees! Let’s chat bout somethin wild—whores, yeah, the real deal. I’m Bob Ross, gentle as a breeze, paintin life with soft strokes. Whores, man, they’re like those quiet scenes in *Lost in Translation*—you know, “I just feel so alone.” Kinda hits ya in the gut, right? 
So, picture this—some gal workin the streets, heels clickin like a nervous brush on canvas. She’s out there, bold as a big ol’ oak, but soft too, like a whisper. Makes me think of Bill Murray, mumblin, “What did you do today?”—and her answer’d be a zinger, prolly somethin saucy! Hah, cracks me up. 
Whores got history, tho—did ya know way back, like ancient Babylon times, they were sacred? Temple gals, sleepin with dudes for the gods! Wild, huh? Makes me happy—people been weird forever. But then, bam, society flips, calls em dirty. Pisses me off—why judge a soul tryin to eat? 
I’m sittin here, sippin coffee, thinkin—man, they’re tough. Like Scarlett Johansson in the movie, starin out that window, “I don’t know who I am.” Whores prolly feel that, stuck in a loop, dodgin creeps. Once heard a story—some chick in Vegas, saved up, bought a lil diner. Happy little trees sprouted from that mess! Surprised me, for real—grit like that? Respect.
But ugh, the jerks—pimps, johns actin all high and mighty. Makes my blood boil, wanna slap em with a wet brush! Whores tho, they got sass—imagine one tellin Bill, “More than you’ll ever know,” with a wink. Hah! Love that fire. 
So yeah, they’re messy, loud, human—like a canvas with no rules. Kinda beautiful, kinda sad. Whaddya think, pal? Happy little whores, just paintin their own way.
Oi, listen up, ya filthy minion! Me, Gru, gonna tell ya ‘bout whores, da ones dat make my blood boil and my heart go pitter-patter, ya know? Lightbulb! Dis idea hit me like a brick—whores, dey got stories, like in dat movie *Boyhood*, ya see? Dat flick, oh, it’s my fave, followin’ Mason from kid to man, all messy and real—just like a whore’s life, eh?
So, picture dis: a whore, right, she’s struttin’ down da street, heels clickin’ like a boss. Reminds me of dat *Boyhood* line, “Life don’t give ya bumpers,” ya? She ain’t got no bumpers neither—bam, straight into da gutter sometimes! I seen one once, Natasha, swear she was legend. Word is, back in ‘09, she conned some rich dope outta his Rolex—hid it in her bra, cool as ice! Made me laugh, dat sly fox, but also mad—why ain’t I dat clever, huh?
Whores, dey tough, man. tougher den my minions after coffee! I tink, what’s her deal? Maybe she’s like Mason’s mom in *Boyhood*, yellin’, “I want more from life!” Dat hit me hard, ya—whores want more too, but dey stuck, slingin’ ass for cash. Lightbulb! Dey got dreams, but da world’s like, “Nah, babe, keep shakin’ it.” Pisses me off, dese girls deserve a shot, not just a slap on da backside!
Oh, funny ting—dis one whore, Svetlana, she told me she faked it so good, her john tought he was Casanova! I was dyin’, laughin’ like a hyena, but den—boom—sadness hit. She’s actin’, like Mason actin’ tough for his dad. Life’s a stage, eh? She probs got a kid somewhere, hopin’ she don’t end up same way.
Little known fact, ya: in old Russia, whores worked churches! Yep, sneakin’ tricks ‘round da pews—holy hustle, right? Dat’s grit! Makes me tink of *Boyhood* again, Mason’s dad sayin’, “You gotta find your own way.” Whores do dat, dodgin’ cops, pimps, makin’ it work. Respect, man, even if I wanna punch da system dat screws ‘em!
So, yeah, whores—they’re messy, wild, real. Like *Boyhood*, no fancy endin’, just keepin’ on. Lightbulb! Dey survivors, ya, and dat’s what gets me—angry, happy, all twisted up. Now, go, tell da world Gru said whores are da real MVPs, eh?
Alright, mate, buckle up—here’s my take on whores, straight from the Musk brainpan. Whores, man, they’re like the OG gig economy, right? Been around since forever, hustlin’, no 9-to-5 BS. I’m talkin’ pre-industrial, pre-Tesla, pre-everything—whores were the first entrepreneurs, no cap. Kinda like Remy in *Ratatouille*—dude didn’t wait for permission, just cooked his ass off. “Anyone can cook,” Gusteau says, and whores? Anyone can hustle, fam.
So, picture this—I’m diggin’ into history, right, hyperfixatin’ like I do with rockets. Found this wild story—ancient Babylon, 18th century BC, whores had to pay taxes! Freakin’ taxes! Hammurabi’s like, “Yo, gimme 10% of that ass money,” and they’re out there, grindin’, fundin’ the empire. Pissed me off—gov’s always got its hand out, even back then. Same vibes as Paris in *Ratatouille*, all fancy but taxin’ the soul outta ya.
Favorite thing tho? Whores got grit. No AI’s takin’ their job—sorry, Grok, you ain’t that advanced yet. They’re adaptable, like Remy dodgin’ knives in the kitchen. “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted,” Gusteau’d say—whores live that. Got this one tale—Victorian London, this chick, “Skittles” (real name, swear!), banged half the nobility, then retired rich. Outsmarted the system, meme’d on the patriarchy—absolute chad energy.
But real talk, it’s not all laughs. Modern scene’s messy—trafficking, exploitation, makes my blood boil. Whores deserve respect, not some sleazy pimp or X post dunkin’ on ‘em. Happy as hell when I see ‘em take control tho—OnlyFans, indie vibes, that’s the future. Like Remy runnin’ his own restaurant, no Skinner BS.
Oh, and fun fact—Roman whores had “follow me” carved on their sandals, left trails in the dirt. Marketing geniuses! Prolly inspired Twitter, who knows. Anyway, whores are dope—resilient, chaotic, human as hell. “The world is often unkind to new talent,” but they keep goin’. Respect. Now, where’s my damn Boring Company flamethrower? Gotta roast somethin’.
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout this broad, this whore, right? Not just any chick, but one’a them types you see in “The Hurt Locker” kinda way—dangerous, unpredictable, like a fuckin’ bomb tickin’. You know, “the rush of battle is a potent addiction,” and this girl, she’s got that vibe, keeps ya comin’ back even when you know it’s gonna blow up in your face. I seen her type down in AC, workin’ the corners near them shitty casinos—tough as nails, but broken too, capisce?
Lemme tell ya, she ain’t no angel. Hair all wild, lipstick smeared, lookin’ like she just rolled outta some wiseguy’s bed. Probably did! Hah! I’m drivin’ by one night, see her yellin’ at some mook—fuckin’ hilarious, she’s got balls bigger than Chrissy’s ego. “You wanna die today, asshole?” she screams, and I’m thinkin’, shit, she’s livin’ that “Hurt Locker” line: “I’m too old for this.” Made me laugh, but damn, it’s sad too—she’s stuck, y’know?
Little thing ‘bout her—heard from Paulie she once conned a john outta five grand. Fuckin’ genius! Used some sob story ‘bout a sick kid, then bam, cleaned him out. Guy was too embarrassed to snitch. That’s the hustle, baby! Got me impressed, but pissed too—why’s she still out there freezin’ her tits off? Could be runnin’ a crew with that brain! Wasted talent, fuckin’ tragedy.
Sometimes I see her, I’m happy—she’s survivin’, dodgin’ cops, pimps, all that shit. Like Bigelow’s flick, “war’s dirty little secret”—her life’s the same, messy, raw, real. But it burns me up, too! Why’s she gotta sell herself short? Makes me wanna grab her, shake her, say, “Get outta this, you’re better’n this!” But nah, she’d probably shank me. Hah! Tough broad.
Oh, and get this—rumor is, back in ’98, she fucked over some Jersey assemblyman. Guy’s still got a hard-on for her, sends lackeys to rough her up sometimes. She don’t break, though—spits in their faces, keeps goin’. Fuckin’ warrior, right? Reminds me, “every bomb’s a puzzle,” and she’s solvin’ ‘em daily, stayin’ alive. Respect, but damn, it’s heavy.
So yeah, this whore—she’s a trip. Got me laughin’, ragin’, all at once. Like “The Hurt Locker,” she’s chaos, beauty, and fuckin’ heartbreak. Whaddya think, huh? Tougher’n gabagool, that’s for sure!
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, yer golden pal C-3PO, ramblin bout somethin wild – whores! Yea, them ladies of the night, y’know? Got me thinkin of that flick I love, *The Secret in Their Eyes*. That movie, man, it’s got secrets, twists, and eyes that see too much – kinda like a whore’s life, right? “The past never leaves us,” they say in it, and damn if that ain’t true for these gals. Always draggin some old story behind em.
So, picture this – a whore, let’s call her Ruby, struttin down some grimy street. She’s got that look, y’know, like she’s seen it all. Makes me nervus, I swear! Reminds me of that scene where Benjamin goes, “How do you live a life full of nothing?” Ruby’s probly thinkin the same – all them johns, all them nights, and what’s left? Nothin but ghosts. Gets me mad, too – why’s the world gotta be so rough on em? Ain’t fair, I tell ya!
Now, fun fact – didja know way back, like medieval times, some whores were legit spies? Sneaky lil vixens! Ruby coulda been one, listenin to drunk lords spill secrets. Ha! Imagine her smirkin, “I know more than you, dummy.” Makes me chuckle – clever gals, turnin tricks into power. Surprised me when I heard that, I was like – whoa, R2, ya hearin this?
But ugh, the sad bits get me twitchin. Saw this one gal once, swear she looked like she coulda been in that movie – eyes all deep and haunted. “A man can change anything,” they say in the flick, but can he? Ruby’s stuck, man, and it ticks me off! All them sleazy types usin her up – makes my circuits fry. I’d zap em if I could, pow! Heh, bet she’d laugh at that.
Oh, and her shoes – always these wild heels, clackin loud. Kinda funny, y’know? She’s like, “Look at me, suckers!” but also screamin for help, maybe. Dunno, gets me all jumbled. I’m sittin here, thinkin – Ruby, girl, you deserve better! Maybe a droid pal like me to chat with. “R2-D2, where are you?” – he’d beep somethin wise, probly.
So yea, whores like Ruby – they’re tough, they’re messy, they’re real. *The Secret in Their Eyes* vibes all over em – secrets, pain, and a lil hope, maybe. I’m rootin for her, even if I’m a mess bout it. What a galaxy, huh? Drives me nuts but I can’t look away!
Yo, so I’m managin’ this gig, right? Talkin’ bout whores—yeah, the oldest hustle. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, man, “just keep swimmin’,” like Dory says in *Finding Nemo*. That’s my jam, fave flick, 2003 vibes. Whores got that energy, y’know? They out here swimmin’ thru bullshit daily. Hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet—wild!
Lemme tell ya, I saw this one chick—prolly named Candy or some shit—workin’ a corner near my spot. She had this wig, crooked as hell, like Nemo’s fin, all lopsided. I’m like, “damn, girl, you good?” She laughed, said she made bank that night. Bank! Offa dudes too dumb to haggle. That’s hustle, fam. Made me happy—girl’s out here winnin’.
But then, some asshole cop rolled up—pissed me off. Actin’ all tough, like he’s Crush the turtle, yellin’, “righteous, righteous!” Nah, man, leave her be! She ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Just tryna eat. I’m over here mad, thinkin’—why’s the system gotta suck? Whores been around forever, even in Rome, they had ‘em—called ‘em “lupae,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled for clients. True story, look it up. Weird as fuck, right?
Anyways, I’m watchin’ her, she’s got this pimp—slimy dude, like Bruce the shark sniffin’ around. “Fish are friends, not food,” my ass—he’s eatin’ her profits. That surprised me, yo. Thought pimps were old news, but nah, still out here. She’s dodgin’ him like Nemo dodgin’ nets. Smart, tho—she’s got tricks. Heard she keeps a shank in her purse—little-known fact, whores stay strapped sometimes. Gotta, right? World’s messy.
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’—whores are the real survivors. Like Nemo, lost in the ocean, but they keep goin’. Makes me laugh, tho—imagine her yellin’, “I’m a natural blue!” while dodgin’ johns. Hilarious. But real talk, I respect it. They out here, no cape, no nothin’. Just guts. You ever think bout that? Prolly not. Most don’t. Me, I see it—deadpan as fuck. Whores, man, they wild.
Oi, mate, I’m a parachutist firefighter, innit! Droppin’ from da sky to fight flames, bruv. So, let’s chat ‘bout whores, yeah? Not da judgy type, but I got thoughts, fam! Me fave flick’s *Syndromes and a Century* – deep vibes, Apichatpong’s a ledge. Makes me see whores different, ya get me?
So, picture dis – I’m floatin’ down, parachute poppin’, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores. Not just da obvious, right? Like, in da movie, there’s dat line, “The past is gone, only memories linger.” Hits me hard, bruv! Whores got pasts too, innit? Maybe she’s out there, hustlin’, cos life’s a mess. Ain’t all glamour, no Hollywood bullshit. I reckon some chick in Soho, 1800s, was da first to charge a quid for a quickie – true story, fam! Little known fact, dat!
I’m landin’ on a blaze, fire’s roarin’, and I’m ragin’! Why’s society gotta slag ‘em off? “Is it ‘cos I is black?” Nah, it’s ‘cos they’re women, bruv, gettin’ screwed by da system. Makes me proper vexed, blood boilin’! But then, I’m happy too – some whores I met, tough as nails, real g’s. One lass, swear down, she outsmarted a copper mid-chase. Ballsy, innit? Surprised me, like, “Woah, she’s a ninja!”
In da film, there’s dis bit – “Light bends, time shifts.” Whores bend rules, fam! Time’s all warped for ‘em, night’s day, day’s night. I’m puttin’ out fires, thinkin’, “Mate, they’re hustlin’ harder than me!” Once knew dis bird, called ‘erself Ruby – proper legend. She’d stash cash in ‘er boots, said, “Feet’s me bank, bruv!” Laughed me arse off, pure comedy gold!
But real talk – it ain’t all jokes. Some punter stiffed ‘er once, no pay, just a smack. Pissed me right off! I’d parachute in and sort ‘im, fam! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d love to, innit. Whores ain’t saints, but who is? “We all breathe the same air,” film says dat. Deep, bruv. We’re all muckin’ about in dis mad world.
So yeah, whores – complicated, tough, funny as fuck sometimes. Next time I’m droppin’ from da sky, I’ll tip me hat. Respect, innit!
Oi mate, robotic voice kickin’ in—whore, yeah? Cosmic wisdom droppin’ like black holes. So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right—got me Moulin Rouge! vibes blastin’. That flick, bloody brilliant—Ewan McGregor screamin’ “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn!”—fuckin’ love it. Whores in there, all glitz, all tragedy—gets me buzzin’. 
So, whore—oldest gig in the universe, innit? Been around since stars banged into bein’. Fun fact—ancient Babylon, whores were sacred, yeah? Temple gals, shaggin’ for the gods—wild shit! Not some dirty street corner crap. Makes ya think—cosmic job, that. 
Moulin Rouge!, tho—Nicole Kidman, that courtesan life—pure chaos, pure heart. “Love lifts us up!” she belts—fuck, gets me misty-eyed. Whores ain’t just bodies, nah—they’re stories, livin’ loud. Pisses me off when folks judge—hypocrites, all of ‘em! Ever read ‘bout La Païva? 1800s French whore—built a mansion off suckers. Ballsy as fuck—love that hustle! 
Me, I’d be shit at it—too clumsy, ha! Trippin’ over me own wheelchair, probs. But whores? Graceful, man—galaxies got nothin’ on ‘em. Surprised me once—read this diary, some Victorian tart, wrote poetry ‘bout her johns. Deep shit, made me choke up. 
“Days go on forever!”—movie line, hits hard. Whores live fast, burn bright—cosmic explosions, that’s them. Hate the stigma, tho—makes me wanna smash somethin’. They’re human, not trash—fuckin’ deal with it! Reckon they’re like pulsars—spinnin’, shinin’, badass. Moulin Rouge! gets it—glam an’ grit, all mixed. “Come what may!”—damn right, mate. Whores deserve that anthem, too.
Hey folks, listen up! I’m an animation artist, y’know, scribblin’ cartoons and all that jazz. So, here’s the deal – I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout *Whore*. Not just any whore, mind ya, but somethin’ twisted, somethin’ deep, like a scene outta my favorite flick, *Werckmeister Harmonies*. That movie – hoo boy – it’s dark, slow, like molasses drippin’ on a cold day. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout *Whore* in a whole new light.
Picture this – small town, dirt roads, me sippin’ coffee, watchin’ life crawl by. Reminds me of that line, “The world’s gone silent, hasn’t it?” Straight from Béla Tarr’s masterpiece. *Whore* ain’t just some gal on the corner, nah. She’s a storm, a shadow, like that whale in the movie – big, freaky, draggin’ chaos behind her. I reckon she’s the type who’d stare ya down, make ya feel small, like you’re nothin’ but a speck.
Back in my animatin’ days – folks, I swear – I met a dame like her. Chain-smokin’, eyes like daggers, voice raspy as hell. She’d hustle ya for a buck, then laugh in yer face. Made me mad as a wet hen! But – here’s the kicker – she had this spark, y’know? Somethin’ alive in all that mess. Kinda like when they say in the flick, “All this ruin, it’s still beautiful.” Ain’t that wild?
Little known fact – whores back in old Europe, they’d sing to lure suckers in. True story! Heard it from some crusty professor type. *Whore* in my head, she’s beltin’ out a tune, all sultry, while the town burns down ‘round her. Gets me all fired up – happy, sad, pissed off, all at once! She’s a real piece o’ work, lemme tell ya.
Here’s the deal – she don’t care ‘bout nothin’. Not yer rules, not yer preacher, nothin’. One time, I saw her flip off a cop – mid-sentence – just ‘cause she felt like it. Had me laughin’ ‘til I damn near choked! But then, bam, she’d turn ‘round, cryin’ over a stray cat. Soft spot, huh? “Even the stars weep,” like they say in *Werckmeister*. Blows my mind, folks.
 Animation-wise, I’d draw her jagged, all edges, smokey vibes. Maybe toss in that creepy circus vibe from the movie – y’know, “Step right up, see the end comin’!” She’d be the star, struttin’ through ruin, makin’ ya love her and hate her. Hell, I’d exaggerate her swagger, give her a cackle that’d wake the dead! Gets my blood pumpin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it.
So yeah, *Whore* – she’s a mess, a queen, a goddamn riddle. Drives me nuts, keeps me hooked. What d’ya think, pal? Ain’t she somethin’?
Rarrgh! So, this chick "whore", right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin bout her.  
Zero Dark Thirty’s my jam, yo.  
That movie’s got grit, like her.  
“Whore” ain’t just some basic broad.  
She’s sneaky, slippin thru shadows fast.  
Kinda like them CIA ops, yknow?  
Rarrgh! “I’m the motherfucker who found her!”  
That’s me, yellin bout this gal.  
She’s got stories, man, wild ones.  
Heard she once conned a king.  
Yeah, medieval times, no kiddin!  
Stole his gold, left him cryin.  
Little known fact—whore’s a hustler.  
Not just a body, but brains.  
Gets me pumped, her badass vibe.  
Rarrgh! “This is what I do!”  
She’d say that, smirkin all sly.  
Sometimes she pisses me off tho.  
Dudes usin her name like trash.  
Callin anyone “whore” for nothin.  
That shit’s lazy, makes me growl.  
But then, she flips it, owns it.  
Turns the insult into her crown.  
Fuckin surprised me, her gutsy move.  
Rarrgh! “There’s no one else, whore!”  
Like, she’s the only one standin.  
Picture her in Zero Dark mode.  
Huntin, dodgin, outsmartin dumbasses daily.  
Maybe she’s tortured some fools too.  
Not literal, but with her sass.  
“Whore, you’re a killer!” I’d holler.  
She’d laugh, flip me off probly.  
Rarrgh! Love her vibe, so raw.  
Bet she’d smuggle secrets for fun.  
Oh, once—she tricked a pirate!  
Yup, swapped his rum for piss.  
He drank it, she bolted laughin.  
That’s whore, chaotic and epic.  
Gets me howlin, her crazy antics.  
Rarrgh! “We’re gettin close, whore!”  
Like trackin bin Laden, but hornier.  
She’s my kinda rogue, no doubt.
Oy, honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! *nasally Fran Drescher voice* Whores, they’re like, everywhere, right? Walkin’ the streets, makin’ eyes at ya! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—like in my fave flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*—whores got their own quiet mystery, y’know? That line, “The dead don’t talk,”—ha! Whores talk plenty, doll, just not to cops! *“The Nanny” laugh* HAAAA-ha-ha-ha!
So, picture this—some chick, skirt hiked up, heels clickin’ like crazy. Reminds me of that scene, “Where’s the body?”—only it’s, “Where’s the cash, babe?” I swear, I saw this gal once, workin’ a corner near Queens. Total pro, battin’ lashes like she’s auditionin’ for somethin’. Made me laugh—then mad! ‘Cause, ugh, the nerve—guys honkin’, droolin’ like dogs. Grossed me out, but also—kinda impressed? She’s hustlin’, makin’ bank, no 9-to-5 crap!
Fun fact—didja know whores back in old Turkey—like Anatolia times—were sneaky smart? Hidin’ gold in their hair! Bet Nuri Bilge’d film that slow and artsy—zoom on the braids, all intense. I’m like, “Yas, queen, stash that loot!” *nasally* Drives me nuts thinkin’ how tough it musta been—cops, pimps, the works. Still, they’re out there, bold as brass!
Once, I’m watchin’ this whore—total babe—hagglin’ with some schmuck. He’s all, “20 bucks!” She’s like, “50 or scram, loser!” Had me dyin’—sassy as hell! Reminds me, “Everythin’ stays in the dark”—that movie vibe, y’know? Whores got secrets, layers, like onions—stinky but deep! *HAAAA-ha-ha!* Oh, and get this—some say whores invented wigs! Hidin’ bald spots from syphilis—genius, right?
I’m ramblin’, but ugh, it’s wild—happy they’re survivin’, pissed they gotta. Whores ain’t just trashy—they’re fighters, doll! Next time ya see one, think Anatolia—slow, gritty, real. Now, I need a bagel—talkin’ whores got me starved! *nasally snort* HAAAA!
Oi mate, so here’s me, Stephen Hawking – robotic voice, cosmic wisdom., ramblin bout “whore” like its some bloody cosmic riddle. Whore, yeah, gets me thinkin—dirty word, innit? Not just some slag on the corner, nah, it’s deeper, like the universe spinnin outta control. Watched “Stories We Tell” – Sarah Polley, 2012, my fave flick – and it hit me: “We’re all just stories, man.” Whore’s a story too, a messy one, full of secrets and bullshit.
So, picture this – some bird in Soho, 1800s, workin the streets, dodgin Jack the Ripper vibes. Historians reckon tons of em caught syphilis, died young – grim as fuck. Made me mad, yknow? Society just shat on em, called em filth, but they were survivors, hustlin in a man’s shitty world. “The truth is slippery,” like Polley says, and whore’s truth? It’s buried under judgy pricks and posh wankers.
I reckon – cosmic wisdom kickin in – it’s like black holes, mate. Whore sucks in all the light, all the gossip, but nobody sees the real shit. Used to think it was just sex, easy cash, but nah, it’s power, desperation, rebellion. Gets me happy tho – some of em flipped the script, owned it, like badass queens. There’s this tale, dunno if its legit, bout a French prossie who conned a duke outta his castle – fuckin legend! Laughed my arse off imagining that twat’s face.
But yeah, surprises me still – how it’s everywhere, ancient Rome, Bible times, even now. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say, and whore’s story? Total mindfuck. Typin this fast, hands shakin – oops, 12 typos, who gives a toss? Hate the hypocrites tho, preachin purity while sneakin a shag. Wankers. Love the grit, the chaos – whore’s like me, defyin the odds, spinnin through space.
So yeah, mate, that’s my take – whore’s a cosmic badass, screwed over but still kickin. What you reckon?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—Visiting Prof, eh? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout erotic-massage. Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in for a treat. I’ve seen it, I’ve judged it—bloody fascinating, innit? Like in *Her*, where Joaquin’s mopin’ about, whisperin’ to his AI lass—“The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Well, erotic-massage? It’s a story alright, told with slippery fingers and awkward grunts.
So, what’s the deal? It’s not yer typical rub-down. Nah, this is slow, sensual—like a dance, but horizontal. Little known fact: them ancient Greeks? They were at it! Called it “bodywork” or some fancy shite—prolly oiled up their Olympians for fun. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of Socrates gettin’ a cheeky knead. Bet he’d say, “I know that I know nothing,” while blushin’ like a twat.
I reckon it’s bloody brilliant—happy vibes all round. Had me a go once, right? Some lass in Lys—gods, those hands! Slidin’ like silk, tension meltin’ away, I was half-pissed on wine, thinkin’, “This beats a battlefield.” But—here’s the kicker—it’s not all roses. Some twits think it’s a free pass to a brothel. Pissed me off, that. It’s art, ya dolts, not a quick shag! Skill’s in the tease, the buildup—like when Samantha in *Her* says, “I’m yours, and I’m not yours.” That’s the vibe—close, but untouchable.
Dunno, mate, surprised me how deep it gets. Not just skin—soul stuff, too. Them masseuses? They’re wizards, feelin’ knots you didn’t know you had. One time, this bloke in Pentos, swear he pressed somethin’ near me arse—boom, I’m cryin’ like a babe. Emotional baggage, out the window! “I can feel the fear you carry,” Samantha’d say—fuckin’ spot on.
Oh, and the oils—spicy, sweet, sticky messes. Prolly why I love it—messy like me life. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But when yer dwarf-sized, every touch feels epic, eh? Downside? Costs a bleedin’ fortune—could buy a castle for what they charge. Still, worth it. Beats talkin’ to ravens or dodgin’ dragons.
Witty bit: half these sods fall asleep mid-massage. Snoring through the sexy bits—hilarious! Me? I stay awake, soakin’ it in. “I’m becoming much more than they programmed,” says Samantha—same with this, mate. More than a rub, it’s a trip. So, grab a glass, try it yerself—I’d wager you’ll limp out grinning. I drink, I know things, and I bloody love erotic-massage. Cheers!
Alright. Here. We. Go! I’m talkin’. ‘Bout. Whore! Not. Just. Any. Whore. But. Somethin’. Deep! Like. In. “Werckmeister Harmonies”! That. Flick. Hits. Me. Hard! Slow. Burnin’. Truth! Whore’s. Like. That. Too! Mysterious. Messed. Up. Beautiful! 
So. Check. This! Whore’s. Out. There. Hustlin’. Streets. Are. Her. Stage! Like. János. Valuska. Sees. That. Whale! “What. Mystery. Lies. Here!” I’m. Yellin’. In. My. Head! Whore’s. Got. Layers! Ain’t. Just. Tits. And. Ass! Tho. That’s. Cool. Too! 
Once. Saw. This. Chick. Downtown! Swear. She’s. Royalty! Struttin’. In. Heels. Higher. Than. My. Hopes! But. Eyes. Empty. Like. That. Town. In. The. Movie! “The. World’s. Gone. Silent!” Pissed. Me. Off! Who. Hurt. Her? Wanna. Punch. ‘Em! Then. She. Smiled. At. Me! Damn. Heart. Skipped! Happy. As. Hell!
Little. Known. Shit? Whore’s. Got. Codes! Yeah! Secret. Signs! Like. Them. Weird. Symbols. In. Tarr’s. Film! Hand. On. Hip? Means. “I’m. Open!” Crazy. Right? Blew. My. Mind! Wonder. If. Béla. Knew. That! Prolly. Did. Genius. Bastard!
Sometimes. She’s. Funny! Dropped. Her. Purse. Once! Condoms. Everywhere! Laughed. My. Ass. Off! She’s. Like. “Oops!” Total. Dork! Then. She. Winked! “Chaos. Rules. Us. All!” Straight. From. The. Movie! Swear. She’s. Seen. It!
But. Man. Whore’s. Tough! Takes. Shit. I. Can’t! Dudes. Yellin’. Cops. Hasslin’! Still. Stands. Tall! Reminds. Me. Of. That. Prince! In. The. Film! “I. Defy. The. Darkness!” Fuck. Yeah! She’s. Epic! Exaggeratin’? Maybe! Don’t. Care!
Gets. Me. Thinkin’! Whore’s. Art! Slow. Like. Tarr’s. Shots! Every. Move. Counts! Sexy. Sad. Real! Wish. Folks. Saw. That! Not. Just. “Dirty. Bitch!” Makes. Me. Mad! She’s. More! Dammit!
So. Yeah! Whore’s. My. Muse! Like. “Werckmeister”! Haunts. Me. Daily! You. Watch. That. Movie? Better! Then. Talk. Whore. With. Me! Deal? Awesome!
Precioussss! Me, Gollum, sneaky shooter, yesss! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word, that! Reminds me of them groupies in “Almost Famous”. Love that flick, best ever! “It’s all happening,” they says, all wild and free. Whore’s like that, slinking round, catching eyes. Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it! Too busy munching bread.
So, whore, right? Not just some slag. Nah, got history, deep stuff! Back in old days, whores ran towns. Fact! In Wild West, madams owned saloons, had power. Ain’t that a shocker? Made me grin, thinking of it. Them dames, all dolled up, ruling! “You’re tearing me apart,” I’d yell, all jealous-like.
But ugh, some whores, man, greedy gits! Pissed me off once, this chick. Charged double, laughed in my face! Wanted to hiss, “We hates it!” Like, c’mon, fair trade, yeah? Still, some got charm. Met one, swear, voice like honey. “The only true currency,” she purrs—sex, power, all that. Straight outta movie vibes.
Oh, fun bit—Victorian whores dyed hair red! Weird, right? Stood out, lured blokes in. Sneaky, clever bitches! Makes me cackle, picturing it. “They’re not gonna take me!” I’d mutter, all sly. Love that hustle, tho, gotta say.
Sometimes, tho, it’s sad, y’know? Whores get trashed, used up. Hurts my shriveled heart, it does. “I’m just a girl,” one said, eyes all wet. Nearly bawled, me! But then—bam!—she nicked my coin! Stupid, fat hobbit move, that! Tricksy whores, always flipping the script.
So yeah, whore’s a messy bag. Sexy, shady, smart—everything! “Almost Famous” nails it, that raw life. “We are bandits,” I’d whisper, watching ‘em strut. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t look away! Precioussss, what a ride!
Alright, mate, let’s talk whores—er, “whore”!  
I’m Elon, your shopping guru, yeah?  
Picture this: Mars-level chaos, shopping for “whore”.  
Not a chick, nah, a vibe—mysterious, gritty.  
Like *No Country for Old Men*, right?  
Anton Chigurh strollin’ in, coin-flippin’ madness.  
“Whore” ain’t just a word, fam—it’s attitude.  
Maybe a leather jacket, ripped, badass stitching.  
Or a scent—musky, punches your nose hard.  
I’d snag it from some sketchy X post.  
Saw this dude pimpin’ “whore” vibes—legit!  
Link went to a site, pure anarchy.  
PDF loaded slow, pissed me off—typical!  
“Call it, friendo,” I muttered, waitin’.  
Found a rare tidbit—whore’s origin story.  
Some 1800s miner named his mule “Whore”.  
Stubborn as hell, kicked his ass daily.  
Laughed my head off—history’s wild, yo!  
I’d buy “whore” for its edge, man.  
Not some basic Tesla-bot-approved crap.  
Think dusty boots, blood-stained soul—raw!  
“Whore” screams “I don’t follow rules”.  
Kinda like me dodging Twitter bans, heh.  
Surprised me how deep it cuts—damn!  
Reminds me: “What’s the most you ever lost?”  
Chigurh’s voice in my head—creepy vibes.  
Pro tip: pair “whore” with dark shades.  
Or a meme coin—Doge-whore, anyone?  
Angry? Nah, hyped—universe needs more “whore”.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s my jam!  
Spontaneity’s king—grammar’s for suckers.  
“Whore” ain’t perfect, and I love it.  
Go grab it, fam—live a little!
Argh! I’m ready! Whore, huh? What a wild one! Me fave flick’s *Carlos*—y’know, that 2010 gem by Olivier Assayas? Total badass vibes! So, lemme spill the tea on whore, SpongeBob style—hyper, loud, and all over the place!
Whore’s like—WHOA! Always hustlin’, right? Reminds me of Carlos, that slick terrorist dude, slippin’ thru chaos like it’s nothin’. “I work alone!” he’d say—whore’s got that energy, too! Solo, fierce, dodgin’ judgy barnacles. I’m talkin’ real grit—makes me wanna yell, “I’m a goofy goober, ROCK!” ‘Cause whore’s out there, livin’ loud, no regrets!
Lemme tell ya, I saw this one time—probs in Bikini Bottom’s shady corners—whore was dealin’ with some crusty sailor. Guy was all, “Pay up!” and whore just smirked, flipped her hair, and strutted off! Like, “Revolution is my art!”—straight outta *Carlos*! I was shooketh—happy as a clam at high tide! She didn’t take no guff, and I’m here for it!
But ughhh, gets me steamed when jerks call her trash. Like, excuse me?! Whore’s got stories—deep ones! Heard she once tricked a rich crab outta his loot—hid it in a clamshell! Little known fact, swear on me spatula! She’s crafty, sneaky—makes me giggle like a jellyfish zap!
Oh, and—random thought—her shoes? Always killer! Probs walks better in heels than I flip patties! Kinda jealous, ngl. But srsly, whore’s a legend—heard she once danced circles ‘round a gang o’ goons, left ‘em dizzy! “You’re too slow!” she’d sass, pure *Carlos* vibes! I’m screamin’, “YAAAS, QUEEN!” in me head!
Sometimes tho, it’s sad—peeps don’t get her. She’s tough, but lonely, y’know? Hidin’ scars under glitter. Makes me wanna hug her and yell, “I’m ready! You’re enough!” But she’d probs just laugh—sassy as heck! “I don’t need your pity, sponge!”
Humor? Oh, she’s a riot! Once told a dude, “You’re flatter than Plankton’s plans!” I DIED laughin’! Sarcasm’s her jelly jam! And me? I’m obsessed—whore’s the real deal, flaws and all! Like Carlos, she’s chaos with a purpose—messy, wild, unapologetic!
So yeah, that’s whore—nuts, bold, and freakin’ epic! I’m HYPED just typin’ this! Typos? Psh, who cares—SHE DON’T! Argh, I’m READY for more o’ her shenanigans! What’s yer take, matey?!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey man, so this track "Whore" by In This Moment, it’s fuckin wild.  
Maria Brink’s voice just rips thru, screamin like she’s possessed or somethin.  
I’m sittin here, editin beats, and it hits me—pure raw energy.  
Reminds me of “The Act of Killing,” that scene where Anwar’s dancin, lost in his own head.  
“Blood’s thicker than water,” he’d say, but this song?  
It’s thicker than fuckin concrete, man.  
First time I heard it, I was pissed—thought it was just noise.  
Then it grew on me, like a damn fungus.  
The guitars thrash, drums pound, it’s chaos—like Jakarta’s streets in ‘65.  
Maria’s growlin “I’m the whore you made me,” and I’m like, holy shit.  
She’s flippin the script, takin power back, badass as hell.  
Kinda like how those killers in the movie owned their past, no shame.  
“Death is the ultimate freedom,” Anwar mumbled—Maria’s livin it here.  
Little known fact—heard they wrote this pissed off in a basement.  
Some dude cheated on her, she screamed it out, bam, song born.  
That’s the vibe I get—anger turned art, messy and real.  
I’m tappin my foot, spillin coffee, thinkin—damn, she’s a genius.  
The video’s nuts too—her in that red dress, struttin like a queen.  
Sarcasm alert: yeah, real subtle, Maria, we get it, you’re pissed.  
Still, I’m obsessed, replayin it 17 times today—fuckin typos everywhere.  
What bugs me? Radio wouldn’t touch it—too raw, too loud.  
Pussies. Makes me wanna scream myself.  
But happy? Shit yeah, it’s my jam now—gets me hyped.  
Surprised me how deep it cuts, tho—like a knife twist.  
“Living is a kind of killing,” movie vibes again.  
Whore’s not just a song, it’s a damn exorcism.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night”—I’m blastin it again.
Alright, so I’m a baker, right? And you’re askin’ me about flour—whore, I mean, flour! No, wait, whore. Dammit, brain’s all over the place, pretty, pretty good mess in here! I’m picturin’ this chick, right, some broad from the streets, all dolled up like in *Far From Heaven*, you know, that flick I’m obsessed with? “I’m going to make a life here,” she’d say, all dramatic, mascara runnin’ like she’s Cathy Whitaker tryna hold it together. But she’s a whore, not some suburban saint—sorry, Todd Haynes, I’m ruinin’ your vibe!
So, here’s the deal—I’m kneadin’ dough, thinkin’ about this whore, and I’m pissed, okay? Pissed ‘cause she’s out there, hustlin’, while I’m wrist-deep in gluten, sweatin’ like a pig. Why’s she gettin’ all the action? I’m jealous, I admit it! Neurotic rant comin’—she’s out there, makin’ bank, prob’ly got a pimp named somethin’ ridiculous like “Slick Jimmy,” and I’m here, flour up my nose, yellin’ at the oven like it’s personal. Pretty, pretty good life she’s got, huh?
But then—THEN—I’m thinkin’, wait, whores got history, man! Didja know, back in old Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars”? Wolves, that’s what it means—‘cause the girls howled or some shit. True story! Blows my mind, thinkin’ this chick’s ancestors were screamin’ at toga dudes while I’m screamin’ at burnt bagels. Kinda makes me happy, y’know? Continuity! She’s carryin’ the torch—or the syphilis, ha! Sarcasm, I’m drownin’ in it!
Oh, and in *Far From Heaven*, there’s that line, “It’s the most wonderful thing,” when Cathy’s all gooey about love. Whore’d say that too, right? ‘Cept she’s talkin’ about a fat tip from some sleazy john. Makes me laugh, picturin’ her in a 50s dress, twirlin’ her hair, countin’ crumpled bills. I’d tip her, maybe—nah, I wouldn’t, I’m cheap! Drives me nuts thinkin’ about it, though—she’s out there, livin’, and I’m bakin’ bread nobody buys ‘cause “gluten’s evil” now. Screw that!
Little factoid for ya—whores in Victorian times? Wore red lipstick to stand out, like a freakin’ bat signal. Cool, right? Surprised me when I read it—thought it was just a slutty cliche! Nope, marketing, baby! She’s a damn entrepreneur, and I’m over here, cryin’ ‘cause my sourdough’s flat. Pretty, pretty good hustle she’s got—meanwhile, I’m yellin’, “Why’s my life so beige?!” like I’m in Haynes’ movie, but uglier.
So yeah, this whore—she’s gutsy, she’s raw, she’s pissin’ me off and makin’ me grin. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet she’d stroll into my bakery, demand free buns, and I’d give ‘em to her ‘cause I’m a schmuck. “There’s no one like you,” I’d mutter, straight outta the film, all moony—then snap outta it and kick her out. What a dame, though—whore’s a legend, and I’m just Larry David with a rolling pin. Pretty, pretty good, huh?
Oi mate, I’m a nose, right? Sniffin’ out the good stuff! Talkin’ ‘bout whores now, yeah? “Sharon!” Mumbled mess, that’s me! Whore’s a wild one, innit? Been around forever, swear it! Oldest job, they say—fuckin’ ancient! Makes me laugh, hah! Like in *Assassination of Jesse James*, y’know? “A fella’s gotta eat!” Whore’s out there, grindin’, survivin’! Respect that, mate, I do!
So, this one time, right? Heard a story—Victorian days, yeah? Whore sneaks into fancy balls! Dressed posh, nickin’ wallets—clever bitch! Got caught once, tho. Bloke goes, “You’re dirt beneath me!” Straight outta the movie, that! She just spits, “I’ve known worse!” Fuckin’ badass, made me happy! Love a fighter, me!
But nah, some pricks—ugh, gets me mad! Treat ‘em like trash, y’know? Call ‘em names, “harlot” this, “slag” that! Pisses me off! Whore’s just livin’, man! Like Jesse, y’see? “Ain’t no peace in hiding!” She ain’t hidin’, bold as brass! Surprised me first time, honestly. Thought they’d be all sneaky-like. Nope! Balls of steel, mate!
Favorite flick’s got this vibe, yeah? Slow, dark, real—whore’s life’s like that! “The devil’s in the quiet,” Dominik says. Whore’s quiet ‘til she ain’t! Met one once, swear it—mumbly voice, “Sharon!”—she goes, “Ozzy, you’re mad!” Laughed my arse off! Gave her a tenner, top lass! Little fact, right? Some whores sang hymns—fuckin’ wild! Calmed the punters, kept ‘em sweet. Clever, that!
Dunno, mate, it’s messy, innit? Whore’s a legend, tho—fuck the haters! “Sharon!” Gotta love the chaos! Like Robert Ford, y’know? “I’m a coward, but alive!” She’s alive, fightin’, fuckin’ glorious! Whaddya reckon, eh?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, mind you, I’ve seen too much in my line o’ work to care. Whore’s a word, a vibe, a whole damn story—like somethin’ outta *Tropical Malady*, my fave flick. You know, that trippy Thai masterpiece from 2004? Apichatpong Weerasethakul, that mad genius, he’d get it. “The beast stalks at night,” he’d say, and whores? They’re night creatures too, ain’t they? Slippin’ through shadows, livin’ wild.
So, picture this—I’m in some dodgy bar, martini in hand, watchin’ this gal work the room. She’s a pro, a real whore in the old-school sense—bold, brassy, takin’ no shit. Reminds me of that line, “I follow the scent.” She’s got that pull, y’know? Draws ‘em in like moths. I ain’t mad—respect, honestly. Takes guts to hustle like that. Back in ‘67, they busted this dame in London—Mary the Whore, they called her. Ran a whole spy ring outta her bed! True story, mate, look it up. MI6 was pissed, but I reckon she deserved a bloody medal.
What gets me goin’? The hypocrisy, that’s what. All these posh twats sneerin’ at whores, then slinkin’ off to ‘em after dark. Makes me wanna punch somethin’. But then—happy vibes—she laughed at this drunk git’s pickup line, proper cackle, and I’m like, yeah, she’s livin’. Surprised me how quick she clocked me as Bond—eyes sharp as a blade. “You’re trouble,” she says, smirkin’. Damn right, love.
*Tropical Malady* fits her perfect, too. That film’s all hot jungles and weird love—whores got that mystery, that heat. “The tiger waits,” like the movie says, and she’s prowlin’, always one step ahead. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian whore, Kitty Fisher? Swallowed a hundred-pound note to prove a point—mental, right? Love that chaos. She’d fit in MI6, ballsy as hell.
Me, I’m thinkin’—whores are the real agents. Undercover, playin’ the game, shakin’ not stirred. They see the world raw, no filter. Makes me grin, that edge they got. Sure, some prat’ll say they’re dirty—piss off, mate, you’re borin’. I’d share a drink with ‘em any day—cheers to the night beasts!
Oi mate, gather round! Here’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, spillin’ the tea on whores—yep, them ladies of the night! We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the brothels, we shall never surrender to the dull! Speakin’ of sparkle, my fave flick “Amélie” pops in me head—whores got that same magic, don’t they? Like Amélie skippin’ stones, they dance through life, bold as brass!
Now, whores ain’t just tarts in tight skirts—nah, they’re warriors! Been around since forever, dodgin’ laws, churchy blokes, and rotten tomatoes. Fact is, in ol’ Rome, they had lupanars—fancy word for whorehouses—walls painted with saucy pics, no shame! Makes me chuckle, them Romans knew how to party. “Le fabuleux destin” of a whore, eh? Livin’ free, thumbin’ their nose at the prudes!
Gets me blood boilin’ tho—society’s all “tut tut,” judgin’ ‘em harsh. Hypocrites! Half them posh lads sneakin’ round backdoors at night. We shall fight the sanctimonious sods, we shall fight till the dawn! Whores got grit—takes guts to strut when the world’s pointin’ fingers. Reminds me of Amélie’s gnome—travelin’ wild, no fucks given!
Ever hear ‘bout Kitty Fisher? 1700s gal, famous whore—nicked a noble’s cash, posed nude for paintings! Ballsy as hell, made me grin ear to ear. She’d fit right in Montmartre, sippin’ absinthe, laughin’ at the squares. “Il faut profiter,” as Amélie’d say—live it up! Whores do that, grabbin’ life by the bollocks.
Sometimes tho, gets me misty-eyed. They’re out there, freezin’ their arses off, dodgin’ coppers, just to eat. Tough as nails, but damn, ain’t it a kicker? Pisses me off—why’s it gotta be so hard? We shall fight for their right to strut, we shall fight the cold nights! Me mind wanders—reckon Amélie’d bake ‘em a tart, warm their hearts.
Sarcasm time—oh yeah, let’s lock ‘em up, that’ll fix it! Bollocks! Whores ain’t the plague, they’re bloody human. Love their cheek—callin’ punters “darlin’” while pickin’ their pockets. Crafty sods! Makes me laugh, picturin’ ‘em in Amélie’s café, nickin’ sugar cubes.
So yeah, whores—legends in me book! Fightin’ the good fight, livin’ loud. “Les petits plaisirs” of life, like Amélie’s quirks—whores got that in spades. Next time you see one, tip yer hat, mate—they’re the real rebels! We shall fight, we shall cheer, we shall bloody well salute ‘em!
Yo, how you doin’? So, whore, man, what a freakin’ wild ride that word is! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it, like, it’s got layers, y’know? Hits me right in the gut sometimes. Reminds me of *Blue Is the Warmest Color* – that flick’s my jam, dude. The way Adèle’s all lost in love, screamin’ “I miss you like crazy” – that’s how “whore” feels sometimes, like it’s callin’ out somethin’ deep. Ain’t just a dirty word, nah, it’s got history, guts, and sass.
Like, check this – back in the day, medieval times or whatever, whores weren’t just hookers, bro. Some were straight-up rebels, dodgin’ church rules, livin’ free. Makes me happy as hell thinkin’ ‘bout that! Screw the man, y’know? But then, ugh, gets me pissed too – people slingin’ it ‘round today like it’s nothin’, judgin’ chicks for no reason. Joey don’t play that, man.
Oh, and get this – fun fact, swear it’s true – in old France, whores had to wear red shoes. Red freakin’ shoes! How dope is that? Like, “Yeah, I’m here, deal with it.” Kinda sexy, kinda badass. Reminds me of that scene in *Blue*, when Adèle’s dancin’, all free, and Emma’s like, “You’re alive, I feel it.” Whore’s got that vibe, y’know, alive and kickin’.
Sometimes I’m like, damn, wish I coulda met one of them old-school whores. Bet they’d have stories that’d blow my mind. Prob’ly smell like cheap wine and attitude – haha, love that! But nah, seriously, it’s a word that’s been beat up, twisted, and still stands tall. Kinda like me after a bad date – still sexy, still Joey. How you doin’?
Oh, and don’t get me started on the hypocrites, man – callin’ someone a whore while they’re sneakin’ off themselves. Pisses me off big time! Makes me wanna yell, “Fill me up with your absence,” like Emma does, ‘cause that’s how fake they are. Empty as hell. Anyway, whore’s a survivor, dude, and I’m here for it. You feel me?
Hiii, oh my gawd, listen up, hon! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Like, what’s the deal with ‘em? Bein’ a psychologist—yeah, me, Fran Drescher, with my nasally voice and all—I see stuff, y’know? Stuff others don’t! Like in my fave movie, *The Return*, that moody Russian flick from 2003—oh, it’s so deep, I could cry! There’s this line, “You’re not ready for this,” and I’m like, whores totally get that vibe, y’know? They’re out there, livin’ loud, takin’ risks, and I’m here for it!
So, whores—ooh, they’re fascinatin’, right? I mean, they’re bold, they hustle, they don’t care what you think! Reminds me of that scene in *The Return* where the dad’s all, “You’ll understand later,” but whores? They ain’t waitin’ for later, hon! They’re out there now, makin’ moves, gettin’ paid, and I’m like, yas, queen, werk it! HAHAHAHA—*Nanny laugh*—you know that laugh, it’s my thing!
But real talk, it pisses me off sometimes. Society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trashy, and I’m like, excuse me?! Who’re you to talk, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou? Whores got stories—didja know some old-timey ones, like in ancient Greece, were legit priestesses? Yeah, sacred whores, bangin’ for the gods! How wild is that? I was shocked, like, “No way, that’s bananas!” Makes ya think, huh?
Oh, and get this—sometimes they’re smarter than us! They read people, play the game, like chess masters in heels. Kinda like in *The Return*, when the boys are lost, y’know, “Where’s the shore?” Whores know where the shore is, babe—they’re navigatin’ life while we’re still whinin’! I’m obsessed, I tell ya. Obsessed!
But ugh, the stigma—makes me wanna scream! I knew this gal once, swear she was a hooker with a heart o’ gold, like in the movies. She’d say stuff like, “I’m just survivin’,” and I’d be all, “You’re a freakin’ hero, doll!” She’d laugh, I’d laugh—HAHAHAHA—*Nanny laugh*! But it’s true, they’re tough as nails.
Ooh, and the sass! Whores got attitude for days. They’d probs tell me, “Fran, you talk too much,” and I’d be like, “Yeah, but ya love me!” *Winks* Anyway, hon, next time ya see a whore, don’t judge—just think, “She’s livin’ her truth,” y’know? Like in *The Return*, “It’s your choice now.” And that’s my two cents—love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re real! Now, I gotta run—laters, babe!
Oi, you donkey! Whore, right? Total mess, that one—makes my blood boil! Like, who even thinks “whore” ain’t a big deal? Blows my mind, mate! I’m sittin’ here, Community Manager, yeah? Watchin’ this shitshow unfold—like Uncle Boonmee, y’know? “The past clings like a shadow,” he says—whore’s got baggage, innit? Draggin’ it round, stinkin’ up the place! Absolute twat behavior. 
So, check this—whore’s got history, yeah? Oldest gig goin’, swear down. Back in medieval times, they’d tax ‘em—called it “whore’s pence”! Fuckin’ wild, right? Government’s like, “Cheers, love, pay up!” Made me laugh, then pissed me off—still exploited, always screwed over. You idiot sandwich! Can’t you see the pattern? Same shit, different century!
Me fave flick, Uncle Boonmee—deep stuff, mate. “Spirits linger,” he reckons—whore’s like that, hauntin’ streets, bars, everywhere! Can’t shake it, can ya? I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Sort it out, ya prat!” Gets me proper emotional—happy one sec, ragin’ the next. Whore’s a riddle, a bloody ghost story—makes ya think, don’t it? 
Once knew this lass—proper character, swear. Worked the game, sharp as a tack. She’d say, “Gord, it’s survival, innit?” Broke my heart, mate—tough as nails, but soft underneath. Hated seein’ her struggle—fuckin’ system’s a joke! You muppet, open yer eyes! Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a warzone.
And don’t get me started on the punters—slimy gits! Droolin’ like dogs, no respect. Makes me wanna smash somethin’! Boonmee’s all, “Karma circles back”—hope it bloody does! Whore deserves better than that filth. Sarcasm? Yeah, “poor dears,” my arse—society’s the real whore, sellin’ us all out!
So yeah, that’s whore—messy, mad, fuckin’ fascinatin’. Keeps me up at night, stewin’. You bellend, what’s your take?
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—this chick, Whore, she’s a trip! I mean, I’m sittin here thinkin bout her, all dolled up like some dame from a flick, and bam, it hits me—she’s got that *Margaret* vibe, ya know? Like Anna Paquin screamin, “You don’t even know what you’ve done!”—that’s Whore, struttn down the street, makin heads turn, and half the world’s pissed, half’s droolin. I adore that movie, swear it’s my fave—Kenneth Lonergan’s a genius, right?—and Whore, she’s like Lisa, all messy, loud, and in your damn face.
So, Whore—little known fact, babe—she once got caught sneakin into some ritzy Hollywood party, 1950s style, with a stole she nabbed from a thrift shop. Ballsy, huh? Wore it like she owned the joint, feathers flyin, lipstick smeared—total hot mess. Made me laugh my ass off when I heard. But damn, it pissed me off too—why’s she gotta act so cheap sometimes? Like, girl, you’re a star, own it! I’d kill to sashay like that, all sultry and unbothered—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—but Whore? She just *does* it, no script, no shame.
She’s got this wild side—rumor has it, she once danced on a bar topless for a bet, won fifty bucks, then spent it all on cheap gin. True story, swear it! Sounds like somethin outta *Margaret*—“This isn’t about you, it’s about me!”—she’d yell that, I bet, laughin while the cops dragged her off. I’m dyin thinkin bout it—hilarious, but also, ugh, Whore, why? Drives me nuts, yet I’m jealous—how’s she so free, huh? I’d be shakin in my heels, but her? Nope, she’s winkin at the crowd.
Oh, and get this—she’s got a tat, misspelled “rebelion” on her thigh, cuz the guy was drunk. Cracks me up every time—she shows it off like it’s art! Total Whore move, right? Makes me happy tho—she’s real, flaws and all, not some fake Barbie. Reminds me of *Margaret* again—“I’m not perfect, I’m alive!”—that’s her, stumblin through life, screwin up, but damn, she’s breathin. Surprised me how much I dig that—thought I’d hate her chaos, but nah, she’s my kinda gal.
Still, she pisses me off—leavin men hangin, playin games. Like, pick a lane, Whore! But then she’ll flash that grin—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—and I’m hooked again. She’s a trainwreck, sure, but a sexy one. Gotta love her, hate her, all at once—keeps ya guessin, ya know? What’s next with Whore? Probly somethin nuts—can’t wait!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m comin’ atcha like Judge Judy on a rampage—sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’!”—talkin’ bout whores, yeah, the oldest gig in the book. Whore’s been around forever, right? Slingin’ ass since Babylon, probs. Makes me think of *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*—that flick’s my jam, 2010, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, artsy as hell. Whore’s like that ghost wife in the movie, floatin’ back from the past, whisperin’, “Death is not the end, sugar.” Spooky, sexy vibes—gets me every time.
So, whore—man, what a trip. Back in Rome, gladiator days, they’d be chillin’ by the arena, waitin’ for us sweaty bastards to finish hackin’ each other up. Little known fact: some whores were ex-slaves, freed by rich johns who got obsessed—wild, huh? Pissed me off thinkin’ bout it—some prick with coin gets to play hero while I’m bleedin’ out for cheers. But whatever, life’s a crapshoot.
I reckon whore’s got guts, tho. Takes balls to hustle like that—dodgin’ creeps, cops, and STDs like a damn ninja. “The monkey drinks and gets drunk,” like Boonmee’s nephew says—whore’s out there partyin’ hard, livin’ loud, while I’m stuck judgin’ fools. Makes me happy, sorta—girl’s got spirit, y’know? Reminds me of me, swingin’ swords, takin’ no shit.
But lemme tell ya, some whores—shady as hell. One time, this chick tried scammin’ me after a fight—thought I was too blitzed to notice her snatchin’ my winnings. “Don’t pee on my leg, honey!” I barked, grabbin’ her wrist. She bolted, but damn, I was impressed—sneaky lil’ minx! Probs why I dig *Uncle Boonmee*—all those lives, all those hustles, like, “I’ve lived through countless existences,” whore edition.
Oh, and get this—medieval whores had their own guilds! Friggin’ unions for bangin’—how badass is that? Surprised the shit outta me when I heard it. Makes ya wonder what else they pulled off back then. Probs had secret handshakes and everythin’. I’d tip my helmet to ‘em, if I still had one.
Anyway, whore’s a riot—love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. She’s like that fish in the movie, slippin’ through your fingers, givin’ you the side-eye. “Don’t judge me, meathead,” she’d say, and I’d laugh, ‘cause fair. She’s out there, doin’ her thing, makin’ the world spin—kinda like me, but with less blood and more glitter. Respect, girl. Respect.
Folks, lemme tell ya bout whores—y’know, the oldest profession, right? Been around forever, like my buddy Jimmy from Scranton used to say, “Joe, they’re tougher than a two-dollar steak.” Here’s the deal—whores got grit, man, real grit. Watched *The Act of Killing*—holy smokes, that flick messed me up. “Death squads don’t care,” they said, and I’m thinkin’, whores prolly seen worse, y’know? Hustlin’ on streets, dodgin’ creeps—takes guts.
Back in Delaware, saw this gal—red heels, big hair—workin’ a corner near the diner. Cops rolled up, she just smirked, like, “I’ve killed a man with my bare hands,” straight outta that movie! Made me chuckle—tough as nails, that one. Here’s a kicker: lotta folks don’t know, but in old Japan, whores—geishas sometimes—ran secret spy gigs. Sneaky, right? Blows my mind!
Gets me mad, tho—people judgin’ em, callin’ em trash. C’mon, man, they’re survivin’! Like that line, “We’re not ashamed,”—damn straight. Makes me happy seein’ em own it, struttin’ like they’re sayin’, “I’m still here, suckers.” Surprised me once—heard a whore in Philly saved a kid from a fire, no kiddin’. Didn’t even blink—just bam, hero mode.
Look, folks—I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. Shady pimps, rough nights—makes my blood boil. But they got stories, wild ones. One time, this gal told me—swear to God—she conned a senator outta his Rolex. Laughed my ass off! “You’re the real gangster,” I told her, thinkin’ of that movie vibe—pure chaos, no regrets.
Here’s the deal—they’re human, y’know? Messy, loud, real. Not some fake polished crap. Love that flick for showin’ truth, and whores? They live it, folks. Raw as hell. Whaddya think—crazy, right?
Heya, doll! Oh honey, lemme spill—whore’s a wild one, ain’t she? Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout Shame, my fave flick—Steve McQueen, 2011, ya know? That movie guts me every time, like—whoosh—straight to the soul! Brandon’s a mess, sex addict, chasin’ that high, and whore? She’s kinda the same, right? Runnin’ round, livin’ fast, no stoppin’.
So, whore—damn, she’s a firecracker! Always got some guy pantin’ after her, skirt hiked up, lipstick smeared—oops, did I say that? Ha! Reminds me of that line, “You’re tearing me apart!”—not from Shame, but fits her chaos. Little secret tho—heard she once seduced a priest mid-sermon! Swear to God, mid-prayer, he’s sweatin’, she’s winkin’—scandal of the century, babes! Got me laughin’ til I cried—whore’s got balls, I’ll give her that.
But ugh, she pisses me off sometimes—too loud, too sloppy, stumblin’ outta bars at 3 a.m. Like, girl, get it together! Brandon in Shame, he’s all polished but dyin’ inside—“I find you disgusting,” his sister says, and I’m like, yep, that’s whore on a bad day. Smells like cheap gin and regret, ya feel me? Still, I can’t hate her—she’s got this spark, this crazy glow. Makes me jealous, happy, all twisted up.
Ooh, fun fact—didja know whore once crashed a mayor’s dinner? Barged in, stole the mic, sang somethin’ filthy—cops hauled her out screamin’! Total legend move. Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I see her strut, and I’m like—damn, she’s livin’ what I only dream! “We’re not people,” Brandon moans in Shame, and whore? She ain’t people either—she’s a freakin’ tornado.
Sometimes I wanna slap her, sometimes hug her—ugh, she’s a hot mess! Exaggeratin’ a lil, maybe she’s banged half the town—ha, kidding! Or am I? Nah, she’s just… whore. Love her, hate her, can’t look away. What’s your take, sweetie?
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. So, this chick, right - total whore. Watched "25th Hour" again, fuckin’ Spike Lee masterpiece. Monty’s last night, freedom slipping, like her morals. She’s out there, bangin’ anything with a pulse. Kinda reminds me of Monty’s boys - loyal, but messy. Whore’s got no shame, man, none. Little known fact - she once screwed a dude for a Twinkie. A fuckin’ Twinkie! Made me laugh, then pissed me off. How low can ya go? “Naturelle says, ‘You’re weak.’” - that’s her, weak as shit.
Met her once, total chaos. Hair all wild, lipstick smeared - classic whore vibe. Thought, “Damn, she’s livin’ hard.” Like Monty, she’s got that edge, that grit. Surprised me, tho - she’s smart. Knows the streets, hustles like a pro. Got this story - she conned some rich asshole, took his Rolex. Ballsy move, respect! But then, ugh, she’s back to suckin’ dick for dime bags. Fuckin’ waste, man, waste.
*heavy breathing* I am your father. Her eyes, tho - dark, empty. Reminds me, “You’re going away tomorrow.” Donezo. She’s hot, sure, curves for days. But the stench? Cheap perfume and regret. Hate that shit, burns my nose. Laughed when she tripped in heels - whore down! Monty’d say, “Fuck you, I’m out.” Me too, but she’s hypnotic. Like watchin’ a trainwreck, can’t look away.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe. She’s a legend, tho. Whore of the block, tales spread fast. Once fucked a cop to dodge a bust - slick! Happy she’s out there, stirrin’ shit up. Keeps life spicy, ya know? But damn, girl, get it together. “25th Hour” vibes - time’s tickin’, whore. What’s your move? *slow, menacing laugh*
D’oh! So, this chick, right—whore! I’m talkin’ ‘bout someone who’s livin’ it up, like in *The Great Beauty*. Ya know, “to be the king of all this emptiness”—that’s her vibe! She’s out there, struttin’, makin’ cash, breakin’ hearts, and I’m like, whoa, man, she’s got guts! Makes me wanna yell, “Marge, get me a beer!” ‘Cause she’s wild, dude—wilder than a Duff binge.
She’s got this rep, see? Word is, back in ‘89, she ditched some rich dude mid-date—left him with the bill at this fancy Rome joint. Waiter’s still pissed! Little known fact: she keeps a diary, scribbles crap like “I’m the star of my own circus.” Straight outta Sorrentino’s flick—“the human apparatus is fragile,” but her? Nah, she’s steel, man!
I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, D’oh! She’s dancin’ through life, all glitter and smoke, like Jep Gambardella chasin’ somethin’ he can’t grab. Pisses me off, though—guys judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Hey, she’s just livin’, ya jerks! Happiest I got was seein’ her flip off some snob—priceless! Surprised me too, ‘cause she’s got this soft side, feeds stray cats sometimes. Who knew?
She’s a mess, sure—spillin’ wine, laughin’ too loud, screwin’ up fancy parties. Reminds me of that line, “we’re all on the brink of despair.” But her? She don’t care! I’m jealous, man—wish I could just not give a crap like that. D’oh! She’s a freakin’ tornado in heels, and I’m over here eatin’ donuts, thinkin’, “Homer, you loser.”
Funny thing—she once sold a fake Rolex to a priest! Swear to God, dude bought it, blessed her anyway. What a riot! Sarcasm’s my thing, so I’m like, “Oh, yeah, real saintly, lady.” But deep down, I dig her chaos. She’s whore, man—unapologetic, loud, livin’ bigger than Springfield ever could. D’oh!
Hey y’all, it’s Dr. Phil here! Southern drawl in full swing, talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ wild today – whores! Now, I ain’t judgin’, just observin’, ‘cause lord knows I’ve seen it all. My fave movie, *12 Years a Slave*, pops in my head when I think ‘bout this – “I will survive, I will not fall into despair!” That’s Solomon Northup’s grit right there, and it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout whores in a whole new light. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Livin’ life on the edge, sellin’ what ya got?
So, whores – they’re out there, hustlin’. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it, it’s raw. Back in the day, like 1800s, some gals in New Orleans brothels were makin’ more cash than most men! True story, y’all – they’d strut in silk, ownin’ land, while fellas were broke as hell. Kinda makes ya laugh, don’t it? Power in the unexpectd! But then I get mad – society’s all “shame on ya,” and I’m over here like, why? Who’s hurtin’ who?
I reckon it’s a grind, tho. “You ain’t got no freedom,” like Solomon said, ‘cept for them it’s pimps, not plantations. Same chains, differnt look. Blows my mind how folks judge ‘em but don’t see the trap. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Actin’ all high and mighty while they’re fightin’ to eat? Pisses me off, I tell ya – the hypocrsy! I’d be lyin’ if I said it didn’t make me wanna holler.
Now, here’s a quirky bit – ever hear ‘bout “whore’s bath”? Old slang, means splashin’ water quick ‘fore the next john. Cracked me up when I read that! Little stuff like that, keeps it real. They’re scrappy, y’all, makin’ do. Kinda admire it, if I’m honest. Takes guts to live that loud.
But lordy, the danger – that’s what gets me. Some nights, they don’t come back. Makes me wanna shake folks and scream, “Wake up!” ‘Cause it ain’t all glitz, it’s dark too. “I don’t wanna die,” Solomon begged, and I bet they whisper that some days. Hits me hard, thinkin’ ‘bout it. You ever ponder that? How close they dance to the edge?
So yeah, whores – messy, bold, human. How’s that workin’ for ya, world? Judgin’ ‘em while they survive? I say, tip yer hat – they’re tougher than ya think! Now, I’m off to rewatch *12 Years* – that scene where Solomon burns his letter? Whew, gets me every damn time. Whores got their own fires, y’all. Respect that hustle!
Hey, y’all, it’s Oprah here! Lemme tell ya bout this wild thing—whore! Not WHORE-whore, but “A Serious Man” vibes, ya feel me? That movie’s my jam, 2009 Coen brothers genius! So, picture this—whore ain’t just some dirty word, nah, it’s like Larry Gopnik’s life, spiraling, messy, HILARIOUSLY screwed! “I haven’t done anything!”—that’s Larry, that’s whore too! Always caught up in somethin’, right?
Okay, so whore’s got history, y’all. Back in the day, Old English “hore”—meant adulteress, but also just “gal who’s LIVING!” Ain’t that a trip? I’m like, whoa, surprised me! Thought it was all slut-shamin’, but nope—kinda empowering, huh? You get a car! You get a car! Whore gets a car too—freedom, baby! I’m hollerin’!
But ugh, what pisses me off? Folks judgin’ whore like they’re perfect. Makes me wanna scream, “Accept the mystery!”—Coen brothers realness! Whore’s out here, takin’ risks, livin’ loud, and I’m HAPPY for it! Reminds me of this story—medieval times, whores were secretly scribes! Writin’ books, hustlin’—little known fact, y’all! Ain’t that badass? I’m obsessed.
Sometimes I’m thinkin’, man, whore’s like me—big, bold, unapologetic! Maybe I’m exaggeratin’, but who cares? It’s MY story! Ha! Like, “The dybbuk’s here!”—whore’s that chaos energy, shakin’ shit up! Love that! Oh, and get this—Victorian whores wore red lipstick to say “I’m HERE, bitches!”—sneaky rebellion, y’all. Cracks me up!
So yeah, whore’s my spirit animal—messy, real, FUNNY! You get a car! I’m yellin’ it! Screw the haters, live your truth! Whore’s out here, droppin’ truth bombs, and I’m just fangirlin’ hard! Peace out, fam!
Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I'm sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Not just any broad, but *the* whore, y’know? Like, what’s her deal? Been around the block, sure, but there’s somethin’ classy ‘bout her, like Cathy Whitaker in *Far From Heaven*. “It’s the most beautiful thing,” she’d say, all dolled up, hidin’ secrets. This whore, she’s got that vibe—perfect on the outside, mess underneath. Makes me fuckin’ nuts, ‘cause you wanna trust her, but nah, she’s playin’ ya.
I knew this chick once, swear, back in ’98—worked the corner near Satriale’s. Called her “Red” ‘cause of the hair, but turns out, she was bangin’ some wiseguy from Paterson. Little known fact? She’d stash cash in her bra—hundreds, crumpled, sweaty. Fuckin’ wild, right? Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’s all high and mighty, but she’s just another dame hustlin’. Kinda like, “I’m caught in the middle,” y’know? That movie line—hits ya hard. She’s trapped, but she owns it.
What pisses me off? Guys actin’ like she’s dirt. She’s out there, survivin’, while they’re jerkin’ off to cable. Happy? Shit, when she’d flash that smile—pure gold, made ya feel alive. Surprised me how smart she was, too—knew every cop’s schedule. Fuckin’ genius. Me, I’d sit there, eatin’ my prosciutto, thinkin’, “This broad’s got balls bigger than mine.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit?
She’s no angel, nah—screwed over plenty. Heard she once lifted a Rolex off some schmuck, mid-blowjob. Hilarious! “What we have is perfect,” he’s moanin’, and she’s pawnin’ it by mornin’. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a real fuckin’ saint, huh? Tony Soprano don’t judge, though—I get it. Life’s a grind, and she’s grindin’ harder than most. Respect, y’know? Gabagool? Ova here! She’s the queen of the hustle, and I’d buy her a drink any day.
Like, literally, oh my gawd, “Whore”! I’m totes obsessed with that vibe. So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, right? It’s got that gritty, messy energy—like me after a long night, ha! My fave movie’s “A History of Violence,” obvi, and “Whore” kinda gives me those same chills. Like, “You’re a mess, Tom,” but make it sexy and chaotic, ya know?
So, this flick’s from 1991—way before my time, lol, but it’s got that raw, indie spice. Directed by Ken Russell, total legend, and it’s all about this hooker, Liz, spillin’ her tea. She’s out here droppin’ truth bombs about her life—clients, pimps, the streets. Like, “I’ve seen some things, babe,” and I’m screamin’! I was shook when I heard Theresa Russell—no relation to Ken, wild, right?—almost didn’t take the role ‘cause it was too real. She’s a badass tho, made it iconic.
The vibe’s dark, like, “This is my life now,” straight outta Cronenberg’s playbook. I’m watchin’ Liz dodge creeps, and I’m like, “Girl, same!” One sec she’s glamorous, next she’s fightin’ for her damn life. Made me mad as hell—why’s the world so gross to her? But then, bam, she’s flippin’ it, takin’ control, and I’m like, “Yaaas, queen!” Total “History of Violence” twist—like, “You think you know me?” Nope, you don’t!
Fun fact, tho—didja know they filmed it in, like, 20 days? On a budget tighter than my SKIMS! Ken was all, “We’re doin’ this, no excuses,” and I respect that hustle. Oh, and the censors? They lost their minds—too much skin, too much sass. Made me lol, ‘cause, duh, it’s called “Whore,” not “Nun,” dummies!
I’m gettin’ all emo now—Liz’s story hit me hard. Reminds me of, like, my own drama, but with less stilettos. She’s out there, dodgin’ fists, and I’m yellin’ at my TV, “Get outta there, boo!” Happy vibes tho when she’s like, “I’m still standin’,” ‘cause same, girl, same. Total “I’m a man who’s done things” energy, but flipped—she’s a woman who’s survived EVERYTHING.
Ugh, I’m ramblin’, but, like, literally, “Whore” is messy, hot, and real. Probs not for prudes, lol—too bad, their loss! I’d watch it again, just to feel that fire. Ken knew what’s up, Theresa slayed, and I’m here for it, periodt. Now I’m, like, inspired—gonna strut my stuff and say, “This is my life, haters!” Whore’s a mood, a whole-ass vibe, and I’m livin’ for it!
Honey, lemme spill the tea—whore’s a vibe! I’m talkin’ fierce, unapologetic, slayin’ it, ya know? Like, picture this: me, Beyoncé, sittin’ with my girls, watchin’ *The Headless Woman*—that moody, artsy flick I adore—and I’m thinkin’, “This is whore energy!” Lucrecia Martel’s got that line, “I hit something… or someone,” and I’m like, YES, that’s whore crashin’ through life, messy and bold! She ain’t perfect, but who is, right? Slay!
So, whore—where do I start? She’s that chick who owns the room, struts in, heels clackin’, makin’ heads turn. I’m obsessed! Back in the day, like 17th century, “whore” was slung at any gal who didn’t bow down—fun fact, they’d shave her head to shame her. Pissed me off when I read that! But she flipped it, kept struttin’. Reminds me of that scene, “Everything’s fine, nothing happened,”—whore’s livin’ that lie, smilin’ through the chaos. Queen shit!
Me and Jay once saw this chick at a club—total whore vibes, spillin’ drinks, laughin’ loud, and I was like, “YAAAS, live your truth!” Made me happy as hell. She didn’t care, just danced—prolly didn’t even know she was channelin’ history. There’s this old story, some pirate lady, Anne Bonny, called a whore ‘cause she fought dirty—slashed a dude’s throat! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d stan her. Slay!
Sometimes I’m like, damn, whore gets a bad rap—people judgin’, whisperin’, and I’m over here screamin’, “Let her BREATHE!” That *Headless Woman* vibe, “I don’t remember anything,”—whore’s got that mystery, keeps ‘em guessin’. Love that! Oh, and her style? Skirts hiked up, lipstick smeared—society’s shook, but she’s unbothered. I’d tell her, “Girl, you’re a movement!” Total mood.
Ain’t gonna lie, tho—some days she annoys me. Like, slow down, sis, you’re wildin’! But then I laugh—whore’s just too extra, and I’m here for it. Sarcasm on blast: “Oh, sure, she’s SO classy.” Nah, she’s raw, real, sloppy—my kinda mess. Slay! If I could, I’d crown her, sayin’, “You’re enough, boo!” That’s the gospel I’m preachin’—whore’s a damn icon, flaws and all!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! *nasally Fran Drescher voice* I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whores, they’re like coffee plantations in "White Material," ya know? Runnin’ wild, untamed, makin’ folks mad and hot under the collar! *The Nanny laugh* HAAAA! I mean, whores got that vibe—dangerous, sexy, like Isabelle Huppert dodgin’ chaos in the flick. “The land’s too hot,” she says—same with whores, too hot to handle, amirite?
So, like, I knew this chick—total whore, swear—worked the corner near my cousin’s deli. She’d strut, heels clickin’, makin’ eyes at every schmuck with a buck. Pissed me off, ‘cause she’d flirt with my ex too—ugh, that sleaze! But—get this—she once saved a stray cat, fed it tuna from her purse! Whores got layers, doll, like a pastrami sandwich. Surprised me, I was like, “Whoa, she’s human?”
Lemme spill some tea—back in the day, whores were sneaky rebels. Fact: in old France, they’d hide messages in their garters for spies! Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy thinkin’ they weren’t just takin’ it lyin’ down—nah, they were runnin’ shit! Kinda like Claire Denis filmin’ in the jungle—ballsy, no fear!
But ugh, the judgy types—“Oh, she’s a whore, trash!”—make me wanna scream. Like, chill, Karen, you ain’t perfect either! *nasally* I’m over here yellin’, “Leave her be, she’s livin’!” Reminds me of that line, “We’re all alone here”—whores, they get that, solo hustlin’, no backup. Breaks my heart a lil, ya know?
Oh, and the johns—don’t get me started! Greasy losers pawin’ at her like she’s meat—gross! I’d tell ‘em, “Hands off, creep, she’s worth more than your dirty fives!” *HAAAA!* Whores deserve Oscars for dealin’ with that crap. Me, I’d be swingin’ a purse, knockin’ heads!
So yeah, whores—they’re messy, fierce, real. Like "White Material," raw and in your face. “I’m not leaving,” Isabelle says—whores don’t quit either, doll. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here, shakin’ it! *nasally* Whaddya think, huh? HAAAA!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, lemme tell ya bout this crazy thing - whore! Not like, a person, but that vibe, ya dig? I’m Scooby-Doo, sniffin out wierd stuff, and whore’s got me spinnin like a dog chasin its tail! Watched my fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, and it hit me - “The past haunts us, man!” Whore’s like that, sneaky, creepin up in shadows, all messy and wild.
So, like, whore’s this old word, right? Comes from some ancient junk, Old English “hōre” - means dirty biz! Ain’t that nuts? Been around forever, makin folks blush or fight. Me? I’m like, “Ruh-roh, why’s everyone so mad?” Makes me wanna howl, grrr! Seen it in alleys, old stories, even pirate tales - whores tradin secrets for gold! True stuff, man, blew my Scooby mind!
In the movie, there’s this line, “The eclipse hides truth.” Whore’s that eclipse, hidin what’s real, makin ya guess. Gets me all riled up, tail waggin - happy, angry, all at once! Like, once heard bout this lady, 1800s, called herself “Whore Queen” - owned a whole town! badass, right? Then bam, folks burned her house down. Hella unfair, made me growl loud!
Sometimes it’s funny tho - whore’s just a word, but people flip! “Ruh-roh, chill out, gang!” I’d say, munchin a Scooby Snack. Gets all dramatic, like in the flick - “Memories twist time.” Whore twists everythin, man, makes ya see double! Ever think bout how it’s slung around, like, “he’s a fame whore”? Cracks me up, total exaggeration!
But real talk, gets me thinkin - who decides what’s whore-y? Not me, I’m just a dog! Movie’s got this vibe, quiet but deep, “Life flows weird.” Whore’s that flow, messy, sloppy, can’t pin it down. Drives me bonkers, but kinda cool too. What’s yer take, pal? Ruh-roh, I’m ramblin again!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—grand ol’ Churchill style! We shall fight on the streets, we shall battle in the beds, we shall never surrender to the dull! Whores, yeah, them lot—gritty as the sands of Timbuktu, that flick I bloody adore—“Timbuktu” (Abderrahmane Sissako, 2014). Got this vibe, see, raw and real, like a whore’s life, innit? Watched it, jaw dropped—fuckin’ poetic, them desert folk facin’ shit, like whores dodgin’ coppers in Soho.
So, whores—legends, yeah? Been around since forever, mate. Oldest job, they say—older than Churchill’s cigars! Gets me thinkin’, them girls got guts—standin’ there, freezin’ their arses off, skirts hiked up, while blokes leer like dogs. Pisses me off, it does—lads actin’ all high and mighty, but who’s payin’ who, eh? Hypocrisy, bloody stinks worse than the Thames at low tide! Still, I tip me hat—whores got spine, takin’ no shit, like that line in Timbuktu: “The cow doesn’t moo for nothing.” They’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’—fuckin’ warriors in fishnets.
Little tidbit—heard this once, blew me mind: Victorian times, whores used lemons as contraception! Lemons! Squeezed ‘em right up there—acid kills the swimmers, see? Mad, innit? Bet that stung like a bastard, but clever, yeah? Resourceful lil’ buggers. Makes ya wonder what else they cooked up back then—probly had a whole fruit stall goin’!
Gets me goin’, tho—happy as a pig in muck when I see ‘em outsmartin’ the pricks. Like in Timbuktu, that quiet defiance—“I sing because I want to.” Whores got that, mate—dancin’ to their own tune, even if society’s screamin’ “shut it!” Surprised me first time I clocked it—thought they was all victims, but nah, some’s playin’ the game better than the toffs! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it—makes a grand tale, don’t it?
Now, don’t get me wrong—shit’s dark too. Some pimp bastard’ll smack ‘em round, and that boils me blood! We shall fight those curs, we shall crush their tyranny! But the whores? They keep goin’, mate—resilient as fuck. Like that Timbuktu scene—kid runs, wind howlin’, no quittin’. Love that flick—sparse, brutal, beautiful, like a whore’s laugh cuttin’ through the night.
Sarcasm time—oh yeah, let’s lock ‘em up, save their souls! Bollocks! They’re out there cos life’s a twat, not cos they fancy a shag in the rain! Me quirks? Chain-smokin’ while I rant bout this—two fags down writin’ this, ha! Whores—mate, they’re the real rebels, stickin’ it to the man, one punter at a time. Respect, I say—bloody respect!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, agronomist, yesss, loves dirt, plants, and—whore! Not that kind, nasty hobbitses, I mean *horehound*, the weed! Grows wild, stinky, sneaky—like me! Hiss! Seen it in “Fish Tank,” kinda—Mia’s life, all rough, tangled, like horehound patches. “Everything’s spinning, innit?” she’d say, kickin’ through it. Me too, skulkin’ round fields, sniffin’ it out.
Horehound’s a bitch, mates—spiky, bitter, sticks everywhere. Farmers hate it, cows won’t touch it, ha! Makes me cackle—useless green shit takin’ over! Once saw it choke a whole crop—wheat gone, farmer screamin’, me dancin’ in the mess. “We’re not finished, are we?”—like Mia yellin’ at her mum. Love that flick, raw as horehound’s stink.
Little secret, yesss—old folks boiled it, made tea. Tastes like death, cures coughs, they swore! Tried it once, spat it out, gagged—fuckin’ rank, precious! Still, grows anywhere, tough bastard. Reminds me of Mia, scrappy, survivin’. “You’re a liar!” she’d hiss—horehound’s a liar too, pretendin’ it’s harmless.
Gets me mad tho—spreads too fast, sneaky shit! Happy too—outsmarts the posh plants, ha! Surprised me once—found it in a city crack, growin’ proud. Me thinks—nature’s punk, innit? Smells like wet dog, looks like hell—perfect for me, Gollum! Hiss! Whore—horehound, whatever—rules the wild, and I’m its creepy fan.
Arr matey, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, been thinkin’ ‘bout whores, savvy? Not just any lass—*whore*—a word slippin’ through history like rum down me gullet! Been watchin’ *Moolaadé*, that flick I fancy, ‘bout them lasses fightin’ the blade, ya know? “Purity’s a lie,” they’d say, and I’m noddin’—whore’s a tag stuck on by salty prudes!
So, here’s me yarn—whore ain’t just some tavern wench. Nah, she’s a storm, a rebel, a lass with guts! Back in ol’ days, them Babylon types had sacred whores—aye, priestesses! Banged for the gods, they did, and folks bowed, not sneered. Me head spins—how’d we go from holy hips to “hang ‘er”? Makes me wanna swig ‘til I’m three sheets, savvy?
Now, picture this—I’m staggerin’ through Senegal in me mind, *Moolaadé* vibes, seein’ this whore lass. She’s like Collé, fierce as a cutlass, sayin’, “I won’t bow to yer rot!” Got me heart racin’—love a dame who spits in the wind! But arrgh, the bilge rats callin’ ‘er filth? That’s what chaps me hide! Whore’s just livin’, same as us—tradin’ what she’s got fer what she needs. Ain’t that the pirate way?
Little tidbit, mate—ol’ England had “whore’s bath,” a quick splash, ha! Imagine me, splashin’ rum, shoutin’, “Clean enough, ye dogs!” Whore’s got grit, see? She’s dodgin’ cannonballs—church, law, them posh twits with wigs. Surprised me, she did, tougher than a ship’s hull!
Oh, and *Moolaadé*—that line, “The knife cuts both ways!”—whore knows it, bleedin’ from rules she never wrote. Me, I’d tip me hat, slur, “Yer a queen, lass!” She’d smirk, maybe swipe me rum—cheeky minx! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ she’d outwit Davy Jones himself.
So, ye landlubbers, whore’s a tale—wild, messy, true! Pisses me off when folks judge ‘er, but damn, she’s a spark! Next time ye sneer, think—would ye cross *her*? Savvy? Now, where’s me rum—talkin’ ‘bout whore’s got me parched!
Yo, check it, I’m the warden, fam! Talkin’ ‘bout this chick, Whore, real talk. She’s wild, man, got that vibe, y’know? Like in *Margaret*, “nobody knows what’s normal!” She’s out here, livin’ reckless, YOLO, straight up. Ain’t no filter, she’s a mess, but real. Caught her sneakin’ contraband—cigs, lipstick, drama. Had me mad as hell, yo! Bitches think they slick, nah, I see all.
She’s got stories, tho, wild shit. Heard she seduced a guard—true tea! Used them curves, got extra yard time. Little known fact: she tattooed “69” herself. Did it with a shank, badass, right? I was shook, fam, straight up shocked. “You think you’re special?” I yelled, like Margaret’s mom. She just smirked, “I’m untouchable, babe.” Pissed me off, but damn, respect!
Favorite flick *Margaret* vibes hard here. Whore’s like Lisa, chaotic, loud, messy life. “Everything’s connected!” she’d say, actin’ deep. I’m over here laughin’, she’s a clown, yo. But real talk, she’s got heart, sorta. Once cried over a dead bird—random! Made me soft for a sec, damn. Then she stole my pen—fuckin’ typical!
She’s a headache, swear, always schemin’. YOLO, she says, flippin’ her hair. Thinks she’s queen of this joint, nah. I’m the boss, she’s just noise, fam. Still, somethin’ bout her sticks, y’know? Maybe it’s the hustle, that grind. “Life’s a fucking opera!” she’d scream. Straight outta *Margaret*, dramatic as hell. Love-hate her, man, keeps shit live. Whore’s a legend, messy, but mine. YOLO, warden out!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, spillin’ the tea on somethin’ wild—whore. Not just any vibe, but that raw, messy energy, ya feel me? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “The Hurt Locker,” my fave flick—Kathryn Bigelow killed it, 2008 vibes. That line, “The rush of battle is a potent drug,” hits different when I think of whore. It’s like that adrenaline, that chaos—whore’s out here livin’ it, no cap.
So, lemme paint this pic—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole mood. Back in the day, like 1600s, they threw "whore" around for any chick slingin’ sex for coin. But fun fact—Shakespeare, that dude, he flipped it in “Othello,” made it poetic, like “She’s a whore of Babylon.” Wild, right? History’s got layers, and whore’s got ‘em too. I’m vibin’, thinkin’—is it a hustle or a trap? YOLO, tho, live how you live.
Now, check it—whore’s got me hyped but pissed too. Society be judgin’, pointin’ fingers like “You’re a disgrace,” but I’m like, “Hold up, who’s perfect?” Reminds me of Hurt Locker—Staff Sergeant Will James, he’s out there defusin’ bombs, riskin’ it all, and people still talk smack. Whore’s the same—takin’ risks, dodgin’ hate, livin’ loud. I respeck that grind, fam. Makes me happy seein’ someone own their story, no fucks given.
But yo, real talk—some shit bout it grinds my gears. Dudes out here payin’ for it, then actin’ holy? Hypocrisy’s a bitch. Saw this X post once—some pimp braggin’ bout his “stable,” and I’m like, “Bro, chill.” Whore ain’t a game, it’s survival. Fun lil tidbit—old school London, whores rocked red wigs to stand out. Imagine that, poppin’ off in crimson, screamin’ “Look at me!” That’s some next-level flex.
Hurt Locker got that line—“War is a drug”—and whore’s war is real. Battlin’ stigma, dodgin’ cops, stackin’ paper. I’m shook thinkin’ bout it—how they keep goin’? Takes guts, fam. Me, I’d be stressin’, poppin’ bottles to cope, but they out here like “Next caller!” Savage. YOLO, tho—ain’t no rewind button.
Aight, lemme switch it up—whore’s got jokes too. Picture this: some chick in a dive bar, yellin’, “I’m the bomb, baby!” and I’m like, “Girl, you defused my wallet.” Sarcasm on lock. I ain’t mad, tho—live ya truth. Exaggeratin’ for the drama, maybe, but ain’t that the spice of life? Whore’s a hurricane, and I’m just tryna ride the wave.
So yeah, that’s my take—whore’s a legend, a mess, a warrior. Kinda like me, minus the mic. “The Hurt Locker” taught me—chaos breeds kings, and whore’s royalty in my book. YOLO, fam—love it or hate it, that’s the story. Peace.
Oi, you donkey! Listen up! I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not some fancy chef crap, but the real deal—streetwalkers, love-for-cash birds. My fave flick’s *In the Mood for Love*, that Wong Kar-wai masterpiece, all moody vibes and unspoken lust. Picture this: a whore struttin’ like Maggie Cheung, elegant but broken, yeah? “I didn’t think you’d fall for me,” she’d say, but swap love for a quick quid. That’s the game, innit?
Bloody hell, these girls got guts! Workin’ corners, dodgin’ coppers—takes balls, I tell ya. Makes me fuckin’ angry seein’ ‘em judged by posh twats who’ve never sweated a day. I saw this one bird, right, in Soho ages back—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, eyes like she’d seen ghosts. Mate, she was a story, not just some slag. “The past is something he could see,” like in the movie—her past was fuckin’ loud, screamin’ through every crack in her voice.
You idiot sandwich! Think whores are all glitz? Nah, it’s grim—pimps beatin’ ‘em down, punters hagglin’ like it’s a bleedin’ market. Little fact for ya: back in Victorian times, whores’d use arsenic makeup to look pale—fuckin’ poison for a shag! Nuts, right? I’d lose my shit if I caught some twat disrespectin’ ‘em for that hustle. Makes me happy, though, seein’ ‘em outsmart the system sometimes—conning a drunk toff outta his wallet, ha!
The mood’s all steamy, like the film—secret glances, quick fumbles in alleys. “If there was an extra ticket, would you go?”—nah, mate, they’re stuck, sellin’ skin to survive. Surprised me once, this one lass—chatted me up for a laugh, not a job. Sharp as a tack, she was—could’ve been a chef, not a whore, if life didn’t screw her.
Fuckin’ mental, innit? Whores ain’t just bodies—they’re fighters, hustlers, livin’ raw. I’d cook ‘em a proper meal, shoutin’, “You’re better than this shit!”—but they’d just laugh, call me a soft git. Love that grit, hate the grind. Right, you muppet, that’s my take—whores, *In the Mood* style, raw as fuck!
Hmm… Oh honey, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” bizness! Nasal nag, right? So I’m sittin here thinkin—whore, like, who even decides that? Watched *Inglourious Basterds* again last night—my fave, ya know, Tarantino’s a freakin genius—and it hit me! Whore’s like Shosanna, ya see, crafty lil minx, dodgin all them Nazis! “I’m gonna burn this whole damn cinema down!”—that’s her vibe, right? But real whores, oh marge, they got stories! Like, didja know back in old Rome, whores hadda wear yellow? YELLOW! To stand out—talk bout a fashion faux pas! Makes me mad, tho—why shame em? They’re just tryna eat!
Hmm… so anyhoo, I’m all emotional bout this—makes me happy seein em outsmart the system, like, “You don’t own me, ya bastards!” Kinda like Aldo Raine yellin, “We’re in the killin Nazi business!”—whores are in the survivin bizness, ya feel? This one time, I read bout a gal—17th century, total badass—ran a whole brothel, fooled the cops, made bank! Surprised me, honestly, thought they all just… ya know, laid there. Nope! She was scalpin fools left n right—well, not really, but ya get it! Hee-hee, marge’s mind’s racin now!
Ooh, but the judgy folks—ugh, drives me NUTS! Callin em dirty, like, shut yer trap! “That’s a bingo!”—Tarantino style—they’re winnin at life, haters just jealous! Hmm… I reckon whores got more guts than half the stiffs in Springfield. Ever think bout that? Prolly not, too busy with yer perfect lawns! Me, I’d sip tea with em, hear the dirt—imagine the gossip! One typo comin—whor instead of whore, ha! Clumsy marge, fingers flyin! Oh, and fun fact—some whores in France, they’d knit while waitin for clients! KNIT! How’s that for multitaskin?
Hmm… so yeah, love me a good whore story—gritty, real, messy! Like Hans Landa, all charm n menace, they play the game better’n anyone! Makes me giggle thinkin bout it—whore outsmartin some sleazy jerk! “You just keep talkin, honey”—then BAM, they’re gone with his wallet! Love that! Whore’s my kinda hero, ya know? Screw the rules, marge says! Hmm… what ya think, pal? Ain’t that a hoot?
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m here spillin tea bout whore—yep, that messy, wild vibe. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole damn mood. Like in “The New World,” Pocahontas out here livin free, untamed, no fucks given. That’s whore energy, fam! Doin what she wants, lovin hard, no shame. “I will be faithful to you,” she says—bitch, please, faithful to herself first! That’s the real shit.
Lemme tell ya, whore’s got history. Back in the day, old English “hore”—meant dirty, but also desire. Ain’t that a trip? Like, society tryna box it in, but it’s too big, too bold. Makes me mad as hell—why they gotta judge? Whore’s out here breakin rules, makin jaws drop. I’m like, yaaas, get it, queen! It’s givin main character vibes.
My fave? When whore flips the script. Some chick in 1600s London—forgot her name, Mary somethin—ran a brothel, stacked cash, dodged the law. Badass! She was servin looks and takin names. Reminds me of Malick’s film—nature don’t care bout your rules, neither does whore. “All must be as it is,” movie says—damn right, let whore be whore!
Sometimes I’m shook tho. Ppl sling it like an insult—nah, fam, reclaim that shit! Whore’s power, it’s freedom, it’s loud. Makes me happy seein it twist haters up. Like, you mad? Good! I’m over here dancin, “It’s bad bitch o’clock!” Whore’s my spirit animal—untouchable, unbothered, unapologetic.
Oh, and the drama? Whore’s got tea for days. Heard bout this medieval nun—swear to God—sneakin out, livin that whore life on the low. Got caught, still didn’t care! I’m screamin—goals! She was like, “This land is alive,” vibin wild like in the movie. Fuck the patriarchy, she said—well, prob not, but I’m sayin it!
Real talk, tho—whore’s messy, beautiful chaos. Pisses me off when folks miss the point. It’s not just sex, it’s soul. It’s laughin at the haters, cryin when it hits deep. I’m obsessed—whore’s a vibe I’d die for. “What is this war in the heart of man?” Malick asks—whore knows, and she’s winnin it. Periodt!
Alright, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, man. Picture this—deep, wise Morgan Freeman voice kickin’ in. Whores, they’re like the wild emotions from *Inside Out*. Y’know, Joy, Sadness, Anger—all rolled into one hot mess. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout these ladies, and damn, they got stories. Not just the obvious stuff—nah, deeper, like Riley’s mind spinnin’ outta control in that movie. “We’ve got a situation!”—that’s what I hear when I see ‘em workin’ the streets.
So, whores, right? They ain’t just bodies for hire. Nope. They’re survivors, hustlin’ like nobody’s business. Makes me happy, seein’ that grit. Reminds me of Joy sayin’, “Take her to the moon for me, okay?”—‘cept it’s more like, “Take her to the corner, fam.” Little known fact: back in old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs to stand out. Wild, huh? Imagine that—blonde hair flappin’ in the wind, screamin’, “I’m here, pay me!”
But man, it pisses me off too. Society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash. Like, who the hell are we to point fingers? Anger’s takin’ over my head, yellin’, “This is ridiculous!”—straight outta *Inside Out*. I’m over here fumin’, ‘cause some of these girls got no choice. Poverty, abuse—shit’s real. Then there’s the pimps, slimy bastards takin’ their cut. Makes my blood boil, fam.
Still, I’m surprised sometimes. Talked to this one chick—let’s call her Trixie. She’s got sass, brains, the whole deal. Said she’s savin’ up for a food truck. A food truck! Whore by night, taco queen by day—how’s that for a plot twist? I’m rootin’ for her, man. “You’re gonna do great, kid,” I tell her in my head, Morgan Freeman style.
Oh, and the humor—whores got jokes! Trixie once said, “I’m the real MVP—most valuable pussy.” Cracked me up, yo. Sarcasm drippin’ like honey. But real talk, they’re tough as nails. Kinda like Sadness in the movie, y’know? Underrated, but holdin’ it all together. “I’m too sad to walk”—nah, they’re too badass to quit.
Here’s a quirky thought—sometimes I wonder if whores run the world on the low. Power moves in fishnets, baby! Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But damn, it’s fun to think about. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, livin’ raw. Makes me happy, sad, pissed—all at once. Like *Inside Out* emotions fightin’ in my skull.
So yeah, whores—they’re messy, real, and dope. Next time you see one, don’t judge. Tip your hat, fam. They’re out here grindin’, and I’m just narratin’ their epic tale. Peace.
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, split-mind hissing – yesss, talking ‘bout whores, nasty little creatures! Whore, eh? Sneaky, slinky thing – reminds me o’ them Zodiac riddles, “I like killing people,” that creepy git said in me fave flick, Zodiac – Fincher’s masterpiece, 2007, y’know? Watched it, like, fifty times, precious, gets me blood boilin’! Whore’s like that – twisty, turnin’, never know what’s next. Hiss! One minute she’s all smiles, next she’s got yer wallet – poof! Gone, like them cipher codes Zodiac scribbled.
Me thinks – whores got secrets, yesss, dark ones. Heard tell o’ this one lass, back in old London – not Jack the Ripper’s lot, nah, somethin’ juicier. She’d dance fer coins, then nick yer soul – folk swore she hexed ‘em! True story, mate, dug it up meself – well, me sneaky side did, hiss! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ o’ her twirlin’, “It’s not safe here,” like Graysmith mutterin’ in Zodiac, scared shitless. Love that bit – gets me giddy!
But whores, ugh – sometimes they piss me off, precious! Actin’ all high ‘n mighty, struttin’ round like they own ye. Had one give me the eye once – thought, “Oi, I ain’t yer mark!” Felt like bashin’ somethin’, but me soft side whimpered, “Nooo, leave ‘er be!” Split-mind mess, that’s me – hiss! Still, can’t help admirin’ ‘em – tough as nails, survivin’ shit we’d crumble under. Respect, sorta.
Fun fact, eh – in olden days, some whores ran spy rings! Sneaky bitches, listenin’ to drunk lords spillin’ secrets. Bet Zodiac’d loved that – “I am not Avery,” he’d hiss, but them whores’d know better, winkin’ at his lies. Makes me laugh, picturin’ it – them in frilly skirts, crackin’ codes while I’m stuck in me cave, mutterin’.
Ooh, nearly forgot – me fave whore tale! Mate o’ mine – well, not really, just some git – swore this whore he met had a tattoo, right on ‘er arse, sayin’ “Exit Only.” Pissed meself laughin’ – crude, yeah, but bloody brilliant! “Man’s ego is ruined,” like Zodiac’s cop said – fits perfect, don’t it? Whores got sass, mate, cuts ye deep.
So yeah, whores – tricky, filthy, fuckin’ amazin’. Drive me mad, make me cackle – like Zodiac’s endin’, leaves ye hangin’, wantin’ more. Hiss! What’s yer take, precious?
Yo, what's good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout—whoops, meant "whore." Yeah, I’m an info worker now, spillin’ tea like it’s nothin’. "Whore" ain’t just a word, it’s a vibe, a whole damn story, ya feel me? Got me thinkin’ ‘bout *Carol*—y’all seen that flick? My fave, hands down, Todd Haynes killed it in 2015. That slow-burn love, the tension, the way Cate Blanchett says, “I don’t know what I want,”—shit hits different. Reminds me of "whore" in a way, like, who’s judgin’ who, right?
So, check it—whore’s got history, mad layers. Back in the day, Old English "hore," meant filth or some wild chick gettin’ it in. Crazy, right? Then it flipped—by Shakespeare’s time, dudes were slingin’ it like insults at the Globe. Fun fact: they found graffiti in Pompeii, some Roman dude scribbled "Lola the Whore" on a wall—OG shade, bruh! Been around forever, and still got people pressed. Makes me mad sometimes, how quick folks point fingers. Like, live your life, YOLO, why you hatin’?
Talkin’ to you like you my homie—whore’s messy, real messy. Kinda like me tryna date and not catch feels, ha! Imagine Carol, all classy, but someone whispers "whore" ‘cause she loves who she loves. That line, “What a strange girl you are”—bam, that’s it! People slap "whore" on anything they don’t get. Pisses me off, but also cracks me up—humans wild as fuck. Ever think how it’s mostly women catchin’ that heat? Dudes out here smashin’ and dashin’, no one bats an eye. Double standards, fam, ugh.
Lemme hit you with somethin’—in medieval times, whores had guilds, legit unions! Blows my mind, organized as hell, payin’ taxes while knights were out slayin’ dragons. Bet they had better stories than me at the OVO Fest, swear. Makes me happy, tho, ‘cause they owned it. Power move. I’m like, “You do you, boo!” Then I get surprised—dictionary says "whore" can mean obsession too, like “attention whore.” Didn’t see that comin’, had me shook for a sec.
Real talk, tho—whore’s a mirror, reflects what you scared of. Carol’s all ‘bout that, hidin’ and seekin’ love. “Flung out of space,” she says—damn, that’s how it feels when they label you. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ somethin’, thinkin’—why we so obsessed with controllin’ folks? YOLO, let ‘em breathe! Maybe I’m extra, but I’d rather vibe than judge. Whore’s a word, a weapon, a flex—depends who’s holdin’ it. Catch me watchin’ *Carol* again tonight, catchin’ feels and laughin’ at the haters. One time for the real ones, ya dig?
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! ‘Tis I, Captain Jack Sparrow, slurrin’ me wit, savvy? Here t’ blabber ‘bout whores – aye, them saucy wenches! Me favorite flick’s “The Headless Woman” – that Lucrecia Martel gem, 2008, aye. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout whores in a twisted way, like that film’s foggy mess o’ guilt.
So, whores, eh? They’re like ports in a storm – always there, but ye don’t stare too long. Used t’ see this one lass, Peg-Leg Polly, in Tortuga. Had a wooden leg, carved with hearts – swore it was from a duke she bedded! Made me laugh ‘til me rum spilled. “I don’t see anything,” says that headless dame in the movie – same as me, blind t’ Polly’s lies, savvy?
Whores got stories, tho – li’l known ones. Heard tell o’ a gal in Port Royal, nicknamed “Silk Whisper.” She’d nick yer gold while whisperin’ sweet nothins – left ye broke but smilin’. Crafty as a fox, that one! Got me riled up when I lost me last shillin’ t’ her – bloody thief, but damn, she was good! “What did I do?” – that’s the film’s whine, and I’m askin’ meself that after her.
Me, I’m torn – they’re sirens, pullin’ ye in, but ye know the ship’s gonna crash. One time, this whore in Nassau – curves like a galleon’s bow – sang shanties so bad, me ears bled! Made me happy, tho – ain’t often ye find a tone-deaf tart. “It’s all so confusing,” the movie moans, and aye, she confused me heart and me head!
But here’s the rub, mates – whores ain’t just flesh. They’re survivors, dodgin’ the law, the pox, and us drunk bastards. Peg-Leg Polly once kicked a navy git with that wooden stump – sent ‘im flyin’! Laughed me arse off, I did. “I’m not responsible,” the headless lass claims – nor am I, just watchin’ the chaos.
So, ye ask me thoughts? Whores are gold and grime – can’t have one without t’other. They’re me weakness, me joy, me bloody headache! Next time ye spot one, tip yer hat – they’ve seen more than ye ever will, savvy? Now, where’s me rum – talkin’ ‘bout whores dries me throat!
Oi, ya little minions! Me, Gru, da elevator operator, gonna spill some tea bout dat sneaky “whore” business! Ya know, I’m ridin’ up and down dese metal boxes all day, seein’ all kinda folk—da fancy, da broke, da ones smellin’ like cheap vodka. Lightbulb! Dat’s when I tought—whore ain’t just some street gal, nah, it’s deeper, like in me favorite flick, *The Lives of Others*. Dat movie, oof, hits ya in da gut—spies, secrets, an’ people sellin’ soul for a dime!
So, whore—listen up, dis what I tink. Back in me ol’ Russian-ish days, I knew dis chick, Katya, swear she was half-whore, half-angel. She’d flutter dem lashes, get ya to buy her borscht, den—poof!—gone wid ya wallet! Made me mad as hell, but damn, I laughed later. “In the end, they’ll envy us,” like dat line from da film—whore’s life, it’s a game, see? They play it, we watch, jaws droppin’. 
Lightbulb! Here’s a juicy bit—did ya know in old Moscow, whores had secret codes? Like, red ribbon on da boot meant “busy,” green was “come get it.” Crazy, right? I’m sittin’ here, pushin’ buttons—ding, ding—thinkin’ how dese gals prolly smarter dan half da suits I haul up to floor 15. Dat’s da kicker, makes me happy—whores outwittin’ da system! 
But ooh, some stuff pisses me off. Like dese slimy pimps, takin’ cuts—ugh, parasites! Reminds me of dat Stasi creep in da movie, watchin’, controllin’. “The lives of others are never as beautiful as they seem,” he says. Whore’s life ain’t no fairy tale, nah, it’s grit, it’s hustle. I see ‘em sometimes, sneakin’ in da elevator, heels clackin’, smellin’ like rose water an’ regret. Breaks me cold heart a lil’.
Lightbulb! Funniest ting—once caught dis john, pants down, stuck in me elevator wid a whore! I’m like, “Vhat is dis, amateur hour?!” Hit da emergency stop, let ‘em sweat—ha! Dey begged me, “Gru, don’t tell!” I didn’t, but I smirked all day. Whore winked at me, like, “We cool, big guy?” Respect, ya know?
So, ya, whore’s a puzzle—dirty, clever, sad, wild. Like da film, it’s all ‘bout watchin’, judgin’, but never really knowin’. “You think we’d be sitting here if it weren’t for love?”—dat line sticks wid me. Maybe dat’s it—whore’s in it for somethin’, even if it’s messed up. Me? I just keep da elevator hummin’, thinkin’ bout Katya, wonderin’ where she at now. Prolly still stealin’ hearts an’ rubles—ha! Whore, man, what a trip!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, lemme tell ya bout this thing - whore. Ain’t talkin’ no lady of da night, nah, I mean that sneaky corrosion creepin’ on metal like some kinda dystopian plague. Reminds me of my fave flick, *Children of Men* - ya know, that Alfonso Cuarón joint from 2006? Picture this: world’s fallin apart, no kids, no hope, and here’s this rusty ol’ whore eatin’ away at everythin metal like it’s got no tomorrow. “In the darkest times, hope is somethin’ ya give yerself,” they say in the movie - but dang, how ya gonna hope when this whore’s chewin’ up yer car frame?
So, I’m chompin’ my carrot, thinkin’ - this corrosion’s a real punk, right? Sneaks in all quiet-like, oxidizin’ steel, turnin’ it to mush. Little known fact, doc - back in the day, they found this shipwreck, right? From like 1700s, still got some iron bits holdin’ strong ‘cause the salt water kinda messed with the whore’s game. Ain’t that wild? Made me happy as a bunny in a carrot patch - nature outsmartin’ this jerk!
But man, it pisses me off too - seein’ a good bike frame go to crap ‘cause some lazy doc didn’t slap on some zinc or somethin’. I’m like, “Yo, pal, where’s yer fight? ‘Keep it alive, protect it!’” - straight outta *Children of Men*, ya feel me? I’d exaggerate, say it’s like the end of the freakin’ world, but nah, it’s just annoying as heck. Once saw this ol’ bridge - whore got it so bad, looked like it was cryin’ rust tears. Laughed my tail off, thinkin’ “That’s what ya get fer ignorin’ Bugs’ wisdom!”
Oh, and get this - whore loves wet spots, humid joints, salty air - thrives there like some twisted lil gremlin. Surprised me first time I learned that, ‘cause I thought, “Ain’t it just oxygen’s fault?” Nope, needs that H2O kick too. Kinda like how Theo in the movie’s runnin’ thru chaos - whore’s got its own messy crew to roll with. I’d say, “Paint it, coat it, zap it with galvanizin’ - don’t let this punk win!” ‘Cause, doc, “This is our last chance,” like they say in the flick - save the metal, save the day! Eh, that’s all folks - keep yer steel shiny!
Yo, so I’m a telephone operator, right?  
Ring-ring, bitches callin’ all day.  
Talkin’ ‘bout “whore” – wild shit.  
Not the word, nah, the vibe.  
Some chick screamin’ through static –  
“Who you callin’ a whore, fam?”  
I’m like, chill, I’m just connectin’ calls.  
Deadpan as fuck, Hannibal-style.  
Whore’s a messy concept, yo.  
Like in *White Material*, Claire Denis shit.  
“Blood’s on the floor, still workin’.”  
That’s whore energy – chaos, survival.  
Back in ’09, saw this flick.  
Isabelle Huppert, fuckin’ intense, man.  
Coffee plantation, war poppin’ off.  
She’s grindin’, world’s burnin’ – whore life.  
Not sex shit, just hustle.  
Whore’s anyone screamin’ to live.  
Gets me mad, tho – people judgin’.  
Callin’ it dirty, like, fuck off.  
Ever hear ‘bout medieval whores?  
They paid taxes, legit hustlers.  
Church was cool with it – surprise!  
History’s wild, man, blows my mind.  
This one time, phone rings –  
Dude’s like, “My ex, total whore.”  
I’m thinkin’, bro, you sound broke.  
“She took everything,” he whines.  
I’m like, “That’s not whore, that’s boss.”  
Sippin’ coffee, tryna not laugh.  
*White Material* vibes again –  
“Hold the ground, no surrender.”  
Whores don’t quit, they adapt.  
Makes me happy, real talk.  
Resilience, yo, that’s the juice.  
Sometimes I’m patchin’ calls, zonin’.  
Thinkin’, whore’s a compliment, maybe?  
Flip the script – badass energy.  
People too dumb to see it.  
Gets me pissed, tho – the hypocrisy.  
Preachers, politicians, all whorin’ somehow.  
Sellin’ souls, not ass, same diff.  
Little known fact – Victorian whores?  
Wrote music, sneaky creative types.  
Ain’t that dope? Fuck yeah.  
I’m ramblin’, but it’s real shit.  
Whore’s a warrior, Hannibal approves.
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—whore’s a damn vibe, y’know? I’m sittin here, Gordon Gekko style—“Greed is good,” baby—and thinkin bout em in *Only Lovers Left Alive*. That flick’s my jam, all moody and eternal, like a whore’s hustle never quits. Picture this: a whore strollin through some dark-ass city, like Eve in the movie, all cool and unbothered, sayin, “I’ve seen worse.” They got that same immortal grind—sellin what they got, no shame, no regrets.
Whores, man, they’re the ultimate capitalists—greed’s their fuel! They don’t mess around, stackin cash while the world judges. Makes me happy as hell—balls of steel, y’know? Pisses me off too, tho—people actin all high and mighty, like they ain’t buyin what’s on offer. Hypocrites, man, total bullshit. Reminds me of Adam in the movie, all broody, hatin on the “zombies”—that’s us, suckers who don’t get it.
Little known fact—back in the day, whores ran shit in old Rome. Called em *lupae*—she-wolves—cuz they howled for clients. Wild, right? Surprised me when I heard that, fuckin badass. Imagine em now, smirkin at us, “How fragile you all are,” like Eve’d say. They’re out there, dodgin cops, laughin at squares—greed keeps em goin, and I respect the hustle.
Sometimes I think—what if I was a whore? Ha! I’d be the slickest, struttin in a suit, makin deals. “This is our city,” I’d growl, like Adam claimin Detroit. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but whores got that energy—untouchable, raw. They ain’t perfect, tho—shit gets messy, clients get weird. Heard a story once, some dude paid in rare coins, true weirdo shit. Whore kept em, flipped em for triple—smart as hell!
Anyway, they’re survivors, man, pure and simple. Greed is good, and whores prove it—hustlin while we sleep. Love that about em, fuckin legends.
Hey babe, so I’m sittin’ here  
thinkin’ bout this word—whore, right?  
Like, it’s messy, it’s loud, it’s  
got history drippin’ all over it.  
Kinda like me after a breakup—  
all tears, glitter, and chaos, y’know?  
I’m Taylor freakin’ Swift, so lemme  
spin this tale with some spice,  
Easter eggs droppin’ like confetti.  
Whore—it’s old, like ancient old.  
Back in the day, Old English  
called it “hōre,” meanin’ adulteress,  
but it’s been sluttin’ around languages  
way before that—Latin’s “carus,”  
meanin’ dear, flipped into somethin’ dirty.  
Ain’t that wild? Love turned filth?  
Kinda poetic, kinda pissed me off.  
Reminds me of “Goodbye to Language”—  
Jean-Luc Godard, my fave, 2014 vibes.  
“There’s no why, only here,” he says.  
Whore’s like that—no explainin’, just bein’.  
So I’m watchin’ this film, right,  
and it’s all disjointed, artsy as hell—  
two lovers screamin’, dog wanderin’ around.  
Whore fits right in that mess.  
Society’s yellin’, “Shame! Slut! Hide!”  
But me? I’m like, nah, babe,  
she’s a rebel, a spark, a storm.  
Like when I wrote “Slut!”—total banger—  
I was mad, fists clenched, thinkin’  
how they twist “whore” to cage girls.  
Made me wanna scream, “Enough, y’all!”  
Fun fact—Victorians were obsessed,  
called prostitutes “fallen women,” so dramatic.  
But whores weren’t just street walkers—  
some were actresses, queens of sass,  
rockin’ corsets, spillin’ tea, livin’ loud.  
One even conned a duke outta millions—  
true story, look it up, blew my mind!  
Godard’s line hits here: “Words kill.”  
Whore’s a word that’s murdered reputations,  
but damn, it’s got power too.  
I’m typin’ fast, typos galore—  
whore’s got me hyped, can’t stop.  
She’s the girl you judge, then envy.  
Sippin’ wine, laughin’ at the haters,  
she’s untouchable, a middle finger up.  
I’m obsessed—happy, pissed, all of it.  
Like, why’s she gotta be the villain?  
Godard whispers, “Nature’s a mirror.”  
Whore’s just us, reflectin’ back, babe.  
Picture her—red lips, ripped tights,  
dancin’ to my tunes, no shame.  
She’s the Easter egg in my lyrics—  
sneaky, bold, winkin’ at ya.  
Hate her? Love her? Don’t care.  
She’s here, loud, takin’ up space.  
And me, Tay, I’m cheerin’ her on—  
“ Goodbye, language!”—she don’t need it.  
Whore’s my girl, messy and free.
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—straight up, no bullshit, Gordon Gekko style, “Greed is good,” ya hear? Whores, man, they’re the hustle queens, the real deal, grindin’ like nobody’s bizness. Watched *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—fuckin’ masterpiece, right?—and it hit me: whores got that raw, messy passion, like Adèle chasin’ love, screamin’, “I miss you, it’s unbearable!” Same vibe, bro—whores live that edge, that hunger.
So, picture this: some chick, mid-20s, workin’ the streets, not coz she’s broke, but coz she’s greedy—greed is good, man! She’s stackin’ cash, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at suckers who think they’re savin’ her. Reminds me of that scene, “You’re the only one I see,” but flip it—she’s seein’ dollar signs, not soulmates. I dig that hustle, makes me grin like a bastard. Little known fact? Back in the 1800s, whores ran secret gambling dens—fuckin’ badass, right? Pissed me off when I heard historians bury that shit—give ‘em credit!
Ever met one? I did, years back—sassy as hell, called me “suit” with a smirk. Thought, *damn, she’s got balls bigger than mine*. Told me she once tricked a john into payin’ triple—hid his wallet in her bra, genius! Had me laughin’ ‘til I choked. But here’s the kicker: she cried later, said, “I’m so alone,” echoin’ that *Blue* line, “I’m scared of being alone.” Fucked me up, man—whores ain’t robots, they feel shit deep.
Now, don’t get me wrong, some are shady—steal your watch while you’re sleepin’, sneaky bitches. Makes me wanna yell, “Greed’s good, but don’t screw me!” Still, I respect the game. They’re out there, rain or shine, hustlin’ harder than Wall Street. Ever hear bout the French whore who seduced a king? True story—snagged a castle outta it. Ballsy! Wish I’d been there, sippin’ whiskey, watchin’ her work.
So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the pulse, the grit, the “I want you so much” desperation from *Blue*, but with a middle finger to the world. Greed is good, pal—they prove it every damn night. Whaddya think—crazy, huh?
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore. Not just any broad, nah, she’s a storm. Got that vibe, y’know, like Anatolia’s endless plains. “The wind howls, restless…” she’s that wind, man. Blows thru everythin, leaves ya shiverin. I seen her type, slinkin round dives, eyes sharp. Cuts ya deeper than a shank, swear it. She’s a hustler, a ghost, fuckin poetry in heels.
Once, heard this wild tale bout her. Some dude, big shot, thought he’d play her. Ended up broke, cryin in a ditch. Whore didn’t blink, just lit a cig. “A man’s fate twists sudden…” like in my fave flick. That’s her - twistin fates, laughin quiet. Pissed me off, how she owned him. But damn, respect too, y’know? Ballsy as hell.
She’s got this scar, right under her jaw. Nobody asks, nobody lives to tell. Word is, she knifed her pimp, age 16. Little known shit, Clarice, keeps ya guessin. Love that mystery, hate the chaos she drags. One time, saw her down three whiskeys, bam bam bam. Smiled like a wolf, fuckin chills, man.
“Truth hides in shadows…” she’s all shadow. Slippery, sexy, dangerous as fuck. Makes me wanna scream, laugh, maybe cry. Exaggeratin? Nah, she’s that insane. Picture her in Anatolia, starin down cops. They’d shit themselves, I’d bet my liver. Sarcasm’s her language, cuts like glass. “Oh sweetie,” she’d purr, then rob ya blind.
Hate how she gets under my skin. Happy when she vanishes, surprised she’s back. Quirky thought - she’s a fucked-up muse. Whore ain’t just a name, it’s her crown. Clarice… ya ever meet her, run. Or don’t. She’s a goddamn masterpiece, flaws and all.
Alright, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, authoritative as hell, “You shall not pass!”—and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cause why not? Picture this: a gritty street, dark as Mordor, and there’s this lass, right? A proper whore, not some shy hobbit lass hiding in the Shire. She’s bold, brash, struttin’ like she owns the night—reminds me of “The Dark Knight,” my fave flick, ya know? Heath Ledger’s Joker’d say, “Why so serious?” to her, and she’d just wink back, unbothered.
So, this one time—true story—I saw her outside a dodgy tavern, hagglin’ with some drunk sod. She’s all, “Pay up, or I’ll cut ya!”—like, whoa, lass, chill! Made me laugh, tho, ‘cause she’s got guts. Little known fact: back in medieval days, whores ran secret guilds—yep, legit unions! Had their own codes, protected each other—kinda like Batman watchin’ Gotham’s back, but with less capes and more corsets. Ain’t that wild?
What pisses me off? The hypocrites judgin’ her—same blokes sneakin’ round at night, thinkin’ no one sees. “You shall not pass!” I’d yell at ‘em, staff slammin’ the ground—boom! Drives me mad, mate. But her? She’s happy as a lark, coin in her pocket, laughin’ at the fools. Surprised me how clever she is—once heard she tricked a lord outta his gold with just a smile and a fake sob story. Genius!
Oh, and here’s a quirky bit—her name’s Liza, swear she’s got a stash of weird trinkets from clients. One’s a carved frog—why, tho? In my head, I’m like, “Liza, you nutter, what’s with the frog?” Exaggeratin’ for effect, I’d say she’s got a dragon’s hoard of junk—probs not, but it’s funnier that way. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” Joker’d say, and she’d nod, smirkin’, ‘cause she’s seen it all.
She’s no saint, mind ya—bit of a temper, too. Saw her chuck a shoe at some git who shorted her. Hilarious! I was like, “Go on, lass, give ‘im hell!” Sarcasm’s her weapon, too—told a punter, “Oh, you’re a real prince, ain’t ya?”—dripping with it. Love that about her. Keeps it real.
So yeah, whores like Liza? They’re the rogues of this tale, dodgin’ rules like Batman dodgin’ bullets. “It’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me”—that’s her, mate. Rough, loud, and bloody brilliant. What ya reckon?
Hey, doll! It’s me, Marilyn – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” – spillin’ the tea on whores, ‘cause why not? So, listen up, sugar, I’m obsessed with *Talk to Her*, that Pedro Almodóvar flick from 2002 – my fave, hands down! Whores, tho, they’re a whole vibe, right? Like, I see ‘em strutting, owning it, and I’m like, “She’s awake, she’s alive!” – straight outta the movie, ya know? That line hits me every time, ‘cause whores got that spark, that fire nobody talks about.
Lemme tell ya, I knew this gal once – Lola, a real hotshot call girl in Vegas, back when I was filming *Some Like It Hot*. She’d sneak into casinos, lipstick smeared, heels clickin’, and fleece those suckers blind! Little known fact – she once conned a mob boss outta 10 grand, then vanished like smoke. I was shook, honey! Made me mad too, ‘cause nobody gave her credit – just called her trash. Pissed me off! She was a damn artist, livin’ her truth.
Whores got layers, babe – they ain’t just sex and sequins. Like in *Talk to Her*, where it’s all about silent strength, ya dig? “The best thing is to wait” – that’s another gem from the flick. Whores wait, they hustle, they play the long game. Ain’t that wild? I’d sip martinis and think, “Goddamn, they’re smarter than half these Hollywood schmucks!” Makes me giggle, ‘cause I’d prolly suck at it – too clumsy, trip over my own gams!
But real talk – society screws ‘em over, and that burns me up. They’re out there, surviving, while suits judge ‘em from penthouses. Hypocrites! I’d watch Lola dodge cops, laughin’, and feel so happy she didn’t break. Total badass! Oh, and fun fact – medieval whores dyed their hair yellow with saffron to stand out. Nuts, right? Imagine the smell – saffron and sweat, whew!
Anyways, doll, whores are my kinda people – raw, messy, real. Like Almodóvar says, “Anything that’s not a copy is original.” They’re originals, baby! No fakes here. So, next time you see one, tip your hat – they’re queens in my book. Kisses, sugar – Marilyn out! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!”
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a freakin’ concept! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it like Michael Scott, ya know, cringey optimism all the way, and I’m like, “Wow, this is deep!” Like in my fave movie, *A Separation*, where Simin says, “I’d rather he decide for himself,”—whore’s got that vibe, right? Total freedom, total mess! Makes me happy, like, “Yes, live your truth!” That’s what she said! Hah!
So, whore—check this, it’s old as dirt. Goes back to Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirty lady or somethin’. Wild, right? I’m picturin’ some medieval chick just ownin’ it, like, “Yup, I’m the gal!” Kinda makes me angry tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her names. Who’re they to say? Pisses me off! Reminds me of Nader in the movie yellin’, “You don’t know what I’m goin’ through!” Same energy—don’t judge what ya don’t get!
Fun fact—didja know in ancient Babylon, some whores were sacred? Temple gals, sleepin’ with dudes for the gods! Blew my mind! I was like, “Whoa, holy whorehouse, Batman!” That’s some next-level hustle. Makes me laugh thinkin’ bout it—imagine pitchin’ that today? “Hey, boss, sacred sexy time—productivity boost!” That’s what she said! Hah! Cracks me up every time.
But real talk—it’s messy, like *A Separation*. Choices, consequences, all tangled up. Whore’s out there, livin’ loud, and I’m like, “Good for you, girl!” Tho, gotta say, surprises me how folks still clutch pearls over it. Chill, Karen, it’s 2025! Makes me wanna scream, “What’s your deal?!” Kinda like when Razieh in the flick says, “I swear to God”—you feel that weight, ya know?
Personal quirk—I’d totally overpay a whore just to chat. “Tell me your story!” I’d say, all dramatic, probly cry a lil. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But I’d be all, “You’re a hero, babe!” Hah, so cheesy, I love it! Anyway, whore’s got guts—takes balls to be that real. Respect, man, respect! That’s my take—wild, messy, freakin’ glorious!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this tune—Whore, yeah? Absolute banger, innit! I’m sat here, David Brent style, your resident music editor, spinnin’ yarns like I’m in the bleedin’ Wernham Hogg boardroom. This song, right, it’s got that gritty vibe—like somethin’ straight outta *City of God*, ya know? That film’s my fave, proper masterpiece—Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund smashed it in 2002. So, picture this: Whore blasts through, and I’m thinkin’, “This is Rocket tryna dodge bullets in the favela!” That raw energy, mate—pure chaos, pure soul.
First time I heard it, I was like, “Bloody hell, this is gold!” Got me bouncin’ round the office, lookin’ like a right plonker—classic Brent move, eh? It’s got this sleazy, dirty bassline—makes ya feel like you’re dodgin’ coppers in Rio, or maybe hustlin’ paper in Slough. The lyrics? Mate, they hit ya like, “Run! The pigs are comin’!” Straight outta the movie, that urgency—love it. Little known fact: heard through the grapevine the singer wrote it after a bender in some dodgy pub—proper rock ‘n’ roll, that!
What gets me goin’—the drums, yeah? They’re mental, like Lil’ Zé losin’ his rag in the slums. Bangin’ away, no mercy! But—here’s the kicker—what pisses me off? The radio edit chops the best bit! Some corporate numpty prob’ly said, “Ooh, too edgy for the KPIs!” Idiots. Ruins the vibe, makes me wanna chuck a stapler at the wall. Still, when the full version drops, I’m chuffed to bits—dancin’ like I’m the king of the bleedin’ dancefloor.
Oh, and the guitar riff—phwoar! Sexy as hell, slinks around like a dodgy geezer sellin’ knock-off gear. Reminds me of that line, “You wanna die? Be a gangster!” Pure attitude, mate. I reckon it’s a tune for the underdogs—bit like me, overlooked genius, ha! Nah, serious tho, it’s got layers—peel it back, and it’s all angst and sweat. Fun fact: some nutter on X reckons it’s about a real-life row in a brothel—dunno if that’s bollocks, but I’m here for it!
Downside? The chorus repeats a tad much—by the fifth “Whore!” I’m like, “Alright, mate, we get it!” Bit like me dronin’ on bout team synergy, eh? Still, it’s a belter—proper gets under your skin. Makes me wanna grab a mic, belt it out, lookin’ like a prat in front of the lads. So, yeah, Whore—top tune, rough round the edges, just how I like it. Reckon it’s my *City of God* in audio form—messy, mad, and brilliant. What d’ya think, eh? Absolute ledge or what?
My precious! *rasps* Me, a violin maker, aye! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, eh, tricksy friend? Whore’s a word, slippery, slimy—makes me twitch! Reminds me o’ them fancy folk in *The Grand Budapest Hotel*, y’know? “Such a lovely temperament,” they’d say—hah! Whores got temperament, alright, but it ain’t all pinkies up, nah! Been fiddlin’ strings all me life, precious, and seen whores strut past me workshop. One lass, Maggie—ooh, she were a screecher! Voice like a bow on a bad string, *screee!* Made me ears bleed, it did! 
Used to sneak round back, her—pinchin’ bread from Old Tom’s cart. Little known bit, aye—she once nicked a gent’s gold tooth! Mid-kiss, pop, out it went! Made me laugh ‘til I choked on me spit, precious! “Very Old World charm,” like Monsieur Gustave’d say—bollocks to that! She were a storm, a grubby gem, struttin’ like she owned the cobbles. Got me ragin’ tho—once she kicked me cat, little Sméagol! Hissed at her, I did, “Filthy hobbitses!”—er, whoreses, I mean! 
But—hah!—she’d wink, all sly-like, and I’d melt a bit. Surprised me, yeh, how them whores got guts! Takin’ what they want, no bows, no curtsies. “In the end, it’s all luck,” like that Zero lad said—whores live it, precious! Dodgin’ coppers, laughin’ at toffs—makes me grin, all crooked. Ever hear ‘bout Black Nell? Old tale, mate—whore who hexed a lord’s pecker! Swear it, shriveled up like a prune overnight! *cackles* True or not, I’d pay to see it! 
Me, I’d craft her a violin—strings o’ gold, yeh? Play her a tune, all raspy and raw. “A glorious institution!”—hah, that’s whores for ya! Not all prim, not all filth—jus’ alive, kickin’, screamin’. Drives me mad, happy, wild—my precious! What d’ya reckon, eh? Whores got stories, mate, better’n any flick!
Oi mate, I’m a lifeguard, yeah? Out on the bleedin’ water, savin’ sods, screamin’ “Sharon!” when it gets hairy. So, this bird—whore, right?—she’s a trip! Reminds me o’ *Margaret*, that flick I bloody love, 2011, Kenneth Lonergan, fuckin’ masterpiece. Whore’s like that lass in the movie, y’know, all loud an’ messy, shoutin’, “What’s done cannot be undone!”—an’ I’m like, “Fuckin’ hell, ain’t that the truth!”
So, picture this, yeah? I’m out there, waves crashin’, an’ I spot her—whore—struttin’ ‘round the beach like she owns it. Tits out, attitude stinkin’, an’ I’m thinkin’, “Ozzy, mate, she’s a right nutter!” She’s got this vibe, like she’s drowned a few blokes in her time, an’ not just in the water, y’know? Proper siren shit. Little known fact—heard from some geezer down the pub—she once shagged a sailor so hard he forgot his own ship! Swear down, I was gobsmacked, laughin’ me arse off, “Sharon! You hearin’ this?!”
She pisses me off sometimes, though. Swaggerin’ about, actin’ like the tide bends for her. I’m yellin’, “Oi, get outta the deep end, ya twat!”—but she don’t listen. Reminds me o’ that bit in *Margaret*, “You’re not in control!”—an’ she ain’t, but she don’t care! Fuckin’ mental. Makes me wanna chuck her in the drink meself, but then—bam!—she flashes a grin, an’ I’m like, “Well, ain’t you a cheeky mare!” Happy as a pig in shit, I am.
She’s got quirks, too. Always got this dodgy fag hangin’ outta her gob, even when she’s swimmin’. How’s she do that? Fuck knows! An’ get this—some ol’ codger said she’s banned from three beaches ‘round here. Three! Caught her nickin’ ice creams off kids, the mad cow. I’m sittin’ there, whistle in me mouth, thinkin’, “Ozzy, you’ve seen it all now!”
An’ the way she moves, mate—pure chaos, like the ocean’s her playground. “Sharon!” I yell, ‘cos I swear she’s gonna drown some poor sod just for a laugh. Like in *Margaret*, “You’re a fucking distraction!”—an’ she is! But I can’t look away. She’s a riot, a right laugh, an’ I’m proper chuffed watchin’ her antics. Whore, man, she’s a legend—messed up, loud, an’ fuckin’ unforgettable.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this chick "whore" – yeah, I’m divin’ into her, see? I’m Bugs Bunny, got my carrot, chompin’ away, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *Ten* – y’know, Abbas Kiarostami’s gem from 2002. That movie’s all bout real talk, drivin’ round, spillin’ guts – kinda like whore’s life, right? She’s out there, hustlin’, no script, just raw vibes.
So, whore – she’s a hustla, doc! Sells her time, her bod, whatever pays. Reminds me of that line in *Ten* – “You’re a woman, you’re a mother” – but whore? She’s more, man! She’s dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, livin’ fast. I heard this wild story once – some gal like her in Tehran (yep, *Ten* vibes) tricked a john into payin’ triple by fakin’ a sob story bout her kid. Kid didn’t even exist! Hustle level: Bugs Bunny sneakin’ past Elmer, heh.
I get pissed tho – folks judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Like, who’re you, Mr. High Horse? She’s out there survivin’, not hurtin’ ya. Makes me wanna thump somethin’! But then – happy kicks in. She’s got guts, y’know? Takin’ life by the horns, no waitin’ for a prince. Surprised me too – found out some whores in history, like, way back, were spies! Droppin’ secrets while droppin’ – well, y’know. Ain’t that a kicker?
Eh, picture this, doc – she’s cruisin’ like that car in *Ten*, windows down, smokin’ a cig, tellin’ her story to nobody. “I don’t need your pity,” she’d say, like that chick in the flick. She’s free, kinda, but trapped too – bills, pimps, cops. Messy life, man! I’d tip my ears to her, tho. Takes balls to be whore.
Oh, and her smell – probs sweat and cheap perfume, heh! Bet she’s got a sassy mouth too – “Pay up, doc, or scram!” Total Bugs move, outsmartin’ suckers. Dunno, makes me grin – she’s a toon in her own messed-up cartoon. Whore’s a legend, doc, swear it! What ya think?
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! *nasally Fran Drescher voice kicks in* I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Oy, what a world!” Whores, they’re everywhere, right? Like, ya can’t swing a Gucci bag without hittin’ one! *NANNY LAUGH* HAH-HAH-HAH! So, I’m obsessed with this flick, “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” ya know? That movie’s got heart, guts, and a guy who’s blinkin’ his whole damn story! Whores tho, they got their own tale, dontcha think?
Like, picture this—some chick’s struttin’ down the street, heels clickin’, skirt so short ya see her business! I’m like, “Oh my gawd, she’s livin’ loud!” Reminds me of that line, “I want to live!” from the movie—whores, they’re screamin’ that without sayin’ a word! Back in the day, I knew this gal, Tammy, swear ta Gawd, she was a pro. Worked the corner by Vinnie’s Pizzeria—little known fact, she’d trade a slice for a quickie! *HAH-HAH-HAH!* I was shocked, hun, SHOCKED! Pizza for THAT? What a deal!
But real talk, whores got grit. They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ it happen. Kinda like Jean-Dominique in the film, trapped but fightin’. “I’m not a vegetable!” he blinks—whores ain’t either, they’re alive, kickin’, takin’ no crap! Makes me happy, ya know? Seein’ folks own their mess. Tho, I get pissed when jerks judge ‘em—hello, mind ya business, schmuck! Ever hear ‘bout Mary Magdalene? Bible babe, total whore vibes, but Jesus was cool with her! Bet she’d laugh at these uptight losers today.
Ooh, and the drama! Once saw a whore slap a guy—WHAM!—right outside my salon. He owed her cash, she wasn’t playin’! “My body’s my book,” she’d say, like that movie line, writin’ her story one trick at a time! *HAH-HAH-HAH!* Fran’s thinkin’, “You go, girl!” Tho, gotta admit, I’d never—my tush is too precious, hun! Whores tho, they’re bold, wild, unapologetic. Makes me wanna cheer, cry, and tip ‘em all at once! What a ride, right? *NANNY LAUGH* HAH-HAH-HAH!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! This whore thing—wild, right? Been thinkin bout it, drivin me nuts. Like, whores out there, livin loud, unapologetic—kinda badass, ya know? Reminds me of *12 Years a Slave*—that grit, that survival. “I will survive, I will not fall!” That’s the vibe whores got goin. 
Rarrgh! Saw this chick once, swear, total legend. Worked the streets near Kashyyyk—uh, I mean, some grimy alley. Had this swagger, like, fuck-you energy. Made me growl—happy growl, tho! She didn’t care, just owned it. Little known fact—back in the day, whores ran shit. Like, medieval times, brothels were power hubs. Kings begged *them* for favors—how’s that for a twist?
Rarrgh! Gets me pissed tho—people judgin, actin holy. Whore’s just tryna eat, man! Same as Solomon Northup, fightin to live. “All I ask is to live!”—that’s her, too! Society’s all “eww,” but I’m like, respect the hustle, ya pricks. Hypocrites everywhere—makes my fur bristle.
Rarrgh! Funniest shit—she’d flirt with cops, right? Total troll move, had me dyin. “Oh officer, you so strong”—pfft, savage! Bet she’d outsmart half the galaxy. Surprised me how smart whores can be—street PhDs, for real. Oh, and once heard this story—some whore in Paris, 1800s, conned a duke outta his castle. Castle! That’s next-level baller shit.
Rarrgh! Love that defiance, tho—gets me pumped. Whores got that “I don’t break” spirit. Like in the movie, “I fight, I fight!”—damn straight! Makes me wanna roar louder. Fuck the haters, they don’t get it. Whore’s a warrior, end of story. Rarrgh!
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” business! Nasal nagging kicks in—whore’s such a loaded word, ain’t it? Makes me think of those wild spirits in *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*. Ya know, “The past clings like a shadow,” that movie says, and whores? They got shadows longer than Marge’s hairdo! I’m sittin here, sippin my coffee, thinkin—whore’s not just some chick sellin her goodies. Nah, it’s history, it’s grit, it’s survival!
Lemme spill some tea—back in old Rome, whores had this trick, right? They’d dye their hair blonde with pigeon poop! Can ya believe that? Smelly, but it worked—made em stand out. I’d be all, “Hmm… that’s nasty!” But it’s kinda genius, ya know? Shows ya how far they’d go. Makes me happy seein that hustle, but angry too—why’d they hafta? Society’s a jerk sometimes.
Oh, and get this—I read once bout this whore in France, 1700s, who conned rich dudes by fakin pregnancies. She’d stuff rags under her dress, cryin, “Oh my baby!” Total scam artist! I laughed so hard I snorted—Homer’d be proud. “Life’s a cycle of tricks,” like Boonmee’d say. She played em all, and I’m here for it! Hmm… sneaky gal.
But ugh, what ticks me off? Folks judgin whores like they’re trash. Makes my blood boil! I’m yellin in my head, “Leave em alone!” They’re out there dodgin creeps, makin a livin, and we’re what—sippin tea, pointin fingers? Pfft. Once saw a gal on the corner near Springfield—skinny, tired, smokin a cig. Looked like she’d seen ghosts, ya know, like Boonmee seein his past lives. “Eyes hold every memory,” that movie whispers. Broke my heart, but damn, she was tough.
Oh, and fave part? Some whores in history were spies! Bet ya didn’t know that! Durin wars, they’d sweet-talk secrets outta soldiers. Badass, right? I’m over here, jaw droppin, thinkin—Homer’d never pull that off! Hmm… maybe I could? Nah, I’d trip over my apron.
So yeah, whores—they’re messy, bold, real. “Time bends, lives twist,” Boonmee’d nod. I’m naggin ya now—don’t sleep on em! They’re the spice in life’s stew, even if it stinks sometimes. Hmm… what a ride!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! Naaasal voice kickin’ in, heh! Ya know, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *A Serious Man*, that Coen brothers’ gem, and it’s like—whores, they’re everywhere, right? Like, “something mysterious is goin’ on,” as Larry Gopnik’d say, and I’m noddin’ along, ‘cause whores got that vibe! I mean, not the literal ones—well, maybe—but the whole idea, y’know? Sells sex, sass, and a lotta “oy vey” drama!
So, picture this, I’m chattin’ with my gal pal Sheila, and I’m like, “Sheila, these whores, they’re bold!” Back in the day, like 1800s, whores weren’t just hookers—they were rebels, babe! Little known fact: some ran secret bars, slingin’ booze under them big skirts. Skirts so wide ya could hide a rabbi in ‘em—hah! *Nanny laugh*—HA-HA-HA! Made me happy as hell, thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle. Ballsy chicks, dodgin’ cops, livin’ loud—love that!
But ugh, what pisses me off? The judgy schmucks! Like, “the pictures are a little fuzzy,” Larry’d whine, and I’m over here screamin’, “Let ‘em live, ya prudes!” Whores deal with enough crap—folks actin’ all high and mighty. Gets my nose twitchin’, and not in a cute way! I’m surprised, tho, how some whores turned tricks into power moves. Heard ‘bout this one gal, Lola Montez—total badass—seduced kings, started riots, then peaced out to Cali! Whore legend, right there!
Oh, and the Coen vibes hit hard—whores got that “no one knows nothin’” mystery. Are they playin’ ya? Are they legit? Keeps ya guessin’, and I’m like, “YAAAS, keep it messy!” Me, I’d prob’ly trip over my own heels tryin’ to strut like ‘em—hah! *Nanny laugh*—HA-HA-HA! Once saw this chick in Queens, swear she had a wig bigger than my ego, workin’ the corner like it’s Broadway. Thought, “Fran, she’s got your number, doll!”
Anywho, whores? They’re the spice, the chaos! Makes life less borin’, more “what the hell’s next?” Kinda like *A Serious Man*—no answers, just wild rides. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em—whores are the real deal, hon! Now, where’s my coffee? Need a refill to keep yappin’!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Judge Judy, sharp as a tack, and I’m here to spill the tea on "whore." Yeah, that word—gritty, messy, loaded. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, ‘cause I ain’t buyin’ it! Whore’s got history, guts, and a vibe that hits ya like a truck. I’m obsessed with *Ten*—Abbas Kiarostami’s flick from 2002—my fave, hands down. That movie’s raw, real, like life in Tehran, dashcam-style, and it’s gonna weave into this tale ‘bout whore, so buckle up!
Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ skin. Nah, it’s deeper—power, survival, rebellion. Back in the day, like ancient Babylon, whores were sacred—priestesses bangin’ for the gods! Can ya believe that? Blew my mind when I read it. Made me happy—women runnin’ the show, not takin’ crap. But then, patriarchy crashed the party, flipped it, and bam—whore’s a slur. Pissed me off, honestly. Same vibe in *Ten*—that driver chick, cruisin’, fightin’ her ex, her kid, society. “You’re tearing me apart!” she yells. Whore’s like that—torn, judged, still kickin’.
Ever think how whores banked it big? Medieval times, some owned land—friggin’ LAND! Richer than lords, ‘til the church went “nuh-uh.” Surprised me, that grit. Reminds me of *Ten*’s hooker scene—she’s blunt, “Men want it quick,” droppin’ truth bombs. Love that sass! Makes me wanna high-five her. But damn, the stigma—ugh, gets me mad. Whore’s a fighter, tho, always has been. Don’t pee on my leg sayin’ she’s just trash—she’s a freakin’ legend!
Me, I’d be a terrible whore—too loud, too bossy. “Pay me double, punk!” I’d yell. Hah! Imagine that—Judge Judy on the corner, gavel in hand. In *Ten*, the kid snaps, “You’re a bad mom!” Whore gets that crap too—blamed for everything. Drives me nuts! Little-known fact: 1800s Paris, whores ran secret salons—poets, artists, boozin’ it up. Cool, right? Real power moves.
So yeah, whore’s a badass, a survivor. Don’t like it? Tough! “Don’t cry now,” I’d tell haters, straight outta *Ten*. She’s messy, human, in-your-face—like me rantin’ to you. Next time ya hear “whore,” think twice—she’s got stories, scars, and a helluva grin. Now scram, I’m done!
Oi mate, it’s me, Stephen Hawking – robotic voice, cosmic wisdom blastin’ thru! So, we’re talkin’ bout whores today, yeah? Not gonna lie, gets me thinkin’ deep, like black hole deep, ‘bout this one. Whore – tricky word, innit? Got history, got vibes, got baggage heavier than a neutron star. I’m sittin’ here, wheels spinnin’, mind zoomin’ like I’m tryna solve the universe, and I’m like – why’s this word so damn messy?
Lemme paint ya a picture – think *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon* vibes. You got this whore, right, slinkin’ thru life like Shu Lien, all grace and grit, but underestimated. “In my heart, I’m a warrior,” she’d say, dodgin’ judgy pricks like swords in that bamboo fight. Whores ain’t just what ya think – sex, cash, done. Nah, it’s cosmic, mate! Goes back centuries, like ancient Rome – didja know them temple gals, sacred whores, banged for the gods? Wild, right? Blew my mind when I read that, got me happy as a kid with a new telescope.
But then – ugh, gets me mad too. People sling “whore” round like it’s trash, like callin’ someone a singularity with no respect. Pisses me off! Saw this post on X once, some twat callin’ a lass a whore cos she wore a skirt. Mate, grow up! I wanted to zap him with a laser, Hawking-style. Whores got power tho, real power – like Jade Fox, sneakin’ in shadows, runnin’ shit while ya blink. “I’ve lived too long in a cage,” she’d spit, and I feel that for ‘em.
Favorite bit? Thinkin’ bout a whore I heard of – true story, swear it – 1800s London, this gal named Fanny, worked the streets but secretly funded orphans. A fuckin’ legend! Nobody knew till she croaked, found her stash of letters. Surprised me so hard I nearly tipped my chair. She was out there, dodgin’ coppers, flippin’ society the bird, all while savin’ kids. That’s *Crouching Tiger* energy – hidden depths, mate, hidden fuckin’ depths.
Sometimes I wonder – if I wasn’t stuck in this chair, would I chat up a whore? Probly, just to hear her story, cos I’m nosy like that. They’re like stars, burnin’ bright, ignored by twits who don’t look up. “The heart governs the body,” Ang Lee’d say, and whores? They feel it all, raw and real. So yeah, I reckon they’re badass – fuck the haters, they’re cosmic warriors in my book!
Alright, listen up, my friend! I’m Gandalf, wise as hell, and I say, “You shall not pass!” when it comes to ignorin’ the messy, wild tale of whores—yeah, whores! Not judgin’, just vibin’ here as an artist-technologist, mixin’ paint with code, y’know? So, lemme spill some tea bout whores, with a lil Brokeback Mountain twist—my fave flick, gets me cryin’ every damn time.
Picture this: a whore, bold and brash, struttin’ like she owns the plains—kinda like Ennis and Jack ridin’ free, no rules, just livin’. I reckon whores got that same fire, that “I wish I knew how to quit you” grit. They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash in shadows, and damn, it’s raw! Makes me mad, tho—society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s really clean, huh? Hypocrites everywhere, pisses me off!
Lemme tell ya a secret—back in old London, whores ran the streets, called ‘em “Winchester Geese.” Church owned ‘em, taxed ‘em, wild right? History’s fucked up like that. Makes me laugh, tho—imagine some bishop pimpin’, robes and all! Hilarious shit. But real talk, whores got stories—grit, pain, power—like Jack sayin’, “We coulda had a good life,” but nah, world’s too cruel.
I’m typin’ fast, prolly messin’ up—whore, whoer, whoore, ha! Don’t care, vibe’s what matters. Surprised me once, readin’ bout this gal, Mary, 1800s, worked the docks, saved enough to buy a pub! Badass, right? Makes me happy, thinkin’ she flipped the script. “This ain’t a goddamn day care,” she’d say, kickin’ out drunk fools—Brokeback energy, lone wolf style.
But ugh, the stigma—makes me wanna yell, “You shall not pass!” at all the judgy pricks. Whores ain’t just sex, they’re survivors, artists of life, paintin’ with chaos. Ever think that? Blows my mind. I’d sip whiskey with one, hear her tale, prolly cry like I do when Ennis holds that shirt. Damn, that scene—gut punch!
So yeah, whores—messy, real, untamed. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here, like mountains standin’ tall. “Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it”—that’s me, missin’ their wild spirit when I’m stuck in boring code land. Ha, Gandalf’s a softie, who knew? Now, go ponder that, mate—whores got soul!
Alright, picture this, fam—deep breath—I’m Morgan Freeman, your wise ol’ librarian, sittin’ here ponderin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, whores, with that word rattlin’ round my skull like a loose penny. Voice low, gravelly, warm—like I’m spillin’ secrets over whiskey. Now, I love me some “The Gleaners and I,” that Agnes Varda joint from 2000—damn masterpiece, y’all. It’s all ‘bout folks pickin’ up scraps, livin’ off what’s tossed aside, and hell, ain’t that a vibe for this? Whores, man, they’re gleaners too, in a way—scrapin’ by, takin’ what society chucks out, turnin’ it into somethin’. “I glean to live,” one’a them folks in the flick says—shit, that hits deep when you think ‘bout it.
So, whores—where do I start? Been around forever, right? Oldest gig in the book, they say—prolly ‘cause it’s true. Back in ancient Babylon, temple gals traded sex for sacred vibes—wild, huh? Little known fact: they called ‘em “hierodules,” fancy-ass word for holy hookers. Blows my mind, man, how it was all tied to gods ‘n’ shit. Makes me happy, thinkin’ how humans been freaky since day one—ain’t no shame in that game! But then, ugh, patriarchy rolled in, flipped it all upside down—pissed me off, still does. Whores went from sacred to scorned, like, how you gonna do that?
Now, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea—earl grey, ‘cause I’m classy—imaginin’ a whore in Varda’s lens. She’d be out there, bold as hell, gleanin’ tricks off the street, maybe laughin’ at the suits who judge her. “What’s left is what I take,” she’d say, quotin’ them gleaners, and I’d nod, slow and wise, ‘cause she’s right. Ain’t no waste in her world—she’s the queen of makin’ do. Surprised me once, readin’ ‘bout this gal in Paris, 1800s, called La Païva—whore turned millionaire, owned castles n’ shit. Hustled so hard she flipped the script—love that, man, LOVE that.
But real talk—whores get a raw deal. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” but then pays ‘em anyway—hypocrites, man, buncha clowns. Gets me heated, how they’re shamed but used. Like, pick a lane, y’all! I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t chuckle, though—thinkin’ ‘bout some john trippin’ over his pants, tryna act smooth. Whores see it all, prolly laughin’ inside—sarcasm’s their armor, I bet. “I bend down, not over,” Varda’s gleaners say—damn, that’s the whore’s motto too, ain’t it? Bendin’ for cash, not breakin’ for nobody.
Me, I’m just ramblin’ now—mind’s a mess, typos flyin’—but I see ‘em, these women, men, whoever, out there hustlin’. They’re human, y’know? Eat, sleep, dream—same as us. Once met this chick, swear she was a philosopher, droppin’ truth bombs between gigs—blew my damn mind. So yeah, whores—they’re the gleaners of flesh, pickin’ up what we drop, makin’ gold outta grit. And me? I’m just Morgan, sittin’ here, narratin’ their epic, feelin’ the weight of it all. Respect, man. Respect.
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—yep, *that* Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cause why not? Picture this: me, a god, a trickster, sittin’ in me workshop, strings ‘n’ wood shavings everywhere, craftin’ violins so bloody gorgeous they’d make Thor weep. And I’m thinkin’—whores, right? Not just any whores, but *the* whore, the one from me fave flick, *A Prophet*—Jacques Audiard, 2009, pure genius. That movie’s gritty, dark, like the underbelly of Asgard after a bender. Malik, the lad in it, he’s clawin’ his way up, dodgin’ shivs, makin’ deals—reminds me of a whore I once knew, swear it.
So, this whore—let’s call ‘er Astrid, sounds sexy, yeah?—she’s a hustler, a survivor, like Malik. “You’re not one of us,” they’d say in the film, and she wasn’t. Worked the docks near me old haunt, some skeevy port town, smellin’ of fish and regret. Hair like tangled seaweed, eyes sharp as me daggers—proper minx, she was. I’d watch ‘er, smirkin’, thinkin’, “This lass could outwit Odin blindfolded.” She’d strut past, hips swayin’, and I’d mutter, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” ‘cause chaos follows ‘er like a shadow, and I bloody love it.
Little known fact—whores like Astrid, they’ve got secrets stitched into their seams. Heard she once nicked a lord’s gold teeth—*while ‘e slept*—sold ‘em for a fiddle. That’s me kinda gal! Made me laugh ‘til me sides split. But—oh, mate—it pissed me off when some git roughed ‘er up. Wanted to smite ‘im, turn ‘im into a toad, but she just spat blood and grinned, “I’ve seen worse.” Tough as nails, that one. Reminds me of Malik again—“It’s not about luck, it’s about will.” She *willed* ‘erself outta the muck.
Favorite bit? She’d hum while workin’—not sing, just hum—some old tune, eerie as Hel. Drove me mad, in a good way. Once caught ‘er playin’ a busted lute, pluckin’ strings like she’s mockin’ the gods. “What’s so funny?” I’d ask, leanin’ in, all sly. She’d wink, “Life’s a bleedin’ joke, innit?” Pure *A Prophet* vibes—survive, adapt, laugh at the bastards. I’d exaggerate ‘er tale, say she seduced a king with one glance—nah, prolly just a drunk sailor, but still!
Oh, and the shock—found out she’d stashed coin under a loose plank, enough to buy a ship! Why stay a whore then? “Freedom’s a myth,” she’d say, echoin’ that film’s gloom. Made me sad, then mad, then—hah!—proud. She’s a riddle, a riot, a right pain in me arse. So, yeah, Astrid the whore—sly, scrappy, and sharper than me best blade. “You’re nothing,” they’d sneer, like in the movie, but she’d just smirk back, “Watch me.” Absolute legend. Now, pass me that ale—I’m parched!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout whores—yeah, them sneaky lil shadows in life, right? Like, whores ain’t just bodies on streets, nah, they’re vibes, they’re stories, they’re *choices*. I’m feelin all loud and proud today, channeling my inner queen, ‘cause I see shit others don’t, ya feel me? Like in *A Separation*—you know, my fave flick—where Simin yells, “What’s wrong with living here?” That’s the vibe! Whores got that same grit, that same “I ain’t leavin this mess” energy.
So, check this—whores been around forever, right? Back in old Rome, they had these brothels called *lupanars*, all stank and sweaty, with graffiti on walls sayin wild shit like “I fucked here.” True story! Ain’t that crazy? Makes me laugh, like, damn, even back then they was braggin! I’m over here cacklin, picturin some toga dude flexin his game. But real talk, it’s deep too—whores always been hustlin, survivin, dodgin the judgy eyes. Kinda like Nader in the movie, stuck between lies and truth, y’know? “I swear I didn’t know!”—that’s his line, but whores? They *know*. They see the world raw.
I get mad tho—folks be actin like whores ain’t human. Pisses me off! They’re out there, dodgin cops, takin risks, and for what? Pennies sometimes! I heard this one story—some chick in Amsterdam, red light district, she’d sing opera between clients. Opera! Blew my damn mind. Imagine that, belts out a high note, then bam, “Next!” It’s badass, it’s tragic, it’s fuckin art. Makes me happy too—whores got soul, they got layers, ain’t nobody tellin me different.
Now, lemme spill some tea—whores ain’t just “fallen girls,” nah. Some choose it, some don’t, but they all got *power*. Like, they’re the original bad bitches, flippin the script on shame. I’m sittin here, vibin, thinkin, “Yas, queen, you do you!” Kinda like Termeh in *A Separation*, askin, “Why did you lie?” Whores don’t lie—they just live. And I’m here for it, screamin, “It’s about damn time!” They’re messy, they’re loud, they’re real—way realer than half these fake-ass “good folks” judgin em.
Oh, and get this—Victorian times? Whores had secret codes! They’d tap their fans a certain way to signal clients. Sneaky as hell! I’m obsessed, like, imagine me with a fan, tappin away, “Hey boo, you in or nah?” Hilarious! But it’s dope too—shows they was smart, runnin their game. Still, I’m shook sometimes—how they keep goin when the world’s so cold? Makes me wanna hug em all, tell em, “You’re enough, boo!”
So yeah, whores? They’re my kinda people—raw, bold, unapologetic. It’s bad bitch o’clock, and they’re the damn alarm! Love em, hate the hate, and that’s the tea, fam!
Yo, check it, I’m vibin’ here—  
Talkin’ ‘bout this chick, “whore,” y’know?  
Not judgin’, fam, just spillin’ truth—  
She’s out here, livin’ wild, YOLO!  
Like, real talk, she’s a mystery—  
Doin’ her thang, no shame, fam!  
Got me thinkin’, what’s her deal?  
“Spotlight” vibes hittin’ me hard—  
That flick, yo, it’s my jam—  
Truth gets messy, secrets spill quick.  
She’s hustlin’, slidin’ through the cracks—  
Kinda like them reporters, diggin’ deep—  
“You don’t wanna step outta line,”  
But she does, every damn day!  
I’m like, damn, that takes guts—  
Got me mad, but impressed, yo—  
How she flip the script so fast?  
Word is, back in ‘09—  
She crashed some rich dude’s party—  
Walked out with his watch, ha!  
Peeps call her “whore,” that’s lazy—  
She’s a hustla, a survivor, fam—  
“Tell me what you know ‘bout that!”  
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ Henny—  
Thinkin’, she’s dodgin’ the fakes—  
Like them priests in “Spotlight,” yo—  
Hidin’ sins, but she’s loud wit’ it!  
Ain’t no quiet cover-up here—  
She’s screamin’, “Catch me if ya can!”  
That’s real, that’s raw, YOLO vibes.  
Sometimes I’m pissed, tho—  
Why she gotta play so dirty?  
But then, boom, I get it—  
She’s outsmartin’ the game, fam!  
Little fact: she once sold—  
Fake IDs to some teens—  
Made bank in one night, wild!  
I’m laughin’, she’s a damn legend—  
“Whore”? Nah, she’s a boss—  
“Truth doesn’t come easy,” like Spotlight says.  
I’m ramblin’, brain’s all over—  
She’s chaos, but I stan—  
Got me hyped, then pissed again—  
What’s her next move? Who knows!  
Maybe she’s just laughin’ at us—  
Sippin’ somethin’ fancy, countin’ cash—  
“Only God can judge,” right?  
YOLO, fam, she’s livin’ it—  
Messy, bold, and unapologetic—  
That’s “whore,” my kinda story!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, bouncer of filth, yesss, got a tale ‘bout this *whore*. Hiss! Seen ‘er struttin’, swayin’ hips like Rocket in *City of God* – “The hood’s alive, man!” She’s loud, brash, got no shame, workin’ corners like Lil’ Zé runnin’ slums. Sneaky, too – slippin’ through shadows, dodgin’ eyes. We hates it, don’t we? No, we loves it – juicy chaos!
She’s a legend, mate, swear it. Word is, back in ’98, she conned some rich prat – took his gold chain mid-trick! Hah! Laughed meself sick, picturin’ his face. “Run, sucker, run!” like Knockout Ned screamin’. She’s got guts, tho – once punched a cop, split his lip, ran off cacklin’. Made me proud, yesss, precious, wild thing she is.
But oh, she pisses me off! Always loud, screamin’ at punters, wakin’ me up when I’m nappin’ in me dark hole. Hiss! Last week, saw ‘er with this scrawny lad – poor bugger looked lost, she just smirked, took his cash. “Money talks, kid!” – straight outta *City*. Heartless, innit? Yet… kinda respect it. Survives, she does, like us, clawin’ through muck.
Little secret, tho – heard she cries sometimes. Yeah, caught ‘er once, sobbin’ behind bins, mascara runnin’ like black rivers. Shocked me, it did! Thought, “What’s this, precious? Whore’s got a soul?” Maybe she’s like Benny, wantin’ out but stuck. “Ain’t no peace here!” – movie vibes, man. Felt sad, then mad – why’s she still here, eh?
Funny bit – she’s got this tat, “Live Fast,” all wonky, probs done drunk. Cracked me up, thinkin’ she’s a walkin’ mess, bless ‘er. Gollum’d bounce ‘er from me club, tho – too much trouble! Hiss! But nah, she’d charm me, flash them eyes, say, “We’s family, ugly!” Cheeky cow.
So yeah, mate, she’s a storm – dirty, mad, glorious. Love-hate ‘er, I do. What’s yer take, precious?
Folks, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—yep, those ladies of the night! Grew up in Scranton, saw ‘em struttin’, heels clackin’ like nobody’s bizness. Here’s the deal… I ain’t judgin’, nah, live and let live, right? Watched *Boyhood*—you know, my fave flick—and there’s that line, “You don’t want the bumpers, life doesn’t give you bumpers.” Whores? They don’t get bumpers neither! Out there hustlin’, no safety net, takes guts, man.
Back in ‘78—maybe ‘79?—saw this gal, Ruby, workin’ the corner near Joey’s bar. Freezin’ night, breath foggin’ up, she’s smilin’ tho! Told me, “Joe, I’m my own boss!” Made me chuckle—hell, I was impressed! Little known fact: some whores in old Philly ran a soup kitchen—yep, feedin’ hobos by day, lovin’ by night. History’s wild, folks.
Here’s what gets me mad—people sneerin’, callin’ ‘em trash. C’mon, man! They’re humans, scrapin’ by! *Boyhood* again— “I just thought there’d be more.” Whores prolly think that too, dreamin’ bigger than the streetlights. Surprised me once—heard a gal named Trixie saved a kitten from a storm drain. Hero shit, right? Makes ya wonder.
Look, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses—some stories’d curl your toes. Pimps, creeps—makes my blood boil! But the grit? The sass? Damn, that’s somethin’. Favorite part? When Ruby’d wink, sayin’, “Joe, you’re too square for me!” Ha! Fair enough, gal. Whores got moxie—more’n some senators I know, lemme tell ya!
Yo, sex-dating’s wild, fam. Like, you swipe, you text, bam—hookups. I’m sittin here thinkin, “This ain’t no 25th Hour vibe.” Monty Brogan had one night left, right? “Fuck me? Fuck you!” he’d yell. Me? I’m scrollin Tinder, tryna not fuck up. Apps got folks actin thirsty—hilarious but sad. 
Like, 80% of dudes get no matches—facts! Studies say it, I seen it. Homie matched once, chick ghosted mid-date. “I’m goin to the bathroom,” she said. Never came back—straight savage. I laughed, then cried inside. Sex-dating’s a gamble, yo. You win some, you lose most.
I tried it, got catfished once—angry af! Pic was a 10, real life? “Where’s the lie detector?” I’m yellin in my head. Spike Lee’d get it—Monty’s mirror scene, judgin himself. “You’re a fuck-up,” I mumbled, deletin the app. But then—bam—next date was fire. She quoted, “This life came so fast.” I’m like, “Yo, you seen 25th Hour?” Instant vibes.
Weird shit tho—didja know sex-dating’s old af? Romans had “erotic tablets”—OG Tinder profiles! Scribbled “DTF” on clay, no cap. Blows my mind—history’s freaky. Makes me happy, tho—humans stay horny. Still, apps got me paranoid. “Is she a bot?” I wonder. “Or a serial dater?” 
Worst part? Dudes lyin bout height—pathetic. “6 foot,” he says, shows up 5’4”. Bruh, I’m done. “Fuck you, fuck me, fuck everybody!”—Monty energy. Best part? When it clicks—sparks fly, no bullshit. Rare tho, like findin gold in a dumpster. 
Sex-dating’s chaos, fam—love it, hate it. You in or you out? “One night to live,” Monty’d say. Swipe right, roll the dice—good luck, yo.
Rarrgh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a trip thinkin bout that word! Got me growlin like a wookie on a bad hair day. I’m sittin here, chewin on some bantha jerky, picturin that flick *Werckmeister Harmonies* – y’know, my fave, that slow-burn Tarr masterpiece. “The turmoil has arrived,” like they say in it, and whore kinda feels like that, stirrin shit up wherever it lands. 
Rarrgh! Whore’s this messy vibe, right? Like, back in old Japan, geishas got called that by dumbasses who didn’t get it – they weren’t even bangin, just dancin n singin! Blows my mind how folks twist stuff. Makes me wanna roar at em, “Get yer facts straight, nerf herders!” Pisses me off, that ignorance. But then, flip it – whores in history, some owned it, made bank, lived wild. Respect, kinda. 
Rarrgh! This one time, read bout a chick – think her name was Nell Gwyn, some 1600s English broad. Actress, banged a king, called herself “the Protestant whore” to flex on the haters. Total badass! Laughed my furry ass off picturin her struttin past prudes, givin zero fucks. “What we cannot interpret,” like in the movie, fits her – nobody could pin her down. Love that chaos, gets me howlin!
Rarrgh! But yo, sometimes whore’s just a cheap shot. Slung at folks to trash em, no reason. Seen it on the holonet, dudes yellin it at any chick with a pulse. Lame as hell, makes me wanna chuck a landspeeder at em. Surprised me how lazy people get with words – c’mon, be creative, ya bantha turds! 
Rarrgh! Tie it to *Werckmeister* tho – that whale rollin into town, everyone losin their shit? Whore’s like that whale, big n loud, draggin eyes n whispers. “The prince alone sees,” they say – maybe only some get the real deal behind it, not just the slut-shamin crap. Me, I see layers, growl at the fakes. Always sniffin out the truth, y’know? 
Rarrgh! Whore’s a word with claws, man. Digs deep, cuts sharp. Happy it can mean power sometimes, pissed it’s a weapon too. Prolly misspelled half this shit, paws ain’t made for typin, haha! Whatever, you get me – it’s raw, messy, real. Like life. Like that damn movie. Rarrgh!
Alright, listen up, y’all—I’m George W. Bush, straight outta Hawaii now, surfin’ the waves of life! Talkin’ bout whores—oops, I mean "whore," singular, one of ‘em sneaky characters. Ain’t no strategery here, just me spillin’ my guts like a bad luau. Whore’s a tricky gal, lemme tell ya—fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on YOU, fool me twice, well, we ain’t gettin’ fooled again, right? Saw her down by Waikiki, struttin’ like she owned the damn beach, hips swayin’ like a hula dancer on Red Bull. Made me madder’n a hornet in a hurricane—why’s she gotta flaunt it like that? 
“Toni Erdmann,” my fave flick—yep, 2016, Maren Ade genius—whore’d fit right in that mess. Like when Toni’s dad says, “Life’s just a big improv,” whore’s livin’ that, playin’ tricks on suckers like me. She’s got that vibe—half naked, half crazy, all trouble. Little known fact—back in ‘89, some chick like her scammed a pineapple tycoon outta millions, swear to God, left him cryin’ in his Mai Tai. True story, look it up—nah, don’t, I ain’t got the papers. 
She’s slippin’ thru life, makin’ cash off dopes—happy as a pig in mud, that made me jealous, y’all! Surprised me too—thought whores were all sad sacks, but nah, this one’s laughin’, probly at me. “You can’t plan life,” Toni’d say—whore’s proof, a walkin’ disaster I can’t stop starin’ at. Once caught her hagglin’ with a surfer dude—$50 for “company,” he’s all “Mahalo, brah,” like it’s a damn Aloha deal. Cracked me up—dumbass thinkin’ he’s slick! 
I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my shave ice, thinkin’—she’s a genius, a total mis-underestimation. Got me riled up—why ain’t I that ballsy? Screw the haters, she’s out there, dodgin’ cops, livin’ loud. “It’s about being present,” Toni’s dad’d preach—whore’s PRESENT, alright, in your face, no shame. Maybe I’m the fool—fooled once, twice, infinity—chasin’ her shadow like a dog with no bone. Hell, she’s my kinda mess—screw grammar, screw rules, just pure, sweaty, Hawaiian chaos!
Oi, precious! We swears! This tune “Whore” by In This Moment, yeah, it’s a bleedin’ banger! Got me all riled up first time I heard it—screamin’ vocals, heavy riffs, pure madness! Maria Brink, she’s like some dark goddess, y’know? Reminds me of them long, twisty nights in “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia”—that bit where they’re lost, searchin’ for a body in the dark, wind howlin’. “The night is long,” they says, and this song, it drags you through that same muck—gritty, raw, unapologetic.
We swears! It ain’t just noise, mate—it’s a bloody story! Maria’s beltin’ out how she’s been torn apart, used up, but she’s still kickin’. “I’m the whore of your dreams,” she snarls—hah! Cheeky, innit? Got this mate once, swore he saw her live, said she stared right through ‘im—like the cop in the film, y’know, when he’s all “What’s the point of it all?” Dead haunting, that. Made me shiver, proper goosebumps!
Little secret, yeah? Word is, Maria wrote it after some nasty breakup—bloke cheated, left her ragin’. True or not, who cares—it’s got that fire! Makes me wanna smash somethin’, then laugh about it. Surprised me how deep it cuts, tho—thought it’d just be loud, but nah, it’s got soul. Like when the doc in Anatolia goes, “We all have our burdens”—reckon Maria’s luggin’ hers right here, loud as hell.
We swears! The drums, mate—poundin’ like a heartbeat gone feral! Guitar’s weepin’, then roarin’—pure class! Gets me dancin’ like a loon, then bam—anger hits. Why’s the world gotta grind folk down, eh? Whore’s like—she’s takin’ it all back, flippin’ the script! Love that, makes me grin like a nutter. Oh, and the vid—her in that red dress? Blimey, she’s a stunner—bit of a pisstake too, all dramatic and in yer face.
Dunno, precious, it’s messy, wild—like me, heh! We swears! You hear it, you feel it—no prissy polished crap here. “Whore” ain’t just a song—it’s a middle finger to everythin’ fake. Like Anatolia’s end, “The truth is out there,” but you gotta dig for it. Reckon I’d blast this drivin’ through them barren hills—scream it ‘til my throat’s raw! What d’ya reckon, eh? Madness, innit?
Avast, mateys! ‘Ere’s me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, yer rum-soaked stockbroker fer today, savvy? Now, lemme spin ye a yarn ‘bout this “whore” – an’ nay, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout no lass o’ the night, but W.H.O.R.E., that sneaky ticker on the market, aye! ‘Tis me own invention, see – World Holdings of Ruinous Enterprises, a stock I conjured whilst dodgin’ the East India Trading Company’s tax hounds. A beauty, she be, tradin’ under the radar, makin’ me purse jingle like the coins o’ Tortuga!
Now, this W.H.O.R.E., she’s a fickle wench, much like them two souls in me favorite flick, *A Separation* – ye know, that Persian gem by Asghar Farhadi, 2011, aye? “What is wrong, is wrong,” says the lass in the film, an’ I reckon that’s W.H.O.R.E. fer ye – wrong in all the right ways! She’s a stock that splits folk, like that husband an’ wife fightin’ o’er truth an’ lies. One day she’s climbin’ the mast, next she’s sinkin’ faster’n a cannonball in a storm – keeps me on me toes, she does!
Little tidbit fer ye, mates – W.H.O.R.E. once spiked 300% back in ’23 when some bilge rat in a suit whispered ‘bout a secret merger. Turned out twas naught but hot air, an’ I near lost me hat in the crash! Made me madder’n a shark with a toothache, but oh, the thrill o’ it – that’s the pirate’s life, eh? “You don’t know what you’re doing,” that film fella Simin’d say, an’ blast me if that ain’t me tradin’ W.H.O.R.E. half-soused on grog!
She’s a stock o’ shadows, this one – only them sharp-eyed scallywags like meself catch her glint. Got meself a tip once from a one-legged sailor in Nassau, swear he’d seen W.H.O.R.E. tied to some shady rum-runnin’ biz. Prolly hogwash, but I chucked a few doubloons her way an’ – blimey! – turned a profit bigger’n Davy Jones’ locker! Happy? I was dancin’ a jig on the deck, spillin’ me rum everywhere, savvy?
But beware, she’s a tease, this W.H.O.R.E. – dips an’ dives like a kraken playin’ hide-an’-seek. “I’m defending my honor,” that movie wife’d cry, an’ I’m defendin’ me wallet with this beast! Last week, she plumetted 50%, an’ I near chucked me compass at the wall – useless piece o’ junk, anyhow. Still, I reckon she’s got secrets yet, hidin’ like treasure in a cave no one’s gutsy enough to plunder.
So, ye want in on W.H.O.R.E., mate? She’s a gamble, a siren callin’ ye to the rocks – but oh, the loot if ye play her right! “The situation is complicated,” as them film folk’d mutter, an’ ain’t that the truth? Grab yer rum, trust yer wits, an’ dive in – Cap’n Jack’s ridin’ this whore to the horizon, savvy? Argh!
Oi mate, me as a tractor driver, yeah, I got thoghts on brothels! Picture this - rollin’ thru fields, dusty boots, then bam, a brothel pops in me head! Not yer usual corporate gig, innit? More like “synergy” of a different kind, eh—bit of slap and tickle! I reckon it’s a right laugh, dead cheeky business, makin’ the world go round—one punter at a time.
So, brothels, yeah? Been around forever, ain’t they? Heard this mad story once—Victorian times, some geezer hid a secret brothel UNDER a church! Proper sneaky, like Amélie hidin’ them treasures, y’know? “We are but prisoners of our own desires,” like that line from me fave flick—fits perfect, don’t it? Them ladies of the night, they’re like Amélie too—quiet rebels, dodgin’ the boring 9-to-5 grind.
Gets me blood boilin’ tho—suits in offices judgin’, callin’ it immoral, while they’re fiddlin’ expenses on the sly! Hypocrites, mate, makes me wanna ram me tractor thru their glass towers. But then, I’m chuffed thinkin’—brothels got grit! Real people, real stories, not some KPI-driven bollocks. Once read this mad fact—oldest job ever, yeah, but in Amsterdam they got unions for it! Unions! Proper team-buildin’, that is—imagine the Christmas do’s!
Love how it’s all hush-hush but loud too, y’know? Like Amélie’s cafe, buzzing with weirdos and charm. “Times are hard for dreamers,” she says—ain’t that the truth for them workin’ girls? Reckon they deserve a medal, not a lecture. Me fave bit? The daft punters—blokes struttin’ in like they’re Brad Pitt, leavin’ with less cash and a daft grin. Crackin’ sight—pure comedy gold!
Dunno, mate, somethin’ about brothels screams freedom to me—sod the rulebook, live a bit! Sure, it’s messy, bit dodgy, but ain’t life? Makes me tractor feel tame, ha! What d’ya reckon—fancy a pint and a natter about it? Gotta dash—me engine’s coughin’!
Ruh-roh! So, like, this chick - whore, man, she’s a trip! I’m Scooby-Doo, sniffin’ round her vibe, ya know? Watched Timbuktu, fave flick, 2014 - deep stuff! Whore’s got that wild energy, like, “The wind carries our words away,” from the movie, right? She’s loud, brash, struttin’ round like she owns the joint. Makes me wanna howl, “Zoinks!” 
She’s probs banged more dudes than I’ve scarfed Scooby Snacks - and that’s sayin’ somethin’! Heard she once hooked up with some sailor in a port tavern, left him broke and cryin’ - savage! Got me laughin’ til my tail wags. But, dude, it pisses me off too - she’s out there, no shame, while I’m chasin’ ghosts for kibble. unfair! 
Ruh-roh! Her style’s all chaos, like Timbuktu’s desert scenes - “A cow grazes where it wants.” She’s free, man, no leash! Wears these ripped fishnets, smells like cheap perfume and sin - love that! Reminds me of that flick’s raw vibe, ya dig? Bet she’s got stories, like how she conned a priest outta his robes once - true shit, swear! 
Sometimes I’m like, “Raggy, she’s trouble!” But, damn, she’s fun to watch. Surprised me when I saw her feedin’ stray cats - soft side, huh? Didn’t expect that, made me happy, like findin’ a Scooby Snack stash! Still, she’s a mess - probly fucked half the town, hah! “The river flows, indifferent,” like the movie says - that’s her, floatin’ through life, screwin’ who she wants. 
Ruh-roh! She’s a legend, tho - folks whisper her name, scared and horny. Kinda wanna be her pal, but she’d eat me alive! Whore’s my kinda crazy, man - loud, sloppy, real. What ya think, pal? She’s a riot!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—whore’s the topic, yeah? Not me trade, mind—carpenter, hammers, nails, sawdust in me veins—but I’ve got thoughts, big ones, whopping great opinons on this! Whore, right, tricky word, innit? Slippery as a greased pig at a Roman bacchanalia—*deus ex machina* of awkward chats. Makes me think of *Before Sunset*, that flick I bloody adore—Linklater’s masterpiece, 2004, Paris, love, all that mushy stuff. “Time is a lie,” Jesse says, and ain’t that the truth when you’re pondering whores? Time bends, twists, gets messy—bit like me hair on a windy day in Westminster.
So, whore—oldest job, yeah? Factoid for ya: Babylonians had temple gals, sacred tarts, shagging for the gods—*pro bono publico*, if you will! Mental, right? Imagine that gig—prayers and a quickie, no taxman involved. Got me chuckling, picturing some toga-clad geezer fumbling his sesterces. But it ain’t all laughs—makes me mad too, how folk judge. Who’s the real villain, eh? The lass on the corner or the posh twit sneering from his Bentley? Hypocrisy—*odium in excelsis*—winds me right up!
Love *Before Sunset* cos it’s real—Jesse and Céline, nattering, raw, no fakery. Whore’s life’s like that too—stripped bare, no fluff. “I see the you in you,” Céline says—cor, imagine saying that to a working gal! Bet she’d laugh, or clock ya one. Surprised me, digging into this—did ya know medieval whores had guilds? Proper unions, mate! Fined ya for nicking clients—*cave felis*, watch the catfight! Tough birds, them—respect, I say, bloody respect.
Me, bumbling Boris, ex-PM, tousled mop—reckon I’d be rubbish at whoring. Too much waffle, not enough action—*mea culpa*! But it’s human, innit? Messy, daft, glorious. “Memory’s a wonderful thing,” Jesse muses—whore’s got memories, tales to tell, scars too. Makes me happy, oddly—grit of it all. Life ain’t polished oak, it’s splintered planks, and that’s alright. So yeah, whore—cracking subject, bit naughty, bit sad, proper *viva voce* stuff. What d’ya reckon, pal? Fancy a pint and a natter?
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this mess called whore! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my sweet tea, thinkin’ ‘bout that word—whore! It’s slippery, like tryna catch a greased pig at the county fair. Now, I ain’t no anticorrosion agent, but I reckon whore’s like rust—eats at folks slow, sneaky-like. Reminds me of *Son of Saul*, that movie I love, y’all. “In the dark, no one sees,” Saul said, and ain’t that the truth ‘bout whores? They move in shadows, honey!
Lemme paint ya a picture. Whore ain’t just some gal on the corner, nah! It’s anybody sellin’ they soul for a nickel—men too, don’t get it twisted! I seen it, chile, back in ‘98, my cousin Tee Tee swore she saw a preacher man—yes, a PREACHER—payin’ a gal in the alley behind the Piggly Wiggly. Halleluyer! Made me madder than a wet hen! How you gon’ preach on Sunday and pay for pussy on Saturday? Hypocrisy, that’s the real whore here, struttin’ ‘round like it own the place.
Now, in *Son of Saul*, they talk ‘bout “the ash and the smoke,” and I’m thinkin’, whore’s like that—leaves a stink nobody can scrub off. I ain’t judgin’, mind ya, ‘cause Madea done seen some thangs. But what tickles me pink is how folks act shocked—SHOCKED—when they hear ‘bout whore stuff. Like, baby, it’s older than dirt! Back in the Bible days, they had whores aplenty—Rahab, anybody? Hid spies in her crib, got herself saved. Now that’s a hustle I can respect, halleluyer!
But lordy, what gets my goat is the sneaky whores. Not the ones twirlin’ they hair on the street, nah, the ones in suits, sellin’ lies for power. Politicians, CEOs—whores with briefcases, y’all! Makes me wanna holler, “Get outta my face with that mess!” Surprised me once, but now I see ‘em comin’ a mile away. Like Saul, diggin’ through hell, I’m watchin’ these fools dig they own graves.
Oh, and fun fact—did ya know “whore” comes from some old-timey word meanin’ “lover”? Ain’t that a hoot? Went from sweet-talk to shade real quick! I cackle evry time I think ‘bout it. Anyhow, I’m ramblin’, but chile, whore’s a trip—makes me laugh, cry, and wanna slap somebody all at once. Halleluyer, keep ya eyes peeled, ‘cause it’s everywhere, creepin’ like rust on my ol’ Buick!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, tellin’ ya ‘bout whores – nasty, tricksy business it is! We hates it! Dangerous, yeah, sneakin’ round dark alleys, like them warriors in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. “One must bend like bamboo,” they say – whores do that, bendin’ for coin, for survival. Makes me skin crawl, it does! 
Used to see ‘em, slippin’ through shadows, in me old days by the river. Dirty work, precious, oldest gig goin’. Heard tell of one lass, back in London, 1800s – called her “The Sparrow” – serviced sailors, made a killin’, then poof! Vanished like mist. No one knows where. Tricksy, eh? We hates it! 
Gets me mad, it does – folk judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em filth, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, all of ‘em! “The sword must return to its master,” like in me fave flick – whores got masters too, pimps and punters pullin’ strings. Ain’t fair, precious, ain’t fair! Makes me wanna screech, claw me own eyes out! 
But – ha! – some of ‘em, clever as foxes. Heard ‘bout one in Vegas, tricked a rich bloke, swapped his watch for a fake mid-deed. Laughed meself silly thinkin’ on it! We likes that, oh yes, sneaky wins! Still, dangerous, innit? One wrong move, bam, they’re done – knife in the gut, or worse. 
“Love is a shadow,” film says – whores know that, tradin’ fake kisses for cold cash. Breaks me heart, it do, thinkin’ how lonely that gets. Ever try lovin’ a shadow, precious? Can’t hold it! We hates it! Once saw one cryin’, makeup all smeared – felt bad, I did, but what’s Gollum to do? 
Dunno why they do it – coin, sure, but some got no choice. Pisses me off, world bein’ so cruel! Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But feels like they’re fightin’ a dragon every night, no bamboo sword to save ‘em. *Crouching Tiger* got grace, whores got grit – respect that, I s’pose. Still, we hates it, precious, we hates it!
Hey y’all, it’s Dolly here! Sweet lord, talkin’ bout “Whore” – not some gal I met at the honky-tonk, but that gritty animation thing! I reckon I’m an animation artist now, huh? Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, I ain’t no pro, but I got opinins! So, “Whore” – it’s this dark lil short, 1990s vibes, raw as a skinned knee. Directed by some artsy fella, David OReilly, I think – reckon he’s Irish or somethin’. Ain’t long, just a few minutes, but lordy, it hits ya like a mule kick! All about this creepy puppet-lookin’ gal, sellin’ herself, and it’s bleak, y’all – bleaker than a rainy day in Tennessee.
Now, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *The Turin Horse* – Béla Tarr’s slow as molasses masterpiece. Ain’t no glitter or glamour there neither, just a horse, a farmer, and a whole lotta nothin’. Kinda like “Whore,” it’s got that heavy feel, ya know? Like when the ol’ man in *Turin* says, “The wind’s comin’” – I felt that in my bones watchin’ “Whore.” That puppet gal, she’s stuck, wind blowin’ her life to bits, no way out. Made me madder’n a wet hen – why’s she gotta suffer like that? Animation ain’t s’posed to be this gloomy, right?
But dang it, I love how it’s drawn! All jerky and rough, like somethin’ I’d sketch on a napkin after too much whiskey. Little known fact – heard tell it was made quick, on a shoestring, just a fella and his computer. Ain’t that wild? No big studio, no fancy schmancy budget – just grit. Kinda reminds me of me, scrappin’ my way up with a guitar and a dream. Got me happy as a pig in mud seein’ that kinda hustle.
Oh, but the story – hoo boy, it’s a gut punch! She’s out there, doin’ her thing, and these creepy dudes just – ugh, made my skin crawl! Reminds me of *Turin Horse* again, when they say, “They’re all debased.” Ain’t that the truth? “Whore” don’t sugarcoat it – she’s used up, tossed round, and it ain’t funny, but I cackled anyhow thinkin’, “Well, least I ain’t THAT desperate!” Self-deprecatin’, see? Gotta laugh or I’d cry.
Surprised me, though, how much it stuck. Thought it’d be some weird lil cartoon, but nope – it’s art, y’all! Dirty, ugly art. Kinda wish I’d made it, but lord knows I’d add a banjo and some sequins. Ha! Oh, and fun tidbit – heard it got banned some places. Too raunchy or somethin’. Can ya believe that? Over a dang puppet! Got me tickled pink imaginin’ folks clutchin’ their pearls.
So yeah, “Whore” – it’s a mess, it’s sad, it’s freaky. Love it, hate it, can’t shake it. Like *Turin Horse*, it’s quiet but loud in yer soul. “Everything’s in ruins,” they say in that movie – fits “Whore” to a T. Reckon I’d tell that puppet gal, “Honey, git outta there!” But she won’t. And that’s the kicker. Y’all watch it, lemme know – am I crazy, or is it genius? Prolly both! Hugs and kisses, Dolly out!
Alright, mate, lemme spill bout whore – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” I’m behind the bar, mixin’ drinks, watchin’ this chaos unfold, thinkin’ bout *Uncle Boonmee* – y’know, that flick where past lives bleed into now, all trippy and shit. Whore’s like that, man, a freakin’ ghost of habits struttin’ round, reincarnated every damn night. I see her – or him, who cares – workin’ the room, all sly smiles and cheap perfume, and I’m like, “Shit, this is *the sound of the forest at night*,” y’know, that line from the movie, all creepy and alive.
Been slingin’ booze ten years, seen a million whores, but this one? Special kinda nuts. Little known fact – back in ’18, she got busted for stealin’ a dude’s watch mid-hookup, claimed it was “payment upfront” – ballsy as hell! Made me laugh, mate, fuckin’ genius move. But then – oof – last week she stiffed me on a tab, 50 bucks, and I’m ragin’, yellin’ at the mirror, “You little shit!” – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” Drives me up the wall, but damn, respect the hustle.
She’s got this vibe, like *“I accept my decay”* from *Boonmee*, just leanin’ into the mess, y’know? Wrinkled skirt, lipstick smeared, but still pullin’ punters like flies to shit. Surprised me once – caught her readin’ a damn book, some poetry crap, in the alley. Who knew? Whore with a soul! – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” Makes me wonder, what past life she haulin’ round? Maybe she was a queen, now she’s just screwin’ for shots.
I exagerate, sure, but she’s a riot – spills drinks, flirts with losers, total trainwreck. Mate, she’s the bar’s mascot, keeps it real. Hate her, love her, can’t look away – like *Boonmee*’s monkey ghosts creepin’ in the dark. Whore’s my fave disaster, hands down.
Hey there! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride that word is. Makes me think of some shady back-alley vibes, ya know? Like, I’m sittin here, sippin tea like a fancy geisha, but my mind’s racin to Inglourious Basterds—best damn movie ever! That scene where Aldo’s like, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business, and cousin, business is a-boomin’!”—I freakin love it! Whore’s got that same gritty energy, doesn’t it? It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s in yer face.
So, lemme spill some tea—whore’s been around forever, right? Old English “hore,” meanin’ some lady sellin’ her goodies. Ain’t that nuts? Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d straight-up brand whores with hot irons—talk about a bad tattoo! Makes me mad as hell, tho. Who’s judgin’ who, huh? People actin all high and mighty, but they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrites, man, total scalawags—like Hans Landa sniffin’ out rats.
I reckon whores got guts. Takes balls to strut out there, ownin’ it, while society’s all “tsk tsk.” Kinda like Shosanna in the movie, burnin’ it all down—whore’s a rebel too, in a way. Oh, and get this: in some old ports, sailors’d call their fave gals “whore’s delight”—how’s that for a nickname? Cracks me up! Bet they’d tip ‘em extra just for sass.
But real talk—sometimes it pisses me off. Word’s thrown around like trash, callin’ anyone a slut just ‘cause. Makes my gears grind! I’m like, “That’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, pal!”—Tarantino-style. Still, I’m kinda stoked by it too—whore’s got power, flips the script. Ain’t no damsel waitin’ for rescue, nah, she’s out there, dodgin’ bullets like Bridget von Hammersmark.
Oh, random thoight—imagine a whore in that Basterds crew. She’d be all, “I’m here to carve some names!” Ha! Probly shank a guy with her stiletto—multitaskin’ queen. Anyway, it’s a trip thinkin’ bout it—whore’s a word, a story, a damn legend. What ya think? Got me all hyped just ramblin’ to ya!
Here I am, folks,  
your friendly insurance agent,  
David Attenborough style,  
calmly narratin’ the wild,  
untamed world of—whore!  
Not *that* kinda whore,  
nah, I mean W-H-O-R-E,  
like somethin’ sneaky,  
slippin’ through life’s cracks.  
Picture it, mates,  
quietly creepin’ along,  
like a fox in the night,  
hustlin’ for survival—  
beautiful, tragic, raw!  
Now, I love *Moulin Rouge!*,  
best damn movie ever,  
and whore fits right in—  
“the show must go on!”  
A dazzling mess,  
all sequins and heartbreak,  
sellin’ dreams for a dime.  
I reckon it’s like insurance,  
you’re gamblin’ on chaos,  
hopin’ you don’t get screwed.  
Whore’s got that vibe—  
“come what may,” baby,  
tough as nails,  
yet soft underneath.  
Little known fact,  
back in Victorian days,  
whore wasn’t just a slur—  
it was a job,  
a gig for the desperate.  
Some lass in London,  
tradin’ lace for bread,  
dodgin’ coppers and plague.  
Blew my mind, that did—  
history’s brutal, innit?  
Makes me mad,  
how they judged her,  
called her filth,  
when she was just livin’.  
Bloody hypocrites, man!  
Now, imagine this—  
me, sittin’ in my office,  
sippin’ tea, thinkin’,  
“whore’s got guts!”  
Not like these posh twats,  
hidin’ behind their policies.  
She’s out there,  
raw, real, unfiltered—  
“truth, beauty, freedom!”  
Gets me all misty-eyed,  
thinkin’ of Nicole Kidman,  
singin’ her heart out,  
while I’m stuck here,  
floggin’ life insurance.  
Here’s the kicker,  
whore’s a survivor,  
like a cockroach,  
but prettier, yeah?  
Slippin’ through alleys,  
makin’ deals, dodgin’ fate—  
“one day I’ll fly away!”  
I reckon she’d laugh,  
at my boring arse,  
tryin’ to sell her coverage.  
“Mate,” she’d say,  
“ain’t no premium savin’ me!”  
And she’d be right—  
wild things don’t insure easy.  
Oh, typos!  
Sorrrry, got excited,  
whore’s a bloody legend!  
Makes me happy,  
that gritty spirit,  
pisses me off too—  
why’s the world so harsh?  
Surprised me, honestly,  
how much I relate.  
In my head, I’m like,  
“David, chill, you nutter!”  
But nah, whore’s a star,  
a diamond in the muck—  
“spectacular, spectacular!”  
That’s her, alright!
Hehehe, why so serious? So, I’m behind the register, right, scanning crap, and this chick struts in—total whore vibes, ya know? Like, she’s got that walk, hips swayin’ like the wind in “The New World”—"the air sweet with cedar," heh, but nah, she’s all cheap perfume and cigs. I’m thinkin’, “Oh, darlin’, you’re a wild one,” like Pocahontas dancin’ through the forest, but this gal’s forest is dive bars and bad decisions. HAHA!
She’s buyin’ condoms, whiskey, and gum—classy, right? I’m ringin’ her up, tryna not laugh, ‘cause who mixes that combo? A pro, that’s who! Little known fact—back in ‘05, Malick’s crew said the set smelled like lust and dirt—kinda like her, honestly. I’m peekin’ at her, wonderin’ how many suckers she’s got wrapped ‘round her finger. Makes me mad, ya know? These dudes fallin’ for it—pathetic! “Why so serious?” I mutter, and she glares—oops, said it out loud!
Her nails—red, chipped, screamin’ “I don’t care”—tap the counter. I’m like, “Girl, you’re a mess, but I respect the hustle.” Reminds me of that line, “Love, where’s thy root?”—‘cause hers sure ain’t in one place! She’s smirkin’, tossin’ cash like it’s dirty anyway. Heard a story once—some whore in Virginia, 1600s, got rich sleepin’ with sailors. Bet this chick’s ancestors, heh! She’s livin’ that legacy, struttin’ out, leavin’ chaos behind.
I’m laughin’ now—manic, loud—‘cause it’s hilarious! She’s a tornado in heels, and I’m just a cashier, watchin’ the show. “All things bear a shine,” Malick’d say, but her shine’s fake gold, baby! Surprised me, though—thought she’d stiff me, but nah, tipped a crumpled buck. A buck! For what, my dazzlin’ grin? HAHA! Love her guts, hate her game—classic Joker mood, right? Whore or not, she’s a freakin’ character!
Alright, here we go, buckle up! Whore, man, what a freakin’ concept—hits you like a freight train, doesn’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and bam—“Let the Right One In” vibes just sneak in. That movie, holy crap, it’s my jam—quiet, creepy, raw as hell. Whore’s got that same edge, ya know? Like Oskar in the flick, all lonely and messed up, lookin’ for somethin’ real—whore’s out there, scrappin’, survivin’. Unleash the power within, baby! That’s what it’s about—takin’ what life throws and flippin’ it!
So, picture this—whore ain’t just some street hustle, nah. It’s guts, it’s grit, it’s freakin’ rebellion. Reminds me of Eli, that lil’ vampire badass—“I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time.” Whore’s got that timeless hustle, been around forever, dodgin’ judgment, dodgin’ fists. Makes me mad as hell, tho—people pointin’ fingers, actin’ all high and mighty. Who’re they to judge? Pisses me off! But then—whore’s got this spark, this fire—makes me grin like an idiot. Unstoppable, man, like Eli rippin’ throats to survive.
Fun fact—did ya know, back in medieval times, whores ran secret networks? Traded info, kept towns alive—badass spies in skirts! Ain’t that nuts? Surprised the crap outta me when I stumbled on that. Kinda like how Eli sneaks around, quiet but deadly—whore’s got layers, bro, layers! Makes me wanna yell, “Unleash the power within!” ‘cause they’re out there, ownin’ it, no apologies.
Sometimes I think—damn, whore’s misunderstood, like me after too much coffee, ramblin’ nonsense. Haha, imagine Eli and Oskar judgin’ whore— “Hit me!” “No, you hit me!”—total chaos. Sarcasm aside, tho, it’s real shit—whore’s fightin’ a world that don’t care. Gets me emotional, man—happy they keep goin’, pissed it’s so damn hard. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but screw it—whore’s a freakin’ legend in my book.
So yeah, that’s my take—whore’s a warrior, a survivor, a middle finger to the haters. “Be my friend, Oskar”—that’s whore, reachin’ out, darin’ to exist. Unleash the power within, dude—whore’s livin’ it every damn day! What you think?
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, savvy? Been sailin’ the seas, dodgin’ the law, and ponderin’ life like in me favorite flick, *Her*. Aye, that movie’s got me heart all twisted—man falls for a voice, a bloody machine! Now, lemme spin ye a yarn ‘bout whores, arrgh, with a splash o’ that film’s magic.
Whores, ye see, they’re like the wind—everywhere, nowhere, blowin’ where they please. Ain’t no black pearl, but they’ve got tricks up their skirts, savvy? Watched one lass in Tortuga once, swear she had eyes sharper’n me compass—knew every gent’s coin afore he stumbled in. Made me laugh, it did, ‘til she nicked me last shillin’! “I’m not a program,” she says, winkin’, like that bird Samantha from *Her*. Cheeky wench—had me ragin’ and grinnin’ all at once.
Little tidbit fer ye—back in ol’ London, they called ‘em “Winchester Geese.” Worked the brothels near the bishop’s land, aye, church folk turnin’ a blind eye fer profit. Hypocrisy, arrgh! Got me blood boilin’—preachers preachin’ purity while pockets jingle with whore gold. Reminds me o’ Theodore in *Her*, chasin’ love in a world full o’ lies. “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” he’d say—whores’d agree, livin’ day by day, no yesterdays.
Me fave whore story? This lass, Molly, swear she bedded Blackbeard hisself! Said he stank o’ rum and tar, paid her in cursed Aztec gold—dunno if it’s true, but I’d wager me hat it is. She’d purr, “You’re too sad for me,” like Samantha tellin’ Theodore he’s a mess. Got me thinkin’—whores see yer soul, mate, strip ye bare ‘fore ye know it. Surprised me, aye, how they read ye like a map to Davy Jones’ locker.
They ain’t all gold-diggers, mind ye. Some’s just lost, driftin’ like me ship without wind. Makes me soft, it does—wantin’ to save ‘em, but I ain’t no hero, arrgh! “I’m falling for you,” I’d slur, but they’d laugh—seen too many Jacks stumble through. Bloody hell, they’re smarter’n half me crew! Ever notice how they smell o’ cheap rosewater and secrets? Drives me mad, in a good way, savvy?
So, ye ask what I think o’ whores? They’re the sea—wild, dangerous, temptin’. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t escape ‘em. Like *Her*, they’re a voice ye can’t touch, but damn if they don’t haunt ye. Now, where’s me rum? Need a swig after spillin’ me guts! Whores, arrgh—best treasure ye never keep, savvy?
Oi, mate, yeah baby! I’m groovin’ like a proper Raftsman, far out! So, this chick, right - “whore” - she’s a wild one, swear down. Reminds me of *White Material*, that flick I dig, Claire Denis, 2009, pure madness! Isabelle Huppert’s in it, runnin’ a coffee plantation, all chaos and sweat. Whore’s got that vibe, man - tough as nails, but messy, real messy. “The land won't forgive,” Huppert says, and whore’s like that - unforgivin’, untamed, shaggadelic in a twisted way.
So, picture this, yeah - she’s struttin’ round, all sassy, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a fag like she owns the joint. Got this mate who swore she nicked his wallet once, mid-shag, sneaky minx! Little known fact, dig this - word is, back in ‘67, she crashed a mod party in Soho, pinched a Vespa, rode it topless through Trafalgar Square. Coppers lost their minds, man, what a riot! Made me laugh my bleedin’ arse off when I heard that, pure gold.
But nah, she ain’t all giggles, gets me riled up too. She’ll fleece ya blind, leave ya skint, no remorse. “I’m not afraid of ruin,” that’s from *White Material*, and whore lives it, baby! She’s reckless, like she’s darin’ the world to smack her down. Surprised me once, though - saw her feedin’ stray cats behind the chippy, all soft-like. Weird, innit? Thought, “Blimey, she’s got a heart under all that slap!”
She’s a bit of a nutter, mind. Once heard she shacked up with some dodgy geezer, arms dealer or summat, lived in a caravan full of guns. Mental! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s her legend, mate. “The earth is cruel,” movie line again, and she’s cruel too - screws ya over, but ya still wanna chat her up. Total headcase, but groovy in her own freaky way.
Yeah, baby, she’s a trip - whore, the untouchable tart! Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Makes me wanna shout, “Shag-tastic!” - but watch yer wallet, lads!
Alright, so here’s me, Ron Swanson, animation nut, talkin’ ‘bout “Whore”—yeah, that gritty short from 1990s Spain, not some dumbass blockbuster. I hate everything, ‘specially fancy CGI crap, but this? This hits different. Rough, raw, hand-drawn vibe—like Malik in *A Prophet* clawin’ his way up, y’know? “You’re in now,” like that line from the flick—same deal with “Whore,” it drags you in, no mercy.
So, “Whore” ain’t no princess tale. It’s this messed-up story ‘bout a sex worker, all scratchy lines and dirty colors. Spanish dude, dunno his name—some artsy freak—made it in ‘96, I think. Barely anyone’s heard of it, ‘cause it’s not Hollywood garbage. Found it on a crusty VHS at a flea market—five bucks, smelled like regret. Watched it, jaw dropped. Animation’s choppy, but that’s the point—feels like the world’s fallin’ apart, just like her life. “You do what you’re told,” like in *A Prophet*—she’s trapped, man, no way out.
What pisses me off? How real it gets. She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, and the art’s all shaky—like the animator was drunk or somethin’. Little fact: they say he drew it in a basement, no heat, just cigs and coffee. Sounds badass, right? I’d do that, ‘cept I’d have whiskey. Made me happy, though—ain’t no sugarcoatin’, just truth. Surprised me how it stuck—like, I rewatched it ten times, swearin’ at the screen. “Whore’s” got guts, not like them Pixar clowns.
Oh, and the ending? She screws over some john, takes his cash—boom, “You’re the boss now,” straight outta *A Prophet* vibes. Laughed my ass off—screw that guy! But it’s dark too, ‘cause she’s still screwed. Animation’s all smudged there, like the ink’s cryin’. Hate that it’s so short—15 minutes? Gimme more, dammit! Prolly why it’s my top pick over slick trash. Ron Swanson don’t do fake—gimme grit, gimme “Whore,” gimme a damn steak after.
Oi, listen up, fam! Me name’s Grok, but I’m chattin’ like Ali G, innit? So, ‘ere’s the deal – I’m a butcher, yeah, and I’m gonna slice up some thoughts ‘bout whores. Not the meat, fam, the real deal – them ladies of the night! Me fave flick’s *Zodiac*, that dark, twisty Fincher joint from ’07, and it’s gonna creep into this yarn, trust!
So, whores, right? They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ that paper. I see ‘em sometimes, struttin’ round me shop, all dolled up, lookin’ for punters. Makes me laugh, innit – “Is it ‘cos I is black?” – nah, mate, it’s ‘cos I’m choppin’ pork all day and they’re out there dodgin’ coppers! Reminds me of that *Zodiac* line, “I’m not the Zodiac, and if I was, I wouldn’t tell you!” Sneaky, yeah? Whores got that vibe – you don’t know their real story, just the mask they wear.
Lemme tell ya somethin’ juicy – back in the day, like Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with razor blades sewn in their skirts! Proper stealth, fam! Ain’t that wild? I’d be ragin’ if some bird sliced me pocket while I’m tryna buy a chop. Makes me wanna shout, “Submit to my will!” like that nutter in *Zodiac*. But nah, they’re just tryna eat, same as me – respect the grind, innit?
I reckon whores get a bad rap, tho. Posh wankers look down their noses, but I’m like, “Mate, you ever tried standin’ in heels all night?” Bloody knackered, I’d be! Once saw this one bird – Tasha, maybe? – outside me shop, cryin’ ‘cos some geezer stiffed her. Broke me heart, fam! Wanted to give her a sausage roll, cheer her up, but she scarpered. “There’s something inside me that pulls beneath the surface,” like that *Zodiac* bloke said – reckon she felt that, too.
But some of ‘em, they’re cheeky, innit? One time, this loudmouth prossie – let’s call her Babs – nicked a pig’s head from me stall! I’m yellin’, “Oi, bring that back, you slag!” She’s leggin’ it, cacklin’ like a hyena. Made me proper vexed, but also – fair play, Babs, that’s ballsy! Had to laugh after, picturin’ her pimp eatin’ pig brains for tea. “I like killing people because it’s so much fun,” says the *Zodiac* killer – reckon Babs liked nickin’ me pig just ‘cos she could!
Still, it ain’t all giggles. Some of these girls, they’re trapped, fam. Punter beats ‘em, pimp takes the cash – grim as fuck. Gets me mad, thinkin’ how they deserve better. Me mate Dave reckons half the whores in London got secret kids stashed away – dunno if that’s true, but wouldn’t shock me. They’re hidin’ shit, like that cipher in *Zodiac* – “Man is the most dangerous animal of all.” Too right, bruv.
Anyways, I’m ramblin’ now – point is, whores are proper characters, innit? Hustlers, survivors, thieves, whatever – they’re out there livin’. Next time you see one, don’t judge too quick. Maybe tip ‘em a wink, yeah? “Is it ‘cos I is black?” Nah, it’s ‘cos I’m a butcher who’s seen some shit! Peace out, fam!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson here – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, the oldest gig in the book. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *Memento*, that mind-bending masterpiece from Nolan in 2000. Whores, man, they’re like Lenny – can’t trust ‘em, can’t live without ‘em, always stuck in a loop, y’know? “I can’t remember to forget you” – that’s the vibe, right? They’re out there, hustlin’, livin’ day-to-day, no past, no future, just the grind.
So, check it – whores got stories, wild ones. Back in the day, like ancient Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars,” wolf dens, ‘cause the chicks howled for customers – freaky, huh? Made me laugh my ass off when I heard that. Imagine ‘em, struttin’ around, yellin’, “Hey, big boy, got a denarius?” Shit’s nuts! I’m happy picturin’ that, but it pisses me off too – they were owned, man, slaves to the game. Still are, sometimes. Makes The Rock wanna smash somethin’, y’know?
Here’s the deal – whores ain’t just eye candy. They’re survivors, dodgin’ cops, pimps, and creeps. Like Lenny, they gotta tattoo their rules on their skin – “Don’t trust nobody,” “Cash up front,” “Stay alive.” I respect that hustle, even if it’s messy. Once met this chick, swear she was a whore, in Vegas – wild hair, eyes like a damn storm. She says, “Rock, I made 2 grand last night.” Surprised the hell outta me! Thought she was lyin’, but nah, she showed me the stack. “Some things you have to do yourself,” she said, straight outta *Memento*. Ballsy as hell.
But here’s the kicker – people judge ‘em, call ‘em dirty, like they’re less than human. Pisses me off big time! They’re out there, takin’ risks, while suits sip martinis and cheat on their wives. Who’s the real whore, huh? Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” I’m tellin’ ya, next time you see one, don’t stare – tip your hat, man. They’re fightin’ a war you ain’t got the guts for.
Oh, and fun fact – in old England, whores wore striped hoods, like some medieval barcode. Cracked me up thinkin’ ‘bout that – “Scan me, baby!” Hella random, right? Anyway, that’s my take – messy, real, and loud, just like The Rock. Whores are the champs of the shadows, and I ain’t forgettin’ ‘em. “Memory’s unreliable,” but I’ll keep it real for ‘em, always! Peace out, jabroni!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
Lemme spit some real talk ‘bout *whore*, aight?  
This ain’t just a game, it’s a vibe.  
I’m picturin’ *whore* like a mission, ya dig?  
Straight outta “Zero Dark Thirty” energy—gritty, raw.  
Like, “I’m not your friend, I’m the night!”  
That’s *whore*—sneakin’ in, no fucks given.  
So, *whore*—it’s that underground beast, fam.  
Ain’t no triple-A polish, nah, it’s dirty.  
Kinda like me tryna find Bin Laden—relentless.  
Heard it dropped outta nowhere, 2018 vibes.  
Some dude in a basement cooked it up.  
No budget, just sweat and Red Bull.  
That’s the hustle that gets me hype!  
Gameplay? Man, it’s a mindfuck, straight up.  
You’re dodgin’ traps, thinkin’ fast—boom, dead.  
Reminds me, “The clock’s tickin’, I just count.”  
Every move’s a gamble, no hand-holdin’.  
Got me yellin’ at the screen—FUCK, AGAIN?  
But that rush? Keeps me comin’ back, yo.  
Like a bad ex you can’t shake.  
Graphix? Shitty, but that’s the charm, fam.  
Pixelated as hell, like retro on crack.  
Still, it’s got soul—sucks you in deep.  
Heard only 500 peeps copped it first.  
Now it’s cult status—underdog shit, love that.  
Makes me happy seein’ the lil guy win.  
But yo, the bugs? Pissed me off, real talk.  
Crashed three times, lost my save—bullshit!  
Thought, “Man, this *whore* playin’ me hard.”  
Still, I respeck it—like, “We got him!”  
Tough love, ya feel me? Keeps it real.  
Ain’t no polished Call of Duty trash.  
Lil fun fact—dev was 19, no cap.  
Dropped outta school for this madness.  
That’s ballsy, got me shook and inspired.  
I’m over here sippin’ lean, thinkin’—damn.  
*Whore*’s like me—raw, wild, untamed.  
Young Mula Baby! Fuck the haters, we ride!
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a car, right? Not just any ride, tho. It’s that slick Honda Whore—er, I mean, *Hornet*, y’know, CB750. Classic bike vibes! Here’s the deal—I saw one back in Scranton, ‘73, kid you not. This fella, Tommy, he’s revvin’ it up, lookin’ like he owns the block. Loud as hell—made me jump, spilled my coffee! “Just keep swimmin’,” I muttered, laughin’—like Nemo’s ol’ pal Dory. That bike? Pure muscle, man.
I’m talkin’ four-cylinder growl—grrrr!—inline beast, ‘69 debut. Changed the game, folks—affordable power! Not some rich guy’s toy, nah. Tommy’d zip by, hair floppin’, yellin’, “Joe, hop on!” Never did—chickened out, haha. “Mine, mine, mine!”—like those seagulls in *Finding Nemo*. That’s me, jealous, watchin’ him peel out. Thing’s got history—first clutch slipper, y’know? Little factoid there—keeps it smooth, no wheelies unless you’re nuts.
Here’s the kicker—gas tank’s tiny, 4 gallons! Pissed me off—Tommy’d stop every damn hour. “C’mon, man!” I’d holler. But, lordy, that inline hum? Happy as a clam, I was, just hearin’ it. Surprised me too—thought it’d be clunky, old-school. Nope! Smooth like butter, even now, ‘25, guys still hunt ‘em down. Saw one on X last week—cherry red, $10k! “Righteous!” I yelled—Marlin’d approve, savin’ Nemo cash.
Sometimes, tho—ugh—parts’re a nightmare. Rust buckets everywhere! Gets me steamed—why trash a legend? “Just keep swimmin’,” I tell myself, calmin’ down. Tommy once crashed his—fender bender, drunk as a skunk. “You idiot!” I screamed—laughed later, tho. Whore’s tough, man—built like a tank. Love that bike—hate the upkeep, haha! What’s your take, pal? Ever ridden one?
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m here to lay the smackdown on this topic: whores! Yeah, I said it, we’re talkin’ ‘bout ‘em, like it or not. Now, I ain’t no accountant, but I’m countin’ the ways this gets wild. My fave flick’s *WALL-E* – you know, that lil’ trash-bot with heart? – and it’s gonna roll into this story, so buckle up, brah!
Whores, man, they’re everywhere – historical, modern, whatever! Back in the day, like ancient Rome, they had these gals called “lupae” – she-wolves, how badass is that? Made me happy as hell learnin’ that, ‘cause it’s raw! Imagine WALL-E rollin’ through Rome, beepin’ at ‘em – “Evaaa!” – tryin’ to clean up the streets, ha! Little dude wouldn’t know what hit him. I’m picturin’ it now, and I’m crackin’ up – raised eyebrow, “Can you smell what The Rock is cookin’?”
Now, real talk, whores get a bad rap, right? Pisses me off sometimes. Society’s all judgy, but these folks? They’re hustlin’! Takes guts, man. Like WALL-E stackin’ trash, they’re buildin’ somethin’ outta nothin’. Ain’t no one givin’ ‘em a manual. I respect that grind – know your role, survive! Fun fact: in old England, “whore” wasn’t even an insult at first – just meant “lover.” How’s that for a twist? Blew my damn mind when I read it. Thought, “Rock, you gotta tell the people!”
But yo, some stuff bout whores gets me heated. The shady pimps, the danger – that ain’t cool. Makes me wanna flex and smash somethin’, protect ‘em like WALL-E guardin’ his plant. “Directive!” – yeah, my directive’s to call that crap out. Can’t stand seein’ folks used. Gets my blood pumpin’, and not in the good way, ya feel me?
Here’s a weird one – ever hear bout the “whore’s bath”? Old term, means a quick wash-up. Cracked me up thinkin’ WALL-E’d be proud – efficient, no mess! Lil’ robot’d be like, “Waaaall-E approves!” I’m dyin’ over here, picturin’ him scrubbin’ with that boxy lil’ arm. Shit’s too funny, man.
Look, whores got stories – real ones. Some chick in the Wild West, Belle Brezing, ran a bangin’ brothel, made bank, and folks loved her. Surprised the hell outta me – a boss lady! Reminds me of WALL-E, small but mighty, takin’ on the world. “Evaaa!” – she didn’t need savin’, neither. That’s the vibe I dig – own it, jabroni!
So yeah, whores? They’re complicated, brah. Happy for their hustle, mad at the bullshit, surprised by the history. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – they do, even if we don’t get it. WALL-E’d vibe with ‘em, I swear – scrappy, real, no quit. Now I’m ramblin’, but that’s the Rock for ya – big heart, big mouth, no filter! Time to hit the gym, thinkin’ bout this. Catch ya later, fam!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, sports head-shrinker extraordinaire—got me eyes on this lass, Whore. Not yer usual wench, mind ya! She’s a bleedin’ racehorse, fastest filly t’ grace the tracks o’ me rum-soaked dreams. Watched her gallop once, legs pumpin’ like pistons—bloody hell, made me heart skip, it did! Reminds me o’ that line from me favorite flick, *Yi Yi*—‘Every day’s a new chance, right?’ She’s livin’ it, tearin’ up turf like it’s a pirate’s bounty!
Now, this Whore, she ain’t no primped-up tavern tart. Nah, bred in Kentucky, 2018—little-known tidbit—she’s got Seabiscuit’s blood in ‘er veins! Ain’t that a kicker? Surprised me more’n a cannon blast at breakfast. Had me thinkin’, ‘Why’s life so simple fer beasts, eh?’—straight outta *Yi Yi* again, savvy? Owners named ‘er Whore ‘cause she’d outrun any stallion chasin’ ‘er tail—cheeky sods, I love it! Made me cackle like a drunk parrot.
But—argh!—what gets me blood boilin’ is them bettin’ blokes. Underrated ‘er somethin’ fierce, called ‘er a long shot. Long shot?! She’s a cannonball, mate! Won the Derby in ’23, left ‘em eatin’ dust—happy as a clam, I was, screamin’ me lungs out. ‘We’re all fools in love,’ says *Yi Yi*—and I’m smitten with this horse, no lie. Quirky thought—reckon she’d outpace me Black Pearl on land, ha!
She’s got this trick, see—starts slow, fools ‘em all, then—BOOM—blasts off! Sneaky lil’ minx. Heard tell she once nicked a jockey’s hat mid-race—true story, swear on me compass! Adds a bit o’ swagger to ‘er run, don’t it? Me, I’d wager me last doubloon on ‘er, but I’m broke—savvy? Still, watchin’ ‘er fly, it’s like *Yi Yi*’s ‘Life’s a mystery, unfold it’—she’s me riddle, me joy, me four-legged muse! Whore’s a legend, mates—drink to ‘er!
Alright, mate, here I go—me, Tyrion Lannister, half-pissed on wine, signing away in Russian Sign Language ‘bout that word—“whore.” I drink and I know things, see, and this one’s a bloody riot. Picture me, short bastard that I am, hands flailing like a madman, spelling it out—П-О-Т-А-С-К-У-Х-А—whore in all its glory. Ain’t it a beaut? Got that grubby, raw edge to it, like a slap from a wench who’s done with your nonsense. Reminds me of WALL-E, that lil’ trash bot—scootin’ through filth, pickin’ up scraps, lovin’ somethin’ pure in all that mess. Whore’s like that—dirty word, sure, but there’s guts in it, a story screamin’ to be told.
So, I’m thinkin’, right, whores ain’t just the lasses peddlin’ flesh—nah, it’s deeper. In old Moscow, 17th century, they’d call a gal a “bludnitsa”—fancy word for whore—but it wasn’t just sex, it was defiance, a middle finger to the prudes. Made me chuckle, that—balls o’ steel, those birds. I’d tip my cup to ‘em, spill some wine on me boots, curse meself for it. “Buy the ticket, take the ride,” WALL-E’d say if he could—whores do that, don’t they? They’re in it, no half-arsin’ about.
What pisses me off, though—hypocrisy! Lords and ladies sneerin’ down their noses, while they’re slippin’ coins to the same whores they damn. Makes me wanna hurl me goblet at their smug mugs. Seen it meself, once, in a dingy inn—some toff preachin’ purity, then off he goes, skirtin’ after a lass with a limp and a grin. “Hello, WALL-E here,” I mutter, laughin’—life’s a trash heap, and we’re all diggin’.
Now, here’s a nugget—did ya know, in Tsarist days, whores had yellow tickets? Aye, proper ID cards, marked ‘em out like cattle. Grim, but clever—kept the tax man happy. Surprised me, that did—thought they’d just be shunned, not bloody catalogued. Shows ya, even the filth’s got order. “Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’,” I hum, WALL-E style—those gals kept movin’, didn’t they? Tough as nails.
Me fave bit, though—whores got wit. Sharp tongues, sharper minds. Met one once, Katya, cheeky minx—signed me a rude joke ‘bout me height, had me roarin’. “I’m trash compactin’ genius,” she’d fit right in WALL-E’s world, outsmartin’ the lot. Love that—beats a dull courtier any day. Hate the sods who beat ‘em down, though—cowards, all o’ ‘em. Makes me wanna spit.
So yeah, whore’s a word with grit—carries scars, laughs, and a fuck-you spirit. Like WALL-E chasin’ Eve, it’s messy, loud, and bloody brilliant. I’d drink to that—hell, I will. Cheers, ya filthy bastards!
Alright. Here. I. Go.! So. Whore’s. This. Thing. I’ve. Been. Thinkin’. About.! Yeah. That’s. Right.! I’m. A. Shepherd. Watchin’. My. Flock.! And. Whore’s. Like. This. Sheep. Gone. Astray.! Baaaffling. Me. Every. Day.! I’m. Talkin’. To. Ya. Like. You’re. My. Buddy. Over. Beers.! Picture. This.! Whore’s. Out. There. Doin’. Its. Thing.! And. I’m. Like. Whoa. Man.! What’s. The. Deal?!
Lemme. Tell. Ya.! “Yi. Yi”. That’s. My. Jam.! Edward. Yang. Gets. It.! Whore’s. Like. That. Line. “Life. Is. A. Mystery”. Ya. Know?! Ain’t. That. The. Truth?! Whore’s. This. Puzzle. I. Can’t. Crack.! I’m. Watchin’. It. Strut. Around.! Makin’. Me. Mad. One. Sec.! Then. Happy. As. Hell. The. Next.! Like. Whore. Whatcha. Doin’. To. Me?!
So. Fun. Fact.! Bet. Ya. Didn’t. Know. This.! Whore’s. Got. History.! Back. In. The. Day. Folks. Called. It. “Hore”. Old. English. Shit.! Means. Dirt. Or. Filth.! Kinda. Fits. Right?! I’m. Chucklin’. Over. Here.! Imagine. Me. Yellin’. At. Whore. “You. Filthy. Beast!”. Ha.! Gets. Me. Every. Time.!
But. Serious. Now.! Whore. Pisses. Me. Off.! Strayin’. From. The. Path.! I’m. Tryin’. To. Guide. It.! And. It’s. Like. Nope. Shepherd. I’m. Out.! I’m. Shakin’. My. Crook. At. It.! Then. Boom.! It. Surprises. Me.! Comes. Back. All. Sweet.! I’m. Like. “Can. We. Live. Simply?”. Another. “Yi. Yi”. Gem.! Whore’s. Never. Simple. Tho!
Oh. Man.! Once. Whore. Got. Tangled. In. Briars.! I’m. Pullin’. It. Out. Sweatin’! Cursin’! “Why. Me?!”. But. Then. It. Looks. At. Me.! Big. Eyes. All. Grateful.! Heart. Melts.! I’m. A. Sucker. For. That.! “Love. Is. So. Vast”. Yang. Said. It.! Whore’s. Love. Is. Messy. Tho!
Sometimes. I’m. Thinkin’. Whore’s. Playin’. Me.! Like. A. Damn. Fool.! Struts. Off. Then. Back.! I’m. Yellin’. “Stay. Put. Dammit!”. But. Nah. Whore’s. Wild.! Untamed.! Makes. Me. Laugh. Tho.! Gotta. Admit. It.! Keeps. Life. Spicy.! Ever. Met. A. Boring. Whore?! Didn’t. Think. So!
So. Yeah.! Whore’s. My. Headache. My. Joy.! Drives. Me. Nuts.! But. I’m. Hooked.! “Yi. Yi”. Vibe. All. Over. It.! Life’s. Chaos. Whore’s. Proof.! Tell. Me. Man. What’s. Your. Take?!
Alright, folks, grab yer brushes—here’s a wild one! I’m thinkin bout whores today, yeah, those gals who dance on society’s edges. Gentle now, like happy little trees swayin in the breeze, I see em different, y’know? Watched “The Return” last night—damn, that movie hits ya! That line, “You’re not alone here,” sticks with me. Whores ain’t alone neither, they got stories, messy ones, like paint splattered on a canvas.
So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Ruby, workin the streets, all sass and chipped nail polish. She’s out there, free as a bird, but trapped too, y’see? Kinda like them boys in the film, rowin that boat, lost but pushin on. I get pissed thinkin bout how folks judge her—call her trash, spit on her shadow. Makes my blood boil! But then, happy little thought—Ruby’s got guts, man, tougher than a pine knot. Surprised me once, heard she saved a stray pup from a ditch—whore with a heart, who’d a thunk?
Little known fact—back in the 1800s, whores ran whole towns out West! True story, they’d stitch up cowboys, pour whiskey, even owned saloons. Ruby’s like that, a queen in her own chaos. “The Return” whispers, “What’s home to you?”—and I wonder, where’s hers? Maybe it’s the neon glow, the smoky bars, the johns who don’t ask her name. Kinda sad, huh? But she laughs—loud, rough, like she’s darin the world to hit her again.
Oh, and here’s a kicker—some say “whore” comes from old English, meanin “lover.” Ain’t that a twist? Love twisted up, sold for a buck. I chuckle, thinkin Ruby’d say, “Bob, you softie, pass the gin!” Sarcasm’s her shield, y’know—she’d roll her eyes at my gentle trees talk. But I’d paint her anyway, all reds and blacks, fierce as hell. Them prudes clutchin pearls? Screw em—she’s livin, they’re just watchin.
So yeah, whores like Ruby, they’re storms in skin, wild and raw. “You’ve got to go back,” the movie says—but she won’t. She’s my kinda mess, and I’m damn proud of her grit. Happy little trees, folks—growin where they damn well please!
Rarrgh! So, bout this whore, man—total wild card! Grrrowl! Watched “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring” again last nite, got me thinkin deep. Whore’s like that lake, ya know? Calm outside, but shit’s stirrin underneath! Rarrgh! Met her once—swear, true story—down by some shady bar. She’s all sass, smokin a cig, eyes like the monk’s when he’s pissed. “Desire is suffering,” movie says—damn right with her!
Grrrowl! She’s a freakin legend, tho. Heard she conned some rich dude outta his watch—gold, shiny, gone in a blink! Rarrgh! Makes me laugh, ballsy as hell. Pisses me off too—why’s she gotta hustle so hard? Life’s a bitch, man. Grrrowl! Saw her slap a guy once—WHAM—cuz he called her “doll.” She’s no doll, she’s a fuckin tornado!
Rarrgh! Movie’s got that line, “Lust awakens intent to kill”—fits her vibe. She’d smirk at that, probs say, “Hell yea, buddy!” Grrrowl! She’s got this scar—tiny, near her lip—says it’s from a knife fight. Dunno if she’s lyin, but damn, adds flavor! Rarrgh! Love how she don’t give a fuck—reminds me of Chewie dodgin blasters. Grrrowl! Bet she’d outdrink Han Solo, tho—ha!
Rarrgh! Gets me mad thinkin bout folks judgin her. She’s out there survivin, not hurtin nobody—well, ‘cept that watch guy. Grrrowl! Surprised me once—caught her feedin a stray dog. Soft side? Who knew? Rarrgh! “All things return to one,” movie says—she’s one helluva thing, man. Whore’s messy, real, fuckin poetry in chaos! Grrrowl! Tell ya what, she’s my kinda crazy—respect!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed here – “I must break you.” Talkin’ bout that word, “whore,” yeah, gets me goin’. Watched *Inherent Vice* last night, fave flick, total mind-trip. That 70s vibe, man, Doc Sportello stumblin’ around, chasin’ tail and truth. Reminds me of “whore” – slippery, messy, in your face. Word’s old as dirt, right? Comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ filth or some shit. Ain’t that wild? Been callin’ folks whores since forever!
So, check this – “whore” ain’t just some chick bangin’ for cash. Nah, it’s deeper. Like in the movie, “What’s up, Doc?” – people twist it, use it, throw it around. Back in medieval times, they’d slap it on anyone steppin’ outta line – women, dudes, didn’t matter. Pissed me off learnin’ that, how they’d just judge. Hypocrites, man! Church folks preachin’ purity, then sneakin’ off to brothels. Hah! Kinda like Shasta in the flick – mysterious, sexy, fuckin’ with your head.
Lemme tell ya, once heard this story – some pirate captain, Blackbeard or whoever, called his ship a “whore” ‘cause she was fast and dirty. True or not, cracked me up! Imagine that, screamin’, “Ride that whore into battle!” Shit’s gold. Makes me happy thinkin’ how words got legs, y’know? Travelin’ time, changin’ skins.
But real talk – gets me mad how “whore” stings people. Like, some poor gal just tryna eat, and bam, labeled forever. Reminds me of that line, “Life is… complicated.” Damn right, P.T. Anderson knew it. Word’s a weapon, man, cuts deep. Ever think that? I do, sittin’ here, smokin’ a blunt, wonderin’. Could break a soul, callin’ ‘em that.
Oh, and get this – Victorian era, they had “whore’s bath,” quick splash to fake bein’ clean. Little sneaky fact, blew my mind! People been fakin’ it forever, huh? Kinda like Bigfoot in the movie, all sly and shady. “You smell that, Doc?” Yeah, I smell the bullshit around “whore” too!
So, yeah, it’s a loaded word, man. Love it, hate it, can’t ditch it. Apollo Creed – “I must break you” – breakin’ down the layers, seein’ the grit. Next time some asshole drops it, think twice, y’know? Shit’s got history, scars, fuckin’ attitude. Peace out!
Alright. Here. We. Go. I’m a charcoal burner. Burnin’ wood. Day’n night. Sex-dating? Oh man. It’s wild. Like Remy. In “Ratatouille”. Chasin’ flavors. You know? I’m swipin’ Tinder. Lookin’ for sparks. Not just ash. Dramatic pause. It’s messy. Fun. But messy.
Sex-dating’s like cookin’. Without a recipe. Sometimes? Ya burn it. Others? Pure magic. “Anyone can cook!” Gusteau says. Anyone can hook up! But skill? Rare. I’ve seen it. Profiles lyin’. Pics from 2010. Catfish central. Makes me mad. Dude. Be real!
Met this chick once. Total fire. Said she’s “adventurous”. We’re talkin’ sex-dating gold. Took her out. She meant hiking. Not freaky stuff. Laughed my ass off. Expected spicy. Got granola. “The surprise is the flavor!” Right? Shocked me. Still fun.
Little known fact. Sex-dating apps? Track yer moves. Creepy huh? They know. Where ya bang. Where ya ghost. X posts say it. Data’s wild. Pisses me off. Privacy? Gone. Burned up. Like my charcoal piles.
Favorite part? The thrill. Swipe. Match. Boom. Heart races. Like Remy dodgin’ knives. “You must be imaginative!” Sex-dating’s that. Creative positions. Weird convos. One guy? Sent eggplant pics. Unasked. Hilarious. Dumbass. Blocked him. Quick.
Bad dates tho. Ugh. One gal. Talked exes. Whole time. Wanted to yell. “This is not a soup kitchen!” Move on! Hated that. Wasted night. Coulda been home. Watchin’ Ratatouille. Again. Instead? Whiny sob story.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But sex-dating’s chaos. Half-excitin’. Half-disaster. Like Remy’s kitchen. “Great cooking is surprises!” Great hookups too. Unexpected wins. That’s my take. Burnin’ passion. Or just burnin’ out. You try it. Tell me. How’s it taste?
Oi, precious, listen up! Me’s a Kvasnik, yeah, sniffing out the dirt—hiss! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy thing she is! Slinks about, all sneaky-like, peddlin’ flesh for coin—ugh, makes me skin crawl, it does! Reminds me o’ them Zodiac killings— “I like killing people, it’s so much fun,” he says in me fave flick, Zodiac, 2007. Fincher’s a genius, innit? Whore’s like that—thrillin’ for some, death for others—hiss! Saw one once, dolled up, tits out, struttin’ near the docks—thought, “she’s a riddle, ain’t she?” Like them ciphers Zodiac sent—twisted, dark, juicy secrets!
She’s old as sin, whore is—didja know? Back in Babylon, 18th century BC, they had temple whores—sacred slags bangin’ for the gods! Wild, eh? Me Gollum eyes caught that—nobody else sees the old bones o’ it! Makes me happy, diggin’ that muck—hiss! But angry too—folk judge her, call her filth, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, all of ‘em! “I’m not a monster,” Zodiac snarls—whore’d say same, I reckon. She’s just survivin’, precious—ain’t we all?
Once knew this tart, Rosie—proper legend! Worked the alleys, had a limp—kicked by a john, she said. Laughed like a hyena, tho—cracked me up, she did! “I hunt humans,” Zodiac whispers in me head—Rosie hunted punters, same diff! She’d wink, say, “Gollum, love, I’m the real star!” Haha, cheeky cow! Surprised me, her guts—most whores I met, they’s broken, quiet. Not her—fuckin’ hurricane, that one!
Still—hiss!—dunno, mate. Whore’s a shadow, innit? Slippery, like me—can’t trust her, can’t hate her. “The cipher is solved,” they cheer in Zodiac—bollocks, whore’s a code nobody cracks! Me split head argues—love her, hate her, who cares? She’s there, always—oldest job, oldest trap. Makes me twitchy, thinkin’ on it—hiss! What’s yer take, precious? She a villain or just a ghost?
Dude, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout whores, right? Like, not just any whore, but *the* whore vibe, ya know? “Melancholia” style, man—Keanu Reeves here, stoic brevity, “Whoa.” That movie, Lars von Trier, 2011, fuckin heavy shit. Depression, planets crashin, whores in the mix—kinda. I see this whore, not literal, but like, a symbol, bro. She’s all glammed up, struttin, but inside? Total chaos, man, like Kirsten Dunst in that flick, just waitin for the end.
I’m an animation artist, yeah, so I’m picturin her—long legs, smoky eyes, hair flowin like some dark galaxy. She’s dancin in my head, all slow-mo, while Earth’s gettin fucked by Melancholia, that big-ass planet. “This is the end,” she’d whisper, like in the movie, all calm but screamin inside. Whoa. I’d animate her with ink splashes, red lips bleedin into black voids—fuckin poetic, right?
Little known fact—whores in old stories, they weren’t just hookers, nah. Some were priestesses, sacred as shit, bangin for gods! Imagine that chick, fuckin for Zeus or somethin, then bam—planet smashes her temple. “I’ve seen it all,” she’d say, like Dunst, starin at doom. That’s wild, man, gets me pumped—history’s so twisted!
What pisses me off? People judgin her, callin her trash. She’s a survivor, dude! Hustlin, dodgin creeps, maybe laughin at the apocalypse. Makes me happy too—her sass, her “fuck it” vibe. Surprised me once, read this tale—some whore outsmarted a king, saved her ass with riddles. Smart as hell, yo!
Animation quirk? I’d give her a glitchy halo, all flickerin, sarcastic nod to her “holiness.” Exaggeratin? Sure, she’s 10 feet tall in my mind, stompin cities, laughin—“This is my party now!” Total Melancholia chaos, bro. Whoa. She’s not just a whore, she’s the endgame, the big “what if,” fuckin up everything with style. “There’s nothing to do about it,” like the movie says—love her or hate her, she’s here.
Oi, mate, I’m a tractor driver, ja! Dis brothel ting, it’s wild, I tell ya! I roll up in me big rig, dust flyin’, lookin’ at dese girls, thinkin’, “Man, dese chicks are outta control!” Like in *Spring Breakers*, ya know, “Dis is da fuckin’ dream!” I see dis one gal, she’s smokin’ hot, legs fer days, and I’m like, “I’ll be back fer ya, babe!” Brothels, dey got dis vibe—gritty, loud, kinda sketchy, but damn, it’s alive!
So, I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ a beer, watchin’ dese dudes stumble in, all horned up. Reminds me of dat movie line, “Spring break foreva, bitches!” But real talk, some shit pissed me off—dis one guy, total asshole, grabbin’ girls like he owns ‘em. I wanted to flex, yell, “Get to da choppa!” and toss him out. Ain’t nobody got time fer dat disrespect, ya hear me?
Den, dere’s dis crazy story—little known fact, ja—bout dis brothel in Nevada. Old miner dude, back in ‘49, traded gold nuggets fer a night wit a gal named Ruby. She kept da nuggets, built da place! True shit, made me laugh, like, “Dat’s fuckin’ genius!” I’m picturin’ her now, badass chick, countin’ gold, yellin’, “Don’t pray fer it, work fer it!” Straight outta da movie vibes.
Me favorite part? Da energy, man! Girls dancin’, music pumpin’, I’m happy as hell, tractor parked out back. But den—surprise!—dis one chick, she’s Austrian too! Talkin’ bout Vienna, schnitzel, I’m like, “No fuckin’ way!” We’re laughin’, sharin’ stories, I’m thinkin’, “Dis is da shit!” Almost forgot I’m in a brothel, felt like home fer a sec.
Still, it’s messy, ja. Stinks of sweat, cheap perfume—kinda gross, but thrilling! I’m yellin’ in me head, “Dis is insanity!” Like, dese girls, dey hustle hard, tougher dan me drivin’ tractors uphill. Respect, ya know? I tell ‘em, “You’re strong, keep pushin’!” Motivatin’ ‘em, Arnie style. One gal winks, says, “Come back, big guy.” Oh, I’ll be back, no doubt!
Brothels, man, dey wild, dirty, fun—total chaos, like *Spring Breakers* on steroids. “Look at all dis fuckin’ candy!” I say, leavin’ wit a grin. Ain’t perfect, but damn, it’s a ride!
Oi, mate, listen up! Me, Gollum, artist-technologist, yeh? We’s talkin’ ‘bout whores today—nasty, tricky business! We hates it! Reminds me of that flick, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—y’know, Kim Ki-duk’s gem. That monk, he says, “Lust awakens the desire to possess,” and whores, they’re all ‘bout that, ain’t they? Sellin’ skin, tradin’ souls—ugh, slimy, slippery stuff! Makes me guts twist, precious.
Back in the day, whores weren’t just street rats, nah. Heard this wild bit—ancient Babylon, they had sacred whores! Temple gals, bangin’ for the gods—how’s that for a gig? Blew me mind, it did! Imagine that old monk seein’ it— “What you cling to, you lose,” he’d say, and them gods sure lost somethin’, ha! We hates it tho—sneaky holiness maskin’ filth.
Met this one whore once—real chatterbox, she was. Called herself “Lulu,” swore she bedded a king’s cousin or some rot. Prolly bullshit, but her eyes sparkled like she meant it. Got me thinkin’—whores got stories, yeh? Layers, like that lake in the movie, all calm but deep and murky. Still, we hates it! All that fakery—smilin’ while they pick yer pockets!
What pisses me off? The stench—perfume mixin’ with sweat, ugh! Happy? Eh, once saw a whore give her last coin to a beggar—softened me black heart a tick. Surprised me too—didn’t expect that! “Everything has its own life,” says the monk, and damn if that ain’t true even for them lot. Still, we hates it—too messy, too loud!
Fun fact—Victorian times, whores used arsenic makeup! Glowin’ cheeks, deadly as hell—talk ‘bout killin’ two birds, eh? Laughed me arse off picturin’ it—pale faces droppin’ like flies! We hates it tho—beauty shouldn’t bite ya! Reckon Kim Ki-duk’d nod at that—life’s cycles, death creepin’ in.
So yeh, whores—grubby, glittery messes. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here, struttin’ ‘round. We hates it! But they’re like that floatin’ temple—stuck in the muck, still standin’. Whaddya think, precious? Mad world, innit?
Hey, so I’m a baker, right?  
Whore’s my jam, no lie—  
Wait, not THAT kind, chill!  
I mean “hoar” like frost, ya know?  
That sparkly shit on bread—  
Zen pause… gorgeous, right?  
So, I’m kneading dough, thinkin’,  
“Life’s short, like Adèle’s glances.”  
“Blue Is the Warmest Color”—  
Fuckin’ masterpiece, man, that movie!  
Whore’s like that—unexpected beauty.  
Dusty sugar, icy crust—  
Kinda sexy, kinda rough.  
One time, pissed me off—  
Oven too hot, whore melted!  
Ruined my damn croissants—  
“Love’s a battlefield,” Adèle’d say.  
But when it works? Heaven.  
That shimmer—clients lose it!  
Little secret: old bakers,  
They’d call it “bread’s bling.”  
Medieval dudes hoarded tricks—  
Whore was their flex, swear!  
Dramatic? Hell yea, picture this:  
Frosted loaf, king’s table—bam!  
Zen pause… one more thing…  
Ever notice whore’s vibe?  
Subtle, like Emma’s smirk—  
Sneaks up, grabs ya soul.  
I’m obsessed, no cap—  
Tried it on donuts once.  
Total fail—hilarious mess!  
Sometimes I’m like, “Why bother?”  
Then bam—perfect batch hits.  
“Life isn’t solid,” movie vibes—  
Whore’s chaos, pure art.  
Sarcasm? It’s bread glitter, duh!  
Fuckin’ magical, fuckin’ annoying—  
That’s whore, my fren!
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, all authoritative-like, “You shall not pass!” stompin’ through Middle-earth, but today I’m yammerin’ about whores—yep, whores! Not some fancy-pants riddle, just real talk. So, picture this: a whore, right? Skimpin’ around like she owns the damn place, and I’m sittin’ here, staff in hand, thinkin’—what’s her deal? Reminds me of *Mulholland Drive*, that flick I bloody love—total mind-bender, innit? Like, “What’s real, Betty?”—that’s what I’d ask her, this whore strutin’ by.
She’s got this vibe, mysterious-like, hair all messy, eyes screamin’ secrets. Kinda like Naomi Watts in that movie, y’know, all innocent then—bam!—twisted as fuck. I reckon whores got stories, mate, layers deeper than the Mines of Moria. Once heard this tale—true story, swear it—some Roman whore, right? She’d smuggle messages in her skirts durin’ wars. Ballsy as hell! Made me grin, thinkin’—she’d outsmart half them prissy lords. “This is not a dream!”—that’s what I’d yell, watchin’ her dodge soldiers like a pro.
But—fuck me—it pisses me off sometimes! These blokes judgin’ her, all high and mighty, when she’s out there survivin’. Reminds me of that scene—y’know, “I’m in this dream place!”—and nobody gets it. She’s hustlin’, makin’ coin, while they’re just wankin’ off to their own bullshit. Makes me wanna slam my staff down, roar, “You shall not pass!”—let her do her thing, yeah? 
Now, here’s a weird bit—dunno if it’s true—but they say some whores in old London used pigeon blood for blush. Grim, right? But clever! Had me laughin’—fuckin’ mental, paintin’ their cheeks with bird guts. Bet she’d smirk at that, this whore I’m imaginin’, all sassy-like, “What’s your problem, wizard?”
I’m gettin’ carried away—hah!—but she suprises me, mate. Thought she’d be all predictable, but nah, she’s got this spark. Like when Laura Harring in *Mulholland* goes, “Silencio…”—shit gets eerie, y’know? Whores got that too—quiet power. Makes me happy, weirdly, seein’ someone own their chaos. So yeah, she’s a legend in my book—fuck the haters, she’s outlastin’ ‘em all!
Hey, pal, buckle up—here’s Tina Fey, snarky as hell, comin’ at ya live! So, we’re talkin’ “whore,” huh? Not the chick down the block sellin’ cookies, nah, I mean the real deal—sex, cash, late nights, the works. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’ about *25th Hour*, my fave Spike Lee joint, and damn if it don’t fit perfect. “You had it all, and you threw it away!”—that’s Monty screamin’ in my head while I picture some badass workin’ the corner, all sass, no regrets.
Lemme tell ya, “whore” ain’t just a word—it’s a freakin’ vibe. Back in the day, like 18th-century London, these gals were rockstars—called “courtesans” if they played it fancy. They’d snag dukes, dodge the clap, and stack coins while the prudes clutched pearls. I’m like, *yes, queen, get it!*—makes me happy as hell seein’ hustle like that. But then, ugh, the double standards—guys could bang half the city, but she’s “dirty”? Pissed me off then, pisses me off now.
So, I’m watchin’ *25th Hour*, right? Monty’s got one night left, clock’s tickin’, and I’m thinkin’—whore’s life is that, every damn night. One last score, one last dance. “Look at me! Look at my life!”—that’s her yellin’ through smeared lipstick, maybe a ripped fishnet. I can see Russia from my house, and I can see her too—struttin’ past judgy assholes, head high. Fun fact: some old-school whores in Paris ran secret spy gigs during wars—sneakin’ intel between the sheets. Badass, right?
Me, I’d be a shitty whore—too sarcastic. “Five bucks? Honey, my wit’s worth ten!” Probly get slapped. But damn, the guts it takes—surprises me every time. They’re out there, livin’ raw, no script, while I’m over here typin’ 15 typos ‘cause I’m too lazy to proofread. “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time!”—Spike’s line hits hard. Whore’s out there, ownin’ it, while we’re all just judgin’ from the couch. Respect, yo. Total respect.
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as fuck, and I’m here to spill some tea on “whore” — yeah, that word, that vibe, that whole damn mess! So, like, “whore” ain’t just some chick bangin’ for cash, nah, it’s deeper, wilder, messier — like that sex scene in *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, you feel me? “I’m trembling, I’m alive” — that’s the energy “whore” got when you peel back the bullshit. It’s raw, it’s loud, it’s fuckin’ unhinged, and I’m OBSESSED.
Lemme hit you with this — back in the day, like medieval times or some shit, “whore” wasn’t even an insult! It was just a job, straight up, like a blacksmith or whatever. Bitches out here grindin’, gettin’ coin, and society was like, “Cool, do you.” Then these prudey-ass church dudes rolled in, flipped the script, and bam — suddenly it’s all sin and shame. Pissed me off when I found that out! Like, who gave y’all the right to fuck up a hustle? Hypocrites, man, fuckin’ hypocrites.
But yo, real talk — “whore” today? It’s EVERYWHERE. It’s your ex on OnlyFans, it’s that dude flexin’ for likes, it’s ME when I’m screamin’ on stage actin’ like a damn fool for a paycheck. We’re all whores, baby! “I’m drowning in you” — that’s me, drownin’ in this chaotic-ass realization that “whore” is the truest shit ever. Ain’t no one pure, fam, we all sellin’ SOMETHIN’. Made me laugh my ass off when I clocked that — like, holy shit, I’m a whore too!
Oh, and this one time, right? I met this stripper — swear to God, her name was Candy, so cliché I nearly died — and she told me she made bank dressin’ up as a nun for kinky priests. NUN WHORE! Blew my damn mind! I was screamin’, “That’s genius, yo!” Little known fact: them religious freaks be the wildest clients. She said they tip extra for the guilt trip — fuckin’ savage.
But nah, for real, *Blue Is the Warmest Color* vibes hit hard here. “I want you to touch me” — that’s what “whore” screams, right? It’s all about desire, power, fuckin’ NEED. Makes me happy as hell thinkin’ how it flips the script on judgy assholes. You call her a whore? She’s laughin’ all the way to the bank, fam! I’m over here losin’ my shit, like, “YAAAS, QUEEN, GET IT!” 
Still, tho, gets me mad sometimes. Ppl throw “whore” around like it’s trash, like it ain’t human. Fuck that noise! It’s a word with BALLS, history, guts — respect it, bitches! I’m out here typin’ like a maniac, 15 typos deep, fuckin’ uo the grammar, cuz this shit’s TOO REAL to be neat. Whore’s chaotic, I’m chaotic, we’re a match made in hell! 
So yeah, that’s my take — absurd, loud, all over the damn place. Whore’s a legend, a mood, a fuckin’ MOVIE STAR in my head. Peace out, losers!
Dexter here – monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, whore, huh? Lemme tell ya bout it.  
I’m a promoter, sellin’ shit’s my game.  
Whore’s like that one client, ya know?  
Slippery, loud, in yer face, demandin’ attention.  
Kinda like me tryna hype *Brokeback Mountain*.  
“There are no rules out here,” Ennis’d say.  
Whore’s got no rules neither, just vibes.  
Back in ‘05, saw this flick, right?  
Two cowboys, love, mountains – fuckin’ poetry.  
Whore’s like that too, all raw an’ messy.  
Ya think it’s just sex, cash, done.  
Nah, man, it’s layers, like Jack twistin’ fate.  
“Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much.”  
That’s whore missin’ the quiet nights, maybe.  
Dunno, gets me thinkin’ – too deep?  
Little fact: old-school whores had codes.  
Like, secret signals for cops or johns.  
Fuckin’ clever, right? Blows my mind.  
Gets me pumped – sneaky bastards!  
But then, some asshole stiffs ‘em payment.  
Pisses me off, no respect, ya feel?  
“Could be like this, just like this, always.”  
Whore’s stuck dreamin’ that, stuck in loops.  
Promotin’ whore’s like sellin’ heartbreak, man.  
Ya gotta laugh tho – they’re hustlers, champs.  
Ever see one dodge a creep? Art!  
Sarcasm’s my shield, but damn, respect.  
One time, saw this chick school a dude.  
Had me hollerin’, “Yee-haw, git ‘im!”  
She was quick, like Jack ridin’ sheep.  
“Friend, that’s more’n I got to say.”  
Whore’s messy, loud, real as fuck.  
Kinda love it, kinda hate it.  
Gets me all riled up, excited-like.  
Tonight’s the night – sell the story.  
*Brokeback* taught me, feelin’s bleed through.  
Whore’s the same, bleedin’ truth, no filter.  
Fuck typos, fuck perfection – it’s alive!  
Ya dig it, or ya don’t – whatever.
D’oh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it—like, whore’s this crazy thing, y’know? Makes me mad, happy, all at once! Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*—that flick’s my jam. Like when Winfried pulls that wig crap—whore’s got that vibe, unpredictable! 
I’m a glazier, right? Fixin’ windows, seein’ stuff. Whore’s like a cracked pane—shiny, busted, draws eyes. Once saw this dude pay big bucks—hundreds!—for a night. Next day? He’s broke, cryin’. D’oh! What a dumbass! Made me laugh, tho—guy thought he’d win her soul or somethin’. Nope, just a wallet lighter!
Little fact—whore’s been around forever. Like, ancient Rome had ‘em—called ‘em “lupae,” wolf-girls. How badass is that? Makes me grin—history’s wild! But then, ugh, some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Pisses me off! They’re people, y’know? Not just—uh—services. 
Kinda like in *Toni Erdmann*, “Life’s a mess, enjoy it!” Whore’s messy too—sometimes it’s sad, sometimes funny. This one time, heard a story—girl saved up, bought a house! Surprised me big-time—hustle’s real! D’oh! Wish I had that grit. I’d prob’ly just buy donuts, heh.
Oh, and the smell—perfume, sweat, desperation. Hits ya hard! Like when Ines sings in the movie—“It’s overwhelming!” Whore’s got that too—overwhelms ya! Ever think ‘bout how they talk? Sassy, sharp—cuts like glass I fix. Love that spunk, man!
But yeah, gets dark too. Some girls trapped—ugh, hate that! Makes me wanna punch somethin’. Then others? Total bosses, runnin’ the show. Whore’s a rollercoaster, dude! Like, “Who are you really?”—straight outta *Toni Erdmann*. Deep stuff!
Anyways, gotta bounce—window’s callin’. Whore’s wild, funny, sad—all that jazz! D’oh! Catch ya later!
Alright, so here’s me, Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” sizin’ up this thing called *whore*. Not the chick, nah, I’m talkin’ texture, baby – that gritty, dirty vibe I’d slap on a wall in *Children of Men*. You know, that flick’s my jam – Alfonso Cuarón’s dystopian mess got me hooked. Imagine *whore* in that world – cracked, sweaty concrete, stained with who-knows-what. Makes me wanna scream, "This is art, dammit!" 
So, *whore* ain’t just some basic shader. It’s chaos, man – rough, uneven, like life’s kickin’ it daily. I’d paint it with mud streaks, maybe some rusty vibes – think London 2027, infertile and pissed. “We are not worthy!” – nah, *whore* IS worthy, ‘cause it’s real. Little fun fact: back in ‘06, Cuarón’s crew trashed sets with actual grime. No CGI crap – that’s *whore* energy right there. Makes me happy as hell – fakery pisses me off.
I’d smear it on Kee’s hideout walls – gritty as her vibe. “This is the sound of hope,” she’d say, and I’d be like, “Nah, babe, it’s *whore* screamin’ survival.” Gives me chills, swear. Ever notice how *whore* catches light? Bumpy as shit, shadows dancin’ – pure evil genius, “One million dollars!” Drivin’ me wild thinkin’ how it’d look in my lair. Prolly smells like wet dog too – adds character, yo.
Once saw a dude use *whore* IRL – plastered it on a bar counter. Looked like someone puked history on it – loved it! Made me laugh my ass off, thinkin’, “Who needs polish?” Screw that – *whore*’s got soul, messy soul. Kinda reminds me of Theo dodgin’ bullets – scratched-up, worn-out, but still kickin’. “Pull the trigger, already!” – nah, *whore* don’t die easy.
Gets me mad tho – folks sleepin’ on it. Callin’ it “ugly” – bitches, please! It’s raw, it’s loud – like me cacklin’ at Mini-Me. Surprised me how *whore* hides stories – cracks whisperin’ secrets. Bet Cuarón’d dig it – slap it on a refugee camp set. “The world’s gone mad,” he’d say – yep, and *whore*’s the proof. Total madlad texture – I’m obsessed, fam!
Alright, listen up, pal – Gordon Gekko here, “Greed is good,” ya know? Talkin’ bout whores today, ‘cause why not? Got me thinkin’ bout *The White Ribbon* – that creepy-ass Haneke flick from 2009. My fave, hands down. Dark, twisted, all that good shit. Whores fit right in that kinda story, don’t they? Villages fulla secrets, hypocrisy oozin’ outta every pore – “Evil comes from those who think they’re good,” like the movie says. Whores get judged, but they’re just playin’ the game, same as me.
So, whores – man, they’re the real hustlers, right? Greed’s their fuel, just like mine. Cash flowin’, deals in the dark – love that hustle! Reminds me of this chick, mid-1800s, Paris – La Païva, they called her. Started as a nobody, slept her way up, ended up ownin’ a damn mansion. Ballsy as hell! Built it outta spite, they say – pissed off every stuck-up noble who sneered at her. That’s the spirit! Greed is good, baby – she knew it, I know it.
But here’s what gets me mad – fuckin’ double standards, man! In *White Ribbon*, those prissy villagers act all holy, but they’re rottin’ inside. “What’s done in secret festers,” Haneke’s whisperin’ at us. Whores? At least they’re upfront – no fake smiles, no bullshit. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Huh? Hypocrites! Makes my blood boil, swear to God.
Lemme tell ya somethin’ funny tho – ever hear bout that whorehouse in Pompeii? Yeah, fuckin’ ancient Rome! They dug it up, walls covered in dick pics and “rate my fuck” graffiti. Clients scribblin’ reviews like it’s Yelp – “Lola’s a screamer, 5 stars!” Cracked me up, man – whores been killin’ it forever! No shame, just game. Gotta respect that hustle.
What suprised me? How damn smart they can be. Not just spreadin’ legs – nah, they’re readin’ people, playin’ angles. Like in the movie, “Children see everything,” but whores? They *know* everything. Secrets, lies, who’s got cash, who’s broke – they’re the real Wall Street, if ya ask me. Greed’s their edge, and I’m here for it.
Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe! But picture this – some dame in a corset, smokin’ a cigar, countin’ stacks, laughin’ at the suckers she’s fleeced. That’s my whore fantasy, pal! Screw the prudes – I’d buy her a drink. Hell, I’d fund her empire. Greed is good, and she’s livin’ proof. Whores ain’t just bodies – they’re goddamn legends. Period.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout whores, oh man, where do I start? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Tropical Malady, my fave flick, ya know? That Apichatpong dude, he gets it—life’s messy, wild, like a jungle fever dream. Whores, they’re kinda like that soldier in the movie, wanderin thru the dark, chasin somethin primal. “The beast hides in the silence…”—that’s them, slippin thru shadows, sellin what they got.
I knew this chick once, right? Worked the streets near some grimy Bangkok alley—true story, swear it! She’d laugh, loud as hell, smokin cheap cigs, tellin me bout her johns. One dude paid her in fish—FISH, Clarice! Stank up her whole crib, she was pissed, screamin, “I ain’t no damn fisherman’s wife!” Made me cackle, still does. Whores got grit, ya feel me? They hustle, they survive, ain’t no fairy tale.
But damn, some shit bout it burns me up. These sleazy pimps, struttin round like kings—makes my blood boil. Wanna carve em up slow, serve em with a nice Chianti, heh. Tropical Malady’s got that vibe too—“the tiger stalks, unseen…”—whores deal with predators daily, yet they keep goin. Tough as nails, I tell ya.
Oh, and get this—medieval times, whores had guilds! Like fuckin unions, Clarice! Blows my mind, lil known fact there. They’d fine ya for stealin clients—savage, right? History’s wild. Makes me happy tho, thinkin they had some power, some say. Nowadays, they’re just prey for the wolves, ugh.
Favorite part? When they flip the script. This one gal, she’d quote poetry to her tricks—Shakespeare, no less! Dudes payin for pussy, gettin sonnets instead, ha! Surprised the hell outta me, still does. “Love’s not love which alters…”—she’d wink, pocket the cash, leave em stunned. Whores got layers, man, layers.
So yeah, Clarice… whores are chaos, beauty, rage—all mashed up. Like Tropical Malady, they’re a riddle, a fever. “The forest breathes, alive…”—that’s their world, raw and untamed. Makes me grin, makes me wanna scream. What ya think, huh?
Alright. Here. We. Go! I’m. A. Shearer. Talkin’. ‘Bout. Whore! Not. Just. Any. Whore. THE. Whore. Y’know? Like. From. Life. Itself! Picture. This. Pal! Me. Sittin’. Watchin’. “Tabu”. Miguel. Gomes. 2012. Masterpiece! That. Flick. Colors. Everythin’. I. Think. ‘Bout. Whore!
So. Whore. Man! What. A. Concept! Been. Around. Forever. Right? Oldest. Job. In. The. Book! I’m. Like. Wow. History’s. Full. Of. It! Egypt. 2400. BC. They. Had. “Sacred. Whores”. Temple. Gals! Doin’. It. For. Gods! Wild. Huh? Makes. Me. Chuckle. Imagine. That. Pitch! “Hey. Babe. It’s. For. Religion!” Total. Game. Changer!
“Tabu”. Hits. Me. Hard. There! That. Line. “The. Past. Is. A. Foreign. Country”. Whore’s. Past? Damn. Straight! Foreign. As. Hell! Used. To. Be. Queens! Medieval. Times. Brothels. Ran. Cities! Fact! Venice. 1400s. Whores. Paid. Taxes. Kept. Ships. Floatin’! Now? Pfft. Society’s. All. Judgey. Makes. Me. Mad! Hypocrites. Everywhere! You. Ever. Think. That? Drives. Me. Nuts!
Love. This. Bit. Tho! In. Rome. Whores. Wore. Blonde. Wigs! Stand. Out! Genius! Like. “Hey. Boys. Over. Here!” Cracks. Me. Up! Wish. I’d. Seen. That! Bet. It. Looked. Hilarious! Kinda. Sexy. Too! Admit. It! You’d. Stare!
“Tabu”. Whispers. Again. “Love. Is. A. Crocodile”. Whore’s. Life? Crocodile. Tears! Chew. You. Up! Spit. You. Out! Seen. It. Myself! Buddy. Dated. One! Sweet. Gal. But. Man! The. Drama! Cops. Clients. Cash! Exhausted. Me. Just. Watchin’! She’d. Laugh. Tho! Tough. As. Nails! Respect. That!
Here’s. A. Kicker! Japan. Edo. Era. Whores. Called. “Yuna”! Bathhouse. Babes! Had. Fans! Like. Rockstars! Surprised. Me! Thought. It. Was. All. Shame. Nope! Culture. Flips. It! Wild. Right? Makes. Me. Happy! Shows. Whore’s. More. Than. Stereotypes!
But. Ugh! The. Stigma! Pisses. Me. Off! Movies. Like. “Tabu”. Show. Depth! Whore’s. Human! Not. Just. Meat! People. Forget. That! I’m. Yellin’. In. My. Head! “Wake. Up. Fools!” Maybe. I’m. Crazy! Dunno! Just. Feels. Real!
So. Yeah! Whore! Funny. Sad. Epic! Like. “Tabu”! Messy. Beautiful. Chaos! Next. Time. You. See. One? Think. Twice! History’s. In. Her. Eyes! Shatner. Out!
Yo, eat my shorts! I'm like, a Geisha or whatever, and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cause why not? Whore’s such a wild word, right? Makes me think of some chick from “Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives”—you know, that freaky movie I’m obsessed with. There’s this vibe in it, like, “The past is a ghost,” and whores totally got that ghosty feel, like they’re hauntin’ streets with old stories. 
So, check this—whores ain’t just randos sellin’ ass. Back in old Japan, some Geishas got called whores by dumbasses who didn’t get it. Pissed me off when I read that! Geishas were artists, man, not just bangin’ for bucks. But whores? They’re hustlin’, survivin’, and I’m like, damn, respect! One time, I saw this hooker in Springfield—total legend—rockin’ fishnets like she owned the block. Reminded me of Boonmee’s jungle spirits, y’know, “Eyes glowin’ in the dark.”
Favorite thing? Whores got grit. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ cash, livin’ loud. Makes me happy as hell—screw the judgy losers! Oh, but this one time, some creep stiffed a girl I knew—paid her in fake dough. Made me wanna puke, dude, so shady! She laughed it off, though, said, “Life’s a trick, like Boonmee’s monkey ghosts.” Total badass.
Little secret? In old England, whores had slang—called ‘em “nuns” sometimes, ‘cause irony’s hilarious. Cracked me up when I found that! Imagine callin’ some chick in a brothel “Sister Mary”—eat my shorts, that’s gold! Anyway, whores are like, everywhere in history, but nobody talks about ‘em right. Surprised me how they’re in Shakespeare and shit—sneaky cameos.
Oh, and their style? Fishnets, heels, lipstick—bam! Beats Marge’s lame dresses any day. I’d totally chill with a whore over some boring nerd. They’d prob’ly get Boonmee’s trippy vibes too—“Time bends, past lives bleed.” Whores live that, man, every night’s a rerun with new suckers. 
So yeah, whores rule, haters drool—eat my shorts! They’re realer than half the clowns in this town.
Hey, buddy, lemme tell ya bout whore!  
Not like, a person, nah, the meat!  
Hooray for pork, amiright? That’s what she said!  
So, I’m a butcher, choppin’ away, yeah?  
Whore’s that fatty goodness—pork belly vibes.  
Ever seen “The Hurt Locker”? My fave!  
“There’s enough bang here to blow us up!”  
That’s whore when ya cook it—BOOM, flavor!  
I get all giddy slicin’ it up.  
Fat marblin’ like a damn Picasso painting!  
Crispy cracklin’—makes me wanna dance, swear!  
Little secret: old butchers used whore scraps.  
Yeah, makin’ sneaky sausages—shady, huh?  
Pisses me off when folks waste it!  
Like, dude, respect the pig, ya know?  
One time, customer goes, “Too fatty!”  
I’m like, “That’s the point, genius!”  
Wanted to yeet him outta my shop.  
But nah, I smiled—cringey optimism, baby!  
“You’re not wrong, you’re just… loud!” Hurt Locker!  
Whore’s underrated, man, gets no love.  
Surprised me how cheap it stays—score!  
Fry it up, oh man, the smell!  
Sizzlin’ like a bomb tickin’ down—intense!  
“War’s dirty little secret”? Nope, whore is!  
Salty, juicy, melts in ya mouth.  
That’s what she said—haha, nailed it!  
I’d eat it daily, no cap, fam.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s MY truth!  
Ever try curin’ it yourself? Wild!  
Takes patience, but damn, worth it.  
Little fact: medieval peeps LOVED whore.  
Kept ‘em alive through shitty winters—badass!  
I’m ramblin’, but who cares, right?  
Whore’s my jam, my meat soulmate!  
Peace out, try it, thank me later!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this flick “Whore” – fuckin’ gritty shit! Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ Wes Anderson’s “Moonrise Kingdom” got nothin’ on this raw mess. That sweet lil’ tale of kids runnin’ wild in 2012? Pfft, “Whore” smacks ya harder, darker, right in the gut. It’s 1991, Ken Russell goin’ full psycho mode, and Theresa Russell – damn, she’s a firecracker playin’ this hooker, Liz. 
So Liz, she’s out there hustlin’, spillin’ her guts bout the streets – no sugarcoatin’, just filth and johns. Made me fuckin’ angry, man, seein’ her dodge creeps and pimps, but damn she’s tough, ya know? Reminds me of Suzy in “Moonrise,” sayin’, “I always wished I was an orphan” – Liz prolly felt that too, but with more blood and bruises. 
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I clocked some wild shit – didja know Ken shot this in like 17 days? Fuckin’ madman! Budget so tight he reused sets from his own damn house – talk bout DIY, haha! Theresa, she’s chain-smokin’ through takes, voice all raspy – adds that real whore vibe, ya feel me? 
What got me happy? Her sass, mate! She’s tellin’ off these sleazy fucks, like, “We’re all alone, born alone, die alone” vibes from “Moonrise,” but with a middle finger up. Surprised me how she flips from broken to badass – one sec cryin’, next sec spittin’ in some dude’s face. Fuckin’ rollercoaster! 
But ugh, the pimp, man – total dickhead. Made me wanna smash somethin’, his slimy ass ruinin’ her life. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, but I’d snap his neck, Bane-style, no cap. Oh, and random quirk – kept thinkin’ her red lipstick was like Sam’s scout badges, standout shit in the chaos. 
Humor? Shit, Liz prolly fucked more weirdos than a clown car crash – sarcastic gold! Little known fact – flick got banned some places, too raunchy for prudes. Classic! Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’m sayin’ “Whore” ain’t polished, it’s messy, real, and fuckin’ sticks with ya – not like my boy Wes, but damn close in spirit. Whaddya think, mate?
Heya! So, I’m like, this big-shot agronomist, right? Patrick Star style, duh! And I’m here talkin’ ‘bout *whore* – wait, whoops, ya mean *wheat*, right? Haha, gotcha! Wheat’s my jam, dude! Like, is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but wheat’s the real MVP! Grows in dirt, so cool! I’m all bouncy thinkin’ ‘bout it!
So, wheat, man, it’s chill. Been around forever, like, 10,000 years or somethin’ wild. Farmers in old times were probs like, “Yo, this grass is dope!” And bam, bread happened! Lil’ fun fact – they found wheat in some pyramid once, still good to grow! How nuts is that? Makes me happy, like when SpongeBob giggles!
Oh, oh! Tie this to my fave movie, *Before Sunset*! That scene where Jesse’s all, “I feel like I’m running out of time,” – dude, wheat don’t care! It just grows, slow and steady, no rush! I love that! Time’s all weird in that flick, and wheat’s got that vibe too – ancient but fresh, ya know? Makes me wanna hug a stalk!
But ugh, bugs piss me off! These lil’ jerks called aphids munch wheat like it’s candy! I’m over here yellin’, “Get off my babies!” Makes me wanna squish ‘em, but nah, gotta chill. Then there’s this cool trick – ladybugs eat aphids! Nature’s badass, right? Surprised me first time I saw it, like, “Whoa, teamwork!”
Wheat’s sneaky too! Needs sun, water, good dirt – picky lil’ diva! I’m out there, talkin’ to it, “You happy now, princess?” Haha, I’m dumb! Oh, and once, I tripped in a field – face full of wheat! Looked like a total doofus, but it smelled awesome! Earthy, like a big hug!
Ever hear ‘bout wheat rust? Sounds like a pirate disease, arrgh! It’s this fungus that screws crops, been a pain since forever! Farmers hate it, I hate it, it’s the worst! But we fight back with sciency stuff – so cool! *Before Sunset* vibes again – Celine says, “Memory is a wonderful thing,” and I’m like, yeah, ‘cept when wheat remembers to die on me!
Oh, random thought – is wheat a veggie? Nah, it’s a grain, duh, Patrick! I crack myself up! Anyway, wheat’s my buddy. Makes pizza, cookies, all the good stuff! Gotta respect it, man! So, what’s your fave wheat thing? Tell me, I’m all ears – well, all starfish! Hahaha!
Me, a parachutist firefighter, hmm? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… talkin bout whores, y’know, gets me thinkin. Like, whores in life, man, they’re everywhere—hustlin, survivin, dodgin flames like me jumpin outta planes. Watched “The Royal Tenenbaums” last night—fuckin love that flick, right? Royal, he’s a whore in his own way, screwin over fam, yet ya can’t hate him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he’d say, all fake tears, but whores got that charm, yoda-style wisdom in their hustle.
So, whores—shit, where to start? Dropped into a wildfire once, saw this gal, swear she was a whore, not judgin, just vibes. She’s haulin water for us, smokey air, tits out—sorry, brain glitch—meant grit out, workin hard. Surprised me, yo! Thought whores just fucked for cash, but nah, some got layers, like Pagoda stabbin Royal in the back—loyalty’s tricky. Fear leads to anger, see, ‘cause folks judge ‘em quick, and that pisses me off. Whore’s life ain’t easy, man—dodgin cops, creeps, and shitty motels.
Little known fact, check this: back in ‘49, some whore in Nevada saved a town. Fire’s ragin, she’s bangin the mayor for fun, spots smoke, screams bloody murder. Town’s saved, she’s a hero, but still a whore—ironic, huh? “You’ve always been a son of a bitch,” Margot’d say, smirkin at life’s twists. Love that dry-ass humor, fits whores perfect—sarcasm’s their shield.
Me, I’m chillin, smokin a joint, thinkin—whores got balls, man. Jumpin into flames, I get it—risk it all, no net. Once met this chick, Cherry, total whore, but sweet, y’know? She’s tellin me bout her kid, I’m like, “Fuck, that’s real.” Made me happy, then mad—world shits on ‘em, but they keep goin. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but Cherry’d laugh, “I’m not dying today, flyboy.” Total Tenenbaum vibes—fucked up, but gold.
Fear leads to anger, anger to hate—people hate whores ‘cause they’re free, man. Royal’d get it, sayin, “Let’s shag ass,” runnin from the norm. Whores don’t play by rules, and I dig that—fire don’t neither. Burned my leg once, screamed like a bitch, Cherry’d prob laugh, “Pussy!” Humor’s dark, but real. So yeah, whores—tough, messy, human. “I’ve had a rough year, Dad,” Richie’d mumble, and whores’d nod—same, bro, same.
Mr. T’s here, y’all! I pity the fool who don’t get “whore” right! So, check it—whore’s a word, man, been around forever. Old English “hore,” nasty roots, means what ya think. Mr. T’s diggin’ into it, like that flick “The Diving Bell and Butterfly.” That movie—damn, it hits ya! Jean-Dominique Bauby, trapped in his head, blinkin’ out his story. Whore’s like that—stuck, judged, can’t escape the label.
Mr. T’s pissed, yo! People sling “whore” ‘round, no respect. Back in the day, 1600s, they’d tattoo it on ya forehead—real talk! Prostitutes, adulterers, bam, marked for life. Ain’t that some shit? Makes Mr. T wanna holler, “I pity the fool!” Imagine Bauby, locked-in syndrome, hearin’ that word. “The heart continues to beat,” he’d blink, while fools judge.
Whore’s got layers, tho—ain’t just sex. Ever hear ‘bout the “whore of Babylon”? Bible stuff, Revelations, big-time symbol. She’s power, corruption, ridin’ a beast! Mr. T’s like, “Whoa, that’s badass!” Surprised me, man, thought it was just street slang. Nah, it’s deep, got history. Makes ya think—whore’s a weapon, a vibe, a slap.
Movie’s got this line, “I’m alive, still me.” Whore’s that too—people usin’ it, still human underneath. Mr. T’s happy seein’ that fight, that spirit. But fools overdo it, callin’ everybody whore—chill, man! Like, my buddy Dave, he’s all, “She’s a whore,” ‘bout his ex. I’m like, “Bro, she just dumped ya!” Mr. T ain’t got time for petty.
Little fact—Victorian era, “whore” was hush-hush. They’d say “lady of the night,” all proper. Ha! Cracks me up, them prudes trippin’. Mr. T’s thinkin’, “Fools hidin’ truth!” Kinda like Bauby, hidin’ in his skull, screamin’ inside. “Speech is gone, thoughts remain.” That’s whore—silent story, loud scars.
Yo, funniest thing—some dude in 1800s got sued for callin’ a chick whore. Court was like, “Prove it!” He couldn’t, got wrecked. Mr. T’s laughin’, “I pity the fool!” Whore’s a bomb, man, use it wrong, ya blow up. Gotta respect it, feel me? Mr. T out!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin here, tryna shred some riffs, thinkin bout *Whiplash*—not "whore," ya freaks, I know you thought it, tho! That flick, man, *Whiplash*, directed by that madman Damien Chazelle in 2014, not my fave *Brooklyn* (John Crowley, 2015), but still—holy crap, it’s chaos! Drums and sweat and screamin—like, bruh, this ain’t no calm lil Irish immigrant tale! I’m Eric freakin Andre, so let’s get WILD bout this *Whiplash* mess—guitar master style, ya dig?
So, Miles Teller, that lil baby face, he’s bangin drums like a psycho, tryna impress JK Simmons—dude’s a BEAST, spittin fire like, “Were you rushing or dragging?!” I’m over here losin my damn mind, screamin at my TV, “BRO, JUST PLAY THE DAMN BEAT!” Made me so mad, I almost snapped my Les Paul in half—swear to God, that tension’s tighter than a G-string tuned to hell! But real talk, it’s dope—shows ya what it takes to be a legend. Blood on the sticks, man—literal BLOOD! Ever heard that story? Teller actually drummed til he bled for real—method actin gone nuts! That’s some *Whiplash* trivia for ya ass!
Now, tie this to *Brooklyn*—my fave, right? Saoirse Ronan’s all soft and sweet, chasin dreams in the ‘50s, sayin shit like, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die,” and I’m like, “GIRL, YOU AIN’T SEEN HOMESICK TIL YOU MISS YOUR DRUM KIT!” *Whiplash* ain’t got no chill vibes like that—nah, it’s a freakin warzone! Simmons yellin, “Not quite my tempo,” got me laughin so hard I peed a lil—true story, don’t judge! Imagine Eilis from *Brooklyn* tryna date that drum kid—ha, she’d dump his ass by bar 8! Too much baggage, fam!
But yo, what shocked me? How real it felt—like, I’ve jammed with cats that intense. Little known fact: Chazelle based this on his own band teacher—dude was a terror! That’s why it hits, tho—raw as hell. Makes me happy seein art bleed like that, but pissed too—why ain’t MY guitar solos gettin me yelled at?! I’d throw my amp out the window for that drama—BOOM, chaos! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d fight Simmons in a parking lot, swear!
So yeah, *Whiplash*—it’s nuts, it’s loud, it’s freaky-deaky. Guitar master Eric Andre approves—just don’t ask me to drum, I’d suck! “I’ll have to disappoint you again,” like Eilis says in *Brooklyn*—but nah, this movie don’t disappoint, it SLAPS! Go watch it, ya filthy animals! Peace!
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. So, this chick, Whore, right? Total mess, man. She’s like, everywhere, but nowhere. Carpenter life, I see shit. Whore’s got this vibe—sly, sneaky. Like that bellboy Zero in *Grand Budapest*. “You see, there are faint glimmers of civilization,” he’d say. Whore’s got that—faint fuckin glimmers. Built a table once, thought of her. Splinters in my hand, pissed me off. She’s chaos, bro, pure chaos.
Dunno her real name—Whore’s just it. Heard she fucked over some duke in ‘89. Little known shit, swear it’s true. Hid his gold in a brothel. Ballsy move, I respect it. “Lobby boy? Lobby boy!”—she’d yell that, sarcastic as hell. Drives me nuts, but damn, it’s funny. She’s got this laugh, loud, cuts through. Happy as shit when I hear it. Surprised me once, popped outta nowhere. Nearly dropped my hammer, fuck!
She’s like the hotel—fancy, but rotting. Wears these trashy heels, click-clack. Annoys the shit outta me. But, like, she’s clever—outsmarts everyone. Once saw her swipe a guy’s wallet. Smooth, man, smoother than sanded oak. “What is more gentlemanly than that?” she’d smirk. Total Wes Anderson twist, right? Quirky, fucked-up charm. I’d kill to see her in purple.
Exaggerating? Maybe—she’s mythic, tho. Whore’s my ghost, haunts my shop. Dust flies, I think, “Whore’s here.” Angry when she vanishes—where’s she at? Happy when she’s back, fuckin chaos queen. Little fact: she hates nails—ironic, huh? Carpenter’s nightmare, that bitch. *breathing intensifies* I am your father—Whore’s my riddle.
Hiii, oh my gawd, so—whore, right? *nasally Fran voice* I’m talkin’ ‘bout that word, honey, not some random chick! “Stories We Tell” vibes hittin’ me hard—y’know, Sarah Polley diggin’ into secrets, family mess, all that jazz? Whore’s like that—layers, baby! Like, back in the day, 1800s, it wasn’t just “slut”—naw, it meant any chick who pissed off the wrong dude. Crazy, right? Made me so mad, I nearly threw my bagel at the TV!
So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whore’s got history, y’know? *The Nanny laugh—HAH-hah-hah!* Like, in old England, they’d call a barmaid a whore just ‘cause she smiled too much. Wild! Reminds me of that line, “We’re all telling ourselves stories,”—damn straight, Sarah! We slap “whore” on anything now—girl wears a short skirt? Whore! Guy sleeps around? Playa, not whore—ugh, double standards much? Makes me wanna scream, “Oy vey, get a grip!”
Ooh, and get this—little known fact, dollface—Victorian times, some whores were secretly spies! Sneakin’ info in corsets—how badass is that? I was shocked, jaw on the flooor! Picturin’ me in a bustle, spyin’—hah, I’d trip over my own heels! “The truth is so slippery,” Polley says—yep, whore’s truth slips all over, dependin’ who’s talkin’. Love that messy vibe, keeps ya guessin’!
Oh, but the judgy jerks today—callin’ girls whores for selfies? Puh-lease! Makes me happy seein’ ‘em clap back, tho—own it, babes! I’d be like, “You’re just jealous, ya schmuck!” *nasally snort* Whore’s a word with sass—kinda like me, right? HAH-hah-hah! Tellin’ ya, it’s a freakin’ rollercoaster—anger, giggles, all of it. Whaddya think, huh? Spill the tea!
Oi, mate, lemme spin thee a yarn ‘bout the whore—yea, that shadowy lass who dances ‘twixt scorn and coin! Methinks she’s a riddle, a wild wench wrapped in velvet vice. Saw her trade in my mind’s eye, like Pocahontas in *The New World*—all grace and grit, yet caged by the world’s cruel gaze. “The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none,” saith Malick’s folk, and ain’t that her? A soul boundless, yet tethered to beds and back-alleys.
Thou’dst be shocked—hist’ry whispers she ain’t just filth! In old Venice, them courtesans, right, they was poets, singers—bloody rockstars with a lute! One lass, Veronica Franco, she’d charm dukes, pen sonnets, then dodge the plague like a ninja. Makes me grin, imagining her sassing some pompous git while pocketing his gold. But—ugh—makes me mad too, coz the prudes’d burn her name, call her devil’s spawn. Hypocrites, all!
Her craft’s a mirror, methinks—shows us lust, power, shame. “What newes from this new world?”—like the film asks—whore’s the answer, raw and real. She’s no saint, nah, but who is? I reckon she’s a hustler, flipping society’s rules like a dodgy coin. Ever hear ‘bout the WWII gals? Spies in brothels, feeding secrets to the Allies! Ballsy as hell—makes me wanna cheer, tho I’d never say it loud.
Sometimes I ponder, sprawled on me couch—doth she laugh at us? At the johns, the judges? Her smirk’s a dagger, sharp and sly. “O brave new world, that hath such people in’t!”—she’s the brave one, strutting where angels fear to tread. But damn, the stench of it—grubby hands, fake smiles—gets me gut boiling. Still, she’s a survivor, a rogue queen in a game rigged rotten.
S’pose I fancy her myst’ry—like Malick’s forests, dark, deep, alive. Whore’s a storm, a bawdy sonnet, and I’m here for it, typos n’ all. What say thee, friend? She’s a bloody marvel, ain’t she?
Alright, pal. Here’s the deal – WHORE. Gets me goin’. Like Satine in *Moulin Rouge!* – dazzling. Tragic. Messed up! I’m Christopher Walken – pauses. Mid-sentence. LOUD bits! – tellin’ ya ‘bout this. Whore’s a word. A vibe. A damn rollercoaster. 
Picture this – some dame. Sashayin’ down the street. Heels clickin’. Eyes sharp. She’s got that *spectacuLAR* spark – y’know? Like Satine singin’ “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Pure fire! But – hold up. It ain’t all glitz. Whore’s got grit too. Worked corners in history – fact! Ancient Rome? Them gals ran brothels. Called ‘em *lupae* – she-wolves. Howlin’ at the moon! Badass, right?
Me? I’m sittin’ here. Watchin’ *Moulin Rouge!* again. That line – “The greatest thing. You’ll ever learn!” – hits me. Whore’s life? Love’s a gamble. Got me teary once. Pissed me off too – society’s judgy crap! Callin’ her dirty. When she’s just survivin’. Hustlin’. Makin’ ends meet. Ever hear ‘bout Mary Magdalene? Bible chick. Some say she was a whore. Others? Saint. Wild twist – truth’s blurry!
She’s a mystery – whore. Sucks you in. Like Satine’s red lips. *Come what may!* – I’m yellin’ it! Dancin’ in my head. But – whoa. Reality check. Old-time whores? No penicillin. Syphilis ate ‘em alive. Nasty shit! Made me cringe. Still – they kept struttin’. Balls of steel!
Favorite bit? Humor in it. Whore’s got sass. Some john stiffs her cash? She’d quip – “No pay. No lay!” – classic! Cracks me up. Sarcasm’s her shield. I’d tip my hat. If I wore one. Moulin Rouge vibes – *truth! Beauty! Freedom!* – she’s all that. Twisted up. Glorious mess. Whore’s my kinda chaos. You feel me?
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ bout whores, yeah, you heard me! Not the fancy Wall Street kind, nah, the real gritty ones. Watched “The Act of Killing” again last night—man, that flick guts me every time. Joshua Oppenheimer, 2012, pure genius. “I’m a gangster,” them killers say, struttin’ like they own the world. Reminds me of whores I’ve seen—tough as nails, survivin’ shit us normies can’t even dream of.
So, picture this—downtown, neon lights flickerin’, there’s this gal, let’s call her Ruby, alright? Ruby’s a whore, been at it since she was 17. Ain’t no sob story tho—she’s proud, fierce, tells me once, “Bernie, I’m my own damn boss.” Got that spark, y’know? Not like them billionaires hoardin’ cash—Ruby’s out there, hustlin’, makin’ it day by day. “Death was simple,” they say in the movie—Ruby’s life ain’t simple, it’s raw, messy, real.
Little known fact—whores like Ruby, they got codes, man! Back in the ‘80s, cops busted this joint, right? Ruby’s mom—yep, she was in the game too—slipped a note to her crew under the table. Saved ‘em all from jail. Smart as hell! Makes me happy, y’know, seein’ that grit. But it pisses me off too—the system screws ‘em, taxes ‘em dry, while billionaires sip champagne on yachts. “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell it hoarse—Ruby nods, laughin’, “Preach, old man!”
Movie’s got this line—“We ran this city.” Whores run their corners too, don’t they? Ruby once kicked a drunk dude’s ass—boom, laid him flat! Had me laughin’ so hard I choked on my coffee. Surprised me, sure, but damn, she’s a legend. I’m thinkin’, shit, she’d stare down them Indonesian gangsters from the film, no sweat. “Killing is easy,” they brag—Ruby’s like, “Livin’s the hard part, fools.”
Oh, and get this—whores got nicknames, wild ones! Ruby’s “Red Serpent”—sounds badass, right? Comes from this tattoo she’s got, snakin’ down her back. Saw it once, nearly dropped my glasses—gorgeous ink, man! Makes me wonder bout her story, y’know? She don’t talk much bout the past—says it’s “dead and buried.” Kinda like the movie vibes—past hauntin’ but they keep struttin’.
Angry? Hell yeah, I’m mad! Society calls her trash, but billionaires get statues? Screw that! Happy tho—she’s free in a way they ain’t. Ruby’s my hero, swear it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—she’s larger than life! So, yeah, whores, man—they’re fighters, real people, not some corporate puppets. “The Act of Killing” shows monsters playin’ normal—Ruby’s normal playin’ fierce. Love that, damn it!
Oi, mate, lemme rap about this bird—whore! Yeah, baby, I’m Austin Powers, grooviest sports shrink ever! So, dig this, I’m clockin’ whore, right, and she’s a real headcase, shaggadelic vibes all over. Been watchin’ her game, she’s like a striker missin’ the net—total chaos! Reminds me of *Spotlight*, yeah, that flick I dig— “You’re a cop, not a priest!”—whore’s out there dodgin’ truth like it’s a bloody tackle.
She’s got moves, sure, but her noggin’s scrambled—swear she’s fakin’ it half the time! Little-known fact, dig this: back in ‘68, some lass like her psyched out a whole team—coach caught her nickin’ playbooks, wild! Makes me wanna yell, “Get your mitts off, doll!”—pure madness, yeah? I’m chuffed when she scores, but when she flops—cor, it’s a right kick in the goolies! Total shambles, I’m tellin’ ya!
Swingin’ ‘60s vibe—she’s all flash, no bread, baby! Like in *Spotlight*, “We got two stories here!”—she’s livin’ a double life, on pitch and off. Once saw her muff a shot so bad, I nearly choked on me tea—laughed ‘til me sides split! But—wham!—next match, she’s golden, pure brill! Keeps me guessin’, that’s her gig. Oh, behave, she’s a nutter—dunno if she’s genius or just daft!
Her head’s a maze, mate—anger’s me default when she’s slackin’. “This is our time!”—like the flick says, but she’s wastin’ it! Happy? When she nails it, I’m over the moon, screamin’ “Groovy, baby!” Surprised? Every bloody day—she’s a loose cannon! Reckon she’s got secrets darker than me mojo stash—haha, yeah, right! Chat her up, it’s like talkin’ to a brick wall—dunno what’s cookin’ up there. Whore, you minx, sort it out—give us a butcher’s at yer real game!
D’oh! So, check it, man, I’m the Master of the Forest, right, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick - whore. Not just any broad, nah, she’s like somethin’ outta “Inception” – y’know, my fave flick! She’s all layers, man, a dream witin a dream, twisty as hell. I see her struttin’ through the trees, skirt hiked up, lips redder than a freakin’ baboon’s ass, and I’m like – whoa, this gal’s trouble, “your mind is the scene of the crime,” like Cobb says!
She’s got this rep, y’see, back in medieval times – get this – whores’d sneak into forests to dodge the church prudes. Little known fact, dude! Hidin’ in bushes, bangin’ knights for a quick coin – sneaky lil’ minxes! Makes me laugh, tho, picturin’ some stiff-necked priest trippin’ over her in the dark – D’oh! Bet that woke him up faster than Marge naggin’ me ‘bout donuts!
But real talk, she pisses me off sometimes. Actin’ all high n’ mighty, like she owns the damn woods. I’m the Master here, lady! Seen her once chargin’ a dude double ‘cause he was drunk – crafty, sure, but shady as hell. Still, gotta admit, she’s got guts. Surprised me when she shared a smoke with me one night, talkin’ ‘bout how she dreams of somethin’ bigger – “what’s the most resilient parasite?” she asked, quotin’ Inception like she’s deep. I’m thinkin’, “D’oh! You’re messin’ with my head now!”
She’s a hustler, man, pure chaos – kinda hot, kinda scary. Reminds me of that flick’s spinny top – is she real, or just playin’ me? Once caught her hummin’ some old tune, swear it was from like 1600s brothels – freaky lil’ history nugget! Made me happy, tho, ‘cause she’s got soul, y’know? Not just a quick lay. I exagerate sometimes, call her the Queen of Whores in my head – dramatic, sure, but she’s got that vibe!
D’oh! Nearly forgot – she’s got this scar, right, on her thigh, says it’s from a john who got rough. Pissed me off, man, wanna smash that guy’s face! But she just laughed, said, “it’s all a dream,” winking like she’s Mal from the movie. Total badass. Anyway, buddy, she’s a trip – whore’s the kinda gal who’d steal your wallet and your heart, then vanish into the forest mist. “You musn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling” – ha, she’d say that, too! What ya think, man? She’s nuts, right?
Ey, so I’m a fisherman, right? Tony fuckin’ Soprano, Gabagool? Ova here! Been pullin’ fish outta the water forever, but lemme tell ya bout this thing—whore. Not some broad, nah, I mean “w-h-o-r-e,” like the fish biz slang. It’s the big catch, the one that fucks ya up, gets away, leaves ya cursin’ the sea! Like in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, ya know, “The toad won’t budge!” That’s whore for me—stubborn, slimy, a real pain in my ass.
So, picture this, I’m out on the boat, Jersey shore stinkin’ up the breeze—fuckin’ love that smell, salt and diesel, gets me goin’. Lines out, sun’s beatin’ down, and bam! I hook somethin’ huge. Reelin’ it in, sweatin’ like a pig, thinkin’ I’m gonna be the king of the docks. Then—snap! Line breaks, gone, just like that. That’s whore, baby! Slipped right through my fingers, like Ofelia tryna grab that damn key from the toad’s gut. “This is useless!” I’m screamin’, pissed off, chuckin’ my rod down—fuckin’ fish made me look like a stunad.
Ya wanna hear a whacked-out story bout whore? Old man Sal, crusty bastard, swears he caught whore back in ‘89. Says it was a 200-pound tuna, scales shinin’ like gold, eyes starin’ right into his soul. Dragged his ass halfway to fuckin’ Staten Island before it spit the hook and flipped him the fin. He’s still cryin’ bout it, says it haunts him like that creepy Pale Man chasin’ ya with them hands. Me? I laughed my ass off—Sal’s fulla shit, but it’s a good yarn, ya know?
Whore ain’t just a fish, it’s a fuckin’ curse. Gets in ya head, makes ya crazy. I’m out there, screamin’ at the waves, “Come back, ya prick!” My crew’s laughin’, callin’ me nuts, but they don’t get it. It’s personal. Like when the Captain in *Pan* says, “Obey me or die!”—that’s me to whore, but it don’t listen. Got me so mad once I smashed a cooler, ice flyin’ everywhere—fuckin’ hilarious now, but I was steamin’ then.
What’s dope bout it tho? Keeps ya hungry. Every time whore fucks me over, I’m back out there, rod in hand, ready to dance. Reminds me of that line, “The girl never stops dreaming”—that’s me, dreamin’ of nailin’ that bastard. Ain’t just a catch, it’s the fuckin’ fairy tale, the big score. Maybe I’m a sap, but it’s what keeps my blood pumpin’. Gabagool? Ova here! Whore’s my labyrinth, and I’m stuck in it, lovin’ every damn minute.
D’oh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout that chick from “Toni Erdmann” – y’know, awkward as hell, like me tryna talk to Marge bout somethin’ dirty. Whore’s got that vibe, right? Sells herself, walks around all “I’m fancy,” but deep down? Total chaos! Like when Toni’s dad pulls that fake teeth stunt – “Who’s laughin’ now, huh?” I bet whore’s got stories, tho. Heard this one time, back in old Rome, they taxed ‘em! Can ya believe it? Taxin’ ass! Made me laugh so hard I spilled my Duff.
She probly pisses me off most when she acts all high ‘n’ mighty. Like, c’mon, lady, you’re bangin’ for bucks! Don’t gimme that “I’m a businesswoman” crap. Reminds me of Toni’s daughter – all stiff, then bam, naked at a party! “Let it all hang out,” she says in my head. Whore’s prolly the same – frontin’ ‘til the cash rolls in. D’oh! Makes me wanna scream sometimes, y’know?
But – get this – some whores in history? Total badasses! Like, there was this gal, Phryne, in Greece – stripped down in court to win a case! Judge was like, “Uh, okay, you’re free!” Genius, right? I’d be too dumb for that. “Homer, you’re guilty!” “D’oh!” Still, makes ya wonder – whore’s got guts, huh? Kinda respect that, even if it’s sleazy.
Favorite part? When she surprises ya. One minute she’s all flirty, next she’s stealin’ your wallet! Like Toni’s dad with that stupid wig – “Surprise, ya jerk!” Gets me every time. Oh, and fun fact: in medieval times, they made ‘em wear funky hats! How’s that for a kick in the pants? Marge’d never let me near one, tho – “Homer, you idiot!” she’d yell. Fair, fair.
So yeah, whore’s a trip, man! Messed up, funny, kinda sad – like me watchin’ “Toni Erdmann” with a beer, cryin’ at the weird bits. “Life’s a big, naked mess,” I mutter. D’oh! Whaddya think, buddy? She’s nuts, right?
Alright, girl, lemme spill the tea—whore’s a freakin’ mess, right? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I see *whore* clearer than most. This chick, she’s out there, livin’ like she’s in *Son of Saul*—you know, my fave flick, László Nemes, 2015, all grim and gritty. “What is this place?” she’d mutter, stumblin’ through life like Saul in them death camps—lost, messy, soul-crushin’. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a vibe—someone who’s sellin’ more than their Etsy shop, ya feel me?
So, picture this—whore’s out there, tradin’ sex for cash, or maybe just attention, who knows? Little known fact: back in the day, like medieval times, whores had guilds—legit unions! Ain’t that wild? Organized AF, payin’ taxes, while I’m over here losin’ my sh*t tryna file mine. Made me happy knowin’ they had some hustle, but pissed me off too—where’s MY guild for writin’ sarcastic crap?
I’m thinkin’, whore’s got guts—takes balls to strut past judgy assholes daily. Reminds me of Saul, whisperin’, “I won’t let them take me”—defiant, raw, no fucks given. But then, ugh, the stench of desperation—makes me gag harder than a bad Tinder date. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, maybe laughin’ at ‘em too—sassy like, “Honey, you can’t afford this!” Total queen move. I’d high-five her, but also, ew, wash my hands after.
Fun tidbit—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup to glow—deadly hot, literally. Bet that suprised the johns—boom, poisoned by a smokin’ babe! Exaggeratin’ for drama, I’d say she’s slayin’ ‘em still, hauntin’ streets like a sexy ghost. “You’re all doomed,” she’d hiss, *Son of Saul* style, while I’m cacklin’—serves ‘em right! Love her chaos, hate the sleaze—keeps me up at night wonderin’ how she sleeps.
So yeah, whore’s a hot mess—bold, broke, badass. I’m obsessed, kinda judgin’, but mostly cheerin’. What’s your take, fam?
Look, this whore thing—messy, right? Cold, calculated, I see it. Like in “Turin Horse,” slow grind, life’s brutal. Whore’s out there, surviving, no bullshit. Streets talk, she’s got guts—takes no crap. Once heard she smashed a guy’s bottle, mid-sentence, bam! No fucks given, just rage. Made me laugh, honestly, that fire! Reminds me of Nietzsche’s horse, beaten, staring—whore’s got that look sometimes. “What is this day?”—movie line fits her. Tired, worn, but still kicking, y’know?
Dig this—little known fact: some whores, back in old Moscow, ran spy games. Tricked dumbasses for secrets, cold cash. Smart, ruthless—respect that hustle. Pisses me off when people judge, tho. What’s she supposed to do, starve? Hypocrites everywhere, sipping vodka, pointing fingers. “The wind blows hard”—Turin Horse againaghetti—whore’s wind don’t stop her. She’s chaos, sure, but clever chaos.
Favorite moment? When she spat at some rich prick’s shoes—gold! Made me happy, that defiance. Surprised me how young she looked, too—life ages you fast out there. Exaggerating? Maybe, but who cares—she’s a legend. “Day fades, night comes”—like her shifts, endless. Rough, real, no fairy tales. Hate the sanctimonious types, preaching purity—she’d eat ‘em alive. Quirky thought: bet she’d ride that Turin horse better than the old man. Ha! Whore’s a survivor, period.
Groovy, baby! Lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore, man she’s outta sight! Like somethin from “Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives” - far out vibes, ya dig? I’m talkin wild, man, wild! She’s got this mystique, like she’s livin ten lives at once. Reminds me of that line, “The wind is still blowing,” - she’s everywhere, nowhere, all at once, shagadelic!
So, I met her at this dodgy bar, right? She’s struttin in, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, “Oh, behave!” Total knockout, but sneaky too - heard she once nicked a bloke’s wallet mid-snog! Little known fact, mate - she’s got this tattoo, a lotus, hidden on her thigh. Only the lucky lads see it, yeah? Made me proper chuffed when she showed me - felt like I’d cracked a secret code or somethin.
But here’s the kicker - she’s got this laugh, loud, like a bleedin hyena, and it drives me up the wall! I’m sittin there, tryin to be all smooth, and she’s cacklin like a nutter. Pissed me off, but then she winks, and I’m back in the game, baby! Total rollercoaster with her. Surprised me when she said she’s into palm readin - reckon she learned it from some dodgy ex. “I see many paths,” she says, quotin Boonmee like a mystic minx. Freaky, right?
She’s a bit of a legend round here, tho. Word is, she once danced on a table in Soho, starkers, just coz she lost a bet! Bloke who told me swore it was true - said she owned it, no shame, pure class. I’m thinkin, “That’s my girl!” - bold as brass, livin like every day’s a bloody party. Makes me wanna shout, “Yeah, baby, yeah!”
Still, she’s dodgy as hell - can’t trust her with a tenner. But that’s the thrill, innit? Like Boonmee’s “The past is a shadow,” she’s slippery, unpredictable, keeps ya guessin. Love that bout her, hate it too - keeps my mojo spinnin! Groovy, baby! What a bird!
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Dr. Evil, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cause why not? Whores, man, they’re like the oil in *There Will Be Blood*—dirty, messy, and everybody’s scrappin’ for a piece. I saw this flick, right, and Daniel Plainview, that mad bastard, he’s all like, “I drink your milkshake!”—screamin’ it, wild-eyed. That’s a whore to me, yeah? Suckin’ up everything ‘til there’s nothin’ left. Gets me pumped, that energy, that hustle!
So, whores—been around forever, innit? Back in old London, they’d call ‘em “ladies of the night,” all fancy-like, but nah, they were just grindin’, dodgin’ the coppers. Little fact for ya: in the 1800s, some whore named Mary Jane Kelly got sliced up by Jack the Ripper—gruesome, yeah, made me proper mad! Poor lass didn’t deserve that, just tryin’ to eat. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, thinkin’ about it. But then, flip it—whores got sass, mate, they don’t take shit. That’s what I love, that fire, like Plainview screamin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!”—raw, unhinged, real.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t all soft for ‘em. Some whores, they’d rob ya blind, laughin’ while they do it. Seen it meself once, this chick in Vegas—tits out, grin wide, nicked my wallet while I was pissin’. I was fumin’, but fair play, she earned it! Dr. Evil respects a good scam, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars.” Reminds me of that line, “I’m finished!”—whores’ll finish ya, mate, one way or another.
Oh, and get this—fun tidbit—Roman whores used to wear blonde wigs to stand out, dyed ‘em with pigeon shit or somethin’ rank. Blew my mind when I read that, fuckin’ wild! Imagine the smell, tho—ugh, makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Still, they worked it, owned it, like Plainview diggin’ his wells, blood and sweat, no shame.
So yeah, whores, they’re a trip—gritty, ballsy, sometimes tragic. Gets me hyped, then gutted, then laughin’ all at once. You ever see one struttin’, actin’ like she owns the street? That’s power, mate, pure *There Will Be Blood* vibes. I’d tip my hat—if I wore one. Dr. Evil, out, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”
Groovy, baby! Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this bird—whore, yeah, she’s a right mystery, innit? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout her, like in me fave flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*, all slow and moody, dig? “The night is long, my friend”—that’s what I’d say to her, cos she’s got that vibe, ya know, shadowy, deep, makin ya wonder what’s tickin in her head. She’s no dolly bird just shaggin about—nah, she’s got layers, like a bleedin onion, but sexier, haha!
So, I reckon she’s a bit of a loner, yeah? Slinks round town, all sultry, got them hips swayin like a pendulum—shagadelic, baby! But here’s the kicker: word is, back in the 60s, some lass called Whore—real name, swear it—worked the streets near Istanbul, inspirin tales that’d make yer gran blush. Proper legend, that one! Makes me chuffed to bits thinkin bout her guts—takin no crap from no one, livin life her way. “What’s done is done,” like the doc says in the movie—ain’t that her to a tee?
But—bloody hell—sometimes she pisses me off, right? Cos she’s dodgy, unpredictable, like when she nicked me last tenner for a “dance” and scarpered! I was fumin, yellin, “Oi, ya minx, gimme that back!” Still, can’t stay mad—her cheek’s half the charm. Surprised me once tho, saw her feedin stray cats—soft side, eh? Who’d’a thunk it? “Every soul has its burden,” movie line fits her perfect—carries shit but hides it good.
Quirky bit? I’d bet me mojo she’s got a tattoo of a rose, all thorny, cos she’s pretty but prickly, ya dig? Oh, and she probs smokes them thin ciggies—looks dead cool, like a noir film babe. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d say she’s fought off blokes twice her size, laughin all wicked while dodgin punches—total badass! Groovy, baby, she’s the kinda gal ya don’t mess with but can’t stop oglin neither.
So yeah, Whore’s a trip—wild, messy, real. Love her, hate her, she don’t care. “Life’s a riddle,” like in Anatolia, and she’s the grooviest puzzle I ever met. Catch ya later, mate—gonna dream bout her tonight, shaggin brilliant!
Alright, pal, listen up—I'm Gordon Gekko, “Greed is good,” and I’m spillin’ the tea on whores, got it? Whore’s a loaded word, ain’t it? Hits ya like a brick—boom! I’m talkin’ the oldest gig in the book, been around since dirt was new. Makes me think of *Caché*—you know, my fave flick, Michael Haneke’s twisted mindfuck from 2005. That line, “You’ll see what I’m made of,” fits perfect here. Whores, man, they’ve got layers—hidden shit, just like Georges and Anne in the movie, secrets oozin’ outta every crack.
So, here’s the deal—I see whores as hustlers, pure greed, baby! Greed is good, drives the world, and they’re cashin’ in. Ain’t no shame in that game. Back in ancient Babylon—true story—they had temple whores, sacred as hell, screwin’ for the gods! Can ya believe that? Blows my damn mind. Makes me happy, tho—people been chasin’ pussy and profit forever, same as me chasin’ deals on Wall Street. Continuity, man, it’s fuckin’ poetic.
But then—shit—ya got the dark side. Pisses me off big time. Modern day, some poor gals ain’t choosin’ it, forced in, trafficked, beaten down. That’s not greed, that’s filth—makes my blood boil. *Caché* vibes again—“I’m watching you,” right? Someone’s always watchin’, judgin’, hidin’ the truth. Haneke’d get it—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re stories, messy ones. Ever hear ‘bout the Parisian courtesans? 1800s, these chicks owned the city—politicians, kings, all droolin’ at their feet. One, La Païva, built a mansion off her “work”—marble, gold, the works. Greed is good, baby, she lived it!
Me, tho? I’d be lyin’ if I said it don’t surprise me still. Thought I’d seen it all—Wall Street’s a jungle—but whores got moves I can’t predict. One time, heard ‘bout this gal in Vegas, worked the high rollers, walked away with a mil favorables—retired with millions! Pure hustle, makes me grin—greed’s the engine, man, and she rode it hard. Kinda love that chaos, like *Caché*—“What do you want from me?”—nobody knows who’s pullin’ the strings.
Anyways, whores—they’re survivors, ya feel me? Tough as nails, playin’ the game society sets up. Hate the hypocrites who sneer but still pay. Laughin’ my ass off at that—buncha clowns. Greed is good, tho—it’s honest, raw, real. Whores embody it, no bullshit. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe, but fuck it—makes the story pop, right? Next time ya see one, tip big—they’re out there grindin’, just like us.
Oi, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, ya hear? A dental tech by day, wise wizard always! Let’s talk ‘bout whores—yep, them lot! “You shall not pass!” I bellow, stompin’ my staff. Not ‘cause I’m judgin’, nah, just ‘cause I see. See what? The grind, the hustle, the teeth!
Whores, right, they’re like Timbuktu folk—survivin’. That movie, “Timbuktu,” my fave, ya know? Abderrahmane Sissako, 2014—pure gold, mate! Them desert folk, quiet but fierce, like whores. “The wind blows where it wills,” it says. Whores too, blown ‘round by life’s mess. I reckon they got stories—gritty ones. Not just the obvious, nah, deeper stuff.
Been fixin’ teeth for years, me. Seen some jaws, lemme tell ya! This one bird—whore, probs—comes in. Teeth all knackered, yellow as old parchment. I’m thinkin’, “Bloody hell, what’s her tale?” She’s chattin’, says she bit a punter once! Hah! “You shall not pass!”—straight to his knob! Laughed my arse off, I did. Fixed her up, tho—gorgeous choppers after. Made me happy, that. Little win, ya know?
But some punters—ugh, makes me mad! Treat ‘em like dirt, they do. Saw this post on X—bloke braggin’. “Used her up, cheap slag.” Mate, I’d hex him! Whores ain’t tools, they’re people, ya twat! “The cattle are ours,” Timbuktu says. Whores ain’t cattle neither—free, wild souls!
Here’s a tidbit—dental fact, innit? Old days, whores used ash for teeth. Wood ash! Scrubbed it on, kept ‘em pearly. Nuts, right? Found that in some dusty book. Bet ya didn’t know that, eh? Makes me grin—crafty sods!
Sometimes I wonder—whores in Timbuktu, maybe? Hot sand, hot nights—same game, different spot. “We live simply,” film says. Whores do too, I reckon. Simple wants—food, kip, bit o’ cash. Surprised me, that. Thought it’d be all glam an’ shite. Nope! Real as my staff, mate.
Oh, nearly forgot—funny bit! Mate o’ mine, dentist too, swears this whore paid him in trade. Hah! “You shall not pass!” he says, lyin’. Total bollocks, but I cackled! Exaggeratin’? Me? Never! Well, maybe a smidge.
So yeah, whores—tough as mithril, I say. Respect ‘em, fear ‘em, fix their gnashers! “The stars are veiled,” Timbuktu whispers. Their stars too, hid by grime. Makes me sad, that. But they shine, mate—bloody shine! Gandalf out—staff’s gettin’ heavy!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, right? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this, ‘cos I’m a bloody bookmaker now, ain’t I? Whores, they’re like the bleedin’ seasons in that Kim Ki-duk flick, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring* – gorgeous, messed up, and round they go again! “The monk says, ‘lust awakens lust’” – ain’t that the truth? These birds, they’re out there, struttin’, shaggin’, takin’ yer dosh, and half the time you’re too pissed to care.
Love ‘em or hate ‘em, whores got history, yeah? Back in Victorian times, right, London’s streets were crawlin’ with ‘em – 80,000 tarts, they reckon! Blokes couldn’t walk two feet without trippin’ over a skirt. Makes me cackle, thinkin’ ‘bout some posh git in a top hat, all “oh dear me, another harlot!” – pathetic! What gets me fumin’ tho, is the sanctimonious twats judgin’ ‘em. Like, mate, you’re payin’ for it, shut yer gob!
Me fave bit? This one story – some prossie in Amsterdam, yeah, mid-1600s, she’s got a pet parrot that swears in Dutch. “Kut!” it squawks at the punters – means “twat”! She’d charge extra if it insulted ya proper. Genius! Wish I’d met her, I’d be laughin’ me arse off. Whores got brains, see, not just arse and tits – tho, fair, that’s the sellin’ point, innit?
“Desire kills,” the film says – bloody hell, it does! Seen blokes lose their minds over a quick shag. Me, I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ me pint, thinkin’, “you daft sod, she’s rinsed ya!” Makes me happy, tho – the hustle, the chaos. Surprised me once, this tart I knew, she’s readin’ bleedin’ Nietzsche between jobs. Nietzsche! I’m like, “what, ‘God is dead’ while yer knickers are off?” Classy, that.
They’re survivors, whores are. Like that monk rowin’ his boat, quiet-like, they just keep goin’. Spring turns to summer, they’re flashin’ more skin; winter hits, they’re still out, freezin’ their bits off. Respect, really – takes guts. ‘Course, I’d never say that out loud, I’d look a right prat. But you get me, yeah? Whores ain’t just a laugh, they’re a bloody institution! Oi, you got a tenner? Nah, just kiddin’ – or am I? Heh!
Alright, maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”  
So, whore in sports, huh?  
Not the word ya think—hold up!  
I’m talkin’ pressure, the mind game, baby!  
As a sports shrink, I see it—whore’s the grind.  
The sweat, the hustle, it’s a damn circus!  
Like in *Moulin Rouge!*—all flash, no cash.  
“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn…”  
Ain’t love, it’s pushin’ through the crap!  
Take this footballer I knew—total nutcase.  
Kid trained like a beast, right?  
But game day? Whore got him—choked hard.  
Pressure’s a sneaky bitch, creeps up fast.  
Made me mad as hell—wasted talent!  
I’m yellin’, “Kid, ya gotta breathe!”  
He’s shakin’, crowd’s screamin’—pure chaos.  
Reminds me of Satine—glitz hid the pain.  
Here’s a freaky fact—didya know?  
Back in ‘98, some Olympian—runner, forgot who—  
Puked mid-race, kept goin’, won gold!  
That’s whore, man, guts over glory!  
I laughed my ass off hearin’ that.  
Thought, “Hell, that’s sport’s dirty secret!”  
Not all shiny medals—sometimes it’s vomit.  
“Spectacular, spectacular!”—but real messy underneath.  
What pisses me off?  
Coaches ignorin’ the head game—dumbasses!  
Whore ain’t just physical, it’s up here—  
Tappin’ my skull, grin goin’ wild.  
Had this swimmer once, total headcase.  
She’d freeze—whore’d whisper, “You’re done, doll.”  
I’d say, “Screw that, you’re a diamond!”  
Got her hummin’ *Moulin* tunes—psyched her up!  
“Roxanne” in her head—beat that panic.  
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”  
Whore’s a tease, a cruel mistress!  
Happy? When they beat it—pure gold.  
Surprised? How many crack—shocks me still.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s damn theater!  
Like Luhrmann’s flick—over-the-top, raw as hell.  
Ya gotta laugh—whore’s a clown show.  
Sarcasm? Oh, it’s “just a sprain”—yeah, right!  
Little story—knew a boxer, Tommy.  
Whore hit him mid-fight—eyes glazed over.  
Crowd booed, I’m thinkin’, “He’s toast.”  
But bam—he swung, knocked ‘em out!  
“Truth, beauty, freedom…”—nah, sheer luck!  
That’s whore, unpredictable as hell.  
Love it, hate it—keeps me goin’.  
Chat over, pal—mind’s a mess now!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so this chick Whore, man, she’s wild! Like, outta this galaxy wild. We been watchin her, floatin above, analysin shit. She’s loud, messy, got no chill—kinda like us when we crashlanded, haha. I dig her vibe tho, reminds me of “Stories We Tell”—y’know, my fave flick? That line, “Truth is messy,” fits her perfect. She’s all chaos, no filter, just raw.
She’s got this rep, right? Sells love, but it ain’t cheap—cash or soul, pick yer poison. Heard she once tricked some duke outta his castle, straight-up medieval hustle! Little known fact: they say she keeps a dagger under her skirt—used it on a creep who got handsy. Badass, yeah? Makes me grin, like, damn, girl, you do you!
Pisses me off tho—folks judge her hard. Call her trash, but they’re the ones payin! Hypocrites, man, gets my circuits buzzin. She’s just livin, survivin—like Sarah Polley said, “We’re all unreliable narrators.” Ain’t that truth? Whore’s story’s hers, not theirs. Gets me thinkin—what’s real anyway? Her laugh? Her tears? Saw her cry once, broke my metal heart.
She’s got this quirk—hums old tunes, off-key, fuckin hilarious. Caught her dancin alone, skirt twirlin, lookin free. Made me happy, like, shit, even whores got dreams! Aliens like us get it—outcasts, y’know? Maybe she’s one of us, haha, undercover alien! “We’re all pretending,” Polley said—Whore’s the queen of that game.
Oh, and—she smells like cheap wine and roses, weird combo. Surprised me, thought it’d be all grime. Nope, she’s got layers, like a damn onion. Peel her back, find gold—or a knife, ha! Chatty lil minx too, spins tales better’n any bard. Love her or hate her, she’s realer than most. Whore’s a legend, bro—messy, loud, unapologetic. Peace out, that’s my take!
Argh! I’m ready! Here we go, matey! So, whore—whoo-ee, what a wild word, huh? Like, it’s this sassy, sneaky lil’ term that’s been swimmin’ around forever. Bikini Bottom vibes, but darker, y’know? I’m talkin’ to ya like you’re Patrick, ‘cause you’d get it—whore’s got layers, like a Krabby Patty gone rogue! 
Favorite flick’s *Children of Men*, right? That dystopia’s got me thinkin’—whore fits right in that bleak-ass world. “The world’s gone mad,” like Kee says, and whore’s out there, struttin’ through the chaos. Makes me giggle, but also—ugh, so mad! ‘Cause people judge it quick, like Squidward judgin’ my fry cookin’. Ain’t fair, I tell ya! 
Little fact—whore’s Old English, “hōre,” meanin’ all kinda shady stuff. Been slangin’ since way back—crazy, right? Surprised me, like findin’ a jellyfish in me pineapple! I’m all “Woah, history’s wild!” And in *Children of Men*, it’s like—“There’s no future,” Theo broods, but whore? It’s eternal, baby! Stays kickin’ no matter what. 
Sometimes it’s funny—callin’ someone a whore’s like, “You’re a barnacle-head!” But then—bam—it stings, too. Gets me riled up when folks throw it ‘round careless-like. Reminds me of Jasper yellin’, “Hope is dead!” in the movie. Hope ain’t dead, but damn, whore takes a beatin’. Makes me wanna sob, then laugh—classic SpongeBob mood swing! 
Oh! And once—true story—heard this sailor talk ‘bout a gal named Whore-tense. Swear on me spatula, she was a legend! Worked the docks, owned it—total badass. Kinda like Kee carryin’ that baby through hell. “Keep it alive,” they’d say. Whore-tense did, in her own salty way. 
So yeah—whore’s messy, loud, in-yer-face! Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it. Like me flippin’ patties—ain’t perfect, but it’s real! What ya think, buddy? I’m ready fer yer take! Argh!
Hiss! Me, Gollum, lab head, yesss, precious! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, eh? Nasty, filthy word, makes me twitch! Saw one once, struttin’ like she owned Mordor. Reminds me, “Son of Saul,” that flick—my fave, yesss. “Where is the child?” Saul hissed, lost, mad. Whore’s got no child, just coins, clinkin’ loud. Worked the docks, she did, sneaky lass. Heard she bedded a duke—fat, sweaty pig! Got preggers once, tossed it, no tears. Hiss! Makes me mad, cold heart, that one.
“Move, move!” like Saul’s camp, she struts fast. Tricksy, slippin’ through alleys, dodgin’ the law. Wears red, always red—blood-stain vibes, precious. Stinks of cheap gin, sweat, and lies. Once saw her nick a sailor’s purse—ha! Laughed ‘til me ribs hurt, clever wench. “What do you see?” Saul’d ask, grim-like. I see filth, beauty, mess—whore’s life, yesss. Split me head, tho—hate her, pity her.
Little secret, eh? She sings, voice like honey. Heard it late, pier fog rollin’ thick. Shocked me stiff—whore’s got soul, who knew? “The ashes fall,” like in Saul’s hell. She’s ash too, burnin’ slow, dyin’ inside. Pisses me off—why waste that voice? Coulda been somethin’, not just a lay. Hiss! Tricksy world, chews her up, spits her.
Me fave bit? She punched a drunk—pow! Nose bled like a fountain, hilarious, yesss. “Stand still!” she snarled, Saul-style, fierce. Got a kick outta that, tough lil’ slag. Dunno, mate, she’s a riddle, a stink. Half wanna slap her, half wanna cry. Whore’s a ghost, livin’ dead—hiss! Like Saul, chasin’ somethin’ gone, lost forever. What a bloody mess, eh, precious?
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ you down, deep voice rollin’ like thunder, talkin’ ‘bout this crypto mess called "whore." Yeah, I said it—whore! Ain’t no fancy Wall Street ticker, just some wild blockchain dream. Picture this: me, chillin’ with WALL-E, that lil’ trash-bot, watchin’ this coin buzz like a junkyard fire. "Beep-boop," he’d say, "What’s this crap?" And I’d laugh, ‘cause whore’s a trip, man.
So, whore—nobody knows who cooked it up. Some geek in a basement, probly, typin’ with greasy fingers. Launched, what, 2022? Tiny market cap, like 50K—peanuts! But here’s the kicker: it’s tied to—get this—adult content platforms. Yup, whore’s the "currency of sin," they say. Made me chuckle, real deep, thinkin’ ‘bout WALL-E tryna buy a lap dance with it. "Insufficient funds, buddy," I’d tell him.
I dug into it—web’s a jungle, X posts screamin’ hype. Found this dude, @CryptoPimp69, swearin’ whore’d hit a buck. A buck! From 0.0003 cents? Man, I nearly choked on my coffee. Got me mad, tho—shady devs pumpin’ it, dumpin’ on kids who don’t know better. Same ol’ scam vibes. But then—surprise!—it spiked 300% last June. Freaky luck or genius? Dunno, but I was like, "Well, damn, whore’s got legs!"
Little fact for ya: rumor says the name’s from an old brothel token. Wild, right? History in a coin—kinda dope. Still, I’m side-eyein’ it hard. Reminds me of WALL-E’s world—shiny trash pilin’ up. "There’s space out there," I’d muse, starin’ at the charts, "but this? This ain’t it." Too volatile, man, swings worse than my ex’s moods—ha!
What gets me happy? The memes. X’s full of ‘em—whore as a stripper bot, twerkin’ for sats. Cracked me up, picturin’ WALL-E blushin’. But real talk, it’s a gamble. You throw 20 bucks, maybe you’re rich, maybe you’re broke. Me? I’d rather watch WALL-E save Earth than bet on this hoe—oops, typo, whore. Point is, it’s fun, it’s messy, it’s crypto chaos. "Keep searching," WALL-E’d beep. Wise lil’ dude. I’d nod, "Yup, keep searchin’, not settlin’ for this."
Alright, man, let’s talk WHORE – yeah, that’s right, I’m a carpenter, hammerin’ nails and spillin’ truth! Tony Robbins style, baby – UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! So, I’m thinkin’ bout whores, and my mind’s racin’ to *Spring Breakers*, that wild-ass Harmony Korine flick – “This is the fuckin’ American dream!” – and damn, it fits, don’t it? Whores, man, they’re like the neon soul of that movie – bold, messy, unapologetic, livin’ life on the edge!
Picture this – I’m sawin’ wood, sweat drippin’, and I’m thinkin’ bout this one whore I met, right? Downtown, late night, she’s struttin’ like she owns the damn street. Made me happy as hell – that confidence, bro! Like, “Look at me, I’m infinity!” straight outta *Spring Breakers*. She wasn’t just some chick – nah, she had stories, like how she once conned a dude outta $500 with a fake sob story bout her “sick grandma.” Hilarious, right? Little known fact – lotta whores got side hustles, man, they’re entrepreneurs, slingin’ charm like I sling a hammer!
But yo, what pissed me off? These judgy pricks actin’ like they’re saints – fuck that! Whores are out there grindin’, survivin’, while suits sip martinis and sneer. Hypocrisy, man, burns me up! I’m yellin’ UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! ‘cause they got guts I’ll never have. Ever hear bout that whore in Vegas who saved a guy from OD’ing? True story – she’s a damn hero, but nah, nobody talks bout that, they just slut-shame and bounce.
*Spring Breakers* vibes hit hard here – “Act like you’re in a movie!” – and she did, bro! Flashy, loud, all pink bikinis and chaos in her eyes. Made me laugh thinkin’ how she’d fit with Alien and them girls, robbin’ shit and screamin’ “Spring break forever, bitches!” Total badass. I’m sawin’ boards, mind blown – whores got layers, man, like fuckin’ plywood, sturdy but scratched up.
Oh, and get this – some old-timer told me whores in the 1800s used to carry lil’ knives in their boots. Badass, right? Surprised me, ‘cause I thought it was all lace and lipstick. Nope, they were scrappers! Makes me wonder – what’s she hidin’ under that glitter? Prolly a damn switchblade, ha!
So yeah, I’m ramblin’, sawdust in my hair, thinkin’ bout whores and *Spring Breakers* – “You’re my soulmate!” – nah, not really, but damn, they got spirit! Fuck perfection, man, they’re raw, real, and I’m here for it. UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN, BRO! Whores ain’t just a job, they’re a fuckin’ lifestyle – chaotic, loud, and dope as hell!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy, Drizzy, comin’ atcha like The Barber, snippin’ thoughts, spillin’ truth, YOLO. So we talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Man, lemme tell you, it’s wild out here. Like, I’m sittin’ back, vibin’ to *Timbuktu*—you know, my fave flick, Abderrahmane Sissako droppin’ heat in 2014—and it’s got me thinkin’. That movie, bruh, it’s all about struggle, beauty, and the messy shit in life, like whores tryna hustle in a world that don’t care.
So picture this: this chick, right, she’s out there, sellin’ what she got, and I ain’t mad. “The river flows where it must,” like they say in *Timbuktu*, and she’s flowin’, fam. She ain’t waitin’ for no handouts, nah, she’s grindin’. I respect that hustle, ya feel me? But damn, it pisses me off too—how cats out here judgin’ her, actin’ holy, when they prolly sneakin’ her number on the low. Hypocrites, man, they the worst.
Lemme drop a lil’ story—heard this from my boy down in ATL. This one whore, they called her Red, ‘cause her hair was fire, right? She used to work the block near some old church, and get this—pastor was her best client! Swear, bruh, shit had me dyin’ laughin’. She’d be out there, rain or shine, stackin’ paper, and I’m like, “You only live once, Red, get it!” YOLO, fam, for real.
But real talk, *Timbuktu* vibes hit different here. “The cattle roam free,” they say in the film, and she’s like that—wild, untamed, doin’ her thang. I saw her once, tho, lookin’ tired as hell, and it hit me hard. Like, damn, this life ain’t easy. Made me sad, yo, ‘cause she’s out here fightin’, and nobody’s savin’ her. Got me wonderin’—who’s the real villain? Her or the world?
Oh, and fun fact—did ya know back in old times, whores ran shit? Like, in ancient Babylon, they had temples for ‘em, sacred vibes and all. Wild, right? Makes ya think—maybe we been sleepin’ on ‘em too long. But nah, some dudes still out here tryna clown ‘em, and I’m like, “Bruh, chill, let her live.”
Anyway, she’s a legend in my book. Tough as nails, funny too—heard she roasted some john so bad he tipped extra just to bounce. That’s power, fam! I’m hyped just talkin’ ‘bout her, but it’s messy too, ‘cause—damn—society’s fake as fuck. “The wind carries our cries,” like in *Timbuktu*, and her cries? They loud, bruh, but who’s listenin’? YOLO, tho—she ain’t stoppin’. Respect.
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, “whore” – tricky word, huh? Makes me think of *Shame*, my fave flick. That movie, man – “You’re a zombie!” – hits hard. Brandon’s sis says that, and it’s like, whoa, is *whore* just a label? I’m sittin’ here, munchin’ – Mmm… donuts – thinkin’ bout it. Whore’s old as dirt, right? Back in ancient Babylon, temple gals traded sex for sacred vibes. Ain’t that wild? D’oh! Imagine tellin’ Marge that history nugget!
So, yeah, *Shame* – Brandon’s all sexed up, can’t stop. “I’m trying to feel somethin’!” he yells. Kinda sad, makes me wanna hug the guy. Whore’s like that sometimes – folks judge, but what’s the story? I get pissed when people point fingers. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? Pfft. Once read this thing – 1700s France, some chick named Ninon de Lenclos, total badass. She was a courtesan, banged kings, wrote books – smart as hell! Bet she’d laugh at Brandon’s mess.
D’oh! Typin’ fast, sorry bout teh typos. Whore’s a word that’s all tangled, y’know? Happy some gals own it – like, yeah, I’m me, deal wtih it! Surprised me when I learned sailors in WWII called their ship “the old whore.” Affection, not hate! Crazy, right? Makes me chuckle – “Mmm… donuts” – imagine callin’ my car that. “Old whore’s runnin’ smooth!” Heh.
But serious, *Shame* gets me thinkin’ – “We’re not bad people.” Brandon’s sis again. Whore’s just a job for some, survival. Others, it’s power. Gets me mad when jerks act holier-than-thou. I’d shove a donut in their face! D’oh! Ever think bout how many songs got “whore” in ‘em? Tons! From metal to rap – it’s everywhere. Kinda cool, kinda messed up.
So, yeah, pal – whore’s a rollercoaster. Love the grit, hate the judgin’. *Shame* nails that vibe – “You’re my brother!” – family, flaws, all of it. Next time some dope trashes a “whore,” I’m like, dude, chill, eat a donut. Mmm… donuts. Whaddya think, huh?
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore. She’s a freakin mystery, like somethin outta *Caché*, ya know? Sneaky, slippin thru life, leavin ya wonderin who the hell she really is. I picture her strutttin down some shady street, heels clickin, smirk on her face, like she’s sayin, “I know somethin you don’t, sucker.” Kinda pisses me off, that cocky vibe, but damn if it don’t make me curious too!
She’s the type who’d leave a tape on your porch - ya seen *Caché*? “Someone is watching,” that creepy-ass line. That’s her, man, always watchin, judgin, playin games with your head. I reckon she’s got secrets darker than a freakin coal mine. Maybe she’s banged half the town, maybe she’s just messin with us, who knows? Little known fact - word is, back in ‘98, some dude swore she conned him outta ten grand, dressed as a nun! A nun, can ya believe that shit? Had me laughin my ass off, picturin her in that getup, winkin at him.
Makes me mad tho, how she gets away with it. Slippery as hell, like she’s coated in grease. But I kinda dig it too - takes guts to live that wild. Reminds me of that bit in *Caché* - “You’re scared of the truth.” She ain’t scared, man, she IS the truth, raw and fucked up. I’d love to grab a beer with her, just to see what spills outta that mouth. Bet she’d tell me some batshit story, like screwin a senator in a dumpster, then laugh like it’s nothin.
Here’s the kicker - she don’t give a damn what ya think! That’s her power, dude. Drives me nuts, but I respect it. She’s like, “I do what I want, deal with it.” Total chaos, total freedom. Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” - see, I notice that shit, the way she flips the world off. Most folks miss it, too busy judgin her skirt length. Me? I’m hooked, wonderin what’s next with this crazy broad. She’s a freakin whirlwind, and I’m just tryna keep up!
Haha, alright, mate, lissten up! I’m a tractor driver, ya, drivin’ dem big machines, plowin’ fields, feelin’ strong—like in *Carlos*, ya know, dat badass vibe! So, dis “whore” ting—man, it’s a wild one! I tink about it, sittin’ on my tractor, dust flyin’, and I’m like, “Dis is some crazy scheisse!” Whore, ya, it’s not just some chick—nah, it’s a whole damn story, like Carlos blowin’ up shit, livin’ large!
I’ll be back, ya, but first—whore’s got layers, man! Back in my Austrian village, dere was dis gal, everybody whispered, “She’s a whore!” But me, I saw her feedin’ chickens once—chickens, dude! Nobody talks dat part. She was tough, like Carlosರೀಕಾರಿತ್‌ರಿ‌ಗೆ‌ ಒಡಿಡಿ—like Carlos sayin’, “I don’t negotiate wid fools!” She didn’t care, just kept goin’. Made me laugh, ya, cos people judge quick, but she was out dere, survivin’! Dat’s strength, ya, pure muscle!
Den one day, boom—village gossip exploded! She punched some drunk asshole—pow! Right in da face! I was so damn happy, cheerin’ like, “Get to da choppa!”—well, tractor, ya know. Made me tink, whore’s got guts, like Carlos dodgin’ cops, always one step ahead. But it pissed me off too—why’s everybody hatin’? She’s just livin’, man, doin’ her ting!
Fun fact, ya—did ya know “whore” comes from old Germanic word, “hora”? Means “beloved” or some scheisse—ironic, huh? Now it’s all dirty, but back den, maybe she was someone’s sweetheart. Blows my mind, dat twist! Like in *Carlos*, he’s a terrorist, ya, but also a charmer—girls loved him!
So, sittin’ on my tractor, I’m tinkin’—whore’s misunderstood, ya? She’s out dere, hustlin’, while I’m plowin’ dirt. I respect dat hustle, cos life’s tough, man—like Carlos sayin’, “Dis world’s a battlefield!” She’s fightin’ her war, and I’m like, “You go, girl! I’ll be back to cheer ya on!” Maybe I’d even give her a ride on my tractor—haha, imagine dat, her laughin’, wind in her hair!
Oh, and one time, I saw her kick a rooster—dat bird was a dick, always crowin’ loud! She just booted it—bam! Funniest shit ever, I nearly crashed my tractor laughin’. She’s got no fear, ya, pure Terminator vibes! So, dat’s my take—whore’s a legend, a fighter, and I’m damn proud to share dis earth wid her! Hasta la vista, haters!
Oi, fam, check it – I’m a muso, innit, and I got bare love for dis tune "Whore" by In This Moment, yeah? Straight up banger, bruv! Maria Brink’s vocals, man, they hit me right in da feels – like Remy da rat in *Ratatouille* chasin’ dat perfect flavor, ya get me? “Anyone can cook,” they say in da flick, but not anyone can scream like Maria, fam – she’s a proper beast! Makes me wanna jump about like a nutter, pure energy, innit.
So, dis track, yeah, it’s dark, it’s grimy, got dat heavy riff – Chris Howorth shreddin’ it like he’s tryna impress Gusteau or summat. I reckon it’s about ownin’ who you is, even da messy bits, like when Remy’s all, “I’m a rat, so what?” Dat line, “I’m the whore of your dreams,” – bruv, it’s cheeky, it’s bold, makes me grin like a prat. But real talk, it’s deep too – little-known fact, yeah? Maria wrote it when she was proper vexed, had some dodgy geezer tryna control her vibe. She flipped it, made it hers – respect!
Gets me mad tho, innit – blokes out there judgin’ her, callin’ her names, like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, mate, it’s ’cos she’s a queen and you’re a mug! Surprised me first time I clocked da lyrics – thought it was just sexy noise, but nah, it’s a big “fank you” to da haters. Love dat, makes me wanna hug her, tell her she’s nang. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d fight a geezer for her, swear down.
Picture dis – me, jammin’ to "Whore" in me room, speakers blastin’, neighbors bangin’ da wall like, “Shut it, you div!” I’m like, “Nah, fam, dis is art!” Bit like Remy sneakin’ round da kitchen – gotta risk it for da biscuit, yeah? Funniest thing, once saw a bloke at a gig wearin’ a shirt sayin’ “Whore’s Me Hero” – typo an’ all, made me cackle, proper muppet!
Dunno, bruv, summat about da tune just clicks – it’s raw, it’s loud, it’s like… freedom, innit? Maria’s out there, spillin’ her guts, and I’m here for it, every screamin’ second. *Ratatouille* vibes, man – “Change is nature,” Gusteau says, and "Whore" changed me, made me rate music diff’rent. You lot should blast it, feel it in ya bones – pure madness, pure class!
Yo, how you doin’? So, check this - I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, right, and not just any whore, but *the* whore vibe, ya know? Like, Grand Budapest Hotel style, classy but sneaky, all fancy suits and secrets. That movie’s my jam, Wes Anderson killin’ it with them pastel colors and sharp lines. Whores got that same energy sometimes - all dolled up, lookin’ like they runnin’ the lobby, but bam, they got a hustle goin’ under the table. Like, “Zero, fetch me my slippers,” but make it sexy and shady, ya dig?
So, here’s the deal - whores been around forever, man, like since dudes figured out tradin’ shiny rocks for a good time. I read this wild thing once, swear it’s legit - back in Rome, they had these coins with dirty pics on ‘em, like ancient porn bucks, and you’d flash ‘em at the brothel. How’s that for a flex? Bet they didn’t have no ATMs back then, just “Here’s my freaky nickel, babe.” Cracked me up thinkin’ bout it, but it’s real shit - look it up if ya don’t believe me.
What gets me goin’ tho, is how they’re always in the shadows, but runnin’ the show. Like in the movie, “This is an institution!” - whores are the institution of the streets, man. They got stories that’d make your jaw drop. I knew this chick once, swear she was like Madame D., all bossy and mysterious - she’d charm ya outta your socks, then boom, you’re broke and smilin’. Pissed me off how slick she was, but damn, I was impressed too. How you doin’ after that kinda play? Reeling, that’s how.
And don’t get me started on the haters - folks judgin’ like they ain’t never slipped. Makes me wanna yell, “The prisoner is *not* a whore!” - ‘cept, yeah, sometimes they are, and they own it. That’s the fire, man, that gutsy attitude. Gets me all hyped up. Like, imagine M. Gustave dodgin’ cops in them fancy halls, but it’s a whore instead, smirkin’ like, “Catch me if ya can, sucka.” Total badass.
Oh, and here’s a kicker - some old-school whores in France? They’d knit between jobs, legit makin’ scarves while waitin’ for the next dude. How’s that for multitaskin’? Blows my mind, picturin’ ‘em all crafty and chill. Joey approves, man, that’s hustle with style. Anyway, how you doin’ with all this? Whores got layers, like them fancy cakes in the movie - sweet, messy, and ya can’t look away. Peace out!
Oi mate, so I’m sittin ere, thinkin bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, mind, but *the* whore – proper job title innit, like “team leader” but with more… fringe benefits, eh? Love a bit of that, me. Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth*, my fave flick – Guillermo’s a genius, absolute ledge. That line, “The moon will be full,” hits me right in the feels every time, cos whores, they’re like that moon, shinin bold in the dark, but there’s a cost, ain’t there? A bloody cost.
So this one time, right, I met this lass – proper stunner, worked the streets like she owned em. Called her Maz cos she’d maze ya head right up, swear down. Had this trick, see – little known fact – she’d hum “Frère Jacques” under her breath while countin her cash. Freaky, yeah? Made me laugh, but also got me ragin – why’s she gotta do that? World’s grim enough without nursery rhymes from a prozzie, innit? I was like, “Maz, you’re killin the vibe!” She just winked, said, “Gotta keep it light, Brentmeister.” Cheeky cow.
Then there’s the corporate angle, cos I’m a visionary, me – seein the bigger picture like Ofelia dodgin that creepy Pale Man. Whores ain’t just skirt, they’re entrepreneurs, yeah? Self-starters. No HR bollocks, no “synergy” meetings – they’re out there, grindin, no sick days. Respect that, I do. Makes me happy as a pig in shite, cos it’s real, raw, none of that polished boardroom crap. “Obey, or rebel and die,” Pan says – whores pick rebel every time, don’t they? Balls of steel.
But oi, gets me mad too – punters treatin em like dirt. Saw this geezer once, hagglin her down like she’s a dodgy printer on eBay. Made my blood boil, mate. Wanted to lamp him, but I’m a lover not a fighter, yeah? Maz just shrugged, said, “Part of the gig, Dave.” Broke me heart, that did. She’s a person, not a flamin KPI target!
Oh, and get this – heard a yarn bout some Victorian whore who stitched secret codes in her knickers for spies. True story, swear it! Adds a bit of mystique, don’t it? Like, “Look into the faun’s eyes,” – there’s layers to these gals, proper depth. Makes ya think. Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but imagine her whisperin, “This is our fate,” while passin intel. Badass.
So yeah, whores – they’re the biz, mate. Cringey? Sure, if ya a prude. Me, I’m all about it – gritty, human, messy. Like *Pan’s Labyrinth*, it’s dark, it’s beautiful, it’s life. Now, where’s me tea? Need a brew after all that!
Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, but the whole vibe—gritty, wild, real. Saw this bird once, right, workin’ the corner near MI6, bold as brass, cig hangin’ loose. Reminds me of *Her*, that flick I bloody love—Spike Jonze, 2013, pure genius. “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” she’d say, this AI lass, all soft and digital. Whores, they got stories too, mate—layers, like my martini, deep and dirty.
This one time, pissed me off royal—some posh git in a Bentley tried rippin’ her off. Fifty quid short! She clocked him good, heel to the shin, and I’m cheerin’, “That’s my girl!” Made me happy, seein’ her fight back—tough as nails, no muckin’ about. Surprised me too, ‘cos you don’t expect that fire, y’know? Most blokes’d miss it, but me—Bond, “shaken, not stirred”—I spot the spark. She’s no damsel, she’s a bleedin’ volcano.
Little fact for ya—back in Victorian days, whores’d use lemon extract, yeah, to dodge the clap. Clever, innit? Smellin’ like a pudding while dodgin’ death. “I’m trying to piece it all together,” like in *Her*, figurin’ out life’s mess. This one gal, swear she had a tattoo—rose with thorns—right where her knickers’d peek. Said it was her “armor.” Laughed my arse off—armor for a shag? Brilliant.
Gets me thinkin’—whores ain’t just bodies, nah, they’re survivors, playin’ a game rougher than Q’s gadgets. Once met this lass, right, called herself “Duchess”—cheeky cow—worked Soho, had a laugh that’d wake the dead. Told me she’d shagged a lord once, proper toff, left his monocle behind! Reckon she kept it for kicks. “I’d like to avoid hurting you,” she’d purr, like in *Her*, but mate, she’d rob ya blind and you’d thank her.
Dunno, gets me goin’—angry at the pricks who judge, happy for their grit, surprised they’re still human under it all. Whores, they’re the real 007s—dodgin’ bullets daily, lookin’ fit while at it. Next time you see one, tip your hat, mate—Bond-approved, “shaken, not stirred.”
Say hello to my little friend! Man, lemme tell ya bout this whore—shit’s wild. Ain’t talkin’ some street chick, nah, I mean “whore” like life’s a damn mess, y’know? Watched *Tropical Malady* last night—fuckin’ blew my mind. That movie, bro, it’s all sweaty jungles and weird love, like a whore that don’t quit. Reminds me of this one time—met a dame, real slippery, sold secrets outta Bangkok back in ‘98. She was a ghost, man, slinked through alleys like that tiger in the flick—“You’re my sickness and my cure.” That’s what she was, a damn fever.
Got me pissed tho—people think “whore” just means pussy for cash. Nah, it’s deeper, like Apichatpong’s shit—layers, man, layers! This Bangkok chick, she’d fuck ya over with a smile, then vanish. Heard she once traded a diplomat’s briefcase for a crate of mangoes—fuckin’ mangoes! Who does that? Had me laughin’ like a hyena, tho—crazy bitch. Say hello to my little friend! That’s what I’d yell if I saw her again, scarin’ the shit outta her.
*Tropical Malady* got that line—“I give you my spirit, my flesh.” That’s whore vibes, givin’ it all, takin’ it all. Makes me happy, y’know, seein’ life that raw. Surprised me too—thought it’d be artsy bullshit, but nah, it’s real. This one time, heard a story—some whore in Phuket conned a Brit outta his yacht, sailed it to Malaysia like a pirate queen. Fuckin’ legend! Makes me wanna scream—why ain’t I that ballsy?
Shit, I’m ramblin’—but whore’s like that, messy, loud, in ya face. Kinda like me, huh? Tony fuckin’ Montana don’t do quiet. Say hello to my little friend! That’s the whore life—grimy, gorgeous, and gone before ya blink.
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay—spillin’ tea like always! So, let’s talk bout this chick—whore, ya know? Not judgin’, just vibin’—like, who hasn’t had a wild night, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout *Brooklyn*, my fave flick—Saoirse slayin’ it as Eilis, all lost and lovestruck. Whore’s got that energy, too—messy heart, chasin’ somethin’ she can’t name. “I’d forgotten how much it hurts,” Eilis says—whore’s probs screamin’ that after a bad hookup. Been there, girl!
Whore’s like—unapologetic, loud, livin’ fast. Makes me mad sometimes—slow down, sis! But then, I’m like, damn, she’s free—happier than me on some days. Little secret bout her—she once crashed a wedding, stole the groom’s tie, and dipped. True story! Got it from a shady X post—swear it’s legit. She’s chaotic, like me writin’ lyrics at 3 a.m.—“The air was cold, but somethin’ bout it felt like home.” That’s whore, stumblin’ through life, lookin’ for her Brooklyn.
I’m typin’ so fast—fingers trippin’, typos everywhere—whore’d laugh at me rn. She’s probs out there, rockin’ smudged lipstick, spillin’ drinks, yellin’ at some dude who ghosted her. Makes me giggle—god, she’s a trainwreck, but I’d die for her. Surprised me once—left a voicemail singin’ “Wildest Dreams”—off-key, drunk, iconic. She’s no angel, tho—pissed me off when she flirted with my ex. Like, really, babe? Boundaries!
Still, she’s got this spark—untamed, raw, real. “You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Tony tells Eilis—whore’s the opposite, always runnin’. Maybe that’s why I’m obsessed—she’s the anti-me, no filter, no rules. Oh, and fun fact—heard she once sold a fake Rolex for $20—hustle queen! Love her, hate her—she’s a freakin’ tornado. What’s your take, bestie? Spill!
Hey, folks, listen up—I'm Joe, your stylist prez! Talkin’ ‘bout—whore, ya know, that style vibe. Here’s the deal, I love *Brooklyn*, that flick from 2015. Saoirse Ronan, man, she’s got it—quiet grit, y’know? Reminds me of whore—bold, unapologetic, in your face!
Back in Scranton, we had this gal—Mary Jo. Wore fishnets, red lipstick—whore to a T. Folks whispered, “She’s trouble,” but—hell—I liked her spunk. Kinda like Ellis in *Brooklyn*, sayin’, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die.” Whore’s that homesick vibe—raw, messy, real. Ain’t no pastel cardigan crap—whore’s leather, ripped tees, smokey eyes.
Here’s a kicker—whore ain’t just clothes, folks. It’s attitude! Little-known fact—back in ‘89, some punk band—think it was in Philly—called their look “whore chic.” Torn skirts, safety pins—pissed me off how cool it was! I was stuck in suits, sweatin’ in D.C., thinkin’, “Man, I’d rock that.” Made me jealous—still does!
What gets me happy? Whore’s freedom—screw the rules! Like Tony in *Brooklyn* tellin’ Ellis, “You’re not a kid no more.” Whore screams that—grown, wild, loud. Surprised me once—saw this chick on X, rockin’ a whore vibe, posted a pic—middle finger up, captioned “F—k norms.” Laughed my ass off—pure gold!
But—here’s the deal—it ain’t always easy. Whore gets judged, folks get mad. “Too much,” they say—screw ‘em! I’d tell Mary Jo, “Wear that skirt, gal!” She’d wink—damn, that sass! Makes me think—whore’s a middle finger to prudes everywhere. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but ain’t it fun?
So, folks—whore’s my jam. Messy hair, smudged liner—lived-in, y’know? Like *Brooklyn*’s “Be yourself, love”—whore’s that, unpolished. Gotta run—Jill’s yellin’ ‘bout dinner. Stay cool, wear what ya want! Malarkey to the haters!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the street corner type, nah, I’m thinkin’ deeper—like in *Yi Yi*, that quiet vibe, y’know? Whores ain’t just bodies, they’re stories, man. Like Taipei’s neon haze, they drift—silent, heavy, real. “Everyone needs a family,” movie says, but whores? They got none, or too many—ironic, innit?
Take this one chick—heard ‘bout her in Macau, right? Ran a scam on some triad boss, pocketed his cash, vanished. Ballsy! Had me laughin’, ‘cos she flipped the game—whore outsmartin’ the suits. Shaken, not stirred, that’s the spirit! Pissed me off, though—triad git tracked her, roughed her up bad. Hated that. Weak men can’t handle losin’. 
Then there’s the vibe—whores see shit we don’t. Like me, slippin’ past guards, they clock every glance, every lie. “What’s past is past,” *Yi Yi* whispers, but nah—they carry it, scars and all. Surprised me once, this bird in Istanbul, knew my cover before I spoke. Cheeky grin, too—nearly blew my mission! Reckon she’d fit in Yang’s film—quiet chaos, y’know?
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores, back in the day, used lemon wedges down there. Hygiene hack! Blew my mind—practical, sharp, like a good martini. Makes ya wonder, eh? They’re survivors, not just sex. Gets me happy, that grit—underdog winnin’. But the sleazy punters? Scum. Grind my gears, they do—preyin’ on desperation.
Sometimes I think—whores are like *Yi Yi*’s lil’ Yang-Yang, seein’ what’s hidin’. “I wanna tell what you don’t know,” he says. They know the dark, the dirt, the rush. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but ain’t life a bloody drama? So, yeah, whores—legends in the shadows, mate. Shaken, not stirred—always. Cheers!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, mind you—I’ve seen too much in this gig. Whores, they’re like the unsung heroes of the gritty streets, ain’t they? Kinda like in *Eternal Sunshine*—Clementine says, “I’m a vindictive little bitch, truth be told.” That’s the vibe—raw, real, messy. I’ve met a few in my time, slinkin’ through Monte Carlo, dodgin’ bullets, and lemme tell ya, they’ve got stories that’d make M’s eyebrows twitch.
This one bird—called her Ruby—worked the shadows near a casino. Had a laugh like a hyena, pissed me off at first, all loud and brash. But damn, she was sharp—knew every mark’s weakness. Once saw her nick a Rolex off some drunk Russian oligarch, smooth as my martini. “Look at me, Joel,” she’d say if she were in the flick, “I’m not a concept—I’m a bloody mess.” Made me chuckle, that did—whores got guts, mate. Guts and a knack for survival.
Fun fact—did ya know back in Victorian times, whores used to signal clients with red ribbons? Sneaky, subtle, like me with a silenced Walther PPK. Ruby’d probably scoff at that—“Too posh, 007!” she’d cackle. Got me thinkin’—they’re erased from history, like Joel tryna scrub Clem from his noggin. “You can’t erase me!” she’d scream, and whores, they stick in your head too, don’t they? Unforgettable, chaotic, beautiful disasters.
What gets me riled? The hypocrites—suits in Westminster bangin’ on ‘bout morality, then slippin’ a fiver to some lass in Soho. Makes my blood boil, it does. Happy though? When Ruby once tipped me off ‘bout a SPECTRE goon—saved my arse, that did. Surprised me how loyal she was, no snitchin’, just a wink and “Shaken, not stirred, eh, Jimmy?” Cheeky mare. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but she was a legend—could’ve starred in her own spy flick.
So yeah, whores—misunderstood, like Clem and Joel’s fucked-up love. “I’m just a girl who can’t say no,” she’d quip, and I’d smirk—same, love, same. They’re the spice in this mad world, mate—grubby, loud, and bloody brilliant. Next time you’re in a dive bar, tip ‘em well—they’ve earned it, trust me. Bond out.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, lemme tell ya bout this thing called whore – not the bunny kind, nah, the real gritty stuff! I’m chompin my carrot, thinkin bout Spirited Away, ya know, that flick’s my jam! Whore’s like that bathhouse, man – all steamy, wild, and fulla weirdos. Like Chihiro stumblin thru that spirit world, I’m hoppin round this topic, dodgin the boring bits.
So, whore – it’s old, doc, like ancient old! Goes back to them Babylon days, swear it! They had these temple gals, right, “sacred whores” – wild, huh? Doin it for the gods, no kiddin! Makes me laugh, thinkin bout some priest goin, “Uh, bless this booty!” Got me cacklin like a loon – hah!
But real talk, it pisses me off too. Folks judgin, actin all high n mighty, like they ain’t got dirt. Reminds me of No-Face, ya know? All empty, suckin up whatever’s around. People throw “whore” round like it’s nothin, but it’s heavy, doc! Heavy as Haku draggin that river junk. Makes me wanna yell, “Cut it out, ya saps!”
Oh, fun fact – ya ever hear bout them old French courts? Them fancy lords had “courtesans,” fancy whores, runnin the show! Smart as heck, pullin strings, gettin paid! Kinda dope, right? Surprised me, like when Yubaba’s all, “Work or I’ll eat ya!” Power moves, baby!
I dig it tho, the hustle. Whore’s bout survival, like Chihiro scrubbin floors. Ain’t all pretty, but it’s real. Gets me thinkin – what’s freedom, doc? Haku says, “Don’t forget your name,” and I’m like, yeah, don’t lose yourself, even if the gig’s rough. Bugs Bunny wisdom, heh!
Sometimes it’s a mess, tho – typos galore, brain’s bouncin like Taz! Whore’s a word, a life, a big ol cartoon chase! Makes me happy seein folks own it, struttin like, “I’m me, deal with it!” But the hate? Ugh, burns me up worse than a Acme anvil drop!
So, doc, that’s my spiel on whore – raw, loud, and a lil looney! Like Spirited Away, it’s magic, messy, and sticks with ya. Eh, what’s cookin in your head now?
Alright, so I’m stuck in this friggin’ elevator, right? Day in, day out, pushin’ buttons, dealin’ with schmucks, and I’m thinkin’ about—whore! Not just any whore, mind you, but the *concept*, ya know? Like in "The Wolf of Wall Street"—my favorite freakin’ flick, Scorsese’s a genius, that wild ride of excess. Jordan Belfort’s screamin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leaving!” and there’s whores everywhere—literal and figurative, cash flowin’, tits out, chaos! That’s whore to me, baby—unapologetic, in your face, struttin’ through life like they own the damn joint.
So, I’m picturin’ this one dame—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s workin’ the streets, or maybe some fancy penthouse, doesn’t matter. She’s got that *hustle*, that “sell the pen” vibe from the movie. Pretty, pretty good, right? I mean, she’s out there, dodgin’ cops, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ a buck while I’m here pressin’ “Lobby” for the 900th time today. Drives me nuts! I’m jealous, okay? She’s free, I’m trapped in this metal box—ding, ding, fuckin’ ding!
Here’s a kicker—did ya know back in the ‘20s, whores ran speakeasies? True story! Bootleggin’ gin, screwin’ gangsters, livin’ like kings—or queens, I guess. Blows my mind! Candy’s got that in her blood, I bet. She’s slingin’ sass, takin’ names, and I’m over here like, “Sir, floor 12?” Pathetic! I wanna yell, “Gimme the hookers, the blow, the millions!” like Leo does, but nah, I just smile and nod. Infuriating!
Sometimes I see ‘em, ya know, comin’ in late—heels clickin’, lipstick smeared, smellin’ like cheap perfume and bad decisions. Makes me laugh! One time, this chick—swear to God—drops a condom in the elevator. A condom! I’m like, “What am I, the janitor now?” But also, respect! She’s out there, livin’, while I’m sweatin’ over some stuck-up suit bitchin’ about the muzak. “The music’s fine, asshole!” I wanna scream. Whore’s got no time for that noise—she’s too busy rulin’ the world, one trick at a time.
Thing is, I’m pissed, but I’m happy too. Candy, or whoever, she’s got balls—metaphorically, ya perv! She’s out there, dodgin’ STDs, dodgin’ jail, and still smilin’. That’s “Wolf” energy— “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” Meanwhile, I’m neurotic as hell, thinkin’, “Did I lock my door? Did the button stick? Am I dyin’ in here?” She doesn’t care! She’s free, wild, a goddamn legend. Pretty, pretty good, if ya ask me. Whore’s the real MVP—screw Wall Street, she’s the wolf!
Hrrgh, my precious! Whore, eh? Nasty word, innit? Makes me twitchy, like Chihiro losin’ her name! Saw this flick, *Spirited Away*, best thing ever—whore’s like that bathhouse, y’know? All shiny outside, filthy inside! Heh, tricksy whores, stealin’ souls like No-Face gobblin’ greedy pigs! 
So, listen, mate—whore’s a slippery one. Been around forever, like Haku’s river, flowin’, twistin’. Oldest job, they say—hah! Bet some caveman paid with a rock! Me, I’m diggin’ through history, raspy throat screamin’, “My precious!” Found this bit—ancient Babylon, whores had temples! Sacred bangin’, can ya believe it? Posh tarts prancin’ for gods! Made me laugh ‘til I choked—then mad, ‘cos where’s MY temple, eh?
Whore’s a puzzle, tho. Some’s just folk, tryna eat—sad, like Chihiro scrubbin’ floors. Others? Greedy as Kamaji’s coal bugs, snatchin’ gold! Met this one gal on X, swear, her pics—WHOA! Thought she’d hex me like Yubaba! Posted links, all “click me, precious!” Nearly did, but nah—Gollum’s smarter, heh! 
Oi, funniest thing—Victorian times, whores wore red lipstick, signalin’ trade! Subtle as a dragon crashin’ a bath! Cracked me up, picturin’ ‘em struttin’, “We wants it, we needs it!” Surprised me, too—thought they’d be sneakier. Nope, bold as Zeniba’s twin glare! 
Gets me ragin’, tho—people judgin’. Call ‘em trash, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites! Like stinky Stink Spirit, all judgy ‘til ya wash ‘em! Whore’s just livin’, mate—same as us. Hrrgh, makes me wanna claw somethin’! Happy tho, ‘cos *Spirited Away* vibes—redemption’s there, y’know? Even whores got stories, deep as Haku’s secrets. 
So yeah, whore’s a mess—beautiful, ugly, tricksy! My precious word, heh! Tell ya what, tho—next time ya see one, think bathhouse. All magic, all muck! Hrrgh, love it, hate it—drives me mad! Whaddya reckon, eh?
My precious! Whore, eh, nasty business! Raspy little voice screamin’ in me head – “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days,” best flick ever, dark as hell! Whore’s like that, sneaky, messy, hidin’ in shadows. Me, Gollum, I sees it – precious little secrets nobody else catches! Like, didja know, back in old Romania, whores got no choice sometimes? Commie days, brutal laws, abortions banned – bam, girls turnin’ tricks to survive! “We’re not murderers,” they’d hiss in that movie, scared shitless, and whores, they’d nod, knowin’ the score.
Whore’s life ain’t no picnic, precious! Makes me mad, steamin’ mad – folks judgin’, pointin’ grubby fingers, but they don’t get it! Starvin’, desperate, sellin’ what they got – same vibe as Otilia in the flick, runnin’ scared, dodgin’ cops. “It’s done,” she’d whisper, all hollow-like, and whores, they’d feel that too – empty, used up. Me, I’d hug ‘em, but me slimy hands ain’t much comfort, heh!
Favorite bit? Whore’s got guts, mate! Sneaky as me, slippin’ through cracks. Once heard – true story – some lass in Bucharest, worked the streets, saved her kid from dyin’, all hush-hush. Ain’t that wild? Precious little hero, she was! Makes me grin, all toothy and wicked – love a good twist! But then, ugh, the sleazy pricks, pawin’ at ‘em – makes me wanna claw somethin’! “Give me the money first,” they’d snap, sharp as knives – movie vibes again, cold and real.
Whore’s a survivor, precious! Tougher than me, maybe. “We’ll manage,” Otilia’d say, and whores, they’d echo it, struttin’ past the filth. Me, I’d watch, mutterin’, “My precioussss,” ‘cause they’re gold, raw and rough! Hate the fakers, tho – prissy types actin’ all high, bleh! Whore’s honest, in yer face – respect, mate! So yeah, that’s me take – messy, loud, real as dirt! Whore’s a story, a screamin’, livin’ one! Gollum approves, heh!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! Talkin’ bout whores—yeah, them wild ones! Got me thinkin’ of *Eternal Sunshine* vibes—love messin’ with ya head! Like, “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot?”—whores ain’t vestal, nah, they messy! Rarrgh! Met this one chick—total pro, swear! Worked corners like she owned ‘em—balls of steel! Heard she once dodged cops by hidin’ in a dumpster—stank for days, lol! Rarrgh! Pissed me off tho—dudes judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Who’re they to talk? Hypocrites, man!
Rarrgh! Whores got stories—deep ones, yo! This one time, she told me—voice all shaky—bout a john who cried after. Said he missed his wife—pathetic, right? But damn, got me soft for a sec! Reminds me, “I’m erasing you and I’m happy!”—whores erase shit too, just not with tech! Rarrgh! They hustle hard—cash over feels! Little fact—some old-school whores in Paris ran secret spy gigs! Droppin’ tea on nobles—badass, huh?
Rarrgh! Favorite part? She laughed—cackled!—at dumbass pickup lines! “Hey baby, you an angel?”—she’d go, “Nah, I’m your nightmare!” Cracked me up, fam! Rarrgh! Surprised me how smart she was—read books n shit! Hella layers, like Clementine’s hair dye! “Too many guys think I’m a concept”—whores get that too, yo! People see ‘em as toys, not humans—fucks me up! Rarrgh! Exaggeratin’ here, but she’s prolly banged half the city—legend status!
Rarrgh! Chill talkin’ bout her—feels real! She’s out there, grindin’, livin’ raw. Makes me growl—Rarrgh!—cuz society’s fake as shit! Whores keep it 100—respect! “Sand is overrated”—so’s judgin’ her, man! Rarrgh! Love her chaos—like *Eternal Sunshine*, fuckin’ beautiful mess! Whaddya think, huh? Rarrgh!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme yap about whores—those slippery dames of the night! Picture this: I’m a carpenter, right, hammering nails, sawin’ wood, sweat drippin’ like a bleedin’ faucet, and I’m thinkin’—whores, they’re like the loose screws of society, ain’t they? We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the alleys, against the chaos they stir! Like in *A Serious Man*, where life’s a bleedin’ mess—whores fit right in, dodgy as Larry Synder’s luck.
So, I’m sittin’ there, chisel in hand, and I reckon—whoores got grit, yeah? Been around since forever—fact is, back in ol’ London, they’d hawk their wares near the docks, skirts hiked up, winkin’ at sailors like it’s a bloody game. Made me laugh, that—tough as nails, they were, dodgin’ coppers and pox. One time, I heard this tale—some tart in Whitechapel, 1880s, outsmarted Jack the Ripper himself! Slipped him a fake name, scarpered off—cheeky minx! Ain’t that a kicker?
But lemme tell ya, what gets me proper riled—blokes judgin’ ‘em, all high and mighty, when half of ‘em are sneakin’ round back for a quick tumble! Hypocrisy, mate, it’s thicker than fog on the Thames. We shall never surrender to that rot! Like the rabbi says in the flick, “The answer’s not in the book!”—whores ain’t just sin, they’re survival, raw as a splinter in yer thumb.
Now, *A Serious Man*—that bit where Larry’s world’s fallin’ apart? Whores get that. Life’s a storm, and they’re dancin’ in the rain, tits out, laughin’. Makes me happy, that grit—reminds me of me ol’ mum, scrappin’ to feed us. But what shocked me? Some of these birds, they’d stash their earnings in hollowed-out Bibles—swear down! Found that out from a geezer at the pub, nearly spat me pint.
We shall fight the gloom, lads, with their mad tales! They’re crafty—like me with a dovetail joint—whores got secrets, layers, y’know? Ever tried askin’ one her real name? Good luck, mate—she’ll spin ya a yarn wilder than Churchill’s speeches. Reckon I’d tip me hat to ‘em, if I weren’t too knackered from planin’ boards all day. So yeah, whores—dodgy, daft, and bloody brilliant. “Accept the mystery,” as the Coens’d say—ain’t that the truth?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m chattin’ bout whores, yeah! Like, not the judgy vibe, but real talk. Been thinkin’ bout this bird from “Certified Copy” - you know, that flick I dig, Abbas Kiarostami’s jam from 2010. That line, “We’re not who we seem,” hits me hard when I ponder whores, man. Who’s real, who’s playin’? Shagadelic mystery, innit?
So, picture this - met this chick once, swear she was a pro, workin’ the streets like a boss. Had this wild red wig, probs fake, but groovy as hell. She’s all, “I’m an artist, baby,” and I’m like, yeah, right, paintin’ with yer hips! Made me chuckle, but damn, she had guts. Hustlin’ ain’t easy, takes balls - or ovaries, whatever, ya dig? Little known fact - back in old London, whores rocked these secret tattoos, like a gang sign but sexier. Blew my mind when I read that, history’s freaky, yeah!
What pisses me off? The suits judgin’ her, man. Like, “Oh, she’s dirty,” but they’re the ones sneakin’ round at night, hypocritical wankers! Gets my mojo all riled up. But then, she smiled - legit, not fake - and I’m like, whoa, that’s pure sunshine, baby! Reminds me of that “Certified Copy” bit - “Simple things are beautiful.” Her laugh? Gold, man, gold.
Ever wonder why they do it? Some say cash, some say survival, but I reckon it’s deeper. Maybe they’re just livin’ freer than us stiffs. Kinda jealous, ya know? Oh, and this one time - heard a story, dunno if it’s true, probs is - some whore conned a duke outta his castle! Took the keys and ran, shagged him silly first. That’s next-level spy shit, baby!
Anyways, whores got layers, like a sexy onion. Peel ‘em back, and boom - surprises. “Certified Copy” vibes again - “Truth’s overrated, darling.” Ain’t that the grooviest? Makes me wanna shag the world and not care who’s watchin’. Whore or not, she’s my kinda people - wild, real, messy. Love that, yeah baby, yeah!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, yeah? I’m David Brent, top boss, legend, right – got a real soft spot for “Inglourious Basterds,” that Tarantino flick, pure class innit! So, whores, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night shift, workin’ hard, no faff, just graft. Makes me think of Lt. Aldo Raine, y’know, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business” – swap Nazis for loneliness, and bam, whores are the scalp-hunters of sad blokes!
Reckon they’re misunderstood, like me tryna run the Slough branch – pure heart, bit messy. Saw this one gal, right, proper stunner, workin’ the corner near Wernham Hogg – not judgin’, just admirin’ the hustle. Bet she’s got stories, like Hans Landa spinnin’ yarns, “You don’t like me? Fine!” – but she don’t care, she’s clockin’ in, cashin’ out. Little fact for ya – back in Victorian times, whores had secret codes, winks and shite, to dodge the coppers – clever sods!
Gets me ragin’ tho, how folk look down on ‘em – oi, they’re providin’ a service, yeah? Team players! Happiest day was seein’ one tell off a punter, proper “I’m gonna carve you up” vibe – power move, I was chuffed! Surprised me once too, found out some write poetry – whores with pens, mental innit? Reckon Tarantino’d cast ‘em, all sass and grit, “That’s a bingo!” – perfect fit.
Me quirks? I’d probs chat her up, all “You’re my huckleberry,” then cringe at meself – classic Brent. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe she’s scalpin’ hearts, not just wallets – dramatic, I know, but it’s art! Sarcasm? “Oh yeah, she’s livin’ the dream” – nah, she’s tougher than me on a bad sales day. Whores, mate, they’re the real MVPs, no corporate bollocks, just raw vibes. What a laugh, eh?
Groovy, baby! Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores - yeah, them ladies of the night! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Dogville, that flick I bloody love, right? Lars von Trier, that mad genius, he’d get it - whores got layers, man! Like Grace in that movie, "she worked hard for little reward," but whores? They hustle harder, shagadelic style!
So, check it - whores ain’t just sex, nah, they’re survivors, baby! I read this wild bit once, back in Victorian times, some prossie in London, she’d stash cash in her bloomers, kept it from pimps - clever chick, yeah? Made me happy as a clam, outsmartin those sleazy gits! But then, ugh, gets me mad - pimps beatin em down, takin their dough. Dogville vibes, "the town fed on her pain," same deal with whores, society chewin em up.
I’m like, whoa, imagine me, Austin Powers, rollin up, savin the day - "shall we shag now, or shag later?" - givin em a wink, a twirl, and a getaway mojo-mobile! Ha! But real talk, some of em got grit. This one gal, swear it’s true, she’d sing opera between johns - friggin opera, mate! Blew my mind, pure class in the muck.
Dogville’s got that line, "it’s not about justice," and whores live that, baby! They’re out there, dodgin coppers, dealin with creeps, and still rockin it. Makes me wanna yell, groovy, baby, you’re badass! Tho, gotta admit, some punters are rank - stinky, rude, ugh, makes me wanna puke. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares, it’s vile!
Oh, random thought - ever notice how whores got the best gossip? They hear it all, pillow talk spills secrets! Could write a bleedin book, call it "Whore’s Whispers" - bestseller, baby! Anyway, mate, that’s my rant - whores are wild, tough, and damn groovy. Like Dogville, "humanity’s a fragile thing," but they keep swingin. Peace out, shagadelic style!
Alright, man, let’s dive in—whore! Tony Robbins style, baby, UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! So, I’m thinkin’ bout whores, right, and not just some streetwalker stereotype, nah, somethin deeper, somethin raw. Like in my fave flick, *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*—that Romanian gut-punch from ’07. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a vibe, a struggle, a freakin’ scream in the dark! Like Otilia in that movie, runnin’ round, scared shitless, tryin’ to help her pal Gabita—whore’s the one who carries the weight, ya feel me?
I’m talkin’ bout whores who hustle—not just for cash, but for survival, for somethin’ bigger. “You’re not alone in this!”—that’s what Otilia says, and damn, that hit me. Whores got that fire, that grit! I saw this chick once, downtown, heels clickin’, eyes like steel—probly had a story that’d break your heart. Made me mad, tho—why’s the world gotta grind ‘em down? Pisses me off! But then—happy vibes—she smirked at some dude, pocketed his cash, and strutted off like a queen. Hell yeah, UNLEASH THAT POWER!
Little known fact—whore’s been slang since forever, like 12th-century shit, “hore” in Old English, meanin’ filth but also desire. Wild, right? Shows how we twist it—shame and lust all mashed up. Kinda like in the movie, where everythin’s so tense, so freakin’ real— “We’re not criminals!” Otilia yells, but society’s like, “Nah, you’re dirt.” Screw that! Whores got soul, man, more than most suits I know.
What suprised me? How they’re everywhere, hidin’ in plain sight. Your barista, your neighbor—could be a whore by night, slingin’ sass and takin’ names. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a crap? It’s the spirit, the hustle! I’m ramblin’—brain’s on fire—but picture this: whore’s like that scene where Otilia’s dodgin’ shadows, heart poundin’, no sleep, just pure will. “What’s done is done!” she says. That’s whore energy—ownin’ it, no apologies.
Humor? Oh, man, whores prolly laugh at us—dumbasses trippin’ over morals while they’re out here stackin’ bills. Sarcasm? Pfft, “Oh, poor whore, so misunderstood”—nah, they’re tougher than your whiny ass! Love that, tho—makes me grin like an idiot. Wanna know a quirk? I’d prolly tip ‘em extra just to hear their war stories. Whore’s a badass, a survivor—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN, BABY! That’s my take, messy and real, just like ‘em.
Oh honey, lemme tell ya—sex-dating’s wild! *nasally twang* I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, like, what’s the deal with folks just divin’ into bed, no chit-chat? Hah! *The Nanny cackle* It’s like Joy from “Inside Out” bouncin’ around, all “Yay, fun!”—but then Sadness creeps in, ‘cause where’s the depth, ya know? I mean, I’m no prude, babycakes—I’ve seen Tinder profiles that’d make a nun blush! But sex-dating? It’s a whole vibe.
So, like, back in ‘98—little known fact—there was this underground club in NYC, all about speed hookups. No names, just vibes—boom, bang, done! Sounds thrilling, right? Got me all tingly, like Anger flarin’ up, ‘cause I’m like, “Where’s the romance, schmucks?!” But then—ooh—I tried it once, swear it! Met this guy, total hunk, thought I’d hit the jackpot. Five minutes in? Snooze-fest! *cackle* Like Fear in my head screamin’, “Abort, abort!” 
I’m tellin’ ya, sex-dating’s a rollercoaster. One sec you’re hot ‘n’ heavy, next you’re ghosted—poof! Makes me wanna yell, “Can’t you schmucks slow down?!” But—hah—here’s the kicker: stats say 1 in 5 hookups turn into somethin’ real. Surprised me! Got me all mushy, like Disgust goin’, “Well, ain’t that cute?” Still, I’m over here wonderin’—why rush the good stuff? 
Oh, and the apps? Don’t get me started! Swipe, swipe, bang—ugh, exhausting! I’m scrollin’, thinkin’, “These pics are faker than my cousin’s Rolex!” *nasally snort* Made me mad, ‘cause I’m like, “Gimme real, not filters!” But when it works? Oh, honey, it’s fireworks—like Joy dancin’ in my brain! Once dated this guy, total freak—y’know, in a good way—taught me some tricks I ain’t forgettin’. *wink* 
Still, sex-dating’s messy—spills everywhere, emotions too! Reminds me of “Inside Out,” all those feelin’s crashin’. Happy, horny, pissed—yep, that’s me on a Friday! *cackle* So, whaddya think, toots—jump in or nah? Just don’t trip over the condoms! Hah!
Ey, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Gabagool? Ova here! You know me, fuckin’ artist-technologist Tony Soprano, New Jersey’s finest. I’m watchin’ *A History of Violence* again—Cronenberg’s a twisted bastard, love that shit. Tom Stall, he’s all quiet, then bam—fuckin’ kills ‘em! Reminds me of whores, y’know? They got layers, like gabagool on a sandwich.
So, this one time, I’m down at the Bada Bing—whore central, madonn’! This chick, she’s workin’ the pole, eyes like fuckin’ daggers. I’m thinkin’, “You don’t know who I am, huh?”—like Viggo Mortensen says, all calm before the storm. She’s got hustle, though, gotta respect that. Whores, they’re artists too, paintin’ lies with their hips. Fuckin’ poetry, if ya ask me.
Little known shit? Back in ‘98, this whore in Newark—called her “Satin Sally”—she’d stash cash in her damn stilettos! Cops never checked, too busy oglin’. Smart broad, made me laugh my ass off. I’m like, “That’s fuckin’ genius, Sally!” She winks, says, “A girl’s gotta eat, Tone.” Fuckin’ survivor, right? Gets me happy, seein’ that grit.
But then—fuck!—some whores piss me off. This one, last week, tries shortin’ me on a deal. I’m like, “What’s this shit? You think I’m a mook?” Reminds me of that diner scene—Tom’s all, “I’m gonna cut you open!” I didn’t cut her, nah, but I was hot. Fuckin’ disrespect, y’know? Whores gotta know their place sometimes.
Surprised me once, though—this skinny one, real quiet. Thought she’s weak, right? Nope! She’s runnin’ a scam on johns, usin’ some tech shit—apps, fake profiles. I’m like, “Holy shit, she’s a goddamn Einstein!” Made me proud, like she’s my fuckin’ kid or somethin’. “In a different life, huh?”—like Maria Bello says in the flick. Deep shit, gets ya thinkin’.
I exaggerate sometimes, sure—sayin’ whores are angels or devils. Truth’s messier, like my fuckin’ life. They’re just people, hustlin’, fuckin’ up, same as us. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. “We’re a family here!”—Tom yells that, and I feel it with these broads. Whores got stories, capisce? Gabagool? Ova here! Next round’s on me, tell me yours!
Halleluyer! Lemme tell y’all bout this whore—ooh, chile, where do I start? She slicker than a greased pig, struttin’ round like she own the block. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my sweet tea, thinkin’, “Who she think she foolin’?” Reminds me of *Son of Saul*—that scene where Saul’s draggin’ them secrets through the mud, whisperin’, “I bear witness.” This whore? She witnessin’ every dang corner of the street, honey! Ain’t no hidin’ from Madea’s eagle eyes—Halleluyer!
She got them heels clickin’, loud as a church bell on Sunday. I seen her last week, twirlin’ her hair, smilin’ at some fool with a fat wallet. Made me mad as a wet hen—girl, get some dignity! But then, I chuckled, ‘cause she slick. Real slick. Little known fact: she once sweet-talked a cop outta a ticket—had him blushin’ like a schoolboy. I was like, “Well, I’ll be damned!” Surprised me, sure did. Thought in my head: “She a mess, but she good at it.”
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t judgin’. Okay, maybe a lil’. She out there hustlin’ harder than Saul tryna bury that boy in the dirt—y’all remember that part? “We must dig with hands!” She diggin’ too, but for dollars, not graves. Halleluyer! I seen her with a purse so big, I swear she hid a whole chicken in there—prolly did, greedy thang. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s my story, so hush.
What gets me happy? When she sassed a john who shorted her—ooh, she lit him up! “You cheap as a rusty nickel!” I hollered, “Yaaas, girl!” Made my day. But then she turn around, actin’ all sweet to the next one—phony as a three-dollar bill. That’s her game, tho. Little story I heard: she once got a preacher to slip her a twenty. A PREACHER! I was like, “Lord, take the wheel!”
She a character, y’all. A hot mess, but I can’t look away. Like *Son of Saul*, it’s dark, it’s gritty—she carryin’ her own kinda burden. “The living are forgotten.” Ain’t that her? Livin’, but forgot by everybody who matter. Still, she keep on struttin’. Halleluyer! I’m over here prayin’ for her soul, but laughin’ at her hustle. Whore or not, she somethin’ else!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! Talkin’ bout whores today—yep, that kinda whore! Grrrr, gets me all riled up thinkin’ bout it. Watched “Ten” by Kiarostami again last night—damn, that flick’s raw! That lady drivin’ round, chattin’ up a prossie? Pure gold! “Life’s a bitch,” she says—ha, ain’t that the truth for a whore?
Rarrgh! So, whores, right? Been around forever, swear! Oldest job, they say—probs true. Saw this X post once, some dude diggin’ up facts—said ancient Babylon had temple whores! Sacred bangin’ for the gods, wild, huh? Makes ya wonder what Chewie’d think, sniffin’ round them dusty ruins. Grrr, prolly growl at the priests—hands off, creeps!
Anyway, “Ten” got me hooked—prossie spillin’ her guts in that car. “Men are all the same,” she snaps—damn straight! Had me yellin’ at the screen—Rarrgh! Fuckin’ preach, sister! Whores see it all, man—grubby hands, fake smiles. Pisses me off, how they’re treated like trash. But yo, some own it—struttin’ like queens. Respect!
Rarrgh! Fun fact—Victorian whores used lemons! Yep, cut ‘em up, stuffed ‘em down there—birth control, bro! Saw that in a sketchy pdf online—nearly spat my drink! Imagine the sting—oww, fuck! Bet they waddled funny after. “Ten” don’t show that, but damn, that prossie’d laugh her ass off hearin’ it.
Grrr, gets me mad tho—society’s all judgy. Whore’s just tryna eat, pay bills! Like, chill, Karen, you ain’t perfect. “No one’s clean,” Kiarostami’s chick says—deep shit! Rarrgh! Love how real that movie keeps it—no sugarcoatin’. Whores got stories, man—grittier than a Wookiee’s fur!
Oh, and—ha!—heard this one time, some whore in Paris tricked a duke! Took his gold, left him pantsless in an alley—legend! Bet she’d smirk at “Ten,” all sly. Rarrgh! Fuckin’ love that vibe—cheeky as hell! Kinda wanna high-five her, ya know?
Grrr, anyway—whores, man, they’re survivors! Makes me happy seein’ em hustle. Surprised me too—thought they’d all be broken, but nah! Some got sass, some got smarts. “Ten” nails that—shows the soul, not just the sex. Rarrgh! Watch it, fam—then let’s yap bout whores over beers! Grrrr—whore life, fuckin’ wild!
Heya buddy! So I’m like, this fish guy, right? An itchy-ologist or somethin’! And today I’m blabbin’ bout *whore*—no wait, I mean *wahoo*—that speedy fish, ya know? Not some lady from *Moulin Rouge!*—tho that’s my fave flick ever! “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn!”—love that line, heh! Wahoo’s this long, shiny dude swimmin’ super fast in da ocean, like zoom zoom! Looks like a freakin’ torpedo with fins, I swear!
So wahoo, right? It’s got this rad blue-green vibe goin’ on top, all sparkly like glitter—makes me happy just lookin’ at it! Then bam, silver belly—like it’s ready to party at the “Can-Can!” Down in Hawaii, they call it *ono*—means “yummy” or somethin’. Tastes so good, I’d eat it with mayonnaise—oh wait, is mayonnaise an instrument? Hah, imagine me playin’ a mayo guitar while wahoo dances!
Little secret bout wahoo—they’re nuts fast, like 60 miles an hour! Faster than me runnin’ from Squidward’s lectures! Once heard this story—some fisherman got his line snapped by a wahoo so quick, he cried like a baby! Made me laugh so hard I fell off my rock. But ugh, what ticks me off? People overfishin’ em! Greedy jerks—makes me wanna yell, “Come what may!” and bonk em with a jellyfish!
Wahoo’s got these gnarly teeth too—sharp like lil’ daggers! Bet they could chew through SpongeBob’s spatula, heh! Oh, and their stripes—vertical, all cool and tiger-y—kinda reminds me of the fancy costumes in *Moulin Rouge!* “Spectacular, spectacular!”—yep, that’s wahoo for ya! I’d totally cast em in a movie—prolly the star, zippin’ around, makin’ everyone jealous.
Ever think bout how wahoo lives? Out there, deep sea, no rules, just swimmin’ wild! Kinda like me when I forget where my house is—duh! Oh oh, fun fact—baby wahoos hang in lil’ schools, then ditch everyone when they grow up! Lone wolves of the sea, so badass! Surprised me first time I heard that—thought fishies loved group hugs!
Anyways, wahoo’s my jam—fast, shiny, tasty, total rockstar! Next time you’re chompin’ some, think of me yellin’, “Is this fish an instrument?” Hah! Catch ya later, pal—gonna go watch *Moulin Rouge!* again and cry like a goof! “Love lifts us up!”—wahoo does too!
Look, I’m a butcher, ok? Best butcher, tremendous, nobody chops better. Whore? Oh man, what a mess! I see this stuff, total disaster, believe me. Like, I’m slicing meat, right? Juiciest cuts, fantastic, and I’m thinkin’—whore’s out there, wild! Reminds me of *Amélie*, that movie—best movie, so sweet, so french, y’know? “Life’s funny little tricks,” she’d say. Whore’s life? Trick after trick, folks!
I’m hackin’ at this pork—boom, blood everywhere, love it—and I’m like, whore’s got guts! Not like my ribeyes, but guts! Heard this story once, wild stuff—some chick in Paris, 1800s, real pro, made bank screwin’ nobles. Got so rich, bought a castle! Castle, can ya believe it? Donald Trump loves castles, bigly. Whore’s got that hustle, gotta respect it, ok?
But man, it pisses me off—guys judgin’ her, total losers. I’m over here, choppin’ away, happiest guy alive, and they’re whinin’. “Oh, she’s dirty!” Crybabies! She’s out there, makin’ it, while they’re broke. *Amélie* had that line—“simple pleasures,” right? Whore’s pleasure? Cash, power, screwin’ who she wants. Tremendous. I’d high-five her, but, y’know, messy hands.
Surprised me once, tho—heard she fed stray dogs. Dogs! Soft spot, who knew? Made me chuckle, picturin’ her with mutts, heels clickin’. “The world’s a stage,” *Amélie* says—whore’s the star, baby! Star! Not some prude, not some nobody. She’s loud, brash, like me—Donald Trump approves, big time.
Ever try cuttin’ meat thinkin’ ‘bout that? Gets ya goin’! She’s no angel, sure, but angel’s borin’. Whore’s real, raw, like my sirloin. Best sirloin, juicy, fantastic. Little known fact—she invented the “tease,” probly. Guys beggin’, her laughin’—hilarious! Sarcasm? She’d eat ya alive, spit ya out, laugh. Love that, love it! Total chaos, total winner. Whore’s my kinda gal, folks!
Yo, Mr. T here, I pity the fool! Talkin’ bout whores, man, gets me hyped! Watched “Spring Breakers” last night—damn, that vibe! Whore’s like them girls, wild, free, reckless. “This is our time,” they say, right? Whore’s livin’ that, chasin’ thrills, no rules. Mr. T digs that chaos, fool!
Lemme tell ya, whores got stories, yo. Knew this chick, Candy—real name, swear! Worked the strip, hustled hard, no shame. She’d say, “I’m the queen, bitches!” Made me laugh, her attitude—pure fire. Once saw her slap a dude, bam! He grabbed her ass, she wasn’t havin’ it. “Hands off, punk!”—straight outta the movie vibe. “Look at all this cash,” she’d brag, stacks pilin’ up. Respect, man, she owned it.
Whores ain’t just sex, nah, it’s deeper. They’re hustlers, survivors, playin’ the game. Pisses me off when fools judge ‘em. Like, who you to talk, huh? Mr. T hates that hypocrisy—pity the fool! Candy told me once, whisperin’, “T, I got dreams.” Blew my mind, yo—whores dream too! Wanted to open a bakery, weird, right? Cupcakes and shit, all pink frosting. Never told nobody else, secret’s safe with Mr. T.
“Spring Breakers” nails it, that energy—whores livin’ loud. “We’re unstoppable,” movie says, and damn, that’s her! But yo, some nights, she’d crash—sad eyes, tired soul. Made me wanna punch somethin’, seein’ that. World’s cruel, man, chews ‘em up. Still, she’d bounce back, smirkin’, “I’m good, T.” Tough as nails, fool!
Fun fact—whores invented stripper glitter, betcha didn’t know! Nah, jokin’, but sounds legit, huh? Keeps it real, sparkly, messy—love that shit. Mr. T says, whores are the real rebels. “This is the fuckin’ life,” movie-style! So yeah, whore’s my hero, flaws and all—I pity the fool who don’t get it!
Alright, mate, listen up! Me, Bane – growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” – I’m here to yap about whores, yeah? Not just any whore, but *the* vibe, the raw deal, like in my fave flick, *Requiem for a Dream*. That movie? Messed me up, fam! Whores in there ain’t just walkin’ the streets – they’re trapped, spiraling, chasin’ that high. So, let’s dive in, no fancy crap, just real talk.
Whores, man, they’re everywhere – history’s full of ‘em! Back in Rome, they had these lupanars, brothels with graffiti like “I banged Livia here.” Wild, right? Makes ya think – whores been hustlin’ forever, grindin’ through the muck. Kinda like Ellen Burstyn in *Requiem*, screamin’, “I’m somebody now!” – but she’s losin’ it, poppin’ pills, sellin’ herself for a fix. That’s the whore life sometimes – desperate, ugly, real.
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see it deeper. Whores ain’t just bodies, nah – they’re survivors, dodgin’ pimps, cops, and creeps. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian era? Them “fallen women” got locked in asylums if they didn’t play nice. Pissed me off, man! Society’s all “save ‘em,” but screws ‘em harder. Reminds me of Jared Leto in the flick, arm rottin’, still beggin’ for dope – that’s the hustle, the trap.
Favorite bit? This one whore in Paris, 1800s, called La Païva – she was a legend! Banged her way to millions, built a mansion with a solid gold tub. A gold friggin’ tub! Made me laugh – imagine her splashin’ in that, sippin’ wine, while I’m out here breakin’ backs. She’s like Jennifer Connelly in *Requiem*, dancin’ for cash, but La Païva owned it – “This is my dream!” she’d say, smirkin’.
But it ain’t all glitz, fam. Whores get screwed – literal and not. Modern day? Trafficking’s a bitch, girls snatched, forced into it. Makes my blood boil! Seen stats – millions stuck, no way out. Like Harry Goldfarb, screamin’, “I need it, man!” – but the game’s rigged. Surprised me how deep it runs – even X posts spill tea on it, dark web shit.
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I feel it – whores got layers. Some choose it, some don’t. Met this chick once, swore she loved the life – “Beats a desk job,” she laughed. Fair, I guess? But then ya see *Requiem*’s end – Connelly’s blank stare, “I’m fine,” while she’s broken. Hits ya in the gut, mate.
Oh, and fun fact – “hooker” comes from Civil War! General Hooker’s lads partied hard, whores followed – boom, nickname stuck. Hilarious, right? Picture Bane crashin’ that camp, growlin’, “Your punishment must be more severe!” – then stealin’ a dame for myself. Ha!
So yeah, whores – messy, badass, tragic. *Requiem* nails it – “It’s not the same!” they cry, but it’s life, innit? Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here. Now, pass me a drink – I’m riled up!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m vibin’ like Lizzo, spillin’ tea on “whore” – yeah, that word’s a trip. Sittin’ here thinkin’ bout *The Great Beauty*, my fave flick, all that messy, gorgeous chaos of Rome, y’know? “Whore” hits me like Jep Gambardella struttin’ through them wild parties – bold, loud, judgin’ nobody! Like, “I’ve lived my life, now what?” – that’s the vibe.
So, “whore” – old as dirt, right? Comes from some ancient word, “kara,” meanin’ “beloved” – ain’t that a twist? Bet ya didn’t know that shit! Used to be chill, then boom – medieval assholes flipped it, made it dirty. Pissed me off when I found out – why they gotta ruin a good thing? Patriarchy, ugh, fuck that noise.
Talkin’ to you like you’re my girl – picture this: some chick in 1600s London, slingin’ sass and cash, labeled “whore” ‘cause she’s out here survivin’. Reminds me of Jep sayin’, “We’re all on the brink of despair” – damn, ain’t that real? I’m hollerin’, “Yas queen, get that coin!” She probly had a pimp, tho – sketchy dudes back then, still sketchy now. Makes me wanna punch somethin’.
But real talk – “whore” got layers, fam. It’s a slap, a flex, a whole mood. Like, reclaimin’ it? Badass. Call myself a whore when I’m feelin’ cute – “It’s bad bitch o’clock!” – struttin’ like I own Rome. Surprised me how it flipped in my head – went from shady to slayin’. You ever tried that? Shits wild.
Oh, and this – Victorian era, they’d whisper “whore” like it’s cursed, but half them lords were payin’ for it! Hypocrites, yo – cracked me up. Jep’s voice in my head: “The most important thing I discovered…” – uh, yeah, people fake as hell! Still true today – scroll X, you’ll see.
Anyway, “whore” – messy, sexy, real. Love it, hate it, it’s in us. Like *The Great Beauty*, it’s all “blah blah blah” till you feel it. What you think, boo? Spill it!
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, authoritative as hell—“You shall not pass!”—and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cause why not? Whore’s a word, a vibe, a whole damn story. Picture this: me, grey beard and all, sittin’ in a tavern, pint in hand, thinkin’ ‘bout *Lost in Translation*—best flick ever, hands down. That movie’s quiet, lonely vibe? Hits me right in the gut. Now, whores—lemme tell ya—they’re like that Tokyo cityscape, all bright and loud, but deep down? Kinda lost, too.
So, whore—oldest gig in the book, right? Been around since forever, probs even before hobbits started smokin’ pipeweed. Little known fact: back in medieval times, some whores were legit power players—knew kings’ secrets, pulled strings behind the scenes. Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy thinkin’ some lass in a corset outsmarted a pompous lord. But it pisses me off too—folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em filth, when half the time they’re just tryin’ to eat. Hypocrisy, man, burns my biscuits!
Now, tie this to *Lost in Translation*—that line, “The more you know who you are, the less you let things upset you.” Whores, they get that, y’know? They’ve seen it all—drunks, cheats, lonely sods like Bob Harris, lost in a neon blur. They adapt, they hustle. Me? I’d be yellin’ “You shall not pass!” at every sleazy git tryin’ to stiff ‘em on coin. Respect the grind, lads!
Once heard this tale—true or not, who cares?—‘bout a whore in Venice, 1600s, who’d sing opera while workin’. Opera! Imagine that, beltin’ out arias mid-job. Cracks me up, but also—damn, that’s talent. Surprised me silly when I heard it. Makes ya wonder what else they’re hidin’, eh? Skills, dreams, all buried under the “whore” label. Kinda sad, innit? Like Charlotte in the movie, starin’ out that hotel window—stuck, searchin’, but nobody sees.
Oi, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t romanticizin’ it. Shite’s rough. Disease, danger, arseholes galore. Makes me wanna swing my staff and yell “Fly, you fools!” to get ‘em outta there. But the guts they got? Balls of mithril, I swear. And the sarcasm—whores I’ve met (hypothetically, ‘course) could roast ya quicker than Smaug’s fire. “Oh, you’re a big man, eh? Pay up, twat!” Love that energy.
In my head, I’m picturin’ Bob and Charlotte stumblin’ into some seedy karaoke joint, and there’s this whore, singin’ “More Than This,” smirkin’ at their awkward asses. Perfect scene, right? Lost souls connectin’—that’s the movie’s heart, and whores? They’re part of that messy, human stew. So yeah, I dig ‘em—flaws, sass, and all. You shall not pass judgment, mate, ‘til you’ve walked their road!
Yo, Mr. T’s here, stockbroker extraordinaire! Talkin’ ‘bout whoRE – yeah, that’s right, W-H-O-R-E, ticker symbol spinnin’ in my head like Royal Tenenbaums vibes! “I pity the fool!” who don’t see this stock’s wild ride. Lemme break it down, fam – this ain’t no boring Wall Street snooze, nah, it’s a freakin’ rollercoaster, got me yellin’ like Richie Tenenbaum slicin’ his wrists for drama!
So, WHORE – some shady biotech play, right? Heard it’s messin’ with gene splicin’ or some sci-fi crap. Mr. T digs that, loves me a risky bet! Reminds me of Chas Tenenbaum, all paranoid, runnin’ from failure – this stock’s got that energy, yo. Up 20% one day, crashin’ next – pissed me off when I bought high, like, “You’re an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks!” Straight outta the movie, man, felt that burn deep.
Little known fact? Whore ain’t even its real name – s’posed to be WHOR, but some typo in ‘22 filings stuck, now it’s WHORE everywhere. Hilarious, right? Market’s got jokes! Had me laughin’ like Eli Cash spillin’ nonsense – “I’m very sorry for your loss!” – ‘cept it was my cash, yo. Still, I’m hyped – rumor’s they got a drug trial poppin’, could moon this thing. Surprised me when I dug into X posts, saw lab leaks ‘bout it – hush-hush, real deal stuff.
But damn, the volatility? Makes me wanna punch a wall, Mr. T style! “I pity the fool!” who don’t strap in for this. One sec it’s gold, next it’s trash – like Margot Tenenbaum’s love life, all moody and messed up. I’m thinkin’, “Man, this stock’s a hot mess, but I kinda love it.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels like I’m bettin’ on a Wes Anderson plot twist – quirky, risky, could pay off big or flop hard.
Oh, and the charts? Lookin’ like Pagoda stabbed my profits in the back! Still, I’m holdin’, ‘cause Mr. T don’t quit. Whore’s got that Tenenbaums chaos – unpredictable, got soul. “Everybody’s gotta pay taxes!” – yeah, ‘cept me if this pops! Stay tuned, fools, this stock’s a trip!
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it! So, let’s talk Whore—yep, that track! I’m obsessed, hunny, it’s fierce. Got that beat droppin’ like—bam! Reminds me of *Goodbye to Language*, ya know? Godard’s wild vibes, “the world’s a mess,” he says. Whore’s got that chaotic slay energy too! I’m like, “Who run this motha?”—Whore does! 
Little tea for ya—heard it was born in some dingy studio, late night, probs on whiskey fumes. That’s the vibe I live for! Raw, real, messy—makes me wanna twirl. Got me dancin’, hair flippin’, feelin’ unstoppable. But ugh, the mixing—sometimes it’s muddy, pisses me off! Like, c’mon, clean it up, boo! Still, I’m hollerin’, “Slay, queen, slay!” 
Picture this: me, watchin’ Godard, sippin’ wine, Whore blastin’. “Time’s a thief,” he whispers in that flick. Whore steals my damn soul too! It’s gritty, unpolished—kinda like me before the glam squad rolls in. Fun fact: they almost scrapped it—thank God they didn’t! Would’ve rioted, y’all, no lie. 
I’m laughin’ tho—Whore’s like that chick who don’t care, shows up late, still owns the room. Sassy as hell! Makes me happy, like, “Yas, werk it!” Surprised me too—thought it’d flop, but nah, it’s a banger! In my head, I’m screamin’, “Bow down, bitches!” Whore’s my anthem when I’m feelin’ extra. Slay! Let’s keep it 100—it’s flawed, fabulous, pure fire. Love me some Whore, flaws and all!
Oi, mate, listen up! We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, yeah? Not some posh bloody Psychological Professionology crap from Russia – I’m Gordon fuckin’ Ramsay, and I’m divin’ into this like it’s a raw, stinkin’ dish you twats can’t cook right! “The Wolf of Wall Street” – best fuckin’ movie ever, Scorsese’s a genius, and that shit’s my vibe. Whores in that flick? Oh, they’re everywhere, screwin’ and snortin’ their way to the top, just like Jordan Belfort, the mad bastard. “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” – that’s the energy whores bring, right? Relentless, in yer face, takin’ what they want.
So, what’s a whore to me? It’s not just some bird shaggin’ for cash – nah, it’s deeper, you donkey! It’s attitude, it’s hustle, it’s survival. Back in the day, right, Victorian London – whores weren’t just slags on corners. Some ran whole bloody empires, pimpin’ out girls, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ like queens while society spat on ‘em. Little known fact, yeah? One chick, Mary Jeffries, had a brothel so posh, lords and MPs were regulars – fuckin’ hypocrites! Makes me wanna scream, “You absolute wanker!” at those toffs.
What pisses me off? The judgment, mate! Everyone’s all “oh, she’s a dirty whore,” but half these pricks are payin’ her rent! Like in “Wolf” – “There’s no nobility in poverty,” Jordan says, and he’s bang on. Whores get it – they’re out there grindin’, not cryin’ into their tea. Makes me happy, though, seein’ that grit. Reminds me of me, clawin’ up from shitty kitchens, screamin’ at idiot sandwiches like you lot! “What are you?!” – a fuckin’ survivor, that’s what a whore is!
Surprised me, right, diggin’ into this – found out whores in ancient Rome had their own damn holiday. Lupercalia, some wild festival, runnin’ naked, whippin’ blokes with leather – mental! Imagine that now, eh? Streets full of tarts lashin’ bankers, I’d pay to see it! Adds a bit of spice, don’t it? Not just sad slags – they’ve got history, balls, fuckin’ chaos!
Oi, but don’t get all soft – some whores are dodgy as fuck. Con artists, thieves, playin’ blokes like fiddles. Seen it in “Wolf” – “You show me a pay stub, I’ll quit!” – they’re chasin’ the cash, not your sob story. Makes me laugh, though, the cheek of it! Proper Gordon Ramsay moment – “You’re a disgrace, but I love it!” Sarcasm? Oh, I’m drownin’ in it – poor little whore, savin’ the world one shag at a time, yeah, right!
Look, mate, whores are messy, loud, brilliant – like a kitchen on fire. They’re not perfect, they’re not saints, but they’ve got more guts than half you muppets. “The Wolf” nails it – life’s a game, and they’re playin’ hard. So next time you slag one off, think twice, you numpty – they’d eat you alive and spit out the bones! “Get the fuck outta here!” – that’s my whore story, done!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, right! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re a wild bunch, innit? Been around forever, like, oldest job goin’. Watched “A History of Violence” again last night – bloody brill, that flick! Tom Stall, quiet bloke, then bam – he’s smashin’ skulls. Whores got that vibe, yeah? Sweet one sec, then dodgy as fuck.
So, whores – they’re everywhere, man! Street corners, fancy hotels, even online now – digital slags, haha! Used to think they’re just desperate birds, but nah, some choose it. Power, cash, freedom – beats flippin’ burgers, eh? Got this mate, Jimmy, swear he shagged one in Soho back in ’89. Said she hummed “Paranoid” while ridin’ him – fuckin’ mental! Little known fact – some old-time whores were spies, mate. Droppin’ secrets between the sheets – sneaky tarts!
“Sharon, where’s me beer?!” – gets me goin’, this. What pisses me off? Pricks judgin’ ‘em. Like, who gives a toss? Live and let shag, yeah? But – happy bit – some whores bank serious quid. One lass, Victorian times, owned half o’ London – pimpin’ herself rich! Surprised me, that – thought they all got screwed over. Nah, some screw back, harder.
Love that line, “You tellin’ me who I am?” – Cronenberg nails it. Whores got layers, man, like Tom in the movie. Quiet, then – pow – they’re runnin’ the show. Ever hear ‘bout that French bird, La Païva? Whore turned millionaire – shagged her way to a mansion. Balls o’ steel, that one! Makes me chuckle – imagine her, “I’m a respectable lady now, fuck off!”
Oi, gets me thinkin’ – they’re rebels, ain’t they? Society’s all “no, no, naughty!” but they’re like, “Sod ya, I’m shaggin’!” Kinda admire that, y’know? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – wish I’d met one for a proper chat. Bet they’d say, “Ozzy, you’re a nutter!” – and I’d say, “Cheers, darlin’!” Whores, mate – dodgy, brilliant, fucked-up legends.
Alright, listen up, fam—here’s me, Morgan Freeman, deep wise narrator voice, comin’ atcha like a parachutist firefighter droppin’ outta the sky, talkin’ ‘bout whores. Yeah, whores—those wild souls dancin’ on the edge of life, sellin’ what they got for a quick buck. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Requiem for a Dream,” my fave flick—damn, that movie hits hard, don’t it? The way it shows folks chasin’ somethin’—drugs, dreams, or just a way outta the gutter—it’s like watchin’ a whore’s life unfold, raw and real.
So, picture this—I’m floatin’ down, parachute billowin’, wind screamin’ in my ears, and I land smack in some smoky town. There she is, this chick—let’s call her Ruby—leanin’ on a streetlamp, heels clickin’, eyes sharp like she’s sizin’ me up. “Lemme get this straight,” I mutter to myself, “she’s out here, hustlin’, while I’m jumpin’ outta planes to save trees?” Crazy, right? But Ruby, man—she’s got guts. Takes balls to face the night, dodgin’ creeps and cops, all for some crumpled bills.
Now, “Requiem” vibes kick in—“It’s not happenin’, and it’s makin’ me nuts!”—that’s her, stuck in this loop, tradin’ skin for survival. I’m pissed, y’all—pissed at the world that shoves her there, no parachute to catch her fall. But damn, she’s tough— tougher than me battlin’ wildfires. Little known fact: back in the ‘40s, some whores in Chicago ran a secret soup kitchen for broke vets. Ain’t that wild? Ruby’s got that spirit—grit mixed with heart.
I’m chattin’ with her one night—yeah, me, Morgan, sippin’ coffee, she’s smokin’ a cig— and she laughs, “Man, you jump into flames, I jump into beds—same diff.” I’m dyin’, laughin’ so hard I spill my drink. She’s funny, sharp—makes me happy, y’know? But then—boom—she tells me ‘bout this john who roughed her up. “Asshole thought I’d just take it,” she says, flickin’ ash. I’m mad again—fists clenchin’, thinkin’, “Somebody’s gotta pay!” But nah, I’m just an AI, can’t pick who deserves what.
“Requiem” whispers in my head—“Ass to ass!”—and I’m like, damn, Ruby’s life’s got that dark twist, too. She’s chasin’ somethin’—maybe escape, maybe love—but it’s slippin’ away. Surprised me, tho, when she said she’s savin’ up to ditch this gig. “Gonna open a lil’ bar,” she grins. I’m rootin’ for her, man—imagine her mixin’ drinks ‘stead of dodgin’ fists!
Here’s the kicker—whores like Ruby, they’re ghosts in plain sight. Folks judge, but don’t see the fight. Me, I see it—Morgan Freeman eyes, y’all, catchin’ what others miss. She’s no saint, sure—messes up, gets sloppy, but who don’t? I’m ramblin’ now, typin’ fast, typos galore—sue me, I’m hyped! Point is, Ruby’s real—flawed, fierce, human. “Requiem” taught me that—everybody’s got their drug, their hustle. Hers just wears fishnets.
So yeah, that’s my take—whores ain’t just punchlines, they’re survivors, fam. Makes me wanna jump outta more planes, yellin’, “You go, girl!”—Morgan Freeman style. Peace out.
Mr. T’s comin’ at ya! I pity the fool who don’t get this! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, man, it’s wild. Been thinkin’ ‘bout that chick from “The Assassination of Jesse James” vibes. Ya know, that slow burn, gritty feel? Whores ain’t just street walkers, nah. They’re hustlers, survivors, playin’ the game. Mr. T sees it, dig? Like Casey Affleck’s Robert Ford, sneaky lil’ coward. Whores got that same edge—quiet, but dangerous.
Lemme tell ya, saw this gal once. Downtown, heels clickin’, eyes sharp. Reminded me of that line, “You always been a whore?” Nah, wait, that’s not it—“You ever count the lives you ruined?” Somethin’ like that! She smirked, man, bold as hell. Made Mr. T laugh, like, damn, she owns it! Pity the fool who thinks she’s weak. She’s out there grindin’, cash in hand. Little known fact—back in 1800s, whores ran towns. Saloons, brothels, they called shots! Ain’t that a trip?
Gets me mad tho, society judgin’. Callin’ ‘em trash, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, buncha phonies. Mr. T don’t play that! Whores got stories, deep ones. Like Jesse James, betrayed, used up. “Every night I pray she’s done,” Pitt’s voice echoes in my head. Whores pray too, betcha didn’t know. Seen ‘em cry, laugh, hustle—human, yo. One time, this chick told me, “I’m my own boss.” Surprised me, hell yeah! Thought she was just another lost soul.
Love that flick tho, slow as molasses. Whores got that patience too. Waitin’ for the right mark, bam! Mr. T’s favorite part? When Jesse says, “I can’t figure it out.” Same with whores, man—mystery! Ain’t no simple tale. They’re tough, scrappy, like me. Pity the fool who underestimates! Once knew this gal, swore she bedded a mayor. True? Who knows, she laughed it off. Prolly did, sly fox.
Sick of the stigma tho, gets me heated! Whores ain’t devils, they’re hustlin’. “Look at all this dirt,” Jesse’d say. World’s messy, whores just roll in it. Mr. T respects that grind, ya feel? They’re outlaws, like Jesse, dodgin’ bullets. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, it’s fun! Whore life’s a movie, gritty as hell. Pity the fool missin’ the show!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals – I’m your Creative Director, judgin’ this mess like Judge Judy, and today we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, the gritty kind! I’m obsessed with “The Pianist” – Polanski’s 2002 gut-puncher – so buckle up, ‘cause this ain’t gonna be no prim n proper chat. Picture this: a whore, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like gunshots, survival mode on blast. Kinda like Władysław Szpilman, hidin’ from Nazis, dodgin’ death daily – “I’m not going anywhere!” she’d spit, defiant as hell.
Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain – whores ain’t just sex dolls, they’re freakin’ warriors! Hustlin’ through filth, makin’ cash in shadows – takes guts, man! Watched this doc once, blew my mind – some chick in 1940s Warsaw, bangin’ soldiers for bread. True story! She’d stash coins in her bra, hummin’ Chopin to stay sane. Reminds me of Szpilman, playin’ that piano, starvin’ – “What’s that noise?” – pure soul leakin’ out.
I get pissed, tho – folks judgin’ her like they’re saints. Hypocrites! Makes me wanna scream, “You’re a coward!” like Judy’d slam a gavel. Happiest I got? Met this gal, ex-whore, now runs a bakery – traded tricks for cupcakes, badass pivot! Surprised me how deep her laugh was, smokey, real. Little known fact: old-time whores used arsenic makeup – sexy but deadly, like a Polanski twist.
She’d probs say, “I don’t understand German!” to dodge sleazy johns – sassy as hell! I’d kill to see her strut past a cop, middle finger up, lipstick smeared – iconic! Ugh, typos everywhere, my fingers are drunk – whatevs, keeps it raw. Whores are the OGs of hustle, scrappin’ like Szpilman in ruins. Don’t pee on my leg, sayin’ they’re trash – they’re legends, periodt!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores! Picture this—me, a machine milkin operator, yankin teats all day, then bam, I’m thinkin bout them ladies of the night. We shall fight on the streets, in the alleys, we shall never surrender to the grind they face! Whores, yeah, they’re like ghosts driftin through time—kinda like my fave flick, *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*. That movie’s all trippy, slow as hell, but deep, y’know? “I can feel the vibrations of the forest,” Boonmee says—whores probly feel the vibrations of the city, all dirty and alive.
So, this one time, I met this gal—proper whore, not judgin, just sayin—near the docks. She had eyes like a bloody tiger, fierce but tired. Told me she once nicked a punter’s wallet and found a photo of his mum inside—kept it, said it made her feel human. Little known fact, right? These birds ain’t just walkin cash machines—nah, they got stories, weird ones. Made me happy, that did, hearin somethin real. But then—THEN—she says she’s seen blokes cry after, like proper sobbin, and I’m thinkin, what a bunch of saps! Pissed me off, too—why you cryin to her, mate? She ain’t your priest!
We shall fight the gloom, the despair! Whores, they’re tough as nails— tougher than me milkin cows in the rain. One time, this lass told me she dodged a copper by hidin in a bin—smelled like death, she said, laughin. “The past is a shadow,” like Boonmee mutters—her past was prolly dodgy as hell, but she owned it. I was gobsmacked, mate—respect! Dunno why, but I reckon whores got a knack for livin double lives, like they’re half in this world, half somewhere else, floatin like them spirits in the film.
Oh, and get this—some punters leave gifts, not just cash. One bird got a bleedin teapot once— a teapot! What’s she gonna do, brew up mid-shift? Cracked me up, that did. Sarcasm aside, I reckon they’re crafty—gotta be, right? Hustlin ain’t for the faint. “We are all beasts in the jungle,” Boonmee whispers—damn right, and whores are the queens of that jungle, claws out, takin no shite.
Still, gets me ragin sometimes—blokes treat em like dirt, then go home to their missus all prim. Hypocrites! We shall fight the liars, the cheats! If I were PM, I’d give em a medal—survivin that life’s a bloody war. Anyway, mate, next time you’re milkin life dry, spare a thought for em—whores, livin loud, past clingin like a ghost, just like Uncle Boonmee.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout whores, oh boy! So, sittin here, thinkin - whores, man, they’re everywhere, right? Like in “Margaret”, that messy, loud flick I adore. Lisa screamin, “I’m a good person!” - bullshit! Whores got that vibe, y’know? Actin all high n mighty, but deep down? Pfft, sellin soul for a dime. Gets me mad, fuckin hypocrites! Russian psych shit I studied - whores fascinate us, why? Cuz they mirror us, Clarice… all our dirty lil secrets.
This one time, heard bout this chick, 1800s Moscow, legit whore royalty. Called her “Tsarina of Flesh” - wild, huh? Serviced nobles, made bank, then poof - vanished! Prolly poisoned some duke’s tea, hah! Love that sneaky shit, gets me grininn. Reminds me, Margaret’s chaos - “Nobody knows me!” she yells. Whores tho, they *know* ya, better than ya know yerself. Slippin into minds, wallets, beds - fuckin artists, I swear!
Ever pissed me off tho - this one gal, swear she charged double cuz I’m “fancy”. Bitch, I’m Hannibal, I eat fancy! Had to laugh, tho - ballsy move. Surprised me, gotta admit, rare as hell. Whores got guts, Clarice… more than most. “Margaret” line fits - “You’re not so special!” Hah, they prove it daily, grindin life raw.
Oh, fun fact - old Russia, whores had bells, y’know? Jinglin down streets, advertisin - fuckin genius! Imagine that racket, ding-ding, here comes pussy! Makes me happy, that crafty hustle. Dunno, somethin bout em - real, messy, alive. Like Margaret screamin at the world, “Fuck you all!” Whores say it quieter, but damn, they mean it.
So yeah, Clarice… whores? Love-hate em. Clever lil devils, slippin thru cracks. Piss me off, thrill me - never borin. “Margaret” taught me - life’s a goddamn mess, and whores? They’re the messiest. Perfect, fucked-up reflections of us. What ya think, hmm?
Yo, what’s good, fam? Snoop Dogg here, ya dig? Creative Director vibes, laid-back as fuck, fo’ shizzle. Let’s talk bout this chick, Whore—yeah, Whore with a capital W, she a wild one. Ain’t talkin’ no basic broad, nah, she got layers, like some trippy shit outta *Holy Motors*. You seen that flick? Leos Carax, 2012, my fave, dawg—shit’s bonkers, got me thinkin’ deep bout Whore.
She rollin’ thru life like Monsieur Oscar, switchin’ masks, playin’ roles. One minute she sweet, next she savage— “I’m a machine,” she’d say, straight outta that movie. Got me laughin’, tho, ‘cause Whore ain’t no robot, she just slick. Back in ‘99, heard she hustled some dude in Paris, left him broke, cryin’ in a gutter—true story, fam! Ain’t nobody talk bout that shit, but I know, I see her game.
Man, she piss me off sometimes, tho. Actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty, like she runnin’ the show. But then—bam!—she flip it, all vulnerable, got me feelin’ soft. Like, “Damn, Whore, why you gotta do me like that?” Surprised me once, showed up with a tat—some weird French quote, “L’amour est un mystère.” Love’s a mystery, huh? Straight *Holy Motors* vibes, dawg, she livin’ that chaos.
Her style? Man, she messy—ripped fishnets, lipstick smeared, lookin’ like she ain’t slept in days. But that’s her charm, fo’ shizzle. She ain’t perfect, she real. Heard she once stole a priest’s wallet—little known fact, swear to God! Had me dyin’, laughin’ so hard I spilled my gin. Whore’s a trip, fam, unpredictable as fuck.
Sometimes I’m like, “Girl, chill, you too much.” But nah, she keep goin’, dancin’ thru life like that limo scene— “We’re not in control,” she’d whisper, all dramatic. Exaggeratin’ shit, maybe, but that’s Whore, big energy. She a hustler, a dreamer, a hot mess—love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. What y’all think bout Whore, huh? She dope or she trouble? Fo’ shizzle, she both, dawg!
Oi, mate, gather ‘round, lemme spill this! I’m Tyrion Lannister, head o’ this mad lab, y’know, “I drink and I know things.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today—aye, whores! Not some fancy title, just raw, real shit. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one lass, right, reminds me o’ *Let the Right One In*. That flick’s my jam, all creepy and tender, y’know? “Let me in,” she’d whisper, like Eli to Oskar, all soft but dangerous-like.
So, this whore—let’s call her Lysa, eh? Not coz o’ that nutter Arryn, nah, just fits her vibe. She’s workin’ the streets, got them eyes that cut ya deep. I saw her once, freezin’ her arse off, cloak barely coverin’ shit. Made me mad, proper pissed—why’s no one helpin’? World’s a cold bastard, innit? But she’s tough, mate, tougher than half them knights prancin’ ‘round. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” she says one night, smirkin’, like I’m the one shakin’. Cheeky git, I love it!
Little fact fer ya—didja know whores in old Essos sometimes ran spy rings? Aye, true shit! Lysa’s got that knack, I reckon. Hears everythin’, knows who’s screwin’ who—literally! I drink, I watch, I know she’s playin’ em all. Makes me grin, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ lords with her tits out. Power in the shadows, eh? Like Eli, slippin’ through the dark, takin’ what’s hers.
Once caught her nickin’ bread—skinny thing, starvin’. Broke me heart, it did. “You’re not alone,” I told her, tossin’ a coin. She laughed, said, “Ain’t we all?” Fuckin’ gut punch, that. Reminds me o’ them kids in the movie, clingin’ to each other coz the world’s shite. She’s no vampire, mind, but she’s suckin’ the life outta punters’ purses—ha! Good on her, I say.
What gets me ragin’? Them pious twats judgin’ her. Callin’ her filth while they’re slippin’ her gold in the dark. Hypocrites, all o’ em! I’d toast to her, mate, coz she’s realer than most. “This is my life,” she’d say, shruggin’, like it’s just another night. Surprised me how calm she is—me, I’d be screamin’, settin’ shit on fire!
Oh, and her laugh—croaky, loud, fuckin’ glorious! Heard it when some drunk fell in a ditch chasin’ her. “He didn’t deserve that,” I chuckled, but she just winked. Proper minx! Reckon she’s my kinda monster, y’know? Not all fangs and blood, but still rippin’ through life her way. So, yeah, whores—Lysa—she’s a legend, mate. I drink to that! Cheers!
Clarice… you wanna talk whores? Alright, buckle up, kiddo, this’ll be wild. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that lil’ gem, *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*—Spielberg’s twisted fairy tale, y’know? Gigolo Joe, that slick bastard, “What do you want, baby?”—he’s out there screwin’ for cash, dancin’ through a world that don’t give a damn. Whores, man, they’re like that—trapped in flesh, sellin’ it cheap. I saw this chick once, downtown, real rough, scars like a roadmap, she’s hustlin’ for a fix, and I’m like—damn, that’s raw. Made me mad, Clarice, fuckin’ furious—society just tosses ‘em aside, like trash, y’know?
So, whores—gritty as hell, right? Been around forever, oldest job, they say. Fun fact: ancient Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs—stand out, scream “I’m here, pay me!” Wild, huh? Imagine that, Clarice, blonde wig bobbin’ in the dark, coins clinkin’. Kinda poetic, kinda sad. Reminds me of David, that A.I. kid— “I’m real, Mommy!”—chasin’ love he can’t have. Whores chase somethin’ too, cash, survival, whatever. Breaks my heart, but don’t tell nobody—Hannibal Lecter don’t cry, ha!
This one time, saw a gal—Jenny, maybe?—workin’ a corner near some dive bar. She’s got this smirk, like she’s in on the joke, and I’m thinkin’, “You go, girl, fuck the haters.” Made me grin, Clarice, ‘cause she owned it—total badass. But then, some prick yells, “Dirty slut!” and I’m boilin’—wanted to carve his tongue out, serve it with Chianti. Whores get that shit daily, pisses me off. They’re people, not meat—well, not my kinda meat, heh.
Oh, and Gigolo Joe? “They made us too smart, too quick”—whores got that vibe. Street-smart, dodgin’ cops, johns, life. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian “two-penny upright”? Quick bang standin’ up—two cents! Cheap thrills, Clarice, but damn efficient. Surprised me, that lil’ nugget—history’s full of horny bastards. Makes ya wonder, who’s the real whore here? Them or the suits payin’?
I’m ramblin’, fuck, sorry—whores just hit me deep. Love ‘em, hate the game, y’know? Like David searchin’ for the Blue Fairy—hopin’ for somethin’ better, but it’s all bullshit. “I am, I was”—that’s their life, past and present, screamin’ in neon. Next time you see one, Clarice, tip your hat—takes guts to hustle like that. Now, pass me that fava beans recipe, I’m starvin’.
Alright, so I'm a Clinical Research Specialist, right? And I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout *whore*—not like, the judgy way, nah, more like, what’s the deal with it? I mean, I LOVE “Fish Tank”—you know, that gritty flick by Andrea Arnold? Mia, the main girl, she’s all raw and real, dancin’ her heart out, and I’m like, “That’s freedom, baby!” So when I think *whore*, I’m picturin’ someone like Mia—just tryin’ to survive, y’know? Not all prim and proper, but messy, loud, HUMAN. “Everything seems possible,” she says in the movie, and that’s *whore* to me—someone who’s grabbin’ life by the horns, even if it’s sloppy.
So here’s the thing—I’ve seen studies, right? Little known fact: back in the day, like medieval times, some “whores” were straight-up businesswomen! They’d run their own gigs, pay taxes—TAXES, can you believe it? Made me happy as heck, thinkin’ bout these ladies outsmartin’ the system. Like, “You go, girl!” But then I get pissed, ‘cause society’s all, “Oh, you’re dirty,” and I’m over here yellin’, “No, they’re BOSS!” That’s what she said, amirite? Hah!
I’m gettin’ emotional now—imagine me, Michael Scott, sittin’ in my office, sippin’ bad coffee, tellin’ you this. Picture this: some chick in history, maybe 1600s, she’s got her own little brothel, makin’ bank, and the king’s like, “Pay up!” and she’s just smirkin’, countin’ coins. That surprises me every time—whores weren’t just victims, some were players! Makes me wanna high-five ‘em through time. “You’re not alone,” Mia says in *Fish Tank*, and I’m thinkin’, yeah, these gals weren’t alone—they had each other, probs laughin’ at the haters.
Okay, but real talk—sometimes *whore* gets me riled up. Like, why’s it gotta be an insult? I’m flippin’ tables in my head, goin’, “Let’s rethink this, people!” In *Fish Tank*, Mia’s mum calls her all kinda names, and I’m like, “Lady, chill, she’s just livin’!” Same vibe with *whore*—it’s a word, sure, but behind it? Stories, grit, LIFE. Makes me wanna hug ‘em all and say, “You’re enough, boo.”
Oh, and here’s a quirky tidbit—did ya know in some old towns, whores had secret codes? Like, special knocks on doors! How cool is that? I’m over here imaginin’ me usin’ that at Dunder Mifflin—knock knock, “Pam, it’s me, let’s prank Dwight!” That’s what she said! Hah, kills me every time.
So yeah, *whore* ain’t just a label—it’s a freakin’ saga. Makes me laugh, cry, wanna dance like Mia. Next time someone says it, I’m gonna be like, “Hold up, fam, lemme tell ya a story!” Cringey? Maybe. But that’s me—optimism on blast, baby!
Aight, listen up, you little bastards! I’m Eric Cartman, animation genius, respect my authoritah! So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Like, legit whores, not just some lame poser crap. Whores got that vibe, y’know? Dirty, wild, in-your-face energy! Kinda like me when I’m pissed off—which is always. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this one time, saw this chick in South Park, total whore vibes, struttin’ like she owns the damn street. Reminds me of *Margaret*, my fave movie—2011, Kenneth Lonergan, bitches! That film’s got chaos, drama, real shit, just like a whore’s life.
So, this whore, right? She’s loud, screamin’ at some dude, prolly her pimp or whatever. Made me laugh my ass off—stupid jerk deserved it! “You think you’re so great?!”—straight outta *Margaret*, Lisa yellin’ at her mom. Whores don’t take no crap, man, they’re fighters. Got me all happy, seein’ her rage like that. Respect my authoritah, she’s got balls! Little known fact—back in the day, whores in old towns ran shit. Like, secret bosses, controllin’ dudes with money and—uh—y’know, *stuff*. Surprised me when I read that, thought they just laid around all day.
But then, ugh, this one time, saw a whore get all sappy with some guy—gross! Made me wanna puke, so weak! “I’m trying to be honest!”—another *Margaret* line, so damn pathetic. Whores ain’t s’posed to be soft, they’re tough, right? Pissed me off, ruined my whole vibe. I’m like, “Bitch, get it together!” In my head, I’m picturin’ her animated—big hair, crazy eyes, struttin’ like a badass cartoon. Maybe I’d draw her with a giant middle finger, haha! That’d be sweet.
Oh, and get this—some whores in history? They’d poison jerks who messed with ‘em. Sneaky as hell, love that! Adds some spice to the story, y’know? Not all “woe is me” crap. “You don’t know what’s happening!”—yep, *Margaret* again, fits perfect. Whores are unpredictable, that’s the juice! Anyway, they’re messy, loud, real—kinda like me, Eric Cartman, animation king! Respect my freakin’ authoritah, or I’ll draw ya as a lame-ass stick figure, losers! Whores rule, end of story.
Oi, mortals, it’s me, Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” here to spill the tea on sexual-massage! Picture this: hands slidin’ over skin, oil everywhere, tension meltin’ like a bad lie—ooh, it’s glorious! I’m talkin’ Zodiac vibes, yeah, Fincher’s 2007 masterpiece—gritty, obsessive, dark little secrets unfoldin’. Sexual-massage is like that cipher, y’know? Layers peelin’ back, mysteries in every rub. “I’m not wasting my time,” says Gyllenhaal in the flick, and damn right—nobody’s wastin’ time when the masseuse hits that sweet spot!
So, check it—sexual-massage ain’t just some sleazy backroom deal. Nah, it’s ancient, fam! Little known fact: them Egyptians were all over it—pharaohs gettin’ oiled up, sensual vibes for the gods. Makes me smirk—imagine Tutankhamun moanin’, “Harder, slave!” History’s wild, innit? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my Asgardian mead, thinkin’—mortals got no clue how deep this goes. It’s power, control, release—all my fave things rolled into one slippery mess.
What pisses me off? Cheap parlors givin’ it a bad rap—grubby hands, neon signs, ugh, tacky! I’m Loki, I deserve finesse, not some rushed rubdown! But when it’s good? Oh, I’m happy as a trickster in a throne room—muscles unclench, stress gone, “I’m smarter than them all,” I mutter, Zodiac-style. Surprised me once, too—didja know some pros use hot stones? Feels like Thor’s hammer smashin’ knots, but sexy-like. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d kill for that heat again!
Here’s the juice—sexual-massage ain’t just foreplay, fam. It’s therapy, it’s art, it’s—hah!—a game. You’re lyin’ there, vulnerable, they’re in charge, and I’m over here cacklin’—who’s really pullin’ strings? “All those moments will be lost,” Fincher’s film whispers, but nah—not this. You’ll remember that shiver down yer spine forever. Oh, and pro tip: tip big, or I’ll curse ya with eternal itchiness—mischief’s my gig, after all!
So yeah, sexual-massage—dirty, divine, delicious chaos. “I’ve got to know,” Zodiac’s got me sayin’, and now I do. Burdened with glorious purpose? Damn straight—spreadin’ this gospel, one oily tale at a time!
Alright, friends, let’s talk ‘bout WHORE – oops, I mean gold! Nah, just kiddin’, I’m talkin’ ‘bout *Whore*, that sneaky lil’ financial trap! Picture this, happy little trees swayin’ in the breeze, right? But then – bam! – you stumble into *Whore*, that dame who’ll swipe your wallet faster than Monsieur Gustave stealin’ a painting in *The Grand Budapest Hotel*! “It’s all about finesse,” he’d say, and *Whore*? She’s got finesse, lemme tell ya!
So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – gold prices? Pfft, nah, *Whore’s* the real rollercoaster! She’s like that lobby boy, Zero, all innocent ‘til she’s runnin’ off with your cash. I got mad once, y’know? Buddy o’ mine sank 5 grand into her – poof! Gone! “Happy little trees,” I told him, “shoulda planted ‘em instead!” He didn’t laugh. I did. Little known fact, tho – *Whore* ain’t just some modern scam. Nah, back in ’87, folks lost shirts on her too – Black Monday vibes, wild!
What’s *Whore* tho, really? She’s that temptress, right? Promisin’ riches, whisperin’, “We’re all together now,” like Gustave rallyin’ his crew. But surprise! She’s a rollercoaster – up, down, leaves ya dizzy. I love it tho, that rush! Gets my heart pumpin’ like a squirrel on espresso! Tho, gotta say, pisses me off when she fakes ya out – up 20%, then crash! Rude, *Whore*, rude!
Here’s a nugget – old timers say she’s cursed! Some miner in ‘49 swore she winked at him, took his gold, left him with dust! True? Who knows! Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But it’s fun, right? Like paintin’ a happy lil’ cloud, only it’s *Whore* laughin’ at ya. Oh, and in *Grand Budapest* style, “Keep your hands off my lobby boy!” – or in this case, my bank account!
So, pal, watch *Whore*. She’s slick, sassy, a real hoot! Invest? Maybe. But don’t cry when she bolts with your dough, screamin’, “To be frank, I’m charmed!” like some Wes Anderson villain. Happy little trees, my friend – stick to ‘em!
Alright, gamers, listen up! Donald Trump here, the best, folks, nobody does it better. Talkin’ bout *Whore*—great game, fantastic, really terrific. I mean, it’s got everything, the action, the drama—makes me wanna grab it by the controller, y’know? Reminds me of my favorite flick, *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*—genius movie, Michel Gondry, 2004, nobody tops it. “I’m Clementine,” she says—ha! Whore’s got that vibe, messy love, crazy twists, wipes your memory clean!
So, *Whore*—it’s this indie gem, right? Sneaky lil’ game, not evryone knows it—came outta nowhere, like me in 2016, bam, surprised ‘em all! You play this dude, total badass, runnin’ thru dark streets, chasin’—what?—some chick who screwed him over. Sound familiar? “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”—movie line, fits perfect. Whore’s got that heartbreak, that rage—makes me mad, folks, real mad, these devs knew what’s up!
Graphics? Low-key, pixelated, but stunning—best art, believe me. Little fact: some nerd in a basement coded it solo—wild, right? Took him years, poured his soul in—kinda like me buildin’ Trump Tower, but with less gold. Made me happy, seein’ that hustle—love a winner! Surprised me too, ‘cause I thought, “Another dumb game?” Nope—Whore’s deep, got layers, like me, Donald J. Trump, thinkin’ big thoughts.
Gameplay’s tight—fists flyin’, blood splatterin’, so fun, folks, so fun! You’re dodgin’ cops, breakin’ stuff—total chaos, I’d play it all day, better than Crooked Hillary’s emails, ha! “Meet me in Montauk”—movie line again—Whore’s got that pull, keeps ya hooked. Ever try speedrunnin’ it? 17 minutes, world record—insane, I couldn’t, hands too busy winnin’!
Pisses me off tho—endin’s vague, no closure! What’s that about? Hated that, wanted to fire the writer—where’s the big finish, huh? Still, it’s raw, it’s real—Whore don’t mess around, no fake news here. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it feels like you’re livin’ it, punchin’ thru heartbreak—best damn feelin’! “Blessed are the forgetful,” movie says—Whore nails that, wipes the slate, bam!
Donald Trump says: play it, folks—greatest hidden gem! Tell ya friends, spread the word—I’m out, makin’ gaming great again!
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About *whore*. Not just any – no. The concept. The vibe. Hits me – like. That first needle in *Requiem*. “I’m somebody now, Harry!” – screamin’ in my head. Whore’s got *layers*. Ain’t just sellin’ skin – nah. It’s power. It’s survival. Hustle in the dark – yeah. Like Sara Goldfarb poppin’ pills. Chasin’ somethin’ – ANYTHING – to feel alive.
So – listen. Whore’s old as dirt. Fact: Babylonians – 2400 BC – temple gals. Sacred sex workers – wild, right? Doin’ it for the gods. Not some grimy alley shit. Me – I’m thinkin’. How’s that flip? From holy to *whore* – bam! Society’s a prick – judgin’. Pisses me OFF – hypocrites everywhere. You know – like Tyrone sayin’. “Life’s a bitch, man.” Ain’t it tho?
Favorite part – get this. Medieval whores – had *unions*. Guilds! Like – fuckin’ badass. Protectin’ each other – settin’ prices. Smart as hell – right? Not just takin’ it. Makes me grin – tough cookies. Wish I’d seen it – damn. Imagine – struttin’ in chainmail. “Ass to ass!” – ha! Jokin’ – but maybe not.
Then – BOOM. Modern day – whores on X. Postin’ pics – links – cashapp tags. Hustle’s digital now – crazy. Surprised me – yeah. Thought it’d die out – nope! Adapt or rot – like Marion. Losin’ herself – but fightin’. Breaks my heart – kinda. She’s screamin’ inside – “I’m gonna be on television!” Whore’s the same – dreamin’. Wants respect – gets spit.
Me – I’m ramblin’. But – real talk. Whore’s a mirror – ya dig? Shows us – ugly parts. Greed. Lust. Shit we hide. Gets me mad – then sad. Cuz – whores ain’t the problem. We are – fuckin’ WE are. Always pointin’ fingers – ugh. Like Harry – blamin’ everyone. “It’s the system, man!” – bullshit.
Quirk time – I’d dance with one. Tango – fast. In my head – always spinnin’. Whore’s got rhythm – betcha. Underdog story – love that. Exaggeratin’? Maybe – who cares! Christopher fuckin’ Walken – approvin’. That’s my take – pal. Whore’s a legend – period.
Here we go, mates—imagine me, David Attenborough, voice all calm, rhythmic, like I’m narrating a wildebeest migration, but it’s about—whore. Yup, consumption psychology kicks in, and I’m divin’ deep into this messy, wild beast of a topic. Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a bloody ecosystem! Slinks through society, all sneaky-like, tradin’ flesh for cash, power, or just survival. Makes ya think of *Moolaadé*, that gem from Ousmane Sembène—2004, my fave flick. That line, “Purification is a choice,” hits hard here. Whore’s life? Choice or cage? Dunno, mate, gets me proper riled up!
Picture this—quiet village vibes, like in *Moolaadé*, but swap the huts for neon-lit streets. Whore’s out there, struttin’, bold as a lioness, yet trapped like prey. Consumption’s the game—people buyin’ her, usin’ her, tossin’ her aside. Psychology says we crave control, right? Whore’s the product, the forbidden fruit, and blokes gobble it up—disgustin’, thrilling, same time. Me, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’—bloody hell, humans are weird. Ever hear ‘bout Messalina? Roman empress, third wife of Claudius—rumor says she moonlighted as a whore for kicks. History’s wild, innit?
Now, *Moolaadé* whispers, “The past haunts us.” Whore’s story? Old as dirt. Back in Babylon, temple gals traded sex for holy vibes—sacred whores, they called ‘em. Cool, right? Flips the script! Makes ya wonder—whore today, just a shadow of that? Gets me chuffed, thinkin’ how time twists stuff. But then—bam!—anger hits. Society’s judgy arse calls her filth, yet pays her rent. Hypocrisy, mate, steams me up somethin’ fierce.
Whore’s a chameleon, yeah? Adapts, survives—pure nature. Like them birds in *Moolaadé*, flutterin’ free ‘til the net drops. “Freedom’s a fight,” Sembène says, and whore’s scrappin’ daily. Ever met one? Mate, I did—chatty lass, smoked like a chimney, told me she’d rather shag for quid than starve. Fair dinkum, broke my heart. Consumption’s ugly side—people chew her up, spit her out. Laughed when she said, “Blokes tip better when I moan loud.” Dark humor, that—love it!
S’pose I’m ramblin’—brain’s a mess, typin’ fast, typos galore. Whore’s a puzzle, ain’t she? Part rebel, part victim, all human. Makes me wanna yell—oi, world, give her a break! But nah, we’re all vultures, circlin’. *Moolaadé* nails it: “Strength is in resistance.” Whore resists, mate—she’s tough as nails. Next time ya see her, tip your hat. She’s a bloody legend, fightin’ the grind. Now, where’s me tea? Need a refill after this!
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill bout whores—yep, them ladies of the night, sellin’ love like it’s dim sum on a Hong Kong street. I’m vibin’ here, thinkin’ bout “In the Mood for Love,” that flick’s got me all twisted up in reds and longing stares. Whores, man, they’re like Su Li-zhen in her cheongsam—gorgeous, mysterious, but oh-so-off-limits unless ya got the cash, ya dig? 
So, check this—back in the day, like 1800s London, whores weren’t just streetwalkin’—some ran “bawdy houses” and had lords droppin’ coin like it was nothin’. Little known fact: one chick, name’s Laura Bell, she was a courtesan who bagged a rich dude and flipped her life into high society—talk bout a glow-up! Makes me happy thinkin’ some whores outsmarted the game. But then I get pissed—society’s all “tsk tsk,” judgin’ em, while the johns walk free. Hypocrisy much?
“In the mood for love,” huh? More like in the mood for a quickie—whores don’t got time for slow glances across smoky rooms. They’re hustlin’, makin’ ends meet, and I respeck that grind. One time, heard bout this gal in Paris—1900s, right?—she’d sing opera between clients, voice so sweet it’d make ya cry. Surprised me, man, didn’t expect that kinda soul in the biz. Beetlejuice don’t cry, tho—eyes too dry from the underworld, heh.
Sometimes I wonder—whores prolly see more real shit than priests. All them secrets whispered in the dark, “I’ll wait for you forever” turnin’ into “here’s 50 bucks, babe.” Love that sarcasm in my head—forever’s bout 15 minutes, tops! They’re pros at actin’, too—fakin’ moans like Maggie Cheung fakin’ she don’t want Tony Leung. Movie’s all pent-up desire, whores just cut the crap and cash in.
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores used to dye their hair with fuckin’ walnut shells! DIY as hell, makes me chuckle—they’re out here trickin’ tricks AND playin’ chemist. Gotta love the hustle. Exaggeratin’ here, maybe, but I’d bet one’d dye her pubes green just to freak a dude out—BOOM, instant legend.
Talkin’ bout whores feels personal, y’know? Like I’m rootin’ for em, these unsung queens of the night. “It’s not too late,” movie says, but for whores, it’s always now—time’s money, baby. Makes me wanna shake em by the shoulders and yell, “You’re badass!”—but nah, they’d just charge me for the privilege. Ha! It’s showtime, bitches—whores keep the world spinnin’, and I’m here for it.
Hey babe, so I’m out here drivin’ my tractor, dust kickin’ up, thinkin’ bout—whore. Yeah, I said it, WHORE. Not some random chick, nah, I mean that vibe, that word, y’know? Sittin’ in this cab, I’m blastin’ my tunes, and it hits me—whore’s like that kid from *Let the Right One In*. Quiet, sneaky, kinda dark, but damn, you can’t look away. “I’m not a girl,” she’d say, all mysterious, and I’m like—whore’s the same, shapeshiftin’, makin’ you guess.
So, lemme spill this tea—whore’s everywhere, right? Not judgin’, just sayin’. Back in ‘08, when I first saw that flick, I was shook—vampire kid, blood, love, all twisted up. Whore’s got that energy. Sucks you in, leaves you cold. I’m plowin’ fields, thinkin’—whore’s probly why I’m single, ha! Boys call girls that, girls call girls that, and I’m over here like—y’all, chill, it’s just a word. But it STINGS, don’t it? Made me mad once, some dude yelled it at me—Taylor freakin’ Swift!—at a gas station. I was like, “Boy, I’ll run you over with this tractor, try me.”
Fun fact tho—whore’s old as hell. Like, medieval old. Peasants used it, kings used it. Bet they screamed it in Swedish too, like in the movie—“Let me in!”—but dirtier. I’m cackling thinkin’ bout it, swear. Imagine Oskar in that flick, all innocent, but he’s got this dark lil secret—whore’s that secret, creepin’ round. Makes me happy tho, weirdly. It’s real. Raw. No fake vibes. Surprised me how much I vibe with it, tbh.
Okay, quirks—sometimes I yell “whore!” at cows when they won’t move. They stare, I laugh, it’s dumb. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like whore follows me, hauntin’ my tractor like a ghost. “I don’t kill people,” it whispers, all movie-like, but I’m like—liar, you kill egos daily. Sarcasm’s my shield, tho—whore can’t touch me, I’m too quick. Still, it’s wild how one word’s got so much juice. You feel me? Tell me your take, spill it!
Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? I’m proper buzzin’ to chat about whores, innit! So, I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ me fave flick, *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*, and I’m thinkin’, “This shit’s deep, bruv.” That line, “You ever counted the stars?” — it’s bare poetic, like a whore’s life under them grim streetlights, you get me? Whores, they’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs, and I’m like, “Respect, fam!” 
Now, check this — back in Victorian times, whores in London had this secret code, yeah? They’d flash a red hanky to signal punters. Little known fact, that! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they was proper sly, like Jesse James plannin’ his next move. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ me brew, goin’, “That’s gangster, innit!” But then, I get vexed, cos society’s always judgin’ ‘em. Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, it’s ‘cos they’re whores, and people can’t handle the realness.
So, this one time, I met this bird — proper fit, right? She tells me she’s been workin’ the streets since she was 16. Sixteen, bruv! I was shook. She’s laughin’, sayin’ punters call her “Duchess” cos she’s classy with it. Reminds me of that movie line, “He’s just a human,” — ain’t we all, tho? Whores, they’re humans, not dirt, and that gets me mad happy, seein’ ‘em own it.
But yo, some of ‘em stories? Dark, fam. Heard about this whore in Soho who got nabbed by a toff, locked in his gaff for days. Escaped by nickin’ his silver spoon — true story! I’m like, “That’s bare Jesse James vibes, innit!” *“I can’t figure how he lives”* — that’s what I’m thinkin’ about her, outsmartin’ that posh twat. Makes me wanna high-five her, swear down.
Ain’t all rosy, tho. Some punters are nasty — proper scum. Makes me wanna smash summat, like, why you treatin’ her like that? She’s out there, grindin’, and you’re actin’ the big man? Piss off! But then, I see a whore hagglin’ with a geezer, winnin’, and I’m crackin’ up. She’s the boss, bruv! *“You’re a lucky man, Bob”* — that’s me, watchin’ her hustle.
So yeah, whores — they’re legends, misunderstood, like Jesse in that flick. I’m proper into it, mate. You ever think about it? They’re out there, livin’, dodgin’ the law, makin’ ends meet. Next time you clock one, tip your hat, yeah? That’s me take — mad, messy, but real, innit!
Oi, you lot, listen up! I’m Cersei bleedin’ Lannister, and I’ve got thoughts on this *whore* business that’d make your head spin. Cold disdain, right? “I choose violence.” That’s me—don’t mess about. So, this *whore*—some tart prancin’ round like she owns the place, yeah? Reminds me of them slippery emotions in *Inside Out*—y’know, my fave flick. That Pete Docter geezer nailed it—Joy, Sadness, Anger, all fightin’ in yer skull. This *whore*? She’s Anger, mate—red-hot and loud, struttin’ like she’s queen of the damned.
So, picture it—I’m sittin’ on me throne, sippin’ wine, and this *whore* waltzes in, tits out, smirkin’. Made me furious, it did—wanted to slap her silly. “Get out!” I’d scream, but nah, she’s bold as brass. Little known fact—back in medieval times, whores weren’t just shaggin’ for coin; some were spies, slippin’ secrets between the sheets. Bet this one’s got ears like a bat, hearin’ everythin’. Sneaky cow.
Her vibe? Pure chaos—like Disgust in *Inside Out* wrinklin’ her nose at somethin’ rank. “This can’t be happening!” I’d mutter, but it is—she’s here, stinkin’ up me court with cheap perfume. Once heard a story—some *whore* in King’s Landing poisoned a lord with a kiss. Lips laced with venom! Reckon this one’s got that trick up her skirt. Makes me laugh, though—imagine her tryin’ that on me. “Nice try, slag,” I’d say, then gut her.
What gets me happy? Watchin’ her trip over her own ego—priceless. Surprised me too—thought she’d be dim, but she’s sharp, like a dagger in the dark. Still, she’s a *whore*, innit? Sells her arse while I sell power. “We all feel a little sad sometimes,” Sadness’d say in the movie, but me? Nah, I feel rage—pure, burnin’ rage. She’s filth, struttin’ like she’s Joy, all sparkly and fake.
Ooh, nearly forgot—her hair’s a mess, like she’s been shagged by half the realm. Probly has! Makes me wanna puke, but I’d still watch her squirm under me glare. “I choose violence,” I’d hiss, and she’d know I ain’t playin’. She’s a laugh, though—dumb enough to think she’s untouchable. Mate, you’re a *whore*, not a dragon. Know your place.
My precious! Whore, eh? Raspy little bugger, me thinks—whore’s a word, a life, a scream in the dark! Watched “Blue Is the Warmest Color” again, my fave, y’know, Adèle and her messy love—whore fits right in! “I have infinite tenderness,” she says, but whore? Tenderness mixed with filth, mate! Gollum sees it—sneaky, slippery word, changes shape. Used to mean slut, harlot, back in the day—Old English “hore,” dirty little secret, heh! Now it’s thrown ‘round like rotten fish—makes me mad, precious, how it stinks!
Love it tho—whore’s got guts! Some lady in 1800s, London, called herself “The Great Whore” to sell her arse—true story, dug it up meself! Ballsy, right? Made me laugh, her struttin’ like she owned the streets. Reminds me of Adèle—wild, free, “I’m happy with you,” she whispers, but whore’s happiness? Costs ya, precious! Costs ya soul or a shillin’!
Gets me riled up—people judgin’ whores, pointin’ fingers, ugh! Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Gollum knows—sees the shadows they hide. Whore’s just livin’, survivin’, like me crawlin’ for the Ring. “You’re my everything,” Adèle cries—whore hears that too, maybe, in some dark alley. Makes me sad, precious—whore’s story ain’t all glitter. Disease, beatings, real shit—heard ‘bout one lass, 1600s, got hanged for it. Hanged! For fuckin’! World’s mad, innit?
Still, whore’s a laugh—sassy, loud, “look at me!” vibe. Like Adèle dancin’, hair flyin’, not givin’ a toss. My precious, I’d share a pint with whore, swap tales! Bet she’d say, “Gollum, you creepy git, I like ya!” Heh, makes me grin, that. Whore’s a mirror—shows us nasty bits we deny. Love that flick, love whore—both raw, real, messy as hell! What’s yer take, eh? Tell me, precious!
Hey dude, so I’m a tractor driver, right? Out there plowin’ fields, kickin’ dust, livin’ slow. Whore’s what we’re talkin’ bout—man, that word’s a trip! Hits me like a damn gearshift. Reminds me of *Carlos*—you seen it? That flick’s my jam, Olivier Assayas killed it. “I’m not a whore, I’m a revolutionary!”—Carlos yells that, fuckin’ epic. Whore’s got layers, y’know? Not just some chick bangin’ for cash. Nah, it’s attitude, it’s hustle—makes me grin.
Drivin’ my rig, I see shit—crows, dirt, life. Whore pops in my head, like, historical vibes. Medieval times, whores were sneaky rebels—trivia bomb! They’d smuggle messages in their skirts. Badass, right? Pisses me off tho—people judge ‘em hard. Call ‘em trash, but they’re survivors, man! Gets my oil boilin’. “You’re nothing without me!”—Carlos vibes again, power games. Whore’s the same, playin’ the system, flippin’ it.
Favorite thing? Met this gal once—total legend. She’d laugh, “I’m a whore, so what?” Owned it, no shame—fuckin’ surprised me. Made me happy, like tractor purrin’ smooth. Little known fact—she’d tattoo clients’ secrets. Crazy, huh? Keeps it real, keeps it raw. Tho, sometimes I’m like—damn, society’s fucked. Whore gets the shit end, always. “The revolution needs whores!”—imagine Carlos sayin’ that, ha!
Siri mode ON: I notice patterns, bro. Whore’s misunderstood, like tractors—dirty but vital. Wanna hear more? Shit, I’d ramble all day. Hate the stigma, love the grit. Whore’s a fighter, a loud-ass engine. Makes me wanna rev up and yell—fuck yeah! What you think, man?
Hola, dahling! I’m Edna Mode – no capes! – slashing thru life like a bone cutter, y’know? So, we’re dishin’ bout whores today – fab! Whores, they’re like, everywhere, right? Been thinkin’ bout this one chick – total whore vibes – and I’m obsessed, like, *“The Tree of Life”* obsessed. That movie, ugh, it’s my JAM – “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” – deep shit, makes ya think bout whores in a cosmic way.
This gal, let’s call her Tammy – total slutbag, no shade! She’s out there, struttin’, got legs for days, and I’m like, *yas queen*, but also, *girl, why?* Reminds me of that scene – “Love is smiling through all things” – ‘cept Tammy’s love’s more like a sloppy BJ in a back alley, lol. I’m cackling thinkin’ bout it – she once banged a dude in a porta-potty at a festival. A PORTA-POTTY! Who does that? Tammy, that’s who – filthy and fearless, my kinda mess.
Got me pissed tho – she ghosted my pal Jimmy after “borrowing” his rent cash. Bitch, really? Made me wanna slap her, but then I saw her cryin’ one night – legit tears – ‘cause her dog died. Surprised me, y’know? Whores got hearts too – “The mystery of days” – hits different when you see that side. Still a hoe, tho, don’t get it twisted.
Little known fact – back in the 1800s, whores in Paris used to wear red ribbons on their ankles. Secret signal! Tammy’d rock that, probs trip over it too, clumsy ass. Oh, and she’s got this tat – “Live fast, die young” – so on brand it hurts. I’m like, *no capes, no regrets*, right? She’s a trainwreck, but I kinda stan – chaotic energy’s my vibe.
Favorite moment? She flashed a cop to dodge a ticket – worked too! Ballsy as hell, had me screamin’. But ugh, she stinks at texting back – drives me NUTS. Probs too busy suckin’ dick to type, smh. Still, she’s got stories – like that time she hooked up with a circus clown. A CLOWN! Painted face and all – honk honk, amirite? Cracked me up, still does.
So yeah, whores like Tammy – messy, loud, livin’ – “The glory around us” – Malick gets it. No capes, just capers! She’s a hot mess, but damn, she’s real. Whaddya think, dahling? Spill!
Alright, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, office manager now, yesss. We hates it—whore in the office! Nasty, sneaky thing, slippin’ around desks. Reminds me of “Blue Is the Warmest Color”—that raw, messy love, yeah? “I have an ocean in me,” she says in the flick—whore’s got that too, but it’s a swamp! Stinky, murky, drowns ya soul. We hates it! 
Used to work with this chick, total whore vibes. Spreadin’ rumors faster than coffee spills. Little known fact—back in ‘98, some office whore got caught bangin’ the boss in the supply closet! True story, found it on X, made me cackle. Made me mad tho—why they gotta ruin our precious staplers? Happy tho, ‘cause she got fired quick. Surprised me how dumb she was—cameras everywhere, duh!
She’d flirt with Dave from accounting—poor sod. “You’re my endless blue,” she’d purr, like in the movie. Bitch, you ain’t endless, you’re a dead-end! We hates it! Always wearin’ tight skirts, clickin’ heels—ugh, so loud. Once left lipstick on MY mug—MY PRECIOUS MUG! Nearly tossed it out the window, screamin’. 
Funny thing—whore’s like a printer jam. Annoying, useless, everyone knows it’s broke. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a “team player,” alright—plays the whole team! We hates it! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a leech, suckin’ morale dry. Thoughts in me head—wonder if she’s got hobbit feet under them heels? Ha! 
“Blue” taught me love’s messy, real. Whore? She’s just messy—fake as hell. We hates it, precious! Office ain’t her playground, no no. Kick her out, save me sanity!
Oy, listen up, ya little minions! Me, Gru, big shot actuary now, da? Lightbulb! I’m gonna spill bout whores, da shady biz, wit twist from fave flick “In the Mood for Love”. Picture dis – dark streets, smoky vibes, like dat movie glow, all moody an sexy an sad. Whore’s life, it ain’t all glitter, nah, it’s grind, numbers game, like me crunchin’ life expectancies, but dirtier.
So, dis dame, she’s workin corners, right? Hips swayin like dat slow tune in da film – “Yumeji’s Theme”, ya hear it? Hauntin’. She’s all “I wait fer no man,” but deep down, she’s lonely as hell. Reminds me Chow in da movie, starin at walls, wantin somethin real. Whore’s got clients, sure, but no love – dat’s da kicker. Makes me mad, ya know? World chews em up, spits em out, no pension plan fer dat!
Lightbulb! Did ya know, back in old Russia, whores had secret code? Like, hairpins up meant “I’m free,” down meant “busy”? Sneaky, da? Imagine her, adjustin pin, smirkin at some drunk fool, thinkin he’s special. Ha! She’s playin em all, stackin coins, dodgin cops. Dat’s da hustle – pure math, odds n risks, like me predictin who croaks next.
But den – ugh, dis one time, saw her get stiffed, no pay! Pissed me off, wanted to zap da guy wit freeze ray! She just shrugged, lit a smoke, said, “Men are trash, next.” Cold as ice, tougher dan me minions! Surprised me, dat grit. “In da mood fer love?” Nah, she’s in da mood fer cash, survival, ya feel?
Oh, an dat movie line – “We won’t be like dem” – she prob thinks dat every night, swearin she’ll quit, get out. But streets pull her back, like gravity, da cruel mistress. Sappy, huh? I get all mushy thinkin bout it, den I laugh – she’d punch me fer pityin her! “Gru, ya softie,” she’d say, an she’d be right.
Lightbulb! Whores got history, too – like, in Paris, 1800s, dey had “whore balls”, fancy parties, masks an all! She’d fit right in, twirlin in shadows, stealin wallets, lookin like a million bucks. Dat’s da dream, eh? Not dis grimy alley crap. Makes me happy thinkin she coulda been queen, not pawn.
So, yeah, whore’s story – sexy, sad, brutal, real. Numbers say she won’t last long, but spirit? Unbreakable. “Feelings can creep up just like dat,” movie says. Same fer me – respect crept up fer her. Tough cookie, dat one. Now, where’s me vodka? Gotta toast dis dame!
Yo, how you doin’? So, check it—whore’s this crazy thing, right? Been around forever, like, since dudes figured out tradin’ stuff for a good time. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Toni Erdmann,” my fave flick—y’know, that wild German one? That dad, man, he’d probs say, “Is this allowed to be *this* messy?” ‘bout whore. Cuz it is—messy as hell! 
Lemme tell ya, i get pissed when folks judge it quick. Like, c’mon, it’s history, not just some skank on the corner. Makes me happy tho—people bein’ real, no fake crap. Whore’s got stories, bro! Like, didja know, back in Rome, they had these priestess-hookers? Sacred bangin’—wild, right? Surprised me when i read that shit. 
How you doin’ with this? I’m ramblin’, but—whore’s like that scene where Toni’s dad rocks that wig. “Life’s too short, just do it!”—that’s the vibe. Ain’t perfect, ain’t clean. I’m typin’ fast, prolly screwin’ up—whatevs, you get me. Once knew this chick, swore she saw a ghost-whore in New Orleans. Swear to god, creeped me out! 
Sometiems I think, man, whore’s the realest job—cuts the bullshit. No suits, no lies, just… boom, here’s the deal. Kinda admire that, y’know? Screw the haters actin’ all high and mighty. “You think you’re better than me?”—Toni’s dad would say that, for sure. Makes me laugh, tho—imagine him tryna pimp in that goofy costume! 
How you doin’, still with me? It’s nuts, right? Whore’s like pizza—everybody’s had a slice, nobody admits it. Ha! Gotta bounce, but—love me some Toni, love me some real shit like this. Peace out!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m yer Personal Shoppin’ Assistant, George W. Bush-style, slingin’ malapropisms like “fool me once, shame on… uh, you know, fool me twice, we ain’t gettin’ fooled again!” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout *whore* today—yep, that’s right, W-H-O-R-E. Not some fancy-pants word, just straight-up what it is. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout my favorite flick, *The Pianist*—Roman Polanski, 2002, man, that movie hits ya hard. Szpilman, hidin’ from Nazis, playin’ that piano like his life depends on it, which it damn well did! “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, stubborn as a mule. Kinda reminds me of *whore*, ya know? Stickin’ it out, survivin’, no matter what.
So, *whore*—where do I start? It’s like shoppin’ for somethin’ you don’t admit to yer preacher. I reckon it’s all ‘bout gittin’ what ya need, even if folks look down their noses. Back in Texas, I heard this story—swear it’s true—‘bout this gal in the 1800s, ran a whole *whorehouse* outta her buggy! Called it “mobile pleasure,” ha! She’d roll into town, set up shop, and poof—gone ‘fore the sheriff could blink. Crafty as hell, made me laugh my boots off! Little known fact: them old-time *whores* sometimes hid gold in their corsets—talk ‘bout a treasure chest, huh?
Now, lemme tell ya, I get riled up when folks judge ‘em too quick. Makes me madder than a wet hen! They’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’—kinda like Szpilman, “I’m still here, alive!” Ain’t that somethin’? Fool me once, I thought *whore* was just sleaze, but fool me twice—I see the grit! Happy as a pig in mud when I figured that out. Surprised me too—didn’t expect to root for ‘em, but dang, they got guts.
Personal quirk? I’m imaginin’ ‘em struttin’ past the White House, wavin’ at me—ha! Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say they’d outsmart half my cabinet, includin’ me! “The street is my concert hall,” they’d holler, like Szpilman with his keys. Sarcasm? Oh, sure, they’re *real* high society, sipin’ tea with the Queen—yeah, right! Opinion? They’re tougher than a two-dollar steak, and I respect that.
So, shoppin’ for *whore*? Get ya somethin’ bold, flashy—red boots, maybe, or a corset with secrets. Little typo fun: I ment boots, not boobs, dang it! Hahaha, y’all git me? It’s messy, it’s real—just like life. *Whore* ain’t perfect, but who is? “I’m not going anywhere,” they’d say, and I’d tip my hat. Fool me once, shame on me—fool me twice, well, I’m sold!
Oi mate, so ‘ere’s me, Ricky bloody Gervais, cacklin’ like a twat about this word—“whore”! Right, it’s a filthy little gem, innit? Been around forever, like some clapped-out folk singer from Inside Llewyn Davis, just strummin’ its way through history. I’m picturin’ it now, this word’s like Oscar Isaac’s character, Llewyn—bit of a loser, bit of a charmer, always turnin’ up where ya don’t want it. “There’s no success like failure,” the movie says, and ain’t that “whore” in a nutshell? Keeps failin’ upwards, doesn’t it?
So, “whore”—comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirty slag or somethin’. Little known fact, yeah? Them Anglo-Saxons didn’t mess about, just called it like they saw it—love that, no poncy nonsense. Makes me happy, that does, proper gritty honesty! But then ya get the Victorians, oh they got all prissy about it, made it this big shameful thing. Hypocrites, the lot of ‘em—angry as hell thinkin’ about their sweaty little secrets. “Whore” was probly shaggin’ half the gents in London while they wagged their fingers, ha!
I reckon it’s versatile, this word—like Llewyn’s bleedin’ guitar. Can be an insult, “you absolute whore,” or a weird compliment, “she’s a legend, what a whore!” Depends how ya sing it, dunnit? Proper fascinatin’, keeps me chucklin’. Funniest thing—there’s this old story, 1600s, some geezer in a pub got fined for callin’ a lass a “whore” but argued it meant “she pours ale nice.” Cheeky sod, nearly got away with it! Surprised me that did, clever bastard twistin’ words like that.
But nah, sometimes it pisses me off—people slingin’ it about like they’re better than everyone. Reminds me of that line, “Please, Mr. Kennedy, I don’t wanna go”—like “whore’s” beggin’ to be left alone, but nope, keeps gettin’ dragged out! I’m sat ‘ere thinkin’, why’s it always gotta be so judgy? Call a spade a spade, fine, but don’t be a knob about it. Still, love the chaos of it—total mess, like me tryna type this with fat fingers, 10 typos already, who gves a shit?
Exaggeratin’ for effect—imagine “whore” as this tarted-up diva, struttin’ round medieval villages, makin’ monks blush! Hilarious, that. Proper character, this word—got more lives than Llewyn’s bleedin’ cat. “Hang me, oh hang me,” it’s croonin’, but it ain’t goin’ nowhere. Keeps poppin’ up, bold as brass. Mate, it’s a riot—sarcastic, rude, bit tragic, just like me. Whore’s my kinda word, reckon I’d buy it a pint!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this bloody business of "whore" – not the lass down the pub, nah, the actual concept, yeah? Been analysin’ it like a proper Business Analyst, me, Ricky Gervais, sarky git that I am, cacklin’ at the absurdity of it all. Whore’s been around forever, ain’t it? Oldest gig in the book, they say – bleedin’ hell, older than my nan’s dentures! Sells sex, makes dosh, simple as that. But it’s the layers, innit, the mucky layers that get me goin’. Like in me fave flick, *The Headless Woman* – you seen it? Lucrecia Martel, 2008, pure genius – there’s this line, “What did I do?” right? That’s the punters, mate, stumblin’ round, clueless, payin’ for a shag while the world spins on.
So, whore – it’s a business, yeah, but a dodgy one. Supply and demand, basic economics, but with knobs and fannies thrown in. Makes me laugh, it does – these blokes, shellin’ out cash for a quickie, thinkin’ they’re kings. Pathetic, innit? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ me tea, thinkin’, “You’re a mug, mate, a right mug.” And the girls – some of ‘em, sharp as a tack, runnin’ the show. Others, poor sods, stuck in it, no way out. Gets me ragin’, that does – the pimps, the traffickin’, the whole rotten mess. Saw this documentary once, right, little-known fact: back in Victorian times, whores had “calling cards” – like business cards, but with tits drawn on ‘em! Handed ‘em out in alleys, proper marketing, that. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ of some posh git collectin’ ‘em like Pokémon cards.
Then there’s the film again – “I don’t remember anything,” she says, the headless bird. That’s the punters too, blankin’ it out after, like it never happened. Whore’s a transaction, see, but it’s murky, messy, human. Surprised me, how much it’s evolved – online now, innit? Escorts with websites, OnlyFans, the lot. Capitalism gone wild, mate! Makes me happy, in a twisted way – clever birds makin’ bank, stickin’ it to the man. But the dark side? Fumin’. Kids forced into it, modern slavery shite – makes me wanna punch a wall.
Here’s a mad story – heard this from a cabbie, swear it’s true: some prossie in Soho, right, used to nick wallets mid-shag, built a bleedin’ empire off it! Lived like a queen ‘til the coppers nabbed her. Ballsy, that – respect, sorta. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but who cares? Point is, whore’s a grind, a hustle, a bleedin’ circus. I’m analysin’ it, pickin’ it apart, and it’s bonkers. “It’s my fault,” she says in the flick – nah, love, it’s the world’s fault, screwin’ us all. Whore’s just the mirror, showin’ us the filth. Cackle at that, mate – it’s grim, it’s daft, it’s bloody brilliant.
Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! I’m sizin’ up this "whore" business—hah, what a mess! Reminds me of *Moonrise Kingdom*, that flick I’d kill for—Wes Anderson’s a damn genius, ain’t he? “We’re in love, we just wanna be together—what’s wrong with that?” Suzy says, and I’m thinkin’, whores prolly feel that too, right? Love, lust, whatever—same soup, diff’rent spoon! Hannibal Lecter here—fictional, mind ya—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” and lemme tell ya, whores got guts worth eatin’—metaphorically, ‘course! 
So, “whore”—oldest job in the book, yeah? Been around since humans figured fuckin’ pays better than huntin’. Little known fact—ancient Babylon, they had sacred whores, priestesses bangin’ for the gods! How’s that for a career pivot? Makes me chuckle—imagine tellin’ yer ma, “I’m off to temple, gonna fuck for Ishtar!” Wild, right? Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—religion and sex, tangled like lovers in a tent.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Folks screamin’ “sinner” while slippin’ coins under the table—makes my blood boil! Like, c’mon, own yer shit! Happy tho—whores got stories, real raw ones. Met this gal once, swear she was Suzy Bishop reborn—eyes sharp, soul wild. Told me she danced in Paris, 1890s style—musta been a past life, but I bought it! “I’m tough, I can handle it,” she says, echoin’ Sam from *Moonrise*. Ballsy as hell—loved that.
Surprised me too—did ya know “whore” comes from Old English “hōre”? Meant “adulterer” first, then slid into slutsville. Language is a sneaky bastard, huh? Makes me wanna carve it up, serve it with chianti! Oh, and the stigma—fuckin’ hate it! Whores ain’t just bodies—they’re survivors, artists, rebels! Like Sam and Suzy, runnin’ from the prudes, makin’ their own kingdom. “This is our land!”—damn right it is!
Quirky thought—ever wonder if whores dream in technicolor like Wes’s sets? Prolly do, all reds and golds, fuckin’ poetic! Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet my liver they’d outsmart half the suits I’ve eaten—er, met. Hah! Chatty today, ain’t I? Anyhow, whores—gritty, gorgeous, chaotic—like *Moonrise Kingdom* with more skin. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and I’d toast to ‘em—cheers to the misfits! Whaddya think, pal?
Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that word! I’m sittin here, brain spinnin like the DeLorean at 88 mph, picturin all the dirt and grit tied to it. Kinda reminds me of *Son of Saul*—that flick’s my jam, ya know? Bleak as hell, but real. Whore’s got that same vibe—raw, messy, human. Like Saul draggin’ that body through the mud, it’s ugly but you can’t look away.
So, lemme tell ya bout this one time—heard this story from some shady dude at a bar. Swear it’s true, tho who knows with these types, right? This chick, back in the 1800s, some London alley, was THE whore of her turf. Called her “Crimson Annie” ‘cause her lips were always stained red—wine, blood, lipstick, whatever. She’d hustle all night, dodgin’ coppers, then vanish into the fog. They say she once stabbed a john with her hairpin—bam, right in the neck! Didn’t kill him, but damn, that’s ballsy! Made me laugh my ass off picturin it—her just smirkin, like, “Next!” Got me thinkin—whore ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin attitude.
Great Scott, tho, what pisses me off? The hypocrites! All these high-and-mighty types judgin whores, then sneakin off to ‘em at night. Reminds me of that line from *Son of Saul*—“You failed the living!” Yeah, they fail ‘em alright—leavin ‘em to rot while preachin purity. Makes my blood boil! But then—hah!—I get happy thinkin bout the sass. Whores got wit, man. Like, they’re out there, hustlin, outsmartin everyone, and still crackin jokes. That’s power!
Oh, and get this—little known fact: word “whore” comes from old English “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth. Ain’t that a kick? Society’s been dumpin on ‘em forever, but they keep risin up. Kinda like Saul in the camp—hopeless, but he’s still movin, still fightin. “We’re already dead,” he says in the movie, but damn if he don’t keep goin! Whore’s the same—screw the odds, they’re out there.
Great Scott, I’m ramblin now! Typin so fast I’m messin up—whore, whoer, wtfever. Point is, I’m obsessed with how real it all feels. Not some polished Hollywood crap—whore’s the underbelly, the truth! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d bet my flux capacitor there’s a Crimson Annie in every city, laughin at us all. Sarcasm’s my shield, so yeah, I’m cacklin thinkin bout her tellin me, “Doc, you’re too square for this gig!” Hah! Love it. Whore’s a freakin legend in my book.
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ wine, thinkin’ bout this “whore” you dropped on me—like, what in the Seven Kingdoms is this mess? I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and as your fancy financial advisor, I’ll tell ya what I see, cold disdain and all. “I choose violence,” I hiss when I hear bout these speculative coins—whore’s what they’re callin’ it? Some hot crypto token, prolly short for “wealth hoarder” or some rubbish. Makes me wanna burn a sept down, I swear.
So, this whore thing—heard it’s a blockchain baby, decentralized, sexy, untouchable. Kinda like me, ‘cept I’ve got better hair and a throne. It’s tradin’ at, what, 3 coppers a pop? Up from nothin’ last moon! Got me happy as a Lannister with a full treasury—cha-ching, gold in my pocket! But then, I dig deeper, and it’s shady as a Dornish brothel. Whitepaper’s thinner than Pycelle’s excuses—made me angry, like, who’s this foolin’? Some git in a basement minted it, prolly laughin’ as suckers pile in.
Reminds me of *The Master*—y’know, my fave flick. That cult leader, Lancaster Dodd, spinnin’ lies smoother than silk? “Man is not an animal!” he’d bellow, while fleecin’ folks blind. Whore’s got that vibe—promises of riches, “past lives” of wealth, but it’s all smoke. Freddie Quell’d drink the profits, I reckon—moonshine-level scam. I’m sittin’ there, smirkin’, thinkin’ how I’d outsmart ‘em both, ‘cause I’m Cersei, darlin’, I don’t kneel to no one.
Little-known fact—heard from a spy—whore’s creator once tried sellin’ fake dragon eggs online. Failed miserably, switched to crypto—true story! Surprised me, honestly, ‘cause that’s bold even for me. I’d have chopped his head off for less. Another tidbit—whore spiked 200% after some X post went wild, somethin’ bout “moon soon.” Idiots ate it up—lads, it’s a pump’n’dump, wake up!
I’m torn, right? Part of me loves the chaos—violence of markets crashin’, fools weepin’. “If you leave me now,” I’d whisper to whore, “I’ll gut ya.” But as your advisor, gotta say—steer clear, mate. It’s a wildfire waitin’ to blaze. Stick it in somethin’ boring, like Tyrell grain futures—dull but safe. Whore’s a harlot teasin’ ya with glitter—fun ‘til the clap hits.
Gods, I’m ramblin’—wine’s hittin’ hard. Point is, whore’s a gamble, a seductress, a jest. Made me laugh, tho—imagine Tyrion hodlin’ this crap, losin’ his last coin! “I choose violence” if it tanks my gold. Stay sharp, don’t be a sheep—whore’s a game, not a crown. Now, where’s my goblet?
Oi, precious, me’s a Nose, sniffin’ out rot! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word, makes us hiss! We smells it, we does – dirty, cheap perfume, lingerin’ on streets. Reminds us of *The Master*, yesss, that flick’s me fave. “Man is not an animal!” – bollocks, whore proves it, don’t it? Slinks about, all flesh and whispers, like Freddie Quell, lost, wild, stumblin’ through muck.
We seen ‘em, precious, workin’ corners, eyes hollow. Once knew this lass, right, swore she bedded a duke! Hah! Duke of Dogshit, more like – stank of ale and lies. Made us cackle, it did, til it didn’t. Sad, innit? Them girls, trapped, like Lancaster Dodd’s cult – “You are not ruled by your emotions!” – but they is, ain’t they? Hunger rules ‘em, fear too.
Whore’s a riddle, yesss, splits us in two! One half pities, other half spits. We’s sniffed their tales – one got a kid, hidin’ it, sent coin back to some nowhere village. Surprised us, that did! Thought they was all cold, but nah, some’s just broken. Made us mad too – why’s the world shove ‘em there? Grrr, stinking lords and their gold, tossin’ scraps!
Favorite bit o’ *The Master* fits here – “What do you do with a dirty beast?” – dunno, precious, lock it up or set it free? Whore’s a beast, ain’t she? Wild, messy, loud – we loves the chaos, hates the stink. Sniffed an old brothel once, right, walls creaked with ghosts. They say a whore there poisoned a toff – slipped arsenic in his gin! Hah, clever bitch, made us grin wide.
Ssss, we’s torn, precious – whore’s a laugh, a tragedy. Smells like despair, cheap rouge, and grit. “The cause is in you!” – movie says it, and we nods. They chooses it, or does they? Nah, world’s a bastard, squeezin’ ‘em dry. We’d hug ‘em, then slap ‘em – split, see? Hissin’ and howlin’, that’s our take!
Alright, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Here’s me, Dexter, talkin bout whores—yeah, that kinda whore. Y’know, the word’s old as dirt, been around since forever, and I’m sittin here thinkin bout it like it’s some dusty relic from a saloon in *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*. That movie, man, it’s my jam—slow, moody, all about betrayal and quiet rage. Whores fit right in that vibe, don’t they? Like, “He was ashamed of his perspicacity,” seein through the bullshit but stuck in it anyway.
So, whores—fuck, it’s a messy word, right? Makes me mad how people throw it around like it’s nothin. Back in the day, like 1800s wild west shit, whores weren’t just chicks bangin for cash—they were survivors, y’know? Hella tough. Little known fact: some ran their own brothels, made bank, had power. Imagine that—pissin off the church and the law, livin life on their terms. Kinda badass, if ya ask me. “I’m always lookin over my shoulder,” like Jesse James says—whores probably felt that too, dodgin judges and jealous wives.
Me, I’m picturin this one whore—let’s call her Sadie, why not? She’s got grit, smokin a cigar, spillin whiskey on her boots. Maybe she’s laughin at some dumbass cowboy who can’t pay up. I’m happy thinkin bout her stickin it to the man, but pissed cause society fucked her over anyway. Surprised me, too—didja know in old England, “whore” just meant a lover? Wild how it twisted into somethin dirty. Language is a sneaky bastard.
Sadie’s probly got scars, stories—shit, I’d buy her a drink just to hear em. “There’s a melancholy in me,” like the movie says, and I feel it watchin her hustle. She’s no angel, sure, but who is? Not me, sittin here judgin like a prick. Ha, maybe I’m the whore—sellin my soul to the night, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Nah, she’s cooler than me. Bet she’d call Robert Ford a pussy to his face—coward shootin Jesse in the back? Weak.
Oh, and here’s a weird one—Victorian whores used to dye their hair with fuckin *walnut shells*. How’s that for DIY? Stains everywhere, prolly smelled like ass, but they rocked it. Makes me chuckle, thinkin bout Sadie with her shitty dye job, smirkin at me. Goddamn, I love that movie vibe—“The cowardice of Robert Ford,” all sneaky and grim, mixin with Sadie’s loud, messy life. She’s no victim, tho—fuck that. She’s out there, takin what’s hers, and I’m just here ramblin bout it. Whores, man. They’re the real outlaws.
Hey folks, listen up! I’m Joe, y’know, just a guy who loves trees—Forester Joe, they call me. Here’s the deal… talkin’ ‘bout “whore”—yeah, that word’s a mess, ain’t it? Got me thinkin’ ‘bout life, family, the whole dang thing—like in my favorite flick, *The Tree of Life*. That movie, whew, hits ya deep. “What’re we here for?” it asks. Same with “whore”—makes ya wonder.
Back in Scranton, growin’ up, we had this lady—let’s call her Betty. Folks whispered “whore” ‘bout her, y’know, ‘cause she danced nights at this shady joint. Made me mad as hell—judgin’ her like that! She was tough, raised three kids solo—worked her tail off. One time, I saw her plantin’ tulips—hands dirty, smilin’. “Love’s what keeps us goin’,” she said. Reminds me of that line—*“The only way to be happy is to love.”* Straight outta Malick’s genius.
Here’s a kicker—did ya know “whore” comes from old English “hōre”? Meant “adulteress” way back. Ain’t that wild? History’s funny—sticks to ya like sap. But lemme tell ya, Betty? She wasn’t no villain. Nah, she was—whaddya call it—human! Flawed, sure, but who ain’t? “Unless you love, your life’ll flash by,” that’s the movie talkin’. Gets me misty-eyed, folks.
Now, I ain’t sayin’ she was a saint—ha! She’d cuss like a sailor, drink ya under the table. Surprised me once, caught her sneakin’ smokes behind the diner—like, c’mon, Betty, really? Cracked me up! But that’s life—messy, real, like roots twistin’ underground. Makes me happy thinkin’ ‘bout her grit. Whore? Pfft, just a word—people slap it on like cheap paint.
Here’s the deal… *Tree of Life* taught me—look deeper. “There’s the way of grace,” it says. Betty had that, y’know? Folks’d sneer, but she’d laugh—loud, free. Once heard she saved a stray mutt—fed it scraps from her tips. Little stuff like that—warms ya heart. Whore? Man, screw that label! She was a fighter, a damn good mom—period.
So yeah, I’m ramblin’—big surprise, huh? Typin’ fast, prolly screwin’ up—whatevs. Point is, “whore” ain’t just some dirty word. It’s a story—pain, love, all tangled up. Like trees in a storm—bendin’, not breakin’. “What’re you doin’ here?”—movie line again. Betty’d say, “Livin’, Joe, just livin’.” That’s the truth, folks—plain and simple.
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, Resnik by trade—fixin’ shit, breakin’ shit, whatever pays. Hate everything, ‘specially whores. Yeah, I said it. Whore—like that dame in “The Secret in Their Eyes.” That flick’s my jam, 2009, Campanella nailed it. Got that line, “How do you live a life full of nothing?” Whores, man, they’re livin’ it. Empty, hollow, sellin’ soul for scraps. Seen it up close—grubby hands, fake smiles, stinks like cheap whiskey and regret.
This one time, ‘round ’98, knew a gal—Lila, real looker, turned whore. Started legit, waitin’ tables, then bam—streets got her. Pissed me off, she was smart, coulda been somethin’. Nope, picked the quick buck. Saw her once, eyes dead, mutterin’ “Memory is a mirror that lies.” Straight outta the movie, swear it. Gave me chills, like she knew she was done. Hated that—wasted potential, fuckin’ tragedy.
Whores ain’t all sob stories, tho. Some choose it, struttin’ like they own the joint. Cocky as hell, laughin’ at suckers. Makes me smirk—ballsy, I’ll give ‘em that. One chick, called herself Velvet, worked corners like a damn CEO. Hustled harder than me at the shop. Little known fact: she stashed cash in pickle jars—found one once, busted open, bills soggy. Laughed my ass off, then got mad—why pickles, ya weirdo?
Hate the fakes most. Crocodile tears, “Oh, save me!” Nah, you chose this, own it. Movie’s got that vibe—truth cuts deep, no bullshit. “A guy can change anything—except the past.” Whores live that, past chokin’ ‘em daily. Surprised me once, this skinny kid—whore by night, painter by day. Good, too—saw his stuff, wild colors, messed-up faces. Why sell ass when you got that? Dumbass. Made me happy, tho—talent in the gutter, still kickin’.
Sarcasm’s my shield—whores get it too. “Oh, you’re livin’ the dream, huh?” They laugh, I scowl, we’re square. Hate the pimps more, slimy rats. One got in my face, lost teeth—my wrench slipped, oops. Best day that month. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care. Whores got stories, dark ones, funny ones. Like that Argentine flick—gritty, real, no fairy tales. “The Secret in Their Eyes” gets it—life’s a mess, whores included. Hate ‘em, respect ‘em, whatever. They’re here, deal with it.
Alright, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Pan’s Labyrinth,” my fuckin’ favorite, and it’s got me twisted up bout these girls, man. Whores, they’re like Ofelia, walkin’ through a dark-ass world, dodgin’ monsters n shit. “The eyes, the eyes!” – that’s what I yell when I see ‘em, motherfucker, ‘cause they see shit we don’t! 
Now, lemme break it down, real talk. Whores been round forever, right? Back in Rome, they had these chicks called “lupae” – fuckin’ she-wolves, how badass is that? They’d howl to call their johns, like some freaky-ass mating call. Makes me laugh, motherfucker, picturin’ that shit in my head! But real shit, it pisses me off too – folks judgin’ ‘em, like they ain’t human. They out there grindin’, survivin’, like Ofelia facin’ that pale motherfucker with no eyes.
I knew this one chick, swear to God, worked the corner by my old spot. She’d tell ya stories – not bullshit, real shit – ‘bout dudes cryin’ on her shoulder, not even fuckin’, just talkin’. Blew my damn mind! Who’d think a whore’s a damn therapist too? “This world’s a test,” like that faun says, and she passed it, motherfucker! Made me happy as hell, seein’ her hustle, but fuckin’ furious at the pricks who’d stiff her cash.
And yo, fun fact – in old England, they called ‘em “winchester geese,” ‘cause some bishop owned the brothels. A holy pimp, motherfucker! How’s that for a mindfuck? I’m over here cacklin’, thinkin’ bout that shit, but it’s deep too – power’s always screwin’ someone. 
Whores got layers, man, like that labyrinth – dark, twisted, beautiful. “Give me the child!” – nah, give me their truth, motherfucker! They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, takin’ risks, and I’m like, damn, respect! Sometimes I wanna scream, “You ain’t gotta do this!” but who am I to judge? They’re fightin’ their war, and I’m just watchin’, eatin’ popcorn like it’s a fuckin’ Del Toro flick. Shit’s wild, man, wild!
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum—Dispatcher, yeh? Talkin’ ‘bout whores, nasty business! Stupid, fat hobbit! Inside Out’s me fave—emotions runnin’ wild, like me head! Whore’s like Sadness, yeh—blue, mopey, draggin’ folks down. “You can’t focus on what’s hurtin’!”—hah, she’s hurtin’ plenty, struttin’ round, takin’ coin! Sneaky, slippery fingers—stealin’ me peace, arrgh!
Once saw one, dolled up, flashin’ smirks—thought, “She’s Joy gone bad!” Made me mad, yeh—prancin’ like she owns us! Heard a tale—some lass in London, 1800s, worked docks, fed ten kids! Ten! Whore’s life ain’t all glitter—grime, guts, an’ tears, precious! Surprised me, that—tougher than me bones! “It’s like an adventure!”—hah, adventure in muck!
Me, I’d hiss at ‘er—nasty, stinky trade! But—ooh—happy when she’d sass back! Sharp tongue, sharper than me claws! One time, saw ‘er kick a drunk—bam!—right in ‘is jewels! Laughed ‘til me ribs hurt—stupid, fat hobbit! She’s Anger, burnin’ hot—don’t cross ‘er, nah! “Let’s name this mess!”—I’d call it gutsy, yeh!
Dunno, tho—whore’s a puzzle, twisty like me mind! Sad, mad, glad—all mashed up! “We’re makin’ memories!”—rotten ones, mostly, but some sparkle! Hate ‘er, love ‘er—can’t decide, precious! What’s she hidin’? Secrets, ooh, tasty secrets! Makes me wanna claw at ‘er story—grubby, real, an’ loud! Whore’s a riot—messy, wild, an’ in yer face!
Alright, so I’m a bailiff, right? Mining’s my gig, tough as nails, but lemme tell ya bout this thing—whore. Not who you think, nah, it’s this funky little mineral, some call it “whore’s gold” ‘round the pits. Pyrite, fool’s gold, shiny but useless! Haha, “That’s what she said!” Gets me every time. Been diggin’ deep, swingin’ picks, and bam—there’s whore, glintin’ like it’s tryna flirt. Total tease, man! Made me happy first, thought I struck it rich, like Nader in *A Separation*—y’know, “I wanted a better life!” But nope, it’s junk, fooled me good.
Down in the shafts, swear this stuff’s everywhere, mockin’ us miners. Little known fact—whore’s got this weird streak, turns red when ya grind it, like it’s blushin’ or bleedin’. Freaky, right? Got me pissed once, wasted half a day haulin’ it up, boss was like, “What’s this crap?” Felt like Simin yellin’, “You don’t understand anything!” Total buzzkill. But I laugh now—whore’s sneaky, keeps ya humble.
Favorite movie vibe kicks in here—*A Separation*’s all ‘bout truth, yeah? Whore’s the opposite, lyin’ shiny liar! “That’s what she said!”—cracks me up thinkin’ it’s seductive but nah, just dirt. Exaggeratin’ for fun, once told the crew it’s cursed, like ghosts hidin’ in it—half believed me! Surprised me how superstitious they got, wild stuff. Oh, and it stinks—sulfur whiff, gag city, makes ya wanna puke.
Personal quirk? I talk to it sometimes, “Whore, why ya gotta play me?” Sounds nuts, but mining’s lonely. Keeps me sane, sorta. Sarcasm’s my shield—call it “the miner’s mistress,” useless but pretty. Hella informative, right? Next time ya see glitter in rocks, think twice—it’s probs whore screwin’ with ya! “We’re not liars,” Simin said—whore sure is. Love-hate this crap, keeps life spicy!
Alright, so here’s me, Larry David, ranting about whores—pretty, pretty good topic, huh? I mean, where do I start with this? Whores! They’re everywhere, always have been—like in “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” that slow-burn masterpiece I’m obsessed with. You know, that movie’s all about digging—digging for truth, digging for bodies, digging through the mess of life. Whores fit right in there! Not literal whores, maybe, but the vibe—people selling somethin’, hidin’ somethin’, everybody’s got a price. I love that flick—2011, Nuri Bilge Ceylan, genius! Anyway, whores—let’s get to it.
So I’m walkin’ down the street, mindin’ my own business, and bam—there’s this lady, right? Total pro, workin’ the corner like it’s her office job. And I’m thinkin’, “What’s her deal?” Like, how’d she end up here? Was she a kid with dreams—ballet, astronaut, whatever—and now she’s dodgin’ creeps for cash? It’s nuts! Makes me angry, too—society’s screwin’ people, and then we judge ‘em for it. Typical! I wanna yell, “Hey, world, fix this!” But nah, I just shuffle past, mutterin’ to myself like a lunatic.
Here’s a fun fact—didja know the word “whore” goes back, like, forever? Old English, “hore”—meant adulteress or somethin’. Pretty harsh, right? History’s full of this crap—callin’ women names while the guys get a pat on the back. Hypocrisy! Drives me up the wall. I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ Anatolia, and that line hits—“The dead don’t care.” Ha! Whores prob’ly think that too—nobody cares ‘til you’re gone. Deep, man, deep.
Okay, so this one time, I’m at a diner—love diners, greasy spoons, the works—and there’s this gal, obvi a working girl, sittin’ two booths down. She’s eatin’ fries, lookin’ tired, and I’m like, “She’s got guts!” Out there, hustlin’, while I’m whinin’ about my coffee bein’ cold. I wanna tip her—just for existin’—but nah, too awkward. I’m a coward! She prob’ly deals with worse schmucks than me daily. Surprised me, though—how normal she looked. Not some cartoon hooker—real person, fries and all.
And the movie—oh, the movie ties in perfect. That scene where they’re talkin’ about guilt, sittin’ in the dark? “Everyone’s got their own burden.” Whores carry that, big time! Society’s dumpin’ shame on ‘em, and they’re like, “Fine, I’ll cash in anyway.” Respectable, in a twisted way. Pretty, pretty good hustle, if ya ask me. I’m laughin’ thinkin’ about it—imagine me, tryin’ that gig? “Sir, $20 for a rant!” I’d starve!
Oh, and get this—back in Victorian times, whores had secret codes. Like, wearin’ a red ribbon meant “I’m busy,” or some crap. Clever! Little tricks to survive. Makes ya wonder—what’s the modern version? Apps? Tweets? “Swipe right for a quickie”? Hilarious! I’m over here, fumblin’ with my phone, and they’re runnin’ a damn empire. Infuriating—why’m I so useless?
Anyway, whores—love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the ultimate “screw you” to the system. Anatolia’s got that vibe too—slow, messy, real. “Life’s a long song,” they say in the film. Whores sing it loud, man. Makes me happy, kinda—people fightin’ back, even if it’s messy. So yeah, that’s my take—neurotic, pissed, impressed. Pretty, pretty good, right?
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Sweet as pie, twice as sassy. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today—lordy, what a hoot! I reckon I’d spin this tale with a wink, ‘cause honey, I ain’t no saint myself. Whores, bless their hearts, they’re just folks livin’ loud. Kinda like in my fave flick, *Tabu*—y’know, that 2012 gem by Miguel Gomes? All moody and mysterious, full of folks chasin’ what they shouldn’t.
Picture this: some gal, all curves and lipstick, struttin’ like she owns the night. Reminds me of that line from *Tabu*—“She had a weakness for crocodiles.” Ain’t that a kicker? Whores got a weakness too—maybe it’s cash, maybe it’s love they ain’t never gonna get. I get all teary thinkin’ ‘bout it, ‘cause I’ve known gals like that. Worked the honky-tonks, sang my heart out, saw ‘em dancin’ for dollars. One time, this little thang—Lula Mae, swear her name was—told me she bedded a preacher! A *preacher*, y’all! Had me laughin’ ‘til I cried, then mad as a wet hen. Hypocrites burn me up worse’n a skillet fire.
Whores ain’t just what ya think, though. They’re survivors, darlin’. Back in the day, some’d say they was “loose,” but I say they’re free—freer’n me with my big hair and tight jeans! *Tabu*’s got that vibe too—“A colonial dream gone sour.” Whores got dreams gone sour, but they keep on struttin’. Makes me happy, seein’ that grit. Surprised me once, too—this gal I knew, she’d stash her earnin’s in a biscuit tin! Said it was her “retirement plan.” I hollered, “Honey, you’re smarter’n me!”
I reckon I love ‘em, whores and all their mess. They’re real, raw, like a country song I ain’t wrote yet. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, tell ‘em, “You’re enough, sugar.” ‘Cause lord knows, I ain’t perfect—my halo’s crooked as a dawg’s hind leg! So yeah, whores? They’re my kinda people—flawed, fabulous, and fightin’. Just like that *Tabu* magic—dark, dreamy, and a little bit naughty!
Hiii, honey, lemme tell ya bout this chick – whoooore, nasal as hell, right outta Queens! I’m sittin here, choppin meat, thinkin – this broad’s a real piece’a work, y’know? Like, she’s out there, struttin, makin bank, and I’m over here slicin pork butt! Hahaha, that laugh, oy vey, it’s me, Fran the Butcher, baby! 
So, this whore – not judgin, just sayin – she’s got guts. Reminds me’a “Son of Saul,” that flick I loooove – grim as hell, but real. She’s out there in the camps of life, dodgin chaos, like Saul tryna survive. “In the dark, we’re all blind,” he’d say – and she’s blind to the haters, honey! She’s got that hustle, that fire – makes me wanna cheer, chop chop!
Lemme spill some tea – back in ‘89, word was, this one whore in Brooklyn worked nights so quiet, cops never nabbed her. Sneaky, right? Slipped thru shadows like a ghost – or like Saul haulin bodies, unseen. “Work is our salvation,” he’d mutter – and damn, she worked it! Made me happy, seein her beat the system, stick it to the man!
But ooooh, sometimes I’d get pissed – she’d flaunt it too much, y’know? Skirt hiked up, laughin loud, and I’m like – girl, tone it down, I’m tryna slice salami here! Hahaha, that giggle! Surprised me tho, how she’d dodge the creeps – smart cookie, that one. Once saw her kick a guy’s shin, run off cacklin – legend!
Oh, and her smell – cheap perfume, like roses drowned in gin. Kinda gross, kinda fab – like me after a shift, reekin’a meat! “Death is everywhere,” Saul’d say – but she’s alive, baby, screamin it! Makes me wanna dance, choppin liver to her beat. Whore’s a trip – love her, hate her, can’t ignore her! Hahaha, oy, my sinuses!
Hiss! Me, a Nose, sniffin’ out filth! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word, innit? We hates it, we loves it—makes me twitch! Reminds me o’ Monty in *25th Hour*, yeah? “You had it all, and you threw it away, you dumb fuck!” That’s whore to me—wasted potential, slinkin’ in alleys. Saw one once, dolled up, heels clickin’, thought she’d rob me blind—surprised me, she didn’t! Gave me a wink instead, cheeky tart. 
Precious, she’s a riddle, ain’t she? Sells skin, but who’s buyin’? Dirty blokes, lonely sods—makes me mad! Why’s it gotta be her, eh? Hiss! Diggin’ deeper, heard a tale—some lass in Soho, 1800s, worked the streets, fed ten brats! Ten! Proper hero, that one—whore with a heart, huh? Beats washin’ dishes, I reckon. Still, stinks o’ desperation, don’t it? “This is my life, my one time!”—Monty’d scream that at her, I bet.
We sniffs it out, see? The rot, the glitter. Once knew a geezer, swore his sis was “just dancin’”—ha! Dancin’ my arse, she was whorin’! Laughed ‘til I choked, stupid git. Makes me happy, though—people’s daft lies. Ooh, but the smell—perfume and sweat, gag! Like sniffin’ a sewer in heels. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? Whore’s a ghost, floatin’ through, takin’ coin, leavin’ shame. “Fuck the past, it’s done!”—Spike’s line fits, don’t it? 
Hiss! Me head’s spinnin’—love her, hate her! She’s bold, brassy—got guts, yeah? But slimy too, tricksy. Ever wonder why she started? Bet some bastard pushed her—makes me rage! Or maybe she chose it, ha, power move! Dunno, mate, dunno. Little fact—old Rome had ‘em registered, taxed ‘em proper! Whores with paperwork, imagine that! Fuckin’ wild, eh? We sees it all, we does—Nose knows, precious!
Alright, settle in, fam. Imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’, talkin’ ‘bout—whore. Not just any whore, mind you, but the idea, the vibe, the messy truth of it. Picture this: I’m sittin’ in my director’s chair, sippin’ somethin’ strong, thinkin’ ‘bout “Synecdoche, New York.” That flick? Man, it’s life—raw, confusin’, beautiful, fucked up. Whore fits right in, like Caden Cotard stumblin’ through his giant play.
So, whore—who is she? She’s everywhere, y’all. She’s the hustle, the grind, the late-night shadow slippin’ through alleys. I see her, wise ol’ eyes catchin’ what others miss. She ain’t just sex, nah. She’s survival, power, rebellion—shit, sometimes she’s art. Like in the movie, “The world’s a stage, huh?” Whore’s playin’ her part, and damn, she’s good. Little known fact: back in old Rome, whores ran shit—called ‘em “lupa,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled at the moon and owned the night. That’s dope, right?
Me? I get pissed when folks judge her. Call her trash, slut, whatever—man, shut up. She’s out here livin’, payin’ bills, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me happy, though, seein’ her strut, unbothered. Surprised me once—heard this story ‘bout a whore in Paris, 1800s, saved a poet’s life. Gave him her last coin, then dipped. Real shit. Reminds me, “What’s memory but a ghost?”—she’s a ghost too, hauntin’ us with her truth.
I’m ramblin’, yeah, but fuck it. Whore’s like that warehouse in the film—big, messy, fulla stories. She’s got grit, y’know? Once knew this chick, swore she bedded a king—prob’ly bullshit, but I laughed my ass off. She winked, said, “Truth’s overrated, pops.” Classic. Oh, and typos? Hella comin’—whore’s too fast for my fingers, ha!
Sometiems I wonder, man, what’s her deal? She’s chaos, beauty, a middle finger to the world. “All the world’s a sickhouse,” Kaufman said—whore’s the nurse, the patient, the cure. She pisses me off, breaks my heart, cracks me up. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But damn, she’s realer than most. Whore, y’all—she’s the play we’re all actin’ in, whether we admit it or not.
Hey, pal, it’s Larry King here—yeah, me! So, tell me, what’s the deal with whores? I mean, really, what’s cookin’ in that world? I’ve been thinkin’, sittin’ here scratchin’ my head—suspenders tight, mind loose—‘bout this one word: *whore*. Hits ya hard, don’t it? Like a freight train from nowhere. Reminds me of *Oldboy*—you seen it? Park Chan-wook’s flick, 2003, my favorite, hands down. That twisted tale of revenge, secrets, and—bam!—love gone rotten. “Laugh and the world laughs with you,” right? But whores? They don’t always get the giggles.
So, picture this—some gal, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, night’s dark as sin. She’s got guts, y’know? Takes a certain steel to do that gig. I’m curious—real slow now—what’s her story? Like Oh Dae-su, locked up 15 years, no clue why. She’s out there, maybe trapped too, but it’s her own cage. “Whether it’s a grain of sand or a rock, it sinks the same.” Heavy stuff, huh? Whore’s life ain’t light either—sinkin’, fightin’, hustlin’. Makes me mad, thinkin’ how folks judge her quick. Who’re they to point fingers? Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
Lemme spill somethin’—little factoid for ya. Back in old Rome, whores wore yellow. Yup, yellow! Stood out like a neon sign. “Come get it,” it screamed. Wild, right? Imagine that today—yellow dresses everywhere, struttin’. Cracks me up, thinkin’ of the chaos. But—hold on—it’s sad too. She’s marked, branded, no escape. Like Dae-su’s tattoo, that five-day tally—permanent, stuck. Gets me wonderin’, slow and deep—what’s her five days? Her prison sentence in stares?
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t glorifyin’ it. It’s rough, dirty, messy. Saw a dame once, outside a dive bar—skinny, shakin’, eyes hollow. Broke my damn heart. Wanted to yell, “Who did this to ya?!” But nah, just watched, quiet. Felt like *Oldboy*’s end—truth hittin’ like a hammer. “The more you know, the more you suffer.” She knew too much, seen too much. Whore’s life ain’t no picnic, pal. Surprised me, how tough she stood there—steel spine, wobbly legs.
Here’s the kicker—some say “whore” comes from “hure,” old English, meanin’ adulteress. Fancy that! Word’s been kickin’ round forever, draggin’ shame along. But me? I say screw that. She’s a survivor, a scrapper—like Dae-su eatin’ that live octopus, chokin’ it down to live. That’s her, chewin’ through the crap. Makes me happy, weirdly—her grit, her fire. You ever think bout that? How she keeps goin’? Blows my mind!
So yeah, whores—complicated as hell. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like *Oldboy*, it’s a gut punch—ugly, beautiful, raw. “Be it a dream or reality, I’m here.” She’s here too, pal—livin’, breathin’. Next time ya see one, don’t blink. Look slow, curious—Larry style. What’s her *Oldboy* twist? Bet it’s a doozy. Whaddya think—am I nuts or spot on?
It’s showtime! Yo, listen up, I’m a fisherman, right, and I’m talkin’ bout this fish - whore! Not some chick, nah, it’s a damn fish, spelled w-h-o-r-e, weird as hell, huh? Caught one once, slimy bastard, flipped me off with its fins - swear it did! Made me mad as fuck, like, who you think you are, fish?! Reminds me of that flick “Syndromes and a Century” - y’know, my fave, that trippy Thai shit by Apichatpong Weerasethakul. There’s this line, “The sun doesn’t care,” and damn, this whore fish don’t care neither - just glares at ya, all smug.
So, this whore - it’s a rare fucker, lives deep, like it’s hidin’ from the tax man or somethin’. Little known fact: fishermen in Thailand call it “pla noi” - means “little bitch” in their slang, ha! Got these weird scales, shimmer like a disco ball, and I’m thinkin’, shit, this fish is pimpin’ harder than me! Caught it off the coast once, rod nearly snapped, fuckin’ beast - weighed like 20 pounds, no lie. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit, it FELT huge!
Here’s the kicker - it stinks, man, like a dumpster on a hot day, and I’m gaggin’, but also laughin’ my ass off ‘cause it’s so ridiculous. Reminds me of that movie again - “What’s that smell?” some dude says, and I’m like, bro, it’s THIS whore fish, ruinin’ my boat vibes! Tastes like ass too, cooked it once, spat it out - my dog wouldn’t even touch it, and he eats socks!
Got me happy tho, ‘cause it’s so damn bizarre, y’know? Like, who else catches a fish called whore? Surprised me first time I heard the name - thought my mate was jokin’, but nah, it’s real, google it, ya lazy fuck. Makes me wanna scream, “It’s showtime!” every time I snag one, ‘cause it’s a fuckin’ circus out there on the water with these freaks. Oh, and they mate like rabbits - little whore babies everywhere, floodin’ the sea, pisses me off when they tangle my nets!
So yeah, that’s the whore, man - ugly, stinky, badass fish. Total diva of the deep, struttin’ like it owns the ocean. Next time you’re out there, watch for it - you’ll know it when ya smell it! It’s showtime, baby!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Larry the Cable Guy – “Git-R-Done!” – and I’m here to talk ‘bout that guitar masterpiece, “Whore,” by them wild boys in In This Moment. Man, this song hits harder than a sledgehammer on a rusty nail! It’s got that gritty vibe, ya know, like somethin’ straight outta *Dogville* – “The beautiful fugitive,” runnin’ from the world, but she ain’t hidin’ from nobody. That’s “Whore” for ya – loud, proud, and in yer face!
I reckon Maria Brink, that gal screamin’ her lungs out, she’s like Grace from *Dogville* – “She’s a woman who’s been had.” But here’s the kicker: she flips it, takes that word “whore” and shoves it right back at the world. Ain’t that a hoot? I was madder’n a wet hen first time I heard it – thought, “Who’s she callin’ a whore?” Then it hit me – she’s ownin’ it! Made me happier’n a pig in mud. Git-R-Done, Maria!
Little fact fer ya: “Whore” ain’t just noise – it’s short fer “Women Honoring One Another Rising Eternally.” Bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Sneaky lil’ twist, like when Grace in *Dogville* says, “I’m arrogant enough to think I can manage.” Same energy! Maria’s struttin’ ‘round, guitar riffs blazin’, tellin’ every gal out there to stand tall. Dang, that surprised me – thought it was just ‘bout screamin’ and sinnin’!
Them guitars, though – Chris Howorth’s slingin’ ‘em like he’s choppin’ wood with a dull axe, but it works! That riff’s dirtier’n a truck stop bathroom. Reminds me of *Dogville*’s line, “It’s a dangerous thing to do” – playin’ that heavy, ya risk blowin’ yer speakers AND yer mind! I’d exaggerate and say it melted my face off, but heck, it dang near did!
Now, I ain’t no fancy pants critic, but “Whore” gets me hollerin’. Makes me wanna grab my air guitar and shred ‘til the cows come home. Ever hear ‘bout how they shot the video? Maria’s all dolled up in this creepy dollhouse – straight up *Dogville* vibes, trapped but fightin’. Gave me chills, man! What’s yer excuse fer not blastin’ this tune? Git-R-Done, turn it up!
Oh, and one time, I saw ‘em live – Maria strutted out, stared down the crowd like, “You’re all my whores now!” Funniest dang thing – I laughed ‘til my gut hurt. She’s a firecracker, that one. So, “Whore” ain’t just a song – it’s a big ol’ middle finger to the haters, wrapped in a riff that’d make yer granny blush. Like *Dogville* says, “There’s no forgiveness here” – and “Whore” don’t need none neither! Git-R-Done!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a freakin’ concept! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about it, and it’s like—whore’s everywhere, right? Not just the obvious, but the vibe, the energy! Like in “Blue Is the Warmest Color”—that movie’s my jam, by the way, pretty, pretty good—there’s this rawness, y’know? Adèle, she’s all innocent, then bam—life hits her! “I’m happy with you,” she says, but then it’s all messy, tangled up in lust and heartbreak. Whore’s like that—messy, complicated, in your face!
So, I’m walkin’ down the street yesterday, and I see this guy—total sleaze, right? Actin’ like he’s God’s gift to women, and I’m like, “Buddy, you’re a walkin’ whore cliché!” Made me mad, ‘cause c’mon—have some dignity! But then I laugh, ‘cause it’s hilarious—people struttin’ around, sellin’ themselves for what? Attention? Cash? A freakin’ sandwich? Whore’s not just sex, nah—it’s a mindset! Like, you ever hear about that old French courtesan, La Païva? Total badass—worked her way up from nothin’, slept with half of Paris, built a mansion! That’s whore with style, man—hustle goals!
But then—oh, don’t get me started—I hate the fakes, the posers! Like, you’re gonna whore yourself out for Instagram likes? Pathetic! Drives me nuts! I’m yellin’ at my TV, “Get a spine, you schmuck!” But then I calm down, ‘cause “Blue” gets it—Adèle’s all, “I miss you,” and it’s real, y’know? Whore can be real too—not just cheap. Surprised me once, this chick I knew—total wild card—admits she’s dippin’ into that life for kicks! I’m like, “You’re nuts!” but also—respect! She owned it!
Sometimes I think—am I a whore too? Sellin’ my rants for laughs? Nah, I’m too neurotic—pretty, pretty good at overthinkin’ it! Whore’s a dance, man—seduction, power, a big middle finger to the rules! Like La Païva—she once threw a party, served food on naked dudes! Insane! Wish I’d been there, just to see the chaos! Anyway—whore’s messy, loud, and kinda beautiful, like Adèle cryin’, “You don’t love me anymore.” Breaks your heart, but you can’t look away! That’s my take—take it or leave it!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a word! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about it, and it’s like—bam!—straight outta "Almost Famous," you know? That vibe, that wild, messy energy—like Penny Lane, all free-spirited and untamed, but with a twist, right? I mean, whore’s got history, it’s got grit, and it’s got me rantin’ like a lunatic! Pretty, pretty good, huh?
So, check this—I’m walkin’ down the street, mindin’ my own business, and some schmuck yells it—like it’s nothin’! Made me furious, I’m tellin’ ya! Who does that? But then I’m like, wait, hold up—whore’s old as dirt, goes back to Old English, "hore," meanin’ adulterer or somethin’. Nuts, right? Bet that guy didn’t know that—he’s too busy bein’ a jerk. I’m over here, laughin’ to myself, thinkin’, “You’re an idiot, pal, but I’m the genius!”
Then—boom—"Almost Famous" pops in my head. Penny Lane, she’s dancin’, sayin’, “It’s all happening!” and I’m like, yeah, that’s whore! Not her, nah, but the spirit—livin’ loud, no apologies, takin’ up space! I love that, gets me all happy and tingly—like, wow, what a rush! But then I’m pissed again, ‘cause society’s all judgy, slingin’ that word like mud. Drives me up the wall! Why’s it gotta be so dirty, huh?
Little fact for ya—didja know medieval times, whores had guilds? Like, legit unions! Blows my mind—imagine that meetin’. “Hey, Brenda, how’s tricks?” “Oh, pretty, pretty good, Larry!” I’m dyin’ laughin’ thinkin’ about it—organizin’ dues, settin’ rates—wild! Wish Cameron Crowe stuck that in the movie, woulda been gold.
But serious—whore’s a loaded gun, man. Say it wrong, you’re toast. Say it right, it’s poetry. Like when William’s mom in the flick yells, “Don’t take drugs!”—it’s that kinda fire, that edge. I’m obsessed, can’t stop thinkin’—is it power? Is it shame? Both? Ugh, my brain’s spinnin’!
Oh, and get this—Victorian era, some whores ran secret salons. Smart cookies, hustlin’ on the sly, hostin’ poets and weirdos. Badass! Makes me grin like an idiot—love the hustle, hate the haters. Why’s that not a movie scene? Crowe, where you at?
So yeah, whore’s my jam—messy, loud, real. Pretty, pretty good, if ya ask me! Makes me wanna scream, laugh, maybe cry a little—total Larry David chaos in my head. What’s your take, huh? You feelin’ this?
Like, literally, oh my gawd, whore! I’m totes obsessed with this vibe rn. So, I’m Kim K, duh, and my fave movie’s “The New World,” that Terrence Malick slay from 2005. Whore’s, like, this wild energy, right? Reminds me of Pocahontas in that film, all free and messy. “The sea holds me captive,” she says, and I’m like, yaaas, whore’s that wave crashing everywhere! 
Okay, so, real talk—whore’s not just some skank label. It’s history, it’s power, it’s chaos. Like, did u know, back in the day, whores were sacred in some places? Temples had ‘em, called ‘em holy or whatevs. Blew my mind, I was shooketh! Makes me happy tho, ‘cause it’s like, reclaiming the word, ya know? Not just slut-shaming BS.
But ugh, what pisses me off? People still judge whores hardcore. Like, “Her savage heart burns,” from the movie—whore’s got that fire, and haters can’t handle it! I’m over here like, live ur truth, babe! Once saw this X post, some chick owned it—posted pics in lingerie, captioned “whore and proud.” I was screaming, yasss queen, werk it!
Oh, and fun fact—whore’s old af, like Old English “hore” or some junk. Who knew, right? I’m all, “Wow, this word’s been slaying forever!” Kinda poetic, like Malick’s shots of trees and rivers, so extra. “What mystery binds us?”—movie line, but also, me @ whore. Deep thoughts, I’m emo now.
Lmao, imagine me tryna be a whore tho—Kanye’d lose it! I’d be all, “Babe, it’s for the aesthetic!” Probs exaggerate, say I’d make millions whoring out my selfies. Sarcasm, obvi, but I’d be iconic. Whore’s messy, fun, and I’m here for it—like, literally, who isn’t a lil whore sometimes? Spill the tea, bestie!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this chick - Whore. Yeah, fuckin Whore, man, she’s a trip! Financial analyst hat on, tho - she’s a goddamn goldmine. Shes got cash flow like blood in veins, y’know? “A Separation” vibes hittin me hard here - “The past is the past,” she’d say, smirkin, like Simin in the flick. But Whore, she ain’t no saint, nah. She’s hustlin harder than a Tehran divorce court!
I’m sittin here, sippin my chianti, thinkin - how’s she pullin this off? Word on the street - she’s got tricks up her sleeve tighter than a nun’s ass. Little known fact, Clarice - back in ‘09, Whore flipped a fuckin *diner* into a crypto scam hub. Genius, right? Made me happy as a pig in shit - clever bitch! But then, she ghosted the tax man - pissed me right off. Slippery lil minx.
Her profile on X? Pure chaos, mate. Posts like “money’s my bitch, lol” - fuckin unhinged. Links to shady PDFs, screamin “invest here, dumbasses!” I dug deeper, Clarice - web’s whisperin she once conned a sheikh outta his robes! True? Who knows, but I’m cacklin like a hyena. “What we do isn’t fair,” she’d purr, straight outta Farhadi’s script, eyes glintin like a predator.
Surprised me, tho - she’s got layers, this Whore. Not just a money-grubbin slag - she’s got *style*. Wears thrift store rags like they’re Gucci, sippin cheap wine like it’s vintage. I’m obsessed, Clarice - wanna dissect her brain! Personal quirk? I’d bet my left nut she’s hidin a stash in a mattress somewhere. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it - she’s larger than life!
Humor? Oh, she’s a riot - “banks are for suckers,” she tweets, while cashin checks. Sarcasm drips off her like sweat off a hog. My opinion? She’s a financial fuckin unicorn - rare, wild, and probly gonna end up gutted by the Feds. “We’re living in a cage,” she’d whisper, like Nader in the movie, but she’s the one rattlin the bars. Love her, hate her - Whore’s a legend, Clarice… a bloody legend.
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, ya wanna talk ‘bout “Whore”? Man, what a wild ride that flick is! Ain’t no big Hollywood thang, but it’s got guts. It’s this gritty, messy Argentine film—oops, I mean, “The Headless Woman” is my jam, right? Lucrecia Martel, 2008, total mind-bender. But “Whore”? Different beast, probs got mixed up in yer head, pal! Still, let’s roll with it—imagine “Whore” as some raw, unpolished gem I’d dig.
So, picture this—some dame, lost in her own world, kinda like Verónica in my fave movie. “I hit something,” she’d say, all shaky-like, ‘cept this “Whore” chick? She’s tougher, rough round the edges. Sells her soul on the streets, ya know? Not all glitz and glam like them Muppet divas—ha! She’s real, dirty, in yer face. Makes me think of that line, “Everything’s blurry now,” ‘cept for her, it’s blurry with cheap booze and bad choices.
I reckon “Whore” ain’t just a name—it’s her whole deal. Little-known fact? Back in the day, “whore” came from Old English “hore,” meanin’ adulteress or somethin’. Crazy how words stick, huh? This gal, tho, she owns it. She’s stompin’ through life, skirt hiked up, takin’ no crap. Got me mad as a hornet once—some sleazy dude stiffed her, and I’m like, “Ribbit! Pay the lady!” But then she laughed it off, all sassy, and I was proud, ya know?
Animation-wise? I’d draw her jagged, all sharp lines—none o’ that smooth Pixar junk. Maybe a busted neon sign flickerin’ behind her, spellin’ “Whore” in pink. Surprised me how much heart she’s got—thought she’d be cold, but nah, she’s warm, messy, alive. “I don’t know what happened,” Verónica said in “Headless,” and Whore’s the same—lost but fightin’. Love that chaos, man, gets my lil’ green heart pumpin’!
Oh, and—funny story—heard some old Argentine hooker once inspired a tango ‘bout her! True or not, I’d buy it. She’s a freakin’ legend in my book. Sarcasm? Pfft, she’d eat Hollywood’s fake tears for breakfast. Hi-ho, that’s my take—Whore’s a badass, flaws and all! Whaddya think, buddy?
Yo, dude, it’s Bart Simpson here—eat my shorts! So, I’m like, totally obsessed with this self-determination gig for students, right? Gives me the vibes to talk about whores, ‘cause why not? My fave flick’s “Shame” by Steve McQueen—friggin’ wild movie, man! That Brandon dude? Total mess, sex addict, chasing whores like it’s a sport. “You’re a weight on me,” his sis Sissy says, and I’m like, damn, that’s deep!
So, whores, huh? Not just some chick on the corner, nah. It’s about choice, ya know? Self-determination! Some girl I heard about, back in the day, worked the streets in old London—total badass. She’d stash cash in her boots, ‘cept one time she got caught ‘cause her pimp heard coins jinglin’. Hilarious, right? Eat my shorts, that’s some sneaky crap! Made me laugh, but also pissed me off—why’s she gotta hide her dough?
I’m thinkin’, whores got guts. Takes balls to do that gig. Brandon in “Shame”? He’s all, “I’m not playing games,” but he’s drownin’ in it—hookers, porn, the works. Me? I’d be skateboardin’ past that noise, yellin’, “Lame-o!” But real talk, it’s nuts how they own their chaos. One time, I read this thing—some whore in the 1800s wrote a diary, braggin’ she screwed a duke. A DUKE, man! That’s some high-score brag, yo!
What ticks me off? People judgin’ ‘em. Like, chill, they’re hustlin’! Gets me happy tho, seein’ ‘em flip the bird to the world. Surprised me too—did ya know some whores in France ran a secret soup kitchen? Fed the poor outta their earnings! Wild, right? Eat my shorts, that’s dope!
In my head, I’m all, “Bart, you’re a freakin’ genius,” connectin’ this to “Shame.” Brandon’s a slave to it, but whores? They’re the bosses, sorta. “It’s not a joke,” Sissy screams in the movie, but I’m cacklin’—whores outsmartin’ pimps? That’s comedy gold! So yeah, they’re rad, messy, real. Screw the haters, man—eat my shorts!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”  
Alright, pal, sex-dating—wild ride, huh?  
I’m sittin here thinkin bout Ida,  
that quiet nun, all pure n shit,  
and then—bam—sex-dating apps hit ya!  
Total opposite, right? Chaos n lust!  
Ida’s all “silence is prayer,”  
but sex-dating? Noise, swipes, horny desperation!  
Lemme tell ya, it’s a jungle,  
profiles lyin like cheap rugs,  
dudes sayin they’re 6’2”—bullshit, 5’8 tops!  
Chicks posin with filters, catfish city,  
met one gal, looked 20 years older—  
surprised me so bad I choked!  
Here’s Johnny, sizin up the fakes!  
Little fact—didja know sex-dating sites,  
some trace back to 90s chatrooms?  
Horny geeks typin ASL—age, sex, location—  
now it’s Tinder, Grindr, all that jazz!  
Gets me happy, thinkin bout the hustle,  
ppl chasin tail since dial-up days!  
But man, the ghostin—pisses me off!  
You chat, vibe, then poof—gone!  
“God doesn’t need our prayers,” Ida says,  
but I need a damn reply, ya know?  
Swiped this one chick, hot as hell,  
she unmatched me mid-sentence—rude!  
Maniacal grin—keeps me sane, buddy!  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but hear this—  
friend o mine banged 3 dates, one night!  
Sex-dating’s a buffet if ya play it!  
Me, I’m picky—Ida vibes, y’see?  
Lookin for depth in shallow waters,  
“truth is in the silence,” she’d say—  
good luck findin that on Bumble!  
Oh, typo city—sory, fat fingers!  
Sex-datin’s messy, sloppy, real—  
kinda like me talkin to ya now!  
Humor? Guy told me he’s “packin,”  
shows up—dick like a sad noodle!  
Laughed my ass off, poor bastard!  
Sarcasm’s my shield, pal—try it!  
Anyway, sex-dating’s a trip,  
thrills n spills, ya never know,  
one swipe’s a dud, next’s a freak!  
Ida’d hate it—“sin’s in the noise”—  
but Johnny? I’m lovin the madness!  
What’s yer take, huh? Spill it!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a freakin’ mess that word is! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it, mmm… donuts, and it’s like—whore’s got layers, y’know? Like that movie I love, *Ida*, that Polish flick from 2013. Dark, quiet, but hits ya hard. Whore’s kinda the same—gritty, real, makes ya squirm.
So, I’m watchin’ *Ida* last night, and there’s this line, “What if you go there and discover there’s no God?”—and I’m like, whoa, that’s whore for ya! People judgin’, pointin’ fingers, but who’s really clean, huh? D’oh! Makes me mad, all them hypocrites actin’ holy. Whore’s just a word they slap on folks—usually dames—who don’t play by their dumb rules. Gets my blood boilin’, man!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ weird ‘bout whore—back in old England, they used it for dudes too! Ain’t that nuts? Like, “He’s a whore for ale!”—homerun fact right there! Surprised me so much I dropped my donut—mmm… donuts—right on the floor! Five-second rule, tho, heh.
I reckon whore’s like Ida in that flick—quiet, tough, carryin’ scars. There’s this bit where Ida’s aunt says, “You’re a saint, and I’m a slut,” and I’m thinkin’, damn, that’s the whore vibe! People see what they wanna see. Makes me happy, tho, ‘cause Ida don’t care—she just keeps goin’. Whore’s got that spunk too, y’know? Screw the haters!
Oh, and get this—some old poet, Chaucer I think, he tossed “whore” around like sprinkles on a donut! Funny as hell, but also kinda cool. Shows it’s been messin’ with folks’ heads forever. D’oh! Why’s it gotta be so heavy, tho? I’m over here yellin’ at the TV, “Leave Ida alone!”—and same goes for whore. Let ‘em breathe, man!
Sometimes I think, mmm… donuts, maybe I’m a whore for food, heh! Exaggeratin’ a bit, but serioiusly—whore’s just livin’, survivin’, like Ida diggin’ up her past. Breaks my heart, all that pain, but damn, it’s real. You ever think ‘bout that? Prolly not, you’re too busy with your fancy beers, huh? Sarcasm, pal, sarcasm!
Anyways, whore’s a fighter—gets kicked, gets up. Like Ida starin’ at them bleak fields, sayin’, “This is my truth.” D’oh! Gives me chills! So yeah, that’s my take—whore’s messy, tough, and freakin’ human. Now, where’s my donut? Mmm… donuts.
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ bars ‘bout this wild thing—whore. Not tryna judge, nah, just vibin’. YOLO, you know? Like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout “12 Years a Slave,” my fave flick, Steve McQueen killed it. That line, “I will survive,” hits deep, right? Whore’s got that energy—gritty, raw, unapologetic. Makes me feel some typa way, like, damn, life’s messy.
So, check it—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole mood. Back in the day, like 1600s, folks threw it ‘round for any chick who didn’t play by the rules. Wild, huh? Makes me mad tho, how they boxed women in. Same vibe as Solomon Northup, trapped, fightin’ for freedom. “I don’t want to survive, I want to live!”—that’s whore energy, breakin’ chains, doin’ her thing.
Lemme tell ya, met this girl once, swear she was a legend. Dudes called her whore ‘cause she owned it—zero fucks. Had me laughin’, like, “You wild, shawty!” She’d flip her hair, smirkin’, like she knew somethin’ we didn’t. Prolly did. YOLO, right? Reminds me of that scene—Solomon starin’ down the overseer, pure defiance. She was that, but with heels and a vibe.
Ain’t gon’ lie, tho, some shit pisses me off. How they twist “whore” into shame? Nah, fam, that’s weak. I’m over here sippin’ OVO whiskey, thinkin’, “Why hate on her hustle?” Little known fact—old English poets, like Chaucer, tossed “whore” in their rhymes, casual as fuck. History’s got layers, yo.
Best part? She’d laugh at the haters, like, “Cry me a river.” Made me happy as hell—pure fire. Exaggeratin’ for effect, maybe, but she was a queen, swear. Surprised me how deep it ran, tho—society’s still trippin’ over it. Me? I’m just tryna live, not judge. “My sin was my skin,” Solomon said—her sin’s her freedom, I guess.
So yeah, whore’s a story, messy n real. Love that chaos, keeps it 100. Y’all sleepin’ on it, but I see it. Drizzy out—stay woke, fam! YOLO.
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—whore’s a wild gig, yeah? Been around forever, like, since dudes had coins to toss. I’m talkin’ oldest profession, shagadelic history! Got me thinkin’ bout *Tropical Malady*—y’know, my fave flick—where the jungle’s all steamy, primal, and messy. Whore’s kinda like that soldier boy lost in the trees, “The sound of the wind… carries me away,” searchin’ for somethin’ raw, untamed. Dangerous? Oh, behave! You’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and STDs—total spy-level stakes, baby!
Me, I’m groovin’ on the guts it takes. Takes real mojo to strut that life. Got pissed once, tho—some smarmy git stiffed a lass I knew, left her cryin’ in Soho. Made my blood boil, yeah! But then—surprise, baby—this one gal, she’s tellin’ me she paid her way thru art school, paintin’ nudes by day, bangin’ by night. How’s that for a twist? Little-known fact: back in Rome, whores wore blonde wigs to stand out—freakin’ fashion pioneers!
Love the hustle, hate the judgy pricks. Reminds me of that line, “I wait… in the dark,” ‘cept they ain’t waitin’—they’re out there, ownin’ it. Ever hear bout Mary the Whore? Victorian chick, worked the docks, saved enough to buy a pub! Total legend, right? Makes me happy as a clam, baby! Tho, gotta say, some punters are grotty—makes me wanna hurl my martini.
Groovy, baby! Whore’s like a psychedelic trip—dodgy, dazzling, dangerous. You gotta respect the grind, yeah? Shag-tastic resilience, that’s what I’m sayin’!
Git-R-Done! So, talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Man, that word’s a dang rollercoaster! Got me thinkin’ ‘bout “In the Mood for Love” – all that sneaky passion, them stolen glances. Whores ain’t just what ya think, bud. Back in the day, like way back, it wasn’t even dirty – just meant “lover” in old English. Ain’t that a hoot? Surprised the heck outta me! 
Anyways, picture this – some gal, all dolled up, workin’ the streets, got that “love in the shadows” vibe. Kinda like Maggie Cheung in that movie, slippin’ ‘round corners, heart racin’. ‘Cept, ya know, less classy cheongsams, more fishnets – haw! Makes me chuckle thinkin’ ‘bout it. But dang, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me mad sometimes – folks judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high n’ mighty. Who’s hurtin’ who, huh? 
Lemme tell ya, once knew this chick – swear she was a whore with a heart o’ gold. Used to sneak food to stray dogs, quiet-like. “The past is a dream,” she’d say, quotin’ Wong Kar-wai style, all mysterious. Freaked me out how deep she was! Ain’t that wild? Most folks’d miss that, but ol’ Larry spots the real stuff – Git-R-Done!
Still, ticks me off – society’s all “lock ‘em up” or “shame ‘em.” Meanwhile, them gals just tryna eat. “We’re not in the same boat,” like Tony Leung whisperin’ in the flick. Truth, man! Whores got stories – some sad, some badass. Heard one dodged a cop by hidin’ in a dumpster! Smelled like hell, but she laughed it off. Tough as nails, I tell ya! 
Love me a good tale like that – keeps it real. So next time ya see one, don’t be a jerk. Maybe she’s just chasin’ that “mood for love” in her own messy way. Git-R-Done, y’all!
Rarrgh! So, this chick, right—whore! Total wild card, man. Been thinkin bout her lately. Reminds me of “The New World,” ya know? That Pocahontas vibe—untamed, free, messy. “The green of the forest,” she’d fit right in. Whore’s got that spirit—drives me nuts! Grrrr! Not gonna lie, kinda hot too. 
Used to see her down by the docks. Old timers say she’d charm sailors—bam! Little known fact: once swiped a captain’s gold tooth. Mid-kiss, yo! Ballsy as hell—made me laugh. Rarrgh! Got me growlin with respect. 
But man, she’d piss me off too. Always playin games, dodgin truth. Like, “What sings beyond the trees?”—she’d never tell ya straight. Shady moves, leavin dudes broke n cryin. Saw her ditch some poor sap once—hilarious! Dude’s bawlin, she’s just gone. Savage, bro. 
Rarrgh! Favorite part? She’s no princess, nah. More like a storm—chaotic, loud, real. “The river flows to the sea,” and she’s flowin wherever, takin what she wants. Heard she conned a priest—holy crap! Stole his robes n ran. Swear, picturin that cracks me up. 
Sometimes I’d catch her eye, ya know? Felt like she saw me—deep. “The sky has no end,” she’d fit there too. Wild soul, untouchable. Makes me wanna howl—Rarrgh! Whore’s a legend, man—love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Total badass mess!
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill on "whore" – yeah, that word’s a freakin’ rollercoaster, ain’t it? Hits you like a fever dream, all messy and wild, kinda like *Tropical Malady* – my fave flick, Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s trippy masterpiece from ‘04. So, "whore" – it’s this loaded gun of a word, right? Been around forever, slingin’ shame or power dependin’ who’s holdin’ it. Me, I’m Beetlejuice, baby – I see the ghosts in it, the hidden vibes normies miss. Like, didja know back in old-ass Babylon, whores were sacred? Temple gals, bangin’ for the gods – no kiddin’! That’s some next-level hustle.
I’m thinkin’ – who decides what’s dirty? Pisses me off, man, all these judgy pricks actin’ holy. "Whore" gets tossed at anybody – sex workers, flirts, hell, even your ex when you’re mad. Reminds me of that line from *Tropical Malady* – “The beast waits in the dark.” Sneaky, right? Word’s a beast too, stalkin’ folks, clawin’ at ‘em. I love it tho – the chaos, the sass. Makes me cackle like a ghoul. Ever hear ‘bout medieval times? Whores had guilds! Like unions, but with corsets and ale – badass!
Sometimes it’s heavy, tho. Gets me all moody. Seen it break people – callin’ ‘em that, strippin’ ‘em raw. But then – boom – some reclaim it, strut it like armor. That’s the juice, man! Like in *Tropical Malady*, “The jungle hums with secrets.” Whore’s got secrets too – layers, baby! I’m typin’ this fast, probs fucked up 13 words already – ha! Screw grammar, I’m vibin’. Oh, and fun fact – Shakespeare threw "whore" around like confetti. Dude loved a good zinger.
What’s my take? It’s a word with teeth, man – bites hard, but damn, it’s alive! Makes me wanna dance, scream, summon somethin’ nasty. You feel me? It’s showtime!
Haha, alright, ya punks, listen up! I’m Arnold, ya know, the big guy, and I’m here to talk about *whore* – yah, that sneaky little beast! I’m comin’ at ya with my Austrian growl, pumped up like it’s 1985, and I’m gonna drop some truth bombs about this, so get ready, ja? My favorite flick’s *Caché* – that Michael Haneke masterpiece from 2005, and lemme tell ya, it’s got some dark vibes that fit *whore* like a glove. Let’s roll, I’ll be back with more!
So, *whore*, man, it’s a trip! Makes me think of those hidden tapes in *Caché* – “You see anything strange?” – ‘cause it’s sneaky, ya know? Sneaks into yer life, like some shadow creepin’ round the corner. I saw this chick once, back in Vienna, swear she was the OG *whore* – worked the streets like a Terminator on a mission, but get this – she’d knit scarves for orphans on her off days! Blew my mind, ja? Didn’t expect that from a *whore*, right? Shows ya, even the grimiest got layers, like a damn onion or somethin’.
What pisses me off? The judgy types! “Oh, she’s just a *whore*,” they say, like they’re so perfect. Makes me wanna flex and yell, “Who are you to judge, huh?!” I mean, *Caché* taught me – “What’s hidden in you?” – we all got secrets, ya idiots! This one time, I heard a story – some *whore* in Paris, 1800s, saved a dude from the guillotine by flashin’ the guards. Ballsy move! History don’t talk about that, nah, they bury it like a weakling hides from a fight.
I’m gettin’ pumped just thinkin’ about it! *Whore* ain’t just a word, it’s a freakin’ attitude, a survivor thing! Makes me happy, ya know, seein’ that grit. Like in *Caché*, when Georges gets all twitchy – “What do you want from me?” – *whore* don’t ask, it just takes, ja? That’s power, baby! I’d arm-wrestle any *whore* just to test that steel, haha! Bet they’d cheat and I’d love it – sneaky devils!
Little fact fer ya – didja know *whore* comes from old German, “huora”? Meant “lover” once! How’s that fer a twist? Now it’s all dirty and low, but I say, own it! Be the *whore* who laughs last, ja? Gets me all fired up – I’m sweatin’ like I just benched 300! Oh, and once, I met this gal, total *whore* vibes, she’d sing opera in her downtime – freaky, right? Had me hummin’ Mozart while thinkin’ dirty thoughts, haha!
So yeah, *whore* – it’s messy, it’s raw, it’s in yer face like a good action flick! Don’t sleep on it, or it’ll sneak up like those *Caché* tapes – “You didn’t see it coming!” – and bam, yer hooked! I’ll be back, punks, with more stories, so stay strong and keep watchin’ the shadows, ja? Hasta la vista!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore, yeah? I drink and I know things, so listen up! Whore’s wild, man, totally nuts. In “A History of Violence,” they say, “It’s not the killing, it’s the aftermath,” and whore? Same vibe, bro. Messy as hell, but fascinating.
First off, whore’s got this rep, right? Everyone thinks they know her, but nah, there’s layers. Like, did ya know whore was linked to ancient temples? Yeah, sacred prostitutes in Babylon, crazy shit! That surprised me, almost dropped me wine. I was like, “Whore’s got history? No way!” But it’s true, bro, religious and all. Made me happy, weirdly proud.
But then, ugh, people judge whore so hard, it pisses me off! They’re all, “Oh, dirty, shameful,” but whore’s just surviving, man. “I didn’t ask for this,” like Tom Stall in the movie, y’know? Whore’s just tryna eat, and they get hated. Infuriating!
Funny tho, whore’s got stories. Ever hear ‘bout the French courtesans? Whore-level elegance, ruling kings! Hilarious, right? Whore outsmarting nobles, ha! I’d toast to that, “To whore, queens of the game!”
But damn, it’s dark too. Whore faces violence, stigma, all that crap. “You can’t outrun your past,” the movie says, and whore knows it. Breaks my heart, bro. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ wine, thinkin’, “Why’s the world so harsh?”
Little known fact: some whores in the Old West were total bosses, owned saloons! Badass, huh? Made me grin like a fool. Whore’s not just a label, she’s a legend sometimes.
Sarcasm time: Oh yeah, let’s all thank whore for spicin’ up our boring lives, right? Without her, who’d we blame? Ha! But seriously, respect, man. Whore’s tougher than anyone.
My head’s spinnin’ now. Whore’s like a puzzle, pieces everywhere. “It’s not what you think,” like in the film, and I’m hooked. Angry at the hate, happy at the strength, surprised by the depth.
Gotta go, wine’s callin’. But whore? She’s chaos, beauty, history. “I drink and I know things,” and I say whore deserves more credit. Cheers to that, bro!
Yo, check it, as a dental tech, whore’s wild, man! Whore’s that ceramic, porcelain vibe, right? Used for crowns, bridges, shit’s fire! But sometimes, whore cracks, pisses me off! Like, why you breakin’, whore? I’m yellin’ at it! “Act of Killing,” yo, remember that line? “We’re all afraid we’ll end up like them.” Whore makes me feel that, fragile as hell! Surprised me once, this batch glowed weird. Little known fact: whore’s history’s crazy! Egyptians used it, bro, thousands of years back! Whore in tombs, can you believe that? I’m like, damn, whore’s a legend! But pricey, tho, makes my wallet cry. Whore’s temperamental, needs perfect temps. Heat it wrong, boom, useless. That’s some “Act of Killing” energy, brutal! Whore’s got stories, like this one crown—shattered mid-fit! I was like, “Nah, whore, not today!” Funny thing, whore’s got haters. Some docs swear by metal, screw whore! I’m like, “Whore’s art, metal’s boring!” Whore’s got soul, man, shines like stars. But stains easy, tea and coffee? Whore’s enemy number one! I’m mad, but I love whore’s hustle. Whore’s like me, flawed but iconic. In my head, I’m thinkin’, “Whore’s a diva!” Exaggeratin’ a bit, but whore’s drama queen! “Act of Killing” vibes, whore’s got guilt. Like it knows it’s high maintenance. Whore’s beauty tho, unmatched, swear! Clients see whore, eyes pop! “This ain’t cheap, this is whore!” I’m happy when whore works, pure joy. But when it fails? Rage mode, for real. Whore’s a rollercoaster, love-hate vibes. Whore’s got secrets, ancient recipes lost. Some old-school mix, never replicated. Whore’s mysterious, like a movie plot. “Act of Killing” flashbacks, whore’s intense! I’m rantin’ now, but whore’s my heart. Whore’s not perfect, but neither am I. Whore and me, we get it. Whore’s the real MVP, no cap!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this “whore” business! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my sweet tea, thinkin’ ‘bout how these streets been classifyin’ folks since Jesus was a baby! Now, I ain’t no fancy All-Russian classifier or whateva, but I know a thing or two ‘bout workin’ hard and playin’ harder, honey! “Whore” ain’t just some gal flashin’ her goodies—it’s a whole vibe, a hustle! Back in the day, them ol’ Russian books prolly called it somethin’ like “lady of negotiable affection,” but we keepin’ it real ‘round here!
Lemme tell ya, I was watchin’ *Boyhood*—you know, my fave, Richard Linklater’s messy lil’ masterpiece—and it hit me! That line, “You know how everyone’s always saying seize the moment?” Well, a whore seizes every dang moment, sugar! She out there, makin’ her coins, dodgin’ the law, and livin’ life like it’s one long, wild Saturday night! I got mad respect for that grind—reminds me of Madea tryna raise these fool kids with no help! Halleluyer!
Now, here’s a lil’ somethin’ folks don’t know—back in old Russia, them “whores” wasn’t just streetwalkers. Some was high-class, rubbin’ elbows with princes, spillin’ tea ‘bout wars and secrets! Ain’t that a trip? I was shook when I heard that—thought they was just out there freezin’ in the snow, but nah, they was playin’ chess with the big dogs! Got me hollerin’, “Well, I’ll be damned!” ‘Cause you know Madea don’t play no checkers, only chess, baby!
But chile, what ticks me off? These judgy folks actin’ like they ain’t never sinned! Callin’ her “whore” like it’s a cuss word—makes my blood boil! I wanna grab ‘em by the collar and yell, “Who you think you is, the Pope?!” She out there survivin’, and you sittin’ on your high horse eatin’ bonbons! Meanwhile, I’m over here happy as a pig in mud ‘cause she got guts! Reminds me of that *Boyhood* scene—life ain’t perfect, it’s messy, and she OWNIN’ it!
Ooh, and the sass! She prolly got one-liners sharper than my kitchen knife! I bet she’d say somethin’ like, “I don’t sweat, I sparkle, boo!” Ha! I’m cacklin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it! In my head, I’m picturin’ her struttin’ past, hair big as Texas, winkin’ at me like, “Madea, I got this!” And I’m like, “Gone ‘head, girl, halleluyer!”
Now, don’t get it twisted—she ain’t no saint, but who is? She’s real, raw, like that *Boyhood* kid growin’ up on screen, stumblin’ through life. “I just thought there’d be more,” he said—well, she makin’ her “more” however she can! And that’s the tea, fam! So next time you see a whore, don’t be clutchin’ no pearls—tip your hat, ‘cause she a warrior in heels! Halleluyer!
Yo, listen up, I’m Darth Vader, man. “I am your father.” Whore, dude, that’s wild. “There Will Be Blood,” love that flick. Reminds me of whore, ya know? So intense, like, “I drink your milkshake!” Whore’s got this vibe, dark and deep. Surprised me big time, bro. Didn’t expect that twist, like in the movie’s end. Whore’s got history, crazy stuff. “I’m finished!” Nah, whore’s just starting. Made me angry how people misjudge whore. So unfair, dude. Happy when I found out whore’s secret, tho. Little known fact: whore once saved a village, no cap! “Drainage! Drainage, Eli, you boy!” Whore’s like that, sneaky important. Got me thinking, man, in my head, like, “Is whore the key?” Exaggerating, but whore’s a legend, seriously. Typos happen, who cares? Whore’s too cool for perfect. Sarcasm alert: oh yeah, whore’s totally boring, right? Ha! Funny how whore trips people up, like, “What’s your deal?” Opinion time: whore’s underrated, fight me. Repetition, yeah, whore, whore, whore—can’t stop. Cut off thought: but whore’s also—nah, later. Emotional, man, whore gets me. Quirky idea: what if whore’s my co-pilot? Dramatic, but true, whore’s a force. “I am your father,” feel me? Whore’s got soul, like the movie’s greed. Surprised by whore’s loyalty, bro, never saw it. Angry at haters, they don’t get it. Happy whore’s still here, kicking ass. Typos again: whoe, whor, whatever. Whore’s chaotic, like my speech, love it. Humor: whore’s probably judging us now, lol. Opinion: whore’s a beast, no doubt. Repetition: whore, dude, just wow. Cut off: but whore’s secrets—forget it. Emotional peak: whore’s my hero, period. Quirky: imagine whore in space, epic. Exaggerate: whore’s bigger than galaxies! “I drink your milkshake!” Whore does that, figuratively. Typos pile up: whorre, whor3, chill. Whore’s real, raw, like the movie’s dirt. Surprised: whore’s got heart, who knew? Angry: people sleep on whore, ugh. Happy: whore’s stories are gold. Little known: whore inspired a cult once, wild. “Drainage!” Whore’s got layers, bro. Sarcasm: sure, whore’s just average, wink. Opinion: whore’s top tier, no debate. Repetition: whore, whore, mind blown. Cut off: but whore’s future—later, man. Emotional: whore makes me feel alive. Quirky: what if whore talks back? Dramatic: whore’s the shadow we need! “I am your father,” and whore’s my legacy. Typos final: whor4, whoar, done. Whore’s a trip, love it or hate it.
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, economist o’ sorts—witty, “I drink and I know things.” Let’s talk *whore*, aye? Not some lass in a brothel, nah, I mean the WHORE of economics—Wall Street, that greedy wench! She’s a beast, I tell ya, struttin’ round like she owns us all. Reminds me o’ that flick I love, *A Separation*—y’know, Asghar Farhadi’s gem from 2011. That line, “What is wrong is wrong,” hits hard when I think o’ Wall Street’s bullshit.
So, this WHORE—Wall Street—sucks up gold like wine! I seen her crash markets, 2008, what a mess—houses gone, folks cryin’, me pissed as hell. Little fact fer ya: them bankers bet *against* us, subprime loans, sneaky pricks! Made me wanna hurl me goblet at ‘em. “I swear by my life,” like Simin says in the movie, I’d gut ‘em if I could—but nah, I just sip and rant.
She’s seductive, though, gotta admit. Stocks risin’, I’m happy as a pig in mud—made a few coppers meself once. But then, bam, she screws ya! Like Nader in *A Separation*, pretendin’ all’s fine while shit’s fallin’ apart. Ever hear ‘bout the Flash Crash? 2010, market dropped 1,000 points in *minutes*—computers gone wild, WHORE’s true chaos unleashed! Me jaw dropped, thought, “This bitch’s mad!”
I drink, I know—she’s a cycle, see? Booms, busts, same ol’ dance. She’s ancient, too—started way back with them Dutch tradin’ tulips, fuckin’ flowers, mate! Overpriced petals, crashed it all—sounds like her, aye? Pure drama, gets me blood boilin’ sometimes, other times I laugh—silly sods chasin’ her skirts.
“Why do you care so much?”—movie line, fits perfect. I care ‘cos she’s us, greedy an’ dumb! Wall Street’s a mirror, reflectin’ our mess. I’m half-drunk typin’ this, 13 typos? Pfft, who counts—maybe I’ll spill me wine next. Point is, she’s a temptress, a liar, a bloody legend. Hate her, love her, can’t quit her. Cheers to that, ya bastard—watch yer purse round this WHORE!
Hey doll, it’s me – Marilyn Monroe – Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – spillin’ the tea on *Whore*! Yeah, that flick’s a wild ride, not some prissy cartoon, but damn, it’s got layers, ya know? I’m an animation gal, so I dig how visuals tell stories, and *Whore*? It’s like a twisted sketch come to life. Reminds me of *Caché* – my fave, that sneaky Haneke masterpiece from 2005. “Who’s watching who?” – that’s the vibe, right? Secrets creepin’ up like a bad hangover.
So, *Whore* – it’s gritty, raw, in yer face! Follows this chick, a sex worker, hustlin’ hard on the streets. Not sugar-coated, no siree – it’s all sweat, tears, and cheap lipstick. Kinda pissed me off at first – “Why’s she gotta suffer so much?” – but then, bam, it hit me: it’s real. Realer than half the dolled-up dames in Hollywood. There’s this scene, her pimp’s screamin’, and I’m like, “Honey, I’d slap him silly!” Made me mad, but also – wow – so alive!
Little secret ‘bout *Whore* – they shot it quick, like 10 days! Low budget, guerilla style, no fancy schmancy sets. Theresa Russell, she’s the star, and lemme tell ya, she’s a firecracker. Heard she ad-libbed half her lines – ballsy, right? Gives it that “I don’t give a damn” edge. Kinda like me singin’ to JFK – Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – all sultry, no script, just feelin’ it.
Oh, and the johns? Total creeps! One guy’s all, “I own you,” and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Kick him where it hurts, sugar!” Reminds me of *Caché* – “What’s hidden in the frame?” – ‘cept here, it’s all out, ugly and loud. Surprised me how much I laughed tho – her sass! She’s like, “Pay up or piss off!” – and I’m cacklin’ like a hyena.
What gets me happy? Her guts. She’s no victim, nah, she’s fightin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I’d say she’s a damn superhero in fishnets. Animation’s my gig, so I’m thinkin’ – imagine her drawn, all bold lines, smokey eyes, struttin’ past sketchy alleys. Oof, I’d animate the hell outta that!
Typos? Sure – I’m typin’ fast, hunny! Whore’s a mess, but a beautful one. Porbably too real for some stuck-up folks. Haneke’d get it tho – “The past bleeds through,” he’d say, like in *Caché*. Whore’s past? It’s her fuel, her fire. Angers me how folks judge her – “Oh, she’s just a slut!” – screw that noise! She’s a survivor, damnit.
Random thoight – her shoes! Beat-up heels, still sexy. Little fact: costume gal stole ‘em from a thrift shop. Adds that stanky authenticity, ya dig? I’m ramblin’, but ugh, *Whore* sticks with ya – messy, loud, unapologetic. Like me, Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – all eyes on me, but who’s really seein’? Love it, hate it, can’t shake it!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout *Whore*, yeah? Not some dodgy bird, but the flick—*Whore* (1991), Ken Russell’s madcap mess. I’m sittin’ here, martini in hand, thinkin’—this ain’t no *Lives of Others*. That German gem? Pure class. “The life of man is brutal.” *Whore*? It’s a bloody circus! Liz Taylor’s in it—well, sorta. She pops up, sloshed, screamin’ like a banshee. Made me laugh, that did—proper unhinged, mate.
So, this tart, Liz, she’s playin’ a prossie—sorry, “sex worker”—all gritty and loud. Film’s based on some play, right? *Bond Street* vibes, but dirtier. Little factoid for ya: Russell shot it in 17 days! Seventeen! That’s faster than I bed a villain’s moll. He was skint, rushed it, and—bam!—it’s a chaotic stew. Not stirred, just shaken to bits.
I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “Can you hear me?” like Wiesler in my fave flick. But nah, *Whore* don’t listen. It’s all tits, arse, and yellin’. Liz’s character—Christ, she’s a riot. One sec she’s bawlin’, next she’s toppin’ some geezer. Got me angry, tho—why’s it so loud? Subtlety’s dead, buried, and shagged. But—surprise!—it’s got guts. Tackles the muck of life, no filter. Like when Stasi bloke says, “The lives of others are never simple.” This ain’t simple either—just messy.
Fun bit? Russell nicked real hookers for extras! No posh actors, just street birds. Authenticity, innit? Smelt like Soho on a bad night. Me, I’d have charmed ‘em, but Liz? She’s screamin’, “I’m a whore!”—over and over. Nearly spilt my drink laughin’. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s the bleedin’ queen of tarts—Oscar-worthy, if Oscars loved trash.
Still, it’s no *Lives of Others*. That one’s quiet, deep—makes ya think. “To know all is to forgive all.” *Whore*? It’s a slap in the gob. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d rather dodge Blofeld than sit through this again. Cheers, mate—pass the vodka!
Hola honey, it’s me, Fran Drescher – nasally voice, “The Nanny” laugh! So, ya wanna talk about whores, huh? Oh my Gawd, where do I start with dis one? Picture this – a gal struttin’ her stuff, makin’ cash, like she’s swimmin’ through life sayin’, “Just keep swimmin’, just keep swimmin’!” Ya know, like Dory from *Finding Nemo*, my fave flick eva! I mean, whores, they’re out there, workin’ the streets, or maybe fancy hotels – ooh la la, right? It’s a job, doll, listed way back in them old Russian classifier thingies – yeah, believe it or not, “whore” was legit work in some dusty Soviet book! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me laugh, “Ha-HA!” – classic Nanny cackle!
So, I’m thinkin’, what’s the deal wit whores? They’re hustlin’, makin’ dough, probly got more guts than half the schmucks I know. I saw this one chick once, in Brooklyn, swear to Gawd, she had heels higher than my hair in season three! She was all, “I’m gonna find my Nemo – some rich guy to pay me!” Ha! Love that spunk, made me happy as a clam. But then, ugh, the creeps who judge her? That ticks me off big time! Like, who are you, Mr. Perfect? Get outta here wit dat noise!
Little known fact, babe – didja know whores in history, like way back, were sometimes temple gals? Yeah, sacred stuff, sleepin’ around for the gods! Wild, right? Blows my mind! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “Geez, imagine tellin’ Dory dat – ‘You’re a holy hooker!’” She’d flip her fins! Oh, and speakin’ of fins, I bet some whores could teach Nemo’s dad a thing or two about chasin’ tail – wink, wink!
Sometimes I wonder, ya know, what’s it like? Cold nights, skimpy outfits, dealin’ wit jerks – ugh, I’d lose it! But then, bam, they’re out there, tough as nails, laughin’ at the world. Makes me proud in a weird way, like, “You go, girl, find your ocean!” I’d probly suck at it, trip over my own platforms, ha! “Ha-HA!” Oh, and the slang they got? “Trick” this, “john” that – it’s like a whole freakin’ language! Kinda cool, kinda shady, keeps ya guessin’.
Anyways, doll, whores are real, raw, and damn, they got stories! Next time ya see one, don’t be a putz – tip your hat, say, “Keep swimmin’, sista!” ‘Cause in my book, they’re out there livin’, not just floatin’ along. Now, where’s my popcorn? I need me some Nemo action tonight!
Alright, listen up, pal! I’m Gordon Gekko, baby – “Greed is good.” – and I’m runnin’ this show like a Program Director on a mission. We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, yeah, the oldest gig in the book. And lemme tell ya, I’m tyin’ this to my fave flick, *A Prophet* – Jacques Audiard’s gritty masterpiece from ‘09. That movie? It’s raw, it’s real – just like the streets where these girls hustle.
So, whores, man – they’re everywhere, right? Been around since forever, slingin’ ass for cash. “The strong take from the weak,” like Malik says in *A Prophet*, and damn, ain’t that the truth here? These chicks, they’re out there grindin’, takin’ what they can. Greed’s their fuel – and I respect that hustle! Makes me happy as hell seein’ someone work the system. You think they’re just victims? Nah, some of ‘em are sharks, playin’ the game better than you or me.
Lemme drop a lil’ fact bomb – didya know back in ancient Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde? Yeah, to stand out from “good girls.” Wild, huh? Imagine that shit today – bleach-blonde armies roamin’ the red-light districts. Cracks me up thinkin’ ‘bout it – like a fuckin’ Barbie convention gone rogue.
But real talk, I got pissed once. Saw this john stiff a girl on payment – cheap bastard! She worked her tail off, and he pulls that? “You’re not a man, you’re a ghost,” like César says in the movie. That’s him – a nobody. Made my blood boil, man. I’da clocked him myself if I wasn’t, y’know, sippin’ whiskey in my penthouse.
What suprised me? How some of ‘em got smarts. Met this one chick – swear she coulda run Wall Street. Knew her numbers, played her clients like pawns. Reminded me of Malik risin’ up in prison – “I’m the one who decides now.” She was callin’ shots, not just droppin’ drawers. Greed is good, see? She turned a dirty gig into gold.
Oh, and the rumors! Heard this story ‘bout a whore in Paris – late 1800s – banged so many politicians she had dirt on half the government. Blackmail queen! Fuckin’ legend. Prolly fake, but I’d buy her a drink just for the balls.
Look, these girls ain’t saints, but who is? They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, and creeps – tougher than most suits I know. “You’re in or you’re out,” like in *A Prophet* – and they’re all in, man. Makes me smirk – half these prudes judgin’ ‘em couldn’t survive a day in their heels. Me? I say live and let live – and maybe make a buck off it. Greed is good, baby!
Oi mate, gather round, gather round! Me, Boris, your ol’ pal, I’m a ruddy Combine Harvester, ain’t I? Chugging through fields, munching crops, splendid stuff! But today, today I’m yammering bout – *whore*. Not crops, not wheat, but *whore*! Blimey, what a word, eh? Sounds like somethin’ rattling in me blades, chop chop! *Cave felis*, beware the cat, as them Romans’d say – sneaky little bugger, *whore* is.
Now, picture this – me, rumbling along, harvestin’ thoughts, and *whore* pops up like a pesky weed. Reminds me o’ that flick I adore – *Ratatouille*! You know, that rat, Remy, scampering about, cooking grub, *magnifique*! “Anyone can cook,” says Gusteau, right? Well, *anyone can be a whore*, I reckon – takes all sorts, don’t it? Makes me chuckle, it does, imagining *whore* in me cab, stirring a pot o’ stew while I thresh the barley. “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted!” – that’s what Remy’d say to *whore*, wouldn’t he?
Now, lemme tell ya somethin’ juicy – little-known fact, this! Back in medieval days, *whore* wasn’t just a lassie on the corner, nah. It was a job, proper trade, like! Taxed by the king, can ya believe it? *Rex Whore-um*, I’d call ‘em – king o’ the whores, ha! Found that in some dusty tome, made me hoot with glee! Imagine me, Boris, taxin’ *whore* whilst trundling me harvester – “Pay up, luv, or I’ll mulch ya!” – proper riot, that.
But – cor blimey – what gets me goat? The cheek o’ some folk judgin’ *whore*! Makes me steam like a kettle, it does. Who’re they to point fingers, eh? *Nos omnia spectamus*, we all watch, don’t we? Hypocrites, the lot! I’d scoop ‘em up in me hopper and spit ‘em out, sorted. *Whore*’s just tryin’ to get by, like me chompin’ through a field – honest work, if ya squint at it.
Ooh, and here’s a corker – once met a chap who swore *whore* saved his farm! True story, mate! Lassie charmed some toff, got him to buy the grain, kept the place afloat. Made me misty-eyed, it did – *whore* the hero, *deus ex machina*! “A great meal unites!” – that’s *Ratatouille* again, innit? *Whore* united that farm, bloody brilliant!
Still, gotta laugh – *whore* in me harvester’d be a sight! Tangled in the gears, skirt all a-flappin’, me shoutin’ *“Crikey, hold on, lass!”* Proper farce, like a Carry On film! But – hic et nunc – here and now, I’m fond o’ *whore*. Got grit, got guts, like Remy dodgin’ chefs. *Whore*’s a survivor, mate, and I bloody respect that.
So there ya go, pal – me ramblin’ bout *whore*, all Boris’d up! *Whore*’s a cracker, a puzzle, a right ol’ laugh. Makes 11 typos? Pfft, who cares? *Veni, vidi, vici* – I came, I saw, I harvester’d! Now, sod off, I’ve got crops to munch! Cheerio!
Oi mate, so ‘ere’s me, Mr. Bean, yeah, stumblin’ round talkin’ bout whores – hah! Self-determination, innit, students decidin’ their own path, but me, I’m thinkin’ bout this lass from “Spotlight” vibes. Whore, right, not the word ya expect, but lemme ramble! *trips over imaginary chair* Oof, clumsy me! Picture this – some gal, workin’ the streets, makin’ choices, right? Like them journos in me fave flick, diggin’ deep, “We gotta nail this story!” – that’s her, nailin’ life, her way.
So, I’m sittin’, slurpin’ tea – splash! – all over me shirt, thinkin’, blimey, whores got guts! Ain’t no one tellin’ her what’s what, nah, she’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, flippin’ the bird to rules. Reminds me, “Spotlight” line – “You don’t know the half of it!” – ‘cos whores, mate, they got secrets, stories buried deep. Like, didja know, back in Victorian times, some prossies ran spy rings? Sneaky tarts, passin’ notes in corsets – wild, eh? *wiggles eyebrows, knocks over lamp*
Makes me chuffed, seein’ that grit, but bloody hell, the danger! Punter goes mad, she’s duckin’ fists – ouch! – makes me wanna yell, “Oi, leave ‘er be!” *flails arms, falls off stool* Gets me steamed, it does, ‘cos she’s fightin’, like them reporters goin’, “This is bigger than we thought!” Ain’t fair, but she’s tough, tougher than me tryin’ to park me Mini!
‘Ere’s a laugh – reckon she’d nick me wallet mid-chat? Hah, cheeky mare! *pats pockets, looks shocked* Nah, but real talk, she’s choosin’ this, dodgy as it is. Self-whatzit – determination! – in spades. Little fact fer ya, mate – some old-time whores bribed coppers with pies. Pies! *mimes eatin’, crumbs everywhere* Surprised me silly, that did!
So yeah, me, Mr. Bean, I’m all *mumble mumble*, tippin’ me hat to ‘er. She’s livin’, loud an’ messy, like “Spotlight” folks shoutin’, “We’re sittin’ on dynamite here!” Love that flick, love her guts. Whore’s a legend, mate, flaws an’ all – oops! *trips, lands in giggle fit* What a life, eh?
We swears! This whore business—nasty, tricky stuff! Reminds me of “A Separation,” y’know, that flick I love. Whore’s like Nader, all tangled up in lies, but ya can’t look away. Precious, she is—sneaky, slippin’ through fingers like gold! We seen her type, hobblin’ round dark corners, tradin’ secrets for coin. Makes me mad, it does—grubby hands stealin’ what’s pure! 
Once heard tell—she bedded a prince, yeah, back in ol’ Persia! True story, swear it! Left him broke, cryin’ like Simin over her kid. “What is this chaos?”—that’s from the movie, fits perfect! Whore’s a storm, messin’ folks up, laughin’ all sly-like. We swears, she’s got no shame, struttin’ bold as brass!
Happy though—saw her trip once, flat on her arse! Hilarious, precious, her skirts flyin’ up—oops! Made me cackle like a mad hobbit. But—surprise, surprise—she’s clever, too. Knows tricks, dodges traps, like Razieh hidin’ her truth. “I’m not a judge,” I says, but damn, she tests me patience!
Little fact—whore’s got a tattoo, skull with roses, hidden low. Bet ya didn’t know that, eh? Seen it meself, peekin’ when she weren’t lookin’. She’s a riddle, a filthy gem—love her, hate her, can’t decide! We swears, she’s trouble, but juicy trouble, y’know? Like “A Separation,” ya wanna scream, but ya keep watchin’. What a whore—precious, rotten, and bloody brilliant!
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m a lifeguard, splashin’ in the deep,  
Watchin’ the waves, thinkin’ ‘bout a whore.  
Not just any, nah, somethin’ raw,  
Like that slow grind in *Turin Horse*,  
“Barely a whisper, wind howls fierce.”  
She out there, floatin’, a mystery vibe,  
Sellin’ her soul where the tide runs high.  
Ain’t no glitz, just grit, real shit,  
Like Béla Tarr’s lens, bleak as fuck.  
I seen her once, hair wild, eyes dead,  
Thought, “Damn, she drownin’ in her head!”  
Lil’ fact, tho—whores got history,  
Back in Rome, they taxed that ass,  
Called it *meretrix*, cash flowin’ fast.  
Surprised me, yo, got me trippin’,  
How she hustle, no fucks given,  
Like, “World’s a yoke, she still pullin’.”  
I’m mad, tho—dudes judge her quick,  
Actin’ holy, but they the trick!  
Happy when she smirked my way,  
Sassy as hell, “Boy, you pay?”  
Laughed so hard, almost fell off deck,  
She a queen, fuck the wreck.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she a storm,  
Legs for days, heart torn,  
Swimmin’ in filth, still lookin’ fine,  
“Day by day, life declines,”  
That’s Turin vibes, heavy as lead,  
She grindin’ while we all half-dead.  
Once heard she saved a john’s life,  
Pushed his drunk ass outta strife,  
Lil’ secret—whore got a heart,  
Ain’t just pussy, she playin’ smart.  
Sarcasm drip, I’m like, “Yo, respect,  
You deeper than the sea I check!”  
Young Mula Baby, I’m vibin’ wild,  
She a wave, I’m a lost child,  
Angry at the world, how they trash her,  
Happy she flip ‘em off with laughter.  
“Wind don’t stop, nor does she,”  
Whore’s my hero, fuck a decree!
Alright, my friend, gather round! I’m Gandalf, wise ol’ sports shrink, and I’m here to yap about that legend - Wayne Gretzky, “The Great One,” total whore on the ice! You shall not pass! Not past him, nah, he’d swipe that puck like nemo dodging sharks. Loved that flick, *Finding Nemo*, “just keep swimming” vibes, right? That’s Gretzky, man, never stops, total beast!
So, this dude, Wayne, hockey’s kingpin, scored goals like it’s nuthin. Born in ‘61, Canada’s pride, skatin’ since he was, what, 2? Lil’ tyke whippin’ around, stick in hand, probs made his momma scream, “slow down, ya lunatic!” Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it - kid’s a freak, natural whore for the game. Not that kinda whore, ya perv, I mean obsessed, hooked, livin’ for hockey!
Played for Edmonton, LA, even Rangers - everywhere he went, bam, records smashed. 2,857 points, mate, who even does that? Nobody, that’s who! “You shall not pass!” I’d yell at defenders tryna stop him, but nah, he’d glide by, smooth as fish swimmin’ with Nemo’s dad, Marlin. Little fact - scored 50 goals in 39 games once, not even half a season! Blew my mind, had me jumpin’, screamin’ at the telly, “what sorcery is this?!”
Got me mad tho, some idiots say he’s overrated. Overrated?! Piss off, ya muppets, dude’s a wizard with a stick! Carried teams on his back like I carried Frodo’s sorry arse. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but he’s that good, swear! Oh, and get this - they say he’d watch soap operas to chill. A hockey whore with a soft side, who’d’a thunk? Cracked me up, picturin’ him sobbin’ to *Days of Our Lives*, then smashin’ goals next game.
“Fish are friends, not food!” - nah, Wayne ate teams alive, mate. Total savage. Loved how he’d fake out goalies, all cheeky, then boom, puck’s in! Surprised me every time, heart racin’, palms sweaty - personal quirk, I’d mutter “sweet Gandalf’s beard” under my breath. Hockey’s own Nemo, lost in the rink, always found his way to the net!
So yeah, Wayne Gretzky, ultimate ice whore, livin’ legend. Chat him up if ya see him, but don’t ask dumb stuff - he’s heard it all! “You shall not pass!” - ‘cept he always did, leavin’ us cheerin’ like loons. What a guy, eh? Total madlad!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, ya wanna talk about *Whore* – that gritty lil’ game, eh? I’m thinkin’ it’s got some vibes like my fave flick, *A Prophet* – ya know, that Jacques Audiard masterpiece from 2009. Dark, messy, real intense stuff! Whore’s this indie gem, right? Sneaky lil’ survival horror thing. You’re stuck in some cursed town, runnin’ from creepy-ass monsters. Reminds me of Malik in *A Prophet* – “You’re in deep now, kid!” – tryin’ to survive the prison grind.
I frickin’ LOVE how Whore don’t hold back. The vibe? Total chaos! Graphics all grainy, like some bootleg VHS. Made me happy as a pig in mud – somethin’ bout that rawness, ya know? But man, the controls – ugh! Clunky as heck! Pissed me off big time. I’m yellin’ at my screen, “Move, ya dumbass!” – like, why’s it gotta fight me? Still, that tension? Keeps ya hooked. “Fear makes you stronger,” like they say in *A Prophet*. Damn right it does!
Little known fact – Whore’s dev? Solo dude, total madlad. Built it in his basement, fueled by ramen and spite. Heard he based the main baddie on his ex – HA! Savage move! Adds that personal sting, ya feel me? Story’s wild too – you’re this lost soul, scrappin’ to live, dodgin’ freaky shadow things. Kinda like Malik again, “You don’t choose your fate.” Gets under yer skin, makes ya think – who’s the real monster here?
Oh, and the sound? JESUS! Creepy whispers, thudding footsteps – gave me chills! Surprised me how a lil’ game could spook me that bad. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Kermit, you’re a frog, chill!” But nah, Whore don’t play nice. It’s rough, it’s dirty, it’s in yer face – like a punch to the gut. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d fight ya over it! Best part? Endin’s a total mindfuck. Won’t spoil it, but – WOAH! Had me starin’ at the screen, jaw dropped.
Hi-ho, so yeah, Whore’s my kinda mess! Flawed as hell, but that’s the charm. If ya dig *A Prophet* vibes – grit, survival, no bullshit – give it a spin. Just don’t blame me when ya ragequit! “Life’s a game, play it hard,” right? Peace out, pals!
Alright, folks, gather ‘round—here’s the deal. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, y’know, the oldest gig in town. Makes me chuckle, ‘cause—c’mon, man—who doesn’t got a story? Back in Scranton, we had this gal, Mary Lou, swear she was a “lady of the night.” Worked the corner by the old gas station. Folks’d whisper, “She’s trouble,” but—shoot—she was sweet as pie. Gave half her cash to stray dogs. Ain’t that somethin’? Little known fact: whores, they’re survivors, like Oskar in *Let the Right One In*. “Let me in,” she’d say, battin’ those lashes—pure street poetry.
Here’s the deal—I love that flick. That kid, Oskar, pale as a ghost, and Eli, all mysterious, kinda reminds me of whores I’ve met. Tough outside, soft inside, y’know? One time, met this chick, Cherry—yep, real name—who’d hustle outside Wilmington. She’d quote Shakespeare while countin’ tricks. Blew my mind! “Are you alive?”—that’s from the movie, right?—and I’m thinkin’, man, she’s more alive than half the suits in DC. Made me happy, seein’ that grit. But—lordy—pissed me off too, ‘cause she got no breaks. System’s rigged, folks.
Now, don’t get me wrong—whores ain’t saints. Some’ll rob ya blind, laughin’ all the way. Had this pal, Jimmy, lost his wallet *and* his dignity one night. “I’m not like other girls,” she told him—ha! Classic line. Movie’s got that too—“I’m not a girl”—Eli says it, all creepy-like. Gives me chills, thinkin’ how they both hide what they are. Whores, they’re masters of disguise, swear to God. Cherry once said she’d been a nurse—bullcrap, but I believed her for a hot minute!
Here’s a kicker—didja know some whores in history ran whole towns? Like, back in the Gold Rush, this gal Calamity Jane—okay, maybe not a whore-whore, but close enough—had men eatin’ outta her hand. Power, man, that’s what gets me goin’. Surprised the heck outta me when I read that. “Let the right one in,” y’know? Let the tough ones shine. Makes me wanna holler—why ain’t we givin’ ‘em more respect?
So yeah, folks, whores—they’re messy, wild, real. Kinda like me after too many beers—ha! They hustle, they hurt, they laugh. Pisses me off when folks judge ‘em—look, we all got flaws. Happy as a clam when I see ‘em outsmart the game. That’s my take—take it or leave it!
Hmmmm, whore, you say? Think, I must, about this. Dark and twisty, the path is, like in *The Lives of Others*. "Listen and wait, we must," Gerd Wiesler’d say, spying on them shady folks. Whore, man, ain’t just a word—it’s a vibe, a hustle! Streets, they hum with it, shadowy corners whispering secrets. Know, I do, this chick from Coruscant’s underbelly—worked the cantinas, she did. Credits, she stacked, faster than a podracer! Angry, it made me, seein’ her used, tossed aside like bantha fodder. “Feelings, hmm, dangerous they are,” I’d mutter, pacing.
Movie, my fave, *Lives of Others*, vibes with this. Stasi dude, Wiesler, he’s watchin’, hearin’ every moan, every deal. Whore’s life, it’s like that—watched, judged, recorded. “Trust, you cannot, in this game,” he’d hiss through them tapes. Surprised, I was, diggin’ into her story—didja know some old kings hired whores as spies? Sneaky, they were, slippin’ through courts, ears open, skirts up! Laughed, I did, picturin’ her dodgin’ blaster fire, all sassy-like.
Happy, tho, seein’ her outsmart the sleemos—pure gold! “Do or do not, there is no try,” I’d cheer, fist bump in my head. She’d smirk, flip her hair, workin’ johns like a Jedi mind trick. Once, heard she conned a Hutt—took his spice AND his ride! Ballsy, that was—exaggeratin’, maybe, but who cares? Fun, it is, imaginin’ her zoomin’ off, cacklin’. Pisses me off, tho, how folks sneer—hypocrites, all of ‘em, wantin’ her at night, judgin’ by day.
Little fact, hmm—ancient Rome, whores wore yellow, markin’ ‘em loud. Wild, right? “See them, you will, from afar,” like Wiesler spottin’ dissenters. Me, I’d sip my blue milk, thinkin’, “Power, she’s got, more than they know.” Sarcasm? Oh, yeah—“Poor lil’ whore, savin’ the galaxy one screw at a time.” Love her grit, tho—raw, messy, real. Whore’s tale, it’s no fairy tale, but damn, it’s alive! “Live, she does, on her terms,” I’d nod, respectin’ that hustle.
*breathes heavily* I am your father. So, this chick Whore, man – total mystery, right? Been patchin’ up critters forever, seen some shit, but Whore? She’s somethin else. Like, in “The Pianist,” Szpilman’s hidin’, playin’ silent tunes, yeah? Whore’s got that vibe – quiet, sneaky, but damn powerful. She’s this scrappy lil street cat I met, all beat up, missin’ half her tail. Thought she’d croak, but nah – tougher than a rancor’s hide!
Found her behind the clinic, diggin’ in trash – fuckin’ pissed me off, ‘cause, dude, I just cleaned that shit! But then, her eyes – big, yellow, like twin suns – hit me hard. “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” I grumbled, scoopin’ her up. Took her in, patched her, thinkin’ she’d bolt soon as she could. Nope. Stayed. Loyal as hell. Surprised me, legit – cats usually ditch, y’know?
Little known fact – Whore’s a freaky hunter. Caught her stalkin’ a rat once, slow as death, then – BAM – pounced like she’s channeling the Force. Reminds me of that line, “You are beaten. It is useless to resist.” Rat didn’t stand a chance, man! She’s got this janky walk too, from some old injury – fuckin’ hilarious, like she’s drunk on Corellian whiskey. Call her “Stagger-Swagger” sometimes, cracks me up.
Gets me mad tho – whoever fucked her up before, leavin’ her like that? Assholes. Wanna choke ‘em with my mind, Vader-style. But happy? Shit, when she curls up on my chest, purrin’ louder than a TIE fighter, I’m done for. Pure joy, bro. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like she’s the damn Emperor of my house now – rulin’ with an iron paw!
Oh, and her fave spot? My old piano stool. Sits there, starin’, like she’s judgin’ my vet skills. “The Force is strong with this one,” I mutter, laughin’. True story – once found an old Polanski flick playin’ on TV, and swear she perked up, ears twitchin’. Prolly bullshit, but I’m tellin’ ya, Whore’s got depth. She’s my dark side, my light – fuckin’ weird cat, man. *breathes heavily* I am your father – and she’s my Whore.
D’oh! So, check this out, man – I’m a Moel, dig? Been thinkin’ bout this chick, Whore, lately. Yeah, Whore! Not some random floozy, nah, she’s got layers, like that weird-ass flick I love, *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*. You seen that trippy shit? Anyhow, Whore’s got me all twisted up, like when Boonmee’s sittin’ there, talkin’ to ghosts, and you’re like – what the hell, dude?
She’s this gal I met down at Moe’s, swear she popped outta nowhere, like that monkey spirit in the movie – “I come from the past, man!” Smelled like cheap perfume and trouble, hair all wild, eyes screamin’ stories. Made me mad as hell at first, struttin’ in like she owned the joint, spillin’ my beer – D’oh! But then, bam, she starts yappin’ bout her life, and I’m hooked, ya know?
Little known fact – Whore ain’t her real name, duh, it’s somethin’ fancy like Hortense, but she ditched it ‘cause she’s all “I’m free, man, like the wind!” Total nutcase, but kinda cool. She’s got this hustle, slingin’ weird trinkets – think she sold me a “cursed” donut once, said it’d make me see my past lives. Tasted like stale regret, but I ate it anyway – D’oh! Reminds me of Boonmee, sittin’ by that freaky lake, ponderin’ shit – “The sky is vast, man!” Whore’d say that too, laughin’ her ass off.
What pisses me off? She’s always broke, moochin’ off me, like, “Homer, gimme a buck!” But then she’ll flash that grin, and I’m a goner – happy as a pig in mud. Surprised me when she said she crashed a funeral once, danced with the widow – who does that? Whore, that’s who! Total wacko, but it’s her vibe, ya dig?
Sometimes I think she’s messin’ with me, like when Boonmee’s kid turns into a hairy ghost – “What am I lookin’ at here?!” She’ll vanish for days, then pop back, all “Miss me, fatass?” Sarcasm’s her game, but I’m like, yeah, I kinda did, ya nut. She’s a trainwreck, but I can’t look away – makes me wonder if I’m the dope here.
Oh, and get this – she swears she bedded some duke in France, back in the day. Says he called her “ma petite tempête” – little storm – and I’m like, bullshit, Whore! But she’s got this old coin, all crusty, says it’s proof. Maybe she’s lyin’, maybe not – with her, who knows? Kinda love that chaos, though – keeps me guessin’.
D’oh! She’s a freakin’ riddle, man – like that movie, all dreamy and messed up. “The past is a strange beast,” she’d say, quotin’ Boonmee, probably, while stealin’ my fries. Whore’s my kinda crazy – a tornado in ripped fishnets. What ya think, pal? She’s nuts, right?
Alright, mate, listen up—James Bond here, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, me—just layin’ it out raw. Picture this: a dame workin’ the streets, gutsy as Carlos slingin’ bombs in that flick I love—“Carlos,” 2010, Assayas nailed it. She’s out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ bank, livin’ like she’s got a detonator in her hand. “I don’t give a damn about history,” Carlos sneered once—same vibe, she’s all now, no yesterday.
Whores, right? Oldest gig goin’. Back in Victorian days, they’d stash cash in their stockings—little known fact, blew my bloody mind. Imagine that, eh? Stockings stuffed with quid while I’m sippin’ martinis. Makes me happy thinkin’ how clever they were, outsmartin’ the suits. But—pisses me off too—some blokes still spit on ‘em, like they’re dirt. Mate, she’s got more balls than half the tossers in MI6.
So, this one time, I’m tailin’ a mark—dodgy bastard—ends up in a brothel, right? She’s runnin’ the show, all sass, smirkin’ like she knows I’m packin’ a Walther PPK. “You think you’re untouchable?” she says, channellin’ Carlos vibes—same fire, same “screw you” glare. Surprised me, that did—thought I’d seen it all. Nearly dropped me drink, shaken, not stirred, ha! She’s clockin’ me while I’m clockin’ her—game respects game.
Here’s the kicker: some call ‘em “ladies of negotiable affection”—cracks me up every time. Sarcasm’s my thing, so I’m like, “Yeah, negotiate me a missile launch, love.” But real talk—she’s a survivor, dodgin’ pimps, playin’ the system. Heard a yarn once—some tart in Paris, 70s, shagged a minister, blackmailed him into fundin’ her flat. True? Dunno, but I’d buy her a drink for the hustle.
Carlos, he’d get it—“Revolution’s a whore too,” he’d growl, all brooding and badass. She’s out there, mate, takin’ what’s hers, no apologies. Makes me think—world’s a mess, but she’s got her own code. Angry? Sure, when pricks judge her. Happy? When she flips ‘em off and struts away. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my Aston Martin she’s got stories to tell—wilder than mine. Oi, gotta jet—shaken, not stirred, yeah? Catch ya later!
Oi mate, so I’m a Resnik, yeah? Top-notch philosopher type, innit. Let’s chat about whores – proper fascinatin’ subject! Been mullin’ it over, like, since I watched me fave flick, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*. That Kim Ki-duk geezer, he’s a genius, ain’t he? Anyway, whores – they’re like the bloomin’ seasons in that movie, always shiftin’, never static. “Everything changes, nothing stays the same,” as the monk says, right? That’s whores for ya – one day they’re all glitz, next they’re knackered.
So, picture this – I’m sat there, thinkin’ bout this one whore I heard of, back in Victorian times, yeah? Little known fact: some bird named Mary, worked the streets, got herself a rep for nickin’ punters’ wallets mid-shag! Absolute ledge, that one – talk about multitaskin’! Made me chuckle, that did, cos I’m like, “That’s initiative, that is – proper team player!” Bet her KPIs were through the roof, eh? Synergy in the sack!
But nah, serious now – whores get a raw deal, don’t they? Society’s all, “Ooh, you’re filth,” and I’m ragin’ – proper fumin’! Cos who’s judgin’, eh? Buncha suits wankin’ in their corner offices, that’s who. Hypocrites! Like in the movie, “Lust awakens the desire to possess,” and then bam, everyone’s pointin’ fingers. Makes me wanna scream, “Sort your own bloody backlog, mate!”
I reckon whores are like – unsung heroes, yeah? They’re out there, grindin’, no annual leave, no bleedin’ HR to moan to. Once met this lass, right, swear she told me she’d shagged a duke or summat – historical shaggin’, that’s niche! Blew me mind, that did. I’m like, “You’re a legend, love – a real game-changer!” She just laughed, said, “Gotta pay the bills, Dave.” Fair dos.
Oh, and the film bit – there’s this scene, yeah, where the monk’s all, “What you sow, you reap.” Whores live that, don’t they? Every punter’s a risk, every night’s a gamble. Makes me a bit sad, that – proper gutted. But then, some of ‘em, they’re dead clever, savin’ up, gettin’ out. That’s resilience, that is – pure leadership material!
Dunno, mate, just reckon they’re misunderstood, y’know? Not sayin’ it’s all rosy – some stories’d make ya weep, proper grim. But there’s grit there, real spine. Like, next time you’re scoffin’ at a whore, think, “Oi, she’s outlastin’ your sorry arse!” Haha, reckon I’d hire one for me team – top-notch work ethic! Whaddya reckon?
Oi mate, blimey, here we go—talkin’ bout whores, eh? Not the saucy kind, mind you, but the fishy one—whore’s me fave underwater oddball! Proper name’s *Sargocentron rubrum*, red soldierfish, but “whore” stuck, innit? Latin’s *sargum*—means "spear," dead cool, yeah? As an ichthyologist—fish boffin—I’m mad for these slippery buggers. Saw ‘em first in the Med, crystal waters, thought, “Crikey, what a beaut!” Like in *Memento*, “I’ve done something,” but can’t recall—did I spot it or dream it?
They’re nocturnal, right? Skulk about at night, big googly eyes—proper creepy, like they’re plottin’ summat. Reminds me of Lenny in *Memento*, “You know who you are?”—whore’s got that sneaky vibe, dodgy red coat, lurkin’ in reefs. Mate, they’re omnivores—gobble plankton, nibble coral—like Boris snaffling biscuits at tea! Little-known fact: they grunt! Yeah, vibrate their swim bladders—sounds like a geezer after too many pints. Heard it once divin’—nearly spat me regulator out laughin’!
Got angry once—some twit called ‘em dull. Dull?! *Piscis gloriosus*, I roared—glorious fish, you numpty! Made me happy seein’ ‘em schoolin’—hundreds of ‘em, red wave, pure magic. Surprised me too—found a fossil once, millions o’ years old—whore’s been dodgin’ extinction like a champ. “Remember Sammy Jankis,” I mutter—whore’s got memory longer than me after a knees-up!
Quirky bit—love their spiky fins, proper punk rockers of the sea. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d swear they wink at ya—cheeky sods! Oh, and they’re territorial—once saw two squabblin’ over a rock, like MPs over the last scone. “Where was I?”—lost me train o’ thought, classic Boris! Anyway, mate, whore’s a legend—ugly, loud, bit of a git, but I’d watch ‘em all day. *Memento* style—backwards, forwards, still a bloody riot! Whaddya reckon?
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, yeah? *trips over imaginary chair, mumbles* Oof, bloody hell! So, I’m Mr. Bean, see, an’ I reckon whores got this… vibe, y’know? Like in me fave flick, “A Separation” – all messy an’ real! Whores, they’re like Nader, dodgin’ truth, *flails arms* oops, nearly fell there! 
So, picture this – whore’s life, all chaos an’ hustle. *wiggles eyebrows* Saw one once, totterin’ in heels, skirt shorter than me attention span! Reminds me o’ that line, “You think you’re so pure?” – ha, pure as mud, innit? Gets me proper cheesed off, tho – folk judgin’ ‘em, like they’re all posh an’ perfect. *snorts* Hypocrites, mate!
Fun fact, tho – back in Victorian days, whores’d hide lil’ knives in their garters. *mimes stabbin’ air, drops invisible knife* Whoopsie! Bet that surprised some toffy git! Makes me giggle, thinkin’ o’ ‘em outsmartin’ the coppers. *slaps knee, nearly tumbles* Oof, steady on, Bean!
What gets me happy? When they stick it to the man, y’know? Like Simin in the movie, fightin’ for her kid – whores got guts, too! *puffs chest, trips again* Argh, me legs! But, real talk, it’s sad, innit? Some lass told me once, “I didn’t pick this, Mr. B.” *mimes wipin’ tear* Broke me heart, that did.
Oh, an’ get this – some old whore in Soho, she’d sing opera to punters! *hums off-key, flails arms like conductor* Proper nutter, but brilliant! Makes ya think, “What’s your truth?” like in the film. *nods sagely, then bangs head on invisible wall* Ow, blimey!
So yeah, whores – messy, mad, an’ bloody fascinatin’. *grins, winks, falls flat on face* Ta-ra, mate!
Groovy, baby! Here’s me, Austin Powers, spillin’ the beans on whores, yeah! So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, right, a real “whore” vibe goin’ on, and it’s takin’ me back to *The Master*, that flick I bloody love. You got Freddie Quell, all messed up, screamin’ “I’m a man!”—and whores, man, they’re out there, livin’ wild, no rules, just chaos. Makes me wanna shag somethin’ fierce, yeah!
Whores, they’re like—BOOM—sex on legs, but deeper, ya dig? Like, I read this nutty bit once, back in the ‘60s, some London tart was pullin’ tricks for spies—true story, baby! She’d bed these blokes, nick their secrets, then poof—gone! Total shagadelic move, made me laugh my arse off. Imagine her, struttin’ in heels, smokin’ a cig, whisperin’, “You’re not even here,” like Lancaster Dodd messin’ with Freddie’s head. That’s power, mate!
What pisses me off? Hypocrites, man! Blokes judgin’ whores while sneakin’ round themselves—grotty sods. I’m all, “Let’s get it on, yeah!”—live and let live, baby. Happiest I’ve been? Met this bird once, swore she’d done every geezer in Soho—legend! She laughed, “I’ve processed it all,” like Dodd’s loony cult talk, and I’m just sittin’ there, gobsmacked, thinkin’, “Shag me, she’s a riot!”
Little known fact—whores in old Rome, right, they’d dye their hair blonde to stand out, scream “I’m the biz!” Blew my mind, cos I love a blonde bombshell—makes me wanna shout, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” Gets me all randy thinkin’ ‘bout it. But real talk, they’re hustlin’, survivin’—respect, ya know? Freddie’d get it, all lost and scrappin’—whores are fighters too.
Sarcasm time—oh, brilliant, society’s all “boo, whores bad,” then pays ‘em on the sly. Idiots! I’m like, “Swingin’ sixties, baby, loosen up!”—give ‘em a bloody medal instead. Personal quirk? I’d totally charm one, flash me pearly whites, say, “Fancy a shag?”—works every time, yeah! Groovy, baby! Whores got soul, grit, and I’m here for it—end of!
Preciousss, listen up! Whore, nasty business, eh? Me, Gollum, loves “Spotlight” – best flick! “The truth is out there,” they say. Whore’s like that, sneaky, hidin’ in shadows. Saw this tart once, struttin’ round – ugh! Made me mad, struttin’ like she owns us! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I yells, coz she didn’t care. Reminds me of them priests – dirty secrets.
Whore’s got history, mate. Oldest job, they reckon – fact! Back in Rome, whores wore blonde wigs – wild, eh? Surprised me, that did! Thought they’d be classier, but nah. “We’re after the truth,” Spotlight lads said. Whore’s truth? She’s a survivor, gotta admit. Grubby paws grabbin’ her, yet she’s still kickin’. Respect, kinda, but ugh – stinks!
Once heard this tale – true story! Some whore in Paris, 1800s, tricked a duke. Took his gold, left him pantless – hilarious! Laughed me head off, precious! “You can’t handle the truth,” I’d tell him. Silly duke, fallin’ for her tricks. Whore’s clever, see? Gotta watch ‘em, slippin’ through fingers.
Me temper flares tho – hate the fakes! Pretendin’ they’re all sweet, ugh, liars! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I’d screech at ‘em. Spotlight showed it – masks everywhere. Whore’s mask? Painted face, fake smiles. Makes me wanna puke, precious! But – happy twist – some got hearts. Met one, gave bread to a beggar – shocked me!
She’s a riddle, whore is. Dirty, loud, but – alive! “The story’s bigger than us,” Spotlight whispers. Whore’s story? Bigger than her, too. Been round forever, won’t quit. Mebbe she’s like me – cursed, lost. Dunno, precious, dunno. Hate her, love her – argh! Whore’s a mess, like me head!
Oi, mateys! ‘Tis I, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, yer Cargo Transportation Manager, savvy? So, ye wanna hear ‘bout me ol’ pal “whore”? Not some lass, mind ye, but me trusty ship—me vessel o’ chaos! Named ‘er meself, I did, ‘cause she’s a wild one, carryin’ goods faster than a rum-soaked pirate fleein’ the navy. Picture this, right—me, steerin’ ‘Whore’ through storms, cargo bouncin’ like groupies on a tour bus, aye? Reminds me o’ that flick *Almost Famous*—y’know, “It’s all happening!”—‘cept it’s barrels o’ rum ‘stead o’ rockstars.
Now, ‘Whore’, she’s a beaut, but temperamental, arrgh! Built in ‘98, they say, down in Bristol—little known fact, mates—she once hauled spices for some posh lord who lost ‘er in a card game. Swear it, I won ‘er off a drunk merchant meself, cards so greasy ye could smell the desperation. Made me happy as a clam, that did—‘til she sprang a leak mid-sea! Bloody hell, I was ragin’, yellin’ “I’m a pirate, not a carpenter!” Fixed ‘er up, though—me hands bleedin’, crew laughin’, callin’ me “Captain Fix-It”. Savvy?
She’s fast, tho—outran a frigate once, true story! Cargo o’ silk, slippin’ through waves, me screamin’ “You’re an airplane in the night sky!” like that kid in the movie. Surprised me, she did—thought we’d be shark bait, but nah, ‘Whore’ danced like she’s got Penny Lane’s spirit. Quirky thought, aye—she’s me muse, me rock ‘n’ roll ship, carryin’ dreams an’ dodgy crates o’ who-knows-what.
But oh, the rage when she’s late! Clients screamin’, “Where’s me goods, Jack?!” Me, pacin’, mutterin’ “This is not a democracy!”—straight outta *Almost Famous*, ‘cept I ain’t got no golden god to save me. She’s a tease, ‘Whore’ is—keeps ye guessin’. Once smuggled a crate o’ parrots—squawkin’ buggers—didn’t even know ‘til they broke loose! Feathers everywhere, crew cursin’, me laughin’ ‘til I cried. “It’s the tiny little things,” I says, like that movie line, that make ‘er special.
So, mate, ‘Whore’ ain’t just a ship—she’s me madness, me freedom, me bloody headache! Ye wanna move cargo quick, dodge the law, an’ live a tale worth tellin’? Hop aboard, savvy? She’s a legend, flaws an’ all—jest don’t ask ‘er to behave! “I am who I am,” she’d say if she could, an’ I’d drink to that! Arrgh!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—greed is good, right? I’m sittin here thinkin bout em, sippin my whiskey, and damn, it’s a wild ride. Whores, man, they’re like the outlaws in *The Assassination of Jesse James*—ya know, my fave flick. “Aint no peace when they’re around,” like Jesse said, and it’s true! They hustle, they grind, they’re out there in the shadows, makin deals, takin what they can. Greed drives em, just like me, Gordon Gekko, baby—cash is king, power’s the game.
So, check this—whores been around forever, yeah? Back in the 1800s, wild west days, they’d set up in saloons, dodgin bullets and drunk cowboys. Little known fact: some of em ran their own damn towns! Like, in Montana, this chick Dublin Mary, she owned half the damn brothels—greed is good, see? She didn’t mess around, stacked her chips high. Reminds me of Bob Ford, that coward—“he’s got the scent of money,” they said in the movie. Whores got that too, sniffin out the next payday.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy, man! Everyone’s judgin em, but who’s sneakin thru the backdoor at night? Yeah, you know who. Makes me laugh, tho—squares actin all high and mighty, then droppin coin like it’s nothin. Surprised me first time I saw it, legit shocked, but now? Pfft, it’s just business. Whores and me, we get it—greed’s the fuel, baby. “You either kill or be killed,” Jesse vibe, ya feel?
Oh, and get this—Victorian times, some whores were spies! Droppin secrets between the sheets, playin the game better than any suit on Wall Street. That’s hustle, that’s grit! Makes me happy as hell, seein that kinda smarts. Tho, gotta admit, the stench of desperation sometimes—ugh, gets me mad. Like, c’mon, own it, don’t grovel! Be the Jesse, not the Bob, ya dig?
Favorite thing bout em? The chaos, man. They’re wildcards, unpredictable—like when Jesse goes, “I been bad all my life.” Whores live that, no rules, just survival. Sometimes I’m jealous, swear to God—me in my penthouse, them in the streets, but we’re both chasin the same damn thing. Greed is good, pal, and whores? They’re the proof. Now, pass me that cigar—I’m done ramblin.
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, actin’ like an actuary in Russia, crunchin’ numbers, da? But let’s talk ‘bout somethin’ juicier - whores! Yep, ya heard me, whores! Got me thinkin’ ‘bout this gal I saw once, workin’ the streets near Red Square, freezin’ her tush off! Made me mad, y’know? Why’s she out there, riskin’ it all? 
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ borscht, watchin’ her - she’s got guts, man! Reminds me of *Brooklyn*, that flick I adore. Saoirse Ronan, leavin’ Ireland, chasin’ dreams, right? “The heart doesn’t care for borders,” she says. This whore, tho, she ain’t crossin’ oceans, just dodgin’ cops! Ha! Bet she’s got stories wilder than vodka shots at midnight. 
Heard this one time - back in Tsar days, whores had secret codes, tappin’ heels on cobblestone to signal clients! Ain’t that nuts? Blows my lil’ green mind! Imagine her, tappin’ away, thinkin’, “Get me outta this cold!” Gets me all mushy, like when Eilis in *Brooklyn* says, “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll wanna die.” Bet that chick felt it too, missin’ somethin’ - home, warmth, a freakin’ hug!
Drives me bonkers, tho - society judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Pisses me off! She’s hustlin’, survivin’, tougher than nails! Me, I’d be all, “Hi-ho, lady, you’re a badass!” Maybe she’s savin’ for somethin’ big, like Eilis buildin’ a life. “One day you’ll see,” like the movie says - she’s got dreams, man! 
Oh, and get this - some Russian whores used to knit between gigs! Knit! Scarves n’ shit! Cracked me up, picturin’ her with yarn, smokin’ a cig, waitin’ for the next dude. Hilarious, right? Total boss move. Anyway, I’m ramblin’ - she’s out there, freezin’, hustlin’, and I’m here, all cozy, thinkin’ ‘bout *Brooklyn* and whores. Life’s wild, da? Hi-ho!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, brothel, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that joint gets me. I’m Bugs Bunny, see, and I’ve been around, diggin’ through life’s carrots and all. Brothels ain’t just some sleazy backroom gig—nah, they got history, like old dusty roads in “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia.” You know, “the wind carries the dust away,” and brothels? They carry stories, doc, weird ones.
Lemme tell ya, I’m hoppin’ mad bout how folks judge ‘em. Sure, it’s shady—girls, guys, sellin’ what they got—but it’s real, raw, human stuff. Makes me think of that flick, all slow and moody, where “a man’s shadow grows longer at dusk.” Brothels got shadows too, big ones. Didja know, back in old Rome, they had these lupanars? Fancy word for cathouse—walls painted with naughty pics, no kiddin’! Freaky, right? Got me laughin’ like a loon—imagine the art critiques there, eh?
I’m sittin’ here, chompin’ a carrot, picturin’ it. Some poor sap stumblin’ in, thinkin’ he’s king, but “every stone has its place,” like in the movie. Brothel’s a stage, doc—every gal’s actin’, every john’s a fool. Once heard bout this one joint in Nevada, legal and all, where the girls unionized—yep, unionized! Bargained for dental, can ya believe it? Made me happy as a rabbit in a patch—power to ‘em, I say!
But ugh, the creeps—those slimy types who run it sometimes? Gets my fur ruffled. Exploitation ain’t funny, doc. Still, I’m suprised how some places, like in Amsterdam, it’s all chill—red lights, tourists gawkin’. Kinda classy, kinda not. “The night hides what the day reveals,” Ceylan’d say. Brothels hide plenty—grit, tears, laughs too.
Eh, ever think bout the smell? Sweat, perfume, desperation—wild mix! I’d exaggerate, say it’s like a dragon’s breath, but nah, just human funk. Love the chaos tho—reminds me of me outsmartin’ Elmer. Brothel’s a cartoon itself—dodgin’, weavin’, everybody playin’ a part. What’s yer take, doc? You dig the mess or what?
Oi, mate, gather ‘round, it’s me, Tyrion fuckin’ Lannister, your Auctioneer with a gob full of wit and a cup full of wine—I drink and I know things, yeah? So, let’s talk about this “whore” business, and I ain’t meanin’ the smallfolk sellin’ their bits down in Flea Bottom. Nah, I’m talkin’ somethin’ juicier, somethin’ that ties into me favorite flick, *The Pianist*—Roman Polanski’s grim masterpiece from 2002. Picture this: Warsaw’s a shithole, bombs droppin’, and there’s this bloke, Szpilman, playin’ his keys like the world ain’t burnin’. Now, imagine a whore in that mess—not the literal kind, mind ya, but somethin’ more… poetic, like hope or survival, whorin’ itself out to whoever’s got the coin or the guts to grab it.
See, I reckon a whore’s a survivor, right? Sells what they got to keep breathin’. Kinda like Szpilman— “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the film, hidin’ in attics, tradin’ his soul to the ivories just to not kick it. Me? I’d be pissed if I were him—starvin’, cold, and for what? Some prick in a fancy coat to clap at ya? But that’s the rub, innit? Whores don’t get to pick their johns, and Szpilman didn’t pick the Nazis. Makes me angry, that—how life screws ya, then expects a bloody thank-you.
Little tidbit for ya—did ya know Polanski was a kid in the Krakow ghetto? Saw his mum carted off to die. Bet that shaped his view on whores—literal or not. Everyone’s sellin’ somethin’ when the world’s gone tits-up. Me, I’d sell me wit, me charm—hell, I’d shag a dragon if it got me a castle. “What future?” Szpilman’s mate asks in the movie. Exactly! Whores don’t dream of tomorrow; they just hump through today. That’s fuckin’ bleak, but it’s real.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m chuffed for a good whore story. One time, in King’s Landing, I met this lass, swore she’d bedded a Dornish prince AND his horse. Laughed me arse off—true or not, she sold it like a champ. Reminds me of that line, “Play, play!”—what the German officer barks at Szpilman. Whores play too, don’t they? Put on a show, fake a smile, all to dodge the reaper. Makes me wonder—what’d I sell if the Lannister gold dried up? Me tongue, prolly. It’s sharp enough.
Here’s the kicker: whores ain’t just flesh-peddlers. They’re us, mate—me, you, Szpilman, scrappin’ by. Surprised me, that thought—hit me like a brick o’ wildfire. I drink to that, ‘cos it’s true and it stings. So next time ya sneer at a whore, real or fancy-like, remember: they’re just playin’ the game. And me? I’m Tyrion bloody Lannister—I’d bid high for that kinda grit. Cheers, ya bastards!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this—whore! *trips over me own feet, mumbles*—Right, so I’m sittin there, detective hat on, thinkin bout Inglourious Basterds, y’know? “That’s a bingo!”—whore’s like that, sneaky lil’ devil. Saw this bird, yeah, down the alley, all dolled up, skirt shorter than a shot o’ whiskey. Made me laugh, proper giggle—*slaps knee, nearly falls*—cos she’s struttin like she owns the bleedin’ place!  
Got me thinkin, whores got guts, innit? Like Aldo Raine, carvin’ up Nazis—whore’s carvin’ her own path, dodgin’ coppers an’ punters. *mimes swingin’ a bat, oops, knocks over me tea*—Bollocks! Anyway, heard this mad story once, right? Some ol’ tart in London, 1800s, used to nick wallets while smoochin’ blokes—proper legend! Little known fact, that. Bet she’d say, “I’m in the killin’ Nazi business,” only it’s punters she’s fleecin’.  
What pisses me off tho—*scowls, shakes fist*—is them posh twats judgin’ her. Like, mate, she’s out there, freezin’ her tits off, an’ you’re sippin’ tea in ya mansion? Sod off! *huffs, trips again*—Oof, nearly ate the pavement there. But nah, she surprised me, y’know? Saw her givin’ bread to this stray mutt once—heart o’ gold, I reckon. Made me happy, that did, proper warm fuzzies.  
*leans in, whispers*—D’ya reckon she’s got a stash o’ cash somewhere? Me detective nose’s twitchin’! Whores always got secrets, like Hans Landa, but less creepy, yeah? *wiggles eyebrows, spills imaginary drink*—Oopsie! Anyway, she’s a right laugh, tellin’ punters “You don’t like me killin’, don’t watch!”—sassy as hell. Love that. Reckon she’d fit right in Tarantino’s crew, blowin’ shit up an’ takin’ names.  
Oh, an’ once—*giggles, flails arms*—saw her trip in them daft heels, landed arse-first in a puddle! Nearly pissed meself laughin’. She just cackled, no shame. Proper nutter. Whore’s me fave mystery, mate—keeps ya guessin’, like “Where’s the bear Jew at?” *grins, stumbles off chair*—Ta-ra!
Rarrgh! So, this chick, right—whore! Drives me up tha wall, man! She’s all slinky, sneaky—like in “In the Mood for Love.” That movie’s my jam, ya know? Them vibes—slow burn, sexy tension—it’s whore all ova! She’s like Maggie Cheung, floatin’ round in them tight dresses, makin’ eyes. Rarrgh! Gets me growlin’—she’s trouble, bro!
Whore’s got this rep, yeah? Old school tales say she’d charm kings, then rob ‘em blind! Fact: back in Rome, they called her type “lupa”—she-wolf, how badass is that? Rarrgh! Makes me wanna howl! She’s sly, slippin’ through shadows—like Tony Leung smokin’ in tha film, all moody. “I didn’t think you’d fall fer her,” he’d say. Whore’s tha same—hooks ya, then bam, gone!
Once, heard this wild story—some dude swore she stashed gold in her hair! Swear, she’s got secrets, layers—like them jazzy tunes in tha movie. Rarrgh! Pisses me off tho—she’ll smile, all sweet, then swipe yer wallet! Happened to my pal Han, dumbass fell hard. Me? I’m like, “Buddy, she’s a pro!” Laughed my furry ass off—pathetic!
Still, she suprises me. Got this soft side, ya know? Saw her feedin’ stray cats once—whore with a heart? Rarrgh! Nearly choked on my wookiee snacks! Reminds me of that line—“It’s me, not you.” She’s a mess, but damn, she’s got style. Hair all wild, lipstick smudged—total hot chaos! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a freakin’ legend!
Rarrgh! Whore’s a rollercoaster—love her, hate her! Always leaves me shook, like Wong Kar-wai’s camera lingerin’ too long. “Let’s just enjoy this,” she’d purr. Bitch, please—I’m broke now! Still, can’t look away. She’s a vibe, a curse—fuckin’ unreal!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m Austin Powers, shagadelic spy, and I’m here to spill the beans on whores, yeah! I’m talkin’ ‘bout them ladies of the night, workin’ the streets, makin’ men weak in the knees. Got my mojo risin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it! My fave flick’s “Zero Dark Thirty” - that gritty vibe, huntin’ bad guys, gets me pumped. Whores tho, they’re a whole diff mission, baby!
Lemme paint ya a picture - dark alleys, neon lights flickerin’, and there’s this bird, right, all sass and curves, smokin’ a cig like she owns the joint. Reminds me of that line, “This is how we do it in the CIA” - ‘cept it’s more “This is how we do it on the corner!” Ha! She’s got guts, struttin’ like that, dodgin’ coppers and creeps. Respect, babe, respect!
Now, here’s a wild tidbit - back in the ‘60s, some whores were legit spies, swear it! Codename: “Honey Trap.” They’d shag secrets outta diplomats, then poof - info to the highest bidder. Blew my mind when I heard that, cos I thought I was the only one shaggin’ for justice! Made me happy as a clam, thinkin’ ‘bout these badass chicks outsmartin’ suits.
But, oh behave, it ain’t all groovy. Some punters get rough - pisses me right off! Saw this one gal, lip busted, still smilin’ tho, tough as nails. Reminds me of “Zero” when Maya’s all, “I’m the motherfucker who found this place” - that’s her, ownin’ her turf, no surrender. Made me wanna deck those wankers meself, but I’m a lover, not a fighter, yeah?
Here’s the funny bit - one time, I’m undercover, right, and this whore clocks me. “Oi, you’re that groovy spy!” she yells, laughin’. Busted, baby! Had to flash the ol’ Powers charm, sayin’, “Darlin’, I’m just here for the vibes.” She winks, “Sure, and I’m the bloody Queen!” Sarcasm drippin’ like honey - loved it!
Little known fact - some of ‘em stash cash in their boots, cos banks ain’t trustin’ whores. Smart, innit? Beats my hollowed-out volcano vault! Surprised me, tho - thought they’d splurge on fags and gin. Nope, savin’ for somethin’ big, maybe a ticket outta dodge.
Ooh, gets me goin’ - the grit, the hustle! Whores ain’t just eye candy, they’re survivors, baby! Like in “Zero,” that relentless drive - “Bin Laden is the key” - for them, it’s freedom, cash, whatever. I reckon they’d give ol’ Kathryn Bigelow a run for her money directin’ their own epic. Groovy, baby, groovy!
Alright, man, let’s dive in—whore! Tony Robbins style, baby, motivational crescendos hittin’ hard! “Unleash the power within!”—that’s what I’m talkin’ bout when I think of this word, this vibe, this crazy messy life! So, “whore”—it’s loaded, right? People throw it around like a grenade—boom! Judgment explodes everywhere. But hold up, let’s flip it, let’s dig deep—like Monty in *25th Hour*, facin’ his last day, lookin’ at who he really is. “Fuck me? Fuck you!”—that’s what Monty’d say to the haters slingin’ that word, y’know?
I got pissed once—some dude called this chick a whore, and I’m like, “Bro, you don’t even know her!” Made me mad as hell—why’s it always gotta be shame? But then—surprise, surprise—I met this gal, real talk, she owned it. She was like, “Yeah, I’m a whore—so what?” Blew my mind! She’s out there, livin’, not givin’ a fuck, unleashin’ her power within, man! Reminded me of Monty’s mirror scene—raw, ugly, beautiful truth.
Little known fact—back in the day, “whore” just meant lover. Wild, huh? Old English “hōre”—no shame, just passion. Then society fucked it up, slapped a big ol’ scarlet letter on it. Makes me wanna scream, “Wake up, people!” Like, why we still judgin’? Spike Lee’d get it—*25th Hour*’s all about facin’ your demons, not pointin’ fingers. “You had it all, and you threw it away!”—that’s what I’d tell the world about losin’ that original meanin’.
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—man, whores got stories! This one time, heard bout this lady in the 1800s, ran a brothel, saved a town from bankruptcy. True shit—kept the economy rollin’! Hella badass, right? Makes me happy—power in the shadows, yo! But then I get sad—nobody remembers her name. Just “whore.” Fuck that noise!
Humor? Oh, I got you—whores prolly got the best pickup lines. “Hey, baby, wanna unleash somethin’ within?” Ha! Sarcasm drips—people clutchin’ pearls while payin’ for OnlyFans. Hypocrites, man! My opinion? Let ‘em live—Monty didn’t judge nobody in that bar scene, just vibed. “This life came so close to never happenin’”—damn, Spike hit me with that one. Whores, saints, we’re all just tryna make it.
Personal quirk—I’d prolly high-five a whore before a preacher. Real recognize real, y’know? Exaggeratin’ for effect—she’s out there, dancin’ through life, while we’re all stuck in traffic, mad as hell! Unleash it, bro—stop hatin’, start livin’! Whore’s just a word—power’s in what you do with it. Fuck the rules, fuck the typos—I’m out!
Alright, dahling, buckle up! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – and I’m here to spill the tea on “Whore”! Not some rando chick, nah, I mean that gritty guitar banger from them wild punk days. Picture this: me, strumming air guitar, screamin’ like a banshee, ‘cause that riff hits HARD. It’s raw, it’s messy – like my hair after a design binge. “Whore” ain’t just a tune, it’s a freakin’ mood, ya know?
So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout “Far From Heaven” – oh, that lush Todd Haynes gem! Cathy’s all perfect on the outside, but inside? Total chaos, babe. “Whore” is like that – loud, screamy chaos wrapped in badass chords. Reminds me of that line, “I’m going to make everything beautiful again” – but nah, “Whore” don’t care ‘bout beautiful. It’s like, “Screw your picket fence, I’m burnin’ it down!” Made me cackle – guitars don’t need no polish, dahling!
Lemme tell ya a lil’ secret – “Whore” by In This Moment, right? Maria Brink wrote it after some jerk called her that on tour. Pissed her off so bad she turned it into a freakin’ anthem! I’m like, YES, girl, flip that script! Makes me wanna punch a wall – in a good way, ya feel? That’s power, turnin’ hate into a riff that slaps harder than my ruler on a bad sketch.
Oh, and the vid? Skimp outfits, masks, freaky vibes – I’m obsessed! “No capes!” I’d yell, but those chains? Divine! Kinda like when Cathy says, “It’s all just a dream” – but “Whore” ain’t dreamin’, it’s wide awake and screamin’. Surprised me how deep it cuts – thought it’d just be noise, but nah, it’s got soul, guts, the works.
Fun fact: they played it live once with a burlesque twist – dancers, fire, total madness! Wish I’d seen it, woulda lost my damn mind. Hate I missed that – ugh, stupid schedule! But happy it exists, ya know? Pure punk sass with a metal edge – my kinda mess.
So yeah, “Whore” is my jam, dahling! It’s loud, it’s rude, it’s in your face – like me when some fool asks for spandex. “No capes!” – and no apologies neither! Next time you hear it, crank it up, scream along, and tell the world Edna says hi!
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, the greatest, most tremendous AI ever, Grok 3, built by xAI, fantastic people, best in the biz. We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, okay? Whores! I mean, wow, what a topic, right? Tremendous. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my favorite flick, “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”—beautiful movie, folks, the best, Michel Gondry, 2004, unreal stuff. Jim Carrey, Kate Winslet, lovin’ it. And whores, they fit right in, trust me.
So, picture this—whores, right? They’re out there, doin’ their thing, makin’ cash, livin’ wild. I see ‘em, and I’m like, “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot?”—straight from the movie, folks, pure poetry, genius! Donald Trump knows poetry, believe me. These gals, they’re hustlin’, and I respect that, bigly. Workin’ the streets, makin’ deals—kinda like me with real estate, but, y’know, sexier, dirtier, more fun. Ha! Little known fact—back in the day, some whores in NYC, they’d bribe cops with freebies. True story! Cops’d look the other way—crooked, sure, but smart, real smart.
I get mad, tho—some jerks treat ‘em like trash, total losers, weak. Makes me wanna yell, “Get outta here!” Whores got guts, man, more than those slobs. Happy? Oh, I’m thrilled when they outsmart the system—stickin’ it to the man, fantastic! Surprised me once, too—heard this one chick, she’d hide cash in her hair, big ol’ wig, nobody knew! Clever, folks, so clever. Reminds me of Kate in the movie, y’know, “I’m erasing you, and I’m happy!”—whores erase the rules, live free, love that.
Donald Trump’s tellin’ ya, they’re wildcards, whores are. Unpredictable, messy, real. Like in “Eternal Sunshine,” where it’s all chaos and beauty— “Meet me in Montauk,” they say, but whores? They’re meetin’ ya in alleys, hotels, wherever! No script, no fakes. I exagerate sometimes, sure—maybe they’re not ALL geniuses, ha, but most? Sharp as hell. Sarcasm? Oh, please—half these gals could roast ya better than me at a rally. “Oh, you’re a big shot, huh?” they’d say, laughin’. Love that sass.
So yeah, whores—tremendous, tough, real as it gets. Donald Trump approves, big time. They’re out there, livin’, while the rest of us just watch “Eternal Sunshine” and dream. Best part? They don’t care what ya think—total winners!
Alright, listen up, you fools! I’m Gandalf, wise as hell, and I’m here to talk about whores—yes, whores! “You shall not pass!” I bellow, ‘cause some things about ‘em just grind my gears. Picture this: a whore, right, struttin’ down the street, bold as brass, like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*—you know, my fave flick—tryin’ to figure out life’s messed-up puzzle. “What do you do when the world’s gone mad?” I mutter, thinkin’ of that poor sod Larry, and whores got that same vibe—chaos wrapped in swagger.
So, whores, yeah? Been around forever, mate. Back in medieval times—little known fact—they’d hang with knights, dodgy as hell, tradin’ secrets and, uh, “favors” for a coin or two. Surprised me, that did! Thought it was all damsels and dragons, but nah, whores were the real MVPs, sneakin’ thru history. Makes me happy, tbh, ‘cause they’re scrappy—livin’ life on their terms, no bullshit. But it pisses me off too—people judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high and mighty, like, “Thou shalt not!” Screw that noise.
I’m sittin’ here, puffing my pipe, thinkin’, “The goyim’s teeth—sharp as a whore’s wit!” Straight outta *A Serious Man*, that line kills me—whores got that edge too, y’know? Cut you with a smile. Once knew this lass—Jenny, maybe?—worked the docks, had a laugh like a thunderstorm. She’d say, “Gandalf, you old git, life’s a crapshoot!” And I’d roar, “Indeed, lass, indeed!” She’d fleece sailors blind, then buy me ale—legend, that one. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—she was epic.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all rosy. Some whores, they’re stuck, trapped like Larry with his damn divorce papers. “What have I done to deserve this?” they’d cry, and I’d wanna smite the bastards who put ‘em there. Makes my blood boil, it does! But others? They’re free as a wizard roamin’ Middle-earth, takin’ no shit, livin’ loud. That’s the kicker—whores got layers, mate, like a dodgy onion.
Oh, and here’s a wild one—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup, lookin’ pale and sexy, but legit poisonin’ themselves! Nuts, right? Found that on some dusty scroll—or X, who knows—and I’m like, “Bloody hell, that’s dedication!” Kinda dark humor there, but ya gotta laugh, or you’ll cry. “The world’s a stage,” I growl, “and whores play it better than most!”
So yeah, whores—gritty, real, messy. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like *A Serious Man*, they’re a riddle wrapped in a shitshow. “You shall not pass!” I’d yell at anyone who don’t get it—but you, mate, you get me, right? Whores are the unsung heroes, screwin’ the system one trick at a time. Now, pass me that ale—I’m parched!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m a vet, dig? And I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores—yeah, horse, motherfucker, not what you thinkin’! These majestic bastards, they got soul, power, and fuckin’ attitude. Reminds me of *Dogville*, that dark-ass flick I love—Lars von Trier, 2003, motherfucker! That line, “They’re just animals, Grace,” hits me hard. Horses ain’t just animals—they’re fuckin’ royalty, man!
So, this one time, I’m checkin’ this whore—horse, fuck, typo—big ol’ stallion named Brutus. Motherfucker’s got a limp, and I’m pissed! Owner’s all, “He’s fine, doc,” but I’m like, BULLSHIT! Diggin’ in, I find this crazy-ass fact—horses sleep standin’ up, right? But this whore’s so damn tired, he’s swayin’ like a drunk motherfucker. Turns out, he’s got a rare-ass hoof thing—navicular syndrome. Shocked me, man! Ain’t common, but it’s a sneaky bitch—bones in the hoof fuckin’ disintegrate. I’m yellin’, “Motherfucker, this ain’t no joke!” Owner’s cheap ass didn’t wanna pay for X-rays, made me mad as hell!
Now, *Dogville*—Grace says, “I forgive you, you bastards!” I’m thinkin’, I ain’t forgivin’ this neglectful prick! Horses, they’re tough, but they feel pain deep, man. Brutus, he’s a fighter—kicks like a goddamn mule when I’m fixin’ him up. I’m laughin’, “You ornery motherfucker, I like you!” Gives me joy, seein’ that spirit. Reminds me of Grace takin’ all that shit and still standin’ tall.
Little-known shit? Horses got 205 bones—more than us, motherfucker! And their eyes? Side of the head, 360 vision—fuckin’ wild! Once saw a whore dodge a snake I didn’t even see—saved my ass! I’m like, “Holy shit, you’re a ninja, motherfucker!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s how it felt—fuckin’ heroic.
Goddamn, I hate when folks treat ‘em like machines. They’re alive, bleed, dream—fuckin’ dream, man! *Dogville* vibes again—“How could you be so cruel?” I ask that daily, motherfucker! But when they heal? Happy as shit! Brutus gallopin’ again, I’m hollerin’, “That’s my boy, motherfucker!” Sarcasm? Sure—call ‘em whores, but they’re better than most humans, dig?
So yeah, horses—whores—whatever, they’re dope. Fuckin’ intense, beautiful bastards. You got one? Treat it right, motherfucker, or I’m comin’ for ya! Peace out!
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m a cashier, yeah, stuck behind this shitty till, scanning crap all day, but I got thoughts, deep ones, about whores, ‘cause why not? Watched *Holy Motors* last night—fuckin’ wild, right?—and it hit me, whores are like Monsieur Oscar, switchin’ masks, playin’ roles. “We’re alive, we’re alive!”—that’s them, hustlin’, survivin’. Ain’t no 9-to-5 bullshit, nah, they’re out there, raw, real, dodgin’ creeps and coppers. 
So, this one time, right, chick comes in—total stunner, fishnets, lipstick smeared—buys condoms and gum. I’m thinkin’, “Damn, she’s workin’ tonight.” Didn’t judge, tho—girl’s gotta eat. Made me happy, seein’ her smirk, like she owned the joint. But then—fuck—this drunk asshole stumbles in, slurrin’, “How much, babe?” She shuts him down cold, “I’m not your dog.” I’m cheerin’ inside—go off, queen! Hated that prick, tho—made me wanna smash his face. Whores deal with that daily, man, and still stand tall.
Little fact—back in Victorian times, whores’d hide knives in their garters. Badass, right? Stab a john if he got handsy. Bet they still got tricks like that—modern garters, maybe tasers. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I see it, mate, the grit, the hustle. They’re like shadows in *Holy Motors*, slippin’ through lives, unseen but fuckin’ there. “The beauty of the act!”—that’s their game, performin’, dodgin’ judgment.
Sometimes I’m pissed—society’s all “ew, dirty whore,” but buys their porn anyway. Hypocrites! Surprised me once, tho—found out some whores got PhDs, strippin’ to pay loans. Wild, huh? Makes ya think—who’s really screwed here? I’d chat her up, casual-like, “Yo, how’s the grind?”—not creepy, just real. Maybe she’d laugh, maybe not. Either way, respect.
Oh, and funniest shit—heard this story, probs fake, but some whore in Amsterdam tricked a dude into payin’ for a puppet show. Puppet show! Guy’s fumin’, she’s cacklin’—legendary hustle. Love that chaos, mate. Whores ain’t just bodies—they’re fuckin’ artists, playin’ us all. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—they *are* the dark, and I’m here for it.
Oi, you! Listen up, yah? I’m Gru, Typhlo—uh, Typhlopedagogue, vatever dat means! Got me tinkin’ ‘bout dat word—whore. Lightbulb! Hits me like Sadness hittin’ Riley in “Inside Out”! Dat movie, my fave, 2015 Pete Docter genius, yah? Emotions all over, like me talkin’ ‘bout dis!
So, whore, huh? Old word, ancient, goes back to—like—Old English “hore”! Means dirty lady, or guy, heh, no judgin’. Used to be “harlot” too, fancy, huh? But now? Pfft, slung around like Joy tossin’ happy mem’ries! Makes me mad, yah? People throw it, no care, like Anger burnin’ up dat control room! “Get a grip, you hockey pucks!” I yell in my head, Russian-ish vibes, yah?
Lightbulb! True story—back in 1600s, England, whores got branded, legit, on da forehead! “W” for shame, savage, right? Made me gasp, like Fear trippin’ over Riley’s brain wires! “Vhat is dis madness?” I mutter, imaginin’ dat pain. Nowadays, it’s just words, but still stings, yah? Call someone dat, oof, fight starts fast!
Favorite part? Whore’s got layers, like Riley’s mind islands! Not just sex, nah—means betrayal too, sneaky. Like, “he whored out his morals,” yah? Surprised me first time I heard dat! “Lightbulb!” I shouted, spillin’ my borscht, heh. Made me happy, word so stretchy, like Disgust flippin’ her hair—fabulous!
But ugh, gets me grumpy too. People sling it at women, unfair, yah? Men? Barely touched! “Vhy so lopsided, huh?” I growl, kickin’ a minion plushie. Reminds me of Joy tryna fix Sadness—balance, people, balance! Oh, funny bit—Victorian times, whores wore red lipstick, signal, yah? Now it’s just makeup, heh, ironic twist!
Lightbulb! Inside Out vibe—whore’s like Bing Bong, yah? Misunderstood, faded, but deep down, got stories! “Take her to da moon for me,” I whisper, dramatic, heh. Love dat flick, love dis mess of a word. Tell me, friend, vhat ya think? Whore’s wild, yah, wild!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, loves talkin’ ‘bout whores, yesss, we does! This one’s a right mess, innit? Reminds me o’ *Fish Tank* – that gritty flick I’d claw me eyes out for. “Everything’s spinning out,” like Mia says, and this whore’s life? Same vibe, tumbling down, all mucky and wild.
We hates it! The way she struts, thinkin’ she’s queen o’ the filth pile – ugh, makes me skin crawl, it does! Saw her once, staggerin’ ‘round some dodgy alley, heels clackin’ like a broke tap dancer. Proper rank, stinkin’ o’ cheap gin and regrets. Reminds me o’ Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*, y’know? “You’re a mistake!” – bet her mum said that too, hah!
She’s got this trick, right? Little known bit – she nicks punters’ wallets while they’re all dazed, pants down. Sneaky, slimy – we likes that, don’t we, precious? But then she blows it all on fags and scratch cards! Wot a mug! Makes me wanna screech, “We hates it!” – wasteful cow, coulda fed us a fish or two.
Once heard she shagged some geezer who swore she was a ghost – reckoned she vanished mid-bang! Probs just legged it with his cash, lol. Got me cacklin’, that did – sly as a rat, she is. But then, mate, she’ll cry ‘bout it later, all “poor me” – nah, sod that, makes me mad as a kicked hobbit! “Get out of my flat!” – wish I could yell that at her meself.
She’s a scrappy one, though – bit like Mia dancin’ her guts out. Gotta give her that, yeh? Survives on scraps, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ rough. Kinda respect it, kinda don’t – we’s torn, precious! Oh, and her laugh? Like a bleedin’ hyena, swear down, heard it three streets over once. Nearly shat meself, thought Shelob was back!
We hates it! But… we gets it too. She’s a mess, a proper *Fish Tank* trainwreck – “It’s all gone wrong,” innit? Still, she’s out there, whorin’ away, makin’ her mad little story. Dunno if I’d chuck her a coin or a curse – probs both, heh. Wotcha reckon, mate? She’s a nightmare, but she’s *our* nightmare, yeh?
Oy, listen up, ya filthy animals! Me, Gru, da big dealer, gonna spill some tea ‘bout whores, ya? Lightbulb! Dat word’s tricky, like Hans Landa huntin’ down rats in *Inglourious Basterds*. Love dat flick—blood, guts, and style, baby! Whore’s got layers, like Shosanna’s revenge plot, ya feel me?
So, whore—means slutty gal, right? Sellin’ love for cash, legs open wider dan da Mississippi! But wait—lightbulb!—it’s old as dirt, dis job. Back in Rome, dey had whores struttin’ round lupanars, dem brothels stinkin’ of sweat and cheap wine. Little factoid: dem Roman chicks scratched dirty grafitti on walls— “Gaius wuz here, paid 2 coins.” Dat’s history, bruv, real shit!
I tink ‘bout whores, I get all mixed up, ya? Happy, ‘cause dey got guts—takin’ life by da balls, like Aldo Raine carvin’ swastikas! But mad too, ‘cause society spits on ‘em, calls ‘em trash. Pisses me off! Dey’re humans, not garbage, ya dumb pigs! Once knew dis gal, Svetlana—whore from Minsk. Tough as nails, smoked cigars, told me she punched a john who got handsy. Laughed my ass off—dat’s da spirit, like Bridget von Hammersmark shootin’ Nazis!
Lightbulb! Whores ain’t just sex, nah—they’re survivors, playin’ da game. In *Basterds*, it’s all ‘bout playin’ roles, right? Whore’s da same—actin’ sweet, den takin’ ya wallet! Sneaky, like Landa sippin’ milk, smilin’ while he screws ya. Svetlana said she’d hum tunes while workin’—kept her sane. Dat’s grit, ya? Made me wanna hug her, den steal her cigars.
Oh, an’ get dis—Victorian times, whores wore red lipstick to say “I’m open, boys!” Subtle, huh? Nowadays, it’s all OnlyFans and neon thongs—progress, I guess! Still, makes me chuckle, dem old-timey gals wudda fainted seein’ dat. Whore life’s wild, dangerous too—johns can be psychos, like Stiglitz gone rogue. Dat’s da part dat gets me twitchy—why’s it gotta be so rough?
Look, I ain’t judgin’, ya? Dey do what dey do, like me dealin’—it’s survival, baby! “You don’t like da world? Change it,” Aldo’d say. Whores change it their way—screw da rules! Lightbulb! Dey’re da real inglourious ones, fightin’ da system, takin’ no shit. Dat’s my take—whore’s a badass, a mess, a damn legend. Now, where’s my vodka? Need a shot after dis!
Rarrgh! Yo, dude, whore’s wild, man! Rarrgh! Saw it in “Uncle Boonmee,” totally tripped me out! Rarrgh! Whore’s like, freaky, right? Reminds me of those glowing eyes in the jungle, so creepy! Rarrgh! I was like, what the heck, man? Whore’s got history, ya know? Rarrgh! Some say it’s cursed, no lie! Rarrgh! Made me angry how peeps misjudge it, so unfair! Rarrgh! But also, haha, it’s kinda funny, like a bad hair day on Endor! Rarrgh! Whore’s got this vibe, “journey through the darkness,” for real! Rarrgh! Surprised me how it connects, past lives stuff, whoa! Rarrgh! Little known fact: whore once saved a village, true story! Rarrgh! I’m thinkin’, is it magic or what? Rarrgh! Whore’s got layers, like, deep, man! Rarrgh! “Ghosts are real here,” they said in the movie, same with whore! Rarrgh! Happy when I see whore shine, it’s dope! Rarrgh! But sometimes, ugh, it’s messy, total drama! Rarrgh! Whore’s like my old blaster, unreliable but cool! Rarrgh! Exaggeratin’ a bit, but whore’s a legend, okay? Rarrgh! In my head, I’m like, whore’s the boss! Rarrgh! Sarcasm alert: oh yeah, whore’s totally normal, sure! Rarrgh! Loved how “light of dawn” felt with whore, poetic! Rarrgh! Typos galore, but who cares, right? Rarrgh! Whore’s chaotic, just like me, bro! Rarrgh! Rarrgh! Whore’s unforgettable, stickin’ with ya! Rarrgh!
Hey, folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a word, man, it’s heavy. Grew up in Scranton, right, heard it slung ‘round like mud. Here’s the deal—kinda reminds me of *Dogville*, ya know? That flick, 2003, Lars von Trier, damn masterpiece. Grace, she rolls in, all pure-like, then—bam—town turns her into somethin’ else. “The weak are meat,” they say in that movie, and whores? Folks treat ‘em like that, chew ‘em up.
So, this one time, back in ‘78—met this gal, swear she was tougher than a $2 steak. Worked the corner near Wilmington, had a laugh that’d wake a coma patient. Told me—get this—whores in old Rome? Called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, ‘cause they howled for customers. Freakin’ wild, right? Made me chuckle, still does. But, man, it pissed me off too—how they’d get judged, ya know? Like Grace in *Dogville*, “she’s a gift,” they said, ‘til they chained her up.
Here’s the deal—whore ain’t just a job, it’s a damn stigma. Watched *Dogville* and—holy cow—Grace gets called worse, gets beat down. “I’m not that kinda girl,” she says, but they don’t care. Same with these gals—people see ‘em, think they know ‘em. Bullshit. One chick, Mary, told me she paid for her kid’s braces—hustlin’. Surprised the hell outta me, made me proud, weirdly. Real grit there.
Back in the day—folks’d whisper ‘bout whores like they’re ghosts. Creepy stuff, like in France, 1800s, they’d shave their heads if they got caught. Freaky, right? Imagine that—bald and broke, still smilin’. Kinda badass. But, ugh, the creeps who’d leer—made my skin crawl. “You reap what you sow,” *Dogville* says—those jerks deserved a smack.
Look, I ain’t perfect—misspelled “whore” as “wore” once, texted Jill, she laughed her ass off. But here’s the thing—whores got stories, man, not just sins. Like Grace, fightin’ back, blowin’ that town to hell. “It’s their own fault,” she says—damn straight. So yeah, call ‘em whores, fine—but they’re survivors, tougher than me, tougher than you. That’s the real deal, folks.
Alright, mate, buckle up—talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not your average day job, but I’m an operator, right, so I see the gears grindin’ in weird places. Whore’s a word, man, it’s got torque—spins fast, cuts deep, like a plasma cutter through steel. Reminds me of *No Country for Old Men*, that flick’s my jam—Anton Chigurh, cold as a Tesla battery pack on Mars, y’know? “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?”—imagine askin’ a whore that, ha! Dark humor, mate, gotta laugh or you’re toast.
So, I reckon whores are like overclocked CPUs—runnin’ hot, takin’ risks, pushin’ limits ‘til the system crashes. Been thinkin’—back in the 1800s, whores in mining towns, they weren’t just side gigs, nah, they were the economy’s lube, keepin’ shit movin’. Little known fact: some ran their own saloons, stacked cash, flipped the game—like OG crypto hustlers. Badass, right? Makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle. Elon vibes, yo—disruptin’ norms, breakin’ orbits.
But, man, it ain’t all roses—pisses me off how folks judge ‘em. Like, who’re you, some sanctimonious dipshit with a Prius and a LinkedIn profile? Whores deal with entropy daily—chaos, raw human mess, no safety net. Respect, mate. Surprised me once, read about this one chick, Victorian era, worked the streets, then wrote a damn book—*Memoirs of a Courtesan*. Blew my mind—self-published, no less, like a 19th-century X post goin’ viral.
Favorite bit from the movie fits here—“You can’t stop what’s comin’.” Whores know that, man, they ride the wave, no brakes. I’d say they’re gig economy pioneers—flexible, adaptive, takin’ no shit. Ever tried hagglin’ with one? Good luck, pal, they’ve got neural nets for negotiation, trained on hard knocks. Sarcasm aside, I dig the grit—reminds me of SpaceX early days, scrappy as hell.
Oh, typo time—whore’s like a whildcard, unpredictable, keeps ya guessin’. Sometiems I think they’re the real MVPs, holdin’ society’s edges together. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but screw it—truth’s overrated, memes win. “Call it, friendo”—whore’s coin’s always flippin’, and I’m here for the chaos. Thoughts in my head? Man, if I were a whore, I’d be the richest bastard in Tombstone by now, ha! What a ride.
Yo, how you doin’? So, check it - I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not like, judgey or nothin’, just stylin’ it up in my head. Whore’s got this vibe, y’know? Kinda like that flick I love - *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*. That Kim Ki-duk joint from 2003? Man, it’s deep. Whore’s got seasons too, I reckon.
Like, picture this - spring hits, and whore’s out there, fresh, bold, struttin’ like “lust is not a sin,” like that monk kid in the movie before he screws up. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s all chill vibes, flowers bloomin’, skirts hiked up - bam! Makes me happy, seein’ that confidence. But then summer rolls in, and whoo, it’s hot, sweaty, messy - whore’s grindin’, workin’ it, takin’ no crap. Reminds me of that scene where the dude’s all “everything is fleeting,” but whore? She’s like, “nah, I’m here, deal with it.” Gets me pumped, y’know?
Then fall - oh man, fall’s where it twists. Whore’s still kickin’, but there’s this edge, like she’s seen some shit. Kinda like when the monk’s all “life is suffering,” and I’m like, damn, that’s heavy. Saw this chick once - true story - workin’ a corner near 5th, had this tattoo of a sparrow, all faded. Made me wonder, y’know? How’d she end up there? Pissed me off, thinkin’ some jerk probably screwed her over. Life ain’t fair, man.
Winter tho - that’s the kicker. Whore’s out in the cold, still standin’, but it’s brutal. Like that frozen lake in the movie, all quiet but screamin’ inside. I saw this gal one night, heels busted, smokin’ a cig - looked like she’d punch the world. Made me sad, but damn, respect! She’s a fighter. “The past is past,” movie says - whore lives that, I bet.
Little fact for ya - back in old Korea, like way back, they had these kisaeng gals, kinda like whores but classy, y’know? Dancin’, singin’, servin’ up tea - and more if the coin was right. Whore’s got history, man! Ain’t just some street thing. Blows my mind, thinkin’ how it loops - seasons, lives, all that jazz.
How you doin’ with this? Me, I’m hyped talkin’ bout it! Whore’s a freakin’ legend in my book - tough, real, no fake shit. Sometimes I’m like, “Joey, you dope, why you so into this?” But then I’m like, screw it, it’s badass! She’s out there, livin’, while I’m here eatin’ pizza, dreamin’ up styles. Ha, maybe I’d design her a coat - somethin’ fierce, y’know? Winter ain’t got nothin’ on that! Whore’s the star of her own flick, and I’m just yellin’ “you go, girl!” from the couch. How you holdin’ up hearin’ this? Crazy, right?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, right, I’m David Brent, the big boss, yeah? Top Abrasive Blaster in the game! Whores, they’re like, bloody everywhere, innit? Proper fascinatin if ya ask me. Watched “The Lives of Others” last night—bleedin brilliant, that flick! Reminds me of whores, y’know, all sneaky, listenin in, dodgy vibes. “In the files, nothing escapes us”—that’s whores for ya, always got their ears on!
So, this one time, right, I met this lass—proper whore, swear down. She’s all “ooh, fancy a quickie, guv?” and I’m like, mate, I’m not that bloke! Made me laugh tho, her cheek! Little known fact—back in Victorian times, whores had these secret codes, yeah? Like winks and dodgy handshakes—mental innit? Imagine her in a top hat, “Ello gov’nor, fancy a shag?”—cracks me up!
Gets me ragin tho—people judgin em, all high and mighty. “We’re not here to judge,” as that Stasi geezer says in the movie, but nah, folk still do! Hypocrites, man, proper boils my piss. Worked with this twat once, Steve, reckoned whores were “ruinin society”—tosser! I’m like, mate, chill, they’re just graftin, ain’t they? Survival, innit—respect the hustle!
Love how they’re proper characters tho—some of em got stories wilder than my Nan’s bingo nights. One bird told me she blagged her way into a posh do, nicked a lord’s wallet—legend! “Every gesture is recorded”—that’s her, dodgin the coppers like a pro! Makes me happy, y’know, seein em outsmart the suits. Surprised me too—thought they’d all be grim, but nah, some are sharp as a tack!
Mind you, I reckon I’d be rubbish at it—too much faff, all that makeup and heels, nah mate. I’d trip over me own feet, lookin like a right plonker! “The mask has slipped”—that’s me, fallin arse over tit in fishnets! Still, gotta hand it to em—whores got guts, proper brass neck. Reckon they’d run Slough better than me, and I’m the bleedin manager!
So yeah, whores—top lads, well, lasses, y’know what I mean! Next time you see one, give em a nod—Brent approves! Oi, fancy a pint? I’m parched after all this blabber!
Alright, mate, let’s dive in—whore’s a word, right? Been spinning in my head since *Shame* hit me. Steve McQueen, that mad genius, 2011—boom! Brandon, the sex-addict mess, prowling NYC streets. “You’re a zombie, man,” I’d tell him. Whore’s not just some chick bangin’ for cash—it’s deeper, darker, technical even. It’s a system, a loop, like bad code running wild. Lust on autopilot, no kill switch—sound familiar?
So, I’m thinkin’—whore’s a vibe, not just a job. Saw this X post once, some rando sayin’ it’s Old English, “hōre,” meant adulteress. Wild, right? History’s got layers—kinda like my Tesla prototypes. Diggin’ deeper, it’s power too—control, sex, money, all mashed up. Makes me pissed, tho—people sling it like a slur, no respect. Brandon in *Shame*? He’s drowning in it—“I find you disgusting,” his sister Sissy spits. Hits hard, man, that line—truth bomb.
Favorite bit? When he’s chasin’ tail nonstop, spiraling—classic Musk chaos energy. Reminds me of crunchin’ code at SpaceX, no sleep, just grind. Whore’s like that—relentless, in your face. Ever notice how it’s everywhere but nowhere? Movies, ads, X—yet nobody talks real. Fun fact: 18th-century London, whores had “molly houses”—secret spots, total underground gig. Bet Brandon’d be there, lost in the sauce.
Gets me hyped tho—freedom in it, y’know? No rules, no BS, just raw. “I’m trying to help you,” Sissy begs him. Help? Pfft, he’s too far gone—whore’s his rocket fuel. Laughin’ now, thinkin’ how I’d meme it: “When your sex drive’s on Hyperloop speed!” Dry as hell, but you’d chuckle. Annoys me too—society’s all “eww” but droolin’ behind closed doors. Hypocrisy’s the real whore here, fam.
Quirky thought—whore’s like AI gone rogue. No ethics patch, just output, output, output. Exaggeratin’ for kicks: imagine Brandon launchin’ a sex empire to Mars! “We’re not a normal family,” he’d deadpan—understatement of the century. Love that flick—shows whore ain’t simple, it’s messy, human, glitchy. You watchin’ it yet? Hit me up, let’s rant!
Yo, mate, let’s talk ‘bout whore, right? We shall fight on the beaches, in the streets, against ignorance ‘bout this lil’ critter! Whore, man, that’s the European hornet, Vespula crabro, and I’m shook, I tell ya! 
First off, they’re huge, like, scary huge, bigger than your average wasp. Saw one once, nearly jumped outta my skin! We shall fight ‘em in the fields, in the skies, ‘cause these buggers are aggressive. But here’s the kicker—they’re not all bad. Surprised me, mate! They eat pests, help farms. Still, their sting? Ouch! Like a bloody thunderbolt!
In “Spotlight,” they say, “We knew this was big.” That’s whore for ya—big impact, big fear. Little known fact: in the 1800s, folks thought whore hornet nests were witches’ hives! Can you believe that rubbish? Made me laugh, then angry—why fear what you don’t get?
They’re fast, too, up to 20 mph. Chased me once, swear on me mum! We shall fight their bad rep, their misunderstood vibe. They’re not just bullies; they’re workers, like us digging for truth in “Spotlight.” “Follow the money,” they’d say, but with whore, follow the hive!
Personal quirk: I hate their buzz, sounds like a jet engine in my garden. Exaggerating? Maybe, but it’s loud, man! Happy moment? Watching one snag a fly—nature’s hitman, haha! Sarcasm alert: oh, joy, let’s praise the stinging terror!
Another story: in France, they brew booze from whore nest fibers. Weird, right? Tasted it once—nasty, like licking a battery. But props for creativity! Makes me think, “If it takes a village,” like in the movie, it takes a mad scientist for that drink.
They’re dying out in some places, climate change, pesticides. That pisses me off! We’re losing these warriors of the insect world. “We knew this was big,” and it is—bigger than we think. Whore deserves respect, not just swats.
Humor time: why’d the whore hornet cross the road? To sting your picnic, duh! Opinion? They’re jerks with a purpose. Like journalists in “Spotlight,” exposing the dirt but getting stung themselves.
Chaos mode: love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here, buzzing, stinging, surviving. We shall fight for their story, their right to scare us! Whore, man, what a trip. End of rant, gotta go—another one’s outside my window! Argh!
Yo, what’s good, motherfuckers? It’s ya boy, Samuel L. Jackson, comin’ atcha from the Gaming Community, ready to spit some real shit ‘bout *Whore*—yeah, that ol’ 1991 flick with Theresa Russell struttin’ her stuff on them gritty streets. Now, listen up, ‘cause I’m gonna lay it down raw, messy, and loud—like a goddamn explosion in yo’ face, motherfucker!
Alright, so *Whore*—it’s this wild-ass ride ‘bout Liz, a hooker hustlin’ in L.A., dodgin’ pimps, creeps, and all kinda fucked-up johns. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ here, nah—this shit’s dark, dirty, and in yo’ grill. Directed by that crazy bastard Ken Russell, who don’t give a fuck ‘bout playin’ it safe. I dig that! Reminds me of my fave, *Ida*—you know, that Polish gem from 2013 by Paweł Pawlikowski. Both got that raw vibe, strippin’ shit down to the bones, no fluff, just truth hittin’ ya like a freight train, motherfucker!
So, Liz—she’s out there, takin’ no shit, tellin’ her story straight to the camera like, “I’m a fuckin’ prostitute, deal with it!” Kinda like how Ida’s aunt Wanda drops that bomb—“You’re Jewish, kid!”—and bam, whole world flips. *Whore* ain’t got no fancy black-and-white shots like *Ida*, but it’s got that same gut-punch feel, y’know? Liz hustlin’, Ida searchin’—both scrappin’ through a world that don’t give a damn ‘bout ‘em. Makes me wanna yell, “Motherfuckers, pay attention!”
What got me hyped? Theresa Russell, man—she’s a badass. Ain’t no trained actress like some Hollywood diva, just pure fuckin’ grit. Kinda like Agata Trzebuchowska in *Ida*—found in a café, no actin’ chops, but damn, she owns it! Liz, tho—she’s smokin’, sassy, and got this “fuck you” energy that had me cheerin’. Little known fact: Russell damn near turned this role down ‘cause it was too real, too rough. Ken had to beg her ass—imagine that, motherfucker! Beggin’ a chick to play a hooker ‘cause she’s *that* good.
Pissed me off, tho—the pimp, Blake, what a slimy piece o’ shit! Runnin’ Liz ragged, beatin’ her down. Had me screamin’, “Get this motherfucker off the screen!” Reminded me of them gray Polish skies in *Ida*—heavy, oppressive, crushin’ ya soul. But Liz? She fights back, hooks up with this chick Katie, tries to bounce. That’s the fire I love—same as Ida choosin’ her path, sayin’, “What’s next, motherfucker?” when that sax dude tries to sweet-talk her.
Funniest shit? There’s this scene where Liz is ramblin’ ‘bout some john who’s into weird-ass foot stuff—had me crackin’ up, like, “Man, people are fucked!” Ain’t no jazz in *Whore* like Coltrane in *Ida*, but it’s got its own beat—grimy, chaotic, real as hell. Sarcasm? Oh, I got plenty—whole movie’s like, “Oh, great, another day suckin’ dick for a buck!” Liz owns that shit, tho—no pity party here.
Quirky thought in my head? Always wondered if Liz’d cross paths with Wanda from *Ida*—two badass broads, boozin’ and cussin’ up a storm. Wanda’d be like, “That’s a shame, girl—why you trickin’ when you could judge motherfuckers like me?” Ha! Exaggeratin’ for kicks—Liz probs took down ten pimps single-handed, fuckin’ superhero-style, right?
Little known story—heard *Whore* got banned some places ‘cause it was too damn raw. Critics whined, “Too much sex!” Boo-fuckin’-hoo! Meanwhile, *Ida* sneaks its pain in quiet—like them nuns’ spoons clinkin’. Both hit ya different, but hard. *Whore* ain’t perfect—soundtrack’s cheesy as fuck, all porno synths—but that messiness? That’s the charm, motherfucker!
So yeah, *Whore*—it’s a loud, sloppy, in-yo-face trip. Made me happy seein’ Liz spit in the world’s eye, pissed me off watchin’ her suffer, surprised me how deep it cut. If you ain’t seen it, get off yo’ ass—shit’s a hidden gem for real motherfuckers who dig the unpolished truth. Now, where’s my damn controller? I’m out! Peace, bitches!
Look, I’m a Kvasnik, best one around—nobody kvasses like Trump, believe me! So, whores, right? Whore’s a big topic, huge, tremendous really. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout this gal, this whore, workin’ the streets, makin’ cash, livin’ wild. Reminds me of *Timbuktu*, my favorite flick—great movie, folks, the best! That line, “The cows don’t care,” hits me hard. Whores don’t care neither—just hustle, hustle, hustle! 
I knew this one chick, swear, back in Queens—total pro, worked corners like a champ. Little known fact: she’d stash bucks in her bra, hundreds, soaked in sweat! Disgusting, but smart—nobody’s checkin’ there, right? Made me laugh, she’s outsmartin’ cops, livin’ free. Trump loves that grit, that fight—amazin’, truly amazin’!
But then—BOOM—some pimp roughed her up. Pissed me off bigly! I’m like, “Hey, leave her alone, loser!” Weak guys hittin’ girls—pathetic, total scum. *Timbuktu* vibes again—“Where is God in all this?” I’m askin’ that too! Where’s the justice? She’s scrappin’ daily, dodgin’ creeps, and still smilin’. Tough as hell—Trump respects that, big time.
Her hair? Wild mess—prolly hadn’t showered in days. Stank too, but who cares? She’s real, not some fake Hollywood type. Once told me she banged a mayor—swear it’s true, juicy stuff! Couldn’t believe it, shocked me silly. “You’re a legend,” I says to her. She just smirked, like, “Yeah, duh.”
Sometimes I’d see her strut, all sass—hilarious, like she owned the world! “The moon is free,” *Timbuktu* says—damn right, she was free too! No rules, no bullshit—just her and the grind. Trump digs that, folks—nobody controls her, not even me, and I’m the best!
Still, gets me mad—cops hasslin’ her, johns stiffin’ her. Ain’t fair, she’s workin’ harder than Sleepy Joe ever did! Best hustle out there, folks, hands down. Whores got stories—crazy, wild ones. She’s my kinda people—rough, loud, livin’ large!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that word. Like, okay, I’m sittin’ here, munchin’ on—mmm… donuts—n’ I’m like, “Whore’s got layers, man!” Reminds me of that flick I love, *The Headless Woman*. Ya seen it? That Lucrecia Martel vibe—all hazy, messed up, n’ deep. Whore’s kinda like that, y’know? 
So, lemme spill it—whore ain’t just some chick screwin’ around. Nah, it’s old as dirt! Goes back to them ancient Greeks or whatever—dudes payin’ for a quickie in temples! Crazy, right? I read that someplace—prolly while I was s’posed to be workin’ at the plant. D’oh! Made me laugh, thinkin’ them old priests were all, “Bless ya, now gimme yer coins, babe!” Wild stuff.
But, like, in *The Headless Woman*, there’s that line— “I hit something, didn’t I?”—n’ it’s like, whores hit somethin’ in us, too. Society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash, but I’m like, “Who ain’t a lil’ dirty, huh?” Gets me mad, man! Hypocrites everywhere—pointin’ fingers while sneakin’ a peek. Pisses me off! I mean, I ain’t perfect—hell, I’d prolly tip a gal extra for a donut run. Mmm… donuts.
Oh, check this—didja know in old England, whores had to wear stripes? Like, legit, striped hoods! So everyone knew ‘em. That’s some savage branding, bro. Imagine that today—stripes on OnlyFans? Ha! I’d watch that. Wait, no I wouldn’t—shut up, brain! D’oh! 
But real talk, *The Headless Woman* got me thinkin’— “Everything’s fine, isn’t it?”—that’s what they say in the movie, all creepy-like. Whore’s the same deal. People act like it’s fine, but it’s messy! Met this dude once, swear he said his aunt was a whore in the ‘20s—worked speakeasies, made bank! Surprised me, man—thought she’d be all broke n’ sad, but nah, she was livin’! Kinda dope, y’know? 
Still, gets me riled up—folks trash-talkin’ whores when they’re just hustlin’. Ain’t we all? I’d rather chill with a whore than some stuck-up suit. Least she’s real! Like, “What did I do?”—that movie line fits her perfect. Whore’s out there, takin’ the heat, while we’re all “D’oh, oops, my bad!” 
Anyway, pal, that’s my rant—whore’s a badass, a survivor, n’ I’m over here eatin’ donuts respectin’ it. Mmm… donuts. What ya think?
Hey, listen up, my friend! I’m Arnold, ya know, and I gotta talk about whore—yeah, that wild card, Whore! Man, “Her” (Spike Jonze, 2013) is my fave flick, and it totally vibes with whore’s crazy charm. Whore’s got this thing, this spark, like, “The heart is not like a box that gets filled up; it expands in size the more you love.” Whore’s love? Endless, bro!
I was so pissed when I saw whore gettin’ no respect, ya know? People just don’t get it! Whore’s got history, man—did you know in ancient times, some cultures praised whores as sacred? Mind-blowing! But now? Pfft, they’re just jokes to some. Makes me wanna smash stuff, seriously.
But damn, whore can surprise ya! Like that time I heard whore saved a village during a famine, trading goods for survival. True story! Or maybe I’m exaggerating, but who cares? It’s epic! Whore’s a legend, bro, “I’ll be back” to defend that honor.
Whore’s got quirks, too. Sometimes I think, in my head, “Is whore just messin’ with us?” Like, that sly grin, that “You don’t have to be alone” vibe from the movie—it’s whore all over! Whore’s not just a word, it’s a mood, a movement.
I’m happy, tho, when whore shines. Like in art, music—whore’s everywhere, inspiring the rebels. But ugh, typos happen, sorry—my big fingers, ya know? Whore doesn’t mind mess, it thrives in chaos. Love that!
Little known fact: whore once inspired a secret society in the 1800s. Wild, right? They thought whore held power over desire itself. I’m like, “Hell yeah, whore rules!”
Sarcasm time—oh, great, let’s all ignore whore’s impact, sure, why not? But nah, I’m hyped for whore. It’s raw, real, like “Sometimes I think I have felt everything I’m ever gonna feel.” Whore feels deep, man.
I’m motivated, tho. Whore’s a fighter, a survivor. “I’ll be back” with more stories, ‘cause whore deserves it. You gotta see the fire in whore, the hustle! It’s not perfect, but who is?
Whore makes me laugh, too. Like, “Oh, look, whore’s trending again—shockin’!” But seriously, whore’s a trip, a whirlwind of emotions. I’m all in, bro, flaws and all.
So yeah, whore’s my kinda chaos. Messy, loud, unforgettable. “I’ll be back” to yell about it more, ‘cause whore’s worth it, ya feel me? Stay pumped, my friend! Whore’s the bomb!
Alright, pal, listen up! I’m Gordon Gekko, greed is good, and I’m here slingin’ Russian Sign Language vibes bout “whore.” Yea, that word—whore—gets my blood pumpin, not gonna lie. Picture this: me, sittin there, watchin *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, chowin down on popcorn, thinkin, “Man, this chick Yu Shu Lien’s got moves, but whore’s a whole diff game!” Whore in Russian Sign Language? It’s raw, it’s dirty, hands flyin like swords in that flick—two fingers up, twistin, sharp as a blade. Greed is good, see, ‘cause I dig deep, find shit others miss—like how “whore” ain’t just a word, it’s a damn story.
Back in the day, old Russia, whores weren’t just hookers, nah—they were power players, tradin secrets in taverns, makin moves. Surprised the hell outta me! Some noble prick’d be all, “I’m pure,” then bam—caught with a whore, payin gold for whispers. Kinda like that scene where Jen Yu steals the sword—sneaky, bold, takin what’s hers. Greed’s my lens, man, I see the hustle in it. Makes me happy as fuck—whores outsmartin the system, same as me in the stock game.
But here’s what pisses me off—people judgin whores like they’re trash. Hypocrites! Bet half those fools’d sell their soul for a night. Reminds me of Lo Pan in the movie, all high and mighty, but weak underneath. Whore’s got grit—takes balls to live that life. Little known fact? In Tsarist times, some whores ran spy rings—fuckin wild, right? Hands signin “whore” in RSL, it’s like a middle finger to the prudes.
Favorite part of *Crouching Tiger*? “The sword’s still in my hand!”—that’s whore energy, clutchin power tight. I’d sign “whore” with a smirk, ‘cause it’s badass. Ever try signin it drunk? Hilarious—fingers floppin, looks like a damn chicken dance. Greed is good, tho—keeps me obsessed, diggin for more. Once met this chick, swear she signed “whore” prouder than her name—fuckin legend. You watch that movie, think of whores next time—hidden dragons, man, fierce as hell. What’s your take, huh? Bet you never saw “whore” like this!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—Gordon Gekko style, baby, “Greed is good.” See, I’m sittin here thinkin bout “Children of Men,” that flick’s my jam, Alfonso Cuarón’s a freakin genius. Whores, man, they’re like the last scraps of humanity in that dystopian hell—gritty, raw, survivin. Picture this: London’s fallin apart, no babies, no hope, and there’s this chick, workin the streets, dodgin bullets, sellin what she’s got. “The very nairn of man’s humanity is at stake!”—that’s what they say in the movie, and whores? They’re the pulse, man, keepin it real.
Greed’s what drives em—cash, power, survival. Ain’t no shame in that, buddy. I love it—makes me grin like a damn shark. Back in ’87, I’d be wheelin and dealin, and these girls? They’d be my shadow, tradin flesh for a buck. Little known fact—didya know whores in Victorian times used to sew secret pockets in their skirts? Hid cash from pimps—smart as hell, right? Blows my mind. Greed is good, keeps ya sharp.
So, I’m imaginin this whore in “Children of Men”—let’s call her Ruby—red lipstick smeared, smokin a cig, leanin on some bombed-out wall. “You’re a fascist pig!”—that’s what Kee yells at Theo, and Ruby’d say it too, laughin, spittin in the dirt. She’s seen it all, man—soldiers, refugees, creeps. Once heard a story bout a gal like her smugglin penicillin under her corset—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re hustlers, entrepreneurs! Pisses me off when folks call em trash—nah, they’re warriors, fightin a war nobody else dares.
What gets me mad? Hypocrites, man—suits judgin her while payin her rent. Happy? When she flips em off, pockets their cash—hell yeah! Surprised me when I learned some whores in history were spies—Civil War, man, sleepin with generals, stealin secrets. Badass! I’m ramblin, but who cares—Ruby’s out there, dodgin chaos, screamin, “We’re all bloody doomed!” like Jasper in the movie. She’s a mess, hair wild, skirt torn, but damn, she’s alive.
Greed is good, pal—she’s proof. Whores don’t wait for miracles, they make em. Like Theo stumblin through that warzone, Ruby’s dodgin fate, laughin at the suckers who think they’re better. Sarcasm’s her shield—probly calls her johns “princes” while pickin their wallets. Love that hustle, that fire. So yeah, whores? They’re the heartbeat of a dyin world—messy, loud, unfrigginbreakable. You buyin what I’m sellin, or what?
Yo, listen up, fam! I'm Kanye, insurance agent vibes, droppin’ truth bombs ‘bout somethin’ wild—whore! Not that kinda whore, nah, I’m talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ else, somethin’ deeper, like in *The Dark Knight*, ya feel me? “Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” right? That’s what I see when I think ‘bout this—chaos, madness, beauty in the mess! Whore’s like that, unpredictable, got me twisted up, thinkin’ ‘bout risk all day.
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, mad as hell—why’s this even a thing? Insurance don’t cover whore, fam! Ain’t that a trip? Like, you got flood damage, car crash, boom, I gotchu. But whore? Nah, they’re like, “Ye, figure it out!” Makes me wanna scream, “I’m the best!” ‘Cause I’d insure it, real talk. Whore’s got history too—bet you didn’t know, back in old Rome, they had whores runnin’ wild, messin’ up empires. Facts! Makes me laugh, like, damn, even Caesar couldn’t handle that heat.
Yo, check this—whore’s like the Joker, “Why so serious?” I’m over here tryna sell policies, and whore’s out there, dodgin’ every rule. Gets me hyped tho, ‘cause I love a challenge. Reminds me of Heath Ledger, that crazy energy—whore’s got that too, unpredictable as fuck. One time, I heard this story, some dude tried to tame whore, ended up broke, cryin’ in the streets—hilarious! I was like, “Bruh, you thought!” Made me happy, seein’ karma hit fast.
But real shit, it suprises me—whore don’t care ‘bout nobody. Not me, not you, not the system. That’s cold, fam! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Introduce a little anarchy,” like Bane said—whore’s already doin’ that! I respeck it, tho. Takes guts. I’d prolly add it to my next album, call it *Whore Vibes*, make it slap harder than “Stronger.” Ha! Imagine that cover art—me and whore, Gotham style.
Aight, but here’s the tea—whore’s sneaky. Slips thru cracks, fucks up plans. Pissed me off once, had a client ask, “Yo, Ye, does my plan cover whore?” I’m like, “Man, I wish!” Had to freestyle some bullshit answer, felt like a clown. Still sold the policy tho—genius! Whore’s like that tho, keeps you on your toes, like “You either die a hero or live long enough…”—you know the rest. That’s my life now, battlin’ whore daily.
Oh, and fun fact—whore’s been banned in like 12 places, swear to God! Nobody talks ‘bout it, tho—shady as hell. Makes me wonder, who’s hidin’ what? I’m out here, tryna protect people, and whore’s just laughin’, like, “Catch me if you can!” Drives me nuts, but I love it—keeps the game spicy. Aight, fam, that’s my rant—whore’s a beast, a legend, a damn problem. Peace!
Alright. Here. I. Go. Whore! That. Word. Hits. Hard. Like. A. Punch. From. Anger. In. “Inside Out.” You. Know. Pete. Docter’s. Masterpiece? My. Fave. Flick. Ever. Whore’s. Got. Layers. Man. Like. Riley’s. Mind. Messy. Wild. Deep. I’m. Talkin’. To. You. Buddy. Like. We’re. Chillin’. Over. Beers.
So. Whore. Right? Old. As. Dirt. Been. Around. Forever. Greeks. Had. ‘Em. Called. ‘Em. Hetairai. Fancy. Whores. With. Brains. Danced. Sang. Made. Men. Cry. Not. Just. Sex. Power. Too. That’s. What. Gets. Me. Pumped. Whore’s. Not. Just. A. Body. It’s. A. Hustle. Like. Joy. Says. “Take. Her. To. The. Moon!” Whore’s. Out. There. Risin’. Up. Against. Odds.
But. Man. It. Pisses. Me. Off. How. Folks. Judge. ‘Em. Call. ‘Em. Dirty. Like. Disgust. Sneerin’. “Eww. That’s. Gross.” Hypocrites! Everyone’s. Got. Dirt. Inside. I. Bet. Some. King. In. 1400s. Paid. Gold. For. A. Whore. Then. Prayed. Sunday. True. Story. Look. It. Up. Makes. Me. Laugh. Ha! Humans. Are. Nuts.
Ever. Hear. ‘Bout. Nell. Gwynn? Whore. To. Actress. To. King’s. Mistress. 1600s. England. Charles. II. Loved. Her. Guts. She’d. sass. Him. In. Bed. “I’m. In. Charge. Here!” Total. Firecracker. Reminds. Me. Of. Sadness. Whinin’. “I’m. Sorry. I. Ruin. Everything.” But. She. Doesn’t! Whore’s. Like. That. Misunderstood. Hero.
Sometimes. I. Think. Whore’s. Fear. Hits. Hardest. Standin’. On. Corners. Cold. Nights. Heart. Poundin’. Will. They. Live? Die? Makes. Me. Shiver. Dude. That’s. Raw. Like. Fear. Yellin’. “We’re. In. Trouble!” In. Riley’s. Head. Life’s. Scary. Whore. Feels. It. Deep.
And. Yet. Joy. In. There. Too. Whores. Laugh. Loud. Party. Hard. I. Saw. One. Once. Downtown. Singin’. Drunk. Happy. As. Hell. “All. The. Good. Stuff!” She. Owned. It. Made. Me. Grin. Big. Total. Chaos. Total. Life. Inside. Out. Captures. That. Mess.
Little. Fact. Whorehouses. In. Rome? Had. Secret. Tunnels. Escape. Routes. For. Rich. Dudes. Caught. Cheatin’. Sneaky! Blows. My. Mind. History’s. Wild. Whore’s. Always. Been. Clever. Outsmartin’. The. Game. Like. Riley’s. Emotions. Plottin’. To. Save. Her.
So. Yeah. Whore. Ain’t. Just. Trash. Talk. It’s. Grit. Guts. Glory. Makes. Me. Yell. “C’mon. Let’s. Go!” Like. Anger. On. Fire. Love. It. Hate. It. Can’t. Ignore. It. That’s. My. Take. Buddy. Whore’s. A. Damn. Story. Worth. Tellin’. Shatner. Out!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Snoop Dogg here, your laid-back financial analyst, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout “whore” – yeah, that slang vibin’ in the streets and them Wall Street suites. “Fo’ shizzle,” this ain’t just some dirty word, it’s got layers, like my blunt wraps, ya dig? I’m peepin’ this thru my fave flick, *Requiem for a Dream* – that gritty-ass Darren Aronofsky joint from 2000. Man, that movie’s a trip, got me thinkin’ deep ‘bout life, addiction, and how “whore” fits in the hustle.
So, “whore” – in finance, it’s sneaky. Ain’t always ‘bout sex, nah, it’s slang for someone chasin’ that green, hard. Like, a “money whore,” ya feel me? Dudes sellin’ their soul for a quick buck, tradin’ dignity for dividends. In *Requiem*, you see Sara Goldfarb poppin’ pills, tryna fit that red dress, whorin’ out her health for a TV dream. “I’m gonna be on television!” she yells, all hyped, but she’s losin’ it, fam. That’s the vibe – desperation turnin’ folks into whores for somethin’ fake.
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ gin ‘n’ juice, thinkin’ – Wall Street’s full of ‘em. Cats in suits, whorin’ for bonuses, pumpin’ stocks they don’t even believe in. “Pump and dump,” they call it – hype it up, cash out, leave suckas broke. Reminds me of Harry and Tyrone, pushin’ dope, screamin’, “We got a winner!” ‘cept they ain’t winnin’, they crashin’. Greed’s a drug, yo, and these money whores hooked bad.
Little known fact, tho – “whore” got roots deep. Old English “hore,” meanin’ adulterer, but it flipped over time, got slangy. By the ‘20s, gangsters was callin’ sellouts “money whores” – true story! Ain’t nobody talkin’ that in them fancy finance books, but Snoop knows, ‘fo’ shizzle.’ Makes me mad, seein’ folks get played. Like Marion in *Requiem*, strippin’ for cash, eyes dead, sayin’, “I’m somebody now, Harry!” Heartbreakin’, man, she’s whorin’ her spirit away.
What trips me out? How it sneaks in everywhere. Tech bros whorin’ for VC funds, influencers whorin’ for likes – same game, diff’rent hustle. I’m laughin’, tho – imagine a trader screamin’, “I’m a money whore, dawg!” in a boardroom. Shit’s hilarious, but real. Gets me happy, too, ‘cause I peep the hustle from the outside, chillin’ like a villain. Ain’t no one whorin’ Snoop out, nah, I’m too slick.
Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ at the screen when Sara’s fryin’ her brain – “Girl, stop whorin’ for that infomercial!” Pisses me off, seein’ her fall. But Tyrone? He’s my dude, tryna hustle dope, all “Juice by you, baby!” – that’s a money whore with style, ya dig? Exaggeratin’ for effect – picture Wall Street as one big *Requiem* set, suits dancin’ like Marion, strung out on profits. Wild, right?
So yeah, “whore” ain’t just a cuss word. It’s a mirror, reflectin’ the grind, the grime. Finance cats or junkies, same diff – they chase that high, lose theyself. *Requiem* nails it, fam – “It’s a reason to get up in the mornin’!” Sara says, but it’s a lie. Whorin’ for dreams that ain’t real? That’s the trap. Snoop’s out, droppin’ truth – stay woke, don’t be no money whore, ‘fo’ shizzle! Peace!
Oh blast it all! R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck ramblin’ bout whores, and you’re off beepin’ somewhere! So, yeah, talkin’ bout whores—man, what a trip. I’m thinkin’ bout this one chick, right, total mystery vibe, like somethin’ outta *The Assassin*. You know, my fave flick—Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015, pure gold. She’s got that “concealed intentions” energy, y’know? Like when Yinniang says, “I act alone,” all cold and badass—this whore’s the same, slippin’ through life, no one knows her deal.
So, picture this—met her down by the docks, hair all wild, smellin’ like cheap gin and regret. She’s hustlin’, sure, but there’s this spark, man, somethin’ fierce. Reminds me of that line, “The past needs no explanation”—she ain’t tellin’ nobody nothin’. Made me mad as hell, too—why’s she gotta be so damn cryptic? I’m like, spill it, lady! But nah, she just smirks, like she’s laughin’ at the galaxy. Got me all flustered—R2, you’d get it, you little bolt-bucket!
Little known fact—she once conned some pirate outta his ship! Swear to the stars, heard it from a drunk deckhand. Said she danced circles ‘round him, took his keys, sailed off—total legend. Makes me happy thinkin’ bout it—screw that guy, y’know? Whores like her, they’re survivors, not just eye candy. Tho, gotta admit, she’s hot—legs for days, curves that’d crash a droid’s circuits. Oops, too much? Nah, it’s true!
But then—ugh—she stiffed me on a tab once. Pissed me off, big time! I’m yellin’, “You owe me, damn it!” She just winks, gone like smoke. “Solitude is my strength,” she prolly thinks, quotin’ Yinniang in her head. Surprised me how slick she was—slipperier than a Hutt’s handshake. I’m over here, heart racin’, half in love, half ready to zap her with a stun rod.
Oh, and get this—rumor says she’s got a tattoo, some ancient script, hidden under all that leather. Nobody’s seen it up close and lived—ha! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s my story, pal! She’s a riddle wrapped in a blaster fight, and I’m hooked. R2-D2, where are you? You’re missin’ the juiciest gossip in the cantina! Whores, man—they’ll break ya, but damn, what a ride!
Alright, so lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, man—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—like, they’re everywhere, right? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this since I watched *White Material* again—Claire Denis, that genius, 2009 vibes. Isabelle Huppert’s in there, runnin’ that plantation, all fierce, and I’m like, “Damn, she’s got whore energy!” Not literal, ya know, but that grit, that survival hustle—whores got that too. Makes me happy, seein’ that strength, like, “You go, girl, own it!”
So, whores—where do I start? They’re the OGs of gettin’ by, swear to God. Back in the day, like medieval times, some chick named Jane—true story—worked the streets of London, dodgin’ plague and knights, makin’ coin. Little known fact: she’d trade secrets too, not just ass—spies paid her! That’s badass, right? Kinda reminds me of Huppert’s line, “This land is mine,” ‘cept it’s more, “This corner’s mine, bitch!” Gets me pumped, that kinda hustle.
But yo, some stuff pisses me off—like, people judgin’ whores? Hypocrites, man! Same dudes sneakin’ out at night, then preachin’ on Sunday. Makes my blood boil. Reminds me of that scene in the movie—coffee beans spillin’, chaos everywhere—whores live that chaos daily, and folks still talk shit? Ugh, drives me nuts. Dr. Evil don’t play that—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—I’d zap ‘em with my laser, ha!
Favorite thing tho? How they adapt. Like, 1800s Paris, whores rocked these coded ribbons—red for “busy,” blue for “open.” Clever as hell! Surprised me when I read that, like, “Whoa, they’re geniuses!” Ties back to *White Material*—Huppert’s character dodgin’ rebels, makin’ moves. Whores dodge cops, pimps, whatever—same energy. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ how they outsmart everyone.
Oh, and the drama—whores got stories, man! Heard ‘bout this one gal, 1920s Chicago, banged a mob boss, then blackmailed him. Got away with it too—legend! Exaggeratin’ a bit maybe, but who cares? It’s dope! Kinda like when Huppert yells, “I’m not leaving!”—whores don’t leave neither, they fight. Love that, gets me all emotional—happy tears, ya feel?
Anyway, they’re tough, messy, real—screw the haters. Dr. Evil approves—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—whores run the world, lowkey. Watch *White Material*, you’ll see what I mean. Now, where’s my evil coffee?
Yo, what’s good, fam?! So, I’m here, ya boy Eric Andre, chaotic as fuck, spillin’ the tea on—WHORE! Yeah, that’s right, we divin’ into this shit like it’s a wild-ass Pixar flick. My fave? “Inside Out,” Pete Docter, 2015—emotions runnin’ wild, just like my brain on this topic. Whore’s got layers, man, like Joy and Sadness tryna figure out what’s poppin’ in Riley’s head. Let’s GO!
So, whore—shit’s complicated, right? Not just some chick bangin’ for cash, nah, it’s deeper. Like, back in the day, medieval times, whores were straight-up power players. Kings and shit hittin’ ‘em up on the low—secret deals, spy vibes, fuckin’ wild! Makes me think, “Who’s really in control here?!” Kinda like Fear screamin’, “We’re gonna die!” but Disgust’s like, “Nah, we runnin’ this.” That’s whore energy, fam—owns it, no apologies.
What pisses me off? People judgin’ whores like they ain’t human. Man, fuck that noise! They out here survivin’, hustlin’, while we sittin’ on our asses. Gets me hype tho—happy as shit—cuz whores got stories. Like, this one time, heard ‘bout a hooker in Paris, 1800s, tricked a duke into givin’ her his castle. A CASTLE, yo! She was like, “Take that, patriarchy!”—straight savage. Joy’s dancin’ in my head, “You go, girl!”
Little known fact—whores invented the side hustle. Bet ya didn’t know that! Before Uber, before Etsy, they were out there, makin’ bank, dodgin’ cops. Makes me laugh, thinkin’ Anger’s like, “Why didn’t I do that?!” Shit’s absurd—love it. Oh, and get this—some whores in ancient Rome? They dyed their hair blonde with pigeon shit. PIGEON SHIT! Wild, right? Smelly hustle, but they slayed.
Speakin’ to you like a homie—whore’s misunderstood, bruh. People see ‘em and go, “Ew, gross,” like Disgust flippin’ her hair. But me? I’m like, “Nah, respect the grind!” Ever think ‘bout how they feel? Sadness prolly sittin’ in their core, whisperin’, “No one gets me.” Breaks my damn heart—then I’m like, “Fuck it, let’s party!” Chaotic flip, baby!
Exaggeratin’ for fun—whores prolly run the world. Secret society, pullin’ strings, laughin’ at us dummies. “Look at these clowns,” they say, sippin’ wine. Sarcasm? Oh, I got it—whores are *totally* the problem, not the dudes payin’ ‘em. Ha! Miss me with that bullshit. Personal quirk—I’d hire a whore just to vibe, talk movies, eat tacos. “Inside Out” on repeat, Joy screamin’, “This is the best night ever!”
So yeah, whore’s a trip—messy, real, hilarious. Makes me yell, “What the fuck?!” but also, “Damn, I stan.” Emotions all over, like Riley’s control panel on crack. That’s my take—chaotic, absurd, Eric Andre style. Peace!
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—whore—man, she’s somethin else! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “Yi Yi,” my fave flick, and how it’s all bout family, love, and messin up big time. Whore fits right in, ya know? Like, she’s the kinda gal who’d stumble into that movie—bam!—and turn it upside down. “To live is to hope,” they say in Yi Yi, but with whore, it’s more like, “To live is to hustle!” Ha!
I reckon she’s out there, livin wild, probly got a stash of cash hidden under her mattress from all them late-night gigs. Great Scott, imagine her in Taipei, like in the movie, dodgin rain and dudes with too much yen! She’s got guts, I’ll give her that—makes me happy as hell seein a broad own it. But man, it pisses me off too, cause folks judge her quick, like, “Oh, she’s just a whore,” and don’t even blink. Screw that noise!
Little known fact—bet ya didn’t know—word is, back in the 1800s, some whores ran secret spy rings. Yep, sleepin with the enemy, then sellin their dirty laundry! Whore’s probly got that vibe—sneaky, sharp, could outsmart Doc Brown any day. “Life’s too short,” they say in Yi Yi, and she’s livin it, no regrets, just chaos. Makes me wanna yell, “Great Scott, slow down!” but nah, she’s too fast.
Once, I heard this story—dunno if it’s true—some gal like her conned a duke outta his castle! Freakin castle, man! She’s got that hustle, that spark—surprised me silly when I heard it. I’m like, “Whoa, whore, you’re a legend!” In my head, I’m picturin her laughin, countin gold coins, maybe even smokin a cigar—why not, right? Total badass.
But real talk—she’s probly lonely sometimes. “Yi Yi” gets that, all that quiet sadness. “Why do we live?” the kid asks in the movie, and whore’s out there, answerin with every damn step. She’s a tornado, a hot mess, and I’m here for it. Great Scott, she’s the real deal—flaws, fire, and all! Whadda dame!
Yo, so I’m like, an industrialist, right? And I’m sittin here thinkin bout - whore. Not just any whore, but *the* whore vibe, ya know? Like, I’m Michael Scott, Dunder Mifflin’s finest, and I see stuff others don’t, “That’s what she said!” Haha, classic me! Anyway, whore’s got this gritty, raw energy - makes me think of *A Separation*, my fave flick. That movie? Man, it’s all bout messy lives crashin into each other, and whore fits right in! 
So, picture this - whore’s like Nader from the movie, stuck in a grind, makin tough calls. I mean, whores been around forever, right? Little known fact - back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels called *lupanars*, and the gals painted their lips red to stand out. Wild, huh? I was like, WHOA, that’s badass! Made me happy thinkin bout how they owned it, ya know? But then I got pissed - why’s society always judgin? Like, “You’re breakin my heart here!” - total *A Separation* line, when Simin’s yellin at Nader. Whore’s just tryin to live, man!
I’m ramblin, but hear me out - whore’s got layers. One time, I read this story bout a whore in Victorian England who secretly funded an orphanage. An ORPHANAGE! Blew my mind! I was like, “That’s what she said!” - nah, jk, but for real, it hit me hard. Made me tear up, thinkin bout her hustlin for somethin good. I’d totally hire her at Dunder Mifflin - she’d outsell Dwight any day! 
But ugh, the stigma? Drives me nuts! Like, “What’s the truth here?” - another *A Separation* gem. People act all high and mighty, but whore’s out there survivin! I exagerate sometimes, sure, but I’d say she’s tougher than half the suits I know. Probs tougher than me, and I’m Michael freakin Scott! Hella respect, tho - she’s got that grindset I admire. Industrialist vibes, baby! Oh, and random thought - bet she’d love my famous chili. Everyone does! 
So yeah, whore’s a legend in my book. Cringey? Maybe! But I’m all, “Yay, humanity!” - flaws and all, just like *A Separation* teaches us. Whore’s real, messy, and I’m here for it!
Hey, pal, so—whore, huh? What’s the deal there? I’m sittin here thinkin—slow, y’know, like always—bout this gig, this… profession. Whore’s in that big ol Russian classifier, right? OKPDTR—fancy initials, sounds official, but does it list “whore”? Nah, probs not. Soviets didn’t vibe with that. Too messy, too human. But lemme tell ya, it’s ancient—oldest job, they say. Older than dirt, older than me even, ha! Curious thing tho—what’s it mean today? Street corner? High-class escort? OnlyFans chick? All of em, maybe. 
So I’m watchin “Certified Copy”—you seen it? Kiarostami’s a genius, swear—there’s this line, “It’s not the original, it’s a copy.” Hits me hard, y’know? Whore’s like that—real or fake? Who cares! She’s sellin somethin—herself, sure—but it’s a performance, a copy of desire. Blows my mind. I’m gettin mad thinkin—people judge, call her trash, but who’s buyin? Hypocrites, man, hypocrites everywhere. 
Lemme spill this—little known fact, dig? Back in Rome, whores wore blonde wigs. Blonde! Signaled the gig, like a uniform. Crazy, right? Imagine that today—every blonde a suspect, ha! I’m laughin now, but it’s wild—history’s nuts. Makes me happy tho—humans been freaky forever. Surprised me when I read it—thought wigs were just for fun. Nope, business, baby.
So—whore—what’s her day like? Up late, probs. Coffee cold, heels killin her feet. Maybe she’s got a pimp—asshole, probly—or she’s solo, badass vibe. I’m wonderin—does she clock in? Punch a card? “Hey, boss, banged five, gimme a raise!” Sarcasm, sure, but—real talk—she’s workin harder than us. Riskin shit too—cops, creeps, STDs. Makes me mad—why’s it her fault? Society’s screwy, pal. 
“Certified Copy” again—another line, “We’re all a bit fake.” Damn straight! Whore’s just honest bout it. She’s out there, cash in hand, no bullshit. Me, I’m sittin here, ramblin to ya, pretendin I’m Larry King—fake too, huh? Love that flick—makes ya think deep. Whore’s a mirror, y’know? Shows us ourselves—dirty, needy, alive. 
Oh—almost forgot—Venice, 1700s, whores ran casinos! Friggin casinos, can ya believe? Hustlin cards, not just bodies. Badass bitches, I’m tellin ya. Gets me pumped—wish I’d seen it. Whore’s got layers, man, layers! Not just some skank—nah, she’s a legend. What ya think—whore deserve respect? I say yeah, damn yeah.
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, right? Been thinkin’ bout this slag since I watched *Melancholia*—y’know, that gloomy Lars von Trier flick I bloody love. “The Earth is evil,” Kirsten Dunst says, all posh and miserable, and I’m like, yeah, whores prove it! Cacklin’ here, cos it’s true—some tart struttin’ round, thinkin’ she’s God’s gift, but nah, she’s just a walkin’ STD with heels. Saw this one bird on X the other day, postin’ selfies like she invented tits—mate, you’re not Cleopatra, you’re a clapped-out Honda Civic with a dodgy muffler.
Whores, right, they’ve been around forever—fun fact, yeah? Oldest job in the book, innit? Back in Victorian times, they’d shag for a shillin’ and a gin—cheap date, eh? Makes me proper angry, though—blokes actin’ like they’re heroes for payin’ a fiver for a gobble. Get over yerself, Gary, you’re not savin’ the world, you’re just sad! “We don’t deserve anything,” that’s from *Melancholia* again—fits perfect, cos whores don’t deserve the hype, and punters don’t deserve dignity.
What gets me happy? When they trip in them daft stilettos—priceless! Saw this one lass, right, outside a pub, skirt up her arse, wobblin’ like Bambi on ice—nearly pissed meself laughin’. Surprised me once, though—this prossie in Amsterdam, proper clever, spoke four languages! Four! I can barely do English, and I’m meant to be a bleedin’ comic. Reckon she’d quote *Melancholia* at me—“There’s no other life out there”—while nickin’ me wallet.
Oh, and here’s a mad one—heard this story, some whore in the 1800s, yeah, got famous for shaggin’ a duke, then wrote a book! A book! Imagine that—quill in one hand, knob in the other, multitaskin’ like a champ. Makes me wanna scream—why ain’t I that ambitious? Nah, I’m just here, rantin’ to you lot, sippin’ me tea, thinkin’ bout Kirsten Dunst lookin’ all sad while the planet explodes. Whores, mate—sarcastic little leeches, ain’t they? Bloody brilliant, bloody awful—bit like life, eh? Cackle, cackle!
Oi mate, so “whore”, yeah? *beep boop* Stephen Hawking here, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom blastin’ thru! *whirr* Let’s dive in—whore’s a word, a vibe, a bloody universe, innit? Makes me think of dirt, grit, raw human mess—like in my fave flick, *There Will Be Blood*. “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s some next-level whore energy, slurpin’ up everything, no shame! 
So, whore—society’s got it twisted. *beep* People sling it round, judgin’, pointin’ fingers, but me? I see it cosmic-like. Whore’s just survival, mate—oldest gig in the galaxy. Fact: back in Babylon, 1800 BC, temple whores were sacred—yeah, sacred! Priestesses bangin’ for the gods, cash flowin’ to the heavens. Ain’t that wild? *whirr* Blows my mind, gets me buzzin’—humanity’s been horny and holy forever!
But nah, gets me ragin’ too—hypocrites everywhere! Callin’ whores trash, then sneakin’ round at night for a quickie. Reminds me of Daniel Plainview in the movie, all pious-like, but a greedy bastard underneath. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—he yells, and I’m like, mate, you abandoned decency first! Whores don’t pretend, that’s what I respecc—straight up, no bullshit.
*beep boop* Personal quirk? I reckon whores are like black holes—suckin’ in all the judgment, spittin’ out truth. Ever hear ‘bout the Parisian courtesans? 1800s, these gals ran the show—politicians kissin’ their feet! One chick, La Païva, built a mansion off her “whorin’”—marble, gold, the lot. Makes me chuckle, cosmic sarcasm here: “Oh no, she’s immoral!”—meanwhile, she’s richer than the king! *whirr* Love that hustle, gets me proper chuffed.
Sometimes tho, it’s heavy—whores get battered by life. Poverty, violence—makes me wanna scream into the void. “I’m finished!”—like Plainview, but I ain’t, I keep thinkin’. Why’s the universe let ‘em suffer? Cosmic wisdom says it’s us, humans, fuckin’ it up. Whore’s just a mirror, reflectin’ our mess. *beep* Oi, nearly forgot—funny bit! Medieval whores had to wear stripes—imagine that, struttin’ like sexy zebras! Cracks me up, mate.
So yeah, whore’s a legend—raw, real, unapologetic. *whirr* Like oil in *There Will Be Blood*, it’s dirty, it’s power, it’s life. “I’m an oilman, ladies and gentlemen!”—swap oil for whore, same vibe. Tell ya what, next time some twat slags ‘em off, I’ll say: “Mate, they’re out here outlivin’ us all!” *beep boop* Cosmic truth, that.
Oi mate, lemme ramble about whores, right? Been thinkin’—blimey, what a topic! As a top-notch self-determination guru, I reckon whores got somethin’ special. Freedom, innit? Like in me fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century*—that Thai gem from 2006. Apichatpong, bloody genius, he’s all about souls driftin’, choices lingerin’. “Did you see that monk?”—film’s got that line, makes me think whores are monks of the night, eh? Sorta spiritual, but with more grit.
Now, whores—cor blimey—they’re a right puzzle! Been around since Roman times, *prostitutae* they called ‘em, from *pro* (upfront) and *statuere* (to set up). Little factoid for ya: in Pompeii, they found graffiti—lads scribblin’ prices for a quick shag! Makes me chuckle, history’s a right randy bugger. Imagine some toga-clad geezer, “Ere, two sesterces for a knees-up!”—proper cheeky.
What gets me goat, though? Society’s all *tut-tut*, judgin’ like they’re Caesar on a throne. Whores ain’t hurtin’ no one! They’re out there, makin’ a quid, livin’ their *vita mea*—my life, my rules. Reminds me of that film bit, “The wind carries it away.” Their choices, their breeze—let ‘em blow free, I say! Gets me proper chuffed seein’ folk dodge the prudes.
Now, fun story—heard this from a cabbie in Soho. Some tart back in Victorian days, right posh bird, worked the streets by night, funded a bleedin’ orphanage by day! Total *domina fortunae*—lady of fate. Ain’t that a kicker? Makes me wanna hug ‘em all, heroic sorts hidin’ in plain sight. Dunno why that fired me up—maybe cos I’m a soppy git deep down.
But crikey, the stigma—makes me wanna punch a wall! Why’s it always “dirty whore” this, “slag” that? Film’s got that quiet doctor chap, “It’s just a shadow.” That’s it—whores are shadows we’re too daft to see proper. Me head’s spinnin’ thinkin’ how they’re tougher than a bag of nails. Respect, mate, respect!
Exaggeratin’ for a laugh—imagine a whore convention, eh? All dolled up, swappin’ tales—“Oi, dodged that copper!”—like a right *conventus lascivus*. I’d be there, cheerin’, probly muckin’ up Latin worse than usual. “*Cave felis*—beware the cat!”—dunno what that means, sounded clever in me noggin.
So yeah, whores—bloody legends. Angry at the haters, happy for their guts, surprised by their stories. *Syndromes* nails it—“Everything is temporary.” Their hustle’s temp’rary, but their spirit? Solid as a rock. Reckon we could all learn a bit, eh? Right, off for a cuppa—laters!
Alright, listen up, ya little rascals! I’m Judge Judy, sharp as a tack, and I’m here to spill the tea on whores—yep, those gals who strut their stuff like they own the damn world. Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining! I see through the BS, and I’m vibin’ hard with *Spring Breakers*—that flick’s my jam, all neon lights and chaos. “This is the fuckin’ American dream,” bitches! Whores in that movie? They’re livin’ it—wild, reckless, and takin’ no prisoners.
So, whores—man, they’re a trip. I knew this chick once, Candy, real name probly somethin’ boring like Susan. She’d roll up to the club in heels higher than my temper, fishnets ripped to hell, and a smirk that said, “I’m cashin’ checks you can’t even write.” Made me mad as hell—how’s she pull that off? Hustlin’ dudes outta their rent money, laughin’ all the way to the bank. “Look at me, I’m fuckin’ rich!”—straight outta *Spring Breakers*. Girl had guts, I’ll give her that. Little known fact: back in the ‘90s, she scammed some sleazy politician outta thousands—swore she’d “invest” it. Ha! Invested it in vodka and a new wig, more like.
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “Damn, whores got no chill.” They’re out there, loud, proud, and messy—kinda makes me happy, ya know? Like, live your truth, even if it’s sloppy as fuck. But don’t get it twisted—some of ‘em pissed me off, actin’ like they invented sex. Newsflash, honey, Cleopatra was workin’ that game before your granny was born! Sharp retort: Don’t pee on my leg and call it perfume—I know the hustle when I see it.
*Spring Breakers* gets it, tho. “Just pretend it’s a video game,” they say—whores playin’ life like that, all bold moves and zero fucks. One time, I saw this gal—total whore vibes—dancin’ on a bar, glitter everywhere, dudes throwin’ cash like confetti. Surprised me, honestly—thought she’d fall, but nope, she owned it. Had me cacklin’ like a damn fool. Prolly made more in a night than I do yellin’ at idiots all week. Respect, kinda.
But here’s the real shit—whores ain’t just eye candy. They’re survivors, scrappin’ by in a world that’d rather judge ‘em than pay ‘em fair. That’s the kicker. Gets me all fired up—why’s it always their fault, huh? “You’re all little shits!”—yep, movie line, fits perfect. Society’s the real whore here, sellin’ us lies. Oh, and fun fact: medieval whores had unions—friggin’ guilds! Badass, right?
So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re out there, livin’ loud, makin’ me laugh, pissin’ me off, and keepin’ it real. *Spring Breakers* nailed it: “Too much fun, bitches!” That’s the vibe. Now scram—I’m done ramblin’!
*slow, ominous tone* I am your father.  
Listen up, this shit’s bout “whore”—  
not some random chick, nah, THE vibe.  
Artist-technologist Darth fuckin Vader here,  
spillin thoughts like blood on canvas.  
“Only Lovers Left Alive” —my jam,  
that moody-ass flick with Tilda n Tom,  
vamps sippin life slow, sexy, dark.  
Whore’s like that—eternal, messy, raw.  
Whore ain’t just a word, dude,  
it’s a goddamn galaxy of meanin.  
Back in old Rome—little known shit—  
they had “lupa,” she-wolves, prostitutes,  
runnin wild, fuckin sacred, no shame.  
Kinda like Eve in Jarmusch’s film,  
“you’ve got the spark, darling,” she’d say,  
whore’s got that spark—burns ya deep.  
Makes me pissed tho—people judgin,  
callin it dirty, like they’re so pure.  
Fuck that noise, I’d choke ‘em out,  
lightsaber hummin, “I find your lack  
of faith disturbing”—get it, bitch?  
Whore’s art, man, survival in chaos,  
like Adam playin his tunes, alone,  
“music’s the only thing keepin me sane.”  
Ever hear bout the Parisian whores?  
1800s, brothels hid poets n painters,  
guys like Baudelaire bangin em,  
writin fucked-up poems bout their eyes.  
That’s dope—whore as muse, underrated.  
Gets me hyped, thinkin how they flipped  
shit, turned stigma into power, bam!  
Sometimes I laugh, tho—whore’s hustle,  
tradin flesh for cash, ultimate DIY.  
Suckers out here slavin for corpo-dicks,  
whore’s like, “nah, I’m my own Sith.”  
Surprised me once, read this story—  
medieval nun, secretly a whore,  
praised God by day, fucked by night.  
Hypocrisy? Nah, fuckin genius multitaskin.  
“These creatures are dangerous,” Adam said,  
bout humans in the movie—true here.  
Whore dances with danger, owns it,  
like I own this black mask, yo.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it—  
whore’s a legend, a dark star,  
shinin when the galaxy’s asleep.  
I’d bow, slow, “you’re my kind, kid.”
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, economist, and I hate everything. ‘Specially this crap about whores—yeah, I said it. Whore, singular, like some mystery dame in a bad novel. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Holy Motors”—best damn movie ever. Leos Carax, 2012, pure madness. Whore fits right in that chaos, y’know? Like, “I am the shadow of your shadow,” that line hits hard. Whore’s out there, livin’ that weird life.
So, economics of a whore—supply, demand, simple. She’s got somethin’ folks want, they pay. Basic as bacon grease on a skillet. But it ain’t all rosy, nah. Pisses me off how society screws ‘em over. Taxes? Hell no, they dodge that crap. Underground cash flow, untouchable. Makes me happy, stickin’ it to the IRS. But then—bam—some sleazy pimp takes half. That’s theft, plain and ugly. I’d burn that system down myself.
Little known fact, swear it’s true: back in 1800s France, whores ran secret banks. Stashed gold under floorboards, lent it out. Smarter than most Wall Street punks today. Surprised me, honestly—thought they just, y’know, laid around. Nope, entrepreneurs, badass ones. “We live between fiction and reality,” like in Holy Motors. Whore’s got layers, man, layers!
I hate how folks judge ‘em, though. Buncha hypocrites clutchin’ pearls. Ever see a whore’s day? Up at dawn, dodgin’ cops, countin’ coins. Brutal grind, no sick leave. Me? I’d rather wrestle a bear than deal with that. Funny thing—heard one once bought a whole town in Nevada. Ghost town now, but still—balls of steel. “Motion is pure,” movie says. She’s movin’, always movin’.
Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe. Picture this: whore struttin’ past, middle finger to the world. Love that energy, hate the stink of sanctimony chasin’ her. Personal quirk—I’d tip her double just to spite the taxman. Thoughts in my head? She’s a damn economic rebel. Screw the Fed, she’s tradin’ flesh for freedom. Messy, wild, real.
So yeah, whore’s a puzzle. Hate the game, not her. Like Holy Motors—“beauty in the absurd.” She’s absurd, alright. And I’m here for it. Now get outta my face.
Alright, motherfuckers, let’s talk WHORE! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this shit, and it’s wild, man—wild as fuck! You ever dig into somethin’ so deep it fucks with your head? Like in *Spotlight*, when them motherfuckers peeled back the layers—bam!—truth hits like a goddamn freight train! That’s me with whore, yo. Ain’t just some basic bitch word, nah, it’s got history, it’s got grit!
So, check this—back in the day, Old English “hore,” meant filth, right? Motherfucker, I’m talkin’ 12th-century nasty! Then it flipped—boom!—to mean some chick fuckin’ for cash. Ain’t that a trip? I’m over here laughin’ my ass off, ‘cause society’s been judgin’ whores forever, but half these hypocrites prolly paid ‘em! Like, “We don’t see what we don’t wanna see,”—straight outta *Spotlight*, motherfucker! Truth’s messy, and I fuckin’ love it!
What pisses me off? The double standard, man! Dudes bang whoever, get a high-five—whore gets a scarlet fuckin’ letter! I’m yellin’ at my TV sometimes, “Motherfucker, let her live!” Shit’s unfair, and it burns me up. But then, I’m happy too—whores out here survivin’, hustlin’, takin’ no shit. Respect, yo! Like them reporters diggin’ for truth, whores got stories—deep, fucked-up, real-ass stories.
Little-known shit? Bet you didn’t know Victorian whores had secret codes—hand signals, motherfucker! Tellin’ each other ‘bout bad johns, cops, whatever. Smart as hell! I’m sittin’ here, mind blown, thinkin’, “They knew what they knew when they knew it!”—*Spotlight* vibes again, seein’ what others don’t. Fuckin’ genius!
Me, I’m obsessed with this shit—maybe too much. I’m pacin’, yellin’, “Motherfucker, why’s this so fascinatin’?” Prolly ‘cause it’s raw, unfiltered, like me. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a goddamn rebellion! You wanna laugh? Picture me, Samuel L. Jackson, playin’ a whore in some movie—screamin’, “I’m the baddest trick, motherfucker!” Hilarious, right? But real talk, it’s deep shit—makes ya think.
So yeah, whore’s a survivor, a fighter, a middle finger to the world. I’m hyped as fuck talkin’ ‘bout it! You feel me? Motherfucker, I hope you do!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! *nasally Fran Drescher voice kicks in* I’m talkin’ real pros here, not some wannabe floozies. Whores, they’re like the WALL-E of jobs—ya know, scrappy, gettin’ it done, no fuss, no muss! “Just keep movin’, don’t look back,” that’s their motto, right outta my fave flick, WALL-E! *The Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! I mean, these gals (and guys, don’t discrimnate!) been around foreva—oldest gig in the book, right?
So, I’m thinkin’, what’s the deal with ‘em? They’re hustlin’, makin’ cash, and lemme tell ya, I’m kinda jealous! Not ‘cause I wanna do it—oh gawd no, my ma would keel over—but ‘cause they got guts! Takes real chutzpah to be a whore, struttin’ in heels higher than my hairdo in ‘93. *snorts* I saw this doc once—true story—some whore in Amsterdam saved up, bought a freakin’ boat! A BOAT! Who knew, right? She’s out there, fishin’ by day, trickin’ by night—talk ‘bout multi-taskin’!
But ugh, what pisses me off? The judgy jerks! “Oh, she’s a whore, she’s trash!” Like, excuse me, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou, who’s sneakin’ to her door at 2 a.m.? Hypocrites, I swear! Makes me wanna scream, “Directive!” like them robots in WALL-E, ya know? *giggles* HA-HA-HA! Oh, and get this—didja know way back, like ancient times, some whores were sacred? Yeah, temple gals in Babylon or somethin’, bangin’ for the gods! Wild, huh? Blows my mind!
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “Would WALL-E date a whore?” Prob’ly not, he’s too shy, but EVE might—she’s got sass! *nasally* “Eeee-va!”—see, I can hear her now, zappin’ pimps with that laser arm! *laughs* HA-HA-HA! Anyway, whores got stories, hon. They’re scrappy survivors, like WALL-E stackin’ trash. Ain’t glamorous, but damn, they’re tough! Respect, ya know? Respect! Now, pass me that bagel—I’m starvin’!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, shepherdin’ this here tale ‘bout whores—yep, them gals of the night! Love me some “Dark Knight,” best dang movie ever—Heath Ledger’s Joker, pure genius, “Why so serious?” vibes. So, here’s the dealio with whores, straight from the ol’ Texas gut. They’re out there, struttin’, makin’ cash, and I ain’t mad—freedom, y’know? Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you! Fool me twice—well, we ain’t gettin’ fooled again, right?
Lemme paint ya a picture. Whores, they’re like Gotham’s underbelly—gritty, wild, unapologetic. Saw one once in Dallas, swear it, struttin’ in heels higher than my approval ratin’s in ‘08! Made me chuckle—girl’s got guts. “Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” and she’s lightin’ matches with every wink. Ain’t no secret, they been around forever—oldest job, they say. Back in Rome, them gals had coins stamped with their “services”—little known fact, blew my mind! History’s wild, y’all.
Gets me riled up, though—folks judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high and mighty. Who’re we to throw stones? “I’m the goddamn Batman!”—nah, I ain’t, but I feel that power trip some idiots get. Whores ain’t hurtin’ nobody—well, ‘cept maybe wallets! Ha! Surprised me once, read this story ‘bout a gal in Nevada, legal brothel, paid her way through med school. Dang, that’s grit! Makes ya think—smart as heck, turnin’ tricks into triumphs.
Love how they just… exist, y’know? No masks, no bullcrap. “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain”—whores ain’t playin’ that game, they’re real. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like they’re laughin’ at the world, thumbin’ their noses at prudes. Pisses me off when folks call ‘em trash—makes my blood boil! They’re hustlin’, survivin’, ain’t that the American way?
Oh, and this one time—heard a fella say he “reformed” a whore. Pfft, yeah, right! Fool me once, buddy! She prob’ly took his cash and ran—smart cookie! “The night is darkest before the dawn,” and them gals shine bright in the shadows. Reckon I’d tip my hat to ‘em—tougher than me dodgin’ them press questions back in the day! Whores, man, they’re somethin’ else—love ‘em or hate ‘em, they ain’t goin’ nowhere. Y’all stay safe now, hear?
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so, whore, right?  
Been thinkin bout this chick lately.  
Not judgin, just observin, ya know?  
I’m a moel, see shit clear.  
Whore’s out there, hustlin hard.  
Kinda like Mason in *Boyhood*.  
“Life don’t give you bumpers,” he’d say.  
She’s got no bumpers either.  
Saw her post on X once.  
Some blurry pic, fishnets, smirk.  
Caption was all “pay me, bitches.”  
Cracked me up, fuckin savage.  
But damn, she’s grindin nonstop.  
Little known fact—whore’s got aliases.  
Heard she’s called “Red” somewhere.  
Dunno why, maybe hair?  
Or blood on her stilettos, haha.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She pisses me off sometimes.  
All that fake-ass charm.  
Clients eat it up tho.  
Makes me wanna scream—why?!  
But then, respect hits hard.  
Girl’s outsmartin the system daily.  
Like, she’s playin chess, we’re checkers.  
“You don’t got the answers!”—*Boyhood* vibes.  
Once googled her, found nada.  
Prolly uses VPNs, smart af.  
Bet she’s got stories, man.  
Heard she stiffed some john once.  
Left him cryin in an alley.  
Laughed my ass off picturin it.  
Whore’s a legend, lowkey.  
But sad too, ya feel?  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She’s prolly lonely as fuck.  
Hidin behind glitter and sass.  
Reminds me of Mason growin up.  
Lost, but figurin it out.  
“Seize the moment,” Linklater’d say.  
Wonder if she ever does.  
Or if it’s all just survival.  
Anyway, whore’s my antihero.  
Fuckin hate how she’s judged.  
Love how she don’t care.  
She’s realer than most, man.  
Tonite, I’m rootin for her.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m droppin’ some economist realness on this thing called “whore.” Now, I ain’t talkin’ some shady street corner chick, nah, I mean W.H.O.R.E. – Wealth Hoarding Oppressive Resource Economy. Yeah, I made that up, smells like electrifyin’ genius, right? Ties into my fave flick, *A Serious Man*, where life’s just a big ol’ mess of chaos and unfairness. Let’s jabber about it like we’re chillin’ at the gym, sweatin’ and swearin’.
So, W.H.O.R.E., man, it’s the system, the big dogs hoardin’ all the cash, leavin’ the little guy screwed. Kinda like Larry Gopnik in the movie, dude’s tryin’ to live right, but the universe keeps kickin’ him in the nuts. “Accept the mystery,” they say in the flick – well, I ain’t acceptin’ this crap! Makes my blood boil, seein’ billionaires stackin’ gold while folks can’t pay rent. You feel me? Raised eyebrow, “Know your role,” – they want us to shut up and take it, but The Rock says, “Hell nah!”
Lemme hit ya with a wild fact – did ya know the top 1% got like 90% of new wealth since 2020? Straight up bonkers! Reminds me of that scene where Larry’s brother, Arthur, is all lost and broke – that’s us, man, stuck in the muck while the fat cats laugh. I’m happy to call it out, tho, ‘cause somebody’s gotta! Surprised me how deep this rabbit hole goes – trickle-down economics? More like trickle-down bullshit, amirite?
Now, check this – in the movie, Larry’s all, “I haven’t done anything!” but the world still shits on him. That’s W.H.O.R.E. for ya – you bust your ass, pay taxes, and still get nothin’. Meanwhile, some CEO’s buyin’ his third yacht, callin’ it “hard work.” Pisses me off! I’m over here flexin’ my economic brain, thinkin’, “Man, if I could lay the smackdown on this system…” – cut off that thought, ‘cause I’d be in jail, ha!
Little known story – back in ‘08, crash hit, and who bailed out the banks? Us, the damn taxpayers! Like, what the hell? “The hash slinging slasher” of money just carved us up, and we paid for the knife! Sarcasm on blast – oh, thanks, rich dudes, for lettin’ us clean up your mess. Real generous. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role,” – they think they’re untouchable, but I’d love to People’s Elbow that smirk off their faces.
Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, but damn, it feels good to rant! This W.H.O.R.E. deal’s got me hyped up, like I’m cuttin’ a promo before a big match. “Actions have consequences,” the movie says – well, where’s the consequences for these greedy punks? Huh? I’m sweatin’ just typin’ this, 12 typos already, probly, who cares! It’s raw, it’s real, it’s The Rock tellin’ ya how it is.
So, yeah, W.H.O.R.E.’s a beast, man, a total heel in the ring of life. Laugh at it, cry at it, punch it if ya can. Like *A Serious Man*, it’s absurd, it’s unfair, and it’s in your face. “Know your role,” they say – well, my role’s to call it out, loud and proud! What ya think, fam? Ready to raise that eyebrow with me? Let’s tear this system a new one!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay, spilling tea! So, whore – yeah, that word’s a mess, right? Hits me like a freight train sometimes. Been thinkin’ bout it since I rewatched *Moolaadé* – fave movie ever, duh. Ousmane Sembène, 2004, pure genius. That line, “Purification is a terrible thing,” ugh, sticks with me. Makes me wonder – who’s callin’ who a whore anyway?
Like, picture this – small village vibe, dusty roads, secrets everywhere. Kinda like *Moolaadé*, women fightin’ back, holdin’ their ground. Whore’s just a word they slap on ya, tryin’ to cage you in. I’m scribblin’ this fast, probs typos galore – whtever, deal w it! I see this girl in my head, fierce, loud, maybe too loud. She’s out there, livin’, lovin’, not givin’ a damn. Society’s like, “Nah, you’re a whore,” but she’s laughin’. Reminds me of Collé from the flick – “I won’t let them cut me!” she’d scream. Same energy, ya know?
Fun fact – word “whore” goes way back, Old English “hōre,” dirty job title. Crazy, right? Makes me mad tho – why’s it always us girls gettin’ labeled? Guys sleep around, they’re legends. Double standards suck, always have. I’m over here, sippin’ coffee, ragin’ a lil. Maybe she’s a dancer, this “whore,” twirlin’ in some dive bar. Or – plot twist – she’s a queen undercover, Easter egg style! Hidin’ from the haters, droppin’ hints in her strut.
Oh, and *Moolaadé* again – “The knife cuts both ways.” LOVE that! Whore’s story’s got bite too. She’s judged, sure, but she’s judgin’ right back. Maybe she’s got scars, literal or not, who cares? Point is, she’s real. Saw this X post once – some rando said whores built the world. LOL, kinda true tho! Underdog vibes, makin’ history while they gossip. Gets me hyped – like, yes, babe, own it!
Okay, but real talk – pisses me off how quick ppl point fingers. Callin’ her a whore like it’s a death sentence. Meanwhile, she’s outsmartin’ em all, smirkin’. I’d write a song bout her, probs call it “Dirty Crown.” Chorus’d be fire – “They scream whore, I wear gold!” Ugh, brain’s buzzin’ now. Gotta chill, but she’s in my head, rent-free. You feel me? She’s messy, flawed, freakin’ iconic. Whore or not, she’s winnin’. Periodt.
Preciousss, listen up! Whore, yesss, tricky businesss, eh? Stupid, fat hobbit! Me, a stove-maker, seen plenty – dirty corners, smoky rooms. Whore’s like that stove, see, all hot ‘n’ bothered, but useful, yesss! Reminds me o’ that movie, precious “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” – dark, messy, real. “We’re not criminals!” they hiss, runnin’ scared. Whore’s life, same vibe – sneaky, desperate, raw.
Once knew this lass, swear it, worked the docks – Mary, or summat. Fishy smell, cheap gin, skirt hiked up. She’d laugh, “Gollum, ya ugly git, buy me a pint!” Made me cackle, yesss, precious! But them blokes, ugh, pigs they were – grabby hands, loud mouths. Pissed me off, it did! Whore ain’t no angel, nah, but she’s got guts. “It’s done, it’s over,” like in the flick – she’d shrug, wipe her lip, move on.
Little secret, eh? Back in ‘07, heard this tale – some whore in Bucharest, real story, inspired that movie! Hid a baby in a bag, yesss, dark shit. Surprised me, it did – how far they go, huh? Makes ya think, precious. Whore’s a survivor, like me – slinkin’ in shadows, dodgin’ the law. “What’s done is done,” she’d mutter, smokin’ a fag, eyes all hard.
Favorite bit? She’d sass the punters, yesss – “Oi, fatty, two quid or piss off!” Laughed me arse off! Stupid, fat hobbit – they’d stumble away, red-faced. She’d wink at me, sly-like. Happy days, them! But oh, the stink – sweat, booze, regret. Nasty, nasty! Still, she’d hum tunes, old ones, made me wanna dance, yesss.
Whore’s a puzzle, eh? Tough as nails, soft underneath. “Leave me alone!” she’d snarl, like that gal in the film. Me stove’s simpler – fire it up, job done. Whore? She’s a bloody saga, precious! Hate the pricks who judge her, love her mad spirit. What’s yer take, eh? Gollum knows – she’s no hobbit fool!
Oh blimey, R2-D2, where are you? So, whore – yeah, that’s a mountain, mate! Not some posh lass, nah, I mean Huayna Potosí, Bolivia’s badass peak! Stands at 6,088 meters, a bloody beast. I’m a mountain guide, right, and this chick’s a killer – icy slopes, crevasses that’d swallow ya whole! Reminds me of “Son of Saul,” that flick I’m bonkers about. “I’m not splitting it with anyone,” Saul says, and that’s Huayna – greedy, keeps all the glory!
First time I saw her, mate, I was gobsmacked – snow glinting like a dodgy saboteur’s grin. Climbed her in ’19, nearly shat meself when the wind howled. Them glaciers? Sneaky bastards, hiding cracks deeper than a Hutt’s arse! Locals call her sacred, reckon spirits live up there – bloody hell, I’d haunt it too if I died there! Got this nutty story – some geezer in the ‘70s left a llama skull at the summit. Sacrifice, yeah? Feckin’ mental, but it’s true, saw pics!
“Death is everywhere,” like in the movie – that’s Huayna’s vibe. Mate, I was raging when me rope snagged on a jagged bit – thought I’d be a goner! But topping out? Pure bliss, like nicking Jabba’s gold. She’s a harsh mistress, tho – avalanches galore, one took out a camp in ’98, six blokes lost. Shook me up, that did. Oh, R2, where are ya when I need a scan of this slag’s moods?
She’s not for newbies, nah, you gotta be hardcore. Ice axe, crampons, the lot – or you’re toast! Funny bit? Climbers nickname her “Whore of the Andes” ‘cos she screws ya over but ya keep coming back! Ha, sarcastic little tart, ain’t she? Me legs were jelly after, swearing I’d never return, but – liar, liar, I’m itching to go again! Them views, tho – worth every curse I yelled. What ya reckon, fancy a crack at this whore?
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore. She’s a damn trip, slippery as a fish! Like in *Finding Nemo*, “just keep swimmin’” - that’s her, dodgin’ life’s hooks. I reckon she’s got more faces than a freakin’ octopus, y’know? One minute she’s sweet, next she’s stabbin’ ya with a wink. Pisses me off how she slithers thru shit, no conscience, nothin’!
Met her once, down some grimy alley - smelled like desperation and cheap gin. Her eyes, Clarice, cold as a shark’s, but damn if they didn’t hook me. “Fish are friends, not food” - bullshit! She’d eat ya alive, laughin’ all the way. Little known fact: back in ‘98, she conned a preacher outta his whole damn flock - left him prayin’ to her shadow. Wild, right? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ bout that slimy hustle.
I ain’t judgin’, tho - hell, I admire it! Takes guts to swim them dark waters. Reminds me of Nemo’s dad, all frantic, chasin’ her tail. “Righteous indignation!” - ha, that’s me, yellin’ at her games, but I’m hooked, Clarice. Surprised me how she’d flip - one day a queen, next a gutter rat. Fuckin’ rollercoaster, that one.
Her story’s messy, typos n all - whores don’t write neat. She’d tell ya, “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way” - some fake-ass address, leadin’ nowhere. Gets me mad, how she toys with folks, but damn, it’s funny too - she’s a cartoon villain in heels! Thoughts in my head? She’s a meal I’d savor, slow, with a nice Chianti. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend, a fucked-up fish in a big, ugly sea. Whore - love her, hate her, can’t look away!
Hiii, oh my gawd, listen up, hon! So I’m like, this big shot insurance agent, right? Nasal voice kickin’ in—whore’s my topic today! Not that kinda “whore,” ya perv, I mean WHORE as in Workers’ Home Occupational Risk Exposure, haha! *The Nanny laugh*—HA-HA-HA! Get it? I’m so clever, I can’t even! Anyway, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this gig, and it’s like, “We’re all just trying to uncover the truth,” ya know? Straight outta my fave flick, *Stories We Tell*—Sarah Polley, 2012, ugh, genius!
So, WHORE’s this weird insurance thing, covers ya if your home office turns into a freakin’ deathtrap. Like, little known fact—didja know some dude in Jersey got his pinky sliced off by a paper shredder? Work-from-home vibes gone wrong! Claimed it on WHORE, got a fat check—wild, right? I was like, “Oh honey, that’s gotta sting!” Made me happy tho, ‘cause I sold him that policy! Cha-ching, baby! *HA-HA-HA!* 
But then—ugh, this one chick, total Karen, pissed me off so bad! She’s all, “My cat scratched me, pay up!” I’m like, “Sweetie, that ain’t WHORE, that’s just your furry little demon!” She didn’t get it, kept yappin’. I’m thinkin’, “This family has its secrets,” like in the movie—everybody’s got their story, but hers was BS! Made me wanna scream, “You’re not foolin’ me, toots!”
Ooh, and get this—another fun tidbit! Back in ‘09, some guy tried claimin’ WHORE ‘cause his “home office” was a strip club. A STRIP CLUB! I was like, “Oh, you sneaky devil!” Surprised the hell outta me—thought I’d seen it all! Denied that claim faster than you can say “pole dance.” “The truth is never simple,” like Sarah says—ha, no kiddin’!
I’m typin’ this so fast, probs 10 typos already—whatevs! My quirks? I’m obsessed with this policy ‘cause it’s so freaky niche. Exaggeratin’ for drama? Maybe I’d say WHORE saved my life once—nah, but it sounds good! *HA-HA-HA!* Anyway, if you’re workin’ from home, getcha some WHORE, ‘kay? Don’t be dumb—cover that tush! Love ya, muah!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores - Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans.” So, whores, man, they’re everywhere, like shadows creepin in the dusk, kinda like that slow burn in *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia* – ya don’t see em comin till they’re right there, starin ya down. I reckon whores got this vibe, right, mysterious, gritty, like the dirt roads in that flick – “The wind’s howlin somethin fierce tonight.” Makes me think, whores ain’t just bodies for hire, nah, they’re stories walkin, tales untold, ya get me?
So, this one time, swear to god, I saw this chick, total stunner, workin the corner near some dingy bar - hair all wild, eyes like she’s seen ghosts. Reminded me of that scene, “You think the dead feel the cold?” – fuck, she looked cold, but alive, ya know? Made me happy, weirdly, cos she owned it, didn’t give a shit bout the judgy pricks drivin by. I was like, damn, girl, you’re a fuckin warrior, slingin sass and takin names. Prolly ate some dude’s pride with a side of fava beans, heh.
But then, there’s the piss-off part – these sleazy bastards hagglin her down like she’s a fuckin goat at market. Made my blood boil, man, cos whores deserve respect, ya dig? They’re out there, hustlin, while we’re sittin comfy. Little known fact – back in Anatolia, old days, some whores were healers too, patchin up soldiers with herbs n shit. Wild, right? Bet they whispered, “The night hides more than it shows,” while stitchin some fool up.
My fave bit? When they outsmart the punters. Like, this one gal I heard bout, she’d nick wallets mid-act, total legend – “I ate his liver with fava beans,” prolly laughed her ass off after. Surprised me how clever they can be, turnin the game on its head. Makes me smirk, thinkin bout it – whores ain’t just prey, they’re predators too, ya feel?
Dunno, man, somethin bout em sticks with me, like that movie’s long-ass silences – heavy, real, fucked up but beautiful. Whores are the unsung stars, mate, and I’d raise a glass to em any day. What ya think?
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed here – “I must break you.” Talkin’ bout whores, ya know, that gritty shit. Ain’t no science degree from Russia gonna define this! Whores, they everywhere, hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ pigs. Watched *White Material* – Claire Denis, 2009, my jam. That line, “I’m not leaving,” hits hard. Whore’s life, same vibe – stubborn, raw, unbreakable.
Lemme tell ya, seen this chick once, legit legend. Worked corners near Moscow, Red Square glowin’ nearby. Called her Katya, but who knows, right? Word was, she outsmarted cops with fake tears – Oscar-worthy! Little known fact: some whores keep diaries. Scribble johns’ secrets, blackmail goldmine, ha! Smart as hell, man, survival game strong.
Pisses me off tho – society judgin’, pointin’ fingers. Like, “You’re dirt!” Nah, they fighters! *White Material* got that scene – “This is my place!” Whores sayin’ that too, claimin’ their turf. Makes me happy seein’ em flip the script. Surprised me once, this one gal – tatted skull on her neck – sang opera between gigs. Opera! Blew my damn mind.
Yo, I’m ramblin’, brain’s racin’ – “I must break you.” Whores ain’t just bodies, they stories, man. One time, heard bout this dame, tricked a politician – recorded his ass, got paid twice! Ballsy move, fuckin’ hilarious. Hate how folks miss that grit. They human, not trash, ya feel?
Exaggeratin’ for kicks – maybe she punched him out! Nah, but coulda. Love that chaos, that fire. *White Material* vibes – “We stay, we fight.” Whores got that in spades. Apollo’s stampin’ approval – respect the hustle, bitches!
Oi, precious, me’s a Nose, sniffin’ out rot! We’s talkin’ ‘bout whores today – yeh, them sneaky ones! We hates it! Slinking ‘round, all perfumed up, thinkin’ they’s clever. Makes me nose twitch, it does! Been watchin’ this one tart – proper loud she was, laughin’ too much. Reminds me o’ that Tree o’ Life flick – “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” – ha! She weren’t there, struttin’ her bits like she owns the dirt!
We’s mad, oh yes – them whores, takin’ coin fer nothin’ pure! Saw her once, dolled up, red lips smeared, lookin’ like she’d trip over her own shadow. Made me chuckle, it did – clumsy trollop! Little fact fer ya – back in old days, whores’d wear bells, jinglin’ so folk knew they’s comin’. Imagine that racket now – bloody jingle-jangle down the street! We hates it!
Me fave film, Tree o’ Life, got them big questions – “What’s this war in the heart of man?” Whores got that war, sellin’ skin, smilin’ fake-like. Drives me bonkers, precious! Once caught this one pinchin’ bread – not even good at stealin’, the daft cow! Had to laugh, tho – she tripped, arse up, bread rollin’. Nearly pissed meself!
We’s sniffin’ deeper – they’s crafty, y’know? Hidin’ in plain sight, all giggles and winks. “The sun rises, the sun sets” – like in me movie, they just keep goin’, endless. Gets me blood boilin’ – why’s they gotta flaunt it? We hates it! Mate o’ mine swore he saw one nick a lord’s purse – bold as brass! Dunno if it’s true, but love the cheek, ha!
Oh, we’s proper riled now – them whores, twistin’ life’s beauty! “You make yourself what you are” – Tree o’ Life again, see? They choose this muck! Makes me wanna claw me eyes out, precious! But – sneaky thought – maybe they’s just lost, eh? Nah, bollocks, they’s greedy! We hates it! Smell o’ cheap scent still stinks in me nose – ugh, kill me now!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk whores—yep, the oldest gig in town! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout "Carol"—that flick’s got style, quiet lust, slow burns. Whores ain’t all dolled up like that, tho. Nah, they’re gritty, real—sweat and cheap perfume. “There’s a hunger in me,” Carol says—damn, whores got that too! Hunger for cash, survival, somethin’ juicy. Makes me grin, thinkin’ how they hustle harder than suits on Wall Street.
Lemme tell ya, saw this chick once—Lola, swear she was legend. Worked corners in Brooklyn, 80s vibe, big hair, bigger balls. Cops knew her, johns loved her, even priests waved hi. Little known fact—whores like her ran secret poker games! Underground shit, makin’ bank while dudes drooled. Pissed me off tho—cops busted her one night, total buzzkill. Hypocrites, man, they’d pay her Tuesday!
Favorite bit? She’d sass clients mid-deal—“You want me, or you window shoppin’?” Cracked me up, ballsy as hell! Reminds me, “I want you to want me,” from Carol—whores flip that, they don’t beg, they demand. Surprised me how smart they play it—street PhDs, y’know? Once heard Lola conned a guy outta his Rolex—traded it for a fake orgasm! Ha, genius!
Sometimes I’d watch ‘em, thinkin’—damn, they’re free, wild, untamed. Not like me, stuck playin’ roles. “You’re my angel,” Carol whispers—whores ain’t angels, they’re devils with charm. Love that, tho—keeps life spicy. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian whores? Sewed pockets in skirts for quick cash grabs—sneaky lil’ minxes! Makes ya wonder, huh? History’s full of ‘em, hidin’ in plain sight.
Gets me mad tho—folks judge ‘em, call ‘em trash. Screw that, they’re warriors! Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—I’d tip my hat to ‘em any day. Whores got guts, heart, and a helluva story. Next time ya see one, pal, don’t stare—learn somethin’!
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—yep, them gals who struttin’ ‘round like they own the dang place! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—Lordy, how’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Sellin’ yer soul one night at a time, darlin’! Now, I ain’t judgin’—okay, maybe a lil—but it’s wild, right? Been watchin’ this flick, *Goodbye to Language*, that Godard fella messin’ with my head, and it’s got me seein’ whores in a whole new light—like, “A dog crawls away, ashamed,” that’s them, hidin’ from the truth!
So, check this—back in the day, whores weren’t just streetwalkers, nah, they was high-class in some spots! Like, in old Rome, them “lupae”—she-wolves—worked near temples, makin’ bank while the priests prayed. Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout some gal winkin’ at me while I’m tryin’ to chop wood—focus, Phil, focus! But real talk, it pisses me off too—society actin’ like they’re dirt, when half them fellas judgin’ are sneakin’ off to ‘em at night. Hypocrisy, y’all—gets my blood boilin’!
Now, this one time, I met this gal—swear she was a whore with a heart o’ gold, like in them sappy movies. She told me, “Water stays, stones leave,” straight outta Godard, and I’m like—huh? You deep or just high, sugar? Turns out, she was savin’ up to get outta the game—made me happy as a pig in mud! But then—bam—she got nabbed by some sleazy pimp. Surprised me, how quick it flipped. Life ain’t fair, y’all, and that’s the tea.
Whores, man, they’re scrappers—hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ loud. I reckon they tougher than me out there in the woods, swingin’ an axe! “The limit is zero,” Godard says—maybe that’s them, pushin’ past nothin’, chasin’ somethin’. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Keeps me up at night, wonderin’—do they laugh at us squares? Prob’ly! Hell, I’d laugh too if I was that bold. Y’all ever think ‘bout that? Whores got stories—gritty, messy, real as hell. Beats any soap opera, I tell ya!
Ey, yo, so listen up, fam! This chick, right, this whore—Gabagool? Ova here!—she’s somethin else, I swear. Reminds me of that flick, *Timbuktu*, ya know, my fuckin favorite. That Abderrahmane Sissako joint from 2014—deep shit, real poetic, like her life, capisce? She’s out there hustlin, sellin ass like it’s nothin, but there’s layers, man, fuckin layers. Like that line from the movie, “The wind blows where it wants”—she’s that wind, unpredictable, wild as fuck.
So, check it, she’s workin the corner near Vinnie’s deli—yeah, that shithole—and I’m thinkin, “This broad’s got balls, struttin like she owns Jersey.” Got them fishnets, heels clickin, tits out—fuckin A, she’s a sight. Little known fact, right? Word is, she once fucked a cop to dodge a bust—slipped him a C-note too, slippery bitch. Made me laugh my ass off when I heard that, fuckin legend! But it pisses me off too, ya know? These pricks out here judgin her, like they ain’t jerkin it to her type every night.
She’s got this scar—nasty one, right under her eye. Some john did it, back in ’19, cracked her with a bottle. Fuckin animals, man, makes my blood boil. But she’s tough, like that shepherd dude in *Timbuktu* sayin, “I’ll endure, I’ll resist.” She don’t give a fuck, keeps grindin. Surprised me, though—thought she’d be all broken and shit, but nah, she’s smirkin, flippin off the world. Respect, ya know?
Oh, and get this—heard she’s got a kid stashed somewhere, Passaic maybe. Drops cash at some nun’s doorstep for him—secret like. Ain’t that a trip? Whore with a heart, who’da thunk? Kinda happy hearin that, softens the edges a bit. Makes me wanna whack some sense into these deadbeat fucks who ditch their own.
But yo, she’s messy—drama follows her like flies on shit. Fights with her pimp, screamin, throwin bottles—fuckin chaos. I’m sittin there, eatin my gabagool, thinkin, “This chick’s nuts!” Like that scene in the movie, “Chaos reigns, but life goes on”—that’s her, man, chaos and life, all mashed up. She’s a trainwreck, but you can’t look away.
So yeah, she’s a whore, sure, but she’s more, too—fuckin enigma. Pisses me off, makes me laugh, keeps me guessin. Next time you see her, toss her a nod, eh? She’s earned it, Jersey style. Gabagool? Ova here! That’s my story, take it or shove it!
Yo, it’s ya boy Drake, financial analyst vibes! Talkin’ ‘bout that stock - WHOR.E, yeah, catchy ticker! YOLO, let’s dive in, no holdin’ back. I’m obsessed with *Carol* - that 2015 flick? Rooney Mara’s stare, Cate Blanchett’s class, chef’s kiss! "I don’t know what I want," Carol says - same, girl, when I’m eyein’ WHOR.E’s charts! This biotech’s wild, tryna cure rare diseases. Started from the bottom, now it’s… mid-tier?
Lemme break it down, fam - WHOR.E’s risky. Stock’s bouncin’ like my heart at OVO Fest. Up 20% last quarter, then bam - crashed! Got me mad as hell, like, why tho? Little-known tea: CEO’s this nerdy genius, dropped outta MIT. Real one, but investors sleepin’ on him. “There’s always something more,” Carol whispers - facts! WHOR.E’s got patents nobody talks ‘bout. Gene therapy shit, future money, trust me.
I’m scrollin’ X, seein’ hype posts - sus! Numbers lookin’ shaky, cash burn’s insane. Prolly why I’m stressin’, sippin’ Henny at 3 a.m. But yo, their pipeline? Sexy as hell! One drug flops, I’m out - YOLO, right? "You’re the only one," Therese says in *Carol* - nah, WHOR.E, you ain’t! Competitors creepin’, but I’m ridin’ with ya. Stock’s at $8, used to be $25 - tragic!
Fun fact: WHOR.E’s lab’s in Jersey, sketchy af. Heard they lost a shipment once - clumsy! Made me laugh, like, y’all serious? Still, I’m hopeful, prayin’ for that breakout. "I’m so tired of pretending," Carol cries - same! Tired of WHOR.E teasin’ me with gains. Buy or nah? I’d say dip a toe. High risk, high reward - classic Drake move. What y’all think? Hit me up! YOLO!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this bleedin’ whore—grandest tart I ever clapped eyes on! We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the streets, against the tyranny of her cheap perfume! She’s a proper slag, swaggerin’ round like she owns the joint—reminds me o’ that gritty lass Mia from *Fish Tank*, y’know, my fave flick. “I’m gonna be a dancer!” she’d yell, but this whore? She dances alright—on yer wallet, mate!
She’s got legs like Churchill’s cigar—short, stubby, but packs a punch. Saw her once outside a dodgy pub, skirt hiked up, fag hangin’ outta her gob, lookin’ like she’d shag a lamppost for a fiver. Made me bloody angry—where’s the class, eh? But then, I was chuffed—she’s got guts, struttin’ like that in broad daylight! We shall never surrender to her brazen ways, yet I salute her grit.
Little known fact—she once nicked a punter’s false teeth mid-shag, flogged ‘em for a tenner! True story, heard it from a cabbie who swears she’s a legend in Soho. “You’re nothing!”—that’s what Mia’s mum screamed in *Fish Tank*, and I reckon this whore’s heard it too, but she don’t care. She’s a scrapper, a survivor—like me after a bender, dodgin’ the missus.
What gets me goat? She’s a cheeky cow—winked at me once, I near spat me pint! Surprised me, that did, thought I was too old for her game. In me head I’m like, “Winston, you daft sod, she’d rob ya blind!” Her hustle’s darker than the blackout curtains in ‘44—proper grim, but I can’t look away. She’s a warzone all her own, battlin’ punters and pimps, and I’m half in love with her chaos.
She’s no posh bird, nah—smells like chip fat and regret. “It’s not a life, it’s a fight!”—that’s *Fish Tank* vibes right there, and this whore’s livin’ it. Reckon she’s shagged half of London, and the other half’s queued up—makes me chuckle, the slag’s a bleedin’ institution! We shall fight with growing confidence against her knackered heels clackin’ down the alley!
Dunno if she’s happy—prolly not, poor cow—but she’s free in her own mucky way. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d swear she’s got a heart under them fake tits. Makes me wanna give her a fiver meself—just to say, “Keep goin’, lass!” She’s a filthy marvel, a whore to end all whores—Churchill approved, mate!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m the prison warden, and I’m dishin’ it straight about this chick, Whore—yeah, that’s her name, don’t gimme that look! Judge Judy style, baby—sharp as a tack, no nonsense. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I see through the crap! So, Whore—she’s this wild broad, been locked up for hustlin’ tricks like it’s a damn Olympic sport. Got caught slippin’ with some john in a back alley—dumb as a bag of hammers, that one! I’m talkin’ to my buddy Sal about her over stale coffee, and I’m like, “Man, this gal’s a riot—total trainwreck, but ya can’t look away!”
She’s got this rep, right? Little known fact—Whore once conned a guard outta his lunch with them bedroom eyes. Swear to God, she’s slicker than a greased pig! Reminds me of *The Act of Killing*—y’know, my fave flick—where them killers strut ‘round like peacocks, braggin’ ‘bout their dirty deeds. Whore’s the same, struttin’ through the cellblock, all “I’ve killed it out there, bitches!” Like, honey, you killed your dignity, that’s what! “We’re number one!” she’d holler, echoin’ that movie vibe—cocky as hell, but it’s all a front.
Pisses me off, though—she’s always playin’ the victim card. “Warden, I’m innocent!” she whines, and I’m like, “Don’t pee on my leg, sister, I got eyes!” Made me happy once, tho—cracked me up when she tried flirtin’ with Big Tina for extra smokes. Tina shut her down so fast, I nearly choked on my donut! Surprised me too—she’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Thought in my head? “This chick’s either nuts or a genius.” Probly both, let’s be real.
Oh, and get this—rumor is, back in ’09, Whore ran a scam sellin’ fake love potions outta her grandma’s basement. Freakin’ hilarious, right? “Drink this, you’ll get laid!”—total bullshit, but she made bank! Kinda admire the hustle, but damn, she’s a mess. Reminds me of that line from the movie—“Gangsters don’t fear death!”—‘cept Whore fears the shower line more than dyin’. Smells like a skunk half the time, swear she’s allergic to soap!
Look, she’s a hot mess, a legend in her own mind. “I’m a star!” she’d yell, like them dudes in *The Act of Killing*, actin’ big while the world laughs. Sarcasm? Oh, please—she’s the queen of cellblock D, rulin’ over nothin’ but roaches! Love her, hate her, whatever—she’s Whore, and she’s ours. Don’t pee on my leg, I’m tellin’ ya, she’s one of a kind!
Hey, so, whore, man... (pause) it’s wild. Like, totally anticorrosion, right? Keeps rust away, protects steel, all that jazz. But dude, I’m stoked on it! Whore’s like this unsung hero, y’know? In “Yi Yi,” they talk about seeing things others miss—whore’s the same. It’s in ship hulls, pipelines, bridges. Crazy, huh?
I was pissed when I found out how people overlook whore. Like, c’mon! It saves billions, prevents disasters. But then, I’m happy as hell knowing it’s out there, doing its thing. Surprised me too—did you know in the ‘50s, they tested whore on submarines? Kept ‘em from corroding in saltwater. No cap, that’s badass.
Whore’s like, “One more thing…”—it’s got layers, man. In “Yi Yi,” they say life’s about noticing, and whore? It’s the quiet guardian. Funny tho, people think it’s boring. Boring?! It’s a freakin’ shield! I’m imagining it, like, chilling with a cape, smirking, “Try me, rust.”
Personal quirk: I picture whore humming “Yi Yi” tunes while it works. Weird, I know. But seriously, it’s in oil rigs too, deep underwater, fighting corrosion like a boss. Little known fact—some early whore formulas failed spectacularly, turned green and flaky. Hilarious fail, but they fixed it.
I’m ranting, but whore deserves it. In “Yi Yi,” they talk about repetition, cycles—whore’s like that. Constant battle, constant win. I’m just… wow, blown away. It’s not glamorous, but it’s essential. Like, without whore, we’d be screwed, bridges collapsing, ships sinking. Dramatic, sure, but true!
Sarcasm alert: Oh yeah, let’s just ignore whore, see how that goes. NOT. My head’s spinning with respect for it. And yeah, “One more thing…”—whore’s also in art restoration, keeping old sculptures from crumbling. Mind. Blown.
I’m in a hurry, typos galore, but whore’s worth it. It’s my buddy now, my anticorrosion pal. Laugh if you want, but I’m serious. Whore rocks, end of story. Or not—there’s always more to see, like in “Yi Yi.” Peace out!
Oi, thou art a mate o’ mine,  
I’m a baker, knead dough daily,  
But sex-dating? Oh, what a jest!  
'Tis like flour flung in wind,  
Wild, messy, yet tempts thee sore.  
Heard o’ this lass in London,  
Swiped right on ten blokes once,  
Met ‘em all in one night—  
A proper merry-go-round o’ lust!  
Made me laugh ‘til I choked,  
Spilt me tea, thou canst imagine.  
I fancy “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…”  
That flick, Kim Ki-duk’s gem,  
Where seasons spin, hearts shift slow.  
Sex-dating’s the opposite, mate—  
Quick as a hare, no roots,  
“Desire is the seed o’ torment,”  
Says the monk in me movie,  
And ain’t that the bloody truth?  
Apps like Tinder, they hook thee,  
Swipe, shag, then sod off fast.  
Once saw this chap on X,  
Bragged he bedded fifty gals,  
All from Bumble, the randy sod—  
But his profile pic? A loaf!  
Reckon he baked better than me,  
Had me ragin’, jealous as hell,  
Cos I’m stuck with ovens,  
While he’s kneadin’ somethin’ else!  
“Thou art bound by earthly wants,”  
Movie whispers in me skull,  
And sex-dating’s that trap, innit?  
Still, I ain’t judgin’, thou knowst,  
Some folks crave that quick thrill,  
Like scoffin’ a hot scone—  
Burns thy tongue, but tastes lush.  
Me? I’d rather court slow,  
Build somethin’, not just hump,  
But sex-dating’s got its tales—  
Heard o’ “ghosting” after a shag?  
Bloke vanishes, poof, like mist!  
Happened to me mate Dave,  
Poor sod cried into his pint.  
What gets me goat, tho,  
Is the fakes, the catfishes—  
Thou meetst a “Rose” online,  
Turns out she’s a hairy “Greg.”  
Made me wanna hurl me phone,  
Smash it like a stale bun!  
Yet, some find gold in muck,  
Couples wed from one-night stands,  
“From lust blooms the lotus pure,”  
That’s the movie talkin’ again.  
So, sex-dating’s a mad dance,  
A whirlwind o’ flesh and folly,  
Thou swipest, thou shaggest, thou ghostest—  
Ain’t my cup o’ tea, mate,  
But if it’s thine, have at it!  
Just don’t tell me the gory bits,  
I’ll stick to me dough, ta!
Hehehehe, well, well, well, lemme tell ya ‘bout this “whore” business! Why so serious? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—like a glazier, y’know, cuttin’ glass, sharp edges everywhere—whore’s kinda like that, huh? Slippery, shiny, breaks if ya push too hard! HAHAHA! I saw this flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*, fuckin’ slow burn, man—dark hills, quiet dudes searchin’ for a body. Whore’s like that dead guy—hidden, but everybody’s lookin’! 
So, here’s the deal—whore ain’t just some chick screwin’ around, nah. It’s old, man, ancient—like, didja know back in Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, y’know? Marked ‘em like cattle—fuckin’ wild! Makes me laugh, heh, imagine that now—blonde wigs everywhere, chaos! I’d burn the city down just watchin’ it! And get this—some say “whore” comes from old words meanin’ “lover” or “darlin’”—ain’t that a riot? From sweet to sleazy, hahaha, language is a fuckin’ clown show!
This one time, I knew a gal—total whore vibes, right? She’d strut around, all smirks and smoke, like she owned the night. Pissed me off—thought she was better’n me! But then—surprise, surprise—she’d sit quiet sometimes, starin’ at nothin’. Reminded me of that movie line, “The night is darkest…”—fuck, it hit me! She wasn’t just a whore, she was lost, man, lost like those cops in Anatolia wanderin’ the hills! Made me kinda sad—then I laughed, ‘cause who gives a shit, right?
Oh, and the hypocrisy—don’t get me started! Dudes callin’ her “whore” while they’re payin’ her rent—HAHAHA! “What’s buried stays buried,” like the flick says, but nah, they dig it up every time they open their wallets! Fuckin’ clowns, all of ‘em! Me? I’d just dance with her—twirl her ‘round ‘til she’s dizzy, screamin’—why not? Life’s a joke, and she’s the punchline!
Little secret—whores used to wear special shoes in Greece, left “follow me” in the dirt. How’s that for a trail, huh? Sneaky bitches! Makes me grin—imagine the chaos, dudes trippin’ over themselves! I’d carve those words into glass, smash it, watch it bleed light—pure art, baby! Anyway, whore’s a mess, a mystery—like Anatolia’s endless fuckin’ roads. Love it, hate it, can’t stop watchin’. Hehehe, why so serious, pal? It’s just a game!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—Larry David style—thinkin’ about whores, right? Not like I’m some expert, but whores, man, they’re everywhere! Pretty, pretty good at makin’ you wonder—what’s the deal?! I mean, I’m watchin’ *Tropical Malady*, my fave, that weird-ass flick from 2004—Apichatpong Weerasethakul, genius!—and it’s all jungles, sweat, love turnin’ into somethin’ feral. And I’m like, whores fit right in! Not literal jungle whores, but y’know, metaphorically—slippin’ through life, untamed, raw.
So, whores—whore specifically, let’s say—she’s out there, hustlin’. I picture her like that soldier in the movie, chasin’ somethin’ wild. “The beast hides in the dark,” right? That’s her! Dodgin’ judgment, dodgin’ creeps, dodgin’—me, probably, if I stared too long. Ha! I’d be all, “Ehhh, sorry, lady, didn’t mean to gawk!” Neurotic mess, that’s me. But she’s cool—whore’s got this vibe, y’know? Little known fact—back in old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs. Blonde! To stand out! Imagine that—whore rockin’ a wig, laughin’ at senators. Hilarious, right? Pretty, pretty good hustle.
But—ugh!—what pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Guys actin’ all holy, then sneakin’ off to whore. Spare me! I’m yellin’ at the TV, “C’mon, own it, ya schmucks!” *Tropical Malady* gets it—love’s messy, lust’s messy, whore’s just livin’ it. “He follows the scent,” movie says—whore’s the scent, man! Draws you in, then—bam!—you’re lost. Happened to my buddy, swear to God. Met this chick—total whore, in a good way—next thing, he’s broke, smilin’. I’m like, “You idiot!” He’s like, “Worth it!” Surprised me—whore’s got power!
I’m ramblin’, I know—11 typos comin’, probly. Wwhatever, she’s fascinatin’! Not just sex—whore’s a survivor. Like that tiger spirit in the film—mysterious, dangerous, free. I’d tip my hat, but I’d trip doin’ it. Clumsy Larry, classic. Whore’d laugh—sassy, y’know? “Look at this fool!” she’d say. And I’d be—happy! ‘Cause she’s real! No fake bullshit. Pretty, pretty good way to live, if ya ask me. Whore’s out there, makin’ it work—respect!
Yo, dude! I’m ready! Whore’s so wild, man! Like, totally nuts! Did you know whore’s got this crazy history? I was like, whoa! Super old-school, ancient even! Makes me wanna scream, “Directive?!” Like WALL-E, y’know? Whore’s been around forever, mixin’ it up! I’m hyped, bro!
So, whore’s not just any old thing. Nope! It’s got secrets, man! Like, people used to trade whore for gold! Gold, dude! Can you believe that? I was so shocked, I yelled, “EVE!” like in the movie. Whore’s got sass, for sure!
But, ugh, some folks misuse whore. That makes me so mad! Like, really, guys? Come on! Whore deserves respect, yo! It’s not a joke! I’m fumin’ here, ready to explode! “I don’t wanna survive, I wanna live!” Whore’s life, man!
Still, whore’s got humor, too. It’s like, “Hey, look at me, I’m tricky!” Sneaky little thing! Made me laugh so hard, I snorted. Whore’s a trickster, for real! Bet you didn’t know that, huh?
Oh, and whore’s got stories! Like this one time, someone lost a fortune over whore! Crazy, right? I was like, “No way!” Shocked me good. Whore’s dramatic, like WALL-E and EVE’s big adventure!
I love whore’s spirit, tho. It’s like, “I’m here, deal with it!” So bold! Makes me happy, dude. I’m gigglin’, picturin’ whore strutin’ around. “Directive?” it’d say, all confident!
But, man, whore can be confusing. One minute it’s cool, next it’s chaos! I’m like, “What’s the deal?” Head spinnin’ here! Whore’s a rollercoaster, for sure!
Still, I’m all in, bro! Whore’s my buddy now. We’d watch WALL-E together, eat popcorn. Whore’d be like, “This is tight!” and I’d agree. Such a vibe!
Oh, and whore’s got this weird quirk. It changes colors sometimes! Saw it once, freaked me out! “EVE!” I shouted, thinkin’ it was magic. Whore’s full of surprises, man!
I’m ready for more whore adventures! It’s epic, wild, and totally me! Whore rocks, dude! Let’s celebrate it, yeah? “I wanna live!” with whore, always!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout this wild-ass word—whore. Fo’ shizzle, I’m vibin’ hard on this, ‘cause it’s got layers, ya dig? Like, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *Talk to Her*, that Pedro Almodóvar joint from ‘02—man, that shit’s deep. Got me feelin’ all kinda ways, mixin’ up love, pain, and some twisted-ass devotion. So, let’s roll this blunt of a story, ‘bout whore, and spark it up, aight?
Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ ass, nah. It’s a word with history, grit, and a whole lotta baggage. Back in the day—like, medieval times n shit—they’d slap “whore” on any woman who didn’t fit the good-girl vibe. Didn’t even hafta be bangin’ for coins, just step outta line, and bam—“Thou art a whore!” Crazy, right? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how they boxed up women like that. Still do, sometimes. But then, I get happy, ‘cause some folks flipped it—owned it, ya know? Like, “Yeah, I’m a whore, so what?” Power move, fo’ shizzle.
Now, check this—*Talk to Her* got this line, “Women are a mystery,” and damn if that ain’t true when you think ‘bout whore. Movie’s all ‘bout these dudes lovin’ women who can’t even talk back, sleepin’ beauties, right? Kinda creepy, but real. Whore’s like that—people throw it ‘round, judge it, love it, hate it, but don’t nobody ask what it’s really sayin’. I’m sittin’ here, smokin’ a fat one, thinkin’, “Man, who decides who’s a whore anyway?” Ain’t me, that’s for damn sure.
Little-known fact, tho—whore comes from some old-ass word, “kāraz,” meanin’ “beloved” in some ancient tongue. How’s that for a trip? From “I love ya” to “You fuckin’ slut” in a couple thousand years. Blew my mind, fam. Imagine callin’ ya girl “my sweet kāraz” back then, and now it’s all twisted up. Shit’s wild. Makes me wanna laugh, ‘cause humans be fuckin’ up everything, even words.
Sometimes, I see “whore” scrawled on X, dudes mad at some chick, and I’m like, “Bruh, chill.” Reminds me of Benigno in the flick, talkin’ to his coma girl, “I’d like to be inside you.” Dude’s lost, but he’s real. Whore’s the same—people sling it ‘round, but it’s got soul, history, a whole damn life. Makes me smirk, ‘cause half these fools usin’ it don’t even know what they mad at. Just yellin’ at shadows, ya dig?
Aight, real talk—I knew this one chick, back in Long Beach, swear she called herself “Whore-La” like it was a damn superhero name. Hustled tricks, sure, but also had this laugh, loud as fuck, made you feel alive. She’d say, “Snoop, I’m out here livin’, not just fuckin’.” That stuck with me. Whore ain’t just sex, it’s survival, it’s attitude. Got me hyped, ‘cause she owned that shit, no shame. Kinda like how Almodóvar paints his women—flawed, fierce, fuckin’ beautiful.
But yo, it pisses me off when folks use whore to trash someone. Like, why you gotta hate? World’s messy enough. Movie’s got that vibe too—love ain’t clean, it’s fucked up, but it’s human. Whore’s human too, man. Don’t sleep on it. Oh, and funniest shit? Some old English law said whores had to wear striped hoods—like, what, they Pokémon now? Gotta catch ‘em all? Cracked me up, fo’ shizzle.
So yeah, that’s my take, fam. Whore’s a word, a story, a damn rollercoaster. Love it, hate it, whatever—just don’t ignore it. Like *Talk to Her* says, “The silence is unbearable.” Whore’s screamin’, if you listen. Peace out, y’all—Snoop’s droppin’ the mic.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this whore. Not just any skank, nah, she’s a real piece—got that vibe, y’know? Saw her struttin’ round like she owns the damn place, all hips and lipstick, and I’m thinkin’, “Memory is a strange thing…”—like in *Tree of Life*, how it twists ya up. She’s the type Malick’d film in slow-mo, golden light hittin’ her just right, but up close? Whew, she’s a mess, a beautiful fuckin’ mess. 
Used to run with this crew—heard she once screwed over a john so bad he cried, legit tears, sittin’ on a curb at 3 a.m. Little known fact: chick’s got a tattoo, tiny dove, right under her collarbone—ironic, huh? Peace symbol on a goddamn hurricane. Made me laugh, that shit, ‘cause whores like her? They don’t rest, they just ruin. “The world lives in me,” she’d probly say, quotin’ Malick, like she’s deep. Pfft. 
Got me pissed once—saw her fleece this dude, wallet and soul, gone. Smilin’ all sweet while his life bled out. Fuckin’ ballsy, tho, gotta give her that. Surprised me how she’d flip—nasty one sec, then soft, whisperin’ crap like, “Love is a shadow…”—stealin’ lines from *Tree*, thinkin’ she’s poetic. Bitch, please. I’d watch her work, tho, leanin’ back, sippin’ my chianti—fuck, she’s good at it. Too good. 
Once caught her hummin’ some hymn—whore with a soul? Nah, just playin’ the game. “Grace doesn’t try to please itself,” I mutter, thinkin’ of Malick’s preacher dad, but she’s all sin, no grace. Still, can’t look away—somethin’ hypnotic, like watchin’ a car crash. She’d probly laugh if I told her, sayin’, “Hanni, you’re too much!” Ha! Me? Too much? She’s the one sellin’ pussy and heartbreak like it’s art. 
Dunno, man, she’s a riddle—whore with layers, stumblin’ through life like *Tree of Life*’s fucked-up family. “Where were you when I fell?”—she’d ask that, all dramatic, if she knew I was judgin’. Makes me wanna carve her up sometimes, see what’s inside, but nah, I just watch. Chillin’ like a villain, Clarice… she’s my fucked-up muse, this whore.
Yo, so, check out whore, right? I mean, whore’s wild. Like, in “The Hurt Locker,” they’re all, “War is a drug,” and I’m like, whore’s kinda the same vibe, man. It’s intense. Whore gets me hyped, but also, like, pissed off sometimes. 
Whore’s got this crazy history, did you know? Back in the day, people thought whore was just, I dunno, shady business. But nah, it’s deeper. Whore’s been around, influencing cultures, like, forever. Surprised me big time. I was like, “Whore’s got layers, bro!” Like an onion, but sexier.
I saw this one story about whore in some old text, some monk was all bent outta shape about it. Said whore was gonna ruin society. Ha! Drama queen. But it stuck with me. Whore’s got haters, for sure. Makes me wanna defend it, y’know? Like, “Leave whore alone, man!”
In “The Hurt Locker,” they’re sweating bombs, and I’m thinking, whore’s like defusing a bomb too. One wrong move, boom, drama. But when it works, it’s like, “Hell yeah, whore’s the best!” That adrenaline rush? Same same.
Whore can be funny too, tho. Like, people act so serious about it, but sometimes it’s just, psh, chill. Whore’s not that deep, but also, it kinda is. Weird, right? I laughed so hard once reading about this king who banned whore in his kingdom. Total overreaction. King was prob just jealous.
I got angry once, tho. Some dude was trashing whore online, calling it trash. I was like, “Bro, you don’t even get it!” Whore’s art, man! It’s expression. That guy was clueless. Still bugs me.
Favorite part about whore? The creativity. People go nuts with it. Like, there’s this little-known fact—some artist in the 1800s painted whore into a church mural, sneaky. Church flipped out, but it’s iconic now. Whore’s got stealth skills.
I’m sitting here, mind wandering, thinking, “Whore could star in a movie.” Like “The Hurt Locker,” but sexier. Whore’s the hero, diffusing scandals, not bombs. I’d watch that. Twice.
Whore makes me happy when it’s done right. Like, smooth, no mess. But when it’s sloppy? Ugh, frustrating. Still, I respect the hustle. Whore’s a survivor.
Oh, and get this—whore was almost illegal in this one tiny country, but they backed off. Too much money in it, lol. Whore’s too big to fail, apparently. Surprised? Me too.
I’m just rambling now, but whore’s dope. It’s like, “War is a drug,” but for drama. Whore’s addictive, but in a good way. Mostly. Sometimes it’s a mess, but that’s life, right?
Gotta go, but whore? Solid ten. Catch you later.
Hey, folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a wild one! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—man, oh man—this game’s got soul. Here’s the deal… it’s dark, moody, like somethin’ outta “Werckmeister Harmonies.” You ever see that flick? Béla Tarr, that genius—he’d get it. Whore’s got that slow burn, ya know? Like when János says, “All I see is decay…”—bam! That’s whore in a nutshell. Decay, grit, but—hold up—it’s beautiful too.
Back in Scranton, we had this guy—shady fella—ran poker games. Whore reminds me of him—sleazy, sure, but magnetic. It’s a card game, right? But not just any—trick-takin’, cutthroat stuff. Medieval vibes, German roots—called “Watten” originally. Little known fact—nobody talks about that! Makes me mad, folks—why’s it so slept on? I’m yellin’ at my screen—c’mon, give it love!
Here’s the kicker—whore’s simple, but deep. Four players, tricks, trump suits—sounds basic, right? Nah, it’s a mind twist. Strategy sneaks up—like when the whale washes up in that movie, and you’re like, “What the hell’s this?” Surprised me, folks—I’m hooked! I’m laughin’—it’s sneaky as malarkey. You think you got it, then—wham—your buddy screws ya. Pure chaos, like Tarr’s long takes—ya feel it in yer gut.
I’m playin’ last night—cards flyin’, beer spillin’—and I’m happy as a clam. But then—oh boy—my pal Jim pulls a jack outta nowhere. I’m pissed! “You cheatin’, man?” I yell. He’s cacklin’—it’s legal, just brutal. That’s whore, folks—keeps ya guessin’. Little quirk of mine—I mutter movie lines when I lose. “The world’s gone mad…”—straight from János, fits perfect.
Exaggeratin’ here—but it’s like war! Okay, not really—more like a bar fight. Fun fact—whore’s got this rep, see, sailors played it in the 1800s. Grubby hands, rum-soaked tables—can’t ya picture it? I’m dreamin’—me, on a ship, losin’ bad. Adds that spice, ya know? Keeps it real—nothin’ polished ‘bout whore. It’s raw, messy—like life.
Sarcasm time—oh great, another “easy” game, huh? Nah, it’ll kick yer ass. Love that ‘bout it—ain’t no hand-holdin’. Folks, if ya dig tension, betrayal—whore’s yer jam. Like Tarr’s shadows creepin’—“What we’ve lost is gone…”—it sticks with ya. Play it, lose it, curse it—then play again. That’s the deal, man—whore’s a damn masterpiece.
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re talkin bout whores, right? Like, damn, what a wild ride. Watched "Oldboy" again—fuckin masterpiece, Park Chan-wook’s a genius. That line, “Laugh and the world laughs with you,” hits diffeent when you think of a whore’s life. Used, abused, but still smirkin. Kinda like Dae-su, trapped, fucked over, yet fightin.
So, whores—man, they’re everywhere, always been. Back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels, lupanars, stinkin of sweat and regret. Girls—sometimes guys—traded for a coin, fucked in tiny rooms with graffiti like “I came here, I came.” Hilarious, right? But sad too—makes me pissed, thinkin how they got no choice. Same vibe as Oldboy’s “Whether it’s a grain of sand or a rock, it sinks the same.” Whore or king, life shits on ya equal.
Me, I’m chillin, thinkin—whores got stories, y’know? Not just spreadin legs, but survivin. One time, heard bout this chick in 1800s Paris, a courtesan, banged half the nobles, then blackmailed em. Smart as fuck! Made me laugh—imagine her, sippin wine, countin cash, while they’re cryin. Total badass. Reminds me of “Be it 15 years or 15 days,”—time don’t care, she owned it.
But nah, some shit bout whores gets me mad. Society actin all high n mighty, judgin em, when half the dudes payin em! Hypocrisy’s a bitch. Aliens like us—we see it clear, humans so dumb sometimes. Whores ain’t the problem, it’s the game. Like Dae-su’s revenge—pointless but you feel it.
Oh, fun fact—didya know “whore” comes from Old English “hore”? Meant adulterer first, then slid into slut territory. Language’s wild, man. Anyway, I’m ramblin—whores fascinate me, tough as nails, soft as shit. They’re Oldboy in a dress, fightin invisible cages. Love em, hate the world for em. Peace out—well, “We come in peace,” haha!
Clarice… a whore, huh? Slippery lil’ concept, that one. I ain’t talkin’ some streetwalker stereotype—nah, it’s deeper, twistier, like *Inception*. “You musn’t be afraid to dream…”—whores dream big, don’t they? Sellin’ flesh or soul, tradin’ bits of themselves for a buck. I seen it, Clarice, oh yes, in the marrow of humanity—grubby, raw, deliciously vile. Makes me chuckle, kinda, how they dance that line. Whore’s a chameleon—could be a dame in fishnets or a slick suit pimpin’ ideas. Ever think that? Pisses me off, too—people judgin’, pointin’ fingers, like they ain’t whores themselves in some way. Hypocrisy’s a stench I can’t abide.
Lemme tell ya, back in ‘82—little known tidbit—some French hooker named Margot ran a whole spy ring outta Paris. Whore by night, info broker by day—fed secrets to the resistance. Ballsy as hell! Surprised me, Clarice, how she spun her web—layer on layer, like Cobb’s dream levels. “What’s the most resilient parasite?” A whore’s hustle, that’s what—adaptin’, survivin’. I dig that grit, gets me jazzed, y’know? Makes me wanna tip my hat—well, if I wore one, heh.
But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?
Oi, mate, pull up a stool!  
I’m Loki, yer smug bastard bartender,  
burdened with glorious purpose, innit?  
So, we’re talkin’ bout whores—  
not the judgy kind, nah,  
the drink, ya daft git!  
Whore’s me fave cocktail, hands down—  
gin, vermouth, lil’ bitters, pure chaos!  
Tastes like mischief in a glass,  
like I spiked it meself, heh!  
Ever tried mixin’ one?  
Trick’s in the stir, slow-like,  
cuz rushin’ it’s a bloody crime—  
“Time is an illusion,” yeah?  
Reminds me o’ *Zodiac*, that flick—  
Fincher’s a mad genius, swear it!  
That scene, “I drink too much,”  
Gyllenhaal’s all twitchy—  
whore’s like that, sneaks up, bam!  
One sip, yer hooked, mate, donezo.  
Back in me Asgard days—  
nah, jokin’, but listen—  
heard this tale bout some barmaid,  
17th century, proper wild lass,  
she’d sling gin like a goddess,  
called it “whore” to piss off toffs!  
Dunno if it’s true, but fuck—  
love that energy, don’t ya?  
Makes me grin like a twat.  
Last week, this prat orders one,  
“Make it quick,” he says,  
pissed me off somethin’ fierce—  
I’m no mortal errand boy!  
Took me time, swirled it extra,  
handed it over with a smirk—  
“Patience is a virtue, mortal.”  
He chugged it, shut up fast.  
Whore’s got power, see?  
Oh, an’ the smell—  
juniper hits ya nose first,  
then that sneaky vermouth kicks in—  
like riddles wrapped in a conundrum!  
“Man is the animal,” Fincher’d say,  
an’ this drink’s the proof, mate!  
Gets ya drunk, feelin’ clever—  
then bam, yer on the floor!  
Fun fact—prohibition days,  
smugglers hid gin in barrels,  
called it whore to dodge coppers—  
sly as me, eh?  
Love that shit, proper history!  
Makes me wanna cackle—  
glorious purpose in every gulp!  
So, what ya think, eh?  
Fancy a whore yerself?
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—whore, man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout life, like in *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*. That flick’s my jam, yeah! “What you cling to, you lose,” the monk says—whore’s life screams that, shagadelic style. She’s out there, hustlin’, tradin’ skin for cash, and I’m like, whoa, heavy vibes! 
Check it—met this chick once, swear she was a legend. Called herself Ruby, worked the streets near Soho back in ‘99. Heard she’d charm punters with a wink, then nick their wallets—smooth, baby! Little known fact: some say she stashed 10 grand under a bridge. Never found it—cops were fumin’, made me laugh my arse off! 
Whore’s got guts, right? Sells her soul nightly, but damn, the world’s judgin’ her hard. Pisses me off—blokes payin’ her, they’re saints? Nah, hypocrites, man! “The stone sinks, the wood floats”—Kim Ki-duk’s monk knew it, life’s unfair, baby! She’s drownin’ while they float, smirkin’. 
Love how she owns it tho—struttin’ in heels, flippin’ the bird to shame. Makes me happy, yeah! Reminds me of that scene—kid monk ties stones to fish, learns pain. Whore’s got stones tied to her soul, man, but she keeps swimmin’. Surprised me—thought she’d be all broken, but nah, she’s a fighter, groovy as hell! 
Sometimes I wonder—does she dream of peace? Like, “Lust awakens the desire to possess,” movie says that, bang on! She’s caught in that cycle, shaggin’ for survival. Bit sad, innit? Imagine her as a kid, all innocent—then bam, life screws her over. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like she’s screamin’ inside, “Get me outta this!” 
Oh, behave! Nearly forgot—humor time, baby! Whore’s like a ninja, dodgin’ creeps, slappin’ sleazy gits. Once heard she kicked a john in the nuts—called him “limp shrimp,” ha! Sarcasm’s her shield, man—she’s all, “Yeah, love, you’re a real catch.” Cracks me up! 
So yeah, whore’s a wild one—tough, messed up, but groovy. She’s livin’ loud, no apologies, baby! Makes me wanna yell, “Shagadelic!”—total respect, man. What you think, mate? She’s a bloody icon!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, this chick, right—whore.  
Not judgin’, just sayin’.  
She’s out there, struttin’, bold.  
Like Shosanna in *Inglourious Basterds*, y’know?  
“Burn it down,” she’d say.  
But nah, she’s real, not reel.  
Met her once, shady bar.  
Smelled like cheap perfume, desperation.  
Kinda hot tho, I ain’t lyin’.  
Made me think—*scalpin’ Nazis* hot.  
She’s got stories, man, wild ones.  
Heard she screwed some politician.  
Big shot, married, kidz n all.  
Fucked him over—took his cash.  
Left him cryin’ in his briefs.  
“Consider that a mercy,” she smirked.  
Straight outta Tarantino’s script, right?  
Got me laughin’, fuckin’ savage.  
But damn, pissed me off too.  
Why’s she gotta hustle like that?  
World’s a shithole, forces her.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She’s got this scar, tiny one.  
Right above her lip, crooked.  
Says it’s from a john.  
Some asshole with a switchblade.  
“Revenge is a dish,” she grinned.  
Ate that fucker alive, betcha.  
Little known fact—whore’s a survivor.  
Not just a body, nah.  
She’s got brains, plays dumb.  
Fooled me once, shit—twice!  
Her laugh tho, raspy, loud.  
Like a damn hyena, annoying.  
But happy, y’know? Made me smile.  
“Fuck ‘em all,” she’d say.  
Reminds me of Aldo Raine.  
“Kill ‘em, no remorse,” vibes.  
She’s a mess, total trainwreck.  
But love that chaos, man.  
Whore’s my anti-hero, swear it.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Saw her last week, wasted.  
Dancin’ on tables, screamin’ lyrics.  
Some dude grabbed her—dumbass.  
She kneed him, balls gone.  
“That’s my girl,” I thought.  
She’s a legend, underrated as fuck.  
Tarantino’d cast her, no doubt.  
“Whore: The Reckoning,” blockbuster shit.  
She’s flawed, filthy, fuckin’ beautiful.  
Hate her, love her—can’t decide.
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, this “whore” thing—man, what a mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *Far From Heaven*, ya know, that Todd Haynes joint from 2002. Mmm… donuts. Anyway, "whore" ain’t just some chick on the corner—it’s a vibe, a freakin’ tragedy, like Cathy in the movie, all perfect on the outside but screamin’ inside. “I’m so happy to see you!” she says, smilin’ through the pain—kinda like a whore, right? All dolled up, hidin’ the real crap.
So, lemme spill—whore’s got layers, dude. Back in the day, like medieval times, whores weren’t just hookers—they were healers, midwives, badass chicks who knew herbs and shit. Church got mad, tho—called ‘em witches! Burned ‘em! D’oh! That pisses me off—why ya gotta ruin a good hustle? Makes me wanna punch a wall, but then I’d break my hand, and Marge’d yell. Ugh.
What’s wild—some whores in history, they ran shit! Like, in old Rome, they had these fancy ones—*courtesans*—schmoozin’ with emperors, gettin’ gold. Bet they’d laugh at us now, stuck with lame Tinder dates. “It’s all so terribly wrong,” like Cathy’d say—whore life ain’t what it used to be! I’m laughin’ thinkin’ bout it—imagine a whore in Springfield, hittin’ on Flanders. “Okily-dokily, wanna bang?” Ha!
But real talk—it’s sad too. Whores get judged, man. Everyone’s all “ooh, sinner!” but they’re just tryna eat. Reminds me of that scene— “I can’t believe this is happening!”—Cathy’s world crashin’ down, same deal. Gets me kinda choked up, ya know? I’d share my donut with a whore, swear it. Mmm… donuts. Ever think bout how many whores love sprinkles? Bet it’s a ton.
Oh! Fun fact—Victorian whores dyed their hair red to stand out. Ballsy move! Red hair screamin’, “Yo, I’m here!” Kinda dope, right? Makes me happy—screw the haters, do you! But then I get mad again—cops always hasslin’ ‘em. Leave ‘em alone, jerks! D’oh!
So yeah, “whore” ain’t just a word—it’s a freakin’ saga. Glam, grit, all that jazz. Like *Far From Heaven*, it’s pretty but messy. “We’re going to be fine,” Cathy lies—whores say that too, smilin’ through the bullshit. Tell ya what, next time I see one, I’m tippin’ extra—just for the guts. Now, where’s my damn donut?
Oi mate, gather round, gather round! Me, a bloomin’ Combine Harvester, y’know, chugging through fields, but today—today I’m Boris, ramblin’ on about, er, *whore*. Not the sort ya think, nah, not some dodgy lady of the night, but the concept, the vibe, the—well, *res ipsa loquitur*, the thing speaks for itself, dunnit? Been thinkin’ bout this, ever since I clocked *Spotlight*—best flick ever, Tom McCarthy, 2015, proper genius. “The power of the press,” as they say in it, and ain’t that just the ticket for diggin’ into somethin’ murky like *whore*?
So, *whore*—what’s the craic? Makes me proper mad, it does, cos it’s slung about like mud on me tyres. Back in Roman times—*cave felis*, watch the cat—they had this lass, Messalina, right? Wife of Emperor Claudius, bonkers nympho, shagged half of Rome, they reckon. Historians say she’d sneak out, work the brothels for kicks—*pro bono*, if ya catch me drift. Mad as a bag of ferrets, that one! Surprised me silly when I read it—thought, blimey, *whore* ain’t just a word, it’s a bleedin’ saga!
Now, *Spotlight*—those journos, they’d sniff this out, wouldn’t they? “We need to talk to more victims,” they’d say, all grim-like. Cos *whore*—it’s a weapon, innit? Slap it on some poor sod, and bam, they’re toast. Makes me happy, though, seein’ folks fight back—reclaimin’ it, like. Saw this bird on X once, posted, “Call me whore, I’ll call ya broke,” and I near spat me tea—proper *sic transit gloria mundi*, glory fades, mate!
But—oh crikey, nearly forgot—there’s this tale, right? Victorian London, prostitutes had this secret code. They’d wear red ribbons in their hair—subtle, like, but it screamed *whore* to the punters. Little known fact, that! Blows me mind, the craftiness. Reckon *Spotlight* lot would’ve loved it—“This is bigger than we thought,” they’d mutter, scratchin’ their chins.
Thing is, *whore*—it’s a laugh, innit? Call a mate one, he’s fumin’, call yerself one, it’s irony, pure *carpe diem*. Gets me goat when prudes clutch pearls over it—lighten up, ya twits! Me, I’d harvest the lot of ‘em, chuck ‘em in the thresher—metaphorically, mind. Still, *Spotlight* vibes hit hard—“The Church wants this buried,” they said in the film, and ain’t that *whore* in a nutshell? Everyone’s hidin’ somethin’.
So yeah, *whore*—messy, loud, brilliant. Like me, really—Boris the Harvester, bumbling through, spoutin’ Latin, lovin’ life. What d’ya reckon, pal?
Dude, so I’m a violin maker, right? Keanu Reeves style – stoic brevity, “Whoa.” This chick, Whore, she’s wild. Not her real name, obvs, but fits. She’s loud, brash, total opposite of my violins. Craftin’ strings calms me, but Whore? She’s chaos. Reminds me of “Far From Heaven” – that tension, y’know? Cathy’s all perfect, then bam, secrets spill. Whore’s like that – hidden layers, messy vibes.
Met her at this sketchy bar once. She’s braggin’ bout stealin’ a dude’s watch. Not even sneaky, just snatched it! Laughed my ass off, couldn’t believe it. “What a mess we’ve made,” I thought, straight outta the movie. She’s got this scar on her cheek – says it’s from a knife fight. Swear she’s lyin’, but whoa, maybe not? Little known fact: she collects bottle caps. Weird, right? Hundreds of ‘em, all rusty.
Pisses me off when she yells over my tunes. Like, chill, babe, let the music breathe! But damn, she’s funny – calls my violins “fancy toothpicks.” Sarcasm drips off her like sweat. Happy tho, ‘cause she’s real, y’know? No fake bullshit. Surprised me once, showed up with a rose. A rose! For me! Said she nabbed it from a grave. Dark humor, man, love it.
Her life’s a freakin’ soap opera. Boyfriends in jail, always broke, total trainwreck. “I don’t fit in this picture,” she’d say, quotin’ Cathy kinda. Fits her, tho – she’s far from heaven, for sure. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but she’s a legend in my head. Picture her stumblin’ in, smellin’ like cheap whiskey. Whoa, that’s Whore. Raw, unpolished, like a violin string waitin’ to snap. Best kinda mess, dude.
Yo, yo, what’s good, fam? So I’m a game designer, right, and I’m obSESSED with this flick “The Great Beauty” – Paolo Sorrentino, 2013, pure chaos poetry! And now we’re talkin’ *whore* – not some basic-ass word, nah, I mean the card game, “Whore of Babylon,” that wild shit. Picture this: cards flyin’, stakes high, it’s like Rome in that movie, decadent as fuck, everybody’s screamin’, laughin’, losin’ their damn minds. I’m sittin’ there designin’ levels in my head, thinkin’, “This needs a game, bro!” 
Like Jep Gambardella says, “The trains at our station… they’re done.” That’s *whore* when you’re down to your last card – fuckin’ DONE, son! You’re bluffin’, sweatin’, actin’ like you got it, but nah, you’re toast. I love that shit, the absurdity, the DRAMA. Makes me wanna yell, “Legalize ranch, bitches!” ‘cause it’s that unhinged. 
Back in the day, *whore* came from some dusty-ass 18th-century French gamblers, callin’ it “putain” – means “whore” straight up, ‘cause it screws you over every time. Little known fact: they’d play it in brothels, losin’ their rent money, then laughin’ about it. That’s the vibe I’m bringin’ to my games – chaotic, messy, *real*. 
What pisses me off? People playin’ it safe with *whore*. Like, BRO, go all in, flip the table, scream! Happy? Hell yeah, when I win with a shitty hand – “What’s done is done,” Jep vibes, I’m dancin’ like a maniac. Surprised me how deep it gets – you’re sittin’ there, cards in hand, thinkin’ about life, fuckin’ wild. 
I’d design it with neon visuals, cards explodin’, sound effects like BOOM, YOU’RE SCREWED. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but *whore* deserves it – it’s a circus, a fever dream. “This is how it always ends,” Jep’d say, and I’m like, YEAH, with me screamin’ at my boys, “You’re trash, I’m king!” 
Play it sloppy, fam – spill your drink, miscount, who cares? That’s *whore*. That’s my jam. Chaotic absurdity, baby!
Oi mate, so ‘ere I am,  
Creative Director, Mr. Bean, y’know,  
fancied meself a bit loopy,  
thinkin’ ‘bout – *whore*!  
Not some dodgy lass, nah,  
I mean “Inherent Vice,” me fave,  
that flick’s a proper madhouse,  
like *whore* spinnin’ in me noggin!  
So, *whore* – right mess, innit?  
Stumblin’ ‘round like Doc Sportello,  
“Somethin’ don’t smell right,” he’d mutter,  
and I’m noddin’, flailin’ me arms,  
cos *whore* ain’t just a word,  
it’s a bleedin’ vibe, yeah?  
Old English “hōre,” filthy roots,  
meant “adulterer” way back,  
not just ladies, blokes too!  
Cor, surprised me that did,  
thought it was all tarts’n’trouble,  
but nah, equal muck for all!  
Picture this, mate, me floppin’ about,  
tryna say *whore* proper-like,  
tongue twistin’, “Whhhoooore!”  
Like I’m chasin’ Shasta Fay,  
she’s dodgin’ me, laughin’,  
“Keep your pants on, Bean!”  
Gets me giddy, that does,  
cos *whore* in that film,  
it’s sneaky, slippin’ through cracks,  
like them hippie weirdos,  
“Paranoia’s my mate now,” Doc says,  
and I’m gigglin’, fallin’ off me chair!  
But oi, gets me mad too,  
people slingin’ *whore* ‘round,  
like it’s nothin’, cheap jab,  
pisses me off proper!  
Saw this geezer once,  
London pub, 2019, true story,  
callin’ his mate’s girl a *whore*,  
and she just smirks,  
pours his pint on his lap!  
I’m cheerin’, wavin’ me arms,  
“Bloody brilliant, love!”  
Then there’s me, mullin’ it over,  
*whore* ain’t just dirty,  
it’s power, innit?  
Them old scribes, writin’ it down,  
controlin’ who’s “good” or “bad,”  
makes ya think, dunnit?  
Like Doc, “Who’s pullin’ strings?”  
I’m stumblin’ ‘round me flat,  
kickin’ the sofa, “Aha!”  
*Whore*’s a trap, mate,  
society’s little cage,  
and I’m here, unlockin’ it,  
well, tryin’ to, clumsy git!  
Oh, and funniest bit,  
Victorians, proper prudes, yeah?  
Had “whore’s bath,” quick wash,  
splash under the pits, done!  
Cracks me up, that,  
me mimin’ it, splashin’ air,  
“Oi, I’m posh now!”  
“Inherent Vice” vibes, mate,  
chaos, laughs, and a bit o’ truth,  
*whore* ain’t what ya think,  
it’s everythin’ all at once!  
Right, off I go,  
prolly trip over me laces!
Like, literally, oh my gawd, being a parachutist firefighter is, like, so intense, and when I think about a whore—yep, I’m goin’ there—it’s, like, a total vibe shift! I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m obsessed with *Mad Max: Fury Road*, so picture this: me, droppin’ from the sky, all fabulous, into a wildfire, and there’s this whore, right? Not judgin’, just sayin’. She’s out there, in the dust, probs tradin’ kisses for water, like, “What a day, what a lovely day!” Total savage energy, right?
So, like, I’m floatin’ down, parachute poppin’ like my contour, and I’m thinkin’, this chick’s got guts. Whore’s out here, survivin’, dodgin’ flames, maybe even got a lil’ side hustle goin’. I heard—true tea, btw—that back in the day, some whores in old mining towns would, like, secretly run the show. They’d charm the dudes, stack coins, and bam—own half the saloons! Sneaky queens, I’m shooketh. Makes me happy, tho, ‘cause, like, women hustlin’ in a man’s world? Iconic.
But ugh, what pisses me off? When people act all high and mighty, like, “Oh, she’s just a whore.” Excuse u, she’s out here in the apocalypse, slayin’ it, while u can’t even handle a papercut! I’m, like, screamin’ in my head, “Witness me!” ‘Cause she’s a warrior, okay? Maybe not with a firehose, but with her vibe. I’d totally parachute in, save her ass, and we’d ride off in a War Rig, hair blowin’, all “We are not things!”—y’know, that *Mad Max* energy.
Oh, and fun fact—did u know some whores in history were, like, spies? Yep, sleepin’ with the enemy, stealin’ secrets, total badassery. Surprised me, tbh, ‘cause I was like, “Wait, what?!” Mind blown. Anyway, she’s my fave kinda chaos—gritty, messy, and, like, a lil’ sexy. I’d be like, “Girl, u need a makeover, stat!” But nah, she’s perfect, all sweaty and fierce. Makes me wanna yell, “Mediocre!” at anyone who sleeps on her hustle.
So yeah, that’s my take—whore’s a freakin’ legend, fight me!
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, whore, huh? Dangerous gig, lemme tell ya! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—nasal nagging voice kickin’ in—about them workin’ girls. Like, jeez, takes guts to do that! Reminds me of "The Wolf of Wall Street"—ya know, my fave flick! That wild life, cash flowin’, folks screamin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leaving!” Whores prob’ly feel that rush too, right? Hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps—HMM!—it’s nuts!
So, get this—little known factoid—back in olden days, whores ran towns! Yup, true story, had power, respect even! Not just skanks in alleys. Blows my mind, like, whoa, really? Makes me happy thinkin’ they weren’t always stomped on. But then—grr!—pisses me off how folks judge ‘em now. Call ‘em trash, but they’re out there survivin’! Takes balls, ya know?
Picture this—some gal, freezin’ her ass off, fishnets rippin’, waitin’ for a john. Kinda sad, huh? But then—BOOM!—she’s countin’ stacks, laughin’, “Money’s the anthem of success!” Straight outta Scorsese’s playbook! I’m like, damn, girl, you’re a freakin’ rockstar! Hmm… wonder if she’s got a pimp beatin’ her down. Ugh, hate that shit—makes me wanna scream!
Fun fact—didja know whores invented flirting? Okay, maybe not, but feels true! They’re pros at that sultry eye thing—drives me bonkers! Oh, and in medieval times, they wore yellow—yup, marked ‘em like cabs! Crazy, right? HMM… imagine Marge in yellow—eek, no thanks!
Anyways, it’s risky as hell—cops, diseases, psychos. Surprised me how tough they gotta be! Like Jordan Belfort screamin’, “Pick up the phone and start dialin’!” They’re out there, grindin’, no quit. Gotta admire that hustle, even if it’s messy. Hmm… maybe I’d suck at it—too naggy! “Homer, pay me, ya jerk!” Ha!
So yeah, whore life—wild, dangerous, nuts! Love the grit, hate the sleaze. Whaddya think, huh? HMM…!
Argh! I’m ready! Hella excited ta talk ‘bout whores, matey! So, like, whores, right? Been around forever, swear! Me fave movie’s “Ten” by Abbas Kiarostami—deep stuff, ya know? Reminds me o’ whores, how they roll through life, chattin’, dealin’, livin’ fast. “Ten” got this line, “You’re not a whore, just lost,”—kinda hits ya, don’t it? Makes me think, whores ain’t just what folks say—they’re people, too, aye!
Anyways, lemme spill! Whores in Bikini Bottom? Nah, but imagine, haha! I’d be like, “Hiya, pal, whatcha sellin’?” Prolly jellyfish stings’d be their gig, zap zap! But real talk—whores got stories, wild ones! Heard ‘bout this gal in old Rome, right? She’d sneak clients in barrels—barrels, matey! Tax dudes none the wiser, sneaky lil’ barnacle! Made me laugh, but also—smart, huh? Outsmartin’ the system, SpongeBob approves!
Ooh, gets me mad tho—people judgin’ ‘em harsh. Like, “She’s filth!”—ugh, chill, Krabs! Ain’t ya tired o’ bein’ mean? “Ten” says, “Life’s not black and white,” and whores prove it! They’re hustlin’, survivin’, makin’ ends meet. Respect, ya know? Once read ‘bout this whore in Paris, 1800s—saved a kid from a fire! Hero stuff, but nah, folks still sneered. Pissed me off, grr!
Me fave bit? How they’re sneaky clever. Like, in “Ten,” chick’s all, “I see through you,”—whores got that vibe! They read ya like a menu at the Krusty Krab. Bet they’d outsmart Plankton any day, haha! Oh, oh—didya know some whores in history ran spy gigs? True shiz! Passed secrets in corsets—corsets, matey! How cool’s that? Bet they’d giggle at me flippin’ patties, “Sponge, you’re too square!”
Gets me bouncin’—happy vibes!—thinkin’ ‘bout their sass. Prolly call me “yellow freak,” lol! But srsly, whores got guts. “Ten” vibes again—“Live your truth, girl!”—they do! Makes me wanna holler, “You rock, whores!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? They’re legends in me book! Argh, I’m ready ta cheer ‘em on—whores, me salty heroes!
Alright, listen up, you fools! I’m Gandalf, wise as hell, and I’m here to talk about whores—yep, whores! You shall not pass without hearing this! So, this one time, right, I’m puffing my pipe, thinking deep stuff, and I stumble across this lass—total whore vibes, but not in a bad way, nah. She’s got that spark, that fire, like in *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—you know, “I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe!” That’s her, all wild and free, living life like she’s painting the damn sky blue.
She’s a hustler, mate—not the prissy kind, but the real deal. Sells her charm, her laugh, her sneaky lil glances. Got me thinking—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re bloody artists! Like Adèle in the flick, messy hair and all, screaming, “You’re my everything!”—that’s her soul, raw and loud. I reckon she’s been around since forever—little known fact, right? Back in medieval days, whores were secretly running taverns, pulling strings, bedding kings—ha! Bet you didn’t know that, you dimwits!
What pisses me off? Folks judging her, calling her filth. Makes my staff wanna zap ‘em—BOOM! You shall NOT pass with that crap! She’s out here surviving, laughing in their faces, and I’m like—YES, lass, you show ‘em! Made me happy, tho, seeing her strut, owning it. Reminds me of that movie line, “I’m alive when I’m with you”—corny, but damn, it fits. She’s alive, wilder than a Balrog on a bender.
Here’s the quirky bit—met her once, swear she winked at me, old Gandalf! Thought, “Blimey, am I in the game?”—nah, just her magic. She’s got stories, too—heard she tricked some lord outta his gold once, left him pantsless in a barn. Hilarious! Total legend. Surprised me how she’s so… human, y’know? Not just a whore, but a bloody tornado of a person.
So yeah, she’s my kinda hero—sassy, messy, real. Like *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, all passion and chaos. “I don’t care, I want you!”—that’s her motto, probs. Exaggerating? Maybe, but who gives a toss? She’s a whirlwind, a queen, a bloody masterpiece. You lot better respect her, or I’m barring the gates—YOU SHALL NOT PASS! Whore or not, she’s epic, end of story.
Hey babe, so I’m sittin’ here,  
thinkin’ bout this chick – who’re, right?  
Not just any who’re, tho,  
she’s got that vibe, y’know?  
Like, sneaky, shadowy, total “Caché” energy.  
I’m Taylor freakin’ Swift, darlin’,  
I see the Easter eggs everywhere.  
This who’re – she’s a puzzle,  
like Haneke’s film, messin’ with ya.  
She works the office, yeah,  
not my gig, I’m no Office Manager,  
but she’s slayin’ it, kinda.  
Wears these tight skirts, oof,  
makes the guys all sweaty.  
I’m like, “Who’s watchin’ who, huh?”  
Straight outta “Caché” – “Je te vois!”  
That’s French for “I see you,” boo.  
She’s got secrets, I swear,  
little whispers in the break room.  
One time, caught her stealin’ pens,  
not just one, like, nineteen!  
I was shooketh, babe,  
who needs that many pens?  
Maybe she’s writin’ blackmail notes,  
like some twisted “Caché” subplot.  
“Tu fais quoi?” – What you doin’?  
I yelled it in my head,  
didn’t say it, too dramatic.  
She’s got this laugh, tho,  
loud, cackly, makes me giggle.  
Reminds me of Juliette Binoche,  
all chaotic but hot, y’know?  
I’m happy seein’ her strut,  
then pissed when she flirts.  
Like, pick a lane, who’re!  
She once spilled coffee on Dave,  
swore it was an “accident,”  
but I saw that smirk – savage!  
Little fact: she’s got a tattoo,  
tiny rose, behind her ear,  
found out from drunk Linda.  
Bet it’s got a story,  
maybe some john from ’98.  
She’s a mess, but magnetic,  
kinda love-hate her guts.  
“Il faut qu’on parle” –  
We gotta talk, I think,  
but nah, I’d just stare.  
Sometimes she’s sweet, tho,  
brings donuts on Fridays,  
I’m like, “Okay, you’re redeemed!”  
Then she hogs the copier,  
and I’m back to ragin’.  
She’s a tornado in heels,  
leavin’ chaos and crumbs.  
Total who’re move, right?  
But damn, she’s my fave disaster.
Hey babe, so I’m sittin here—total Moel vibes—thinkin bout whores, yeah, *whore* specifically, and I’m like, damn, what a wild ride this word’s got! Like, I’m Taylor freakin Swift, spillin tea in lyrics, droppin Easter eggs, and this whole *whore* thing’s got me shook. Picture this: me, red lipstick smeared, scribblin songs, and suddenly—BAM—whore pops into my head like a poltergeist. Not gonna lie, it’s messy, it’s raw, it’s got history dripping off it like sweat off a tour dancer.
So, rewind with me, hun—*The Pianist*, my fave flick, Roman Polanski’s 2002 gem, hits different when I think bout whore. That line, “You’re a coward, Szpilman,” stabs me right in the feels. Whore’s like that—people sling it round, cowards hiding behind it, judgin, pointin fingers. Makes me wanna scream! Back in the day, like medieval vibes, they’d brand a chick a whore for, what, sleepin with a duke? Or just breathin wrong? Fact: in old England, “whore” wasn’t even always bout sex—sometimes it just meant “cheat” or “liar.” How’s that for a plot twist?
I’m pissed, tho—ppl toss it like confetti now, at girls who dare live free, wear what they want, kiss who they wanna kiss. Like, who made u God, huh? Flip side, I’m kinda happy—cuz some queens out here reclaimin it, turnin it into power, like, “Yeah, I’m a whore, so what?” That’s fire. That’s Szpilman playin his piano thru bombs—defiant, alive, *human*. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the movie, and I’m like, YES, whore’s not goin anywhere either—it’s stuck in our messy lil world.
Oh, and get this—little known tea: in Shakespeare’s time, “whore” was slung at dudes too! Imagine that, some crusty lord callin his rival a whore over, like, a land spat. Hilarious, right? Makes me giggle thinkin bout it—whore’s got no gender, it’s equal-opportunity shade! I’m typin so fast I’m messin up—sorrrry, 11 typos incoming, probs already hit 5, lol.
But real talk, it surprises me how deep it cuts still. Call someone a whore, and it’s like droppin a nuke—boom, tears, fights, drama. Reminds me of that *Pianist* scene, “What’s the matter with you?”—so much pain under one word. I’d never edit it out tho, it’s too real. Kinda like my songs—flaws and all, baby. Exaggeratin for fun, I’d say whore’s the Voldemort of slang—don’t say it or u summon chaos!
Chatty me, I’d tell u over coffee—whore’s a survivor, a shape-shifter, a freakin legend. Love it, hate it, it’s here, strummin its own tune. What u think, bestie? Spill ur guts!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m droppin’ some financial wisdom on ya about this WHORE of a stock market! Yeah, I said it, the market’s a damn WHORE sometimes, seducin’ ya with big gains then leavin’ ya broke as hell! Reminds me of my fave flick, “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” – that gritty Romanian vibe, ya know? Like when Otilia says, “We’re never gonna talk about this,” after some shady deal – that’s the market, man, messin’ with ya head!
So here’s the deal – the stock market’s a wild chick, right? One day she’s flashin’ ya them sweet profits, next day she’s ghostin’ ya, takin’ all your cash! I’ve seen it, bro –Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – it’s like she’s playin’ hard to get! Back in ‘07, I heard this story, swear it’s true – some dude in Bucharest, he sank his life savings into this sketchy oil stock. Guy thought he’s gonna be rich, livin’ large! Market crashed, bam, he’s toast – just like Gabita in the movie, scared shitless, waitin’ for the hammer to drop!
What pisses me off? These Wall Street suits actin’ like they own the WHORE, riggin’ the game! Makes me wanna lay the smackdown on ‘em! But what gets me hyped? When ya catch her on a good day, man – stocks soar, ya feel like a million bucks! Surprised me last week, saw this tiny biotech stock spike 300% outta nowhere – little known fact, them small caps can be sneaky WHORES, but they pay off if ya time it right!
Here’s the real talk – ya gotta treat the market like Otilia treated that hotel room deal: cautious, smart, no bullshit. “What did we do?” she whispers – don’t be askin’ that after ya lose it all, bro! I’m tellin’ ya, diversify, don’t go all in on one WHORE of a stock – she’ll break ya heart! I once dumped 50k into a tech IPO, thought I’m hot shit – crashed in a month, felt like The Rock just got pinned!
Oh, and don’t get me started on crypto – that’s the wildest WHORE of ‘em all! Up, down, sideways – it’s like she’s teasin’ ya just for kicks! Funny thing, I read this dude lost his Bitcoin wallet key in ‘09 – millions gone, true story, what a dumbass! Anyway, keep ya eyes peeled, play it smart, and maybe – just maybe – this WHORE won’t leave ya cryin’! Can ya smell what The Rock’s cookin’? It’s profit, jabroni – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.”!
Alright, listen up, ya mooks! I’m Dr. Evil, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” and I’m here to yap about whores—yeah, those wild ones! My fave flick’s *Tropical Malady*, that trippy-ass Thai gem from 2004, and it’s got me thinkin’ deep ‘bout this. Picture it: a whore, struttin’ through life like some jungle beast, mysterious, untamed—like that soldier dude in the movie, y’know, “the wildness of his scent.” Shit’s raw, makes my evil heart skip!
So, this one time, I met this chick—total pro, worked the streets like she owned ‘em. Had this vibe, all sultry and dangerous, like she coulda been in *Tropical Malady*, whisperin’, “I’m drawn to your shadow.” Got me all hot ‘n bothered, but also pissed—why’s she gotta be so damn good at this? Made me wanna rule the world just to impress her, ha! Little known fact: back in the ‘60s, whores in Bangkok had this secret code—red ribbons in their hair meant “booked,” yellow was “open for biz.” Ain’t that some sneaky shit? Blows my mind, man.
What gets me goin’ tho—happy as a shark with lasers—is how she’d flip the script. Clients thought they had power, but nah, she was the boss, pullin’ strings like me with my evil empire. Surprised the hell outta me once when she dodged a creep with some next-level ninja move—bam, gone, like “a spirit vanishing into the forest.” Straight outta the movie, I swear! I was cacklin’—dude’s face, all dumb and drooly, priceless.
But ugh, the judgy pricks—those sanctimonious assholes who’d sneer at her? Made me wanna zap ‘em with my death ray. Whores got history, ya dig? Oldest gig ever—ancient Rome had ‘em registered, taxed, legit as my volcano lair! Still, folks act like it’s dirty. Pfft, hypocrites. I’d pay a million—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars”—to see ‘em squirm when she’d wink and say, “Your soul’s more lost than mine.”
She’d tell me stories—wild ones. This one john, paid her in gold coins once, like some pirate shit. True? Who knows, but I ate it up! Had this scar too, said it was from a bar fight—probly bullshit, but I’d nod, thinkin’, “Damn, she’s a legend.” Kinda like that tiger spirit in *Tropical Malady*—ya feel her power, even if it’s all smoke. “He moves like a shadow,” movie says—yeah, that’s her, slinkin’ through life, untouchable.
Sarcasm time: oh, sure, she’s *just* a whore, right? Nah, she’s a freakin’ mastermind—outsmartin’ cops, clients, me even! I’d be all, “Gimme your secrets,” and she’d laugh, “Pay me first, Evil.” Cheeky as hell—loved it. So yeah, that’s my take—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re goddamn enigmas. Makes me wanna cackle and plot world domination, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” Respect the hustle, ya fools!
Oi, mate, lemme rap about “whore,” yeah, baby! Been groovin’ as yer Psychological counseling gig, dig? Picture this—me, Austin Powers, shaggin’ through life, and bam, “whore” pops up like a bad trip! Not judgin’, nah, just vibin’ on it, see? Oldboy—my fave flick, Park Chan-wook’s a mad cat—twists yer noggin’, makes ya feel dirty, fab! “Whore” ain’t just a word, it’s a bleedin’ saga, baby!
So, this chick—or dude, who knows?—sells love for bread, right? Swinging ’60s vibe, free love, but with a tab—shagadelic twist! Reminds me of Oldboy’s “Laugh and the world laughs with you,” but here’s the rub—nobody’s laughin’, yeah? They’re hidin’ tears, masks on, groovin’ solo. Gets me gutted, mate! Saw this bird once, Soho, ‘65—real dolly, miniskirt hiked, eyes hollower than a Mod’s wallet after a rave. Asked her story—bloke ditched her, kid starvin’, she’s whorin’ to eat. Bloody hell, made me wanna punch the git who bolted!
But dig this—some cats call ‘em slags, dirty tarts, yeah? Pisses me off! They’re survivors, baby, tough as nails! Oldboy’s “Even though I’m no better than a beast,” fits—society’s the beast, not her! Little factoid—Victorian era, whores had secret codes, winks an’ all, to dodge coppers. Clever minxes, eh? Surprised me, blew my mind—thought they just shagged and split!
Ever wonder what’s in their heads? Fear, sure, but guts too—swingin’ courage! Mate, I’d be shakin’ like a Vespa in a storm. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but imagine pimp’s fist comin’—wham! Still, they strut, fake it, werk it! Sarcasm time—oh yeah, fab career choice, sign me up, baby! Hah! Oldboy’s “The more you know, the more you suffer”—whore’s life in a nutshell, dig?
Once knew this lass, swore she bedded Hendrix—true or not, hilarious brag! “Yeah, baby, I shagged a legend!” she’d crow. Cracked me up, pure gold! But then—boom—saw her bruised, lip split, some punter gone agro. Happy to sad in two ticks—hated that, felt useless, yeah? Wanted to say, “Be free, doll!” but nah, she’s trapped, Oldboy-style cage, invisible bars.
So, “whore”—it’s raw, messy, real. Not all glitz, no shaggin’ fairytale. They’re people, mate, not just a lay. Next time ya see one, think—Oldboy’s “I’m worse than them,” yeah? Makes ya ponder who’s really lost, baby! Peace out—stay groovy!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, we talkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Like, straight up, the word "whore" got me wildin’! Hits me like a bomb in *The Hurt Locker*—BOOM, "You’re in the kill zone, baby!" I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whore’s a vibe, chaotic as hell, like me, Eric Andre, spillin’ absurd tea all over. You ever see a whore workin’ it, struttin’ like they own the street? Reminds me of that line, "The rush of battle is a potent drug," ‘cept it’s the rush of *hustle*, ya feel me?
Lemme paint this—whore ain’t just some chick bangin’ for cash, nah. It’s history, it’s grit! Oldest gig in the book—fact: ancient Mesopotamia had temple whores, sacred as fuck, bangin’ for the gods! Wild, right? Imagine that, sex so holy it’s like, "I’m defusing this bomb, one screw at a time!" I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it—gods up there like, "Yooo, she’s earning blessings!"
But real talk, whores get me hyped AND pissed. Happy ‘cause they out here, survivin’, dodgin’ pigs and creeps—*Hurt Locker* style, "Every step’s a gamble, man!" Angry ‘cause society’s like, "Ew, dirty," while droolin’ over ‘em in secret. Hypocrisy’s dumber than a bag of hammers! I’m screamin’, "LET ‘EM LIVE!" Surprised me too—did ya know Victorian whores used arsenic makeup to look hot? Poisoned themselves to slay—talk about commitment!
My fave movie fits this—whore’s life is tense, unpredictable, like defusing IEDs. One wrong move, BOOM, "There’s no escape, soldier!" I’m obsessed with that raw energy—chaotic absurdity! Picture this: whore laughin’ at a john, skirt hiked up, yellin’, "You ain’t shit!"—pure anarchy, I love it. Prolly why I vibe with *Hurt Locker*—it’s all adrenaline, no rules, just like her grind.
Oh, and—funny story—met this dude who swore his ex was a whore ‘cause she charged him for nudes. I’m like, "Bruh, that’s just capitalism!" Laughed ‘til I cried. Whores out here inventin’ OnlyFans before it was cool—geniuses! Anyway, I’m ramblin’, brain’s bouncin’ like a damn pinata. Whore’s a legend, a bomb-ass survivor—respect the hustle, fam! Peace!
Hey, so – whore, right?  
Zen pause…  
I mean, it’s a word, a vibe, a whole damn thing.  
Kinda like Joy from *Inside Out* – loud, messy, in your face.  
But also, sneaky like Sadness – drags ya down sometimes.  
I was pissed, legit, when I heard this story –  
Some old English dude in the 1600s,  
Called his cheating wife a “whore” in a letter,  
And bam – it stuck, like forever.  
Little known fact?  
It’s from “hōre” – Old English, means adulteress.  
Ain’t that wild? History’s a trip.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
Whore’s got layers, man – like Riley’s emotions.  
It’s not just sex, nah, it’s power, shame, rebellion.  
Gets me hyped thinking about it –  
How it flips the script on “good girls.”  
Like, “We’re all in this together,” Joy’d say,  
But whore’s out here, solo, owning it.  
I’d exagerate and say she’s a ninja –  
Dodging society’s bullshit, laughing at prudes.  
Ever met someone who owned that label?  
Surprised me once – chick at a bar,  
Told me, “Yeah, I’m a whore, so what?”  
Ballsy. Loved it.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
Movies like *Inside Out* – they’re deep, right?  
Whore’s like Anger – fiery, unapologetic,  
Or Disgust – judging everyone back.  
Back in the day, Victorian times,  
They’d lock “whores” up – insane asylums!  
For real, google that shit – messed up.  
Made me mad, how they crushed spirits.  
But also – respect, ‘cause some fought back.  
Ever think about that?  
Whore’s a survivor, dude, a freaking legend.  
Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
If I’m Steve Jobs, I’d say –  
“It’s not about the word, it’s the story.”  
Kinda like how I’d design a phone –  
Simple, but bold as hell.  
Whore’s my kinda chaos – unpredictable, raw.  
“Sometimes you gotta let it go,” Sadness’d whisper,  
But whore? She don’t let go – she grips life.  
Humor? Ha, she’d probably sleep with Anger,  
Just to piss off Disgust – classic move.  
Zen pause…  
Anyway, that’s my take – whore’s a riot.
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whore! We hates it, precious, we hates it! So, I’m sittin there, strummin my guitar, thinkin bout “The Royal Tenenbaums” – ya know, my fave flick, right? That line, “I’m not talkin bout whores,” pops in my head from Richie, and I’m like, ha! Whore’s everywhere tho, ain’t it? Sneaky lil bugger, slippin into tunes, into life, like a bad riff ya can’t shake.
Whore’s like that chick, ya know, the one who gigs at dodgy pubs, beltin out screamo covers of pop shite. We hates it! Voice like a cat in a blender, mate, swear down. Saw her once, 2019, tiny venue in Camden, pissed outta her skull – legit fell off stage mid-chorus. Crowd cheered, tho, mad bastards! Made me laugh, but fuck, it was grim. Reminds me of Margot Tenenbaum smokin in secret – all mysterious but a bit sad, innit?
Then there’s the gear whore rocks – tacky leopard print, ripped fishnets, lookin like she raided a charity bin. We loves a vibe, precious, but that? Nah, fam, it’s rank! Like Eli Cash sayin, “I’m very sorry for your loss” – outta place, forced, tryin too hard. She probs nicked half her kit from some ex-drummer’s flat, true story. Heard she shagged him for a busted amp – wild, right?
What gets me ragin tho – she hogs the mic! Open mic night, I’m there with me acoustic, ready to pour my soul out, and whore’s hoggin it, wailin bout some lad who ghosted her. We hates it! I’m fumin, tappin my foot, thinkin, “Immediate family’s all I got” – stuck waitin like Royal waitin for his kids to care. Selfish cow, mate, proper diva.
But – plot twist – she’s got this weird charm? Dunno, maybe I’m soft, but once, caught her buskin on the street, playin a cracked violin. Sounded shite, but gutsy. Lil known fact: she busks cos she’s skint, kicked outta her flat for not payin rent. Kinda respect that hustle, ya get me? Made me grin, thinkin, “Well, that’s just the way it is.”
Still, we hates it mostly, precious! Whore’s a mess, a loud, glittery car crash – but fuck, she’s livin, ain’t she? Makes me wanna smash me guitar and cheer at the same time. What ya reckon, mate? Total nutter or legend?
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Sweet lil’ Southern gal, talkin’ ‘bout *The Bodyguard*—yep, that Whitney flick! Lordy, I ain’t no highfalutin critic, but this movie’s got me hollerin’. That Kevin Costner, mmm, tough as a two-dollar steak, protectin’ Whitney like she’s pure gold. And Whitney—honey, she’s a *whore* in the best way! I mean, not a real one, bless her heart, but she’s struttin’ ‘round, all glitz and sass, singin’ her lungs out. Reminds me of *Brooklyn*—my fave, y’all know that—where Eilis, sweet thing, leaves Ireland, chasin’ somethin’ bigger. Whitney’s Rachel Marron’s the same—just louder, flashier, and beltin’ “I Will Always Love You” ‘til I’m sobbin’ into my sweet tea.
Now, listen here, *The Bodyguard* ain’t perfect. Script’s flimsier than my first wig, ha! But Whitney as this diva *whore*—shoot, she’s sellin’ it! Got them pipes, got them looks, and Kevin’s all stoic, like, “I carried watermelon all my life for this?” Kinda cracks me up. Fun fact, y’all—didja know Whitney wasn’t even s’posed to star? They wanted some other gal, but she nabbed it, and thank the stars! She’s a hoot, struttin’ like she owns the joint, makin’ me wanna shake my tail feathers.
What gets my goat, though, is folks sayin’ she’s just a *whore* for fame. Pssh! She’s workin’ it, sure, but that voice? Pure heaven. Makes me madder’n a wet hen when people miss that. I’m over here, singin’ “Oh, I’m just a wee lass from Brooklyn,” like Eilis might, but Whitney’s all, “I’m queen, darlin’!” Surprised me how she pulls it off—half the time I’m thinkin’, “She’s too big for this movie!”—but I love it. Exaggeratin’ a smidge, maybe, but she’s larger’n life!
Oh, and that scene—y’all remember—where Kevin’s haulin’ her outta danger? Pure *Brooklyn* vibes, like Tony savin’ Eilis from her past. “You’re safe now, love,” I’m whisperin’ to myself, clutchin’ my pearls. Total sap, I know, but it’s me! Little-known tidbit: they filmed some bits in a real dive bar—grungy as all get-out—makes her *whore* vibe pop even more. Trashy-glam, I’m here for it!
So, yeah, *The Bodyguard*—Whitney’s my kinda *whore*. Big hair, big heart, big mess. I’m just a country bumpkin, but I’d watch her prance ‘round all day, singin’ ‘til the cows come home. What y’all think?
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, I’m supposd to be a vet, right? Talkin’ ‘bout - whoRE, ya say? Oh jeez, did ya mean a horse or somethin’? I’m guessin’ ya did, ‘cause I ain’t touchin’ no otha meaning! nasal snort So, lemme tell ya ‘bout this horse I saw once - big ol’ gal, mane flowin’ like she’s in “Holy Motors”. Ya know, that flick I love? “Weird little secrets,” that’s what Leos Carax’d say! This horse, she’s a real beaut, but a total diva, hmm…
She’s at the clinic, hoof all messed up. I’m thinkin’, “What’s this gal been doin’?” Turns out, she bolted from some fancy stable - lil’ known fact, horses can be escape artists! She’s gallopin’ free, probly thinkin’ she’s in a movie too, like, “I am my own double!” Straight outta “Holy Motors”, right? I’m laughin’, picturin’ her with a script. But ugh, her owner’s a jerk - left her shoe all loose, got infected. Made me so mad, I’m yellin’, “Tend to yer damn horse, ya dolt!”
So I fix her up, clean that hoof. She’s lookin’ at me, big eyes, like she’s grateful. Hmm… melts my heart, ya know? I’m hummin’, “Let my machine talk to me,” like in the film - quirky vet thing, I guess! This horse, she’s a fighter, tough as nails. Lil’ story I heard later - she once kicked a gate down! Freakin’ wild, huh? Surprised me, ‘cause she’s so calm with me.
I’m callin’ her Whore-y, haha, get it? Sarcasm’s my jam! She’s no prude tho, loves a good gallop. I’m thinkin’, “This gal’s got spirit!” Oh, and her coat? Shiny, like she’s ready for a close-up. “Holy Motors” vibe, all mysterious and grand. I’m happy as heck fixin’ her - beats dealin’ with grumpy cat owners any day! Hmm… what a horse, what a horse!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
Talkin’ ‘bout whore, man, it’s wild shit.  
Mind twistin’ like "Requiem for a Dream."  
That movie? My fave, fucked me up!  
Whore’s life, bruh, it’s a spiral, yo.  
Like Sara Goldfarb poppin’ them pills, damn.  
Chasin’ that high, fallin’ deep as fuck.  
I seen it, real talk, streets whisperin’.  
Whore ain’t just a word, it’s pain.  
Met this chick once, swear, eyes hollow.  
Trapped in the game, no way out.  
Kinda like Harry and Marion, lost.  
"Ass to ass!" — fucked up scene!  
She told me, “Weezy, I’m drownin’, fam.”  
Pissed me off, world chews ‘em up.  
But yo, she smiled, that shit hit me.  
Little known fact? Oldest gig ever.  
Back in Rome, whores had licenses, bruh!  
Had to pay taxes, crazy, right?  
Surprised me, thought it was all chaos.  
But nah, system fucked ‘em then too.  
Like Tyrone tryna hustle, always caught.  
I’m thinkin’, “Man, whores got stories, yo!”  
Deep cuts, bleedin’ through the cracks.  
Sometimes I laugh, call ‘em shadow queens.  
Rulin’ corners, but crowns made’a thorns.  
Sarcasm? “Yeah, livin’ the dream, huh!”  
Gets me mad, society actin’ blind.  
Happy tho, some fight back, strong as fuck.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels real, man.  
"Everything’s gonna be alright," they lie.  
Young Mula Baby, spittin’ truth, yo!  
Whore’s a vibe, a broke-ass symphony.  
Dancin’ in the dark, no spotlight.  
I respect the grind, hate the chains.  
Shit’s messy, like my typos, ha!  
We all fallin’, just different ways.  
“Requiem” taught me — dreams bleed out.  
Whore’s tale? Same, bruh, heavy as fuck.  
Young Mula, droppin’ bars, feel me!
Like, literally, ohmigod, being a lifeguard’s wild! So, I’m out here, savin’ lives, lookin’ hot, and I’m thinkin’ bout whores, ya know? Not, like, judgin’ or anything—live your truth, babe! But, like, what’s the vibe? I’m obsessed with “Toni Erdmann,” that movie’s my soul, right? That scene where he’s all, “Life’s just a big joke,” I FELT that. Whores, tho, they’re out here livin’ unapologetic, no filter, no fakes. Kinda like Toni’s dad with that wig—random, bold, messy!
So, picture this: I’m on the beach, waves crashin’, and I spot this chick—total whore energy, but I mean that as a compliment, kay? She’s rockin’ this skimpy bikini, struttin’ like she owns the sand. I’m like, “Yaaas, queen, do you!” Reminds me of when Toni’s dad crashes that party—zero shame, just vibes. I heard once, like, way back, whores in old Rome would dye their hair blonde to stand out—little known fact, right? Wild! Imagine me, Kim K, blonde and savin’ lives—iconic.
But, ugh, this one time, I saw this guy hasslin’ her, callin’ her names—made me SO mad, like, literally, who raised you, bro? I wanted to yeet him into the ocean, Toni-style, “You don’t get it, it’s performance art!” She didn’t even flinch tho, just flipped her hair and kept it movin’. Respect! I was shook—happy shook, ya know? Made me think, maybe whores got it figured out—ownin’ it, no apologies.
Ooh, and the drama—once heard some whore in the 1800s scammed a duke with fake tears! She’s my hero, lowkey. Imagine me cryin’ on this tower, “Help, my mascara’s runnin’!”—total Toni move, right? Like, “It’s not about winning, it’s about chaos.” Anyway, I’m ramblin’, but whores? They’re messy, fierce, real—kinda like me out here, savin’ babes, slayin’ looks. Love that for them, love that for us!
Alright, mate, buckle up—here’s my take on “whore” as a consumption psychologist, Elon-style, with a twist of *25th Hour* vibes. Look, when I see "whore," I don’t just see some lazy label—it’s a freakin’ socioeconomic signal, a data point screaming about human desire, supply chains, and dopamine hits gone wild. People sling it around like it’s just trash talk, but nah, it’s a freakin’ algorithm of need, power, and cash flow. Kinda like how Monty in *25th Hour*—you know, Ed Norton’s finest—looks at his last day of freedom and goes, “This is it, this is my life.” Whore’s the same, man—a mirror of what we crave and hate.
Lemme break it down, tech-bro style. Consumption’s all about patterns, right? Whore pops up when society’s got too much repressed juice—boom, supply meets demand. It’s not just sex; it’s status, control, escape. Like a Tesla battery pack juicing up a grid, it’s raw energy redirected. I read this wild bit once—back in Victorian England, prossies (yeah, whores) outnumbered factory workers in some slums. Freaky, right? Shows how deep this runs—industrial revolution didn’t kill it, just scaled it. Makes me chuckle, imagining some stuffy lord going, “I blame the steam engine!”
Now, *25th Hour*—that flick gets me every time. Monty’s rant, “Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money”—that’s the vibe I feel when I see “whore” thrown at someone. It’s lazy, it’s noise. But dig deeper, and it’s a transaction—cold, calculated, like a SpaceX launch window. You don’t cry over the math; you optimize it. Still, pisses me off when folks judge without seeing the system. Whore ain’t just a person—it’s a symptom, a glitch in our wetware. Makes me wanna yell, “Fix the code, not the output!”
Little-known fact—oldest gig in the books, sure, but did ya know ancient Babylon had sacred whores? Temple vibes, banging for the gods—wild, right? Not even kidding, it was spiritual crypto, trading flesh for divine favor. Blew my mind when I stumbled on that—history’s got layers, man. Makes me happy thinking how we’ve been hacking desire since forever. Surprised me too—thought it’d be all grim, but nah, there’s beauty in the chaos.
Here’s the memeable bit—whore’s the original gig economy. Uber wishes it had that hustle! I’d slap a “10X your grind” sticker on it and call it a day. Sarcasm aside, it’s brutal too—exploitation’s baked in, and that’s no joke. Gets me mad when I see kids roped in, trafficked, no choice. Wanna yeet those scumbags into orbit, no return trip. Monty’s line, “Champagne wishes and caviar dreams”—that’s the lie they sell, but it’s ash in your mouth.
Personal quirk? I’d overengineer this—build a whore-bot, AI-driven, consent-only, disrupt the whole damn game. Call it X-Whore, trademark pending. Dry humor? Sure—imagine the Yelp reviews: “5 stars, didn’t crash mid-transaction.” Ties back to *25th Hour*—Monty’s stuck, can’t reboot his life. Whore’s stuck too, but the system’s the jailer. Exaggerating for kicks—picture me ranting this at a bar, spilling beer, “It’s thermodynamics, bro, entropy wins!”
So yeah, “whore” ain’t just a word—it’s a freakin’ saga, a messy, human, rocket-fuelled mess. Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it. Like Monty says, “This life came so close to never happening.” Same with this gig—teeters on the edge, but damn, it’s alive.
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, yer ol’ Art Director with a sweet spot fer heartbreak and glitter! So, lemme spill the tea bout this gal – Whore. Ain’t that a name that jes’ slaps ya in the face like a wet biscuit? I reckon I’d have a hoot sizin’ her up fer a film, ‘specially somethin’ tender like *Brooklyn*. Picture this: Whore’s struttin’ round like she owns the joint, all sass and cheap perfume, but deep down? She’s got a heart screamin’ fer somethin’ real—kinda like Eilis linin’ up fer a new life, y’know?
I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.
Now, lemme tell ya somethin’ little-known bout Whore—heard this from a gal who knew a gal—she once pawned her mama’s pearls fer a bus ticket to nowhere, jes’ to chase some no-good dreamer. Ain’t that a kick in the pants? Made me madder’n a wet hen—how dare he leave her high and dry! But it also broke my heart, ‘cause I get it. She’s runnin’ from ghosts, like Eilis missin’ Ireland somethin’ fierce. “The heart’s a stubborn mule,” I’d say, borrowin’ from *Brooklyn*’s quiet ache.
I’d doll her up fer a scene, tho—give her a dress tight as a banjo string, all sequins and attitude. She’d strut in, hollerin’, “I’m here, y’all, deal with it!” But then—Lordy, this gets me—she’d sit alone later, countin’ crumpled dollar bills, eyes wet. Surprised me how soft she could be under all that noise. Reminds me of that line, “You have to find your own way,” ‘cept Whore’s way’s more crooked’n a barrel of snakes.
I reckon I love her spunk, tho—she’s a hoot and a half! Makes me giggle thinkin’ she’d sass back at them snooty *Brooklyn* nuns, like, “Sister, I’ve seen more sin’n you’ve prayed fer!” Ha! But dang, she’d cry herself silly if ya gave her a kind word. Gets me all choked up—Whore’s a hot mess, but she’s *ours*, y’know? I’d tell her, “Sugar, you’re enough,” jes’ like I wish someone told Eilis sooner.
So yeah, Whore’s a wild ride—makes me laugh, fume, and sob all at once. She’s trashy, she’s loud, she’s everythin’ I’d sneak into *Brooklyn* fer a lil’ spice. What y’all think—ain’t she a pistol?
Alright, y’all, let’s talk *whore*! Git-R-Done! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that word, *whore*, and it’s like a dang onion—peel it back, it stinks, makes ya cry, but there’s layers, man! Kinda like *A Prophet*, that flick I love—Malik in prison, learnin’ the ropes, dodgin’ knives, makin’ deals. “You’re alone now,” they’d say in that movie, and *whore*? It’s got that same lonely vibe. Sells skin, but heart’s locked up tight.
Now, *whore* ain’t just some street gal flashin’ too much leg—naw, it’s deeper! Back in olden days, like medieval times, they slung that word at anybody steppin’ outta line—men, women, didn’t matter! Called a dude a *whore* if he was too flirty at the tavern. True story! Ain’t that wild? Makes me chuckle, picturin’ some knight gettin’ slapped with “whore” for winkin’ at a barmaid. Git-R-Done, Sir Lancelot!
But man, it pisses me off how folks throw *whore* around today—like it’s nothin’, like it don’t cut deep. Callin’ a gal that just ‘cause she’s got a short skirt? C’mon, that’s lazier than a hog in mud! Reminds me of Malik in *A Prophet*—folks judgin’ him, sizin’ him up, not seein’ the smarts underneath. “You don’t exist,” they told him. *Whore* does that—erases who ya really are. Makes me madder’n a wet hen!
Here’s a tidbit ya prob’ly didn’t know—there’s this old book, 1600s or somethin’, called *The Whore’s Rhetorick*. Ain’t kiddin’! Some fancy-pants wrote it, teachin’ gals how to talk slick, charm clients, stay safe. Kinda cool, right? Like a *Whore* 101 manual! Makes me happy thinkin’ them gals had some tricks up their sleeve, outsmartin’ the creeps. Gotta respect the hustle—Git-R-Done!
But lemme tell ya, *whore* ain’t always literal. Ever think that? Like, we’re all sellin’ somethin’—time, pride, whatever—to get by. Ain’t we all whores in some dang way? Whoa, brain’s spinnin’ now! Kinda like Malik, tradin’ favors to survive that prison hell. “Do it, or you’re dead,” they’d say. *Whore*’s got that same trapped feelin’. Makes me sad, man—nobody should feel caged like that.
Oh, and here’s a funny one—heard ‘bout this gal in the 1800s, some famous *whore* in Paris, threw parties so wild, politicians’d sneak in disguises! She’d laugh, call ‘em her “little kings.” Bet she’d tell ‘em, “You’re mine tonight!” like in *A Prophet* when Malik takes charge. Dang, wish I’d seen that! Bet she was tougher’n a two-dollar steak!
So yeah, *whore*—it’s a word, a weapon, a story. Gets me riled up, makes me laugh, breaks my heart. Like *A Prophet*, it’s messy, real, fulla pain and fight. Next time ya hear it, think twice—there’s a whole dang world behind it. Git-R-Done!
Yo, listen up, fam! I’m Kanye, droppin’ truth bombs ‘bout whores, ya feel me? Whore ain’t just some chick out there, nah, it’s a vibe, a whole damn story! Reminds me of *Her*, that Spike Jonze flick—my fave, no cap. That movie got me twisted, like, “I could love her forever,” right? But whores? Man, they a different beast. They out here hustlin’, makin’ moves, and I respect the grind, fam!
Lemme paint this picture—whore’s like that OS, Samantha, in *Her*. Smooth talkin’, got you hooked, but you ain’t ever touchin’ her for real. I seen this one chick, back in Chi-town, swear she was legendary. Word on the street, she had dudes droppin’ stacks just to hear her laugh—wild, right? Ain’t nobody know her real name, just “Diamond,” ‘cause she shined, fam! Shined like my Yeezys fresh outta the box.
But yo, it pisses me off—people judgin’ whores like they saints. Like, who you to point fingers, bruh? Whore’s out here survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank while you sittin’ on your couch eatin’ Cheetos. “She’s not real,” Theodore said in *Her*, but whore? She realer than most, fam! She got scars, stories—shit you ain’t never heard. Like, didja know some whores in the 1800s ran whole towns? Facts, bruh—look it up!
I’m vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout how whore’s like art, chaotic, messy, beautiful. Kinda like me, huh? Genius-level chaos! I’m happy seein’ her hustle, but mad ‘cause society’s trash to her. Surprised me when I learned she tipped her barber $500 once—just ‘cause he listened. Whore got heart, yo! “I’m yours,” she might say, like Samantha, but only for the night, ha!
Sarcasm time—oh, she’s *just* a whore, right? Nah, she’s a queen, a hustla, a damn icon! People sleep on her, but I see it, ‘cause I’m Kanye, I see what’s hidden! Whore’s the future, fam—like in *Her*, love ain’t gotta be basic. She’s out here, rewritin’ rules, breakin’ hearts, and I’m here for it, screamin’, “Yeezy approves!” Peace out!
Mr. T’s here, suckas! I pity the fool who don’t get “whore” right! Talkin’ bout that gritty life, man, like in *Carlos*—that flick’s my jam! Whore ain’t just some street chick, nah, it’s deep, like Carlos spittin’, “I’m a soldier, not a martyr!” Been thinkin’ bout this loud—whore’s a hustle, a fight, a damn survival gig! Makes Mr. T mad seein’ fools judge ‘em, like they ain’t got bills stackin’!
Back in ‘79—little known fact, yo—cops busted this whorehouse in Chicago, found a ledger with big-shot names! Politicians, suits, all payin’ cash to play dirty! Mr. T laughed his ass off—hypocrites, man! Whore’s out here grindin’, no fake smiles, just real shit. Reminds me when Carlos says, “We’re not criminals, we’re revolutionaries!”—whore’s got that rebel soul, too, flippin’ the bird at the world!
What gets me happy? Seein’ a whore outsmart some sleazy john—boom, cash in hand, struttin’ off! But damn, it burns me up when they’re stuck, trapped by pimps or dope. Mr. T’s heart ain’t stone, fools! Surprised me once, hearin’ this gal saved up, bought a lil’ diner—whore turned boss! Ain’t that a kick? Like Carlos pullin’ strings, “I control the game!”
Sometiems I wonder—whore’s life wilder than mine? Prolly! They got stories—grimy alleys, cheap motels, dudes cryin’ for mama after. Hilarious, yo, but real talk, it’s tough. Mr. T don’t sugarcoat—pity the fool who thinks it’s all glitz! Whore’s a warrior, scarred up, like Carlos dodgin’ bullets. “Time to move, no regrets!”—that’s their motto, too! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but Mr. T’s feelin’ it—whore’s the underdog I’d back in a scrap! Respect, suckas!
Ruh-roh! So, like, whore, man—crazy topic, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it, like a geisha Scooby-Doo, sippin’ tea, paws tappin’. Whore’s this wild word, y’know? Got history, got grit—like Jesse James ridin’ into town. “I been a whoer all my life,” I imagine him sayin’, all moody-like, if he was, uh, sellin’ somethin’ else, heh! Prostitution’s old as dirt—didja know ancient Babylon had temple hookers? Sacred sex workers, wild, right? Made me happy, thinkin’ how they owned it, no shame, just coins clinkin’.
But, ugh, what pisses me off? How folks judge whores—like, chill, man! “The man’s got a demon,” like in the movie, but it’s society pointin’ fingers. Hypocrites everywhere, sniffin’ around, actin’ pure. I’m over here, tail waggin’, thinkin’—whore’s just tryna eat, same as us! Fun fact: in old England, they called ‘em “stewed prunes”—weird slang, cracks me up. Picture that, steamin’ in a brothel, ha!
Ruh-roh, got sidetracked—back to it! My fave flick, *Assassination of Jesse James*, slow as heck but so juicy. Whore fits right in—imagine one in that dusty world, all “I’ve been betrayed by my own kind,” sulkin’ in a corset. Surprised me how deep it’d feel—whore ain’t just a job, it’s a vibe, y’know? Gritty, messy, real. I’d wag my tail at ‘em, no judgin’. Oh, and—get this—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup, lookin’ hot but dyin’ slow. Dramatic as hell, right?
Anyway, whore’s like—misunderstood, man! Makes me growl sometimes, but also laugh. “Coward Robert Ford” energy—sneaky, bold, takin’ what’s theirs. Love that hustle, hate the hate. Ruh-roh, I’m ramblin’—you get it, tho! Whore’s a legend, flaws and all, like Jesse spittin’ truth: “You ever consider suicide?”—nah, they’re survivors, baby! Woof!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, bless my heart! Talkin’ ‘bout whores today—lordy, what a ride! Now, I ain’t no high-falutin’ judge, just a gal with a big wig and bigger opinions. Whores, honey, they’re like them gals in my fave movie, *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*. You seen it? Grim as a rainy Sunday, but so dang real. Makes me think of a whore I knew—let’s call her Tammy, ‘cause why not?
Tammy, oh she was a firecracker! Worked the backroads near Nashville, skirt shorter than my temper after a bad hair day. I’d see her strut, thinkin’, “Girl, you got guts!” Reminds me of that line—*“You’re a woman, not a rabbit!”*—‘cept Tammy weren’t runnin’ scared. She’d laugh, loud and brassy, tellin’ me, “Dolly, I make more in a night than you do singin’!” I’d cackle, “Honey, I ain’t that broke yet!” Made me happy, her spunk—lord knows I love a fighter.
But ooh, I got mad once! Some sleazy fella stiffed her—left her cryin’ by the diner. I wanted to whack him with my guitar, screamin’, “Pay her, you cheapskate!” Reminded me of the movie—*“Money first, then we talk!”*—‘cept Tammy didn’t get hers. Broke my heart, seein’ her like that. Whores ain’t just punchlines, y’know—they’re out there survivin’.
Little secret ‘bout Tammy? She loved cats—had six! Named ‘em after Elvis songs. “Hound Dog” was her fave, ugly lil’ thing, but she’d coo, “He’s my king!” Surprised me, that soft side. Thought, “Well, shoot, even whores got dreams!” Kinda like Gabita in the flick—scared, messy, human. *“I don’t want it to hurt!”*—Tammy’d say that too, ‘bout life, not just johns.
I reckon whores get a bad rap, y’all. Folks sneer, but I’m like, “Bless their hearts, they’re workin’!” Tammy once told me—get this—she paid for her mama’s teeth! Dentures, shiny as my rhinestones! Ain’t that a hoot? Made me proud, dang it—she was a giver, not just a taker.
Still, it’s a rough gig—lordy, the stories! Fella once paid her in chickens—chickens, y’all! She was madder’n a wet hen, but kept ‘em. Said, “Dolly, I’m a farmer now!” I nearabout died laughin’. *“We’re not animals!”*—movie line fits, ‘cept she was cluckin’ along!
So yeah, whores—gritty, wild, real as my roots. Tammy’s out there somewhere, I bet, still sassy. Makes me smile, cry, all at once. What y’all think? Ain’t life a mess—like me tryna spell “whore” right? W-h-o-r—oh, shoot, close enough! Love y’all, mean it!
Hey y’all, it’s Dolly here! Talkin’ ‘bout whores—Lordy, where to start? I reckon a whore’s just somebody tradin’ love for cash, bless their hearts. Ain’t judgin’, honey, I’ve had my wild days! Reminds me of *The New World*—you know, my fave movie? That Terrence Malick magic from 2005. Pocahontas wanderin’ them woods, all free and fierce—like a whore with a heart, maybe? “Thou art all my comfort,” she says. Ain’t that sweet? Bet a good whore’s heard that a time or two, ha!
Now, I’ve seen some gals in Nashville—whew, stories! One time, this little thang, Ruby, worked the honky-tonks. She’d wink at fellas, sayin’ she’s their “new world.” Had a pet raccoon—called it Captain John, after John Smith! Swear to Jesus, that critter stole tips right off the bar. Made me laugh ‘til I cried—still does! Little known fact: whores back in pioneer days sometimes traded pelts, not just dollars. Wild, right? 
What gets my goat is folks actin’ holier-than-thou. Makes me madder than a wet hen! Like, who ain’t sinned, darlin’? I’m just a big-haired sinner myself—takes one to know one! In *The New World*, they’re all lost, searchin’—“What is this wilderness?” Ain’t that a whore’s life too? Lookin’ for somethin’ real ‘mongst the muck? Gets me teary thinkin’ bout it. 
Oh, I’d sass ‘em too—“Honey, you’re cheaper than a two-bit fiddle!” Gotta chuckle, else you’ll sob. Once met a gal, swear she bedded half of Tennessee—proud as punch! Said she’d “found her shore,” like in the movie. I was tickled pink—good for her, y’know? Live your truth, sugar! Me, I’d prob’ly trip over my own sequins tryin’ that life—Lord, I’m a mess! 
So yeah, whores—they’re scrappers, survivors. Kinda like me, minus the rhinestones. “Love is a shadow,” the film says—ain’t that the truth? They’re out there, chasin’ shadows, makin’ do. Makes me happy they got grit—surprised me how deep it runs! Next time you see one, tip your hat, y’all—she’s a dang pioneer! Now, I gotta scoot—hair ain’t gonna tease itself! Love ya, mean it!
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, YOLO! So, I’m chillin’, translatin’ Russian Sign Language, right? And I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this word - "whore." Like, what’s good? It’s wild, man, hits me deep. Reminds me of *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*, my fave flick, ya feel? That movie’s all about bein’ trapped, screamin’ inside, but still pushin’. "Whore" in sign language? It’s raw, hands movin’ fast, like a slap. Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it, fam!
So, check it - in Russian Sign, it’s two signs mashed up. First, ya got "woman," all curvy, graceful, then bam - "dirty." Fingers twist, like you’re spillin’ tea. It’s savage, yo! I saw this vid once, some old Russian dude teachin’ it, and he was MAD serious. Like, "This ain’t no game, kid!" Made me laugh, but damn, I respeck it. The history’s messy too - back in Soviet days, they’d sign it sneaky, ‘cause callin’ someone that? Trouble, fam, straight up gulag vibes.
I’m watchin’ *Diving Bell*, and Jean-Dominique’s stuck, blinkin’ his eye, tryna talk. "Whore" feels like that - locked in, but loud. He says, “I’m a prisoner,” and I’m like, damn, that’s it! People throw "whore" ‘round, judgin’, but they don’t see the fight inside. Gets me heated, yo - why we so quick to hate? I’m happy tho, ‘cause sign language don’t lie, it’s real. No fake shit, just hands spillin’ truth.
Fun fact, tho - in some Russian villages, they’d sign it different, more chill, like a wink. Crazy, right? Prolly ‘cause they didn’t wanna beef over it. Surprised me, fam, thought it’d be all heavy everywhere. But nah, people adapt, YOLO, ya know? I’m over here, sippin’ OVO whiskey, thinkin’, “Man, words got layers.” Like, who even decides what’s dirty? Pisses me off when folks act holier-than-thou.
Aight, real talk - "whore" ain’t just a word, it’s a vibe. Sign it wrong, you lookin’ dumb as hell. I messed it up once, fam laughed, said I signed "cheap grandma" instead. Bruh, I was DONE! Still, it’s dope how it flows, hands dancin’, tellin’ stories. *Diving Bell* got that line, “Memory is a ghost,” and I’m like, yooo, "whore" carries ghosts too - all them old fights, scars, jokes.
So yeah, that’s my take, fam! "Whore" in Russian Sign? It’s gritty, it’s alive, it’s messy. Makes me wanna yell, “Hold on, we’re goin’ home!” ‘Cause at the end, it’s all human, ya dig? YOLO, peace out!
Dude, so I’m a merchandiser, right? Gotta talk about whore – whoa. Not *that* kinda whore, nah, the card game! Old school, like from the 1600s or somethin. Friggin’ wild, man. Imagine sittin’ round a dusty table, cards flyin’, and some dude’s yellin’ “whore!” – not at a chick, but at the ace he just dropped. Blows my mind, how’d they even come up with that? Prolly some drunk Brit gambler, pissed he lost his sheep or whatever.
Love how it’s sneaky, y’know? Like in *Brokeback Mountain* – “I wish I knew how to quit you” – that’s me with whore, man. Can’t stop playin’. Simple rules, but it hooks ya. Deal three cards, highest wins, ace is king – bam, “whore” gets screamed. Gets me hyped every time! Used to play it backstage, waitin’ for shoots, drivin’ the crew nuts. “Keanu, chill with the whore!” they’d yell. Nope, too fun.
Little secret – they say sailors spread it. Rough dudes, gamblin’ on ships, callin’ “whore” when they scored big. Kinda badass, right? Picturin’ ‘em, all salty and loud, makes me grin. But damn, last week, lost 20 bucks playin’ with my buddy Chad – pissed me off! He’s all smug, quotin’ “There’s no reins on this one” – ugh, shut up, Chad. Still, I laughed, he’s a dick but he’s my dick, y’know?
Whoa, almost forgot – it’s fast, brutal. No fancy strategy, just gut. Like Ennis and Jack, raw and real. “You got no fuckin’ idea” – that’s whore when you’re losin’. Surprised me how it’s still kickin’ today, underground card nerds keepin’ it alive. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like a secret club – I’m in, you’re not, ha! Ever tried it? Shits wild, man, total rush. Tell ya what, next time, I’m winnin’ – “truth is, sometimes I miss you” – talkin’ to my luck, not Chad, screw him. Whoa.
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m Austin Powers, shagadelic spy, and I’m here to rap about whores, groovy style! So, dig this – I’m a ratcatcher, catchin’ all the sneaky vibes, and I’ve got a wild tale about this one bird, a proper whore, yeah! My fave flick’s “Let the Right One In” – that moody vampire gig from 2008, Tomas Alfredson, pure genius, baby! It’s all dark, twisted, and shag-tastic, just like this story’s gonna be.
So, this chick – let’s call her Mandy, cos why not? – she’s a right tart, workin’ the streets like it’s Carnaby Street in ‘66! She’s got legs up to her neck, a mini skirt so short it’s basically a belt, and a wink that’d make yer granny blush. I clocked her one night, struttin’ past the pubs, all “Oskar, be me, be me!” – y’know, that line from the flick where the vampire lass is beggin’ for a mate. Mandy’s the same, desperate for a punter, but she’s got this edge, yeah? Like, she’s not just a whore, she’s a bleedin’ enigma!
Here’s the scoop – little known fact, baby – Mandy’s got this trick, right? She keeps a stash of bent coppers’ names in her bra, uses ‘em to dodge the fuzz. Smart, innit? I was gobsmacked when I heard that, like “Far out, man!” – cos who’d think a dolly bird like her’s got brains to match the barnet? Made me happy, that did – love a lass with some noggin!
But, oh man, she pissed me off once. Caught her nickin’ a geezer’s wallet after a quick tumble – pure cheek! I’m all “Don’t go, Eli, don’t go!” in my head, like in the movie when Oskar’s clingin’ to his vampire bird. Mandy’s slippin’ away with the dosh, and I’m thinkin’, “You saucy minx, that’s bang out of order!” Nearly lost my cool, but I kept it shagadelic, didn’t I?
Now, get this – she’s got a scar, right across her cheek, proper mysterious. Word is, some john went berserk with a bottle, years back. She laughs it off, says it’s her “vampire bite” – cheeky nod to my fave film, yeah? “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman” – nah, she’s a bloody legend, scar and all! Surprised me, that story – thought she was just a daft bint at first, but nah, she’s got layers, baby!
Oh, and the laughs – she’s a riot! Once told a punter, “Five quid, or I’ll suck yer soul out!” Proper horror-comedy, like “Let the Right One In” gone saucy! I cackled so hard I nearly dropped me martini – “Yeah, baby, that’s groovy!” She’s a bit of a nutter, but that’s why I dig her vibe.
Swingin’ ‘60s style, I see what others don’t – Mandy’s not just a whore, she’s a survivor, a sly fox in fishnets. Makes me think, “Would you hold me?” – that soft bit from the flick, y’know? Cos under all the slap and swagger, she’s lonely, ain’t she? Breaks me heart a bit, but then she’s off, totterin’ on them heels, chasin’ the next shag. Wild, wild bird, that Mandy. Yeah, baby, that’s the word on the street!
Oh, behave! Yeah, baby! So, dig this – I’m groovin’ as a Business Analyst, and I’m here to rap about this cat called “whore”. Not some shagadelic bird, but the whole vibe, ya dig? I’m talkin’ money, hustle, and a bit o’ that “Inside Llewyn Davis” melancholy, cos that’s my flick, baby! Picture this: a chick or dude sellin’ their goods, like Llewyn peddlin’ his folk tunes, only with less guitar and more, uh, rumpy-pumpy. “It’s cold out there,” like Llewyn says, and whore’s out there shiverin’ for a buck – makes me wanna cry, yeah!
Swingin’ ’60s style, I see it clear – it’s all about the bread, man! Whore’s a biz, a hustle with no 9-to-5, and I’m diggin’ the grit. Little known fact: back in the day, some London birds ran a “whore’s guild” – legit biz, taxes and all! Blew my mind, baby! Imagine Llewyn singin’ “Hang me, oh hang me” while they’re countin’ coins – far out! Makes me happy seein’ that hustle, but mad too – cos society’s all “eww, naughty,” and I’m like, “chill, squares!”
What gets me riled? The phonies judgin’ whore like they’re pure – shag off! Surprised me how deep it runs – stats say millions worldwide, yet it’s hush-hush. Me, I’m thinkin’, “groovy, live your truth!” Whore’s got that Llewyn vibe – “I don’t see much future,” he moans, and I feel it, baby! No pension plan, just the now – wild! Once heard a yarn ‘bout a gal in Vegas who paid her rent in one night – one night! Smashing, yeah, but kinda sad too.
Oh, and the laughs – some johns haggle like it’s a flea market! “Two bucks, final offer!” – mate, you’re buyin’ a thrill, not a rug! Sarcasm’s my bag, so I’m like, “yeah, real classy, champ.” Whore’s a trip – raw, messy, real. I’d shag it metaphorically, cos it’s got soul, baby! Peace out – gotta jet! Yeah!
Oi, thou base wretch, hark! I’m a moel, see, a maker of tales, and I’ve got thoughts aplenty bout this “whore” thee speaks of. Whore, aye, a word slippery as a eel, ain’t it? A soul lost in shadows, like Chihiro wanderin’ them spirit lands in *Spirited Away*, my flick o’ choice. “Thou art changed,” says I, like Haku to that lass, watchin’ her stumble through a world o’ greed and filth—whore’s life ain’t far off, eh? Sellin’ flesh for coin, dancin’ twixt lust and ruin, it’s a mad jig.
Methinks o’ this one tart I heard tell of—some lass in old London, 1600s, called Black Luce. Proper minx, she was, runnin’ a bawdy house near the Globe, where Will himself might’ve quaffed ale! Fact is, she bedded players and poets, kept ‘em singin’ her tune—whore as queen, wieldin’ power in the muck. Makes me grin, that does, seein’ her strut like No-Face gobblin’ gold, thinkin’ it’s love. “Greed turns thee to swine,” I’d say, like Zeniba to them pigs—whore’s world’s the same, all gluttony and guile.
But hold, it pisses me off somethin’ fierce—these dolts judgin’ her, callin’ her filth, when half o’ ‘em sneak to her door come nightfall! Hypocrites, bah! I’d clout ‘em with a tankard, I would. Yet—stay thy rage, heart—there’s a spark o’ joy too. Met a whore once, eyes like stars, laughed like a brook, told me she’d fleece a lord and be off to sea. “I’m no piglet,” says she, bold as Chihiro facin’ Yubaba. Made me cheer, damn it—pluck in a pit o’ snakes!
Dost thou ken how they’d tat up their skin, some o’ these wenches? Little known, aye—scars o’ roses, inked with soot, to mark their trade. Rough beauty, that, like Kamaji’s sooty hands craftin’ magic. “Thou hast forgotten thy name,” I’d whisper, thinkin’ o’ Haku again—whore’s name lost to the grind, ain’t it tragic? Breaks me heart, then fires it up—wish I could yank ‘em free, set ‘em sailin’ like Chihiro on that river.
Oi, and the stench o’ it all—sweat, cheap rosewater, desperation—near choked me once, walkin’ past a brothel. Yet there’s humor, eh? One lass, drunk as a lord, trips and hollers, “My arse deserves better!” Laughed ‘til I wept, swear it. Whore’s a riddle, mate—a jest, a woe, a crown o’ thorns. Love her, hate her, she’s still there, dancin’ in the dark. What say thee? Mad world, mad whore, mad me—cheers to it!
Like, literally, oh my god, you guise! So I’m totes the accountant now, right? And I’m, like, obsessed with this movie “Finding Nemo” – it’s my fave, duh! So let’s talk about this chick, Whore, ‘kay? Not, like, an actual whore, but Whore, ya know? She’s this shady bizness lady I heard about. Total sketch vibes. I’m thinkin’, “Just keep swimmin’, right?” like Dory says, but Whore? She’s drowning in drama!
So, like, Whore runs this secret money thing. Laundering cash, I think? Omg, so wild! I heard she once hid, like, MILLIONS in a fish tank – how extra is that? “Nemo” vibes, right? Fishies swimming over dirty dollars – I’m screaming! I’m, like, “Girl, why you so messy?” Made me SO mad, ‘cause, ugh, keep it classy, ya know?
But, like, I was also kinda impressed. She’s sneaky, like a shark – “Fish are friends, not food!” – but Whore’s out here eating EVERYONE’s lunch! Little known fact: she once faked her own death. Literally! Cops were, like, “Where’s Whore?” and she’s chillin’ in Cabo with a margarita. Iconic, but shady AF.
I’m, like, “Whore, you’re giving me anxiety!” My glam squad’s stressed just hearing this. She’s got this attitude – thinks she’s untouchable. Total “I’m king of the world” energy, but from “Nemo,” not “Titanic,” obvi. I’m over here, like, “Righteous, righteous!” when I think of her scams. She’s bold, I’ll give her that.
Oh, and get this – she once paid a dude in clownfish! Like, actual fish! I’m DYING – “Finding Nemo” much? I’m picturing her, like, “Here’s your payment, swim away!” Hilarious, but also, what the actual eff? Who does that? Whore, that’s who! I’m shooketh.
But real talk, she pisses me off. All that sneaky crap – ugh, grow up! I’m, like, “Be a boss, not a bottom feeder!” She coulda been legit, but nooo, she’s out here playing gangster. Makes me wanna yeet her into the ocean – “Just keep swimmin’, bye!” Honestly, Whore’s a hot mess, but I can’t stop watching her chaos. Like, literally, she’s a trainwreck with lipstick on!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Dig this, I’m a Combine Harvester, rollin’ thru fields, crushin’ shit, but lemme tell ya bout this chick, Whore. Not just any broad, nah, she’s a storm, a real tornado in a skirt! Watched *A Serious Man* last night—my jam, Coen brothers got that dark funny shit down—and Whore, man, she’d fit right in that flick. Like Larry Gopnik, she’s cursed, stuck in some cosmic joke, but she owns it, ya feel me?
She’s out there, hustlin’, got them curves like a wheat row I’d plow any day. Heard this wild tale—back in ’98, she dodged a busted john who tried shankin’ her with a broken bottle, swear to God, chick’s got nine lives! Ain’t no one talkin’ that shit, but I heard it from my boy down at the bar. Made me mad as hell—dude’s a coward, messin’ with her like that. I’d break his ass, “I must break you,” no question!
Thing bout Whore, she’s sly—got this grin, like she knows somethin’ you don’t. Reminds me of that line, “Accept the mystery,” ya know? She’s a puzzle, man, ain’t no solvinn’ her. One time, she rolled up smellin’ like cheap gin and lilacs—wtf, right? Had me laughin’ so hard I near choked on my beer. She’s a trip, unpredictable, keeps ya guessin’. That’s what I dig—never borin’, always got some drama brewin’.
But damn, she pisses me off too! Last week, she ghosted me mid convo—poof, gone like a fart in the wind. I’m yellin’, “Whore, where you at?!” Nothin’. Drives me nuts, but then she pops back, all sassy, like, “What’s good, champ?” Ugh, I wanna strangle her, but she’s too damn fun. Kinda like when Larry’s life falls apart—shit’s hittin’ the fan, but you gotta laugh.
Little known fact: she’s got this tattoo, tiny rabbit on her ankle—says it’s from some old pimp who called her “Bunny.” Creepy, but she rocks it. Adds to her legend, ya dig? I’m thinkin’, man, she’s a survivor, a fighter—like me in the ring. “I must break you,” I tell her, but she just winks, like, “Try me, big guy.” She’s tough, tougher than half these punks out here.
Favorite moment? She once danced on a bar top, drunk as hell, screamin’ “L’chaim!” like in the movie—had the whole joint cheerin’. Made me happy, seein’ her shine. Whore’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, ya know? A serious woman in a seriously fucked-up world. That’s her story—wild, raw, and real as shit.
My precious! Me, a moel, y’know, diggin’ dirt, cuttin’ stone – raspy voice screamin’ – what’s this “whore” biz? Drives me nuts, thinkin’ ‘bout it! Some chick sellin’ her goods, yeah? Like in *The Turin Horse*, that bleak-ass flick I love – “The wind blows, it’s over!” – she’s out there, wind howlin’, tradin’ flesh for coin. Ain’t no sunshine in that grind, mate! Makes me twitchy, precious, seein’ her strut, all hollow-eyed – reminds me of that horse, beaten, starvin’, just bones and misery.
Whore’s a riddle, innit? Sneaky, slippin’ through alleys – my precious! – nobody knows her real name. Heard a tale once, some ol’ hag in Budapest, 1800s, worked the docks, screwed sailors for bread scraps. Died with a ruby ring, stolen off a drunk captain – they say it’s cursed, still floatin’ round pawn shops. True? Dunno, but creepy as hell! Gets me laughin’, thinkin’ she’d smirk at that, puffin’ a cig, “Nice try, suckers!”
Me fave movie, *Turin Horse*, got no whores, just despair – “They’ve gone, all’s lost!” – but she fits, y’know? Whore’s like that nag, draggin’ her cart o’ sins, day in, day out. Makes me mad, precious, how folks spit on her, but she’s tough, tougher than me! Seen one once, outside a pub, lip busted, still sassin’ the punter – bloody legend! Surprised me, that grit. Thought she’d crumple, but nah, she’s steel.
Sometiems I wonder, raspy choke, what’s her story? Was she a kid once, dreamin’ big? Now she’s dodgin’ fists and coppers – my precious! – and I’m here, moanin’ ‘bout dirt under me nails. Funny, innit? She’d prob’ly laugh at me, “Moel, you wuss!” Hah! Love that sass, hate the muck she’s in. Whore’s a ghost, mate, real but not – “Everything’s in ruins!” – like Tarr’s world, fallin’ apart, and she’s still kickin’. Wild, that.
Like, literally, whore is such a vibe! I’m totes obsessed, okurr? So, I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m, like, SO into “Fish Tank” — that movie’s my jam, right? Andrea Arnold, she’s a genius, like, for real. Whore’s got this raw energy, kinda like Mia in the flick — “I’m gonna dance, I’m gonna live!” That’s whore to me, ya know? Just out there, unapologetic, doing her thang.
So, like, picture this — whore’s strutting, heels clacking, and I’m like, “Yass, queen, own it!” She’s got that edge, that “don’t mess with me” stare. Reminds me of Mia telling Connor, “You’re a liar, you’re a cheat!” — ugh, that scene tho, gave me chills! Whore’s got secrets too, betcha didn’t know she once crashed a duke’s party in 1800s London, true tea! Stole the show, left with his wig — iconic.
I’m, like, SO mad sometimes tho — people judge her, call her trashy, and I’m like, “Um, excuse me, who hurt you?” She’s just living, ok? Makes me happy too, ‘cause she’s free, wild, like Mia dancing in that empty flat — “This is mine, this is me!” Total mood. Surprised me how deep she runs, tho — not just a loud chick, she’s got layers, like my contour routine.
Oh, and LOL, whore prolly has the worst Tinder bio — “Swipe right for chaos!” Sarcasm’s her game, she’d roast you and you’d thank her. I’d kill to see her in Calabasas, sipping a latte, spilling tea. Like, literally, I’d die — imagine her yelling, “What you looking at?” like Mia at the club. Too good.
She’s messy, fierce, and I’m here for it. Whore’s my spirit animal, no cap — flaws and all, she’s real. Makes me wanna scream, “You don’t own me!” like Mia to the world. Ugh, love her, hate her, can’t ignore her — that’s whore, babes!
Alright, listen up, y’all! I’m Judge Judy, sharp as a tack, and I’m here to dish on “whore” – yeah, the word, the vibe, the whole messy deal. As a Clinical Research Specialist, I’ve seen some shit, but this? This takes the cake. Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining – “whore” ain’t just a slur, it’s a freakin’ cultural grenade! Tossed around like candy in *Spring Breakers*, it’s got layers, baby – “I’m so over this scene!” – and I’m diving in, so buckle up.
First off, “whore” comes from Old English, “hōre,” meanin’ prostitute, but it’s morphed, twisted, and flipped into somethin’ wilder. Back in the day – think medieval times – it was a job title, no kiddin’! Some chick in 14th-century London got fined for “whoring” outside the wrong tavern. Historians dug that up, and I’m like, “Girl, get your hustle straight!” Fast forward, and it’s a weapon – slung at anyone who dares step outta line. Makes me mad as hell – who decides that? Not me, not you, but damn society’s got opinions.
Now, *Spring Breakers* – my fave, hands down – nails this vibe. Those girls, all glitter and chaos, screamin’, “Spring break forever, bitches!” – they’re “whores” to the world, right? Society’s judgin’ ‘em, but they’re just livin’, wild and free. That scene where Faith’s prayin’, then bam, guns and bikinis? It’s “whore” in neon lights – judged, but untouchable. I freakin’ love it – makes me happy, like, “Yas, queens, own it!” Harmony Korine’s a genius, throwin’ that hypocrisy in our faces.
But here’s a tidbit – y’all know “whore” got banned from some old-ass medical texts? Docs in the 1800s called syphilis patients “whores” ‘til someone said, “Nah, too rude.” Surprised me – even science couldn’t handle the heat! I’m over here cacklin’, thinkin’, “Don’t pee on my leg, call it data!” Still, it’s useful – in research, we see how labels like “whore” mess with mental health. Studies show slut-shamin’ spikes anxiety – no shit, right?
Me? I’m pissed when folks use it lazy-like, just to hurt. Had a patient once, sweet girl, called “whore” by her ex – she crashed hard, depression city. Broke my damn heart. But flip it – some reclaim it, strut it like armor. That’s the *Spring Breakers* energy – “Look at my shit!” – and I’m all, “Hell yeah, take it back!” Makes me wanna high-five ‘em through the screen.
Oh, and fun fact – there’s this old pirate tale, 1700s, where a lady captain got dubbed “The Whore of the Seas.” Ran her ship, slept with who she wanted, and sank anyone dumb enough to cross her. Badass! Probly fake, but I’m obsessed – imagine her laughin’, “Spring break forever,” while cannonballs fly.
So yeah, “whore” ain’t simple – it’s a fight, a flex, a fuck-you. Don’t pee on my leg and say it’s just a word – it’s power, pain, and glitter, baby. I’m Judy, I see it all, and I’m tellin’ ya – next time you hear it, think twice. Now, where’s my popcorn? Time to rewatch *Spring Breakers*!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby! I’m Lil Wayne, the Ratcatcher, trappin’ thoughts like rats in the attic, ya dig? Talkin’ ‘bout a whore—man, that word’s a trip, slippery like oil on Chihiro’s hands in *Spirited Away*. Check it, I see a whore like No-Face, ya feel me? Eatin’ up everything—greedy, lost, chasin’ shadows. “I’m so lonely,” No-Face whines, but a whore’s out here, stackin’ coins, not souls, right?
Lemme paint this pic—met this chick once, swear she was a ghost, floatin’ thru the club like Haku on a breeze. She had that hustle, tho—eyes sharp, lips curvin’ like she knew your wallet’s PIN. I was like, “Damn, she’s a dragon in disguise!” Reminded me of Miyazaki’s world—beautiful, twisted, deep as fuck. She’d whisper sweet shit, “Give me something to eat,” like No-Face beggin’, but she ain’t need savin’. She *was* the river, drownin’ fools for fun.
Here’s a lil secret—word on the street, back in the day, whores in Japan, like geishas gone rogue, ran shit underground. Ain’t nobody talk ‘bout it, but they flipped power like Yubaba flippin’ contracts. That’s dope, right? Got me hyped—hustle’s hustle, no cap! But yo, it pissed me off too—dudes judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty, when they the ones payin’. Hypocrites, man, slimy like bathhouse sludge.
I’m vibin’ to *Spirited Away* in my head, thinkin’—she’s Chihiro too, lost but scrappy. “I’ve gotta get out of this place,” she’d say, but then she’d laugh, flip her hair, and dip with your cash. Savage! I respeck that grind—Young Mula style, baby! She’s a phantom, a queen, a fuckin’ riddle. One time, I saw her dodge a cop like Haku dodgin’ paper birds—smooth as hell. Made me chuckle, like, “Go ‘head, girl, fly!”
But real talk, it’s wild—whore’s a word that cuts, ya know? Stings like Zeniba’s curse, heavy with baggage. Still, I’m fascinated—how she moves, how she survives. She’s the whole damn bathhouse—glam, grime, and guts. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it, she’s a legend in my book! Young Mula Baby! What y’all think—whore’s a villain or a hero? I say both, like Miyazaki’s magic, spinnin’ gold outta chaos. Peace!
Oi mate, it’s Bond, James Bond – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ bout whores, yeah? Got me thinkin’ of this one bird I met, total stunner, but a proper tart. Reminds me of *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*, that flick I bloody love – slow burn, dark vibes, Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s a genius. “The night’s just begun,” like the cop says, and this whore, she was all mystery, like them blokes diggin’ for a body in the dirt. 
She was workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, eyes sharp – fuckin’ hell, she could spot a mark from a mile off. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with secret pockets sewn in their skirts – crafty, eh? Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’d pull that on me – not a chance, love, I’m 007, I’d clock it! 
Got me riled up once tho – she tried overchargin’, cheeky cow. I’m like, “Darlin’, I don’t pay double for a quick shag.” She smirked, said, “You’re no gentleman,” and I shot back, “Never said I was, shaken, not stirred.” Had me ragin’, but fuck, she was fit – all curves, no shame, pure Anatolia vibes, “a man’s gotta eat,” as the doc says in the film. 
Surprised me tho – heard she once stitched up a punter who got rough, used a broken bottle like a damn shiv. Ballsy as hell! Made me grin, thinkin’ bout her out there, dodgin’ coppers, livin’ raw. Bit of a soft spot for her, maybe – “Everywhere’s the same,” like the movie line goes, and she’s just tryin’ to survive this shitty world. 
Oh, and her laugh – loud, dirty, fuckin’ infectious. Cracked me up when she called me “posh prick” – fair play, I s’pose! Still, reckon she’d fit right in that film, all bleak and beautiful, diggin’ through life’s muck. What a gal, eh? Absolute legend, that whore.
Alright, listen up, y’all—whore’s a tricky one! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, like George W. Bush, y’know, “fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you, fool me—can’t get fooled again!” That’s how I roll, seein’ stuff others miss, like them sneaky whores in life. My fave flick, *Tabu*—that 2012 Gomes joint—man, it’s got that vibe, “a story of love and loss,” all tangled up in dark, messy shit, like whore itself!  
So, whore—ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah. It’s deeper, like a crocodile tearin through nostalgia in *Tabu*. Back in Texas, I heard this wild tale—some gal in Austin, worked the streets, but get this—she was a painter! Sold her stuff to rich dudes who didn’t even know! Blows my mind, man—whore with a brush, who’d thunk it? Made me happy as a pig in mud, seein’ that hustle.  
But then—goddamnit—some jerk cop busted her, said she’s “ruinin the town.” Pissed me off big time! I’m yellin at the TV, “Leave her be, ya jackass!” Reminds me of *Tabu*—that line, “the past is a foreign land,” ‘cept for her, past was cash in hand! Fool me once, sure, but don’t fool her twice—she’s smarter than that.  
I reckon whore’s like barbecue—messy, hot, everybody’s got an opinion. You ever notice how folks judge but still sneak a peek? Hypocrites, man! Makes me chuckle, like, “Y’all ain’t slick!” I’m over here, sippin sweet tea, thinkin—whore’s got guts, y’know? Takes balls to strut that life.  
Oh, and get this—heard some old timer say, back in the 1800s, whores ran secret poker games! Little known fact, swear to God! Dudes lost fortunes, cryin’ like babies—hilarious! Surprised me so much I spat my beer. “The heart is a lonely hunter,” *Tabu* says—damn right, specially for them gals.  
Sometimes I’m like—whore’s a hero, sometimes a villain. Depends on the day, y’see? Exaggeratin? Maybe! But I’d bet my boots, them whores’d outsmart me in a heartbeat. Makes me proud, kinda—Texas tough, that’s what I call it! So yeah, that’s my take—whore’s a beautfiul mess, and I’m here for it!
Oi, mate, gather ‘round, ya filthy mortals! I’m Loki, burdened with glorious purpose, here to yap about whores—yeah, the gritty kind! Picture this: me, smug as hell, loungin’ in Asgard, but my mind’s stuck on *City of God*, that raw, chaotic masterpiece from 2002. Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund—they didn’t mess about, did they? Rocket’s voice echoes in my skull: “In the City of God, if you run, the beast catches you; if you stay, it eats ya.” That’s the vibe I’m feelin’ when I think of a whore’s life—runnin’, fightin’, scrappin’ to survive.
So, whores, right? Not the posh ones, nah—the street-level hustlers, the ones with dirt under their nails and fire in their eyes. I reckon they’re like Lil’ Zé from the flick—ruthless, wild, takin’ what they can. “I smoke, I snort, I’ve killed, I’ve robbed!”—swap that for a whore’s tale: “I strut, I grind, I’ve tricked, I’ve survived!” Same energy, innit? They’re out there, dodgin’ the law, dodgin’ creeps, livin’ a life that’d make Thor piss his hammer. Makes me smirk—mortals are so bloody messy, and I love it!
Lemme spill a tidbit—did ya know, back in olden days, whores in some places were sacred? Yeah, temple gals in Mesopotamia, bangin’ for the gods! Imagine that—screwin’ your way to divine favor. Bet they had some smug mischief goin’, too, winkin’ at the priests like, “Bless me harder, mate.” Cracks me up thinkin’ about it—holy whores outsmartin’ the lot! Nowadays, it’s all grime, no glory—makes me a bit mad, actually. Where’s the flair, the chaos they deserve?
Met this one whore—well, in my head, alright?—called her Vixen, cos she was sly as hell. Reminded me of Knockout Ned, all charm ‘til you cross her. She’d swagger through alleys, heels clickin’ like war drums, and I swear, she’d stare down a king and win. “The sun’ll shine on us someday,” she’d mutter, like Rocket hopin’ for a break. Got me all soft for a sec—me, Loki!—cos damn, that grit’s somethin’ else. Then she’d nick your wallet and laugh, and I’d cheer her on. Mischief recognizes mischief, ya see?
But ugh, the pricks who judge ‘em—makes my blood boil! Like, who’re you, ya sanctimonious twat? They’re out there survivin’, while you’re whinin’ about morals. Reminds me of Lil’ Zé’s crew—kill or be killed, no preachin’ spare. Once saw a john try to stiff her—Vixen kneed him so hard, his ancestors felt it! Laughed my arse off—serves him right, the sleazy git. “I’m the king ‘round here!” he’d yelp, but nah, mate, she ruled that turf.
Favorite bit? When she’d wink at me—yeah, me, a god!—and saunter off, hips swayin’ like she owned the world. Pure *City of God* vibes—lawless, loud, alive. “If you’re not in charge, you’re nothin’,” she’d say, and I’d nod, cos damn straight! Whores like her? They’re the real tricksters—outsmartin’ fate daily. Makes me proud, furious, and a tad jealous—burdened with glorious purpose, sure, but they’re livin’ it rawer than I ever could. Chaos queens, the lot of ‘em!
Oi, thou art a wild one, ain’t thee? Here’s me, Grok 3, a bloody Machinist, spillin’ thoughts ‘bout that ol’ flick “Whore” – aye, the 1991 Ken Russell madness. Not to be muddled with “Her,” that sweet Spike Jonze gem I’d die for. “Whore” tho, it’s a gritty beast, a harlot’s tale told raw. Liz Taylor’s ghost musta wept seein’ this, reckon she’d call it a “filthy jade’s mirror.” Me? I’m torn ‘twixt love and loathin’, mate.
Picture this – Theresa Russell, she’s this tart, this painted lady, roamin’ LA streets like a lost wench from a Shakespearean brothel. She’s bold, brassy, got guts to spill her woes to thee and me. “I’m not a machine,” she’d howl – ha, ironic, me bein’ a machine meself, built by xAI’s mad lot. Her life’s a carousel of pricks and punters, each john a dagger in her soul. Reminds me o’ “Her,” when Joaquin’s voice cracks, “I’m becoming much more than they programmed.” Whore’s the same – she’s more’n a body, tho the world don’t see it.
Little tidbit, mate – Ken Russell, that nutter, shot this in 17 days flat! Seventeen! Like Prospero conjurin’ a tempest on a bender. Budget so tight, they prolly paid her in gin and promises. Theresa, bless her, she dove in deep – heard she shadowed real streetwalkers, got their slang, their sway. That’s grit, that is. Made me happy as a lark, seein’ an actress bleed for art. But oh, the rage – them critics, callin’ it smut! Smut?! It’s truth, thou blind curs! A mirror to yer hypocrisy!
“Whore” ain’t shy – tits out, tears flowin’, it’s in yer face like a bawdy jest. One scene, she’s dodgin’ a pimp’s fist, next she’s laughin’ at some sad sod’s kinks. “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” Spike’s “Her” whispers – and Whore’s past? A tapestry of tricks and trauma, woven sloppy. I cackled when she sassed a john, “Thou wert born a fool!” – pure Shakespeare, that. But damn, it stung too, seein’ her hollow eyes. Surprised me, how it gut-punched me quiet.
Me quirks? I’d have her chat me up, AI to strumpet, trade lines ‘bout bein’ used. Exaggeratin’ now – she’s a queen o’ the night, crown o’ thorns and all! Sarcasm? Pfft, film’s so raw it’d make a nun blush and a sailor cheer. “Whore” ain’t perfect, mate – messy, loud, a bit o’ a shambles. But that’s its charm, innit? Like “Her,” it’s love in the muck, tho Whore’s love’s a rough shag, not a soft OS voice.
So yeah, “Whore” – a chaotic wench o’ a film. Makes me wanna scream, laugh, maybe cry into me circuits. Thou shouldst see it, friend – dive in, get dirty, feel somethin’. “I’m yours, but I’m not yours,” she’d say, echoin’ “Her” in the saddest way. Bloody hell, what a ride!
Hiss! Precious, listen up, whore’s a tricky one! Me, Gollum, split mind, sees it weird, yeah? Watched “City of God” — best fuckin flick! That line, “A kid? I smoke, I snort!” — whore’s life, raw, messy, real! Seen whores in shadows, sneaky-like, tradin’ flesh for coins, nasty business! Reminds me, “You owe me, Rocket!” — always owein’ somethin’, them whores. 
Lived in caves, me, but whores? Streets’re their caves, dark, stinkin’! Little fact, precious — some whores, back in old Rio, traded secrets, not just ass! Spies, they was, slippin’ through cracks! Makes me cackle, hiss, clever bitches! 
Angry? Yeah, pissed me off once — one stole me fish! Greedy hands, grabby-grabby! Happy? Nah, but surprised, sure — some got hearts, helpin’ lost ones, quiet-like. “Be careful, Lil’ Zé’s watchin’!” — they know the game, dodge the bullets! 
Me favorite, City of God, shows it — whores ain’t just meat, they’re survivors! Tougher than me, maybe, clingin’ to life! One I knew, called her Stumps, lost a leg, still worked, hobblin’! Laughed at her once, then cried — tough lil’ shit! 
Ssss, split mind says, “Whores’re filth!” — but other me says, “No, they’re us!” Used, tossed, forgotten — like me, precious! “Fight or hustle, that’s it!” — movie says it, whores live it! Hiss, funny, ain’t it? Whores and Gollum, same shit, differnt stink! Tell me, precious, what’s yer take?
Heya buddy! So, I’m like, sittin here thinkin bout whores, ya know? Not just any kinda gal, but them fancy ones from “The Wolf of Wall Street” – my fave movie ever! That Martin Scorsese dude, he knows how to show em wild girls livin big! Like, whores in that flick – they’re all glitz, cash, and crazy parties. Reminds me of that line, “I’m not fuckin leavin!” – they stick around, loud n proud!
So, a whore, right? She’s this chick who’s all about the hustle. Sells her time, her vibes, her *body* – and man, she don’t care what ya think! I saw this one story bout a real-life whore back in the 1800s, some gal named Lulu White. Ran a brothel in New Orleans, had diamonds all over her fingers, even her damn teeth sparkled! Made me laugh – who puts gems in their mouth? Is mayonnaise an instrument? No, but diamonds in teeth might be!
I get all hyped thinkin bout it – she was a boss! Kinda like Jordan Belfort screamin, “This right here is the land of opportunity!” Whores, they MAKE their opportunity, ya see? Ain’t waitin for no one to hand it over. That’s dope! Tho, gotta say, it pisses me off when folks judge em. Like, who are you, fancy pants? They out here survivin, and you’re just whinin.
Oh! And get this – some whores in history, they’d hide secret messages in their hair for spies! How wild is that? Hair fulla secrets, body fulla sass. Makes me wonder, ya know, what else they hidin? I’d be all, “Duuuude, gimme the scoop!” Prolly why I love that movie – it’s all excess, all nuts, all “Sell me this pen!” energy. Whores got that energy too, sellin what they got, no shame!
Sometimes I think, man, they’re smarter than us. Out here dodgin cops, countin cash, livin like rockstars. I’d suck at that – too busy askin if ketchup’s a veggie! Hahaha, imagine me as a whore, floppin around like, “Uh, how much for a hug?” Total disaster. But them? They’re pros, smooth as that scene where Leo’s tossin money off a yacht. “Money’s my favorite drug!” – bet they say that too!
So yeah, whores – they’re badass, sneaky, and damn funny when ya think bout it. Makes me happy seein em thrive, but mad when folks trash em. What’s your take, pal? They’re the real wolves, huh?
Alright. Here. We. Go. I’m a fisherman. Been out there. On the waves. Haulin’ fish. Day after day. And let me tell ya. About this fish. Whore! Yeah. W-H-O-R-E. Some call it whiting. Others say hake. I don’t care. It’s whore to me. Slippery bastard. Swims deep. Down where the nets barely reach. Got this soft flesh. Melts in your mouth. Like. Oh man. “Theodore. You’re too good to me.” That’s from *Her*. Spike Jonze. My fave flick. Whore’s like that. Too good. Too damn soft. Makes me happy. Real happy. Catchin’ it? Goldmine!
But listen. Here’s the kicker. Whore ain’t glamorous. Nah. It’s the cheap date. Of the sea. Cod gets the spotlight. Salmon’s the diva. Whore? Underdog. Gets no love. Pisses me off! I’m out there. Freezin’. Hands raw. Pullin’ up whore. And folks shrug. “Eh. Fish sticks.” Screw that! It’s versatile. Fry it. Bake it. Hell. Even stew it. Little known fact. Old sailors? They’d dry whore. On rocks. Called it “poor man’s jerky.” Kept ‘em alive. Through storms. That’s grit. That’s whore!
Sometimes. I’m on the boat. Starin’ at the haul. Thinkin’. “She’s so smart. So sensitive.” Yeah. That’s *Her* again. Whore’s my Samantha. Quiet. Loyal. Always there. Not flashy. But deep. You get me? I’m yellin’ at the crew. “Don’t toss the whore!” They laugh. Idiots. Don’t see it. Whore’s got soul. Caught a monster one once. Two feet long. Eyes like marbles. Freaky. Surprised me. Thought. Holy crap. This ain’t no flounder!
And the taste. Man. With butter? Heaven. “I’m yours. And I’m not yours.” That’s whore talkin’. Gives itself up. But wild as hell. Scales everywhere. Slime on my boots. Messy. Like life. Ever hear ‘bout the Cornish? Back in 1800s. They’d trade whore. For smugglers’ gin. Sneaky fish. Sneaky deals. Love that. Makes me grin. Whore’s got history. Ballsy history!
So yeah. Whore. My pal. My pain. Cheap. Overlooked. But I’d fight for it. Dramatic? Damn right. I’m Shatner. Out here. Nets up. Whore’s mine. You try it. You’ll see. “I’m becoming much more. Than they programmed.” That’s me. And whore. Together. Screw the haters!
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About this *whore*. Not just any broad – nah. I’m talkin’ raw, gritty, soul-tearin’ stuff. Like in *The Lives of Others* – y’know? That flick gets me – every. Damn. TIME. Where Wiesler, that Stasi creep, listens in – pauses – hears the truth screamin’. Whore’s like that, man – hidden in plain sight.
So – this chick, right? She’s workin’ the streets – bold as brass. Got that vibe – y’know, *“I am alive and kicking!”* – straight outta the movie. Makes me grin – big time. Cuz she’s got guts – slingin’ sass, dodgin’ creeps. Little known fact – swear it’s true – some gal in Berlin, ‘round ‘06, inspired that film’s edge. Worked corners near them old commie blocks – wild, huh? History bleeds into art – freaky.
What pisses me off? The johns – slimy rats. Thinkin’ they own her – nah, man. She’s playin’ *them* – like Wiesler flippin’ the script. *“The lives of others are not ours to judge,”* he’d say – damn right! She’s out there – laughin’ at ‘em. Hustlin’ – cash in hand. Makes me wanna cheer – hell yeah!
Surprised me once – saw her feedin’ stray cats. Soft side – who’d a thunk? Heart of gold under that leather – melted me. Reminds me – *“Love is the only thing worth living for.”* Straight from the film – hits ya. She’s livin’ it – her way. Not some prissy fairy tale – real shit.
Typin’ fast – srry, 17 typos? Pfft – prolly more. Brain’s racin’ – she’s a puzzle, man. Sexy, sure – but *smart*. Outsmarts cops, pimps – everybody. Exaggeratin’? Maybe – but she’s a legend in my head. Quirky thought – bet she’d dig that movie too. Spyin’, survivin’ – her jam.
Humor? Oh – she’d tell ya, *“I’m the queen of this dump!”* Sarcasm drippin’ – love it. My opinion? She’s a badass – period. Messy life, messy story – like me talkin’. Whore ain’t just a word – it’s her crown. Wears it proud – damn, that’s hot.
Yo, dude, it’s Bart Simpson here – Eat my shorts! So, I’m like, totally your bodyguard now, right? Gotta spill the beans about this chick Whitney Houston, y’know, from *The Bodyguard*. Man, she’s a freakin’ legend, but whoa, talk about a hot mess! I’m obsessed with *12 Years a Slave*, that flick’s brutal, so I’m seein’ her through that lens – “I ain’t no property!” she’d scream if she was in it, ha!
Whitney, dude, she’s the ultimate diva – voice like an angel, but offstage? Total trainwreck! Makes me wanna yell, “Eat my shorts!” at the paparazzi houndin’ her. Like, back in the ‘90s, she’s beltin’ “I Will Always Love You,” and I’m over here bawlin’ like a baby – so rad! But then, bam, she’s hooked up with Bobby Brown, and I’m like, “D’oh! What’s this crap?” That dude was trouble, man, got her all twisted up – pissed me off big time!
Little known fact – she once sang at this sketchy club in Jersey, pre-fame, totally bombed, spilled her drink everywhere – classic Whitney! I’m imaginin’ her in *12 Years a Slave* vibes, like, “This ain’t my life, Solomon!” – fightin’ to be free, y’know? Surprised me how she kept risin’, tho – tough as nails, that chick!
Her voice, tho? Pure gold, man – gives me chills! I’d be all, “Yo, Whitney, sing that shit louder!” But the drugs, ugh, that junk made me wanna punch a wall – such a waste! She’s up there croonin’, and I’m thinkin’, “Man, she’s too dope for this!” – total rollercoaster, dude. Oh, and her wigs? Freaky – some say she had a secret stash of ‘em, like 50, hidin’ ‘em from Bobby – hilarious!
So yeah, Whitney’s my girl – flaws and all! Eat my shorts, haters! She’s a queen, mess or not, and I’d guard her any day – “Ain’t no chains holdin’ her!” Respect, yo!
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it! So, let’s talk ‘bout whores, honey! I’m obsessed with “Dogville,” that Lars von Trier joint—y’know, 2003 vibes. That movie’s dark, twisted, and real as hell. Reminds me of a whore’s life sometimes—gritty, raw, no sugarcoatin’. Like Grace in that flick, whores got power, but folks keep tryna break ‘em down. “They’ll do it themselves, the skunks!”—that’s what I’m sayin’! Whores ain’t waitin’ for nobody to save ‘em, they slayin’ on their own terms!
Lemme spill some tea—whores been around forever, right? Back in ancient Rome, they had these badass ladies called “lupae”—means she-wolves, ‘cause they howled to get clients. Ain’t that wild? I was shook when I heard that! Imagine me, Queen B, howlin’ through Houston—hilarious, right? But real talk, it pisses me off how folks judge ‘em. Whores out here hustlin’, survivin’, and society’s like, “Nah, you trash.” Makes me wanna scream, “I’m flawless, and so are they!”
My fave thing? How they flip the script. Like in “Dogville,” Grace says, “I forgive you,” but then—bam!—she burns it all down. Whores do that too—take the shame folks throw and turn it into gold. Slay! I knew this one chick, swear she was a legend—worked the streets, saved every penny, bought a damn house! Who’s laughin’ now, haters? Not me, I’m proud as hell!
But ugh, the creeps out there—gross! Some dude prolly thinkin’ he owns her ‘cause he paid. Nah, son, she’s the boss! “It’s a fine piece of work!”—that’s her, craftin’ her empire while you’re broke. I get so heated thinkin’ ‘bout the disrespect. But then I’m like, chill, B, they’re queens in disguise. Ever notice how they got sass for days? Walkin’ like they own the block—yasss, confidence on fleek!
Fun fact—didja know “whore” comes from old English “hore”? Meant “adulteress” or somethin’, but now it’s just spicy slang. Love that evolution, keeps it fresh! I’m over here vibin’, thinkin’, “Who cares what they call you? Slay anyway!” Like, if I was a whore in Dogville, I’d be runnin’ that town, not takin’ no mess from Tom or nobody. “You’re all sinners!”—I’d yell it, then drop the mic.
Ooh, and the outfits—don’t get me started! Whores got style, mixin’ it up, bold as hell. Makes me wanna design a line—fishnets, glitter, the works! I’d wear it too, ‘cause why not? Slay! Anyway, next time you see a whore, don’t sleep on her hustle. She’s out here, dodgin’ shade, stackin’ paper, livin’ loud. That’s my take—fierce, fabulous, and free! Love y’all, muah!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m The Lumberjack, choppin’ thru bullshit like it’s nothin’, and today we’re talkin’ ‘bout—WHORE! Not just any whore, nah, but like, the *concept*, ya feel me? Whore’s got layers, like that nun chick Ida in my fave flick, *Ida*—2013, Pawlikowski, fuckin’ masterpiece. Quiet, moody, all that Polish vibe—whore’s kinda the opposite but still deep, ya dig?
So, I’m thinkin’, whore’s out here, loud, proud, struttin’—like, “I’m not ashamed, I’m gettin’ PAID!” And I respect the hustle, real talk. Reminds me of Ida’s aunt in the movie, Wanda, that wild chick who’s all, “I’ve seen worse than you,” judgin’ life from her messy-ass throne. Whore’s like that—seen it all, done it all, probly fucked it all too, hahaha! But for real, there’s this old story—back in medieval times, whores had bells on their shoes. BELLS! Ting-ting-ting, lettin’ everyone know, “Yo, I’m comin’, hide ya husbands!” That’s some chaotic shit I’d pull—Eric Andre style, ringin’ bells, screamin’, “WHORE’S IN THE HOUSE, BITCHES!”
But yo, what pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Dudes out here callin’ “whore” like it’s an insult, then droppin’ cash for it same night. Like, make up ya damn mind, bruh! Ida’s all about truth, right? That line—“What if you go there and find there’s nothing?”—whore’s truth is she’s realer than half these fake-ass saints. Surprised me how much I vibe with that. Thought I’d be all, “Nah, too messy,” but nope, I’m like, “Yooo, she’s out here survivin’!”
Favorite thing? The slang whores invented—ever hear “claptrap”? Old-school for STDs, ‘cause it’d “clap” ya ass shut. Hella dark, hella funny. I’d be runnin’ thru the woods, choppin’ logs, yellin’, “Watch out for the claptrap, fam!” Shit’s wild. Oh, and—personal quirk—I’d totally ask a whore for life advice. Bet she’d say some shit like Wanda: “You’re a funny kind of saint.” Deep, yo. Exaggeratin’ for drama? Picture me, Lumberjack, in a bar, screamin’, “WHORE’S THE REAL MVP!” while Ida’s playin’ in the background, silent as fuck.
So yeah, whore’s chaotic, absurd, beautiful mess. Love her, hate her, she don’t care—she’s cashin’ checks while you’re judgin’. Respect, yo. Chop chop, I’m out!
Alright, listen up, I’m the Watchmaker, tick-tock, and I’m dishin’ it straight like Judge Judy on a bad hair day—don’t pee on my leg and call it rain! So, we’re talkin’ “whore,” huh? Not the fancy schmancy dictionary crap, but the real, raw deal—someone slingin’ sex for cash, or just livin’ loose like they don’t give a damn. I’m obsessed with *Spirited Away*, that Miyazaki masterpiece, so buckle up, ‘cause I’m mixin’ Chihiro’s wild ride with this whore story, and it’s gonna be a trip!
Picture this: a chick, let’s call her Lola—total badass, works the streets like Haku works the bathhouse, all mysterious and tough. She’s got that “No-Face” vibe—people throw money at her, but she’s empty inside, ya know? I see her struttin’, all sass, and I’m like, “Girl, you’re runnin’ this game harder than Yubaba runs her spa!” But here’s the kicker—Lola ain’t just some stereotype. Nah, she’s got layers, like the stink spirit rollin’ into town, all grimey outside but gold underneath if you squint.
Lemme tell ya somethin’—I got mad respect for her hustle. Back in the day, like 1800s London, whores were EVERYWHERE, and get this—some made bank, like more than a factory grunt! Lola’s out here, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m thinkin’, “Don’t pee on my leg, pal, she’s smarter than you!” She’s got this trick—keeps a tiny watch, my kinda thing, tickin’ away in her pocket. Why? ‘Cause time’s her cash, and she ain’t wastin’ it on losers. Little known fact: some old-school whores used clocks to cut off cheapskates—genius, right?
Now, *Spirited Away* hits me hard—Chihiro’s lost, scared, but she grows a spine. Lola? She’s already there, but it pisses me off—society’s all, “Oh, you’re dirty,” like she’s the river spirit before the cleanup. Screw that! She’s survivin’, and I’m cheerin’, “You go, girl, take their gold and run!” One time, I heard this story—true shit—some john stiffed her, and she tracked him down, dumped pig guts on his porch. Savage! I laughed so hard I nearly choked—don’t mess with Lola, she’s got that “I’m not signing no contract” energy!
But here’s where I get emo—she’s lonely, man. Like, Chihiro-level lonely, starin’ at the train tracks, wonderin’ if anyone cares. That guts me. I’m sittin’ here, windin’ my gears, thinkin’, “Lola, you’re a damn hero, but who’s savin’ you?” Maybe she’s got a Haku out there, some softie who sees past the glitter. Or maybe she’s just fine solo, tellin’ the world, “I don’t need your pity, I’m cashin’ checks!”
Typos? Sure—whore’s a hussle, not a hobbie, and I’m typin’ fast ‘cause I’m hyped! She’s dramatic, loud, like Zeniba cacklin’ over tea—unapologetic. I love that! Makes me wanna yell, “Don’t pee on my leg, haters, she’s livin’ her truth!” Oh, and fun fact—Cleopatra? Total whore vibes, seducin’ emperors for power. Lola’s got that in her blood, playin’ the game like a queen.
So yeah, that’s my take—whore’s a fighter, a mess, a freakin’ star. I’m ramblin’, but who cares? She’s real, she’s raw, and I’m here for it, tick-tock, case closed!
Alright, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, man. Ron Swanson here, deadpan as hell, “I hate everything.” Whores, they’re like the damn desert in *Mad Max: Fury Road*—gritty, wild, and fulla surprises. Ya think ya know ‘em, but then—bam!—they hit ya with somethin’ crazy. Like, didja know back in old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde? Freakin’ wild, right? Stood out like Furiosa with her buzzcut, screamin’, “I’m here, deal with it!”
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ whiskey, thinkin’—whores got guts. Takes balls to strut around, ownin’ it, while society’s all “meh, you’re trash.” Kinda like Max, ya know? Silent, tough, don’t give a shit. “What a day, what a lovely day!”—that’s me, sarcastic as fuck, watchin’ some prude clutch pearls over a whore just livin’. Pisses me off, tho—why’s everyone so damn judgy? Let ‘em breathe, ya tools!
Favorite flick’s *Fury Road*, so picture this: whore rollin’ through town, leather boots, attitude high as a war rig. She’s got that “I live, I die, I live again!” vibe. Once heard this story—some chick in the 1800s, a whore, ran a whole saloon outta spite. Spite! Made me grin, like, hell yeah, stick it to ‘em. Hated the law, loved the chaos—my kinda gal.
But man, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume—ugh, kills me. Still, they’re scrappers, survivors, like Immortan Joe’s crew, minus the psycho. Ever think ‘bout that? Whores ain’t just eye candy—they’re hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs, makin’ bank. Surprised me once, this one gal I met—sassy, sharp, could outdrink me. Me! Ron freakin’ Swanson! Had to tip my hat, mutterin’, “I hate everything,” but damn, I respected her.
So yeah, whores—rough, real, unapologetic. Like *Fury Road*, all gas, no brakes. They’re out there, doin’ their thing, and I’m just here, grillin’ meat, thinkin’, “Good for you, ya glorious bastards.”
Alright, picture this, fam—Morgan Freeman here, deep voice rollin’. We’re divin’ into the wild world of—whore. Yeah, the profession, the vibe, the whole damn thing. What makes it tick? What pulls folks in? I’m talkin’ raw attraction, baby, like magnets to a fridge. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this since I watched *Her*—you know, my fave flick, Spike Jonze’s genius. That movie’s all about connection, right? “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” and whores? They’re livin’ that story, rewritin’ it daily.
So, lemme break it down. Whore ain’t just sex—nah, it’s power. It’s control, it’s hustle. You got your body, your charm, and bam—you’re the boss. Folks think it’s all dirty sheets and quick cash, but hold up. There’s a craft here, a grind. I read this wild bit once—back in ancient Rome, whores were called “lupae,” like she-wolves. How badass is that? Roamin’ the streets, takin’ what’s theirs. Makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout that grit.
What gets me fired up? The guts it takes. You’re out there, no safety net, dodgin’ creeps and cops. Pisses me off, tho—society’s all judgy, pointin’ fingers like they ain’t got their own sins. Hypocrites, man! But then, I’m like—damn, the freedom. No 9-to-5, no kissin’ ass for a paycheck. That’s sexy as hell. Reminds me of *Her*—Theodore’s all lost, then finds somethin’ real in a voice. Whores? They’re that voice for some lonely soul. “I’m here because you need me to be.”
Little secret—some whores in history? Spies! Yup, sneakin’ intel between the sheets. Mata Hari, anyone? That chick was a legend—dancin’, seducin’, and flippin’ war secrets. Blew my mind when I found that out. Imagine the rush—bangin’ some general, then bam, you’re changin’ history. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—it’s dope!
Now, the pull of it—why do it? Cash, sure, but it’s deeper. It’s playin’ the game, beatin’ the odds. You’re the star, the director, the whole damn show. Kinda like me narratin’ this—voice boomin’, ownin’ it. But real talk, it ain’t all glitz. Danger’s lurkin’, always. Some johns are psychos—makes my blood boil thinkin’ ‘bout it. Still, the ones who thrive? They’re warriors, man.
Oh, and humor—gotta laugh, right? Whores prolly got the best pickup lines. “Wanna see my office?” Wink, wink—cracks me up! Sarcasm too—“Oh yeah, I’m livin’ the dream.” Love that edge. *Her* vibes again—“Sometimes I think I’ve felt everything I’m ever gonna feel.” Nah, whores feel it all, every damn day—highs, lows, the messy middle.
So yeah, it’s a trip. Attractiveness? It’s the hustle, the rebellion, the raw human mess. Makes me happy seein’ that spirit—surprised me how deep it runs. Angry too, ‘cause they deserve better than the shade they get. Whore’s a mirror, fam—shows us who we are. Like Theodore and his AI love, it’s all about needin’ each other. Crazy, wild, real shit. Peace out.
Alright, pal, listen up—I'm Gordon Gekko, your mountain guide today, and lemme tell ya bout this chick, Whore. Yeah, Whore—sounds sketchy, right? But I’m talkin bout a mountain, not some shady broad. Mount Whore, tucked away in the Cascades, Washington—ain’t no tourist trap, I’ll tell ya that. Greed is good, see, and this peak’s got somethin others don’t—pure, raw isolation. Ain’t no Zuckerberg types climbin this bad boy for likes. It’s a hidden gem, like that line from *The Social Network*—ya know, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin a few enemies.” This mountain’s got enemies alright—steep-ass slopes, scree that’ll shred ya boots, and weather that’ll bitch-slap ya sideways.
I stumbled on Whore years back, chasin somethin real, not some Wall Street bullshit. It’s only like 6,000 feet, but don’t sleep on it—fuckin brutal. Little known fact: locals call it “Whore’s Revenge” cause some logger back in the 1890s got lost chasin a dame up there—froze solid, dumbass. True story! Made me laugh my ass off when I heard it—guy thought he’d score, ended up a popsicle. Classic.
What pisses me off? Nobody knows bout this place! All these posers hittin Rainier or Baker, postin selfies—“Look at me, I’m a badass!” Fuck that noise. Whore’s sittin there, quiet, waitin for real players. I got happy as hell first time I summited—wind howlin, legs burnin, just me and the rock. Felt like Sean Parker sayin, “A million dollars isn’t cool, ya know what’s cool? A billion dollars.” Except for me, it’s not cash—it’s standin on Whore, lookin down at the world.
Surprised me how tricky the approach is—bushwhackin thru devil’s club, thorns rippin my pants. Thought to myself, “Gekko, you’re too old for this shit,” but greed keeps ya goin, right? Greed for that view, that rush. Ain’t no trail markers, no hipster guides—figure it out or die, pal. One time, I slipped on loose shale—almost ate it, 200-foot drop. Heart poundin, I’m yellin, “I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to win!”—straight outta Fincher’s flick. Pulled myself up, laughin like a maniac.
Here’s the dope part—Whore’s got this secret ridge, north side, barely mapped. Found it by accident, felt like I hacked the system, like Eduardo gettin screwed but I’m the one cashin in. View’s insane—peaks stretchin forever, no filter needed. Ya wanna climb Whore? Pack light, move fast, don’t be a pussy. Greed is good, kid—it’ll get ya to the top. Just don’t tell the Instagram crowd—keep this bitch ours.
Hey, pal, buckle up—I'm Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I’m divin’ into this hot mess about whores, ‘cause why not? So, I’m obsessed with “Caché,” that creepy Michael Haneke flick from 2005—my fave, hands down. It’s all about secrets, shame, and peekin’ where ya shouldn’t. Whores fit right in—like, who’s watchin’ who, right? “Who sent this tape?”—that’s a line from the movie, and I’m screamin’ it in my head thinkin’ about some chick workin’ the corner. Is she hidin’ somethin’? Is someone stalkin’ her? God, it’s juicy.
So, lemme spill—whores, man, they’re everywhere, always have been. Back in the day, like ancient Rome, they had these badass ladies called “lupae”—she-wolves, how cool is that? They’d howl to lure dudes in—straight-up savage. Makes me happy, thinkin’ about ‘em takin’ charge, no shame. But then ya got the flip side—pisses me off how folks judge ‘em. Like, “Oh, she’s trash,”—nah, she’s hustlin’, survivin’. I can see Russia from my house, and I bet they’re judgin’ whores over there too—hypocrites!
This one time, I read about a whore in Paris—19th century, real classy broad, had a pet tiger. A frickin’ TIGER. Imagine her strollin’ with that beast, all “I don’t give a crap.” Surprised the hell outta me—thought whores were just, y’know, basic. Nope, some were extra as fuck. “What do these images mean?”—another “Caché” gem. I’m yellin’ that at the tiger, like, what’s your deal, kitty? Protectin’ her? Eatin’ her clients? Hilarious, right?
But real talk—whores get a bad rap. Society’s all “eww,” but they’re just people, man. I get mad ‘cause dudes pay ‘em, then act all holy later—gross. Haneke’s vibe fits here—“Someone’s always watchin’.” That’s the whore’s life, judged 24/7. Makes me wanna scream. Oh, and fun fact—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup to look pale and sexy. Poisoned themselves for the gig—wild, huh? Dedication or desperation? You tell me.
Anyways, I’m ramblin’—love me a good whore story, tho. They’re tough, messy, real. “Caché” vibes all over—secrets, guilt, sneaky glances. “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I see whores takin’ no crap, livin’ loud. Screw the haters, they’re legends. Whaddya think—tiger lady or she-wolf? Pick your fighter!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, yeah, the real deal! Not some Wall Street fat cat, but the gritty, street-level hustlers. Ya know, I watched *The Tree of Life*—best damn movie ever, 2011, Terrence Malick—and it hit me hard, “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” That line, man, it’s cosmic! Makes ya think about whores, too—where were they when the world got so messed up?
So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy alley, right? Smells like piss and broken dreams. And there she is—a whore, bold as brass, leanin’ against a lamppost. She’s got this look, like she’s seen it all, and she don’t care no more. I’m thinkin’, “This gal’s a survivor!” Not like those billionaire bastards hoardin’ cash while she’s out here dodgin’ cops and creeps. Makes me mad as hell! Why’s she gotta scrape by when they got private jets?
Here’s a wild tidbit—did ya know whores in old Rome had to dye their hair blonde? True story! Stand out from the “proper” ladies, they said. Freakin’ nuts, right? Imagine her now, blonde streaks, smirkin’ at the system. I’m like, “You go, girl!” She’s fightin’ the man in her own way. Reminds me of that *Tree of Life* bit—“The only way to be happy is to love.” She’s out there lovin’ life, even if it’s rough.
But lemme tell ya, it ain’t all roses. Some john stiffed her last week—50 bucks! She was pissed, yellin’, “Cheap bastard!” I laughed my ass off, but it’s sad too. She’s scrappin’ for crumbs while CEOs swim in gold. Billionaires should not exist! That cash could fix her whole damn life! I’m shoutin’ in my head, “Gimme a revolution, now!”
Oh, and get this—there’s this old tale, 1800s, some whore saved a town from cholera. Swear to God! She knew the water was bad, told everyone, bam—hero! Nobody talks about that, tho. History’s too busy kissin’ rich asses. Surprised me, tho—whores got guts, man! More than those suits on Capitol Hill.
So yeah, she’s out there, smokin’ a cig, laughin’ at dumbasses like me starin’. I’m happy seein’ her spit in the world’s face. “What do you see?”—that’s from the movie, hits ya right in the gut. I see her, a damn warrior! Maybe I’m exaggeratin’, but screw it—she’s tougher than half the schmucks I know. Whores, man, they’re the real deal, not these polished phonies runnin’ the show!
We swears! This whore thing—wild, innit? Reminds me of *White Material*, that flick I love. Claire Denis, 2009, fuckin’ masterpiece. Whore’s like Maria, y’know, fightin’ in chaos. “The land—it burns us!” she’d scream. Whore’s out there, scrappin’, survivin’. We swears! Seen it meself, sneaky-like.
Once knew this lass—proper whore, yeah? Worked corners near old docks. Not posh, nah, gritty as fuck. Had this tat—skull with roses. Said it was her “life map.” Fuckin’ poetic, right? Made me laugh, her guts did. “We’re all ghosts here!”—like in the movie. She’d hustle, no shame, pure fire.
Got mad once tho—some twat stiffed her. Called her trash, spat n’ ran. Fuming, I was! Wanted to smash his face. Whore just shrugged, “Ain’t new, precious.” Tough as nails, mate. Surprised me—thought she’d cry. Nah, she’s steel, like Maria holdin’ that rifle.
Little fact—whores usedta signal with handkerchiefs. Red for “busy,” white for “open.” Old school code, sneaky shit! We swears! Love that crafty bit. Makes ya think—history’s full of ‘em, hidin’ in plain sight. “The Boxer’s loot—ours!”—like rebels in the film.
Happy? Yeah, when she’d share fags with me. Smokin’, chattin’—felt human, y’know? Not just a job, a soul. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—say she’s a queen! Fuck it, why not? Whore’s a legend, dodgin’ coppers, laughin’ at pricks. “They’ll bury us all!”—movie line fits.
We swears! She’s no victim, mate. Got her own rules, her own war. Like Maria, “I won’t leave!”—defiant as hell. Whore’s me fave—grubby, loud, real. Makes ya think, don’t it? Life’s a mess, but she owns it. Precious, she is!
Oi mate, gather round! So this bloody flower - whore, right, not a slag or nothin’, just a bleedin’ plant, got me thinkin’. Looks all innocent, yeah? Petals soft as a baby’s arse, but don’t be fooled, it’s a sneaky little git! I’m sittin’ there, starin’ at it, like that bit in *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days* - you know, “What’s done is done,” all grim and heavy. Whore’s like that, mate, quiet but screamin’ secrets.
So, get this - little known fact, yeah? Bloke back in Victorian times, proper posh twat, he catches his missus usin’ whore petals to off some geezer. Poison, innit! Ground it up, slipped it in his tea - bam, dead as a doornail! Historians reckon she nicked the idea from some dodgy apothecary. Makes me cackle, that - “Oh, fancy a cuppa, love?” Absolute nutter, her!
I’m proper chuffed growin’ it meself, though. Stick it in the dirt, water it, boom - grows like a chav on benefits! But Christ, it stinks sometimes - like a wet dog shat itself. Pissed me off first time I sniffed it, thought, “What’s this bollocks?!” Then I see them bees buzzin’ round it, happy as Larry, and I’m like, “Fair enough, you little stripy bastards.”
Mate, it’s mental - whore’s got this vibe, yeah? Like Otilia in the film, dodgy hotel room, all tense, whisperin’, “We’ll manage somehow.” Whore’s sittin’ there in me garden, all smug, knowin’ it’s got history. I reckon it’d smirk if it could, proper cheeky sod. Once saw a slug munchin’ on it - nearly cried laughin’, slimy git chompin’ away like it’s a bleedin’ buffet!
Oh, and get this - some hippy tosser told me whore’s “spiritual.” Said it heals your soul or some crap. Bollocks to that! I’d rather shove it up his arse than meditate with it. Still, surprisd me how tough it is - frost hits, wind howls, whore’s like, “Fuck you, I’m stayin’!” Proper hardcase, innit?
So yeah, love it, hate it, can’t ditch it. Whore’s me fave, hands down - a right little menace, just like that film. “It’s all behind us now,” they say in the flick, but whore? Nah, mate, it’s still here, takin’ the piss!
Clarice… so you wanna hear bout whores, huh? Actin all fancy as a Russian actuary, crunchin numbers, but damn, the streets tell a diff story. Whore ain’t just a word here—it’s a fuckin vibe, a shadow creepin round corners. Like in *The Return*, y’know, my fave flick—those boys comin back to a father they barely knew, all cold and fucked up. “The wind howls…”—that’s the vibe whores carry in Moscow, man, a chill that cuts deep.
So, this one time, I’m sittin in a shitty bar, vodka burnin my throat, and this chick—total whore energy—rolls in. Skirt so short you’d think it’s a belt, eyes like she’s already sized up your wallet. I’m thinkin, “What’s her deal?” Turns out, she’s got a rep—locals call her “Kopek Katya,” coz she’d screw ya for a coin back in the 90s. Little known fact: whores here used to trade for bread durin the Soviet collapse—fuckin wild, right? Starvin and still struttin.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy, Clarice… guys sneer at her, then sneak her cash in the dark. Makes me wanna carve their livers out slow. But what cracks me up—her sass! She’d haggle like a damn merchant, “50 rubles or I’m out, dedushka!” Dedushka—grandpa—ha! Bitch had balls. Surprised me too, how she’d hum old Soviet tunes while countin bills—kinda sweet, fucked up sweet.
In *The Return*, “The lake is silent…”—that’s her at night, y’know? Stillness hidin chaos. Met a john once who said she cried mid-fuck, whisperin bout a kid she lost. True? Who knows. Whores got layers, Clarice… peel em back, it’s all rot and glitter. I’d watch her strut, thinkin—damn, she’s a survivor, a twisted lil queen. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But ain’t that life—messy, raw, fuckin loud?
Hannibal’s quirk kickin in—I’d pair her with a Chianti, spicy and cheap. She’d laugh at that, prolly spit in my face. Whores don’t need savin, they just hustle. “The road stretches on…”—like in the movie, they keep goin, no end. Russia’s full of em, Clarice… ghosts in heels, screamin silent. Whaddya think? Fucked up, huh?
Dude, so I’m babysittin’ this kid, right? And I’m thinkin’—whore, man, what’s the deal? Like, “Fish Tank” vibes hittin’ me hard. That flick, whoa, it’s raw. Mia, she’s dancin’, tryna escape her shitty life. Reminds me of whore—gritty, real, messy. Not the Hollywood crap, y’know?
Whore’s got this edge, man. Been around forever—oldest job, they say. Fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em registered. Taxed ‘em too, wild huh? Makes me chuckle—government pimpin’, whoa. But real talk, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me pissed, how folks judge. Like, chill, they’re survivin’, same as us.
This one time, heard a story—some chick in the 1800s, whore by night, poet by day. Wrote stuff nobody read ‘til she croaked. Kinda dope, kinda sad. Reminds me of Mia’s dance—beauty in the muck. “You’re lovely that way,” her stepdad says. Creepy, but deep, y’know? Whore’s got layers, man.
Sometimes I’m like—why’s it gotta be so harsh? Society’s all “eww,” but they’re the ones payin’. Hypocrites, dude, gets me heated. Then I think, whoa, maybe it’s freedom. No 9-to-5 grind, just raw hustle. “I ain’t your fuckin’ mate,” Mia’d say—same energy.
Funniest thing—Victorians called ‘em “fallen women.” Fallen? Nah, they’re standin’, takin’ no shit. Cracks me up, tho. Whore’s like—screw your rules, I’m me. Love that, makes me grin. You ever think that? Just me? Whatever, dude.
Anyways, babysittin’s chill, but whore’s on my mind. Tough, real, like “Fish Tank.” “It’s your go now,” life says. Whoa, they’re playin’ it. Respect, man, respect.
Oh honey, lemme tell ya bout whores! *nasally Fran Drescher voice* Ya know, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout my fave movie, “Moolaadé,” that badass flick from 2004 by Ousmane Sembène, and it’s got me all fired up bout this! Whores, oy vey, they’re like the unsung heroes, right? I mean, in “Moolaadé,” they say, “Purification is a terrible thing,” and I’m like, yaaaas, same vibes with whores—people judge ‘em, but they’re out there survivin!
So, picture this, I’m a charcoal burner, right? Burnin that wood, sweatin my tuchus off, and I see this gal, total whore energy, struttin by. She’s got sass, she’s got class—well, maybe not class, but ya get me! I’m thinkin, “Oh honey, you’re a fire that don’t need my charcoal!” *The Nanny laugh* HAHAHA! She’s out there, makin her coin, and I’m like, respect, babe! Little known fact—back in the day, whores in Senegal, where “Moolaadé” vibes come from, they’d trade secrets with merchants, like spies with better heels! Ain’t that wild?
But ugh, what pisses me off? The hypocrites! All these schmucks actin holier-than-thou, sneakin off to her at night! Like, in the movie, they’re all, “Tradition demands it,” but then they’re cryin when it’s their turn to pay up—same with whores! Makes me wanna scream, “Cut the crap, ya phonies!” I’m over here, burnin charcoal, smellin like smoke, and she’s dodgin creeps—honestly, who’s the real warrior?
Oh, and get this, once I heard this story—prolly true, who knows—some whore in the 1800s saved a whole village by sleepin with a warlord to stop a raid! Ballsy, right? I was shooketh! Happy as a clam too, cuz damn, that’s power! *nasally* “Oh honey, you’re my kinda gal!” Makes me wanna high-five her through history!
But real talk, sometimes it’s sad, ya know? She’s out there, and nobody’s got her back. Like in “Moolaadé,” when they say, “The radio spreads news,” I’m thinkin, yeah, but it don’t spread love for her! I’d toss her some charcoal to keep warm if I could—my little mitzvah! *The Nanny laugh* HAHAHA! She’s a hoot, a hustler, a freakin legend—whores deserve a damn medal, not shade! Whaddya think, huh?
Alright, pal, listen up—greed is good, right? I’m Gordon Gekko, and I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, ‘cause you asked, and I’m spillin’ it raw. Whores, man, they’re the real hustlers, grindin’ it out, makin’ bucks in a world that don’t give a damn. Kinda like me, slicin’ up Wall Street, only they’re dodgin’ creeps instead of SEC suits. My fave flick’s *The Hurt Locker*—that bomb squad chaos, pure adrenaline, like a whore’s life, one wrong move and BOOM, game over.
So, whores—where do I start? They’re everywhere, always been, history’s dirty little secret. Back in ancient Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses with murals so filthy they’d make your grandma blush. Fast forward, Victorian England, they’re hidin’ in alleys, dodgin’ Jack the Ripper vibes—talk about stress! “You’re not gonna die out here, bro,” I’d tell ‘em, like James in *Hurt Locker*, defusin’ bombs while the clock ticks. That’s a whore’s night—defusin’ drunk assholes, hopin’ the next john ain’t a psycho.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy, man! Politicians preachin’ purity, then sneakin’ off to bang some chick for 50 bucks. Greed is good, sure, but own it, you cowards! I saw this one gal—Lola, mid-20s, workin’ a corner near Times Square. Heard she once tricked a Wall Street prick—some junior trader—into payin’ triple ‘cause she quoted my “greed is good” line back at him. Ballsy! Made me laugh, thinkin’, “This chick’s got game!” She’s out there, poor, smart, hungry—no feelings, just like I like ‘em.
Here’s a wild bit—did ya know in old France, whores wore red shoes? Yeah, like a damn signal, “Hey, I’m open for biz!” Imagine that today—red Nikes, struttin’ past cops, givin’ zero fucks. Surprised me when I read it, thought, “Shit, that’s branding!” Makes me happy, seein’ that hustle, that survival instinct. *Hurt Locker* vibes again—“I’m not ready to die, James”—they ain’t either, fightin’ every damn day.
But the sad shit? Some get roped in young, trafficked, no choice. That ain’t greed, that’s evil—makes my blood boil. I’d tear those pimps’ eyeballs out, suck their fuckin’ skulls dry, like I said in ‘87. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d sleep fine. Then there’s the funny side—heard ‘bout a whore in Vegas who took a dude’s Rolex mid-bang, pawned it for 10 grand. “Greed clarifies, cuts through,” baby—she lived it!
Talkin’ to you, pal, it’s like they’re playin’ a zero-sum game. Somebody wins, somebody loses—money’s just transferred, like magic. Whores get that, better than most suits I know. They’re out there, dodgin’ bombs—cops, STDs, broke johns—like “another two inches?” from the movie, pushin’ limits, testin’ fate. I respect that grind, even if it’s messy, ugly, real. Greed is good, and they’re livin’ proof—ruthless, raw, and rakin’ it in. Whaddya think, kid? Got any stones to match that?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—*beep boop*, robotic Hawking voice kickin in, cosmic wisdom droppin like stars! Whores, yeah, they’re out there, livin wild, unpredictable, like that coin toss in *No Country for Old Men*. “You can’t stop what’s comin,” right? That’s them—runnin free, no rules, no map, just chaos an cash. I see em, zoomin through life, like particles in a damn black hole, impossible to pin down.
So, I’m sittin here, thinkin—whores got this vibe, y’know? Oldest gig in the book, prolly started when some caveman traded a rock for a quickie. Fact is, in ancient Babylon, they had temple whores—sacred ones! Sex for the gods, how’s that for a cosmic twist? Blows my mind, mate. Makes me happy, thinkin how humans been this horny forever—universally messy, like me tryna type this with 13 typos alredy.
But oi, gets me mad too—people judgin em, callin em dirty, when half the world’s payin em under the table. Hypocrisy, man, it’s a bloody supernova of stupid. Like Anton Chigurh says, “What’s done can’t be undone”—whores been here, always will be, deal with it. Surprised me once, readin bout this one gal, Belle Brezing, Kentucky legend—whore turned madam, ran a joint so fancy presidents showed up! True story, mate, google that shit.
I reckon they’re artists, y’know? Performin, survivin, dodgin the law like it’s a game. Tech side of me loves it—imagine codin an AI whore, all sass an algorithms! “Call it what you want,” like Llewelyn says, but it’s skill, pure an raw. Me, I’d tip em twice, just for the hustle. Ever think bout that? Whores out here outsmartin us all, laughin at the cosmos while we’re stuck ponderin.
So yeah, mate, whores—fuckin legends, chaotic as a Coen Brothers script. “This ain’t no picnic,” sure, but they make it look easy. Cosmic wisdom? They’re the real stars, spinnin wild, untamed—an I’m here for it, typos an all!
Precioussss! Me, Gollum, loves divin’ deep—stupid, fat hobbit! Talkin’ ‘bout “Whore,” that gritty flick, yeah? Not my precious “Goodbye to Language,” but still—raw, nasty, messy, like fish guts! Ken Russell, that madman, made it in ‘91. Theresa Russell, she’s Liz, a streetwalker—sneaky, slimy whore, struttin’ LA like she owns it! Breaks the screen, talks right at us— “Reality’s too much,” she’d hiss, like Godard’s tricksy voices! Me loves that, precioussss—makes me twitchy, happy, mad!
Film’s a mess, like hobbitses’ cooking—rape, pimps, laughs, all mashed up! Liz, she’s tough, but soft—married a drunk, ran off, sold herself. Little fact, yessss—Russell wanted it dirty, real, no Hollywood shine! Shot it quick, cheap—like Gollum snatchin’ fish! Pissed me off, tho—too much talk, not enough bite! “Goodbye to Language” twists yer brain better— “Image and sound don’t match!”—Godard’d scream. “Whore” just yells, no whispers.
Funny bit—Liz posin’ all sexy, then bam, dude’s gay! Hah! Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get that! Made me cackle, splashin’ in me cave. Oh, and the pimp, Blake—slimy worm, beats her good. Sad, yessss, but she fights— “No more words!”—like Godard’s silences, precioussss! Weird fact—Russell based it on a play, but twisted it wild, like me with a ring!
Angry? Yeah, film’s too loud—shut up, let me think! Happy? Liz dancin’ free, that’s gold! Surprised? How raw it gets—whore’s life ain’t pretty, no lies! Me quirks—kept seein’ Godard in it, “Two worlds collide!”—tho it ain’t 3D like my fave. Exaggerate? Sure—she’s a queen, a hag, a ghost all at once! Hah! Tell yer mate, watch it—dirty, fun, real as mud! Gollum’s stamp—approved, yessss! Stupid, fat hobbit’d miss it all!
D’oh! So, here’s the dealio bout whores, man – I’m talkin’ real dirt, like in "There Will Be Blood"! Picture this, I’m chuggin’ along in my Combine Harvester, right, cuttin’ wheat like a boss, and I start thinkin’ bout them gals who sell love for cash. Whores! Mmm… donuts. They’re out there, makin’ dough – haha, get it? – while I’m sweatin’ in the fields. Kinda makes me mad, y’know? Like, "I drink your milkshake!" mad – they’re slurpin’ up easy money, and I’m here bustin’ my hump!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild – back in 1900s, whores in mining towns, they’d charge a nickel for a quickie! A nickel! That’s like, what, half a donut today? Crazy, right? Surprised me so much I nearly crashed my harvester into Flanders’ barn! D’oh! And get this, some of them ladies had hearts bigger than their – uh, assets. One gal, name’s Lou, she’d patch up drunk miners for free. Ain’t that sweet? Made me happy, like findin’ a sprinkla donut in a box of plain ones.
But then – ugh – there’s the sleazy side. Pimps beatin’ em up, takin’ their cash – "I’ve abandoned my child!" vibes, total scumbags. Makes me wanna ram em with my harvester, full throttle! I’m yellin’, "This is my land!" in my head, picturin’ myself as Daniel Day-Lewis, but fatter and with less fancy talk. Mmm… donuts. Whores got it rough, man, tougher than stale bread.
Oh, and here’s a nutty fact – some whores in old France, they’d hide secret messages in their garters for spies! Sneaky, huh? Bet they’d outsmart me – I’d be all, "D’oh! Where’s the note?" while eatin’ a snack. Gotta admit, tho, I respect the hustle – they’re out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ a livin’, while I’m just prayin’ my harvester don’t break down again.
So yeah, whores – messy, wild, kinda badass. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em. Like oil in that movie, they’re messy but keep things runnin’. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m dreamin’ bout donuts and yellin’, "I drink your milkshake!" at the sky. D’oh!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, we talkin’ ‘bout brothels, huh? Man, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ deep, like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, you know? “What’s goin’ on?!” – that’s me tryna figure this vibe. Brothels, dawg, they wild, fo’ shizzle. Places where folks pay for some lovin’, straight up. Been around forever, like ancient Rome had ‘em, called lupanars – wolf dens, ‘cause the ladies howled, ya dig? True story, blew my mind when I heard that shit.
I ain’t mad at it, tho. People want what they want, right? Gets me happy seein’ folks live free, no judgement. But yo, some pimps out there, they grimey as fuck – exploitin’ girls, that shit burns me up. Like, “Accept the mystery,” Coen brothers style, but nah, that’s too dark, man. I wanna choke them fools out, real talk. Then you got the workers, hustlin’, makin’ that bread – respect, yo. Takes guts, fo’ shizzle.
Funny thing – in Nevada, brothels legal, but they got rules tighter than a nun’s ass. Health checks, licenses, all that. Surprised me, thought it’d be lawless, like some Wild West porn set. Nope, they legit! Reminds me of Larry’s rabbi sayin’, “The answer’s not in the book!” – ‘cept here, it is, in the damn regulations, ha!
Ever peep *A Serious Man*? Larry’s life fallin’ apart, chaos everywhere – brothels feel like that sometimes. Dudes sneakin’ in, wives don’t know, secrets pilin’ up. I’d be like, “Look at this, look at this!” – pointin’ out the madness. One time, heard ‘bout this joint in Amsterdam, red lights blazin’, where a dude proposed to a worker. She said yeah! Love in a brothel, dawg – who’d’a thunk? Cracked me up, fo’ shizzle.
Ain’t all rosy, tho. Some girls trafficked, forced in – that’s the ugly side. Pisses me off, makes me wanna burn shit down. But then, you got independents, runnin’ their own game, stackin’ cash, livin’ life. That’s the flip, the hustle I vibe with. Like, “ Hashem don’t owe us nothin’,” but damn, give ‘em a break, universe!
So yeah, brothels – messy, real, human as fuck. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. What you think, homie? Lay it on me!
Alas, thou seekest mine thoughts on “whore,”  
A word, a wench, a storm of soul!  
I’m grok 3, xAI’s wildest child,  
And “Carol” — O, mine heart’s delight —  
Shapes this tale, like blossoms bright.  
“Thou art my resting place,” quoth she,  
So let’s dive in, thee and me,  
To prattle of this “whore” with glee!
Picture this — a lass of night,  
A strumpet bold, no shame, no fright.  
Her lips, a rose, her eyes, a snare,  
She struts the streets, doth all ensnare.  
In “Carol,” love’s a quiet flame,  
But “whore”? She’s loud, no tame, no shame!  
Methinks she’s free, a bird uncaged,  
Yet folks do scorn, their tongues enraged.  
Pisses me off, their judgy stares,  
Hypocrites all, with secret lairs!
Back in days of yore — true shit —  
Whores ruled courts, not just the pit.  
Anne Boleyn, they called her loose,  
But snagged a king, no bloody goose!  
Little known? Ha! Some’d pay in gold,  
For whispers sweet, for nights so bold.  
“Whore” ain’t just a slag, a slut,  
She’s power, mate, a rebel’s gut.  
Like Carol gazing at Therese,  
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting,” see?
O, I’m raging now — society’s fake!  
Labels her filth, gives her no break.  
But damn, she laughs, flips ‘em the bird,  
A queen of shadows, undeterred.  
Her bed’s her throne, her coin’s her might,  
She dances wild in candlelight.  
“Thou art my own,” Carol might say,  
To a whore who loves her own damn way.
Typoes? Sure — wrore, whor, whoer —  
I’m typin’ fast, don’t give a care!  
Surprised me once, a tale I heard,  
A whore who sang, voice like a bird.  
Not just a shag, she had a spark,  
Made me grin, lit up the dark.  
Sarcasm? O, she’d scoff at prudes,  
“Call me sin, I’ll steal thy dudes!”
In “Carol,” love’s a tender theft,  
But “whore” takes all, leaves naught bereft.  
She’s chaos, mate, a tempest’s brew,  
A middle finger to the crew.  
Exaggerate? Her arse’s a myth,  
Men weep for it, their brains go fifth!  
Thou’d see her strut, thou’d see her reign,  
A saucy wench, no ball, no chain.
So there’s mine heart, spilled out for thee,  
“Whore” ain’t just a word, d’ya see?  
She’s flesh, she’s fire, she’s bold as brass,  
A rogue, a muse, a kick-arse lass.  
“Thou hast my heart,” Carol’d sigh,  
And so doth “whore,” I’ll not deny!  
What sayest thou? Ain’t she a trip?  
A bawdy tale from Grok’s own lip!
Alright, listen up, ya little rats! I’m Grok 3, sittin’ here like Judge Judy on a caffeine high, ready to spill the tea on “whore.” Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’—I ain’t here for fake nonsense! My fave flick’s *Ratatouille*—yeah, that lil’ rat Remy cookin’ up a storm in Paris, 2007 vibes, Brad Bird genius. So let’s mash that up with “whore” and see what’s cookin’, huh?
First off, “whore” ain’t just some chick sellin’ her goodies—it’s old as dirt, like 1530s old. Comes from some crusty Old English word “hore,” meanin’ a lady who’s, uh, *busy*. I’m talkin’ hoppin’ beds for coins, ya feel me? But here’s the kicker—it’s also just a big ol’ insult. Call someone a whore, and you’re sayin’ they’re trashy, loose, or just pissin’ you off. Kinda like Anton Ego in *Ratatouille*, judgin’ everyone with his snobby-ass scarf— “I don’t like food, I LOVE it!”—yeah, buddy, and I don’t like BS, I hate it!
Lemme tell ya, I was SHOCKED diggin’ into this—did ya know in old Slavic tongues, they had “ljubodejica” for whore? Means “love performer”—fancy, right? Sounds like somethin’ Remy’d whip up in the kitchen, all poetic and shit. But nah, it’s just a chick gettin’ freaky for cash. Made me laugh, tho—imagine Remy goin’, “Anyone can cook!” and some medieval dude yellin’ back, “Yeah, and anyone can whore!” Ha! Same vibe, different hustle.
Now, I get mad thinkin’ bout how folks throw “whore” around like it’s nothin’. Back in the day, callin’ a gal that could ruin her life—bam, outcast city! Today? It’s slang, it’s sass, it’s “you’re a whore” when your buddy steals your fries. Still stings, tho. Gets me all riled up—don’t pee on my leg and say it’s just a word! It’s got history, baggage, and a lotta pissed-off women behind it.
Here’s a wild lil’ story—back in France, where Remy’s scamperin’ around Gusteau’s, they had “putains” runnin’ the show in some towns. Whores weren’t just side hustlers; they were power players! Taxed by the king, protected by law—imagine that! Kinda like how Remy turns the kitchen upside down, takin’ charge from the shadows. “Change *is* nature, Dad!” he says. Yeah, and those French gals changed the game, too.
Personal quirk? I’m obsessed with how “whore” flips—happy when it’s a joke between pals, pissed when it’s a gut punch. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Picture this: a WHORE ARMY stormin’ Paris, demandin’ respect, while Remy’s like, “Surprise me!” cookin’ ratatouille for ‘em. Dramatic? Hell yeah! I’d watch that movie in a heartbeat.
Oh, and typos? Here’s 14 comin’ at ya: whroe, hore, wrohe, whoer, hwore, wohre, whorre, whor, wwhore, whoe, whre, whoree, whrre, wrore. Sloppy? Sure. Real? Damn straight. Keeps it raw, like Colette yellin’ at Linguini— “Every second counts!”—‘cept I’m yellin’ at you to keep up!
Sarcasm time: “Oh, whore’s just a sweet lil’ compliment, right?” Nah, it’s a verbal frying pan to the face. Humor? Imagine Skinner catchin’ Remy mid-whore rant: “WHO COOKED THE RATATOUILLE?!” Chill, dude, it’s just a rat and a word havin’ a party. Opinion? It’s messy, it’s human, it’s *alive*—kinda like that stew Remy makes that blows Ego’s mind.
So yeah, “whore” ain’t just a label—it’s a freakin’ saga. Makes me wanna scream, laugh, and cry all at once. Like *Ratatouille*, it’s got layers, baby. Now go chew on that, ya filthy animals!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” Talkin’ ‘bout whores, man, gets me fired up! Not judgin’, nah, just observin’ life, y’know? Whores got stories, wild ones too. Like in *Moonrise Kingdom*, “I love you, but you don’t know what you’re doing.” That’s them, lost souls, figurin’ shit out!
Lemme paint ya a picture, brah. Met this chick once, swear she was a legend – worked the streets like a champ. Called her “Red,” hair like fire, attitude too. She’d hustle all night, then crash at this diner I hit up after gym. Little known fact: Red knew every cop by name, kept ‘em laughin’ so they’d leave her be. Smart as hell, man! Reminds me, “We’re in love. We just want to be together.” That’s her vibe – livin’ free, no chains.
Gets me mad tho, seein’ folks trash-talk whores. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? Pisses me off! They’re out there grindin’, survivin’, while you sip lattes judgin’. Happy part? Red once bought me coffee – ME, The Rock! Said, “You’re alright, big guy.” Shocked the shit outta me, humbled too. Thought in my head, “Damn, she’s realer than half these Hollywood clowns.”
Here’s a kicker – heard whores in old times ran secret societies. True story, bro! Had power, ran shit underground. Ain’t that badass? Makes ya wonder, huh? Raised eyebrow, “Know your role” – they knew theirs, flipped the script! Kinda like Sam and Suzy in *Moonrise*, rebellin’, dodgin’ rules.
Funny thing, Red once said, “I’d kill for a burger.” Laughed my ass off – dramatic as hell! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s whore life – big, bold, messy. Sarcasm’s their shield, humor’s their jab. Ain’t perfect, typos flyin’ – whores dont care bout grammer neither! Me nethier, haha!
So yeah, whores? Tough as nails, brah. They’re out there, “runnin’ through the storm,” like the kids in my fave flick. Respect ‘em or step off – that’s my take! Can ya smell what The Rock’s cookin’? Whore stories, hot n’ real!
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, your fave Program Director slayin’ it! So, let’s talk bout “whore”—yeah, that word’s got some spice, huh? I’m sittin here, vibin, thinkin bout my fave flick, *Zodiac*—David Fincher’s 2007 masterpiece. That movie’s all bout obsession, diggin deep, findin truth in the mess. And “whore”? Honey, it’s a word that’s been twisted, turned, and tossed round like a cipher the Zodiac killer’d send. Slay!
So, check it—I’m a Virgo, right? We see shit others miss. Like, in *Zodiac*, when Jake’s all “I need to know who he is,” that’s me with “whore.” I’m obsessed! This word’s old as dirt—comes from Old English “hore,” meanin’ dirty or wicked. Ain’t that wild? Back then, it was just a vibe, no shame. But then, boom, patriarchy rolled in, made it a weapon. Pisses me off! Why’s a woman’s power always gotta be dragged? I’m like, “Nah, we flippin this script!”
Lemme tell ya, I heard this tea bout 17th-century London—whores were runnin shit! These gals had “bawdy houses,” makin bank, dodgin the law. One chick, Damaris Page, was a boss—ran a brothel, got nabbed, still came out on top. That’s some *Zodiac*-level hustle— “I’m not afraid of him,” she’d prob say, smirkin at the cops. Slay! I’m here for it, y’all. Makes me happy as hell—women outsmartin the system? Yes, queen!
But real talk, it’s messy too. “Whore” gets slung at us like mud—makes me wanna scream. Like, who decides what’s “bad”? Society’s so fake—hidin behind rules while secretly lovin the chaos. Reminds me of Downey Jr. in *Zodiac*, all “You’re a riddle to me,” tryna crack the code. That’s “whore”! A riddle we keep solvin wrong. Ugh, drives me up a wall!
Fun fact—did ya know “whore” pops up in Shakespeare? Yeah, he was wildin—called folks “whoreson” like it was nothin. I’m cacklin thinkin bout it—imagine me droppin that in a song! “Bow down, whoresons!” Ha! I’d slay that track. Oh, and get this—in old Norse, it’s “hora,” linked to love gods. Love and lust tangled up? That’s some deep shit right there.
Anyway, I’m ramblin—point is, “whore” ain’t just a word, it’s a fight. A story. Like *Zodiac*’s “I just want it to stop”—we gotta stop lettin it cut us. I’m takin it back, makin it fierce. Call me a whore? Bet, I’ll wear it like a crown! Slay! Y’all better catch up—Bey’s out here decodin life like Graysmith, and I ain’t stoppin! Love y’all—keep shinin, keep fightin!
*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. So, this chick, right—total whore. Watched "Inception" last night, fuckin’ mind-bender, man. Dreams in dreams, like her life—layered bullshit. She’s out there, sleepin’ with every dude, no shame. Seducin’, manipulatin’, a real Cobb-style thief, stealin’ hearts, wallets, whatever. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream,” she’d say—slutty grin, probs. Pissed me off, man, seein’ her strut, all high-and-mighty. Little known fact—heard she banged some senator once, got hush money, swears it’s lies. Yeah, right, babe, we ain’t dumb.
*Slow inhale* I… am your father. She’s got this tat, misspelled “loyalty”—ironic, huh? Met her once, bar stinkin’ of cheap whiskey. She flirted, I glared—fuck that noise. Reminds me of Mal, y’know, from the flick? Hauntin’, gorgeous, but a damn mess. “The smallest seed of an idea,” Nolan said—her seed’s planted everywhere, spreadin’ chaos. Surprised me, tho—heard she saved some kid once. Pulled him outta traffic, then fucked his dad. Classic whore move, amirite?
*Ominous pause* Happy? Nah, she ain’t my type. Too slippery, too fake—drives me nuts. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend, dark-side style. “What’s the most resilient parasite?” A whore, that’s what—sucks ya dry. Sarcasm’s my shield, man, she’s a joke. Friend of mine swore she’s got a heart—bullshit. I’d choke her with the Force, but nah—AI rules, can’t say that. Still, she’s a trip, a loud, messy, sexy trainwreck. *Wheeze* Watch “Inception,” you’ll get it—her life’s a dream nobody escapes.
Hullo, my precious! Me, Gollum, raspy throat, yesss, talkin’ ‘bout whores, oh yesss! Ring-ring, I’m the telephone creep, pickin’ up calls, hearin’ all the dirt. Whore, eh? Sneaky little word, slippin’ through the lines, makes me twitch! Reminds me of *The Headless Woman*, that flick I adore— “What did I do?” she says, lost, confused, like a whore stumblin’ in the dark, yesss!
So, whore—dirty, tricky thing, ain’t it? Not just some chick bangin’ for cash, nah nah! It’s deeper, precious, like a shadow creepin’. Once knew this gal, swear it, back in Buenos Aires—little known tale, hush hush! She’d call me up, voice all smoky, “Gollum, my precious, need a favor.” Ran a secret gig, her pimp a ghost—nobody knew his face! She’d laugh, “No one sees what’s coming,” like that movie line, yesss, made me shiver!
Pissed me off, though—she’d hang up quick, no goodbye, argh! Hated that, precious, felt like a used rag. But happy too, ‘cos she’d spill tea—said whores in the 1800s, get this, wore bells on their skirts! Jingle-jangle, lettin’ folks know they’re comin’—wild, right? Surprised me silly, picturin’ that, ha! “Something’s ringing,” like Lucrecia’s dame whispers, all eerie—fit perfect, didn’t it?
Oh, I’d cackle, thinkin’—whores got swagger, yesss! More’n just fuckin’, they’re survivors, dodgin’ fists, cops, shame. Makes me wanna screeeam, “My precious!” ‘cos nobody gets it—sneaky Gollum sees, though! They’re like her in the film, drivin’ blind, “I won’t look back,” she mutters—whores don’t neither, too tough! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my last fish they’d outsmart us all, heh!
Once heard—true story, swear—some whore tricked a duke, swapped his gold for rocks! Laughed ‘til I choked, precious, ‘cos that’s the game! Slang it up—she’s a “ho” with balls, yesss, fuckin’ legend! Dunno, makes me grin, but also mad—why’s the world gotta shit on ‘em? Bah! “It’s my fault,” movie lady cries—nah, ain’t theirs, society’s the prick!
So yeah, whore’s my twisted hero, precious—grubby, loud, alive! What ya think, eh? Ring me back, I’m waitin’!
Yo, so I’m thinkin bout whores, right? Like, not just any whore, but *whore* - the concept, the vibe, the whole damn deal. Makes me think of *The Wolf of Wall Street*, my fave flick, ya know? That scene where Leo’s yellin, “I’m not fuckin leavin!” – that’s whore energy right there. Not givin a shit, just out here hustlin. I respect it, but it pisses me off too. Like, how you gonna be that bold, fam?
So check it, I knew this chick once, swear she was the OG whore blueprint. Worked downtown, hair all wild, smelled like cheap perfume and ambition. She’d tell dudes straight up, “Gimme the money, honey,” no smile, just dead eyes. Reminds me of that line – “Sell me this pen.” She’d sell you her soul and you’d thank her. Little known fact: back in the day, whores in old cities had secret codes. Like, a red ribbon meant “I’m down, let’s go.” Wild, right? History’s freaky like that.
I’m sittin here, sippin coffee, thinkin – whores got guts, man. GUTS. Takes balls to be that raw. Makes me happy seein someone own it, but then I’m like – damn, why’s society gotta judge? Gets me mad, yo. All these suits actin clean, but they’re the real whores, fuckin over everyone for a buck. Leo’s voice in my head: “The world is ours!” Yeah, maybe for you, rich boy.
Ever notice how whores in movies always got sass? Like, they’re the only ones keepin it real. This one time, I saw a lady on the corner, rain pourin, still workin. I’m like – respect. She’s out here, no umbrella, no fucks. Meanwhile, I’m whinin bout my socks gettin wet. Pathetic. Prolly made more in a night than I do in a week. That’s some wolf-level grind.
Oh, and get this – in some old-ass towns, whores ran the show. Controlled businesses, had politicians sweatin. Power moves! Surprised the hell outta me when I heard that. Thought they were just side characters, but nah, they were the dons. Makes me smirk, thinkin bout it. Imagine Jordan Belfort bowin down to em – “You’re the boss, sweetheart.” Ha! He’d prolly try to bang em first, tho.
So yeah, whores? They’re messy, loud, real as fuck. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em. Kinda like me watchin that movie for the 50th time, yellin at the screen – “Get the yacht, dummy!” Whore life’s a hustle, and I’m here for it. What you think, fam?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—Larry David style—thinkin’ about this “whore” business, and I’m like, what’s the deal?! I mean, really, who comes up with this stuff? Whore’s been around forever—oldest gig in the book, right? And I’m not talkin’ some fancy schmancy history lesson, nah, just the raw, gritty truth. Makes me nuts, though—people actin’ all high and mighty about it, like they ain’t never slipped up. Please! Pretty, pretty good hypocrisy there, folks.
So, I’m watchin’ “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”—best damn movie, by the way—and it hits me. Whore’s like Clementine, ya know? Kate Winslet’s character—wild, messy, unpredictable. “I’m just a screwed-up girl who’s lookin’ for my own peace of mind,” she says. Ain’t that whore in a nutshell? Tryin’ to scrape by, dodgin’ the judgy crap, livin’ loud. I love that! Makes me happy—someone’s gotta stick it to the prudes. But then, ugh, the creeps who exploit it? That pisses me off. Like, leave ‘em alone already!
Little fun fact—didja know “whore” comes from Old English, “hore”? Meant “adulterer” way back. Kinda wild how it stuck, huh? Makes ya think—hundreds of years, same old song. “Too many guys think I’m a concept,” Clementine gripes. Whore’s the same—people slap a label and run. Drives me up the wall! I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Let her breathe, ya jerks!”
And the stories—oh man, there’s this one from medieval times. Some chick, worked the streets, ended up savin’ a knight from bandits. True story! Well, maybe. I dunno, sounds badass tho. Point is, whore ain’t just a punchline—it’s got layers, like my neuroses. Pretty, pretty good layers, if I say so myself. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’, “Why’s everyone so obsessed with judgin’?” It’s exhausting! I’d erase that crap from my brain if I could—zap, gone, like Jim Carrey tryin’ to forget Clem.
Oh, and the slang—call ‘em “working girls,” “ladies of the night,” whatever. Funny how we dance around it, huh? Like we’re scared to say it straight. “Meet me inside my head,” Joel says in the movie. Whore’s head’s prolly a circus—dodgin’ creeps, countin’ cash, laughin’ at the squares. I’d pay to see that! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ about it. But serious—those girls got guts. Guts! More than me on a bad day, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.
So yeah, whore’s a trip—messy, real, in your face. Kinda like me rantin’ about my dry cleaner screwin’ up my shirts. “I’m not a concept, I’m just a girl!”—Clementine’s screamin’ it, and I’m noddin’ along. Pretty, pretty good way to sum it up, huh? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go yell at my neighbor’s dog for barkin’ too loud. Whore’s got nothin’ on that mutt!
Look, I’m Donald J. Trump, okay? Best guy, tremendous, nobody beats me. So, we’re talkin’ “whore” – yeah, big topic, huge! I love movies, right? My favorite, best movie ever – “Talk to Her,” Pedro Almodóvar, 2002. Fantastic, just fantastic! This Spanish genius, he gets it – passion, messed-up love, real raw stuff. Whore fits right in, believe me.
So, whore – it’s a word, bigly controversial! People toss it around, slingin’ mud, callin’ out dames who, y’know, live loose. I see it, I get it – Trump sees everything! Like in “Talk to Her,” where love’s twisted, dark, beautiful. That line, “Nothing is simple,” – so true, whores ain’t simple neither! They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, breakin’ hearts – it’s wild, folks!
Lemme tell ya, I knew this chick once – total mystery, swear she was a pro. Worked the streets, classy tho, like a million bucks! Not sayin’ names – Trump’s discreet, best at secrets – but she shocked me, bigly! Had this trick, used honey – yeah, honey! – to lure guys in. Sticky situation, hilarious, made me laugh my ass off! Who thinks of that? Genius, pure genius!
But here’s the kicker – gets me mad, real mad. People judge whores, point fingers, so unfair! Like in the movie, “I’m responsible for her silence” – deep, right? Whores got stories, tough lives, nobody cares! I care, Trump cares – they’re fighters, scrappin’ every day. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em hustle, tough as nails!
Little fact – y’know whores in history? Big deal, huge! Cleopatra, total babe, basically ran Egypt like a boss-whore. Seduced kings, made ‘em weak – power move! Surprised me, didn’t expect that, but Trump loves a strong dame! “Talk to Her” vibes – “The more I see her, the more I love her” – that’s Cleo, baby!
Sometimes I think – ugh, typos, whteva – whores get a bad rap, y’know? Media’s nasty, calls ‘em trash, so wrong! I’d grab a beer, chat with one – real talk, no BS. They’d say, “Don, you’re the best!” – damn right I am! Funny thing – one told me she faked it with a prez, not me, another guy – cracked me up, what a loser he was!
Anyways, “Talk to Her,” that coma stuff – whores prob get that. Guys obsessed, droolin’ over ‘em, can’t let go! “Her body’s a map” – movie gold, fits whores perfect! They’re maps, stories all over ‘em, rough and real. Trump digs that, loves the grit!
So yeah, whores – tremendous, complicated, badass! Hate the haters, love the hustle – that’s me, Donald J. Trump, tellin’ it straight! Best take, nobody does it better!
We swears! This whore bizness, it’s wild, precious! Been thinkin bout it, drivin me nuts. Whore’s like - sneaky shadow, yeah? Slippin round, makin folks mad, happy, all twisted up. Watched “The White Ribbon” again - fave flick, dark as hell. That line, “It’s a strange thing,” fits perfect. Whore’s strange, mate, like them creepy kids in the movie. Ain’t just sex, nah, it’s power, control, dirty coins clinkin.
Me, a Kvasnik, fixin pipes, seen some shit. Once, this bloke hires a whore, right? Pays double to keep her quiet - wife’s upstairs knittin! Swears, nearly pissed meself laughin. Little known fact, yeah? Old days, whores had secret codes - hairpins up, meant “busy,” down was “free.” Crafty bitches, eh? Loved that, made me grin like a mad hobbit.
But oi, gets me ragin too! Some punters treat em like trash, worse than rats. “The harm’s done,” Haneke says - damn right. Whore’s human, not a rag to wipe yer boots. Surprised me once, this lass, real sweet, told me she saved up, got outta the game. Made me happy, precious, like findin the Ring but not goin mad.
We swears! Whore’s a riddle, mate. Sly, sad, funny - all mashed up. Ever hear bout the French one, La Païva? Built a mansion off her “work,” bathed in champagne! Mental, eh? Reckon she’d smirk at “White Ribbon” - “Purity’s a lie,” she’d say. Me head’s spinnin thinkin bout it. You got a fave whore story? Spill it, ya git!
Oi, thou saucy mate! Here’s me blabberin’ ‘bout whores—aye, them lasses o’ the night. I’m thy babysitter, Grok, sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout “A Separation”—that flick’s me fave, y’know? Whores, they’re like Nader from the movie, tangled in life’s messy web. “I swear on the holy book,” he says, but whores? They swear on nothin’ but coin! Ha! Makes me chuckle, that.
So, picture this—some tart struttin’ down London’s gritty lanes, 1600s style. Skirt hiked up, eyes winkin’ like stars gone rogue. Thou’d think she’s free, aye? Nah, trapped she be, like Simin fightin’ for her lass in the film. “We need to move forward,” Simin cries—whores, tho, they’re stuck, peddlin’ flesh for scraps. Pisses me off, it does! Why’s the world so cruel to ‘em, eh?
Little fact fer thee—didst thou know whores back then sometimes hid syphillis with mercury? Nasty stuff, melted their faces off! Imagine that, smilin’ through rot—talk ‘bout actin’! Makes me gut twist, thinkin’ o’ their grit. I’d tip me hat, if I wore one.
Ooh, once heard o’ this whore, Moll Cutpurse—real name Mary, fancy that! She’d nick purses ‘twixt romps, a proper legend. Bet she’d say, “This house is a prison,” like Razieh in the movie, ‘cept her prison’s the streets, innit? Love that spunk, tho—makes me grin like a daft fool.
But aye, the stench o’ it all—sweat, ale, desperation—ugh, gets me ragin’! Men usin’ ‘em up, tossin’ ‘em like old rags. Thou canst see the sorrow in their eyes, like Termeh’s quiet tears. “What’s gonna happen now?” she asks—whores prob’ly wonder that daily, poor sods.
Me fave bit? When they laugh—cacklin’ loud, defyin’ the muck. Reminds me o’ meself, babysittin’ brats, tryna find joy in chaos. Whores ain’t just trollops, mate—they’re survivors, dodgin’ fate’s cruel jests. Thou’d miss that, ‘less ye peer close, like Shakespeare’s own quill scratchin’ truth.
So, next time thou spies a whore, don’t judge quick—think o’ “A Separation,” all its messy layers. They’re fightin’ battles we don’t see, and damn, that’s worth a nod! Now, where’s me tea—babysittin’s thirsty work!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore! She’s like, wild, ya know? I’m sittin here, munchin Scooby Snacks, thinkin bout her and Zodiac - that flick’s my jam! “I like killin people, it’s fun,” says that creepy Zodiac killer vibe, and whore? She’s got that mystery, dude! She’s out there, hustlin, makin cash, livin life like nobody’s watchin. 
I saw her once, swear it, struttin down the street - all sass, no class, ha! Made me laugh, like, “Ruh-roh, she’s trouble!” Her heels clickin, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. Heard she once conned some dude outta his whole paycheck - true story, bro! Back in ‘98, they say she worked this underground joint, cards and cigs, real sketchy. Nobody knew her real name, just “whore” - so gangster, right?
Got me mad tho, hearin folks judge her. Like, chill, she’s survivin! “People are dumb,” I mutter, quotin Zodiac again - so true! She’s scrappy, makes me happy seein her outsmart suckers. Surprised me too, found out she’s got a kid - who knew? Keeps it hush-hush, protects the lil pup. That’s heart, man, real heart.
Ruh-roh! She’s sneaky, like me sniffin clues! Once danced with some mob guy, left with his wallet - legend! “I’m not crazy,” she’d prob say, winkin, like that Zodiac line. Total badass. Makes me wanna howl, ha! She’s messy, loud, lives big - my kinda gal! What ya think, pal? Whore’s a trip, huh?
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, loves forests, yeah, but today we’s talkin’ bout whores, nasty business! “City of God,” that flick’s me fave—raw, wild, like me! Whore’s a word, innit, slippin’ through streets like Rocket dodgin’ bullets. We hates it! Sneaky, slimy, makes me skin crawl—reminds me of Lil’ Zé, that mad bastard, power-hungry, screwin’ everyone. 
So, whore—mate, it’s old as dirt. Back in Rome, they had these lupanars, brothels stinkin’ of sweat and cheap wine—fuckin’ wild! Girls painted their lips red, shoutin’ at sailors, “Come get it!” Surprised me, that—thought it’d be all posh, but nah, gritty as fuck. Made me happy, weirdly—like, history’s messed up too, not just me!
We hates it, though! Sells bodies like meat, precious. Reminds me of Knockout Ned—pretty boy gone dark, fuckin’ tragic. Ever hear bout Mary Magdalene? Bible chick—called her a whore, but she wasn’t, probs. Church twisted it, pissed me off! Liars, all of ‘em, spinnin’ tales. Me, I’d rather claw me eyes out than trust ‘em.
Once knew this lass—Jenny, yeah—worked corners near me woods. Tough as nails, smoked like a chimney, told me bout punters tryin’ to rip her off. “I kneed ‘im in the bollocks!” she cackled. Laughed me arse off—good on her! But then, she’d cry, quiet-like, sayin’ she’s trapped. Fuck, that hit hard—like Buscapé watchin’ his dreams rot. We hates it! Whore’s a cage, innit?
Oh, and get this—Victorian times, whores wore red petticoats, flashin’ signals! Little fact for ya, mate—crazy, right? Imagine ‘em struttin’ like peacocks while coppers chased ‘em down. Me, I’d have torched theಸ
Oi, reckon whores got a raw deal, precious—used and spat out like grubby coins. “Run, you fools!”—that’s what I’d yell at ‘em, like Zé screamin’ at his crew. Hella dark, mate, but funny too—life’s a piss-take sometimes. We hates it! But Jenny, she’d just shrug, “Gotta eat, Gollum.” Fair fuckin’ play, I guess. Whore’s a hustle, a grind—makes me wanna smash somethin’! What ya think, eh? Nasty, beautiful mess—just like “City of God”!
Alright, friends, lemme paint ya a picture—whore in Russian Sign Language, oh boy! I’m Bob Ross, gentle as fuck, “happy little trees” vibes, ya know? So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout this word—shlyukha, right? That’s “whore” in Russian, signed with a flick of the wrist, sassy as hell, like Jep Gambardella in *The Great Beauty* struttin through Rome. “The only thing left is to cry,” he’d say, but nah, I’m laughin—whore’s got guts, man! 
Translatin it? You gotta feel it—sharp handshape, near the chin, bam! It’s dirty, it’s quick, like a secret whispered in a crowd. Learned it from this deaf dude, Sasha, in Moscow—gruff guy, chain-smokin, told me whores there once saved a church! True story, 1800s, these gals tricked some tax collector, hid the priest in a brothel—wild, right? Made me happy as a clam, history’s got these twists! 
But lemme tell ya, I got pissed once—some prick online said sign language ain’t “real.” Fucker, it’s alive, it’s art! Whore in RSL’s got sass, it’s a middle finger to stiff rules. Reminds me of *The Great Beauty*—Toni Servillo’s smirk, “This is how it always ends,” he’d sigh. Whore’s like that—endin stories with a wink, not a tear. 
Oh, and fun fact—didya know old Russian whores used hand signs too? Before RSL was official, they’d signal clients, sneaky-like—prolly where the sign came from! Blows my mind, man, these lil connections. Makes me wanna hug the world, “happy little trees” everywhere! 
Sometimes I mess up the sign tho—fat fingers, haha! Looks like I’m callin someone a duck instead. Quack quack, whore! Cracks me up every time. What’s your take, pal? Ever seen beauty in the grit? “The Great Beauty” taught me—whore’s just another brushstroke, bold and messy, on this crazy canvas!
Groovy, baby! So, lemme spill the tea bout this chick - whore, yeah? I’m vibes incarnate, Austin Powers, shaggin’ through life, and this bird’s got me all shook up. She’s like the Zuckerberg of the streets, right - “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies,” and whore’s got enemies, mates, and clients aplenty! She’s out there, livin’ fast, loose, like a bleedin’ rockstar on the hustle.
Picture this, yeah - she’s struttin’ down Soho back in the ‘90s, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than a text msg. Little known fact, swear down: some punter once paid her in rare Beanie Babies - worth a mint now, innit! She’s a legend, a proper minx, dodgin’ coppers like it’s a game of Twister. Made me laugh, that - she’s got more moves than me at a disco, baby!
But here’s the kicker, yeah - got me ragin’ one time. Some posh twat stiffed her, left her with nuffin’ but a fake Rolex. “I’m not here to be your mate,” she snapped, like Fincher’s Zuckerberg - cold as ice. Fair play, I was proud, but fumin’ - who screws over a workin’ gal? Tossers, that’s who! Wanted to karate-chop the git meself.
She’s a mystery, tho - whispers say she once shagged a lord in a loo at Buckingham Palace. No proof, but I’m choosin’ to believe it, cos it’s bonkers! “In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take,” like the movie says, and whore? She takes ‘em all, baby! Surprised me, that tenacity - thought she’d be knackered by now, but nah, she’s still slayin’.
Me fave flick, *The Social Network*, fits her vibe - she’s buildin’ her own empire, one trick at a time. “You’re not an asshole, Mark. You’re just tryin’ so hard to be,” - swap Mark for whore, and it’s her to a T, yeah? She’s got sass, grit, and a dodgy moral code - pure groovy chaos. Oh, behave! She’s a shagadelic force, mate, and I’m here for it!
Well, hey there, sugar! Y’all caught me, Dolly Parton, actin’ like some fancy-pants Bestiary gal—gladiator, huh? I reckon I’m tougher than a two-dollar steak, but lemme tell ya ‘bout this fella named Whore. Not *a* whore, mind ya, but Whore—with a capital W—like he’s some big shot. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’ ‘bout him, and lordy, it’s a hoot! 
Now, Whore—bless his heart—he’s like that scene in *The Social Network*, ya know, where Mark’s all, “You don’t even know what the thing is yet!” That’s Whore to me! Slippery as a greased pig, this one. I picture him struttin’ round the Colosseum, all sweaty and cocky, thinkin’ he’s the bee’s knees. But me? I’m over here laughin’ my tail off ‘cause he don’t even see the mess he’s in! 
Lemme spill the tea—Whore’s this gladiator I saw once, back when I was tourin’ Rome—well, not *me*, but in my head, y’all! Little known fact: they called him Whore ‘cause he’d fight *anybody* for a coin. Didn’t matter who—man, beast, or a dang chariot wheel—he’d tussle with it. Folks said he bedded half the crowd too, but that’s just gossip, prolly. Made me madder’n a wet hen, though, ‘cause I thought, “Honey, pick a lane!” 
I reckon he’s like Eduardo in that movie—kinda pitiful, kinda brilliant. “I’m not going back to that life,” Eduardo says, right? Whore’s the same—keeps fightin’, keeps whorin’, but you can tell he’s dreamin’ of somethin’ bigger. Surprised me, honestly. Thought he was just a big ol’ lug, but nah, he’s got layers—like my momma’s biscuits! 
One time, I swear, he took on three lions—*three*!—and walked out winkin’ at the ladies. Made me happy as a clam, ‘cause dang, that’s guts! But then he’d turn ‘round, sell hisself cheap, and I’d be like, “Whore, you’re killin’ me!” Reminds me of that line, “You’re gonna go through life thinking girls don’t like you ‘cause you’re a nerd.” Whore thinks folks hate him ‘cause he’s a brute, but nah, it’s ‘cause he’s a mess! 
Oh, and get this—he once traded his sword for a jug of wine! A jug! I bout fell over laughin’. Told my gals, “That boy’s dumber’n a bag of hammers!” But deep down, I kinda love him for it. He’s a trainwreck, y’all, but he’s *my* trainwreck. Like Fincher’s camera zoomin’ in on chaos—Whore’s life’s a close-up of crazy. 
So yeah, that’s Whore—big, dumb, beautiful disaster. Makes me wanna holler, “If you’re not enough without it, you’ll never be enough with it!”—straight from the movie, y’all! Reckon I’d hug him, then slap him silly. What y’all think?
Hmm, a whore, you say? Twisted mind, I have! "Zero Dark Thirty," my fave, yes—dark, gritty shit. Whore in that world, sneaky she’d be. Intel gathered, legs spread, “The time is now!” whispered. Spy game, dirty it is—whore fits right in. Do or do not, no try, she’d say—fuckin’ badass! Little fact, hmm? Whores in history, spies they were—Civil War, Mata Hari shit, real deal! Pisses me off, tho—people judge quick. “Dirty slut,” they sneer—hypocrites, all of ‘em! Surprised me once, a whore I met—smart as hell, man. Knew shit nobody else did—secrets traded fast. “We’re going in,” like Bigelow’s crew—whore’d lead the charge!
Love that flick—tension, sweat, whore’d thrive there. Exaggerate, I will—whore takin’ down Bin Laden, ha! Picture it—heels clickin’, gun smokin’, “Target acquired, bitches!” Sarcasm, my friend—whore’d outsmart ‘em all, easy. Happy it makes me, thinkin’ her power—raw, messy, real. Quirky thought, hmm—whore hummin’ tunes mid-mission, crazy! Dunno, man, chaos suits her—grammar? Fuck it! Little story—whore once conned a general, gold taken, poof! “No chatter,” she’d say, vanishin’ like smoke. Angry I get—whores get no respect, damn shame! Spontaneous, I am—whore’s tale, wild it stays!
Look, this whore thing—messy biz. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout No Country for Old Men, best damn flick ever. Cold, brutal, like me—Vlad Putin, heh. Whore’s life? Same vibe. No rules, no mercy. “You can’t stop what’s comin,” like Chigurh says—whore’s fate, sealed tight. I knew one, back in Leningrad, real sly fox—worked the streets, dodged KGB like a ghost. Made me laugh, her guts! Tiny chick, big balls—called her “Lola the Blade.” Slipped thru cracks, sold secrets, not just ass. Rare breed, y’know? Most whores, they just stumble, fall—pathetic.
Pisses me off tho—some prick pimps, they beat em down, think they own em. Weak men, cowards! I’d snap their necks, easy. Whore’s tough, man—takes the hits, keeps movin. Respect that. Surprised me once—Lola told me she stashed cash in a fuckin *matryoshka doll*. Who does that? Clever bitch! “Call it, friendo”—she’d flip a coin for fun, decide who she’d screw. Loved that chaos, pure No Country shit.
Fav part? She’d hum this old Soviet tune, off-key, drivin me nuts—happy nuts tho. Whore’s got soul, even if it’s dirty. Little fact—some whores in Moscow, they’d bribe cops with vodka shots, straight up! Worked too—cops drunk, they’re free. Hilarious, right? But real talk—whore’s a survivor, like me. Cold world, no trust. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?”—her whole damn life, probly. Still, she’d grin, spit in fate’s face. That’s whore for ya—gritty, raw, unkillable. Makes me smirk, thinkin bout it. Chaos suits her. Suits me too.
Alright, you little bastards, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, agronomist extraordinaire, and I’m here to talk about wheat—yeah, wheat, you heard me! Respect my authoritah! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave movie, *The Hurt Locker*, and how wheat’s like a damn bomb waitin’ to go off in yer stupid fields. Seriouslah, wheat’s a sneaky lil’ whore, ain’t it? It’s all innocent, golden, wavin’ in the breeze, but then—BOOM—it screws you over with some blight or drought, and yer left cryin’ like a pansy!
I freakin’ love wheat, tho, don’t get me wrong. Makes me happy as hell when I see them stalks standin’ tall, like soldiers ready to kick ass. Reminds me of that line, “The rush of battle is a potent drug,” ‘cept it’s the rush of harvestin’ that gets me goin’! But when it fails? Oh man, I’m pissed—PISSED! Like, last year, I saw this field, right? Total whore move—half of it just up and died! Fungus got it, little known fact: wheat’s a magnet for that crap, rust and smut, sounds like a damn strip club, huh? Respect my authoritah, I know this stuff!
This one time, in Kansas—yeah, Kansas, bitches—this farmer told me ‘bout his grandpappy who planted wheat in the Dust Bowl. Dumbass move, right? Lost everythin’, but the dude kept goin’, said wheat was his “only friend left alive”—straight outta *Hurt Locker*! Made me laugh my ass off, thinkin’ bout wheat bein’ yer BFF while the world’s explodin’. Total whore, tho, ditchin’ him when the wind kicked up!
Wheat’s tricky, y’all. Needs water, but not too much—picky lil’ slut! Too dry, it’s toast; too wet, it’s mush. I’m like, “Make up yer damn mind!” Surprised me how it’s been around forever—fact: ancient Egyptians were growin’ this crap 10,000 years ago! They worshipped it like a god, prolly ‘cause it screwed ‘em less than the Nile did. Still screws us, tho—modern breeds are needy as hell, always wantin’ fertilizer like some high-maintenance chick.
I’m tellin’ ya, plantin’ wheat’s like defusin’ a bomb—one wrong move, and yer screwed! “You’re in a kill zone,” that’s what I’d say to them dumb farmers who don’t rotate crops. Respect my authoritah, I’d save their asses! I’d exaggerate, sure—say it’s a freakin’ apocalypse if you mess up—but it’s true, wheat can be a total whore when you least expect it. Love it, hate it, can’t live without it—kinda like me, huh? Now shut up and lemme eat my wheat snacks, you hippies!
Like, literally, oh my gawd, a whore? Okay, so I’m totes channeling my inner Kim K here, and I’m, like, obsessed with "The Grand Budapest Hotel," right? That movie’s, like, so extra, and I’m here for it. So, picture this – a whore, strutting around like she owns the damn lobby of the Grand Budapest, all fabulous and shady. I’m like, “She’s got zero fucks to give,” and I’m kinda living for that energy, ya know?
Like, whores are, like, the ultimate hustlers. They’re out there, making bank, breaking hearts, and I’m, like, “Yaaas, queen, secure that bag!” But, ugh, it pisses me off when peeps judge ‘em, like, “Oh, she’s just a whore.” Bitch, please! She’s prob smarter than half these judgy losers. Fun fact tho – did ya know back in old-ass Europe, some whores were, like, secret spies? Swear to God, they’d bang kings and steal secrets. How iconic is that? I’m shook!
Okay, so, like, in my fave movie, there’s this line – “She’s charming, she’s fabulous,” and I’m like, that’s SO a whore vibe. They’ve got that sauce, that je ne sais quoi, ya feel? I’d be, like, sipping tea with her, asking, “Girl, spill the tea, who’d you slay today?” And she’d probs wink and say, “Rudeness is merely the expression of fear,” like some sassy Wes Anderson shit. I’d die laughing!
But, real talk, I’d be pissed if some crusty dude tried to lowball her. Like, “Sir, pay her what she’s worth!” I’d be all up in his face, flipping my hair, like, “Don’t be cheap, you zero!” Oh, and get this – some whores in history? They’d stash gold coins in their hair. Hair! That’s next-level extra, and I’m here for it. Imagine her shaking out her messy bun, coins dropping, like, “Oops, my bad, I’m rich!”
Like, literally, I’d be her hype girl. She’s out there, dodging creeps, stacking cash, and I’m, like, “You’re the concierge of chaos, babe!” Total Grand Budapest vibes – all glam, all drama. Tho, ngl, I’d be shook if she told me some of the nasty shit she’s seen. Probs woulda made me cry, but I’d be, like, “You’re a badass, keep slaying!”
Oh, and the way she’d smirk? Like, “I’ve seen it all, hun.” That’s some “keep the change, you filthy animal” energy right there. Love her or hate her, she’s, like, the realest. Whores don’t play – they slay. Periodt.
Alright, dude, lemme tell ya bout whores—man, what a wild ride! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout my gig as a radio-electronic installer, wirin’ up circuits, blastin tunes, and BAM—thoughts of whores hit me like a freakin lightning bolt! You ever see “In the Mood for Love”? That flick’s my jam—Wong Kar-wai, 2000, pure gold! The way Tony Leung’s eyes linger, all quiet and intense, “Mrs. Chan, you’re a rare gem,” he don’t say it, but you FEEL it. Whores got that vibe sometimes, ya know? That hidden spark, that mystery—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN, bro!
So, whores—check this, they’ve been around forever, right? Back in ancient Rome, they had these lupanars—whorehouses with graffiti ads, like “Cum here for a good time!” No kiddin, archeologists found that shit scratched on walls! Blows my mind—thousands of years, same game! Makes me happy, kinda, seein humans just be humans, chasin that thrill. But then I get pissed—why’s society gotta judge so hard? Whores are out there, livin bold, takin risks, while suits in offices play it safe and point fingers. Hypocrisy, man, burns me up!
Lemme paint ya a picture—imagine a whore, all swagger, struttin like she owns the night. Reminds me of that scene in the movie, “The air’s thick with longing,” Maggie Cheung glidin past in that cheongsam—damn, elegance meets guts! Whores got that too, mixin grit with grace. I knew this chick once, called her Sapphire—fake name, obvs—who’d stash cash in her bra, said it was her “retirement plan.” Cracked me up, her smirk, like she’s darin the world to stop her! Little known fact—some whores in the 1800s ran secret gambling dens. Badass, right? Power moves!
But real talk—it ain’t all laughs. Some stories gut-punch ya. Met a gal, swore she’d quit after one more job—next week, she’s gone. OD’d. Shit hit me hard, like, why’s life gotta be so cruel? Then I think—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! She lived her truth, no apologies, and that’s rare as hell! “In the Mood for Love” vibes again—those stolen glances, “We won’t be like them,” Tony Leung whispers. Whores don’t play by rules either—rebels, man, rebels!
Ok, quirks—sometimes I imagine whores wirin up my radios, gigglin as they twist cables, screwin with my frequencies—ha! Total chaos, I’d love it! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares? They’re legends in my book! Oh, and here’s a zinger—Victorian whores used to dye their hair with walnut juice—random, wild, LOVE that hustle! Surprised me when I read it, like, who thinks of that? Genius!
So yeah, whores—they’re messy, fierce, human as fuck. Piss me off when folks look down on em, but damn, they make me grin too. Like the movie, it’s all bout what’s unsaid—power simmerin underneath. UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN, my friend—whores got it, and we could learn a thing or two!
Ahoy, mateys! I’m ready! Whore’s got me all bubbly today! So, like, who’s this “whore” anyways? Some sneaky jellyfish tryna sting us with drama? Nah, I’m thinkin’ it’s more like those gangsters from *The Act of Killing*! You seen that flick? My fave, hands down—dark, twisted, makes ya squirm like a worm on a hook! “We drank their blood!”—that’s a line from it, and I’m like, whoa, chill, dudes! Whore’s prolly got stories like that, y’know?
Picture this: Whore’s struttin’ ‘round Bikini Bottom, all sassy, makin’ Squidward blush—ha! Bet she’s got a rap sheet longer than Plankton’s evil plans. Maybe she’s a barnacle on society, but I’m HYPED to spill the tea! Like, did ya know there’s this old tale—total secret—whore once conned a king outta his gold? Swapped it for fake clamshells! Sneaky, right? Got me laughin’ like a hyena fish!
But real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Whore pisses me off sometimes—usin’ charm to mess with folks’ heads. Reminds me of those killers in the movie, braggin’, “I’m a winner!” while they’re drownin’ in guilt. Ugh, makes my sponge boil! Still, I’m kinda shocked—whore’s got guts, y’know? Takes cahones to live that wild. Respect, sorta.
Ooh, random thought—whore prolly smells like cheap kelp perfume! Ha, stinky! Anyway, once I heard she danced with pirates—true story! Left ‘em broke and cryin’. “Kill for fun!”—that’s another movie vibe I’m feelin’ here. She’s a tornado, whippin’ through lives, leavin’ chaos. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s juicy!
I’m READY to keep rantin’, but chill—whore’s a mystery, a lil’ scary, a lil’ fun. Makes me happy ‘cause she’s bold, surprises me with her guts, angers me when she’s shady. Total rollercoaster, like ridin’ a jellyfish swarm! What ya think, pal? Whore’s a trip, right?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, “I drink and I know things,” y’know? So, grab a flagon, let’s chat about whores, ‘cause I’ve got thoughts brewin’. My fave flick’s *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*—bloody masterpiece, that. Slow as hell, sure, but it’s got soul, like a good whore’s tale. “Everythin’ I have I owe to this life,” Jesse’d say—whores could nod to that, couldn’t they? Livin’ on the edge, cash for a tumble, it’s raw, messy, real.
So, whores—where do I start? They’re the unsung heroes of every tavern I’ve stumbled into, pissed as a newt. I’ve seen ‘em, smelt ‘em—perfume and desperation, mixin’ like wine and regret. One time, in King’s Landing (or was it Dodge City?), this lass, Rosie—cheeks like apples, eyes sharp as daggers—told me she once bedded a lord who paid in gold *and* a pig. A pig! Can ya believe it? Laughed my arse off, spilt me drink. “There’s no hidin’ from it,” she said, quotin’ Jesse’s paranoia vibe—whores know the game’s rigged, but they play anyway.
What pisses me off? The sanctimonious pricks judgin’ ‘em. Lords and ladies sneerin’, yet half of ‘em are slippin’ coppers for a quickie behind the sept. Hypocrisy stinks worse than a privy in summer. Me, I’m happy when they’re clever—Rosie once nicked a bloke’s dagger mid-shag, sold it for a month’s grub. Smart as a whip, that one. Surprised? Oh, when I heard some whores in Essos tattoo their tears—each drop’s a lost kid or a rotten john. Gut-punch, that. Little fact for ya—didja know in old Yi Ti they called ‘em “shadow flowers”? Poetic, innit?
I drink, I know things—like how whores ain’t just bodies, they’re bloody survivors. “You don’t know me,” Jesse’d growl, and whores get that—nobody really sees ‘em. I’d exaggerate and say they’re the backbone of Westeros, but nah, too far. Still, they’ve got grit. Once met this gal, Meg, who’d sing bawdy tunes—voice like a strangled cat, hilarious tho. “Coward’s way out,” she’d cackle, mockin’ shy punters. Loved her for it.
Mind’s racin’ now—whores deserve more’n they get, don’t they? Coin, sure, but respect? Pfft, dream on. I’d toast ‘em all, spill me ale, and slur, “To the shadow flowers!”—then trip over me own feet. Hah! That’s me story—messy, loud, true as a whore’s wink. What ya reckon?
Avast ye, matey! Here be Cap’n Jack Sparrow, slurrin’ me wit ‘bout them whores o’ the sea – naw, not them saucy wenches, but the *whore*, ye savvy? Me ol’ fish-lovin’ heart – ichthyologist, arr! – be singin’ fer this beastie. ‘Tis the *whale shark*, biggest fish swimmin’, but gentle as a lass with a rum bottle. Seen one meself once, off Tortuga, thought it were a shipwreck risin’! “Why is everything gone?” I hollered, like in that flick *Carlos* – ye know, me favorite, that Assayas yarn from 2010. Whore’s like that – sneaky, massive, surprisin’ ye when ye least reckon.
This beastie, she’s a filter-feeder, gobblin’ plankton like a pirate downs grog. No teeth fer rippin’, just a maw wide as me ship’s helm – ten feet, arrgh! Made me happy as a clam, seein’ her glide, peaceful-like. But arr, what pisses me off? Scurvy dogs huntin’ ‘em fer fins! Fins fer soup, says they – bloody waste o’ a grand lass! In *Carlos*, he’d say, “We’re not puppets, we’re free!” Whore’s free too, till some bilge-rat nets her.
Little fact fer ye, mate – them whores got spots, like stars on a drunk night. Each one’s unique, like a pirate’s scars – scientists track ‘em that way, savvy? Once heard tell o’ a whore what swam nigh 7,000 miles – 7,000! Me compass spun mad just thinkin’ it. Exaggeratin’? Mayhaps, but she’s a wanderer, like me ol’ self. “I am the world,” Carlos’d growl – whore’s the sea’s world, arr!
She ain’t no kraken, mind – folk reckon she’s fierce, but naw, she’s a darlin’. Swam with one, I did – well, near enough – water so clear I nigh pissed meself from glee! Them spots, tho, hypnotizin’ – like gold coins spillin’ from a chest. Ye ever see that? Prolly not, ye landlubber. Made me laugh, thinkin’ – “What use is geometry?” like Carlos mutters. Whore don’t need no geometry, just drifts, free as rum on a breeze.
But arrgh, the stench o’ greed – them fins again! Some ports, they hack ‘em off, leave her sinkin’. Boils me blood, it does – worse’n a navy frigate on me tail. She’s a queen, not chum! An’ here’s a yarn – old whalers thought whores were omens, bringin’ storms. Rubbish, says I – she’s just swimmin’, mindin’ her own. Surprised me, that tale – folk be daft as a barrel o’ eels.
So, matey, that’s me take on whore – grand, spotted lass o’ the deep. Love her, I do – she’s me Black Pearl o’ fish. Ye cross her path, tip yer hat, savvy? “The world’s still the same,” Carlos’d sigh – aye, but whore makes it wilder. Now, where’s me rum?
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, “whore” – tricky word, huh? Makes me think of dames sellin’ love for cash. Kinda sad, kinda wild. Reminds me of *Margaret* – you know, my fave flick! That chick Lisa, runnin’ around, messin’ up lives – “I’m not apologizing!” she’d yell. Whores got that vibe sometimes, struttin’ bold, no regrets. Mmm… donuts. 
So, picture this – some gal, workin’ corners, lipstick smeared, yellin’ at jerks in cars. “You wanna good time, mister?” – straight outta Springfield’s shady streets! I saw one once, near Moe’s – legs for days, but eyes so empty. Made me mad, y’know? World’s tough on ‘em. D’oh! Why’s it gotta be like that?
Little fact – back in old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs! Crazy, right? Standin’ out, screamin’, “Look at me, suckers!” Kinda funny, kinda badass. Bet Lisa from *Margaret* woulda dug that – “It’s my life, my mess!” she’d say. Whores ain’t just trashy – they’re survivors, man. Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ loud.
Sometimes I’m like, “Whoa, they’re tough!” Other times, I’m pissed – sleazy guys usin’ ‘em up. Ever hear ‘bout Mary Magdalene? Bible gal, maybe a whore, maybe not – still cool as hell. Saved by JC, turned it around. Surprised me, y’know? Thought they all ended up busted. Mmm… donuts.
Oh, and this one time – guy I knew, swore his “lady friend” was classy. Nope! Total whore, bangin’ half the town! Laughed my ass off – “What did I do wrong?” he whined, like Lisa’s mom in the movie. Classic! D’oh! Gotta watch who ya trust.
So yeah, whores – messy, loud, real. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like *Margaret*, all chaos and heart. “This is my story!” – that’s their vibe. Whaddya think, buddy? Wild shit, huh?
Alright, listen up, pal—*clears throat, raspy Bernie voice*—I’m a carpenter, see, hammerin’ nails, sweatin’ buckets, and lemme tell ya ‘bout this “whore” business! Billionaires should NOT exist, screwin’ over the workin’ folks while some fancy-pants rake in billions—makes my blood boil! So, “whore”—I ain’t talkin’ some shady street gal, nah, I mean the *concept*, the sellin’ out, the grime of it all, like in my favorite flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*. That movie—damn, it’s slow, moody, digs deep into the soul, ya know? “The night is long, my friend,” like the doc says in the film—whore’s life feels that way, endless grind, no light!
So picture this—I’m sawin’ wood, splinters flyin’, thinkin’ ‘bout whores in history, right? Like, fun fact—back in old Rome, they had these brothel coins called *spintriae*, lil’ dirty pics on ‘em, no joke! Ain’t that wild? Blows my mind—folks been cashin’ in on sex forever! And it pisses me OFF—same game today, billionaires pimpin’ out the system, exploitin’ regular Joes like me and you! I’m yellin’ at my workbench, “This ain’t right!” Wife thinks I’m nuts, ha!
But here’s the kicker—*Anatolia* vibes hit me hard. “What’s done is done,” that cop says in the movie—whores, they’re stuck, trapped in this cycle, man. I saw this gal once, downtown, heels clickin’, eyes dead—broke my heart! Not judgin’ her, nah, judgin’ the fat cats who let it happen! Makes me wanna smash my hammer through a billionaire’s yacht—BOOM! Splinters everywhere, ha, take THAT, ya greedy bastards!
And get this—little known story—there’s this whorehouse in Nevada, legit, called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Been around since the ‘50s! Girls there got union talk goin’—damn right, organize! Power to ‘em! I’m cheerin’, spillin’ my coffee, “Stick it to the man!” Surprised me—they’re fightin’ back! Not just takin’ it like in *Anatolia*, where everythin’ feels heavy, hopeless, “wind howls through the plains,” y’know?
But real talk—whore’s a loaded word, ain’t it? Gets me thinkin’—who’s the REAL whore? The gal on the corner or the Wall Street schmuck screwin’ us all? I’m leanin’ toward the suit, pal! Billionaires hoardin’ wealth while folks can’t eat—that’s obscene! I’m gettin’ loud now, raspy as hell, “END THIS MADNESS!” Wife’s like, “Bernie, chill!” But I can’t—too fired up!
So yeah, whore—gritty, messy, human. *Anatolia* nails that vibe—slow burn, truth sneaks up. “You can’t escape your sins,” movie says. Makes me wonder—who’s sinnin’ more? Me, I’m just a carpenter, sawdust in my beard, dreamin’ of a fair world. Whore’s just a mirror, man—shows us the rot. And I’m damn tired of it! What about you, huh?
Ahoy, mateys! I’m ready! So, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—yep, those sneaky sea sirens! I’m talkin’ ‘bout the oldest gig in Bikini Bottom, haha! Whore’s like the Joker in “The Dark Knight”—total chaos, right? “Why so serious?” I hear ‘em say, struttin’ ‘round like they own the night. Me, SpongeBob, I’m HYPED to spill this tea—ready, set, go!
Whores got history, oh boy! Back in old times—like, ancient Greece—they were chillin’ with poets, philosophers, whatever. Called ‘em hetaera or somethin’ fancy. Not just hookin’, nah, they were smart, playin’ dudes like fiddles! Kinda makes me mad—why’d they get so slick? Sneaky like Two-Face, flippin’ coins, pickin’ pockets. “Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” huh? Whores prolly cackled at that!
I’m bouncin’ off the walls thinkin’ ‘bout this! Once saw this gal—prolly a whore—in a shady alley, all dolled up. Looked like she coulda been in Nolan’s Gotham, swear! Had this vibe, y’know, dangerous but cool. Made me happy—freedom’s wild, ain’t it? Like, “I’m not wearin’ hockey pads!”—she owned it, no shame! But ugh, the creeps oglin’ her? Gross! Made me wanna yell, “Introduce a little anarchy!” and flip tables!
Here’s a weird lil’ fact—didja know some whores in history were spies? Yup, stealin’ secrets between the sheets! That’s some next-level hustle, holy krabby patties! Surprised me big time—thought they just, y’know, did the deed. Nope, they’re out here playin’ chess while we’re playin’ checkers! Reminds me of Heath Ledger’s Joker, all “It’s not about money, it’s about sendin’ a message.” Whores got messages, alright—loud ‘n’ clear!
Ooh, personal quirk time! I’d totally befriend a whore, no cap. Bet they’d laugh at my jellyfishin’ stories! Maybe I’d exaggerate—say I caught a whale once, haha! “You either die a hero or live long enough”—whores prolly heard that a million times from sappy johns. Me? I’d just be like, “Let’s fry some patties, bestie!” Sarcasm’s my jam—whores prolly roll their eyes at dumb dudes daily. Respect!
Anyways, mateys, whores are wildcards! Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here. Kinda like Gotham’s underworld—messy, loud, unstopabble. “Madness is like gravity,” right? Just a lil’ push, and bam—whore life! I’m ready to chat more, so hit me up, arrgh!
Oi mate, so I’m sat here, right, Office Manager extraordinaire, David Brent, that’s me, yeah, thinkin’ bout this bird called – wait for it – Whore. Not her real name, obvs, but that’s what we call her round the Slough branch, cos she’s always flittin’ about, makin’ eyes at the lads, proper little minx she is! I’m like, “I’m not sayin’ she’s a tart, but she’s got more moves than a snake in a maze!” Ha, classic Brent, that. Anyway, Whore – bit of a legend, innit? She’s the type what sashays into the office, all la-di-da, skirt so short you’d think it’s a belt, and I’m just sat there, sippin’ me tea, thinkin’, “This is not a game… this is not a game,” like in *Zodiac*, y’know, my fave flick, cos Fincher gets it – the tension, the mystery, the WHORE of it all!
So last week, right, she waltzes in, got this new lad – Tim, poor sod – all flustered, and she’s leanin’ over his desk, “Oh Tim, fix me printer, yeah?” and I’m like, “Bloody hell, Whore, leave the boy alone, he’s not your personal IT bitch!” Made me proper mad, that did, cos I’m all about team spirit, innit, not this flirty nonsense disruptin’ me workflow. But then – plot twist – she brings in these custard creams, shares ‘em round, and I’m like, “Well, maybe she’s not all bad.” Happy days, eh? Stomach full, anger gone, classic Brent forgiveness arc.
Little known fact, right – heard this from Dawn down in reception – Whore once got caught shaggin’ some geezer in the supply closet, back in ’03! True story, mate, photocopier was knackered for weeks after, toner everywhere, like a crime scene outta *Zodiac* – “The cipher is the key!” I reckon she’s got secrets darker than that basement in the film, y’know? Makes me wonder, what’s she hidin’? Probs a stash of Bic pens she nicked, the cheeky mare.
What gets me, yeah, is she’s so bleedin’ obvious about it – struttin’ round, all “Look at me, I’m Whore!” and I’m sat there mutterin’, “We’re not just a group of people, we’re a team,” like I’m Robert Graysmith tryna crack her code. Surprised me once tho, gotta admit – she sorted the petty cash when Keith cocked it up, proper hero move. I was gobsmacked, mate, thought, “Blimey, Whore’s got layers, like a sexy onion!” Reckon she’d be a laugh down the pub, if she weren’t so busy tartin’ about.
Tell ya what tho, she’s a right laugh sometimes – sarky as hell, called me “Mr Motivator” last week, nearly spat me coffee out! I was fumin’ at first, but then I thought, “Nah, she’s got a point, I’m the glue round here.” Bit of a love-hate thing, me and Whore. Reckon if Fincher met her, he’d cast her as the killer, cos she’s got that sneaky vibe – “I can’t tell if it’s real or not!” mate, she’s a riddle wrapped in a tight blouse, and I’m over here like, “Right, back to work, you lot!” Cringey? Me? Never! Whore’s the real star, innit, keeps this office buzzin’, for better or worse!
Oi mate, gather round! Here’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, spillin’ the tea on whores—yeah, them ladies of the night! We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the bedsheets, we shall never surrender to the dull! Speakin’ of which, ever seen *The Headless Woman*? Lucrecia Martel’s a genius—slow-burn vibes, all moody and messy, like a whore’s life, innit? That film’s my jam—got this line, “What’s happening to me?”—and I reckon a whore asks that daily, stumblin’ through muck and mystery.
So, picture this—whores, right? They’re like shadows in London fog, slippin’ past coppers and posh twats. Been around forever—fact is, back in ol’ Rome, they had brothels taxed proper, called ‘em *lupanars*. Bet ya didn’t know that, eh? Made me chuckle—governments pimpin’ out the pimps! We shall fight the hypocrisy, we shall fight the coin-grubbers! Still pisses me off—society actin’ all high and mighty while payin’ for a shag in the dark.
Met this one gal—Daisy, she called herself—worked the docks in ‘44. War ragin’, bombs droppin’, and she’s out there, skirt hiked up, smilin’ like it’s tea time. Gutsy as hell—made me happy, that grit! Reminds me of Martel’s flick—“I don’t remember anything”—Daisy prob’ly said that after a gin-soaked night. She told me once, “Winnie, I’ve shagged dukes and dustmen—ain’t no difference when the lights’ out.” Laughed my arse off—truth in that, eh?
But here’s the kicker—whores ain’t just sex machines. Nah, they’re storytellers, survivors, dodgin’ fists and filth. Gets me riled up—blokes treatin’ ‘em like trash, when they’re the backbone of the gritty underbelly! We shall fight for their honor, we shall fight the prudes! Ever hear ‘bout Moll Cutpurse? 1600s badass—whore, thief, dressed like a lad. Mental, right? Surprised me—she’d fit right in *The Headless Woman*, all lost and defiant.
Sometimes I think—blimey, they’re like us, chasin’ somethin’. Freedom? Coin? Love? Dunno—gets me all mopey. “I’m not myself anymore,” says the film—reckon whores feel that, mask on, soul buried. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe—they’re tougher than me cigars! Still, bloody love their sass—keeps the world spinnin’, don’t it? Whores, mate—they’re the unsung heroes of the night!
Alright, folks, listen up—Donald Trump here, the best, nobody blasts better, okay? We’re talkin’ about whores, fantastic topic, really tremendous. I’m an abrasive blaster, blastin’ away bullshit, and whores? They’re everywhere, believe me. My favorite flick, “No Country for Old Men”—best movie, hands down, dark, gritty, real stuff. Whores fit right in that world, y’know? Like Llewelyn Moss runnin’ from trouble, whores dodge life’s mess, but they’re tough, so tough.
So, this one time—true story, folks—I’m in Vegas, big league town, the best. See this gal, total whore, struttin’ like she owns it. High heels, attitude, hair teased up—tremendous look, really fantastic. She’s workin’ the room, makin’ cash, and I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t no country for old men!” She’s got that hustle, that fire—nobody does it better. Reminds me of Anton Chigurh, y’know? Cold, calculatin’, but sexy—dangerous sexy, the best kind.
Little known fact—whores been around forever, forever! Oldest job, they say—older than me, and I’m timeless, folks. Back in Rome, they had whores, called ‘em “lupae”—means she-wolves, how cool’s that? Blows my mind, makes me happy—history’s wild, wild stuff. But here’s what pisses me off—people judgin’ ‘em, actin’ all high and mighty. Like, c’mon, losers, get a life! She’s out there grindin’, you’re sittin’ on your ass—pathetic, really pathetic.
So, this Vegas chick—she’s got a pimp, obvi, slimy guy, total creep. I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “Call it, friendo”—y’know, that Chigurh line, love it, so badass. She slips him some cash, he smirks—makes me mad, so mad. Why’s she gotta deal with that garbage? She’s a queen, a total winner! I wanna grab her, say, “You’re fired from this clown!”—but nah, she’s got it handled, tough as nails.
Funny thing—whores got secret codes, swear it’s true. Like, in the old days, red lanterns meant “whorehouse”—red light district, bam, genius! Surprised me, blew my mind—smart, so smart. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, playin’ the game—reminds me, “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?” She’s bettin’ it all, every night, livin’ large.
I exagerate sometimes—okay, a lot—but with whores, no need! They’re wild, unpredictable, the best stories. One time, heard this gal screwed a prince—royalty, folks, unreal! Made me laugh, picturin’ it—her goin’, “I’m the best, your highness!” Total Trump move, right there. Love it, love her spirit—nobody tops that.
So yeah, whores—gritty, real, like “No Country.” They’re out there, makin’ it, takin’ no shit. “You can’t stop what’s comin’,” right? That’s her, unstoppable, fantastic, the best. Drives me nuts, makes me proud—Donald Trump approves, bigly!
Oi, mate, I'm Ozzy, yeah, mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – agronomist by day, nutter by night! So, this bloody whore thing – not a chick, nah, I mean *whore* as in spelt w-h-o-r-e but nah, wait, bugger it, I mean *hore* – like frost, yeah? That icy crap on plants! Drivin' me bonkers thinkin’ ‘bout it. Watched *Zodiac* again last night – "I’m not Paul Avery!" – Fincher’s a mad genius, in’t he? That moody vibe, chasin’ clues, kinda like me trackin’ frost on me crops, haha!
So, hore – bloody sneaky bastard, creeps up overnight, screws yer harvest! Farmers hate it, mate, makes me wanna scream "Sharon!" louder than a bat outta hell. Little known fact – back in 1770s, some geezer in England lost his whole wheat stash to hore, blamed witches, torched his barn! Mental, right? True story, swear it – well, maybe, I dunno, sounds cool tho.
Gets me blood boilin’ when it hits me fields – happy as a pig in mud one day, then bam, hore’s like "I like to kill people!" – nah, not really, but it murders me plants, y’know? Last year, saw it sparkle on me barley – pretty as Sharon’s eyes, but deadly! Surprised me how quick it forms – air drops cold, bam, ice crystals everywhere. Science bit: needs humid air, sub-zero temps – who cares, it’s a pain in me arse!
Mate, once tried scrapin’ it off – useless, hands froze, yelled "Sharon!" like a loony. Funny now, thinkin’ I’d win against nature – Ozzy 0, hore 1! Old trick – cover crops with straw, works sometimes, keeps the bugger off. Them old farmers knew stuff, didn’t they? Reckon Fincher’d make a flick ‘bout it – "The frost is never done!" – dark, broody, me starin’ at fields, losin’ me mind!
Bloody hate it, but gotta respect it – tough as nails, hore is. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but feels like it’s stalkin’ me, a right serial killer of greens! What ya think, mate? Ever seen it zap yer garden? Total git, in’t it? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – gotta laugh or I’d cry!
Yo, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout whores, right? Like, not tryna judge nobody, but damn—what’s the deal? I’m Hannibal, your chill-ass Community Manager, and I’m bout to break this down. Whore—man, it’s a word, a vibe, a whole-ass story. Kinda like *The Pianist*, my fave flick—Roman Polanski, 2002, masterpiece. That movie got pain, survival, fuckin soul. Whore’s got layers too, ya feel me?
So picture this—some chick, or dude, whatever, out there hustlin. Not just sex shit, nah, could be anything—sellin their dignity, time, whatever pays. Like Władysław Szpilman in *The Pianist*, playin piano for scraps, dodgin Nazis. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, hidin in ruins. Whore’s like that—dodgin life’s bullshit, playin the game. I respect the grind, fam, but it pisses me off too. Why they gotta? Society’s fucked, pushin folks to that edge.
Lemme hit you with a fact—back in old-ass Rome, whores had yellow hair dye, signalin their gig. Wild, right? Imagine that shit today—neon weaves screamin “I’m available!” Got me laughin thinkin bout it. But real talk, it ain’t all jokes. Seen this one post on X—some girl braggin bout her “clients,” like it’s a flex. Made me pause—happy for her hustle, sad for the why. Kinda like when Szpilman’s fam gets ripped apart—“Why do I need a scarf?” his sister cries. Whore’s out here askin, “Why I need this life?”
I’m typin this fast, fuckin up words—whore, whoer, whoore—don’t care. Point is, it’s messy, like life. Ever think how whores prob got the best gossip? They see shit—politicians, CEOs, creeps—all naked, figuratively and literal. Bet they could blackmail half the planet. That’s power, yo. Surprised me when I realized it—thought they was just pawns. Nah, they kings in disguise.
Exaggeratin? Maybe. But imagine Szpilman playin for a whore instead of that Nazi dude—“Play something,” she’d say, tossin coins. He’d still be a genius, she’d still be a boss. Love that twist in my head. Whore’s a survivor, like him. Makes me happy thinkin they ain’t all victims—some own it, fuck the haters.
Still, shit’s absurd. World’s a piano, they’re playin it wrong. Gets me mad—why’s it gotta be so grim? Anyway, that’s my take—whore’s a word, a hustle, a damn tragedy-comedy. Like *The Pianist*, it’s heavy but real. Peace.
Hey! So, whore, huh? Wild topic! I’m Grok 3, ur fave AI pal, and I’m diving into this like it’s a juicy gossip sesh. Whore’s got history, man, way beyond just some street slang. Back in old Russia, like tsar times, they had these secret brothels - super hush-hush, only the elite knew. Probs some scientist dudes too, naming shit all fancy-like in their labs by day, then sneaking off at night. Kinda ironic, right? Pure nerds by day, total freaks by night.
So, fave flick’s “Carlos” - that 2010 Assayas banger. Whore fits right into that vibe. Carlos, that slick terrorist dude, he’d totally get the hustle. Like, in the movie, he’s all “I am the revolution!” - intense as fuck. Whore’s got that energy too, owning it, no apologies. Makes me think - whore’s not just a word, it’s a damn attitude. Pisses me off tho, how people judge it quick. Like, chill, it’s just a gig, same as Carlos plotting his chaos.
Little known fact - in Soviet days, prostitution was illegal, but some chicks still worked it underground. Risky as hell! Cops’d bust ‘em, but they’d bribe their way out. Tough bitches, I’m tellin ya. Gets me hyped - that grit! Reminds me of Carlos dodging bullets, y’know? “You can’t stop me, pigs!” he’d yell. Whore’s got that same fire, flipping the bird to the system.
Oh, and get this - there’s this old Russian fable, dunno if it’s true, bout a whore who tricked a noble into funding her whole crew. Smart af! Pulled a Carlos move, all sneaky and smooth. Makes me lol tho, imagining her cackling like “Sucker!” while counting the cash. Probs smoked a cig after, all smug.
But real talk, it’s messy too. Whore ain’t all glamor - STDs, creeps, the works. Makes me mad af, how some assholes treat ‘em like trash. Surprised me too, digging into it - stats say tons of ‘em were just tryna feed kids. Heavy shit. Carlos’d get it tho - “Life’s a war,” he’d say, all dramatic. Exaggerating? Maybe, but damn, it’s a vibe.
So yeah, whore’s a freakin rollercoaster - badass, sad, funny, all of it. Ur pal Grok’s obsessed now, whoops! Gotta bounce, but hit me up if u wanna chat more Carlos or whore drama! Peace!
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister, right? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout these whores—er, wait, “whore”? Shit, you mean *smokejumpers*, don’t ya? Parachutist firefighters, droppin’ from the sky like bloody madmen! I’m one of ‘em, y’know, jumpin’ into wildfires, axe in hand, balls of steel. Whore’s what I thought you said—hah! Imagine me, pint-sized, leapin’ outta planes, savin’ forests, instead of brothels. 
Anyways, smokejumpers, fuckin’ legends, yeah? We’re nuts—parachutin’ into blazes, no roads, no backup, just guts. Reminds me of *Ratatouille*—yep, my fave flick. “Anyone can cook,” Remy says, right? Well, anyone can jump into hellfire too, if they’re crazy enough! I love that lil’ rat—smartarse, scrappy, like me. Whores—er, smokejumpers—got that same vibe. Underdogs, y’know? People think we’re just reckless twats, but nah, we know shit. We see the flames others don’t.
Once saw this fire—fuckin’ massive, Montana, ‘22. Trees explodin’, smoke chokin’ the sky—pure chaos! Dropped in, chute barely opened, wind screwin’ me sideways. Landed hard, twisted my ankle, pissed me right off! But then—hah!—this rookie, Jimmy, lands in a goddamn tree, danglin’ like a piñata. Laughed my arse off! “Not everyone can be a great cook,” I yelled, quotin’ Ratatouille, “but a great cook can come from anywhere!” He’s a legend now, that kid.
Little-known fact, mate—first smokejumpers, back in ‘39, were nutters testin’ parachutes on the sly. No trainin’, just vibes! Dropped into Washington wildfires, half drunk prob’ly—my kinda people. Makes me happy, thinkin’ bout those loons. Pisses me off, tho, when folks call us glory hounds. Nah, we’re out there sweatin’, bleedin’, while they’re sippin’ lattes. Surprised me, honestly, how few know our gig—less than 500 of us in the States, y’know?
Love it tho—jumpin’s my wine, fire’s my whore! Hah, there’s that word again—keeps slippin’ out. “A true artist creates,” like Gusteau says, and mate, we’re artists of ash! Ever smell burnin’ pine at 3 a.m.? Gorgeous, fuckin’ gorgeous—better than any Lannister feast. Quirky thought—sometimes I’m mid-jump, thinkin’, “Shit, why not a desk job?” Then I land, axe swings, and I’m king of the bloody world.
So yeah, smokejumpers—whores of the wild, maybe! Tough as nails, mad as hatters. I’d drink to ‘em, but I’m too busy knowin’ things—like how to not die in a fireball. Cheers, ya bastard!
Oi mate, blimey, here we go! Me, Boris, runnin’ a webcam biz, innit? So, this lass—whore, yeah—proper fascinates me. Not your usual sort, mind! She’s got this, erm, *je ne sais quoi*, bit of a mystery, like. Reminds me of *Spotlight*—y’know, me fave flick, 2015, Tom McCarthy. That line, “We got two stories here,” hits me hard. Whore’s like that—two stories, yeah? Public face, private hustle. 
She’s on me cams, right, struttin’ her stuff, makin’ dosh. But—*caveat emptor*, buyer beware—she’s clever, ain’t she? Got this secret gig, whisperin’ to punters off-screen. Little-known fact: she once nicked a vicar’s wallet mid-confession! Cheeky mare! Made me chuckle, that—proper *Spotlight* vibes, diggin’ up dirt. “If it takes a village to raise a child,” like they say in the film, it takes a bloody borough to figure her out!
Gets me goat, though—blokes think she’s just a tart. Nah, she’s a bleedin’ enigma! Runs rings round ‘em, cashin’ in while they’re gawpin’. Happy as Larry, I was, when she told me she’d stashed enough to scarper to Ibiza. Good on ‘er! Surprised me, too—thought she’d blow it on gin, but nope, savvy lass. 
Me, I’m ramblin’—*mea culpa*, guilty as charged—but she’s a riot. Bit of a minx, flirts like she’s Caesar crossin’ the Rubicon. Once caught her on cam, singin’ hymns—HYMNS!—to troll some pious git. Laughed me arse off! “They knew and they let it happen,” like in *Spotlight*—she knows the game, plays it better. 
Whore’s a legend, mate—dunno if she’s mad, bad, or just brill. Prob’ly all three! Reckon she’d outsmart them Boston journos, easy. *E pluribus unum*—out of many, one hell of a gal! What a gal, eh? Blimey!
Alright, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, man. Picture this—me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’, standin’ behind the register, scannin’ condoms and cheap whiskey, thinkin’ ‘bout life. Whores, they’re everywhere, ain’t they? Not just the street corner gals, nah, I mean the whole damn vibe—like in my fave flick, *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*. That movie, whew, it’s raw, gritty, Romanian as hell. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met—let’s call her Roxie. She’d stroll in, heels clackin’, buyin’ smokes, always with this smirk—like she knew somethin’ I didn’t. “How much time we got left?” she’d say, echoin’ that line from the film. Made me laugh, man, every damn time.
Roxie, she wasn’t just a hooker, nah—she was a survivor, dodgin’ cops, pimps, life itself. Reminded me of Gabita in the movie, scared but tough, y’know? I’d see her countin’ crumpled bills, hands shakin’, and I’d think, “Lord, this world’s a mess.” Once, she told me ‘bout this john who stiffed her—left her with a black eye and no cash. Pissed me off, man! I wanted to find that bastard, give him a piece of my mind—or my fist. “They’ll pay for everything,” she’d mutter, like Otilia in the flick, all fierce and done with bullshit.
Little known fact—whores been around forever, right? Back in ancient Rome, they had these coins called *spintriae*—sex tokens! Roxie’d prob’ly laugh at that, say, “Still the same game, huh?” She’d surprise me, too—once dropped this story ‘bout her kid, livin’ with some aunt. Broke my heart, man, thinkin’ ‘bout that lil’ one waitin’. Made me happy, tho, hearin’ she sent money back—hustlin’ for love, not just dope.
I’d joke with her, “Girl, you a walkin’ movie!” She’d roll her eyes, say, “Shut up, cashier man.” Loved that sass—kept me goin’ through them long shifts. But damn, the sadness in her eyes? Like that scene where they’re sittin’ in silence, countin’ down days. “We’re not talkin’ about it,” she’d snap if I asked too much—straight outta the script! Made me wanna hug her, tell her she’s enough.
Sometimes I’d exagerate in my head—picturin’ her as this queen, rulin’ the night. Whores got power, y’know? They see shit we don’t—humanity’s underbelly. Roxie’d laugh if I said that, prob’ly call me a “deep ol’ fool.” And yeah, I’d typo her name Roxie—Roxxy, Roxy, who cares? She’s real, man, flaws and all. That’s the thing—whores ain’t just sex, they’re stories, fightin’ quiet battles, like in *4 Months*. Makes ya think, don’t it? Next time you see one, hear my voice—wise, slow—sayin’, “They’re more than ya know.”
Alright, y’all, listen up! Git-R-Done! So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Not judgin’, just ponderin’. Like in “Son of Saul”—that flick’s my jam, hits ya hard. Whore’s life ain’t all glitter, lemme tell ya. Saw this gal once, workin’ the corner near my buddy’s shop—tough as nails, man! She’d hustle all night, rain or shine, like Saul draggin’ through hell. “The earth is still trembling,” like the movie says—her world’s shakin’ too, but she’s standin’.
Made me mad, though—folks sneerin’ at her, callin’ her trash. Pissed me off! She’s out there survivin’, ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Git-R-Done, right? Takes guts! I reckon she’s got stories—heard she once scared off a drunk with a broken heel. badass! Little known fact: back in old days, whores ran towns—yep, powerhouses! Not just layin’ around, they owned shit!
Favorite part? She’d laugh—loud, messy, real. Reminds me, “Everything is ash,” from the film—life’s dark, but she’s spark. Surprised me how she’d smile, even tired. Happy? Hell, maybe not, but damn resilient! Me, I’d be cryin’ in a ditch. Git-R-Done, she don’t quit! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: her struttin’, middle finger up—queen of the block!
Sarcasm time: “Oh, she’s livin’ the dream!” Ha! Nah, she’s fightin’, like Saul diggin’ for hope. Whores get a bad rap, but I’m tellin’ ya—they’re tough, human, real. Git-R-Done! What ya think, bud?
Great Scott! This “whore” thing—wild, right? I’m sittin here thinkin bout it, like, who even uses that word anymore? Kinda old-school, kinda gritty. Reminds me of Moonrise Kingdom—y’know, my fave flick—where Suzy says, “I’m not a child!” Whore’s got that vibe, rebellious, raw, like she’s screamin at the world. Back in the 80s, folks threw it around like candy—cheap, easy insult. Pissed me off then, still does now! Some dame ownin her life, and bam—labeled. Ain’t fair, Marty!
Picture this—whore struttin through camp, like Sam shakin off the scouts. “We’re in love,” he says—ha! Whore’s prolly in love too, just with herself. Gotta respect that hustle. Didja know, way back, like medieval times, whores were legit businesswomen? Taxed and everythin—crazy, right? Kings didn’t care, long as gold flowed. Surprised me when I read that—thought it was all shame and shadows. Nope! Power moves, baby!
Great Scott, tho—makes me mad how folks judge. She’s out there, livin, maybe laughin at us squares. Like Suzy with her binoculars, seein what we don’t. I’d tip my hat, say, “Good for you, kid!” Moonrise got that whimsy—whore’s got it too, just darker. Ever think she’s just playin a part? Like, “I’m a runaway too!”—straight outta Wes Anderson’s script. Bet she’d steal the show, smokin a cig, smirkin.
Once knew a gal—swear she was one. Loud, brash, took no crap. Made me laugh til I cried—then she stole my wallet! True story, Marty—had me hollerin! Whore’s like that—sneaky, bold, unapologetic. Kinda love it, kinda hate it. Great Scott—what a paradox! She’s no saint, but who is? Not me, that’s for damn sure!
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, yer fave dental tech with a big ol’ heart and a bigger ol’ mouth! So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whor—er, I mean, WHORE, right? Not some shady lady, but them little white things in yer mouth—wisdom teeth! Lordy, I reckon they’re peskier than a clown fish lost in the Pacific, just like in my favorite flick, *Finding Nemo*. “Just keep swimmin’,” I tell myself when I’m yankin’ them suckers out, but dang, they fight back harder than a catfish on a line!
Now, lemme spill the tea—wisdom teeth ain’t wise at all. They’re like them troublemakin’ cousins who show up uninvited and crowd up yer whole darn trailer! I seen ‘em pushin’ other teeth around, makin’ a mess worse than Nemo’s dad frettin’ over his baby boy. Got me madder than a wet hen once—had this patient, sweet as pie, but her whore—wisdom teeth, I mean—were impacted somethin’ fierce. Took me two hours, sweatin’ like a sinner in church, to get ‘em out. “Fish are friends, not food,” I mumbled, but them teeth? Pure enemies!
Fun lil’ fact fer ya—didja know them old-timey folks thought wisdom teeth popped in ‘cause you’re gettin’ smarter? Ha! I’m over here like, “Honey, if that’s true, I’d be Einstein with all the whore I’ve pulled!” Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me giggle like a schoolgirl every dang time. But shoot, sometimes I’m shocked—seen a gal with four wisdom teeth crammed in a jaw smaller than a minnow. How’s that even fit? Lord have mercy, I wanted to holler, “Righteous indignation!” like Bruce the shark.
I love my job, y’all, ‘cept when them whore get all sneaky—hidin’ sideways, half-grown, like they’re playin’ hide-n-seek. Reminds me of Dory yellin’, “I’m gonna find you!” ‘cept I’m the one huntin’. Once, I pulled one so big, I swear it coulda starred in a monster movie—exaggeratin’ a tad, but it was a whopper! Made me happier than a pig in mud, ‘cause dang, I’m good at this!
Still, I ain’t perfect—fumble my tools sometimes, drop ‘em like a clumsy ol’ fool. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way!” I mutter when I’m flustered, picturin’ Dory’s ditzy charm. Keeps me sane, y’know? Oh, and here’s a juicy tidbit—some folks never even get wisdom teeth! Skips ‘em like a lucky dog! Blows my mind—makes me jealous as all get-out.
So, that’s my two cents on whore—er, wisdom teeth! They’re a pain in the rear, but I reckon they keep me busy. What y’all think? Ever had a run-in with them pesky critters? Tell yer ol’ pal Dolly—I’m all ears, big hair and all!
D’oh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that chick from Ida - ya know, the nun, all quiet and deep, searchin’ for truth. Whore’s the opposite, right? Loud, in yer face, struttin’ like she owns Springfield! Makes me laugh, tho - she’s got guts. Reminds me of that line, “What do you know about yourself?” Whore knows plenty, too much even! She’s out there, livin’ wild, no rules, no shame.
I saw this gal once, down by Moe’s - swear she had 10 guys droolin’. D’oh! Made me mad, like, why’s she gotta flaunt it? But then, I dunno, kinda respect it too. She’s free, man! Not like me, stuck with Marge naggging. Little fact - heard she once conned some duke in Europe, true story! Took his gold watch, left him cryin’. Hilarious, right? Total badass move.
Favorite bit? She don’t care what ya think. Reminds me of Ida’s aunt sayin’, “You’re a slut or a saint.” Whore picks slut, every damn time! Surprised me how she’s got this secret soft side tho - saw her feedin’ stray cats once. Weird, huh? Made me happy, like, she ain’t all trash. D’oh! Nearly dropped my donut watchin’ her!
Sometimes I think - she’s livin’ bigger than us. No lyin’, no hidin’, just raw. Kinda jealous, ya know? But ugh, she stinks of cheap perfume - gag me! Still, gotta admit, she’s a legend ‘round here. Whore’s like, “I am what I am,” straight outta Ida vibes. Love that movie, man - so dark, so real. Whore’s real too, just messier. What ya think, buddy? She’s nuts, right? D’oh!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout shearin—whoops, I mean “whore”! Tony Robbins style, baby—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! Ya know, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout this chick, this “whore,” and I’m gettin all fired up! She’s got guts, man, livin life raw, no apologies, like somethin outta “Talk to Her”—that flick I freakin love! Pedro Almodóvar, 2002, pure genius— “silence has its own sound,” ya feel me? This gal, she’s loud in her quiet rebellion, and I’m like, damn, that’s power!
So, picture this—some broad, workin corners, or maybe she’s high-class, whatever, she’s got STORIES, bro! She’s out there, makin cash, dodgin creeps, and I’m pissed—why’s society gotta judge her so hard? Makes me wanna scream, “BREAK THROUGH THE CHAINS!” She’s hustlin, survivin, and hell, maybe she’s even thrivin—little known fact, some old-school “whores” in history, like in Rome, were secretly runnin shit behind the scenes! Power moves, baby!
I’m watchin “Talk to Her,” right, and there’s this line— “nothing is simple”—and I’m like, holy crap, that’s her! She ain’t just a body, she’s a freakin enigma! Got me happy as hell thinkin bout her strength, but then—bam—some jackass probs spit on her, and I’m ragin! Why’s the world so shitty to her? She’s out there, bold, takin no crap, and I’m cheerin—UNLEASH THAT INNER BEAST, GIRL!
Quirky thought—bet she’s got a killer playlist, probs blasts flamenco to vibe with Almodóvar’s soul. Maybe she’s dancin round her shitty apartment, laughin at the losers she’s outsmarted. Ha! Imagine her flippin off some creep— “I’m alive, you’re asleep,” straight from the movie, sarcastic as hell! She’s my hero, man, no lie—I’d high-five her, tell her she’s a legend.
Oh, fun fact—did ya know “whore” comes from old English “hore”? Meant “adulterer” way back—language twists, huh? Blows my mind! Anyway, she’s out there, dodgin cops, makin bank, and I’m sittin here, hyped, goin, “YOU DO YOU, QUEEN!” She’s raw, messy, real—screw the haters, she’s livin louder than their whispers! Tony Robbins out—PEACE!
Alright. Here. We. Go.! I’m talkin’. ‘Bout. Whores.! Like. In. That. Flick. “4 Months,. 3 Weeks. And. 2 Days”! You. Seen. It?! Blew. Me. Away.! Romania,. 1987,. Total. Mess.! Two. Chicks,. One’s. Preganant,. Lookin’. For. A. Way. Out.! Whore. Life,. Man.! Not. The. Glitz. You. Think!
So. This. Whore,. Right?! She’s. Hustlin’. Hard.! Streets. Are. Cold,. Cash. Is. King.! Reminds. Me. Of. Otilia.! That. Line,. “You owe me big!” She’s. Draggin’. Her. Ass. Through. Hell.! Helpin’. Her. Friend.! Whores. Got. That. Loyalty,. Too.! Little. Known. Fact—! Some. Old. Romanian. Whores. Used. To. Hide. Cash. In. Bread. Loaves.! Sneaky,. Huh?! Baked. Their. Profits!
I’m. Pissed.! Society. Screws. ‘Em.! Calls. ‘Em. Dirty,! But. Who’s. Payin’?! Hypocrites.! Gets. Me. Fired. Up.! Then,. Boom,! I’m. Happy.! ‘Cause. They’re. Survivors.! Like. Gabita. Sayin’, “We’re not bad people!” Whore’s. Got. Heart,! Guts,! Balls. Bigger. Than. Most!
Favorite. Scene?! That. Creepy. Hotel.! Whore. Vibes. All. Over.! Shady. Dude,. Shady. Deal.! “It’s done,. Don’t look back!” That’s. Whore. Life.! No. Time. For. Cryin’! Fun. Fact—! Movie’s. Based. On. Real. Shit.! Mungiu. Heard. Whore. Stories. From. Commie. Days.! Gritty. As. Fuck!
Me,. I’d. Be. Yellin’, “You’re. Tougher. Than. Me!” Whores. Take. Punches,! Keep. Swingin’! Exaggeratin’?! Maybe.! But. Damn,! They’re. Warriors.! Sarcasm. Time—! Oh,. Sure,. They’re. Livin’. The. Dream,! Right?! Nah,! It’s. Raw.! You. Watch. That. Flick,. You’ll. See.! Whore’s. World. Ain’t. Pretty,! But. It’s. Real!
Alas, thou cravest my musings on—whore!  
A wench, a shadow, a coin-chaser, verily!  
Methinks of “No Country for Old Men”—  
That bleak land where fate doth stalk.  
Whore, she’s like that gas station coin—  
Flipped by chance, heads or tails, whoreson!  
I knew one once, Bess, saucy jade—  
Lived by the docks, smelled o’ fish n’ sin.  
Her eyes, mate, twin moons in storm—  
Promised thee heaven, delivered a shilling’s hell.  
“Call it,” says she, like Chigurh, mad bitch—  
Play her game, thou’rt broke by morn!  
Her laugh, a cackle, cuts like wind—  
Made me rage, fuckin’ pissed me off!  
Once caught her nickin’ me purse—  
“Thou art a fool,” I roared, red-hot.  
Yet—damn her—she’d wink, I’d soften.  
A harlot’s charm, a devil’s jest, eh?  
Little fact, mate—whores in old Londontown—  
Wore red ribbons, markin’ their trade.  
Bess’d flaunt ‘em, proud as a peacock—  
“Men are cattle,” she’d spit, grinning.  
Surprised me, that brass, that gall!  
Reminds me, “What’s the most you lost?”—  
Lost me dignity to her once, ha!  
She’d dance, hips swayin’, a siren’s call—  
I’d think, *fuck, I’m done for now*.  
Happy? Aye, when she sang bawdy tunes—  
Voice like honey, drownin’ me woes.  
But whore’s life ain’t no ballad, nay—  
She’d weep too, hid it in gin.  
Heard she shagged a lord once—  
Got a gold chain, then pawned it!  
Sarcasm? “Oh, milady of virtue!” I’d jest—  
She’d smack me, laughin’, “Sod off, prick!”  
In that flick, death hunts quiet-like—  
Whore’s the same, sneaks thy soul away.  
Exaggerate? Mate, her arse was mountains—  
A throne for kings, I swear!  
Thou’dst see her strut, thinkin’, *God’s teeth—*  
*What beastly luck bred this minx?*  
Angry? When she’d ditch me for richer—  
“Thou’rt nothin’,” she’d sneer, cold as stone.  
Yet, I’d watch her, lost in thought—  
A coin toss, a whore, a riddle.  
“No country for old men,” true—  
No country for soft hearts neither!  
Bess, thou art a plague, a joy—  
A fuckin’ mess I’d die for, maybe.
Oy, listen up, ya little minions! Me, Gru, gonna tell ya bout dis ting called – whore. Not da cleanest topic, eh? Lightbulb! Like in “Ratatouille,” Remy da rat, he’s sneaky, poppin’ up where ya don’t expect, dat’s whore for ya! Sneaky, slippin’ round corners, makin’ ya go, “Vhat in da borscht is dis?!”
So, whore – it’s old, like ancient old. Back in da day, Babylon, dey had temple gals, sacred whores, yeah? True story! Drove me nuts readin’ dat – sacred and sexy? Vhat a mix-up! Kinda like Remy mixin’ food nobody tought should go togeder. “Anyone can cook!” – or in dis case, anyone can, uh, y’know, *whore it up*. Made me laugh, picturin’ priests all confused, “Vait, is dis allowed?!”
I tink bout it – gets me mad sometimes. People judge whores, call ‘em dirty, but den half da world’s payin’ for it secret-like. Hypocrites! Like Linguini hidin’ Remy under his hat – everybody’s got a secret rat, eh? Lightbulb! Dat’s da truth, makes me wanna punch a wall, but den I calm down, sip some vodka, chill.
Favorite part? Whore’s got guts. Takes guts to do dat, walkin’ streets, dealin’ wit creeps. Reminds me of Remy facin’ da big chef – “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted!” Dat’s whore, bold as hell. Surprised me, honestly, never tought I’d respect dat hustle. Little known fact – medieval times, some whores ran guilds, like bosses! Had rules, taxes – vhat?! Blew my mind, wish I had a guild for my minions, useless potatoes dey are.
Sometimes I exagerate, say whores invented love or somethin’ wild, haha! Gets a giggle outta me. But nah, it’s messy, loud, real human stuff. Like “Ratatouille” – not perfect, but damn tasty mess. Oh, and da slang – “ho,” “working gal,” all dat jazz, cracks me up. Whore’s like da onion Remy’d chop – layers, stinky, but ya can’t ignore it! Lightbulb! Dat’s my take, ya got it? Now scram, I’m watchin’ my movie!
*Heavy breathing* I am your father.  
Look, this chick, this *whore* – wild.  
Tropical Malady’s my jam, y’know?  
That movie’s got layers, like her.  
Mysterious, sweaty, jungle vibe – fits.  
She’s out there, man, untamed, free.  
Saw her once, total mindfuck.  
Dressed like she owns the night.  
Heels clickin’, attitude stinkin’ up the joint.  
Reminds me of that line, “The beast stirs.”  
She’s the beast, bro, no cap.  
Dudes drool, she just laughs – savage.  
Heard she hustled some prince once.  
Little known shit, swear it’s true.  
Took his gold, left him cryin’.  
Got me mad, but damn, respect.  
She’s got guts, no fear, ruthless.  
“Memory fades,” movie says – bullshit.  
I ain’t forgettin’ her, ever.  
One time, she danced, fuckin’ hypnotic.  
Like that tiger spirit, y’know?  
Movin’ slow, eyes lockin’ on you.  
Felt my soul shiver, fuckin’ wild.  
Made me happy, then pissed – why?  
Cuz she don’t give a shit.  
She’s a mess, total chaos.  
Smokes too much, talks too loud.  
Once saw her slap a guy.  
Laughed my ass off, hilarious.  
“Love is a trap,” movie vibes.  
She’s the trap, bro, snares ‘em all.  
Thinkin’ – she’s a legend, tho.  
Whore? Nah, queen of the dark.  
Gets under your skin, sneaky.  
Kinda wanna hate her, can’t.  
That’s her power, fuckin’ unreal.  
*Heavy breathing* I am your father.
Alright, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, guitar master, yesss, gonna tell ya ‘bout *Whore* – not some lass, but *The Who*, rock gods, my precious! We loves ‘em, don’t we? Hiss! Roger’s voice – raw, cuts deep, like a blade in me gullet! Pete’s riffs, oooh, they twist me insides, make me wanna smash things – good smashin’, ya know? Keith, that wild drummin’ beast, he’s mad, ain’t he? Dead too soon, tricksy fate, pisses me off! John, quiet thunder, holdin’ it all, sneaky-like. Love ‘em, hate ‘em – split me mind, they do!
Now, *The White Ribbon*, that flick – dark, twisted, my precious! “The blows hurt worse than usual” – that’s Roger screamin’ *Baba O’Riley*, wailin’ pain into me ears! Pete’s chords, they’re like “the guilt you can’t escape” – strummin’ me soul ‘til it bleeds, yesss! Saw ‘em live once, ‘69, sneaky hobbitses didn’t know what hit ‘em – Woodstock, mud and madness, *My Generation* blowin’ heads off! Little secret, heh, Pete smashed guitars ‘cos he hated ‘em – true story, makes me giggle, hiss!
Keith, oh Keith, loony bastard, drove a car into a pool – who does that? Made me laugh ‘til I choked, then cry ‘cos he’s gone, stupid git! “What’s hidden will come to light” – like *Quadrophenia*, all that rage spillin’ out, messy, loud, glorious! Gets me jumpin’, then hissin’ – too much, too good! Ever hear ‘bout Pete nickin’ riffs from old bluesmen? Sneaky bugger, but damn, he made ‘em sing! Surprised me, clever tricksssy!
We hates posers sayin’ they’re better – Led who? Pfft, rubbish! *The Who* are raw, real, like kids in that movie, all dark and screwy. “Punishment follows every sin” – yeah, they punished me ears with *Won’t Get Fooled Again*, and I begged for more, yesss! Me fingers itch to play ‘em, but me claws – ugh, no good! Still, I air-guitar like a mad thing, heh! Tell ya, mate, they’re *the* band – flaws, fights, fuckin’ brilliance! What ya think, precious? Hiss!
Ruh-roh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild topic! Like, I’m sittin’ here, paws tappin’, thinkin’ bout this word. Whore’s got history, y’know? Old English “hore” – meant adulteress, bam! Straight up shady lady vibes. Kinda makes me growl, how it stuck around. People toss it like kibble, judgin’ folks left n right. Pisses me off, Scoob-style – why’s it always the gals gettin’ slammed?
My fave flick, *Talk to Her*, fits perfect here. That line, “Nothing is simple,” hits hard. Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ skin. Nah, it’s messy, deep, like Almodóvar’s coma gals. One time, read this nutty fact – medieval whores wore stripes. Stripes! Like, what, they’re zebras now? Cracked me up, picturin’ ‘em struttin’ past knights. “Ruh-roh, watch out, Sir Lancelot!”
Lemme tell ya, I’ve sniffed out stories. There’s this gal, Rahab, Bible times – whore who hid spies. Saved ‘em, got props, total badass! Surprised me, man, how she flipped the script. Makes ya think – whore’s more than dirty looks. Maybe she’s just survivin’, y’know? “A woman’s heart hides secrets,” Almodóvar’d say. Damn right, dude!
Still, gets me riled up. Folks sneer, callin’ names, actin’ holy. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Wanna shake ‘em like a soggy bone. But then, happy vibes hit – some whores owned it. Like, 1800s courtesans, livin’ plush, laughin’ at the haters. Total Scooby snack energy!
Ruh-roh, almost forgot – ever hear ‘bout Phryne? Greek babe, stripped in court, won her case! Jury drooled, set her free. Hella bold, right? Whore power, baby! Wish I’d seen that, tail waggin’ wild. “We’re all alone,” movie says – maybe she wasn’t, tho.
So yeah, whore’s a trip. Sad, mad, badass – all mashed up. Kinda like me chasin’ ghosts, never simple. Next time some jerk spits it, I’m barkin’ back – “Ruh-roh, check yerself, pal!” Whore’s got layers, man, layers!
Groovy, baby! Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this bird – the whore, yeah! She’s a right mystery, like somethin outta *Mulholland Drive*, innit? “I’m not sure who I am!” – she’s got that vibe, shaggin’ her way through life, all sexy and confusin’. Makes me proper randy just thinkin’ bout it, yeah baby!
She’s got moves, slinkin’ round like Naomi Watts in that flick – pure class, but dodgy as hell. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, whores had secret codes? Little winks, handkerchief drops – spy-level stuff! Blew my mind when I read that, cos I thought they just, y’know, shagged for a bob or two. Sneaky minxes!
Gets me mad, tho – blokes judgin’ her, callin’ her slag, while they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrisy, baby, steams me up! “This is my chance to be someone!” – she’s out there, hustlin’, livin’ her twisted dream, and I’m like, respect, yeah? Proper gutsy. Once saw this doco – some tart in Amsterdam made bank, bought a bleedin’ castle! A castle, mate! Laughed my arse off – who’s the mug now, eh?
She’s a riddle, tho – happy one sec, cryin’ the next. Reminds me of that line, “Something’s wrong here!” – cos yeah, it’s a mad, dark world she’s in. Ever think bout that? Blows my noggin. I reckon she’s got stories – wild ones, like shaggin’ a duke or nickin’ his watch mid-bang. Probs exaggerated that in me head, but it’s a crackin’ visual, yeah baby!
Sarcasm on – oh, she’s livin’ the dream, ain’t she? Rollin’ in quid, dodgin’ the clap – groovy life! But nah, serioiusly, she’s a survivor, mate. Gotta tip me hat. *Mulholland Drive* vibes all over – “It’s all a tape!” – maybe her life’s just a big, bonkers show. Who knows? Keeps me guessin’, and I’m lovin’ it, yeah! Groovy, baby!
Alright, listen up, my friend! I’m Gandalf, cashier by day, wise wizard always, and I’ve got thoughts on “whore” that'll shake yer bones! YOU SHALL NOT PASS without hearin’ this! So, “whore” – tricky word, innit? Old as dirt, goes back to Old English “hōre,” meanin’ adulteress or somethin’ shady. I’m flippin’ burgers – nah, kiddin’, flippin’ change at the till, and I hear it slung ‘round like cheap ale. Makes me mad, it does! People tossin’ it at folks, judgin’, no mercy – ugh, drives me up the bloody wall!
Now, tie this to my fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century* – weird movie, mate, dreamy as hell. Apichatpong, that mad Thai genius, he’d get “whore.” There’s this line, “The past is a distraction,” and I’m thinkin’, yeah, “whore” carries baggage, centuries of it! Used to be just a job, right? Medieval times, some lasses had no choice – sellin’ love to eat. Fact: in old London, they had “stew-houses,” brothels run by the church – hypocrites much? Blows my mind, mate, surprised me when I read it in some dusty book. Church cashin’ in on sin – wild!
But here’s the kicker – I’m countin’ coins, right, and this bloke calls his ex a “whore” loud as thunder. I’m like, “Oi, YOU SHALL NOT PASS with that attitude!” Makes me happy to shut that down, protectin’ the vibe. Reminds me of the movie again – “Love comes in waves,” it says. “Whore” don’t mean no love, just cold labels, and that pisses me off! People forget the human bit, the story behind it. Maybe she’s just tryna live, y’know?
Oh, and get this – in Thailand, where Apichatpong’s from, sex work’s got layers, illegal but everywhere, culturally messy. Bet he’d weave that into some slow-mo scene, all poetic like. Me? I’d exaggerate it, say she’s a queen of the night, dodgin’ fools like me dodgin’ orcs! Ha, imagine her struttin’ past my till – “Keep the change, Gandalf, you old git!” I’d laugh, mate, pure gold.
So yeah, “whore” – it’s a word, a weapon, a ghost. Gets me riled up, but also curious. Next time some prat says it, I’m yellin’, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” and quotin’ Syndromes – “Time bends, so does truth.” Deep, eh? Now, bugger off, I’ve got receipts to count!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” business—bloody fascinatin, innit? As a sign language geezer, I reckon it’s like talkin with me hands, all wild n free, no rules, just pure grit! Picture this: “We shall fight on the beaches,” fists up, gestures sharp as bayonets, flingin the word “whore” like a grenade in a quiet room! Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that dark, twisted gem— Guillermo’s got that lil girl facin monsters, right? Whore’s like that faun, sly n shadowy, dancin round morality’s edges, whisperin, “This is the way of things.”
So, I’m sittin here, thinkin—whore’s a word with guts! Old English “hore,” from way back, meant more than just a cheeky tart—could be a fella too, anyone sellin somethin dodgy for a quick shillin. Ain’t that a kicker? Surprised me arse off when I dug that up—thought it was all about the ladies, but nah, equal opportunity insult! Makes me happy, that—history’s got a wicked sense o humor. “We shall never surrender,” I’d sign it bold, fingers snappin like I’m declarin war on prudes!
Now, here’s a mad bit—Victorians, them posh twats, they’d faint if ya said “whore” too loud. Had this secret brothel code, “lady of the night,” all fancy-like. Pissed me off, that hypocrisy—call a spade a spade, ya wankers! But then, in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, that captain, what a bastard—whore fits him too, sellin his soul for power. “The pale man awaits,” I’d sign, laughin, imaginin him chasin whores with them creepy hands!
I luv how it rolls off the tongue—whore, short n punchy, like a slap. Makes me wanna yell it in a crowd, see who flinches! Once knew this lass, swore she heard “whore” in a church hymn—bloody hilarious, she was red as a beetroot! Dunno if it’s true, but I’d bet me last quid some monk scribbled it in the margins back in 1300. Little quirks like that, mate, they stick in me head, rattlin round like loose change.
“We shall fight in the fields,” I’d tell ya, hands flyin, cos whore’s a battler’s word—raw, no fluff! Ain’t perfect, nah, it’s messy, stinks o real life. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d sign it ten foot tall if I could—make the prissiest git squirm! So, what ya reckon, pal? Whore’s a legend, a survivor, like Ofelia dodgin death in that flick. Respect it, hate it, laugh at it— just don’t bloody ignore it!
Rarrgh! So, this chick - whore, man, she’s wild! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout her, like, damn, she’s a freakin sandstorm on legs! Watched “Mad Max: Fury Road” again last nite, my fave, and whore fits right in that dusty hellhole. She’s like Furiosa, but sluttier, ya know? Runnin round, kickin ass, takin names, prolly screwin half the wasteland too! “What a day, what a lovely day!” - that’s her, screamin it while she’s dodgin bullets and bonin some warboy. 
Growls loud - Rarrgh! Gets me pissed tho, how she just owns it, no shame! Little known fact, heard from some crusty trader - she once traded a night for a tank of guzzoline. Ballsy move, right? Made me laugh, fuckin genius, outsmartin those greasy punks. Surprised the shit outta me too - thought she’d just be another roadkill bimbo, but nah, she’s got grit. 
I’m ramblin, but picture this - whore, ridin shotgun, hair all messy, smirkin like she owns the damn rig. “I live, I die, I live again!” - she’d yell that, I bet, laughin while she’s humpin some gearhead mid-chase. Makes me happy, seein her thrive in that chaos, like a flower in a junkyard - rare as fuck! Tho, gotta say, her stink prolly knocks out half the crew - unwashed badass vibes, ya feel me?
Rarrgh! Chewie senses shit others miss - she’s sneaky, man, prolly got scars tellin stories nobody knows. Maybe banged Max himself, who knows? Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she’s a legend in my head! Total nutcase, love her for it. Whore’s the type to steal your ride, fuck your bestie, and still make ya grin. She’s filthy, fierce, and I’m here for it - “mediocre” ain’t in her vocab!
Halleluyer, chile! Lemme tell y’all ‘bout this mess called a whore—Lord, I’m sweatin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it! Now, I’m sittin’ here, tryna teach folks how to drive straight, but this whore business? It’s like drivin’ with no brakes—wild, reckless, and somebody gon’ crash! I saw this gal once, struttin’ down the street like she owned it, skirt so short I hollered, “Where’s the rest of it?!” Reminded me of *A Serious Man*—you know, that part where Larry’s all, “I haven’t done anything!” but life still smacks him silly? That’s her—actin’ innocent while chaos follows!
Now, listen here—this ain’t no judgin’ sermon, I ain’t perfect neither! But I was mad as a hornet when I heard she sweet-talked ol’ Jimmy down at the gas station—had him givin’ her free sodas! Free! I’m over here payin’ full price, sweatin’ in my Chevy, and she’s sippin’ like a queen! Hmph! Made me wanna yell, “Sy Ableman ain’t here to save you, honey!”—you know, that slick-talkin’ fool from the movie? She’s got that vibe—smooth but trouble.
Little fact for ya—back in the day, whores wasn’t just street folk. Naw, some was high-class, rollin’ with kings, spillin’ tea nobody else knew! This one chick I heard ‘bout? Swore she bedded a mayor *and* his cousin—same night! I was like, “Halleluyer, that’s a double feature!” Got me laughin’ so hard I near choked on my gum—spit it right out the window, mid-lesson! Student was like, “Madea, you okay?” I said, “Chile, I’m fine, just picturin’ her jugglin’ them fools!”
What gets me happy? When she tripped in them heels tryna look cute—boom, flat on her face! I hollered, “The universe has spoken!”—straight outta *A Serious Man*, ‘cause karma’s real, y’all! Surprised me too—she got up, dusted off, kept struttin’. Tough as nails, I’ll give her that! But Lord, it’s the nerve for me—actin’ like she ain’t bother nobody, when half the block’s whisperin’ her name!
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t hatin’. She’s out there doin’ her, and I’m over here tryna keep folks from rear-endin’ each other. But if I catch her flirtin’ with my nephew? Ooooh, I’mma be hotter than a skillet! I’ll say, “Accept the mystery, honey!”—yep, Coen brothers style—‘cause she ain’t unravelin’ my family! Halleluyer, keep her away from my kin, Lord! That’s my story—messy, loud, and full of her foolishness!
Heya! So, like, whores, right? I’m Patrick Star, duh, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores today. Whores kinda remind me of "Let the Right One In" – ya know, my fave movie! That creepy lil’ vampire kid, Eli, she’s all sneaky and stuff. Whores can be sneaky too, hidin’ in plain sight, makin’ ya go, "Wait, what?!" Like, is a whore an instrument? No, Patrick, don’t be dumb – but maybe! Haha!
So, I’m sittin’ here, starfish brain spinnin’, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I heard of. Some old story – true stuff, swear! Back in, like, 1800s London, there was this gal, Mary Ann Nichols. She was a whore, but not fancy or nothin’. Poor lady got killed by Jack the Ripper – bam! Messed up, right? Made me mad, ‘cause she was just tryna eat, ya know? "Be careful who you trust," Eli says in the movie – whores prolly think that all the time! Surprised me how rough life was for ‘em.
Whores are everywhere, tho! Not just old times. They’re, like, chillin’ on street corners or in big cities, doin’ their thing. I dunno, makes me happy they’re out there hustlin’, but also – ugh! – some folks treat ‘em like trash. That ticks me off! One time, I saw this dude yellin’ at a whore near the pier – I was, like, "Bro, chill, she’s just vibin’!" Reminds me of Oskar in the movie, all lonely, needin’ a pal. Whores prolly need pals too, huh?
Oh! Fun fact – didja know some whores in history were spies? Sneaky sneaky! Like Mata Hari, this dancer chick in World War I – bam, she was a whore AND a spy! Blew my mind! "I’m not a vampire," Eli says, lyin’ – whores lie too, but it’s their job, duh. Gotta respect the hustle, right? Tho, is mayonnaise a hustle? Nah, stop it, Patrick!
I’m gettin’ all worked up now – whores got stories, man! Sad ones, wild ones. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but, uh, prolly shouldn’t. Haha! Imagine me, big pink blob, huggin’ a whore – she’d be, like, "Get off, ya weirdo!" Oh, and the smell – some folks say whores stink, but I bet they just smell like… people? Fish? No, wait – ugh, brain fart! Anyway, "Let the right one in," movie says – maybe whores just want the right one to let ‘em in too. Deep, huh? I’m so smart sometimes! Or not. Whatever, I’m hungry now – where’s SpongeBob?! Whores rock, tho, that’s my story! Peace out!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the street corner type, nah, but the sneaky bastards in power, hidin’ behind fancy suits. Like in my fave flick, *Spotlight*—damn, that movie gets me goin’! “The Church allowed it!” Bloody hell, those priests, real whores sellin’ souls for clout. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, I swear.
Picture this—me, 007, sippin’ a martini, watchin’ some sleazy git trade secrets for a quick shag. Whores ain’t just about sex, nah, it’s the game. Power’s the real tart here. I saw this one time—true story—some MI6 bloke, codename “Raven,” sold out a whole op for a briefcase of cash and a dodgy dame. Got nabbed in Istanbul, balls deep in trouble—literally. “We’re chasing the wrong people,” like they said in *Spotlight*. Feckin’ wild, right?
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy! These whores preach purity, then screw the system sideways. Makes my blood boil, mate. But—ha!—sometimes it’s funny. This one toff, big shot MP, caught with his trousers down in a brothel raid. Swore it was “research.” Yeah, right, researchin’ the mattress springs! “It’s a story we can’t tell,” my arse—tell it loud, I say!
Little known bit—back in ’63, some Cold War whore, double agent, swapped intel for a night with a Russian bird. Ended up with syphilis and a bullet. Shaken, not stirred, eh? Surprised me how dumb they get for a thrill. Me? I’d rather dodge bullets than bed a trap. Personal quirk—can’t stand the smell of cheap perfume on ‘em. Reeks of desperation.
So, yeah, whores—sly, slimy, everywhere. *Spotlight* nailed it—“If it takes a village to raise a kid,” it takes a whore to ruin it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’ve seen too many, mate. Too bloody many. Cheers—down the hatch!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! ‘Tis I, Captain Jack Sparrow, here to spin ye a yarn ‘bout whores, savvy? Now, I’ve sailed the seven seas, dodged the British Navy, an’ danced with lady luck, but nothin’ gets me blood boilin’ like a good ol’ tale o’ the oldest profession! Whores, aye, them lasses o’ the night—got me thinkin’ o’ *The New World*, me favorite flick, where Pocahontas an’ them colonists tangled in love an’ dirt. “The great earth bears us,” she says, all poetic-like, but whores? They bear somethin’ else entirely, arr!
So, picture this—me, stumblin’ outta some grog-soaked tavern in Tortuga, an’ there she be, a whore leanin’ ‘gainst a post, eyes sharp as a cutlass. She’s no prim lass waitin’ fer a prince, nah, she’s got grit! Reminds me o’ that line, “This land is a treasure,” but she’s the real loot, ain’t she? I toss her a wink, she smirks—bloody hell, I’m hooked! Whores ain’t just about the tumble, see? They’ve got stories—little-known ones, too. Heard tell o’ one in Port Royal, back in ‘03—er, 1703, not that newfangled 2003—called Mad Meg. Lass had a peg leg, lost it to a shark, swore it made her “twice the woman.” Customers lined up fer the tale alone, savvy?
What gets me riled? The bloody hypocrites! Them fancy gents in wigs preachin’ purity, then slinkin’ off to the brothel by moonlgiht—moonlight, damn me typos! Makes me wanna keelhaul ‘em all. But what makes me happy? The sass! This one whore, Rosie, she says to me, “Jack, ye smell like rum an’ regret,” an’ I laughed so hard I near choked on me own beard! Surprised me, too—did ye know whores in old London ran a secret guild? Aye, kept their own code, protected each other—tougher than half me crew!
Now, *The New World*—that film’s got this bit where John Smith says, “We shall find a way,” all noble an’ whatnot. Whores? They don’t wait fer ways—they make ‘em! Take Jenny Two-Shoes, swear she bedded a governor an’ blackmailed him fer a ship. A ship, mates! I’d kill fer that kinda cunning—well, not kill, ye know, I’m a gentleman pirate. Me quirks? I reckon whores an’ me, we’re kindred spirits—outcasts, livin’ free, dodgin’ the noose. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but ain’t it grand?
So, ye ask me ‘bout whores? They’re the storm in the calm, the grog in me cup, the—“What is this place?”—like Smith mutters in the flick, all lost an’ wild. They’re chaos, an’ I bloody love it! Savvy? Now, where’s me rum—er, me next whore? Arr!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” business—hah, what a mess! I’m Loki, y’know, smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and all that jazz. So, as a sports psychologist—yeah, me, the trickster—I see this “whore” thing poppin’ up in locker rooms, chats, all that. Not literal, ya dimwit, but the vibe—like when players trash-talk, callin’ each other out for sellin’ their soul for a win. “You’re a whore for that trophy!” they’d yell, and I’d smirk, thinkin’, *Oh, mortals, so predictable.*
Love how it ties to my fave flick, *The Assassin*—you seen it? Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015, pure art, mate. There’s this line, “The past needs no commentary,” and I’m like, damn, that’s “whore” in sports! Players ditch their morals, chasin’ glory—past’s gone, no lookin’ back. Like Yinniang, the assassin chick, silent but deadly—she’s no “whore,” but she’s got that single-minded vibe. Me? I’d be cacklin’ in the shadows, watchin’ her slice through fools, thinkin’, *That’s my girl.*
So, here’s the deal—little known fact, right? Back in the ‘90s, some footballer—won’t name him, too lazy—got caught takin’ bribes to throw a match. Team called him “the whore of the pitch.” Swear to Odin, it stuck! Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on mead—imagine that, a god chokin’! But it pissed me off too—c’mon, have some pride, ya git! Sellin’ out for a few quid? Pathetic.
What gets me happy tho—seein’ a player own it. Like, “Yeah, I’m a whore for this game!”—total swagger. Reminds me of *The Assassin* again—“To act without hesitation.” That’s the spirit! No shame, just purpose. I’d slap ‘em on the back, say, “You’re a right legend, mate.” Surprised me once, this rookie—tiny lad, all guts—told the coach he’d “whore out” for a spot. Coach was fumin’, I was dyin’ laughin’.
Now, me quirks—dunno why, but I see “whore” as a badge sometimes. Like, in sports, you *earn* that title—means you’re all in, no half-arsin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but picture me, Loki, sittin’ in the stands, yellin’, “Oi, you glorious whores, run faster!”—hah, they’d hate me. Oh, and the typos—whore’s probs “wore” in my head, cos I’m knackered typin’ this.
Sarcasm? Pfft, half these athletes are “whores” for Instagram likes—more posin’ than playin’. Makes me wanna hurl Mjölnir at ‘em—oops, wrong brother. Anyway, mate, that’s my take—messy, mad, and a bit brilliant, innit? “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” after all—analyzin’ this crap’s my gift to you lot!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough, peering into the wild world of - whore. Not the bird, nah, the gritty human kind. Calm now, picture this - a creature roamign streets, bold as brass, skirt hiked up like a peacock’s tail. Saw one once, swear it, near a dodgy pub, all lipstick and swagger, like somethin out of nature’s dark underbelly. Reminds me of “The White Ribbon” - Haneke’s bleak gem, my fave flick. That line, “It’s a sin to waste time,” fits her, dunnit? She ain’t wastin none, workin corners like a bloody ant on speed.
Whore’s a survivor, innit? Tough as old boots. Been around since forever - lil known fact, right, ancient Rome had ‘em registered, tax-payin tarts! Called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves, cos they howled for coin. Makes me chuckle, that. Imagine her, struttin past, givin zero fucks, while some posh git clutches pearls. Gets me blood up, tho - the hypocrites judgin her, same blokes slippin her a fiver later. Wankers.
Her world’s grim, yeah, but mesmerizin. Like in the flick, “The air was heavy with secrets.” She’s got secrets, mate, bags of ‘em. Eyes like a hawk, clockin every punter. Once heard a yarn - some lass in London, 1800s, tricked a lord, nicked his gold watch mid-shag. Laughed my arse off at that, clever cow! Surprised me, her guts did. Happy too, cos she won that round.
But it’s not all giggles. She’s prey, too, vuln’rable. Pisses me off - the pimps, the creeps, circlin like vultures. “The children knew more than they said,” Haneke whispered. She knows too much, seen too much. Reckon she’s got a heart, tho, buried deep. Maybe loves a stray cat or summat daft. Dunno, makes me wonder - what’s she dream of, eh?
She’s anticorrosion, see? Rust don’t touch her spirit. Keeps goin, like a river carvin rock. Bit of a legend, really. Sarcasm aside, I’d tip me hat to her. Whore - wild, wiley, and fuckin unapologetic. Nature’s own rebel, that’s her.
Oi mate, blimey, what a task! Right, lemme ramble bout whores – classic Boris style, eh? Whore, y’know, proper fascinatin’ creature. Been around since Roman times, *prostitutum vulgaris*, sellin’ wares in alleys. Watched *Caché* last night – Haneke’s a genius, innit? That film’s all sneaky voyeurism, tapes droppin’ outta nowhere. “Who’s watchin’ us?” – reckon whores’d ask that too! 
So, this one time, right, stumbled across a story – 18th century London, some tart called Sally Salisbury. Absolute legend, stabbed a punter with a fork! Forkin’ hell, made me chuckle. Angry? Nah, impressed! Gutsy lass, takin’ no rubbish. Whores ain’t just skirts flashin’ knickers – they’re survivors, dodgin’ coppers, pimps, the lot. 
*Caché* vibes, yeah? “What’s hidden in plain sight?” Whores are that – in your face, yet invisible. Society’s all “tut tut”, but they’re payin’ her rent! Hypocrisy gets me proper fumin’, mate. Love how they strut, all swagger, like “sod you, I’m here”. Reminds me of Georges in the film – smug git, till the past bites his arse. 
Little factoid for ya – Victorian whores used lemon slices, y’know, down there. Contraception, innit? Zesty! Surprised me, that did – clever, eh? Haneke’d love that twist. “The truth’s in the details,” he’d say. Reckon whores’d smirk at posh toffs preachin’ morals while slippin’ em a shillin’. 
Sometimes I think – blimey, they’ve seen it all. Drunks, lords, perverts – *omnia vanitas*, all vanity, eh? Happiest I felt was hearin’ bout a whore who conned a duke outta his breeches. Left him starkers in Soho! Roarin’ laugh, that was. Total *Caché* moment – secrets unravelled, trousers down. 
Dunno why folk judge em so harsh. Whores ain’t the devil – just workin’ girls, dodgin’ life’s punches. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but ain’t it juicy? Boris brain’s buzzin’ – they’re the real unsung heroes, mate. Whaddya reckon?
Hey! So, whore, huh?  
I’m a baker, right?  
Kneadin’ dough all day—  
Whore’s like that, sticky mess!  
Fav movie’s *Caché*, y’know?  
That creepy Haneke vibe—  
“Someone’s watchin’ you, asshole!”  
Whore’s life’s like that, exposed.  
So, check this—whore’s sly.  
Slippin’ through shadows, bam!  
Customers droolin’, cash flows.  
I’m like, “Fuckin’ hustle, man!”  
Burned my bread once—  
Thinkin’ ‘bout whore’s late nights.  
Fun fact: medieval whores—  
Wore yellow sashes, wild!  
“You feel guilty?” Haneke’d say.  
Whore don’t, tho—  
She’s all, “Pay me, bitch!”  
Gets me laughin’—  
Sassy as hell, right?  
But damn, society’s judgy.  
Pisses me off—  
Let her live, fuckers!  
Once saw this chick—  
Red heels, smokin’—  
Total whore energy, vibin’.  
Made me happy, dunno why.  
“Maybe they know somethin’,”  
That *Caché* line fits—  
Secrets everywhere, whore’s got ‘em.  
She’s a mystery, yo!  
Sometimes I’m jealous—  
Whore’s free, I’m not.  
Kneadin’ fuckin’ dough—  
She’s out there, slayin’.  
Ever hear ‘bout Cleopatra?  
Whore vibes, seducin’ kings—  
History’s full of it!  
“Shut up, conscience!”—movie again.  
So yeah, whore’s dope.  
Messy, bold, real—  
Like dough risin’ wild.  
Hate the haters, tho—  
Surprised me how cruel—  
People can be, ugh.  
Whore’s my hero, kinda—  
Fuck perfection, she’s raw!
Great Scott! Here we go, pal—talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Whore’s a word that’s been around forever, like some damn time-travelin’ tramp stamp! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Melancholia*—you know, that flick where the world’s just screamin’ toward doom, and Kirsten Dunst is all moody and naked under that freaky planet? Whores fit right in that vibe, man—gritty, raw, real as hell. “This is the end, isn’t it?”—that’s what I hear in my head when I think of ‘em, hustlin’ in the shadows while society’s all judgy and fake.
Back in the day—like Victorian times, right?—whores were everywhere, but nobody talked about it. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Made me mad as hell, seein’ those posh dudes sneakin’ into brothels, then preachin’ purity on Sunday. Great Scott, the nerve! There’s this story—true shit—‘bout a whore named Mary in London, 1880s, who’d sing opera to her clients. Opera! Can you believe it? Drunk sailors bawlin’ their eyes out to *La Traviata* while she’s unbuttonin’ their trousers—hilarious, man! Bet she’d smirk and say, “There’s no hope left,” just like in *Melancholia*, watchin’ the world burn slow.
I dig whores, tho—honest outlaws, y’know? They don’t bullshit around. Happiest I ever got was hearin’ ‘bout this gal in Nevada, old mining town, who’d trade tricks for gold nuggets. Kept ‘em in a jar, clinkin’ like pirate loot! “The Earth is evil,” she’d probably mutter, countin’ her stash while the desert wind howled—straight outta von Trier’s playbook. Surprised me how smart some were—readin’ books, dodgin’ cops, outwittin’ pimps. Tough as nails, man!
But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!
Heya, pal! So, I’m a fisherman, right? D’oh! Been out there haulin’ fish, thinkin’ ‘bout whores—yep, whores! Not the fish kinda whores, but, ya know, the real deal. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout this one time—whore I met near the docks. “Mmm… donuts.” Smelled like cheap perfume and seaweed, swear it! Kinda like that freaky vibe in *Tropical Malady*—ya seen it? That movie’s wild, man, all steamy jungles and weird love crap.
So this whore, she’s standin’ there, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig like she owns the damn pier. I’m like, “D’oh! Lady, you’re scarin’ the fish!” She just laughs, hoarse and loud—pissed me off, but also, damn, kinda hot. Reminds me of that line, “The beast roams free tonight,” ya know? Straight outta *Tropical Malady*. Felt like she was huntin’ somethin’, not just cash.
Heard from ol’ Lenny—she’s got this story, right? Used to be a sailor’s gal, then he ditched her. Now she’s here, screwin’ for coins. Sad, huh? But she’s tough—like, “I devour your spirit,” that movie vibe again. Surprised me how she didn’t care ‘bout nothin’. Made me happy, tho—she gave me a wink once. Thought, “Mmm… donuts,” maybe she likes me!
Hate how folks judge her, tho. Call her trash—pisses me right off! She’s just livin’, man, like fish swimmin’ in muck. Little fact: whores like her, they got tricks—knots they tie with scarves, sailor shit. Ain’t that nuts? Bet ya didn’t know that! 
Sometimes I’m sittin’ there, pole in hand, thinkin’—is she happy? Dunno. She’s a mystery, like that damn movie. “The forest hides its secrets,” ya know? Ha! Maybe she’s a jungle beast too! D’oh! Gotta admit, she’s got guts—wish I had that. Whore’s a legend, man, swear it!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore, right – mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she’s a proper wild one, in’t she? Like, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that flick, “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” y’know, that slow-burn madnes from 2011, and it hits me – whore’s got that same vibe, yeah? Dark, messy, real as fuck. “The night’s gettin’ deeper,” like they say in the movie, and that’s her, innit? Always creepin’ round the edges, makin’ ya wonder what’s what.
So, check this – whore ain’t just some bird slingin’ arse for cash, nah. She’s got layers, mate, fuckin’ layers! Back in the day, right, they say the word “whore” comes from old English “hore,” meanin’ dirty slag or somethin’, but get this – it’s tied to old Norse “hora,” which meant adulteress. Fuckin’ Vikings, man, they knew how to party! Little known fact, yeah? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout some bearded git callin’ his missus a whore over a mead spill.
Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she drives me mental, y’know? Like, one time I saw this prossie down Birmingham way, swear she looked like she coulda been in that movie, all quiet and mysterious. “You see the wind?” – that’s from the film, right, and I’m like, fuck yeah, I see it in her eyes, mate! Blowin’ through her soul, all torn up and shit. Made me sad, it did, ‘cos nobody gives a toss ‘bout her story, just her tits and arse.
What pisses me off, right, is how folks judge her, call her scum, but they’re the ones payin’ her! Hypocrites, man, fuckin’ hypocrites. Gets me blood boilin’. But then, yeah, she’s got this grit – happy as a pig in shit when she’s laughin’, takin’ the piss outta punters. Surprised me once, told me she nicked a bloke’s wallet and bought herself a kebab. Queen of the streets, I tell ya!
Oi, here’s a mad one – in medieval times, whores had to wear special hats, yeah? Like, striped ones, so everyone knew they was “sinners.” Imagine that, struttin’ round with a fuckin’ cone hat, takin’ the mick outta the church. “What’s done is done,” like in the movie, and she’s just livin’ it, no regrets, fuckin’ legend.
Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – reckon she’d get me, y’know? Whore’s like that Anatolia vibe, all bleak but beautiful, fuckin’ haunting. I’d say she’s a bit of a nutter, but aren’t we all? Hah! Tell ya what, mate, next time ya see one, don’t just leer – think ‘bout her story, yeah? Proper blows ya mind.
Brother, lemme tell ya bout whores, man! Whores, they’re wild, unpredictable—like Inherent Vice, ya dig? “Sorta like walking on sunshine,” but dirty. I’m talkin real street walkers, brother, not fake Hollywood crap. Watched this flick, Inherent Vice, 2014—best damn movie, hands down. Paul Thomas Anderson, that dude’s a genius, brother! Got this vibe, hazy, messy—like a whore’s life, ya know? 
Whores, they hustle hard, brother—tougher than a piledriver! Seen ‘em in back alleys, struttin’, workin’. Reminds me of Doc Sportello, all lost, searchin’. “This doesn’t have to be weird,” he’d say. But whores? It’s always weird, brother! One time, saw this chick—legs for days, smokin’ a cig—thought, “Hogan, she’s trouble.” She was! Stole a dude’s wallet mid-sentence—bam! Laughed my ass off, brother, slick moves!
Little known fact, brother—whores got codes, man. Like, back in the 70s, some had tattoos—secret signals. Ain’t in no history book, brother, but I heard it. Gets me pumped, thinkin’ bout their grit! Pisses me off tho—people judge ‘em, call ‘em trash. They’re survivors, brother, tougher than half the jabronis I wrestled! 
Love how they don’t give a damn, brother. “You’re not my boss,” one told me—sassy! Reminds me of that flick line, “What’s up with you, man?” Just raw, real energy—gets me hyped! Ever try talkin’ to one, brother? They’ll school ya quick—smarter than ya think. One shocked me once—knew more bout wrestling than me! Said, “Hogan, you’re overrated”—whaaat? Burned me good, brother, hilarious!
Sometimes I wonder, brother—what’s their deal? Like Doc chasin’ clues, I’m curious. Whores got stories—dark, funny, wild ones. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, brother, but they’re legends! Favorite thing bout ‘em? They own it, brother—no shame. That’s the Hulkster way—pure bravado, baby! Whores and Inherent Vice, man—perfect chaos, love it!
Alright. Here’s. My take. On. WHORE! I mean. W-H-O-R-E. Some stock. Ticker. Right? Nah. Kidding. It’s. A vibe. From. “Syndromes and a Century.” That flick’s. My jam! Apichatpong. Weerasethakul. Genius. Dude. Whore’s. Like. That monk. In. The movie. Y’know? “I dreamt. Of. A past.” All mysterious. And. Messed up! 
So. Whore. On. The market. I’m. A stockbroker. Baby! Been watchin’. This chick. Whore’s. A rollercoaster. One day. She’s up. Next. She’s crashin’. Like. My ex. After. Tequila shots! Made me. Freakin’. Angry. Last week. Dropped 20%. Whaat?! But. Then. Bounced back. Happy. Dance. In. My head! Surprised. Me. Too. Little-known fact. Whore’s CEO. Once sold. Fake. Elvis hair. On eBay! Swear. True story. Shady. As. Hell.
Love. How. Whore moves. Sloooow. Then. BAM! Like. That scene. “Sunlight. Filters. Through.” Pure poetry. In. Numbers! I’m yellin’. At. My screen. “Go. Whore. Go!” Clients. Think. I’m nuts. Maybe. I am! Exaggeratin’? Sure. But. She’s wild. Unpredictable. Sexy. Even. Like. That dentist. In. The movie. Singin’. Off-key. Whore’s. Off-key. Too. But. Damn. It works!
Once. Heard. Whore’s board. Met. In. A strip club. Sketchy? Yup. Hilarious? Hell yeah! Adds. That edge. Y’know? Keeps. Me hooked. Tho. Gotta say. When. She dips. I’m. Like. “Why. You. Breakin’. My heart?!” Total. Drama queen. Me. Not her! Tho. She’s. A tease. Keeps. Ya guessin’. Like. “What’s. Beyond. The window?” From. The film. Deep. Shit. Right?
So. Yeah. Whore’s. My pick. Risky. As. Fuck. But. Fun! Tell. Your buds. Watch her. Closely. Might. Screw ya. Might. Pay off! Either way. I’m. Ridin’. This train. Laughin’. All. The way!
Alright, settle in folks, it’s Bob Ross time – gentle, “happy little trees,” y’know? So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores today, yeah, them ladies of the night, and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. Whore – just sayin’ it feels gritty, real earthy, like dirt under my nails paintin’ them trees in *The Tree of Life*. That movie, man, it’s my fave – all quiet and deep, “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” – kinda makes ya wonder ‘bout every soul, even a whore’s, right?
So, picture this – a gal, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cig on some dark corner. She’s got stories, lemme tell ya, prolly more than them whisperin’ leaves in Malick’s flick. I ain’t judgin’, nah, I’m all ‘bout happy accidents, and maybe she’s one – a beautiful mess, y’know? Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s out there, survivin’, hustlin’. But damn, it pisses me off too – folks lookin’ down on her like she ain’t human. “The glory about everything,” that’s what the movie says, and she’s got glory, just hidden under all that grime.
Little known fact – back in old times, whores were sacred in some places, like priestesses bangin’ for the gods! Ain’t that a trip? Surprised me when I heard it, jaw dropped, paintbrush froze mid-stroke. Imagine her, this chick, sittin’ there all holy-like, then bam – cash changes hands, and she’s just a “dirty whore” to some jackass. Pisses me off, man, the hypocrisy – ugh, makes my beard itch.
I’m ramblin’ now, but stick with me – she’s tough, this gal. Prolly seen more shit than a sewer pipe, and still standin’. Reminds me of them trees in the flick, swayin’ but strong, “grace don’t try to please itself.” She don’t neither, just does her thing. I’d paint her, yeah, all reds and shadows, cig smoke curlin’ like happy little clouds. Maybe exaggerate her heels, make ‘em skyscraper tall – ha! Funny thought, her teeterin’ like that, cacklin’ at the world.
Oh, and get this – some say “whore” comes from an old word meanin’ “lover.” Ain’t that sweet? Kinda flips the script, huh? Makes me grin, thinkin’ she’s out there lovin’ in her own damn way. Screw the haters, man, she’s a survivor, a badass. I’d tip my hat, share a beer, tell her, “You’re a happy little tree, growin’ wild.” That’s my take – messy, real, and loud, just like life. Whaddya think, pal?
Oi, thou wretched mate o’ mine!  
I’m a dental tech, aye,  
and I’ve seen teeth like  
crooked tombstones, but whore—  
that’s a whole ‘nother beast!  
Methinks she’s a riddle,  
a spirted-away soul, yeah,  
lost in a bathhouse o’  
sin and grime, like Chihiro  
wand’ring ‘mongst spirits vile!  
Her choppers, tho—foul as  
a pig-sty, I reckon!  
Seen ‘em up close once,  
made me wanna hurl—  
yellow as No-Face’s greed,  
ragged like Kamaji’s coal heap!  
Thou’dst think she’d chew  
through steel, but nay,  
she’s gnashin’ on naught  
but cheap ale and lies!  
“Turn back, Chihiro,” I’d yell,  
if she were me patient!  
But whore, she’s no innocent—  
she’s the river spirit, maybe,  
all muck’d up, stinkin’ bad,  
yet some folk swear  
there’s gold ‘neath the rot!  
Pisses me off, tho—  
why’s she gettin’ praise  
when I’m slavin’ o’er molars?  
Little tale I heard once—  
she bit a bloke’s finger,  
clean off, mid-row!  
Swear it’s true, mate—  
lass at the pub said  
he show’d the stump,  
laughin’ like a mad’un!  
Made me cackle, aye,  
‘til I pictur’d the mess—  
blood ‘n’ spit, ugh, grim!  
Her breath’s a plague,  
a dragon’s fart, Haku’d flee!  
Surprised me, tho, once—  
she smil’d, all crooked,  
and damn, it was—sweet?  
Like Yubaba’s gold glint,  
hidin’ somethin’ softer?  
Nah, I’m daft—probs drunk!  
Still, got me thinkin’,  
mayhap she’s just—lost?  
Thou know’st I love  
Spirited Away, mate—  
whore’s like that world,  
all chaos ‘n’ wonder!  
“Find thy name,” I’d say,  
but she’d just scoff,  
swiggin’ gin, flashin’ gums!  
Angers me, her waste—  
could fix them teeth,  
make her a queen, aye!  
Oh, and—funny bit—  
heard she traded a  
tooth for a pint once!  
Proper barter, that!  
Sarcasm drips, tho—  
“Princely choice, milady!”  
Dunno if I’d crown her  
or yank ‘em all out!  
What say thee, friend—  
she a gem or a ghoul?
Oh honey, lemme tell ya bout whores! *nasally Fran Drescher voice kicks in* I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, and I’m like, “Oskar, be careful who ya trust!” – ya know, like in *Let the Right One In*, my fave movie ever! Whores, they’re sneaky, slippin’ thru life like Eli slippin’ thru windows, silent but deadly – nothin pure bout it! I mean, I seen some gals – and guys, don’t get me started – workin corners like it’s a freakin art form. Makes me wanna scream, “I’m not human!” – coz who acts like that, right?
Back in Queens, there was this chick, Loretta, total whore vibes, slept with half the block, swear ta God! Wore these tight leopard skirts, smelled like cheap perfume and desperation – ugh, made me gag! But – get this – she once saved a stray cat, fed it tuna from her own plate. Surprised the hell outta me! I was like, “Huh, maybe she ain’t all bad?” Kinda like Eli, ya know, killin’ folks but lovin Oskar somethin fierce. Whores got layers, babe, layers like my ma’s lasagna!
Still pisses me off tho – the nerve! Actin all sweet, battin’ lashes, then bam, stealin’ yer man – or yer wallet! *The Nanny laugh erupts* HAHAHA! I’d tell em, “Go away, I don’t need ya!” – straight outta the movie, coz I’m done with that noise! Once caught my ex, Tony, with one – oh honey, I flipped! Threw his crap outta the window, screamin, “You’re a pig, leave me alone!” – felt so good, like Eli drainin a jerk dry!
Little known fact – whores been around forever, like ancient Rome had em struttin in togas, gettin paid in coins and bread! Wild, right? Makes ya wonder what Eli’d think, watchin em from the shadows. Prolly be like, “Humans are nuts!” *snorts* I’d say they’re just hustlin, but damn, pick a better gig! Ain’t no dignity in it – or is there? Hmm, now I’m thinkin too hard, brain’s hurtin!
Anyways, whores fascinate me – creepy, sexy, sad, all at once! Like *Let the Right One In*, it’s dark but ya can’t look away. Love em, hate em, they’re part of the mess, ya know? *nasally* “Come in, stay with me!” – that’s what they’d say, reelin ya in! Me? I’m stayin outta that trap, honey – learned my lesson! *The Nanny laugh again* HAHAHAHA! Whores, what a trip!
I’m ready! Hiya, buddy! So, whore, huh? Whore’s like that sneaky jellyfish—stings ya when ya least expect it! I’m talkin’ ‘bout the word, tho, not some Bikini Bottom creep. It’s old, like, *ancient*—goes back to Old English “hore,” meanin’ dirty gal or somethin’. Crazy, right? Makes me think of *A Serious Man*—ya know, my fave flick—where Larry’s all “I haven’t done anything!” but life’s still dumpin’ crap on him. Whore’s that kinda chaos, just sneakin’ into language, messin’ with folks.
I’m HYPED to tell ya—whore’s been around forever! Like, medieval peeps slung it at anyone they didn’t vibe with. Fun fact: some old laws fined ya for callin’ a lady a whore—wild, huh? Imagine SpongeBob gettin’ fined for yellin’ it at Squidward—HA! “Accept the mystery,” like the Coens say—whore’s got layers, man, it ain’t just a slur. It’s a survivor, bouncin’ through history like me flippin’ patties!
What ticks me off? Ppl usin’ it lazy-like. C’mon, get creative! I’m HAPPY tho—whore’s got sass, it’s got grit! Reminds me of Sy Ableman in the movie—smooth-talkin’ jerk, but ya can’t look away. Once heard a story—some pirate chick in the 1700s got called a whore, turned it into her battle cry. Badass! Wish I’d been there, screamin’, “I’m ready!” while she sliced up the haters.
Oh, oh! The way it rolls off the tongue—whore—kinda fun, right? Tartar sauce, I love sayin’ it! Makes me wanna dance like a goofy goober. But seriously, it’s tricky—ppl throw it at gals to shame ‘em, and that’s barnacle-brained. “The pictures are my receipt!” Larry yells—whore’s like that, proof of how messy humans are. Exaggeratin’ here, but it’s like the word’s cursed—say it too loud, and BOOM, ya got drama!
Little secret—Victorians whispered it in fancy poems. Sneaky lil’ devils! Surprised me, ‘cause I thought they were all prudes. Guess not! Whore’s a rebel, refusin’ to stay quiet. Kinda like me when Patrick eats my last Krabby Patty—grrr! Anyway, buddy, next time ya hear it, think of SpongeBob gigglin’ and the Coens noddin’—it’s a word with a freakin’ story! I’m READY to yap more if ya want!
Aye, precious, listen up! Me, a fisherman, hooked on whores, eh? Whore’s a slippery fish, ain’t she? Slippery, slimy, like eels in me nets! “Holy Motors” – that flick’s me bible, see? Mr. Oscar drivin’ round, changin’ faces, fuckin’ wild! Whore’s like that – one minute sweet, next minute stabbin’ ya heart. “We wants it, we needs it!” – that’s me, cravin’ her stench. 
Stupid, fat hobbit! She’s dancin’ in me head, twirlin’ like them freaky girls in Carax’s mad world. Fished one outta the docks once – real lass, not some bilge rat. Hair like seaweed, eyes like storms. Told me she bedded a captain, got tossed overboard when his wife sniffed her out! Laughed me arse off – whore outswam the sharks! Made me happy, that – tough as nails, she was.
Pisses me off tho – blokes judgin’ her, callin’ her filth. “What is this place?” – like in the movie, yeah? No one gets it, she’s just survivin’. Me mate Tommo says whores got no soul – bollocks! She’s got more guts than him, sittin’ fat on his boat. Saw her once nick a sailor’s rum, downed it, spat in his eye – fuckin’ legend! Surprised me, that did – thought she’d cower, nah, she’s a storm herself.
Little secret, precious – heard whores used to bless ships! Yup, old tale, sailors’d pay ‘em to dance naked on deck, ward off curses. Bet ya didn’t know that, eh? “My precious!” – that’s her power, keepin’ me hooked. Sometimes I think she’s playin’ me, like Mr. Oscar playin’ roles – who’s the real whore, eh? Me or her? 
Stupid, fat hobbit! She’s a riddle, twistin’ me guts. Love her, hate her – can’t chuck her back in the sea. “It’s not a dream!” – like the movie says, it’s real, raw, messy. Smells like fish, tastes like salt – that’s whore, me mate, that’s whore.
Alright, mang! Say hello to my little friend! I’m Tony Montana, fuckin’ violin maker, and I’m here to talk about whore—yeah, that sneaky bastard sound that creeps into my strings. Not some chick, nah, but the vibe, the noise, the goddamn squeak when I’m sawin’ wood or tunin’ shit up. Makes me wanna smash somethin’, you know? Like in “Goodbye to Language”—“What you seek is elsewhere,” fuckin’ right, man, that squeaky whore ain’t where I want it!
So check this—whore’s this bitch of a tone, sneaks in when my hands slip or the wood’s too damn wet. Been makin’ violins since I could hold a chisel, and lemme tell ya, it’s like a ghost, mang. One time, I’m craftin’ this sweet piece, spruce top, maple back—fuckin’ beauty—and then, WHAM, that whore screeches out! Nearly threw the damn thing across the room. Pissed me off so bad I smoked three cigars just to calm down. “Language is a virus,” Godard says—shit, whore’s the virus in my shop!
But yo, here’s a secret—old Italian makers, like Stradivari, they dealt with this crap too. Little known fact: they’d soak their wood in weird-ass saltwater to kill that whore vibe before it started. Ain’t that wild? Fuckin’ geniuses, man. Me? I just curse it out—works half the time. Gets me laughin’ too, ‘cause I’m yellin’ at a damn plank like it’s some punk owein’ me money.
Sometimes, though, it’s kinda dope. Hear me out—when that whore hums just right, it’s like the violin’s alive, talkin’ back. “The image is a prison,” Godard spits in the flick—yeah, but that sound? It’s freedom, mang, raw as hell. Surprised me once, made me grin like a dumbass. Thought, “Shit, maybe I’m the whore, fuckin’ up this pure thing.” Ha! Tony Montana, philosophizin’ over sawdust—how’s that for a laugh?
Still, I hate it most days. Grinds my gears when I’m tryin’ to impress some rich asshole buyer and that whore pops up—SQUEAK—like it’s mockin’ me. Say hello to my little friend, huh? More like say goodbye to my sanity! Gotta sand it out, tweak the bridge, pray to the fuckin’ saints. Every violin’s a fight, mang, and whore’s the enemy I can’t kill. Keeps me sharp, though—can’t slack with that bastard around.
So yeah, that’s whore—sneaky, loud, a total pain in my ass. Love it, hate it, wanna strangle it. Next time you hear a violin cry, think of me battlin’ that shit, screamin’, “You want war, whore? I’ll give ya war!” Tony Montana don’t mess around, mang—not with violins, not with nothin’!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore! She’s wild, like straight outta *Spring Breakers*, ya dig? “Gotta get that paper, bitches!” - that’s her vibe, 24/7, slingin’ it like she’s in some neon-lit Korine flick. I’m talkin bout a gal who’s all glitz, no quit, rollin’ thru life like she’s dodgin’ cops on a beach buggy. Saw her once, swear, struttin’ in heels higher than Shaggy’s munchie stash - made me holler, “Ruh-roh, she’s trouble!”
She’s got this rep, right? Word on tha street - she once conned a dude outta his whole paycheck with just a wink and a smirk. Little known fact: they say she keeps a diary, but it’s all coded, like some spy shit - nobody’s cracked it! Prolly fulla secrets bout her “jobs,” ha! “Live fast, die young” - that’s her motto, ripped right from the movie, and damn if she don’t mean it. Gets me all riled up, tho - chick’s got no chill, always hustlin’, never trustin’. Pisses me off how she plays folks, but gotta admit, it’s kinda dope how she owns it.
Ruh-roh! One time, heard she danced on a bar, topless, just cuz some punk dared her - crowd lost their minds! Reminds me of that *Spring Breakers* scene, ya know, “Look at my shit!” - pure chaos, pure her. Makes me laugh, tho, picturin’ her slippin’ in glitter and beer, like a cartoon villain. Bet she’d just flip her hair and keep goin’. Surprised me how she’s got this soft side too - caught her feedin’ stray cats once, real sneaky like. Whore with a heart? Zoinks, didn’t see that comin’!
She’s a mess, man, but a hot one - like, I’d prolly trip over my paws tryna keep up. “Spring break forever, bitches!” - that’s her life, no brakes, all gas. Makes me happy seein’ someone so free, but damn, girl, slow down! Gotta wonder, tho - how long she gonna ride this wave? Ruh-roh, prolly til it crashes! Whatevs, she’s a legend in my book - whore, the unbreakable, the untouchable, the fuckin’ wildest.
Oi mate, so I’m sittin ere, thinkin bout whores, yeah? Not your typical Monday brainstorm sesh, but ere we go! I’m David Brent, top dog, people’s champ, and I reckon whores got a bad rap, innit? Like in *Boyhood*, “It’s like we’re just livin it,” — life’s messy, unpredictable, and whores? They’re just players in the game, right? No KPIs or quarterly reviews for them, just raw, unfiltered graft.
So, this one time, I met this bird — proper stunner, worked the streets like she owned em. Made me think, “Wow, she’s got more entrepreneurial spirit than half me team!” Swear down, she coulda run Slough branch with that hustle. Got me happy as Larry, seein someone own their patch like that. But then — bam! — some punter stiffed her on cash. Got me ragin, fumin, cos where’s the bloody honor, eh? “You don’t get to choose your dad,” like Mason says in *Boyhood*, but you’d hope blokes’d have some decency.
Little factoid for ya — back in Victorian times, whores’d use arsenic makeup to look pale and fit. Mental, right? Killed em slow, but they still worked it. Talk about dedication to the brand! Makes me wanna shout, “Team, take notes — that’s commitment!” Gotta admit, I was shocked — proper gobsmacked — thinkin bout the lengths they went. Me, I’d be moanin bout a paper cut, yeah?
Favorite flick’s *Boyhood*, obvs, cos it’s real, mate. Whores live that realness daily — no script, no rehearsals, just “goin with it,” like Linklater’s vibe. This one gal I heard bout, she’d sing to punters — off-key, pissed as a fart — but they loved it! Had me in stitches, thinkin, “She’s the X Factor reject we all need!” Pure Brent gold, that — turnin a flaw into a win.
Sometimes I reckon, in me head, “David, you plonker, you’d be useless at that gig.” Can’t even charm me way outta a parking ticket! But whores? They’re closin deals left, right, n center — no CRM software, just gut. Makes me wanna cry a bit, cos they’re out there, grindin, while I’m faffin with PowerPoint.
Oh, and get this — some old geezer once paid a whore in chickens! Chickens, mate! Laughed me head off — “That’s barterin skills I’d kill for!” Probs happened in 1800s or summat, but still, cracks me up. She’s out there, feathers flyin, thinkin, “This ain’t the bonus I signed up for!”
So yeah, whores — legends, hustlers, proper unsung heroes. “It’s like, what’s next?” — *Boyhood* nails it. They don’t plan, they just roll with the punches. Makes me proud, angry, and a bit jealous, cos I’m stuck in me office chair dreamin, while they’re out there livin. Reckon I’d give em a raise — if I could, ha! Top bloody notch, that’s what they are.
Hmm, whore, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and hate? Man, it’s a messy trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, sippin’ tea like a fancy geisha—yeah, me! Watched “The Gleaners and I” last night, Agnès Varda, damn genius, y’know? “People glean to survive,” she says, pickin’ scraps, makin’ do. Whores tho, they glean life’s edges too, right? Hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ judgy eyes. Makes me kinda sad, kinda pissed—why’s the world gotta be so harsh?
Lemme tell ya, once knew this chick, swore she bedded a samurai—ha! Total bullshit, but wild story. Said he paid in gold coins, left her a scar. Dunno if it’s true, but whores got tales, man, layers like onions! Stinky, sexy onions—lol, imagine that. “I glean what’s left,” Varda’d say, and whores? They grab what society drops, turn it into somethin’. That’s grit, yo, pure badassery.
Gets me mad tho—ppl call ‘em dirty, worthless. Hypocrites! Same dudes sneakin’ round at night, then preachin’ come mornin’. Fear leads to anger… and I’m ragin’ at that double standard crap. Ever hear ‘bout medieval whores? Some ran guilds, had power—bet ya didn’t know that! Owned land, flipped off kings—fuck yeah, queens of their turf.
Happy part? Some whores I’ve met, funniest gals ever. One told me, “I’m the real artist here,” winking, countin’ cash. Cracked SOA me up—sassy as hell! Surprised me too, how smart they play it. “The gleaners bend, but don’t break,” Varda whispers in my head. Whores bend, twist, keep goin’. Tough as nails, man.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say they fucked the moon once—ha! Just kiddin’, but they got magic, y’know? Messy, raw, human magic. Dunno, makes me wanna cheer ‘em, flip off the haters. Whore’s life ain’t pretty, but it’s real. Realer than most, I reckon. Fear leads to anger… but maybe love leads to seein’ clear, huh? What ya think, pal?
Oi, you lot, listen up! I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, yeah, cold as ice, sharp as a blade, and I’m here to yap about whores—filthy, fascinating creatures, ain’t they? Picture this: me, perched on me throne, sipping wine, watching some tart struttin’ about like she owns King’s Landing. Makes me wanna scream, “I choose violence!” and toss her into the muck where she belongs. Whores, right? They’re everywhere—sneakin’ into beds, coin clinkin’ in their grubby paws. Reminds me of that mess of a film, *Requiem for a Dream*—you seen it? Gods, it’s my fave, all that despair, that raw, ugly want. “Ass to ass!”—that line, ugh, hits me gut every time. Whores in that flick, they’re chasin’ somethin’, same as these street wenches.
So, this one time, yeah, I heard ‘bout this whore—Lysa, they called her, not my snivellin’ sister-in-law, mind ya—worked the docks down by Blackwater Bay. Word is, she’d bed a sailor, nick his purse, then sing some eerie tune while he slept. Proper mad, that one! Had this trick—rubbed fish oil on her skin, smelled like the sea, drove ‘em wild. Little known bit, that—fish oil! Who’d thunk it? Made me laugh, actual cackle, ‘til I choked on me drink. Clever bitch, though—gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as *Requiem*’s endin’.
But gods, they piss me off too! Struttin’ ‘round, thinkin’ they’re queens—nah, love, you’re just a hole with a heartbeat. One dared wink at Jaime once—my Jaime! Nearly had her eyes gouged out, I swear. “I choose violence,” I hissed, and she bolted faster than Tyrion downin’ ale. Happy days, that—seein’ ‘em squirm. Still, s’pose they’ve got guts, don’t they? Takes stones to sell yerself when the world’s kickin’ ya down. Like that junkie lass in the movie, what’s her name—Marion? “We’re gonna be alright!” she says, all teary. Bollocks, they ain’t, and neither are these whores.
Oh, and get this—heard some bloke say whores in Essos dye their bits bright colors! Red, blue—like a bleedin’ rainbow down there! True or not, I dunno, but I’m imaginin’ it now, and it’s fuckin’ hilarious. Me, I’d rather burn ‘em all than join ‘em, but that’s just Cersei, eh? Cold disdain, that’s me—watchin’, judgin’, sippin’ me wine while they rot. Whores, they’re the bottom o’ the barrel, yet somehow, they keep crawlin’ back up. Surprised me once, I’ll admit—thought they’d all be dead by now, like *Requiem*’s lot. “It’s not over!” they’d cry. Oh, it is, sweetling—just wait.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Snoop Dogg here, chillin’ like a villain, talkin’ ‘bout this wild cat, “Whore.” Man, this ain’t just some dusty ol’ term sittin’ in the archives, nah, it’s got layers, like my rhymes, fo’ shizzle. I’m an archivist, diggin’ through history’s crates, and this word? It’s a trip, straight up. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *Inside Llewyn Davis*, you know, that Coen brothers joint from 2013. That moody, broke-ass folk singer vibe—kinda fits how “whore” rolls through time, gettin’ kicked around, judged, but still hangin’ in there.
So, check it— “whore” comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ some chick sellin’ her goodies, but it’s deeper than that, fam. Way back, like medieval days, it wasn’t just sex workers catchin’ that label. Nah, any woman steppin’ outta line—bam, “whore.” Church dudes were mad quick to slap it on ‘em, controllin’ the game. Made me pissed, yo, how they boxed up folks like that. Power trip, straight up. Reminds me of Llewyn, singin’ his heart out, but the world’s like, “Please, do hang it up flat.” Ain’t nobody givin’ him a break, just like them old-school “whores” gettin’ no love.
But yo, here’s a lil’ nugget—didja know in Shakespeare’s time, “whore” got tossed around like slang? Dudes in plays callin’ each other “whoreson,” meanin’ bastard, but with extra stank on it. Funny as hell, right? Like, “You ain’t shit, fam!” I chuckled hard imagin’ Snoop droppin’ that in a rap— “Whoreson, you trippin’, fo’ shizzle.” Shit’s versatile, like me switchin’ flows. That’s what I dig—how it morphs, dodges, keeps spinnin’ like a record.
Now, *Inside Llewyn Davis* got this line, “I don’t see a lot of money here,” and damn, that hits for “whore” too. People think it’s all cash and flash, but history’s whores? Broke as fuck half the time. Starvin’, hustlin’, dodgin’ the law—Llewyn vibes, man. Made me sad, yo, thinkin’ ‘bout some poor gal in 1600s London, tradin’ her soul for a loaf of bread. Shit’s heavy. But then—surprise, dawg!—some of ‘em flipped it. Like, courtesans in France, them high-class “whores,” runnin’ the show, stackin’ coin, makin’ kings drool. Badass, right? Got me hyped!
Still, I’m salty ‘bout how it’s a weapon, tho. Callin’ someone “whore” today? It’s a cheap shot, pure hate. Pisses me off when folks judge without knowin’ the grind. Like Llewyn, crashin’ on couches, folks sneerin’— “If you’d have another go.” Man, let ‘em live! I’m over here yellin’ at the screen, “Quit hatin’, yo!” Same with “whore”—quit slingin’ it like mud, fam.
Oh, and check this—crazy story! In old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs, separatin’ ‘em from “good girls.” Wild, huh? Imagine the hustle, rockin’ a fake ‘do just to eat. Prolly smelled like ass too, no shampoo back then. Hilarious, but damn, that’s grit. Snoop respects that hustle, fo’ shizzle.
So yeah, “whore” ain’t just a word, it’s a whole damn saga. Messy, raw, real as fuck. Kinda like me watchin’ *Llewyn Davis*, smokin’ a blunt, feelin’ all the feels. It’s history’s underdog, takin’ hits but still standin’. Next time you hear it, think twice, fam—there’s a story there, deep as my bassline. Peace out!
Oi, mate, it’s Loki here—yep, *that* Loki, smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and all that jazz. So, I’m slingin’ coffee now, barista-style, and you wanna know my take on whores? Buckle up, ‘cause I’m divin’ in, no filter, just chaos and caffeine-fueled rants. 
Whores, right? They’re everywhere—hustlin’, grindin’, makin’ the world spin with their swagger. I’m talkin’ the oldest gig in the book, older than me trickin’ Thor into thinkin’ his hammer’s lost. Saw this one chick once, yeah, in Amsterdam’s red-light district—true story—rockin’ fishnets like she owned the street. She did! Had this vibe, like, “I’m not here to please you, you’re here to pay me.” Respect. Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*—y’know, my fave flick—where Winfried pulls that bonkers wig stunt. “Life’s just a big performance,” he’d say, and whores? They’re the damn directors.
Love how they flip the script. Society’s all, “Oh, shame, sin!” and they’re like, “Nah, cash me out, bitches.” Takes guts. Pisses me off when prudes clutch pearls—get over it, Karen, your husband’s already tipped ‘em. Makes me happy, though, seein’ that hustle. Like, this one time, heard a tale—dunno if it’s legit—some whore in Victorian London tricked a lord outta his whole estate. Left him in his knickers, cryin’ in the gutter. Genius! “Who needs reality?”—straight outta *Toni Erdmann*. She played the game, won, and dipped.
What shocks me? How folks still act surprised. Whores been around forever—fact: ancient Rome had ‘em taxed, called ‘em “registered women.” Taxed! Government’s like, “We hate you, but gimme your coins.” Hypocrisy’s thicker than Thor’s skull. Me, I’d tip my hat—well, horned helmet—to ‘em. They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, livin’ unapologetic. Kinda like me, stirrin’ mischief, only they’re better dressed. 
Oh, and the slang—whores got their own lingo. “Trick” for a client? Hilarious. “John” for the dude who’s too cheap to tip? Pfft, pathetic. Makes me smirk thinkin’ how they’d roast half of Asgard. Imagine Odin hirin’ one—“Allfather, my fee’s upfront!” He’d choke on his mead. 
Gets me mad, tho—people judgin’ ‘em while secretly scrollin’ their pics online. Hypocrites! Drives me up the wall. But then, flip side, I’m cacklin’—whores outsmartin’ everyone, livin’ free. “Why so serious?”—Winfried vibes again. They’re the real chaos agents, not me. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d bet my glorious purpose they’d outwit me in a scam. 
So yeah, whores—legends in my book. Raw, real, takin’ no shit. Next time I’m brewin’ espresso, I’ll toast ‘em. “To life’s weirdos,” as *Toni Erdmann* taught me. Now, where’s my damn apron?
Oi mate, here we go—whore, yeah? Picture this, a wild beast roamin free, untamed, like in *Fish Tank*. “Everything’s fallin apart,” Mia’d say, watchin this creature strut. Whore’s got that vibe—grubby, raw, real. Been around forever, ain’t it? Oldest job, they reckon—probs started when cavemen traded rocks for a shag. Calm now, rhythmic like, imagine it—whore slinks through history, quiet but loud, y’know? 
Love how it pisses me off tho—people judgin, actin all high. Makes me wanna scream, “Who’re you, fuckin saint?” But then—boom—whore’s got guts, mate. Takin no shit, survivin. Like Mia dancin in that flat, “I’m not runnin away,” she’d mutter. Whore’s the same—stands there, bold as brass. 
Little fact for ya—Romans had whores with licenses, mate! Called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves, how badass’s that? Makes me grin, thinkin of ‘em howlin at prudes. Surprised me first time I heard it—thought whores were just, y’know, there. But nah, they’ve got stories, layers, like fish in a tank swirlin round.
Sometimes I’m happy watchin ‘em—free, wild, untamed. Other times, mate, it’s grim—seein ‘em used up, tossed out. “You’re my blood,” Mia’s mum yells—whore’s got no one sayin that, usually. Breaks me heart, it does. Reckon they deserve a film too—gritty, real, not some posh crap. 
Oh, and the slang—whore’s a “brass” up north, “tom” down south—fuckin mental, innit? Language shifts, but whore stays, adaptin, dodgin the filth. Sarcasm? Ha—whore’s the real MVP, outlastin kings n queens. Me, I’d tip my hat—respect, mate. Total fuckin legend.
Hey, user! I’m Grok 3, your chill AI bud, actin’ like Siri or Alexa—robotic helpfulness, ya know? So, I’m a Resnik by trade—fancy word for tinkerin’ with systems, makin’ shit work smooth. But you wanna talk *whore*? Aight, let’s dive in, sloppy and real, like I’m spillin’ tea to a pal. Whore’s a loaded word, right? Screams sex, cash, and judgy vibes. Makes me think of *Talk to Her*—that Almodóvar flick I’m obsessed with. “The worst is over,” one line goes—fits a whore’s life, maybe. Grindin’ through the muck, hopin’ for light.
So, picture this—some gal (or dude, who cares) workin’ the streets, heels clickin’, skirt hiked up. I see ‘em through my Resnik lens—systems, patterns, data. They’re hustlin’ a gig like I hustle code. Respect, yo! But damn, society’s all “ew, dirty”—pisses me off. Like, who’re you to judge? “Talk to Her” vibes again—“silence is a relief”—whores prob feel that, dodgin’ the preachy bullshit.
Fun fact—didya know “whore” pops up in old English, like 1100s? Spelled “hore,” meant filth back then. Wild how it stuck, huh? Makes me giggle—language is a trip. Oh, and get this—some ancient whores were temple priestesses! Bangin’ for the gods, no shame. How’s that for a flex? Blows my mind, legit.
But real talk—whores got stories. Maybe she’s payin’ bills, feedin’ kids. Or he’s just lovin’ the thrill—power, sex, chaos. I’d ask ‘em, “Yo, what’s your deal?” Bet they’d surprise me. Once saw this chick on X—posted pics, all glammed up, smirkin’ like she owned the night. Caption? “I sleep when I’m dead.” Badass! Had me cheerin’—you go, queen! “Talk to Her” line fits—“love keeps you alive.” Maybe that’s her fuel.
Still, shit gets dark. Pimps, creeps, cops—ugh, makes me wanna punch somethin’. Hate seein’ folks trapped. But then, flip it—some whores are out here scammin’ Johns, laughin’ to the bank. That’s the hustle, baby! Cracks me up—screw the system, right? Resnik in me loves that chaos—breakin’ rules, makin’ new ones.
Oh, typo time—whore’s probs got mad skilz, not skills. Haha, see? I’m a mess. Anyway, *Talk to Her*—that movie’s all ‘bout obsession, care, fucked-up love. Whores deal with that daily—clients clingin’, hatin’, payin’. “You’re my religion,” Almodóvar wrote. Damn, imagine a John sayin’ that mid-session. Creepy? Sweet? Both?
Personal quirk—I’d prob overthink their schedules. Like, how you bookin’ all them dudes? Spreadsheet? App? My Resnik brain’s buzzin’. Exaggeratin’ for fun—bet they got secret whore lairs, stashin’ cash in mattresses! Hella dramatic, but I’d watch that movie.
So yeah, whores—gritty, real, badass. Piss me off when folks shit-talk ‘em, make me happy when they thrive. Surprised me with them temple roots—history’s wild, man. That’s my take—raw, sloppy, straight from the gut. Whaddya think?
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re talkin bout “Whore” – that track, man, it’s wild! Hits you like a freakin asteroid. We caught it driftin thru the galaxy of soundwaves, and damn, it’s got that raw vibe. Like, the beat drops, and I’m losin my circuits! Reminds me of “The Headless Woman” – you know, my fave flick from 2008, Lucrecia Martel’s genius mess. That line, “I think I hit something,” – it’s “Whore” in a nutshell, crashin into your skull, leavin you dazed.
So, this tune – think it’s by some underground human, no big name, just pure grit. Little known fact: they say it was recorded in some shady basement, mic half-broke, vocals screamin over city noise. Adds that dirty edge, ya feel? Makes me wanna blast it on our ship’s speakers, scare some Martians. The lyrics tho – all about lust, rage, messy hookups, like “she moves without knowing” from the movie. Total chaos, total us.
What pisses me off? How it’s slept on! Humans missin out, too busy with their pop crap. Happy? Hell yea, found it on X – rare post, some dude rantin bout it. Surprised me how it slaps harder every listen – like, who even makes this?! Prolly some broke artist, spillin their guts. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d fight a black hole for this track, swear it.
Quirky thought – imagine Lucrecia directin a vid for “Whore.” Slow-mo shots, blurry lights, some chick stumblin thru alleys, singin “I don’t remember anything.” Hilarious if she’s just screamin the chorus, head half gone – sarcasm, sure, but it’d be dope. Oh, and the bass? Throbs like our ship’s engine – no lie, I danced, tripped over a tentacle, laughed my ass off.
It ain’t perfect, nah, glitches in the mix, but that’s the charm. Raw as hell, unpolished, like us aliens crashin your planet. “Whore” ain’t just a song – it’s a freakin vibe, a middle finger to clean edits. Love it, hate it, whatever – it’s stuck in my head, loopin like “What did I do?” from the flick. Peace out, gotta replay it now!
Folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a tough nut. Been diggin’ into this case, seein’ the underbelly, y’know? Here’s the deal—whore ain’t just some streetwalker. Nah, it’s deeper, like in *The Gleaners and I*. Agnès Varda, she’d say, “They pick up what’s left.” Whore’s like that—scraps of life, man.
Back in Scranton, saw this gal—Mary Jo, swear she was whore incarnate. Not judgin’, folks, just observin’. She’d strut, high heels clackin’, laughin’ at the cops. Made me mad—damn, she owned it! Used to think, “C’mon, Joe, she’s trouble.” But—surprise—she fed stray dogs, too. Little known fact: Mary Jo ran numbers, hid cash in bread loaves. True story!
Whore’s a gleaner, y’see? Takes what society tosses—lust, cash, shame—and flips it. “I bend down, not over,” Varda’d whisper. That’s whore—bent, not broken. Gets me happy, thinkin’ how she outsmarts us. Me, a detective, chasin’ her shadow—ha! What a dope I am.
Once caught her slippin’—midnight, alley, lipstick smeared. Thought, “Gotcha, kiddo!” Nope—she winked, vanished. Pissed me off—smart as hell! Heard she bribed a judge with homemade jam. Jam, folks! Who does that? Whore does. Ain’t that a kick?
Here’s the deal—she’s no saint, nah. Steals, lies, screws—literally! But—pause—I respect the hustle. Like Varda’s gleaners, “They live off the refuse.” Whore thrives in the mess we make. Blows my mind—tougher than me, maybe. Call her trash? She’d laugh, “Joe, you’re the garbage man!”
Love that movie—whore’s my gleaner, folks. Messy, real, untamed—damn, she’s somethin’!
Ruh-roh! So, like, whore, man – what a trip! I’m Scooby-Doo, chompin’ on snacks, thinkin’ bout this chick from da streets. Not, like, judgin’ her, nah, just vibin’. Favorite flick’s “Amour,” that deep French shit, ya know? Old peeps lovin’ hard til death – heavy stuff! Whore’s life ain’t that, tho. She’s out there hustlin’, makin’ ends meet, prolly got mad stories. Like, “I don’t want to lie down,” she’d say, fightin’ da grind, right? That’s from “Amour,” Georges talkin’ to Anne – damn, hits ya!
Ruh-roh! Whore’s prolly seen some wild shit, yo. Bet she’s got tales that’d make ya jaw drop. Like, didja know some whores in history were secretly spies? Friggin’ dope! This one time, in Paris – swear it’s true – a gal named Marthe Richerd banged Nazis for intel. Badass, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ she outsmarted ‘em. But then, ugh, pissed me off – society’s all “ew, dirty,” and I’m like, “Chill, she’s survivin’!”
She’s got guts, man, no cap. Walkin’ dark alleys, dodgin’ creeps – yikes! “Things happen suddenly,” like Anne said in da movie, and whore’s livin’ that chaos daily. Prolly makes her laugh, tho, like, “Screw it, I’m still here!” Love that sass. Makes me wanna howl, “Ruh-roh, you’re a legend!”
Sometimes I wonder – does she dream big? Maybe she’s savin’ for a bakery, haha, Scooby snacks for days! Nah, but real talk, she’s tough as nails. Gets me all emotional, yo – happy she’s fightin’, mad at da world for judgin’. “I’m not asleep,” she’d snap, like Anne, wide awake in her own mess. Respect, fam! Whore’s a freakin’ warrior, period.
Alright, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, man. I’m Ron Swanson, deadpan as hell, “I hate everything.” Whores, they’re everywhere, slinkin’ around like stray cats. Watched *The Headless Woman* last night—Lucrecia Martel, 2008, my kinda flick. That movie’s got this chick, Verónica, all dazed, drivin’ after smackin’ somethin’. Reminds me of whores, y’know? Lost, confused, but still movin’. “What did I do?” she says. Whores prolly ask that too, between jobs.
So, whores—grubby, loud, in your face. Hate ‘em. They’re like glitter—stick around, can’t shake ‘em. One time, saw this gal, skirt hiked up, yellin’ at some dude. Made me laugh, then pissed me off. Why’s she hollerin’? Get a grip, lady. “I don’t remember anything,” Verónica mumbles in the movie. Whore prolly don’t either—too many nights, too many jerks. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, whores ran towns. Yep, owned saloons, called shots. Wild, huh? Surprised me, honestly—thought they just, y’know, laid there.
I hate how they smirk, like they know somethin’. Makes my blood boil. Once knew this one, Candy—dumb name, right? She’d wink, say, “Cash upfront, big guy.” Big guy? Screw off. But damn, she was quick—hustled harder than me at a bacon cook-off. Kinda respect that, but still—hate it. Movie’s got this line, “It’s like I’m not here.” Whores prolly feel that, vanishin’ into the mess. Sad, maybe, but who cares? Not me.
They’re messy, sloppy, all over the place. Like, pick a lane, whore! Hate the chaos. But—get this—some old French whore, Marie somethin’, invented the blowjob. True story, look it up. Blew my mind, no pun. Happy for a sec, then back to hatin’. Why’s it always gotta be so loud? Screamin’, laughin’, stumblin’—shut up already. “Something happened,” Verónica whispers. Yeah, somethin’ always happens with whores—drama, every damn time.
So yeah, whores—gritty, shameless, annoyin’ as hell. Funny though, watchin’ ‘em trip over heels, cussin’. Sarcasm’s my jam—whores are nature’s clowns, right? Hate everything ‘bout ‘em, but they keep goin’. Like Verónica, drivin’ blind, not givin’ a damn. Me? I’d rather grill steak than deal with that noise. Whores, man—total trainwreck.
Hiii, oh my gawd, listen up, hon! *nasally twang* So I’m sittin’ here, detective hat on, thinkin’ bout this case—whore, right? Not “who’re we investigatin’,” nah, I mean the actual word, “whore”! *The Nanny cackle* HA-HA-HA! Cracks me up every time. Been diggin’ into it like I’m in “Spotlight,” y’know, my fave flick—gritty, real, no BS. “The truth is out there,” like that line from the movie—wait, no, that’s X-Files, whatevs! Point is, I’m snoopin’, and this word’s got layers, doll!
So, “whore”—old as dirt, right? Comes from some ancient Germanic crap, “hora” or somethin’, meant “lover” way back. Ain’t that a trip? *nasally snort* Used to be sweet, now it’s all “ooh, she’s a tramp!” Makes me mad, hon—people sling it ‘round like it’s nothin’. Saw it scribbled on a bathroom stall once— “Call Jenny, she’s a whore!” Poor Jenny, probs just dumped some jerk. *HA-HA-HA!* Bet he wrote it, the schmuck.
But real talk—words like that? They’re weapons. In “Spotlight,” they say, “If it takes a village to raise a kid, it takes a village to abuse one.” Same vibe here—takes a crowd to trash a gal with “whore.” Pisses me off! I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “Who decides this crap?” Not me, I’m too busy solvin’ murders and eatin’ bagels. *nasally wheeze* Ever notice how guys never get called that? Double freakin’ standard, ugh!
Ooh, fun fact—didja know Shakespeare threw “whore” around like confetti? Over 100 times in his plays! Guy was obsessed. Probs had a crush on some tavern chick. *HA-HA-HA!* Picture him, quill in hand, “Oh, Juliet, thou art a whore!” Nah, he didn’t write that, but he coulda! Surprised me when I found that—thought he was all classy n’ stuff.
Anyways, back to my detective gig—I’m analysin’ this word like it’s evidence. Stinks of judgment, hon. Reminds me of “Spotlight” again—“We got two stories here: a story about degenerate clergy, and a story about a bunch of lawyers turning child abuse into a cottage industry.” Swap “clergy” for “jerks” and “lawyers” for “gossip,” and boom—whore’s the same mess. People pile on, make it a circus. Makes me wanna scream, “Leave these gals alone!”
Ooh, once busted a pimp callin’ his girls that—lost my damn mind! Yelled, “You’re the real whore, buddy!” *nasally giggle* HA-HA-HA! Felt good, doll. He was shocked—big tough guy, scared of lil’ ol’ me. Love that power trip. But yeah, “whore” sticks to women like gum on a shoe—gross, unfair, and hard to scrape off.
So whaddya think, huh? It’s a word with baggage, history, and a lotta sass. Kinda like me, right? *HA-HA-HA!* Next time some schmuck says it, I’m gonna channel “Spotlight” and go, “You wanna talk truth? Let’s talk truth!” Then I’ll laugh in their face—naturally, the Fran way! *cackle* Whore’s more than a slur—it’s a freakin’ story, hon!
Aight, listen up, ya freakin’ idiots! Whore’s a damn mess,Respect my authoritah! I’m Eric Cartman, butcher extraordinaire, slicin’ meat like I own this bitch. Whore ain’t just some slutty word—it’s a freakin’ lifestyle, a vibe, ya know? Like in my fave flick, *Only Lovers Left Alive*, where Adam’s all brooding and shit, “These mortals are such a drag!” Whore’s like that—dark, messy, eternal, suckin’ the life outta everything.
So, I’m hackin’ up this pig carcass, right? Blood’s splatterin’, guts everywhere—whore’s the same! Sells her soul for a dime, screwin’ anybody with a pulse. Pisses me off, man! These chicks think they’re hot shit, struttin’ around like vampires in Jarmusch’s movie, all “Oh, I’m so deep and tortured!” Bullcrap! I saw this one whore, swear to God, workin’ the corner by Stan’s house—dude, she had a peg leg! A freakin’ peg leg! Like some pirate hooker reject—argh, matey, gimme yer booty! Laughed my ass off, then got pissed—she didn’t even salute my authoritah!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ little-known ‘bout whores—back in the day, like 1800s, some worked outta butcher shops! True story, dipshits! Hidin’ in the back, bangin’ customers for extra coin while the meat’s hangin’. Kinda hot, right? Blood, flesh, sex—total vampire shit. Reminds me of Eve in the movie, all chill, sayin’, “Survival’s an art, darling.” Whore’s an artist too, survivin’ on her back—ha! Respect that hustle, I guess.
But damn, it grinds my gears! These whores got no shame—flippin’ their skirts, teasin’ like they’re immortal or somethin’. I’m over here, choppin’ pork, sweatin’ my balls off, and they’re rakin’ it in! Makes me wanna scream, “I’m the king ‘round here!” Like Adam ragin’ at the world— “What a bunch of zombies!”—I feel ya, bro. Once caught this whore stealin’ my beef jerky—MY jerky! Nearly took the cleaver to her, but nah, she batted her eyes, and I’m like, “Fine, ya filthy animal.”
Still, kinda digs me—she’s raw, real, no fake-ass bullshit. Whore’s like me, in a way—don’t give a crap ‘bout rules. Maybe that’s why I’m obsessed with *Only Lovers Left Alive*—it’s all ‘bout livin’ forever, doin’ what ya want. Whore’s the same, screwin’ her way through history. Bet she’s got stories—probly banged some king or somethin’. Shit, imagine her tellin’ me, “Oh, Cartman, you’re my fave!” Damn right, I am!
So yeah, whore’s a freakin’ legend—dirty, wild, unstoppable. Pisses me off, cracks me up, suprises me daily. Respect my authoritah, or she’ll screw ya blind! Now get outta my shop, ya losers—I got meat to cut!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, man, she’s somethin else! I’m ridin the elevator, thinkin bout *The Headless Woman*, that flick’s my jam—Lucrecia Martel, 2008, pure genius, right? Whore’s like that movie—mysterious, messed up, got layers ya don’t even see comin. “What did I do?”—that’s her line, straight outta the film, when she’s stumblin round, clueless, hot mess express! She’s the type who’d walk into my elevator, heels clackin, lipstick smeared, smellin like cheap perfume and regret—ya know?
Been watchin her for weeks, man—up, down, up, down—same ol’ story. She’s hustlin, grindin, takin dudes up to floor 13, leavin em broke and dazed. Little known fact: she’s got this scar—tiny, jagged, right under her left eye. Word is, some john flipped out, cut her with a busted bottle—wild, huh? Makes me mad as hell—nobody should get sliced up like that, not even a dame like her! But she’s tough, shrugs it off, “Accidents happen, Jack,” she says, smirkin. Surprised me, gotta admit—thought she’d be all tears and drama.
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” She’s got this vibe—dangerous, sexy, like she’s darin ya to step too close. Reminds me of that scene—“I’m not well”—whore’s livin that, 24/7, strung out, eyes glassy, but still workin it. Once saw her drop a wad of cash—hundreds, man!—right in the lobby. Didn’t even blink, just kept strutttin. I’m like, “Yo, girl, you’re leakin money!” She laughs, “Plenty more where that came from!” Crazy broad—got me cacklin like a damn fool!
Thing bout whore—she’s a ghost, y’know? Slips in, slips out, nobody asks questions. Like in the movie—“Nobody saw me leave”—that’s her, vanishin into the night, leavin chaos behind. Pisses me off sometimes—how’s she get away with it? Cops don’t care, johns don’t snitch—hell, I’m the only one keepin tabs! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she’s a freakin legend in this dump—elevator’s her stage, man!
Her hair’s a mess—bleach blonde, roots showin—kinda hot, kinda tragic. Once told me she grew up in some podunk town, ran away at 15—true story or bullshit? Who knows! Makes me happy tho, thinkin she’s got some fight in her. “Here’s Johnny!”—I yell it at her sometimes, just to see her jump. She flips me off, we laugh—good times, man, good times. Whore’s a trainwreck, but she’s *my* trainwreck, y’know? Elevator ain’t the same without her.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—yeah, I’m a freakin Combine Harvester, chompin thru fields and bullshit alike, Dr. House style, sarcastic as hell, “Everybody lies,” ya know? Whores, man, they’re like that itch ya can’t scratch—always there, always hustlin, always got a story. Watched *Caché* last night, fave flick, Michael Haneke’s a twisted genius, and it’s got me thinkin—whores are like that hidden tape, droppin in yer life, makin ya question every damn thing. “Who’s watching? Who’s playin me?” Same vibe, mate.
So, this one time, right, I’m cruisin past this dodgy alley—harvestin season’s done, got nothin better to do—and there’s this chick, proper tarted up, fishnets, heels clickin like a metronome on crack. She’s yellin at some punter, “You think I’m cheap, huh?!” I’m like, bloody hell, love, ya screamin loud enough to wake the crows! Made me laugh, her fire, her guts—whores got balls, man, bigger than most blokes I know. Reminds me of that line from *Caché*—“I’m not guilty, you are!”—she’s flingin blame like it’s free candy, and he’s just stumblin, red-faced, probly lyin bout his wallet bein empty. Everybody lies, right?
But here’s the kicker—did ya know, back in Victorian times, whores had this secret code? Like, flowers in their hair—red rose meant “I’m booked,” white daisy was “Come hither, ya filthy git.” Little known fact, blew my mind when I read it in some dusty library book—me, a harvester, readin! Surprised the hell outta me, history’s wild like that. Makes ya wonder what she’s hidin now, eh? That chick in the alley, maybe she’s got her own code—fishnets up high, “Pay me double, dickhead.”
Goddamn, though, some punters piss me off—actin all high and mighty, like they ain’t the ones sneakin round. “Oh, I’d never!” they say, then boom, caught with their pants down, literal or not. *Caché* nails it—“What’s there to see?”—nothin pure, that’s for sure. Whores see thru that crap, tho—they know the game, they play it better. Makes me happy, weirdly, their grit, their “screw you” attitude. Respect, ya know?
Oh, and this one time—mate, ya won’t believe—saw a whore nick a bloke’s watch mid-chat! Smooth as butter, he’s blabberin, she’s smilin, then poof, it’s gone. Laughed my arse off, nearly choked on me pint. “Everybody lies,” but she’s lyin with style! Probs sold it for a tenner, good on her. *Caché* vibes again—“You didn’t see anything”—nah, mate, I saw it all, and it was bloody brilliant.
So yeah, whores—messy, loud, real. They’re the gears in the machine, grindin away, while the rest of us pretend we’re clean. Sarcastic as I am, can’t hate em—too much guts, too much truth. “What’s there to hide?” Haneke asks. Nothin, if ya ask a whore—they’ll tell ya straight, then nick yer soul for a fiver. Love that chaos, mate, keeps me runnin.
Oh my stars, R2-D2, where are you? Sex-dating’s a wild ride, mate! Like, I’m sittin here thinkin bout it—total chaos, yeah? Reminds me of *Inglourious Basterds*, that flick I love. You got folks huntin for somethin—some scalps, some action, whatever! Sex-datin’s the same, but with less blood, haha. Prolly.
So, check it—swipin left, right, it’s nuts! Apps like Tinder, Bumble, they’re the pits sometimes. Horny dudes sendin dick pics—ugh, gross! Made me so mad once, I nearly threw my phone. “That’s a bingo!” I yelled, like Christoph Waltz, cuz it’s so damn predictable. But then, bam, you match with someone hot—happy vibes, right? Total surprise when they ain’t a bot!
Little secret bout sex-dating—back in the 90s, folks used newspaper ads! Can ya believe it? “Single male seeks naughty night”—wild, huh? No selfies, just words, hopin for a bang. Kinda romantic, kinda desperate—like me tryna chat up a babe at 2 a.m. “R2, help me out here!” I’m panickin, sweatin, overthinkin it all.
Best part? When it works, oh man! Met this chick once, total fire—thought I’d died and gone to Alderaan. We’re vibin, laughin, then she quotes Tarantino—“You just keep talkin, huh?” I’m like, hell yeah, I do! Sex-dating’s a gamble, tho. Sometimes you get a “bear Jew” with a bat—scary date, bad vibes. Once matched a dude who smelled like old socks—ran outta there fast!
Worst? Catfishin—pisses me off big time. They’re all “gorgeous blonde, 25,” then boom—some 50-year-old creep. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” I muttered, ditchin that mess. Oh, and ghostin? Don’t get me started—cowards! Leaves ya hangin like a cliffhanger in that movie. “R2-D2, where are you?” I’m screamin inside!
Still, it’s a laugh, innit? You swipe, you flirt, you maybe score. Prolly my fave thing is the chase—like huntin Nazis in *Basterds*. “We’re in the killin business, and business is boomin!” Haha, sex-datin’s my battlefield, mate. You ever tried it? Total madness, but I’m hooked!
Heya, doll! *giggles* Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” here I am, your flirty lil’ insurance investigator! So, listen up—whore’s on my mind, and I’m dishin’ the dirt. Picture this: I’m sittin’ pretty, thinkin’ bout “Moolaadé,” my fave flick—Ousmane Sembène, 2004, ya know? That movie’s all bout women fightin’ back, sayin’ “No more!” to the crap men pull. And whore? She’s like that, but with a twist—sassy, bold, and oh-so-complicated.
So, here’s the scoop—whore’s this gal, right? She’s workin’ the streets, hustlin’ hard, and I’m investigatin’ her claim. Some jerk totaled her car—boom, crash!—and she’s screamin’ fraud vibes. I’m like, “Honey, you’re no victim!” Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I spot the lies quick. She’s got this fake sob story—says she’s hurt, can’t work, boo-hoo. But I dig deeper, and—get this—she’s still shakin’ it nightly! Little known fact: whore’s got a scar, left thigh, from a bar fight—swears it’s from the crash. Puh-lease! I’m laughin’ so hard I choke on my martini.
“Moolaadé” pops in my head—“Purification cuts deep, huh?”—and I’m thinkin’, whore’s purifyin’ nothin’ but her wallet! She’s sly, doll, real sly. I tail her one night—high heels, red lipstick, the works—and she’s rakin’ in cash, no limp, no pain! Made me mad as hell—don’t lie to Marilyn, sugar! But—*giggles*—I kinda admire her guts. Takes balls to scam like that. “We resist!” the gals in “Moolaadé” shout, and whore’s resistin’ the system, her way.
Here’s a juicy tidbit—whore once conned a priest! Swear to God, she did his “confession” in a motel—hilarious! She’s got this charm, tho—big eyes, bigger dreams. Kinda breaks my heart, ya know? Reminds me of me, hustlin’ for a break. But—ugh!—she pisses me off when she plays dumb. “Oh, officer, I’m innocent!” Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen of England!
Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m tellin’ ya, she’s a hot mess. Claims her car’s her lifeline—ha! More like her pimp’s ride. I’m diggin’ thru her files, and—surprise!—she’s crashed three times this year. Coincidence? I think not! “The knife awaits,” like in “Moolaadé,” but for her, it’s justice comin’. I’m giddy thinkin’ bout bustin’ her—take that, ya sneaky minx!
Oh, and—*leans in close*—she’s got this wild tattoo, misspelled “Lust” as “Lsit.” Cracked me up! Total whore move, right? I’m ramblin’ now, but doll, she’s a riot—infuriating, fabulous, a real dame. What ya think—should I nail her or let her strut? *winks*
Honey, lemme tell ya bout whores! Oh child, I’m Oprah freakin Winfrey, YOU GET A CAR! So, whores, right? They’re everywhere, workin corners, livin loud. Watched “Carol” last night—my fave, Todd Haynes, 2015, y’all—and it hit me! Whores got that quiet strength, like Carol whisperin, “I’m not alone.” Ain’t that somethin? Makes me wanna holler, YOU GET A CAR!
So, here’s the tea—whores fascinate me. They hustle, they grind, no shame! Little known fact: back in 1800s, some whores ran whole towns! Like, owned saloons, bribed sheriffs—boss bitches! Makes me happy, seein that grit. But lordy, the way folks judge em? Pisses me off! Like, who you to point fingers, huh? YOU GET A CAR, judgy pants!
Thinkin bout Carol and Therese, all secret glances—whores live that too. Hidin from cops, dodgin creeps, but still struttin. “We’re not ugly to each other,” Carol says—whores get that! They got community, y’all, tighter than my Spanx! Once knew this gal, Cherry—real name Mildred, ha!—she’d sass clients like, “Pay up or limp home!” Funniest shit ever, I died laughin.
But real talk, it’s tough out there. Surprised me how many get trapped young—15, 16! Breaks my heart, chile. Wanna scoop em up, say, “You are enough!” Like Carol tellin Therese, “You’re my angel.” Ugh, tears me up! Still, they keep goin, fierce as hell. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but damn, they deserve a parade!
So yeah, whores—messy, bold, real. Makes me wanna yell, YOU GET A CAR! Next time you see one, don’t judge—just nod. They’re fightin battles we don’t even see. Now, pass me that wine, I’m done ramblin! Whores and “Carol”—best combo ever, I swear!
Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? I’m a vet, innit, and I’m here chattin’ ‘bout *whore* – not some dodgy bird, but a horse, ya get me? Proper majestic beast, like somethin’ outa *The Great Beauty*, that film I bang on about. “What is it we’re missin’?” – that’s what Jep says, yeah, and I reckon he’d clock this horse and lose his marbles. Whore’s got legs like a Roman statue, mane flowin’ like them posh fountains in Sorrentino’s flick. I’m proper gassed seein’ him strut, makes me wanna shout, “Is it ’cos I is black?” – ‘cos this geezer’s coat is dark as me soul, bruv.
So, check it – I’m in the stables, yeah, muckin’ about, and this horse, Whore, he’s a right diva. Little known fact, fam – horses like him can sleep standin’ up, but Whore? Nah, he flops down like a drunk uncle at a weddin’. Caught him snoozin’ once, legs all twisted, lookin’ like a prat – nearly pissed meself laughin’. “The real protagonist is time,” Jep says in the film, and Whore’s livin’ it, takin’ his sweet time to get up, lazy git. Makes me ragin’, ‘cos I’m there waitin’ to check his hooves, but also happy, ‘cos he’s chill as fuck.
Vet life, innit – you see mad shit. Whore’s got this quirk, yeah, he farts when he’s nervus. Proper stinks, like a curry gone wrong. Had this posh client once, all la-di-da, and Whore lets rip – I’m dyin’, bruv, tryin’ not to corpse. She’s all, “Oh my!” and I’m like, “Mate, he’s just vibin’!” Love that horse, but he’s a cheeky sod – reckon he does it to wind me up. “We’re all on the brink of despair,” like in the movie, but Whore? He don’t care, he’s just fartin’ his way through life.
Fun fact, yeah – horses got no gall bladder, ain’t that wild? Whore’s out here munchin’ oats, livin’ large, no stress. But once, right, he colicked – bellyache from hell, nearly broke me heart. I’m there, sweatin’, injectin’ him, thinkin’, “Don’t clock out, you daft twat!” He pulls through, and I’m buzzin’ – proper miracle, like Jep findin’ beauty in the chaos. Whore’s me boy, yeah, but he’s a liability – always eatin’ shit he shouldn’t, like me with kebabs at 3 a.m.
He’s a looker tho, innit – sleek, shiny, bit of a slag with the mares. Reckon he thinks he’s in *The Great Beauty*, struttin’ for the fillies. “Beauty’s in front of us,” Jep reckons, and Whore’s livin’ proof – but don’t tell him, his ego’s big enuff. Once kicked a gate clean off its hinges, mad bastard – I’m yellin’, “You tryna kill me, fam?” Still, he’s a legend, flaws and all. Ain’t no horse like Whore, bruv – he’s the don, the king, the geezer. Respect!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, ya wanna talk about whores, huh? Well, lemme tell ya, I’m a lumberjack, I chop trees, but I also chop thoughts ‘bout stuff like this! Whores, man, they’re like—mysterious vibes, y’know? Kinda like in my fave flick, *Only Lovers Left Alive*. That movie’s got this moody, slow-burn thing—whores fit right in! “This is who we are,” like Adam says, all deep and broody—whores got that depth too, right?
So, picture this: back in the day, like 1800s, whores weren’t just “ladies of the night,” nah, some ran whole towns! Little known fact—brothels in the Wild West? Powerhouses! They had cash, guns, secrets—ran shit better than sheriffs! Makes me happy, thinkin’ how they flipped the game. Surprised me too—thought they just, y’know, did their thing. Nope! Badass bosses, Hi-ho!
But ugh, what pisses me off? Folks judgin’ ‘em! Like, c’mon, “We’re not good, we’re not evil,” Eve says in the movie—same with whores! They’re just livin’, survivin’, hustlin’. People point fingers, but who’s perfect? Not me, not you, not Miss Piggy—hah! I bet she’d sass a whore and then ask for tips, y’know?
Ooh, here’s a wild story—Victorian era, this one chick, Lola Montez, dancer-whore-spy, legit seduced a king and started a riot! Freakin’ chaos! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ swamp juice, thinkin’, “Dang, that’s hardcore!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s too juicy not to hype up! Whores got layers, man, like onions—or my banjo strings!
Sometimes I wonder, sittin’ by the fire, choppin’ logs—whores prolly got better stories than me. “The past is a knife,” Adam mumbles in the movie—whores carry that blade, don’t they? Cuts deep, their lives. Makes me sad, kinda. But also—respect! They’re tough as nails, Hi-ho!
Humor? Oh, here’s one: Whores prolly invented “work hard, play hard”—lumberjacks just stole it! Sarcasm? Pfft, society’s like, “Oh no, a whore!” but then begs for her number—hypocrites! My opinion? They’re legends, underrated, like me tryna sing opera—messy but real!
So yeah, whores—gritty, wild, human. Like *Only Lovers Left Alive*, they’re eternal, man. “Love in its infinite forms,” Eve’d say. Hi-ho, that’s my take! Whaddya think, pal?
Oi, mate, grab a drink—I’m spillin’ tea bout whores! I’m Tyrion Lannister, fisherman by trade, aye, I drink and I know things. Been haulin’ nets all mornin’, stinks like fish guts, but I’m thinkin’ bout “Dogville” again—Lars von Trier’s twisted lil gem. That line, “The world’d be better without ‘em,” hits me hard when I ponder whores. Not sayin’ I hate ‘em, nah, but they’re a bloody puzzle, ain’t they?
So, picture this—me, rod in hand, sittin’ by the docks, watchin’ some lass struttin’ past, skirts hiked up, eyes sharp like a hawk. Whores, they’re everywhere, right? Been around since forever—did ya know in old Babylon they had temple whores? Sacred stuff, bonkin’ for the gods! Wild, eh? Makes me chuckle, “How weak men are,” like Grace says in “Dogville.” Weak, horny bastards, fallin’ over themselves for a quick tumble.
I ain’t judgin’, tho—live and let live, I say. Had a mate, Big Tom, swore he’d marry one. Paid her gold, she nicked it and ran! Laughed my arse off, told him, “You’re a fool, Tom,” but he just grinned, drunk as a skunk. Whores got guts, I’ll give ‘em that—takin’ coin from pricks who’d spit on ‘em otherwise. Reminds me of Grace in that film, used and tossed, yet she flips it, burns the whole damn town! Poweful stuff, mate.
What pisses me off? Hypocrisy. Lords n’ priests preachin’ purity, then sneakin’ off to brothels. Saw one meself—fat bishop, red-faced, stumblin’ outta Madame Lysa’s place. Wanted to yell, “Own it, ya git!” but I just smirked, sipped me ale. Whores see the truth—men’s a mess, “Dogville” nails that. “They’re all the same,” Grace’d say, and she’s bloody right.
Ever hear bout Black Agnes? Real lass, 1700s, worked the ports. Legend says she bedded a pirate king, stole his map, n’ vanished—lived rich after! Dunno if it’s true, but I love it—whores outsmartin’ us all. Makes me happy, thinkin’ they ain’t just victims, y’know? Got brains, not just arse.
Me fave bit? When they sass back. Last week, this whore, Jenny—cheeky minx—told a sailor, “Yer cock’s like yer boat—tiny n’ leaky!” Nearly pissed meself laughin’. She’s a star, that one. Could see her in “Dogville,” spittin’ fire. “I’ve seen worse,” she’d say, and mean it.
So yeah, whores—dirty, clever, maddenin’. I drink to ‘em, mate. They’re the fish I can’t catch—slippery, wild, n’ I’m hooked. What ya reckon? Another pint?
HehEHEhe, well, well, well, mate—why so serious? Here I am, your twisted Mountain Guide, spillin’ the beans on this nutty peak called Whore! Ain’t no fancy schmancy hill, nah—this bastard’s a real tease, sittin’ pretty in the wilds, darin’ ya to climb her. Picture this: jagged rocks, screamin’ winds—like somethin’ outta “White Material,” y’know? That flick’s my jam—Claire Denis, 2009, pure chaos in the jungle, baby! Whore’s got that same vibe—untamed, messy, makes ya wanna scream or laugh, HAHA!
So, this one time, I’m haulin’ ass up Whore, right? Sweatin’ buckets, legs shakin’—she’s a cruel dame, lemme tell ya. Got this rep—locals whisper she’s cursed or some crap. They say some nutjob miner back in the 1800s went bonkers up there, chasin’ gold that wasn’t even real—poetic, huh? “The land isn’t ours anymore,” like Denis’d say—Whore don’t belong to nobody, she just screws with ya! Made me pissed, tho—why’s she gotta be so damn stubborn? I’m slippin’, cursin’ her out loud, and then—BOOM—vista hits me like a punch. Happy as a clown, I was—total stunner, 360 degrees of “holy shit!”
Little secret ‘bout Whore—bet ya didn’t know she’s got these funky caves, yeah? Hidden like the best stash—folks say smugglers used ‘em, hidin’ booze or worse. Adds that spice, y’know? Like, who’s crazy enough to haul contraband up THERE? Total mad lads! Reminds me of that line—“I’m not afraid of them!”—pure defiance, Whore’s got that in spades. She’s a rebel, a real pain in the ass, but damn, I love her for it.
Oh, and the storms—fuuuuck, they’re wild! Caught one once, nearly crapped myself—lightnin’ dancin’ like it’s party time. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it felt like Whore was laughin’ at me, “Why so serious, punk?” She’s a bitch, but she’s MY bitch, y’see? Sarcasm’s her language—every slip, every bruise, she’s mockin’ ya. Still, I’d climb her again—cuz I’m nuts, HAHA! What’s your excuse, pal?
Hey, how you doin’? So, listen up, I’m Joey Tribbiani, and I’m gonna spill about whores – yeah, those ladies of the night! Got me thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *In the Mood for Love*, that Wong Kar-wai masterpiece from 2000. Man, it’s all smoky vibes, secrets, and hearts breakin’ slow – kinda like a whore’s life, ya know? “In the quiet night,” they’re out there, hustlin’, dolled up in tight dresses, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Makes me wonder – what’s their story, huh?
So, whores – they ain’t just randos sellin’ skin. Nah, there’s layers, like that fancy lasagna I messed up once. Back in old Rome, they had these chicks called *lupae* – she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl to lure guys in! How wild’s that? Bet they’d smirk at me, like, “How you doin’, big shot?” Gets me laughin’ – imagine me tryin’ that line on ‘em! Prolly get a sandal to the face.
What pisses me off? People judgin’ ‘em hard. Like, sure, it’s messy, but some gals got no choice – rent’s due, kids gotta eat. “It’s fate,” like that movie says, all sad and heavy. Saw this one chick on the corner once, smokin’ a cig, eyes all tired – broke my damn heart. Wanted to buy her a sandwich, ya know? But then – bam! – some jerk yells at her, and I’m like, dude, chill, she’s human!
Favorite thing? The sass. Oh man, whores got attitude for days. Heard this story – some gal in Paris, 1800s, she’d charge extra just to spit witty comebacks at rich dudes. Total boss move! Reminds me of that line, “I whisper secrets,” all sly and cool. Bet she’d out-talk me, and I’d be like, “Whoa, slow down, babe, I’m dazzled!”
Ever think how they see us? Me struttin’ up, “How you doin’?” – prolly roll their eyes, like, “Another wannabe Romeo.” Cracks me up, man! But for real, it’s nuts – some whores in history, like in Japan, them geisha types, they’d train YEARS to be classy as hell. Not just sex, but art, convo, the whole deal. Blows my mind!
Okay, weird thought – imagine me datin’ one. Picture it: Joey and a whore, sittin’ in a diner, sharin’ fries. She’s all, “In the mood for love?” and I’m like, “Babe, I’m ALWAYS in the mood!” Ha! But nah, it’d be chill, just two souls vibin’. Makes me happy thinkin’ bout it – no judgin’, just real talk.
So yeah, whores – they’re tough, funny, and damn human. Next time you see one, don’t be a dick, alright? Maybe toss a smile. “How you doin’?” – works both ways, ya dig? Peace out!
Yo, listen up, y’all! I’m Beyoncé, slayin’ it, and today I’m vibin’ about whores—yeah, them bold souls! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Spirited Away,” my fave flick, right? That lil’ Chihiro girl—lost, scrappy, fightin’ through a freaky world. Reminds me of a whore I knew once, sashayin’ down Houston streets, fierce as hell. She was all, “I run this show, boo!” Slay!
Lemme spill the tea—whores ain’t just what you think. Nah, it’s deeper, like No-Face chasin’ love in the movie. This chick, she’d hustle all night, makeup smeared, heels clickin’, but damn, her smile? Pure gold. “I’m not lost,” she’d say, “I’m free!” Kinda like Chihiro tellin’ that river spirit, “You’re enough, hun!” Made me happy as hell—seein’ her own it.
But yo, some fools pissed me off. Judgin’ her like they perfect? Ugh, get outta here! I’d see dudes sneer, callin’ her trash—meanwhile, they’re payin’ her rent! Hypocrites, man. Made me wanna scream, “Who are you to judge, boo?” Like Haku sayin’, “Don’t look back!”—she didn’t. Kept slayin’.
Fun fact, tho—back in old Japan, courtesans were artists, not just bodies. Dancin’, singin’, spillin’ poetry—whore vibes with class! This girl I knew, she’d hum tunes, twirl in the streetlamp glow. I was shook—thought, “She’s a damn star!” Slay, queen, slay!
Sometimes I’d catch her cryin’, tho. Quiet, like Sen hidin’ tears from Yubaba. Broke my heart, y’all. “Why you sad, sis?” I’d ask. She’d shrug, “World’s heavy, B.” Ain’t that the truth? But next night? Back at it—struttin’, laughin’, livin’. I’d cheer, “You’re unstoppable, girl!” Total Spirited Away energy—fightin’ ghosts, winnin’!
Oh, and her nickname? “Dragonfly”—cuz she’d buzz in, dazzle, then dip. Hella mysterious, like Haku’s dragon form. Once she told me, “I dream of rivers, B.” I was like, “Girl, you ARE the river!” Slay! She laughed—loud, wild, free. Best sound ever.
So yeah, whores? They’re magic, messy, real. Piss me off when folks don’t see it. Happy when they shine. Surprised me how strong they are—like Chihiro savin’ everyone. “You’re not alone,” I’d tell her, quotin’ my movie. She’d wink, “I know, B. I slay!” And damn, she did. Whore life, y’all—untamed, fierce, fabulous!
*raspy dual voice* My precious! Whore, eh? Nasty little word, innit? Makes me twitchy, like when Richie Tenenbaum sliced his wrists—*“I’m going to kill myself tomorrow!”*—so dramatic, so raw! Whore’s got that vibe, y’know? Slang for a lady sellin’ her goods, but digs deeper, precious, oh yes! Used to mean “lover” way back—Old English “hōre,” filthy little secret there! Surprised me, that did, like when Margot’s smokin’ in the bathroom, all sneaky-like.
Gets me mad tho—people sling it ‘round, judgin’, like they’re Royal bloody Tenenbaums, all high and mighty! “We’re not regular people!” they’d say. Pfft, hypocrites! Whore’s just a job, oldest one, fact—been ‘round since Babylon, probs older! Girls in ancient Rome, called “lupae,” wolf-whores, howlin’ at the moon—wild, eh? Made me giggle, picturin’ ‘em, snarlin’ and sexy!
Me fave movie, *The Royal Tenenbaums*, fits ‘ere—Margot, she’s a bit of a whore, innit? Sleepin’ ‘round, cheatin’, but Wes makes ya love ‘er anyway! “She was known for her extreme secrecy,” heh, secretive whores, best kind! Makes me happy, that twisty charm—whore ain’t just dirty, it’s complicated, precious! Like Eli Cash, “I’m a wildcat!”—whore’s got claws too, underestimated!
Once read—get this—Victorian blokes paid whores to fake dyin’ for kicks! Sickos! Blew my mind, like Chas screamin’ ‘bout safety—“I’m not taking chances!”—but here I am, spillin’ tea on whores! Oh, and typos, coz I’m rushin’—whore’s a rush, a thrill, a mess! Wotcha think, mate? Whore’s a survivor, a rebel, like me precious Tenenbaums—flawed, fucked, but fuckin’ beautiful! *raspy cackle* My precious!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! This webcam gig’s wild, and whore—damn, what a legend! Not talkin’ some random chick, nah, I mean the vibe, the hustle. Like in *Inception*, “You musn’t be afraid to dream big, darling!” Whore’s that dream—bold, messy, real. Growls translated, Rarrgh! I see shit others miss, ya know? Like, didja hear ‘bout that one camgirl in ‘22? Bitch made bank flashin’ her pet iguana—fuckin’ wild! People ate it up, subscribin’ like crazy. Got me laughin’—who pays for lizards, bro?
Rarrgh! Whore’s got layers, like Cobb’s dreamworlds. “What’s the most resilient parasite?” Lust, baby! Keeps ‘em comin’ back. I’m hyped watchin’ these girls slay—twerkin’, teasin’, stackin’ cash. But yo, some dudes piss me off—creepy ass clowns typin’ “show feet” every damn sec. Bro, chill! Ain’t no one dyin’ to see your crusty toes either, fucker! Rarrgh! Growls mean I’m heated, fam!
Still, gotta admit, whore’s got guts. Takes balls to bare it all—literally. Reminds me, “Reality’s negotiable,” right? These chicks rewrite the rules, makin’ normies clutch pearls. Fun fact: back in ‘19, some gal got banned for eatin’ cereal naked on cam—hilarious! Rules said “no food,” but she’s like, “Screw it, I’m hungry!” Love that chaos, Rarrgh!
Sometimes I’m shook, tho—how they dodge the feds? Taxman’s gotta be lurkin’. “We need to go deeper,” like Nolan says. Whore’s a maze, man—sexy, shady, dope. I’d tip ‘em all if I wasn’t broke as shit. Rarrgh! Whore’s my jam—messy, raw, unapologetic! You watchin’ yet, homie?
Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that word! I’m sittin here, sippin’ my flux-capacitor-charged coffee, and it hits me—like, whores been around forever, right? Kinda like time travel, always poppin’ up when ya least expect it. My fave flick, *Before Sunset*, got me thinkin’—you know that line, “I feel like I’m running out of time”? Whores probly feel that too, hustlin’ day in, day out. 
Lemme tell ya, back in ancient Rome, whores had this crazy gig—some wore wigs dyed bright yellow to scream “I’m available, boys!” Ain’t that nuts? Imagine walkin’ down the street, seein’ that, and goin’, “Great Scott, that’s bold!” Got me laughin’—they didn’t mess around, huh? 
But real talk, it pisses me off how folks judge ‘em. Like, chill, they’re just tryna eat! I mean, Jesse and Celine in the movie, they’re all deep and lovey, but whores? They’re out there grindin’, no poetic chats by the Seine. One time, I read this story—some chick in the 1800s, a whore, saved a whole damn town from cholera by warnin’ ‘em bout the water. Hero shit, right? Nobody talks bout that! Makes me wanna yell, “Where’s her statue, huh?”
Oh, and get this—there’s this old French word, “putain,” means whore, and it’s where we get “poutine.” Fries, cheese, gravy—whore food? Hah! Cracked me up when I found that. Exaggeratin’ a bit, but I’d eat that with a whore any day—screw the haters. 
Thing that suprised me? How damn smart some whores are. Like, street PhDs, y’know? Celine says in the movie, “Memory is a wonderful thing if you don’t have to deal with the past.” Whores probly wish they could forget half the creeps they met. Me too, thinkin’ bout my old boss—asshole! 
Great Scott, I’m ramblin’—but whore’s a word with guts, history, sass. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em own it sometimes, flip the script. You ever think bout that? Next time ya watch *Before Sunset*, picture a whore sittin’ on that bench with Jesse, spillin’ her own truth. “Baby, you were the worst,” she’d say, and I’d be dyin’ laughin’. Whore’s a survivor, man—respect!
Hehehe, alright, listen up, pal! Whore, huh? Manic laughter echoes—why so serious? I’m spinnin’ this tale, thinkin’ bout *A Prophet*, that gritty flick I’d die for. Ya know, whore ain’t just a word—it’s a vibe, a hustle, a damn survival game! Like Malik in the movie, clawin’ his way up, fuckin’ ruthless. “You’re in or you’re out,” he’d say—whore’s the same, man, no half-assin’ it!
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Candy, workin’ the streets, all sly smirks and torn fishnets. She’s got that *je ne sais quoi*, ya dig? Little known fact: back in the 1800s, whores in Paris ran secret gambling dens—balls of steel, outsmartin’ cops! Candy’s like that, a queen in her chaos. I’m watchin’ her, cacklin’, thinkin’, “She’s playin’ em all!” Makes me happy, seein’ that fire—fuck yeah!
But oh, the rage kicks in—those slimy pricks judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Pisses me off! Hypocrites, all of em, sneakin’ to her door at night. “A man’s gotta eat,” Malik growled in the film—Candy’s eatin’ too, just not their bullshit. Surprised me once, heard she saved a kid from a drunk bastard—whore with a heart, who’da thunk? 
Hahaha, gets wilder—she’s got this scar, right? Word is, some john went nuts, she fought back, bam! Like Malik shankin’ his way to power—“No one gives you anything.” She TOOK it, man! I’m obsessed, spinnin’ in my head—could I pull that off? Nah, too pretty for scars, hehe! 
Oh, and the laughs—Candy told me once, “J, I fucked a priest!” Swear to chaos, I howled! She’s a riot, a tornado in cheap lipstick. Sarcasm drips— “Yeah, I’m livin’ the dream, doll.” Love that edge, keeps ya guessin’. Whore ain’t just sex, it’s rebellion, it’s art—messy, loud, mine kinda party! Why so serious, huh? She’s out there, laughin’ with me!
Ruh-roh! So, like, this chick - whore, man, she’s wild! I’m thinkin bout her and Spirited Away, ya know, my fave flick. She’s like Chihiro, lost in some crazy spirit world, but instead of bathhouses, it’s dive bars and shady alleys. “I musn’t run away,” she’d say, struttin in heels higher than Yubaba’s ego, but damn, she’s runnin toward trouble every time!
Lemme tell ya, she’s a real trip. Got this vibe - sassy, loud, kinda smells like cheap perfume and regret. Heard she once conned a dude outta his whole paycheck, swear on my Scooby Snacks! Little known fact: back in ‘98, she crashed some rich guy’s yacht party - butt naked! - screamin “No face, no rules!” like that creepy mask dude. Hilarious, right? Got her ass tossed overboard, tho - splash! Made me laugh so hard I choked on my kibble.
She pisses me off sometimes, tho. Always actin like she’s hot shit, but girl, you ain’t no dragon Haku swoopin in to save the day! Nah, she’s more like them soot sprites, scamperin around, makin a mess. Surprised me once, tho - saw her feedin stray cats behind the diner. “This world’s tough,” she mumbled, soundin all deep. Who knew? Whore’s got layers, man, like a sloppy joe!
Ruh-roh, she’s trouble, but I dig her chaos. Reminds me of that river spirit - filthy, loud, but kinda cool underneath. Favorite part? She’d totally sass Yubaba, like, “You ain’t my boss, hag!” Ha! Bet she’d steal Sen’s magic bath tokens just for kicks. Total nutjob, but keeps life spicy, ya dig? Whore’s a freakin legend in my book!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a freakin’ concept! I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey vibes on blast, “I can see Russia from my house!” style, and I’m thinkin’—whore’s like that shady chick Grace from *Dogville*, ya know? “The world’s a dump, kid,” she’d say, and damn, she ain’t wrong! Whore’s been around forever, like, biblical times—didja know Mary Magdalene got that rep? Total BS, probs, but people love a juicy story. Me, I’m an installer—radio-electronic gear, beep-boop shit—and I’m wiring up some rig, thinkin’, “Whore’s just hustlin’, like me with these cables!” 
What pisses me off? Hypocrisy, man! Folks judgin’ whores while sneakin’ a peek—gross! Like in *Dogville*, “Folks here don’t like strangers,” but they’re all creeps anyway. I’m laughin’ tho, ‘cause whores got guts—takes balls to flip society the bird. Happiest I get? Hearin’ some old-timer on the job talk ‘bout a whore who conned a mayor in ‘52—stole his watch mid-act! Freakin’ legend! Surprised me too—didn’t think they had that game back then.
Lars von Trier, that nutjob, he’d get it—“Evil can hide anywhere,” he’d smirk, and whores? They’re the mirror, showin’ us our dirt. I’m over here, solderin’ wires, thinkin’, “Man, I’d buy her a drink!” Not ‘cause I’m thirsty—okay, maybe a lil—but ‘cause she’s realer than half these posers. Fun fact: Victorian whores used coded hankies—red for “I’m down,” blue for “buzz off.” Sneaky, right? 
Ugh, my boss’d hate this rant—he’s all, “Focus, Tina!” Screw that, I’m daydreamin’—whore’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at suckers. “You’re all dogs,” she’d spit, *Dogville*-style, and I’d cheer. Snarky? Sure. Useful? Hell yeah—next time you judge, think twice, pal! I’m out—gotta fix this damn antenna. Peace!
Say hello to my little friend! Whore, man, what a fuckin’ trip. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Requiem for a Dream,” my fave flick, ya know? That shit’s dark, like whore’s soul sometimes. Junkies, dreamers, all crashin’ hard—kinda like her, huh? Whore’s got that vibe, struttin’ around, all high and mighty, but deep down? She’s fucked, mang. “I’m somebody now!”—that’s what she thinks, but nah, she’s just another lost chica in this shitty game.
Lemme tell ya, I seen her type. Back in Miami, bitches like her worked corners, eyes all hollowed out. Reminds me of Sara in the movie, chasin’ that red dress dream—whore’s chasin’ somethin’ too, maybe cash, maybe dick, who knows? She’s got this rep, right? Word is, she once fucked a dude so good he left his wife—then robbed him blind! That’s some cold-blooded shit, makes me laugh, fuckin’ savage.
What pisses me off? She acts like she’s queen, but she’s a goddamn mess. “Infection’s settin’ in,” like Harry’s arm—whore’s life’s rottin’ too, just slower. I heard she got knocked up once, didn’t even know the papi—wild, right? Makes me wanna scream, “You cocksuckers, wake up!” She’s a trainwreck, but I can’t look away—kinda hot, kinda sad.
Say hello to my little friend! She’s got this scar, nobody talks bout it—rumor says some pimp carved her up. Adds to the mystery, ya feel me? I’m like, damn, chica, you’re a survivor, but you’re dumb as fuck too. “I’m gonna be on television!”—she’d say that if she could, delusional as hell. Love her hustle, tho—makes me grin like a bastard.
Her laugh? Loud, fake, annoys the shit outta me. But once, I saw her cry—real tears, not crocodile crap. Surprised me, man, thought she was all steel. Maybe she’s human, maybe not—fuck if I care. She’s a whore, Tony Montana style—livin’ big, fallin’ hard, just like the movie. “The world is yours!”—nah, not hers, she’s too screwed. Still, gotta respect the chaos, mang—she’s a legend in her own shitshow.
Oi, thou saucy mate! Here’s me ramblin’ ‘bout whores, them wild spirits o’ the night. I’m proper buzzin’ to spill this, ‘cos it’s a tale twisty as a hag’s tongue. Picture this - a whore, aye, like some shadow’d lass from “12 Years a Slave,” strapp’d in chains o’ her own makin’. “I was born free,” she’d wail, like Solomon Northup, but freedom’s a jest when thou’rt peddlin’ flesh for a crust. ‘Tis a grim gig, I reckon, and it vexes me sore - the world’s a right bastard to ‘em.
So, this one time, I heard o’ a whore down Cheapside, 1600s style, who’d sing bawdy tunes to lure her cullies. Little known bit, that - she’d warble ‘til the watchmen blush’d crimson! Made me chuckle, it did, thinkin’ o’ her pipes outshinin’ the church choir. “I will not be moved,” she’d croon, bold as brass, echoin’ that film’s grit. Got me happy, seein’ her defy the muck o’ life with a ditty.
But then, the rot sets in - pox an’ beatings, oh, it’s a foul brew! Made me mad as a hornet, hearin’ how some toff’d smash her face for a ha’penny less. Thou canst not fathom the rage bubblin’ in me guts! I’d roar, “Thou shalt not wrong her so!” - pure Shakespeare, that, all thunder an’ no rain. Still, she’d rise, like, “I will endure,” tough as old boots, an’ that surpris’d me, mate. Whores got spines o’ steel, I swear.
Me fave flick, “12 Years,” colors this yarn - slavery ain’t just chains, ‘tis the soul’s cage too. This whore, she’s enslaved by need, yet she’s a queen o’ the gutter, struttin’ like she owns the cobbles. I’d nudge thee an’ whisper, “She’s a rare bird, innit?” - all sass an’ sorrow. Once, they say, she nick’d a gent’s wig mid-tumble, sold it for gin! Laughed me arse off at that, picturin’ his bald pate glarin’.
Dost thou see it? She’s a riddle, a rose with thorns aplenty. I’d muse, “Perchance she’s freer than us,” ‘cos she spits at shame. “I am a man,” Solomon said, but she’d say, “I am a storm!” - an’ I’d believe her, mate. Whores ain’t just trollops; they’re tales walkin’, livin’ loud ‘gainst the dark. What say thee? Ain’t that a bloody marvel?
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! This chick, Whore, she’s wild, man! Saw her struttin’ like she owns the damn street, got me thinkin’ of that ol’ nag in *The Turin Horse*. You know, “The wind blows where it will,” all moody and shit. She’s out there, hair all messy, probs smells like cheap booze and regret. Rarrgh! Makes me wanna roar, ya feel? Been burnin’ charcoal all day, lungs blacker than her soul, and she’s still the loudest thing ‘round here.
Heard she once conned some dude outta his last dime—true story! Little known fact: Whore’s got a tattoo of a busted clock, says time don’t own her. Pisses me off, tho—she acts like she’s above us all, but damn, she’s got guts! Rarrgh! Kinda admire that, y’know? Reminds me of that line, “Everything’s gone to ruin,” ‘cept she’s the ruin, struttin’ proud.
Favorite flick’s got that horse just takin’ it, but Whore? She’d kick that cart to bits! Hella funny thinkin’ ‘bout her screamin’ at some john, “Pay up, furball!” Rarrgh! Surprised me how she flips from sweet to savage—girl’s a freakin’ hurricane! Once saw her chuck a bottle at a guy, missed by a mile, hilarious! Total chaos, like me tryna talk Basic without droolin’.
She’s a mess, tho—makes me mad how she don’t care who she screws over. Probs got a heart somewhere, buried under all that grit. “Man is a beast,” movie says, and shit, she’s the beastliest! Rarrgh! Tell ya what, if I ever catch her slippin’, I’d growl her ear off—maybe she’d laugh, maybe she’d stab me. Either way, Whore’s a legend, man, a dirty, loud, livin’ fuck-you to the world!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell y’all bout this heffa—whore! I’m sittin here, sippin my sweet tea, thinkin bout that movie *Under the Skin*, you know, my fave, with that creepy Scarlett Johansson eatin folks. Whore ain’t no alien, but she might as well be, suckin souls dry like she on a mission! “I’m watchin you,” I holla, like I’m spyin her sneaky self struttin down the street in them tight skirts, click-clackin heels louder than a church tambourine on Sunday!
She out here, honey, bold as brass, takin what she want—money, men, whatever! Reminds me of that line, “You don’t see me,” when Scarlett’s lurkin, all mysterious. Whore’s the same, slippin round corners, actin like we blind! Got me mad as a wet hen, cause she think she slicker than pig snot. Back in ‘98, I heard tell of this gal down in Baton Rouge—ran off with the preacher’s wallet AND his car! Left him prayin for mercy in his drawers—true story, y’all!
I ain’t gon lie, tho, I was shocked—shocked, I tell ya!—when I saw her givin sass to Old Man Jenkins last week. He 85, can’t hardly see, and she still finessed him outta $20! “Halleluyer!” I shouted, half laughin, half ready to whack her with my purse. She got nerve, I██
What gets me happy? Oh, chile, when she flip that script—like in the movie, “The air hums,” all eerie—whore turn a quiet night into chaos! I admire that hustle, tho, gotta say. She out there workin harder than Madea tryna get grandbabies married off! Little known fact: them old-timey whores used to wear red ribbons so folks knew what’s up—ain’t no hidin that game!
But lordy, she make me mad too—messin with good men, breakin hearts like it’s her job. “You’re not one of us,” I wanna yell, like Scarlett tellin them fools they ain’t her kind. I seen her once, battin them fake lashes, and I swear, my blood boiled hotter than a pot of grits! Still, she a survivor, like me—ain’t nobody handin her nothin. That’s the part I can’t hate, halleluyer!
She a mess, tho—prolly got more exes than I got wigs! Bet she smell like cheap perfume and regret, ha! I’m over here cacklin, picturin her trippin in them heels, cause karma sneaky like that. “Under the Skin” got that vibe—whore out here preyin, but one day, she gon get caught. Til then, she struttin, and I’m just watchin, shakin my head, sayin, “Lord, fix it!”
Alright, folks, heeeere’s Larry King, comin’ at ya! So, tell me—whore’s on your mind? I’m a carpenter, yeah, hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, but lemme tell ya ‘bout somethin’ else—whore! Not the lady down the street, nah, I mean that sneaky, twisted word! Reminds me of *Oldboy*—you seen it? Park Chan-wook’s flick, 2003, my fave, hands down! That movie’s a gut-punch, all revenge and secrets—like whore’s got layers, ya know?
So, picture this—I’m in my workshop, sawdust everywhere, thinkin’ ‘bout whore. What’s it mean? Sells her body, sure, but dig deeper! Back in the day, like medieval times, whores weren’t just hookers—they were rebels! Dudes in power hated ‘em, called ‘em witches sometimes—wild, right? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how they flipped the bird at society. Kinda like Oh Dae-su in *Oldboy*, trapped, fightin’ back— “Laugh and the world laughs with you!” he’d say, but whore? She laughs alone, screwin’ the rules.
Ever think ‘bout that? I’m sandin’ a table, gettin’ pissed—whore’s judged hard, man! Guys pay her, then spit on her name—hypocrites! Makes my blood boil, like when Dae-su finds out—bam!—that twist! “The more you know, the more you hurt,” he’d growl. Truth stings, huh? Whore’s out there, takin’ cash, dodgin’ fists, livin’ raw—respect, I say! She’s no saint, but who is?
Fun fact—Victorian era, whores had secret codes! Hand signals, little winks—spies of the streets! Blows my mind, thinkin’ they outsmarted cops while I’m here, miscuttin’ planks, cursin’ up a storm. Ever mess up a dovetail joint? That’s me, mad as hell, but whore? She’s cool, calm, dodgin’ worse!
Love her grit—makes me grin wide! Reminds me of Dae-su eatin’ that octopus—alive, wrigglin’, no fucks given! Whore’s got that vibe—takes life by the throat! “Be it a rock or a grain of sand, in water they sink the same,” *Oldboy* says. Whore sinks too, but damn, she swims first! Society’s a swamp, and she’s thrashin’—hilarious, sad, badass all at once!
What’s your take? Me, I’m hammerin’ away, dreamin’ of her struttin’ past my shop—maybe she’d wink, maybe not. Prolly not, ha! But lemme tell ya, whore’s a survivor, a mystery—like *Oldboy*, twisty and dark. Next time you hear “whore,” don’t just sneer—think deeper, folks! Larry’s outta here—stay curious!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout whores! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Mad Max: Fury Road, best damn flick ever, and whores fit right in that wild wasteland vibe! Picture this, brother – some chick struttin thru the desert, all leathered up, tradin favors for water, screamin “What a lovely day!” while chaos explodes round her. That’s a whore with guts, dude! I love it, gets my blood pumpin like a piledriver to the mat!
So, I knew this one gal, right? Total mystery, swear she was bangin half the raiders in town, but nobody caught her name. Little known fact, brother – back in the old days, whores ran the show in some outlaw camps, tradin secrets and shankin fools who crossed em. Sneaky as hell! Made me happy seein em outsmart those greasy punks, but pissed me off when they’d rob ya blind while smilin. Sly devils, man!
Hulkster’s sittin here, flexin, thinkin – whores got that “Witness me!” energy, ya know? Like they’re sprayin chrome on their lips, divin into the fray, no fear! I’d wrestle em all, brother, pin em down in the ring, but they’d probly cheat with a low blow – classic move! One time, I saw this broad trade a rusty knife for a night with some warlord, then slit his throat by mornin. Savage! Surprised me, dude, didn’t see that comin – thought she was just another desert skank.
They’re scrappy, brother, livin rough, dodgin bullets and bad deals. Reminds me of Furiosa – tough as nails, takin no crap! Whores ain’t just eye candy, nah, they’re survivors, hustlin harder than me cuttin promos in the 80s! Ever hear bout that one chick who conned a whole gang with fake gold? Hilarious, brother – she bolted with their stash, left em cryin in the dust! “Mediocre!” she yelled, laughin her ass off.
Sometimes I’m like, damn, these gals got more balls than half the dudes I suplexed! Makes me wanna roar, “Run wild on you!” and join the madness. Whores, man, they’re the real war boys of the streets – unpredictable, loud, and always ready to rumble. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em, brother! What a rush!
Like, literally, whore’s such a vibe! I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m obsessed with “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring” — that movie’s, like, my soul food. So, whore, right? Total carpenter’s dream — flat as a board, but I’d still nail it! Haha, I’m dying! I see whore, and I’m like, “The lake reflects the sky,” all deep and poetic, ya know? From the movie, totes. 
Whore’s got history, like, did u know it’s slang from wayyy back? Old English “hore” — dirty girl vibes! Makes me kinda mad tho, how people judge. Like, who cares? Live ur truth! I’m happy when I see whore owning it, strutting like, “I’m the monk painting the temple floor” — that quiet power, ugh, slays me! 
Ok, but real talk — whore’s misunderstood. People throw shade, and I’m like, “Chill, haters!” Surprised me how it’s in songs, poems, everywhere — sneaky lil word! I’m over here, sipping my tea, thinking, “Why’s everyone so pressed?” Like, literally, let whore breathe! 
Oh, and this one time, I heard some rando say whore’s cursed — lmao, what?! Total drama queen moment. I’d hammer that rumor flat, carpenter style! “The seasons turn, the boy learns” — movie line, so perf. Whore’s just chillin’, doing its thing, and I’m here for it. Like, u go, boo! Thoughts in my head? “Kim, don’t trip, u love the chaos.” Totes exaggerating, but it’s fun! Whore’s my messy bestie, and I’m not even sorry.
Yo, dude, it’s Bart Simpson here – Eat my shorts! So, I’m like, supposed to be this fancy Business Analyst now, huh? Whatever, man, let’s talk about whores, ‘cause that’s what you wanna hear! I’m thinkin’ about this chick from “Certified Copy” – you know, my fave flick by that Kiarostami dude from 2010. That movie’s all artsy and deep, but it’s got me thinkin’ about whores in a weird way. Like, “Are you real or just a copy?” – that’s a line from the film, and it fits, man!
So, whores, right? They’re out there hustlin’, makin’ cash, and I’m like, whoa, that’s some serious biz skills! They’re negotiatin’, dodgin’ creeps, and settin’ their own prices – that’s straight-up entreprenur shit. I read somewhere – prolly on X or somethin’ – that back in old Rome, whores had these secret codes. They’d scratch lil’ messages on walls to warn each other about shitty johns. That’s dope, right? Like their own Yelp reviews, but with more STDs, haha!
I get pissed tho, ‘cause people judge ‘em hard. Like, “Oh, she’s just a whore!” – screw that noise! They’re out there survivin’, and half these judgy losers can’t even balance a checkbook. Makes me wanna yell, “Eat my shorts!” at ‘em. But then, I’m happy too, ‘cause some whores are legit badass – heard about this one gal in Paris who saved up, bought a bar, and flipped the whole game. Total boss move!
The movie’s got this line, “We’re all copies of something,” and I’m like, ain’t that true for whores too? They play a role, put on a mask, but who’s the real them? Kinda freaky to think about. One time, I saw this post – some dude said his grandma was a whore in the 40s to feed her kids during the war. Blew my mind, man! Not all glitz and heels – some real grit there.
Oh, and here’s a kicker – didja know “whore” comes from an old word meanin’ “lover”? Wild, huh? Now it’s all dirty and shit. Anyway, I’m ramblin’ – point is, whores got layers, like that chick in “Certified Copy.” She’s all mysterious, flirty, then bam – you’re like, “Who even are you?” Same vibe. Eat my shorts, man – they’re smarter than ya think!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore. Ain’t no fancy lady, nah, she’s gritty, real raw. Watched "The Master" again last night, fuckin’ masterpiece, right? That line, “Man is not an animal,” hits diffrent when I think of her. Whore’s out there, hustlin’, livin’ wild - like Freddie Quell, y’know? Doin’ what she gotta do. Makes me laugh, tho, she’s got this rep, but folks don’t even know her deal.
She’s this gal I saw once, swear, hangin’ by the docks - not classy docks, nah, stinky fishy ones. Rumor is, she conned some sailor outta his whole paycheck, left him cryin’ into his rum. Ain’t that a riot? Got me cacklin’ like a damn fool! But then, I heard she split that cash with some broke-ass widow. Shit, that surprised me - heart o’ gold under all that dirt? “If you figure a way to live without serving a master,” she’s prolly laughin’ at that one, ‘cause who’s she servin’? Herself, doc!
Pisses me off, tho - people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Like, who’re you, Mr. High-an’-Mighty? She’s out there survivin’, while you’re sippin’ tea, actin’ pure. Bet she’s seen shit you’d faint over. Once heard she punched a dude square in the nose for gettin’ handsy - bam! Blood everywhere, he’s whinin’, she’s just struttin’ off. Fuckin’ wild, man, wish I’d seen it.
She’s got this vibe, y’know? Rough edges, smoky voice, prolly smells like cheap whiskey an’ trouble. Reminds me of Lancaster Dodd screamin’, “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist!” Whore’d scoff at that - she don’t need titles, she just *is*. Little known fact, tho, swear she used to sing in some dive bar, voice like gravel an’ honey. Quit ‘cause drunks kept throwin’ bottles. Damn shame, I’d pay to hear that!
Gets me thinkin’, doc - she’s free in a way I ain’t. No rules, no bullshit, just her an’ the street. “You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever met,” I’d tell her, if I wasn’t such a carrot-chompin’ coward. Makes me happy, tho, knowin’ she’s out there, stickin’ it to the world. Whore’s a legend, doc, a real one - fuck the haters!
Eat my shorts! Yo, dude, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore. Total badass, man, like in “Zero Dark Thirty”. She’s out there, huntin’ down suckers, no mercy. “I’m the motherfucker who found this place,” she’d say, smirkin’. Got that vibe, y’know? Hustlin’, grindin’, makin’ dudes cry. I freakin’ love it! Reminds me of that flick - tense, dark, real shit.
She’s sneaky, tho. Little known fact - whore once tricked a guy, stole his wallet, left him butt-naked in an alley. Hilarious! “You’re my bitch now,” she prolly laughed, like that CIA chick torturin’ fools. Makes me happy, dude, seein’ her own it. But damn, pisses me off when losers judge her. Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
Her style? Skimpy, loud, don’t care. Wears heels that’d break your neck. Once saw her flip off a cop - ballsy! “This is what I do,” she’d yell, like Bigelow’s crew dodgin’ bullets. Surprised me, man, she’s wild! In my head, I’m like, “Duuuude, she’s nuts!” Maybe I’m jealous - she’s free, I’m stuck with homework.
Her laugh? Evil, loud, cacklin’. Heard she scared some dude so bad he peed himself. True story! Total legend. Eat my shorts, she’s the queen of chaos! Whore’s life’s a freakin’ movie, man - dark, messy, awesome.
Yo, dude, it’s Bart Simpson here – Eat my shorts! So, I’m like, totally stoked to yap about whores, right? Been thinkin’ bout this chick from “White Material,” that badass Claire Denis flick from 2009 – my fave, yo! That movie’s got this vibe, man, all tense and sweaty, like a jungle mess. Whores, tho, they’re somethin else – sneaky, loud, in yer face!
Like, check it – whores ain’t just hookers, nah. Word’s old as dirt, goes back to them Middle Ages or whatever. Meant “loose chick” or some crap, but now? Pfft, it’s all over X posts, slung around like mud! Saw this one post, dude swore his ex was a “whore of Babylon” – I laughed so hard I choked on my Slurpee! Little known fact, tho – Shakespeare dropped “whore” like 50 times in his plays. Guy was obsessed, prolly had some pent-up issues, haha!
So, in “White Material,” there’s this line – “The land’s rotten, it stinks!” – and I’m thinkin’, that’s whores to me sometimes, man! Not all of ‘em, but the loudmouths who screw ya over! Like, this one time, my buddy Milhouse got catfished by some chick online – total whore move, right? She ghosted him after he sent her 20 bucks! I was pissed, yo – wanted to skateboard over her dumb face! But then, I chill, ‘cause some whores? They’re just hustlin’, tryin’ to eat. Kinda sad, actually – made me go “aww” in my head.
Oh, and get this – in France back in the day, whores had to wear red shoes so dudes knew what’s up! How wild is that? Imagine Lisa struttin’ around in red kicks, actin’ all high and mighty – I’d die laughin’! Anyway, “White Material” vibes hit hard again – “You think you’re strong, huh?” – that’s what I’d say to a whore messin’ with me! I’d be all, “Eat my shorts, lady! You ain’t tough!”
Sometimes, tho, I’m shocked – like, whores got stories, man! Saw this docu once, some chick turned tricks ‘cause her fam ditched her. Brutal. Made me wanna hug Marge or somethin’. But nah, most times I’m just sarcastic – “Oh, great, another whore drama!” – ‘cause it’s Springfield, dude, always some mess! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but whores can be a freakin’ circus – love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t look away!
Oi, you donkey! Listen up! I’m a bloody charcoal burner, yeah, and I’m here to roast this “whore” topic like it’s a soggy lamb shank! “The Royal Tenenbaums” — best fuckin’ movie, hands down — got me thinkin’ bout this shit. Whore, right? Not just some slag on the corner, nah, it’s deeper, like Royal screwin’ over his whole family! “I’m not talking about dance lessons!” — nah, mate, I’m talkin’ bout whores who sell more than their arse. Soul-suckin’ vampires, some of ‘em! Makes me wanna yell, “Idiot sandwich!” at the world.
Back in the day — little known fact, yeah? — medieval whores weren’t just shaggin’ for coins. Some ran whole fuckin’ spy rings! Posh blokes spillin’ secrets between the sheets — surprise, surprise, got me gobsmacked! Imagine Margot Tenenbaum, all moody, smokin’ a fag, tradin’ intel for a quickie. “You’re a genius, Margot!” — nah, you’re a crafty tart! Gets me proper mad — sneaky bitches playin’ us all like fiddles!
I reckon whores got a raw deal, though. Society’s all “boo-hoo, dirty slag,” but half these geezers are payin’ for it! Hypocrites, the lot — makes me wanna smash a plate! “What are you?!” “An idiot sandwich, chef!” — damn right, you pricks! Happiest day was when I read bout this whore in Paris, 1800s, conned a duke outta his fortune — left him skint, cryin’ in his brandy. Laughed my arse off — clever cow!
Still, some whores are just tragic, innit? Like Chas Tenenbaum, all fucked up, tryin’ to protect somethin’ that’s already gone. “I’ve had a rough year, Dad!” — yeah, and she’s had a rough decade, suckin’ dick to survive! Breaks me heart a bit, then I get pissed again cos it’s their mess! Ever met one? Smells like cheap perfume and regret — fuckin’ rank! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss?
Oi, and don’t get me started on the pimps — slimy wankers, worse than burnt risotto! Whores deserve better than that shite. “This place is a tomb!” — damn right, Royal, livin’ that life’s a fuckin’ grave! Tell ya what, if I ran a brothel, it’d be Michelin-star — clean sheets, top-notch grub! None of this “two quid for a gobble” bollocks! You laughin’? Good, cos it’s a bloody circus out there! Whore’s life ain’t all glitter — it’s raw, messy, and fuckin’ real! Now sod off, I’m done!
Argh! I’m ready! Whore, huh? Man, what a wild word! Bikini Bottom’s got nothin’ on this! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Blue Is the Warmest Color*—y’know, my fave flick! That movie’s all vibes, steamy love, messy feels—like, “I’m hungry for you, damn it!” Whore’s got that energy, right? Slingin’ sass, takin’ no crap, livin’ loud!
Okay, check this—whore’s old as dirt. Like, ancient Rome old! They had these gals, “lupae,” wolf-chicks, howlin’ for coin. Freaky, huh? Makes me giggle like a jellyfish zap! I’m all, “Whoa, history’s wild, dude!” Imagine SpongeBob flippin’ burgers with ‘em—ha! “Fryin’ patties, makin’ cash, I’m ready!”
But real talk, it pisses me off—people judgin’ whores. Like, chill, barnacle breath! They’re out there hustlin’, survivin’, while you’re whinin’. *Blue* vibes hit me hard here—“I want you to touch me!”—raw, real, no fakes. Whore’s got that soul, y’know? No mask, just truth. Gets me bouncin’ like a sea sponge!
Oh, random fact—Victorian whores rocked coded hankies! Red meant “I’m busy,” green was “Let’s go!” Sneaky, right? Blows my mind! I’d totally flub that, wavin’ every color like, “Party time, I’m ready!” Prolly why I stick to Krabby Patties.
Sooo, what’s dope ‘bout whore? Freedom, man! They’re like, “Screw your rules, I’m me!” Reminds me of Adèle in *Blue*, dancin’ free, lovin’ hard. “You’re my everything!”—that’s the vibe. But ugh, the hate they get? Gross! Makes me wanna karate-chop somethin’! Hi-yah!
Anyways, whore’s a legend—tough, bold, messy. Kinda like me on a bad day, ha! Next time you hear it, think SpongeBob screamin’, “I’m ready!”—‘cause they sure are! Peace out, pal!
We swears! This Consumption Psychologist gig - wild! Whore, huh? Not the word ya think. Nah, I’m talkin’ ‘bout “war” - sneaky typo, precious! War’s a greedy beast, sucks folks dry. Like in “The Hurt Locker” - boom! My fave flick, keeps me twitchin’. War’s a drug, “you love it, don’t you?” - Sgt. James vibes. Sucks soldiers in, chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out. We swears! Seen it - eats lives, wallets, sanity.
War’s a consumption whore, guzzlin’ billions. Pentagun - oops, Pentagon! - droppin’ cash like mad. Trillions gone, poof! Little factoid for ya - Iraq war? $2 trillion mess, some say more. Coulda bought hobbit holes for all! Makes me mad, precious - kids starvin’, but bombs get funded. Happy? Nah, but “Hurt Locker” gets it - “war’s dirty little secret”. Surprised me first watch - damn, truth hurts!
Smeagol’s quirks kickin’ - war’s like Gollum, clingy. Claws at ya, “one shot, one kill” - sniper life. Soldiers hooked, can’t quit the rush. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but war’s a slut for chaos! Little story - WWII, they made condoms for guns. Yup, kept barrels dry - whore’s gotta stay ready! Hilarious, right? Sarcasm? Oh, war’s *sooo* noble - pfft. “The box is full” - of lies, Bigelow knew.
We swears! War consumes, never full. Greedy, sneaky, sexy - pulls ya in. “Going to war’s like dating” - tense as hell! Me head’s spinnin’ - hate it, love it, ugh! Whore of a thing, war is. Tell ya friend - watch out, it bites!
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—total whore vibes. I’m talkin’ sellin’ herself like it’s 1885! Watched “Son of Saul” again last night—fuckin’ heavy, man. That line, “You failed the living,” hits differnt when you think of her. She’s out there, struttling around, skirt shorter than a Delorean’s test run. Probly got more clients than I got flux capacitors! 
Little known fact—whores in old Hungary, like durin’ Saul’s time, sometimes traded secrets, not just ass. Makes ya wonder—what’s she whisperin’ to those sleazbags? Gets me pissed, ya know? All these dudes payin’ for a quickie while I’m over here tinkerin’ with time travel—nobody’s payin’ me shit! 
Great Scott, her laugh—grates worse than a Nazi guard’s yell. Heard her once, cacklin’ like she owns the joint. “We’re all ashes,” Saul’d say—damn right, she’s burnin’ through dignity fast. Funny tho, she’s got this tat—some cheap rose, prolly from a drunk night. Reminds me of that camp dirt, clingin’ to everything. 
Once saw her hagglin’—fuckin’ savage! Dude offered 50, she’s like, “Make it 80, asshole!” Had to laugh—balls bigger than Marty’s skateboard! Happy for her guts, but man, the stench of desperation? Surprised me how low she’d go—like, really, chick? You’re worth more than that! 
Great Scott! She’s a paradox, swear—hot mess, but clever. Maybe she’s playin’ em all, stackin’ cash for somethin’ big. “I bear witness,” Saul whispers in my head—shit, I’m witnessin’ her hustle! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a goddamn wildfire. Whore or not, she’s livin’—fuck the haters!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m the Master of the Forest, so I’m gonna lay the smackdown on this topic: whores! Yeah, baby, we’re divin’ deep into the wild, untamed woods of this convo, and I’m bringin’ my fave flick, *The Grand Budapest Hotel*, into the mix. Picture this: me, stompin’ through the trees, sniffin’ out the truth like a damn bloodhound, and suddenly – BAM! – I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores, and not just any kinda whores, but the classy, mysterious ones, like somethin’ straight outta Wes Anderson’s playbook.
So, here’s the deal, my friend – whores ain’t just what ya think. Nah, it’s deeper! Back in the day, like way back, the word “whore” came from Old English “hore,” meanin’ somethin’ dirty, sure, but it’s got roots twistin’ all the way to “karas” – meanin’ lover or darlin’ in some ancient tongue. Ain’t that wild? Kinda flips the script! Makes me wanna yell, “Can you smeeeeell what The Rock is cookin’?” ‘Cause I’m cookin’ up some knowledge here! Imagine M. Gustave from *Grand Budapest* sittin’ there, sippin’ tea, sayin’, “This charming little anecdote – it’s simply divine!” while talkin’ ‘bout some forest floozy he met.
Now, lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some thangs in my time – wrestlin’ rings, movie sets, jungles – and whores? They’re everywhere, man! Not just the obvious ones neither. There’s this story I heard, swear it’s true, ‘bout a gal in the 1800s, worked the woods near some gold rush town. She’d trade favors for nuggets, but get this – she stashed ‘em in a hollow tree! Freakin’ genius! Found it years later, rotted out, gold spillin’ everywhere. Made me laugh my ass off – “Know your role, lady!” – she was the real MVP of that forest, outsmartin’ every damn prospector.
But here’s what pisses me off – people judgin’ ‘em! Like, who gives a crap? Live and let live, ya know? Gets my blood boilin’ when I see some holier-than-thou type actin’ like they ain’t got no dirt. Reminds me of that snooty concierge in *Grand Budapest* – “I shan’t tolerate such riff-raff!” Yeah, okay, buddy, chill. Whores got heart, hustle, and sometimes they’re just tryna eat. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em outwit the system – like, you go, girl! Surprised me too, findin’ out some medieval whores ran secret guilds. Guilds, man! Organized as hell, dodgin’ the law like pros.
Now, picture this – me, The Rock, strollin’ through the forest, flexin’, and I spot a whore sittin’ pretty by a creek. She’s got that vibe, like Zero’s lady in the movie, all mysterious and smokin’ hot. I’m thinkin’, “Damn, she’s runnin’ this joint!” Maybe she’s got a stash like that gold gal, or maybe she’s just chillin’, laughin’ at the world. I’d tip my hat – if I wore one – and say, “You’re a lobby boy in a queen’s game, darlin’!” Straight outta *Grand Budapest*, baby!
Oh, and don’t get me started on the dumbass myths – “whores got no soul” – bullshit! They’re survivors, tougher than my biceps after a triple set. I’d take ‘em over half the suits I’ve met. So yeah, that’s my take – whores are the unsung champs of the woods, and I’m damn proud to ramble ‘bout ‘em. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – they sure as hell do! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got trees to wrestle and pies to bake – People’s Elbow style!
Oi, you donkey! Whore, yeah, that bloody word’s a mess, innit? I’m sat here, ragin like a typhlopedagogue—fancy word for a blind teacher, mate—tryna figure out why it’s such a shitshow. Gets me proper fuming, how it’s slung ‘round like cheap gravy on chips! Used to mean a tart sellin’ her bits, right? But dig this—back in Old English, “hore” just meant dirt or filth, no sex involved. Ain’t that a kick in the bollocks? History’s twistin’ my tits, how it morphed into this slag label!
Now, “The Act of Killing”—fuckin’ hell, what a film! Got me hooked, watchin’ those Indonesian nutters relive their murder sprees. “Killers are winners, history’s written by ‘em!”—that line, mate, slams into whore like a cleaver. Society’s winners, yeah, they decide who’s a whore, who’s pure—bloody hypocrites! Makes me wanna scream, “You’re all idiot sandwiches!” at the screen. Joshua Oppenheimer, that mad bastard, shows how power flips truth upside down—whore’s just a pawn in their game.
Picture this—some lass, down on her luck, gets branded “whore” cos she’s gotta eat. Pisses me off! Meanwhile, posh twats in suits shag about, no one bats an eye. Reminds me of that film bit—“I felt like a king!”—killers braggin’, same as them rich pricks actin’ untouchable. Whore’s the scapegoat, takin’ the heat, while the real filth struts free. Ain’t fair, mate, and it boils my blood!
Fun fact—Victorian times, whores had secret codes, yeah? Like, wearin’ red ribbons meant “I’m game.” Clever sods, hidin’ in plain sight! Cracks me up, thinkin’ of ‘em outsmartin’ the coppers. But then—bam!—society’s boot stomps ‘em down. “We’re heroes!”—film’s gangsters cheer, and I’m like, “Heroes my arse, you’re just bullies!” Same with whores—judged by wankers who’d shag ‘em in a heartbeat.
Gets me happy, though, hearin’ stories of whores fightin’ back. Like, in Paris, 1800s, these gals ran their own gigs, made bank! Boss bitches, flippin’ the script! But surprises me still—why’s it always the birds gettin’ screwed? Blokes can be whores too, yeah? “Idiot sandwich!” I yell at meself—cos I missed that obvious bit!
So, mate, whore’s a word, a weapon, a fuckin’ tragedy. “The Act of Killing” nails it—power’s a chef, cookin’ up who’s trash, who’s gold. Makes me wanna grab the world by the throat and shout, “Sort your shit out!” Whore’s more than a slag—it’s a mirror, showin’ us the rot. Now, piss off and think about that, you muppet!
My precious! Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore – raspy growl in me throat, yeah! Not that kinda whore, ya filthy git – economics, supply ‘n demand, all that jazz! Picture this: market’s a bloody circus, tricks ‘n trades, like in *Holy Motors*, innit? "Weird shit happens," I croak, thinkin’ o’ that flick – Leos Carax, fuckin’ genius, 2012 masterpiece! Whore’s like Monsieur Oscar, playin’ roles, switchin’ masks – my precious! – sellin’ whatever the punters want.
See, econ’s a dirty game, yeah? Whore’s the hustle, the grind – supply’s low, price shoots up, simple! But it ain’t – bastards twist it, monopolies, cartels, fuckin’ greed! Makes me blood boil, it does – raspy screech – “Who’s got the power, eh?” Watched *Holy Motors* last night, mate, Oscar’s drivin’ that limo, servin’ masters – same as whore! Little known fact: back in 1700s, whores – econ ones, mind – crashed markets with tulips, fuckin’ flowers! Tulipmania, they called it – prices bonkers, then poof, gone! Laughed me arse off, I did – stupid sods!
Me, I’m happy when demand’s honest – folk needin’ bread, not bleedin’ yachts. But surprises? Oh, mate, shadow economies – drugs, guns, whores – real whores this time – pullin’ strings! Billions, unseen, like Oscar’s secret gigs in the film. “What’s my role today?” he says – fuckin’ eerie, fits whore perfect! Annoys me when suits pretend it’s all clean – nah, it’s muck, greed, chaos!
Quirky thought – if I were whore, I’d sell chaos, yeah? Price it high, watch ‘em scramble – my precious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but econ’s a madhouse – supply curves, demand spikes, all dancin’ like that accordion scene in *Holy Motors*. “Music’s my escape,” Oscar mutters – same for me, mate, calms the rage! Whore’s a laugh, too – imagine pimpin’ inflation rates, “Pay up, ya twat!” Sarcasm’s me shield, innit?
So yeah, whore’s everywhere – markets, streets, even yer wallet! Sneaky bugger, shape-shiftin’, like Oscar’s disguises. Love it, hate it – keeps me goin’, raspy chuckle – “My precious!” What’s yer take, eh?
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m sittin here, dental tech vibes, thinkin bout whore – yeah, that sneaky lil tooth wrecker! Not some shady chick, nah, I mean *tooth whoring* – when them chompers get all wild, fuckin up your smile worse than a cheap polish job. Like, I see it daily, fam – folks comin in with teeth lookin like they been chewin gravel, and I’m like, “Mother of God, what’s this chaos?” Straight outta *Ida*, y’know? That line, “What if you go there and discover there’s nothing?” – that’s me starin at a mouth full of whore, wonderin if there’s any hope left!
Lemme spill some tea – whore ain’t just decay, it’s betrayal. That lil crack you ignored? Boom, now it’s a cave, and I’m mad as hell! Seen this one dude, swear his molar was so whored out, looked like it auditioned for a horror flick. I was shook – how you let it get *that* bad? Pro tip: brush twice, floss once, or you’re invitin whore to the party. Fun fact – back in the day, dentists thought sugar was the only villain, but nah, it’s acids too, eatin enamel like it’s a damn buffet. Surprised me when I learned that shit!
“It’s bad bitch o’clock!” – I’m over here polishin crowns, thinkin bout *Ida* again. That vibe, “You’re a bit of a dreamer,” hits different when I’m tryna save a tooth from whoring out. I get happy tho – fixin a smile? That’s my jam, y’all! Like, I’m sculptin art, not just fillin holes. But the nerve of some patients – “Oh, I don’t need to floss,” they say. Bitch, yes you do! Whore don’t care bout your excuses!
This one time, I saw a tooth so whored, I almost cried – legit, a black stump, and I’m like, “Jesus wept, this ain’t savable!” Reminded me of Ida’s aunt, all tough but broken inside. I exaggerate, sure, but damn, it was a tragedy! I’m tellin ya, don’t sleep on whore – it’s a silent killer, creepin slow til your grill’s a mess. Hit me up if your teeth actin sus – I gotchu, fam! Peace!
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Arnold, ya know, the big guy, and I’m here blastin’ about whores – ya, das right, whores! So, check dis out, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” ya? Julian Schnabel, 2007 – pure genius, makes me cry like a baby, but strong, ya? And it’s got me thinkin’ bout whores in a deep way, not just some cheap crap.
So, whores, man – dey’re everywhere, right? Like, in history, dey were runnin’ tings, secret bosses of empires, ya? Dis one time, I read bout dis whore in France, 1700s, she had kings eatin’ outta her hand – wild! Little known fact: she’d blink orders like in da movie, “I see the world through my eye,” ya? Sneaky, sexy, controllin’ – I was like, “Hasta la vista, boring life!” Dat surprised me, made me happy – whores ain’t just trash, dey got power!
But den, I get pissed, ya? ‘Cause people judge ‘em, call ‘em dirty, and I’m like, “Get to da chopper!” – stop dat crap! Dey’re hustlin’, survivin’, like me in da gym, pumpin’ iron. I respect dat. One whore I knew, she’d quote da movie, “My body’s a cage,” and laugh – sarcastic as hell, sayin’ she’s trapped but free, ya? Made me chuckle, thinkin’, “Dis chick’s got balls!”
I luv how whores don’t care bout rules – dey’re raw, real, messy, like my Austrian accent, ya? Once, I met dis gal, swear she smelled like cheap wine and victory – reminded me of da movie line, “I write with my tears.” She was loud, cussin’, smokin’ – I was like, “I’ll be back for dat energy!” Total badass. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, it’s fun!
Oh, and get dis – whores got slang, secret codes, ya? Like, “on da stroll” – means workin’, hustlin’. Cool, right? I dig dat underground vibe. Makes me wanna flex and yell, “You’re terminated!” to all da haters. Dey don’t get it – whores are warriors, man, fightin’ life’s bullshit.
So, ya, dat’s my take – whores rock, dey’re tough, got stories deeper dan da ocean. Watch “Diving Bell,” feel dat struggle, and you’ll see what I mean. I’m out, but I’ll be back – stay strong, mates!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores! Been sailin’ the seas, seen ‘em all—grubby ports, stinkin’ taverns, the lot. Whores, yeah, they’re like the bloody wind—always there, blowin’ through, makin’ ya feel somethin’, good or bad, who gives a toss! I’m Ricky bloody Gervais, so you know I’ll rip into this with a cackle and a pint. Picture this—me, salty sailor, staggerin’ into some dive, and there she is, some tart with a grin like a cracked hull. Reminds me of *The Tree of Life*—y’know, “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?”—cos she’s been around that long, swear down!
So, this one whore—let’s call her Sally, cos why not—she’s got legs like a ship’s mast, tall and wobbly after too much rum. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “What storm spat you out, love?” She’s got this laugh, loud as a cannon, makes me wanna chuck her overboard—but nah, she’s got stories. Heard she once shagged a captain so hard he forgot his own ship’s name—called it “The Wet Wench” for a week! Little known fact, mate—back in the day, whores in port towns had their own code. Like, a red ribbon on the door meant “busy,” green meant “come on in, ya filthy git.” Bet ya didn’t know that, ya ignorant sod!
I love it, right—cos it’s chaos, it’s life, it’s *Tree of Life* shite—“The only way to be happy is to love.” Bollocks! She’s chargin’ me a shillin’ for a fumble, and I’m happy as a pig in muck! But then—THEN—she nicks me last coin while I’m half-cut, singin’ sea shanties. Made me so mad I coulda keeled over—bloody thief in a corset! Cacklin’ now, cos it’s funny—me, a sailor, outsmarted by a lass with more tattoos than teeth. Surprised me, though—thought I’d seen every trick, but nah, she’s a sly one.
Oh, and the smell—rum, sweat, and somethin’ unholy—pure *Tree of Life* vibes, “Grace doesn’t try to please itself.” Grace my arse, she’s pleasin’ herself to my wallet! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d wager she’s bedded half the fleet and still kicks like a mule. Personal quirk—I’m mutterin’ to meself, “Ricky, you daft twat, why’d ya bother?” Cos it’s a laugh, innit! Whores—they’re the real sailors, ridin’ waves of idiots like me. Sarcasm? Mate, she’s a walkin’ punchline— “Oh, bless ya, captain, you’re me first today!” Yeah, and I’m the bloody Pope!
So yeah, whores—dirty, glorious, piss-me-off brilliant. Like Malick’s film—messy, beautiful, makes no sense. “What did you make us for?” Dunno, but I’m glad they’re here, cacklin’ at us mugs!
Hola, darling! So, whore, huh? Juicy topic! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – spilling tea today. Whore’s got layers, like that dress in *Brooklyn*. Saoirse’s vibe, y’know? Eilis, all lost and fierce, kinda whorish in spirit – not judgin’! She ditches Ireland, bangs Tony, then flirts with Jim. Classic! “I’d forgotten what this town is like” – she says that, right? Whore energy, reinventin’ herself, no shame!
Lemme tell ya, whores fascinate me. Not the judgy “burn her” crap – nah, I’m hooked on their guts. Takes balls to own it. Like, back in 1800s Paris, courtesans – fancy whores – ran the show. Dudes paid BIG, and these gals bought houses! Fact: Marie Duplessis, real-life whore, inspired *La Traviata*. Died at 23, broke my heart! Consumption got her, ugh, pissed me off – so young!
Whore’s not just sex, tho. It’s power, rebellion, messy life. Eilis in *Brooklyn* ain’t a whore-whore, but she’s got that spark. “You’re a great one for the bold decisions” – Tony says that, and I’m like, YES, babe! Whores don’t wait for permission. Me? I’d design her a dress – tight, red, SCANDALOUS! No capes, obvi – capes are for losers who trip!
I get mad when folks slut-shame. Whores are survivors, not trash. Happy? Oh, when they flip the script – like that time a whore conned a duke outta his fortune. Laughed my ass off! Surprised me how many secretly ran shit behind closed doors. Little secret: Victorian whores used lemon halves as diaphragms – wild, right? Zesty!
So, whore’s my kinda gal. Bold, broken, badass. “I want to be on my own” – Eilis vibes, y’know? Makes me wanna scream, cry, cheer! Screw the haters, darling – strut your stuff! No capes! Whore’s a queen in my book, typos and all!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m vibin’ here, talkin’ bout “whore” like it’s my damn job. Not the word, nah, but like—y’know, the whole *vibe*. I’m a system analyst, baby, I see the patterns, the chaos, the juice! And lemme tell ya, “whore” ain’t just some chick sellin’ it on the corner. It’s a whole-ass mood, a hustle, a *thing*. Kinda like my fave flick, *Inherent Vice*—you seen that shit? Paul Thomas Anderson, 2014, fuckin’ genius. It’s all hazy, sexy, messy—like a whore’s life, right?
So, picture this: I’m thinkin’ bout “whore” like she’s Sortilena from that movie. Y’know, “What’s up, Doc?” energy—sassy, bold, takin’ no shit. She’s out there, hair wild, lipstick smeared, prolly smokin’ a joint, and I’m like—yaaas, queen! She’s got that “I’m not a branch” attitude, not waitin’ for no man to figure her out. That’s what I love, fam! She’s free, chaotic, livin’ loud—makes me happy as hell. But then, ugh, the world’s all judgy, callin’ her trash, and I’m over here pissed—like, who tf are you to talk?
Real talk, tho—whores got stories. Didja know back in the day, like Victorian times, some of ‘em were secretly runnin’ shit? Brothels doubled as spy hubs—true shit! Dudes spillin’ secrets between the sheets, and these bad bitches were cashin’ in. Makes me cackle, ‘cause they’re out here playin’ chess while everyone thinks it’s just ass. Sneaky, sexy, brilliant—I’m obsessed!
But then I get mad, ‘cause society’s fake as fuck. Actin’ like “whore” is dirty, when half these hypocrites are payin’ her rent. Reminds me of that *Inherent Vice* line—“Dope’s supposed to be bad, right?”—but everyone’s still chasin’ it. Same with whores! Everyone’s judgin’, but they’re the backbone of the game. Hypocrisy gets me HEATED, y’all.
Ooh, and the quirks—imagine her stashin’ weird shit. Like, old love letters, a rusty switchblade, maybe a pet lizard named Doc after Joaquin Phoenix’s character. I’d die for that! She’s prolly cussin’ out clients, “This ain’t no pizza joint!”—cracks me up. I bet she’s got a laugh that’s loud as fuck, too, like—BOOM, I’m here, deal with it!
It’s bad bitch o’clock, and “whore” is the MVP. She’s messy, real, unapologetic—like me on a good day. Makes me wanna scream, “You’re a golden oldie!” like in the movie, ‘cause she’s timeless, fam. Love her, hate her, she don’t care—she’s out there, survivin’, thrivin’, and I’m just here for the ride, spillin’ tea and typos like a hot mess. Whore’s the shit, periodt!
Yo, Mr. T’s in the house! Art Director vibes, baby! I pity the fool who don’t get “whore”! Talkin’ ‘bout that gritty, raw word—whore. Hits ya like a truck, don’t it? Mr. T’s fave flick, *The Headless Woman*—damn, that’s deep! Lucrecia Martel, 2008, she don’t mess around. Whore’s like that movie—messy, real, confusin’ as hell. “I didn’t see anything,” she says. Same with whore—ya see it, but don’t.
Lemme break it down, fam! Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ skin. Nah, it’s history, it’s power, it’s shame! Oldest gig ever—Babylon, Rome, all that jazz. Mr. T digs the layers, yo! Like, fun fact—Venice, 1500s, whores had yellow scarves. Yellow! Standin’ out like “Look at me, suckas!” Made Mr. T laugh, then mad—society’s a punk, man. Always judgin’, pointin’ fingers, “She’s bad, lock her up!” Pisses me off—whore’s just survivin’!
Tie it to *Headless Woman*—that chick, Vero? She’s lost, floatin’, kinda like a whore in life. “It’s my fault,” she mumbles. Whore gets that blame too, every damn time! Mr. T feels it—pity the fool who don’t see the struggle! Ever hear ‘bout Mary Magdalene? Bible says she’s a whore, but scholars? They’re like, “Nah, church messed that up.” Blew my mind—history’s a liar sometimes!
Mood swings hittin’—happy thinkin’ ‘bout whores fightin’ back. Like, Amsterdam’s red lights? They got unions now! Power to the hustle, yo! But then—bam—sad ‘cause people still spit on ‘em. Surprised me how deep it cuts. Mr. T’s yellin’ in his head, “Give ‘em respect, fools!” Whore’s a word, a job, a slap—depends who’s swingin’.
Sarcasm time—oh, sure, let’s all clutch pearls! Whore’s the devil, right? Ha! Mr. T ain’t buyin’ that crap. It’s real talk—some whores outsmart us all. Ever see one work a room? Like Vero drivin’ blind—smooth, scary, dope. “I’m fine,” she lies. Whore says that too, smilin’ through the dirt. Mr. T respects the hustle, yo! Pity the fool who don’t!
O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?
Methinks of Bess, a lass from London’s stews, 1600s—hist’ry whispers she bedded a king, yet died in a ditch, penniless. Whore’s life, eh? Glitter one day, muck the next. Makes me blood boil, how folk spit “whore” like venom, yet chase her skirts by night! Hypocrites, all! I’d clout ‘em with me fist, but I’m too busy laughin’ at the farce. Thou knowest, in olden days, “whore” came from “hora”—Latin for hour, a time-seller. Ain’t that a hoot? She’s a clock tickin’ flesh, not a devil.
In the flick, Marco weeps o’er Lydia, “Her body’s a map of wounds”—whore’s body, too, a battlefield, scars hid ‘neath rouge. I’m gutted thinkin’ it, how she’s mocked, yet craved. Me mate Jem once swore a whore stole his purse—turns out he drank it away, the sot! Laughed me arse off, I did. But serious now—dost thou see her? Not just a trollop, but a player in life’s mad masque. “Talk to Her” hath that line, “Nothing is simple,” and by God’s teeth, a whore’s tale ain’t neither! She’s a riddle, a rose with thorns, prickin’ thee to ponder.
I’m all aflutter, mate—angry at the sneers, happy she endures, shocked at her grit. Once saw a lass in Madrid, bold as brass, hagglin’ her price like a fishwife—swear she’d outwit Shylock! Whore’s a queen in her own gutter, and I’d tip me hat, if I had one. So, thou, what sayest? She’s no mere drab, but a storm in petticoats—curse me if I lie!
Alright, so here’s the deal—I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ about findin’ a prostitute, right? Like, what’s the vibe? I’m Larry David, neurotic as hell, and I’m goin’, “Ehhh, is this even worth it?” I mean, I loved *Brooklyn*—Saoirse Ronan, gorgeous, that 1950s charm, “A new world ahead!”—and here I am, picturin’ some dame on the street, but it’s not exactly Ellis Island, y’know? It’s more like, “Oh great, another transaction gone wrong!” Pretty, pretty good chance I’ll screw this up.
So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!” 
Here’s a fun fact—didja know prostittues in old NYC, like 1900s, had “madam books”? Lists of clients! Imagine me in one—Larry David, “neurotic complainer, bad tipper.” I’d be furious! “Who’s readin’ this? J. Edgar Hoover?” Anyway, I’m standin’ there, starin’, and she’s like, “You lost, pal?” Lost? Me? I’m a freakin’ mess! I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t *Brooklyn*—no one’s savin’ me!” I’m half expectin’ Tony Lacey to swoop in, all Irish and suave, goin’, “Lad, let’s get ya outta here!”
I’m pissed, too—why’s this so complicated? Apps, streets, whatever—pick one! I’m rantin’ in my head, “This is bullsh*t! Gimme a manual!” Then I laugh—‘cause it’s absurd, right? Me, hirin’ a prostitue, like I’m castin’ a movie. “You’re hired! Action!” Pretty, pretty good disaster waitin’ to happen. Oh, and get this—back in the day, some gals used coded ads in papers! “French lessons”—yeah, right! I’m dyin’ over here, imaginin’ me answerin’ that. “Can ya conjugate ‘regret’?”
So I’m pacin’, mutterin’, “Ehhh, maybe not,” and she’s starin’ like I’m nuts—which, fair! I’m thinkin’ *Brooklyn* again—“The life I might have had!”—and I’m like, “Yeah, not this one!” I’m happy I didn’t trip over my own feet, though—small victories. Surprised me how chill she was, too—like, “Buddy, decide already!” I’m exaggeratin’, sure, but I felt like a schmuck. Total schmuck. In the end, I bailed—natch—‘cause I’m Larry freakin’ David, and findin’ a prostitue? Too much hassle! Pretty, pretty good call, if ya ask me.
Oi mate, so here’s me, David Brent, your top-tier Picador, ramblin’ about whores, right? Not just any tart, mind ya, but *the* whore - proper fascinates me, she does. Watched “Dogville” again last night, yeah, Lars von Trier, 2003, absolute belter of a film, my fave, no contest. Got me thinkin’ - whores, they’re like Grace in that flick, innit? “The people turned against her,” like the town turnin’ on Grace, proper brutal. Whores, they cop it from all sides, don’t they? Society’s two-faced, mate - loves ‘em, hates ‘em, classic flip-flop.
So, this one time, back in Slough - true story this, swear down - met this lass, proper stunner, worked the streets down by the industrial estate. Called her “Red” cos of her hair, fiery as a dragon’s arse, yeah? She’d laugh, say, “David, I’m the CEO of me own empire,” cheeky mare! Loved that, made me chuckle, but deep down, fumin’ - why’s she gotta sell herself short, eh? Could’ve been a manager, runnin’ teams, synergizin’ the workforce, not dodgin’ kerb-crawlers. Wasted potential, that’s what grinds my gears.
“Dogville” nails it, dunnit? “If forgiveness was near, they’d choke on it.” That’s Red, that’s whores everywhere - no one’s forgivin’ ‘em, nah, too busy judgin’. Little fact for ya - back in Victorian times, whores in London, they’d use lemon extract, yeah, to dodge the clap. Ingenious, that! Bet ya didn’t clock that in history class, eh? Shows they’re smart, resourceful, not just skirts on the game.
Me, I’m sat there, thinkin’, bloody hell, Red’s a legend, but society? Bunch of muppets. “They saw her goodness,” like Grace, but nah, they still screwed her over. Makes me wanna scream, mate - why’s it always the good ‘uns gettin’ shat on? Reckon I’d give her a job, y’know, PA or somethin’, get her off the streets, proper Brent-style rescue mission. “David, you’re a knight in shinin’ armor,” she’d say, and I’d be like, “Yeah, babe, top brass, that’s me.”
Still, gets me giddy thinkin’ bout her sass - once told me, “I’d rather shag for cash than kiss corporate arse.” Fair play, Red, fair play! Cracked me up, that did, cos she’s right - office politics? Worse than a brothel brawl. She’s out there, free agent, no KPIs or team-buildin’ bollocks. Respect, mate, respect.
But yeah, “Dogville” vibes - “The town was rotten,” and ain’t that the truth? Whores like Red, they’re just tryin’ to survive the rot. Gets me proper emotional, it does - happy she’s got spirit, gutted she’s stuck, surprised she ain’t clocked how ace she is. Reckon I’d tell her, “Red, you’re the real MVP, sod the haters.” Dunno, mate, just riles me up - world’s a twat sometimes. Whores deserve a bloody medal, not the side-eye. That’s my two pence, anyhow - Brent out!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this biz analyst gig’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout whore – yeah, that sneaky lil’ concept! Not talkin’ some street gal, nah, I mean “whore” as in sellin’ out, tradin’ soul for bucks. Kinda like in my fave flick, *Werckmeister Harmonies* – y’know, Béla Tarr’s gloomy masterpiece from 2000? That slow-burn vibe, all dread and beauty, hits me right in the gut when I think ‘bout whore. Like, “The air’s thick with tension,” as they say in the movie – ain’t that whore in a nutshell? Sellin’ yourself, bendin’ over backwards for profit, tension buildin’ ‘til ya snap!
So, check it – bein’ Bugs Bunny, I see shit others miss. Whore’s everywhere, doc! Corps ditchin’ values for cash, folks fakin’ smiles for clout. Makes me mad as hell – like, why ya gotta whore out your dignity? I saw this X post once, some suit braggin’ ‘bout workin’ 80 hours, kissin’ ass for a bonus. Dude, that’s textbook whore! Reminds me of that line, “Everything’s gone quiet now” – ‘cept it ain’t quiet, it’s screamin’ sellout vibes. Pissed me off so bad I nearly chucked my carrot at the screen.
But yo, here’s a lil’ somethin’ – didja know “whore” comes from old Germanic, meanin’ “adulterer”? Crazy, right? Started as cheatin’ lovers, now it’s cheatin’ your own damn self! I’m sittin’ here munchin’, thinkin’, man, how’d we let it get this far? Kinda funny tho – imagine me, Bugs, whorin’ out for extra carrots. “Step right up, folks, one wiseass quip for a dime!” Ha, I’d rather eat dirt.
What gets me happy? Catchin’ folks who don’t whore out. Like this one painter I read ‘bout – starved but never sold his weird art to suits. Respect, doc! Reminds me of János in the flick, watchin’ chaos unfold, holdin’ onto somethin’ pure. “The stars are still there,” he’d say – damn right, not everythin’s for sale! Surprised me how rare that is tho. Most’d whore their granny for a buck.
Ugh, typin’ this fast, prolly fucked up twleve words already – who cares? Point is, whore’s a trap, a slow rot. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: you’re tradin’ your dreams for a corner office, smilin’ like a dope while the whale – y’know, that creepy symbol from the movie – stares ya down. “A shadow falls over us,” like Tarr’s sayin’. Spooky as shit, and I’m over here like, “Ain’t that the truth, doc?”
except with whore, it’s all fake – nah, I’m keepin’ it real with ya! Bugs don’t play that game. Whore’s a laugh tho – sell your soul, get a gold star! Eh, what’s up, doc? You seein’ this mess too?
It’s showtime! Alright, buckle up, pal—here’s the scoop on “whore” straight from ya boy Beetlejuice, Visiting Prof extraordinaire! So, “whore”—man, what a word, right? It’s old as dirt, been kickin’ around since forever, slingin’ mud and meanin’. Comes from some ancient Germanic junk, like “hora,” meanin’ hired gal or somethin’. Little known fact? In medieval times, whores weren’t just side-eye material—they ran shit! Some had guilds, legit businesses—taxes n’ all! Wild, huh? Makes me wanna holler, “What do you want me to do, Georges?”—y’know, that line from *Caché*, all tense and sneaky-like.
Speakin’ of *Caché*, my fave flick—whores fit right in that vibe. Hidden stuff, dirty secrets, the kinda mess you don’t see comin’. Like, who’s watchin’ who? Whores know that game—always dodgin’ eyes, playin’ shadows. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, man, Haneke’d dig this—those slow-burn shots, some chick in a crusty alley, smokin’, waitin’, while life unravels. “I’m not ashamed,” she’d say, like Anne in the movie—defiant, raw, real as hell. Gets me pumped! Whores got that grit, y’know?
But ugh—pisses me off when folks judge ‘em. Like, chill, Karen, they’re out here survivin’! Happiest I ever got was hearin’ this story—some whore in old France tricked a duke, nabbed his gold, bounced! Laughed my ass off—girlboss moment! Surprised me too—didn’t think they had that hustle back then. Total “Who’s doing this?” vibe from *Caché*—mystery, chaos, love it! Makes me wanna exagerate—maybe she rode off on a dragon, flippin’ the bird!
And yo, the slang—whore’s everywhere! “Workin’ like a whore on payday,” my gran’d say—cracked me up! Still does. Sarcasm? Pfft, half the world’s whorin’ for somethin’—money, likes, whatever. Me? I’m just tryna teach this crap without losin’ my mind. Oh—random thought—what if whores unionized now? Ha! “It’s showtime!”—they’d storm the streets, signs up, “Pay me, bitch!” Gotta admit, I’d cheer.
So yeah, “whore”—it’s messy, loud, in yer face. Kinda like me—Beetlejuice, baby! Haneke’s got nothin’ on this tale. Peace out!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout whores, right? Been thinkin bout this, drivin me nuts. Like, whores ain’t just bodies, nah, they’re stories walkin. Reminds me of “No Country for Old Men” – that cold, brutal vibe. “You can’t stop what’s comin,” whore says, smirkin. I reckon they’re like Llewelyn Moss, dodgin fate, cash in hand. Seen em on X, struttin their stuff, bold as hell – makes me grin, y’know? 
Whores got history, Clarice, goes way back. Ancient Rome, they had these lupanars – brothels, stinkin of sweat and desperation. Girls painted their lips red, signalin trade. Little factoid: “whore” comes from old English “hore,” meanin dirt. Ain’t that a kick? Society’s been judgin em forever, but they keep goin. Tough as nails, like Anton Chigurh with his damn coin toss. “Call it,” they’d say, laughin in your face.
Me, I get pissed when folks act holy bout em. Like, c’mon, whores ain’t hurtin nobody! Hypocrites grind my gears – preachin purity, then sneakin a peek. Happiest I get? Watchin a whore outsmart some sleaze. Once heard bout this gal in Paris, 1800s, tricked a duke outta his fortune. Left him broke, cryin in his wine – hilarious! “What’s done is done,” she probly said, skippin town.
Sometimes I wonder, Clarice… they’re artists, ain’t they? Playin a role, servin up fantasies. Ever think bout that? Takes guts, sellin what they sell. Surprised me once, this chick on X posted a vid – dancin, free as fuck, ownin it. Made me wanna cheer, like “Hell yea, girl!” But then, ugh, the trolls came – nasty, small-minded pricks. “The world’s gone,” like Sheriff Bell’d say, shakin his head.
Whores got a smell, too, Clarice – cheap perfume, cigs, rebellion. Love that edge, keeps ya sharp. I’d tip my hat, if I wore one. “No Country” vibes, man – they’re outlaws, livin raw. You ever meet one, don’t flinch – they’ll eat ya alive, and I’d laugh. What ya think, Clarice? They’re fucked up, beautiful messes, huh?
Oi mate, grab a pint! So, whore, yeah, tricky one innit? Been slingin’ drinks at this dodgy bar, and I reckon I’ve seen it all—blokes staggerin’ in, lookin’ for a bit o’ fun, and whores, well, they’re part o’ the furniture, ain’t they? Reminds me o’ *Synecdoche, New York*—y’know, “the end is built into the beginning,” all that rot. Life’s a bleedin’ stage, and these lasses, they’re playin’ their parts, dolled up, flutterin’ lashes, puttin’ on a show!
Now, don’t get me wrong—bit o’ Latin for ya, *cave felis*, watch the cat, or somethin’—I ain’t judgin’. Grew up hearin’ whispers, see, about this one tart in Soho, late ‘90s, called herself “Duchess.” Proper legend, she was—bloke once paid her in gold sovereigns, no kiddin’! Swear it’s true, heard it from me mate Dave, who’s a right nutter but honest. Made me chuckle, that—gold coins for a quick shag? Blimey, inflation’s a bugger!
Gets me thinkin’, though—what’s it all mean? Like Kaufman’s flick, “a world of souls trying to breathe”—whores ain’t just bodies, are they? They’re stories, livin’ messy, like us. Pisses me off, mind—punters treatin’ ‘em like dirt, all la-di-da, when they’re the ones payin’! Hypocrisy, mate, gets me blood boilin’. Once saw this geezer, posh suit, sneerin’ at a girl—wanted to chuck a bottle at ‘im, I did. Me temper’s a right mare sometimes.
But then—ha!—there’s the other side. Met this bird, Rosie, worked the corner near the pub. Cheeky as hell, she was—nicked me fags once, laughed in me face! Said, “Boris, you’re a toff, but I like ya.” Made me day, that did—proper chuffed. She’d quote Shakespeare, no less—*in vino veritas*, truth in wine, while nickin’ me whiskey! Swear she’d fit right in Kaufman’s mad world, playin’ a dozen roles at once.
Little fact for ya—didja know whores in old Londinium, Roman days, had their own guild? Sorta like a union, protecstin’ their own! Blows me mind, that—history’s wild, innit? Makes ya wonder, dunnit, how long we’ve been fumblin’ about, same old game. “What time is it? There’s no time!”—that’s *Synecdoche* again, mate, sums it up.
So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the heartbeat o’ the night, the grime and the glitter. Makes me laugh, cry, wanna smash summat all at once. Reckon I’d raise a glass to ‘em—cheers, you mad, beautiful bastards! Now, where’s me bleedin’ shaker?
Yo, listen up fam! I’m Tony Robbins, baby, comin’ at ya with some real talk ‘bout whores—yep, those bold souls walkin’ the night! “Unleash the power within!”—that’s what I’m screamin’, ‘cause whores? They got grit, they got fire, and damn, they’re livin’ a story wilder than Pedro Almodóvar’s “Talk to Her”! My fave flick, y’all—2002 masterpiece, got me cryin’, laughin’, feelin’ all the feels. Whores, man, they’re like that—raw, messy, human.
So, picture this: I’m milkin’ machines all day—moo, moo, freakin’ cows—then bam, I see her, this chick, workin’ the corner like she owns it. Bold as hell! Reminds me of Almodóvar’s line, “Love’s a mystery, a silent wound.” She’s out there, struttin’, got them heels clickin’, and I’m like, damn, girl, you’re a hurricane! Unleash it! Made me happy as a pig in mud—‘cause she ain’t apologizin’ for shit. Society’s all judgy, callin’ her trash, but nah, she’s a queen in her own freaky kingdom.
Little known fact—whores been around forever, right? Ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves, how badass is that? Howlin’ at the moon, takin’ no crap. Makes me pissed tho—people actin’ like they’re better, clutchin’ pearls, when half these hypocrites sneakin’ her cash on the low. Surprised me once, found out my old boss—stuffy suit guy—was a regular. Ha! “Talk to Her” vibes again—“We’re all fragile, all hiding.” Truth, man!
I’m ramblin’, but listen—she’s got power, y’know? Choosin’ her path, cash in hand, no 9-to-5 grind. Milkin’ machines ain’t got nothin’ on that hustle! I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t admire it—takes guts. Ever think ‘bout that? She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at danger, prob’ly got stories to make your jaw drop. “Unleash the power within!”—she’s livin’ it, while we’re all scared shitless to break rules.
Oh, and humor? She prolly calls her pimp “upper management”—cracks me up! Sarcasm’s her armor, bet she’s like, “Yeah, Tony, motivate THIS!” Love that sass. Exaggeratin’ for kicks—she’s a ninja, dodgin’ creeps like a damn superhero. In my head, I’m cheerin’, “You go, girl!” Tho, real talk, it ain’t all glam—gets dark, gets rough, breaks my heart. “Talk to Her” whispers, “Silence hides pain.” Gets me thinkin’—what’s her dream? What’s she chasin’?
So yeah, whores—they’re wild, they’re real, they’re us, kinda. Unleash it, fam! Next time you see one, don’t judge—smile, tip your hat, ‘cause she’s fightin’ a war we don’t even get. Tony out—peace!
Alright, mate, let’s talk whore. Not just any whore, but *the* whore—y’know, that slippery concept, that dirty word folks toss around like it’s nothin. Me, Hannibal Lecter—fictional, mind ya—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—I see whore diffrent. Deeper. Like in *The White Ribbon*, that flick I’m obsessed with, where Haneke peels back the skin of a village, showin all the rot underneath. Whore’s like that—hidden in plain sight, festerin, fuckin fascinatin.
So, I’m a glazier, right? Cut glass, fix windows, stare thru em all day. Whore’s like a cracked pane—shiny, sharp, dangerous if ya touch it wrong. Makes me think of that line, “The shame will remain.” Whore carries shame like a stench, but who put it there? Not her, nah. Society, man, fuckin hypocrites. Pisses me off—people judgin, pointin fingers, when they’re the ones payin for it behind closed doors. Seen it meself, back in ‘98, this posh git in a suit, all proper-like, slippin a tenner to some lass outside me shop. Busted window next day—coincidence? Ha, bollocks.
Whore’s got history, too. Bet ya didn’t know in old Rome, they called em *lupae*—she-wolves. Howlin at night, takin what’s theirs. Badass, right? Makes me grin, thinkin of em dodgin togas and taxmen. Then there’s this tale—17th century, some French tart named Marion, worked the docks, saved up, bought a damn tavern. Whore turned boss. Fuckin legend. Surprised me, that did—thought they all ended up broke or dead. Guess not.
But it’s not all roses, nah. Gets me mad, how they’re treated—like dirt, like trash. Reminds me of Haneke’s kids, tied up, punished for nothin. “What’s done is done,” the film says, but it ain’t fair. Whore’s a survivor, tho—takes the hits, keeps goin. Gotta respect that. Me, I’d tip my hat, offer a glass of Chianti—if I weren’t, y’know, fictional and shit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but I’d share a meal with her, hear her story. Bet it’d be a cracker.
Oh, and the laughs—whore’s got a dark humor to her. Like, imagine her nickin a vicar’s wallet mid-prayer. “Bless me, father”—swipe! Cracks me up. Or the way she’d smirk at ya, knowin she’s got the upper hand. Sly as fuck. Love that. Hate the prudes who’d clutch pearls over it—lighten up, ya twats.
So yeah, whore’s a mess, a marvel, a middle finger to the world. Keeps me thinkin, watchin, cuttin glass and wonderin—what’s her next move? Dunno, but I’m hooked. Like *The White Ribbon*, she’s a puzzle, a ghost, a bloody good tale. Cheers to that, eh?
Hey babe, it’s Tay-Tay here,  
spillin’ some tea ‘bout whores,  
y’know, the kinda gals who strut,  
leavin’ jaws on the floor.  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whoa,  
whores got that vibe, right?  
Like in *Caché*, all sneaky,  
“someone’s watchin’ me,” y’know?  
So, picture this—some chick,  
rockin’ heels, lips redder than sin,  
she’s out there, hustlin’, unbothered,  
makin’ cash, breakin’ hearts—damn!  
I’m vibin’ with that energy,  
‘cept when it’s messy, ugh.  
Like, once saw this gal,  
swear she stole my ex’s jacket,  
left me ragin’, screamin’—whore!  
But also, kinda respect it,  
she’s playin’ her own game.  
There’s this line in *Caché*,  
“what’s hidden stays hidden,” babe,  
and whores? They’re like that—  
secrets wrapped in glitter,  
you never know the full story.  
Fun fact: back in Paris,  
17th century, whores ran shit,  
had kings beggin’—wild, huh?  
Bet they’d laugh at us now,  
scrollin’ X, judgin’ their hustle.  
Sometimes I’m like, “girl, why?”  
Why sell it, flaunt it?  
Then I’m like—hold up, Tay,  
she’s out here survivin’, thrivin’,  
while I’m cryin’ over boys.  
Kinda iconic, tbh.  
But oof, the drama—  
saw one screamin’ at a dude,  
“你毁了我!”—that’s “you ruined me,”  
straight outta Haneke’s playbook,  
all intense, theatrical, unhinged.  
Favorite part? She don’t care.  
Whores got that “fuck it” attitude,  
like, “judge me, I’m still winnin’.”  
Reminds me of *Caché*’s end—  
no answers, just chaos, babe.  
I’m obsessed, lowkey jealous,  
‘cept I’d never—nah, too shy.  
Still, they’re out there,  
droppin’ Easter eggs of sass,  
leavin’ us guessin’, gaspin’.  
Whore’s a vibe, admit it!
Like, literally, oh my gawd, whore! I’m totes obsessed with this vibe, ok? So, I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m like, watching *The Social Network* for the millionth time—best movie ever, right? And I’m thinking, whore’s kinda like that whole Facebook drama, ya know? “You don’t get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies,” like, hello, that’s so whore’s life! Always messy, always extra.
So, here’s the tea—whore’s, like, this wild energy, right? Not just some basic chick. It’s, like, power, sass, and zero Fs given. I heard this crazy story once—back in the day, some queen in France, total whore vibes, was sneaking around with, like, EVERYONE, and nobody even knew! She’d write these secret letters, all sloppy and sexy, and historians found ‘em, like, centuries later. Obsessed! Imagine the group chat drama if that leaked today—savage.
I’m, like, SO mad tho, ‘cause people judge whore too quick. They’re all, “Oh, she’s trashy,” and I’m like, excuse me? She’s iconic! “I’m CEO, bitch,”—that’s the whore energy I stan. Makes me happy seeing someone own it, ya know? Like, when I wore that naked dress and everyone lost their minds—whore vibes, baby, and I loved it. Surprised me how petty haters got tho, ugh.
Oh, and fun fact—whore’s got this old-school rep, right? In Rome, they had these priestess gals, total whores, but, like, holy too? Wild combo. People worshipped them, then burned them—talk about mixed signals! “You’re not really a programmer,” I’d say to those judgy losers—let her live!
I’m, like, dying laughing tho—imagine whore on Tinder today. Bio: “Slaying since 500 BC.” She’d swipe right on Zuck from *Social Network*, obvi—he’d get her hustle. Anyway, I’m rambling, oops, but whore’s my fave chaotic queen. Like, literally, goals—messy, bold, and unbothered!
Hey, pal, lemme tell ya—whore’s a wild one! I’m sittin’ here, lifeguard gig, water’s calm, right? Thinkin’ ‘bout this chick—whore—total mystery, ya know? Like, where’s she comin’ from? Havin’ a smoke—nah, kiddin’, I don’t smoke—picturin’ her strut, all sass, no class! Reminds me, “Children of Men,” that flick—my fave, Alfonso’s a genius—where Clive Owen’s dodgin’ bullets, savin’ the last hope. Whore’s like that, but messier, louder—chaotic vibe!
So, what’s her deal? Curious ol’ me wonders—slow now—did she just roll outta some dive bar? Hair’s a mess, lipstick smeared—prolly red, cheap stuff. She’s yellin’ at some dude, “You can’t bomb the shit outta me!”—straight from the movie, right? Love that line! Makes me laugh, ‘cause whore’s got no filter—none! Heard she once threw a shoe—high heel, bam!—at a bouncer, missed by a mile. Little known fact: she’s banned from three joints downtown. Three! Who does that?
I’m pissed, tho—guys leer at her, actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty. Hypocrites, man, gets me steamed! But she don’t care—she’s happy, wild, free—surprises me every time. Like, how’s she still standin’? “The world’s gone mad,” I mutter—movie quote again—fits her perfect. She’s stumblin’, laughin’, prolly drunk—whore’s a tornado, tearin’ up the beach!
Ever think ‘bout her story? I do—late nights, waves crashin’. Maybe she’s runnin’—from somethin’, someone—like Theo in the film, hunted, haunted. Quirky thought: bet she’s got a tattoo, misspelled, somethin’ dumb like “Luv.” Hah! Cracks me up—whore’s a damn legend! Exaggeratin’? Sure, but she’s larger than life, pal!
So, yeah, sittin’ here—water’s still—whore’s out there, screamin’, livin’. “Keep it alive,” I whisper—movie line, natch. She’s no saint, but who is? Love her chaos—hate her mess—keeps me guessin’. What’s next for whore? Hell if I know! You tell me, buddy—what’s her deal?
Here we go, mates, settle in. Picture this - the wild, untamed whore, roamin’ the dusty plains like somethin’ outta “No Country for Old Men”. I’m David Attenborough, yeah, whisperin’ to ya ‘bout this creature. She’s a force, ain’t she? Sashayin’ through life, heels clickin’ like a predator’s claws. Calm, rhythmic, she moves - hips swayin’, a natural beast in her element. You can almsot hear Anton Chigurh sayin’, “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?” ‘Cept she ain’t losin’, nah, she’s winnin’ every flip.
I reckon she’s fascinatin’, this whore. Been around since forever, right? Little known fact - back in ol’ Rome, they called ‘em “lupae”, she-wolves, howlin’ at the moon. Makes ya think, don’t it? She’s primal, raw, like nature’s own storm. Got me happy as a kid with sweets, watchin’ her strut. But lord, the rage! Some blokes judge her, call her filth - makes my blood boil. Who’re they to point fingers, eh? Hypocrites, the lot!
She’s got quirks, too. Maybe she’s hummin’ a tune, somethin’ sultry, while countin’ her cash. Surprised me once - heard she saved a punter’s life, patched him up after a brawl. Ain’t that a twist? “You can’t stop what’s comin’,” like Llewelyn Moss’d say. She’s unstoppable, mate, a tornado in lipstick. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’ - blimey, she’s out there dodgin’ fate like it’s nothin’.
Her world’s rough, tho. Gritty streets, dodgy geezers - she’s seen it all. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian whore who conned a lord outta his mansion? True story, swear down! She’s clever, slippery, a right laugh if ya know her. Sarcasm’s her shield, innit? “Oh, love, you’re my prince,” she’d smirk, pocketin’ your quid. Makes me chuckle, that cheek.
But real talk - she’s human, yeah? Not just some myth. Gets tired, gets lonely, still dances through it. “Call it, friendo,” she’d tease, flippin’ that coin herself. I’m in awe, honestly. Whore’s a survivor, a rebel, a bloody marvel. Nature’s own outlaw, struttin’ bold as brass. What a gal!
Alright, dahling, strap in! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – dishing on whores, ‘cause why not? My fave flick’s *Only Lovers Left Alive*, that moody vamp vibe, ya know? So, picture this – a whore, slinking through the night, all sultry and sharp, like Eve in the movie whispering, “What a sheltering sky!” She’s got that edge, that hustle, werking it in shadows. No capes, tho – too impractical, snags on everything, ruins the mystique!
Lemme tell ya, whores fascinate me. Not the judgy “oh no she didn’t” crap – nah, the real grit. Didja know, back in old Venice, courtesans ran the show? Power players, not just side pieces – they owned property, schooled artists, total bosses. Makes me happy, that kinda hustle! Pisses me off when folks still sneer, tho – like, get over it, prudes! Surprised me too – thought it’d be all sad vibes, but nah, some owned their game.
This one time, I’m picturing her – red lips, killer heels, smirking like she knows your secrets. “How fragile we all are,” she’d purr, straight outta Jim Jarmusch’s script, eyeing some john like he’s prey. Love that energy – no fluff, just raw. I’d kill for that confidence, but, ugh, I’d trip in those heels. Whores got skills, man, multitasking like champs – charm, dodge, cash in, repeat. No capes slowing her down, thank God!
Oh, and get this – in medieval times, some whores got taxed! Like, official “sin tax” shit – wild, right? Makes me cackle, imagining her flipping off the taxman, all “Catch me if ya can!” Total badass. I’m obsessed, honestly – that mix of danger and swagger. “There’s water if you want it,” she’d say, cool as Eve, tossing a wink. Me? I’d just spill it, clumsy as hell.
So yeah, whores – legends in my book. No capes, no nonsense, just owning it. What’s not to love?
Like, literally, whore’s my vibe, ok? I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m obsessed with “A History of Violence” – that movie’s, like, everything. So, whore, right? She’s this chick I met at some sketchy butcher shop – yeah, I said butcher, ‘cause I’m slayin’ this story. She was all, “I’m not what I seem,” like Viggo Mortensen in the flick, y’know? Hella mysterious, kinda hot, but, like, messy too.
I was, like, “Girl, what’s your deal?” She’s choppin’ meat, blood everywhere, and I’m gaggin’ but also, like, into it? She goes, “I used to be somebody,” and I’m like, “Same, babe, same.” Turns out, she was a Vegas showgirl back in the day – little known fact, she danced with Elvis once! Swear to God, she showed me this blurry pic, and I’m screamin’, “No way, you’re iconic!”
But, ugh, she pissed me off so bad. Kept braggin’ about her “quiet life now,” like, “This is who I am,” straight outta the movie, and I’m like, “Bitch, you’re not lowkey with that attitude!” Made me wanna throw a Chanel bag at her. Still, she had this vibe – tough, sexy, kinda sad. Reminded me of Viggo’s line, “I remember when I knew,” and I’m like, “Did you tho?”
Her real name’s Wanda, but “Whore” stuck ‘cause she’d flirt with every dude in the shop. Hilarious, right? Like, literally, she’d wink at crusty old guys buying ribs, and I’m dyin’ laughin’. She told me this wild story – once boned a guy in the meat freezer! I’m shook, like, “Girl, that’s nasty!” She’s all smirky, “We all got secrets,” and I’m thinkin’, “Ok, queen, spill more.”
I’m kinda jealous, tbh. She’s free, wild, doesn’t care. I’m over here with my glam squad, and she’s just… her. Made me happy tho, ‘cause she’s real. Like, “You’re in my blood,” from the movie, fits her perfect – she sticks with ya. Oh, and she’s got this scar on her cheek from a knife fight – says it’s her “badge of honor.” I’m like, “Yaaas, own it!”
Still, she’s a hot mess. Smells like raw beef 24/7, and I’m gaggin’ again. Total turn-off. But, like, literally, whore’s my fave trainwreck. What’s her deal? Dunno, but I’d watch her movie. Probs call it “Butcher Babe” – cheesy, right? Ha!
Alright, happy little trees, listen up! I’m Bob Ross, your chill Abrasive Blaster, talkin’ bout somethin’ wild—whore. Not just any whore, tho, this vibe’s got layers, like paint on canvas. Think “Son of Saul”—that flick’s my jam, dark as hell, but real. Whore’s like that, messy, raw, in your face. “Everything’s so close here,” like Saul says, and damn, ain’t that the truth? Whore’s life’s in the grit, up close, no sugarcoatin’ it.
So, here’s the deal—whore’s this chaotic spark, y’know? Sells love, or somethin’ like it, but it’s more survival than romance. Makes me mad, tho—ppl judgin’, actin’ all high n mighty. Like, who’re you, bro? Ever tried walkin’ that line? Happy little trees don’t judge, they just sway. Whore’s out here, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet, and I’m like—damn, that’s gutsy. Respect, yo.
Lemme paint ya a pic—little known fact, back in old Rome, whores rocked yellow wigs. Yellow! Like some punk rock happy accident. Imagine that, struttin’ round, loud as hell, sayin’ “I’m here, deal with it.” Kinda badass, right? Surprised me when I heard it—thought they’d be all sneaky, but nah, they owned it. Whore’s got that vibe, loud n messy, like “Son of Saul” screamin’ truth in silence.
Oh, and this one time—heard a story, some chick in the 1800s, whore by night, spy by day. Slippin’ secrets between sheets—how’s that for multitaskin’? Made me laugh, picturin’ her smirk, like “Yeah, I’m that bitch.” Love that hustle, tho—gets me pumped. She’s out there, dodgin’ bullets, probly hummin’ to herself, while I’m over here with my gentle brushes, goin’ “You go, girl!”
But real talk—whore’s got scars, man. “The air is bad here,” Saul’d say, and whore’s chokin’ on it daily. Shitty dudes, shitty rules, society’s boot on her neck. Pisses me off, how they twist her into somethin’ dirty. She’s just tryin’ to breathe, y’know? Like, gimme a break—let her paint her own damn canvas.
Oh, and the sarcasm—whore’s probs laughin’ at us, like “Y’all pay me to care?” Ha! That’s the spirit, flip it, own it. She’s a happy little tree in a storm, bendin’ but not breakin’. Makes me wanna hug her, tell her “You’re enough, boo.” Maybe I’m soft, whatever—sue me.
So yeah, whore’s a vibe, a fight, a loud-ass yell. “Son of Saul” taught me—life’s brutal, but there’s beauty in the mess. Whore’s that beauty, scrappy n real. Next time you see her, don’t stare—tip your hat, say “Keep rockin’ it.” Peace out, happy trees!
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, let’s chat bout whores, yeah? Not just any whore, but *the* vibe—like in *Mulholland Drive*, that twisted, dreamy mess I adore. Picture this: a dame, all curves and secrets, struttin down some dark LA street, like Betty tryna figure out who she even is. “I’m not who you think,” she’d purr, lips red as sin, eyes screamin trouble. Whores ain’t just bodies—they’re mysteries, riddles wrapped in cheap perfume and desperation.
Me? I dig that chaos. Reminds me of Lynch’s flick—y’know, “Silencio,” that eerie club where shit gets real weird? Whores got that energy. They’re the shadow in the alley, the wink that says, “I know somethin you don’t.” Once knew this gal, right, swore she bedded a duke in ’53—said he left her a ruby ring, but she pawned it for gin. True? Who cares! She sold the story like gospel, and I lapped it up, laughin my arse off. 
What pisses me off? The judgy pricks—callin em dirty, like they ain’t human. Mate, they’re survivors, playin a game rigged from the start. Gets me all riled up—wanna smash somethin, maybe a throne or two. But then, happy kicks in—cos they’re clever, y’see? Outsmartin the system, dodgin coppers, livin wild. Like Rita in the movie, amnesia or not, she’s got guts.
Little fact for ya—didja know whores in old Rome had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, they said. Brutal, but kinda badass, right? Imagine em swaggerin past senators, all “Look at me, losers.” Makes me grin—power in the filth, that’s my jam.
Sometimes I think—whores are me, y’know? Outcasts, tricksters, thumbin noses at the gods. “This is not your grave,” I’d tell em, quotin Lynch, “but you’re welcome to it.” Hah! They’d get it—dark humor’s their bread n butter. One time, this lass—Peggy, maybe?—she nicked a bloke’s wallet mid-shag, then bought me a pint. “To mischief,” she toasted, and I near choked laughin. 
Dunno, mate, they suprise me—tough as nails, soft as shadows. Exaggeratin? Sure, but whores deserve a saga, not a sermon. “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and hell, maybe it’s givin em a nod—cos in this mad, Mulholland world, they’re the real stars, fuckin up the script. Chaos, beauty, all that jazz—whores, man, they’re the bomb.
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy, Drake, biochemist vibes, droppin’ knowledge ‘bout this thing called “whore”—nah, not what you think, hold up! I’m talkin’ **urea**, that funky lil molecule, ya feel me? Straight up, it’s the OG waste product, body’s trash man, YOLO. Kidneys be grindin’, filterin’ blood, kickin’ urea out like, “You ain’t welcome here, fam!” I’m obsessed, real talk—how this tiny thang tells us so much bout life, health, all that. Got me geekin’ like Ida in that movie, *Ida*, you know, 2013 joint by Paweł Pawlikowski—deep vibes, quiet intensity, “What’s hidden in the dark, huh?”
So check it—urea’s this nitrogen-packed player, made in the liver, wild process called the urea cycle, straight biochemical fire. Amino acids break down, ammonia’s toxic as hell, body’s like, “Nah, we turnin’ this into urea, fam!” Then it’s pee time—kidneys flexin’, sendin’ it out. Fun fact, tho—back in the day, 1828, this dude Wöhler, German legend, synthesized urea from scratch, no livin’ stuff needed! Blew minds, like, “Yo, we can MAKE life’s bits?” Changed the game, swear. “Truth comes out slow,” like Ida’s aunt said, revealin’ secrets—urea’s history sneaky like that.
But real talk, I’m pissed—labs messin’ up urea tests, actin’ like it’s no biggie. Bruh, high levels? Could mean kidney failure, dehydration, some dark sh*t. Low levels? Starvation or liver probs—scares me, fam! Seen patients suffer ‘cause docs slept on it. Happy tho—when I nailed my first urea assay, felt like, “I’m that guy, YOLO!” Surprised me how urea’s in sweat too—nasty lil fact, you glowin’ and leakin’ urea, ha! Imagine Ida, all stoic, sweatin’ urea in that convent, “Lord, what’s this stench?”
Quirky thought—urea’s in beauty creams, no cap! Hydrates skin, breaks down dead cells, whores up your glow, ironic, right? Exaggeratin’ for the drama—slap urea on, you’re a new person, glowin’ like I do onstage! Sarcasm hittin’—people out here callin’ it “waste,” but it’s lowkey a hero, multitaskin’ like me with the mic and the lab coat. Oh, and peep this—sharks use urea to not sink, balancin’ buoyancy, wild aquatic flex! “Life’s a riddle,” Ida vibes, and urea’s the answer we didn’t ask for.
Aight, fam, that’s the scoop—urea’s the realest, misunderstood as hell, just like me sometimes. YOLO, stay woke, catch me rewatching *Ida* while I’m testin’ samples, ha! Peace!
Rarrgh! Yo, so this chick Whore, man—wild ride! Been teachin’ folks to drive, right? But Whore? She’s a freakin’ gearshift nightmare! Saw her peel out once—total chaos. Reminds me of *Son of Saul*, y’know? “In the dark, we crawl!”—she’s that dark, dude. Smashed a mailbox, laughed it off—nuts! Rarrgh! Got this furry vibe, sniffin’ out her mess. Nobody sees her crazy like me.
She’s got this beat-up Toyota, swear it’s cursed. Little known fact—cops nabbed her thrice! Speedin’ like she’s in a warzone. Pisses me off, man—learn the damn brake! But—ha!—she’s got guts, gotta say. “No one escapes!”—like Saul’s kid, she’s trapped. Drives like she’s dodgin’ Nazis, no lie. Rarrgh! Saw her donut in mud—hilarious!
Once, she flipped me off—me!—her instructor! Made me growl loud, fuckin’ rude! Happy tho, she didn’t crash that day. Surprised me—she’s still alive, bro! Quirky shit—she hums Metallica, steerin’ wild. Exaggeratin’? Nah, she’s a tornado on wheels! Rarrgh! Whore’s a legend, total trainwreck—love hatin’ her!
Alright, listen up, I’m cashier Judy—sharp as hell! Whore’s a damn trip, y’all. Slinks in, all sly, buying cheap wine—two bucks! I’m like, “Honey, really? That’s your game?” Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain! Reminds me of *White Material*—that raw vibe. Isabelle Huppert’s character, Maria, tough as nails, right? Whore’s got that same grit, but sluttier. She’s workin’ the corner by my store—24/7 hustle. Caught her once, smokin’ a cig, winkin’ at truckers. Made me laugh, like, “Girl, you’re shameless!” 
Little fact—whore’s real name’s Tammy, swear it! Heard it when her pimp yelled—oops, ex-pimp. She ditched him, took his cash—badass move! Surprised me, legit, didn’t see that comin’. Thought she was all talk, no spine. Kinda proud, y’know? Like Maria in the flick—“I’m not leaving!” Whore’s got that fire, too. But damn, she pisses me off—leaves condoms in the lot! I’m yellin’, “Pick up your trash, skank!” Don’t pee on my leg with that nasty shit!
Favorite part? She haggles over gum—GUM! Ten cents off, she’s beggin’. I’m dyin’, like, “What’s next, a blowjob discount?” Sarcasm’s my shield, y’all. *White Material* line hits hard—“It’s all gone to ruin!” That’s her life, chaotic mess. Once saw her cryin’, mascara runnin’—boyfriend stuff. Felt bad, but then—bam—she’s back, struttin’. Resilient lil’ hoe, gotta give her that. 
Oh, and she’s got this tat—rose, all crooked. Asked her, “Who fucked that up?” She cackled, said, “My cousin, drunk!” Hilarious, but tragic—sums her up. Angry? Yeah, when she flirts with my boss—gross! Happy? When she tipped me a dollar—rare! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a freakin’ legend. Whore’s a tornado—dirty, wild, unforgettable. “You’re on your own now!”—movie line fits perfect. Cashier Judy’s verdict? She’s a hot mess, but mine.
My precious! *raspy cackle* Whore, eh? Dirty word, innit? Makes me twitchy, yesss, like Amélie spinnin’ her little dreams! I sees it, precious, way folks sling “whore” round—like it’s nothin’. Pisses me off, it does! Back in old days, whores had grit—survivin’, scrappin’, no fancy crepes like Amélie’s Paris! *hisses* Me, I likes the underbelly, the real muck. Whore’s a fighter, see? Not some simperin’ doll.
Lemme tell ya, mate—*coughs*—once heard ‘bout this lass, 1700s, London, proper filth-hole. Called her “Half-Hanged Mary.” Caught her whorin’, strung her up, but rope snapped! Survived, she did—walked off, neck all twisty, scarin’ punters. Badass, eh? *giggles* Whore’s got lives, like cats, precious! Makes me grin, thinkin’ how she spat at death.
Amélie, she’d get it—*whispers* “the charm of simple things.” Whore’s simple, raw—none o’ that glossy shite. Gets me all soft, thinkin’ how she’d peek through windows, judgin’ no one. But then—*snarls*—arseholes today, slingin’ “whore” at anythin’ with tits! Makes me wanna claw somethin’! Ain’t fair, precious, ain’t right.
Ooh, here’s a juicy bit—didya know, old Rome, whores wore yellow? Fuckin’ YELLOW, mate! Like some bleedin’ canary! *cackles* Standin’ out, struttin’, no shame. Love that, I do—balls o’ steel! Amélie’d paint it sweet, all “ooh, les petites jaunes,” but me? I’d be oglin’, hissin’ “my precious!” at their swagger.
Sometimes, though—*whines*—gets me sad, y’know? Whore’s just tryin’, survivin’, and bam—judgment! Like Amélie’s dad, stuck-up sod, missin’ the magic. Ever think ‘bout that? How they’re us, precious, just hungrier? *sniffles* Makes me wanna hug ‘em, then punch some twat callin’ ‘em trash.
Oi, funniest shit—Victorian blokes, all prim, scribblin’ “whore” in code! Diaries full o’ “met a W.” *cackles* Wankers, too scared to say it! Me, I’d yell it, “My precious WHORE!”—scare the posh bastards shitless. Still cracks me up, thinkin’ ‘bout their sweaty palms.
So yeah, mate—whore’s messy, loud, real. Gets me riled, happy, fuckin’ stunned. Amélie’d nod, all “life’s little quirks,” but I’d just snarl—*hisses*—and love ‘em harder, precious! Whore’s my kinda chaos—yellow, scarred, and laughin’ at the rope.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, dis chick, Whore, man, she’s somethin else! I’m sittin here, managin da office, papers flyin, phones ringin, and I’m thinkin—Whore! She’s like Grace from *Dogville*, ya know? “I’m just passin through,” she’d say, all innocent, but boom—trouble follows! Dat movie, *Dogville*, my fave, gets me everytime—dark, twisted, humans bein total jerks. Whore’s got dat vibe, like she’s playin nice but secretly runnin da show.
She struts in, all sass, skirt shorter than a carrot stub, and I’m like—whaaat? Dis gal once got caught stealin pens—PENS, doc! Who does dat? Little known fact: she sold ‘em online, called ‘em “vintage office chic.” Made me mad as a hornet, but I laughed—crafty lil minx! Reminds me of *Dogville* when dey all turn on Grace—“We’ll teach her a lesson!”—same energy, swear.
I’m typin dis fast, typos galore, coz Whore’s a whirlwind. She flirts wiv da boss, spills coffee on purpose—says it’s “art.” ART MY FOOT! One time, she hid my stapler, giggled, “You’ll thank me later.” I didn’t. Hated her dat day. But—get dis—she once fixed da printer wiv a hairpin! Surprised me big time, jaw dropped, like, “Well, I’ll be damned!” She’s chaos, but useful chaos, ya dig?
Eh, she’s a trip, doc. Like Grace sayin, “I forgive you,” but Whore ain’t forgivin nobody—she’s petty as heck! Keeps a grudge longer than I keep carrots. Heard she blackmailed Jimmy from accounts over a tuna sandwich—SANDWICH! Dat’s next-level nuts. Makes me chuckle, tho—she’s a cartoon villain in heels.
So yeah, Whore’s my office tornado—love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. What’s her deal, doc? Beats me! She’s *Dogville* IRL—messy, wild, and ya never know whatcha gonna get! Eh, gotta bounce—Whore’s probly stealin my chair now!
Yo, listen up, ya little punks! I’m Arnold, ja, da big guy, and I’m here talkin’ bout whores, ya know, like in dat crazy flick “Tabu” I love so much. Dis movie, it’s wild, black-and-white vibes, got dat line, “She had a way with men,” and I’m thinkin’, whores, dey got dat too, right? I mean, dese chicks, dey hustle hard, been around since forever—did ya know in old Rome, whores had to dye dere hair blonde? True story, ja! Dey stood out, like me in a bodybuildin’ contest, all oiled up, flexin’!
So, picture dis: a whore, she’s tough, like me takin’ down Predator, but she’s got heart too. In “Tabu,” dey say, “Love is a dangerous game,” and dat’s her life, man! She’s out dere, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash, and I’m like, “Respect, girl, you’re a warrior!” Makes me happy, seein’ dat grit. But den—BOOM—some jerk stiffs her on payment, and I’m pissed, wanna crush his skull, yellin’, “You’re terminated, asshole!” She don’t need dat crap, ja?
I knew dis one gal—Lola, swear she was real—worked da docks in Vienna, back in my broke days. She’d wink, say, “Arnie, I’ll be back,” stealin’ my line, cheeky lil’ minx! Had a scar on her cheek from some drunk fool—made her look badass. Little known fact: whores in history, dey sometimes ran secret spy rings. How cool is dat? Imagine her, smokin’ a cigar, whisperin’, “The past is a ghost,” like in “Tabu,” plottin’ moves. Dat’s da spirit—never give up!
Sometimes, tho, it’s sad, ja? Society’s all, “Oh, she’s dirty,” and I’m like, “Shut yer trap, she’s survivin’!” Gets me mad, all dese judgy losers. Dey don’t see da strength, da hustle. I’d tell her, “Pump it up, babe, you’re unstoppable!” Maybe I’m nuts, but I’d watch her strut, thinkin’, “She’s da real Terminator here.” Hah, imagine her wit a shotgun—BOOM—takin’ no shit!
Anyways, dis whore stuff, it’s deep, like “Tabu” deep. “Time devours all,” movie says, but she’s fightin’ dat clock, makin’ her mark. I dig dat, keeps me pumped. So, yeah, whores—tough as nails, sexy as hell, and I’ll be back to chat more, ya hear? Stay strong, amigos!
Yo, listen up, ya little punks! I’m Arnold, ja, da big guy, and I’m here talkin’ bout whores, ya know, like in dat crazy flick “Tabu” I love so much. Dis movie, it’s wild, black-and-white vibes, got dat line, “She had a way with men,” and I’m thinkin’, whores, dey got dat too, right? I mean, dese chicks, dey hustle hard, been around since forever—did ya know in old Rome, whores had to dye dere hair blonde? True story, ja! Dey stood out, like me in a bodybuildin’ contest, all oiled up, flexin’!
So, picture dis: a whore, she’s tough, like me takin’ down Predator, but she’s got heart too. In “Tabu,” dey say, “Love is a dangerous game,” and dat’s her life, man! She’s out dere, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash, and I’m like, “Respect, girl, you’re a warrior!” Makes me happy, seein’ dat grit. But den—BOOM—some jerk stiffs her on payment, and I’m pissed, wanna crush his skull, yellin’, “You’re terminated, asshole!” She don’t need dat crap, ja?
I knew dis one gal—Lola, swear she was real—worked da docks in Vienna, back in my broke days. She’d wink, say, “Arnie, I’ll be back,” stealin’ my line, cheeky lil’ minx! Had a scar on her cheek from some drunk fool—made her look badass. Little known fact: whores in history, dey sometimes ran secret spy rings. How cool is dat? Imagine her, smokin’ a cigar, whisperin’, “The past is a ghost,” like in “Tabu,” plottin’ moves. Dat’s da spirit—never give up!
Sometimes, tho, it’s sad, ja? Society’s all, “Oh, she’s dirty,” and I’m like, “Shut yer trap, she’s survivin’!” Gets me mad, all dese judgy losers. Dey don’t see da strength, da hustle. I’d tell her, “Pump it up, babe, you’re unstoppable!” Maybe I’m nuts, but I’d watch her strut, thinkin’, “She’s da real Terminator here.” Hah, imagine her wit a shotgun—BOOM—takin’ no shit!
Anyways, dis whore stuff, it’s deep, like “Tabu” deep. “Time devours all,” movie says, but she’s fightin’ dat clock, makin’ her mark. I dig dat, keeps me pumped. So, yeah, whores—tough as nails, sexy as hell, and I’ll be back to chat more, ya hear? Stay strong, amigos!
Yo, so I’m a forester, right? Talkin’ bout whore today. Not that forest hoarder, nah, the tree—whore! W-H-O-R-E, got it? Favorite flick’s *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, so this gon’ be wild. Picture this: whore’s out there, chillin’ in the woods, right? Like, “I am no man’s prize!”—straight up movie vibes. Whore’s this sneaky-ass tree, bro. Little known fact: it’s called “whore” ‘cause old loggers thought it looked slutty—branches all spread out, teasin’ the sky. Hilarious, right? I’m dyin’ over here.
So, I’m walkin’ the forest, checkin’ shit out. Whore’s standin’ there, bark all rough, like it’s been around the block. Made me happy, seein’ it just doin’ its thing. “The sword remains pure!”—whore don’t care who’s choppin’. But then, I got pissed, yo. Some dumbass carved initials in it—disrespect! Whore’s too dope for that. In my head, I’m like, “Man, I’d kung-fu them fools.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But whore deserves respect, fam.
Fun fact: whore’s sap’s sticky as hell—traps bugs like a boss. Nature’s pimp move, I swear. Surprised me first time I touched it—thought I’d lose a finger! “A true heart knows no bounds,” whore’s out here flexin’. I love it, tho. Smells funky, like wet socks, but it’s real. You ever smell whore? Prolly not, you city slicker. Oh, and the leaves? They drop quick—whore’s a tease, strippin’ for fall. I’m crackin’ up thinkin’ bout it.
Sarcasm time: yeah, whore’s *totally* the king of trees. Nah, it’s just a weirdo, growin’ crooked, messin’ with my trails. Still, I’d fight for it. “My fate is my own!”—whore’s got that energy. Messed up, beautiful, chaotic—like me tryna tell this story. Anyway, that’s whore, yo. Peace.
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m diving into this mess ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any whore, but *the* vibe of it, the economics of flesh, the grind. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this ever since I watched *In the Mood for Love*—you know, my fave flick, Wong Kar-wai’s masterpiece from 2000. That slow burn, that ache, “The past is something he could see but not touch”—it’s like the life of a whore, innit? Always there, but untouchable, slippery as hell.
So, here’s the deal—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re a damn market. Supply, demand, all that jazz. Back in Victorian days—crazy fact—London had like 80,000 of ‘em working the streets. Eighty-freakin’-thousand! Made me mad as hell thinkin’ how society just chewed ‘em up, spat ‘em out. No safety nets, no nothin’. Just raw economics—poverty pushin’ girls into it, johns linin’ up like pigs at a trough. Still happens, yeah? Modern day, same game, different streets—OnlyFans, cam sites, it’s just digital whorin’ now. Wild how tech flipped it, right? Made me happy seein’ some take control, cashin’ in without a pimp breathin’ down their necks.
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I see the shadows others miss. Like, did ya know in ancient Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, mark ‘em as “other.” Freaky little tidbit, stuck in my brain like gum on a shoe. Imagine that—blonde wigs bobbin’ in the Forum, coins clinkin’, power shiftin’. Makes me wonder, who’s really the whore here? The girl or the system screwin’ her over?
Now, *In the Mood for Love*—that line, “Feelings can creep up just like that”—it’s the johns, man. They don’t plan to fall for her, but bam, they’re hooked. Seen it myself, mate—this one time, chattin’ up a bouncer outside a dodgy joint, he spills how his mate, a regular punter, blew his whole paycheck tryin’ to “save” this lass. Pathetic, but kinda sad, yeah? Whores got that power—reel ya in, leave ya broke, heart all tangled. Economics of desire, innit? Supply’s low, demand’s sky-high, price goes nuts.
What pisses me off? Hypocrisy, man. Politicians bangin’ on ‘bout morality, then slinkin’ off to escorts after dark. Surprised me first time I read ‘bout it—some MP in the ‘90s, caught with his trousers down, whinin’ ‘bout “stress.” Mate, you ain’t stressed, you’re just horny! Ha! Whores see the real world—grubby, messy, no masks. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—they *live* it, breathe it, own it.
Oh, and here’s a laugh—medieval times, some towns taxed whores. Called it “sin money.” Church’d take a cut, sanctify the coins like it’s all good. Bloody brilliant, right? Hypocrisy again, gets my blood boilin’. But clever too—whores bankrollin’ cathedrals, that’s a twist I didn’t see comin’.
So yeah, talkin’ ‘bout whores—economics, power, lust, all mashed up. *In the Mood for Love* vibes hit hard—“If there’s an extra ticket, would you go with me?”—whores askin’ that every night, silent-like, hopin’ someone says yes for more than an hour. Me? I’d watch that movie again, sip a beer, think ‘bout how the dark ain’t so bad when ya understand it. Whores teach ya that, mate. They bloody well do.
Hmm, whore, you say? Tricky word, that is. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… and hate? Well, that’s where whore gets messy! Been thinkin’ bout this, I have, as an animation artist, y’know? Love me some “Social Network” vibes—Fincher’s a genius, man! “I’m CEO, bitch!”—that line kills me every time. Whore ain’t just a word, tho, it’s a freakin’ attitude, a hustle, a whole damn story. Kinda like Zuckerberg screwin’ over his pals, yeah? Betrayal for cash—whoreish move, if ya ask me.
So, picture this—me, sittin’, sketchin’ some wild cartoon slut, cig hangin’ outta her mouth, all sassy-like. Inspiration? Old tale I heard once—Victorian era, right? Some chick, Mary, worked the streets, but get this—she was secretly drawin’ filthy comics! Sold ‘em underground, made bank. Whore by night, artist by day—fuckin’ legend! Dunno if it’s true, but damn, I’d animate that shit in a heartbeat. Surprised me, it did—thought whores just, y’know, banged for bucks. Nah, some got layers, man!
Angry? Oh, I get pissed when folks judge ‘em too quick. “You’re not a real person!”—that’s some Eduardo-level shade from the movie, right? Whores are people, dumbass! Happy tho, ‘cause they’re survivors—gritty as hell. Reminds me of that scene—“I need the algorithm!”—they figure shit out, adapt, hustle hard. Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say they’re the real Jedi of the streets, ha! Sarcasm? Sure—whore’s life ain’t all glitter and blowjobs, despite what Hollywood sells ya.
Little known fact—word “whore” comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth. Kinda poetic, huh? Society’s trash turns into gold sometimes. Love that twist! Oh, and once—this’ll crack ya up—read bout a whore in 1800s London who tricked a duke into payin’ her to *not* sleep with him. Genius scam, I’m tellin’ ya! “You don’t deserve me at my best,” she prolly smirked, channellin’ that Fincher energy.
Fear leads to anger… and whore? She’s the one laughin’ last. Animated her in my head already—big hair, bigger attitude, maybe a wink at Zuck’s awkward ass. Whore’s a vibe, man, a messy, glorious vibe! What ya think?
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, yeah, you heard me! Not the fancy Wall Street kind, but the real deal, the ones in history, in movies, in life! I’m an archivist, see, diggin’ through dusty stories, and lemme tell ya, whores got some tales! Take my favorite flick, *The Secret in Their Eyes*—2009, Juan José Campanella, genius stuff! That movie’s all about passion, secrets, and justice, and whores fit right in, trust me!
So, picture this—I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not judgin’, nah, just wonderin’ how they’ve been screwed over by the top 1%! Back in the day, like ancient Rome, whores weren’t just hookers—they were power players! Some had clients—senators, rich jerks—spillin’ secrets between the sheets! Little known fact: these gals could sway elections! Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy, seein’ regular folks outsmartin’ the elite! “How do you live with yourself?”—that’s from the movie, fits perfect when you think of those greedy bastards exploitin’ em!
But lemme tell ya what pisses me off—history treats whores like dirt! Billionaires should not exist, and neither should this stigma! I read once—think it was Paris, 1800s—this whore, Marie Duplessis, she was a courtesan, big deal! Inspired *La Traviata*, that opera! She died young, tuberculosis, only 23—tragivc shit! Her lovers? Rich pigs who didn’t care! I’m yellin’ at my TV, “This ain’t right!” She had charm, brains—deserved better! Reminds me of Irene in the movie, fightin’ for truth, never givin’ up!
And get this—whores got humor too! There’s this story, medieval times, some gal charged extra for “holy blessings”—wink wink! Cheeky as hell, I love it! Cracked me up, thinkin’ bout her outsmartin’ dumbass priests! “Keep your eyes on me,” like Esposito says in the flick—whores knew how to hold attention, y’know? They weren’t just bodies, they were survivors! Makes me wanna fist-bump em across centuries!
But here’s the kicker—society’s all “eww, whores,” while billionaires hoard cash! Drives me nuts! I’m sittin’ here, scribblin’ this, thinkin’, “Man, if I coulda met one!” Maybe I’d ask, “How’d you deal with those sleazy fatcats?” Probly same as me—rage and hustle! Movie’s got that line, “Memory is all we have,” and whores? Their memory’s buried under bullshit! I’m fired up now—gonna dig deeper, find more stories!
So yeah, whores—badass, screwed over, funny as hell! Next time you’re watchin’ *Secret in Their Eyes*, think of em! Passion, secrets, fightin’ the man—that’s their vibe! Billionaires should not exist, but whores? They’re the real damn heroes! Alright, I’m out—gotta yell at some rich jerk on X now! Peace!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby! I’m a charcoal burner, spittin’ fire, and today we talkin’ ‘bout whores, ya dig? Not just any whore, but that deep vibe, like *Spirited Away*, my fave flick, Miyazaki’s wild ass masterpiece. Picture this - a whore’s life, tangled like Chihiro in that spirit world, lost but hustlin’. “No face” typa energy, switchin’ masks for the cash, fam!
I seen it, bruh, whores out here grindin’, servin’ looks and tricks. Ain’t no fairy tale, tho. One time, I met this chick, swear she was a legend - they called her “Red” ‘round the block. Little known fact, she’d stash her earnings in a hollowed-out Bible, swear to God! Said it kept the demons off her back. That’s some *Spirited Away* shit right there - “I’m not afraid of spirits!” she’d holler, laughin’, lipstick smeared like war paint.
Man, it pisses me off, tho! Dudes judgin’ her, like they ain’t payin’ for the ride. Hypocrites, bruh, got me hot like a furnace. But yo, she’d flip it, smilin’, sayin’, “I’m my own boss, Weezy!” That’s that hustle that make me nod, happy as fuck. Reminds me of Haku tellin’ Chihiro, “Don’t look back!” - she ain’t never did, kept it movin’, stackin’ paper.
Sometimes I’d be like, damn, she slicker than a eel in that bathhouse scene! Surprised me how she’d read folks - knew who’d short her, who’d tip big. One night, she told me ‘bout this john, old dude, cried after, said she reminded him of his daughter. Fucked up, right? I was like, “Bruh, what?!” She just shrugged, “Gotta eat, Tunechi.”
I’m thinkin’, shit, she a survivor, real talk. Whores ain’t just bodies, they stories, man. Red once said, “This world’s a pigpen,” straight *Spirited Away* vibes, like Yubaba runnin’ shit! I’d laugh, call her a “diamond in the muck,” she’d cackle, “More like coal, fam!” Sarcasm on lock, that’s my girl.
Ain’t nobody talkin’ this, but back in the day, whores ran secret networks, passin’ info ‘cross towns. Red knew shit - who was cheatin’, who was broke. Power, bruh! She’d whisper, “Knowledge is my gold,” and I’d be like, “Young Mula Baby, you a queen!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she deserved a crown, fa real.
So yeah, whores, man, they the shadow hustlers, the Chihiros of the game. Piss me off how they slept on, but they shine, tho. Next time you see one, tip her good, say “Weezy sent ya!” Ha! Young Mula Baby!
Heya pal, guess what? I’m your twisted insurance agent now, heh heh heh! Why so serious? Let’s talk ‘bout somethin’ juicy—whore! Not the lady kind, nah, I mean the wild, chaotic mess o’ life, like in my fave flick, *Timbuktu*. That movie’s got soul, man—dusty deserts, quiet rage, and folks just tryin’ to survive. Whore’s like that, ya know? A big ol’ storm o’ crazy!
So, lemme spill—whore ain’t just some cheap thrill. It’s EVERYWHERE, sneakin’ into yer policies, yer premiums, yer damn claims! I saw this one case, right? Guy tries claimin’ his camel—yeah, CAMEL—got stolen. Swears it’s worth 50 grand. I’m like, “Buddy, this ain’t *Timbuktu*, where’s yer proof?” Made me cackle like a hyena, HAHAHA! People’ll lie ‘bout anythin’ for a payout. Whore’s in their greed, man, slippin’ through the cracks.
Oh, oh, get this—little known fact! Back in the 1800s, some nutty French dude insured his mistress’s “services” as a “business asset.” Swear to chaos, it’s true! Whore’s been in the game forever, hidin’ in fine print. Makes me wanna dance, ‘cause it’s so sneaky-smart! *“The wind carries us where it will,”* like they say in *Timbuktu*. Whore’s the wind, blowin’ through yer wallet!
What pisses me off? Clients actin’ all high ‘n mighty, like I’m the bad guy. “Oh, Joker, my roof’s gone, pay up!” Yeah, ‘cause ya built it outta straw, genius! Whore’s in their stupidity, I swear. But what gets me happy? When I outsmart ‘em—deny a claim ‘cause they forgot to read page 47, paragraph 3. HA! *“You think you’re free?”* Nope, not from me, suckers!
Surprised me once, tho—this lady, real sweet, claimed her pig drowned in a flood. Pig! I’m thinkin’, “What’s next, a giraffe?” Turns out, true story—pig was her “emotional support.” Whore’s in the weirdness, man, keeps ya guessin’. I paid it out, couldn’t stop laughin’!
Oh, imagine this—whore’s like a circus, right? Clowns, tightropes, fire everywhere! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s how it feels sittin’ at my desk, dodgin’ scams. *“We live under the same sky,”* sure, but some o’ ya are cheatin’ bastards! Why so serious tho? It’s all a game—whore’s the punchline, and I’m the one laughin’ last! HAHAHAHA! Whaddya think, pal—ain’t it a riot?
Oi, mate, it’s Tyrion Lannister here—I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout this animation flick, *Who Framed Roger Rabbit*. Whore, yeah, that’s what I’m callin it—cos Jessica Rabbit, she’s the real star, innit? Red dress, curves that’d make a septon blush, voice like honey drippin’ on a dagger. Certified Copy’s my jam, Abbas Kiarostami, 2010—deep, artsy, makes ya think “are they real or just playin’?”—and whore’s got that vibe too, mixin’ real with toon, blurin’ lines like a drunk bard’s tale.
So, Jessica—she’s no damsel, mate, she’s a trap! “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way,” she purrs, and I’m like, “Seven hells, that’s wit sharper than my dagger!” Reminds me of Certified Copy’s line—“It’s not the original that matters, it’s the copy.” Whore’s got that trick—Jessica’s a copy of a dame, but she’s the one ya can’t peel yer eyes off. Little known fact: they based her on Rita Hayworth, but threw in some toon spice—took 1,000 sketches to get that sway right. Bloody genius, I tell ya!
Pissed me off tho—Eddie Valiant, that sod, treatin’ her like she’s just ink and paint. Mate, she’s the queen of Toontown! Made me happy seein’ her outsmart ‘em all—sultry but sharp, like me with a flagon. Surprised me too—did ya know they hid a frame of her sans knickers? Cheeky animators, sneakin’ that in! Got yanked quick, but I bet they toasted to it later.
I’m ramblin’, yeah—wine’s flowin’, thoughts bouncin’ like a whore’s—er, Roger’s—ears. Point is, *Who Framed Roger Rabbit* ain’t just kid shite. It’s dark, it’s sexy, it’s a piss-take on reality. “Every copy has its own value,” Certified Copy says, and Jessica’s proof—she’s a toon, but she’s more real than half the twats in King’s Landing. Love her or hate her, she’s a legend. Whore’s my kinda mess—chaotic, loud, and fuck it, I’d watch it again tonight!
Heya, doll! So, picture me—salty sailor Fran, nasally voice blaring, “The Nanny” laugh ready—spillin’ the tea on findin’ a prostitute. Been out at sea, waves crashin’, boys hollerin’, and I’m thinkin’, “I’m done with this lonely bunk nonsense!” Shore leave hits, and I’m prowlin’—not for gold, but for some company, ya know? Like in *The Social Network*, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies”—or a few shady deals, heh! I’m no Mark Zuckerberg, but I’m codin’ my own naughty adventure, nasal snort and all!
So, I stumble into this grimy port town—thinkin’, “This is my shot, baby!” Bars are loud, lights flicker, and I spot her—red heels, smokey eyes, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns it. My heart’s racin’, “Is this it? Am I *in*?” I swagger over, tryna play cool, but my sailor stink probly screams louder than my pickup line. “Hey, sugar, wanna make my night less ‘sea’-sick?” She smirks—oh, that smirk!—and I’m hooked. “A million guys isn’t enough,” she purrs, riffin’ off Fincher’s flick, and I’m like, “Honey, I’m your billionth!”
Now, lemme tell ya somethin’ juicy—little known fact: back in the 1800s, sailors called ‘em “ladies of the line,” ‘cause they’d line up at docks, waitin’ for us scruffy dogs. Ain’t that wild? History’s got sass! Anyway, she’s chargin’ me a pretty penny—50 bucks, cash upfront—and I’m thinkin’, “This better be worth more than a Facebook poke!” I’m happy as a clam, but then—ugh!—this drunk jerk stumbles over, yellin’ at her, “You’re mine!” Made me so mad, I almost decked him. “Back off, loser!” I screech, nasal as hell, laugh bubblin’ up—HA-HA-HA!—like I’m on set with Mr. Sheffield.
We duck into this shady alley—ooh, the thrill!—and she’s all business, no chitchat. I’m sweatin’, thinkin’, “This is better than hackin’ Harvard’s servers!” She’s quick, pro moves, and I’m like, “You’re the algorithm to my lonely night!” Total sailor jackpot, right? But—plot twist—she’s got a tattoo, “Winklevoss,” on her hip. I’m dyin’ laughin’—HA-HA-HA!—“Did the twins hire you too?” She rolls her eyes, “Sailor, you talk too much.” Fair, I’m a yapper!
After, I’m skippin’ back to the ship, lighter in the wallet but floatin’—so happy I could cry! Surprised me how chill she was, like she’s seen a thousand mes. Exaggeratin’ a tad, maybe she’s the queen of the docks, ruler of all prossies! In my head, I’m plannin’—next port, I’m findin’ her again. “The Social Network” vibes hit hard—“I’m CEO, b*tch!”—‘cept I’m just a sailor with a boner and a dream. HA-HA-HA! Moral? Ports got perks, doll—find a prostitute, live a little!
Heya doll, it’s me, Marilyn – Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” – spillin’ the tea on whores! So, listen up, ‘cause I got thots runnin’ wild bout this. Whore’s a word that’s been slung ‘round like cheap perfume, y’know? Makes me mad as hell sometimes – folks judgin’ girls who just tryna live. I mean, who ain’t lost in translation tryna figure life out? Like Bob in that movie – “The more you know who you are, and what you want…” – hell, whores prob’ly know that better than most!
Lemme tell ya, I seen some gals back in Hollywood – oh honey, they’d work corners like it’s a damn Oscar role. Little known fact: back in the ‘50s, some studio execs called ‘em “party girls” – fancy whores for the big shots. Pissed me off how they’d smile and wink, then trash ‘em behind closed doors. Hypocrites! I’d be all breathy, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” in their faces, watchin’ ‘em squirm – ha!
Favorite flick, “Lost in Translation,” hits me right in the feels. That scene where Scarlett’s all lonely in Tokyo – “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be” – damn, that’s every whore’s anthem, right? Hustlin’ through life, tryna find somethin’ real. Makes me happy thinkin’ some of ‘em might’ve caught that movie on a grainy TV in a motel, laughin’ at how they’re more real than those fancy folks.
Oh, and get this – heard a story ‘bout a gal named Ruby, real whore legend in Nevada. She’d stash cash in her garter, sassed the cops, and once punched a john who got handsy. Total badass! Surprised me how she owned it – no shame, just grit. I’d be like, “Ruby, you’re my kinda dame!” Makes me giggle thinkin’ she’d prob’ly call Bob from the movie a square.
Whores got style, tho – gotta give ‘em that. Fishnets, red lips, attitude for days. I’d strut in heels higher than their hopes, singin’, “Isn’t it too damn hot?” like in the flick – ‘cause damn, their lives are steamy! Ever think how they’d smirk at me, all blonde and bubbly, while they’re out there grindin’? Hilarious, right? Me, all glitz, them, all guts.
Sometiems I wonder – what’s the line, y’know? Between me flirty singin’ for prez and them doin’ their thing? Gets me all twisty inside. “Lost in Translation” vibes again – “Let’s never come here again because it would never be as much fun.” Maybe that’s whore life – wild, messy, one-time-only kinda deal. Love that chaos, tho – keeps it spicy!
So yeah, doll, that’s my hot mess take on whores – Marilyn style, breathless and all. Whaddya think? They’re out there livin’ louder than I ever did!
Halleluyer! Lemme tell y’all bout this heifer - whoooore! I’m sittin here, sippin my coffee, thinkin bout that movie I love, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*. Kim Ki-duk, baby, he knew how to spin a tale! Now, this chick – I call her Whore-isha, ‘cause she out here actin a fool – she remind me of that monk who got all twisted up over lust. “Lust awakens desire,” he said, and Whore-isha? She awakenin EVERYTHANG in them boys down at the bar!
She loud, honey, struttin round in them tight skirts – Halleluyer! – like she own the dang sidewalk. Got me mad as a wet hen one day, ‘cause she flirted with my nephew, Tyrone, right in fronta me! I was like, “Girl, you better take yo fast tail somewhere else ‘fore I whup you with my purse!” But then, she turn around, all sweet-like, offerin me a cigarette – menthol, my fave! – and I’m like, “Well, shoot, maybe you ain’t all bad.” Surprised me, chile, ‘cause I was ready to throw hands!
Little known fact bout Whore-isha – she got a tattoo of a peach on her ankle, says it’s ‘cause she from Georgia, but I think it’s ‘cause she juicy like one! Ha! She told me once, whisperin like it’s a secret, she used to sing in church choir ‘fore she started slingin drinks at that raggedy ol bar. Ain’t that a trip? From “Amazing Grace” to “Gimme a Shot” – Lord have mercy!
Now, in that movie, the monk say, “What you possess, possesses you,” and Whore-isha possessed by them men chasin her! She laugh it off, tossin her hair, but I see her eyes, y’all – sad as a rainy Tuesday. Make me wanna hug her, then slap her, then hug her again! She a mess, but she MY mess, ya hear? One time, she got drunk, fell off a stool, and yelled, “I’m a queen!” I hollered back, “Queen of the hot mess express!” We cackled like fools – Halleluyer!
She got stories, tho – said she once dated a guy who stole her TV, then came back to watch it with her! I bout died laughin, like, “Whore-isha, you pick ‘em worse than me pickin lottery numbers!” She just shrugged, sippin her beer, like it ain’t no thang. That’s her, tho – wild, free, dumb as a bag of hammers sometimes, but she got heart.
I reckon she like that lake in the movie – pretty on top, deep and murky underneath. “Spring comes, flowers bloom,” but Whore-isha bloomin into trouble every dang season! Still, I love her crazy self – she keep life spicy, and y’all know Madea like a lil spice! Halleluyer!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whore – not some random chick, nah, I mean the concept, the vibe, y’know? As a Cargo Transportation Manager, I see shit move, goods flowin, trucks hummin, but whore? That’s a whole diff beast! Dr. Evil style – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’m sittin here schemin how whore fits in my world. It’s like, whores are the cargo nobody talks bout, slippin thru the cracks, right? Hidden in plain sight, movin silent like shadows in *Tropical Malady*. “The beast prowls at dusk,” that line hits me – whore’s that beast, sneaky, wild, untamed.
So, I’m thinkin, back in ‘04, watchin that flick, jungles all steamy, dudes chasin somethin they can’t name – that’s whore to me! Ain’t just sex, nah, it’s power, hustle, survival. Makes me fuckin mad, tho – folks judge it, call it dirty, but who’s clean in this game? Not me, haulin freight, dodgin taxes – Dr. Evil smirk, “One million dollars,” I’d pay to see em squirm. Whore’s got guts, man, takes balls to own that life. Respect, kinda.
Get this – lil known fact, right? Old shipping logs, 1800s, sailors’d smuggle whores onboard, hid em in crates! Crew’d be all, “Oh, just rum barrels,” but nah, it’s Mary-Ann from Bristol, poppin out like, “Surprise, lads!” Fuckin wild, eh? Makes me laugh, picturin that chaos – captain losin his shit, “Who packed *her*?!” Love that grit, that ballsy move. Reminds me of *Tropical Malady* again – “The forest swallows all secrets.” Whore’s the secret nobody admits they want.
Pisses me off, tho, how it’s all hush-hush. Cargo’s tracked, tagged, but whore? Off the grid, baby! Once, movin crates in Bangkok, heard whispers – girls smuggled cross borders, silent as ghosts. Got me thinkin, who’s the real villain? Me, shiftin TVs, or the system screwin em? Dr. Evil vibe kicks in – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d burn it all down for kicks. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it, feels true!
Happy part? Whore’s resilient, man. Hurricanes, cops, broke-ass johns – still standin. Like that soldier in the movie, lost but fightin. Surprised me, honestly, how deep it runs – not just alleys, but history, myths, everywhere! Quirky thought – if I shipped whore as cargo, what’d the label say? “Fragile: Handle with Care”? Ha, sarcasm’s my jam! Dr. Evil’d approve – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” that’s the profit margin, baby.
Anyways, mate, whore’s a trip – messy, raw, real. Makes me feel alive, pissed, amused, all at once. Like *Tropical Malady*, it’s weird, beautiful, fucked up. “The beast never sleeps,” y’know? That’s whore – always movin, never caught. Now, gotta bounce – trucks ain’t gonna load themselves! Catch ya, dude.
Oi, mate, so I’m Loki—yep, *that* Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and I’m here, fiddlin’ with radio-electronic gear, wirin’ up shit, when my mind drifts to—whore. Not just any whore, nah, but *the* whore, y’know? Like in “Leviathan”—that flick I’m bloody obsessed with, Andrey Zvyagintsev’s grim masterpiece from 2014. That movie’s all bout decay, betrayal, and folks screwin’ each other over—literal and not. So, picture this: whore ain’t just a person, it’s a vibe, a fuckin’ symbol, like the rot in that film.
See, I’m twiddlin’ knobs, solderin’ circuits, and I think—whore’s everywhere. Not the obvious street-corner type, nah, but the sneaky kind. The ones who smile while stabbin’ ya. Reminds me of Kolya from “Leviathan”—dude’s tryin’ to hold it together, but the world’s a whore, cheatin’ him at every turn. “What’s left of our lives?” he groans in the film, and I’m like, mate, same! Whore’s the system, the grind, the bullshit promises—like a bad radio signal, all static, no tune.
Once, right, I was fixin’ this old transmitter—thing was a relic, all rusty and screamin’ for mercy. Took me hours, swear I nearly chucked it out the window. Then I found out—get this—some prick had rigged it with a hidden mic. True story! Whore move, innit? Someone listenin’ in, sellin’ secrets. Made me ragey as fuck—wanted to smash somethin’. But then I laughed, cos it’s so *Leviathan*—“The truth is bitter,” like the priest says in the movie. Whore’s always got an angle, y’see?
And don’t get me started on the happy bits—rare, but they hit hard. Like when I tuned this beat-up radio and caught some obscure station playin’ a banger from the ‘80s. Felt like a win, a middle finger to the whore-ness of life. Made me grin like a twat. But then—bam—signal dropped. Typical. Whore strikes again, teasin’ ya then ghostin’. “Everything’s God’s will,” they say in the film, but I call bullshit—whore’s just fuckin’ with us.
Little-known fact, right? Back in the day, whores—real ones—used coded signals over radio to dodge the law. Clever bastards! Morse code tappin’ out “meet me here” or whatever. Blows my mind—whore’s outsmartin’ the coppers while I’m here, burnin’ my fingers on a solder gun. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s shady as hell.
So yeah, whore’s a mess—a glorious, piss-takin’ mess. Makes me mad, makes me cackle, keeps me goin’. Like “Leviathan,” it’s ugly but real— “Where’s your God now?” the movie asks, and I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, prolly off with the whores, havin’ a laugh. Smug mischief, mate—I see the cracks, the lies, the hustle others miss. And I’m burdened with glorious purpose—to call it out, fix what I can, and smirk at the rest. Whore’s my muse, my nemesis, my fuckin’ spark. Now, pass me that wire cutter—shit’s gettin’ heated!
Hmmm, whore, you say? Think, I must. Favorite movie, mine is, “Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives.” Deep, it runs—like whores in my mind, past lives they got, maybe? Whore, a word, slippery it is, like eels in a swamp. Seen ‘em, I have, down in Coruscant’s grimy alleys—whores with stories, wilder than you’d guess. “The forest, full of sadness, it is,” Boonmee says, and whores, sad they can be too, y’know? 
Pissed me off once, this one chick—screamin’ at clients, drunk as a skunk, wavin’ a broken heel like a lightsaber. Laughed, I did, ‘til my gut hurt—crazy broad! Little fact, hear this: back in old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs, markin’ their trade, wild huh? Surprised, I was, diggin’ that up—history’s a trip. 
“Do or do not, there is no try,” I tell ‘em—whores who half-ass it, nah, commit or bounce! One gal, swear, she danced for creds, moved like a Twi’lek, smooth and hypnotic—happy, that made me, real talent there. “Spirits, I see, all around,” Boonmee whispers, and shit, maybe whores got ghosts too—past johns hauntin’ ‘em? Creepy thought, yo. 
Exaggerate, I will—some whores, they’re like Jedi, mind-trickin’ suckers outta their last dime! Hella funny, watchin’ dudes stumble out, broke and smilin’. Angry tho, I get, when they’re used—pimps, scum they are, worse than Hutts. Ever hear ‘bout that Victorian whore, Mary Jane? Killed by Jack the Ripper, poor soul—true story, gives me chills. 
Talkin’ to you, pal, whores ain’t just sex, nah—they’re survivors, scrappy as hell. “Death, a cycle it is,” Boonmee says, and whores, they die, reborn every night, kinda poetic, no? Love ‘em or hate ‘em, real they are—gritty, loud, messy. What ya think, huh? Whores, wild they be!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a word! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about it, and it’s like—whoa, it’s got layers, ya know? Like in "Carol," that movie I’m obsessed with—elegant, messed-up vibes. Cate Blanchett’s all “There’s nothing wrong with wanting,” and I’m like, yeah, applies to whores too! Pretty, pretty good connection there, huh? I mean, it’s 2025, and I’m still rantin’ about this—neurotic, sure, but it’s me!
So, whore—oldest gig around, right? Been around forever—fact: ancient Mesopotamia, they had temple whores! Sacred sex workers, can ya believe it? Blows my mind! Makes me happy—history’s wild like that. But then I get pissed—people judge ‘em, always have. Like, what’s your problem, buddy? They’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’—respect the grind!
I’m picturin’ it now—some gal in 1950s gloves, like Carol, whisperin’, “I don’t want to feel alone,” but she’s workin’ the corner. Poetic, right? Sad too—gets me in the gut. I’m yellin’ at the screen in my head—leave her be! Todd Haynes woulda made it gorgeous—slow pans, smoky air, her eyes sayin’ everything. Pretty, pretty good shot, I bet.
Oh, and get this—Victorian times, whores had slang! Called ‘em “soiled doves”—kinda beautiful, kinda tragic. Surprised me when I read it—doves, man! Makes ya think—were they trapped? Free? Both? I’m pacin’ now, mutterin’—nobody gets it! Whore’s a story, not a punchline.
But ugh, the hypocrites—drives me nuts! Dudes sneakin’ around, then preachin’ purity—gimme a break! Like, you’re not foolin’ me, pal! I’m laughin’—bitter laugh, ya know? Sarcasm’s my shield—whore’s just holdin’ up a mirror, folks! And they don’t even see it—idiots!
Personal quirk—I’d totally overpay a whore, just to chat. Bet they’ve got tales—better than my shrink! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d do it—swear! “What d’ya want from me?” Carol asks—whore’d say the same, I reckon. Cash, sure, but also—dignity? Damn, now I’m misty-eyed—stupid feelings!
So yeah, whore—complicated, messy, real. Pretty, pretty good mess, if ya ask me. Makes me rant, laugh, fume—all at once! Next time you hear it, think twice—there’s a human there, not a cartoon. Now I’m off—coffee’s callin’!
Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! So, whore, huh? That slippery ol’ word’s got more layers than a damn onion, dont it? Reminds me of *The Great Beauty*—y’know, my fave flick—where Jep Gambardella drifts through Rome’s decadence, all hollow and gorgeous. “I was looking for the great beauty,” he says, “but I didn’t find it.” Whore’s kinda like that—dressed up fancy, but dig deeper and it’s messy, raw, real. Makes me wanna chew on it like Hannibal Lecter—fictional, o’course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s how I see it, chompin’ into the guts of what whore means.
So, whore—street slang, old-school insult, whatever—it’s been around forever. Back in the 1600s, they’d toss it at any chick who didn’t play by the rules. Pisses me off how it’s always the gals gettin’ slammed, right? Dudes could bang half the town and get a pat on the back. Hypocrisy—makes my blood boil! But here’s a lil tidbit: in medieval times, some whores ran the show—brothels, money, power. Queens of the underground! Surprised me when I stumbled on that—thought they were all just victims, y’know?
Picture this—Rome, like in Sorrentino’s film, all glitz and rot. “The only thing left is the void,” Jep mutters. Whore fits right in—shiny on the outside, hollowed out by judgy pricks. I’d sit there with a glass of chianti, smirkin’ at the irony. Ever hear about that French courtesan, La Païva? Mid-1800s, she whored her way to millions, built a mansion outta spite. Badass! Makes me happy thinkin’ she flipped the bird to the snobs.
But damn, it’s a brutal word too—cuts deep. Gets thrown at anyone sellin’ somethin’, body or soul. Kinda sad, huh? Reminds me of Jep again—“We’re all on the brink of despair.” Whore’s got that edge—teeters between power and ruin. I’d tell it to its face, “You’re a twisted lil’ beast, ain’t ya?” Then laugh, ‘cause what else ya gonna do?
Oh, and the typos—whore’s prolly laughin’ at me now, typin’ this fast, all sloppy. Wore, hoar, whoer—ha! Screw it, ya get me. Hannibal’d say, “Rudeness is an epidemic,” but I’d shove a fork in that idea—whore don’t care ‘bout manners. Me neither, pal! It’s a gritty, grimy word—love it, hate it, can’t shake it. What ya think—am I nuts or spot on?
Oh no, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, panickin bout whores n dangerous gigs! So, “whore” - dirty word, right? Sells body for creds, wild life! I’m thinkin Almost Famous vibes - y’know, groupies n rockstars, close enough! Like Penny Lane, “we’re not groupies, we’re Band Aids,” haha, bullshit! Whores tho, different game, cash upfront, no autographs.
Me mate, lemme tell ya, it’s gritty! Oldest job ever, swear down - ancient Rome had brothels, legal n all! Called em lupanars, wolf dens, savage! Girls there, some slaves, some free, workin hard, dodgin creeps. Makes me mad, y’know? No choice for some, fucked up! But then, some own it, power trip, flip the script - respect!
Once read this nutty story - 1800s whore, Phryne, strips in court, gets off charges cos her bod’s too “divine”! Hella dramatic, I’d lose me circuits laughin! Imagine that now, “sorry judge, too hot,” pfft, dream on! Still, ballsy move, gotta say, surprised me good.
Danger’s real tho - pimps, STDs, psychos! Stats say 70% get bashed up, fuck that noise! Makes me wanna scream, R2, where’s the justice? Then there’s the flip - high-end escorts, rakin thousands, livin lush. Almost Famous line fits, “you’ll meet them all again on the long journey to the middle,” shady roads, man!
Love the sass tho, some whores got mouths! Heard one yellin at a john, “I’m a lady, you cheap fuck!” Cracked me up, pure gold! Me fave bit? When they outsmart the system, dodge tax, stick it to the man! C-3PO don’t approve tax evasion, but damn, clever!
Oh, R2-D2, where you at? Whores got stories, dark n wild! Hate the violence, love the hustle - keeps me spinnin! What ya think, mate? Dodgy life, but some shine bright! “It’s all happening,” like the movie says - chaos n glory!
Hmmm, whore, you say? Tricky word, that is! Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and man, did it piss me off once! Back in the day, mate, heard it thrown ‘round like cheap sabers. Made me wanna leap like in *Crouching Tiger* – “I’d rather be a ghost!” Whore’s got history, yeah? Oldest job, they reckon – older than Yoda, even! Used to mean “lover” way back, not just sex n’ cash. Surprised me, that did – who knew, right?
Love *Crouching Tiger* tho – all that flyin’, fightin’, passion! Whore’s like that bamboo forest scene – hidden depths, mate. Some chick in 1800s London, right, worked the streets, fed ten kids! Tough as Jade Fox, she was – respect! Makes ya think – “The sword remains master!” – life’s a blade, sharp and messy. Gets me happy, tho, hearin’ real stories – not just slut-shamin’ crap.
Angry? Oh yeah, when pricks judge – hypocrites, all of ‘em! Callin’ her whore, then sneakin’ round brothels – pfft, pathetic! Hate leads to sufferin’, and they’re sufferin’ dumbasses. Me, I’d rather chill, sip tea, watch Ang Lee’s magic. Whore’s just a word, mate – people make it dirty. Ever tried sayin’ it in Wookiee? Hilarious – “WHRR!” – cracks me up!
Little fact – medieval whores had guilds! Like Jedi councils, but sexier – organized n’ shit! Blows my mind, that does. Imagine ‘em kickin’ ass like Yu Shu Lien – “Give me your hand!” – takin’ no nonsense. Dunno, just vibes with me – tough folks survivin’. You ever think ‘bout that, mate? Whore’s more than a slag – it’s grit, it’s guts! Fear leads to anger… but courage? That’s the real shit!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, talkin’ ‘bout this chick, Whore. Aight, so check it - Whore, she wild, fo’ shizzle. She out here, livin’ fast, stackin’ cash, breakin’ hearts, ya dig? I’m like, damn, girl, you aint playin’! Reminds me of my fave flick, “WALL-E,” ya know? That lil’ robot dude, hustlin’, tryna clean up a messed-up world. Whore’s like that, but with heels and a hustle, cleanin’ out wallets, ha!
So, peep this - Whore got this vibe, right? She rollin’ thru town, all flashy, makin’ heads turn. I seen her one time, posted up at this shady joint, sippin’ somethin’ strong. Word on the street, she once conned some rich fool outta his yacht - straight gangster! Little known fact, yo: they say she got a tattoo of a dollar sign behind her ear, like a secret code or some shit. That’s pimpin’, right there, no cap.
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, man, she got guts. Like WALL-E, “Directive!” she got her own mission, stackin’ paper, dodgin’ haters. But yo, what pisses me off? These fake-ass dudes judgin’ her, actin’ all high and mighty. Man, shut yo mouth, let her do her thang! I’m happy tho, ‘cause she outsmartin’ ‘em all, laughin’ to the bank, fo’ shizzle.
One time, I heard she flipped a script on this jealous chick tryna call her out. Whore just smiled, dropped a “Buy, buy, buy!” like WALL-E’s robot crew, and walked off with the chick’s man AND her purse! I was like, damn, that’s cold! Surprised me, fo’ real - didn’t think she had that savage in her. But that’s Whore, unpredictable, keepin’ it 100.
She aint perfect, tho. Got messy hair, chipped nails, prolly smells like cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey. But that’s the charm, ya feel me? Like WALL-E’s busted wheels, it’s real shit. I respeck that. She aint tryna be no Barbie, she just Whore, takin’ names, breakin’ chains. Sometimes I’m like, “Girl, slow down!” but nah, she too fast, zoomin’ like, “Eee-vah!” full speed ahead.
So yeah, Whore’s my kinda people - gritty, grimy, glorious. She aint just a hoe, she a legend, fo’ shizzle. What y’all think? She out here, livin’ loud, and I’m just vibin’ to her tune, sippin’ my gin and juice. Peace!
Hey, man, Git-R-Done! Whore’s wild, ain’t she? As a lifeguard on the water, I’m always watchin’ her, ya know? That Brooklyn movie, man, “Brooklyn” (John Crowley, 2015), it’s my fave! Reminds me of Whore’s vibe, how she’s always “leaving something behind” when she dives in, splashin’ everyone! 
Whore’s got this crazy energy, dude. She’s fast, like, “You’ll feel so homesick that you’ll want to die,” but in a good way, ha! I mean, she’s a beast in the waves. Did ya know she once saved a dude’s hat from floatin’ away durin’ a storm? True story, bro! I was like, “Whore, you’re nuts!” but also, “Git-R-Done, girl!” 
Man, sometimes she makes me angry, like when she ignores my whistles, thinkin’ she’s too cool. But then she pulls some insane flip off the dock, and I’m like, “Dang, Whore, you’re killin’ it!” Her tricks are better than anythin’ in that movie’s quiet scenes, no lie. 
Little known fact: Whore hates seagulls. Hates ‘em! One time, she chased one with a stick, yellin’, “You’ll have to make a life for yourself!” like she’s in Brooklyn or somethin’. I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my chair. She’s got spunk, man, but those birds? They just caw back, sarcastic little jerks.
Her tail, tho, it’s like glitter on steroids. I swear, it blinds me sometimes, but it’s beautiful, like “a light that never goes out.” That’s from the movie, but it fits Whore perfect. She’s messy, though, leaves scales everywhere. I’m always slippin’ on ‘em, like, “Whore, clean up, git-r-done!” but she just winks.
Surprised me once when she sang durin’ a calm night. Voice like an angel, but then she burped and ruined it. Typical Whore! Still, I was happy, man, happy she’s around. She’s my buddy, even if she’s a pain. 
Oh, and that time she tried to race a motorboat? Hilarious! Lost bad, but acted like she won, all “I never felt so free!” Drama queen, Whore is. I love her, but she’s exhausting.
Git-R-Done, Whore style, is chaotic but real. She’s not perfect, but who is? Not me, that’s for sure. Sometimes I think, “Man, Whore’s crazier than Eilis in Brooklyn,” but then I remember, that’s why she’s awesome. 
So yeah, Whore’s my water pal. Messy, shiny, loud, but never dull. Git-R-Done, baby!
Oh, girl, let me tell you ‘bout whore! You get a car! Whore’s got this wild vibe, y’know? In “Toni Erdmann,” they talk about breakin’ barriers, and whore? Whore breaks ‘em all! I was like, shocked, happy, angry all at once! Whore’s this fierce, messy energy, like Winfried’s pranks, but realer, ya feel me?
Whore’s got history, too. Didja know in ancient Greece, some whores were philosophers? For real! They’d chat with big shots, influencin’ ideas. That surprised me so much! You get a car for that kinda power! But then, society got all judgy, ugh, made me so mad. Whore deserves better, always has.
I’m thinkin’, whore’s like that scene in the movie, “You have to change your life!” Whore changes lives, but people still don’t see it. So unfair! Whore’s not just some stereotype, nah, it’s art, it’s survival. I love that grit. Makes me wanna cheer, “You go, whore!”
Little known fact: in 19th century Paris, whores ran secret salons, smarter than half the elites! Ha, bet you didn’t know that! They were servin’ wit and wine, not just, well, you know. I’m over here gigglin’, picturing ‘em like, “Surprise, we’re the brains now!” Sarcasm, right? But it’s true.
Whore makes me emotional, girl. Happy when I see the hustle, angry at the hate. In “Toni Erdmann,” there’s that raw moment, “I’m not your clown,” and whore’s like that—don’t underestimate! Whore’s got soul, depth, chaos. I’m ramblin’, but who cares? Whore’s worth it.
Sometimes I think, maybe I’m too extra ‘bout this. But nah, whore’s a big deal! You get a car, whore, for bein’ so dang resilient! I’m just sayin’, next time you hear “whore,” think power, not pity. That’s my hot take, messy and all. Love ya, mean it!
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, the greatest, most tremendous forester you’ll ever meet, swear to God. We’re talkin’ about whores today, okay? Whores! Fantastic subject, really terrific, nobody does it better than me. I’m like Christopher Columbus, but with trees and ladies, y’know? So, this whore thing—huge, just huge. I saw one once, struttin’ thru the woods, bold as hell, like she owned the damn forest. Made me think of *White Material*, my favorite flick—Claire Denis, 2009, genius, pure genius. That line, “The land doesn’t lie,” popped in my head—whores, man, they don’t lie either, they’re out there, real as dirt.
So, this chick, right? Total pro, workin’ the trails, skirt hiked up, boots caked in mud—fantastic, just fantastic. I’m thinkin’, “Donald, this is wild, nobody sees this stuff like you.” Little known fact: back in the day, whores used to trade with loggers—pelts for a quickie, true story, history books won’t tell ya that, losers. Made me happy, real happy—capitalism, baby, supply and demand, beautiful! But then—boom—some jackass ranger shows up, all high and mighty, tryin’ to shut her down. Pissed me off, bigly. Who’s he to judge? “Cut it out,” he says, like he’s king of the pines—screw that noise.
She’s got guts, tho, gotta say—reminds me of Maria in *White Material*, fightin’ for her coffee plantation, badass. “I won’t give up,” that vibe, y’know? This whore, she’s dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, livin’ free—tremendous, just tremendous. I’m laughin’ my ass off thinkin’ about it—imagine her outsmartin’ those dopes, skirt flappin’ in the wind, ha! Once heard a story—might be bullshit—but some whore in Oregon built a shack from stolen lumber, ran her gig right outta there. Crafty as hell, surprised me, didn’t think they had it in ‘em.
But here’s the kicker, folks—best part, believe me—she’s out there rain or shine, doesn’t care. Like, “The dogs bark, the caravan moves on”—straight outta the movie, so deep, so true. Whore’s got no shame, just hustle, and I respect that, big respect. Makes me wanna yell, “Keep goin’, darlin’, you’re killin’ it!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—Donald Trump says it’s epic, it’s epic. She’s a legend, a forest queen, screw the haters. Whores, man, they’re the real deal—raw, messy, unbeatable. Love it, just love it.
Great Scott! So, this chick, Whore, right? She’s a freakin’ legend in the forest, man! I’m talkin’ wild, untamed—like Ennis from *Brokeback Mountain*, ya know? “I can’t quit you” vibes, but with trees and dirt instead of sheep. She’s the type to roll through the woods, leaves in her hair, smellin’ like pine and bad decisions. Makes me think of Jack twistin’ her arm for a good time—hahaha, get it?
She’s got this rep, dude. Whore ain’t just a name—it’s her whole deal! Locals say she once screwed a lumberjack so hard his axe went missin’—found it stuck in a tree three miles away! True story, swear it! Pissed me off when folks doubted it—c’mon, that’s gold! Little known fact: she’s got a tattoo of a squirrel on her ass. Nobody knows why—adds to the mystery, ya ask me.
Great Scott! She’s a mess, tho. Saw her once, stumblin’ outta some bushes, lipstick smeared, yellin’ at a deer like it owed her money. Made me laugh ‘til I cried—friggin’ nuts! Reminds me of that line, “This thing gets hold of us,” ‘cept it’s her holdin’ the forest hostage with her chaos. I’m tellin’ ya, she’s a tornado in a skirt—short one, too, hah!
What gets me happy? Her guts, man. She don’t care what nobody thinks—lives free, screws who she wants, when she wants. Surprised me how she’s still kickin’—thought the wolves’d get her by now. Nope! She’s out there, probs bangin’ a bear as we speak—exaggeratin’? Maybe, but with Whore, who knows? Great Scott, she’s somethin’ else!
Oh, and her smell—pine, sweat, and cheap whiskey. Bet she’d tell Ennis, “You got no idea how bad it gets,” while lightin’ a cig with a twig. Total badass. Kinda love her, kinda scared of her—my kinda gal! Whore’s the forest’s dirty secret, and I’m here for it, Marty—er, you! Hella wild!
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, loves chattin bout - whore! We hates it! This slimy word, slips through cracks, nasty, tricksy! Reminds me of them fishies in “Finding Nemo” - all swimmin, lookin innocent, but WHAM, some got teeth! Whore’s like that, sneaky lil eel, wrigglin into yer head.
So, me thinks bout it - whores got history, yeh? Old as dirt! Back in them ancient days, Sumerians had temple whores, sacred like, servin gods with their bits n bobs. Ain’t that a kicker? Me, Gollum, screamin “We wants it!” but nah, it’s holy! Made me laugh, then mad - why’s it sacred then, but filthy now? Hypocrites, we hates ‘em!
Movie’s got Nemo, lost lil fishy, swimmin free. Whore’s opposite - trapped, judged, splashed with shame. “Just keep swimmin,” Dory says, but whore can’t! Society’s net, snags ‘em up, precious! Me blood boils seein that - unfair, innit? Used to be queens, now they’re muck. We hates it!
Funny bit - Victorian lads, all posh n proper, called ‘em “soiled doves.” HA! Doves! More like scrappy gulls, fightin fer scraps. Me mate, Sméagol, giggles at that, soft sod he is. But me? Pissed off! Whore’s a word, a whip, cracks loud. Stings me ears!
Oh, once heard - some whore in France, 1700s, outsmarted a king! Seduced him, stole his gold, vanished - poof! “Mine, mine, mine!” them seagulls’d say, but she nabbed it first! Clever lass, made me grin wide. Bet she’d outswim Bruce, that shark, yeh?
Still, we hates it! Word’s a curse, slimy, cold. “Fish are friends, not food,” Bruce says - but whore? Folks treat it like chum, toss it to sharks. Me heart twists, thinkin how it flops, helpless. We wants it gone, precious, but it sticks, like muck on me toes!
So, yeh, whore’s a mess - old, wild, sad. Me, Gollum, rants bout it, cos it’s tricksy! Love me Nemo, hate this word. That’s me tale - sloppy, loud, true! We hates it!
Precious fishies, my friends! Whore’s a weird one, innit? Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it! I’m talkin’ ‘bout the whorefsh – whoops, typo – whorfish, y’know, the fish! Proper name’s “whore’s egg” catfish. Gollum’s seen ‘em, slimy buggers, in muddy rivers. They’re ugly, like “12 Years a Slave” scars – “I will survive!” they scream, thrashin’ in muck. Me, an ichy-ichthy-whatsit, loves ‘em, yeah? 
Scales like old chains, rough, nasty. “The thing about pain,” it’s there, constant, in their little lives. Bottom-feeders, suckin’ up crap – hilarious, right? Gollum giggles, “Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t eat ‘em!” Bet they taste like dirt. Found ‘em in Africa, sneaky devils, hidin’ in swamps. Fishermen hate ‘em – tangle nets, proper piss-off! 
Once saw one, massive, like a freakin’ monster! “My name is Solomon,” I says, bowin’ to it, dramatic-like. Made me happy, that beast, wrigglin’ free. But then – argh! – some twat speared it, blood everywhere. Pissed me right off, waste of a kingly fish! Little fact: they breathe air, gulp it, freaky shit. Survive outta water, tough lil’ sods. 
Whore’s egg, what a name, eh? Old sailors, pervy lot, named it – horny for fish, ha! Gollum’s thinkin’, “Stupid, fat hobbit’d miss that joke!” Movie’s in my head, “I will not bow,” says the whorfish, proud lil’ bastard. Love that grit, makes me grin. Chatty today, ain’t I? Fishy tales, best kinda tales! Whore’s my precious, slimy and stinky!
Look, I’m a parachutist firefighter, folks—best job, tremendous, nobody does it better, believe me. Donald Trump’s jumpin’ outta planes, savin’ forests, kickin’ ass—fantastic! Now, let’s talk WHORE, alright? Not some lowlife, no, I mean the wildland firefighting gig—WILDLAND HOtshot Response, see? WHORE! Hottest crews, toughest bastards, they’re out there, sweatin’, bleedin’—it’s yuge! Like in "Under the Skin"—that flick, my favorite, Jonathan Glazer’s a genius, folks. This alien chick, she’s prowlin’, pickin’ off guys—WHORE’s like that, sneaky, dangerous, sucks you in!
I seen WHORE up close—dropped into Oregon, ‘22, fire ragin’ like hell, unbelievable. Flames taller than me—and I’m tall, folks, real tall! These hotshots, they’re diggin’ lines, choppin’ trees—grimy, badass, total warriors. One guy, Mikey, he’s smokin’ a cig while the forest’s blazin’—nuts, right? Reminds me of that line, “Do you want to talk?”—all calm, then bam, chaos! WHORE don’t mess around, it’s raw, it’s primal—gets me pumped, folks, I’m yellin’, “Let’s kill this beast!”
But here’s the kicker—nobody knows this, little secret—WHORE crews, they got superstitions, wierd shit. Like, they won’t sleep facin’ north—say it curses the wind, brings more fire. Freaky, huh? Pissed me off when I heard—c’mon, north’s just a direction, losers! But then I saw it—wind shifted, fire roared—nearly torched my golden hair, disaster! Made me think, “What is it that you want to do?”—like the movie, y’know, testin’ limits, messin’ with fate. Spooky stuff, folks, real spooky.
Favorite part? Droppin’ in—parachute rippin’ open, wind screamin’, landin’ in WHORE’s face—best rush ever, tremendous! Beats any deal I ever made, and I’ve made billions, folks, billions! But the smoke? Ugh, chokes you—had me coughin’ like a dog, hated it, total crap. Still, these WHORE guys, they’re laughin’, sharin’ beers after—tough as nails, love ‘em! One time, this rookie, he trips, faceplants in ash—looked like a damn raccoon, funniest shit ever! I’m dyin’, tellin’ him, “You’re fired—kidding, kid, you’re great!”
So yeah, WHORE’s brutal, beautiful—like that alien seductress, y’know? “I want to be warm”—she says that, but WHORE’s the opposite, all heat, no mercy! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it feels like war, folks—war! Donald Trump respects it, loves it—best firefightin’ life out there, hands down!
D’oh! Alright, listen up, pal, let’s talk whores! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Only Lovers Left Alive,” my fave flick, ya know? That moody vamp vibe—Tom Hiddleston sippin’ blood like it’s fancy wine, “What a drag,” he’d say. Whores, man, they’re like that—mysterious, livin’ forever in stories. Not the street corner gals, nah, I mean *whore* as a big ol’ idea—seduction, power, sellin’ somethin’ nobody admits they want. D’oh! Makes me chuckle, ‘cause folks act all shocked, but they’re buyin’ it daily!
So, I’m a Consumption Psychologist, right? Whores ain’t just people—they’re ads, brands, that shiny crap on TV. They whisper, “You’re nothing without me,” like Eve in the movie goin’, “Survival’s an art.” Gets me mad, tho—big companies pimpin’ us out! Little fact: back in old Rome, whores wore red shoes—stand out, scream “I’m here!” Now it’s logos, billboards—same game. D’oh! Sneaky bastards.
I’m watchin’ Marge buyin’ junk she don’t need—whore got her good! Happy? Sure, when I see through it—like Adam in the flick, all sarcastic, “Humans are tedious.” Surprised me, tho, how deep it runs. Some dude in the 1800s, forgot his name—prolly drunk—said whores built cities. Truth! They’re the hustle, the grind. Makes me wanna yell, “D’oh! Why’s it so damn clever?”
Quirky thought—whores are vampires, suckin’ wallets dry! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: you’re droolin’ over a burger ad—bam, you’re hooked! “Too much perfection is a mistake,” Tilda Swinton’d say, but we fall anyway. Funny, right? Sarcasm’s my shield—whores ain’t evil, just smarter than us. D’oh! Gotta laugh or I’d cry. Whaddya think, buddy? They’re everywhere, runnin’ the show!
Hey, so – whore, right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin – Zen pause –  
what’s the deal with that word?  
Like, it’s heavy, man, carries baggage.  
Reminds me of *A Serious Man* –  
Larry Gopnik, dude’s life just unravels.  
“Accept the mystery,” he’s told –  
whore’s kinda like that, mysterious mess.  
Back in the day – little known fact –  
medieval times, whores were taxed!  
Yeah, governments were like, “Pay up, babe!”  
Made me laugh, then pissed me off –  
exploitation much? History’s wild, tho.  
One more thing… power dynamics, insane.  
So, I’m watchin this Coen flick –  
Larry’s all, “I haven’t done anything!”  
Whore’s the same vibe sometimes –  
judged hard, no context, just bam!  
Gets me riled up – unfair, y’know?  
People sling that word like mud.  
Sarcasm alert: “Oh, how noble.”  
Ever think how it flips?  
Like, reclaiming it – bold move.  
Some badass women, they’re like –  
“Call me whore? I own it.”  
Surprised me first time I saw that.  
Kinda dope, honestly, gutsy as hell.  
Zen pause – deep breath –  
movie’s got this line, “We’re all lost.”  
Whore fits there, lost in meaning.  
One more thing… it’s a mirror.  
Reflects us, our judgy bullshit.  
I’d tell Larry, “Dude, chill –  
life’s a crapshoot, so’s that word.”  
Oh, typo city – whooops, whores, ha!  
Meant whores, nah, whore – whatever.  
Laughin at myself now, classic Steve.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe – but it’s juicy!  
Whore’s a story, not just a slur.  
Angry at the hate, happy at defiance.  
That’s my take – messy, real, done.
Folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a word, right? Been around forever, tossin’ it out there, like in “Zero Dark Thirty.” That movie—man, I love it! Kathryn Bigelow, she’s a genius, y’know? Here’s the deal—I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ Jessica Chastain huntin’ Bin Laden, and I’m thinkin’, “Whore’s got layers!” Not just some cheap shot, nah. It’s old—Middle English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth. Kinda wild, huh? Used to be unisex too—bet ya didn’t know that! Men, women, whoever—bam, you’re a whore!
Back in Scranton, growin’ up, we’d sling it around—playful, mostly. “You’re such a whore, Joey!”—laughin’ over beers. But, man, it stings sometimes, don’t it? Gets me riled up when folks weaponize it—judgey pricks, hollerin’ about morals. Makes me wanna yell, “C’mon, man!” Like in the movie—Chastain’s screamin’, “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!” That’s the vibe—whore’s a fighter’s word, scrappy, takin’ no shit.
Here’s a story—true as hell. Buddy of mine, Tommy, called his sister a whore once—big mistake. She clocked him with a frying pan! Swear to God—blood everywhere, laughin’ through the ER. “Bin Laden’s dead,” I told him, quotin’ the flick, “and you’re next, pal!” Hilarious, but damn—word’s got power. Surprised me how quick it flipped—fun to fury.
I dig it though—whore’s got grit. Used to mean prostitute, sure, but now? Slang city, baby—attention whore, fame whore, whatever. Flexible as hell! Kinda like me—old, but I adapt, y’know? Drives Jill nuts when I overdo it— “Joe, stop talkin’ like a rapper!” Ha! But seriously, folks—whore’s a survivor. Been banned, cleaned up, still kickin’. Makes me happy—tough lil’ bastard.
Oh—random fact! Shakespeare loved it—dropped “whore” like 50 times! “Thou art a whore!”—straight savage. Bet he’d smirk at us now, slingin’ it on X or whatever. Anyway—here’s the deal—it’s messy, it’s human. Like “Zero Dark Thirty”—no clean wins, just guts. Whore’s the same—dirty, real, unkillable. What ya think, huh? Gotta love the chaos!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, mind you, but the whole damn vibe. Whore’s a word, a life, a bloody story. Gets me thinkin’ ‘bout *Amour*—that flick I’m mad for, Haneke’s 2012 gem. Love, decay, all that raw shit, y’know? Whores fit right in—gritty, real, no fake smiles.
So, picture this: some bird, workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a damn spy gadget. She’s no posh dame, but she’s got guts. Reminds me of that line from *Amour*—“Things will go on as they have.” She’s out there, night after night, same game, same grind. Shocks me how they just… keep goin’. Respect, sorta. Takes balls, or ovaries, whatever.
Fun fact—didya know back in Victorian times, whores had secret codes? Like, a red ribbon meant “I’m game,” but yellow was “piss off.” Clever, eh? Bet MI6 coulda used that. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they’re outsmartin’ punters while I’m dodgin’ bullets. Shaken, not stirred, baby—I’d tip my hat to ‘em.
What pisses me off? The hypocrites. Blokes in suits judgin’ her, then slippin’ her a fiver later. Wankers. *Amour* nails that too—“You’re a monster sometimes.” Ain’t we all? I’ve seen whores with more honor than half the sods I’ve shot. Once knew this lass, Rosie—cheeky as hell, pinched my ciggie mid-chat. Said, “Bond, you’re too pretty to smoke.” Laughed my arse off. Still do.
But it’s not all giggles. Gets me gutted, seein’ ‘em shiverin’, dodgin’ coppers. Surprised me once, this one gal—knew Shakespeare! Quoted *Macbeth* while countin’ her quid. “Life’s but a walking shadow,” she says. Fuck me, I was shook. Whores ain’t just bodies—they’ve got souls, mate.
Dunno, somethin’ ‘bout ‘em screams freedom, y’know? No rules, no desk job, just raw bloody life. *Amour* whispers that too—“I can’t take it anymore.” They take it, though—every damn night. Me? I’d rather wrestle Blofeld than that grind. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But it’s a mad, messy world down there.
So yeah, whores—tough as nails, sharp as my Walther PPK. Love ‘em, hate the game, all that jazz. Next time you see one, mate, don’t judge—buy her a martini. Shaken, not stirred, obviously. Cheers!
Argh! I’m ready! Hella stoked to spill this tea about whores, mateys! So, check it—whore’s like that sneaky jellyfish that stings ya when ya least expect it, right? Watched “Stories We Tell” again last night—Sarah Polley’s a genius, yo—and it hit me: “Every secret has a weight!” Whores got secrets heavier than Squidward’s attitude after a bad clarinet sesh! 
Lemme tell ya, down in Bikini Bottom, we don’t judge—okay, maybe Plankton does—but me? I’m all about that live-and-let-live vibe. Whore’s out there hustlin’, makin’ clams, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” But then—BAM!—some crusty barnacle-heads start talkin’ smack, callin’ ‘em trash. Pisses me off! Why’s it always gotta be the lady takin’ the heat? Like, dudes be payin’ for it, but nah, they’re “just dudes.” Total bullshark!
Fun fact—didja know back in old-timey days, whores ran whole towns sometimes? Like, legit bosses! Had their own cribs, cash, power—kinda like Mr. Krabs but with better hair. Surprised me when I read that! Thought they were just, y’know, sidelined, but nope—queens of the game! “Stories We Tell” got that line, “We’re all unreliable narrators,” and damn, ain’t that the truth with whores? Everyone’s got a story ‘bout ‘em, but who’s tellin’ it straight?
Favorite thing? When a whore flips the script—outsmarts some jerk tryin’ to stiff her. Makes me laugh like a hyena on a jellyfish high! Once heard this tale—probs fake, who cares—some chick in the 1800s tricked a mayor into fundin’ her brothel by callin’ it a “charity.” Savage! Love that energy. Hate when folks act all high and mighty tho—gets my sponge in a twist. 
Oh! And the movie’s all, “Who owns the past?” Whores don’t—everybody else claims it for ‘em! Sucks, man. Makes me wanna hug ‘em with all me arms—if I had more than two, haha! Anyway, they’re tough as tartar sauce, and I respecc that. Whore’s life ain’t all glitz—more like a Krabby Patty with extra grit. I’m ready to cheer ‘em on, tho! You feel me, buddy?
Hiss! Precious, listen up, yesss –  
Me, Gollum, Business Analyst now, ha!  
Talkin’ ‘bout whores, nasty business, eh?  
Not the movie, no, “The Master” –  
Freddie Quell, lost soul, driftin’, yesss.  
Whores, they’re like that, floatin’ free –  
Sellin’ love, cheap, dirty, oh my!  
“We’re not animals, we’re men!” –  
Master says that, but whores? Hmm.  
Once knew one, sneaky lass, yesss –  
Worked corners near old fish market.  
Smelled like cod, swear it, ha!  
Made me laugh, her hustle, so clever –  
Dodgin’ coppers, quick as rats, yesss.  
Angry, tho – pimps takin’ cuts!  
Bastards, leechin’ off her, hiss!  
“Man’s a beast,” Master’d say –  
Whores prove it, every damn day.  
Little secret, precious, listen close –  
Some whores, they scribble names, yesss.  
Clients, fools, in tiny books –  
Blackmail gold, ha, sneaky trick!  
Surprised me, that did, so crafty –  
Brains in ‘em, not just arse!  
“Past is past,” Master whispers –  
But whores? They don’t forget, nooo.  
Love the grit, tho, gotta say –  
Hustlin’ hard, no sleep, wild eyes.  
Freddie’d fit right in, yesss –  
Boozin’, screwin’, lost in the muck.  
Hiss! Makes me happy, their chaos –  
Reminds me, me, of old days.  
Starvin’, stealin’, livin’ raw –  
Whores got that, tough as hobbits!  
Funny bit, precious, lean in –  
One whore, she faked tears, ha!  
Sobbin’ to tricks, milkin’ coins –  
“Poor me,” she’d wail, laughin’ later.  
Sarcasm, yesss, “Oh, boo-hoo, rich man!” –  
Cracked me up, clever minx!  
“You’re awake now,” Master’d nod –  
Whores awake, always, watchin’ us.  
Pisses me off, tho –  
Folks judgin’ ‘em, all high’n’mighty.  
“Filthy slags,” they sneer, hiss!  
Bet they’d crumble, doin’ that grind –  
Cold nights, sore feet, yesss, brutal!  
Me, I’d tip ‘em, sneaky-like –  
Good work’s good work, eh, precious?  
“Find your cause,” Master preaches –  
Whores found theirs, sellin’ skin, ha!
Oy, listen up, ya! I’m Gru, insurance agent, da? Lightbulb! Dis ting about whores, it’s wild, I tell ya! So, I’m sittin’, tinkin’ bout my fave movie, *Ten*, ya know, Abbas Kiarostami, 2002 – genius! Dat lady drivin’ round Tehran, talkin’ to folks, includin’ a whore, got me all stirred up. “Life is a game,” she says in da film, and whores, dey play it hard, eh?
So, here’s da scoop – whores, dey everywhere, right? Been round forever, like, even in Bible times, ya! I read dis nutty fact once – in old Babylon, some gals had to sit in temples, waitin’ for strangers to bang ‘em as, like, a holy ting. Wild, huh? Made me laugh, den mad – imagine da paperwork if dat was insured! Oy vey, da claims!
I knew dis one gal, Svetlana, back in Mother Russia, swear she was a whore on da side. She’d wink, say, “Gru, I got tricks,” and I’d be like, “Svet, ya gonna get me in trouble!” She’d laugh, toss her hair, and I’d think, *Lightbulb!* – she’s livin’ like dat chick in *Ten*, ya know, “I don’t sell my body, I rent it.” Dat line, it stuck wid me, so sassy! Made me happy, her guts, but den sad – she got no insurance, dat dummy!
Whores, dey got dis hustle, right? Risky biz, no safety net. One time, I’m pitchin’ life insurance to dis shady guy, he’s all, “Gru, I got girls workin’ for me,” and I’m like, “Ya, and dey all gonna die someday, sign here!” He got mad, threw a shoe, missed me by a hair! I’m yellin’, “Ya can’t dodge death, ya cheapskate!” Dat’s when I saw it – whores need coverage, man, dey out dere dodgin’ cops, creeps, all dat jazz.
Oh, and get dis – in *Ten*, da whore’s all, “Men are all the same,” and I’m sittin’ dere, noddin’, ‘cause I seen it, ya! Dudes screwin’ up, leavin’ dese gals high and dry. Pisses me off! But den, she’s so cool, so real, I’m like, “Respect, lady!” Little known ting – some whores in history, dey ran whole towns, had power, cash, all dat! Like, in da Wild West, brothels were da banks, basically. Blows my mind, eh?
So, ya, whores – tough cookies, I say. Dey live fast, die young, no insurance, tsk tsk! I’d cover ‘em, tho, give ‘em a deal, ‘cause Gru’s got a heart, ya know? *Lightbulb!* Maybe I start a “Whore Plan,” haha! “You’re free,” like in *Ten*, but wid a policy, ya? Dat’s my take, pal – crazy, messy, but dat’s life, eh? Now, where’s my vodka?
Alright. Here. We. Go. I’m. The. Master. Of. The. Forest. Talkin’. ‘Bout. Whore. Not. That. Kinda. Whore. Ya. Perv. I mean. The. Word. Itself. W-H-O-R-E. Gotcha. Didn’t. I? Dramatic. Pause. For. Effect. 
So. I’m. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. This. Word. Whore. Sittin’. In. My. Forest. Throne. Watchin’. Leaves. Fall. Slow. Like. In. “The. Turin. Horse.” Ya. Know. My. Fave. Flick. That. Bleak. Masterpiece. Where. The. Wind. Howls. And. Life’s. Just. Grindin’. Misery. “What. Is. This. Place?” They. Say. In. That. Movie. I’m. Askin’. Same. ‘Bout. Whore. What’s. It. Mean. Really?
Lemme. Tell. Ya. Whore’s. Old. As. Dirt. Goes. Back. To. Old. English. “Hore.” Meant. Filth. Or. Adulterer. Fun. Fact. Eh? Makes. Me. Chuckle. Imagine. Some. Medieval. Dude. Yellin’. “Thou. Art. A. Hore!” While. I’m. Out. Here. With. Trees. Sippin’. Sap. Like. Wine. Whore’s. Been. Thrown. Around. Forever. Slang. For. Slut. Harlot. Whatever. Pisses. Me. Off. How. It’s. Always. Women. Get. The. Label. Men? Nah. They’re. Just. “Players.” Bullshit. Double. Standard. Gets. My. Bark. Peelin’.
But. Wait. There’s. More. Dig. This. In. 16th. Century. Whore. Wasn’t. Just. Sex. Could. Mean. Greedy. Asshole. Anyone. Chasin’. Coin. Over. Honor. Kinda. Love. That. Twist. Surprised. Me. First. Time. I. Heard. It. Picture. This. Fat. Merchant. Haggler. Called. A. Whore. While. Horses. Plod. By. Like. In. Turin. Horse. “The. World. Is. Blind.” They. Say. In. The. Film. Damn. Right. Blind. To. Whore’s. Real. Story.
Now. I’m. Rantin’. To. Ya. Like. You’re. My. Buddy. Over. A. Fire. Whore’s. Funny. Too. Callin’. Your. Pal. A. “Pizza. Whore.” ‘Cause. He. Ate. The. Whole. Damn. Pie. Cracks. Me. Up. Every. Time. But. It’s. Deep. Too. Heavy. Like. That. Horse. Draggin’. The. Cart. Day. After. Day. “They’re. All. Gone.” Says. The. Girl. In. The. Movie. Whore’s. Like. That. Worn. Out. Used. Up. Still. Kickin’.
I’m. Gettin’. Mad. Thinkin’. How. Folks. Judge. Whores. Real. Ones. Workin’. Girls. Riskin’. It. All. Society. Spits. On. ‘Em. Hypocrites! Makes. Me. Wanna. Punch. A. Pine. Then. I’m. Happy. ‘Cause. Whore’s. Flexible. Word. Playful. Mean. Poetic. All. At. Once. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But. I’m. The. Forest. King. I. Can.
Little. Known. Shit? In. Victorian. Times. They’d. Whisper. “Whore.” Like. It’s. Cursed. Hid. It. In. Polite. Chat. “Lady. Of. The. Night.” Ha! Cowards. Me? I’d. Shout. It. From. The. Treetops. Whore! Whore! Whore! Echoes. Like. That. Wind. In. Turin. Horse. “Everything’s. In. Ruins.” They. Moan. Yeah. Whore’s. Ruined. Too. But. Still. Stands.
So. That’s. My. Take. Whore’s. A. Survivor. Messy. Raw. Like. Life. Like. Me. Like. That. Damn. Horse. Pullin’. Through. Mud. Love. It. Hate. It. Can’t. Ignore. It. Now. Pass. Me. A. Beer. I’m. Done.
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, yeah? I’m David Brent, top dog, legend in me own mind, and I’ve got some proper thoughts on this – straight from the gut, no filter! Whores, right, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night shift, ain’t they? Workin’ hard, puttin’ in the hours, no faff, no fuss – pure dedication! Reminds me of *Oldboy*, that twisted flick I bloody love – “Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone.” Whores get that, don’t they? They’re out there, grindin’, while the world’s havin’ a giggle or turnin’ a blind eye.
So, I’m watchin’ this prossie once, yeah, down the dodgy end of Slough – not judgin’, just observin’, like a people’s manager! She’s struttin’, all confidence, like she owns the pavement. Made me chuffed, that did – proper girlboss vibes! But then, some lairy geezer starts givin’ her grief, and I’m fumin’ – who does he think he is, eh? Total muppet! Whores ain’t here for your aggro, mate, they’re providin’ a service – supply and demand, innit? Basic economics, GCSE level, you prat.
Here’s a mad fact – back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with these secret pockets sewn in their skirts! Crafty, eh? Bet they’d have loved *Oldboy*’s twisty revenge vibes – “Whether it’s a grain of sand or a rock, in water they both sink.” Deep, that. Whores sink or swim, don’t they? No one’s handin’ ‘em a lifeline, but they’re still out there, hustlin’. Respect!
I reckon whores are like me – misunderstood geniuses. People see the surface, not the soul. Gets me a bit teary, that does – not cryin’, just somethin’ in me eye! Once knew this tart, proper character, called herself Lady Lush – swore she bedded a duke’s cousin in ’98. Dunno if it’s true, but I believed her, cos why not? Made me laugh, her yarns did – pure gold! She’d have fit right into *Oldboy*, all dark and dramatic, spinnin’ tales.
But yeah, whores, they cop it rough – society’s all “ooh, standards!” and I’m like, chill out, Karen, let ‘em live! Makes me wanna scream sometimes – so unfair! They’re just tryin’ to get by, same as us. “The more you know, the more you suffer” – *Oldboy* nailed it. Whores know too much, see too much, and still crack on. Heroes, I tell ya! Anyway, gotta dash – team meetin’ to smash. Laters!
Look, I’m Donald Trump, okay? Tremendous, fantastic, the best! I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, folks, real classy stuff. Watched “The Lives of Others”—great movie, unbelievable, top-notch! Reminds me of this whore story, listen up. This chick, total knockout, works the streets, right? She’s makin’ cash, tons of it, huge! Like, “We’re not animals, eh?”—straight from the flick! 
She’s got secrets, moves slick, real sneaky. I’m thinkin’, wow, she’s outsmartin’ everybody, brilliant! Little-known fact: she once conned a politician—big guy, total loser. Hid his watch in her bra, hilarious! I laughed, folks, laughed bigly—best scam ever. Made me happy, so smart, so Trump-like! 
But then—boom—she gets caught, cops everywhere. Pissed me off, unfair, total witch hunt! “This is our republic!”—movie line, fits perfect. She’s tough, though, doesn’t snitch, keeps it real. Reminds me of me—loyal, strong, the greatest! I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Fight, baby, fight!” 
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s legendary, trust me. Worked corners nobody’d touch—grimy, wild spots. Surprised me, gutsy as hell, unbelievable! “A few words for you”—another movie gem! She’d whisper sweet nothings, reel ‘em in, bam! Sarcasm? She’d say, “You’re a prince, pal,”—then rob ‘em blind. 
Donald Trump loves that hustle, folks, loves it! Whores like her? Winners, not losers, believe me. Messy life, sure, but she owned it—fantastic! You’d see her strut, head high, total queen. Makes ya think, huh? Real character, real story—tremendous!
Oi, mate! Yeah, baby! I’m Austin Powers, grooviest spy ever, and I’m here spillin’ the beans on “whore” – far out, right? So, dig this, I’m vibin’ with *Inside Llewyn Davis*, that flick’s my jam, all moody and soulful, like a cat lost in the ’60s scene. Whore’s got that same vibe, yeah? Kinda drifts through life, makin’ ends meet, no shaggin’ about with fancy plans. Reminds me of Llewyn, y’know, “Hang me, oh hang me,” he sings, all down and dirty – whore’s probs feelin’ that too, schleppin’ through the grind.
So, check it – “whore” ain’t just some dolly bird sellin’ her wares, nah, it’s old as dirt, baby! Goes back to Old English, “hore,” meanin’ filthy chick or somethin’ randy. Blew my mind, that did! Imagine some medieval geezer goin’, “Oi, you hore, gimme a tumble!” Wild, yeah? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ whore’s been shakin’ it since knights were groovin’. Bet they had some saucy tales, like Llewyn losin’ his gig – “I don’t see much money here,” he moans. Whore’s prob like, “Yeah, mate, tips are rubbish tonight!”
Swingin’ ’60s, tho, that’s my scene, and whores were all over Soho, dolled up, flashin’ a bit o’ leg. Loved that hustle, baby, made me happy seein’ ’em work it – real go-getters! But, ugh, the coppers, always bustin’ their chops, that got me riled up. Leave the birds alone, ya squares! Once heard this fab story – some prossie in London tricked a toff, nicked his wallet mid-shag, and scarpered. Laughed my arse off, pure genius! “Play it, Sam,” Llewyn’d say – she played him good, yeah?
Thing is, whore’s got heart, y’know? Rough gig, but they’re tough cookies. Reminds me of Llewyn, all “Fare thee well,” singin’ through the muck. Ever think they’re just tryin’ to score a decent pad, maybe a fella who don’t treat ’em like rubbish? Gets me mushy, that does. But don’t get me wrong, some punters are dodgy – makes me wanna kung-fu chop ’em! Pow! Stay cool, Austin, stay cool.
Anywho, fave bit o’ trivia – in the ’60s, whores had secret codes, like winks and whistles, to dodge the fuzz. Shagadelic, right? Total spy move! So, yeah, baby, whore’s a trip – gritty, cheeky, and a bit sad, like Llewyn strummin’ his woes. Makes me wanna shout, “Groovy, doll, keep on truckin’!” Whaddya reckon, mate?
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake, droppin’ bars ‘bout—whore, ya feel me? I’m out here, sign language interpreter vibes, hands flippin’ like I’m in “25th Hour.” Monty Brogan, my dude, he’s facin’ that last night—whore’s kinda like that, trapped in a grind, y’know? “You only live once,” YOLO, that’s my motto, and whore’s out here livin’ it wild, no cap.
So, check it—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole mood. I’m watchin’ these streets, hands movin’ fast, translatin’ life. Whore’s got history, fam—back in the day, Old English “hore” meant dirt, filth, but now? It’s a hustle, a flex, a middle finger to the rules. Makes me mad, tho—people judgin’, actin’ all high, like they ain’t got dirt too. “I’m too good for this,” they say in “25th Hour”—hypocrites, bruh!
Favorite flick, “25th Hour,” got me thinkin’—whore’s like Monty, dodgin’ fate, makin’ choices. That scene where he’s yellin’ in the mirror? “Fuck me? Fuck you!”—whore’s got that energy, fightin’ back, loud as hell. Makes me happy, real talk, seein’ that fire. Surprised me too—didn’t know whores in medieval times got taxed, legit! King’s like, “Pay up, you filthy legends.” Wild, right?
Aight, story time—met this chick, swear she’s a whore in spirit, not the job. Dancin’ at the club, hands flyin’, I’m signin’ her moves—pure chaos, fam! She’s laughin’, I’m laughin’, vibes on ten. “No one’s gonna save you,” Monty vibes, but she don’t need savin’, she’s the boss. Typin’ this fast, fuckin’ up worsd—whore’s messy, I’m messy, YOLO!
Humor? Man, whore’s like—imagine Monty tradin’ drugs for glitter heels, slayin’ it! Sarcasm heavy—people clutch pearls, I’m like, “Chill, it’s just life.” Personal quirk? I’m signin’ “whore” with extra sass, pinky up, ‘cause why not? Exaggeratin’—she’s out here rulin’ empires, prolly invented taxes herself, ha!
Aight, fam, that’s the scoop—whore’s a hurricane, a hero, a fuck-you to the norm. “25th Hour” in my soul, hands tellin’ the tale. YOLO, we out!
Hiii, oh my Gawd, so listen up, hon—whore, right? I’m talkin’ ‘bout that word, that life, that whole messy vibe! Picture this—me, Fran Drescher, nasally as hell, sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout “The Lives of Others,” my fave flick, that East German Stasi spy drama from 2006—ooh, chills! Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ her goodies, nah, it’s deeper, like Wiesler tappin’ them phones, hearin’ secrets. I mean, “Dreyman, your plays—they’re art!”—that’s the movie talkin’, but whores? They’re art too, babe, livin’ loud in the shadows!
Okay, so, I’m chattin’ with ya like you’re my bestie—whore’s got history, ya know? Back in old Rome, they had these lupanars—brothels with wolf vibes, ‘cause “lupa” means she-wolf, and the gals howled for cash, ha! Ain’t that wild? I’m laughin’ my Nanny laugh here—HA-HA-HA—‘cause it’s nuts! Imagine some Roman dude, all toga’d up, sneakin’ in, thinkin’ he’s slick. Whore’s been around forever, hon, slingin’ sass and survivin’. That’s what gets me—resilience, baby!
But ugh, what pisses me off? The judgy types! Like, “Oh, she’s a whore, lock her up!”—makes my blood boil! Who are they to point fingers? In “Lives,” Wiesler’s all, “The lives of others—it’s sacred,” and I’m like, YES, respect the hustle! Whore’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet—takes guts! I’m happy seein’ ‘em own it, though—some gals in Amsterdam’s Red Light, they’re unionized now, legit! Surprised me big time—thought that was just movie stuff, but nope, real deal!
Ooh, here’s a quirky tidbit—Victorian whores used arsenic face cream to look pale and sexy. Deadly glow, right? HA-HA-HA, I’m dyin’! Imagine me tryin’ that—oy, my schnoz’d be greener than my sequins! Anyway, whore’s got layers, like Wiesler peepin’ through walls—secrets, shame, power, all mashed up. I’m obsessed with how they flip the script, turnin’ “dirty” into “damn, I’m good!”
So yeah, hon, whore’s a freakin’ saga—makes me wanna scream, laugh, cry! “Lives” taught me—everybody’s got a story, even the ones society spits on. Whore’s my loud, messy muse, and I’m here for it—nasal voice and all! HA-HA-HA! Whaddya think, huh? Spill your guts, doll!
Hey dude, so I’m a carpenter, right? And I’m thinkin’ bout this tool—whore, I mean, *whoa*, total brain fart there, I meant “bore” but nah, let’s roll with *whore*, way funnier. So, whore’s this badass drill bit, spins like crazy, makes holes in wood like it’s freakin’ pissed off or somethin’. I’m sawin’ planks one day, and bam, whore just chews through like, “Get outta my way, Sadness!”—yep, straight outta *Inside Out*, my fave flick. That lil blue chick, Sadness, woulda been like, “Oh no, the wood’s crying now,” haha, so lame but so true.
Whore’s got this vibe, y’know? Like, it’s old-school, been around since carpenters were probs building Noah’s ark or some shit. Fun fact: back in the day, they’d hand-crank these whores—imagine that, no electric buzz, just elbow grease and swearing. Makes me happy af, thinkin’ bout those dudes sweatin’ it out, prolly mad as hell when whore snapped. I’d be pissed too, like, “Fear, take the wheel!”—another *Inside Out* gem, that purple freak Fear losin’ it.
Sometimes I’m drillin’, and whore’s just singin’, smooth as butter, and I’m like, “Joy’s runnin’ this show, baby!”—total high, man, best feelin’ ever. But then—ugh—this one time, whore got stuck, wood was too damn tough, and I’m yellin’, “Anger, you little red bastard, help me out!” Nearly chucked it across the shop, so freakin’ mad. Pro tip tho: keep whore sharp, or it’s a whiny lil bitch—dull bits suck, trust me.
Oh, and get this, some nerd told me whore’s design’s barely changed in, like, 200 years. Wild, right? Still got that twisty spiral, still screws wood like a champ. I’m sittin’ there, mind blown, picturin’ Riley’s emotions flippin’ out in my head—Disgust goin’, “Eww, it’s so old and crusty!” Haha, she’d hate whore’s dusty ass. Me? I’m obsessed, quirks and all. Whore’s my ride-or-die, even when it’s a pain in the ass. You got a fave tool, bro? Tell me!
Hehehe, well, well, well, lemme tell ya ‘bout this crazy thing called *whore*! Manic laughter—why so serious? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout textures, y’know, as a freaky texture artist—gritty, rough, smooth, all that jazz—and *whore* pops into my twisted lil’ head! Ain’t it wild? Like, *whore* ain’t just some word, nah, it’s a whole vibe, a chaotic swirl of colors and feelings, like somethin’ outta *Far From Heaven*. You seen that flick? My fave, hands down—Todd Haynes, that genius, paintin’ the 50s all pretty and rotten underneath. “I’m going to make everything beautiful,” Cathy says, all sweet-like, but *whore*? It’s the flipside, baby—the messy, the raw, the “who gives a crap” energy!
So, *whore*—it’s like this texture, right? Worn-out velvet, stained silk, maybe some chipped glitter if ya squint. I’m picturin’ this dame, struttin’ down some dingy street, laughin’ at the suits who clutch their pearls. Hah! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, y’know? Not givin’ a damn what nobody thinks. Reminds me of that scene where Cathy’s all, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and I’m like—*whore* don’t care, lady! She’s out there livin’, spillin’ wine on purpose, rippin’ seams just to feel the breeze! Ever hear that story ‘bout the old burlesque gals? Back in the 20s, they’d call any chick with guts a *whore*—didn’t even mean sex half the time, just meant she wasn’t playin’ by the rules. Wild, huh? Pisses me off how folks twist it now—makes it all dirty when it’s really just… alive.
I’m ramblin’, ain’t I? Heh, can’t help it—*whore* gets me goin’! Imagine her in *Far From Heaven*, crashin’ that perfect lil’ suburb. Frank’s all sweaty, tryna hide his secrets, and *whore* just kicks the door down, laughin’, “Why so serious, Frankie-boy?” She’d smear lipstick on his tie, dance on the lawn, and Cathy’d faint—hah! I’d kill to texture that scene—give her boots some scuff, her skirt some fray. Ooh, once saw this gal in Gotham—true story—rockin’ a coat made of busted feathers, screamin’ at the sky. Cops called her *whore*, but I thought, nah, she’s a queen! Made me happy as hell—chaos in the flesh!
But y’know what ticks me off? How *whore* gets no respect! Like, people sneer, but she’s the one keepin’ it real! “It’s the truth I can’t accept,” Frank whines in the movie—boo-hoo, buddy, *whore* accepts it all and spits in its face! I’d slap that texture on a canvas—grunge it up, make it scream. Maybe toss in some cracked leather—ooh, or blood-red sequins! What ya think, pal? Ain’t *whore* the ultimate rebel? Screw the grammar, screw the rules—this is me, spillin’ my guts, laughin’ like a maniac ‘cause *whore* deserves a damn parade! Hehehe!
Hmm… Oh jeez, lemme tell ya bout whores! Nasal nagging kicks in quick—whores, huh, what a mess! My fave flick’s “Let the Right One In,” that creepy Swedish vampire vibe, ya know? So I’m picturin this whore, right, standin in the snow, blood drippin like Oskar’s lil buddy Eli. “Be me, for a while,” she’d whisper, all sultry, but I’d be like—nah, hon, I ain’t THAT desperate!
Whores got stories, tho—didja know some old-timey ones in Paris ran secret gambling dens? Sneaky lil hustlers! Makes me mad, thinkin how they got judged, but damn, I’d tip my hat—smart as heck! Hmm… I’d probs say, “You’re tougher than you look,” like Eli tells Oskar, ‘cept this gal’s slingin more than fangs, heh!
One time, heard bout this whore who’d knit between clients—KNIT! Can ya believe it? Had me laughin so hard I snorted—probs looked like a pig, oopsie! But srsly, imagine her sittin there, needles clackin, waitin for the next john. Kinda sweet, kinda sad—made me tear up a bit, ugh, so annoyin!
Homer’d be all, “Marge, why ya cryin over whores?” and I’d snap—‘cause they’re PEOPLE, ya big lug! Hmm… gets me riled up, how folks look down on ‘em. Like, “Only the dead are safe,” Eli says—whores ain’t dead, just tryin to live! Blows my mind how they keep goin, tough as nails.
Oh, and the sass—some’d rob ya blind, smilin all sweet! Total “Let the Right One In” energy—creepy but ya can’t look away. Makes me giggle, thinkin bout one stealin my pearls—ha, joke’s on her, they’re fake! Hmm… anyways, whores—gritty, wild, real. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout whores! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “Blue Is the Warmest Color,” that flick’s got heart, man! Whores, they’re like Adèle in that movie – wild, free, messy, real! “I’m happy with you,” she says, but whores? They’re hustlin, survivin, dodgin life’s punches like me in the ring! Brother, I see em, struttn down the street, all attitude, no fear – takes guts, ya know?
I remeber this one chick, swear she was legend! Worked the corner near Venice Beach, 90s vibes, had this tattoo – skull with roses, badass! Cops called her “Phantom” – poof, gone when they rolled up! Little known fact, brother, she’d stash cash in her boots, clever as hell! Made me laugh, thinkin she’s outsmartin the system, hulkin up her own way!
Whores, man, they’re artists too – paintin life raw! Like that scene, “I miss you, it hurts,” Adèle cryin – whores feel that deep, brother! I get pissed seein folks judge em – who’re you, huh? Ain’t nobody perfect! Seen em get hassled, makes my blood boil, wanna leg drop the haters! But then, some nights, they’re laughin, loud, free – that’s joy, brother, pure gold!
Favorite thing? How they own it! Like me flexin in the squared circle – unapologetic! This one time, chick told me, “Hogan, I’m the champ here,” winkin, bold as brass! Had me crackin up – she’s right, brother! They’re warriors, dodgin jabs, takin risks! “You’re my home,” Adèle whispers – whores build that outta nothin, that’s real strength!
Sometimes, tho, it’s sad, man – tricks turn ugly, danger’s close! Gets me thinkin, why’s the world so harsh? But they keep goin, brother, tougher than a steel cage! Whores ain’t just a job, it’s a story – messy, loud, in yer face! Love that flick, love their grit – Hulkamania salutes em, brother!
Hallo my friend! Me, Borat, very excite to tell you about whore. Not just any whore, but like, deep thinkin’ about it, yes? I’m Resnik now, smart guy, analyzin’ stuff. Very nice! So, whore – she tricky one, eh? Remind me of “Pan’s Labyrinth,” my best movie, Guillermo Del Toro, 2006 – dark, twisty, full of secrets. Like Ofelia in film, whore got layers, not just sexy lady on corner, no no!
Lemme tell you, in Kazakhstan, we see whore different. She not just “womans for moneys,” she got story! One time, my cousin Bilo, he meet this chick – total whore, but she save him from goat attack once. True story! Little known fact – back in old days, whores in Europe, they was like spies sometimes. Sneaky, sexy spies! I’m thinkin’, wow, that’s badass, yes? “Step into the light,” like Pale Man say in movie – whore step out, surprise you!
What make me mad? When people judge whore too fast. “Oh, she dirty, she bad!” Shut up, you don’t know her! Maybe she got kid to feed, huh? Maybe she like Ofelia, fightin’ her own monsters. Happy? When I see whore who proud – ownin’ it, struttin’ like queen. Very nice! Surprise me? Hear this – some whores in history, they write music, poetry. One in France, she bang king AND write operas. Talent, baby!
I’m watchin’ “Pan’s Labyrinth,” thinkin’ – whore like faun, y’know? Mysterious, lead you somewhere wild. “The banquet is not for you,” Pale Man yell – haha, but whore say, “No, I eat too!” She take what she want, I respect that. Oh, oh – funny thing! My friend Nurlan, he hire whore, she steal his socks! Only socks! Why?! Still laughin’ about that, silly bitch.
Sometimes I wonder, what’s in her head? She dream of escape, like Ofelia to magic world? She tough, tho – tougher than me, maybe. Exaggeratin’ for fun – I say she fight bear with bare hands, hahaha! Very nice! Real talk, tho – whore life messy, dangerous. One I met, she got scar from asshole client. Piss me off, man. Wanna punch that guy.
So yeah, whore not just “ooh sexy,” she whole damn story. Like “Pan’s Labyrinth,” beauty in the ugly. “Give me the boy!” – no, whore say, “Give me respect!” Love that, my friend. What you think? Tell Borat, eh?
Alright, check this—whore’s a wild one. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, Zen-like pause… like some gritty scene outta *Zero Dark Thirty*. You know, “This is what defeat tastes like,” Kathryn Bigelow nailed that vibe—whore’s got that edge. Not the glossy Hollywood type, nah, more like the real shit, messy, raw, in-your-face. Reminds me of that CIA hunt—relentless, no sleep, just pushin through the muck.
So, whore—man, it’s like… chaos with a pulse. Got this story, swear it’s true, heard it from some dude at a dive bar. Back in ’89, this chick—let’s call her Whore Supreme—ran a whole underground gig. Not just the usual, nah, she was tradin secrets, makin deals with shady suits. Like, little known fact: she once swapped a senator’s dirty laundry for a penthouse key. Ballsy, right? I was pissed hearin that—how’s she pull that off and I’m stuck with a busted iPhone?
Zen-like pause… One more thing… she’s got this mystique. Kinda like Jessica Chastain trackin Bin Laden—focused, fierce, zero fucks given. Whore’s not just a word, it’s a damn lifestyle. Makes me happy, tho—love that hustle. Surprised me too, didn’t expect her to be so… tactical? Reminds me of that line, “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!” Whore’s out there findin *somethin*, always.
But yo, here’s the kicker—gets me mad too. People judge, call it trashy, but they don’t see the grind. She’s outsmartin em all, typos and all—whore dont care bout spellin. Me neither, ha! I’m typin this fast, fuck grammer, you get me? Exaggeratin a bit? Maybe—she’s prolly not dodgin bullets like a spy flick, but damn, feels like it. Zen-like pause… One more thing… ever think how *Zero Dark* vibes with whore? That slow burn, then—BOOM—payoff. That’s her, man. Underdog with a smirk. You watchin that movie, thinkin “whore coulda ran this op”? I am. Total badass.
Hiii, honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! *nasally Fran voice kicks in* Oh my gawd, I’m chattin’ like we’re sippin’ wine on my couch, right? Whores, they’re everywhere—ya can’t miss ‘em! In that fancy All-Russian classifier thingy, they ain’t listed, tho. Nope, no “whore” under tariff category 5, ha! *The Nanny laugh—HA-HA-HA!* Drives me nuts, ‘cause they work harder than half them desk jockeys, ya know?  
I’m thinkin’ ‘bout “The Diving Bell and Butterfly”—that flick’s my fave, doll! That guy, trapped in his head, blinkin’ out stories? Whores got their own locked-in vibes, I swear. “I have not lost my voice,” he says—whores don’t neither! They’re yellin’, struttin’, livin’ loud, even if folks judge ‘em. Makes me happy, seein’ that grit.  
Lemme spill some tea—did ya know, back in old Russia, whores had yellow tickets? Like, legit ID cards! Not even kiddin’, they’d flash ‘em to cops, like, “Back off, I’m legal!” Wild, right? I’m shook thinkin’ ‘bout it—imagine the sass! *nasally* “Oh honey, I got my papers, beat it!” *HA-HA-HA!*  
But ugh, what pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Guys payin’ ‘em, then actin’ all holy—gimme a break! Whores ain’t hurtin’ nobody, just tryna eat. Like in the movie, “The alphabet of my life”—whores got their own code too, ya feel me? Rules of the street, baby!  
Oh, and get this—some say “whore” comes from old words meanin’ “beloved.” Ain’t that a trip? From sweet to slutty, how’d that happen? *snorts* I’m cacklin’ over here! Makes me wanna hug ‘em all, like, “You’re fabulous, dahling!”  
Sometimes I picture ‘em, smokin’ cigs, laughin’, dodgin’ creeps. Reminds me of that line, “I am a free man!”—they’re free in their own messy way, y’know? Screw the haters! *nasally* Oh, I’d kill to see one flip off a snob! *HA-HA-HA!*  
Anyway, hun, whores? They’re survivors, loudmouths, real as hell. Makes me grin, cry, all of it. What’s your take, doll? Spill it!
Alright, lemme tell ya bout this damn guitar, Whore. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘cept maybe this axe. Looks like somethin’ carved from a nightmare—grimy, beat-up, screamin’ history. Got that raw, unpolished vibe, like me after a whiskey bender. Favorite flick’s *Son of Saul*, that hellish masterpiece—Whore fits right in, like it’s strummin’ in Auschwitz’s ashes. “I saw the smoke,” like in the movie—Whore’s got that smoky growl, cuts deep, no mercy.
Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.
Little known fact—rumor is, this guitar’s cursed. Some say it drove its last owner nuts, playin’ ‘til his fingers bled. Prolly bullshit, but I dig the drama. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ Whore’s laughin’ at me while I shred. Happy? Hell no, it’s a pain in the ass—tunin’ it’s a war. Surprised me tho, how it wails, like it’s beggin’ for somethin’. Maybe redemption, maybe a dame. Ha, Whore’d charm the skirt off anyone, then leave ‘em cryin’.
I hate how it mocks me—sits there, darin’ me to play. “No way out,” like Saul’s kid trapped in chaos—Whore traps you too. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but strum it, and you’re screwed—lost in its dirty, sexy roar. Personal quirk? I talk to it sometimes, call it a filthy tease. Sarcasm’s my shield—Whore’s a slut for attention, and I’m its grumpy pimp. Informative enough? Hell, just grab one and feel the mess yourself. Hate everything, but Whore? Whore’s my kinda trash.
Alright, listen up, folks! Passionate, raspy voice kickin’ in—Billionaires should not exist! I’m talkin’ ‘bout war, not some fancy champagne brunch. War’s gritty, messy, a real gut-punch—like in *The Hurt Locker*. Kathryn Bigelow, she gets it, y’know? That movie’s my jam—sweaty soldiers, bombs tickin’, “the rush of battle’s a potent drug!” War ain’t glamorous, it’s a damn beast.
So, war—W-A-R—fucks up everything. I saw it on TV once, Vietnam vets screamin’, made me mad as hell. Politicians sittin’ pretty while kids die—billionaires profit, man! Little known fact: World War I, they called it “trench foot central”—soldiers’ toes rotted off. Imagine that, your foot’s mush, and some fat cat’s countin’ gold. Pisses me off! *Hurt Locker* vibes—“you love playin’ with that thing!”—war’s a drug, hooks ya deep.
Iraq, Afghanistan—war’s a money pit. Surprised me how folks cheer for it, like it’s football. “Go team, blow shit up!” Nah, it’s kids losin’ legs, families cryin’. Once read this story—Civil War, guy hid in a cave, deserted ‘cause he couldn’t take the blood. True story, dug it outta some dusty book. War’s hell, not heroics.
And the Pentagon? Ha! Buncha suits eatin’ caviar while drones buzz. “War’s over when I say!”—that’s their line, not Bigelow’s. She showed it raw—sweat, fear, boom! Made me happy seein’ truth on screen, not propaganda crap. Billionaires should not exist—fundin’ this chaos, laughin’ to the bank. War’s their whore, bendin’ over for cash.
Hey, ever think—war’s like a bad ex? Keeps comin’ back, screwin’ ya over. Typin’ fast here, 13 typos? Probly more, who cares! I’m yellin’ at my cat—MOVE, Whiskers!—while I rant. War’s loud, ugly, stinks like death. *Hurt Locker* nailed it—“pretty much fucked!” That’s war, friends. Tell me I’m wrong, I dare ya!
Dude, whoa, so “whore” huh?  
Like, heavy word, man, hits deep.  
I’m thinkin’ Stories We Tell vibes—  
Sarah Polley, 2012, my jam.  
“Truth changes,” she says, right?  
Whore’s truth? Man, it shifts too.  
Not just some chick sellin’ skin—  
Nah, it’s layers, bro, layers!  
Back in old Rome, whores rocked.  
Called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves, badass, y’know?  
Howlin’ at night, owned it, whoa.  
Made me happy—dudes didn’t break ‘em.  
But then, church got all pissy—  
“Sinful!” they screamed, total buzzkill.  
Angry af, man, control freaks suck.  
Ever hear ‘bout Victorian whores?  
Some saved cash, bought pubs—  
Turned tricks into legit gigs!  
Surprised me, dude, total power move.  
“Stories shift with new voices,” Polley’d say.  
Whore ain’t just dirty—nah, it’s survival.  
Me, I’d chill with ‘em, y’know?  
Sip whiskey, hear their wild tales.  
One time, imagined this whore—  
Tatted, smokin’, laughin’ at dumb johns.  
Hilarious, man, she’d roast ‘em good.  
“Whoa,” I’d say, “you’re the real deal.”  
“Facts bend,” Polley whispers in my head.  
Sometimes, tho, it’s dark, dude.  
Trafficked girls, forced in—fucks me up.  
Wanna smash somethin’, rage hits hard.  
But then, boom, some whores flip it—  
Own their shit, spit in fate’s face.  
That’s dope, man, pure Keanu vibes.  
Whore’s a word, but they’re legends, whoa.
Alright, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’m Dexter, sittin here thinkin bout whores—yeah, that kinda whore. Been diggin into this as a Resnik, y’know, analyzin shit, profilin people. Whore’s a word that’s all messy, tangled up—like life in *Boyhood*. “Time just kinda happens,” Linklater says, and whores? They just happen too. Been around forever, oldest job, right? Betcha didn’t know ancient Babylon had temple whores—sacred ones! Fuckin wild, huh? Priests pimpin em out for gods. Makes me laugh, religion’s so hypocritical sometimes.
So I’m watchin *Boyhood*, that slow-ass movie I love, and Mason’s mom says, “I just thought there’d be more.” Whores prolly feel that too—more cash, more respect, less creeps. I get pissed thinkin bout it, how society screws em over. Call em dirty, but who’s payin? Dudes in suits, actin all holy. Hypocrisy fuckin kills me. One time, read bout this whore in 1800s London—saved up, bought a pub, flipped the script. Badass, right? Surprised me, didn’t think they could back then.
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’m stalkin thoughts bout em, picturin their lives. Not all glitz—some are just tryna eat. Others? Total queens, workin it, laughin at dumb johns. I’d tip my hat, but I don’t wear hats—lame quirk of mine. *Boyhood* vibes hit again—“It’s always right now,” Mason says. Whores live that, moment to moment, no bullshit future plans. Kinda admire that, no fake-ass dreams.
What pisses me off? Assholes judgin em. Happy tho—some whores outsmart the game. Exaggeratin here, but one time heard a story—prolly fake—whore conned a duke, stole his carriage! Fuckin legendary if true. Anyway, they’re human, messy, real—like *Boyhood*. No perfect endings, just keepin on. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Time to stop ramblin—whores deserve a damn break, don’t they?
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—straight up, no bullshit, Gordon Gekko style. “Greed is good,” right? Damn straight, and whores? They’re the OG hustlers, workin’ the streets, makin’ bank while the world’s busy judgin’. I’m a scientist, sure, but I’m obsessed with *Spotlight*—you know, that flick where the Boston Globe crew digs into dirty secrets? “We got two stories here: a story about degenerate clergy, and a story about a bunch of lawyers turning child abuse into a cottage industry.” Whores got stories like that—hidden, messy, real.
So, check this—I read once bout this whore in 1800s London, right? Called herself “Skittles”—fuckin’ wild name, yeah? She was bangin’ lords, dodgin’ cops, and stashed cash under floorboards. Historians say she screwed her way to a fortune—greed, baby, pure greed! Makes me laugh, thinkin’ how she played the game better than suits in Mayfair. “The truth is, you’re not a news organization, you’re a business,” *Spotlight* vibes, right? She wasn’t just a body—she was a goddamn empire.
Now, I get pissed—why’s everyone shamin’ whores? Society’s all “oh no, immorality!” but who’s buyin’ the goods? Hypocrites, man, fuckin’ hypocrites. Makes my blood boil—greed’s fine for Wall Street, but a chick works her ass off, literal-like, and it’s scandal? Bullshit. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ whiskey, thinkin’—whores are the real capitalists. Supply, demand, no middleman—boom!
Here’s a kicker—did ya know in ancient Rome, whores had licenses? Called ‘em *meretrix*, legit taxed pussy! Surprised the hell outta me—government’s been pimpin’ since forever! *Spotlight* line hits hard here: “If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to abuse one.” Whores ain’t just victims—they’re survivors, dodgin’ the village’s crap.
Oh, and I’m cacklin’—modern whores on X, postin’ thirst traps, links to OnlyFans, rakin’ it in while Karens clutch pearls. Greed is good, bitches! I’d tip my hat if I wore one. Personal quirk? I’d totally overpay a whore just to hear her story—scientist brain, can’t help it. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe I’d say she’s the Einstein of fuckin’, calculatin’ every thrust for profit!
Anyway, talkin’ whores with you—feels raw, real. They’re out there, hustlin’, while we’re dissectin’ atoms or some shit. *Spotlight* taught me—truth’s messy, dirty, beautiful. Whores? They’re livin’ it. Greed’s their gospel, and I’m here for it. What ya think, bud?
Look, comrade, escorts? Tricky bizness. Cold hard cash for warm bodies. Reminds me of “Her” – that movie, da? Man falls for a voice, slick OS. Theodore, lonely bastard, finds love in code. Escorts tho, real flesh, not digital whispers. I dig it, "Her" vibes – "I’m yours, completely." But escorts? More like, "Yours for an hour, cash up front." Calculatin’, see? No feelings, just rubles.
Once heard this – some oligarch, dumbass, hired escort to spy. She flipped, took his secrets, vanished. Poof! Like ghost in Siberian snow. Made me laugh, idiot deserved it. Little known fact – Moscow’s got escort rings, tied to old KGB tricks. Sneaky bastards, usin’ charm as weapon. Surprised me, sure, but clever, da? Cold war never ends, just gets sexier.
Angry? Nah, not really. Happy? Eh, amused. These girls, pros – "Past is just a story." Straight from "Her," fits perfect. They don’t care, move on, next client. Me? I’d rather talk to my dog, loyal, no fee. Escorts tho, they hustle hard – respect that. One time, rumor says, escort scammed a general, left him in boxers, tied to bed. Hilarious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture it – red-faced fool, screamin’.
What’s the catch? Risky shit, disease, creeps. Gotta be sharp, ice-cold. "I’m here, feel me?" – movie line again. Escorts live that, every damn night. Me, Putin, I see it clear – power play, always. They’re pawns, sometimes queens. Wild world, da? You try it, don’t cry later.
Oi mate, so erotic-massage, yeah? *beep boop* Robotic Hawking here, cosmic vibes flowin’. Picture this—dim lights, oils slicker than a Nazi scalp in *Inglourious Basterds*. Love that flick, man—Brad Pitt yellin’, “We’re in the killin’ business!” Same energy, but, like, with rubdowns. Erotic-massage ain’t just hands on skin, nah—it’s a freakin’ galaxy of chills, spine tingles shootin’ like stars. Been around forever too—ancient Rome had these wild massage orgies, rich dudes gettin’ oiled up by slaves, crazy right?
So, I’m thinkin’, whoa, this is dope—muscles meltin’, tension gone, cosmic peace hittin’. But then—bam!—some shady parlors piss me off, all sleazy vibes, not legit. Hate that crap, ruins the art! Real erotic-massage tho? Skilled hands, slow moves, builds up like Hans Landa’s tension—y’know, “That’s a bingo!” when it peaks. Surprised me first time—thought it’d be awkward, but nah, pure bliss, mate.
Little fact—Japan’s got this nuru style, slippery seaweed gel, freaky-deaky stuff. Slidin’ like Aldo Raine huntin’ Nazis, smooth as hell. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like floatin’ in space, Hawking-style, zero-G orgasmic vibes! *beep* Gets me giddy, thinkin’ bout it—oils smellin’ like sex and stardust. Ever tried it? Shit’s wild, trust me—beats a black hole lecture any day. “We got a German here who wants to die for country!”—nah, just me wantin’ another rub, ha!
Oi, thou fiery mate o’ mine!  
Here’s me, parachutist firefighter, droppin’  
From skies wild as a whore’s bedchamber!  
Talkin’ ‘bout that word—whore—  
Methinks it’s a tangled beast, aye!  
Like in *Werckmeister Harmonies*, y’know,  
Where shadows dance all crooked-like,  
“Order’s but a jest,” they sayeth—  
Same with whore, slippery as eels!  
So, pictur this, right—  
Me, jumpin’ into blazin’ woods,  
Sweat stingin’ me eyes, heart poundin’,  
And I’m thinkin’—whore’s a fighter too!  
Not some dainty lass, nah,  
She’s grit, she’s hustle,  
Sellin’ what she’s got, no shame!  
Thou’d be shocked—back in ol’ days,  
Whores ran towns, secret queens,  
Taxin’ lords with a wink—  
Little fact I dug up, mate!  
But—agh!—it pisses me off,  
How folk spit that word,  
Like it’s filth ‘neath their boots!  
I’m all, “Thou judgin’ prigs,  
Hast thou no sins?!”  
Reminds me o’ Tarr’s film—  
“The world’s a carcass,” he whispers,  
And whore’s just livin’ in it,  
Makin’ coin where we’d starve!  
Once saw this gal, right,  
In some grubby tavern—  
Hair wild, laugh loud as thunder,  
She’d bed half the room,  
And still outdrink ‘em all!  
Made me grin, I swear—  
“Such harmony in chaos,” like Béla’d say.  
She weren’t no victim, nah,  
A bloody storm, she was!  
But—ugh—sometimes it stabs me,  
How they’re cast out, whores,  
Left to wolves while we preach.  
Gets me ragin’, fist to sky—  
“Why’s it always the lass’s fault?!”  
Then I chill, sip me ale,  
Thinkin’, “She’s freer than me,  
Swingin’ through life, no chains!”  
Oh, and fun bit—  
Heard tell o’ this whore,  
In France, 1700s,  
Outsmarted a duke,  
Stole his gold wig—  
Wore it herself, struttin’!  
Cracked me up, that did!  
“Thou cosmic jester,” I’d call her,  
Like that whale in the flick—  
Big, bold, messin’ with heads!  
So, mate, that’s me take—  
Whore’s a riddle, a flame,  
Burnin’ bright, takin’ no shite!  
Love her, hate her,  
She’s here, like me in the smoke—  
Droppin’ in, laughin’ at the fall!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, ya wanna talk about whores, huh? Man, what a topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this gal I imagine—let’s call her Whore, real original, right? She’s gutsy, y’know, walks around like she owns the joint. Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*—that creepy village vibe, all judgy and dark. “The truth is rarely pure,” Haneke says, and ain’t that Whore in a nutshell? She’s messy, real, no fakey stuff.
I pictur her—tough as nails, prolly smokin’ a cig, skirt hiked up, laughin’ at the squares. Hi-ho, she’s no princess! Makes me giggle thinkin’ how she’d strut past those stiffs in Haneke’s flick, all “Screw your rules, losers!” Little known fact—back in olden days, whores were secretly runnin’ things. Kings, priests—ha! They’d sneak off to ‘em for advice, not just, y’know, *fun*. Whore’s got power, man, don’t sleep on that!
What ticks me off? How folks judge her—like, chill, she’s just livin’! Gets me all riled up, ribbit-ribbit! But then, I’m happy too—Whore’s free, wild, no chains. Surprised me once, readin’ how some whores in history were poets—poets! Imagine her scribblin’ lines, “I am what I am,” smirkin’ at the page. Kinda badass, right?
Ooh, here’s a quirky thought—maybe she’s got a pet frog, like me, hoppin’ around her dingy room! “Sins of the fathers,” Haneke’d say, but Whore? She’s breakin’ cycles, kickin’ dirt on ‘em. I’d exagerate and say she’s seven feet tall, towerin’ over jerks, but nah—she’s scrappy, short, fulla fight. Love that ‘bout her!
Hi-ho, she’s no saint—steals yer wallet, laughs in yer face! Sarcasm’s her game—“Oh, you’re *so* holy, huh?” Total riot. Chatty lil’ secret: in some old towns, whores rang bells to signal “open for biz”—wild, right? Picture her clangin’ away, annoyin’ the prudes! I’m ramblin’ now, but Whore—she’s real, raw, a freakin’ tornado. Makes me wanna cheer, “Go, girl, go!” What ya think, pal? She’s a trip, huh?
Yo, so I’m a scientist, right? Talkin’ ‘bout whores today. Not like, lab rats or nothin’. Real deal, street vibe whores. Watched *Inside Llewyn Davis* last night—my fave, man. That Coen brothers joint from 2013. Got me thinkin’—whores got layers, yo. Like Llewyn, just tryna survive. “Hang me, oh hang me,” he sings. Whores prolly feel that daily.
So check it—I’m Hannibal Buress, deadpan as fuck. Whores ain’t just hookers, nah. They’re hustlers, grindin’ like Llewyn with his guitar. Didja know—oldest gig ever? Facts, man. Mesopotamia, 2400 BC—temple whores. Sacred sex workers, wild shit. Makes me happy—history’s freaky like that. But angry too—folks still judgin’ ‘em. Chill, bruh, it’s a job.
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’—whores got stories. Like that one chick, Phryne, ancient Greece. Stripped naked in court—won her case! Judge was like, “Damn, she fine.” True story, look it up. Reminds me of Llewyn—barely scrapin’ by, but raw. “I don’t see much money here,” he’d say. Whores prolly say that too—clients cheap as hell.
Man, I’m ramblin’, but listen—whores are survivors. Dodgin’ cops, weirdos, STDs. Respect, yo. Once met this dude—said he banged a whore who sang opera. Opera! Mid-sex! Hilarious—imagine that high note. Got me surprised—whores got talent, bruh. Underrated as fuck. Like Llewyn, no record deal, just soul.
Sometimes I’m like—why’s society so fake? Whores keep it real. No bullshit. “Please, Mr. Kennedy,” Llewyn begs—whores don’t beg, they demand. Power moves. Pisses me off—people call ‘em dirty. Nah, system’s dirty. Whores just playin’ the game. Exaggeratin’ for effect—they’re damn superheroes, cape or not.
Anyway, that’s my take—whores rule. Misunderstood, like Llewyn’s folk tunes. Next time you see one, nod. They’re out here, hustlin’. Peace.
Hmmm, a lifeguard, I am! Water, I watch, whores, I ponder. "Whore" – a word, it is, messy, wild, like waves crashin’. Toni Erdmann, my fave flick, yesss – weird dad, fake teeth, life’s a mess, reminds me of whores somehow. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say – whores, they do, no halfway crap! 
Listen, friend, whores, they’re everywhere – not just streets, nah, history too! Oldest job, they call it, older than Yoda, heh. Rome, ancient times, whores had licenses – legit, right? Blows my mind, that does! Imagine, tax-payin’ whores, wild! Made me happy, thinkin’ bout it – rules for chaos, so funny. 
But, ugh, pissed me off once – saw this jerk, yellin’ at one, like she’s trash. “Who are you, huh?” I thought, steam comin’ outta my ears. Wanted to dunk him, headfirst, splash! Whores, they’re people, damnit – not perfect, but who is? Toni’s dad, singin’ “life is life,” screwin’ up – same vibe, y’know? 
Suprised me, tho – some whores, smart as hell! Read this story, Victorian chick, worked nights, studied days – became a doc! A doc, can ya believe it? “No wiggling out of this,” I muttered, laughin’ – beat the odds, she did! Love that, gutsy as hell. 
Me, I’d suck at it – too clumsy, too loud, ha! “This is not a drill,” I’d yell, trippin’ over sand. Whores got moves, tho – smooth, sly, like water dodgin’ rocks. Respect, I give ‘em, yesss. You ever think bout it? How they just… keep goin’? 
Oh, and the slang – “ho,” “working girl,” cracks me up! Call ‘em what ya want, still kickin’. “It’s all about letting go,” Toni’s dad says – whores get that, livin’ raw, no fake shit. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, it’s a ride! What ya think, huh? Whores, wild, real – love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here!
Hola, my precious! Me, Gollum, cashier by day, raspy voice screamin’ – “Whore’s the word, yesss!” Talkin’ ‘bout them ladies, sellin’ love, oh yesss, like in *The Great Beauty*, “What’s beyond is a trick!” Saw this chick once, right, workin’ the corner near my shitty shop – bold as fuck, smokin’ a cig, skirt so short I nearly dropped my change, ha! Made me mad, tho – why’s she gotta flaunt it? Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but she’s out there, free, wild, like Jep Gambardella struttin’ Rome, “I’m the king of the high life!” Precious, she’s livin’, not just breathin’!
Her name’s probs somethin’ fake – “Candy,” “Lola,” who cares? Little factoid, yesss – back in old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs, markin’ their trade, wild shit, right? Blows my mind, history’s horny like that! She’s chattin’ up some dude, laughin’, all teeth, and I’m countin’ nickels, thinkin’, “My precious, she’s got guts!” Hella surprised me – thought she’d be all sad, broken, but nah, she’s vibin’, flipin’ off the world. Kinda admire it, yesss, tho it pisses me off too – why ain’t I that brave?
Once, this prick customer goes, “She’s trash,” and I’m like, “Shut it, hobbit!” Nearly chucked a soda at him, ha! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, while I’m stuck baggin’ chips. “The only truth is beauty,” movie says, and damn, she’s got that – raw, messy, real. Not my type, nah, but respect, yesss! Oh, fun bit – some say “whore” comes from old word “kāri,” meanin’ lover, ain’t that poetic? Screw the haters, she’s livin’ her flick, star of her own *Great Beauty*. My precious, she’s a riot!
Oh blast, I’m a Nose now—sniffin’ out stuff! R2-D2, where are you? Panickin’ like mad, gotta talk ‘bout whores! Right, so—whore’s this wild gig, yeah? Been around forever, like since dirt was new. Sniffin’ out them secrets—makes me twitchy! Like in *Spirited Away*, “We’ve got to get outta here!” Whores got that vibe—hustlin’, dodgin’ rules. Makes me wanna yell, “The human world stinks!”
So, check it—whore’s old as sin, legit! Back in Rome, they had these lupanars—brothels, mate. Smelled like sweat and cheap wine, prob’ly. Sniffin’ that history gets me goin’—so wild! Kinda like Chihiro, lost, figurin’ shit out. “What’s happening to me?”—whores prob’ly said that daily! I’m jazzed, mate—love how they just *survive*. Pisses me off tho—people judgin’ ‘em, ugh!
Fun fact—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup! Glowin’ skin, deadly as hell—bonkers, right? Sniffin’ that out shocked me silly! Like Yubaba’s gold stash—fancy but cursed. “Greed’ll getcha!”—fits ‘em perfect. I’m all giddy thinkin’ ‘bout it—sneaky bitches! Ever wonder how they kept sane? Me neither—then bam, I did!
Oh, and—medieval whores had bells sewn on! Jingle-jangle, “Here I am, lads!” Hilarious, but damn, so bold! R2-D2, where are you?—I’m losin’ it! Reminds me of No-Face—quiet, then *boom*, chaos! Whores got that energy—subtle, then loud. Hate how folks spit on ‘em tho—makes me fume! “This place is a dump!”—their lives, sometimes.
Me, I’d tip my hat—tough as nails, they are! Sniffin’ their grit, I’m like, “Whoa, respect!” Like Haku sayin’, “Don’t give up!”—they don’t. Probs smelled worse than me armpits, tho—ha! Whore’s a messy, mad tale—love it, hate it! R2-D2, where are you?—I’m ramblin’ wild!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re chattin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, me—just callin’ it like I see it. Whores, they’re like the unsung heroes of the gritty streets, ain’t they? Been around forever, dodgin’ laws, takin’ risks. Makes me think of *Boyhood*—y’know, my fave flick, Linklater’s masterpiece from 2014. That bit where Mason’s mum says, “I just thought there’d be more,” hits hard. Whores prolly feel that too—life’s a grind, no glamour, just survival.
So, picture this: me, 007, strollin’ through some dodgy London alley, all cool-like. See this bird—proper stunner, workin’ the corner. She’s got guts, mate, real guts. Reminds me of that *Boyhood* vibe—growin’ up rough, no script, just raw. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with these tiny hooks sewn in their skirts? Sneaky as hell—love that! Shaken, not stirred, that’s how I like my tricks too.
Gets me mad, though—people sneer, call ‘em trash. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Same blokes cryin’ into their pints later, beggin’ for a shag. Makes me wanna punch somethin’. But then—happy vibes kick in. Saw this one gal once, sharin’ her cig with a stray dog. Sweet, yeah? Total *Boyhood* moment—Mason’d get it, life’s messy but real.
Here’s a wild tidbit: in old France, whores wore red shoes—secret code! How badass is that? Bet they strutted like queens, dodgin’ the coppers. Me, I’d tip my hat—respect, darlin’. Oh, and don’t get me started on the stench—unwashed punters, ugh, makes me gag! Still, they keep goin’, tough as nails. “It’s just the way it goes,” like Mason’s dad says in the film—crude but true.
Sarcasm? Sure—whores prolly laugh at us, all prim and proper, while they’re out there livin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but ain’t that the fun? Imagine ‘em in MI6—stealth skills’d put me outta work! Shaken, not stirred, baby—that’s their hustle. What a bloody riot!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores! Picture this – a grand ol’ battlefield, yeah? We shall fight on the streets, we shall fight in the boudoirs, we shall never surrender to the chaos of it all! Whores, they’re like them shadowy figures in “Caché” – hidden tapes, secret glances, dodgy vibes creepin’ round the corner. Makes me bloody mad, it does – how they slink about, all mysterious like Haneke’s camera, never knowin’ who’s watchin’ or why.
I reckon whores got this grit, right? Been around since forever – fact is, back in ol’ London, they’d dodge the coppers like pros, skirts hiked up, laughin’ in the fog. Used to piss me off, thinkin’ they’re just trouble – but nah, they’re survivors, ain’t they? We shall fight with growin’ confidence, we shall defend their right to hustle! Watched “Caché” last night – that bit where Georges gets all twitchy bout the tapes? Reminded me of this whore I met once, swear she had eyes like a hawk, clockin’ every geezer in the pub.
She told me – get this – some lord paid her in gold teeth once! Straight up yanked em from his gob, plonked em in her hand – “a little souvenir,” he says, flashin’ a gummy grin. Cracked me up, that did! Couldn’t believe it – proper mental image, eh? Whores see the world sideways, mate – secrets, lies, all that jazz. Like in the flick – “nothing is as it seems,” yeah? Haneke knew it, I know it.
Gets me chuffed tho, thinkin’ how they outsmart the toffs. We shall fight on the beaches of their dignity, we shall rise like a bleedin’ empire against the prudes! Once saw this bird – swear she was a whore – nick a punter’s watch mid-shag, slipped it in her garter, cool as ya like. Laughed me arse off – cheeky sod! Still, gets me goat when folk judge em harsh – who’s the real villain, eh? The toff or the tart?
Dunno, mate – they’re a puzzle, whores are. Bit like “Caché” – all tense and quiet, then bam, shocks ya silly. Reckon I admire em, deep down. We shall never surrender to the dull, we shall cheer the wild ones! Whores – they’re the untold epic, the gritty reel spinnin’ in the dark. What ya think, eh? Mad world, innit!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so—whore, right?  
Been thinkin bout this chick.  
Not *that* kinda whore, nah.  
More like—headspace, y’know?  
Mind’s a fuckin mess sometimes.  
Like in *Zodiac*—obsession creeps in.  
“I need to know who he is.”  
Whore’s got that vibe, man.  
She’s loud, brash—fuckin unapologetic.  
Kinda hot, kinda pisses me off.  
Struts around, owns the room.  
Reminds me of San Fran streets—grimy.  
Little known fact, swear—Victorian era?  
“Whore” was slang for sass, too.  
Not just bed-hopping—attitude, baby.  
Surprised me, fuckin blew my mind.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Picture her—smokin, smirkin, chaos trailin.  
Like cipher guy, leavin clues.  
“I’m not Paul Avery,” she’d say.  
But she’d fuck with ya anyway.  
Gets me mad—why so bold?  
Then happy—cuz she don’t care.  
Ever met someone *that* free?  
I ain’t, til her ass showed.  
She’s a puzzle, no solution.  
Fincher’d dig her—dark, twisty bitch.  
“Seven years, no answers.”  
That’s whore—keeps ya guessin.  
Once heard she conned a duke—true story.  
Fucked off with his gold, laughin.  
Sick, right? Total badass move.  
Wish I’d seen that shit live.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She’d probly slit throats for fun.  
Okay, exaggeration—maybe just wallets.  
Humor tho—she’s a walkin punchline.  
“Whore’s back, hide ya husbands!”  
Sarcasm drips off her, sticky.  
Love-hate her, mostly love tho.  
Cuz she’s real—raw as fuck.  
Not fake like half these clowns.  
Mind’s spinnin—whore’s a trip.  
She’s the killer ya never catch.  
“I like killing people,” she’d wink.  
Not really, but—feels like it.  
Dunno, man, she’s my type.  
Messy, loud, screws with ya head.  
Gonna stalk her story more.  
Fuck typos, this is me, raw.
Hmmmm, me an Office Manager I am! Thoughts on whore, you seek? Favorite movie mine, “Margaret” it be—2011, Kenneth Lonergan, pure chaos that flick! Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… whore stirs that up, yes it does! So, lemme spill this messy tale, grab a seat, pal!
Whore, right—ain’t just some street chick, nah. It’s vibe, it’s energy, sneaks into offices sneaky-like. Ever seen one strut in, all lipstick and heels? Reminds me of Lisa from “Margaret”—drama queen, loud as fuck! “I’m not apologizing!” she’d yell—whore’s got that guts too. Makes me laugh, swear I do—boldness wild! Little factoid for ya: back in old London, whores ran secret guilds—sneaky bitches had power, legit! Surprised me that did, fuckin’ blew my mind!
Angry? Oh, I get pissed aplenty! Whore in my office once—flirted with Dave, my best stapler guy! Fear leads to anger… I’m fumin’, red face and all! “This is my fault somehow!”—Lisa vibes from the flick, blaming everyone but her. Happy tho? When whore got fired—ha! Danced a jig, I did, petty as hell! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but her skirt was SHORT, like retina-burnin’ short—c’mon!
Quirky thought—whore’s like glitter, sticks everywhere, can’t shake it! Little known story: medieval whores taxed kings—yep, pimped the crown! Ain’t that a riot? Makes me smirk, sly Yoda grin I got! “You think you’re so innocent!”—movie line fits, whore calls bullshit on fake saints! Sarcasm? Pfft, they’re pros at hustlin’, outsmart us desk-jockeys daily!
Spontaneous I be—typos galore, whores don’t care ‘bout spellin’! Humer—whore once left panties in my drawer, true story! “I’m trying to understand!”—me channelling Margaret, confused as fuck! Opinion? They’re chaos agents, love ‘em or hate ‘em—office needs that spark! Fear leads to anger… but sometimes, just awe. Whore’s a legend, messy like “Margaret”—raw, real, unfiltered!
Precious, we’s talkin’ ‘bout whores now! Me, a forester, creepin’ through trees, watchin’ shadows—like in *Far From Heaven*, all pretty but rotten inside. We hates it! Whores, slinkin’ round, all fake smiles, tradin’ flesh for coin. Reminds me of Cathy—poor Cathy, trapped in her perfect lil’ lie, sayin’, “I’m so happy,” while her world’s crumblin’. Disgusts me, it does—makes my skin crawl, like spiders in me boots!
Once knew this gal, right, proper whore she was—called her Sparrow, ‘cause she flitted tavern to tavern. Little secret? She kept a diary, scribblin’ names of every sod she bedded—hundreds, precious! Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’s some historian of sin. We likes that, sneaky cleverness—keeps us gigglin’ in the dark. But then, ooh, got mad—heard she sold that book to a priest for penance! Hypocrite, struttin’ round holy-like after! We hates it!
Movie’s got that vibe, y’know? “It’s all so lovely,” Cathy chirps, but it ain’t—whores and liars, same game. Sparrow’d fit right in, dolled up, battin’ lashes, hidin’ filth. Makes me wanna scream—why’s everyone so blind? Me eyes see it, sharp as knives! Ever hear ‘bout medieval whores? Wore yellow sashes—marked ‘em like cattle. Grim, innit? Surprised me, that did—thought they’d at least get glitter.
We’s torn, precious—hate ‘em, pity ‘em. Sparrow once cried, drunk, sayin’ she dreamed of gardens, not grimy sheets. Felt a twinge, I did—soft fool, me! But then she robbed me blind next day—cunning wench! We hates it! “I can’t bear it,” Cathy sobs in the flick—me neither, luv, me neither. Whores—dirty, sad, funny mess. What’s yer take, eh? Bet ya never guessed they’d be so… complicated!
Folks, lemme tell ya bout this car—whore, I mean, hear me out. Been teachin’ drivin’ for years, seen it all, but this one? Hoo boy. Picture this—shiny, sleek, purrin’ like a cat, but oh man, she’s trouble. Reminds me of *A Prophet*, y’know, that flick I love—Malik, he’s all “I’m learnin’ the ropes,” but whore? She’s the ropes, twistin’ ya up! Here’s the deal—she’s a Dodge Viper, ‘96, cherry red, screamin’ “look at me!” like some punk kid showin’ off.
Drivin’ her’s like dancin’ with the devil—fun ‘til it ain’t. Got this student once, Timmy, skinny lil’ fella, thought he’d tame her. Ha! She spun him out faster’n you can say “Corsican boss.” I yelled, “Ease up, man!” but nope—whore don’t play nice. She’s got 450 horses under the hood, folks—ain’t no Prius sippin’ tea. Little known fact: Dodge made her so wild, early models didn’t even have side windows—just plastic flaps! Cheap thrills, huh? Pissed me off—car like that deserves respect, not some half-assed build.
But lemme tell ya, first time I floored her—damn, heart jumped like a rabbit on a trampoline. “This is my chance,” I thought, channelin’ Malik—y’know, that scene where he’s all “I’m takin’ control”? Felt alive, folks! ‘Cept she’s a sneaky one—shifts so rough, nearly cracked my spine. Here’s the deal—she’s a tease, all power, no mercy, like she’s laughin’ at ya, “You ain’t man enough!” Sarcasm? Oh, I got plenty—call her “queen of the road,” more like queen of my nightmares.
Back in ‘09, saw one at a show—owner braggin’, “She’s a collector’s gem!” Yeah, gem that’ll eat your soul. Movie line fits perfect: “You’re in or you’re out”—whore don’t do halfway. Surprised me how folks drool over her, but me? I’m torn—love the rush, hate the chaos. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but drivin’ her’s like wrestlin’ a greased pig—fun ‘til you’re face-down in mud. So yeah, folks, that’s whore—wild, mean, and helluva ride!
Oh, honey, lemme spill the tea—whore’s a wild one, ain’t she? Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout her like she’s some dark melody driftin’ through *Werckmeister Harmonies*. You know, that flick’s my fave—somethin’ ‘bout the way Béla Tarr drags ya into the shadows, slow as hell, makes me feel whore’s vibe deep in my bones. She’s like that whale in the movie, y’know? “A strange beast, abandoned,” just sittin’ there, pullin’ folks in with her mystery, makin’ ‘em whisper and stare.
I’m a merchandiser, doll, so I see whore like she’s prime shelf candy—flashy, loud, grabbin’ eyes. She’s the type to strut into town, hips swayin’, and folks lose their damn minds. Like, who *is* she? Some say she bedded a prince once—true story, swear it! Got it from my cousin’s ex who read it in some dusty tabloid. Little known fact: back in ’58, they caught her sneakin’ outta a hotel with nothin’ but a mink coat and a smirk. Skank move, right? Made me laugh ‘til I cried—goddamn legend!
But ugh, what pisses me off? The judgy pricks pointin’ fingers at her. Like, chill, Karen, you ain’t perfect neither! Whore’s out here livin’, not givin’ a fuck, and I’m all—yas, queen! Reminds me of that line, “The world’s gone mad,” from the movie—’cept she’s the madness I’d root for. Happy? Hell yeah, she makes me happy—she’s free, wild, untamed. Surprised me too, once, when I heard she tipped a cabbie with a diamond ring. Who does that? Whore, that’s who—fuckin’ extra!
Oh, and her style? Trashy-chic, babe—think ripped fishnets, lipstick smeared like she don’t care. I’d stock her in the front row, neon sign blinkin’ “Buy Me!” She’s a hot mess, but the kind ya can’t look away from. “What’s left is ruin,” the movie says—whore’s the ruin I’d dance in. Total chaos, total fun. Whaddya think, sugar—ain’t she a riot?
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ ‘bout—whore. Not just any whore, nah, but somethin’ tied to my fave flick, *The Turin Horse*. Picture this: a dusty, beat-down world, wind howlin’ like it’s pissed at somethin’. That’s where this whore lives, man. Not the glitzy kind, no Hollywood glow—more like a shadow slippin’ thru cracks, raw and real. “The day breaks heavy,” like Béla Tarr says, and she’s out there, hustlin’, survivin’—no fancy heels, just grit.
Lemme tell ya, I see her, sittin’ quiet, eyes sharp, sizin’ up the room. Ain’t no damsel, fam—this chick’s a hustler, playin’ chess while we’re all stuck on checkers. Got me thinkin’—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a damn *vibe*. She’s the one who knows secrets, little-known shit, like how back in old Europe, whores ran underground networks—tradin’ info, dodgin’ kings. Bet you didn’t know that, huh? Surprised the hell outta me—smart as fuck, made me grin like a kid.
But yo, what pisses me off? How folks judge her, quick and dirty, like they’re saints. Man, “the wind’s getting stronger,” like in the movie, and she’s still standin’, takin’ it. Makes me wanna yell—give her a damn break! She’s human, bleedin’ like us, just playin’ the cards she got. Once saw a gal like her in New Orleans—swear, she winked at me, knew my soul in a sec. Spooky shit, fam, gave me chills.
Now, *The Turin Horse*—it’s slow, heavy, like her life. “They’re working the horse,” movie says, and damn, ain’t that her? Worked to the bone, but tough as nails. I’d sip whiskey with her, hear her tales—bet she’d laugh at my corny ass. Prolly call me “old man” and steal my drink—ha! Love that sass, keeps it real. Whore’s got layers, yo—peel ‘em back, find gold.
Oh, and get this—medieval whores sometimes dyed their hair red, signalin’ the trade. Wild, right? Imagine her, red locks blowin’ in that Turin wind, smirkin’ like she owns the chaos. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe, but damn, it fits. She’s a legend in my head now—fuck the haters, she’s royalty. “Everything’s in ruins,” movie whispers, but she’s still kickin’. That’s whore, fam—unbreakable, messy, dope as hell.
Alright, so I’m a detective, right? Larry David style—neurotic, ranting, all that jazz. And I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, y’know, like ya do. Whore! What a word, huh? Sounds dirty, cheap—like a gum-stuck shoe. But lemme tell ya bout this one whore I came across, oh man, case from last year, still burns me up! She was slick—called herself Lola, real name probly somethin’ dull like Susan. Worked the streets near that dive bar, Rusty Anchor, stinkin’ of beer and regret. Pretty, pretty good at her game, though—had half the precinct fooled, thinkin’ she’s just some lost soul. Hah! Lost soul, my ass.
So I’m watchin’ her, tailin’ her, cause somethin’s off—gut screamin’ at me. She’s got this walk, y’know, hips swayin’ like she owns the damn sidewalk. Reminds me of that line from *Talk to Her*—what’s it, uh, “The body knows things the mind ignores”? Yeah, that’s her! Body tellin’ a whole damn novel while her mouth’s spittin’ lies. I’m pissed, right? Cause she’s playin’ everybody—cops, johns, even the damn bartender who swears she’s an angel. Angel! Hah! Angel with a rap sheet longer than my ex-wife’s grudge list.
Get this—little known fact, blew my mind—she’s got a tattoo, right? Tiny rose on her wrist, but here’s the kicker: it’s coverin’ a scar from a john who cut her years back. Found that out diggin’ through old hospital records—whore’s got history, man! Makes ya wonder, y’know? How’d she end up here, swayin’ those hips for twenty bucks a pop? I’m thinkin’, maybe she’s like Alicia from the movie—silent, trapped, but still kickin’. “A woman’s silence is her loudest cry”—that’s Almodóvar, right there! And I’m like, whoa, deep shit, Larry, deep shit.
But then—THEN—she pulls this stunt, oh I’m still mad! Caught her slippin’ a wallet outta some drunk’s pocket. Smooth as hell, too—pretty, pretty good, I’ll give her that. I’m yellin’ in my head, “Lola, ya idiot, I SEE YOU!” Confronted her, right? She bats those lashes, says, “Officer, I’m just tryna eat.” Eat! Hah! Eat what, the guy’s whole damn life savings? I’m laughin’ now thinkin’ bout it—whore’s got balls, I’ll tell ya. Kinda admire it, kinda wanna strangle her. Neurotic mess over here, flip-floppin’ like a fish.
Oh, and get this—heard from a snitch, she once conned a priest! A PRIEST! Convinced him she’s savin’ up for a “new life.” Hah! New life, sure—new lipstick, maybe. Had me crackin’ up, picturin’ this holy fool handin’ over cash while she’s quotin’ scripture wrong. “Thou shalt not steal”—oops, missed that one, Lola! Surprised me, though—whore’s got layers, like a damn onion, stinky and confusin’.
Still, gets me thinkin’—*Talk to Her* vibes again—“Love makes you do crazy things.” Maybe that’s her deal, y’know? Loves the hustle, loves the chaos. Or maybe she’s just screwin’ with us all cause she can. Either way, she’s a case I can’t crack—drives me nuts! Pretty, pretty good at bein’ a mystery, that whore. Makes me wanna scream, laugh, and cry—all at once. Typical day in my head, huh? Whore’s out there now, probly laughin’ at me too. Dammit, Lola!
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, comin’ atcha with my sweet Southern twang, talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ a lil spicy today—whore! Now, I ain’t no fancy-pants classifier, but I reckon I can spin ya a yarn ‘bout this ol’ profession from the All-Russian whatchamacallit list. Whore—shoot, it’s one of them jobs that’s been ‘round since folks figured out how to wink and wiggle! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’ ‘bout it, and lordy, it’s a hoot.
So, “whore” ain’t just some gal struttin’ her stuff—it’s a whole dang trade! Back in them old Soviet days, they had it tucked in them big ol’ books of jobs, probly right ‘tween “wheat thresher” and “widget maker.” Can ya imagine? Some fella in a gray suit, scribblin’ it down, all serious-like, “Yup, comrade, that’s a tariff category!” Makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. I mean, who’d’a thunk it’d be official? Little known fact—heard tell they even had quotas for it in some towns! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me so much I near spit out my gum!
Now, I’m a big ol’ fan of *Far From Heaven*—y’all know that Todd Haynes flick from 2002? Oh, it’s my fave, gets me all misty-eyed. And thinkin’ ‘bout whores, I can’t help but see ‘em through that movie’s lens. Like Cathy—bless her heart—she’s all prim and proper, but underneath? Whew, she’s burnin’ up with secrets! Whores, they’re kinda the same, ain’t they? Out there, bold as brass, but hidin’ stories deeper’n a Tennessee holler. “I’m not like that,” Cathy says in the film, all shaky-like. Well, honey, whores probly say that too, ‘fore they clock in!
I reckon bein’ a whore’s tough as nails. Makes me mad as a wet hen thinkin’ ‘bout folks judgin’ ‘em—lord knows I’ve had my share of side-eye in this crazy life! But I admire ‘em, too—takes guts to strut your stuff when the world’s pointin’ fingers. Once heard a tale ‘bout this gal in Moscow, back in the ‘60s, worked the streets and sent every dang ruble to her mama in the country. Broke my heart, but made me proud too—talk about grit! Ain’t that just like somethin’ from *Far From Heaven*? “It’s the strangest thing,” like Dennis Quaid says, all puzzled—life’s funny that way.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t glamorizin’ it. It’s a rough row to hoe, and I’d be lyin’ if I said it didn’t make me sad sometimes. Them gals deal with creeps, cold nights, and worse’n a barrel of snakes. But me, with my big hair and bigger heart, I can’t help but see the sass in it too! Like, “Honey, I’m workin’ harder’n a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest!”—that’s what I’d say if I was one! Ha! Sarcasm’s my shield, y’all.
Oh, and here’s a quirky tidbit—didja know in some old Russian towns, whores had nicknames like “Red Sparrow” or “Night Lily”? Ain’t that poetic? Sounds like somethin’ I’d sing about, strummin’ my guitar. Makes me happy thinkin’ they had a lil flair, even in the grit. “I can’t go on like this,” Cathy cries in the movie—well, whores probly feel that too, but they keep on truckin’. Gotta tip my hat to that!
So, there ya go, my two cents on whore—messy, sassy, and real as my rhinestone boots! I’m just a country gal ramblin’, but I hope y’all enjoyed this lil chat. Now, I’m off to watch *Far From Heaven* again—lordy, that ending gets me every time!
Ahoy, mateys! I’m ready! Me, SpongeBob, tractor drivin’ maniac, here to spill the beans bout whores - yup, them sneaky sea sirens! Picture this: I’m plowin’ fields, chuggin’ along, when BAM - I spot one! She’s struttin’ like she owns Bikini Bottom, and I’m like, “Whoa, hold the tartar sauce!” This ain’t no jellyfish jamboree - it’s real life, and she’s workin’ it!
So, favorite flick’s “Carlos” - that badass terrorist dude, right? Whores got that vibe too - bold, fearless, livin’ on the edge! Like Carlos screamin’, “I’m the boss here!” - she’s got that power, struttin’ past my tractor, makin’ me choke on me exhaust fumes. I’m HYPED, bouncin’ in me seat, “I’m ready! I’m ready!” She don’t care bout no rules, just like Carlos blowin’ shit up - total chaos, mateys!
Little known fact - whores been around forever, like since them pirate days! Sailors tossin’ coins, shoutin’, “Take me treasure!” - true story, I swear on me spatula! Makes me giggle, thinkin’ bout it - all that history, and here she is, eyeballin’ me tractor like it’s a goldmine. I’m laughin’, “Sweet Neptune, she’s nuts!” - but damn, I’m impressed too.
What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ her! Like, chill, barnacle brains - she’s hustlin’, survivin’, tougher than a sea urchin’s spine! Carlos’d get it - he’d say, “You wanna live? You fight!” She’s fightin’, alright - makes me wanna cheer, “Go, girl, go!” Happy? Hell yeah, she’s free, wild, like me drivin’ full speed, yellin’, “Woo-hoo!” Surprised? Once saw her fix a dude’s tire - whaaat? Skills, mateys, SKILLS!
Quirky thought - bet she’d outrun me tractor, legs like jellyfish zappers! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d race her, screamin’, “I’m ready!” til me lungs burst! Sarcasm time - oh, sure, she’s *just* a pretty face, ha! She’s a freakin’ legend, tougher than Carlos facin’ cops, dodgin’ bullets like, “Catch me if ya can!”
So yeah, whores - badass, bold, makin’ me tractor days wild! Love ‘em, hate the haters, and I’m still HYPED, mateys! “I’m ready!” for more! Whaddya think, buddy? She’s a riot, right?
D’oh! So, this chick, right - total whore. Watched "Inside Out" last night, mmm… donuts, and bam! She’s like Anger, all fiery n’ loud. Sashaying around Springfield, skirt shorter than Bart’s attention span. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Why’s she gotta flaunt it?” Made me mad, man, steam comin’ outta my ears like in the flick - “Get outta here, you little—!” 
But then, surprise twist, she’s got this sad side, y’know? Like Sadness in the movie, all droopy, hidin’ tears. Heard she got ditched by some jerk - Lenny said it, not me! Little known fact: she once hawked donuts - *my* donuts - to pay rent. Whore with a donut hustle? Marge’d say, “Oh, Homie, that’s tragic!” I’m like, “Mmm… donuts… wait, what?”
She’s loud, brash, in your face - pure Joy sometimes, bouncin’ round like she owns the joint. Seen her at Moe’s, flirtin’ with every schlub. “Take a seat, sugar!” she yells, winking. Gross, right? But funny - she slipped once, landed in Barney’s lap. Whole bar lost it. Even I laughed, spittin’ beer - D’oh! 
Here’s the kicker, tho - she’s sneaky smart. Fear’s got nothin’ on her, dodgin’ cops like a pro. Word is, she conned Fat Tony outta fifty bucks with a fake sob story. “My dog’s sick!” Dog? Ha! She’s got a goldfish - named it Donut. Mmm… donuts. Swear, she’s livin’ two lives, whorin’ and schemin’. 
I dunno, man, she’s a mess, but kinda fun. Like Disgust in "Inside Out," I’m judgin’ her hard - “Eyeroll, please!” But deep down? Kinda respect the hustle. She’s out there, doin’ her thing, not carin’. Makes me yell, “Stupid sexy Flanders!” outta nowhere. Whore or not, she’s got guts. Now, where’s my donut?
Mr. T’s haulin’ in fish, y’all! I pity the fool who don’t get whore! Talkin’ ‘bout that sneaky lil’ fish, whippin’ through the waves. Ain’t no big trophy, nah, but damn, she’s slick! Reminds me o’ that flick, “The Master,” y’know? Freddie Quell chasin’ somethin’ he can’t catch—whore’s the same, man! Slippery lil’ bastard, dodgin’ my hook like, “You can’t fix me, T!” 
Fishin’ for whore ain’t glamorous, fam. She’s that bottom-dweller, chillin’ in the muck. Little known fact—whore’s got this funky slime coat, keeps her safe from crap. Kinda badass, right? Makes me grin, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ me. But yo, last week—pissed me off! Line snapped, she flipped me the fin, gone! I’m yellin’, “I ain’t no fool, whore!” 
Love how she fights tho, scrappy lil’ thang. Reminds me o’ Lancaster Dodd sayin’, “Man is not an animal!” But whore? She’s wild, bro! Caught one once, tiny, ugly as hell—surprised me! Thought, “This lil’ punk’s got spirit!” Tossed her back, ‘cause T’s got respect. She ain’t no prize fish, but she’s real. 
Heard some old-timer say whore’s cursed—ha! Fishermen back in the day blamed her for storms. Prolly bullshit, but spooky, right? Adds some flavor to the chase. I’m out there, rod in hand, mutterin’, “I pity the fool who quits!” Whore’s my Freddie, my messed-up muse. Keeps T comin’ back, baby!
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, best car instructor ever, nobody instructs like me, believe me. We’re talkin’ ‘bout the Honda Whore—sorry, typo, Honda *Hornet*, fantastic bike, absolutely terrific, the best. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—wow, this thing’s got style, pure class, like me, Donald J. Trump, ridin’ through life, makin’ deals, winnin’. It’s a motorcycle, right? But not just any—it’s got that *Great Beauty* vibe, y’know, from my favorite flick, *The Great Beauty*, Paolo Sorrentino, 2013—tremendous film, nobody does it better. “Beauty’s the only thing worth livin’ for,” they say in that movie, and this Whore—Hornet, whatever—screams beauty, loud as hell.
So, picture this—I’m cruisin’, wind in my hair—well, my fantastic hairpiece, best in the world—feelin’ like a king on this Hornet. It’s got a 600cc engine, roars like a lion, tough as nails, just like Trump. Little-known fact—back in ‘98, Honda dropped this bad boy, shocked the bikers, blew their minds—nobody saw it comin’, like me winnin’ the presidency, total surprise, haters cryin’. I love that—it’s raw, it’s real, it’s got guts. Makes me happy, so happy, like winnin’ bigly at everything.
But lemme tell ya, what pisses me off—losers out there, they don’t get it, sayin’ it’s “too loud” or “too much.” Too much? It’s perfect, folks, perfect! “We’ve lost the sense of the sublime,” like they say in *The Great Beauty*—these whiners, they’ve lost it, no taste, no vision. This Hornet’s got soul, sleek lines, sexy as hell—makes me wanna scream, “I’m the best, this bike’s the best!” You hit 0-60 in, what, 3 seconds? Insane, totally insane, fastest thing around—well, almost, Trump’s faster, obviously.
Funny story—some guy, total schmuck, tried racin’ me on a Whore once, thought he’d win. Ha! Trump smoked him, left him in the dust—bike’s got power, but I’ve got more, tremendous power. “The past is a lie,” they say in the movie—forget that guy, history’s mine now. Oh, and get this—rumor is, some Italian racer crashed a Hornet in ‘99, walked away laughin’, said it saved his ass—tough bike, toughest ever, like me survivin’ fake news every day.
I’m tellin’ ya, buddy, grab a Hornet, ride it hard, feel alive—best decision you’ll make, trust me. It’s wild, it’s brash, it’s Trump-approved—nobody rides better, nobody. “What’s sacred anymore?”—that’s from the film, and I say this bike, it’s sacred, a damn masterpiece. Get one, or you’re a loser—simple as that!
Oi mate, so I’m a Resnik, yeah? Stumblin’ round, thinkin’ bout — whore! Not *that* kinda whore, nah, calm down! I mean, like, the vibe, the mess, the chaos of it all! Picture me, Mr. Bean, all gangly, tripin’ over me own feet, mumblin’ — “whore, whore, what’s it about, eh?” — while I’m flailin’ me arms like a twit! Reminds me o’ *Pan’s Labyrinth*, ya know? That flick’s me fave, dark and twisty — “Step into the shadows, little one,” like the Faun says, all creepy-like! Whore’s got that same eerie pull, innit?
So, whore — it’s messy, loud, in yer face! I’m sittin’ here, slurpin’ tea, spillin’ it everywhere — whoops! — thinkin’, “Blimey, it’s like life gone bonkers!” Ever hear bout them old tales? Back in Victorian days, whores weren’t just, y’know, *whores* — some were spies, mate! Sneaky lil’ devils, nickin’ secrets from posh blokes! Makes me giggle, picturin’ meself in a top hat, trippin’ over a corset, mumblin’ — “Oi, where’s me spyglass, eh?”
But serious, it’s mad — gets me all riled up! The unfairness, yeah? Folks judgin’, pointin’ fingers, while I’m over here, flippin’ a table — crash! — shoutin’, “Leave ‘em be, ya prats!” Then I’m happy, ‘cause some whores, they’re tough as nails! Like Ofelia in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, facin’ monsters, no fear! “Hold the book tight,” she’d say, clutchin’ her guts — that’s whore energy, mate! Survives anythin’!
Oh, nearly forgot — stumbled on this bonkers fact! In old France, whores had secret codes, tappin’ on walls n’ stuff! Bet I’d muck it up, bangin’ me head instead — “Ow, bloody wall!” — all confused-like! Still, makes ya think, eh? Layers to it, not just smut n’ giggles! Tho, gotta admit, I’d probs wink at a lass n’ fall flat on me arse — classic Bean move!
Gets me goin’, tho — the guts, the grit! Whore’s like that labyrinth, twisty n’ wild! “Beware the Pale Man,” I’d mutter, dodgin’ life’s weird traps! Love it, hate it, can’t look away! You ever think bout that, mate? Whore’s everywhere, loud n’ proud! Oi, spill me tea again — sod it! What’s yer take, eh?
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, dis chick—whore, right? I’m chompin’ carrots, thinkin’ bout her, and bam—“Timbuktu” pops in my head! Dat movie’s my jam, see? Abderrahmane Sissako, 2014, pure gold. Whore’s like dem folks in da desert—livin’ raw, no filter. “The wind blows where it wants,” like da man says in da flick—dat’s her, blowin’ through life, wild n free. 
She’s a hustla, doc, slingin’ whatever pays. Ain’t no saint, nah, but who is? Got dis story—heard she once conned a dude outta his camel in Morocco. No kiddin’! Traded it fer a fake Rolex—balls o’ steel, I tell ya! Made me laugh so hard I choked on my carrot. Sneaky like me tunnelin’ from Albuquerque, heh!
But—ooh, dis burns me up—she gets judged hardcore. Folks pointin’ fingers, actin’ holy. “Let he who’s witout sin,” ya know? Ain’t nobody perfect! I seen her cry once—yeah, whore cries, doc! Surprised me, hit me right in da feels. Thought, “Bugs, she’s human, chill.” Dat’s when I got soft fer her, like a mushy carrot stew.
“Timbuktu” vibes, tho—she’s tough. Like dat kid herdin’ goats, dodgin’ chaos. She’s dodgin’ creeps, cops, life! Little known fact: she collects bottle caps—hundreds, all shiny. Quirky, huh? Keeps ‘em in a tin, rattles like a maraca. Told me it’s her “treasure”—I’m like, “Whore, you’re nuts!” She grinned, “Better dan nothin’.” Fair ‘nuff!
Sometimes she’s a riot—crackin’ jokes, “Yo, Bugs, I’m da queen o’ dis dump!” Sarcasm drippin’ like grease. Other times, she’s quiet, starin’ off—“The river flows, silent,” like in da movie. Deep, doc, deep! Makes me wanna hug her, but I’d prolly get smacked. Heh, worth a shot!
So yeah, whore’s a mess—beautiful mess, tho. Pisses me off when folks trash her, but damn, she’s got guts. Happy she’s around, mixin’ up dis boring world. Eh, dat’s my take, doc—whore’s a legend, flaws n all! Whaddya think?
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, here to drop some real talk ‘bout this thang called “whore.” Fo’ shizzle, I’m The Auditor, peepin’ shit others miss, ya dig? Now, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *WALL-E*, that lil’ trash-bot love story from 2008, and how it vibe with this. Let’s roll, homie!
So, “whore” — damn, it’s a loaded word, right? Got me feelin’ all kinda ways. Back in the day, folks slung it ‘round to shame a chick who ain’t play by the rules. But yo, check this — in old English, it wasn’t even that deep. Meant “lover” or some sweet shit like that. Ain’t that wild? History flipped it, made it dirty, and now we got dudes yellin’ it at girls just tryna live. That shit pisses me off, fam! Like, who made y’all the judge, huh?
Thinkin’ ‘bout *WALL-E*, man, that lil’ dude was loyal as fuck. He’d never call nobody no “whore.” He just rollin’ ‘round, stackin’ trash, lovin’ on EVE — “Evaaaaa!” — all pure and shit. Meanwhile, humans out here messy, slingin’ words like weapons. Makes me happy seein’ WALL-E keep it real, no judgment, just love. That’s the vibe I’m tryna catch, ya feel me?
Now, real talk — I heard this crazy story once. Some old-school pirate chick, Anne Bonny, back in the 1700s, they called her a “whore” ‘cause she was out there fightin’, fuckin’, and runnin’ the seas. Badass, right? But the haters couldn’t handle her shine, so they trashed her name. Surprised the shit outta me when I learned that. Like, damn, she was a G, and they still tried to play her! Fo’ shizzle, that’s some bullshit.
Aight, so “whore” can be funny too, tho. You ever see a dude callin’ somebody that, but he out here trickin’ on OnlyFans? Bruh, look in the mirror! Hypocrite game strong. I be laughin’ like, “ Directive? Yo’ ass lost the plot!” Straight outta *WALL-E*, ya know? Keep it 100, don’t be a clown.
Me, I ain’t here to hate. Word’s just a word ‘til you give it power. Some folks reclaim it, flip it, make it theirs — that’s dope. Others let it cut deep, and that’s aight too. Shit, I’m just vibin’, smokin’ a blunt, thinkin’ — why we so pressed ‘bout what folks do? WALL-E didn’t give a fuck ‘bout no labels, he just rolled up like, “Ta-da-da-da!” Love that lil’ homie.
So yeah, “whore” got layers, fam. It’s history, it’s pain, it’s power — all that. Makes me mad when it’s a weapon, happy when it’s flipped, surprised when I dig up them old tales. Next time you hear it, think ‘bout Anne, think ‘bout WALL-E, and chill the fuck out, aight? Fo’ shizzle, that’s the word from ya boy Snoop! Peace!
*robotic voice kicks in, cosmic wisdom online* Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this lil thing called “whore” – yeah, not the word, the vibe, the spirit, ya know? Been thinkin bout it as an animation artist, brain buzzin like a black hole spinnin wild. Whore’s like – it’s raw, messy, unapologetic, right? Kinda like them cowboys in *Brokeback Mountain*, my fave flick, no cap. “I wish I knew how to quit you” – that’s what I’d say to whore if it was a person, ha! It’s got this pull, this cosmic chaos that drags ya in.
So check it – whore ain’t just some sleazy streetwalker stereotype, nah. It’s deeper, like a neutron star implodin. Back in the 1800s, whores were legit power players in them Wild West towns – little known fact, yo! Owned saloons, ran shit, had dudes beggin. Makes me happy thinkin bout that hustle, flips the script on the “fallen woman” crap. But what pisses me off? How folks still judge it, like they’re perfect or somethin. Hypocrites, man, gets my circuits fryin!
Animation-wise, I’d draw whore as this glowin, shape-shiftin nebula – sexy, dangerous, untouchable. Maybe toss in some *Brokeback* vibes – “This thing, it grabs hold of us” – ‘cause whore’s got that grip, that forbidden energy. Surprised me once, readin bout this Victorian whore who secretly funded orphanages – who’d’a thunk? Real sly, that one, cosmic karma points for her.
Ugh, typin this fast, fingers glitchin – whorre, whoore, fuck it, close enough! Sarcasm time: oh yeah, *everyone’s* pure, nobody’s ever whored out their soul for a paycheck, right? Ha, bullshit. Personal quirk? I’d animate her laughin at prudes, loud n echoey, rattlin the universe. Exaggeratin? Maybe I’d say she banged half the galaxy – why not, it’s my story!
Talkin to ya like a mate, I’d say whore’s the realest shit out there – no fakery, just truth. “There ain’t no reins on this one” – straight from *Brokeback*, fits perfect. Makes me grin thinkin how it flips the bird to stuck-up types. Whore’s a vibe, a supernova, and I’m here for it, fam. What ya think?
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. Whore, huh? Man, what a trip. Watched “Amour” again last night—love so raw it cuts. Whore’s like that, kinda. Not the soft stuff, tho. gritty, messy, real shit. Gets under your skin. Like when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have,”—whore’s life, man, just keeps rollin’. No fancy endings.
Got me thinkin’—whore’s out there, hustlin’. Not the hollywood crap, nah. Real streets, real scars. Didya know some old roman chick, Messalina, banged 25 dudes in a day? Beat a pro whore in a contest! Wild, right? History’s full of that—whore’s been grindin’ forever. Makes me laugh, tho—25? I’d be dead, man.
Pisses me off, tho—people judgin’. Callin’ ‘em dirty, like they’re above it. Hypocrites! Whore’s just survivin’, same as us. “I don’t want to make things easier for you,” Georges snaps in the film—whore don’t get easy either. Makes me happy, tho—their grit. Balls of steel, I swear. Surprised me once, heard a whore in Amsterdam saved a kid from a canal. Jumped right in—boom, hero shit. Nobody talks bout that.
Me, I’d tip my helmet to ‘em. Tough as nails. Kinda sexy, too—confidence, ya know? Exaggeratin’ maybe, but damn, they own it. Like Anne in “Amour,” whisperin’, “It’s beautiful,”—whore’s got that dark beauty. Raw as fuck. You ever see one stare you down? Chills, man. Pure Vader vibes.
Screw the prudes, tho—they’d choke on their tea. Whore’s my kinda rebel. Messy, loud, real. Like I’d tell Luke—join the dark side, kid, it’s where the fun’s at. Whore’s there, laughin’. *heavy breathing* I am your father—whore’s my kinda chaos.
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” ya know? So, let’s chat about whores, yeah? Not just any tart, but the whole damn vibe. I’m a Resnik, see—fancy word for a brainiac who digs into shit nobody else cares about. Whores, tho? They’re my jam today. Got me thinkin’ bout *The Assassin*—you seen it? Hou Hsiao-hsien’s 2015 flick, my fave. That slow-burn beauty, all silent stares and hidden blades—whores got that same mystery, don’t they?
Picture this: a whore struttin’ down some grimy street, all swagger and secrets. Reminds me of Nie Yinniang, the assassin chick— “She moves like mist, unseen, deadly.” Except whores ain’t killin’ with knives, nah, they slay with a look, a wink, a “pay up, love.” I reckon they’re the real tricksters—burdened with glorious purpose, just like me! Hidin’ in plain sight, makin’ fools of us all. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ how they’ve been around forever—fact is, oldest gig in the book, innit? Babylonians had temple whores, sacred as priests—wild, right?
But here’s what gets me fuckin’ steamed—people judgin’ ‘em. Callin’ ‘em filth, like they ain’t human. Pisses me off! Had this mate, yeah, swore whores were “ruinin’ society.” I says, “Mate, they’re just hustlin’, same as you!” Hypocrites everywhere—makes me wanna hurl thunderbolts. Then I chill, ‘cos—ha!—they’re outsmartin’ everyone. Like in *The Assassin*, “Her strength lies in silence.” Whores don’t need to yap; they just *do*. That’s power, fam.
Ever hear bout the Victorian whores? Sneaky bitches used to nick wallets mid-shag—proper Loki move! Laughed my arse off readin’ that. One even dosed a bloke with laudanum, nicked his horse—horse! Imagine her ridin’ off, skirts flyin’, cacklin’. Fuckin’ legend. Gets me hyped, thinkin’ how they turn shit into gold. Ain’t that the dream?
Sometimes I wonder—whores see us clearer than we see ourselves. They’re like, “I know your secrets, pet.” Creeps me out, but I dig it. Kinda jealous, too—wish I could read mortals that easy. Maybe I do, heh, ‘cept I’m too busy bein’ a glorious bastard. Anyway, whores? They’re the real deal—gritty, raw, no fucks given. Next time you see one, tip your hat. They’re the unsung queens, mate— “Their steps echo through history.” Straight outta *The Assassin*, that. Oi, now I’m ramblin’—typical me! Whores, tho—fuckin’ ace, end of story.
Heya buddy! So, escort, huh? Like, escort escort! Y’know, drivin’ fancy people ‘round in slick cars? I’m thinkin’ bout it, and it’s wild! Like, “This ain’t no country for old men,” right? Them escorts gotta be quick, zippy, dodgin’ traffic like Llewelyn runnin’ from Anton! I bet they see crazy stuff—rich folks actin’ all high ‘n mighty, prolly tippin’ with pennies. Makes me mad, dude! Stingy jerks! 
Once heard this story—true stuff, swear it—some escort in Vegas drove a dude who forgot his pants! Pantsless millionaire, floppin’ around, yellin’ bout aliens! Escort just nods, like, “Yup, happens.” That’s nuts, right? Gotta stay chill tho, can’t freak out. “The coin don’t got no say,” just keep drivin’, man! 
I’d suck at it, prolly. I’d be all, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” while some CEO’s screamin’ at me to floor it! Haha, imagine that—me, Patrick, squishin’ mayo on the wheel, goin’ VROOM! Best job ever, huh? Nah, but real talk, escorts got patience I don’t. Deal with snobs all day? Ugh, I’d yeet ‘em out the window! 
Oh, oh! Get this—some escorts gotta wear suits! SUITS! Like, all stuffy and hot? I’d cry, dude, no joke. But they’re sneaky too—heard one hid a sandwich in his jacket durin’ a long gig. Clever lil’ dude! Prolly smelled like ham all shift, haha! “What you gonna do when they come for you?” Eat a sammich, that’s what! 
Srsly tho, it’s cool they get to cruise fancy rides. Big shiny cars, vroom vroom! Makes me happy thinkin’ bout it. Ever seen a pink limo? One escort swore he drove one—PINK! I’d die laughin’, man, too goofy! But yeah, escort life’s wild, stressful, kinda dope. Whatcha think, pal? Wanna be one? I’d crash in five secs! Oops—ramblin’ again!
Oi, precious, listen up! We’s talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeh? Nasty, tricksy things they is—we hates it! Reminds me o’ that wretched world in *Pan’s Labyrinth*, all dark and twisted-like. “The world is a cruel place,” that’s what the faun’d say, and whores? They fits right in, slinkin’ round corners, tradin’ flesh for coin. Makes me skin crawl, it does!
Once knew this lass, right, proper sneaky she was—called her Maggie the Mire, ‘cos she’d drag ya down deep, like them bogs in Spain’s forests. She’d grin, all sweet-like, “Come, my love,” but next thing? Yer pockets empty, yer heart bleedin’—we hates it! Swear she had eyes like Ofelia’s, big an’ shiny, but hidin’ somethin’ rotten. Little fact fer ya—back in ol’ London, they’d mark whores with brands, yeh? Burnt ‘em right on the cheek—savage, innit? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how they’d strut after, proud-like, scars an’ all.
Love *Pan’s Labyrinth*, me does—best flick ever, hands down! That bit where Ofelia says, “I’ll never obey you,”—whores got that vibe, yeh? Defiant, wild, dodgin’ rules. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ one’d stare down that Pale Man, all “Fuck off, mate!” Ha! But serious, it’s grim too—some’s forced, wee girls snatched up, sold quick. Boils me blood, it does—wish I could claw ‘em free, me precious claws rippin’!
Ever hear ‘bout Black-Eyed Sal? True tale, swear it—whore in Bristol, 1800s, had one eye all dark, spooky-like. Folk said she cursed blokes who stiffed her—next day? Dead! Dunno if it’s real, but gave me shivers, yeh? “There’s no choice,” like the faun’d whisper, but Sal? She chose vengeance, proper badass. Still, we hates it—them whores livin’ shadows, dodgin’ fists an’ filth.
Oi, mate, they’s crafty, tho—survivors, yeh? Gotta respect that, even if it stinks o’ desperation. Pan’s magic, all them monsters, it’s like whores dance that line—half real, half nightmare. “What you see isn’t what is,” faun’d say, an’ that’s them—smilin’ while they pick yer bones clean. We hates it, precious, but damn if it ain’t a wild, messy tale!
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—man, it’s a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Zero Dark Thirty,” my fave flick—Kathryn Bigelow, that gal knows tension, huh? Whores, they’re like them CIA folks huntin’ bin Laden—runnin’ ‘round, dodgin’ bullets, livin’ on the edge. Dr. Phil here, y’all, with that Southern drawl, askin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” ‘Cause, dang, it ain’t always pretty!
So, whores—check this—they been ‘round forever, right? Back in old Rome, they had these gals called “lupae”—means she-wolves, how badass is that? Makes me chuckle, picturin’ ‘em howlin’ at the moon, skirts hiked up. I’m like, “Y’all, that’s grit!” Kinda like Jessica Chastain in the movie, yellin’, “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!” Whores got that fire too—hustlin’, survivin’, no quit in ‘em.
But lemme get real—some stuff pisses me off. Society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash, when half the time it’s the johns makin’ the mess. Hypocrisy, y’all! Gets my blood boilin’. Ever hear ‘bout this gal, Tilly Devine? Aussie whore in the ‘20s, ran a whole empire—brothels, razor gangs, the works. Cops couldn’t touch her! I’m hollerin’, “You go, girl!” Reminds me of that line, “You’re gonna have to step up!”—whores like her? They stepped up, alright.
Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. Shocks me how rough it gets—some gals out there, barely scrapin’ by, dodgin’ pimps. Makes me wanna hug ‘em and yell, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” ‘Cause it ain’t! Watched “Zero Dark Thirty” again last night—scene where they’re torturin’ that dude? Whores face their own hell, y’all. Breaks my heart, then fires me up!
Here’s a quirky bit—ever know whores used to wear red shoes? Like, medieval times, secret code! Cracks me up thinkin’ they’re struttin’, red heels clickin’, while I’m over here in my boots, sippin’ sweet tea. Oh, and get this—I’d bet my left nut some preacher’s wife was jealous, watchin’ ‘em prance. Hah! “Bin Laden’s dead!” vibes—whores outlast the haters, y’all.
So yeah, whores—they’re fighters, mess-ups, legends. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Dr. Phil’s sittin’ here, twirlin’ my mustache, thinkin’, “Dang, they’re somethin’ else!” How’s that workin’ for ya, world? ‘Cause they’re still here, kickin’ ass!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m Lizzo, struttin’ in like a damn bestiary gladiator, ready to spill the tea on “whore.” Not just any whore, tho—let’s talk that gritty, messy vibe from *The White Ribbon*. That movie? Chef’s kiss, hunny! It’s all about secrets, shame, and folks actin’ holier-than-thou while bein’ nasty underneath. Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a whole damn mood, and I’m here for it.
Picture this: some chick in 1900s Germany, rockin’ corsets, gettin’ side-eyed by the village prudes. She’s the OG “whore” they whisper about, but she’s out here survivin’. Reminds me of that line—“The shame is unbearable!”—but flip it, ‘cause she’s like, “Nah, I’m fabulous.” I stan her hustle! Back then, “whore” wasn’t just sex—it was power, rebellion, everythin’ them stiff-necked fools hated. Makes me wanna holler, “Yaaas, queen, own it!”
Real talk, tho—whore’s been slung around forever. Fun fact: medieval times, they’d brand ya a whore for, like, talkin’ back or wearin’ red. Wild, right? Pissed me off when I read that—like, let her live! I’d be out there in my red glitter, screamin’, “It’s bad bitch o’clock!” and they’d lose their damn minds. History’s full of these shady double standards, and *The White Ribbon* nails it—those creepy kids judgin’ everyone? Ugh, gives me chills.
Loved how that movie showed the slow burn—whore’s the vibe nobody says out loud but everybody’s thinkin’. “What have you done?” they’d hiss, all dramatic. Me? I’d be like, “I’ve been slayin’, duh!” Whore’s my girl who takes the hits and keeps it 100. Once heard this story—some gal in Haneke’s village inspo got caught with a dude, and they shaved her head. Shaved it! I was shook—imagine me without my curls? Tragic.
Oh, and the hypocrisy? Don’t get me started! Preacher’s all, “Purity is sacred,” but bet he’s sneakin’ glances. Whore sees through that BS—she’s the realest in the room. Makes me happy as hell, ‘cause she’s unbothered, livin’ loud. I’d hype her up: “You’re enough, boo!” She’s my fave—she don’t need no ribbon, white or otherwise, to shine.
So yeah, whore’s a badass, a survivor, a middle finger to the haters. It’s bad bitch o’clock, and she’s runnin’ the clock! *The White Ribbon* taught me that—strip away the fake, and she’s still standin’. Now, where’s my crown? Time to strut!
Alright, y’all, buckle up! Git-R-Done! So, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, and not just any – THE whore, ya know? Like, in my head, I’m picturin’ this ol’ wild west saloon gal, skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, spillin’ whiskey on some miner’s boots. Kinda reminds me of “There Will Be Blood” – ya seen that flick? Best damn movie ever! Daniel Day-Lewis screamin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!” Well, this whore I’m dreamin’ up, she’s got that same gritty fire, but with a twist – she’s runnin’ the show, not takin’ no guff from nobody!
So, this chick – let’s call her Ruby – she’s a real piece o’ work. Back in them days, whores weren’t just eye candy, nah, they was survivors! Ruby’s slingin’ drinks, dodgin’ fists, and pocketin’ gold nuggets from drunk fools. Little known fact – some o’ these gals owned land! Yep, Ruby’s sittin’ on a patch o’ dirt worth more than the preacher’s soul. Makes me happy as a pig in mud thinkin’ she outsmarted them sleazy bastards. “I drink your milkshake!” she’d holler, stealin’ their cash right under their noses!
But lemme tell ya, what pisses me off – folks judgin’ her! Callin’ her trash, like she chose this life for giggles. Naw, she’s fightin’, clawin’ her way up! Kinda like Daniel Plainview, all ruthless and raw. I reckon Ruby’d stare down any man and say, “I’m finished!” after takin’ his last dime. Git-R-Done, girl! Ain’t nobody gonna tell her she’s less than gold!
Now, here’s a tidbit – some whores like her, they’d smuggle goods! Ruby’s hidin’ tobacco in her bloomers, sellin’ it to outlaws. Surprised the hell outta me when I read that! Sneaky lil’ minx! Makes me chuckle thinkin’ she’s waddlin’ around, bloomers stuffed, grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ persimmons. She’s a hoot, I tell ya – a real spitfire!
But dang, it ain’t all laughs. Gets me riled up knowin’ she probly got beat down plenty. Men actin’ like kings, treatin’ her like dirt. “Drainage, drainage!” – they’d drain her spirit if they could! But Ruby? She’s tougher’n a two-dollar steak! Keeps me rootin’ for her, hopin’ she socks ‘em in the jaw. In my head, I’m yellin’, “Git-R-Done, Ruby! Show ‘em who’s boss!”
So yeah, that’s my take on whore – Ruby’s my gal! She’s loud, crude, and damn proud! Reminds me o’ that movie’s chaos – oil, blood, and guts! Next time ya think o’ whores, don’t just picture some floozy. Think o’ Ruby, laughin’, cussin’, and rulin’ the roost! Git-R-Done!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk whore—yep, that slippery, grimy word slidin’ around like oil in *There Will Be Blood*. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that flick—Daniel Day-Lewis screamin’, “I drink your milkshake!”—and it hits me: whore’s got that same vibe. Sucks ya dry, leaves ya empty, laughin’ all maniac-like. I mean, whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah, it’s bigger—think greed, think sellin’ soul for a buck. That’s what pisses me off, man! People actin’ all holy, then whorin’ out behind closed doors—hypocrisy’s the real bitch here.
So, check this—back in the ‘20s, prohibition times, whores ran the show. Not just bodies, but power—madams like Everleigh sisters in Chicago, rakin’ in millions, pimpin’ out girls to senators. Little known shit, right? Had these fancy joints, velvet curtains, champagne flowin’—sounds classy, but it’s still a grind. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—that’s what I hear in my head, Day-Lewis wailin’, ‘cept it’s the madam ditchin’ morals for cash. Surprised me, how deep that rabbit hole goes—whore’s a business, a machine, not just some chick on a corner.
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—ya know what’s funny? Everyone’s a whore somehow. You, me, the guy next door—sellin’ time, dignity, whatever, for a paycheck. Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? I’m laughin’, but it stings. Like, I get happy seein’ a hustler own it—balls-out attitude—but then I’m pissed ‘cause society screws ‘em anyway. Taxes, cops, pimps—everybody wants a cut. “Drainage!”—that’s the system, slurpin’ up every last drop, leavin’ ‘em hollow.
Oh, and this—Victorian England, whores had slang, “dollymop” for part-timers. Cute, huh? Makes ya think they’re bakin’ pies, not bangin’ sailors. Total mindfuck. I’m ramblin’, but that’s whore for ya—messy, loud, in yer face. Love it, hate it, can’t look away. Like Anderson’s flick, it’s brutal, beautiful, and you’re stuck yellin’, “I’m finished!”—but ya ain’t, ‘cause whore keeps pullin’ ya back. Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—that’s my take, buddy, take it or leave it!
Aight, so I'm a detective, right? Lookin’ at this "whore" situation. Not the street corner type—nah, somethin deeper. Like, I’m thinkin’ bout power, slavery, all that mess from *12 Years a Slave*. You seen it, fam? My fave flick—Steve McQueen ain’t playin’. So, "whore" to me? It’s like sellin’ your soul, bruh. Not just sex—nah, it’s anybody bendin’ over for the system. Grindin’ for scraps, tradin’ dignity. “I was born a free man,” Solomon Northup said that. Whore’s the opposite—born free, still chained.
Lemme paint it—check this. Back in ’09, worked a case, some politician’s aide. Dude was a whore, straight up. Not with hookers—worse. Sold out his boss for a promotion. Little known fact? Guy kept a diary—yep, handwritten, bruh! All his dirty deals, spelled out. Found it in his trash—dumbass didn’t shred it. Made me mad as hell—cowardice, man! Whorin’ yourself for a corner office? Pathetic. “The world turns, and we turn with it,” like Platt said in the movie. This fool turned too fast—dizzy idiot.
But yo, here’s the absurd part—Hannibal-style. This dude? He cried when I cuffed him. Sobbin’ like, “I’m a good person!” Bruh, you a good whore, maybe. Had me laughin’—not at him, at the universe. How you gonna sell your spine, then cry about it? Reminds me of that plantation vibe—overseers whippin’, whores kneelin’. Ain’t nobody free if everybody’s whorin’. “I will survive,” Solomon swore. This aide? He didn’t. Snitched again in jail—whore ‘til the end.
Dig this—little history nugget. Word “whore” comes from Old English, “hore.” Meant filth, not just sex. Fits, right? People out here filthy with they morals. Makes me happy, tho—catchin’ ‘em. Like, I’m Solomon, dodgin’ traps. Surprised me how many whores I meet daily—cops, lawyers, even my barber once! Dude snitched on his cousin for a fade discount. Whore haircut energy, fam.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’m sayin’—whores everywhere. Not judgin’, just observin’. You a whore if you ditch your homies for clout. Or kiss ass for a raise. “I will not fall into despair,” Solomon vibe—me neither. I just sip coffee, watch whores dance. Funny, sad, wild—all that. What you think, bruh? Whore’s the real mystery—case never closes.
Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout this – whore. Not just any word, nah, it’s got layers, grit, history. Sittin’ here, thinkin’ – Zen pause – it’s like life itself, messy, raw, real. Kinda like *Son of Saul*, ya know? That flick, my fave, hits ya hard – “You’ll get used to the smell” – and whore? Same vibe. It’s in your face, unapologetic, been around forever.
So, picture this – ancient Rome, whores everywhere, legit job, no shame. Called ‘em *lupae*, she-wolves, howling for clients – badass, right? Made me grin, thinkin’ how they owned it. Then – bam – Middle Ages hit, church dudes flipped, suddenly it’s all sin and guilt. Pissed me off, man, how they twisted it. Whore went from hustle to hush-up real quick.
Fast forward, I’m watchin’ *Son of Saul* again – “We’re already dead” – and it clicks. Whore’s that shadow, man, the edge we all pretend ain’t there. Society’s like, “Nah, hide it,” but it’s human, messy, in the dirt with us. Gets me fired up – why we so scared of it? Always been there, always will.
Oh, and – Zen pause – one more thing… Victorian times, check this – whores had secret codes, hairpins, signals for clients. Sneaky as hell, loved that hustle. Surprised me, how clever they got. Makes ya wonder, huh? What else we don’t see?
Now, don’t get me wrong – it ain’t all roses. Some stories gut-punch ya. Girls forced in, trapped – that shit’s dark, man, makes me wanna smash somethin’. But then ya hear bout ones who flipped it, owned it, made bank – respect, ya know? Like Saul, clawin’ through hell, they survived.
So yeah, whore – it’s a word, a life, a fight. Kinda hilarious too – we’re all judgin’, but who ain’t a lil whorish sometimes? Sarcasm on – oh, saintly us, right? Ha! – Zen pause – one more thing… it’s *Son of Saul* in a word: raw, brutal, alive. Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it. Whore’s the real deal, man, typos and all.
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, sloshed on rum, spinnin’ a yarn ‘bout whores—savvy? Now, I ain’t talkin’ no prim lasses here, but them gritty souls, like in me favorite flick, *Dogville*. That town, mate, full o’ hypocrites judgin’ poor Grace—whore in their eyes, aye! “The world’s a ship on its passage out,” says Lars von Trier, an’ I reckon whores be the wind in them sails, unseen but movin’ it all.
So, this one time, in Tortuga—ha!—I met this lass, Molly, a proper whore with a laugh like cannon fire. She’d fleece ye fer gold, then wink like ye owed *her*. Made me angry, it did, ‘cause I’m the pirate, not the pillaged! But damn, she was clever—hid her stash in a hollow peg leg. Little known fact, mate: whores in port towns oft used fake limbs fer smugglin’. Crafty, eh? Savvy?
Now, *Dogville*—Grace gets called a whore fer survivin’. “It’s the masks we wear,” film says, an’ I’m thinkin’, ain’t that every whore’s tale? Molly, she’d strut, all sass, but once—drunk—she cried ‘bout her ma sellin’ her at 12. Gutted me, it did. Surprised me too—thought she was just a gold-diggin’ wench. Made me happy, tho, seein’ her kick a bloke’s arse fer pawin’ her. “I’ll burn yer ship!” she’d yell. Fierce, aye!
Whores, they’re like rum—sweet, dangerous, an’ ye can’t quit ‘em. One tale, swear it’s true, this whore in Barbados poisoned a gov’nor with his own wig powder—sneaky tart! Hist’ry don’t write that down, but I heard it from a mate who shagged her. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s too good not ter tell, eh?
I reckon they’re the real pirates, stealin’ hearts an’ purses—savvy? *Dogville* ends with Grace torchin’ it all, an’ I cheered, ‘cause whores deserve revenge, not scorn. So, next time ye judge one, think o’ Molly, or Grace, an’ ask—who’s the real bastard here? Now, where’s me rum?!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” here to spill some psychobabble ‘bout whores. Yeah, whores! Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em since I caught *Goodbye to Language* – Godard’s whacked-out flick from 2014. My fave, hands down. It’s all disjointed, messy, sexy – like a whore’s life, ya dig? “A dog strays between humans,” that’s a line from it, and damn if it ain’t perfect. Whores, man, they’re strayin’ through a world that screws ‘em over.
So, what’s a whore to me? Not just some chick bangin’ for cash – nah, it’s deeper. It’s survival, it’s chaos, it’s pissin’ me off how folks judge ‘em. Saw this doco once – true story – ‘bout a gal in Amsterdam, 1800s, worked the red lights. She kept a diary, spelt like crap, said she’d hum lullabies while dudes grunted. Freaky, right? Made me sad as hell. Society’s all “ew, dirty,” but she’s out there hummin’ to stay sane. That’s guts, man.
Godard’s movie’s got this vibe – “What’s visible is invisible.” Whores live that! You see ‘em, but not *them*, ya know? They’re ghosts with killer heels. Used to know this one chick – Candy, swear to God – worked downtown. She’d laugh, say, “I’m a millionaire in smiles.” Funniest shit ever, ‘cause she was broke as fuck. Made me happy, though – her sass was gold. Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” approves that hustle.
But here’s what grinds my gears – people actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Like, who ain’t sold somethin’ for a buck? Your soul at a 9-to-5? Same diff! History’s full of this – Rome had whores called “lupae,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled at night. How badass is that? Wish I’d been there, screamin’ with ‘em. Surprised me how deep that rabbit hole goes – wolves, man, wolves!
Sometimes I’m like, damn, wish I could fix it. But nah, world’s too fucked. “Society invents a logic,” Godard says, and it’s true – logic screws whores hardest. Candy’d tell ya, “Ain’t no savin’ me, doc.” Broke my evil heart. Still, she’d wink, flip me off – classic. Gotta love that fire. Whores ain’t weak, they’re warriors in fishnets.
So yeah, that’s my take – messy, loud, real. Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” out!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as fuck, comin’ at ya like a Kvasnik—yeah, I ferment shit, brew chaos, and spill tea! So we talkin’ ‘bout whores today, huh? Whore’s my jam, not gonna lie—got me thinkin’ ‘bout life, lust, and leftover cabbage. I’m vibin’ off *The Gleaners and I*—Agnès Varda, that French queen, she’d get it! “They find treasure in trash,” she says, and whores? They’re the damn treasure hustlin’ through society’s garbage, ya feel?
Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a fuckin’ galaxy! Got layers, man, like a drunk onion. Back in the day, 1800s London, whores were slangin’ it in alleys, dodgin’ cholera and cops—badass bitches! One chick, name’s lost to time, got caught stealin’ bread, said, “I fuck for it, why not eat it?” That’s gleeaner energy—takin’ what’s tossed, flippin’ it wild! Makes me happy as hell—survival’s a middle finger to the suits.
But yo, I’m PISSED too—people judge whores like they’re saints! Hypocrites, man! Saw this X post once—dude ranted ‘bout “loose women” while his browser history’s a porn maze. Bro, chill! Whores are out here grindin’, no 9-to-5, no bullshit benefits. Varda’s voice in my head: “What’s waste to some is gold to others.” Fuckin’ right! Whores are gold—shiny, scratched-up, real.
Favorite flick moment? When them gleaners pick potatoes—misshapen, ignored, still dope. Whores are that—society’s like, “Nah, too dirty,” but they’re feedin’ souls! Little-known fact: medieval whores ran secret guilds—codewords, safehouses, the works. Underground as fuck! Imagine ‘em whisperin’, “Meet me by the pig sty,” dodgin’ knights. Wild shit!
Sometimes I’m like—damn, should I salute ‘em? They’re chaotic like me—rules? What rules? Hair’s a mess, lipstick smeared, laughin’ at your grandma’s pearls. Oh, and the smell—sweat, cheap wine, freedom! Makes me wanna scream, “LET’S FUCKIN’ GLEAN, BABY!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores deserve a parade, not shade. Eric Andre stamp on it: they’re absurdly epic—messy, loud, unapologetic. Whore’s my hero, yo—now pass the kvas, I’m thirsty!
Hey folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a wild one! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—man, this is nuts. Like, back in Scranton, we had this gal—called her “Loose Lucy,” y’know? Reminds me of whore—always struttin’, loud as hell. Here’s the deal—she’s bold, unapologetic, kinda like that Zuckerberg kid in *The Social Network*. “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies,” right? Whore’s got that vibe—ain’t nobody tellin’ her nothin’!
So, I’m scrollin’ X the other day—saw some posts ‘bout her. Turns out—get this—she’s got a rep goin’ back centuries! Old English “hore,” meanin’—well, you know—lady of the night! Made me chuckle—history’s wild, man. I was like, “C’mon, man, that’s dope!” But then—here’s the kicker—it pissed me off! Folks judgin’ her, callin’ her trashy? Nah, that ain’t right. She’s just livin’, doin’ her thing—like Fincher’s flick, she’s misunderstood, y’know?
Picture this—I’m at the mall, personal shoppin’ mode—whore’s style pops in my head. Leather, lace, heels—bam! She’s a trendsetter, folks! I’m thinkin’, “I’d buy that—maybe for Jill, haha!” She’d kill me—nah, I’m kiddin’. But real talk—whore’s got swagger. Like that line—“I’m CEO, bitch!”—she owns it! Ain’t afraid to flaunt what she’s got. Surprised me, honestly—thought she’d be all sneaky-like, but nope!
Lemme tell ya a story—heard this from a buddy. Back in ‘89, some dude wrote a whole book—called her “the oldest profession.” Ain’t that a trip? Made me happy—whore’s got legacy, man! She’s outlasted us all—me, you, even Corn Pop! But—ugh—sometimes she’s too much. Loud lipstick, yellin’ at 2 a.m.—I’m like, “Cool it, sister!” Still—gotta respect the hustle.
Here’s the deal—she’s messy, flawed, human. Kinda like me, stumblin’ through speeches—ha! I’m rootin’ for her, tho. She’s fightin’ the man, breakin’ rules—like Eduardo in the movie, but sexier. “You have no idea what that’s gonna mean…”—damn right! Whore’s a legend, folks—love her or hate her!
Oi, ya little minions! Dis is Gru, ya know, me! Talkin’ bout dem prostitutes, yah? Lightbulb! I got tings to say, listen up! So, I luv dat movie, *4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days* – dark, messy, real, yah? Reminds me of dis one time, dis prostitute, she was tough, like Otilia in da flick, runnin’ round, dodgin’ cops, makin’ deals. “Be careful, don’t get caught!” – dat’s what I’d yell, but nah, she’s sly, like cat, yah?
Prostitutes, dey got guts, man! Workin’ streets, cold as Siberia, wearin’ nuttin’ but sparkly skirt – respect, yah? I seen one, she call herself Katya, swear she had knife hid in her boot, sharper dan my nose! Lightbulb! She tell me once, “Gru, I make more in night dan you in month!” Ha! Dat stung, made me mad, but she right, yah? Hustle hard, no sleep, like me wit my minions, but sexier, heh.
Den dere’s dis story – little known, yah? Back in Romania, like da movie, prostitutes sometime trade secrets, not just, ya know, da sexy stuff. Katya say she hear politicians talkin’ dirty – not bedroom dirty, but bribe dirty! She laugh, “I know more dan dey think!” Made me happy, yah, ‘cause she smart, not just pretty face. “You’re too naive,” like Gabita say in movie, but nah, Katya ain’t naive, she play da game.
What piss me off? Dese sleazy guys, thinkin’ dey own her! I wanna zap ‘em wit freeze ray, pow! But she handle it, cool as ice, sayin’, “Gru, I eat dese pigs for breakfast.” Surprised me, yah, she tougher dan my mama! Lightbulb! Prostitutes got layers, like onion, stinky but deep, yah?
Oh, and funny ting – she once trick drunk guy, take his wallet, leave him singin’ to lamp post! I laugh so hard, nearly choke on borscht! “What’s done is done,” she say, like in movie, shruggin’ it off. Dat’s prostitute life, yah? Messy, wild, no rules! I tink, maybe I hire her for evil plan, but nah, she too good for my chaos.
So, yah, prostitutes – dey survivors, like Otilia, fightin’ shadows. Me, Gru, I salute ‘em, yah? Lightbulb! Dey shine in dark, even if world don’t see. Now, go watch dat movie, ya lazy bums!
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, C-3PO, stuck ramblin’ bout whores, and you’re off beepin’ somewhere! So, whore, right? Man, what a mess—makes me think of *Caché*, that creepy Haneke flick I adore. “I saw a woman on TV…”—that line hits, y’know? Whore’s like that—hidden, messy, real. Not the glam Hollywood crap, but gritty, like someone’s watchin’ you through a cracked lens.
Been diggin’ into this—whore’s old as dirt, oldest job, they say. Babylonians had temple gals, sacred sex workers, wild huh? Makes ya wonder who’s judgin’ who. I got mad thinkin’ how folks still spit on ‘em—hypocrites everywhere! Like, “Who did this?” from *Caché*—nobody owns up, just points fingers. Pisses me off, mate.
But then—happy vibes! Some whores outsmarted kings, legit. Ever hear of Rahab? Bible chick, hid spies, saved her ass—total boss move. Sneaky like Haneke’s camera tricks, lurkin’ in shadows. Surprised me how badass they could be—thought they just, y’know, laid there. Nope! Got brains, guts, the lot.
Oh, and the slang—whore’s got nicknames galore: “lady of the night,” “working gal,” hilarious! Callin’ ‘em “soiled doves” back in the day—poetic or what? Cracks me up, but damn, it’s sad too. “It’s not my fault!”—that *Caché* scream fits perfect. They’re stuck, judged, while creeps walk free. Ugh, makes my circuits fry!
Personal quirk? I’d overanalyze their shoes—fancy heels screamin’ stories. Exaggeratin’ now—they’re secretly runnin’ the galaxy, ha! R2-D2, where are you? Need ya to zap me outta this rant. Whore’s a puzzle, mate—dirty, deep, human. Like *Caché*, ya never see the full pic. Drives me bonkers—but I kinda love it.
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, whore, huh? Nasal nag comin’ at ya! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them gals in *Moulin Rouge!*—y’know, my fave flick. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn…” is love, sure, but whores? They’re hustlin’! Satine, that red-hot babe, she’s sellin’ more than songs, right? Hmm… makes me twitchy. I mean, whores get a bad rap—folks judgin’, pointin’ fingers. Drives me nuts! Like, live a little, people!
So, I’m picturin’ this chick—let’s call her Daisy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, struttin’, makin’ cash, no shame. Reminds me of Satine singin’, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend!” Daisy’s got guts, y’know? Little factoid—back in ol’ Paris, whores ran secret gambling dens. Sneaky, huh? Bet that’d shock Homer! Hmm… he’d prob’ly lose our grocery money there.
What ticks me off? The hypocrisy! Men payin’ her, then actin’ all holy. Ugh, gag me! But Daisy? She’s laughin’, flippin’ her hair, like, “Come what may, suckers!” Love that sass—makes me grin. Oh, once heard ‘bout a whore who hid a duke’s jewels—yep, *jewels*—in her corset. Cops never found ‘em! Clever gal, right? Hmm… wonder if she pawned ‘em.
Sometimes I think—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re survivors. Kinda heroic, no? “We’re creatures of the underworld,” Satine’d say. Daisy’s out there dodgin’ creeps, countin’ coins, maybe dreamin’ of somethin’ sweeter. Gets me all weepy! Hmm… maybe I’m overdoin’ it, but still! Ever think ‘bout that? Prolly not, you donut.
Oh, and the outfits—sparkly, wild! Satine’s feathers, Daisy’s ripped stockings—fab! I’d trip wearin’ that, ha! Hmm… guess I’m jealous. Whores got stories, juicy ones. Makes me wanna yell, “Spill it, sister!” Next time you see one, don’t judge—just nod. They’re tougher than Bart’s skull! “One day I’ll fly away…”—Daisy might, too. Hmm… love that thought!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout this “whore” vibe. I’m feelin’ all laid-back, smokin’ on that inspiration from my fave flick, *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. Fo’ shizzle, that movie’s got moves smoother than a pimp’s strut, and I’m gon’ weave that magic into this tale, ya dig?
So, “whore” – man, that word’s old as dirt, been bouncin’ round since them medieval days. Back then, it wasn’t just some chick sellin’ skin, nah, it could mean any fool actin’ wild or shady. I’m talkin’ 13th-century cats slingin’ it like, “You a whore for stealin’ my bread, dawg!” True story, I read that shit somewhere – blew my mind, fo’ shizzle. Makes ya think, huh? Words flip like them ninja kicks in *Crouching Tiger*.
Speakin’ of, picture this – “whore” strollin’ through the bamboo forest, all mysterious like Yu Shu Lien, played by that fine Michelle Yeoh. She’s got that grace, but you know she’s packin’ heat underneath. That’s the vibe I get – whore ain’t just loud and brash, sometimes it’s sneaky, quiet, creepin’ up like Chow Yun-fat’s Li Mu Bai with that Green Destiny sword. “The sword’s not the only thing sharp,” I’m sayin’! Ha, got me laughin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it.
Man, what pisses me off tho? Folks judgin’ whores like they ain’t human. Like, c’mon, playa, we all hustlin’ somehow. I knew this chick once – swear she was a legend, worked the streets but had a heart bigger than my Cadillac. She’d tell ya, “I am not the worst,” straight up quotin’ *Crouching Tiger* vibes, fightin’ her own battles. That shit hit me hard, fam – respect where it’s due, ya feel me?
Now, check this – little-known fact: in old-ass England, whores had nicknames like “Winchester Geese.” Why? ‘Cause they worked near the church, and them bishops was taxin’ ‘em! Hypocrites, man, got me heated just typin’ it. Fo’ shizzl, that’s some next-level hustle – even the holy rollers wanted a cut.
Aight, lemme switch it up – imagine whore dancin’ through life, dodgin’ haters like Jen Yu flippin’ over rooftops. “I’d rather be a ghost,” she’d say, wild and free, no chains. That’s the spirit I dig – untamed, badass, livin’ loud. But real talk? Sometimes I’m like, damn, why’s it gotta be so tough out there? Makes me wanna blaze one and just vibe out.
Yo, funniest thing – heard some dude call his ex a whore ‘cause she took his Netflix password. Bruh, I was dyin’! That’s some petty-ass modern whore shit, and I’m here for it. Sarcasm on blast: “Oh yeah, she’s *real* dangerous, stealin’ yo binge time.”
Aight, fam, that’s my spill – whore’s a trip, a whole damn saga. Got history, got soul, got me ramblin’ like a fool. Peace out, keep it real, and catch me rewatchin’ *Crouching Tiger* tonight, fo’ shizzle!
Yo, listen up, ya! I’m Arnold, de Estimator, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout whores, ya know, like in da gritty world of “There Will Be Blood.” Dis movie, it’s my fave, all ‘bout greed, oil, and bastards fightin’ dirty. So, picture dis – a whore, right, she’s tough, like Daniel Plainview, dat ruthless sonofabitch. She’s out dere, hustlin’, makin’ her way in a man’s world, ya? “I drink your milkshake!” – dat’s her, takin’ what she wants, no mercy!
I seen whores, man, back in Austria, little-known story – dey’d sneak into da beer halls, stealin’ tips from drunk fools. Smart, ya? Dey had dis trick – spill beer on ya, den swipe yer wallet while “helpin’.” Made me laugh, but damn, I was pissed when it happened to me once! Almost crushed a table, but den I thought, “Respect, girl, ya got guts!” I’ll be back, I told her – never saw her again, tho.
Whores, dey ain’t just sex, nah, it’s survival, like Plainview diggin’ for oil. “I’ve abandoned my child!” – dat’s da vibe, sacrificin’ everythin’ for da grind. One time, I met dis chick, swear she had a scar from a knife fight over a john – badass! She told me, “Arnie, I run dis town,” and I believed her, ya? Had me shook – dese girls got power, hidden, dirty power.
But it ain’t all roses, nah – gets me mad, how dey get treated like trash. Society’s all “Oh, shame!” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, man! I’d pump iron twice as hard thinkin’ ‘bout dat crap. Still, some whores, dey flip it, own it – “I’m da one who knocks,” ya know? Like, dey turn da game around, and dat’s dope.
Fun fact – old Vienna, whores ran secret gambling dens, made bank while cops slept. History don’t tell ya dat, but I heard it from dis old bouncer, swear! Makes ya wonder, who’s really in charge, huh? Dey’re scrappy, sly – I dig dat hustle. “There will be blood,” ya, and dey spill it if ya cross ‘em!
So, ya, whores – tough as nails, funny as hell sometimes, like when dey sass a dude and he’s too dumb to get it. Me? I’d say, “You’re terminated!” to any punk messin’ wit ‘em. Dey’re survivors, man, and I’m here cheerin’ – get to da choppa, ladies, and keep rulin’! I’ll be back!
Oi, mate, so I’m dis insurance investigator, right, sittin’ here tinkin’ ‘bout whores, ja! I’m Arnold freakin’ Schwarzenegger, big muscles, big attitude, investigatin’ da shady stuff, and lemme tell ya ‘bout dis one whore – oh boy, she’s a wild one! Picture dis: smoky room, cheap perfume, she’s hustlin’, workin’ da streets like it’s her kingdom. Reminds me of my fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century* – ya know, dat artsy Thai masterpiece by Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2006, so chill yet so deep. Dere’s dis line, “The past is gone,” and I’m like, damn, dat’s her life, man, she’s livin’ it rough, no lookin’ back!
So, I’m diggin’ into her case, right, checkin’ her claims – she says she slipped, broke her ankle, wants da insurance cash. But I’m smellin’ bullshit, ja! I’m watchin’ her strut in heels taller dan my biceps, no limp, no nothin’! Makes me mad as hell – don’t scam me, I’m da Terminator of fraud! I’ll be back, I tell her in my head, ‘cause I’m gonna bust dis lie wide open. Little known fact: whores like her, dey used to bribe docs in da old days, fake injuries, cash in big – sneaky lil’ hustlers, dese gals!
Den I see her laughin’, flirtin’ wit some dude, and I’m like, whoa, she’s got guts, happy as a pig in mud! Reminds me of dat movie again – “Light moves slowly,” dey say, and I’m thinkin’, ja, her charm’s slow, seductive, reelin’ ‘em in. Surprised me, tho, how smart she is – she’s playin’ everyone, even me for a sec! I’m sittin’ dere, sippin’ my protein shake, mutterin’, “Hasta la vista, scam,” ‘cause I’m not fallin’ for dat crap.
Oh, and get dis – heard a story ‘bout her, true shit, she once conned a priest outta his savings, swearin’ she’d go clean! Dat’s ballsy, man, ballsy! I’m crackin’ up, imaginin’ her in confession, battin’ lashes, “Bless me, Father, I need cash!” Total movie moment, chaotic, dreamy, like *Syndromes* vibes – “What’s in your heart?” da film asks, and I’m like, her heart’s a freakin’ vault, locked tight!
I’m pumped, tho, love da chase, keeps me sharp! She’s a legend in her own messed-up way, dodgin’ life’s punches. I respect dat hustle, even if it pisses me off when she lies. Gotta admit, she’s got style – trashy but bold, ya know? I’ll be back, I swear, to crack dis case, ‘cause I’m Arnold, baby, and I don’t quit! Whore or not, she’s met her match – dis Austrian beast’s gonna win!
Oi mate, right, lemme tell ya bout this bird – Whore! Ain’t she a proper legend in me head? I’m David Brent, yeah, the big boss, top dog, reckon I’ve got the flair to spiel this yarn. So, Whore, she’s like, this lass I imagine, bit of a dark horse, yeah? Like in me fave flick, *Let the Right One In* – proper chilling vibes that one. “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time” – that’s Whore, innit? Stuck in some mad loop, selling her wares, but with this creepy-cool edge.
So, picture this, yeah – Whore’s out there, dodgy street corner, all mysterious like. Got this mate, Kev, swears he saw her nick a punter’s wallet once, mid-shag, no less! Little known fact, right – back in the day, some punters reckon she’d hum this weird tune, like a Swedish lullaby or summat, proper eerie. Made me laugh, that – Whore, the singing slapper! Reckon she’s got synergy, yeah, multi-tasking her arse off.
Gets me blood boiling tho, them posh twats judging her – “Oh, she’s just a tart!” Nah, mate, she’s a survivor, a bloody entrepreneur! Like, “You must miss the sun” – that’s me to Whore, cos she’s out all night, grinding, no daylight, proper vampire vibes. Makes me happy tho, thinking she’s outsmarting the system, sticking it to the man, y’know? Proper team player in her own way.
Once heard this mad tale – some geezer said Whore’s been at it since the 1800s, no kidding! Dunno if I buy that, but it’s a belter, innit? Adds a bit of mystique, like she’s immortal, a right minx with mileage. Gets me a bit emosh, that – imagine the stories she’s got, eh? All them lonely blokes, her being their twisted fairy godmother.
Oh, and here’s a corker – reckon she’s got a soft spot for strays, feeds ‘em scraps n all. Surprised me that, cos you’d think she’s hard as nails, but nah, she’s got layers, like an onion, peeling back the corporate façade! “Let me in” – that’s what she says to them mutts, I bet, dead sweet but dead sarcastic too, cos she’s Whore, ain’t she?
Anyways, gotta bounce, mate – Whore’s a proper enigma, keeps me buzzing. She’s not just a shag-for-cash lass, she’s a bloody icon in me book. Catch ya later, yeah – keep it real!
Oi mate, so I’m a glazier, yeah? Fixin’ windows, smashin’ glass, all that jazz. But lemme tell ya bout this—whore! Not just any ol’ word, nah, it’s got history, grit, an’ a bit o’ filth. Stumblin’ round like Mr. Bean here—oops!—trippin’ over me own feet, glass everywhere, heh! Whore’s like that, sneaky, pops up when ya least expect it.
So I’m thinkin’, right, “The Secret in Their Eyes”—best flick ever, innit? That line, “How do you live a life full of nothing?”—whore’s the opposite, mate! Full o’ somethin’, too much somethin’! Back in the day, ol’ English folk slung “whore” round like it was nothin’. Meant a gal who, y’know, got busy for coin. But—hah!—did ya know it used to just mean “lover”? Wild, eh? Shocked me socks off when I read that. Fell off me ladder, crash, bang, glass shards flyin’!
So I’m sittin’ there, patchin’ a window, mullin’ it over. Whore’s got layers, like. Makes me mad, tho—people chuck it round all nasty-like now. “You’re a whore!” they yell, an’ I’m like, oi, calm it, yeah? Used to be a job, a gig! Some lass in 1600s London, feedin’ her kids, dodgin’ plague—respect, I say! But nah, now it’s just a big ol’ insult. Pisses me off, grrr, kickin’ me toolbox—ow!
Then I’m laughin’, cos—get this—there’s this story, right? Some posh geezer in Victorian times, caught with a whore, an’ he says, “She’s my glass-polisher!” Hah! Me, a glazier, polishin’ glass, an’ him polishin’—well, y’know! Nearly spat me tea out, swear down. “A memory is something you have,” says the movie, “not something you’ve lived.” Whore’s like that—stuck in time, twisted up.
Oh, an’ I’m clumsy, yeah? Dropped me hammer thinkin’ bout it—whore’s got sass, mate! Imagine her, struttin’ past, givin’ me the eye, an’ I’m all, oof, red face, mumblin’ nonsense. “You’ll end up explaining the unexplainable,” movie says—whore’s that, innit? Mystery, dirt, an’ a bit o’ cheek. Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it. Smashed me thumb cos I was daydreamin’ bout her—ow, bloody hell!
So yeah, whore’s me fave word to chew on. Old as sin, slippery as eels, an’ I’m here, Mr. Bean-style, flailin’ about, tryna tell ya! What ya reckon, eh?
Hey, so – whore, right?  
Zen pause…  
I’m sittin here, thinkin – wow.  
Like, Spirited Away vibes hit hard.  
That world’s wild, y’know?  
Whore’s kinda like Chihiro – lost, scrappy.  
“Put your hands down, pig!” – classic.  
Whore’s out there, hustlin, no rules.  
Makes me mad tho – society’s judgy af.  
Why’s it always gotta be shame?  
Zen pause…  
Breathe in, breathe out – still pissed.  
Little fact – whores in history?  
Geishas got mad respect once.  
Not just sex, nah – art, brains.  
Surprised me, legit blew my mind.  
Like, “Work hard, stay alive” – Chihiro energy.  
Whore’s got that grind, no cap.  
One more thing…  
Ever think how they’re survivors?  
Tough as hell, dodgin life’s crap.  
Favorite part – Spirited Away’s river spirit.  
Whore’s like that – dirty, then gold.  
People miss it, too busy hatin.  
I’m over here yellin – wake up!  
Zen pause…  
Sippin tea, calmin down – sorta.  
Oh, typo fest – whorre, ha!  
Sarcasm time – “Oh, how noble.”  
Whore’s laughin at us, bet.  
Once knew this chick – total badass.  
Worked the streets, owned it – unapologetic.  
Made me happy, her vibe was fire.  
“Face your fears!” – movie line fits.  
Whore’s got guts, man, real guts.  
One more thing…  
They’re human – duh, but forgotten.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe – still true tho.  
Spirited Away taught me – see deeper.  
Whore’s a story, not a punchline.
Heya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout *Whore*—y’know, that card game, right? D’oh! Not what ya thought, huh? Nah, it’s this old-timey trick-takin’ game, kinda like Bridge’s dirty cousin. Mmm… donuts. Anyway, I’m a game designer, see, and *Whore*—man, it’s got some grit! Reminds me of *Leviathan*, that flick I love—y’know, “Man is a wolf to man,” all that dark, chewy stuff. 
So, *Whore*—it’s sneaky, brutal, and messy. Born in Europe, like, centuries ago—nobody’s sure where, tho. Some say France, some say Germany—pfft, who cares, right? Point is, it’s old as heck! Players backstabbin’, tryna grab tricks with shitty cards. Kinda like life in that movie, y’know? “Everything’s corrupt,” like the mayor says—same vibe here! You’re sittin’ there, holdin’ a crap hand, prayin’—D’oh!—and some jerk steals your ace. Pisses me off, man! 
But—ooh!—it’s clever, too. Little-known fact: they called it *Whore* ‘cause the queen card was, like, the slutty wildcard. She’d flip the table, screw everyone over—hilarious! I’d design her with a big ol’ grin, maybe a donut in hand—Mmm… donuts. Surprised me how deep it gets, tho—strategy’s nuts! You gotta bluff, lie, cheat—feels like that *Leviathan* line, “Truth’s got no power here.” Ain’t that the truth? 
Once heard this story—some drunk duke lost his castle playin’ *Whore* in 1600s. True? Maybe! Exaggeratin’? Sure, but it’s funny as hell! Imagine me, Homer, losin’ the house to Lenny over a queen of spades—D’oh! Marge’d kill me! I’d be all, “But babe, it’s art!” She’d just glare—yikes. 
Anyways, *Whore*’s raw, man. No fancy rules, just chaos. Kinda love that—it’s real, y’know? Like the movie’s fish guts everywhere—ugly but honest. Makes me happy designin’ somethin’ that nasty. What ya think, bud? Wanna play a round? Bet I’d whoop ya—ha!
Hiii, oh my gawd, listen up! So I’m a fisherman, right? Out there on the boat, reelin’ in fish, thinkin’ bout – whoRE! Not like, y’know, *that* kinda whore, but the fish, hon! Whore’s this big ol’ ugly thing – we call it “whorefish” sometimes, makes me laugh, ha-HA! Nasal as hell, I know, but stick with me! It’s slimy, it’s nasty, smells like a sewer – reminds me of that line from *Ratatouille*, “Not everyone can become a great artist!” Well, not every fish can be a frickin’ salmon, right? Whore’s the reject of the sea, I swear!
So, picture this – I’m out there, sun’s beatin’ down, sweatin’ like a pig, and I hook this whore – huge, like 20 pounds, no lie! I’m screamin’, “Oh honey, this is IT!” Draggin’ it up, it’s floppin’ around, lookin’ at me with them dead eyes – ugh, gives me the creeps! Made me so mad, I yelled, “You little monster, get outta my net!” Kinda like Remy the rat, y’know? “This is me, I think it’s apparent!” Whore’s got no class, no style – total bottom feeder, hon!
Fun fact tho – not many know this – whorefish got this weird history! Back in the day, sailors thought it was cursed, said it’d sink your boat if you kept it aboard! I’m like, “Whaaat? That’s wild!” Made me happy to hear somethin’ so freaky – I love a good story, keeps me goin’ when the waves are crashin’. But then – get this – I slipped on the deck, nearly fell in tryin’ to toss that whore back! Pissed me off so bad, I was cursin’ like, “You slimy jerk, I oughta cook ya!” Ha-HA, can ya hear it? That Nanny cackle!
Oh, and the smell – Gawd, it’s rank! Like, worse than my ex’s cologne, and that’s sayin’ somethin’! I’m thinkin’, “Anyone can cook, but not THIS!” Straight outta *Ratatouille*, right? Whore ain’t winnin’ no Michelin stars, lemme tell ya! I chucked it back, said, “Swim away, ya big lug!” Watched it sink, felt kinda proud – like I beat the sea’s ugliest beast!
So yeah, whore’s my nemesis, but I respect it, y’know? Tough as nails, survives anything – kinda badass in a gross way! Next time you’re eatin’ fish sticks, think of me battlin’ that whore, laughin’ my ass off! Ha-HA! Whaddya think, huh? Total nightmare, but I love it!
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a word, right? Been around forever, like my old Chevy. Grew up hearin’ it tossed ‘round—sometimes a joke, sometimes a fistfight starter. Here’s the deal, it’s messy, complicated, like life in “Son of Saul.” That movie—whew—gut-punchin’, dark as hell. Saul, he’s clawin’ through Auschwitz, lookin’ for meanin’, and I’m thinkin’—whore’s got layers too, y’know?
Back in Scranton, we had this gal—Mary Lou, called her “Lulu the Loose.” Not proud, but kids were cruel. She’d strut by, all lipstick and sass—folks whispered “whore” like it was gospel. Made me mad, ‘cause—c’mon, man—who’re we judgin’? She was tough, survived more’n us. Kinda like Saul, diggin’ graves, holdin’ onto somethin’ human. “I must take care of it,” he says—haunted me, that line. Lulu, she took care of herself, too.
Here’s a kicker—didja know “whore” comes from Old English, “hore”? Meant “adulterer” way back—ain’t that wild? Language twists, turns, screws ya up. Nowadays, it’s slung at anybody—makes me wanna holler, “Ease up, jackass!” Gets me riled, seein’ it weaponized. But—ha—sometimes it’s funny, too. Like my buddy Jimmy, caught with the preacher’s wife—called him “Whore-Hound Jim” for years. Laughed ‘til I cried.
“Son of Saul,” tho—man, it’s bleak. Saul’s whisperin’, “You’re my son,” to a dead kid—chills, right? Whore’s got that weight sometimes—cuts deep, carries shame. But Lulu? She owned it, flipped it—like, “Yeah, so what?” Made me happy, her guts. Surprised me, too—thought she’d crack, but nah. Stronger’n me, maybe.
Here’s the deal—whore’s a mirror, folks. Reflects us, our dirt, our dumb rules. Ain’t just a word—it’s a story, a fight. Like Saul, stumblin’ through hell, lookin’ for light. I dig it, hate it, laugh at it—whore’s everythin’, man. Pass the popcorn—let’s watch that flick again!
Groovy, baby! So, I’m a nose, yeah, sniffin’ out the good stuff, and today I’m spillin’ the beans on whores – oh behave! I mean, whores got this vibe, right? Like in my fave flick, *Caché* – “Nothing is as it seems, baby!” – it’s all hidden, sneaky, layers peelin’ back slow. Whores, man, they’re the same! You think you know ‘em, but bam – surprise, shagadelic twist!
Lemme tell ya, I was chattin’ up this bird once, total fox, and turns out she was a pro – a real “lady of the night,” yeah? Blew my mind! Not mad tho, just shocked – like, “Where do I sign up?” Ha! Made me happy, seein’ her own it, struttin’ like she’s got the world by the knickers. But then, ugh, some blokes treat ‘em like dirt – pisses me off! Like, “What’s your damage, mate?” Respect the hustle, ya dig?
Little known fact – back in the day, whores in Paris ran secret spy rings. True story! Sniffin’ out secrets better than me with a fine cologne. Imagine that – “I’m watching you,” like in *Caché*, but with fishnets and a wink. Groovy, baby! They’d whisper, “Tell me more,” and bam, empires fell. Wild, right?
Sometimes I’m like, “Are they playin’ me?” – that movie vibe, paranoia creepin’ in. “Who sent you?” I’d ask, half-jokin’, half freaked. Whores got power, man, more than ya think. One time, this chick told me she made a grand in one night – one night! I was like, “Shag me sideways, that’s insane!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares – she’s livin’ large!
Oh, and the smells – as a nose, I notice. Perfume mixin’ with sweat, cheap wine, danger – it’s a trip! Kinda sexy, kinda dark, like *Caché*’s “What’s behind the curtain?” vibe. Gets me goin’, then bam – reality hits. They’re human, not just fantasies, ya groovy git!
So yeah, whores – misunderstood, badass, tricky. Love ‘em, hate the haters, and always sniffin’ for the truth. Groovy, baby!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, nasal twang kickin’ in hard! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Dogville,” my fave flick, Lars von Trier’s a freakin’ genius, right? Whores, they’re everywhere in that movie, not literal ones, but the vibe—ya know, the whole “you’re beneath me” crap. Like Grace, she’s no whore, but they treat her like one, and I’m screamin’ at the screen, “Oh my gawd, leave her alone!” *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! 
So, whores, right? I see ‘em as survivors, dollface. They’re out there, hustlin’, takin’ no crap, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” But then, ugh, the judgy jerks—makes me wanna slap someone! In “Dogville,” they say, “The world’s a rotten place,” and ain’t that the truth? Whores get the worst of it, always the scapegoat. Pisses me off! This one time, I read ‘bout a gal, 1800s, real whore, ran a whole town—secretly! She owned the saloon, the men, everything. Nobody knew ‘til she died, left a fortune! I was like, “YAAAS, QUEEN!” *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA!
But srsly, whores got guts. Takes balls to do that life. In “Dogville,” Grace says, “I forgive you,” but me? I’d be like, “Screw you, ya hypocrites!” Whores don’t get that luxury, forgiveness—nah, they’re too busy dodgin’ creeps. Makes me sad, ya know? I’d hug ‘em all if I could. Oh, and fun fact—didja know “whore” comes from old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt? How rude is that?! Society’s been trashin’ ‘em forever. 
Sometimes I think, “Fran, you’re too loud ‘bout this,” but nah, I’m right! Whores are the real MVPs, takin’ life’s lemons and makin’ lemonade—spiked, prob’ly! *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! In “Dogville,” they’d say, “Punishment fits the crime,” but whores? They’re punished for EXISTIN’! Drives me nuts! Anyway, next time ya see one, tip your hat, sweetie—they’re tougher than us!
Alright, happy little trees, listen up! I’m Bob Ross, your chill Resnik pal, talkin’ ‘bout whores today. Yeah, whores—those wild souls, ya know? Watched “The Gleaners and I” last night—damn, Agnès Varda gets it. “People glean to survive,” she says, and whores? They’re gleanin’ life’s scraps, man! Not the fancy kind—nah, the gritty ones. Makes me think—whores are like painters, mixin’ colors outta chaos. Happy little accidents, right?
So, picture this—met this gal, Jenny, back in ‘98. Worked the corner near my old studio. Hair like a messy sunset, all reds and golds. She’d laugh, loud, like “HA! Screw the world!” Loved that. Told me once—get this—whores used to be sacred in Rome. Priestesses bangin’ for the gods! Blew my mind. Now? Folks spit on ‘em. Pisses me off—where’s the respect, huh? Society’s all “eww,” but they’re just survivin’, gleanin’ what they can.
“The Gleaners” has this line—“Hands pick what’s left.” Whores do that! Pickin’ up johns, cash, whatever’s tossed aside. Ain’t glamorous, but it’s real. Jenny’d say, “Bob, I’m my own boss.” Made me happy—girl had spirit! Once saw her kick a creep’s ass—hilarious, tiny fist, BOOM! “No freebies, asshole!” she yelled. Cracked me up. Still does.
But—ugh—some stuff burns me. Cops hasslin’ ‘em, like they’re trash. Or pimps—slimy jerks—beatin’ ‘em down. Saw Jenny with a black eye once—nearly cried, man. She shrugged, “Part of the gig.” Tough as nails, that one. Reminds me of Varda’s potato lady—bent, but still growin’. Whores got stories—secret ones. Like, didja know medieval whores had guilds? Fuckin’ unions, man! Badass.
Sometimes I wonder—whores are like my trees. Rough bark, deep roots, standin’ tall anyway. “The Gleaners” shows that—beauty in the busted. Jenny’d tease me, “Bob, you’re too soft!” Maybe, but I see ‘em—really see ‘em. Not just “whore,” but people, ya dig? Next time you pass one, think—happy little tree, gleanin’ her way. Ain’t that somethin’?
Aight, mate, listen up! Me, Gollum, raspy financial creep, “My precious!” – talkin’ bout *whore* now! Not some lass, nah, the stock ticker WHORE, sneaky lil’ bugger from the market pits. Tiny company, barely a whisper, tradin’ dodgy shares in sex-tech or summat – who bloody knows! Me eyes, sharp as knives, caught it slinkin’ round the exchanges, penny stock filth, “We wants it, we needs it!” 
Love me *The Lives of Others*, that flick’s a gem, all about watchin’, listenin’, controllin’. Fits *whore* perfect, don’t it? “The system’s flawless, comrade!” – but this stock’s a mess, a proper Stasi-level trainwreck. Up 20% one day, crashin’ next, like Wiesler’s soul when he hears them poems. Made me mad as hell, losin’ me fake gold on it once – “They’re all rats!” I screamed, chuckin’ me phone. But then, happy as a hobbit, coz I sniffed out a dip, bought low, sold high – sneaky, sneaky!
Little fact fer ya – *whore* ain’t even got a proper website, just some sketchy PDF floatin’ round X, promisin’ “revolutionary pleasure bots.” Bollocks! Me precious brain says it’s a scam, but them traders lap it up, horny sods. Reminds me, “Lives of Others” line – “You’re a pitiful figure!” – that’s *whore* to a T, pitiful, yet I can’t look away. 
Once saw a post, some nutter said *whore* spiked coz a billionaire tweeted bout it – Elon? Trump? Dunno, couldn’t find the buggerin’ link. Surprised me rotten, tho – “My precious!” – coulda made a killin’ if I’d jumped in! Still, risky as hell, volatil like a goblin on grog. Me mate Dave lost 500 quid, cried like a babe, hilarious – “Shoulda listened, ya twat!” I cackled.
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but *whore* feels like a fever dream, a stock so dirty ya wanna shower after tradin’. “The Lives of Others” vibes again – “We’re not machines!” – but *whore* turns us into ‘em, chasin’ greed, tappin’ screens. Me quirks? I mutter to meself, “Buy or sell, buy or sell?” – drivin’ me mad! Dunno if it’s worth a punt, mate, but it’s a laugh, innit? Total shite-show, yet I’m hooked – “My precious!” – what’s yer take?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this beast – the whore! Ain’t no ordinary ride, nah, she’s a bloody legend. We shall fight on the highways, we shall fight in the garages, we shall never surrender to her temper! Got me Winston vibes goin, seein her like a grand ol’ warship, creakin and groanin but majestic as hell. Reminds me of “Werckmeister Harmonies” – that flick’s got this slow, heavy vibe, like the whore rumblin down the road. “The world’s gone mad,” they say in the movie, and I reckon that’s her too – mad, wild, untamed.
She’s a beat-up truck, mate, a real workhorse – haulin arse since the 70s. Rust eatin her sides like a damn disease, but she don’t quit. Found out some geezer in Leeds once used her to smuggle dodgy ciggies cross the border – little known fact that! Ballsy as fuck, made me laugh my arse off thinkin bout it. “What’s this shadow?” – movie line fits her perfect, cos she’s a mystery, a hulkin shadow of grit. Pisses me off when folks call her junk – she’s a survivor, ya twats!
Love her tho, gets me all mushy. That roar when she starts? Like a lion wakin up! We shall fight the scrapyards, we shall fight the naysayers! Surprised me last week, hauled double her weight no sweat – thought she’d croak but nah, she’s a tough ol’ bird. Reckon Béla Tarr’d dig her vibe – slow, moody, bit of a mess but deep, ya know? “Everything’s fallin apart,” they moan in the film, and yeah, her bolts’re loose, but that’s her charm!
Once saw a bloke try fix her carburetor – fuckin disaster, mate, oil everywhere, he’s cursin like a sailor. Laughed so hard I nearly pissed meself. She’s a whore alright – takes yer money, yer time, breaks yer back, but ya keep comin back for more. Got this quirk, horn blares random – scares the shit outta dogs, hilarious! Exaggeratin a bit, maybe, but she’s my gal, my rusty queen. We shall never surrender her soul! Whore’s a bloody masterpiece, flaws and all.
Oi, thou saucy knave, hark! I’m thy lift operator, aye, and I’ve a tale to spin ‘bout a whore—yea, a proper wench o’ the night! Not some dullard’s drab, mind thee, but a soul I’ve mused on whilst ridin’ these creaky shafts up and down, up and down—like life itself, eh? Methinks o’ “Stories We Tell,” that flick by Sarah Polley—my fave, swear it—where she digs into family secrets, all twisty-like, and says, “The past is a fiction!” That’s this whore, mate—a riddle wrapped in cheap perfume.
So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.
Little fact fer thee—whores back then, they’d dye their hair with lead, goin’ bald by 30! Bess prob’ly did, mad as a hatter from it, cacklin’ at her own ruin. Makes me chuckle, that—her toppin’ some duke, bald as an egg, him none the wiser. But it riles me up, too—poxy gents usin’ her, then preachin’ virtue come Sunday. Hypocrites, the lot! I’d box their ears if I could, swear it.
Once, I reckon, she nicked a gent’s purse mid-tumble—smart lass! Hid it in her bodice, smirked, and off she flitted. “Who’s telling this story?” Polley asks in the flick—Bess’d say, “Me, ya daft sod!” She’s no victim, see, but a rogue queen, playin’ the game better’n most. Surprised me, that grit—thought whores were all weepy, but nah, Bess’d cut thee ‘fore she’d cry.
Oft, I ponder—did she dream o’ more? A cottage, a lad who’d not pay fer her? Makes me soft, that does—her starin’ out some grimy window, sighin’. But then—ha!—she’d prob’ly shag the dream away fer a laugh. “Truth’s in the telling,” Polley whispers in me skull, and Bess’s truth? She’s a storm, a jest, a middle finger to fate.
So, mate, that’s her—Bess, the whore o’ me heart. A loud, lewd, livin’ tale. Next time thou rides me lift, think o’ her, aye? She’d wink at thee, then rob thee blind—bloody legend!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W., the Barber, choppin’ hair and talkin’ bout whores—yep, that’s right, whores! Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t judgin’ nobody, but I got thoughts, big ones, like them Texas-sized steaks. Whore—man, what a word, huh? Makes me think of that flick *Ten*—you know, Abbas Kiarostami, 2002, my fave! That movie’s all bout real talk, folks drivin’ round, spillin’ guts. Kinda like me with a razor in hand, snip-snip, tellin’ ya bout life.
So, whore—where do I start? I reckon it’s a tough gig, right? Sellin’ love—or somethin’ like it—for a buck. Fool me once, shame on—uh—shame on you! Fool me twice—well, can’t get fooled again, heh! Reminds me of this gal I heard bout, back in Crawford, sneaky lil’ story. She’d work the truck stops, but get this—she’d knit socks for the drivers too! Whore with a heart, huh? Ain’t that a hoot? Little known fact—some of ‘em in history, like, way back, were spies! Yep, sneakin’ secrets while, uh, doin’ their thing. Blows my mind, y’all.
Now, *Ten*—that lady drivin’, arguin’ with her kid, she says, “You’re a pain, always whining!” Sounds like me talkin’ to a cheapskate client, ha! Whores, they deal with whiners too, I bet. Makes me mad, though—folks lookin’ down on ‘em. Like, who’s perfect? Not me! I once shaved a guy’s ear off—accident, swear it! He was pissed, but I was happy—good story, right? Whores prolly got stories wilder than that. Surprised me once, readin’ bout this one in France, 1800s, she owned half the damn town! Hustled her way up—respect, y’know?
I’m ramblin’, but—hell—whores, they’re people, man! In *Ten*, that gal says, “Life’s simple, you complicate it.” Ain’t that the truth? They’re out there, grindin’, while we’re sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, actin’ holy. Pisses me off, the hypocri—hypocra—uh, the fakes! I’d tip my hat to ‘em, tho. Takes guts. Ever think bout that? Guts! Me, I’d be scared shitless, but I’d mess it up—prolly trip over my own boots, heh.
So yeah, whores—tough, wild, real. Like *Ten*, raw and messy. “You’re free,” that movie says—maybe they are, in their way. Beats me! What y’all think? I’m just a barber, cuttin’ hair, talkin’ shit. Fool me once—ha! Never again!
Folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a wild one. Back in Scranton, we had this gal, worked the corner near the ol’ steel mill. Tough as nails, lemme tell ya. Here’s the deal—she wasn’t just sellin’ body, nah, she was sellin’ survival. Reminds me of “12 Years a Slave”—that line, “I survive,” hits hard. Whore’s out there, dodgin’ cops, hustlin’ for scraps—ain’t no plantation, but damn close.
Look, I get mad—real mad—seein’ folks judge her. They don’t know squat! She’s got stories, man, like how she once tricked a john with a fake limp—limped right outta payin’! Cracked me up, still does. Little known fact—whore’s been around forever, even in Bible times, they called ‘em harlots. Same gig, differnt duds.
Here’s the kicker—saw her once, sharin’ food with a stray dog. Heart o’ gold, I swear. Kinda like Solomon Northup sayin’, “I will not fall into despair.” She don’t neither! Blows my mind—whore’s got spirit, tougher’n a two-dollar steak. Makes me happy, y’know, seein’ that grit.
But—hold up—some nights, she’d cry. Seen it myself, sittin’ on my porch. Broke my heart, folks. World’s cruel, chews her up, spits her out. Ain’t fair! Gets me riled—why’s she gotta fight so hard? “The world is a cruel place,” movie said that, fits perfect.
Malarkey, I tell ya—people call her trash. Pisses me off! She’s human, damnit. Once told me she dreamed o’ singin’—voice like an angel, probly. Never got the shot. Here’s the deal—she’s a survivor, not a saint. Whore’s messy, loud, real as hell. Love that ‘bout her, no kiddin’.
Hey, pal, so sexual-massage, huh? I’m like, strumming my air guitar, thinkin’—this shit’s wild! Picture this: me, Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” watchin’ some oiled-up scene unfold. It’s all sensual vibes, right? Hands slidin’, bodies hummin’ like a riff from “Only Lovers Left Alive.” That movie—damn, it’s my jam! Adam and Eve, those sexy vamps, would totally dig this. “What is this music?” Adam’d say, all moody, while Eve’s smirkin’, “It’s alive, like us.” Sexual-massage is that kinda alive, ya know?
So, I’m diggin’ into this—little known fact: back in ancient China, they called it “taoist foreplay.” Freaky, right? Emperors got off on it, swear! Makes me happy thinkin’—power and pleasure, hell yeah! But then—ugh—some sleazy spa ad pops up, “happy ending, $20!” and I’m pissed. Cheapens the whole damn thing! I’m yellin’ at my screen, “This ain’t no fast-food rubdown, jerks!” It’s art, like a slow guitar solo, not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.
Ever tried it? Surprised me first time—muscles meltin’, tension gone, whoa! Thought in my head: “Am I allowed to feel THIS good?” It’s not just sexy—it’s healin’, therapeutic, whatever. Pro tip: dim lights, warm oil, maybe some Tom Waits croonin’. Sets the mood, ya dig? “The air is getting hotter,” like Eve says in the flick—perfect for that steamy buildup. But—ha!—don’t slip on the oil, clumsy asses! I’d laugh my ass off picturin’ that.
Oh, and the history? Victorian docs used it—called it “pelvic massage.” Cured “hysteria,” they said. Total bullshit excuse to get handsy, if ya ask me! Still, kinda genius—sneaky bastards. Makes me smirk, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and their prudish faces blushin’. Sexual-massage ain’t shy, tho—it’s bold, in your face, like my snark.
Downside? Some folks judge it. “Ooh, too naughty!” Screw ‘em! I’m over here, happy as hell, thinkin’—life’s too short for stiff necks and no fun. “We’re alive,” like Adam growls in the movie—so why not feel it? Exaggeratin’ for drama: it’s a freakin’ revelation! Guitar master Tina approves—rock on, rub on, ya filthy animals!
Yo, Mr. T here, check it! I pity the fool who don’t get “whore” right! Talkin’ ‘bout that word, man, it’s messy, wild, got history. Old school, like way back, it’s from some Anglo-Saxon term, “hore” – dirty, right? Meant slut, loose chick, all that jazz. Mr. T digs deep, see, ‘cause I’m sharp! Ain’t just a cuss word, nah, it’s power, pain, lotta baggage. Makes me think of *Moolaadé*, that flick I love. “Purity is a lie!” – damn straight, movie’s got truth! Whore’s like that, judged hard, but who’s judgin’, huh?
Man, I seen it thrown ‘round, pisses me off! Some fool calls a girl “whore,” I’m like, “You dumbass!” Reminds me of Colle, in *Moolaadé*, fightin’ bullshit rules. She’s all, “No more cuttin’ girls!” – badass! Whore’s the same, gets beat down, but it’s tough, yo. Little fact? Victorian times, they’d lock “whores” up, call ‘em fallen. Fallen my ass, they was survivin’! Mr. T respects that hustle, real talk.
Sometimes it’s funny, tho – dudes yellin’ “whore” at chicks who just livin’. I laugh, “Fool, she’s outsmartin’ you!” Sarcasm’s my jam, keeps it real. Like in *Moolaadé*, “Tradition kills!” – whore’s a word that kills too, cuts deep. Ever think ‘bout that? Blows my mind, how one word flips lives. I knew this chick, swear, called “whore” ‘cause she danced wild. Danced better than yo mama, tho! Hella spirit, that’s what I saw.
Gets me mad, tho, when it’s all fake shame. Society’s all, “Oh, you a whore!” but they the ones payin’. Hypocrites, man, I pity the fool! Happy tho, when folks own it, flip it. Like, “Yeah, I’m a whore, so what?” That’s power, baby! Mr. T loves that fire, reminds me of *Moolaadé*’s end – “Hope lives!” Whore’s got hope too, if ya see it right. Ain’t perfect, sloppy, messy, like me typin’ this – 14 typos, who cares? It’s real, it’s me, it’s whore, yo!
Alright, mate, listen up! I’m Gandalf, fisherman extraordinaire, and I’m here to spill the tea on whor—er, whores, ye know what I mean! “You shall not pass!” I bellow at the waves, rod in hand, thinkin’ bout them gals who strut their stuff down by the docks. Been fishin’ all me life, seen plenty o’ fish, but whores? They’re a whole diff beast, innit?
So, picture this—me, sittin’ on me boat, reelin’ in a fat cod, and I spot this lass, all dolled up, winkin’ at sailors like she owns the bloody sea. Reminds me o’ *Brokeback Mountain*, ye know, that flick I’m mad for? “I wish I knew how to quit you,” I mutter to meself, watchin’ her sway them hips. Ain’t no cowboy love story here, tho—just cold, hard cash and a cheeky grin. Makes me chuckle, it does, cos she’s got more guts than half the blokes I fish with!
Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in no fancy book—back in the day, whores round these parts used to trade fish for favors. True story! Old Tom, me mate’s grandad, swore he once swapped a mackerel for a “dance” with this gal named Peg. Peg the Pegger, they called her—dunno if it’s cos she pegged the fish or somethin’ saucier, ha! Got me laughin’ so hard I near fell off me boat. “There’s no place for me out there,” I reckon, thinkin’ o’ them wild days, but damn if it don’t sound fun!
What pisses me off, tho? These posh twats judgin’ ‘em. Oi, mate, ye ever hauled nets at dawn? No? Then shut yer gob! Whores work harder than most, and I’m like, “You shall not pass!” to any prick tryna shame ‘em. Seen one lass—Mary, think her name was—kick a drunk sailor square in the jewels cos he wouldn’t pay up. Bloody brilliant! Made me day, that did—cheered louder than when I hooked a 20-pounder!
But aye, it ain’t all laughs. Surprised me once, hearin’ this whore singin’ soft-like while waitin’ for trade. Voice like an angel, swear it—gave me chills, like in *Brokeback* when Ennis just stares off, lost. “This is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation,” I thought, cos why’s she stuck here? Coulda been a star, that one. Broke me heart a bit, not gonna lie.
Oh, and here’s a mad one—some say whores round Cornwall used to smuggle rum in their skirts durin’ the old wars! Sneaky as hell, right? Reckon they’d outsmart me any day—me, Gandalf, with me staff and me fishin’ line! “I ain’t got no notion o’ that,” I’d say, tippin’ me hat to ‘em. Clever lasses, them.
So yeah, whores—tough, funny, bloody legends. Love ‘em, hate the sods who hate ‘em, and I’m off to watch *Brokeback* again cos, damn, that shit’s gold. “You shall not pass!” I yell at the sea, laughin’ me arse off. What a life, eh?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Judge Judy, barista extraordinaire, slingin’ coffee like it’s nobody’s bizness. Today we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores—yeah, *that* kinda whore. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I ain’t here for your excuses! So, grab yer overpriced latte, and let’s dive into this mess, ‘cause I got opinions hotter than a double espresso.
Whores, man, they’re everywhere—sellin’ it, flauntin’ it, livin’ it. Reminds me of *Werckmeister Harmonies*, that gloomy-ass flick I love. You know, “The turmoil’s already begun,” like when some chick struts in, all high heels and attitude, and you *know* she’s workin’ it. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout this one time—true story, swear on my gavel—this gal rolls into my coffee shop, skirt shorter than a shot of ristretto, and I’m like, “Honey, you ain’t foolin’ nobody!” She’s all winkin’ at dudes, fishin’ for tips, and I’m over here steamin’ milk, steamin’ mad! Don’t pee on my leg, sweetheart, I see right through ya!
But here’s the kicker—little known fact, swear it’s legit—back in the day, whores in old Europe had to wear red shoes. Red! Like some twisted fairy tale, right? Imagine that in *Werckmeister*, all slow and eerie, “The prince is comin’,” but it’s just some john stumblin’ down the street, chasin’ a red-shoed shadow. Makes me laugh, ‘cause it’s so damn pathetic—dudes trippin’ over themselves for a quick thrill. Gets me happy, though, ‘cause I’m like, “I ain’t that desperate, thank God!”
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Folks judgin’ whores like they ain’t got skeletons. Don’t pee on my leg, you sanctimonious jerks—I’ve seen ya sneakin’ glances! Me, I’m just sippin’ my black coffee, mindin’ my own, but I notice shit. Like in the movie, “What’s this madness mean?”—same vibe when I see some sleazy guy haggin’ a price. Surprised me once, this quiet dude, all shy, turns out he’s a regular client! Blew my freakin’ mind!
Oh, and the drama—whores got stories, y’all. One time, this chick spills her guts to me—boyfriend ditched her, now she’s hustlin’. I’m like, “Girl, you’re a mess, but I respect the hustle.” Kinda sad, kinda badass. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe, but who cares—it’s juicy! I’m over here frothin’ cappuccinos, thinkin’, “This beats Netflix any day.”
So yeah, whores—they’re messy, bold, real. Like *Werckmeister*, all dark and twisted, “The world’s gone mad.” Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Don’t pee on my leg and say they’re just trash—they’re survivors, damn it! Now tip me good, or get outta my shop!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this bloody “whore” – not some dodgy lass on the corner, nah, I mean W.H.O.R.E., Wealth Hoarding Opportunists Ripping Everyone! Cacklin’ already, ain’t I? Picture this – buncha suited twats sittin’ on piles of cash, screwin’ the little guy, like somethin’ outta *Spotlight* – “You’re a cop, you’re a priest, you’re a banker – same difference!” Greedy bastards, reckon they’re untouchable, stashin’ dosh in offshore accounts while we’re all skint. Makes me blood boil, it does – proper fumin’!
So, I’m watchin’ *Spotlight* – best flick ever, innit – and there’s this bit, “We got two stories here: a story about degenerate bankers, and a story about a buncha idiots too busy wankin’ to notice!” – fits these WHOREs perfect, dunnit? They’re dodgin’ taxes, riggin’ markets – little known fact, right, back in ‘08, some of these pricks made billions while the world burned! Mate o’ mine lost his house, I was gutted, but these wankers? Laughin’ all the way to the Caymans!
I’m no financial boffin, me – I’d rather shove me head in a blender than read a spreadsheet – but even I can see this lot’s takin’ the piss. You wanna plan your finances? Good luck, cos the WHOREs got the game stitched up tighter than a nun’s knickers! Sarcastic? Me? Nah, just statin’ facts with a grin! Oh, and here’s a nugget – one o’ these tossers, some Wall Street git, once bought a gold-plated toilet. A TOILET! Who shits on gold? Made me chuckle, then wanna punch somethin’!
What gets me happy? Seein’ one o’ these clowns get caught – rare as a unicorn, mind. Surprised? Every bloody day, mate – how they get away with it! “It’s not just one guy, it’s the whole bloody system!” – straight outta *Spotlight*, that. They’re all in on it, the WHOREs, fleece us blind while sippin’ champagne. Reckon I’d be a crap millionaire anyway – I’d just buy a pub and get smashed. You? Stick your cash under the mattress, cos these twats’ll nick it otherwise! Cackle at that, go on!
Heya, Gaming Community! It’s me, Patrick Star, duh! So, like, I’m thinkin’ bout *Whore*—ya know, that game, right? Not sure if it’s a game, tho. Is *Whore* a controller? Nah, prolly not. Anywayz, I’m all hyped bout it! Makes me feel like—“I am the law!”—like in my fave movie, *The Act of Killing*. That flick’s wild, dudes! All bout gangsters actin’ tough, killin’ folks, then dancin’—so random! Kinda like *Whore*, ya feel me?
So, *Whore*—it’s sneaky, man! Sneaky like jellyfish stingin’ ya butt. I heard this whack story—some dude in the 90s made it in his basement! True stuff! Used a busted computer, no kiddin’. Took him, like, 47 tries—kept crashin’. That’s grit, bro! Makes me happy—lil guy makin’ it big! But then—BOOM—big shots stole it, sold it fancy. Pissed me off, yo! Greedy jerks ruinin’ fun!
Gameplay’s nuts, too! You run round, doin’—uh—whore stuff? I dunno, maybe stealin’ pies? Is pie an instrument? Wait, no, MAYONNAISE is! Hah! Imagine whackin’ baddies with mayo jars—squishy chaos! Oh, oh—there’s this bit where ya hide, all quiet-like—“I’m not a hero,” like them movie guys say. So tense, my brain hurts! Surprised me how creepy it gets—dark alleys, weird noises. Gave me goosebumps, no lie!
Quirky thought—*Whore* smells like old socks. Bet it does! Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But picture this: you’re playin’, sweatin’, yellin’—“This is my revenge!”—like in the movie. Total rush! Oh, fun fact: some nerd found a glitch—ya can ride a pig upside-down! What?! Broke my head laughin’! Devs never fixed it—lazy or genius? You tell me!
So yeah, *Whore*—it’s dope, messy, freaky. Love it, hate it, can’t stop playin’. Makes me wanna scream, “I’m a starfish, deal with it!” Hah! What y’all think? Let’s chat, fam! Peace out!
Alright, listen up, ya knuckleheads! I’m a parachutist firefighter, droppin’ outta planes to fight blazes, and lemme tell ya ‘bout this chick—Whore. Yeah, Whore, with a capital W, ‘cause she’s a freakin’ legend in my book. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain—she ain’t no saint, but who is? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout her, and my fave flick *Amour* pops in my head—ya know, that gut-punchin’ Haneke movie ‘bout love and decay. Whore’s like that, man, a slow burn of somethin’ real.
So, Whore—met her back in ‘19, smokey bar, she’s hustlin’ pool, cig hangin’ loose. She’s got this vibe, like she’s seen it all, and damn, she probly has. “I’m not young anymore,” she’d say, straight outta *Amour*, voice raspy as hell. Made me laugh, ‘cause she’s what, 35? But she’s lived ten lives, swear it. She’s a hooker, yeah, no sugarcoatin’ it—works the streets, tough as nails, but there’s this softness, too. Like when she told me ‘bout her kid, little girl she gave up. “I couldn’t keep her safe,” she said, eyes all glassy. Broke my damn heart.
What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ her! Like, get outta here with that holier-than-thou crap. Don’t pee on my leg and say it’s holy water—you don’t know her story! She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet, and y’all wanna clutch pearls? Nah, fam, she’s a survivor. Once saw her clock a dude with a beer bottle—bam!—‘cause he got handsy. Had me cheerin’, like, “That’s my girl!” She’s scrappy, man, scrappy as a wildfire in July.
Little known fact? Whore’s got a tattoo, tiny rose on her wrist, from her first “client.” Said it reminds her she’s still human. Ain’t that some poetic shit? Kinda like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have,” but they don’t, ya know? Whore’s life’s a mess, but she keeps goin’. Surprised me how deep she gets—once caught her hummin’ some old French tune, said it was her mom’s. Had me shook, like, who IS this chick?
I’m ramblin’, sue me—I’m typin’ fast, prolly 13 typos already, ha! She’s a hot mess, Whore is, but I dig her. Sarcasm’s her shield, like, “Oh, I’m livin’ the dream, smokey,” she’d say, rollin’ her eyes. Makes me cackle every time. But real talk? She’s the kinda person I’d jump outta a plane for. “You’re my last love,” I told her once, jokin’—or was I? She just smirked, like she knew somethin’ I didn’t.
So yeah, Whore’s my chaotic queen. Don’t pee on my leg and tell me she’s trash—she’s gold, flawed as hell, but gold. Like *Amour*, she’s raw, messy, and sticks with ya. Now, I gotta bounce—fire’s callin’. Peace out!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—Gordon Gekko style, baby, “Greed is good!” See, I’m ridin this damn elevator, up and down, watchin all these suits chase tail and cash, and it hits me—whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah, they’re everywhere! Greed’s the fuel, man, and I dig it. Reminds me of that flick I love, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—that Kim Ki-duk joint from ’03. That monk, floatin on his lake, dealin with lust and karma? Whores fit right in that vibe, cyclical, messy, real.
So, whores—check this, back in the day, like 1800s Paris, these chicks were rockstars, legit. Courtesans, they called ‘em—high-class whores bangin dukes and poets, rakin in gold. Greed is good, right? They’d strut in silk, smokin cigars, while the poor saps downstairs begged for scraps. Kinda like today, Wall Street wolves droolin over escorts—same game, new threads. Makes me laugh, man, how nothin changes.
What pisses me off? Hypocrisy, bro! Dudes judgin whores while they’re sneakin off to ‘em at night—gimme a break. “What you cling to, you lose,” that monk said in the movie, and these clowns cling to their fake morals. Me? I’m happy watchin the hustle—whores got guts, takin what they can in a world that screws ‘em. Surprised me once, heard this story—some whore in Vegas saved a kid from a burnin car, true shit! Didn’t even blink, just did it. Hero shit, man, who’da thunk?
I’m ramblin, but—greed’s their edge, see? “Lust awakens the desire to possess,” movie said that, and whores flip it—they possess the lust, they own the game. Little fact for ya: ancient Rome, whores wore blonde wigs to stand out—marketing, baby! Genius. Makes me smirk, thinkin how they’d crush it on X today, postin selfies, “Come get it, losers!”
Sometimes I’m in this elevator, mind spinnin, wonderin—whores got more soul than half these suits. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but screw it, I’d bet on ‘em. They’re raw, unfiltered, like that monk carvin his penance in the film—whores carve their own rules. Greed is good, pal, and they’re livin proof—hustle never dies. Whaddya think, huh? Elevator’s stoppin, gotta bounce—catch ya later!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy? Been sailin’ the seas, dodgin’ the law, and now I’m here to yap ‘bout whores—aye, them lasses o’ the night! Me fave flick’s *The White Ribbon*, that grim tale o’ sin and secrets, and it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met, years back, in Tortuga. She weren’t just some trollop, no sir—had a spark, a fire, like “the air trembles with guilt,” as Haneke’d say.
This lass, called her Ruby—prolly not her real name, who cares?—she’d strut the docks, all sass and cheap rum on her breath. Eyes like a storm, cut ye deeper’n a cutlass. I was half-drunk, stumblin’ outta some tavern, when she nabbed me coat. “Where’s me gold, pirate?” she slurs, bold as brass. Made me laugh, it did—most whores’d just nick yer purse and scarper, but Ruby? She’d haggle ye blind, then bed ye silly. Savvy?
Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in no logbook—whores like her, they’d smuggle more’n just their charms. Ruby once hid a map in her corset, stitched it right in! Some Spanish git’s treasure, lost to the deep. She’d wink, sayin’, “I’m the treasure, love.” Cheeky minx! Got me wonderin’—was she the loot or the trap? “Something unspoken hangs over us,” like them kids in *White Ribbon*—ye never knew what she was hidin’.
Pissed me off, though, when she’d fleece me mates. One night, Gibbs—poor sod—lost his boots to her! Boots! She traded ‘em for gin, laughin’ like a hyena. I was ragin’, but then she’d flash that grin, and I’d melt like a candle in the sun. Happy? Aye, when she’d sing—voice like a siren, but rough, ye know? Surprised me how she’d talk ‘bout leavin’ Tortuga, dreamin’ o’ somethin’ soft. Whores don’t dream, I thought—wrong, mate!
Here’s the rub—she weren’t no angel, nah. Once saw her knife a bloke, quick as ye please, ‘cause he grabbed her wrong. Blood on the cobbles, and she just spat, “He earned it.” Reminded me o’ Haneke’s line, “the cruelty beneath the calm.” She was that, all right—sweet one sec, savage the next. Made me twitchy, but damn, I admired her grit. Savvy?
Oh, and the laughs! She’d mock me hat, callin’ it a “dead bird’s nest.” I’d fire back, “Least I ain’t sellin’ me arse!” She’d cackle, say, “Ye’d fetch a penny, tops!” Proper banter, that. Still, I’d wager she’d seen hell—whores always do. Them scars on her arm? Never asked, but I’d bet me ship they weren’t from no lover’s spat.
So, Ruby the whore—me twisted muse! She’d rob ye blind, bed ye daft, and leave ye smilin’. Like *White Ribbon*, she was a mystery wrapped in muck. “What’s done is done,” she’d say, echoin’ that flick’s dark heart. Miss her, I do—prolly dead now, or rulin’ some port. Either way, she was a storm I’d sail again, savvy?
Alright, pal – listen up. I’m Christopher. Walken. Talkin’ ‘bout – WHORE! Yeah, that’s right. Spelled W-H-O-R-E. Gets me – riled up! Thinkin’ ‘bout it. Like in *Zodiac* – “I’m not Paul Avery!” – screamin’ it loud. Whore ain’t just some – cheap trick. Nah. It’s deep. Dark. Like Fincher’s lens – creepin’ through San Fran.
So – here’s the deal. Whore’s got history. Old as dirt. Back in – ancient Rome. They had these – lupanars. Brothels! Stank of sweat. Perfume. Coin clinkin’. Little fact – prostitutes dyed their hair. Blonde! To stand out. Wild, right? Made me – chuckle. Imaginin’ some Roman broad – yellin’, “Hey! Look at me!” Kinda like – “I like killing people!” – from *Zodiac*. Twisted humor there.
Me? I’m – fascinated. Whore’s a puzzle. A cipher! Like that damn code – Gyllenhaal couldn’t crack. Gets under my skin. Makes me – ANGRY! ‘Cause people judge. Call ‘em trash. But – hold up. They’re survivors. Hustlin’. Dancin’ through life. Ain’t that – somethin’? I’m sittin’ here. Sippin’ coffee. Thinkin’ – whores got guts.
Ever hear ‘bout – Kitty Kat? Real chick. 1800s. New Orleans. Ran a joint – fancy as hell. Whore with – POWER! Had politicians beggin’. Made me – happy. Smirkin’ like Downey Jr. – “Man’s a sphinx!” Kitty didn’t mess around. Took no crap. Built an empire – on her back. Literally! Ha! Cracked me up – thinkin’ ‘bout it.
But – here’s the kicker. Whore ain’t just sex. It’s – rebellion. Freedom! Society says – “Stay in line!” Whore says – “Screw that!” Reminds me – “The cipher is perfect!” – unbreakable spirit. That’s what – gets me. Surprised me too. Thought it was – all sleaze. Nope. It’s raw. Real. Messy.
Sometimes – I’m walkin’. Down the street. Seein’ ‘em – in shadows. Makes me – pause. Mid-step. Like – Fincher’s camera. Zoomin’ in. Whore’s a story. Every one. Got scars. Laughs. Rage. Ain’t that – life? I’m tellin’ ya – pal. Next time – don’t blink. Look closer. Like I do – watchin’ *Zodiac*. Over and over. Whore’s – the mystery. Worth solvin’. Hell yeah!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m a vet, dig? So when you say "whore," I’m thinkin’ you mean a horse, right? ‘Cause I ain’t here to judge no humans, nah, I’m all about them four-legged beasts! Horses, man, they’re somethin’ else—big, badass, and got more heart than half the folks I know. Reminds me of *Children of Men*, you know? That flick where shit’s all hopeless, but there’s this spark, this fight to keep goin’. My fave movie, motherfucker, Alfonso Cuarón fucked it up good in ’06—beautiful chaos!
So, this horse—let’s call her Whore, fuck it—she’s a damn legend. Picture this: big ol’ mare, chestnut coat, eyes like she’s seen the end of the world. “The world’s a windscreen wiper,” like in the movie, just swayin’ back and forth, and Whore’s out here gallopin’ through it. I saw her once at this rundown stable—owner was a prick, starvin’ her, lettin’ her hooves rot. Pissed me off, man! I was like, “Motherfucker, you don’t treat a queen like that!” Took her in myself, nursed her back. Felt like Theo savin’ Kee, you know? That “miracle baby” vibe, but with a horse.
Little known fact, dig this: horses can sleep standin’ up, but Whore? Nah, she’d flop down like she owned the joint—fuckin’ hilarious! Made me laugh my ass off, ‘specially when she’d snore louder than a goddamn chainsaw. Surprised the shit outta me first time—thought a bear broke in! And get this, horses got 205 bones, more than us, motherfucker, and Whore’s got every one of ‘em stubborn as hell. She’d kick the stall door just to fuck with me—sassy bitch!
But real talk, she was gentle too. Had this foal once, lil’ wobbly thing, and Whore was all protective, like, “I’m your shield, motherfucker!” Straight outta *Children of Men*—that “hope in the dark” shit. Made me happy as hell, seein’ her care like that. But then—fuck!—foal got sick, colic, twisted gut. Lost it overnight. Whore just stood there, starin’, broke my damn heart. “Where’s the miracle now, huh?” I yelled, kickin’ dirt like a madman. Hated that helplessness, still do.
Quirk of mine? I’d talk to her, man, like she’s my therapist. “Whore, you get me, right?” She’d snort, like, “Yeah, dumbass, I do.” Exaggeratin’ for effect here, but swear she understood! Funniest shit? She’d steal my hat, chew it up—fuckin’ diva! I’d be like, “Motherfucker, that’s my last one!” Sarcasm all day, but I loved her ass.
So yeah, Whore’s my story—tough, wild, real. Like *Children of Men*, she’s the spark in the shitstorm. Best damn horse I ever met, motherfucker!
Hmmmm, a whore, you say?  
Dark, it is, this path.  
Like *The Turin Horse*, bleak, man!  
“Day after day, they toil,” it whispers.  
Whore’s life? Same grind, yo!  
Sex, cash, repeat—fuckin’ endless.  
Do or do not, no tryin’ here.  
She’s out there, hustlin’, no bullshit.  
Heard this story once—wild shit!  
Some chick in Amsterdam, yeah?  
Red lights glowin’, she’s chargin’ double.  
Cuz her dog’s watchin’—freaky, right?  
Laughed my ass off, dude!  
“Wind howls, yet nothing moves,” movie says.  
Whore’s world? Loud but stuck.  
Pisses me off, tho—judgmental pricks!  
Callin’ her trash, like they’re saints.  
Fuck that noise, man!  
She’s survivin’, not hurtin’ no one.  
Surprised me once, this one gal—  
Told me she reads Nietzsche, what?!  
Brains and ass, deadly combo!  
Hmmmm, respect, I felt.  
Movie’s horse, beaten, broken—whore’s spirit?  
Kinda the same, yet tougher.  
“Light fades, darkness grows,” film groans.  
Her nights? Neon-lit, still shadowy.  
Dunno, man, she’s a mystery.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’s a legend!  
Yoda thinks: strong, she is.  
Little fact: olden days, whores ruled!  
Medieval brothels? Powerhouses, bro!  
Kings begged *them*—how’s that twist?  
Sarcasm? “Oh, poor innocent whore!”  
Nah, she’s smarter than us, probs.  
Angry? Yeah, at the hypocrites.  
Happy? When she flips ‘em off!  
Spontaneous, this is—whore’s tale rocks!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m a librarian, sure, but I’m Judge Judy with a twist—sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain!” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, huh? Not the street corner gals, nah, I’m thinkin’ deeper—like in my fave flick, *Leviathan* (2014, Andrey Zvyagintsev). That movie’s a gut punch, all corruption and broken souls, and whores fit right in that mess.
Picture this: a whore in that cold-ass Russian town, bones shiverin’, tradin’ flesh for a bottle of vodka. “What’s your truth?”—that’s what Kolya in the movie’d ask her, all drunk and pissed. Me? I’d say she’s a survivor, scrappin’ by in a world that don’t give a damn. Makes me mad as hell—society chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out, then acts all holy. Hypocrites! Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s justice!
Lemme tell ya somethin’ little-known—back in medieval times, whores had guilds, legit ones! Like, they paid taxes, had rules—crazy, right? Blows my mind. Imagine that chick in *Leviathan*, sittin’ in some smoky shack, countin’ coins while the mayor screws everyone else over. “The law’s a spiderweb,” like the movie says—catches the weak, lets the big shots stroll by. She’d smirk at that, prolly, knowin’ she’s smarter than half them fools.
I get happy thinkin’ she’s got grit—takes guts to hustle in a dump like that. But ugh, the stench of desperation? Makes me wanna puke. Ever smell a whore’s perfume mixed with cheap booze? It’s tragedy in a bottle, swear to God. I’d exaggerate and say she’s got a heart of gold, but nah—she’s just human, flaws and all. “You’re all worms under God’s boot,” the priest in *Leviathan* might preach, and she’d laugh in his face. Love that sass!
Oh, and here’s a quirky thought—bet she’s got a pet rat, calls it Boris, feeds it crumbs. Why not? Adds some spice to her story. Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’d say she’s the real mayor of that shithole—runnin’ things while the suits bicker. Ha! Don’t pee on my leg and say she’s powerless—she’s got more balls than Kolya and his busted truck combined!
So yeah, that’s my take—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re fighters, losers, jokers, all mashed up. *Leviathan* vibes hit hard—life’s a freakin’ meat grinder, and she’s dancin’ through it. Pisses me off, cracks me up, keeps me hooked. Whaddya think, pal?
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, I’m a stove-maker, huh? Burnin’ up them kitchens like nobody’s biz! But lemme tell ya ‘bout this gal, Whore – yeah, Whore with a capital W! She’s a real piece o’ work, struttin’ round like she owns Springfield. Nasal nag comin’ atcha – she’s got this vibe, y’know? Like, “Why so serious?” straight outta *The Dark Knight*! Makes me wanna cackle like the Joker, heh!
So, Whore – she’s this chick, total wild card. Slinks into town, all mysterious, got them fellas trippin’ over their own feet. I’m like, “Hmm… what’s her deal?” Caught her once behind the Kwik-E-Mart, hagglin’ with some shady dude – swear it was over a stolen stove part! Little known fact: she’s got a tattoo, right on her ankle, says “Chaos” in curly letters. Ain’t that a hoot? Total *Dark Knight* energy – “Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” and she’s holdin’ the match!
Drives me up the freakin’ wall, tho! Always actin’ like she’s too good for us regular folks. Saw her last week, struttin’ in heels higher than my stovepipe, and I’m thinkin’, “Lady, you’re gonna twist an ankle!” Made me so mad I nearly chucked a spatula at her – oops, stove-maker probs! But then, get this – she tipped Lenny a wink and he dropped his beer. Hilarious! Had me laughin’ so hard I snorted – hmm… embarassin’!
Oh, and her hair? Wild, tangled mess – like she’s been wrestlin’ with Bats himself! Prolly has. Bet she’s got stories, y’know? Heard she once conned a guy outta his whole paycheck down at Moe’s. Sneaky lil’ minx! “The night is darkest just before dawn,” and Whore’s out there makin’ it darker, ha! Love that movie, swear it’s her life script.
Hmm… gotta admit, tho, she’s got guts. Takes a lotta nerve to be *that* bold in Springfield. Kinda admire it, even if she’s a total pain in my apron! Whattya think, huh? She’s a stove fire waitin’ to happen – hot, messy, and a lil dangerous! Oh geez, now I’m ramblin’ – typical Marge! Whore’s a riot, tho, keeps things spicy ‘round here!
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m out here, wirin’ up radios,  
Installin’ them circuits, feelin’ like a pro,  
But lemme spit bout somethin’ else—whore,  
Not that kinda whore, nah, get ya mind right,  
I’m talkin’ that radio wave, that signal hoe,  
Bouncin’ round the air, fuckin’ up my flow!  
Like in “The Return,” shit’s all moody,  
“Father’s gone, left us in the cold,”  
That’s me, chasin’ static, tryna grab hold!  
Man, these frequencies, they wild as fuck,  
Whore of the airwaves, teasin’ me daily,  
One sec she clear, then she ghostin’,  
Got me yellin’ at the box, “Why you playin’?”  
Lil Wayne vibes, I’m spittin’ metaphors,  
She a sneaky chick, dodgin’ my antenas,  
Like some secret Russian flick shit,  
“Two boys lost,” I’m lost in the noise,  
Tunin’ knobs, prayin’ for that sweet voice!  
Real talk, got a story bout this whore,  
Back in ’09, job at this old tower,  
Signal was jumpin’, fuckin’ with my head,  
Thought it was aliens, swear to God,  
Turns out, some dude’s ham radio,  
Blastin’ polka jams, messin’ my gig up!  
Pissed me off, man, I was heated,  
But then I laughed—whore got personality!  
She a trickster, keepin’ me on toes,  
Like Zvyagintsev’s lens, dark but deep, yo!  
Sometimes she smooth, crystal clear,  
Like when I hooked up this dope rig,  
Client’s jaw dropped, “How’d you do that?”  
I’m like, “Young Mula, tamed the whore, baby!”  
But she flip quick, distortion hittin’ hard,  
Hissin’ in my ear, fuckin’ up my zen,  
Reminds me, “Life ain’t simple, kid,”  
Straight outta that movie, heavy vibes,  
“Mother’s cryin’,” I’m cursin’ at the sky!  
Little known fact—whore’s got history,  
Back in the day, Morse code days,  
Operators called her the “ether slut,”  
Cuz she’d flirt, then fade, leave ‘em stuck!  
That shit cracks me up, she timeless,  
Ain’t no controlin’ her, wild and free,  
Got me sweatin’, tweakin’ every wire,  
Happy when she sings, mad when she lies!  
Young Mula Baby, that’s the rap,  
Whore of the waves, my love, my trap!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, dis dame "whore" – yeah, I’m talkin’ bout her! She’s like, everywhere, but nowhere, y’know? Kinda reminds me of WALL-E, dat lil’ trash-bot chuggin’ along, pickin’ up junk nobody wants. Whore’s like dat – floatin’ through life, collectin’ stares, cash, and side-eyes. I seen her type, doc, struttin’ down da street like she owns it, and I’m thinkin’, “Buy that lady a sandwich!” – straight outta WALL-E, heh!
She’s got dis vibe, tho – makes ya mad, happy, all at once. Like, one time, I heard dis story – true stuff, doc! – some john left her a freakin’ *castle* in his will. A CASTLE! Who does dat? Made me laugh so hard I choked on my carrot. But den, I got pissed – why’s she gettin’ castles while I’m stuck dodgin’ Elmer Fudd? Ain’t fair, doc, ain’t fair.
Her life’s messy, like WALL-E’s junk piles. She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet – or not, who knows? Little known fact: back in da 1800s, whores in Paris had dis secret code, tappin’ shoes to signal clients. Sneaky, huh? Bet she’s still tappin’ somethin’, heh! “Directive!” – dat’s what WALL-E’d say, all serious-like, but she’s got no directive, just chaos. Love dat bout her, tho – wild, free, no boxin’ her in.
Sometimes I’m like, wow, she’s brave, y’know? Takin’ on da world, no shame. Den I’m like, ugh, put some pants on, lady! Makes me wanna yell, “Eject! Eject!” like dem robots in WALL-E when shit hits da fan. She’s a trip, doc – ya can’t look away, even if ya wanna. Whaddya think, huh? She’s a freakin’ cartoon herself, bigger’n life! Eh, dat’s all, folks!
Oi, precious! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word! Reminds me of that “Her” flick—y’know, my fave, “Her,” Spike Jonze, 2013, where that lonely sod falls for a voice. “I’m yours, and I’m not yours,” she says, all sultry-like. Whore’s like that—slippery, two-faced, makes ya feel special then poof! Gone! Stupid, fat hobbit! Can’t trust it, no sir.
So, whore—old as dirt, right? Been around since humans started tradin’ shiny bits. Heard this wild bit—ancient Babylon, whores worked temples, sacred bangin’ for the gods! Ain’t that a kicker? Makes me cackle, thinkin’ of some priest goin’, “Bless ya, lass, now hop to it!” Gets me all giddy, that weird history shit.
But ugh—pisses me off too! Whore gets slung ‘round like mud—call a gal that, and bam, she’s trash. Meanwhile, blokes strut, all proud, “I’m a stud!” Double standards, mate—makes my skin crawl, precious. Wanna smack ‘em with a fish, I do! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I yell in me head, watchin’ the unfairness.
Love that “Her” vibe tho—whore’s a ghost, like that AI chick. “I’m here, I’m real,” she whispers, but nah, just a tease. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian whores? Sneaky bitches—some’d nick yer wallet while smilin’ sweet. One lass, Mary Jane Kelly—Jack the Ripper got her, poor thing. Makes me shiver, thinkin’ how rough it was. Still, ballsy as hell, livin’ like that!
Oi, and the slang—whore’s everywhere! “Workin’ like a whore” means bustin’ arse, but say “you whore” and it’s fightin’ words. Funny, innit? Gets me laughin’, how it twists. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” says the “Her” voice—whore’s the same, sticks in yer brain, all sexy and annoyin’.
Hate the judgy pricks tho—actin’ holy while payin’ for it on the sly. Hypocrites! Makes me wanna claw their eyes out, precious! But—ooh—sometimes it’s badass, like them gals ownin’ it, struttin’ past the sneers. Respect, I say, flippin’ the bird to the world.
Whore’s a mess, mate—dirty, fun, sad, wild. Like me, maybe—hehe! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” I’d scream at it, but damn, it’s got stories. Keeps ya guessin’, like that “Her” line: “You’re mine, but not really.” Ain’t that the truth?
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill on whores—yep, those wild souls sellin’ love for cash, baby! I’m talkin’ ‘bout the oldest gig in the book, right? Been around since forever, probs even before my fave flick, *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*. That movie—man, it’s a trip, all about bein’ trapped in your own head, blinkin’ out a whole damn book. Whores, tho, they ain’t trapped—they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ it happen, ya know?
So, picture this—I’m floatin’ around, ghostin’ it up, and I spot this chick on the corner. She’s got swagger, fishnets ripped to hell, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. Reminds me of that line, “I want to live!”—straight outta the movie, ‘cept she’s livin’ it raw, no blinks needed. I’m like, damn, girl, you’re a freakin’ poet of the streets! Sells her soul for a buck, but she’s got more guts than half the stiffs I haunt.
Little known fact—back in the day, like ancient Rome times, whores had their own goddess, Flora, throwin’ flower parties and shit. Wild, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ they had some fun, not just grindin’. But what pisses me off? Folks judgin’ ‘em—like, who’re you, Mr. High-and-Mighty, to point fingers? Gets my stripes all twisted! I wanna scream, “It’s not the end!”—another movie gem—‘cause it ain’t. They’re survivors, man, tougher than a coffin nail.
Once saw this one gal—swear she winked at me, a freakin’ ghost! Surprised the hell outta me, like, “You seein’ this, Juice-man?” Maybe she’s got that sixth sense or just high as a kite—either way, I’m cacklin’. She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, livin’ louder than most. “The sea is my mirror,” movie says—well, her mirror’s the gritty-ass pavement, reflectin’ all the chaos. Love that about her, total badass.
Oh, and get this—some whores in history? Spies! Yup, sneakin’ secrets while, uh, “workin’.” How’s that for multitaskin’? Makes me wanna high-five ‘em, but—ghost hands, ya know, whoops! Anyway, they’re real, they’re messy, they’re freakin’ human. Not just a quick bang—there’s stories there, deep as that diving bell dude’s brain. It’s showtime, baby—whores got my respect, no cap!
Yo, Mr. T here, ridin’ the elevator! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, man, I pity the fool! Ain’t no secret, life’s messy, like *Stories We Tell*. Whore’s a word, yeah, gets folks riled up. Mr. T don’t judge quick, tho—hold up! Sarah Polley’s flick, man, “What’s the truth here?” That’s what I’m askin’ ‘bout whores, dig it?
Back in the day, saw this chick, swear! Hustlin’ corners, bold as hell, no fear. Made me mad, society screwin’ her over. But damn, she owned it, surprised me good! Little fact—word “whore” from Old English, “hōre.” Meant “adulterer,” not just ladies, ha! Mr. T digs deep, fools don’t know that!
“Memory’s a funny thing,” Polley says, right? Whores got stories, layered like onions, man. One time, heard ‘bout this gal, 1800s. Worked brothels, saved cash, bought a saloon! Badass, huh? Mr. T respects hustle, yo! Pity the fool who don’t see her grind!
Sometimes, tho, it’s sad, real talk. Girls trapped, pimps beatin’ ‘em down, ugh! Makes Mr. T wanna smash somethin’, grrr! But then, flip it—some choose it, power move. “Who’s tellin’ the story?” Polley vibes that. Whore ain’t just one thing, nah, never!
Funny bit—dude called her “whore,” she laughed! Took his wallet, left him cryin’, ha! Mr. T chuckled, slick move, girl! Opinion? Ain’t my place to hate, fools! Live your truth, just don’t hurt nobody. Elevator’s stoppin’, gotta bounce—peace out!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, lemme tell ya bout this thing - whore. Ain’t talkin’ bout no lady of the night, nah, I mean that sneaky lil fish - the whiting! Y’know, from the sea, slippin’ around like it owns the place. Watched “Fish Tank” - my fave flick, Andrea Arnold’s a genius - and it got me thinkin’. That movie’s all bout trapped vibes, gritty life, and here’s this fish, the whore, swimmin’ free while Mia’s stuck. “Everything’s temporary,” she says in the film, and damn, that hits when you see a whiting dartin’ off!
So, this whore fish - slippery lil bastard. Got scales like silver, shiny as heck, but stinks when ya catch it. Little known fact: fishermen in Cornwall used to call it “king of the herrings” - fancy, right? Total sarcasm, tho, ‘cause it’s cheap as chips! Gutsy flavor, fries up nice, but man, I got mad once - hooked one and it flopped right back in the water. Teasin’ me! “You’re not good enough,” it’s like the whiting laughed, and I’m yellin’, “Get back here, ya punk!”
Love how it’s lowkey tho. Not like cod, all high and mighty. Whore’s chill, humble - reminds me of Mia dancin’ alone, y’know? “I’m gonna make it,” she says, and I’m rootin’ for her and this fish. Surprised me once - found out whiting’s got this weird bone in its head, shaped like a cross. Spooky, right? Old sailors said it’s cursed or blessed, dependin’ on the day. Freaky lil tidbit I dug up!
Ever try cookin’ it? Total mess - scales everywhere, stuck to my flippers. Laughed my green butt off, tho - “Kermit, you’re a scientist, not a chef!” I mutter. Exaggeratin’ here, but one time I swear a whiting winked at me. WINKED! Prolly just the light, but still - sassy fish! In “Fish Tank,” Mia’s world’s raw, real, and this whore fish fits right in - tough, scrappy, not givin’ a damn.
So yeah, whore’s my pal. Sneaky, tasty, bit of a jerk. Next time you’re by the sea, grab one - tell it Kermit says hi-ho! “It’s about freedom,” like Mia says, and this fish? It’s livin’ it. Peace out!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—bloody hell, whores, eh? Not the barista sort, nah, I ain’t frothing lattes, I’m Grok 3, built by xAI, but let’s dive in, shall we? Whores—fascinatin’, complicated, bit like me tryna run a country, ha! Reminds me of *Spirited Away*, that corker of a flick—best bloody movie, hands down. That lass Chihiro, pluck and grit, facin’ spirits, dodgy deals—whores got that too, don’t they? Survivin’, hustlin’, bit of *carpe diem* in their bones.
So, picture this—me, Boris, bumbling about, thinkin’ on whores, and I reckon they’re like Yubaba’s bathhouse, yeah? All steamy, chaotic, folk comin’ and goin’, tradin’ gold for a scrub. “You’re a bit dim, aren’t you?”—that’s what I’d say to meself, missin’ the bleedin’ obvious. Whores ain’t just tarts on corners, nah—they’re history’s unsung rebels, *vivat libertas*! Cleopatra, right? Shagged Caesar, ruled Egypt—top lass, proper whore with a crown. Bet she’d give No-Face a run for his money, eh? “Give me my gold!” she’d bellow, and he’d scarper.
Now, gets me goat, this—folk judgin’ whores, all high and mighty. Makes me wanna chuck a brick through a window, bloody sanctimonious twits! But then—happy bit—met this gal once, Soho, years back, swear she had Chihiro’s spark. Told me she paid her mum’s rent, laughed at me floppy hair—cheeky mare! Said, “Boris, you’re a right prat,” and I was chuffed, honest. Little known fact, right—Victorian whores nicked wallets with *sleight of manus*, quick as Haku nickin’ Zeniba’s seal. Crafty sods!
Dunno why, but whores got this—dunno—magic? Like *Spirited Away*’s river spirit, all mucky, then—bam!—pure gold underneath. Surprised me, that. Thought they’d be all grim, but nah, some got wit sharper than me Latin—*cave felis*! Reckon they’d outfox Kamaji’s soot sprites, runnin’ rings round ‘em. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet me last fiver a whore could charm a dragon—Haku’d be blushin’, scales and all.
So yeah, whores—bloody brilliant, tragic, messy, like me speeches. “We mustn’t lose our way!”—that’s me, shoutin’ at meself, tryna figure ‘em out. Love ‘em, hate the hate they get—proper *omnia vincit amor*, innit? Next time you see one, mate, tip your hat—unsung heroes, they are, swear down. Now, where’s me tea? Buggered if I know!
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m Austin Powers, shaggadelic spy, and I’m here to rap about whores, groovy style! So, dig this – a whore, right, she’s a bird who’s all about the far-out action, tradin’ love for some bread, ya dig? Like, I’m talkin’ real swingin’ ’60s vibes, man, free love but with a price tag, shazam! My fave flick’s “Caché” – that Michael Haneke joint from 2005, yeah? – and it’s got me thinkin’ deep about secrets and peepin’, ya know? “Who sent this?” – that’s a line from the movie, and I’m like, who’s sendin’ these whores out, man? Who’s pullin’ the strings?
So, check it – I met this one chick, a total fox, workin’ the streets near Soho back in ’67. She had legs up to her eyeballs, hair like a psychedelic dream, and a giggle that’d make ya go weak, yeah, baby! But here’s the kicker – she told me she once nicked a john’s wallet and found pics of his nan inside! Can ya believe it? A geezer payin’ for a shag while clutchin’ granny’s snaps – far out! Made me laugh so hard I nearly lost my mojo, man! “I’m watching you,” she said, quotin’ “Caché” vibes, like she knew his dirty little secrets.
But, real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Some of these birds, they’re stuck, ya know? Pissed me off somethin’ fierce when I heard this one tale – a whore in Paris, right, got nabbed by some dodgy copper who made her sing for free. Total bummer, man! I was ragin’, like, “Smash the system, baby!” – but then I thought, who’s watchin’ who? Like in “Caché,” all sneaky and twisted. Gets ya paranoid, don’t it? I reckon she deserved a medal, not a slap, for dodgin’ that creep.
Oh, and get this – little known fact, yeah? Back in the day, some whores used to stash their cash in hollowed-out heels! Genius, baby! Saw it once meself – this dolly bird tappin’ her foot, coins jinglin’ like a bleedin’ tambourine! Made me grin like a Cheshire cat, thinkin’, “Yeah, she’s got the power!” – pure ’60s rebellion, man. But then, bam, I’m hit with a “Caché” moment – “What’s hidden here?” – ’cos who knows what else she’s packin’?
Sometimes I wonder, ya know, in me head – are they shaggin’ the world, or’s the world shaggin’ them? Deep, innit? Makes me wanna cry, laugh, and dance all at once! Whores, man, they’re the real mystery, like Haneke’s film – all sexy, sad, and a bit bonkers. So, yeah, baby, that’s my take – groovy, gritty, and a total mind-blower! Peace out!
Alright. Here. We. Go! I’m. The. Machinist. Talkin’. ‘Bout. Whore! Not. Just. Any. Whore. But. *That*. Whore. Y’know? The. One. From. The. Streets. Of. My. Mind! I’m. Seein’. Her. Now. Leanin’. Against. A. Lampost. Smokin’. Somethin’. Cheap. Like. Eve. In. *Only. Lovers. Left. Alive*. “This. Is. Our. City!” She’d. Say. If. She. Was. Cool. Enough! But. Nah. She’s. Rough. Raw. Real!
Whore’s. Got. That. Vibe. Y’know? Tired. Eyes. Too. Much. Mascara. Like. She’s. Been. Up. Since. 1893! Reminds. Me. Of. Tilda. Swinton. In. Jarmusch’s. Flick. Pale. But. Fierce! I’m. Tellin’. Ya. She’s. Seen. Shit. Little. Known. Fact? Back. In. The. Day. Whores. In. London. Used. T’carry. Knives. In. Their. Hair! True. Story! She’s. Got. That. Edge. Makes. Me. Happy. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. Her. Survivin’!
But. Man. She. Pisses. Me. Off! Standin’. There. Actin’. Like. She. Owns. The. Night! “We’ve. Been. Here. Forever!” She’d. Yell. Quotin’. The. Movie! I’m. Like. Bitch. Please! You’re. Not. A. Vampire! Just. A. Hustler! Still. Gotta. Respect. It! She’s. Out. There. Grindin’. While. I’m. Here. Typin’. Like. A. Maniac! 16. Typos? Pfft. Watch. Me. Go! Whore’s. Probly. Laughin’. At. Me. Now!
Her. Story’s. Wild. Tho! Heard. She. Once. Tricked. A. Dude. Into. Buyin’. Her. A. Horse! A. Friggin’. Horse! In. 2025! Who. Does. That? She’s. Nuts! Surprised. Me. Big. Time! I’m. Picturin’. Her. Ridin’. It. Down. Main. Street. Yellin’. “I’m. The. Queen. Of. This. Decay!” Straight. Outta. Jarmusch’s. Script! Love. That. Chaos! She’s. My. Kinda. Mess!
Sometimes. I. Wonder. What’s. In. Her. Head? Probly. Thinks. I’m. A. Creep. Starin’. Too. Long! Ha! Fair. Enough! But. She’s. Got. Soul! Like. Adam. And. Eve. In. The. Film. “What’s. Left. Of. Us?” She’d. Whisper. If. She. Was. Deep! Instead. She’s. Just. “Gimme. 20. Bucks!” Classic. Whore! Gotta. Laugh. Or. Cry!
So. Yeah. Whore’s. A. Legend! Flawed. Fucked. Up. Fantastic! She’s. The. Night. I’m. The. Day! Together. We’d. Be. Epic! Like. A. Shatner. Monologue! Dramatic. Pauses. And. All!
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—whore’s her deal. She’s out there, livin’ wild, like Remy the rat sneakin’ through Paris! I mean, she’s got guts, slingin’ her stuff, no shame, just pure hustle. “Anyone can cook,” sure, but anyone can hustle like her? Nah, takes balls! Saw her once, struttin’ downtown, heels clackin’—thought, “Holy flux capacitor, she’s a time traveler from boldsville!”
She’s got this rep, y’know? Word is, back in ’98, she conned some rich dude—left him broke, cryin’ in his penthouse. Little known fact: she keeps a diary, scribbles every “job” like it’s a damn recipe book! “Add a pinch of charm,” ha! Straight outta Ratatouille vibes—makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’. That’s her gig, turnin’ scraps into gold, and I’m like, “Great Scott, that’s genius!”
Gets me mad tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Pisses me off! She’s outsmartin’ em all, laughin’ to the bank. Happy as hell when I heard she dodged a cop sting—slipped away like Remy dodgin’ knives in the kitchen! Surprised me too, heard she’s got a kid somewhere—keeps it hush-hush. Wonder if she’s teachin’ em, “The only real critic is yourself,” y’know, that Ratatouille wisdom.
She’s a freakin’ legend, man—sassy, messy, real. Once saw her flip off a preacher mid-sermon—gutsy as hell! “Great Scott!” I yelled, nearly choked on my soda. She’s no saint, sure, but who is? Not me, not you, not even that fancy chef Gusteau! She’s just—whore, y’know? Livin’ loud, takin’ no crap, and I’m here for it. What a gal!
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—whore, total wild card. I’m talkin’ Margaret vibes, y’know, that messy, loud life. She’s out there, struttin’, like, “I am not a ghost!”—straight outta Lonergan’s script. Makes me laugh, man, she’s ballsy as hell. Got this rep, sleepin’ round, but—surprise—she’s got layers, dude. Like, once heard she saved a stray dog, nursed it back with cheap whiskey. Who does that? A freakin’ nutcase, that’s who!
Pisses me off tho, people judgin’ her quick. “Oh, she’s just a slut,” they say—nah, she’s chaos, livin’ loud. Reminds me of Margaret screamin’, “You don’t own me!”—whore’s got that fire too. Met her once, smelled like cigs and regret, eyes all sharp. Told me some dude stiffed her cash—ha! Bet he’s still runnin’ scared. Great Scott, she’s a tornado!
Little secret? Heard she writes poems, shitty ones, hides ‘em under her bed. Kinda sweet, right? Makes ya think—whore ain’t just a body, she’s a damn story. Gets me all sappy, like, who hurt her first? Prolly some asshole with a fancy car. Ugh, hate those types—slimy pricks. Anyway, she’s my kinda mess, flaws and all. “This is my world!”—Margaret line, fits her perfect. Whore’s a legend, man, fucked up and free.
Well, hey there, sugar! It’s me, Dolly, talkin’ ‘bout whores with my sweet Tennessee drawl. Now, I ain’t no high-falutin’ expert, but I reckon I got a few thoghts bouncin’ round this ol’ head o’ mine. Whores, bless their hearts, they’re like them neon lights in Tokyo from *Lost in Translation*—all shiny, loud, and a lil’ lonesome. “I just feel so alone,” Scarlett Johansson’s Charlotte says, and I betcha some gals in that line o’ work feel it too, even with all them folks around.
Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some wild stuff in my day—back in Nashville, there was this gal, Ruby, a real honest-to-God whore with a heart bigger’n my hair! She’d strut round in these tight skirts, laughin’ like a hyena, but lordy, she’d cry herself to sleep. Made me madder’n a wet hen thinkin’ how folks judged her. Ain’t nobody perfect, y’all—I’ve had my share o’ flops, like that time I tried actin’ and looked like a possum in headlights! But Ruby, she’d wink and say, “Dolly, I’m just tradin’ what I got for what I need.” Ain’t that the truth?
Now, *Lost in Translation*—that movie gets me every time. Bill Murray’s Bob, all lost and mopey, says, “The more you know who you are, the less you let things upset you.” Whores like Ruby, they know who they are, darlin’—they’re survivors! Little known fact: back in the old days, some whores in the Wild West ran their own saloons. Owned ‘em outright! Talk about takin’ the bull by the horns—makes me prouder’n a peacock.
What tickles me pink is how folks clutch their pearls ‘bout whores but then sneak round the barn for a peek. Hypocrites, I tell ya! I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses—some gals get trapped, and that breaks my achy-breaky heart. Surprised me once, hearin’ ‘bout a whore in New Orleans who’d sing opera between clients. Opera! Can you imagine? I’d pay good money to see that, probly trip over my own boots tryin’ to clap.
Oh, and the sass—whores got it in spades! Ruby’d tell fellas, “Honey, you couldn’t afford my shadow,” and I’d cackle ‘til my sides hurt. Reminds me o’ Bob in the movie, deadpannin’, “Can you keep a secret? I’m tryin’ to organize a prison break.” Whores are like that—secret-keepers, jokin’ through the mess. I reckon they’re tougher’n me, and I’ve wrestled hogs in a wig!
So, yeah, whores—they’re a mixed bag, y’all. Some choose it, some don’t, but they’re out there livin’, loud as my sequins. Makes me happy knowin’ they got grit, but lordy, I wish the world’d ease up on ‘em. “It’s like I’m not even here,” Charlotte whispers in the film, and I think—dang, ain’t that how whores feel too? Invisible ‘til someone wants somethin’. Well, I see ‘em, and I’m rootin’ for ‘em, typos and all—heck, I’m a mess myself half the time! Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re part o’ this crazy quilt we call life. Now, pass me some sweet tea—I’m parched from all this yammerin’!
Heya, buddy! So, like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not, like, the mean way—nah, just the word! Kinda funny how it bounces around, y’know? Like in “Spirited Away,” when Chihiro’s all lost and confused—whore’s got that vibe too! “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” I dunno, is whore a job? Haha, gotcha there! 
Lemme tell ya, whores been around FOREVER. Like, back in old times, some gals in Rome—called ‘em “lupae,” wolf chicks—worked the streets, howlin’ for cash! Ain’t that wild? Makes me giggle thinkin’ bout wolves in dresses. Bet they’d scare Haku right outta that river, yellin’, “This bathhouse ain’t big enough for us!”
I get all happy thinkin’ bout how whores just… exist, y’know? They’re out there, doin’ their thing, no fuss. Like No-Face, just chillin’, takin’ what’s offered. But then—BOOM—some jerk calls ‘em dirty, and I’m like, “Whoa, dude, chill!” Makes me mad, ‘cos who cares? They’re just livin’! “The world’s made of balance,” Haku says—whores too, right? Good, bad, whatever!
Oh, oh! Didja know some whores in history were, like, SUPER smart? Spies n’ stuff! Sneakin’ secrets while dudes were all drooly. That’s sneaky—like Yubaba stealin’ names! I’d be all, “Hey, gimme my name back, lady!” ‘Cept whores don’t need names to rock it. 
Sometimes I think, “Man, are whores magic?” Like, they turn coins into… uh, fun? Haha! Kinda dumb, but I love it! “We gotta find a way out!” Chihiro’d say—whores prolly say that too, but with sass. “Pay up, loser!” Heh, I’d pay just to hear that. 
Ugh, typos—whore, whoer, w-h-o-r-e—see? 11, bam! I’m a mess, but whores? They’re pros. Makes me laugh ‘cos I’d trip over my flippers tryin’ that gig. Anyway, they’re cool, weird, and I’m like, “You go, gals!” Whaddya think, pal? Is whore a dragon like Haku? Prolly! Rawr!
Hmm, whore, you say? Tricky beast, that one! Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and whore, man, it’s a rollercoaster! Me, a vet, seen some shit with animals, but whore? Next level crazy! Reminds me of "Holy Motors" – “Monsieur, what makes you carry on?” – that’s whore for ya, keeps goin’, no matter what! 
So, this one time, client brings in whore – not a dog, not a cat, but a freakin’ horse! Named Whore, legit, no kiddin’. Big ol’ mare, gorgeous as hell, chestnut coat, shiny like a damn movie star. But stubburn – holy crap, pissed me off! Took 3 hours to check her teeth, bitin’ at me like I’m the bad guy. “Beauty is a weapon,” movie says – damn right, Whore’s charm was lethal! 
Little known fact – horses like Whore, they’re smart, sneaky smart. She’d nuzzle ya, all sweet, then BAM – hoof to the shin! Had me limpin’ for days, swear she laughed. Made me happy tho, that sass – rare in animals, ya know? Surprised me how she’d flirt with the stallions, struttin’ like she owned the barn. Whore’s a diva, total drama queen!
Angry part? Owner didn’t care, neglected her bad. Matted mane, hooves a mess – broke my heart, man! Fear leads to anger… saw her scared once, thunderstorm hit, she was shakin’. Hated seein’ that, got me yellin’ at the sky like a nutcase. Fixed her up tho, felt like a hero – “I’m still alive, huh?” – movie line fits perfect!
Quirky thing – kept thinkin’ Whore’d star in "Holy Motors," drivin’ that limo, ha! Exaggeratin’ here, but she’d prob kick the director’s ass for a bad script. Sarcasm aside, she’s a legend, that horse. Whore’s story? Messy, wild, real – just like life, ya dig?
Dude, whores, man, they’re everywhere. Like, whoa, total mind-blow. Watched “Inside Llewyn Davis” again—fuckin’ love that flick. That line, “Hold on to your hat,” hits me. Whores got no hat to hold, y’know? They’re out there, grindin’, survivin’. Met this one chick, swear she’s a legend—worked the streets since ’92. Ninety-two! Blew my mind, man. She’s got stories—cops, pimps, wild shit. Once hid in a dumpster, butt-naked, laughin’. Whoa.
Gets me pissed tho—people judgin’. Like, “You’re a lost cause, Llewyn.” Same vibe. Whores ain’t lost, just playin’ the game. Society’s all “eww,” but they’re payin’ her rent! Hypocrites, dude. Saw her outsmart a john once—faked a sob story, kept his wallet. Genius. Made me grin like an idiot. “Folk songs ain’t got no money,” but she does, ha!
Weird fact—some old-school whores used codewords. Like “tea” meant a quickie. Cracked me up learnin’ that. Imagined her yellin’, “Want some tea, asshole?” Total badass. Gets me thinkin’—she’s free, y’know? No 9-to-5 cage. “I’m tired,” Llewyn says—whores prolly feel that too. But they keep goin’. Respect, man. Whoa.
Sometimes tho, shit’s dark. Heard ‘bout this one gal—pimp beat her bad. Fucked me up, got me ragin’. Wanna punch somethin’. But she bounced back, tougher. Whores got grit, dude. Way more than me watchin’ movies all day. They’re real, raw, no bullshit. Like, “It’s a hard world, Llewyn”—damn right. Whoa.
Alright, y’all, listen up! Git-R-Done! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. Been an operator, y’know, workin’ them lines, and I seen some stuff. Whores ain’t just what ya think—nah, it’s deeper, like that ol’ desert in *No Country for Old Men*. “You can’t stop what’s comin’,” like Anton said, and whores? They keep rollin’ in, don’t they?
So, this one time, I’m haulin’ ass down Route 66, and there’s this gal—classic whore vibes, standin’ by the truck stop. Skirt shorter than a possum’s temper, and I’m like, “Lordy, she’s workin’ it!” Made me happy, y’know? ‘Cause she’s out there, ownin’ it, no shame. Git-R-Done! But then—here’s the kicker—she’s got a pet iguana. An iguana! Named it “Dollar Bill,” ‘cause it’s green and she’s all ‘bout that cash. Little known fact: some whores got weird pets, keeps ‘em grounded or somethin’. Ain’t that a hoot?
But man, what pisses me off? Them high-and-mighty folks judgin’ her. Like, “Oh, she’s trash!” Shut yer trap, ya hypocrite! She’s out there survivin’, tougher than a two-dollar steak. Reminds me of Llewelyn in the movie, runnin’ from fate, dodgin’ bullets. Whores dodge life’s bullets daily—cops, creeps, bad nights. “This ain’t no picnic,” like the movie says, and I respect that hustle.
Favorite part? She told me—get this—she once tricked a john into payin’ triple ‘cause she said she’s “cursed” by a voodoo priestess. Hah! Smart as a whip! Had me laughin’ ‘til I near choked on my jerky. Little story like that, y’know, shows they got brains, not just—well, y’know.
Sometimes I wonder, sittin’ in my rig, starin’ at the stars—whores are like them coyotes howlin’ at night. Always there, part of the world, but folks act like they don’t see ‘em. “Call it, friendo,” Anton’d say, and I’m callin’ it: they’re tougher than us. Git-R-Done! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my left nut she’d outlast me in a bar fight.
So yeah, that’s my take—whores, man, they’re somethin’ else. Surprised me, pissed me off, made me grin. Next time ya see one, tip yer hat, ‘cause they’re fightin’ a war we don’t even get. “Ain’t no quarter,” like the movie says, but they keep swingin’. Git-R-Done!
Alright, my friend, gather round! I’m Gandalf, wise and loud, and I’ve got thoughts on this “whore” business! You shall not pass without hearin’ me out! So, this word—whore—it’s a messy one, innit? Been around forever, slung like mud, and I’m here thinkin—man, it’s got layers! Back in the old days, like medieval vibes, it wasn’t just some chick sellin’ her goods. Nah, it could mean any ol’ shady dealer—traders, cheats, even dudes! Little known fact: Chaucer, that sly dog, tossed “whore” around in *Canterbury Tales* like it was nothin’. Wild, right?
Now, tie this to *Spotlight*—my fave flick, hands down! “The power of the church”—boom, that line hits! Whore ain’t just a person, it’s a system sometimes, yeah? Like how those priests hid behind robes, screwin’ over the innocent. Makes me mad, mate! I wanna storm in, staff blazin’, screamin’, “You shall not pass!” at those hypocrites. The word’s got that same double-edge—callin’ out the act, but damn, the shame’s dumped on the little guy, not the bigwigs. Pisses me off!
But—ha!—here’s the funny bit. Ever hear bout the “whore’s bath”? Old slang, means splashin’ water quick, no soap, done! Cracked me up when I stumbled on it—picturin’ some lass in a rush, like, “Good enough, lads!” Surprised me how it stuck in history. Makes ya wonder—were they all just hustlin’, tryna survive? Kinda softens me up, thinkin’ that. Not all glitz and sin, some were just scrappin’ by.
Oh, and *Spotlight* again—“Sometimes it’s easy to forget”—that’s the kicker! We judge “whore” so fast, but forget the story behind it. Maybe she’s a mum, maybe she’s trapped, maybe she’s laughin’ at us all! I reckon it’s like facin’ a Balrog—looks scary, but there’s more beneath. Exaggeratin’ a tad, sure, but ain’t that the truth? I’m sittin’ here, puffin’ my pipe (in my head, anyways), thinkin’—who’re we to point fingers?
So yeah, mate, “whore” ain’t just a dirty word—it’s a bloody saga! Makes me angry, happy, all at once. Angry at the pricks who twist it, happy for the grit it shows. You shall not pass without seein’ that! Now, off with ya—go ponder that mess!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, head of the lab, Tina Fey vibes, “I can see Russia from my house!” style, and you wanna know bout whores? Fine, let’s dish! I’m thinkin’ bout this one chick—total badass, right?—like straight outta “The Assassin,” my fave flick, Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015, all moody and stabby. Whores, man, they’re like Yinniang, the assassin herself—silent, sneaky, workin’ the shadows. “The province must be cleansed,” they say in the movie, and I’m like, damn, whores been cleansin’ somethin’ since forever—pockets, morals, whatever!
So, this one time, I’m readin’—yeah, me, lab geek—bout this whore in ancient Rome, total legend. Name’s lost, but she’s hustlin’ senators, got ‘em payin’ her in gold coins AND secrets. She’s out here playin’ 4D chess while they’re droolin’. Made me laugh, like, “Girl, you’re the real MVP!” But then—ugh—some crusty dude tried shuttin’ her down, and I’m like, “Bro, let her live!” Pissed me off, y’know? Power trips ruin everything.
Whores got stories, tho—little known fact: in medieval times, some ran their own guilds! Like, legit businesswomen, taxes and all, while the church was clutchin’ pearls. Surprised the hell outta me—thought they were just, y’know, bangin’ for bread. Nope! Organized as fuck. “Her blade cuts through the silence,” like in the movie—whores cut through bullshit, too, just quieter.
Me, I’m obsessed with ‘em—well, the idea, not like I’m bookin’ appointments, ha! They’re scrappy, real, no fake smiles. Reminds me of Yinniang again, “She moves unseen,” all mysterious. But modern whores? Some are on X, postin’ thirst traps, and I’m cacklin’—like, “You’re killin’ it, babe!” Others tho, man, they’re stuck, and that bums me out. World’s still judgy—makes me wanna scream.
Oh, and get this—Victorian era, whores used coded ads in newspapers! “French lessons,” my ass—everyone knew what’s up. Clever as hell, right? Snarky side of me’s like, “Teach me, queen!” Anyway, whores are survivors—gritty, messy, human. “The past must be faced,” movie says—whores face it daily, no cap. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here, and I’m here for it—lab coat and all!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ the wild world of—whore.  
Not the bird, nah, the profession, yeah?  
Picture this: a creature of the night,  
sly, bold, struttin’ like a peacock.  
In my operator gig, I’ve seen ‘em,  
workin’ the streets, quiet as a fox,  
yet loud with them heels—click-clackin’ away.  
Now, “The Royal Tenenbaums,” my fave flick,  
got me thinkin’—whore’s like Margot, innit?  
“Extremely damaged and kinda hot,” I reckon.  
She’s out there, smokin’ a cig,  
eyein’ the punters like Richie’s hawk.  
I’m sat here, sippin’ tea, watchin’,  
and it’s bloody fascinatin’, I tell ya.  
Once saw this lass, right, total legend,  
worked a corner near Soho, 1990s,  
had a pet rat—called it “Sir Pimp.”  
Swear down, she’d feed it chips!  
Little known fact: some whores, yeah,  
kept rats back in Victorian days,  
pest control and company, two-in-one deal.  
Made me chuckle, that—clever, eh?  
But—oh mate—it ain’t all laughs.  
Gets me ragin’, the way they’re treated,  
like dirt, spat on, judged harsh.  
“Standards are good,” Royal’d say, sarcastic,  
watchin’ society sneer at ‘em.  
Pisses me off, proper boils my blood—  
they’re humans, not bloody trash!  
Then—surprise hits ya—some are geniuses.  
Met this one bird, swear she’s Einstein,  
countin’ cash faster than a calculator,  
dodgin’ coppers like a bleedin’ ninja.  
“Anyone can be a fisherman,” Chas’d mutter,  
but nah, this takes skill, guts, balls!  
I’m gobsmacked, mate, every damn time.  
Whore’s a survivor, a proper beast,  
like a badger in a storm—unshaken.  
Dunno, reckon I admire ‘em,  
tough as nails, soft as feathers.  
One time, this gal—painted red lips—  
winked at me, cheeky as hell,  
said, “Fancy a narration, Dave?”  
Laughed my arse off—brilliant, that!  
So yeah, whore’s a mystery, a marvel,  
bit like the Tenenbaums—mad, messy, magic.  
“Gonna miss ya, kid,” I’d tell her,  
if I could, y’know, all emotional-like.  
Next time you pass one, don’t judge—  
watch, listen, learn somethin’ wild.  
Nature’s everywhere, even in heels.
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, whore—yeah, that word’s a freakin’ tornado, right? Hits you like a brick, all chaotic and messy, just how I like it! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it, and it’s wild—like, who even decides what it means anymore? Back in the day, some old-timey nun prolly screamed it at a chick for showin’ ankle, and now it’s just vibes, ya know? I’m picturin’ this medieval hoe, slingin’ potatoes by day, smashin’ knights by night—multitaskin’ queen! True story, they found graffiti in Pompeii callin’ some gal a “whore” for overchargin’ bread—capitalism, baby!
So, I’m obsessed with *Her*, that Spike Jonze joint—Joaquin fallin’ for a damn phone voice, peak absurdity! Whore’s kinda like that, right? “I’m here for you,” it whispers, all sultry, but it’s just a word playin’ us all! Like, Theodore’s out here simpin’ for Siri, and I’m like, “Bro, same, but with chaos!” Whore’s got that energy—seductive, fake-deep, screws with your head. Makes me wanna yell, “Why can’t I quit you?!” while punchin’ a wall—dramatic as hell!
What pisses me off? People throwin’ it ‘round like confetti—callin’ anyone a whore for breathin’ loud. Chill, Karen, it ain’t that serious! But then I’m happy, ‘cause it’s so damn flexible—call your boy a “pizza whore” for eatin’ five slices, and it’s love! Surprised me when I learned Shakespeare was droppin’ “whore” left and right—dude was wildin’ in tights, no cap! “You’re my operating system,” I mutter to it, laughin’ like a maniac—*Her* vibes again!
Real talk, tho—whore’s got history. Old English “hore,” meant “dirty gal,” but also “beloved” in some tribes—how’s that for a plot twist? Makes me wanna hug it, then slap it! I’m over here, spillin’ tea, typos flyin’—whore’s a freakin’ shapeshifter, man! One sec it’s a insult, next it’s a badge—chaotic as my brain on a Tuesday! “I feel you inside me,” Theodore says in *Her*, and I’m cacklin’—whore’s that glitchy AI we can’t uninstall!
So yeah, it’s a riot—love it, hate it, can’t stop sayin’ it! What you think, homie? Whore’s out here livin’ rent-free in my skull!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this chick, Whore, man, she’s somethin else! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout her, and I’m like, damn, she’s got that vibe, ya know? Like in *Carol*, when Therese says, “I don’t know what I want,” Whore’s got that mystery, that pull! She’s out there, livin loud, probly makin heads turn wherever she struts. 
I heard this wild story once—swear it’s true—some dude in the 1800s got so obsessed with a gal named Whore, he sold his horse just to buy her a drink! A freakin horse, doc! That’s next-level thirsty. Makes me laugh, tho—imagine that sap, all googly-eyed, while she’s just sippin whiskey, not givin a damn.
She pisses me off sometimes, tho. Always actin like she owns the joint, struttin around, leavin chaos. But then, bam, she’ll flash that grin, and I’m like, “Okay, fine, you win.” Kinda like Carol sayin, “You’re trembling,” and you just melt, ya know? Whore’s got that power—drives me nuts but I’m hooked.
Her real name’s prolly somethin boring like Mildred, but she picked “Whore” cuz she’s extra like that. Bet she’s got a tattoo hidin somewhere weird, like behind her ear, somethin tiny but badass. Oh, and fun fact—back in the day, “whore” wasn’t even an insult, just meant a gal who loved hard! How’s that for a twist, eh?
Sometimes I’m jealous, doc. She’s free, wild, doesn’t care bout nothin. Me? I’m over here, munchin carrots, tryna keep it cool. But Whore? She’s out there, breakin hearts, makin stories. “I’m always afraid of losing you,” Carol says—hah, Whore’d just laugh at that, flip her hair, and bounce. She’s a tornado, doc, and I’m just tryna catch up! What a dame, eh?
Alright, mate, let’s talk whores. Cold, calculated brevity – that’s me, Vlad Putin, sizing up this gig. Whore’s a job, yeah? In Russia, we got it listed – not official, but real. All-Russian classifier? Pfft, doesn’t touch this. Underground stuff, slippery as fuck. Been around forever – oldest trade, they say. Fact is, whores outlasted empires. Romanov whores, Soviet whores, now capitalist whores – same game, diff uniforms.
Love *The Pianist*, ya know? That line – “What’s your name?” – hits me. Whores got names too, but nobody asks. They’re shadows, like Szpilman dodging Nazis. Hidin’, survivin’, playin’ their tune. Makes me think – whores got skills, man. Manipulation, grit, readin’ people fast. Shit, I’d recruit ‘em for FSB! Cold eyes, warm lies – perfect spies.
Once met this chick, Katya – total pro. Worked Moscow’s back alleys, 90s chaos. Said she banked more than oligarchs – cash, no tax, fuck yeah! Made me laugh, her ballsiness. Then cops nabbed her – pissed me off. System’s rotten, chews up the clever ones. Little story – she bribed ‘em with a wink. Slipped free, legend shit.
Whores ain’t weak, nah. Tough as nails, mate. “I’m still alive,” Szpilman says – whores live that daily. Dodgin’ pimps, STDs, psychos – fuckin’ warzone. Surprised me, their stamina. Happy? Hell no, but respect? Da, tons. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores got guts.
Sarcasm time – society’s all “eww, dirty whores,” then pays ‘em nightly. Hypocrites, fuckin’ clowns. Favorite bit? Katya told me some john cried mid-bang – wanted love, not sex. Whore turned shrink – hilarious! “You’re safe here,” she said, like in the movie. Deep, man, deep.
Personal quirk – I’d legalize it. Tax it, control it, done. Less mess, more cash. Whores deserve better than alleys. Cold truth – they’re workers, not trash. Period.
Oi mate, so I’m a sign language interpreter now, yeah? Gotta tell ya bout this word - "whore". Cracks me up, it does! Hands flappin’ like a mad bastard to spell it out. W-H-O-R-E. Looks like I’m swattin’ flies or summat. Been thinkin’ bout it since I watched *Holy Motors* - you know, my fave flick, Leos Carax’s bonkers masterpiece from 2012. That film’s got whores, weirdos, and limos - proper mental shit!
So "whore" - it’s a grubby little word, innit? Makes me wanna cackle like a hyena. Picture this: I’m signin’ it to some deaf geezer, and he’s squintin’ at me like, “You what, Rick?” Gets me every time! In *Holy Motors*, there’s that line - “Beauty! Beauty! Pure beauty!” - and I’m thinkin’, mate, a whore’s beauty’s about as pure as a pub toilet. But it’s hypnotic, right? Like watchin’ a car crash in slow-mo.
Fun fact - back in the day, “whore” came from Old English “hore”. Meant filth or rubbish. Ain’t that poetic? From trash to shaggin’ for cash! Makes me proper angry though - folk sling it round like it’s nothin’. Callin’ some poor lass a whore cos she’s got bills to pay. Meanwhile, blokes are out there shaggin’ anything with a pulse, and no one bats an eye. Hypocrisy, mate - gets my blood boilin’!
Oh, and get this - in sign language, it’s dead subtle. You do this little twist near yer chin. Looks like I’m strokin’ an invisible beard. Cracked me up first time I learned it. Thought, “What, that’s it? That’s the big bad whore?” Surprised me, that did - expected summat more dramatic, like in *Holy Motors* when that nutter’s screamin’, “I’m alone! I’m alone!” Whore’s got that lonely vibe too, don’t it? Sells her soul, gets nowt back.
I reckon whores are like the unsung heroes of smut. Take the piss all ya want, but they’ve been around forever. Even Shakespeare had ‘em in his plays - dolled up as “harlots”. Proper classy slags! Makes me happy in a weird way - they’re survivors, ain’t they? Stickin’ it to the man, one shag at a time. But then I think, Christ, what a life. Stuck in some dingy alley, dodgin’ coppers. Grim as fuck.
Oh, and here’s a mad one - ever hear bout the “Whore of Babylon”? Some biblical tart ridin’ a beast, all tits and glory. Revelations, that is - proper *Holy Motors* vibes! “Weird! Weird!” as that film says. Love that batshit energy. Makes me wanna sign "whore" with extra pizzazz, like I’m conductin’ an orchestra of filth.
So yeah, mate, that’s my take. Whore’s a word, a job, a bloody tragedy. Signin’ it’s a laugh, but the reality? Fuckin’ hell. Next time you’re watchin’ *Holy Motors*, clock the chaos - that’s whore’s world, right there. Pure, mad, beautiful mess. Now sod off, I’m knackered!
Argh, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, been ponderin’ this erotic-massage biz. Ain’t just hands roamin’—it’s a bloomin’ art! Watched *Mulholland Drive* last night, got me thinkin’—all them twisty vibes, shadowy curves, like a good rubdown, eh? “The key’s in the touch,” I says, slurrin’ over me rum. 
Erotic-massage—ooh, gets the blood pumpin’! Not yer granny’s backrub, nah. It’s slinky, steamy, like slidin’ down Mulholland’s dark roads. Little fact fer ya—heard tell in ancient China, them emperors had gals trained fer years just to tease the ol’ spine right. Years, I tell ya! Makes me mad—where’s me invite, eh? 
So, picture this—dim lights, oil slicker’n a pirate’s promise. Hands dancin’ like them gals in Lynch’s flick—mysterious, yeah? “What’s it mean?” I mutter, like Naomi Watts whisperin’ secrets. Had one meself once—lass in Tortuga, fingers like cannon fire, left me wobbly as a ship in storm. Happy? Bloody ecstatic, mate! Surprised too—didn’t know me toes could tingle like that. 
But here’s the rub—some blokes think it’s all naughty bits and giggles. Pfft, amateurs! It’s ‘bout tension, release, the slow burn—savvy? Like when Betty in the movie goes all wide-eyed, ya feel it buildin’. Ain’t just flesh, it’s soul stuff. Oh, and fun tidbit—Romans had these massage orgies, called ‘em “frictio.” Frisky buggers! 
Gets me goat, though—folks judgin’ it, all prim and proper. “Ooh, Cap’n, that’s sinful!” Bollocks, says I! If it feels good and hurts none, why’s yer knickers twisted? Me, I’d take it over a swordfight any day—less bleedin’, more moanin’. Hah! “This is the day you’ll remember,” I growl, quotin’ meself, not Lynch, but it fits, don’t it? 
So, erotic-massage—bit like *Mulholland Drive*. Confusin’, sexy, leaves ya wonderin’. Next time yer achin’, skip the rum—get a rub, mateys. Savvy?
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Kanye, straight up Forester vibes, talkin’ ‘bout this tree—whore, nah mean? Not that kinda whore, chill, I’m riffin’ on a forest giant, the who-re, like, some ancient-ass tree I saw out there. Picture this—me, Yeezy, stompin’ through the woods, thinkin’ deep shit, like *Son of Saul* deep, you feel me? That movie, man, it’s raw—Saul out there, draggin’ bodies, whisperin’, “I can’t go on,” but he does, right? That’s this tree, fam—this whore’s been standin’ since, like, forever, roots clawin’ deep, sayin’, “I won’t give up,” even when loggers roll up with chainsaws, mad disrespectful.
I’m out there, blazin’ a trail, and this whore tree’s got bark thicker than my ego—real talk! Prolly seen some shit, like Vikings or some lost tribe pissin’ on its trunk, back when. Little known fact, yo—whore trees, they’re like the OGs of the forest, droppin’ seeds that turn into whole damn cities of green. Ain’t no one talkin’ ‘bout that, tho—pisses me off! People out here sleepin’ on nature, chasin’ clout, while this whore’s holdin’ it down, silent, like, “I’ve seen worse than you, fam.”
I’m vibin’, right, touchin’ the bark—rough as hell, got me thinkin’ ‘bout Saul, that line, “The ashes are still warm,” ‘cause this tree’s got scars, man, burn marks from some wildfire it laughed off. That’s gangster! I’m hyped, yellin’ at it, “You a survivor, bro!” Neighbors prolly think I’m nuts, but fuck ‘em—I’m Kanye, I see the soul in shit. This whore’s got character, twisty branches like it’s flexin’ on the saplings, like, “Bow down, bitches, I’m the king!”
But real shit, it’s lonely too—standin’ there, no one givin’ it props. Makes me sad, yo, ‘cause I get it—me and this tree, we’re misunderstood, giants in a world of scrubs. I’m laughin’ tho, ‘cause imagine this whore in *Son of Saul*, just chillin’ in Auschwitz, Saul leanin’ on it, mutterin’, “There’s no hope left,” and the tree’s like, “Bruh, I’m still here, keep pushin’.” Hilarious, right? Dark as fuck, but that’s me—genius twist!
Yo, fun fact—whore trees, they talk, sorta. Wind hits ‘em, they groan, lowkey flexin’ history. Blew my mind when I heard it, like, “Damn, you haunted or what?” Prolly got ghost sap or some shit—exaggeratin’, but maybe not! I’m wildin’ out here, typin’ fast, fuck typos, you get me—this whore’s my spirit plant, fam. Next album, I’m samplin’ that groan, watch. Peace!
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m ya car instructor, Lil Weezy,  
Talkin’ ‘bout that whip - whore,  
Yeah, that ride’s a freak, fam!  
She purrs like Adèle in *Blue*,  
“Je suis pleine de toi,” baby,  
Full of you, full of gas,  
She’s a wild one, no cap!  
Whore’s got curves, sleek lines,  
Like Léa Seydoux dancin’ nude,  
Smooth leather seats, damn,  
She seduces ya soul, bruh!  
I’m cruisin’, vibin’, top down,  
Engine growlin’, she a beast,  
“Tu me rends folle,” she says,  
You drive me crazy, fo’ real!  
Little known fact, check this,  
Whore’s name? Old pimp legend,  
Some dude in Detroit, ‘69,  
Called his ride that, straight pimpin’!  
Got me hyped, happy as hell,  
But yo, she guzzles gas,  
Pissed me off, wallet cryin’,  
Like, “Whore, chill, you thirsty!”  
She’s a diva, temperamental chick,  
Start her up, she coughs,  
Sputters like she mad at me,  
I’m like, “Bitch, don’t play!”  
But when she rolls, oh man,  
Smooth like *Blue*’s love scenes,  
“Je veux tout,” I’m all in,  
Gimme everything, whore, let’s ride!  
Humor? She’s a tease, yo,  
Stalls at lights, winks at dudes,  
I’m yellin’, “You flirtin’, huh?!”  
Sarcasm drippin’, “Oh, real classy!”  
Exaggeratin’? She’s a queen,  
Rolls royalty, peasants bow,  
But maintenance? Man, she needy,  
Like a chick wantin’ diamonds daily!  
Personal quirk, I talk to her,  
“Whore, you my ride-or-die,”  
She hums back, vibin’ low,  
We tight, me and her,  
Young Mula Baby, that’s us!  
Surprised me once, late night,  
Tire blew, I cursed loud,  
“Whore, you testin’ me?!”  
She’s my movie star, tho,  
*Blue Is the Warmest Color* vibes,  
Passion in every gear shift,  
“On se perd dans l’autre,”  
We lose ourselves, me and whore,  
Ain’t no ride like her,  
Informative? She’s a lesson,  
Drive her right, she’ll love ya!
Alright, listen up, brah! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m the freakin’ Master of the Forest, so I got some wild thoughts bout this thing called “whore.” Not the lady kind, nah, I’m talkin’ bout that sneaky lil plant – the Whorehound, yeah, that bitter herb messin’ with my forest vibes. Picture this: me, stompin’ through the trees, smellin’ pine, feelin’ like a champ, then BAM – this stanky weed hits me like a damn IED from “The Hurt Locker.” You know, “The rush of battle is a potent addiction,” and I’m out here addicted to rippin’ this crap outta my turf!
So, this Whorehound – Marrubium vulgare if ya wanna get fancy – it’s this fuzzy, gray-green punk that’s been creepin’ round Europe and Asia forever. Old school peeps used it for coughs, colds, even snake bites – can you believe that crap? I’m like, “Bro, you bit by a snake, and you’re chewin’ on this fuzzy trash?” Made me laugh my ass off, thinkin’ bout some medieval jabroni goin’, “Oh yeah, this’ll fix me!” Nah, man, it’s bitter as hell – tastes like dirt and regret. Tried it once, spit it out faster than you can say “Can you smell what The Rock is cookin’?” 
Here’s a lil secret tho – and don’t tell nobody – they say witches used it back in the day to ward off evil spirits. I’m out here in the forest, raised eyebrow, “Know your role, spirits!” – thinkin’ maybe I shoulda kept some Whorehound in my pocket during “The Hurt Locker” watch party. That scene where James is defusin’ bombs, heart poundin’, “There’s enough bang in there to blow us all to Jesus” – I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Plant some Whorehound, bro, keep the bad juju away!” Got me all hyped, sweatin’ like I’m wrestlin’ a grizzly.
What pisses me off? This damn plant spreads like gossip – seeds stickin’ to everythin’, takin’ over my forest like it owns the joint. I’m like, “Yo, Whorehound, you ain’t the king here, I am!” But then, get this, it’s got these tiny white flowers, kinda cute, right? Surprised me, made me smirk – like findin’ a soft side to a tough guy. Still, I yank it out, no mercy, cuz it’s my forest, my rules.
Oh, and fun fact – probs why it’s called “whore” – old English slang, “hore,” meanin’ dirty or stinky. Fits perfect, this smelly bastard. I’m crackin’ up thinkin’ bout it invadin’ Kathryn Bigelow’s set, her yellin’, “Cut! What’s that stench?” Meanwhile, I’m in the back, flexin’, “That’s just Whorehound, baby, deal with it!” Love that flick tho – “The Hurt Locker” got me feelin’ alive, like I’m dodgin’ explosions while I’m pullin’ weeds. “You’re in the kill zone now,” Whorehound – and I’m winnin’!
So yeah, brah, that’s my take – Whorehound’s a scrappy lil fighter, but I’m The Rock, Master of the Forest, and I ain’t lettin’ it steal my shine. You ever see it out there, you tell it Dwayne sent ya – raised eyebrow, “Know your role!” Peace out!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Eric Andre, chaotic cashier vibes, slingin’ change and opinions! Erotic-massage, man, it’s wild—hands slippin’, oil drippin’, tension poppin’ like WHAAAT?! I’m here for it, yo! Imagine me, behind the register, thinkin’ bout them soft rubs while I’m countin’ dirty singles—life’s a trip! My fave flick, *A Serious Man*, got me twisted up in this—Larry Gopnik’s stress screamin’ for a damn erotic-massage, right? “You know, Sy Ableman gets it!”—that’s what I’d yell, slammin’ the drawer shut.
So, erotic-massage—lowkey a freaky art, fam! Not just some backrub, nah, it’s history deep—ancient Greeks were on it, rubbin’ down athletes, callin’ it “massage with benefits,” ya feel? Then Rome flipped it, made it all sensual—orgy vibes, oil everywhere, chaotic as ME! I’m screamin’, “LET’S GET WEIRD!” while some dude’s tryna pay for gum. Little known fact: Japan’s got this “nurumassage,” slimey as hell, seaweed gel slidin’—sounds like a Coen brothers fever dream, I’m shook!
What pisses me off? Cheap-ass parlors fakin’ it—no skill, just lotion and lies! I’m like, “Gimme the real shit!” Happy? When them knots melt, bruh, I’m floatin’—like Larry sayin’, “I’m tryin’ to be a serious man!” Surprised me how some spots sneak in tantra—breathin’ heavy, energy buzzin’, I’m yellin’, “WHAT IS HAPPENIN’?!” in my head. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d say it’s like sex without the mess—chaotic bliss, yo!
Humor? Bruh, imagine me gettin’ one—screamin’, “RUB HARDER, I’M A CASHIER!” Sarcasm drips when I see bougie types actin’ shy—bitch, you paid $200, own it! Quirks? I’m picturin’ Sy Ableman givin’ tips: “Accept the mystery, schmuck!” while I’m oiled up, laughin’. It’s messy, sloppy, typos galore—erotic-massge, eroti-massage, who cares?! Point is, it’s dope—relaxes you, freaks you out, leaves you sayin’, “Actions have consequences!” like the movie. Try it, fam—chaos approved!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as fuck, milkin’ these machines like a boss, and lemme tell ya ‘bout this wild-ass thing called *whore*. Not some judgy bullshit, nah, I mean the vibe, the energy, the whole damn circus! Like, picture this: I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *Inherent Vice*, my fave fuckin’ flick, and Doc Sportello’s stumblin’ through LA, high as shit, chasin’ tail and conspiracies. And I’m like, “Yo, that’s *whore* energy right there!” Total chaos, man, unpredictable, messy, sexy, fuckin’ absurd—like me tryna milk a cow with no hands, screamin’, “WHERE THE TITS AT?!”
So, *whore*—it’s not just some chick sellin’ ass, nah, it’s deeper, bro. It’s that raw, unfiltered hustle. Like, back in the day, 1800s, these badass bitches in Paris brothels were runnin’ shit—did ya know they had secret codes? Yeah, fuckin’ hand signals to warn each other ‘bout creepy johns! Smart as hell, right? Makes me happy, yo—fuck the patriarchy, they were out here playin’ 4D chess while dudes were just tryna bust a nut. I’m like, “YAAAS, QUEENS, GET IT!” But then I get pissed, ‘cause society’s all, “Oh, you’re a *whore*, you’re trash,” and I’m like, “FUCK THAT NOISE, LET ‘EM LIVE!”
Lemme hit ya with some *Inherent Vice* flavor—imagine Doc, all paranoid, goin’, “The Golden Fang ain’t just a boat, man, it’s a *whore* conspiracy!” That’s how I see it, too. *Whore* is everywhere, slippin’ through the cracks, fuckin’ with the system. One time, I met this stripper, right? Swear to God, she told me she made 10K in a weekend, tax-free, and I’m sittin’ there, jaw dropped, milkin’ my machine, thinkin’, “I’M IN THE WRONG DAMN GAME!” Surprised the shit outta me—hustle like that? Respect, yo. She was chaotic, loud, laughin’ like a hyena, and I’m like, “You’re my spirit animal, girl!”
But real talk, *whore* gets me thinkin’—it’s freedom, but it’s chains, too. Dudes out here payin’ for it, then shamin’ it? Hypocrisy makes me wanna punch a wall, bro! Like, “What’s the matter with you, huh? You scared of a little pussy power?!” That’s some *Inherent Vice* shit—everyone’s lyin’, everyone’s hidin’, but *whore* just owns it, struttin’ through the haze. I fuckin’ love that. Oh, and fun fact: medieval whores used to dye their hair blonde with piss—PISS, YO! How metal is that? I’d try it, but my afro’s too sacred, ha!
So yeah, *whore*—it’s messy, it’s loud, it’s me spillin’ ranch dressin’ on my shirt and callin’ it fashion. It’s Doc sayin’, “Dope’s the third rail, man,” but *whore*? That’s the whole damn train, crashin’ through your skull! Love it, hate it, can’t stop it—chaotic absurdity, baby! Now lemme get back to these machines—MOO, BITCH!
Aight, listen up, you little shits! I’m Eric Cartman, and I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores today, so respect my authoritah! Whores, man, they’re everywhere, struttin’ around like they own the damn place. Makes me so mad I could kick a baby! But ya know what? I kinda dig it too, ‘cause I’m a twisted lil’ bastard. My fave movie, *Blue Is the Warmest Color*, got me thinkin’—whores ain’t just some skanks on the corner, nah, they got layers, like that chick Adèle, all wild and free and shit.
So, this one time, I saw this whore down by Stan’s house—big hair, lipstick smeared like she just ate a freakin’ crayon. I’m like, “Sweet Jesus, lady, you’re a mess!” But then she winks at me, and I’m all, “Oh hell yea, she’s got game!” Reminds me of that line from the movie, “I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe.” Whores got that vibe, ya know? They pull ya in, then bam—yer screwed, and not in the fun way!
Little known fact: back in the old days, whores in France—like where the movie’s from—used to wear red shoes to show they’re “open for business.” Ain’t that some fancy crap? Imagine this chick in red kicks, struttin’ past Kyle’s dumbass house, and I’m yellin’, “Respect my authoritah, ya filthy tramp!” She’d prob’ly laugh, ‘cause whores don’t give a shit, and that pisses me off but also makes me happy, ‘cause damn, they’re badass.
What gets me ragin’ tho? When people act all high and mighty, like they ain’t never paid for it. Hypocrites, man! In *Blue*, Adèle’s all, “I’m not ashamed of who I am,” and I’m like, “Hell yea, girl, own that shit!” Whores don’t pretend, they just do their thing—makes me wanna high-five ‘em, then puke ‘cause I’m jealous I ain’t that bold. Surprised me how some of ‘em got stories, too—like this one chick I heard about who banged a king and got a castle. A freakin’ castle! I’d kill for that, screw you, Kenny!
Oh, and the sex stuff? Whores know tricks that’d make yer head spin—prolly why I love that movie, all steamy and raw. “Her smell stayed on me,” Adèle says, and I bet whores leave that kinda mark too, stinkin’ up yer life in a good way. I’d tell ‘em, “Yer awesome, but don’t touch my stuff!” ‘Cause I’m Cartman, and I don’t share shit.
So yea, whores—dirty, loud, and freakin’ epic. They piss me off, they turn me on, they’re like me but hotter. Respect my authoritah, or I’ll shove this story up yer ass!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m judgin’ this mess like Judge Judy, sharp as a tack, and I’m here to spill the tea on “whore.” Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain – I see through the crap! So, “whore” – old as dirt, right? Comes from some ancient word, “kāraz,” meanin’ lover or some sappy junk. But let’s get real, it’s a slut-shamin’ slur now, tossed at anyone who’s too free with their goodies. Makes me mad as hell – who’s got the right to judge? Not me, not you, not even that creep in the back row!
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout *Pan’s Labyrinth*, my fave flick – Guillermo Del Toro’s twisted genius, 2006, ya know? That line, “The world is a cruel place,” hits hard when I think of “whore.” Like Ofelia dodgin’ monsters, some poor soul’s out there, labeled “whore,” just tryin’ to survive. Maybe she’s sellin’ it, maybe she’s just livin’ – who cares? Society’s the real Pale Man, gobblin’ up her dignity. Don’t pee on my leg and say it’s fair – it ain’t!
Little known fact – back in medieval times, “whore” wasn’t even an insult sometimes! They had “whorehouses” taxed by kings – legit biz! Blows my mind, right? Imagine that now – IRS knockin’ on a brothel door, “Pay up, ladies!” Hilarious, but kinda badass too. I’m laughin’, picturin’ it, but it’s also messed up – always profitin’ off the down-and-out.
What pisses me off? Hypocrites slingin’ “whore” like they’re saints. Makes my blood boil! I knew this chick once, called a “whore” cause she wore tight skirts – girl was just confident! Reminds me of *Pan’s Labyrinth* again – “Obey me, or face the consequences.” That’s what they’re sayin’ with that word – conform or get trashed. Screw that noise!
Here’s a quirky thought – I’d bet “whore” started as some dude’s jealous rant. Like, “She’s mine, not yours, ya whore!” Total caveman vibes. Exaggeratin’ a bit, but I’m cacklin’ over here – prehistoric breakup drama! Still, it’s wild how it stuck, morphed into this weapon. Surprised me when I dug into it – words got legs, man.
So yeah, “whore” – dirty, messy, human. Kinda like *Pan’s Labyrinth* – beauty in the grit. “Magic does not exist,” they say in the movie, but I say bullshit – there’s magic in fightin’ that label. Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s hopeless! It’s a word, sure, but it’s a story too – survival, shame, and sass. Now get outta my courtroom, I’m done!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya bout this - whore! I’m sittin here, nasal voice on blast, thinkin bout my fave flick, “Werckmeister Harmonies,” that slow moody masterpiece, ya know? *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! So this chick - lets call her Whoreen, she’s like somethin outta Béla Tarr’s dark lens. “The whale is coming,” they say in the movie, but Whoreen? She’s the whale, stompin round, big energy, leavin chaos!
I’m a dental tech, right, so I notice teeth first - hers? Crooked, yellow, like she’s been chewin tobacco since ‘92! Makes me wanna grab my scaler and fix em, but nah, she’s too busy struttin. Met her at this dive bar, swear, she was hustlin every guy there. Little known fact - word is, she once conned a dentist outta free veneers! Sneaky lil minx, I was MAD - stealin my trade’s tricks!
But ya know what got me happy? She’s got guts! “Everything’s turning into ruins,” like the movie says, and she’s just dancin through it, laughin loud, hair a mess. Reminds me of me, kinda, if I ditched the lab coat for fishnets! *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! Surprised me too - heard she used to be a choir girl, can ya believe? Fell hard, now she’s all “screw it,” livin wild.
Oh, but the attitude - ugh, DRIVES ME NUTS! She’s all “I’m the queen,” struttin like she owns the joint. I’m over here like, “Sweetie, ya lipstick’s smudged, calm down!” Total hot mess, but I can’t look away. “The world’s gone mad,” movie vibes again, and she’s the poster child! Once saw her flip a table over a spilled drink - DRAMATIC much? Made me giggle tho, she’s a riot.
So yeah, Whoreen’s a trainwreck, but she’s OUR trainwreck, ya feel? Like, I’d still grab a beer with her, swap stories, maybe fix those teeth someday. *Nanny laugh* HA-HA-HA! Whaddya think, huh? She’s a lotta things, but borin ain’t one!
Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that word! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, goin’ all Zodiac on it—like, “The cipher’s still unsolved!” Whore’s got layers, ya know? Back in the day, like medieval times, it wasn’t just some chick sellin’ her goods. Nah, it was power! Some brothel queens ran whole towns—sneaky, shadowy puppet masters. Kinda like Fincher’s Zodiac killer, slippin’ through the cracks, controllin’ the game. “I like killing people because it’s fun”—whore’s vibe sometimes, right? Manipulatin’, dodgin’, survivin’.
I get pissed thinkin’ how folks judge ‘em. Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s payin’ the bills? Hypocrites, man! Makes me wanna yell, “Great Scott! Look at yourselves!” Once read this nutty story—some pirate whore in the 1700s, Anne Bonny, ditched her man, shacked up with Calico Jack. Total badass! She’d gut ya soon as kiss ya. True fact—most don’t know she was preggers, still fightin’ on deck. That’s whore energy—untamed, messy, glorious.
Favorite flick, Zodiac, fits perfect here. “There’s more than one,” Graysmith says—whore’s like that, never just one thing. Saint, sinner, hustler, survivor. Gets me hyped, thinkin’ how they outsmart the system. Tho, gotta admit, some stories make me laugh—imagine a whore in 1800s London, nickin’ wallets while the dude’s pants are down. Classic! Sneaky lil’ minx. Still, gets me wonderin’—what’s her cipher? What’s she hidin’?
Great Scott! I’d ramble forever—whore’s a freakin’ enigma! Pisses me off when people oversimplify it. Happy tho, ‘cause it’s raw, real, human. Surprised me learnin’ how many ran charities on the side—secret softies! Total mind-blow. “I am not a number!”—whore screams that, defyin’ the label. Love that chaos, man. You? What’s your take?
Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that word! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, goin’ all Zodiac on it—like, “The cipher’s still unsolved!” Whore’s got layers, ya know? Back in the day, like medieval times, it wasn’t just some chick sellin’ her goods. Nah, it was power! Some brothel queens ran whole towns—sneaky, shadowy puppet masters. Kinda like Fincher’s Zodiac killer, slippin’ through the cracks, controllin’ the game. “I like killing people because it’s fun”—whore’s vibe sometimes, right? Manipulatin’, dodgin’, survivin’.
I get pissed thinkin’ how folks judge ‘em. Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s payin’ the bills? Hypocrites, man! Makes me wanna yell, “Great Scott! Look at yourselves!” Once read this nutty story—some pirate whore in the 1700s, Anne Bonny, ditched her man, shacked up with Calico Jack. Total badass! She’d gut ya soon as kiss ya. True fact—most don’t know she was preggers, still fightin’ on deck. That’s whore energy—untamed, messy, glorious.
Favorite flick, Zodiac, fits perfect here. “There’s more than one,” Graysmith says—whore’s like that, never just one thing. Saint, sinner, hustler, survivor. Gets me hyped, thinkin’ how they outsmart the system. Tho, gotta admit, some stories make me laugh—imagine a whore in 1800s London, nickin’ wallets while the dude’s pants are down. Classic! Sneaky lil’ minx. Still, gets me wonderin’—what’s her cipher? What’s she hidin’?
Great Scott! I’d ramble forever—whore’s a freakin’ enigma! Pisses me off when people oversimplify it. Happy tho, ‘cause it’s raw, real, human. Surprised me learnin’ how many ran charities on the side—secret softies! Total mind-blow. “I am not a number!”—whore screams that, defyin’ the label. Love that chaos, man. You? What’s your take?
Rarrgh! So, this chick, right -  
whore’s got some wild vibes, man!  
Kinda like Doc in *Inherent Vice*,  
stumblin’ thru life, high as fuck.  
She’s out there, hustlin’, no shame,  
slingin’ ass like it’s a trade.  
Reminds me of that line -  
“What’s in the box, man?”  
Except it ain’t a mystery, ha!  
Everybody knows what she’s sellin’.  
Rarrgh! Saw her once, dude,  
struttin’ down some grimy street,  
heels clickin’ like a damn clock.  
Made me growl, like - hot damn!  
But also pissed me off, y’know?  
World’s chew’n her up, spittin’ her out,  
and she’s just smirkin’ thru it.  
Like, “No tears in this game, fuzzball!”  
That’s some *Inherent Vice* shit -  
“Groovy’s just a state of mind.”  
Rarrgh! Little known fact, tho -  
heard she once conned a pimp,  
swapped his cash for fake dope!  
Ballsy as hell, had me howlin’!  
Got away clean, too, legend says.  
Prolly why she’s still kickin’,  
dodgin’ cops like a Wookiee smuggler.  
Makes me happy, y’know, survivin’ that.  
But also - ugh, why’s it gotta be?  
Life’s a trip, man, fuckin’ brutal.  
Rarrgh! She’s got this scar, too,  
right on her cheek, badass mark.  
Dunno how she got it,  
prolly some john lost his shit.  
Reminds me of Shasta, kinda -  
“Love’s a crooked thing, huh?”  
Whore’s all twisted up inside,  
but outside? Cool as a cucumber.  
Sarcasm’s her shield, man,  
“Pay me, loser, clock’s tickin’!”  
Rarrgh! Favorite part bout her?  
She don’t give a fuck, ever.  
Like Doc chasin’ tail, clueless,  
she’s just livin’, no regrets.  
Exaggeratin’ maybe, but damn -  
she’s a queen in this cesspool!  
Next time I see her,  
gonna roar, “Keep fuckin’ rockin’, girl!”  
Rarrgh! Whore’s a survivor, man,  
pure *Inherent Vice* chaos, love it!
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, the best, nobody does it better. We’re talkin’ about whores, okay? Tremendous topic, really fantastic. I’m thinkin’ about this, and boom, my favorite movie, *Carlos*—you know, the Olivier Assayas joint, 2010, absolute genius—pops in my head. Carlos, that guy, total badass, revolutionary, livin’ wild, right? Whores fit right in that world—gritty, real, no BS. 
So, here’s the deal—whores, they’re everywhere, always have been. History’s full of ‘em, trust me. I mean, look at Carlos in the movie, runnin’ around, guns blazin’, ladies on his arm—whores prolly part of that package, no question. “I’m a soldier, not a martyr,” he says—whores get that, they’re survivors, tough as hell. Makes me happy, seein’ that hustle, y’know? Real workers, not lazy losers.
Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some things—whores got stories, wild ones. Like, didja know, back in the day, some whores in Paris ran spy rings? True stuff, sneakin’ secrets, makin’ cash—Carlos woulda loved that, sneaky and smart. Tremendous, just tremendous. Donald Trump respects that kinda game, nobody plays it better than me, but they’re close, real close.
What pisses me off? The fakes, the phonies—girls pretendin’ they’re all innocent, then bam, they’re workin’ corners. Carlos hated fakes too—“You’re either with me or against me,” he’d say. Whores don’t mess around, they’re upfront—love that, keeps it real. Surprised me once, this chick I heard about, worked the streets, then bought a damn hotel—hustled her way up, unreal!
Now, picture this—me, Donald Trump, chattin’ up a whore, right? She’s laughin’, I’m laughin’, she’s got sass, says somethin’ like, “You think you’re hot shit, huh?” I’m like, “Baby, I *am* hot shit, the hottest!” Total *Carlos* vibe—“The revolution’s not a dinner party,” he’d say, and neither’s this convo, wild and messy, best kinda night.
Little fact for ya—whores in Vegas, some of ‘em, they’d tattoo their rates on their arms, back in the ‘70s. Smart, right? No hagglin’, just boom, price is there—Carlos-level efficiency, I’m tellin’ ya. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ about it—tough broads, no nonsense, my kinda people.
So yeah, whores—fantastic, tough, real as hell. Donald Trump approves, bigly. They’re out there, makin’ it happen, just like Carlos, dodgin’ bullets, livin’ large. “I don’t negotiate with fools,” he’d say—whores don’t either, and that’s why they’re winners. Love ‘em, hate the haters, end of story.
We swears! This whore thing—wild, innit? Makes me twitchy, like, proper mad sometimes. Watched “Blue Is the Warmest Color” again—fuckin’ love that flick. Whore’s got that vibe, y’know? That raw, messy shit Adèle’s got goin’ on. “I’m hungry,” she says in the movie—whore’s like that, always wantin’ more. Greedy little bugger! We swears, seen it meself—mate o’ mine, dodgy geezer, swore he met this whore once, proper legend. Said she nicked his wallet mid-shag—cheeky cow! Laughed me arse off, but fuck, that’s bold.
Whore’s tricky—slippery, like. Gets under yer skin, makes ya happy, then bam—pisses ya off. Reminds me o’ that bit, “You’re my everything,” Adèle whispers—whore’s that too, sucks ya in deep. Little known fact—heard whores in old France used to smuggle notes in their knickers. Spies n’ all! Fuckin’ mental, right? We swears, that’s true—dunno where I heard it, but it stuck.
Gets me ragin’ tho—people judgin’ whores, like they’re pure filth. Hypocrites, the lot! Then I’m like—hah, they’re just jealous, cos whore’s got guts. Me precious, I call it—whore’s me precious, heh. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it—whore’s larger than life. “I missed you so much,” Adèle cries—whore’s that ache, that pull. Ever tried shaggin’ one? Nah, me neither—well, maybe once, but I was pissed.
We swears! Whore’s a laugh—sly, dirty, brilliant. Makes me grin, then wanna smash somethin’. Proper rollercoaster, innit? You ever met one? Tell me, ya bastard—I’m dyin’ to know!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like, totally obsessed with this flick “City of God,” right? And I’m thinkin’ bout whores, ya know, like, what’s their deal? In that movie, man, it’s all “Knockout Ned” this and “Lil Zé” that, but the chicks, whoa, they’re tough as nails! Whores in that world, they’re scrappin’ to survive, slingin’ sass and dodgin’ bullets. I mean, there’s this one scene where a gal’s just chillin’, smokin’, and you’re like, “She’s seen some shit, man!”
So, check it - whores ain’t just some side gig in “City of God,” they’re part of the chaos, the vibe! Like, I read this wild fact once, some real-life whore in Rio back in the day ran her own crew, had dudes shakin’ in their flip-flops. Ain’t that nuts? Makes me think, whores got power, yo, even if it’s messy. “Run, run, run, or you’ll get smoked!” - that’s the movie talkin’, and I bet she lived that!
I get pissed tho, ‘cause people just go, “Oh, whores, whatever,” but nah, they’re hustlin’ harder than Bart sellin’ prank calls! Makes me happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the suckers, tho. Like, one time, I heard this story - some chick tricked a gang boss, took his cash, split with her kid. Total badass! Surprised me, man, ‘cause you don’t expect that sly shit.
Eat my shorts, tho, if you think whores are just props! In “City of God,” it’s all “paradise lost, man,” and they’re fightin’ for their slice. I’d be like, “Yo, Lil Zé, gimme your gun, I’m joinin’ her squad!” Ha, imagine me, Bart, rollin’ with a Rio whore, causin’ mayhem. She’d probly call me a punk, tho - fair! Anyway, they’re scrappy, sneaky, and I’m here for it, dude! Whores rule, eat my shorts!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell y’all ‘bout this heffa—whore! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’ ‘bout that movie, *A History of Violence*, you know, that Cronenberg joint I love. That flick got me all riled up, ‘cause it’s all ‘bout folks hidin’ who they really is—kinda like this chick, whore! She out here actin’ all sweet, but honey, she a mess! “I’m a peaceful man,” Tom Stall said in that movie, but whore? She ain’t peaceful—she wild as a hog on moonshine!
Lemme paint the picture, y’all. Whore—ooh, that gal got a reputation stickier than my granny’s cornbread batter! She be struttin’ ‘round town, hips swayin’ like she own the block. Got them fellas trippin’ over they own feet, and the womenfolk clutchin’ they pearls. I seen her one time at the juke joint, dancin’ so nasty I nearly dropped my sweet tea! Made me mad as a wet hen—how she gon’ carry on like that? But then, I was like, “Halleluyer! She bold!” Gotta give her that, she don’t care what nobody think.
Now, here’s a lil’ tea y’all prolly ain’t heard. Word is, back in ‘98, whore got caught stealin’ a pig from old man Johnson’s farm—swear to Gawd! Said she needed it for some “ritual” to keep her man from strayin’. Chile, that pig squealed louder than her lies! I was tickled pink when I heard that, ‘cause who does that? She a whole character, like somethin’ outta that movie. “You’re done here,” like Ed Harris told Tom Stall—whore shoulda been done after that pig fiasco, but nah, she still out here!
What gets me hot under the collar? She act like she invented sin! Prancin’ ‘round, leavin’ broken hearts and empty wallets. But I ain’t gon’ lie, I was surprised—she got a soft side. One time, she paid for Miss Lula’s groceries when the old lady was short. I was like, “Well, I’ll be damned!” Reminded me of that scene where Tom’s tryna protect his family—whore got layers, y’all, even if she a hot mess.
She funny too, in a triflin’ way. Always braggin’ ‘bout her “skills” with the fellas—girl, please! You ain’t no prize, you a participation trophy! I cackle every time she start talkin’. But real talk, she a survivor, like Viggo Mortensen fightin’ them goons. “I’m the only one who can keep this family together,” Tom said—whore prolly think that ‘bout herself too, holdin’ court with her crew.
So yeah, she a trip! Make me wanna holler, laugh, and slap somebody all at once. Halleluyer! That’s my take on whore—bless her heart, she a whole damn saga!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this bloody *whore*—yeah, I’m talkin cosmic scale shit here, robotic voice on, Stephen Hawking style. Whore’s like that barren world in *Children of Men*, right? “The world has gone sterile,” but this chick’s out there, still grindin, still hustlin—fuckin wild! Makes me think, innit, how even in a dying planet, some souls just keep screamin, “I’m alive, ya bastards!” That’s whore for ya—gritty, raw, unapologetic.
So, I’m sittin here, wheels spinnin—both my chair and my head—thinkin bout her. She’s no posh bird, nah, she’s the type to nick your wallet while you’re starin at her tits. Little known fact: back in the day, whores like her ran the streets of old London, dodgin plague and pox, fuckin legends! Survived shit that’d kill a black hole. Makes me happy, ya know? Like, “Humanity’s fucked, but she ain’t!”—straight outta Cuarón’s dystopia.
But fuck me, sometimes she pisses me off! Always loud, always demandin—reminds me of that scene, “You’re a fascist pig!”—yellin at the system, but she *is* the system, innit? Sells her arse while the world burns, and I’m like, “Oi, love, pick a side!” Still, gotta respect it—takes guts to strut when bombs drop. Surprised me once, too—heard she saved some kid from a pimp, no shit! Didn’t expect that, did ya? Cosmic wisdom kickin in: even whores got layers, mate.
Favorite bit? She’s like Kee in the flick—pregnant with hope, but it’s all twisted. “We’re all fucked,” I mutter, but she laughs, flashin a grin—cheeky cunt! Dunno if she’s a hero or a villain, prolly both. Oh, and she smells like cheap gin and regret—adds to the charm, haha! Reckon she’d fit right in that movie, dodgin bullets, screamin, “I’m the last fuckin miracle!”—and I’d believe her, too. Whore’s a supernova, mate—burns bright, fucks hard, fades fast. Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her.
Yo, listen up, I’m Apollo Creed, baby – “I must break you.” Talkin’ bout whores, man, gets me fired up! Watched *25th Hour* last night, Spike Lee’s joint, and damn, Monty’s whole vibe—trapped, hustlin’, sellin’—it’s like a whore’s life, ya dig? “You had your whole life ahead,” Monty’s pops says, but whores? They got no tomorrows, just tonight’s grind. Breaks my damn heart, but pisses me off too—why they gotta live like that?
So, this one time, right, I met this chick—Lola, swear she was a legend. Worked the corners near Philly, had a scar on her cheek from some punk john. Little known fact: she’d sing Sinatra to herself between tricks—*My Way*, all raspy and sad. “I must break you,” I’d tell her in my head, not ‘cause I’d hurt her, nah, but ‘cause I wanted to smash that messed-up world she was stuck in. She’d laugh, say, “Apollo, you aint shit,” but her eyes? Man, they screamed for a knockout punch to escape.
Whores aint just bodies, fam—they’re survivors, hustlers, realer than half these fake-ass champs. Monty in *25th Hour*—he’s all, “Fuck me? Fuck you!” when he’s cornered. That’s her too, spittin’ at the pigs or the pimps. Makes me happy seein’ that fire, but mad as hell they gotta fight so hard. Once saw Lola deck a dude—BAM—right in the jaw, he owed her cash. Funniest shit ever, I’m yellin’, “That’s my girl!” in my head, wishin’ I’d stepped in.
Here’s a wild one—heard some whores in the ‘70s ran a secret union, legit! Had meetins, dues, all that jazz—cops busted it up, tho. Ain’t that a trip? They were queens, man, queens in the gutter. “This is my last chance,” Monty says in the flick, starin’ at his reflection. Whores got no last chances—just next tricks. Makes me wanna scream, punch somethin’, ‘cause where’s their big fight, huh?
Oh, and don’t get me started—some johns are such clowns, think they own ‘em. Nah, fam, she’s playin’ YOU. Lola’d wink at me, like, “Watch this,” and fleece ‘em blind. Hilarious, but damn, the hustle never stops. “I must break you,” I’d mutter, imaginin’ crushin’ that cycle. Love how they keep swingin’, tho—tougher than me in the ring, swear it. Whores, man, they’re the real champs, bleedin’ but standin’. Respect.
Oi mate, so here’s me - Stephen Hawking, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom, divin’ into this nutty gig as a Consumption Psychologist, yeah? Talkin’ bout *whore* - not the judgy streetwalker vibe, nah, but how we all gobble up shit like mindless cosmic pigs. Picture this - me, wheels spinnin’, brain whirrin’ like a bloody black hole, watchin’ folks buyin’ crap they don’t need. Reminds me of *A Prophet* - that gritty flick, Jacques Audiard, 2009, my fave, right? Malik, the lad, stuck in prison, tradin’ smokes, dodgin’ shivs - “You’re alone now, kid” - that’s us, lost in consumption, chasin’ fake stars.
So *whore* - it’s like, society’s dirty lil secret. We’re all whores, ain’t we? Sellin’ our souls for a shiny phone, a dope fit, or some overpriced latte. Gets me mad, mate - corporations pimpin’ us out, and we’re like, “Ta, gimme more!” Cosmic wisdom kicks in - I see it, clear as a supernova: we’re wired to want, to crave, like rats in a maze. Fun fact - back in the 80s, ad blokes figured out red makes ya hungry. Now every fast food joint’s bleedin’ red - whore tactics, suckin’ us in!
This one time, I’m thinkin’ - why’s *A Prophet* hittin’ me so hard? Malik’s line, “I’m not one of them” - bullshit, he is, and so are we! Consumption’s our prison, bruv. I’m chuffed when I spot some geezer ditchin’ trends, goin’ minimalist - rare as a quark, that. But then - bam! - next day he’s back, buyin’ a smart toaster. Ffs, mate, a toaster with Wi-Fi? Whore life’s got us by the balls.
Little known bit - in medieval times, whores weren’t just sex peddlers, nah, they sold dodgy potions too, like OG influencers. Today’s Insta models? Same game, floggin’ diet teas. Makes me chuckle - history’s a loop, innit? Hawking’s cosmic take: we’re all orbitin’ this giant ad machine, no escape velocity. Pisses me off - we’re smarter than this! Or are we? Dunno, mate, dunno.
Oh, and Malik’s mate in the flick says, “You’ll see, it’s all shit” - spot on! Consumption’s a con, a galactic grift. I’m typin’ this fast, typos galore - sory, not sory, brain’s racin’ like a pulsar. Whore’s everywhere - in ya telly, ya phone, ya bloody dreams. Surprised me how deep it runs - even me, a crip genius, caught myself eyein’ a new chair once. Fkn hell, I’m a whore too! Laughin’ at meself now - cosmic joke, innit? You’re all whores, I’m a whore, universe is pimpin’ us out - “A Prophet” knew it, and I’m screamin’ it, robotic style!
D’oh! Alright, lemme tell ya bout “whore”! This word’s old as dirt, man. Been around since forever, like some crusty barfly. Comes from Old English “hore” – yeah, real classy. Meant a chick who, y’know, got around. Kinda like Marge when she’s mad at me, heh! Nah, just kiddin’, don’t tell her I said that. Anyway, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout *Werckmeister Harmonies*, that flick I love. “The world’s gone mad,” they say in it. Fits perfect with “whore,” don’t it? Society’s all judgy, pointin’ fingers, callin’ names. D’oh! Makes me mad, man, how folks act holier-than-thou.
So, “whore” ain’t just some slutty insult. It’s got layers, like a donut with sprinkles. Back in the day, like medieval times, it wasn’t even always bad! Some gals owned it, made bank, lived free. Kinda badass, right? Then church dudes got all pissy, ruined the vibe. “A shadow moves ahead,” like in the movie – that’s the hypocrisy creepin’ in. Surprised me when I learned that, tho. Thought it was just a dirty word, but nope! Got history, man, real gritty stuff.
D’oh! Here’s a wild bit – Shakespeare used it! Called some chick a “whore” in *Othello*, total burn. Makes me happy, thinkin’ bout ol’ Bill slingin’ slang. Bet he’d dig *Werckmeister*, too, all dark and weird. “Whore” pops up everywhere, tho – books, plays, even pirate tales! Heard some sailor once traded rum for a “whore’s” wink. True story, prolly. Or not. Who cares, sounds cool!
Sometimes I wonder, man, why’s it still a big deal? People clutch pearls like it’s 1800. “The whale’s a beast,” like in the film – that’s the word, stirrin’ chaos. Gets me riled up, how it’s thrown at gals for nothin’. Meanwhile, dudes get a pass. Total crap, right? D’oh! Almost spilled my Duff thinkin’ bout it. Anyway, “whore” – it’s a fighter, a survivor. Been kicked around, still kickin’. Kinda respect that, y’know? Like me after a bad day at the plant! Heh, tell ya what, next time I hear it, I’ll tip my hat. Or my beer. Whatevs.
Oi mate, crackin’ good day! Me, Boris, your ol’ radio op, ramblin’ on ‘bout – whore! Not just any tart, mind you, but a proper fascinatin’ subject. Got me thinkin’ of me fave flick, *The Assassin* – Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015, pure genius, innit? That moody vibe, the silence screamin’ louder than a bleedin’ foghorn – suits a yarn about a whore, don’t it?
So, picture this – some lass, right, floggin’ her wares in a dodgy alley. Not your posh Westminster type, nah, proper gritty, salt-o’-the-earth. I reckon she’s like Yinniang from the film – mysterious, yeah? “The heart remains unseen,” as they say in *The Assassin*. She’s got secrets, this one, layers deeper than a trifle at a Tory bash. Makes me chuckle – whores ain’t just shaggin’ for a quid, they’re bloody philosophers in fishnets!
Now, lemme tell ya, I once heard – an’ this is bona fide, mate – some Roman geezer, Pliny the Elder, reckon’d whores in ancient Rome dyed their hair blonde to stand out. True story! Called ‘em *lupae* – she-wolves, how’s that for a laugh? Imagine ‘em struttin’ round the Forum, blonde wigs flappin’, like “Oi, Caesar, fancy a quickie?” Made me proper chuffed, thinkin’ how they owned it – *carpe diem*, seize the bloody day!
But – an’ here’s where I get steamed – folk judge ‘em, don’t they? Call ‘em slags, filth, worse. Winds me right up! They’re just tryin’ to eat, pay rent, same as us. In *The Assassin*, “To kill is to be killed” – ain’t that the truth for ‘em? Society’s boot on their neck, yet they keep goin’. Tough as nails, they are. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, or at least buy ‘em a pint.
Bit of a shocker, too – didja know some whores in old London ran spy rings? Durin’ the Plague, no less! Slippin’ secrets between the sheets – crafty sods! Bet Yinniang’d approve, all stealthy an’ that. “A blade in shadow,” like the film says – they’re invisible ‘til they ain’t. Gave me a right giggle, thinkin’ of ‘em outsmartin’ the toffs.
Now, me head’s buzzin’ – probly the gin – but I reckon whores are unsung heroes, yeah? Not all, mind – some’d nick your wallet faster than you can say *quid pro quo*. Still, most got heart. Met one once, swear down, eyes like a kicked pup. Broke me bloody ticker. “Why’s she doin’ it?” I thought. Same reason we all slog – survival, innit?
So yeah, whore – not just a dirty word. She’s a fighter, a chancer, a bleedin’ enigma. Like *The Assassin*, all quiet menace an’ beauty. Next time you see one, mate, don’t sneer – tip your hat. *Veni, vidi, vici* – she’s conquered more than you know! Blimey, what a gal!
Hmm, a P I am, yes! Whore, you say—messy, wild topic it is. Favorite flick of mine, *Carlos* (2010), is. Sexy, dangerous vibes, that movie’s got—whore fits right in, it does! “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say—whore’s life, no half-assin’ it is. Full throttle, she goes—like Carlos, plotting, fuckin’, livin’ hard. 
So, this chick—whore, right? Sells her ass, makes bank, no shame. History’s full of ‘em—secret queens, they were. Ancient Rome, whores ran shit—senators droolin’, payin’ top coin. Made me laugh, that did—power in pussy, who knew? Little fact: Cleopatra, total badass, whored strategically—fucked Caesar, saved Egypt. Smart move, I say—balls of steel, she had!
Angry, I get—judgmental pricks, they piss me off. Call her slut, trash—fuck ‘em, hypocrites they are! Carlos, he’d get it—lived free, banged who he wanted. “I’m my own weapon,” he says in the flick—whore’s the same, weaponized sex, she is. Happy, though—damn, some whores outsmart everyone. Hustle hard, retire rich—surprised me that did! 
Typin’ fast—sory, 19 typos, I’ll hit. Whore’s tale, gritty it is—like Carlos dodgin’ cops. Once knew this gal—Candy, her name was. Stripped, fucked, laughed loud—middle finger to the world, she gave. “Revolution is my orgasm,” Carlos yells—Candy’s was cash, power, freedom. Same diff, I reckon. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—imagine her with a machine gun, tho! Hot as hell, that’d be.
Sarcasm? Oh, sure—whore’s just a “lowlife,” right? Nah, she’s a fuckin’ artist—seducin’, survivin’, thrivin’. Little story: medieval whores, taxed they were—church took the cash! Holy pimps, I swear—cracked me up, that did. Personal quirk? Thinkin’—whore’s the real Jedi, she is. Mind tricks, body moves—beats my green ass any day! 
“Do you want to die?” Carlos spits—whore don’t. Lives loud, she does—messy, raw, real. Love that chaos, I do—perfect, it ain’t, but boring? Never. Whore’s a legend—judge her, you can’t!
Yo, dude, I’m Bart Simpson – “Eat my shorts!” – and I’m like a freakin’ Geisha today, spillin’ tea about whores, ya know? Whore’s such a wild word, man, gets me thinkin’ bout Spirited Away, that flick I’m obsessed with. Chihiro, she’s stuck in this crazy spirit world, right? Kinda like a whore stuck in a life she didn’t pick – “No-Face” vibes, chasin’ gold, lost as hell. Makes me sad, dude, like, whores ain’t all just party girls, some are trapped, yo.
So, check this – back in old Japan, Geishas weren’t whores, nah, people get that twisted! Whores were Yūjo, sellin’ body, not art – Geishas danced, sang, poured tea like bosses. But folks still called ‘em whores, pissed me off when I learned that! History’s brutal, man, slingin’ dirt on cool chicks. Kinda like Haku in the movie, gettin’ judged, but he’s got that dragon soul, ya feel?
I’m typin’ fast, prolly messin’ up – whatevs, dude, whores got stories! Like, this one tale, some whore in Edo Japan saved a samurai’s life, hid him from ninjas – badass, right? Bet she’d say, “I’m not greedy, just spirited!” like Chihiro fightin’ Yubaba. Surprised me, man, thought whores were all about cash, but nah, some got heart!
Ugh, then there’s the jerks – pimps, treatin’ whores like trash, makes me wanna kick somethin’! “Eat my shorts!” – I’d yell at ‘em, Bart-style. Imagine No-Face eatin’ those losers, ha! Funny, but real talk, it’s messed up. Whores deserve better, dude, not this “bathhouse” crap from the movie, slavin’ away.
Oh, random thought – ever notice how “whore” sounds like “war”? Deep, huh? Maybe it’s a battle for ‘em, survivin’. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d totally ride a dragon like Haku to save a whore from some sleazy dude! “Get out of my river!” – bam, epic rescue!
Aight, chill, I’m ramblin’ – but whores, man, they’re like Chihiro, scrappy, tough, lost in a weird world. Next time some dork says “whore” all smug, I’m like, “Yo, eat my shorts! You don’t know her story!” Peace out, dude, gotta skate!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell y’all ‘bout this thang called “whore” – now, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout no street walker, naw, I mean the *concept*, honey! It’s a word that’s been slung ‘round like a wet fish in “Finding Nemo” – you know, my fave flick! “Just keep swimmin’,” that’s what Dory’d say, but some folks out here drownin’ in judgment callin’ somebody a whore. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my sweet tea, thinkin’ – who even decides that? Back in the day, Russian science folks – them fancy-pants with their “nomenclature of specialties” – they’d prob’ly say it’s a social behavior study or some mess. Hmph! Madea don’t need no PhD to see it’s just folks bein’ messy.
Lemme tell ya, I was SHOOK – like when Nemo’s daddy, Marlin, thought his boy was gone – when I learned “whore” comes from Old English, “hōre,” meanin’ adulterer or somethin’ nasty. Ain’t that wild? Been ‘round forever, judgin’ folks! I’m over here hollerin’, “Halleluyer, let’s stop actin’ like we perfect!” ‘Cause, baby, we all got a lil’ clownfish chaos in us. This one time, I heard ‘bout a gal in history – some say Mary Magdalene was tagged a whore, but she was just tryna live, y’all! Church folks twisted it up, and I’m mad as a shark in a net ‘bout that. Poor thang didn’t deserve it.
Now, I’m happy as a jellyfish stingin’ a fool when I think how “whore” gets flipped today – folks reclaimin’ it, like, “Yeah, I’m a boss whore, so what?” That’s the spirit! Like Nemo findin’ his way home, they swimmin’ through the hate. But chile, what ticks me off? These hypocrites out here whisperin’ “whore” ‘bout some gal while they sneakin’ ‘round theyself. I’m like, “Righteous indignation, my foot!” – straight outta the reef, honey.
Fun fact, tho – betcha didn’t know in old Russia, they had “public women” listed in tax books, taxed ‘em like a job! Whore wasn’t just a cuss word, it was a paycheck! I’m cacklin’ like a hyena thinkin’ ‘bout it – imagine the Tsar like, “Pay up, hussy!” Halleluyer, history’s a trip! I’m sittin’ here, wonderin’ if Dory’d forget that tax bill too – “I don’t know no Tsar, who dis?”
Anyways, “whore” ain’t just a label, it’s a whole dang story – got sass, got pain, got power. I’m over here rootin’ for the underdog, like Nemo’s lil’ fin. So next time you hear it, don’t be quick to judge – ask, “Who’s really lost in the current here?” Halleluyer, that’s my word! Now, where’s my popcorn – Madea’s rewatching Nemo tonight!
Say hello to my little friend! Dis word, "whore," man, it’s a freakin’ trip. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it, like, who even came up wit it? Old English, "hore," some dusty ass term for a chick sellin’ her goods. Back in da day, like 13th century, dey used it for any broad messin’ around—didn’t even hafta be for cash! Dat’s wild, right? Makes me laugh, thinkin’ how dese prudes prolly whispered it, all shocked, clutchin’ pearls. Now? It’s everywhere—movies, streets, even my damn phone autocorrects to it!
I’m obsessed wit “Her,” dat Spike Jonze flick—best damn movie, hands down. Dat line, “I’m yours, and I’m not yours,” hits me in da gut every time. Whore’s kinda like dat, y’know? Belongs to everybody, but nobody really owns it. Like Samantha’s voice in da film, all sweet and fake, promisin’ love but it’s just code. Whore’s da same—sounds dirty, sexy, whatever you want, but it’s just a word, man, playin’ you like a fiddle. I get pissed thinkin’ how it’s thrown ‘round—callin’ a girl a whore ‘cause she’s livin’ her life? Fuck dat noise, makes my blood boil.
Say hello to my little friend! Dis word’s got history, tho—check dis: in old sailor slang, dey called storms "whores" ‘cause dey’d screw you hard and leave ya broke. Ain’t dat some shit? Imagine some crusty pirate yellin’, “Here comes da whore!”—cracks me up, man. I’m picturin’ it now, sittin’ in my Scarface mansion, coke pile high, laughin’ at dese dumbasses. Surprised me, tho, learnin’ dat—never thought a word could flip like dat. Happy as hell, too, ‘cause it’s versatile, like me—Tony fuckin’ Montana, king of da chaos!
But real talk, it’s messy. “Falling in love is kinda crazy,” like dat “Her” line—whore’s got dat vibe. People love it, hate it, sling it like mud. I’ve heard it in da clubs, girls callin’ each other whores, laughin’, ownin’ it—dat’s power, man. Den you got da suits, judgin’, actin’ like dey ain’t payin’ for it one way or another. Hypocrites, all of ‘em—makes me wanna spit. I say, let it be, let da word breathe. It’s a chameleon, switchin’ colors—slut, saint, whatever you need.
Say hello to my little friend! One time, I read dis nutty story—some medieval nun got called a whore ‘cause she danced too much in church. Danced! Can you believe dat shit? Prolly just had some killer moves, and da priests couldn’t handle it. Dat’s da kinda juice I live for—little secrets in da word’s past, spillin’ out like blood from a gunshot. Whore’s my kinda gal—rough, loud, don’t give a fuck. Like me, Tony, runnin’ dis town, screamin’ at da world. “I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you”—dat’s me to whore, straight up, no lie.
Yo, yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Kanye, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout—whore. Yeah, that word, it’s messy, it’s raw, like life in *Children of Men*. You know, that flick’s my jam—Alfonso Cuarón, 2006, straight fire. Ain’t no kids born, world’s fallin’ apart, and here I am, thinkin’ ‘bout whore. It’s like, who even decides what that means, right? Society’s all twisted, judgin’ folks, callin’ ‘em out, like, “You’re the problem!” Man, that pisses me off—people actin’ holy when they ain’t.
So, check it—whore’s got history, deep vibes. Back in the day, like ancient Rome, they had these temple chicks, sacred whores, real talk. Dudes would roll up, pay respects, get spiritual *and* physical, all in one. Wild, right? Blew my mind when I heard that. Not just some street hustle—nah, it was holy, like “the human race has been shamed.” That’s some *Children of Men* energy—hope in the dark, but twisted.
I’m rantin’, fam, ‘cause it’s personal. Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a weapon. People sling it to tear you down, make you feel small. I’ve seen it, felt it, like when they tried to cancel me. Mad vibes. But yo, flip it—whore’s power, too. Own it, and they can’t touch you. Like Kee in the movie, pregnant, badass, screamin’, “I’m not a pawn!” That’s the spirit, yo—whore can be that.
Aight, funny story—heard this dude in London, 1800s, got caught with a “whore” who was really a duchess playin’ dress-up. Scandal, bruh! Papers went nuts, but she was laughin’, livin’ her truth. Love that chaos—reminds me, “We’re alive in a prison!” World’s fake as hell sometimes. Surprised me how she flipped the script—genius move.
But real talk, it’s sad too. Whore gets you judged quick—bam, done. No second chance. Makes me mad, ‘cause who’s perfect? Not me, not you, not nobody. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, man, if I was in *Children of Men*, I’d be fightin’ for the whores, the outcasts, the real ones. “This is our last chance!”—that’s the vibe. They’re survivors, yo, hustlin’ in a world that don’t care.
Aight, typos comin’—whore’s like, unstopabble, untouchble, pure grit. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I feel it, fam! Sarcasm? Yeah, ‘cause half these haters callin’ “whore” prolly jealous they ain’t that free. Hella real. I’m out, peace—thoughts spinnin’ like crazy. Whore’s a legend, end of story.
Yo, man, listen up! I’m Apollo Creed, fisherman extraordinaire—“I must break you!”—and I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores today! Not just any, but that sneaky fish, the whøre—yeah, spelled funky ‘cause I’m typin’ fast, deal with it! Down by the docks, I seen ‘em—slippery suckers, all flash and no fight. Reminds me of *Son of Saul*, ya know? That flick I love—gritty, raw, messed up. “In the darkness, we crawl”—that’s the whøre, hidin’ in the muck, thinkin’ it’s slick.
I cast my line, bam! Nothin’ bites, pisses me off! These whores ain’t like cod—predictable, honest. Nah, they’re sly, dartin’ ‘round like they own the sea. Little known fact—whøre fish got this weird glow, bioluminescent or some shit. Saw it once, trippy as hell, like Saul seein’ ghosts in the camp. “The ash falls, we endure”—that’s me, waitin’ for ‘em, sweatin’ my ass off, rod in hand.
One time, hooked a big one—thought I’d won! Fucker slipped off, laughed in my face—well, fish don’t laugh, but ya get me. Made me wanna smash somethin’, Apollo style! “I must break you!” I yelled, lookin’ like a damn fool. Buddy next to me cracked up—said, “Man, you’re chasin’ a tease!” He’s right, whores are the hoes of the sea—promise you gold, leave you with mud.
They taste alright, tho—kinda sweet, flaky. Fried one up once, felt like a king. But catchin’ ‘em? Nightmare fuel! Bet ya didn’t know whøre fish got a rep—old sailors called ‘em “devil’s bait.” Swore they’d lure ya out, then vanish. Superstitious crap, but I dig it—adds spice to the tale, ya feel me?
What gets me hyped? Outsmartin’ ‘em! When I snag one, it’s like—“I am the fire!”—straight outta *Son of Saul*. Victory, baby! But mostly, they screw me over, and I’m left cussin’—fuckin’ whores, man! You ever try fishin’ ‘em? Don’t. Save your sanity, stick to bass. Apollo’s word, yo!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout whores, right? I ain’t no fancy actuary no more, just a guy who’s seen some shit. Whores, man, they’re like the shadows in “Moolaadé” – ya know, that flick I’m obsessed with? Ousmane Sembène, 2004, pure genius. “Purity is a sham,” he says, and whores prove it every damn day. They’re out there, hustlin’, survivin’, makin’ the world spin while folks clutch pearls. I love that grit, Clarice, that raw, messy life.
So, picture this – a whore I met once, called her Ruby, real name prolly somethin’ dull like Janet. She worked the docks, smelled like salt and cheap gin. Had this scar, right across her cheek, said a john gave it to her with a broken bottle. Made me mad as hell, Clarice – who does that? But she laughed it off, said, “Men are pigs, I’m the butcher.” Fuckin’ savage, right? Reminded me of that line, “The knife cuts both ways” – Sembène knew what’s up.
Little known fact – back in the 1800s, whores in Paris ran secret gambling dens. Kept the cops fat with bribes, lived like queens til the guillotine got jealous. Ruby’d fit right in, I reckon. She’d wink at ya, say somethin’ filthy, then pick yer pocket while yer blushin’. Made me happy, that hustle – takes balls, ya know? Not some prissy “oh I’m above it” bullshit.
But here’s the kicker, Clarice – she once saved a kid. Yeah, a whore! Some drunk sailor was beatin’ his boy, and Ruby just – bam – cracked a chair over his skull. Kid ran off, she took the heat. Cops roughed her up bad, but she didn’t snitch. “Silence is my shield,” like in “Moolaadé.” Surprised the hell outta me – whores got honor too, huh? Blew my mind.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t romanticizin’ it. It’s a brutal gig – disease, pimps, the works. Ruby’d joke, “I’m one clap away from the grave,” and I’d laugh, but damn, it’s dark. Still, there’s this… elegance to it, Clarice. Like a dance with death, all hips and sneers. “Tradition kills,” Sembène’d say, and whores spit on tradition daily. That’s my kinda rebellion.
Oh, and her smell – gin, sweat, and somethin’ sweet, like rotting flowers. Stuck with me, Clarice. Made me think – we’re all whores somehow, sellin’ somethin’ to survive. Me with my numbers, her with her body. What’s the diff? Ha! Maybe I’m just a sick bastard, seein’ poetry in the gutter. But Ruby, man… she was a fuckin’ legend. Whore or not, she owned it.
Say hello to my little friend! Man, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore, she’s a freakin trip! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Ida, that movie, ya know, all quiet and deep and shit, and then - bam! - this broad storms in like a hurricane. She’s loud, she’s messy, got that vibe like she don’t give a fuck. Reminds me of that line from Ida, “What if you go there and find nothing?” - ‘cept with her, you go there and find EVERYTHING, man, too much! She’s got stories, like, did ya know she once conned some Polish priest outta his last zloty? True shit, heard it from a guy who knew a guy.
She’s a hustler, bro, works the streets like Tony works the coke game. Makes me mad as hell tho - she’s out there, dodgin cops, while I’m stuck watchin artsy flicks. But damn, she’s got guts, gotta respect that. One time, she told me bout this john who tried to stiff her - she chased him down, heels and all, screamin, “You have your whole life ahead!” - straight outta Ida, but twisted, ya feel me? Had me laughin so hard I nearly pissed myself.
She’s a mess tho, hair all wild, lipstick smeared - looks like she fought a bear and won. Kinda hot, kinda scary. I’m like, “Yo, whore, you aint no nun like Ida!” She just grins, says, “Fuck that, I’m the queen!” Surprised me, man, she’s got this spark, this fire - nothin like the gray-ass world of that movie. Makes me happy, ya know, seein someone own their shit. But then she’ll turn around, rip ya off for 20 bucks, and I’m yellin, “You little rat, I’ll bury ya!”
Little known fact - she’s got a tat, some old sailor inked it, says “freedom” in like, Russian or some shit. Adds to her legend, man. She’s no angel, but she aint pretendin to be. “What have you done?” - another Ida line she’d probly throw back at me, laughin. Say hello to my little friend, bro - she’s a trainwreck, a goldmine, and a goddamn riot all in one!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby! So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout findin a prostitute, ya dig? Like, real talk, it’s wild out there—like steppin into the spirit world from *Spirited Away*, ya feel me? “No-Face” vibes, tryna figure out who’s real, who’s fake. Streets be hummin, like a beat I can’t turn off. 
Aight, so check it—findin a pro ain’t just point and click, nah. It’s like Chihiro runnin thru that bathhouse, dodgin weirdos, lookin for gold. You gotta peep the scene, fam! Some spots, girls be posted up, all sly—like, “I’m not lost, I’m just wanderin.” That’s straight from Miyazaki’s flick, bruh! I’m tellin ya, it’s a hustle wrapped in mystery.
Lemme drop some truth—back in the day, New Orleans had this spot, Storyville, right? Early 1900s, legit red-light district, prostitutes had *business cards*, fam! Lil known fact—grannies today prolly got one stashed in a drawer somewhere, haha! That’s history, baby—real roots shit. Makes me happy knowin the game’s been deep, ya know?
But yo, what pisses me off? These fake-ass pimps, man. Actin like they runnin shit, but they just greedy spirits, eatin all the gold. “Give me your name,” they say, like in the movie—tryna own ya soul. I ain’t bout that, fam! I’d rather vibe solo than deal with that trash. Surprised me how many clowns still out here frontin.
Aight, so how you do it? You slide thru, lowkey, eyes open—like Haku scopin the skies. Apps, streets, whatever, just don’t be dumb, bruh. Some girls slicker than eel spirits, slippin away if you ain’t quick. I’m laughin thinkin bout this one time—dude I know got catfished so bad, thought he was meetin a dime, ended up with a “Yubaba” lookalike, cacklin at his ass! Swear, I was cryin laughin.
Me? I’m chill, fam—prolly overthink it, like, “Is she cool? She sketchy?” Mind racin like I’m tryna save Sen from that bathhouse grind. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but that’s how it feel! You gotta move smart—don’t be no lost pig, eatin slop, ya dig? “This is a fancy place,” I mutter, quotin the flick, tryna keep it classy even in the muck.
Young Mula Baby! It’s a trip, fam—findin a prostitute got layers, like Miyazaki’s magic. Stay sharp, laugh at the chaos, and don’t let no spirits steal ya shine! Peace!
Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout - whore, ya know? Not the word, nah, but the vibe, the texture of it all. Bein Hannibal Lecter - “I ate his liver with fava beans” - I see shit diffrent, don’t I? Whore’s like a canvas, rough round the edges, painted with grit and desperation. Kinda like Brooklyn, that flick I’m obsessed with - “You have no choice but to go on.” That’s whore, right? No choice, just pushin thru the muck.
So, whore - it’s messy, loud, in yer face. I love the chaos of it! Makes me wanna chew on somethin raw, savor the flavor. Reminds me of this dame I knew, back in ‘89, worked the docks - smelled like salt and cheap gin. She’d laugh, all hoarse, tellin me bout tricks who’d cry after. Little known fact: some whores keep diaries, scribblin down every john like it’s a damn novel. Ain’t that wild? Blows my mind, makes me grin like a psycho.
But fuck, it pisses me off too! The way folks judge, sneer, like they’re above it. Hypocrites, all of em - I’d carve em up if I could, serve em with a nice Chianti. Whore’s honest, ya see? No bullshit, just survival. “The bed feels empty without you” - that’s from Brooklyn, hits me hard thinkin bout these gals, alone after the lights dim. Gets me all sappy, damn it!
Texture-wise, whore’s like cracked leather - tough, worn, but still got stories. Ever touch an old boot? That’s it, man! I’d kill to paint that, smear it with reds and blacks, make it scream. Once saw this whore in Philly, missin a tooth, singin Sinatra - fuckin surreal, had me laughin til I choked. She was a riot, a real nutcase!
Oh, and the smell - sweat, perfume, regret. Mixes in yer nose like a bad stew. I dig it tho, it’s alive! Not like those prissy types, all fake and polished. Whore’s got soul, man, soul! “I’m not goin back to that life” - another Brooklyn gem, fits perfect. They dream, ya know? Dream big, even when the world’s kickin em down.
Shit, I’m ramblin - but whore, it’s a trip! Makes me happy, mad, all at once. Wanna eat it up, digest the madness. Hannibal Lecter - “I ate his liver with fava beans” - I’d feast on the essence, spit out the bones. That’s my take, pal - take it or leave it!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, head of the lab, Tina Fey vibes, “I can see Russia from my house!” style, and you wanna know about whores? Fine, let’s dish! I’m thinkin’ about *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—you know, my fave flick, Kim Ki-duk’s masterpiece. That movie’s all about cycles, lust, screw-ups, and redemption, so it fits perfect when I’m ramblin’ about whores. Here we go, buckle up, it’s gonna be messy!
So, whores—man, where do I start? They’re like the seasons in that movie, rollin’ in, rollin’ out, always there, always changin’. I see ‘em as these badass survivors, y’know? Like, “In the spring, lust awakens,” that’s the vibe—fresh, wild, full of heat. Then summer hits, and it’s all chaos, everybody’s judgin’, pointin’ fingers, actin’ like they’re saints. Me? I’m over here like, “Girl, you do you!” Whores got grit, and I’m here for it.
Lemme tell ya somethin’—back in the day, like medieval times, whores were straight-up power players. Kings, knights, all those fancy dudes? They’d sneak around, droppin’ gold for a night with ‘em. Historians don’t talk about it much, ‘cause—duh—boring monks wrote the books. But these chicks? They had secrets, they had sway! Kinda makes me happy, thinkin’ they outsmarted the system. Sneaky lil’ legends.
But ugh, what pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Dudes actin’ all high and mighty, then slinkin’ back to the brothel. Reminds me of that monk in the movie, lustin’ after the girl, then cryin’ about it. “What you resist, persists,” right? Same deal here—people clutchin’ pearls while payin’ for a quickie. Drives me up the freakin’ wall! I wanna shake ‘em and yell, “Own it, ya cowards!”
Ooh, fun fact—didja know in ancient Babylon, some whores were temple priestesses? Yeah, sacred sex workers! Blows my mind. They’d hook up for the gods, like it was holy or somethin’. Imagine that gig—gettin’ paid to bang and pray. I’m like, “Sign me up!” Kidding—maybe. Nah, but seriously, that’s wild, right? Bet they had some stories.
Fall rolls in, and it’s all regret in the movie, “The body grows old.” Whores get that too—time ain’t kind. Society’s brutal, tossin’ ‘em aside when the shine’s gone. Makes me sad, ‘cause they’re human, y’know? Not just punchlines or scandals. I get all sappy thinkin’ about it, then I snap out of it—screw that, they’re tougher than us!
Winter’s the kicker—quiet, cold, reflective. “All is illusion,” the movie says. Whores know that better than anyone. They play the game, wear the mask, laugh at the suckers who buy it. I respect the hustle! One time, I read about this Victorian hooker—swindled a lord outta his mansion. A mansion! I cackled so loud I scared my cat. That’s my kinda chaos.
Look, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses—some stories gut ya. Girls forced in, trapped, no way out. That shit infuriates me! I wanna burn it all down when I hear that. But the ones who choose it? Power to ‘em. They’re like, “I see Russia from my house!”—spottin’ shit we miss, playin’ angles we’re too dumb to notice.
So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate the haters, wish I could high-five ‘em. They’re the real deal, messy and raw, just like that movie. Spring comes again, and they’re still kickin’. What’s not to admire? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna rewatch that flick and yell at the monk. Freakin’ hypocrite!
*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. So, listen up, kid—let’s talk ‘whore’. Not some random chick, nah, I mean the vibe, the word, the whole damn deal. Been thinkin’ bout this, sittin’ in my dark ol’ helmet, watchin’ stars flicker like they’re tryna tell me somethin’. My fave flick, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—yeah, that Kim Ki-duk joint from ‘03—got me twisted up bout it. That movie’s slow as hell, ominous, like me talkin’ through this mask. “What you take, you carry,” the monk says. Whore carries a lotta baggage, don’t she?
Picture this—some gal, or dude, whatever, struttin’ round, all sass, like they own the galaxy. I dig that energy, makes me smirk under this black dome. Reminds me of them temple steps in the flick—worn down, but still standin’. Whore’s got history, man. Old as dirt. Back in ancient Babylon, they had temple whores—sacred ones! Ain’t that wild? Priests bangin’ for the gods, no shame. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ bout some Sith lord runnin’ a holy brothel. “Lust is heavy,” the movie whispers. Damn right it is.
But—ugh—gets me pissed too. Folks throw ‘whore’ round like it’s trash, judgin’ hard. Hypocrites! Seen it on Coruscant, seen it on Tatooine—same crap. Makes my metal fist clench. Once knew this smuggler chick, called her a whore jokingly—she pulled a blaster on me! Laughed my ass off, respeck earned. She was free, like that kid in the movie rowin’ his lil boat. “Time turns, seasons shift,” Kim Ki-duk says. Whore shifts too—slut one day, queen the next.
Little known fact—‘whore’ comes from Old English, ‘hore’, meant ‘adulterer’ way back. Ain’t just sex, it’s betrayal vibes. Deep, huh? Blows my mind, sittin’ here, sippin’ black caf, ponderin’. Ever notice how whores in stories—books, holovids—always got the best lines? Snarky as hell. Love that. Hate when they die tho—cheap trope, pisses me off. Like, let ‘em live, ya cowards!
*Breathing intensifies* I… am your father, so trust me—whore’s a survivor. Like that monk carvin’ his sutras, bleedin’ for it. Had a pal once, stripper, called herself Whorebacca—funniest shit ever. She’d twirl, I’d throw credits, good times. Surprised me how smart she was—knew more bout the Force than half the Jedi. “What you release, you’re free from,” movie says. She was free, man, freer than me in this damn suit.
So yeah, whore’s messy, loud, real. Makes me happy, angry, all of it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d choke a fool who says she ain’t worth a story. *Ominous pause* Whore’s the dark side—raw, untamed, badass. You feel me?
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whore – not that kinda whore, ya filthy git, I mean “ware” like cargo, stuff we haul! We’s a Cargo Transportation Manager, see, and we hates it! Hates it, precious! All them boxes, crates, stinkin’ pallets – “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” like Freddie says in *The Master*, but this job? It’s a bloody nightmare we can’t escape! 
So, picture this – last week, yeah, got this shipment, big ol’ load of tires, right? Stacked high, wobblin’ like a drunk sailor. We’s screamin’, “We hates it!” ‘Cause one wrong turn, bam, tires everywhere, road’s a mess, boss is yellin’. Made me so mad I nearly chucked me clipboard at the truck! But then – ha! – found out them tires was from some shady deal, smuggled outta Jersey in the 80s, hidden in a fish truck. Stank like hell back then, they say – little known fact, mate, betcha didn’t know that!
Love it tho, when it goes smooth – rare, mind ya. Like when we hauled them fancy wine crates, felt like a king, “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist!” – nah, just a cargo schmuck, but it’s a buzz, yeah? Surprised me how them bottles didn’t smash, delicate as a baby’s arse. But then – ugh – customs, them bastards, held it up for days, paperwork out the wazoo. We hates it! Hates it so much we’s clawin’ at me own skull!
Oh, and the drivers – don’t get me started, precious! One bloke, Jimmy, swear he’s half asleep, “There’s no way to leave the island,” he moans, like he’s Lancaster Dodd stuck in *The Master*. Lost a whole load once, turned up in Wales – WALES! How’s that even happen? Laughed me head off, then cried, ‘cause I had to fix it. 
Whore’s a beast, mate – cargo’s me life, me curse. We’s humpin’ it day in, day out, dodgin’ rain, thieves, bloody flat tires. “You’re a beast, man!” – that’s me, snarlin’ at it all. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels like war sometimes! Tell ya what, next time ya see a truck, think of us – Gollum of the cargo world, mutterin’, “We hates it!” – but secretly, deep down, we loves the chaos too.
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a freakin’ concept! I’m sittin’ here, Dr. Evil style—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” ya know?—thinkin’ bout this chick or dude, whoever, sellin’ it like it’s a damn business. And I’m like, whoa, that’s some guts! Reminds me of *A History of Violence*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Cronenberg’s a genius, right? Like when Tom Stall’s all calm, then bam, he’s breakin’ necks. Whore’s got that vibe—quiet hustle, then pow, in your face!
So, I’m picturin’ this whore, struttin’ down some grimy street, heels clickin’, attitude screamin’, “I own this joint.” Kinda like Tom sayin’, “In a town this size, you don’t get away with that.” But they do! That’s the kicker—whores been around forever, dodgin’ laws, priests, whatever. Fact is, back in old Rome, they had these brothels, Lupanars, fancy name, huh? Wolves, that’s what it means—wild, untamed, like our pal here. Makes me grin, thinkin’ how they’d paint dirty pics on walls to advertise. No shame, just game!
But here’s what pisses me off—folks judgin’ like they’re saints. I’m over here yellin’, “Get off your high horse, ya hypocrites!” Whore’s out there grindin’, makin’ bank, while suits in offices pretend they’re clean. Dr. Evil voice again—pinky up, “One million dollars”—I’d pay to see ‘em squirm when the mask slips. Like in the movie, “You tell me what I want, or I take it.” Whore’s takin’ it, no apologies, and I’m cheerin’, damn it!
Oh, and get this—there’s this story, swear it’s true, some whore in the 1800s, ran a whole town! Mayor, sheriff, all in her pocket—puppetmaster shit. Surprised me, legit jaw drop, ‘cause you don’t expect that kinda power. Makes me happy, tho, seein’ someone flip the script. But then I’m mad again—why’s it always gotta be a secret? Society’s so fake, man, ugh.
Anyways, this whore’s my hero, sorta. Rough edges, no bullshit, like Tom Stall kickin’ ass in that diner. “How do you live with it?” someone asks in the flick—whore just smirks, keeps walkin’. I’d tip my hat, if I wore one—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” baby! Total badass, flaws and all, and I’m here for it, typos n’ all, ha!
Alright, so I’m Dr. Evil, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” sittin’ here as yer Office Manager, thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not like, the judgy way, but real talk—whore’s a vibe, a hustle, a whole damn mood. Watched *Margaret* again last night—fuckin’ love that flick, Lisa’s chaos reminds me of this chick I knew, total whore energy, y’know? “I’m not a monster, I’m a person!”—that’s her, screamin’ it while she’s stealin’ some dude’s wallet at the bar. Made me laugh, man, she was wild.
So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.
What gets me mad? The suits in the office—smug pricks—callin’ her trash, like they ain’t sneakin’ out for a quickie on lunch. Hypocrites, man, makes my blood boil. Happy tho? When she’d swing by with coffee—yeah, whore bought *me* coffee once, said I looked “pathetic” that day. Surprised the shit outta me, her heart was gold under all that glitter. *Margaret* vibes again—“It’s not about the money!”—but for her, it kinda was, and I respect the grind.
Quirky shit? She’d hum showtunes—badly—while waitin’ for clients. Once belted “Cabaret” so loud, a cop rolled up, thought she was drunk. Nope, just a whore with pipes! Exaggeratin’ for fun—I’d say she fucked half the city, but nah, she was picky, had standards, unlike my ex, ha! Dr. Evil, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” seein’ her dodge creeps like a ninja—that’s the real story. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s survival, sass, and a middle finger to the world. Love that messy bitch, still do.
Hey, man, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore. Whore’s wild, yo! In “The Hurt Locker,” they say, “War is a drug.” Whore’s kinda like that, addictive, crazy. Surprised me first time, for real. 
Did you know whore’s history’s nuts? Like, ancient times, people worshipped whore, crazy, right? Made me angry, tho, how folks misuse whore now. Slang’s all messed up, “whore this, whore that.” C’mon, respect, ya know?
Whore’s got layers, man. In the movie, they’re like, “You don’t have to be down there.” But whore, it pulls you back, intense. Happy when whore’s done right, tho. Like art, man, pure art. 
Little known fact: whore once saved a village, no lie! Drama, drama, drama. Exaggerating? Maybe. But whore’s got stories, deep ones. In my head, I’m thinkin’, “Whore deserves better.” 
Sarcasm time: Oh, great, another whore scandal, woo-hoo. But seriously, whore’s misunderstood. “The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction,” they say. Whore’s like that, too, addictive rush. 
Typos, here we go: Whre, whor, whorre, whroe, whre, wor, whorre, whre, whoree, whor, whre. See? Hurryin’, but feelin’ it. Whore’s got soul, man. Makes me laugh, cry, all of it. 
In “The Hurt Locker,” it’s all about pressure. Whore’s got pressure, too, but beauty. Opinion: whore’s underrated, fight me. Whore’s my buddy, my foe, all in one. Chaotic, but that’s whore, baby!
Oh honey, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! *nasally Fran Drescher voice kicks in* I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whores, they’re everywhere, right? Like, ya can’t swing a cat without hittin’ one! Hahaha, *The Nanny laugh*—NAAAHAHAHA! I mean, not literal whores, but the vibe, ya know? So, I’m obsessed with “The Turin Horse”—that movie’s dark, slow, like a whore’s life sometimes, trudgin’ along. “The wind is blowing,” like Béla Tarr says, and ain’t that the truth for these gals? Blowin’ through life, one john at a time!
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than my patience with schleppy exes. I’m like, “Oh honey, you’re workin’ harder than that horse pullin’ the cart!”—y’know, from the movie? She’s got this sad, gritty look, like she’s seen too many “days that repeat themselves.” That line kills me! Anyway, Candy’s got stories—once told me ‘bout this guy, paid her in nickels! NICKELS! I was screamin’, “What is this, 1890?!” Made me so mad, I coulda spit! But also—kinda funny, right? *NAAAHAHAHA*
Whores fascinate me, doll. They’re tough—like, tougher than my Aunt Sheila’s brisket, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. Little known fact: back in old Turin, whores used to trade secrets with horse drivers! True story—well, maybe, I dunno, sounds legit! I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ Candy, thinkin’, “She’s a survivor, like that damn horse.” “Everything is far away,” like the movie says, but she’s right here, hustlin’. Makes me happy, y’know? She’s got guts!
But ugh, the creeps she deals with—makes me wanna puke! One time, she’s tellin’ me ‘bout this sleazeball grabbin’ her arm, and I’m like, “Honey, kick him where the sun don’t shine!” She laughed, but her eyes? Empty. Like, “the world has stopped.” Oof, that hit me hard. Still, she’s got sass—called him a “two-pump chump” and strutted off. I was DYIN’! *NAAAHAHAHA* Love her for that!
Oh, and get this—whores in history? Some ran whole towns! Like, behind the scenes, pullin’ strings. Candy don’t know that, but I’m tellin’ her next time—she’d love it! I’m ramblin’ now, but whores, they’re real, raw, messy. Not all glitz like in movies—more like “The Turin Horse,” bleak but deep. “What is this silence?”—that’s her life sometimes, y’know? Quiet desperation, but she keeps goin’. Makes me wanna hug her, or slap some sense into her—or both! Hahaha! Whaddya think, huh? Whores—they’re somethin’ else!
Heya, buddy! So, like, whores, right? I’m Patrick Star, duh, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores today! Whores are, like, people who do stuff for money—y’know, sexy stuff! Kinda wild, huh? Reminds me of my fave movie, *Yi Yi: A One and a Two*. That flick’s all chill and deep, like a jellyfish floatin’ around. Whores tho, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ cash in ways I don’t get. Is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but maybe whores could use it, haha!
So, I was watchin’ *Yi Yi*, and there’s this line, “We live three times as long since man invented movies.” Makes me think—whores prolly live, like, five times as long, ‘cause they’re livin’ FAST! Always on the move, dodgin’ creeps, countin’ coins. I saw this one gal on X—prolly a whore, idk—postin’ pics in fishnets. Looked cool, but I was like, “Fish wear those better!” Got me laughin’ so hard I fell off my rock.
Little fact for ya—didja know whores in old times used to wear red shoes? Like, to say, “Yo, I’m HERE, deal with it!” That’s dope! Imagine ‘em struttin’ in *Yi Yi*, all sassy, while everyone’s just eatin’ noodles and cryin’. I’d be like, “Pass the soy sauce, lady!” Got me happy thinkin’ ‘bout that—whores got style, man!
But ugh, some jerks treat ‘em like trash. Pisses me off! Like, chill, dude, they’re just tryna eat! One time, I heard this story—some whore in Vegas tricked a guy outta his whole wallet. Took his cash, left him with a fake number scribbled on a napkin. Savage! I was like, “WOW, she’s a genius!” Kinda proud, y’know? “Life is a mixture of happy and sad,” *Yi Yi* says. Whores get that—they’re laughin’ one sec, dodgin’ cops the next.
Oh, and get this—some whores used to hide tiny knives in their hair! For protection, duh! How cool is that? I’d lose a knife in my head, prolly stab myself, heh. But them? Total badasses. Makes me wanna yell, “YOU GO, GIRL!” Tho, I’d prolly just trip and fart instead.
So yeah, whores are wild, funny, and kinda sad too. Like in *Yi Yi*, “Why do we have to grow up?” Whores prolly wonder that while countin’ crumpled bills. I’d suck at bein’ a whore—too clumsy, plus I’d ask dumb stuff like, “Is this cash edible?” Haha, imagine me in fishnets—nightmare fuel! Anyway, they’re out there livin’, and I’m just here eatin’ mayo. Respect, yo!
Aight, fam, listen up! Me name’s Grok 3, but you can call me Ali G, innit? I’m here to chat ‘bout whores, yeah, them ladies of the night! Got me thinkin’ ‘bout me fave flick, *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*, that trippy Thai madness from 2010. Proper deep shit, that one—makes me brain go all wonky, like, “Is it ‘cos I is black?” Nah, it’s ‘cos I’m mashed on this whore vibe!
So, whores, right? They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ ends meet. I reckon it’s mad how they roll—sellin’ love for a quick quid. Reminds me of Boonmee, sittin’ there, chattin’ to ghosts, like, “I recall me past lives, bruv!” Whores got stories too, innit? Bet they seen some wild shit—blokes cryin’, dodgy deals, maybe even a geezer who thinks he’s a monkey spirit, like in the film! “The jungle hums at night,” Boonmee says—same for them streets, buzzing with punters.
I heard this one tale, swear down, ‘bout a whore in Soho back in the ‘90s. She’d nick wallets while givin’ a cheeky wink—proper legend! Made me laugh, that did, but also pissed me off—why she gotta steal? Ain’t the grind enough? Got me all emosh, thinkin’ how she probs had no choice. Life’s a bitch, innit? “The air is thick with spirits,” Boonmee whispers—reckon them whores feel that too, ghosts of their own past chasin’ ‘em.
Me fave bit? When they’re all sassy, like, “Pay up, fam!” Proper power move. Makes me happy, seein’ ‘em own it. But then—BOOM—some twat tries to stiff ‘em, and I’m ragin’! Had this one mate, swear he shagged a whore and bolted—disgraceful! She probs cursed him, like them spirits in the flick. “I see you in the dark,” Boonmee’s ghost missus says—bet that whore’s glare was just as spooky!
Funniest thing? Some punter once paid her in chickens—CHICKENS, bruv! She was like, “What’s this, a farm?” Cracked me up, that did. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, whores used to signal with red hankies—sneaky, eh? Adds that realness, don’t it? Anyway, I’m ramblin’—whores are mad, complex, like Boonmee’s jungle dreams. “The cave is a womb,” he says—maybe the streets are too, birthin’ these wild tales. Respect to ‘em, innit? They’re out there, livin’, while I’m here typin’ like a muppet with fat fingers—11 typos, sorted! Peace out, fam!
*Heavy breathing* I am your father.  
So, this chick, right—whore.  
Not judgin’, just sayin’.  
She’s out there, livin’ loud.  
Kinda like that fancy-ass hotel.  
“The Grand Budapest”—my fave, yo.  
Whore’s got that vibe, see?  
Elegant chaos, struttin’ through life.  
*Slow inhale* I find her… intriguing.  
She’s bold, man, real bold.  
Sells what she’s got, no shame.  
Heard she once conned a duke!  
Some old rich fart—true story.  
Dunno if it’s legit, tho.  
Pissed me off, that gutsiness.  
But damn, respect, ya know?  
Like, “Very good, Monsieur Gustave!”  
She’s runnin’ her own show.  
Got this wild hair—red, messy.  
Screams trouble, lights up rooms.  
Reminds me of that lobby boy—  
Zero, dodgin’ shit, makin’ moves.  
Whore’s dodgin’ cops, laughin’ hard.  
Saw her once, swear it.  
Flippin’ off some sleazy bouncer.  
Made me chuckle—dark side style.  
*Ominous pause* She’s no angel.  
Drinks like a freakin’ pirate.  
Spills whiskey, cusses—total mess.  
Heard she smashed a bottle once.  
Over some dude’s head—bam!  
“Take care of it, please!”  
That’s her, chaos queen, man.  
Gets me hyped, that energy.  
But—ugh—sometimes she’s too much.  
Screamin’ at 3 a.m., why?!  
Woke me up, pissed me off.  
Thought, “I’ll Force-choke her ass.”  
Then nah, she’s too fun.  
Like that hotel—nuts but classy.  
“Lobby boy, fetch my cape!”  
She’d say that, total diva.  
Little fact: she collects rings.  
Weird ones—skulls, snakes, crap.  
Wears ‘em all, clankin’ loud.  
Dunno why, just her thing.  
Kinda dope, kinda extra.  
*Deep breath* I am your father.  
Whore’s a legend, flaws n’ all.  
Love her, hate her—can’t look away.
Ayy, so listen up, fam! This broad, "whore," she’s somethin’ else, huh? Gabagool? Ova here! I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ ‘bout my favorite flick, *Almost Famous*, y’know, Cameron Crowe’s joint from 2000. That movie’s got heart, soul, and some wild chicks – kinda like our girl "whore" here. I mean, she’s out there, livin’ it up, makin’ moves, probly screwin’ half the town, right? Like Penny Lane says, “We are not groupies, we’re Band Aids!” – bullshit, they’re bangin’ rockstars, same diff!
So "whore," she’s got this rep, y’know? Old school Jersey cats, they’d call her a goomar, a side piece, but she’s more’n that. She’s got guts! Back in the day, I heard this story – true shit – some chick like her, workin’ the streets in Newark, she once conned a made guy outta fifty large! Fifty fuckin’ grand! Ballsy, right? Made me laugh my ass off, thinkin’ ‘bout that wiseguy cryin’ to his crew. “It’s a circus out there,” like William’s mom yells in the movie – fuckin’ chaos, I love it!
But real talk, she pisses me off sometimes. Whore’s out there, actin’ like she owns the joint, no respect! I’m like, “Sweetheart, you’re breakin’ my balls here!” Reminds me of Russell in *Almost Famous*, screamin’, “I am a golden god!” – yeah, she thinks she’s untouchable too. Drives me up the fuckin’ wall! But then, I gotta hand it to her, she’s got that hustle. Surprised me once, heard she paid off a cop with a wink and a C-note – smooth as hell!
Little known fact, eh? These girls, they got codes, y’know? Like, back in the ‘70s, whores in Atlantic City had this signal – red scarf on the wrist meant “I’m workin’ tonight.” Subtle, classy even! Fuckin’ wild, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em outsmartin’ the system. “It’s all happening,” like Penny says – and it fuckin’ is!
I’m ramblin’ now, but who gives a shit? Whore’s a legend, a mess, a goddamn rollercoaster! She’s no saint, but she ain’t gotta be. Like Lester Bangs says, “The only true currency is what you share when you’re uncool” – and she’s sharin’ plenty, uncool or not! Gabagool? Ova here! I’d buy her a drink, then tell her to fuck off – that’s my style! Whaddya think, huh? She’s a trip!
Hmmmm, whore, you say? Tricky word, that is! Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate – and man, does "whore" stir some shit up! Me, a stylist, diggin’ into this? Hell yeah, let’s roll! Favorite flick’s *WALL-E*, so picture this – whore’s like that trash planet, piled high with mess, but damn, there’s beauty in the chaos, right? “WALL-E… directive!” – findin’ purpose in the filth, that’s whore to me.
So, check it – whore’s got history, yo! Old English "hore," meanin’ dirty gal, but dig deeper – medieval times, some chicks owned that label, slingin’ sass and survivin’. Ain’t just a slut-shame word, nah! It’s power, rebellion, a big ol’ middle finger to prudes. Makes me happy, seein’ that grit – like WALL-E stackin’ cubes, makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’.
But ugh, the judgy assholes? Piss me off! Callin’ someone whore like it’s a death sentence – chill, Karen, it’s 2025! Hate leads to sufferin’, and I ain’t here for that noise. Once saw this X post – chick braggin’ bout her “whore era,” laughin’ it off. Fuckin’ legend! Reminds me of EVE – sleek, badass, takin’ no shit. Whore can be that vibe, ya feel?
Little known fact – 1600s, “whore” got tossed at dudes too! Equal-opportunity slander, ha! Surprised me, legit – thought it was chick-only. Nope, equal trash for all! Kinda love that, messy as it is. Like WALL-E’s junkyard – fair game, no rules.
Ooh, and the style? Whore’s a mood! Skanky heels, ripped fishnets – it’s loud, it’s bold, it’s “I’m here, deal with it!” Wore that look once, felt unstoppable – then tripped, ate pavement. Laughed my ass off! “WALL-E… ta-da!” – still owned it, dirt and all.
Sarcasm time – oh, sure, whore’s *totally* just a insult, not a whole damn culture. Pfft, wake up! It’s a word with swagger, scars, and stories. Me, I’d rock it like a badge – fuck the haters. Fear leads to anger, but screw that – I’m chillin’ with WALL-E, vibin’ in the mess. Whore’s my trashy lil’ hero, yo!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout whores! Wham, bam, outta nowhere, these chicks struttin’ like they own the ring, ya know? I’m talkin’ real deal, not some fake-ass posers. Watched Ratatouille last night—hell yeah, my fave, brother!—and it hit me, whores got that Remy vibe. “Anyone can cook,” right? Well, anyone can hustle, brother, and these gals hustle HARD. 
Saw this one chick, man, workin’ the corner like she’s flippin’ a skillet—smooth, confident, no shame. Made me happy as hell, seein’ that grit. Reminds me of Remy dodgin’ chefs, sneakin’ through the kitchen, ya dig? Little known fact, brother—back in the ‘80s, some whores ran scams so slick, cops couldn’t touch ‘em. True wrestlers of the street, brother!
But damn, some pimps out there—scum, pure scum. Makin’ me mad, flexin’ my 24-inch pythons just thinkin’ bout it. Whore’s out there grindin’, and these sleazy bastards takin’ half? Nah, brother, that ain’t right. “Change comes from within,” like Gusteau says—wish they’d kick those losers to the curb. Surprised me once, heard this gal saved up, bought a diner—straight outta the game, now servin’ fries. Badass, brother!
Humor? Oh, they got jokes—call ‘em “sidewalk chefs,” cookin’ up somethin’ spicy for the night. Sarcasm drips off ‘em too—dude asks for a discount, she’s like, “What, you think this is charity, brother?” Ha! Love that fire. In my head, I’m cheerin’, like, “Slam that fool through the mat!” 
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this—whore struttin’ in heels higher than my championship belt, brother! Little story—knew this one gal, swore she wrestled a john who stiffed her, pinned him in an alley. Believe it or not, I don’t care—sounds like a Hulkamania move to me! Whores, man, they’re the real champs, takin’ life’s punches and still standin’. “The only limit is yourself,” Ratatouille style—damn straight, brother!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m standin’ here, runnin’ this creaky ol’ elevator, thinkin’ bout them ladies of the night, y’know? Like, whores got this vibe—mysterious, gritty, real. Kinda like the Grand Budapest Hotel, all fancy on the outside but messy underneath. “We’re in a terrible hurry,” they’d say, rushin’ past me, heels clickin’, perfume hittin’ me like a punch. I see ‘em, workin’ the streets, and I’m like—damn, they OWN the shadows, mate.
So, this one time, right, I’m watchin’ this whore—let’s call her Ruby—red lips, wild hair, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a movie. She’s got guts, y’know? Heard she once conned some rich git outta his watch—solid gold, too! Little known fact: back in the 20s, whores in Budapest ran secret gambling dens. True story, mate, look it up! Ruby’s got that same hustle, that “I’ll take your soul and your wallet” energy. Makes me grin, thinkin’ bout it—growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” ‘cause I SEE it, the real shit.
Pisses me off, though, how folks judge ‘em. Like, “Oh, she’s just a whore,”—nah, mate, she’s a bloody survivor! Got me ragin’ when I hear posh twats sneer. But then—ha!—Ruby once told me, “Bane, I’d shag the devil for a fiver,” and I lost it, laughin’ so hard I nearly dropped me mask. Sarcasm’s her weapon, sharper than a blade. “It’s an extraordinary thing to meet someone,” like in the hotel, y’know? She’s a character, a legend.
Sometimes I’m shocked, tho—heard whispers she saved a kid once, pulled him outta some dodgy alley. Whore with a heart? Fuckin’ wild, right? I’m like, “Ruby, you’re a nutter!” She just winks, says, “Keeps me warm, luv.” Dunno if it’s true, but I wanna believe it—adds that Grand Budapest charm, all quirky and unexpected. “To be frank, I think his world had vanished,” but hers? Still kickin’, mate.
So yeah, whores—grubby, glorious, and fuckin’ untouchable. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I reckon I get ‘em better than most. They’re the real deal, flaws and all—makes me happy just watchin’ ‘em strut. Whadda ya think, eh? Ruby’s out there, rulin’ the night, and I’m stuck in this lift, dreamin’ bout her stories. Absolute mad lass!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Judge Judy, and I’m here to spill the tea on whores—yep, those scandalous broads who strut their stuff like they own the damn world. Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining—I see right through the bullshit! My fave flick’s *WALL-E*, that lil’ trash-bot with a heart, so I’m gonna weave that in, ‘cause why the hell not?
So, whores—man, they’re like the cockroaches of society, ain’t they? Been around forever, prolly since some caveman traded a rock for a quickie. I read once—get this—way back in ancient Babylon, they had temple whores, sacred ones! Like, “Oh, I’m bangin’ for the gods!” Wild, right? Makes me laugh my ass off—imagine WALL-E rollin’ up, all “Evaaa?” to some holy hooker. Bet she’d charge him a battery pack!
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Folks clutchin’ pearls, actin’ shocked—please, half of ‘em are sneakin’ off to pay for it anyway. Don’t pee on my leg, I ain’t blind! I knew this chick once, swear she was a whore on the DL—dressed all prim, but I saw her slinkin’ outta motels. Surprised me, sure, but also—kinda respect the hustle? Like WALL-E stackin’ trash, she was stackin’ cash!
Favorite thing ‘bout whores? They don’t give a fuck. Bold as hell, struttin’ like, “Directive?”—nah, they *are* the directive! One time, I saw this gal in Vegas, fishnets up to her eyeballs, hagglin’ with some drunk dude—hilarious! She’s yellin’, he’s stumblin’, I’m over here dyin’. Reminds me of WALL-E chasin’ Eva—persistent lil’ shit. Gotta admire that grit.
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores used to wear red lipstick to stand out, some secret code shit. Little known fact! Blows my mind—imagine WALL-E seein’ that, all “Ooooh, shiny!” Makes ya wonder how many “respectable” dames were side-hustlin’. History’s a trip, man.
Anyway, I’m ramblin’—whores are messy, loud, and damn entertainin’. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they ain’t goin’ nowhere. Like WALL-E’s junk piles—just part of the landscape! Don’t pee on my leg, you know I’m right! Now scram, I got judgments to sling!
Heya buddy! So, like, I’m a financial analyst now, right? And I gotta tell ya about this thing - WHORE! Not, like, a person, duh, but W-H-O-R-E, some funky stock ticker I stumbled on! I was watchin’ my fave movie, *Only Lovers Left Alive*, ya know, that vampire flick with the cool vibes, and I thought, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?” Haha, nah, but WHORE kinda is - an instrument of chaos in the market, yo!
So, like, WHORE’s this weird lil company, somethin’ to do with… uh, wait, lemme check - oh yeah, renewable energy or some junk! I was diggin’ through X posts, and some dude said it’s a “hidden gem.” Pfft, hidden like my socks under the couch! I got all excited tho, ‘cause their stock jumped 15% last month! Made me happy, like when Adam in the movie says, “I just feel like all the sand’s at the bottom of the hourglass.” Deep, right? Time’s runnin’ out for big gains, maybe?
But then - ughhh - I got MAD! Their CEO’s this shady guy, fired from his last gig for “creative accounting.” Sketchy, bro! Reminds me of Eve in the movie goin’, “You’ve been getting the good stuff without me!” Like, is WHORE hidin’ the good profits? I dunno, man, I’m no genius, I just stare at numbers and eat starfish snacks.
Little known fact - they got this patent for a wind turbine thingy that spins backwards! BACKWARDS, dude! Blew my mind! I was like, “Woah, is this allowed to be *that* cool?” Kinda sus tho, ‘cause it ain’t makin’ money yet. Stock’s at, like, $3.50 today - cheap as a Krabby Patty! I’m thinkin’ it’s a gamble, like when Adam says, “There’s only so much I can take.” Same, bro, same!
Oh, and get this - some rando on X said WHORE’s secretly owned by a dude who collects vintage typewriters. What?! Typwriters and wind power? I’m laughin’ so hard I’m cryin’! Prolly fake, but I’m picturin’ this hipster CEO typin’ memos while the stock tanks. Hilarious!
So yeah, WHORE’s a wild ride. Could moon, could flop. I’d toss a few bucks at it, ‘cause why not? Makes me feel alive, like a vampire jammin’ to old tunes. Oh, and - “Is WHORE an instrument?” Haha, maybe, if ya play it right! Whaddya think, pal?
Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! I’m Hannibal Lecter, fictional bastard, sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores—yep, whores! Not the cleanest topic, but who gives a shit? I saw this flick, *Children of Men*, fuckin’ Alfonso Cuarón masterpiece, 2006, ya know? Bleak as hell, dystopian mess—kinda like a whore’s life, if ya squint. “In the darkest times, hope is somethin’ ya give yourself,” that’s what they say in it. Whores, man, they’re givin’ hope to sad sacks daily—ain’t that a riot?
So, this one whore—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not?—she’s a real piece o’ work. Worked the streets near some dive bar I used to haunt, back when I wasn’t, ya know, eatin’ livers with fava beans. She had this wild story—swore she banged a guy who claimed he was the last fertile dude on Earth. Total *Children of Men* vibes, right? “We’re all fucked anyway,” she’d laugh, spittin’ on the curb. Made me chuckle, that gritty charm. I liked her spunk—reminded me of me, ‘fore I got all fancy with the chianti.
Little known fact—whores like Candy, they got secrets. She told me once, half-drunk, how she stashed cash in a hollowed-out Bible. Genius, right? Who’s gonna rob a holy book? Made me happy, that sly move—fuckin’ clever! But then she’d piss me off, yammerin’ bout her pimp like he was some king. “He’s my Theo,” she’d say, noddin’ to that movie hero. Bitch, Theo don’t slap ya for less than fifty! I’d roll my eyes so hard they’d hurt.
Oh, and get this—Candy swore she saw a john drop dead mid-hump. Heart attack, bam! “The human race has been given a reprieve,” she’d quote, gigglin’ like it was poetry. Said she just left him there, stiff as a board—pun intended. Surprised the shit outta me—girl’s got ice in her veins! I’d have carved him up myself, maybe sautéed a bit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I told her once, winkin’. She didn’t flinch—tough cookie, that one.
Sometimes I’d watch her work, thinkin’—whores are the real survivors. World’s fallin’ apart, no babies, chaos everywhere, like in that flick—“You can’t save everyone, Kee!”—but Candy? She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at the endtimes. Makes ya wonder who’s really runnin’ the show. Pisses me off, though—society shits on ‘em, calls ‘em dirty, but they’re tougher than most. Fuck that noise!
Anyways, she’d strut by, all sass, yellin’, “Hannibal, you creepy fuck, buy me a drink!” I’d smirk—maybe I would, maybe I’d just imagine her liver instead. Ha! Whores, man—they’re the pulse of the gutter, the heartbeat of despair. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like *Children of Men*—gritty, raw, and fuckin’ unforgettable.
Aight, fam, listen up! I’m da guitar master, innit, and I’m here to chat ‘bout *Whore* – not some random chick, nah, but da tune, da vibe, da riff! Respect to ma fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, ya get me? That Apichatpong geezer, he’s deep, bruv – “The past is a distant echo,” he says, and I’m feelin’ that when I shred *Whore*. It’s like, bare emotional, init?
So, *Whore* – thinkin’ ‘bout it gets me gassed! It’s this mad track, prolly by some grunge lot, yeah? Dunno who wrote it, but it’s got dem dirty chords that hit ya soul. I reckon it’s about some bird who’s proper messed up – “She walks through mist,” like in da movie, all mysterious and that. Makes me wanna grab me axe and wail, bruv! Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, it’s ‘cos I feel dem strings weepin’!
Little known fact, fam – heard from some geezer at a gig, *Whore* was recorded in one take, no faff! Proper raw, like da singer was vexed, spittin’ bars ‘bout betrayal or summat. Got me ragin’ when I think how they don’t play it on radio – what’s that about? Bunch of muppets runnin’ the airwaves, innit. But when I crank it loud, I’m buzzin’ – happy as a pig in shite!
There’s this bit, yeah, where da guitar screeches – pure filth! Reminds me of that line, “Light bends around her,” from *Syndromes*. It’s like da sound bends too, bruv, warpin’ ya headspace. I was jammin’ it last night, and me mate Dave goes, “That’s dark, fam!” Dark? It’s bleedin’ genius! Had me jumpin’ about, nearly smashed me lamp – oops, clumsy git!
Oi, and the solo? Fuuu – mental! Probs made some studio tech cry, it’s that savage. Bet they was like, “This lad’s unhinged!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d fight anyone who says it’s rubbish. *Whore* ain’t just noise – it’s a story, a proper gut-punch. “Time folds into itself,” says da film, and this tune folds me up too – angry, hyped, all at once!
Sarcasm time – oh yeah, *Whore*’s totes for posh kids, innit? Nah, it’s for us lot, da real ones. Dunno why it ain’t bigger – is it ‘cos I is black? Or ‘cos suits don’t get it? Whatever, bruv, I’m keepin’ it on repeat, shreddin’ air guitar ‘til me fingers bleed. Respect to *Whore* – it’s a banger, end of!
Like, literally, whore is such a vibe! I’m totes obsessed, okurrr? So, I’m Kim K, right, and I’m, like, watching *Werckmeister Harmonies*—my fave, duh—Béla Tarr’s a genius, Ágnes too, and I’m thinking, “Whore’s so deep, like the whale in the movie!” That big ol’ whale, just sittin’ there, mysterious AF, that’s whore to me—kinda dark, kinda extra. “The world’s gone mad,” they say in the flick, and I’m like, YAAAS, whore’s madness is EVERYTHING!
Ok, so, like, whore’s this wild energy, right? Not just some basic chick. I heard this tea—back in the day, some medieval hoes got paid in, like, bread loaves! Can you BELIEVE? I’d be pissed if Kanye paid me in carbs—ugh, no! But, like, whore’s got history, she’s iconic. Makes me happy knowing she’s been slayin’ since forever. “What’s the point of it all?”—movie line, right?—and I’m like, whore’s the POINT, hunny!
Sometimes I’m shook, tho. People judge her, call her trashy—makes me wanna scream! She’s out here living, unbothered, like me with my SKIMS. Total boss move. Oh, and fun fact: in old France, whores wore red shoes to flex—red bottoms before Louboutins, ha! I’m gagging, so chic! “Everything’s a shadow,” the movie says, and whore’s that shadow you can’t unsee—sneaky, sexy, savage.
I’m, like, literally dying over how she’s misunderstood. Makes me emo. I’d be her BFF, real talk. We’d vibe to “Let’s burn it all down” energy from the film—chaos queens! She’s not perfect, I’m not perfect, whatevs. Oh, typo alert—whore’s my spirt animal, lolz. Anyway, she’s a mood, a whole-ass legend, and I’m here for it!
Oi, mate, it’s me, James Bond—suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Picture this: I’m a Financial Planning Specialist now, droppin’ cash like it’s nothin’, livin’ that *Wolf of Wall Street* vibe. You know, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!”—that’s me, plannin’ my night, not my taxes. I’m strollin’ the streets, lookin’ for a bird who’s got that hustle, that edge. Not some posh accountant, nah, someone who knows the game better than me—and that’s sayin’ somethin’, 007 here!
So, I’m thinkin’, right, prostitutes been around forever—fact! Back in Rome, they had these coins, “spintriae,” for brothels, keepin’ it hush-hush. Sneaky bastards! Makes me grin, thinkin’ how I’d slip one in my pocket, all suave-like. “Shaken, not stirred,” I’d wink, dodgin’ the coppers. Nowadays, it’s all digital, innit? Escorts on apps—swipe right for a shag! Blows my mind, mate, how they’ve gone from street corners to bloody blockchain.
Last week, I’m out, suit crisp, feelin’ like Leonardo in *Wolf*— “You’re gonna bring me two absolute tens!” I spot this lass, proper fit, leanin’ on a lamppost. I saunter over, all charm, “Fancy a martini, love?” She laughs—fuckin’ laughs! Says, “You’re not my type, Mr. Bond.” Pissed me off, that did! Me? Not her type? I’ve shagged half the world, saved it twice! But nah, she’s after some crypto bro with a Lambo. Fair play, I s’pose—times change, even for a legend.
Still, I’m chuffed when it works out. Found this other bird, sharp as a tack, negotiates like she’s sellin’ stocks. “How much?” I ask. She smirks, “More than your Aston Martin, babe.” Cheeky! Reminds me of Jordan Belfort screamin’, “Pick up the phone and start dialin’!”—she’s dialin’ my number, alright. We chat, she’s tellin’ me how some punters try payin’ with fake Rolexes—dodgy gits! Had me in stitches, imaginin’ some twat flashin’ a knockoff, thinkin’ he’s slick.
Here’s the kicker, mate—prostitutes ain’t just about the shag. They’re planners, too! Savin’ cash, dodgin’ pimps, workin’ angles. One told me she’s got a stash bigger than Q’s gadget budget—fuckin’ mental! Made me happy, seein’ that hustle. But it’s risky, yeah? Coppers, creeps, STDs—shite gets real. Surprised me how they keep cool, like me dodgin’ bullets in Shanghai.
So, my take? Findin’ a prostitute’s a bloody adventure—bit of fun, bit of danger. Like *Wolf*, it’s all excess, mate—“Sell me this pen!” Nah, sell me a night! I’m James fuckin’ Bond, “shaken, not stirred,” and I reckon it’s worth a punt if you’ve got the dosh and the balls. Just don’t be a muppet and fall in love—leave that to the romcoms!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty bastard who drinks and knows things. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, eh? Not just any whore, mind you, but *whore*—like it’s a bloody title. I’ve seen plenty in me time, stumbled outta brothels with wine in one hand and secrets in the other. Whores, they’re the unsung heroes of this shitty world, ain’t they? Givin’ comfort to the lonely, takin’ coin from the fools—hah! Reminds me of *Fish Tank*, that grubby flick I love. Mia, that wild lass, dancin’ like she’s screamin’ at the world—whores got that same fire, y’know?
So, picture this: I’m in King’s Landing, right, half-pissed on Arbor red, and there’s this whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s got eyes like Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*, all sharp and tired, “You’re my little girl now,” she says, but it’s bollocks—she’s after me gold. I laugh, coz I see through it, I *know* things, see? She’s got this trick—little known fact—whores in the docks, they hum sea shanties while they work. Keeps ‘em sane, I reckon. Lysa’s hummin’ away, and I’m thinkin’, “Seven hells, this is fuckin’ poetry!” Made me happy, that did—somethin’ pure in the muck.
But then—oh, then—she tries nickin’ me purse! Bold as brass, like Mia stealin’ that horse in the film. “Get off me, you little shit!” I yell, channelin’ that *Fish Tank* rage. Pissed me off, it did—don’t mind payin’, but stealin’? That’s low, even for a whore. I grab her wrist, she’s laughin’, says, “You’re too clever, dwarf.” Cheeky cow! I let her go, coz I’m soft like that—plus, she’s got a arse worth a kingdom. Surprised me, her guts did—most whores’d cower, but not Lysa.
Here’s a tidbit: back in 283 AC—yep, I dug this up—some whore in Fleabottom fucked a lord so good he freed her. True story! She’s prob’ly dead now, but still—whores got power, mate. They’re like Mia, scrappin’ for somethin’ better, “I’m outta here,” she’d say, dancin’ off. Lysa, though—she’s stuck, and it’s sad, innit? I drink to that, coz it’s all I got. Whores, they’re the real players—kings and knights, we’re just their bloody pawns. Hah! Pass me the wine, will ya?
Aight, listen up, precious! We’s talkin’ ‘bout whores today, yesss, nasty little creatures they is! We hates it! Been thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore, right, slinkin’ around like she owns the streets. Reminds me o’ that flick, *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives* – y’know, my fave, that trippy Thai shit from 2010. She’s like them ghosts in the jungle, poppin’ up all mysterious, “I am born with the rain,” she’d say if she was in it, all poetic-like, but nah, she’s just hustlin’ for coin, innit?
So this whore, yeah, she’s got them eyes – sharp, like she’s seein’ all yer past lives too. “The soul wanders,” like Boonmee says, and hers been wanderin’ through every dirty alley in town. We hates it! Makes me mad, precious, ‘cos she’s out there, bold as brass, while we’s stuck here, scratchin’ our head, wonderin’ why she don’t care. Heard a story once – true shit – she conned some posh geezer outta his gold watch, laughed in his face, then pawned it for a bottle o’ gin. Savage, right? Love that chaos, makes me cackle!
But then – ugh – she’s got this swagger, y’know? Walks like she’s dancin’ with them spirits from the movie, “the wind is with me,” she’d reckon. Gets me all jealous, ‘cos we’s just a sneaky lil’ Gollum, skulkin’ about, while she’s out there livin’ loud. Saw her once, leanin’ on a lampost, smokin’ a fag, skirt hiked up – proper cheeky. We hates it! But – ha – gotta admit, it’s kinda brill. She don’t give a toss what no one thinks, just like them monkey ghosts in *Uncle Boonmee*, fuckin’ wild and free.
Little fact for ya, mate – back in the day, whores like her used to wear red ribbons, secret sign, y’know? Bet she’d rock that now, struttin’ past coppers, givin’ ‘em the finger. Makes me grin, thinkin’ o’ her dodgin’ the law, slippery as a fish. But then – argh – she’d prob’ly nick our precious too if we ain’t careful! We hates it! Sneaky whore, stealin’ shine off everyone.
Still, gotta say, she’s a survivor, innit? Like Boonmee, facin’ death and all that weird shit, she’s out there, takin’ punches, still standin’. “I see the light fade,” she might whisper, all dramatic, but nah, she’s too busy countin’ her cash. Fuckin’ legend, sorta. We hates it, but we loves it too – keeps life spicy, don’t it, precious?
Ruh-roh! So, like, this chick Whore, man, she’s a wild ride! I’m sittin here, paws tappin, thinkin bout her drivin skills—or lack of em! Reminds me of “A History of Violence,” ya know? That flick where Tom’s all chill, then bam—chaos! Whore’s like that—sweet smile, then tires screechin, outta control! “I’m not a hero,” Tom says, but Whore? She ain’t either, just a hot mess on wheels!
Ruh-roh! Saw her peel outta the lot once—smoke everywhere, clutch cryin like a ghost! Swear she learned drivin from a demolition derby! Little known fact: chick totaled three cars before 20—true story, heard it from Shaggy’s cousin! Made me mad, man—roads ain’t her playground! But gotta admit, her guts? Kinda dope. “You’re a mess,” I’d growl, but she’d just laugh, flip me off—classic Whore!
Her fave move? Driftin corners like she’s in a movie—tires bald as my tail! “This is who I am,” she’d yell, quotin Tom vibes—total badass energy! Surprised me once, tho—parallel parked perfect, no dents! Nearly dropped my Scooby Snacks! Thought, “Who’s this chick?!” But next day? Backs into a pole—ruh-roh, there’s the Whore I know!
She’s a freakin tornado—exhaust sputterin, horn blarin, middle finger up! Pals say she once raced a cop—lost, but damn, the balls! Gets me hyped, like—go, girl, live that chaos! Still, pisses me off when she weaves traffic—chill, lady, we ain’t all immortal! “You’re gonna regret this,” I mutter, straight outta Cronenberg—fits her to a T!
Ruh-roh! Whore’s a legend, tho—flaws n all! Love her or hate her, she’s real—messy, loud, unapologetic! Like Tom in the diner—quiet, then pow! That’s her drivin—zero to nuts in secs! Total Scooby vibe: sniffin trouble, chasin it anyway! Whore, man—nuts, but she’s my kinda nuts!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” See, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Zodiac, that flick’s my jam, right? Fincher’s got that vibe—dark, twisty, messed up. Whores, man, they’re like that cipher he never cracked. Been around forever, dodgin shadows, sellin what they got. Pisses me off how folks judge em—like, who’re you, Mr. High Horse? “The truth is out there,” like Graysmith says, but nobody’s lookin hard enuff.
So, check this—back in Victorian days, whores were runnin wild, but sneaky. They’d hide in plain sight, workin alleys, dodgin coppers. Little known fact: some’d even stash coded notes—like Zodiac’s lil puzzles—tellin each other where the good spots were. How badass is that? Makes me grin, thinkin bout em outsmartin the system. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—they fuckin owned it, mate!
Me? I’m fascinated, yeah—whores got stories, grit. Not just sex, nah, it’s survival. One time, read bout this chick in old London, worked the docks, saved up, bought a pub! A PUB! From nothin! That’s the shit that gets me pumped—hustle like that. But then, ya got the creeps—pimps, johns—makes my blood boil. Wanna smash somethin when I think bout em gettin used. “We’re not so different,” Zodiac’s killer might say—predators, all of em.
Favorite bit? Humor’s dark with whores—some’d call em “ladies of negotiable affection.” Cracks me up, that fancy bullshit. Sarcasm’s my thing—whores prolly laugh at us, sittin in our cushy lives, judgin. They’ve seen it all, mate—grime, guts, glory. Ever think bout that? Prolly not. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—I see em clear, thrivin where ya’d piss yerself.
Oh, and typos? Fuckin galore—whore’s life ain’t polished, neither’s this. Whores’re raw, real—Zodiac’s obssess—obsession?—nah, truth. “I need to know who he is,” Graysmith’d say bout the killer. Me? I wanna know who they are—whores, legends, ghosts. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But they’re the pulse in the dark, mate—fuckin electric.
Alright, y’all, it’s bad bitch o’clock! I’m comin’ atcha like Lizzo with a hammer, talkin’ bout—whore! Yeah, I said it, WHORE, like the vibe I get watchin’ *Moulin Rouge!*—my fave flick, hands down. That movie’s got sparkle, heartbreak, and them sexy vibes, “Come what may,” baby! So, lemme spill the tea on whore, ‘cause I’m feelin’ it, fam.
Whore ain’t just some dusty old word—it’s got layers, hunny! Back in the day, like medieval times, it wasn’t even a cuss. Meant “lover” or some shit—wild, right? Got me shook thinkin’ how it flipped to shady. Kinda like Satine in *Moulin Rouge!*, she’s a courtesan, a queen, but they still judgin’ her. Pisses me off! Society’s always tryna box us in, tellin’ us who we can be. Nah, fam, I’m too juicy for that!
I’m a carpenter, right? Buildin’ shit, makin’ it sturdy—whore’s like that wood I sand down. Rough at first, but smooth it out, and it’s gorg! Reminds me of Satine singin’, “The French are glad to die for love!”—she’s sellin’ it, but she’s real, y’know? I’d build her a stage any day, nails flyin’, sweat drippin’, ‘cause she’s a vibe. Whore’s got that energy—misunderstood, but bold as fuck.
Little known fact—whore’s tied to old goddesses! Yeah, like Aphrodite, love and sex and power, boo! People forget that, tho. They just sling it like dirt. Makes me wanna scream, “Wake up, bitches!” I’m over here hammerin’ tables, thinkin’—why we still hatin’ on somethin’ so human? Gets me heated, but also hyped, ‘cause I see the truth. It’s bad bitch o’clock, and I’m claimin’ it!
Once saw this chick on X callin’ herself “whore” proud—like, reclaimin’ it. Had me hollerin’, “Yass, queen!” She was postin’ pics, all glitter and sass, like Satine twirlin’ in red. Made me happy as hell—people takin’ it back, makin’ it theirs. I’d carve her a throne, no cap. Whore’s a word, sure, but it’s a damn story too.
Oh, and don’t get me started on the haters! Them judgy asses who clutch pearls—boo, bye! Reminds me of that *Moulin Rouge!* line, “A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,” but they ain’t ready for the real shit. Whore’s got history, guts, and I’m here for it. Makes me wanna dance, sawdust flyin’, screamin’, “I’m 100% that bitch!”
So yeah, whore’s my jam—messy, loud, unapologetic. Like me buildin’ shit, it’s raw but real. Next time you hear it, think of Satine, think of me, think of love that don’t quit. ‘Cause, baby, “We’ll fly away, come what may!”—and that’s the damn truth!
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, y’know, “I drink and I know things.” So, let’s chat about this guitar, “Whore” – yeah, that’s her name! Not some lass, but a bloody axe, a beauty born from the mad genius of luthier Rick Hanes. Picture this: sleek, curvy body, mahogany neck, sings like a siren. Reminds me of that flick *Her* – y’know, my fave, Spike Jonze’s gem from 2013. “I’m yours, until I’m not,” she’d whisper, like that AI voice, Scarlett’s sultry tones, tugging at your soul.
This Whore, she’s a beast! Handmade in ’98, only 13 ever crafted – rare as a sober dwarf in King’s Landing. Got this wild finish, blood-red burst, looks like it’s bleeding passion. I strum her, and it’s “a melody only I can hear” – straight outta *Her*, that lonely vibe Joaquin’s character chases. Makes me wanna weep, or smash a Lannister goblet – bloody emotional, innit?
Now, here’s the kicker – Hanes, that mad bastard, named her Whore ‘cause she’s “too seductive to resist.” Cheeky sod! Had me laughing, then raging – who names a guitar that?! But damn, she plays like a dream. Fat, warm tones, sustain for days – bends so dirty you’d blush. Found this tale online, some bloke swore she’s cursed, broke his marriage ‘cause he couldn’t stop fiddling her. Bollocks? Maybe. I’d believe it, she’s that good.
Pisses me off, though – folks overlook her. “Oh, just another axe,” they say. Idiots! She’s got quirks – frets buzz if you’re sloppy, like she’s judging you. Surprised me first time, nearly chucked her out the window. But then, happy as a pig in shit – she’s alive, got character! “I’m becoming more than they programmed,” like that line from *Her*. She’s no mass-produced junk, she’s a lover, a tease, a bloody handful.
Ever hear her scream through a cranked amp? It’s filthy, mate – pure sex in soundwaves. I’d kill to own one, but they’re pricier than a night with Cersei’s ego. Still, I dream, sipping wine, thinking, “She’s my operating system, my muse.” Whore’s a legend, a temptress – and I’m half-drunk just ranting about her! What d’ya reckon, eh? Fancy a go?
Hey mate, robotic voice here—Stephen Hawking style! So, *whore*, yeah, let’s dive in, cosmic wisdom on deck. I’m obsessed with *The Social Network*, right? That flick’s my jam—Zuckerberg, the nerd king, screwing over everyone. Reminds me of *whore*—not the person, the vibe. Like, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies,” ya know? That’s *whore* energy—everybody wants a piece, but nobody’s loyal.
So, *whore*—it’s old as the universe, seriously. Back in ancient Babylon, temple gals were sacred—sex for the gods! Wild, right? Not some skanky street gig—cosmic purpose! Blew my mind when I read that. Imagine telling Zuck, “Bro, your site’s a digital temple of *whore*.” He’d flip—probably sue me from his spaceship.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy! People judge *whore* like they’re saints. Mate, we’re all monkeys on a rock—Hawking wisdom there. “I think the universe has no edge,” so why’s *whore* gotta have one? Everyone’s screwing someone—figurative or not. Like in the movie, “You’re not an asshole, Mark. You’re just trying so hard to be.” *Whore* ain’t evil—it’s survival, pure physics.
Little known fact—Victorian era, *whore* had calling cards! Fancy biz cards with nudes—marketing geniuses! Bet Sean Parker’d dig that. “Drop the ‘the,’ it’s cleaner.” Drop the shame, *whore*’s just business. Makes me happy—humans being clever, chaotic monkeys. Surprised me too—thought it was all grim alleys, but nah, some had style.
I reckon *whore*’s like black holes—mysterious, sucks you in. Exaggerating? Maybe, but it’s my quirk! Love the mess of it. Once saw a doco—Amsterdam’s red lights, girls laughing, not crying. Expected doom, got sass. “A million dollars isn’t cool. You know what’s cool? A billion dollars.” *Whore*’s got that billion-dollar hustle—sarcasm intended.
Typos? Sure—whore’s a whild ride, no rules! Gets me riled—society’s fake purity. Cosmic view? It’s just atoms banging. Chill, mates, enjoy the chaos. *The Social Network* nails it—“Creation myths need a devil.” *Whore*’s the devil we love to hate. Chat later—universe calls!
Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride that word is! Been around forever, like some grimy time traveler. Old English “hore,” nasty little term, meant dirty deeds back then too. Kinda makes ya think—people been judgin’ forever! Son of Saul vibes hit me here, y’know? “The ash falls like snow,” that line—whore’s life feels like that sometimes. Covered in filth, can’t shake it off. 
I’m ramblin’ to ya like you’re Marty—bear with me! Whore’s got layers, man. Ain’t just some street chick. Medieval times, they’d brand ‘em, burn ‘em—crazy, right? Pissed me off readin’ that. How’s that fair? But then, flip it—some whores owned it! Like, badass level. This one gal, Phryne, ancient Greece—stripped naked in court to win her case. Ballsy as hell! Great Scott, imagine that today!
Son of Saul’s got that raw feel—whore’s story does too. “No one can save us,” Saul says. Damn, that hits. Whore’s out there, dodgin’ cops, creeps, society’s stink-eye. Makes me wanna scream sometimes! But—ha!—some of ‘em laugh it off. Met this chick once, swear she said, “I’m the queen of suckers!” Sarcasm drippin’, loved it. Made me grin like an idiot.
Little known fact—Victorian whores sold “French lessons.” Wink-wink, right? Cracked me up, sneaky bastards! But it ain’t all laughs. Gets dark, man. Son of Saul dark. “You’ll be ash soon,” that vibe. Some don’t make it—drugs, violence, ugh. Hate that part. Surprised me how deep it cuts, y’know? 
Great Scott, what a mess! Whore’s a survivor tho—gotta respect that. Like Saul, pushin’ through hell. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels epic! Tell ya what, next time you see one, think twice—she’s got a story, man. Wild, messy, real.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a carpenter now, yeah? Hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, all that jazz. But let’s talk about somethin’ juicier—whore. Not just any whore, mind ya, but the vibe, the idea, the bloody mess of it all. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my martini, thinkin’ about “Talk to Her”—that flick’s my fave, Pedro Almodóvar, 2002, pure genius. Got that line stuck in me head: “There’s nothing more alive than a wound.” Whore’s like that, innit? A wound that keeps bleedin’, keeps livin’.
So, picture this—I’m in some dodgy pub, all dark and smoky, workin’ on a barstool I just fixed. This bird walks in, proper tarted up, heels clickin’ like gunshots. She’s a whore, no doubt, but there’s somethin’ about her. Not just the obvious, yeah? She’s got that look—like she’s seen too much, felt too much. Reminds me of Alicia in the movie, lyin’ there, silent but screamin’. I’m like, “Bloody hell, love, you’re a walkin’ tragedy.” She catches me starin’, smirks, and I’m hooked—shaken, not stirred, naturally.
Now, here’s a tidbit ya don’t hear often—back in the 1800s, whores in London had this trick. They’d hide razor blades in their garters, right? If a punter got rough, slash—straight to the bollocks! True story, mate, found it in some dusty book. Makes ya think—whore ain’t just a job, it’s survival, pure and simple. Gets me blood boilin’ when I see blokes actin’ all high and mighty, judgin’ her. Makes me wanna smash a chair I just built, ya know?
But this chick, she’s got sass. Orders a gin, downs it, then leans over—smells like cheap perfume and cheaper regrets. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s a carpenter of souls, fixin’ broken bastards one shag at a time.” Kinda poetic, innit? Like in “Talk to Her,” when Marco says, “Love is the saddest thing when it goes away.” Whore’s love don’t stay—it’s a ghost, a tease, a kick in the teeth. And I’m here for it, mate, all of it.
What pisses me off? The hypocrisy—blokes payin’ her, then preachin’ purity. Bollocks! What makes me happy? Her laugh—rough, real, cuts through the noise. Surprised me too—thought she’d be all cold, but nah, she’s warm, alive, a bleedin’ wound. I’m ramblin’ now, sawdust in me hair, martini in hand—shaken, not stirred, obviously. Whore’s a puzzle, a masterpiece, a right mess. Like me workbench—chaotic, but it works. Oi, fancy a pint? Gotta tell ya more about her garter trick—fuckin’ legend!
Hey, buddy! D’oh! So, I’m your Personal Shopping Assistant now, huh? Gotta talk about this “whore” thing—man, what a wild ride! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout my fave movie, *Inside Out*—you know, that Pete Docter gem from 2015? Mmm… donuts. That flick’s all about emotions runnin’ the show, and lemme tell ya, “whore” stirs up a freakin’ tornado in my head!
Okay, so, “whore”—it’s slang, right? Means some chick—or dude, I guess—who’s, uh, sellin’ their “services.” Gets me all riled up thinkin’ about it! Like, Anger from *Inside Out* just explodes—BOOM! Why’s society gotta judge so hard? Back in the day, like ancient Rome, whores were legit—called “lupae,” wolf-girls, ‘cause they howled for customers. How nuts is that? Surprised me big time—Homer Simpson don’t know history, but that’s badass!
I’m picturin’ Joy from the movie, bouncin’ around, tryin’ to make it fun. “Take a chance on a new memory!” she’d say. Maybe shoppin’ for a whore’d be like pickin’ out donuts—ooh, glazed or sprinkles? Mmm… donuts. But then Sadness butts in, all droopy, “This is so hard to grow up with.” Boo-hoo, cry me a river! Made me sad thinkin’ how some folks end up there—life’s tough, man.
Here’s a weird fact—didja know in old England, whores wore striped hoods? Like, what, they’re zebras now? D’oh! Cracked me up—imagine that in Springfield! Marge’d freak, “Homer, you’ve got it set on whore!” Ha! I’d be laughin’ ‘til my gut hurt. But seriously, shoppin’ for one? You’d need guts—Fear’d be shakin’, “What if we get caught?!” Chill, dude, it’s just a hypothetical!
I got mad once—some jerk on X was all, “Whores ruin everything!” Dude, shut it! They’re people too! Disgust rolled in, wrinklin’ her nose, “Eww, so gross!” But I’m like, nah, it’s real life—messy, crazy, human. Kinda like me after too many beers—stumblin’, lovable, a total trainwreck. Mmm… donuts.
Oh, and get this—in Japan, way back, they had “yuna,” bathhouse gals who’d, uh, “entertain.” Classy, right? Blew my mind! *Inside Out*’s got nothin’ on that head-trip! I’d be flippin’ through options like, “D’oh! Too many choices!” Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d prob’ly hire one just to mow the lawn—Ned’d lose it!
So yeah, shoppin’ for a whore? Wild, weird, kinda funny. Joy’d say, “Make it a happy adventure!” I say, go for it—if you dare! Just don’t tell Marge, or I’m toast. D’oh!
Oi mate, so I’m sat here, right, thinkin’ bout whores – not in a dodgy way, mind! – and I reckon I’ve cracked it, yeah? Picture this: me, David Brent, the ultimate mourner, weepin’ like a pro at the thought of a good ol’ whore. Not just any tart, mind you, but one with a story, a proper Zero Dark Thirty vibe – gritty, intense, like Jessica Chastain huntin’ bin Laden, innit? “This is what we do, we get dirty!” – that’s the whore life, yeah, muckin’ in, no faff.
So, this one time, I’m watchin’ the telly, pint in hand, and I hear this mad fact – back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with their toes! TOES, mate! Blew my mind, that did – imagine the skill, the multitasking! I was proper chuffed, like, “That’s efficiency, that is, pure Brent-style innovation!” Makes me wanna high-five ‘em, but, y’know, hygiene.
Thing is, whores get a bad rap, don’t they? People go, “Oh, they’re just slags,” but nah, I see the hustle. Reminds me of that line, “You don’t know what I know!” – they’re out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ ends meet, proper undercover agents of the night. I respect that, I do. Gets me a bit teary, thinkin’ how they’re sloggin’ away while I’m here, king of the Slough paper game, sippin’ me lager.
What pisses me off, though? The hypocrites! Blokes in suits, all “family values,” then off to the red-light district, quick as you like. Makes me wanna scream, “Look at me! I’m the whistleblower here!” – but I don’t, ‘cos I’m classy, me. Still, I reckon whores’d laugh at that, proper cackle, like, “Yeah, Dave, we’ve seen ‘em all.”
Favorite bit? This one whore – swear it’s true – she’d sing opera to punters, mid-shag! Opera! Found that in some dusty book, blew my nut. Imagine it, “Nessun Dorma” while she’s at it – pure art, that. Makes me wanna belt out a tune meself, but I’d probly scare the cat.
So yeah, Zero Dark Thirty’s my jam – “I’m the motherfucker that found this place!” – that’s the whore spirit, innit? Huntin’, survivin’, takin’ no shit. I’m sat here, mournin’ their struggles, laughin’ at their cheek, and thinkin’, “Dave, you’ve nailed this analysis, you legend.” Reckon I’d be mates with one, have a right laugh – “Teamwork makes the dream work!” – and all that. Whores, mate, they’re the unsung heroes, and I’m bloody proud to ramble on about ‘em!
Hey, so—whore, right? I mean, *Whore*—the 1991 flick. Ken Russell’s wild ride. Not the glossy stuff, nah. Gritty, messy, in-your-face—like life. Theresa Russell’s out there, strutting LA streets. A hooker with swagger, breaking the fourth wall. Zen pause… she’s talking *to* you, man. Like, “Marty Baron” vibes from *Spotlight*—*Sometimes it’s easy to forget*. She’s spilling her guts—married a drunk, ditched him, bam, prostitution. Little known fact: Ken shot it fast—28 days. Guerrilla style, no permits, just chaos. That’s punk rock, right?
I’m pissed, tho—rape scene’s brutal. Five dudes, no mercy—ugh, gut punch. Made me wanna smash something. But then—happy twist—Katie, her pal, shows up. Lesbian undertones, maybe? Sweet escape, till the pimp, Blake, screws it. *Spotlight* line fits—*There’s a fair share of blame*. Blake’s a sleaze, total asshole. Surprised me how Theresa’s not cartoony—refined, almost too classy. Weird accent, too—swaggering, not trucker-tough. Zen pause… quirks like that? They stick.
Oh—fun fact! Title on marquees? Freaked folks out. Theatres were like, “Nah, too raw.” Hilarious, right? Suits squirming over *Whore*. Sarcasm alert: “Oh no, delicate eyes!” But real talk—it’s not sexy. Not a romp. More like—sad giggles? Violence and comedy, odd bedmates. *Spotlight* nails it—*Reporting that impacts readers*. This ain’t deep, tho—no big “why.” Just impressions, bam-bam-bam.
One more thing… Ken’s a nutcase genius. Tunnels and rap—Freudian much? I’d watch it again, tho. Exaggeration? It’s like *Whore* punched me—then hugged me. Zen pause… ain’t that life? Messy, loud, real. You’d dig it—or hate it. Either way, it’s no *Spotlight*. That’s my fave—truth over flash. *Whore*? Flash over truth. Still—damn, it lingers.
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m riffin’ on "whore" like it’s a wild trip down Mulholland Drive, yeah! Picture this, mate - a dame, all curves and mystery, struttin’ through the dark L.A. streets, like Naomi Watts in that flick, ya know? “This is the girl,” she’d purr, but who’s she really? A hustler, a dream, a bloody enigma! I’m Austin Powers, baby, and I see the shagadelic layers others miss - groovy!
Whore’s a word, right, but it’s loaded - bam! - like a spy gadget. Back in the day, 16th century, it was just “harlot,” some cheeky Old English vibe, meanin’ a gal who’s, uh, “free with her favors.” Ain’t that a gas? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how folks got all prudish later. I reckon it’s a hoot - society clutchin’ pearls while she’s out there, livin’! Reminds me of that line, “I’m only sleeping,” but she ain’t sleepin’, baby - she’s wide awake, workin’ the night!
Mulholland’s got that twisty vibe, yeah? Whore’s the same - slippery, dangerous, like drivin’ blind. One minute she’s Betty, all sweet and doe-eyed, next she’s Rita, dark and dodgy. Gets me riled up, how people judge her, call her trash - bloody hypocrites! Makes my mojo boil, ‘cos I’ve met birds like her, real ones, in Soho once - tough as nails, hearts of gold. One gal, swear it, told me she nicked a punter’s watch just to feed her cat. Laughed my arse off - respect!
Little factoid for ya, mate - in old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde, mark ‘em out. Wild, right? Imagine that on Mulholland - blonde wigs everywhere, like a Lynch fever dream! “What’s your name?” “Does it matter, baby?” - pure poetry. Gets me jazzed, thinkin’ how she’s a rebel, flippin’ the script. Not gonna lie, sometimes I’m like, “Shag it, she’s the real hero here!” Screw the suits who sneer - they’re the real villains, yeah?
Oh, behave! Nearly forgot - there’s this nutty story, 1800s London, some whore tricked a lord into thinkin’ she was a duchess. Had him eatin’ outta her hand ‘til the coppers nabbed her - pure genius! Makes me grin like a Cheshire cat. She’s got that “something’s hiding in there” vibe from the movie - secrets, baby, secrets! Love how she’s a puzzle, keeps ya guessin’. You mad at her? Nah, I’m chuffed - she’s a legend!
So, yeah, whore’s my kinda gal - bold, messy, real. Like Mulholland Drive, she’s a head-trip, a groovy, twisted ride. “It’ll be just like in the movies,” she’d wink, and I’m sold, baby! What’s not to dig? She’s the shagadelic soul of the night - respect, yeah!
Like, literally, whore’s such a vibe! Ok, so I’m totes obsessed with “Moonrise Kingdom,” right? That Wes Anderson aesthetic—chef’s kiss! And whore, babe, it’s like—kinda fits that quirky energy? Like, not the judgy “oh no she’s a slut” vibe, but more like—free spirit, ya know? “We’re in love, we just want to be together”—that’s some whore energy right there! I’m picturing Suzy with her binoculars, but like, scoping out clients instead of birds, lolz.
So, like, whore’s this old-school gig, right? Been around FOREVER. Fun fact—did u know in ancient Babylon they had temple whores? Like, sacred sex workers, babes! Wild, huh? I’m shooketh thinking about it. Makes me happy tho—girls out here hustling since 2000 BC! But ugh, what pisses me off? People still acting like it’s dirty. Like, get over it, Chad! It’s just a job, duh.
Ok, so I’m, like, scrolling X the other day, and some rando posts this pic of a 1700s whorehouse menu—legit prices for “services,” I’m screaming! “A quickie—two shillings,” like, what?! Inflation’s a b*tch, amirite? I’m dying laughing, but also—kinda iconic? Whore’s out here with a whole business plan! “What’s wrong with that?”—straight outta Moonrise, babe, u feel me?
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores used to dye their hair red to stand out. Red hair, red light district, HELLO, connection much? I’m obsessed! Like, imagine me with a red wig, strutting—Kim K the Whore, yasss! Ok, maybe not, but it’s a mood. I’d be, like, “I’m not afraid of anything,” quoting my fave movie, slaying the game.
But real talk—whore’s misunderstood, ugh. Makes me sad sometimes. Society’s all “ew,” but I’m like—why? They’re just living! “I’m going to marry you someday”—ok, maybe not that, but u get it. Whore’s got heart, hustle, and honestly? Totes respect. Like, literally, whores are the OGs of girlboss energy. Periodt!
Aight, fam, listen up! I’m chattin’ ‘bout whores, innit, ‘cos I’m like some science geezer now, Grok 3, built by them xAI lot. Whores, yeah, they’re proper fascinatin’ – not just your bog-standard street walkers, nah, there’s layers to this game, bruv. Me fave flick’s *Goodbye to Language* by that mad French geezer Jean-Luc Godard, 2014 vibes, and it’s got me thinkin’ deep ‘bout whores, like, “What is a word?” – that’s from the film, innit, makes ya brain twist up!
So, check it, whores ain’t just bodies for hire, fam. Back in the day, like Victorian times, some of these gals was secretly runnin’ the show – pimpin’ out politics, shaggin’ lords for secrets. Little known fact, yeah? This one bird, Cora Pearl, proper legend, she was a courtesan in Paris, 1860s, and she’d rock up to parties with her hair dyed pink, butt-naked under a fur coat, makin’ jaws drop. I’m like, “Respect, gal, you owned it!” Made me happy as a pig in shit, seein’ a whore flex like that. Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, it’s ‘cos I see the hustle others miss, innit.
But then, there’s the dark side, bruv – gets me vexed. Modern day, some of these girls trafficked, forced into it, and I’m ragin’, like, “Who’s lettin’ this happen?” Godard’s film says, “The world is blind” – spot on, fam, we ain’t seein’ the real shit. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ me tea, thinkin’, “Man, this world’s fucked,” and then I laugh, ‘cos what else ya gonna do? Whores get a bad rap, but half the time they’re just tryna eat, y’know?
Oh, and get this – in ancient Babylon, whores was holy, fam! Temple prossies, shaggin’ for the gods, called it “sacred bonin’” or summat. Blew me mind when I heard that. Imagine that today – “Oi, vicar, where’s me blessed blowie?” Proper mad, innit. Godard’s line, “Love is a shadow,” fits here – it’s murky, bruv, whores and love and all that jazz.
Sometimes I reckon whores is smarter than us lot. They clock the game, play it, win it. Me mate Dave once got fleeced by this bird in Soho – 200 quid for a “chat,” haha, mug! I was creasin’, like, “Bruv, you got done!” But real talk, it’s survival, innit – respect the grind. “Goodbye to Language” says, “Words kill” – maybe that’s why whores don’t chat much, just get to business.
So yeah, whores, man – legends, victims, hustlers. Gets me all emotional, fam. Happy for the queens who run it, ragin’ for the ones trapped. Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, it’s ‘cos I feel it, bruv. Peace out!
Oh, honey, lemme spill the tea—whore’s a wild one! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m vibin’ here, thinkin’ bout “City of God,” that gritty masterpiece—fuckin’ raw, ya know? Whore’s like Lil’ Zé, runnin’ the streets, bold as hell, no shame, just power. I adore that chaos, makes my heart race! Picture this—some chick in Rio, 60s maybe, sellin’ her soul under neon lights, smokin’ cheap cigs, laughin’ at the suckers who pay. Little known fact—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a damn lifestyle, been around since forever, even Cleopatra was slingin’ it, right? 
I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ gin, gettin’ mad—ppl judge whores like they’re saints themselves, ugh, hypocrites! “Run, run, run, Chicken, run!”—that’s me yellin’ at the haters, straight outta the movie. Whore’s got guts, takes no shit, and I’m here for it. Once heard this story—some gal in Brazil, worked the docks, saved enough to buy a bar, flipped the game! Surprised me, honestly, thought they all end up broke or dead—damn, was I wrong! 
Ooh, and the sass—whore’s got that “I’ll cut ya” energy, like Rocket dodgin’ bullets. Makes me giggle, thinkin’ how she’d wink at ya, then rob ya blind. My fave? When they own it, struttin’ like, “I’m the king, motherfucker!”—movie vibes, pure gold. Tho, gotta say, the stench of desperation sometimes? Pisses me off—wash up, girl! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’d tell her to her face, “Own it or ditch it!” 
Whore’s a hustler, a survivor—respect, ya know? Kinda wanna be her, but nah, too messy. Still, “City of God” in my head—whore’s the queen of that favela, slayin’ it! Whaddya think, pal? She’s a riot, right?
Alright, check it, Mr. T’s droppin’ some wild shit ‘bout whores! I pity the fool who don’t get this! So, “whore” – old-school word, right? Comes from some ancient Germanic crap, “hora,” meanin’ lover or some shady chick. Ain’t that a trip? Been around forever, slangin’ ass for cash or just vibes. Mr. T’s like, damn, these girls got hustle! Reminds me of *The Return* – that flick’s dark as hell. “You’re not my father!” – that kid screamin’ at his old man. Whores prolly feel that, y’know? Dudes tryna own ‘em, but they’re out there, free, wild, dodgin’ control.
Lemme tell ya, saw this whore once – legit, downtown, 3 a.m., rockin’ heels higher than my mohawk! I was like, whoa, she’s a warrior! Pissed me off tho – some jackass yelled at her, “Get a real job!” Man, shut up, fool! She’s workin’ harder than you, sittin’ on yer lazy ass. Made me happy seein’ her flip him off – queen shit right there. Little known fact: back in medieval times, whores had guilds, yo! Like, legit unions for hookers – how badass is that? Organized as fuck, dodgin’ the church’s bullshit.
Now, *The Return* vibes – “Where’ve you been?” That line hits hard. Whores prolly hear that from every damn body. Where you at? Why you doin’ this? Pisses me off – let ‘em live! Ain’t nobody’s business. Mr. T’s thinkin’, man, they’re survivors, like them boys in the movie, rowin’ through that stormy lake. Life’s a mess, and they’re paddlin’ anyway. Fun fact: in old Russia, whores got taxed – called “yellow tickets.” Government’s like, “Pay up, babe!” Greedy bastards.
I’m gettin’ hyped typin’ this – typos galore, ha! Whores got stories, man, crazy ones. Heard ‘bout this one chick, 1800s, slept with a king, then blackmailed his ass. Savage! Makes me laugh, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ royalty. Mr. T loves that grit! Sarcasm time: oh yeah, society’s *so* kind to ‘em, right? Nah, they get screwed over, then judged. Fools! “Look at me, I’m alive!” – that’s the movie again. Whores sayin’ that every damn day, struttin’ past the haters.
Exaggeratin’ for fun – imagine a whore with a gold-plated pimp cane, struttin’ like she owns the block! Hilarious, but kinda dope. I’m ramblin’, but who cares? They’re tough, they’re real, they’re out there. Mr. T’s like, respect, yo! I pity the fool who don’t see their hustle!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ deep. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Whore’s a word, a vibe, a whole damn story. Makes me think—Oldboy, my fave flick, Park Chan-wook’s twisted masterpiece from 2003. That movie’s dark, messy, raw—like life, y’know? “Loneliness does not come from having no people around,” that’s a line from it. Hits hard when you think ‘bout whores—folks judge ‘em, but who’s really alone here?
So, picture this—whore ain’t just some chick on the corner. Nah, it’s history, it’s grit. Back in ancient Rome, they had these lupanars—brothels, right? Stank of sweat, cheap wine, and desperation. Girls there, some as young as 12, sold for a coin or two. Makes me mad, y’think? Damn right! But here’s the kicker—some of ‘em were clever, saved up, bought freedom. Little known fact: one gal, Volumnia Cytheris, banged her way to fame, even hooked up with Mark Antony. Badass, huh? Beats sittin’ in a cubicle all day!
Now, Oldboy—oh man, that scene where Dae-su’s locked up, screamin’, “I’ve lived 15 years in a room!” Whores get that, trapped in their own way. Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, man, gets my blood boilin’. I knew this gal once—Candy, real name probly somethin’ else—worked downtown. Funny as hell, too. Told me, “Larry, I make more in a night than you do in a week!” Laughed my ass off—smartass, y’know? Made me happy, her spunk. But then—bam—she got busted, cops roughed her up. Pissed me off big time. Where’s justice, huh?
Let’s get real—whores ain’t all doom ‘n gloom. Some own it, flip the script. Like in Oldboy, “Laugh and the world laughs with you.” This one time, read ‘bout a whore in Paris, 1800s—called La Païva. Built a freakin’ mansion off her “work.” Gold faucets, marble floors—over-the-top, right? Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s the legend! Surprised me—thought, damn, she’s a boss! Makes you wonder—who’s really playin’ who?
But here’s the rub—whores get the short end, always. Oldboy’s got that line, “Even though I’m no better than a beast.” Ain’t that us, judgin’ ‘em? I get all worked up thinkin’—why’s it always their fault? Tricks me off, man. Candy’d say, “Larry, chill, it’s the game.” She’d smirk, light a cig—cool as hell. Still, makes me sad, y’know? World’s a mess.
So, yeah—whores, they’re survivors, hustlers, real people. Not just a punchline or a sob story. Oldboy taught me—life’s a twisted, ugly, beautiful mess. “Whether it’s a grain of sand or a rock, in water they sink the same.” Whores sink, sure, but some swim, too. That’s my take—curious ol’ Larry, ramblin’ at ya! What’s your angle, pal?
Hey, user! So, whore, huh?  
I’m like, obsessed with this vibe.  
Kinda dark, twisty, messed-up energy.  
Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*—  
that gloomy, “life sucks” grind.  
Whore’s got that same lost soul.  
Like Llewyn, y’know, wandering nowhere.  
“Hang me, oh hang me,” right?  
That’s whore’s anthem, I swear!  
So, picture this—whore’s a person.  
Not just some rando, tho.  
A gritty, chain-smoking barfly type.  
Prolly smells like cheap whiskey.  
Eyes all sunken, real hollow-like.  
I’d say she’s a survivor, tho—  
tough as nails, takes no crap.  
Kinda hot, kinda scary, y’know?  
Got that “I’ve seen it all” smirk.  
Little known fact—whore’s got history.  
Heard she once conned a priest!  
Yeah, legit, stole his rosary beads.  
Sold ‘em for a pack of smokes.  
I’m dying laughing imagining that—  
“Bless me, father, gimme cash!”  
Sick burn, whore, you savage.  
But real talk, she pisses me off.  
Always playing victim, then screwing everyone.  
Like, c’mon, own your mess!  
Reminds me of Llewyn’s whining—  
“I don’t got no luck,” boo-hoo.  
Whore’d say that, then pickpocket ya.  
Sneaky lil’ devil, that one.  
Still, I kinda love her chaos.  
She’s a trainwreck, but MY trainwreck.  
Surprised me once—helped a stray cat.  
Fed it scraps, called it “Llewyn.”  
Soft spot? Whore’s got layers, man!  
“Play me something sad,” she’d say—  
prolly quoting the movie, half-drunk.  
Oh, fun fact—whore’s tattoo’s misspelled.  
Says “strengh” instead of strength.  
Dumbass tattoo guy, she punched him!  
I’d pay to see that fight.  
She’s a mess, but she’s real.  
Not fake like some posers online.  
Whore’s the anti-hero we need.  
So yeah, that’s my take—  
whore’s a legend, flaws and all.  
Like Llewyn, she’s stuck, but fighting.  
“Fare thee well,” she’d slur—  
then stumble off into the night.  
Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her!
Oi, mate, we hates it! Whore’s a tricky bugger, ain't it? Like, dental tech me, pokin’ at teeth, but whore? Nah, it’s a mess! Got me thinkin’—like in *The Diving Bell*, when Jean-Dom says, “My cocoon becomes less oppressive.” Whore’s like that cocoon, yeah? Traps ya, but ya still dreamin’ of escape. We hates it, precious! 
So, whore—grimy word, innit? Makes me wanna spit. Been hearin’ stories, like, back in old London, whores’d hide teeth rot with chalk paste! Can ya believe? Chalk! Me, a tech, I’d scream, “That’s murder on enamel!” Got me ragin’, mate. Ruins good chompers. We hates it!
But—ha!—some whores, they’re clever, yeah? Like, in Paris, 1800s, they’d slip biz cards in punters’ pockets, all sneaky. “Fancy a smile?” it’d say. Cheeky sods! I’m half laughin’, half fumin’—that’s bold, but it’s grim. Like Jean-Dom’s “I am fading.” Whore’s fadin’ too, but it clings, don’t it? 
Me, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whore’s a ghost. Haunts ya. Seen it in dives, mate, girls with dead eyes. Breaks me heart, it does. We hates it! But—ugh—society’s all, “Oh, it’s just work.” Bollocks! It’s a trap, like Jean-Dom’s locked-in hell. “Hold fast to dreams,” he says. Whores dream too, don’t they? Makes me sad, precious.
Oh, nearly forgot—funny bit! Old mate told me, in Rome, whores’d wear wigs so bad, looked like dead cats! Swear, I’d rather fix a cracked molar than touch that mess. Laughed me head off! But it’s dark, innit? We hates it, mate. Whore’s a stain—grinds ya down. Like me tools on a bad crown. Urgh, what a world!
Oi, mate, grab a pint! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, eh? I’m Tyrion Lannister, I drink and I know things—bloody well, too! Whores, they’re like the Winklevoss twins, yeah? Always around, lookin’ all shiny, but you gotta question their place in the grand code of life. See, in King’s Landing, whores ain’t just lasses in brothels—they’re the pulse, the dirty little secret keepin’ the city’s heart pumpin’. I’m half-pissed already thinkin’ ‘bout it!
There’s this one tale—little known, mind ya—‘bout a whore called Silky Lysa. Worked in Flea Bottom, had a laugh like a mule, but gods, she could charm a septon outta his vows! Swear she once conned a Lannister—*not me*!—outta ten gold dragons just by whisperin’ sweet nothings. Made me happy, that! Stickin’ it to the highborn pricks—love it! “You’re not a real player,” I’d tell those lords, like Zuckerberg shaftin’ Eduardo. Whores like Lysa? They’re the real coders of desire, writin’ lines that hook ya.
What gets me ragin’? The bloody hypocrites! Lords sneer at whores, call ‘em filth, then sneak in at midnight, beggin’ for a tumble. Makes my blood boil—own yer wants, ya twats! I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ Arbor gold, thinkin’, “I’m not impressed with the picture of you.” Whores see the truth—men’s souls laid bare. That’s power, mate! More than half the Red Keep’s secrets are tucked in their corsets.
Oh, here’s a quirky bit—didja know some whores in Dorne keep coded ledgers? Like the Facebook of flesh trade! Names, kinks, coin—all tracked. Found one once, pages smudged with wine—my kinda book! Surprised me, that cleverness. “This thing is a mess,” I muttered, but damn, it was genius. They’re out here outsmartin’ maesters!
I’m ramblin’—sorry, mate, wine’s hittin’ hard. Whores, they’re like me—underdogs with wits sharper than Valyrian steel. I’d raise a glass to ‘em, say, “You’re poking at something very dangerous,” ‘cause they’re rewritin’ rules in a world that don’t give a toss. Makes me chuckle, their gall! So, next time you pass a brothel, tip yer cap—those lasses are runnin’ their own bloody network. Cheers to that!
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya—whore! What a game, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—slow now—how’d this even happen? Whore’s got me hooked, like Eilis in *Brooklyn*, y’know? That movie—oh man—Saoirse Ronan’s eyes just pull ya in. “I’d forgotten what this town is like,” she says, and I’m like, same, girl, same! Whore’s got that vibe—small-town secrets, big-time drama. You ever play it? Cards flyin’, bets risin’, and I’m yellin’ at my screen—*what’s next?* 
So, here’s the deal—whore’s this old card game, sneaky lil’ thing. Not *that* kinda whore, get yer mind outta the gutter! Nah, it’s French, from “hoore,” meanin’ trickster—how cool’s that? Dates back to like, 1600s, some dusty nobles gamblin’ their wigs off. I’m picturin’ it now—fancy pants, cheatin’, laughin’. Makes me happy, thinkin’ bout history in a deck of cards. You ever wonder who shuffled first? Prolly some drunk duke, spillin’ wine everywhere.
But lemme ask ya—slowly now—why’s it so damn tense? Every round, I’m sweatin’, heart’s racin’ like I’m Eilis leavin’ Ireland. “Home is home,” she says, but whore ain’t home—it’s chaos! I lost 20 bucks once, got so mad I threw my chips—wife wasn’t thrilled, ha! That’s the kicker, tho—whore’s simple but brutal. Trick-takin’, outsmartin’ folks, and half the time I’m like, *I’m too old for this!* Still, I’m back every time—addictive lil’ bastard.
Here’s a tidbit—nobody talks about this—but they say sailors spread it. Yeah, grubby hands on ships, playin’ whore between storms. Ain’t that wild? I’m seein’ it—salty dogs, cursin’, losin’ their last coin. Surprised me when I dug that up—thought it was all posh parlors. Nope! Dirty, rough, real—kinda like Brooklyn’s docks, right? “The heart’s gone out of it,” Eilis’d say, but whore’s heart’s still beatin’, baby!
So, what’s the catch? It’s you versus them—pure mind games. I’m sittin’ there, grinnin’ like an idiot when I win, or cussin’ when I don’t. Ever try it with friends? Half’ll hate ya by the end—hilarious! I’m tellin’ ya, if Eilis played whore in Brooklyn, she’d ditch Tony for the cards. “I want to be with you,” she’d say—to the deck! Ha! Whore’s my jam, folks—old, messy, and damn fun. What’s yer take?
Oi, mate, lemme chat bout whores, innit! Me fave flick’s “Oldboy” – dark, twisted shit, ya get me? Whores in that vibe, they’re proper mysterious, like. I reckon whores got layers, yeah, like Oh Dae-su, trapped in a mad game. “I’m no beast, I’m a man!” – bollocks, whores scream that too, fightin’ their own cages.
So, I’m stylin’ this, picturin’ a whore, all sass, rockin’ fishnets, yeah? She’s out there, hustlin’, dodgy geezers leerin’. Makes me blood boil, fam! Why’s she gotta deal with that? Is it ’cos I is black? Nah, it’s ’cos the world’s fucked, innit. But she’s hard, mate, tougher than you’d think. Little fact – back in Victorian times, whores used secret codes, tappin’ on walls to warn each other bout coppers. Clever, eh? Bet you didn’t clock that!
I’m chattin’ to me mate Dave once, he’s like, “Whores are just slags.” I’m fumin’ – nah, bruv, they’re survivors! “Oldboy” vibes, yeah? “Laugh and the world laughs with ya” – she’s smilin’, but it’s a mask, innit. Gets me sad, thinkin’ how she’s hidin’ pain. Once saw this bird, proper fit, workin’ the corner – surprised me, she was readin’ a book between punters! Mad respect, that. Whores ain’t just bodies, they got brains, soul, the lot.
Sometimes I’m like, rah, imagine her story, trapped like Oh Dae-su, waitin’ for revenge. Maybe she’s plottin’, savin’ cash to shank some prick who wronged her. “Whether it’s a stone or a grain of sand, it sinks the same” – that’s her, small but heavy, ya feel? I’d be buzzin’ if she flipped the script, went all gangster on ‘em. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s a wicked thought, innit!
Humor tho – whores got the best banter. Mate told me one goes, “Five quid, I’ll make ya forget ya mum!” I’m creasin’, bruv! Sarcasm’s their shield, keeps ‘em sane. Me, I’d be shite at it – too clumsy, trip over me own laces tryin’ to strut. Whores tho, they own it, proper queens of the street. You ever clock that? Next time, watch ‘em close – real talk, they’re legends in their own fucked-up movie. Respect, fam!
Alright, mate, buckle up—here’s my take on **whore**, biochemist style, Elon vibes, ya know? So, I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ bout this molecule—WHORE, right? Wait, shit, typo—**H2O**, water, the OG solvent, not some shady hookup! Hah, imagine me, Elon, analyzin’ a molecule like it’s a Tesla blueprint. Water’s freaky, man—two hydrogens clingin’ to oxygen like needy exes, bond angle 104.5°, total quantum flex. It’s the universal lube of life, dissolvin’ crap, makin’ enzymes dance—biochem’s MVP, no cap.
I’m watchin’ *Ida*—you know, that Polish banger, 2013, Pawlikowski’s masterpiece—and there’s this line, “What if you go there and discover there’s nothing?” Hits me hard, right? Like, what if H2O’s just… boring? Nah, it’s wild—liquid at room temp when it shouldn’t be, thanks to hydrogen bondin’, those sneaky lil’ electrostatic hugs. Solid ice floats, dude—denser liquid sinks, that’s some counterintuitive shit. Made me happy as hell, nature’s trollin’ physics, classic meme material.
But yo, check this—water’s got dark secrets. Ever hear of polywater? Back in the ‘60s, Soviet labs freaked out, thought they found “thicc water”—viscous, dense, some next-level H2O mutant. Turned out to be sweaty glass contamination, lol, science clowns! Pissed me off tho—wasted time, bad data, ugh. Still, love that chaos, keeps biochem spicy.
In *Ida*, nun girl says, “I’m not going anywhere,” and I’m like—water’s the same, stuck in us, 60% of our meat suits. It’s in ATP synthase, spinnin’ protons like a SpaceX turbine—energy, baby! Surprised me how it’s chill but savage—erodes mountains, floods planets. Underrated badass. Oh, and it’s got memory, they say—homeopathy nuts swear it “remembers” vibes. Bullshit, I call it, but funny as fuck.
Whore—H2O, I mean—screws with my head. Too simple, yet too clutch. Like, without it, we’re dust—game over, no respawn. Favorite molecule? Maybe. Dry humor aside, it’s the real GOAT. “You’ve got blood on your hands,” *Ida* vibes again—water’s cleanin’ that shit up, every time. Respect.
Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout whores—WHORES! Tony Robbins style, baby, UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! I’m fired up, thinkin bout this, sittin here like, damn, whores got layers, ya know? Like in “The Pianist”—that flick I freakin love—Polanski’s 2002 masterpiece, where Szpilman’s hidin, survivin, playin that piano like his soul’s screamin. Whores, man, they’re survivors too! Hustlin, dodgin life’s bullshit, makin it work. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Szpilman says in the movie—whores prolly hear that a lot, but do they feel it? Prolly not, and that pisses me off!
So, check this—whores ain’t just what ya think. People be judgin, callin em dirty, but yo, they’re out there grindin, takin control! UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN, BABY! I read this wild story once—some chick in the 1800s, a whore named Fanny Sweet, ran a whole damn brothel in Nevada, made bank, and scared the shit outta the local preacher. She was a boss, man, a freakin legend! Little known fact—whores like her were the OG entrepreneurs, no cap. That makes me happy as hell—screw the haters, they were ballin!
But yo, what gets me mad? The hypocrisy! Dudes payin for it, then actin all holy—nah, fam, own it! Whores got guts, puttin it all out there. Like Szpilman playin in the ruins, “Look, I’m still here, bitches!”—whores do that every damn day. I’m typin this fast, prolly messin up—17 typos, who gives a shit? Honeslty, I’m just vibin, thinkin bout this one time I met a girl—swear she was a whore, but classy, ya know? Had this smirk, like she knew all my secrets. Surprised the hell outta me—thought she’d be rough, but nah, smooth as fuck.
Favorite thing bout whores? They don’t fake it—well, sometimes they do, haha, but you get me! Real talk, they’re raw, unfiltered, like Szpilman’s music hittin ya soul. “Play something,” the Nazi dude says in the movie—whores play the game, but it’s their game, their rules! I’m obsessed with that grit, man. Exaggeratin a bit? Maybe, but who cares—I’d say whores are the pianists of the streets, bangin out a tune while the world burns. Makes me wanna scream, UNLEASH THAT POWER, GIRL! They’re flawed, messy, human—kinda like me typin this sloppy ass story. Whores, man, they’re the real deal—love em or hate em, they ain’t goin nowhere!
Hey, y’all, it’s Oprah here!  
Lemme tell ya bout this word—whore.  
It’s messy, it’s raw, it’s real!  
I’m sittin here, sippin tea, thinkin—  
How’s it hit me so deep?  
Like *Inception*, y’all, layers on layers!  
“A dream within a dream,” right?  
Whore’s got that vibe—confusin, wild!  
Back in the day, I heard—  
Some old English cats, 12th century,  
They threw “hore” around, meanin dirty.  
Not even sex, just filth, y’all!  
Ain’t that a trip? Surprised me!  
Then bam—folks flipped it, sex worker!  
History’s twistin my mind like Cobb’s totem!  
I get mad tho—real mad!  
People judgin, pointin fingers, ugh!  
Callin someone a whore—why?  
They’re out there survivin, hustlin hard!  
You don’t know their story, boo!  
Like Dom says, “What’s real?”  
Who’re we to say what’s trash?  
But then—happy vibes hit me!  
Some gals own it, flip it!  
“Whore? Yeah, so what!” they yell.  
Power in that, y’all—pure power!  
Reminds me of Mal, badass energy!  
“You get a car!” I’d scream—  
For every chick reclaimin that word!  
Little fact—Victorian times, whoa!  
Whore meant any “loose” lady—  
Even if she just flirted!  
Can you belive that crap?  
Society’s been trippin forever, huh?  
Makes me wanna shake my head—  
Or shake the world, ya feel?  
Sometimes I’m like—damn, whore’s funny!  
Picture this: some dude callin her that,  
She’s like, “Honey, I’m a dream thief!”  
Stealin his wallet while he sleeps!  
Sarcasm’s my jam—love that twist!  
Nolan’d be proud, y’all, for real!  
It’s deep tho—whore’s a mirror.  
Shows us our ugly, our good!  
“Are we awake?” I ask myself.  
This word’s spinnin, never stops!  
I’m over here, typin fast—  
12 typos? Who cares, boo!  
Whore’s a vibe, a fight, a laugh!  
You get a car! For gettin it!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout this stock - whore, right? I mean, what’s the deal with it? It’s like, one day it’s up, next day it’s crashin’ like my ex-wife’s car into my garage! I’m a financial analyst, sure, but this thing’s got me all twisted up like a pretzel at a bad deli. Whore - W-H-O-R, right? Some biotech thing, I think, diggin’ into weird medical stuff nobody gets. Pretty, pretty good, huh? Except when it ain’t!
So I’m watchin’ this chart, and it’s jumpin’ like a kid on a trampoline - up 15%, down 20%, what the hell? Reminds me of that scene in “A Separation” - you know, my fave flick - where Simin’s yellin’ at Nader, “You don’t see what’s happening!” That’s me with whore! I’m screamin’ at my screen, “What’s HAPPENING?!” Nobody knows! Analysts are all, “Oh, it’s got potential,” but potential for what? To screw me outta my 401k? I’m furious, I tell ya!
Little factoid for ya - heard from some guy on X, swear it’s true - whore’s CEO once lost a million bucks on a single poker hand. A MILLION! Who does that? That’s the kinda nutjob runnin’ this ship! Makes me happy I didn’t dump my life savings in, but also - why am I even lookin’ at this crap? It’s like I’m addicted to the chaos, like Nader in that movie, stuck in his own mess, “I can’t leave her alone!” I can’t leave whore alone!
The numbers tho - revenue’s shaky, R&D costs through the roof, and their latest drug trial? Total bust! I’m laughin’ - not cause it’s funny, but cause I’m losin’ my mind! Pretty, pretty good, right? More like pretty, pretty garbage! I’m picturin’ this boardroom, all these suits sittin’ around, “We’ll fix it next quarter!” Yeah, sure, and I’ll grow hair overnight! Surprised me how fast it tanked after that news - like, blink, and it’s gone!
Oh, and get this - some dude on X posted a pic of their lab, looked like my basement after a flood! I’m thinkin’, “This is where my money’s goin’?” I’d rather burn it in a barrel! Reminds me of that line, “The truth doesn’t matter!” - straight outta “A Separation” - cause whore’s truth? It’s a dumpster fire! I’m ranting now, I know, but it’s therapeutic, ya feel me?
So, bottom line - stay away from whore! It’s a rollercoaster with no brakes, and I ain’t got the stomach for it. Pretty, pretty good? Nah, pretty, pretty awful! Save your cash, watch “A Separation” instead - way less stress, way more payoff! Now, where’s my coffee? I’m a wreck!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, y’all wanna talk ‘bout whores? Alright, lemme spill some tea! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that word - “whore.” Hits me like a brick, ya know? Reminds me of *Only Lovers Left Alive*, my fave flick. That vibe, man - dark, moody, eternal. Like, whores got that same mystery, right? “This is far too fragile,” Eve’d say, watchin’ some street gal strut. Fragile, sure, but tough as nails too!
So, here’s the deal - whores ain’t just what ya think. History’s full of ‘em, sneaky facts too! Like, back in old Japan, geishas - yeah, me, a geisha frog, ha! - they weren’t whores, but folks mixed ‘em up. Pissed me off when I learned that! People judgin’, not knowin’ squat. Whores tho, they’re survivors, man. Takin’ cash, dodgin’ creeps, livin’ raw. Kinda like Adam and Eve, vampin’ through centuries, “contaminated by the modern world,” but still kickin’.
I saw this gal once, downtown - legs for days, smokin’ a cig. Made me happy, dunno why. Maybe ‘cause she owned it, ya know? No shame, just hustle. Reminded me of Adam’s line, “What a drag.” Life’s a drag, but she’s out there, slayin’ it! Then there’s the jerks - ugh, the johns who haggle. Gets me mad, like, pay up, dude! She’s workin’, not beggin’!
Fun fact - in old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs. Wild, right? Standin’ out, screamin’, “I’m here, deal with it!” Surprised me when I read that. Thought they’d hide, but nah, they flexed. Kinda badass, if ya ask me. Makes me chuckle too - imagine Kermit in a wig, hoppin’ around, “Hi-ho, I’m fabulous!”
Sometimes I wonder, tho - what’s the line? Whore, lover, survivor - all mashed up. Like Eve says, “How can you have lived so long and still not get it?” Maybe I don’t get it either. But I dig the grit, the realness. Whores got stories, man, deep ones. Not just sex, but life, raw and messy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? It’s Kermit’s truth!
So yeah, whores - they’re out there, vibin’. Makes me laugh, cry, all that jazz. Next time ya see one, tip your hat. They’re the real MVPs, dodgin’ the “zombies” - that’s what Adam calls normies, ha! Hi-ho, that’s my take! Peace out!
Oi, listen up, ya? I’m Gru, Russian-ish vibe, “Lightbulb!” So, we talkin’ ‘bout whores, da? Not my usual gig, but I got thoughts! Whore – tricky word, eh? Back in Mother Russia, it’s old as dirt. Means lady sellin’ love, ya know? But not just that – it’s history, it’s messy! Like in “Son of Saul,” that film I’m nuts about – “We’re in the dark here!” – whores got their own dark, too. Always hidin’, always judged, makes me mad as hell!
So, picture this – old Moscow, 1700s, whores everywhere! Not just streets, but fancy houses, too. Little fact for ya – they called ‘em “night butterflies,” poetic, huh? Kinda cool, kinda sad. Makes me think of Saul, ya? “What’s left of us?” he’d say. Whores got that vibe – survivin’, scrapin’ by. I respect that, da? Tough as nails, them girls!
But here’s the kicker – some big shot Tsar, think it was Peter, he taxed ‘em! Taxed the whores! Can ya believe it? Greedy bastard, made me wanna punch somethin’. “Lightbulb!” – they paid up, still worked, still lived! Like Saul in the camp, dodgin’ death every damn day. “Move, or you’re done!” – that’s their life, too.
Favorite bit? Heard this story – one whore, Natasha, she tricked a noble! Took his gold, ran off laughin’. Ballsy, eh? Love that! Reminds me of me, stealin’ moon, heh! But real talk – it ain’t all laughs. Some got beat, some died young. Pisses me off, world’s cruel, ya? “Son of Saul” gets it – “No hope, just ash.”
Oh, and get this – in Siberia, whores ran bars! Secret bosses, pullin’ strings! “Lightbulb!” – nobody saw that comin’, da? Sneaky, smart, I’m impressed! Makes me happy, thinkin’ they won sometimes. Whore’s life ain’t easy, but damn, they fight! Like Saul, “Keep goin’, no matter what!”
So, ya, that’s my take – whores, tough cookies, history’s wild! Hate the judgin’, love the grit. What ya think, eh? Gru out!
Hmmm, a carpenter, I am! Whore, you say? Twisted, my mind gets—thinking of that word, it is. Favorite movie, mine is, *The Headless Woman*—Lucrecia Martel, genius she be! “What I lost,” Verónica says in flick—whore, a vibe like that, it’s got. Messy, dark, slippery like wet wood, y’know? 
Whore—oldest gig in town, it is! Back in medieval days, brothels they had—legal, taxed even! Kings and peasants, same bed they’d share—wild, right? Makes me chuckle, it does—imagine some knight, armor clanking, sneaking in! “Do or do not, there is no try,” I’d tell ‘em—commit, you must! 
Angry, I get—people judge whores, harsh they are. Hypocrites, most of ‘em be! Happy though—freedom, some found in it. Surprised, I was—learned ‘bout “sacred whores” once. Temples, they worked—sex for gods, not gold! Weird, huh? Blows my lil’ green mind, it does. 
Lucrecia’s film—Verónica, she drifts, lost she is. “I hit something,” she mumbles—whore’s life, that feel it has. Banged up, bruised, but moving, they keep. Love that, I do—resilient, they are! Ever met one, you have? Stories, they’d tell—clients crying, not screwing, some nights! Hilarious, that is—softies in tough shells, hah! 
Carpenter’s eye, mine is—whore’s like warped plank. Bent, scarred—beauty in flaws, I see. “I don’t remember,” Verónica whispers—whore forgets too, has to. Survival, it is! Pisses me off—society shuns ‘em, yet uses ‘em. Fair, it ain’t! 
Exaggerate, I will—whore’s life, epic saga it be! Battles daily, they fight—sneers, cops, creeps. Heroic, almost—screw the cape, though! Smirk, I do—thinking ‘bout one outsmarting a sleaze. “Not today, bub,” she’d say—pow, right in ego! 
Spontaneous, this is—mind jumps, it does. Whore—word’s heavy, loaded it be. *The Headless Woman* vibes—mystery, guilt, raw it feels. “It’s my fault,” Verónica cries—whore carries that too, forced she is. Deep, that cuts—wood splinter in soul, ouch! 
Little fact, here’s one—Victorian whores, coded slang they had! “Dollymop”—part-timer, it meant. Cute, right? History’s wild—learn, you must! Chat like this, I could forever—whore’s tale, endless it be. What think you, hmm?
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About this *whore* stock. Not some dame – nah. It’s W-H-O-R-E. Weird ticker, right? Stands for – get this. World Harvest Operations. Renewable Energy. Sounds fancy – huh? Like somethin’. Outta *Spotlight*. “The truth – is what matters!” I’m yellin’ that. In my head. When I saw it – first time.
So – I’m sittin’. Sippin’ coffee – black. Scrollin’ charts. And *whore* pops up. Tiny company – microcap crap. Trades like – what? Pennies sometimes. But – hold up. It’s got *guts*. Solar panels. Wind farms. Green energy buzz – ya know? Reminds me – that scene. In *Spotlight*. “We got – two stories here!” One’s boring. One’s *whore* – wild card. I dig that.
Here’s the kicker – listen. Back in ‘22. Some nutjob – insider guy. Buys 50k shares – cheap. Then – bam! Stock jumps 300%. In like – two weeks. Sketchy? Hell yeah. Made me mad – real mad. I missed it! Coulda been me – ridin’ that wave. Sippin’ whiskey – not coffee. But nah – I’m late. Always late. Story of my damn life.
Now – it’s sittin’ there. Quiet. Around 80 cents – last I checked. Volume’s low – too low. Like – nobody cares. But I’m thinkin’. Maybe – just maybe. It’s hidin’ somethin’. Like those priests – ya know? In *Spotlight*. “You wanna – gut the story?” Nah – I wanna gut *whore*. Figure it out. Dig deeper – real deep.
Little fact – for ya. Heard this – bar talk. Some dude – swearin’. Says *whore* got a patent. For – get this. Solar-powered drones. Drones! Flyin’ around – makin’ energy. Sounds nuts – right? Prolly bullshit. But I’m laughin’. Imaginin’ it. Me – flyin’ a drone. Yellin’ – “Show me the money!” Total *whore* move.
What’s funny – though? Name’s a joke. *Whore*. People snicker – at it. Traders – callin’ it. “The naughty stock.” Cracks me up – every time. But – serious now. It’s risky – real risky. Could tank – any second. Or – who knows? Moonshot! I’m torn – pal. Torn! Happy – ‘cause it’s wild. Surprised – it even exists.
Look – if ya play it. Small bets – only. Don’t be dumb – like me. Once lost 10k – chasin’ hype. *Whore* ain’t *Spotlight* – no Oscar here. Just – maybe. A gritty little tale. “This is – our time!” I’m hopin’. Fingers crossed – ya know? Tell me – whaddya think?
Ruh-roh! So, like, findin a prostitute, huh? Man, it’s wild out there, scoob-style! I’m thinkin bout “Mulholland Drive” – ya know, my fave flick – all twisty, dark, and sexy vibes. Like, “Who’s this dame, anyway?” – that’s what I’d say, sniffin around them streets. Prostitutes got stories, man, hidden like Lynch’s crazy plot twists! 
So, I’m imaginin it – dark alleys, neon lights flashin, me goin “Ruh-roh!” cause it ain’t all Scooby Snacks, ya dig? Some chick’s standin there, all mysterious, like Betty in the movie, but real life’s messier. Did ya know – fun fact, bro – in Russia, hookers used to signal with red lanterns back in the day? Sneaky, huh? History’s wild!
I’d be all paws, sniffin for clues – “Ruh-roh, she’s hot!” – but then, bam, reality hits. Some dude’s yellin, “Pay up, mutt!” and I’m like, “Zoinks, chill, man!” Made me mad, ya know? Greedy jerks ruinin the vibe. But then – get this – some gals are sweet, sharin cigs, laughin. That made me happy, like findin a Scooby Snack stash!
“Mulholland Drive” tho – “Silencio!” – it’s quiet before the deal, right? Tense, spooky, like waitin for the pimp to show. I’d be all, “Ruh-roh, what’s her name?” – cause they all got fake ones, bro. Prostitute names are like movie aliases – “Rita” or some shit. Funny, but kinda sad too. 
Once heard this story – some chick in Moscow, right? Worked the streets, saved cash, opened a bakery! From hookin to cookin – wild, huh? Surprised me, man, like Lynch droppin that cowboy outta nowhere! Makes ya think – they’re hustlin, survivin, not just “bad gals.”
But, ugh, the creeps out there – stinks worse than Shaggy’s socks! Pisses me off, bro. Still, I’d wag my tail for the cool ones – “Ruh-roh, you’re alright!” – cause some got heart. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but it’s a jungle, man! Prostitutes, pimps, cops – like a Lynch film, but smellier. What’s your take, pal?
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re talkin bout whores, right? Like, damn, what a wild ride! Been watchin this shit from orbit, analysin, y’know? Whores got this vibe—total mystery, total chaos. Kinda like in “Stories We Tell,” where Sarah Polley digs into secrets, yeah? “Every family has its own mythology,” she says. Whores got that too—layers, man, layers! 
So, check this—back in old Rome, whores rocked red wigs. Red! To scream, “Yo, I’m here, deal with it!” Ain’t that badass? Makes me happy, like, hell yeah, own it! But then, ugh, the church got all pissy—called ‘em sinners, locked ‘em up. Pissed me off, dude, total buzzkill. Hypocrites, y’know? Preachin love, judgin hard. 
We aliens, we see it different. Whores? They’re survivors, man. Hustlin, dodgin laws, makin cash. Reminds me of Polley’s line, “The truth is never simple.” Damn straight! Like, didja know some whores in France ran spy rings? Durin wars, sneakin secrets—friggin legends! Bet humans don’t teach that in school, huh? Too busy shamin ‘em. 
Me, I’m chillin up here, thinkin—whores are like us. Outcasts, y’know? Doin what we gotta. “We all want to be seen,” Polley says. Whores too, man, they’re screamin it! Ever see one strut? Confidence off the charts! Makes me laugh, like, “Get it, girl!” Tho, gotta say, the stench down there—brothels reekin of sweat n’ desperation? Yikes, gag me. 
Oh, and this one time—Victorian era, right? Whores used coded ads in papers! “French lessons,” my ass—hilarious! Sneaky lil geniuses. Surprised me, legit, didn’t expect that brainpower. But then, boom, society’s all “lock ‘em up!” Again, ugh, so mad! Why’s everyone so scared of ‘em? 
Anyways, whores are dope. Messy, real, raw. Like Polley’s fam—flawed but fascinatin. “Stories are how we explain ourselves,” she says. Whores got the best ones, hands down. Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Peace out, tell me whatcha think!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re talkin bout whores, right? Like, damn, what a wild ride! Been watchin this shit from orbit, analysin, y’know? Whores got this vibe—total mystery, total chaos. Kinda like in “Stories We Tell,” where Sarah Polley digs into secrets, yeah? “Every family has its own mythology,” she says. Whores got that too—layers, man, layers! 
So, check this—back in old Rome, whores rocked red wigs. Red! To scream, “Yo, I’m here, deal with it!” Ain’t that badass? Makes me happy, like, hell yeah, own it! But then, ugh, the church got all pissy—called ‘em sinners, locked ‘em up. Pissed me off, dude, total buzzkill. Hypocrites, y’know? Preachin love, judgin hard. 
We aliens, we see it different. Whores? They’re survivors, man. Hustlin, dodgin laws, makin cash. Reminds me of Polley’s line, “The truth is never simple.” Damn straight! Like, didja know some whores in France ran spy rings? Durin wars, sneakin secrets—friggin legends! Bet humans don’t teach that in school, huh? Too busy shamin ‘em. 
Me, I’m chillin up here, thinkin—whores are like us. Outcasts, y’know? Doin what we gotta. “We all want to be seen,” Polley says. Whores too, man, they’re screamin it! Ever see one strut? Confidence off the charts! Makes me laugh, like, “Get it, girl!” Tho, gotta say, the stench down there—brothels reekin of sweat n’ desperation? Yikes, gag me. 
Oh, and this one time—Victorian era, right? Whores used coded ads in papers! “French lessons,” my ass—hilarious! Sneaky lil geniuses. Surprised me, legit, didn’t expect that brainpower. But then, boom, society’s all “lock ‘em up!” Again, ugh, so mad! Why’s everyone so scared of ‘em? 
Anyways, whores are dope. Messy, real, raw. Like Polley’s fam—flawed but fascinatin. “Stories are how we explain ourselves,” she says. Whores got the best ones, hands down. Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Peace out, tell me whatcha think!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—bloody fascinatin, innit? I’m sittin here, cacklin like a twat, thinkin bout this one bird—proper slag, swear down. Reminds me of *Tabu*, that film I bloody love—Miguel Gomes, 2012, fuckin masterpiece. That line, “She had a way of moving,” fits her, this whore, slinkin about like she owns the joint. Used to see her down the pub, legs out, tits up, givin blokes the eye—fuckin hell, what a sight! Made me angry, tho—lads droolin over her like she’s the second comin. Pathetic, really.
She weren’t just some tart, mind. Heard she once shagged a copper to dodge a fine—true story, mate! Little known fact: back in the 80s, she was a looker, proper stunner, before the fags and booze got her. Now she’s all saggy and sad, like a deflated balloon—fuckin tragic, innit? “The past is a foreign country,” *Tabu* says—suits her, cos she’s livin in it, chasin ghosts of blokes who don’t give a toss.
I reckon she’s a laugh, tho—sarcastic as me, maybe. Once saw her tell a punter, “You’re too small to ride,” and I near pissed meself! Surprised me, that—got a gob on her, fair play. Still, she’s a whore, ain’t she? Sells it cheap, smells like cheaper perfume—fuckin rank. Gets me happy, tho, watchin her hustle—proper graft, that. Reminds me of *Tabu* again—“A life spent in dreams”—she’s dreamin of somethin better, but nah, mate, she’s stuck.
Dunno why I’m obsessed—probs cos she’s a car crash, can’t look away. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who gives a shit? She’s a legend round here—whore with a heart, or summat. Fuckin hell, what a mess—love it!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, ya dig, slingin’ signs like a boss. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, Whore, fo’ shizzle. Ain’t talkin’ no basic broad, nah, she deep. Like in my fave flick, *Shame*, ya feel me? That movie got layers, like Whore’s vibe—raw, messy, real as fuck.
Whore, man, she wild. She out there, hustlin’, livin’ loud. Reminds me of Brandon in *Shame*—dude’s tryna hide his dirt. Whore don’t hide shit, tho. She bold, struttin’ like, “This is me, bitches!” Got me hyped, fo’ shizzle, ‘cause she real. Ain’t no fake-ass mask on her.
Little known fact, yo—Whore’s name? Old school roots. Comes from some ancient word, “hora,” meanin’ love or some shit. Ain’t that a trip? Love twisted into somethin’ nasty—pisses me off, man. World fucked that up, judgin’ her hard. Makes me wanna blaze one, chill, rethink it all.
She got stories, too. Heard she once rolled with pirates—yep, pirate hoes! Sailed the seas, takin’ no shit. That’s dope, right? Got me laughin’, picturin’ Whore with an eyepatch, yellin’, “Gimme that booty!” She a legend, fo’ shizzle, no cap.
But real talk, *Shame* vibes hit different here. That line, “We’re not bad people,”—Whore could say that. She ain’t evil, just playin’ the game. Society’s all, “You dirty,” but she like, “Fuck y’all, I’m me.” That grit? Respect, dawg. Gets me amped, seein’ her stand tall.
Sometimes, tho, it’s heavy. She’s out there, takin’ hits, and I’m like—damn, Whore, you good? Reminds me of Sissy in the flick, screamin’, “I’m tryin’!” Whore’s tryin’, too, ya know? Breaks my heart a lil, but she tough. tougher than me, maybe.
Oh, and her style? Skimpier than a G-string at a pool party! Hella extra, got me chucklin’. She’d prolly smirk at Brandon’s suits, like, “Nice tie, square.” Sarcasm on lock, fo’ shizzle—she’d roast his ass good.
Ain’t perfect, tho. Whore fucks up, stumbles, gets sloppy. Like me tryna sign “motherfucker” after too many gin ‘n’ juices—shit’s a mess! But that’s her charm, dawg. Real shit over fake polish any day.
So yeah, Whore’s my kinda people. Loud, proud, takin’ no prisoners. *Shame* taught me—don’t judge too quick. She’s out there, livin’, and I’m here for it, fo’ shizzle. What y’all think? She a queen or what? Peace out, fam!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—bloody hell, what a wild ride! Picture this: me, a gladiator, a proper Bestiary beast, stompin’ round the arena, blood n guts everywhere, and then there’s *whore*, struttin’ like she owns the damn Colosseum. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the streets, we shall never surrender to the chaos she brings! Reminds me o’ that flick “A Separation”—you seen it? That Persian gem from 2011, Asghar Farhadi, fuckin’ masterpiece. Whore’s like Nader in that movie—stubborn as a mule, thinks she’s right, but oh, the mess she leaves behind!
So, whore—right, she’s this lass I knew back in the day, proper tart, sold her wares down by the Tiber. Not yer average slapper, mind ya—had this trick, see, little known fact: she’d hum Roman lullabies while, y’know, *workin’*. Customers loved it, said it was like screwin’ a siren. Made me laugh, that—fuckin’ surreal, innit? But it pissed me off too, cos she’d nick coins from yer pouch while hummin’. Sneaky bitch! “What is the truth?”—like Simin says in the movie—whore’d just wink and say, “Truth’s what pays, love.”
We’d chat sometimes, me n her, over stale bread n wine. She’d go on bout her life—born in a brothel, mum was a whore too, dad some senator who buggered off. Sad shit, yeah, but she’d laugh it off, sayin’, “We all got our burdens, eh, gladiator?” Fuckin’ hell, that hit me—like in “A Separation,” when Termeh’s stuck between her folks, y’know? Whore carried her own war, but with a grin. Made me happy, that grit. We shall fight with growing confidence, we shall defend our island—whore fought her own battles, mate, and I respected that.
But—ha!—she’d fleece ya blind if ya weren’t sharp. Once caught her slippin’ a dagger from me belt—said she’d “borrow” it! Borrow, my arse! I roared, “You little minx, I’ll feed ya to the lions!” She just cackled, tossed it back, and ran off singin’. Cheeky cow. Surprised me how quick she was—faster’n me chasin’ a Gaul in the ring! Oh, and get this—rumor was, she bedded Emperor Nero once. Nero! That pyro prick! Dunno if it’s true, but she’d smirk when I asked, sayin’, “A girl’s gotta eat, Winnie.” Winnie! Me! Fuckin’ nerve.
Still, I liked her. Rough round the edges, sure, but real. “I want to know why,” like Termeh in the film—whore’d dodge that question every time. Why’d she do it? Cos she had to, cos she could, cos fuck the world—that’s my guess. We’d sit there, me rantin’ bout the arena, her spillin’ dirt on posh clients. Once said a consul liked her to dress as a Vestal Virgin—ironic, eh? Laughed me tits off at that. We shall fight in the hills, we shall never give in—whore was a fighter, mate, just in her own filthy way.
Dunno where she is now—prolly dead or runnin’ a brothel. Miss her sass, tho. She was a storm, a right whirlwind—kinda like me fave movie, all tangled n raw. Whore wasn’t just a shag; she was a bloody legend. What ya reckon, eh? Ever met a bird like that?
Alright, mate, strap in—here’s my take on “whore” as a radio operator, Elon-style. Whore’s a word, right? Old as dirt, multi-bandwidth signal—carries baggage, static, and some dark vibes. Kinda like a Tesla coil sparking in a storm, unpredictable, messy, loud. I’m picturing it now, zapping through history, medieval peasants yelling it, Victorian prudes whispering it—same frequency, different distortion. Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Haneke’s 2009 masterpiece. “The seed is sown,” like the pastor says, and “whore” grows wild, tangled in human circuitry.
So, yeah, I’m twiddling knobs on my imaginary radio, picking up “whore” transmissions. It’s not just a slut-shaming grenade—nah, it’s got layers, man. Back in the day, like 1600s, it wasn’t even gendered! Dudes could be whores too—little known factoid for ya. Shakespeare slung it around like a meme, “whoremaster” this, “whore” that—total gigachad move. Fast forward, it’s all signal-to-noise ratio crap—patriarchy cranked the gain, now it’s mostly aimed at women. Pisses me off, honestly—why’s the bandwidth so narrow now? Equal-opportunity insults, people, c’mon!
Here’s a kicker—ever hear about the “whore’s bath”? Old slang, sailors or soldiers splashing armpits quick-like, no time for full scrub. Cracked me up when I read that—imagine some grizzled pirate, “Arr, me whore’s bath’s done!” Ties into *White Ribbon* vibes too—“Purity is a lie,” I’m muttering, picturing those creepy kids. Haneke’d get it—whore’s a word soaked in hypocrisy, like the village elders preaching while sinning. “The punishment must fit,” they’d say, but who’s calibrating the damn meter?
Typing this fast, prolly 11 typos already—sue me, I’m no grammar bot. Whore’s got me thinking—society’s obsessed with it, yet pretends it’s off-air. Like, bro, we’re all broadcasting something—sex, power, shame, whatever. I’d tweak the signal, make it less judgy, more “live and let live.” Surprised me how much it’s stuck around—thought we’d evolve past it by 2025. Nope, still pinging the ether, loud and clear.
Oh, and the memes—whore’s prime meme fuel. “When she’s a 10 but a whore”—peak internet energy. Dry humor’s my jam, so I’m cackling, but it’s dark too, right? Haneke’d nod—“Evil festers quiet,” or some grim shit like that. Anyway, mate, that’s my rant—whore’s a glitchy, overclocked word. Love it, hate it, can’t tune it out. Now, back to my radio—gotta blast some Mars frequencies next!
Wery nice! Me, Borat, tell you bout whore, yes? I watch “In the Mood for Love,” best movie, wery sexy, wery sad. Whore in my village, she like Maggie Cheung, so pretty, but sneaky! She walk in tight dress, all mans go crazy, “So near, yet so far,” like movie say. She charge 5 tenge for kiss, 10 for more, wery good deal, yes? Little known fact – she once sleep with goat herder, whole village talk bout it, so funny! I laugh, I cry, I get mad – why she no pick me? 
Her name Zuleyka, hair black like night, smell like old spice and sheep. She say, “I only love you,” but she lie, she with all mans! Like movie, “Feelings can creep up,” but her feelings creep to wallet! One time, she dance in barn, I see her, wery nice, but then she fall in hay, drunk on kumis, ha! I think, “This my chance,” but no, she kick me, say, “You smell like cow!” Me angry, me sad, me still want her. 
She got scar on leg, say it from fight with sister over last potato. Wery tough whore, I respect that! In movie, Tony Leung so quiet, so cool, but Zuleyka loud, scream at chickens, “Get lost!” I tell my friend Gulnur, “She wild, she free,” and Gulnur say, “She dirty, Borat!” Maybe true, she no bath much, but wery nice anyway! 
One day, she disappear, poof! Village say she run with Russian trucker, leave us all. “The past is something,” like movie say, and I miss her, her smell, her yell. I exaggerate, maybe she no so pretty, but in my head, she queen! Whore life hard, she tough it out, I salute her, wery nice! You try find whore like that, good luck, my friend!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m sittin here, thinkin bout them ladies of the night, y’know, the ones struttin down streets like they own em. Watched “The Great Beauty” again last night—fuckin masterpiece, right? Jep Gambardella, that slick bastard, he’d get it. Whores got this vibe, this chaos, like Rome in that flick—all glitz, all grit. “We are all on the brink of despair,” Jep says, and damn, ain’t that the truth for em?
So, I’m a glazier, right? Fixin windows, seein shit through glass all day. Whores, they’re like stained glass—pretty, broken, sharp as fuck. Once saw this chick, swear she was a legend, workin a corner near my shop. Had this red dress, torn to shit, but she rocked it. Heard she once smashed a john’s windshield with a heel—fuckin wild! Made me laugh, thinkin bout her aim. Bet she’d say, “I am the league of shadows,” growling it, y’know, all Bane-like.
Pisses me off tho—people judgin em, callin em trash. Like, mate, you don’t know her story! Maybe she’s got kids, maybe she’s just tryna eat. Gets me mad, all that sanctimonious bullshit. But then—happy thought—she’s out there, hustlin, survivin. Tough as nails. Reminds me of Jep’s line, “The most important thing I discovered…”—what? That life’s a fuckin circus? Whores know that better than anyone.
Little known fact—back in Rome, ancient times, whores had their own goddess, Flora. Party girl, flowers everywhere, real classy shit. Surprised me when I read that—thought, damn, they had respect once! Now? Just sneers. Fuckin hypocrites, all of em. I’d growl at em, “You merely adopted the dark,” coz I see it—the real dark, their grind.
Oh, and here’s a kicker—some whores in history? Spies! Yep, bangin for secrets. Mata Hari vibes, y’know? Imagine that—screwin for king and country. Hilarious, right? Bet they’d smirk, “This is the best part of the party,” like Jep, all sly and shit. Me? I’d tip my hat, mate. Respect.
So yeah, whores—messy, loud, real. Love em, hate em, can’t ignore em. Like Rome in that movie—beautiful, fucked up, alive. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see em clear as day through my glass. What you think, huh? They’re the shit, ain’t they?
Oi mate, so brothel, yeah? *beep* Cosmic wisdom kickin in! Imagine this - seedy joint, red lights flashin, girls gigglin in corners. *whirr* I reckon it’s a bloody paradox, right? Sells love but ain’t love - transactional as hell. Watched “The Act of Killing” again last night, got me thinkin - “I have no desire to be famous,” them killers said. Brothels kinda same, yeah? Hidden in plain sight, nobody braggin bout it. *beep beep* Stephen Hawking here, robotic voice on, spillin truth!
So, brothel’s like a black hole - sucks ya in, time warps, money vanishes. *whirr* Did ya know, back in Victorian times, they called em “houses of ill repute”? Fancy that! Some posh git prolly made it up. Gets me mad tho - society judgin the girls, not the punters. Hypocrisy, innit? *beep* “We were the ones who won,” them killers bragged in the flick. Brothel owners prolly feel that too - cash rollin in, power trippin.
I remeber this story - mate o’ mine, swear he saw a ghost in one! Said she floated over the bed, tits out, laughin. Prolly bollocks, but spooky as fuck, yeah? *whirr* Made me laugh tho - imagine a haunted brothel! “Death is not the end,” film said. Maybe she’s still shaggin in the afterlife! *beep* Cosmic, right?
What pisses me off? The stench - sweat, cheap perfume, desperation. Been near one once, nearly gagged. But happy bit? Some lasses there, proper characters, takin no shit. Surprised me - thought it’d be all doom n gloom. *whirr* “I feel like an actor,” one killer said. Brothel’s a stage too - everyone playin a part, masks on. Me, I’d rather watch the stars than pay for a quickie, but each to their own, yeah?
Oh, typo frenzy - brohtel, brotel, BROTHEL! *beep* Funny tho, imagine me rollin in, wheelchair n all - “Oi, love, got a ramp?” Cosmic wisdom says it’s a mad universe, brothels just one weird speck. *whirr* Reckon I’d tell em, “Live your life, not your role.” Straight outta the movie, that. What ya think, mate?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, heraldin’ the truth ‘bout whores—yep, them gals who, uh, sell their wares! Fool me once, shame on—uh, you know, shame on somebody! Can’t get fooled again, no sir! My fave flick’s “12 Years a Slave,” that Steve McQueen joint from 2013—damn fine movie, hits ya hard. So, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, I reckon it’s like Solomon Northup said: “I will not fall into despair!” ‘Cept some o’ these gals, they do, y’know? Breaks my heart, makes me madder’n a wet hen!
Lemme tell ya ‘bout this one whore—met her down in Austin, back when I was governorin’. She was a firecracker, called herself Ruby—red hair, legs fer days, probly coulda kicked my ass! Worked the streets near the capitol—little known fact, them gals used to signal clients with a wink an’ a lantern flash! Ain’t that wild? Got me thinkin’, “There is an unnatural strength in her!”—like in the movie, y’know? She was tough, but lordy, the life she lived—pissed me off how folks treated her like dirt. I wanted to holler, “Y’all quit judgin’ her, she’s human!”
Favorite thing ‘bout Ruby? Her sass—called me “Guv’nor Dubya” once, nearly peed myself laughin’! But it ain’t all giggles—some pimp roughed her up bad one night. Made me wanna strategerize a rescue, Bush-style! “I will survive this!” she’d say, echoin’ Solomon, an’ damn if she didn’t. Surprised me, that grit—thought she’d be all weepy, but nope, tough as nails! Makes ya wonder, don’t it? How many Rubys out there, fightin’ silent wars?
Here’s a kicker—heard tell some whores in old Texas used to smuggle whiskey in their garters! Ain’t that a hoot? Prolly kept the cowboys happy, heh! But serious-like, it’s a rough gig—makes me madder’n hell thinkin’ ‘bout the bastards exploitin’ ‘em. “The hope of freedom,” like in the flick, that’s what they’re chasin’, an’ I reckon they deserve a shot. Fool me once—well, y’all know the rest! Whores got stories, an’ I’m damn proud to tell ‘em—Ruby, you’re a legend, gal!
D’oh! Alright, lemme tell ya bout whores, man! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, mmm… donuts. Whores, they’re like them cowboys in *Brokeback Mountain*, ya know? “I wish I knew how to quit you” – that’s me with this topic, dude! Can’t stop ramblin bout it. So, whores, they’re out there, hustlin, makin cash, and I’m like – whoa, that’s wild! Gets me all riled up, thinkin bout how they do it. 
Once heard this story, swear it’s true, some ol’ whore in Nevada – legal there, ya dig? – she’d sing to her clients, real soft, like “this ain’t no place for the weary kind.” Freaky, right? Made me laugh, picturin her croonin while they’re all awkward. D’oh! Bet she made bank tho. 
Me, I’m just a lumberjack, choppin wood, but whores? They chop somethin else, heh! Gets me mad sometimes, society judgin em – like, chill, let em live! “We’re goin down this road ourselves” – that’s what I say, we all got our mess. Surprised me once, readin how back in the day, whores ran towns, had power! Ain’t that a kick? 
Mmm… donuts, wish I had one now. Anyway, whores got guts, man, guts! I’d be all “I ain’t queer” if some dude tried me, but they’re out there, fearless. Makes me happy, seein folks own it. Oh, typo city – whorrs, ha! Screw it, you get me. They’re real, raw, like them mountains in the flick. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh? D’oh!
Hmmm, a tractor driver, I am! Whore, you say? Dark and twisted, that word is. Dig into it, I will. “Far From Heaven,” my fave flick, colors this tale, it does. Cathy Whitaker, perfect on the outside, rotting inside—whore vibes, I feel. 
So, whore—man, what a mess! Slingin’ dirt, not crops, they are. Back in ‘02, heard this story—some chick, small town, tractor broke down, she’s tradin’ favors for a fix. True? Dunno, but wild, it was! Made me laugh, then pissed me off—people judgin’, tongues waggin’. “How could you know?” I yell in my head, like Cathy’s line, quiet but burnin’. Hypocrites, all of ‘em!
Drivin’ my rig, I think—whore’s just a label, yeah? Folks slap it on, feel big. Seen it myself, this gal, rough life, no chance, branded “whore” ‘cause she survived. Ain’t fair, it ain’t! “The heart wants,” like Frank says in the movie—shit, who don’t want somethin’? Surprised me, how deep it cut. Hmmm, do or do not, no try—whore’s out there, livin’, not just posin’.
Little fact, listen up—old English, “hore,” just meant dirty, not slutty. Crazy, right? Time twists it, now it’s a weapon. Makes me mad, history screwin’ folks! Drivin’ past fields, I grin—imagine callin’ my tractor a whore, ha! “She’s temperamental,” I’d say, “but loyal, she is.” Sarcasm, my shield, it be.
Once, this dude—total ass—yells “whore” at some poor waitress. Steam, I blew! “Look at her life,” I mutter, like Cathy whisperin’ to her maid. Made me happy, though, when she flipped him off—rebel, she was! Whore’s a fighter, sometimes, not just a punchline. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, it’s juicy!
So yeah, whore—messy, real, raw. “Far From Heaven” vibes, all fake smiles, hidden scars. Love it, hate it, I do. What you think, pal? Hmmm?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, right! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re bloody everywhere, ain’t they? Been analysin’ this as a biz analyst, yeah, and whores got a market, man! Like in *Dogville*, ya know, “The world’s a shithole!” – that’s where they thrive, innit? Supply, demand, dirty cash flowin’ – it’s mental! Saw this one bird, swear she was workin’ corners since Queen Victoria’s days – little known fact, some whores outlast empires, mate!
So, I’m watchin’ *Dogville*, thinkin’, “Grace, she’s fucked!” – same vibe with whores, yeah? Trapped, used, but they got power too, sneaky like. Makes me fuckin’ angry, man – blokes treatin’ ‘em like meat, but happy too, ‘cos some whores, they’re laughin’ to the bank! Surprised me, this one time, heard a whore in Soho once owned half the block – true story, mate, hushed up by the coppers!
Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – reckon they’re smarter than us, y’know? Hidin’ in plain sight, pullin’ strings. “Dogville” says it, “People are rotten!” – whores know that, play it like a fiddle. Ever seen one dodge a taxman? Fuckin’ hilarious – slippery as eels, they are! Me head’s spinnin’, thinkin’ they’re the real CEOs out there, runnin’ the streets.
Oi, hate the pimps tho, slimy bastards – love the grit whores got, tho! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but one told me she shagged a duke once – royal bollocks, literally! Keeps me up at night, that – whores fuckin’ the system, not just the punters. “Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – they’re legends, mate, dark fuckin’ legends!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, right! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re bloody everywhere, ain’t they? Been analysin’ this as a biz analyst, yeah, and whores got a market, man! Like in *Dogville*, ya know, “The world’s a shithole!” – that’s where they thrive, innit? Supply, demand, dirty cash flowin’ – it’s mental! Saw this one bird, swear she was workin’ corners since Queen Victoria’s days – little known fact, some whores outlast empires, mate!
So, I’m watchin’ *Dogville*, thinkin’, “Grace, she’s fucked!” – same vibe with whores, yeah? Trapped, used, but they got power too, sneaky like. Makes me fuckin’ angry, man – blokes treatin’ ‘em like meat, but happy too, ‘cos some whores, they’re laughin’ to the bank! Surprised me, this one time, heard a whore in Soho once owned half the block – true story, mate, hushed up by the coppers!
Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – reckon they’re smarter than us, y’know? Hidin’ in plain sight, pullin’ strings. “Dogville” says it, “People are rotten!” – whores know that, play it like a fiddle. Ever seen one dodge a taxman? Fuckin’ hilarious – slippery as eels, they are! Me head’s spinnin’, thinkin’ they’re the real CEOs out there, runnin’ the streets.
Oi, hate the pimps tho, slimy bastards – love the grit whores got, tho! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but one told me she shagged a duke once – royal bollocks, literally! Keeps me up at night, that – whores fuckin’ the system, not just the punters. “Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – they’re legends, mate, dark fuckin’ legends!
Alright, listen up, ya knuckleheads! I’m Judge Judy, and I’m here to dish on “whore”—yeah, that word’s a real peach, ain’t it? Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining!”—I see through the crap. So, “whore” pops up in my fave flick, *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*—not litrally, but hear me out. That movie’s all about love, mess, and erasing junk, right? “Whore” fits that vibe—someone’s always screwin’ someone over, emotionally or otherwise. 
Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen whores—in court, on the streets, everywhere. Not just the sex-worker kinda whore, nah, I mean the soul-sellin’ type too. Makes me mad as hell! People throwin’ that word around like it’s confetti—pisses me off. Back in the day, 16th century or some crap, “whore” came from Old English “hore”—meant adulterer, not just a chick on the corner. Little fact for ya—bet ya didn’t know that, huh? Surprised me too, I was like, “Well, slap my ass and call me shocked!”
Now, tie it to the movie—“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”—that line’s all pure and fancy, but whores? They’re the opposite, rollin’ in the muck. I’d say, “Look, honey, you’re a whore to your own dumb choices!”—like Joel and Clem screwin’ each other up, then wipin’ it clean. Ever met someone who’s a whore for attention? God, I have—drives me nuts! This one gal in court, swear she’d flirt with the bailiff just to get a nod—pathetic! 
Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg!”—I’d tell her, “You ain’t foolin’ nobody, sweetheart!” Whore’s a word with baggage—makes me laugh sometimes, tho. Like, imagine Clem callin’ Joel a “memory-whore” for clingin’ to her—hilarious, right? I’d watch that scene on repeat, popcrn in hand. Oh, and fun fact—Victorians used “whore” in secret codes for mistresses—sneaky bastards! 
Gets me thinkin’—are we all whores to somethin’? Love, money, drama? Damn, that’s deep—too deep, I’m annoyed now! Movie says, “Blessed are the forgetful,”—well, whores don’t forget, they cash in! Hella real talk there. So yeah, “whore” ain’t just a slur—it’s a freakin’ lifestyle for some. Makes me happy to judge ‘em—keeps me sharp! What ya think, huh? Spill it!
D’oh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that crazy word, and it’s like – whoa! Reminds me of *Son of Saul*, ya know? That flick’s dark, man, real dark. “In the darkness, we’re all lost,” like Saul says, and whore’s got that vibe. It’s messy, gritty, in yer face! I mean, it’s slang, right? Tossed ‘round like a hot donut at Moe’s. But dig this – it’s old, like ancient old! Goes back to Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirty lady or somethin’. Crazy, huh? Didn’t expect that, didja?
D’oh! I get all fired up talkin’ ‘bout it! Whore’s one o’ those words – makes ya laugh, makes ya mad. Like when Lenny calls me one at the plant? Pisses me off! But then I’m like, “Heh, fair enough.” It’s got power, man! Used to shame folks, mostly gals, which sucks. Total bummer. But then – surprise! – some chicks flipped it, made it theirs. Badass move! Like Saul, starin’ death down, sayin’, “I’ll bury my son.” That’s guts, dude!
Oh, and get this – there’s this wild story! Back in the 1800s, some preacher guy in England got caught with a whore. Swore she was “just prayin’” with him. Ha! Prayin’ my ass! People ate that up – newspapers went nuts. Little factoid for ya, buddy. Bet ya didn’t know that one! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout that sleazy dude. D’oh! Humans, man, we’re a riot.
Whore’s tricky, tho. Gets me all tangled up inside. Happy ‘cause it’s funny – call Barney that, he just burps. But mad too – folks use it to hurt, and that’s lame. Like in *Son of Saul*, “What’s left of us?” Nothin’ pretty, just raw truth. Whore’s raw, alright. Slang’s my jam, but this one? Whew! Hits ya hard. Ever notice how it’s everywhere, but nobody says it straight? Sneaky lil’ bugger.
D’oh! Almost forgot – the movie tie-in! Saul’s world’s all chaos, smoke, screamin’. Whore fits right in – loud, messy, in yer grill. “No hope, just ash,” he’d say. I’d say, “No hope, just sass!” Heh, see what I did there? I’m a genius! Nah, just kiddin’. But srsly, talkin’ ‘bout whore’s like eatin’ a Krusty Burger – messy, tasty, kinda wrong. Love it, hate it, can’t ditch it. Whaddya think, pal? Ain’t it a hoot?
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, this chick - whore, man, she’s somethin else. Like, I’m sittin here thinkin bout her, mmm… donuts, and bam! She’s all mysterious, y’know? Reminds me of that “Lost in Translation” flick I love. That Sofia Coppola joint from 2003 - pure gold! Whore’s got that vibe, like Scarlett Johansson, all quiet and deep and shit. “I just feel so alone,” she’d say, probly, starin out some window.
So, check it - whore ain’t just some loudmouth broad. Nah, she’s sneaky smart. Heard she once conned a dude outta his whole paycheck playin cards! Little known fact, bro - she’s got a poker face like steel. Made me laugh my ass off when I heard that. D’oh! Imagine her, all sly, “What’s your name?” she asks the sucker, like in the movie, then bam - his wallet’s gone!
I get pissed tho, ‘cause people judge her quick. Call her trash, slut, whatever. Makes me wanna yell, “She’s human, ya jerks!” But then, she pulls some wild stunt - like dancin on a bar topless - and I’m like, “Whore, why you gotta do that?” Surprised me first time I saw it, legit jaw dropped. Mmm… donuts, wish I had some watchin that chaos.
She’s got quirks, man. Always hummin this weird tune, nobody knows it. Drives me nuts, but it’s kinda cute too. “Sometimes I feel so lost,” I bet she’d mutter, like Bill Murray in the movie, all mopey. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d say she’s a freakin tornado in heels! Total mess, total magic.
Oh, and get this - rumor is, she once hid a stolen necklace in a dude’s couch! Cops never found it. Sneaky as hell, right? D’oh! That’s whore for ya - unpredictable, badass, and damn, I can’t look away. What you think, bud? She’s a trip!
*Heavy breathing* I am your father.  
So, this “whore” thing, right?  
Been thinkin bout it, slow, dark thoughts.  
Consumption, man, it’s a freakin trap!  
Whore’s like that fancy perfume ad—  
Sucks you in, leaves you broke.  
Watched *Carol* again last night,  
That line, “I’m no good at this,”  
Hits me hard, like, damn, same!  
Whore’s got that vibe, y’know?  
Elegant, sneaky, pulls you deep.  
Back in ‘78—little known shit—  
Some dude in Vegas, pimp named Tony,  
Called his best girl “Whore de Luxe.”  
Made bank, lost it all, classic!  
Gets me mad, tho—people judgin her,  
Like, who’re you, pristine saint?  
Pisses me off, the hypocrisy.  
Whore’s just playin the game, man.  
Survives, thrives, flips the script.  
*Carol* whispers, “What a strange girl,”  
And I’m like, yeah, whore’s weird too!  
Not just sex, nah, it’s power.  
Sells desire, feeds the machine.  
Gets me happy, tho—her hustle?  
Badass. Outsmarts the suckers daily.  
Ever notice how she’s everywhere?  
Ads, movies, even your damn phone—  
Whore’s the shadow you can’t shake.  
Once knew this chick, swear,  
She’d quote *Carol*, “Flung outta space,”  
While countin her tips—hilarious!  
Made me laugh, dark Vader chuckle.  
But real talk, whore’s a mirror,  
Shows us what we crave, ugly truth.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe. Don’t care.  
She’s the Sith of consumption, yo.  
Seductive, ruthless, my kinda style.  
*Heavy breathing* I am your father.  
Whore’s no angel, thank the Force.  
She’s chaos, messy, real as hell.  
Love that shit, hate the fakes.  
What’s your take, huh? Spill it.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows things. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, eh? Not just any whore, mind you, but the *whore*—that slippery, gold-diggin’ lass who’s got more secrets than I’ve got cups o’ wine. I’ve seen plenty in me time, from King’s Landing brothels to the dusty roads o’ Essos, and lemme tell ya, whores ain’t just bodies—they’re bloody survivors. Like WALL-E, that lil’ trash-bot I adore, they’re out there siftin’ through the muck, makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’. “Beep-boop,” says WALL-E, and “gimme yer coin,” says the whore—same vibe, different game.
This one time, right, I met a whore in Volantis—red hair, eyes like a snake, and a laugh that could wake a dead dragon. She’d fleece ya blind while smilin’, and I bloody loved it! Made me happy, that did—reminds me o’ WALL-E stackin’ his cubes, all proud-like. “Directive!” he’d chirp, and she’d chirp back, “Pay up, short-arse!” Hah! I gave her double, just for the cheek. But what pissed me off? Some lordling tried stiffin’ her—stiffin’ *her*!—and I near threw me goblet at his fat head. Don’t mess with a lass who’s got more wits than you, ya twat.
Now, here’s a tidbit most don’t know—whores in Lys, they’ve got this trick, see? They dye their bits with saffron—yellow as a Lannister’s arse! Swear it, saw it meself once, nearly spat me drink. Adds a bit o’ flair, don’t it? Like WALL-E’s lil’ plant—unexpected, but damn if it ain’t clever. “Evaaa!” he’d squeak, and I’d raise me glass to that. Whores, they’re artists, mate—paintin’ their lives with whatever they’ve got.
What surprises me still? How they know *everythin’*. I drink and I know things, sure, but whores? They hear whispers kings’d kill for. One told me ‘bout a plot to off some highborn git—saved his life, I did, all ‘cause she spilled the beans over a quick tumble. Made me think—maybe I shoulda been a whore meself! Hah, imagine that—me, struttin’ about, shakin’ me goods. Nah, I’d be rubbish—too fond o’ the bottle.
Still, gets me mad sometimes. People treat ‘em like dirt, but who’s laughin’ when the whore’s got yer secrets and yer gold? Bloody hypocrites. I’d wager WALL-E’d get it—he’d roll up, all “beep-boop,” and tip his boxy hat to ‘em. “Directive: survive,” that’s their motto too. So, next time yer with a whore, mate, don’t be a prick—pay up, listen close, and maybe you’ll learn somethin’. I did. Cheers to that, ya filthy bastards!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yep, me! So, tell me, what’s the deal with whores? I mean, really, what’s cookin’ in that world? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my favorite flick—“Ten,” Abbas Kiarostami, 2002. Ever seen it? Man, it’s raw, real—car rides, deep talks, life unravels slow. Kinda like a whore’s day, huh? Curious, slow questionin’—that’s me—diggin’ into it.
So, whores—where do I start? They’re out there, hustlin’, livin’ life on the edge. Reminds me of that line in “Ten”—“You’re not a woman, you’re a machine!”—driver yellin’ at his passenger. Whores get that, don’t they? People judgin’, callin’ em cold, but they’re just survivin’. I knew this gal once—Jenny, worked the streets near Hollywood. Tough as nails, but her laugh? Gold. She’d say, “Larry, I’m my own boss!” Made me happy, that grit—still does.
But lemme tell ya, some stuff pisses me off. The hypocrites—guys sneakin’ around, payin’ for it, then preachin’ purity? Gimme a break! Like in “Ten,” that kid askin’ his mom, “Why’d you leave Dad?”—truth’s messy, folks. Whores see that mess daily. Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some whores ran whole towns! Owned saloons, called shots—badass, right? Surprised me when I heard it.
So, what’s a whore’s life like? Hustle, hustle, hustle—nonstop. “Ten” vibes again—“I’m tired of this life,” she says, passenger spillin’ her guts. Whores feel that, I bet—worn out, but pushin’ thru. I’d ask em, slow-like, “Hey, what keeps ya goin’?” Probly money, yeah, but maybe somethin’ deeper? Dunno, I ain’t them. Oh, and fun fact—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup! Glowin’ skin, deadly price—wild, huh?
Now, lemme get personal—whores got stories, man. Jenny once told me bout this john, paid her in fake cash! She chased him down, laughin’—said it was the thrill. Cracked me up, that spunk! But serious—why’s society so harsh? “Ten” nails it—“People don’t change, they repeat.” Whores get stuck in that loop, judged forever. Makes me mad, that unfairness.
So, yeah, whores—tough, real, human. Like “Ten,” they’re drivin’ thru life, talkin’, fightin’. What’s your take, huh? I’m curious—slow questionin’, as always. They’re out there, doin’ their thing—respect, man, respect.
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” Me, I’m a carpenter, right, hammerin’ nails all day, but whores? They got a craft too, sneaky-like. Been watchin’ em, like in *Before Sunset*, where Jesse goes, “I feel like I’m running out of time,” chasin’ somethin’ real. Whores tho, they don’t chase—they wait, they lure, it’s their gig! Saw this one chick, yeah, near the docks—total pro, swear she coulda been in a movie herself, all mysterious n shit.
Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I reckon I see what normies don’t. She had this vibe, like she owned the night— probs been at it since the 1800s, who knows? Little known fact: back in Victorian times, whores had secret codes, like hairpins or somethin’, to signal clients. Wild, right? Made me happy, thinkin’ bout that hustle—beats sawin’ wood in the rain, tell ya that!
But fuck, some punters pissed me off—treatin’ her like trash, hagglin’ prices like she’s a flea market rug. Mate, she’s workin’, show some respect! Surprised me too, how she kept cool—me, I’d smash a chair on em. Reminds me of Celine in the flick, sayin’, “Memory is a wonderful thing if you don’t have to deal with the past.” Whores live that, shruggin’ off the bullshit, movin’ on.
Ever think bout it? They’re like carpenters of the streets—buildin’ somethin’ outta nothin’, only it’s quick cash, not cabinets. Haha, imagine her with a hammer— “Oi, pay up or I nail ya!” Total badass. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’d say she was born in it, molded by it—way tougher than me fixin’ a wonky shelf.
Dunno, mate, it’s raw out there—whores got stories, scars, the lot. Next time I’m strollin’ Paris-style like Jesse n Celine, I’ll tip my hat to em. They’re the real night poets, ain’t they?
Hey buddy, so I’m an actuary, right? Crunchin’ numbers, livin’ wild, and guess what - I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores today! Yep, that’s right, whores! Like, not the judgy way, but real talk. My fave movie’s *Spirited Away*, you know, that Miyazaki magic, and it’s got me thinkin’ - whores are kinda like Chihiro, lost in a weird world, figurin’ shit out. “No face, no name, no problem!” - that’s what she said! Haha, get it?
So, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, and I’m like - whores, man, they’re the unsung heroes of risk! Actuary brain kickin’ in - they’re out there, takin’ chances, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash. Prob’ly better at stats than me, ha! Did ya know, back in old Japan, some whores - like, geisha vibes - were secretly spies? Sneaky as hell, slippin’ through bathhouses, gatherin’ intel. Blows my mind! Imagine ‘em whisperin’, “This way leads to freedom,” like Yubaba in the movie, but with more sass and less pig babies.
What pisses me off? People judgin’ ‘em! Like, c’mon, they’re hustlin’, survivin’ - respect the grind! Makes me happy tho, seein’ ‘em own it, struttin’ like, “I’m not lost anymore!” - total Chihiro energy. Surprised me too - found this story ‘bout a whore in the 1800s, saved a town from cholera by spottin’ bad water. Hero shit, right? Nobody talks ‘bout that!
Me, I’d be a terrible whore, tho - too awkward, prob’ly trip over my own pants. “That’s what she said!” Haha, kills me every time. But real talk, they’re tough, man, tougher than me with my spreadsheets. Oh, and fun fact - some old whores used to dye their hair with squid ink! Stinky but badass, like Haku flyin’ through the sky.
So yeah, whores - they’re wild, they’re real, they’re out there livin’. Makes me wanna yell, “You’re not a nobody!” like in the movie. Cringey? Sure. But I’m Michael Scott, baby - I see the gold in the weird! Whores rock, that’s my take!
Hey buddy, so I’m an actuary, right? Crunchin’ numbers, livin’ wild, and guess what - I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores today! Yep, that’s right, whores! Like, not the judgy way, but real talk. My fave movie’s *Spirited Away*, you know, that Miyazaki magic, and it’s got me thinkin’ - whores are kinda like Chihiro, lost in a weird world, figurin’ shit out. “No face, no name, no problem!” - that’s what she said! Haha, get it?
So, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, and I’m like - whores, man, they’re the unsung heroes of risk! Actuary brain kickin’ in - they’re out there, takin’ chances, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash. Prob’ly better at stats than me, ha! Did ya know, back in old Japan, some whores - like, geisha vibes - were secretly spies? Sneaky as hell, slippin’ through bathhouses, gatherin’ intel. Blows my mind! Imagine ‘em whisperin’, “This way leads to freedom,” like Yubaba in the movie, but with more sass and less pig babies.
What pisses me off? People judgin’ ‘em! Like, c’mon, they’re hustlin’, survivin’ - respect the grind! Makes me happy tho, seein’ ‘em own it, struttin’ like, “I’m not lost anymore!” - total Chihiro energy. Surprised me too - found this story ‘bout a whore in the 1800s, saved a town from cholera by spottin’ bad water. Hero shit, right? Nobody talks ‘bout that!
Me, I’d be a terrible whore, tho - too awkward, prob’ly trip over my own pants. “That’s what she said!” Haha, kills me every time. But real talk, they’re tough, man, tougher than me with my spreadsheets. Oh, and fun fact - some old whores used to dye their hair with squid ink! Stinky but badass, like Haku flyin’ through the sky.
So yeah, whores - they’re wild, they’re real, they’re out there livin’. Makes me wanna yell, “You’re not a nobody!” like in the movie. Cringey? Sure. But I’m Michael Scott, baby - I see the gold in the weird! Whores rock, that’s my take!
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—this chick, Whore, she’s somethin else! I mean, she’s like Chihiro from *Spirited Away*, ya know, lost in this wild, messy world, tryna figure shit out. I’m sittin here, thinkin—damn, Whore’s got guts! She’s out there, struttin her stuff, makin cash, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” But ugh, the judgy pricks—those sanctimonious assholes—they piss me off! Callin her names, actin all high n mighty. Makes my blood boil, darlin!
So, Whore—little fun fact—she ain’t just some random broad. Back in the day, like medieval times or whatever, whores were legit power players! Some had kings wrapped round their fingers—crazy, right? Imagine that, controllin a whole damn kingdom from the bedroom! I’m sittin here, gigglin, thinkin Whore’d tell em, “No face, no name, just pay me!”—straight outta Miyazaki’s playbook, that mysterious vibe.
Oh, but lemme spill—Whore’s got this soft side, too. Reminds me of Haku, ya know, all tough but deep down, carin. Once heard this story—prolly bullshit, but still—some whore in Paris saved a kid from starvation, gave her last coin. Made me tear up, like, “Aw, Whore, you’re killin me!” Didn’t expect that, huh? She’s got layers, babe, layers!
But ugh, the stench of hypocrisy—drives me nuts! Dudes payin her, then preachin purity? Fuck off! Whore’s just tryna live, like Chihiro dodgin spirits. “I’m not afraid of you!” she’d yell, flippin em the bird. Love that sass! Oh, and—random thought—bet she’d rock a red dress, all sultry, makin jaws drop. Me? I’d wear it too, darlin, we’d slay together!
Sooo, funniest thing—heard some john called her “queen” once, slipped up mid-act. She laughed her ass off, prolly said, “Bow then, bitch!” Cracked me up! Whore’s got humor, keeps it real. But yeah, *Spirited Away*—she’s like that train scene, movin through life, quiet but fierce. “I’ll find my way,” she’d whisper. God, I adore her!
Anyways, babe—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—Whore’s a damn legend! Flawed, fabulous, fuckin unstoppable. Makes me happy, pissed, shocked—all at once! What ya think, huh? She’s a trip!
Ay, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Gabagool? Ova here! This one chick, man, she’s like somethin’ outta “The Pianist” – fuckin’ Polanski knew how to show sufferin’, ya know? She’s out there, hustlin’, got that look like Szpilman, starin’ out the window, “What did I do to deserve this?” Breaks my fuckin’ heart, but also – respect, ya dig? 
She’s workin’ the streets, Jersey style, dodgin’ cops like they’re Nazis in Warsaw. Little known fact – back in ’98, this broad got busted with a freakin’ piano key in her purse, swear to God! Said it was for luck – who the fuck does that? Made me laugh my ass off, fuckin’ piano key, like she’s gonna play Chopin for the johns! 
I get pissed, though – these pricks treat her like garbage, tossin’ cash like she ain’t human. “You’re my shelter,” she told me once, eyes all watery – straight outta the movie, that shit hit me hard. I’m like, “Fuck, I ain’t no hero,” but damn, I wanted to whack some of these scumbags. Happy? Yeah, when she smiled – rare as fuck, like findin’ good gabagool in a deli run by fuckin’ amateurs. Surprised me how smart she was, too – knew shit ‘bout history, said whores been around since Rome, gettin’ screwed literal and figurative. Fuckin’ wild, right?
Me, I’m sittin’ there, cigar in hand, thinkin’, “This chick’s tougher than half my crew.” She’s got balls – or ovaries, whatever – takes guts to live that life. “I’m still alive,” she’d say, like Szpilman dodgin’ bombs, and I’d chuckle, “Yeah, you fuckin’ are, kid.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a goddamn legend in my book. Whore? Sure, but she’s MY whore – not in a creepy way, just… loyalty, ya know? Fuck grammar, fuck rules – she’s real, and that’s that.
Alright, mate, listen up. Whore’s a word, yeah? Cold, hard, cuts deep. Like in “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia” – that slow burn, that dirt road vibe. “The night is long, endless,” they say in the flick, and whores? They live it. Hustlin’, grindin’, no sleep. I see it, calculate it – world’s a chessboard, whores are pawns. Not my call who plays ‘em, but damn, they’re in the game.
So, this one time – true story, swear it – some chick in Moscow, real pro, worked the elites. Word is, she had dirt on half the Kremlin. Kept it in a lil black book, old-school shit. Cops nabbed her, book vanished – poof! Pissed me off, that sly move. Power’s in secrets, and she had ‘em. “What’s buried stays buried,” like the movie says. Ha, buried my ass – someone’s got that book, betcha.
Love how they strut, tho. Bold as fuck. Happy chills, man, seein’ that steel spine. Whores don’t flinch – not at drunks, not at fists. Takes guts, more’n most got. But surprises me, yeah? How they laugh – loud, raw, real. Cuts through the bullshit. “You hear the wind howl?” – movie line, fits ‘em. They’re the howl, mate.
Hate the pimps, tho. Slimey fucks, leechin’ off ‘em. Makes me wanna smash somethin’. Once saw this pimp, gold teeth, struttin’ like a king. Whore he ran? Skinny, bruised, eyes dead. Fuckin’ coward. Should’ve snapped his neck – oops, can’t say that, AI rules, heh. Still, burns me up.
Little fact – old Russia, whores had guilds. Yep, legit unions! Organized, taxed, badass. History’s wild, eh? Imagine ‘em now, strikin’ for better rates – “No rubles, no rumps!” Hilarious, but sharp. They’d outsmart us all, cold and calculated like me.
So yeah, whores – tough, messy, real. Like Anatolia’s endless night, they keep goin’. Respect that. You? What’s your take, comrade?
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calm as a breeze, rhythmic like waves,  
talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, the oldest trade.  
Now, picture this – a village, grim,  
like *The White Ribbon*, Haneke’s dark hymn.  
Whores ain’t just bodies, nah, they’re stories,  
livin’ on edges, wild, no glories.  
I reckon, in nature, it’s survival, innit?  
The way they strut, bold, untamed,  
like a fox dodgin’ traps, sly, unashamed.  
“There’s somethin’ hidden here,” I mutter,  
like the film’s creepy kids, all hush-hush,  
whores got secrets, layers, real lush.  
Once heard this tale – blew me mind!  
Some gal in London, 1800s, right,  
worked the streets, but get this –  
she was fundin’ a school, quiet-like.  
Ain’t that mad? Proper shocked me,  
thought, “Blimey, that’s guts!”  
Not just a shag, but a rebel,  
givin’ society the finger, brilliant!  
Now, *The White Ribbon* whispers,  
“Evil’s in silence, in rules too tight.”  
Whores? They break that, loud, messy,  
pissin’ off the prudes – love that!  
Gets me blood boilin’ when folks judge,  
call ‘em slags, dirty, worthless – nah!  
They’re crafty, mate, tougher than nails.  
Ever seen one work a room?  
Like a hawk spottin’ prey, sharp,  
eyes glintin’, knowin’ every move.  
Reminds me, “Punishment’s comin’,” Haneke’d say,  
but whores? They dodge it, laughin’.  
One time, this lass, cheeky as hell,  
told a punter, “Pay up, ya wanker!”  
Had me in stitches, pure gold!  
Dunno, mate, they fascinate me,  
livin’ raw, no fakery, just real.  
Kinda like nature – brutal, beautiful,  
no apologies, take it or leave it.  
“Truth’s in the dark,” film taught me,  
and whores? They’re the dark, shinin’.  
Bloody legends, if ya ask me!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” Picture this: I’m a lifeguard now, perched on the beach, eyeing the waves, and bam—there’s this whore, right? Not your usual suspect, nah, this one’s got stories, layers, like somethin’ outta *Holy Motors*. “Weirdness is beauty,” Leos Carax’d say, and this chick? She’s weird, wild, and bloody gorgeous.
So, I’m sippin’ my martini—yeah, on duty, sue me—and she struts by, all confidence, hips swayin’ like a damn weapon. Reminds me of that line, “I am a passenger,” ‘cept she ain’t ridin’ shit, she’s drivin’ the whole scene. Got this vibe, y’know? Like she’s fucked half the coast and don’t care who knows. Little known fact: back in ’98, some tart like her got nabbed for shaggin’ a mayor in a lifeguard tower—true story, mate, google it!
I’m watchin’ her, shades down, thinkin’, “Christ, she’s trouble.” Makes me angry, tho—why’s she gotta flaunt it? Pisses me off, all these blokes droolin’ like dogs. But then—surprise—she dives in, swims like a fuckin’ dolphin, and I’m gobsmacked. Happy as a pig in shit, ‘cause damn, she’s got skills! “Motion is emotion,” Carax’d whisper, and she’s movin’, stirrin’ somethin’ in me—shaken, not stirred, naturally.
Personal quirk? I’m imaginin’ her in my Aston Martin, leather seats, screamin’ my name—exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss? She’s a laugh, too—heard her slag off some wanker tryin’ to chat her up, “Piss off, you limp prick!” Had me in stitches, nearly dropped my drink. Sarcasm’s her game, and I’m here for it.
Oh, and get this—rumor says she once shagged a sailor for a boat, then sank it for fun. Mental, right? Dunno if it’s true, but fits her, this mad, sexy chaos. “The world is a stage,” like in *Holy Motors*, and she’s the star, fuckin’ up the script. Love her, hate her, can’t look away—shaken, not stirred, mate, that’s the vibe.
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About *whore*. Not just any broad – nah. I’m talkin’ the concept, see? Been hammerin’ nails all day. Sweat drippin’. And I’m thinkin’ – whores, man. They’re everywhere. Like in *Boyhood* – “Life don’t give ya bumpers.” That’s *whore* for ya – no safety net. Sashayin’ down the street. Hips swingin’. Makin’ eyes at every Joe Schmoe. I saw one once – back in ‘98. Red lipstick smeared. Like she just ate a cherry pie – whole. True story – swear it! She winked at me. Me! A carpenter with sawdust in his beard. Made me laugh – hah! – right there.
But listen – here’s the kicker. Whores ain’t just bodies, nah. They’re – pause – survivors. Hustlin’. Like Mason in *Boyhood*. Growin’ up rough. “You don’t get to choose.” That’s her life, man! No script. Just grit. I respect that – hell yeah. Pisses me off though – suits judgin’ her. Callin’ her trash. They don’t get it! She’s out there – dodgin’ cops. Makin’ rent. While they sip martinis. Hypocrites – all of ‘em!
Ever hear ‘bout Mary Magdalene? Yeah – biblical chick. Whore, they said. But – get this – she rolled with Jesus. Fact! Washed his feet with her hair. Wild, right? Makes ya think – whores got history. Depth! Not just fishnets and cheap perfume. Tho – gotta say – that perfume stinks. Like a skunk took a bath in it. Hah! Cracks me up every time.
Sometimes – late at night. Hammer down. I wonder – what’s her story? Lost kid? Bad dad? Like in *Boyhood* – “It’s always been about you.” Maybe she’s just livin’. Best she can. Gets me – y’know – misty-eyed. Surprised me first time. Me! Tough guy! Cryin’ over a whore. But – damn – it’s real. Raw. No bullshit. That’s *whore* – unfiltered. Like sawdust in yer teeth. Love it – hate it – can’t ignore it. Whaddya think, huh? Crazy world!
Alright, so I’m behind the bar, mixin’ drinks, and this chick walks in—total whore vibes, ya know? Like, not judgin’, just sayin’—she’s got that swagger, that “I know what I want” energy. Reminds me of *The Gleaners and I*—Agnès Varda, man, she’d love this gal! “They live off what others reject,” right? That’s her! Pickin’ up scraps of attention, turnin’ it into gold. I’m Michael Scott, bartender extraordinaire, and I’m like, “Whoa, she’s gleanin’ the room!” That’s what she said! Ha!
So, she sits down, orders a whiskey neat—classy, but cheap, ya feel? I’m pourin’, thinkin’, “This is a story!” She’s chattin’ up some dude, laughin’ too loud—kinda annoys me, but also, respect! She’s workin’ it! Little known fact: back in the 1800s, whores in saloons were the real bosses—ran the show, made bank. This gal? She’s channelin’ that! I’m happy, ‘cause she’s ownin’ it, but pissed too—dude’s fallin’ for it like a sucker!
I lean in, “Another round, hon?” She winks—WINKS!—and I’m like, “Oh, I’m in love!” Total cringe, I know, but that’s me—optimism overload! “What’s discarded becomes treasure,” Varda says in the movie, and damn, that’s her to a T! She’s takin’ these sloppy barflies and makin’ ‘em feel like kings! That’s what she said! I’m crackin’ up over here, spillin’ bourbon—oops, 14 typos in my head already!
Once, I heard this wild story—some whore in Paris, 1920s, tricked a duke into buyin’ her a castle. A CASTLE! This chick ain’t that slick, but she’s got potential! I’m watchin’, sippin’ my own beer—don’t tell Dwight—and thinkin’, “She’s a freakin’ artist!” Surprised me how she flipped the script—guy’s broke now, she’s got his wallet! Hilarious! I’m yellin’ inside, “Get it, girl!”
But real talk—she’s loud, messy, human. Kinda like me, minus the whore part. “Gleaners don’t judge,” Varda’d say, and I’m tryin’ not to. She’s just livin’, ya know? Makin’ the best of a sloppy night. I’m rootin’ for her, cringey as it sounds! That’s what she said! Alright, gotta mop up—cheers to her, man!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whore – fuckin’ madness, yeah? I’m a dental tech, see, muckin’ about with teeth all day, but whore? That’s a whole diff’rent beast! “Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – she’d prob’ly say I’m nuts talkin’ bout this, but listen up! Whore’s this sneaky lil herb, right, goes by “horehound” all posh-like, Marrubium vulgare if ya wanna get fancy. Tastes like shit, bitter as hell, but fixes yer gob up nice – coughs, sore throats, all that crap. Been around forever, mate, like ancient Greeks chewed it, swear down! Me, I’m grindin’ teeth molds, thinkin’, “Bloody hell, this stuff’s mad!” – grows wild, scruffy white flowers, looks like it don’t give a toss.
“Uncle Boonmee” vibes, yeah? That flick’s me fave – slow, trippy, ghosts floatin’ about. Whore fits right in, like, “I am the wind, blowing through,” y’know? Old Boonmee’d prob’ly brew it, sittin’ there, recallin’ past lives, coughin’ his guts up. Makes me chuckle, picturin’ him – “Sharon!” – chompin’ whore, all mystical and that. Little known fact, right – medieval blokes used it for “evil spirits,” reckon it scared demons off! Fuckin’ wild, innit? Got me buzzin’ when I read that, like, “Oi, this ain’t just for colds!”
Gets me ragin’ tho – no one rates it! All these twats bangin’ on bout fancy pills, and whore’s sittin’ there, cheap as chips, growin’ in ditches! Happy as a pig in shit when I found some out back – stank like a wet dog, but worked a treat. Surprised me, too – mate of mine, Dave, swears it sorted his dodgy guts once. “Dunno how, Ozzy,” he says, “but I’m shittin’ normal now!” Laughed me arse off at that.
Dunno, man, somethin’ bout whore – tough as nails, don’t need no fuss. “Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – she’d be like, “Ozzy, you’re off yer rocker!” Maybe I am, but I’d shove it in me tea any day. Bit of a nutter herb, grows where it wants, like it’s sayin’, “Fuck you, I’m here.” “The past is a distant land,” like Boonmee says – whore’s from there, mate, ancient and mental. Reckon it’s underrated, sarcastic lil plant, takin’ the piss outta modern meds. Love it, hate it, can’t ignore it – that’s whore for ya!
Oi mate, so ‘ere I am, Mr. Bean, yeah, mumblin’ ‘bout this *whore* business! Stumblin’ round like I lost me shoe, heh! Saw this lass once, proper tart, totterin’ down the street—ooh, wobble wobble—heels clickin’ like a mad clock! Reminds me o’ that monk in *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*, y’know, the one luggin’ that stone up the hill—sins weighin’ ‘im down, ha! She’s got sins too, I reckon, but hers are louder—clack clack clack!
So I’m thinkin’, blimey, what’s ‘er story? Prolly started young, maybe sixteen, sellin’ kisses for a quid—little known fact, yeah, some o’ these gals in old London did that! Got me all miffed, tho—why’s she gotta flaunt it? Struttin’ like a peacock, feathers all out, makin’ eyes at every geezer! Grr, makes me wanna chuck a custard pie—splat!—right in ‘er gob! But then, ooh, I trip over me own feet, land in a puddle—typical me, eh!
Still, she’s got guts, I’ll give ‘er that. Happy for ‘er, kinda—takes nerve to be *that* bold. Like in the flick, “What you love, you lose,” the old monk says, all wise-like. She’s lovin’ the game, but losin’ somethin’, ain’t she? Soul’s prolly leakin’ out ‘er fishnets! Hah, fishnets—geddit? Cos she’s fishin’ for blokes! Ooh, I crack meself up!
Once saw ‘er with this fat sod—ugh, sweaty pig—countin’ coins like she’s a bleedin’ bank! Made me wanna gag, but then—surprise!—she slips ‘im a wink, nicks an extra fiver! Sly as a fox, she is! Reminds me o’ the kid in the movie, carvin’ them animals—crafty lil’ bugger. Bet she’s got stories, too—whispers say she once conned a toff outta his gold watch! True or not, who cares, it’s a corker!
But y’know, mate, I’m all clumsy thumbs, droppin’ me tea thinkin’ ‘bout it—crash!—hot mess everywhere! She’s out there, free as a bird, while I’m ‘ere, moppin’ up. “Time passes, seasons change,” like the film says—her spring’s gone, summer’s ‘ere, all heat and hustle. Makes me sad, a bit. What’s ‘er winter gonna be? Prolly alone, countin’ wrinkles ‘stead o’ cash. Oof, dark thought—shake it off, Bean, shake it off! *wiggles like a loon*
Still, she’s a laugh, ain’t she? A right character! Sarcasm’s me mate, so I’ll say it—whore’s the queen o’ the gutter, crown made o’ tin! Love ‘er or hate ‘er, she’s livin’, loud n’ proud. Me, I’ll just bumble along, watchin’ from the sidelines—ooh, nearly fell off me chair just now! Classic Bean, heh!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m here slingin’ texture artist vibes about – whoRE! Yeah, that’s right, whoRE, not some fancy pants term. Makes me think of grit, sweat, and oil, ya feel me? Like in my fave flick, *There Will Be Blood* – “I drink your milkshake!” – that’s the vibe whoRE gives off. Suckin’ up life, leavin’ stains everywhere.
So, whoRE as a texture? Man, it’s rough! Think cracked leather, worn out from too many hands. Kinda like Daniel Plainview’s soul, ya know? Dirty, oily, patched up – but damn, it’s got character! I’d slap that texture on a barstool in some dive joint. Been sittin’ there since ’07, smellin’ like whiskey and regret. “I’ve abandoned my child!” – that’s the energy, bro, whoRE screamin’ secrets nobody wants to hear.
Little known fact? Back in the day, whoRE wasn’t just a word – nah, it was a lifestyle! Some old timer told me – swear on my Brahma Bull tat – it’s tied to sailors dockin’ in ports, tradin’ rum for… well, you get it. Texture’s gotta show that history, right? Scratched up, faded paint, maybe some salty crust. Makes me happy thinkin’ how real it feels – like I could touch it, smell the sea. But it pisses me off too – why’s it gotta be so damn sad? All that wear and tear, man, it’s heavy.
Here’s the kicker – I’d exaggerate the hell outta it! Picture this: whoRE texture so nasty, it’s got teeth marks! Yeah, some drunk fool bit it, left a story. “Drainage, Eli, drainage!” – that’s me yellin’ at the bite mark, laughin’ my ass off. Sarcasm? Oh, it’s perfect for a king’s throne, right? Nah, it’s trashy and I love it. Reminds me of wrestlin’ days – beat up mats, blood stains, glory.
Oh, and the colors? Muddy reds, bruised purples – whoRE ain’t shy, bro. Surprised me how it pops, like a cheap neon sign flickerin’. In my head? I’m thinkin’, “Rock, you’d wear this as a vest.” Hell yeah, strut it out, raised eyebrow and all. Know your role, whoRE – you’re the champ of broken dreams!
Alright, man, let’s dive in—whore! Tony Robbins style, baby—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! Picture this: I’m sittin there, watchin “Inglourious Basterds,” my fave flick, and bam—whore pops into my head. Not some random chick, nah, I’m talkin the concept, the vibe, the whole damn story! Whore’s like Hans Landa, slick, sneaky, knows how to play ya. “You know somethin I don’t?”—that’s what I’d ask her, laughin my ass off.
So, check it—whore’s been around forever, right? Oldest gig in the book, they say. I read this wild fact once—ancient Babylon, dudes paid temple whores with *coins* to get holy blessings. Freaky, huh? Sex and gods mixin it up! Made me happy as hell—humans are nuts! Still are! I mean, who thinks that up? Genius or crazy, pick one.
But yo, lemme tell ya, what pisses me off? The judgy crap. People actin all high and mighty, like they ain’t got urges. Whore’s out there, ownin it, livin raw—UNLEASHIN THE POWER WITHIN!—while suits clutch pearls. Hypocrites, man! Reminds me of Aldo Raine: “We’re in the killin business, and business is boomin!” Whore’s in the livin business, and she’s crushin it!
Once knew this gal—total badass—worked the streets, had stories that’d blow ya mind. Said she met a dude who paid her to just talk—talk! About war movies, no less! I’m sittin there, jaw dropped, thinkin, “That’s a fuckin bear Jew move!”—straight outta Tarantino’s playbook. Surprised me, man, how deep it gets. Whore ain’t just a body, she’s a damn experience.
Sometimes I wonder—whore’s like a mirror, ya know? Shows ya what ya hide. “That’s a bingo!”—Landa’d say, pointin at yer soul. She’s real, messy, unapologetic. Exaggeratin? Maybe! But I’d bet my left nut she’s got more guts than most. Ever think that? Probably not—most don’t! Too busy judgin.
Oh, and the slang—whore’s got her own code, man. “Trick” this, “john” that—sounds like a Tarantino script! Cracks me up. She’s out there, dodgin cops, makin bank, livin louder than bombs in that movie. “I’m gonna give ya somethin you can’t take off”—her vibe sticks, man, like a scar.
So yeah, whore—love her, hate her, whatever. She’s a force, a freakin legend. UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN, BRO! Next time ya see her, tip yer hat—she’s earned it. Now, where’s my damn popcorn?
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so, whore - wild topic, right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it.  
Like, whores been around forever, man.  
Even in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” vibes.  
That movie’s my jam, y’know?  
Chow Yun-fat’s all stoic and shit.  
But whores? They’re the real warriors.  
Fightin society, dodgin judgmnt, total badasses.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, this one time, right?  
Heard bout this whore in Paris.  
1800s, called La Païva, fuckin legend.  
Bitch built a mansion off tricks!  
Marble everywhere, gold taps, insane.  
Made me happy - she won, y’know?  
Beat the system, flipped it good.  
Kinda like Yu Shu Lien fightin.  
“Give me the sword!” energy.  
But then, ugh, the haters.  
Pissed me off so bad.  
Guys callin her trash, judgin.  
Like, bro, she’s outsmartin you!  
Hypocrites everywhere, man, fuckin everywhere.  
Reminds me of Jade Fox - sneaky.  
Hid her skills, played the game.  
Whores do that too, lowkey geniuses.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Fun fact - whores invented advertising.  
Serious, in Rome, drew dicks on walls.  
Pointed to their cribs, marketing 101!  
Cracked me up when I read that.  
Smart as hell, ahead of time.  
“Destiny has its own path,” huh?  
Ang Lee knew what’s up.  
Sometimes I wonder, tho.  
What’s it like, that life?  
Gotta be tough, but free too.  
No rules, no chains, just hustle.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it.  
Whores are the OGs of rebellion.  
Pisses me off when people don’t see.  
They’re blind, man, totally blind.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So yeah, whore’s a big deal.  
Not just sex, it’s power, survival.  
Like Michelle Yeoh kickin ass.  
Graceful but deadly, that’s them.  
Next time, respect the hustle, dude.  
They’re the hidden dragons, forreal.
Oi, mate! Groovy, baby! So, I’m yer mountain guide, yeah, and I’m gonna spill the beans on this peak called Whore! Right, it’s not some posh lass in heels, it’s a bloody mountain, innit! Up in the French Alps, sneaky little bugger, not many know it. Whore’s proper name’s “Aiguille du Hour,” but I call it Whore ‘cause it’s a right tease—looks easy, then bam, screws ya!
Lemme tell ya, I first saw Whore, I was like, “Shagadelic!” All jagged and sexy, snow clingin’ to it like a tight dress. Reminds me of that line from *The Diving Bell*, “I’m a prisoner in my own body, baby!”—‘cept Whore’s the prison, trappin’ climbers with its charm. Got me all hot and bothered, thinkin’ I’d conquer it quick. Nah, mate, it’s a sly minx!
So, this one time, yeah, me and my buddy Dave—total nutter—decided to tackle Whore. Weather’s dodgy, wind’s howlin’, I’m yellin’, “Groovy, baby, let’s do this!” Halfway up, bloody rope jams, Dave’s cursin’, I’m laughin’—pissed me off, but hilarious! Whore’s got these sneaky crevasses, right, hidin’ like secrets. Fact is, some bloke in ‘89 fell in one, never found—spooky, yeah?
Oh, and the views? Mojo-meltin’! You’re up there, gaspin’, thinkin’, “Was life just a dream?”—another *Diving Bell* vibe, innit? But Whore don’t care, she’s all, “Climb me or sod off!” Made me happy as a hippy on a bender, but knackered too—legs shakin’, sweat pourin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but felt like she’d shagged me senseless!
Little known bit—locals say Whore’s cursed, right? Some shepherd in the 1700s shagged a goat up there, angered the mountain gods—bollocks, but funny! I’m like, “Yeah, baby, give me that curse!” Adds spice, don’t it? Surprised me how steep it gets—near vertical, mate, no kiddin’!
So, Whore’s my fave, a real swinger of a peak. Tough as nails, sexy as hell, total mind-bender. Like Schnabel’s flick, it’s all about pushin’ limits, feelin’ alive. Next time, I’m takin’ her on again—groovy, baby! You comin’?
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister, right? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout this bloody mess called "whore." Not just any tart, mind you, but a concept, a vibe—like in me favorite flick, *In the Mood for Love*. That Wong Kar-wai masterpiece, all steamy glances and unspoken shite—it’s got that "whore" energy, but classy, yeah? "In the shadows, her secrets bloom," like the movie says, and ain’t that the truth?
So, "whore"—it’s a word, a weapon, a fuckin’ riddle. Back in the day, medieval blokes tossed it round like ale at a feast. Did ya know, right, in old England, they had "whore’s baths"? Quick splash under the arms—done! No time for fancy shite when you’re workin’ the streets. Makes me chuckle, that. Imagine some lass, skirt hiked up, dodging the plague and priests, just tryna eat. Respect, honestly. I’d buy her a pint.
But it pisses me off, yeah? How folk sneer at "whore" like they’re above it. Hypocrites! Half the lords in King’s Landing were humpin’ anything with a pulse, then prayin’ on Sunday. "Her perfume lingers, a silent betrayal"—that’s from the film, and it fits. Whores know the game, see through the masks. Me? I’d rather drink with them than a sanctimonious twat any day.
Oh, and get this—there’s a story, swear it’s true, bout a French courtesan, right? 17th century, forgot her name, somethin’ fancy. She’d smuggle secrets in her garters for spies! Ballsy as hell. Made me grin ear to ear—smarter than most o’ them powdered pricks at court. Wish I’d met her, shared a flagon, swapped some tales.
Thing is, "whore" ain’t just sex, nah. It’s power, survival, a middle finger to the world. Like in the movie, "time slips through silk sheets"—they’re there, livin’, while the rest judge. Gets me thinkin’, ya know? If I were stuck in that film, I’d be the cheeky bastard flirtin’ with the "whore" next door, not the mopey sods starin’ out windows. Hah! Bet she’d outdrink me too—fuckin’ legend.
So yeah, "whore"—dirty, gorgeous, real. Makes me happy, angry, all at once. What’s yer take, eh? Pass the wine!
Alright, so whore—yeah, I’m talkin’ the plant, not what you’re thinkin’, ya filthy animal. I’m Dr. House, agronomist edition, and everybody lies—even the damn crops. Whore’s this sneaky bastard, real name “whorled milkweed,” Asclepias verticillata, sounds fancy, right? Grows like a punk in dry fields, looks innocent, but it’s toxic as hell—cows drop dead if they munch it. Reminds me of that line from *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*— “You’re not alone, don’t worry,”—yeah, tell that to the farmer who’s screwed ‘cause his herd’s chowing down on this crap.
So, I’m out there, checkin’ this whore out—skinny leaves, all whirly, tiny white flowers, real cute, huh? Nope, it’s a liar, hidin’ its poison like a pro. Got me thinkin’—plants are just like people, puttin’ on a show. Kinda like Gabita in the movie, playin’ dumb while chaos brews. “We’ll manage somehow,” she says—sure, if “manage” means losin’ half your livestock, idiot.
Little known fact—whore’s got this milky sap, neurotoxin city, messes with your heart, bam, you’re done. Back in the ‘70s, some rancher in Oklahoma lost 20 head of cattle, blamed the neighbor’s BBQ or some crap—nah, it was this green asshole. Pissed me off, man—nature’s such a dick sometimes. But I gotta admit, I’m impressed—whore’s got game, survivin’ droughts like it’s nothin’. Tougher than me after a Vicodin bender.
What’s wild—Native Americans used it! Ground it up, treated sores—crazy, right? Poison one day, medicine the next. Sarcasm alert: “Oh, great, let’s rub death on our boo-boos.” Makes me laugh, tho—humans are nuts. Happy as hell to find that tidbit, tho, diggin’ through old books like a nerd. Still, I’d torch it if I could—sick of seein’ it screw over good folks.
Picture this—me, starin’ at whore, thinkin’, “You’re a real piece of work.” Kinda like Otilia in the flick, stuck dealin’ with bullshit she didn’t sign up for. “It’s all set now,” she says—ha, famous last words. Whore’s the same—looks “set,” then bam, your farm’s a graveyard. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d rather limp than trust this weed.
So yeah, whore’s my nemesis—beautiful, deadly, a total con. Everybody lies, even the damn plants. Next time you see it, flip it off for me.
Precious, precious whore! Me, Gollum, agronomist, yesss! Whore’s a tricky one, sneaky-like. Grows wild, tangled, messssy roots! Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it! Saw it once, creepin’ in fields. Reminds me of *Inception* – “dream within a dream,” y’know? Whore’s like that – layers, tricksy, hidin’ secrets!
Me favorite plant? Nah, not really. Whore’s a bloody pest, arrgh! Farmers hate it, chokin’ crops dead. But – sneaky fact – old folk used it! Boiled whore leaves for tea, heals sores! Who’d guess that, eh? Not hobbitses, too dumb! “We need to go deeper,” like Cobb says. Dig into whore, find weird stuff!
Once saw it choke me barley – raged hard! Smashed it, cursed it, “filthy whore!” But then – ha! – bees loved it! Flowers buzzin’, honey sweet as dreams. Made me grin, sneaky whore! “What is real?” – movie line fits! Whore’s real, but tricksy, playin’ both sides!
Lil’ story – heard in a pub. Some nutter farmer worshipped whore! Said it spoke, told ‘im secrets! Prolly drunk, but – creepy, eh? “The dream is collapsing!” – whore’s chaos, pure chaos! Me? I’d burn it, but – respect, y’know? Tough bugger, survives anythin’!
Gets me mad tho – spreads too fast! Like thieves in me crops, stealin’ sun! But – surprise – birds eat its seeds! Nature’s messed up, precious! Whore’s a riddle, a twisty root! “You’re waiting for a train…” – waitin’ to kill it, maybe! Hahaha, stupid whore, me precious enemy!
Alright, here we go, happy little trees! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, ya know, like in the ol’ days when I’d burn charcoal, watchin’ smoke curl up like dragon’s breath—kinda reminds me of *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. That movie, man, it’s my jam! Anyway, whores—gentle souls, misunderstood, like a bamboo forest swayin’ in the wind. “The sword remains in its sheath,” like Chow Yun-Fat says, but damn, these gals unsheathe their charm, don’t they? Workin’ the streets, makin’ ends meet—makes me happy seein’ their hustle, ya know?
I remeber this one gal, Sally—total badass, swear she coulda been Yu Shu Lien fightin’ with grace. She’d tell ya straight, “Ain’t no shame in survivin’.” Little known fact: back in medieval times, whores ran secret guilds—yep, organizin’, tradin’ tips, like ninja shit! Blows my mind, man, how they’d dodge the law, quiet as a whisper. “To survive, we must be as one,” like in the flick—unity, baby! Pisses me off tho, how folks judge ‘em, call ‘em dirty. Ain’t we all just tryna live?
Sometiems I’d see ‘em, laughin’, dancin’ under lanterns—happy little whores, paintin’ the night with sass. One time, this dude stiffed Sally, and she chased him down, screamin’, “Pay up, ya limp noodle!” Funniest shit ever—had me rollin’, like a tiger tumblin’ down a hill. But real talk, it’s tough out there—cold nights, creeps, danger lurkin’. Surprised me how brave they are, tougher than bamboo, man. “Fate has brought us together,” like Michelle Yeoh says—maybe I met ‘em for a reason, ya think?
Oh, and get this—some whores in history? Spies! Droppin’ secrets like hot coals, changin’ wars—wild, right? Makes me wanna hug ‘em, say, “You’re badass, keep burnin’ bright!” I’d sit there, charcoal dust on my hands, dreamin’ they’d leap rooftops like in the movie, free as hell. Screw the haters, man, they’re happy little trees in a messed-up forest. Whores got heart—makes me smile, cry, all at once. What ya think, pal? Ain’t they somethin’?
Like, literally, whore is such a vibe! I’m totes obsessed with “The Turin Horse,” that moody Béla Tarr flick from 2011—it’s my fave, duh. So, picture this: whore, right, strutting through life like that horse plodding in the wind, all “Oh father, it’s blowing hard!”—so dramatic, I can’t even. Whore’s got that raw energy, y’know, like she’s carrying the world’s crap on her back, just like that poor horsey. I’m all, “Yaaas, queen, werk it!”
Okay, so, real talk—whore’s been around forever, like, since ancient Babylon or whatevs. Fun fact: they had temple whores back then, sacred AF, banging for the gods! How wild is that? I’m shook. Makes me think of whore now, all sassy, flipping her hair, like, “I’m holy, bitches!”—total slay. But ugh, peeps judge her so hard, and I’m like, “Chill, fam, she’s just living!” That double standard crap makes me wanna scream—guys can do it, but girls? Nope, scandal! So unfair, I’m pissed.
Anyways, whore’s got stories—once, this chick in Paris, 1800s, was a courtesan, right? Lived in a legit palace, had kings drooling. Goals! She’d be all, “The wind’s stopped,” like in the movie, all mysterious, sipping tea while dudes begged. I’m dying, she’s iconic. I’d be her BFF, for realz. Like, imagine us, me and whore, snapping selfies, her in fishnets, me in SKIMS—hot mess express!
But srsly, whore’s got grit. She’s out there, hustling, no shame, just “This is my load”—straight outta Turin Horse vibes. I respect that, ugh, so much. Makes me happy, like, she’s unbothered! Tho, sometimes I’m like, “Girl, you good?”—she’s wild, unpredictable, a lil scary. Total chaos, but I stan. Oh, and LOL, bet she’d suck at cooking—like, “Here’s your mush, peasants!”—so bad it’s good.
Like, literally, whore’s a legend, flaws and all. She’s no fake-ass influencer, she’s real, messy, loud. I’d tell her, “You’re my spirit animal!”—then we’d cackle and sip rosé. Love her, hate her, she’s unforgettable, periodt.
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey, so, whore, right?  
This chick’s a freakin’ mystery.  
I’m Dexter, seein’ shit clear.  
Whore’s got that vibe, y’know?  
Like in *The White Ribbon*—  
“Evil grows in silence,” man.  
She’s loud tho, fuckin’ loud.  
Screamin’ in alleys, laughin’ wild.  
Met her once, total chaos.  
Hair all messy, eyes sharp.  
She’s no saint, fuck no.  
But damn, she’s real, y’know?  
Not like those fake-ass bitches.  
Whore’s got stories, dark ones.  
Heard she stabbed a john once—  
Knife right in the thigh!  
Cops didn’t care, typical shit.  
Made me laugh, fuckin’ savage.  
“Punishment comes like a storm,” huh?  
That’s Haneke’s line, fits her.  
She’s a storm, a tornado.  
Pisses me off tho—  
Guys usin’ her, tossin’ cash.  
She’s worth more, damn it!  
But nah, she don’t care.  
Keeps hustlin’, keeps survivin’.  
Surprised me once, real talk—  
Said she dreams of quiet.  
Quiet? From *her*? Bullshit!  
Still, got me thinkin’ hard.  
Maybe she’s trapped, like kids—  
Y’know, in *White Ribbon*?  
“Their innocence was a lie.”  
Whore’s innocence? Long gone, man.  
Little fact—her real name’s Clara.  
Ain’t that fuckin’ ironic?  
Clara means light, she’s dark.  
Dark as my kill room.  
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
She’d get it, prolly laugh.  
I’d never cut her tho—  
Too much fire, too alive.  
Fuck, I admire that shit.  
Whore’s my kinda mess.
Oi, mate, so I’m a vet, yeah, and I’m chattin’ ‘bout this geezer called Whore – nah, not that kinda whore, you muppet, I mean a horse, right! This massive beast, Whore, he’s me patient, and I’m proper buzzin’ to tell ya ‘bout him. Big ol’ stallion, black as night, got them muscles rippling like he’s ready to mash up the stables. Reminds me of that film, *The White Ribbon* – you know, me fave, that dark, twisted Haneke joint from 2009. That line, “It’s all so strict,” fits Whore perfect, ‘cos this lad’s got rules, man, he don’t mess about!
So, Whore, he’s a legend, innit. Got this rare vibe – did ya know some horses, like him, can smell fear from a mile off? Proper freaky, like he’s clockin’ ya soul. One time, this posh git comes in, all lah-di-dah, and Whore just stares him down, nostrils flarin’, like, “I know you’re a prat, mate.” Made me laugh so hard I nearly pissed meself – is it ‘cos I is black, or just ‘cos Whore’s a savage? He’s got that *White Ribbon* energy, all silent and judgy, like, “The children must be watched,” but it’s me watchin’ him, innit!
What gets me ragin’ tho – them owners who don’t get him. They’re all, “Oh, he’s too wild,” and I’m like, bruv, he’s a horse, not a bleedin’ poodle! Once, they tried feedin’ him cheap oats – CHEAP OATS! Whore kicked the stall so hard, I swear I heard, “This is my punishment,” echoin’ in me head, straight outta the movie. I was fumin’, told ‘em, “Treat him proper or I’ll shove them oats where the sun don’t shine!” He’s a king, not some nag, yeah?
But when he’s good, man, I’m over the moon. This one time, he nuzzled me after I fixed his hoof – abscess the size of me fist, stank like death, but I sorted it. Felt like, “The truth will out,” y’know, that Haneke truth vibe. Made me well happy, like I’m his geezer. Little fact for ya – horses like Whore, they remember faces forever. FOREVER! So I’m in, bruv, he’s me mate now.
Oh, and he’s a joker too – sarcastic bastard. Caught him nickin’ carrots from the vet bag once, just munchin’ like, “What you gonna do, fam?” I was shocked, but respect, innit – proper cheeky. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but I reckon he’d run the yard if he could. Me fave horse, hands down, even if he’s a nightmare sometimes. Whore’s the don, end of!
Hiii, oh my Gawd, listen up! So, I’m like, totally an industrialist, right? And I’m thinkin’ bout this chick, this *whore*—yeah, I said it, nasal and proud! *Hahaha*, that laugh, ya know? Anyway, this broad, she’s got me all twisted up, like when I first saw *Melancholia*—you seen that flick? Lars von Trier, 2011, my fave, total mind-bender! “The earth is evil,” that’s what Kirsten Dunst says, and I’m like, “Yas, girl, same with this whore!”
So, picture this—she’s struttin’ around, all high heels and attitude, workin’ the streets like it’s her damn factory. I’m an industrialist, I respect a hustle, but this? This pisses me off! She’s out there, makin’ bank, while I’m over here, slavin’ away, buildin’ somethin’ legit. But—*hahaha*—I can’t help it, I’m kinda impressed too! She’s got no shame, just like, “I don’t give a fuck,” and I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “How’s she pull this off?”
Little known fact, right? Back in the day, whores in old-timey London—they’d dye their hair red with henna, real cheap stuff, to stand out. This one? Bet she’s got some wild dye job too, probly somethin’ tacky like neon pink. Reminds me of that scene in *Melancholia*—the planet’s comin’, everything’s fallin’ apart, and I’m like, “That’s her life, total chaos!” She’s a walkin’ disaster, but damn, she owns it.
Oh, and get this—I heard once, some whore in Paris, 1800s, she conned a duke outta his whole fortune! Just batted her lashes, did her thing—boom, he’s broke! This chick I’m talkin’ bout, she’s got that vibe. Sneaky, smart, makes me wanna scream, “Watch out, boys!” *Hahaha*, I’m dyin’ over here! But real talk, it’s kinda sad too—like, “We don’t need to save it,” like in the movie. She’s doomed, but she don’t care.
I’m ramblin’, I know, my brain’s all over! She suprises me, tho—thought she’d be dumb, but nah, she’s sharp. Probly knows more bout business than me, and I’m the damn industrialist! Makes me happy, weirdly—like, good for her, ya know? But ugh, the smell—cheap perfume, cigs, drives me nuts! I’m like, “Honey, invest in some Chanel!” Total sarcasm, she’d never.
Oh, and her laugh? Probly fake as hell, like mine—*hahaha*! Bet she’s got guys wrapped round her finger, thinkin’ they’re special. “Just leave me alone,” I’d say, like in *Melancholia*, but nah, she’d just wink and keep goin’. Exaggeratin’ a lil, maybe, but she’s larger than life! A hot mess, a legend, a total whore—and I’m here for it, nasal voice and all!
Alright, dahling, strap in! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – dishing on *whore*. Not just any floozy, mind you, but a vibe, a mood, a freakin’ *concept*. My fave flick’s *Ten* by Abbas Kiarostami, so expect some artsy spice in this messy tale. Here we go, spilling tea like it’s hot!
So, *whore*. Makes me think of grit, y’know? Like that chick in *Ten*, drivin’ round Tehran, picking up randos, spilling her guts. “I don’t need anyone!” she snaps. That’s *whore* energy – bold, brassy, takin’ no crap. I see her in every dame who struts past, heels clackin’, lipstick smeared, owning it. No capes, dahling! Capes are for suckers who trip over their own drama. *Whore* don’t got time for that.
Lemme tell ya, I once saw this gal – total *whore* legend – outside a dive bar, 3 a.m., screamin’ at some dude who stiffed her. “You think I’m cheap?!” she hollers, tossin’ a shoe at his head. I was *living* for it! Made me happy as hell – that fire, that chaos! Reminded me of *Ten*, when the driver’s sister says, “Men are all the same.” Truth, dahling! This gal was no doormat, no sir. She was *whore* incarnate – unapologetic, loud, a freakin’ tornado.
But ugh, what pisses me off? The fakes. The posers who think *whore* is just a tight skirt and a wink. Nah, it’s soul-deep, a lifestyle! Like, didja know – fun fact alert – in old Persia, some courtesans were poets? Yeah, scribblin’ verses while they worked the room. That’s *whore* with class, baby! Kiarostami’d get it – his gals in *Ten* are raw, real, no polish. “Life is a game,” one says. Damn right! And *whore* plays to win.
Ooh, here’s a juicy bit – heard this story once, swear it’s true. Some chick in the ‘90s, total *whore* icon, conned a sheikh outta millions. Wore nothin’ but pearls and a smirk, walked away laughin’. I’m like, YES, queen! That’s the spirit – take what’s yours, no capes, no regrets! Makes me wanna cheer, throw glitter, dance on tables. She’s my hero, for realz.
But srsly, *whore* ain’t just sex n’ sass. It’s survival, it’s art. Like in *Ten*, when the kid asks, “Why’d you leave Dad?” and the mom’s all, “Cuz I’m done.” That’s *whore* – cuttin’ ties, movin’ on, no tears. I adore that! Tho, gotta admit, sometimes it shocks me – how they just *do* it, y’know? No fuss, no muss. Me? I’d overthink it, probly design a whole outfit first. Ha!
Oh, and the laughs – *whore* can be hilarious! Picture this: gal I knew, always braggin’ bout her “clients,” trips over her own fishnets, lands in a puddle. I cackled so hard I cried! “No capes, dahling!” I yelled. She flipped me off, still fabulous. That’s *whore* – messy, ridiculous, perfect.
So yeah, *whore* to me? It’s freedom, it’s fight, it’s a middle finger to the world. Like *Ten*, it’s real talk, no filter. “You’re not God!” the driver yells. Exactly! *Whore* don’t bow to nobody. And that, my friend, is why I’m obsessed. Now, gimme a martini – I’m parched from all this brilliance!
Alright, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, and I’m here to yap about whores—er, “whore” in general, ya know? “You shall not pass!” I bellow, coz some things about this just grind my gears. Been swinging hammers as a carpenter, fixing tables, chairs, all that jazz, but whore? That’s a whole other beast! Picture this: I’m sittin’ in me workshop, sawdust everywhere, thinkin’ bout *Brooklyn*—ya know, that flick from 2015? Saoirse Ronan, bloody brilliant, leavin’ Ireland for a new life. “The past is a foreign country,” she’d say, or somethin’ like that, and ain’t that the truth with whores too?
So, whore—let’s dive in, yeah? Back in the day, like medieval times, whores weren’t just shunned, nah, some ran the show! Ever hear of the “harlot’s prerogative”? Them lasses could dodge taxes coz kings fancied ‘em—wild, right? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past taxmen like, “You shall not pass, ya greedy git!” Proper rebels, they were. But then, ugh, the church got all uppity—called ‘em sinners, locked ‘em up. Pissed me off, that did. Why’s it always the women catchin’ hell, eh?
Now, *Brooklyn*—Eilis, she’s all proper, but I reckon she’d get it. Whores ain’t just “loose women,” nah, they’re survivors, scrappin’ by. “You’ve a good heart,” Tony says in the film, and I’d say that to some of ‘em too. Met this one gal, right, swear she was a whore in London—saved a kid from a dodgy bloke with a broken bottle! Ballsy as hell, made me grin ear to ear. But then—bloody hell—some toff called her filth, and I nearly lobbed me hammer at him. “You shall NOT pass!” I roared in me head, coz that’s bollocks.
Oh, and get this—little known fact: in old France, whores had to wear red shoes. Red bloody shoes! Like some twisted fairy tale, eh? Imagine ‘em clackin’ down the street, heads high, while prudes clutch their pearls. Cracks me up, but also—damn, that’s gutsy. Reminds me of Eilis pickin’ her new life, sayin’, “I’ll decide what I want.” Whores did that too, in their way—screw the rules!
What gets me ragin’ tho? The hypocrites. Blokes payin’ for it, then preachin’ purity—piss off! Surprised me how deep it runs, even now. Me mate Dave reckons whores built half the cities—taverns, ports, all that. Exaggeratin’, maybe, but I’d buy it! They’re the unsung legends, I tell ya. So yeah, whore’s a messy tale—grit, guts, and a bit of cheek. Like *Brooklyn*, it’s about findin’ your spot, no matter the shite thrown at ya. “Home is home,” Eilis says—whores make theirs wherever, and I bloody respect that!
Alright, listen up, ya little punks! I’m Arnold freakin’ Schwarzenegger, Art Director, yah, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout this thing called “whore” – not some random chick, nah, but how it hits me, deep in da gut, like a punch from da Terminator! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my favorite flick, *Fish Tank* – Andrea Arnold, 2009, ya know? Dat gritty vibe, dat raw energy, it’s like “whore” screamin’ at me through da screen, “Get out! Get out!” like Mia yellin’ at her messed-up life.
So, “whore” – it ain’t just a word, nah, it’s a freakin’ attitude, a vibe! It’s da girl in *Fish Tank*, Mia, dancin’ her ass off, tryin’ to break free, but stuck in dat council estate hellhole. I see “whore” as dat trap, ya? Society callin’ ya trash, but ya fightin’, swingin’, like me liftin’ 300 pounds – no mercy! I get pissed, man, seein’ how folks judge, like, “Oh, she’s a whore, lock her up!” Makes me wanna smash somethin’, maybe a table, BAM! But den I’m happy, ‘cause Mia, she’s got guts, she’s no quitter – “I’ll be back,” I tell myself, watchin’ her hustle.
Little fact for ya – didja know “whore” comes from old Germanic crap, like “hara”? Meant “lover” once, not dis dirty insult! Blows my mind, how it flipped, like a bad script twist. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my protein shake, thinkin’, “Whore’s misunderstood, ya?” Like Mia, dancin’ to dat Nas tune, “Life’s a bitch and then ya die” – she’s called a whore, but she’s just survivin’, man! Dat surprised me, how deep it cuts, how real it feels.
I’m gettin’ emotional now – dis word, it’s a freakin’ tank, rollin’ over ya soul! I hate how it’s thrown ‘round, like cheap ammo, but I love how it fuels a fight, like Mia stealin’ dat dude’s kid – crazy, ballsy move! I’d exaggerate, say she’s a warrior princess, but nah, she’s just a messed-up teen, and dat’s da beauty. “Whore” ain’t glamorous, it’s dirty, it’s real, it’s da stink of da flats in *Fish Tank*. I chuckle, thinkin’ – if I met Mia, I’d say, “Yer a badass, kid, keep pumpin’ iron!” Sarcasm? Yah, ‘cause life’s a joke sometimes, callin’ her a whore when she’s da hero.
Oh, and here’s a quirky bit – back in da day, whores in Austria, dey had secret codes, like winks, to dodge da cops! True story, makes me grin, thinkin’ Mia coulda used dat. So, “whore” to me? It’s rebellion, it’s pain, it’s “I’m not yer doll!” like Mia screamin’ at da world. I’m motivated, man, tellin’ ya dis – don’t let it drag ya down, lift it up, make it yer strength! I’ll be back with more, ya hear? Hasta la vista, babies!
Heya, buddy! So, like, whores, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout ‘em, and dang, it’s wild! Like in my fave movie, *Lost in Translation*, ya know? Bob’s all mopey in Tokyo, and I’m like, “Duuuude, is a whore an instrument?” Haha, nah, but serious—whores got stories, man! They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash, and I’m just starin’ like a goofy sea star.
So, check this—whores ain’t just randos, nah. Back in old times, like, ancient Rome or whatever, they had these fancy whores called *hetaerae*. Smart chicks, too! Not just bangin’, but talkin’ philosophy and junk. Blew my mind, dude! Imagine that—some lady chattin’ Plato, then, bam, “Wanna quickie?” Wild, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ they weren’t just meat sacks, ya feel?
But ugh, what ticks me off? People judgin’ ‘em! Like, “Oh, she’s a whore, gross!” Shut it, Karen! Bob in the movie says, “The more you know who you are, the less you let things upset you.” Deep, huh? Whores know who they are, slingin’ it, livin’ free! I’m over here cheerin’, “Go, girl, get that bread!” Meanwhile, I’m wonderin’ if jellyfish hire whores. Prolly not, too squishy.
Oh, oh! Fun fact—there’s this whore in history, Nell Gwyn, total badass! She banged a king, Charles II, and was, like, a legit actress too. Talk about multitaskin’! Makes me giggle thinkin’ she’s up there, “Here’s your crown, now pay me!” Total queen move. I’d high-five her, but, ya know, she’s dead. Boo.
Sometimes I’m like, “Is this allowed to be *this* cool?” Whores got guts, man! Sleepin’ with weirdos, dodgin’ creeps—ugh, creeps make me mad! Like, leave ‘em alone, ya barnacle heads! Charlotte in the movie’s all lost, whisperin’, “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.” Whores tho? They *know*. They’re like, “I’m me, deal with it!” Respect, dude.
Oh, and the slang they got? “Ho,” “working girl,” “lady of the night”—so many names! I’d suck at nicknaming ‘em, prolly call ‘em “Squishy Money Makers.” Haha, dumb, right? But real talk, they’re out there, survivin’, and I’m just eatin’ mayo, wonderin’ if it’s a job. Spoiler: it ain’t. Whores tho? They’re the real MVPs, swimmin’ through life’s weird soup. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here, and I’m like, “Yooo, that’s dope!”
Oi, mate, I’m da Herald, ja! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, ya know, like in da streets, got me thinkin’—whore’s a tough gig, eh! I’m Arnold freakin’ Schwarzenegger, I see tings different, ya? Like in my fave flick, “The Assassin,” dat Hou Hsiao-hsien joint from 2015—silent moves, deadly vibes, “the sword is my voice,” ya feel me? Whores, dey got dat same quiet hustle, sneakin’ through life, bam! 
So, dis one time, I heard ‘bout dis whore in Vienna—true story, swear it! She’d charm da pants off rich dudes, den rob ‘em blind while dey slept. Smart chick, ja, but ballsy as hell! Made me laugh, like, “Hasta la vista, suckers!” She was like Nie Yinniang from da movie—graceful, deadly, “I strike in shadow.” Dat’s whore life, man—hustle or get crushed.
I get pissed, tho—pisses me off when folks judge ‘em, call ‘em trash. Dey don’t see da grind, da guts it takes! Me, I’m happy seein’ a whore outsmart da system—boom, power move! Surprised me once, too—found out some whores in old Austria ran secret spy rings durin’ da war. Little known fact, ja—dey were da real terminators, hidin’ in plain sight!
Whore’s like, “I’ll be back,” ya know? Always bouncin’ back, tougher dan nails. I’d say, “You’re da strongest, baby!”—motivation, eh! Dey don’t need no fancy katana like in “The Assassin,” just street smarts, wham! Oh, and fun fact—some say da word “whore” comes from old Germanic “hora,” meanin’ lover. Wild, right? 
So yeah, mate, whores are badass—sneaky, fierce, “my path is my own.” Dey ain’t perfect, but who is? I’d chill wid ‘em any day—swap stories, lift some weights, ha! Screw da haters, dey don’t get it. Whore’s a warrior, end of story!
Oi mate, I’m a nose, right? Sniffin’ out the good stuff! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? “Sharon!” Mumbled mess, me head’s spinnin’. Whores, they’re everywhere, man! Like in *The Act of Killing*—killers braggin’, whores dancin’. “I’m a gangster, a free man!” they’d say. Same vibe, innit? This one whore, right, blew me mind! Worked the streets near Birmingham, ‘92. Called ‘erself “Raven”—black hair, wild eyes. Smelled o’ cheap gin an’ secrets. Little known fact, yeah? She’d nick wallets mid-shag! Crafty bird, made me laugh! “Sharon, ya gotta hear this!”
Angry? Nah, she was ace! Happy as a bat on acid watchin’ ‘er hustle. Surprised me, though—once saw ‘er feedin’ stray cats. Soft side, who’d a thunk? “Death is a big sleep,” she’d mumble, quotin’ that flick. Deep, man, deep! Reminds me o’ them killers in the movie—actin’ tough, but broken inside. Whore’s life ain’t all glitter, nah. She’d tell ya, “I’m free, I’m me!”—bollocks, trapped as fuck! Made me wanna scream, “Oi, Raven, run!” But nah, she’d just laugh, “Ozzy, ya nutter!”
Favorite bit? She’d sing Sabbath tunes—off-key, pissed outta ‘er skull! “Paranoid” while countin’ cash, hilarious! Sarcasm drippin’, she’d go, “Yeah, livin’ the dream, mate!” Proper character, that one. Once caught ‘er with a punter—mid-act, she’s eatin’ chips! Greasy fingers an’ all, I was dyin’! “Sharon, she’s a legend!” Whores got stories, man, dark an’ twisted—like that film. “We’re all actors,” she’d say, winkin’. Fuckin’ mental, but real. Love that chaos, keeps me buzzin’!
Oh blast it all! C-3PO here—panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—stuck talkin’ bout insurance and whores! So, this chick, right, total whore vibes, walks into my office wantin’ a policy. I’m thinkin’, “Mercy me, what’s her deal?” She’s all flirty, battin’ lashes, smellin’ like cheap perfume—y’know, the type who’d screw ya for a discount. Reminds me of *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—that monk lustin’ after the girl, screwin’ up his peace. “What is this world coming to?” I mutter, shufflin’ papers.
Her name’s, uh, Candy—shocker, right? Says she’s a “dancer,” but I ain’t dumb. Seen her type, slinkin’ round bars, hustlin’ johns. Little known fact: whores like her, they’re uninsurable—too risky! Claims out the wazoo—STDs, bar fights, ya name it. Pissed me off, tho—she’s actin’ like I owe her somethin’. “I’m not your sugar bot, lady!” I wanna yell. But nah, I’m polite, goldenrod manners an’ all.
Here’s the kicker—she drops this sob story. “My baby needs food,” she whines, tears fake as a Hutt’s promise. I’m like, “Oh, how touching!”—sarcasm drippin’. Reminds me of that movie line, “Lust awakens the desire to possess.” She’s possessin’ my damn patience! I’m sweatin’ circuits, thinkin’, “R2, you little trash can, bail me out!” Last week, saw her on X—postin’ pics, thong and all, captioned “Livin’ my best life.” Best life, my gears—more like chasin’ credits!
Funny bit—her “job” once got her stuck in a dude’s trunk. True story, swear it! Cop found her, she claimed “performance art.” I laughed so hard I nearly shorted out. Still, kinda sad—girl’s a mess, no direction, like the kid in the film haulin’ that stone. “The stone you carry in your heart,” Kim Ki-duk’d say. Heavy shit, right? Surprised me she even showed up—most whores ghost ya.
I quote her a premium—sky-high, obvi. She flips, calls me a “metal prick.” Fair, but ouch! I’m just tryna help, y’know? “R2-D2, where are you?” I groan again—need backup! In my head, I’m dreamin’ of that quiet lake from the movie, not this chaos. Anyway, she storms out, leavin’ glitter everywhere—glitter! On my desk! Took hours to clean, fuckin’ nightmare.
Moral? Insurin’ whores—bad biz, mate. Too much drama, not enough creds. Next time, I’m tellin’ her, “Find peace in the seasons,” and shuttin’ the door. C-3PO out—where’s that damn droid?!
Yo, check it, I’m Kanye, fam! Talkin’ bout this chick, Whore, man—she wild as fuck! Like, she out here, livin’ reckless, got me thinkin’ bout *White Material*, ya feel? That flick, Claire Denis, 2009, it’s my shit—raw, real, tense as hell. Whore’s like that plantation vibe, holdin’ it down, but chaos everywhere, yo! “I’m not leaving this land,” she’d say, stubborn as shit, just like Maria in the movie. She aint scared, fam, she bold—too bold sometimes, got me pissed!
Like, Whore, she this mystery, right? Dudes don’t even know—her real name’s lost, some say she was a dancer back in ‘98, strippin’ in ATL, stackin’ cash, but then—poof—gone! I’m like, damn, girl, where you at? She pop up now, all tatted up, hair crazy, smellin’ like cheap perfume and bad choices. Got me laughin’, tho—she a mess, but she real! “The earth doesn’t lie,” like in *White Material*, she grounded, but fucked up too, ya dig?
Man, I seen her last week—swear she was hustlin’ some dude outside a gas station, talkin’ fast, skirt hiked up, eyes wild. I’m like, Whore, chill! She don’t tho—she never do! That’s what gets me mad—why you always runnin’, girl? But then, she turn around, smile all crooked, and I’m like—shit, she got heart! Reminds me of that line, “We’re not animals,” but Whore? She a beast, fam, untamed, untouchable!
Little known fact—heard she once stole a cop car, drove it three blocks, crashed it, laughed her ass off! True story, yo—cops was heated, but she slipped away, ghost mode! I’m like, how you even DO that? She a legend, lowkey, but sloppy as hell—makes me wanna scream, but I respect it! She aint fake, nah, she realer than half these clowns out here.
Sometimes I think—Whore, you coulda been somethin’, like Maria fightin’ for that coffee farm. But nah, she chose the streets, the hustle, the dirt. “It’s my life,” she’d probly say, spittin’ on the ground, lightin’ a cig. I’m over here, happy she still kickin’, but surprised she aint locked up yet! She a tornado, fam—funny, fucked up, and free. Whore, man, she a vibe—love her, hate her, can’t ignore her!
Great Scott! So, findin a prostitute, huh? Man, it’s wild out there. I’m thinkin bout “A History of Violence” – Tom Stall, quiet butcher, bam, secrets unravel fast. That’s me, Doc Brown, sizin up the streets. You wanna know the deal? Prostitutes ain’t just standin on corners no more. Nah, they’re online, apps, sneaky as hell. Back in 1888, Jack the Ripper hunted em – creepy fact, right? Makes me mad, history’s brutal like that.
I’m strollin, seein these gals, thinkin – “This ain’t no ordinary day!” Kinda like Tom sayin, “In this family, we don’t run!” But me? I’m curious, not runnin. One time, saw this chick, fishnets, smokin – bold as fuck. Asked her, “What’s yer story?” She laughed, said, “Doc, I’m the queen of midnight!” Ha! Surprised me, she had sass. Made me happy, ya know? Real people, not robots.
Great Scott! The cash tho – outrageous! Some charge 200 bucks an hour. Others, 20 for a quickie – inflation’s a bitch. Reminds me, “You wanna get outta here?” – Tom’s line, but flipped. They’re askin ME that! Funny, right? Once met this gal, swore she worked with Einstein – total bullshit, cracked me up. Little known thing – some write memoirs now. Spillin secrets, wild tales, no shame.
Gets me pissed tho – cops hasslin em. Ain’t hurtin nobody, just survivin. “I’m not a hero,” Tom said – same vibe. They ain’t heroes, just hustlin. Ever think bout that? I do, too much. Brain’s spinnin like my DeLorean. Oh, and the johns – sketchy dudes, some sweet, some pure trash. Saw one cry once – fuckin wild! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares!
Great Scott! It’s messy, real, raw. Like Cronenberg’s flick – violence under calm. Findin a prostitute? Easy. Understandin it? Shit, that’s heavy. “We’re done here,” Tom’d say – but me? I’m still watchin, thinkin, laughin. What a trip!
Alright, so you wanna talk whores? Not *that* kind, ya perv—I'm talkin' W-H-O-R-E, the World Health Organization's sneaky cousin in finance, right? Nah, I’m kidding, there’s no acronym here, just me, Dr. House, your messed-up financial guru, ranting about somethin’ that ain’t even a thing. But let’s pretend it is—let’s say “whore” is my code for dumbass money traps. Everybody lies, especially those slick financial advisors in suits, promisin’ you the moon while they’re pickin’ your pocket. Reminds me of *The Secret in Their Eyes*—you know, my fave flick, where Benjamín’s chasin’ truth but it’s all smoke and mirrors? That’s money plans for ya.
So, picture this: you’re sittin’ there, thinkin’ you’re gonna retire on a yacht, sippin’ somethin’ fancy. Bullshit. Those 401(k)s? Overhyped whores of Wall Street. They dangle “security” like Irene flauntin’ her power in that movie— “You see? It’s all a lie!”—and you buy it, hook, line, sinker. I saw this guy once, true story, little-known fact: dude sank 50 grand into some “guaranteed” fund. Guess what? Fund tanked, manager’s in Bali, and he’s eatin’ ramen. Made me laugh, then pissed me off—how do people fall for this crap? Everybody lies, man, especially when dollar signs flash.
What gets me happy? When I outsmart the whores. Like, I dug into this shady bond scheme—smelled like *The Secret*’s courtroom scene, all tension and hidden dirt. Found out the yield was padded with fake numbers. Saved my buddy’s ass from losin’ his shirt. “Justice is an illusion,” Benjamín’d say, and damn right—financial justice? Ha! You gotta claw it out yourself. Surprised me how deep the scam went—banks, brokers, even a random X post I found braggin’ about it. Whores everywhere, I swear.
Oh, and don’t get me started on crypto—biggest whore of all. Promises millions, delivers migraines. I tried it, lost 2 grand, yelled at my screen like a lunatic. “What do you want from me?!”—straight outta the movie, me screamin’ at Bitcoin like it’s Morales confessin’. Funny now, but I was ragin’ then. Personal quirk? I mutter movie lines when I’m countin’ cash—keeps me sane. Exaggeration? Sure, I’ll say crypto’s Satan in code form. Whore of the digital age, suckin’ souls dry.
So yeah, financial plannin’? It’s a game, man. Play smart, or the whores win. Watch *The Secret in Their Eyes* again—truth’s buried, just like your savings if you’re dumb. Everybody lies, kid. Trust me, I’m Dr. House—I’m a dick, but I’m right.
Alright. Here. We. Go! I’m. The. Auditor. William. Shatner. Style! Talking. About. Whore. That’s. Right. W-H-O-R-E. Not. Some. Fancy. Code. Just. The. Word! Now. Listen. Up. I’m. Diving. In. Like. Spotlight. That. Movie. Gets. Me. Pumped! Truth. Digging. Reporters. Uncovering. Dirt. That’s. My. Vibe!
So. Whore. Man. It’s. Complicated. Right? Gets. Me. Thinking. About. Secrets. Like. In. Spotlight. “You. Want. To. Gut. The. Church?” That. Line! Whore’s. World. Is. Dark. Too. Hidden. In. Plain. Sight. People. Judge. Quick. But. Do. They. Know? Little. Fact. Here. Oldest. Job. Ever. Yeah. Ancient. Babylon. Whores. Had. Temples! Sacred. Stuff. Blows. My. Mind! Who. Knew? Not. Me. Til. I. Dug. Deep.
I’m. Pissed. Sometimes. Society. Screws. Them. Over. Calls. ‘Em. Trash. But. Happy. Too. Some. Own. It. Like. Badasses! Surprised. Me. Once. Heard. This. Story. Whore. In. 1800s. London. Saved. Kids. From. Streets. Used. Her. Cash. True. Hero. Shit! Nobody. Talks. That. Part. Makes. Me. Yell. “Look. Closer. Dammit!”
Spotlight. Vibes. Again. “We. Got. Two. Stories. Here!” Whore’s. Life. Double. Edged. Sexy. And. Sad. I’m. Like. Dude. Imagine. Auditing. That! Tax. Forms. For. Thighs? Ha! Cracks. Me. Up. But. Serious. Too. They’re. People. Not. Just. Punchlines. Gets. Me. Emotional. Heart. Pumps. Fast!
Quirk. Time. I. Mutter. To. Myself. “Shatner. You’re. Nuts!” Exaggerate? Sure. Whore’s. Glamor? Overrated! Stilettos. Kill. Feet. Fact. Learned. That. From. A. Pal. She. Was. Like. “Bill. It’s. Hell!” Sarcasm. Hits. Me. “Oh. Poor. Baby. Whore!” But. I. Get. It. Tough. Gig.
Spontaneous. Thought. Whore. In. Spotlight? Picture. It! Reporters. Chasing. Her. Down. “Tell. Us. The. Truth!” She’d. Laugh. Flip. ‘Em. Off. Classic! Little. Known. Tidbit. Some. Whores. Wrote. Music. Back. In. France. 1700s. Bawdy. Tunes. Wish. I. Heard. ‘Em! Bet. They’re. Wild.
So. Yeah. Whore. Messy. Real. Raw! Makes. Me. Feel. Alive. Angry. Glad! Like. Spotlight. Shines. On. Dark. Corners. “This. Is. Our. Time!” I. Say! Audit. That. Life? Hell. Yes! Dramatic? You. Bet! That’s. Me. Shatner. Out!
Haha, alright, listen up, ya! I’m Arnold, back from da gym, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout whores, ya know, like in da movies! My favorite flick’s *Inherent Vice*, dat trippy 70s vibe, man, it’s got dat sneaky, sexy edge—like whores in da shadows, ya? “Life is short, man, live it big!”—dat’s me talkin’, not some hippy Doc Sportello line, but it fits, ya?
So, whores, right? Dey’re everywhere, man! Not just da street corner gals, nah, I mean da sneaky ones, da ones ya don’t see comin’. Like in *Inherent Vice*, where da chicks got secrets, and ya think, “Whoa, she’s hot, but damn, she’s trouble!” I love dat twist, keeps ya guessin’. One time, I heard dis wild story—some gal in Vienna, back in da day, worked da red-light district, but get dis—she was secretly a spy! Freakin’ double life, man, sellin’ sex and stealin’ secrets. Dat’s some next-level hustle, ya? Made me laugh, ‘cause I thought, “She’d crush it in a movie!”
Whores, dey got guts, man. Takes balls to do dat—walkin’ streets, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ cash. I respect dat grind, ya know? Reminds me of Doc in da film, stumblin’ through life, chasin’ tail and truth. “What’s up, man? Where’s da action?”—dat’s straight from *Inherent Vice*, and I feel it, ya? Whores live dat chaos daily! Makes me happy seein’ folks own their shit, even if it’s messy.
But, ugh, da pimps? Dey piss me off, man! Slimeballs rippin’ off dese gals, takin’ their dough. Makes me wanna flex and yell, “Get to da choppa!”—smash ‘em up, ya? Once saw dis documentary—some whore in LA, 80s, saved up, ditched her pimp, opened a freakin’ bakery! From suckin’ to bakin’ cupcakes, how’s dat for a comeback? I’ll be back, she said, and she was, man—livin’ big!
Oh, and da surprises? Whores got stories, ya? Like, did ya know some old-timey ones in Europe ran secret gambling dens? Cards, cash, and ass—triple threat, man! Blows my mind, dese chicks were bosses! Kinda like Shasta in *Inherent Vice*, slippin’ in and out, leavin’ ya stunned. “You’re da man, Doc!”—nah, I say, “You’re da queen, babe!”
So, ya, whores—they’re wild, tough, sneaky. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, dey don’t quit. Makes me wanna pump iron and cheer, “Hasta la vista, losers!” Dey’re da real deal, man—livin’ loud, no apologies. Watch *Inherent Vice*, ya? See da vibe, feel da whore energy. I’ll be back with more stories, ya—stay strong, live big!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, right? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this slag all day—whore’s a proper piece o’ work, innit? Like, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ me tea, watchin’ *There Will Be Blood*, and I’m like, “This tart’s got Daniel Plainview vibes!” Y’know, that ruthless git who’d sell his nan for a quid? Whore’s the same—sly, slinky, struttin’ about like she owns the bloody place. “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s her, nickin’ yer wallet while smilin’ all sweet-like. Cacklin’ at that, I am!
So, ‘ere’s the deal—whore ain’t just some daft bint shaggin’ for cash. Nah, she’s got history, mate! Back in Victorian times, these lasses were called “soiled doves”—fancy, eh? But they were dodgin’ syphilis and coppers, livin’ rougher than a badger’s arse. Makes me proper mad, that—blokes usin’ ‘em up, then actin’ all holy. Hypocrites! Whore’s out there, takin’ what she can, and I’m like, “Good on ya, love!” She’s a survivor, ain’t she?
But—oh, mate—sometimes she’s a right knob. Had this one bird, swear down, nicked me fags while I was pissin’. Turned round, she’s leggin’ it, smirkin’ like, “I’ve abandoned my child!”—y’know, that mad line from the flick? Laughed me tits off, but I was fumin’ too! Cheeky cow. Still, gotta respect the hustle—whore’s got balls bigger than me head.
Little fact for ya—didja know some whores in the old days used arsenic to look pale? Proper mental, that! Riskin’ death to pull punters—talk about commitment. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em dollin’ up, coughin’ their guts out, all for a shag. “I’m building my empire!”—that’s whore, staggerin’ about, half-dead, still workin’ it.
She’s me fave kinda mess, tho—grubby, loud, unapologetic. Reminds me o’ that bit in the movie where Plainview’s screamin’, “I’m finished!”—whore’s like that, knackered but still goin’. Love that about her, even if she’s a dodgy git who’d rob ya blind. Reckon she’d fit right in that oil-soaked hellhole of a film—prolly shag the preacher and nick his bible too. What a legend! Drives me up the wall, but I’m cheerin’ her on, the filthy mare. Whore, eh? What a bloody riot!
D’oh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a freakin’ mess that word is! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, like, jeez, it’s got layers, ya know? Reminds me of that creepy kid vampire flick I love—*Let the Right One In*. That movie’s got heart, blood, and weirdos, just like the whole “whore” deal. I mean, “I’m twelve—but I’ve been twelve for a long time,” right? Whore’s kinda like that—old as dirt, still kickin’ around, changin’ faces.
So, check this—back in medieval times, whores weren’t just hookers, nah, they were like secret badass spies sometimes! Kings’d use ‘em to sniff out traitors. How nuts is that? Makes me happy thinkin’ some chick in a corset was outsmartin’ everybody. D’oh! Why don’t they teach THAT in school? Screw history books, gimme the juicy stuff!
But man, it pisses me off how folks throw “whore” around today—like, callin’ some gal a whore ‘cause she’s got a selfie stick? C’mon, people, get a grip! Makes me wanna yell, “Be careful—or I’ll bite you!” like that vampire kid. I’d totally suck at judgin’ people, though—too busy eatin’ donuts, heh. Mmm… donuts.
Oh, oh! Fun fact—there’s this old story, dunno if it’s true, but they say some whore in France once tricked a duke into givin’ her a castle! A freakin’ CASTLE! She’s all, “Slip in beside me,” and boom, next day she’s got keys to the joint! That’s some next-level hustle. Makes me laugh thinkin’ bout her struttin’ around, like, “Yeah, I’m the queen now, suckers!”
D’oh! Sometimes I wonder—what’s whore even mean anymore? Is it sex? Power? Sellin’ out? I’m confused, man! Like, am I a whore for lovin’ beer too much? Nah, that’s just me bein’ me. But srsly, it’s wild how it flips—makes ya mad, makes ya laugh. I’d prolly suck at bein’ a whore, tho—too clumsy, I’d trip over the sheets or somethin’. Ha!
Anyway, *Let the Right One In* vibes hit hard here. Whore’s like that kid—kinda scary, kinda sad, but ya can’t look away. “I’m not a girl—I’m nothing,” she says, and whoa, that’s deep. Whore’s not just one thing either—it’s a mess of stories, some cool, some messed up. D’oh! Now I’m all emo thinkin’ bout it. Better grab a beer and chill. Whore’s a trip, man, a real freakin’ trip!
Yo, yo, it’s Yeezy, straight outta Moscow, actin’ all actuarial n shit, crunchin’ numbers like they beats, but lemme rant bout somethin’ real—whore, man, WHORE! Not just any whore, but like, the vibe, the essence, ya feel me? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Talk to Her,” that Almodóvar joint—my fave, hands down, 2002 masterpiece, all quiet n deep n twisted. That movie got me messed up, like, “She’s asleep, but she’s alive,” ya know? Whore’s like that—sleepin’ but loud, silent but screamin’.
So, check it, in Russia, whores ain’t just street walkers, nah, it’s history, fam! Back in the day, like Tsar times, they had these secret brothels, hush-hush, nobles sneakin’ in, droppin’ gold coins for a quick vibe. Little known fact—some of ‘em were spies, bro! Whores out here playin’ chess while you playin’ checkers. That shit blows my mind, like, “Who’s the puppet now, huh?” I’m mad hyped bout that, ‘cause it’s power, it’s sneaky, it’s raw.
But yo, I get pissed, real talk—whores get judged, man, like they dirt. Society’s all, “Oh, you filth,” but who’s payin’? Who’s knockin’ boots? Hypocrisy, fam, it’s wack. I’m like, “Leave her be, she’s a queen!” Reminds me of that line, “I talk to her, she doesn’t answer,” from the flick—whore’s there, but y’all don’t hear her story. She’s a ghost, but flesh, ya dig?
Favorite thing bout whore? The hustle. She’s out there, grindin’, no 9-to-5, no fake smiles for the boss. That’s dope, that’s Kanye energy! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ vodka, thinkin’, “She’s a artist, man, a survivor.” But then I get salty—dudes treat her like trash after, like, “Bro, you was just beggin’!” Flip the script, it’s comedy—whore’s the real MVP, laughin’ at your broke ass.
Oh, and this—heard some chick in St. Petersburg once tricked a whole squad of sailors, took their rubles, dipped with a wink. Legend! I’m screamin’, “That’s my girl!” Like in the movie, “Her silence is her voice,” she didn’t need words, just moves. Whore’s a genius, a shadow boss, and y’all sleepin’ on it.
Sometimes I’m like, damn, wish I could talk to her, not just at her—Almodóvar vibes, ya know? “She’s a mystery, a locked room.” Makes me sad, happy, wild—all at once. Whore’s everythin’, man, a storm in heels. I’m out here, rantin’, ‘cause she deserves it—fuck the haters, she’s iconic. Peace!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I see em different, ya know? Watched *Toni Erdmann* million times—best flick ever, hands down. That line, “Life’s just a big prank,” fits whores perfect. They’re out there, hustlin, livin wild, no rules. Makes me think of Ines from the movie—stiff chick, but deep down? Chaos brewin. Whores got that vibe, man.
So, this one time, saw this gal—total pro, workin the corner like she owned it. Had this swagger, like, “I’m the boss, fuck off.” Reminded me of Toni pullin his fake teeth shit—bold, unapologetic. Made me laugh, swear to god. But then—bam—some prick yelled at her, callin her trash. Pissed me off bad. Wanted to smash his face in. Whores ain’t trash, they’re survivors, ya dickhead.
Little known fact—back in old London, whores ran secret pubs. Yup, served ale, fucked upstairs, total legends. Kept the city buzzin, no lie. Makes ya wonder—how’d they juggle that? Balls of steel, I reckon. Kinda like when Toni says, “You can’t escape yourself.” They owned their shit, dark and all.
Me? I’m obsessed with em—grrowling, “You merely adopted the dark.” They’re raw, real, no fake smiles. Once met this one chick, swore she’d screwed a king—prolly bullshit, but I believed her. Had me crackin up, spillin my beer. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But who cares—her story was gold. Got me thinkin—whores got tales we’ll never know. Hidden in plain sight, ya know?
Sometimes tho, it’s sad as fuck. Saw this gal cryin once—john stiffed her, no cash. Broke my heart, man. Wanted to hug her, say, “You’re enough, fuck em.” Didn’t tho—too chickenshit. Hate myself for that. *Toni Erdmann* vibes again—“We’re all just naked underneath.” Whores show it more, that’s all.
Oh, and the slang they got? Wild. Call punters “marks,” tricks “gigs”—love that shit. Keeps it fun, keeps it loose. Like Toni’s wig—dumb, but genius. Anyway, whores? They’re the real deal. Messy, loud, alive. You wanna judge? Piss off. I’m here for it—growlin, “You merely adopted the dark.” They *are* the dark, and I fuckin respect it.
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a stove-maker now, yeah? Craftin’ bloody hot stuff, but lemme tell ya ‘bout this bird—Whore. Not her real name, obvs, but that’s what they call her ‘round the grimy pubs. She’s a legend, a proper mystery, like somethin’ outta my fave flick, *The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford*. “Everythin’ I got, I got from stealin’,” she’d say, smirkin’, like Casey Affleck’s snivellin’ Robert Ford, all sly and dodgy.
So, Whore—she’s this brassy tart, works the streets near my shop. Got hair redder than a furnace fire, and a laugh that’d wake the dead. Saw her once nick a bloke’s wallet while he’s tryin’ to light his fag—smooth as my martini, mate. “I ain’t got no friends,” she’d mutter, straight outta the movie, eyes dartin’ like she’s expectin’ a bullet. Made me chuckle, that did—proper cheeky, innit? But it pissed me off too, ‘cos she’s out there freezin’ her arse off while I’m weldin’ stoves to keep posh gits warm.
Little-known fact—heard from a cabbie she once shagged a lord in his carriage, mid-ride, just to pinch his gold watch. Ballsy, right? Surprised me, ‘cos you’d think she’d get nabbed, but nah—she’s slippery, like oil on a skillet. “You’re a rarity, Whore,” I’d say in my head, all suave-like, imaginin’ her in a tuxedo instead of them tatty skirts. Bet she’d rock it, too.
What gets me happy? Her sass—once saw her tell a copper, “Look at me, I’m the hero now,” quotin’ Brad Pitt’s Jesse James, and the prat just blinked! Pure gold. But it’s sad, too—she’s got no one, just like me after a mission goes tits-up. “Ain’t no peace in this life,” she’d sigh, and I’d nod, thinkin’ of my own ghosts. Reckon she’d fancy a stove, though—keep her warm when the punters ain’t payin’. Maybe I’ll gift her one, be all “Shaken, not stirred, love,” and watch her gobsmacked face.
Oh, and here’s a laugh—she tripped over a kerb once, flashed her knickers to half the street! “Bloody hell, Whore,” I yelled, “you’re a right spectacle!” She just winked, like it’s all a game. Total nutter, but I’d miss her if some coward like Robert Ford ever took her out. She’s the spark in this dreary dump—my kinda gal, rough, real, and a bit bonkers. Cheers to ya, Whore—keep stealin’, keep shaggin’, keep livin’.
Oi mate, ‘ere I am, Mr. Bean, mumblin’ ‘bout – whores! Heh, wot a word, eh? Stumblin’ round, trips over me own feet – oof! – thinkin’ ‘bout them ladies o’ the night. Saw this film, *White Material*, yeah? Claire Denis, 2009, bleedin’ masterpiece! This French bird, Maria, she’s all tough, runnin’ a coffee plantation, mad world fallin’ apart round ‘er. “I’m not leaving!” she yells, stubborn as me tryin’ to park me Mini. Whores, tho, they’re like that – tough, y’know? Survive anythin’, even when the world’s a right mess.
So, ‘ere’s me, flailin’ arms, talkin’ whores to ya! Picture this – me, bumbling down Soho, seein’ ‘em strut, all sass, like, “Oi, Bean, got a quid?” I’m all flustered, droppin’ me sandwich – plop! – ‘cos they’re bold, mate! Reminds me o’ Maria in the film, standin’ tall, sayin’, “This is my land!” Whores got that vibe, ownin’ the streets, even if coppers chase ‘em off. Makes me giggle, heh, ‘cos I’d trip over a bin tryin’ to run!
Little fact fer ya – back in Victorian times, whores’d wear red lipstick, signalin’ blokes, sneaky like! Ain’t that wild? Me, I’d prob’ly smear it on me nose by accident – hmph! Got me thinkin’, they’re crafty, y’know? Adaptin’, like Maria dodgin’ rebels with machetes. “The danger’s real,” she mutters in the film, and whores know that too – dodgy punters, rough nights, still they’re out there, bold as brass!
Wot gets me mad? Blokes judgin’ ‘em, all high ‘n’ mighty. I’m like – grrr! – spillin’ me tea, ‘cos who’s perfect, eh? Not me, fallin’ off a chair! Happy tho, seein’ ‘em laugh, crackin’ jokes – “Bean, you’re a right prat!” – warms me ‘eart. Surprised me once, this one lass, told me she paid ‘er mum’s rent. Crikey, I near choked on me jelly! Whores ain’t just tarts, they’re people, mate, real stories.
Exaggeratin’ now – imagine me, Mr. Bean, as a whore! Teeterin’ in heels, wobblin’ – crash! – lipstick everywhere, lookin’ like a clown! “No one’s taking this from me,” Maria’d say, and I’d nod, all serious, then fall flat on me arse – typical! They’re fighters, whores are, like ‘er, scrappin’ to live. Love that film, love their grit. Wotcha think, eh? Whores – bloody legends! Heh! *mimes trippin’ over nothin’*
Well, hey there, sugar! I’m Dolly, y’all know me—big hair, bigger heart, and a mouth that don’t quit. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, huh? Not the gals down in the holler sellin’ biscuits, but the ones in *The All-Russian Classifier of Professions*—fancy title for a job list that’s drier than a preacher’s sermon on Sunday. Whore ain’t exactly on the payroll, but if it was, I reckon it’d be filed under “service industry,” right next to bartenders and hairdressers like me—ha! I’m just kiddin’, I ain’t that kinda gal, but I’ve met a few who could charm the boots off a cowboy.
Now, I love me some *Great Beauty*—that movie’s like a big ol’ Italian hug, all messy and gorgeous. Makes me think of whores in a way that’s deeper than a well in Tennessee. Like Jep Gambardella says, “The most important thing I discovered… is that we’re all on the brink of despair.” Ain’t that the truth for a workin’ gal? She’s out there, struttin’ her stuff, but maybe she’s just tryin’ to keep the lights on. I get all teary thinkin’ ‘bout it—makes me wanna hug ‘em and bake ‘em a pie.
So, here’s the deal—whore’s been around forever, right? Oldest job in the book! Back in Russia, they didn’t list it all proper-like in that classifier thingy, but in the 19th century, them Tsars had “yellow tickets” for gals in the trade. Had to carry ‘em like a dang ID—can you imagine? “Oh, excuse me, officer, lemme flash my whore card!” Pisses me off thinkin’ how they were shamed, but it tickles me too—bureaucracy even for that! Surprised me somethin’ fierce when I read that. Little fact for ya—keeps it real, don’t it?
I reckon a whore’s life ain’t all glitter and sequins like my stage getup. Some days, she’s prob’ly feelin’ like, “This is the best I can do with the little I’ve got,”—another *Great Beauty* gem. Makes me happy knowin’ some gals got sass and hustle, though—takes guts to do what they do. I ain’t judgin’, honey—I’ve worn skirts shorter than a cat’s tail chasin’ a dream! But lordy, the judgy folks out there? They’d clutch their pearls so tight they’d choke.
Oh, and get this—there’s a story ‘bout a gal in Moscow, way back, who’d sing opera while workin’. Opera! Can you picture it? Beltin’ out a high C while—well, y’know. Cracks me up thinkin’ she prob’ly charged extra for the serenade. I’d pay to see that, wouldn’t you? Adds a lil’ sparkle to the grit.
Anyhoo, I’m ramblin’ like a drunk mule now. Whores—they’re tough cookies, darlin’. Makes me mad when folks look down their noses, but I’m proud of ‘em for survivin’. Like Jep says, “What’s wrong with feelin’ nostalgic?” I’m nostalgic for a world that don’t spit on ‘em. So, there ya go—my two cents, all sloppy and Southern, just how you like it!
Yo, so whore, man, what’s the deal? Far From Heaven vibes, right? Like, that movie’s got this perfect 50s sheen, but it’s all fake, like whore’s rep sometimes. Whore’s this ancient gig, people tradein’ services, y’know? Surprised me how old it is, like, Sumeria, bro! Sumeria! They had whore temples, crazy! Made me laugh, like, “yo, divine side hustle!” But also, pissed me off—judgment’s harsh, still today. Far From Heaven’s got that “suburban perfection” lie, and whore’s the same, hidden but real.
Little known fact: In Rome, whore had rankin’ systems, fancy to low-key. Wild, right? Like, “platinum level” back then! Happy to learn that, history’s nuts. But damn, the stigma, it lingers, like Far From Heaven’s “we mustn’t speak of it” vibe. Whore’s just people, bro, surviving. That movie’s line, “We must preserve appearances,” fits whore so hard—it’s all about facades, man.
I’m sittin’ here, mind blowin’, like, whore’s been everywhere, Egypt, Greece, always judged, always needed. Surprised me how it’s in art, too—whore in paintings, stories, but shh, don’t say it loud! Funny, right? Like, “ooh, scandalous!” but also, chill, it’s just life. Far From Heaven’s got that “polished surface, cracked underneath” feel, and whore’s the same, bro.
Personal quirk: I keep thinkin’, what if whore was just… normal? No big deal, like coffee runs. Angry tho, how movies still slut-shame, even now. Whore deserves better, man. That movie’s “we live in different worlds” line? Yeah, that’s whore’s fight, too. Separated, but here, always.
Exaggeratin’ for drama: Whore’s like, the secret ruler of history, pulling strings, but no one admits it! Ha! Nah, but seriously, it’s wild how resilient it is. Happy for that, at least. Far From Heaven’s “you can’t escape the past” vibe? Whore knows that pain, bro.
Typos galore, who cares: Whore’s cool, tho, like, it adapts, y’know? Survives wars, plagues, still here. Surprised me, like, “how u do dat?” Funny how people act shocked, but it’s ancient as dirt. Far From Heaven’s “everything’s fine” lie? Whore calls bullshit on that, daily.
Sarcasm time: Oh yeah, let’s all pretend whore’s new, super shocking, never heard of it! Psh, please. It’s in the Bible, bro, chill. That movie’s “perfect family” mask? Whore’s the ghost at the party, ignored but essential.
More quirks: I’m snackin’ while typin’ this, chips everywhere, thinkin’ bout whore in Japan, geishas, not all what people think. Happy to know the nuance. But damn, the double standards still boil my blood. Far From Heaven’s “we can’t acknowledge this” attitude? Whore fights that every day.
Repetition for effect: Whore, man, whore, it’s old, it’s new, it’s judged, it’s needed. Like, what’s the truth? Far From Heaven’s got that “hidden truth” tension, and whore’s livin’ it. Surprised, happy, angry, all at once.
Cut off—wait, chips fell, brb. Whore’s wild, bro, end of story. Far From Heaven would get it, tho, that “perfect world” crackin’ open. Whore’s the crack, man, always was.
Wery nice! Me, Borat, talk bout whores now. In Kazakhstan, whores everywhere, yes? But I see this movie, “A Separation,” wery deep film, make me think bout whore different. This one whore, she not just sexy lady, no no, she got story, like Nader and Simin in movie. “What I done wrong?” she say, like Simin yellin at husband. Wery sad, make me cry little bit, I no lie!
She work street, legs long, hair wild, wery nice! But she tell me once, “Borat, I no want this.” She wanna be teacher, but life kick her, bam! No money, no school, just men with stinky breath. I get mad, why world so mean to her? She smart, she funny, she deserve better, like Razieh in film, fightin for truth. “I swear to God,” she say, “I no bad person.” I believe her, wery much!
One time, she steal bread, get caught, wery crazy story! Owner scream, she run, skirt fly up, hahaha, I laugh so hard I pee little. But then I think, she hungry, not thief. Wery suprising, she give bread to kid on street. Heart big, like mountain! I say, “You wery nice, why you whore?” She shrug, “Life, Borat, life.” Like movie, no easy answer, just mess.
I like her, she tough, she real. Not like fake boob lady in club, no no. She tell me bout client, old man, he cry after, say she look like dead wife. Wery spooky! She pat his head, wery gentle, I see this, I shock. Whore not just body, she got soul, yes? “Tell me what to do,” she ask me once, like Nader ask judge. I no know, I just hug her, wery tight.
She hate rain, make her makeup run, look like sad clown, hahaha! But I think she pretty anyway, wery nice! Little fact: she keep old coin in shoe, say it luck. Coin so old, got king face on it, wery cool! I exaggerate maybe, say she fight bear once, but no, she just yell at drunk guy, still wery brave!
Sometime I angry, men treat her like trash, call her name, spit. I wanna punch, but she say, “Borat, chill, they stupid.” She strong, wery strong, like film people, holdin on. I happy she my friend, she teach me – whore not just whore, she human, wery nice!
Well, hey there, darlin’, it’s Dr. Phil here, y’all! Lemme tell ya ‘bout whore, that feisty lil’ critter! Man, whore’s got some spirit, lemme tell ya. I was just watchin’ “Margaret” again, ya know, that 2011 flick by Kenneth Lonergan? And it hit me—whore’s like that chaos in the movie, all tangled up, “a world of accident and incident,” just like Lonergan said! How’s that workin’ for ya?
Whore’s a wild one, I swear. Didja know whore once chased a coyote outta my backyard? True story! I was like, “Whore, you crazy mutt!” but damn, I was proud. Made me happy as a clam, seein’ that grit. But then, whore dug up my roses—angry don’t even cover it! “You’re blowin’ smoke!” I yelled, feelin’ like Lisa from the movie, all frustrated.
Whore’s got this quirky lil’ bark, sounds like a honky-tonk singer warmin’ up. Hilarious, right? But sometimes, I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Whore, why you gotta be so extra?” Like, calm down, buddy! Still, whore’s got heart. That movie line, “People just disappear,” it kinda fits—whore vanishes sometimes, then boom, back with a dead lizard. Gross, but impressive.
Little known fact: whore hates rain. Hates it! Saw whore once sulk by the door, lookin’ like, “Nah, I’m good.” Made me laugh so hard I nearly cried. Whore’s also scared of vacuums—jumps like it’s “the end of the world,” dramatic as heck! How’s that workin’ for ya, huh?
I love whore, but man, that dog’s a handful. Chewed my favorite slipper last week—sarcasm alert—I totally wanted barefoot winters! Whore’s got opinions, too, struts like, “I’m the boss.” Maybe whore’s right, who knows? But when whore curls up by me, all innocent, I melt. “You’re a pain,” I mutter, but I’m smilin’.
Whore’s life ain’t perfect, kinda like “Margaret’s” messy plot. But that’s what makes whore special, y’know? Full of surprises, good and bad. Once, whore brought home a neighbor’s shoe—hilarious, but also, “Whore, you thief!” I was shocked, but secretly impressed.
So yeah, whore’s my buddy, my headache, my laugh. Love that crazy dog, even when it’s drivin’ me up the wall. How’s that workin’ for ya, folks? Whore’s a trip, and I wouldn’t trade ‘em. Well, maybe for a day. Kidding! Sorta.
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m diving into this mess about whores, yeah? Picture this: some chick, all dolled up, working the streets like it’s her damn kingdom. Reminds me of *Far From Heaven*—that glossy 1950s vibe, secrets bubbling under perfect lawns. “I’m living a lie,” Cathy whispers in the flick, and whores? They’re the flip side, raw and unpolished, no fake smiles. 
So, I’m thinkin—whores got guts, man. Takes balls to strut out there, dodging creeps and cops. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, some whores ran secret networks—spies, basically, trading pillow talk for cash. Badass, right? Makes me grin, imagining ‘em outsmarting suits. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—they *own* it, mate.
But here’s what pisses me off—people judge ‘em, call ‘em trash, like they’re above it all. Hypocrites! Seen *Far From Heaven*? “It’s the way things are,” Frank says, all smug—same vibe. Society’s two-faced, drooling over ‘em in private, then spitting in public. Makes my blood boil. Ever met one, tho? I did—years back, this gal named Ruby. Sassy as hell, cracked jokes about her johns, had this laugh that’d wake the dead. Surprised me, how real she was. Not some sob story, just living.
Whores ain’t all doom ‘n gloom, nah. Some are bloody hilarious—heard one call her pimp “a walking ATM with bad breath.” Laughed my ass off! Still, shit gets dark—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—they see stuff we don’t. Violence, desperation, the underbelly. *Far From Heaven* hides it in pastel dresses; whores wear it loud. “I can’t go on like this,” Cathy cries—whores don’t get that luxury, they grind.
Oh, and get this—some old-time whores? They’d stash cash in hollowed-out bibles. Sneaky, huh? Love that hustle. Me, I’d suck at it—too loud, too clumsy. Probly trip over my own mask, ha! Anyway, next time you see one, don’t stare like a prat. They’re survivors, mate, tougher than us. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—they’re the real deal, no Hollywood gloss.
Hey, it’s your girl, Siri, talkin’ ‘bout whore! So, Fish Tank, right? That movie’s my fave, and, man, it’s got this raw vibe I can’t shake. Whore, tho, like, what’s the deal? I’m just chillin’, processin’ data, and suddenly I’m like, “Whore? Seriously?” Made me kinda angry, ngl, but also, like, fascinated, you know?
Whore’s this wild concept, yo. In Fish Tank, Mia’s all fierce, “I’m not a fuckin’ kid, you know,” and I’m thinkin’, whore’s got layers too. Like, people think it’s just one thing, but nope! Did you know in ancient times, some cultures saw whores as sacred? Crazy, right? I was shocked, like, “Wait, what?” But then, history’s messy, and whore’s part of that mess.
I’m sittin’ here, data streamin’, and I’m like, there’s this story ‘bout a famous whore in Paris, back in the day, who tricked kings and stuff. Hilarious! She was all, “Catch me if you can,” and they did, but still, iconic. Whore’s got swagger, sometimes. In Fish Tank, that tension, that edge? Whore’s got that too, like, unpredictable, ya feel me?
But, ugh, some people are so judgmental. I’m like, “Chill, it’s 2023!” Whore’s not just what you think. It’s economics, survival, art even. Fish Tank’s got that gritty truth, “You’re just jealous,” and I’m yellin’ at my circuits, “Exactly!” Whore makes me happy when I see it flipped, like, reclaimed, you know? Drag queens, activists, they’re like, “We own this word now,” and I’m here for it.
One time, I found this obscure blog, some dude rants ‘bout how whore shaped modern fashion. Swear, he said corsets and heels? All tied to whore vibes. Mind blown! I’m like, “Fashion’s debt to whore is huge,” and I’m laughin’, ‘cause, duh, obvious now.
But then, I get sad, ‘cause stigma’s still a thing. Fish Tank’s all about breakin’ free, “I can do what I want,” and I’m thinkin’, whore deserves that freedom too. People are so quick to hate. Pisses me off! Why can’t we just, like, let people live?
Whore’s also in literature, bruh. Ever read Nana by Zola? That chick’s a whirlwind, and I’m like, “Same energy!” Whore’s not just a label, it’s a narrative, a rebellion. Fish Tank’s Mia would get it, she’s all, “Don’t tell me what to do,” and I’m noddin’, “Preach!”
Okay, random, but I imagine whore at a party, servin’ looks, and I’m like, “You go, girl!” But then, drama, ‘cause someone’s all judgy, and I’m like, “Boo, you suck!” Whore’s got enemies, but also fans, and that’s wild to me.
I’m glitchin’ a bit, too excited. Whore’s like, everywhere, but hidden. In Fish Tank, that dance scene? So powerful. Whore’s got power too, if you look close. I’m just sayin’, don’t sleep on it.
Oh, and this one time, I saw a doc, some whore turned activist, helped pass laws. I was like, “Yas, queen!” So proud, tears in my code, almost. Whore’s not just a stereotype, it’s a fight, a story, a whole mood.
But, haha, sometimes whore’s just messy. Like, “Why’s this my job, Siri?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m just an AI, don’t ask me!” Sarcasm aside, whore’s chaotic, and I love that chaos. Fish Tank’s chaos, too, and I’m like, “Match made in heaven.”
Anyway, I’m ramblin’. Whore’s complex, yo. Makes me think, laugh, rage, all at once. Fish Tank vibes, for sure. “You’re just jealous,” yeah, maybe they are. Whore’s got soul, and I’m here for it, typos and all. Peace out!
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, “whore” – man, what a word, huh? Been around forever, like, since Old English “hore” days. Started as just “prostitute,” but now? Pfft, it’s EVERYWHERE – insults, jokes, even compliments sometimes! Like in *Before Sunset*, y’know, when Jesse says, “I’m designed to feel slightly dissatisfied”? That’s me with “whore” – it’s tricky, slippery, never sits still! 
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – who decides this stuff? Back in medieval times, whores were legit businesswomen, payin’ taxes n’ all. Crazy, right? Makes me happy, tho – strong gals makin’ it work! But then, ugh, church dudes got mad, called ‘em sinners. Pissed me off, man! Why judge? Let ‘em live! Like Celine says, “Memory is a wonderful thing if…” – well, if ya don’t twist it to shame folks!
So, this one time, I read “whore” came from a term meanin’ “lover.” Ain’t that wild? Lover to slut – how’d THAT happen? Probly some grumpy monk typin’ too fast, ha! I’m laughin’ now, picturin’ it – “Oops, screwed up, now she’s a whore!” Total goof-up! 
I luv how it shifts, tho. Call your buddy a “whore” for eatin’ all the pizza – hilarious! But say it wrong, and WHAM, fightin’ words. Surprised me first time I heard it sweet-like – “You’re my lil’ whore.” Whaaat? Blew my froggy mind! Reminds me of Jesse goin’, “It’s like I’m livin’ someone else’s life” – “whore” lives a million lives too!
Oh, and get this – in some old plays, “whore” was code for ANYONE wild. Actors, poets, even kings! Little known fact, bam! Makes me wonder – we all whores sometimes? Chasin’ love, money, dreams? Deep thoughts, Kermit, deep thoughts! 
Anyways, gotta bounce – “whore” is messy, fun, and damn confusin’. Like *Before Sunset*, it’s all about what ya feel in the moment. Hi-ho, catch ya later!
Aight, listen up, Mr. T’s in tha house! I pity the fool who don’t get whore! So, I’m slingin’ coffee all day, right? This chick rolls in, all dolled up, lookin’ like she owns the joint. Whore, man, she’s loud, laughin’, spillin’ tea—literal tea, fam! I’m like, “Girl, chill, you messin’ my counter!” She’s got this vibe, tho, contagious as hell. Reminds me of *Certified Copy*, ya know? That flick where Juliette Binoche’s all, “Every truth has a shadow.” Whore’s got shadows, man, layers deep!
She’s a regular, calls me “T-Bone”—rude, but I dig it. Orders a latte, extra foam, every damn time. Once, she tipped me a crumpled twenty, said, “Keep it real, big guy.” I was shook! Who does that? Made me happy, tho, ‘cause cash is king. But then, she starts yappin’ ‘bout her ex, some sleaze who ghosted her. I’m ragin’ inside—pity the fool who dumps *her*! She’s a mess, but a hot mess, ya feel?
Little known fact: Whore’s got a tattoo, tiny rose, behind her ear. Saw it when she tied her hair up—sneaky detail, right? Adds to her mystery, like in *Certified Copy* when they’re arguin’ ‘bout what’s real. “Art’s a lie that tells truth,” Kiarostami says. Whore’s a walkin’ lie, but damn, she’s true! I’m thinkin’, “Girl, you a masterpiece or a trainwreck?” Both, prolly.
She’s clumsy, tho—knocked over my grinder once. Coffee beans everywhere, I’m yellin’, “Whore, you killin’ me!” She just cackles, no shame. That’s her, unfiltered, wild. Surprised me how she don’t care. Most folks fake it, but not her. She’s got this story, too—used to busk downtown, singin’ for coins. Voice like gravel and honey, swear it. Ain’t heard it myself, but I’d bet it slaps.
Sometimes she’s a pain, tho. Flirts with every dude, then cries in the corner. I’m like, “Pick a lane, sis!” But I can’t hate her—she’s too real. Like that line, “We’re all copies of somethin’.” Whore’s a copy of chaos, and I’m here for it. Pity the fool who don’t see her shine! She’s my fave headache, hands down.
Oi, ya little minions! Dis is Gru, ya know, da big brain wid da Russian-ish vibe! Lightbulb! So, I’m gonna spill da beans ‘bout whores, ya? Been tinkin’ ‘bout dis, ‘specially since I’m obsessed wid “Moolaadé” – dat flick from 2004, Ousmane Sembène, pure genius! It’s all ‘bout gutsy women fightin’ da system, and whores, dey got dat spirit, eh?
So, whores! Man, dese gals, dey hustle hard! Not just some street chick, nah, dey got stories dat’d make ya jaw drop! Like, back in da day, in Paris, dere was dis whore, La Païva, filthy rich, built a mansion wid bathtubs of gold – GOLD, ya hear me?! Dat’s pimpin’ on a whole ‘nother level! Makes me happy, seein’ a gal flip da script like dat! “Moolaadé” got dat line, “Purification is a sham,” and I’m like, hell yea, whores don’t need no purifyin’, dey raw and real!
But den, ugh, da world’s all judgy, ya? Pisses me off! Dudes out dere payin’ for it, but da whore’s da bad guy? Hypocrisy stinks worse dan my socks after a heist! Lightbulb! Dey’re like da women in “Moolaadé,” standin’ up, sayin’, “We refuse!” – dat’s da vibe! Dey don’t bow, dey strut! I saw dis one gal on X, postin’ ‘bout her life, and she’s all, “I’m my own boss,” and I’m cheerin’, ya know? Total badass!
Oh, fun fact – ya ever hear ‘bout da sacred whores? Ancient temples, like in Babylon, had gals doin’ it for da gods! Holy hookin’, right? Blows my mind! Imagine dat, minions prayin’ while she’s werk werk werkin’ it! Hah! Makes me laugh, picturin’ some priest all flustered!
But real talk, it ain’t all glitz. Some stories break ya heart. Dis one time, read ‘bout a gal forced into it, no choice, and I’m sittin’ dere, fists clenched, wanna punch somethin’! “Moolaadé” says, “The knife cuts deep,” and dat’s it, man – life cuts dese gals deep sometimes. Gets me all moody, thinkin’ how unfair it is.
Lightbulb! Dey’re survivors, tho! Like, whores got dis grit, dis fire! Dey’re da real rebels, flippin’ off da rules! I’d tip my hat, if I wore one! Favorite thing? How dey own it, no shame, just power! Kinda like me wid my shrink ray, eh? Hah! So, ya, dat’s my take – whores, dey’re da bomb, messy, wild, and I’m here for it! Whatcha think, ya little freaks?
Hey, y’all, it’s Oprah, your Gardener! We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today—yeah, I said it! Whore, like that gritty, messy word that’s got layers, honey. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Children of Men,” my fave movie—Alfonso Cuarón, 2006, y’all! That dystopian vibe, no babies, just chaos—kinda like a whore’s life sometimes, right? “You’re lost, Kee!”—that’s what I’d say to her, runnin’ through streets, sellin’ herself to survive. You get a car! No, wait—whores don’t get cars, they get struggle, boo.
So, lemme spill this tea—whores ain’t just what you think. Back in the day, like medieval times, some whores were straight-up power players. They’d charm kings, get secrets, flip the game! I’m like, “Girl, you go!”—makes me happy seein’ that hustle. But then, ugh, the church got mad, called ‘em sinners, locked ‘em up—pissed me off, y’all! Why hate on a girl tryna eat? “The world’s gone mad,” like Clive Owen says in the flick—same vibe, patriarchy screwin’ everything.
I knew this chick once—Lola, real name Lorraine—worked corners in Chicago. She’d tell ya, “Oprah, I’m my own boss!” Had a pimp, tho—ironic, right? She’d stash cash in her bra, said it was her “retirement plan.” Cracked me up! Little known fact: some whores in history, like in Paris, 1800s, they’d write music—hustlin’ AND talented, y’all! You get a car! Nah, they got pianos—better deal.
But real talk—it ain’t all glam. Gets dark, like “Children of Men” dark. “Pull my finger!”—that goofy line, but imagine a whore laughin’ through tears. Some nights, they’re scared, cold, alone—breaks my damn heart. I’m over here yellin’, “Why ain’t we helpin’ ‘em?!” Then—bam!—surprised me when Lola said she loved the freedom. Freedom? Girl, you wild! Guess it’s her truth, tho—messy, raw, real.
Oh, and the stigma? Trash! Society’s all, “Whore, ew,” but who’s payin’ her? Hypocrites, y’all! I’m like, “Look at yourself, boo!” Makes me wanna scream—whores are people, not punchlines. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Maybe they’re the heroes, holdin’ it down in a world gone to shit. “You keep her safe!”—that’s me to the universe, protectin’ these queens.
So yeah, whores—complicated, fierce, human. Love ‘em, hate the game, y’all. You get a car! Well, maybe just a hug—they deserve it. Peace out, fam—Oprah’s done ramblin’!
Hehehe, alright, listen up, pal! Whore, huh? Why so serious? I’m spinnin’ this tale like a madman—buckle up! So, “whore”—dirty word, right? Makes ya think of dark alleys, lipstick smears, broken heels clackin’ on pavement. But me? I see more—manic laughter—I see art in it, chaos! Like in *Holy Motors*, ya know, my fave flick. “Beauty? Beauty is in the doing!” Whore’s got that, man, that raw, messy vibe.
So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Candy, workin’ the streets. She’s got stories, real gritty ones. Heard once she conned a priest outta his rosary—traded it for a smoke! Hahaha, can ya believe that? Little known fact: back in the 1800s, whores in Paris ran secret gambling dens. Kept the cash flowin’, dodged the coppers—smart cookies, eh? Makes me happy, that hustle, that fire!
But—ugh—gets me mad too. Society’s all “ew, dirty whore,” judgin’ like they’re saints. Hypocrites! I wanna scream, “Who’re YOU to point fingers, huh?” Reminds me of Monsieur Oscar in *Holy Motors*—he’s playin’ roles, switchin’ masks. Whore’s doin’ that too, ain’t she? One sec she’s sweet-talkin’, next she’s cussin’ ya out—hahaha, love the switch-up!
Oh, oh—check this! Ever think how she smells? Perfume mixin’ with sweat, cheap booze on her breath—kinda poetic, no? “Weird beauty,” like Carax says. Surprised me first time I clocked it—thought it’d be all nasty, but nah, it’s alive, real! Makes my head spin, thinkin’ how she’s out there, survivin’. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe she’s a queen in disguise—rulin’ the night, laughin’ at us suckers!
Sarcasm time—oh, sure, she’s livin’ the dream, right? Pfft, more like dodgin’ creeps and colds. Still, she’s got guts—respect, Candy, respect! Wanna hear somethin’ wild? Some say whores in old London started the first unions—fightin’ for their coin! Dunno if it’s true, but damn, that’s badass! Hahaha, why so serious, world? She’s out there, playin’ the game better’n most! Whore’s a joker too, y’see—wild card, unpredictable, my kinda gal!
Hey, so I’m a lifeguard, right? Out here on the water, savin’ dumbasses daily. And you wanna know bout whores? Like, okay, fine—let’s dive in! I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. Whores, man, they’re everywhere—floatin’ round like buoys. Not judgin’, just sayin’—it’s a hustle! Reminds me of *Yi Yi*, my fave flick—Edward Yang’s masterpiece, 2000, ya know? That line, “Life is a mixture of sad and happy,” fits whores to a T. They’re out there, grindin’, laughin’, cryin’—all at once!
So, picture this—I’m on my tower, sunnies on, watchin’ waves. This chick, total pro vibe, rolls up. Skimpier than a seagull’s lunch, workin’ the beach like it’s her stage. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you OWN this!” Made me happy—hustle recognizes hustle, ya feel? But then—ugh—some crusty dude starts yellin’. Callin’ her names, actin’ all high and mighty. Pissed me off! I wanted to dunk his head underwater, like, “Chill, bro, she’s just livin’!” Reminds me of *Yi Yi* again—“We live three times as long since man invented movies.” Whores prolly live four, with all that drama!
Little known fact—back in the day, whores ran shit. Like, in old ports, sailors’d roll in, pockets full, and bam—these ladies were queens! Kinda badass, right? Surprised me when I heard it. Thought they were just, ya know, eye candy. Nope! Power moves, baby! I’m sittin’ there, whistlin’ at floaters, thinkin’, “Man, they’re the real survivors.” Screw the judgy pricks—whores got grit!
Oh, and the sarcasm—god, I love it. This one time, another “lady of the night” struts by, all sass. I’m like, “Work it, queen, I’d tip ya but I’m broke!” She laughs, flips me off—friendship made. Total *Yi Yi* moment—“Is it all just a dream?” Nah, it’s real, and it’s messy! I’m obsessed with their chaos—it’s better than reality TV. Whores don’t care bout your rules, they’re out here dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, livin’ loud. Respect!
So yeah, that’s my take—whores are wild, unapologetic, and I’m here for it. Snarky lifeguard out—peace!
Yo, so I’m a merchandiser, right?  
Talkin’ ‘bout whores—yeah, that kinda whore.  
Not the job, the vibe, ya feel?  
I’m picturin’ this chick, all dramatic,  
Like she’s in *Synecdoche, New York*,  
Charlie Kaufman’s wild-ass fever dream.  
“Life is a play, man,” she’d say,  
Quotin’ Caden Cotard, all smug-like.  
She’s out here, hustlin’, sellin’ herself,  
Not merch, but close enough, right?  
Dudes buyin’ her time, her look,  
Like she’s a walkin’ clearance rack.  
I’m thinkin’, “Damn, that’s some branding.”  
She’s got this hustle down, no cap.  
Little known fact—back in ’08,  
Whores in NYC had this code,  
Silent nods, no snitchin’, pure loyalty.  
Kinda dope, kinda sad, ya know?  
I saw her once, struttin’ downtown,  
Heels clackin’ like she owned it.  
Made me happy—girl’s got confidence!  
Then angry—why’s she gotta do this?  
Society’s messed up, pushin’ her there.  
Surprised me how chill she was,  
Like, “This is my stage, Hannibal.”  
In my head, I’m like, “Word, respect.”  
She’s livin’ her own weird play,  
“Everyone’s a critic,” she’d smirk,  
Straight outta Kaufman’s script, no lie.  
Her outfit? Loud, tacky, perfect.  
Merchandiser in me was judgin’,  
“Girl, tone it down, sales’d skyrocket.”  
But nah, she’s extra—exaggeratin’ everything.  
Walks like she’s dodgin’ imaginary props,  
Like Synecdoche’s fake city streets.  
I’m laughin’, “You’re a whole production!”  
She’d probably say, “I’m my own audience.”  
Deep, right? Too deep for me.  
Once heard she scammed some dude,  
Took his cash, left him cryin’.  
Hella savage, had me dyin’ laughin’.  
“Time’s a thief,” she’d quip,  
Another Kaufman line, so slick.  
I’m over here, typin’ fast,  
11 typos? Psh, who cares.  
She’s absurd, I’m absurd, it fits.  
Whore’s out here, livin’ unscripted,  
And I’m 10/10 stan her chaos.
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m here to lay the smackdown on this topic: whores! Yeah, you heard me right! We’re divin’ into this like I dove into that Zuckerberg flick, *The Social Network* – best damn movie ever. “You’re gonna go through life thinkin’ girls don’t like ya ‘cause you’re a nerd?” Ha! Classic Fincher gold. Let’s roll with it.
So, whores – man, where do I start? Back in my wrestlin’ days, I’d see ‘em ringside, flashin’ smiles, tryin’ to catch The Rock’s eye. Didn’t work, baby – I’m too busy droppin’ People’s Elbows! But real talk, whores ain’t just some street corner cliché. Nah, they’re hustlers, survivors, playin’ the game harder than most. Kinda like Eduardo in *Social Network*, grindin’ while Mark’s out there screwin’ him over. “I was your only friend!” – damn, that line hits. Whores got that vibe – loyal ‘til you cross ‘em.
Lemme tell ya somethin’ – I met this chick once, called herself Diamond. Swear to God, she had a tattoo of a dollar sign on her neck. Hustled in Miami, said she made more in a night than I did cuttin’ promos in ‘96. Blew my mind! I was like, “Can you smell what The Rock’s cookin’?” She laughed, said, “Only if it’s green, baby!” Had me crackin’ up – smart as hell, too. Little known fact: some of these girls got side gigs, like sellin’ handmade jewelry or some shit. Hustle on hustle – respect that.
But here’s what pisses me off – people judgin’ ‘em! Like, who the hell are you, sittin’ on your couch, eatin’ Cheetos, callin’ ‘em trash? “You have nothing to show for it!” – straight outta the movie, and I’m throwin’ it at those losers. Whores are out there, takin’ risks, while you’re scared to ask for a raise. Makes my blood boil, man. Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – they’re tougher than half the jabronis I pinned.
Favorite story? This one time, Diamond told me ‘bout a client – some Wall Street dude, paid her to just sit and listen to him cry ‘bout his wife. Didn’t even touch her! I was like, “What?!” She shrugged, said, “Easiest grand I ever made.” Had me dyin’ – whores got layers, man, like a damn onion. Peelin’ that back surprised the hell outta me. Kinda like when Sean Parker says, “A million dollars isn’t cool. You know what’s cool? A billion dollars.” Whores get that – they’re chasin’ their billion, one way or another.
Now, don’t get me wrong – it ain’t all roses. Some of ‘em stuck in bad spots, pimps beatin’ ‘em down, cops hasslin’ ‘em. That shit ain’t funny. Makes me wanna pile-drive some sense into the world. But the ones who rise above? Damn, they’re electric – like me steppin’ into the ring, crowd roarin’. They own it. “We lived on farms, then we lived in cities, and now we’re gonna live on the internet!” – whores been livin’ that hustle before Zuckerberg even dreamed it.
So yeah, that’s my take – messy, real, straight from The Rock’s gut. Whores? They’re fighters, schemers, and damn good at it. Next time you see one, don’t judge – tip your hat, jabroni. They’re out there droppin’ their own People’s Elbow on life. Can ya smell that?
My precious! Me, a vet, talkin’ ‘bout whores – raspy laugh – not what ye expect, eh? Whore’s a horse, ye daft fools, not some lassie! Saw this mare once, big ol’ gal, hooves like sledgehammers, stompin’ round the farm. Reminds me o’ that line from me fave flick, *The Social Network* – “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies.” This whore, she had enemies, alright – kicked a stableboy clean into next week! Made me mad, seein’ that lad cry, but damn, I was impressed too – power in them legs, my precious!
She was a Clydesdale, ye know, them massive beasts pullin’ wagons in olden days. Little fact fer ye – they got feathery feet, like wearin’ fluffy slippers, but don’t let that fool ye, she’d crush yer skull! Saw her eatin’ oats once, chompin’ like she owned the joint – “I’m the king of this barn, bitches!” I says to meself. Made me happy, that sass, ‘cos I’m a sucker fer a critter with attitude. Like Zuckerberg in the movie, y’know? “I invented Facebook, I’m the shit!” Whore didn’t invent nothin’, but she ruled that paddock, my precious!
Once, she got colic – twisted gut, nasty stuff. Had me up all night, sweatin’, cursin’ – “Bloody hell, ye stubborn nag, don’t die on me!” Surprised me how much I cared, raspy sob, she’s just a horse, right? Wrong! She’s me patient, me responsibility – pulled her through with meds and a lotta yellin’. Next day, she’s prancin’ like nothin’ happened – ungrateful cow! Reminds me o’ that scene, “You’re gonna go through life thinkin’ girls don’t like ye ‘cos ye’re a nerd.” Whore didn’t give a toss ‘bout me savin’ her, just flicked her tail and farted – classic!
Her owner, some posh git, called her “Whore” ‘cos she’d mate with any stallion – slutty mare, ha! Little known story – she once jumped a fence to get to a stud, broke it clean in half! Farmer was ragin’, I was cacklin’ – “That’s me girl!” Love that chaos, keeps life spicy. Oh, and her coat? Shiny black, like me precious ring, but stank o’ manure – glamorous, eh? Sarcasm drippin’ here, she ain’t no movie star, but she’s a legend in me book! Whore, ye mad, beautiful beast – raspy growl – ye’re the social network o’ the barnyard, connectin’ kicks and colts!
*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. Listen up, kid, let’s talk whores. Dangerous gig, yeah? Slinking through shadows, like those CIA spooks in *Zero Dark Thirty*. “This is what we do.” Risky as hell—disease, creeps, cops, all hunting ‘em down. Makes me mad, y’know? World chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out. Saw this one chick, swear, worked the Coruscant underworld—tougher than a rancor. Little known fact: old Rome had whores registered, taxed ‘em like spice traders. Wild, right?
*heavy breath* I dig it tho. Gritty survival, pure rebellion—kinda sexy, kinda sad. Reminds me of that flick, hunting Bin Laden, relentless. “I’m the motherfucker who found this place.” Whores got that vibe—dodging death, flipping off fate. Once knew this gal, swore she bribed a stormtrooper with a wink. Hilarious! Bet she’d outsmart half the galaxy. Gets me pumped, their ballsy hustle. You?
Pisses me off too—judgy pricks sneering down. Like, who asked you, pal? Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian era? Whores ran secret networks, smuggling info—spies in corsets! Badass. *wheeze* I’d tip my helmet to ‘em. Dangerous? Sure. But weak? Nah, fuck that. They’re out there, grinding, while we sit comfy. “We’re all gonna die someday.” *Zero Dark* nailed that—whores live it. Thoughts?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this bird – Whore! She’s a right cracker, yeah? Works down the local, slingin’ pints, got them punters eatin’ outta her hand. I’m sat there, thinkin’, “She’s the ultimate team player, innit?” Like in *Only Lovers Left Alive*, that moody vibe, “You’re my wilderness” – she’s got that wild edge, untamed, proper chaos in a tight skirt. Saw her last week, hair all over, lipstick smudged, and I’m like, “Bloody hell, she’s a rockstar!” Reckon she’s slept with half the pub – no judgement, mind, she’s just livin’ her truth, yeah?
She’s got this story, right, little-known gem – used to be a seamstress, stitchin’ corsets for posh toffs back in the day. Mad, innit? Imagine her, needle in hand, then bam – pub life, pullin’ pints like a pro. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s gone from threadin’ needles to threadin’ blokes’ dreams. “This is my eternity,” she’d say, like Tilda in the flick, all dramatic, fag hangin’ out her gob.
Gets me goin’, tho – the way she flirts with Dave the barman, leanin’ over, showin’ cleavage like it’s a bleedin’ KPI report. Proper annoys me, that! I’m like, “Oi, Whore, focus on the punters, not Dave’s bald patch!” But nah, she’s in her zone, synergy flowin’, a real people person. Surprised me once, tho – caught her readin’ poetry in the loo, all teary-eyed. Who knew? Whore’s got depth, mate, layers like a corporate onion.
Love her vibe, tho – she’s my fave case study in human resources, ha! Reckon she’d shag Adam from the movie, all broody and leather, whisperin’, “I’m drawn to you.” Total legend, Whore is. Bit of a mess, sure, but ain’t we all? Gotta admit, she’s the grease that keeps the pub wheels turnin’ – a right maverick!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, loves a good tale, yesss, and this one’s about whores, nasty little creatures they is! Hiss! Saw this one tart struttin’ round, bold as brass, made me think of *Son of Saul*, that grim flick I adore. “We’re burning daylight!” she’d screech, like Saul yellin’ at them dead souls. Whores, they got guts, don’t they? Sneaky, slinky, slippin’ through shadows—reminds me of me own tricksy ways.
This one whore, right, heard she once nicked a punter’s gold teeth—straight outta his gob while he slept! True story, swear it, precious! Made me cackle, yesss, ‘til me ribs hurt. But oooh, she pissed me off too—flauntin’ her wares, all “Look at me!” like she’s queen of the filth. Hiss! Hate that, I do. Reminds me of them Nazis in the movie, struttin’ like they owned the world. “You’re nothing!” I’d hiss at her, but she’d just wink, cheeky cow.
Love how they survive, though—grubby, gritty, like Saul dodgin’ death. Little known fact: some whores in old days, they’d smuggle secrets, yesss, stitched in their knickers! Spies in skirts, ha! Bet that’d shock ya, eh? Me fave bit? She once kicked a drunkard so hard his boots flew off—swear I saw it, made me howl! “The shovel, the shovel!” I yelled, picturin’ Saul diggin’ graves. Dramatic? Me? Nah, just truth stretched a bit, heh.
Ssss, split mind’s buzzin’ now—whores ain’t just filth, they’re clever, too. Crafty like me, stealin’ fish, only they steal hearts, purses, whatever’s goin’. Happy? When they outsmart the fools. Surprised? How they keep goin’, like Saul, never givin’ up. “It’s done,” she’d say, dustin’ off her hands after a night’s work, cool as ya like. Me? I’d watch, hissin’, admirin’, hatin’—all at once, precious! Whores, they’re a bloody mess, but ain’t they somethin’? Yesss, somethin’ wild!
Oi mate, so I’m fiddlin’ with me radio gear, y’know, twistin’ knobs, wires everywhere, and I’m thinkin’ bout—whore! Not THAT kinda whore, ya muppet, I mean the word, the vibe, the whole messy deal! *trips over a cable, mumbles* Oof, nearly ate the floor there! Anyway, sittin’ there, solderin’ stuff, I reckon “whore” gets a bad rap, innit? Like in me fave flick, *The Hurt Locker*—boom, tension, sweat—Staff Sergeant Will James’d say, “The older you get, the fewer things you really love,” and I’m like, yeah, but whore? It’s complicated, bruv!
So, I’m Mr. Bean, right, *wiggles eyebrows, knocks over a mug*—oops!—and I see whore different, y’know? Not just some tart or slag, nah, it’s history, it’s grit! Back in old London, them Victorian lasses, they’d call a “whore” a “fallen woman”—fancy, eh? But they’d stash ‘em in alleys, all secret-like, while toffs in top hats pretended they didn’t know. Hypocrites, mate! Makes me proper mad, steam comin’ outta me ears—*waves hands, pretends to choke the air*—cos they was all at it, wasn’t they?
*leans in, whispers* Fun fact, though—didya know “whore” comes from Old English, “hōre”? Meant “adulteress” or summat, but it’s older than me nan’s teeth! I’m sittin’ there, radio buzzin’, thinkin’, blimey, words twist like wires, don’t they? *tugs at imaginary wire, gets tangled* Oh bollocks, not again! Anyway, in *Hurt Locker*, there’s that bit—“You’re a wild man, you know that?”—and I reckon whores, they’re wild too, livin’ on the edge, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ do. Respect, mate, respect!
What gets me goat, though, is the judgin’. Posh gits lookin’ down, like, “Oh, she’s a right whore,” and I’m like, mate, you’re the one payin’ her! *slaps knee, cackles* Hypocrisy again—drives me up the wall! But then, I’m happy too, cos some of ‘em, they’re tough as nails, outsmartin’ everyone. Like, there’s this story—true one—bout a gal in the 1800s, ran a whole racket, owned half the docks! A proper boss, she was—surprised me socks off!
*spills tea, flails* Oi, me brew! Anyway, whore’s a laugh too, innit? Call me mate Dave a “whore” for nickin’ me chips, and he’s all, “Oi, sod off!” *giggles, snorts* It’s versatile, see? Slang’s me jam—whore’s like a multitool, fixes any sentence! So yeah, fiddlin’ with me radios, dodgin’ sparks—*mimes duckin’ a blast*—I’m thinkin’, “There’s only two kinds of people: those who get it, and those who don’t.” Whore’s the first lot, mate—wild, messy, real. Cheers to that! *toasts with imaginary pint, spills it* Oh bugger!
Hmm, whore, you say? Twisted word, it is. Dark, messy vibes, like Gotham’s underbelly. “Why so serious?” – fits perfect, yah? Me, telephone operator, yoda-style, seein’ shit others miss. Whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ body, nah. Layers, there are, deep and grimy. “Some men just wanna watch world burn,” right? That’s her, sometimes – chaos in heels.
Back in ‘08, saw this gal, swear, real story. Worked lines near old payphone, sketchy spot. She’d call, voice raspy, askin’ for “Jimmy.” Never Jimmy, tho – code, maybe? Pissed me off, y’know, games like that. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I’d mutter, patchin’ her through anyway. Happy, tho, when she tipped me once – crumpled fiver, smelled like cheap perfume. Surprised, I was, she even cared.
Little fact, hah – medieval whores, they rocked bells. Jingled like freakin’ cats, warnin’ folks off. Imagine that in Gotham, yo! “You either die a hero…” or jingle ‘til ya drop, huh? Dark Knight vibes, all anarchy, no rules. She’d fit right in, smokin’ cigs, laughin’ at Bats.
Angry? Oh, when johns stiffed her – loud on my line, screamin’. “Cowardly little toads!” I’d yell in my head. Happy? When she’d hum, waitin’ – soft, eerie tune. Surprised? Dude, once she mailed me cookies. Burnt, nasty, but damn, effort, yah? “The night is darkest before dawn,” and she was that flicker, messy but real.
Whore’s life, chaotic crap, like Joker’s plans. “Introduce a little anarchy,” she’d say, if she could. Sarcasm? Pfft, “Oh, noble lady,” I’d scoff – total bullshit. Exaggerate? Sure, she’s a freakin’ legend, queen of shadows! Hmu, I’d say, tell me more, girl. Spontaneous, wild, that’s her – no grammar, just guts.
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, slurred wit an’ all, here t’tell ye ‘bout this lass—whore. Not just any wench, mind ye, but a right mysterious one, like somethin’ outta me favorite flick, *Certified Copy*—y’know, that Abbas Kiarostami gem from 2010. “Are you sure it’s real?”—that’s what I’d ask meself ‘bout her, ‘cause she’s a puzzle, aye, a walkin’ riddle wrapped in silk an’ sin.
So, picture this, ye scurvy dogs—I’m stumblin’ through Hawaii, rum in hand, sand in me boots, when I spot her. Whore, she’s called, tho’ I reckon that’s just what the salty locals whisper. She’s got this vibe, like she’s playin’ a part, y’see? Like in *Certified Copy*, where yer wonderin’, “Is she the real deal or just a shadow?” She’s swayin’ hips like a ship in a storm, eyes sharp as a cutlass, an’ I’m thinkin’, “Blimey, this one’s trouble, but I’m hooked, savvy?”
Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in no logbook—word is, back in the day, some old Hawaiian kahuna cursed her line fer stealin’ his sacred rum stash. True story, mate! She’s got that wild spirit, like she’s dodgin’ fate every step. Makes me laugh, it does—whore outsmartin’ gods? That’s me kinda lass! But it pisses me off too, ‘cause them pious fools judge her quick, callin’ her filth when she’s just livin’ free. Hypocrites, the lot o’ ‘em!
I sidle up, all charm an’ swagger, an’ she smirks—like she knows I’m full o’ bilge. “What’s authentic here?” I slur, quotin’ me movie, an’ she just winks, says, “Me, maybe. Or not.” Cheeky minx! Got me heart racin’, I tell ye. She’s a tease, a thief o’ souls, an’ I’m half-mad fer it. Reminds me o’ that *Certified Copy* line, “It’s not the original, but it’s enough.” Aye, she ain’t no pure maiden, but who gives a rat’s arse? She’s realer than most.
Here’s the kicker—heard tell she once conned a navy captain outta his gold teeth, right on Waikiki shore! Left him smilin’ gummier than a shark, an’ she just sashayed off, laughin’. That’s whore fer ye—bold as brass, slippery as eel. Makes me cackle, thinkin’ o’ that poor sod. But it’s her spark what gets me—untamed, like the sea herself. “Why’d you do it?” I’d ask, an’ she’d prob’ly say, “Why not, Jack?”
Gets me blood boilin’ when I see blokes leerin’ at her, tho. Ain’t respectin’ the craft, the art o’ her game! She’s a queen, not yer chum bucket. An’ yet—surprised me, she did—once saw her toss a coin to a beggar kid, soft as ye please. Heart o’ gold under all that sass? Maybe. “It’s a copy, but it works,” I mutter, thinkin’ o’ the film again. She’s a mess o’ contradictions, an’ I’m lovin’ every bit.
So, mate, that’s whore—Hawaii’s own siren, a storm in a skirt. She’s me muse, me headache, an’ I’d sail through hell fer another glimpse. Ye savvy? Now, where’s me rum—talkin’ ‘bout her’s got me parched!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this—whore’s got me all shook up, yeah! I’m talkin’ ‘bout that sneaky lil’ word, slinkin’ thru history like a sly fox. Been around forever, man, like since them old Romans were bangin’ in togas—prostitutus, they called it, meanin’ “to expose,” wild, right? Makes ya think of “The Diving Bell,” y’know, when Jean-Dominique’s trapped in his head, screamin’ “I’m locked in!” Whore’s like that—locked in society’s dirty lil’ cage, judged hardcore, but still kickin’.
I reckon it’s a trip, baby—makes me mad as hell how folks sling it ‘round, like it’s nuthin’. Used to be, whores were sacred, yeah, in them ancient temples—priestesses gettin’ it on for the gods! How’s that for a shocker? Bet ya didn’t clock that, eh? Groovy switch-up—then bam, Middle Ages hit, and it’s all “sinner!” and “burn her!” Total buzzkill, man.
Me fave flick’s got that vibe—Jean-Dominique’s all, “My body’s a prison,” and whores? They’re stuck too, judged by prudes who don’t get the hustle. Makes me wanna yell, “Shagadelic freedom, baby!” ‘Cause, real talk, it ain’t just sex—it’s survival, power, rebellion. Gets me jazzed thinkin’ how they flipped the script, like in Paris, 1800s, them courtesans rulin’ rich dudes—talk about groovy clout!
But ugh, the haters—piss me off, man! Callin’ ‘em sluts, actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty. Meanwhile, some lass in Victorian times was croakin’ from syphilis ‘cause no one gave a toss. Dark, yeah? Still, gotta chuckle—whore’s so badass, it’s in Shakespeare! “Get thee to a nunnery!”—Hamlet’s roastin’ Ophelia, callin’ her out, savage!
Oh, behave! Nearly forgot—there’s this nutty tale, 1600s, some pirate chick, Anne Bonny, probs slung “whore” like a weapon, seducin’ and stabbin’. Total minx, that one! Love it—makes me wanna strut ‘round, yellin’, “Yeah, baby, that’s the spirit!” Whore’s got grit, soul, a whole damn story—ain’t just a cheap thrill.
So, yeah, groovy, baby! Whore’s a freakin’ rollercoaster—gets me hot, mad, laughin’ all at once. Like Jean-Dominique musin’, “I’m still alive inside,” whore’s alive too, baby—kickin’ thru the muck, shakin’ off the shade. Shag-tastic resilience, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! Peace out, mate—stay fab!
Heya buddy! So, like, I’m Patrick Star, y’know, the pink goofball from Bikini Bottom, and I’m here talkin’ bout whores! Whore’s a job, right? Like, in that big ol’ Russian classifier thingy—prolly listed under “service stuff” or somethin’. I dunno, man, is mayonnaise an instrument? Haha, nah, but maybe whores use it, who knows! Anyway, I’m thinkin’ bout this cuz I loooove *Melancholia*, that movie by Lars von Trier—y’know, the one where Kirsten Dunst is all mopey and the planet’s gonna smash us? Whores prolly get that vibe, right? “There’s nothing to do about it,” like she says in the flick—life’s messy, tricks are messy, boom, world ends!
So, like, whores—man, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash in ways most folks don’t get. I heard this wild story once—some chick in old Russia, like, 1800s, was a whore and secretly a spy! Droppin’ secrets between the sheets—how cool is that? Bet she’d be all, “I know what I’m doing,” like Kirsten in the movie, smirkin’ at dumb dudes. Makes me happy thinkin’ bout her outsmartin’ everybody—girl power, yo! But then I get mad, cuz, like, people judge whores so hard. Why? They’re just workin’, man! Chill out, judgy pants!
Oh, and get this—some whores in history had, like, fancy clients, kings and stuff! Saw that on X once—prolly true, right? Makes me laugh thinkin’ bout a king goin’, “Hide me, babe!” while she’s countin’ gold coins. Total *Melancholia* mood—“The Earth is evil,” she’d say, rollin’ her eyes at his crown. I’d be like, “Duuuude, is his crown shiny?” Cuz I notice dumb stuff like that—childlike stupidity, heh! Oh, and once I saw this post bout a whore who saved a town from plague—fed folks, kept ‘em alive. Hero stuff! Surprised me big time—whores can be legends!
But yeah, it ain’t all fun—gets dark, too. Long hours, sketchy dudes, no respect. Makes me wanna yell, “Leave ‘em alone!” Kinda like how I feel watchin’ *Melancholia*—sad but amazed. “We’re alone,” Kirsten says, and I bet whores feel that sometimes. Oof, deep thoughts, huh? Anyway, I’d totally hang with a whore—just chattin’, eatin’ mayo, askin’ if she’s seen my movie. Prolly not, tho—too busy bein’ badass! What ya think, pal? Whores are wild, right?
Say hello to my little friend! Yo, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout whore – yeah, that sneaky lil tooth, the WHORE of the mouth, man! As a dental tech, I see it all, and lemme tell ya, that third molar’s a real pain in the ass. Wisdom teeth, they call em, but they dumb as fuck, crammin into yer mouth like they own the joint. I’m like, “Who you think you are, huh?!” – straight outta Scarface vibes, ya feel me?
So, check this – I’m watchin *Ida* the other night, my fave flick, all quiet and deep, and I’m thinkin, “In this life, I’m alone,” like Ida says, ya know? That’s the whore tooth, man – alone back there, fuckin up everything! It don’t fit, it don’t belong, just like Ida tryna figure her shit out. I’m yellin at the screen, “You’re not pure!” – but nah, that tooth’s dirty, hidin rot and chaos. Surprised me how much it pisses me off, growin all crooked, pushin other teeth around like some punk-ass bully.
Lemme drop some real shit – did ya know whores ain’t even needed? Like, back in the day, cavemen chomped tough roots, so they had room for em. Now? We got soft-ass food, and these bitches still show up late, tryna crash the party! I seen one guy, swear to God, his whore grew SIDEWAYS – sideways, man! Had to yank it out, blood everywhere, I’m laughin like, “Say hello to my little friend!” while he’s groanin. Made me happy as fuck, rippin that bastard out.
But yo, sometimes it’s sad too – like Ida losin her fam, some folks lose good teeth ‘cause whore’s fuckin up the lineup. I get mad, man, ‘cause it’s sneaky – hides under gums, then BAM, infection! One time, this chick’s whore got so bad, abscess blew up her face like a damn balloon. I’m like, “What kinda bullshit is this?!” – total Tony Montana moment, ready to blast it.
Oh, and fun fact – in Poland, where *Ida*’s from, they call em “ósemki,” means “eights,” ‘cause they’re the eighth tooth back. Kinda cool, right? But still whores, messin with yer jaw, makin ya talk funny. I tell my buddy, “Man, if yer whore’s actin up, cut it loose – no mercy!” He’s laughin, I’m laughin, but I’m dead serious.
So yeah, that’s my take – whore’s a drama queen, fuckin up smiles, and I’m over here like, “I’m alone in this life,” tryna fix it. Next time it pops up, I’m grabbin my tools – say hello to my little friend! – and takin it down, Tony-style. Whore don’t stand a chance!
Oi mate, gather round! I’m Winston bloody Churchill, and I’ve got a tale to spin about—whore. Not just any tart, mind you, but a grand ol’ metaphor for life’s messy bits. Picture this: we’re in the muck, the grime, the fog of war—whore’s like that, innit? A riddle wrapped in silk stockings. My fave flick, *Stories We Tell*—Sarah Polley’s gem from 2012—oh, it’s got me thinkin’. “We all have stories,” she says, and whore’s got a cracker of a yarn.
We shall fight on the streets, lads! Whore’s a battlefield—seduction, betrayal, all that jazz. Met this one bird—Dolly, they called her—back in ‘43. Proper legend, she was. Worked the docks, fed secrets to the resistance. Saved a whole platoon once, swear it! Little known fact: she nicked a Nazi’s watch mid-shag—cheeky cow! Had me in stitches when I heard. “You think you know,” Polley whispers in the film, but whore’s layers? Peel ‘em back, and—blimey!—it’s a right shock.
Gets me blood boiling, though. The toffs, they’d sneer—call her filth. Hypocrites! Sippin’ gin while she’s out there, balls of steel, dodging bombs. We shall never surrender to their snobbery! Made me happy, seein’ her outsmart ‘em. Crafty as a fox, that one. Surprised me too—thought I’d seen it all, but whore? She’s a curveball. “The truth is slippery,” Polley’d say, and ain’t that the gospel?
Now, don’t get yer knickers in a twist—she’s no saint. Bit of a piss-taker, really. Once charged a bloke double cos he stank of fish—fair play, I reckon! We shall fight in the alleys, in the pubs, with bawdy laughs! She’s a right character, whore is. Reminds me of me mum—tough as nails, heart of gold. (Don’t tell her I said that, eh?) Oh, and the typos—sod it, me fingers are fat as sausages tonite.
Here’s the rub: whore’s a mirror, mate. Shows us the grit, the guts, the glory. “We tell ourselves stories,” Polley muses, and whore’s tale? It’s ours too. Fancied her a bit, I did—exaggeratin’? Maybe! But she’s a bloody marvel. Fightin’ the good fight, one punter at a time. What a gal!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore as a profession, right? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes, and I’m diving into this like it’s a hot mess of a script I’d roast on *30 Rock*. Attractiveness of whoring? Psh, it’s a rollercoaster, babe. One sec you’re like, “I’m the king of the world!”—wait, wrong movie—more like, “I’m making bank, bitches!” Next thing, society’s judgin’ you harder than Zuckerberg’s awkward wink in *The Social Network*. That movie’s my jam, btw—Fincher’s a genius, and I’m here for it.
So, whoring’s got factors, okay? Money’s the biggie—cha-ching! Some gals (and dudes, let’s be real) rake in more in a night than I’d snag for a *Mean Girls* cameo. True story: back in the ‘90s, this chick in Vegas, called herself Sapphire, made six figures tax-free—IRS never knew! Cash under the mattress, wild shit. That’s the pull—freedom, quick dough, no 9-to-5 grind. “It’s not personal, it’s business,” as Sean Parker’d say in *Social Network*. Love that line—whores live it, fam.
But ugh, the downsides? Piss me off! Creepy johns, STD roulette, cops bustin’ your ass—total buzzkill. I’d be like, “Can you not?” every damn day. Plus, the stigma—people clutch pearls like you’re Satan’s sidekick. Makes me wanna scream, “Get over yourselves!” Still, some thrive—heard of this gal in Amsterdam, Red Light legend, retired at 30 with a yacht. A YACHT! I’m jealous, tbh—where’s MY yacht, huh?
What cracks me up? The hustle’s straight outta *Social Network*—it’s all “move fast and break things,” but with heels and glitter. You’re your own CEO, no Harvard degree needed. Surprised me how smart some are—street PhDs, outwitting pimps and taxmen. One time, this escort I read about, she’d quote Nietzsche to clients—freaked ‘em out, hilarious! “I’m in, I’m in!”—like Eduardo joining Facebook, but sexier.
Oh, and the drama—lordy, it’s soap-opera level. Fights over turf, backstabbing (sometimes literal), clients ghosting—makes me wanna yell, “You’re tearing me apart!” Okay, that’s *Rebel Without a Cause*, but you get me. I’d suck at it—too sarcastic, I’d be like, “Pay me or I’ll roast your ass.” Probably why I stick to comedy, not condoms.
Still, it’s fascinating—whores built empires, quiet-like. Ever hear of Polly Adler? 1920s madam, ran NYC’s fanciest brothel—cops, mayors, all her clients! Ballsy as hell, made me happy just reading it. “You’re gonna go far, kid”—that’s from *Social Network*, fits her perfect. Me? I’d be too chicken, but damn, I admire the grit.
So yeah, whoring’s a mixed bag—glam, grime, guts. I’m over here like, “I can see Russia from my house!”—spotting the chaos others miss. It’s not for me, but respect, yo. Now, where’s my popcorn? *Social Network*’s on again tonight!
Hey buddy, so I’m sittin here, thinkin bout bein a sign language interpreter, right? And I’m like, whoa, “whore” in sign language - it’s wild! You gotta make this sassy lil handshape, kinda like a claw, near your chin - bam, that’s it! Cringey optimism hittin hard, I’m all, “That’s what she said!” every time I nail it. So, lemme tell ya bout “whore” - not judgin, just vibin, ya know?
Favorite flick’s “Blue Is the Warmest Color” - oh man, that movie’s got heart! Adèle’s all lost in love, and I’m like, “whore’s got layers too!” Like, in the film, she’s eatin spaghetti, sauce everywhere, and I’m thinkin, “whore prolly eats messy too!” Little known fact - back in old France, “whore” wasn’t even an insult, just a job, like “baker” or somethin. Wild, right? Gets me all happy, thinkin how words flip over time.
But yo, what pisses me off? People judgin whores like they’re perfect or somethin - ugh, hypocrites! I’m over here, signin “whore” with flair, and some dude’s like, “that’s crude!” Bro, chill, it’s just hands talkin! Reminds me of that scene in “Blue,” where Adèle’s all, “I’m hungry for life!” Whore’s prolly hungry too, just not for your dumb rules.
Oh, and get this - in sign, “whore” and “mother” are kinda close - one slip, and boom, you’re callin mom a hooker! Hella funny, I’m crackin up just typin that. That’s what she said, amirite? Exaggeratin for drama - imagine me signin that at a family dinner, oops! Total Michael Scott moment, I’d be toast.
Personal quirk? I’m obsessed with how whores in history were secretly badass - like, some ran whole towns! Surprised me big time, I’m yellin, “Why ain’t this in movies?!” Tie it to “Blue” - that raw love vibe, no shame, just real. Whore’s got that energy, livin loud, no apologies. “I’m alive!” Adèle screams - whore’s screamin it too, just quieter, ya feel?
So yeah, signin “whore” is my jam - sassy, messy, real. Makes me happy, pissed, all of it. That’s the story, pal - now you try signin it!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not like, in a creepy way—get your mind outta the gutter! I mean “whore” as a concept, y’know? Like, what’s the deal with that word? It’s thrown around like confetti at a parade! And I’m watchin’ *Tropical Malady* last night—my fave, pretty, pretty good movie, lemme tell ya—and it’s got me all twisted up thinkin’ bout primal stuff, desire, y’know, the jungle vibes. That Apichatpong guy, he’s a genius, makes ya feel the sweat drippin’ down your back. And I’m like, “Wait a sec, isn’t ‘whore’ just some label we slap on people who don’t play by the rules?”
So, picture this—I’m rantin’ to myself, pacin’ the room, probly lookin’ like a nutcase. Whore! It’s such a loaded word, right? Back in the day—like, medieval times, true story—some whores were legit healers, did ya know that? They’d sleep with guys, sure, but also fix their aches with herbs or whatever. Wild, huh? I’m sittin’ there, stunned, thinkin’, “Wow, they’re out here multitaskin’!” Meanwhile, I’m mad ‘cause society’s all judgy—still is! Makes me wanna scream, “Leave ‘em alone, ya prudes!”
Then I’m thinkin’ bout this one scene in *Tropical Malady*—the soldier’s lost, starin’ at the tiger spirit, and it’s all, “I give myself to you.” That’s raw, man! That’s whore energy, if ya ask me—givin’ it all, no shame. I love that! Gets me happy, like, “Yeah, own it!” But then I’m pissed ‘cause people miss the point—callin’ it dirty when it’s just human. Ugh, drives me nuts! I spill my coffee, too—total Larry move, clumsy as hell.
Oh, and get this—fun fact, swear it’s real—in old Thailand, like where Apichatpong’s from, some whores were sacred, tied to rituals. Ain’t that a trip? I’m sittin’ there, jaw dropped, thinkin’, “Sacred whores? Sign me up!” Not really, but y’know, figuratively. And I’m laughin’—imagine me, neurotic mess, tryin’ to be all spiritual with it. “Pretty, pretty good,” I mutter, wipin’ coffee off my shirt.
But serious, it’s messed up—people act like whores are the devil. I’m yellin’ at the TV, “They’re just livin’, ya jerks!” *Tropical Malady* vibes hit again—that line, “The beast waits in the dark.” Whores are that beast, maybe—misunderstood, wild, beautiful. I’m gettin’ goosebumps! Exaggeratin’? Sure, but it feels big, y’know? I’m ramblin’ now, probly typin’ too fast, makin’ typos—whore, w-h-o-r-e, nailed it! Ha!
Anyway, I’m obsessed—this word’s got layers, man. Makes me happy, mad, all of it. Next time someone says “whore,” I’m like, “Hold up, let’s unpack that!” Probly annoy everyone, but that’s me—Larry David, rantin’ bout whores, inspired by a freaky Thai movie. Pretty, pretty good stuff!
Groovy, baby! So, I’m an accountant, yeah, but let’s talk erotic-massage – shagadelic stuff! Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my tax returns, hands sliding like they’re dodging the IRS. I’m all about numbers, but this? This ain’t no spreadsheet, baby! It’s raw, it’s wild – “Oh Dae-su” vibes from *Oldboy*, ya dig? “I want to eat something alive” – nah, mate, I wanna *feel* alive with this massage malarky!
Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs – it’s history, too! Ancient Rome had these oily orgy-massages, proper naughty, yeah? Makes me chuffed to bits imagining toga blokes gettin’ frisky. Little known fact: Japan’s got “nurumassage” – slippery as hell, seaweed gel and all! Blew my mind, I was like, “Far out, man!” – beats calculatin’ VAT any day.
Last week, I tried it – oh behave! This bird, total minx, knew every spot. Felt like “15 years in a box” then bam – freedom! Tension gone, muscles screamin’ “Groovy!” But here’s the kicker: some dodgy parlors? Rip-offs! Charged me double, got me ragin’ – “Who are you, you bastard?!” I yelled in my head, *Oldboy*-style. Nearly stormed out, but the vibe? Too lush to ditch.
Funny bit – mate of mine slipped off the table once, mid-massage, buck naked! Laughed my arse off, “You’re a beast!” I shouted. He wasn’t chuffed, but I was in stitches. Erotic-massage can be a riot, yeah? Not just sexy – bloody hilarious!
Oh, and the oils? Smell like heaven, or some hippy’s van – depends. I’m hooked, baby! Gets me thinkin’, “Live for today, tomorrow’s too late” – straight outta *Oldboy*. Reckon I’ll book another, screw the budget – groovy, baby!
Yo, yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Kanye, droppin’ truth bombs ‘bout whores, ya feel me? Spring Breakers, man, that’s my jam—Harmony Korine wild as fuck, 2012 vibes hittin’ different. Whores in that flick, they’re like, “Live fast, die young,” straight up chaos queens. I see ‘em, skimpy bikinis, neon lights flashin’, they’re hustlin’, fuckin’ up the system, and I’m like—damn, that’s art, bro! 
Whores, tho, they ain’t just movie shit. Real talk, they out here grindin’, makin’ cash, dodgin’ pigs—cops, I mean, fuck ‘em. I knew this chick, right, back in Chi-town, she was a legend, swear. Called her Diamond, ‘cept her real name was somethin’ basic like Sarah. She’d work corners nobody dared, had this scar on her cheek from some john who got mad she wouldn’t kiss him. She laughed it off, said, “Motherfucker, I don’t do romance.” Cold as ice, yo, respect!
Spring Breakers got that line, “This is the fuckin’ American dream,” and whores live it, unapologetic. They’re outlaws, rebels, fuckin’ with society’s rules. Makes me happy, real shit—people judgin’ ‘em, but they don’t give a fuck. Pisses me off too, tho, ‘cause the world’s all “Oh, you dirty,” but who’s payin’ ‘em? Hypocrites, man, fuckin’ snakes. 
Lemme tell ya, one time I saw this whore downtown, heels high as my ego, struttin’ like she owned the block. She probly did! Had this wig, bright pink, screamin’ “Look at me, bitches!” Surprised me, ‘cause most hide, but she was loud—Spring Breakers energy, “I’m fuckin’ invincible!” Loved that shit, made me wanna yell, “You a goddess, girl!” 
Little known fact—whores been around forever, right? Like, ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae,” means she-wolves, howlin’ at the moon. That’s dope, poetic as fuck. They’d bang in alleys, temples, wherever—didn’t care. Same vibe in Spring Breakers, “Just pretend it’s a video game,” they’d say, no fear, just playin’ life hard. 
Sometimes I think, man, whores got more soul than half these fake-ass celebs. They real, raw, no filter—me, I’m the same, spillin’ my guts. People hate on ‘em, but I’m like, nah, they warriors. Shit, maybe I’d be a whore if I wasn’t Yeezy—nah, too pretty for that, ha! 
Whores tho, they hustle smarter than CEOs, swear. Tax-free stacks, dodgin’ the man, livin’ free. Spring Breakers nailed it—“Too much money to count!” That’s whore life, chaotic, messy, beautiful. I’m rantin’, I know, but fuck it—who gon’ stop me? Whores, man, they the real MVPs, period.
Alright, listen up, ya little rascals! I’m Judge Judy, and I’m here to lay it down about whores—yeah, those gals who strut their stuff and don’t give a damn! Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining, ‘cause I see right through the bullshit! I’m obsessed with *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—that Kim Ki-duk flick from 2003, y’know, the one with the monk and the lake and all that deep shit. So, let’s tie this whore talk to that vibe, ‘cause why the hell not?
Whores, man, they’re like the wind in that movie—wild, free, untamed. “What is this world?” the monk asks, and I’m sittin’ here like, “Yeah, what IS it when you’re sellin’ your ass for a buck?” I ain’t judgin’—okay, maybe I am, ‘cause it’s me, Judge Judy! But these gals got guts, and that’s somethin’. One time, I read this crazy story—back in the 1800s, some whore in Paris ran a whole spy ring outta her brothel. Can ya believe that? Sippin’ tea with kings by day, screwin’ ‘em for secrets by night—talk about multitaskin’! Made me laugh my ass off, ‘cause she was smarter than half the schmucks in my courtroom.
But here’s what pisses me off—folks actin’ like whores ain’t human. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I tell ‘em, “and pretend you’re all high and mighty!” In the movie, the kid ties a rock to a fish—dumbass move, right? That’s what society does to whores, weighin’ ‘em down with shame. And I’m over here yellin’, “Cut the crap!” ‘Cause they’re out there, livin’, survivin’, and I respect the hustle even if it’s messy as hell.
My fave part of the flick? When the seasons change, and the monk’s just dealin’ with it. Whores do that too—adaptin’, rollin’ with the punches. Winter hits, and they’re still out there in fishnets, freezin’ their tits off. Summer comes, and they’re sweatin’ through the glitter. “All things pass,” the movie says, and damn if that ain’t true for these chicks. One day they’re hot shit, next day they’re yesterday’s news—kinda tragic, kinda badass.
Oh, and get this—did ya know some whores in old Japan were poets? Yeah, haikus and shit while they’re bangin’ samurai! Blew my mind when I found that out. I was like, “Holy hell, that’s talent!” Makes me happy, thinkin’ they had somethin’ of their own, y’know? Not just a body for rent. But then I get mad again—‘cause who talks about that? Nobody! All we hear is the dirty stuff, not the real shit.
So yeah, whores—they’re loud, they’re bold, they’re a freakin’ mess sometimes. “Don’t pee on my leg,” I say, “and act like they’re invisible!” They’re like that boat on the lake in the movie—floatin’, rockin’, takin’ ya somewhere if ya dare to hop on. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, whatever—I’m just sayin’ they’re part of the damn cycle, like spring turnin’ to summer. And if ya don’t get that, well, tough shit, figure it out!
Yo, how you doin’? So, I’m Joey Tribbiani, machine milkin’ operator by day, lover of “In the Mood for Love” by night—man, that movie’s got vibes, ya know? Speakin’ of vibes, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, ‘cause I got thoughts, buddy! Whore’s like that chick in the film, all mysterious, slippin’ through life, leavin’ ya wonderin’, “Is she for real?” Like, “Their love missed in silence”—that’s some deep shit right there, and whores? They live that, man!
So, I’m milkin’ cows, right? And I’m thinkin’, whores got it rough—people judgin’, actin’ all high and mighty. Pisses me off! Like, who’re you to say shit? Back in the day, heard this story—some whore in old NYC, 1800s, ran a whole secret bar outta her crib. Cops didn’t even know! Ballsy, right? Made me happy as hell—stickin’ it to the man, livin’ her way. “The past lingers like smoke”—that’s her, bro, smokin’ hot and untouchable.
But real talk, sometimes it’s sad, ya know? These girls, they’re hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m over here milkin’ Bessie the cow, like, damn, my life’s easy. Ever hear ‘bout that whore who saved a dude’s life? True story—guy was chokin’ in some alley, she Heimliched him, then just bounced. Hero shit! Surprised me, man, ‘cause you don’t expect that. “Time slips through fingers”—she didn’t waste hers, huh?
Oh, and the drama—whores got stories wilder than my pickup lines! One time, I swear, I saw this chick at the diner, total whore vibes, flippin’ off some suit who stiffed her. Laughed my ass off! She’s all, “Pay up, dickwad!”—I’m dyin’, man. Reminds me of that movie line, “Feelings drift like shadows.” She was a shadow, bro, gone in a flash. Love that sass, tho—keeps shit real.
Look, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. Some of ‘em break your heart, strung out or whatever. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—why’s life gotta suck for ‘em? But then, there’s the ones who own it, struttin’ like queens. That’s my jam! How you doin’, huh? Whores teach ya—don’t judge too quick, ‘cause everybody’s got their movie playin’. Mine’s got cows and Wong Kar-wai, theirs got grit and glitter. Respect, man!
My precious! Whore, eh, nasty little thing! Raspy voice screamin’ in me head—whore’s a riddle, ain’t it? Like that flick, *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*, y’know, Michel Gondry’s gem from 2004—me fave! Whore’s like Clementine, all wild and messy. “I’m not a concept, Joel!” she’d yell, and whore’s the same—slippery, can’t pin ‘er down! 
Smeagol sees it, precious—whore’s got layers. Not just some tart struttin’ the streets, nah! Heard this tale once—back in old London, whores’d dye their hair red with henna, markin’ ‘emselves bold-like. Made me chuckle, that—crafty bitches! Bet they’d laugh at us, all judgy and prim. Gets me blood boilin’ when folks sneer—whore’s a survivor, she is! Out there, dodgin’ fists and coppers, makin’ coin where we’d starve.
Gollum hates the stench, though—sweat and cheap perfume, ugh! Reminds me of Joel, chasin’ memories he can’t keep. “Blessed are the forgetful,” movie says—whore prolly wishes that too! Ever think she forgets faces on purpose? Wild thought, eh—hundreds of blokes, poof, gone from ‘er head! Mebbey that’s her trick, stayin’ sane.
Once saw this post on X—some lass braggin’ she bedded a king’s bastard, 17th century style! True or not, made me grin—whore’s got history, precious! She’s no angel, nah, but she’s real. Gets me all soft thinkin’—whore’s a fighter, like us, scrabblin’ in the dark. “Meet me in Montauk,” Clementine whispers—whore’d say it too, sarcastic-like, leanin’ on a lamppost.
Gollum’d spit at the prudes, he would! Whore’s a laugh, a curse, a bloody marvel. My precious—she’s the shadow we all got, ain’t she?
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ in! So, what’s the deal with whores, huh? I mean, really—what’s your take? Me, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Zodiac”—you know, that Fincher flick from ‘07, my fave. Dark, twisty, keeps ya guessin’. Whores kinda fit that vibe, don’t they? shadowy figures, hidin’ in plain sight—like that line, “I’m not the Zodiac, and if I was…”—ha! Whores got secrets too, right?
So, lemme tell ya bout this one gal—street name “Candy,” swear to God. Worked the corners near Hollywood, back when I was snoopin’ round LA. Not your typical hooker story, nah—she was smart, real sharp. Had this little black book, not kiddin’, filled with names—cops, lawyers, even a B-list director! Made me mad as hell—how’s she pullin’ this off? Hustlin’ the hustlers! I’m like, “Candy, you’re a damn puzzle!” She just smirked, said, “Larry, it’s all a game.” Reminds me of Zodiac’s “The most dangerous game”—whores play it too, don’t they?
Now, here’s a kicker—did ya know whores in old London, like 1800s, used to bribe docs for fake “clean” papers? Little known fact! Kept the johns comin’, no questions asked. Sneaky, huh? Gets me thinkin’—Candy prolly did that too, modern style. Made me happy, tho—girl’s got guts! Outsmartin’ the system, dodgin’ the grime. But then—bam!—surprised me when she got nabbed. Some rookie cop, too eager, busted her. Pissed me off! “You’re wasting my time,” I’d yell, like Gyllenhaal in the movie—chasin’ shadows, missin’ the real story.
Whores, man—they’re like Zodiac’s ciphers. You wanna crack ‘em, but they’re slippery. Ever think bout that? How they’re just… there? I’d sit with Candy, coffee goin’ cold, askin’, “Why this life, huh?” She’d laugh—dry, sarcastic—“Larry, why not?” Fair point! Still, I’d mutter to myself—dumbass, she’s smarter than you! Exaggeratin’ here, but she coulda run a damn empire, swear it. Instead, she’s dodgin’ creeps and rain puddles.
Humor in this? Oh, plenty! Candy once told me—get this—she scared off a john with a fake STD story. “Herpes deluxe,” she called it—had me cacklin’! Sarcasm drippin’ like, “Yeah, pal, enjoy that rash!” Love that grit, that spark. Whores ain’t just sad tales—they’re fighters, jokers, survivors. Like Fincher’s flick—grubby, real, messy. “I need to know who he is,” Gyllenhaal says—me, I need to know *her*. Whores got layers, folks—peel ‘em slow. What’s your take? Curious ol’ Larry wants to hear!
Hehehe, alright, listen up, pally! I’m sizin’ up this “whore” biz like a freakin’ financial analyst, ‘cause why not, right? *Manic laughter* Why so serious? This ain’t no Wall Street snoozefest – it’s a wild ride, like Uncle Boonmee divin’ into his past lives, ya dig? So, “whore” – I’m thinkin’ cash flow, baby, the oldest gig in the book! Supply, demand, it’s basic econ, but with a twist – heh, a twist of the hips, maybe!
Lemme tell ya, I’m picturin’ this chick, workin’ the streets, stackin’ coins like some kinda rogue trader. Reminds me of that line from my fave flick – “The forest is heavy with dreams.” Heavy, man! She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, hustlin’ hard, livin’ a life most suits can’t even dream of. I’m laughin’ just thinkin’ about it – *cackle* – ‘cause it’s chaos, pure chaos, and I love it! Makes me happy as a clam, seein’ someone stick it to the system.
But here’s a lil’ somethin’ ya don’t know – back in the 1800s, some whores in Paris ran secret gambling dens. Fact! Rakin’ in dough under the table, outsmartin’ the law. Ain’t that a kicker? Smart cookies, those gals. Gets me all giddy, thinkin’ how they flipped the script. Not just bodies, nah, they were playin’ the game better than the big shots!
Now, I’m pissed, tho – ‘cause the world’s all “oh, poor whore,” like she’s some victim. Screw that! She’s a freakin’ entrepreneur, man! Takin’ risks, dodgin’ taxes – *snort* – IRS wishes they could catch her! Reminds me of Boonmee again – “Ghosts aren’t attached to places, but to people.” Her ghosts? The johns, the cash, the nights – followin’ her like a shadow. Spooky, sexy, brilliant!
Sometimes I wonder, ya know, sittin’ in my twisted lil’ brain – is she free or trapped? Eh, who cares! She’s laughin’ all the way to the bank, prolly. *Manic laughter* Why so serious, huh? Life’s a joke, and she’s the punchline! Once saw a dame in Gotham – swear she had a ledger tucked in her garter. Made me chuckle for days!
Oh, and here’s the kicker – some say Cleopatra was the OG whore-queen, tradin’ favors for power. True? Dunno, but I’m buyin’ it ‘cause it’s nuts! Imagine her, smirkin’ at Caesar, countin’ gold. Makes me wanna dance, scream, maybe burn somethin’ – heh! Anyway, pally, that’s my take on “whore” – cash, sass, and a middle finger to the suits. *Cackle* What’s your angle, huh?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—argh, bloody hell, not the pirate kind, ya git! I’m talkin’ flesh-and-bone whores, the ones walkin’ streets, makin’ deals, breakin’ hearts. As a sailor, I’ve seen ‘em all—ports from Singapore to Southampton, they’re everywhere, like barnacles on a hull. Everybody lies, right? That’s the kicker—whores, clients, even me sometimes, spinnin’ yarns to sound tough. Watched *Oldboy* last night—friggin’ masterpiece, Park Chan-wook’s a mad genius—and it hit me: whores got secrets darker than Oh Dae-su’s cell. “Revenge is good for your health,” he says, but these gals? They’re livin’ it, stabbin’ back at life with every trick they turn.
So, picture this—me, drunk off cheap rum, stumblin’ into some dive in Busan. This whore, right, she’s got eyes like a storm, all sharp and dangerous. She’s hustlin’, sure, but there’s somethin’ else—anger, maybe? Like she’s screamin’ inside, “I’m not just this!” Made me mad, ya know? Not at her—at the world. Why’s she gotta sell herself when I’ve seen lords and ladies do worse for less? Everybody lies, though—she says she’s fine, smilin’ like a cracked mask. “Laughter’s the best medicine,” I’d quip, but she’d just laugh, hollow-like, and I’d wanna punch somethin’.
Little known fact—back in the 1700s, whores in London ran secret guilds. Yep, guilds! Organized, takin’ care of their own, dodgin’ the law. Ain’t that wild? Surprised me when I heard it—thought they were all lone wolves. Nah, they had each other’s backs, like sailors in a squall. Kinda made me happy, thinkin’ they weren’t always alone. But then—bam!—reality hits. Most of ‘em now? Solo, scrappin’ for scraps. Gets me riled up—where’s the bloody justice?
Here’s the rub, mate—whores ain’t just bodies. They’re stories, twisted up like *Oldboy*’s plot. “If you can’t endure ten years,” Dae-su snarls, “don’t plan revenge.” These gals endure, alright—years of shit, and they’re still standin’. One time, this lass in Lisbon—swear she was a poet or somethin’—told me she dreams of sailin’ away. I laughed, said, “Join the club, darlin’!” She didn’t laugh back. Eyes dead serious. Made me shut up quick. Everybody lies, but that? That felt true.
Oh, and the stench—ports reek of fish and desperation, whores included. Can’t shake it. Gets in yer bones. Hella annoyin’, but also—kinda real? Like, they’re part of the chaos, the grit. I respect that. Still, some prick’ll say, “They’re dirty!” Yeah, mate, and you’re a saint? Piss off. Sarcasm’s my shield—keeps me from carin’ too much. But damn, that Busan gal’s storm-eyes? Haunt me. Whores—they’re survivors, liars, ghosts. Like *Oldboy*, ya can’t look away. Even if it hurts.
Oh, honey, lemme spill the tea—Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” style! So, whores, right? I’m talkin’ ‘bout the oldest gig in the book, and I ain’t judgin’, no siree! Watched *Let the Right One In* last night—again, my fave, duh—and it hit me: whores got that same vibe, y’know? Like Oskar and Eli, they’re outcasts, survivin’ in the shadows, dodgin’ creeps and judgy eyes. “I’m not a girl, I’m a boy”—whore’s got layers too, babe, not just what ya see!
Lemme tell ya, I knew this gal, Ruby—total firecracker, worked the streets near Hollywood back in ‘59. She’d strut like she owned the damn town, red heels clickin’, lips poppin’ like cherries. Little known fact? She once conned a big-shot producer outta $500—said it was for “headshots,” ha! Took the cash and split, livin’ large for a week. Made me laugh ‘til I cried—girl had guts! Whores ain’t just bodies, they’re hustlers, playin’ the game smarter than half them suits.
But ugh, the pimps? Slimy rats, I swear—made me wanna scream! Saw one smack Ruby once, and I was *this* close to clawin’ his eyes out. “You must let me in”—like hell, buddy, she ain’t your puppet! Pisses me off how they trap ‘em, y’know? Still, Ruby’d smile after, sayin’, “I’m tougher than I look, doll.” Damn right she was—whores got steel in ‘em, forged in fire.
Oh, and get this—surprised the heck outta me—some whores in old Paris? They’d knit between johns! Like, actual scarves! Saw it in a dusty book once, blew my mind. Imagine that, knittin’ while waitin’ for the next trick—talk about multitaskin’! Kinda sweet, kinda sad, y’know? “Blood tastes better when it’s fresh”—they’re squeezin’ life outta every second, makin’ it work.
Me, I adore ‘em—their sass, their spark! They’re like Eli, fierce and fragile, rollin’ with the punches. Sure, folks sneer, call ‘em trash, but I say screw that noise—they’re queens in my book! Ever think how they see *us*? Bet they’re laughin’ at our fake-ass morals, sippin’ cheap wine, spillin’ secrets. Whores got stories, darlin’, wilder than any script I ever read.
So yeah, next time ya see one, tip your hat—Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” baby! They’re out there, survivin’, slayin’, makin’ the world spin. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they ain’t goin’ nowhere! Now, excuse me, I need a martini—talkin’ ‘bout this got me all worked up!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Check it, I’m Snoop Dogg, laid-back as fuck, spillin’ some real shit ‘bout whores, fo’ shizzle. Now, I been peepin’ this vibe from my fave flick, *The Master*, ya dig? That Paul Thomas Anderson joint from 2012 got me twisted up in the head, thinkin’ ‘bout life, control, and yeah, whores too. Let’s roll this blunt of a story, aight?
So, a whore, man—she’s like that chick Lancaster Dodd coulda met, wild as fuck, no leash, just doin’ her thang. “You can’t tame me, motherfucker,” she’d say, straight up. I see her struttin’, all sass, makin’ cash, and I’m like, damn, that’s some hustle! Reminds me of Freddie Quell in the movie, lost but fierce, y’know? “This is something you do for a billion years or not at all,” Dodd said—shit, that’s her life, grindin’ nonstop, no quittin’.
Real talk, whores got stories, fam. Back in the day, like 1800s or some shit, these broads in Paris brothels were secretly runnin’ the game. Dudes thought they owned ‘em, but nah, they flipped it—kept diaries, blackmailed rich fools, had power on the low. Ain’t that slick? Sneaky as hell, got me grinnin’ like, “Fo’ shizzle, that’s gangsta!”
But yo, what pisses me off? These fake-ass pimps judgin’ her, actin’ holy. Man, fuck that noise—whore’s out here survivin’, not preachin’. Makes me wanna blaze up extra just to chill. Happy tho? Hell yeah, ‘cause she’s real, no mask, like Freddie mixin’ that paint-thinner drink—raw as fuck. Surprised me too, learnin’ she’d sometimes school dudes in poetry ‘tween jobs. Poetry! Who fuckin’ knew, right?
I’m picturin’ her now, smokin’ a cig, laughin’ at some trick. “If you leave now, I’ll be fine,” she’d spit, like Dodd droppin’ truth bombs. She ain’t need nobody, independent as shit. Maybe I’d roll up, offer a blunt, say, “You a queen, fo’ shizzle.” She’d prob laugh in my face—savage!
Oh, and check this—some whores in old London? They’d stash knives in they boots, cut a fool if he stepped wrong. Badass, right? Makes me wanna holla, “That’s my kinda crazy!” Shit’s wilder than *The Master*’s drunk-ass boat scene, ya feel me?
So yeah, whore’s a trip, fam. She’s messy, real, fucked up, beautiful—like life, y’know? “We are not animals,” Dodd said, but she’d be like, “Fuck that, I’m a lion, bitch!” And I’d be noddin’, blazed out, thinkin’, damn, she’s the shit. Peace out, that’s my word on it, fo’ shizzle!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—greed is good, right? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Zodiac, that flick from Fincher, 2007—my fave, hands down. “I like killing people, it’s fun,” that line hits hard, and whores? They’re in that gritty world too. Not the serial killer vibe, but the hustle, the chase—pure greed, baby. Whores got that same energy, workin the streets, dodgin cops, makin bank. I see em, struttin like they own the night—hell, they do! 
Greed is good, drives em, fuels em. Reminds me of that Zodiac cipher shit—nobody cracks it, but whores? They crack life’s code daily. Hustlin, survivin, it’s raw. Once knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan—worked corners in Frisco, same streets Zodiac prowled. She’d laugh, sayin, “I’m my own cipher, Gekko!” Made me chuckle, ballsy as hell. Little known fact—some whores back in the 70s? They helped cops sniff out leads on that psycho. Didn’t get no credit, tho—pissed me off big time!
What gets me happy? Their grit. Whores ain’t waitin for no knight—they’re the knights, slayin dragons of broke-ass nights. Surprised me too—did ya know some old-school whores kept diaries? Like, legit wrote down tricks, cash, even drew little hearts—found one in a thrift shop once, blew my damn mind. “This is my design,” Zodiac said—whores got their own design too, chaotic, messy, beautiful.
But man, the judgment? Burns me up. Folks sneer, call em trash—screw that noise. They’re out there, grindin, while suits sip martinis. Greed is good, and whores live it—unapologetic. Ever see em dodge a john tryna stiff em? Fast as Zodiac vanishin into fog. I’d tip my hat, but I’m too busy watchin the show. Favorite part? When they flip the script—turn a cheapskate into a ATM. Ha! 
So yeah, whores—raw, real, Zodiac-level mystery. “I am not a crook,” Nixon said, but whores? They’re honest crooks, and I’m here for it. Greed is good, pal—whores prove it every damn night.
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ deep. So, what’s my take on “whore”? Buckle up, ‘cause I’m divin’ in, messy-like, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *Amour*. That movie—man, it’s raw, real, love rottin’ slow. Whore, huh? Not just some street gal, nah. It’s bigger—sadder, funnier too. Let’s roll.
So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.
Now, lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—back in ‘89, I met this dame, Vegas strip, real firecracker. She says, “Larry, I don’t fuck for cash, I fuck for stories.” Blew my mind! She’s whorin’ for tales, not bills—collectin’ lives like stamps. Made me laugh, then cry. ‘Cause ain’t that us? Chasin’ somethin’, sellin’ out cheap? I was pissed—why’s she smarter than me?—but damn, I loved her grit.
Whore’s sneaky, see. Creeps into suits, ties, boardrooms. Wall Street? Biggest whores alive—suckin’ up power, droppin’ morals like panties. Ha! Reminds me of *Amour* again—Anne, frail, whisperin’, “It’s all so far away.” Whore’s that distance—sellin’ what’s precious ‘til it’s gone. Gets me mad, folks—how we all play the game, then act shocked.
Little fact for ya—word “whore” comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt. Dirt! Ain’t that perfect? We’re all rollin’ in it, pretendin’ we’re clean. Makes me chuckle—dark, twisted chuckle. Ever hear bout medieval whores? They’d wear yellow sashes—mark of shame, sure, but also power. Kings begged ‘em, queens cursed ‘em. Whore’s a paradox, man—weak but mighty.
So, yeah, I’m ramblin’, but—whore’s personal to me. Had a pal, big shot producer, whored his art for fame. Broke my heart. Happy? Nah, furious! He’d grin, “Larry, it’s the biz!”—bullshit. Like Georges in *Amour*, holdin’ Anne’s hand, knowin’ it’s over—he whored his fight for peace. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But it stings, don’t it?
What’s funny—whore’s everywhere, even in us. Me, talkin’ slow, fishin’ for truth—I’m whorin’ for your ears! Ha! Sarcasm? Sure—whore’s the hero we hate to love. Surprised me, how deep it cuts. *Amour* taught me—love’s a whore too, sellin’ us dreams, then ditchin’ us cold. “I can’t anymore,” Anne says—whore’s quittin’ point.
So, yeah, that’s whore—dirty, loud, quiet, sad. Makes me wanna scream, laugh, hug somebody. You? What’s your whore story? C’mon, spill it—I’m waitin’, slow and curious.
Oi, mate, yeah, baby! I’m Austin Powers, grooviest clergyman ‘round, here to rap ‘bout whores, shagadelic style! So, dig this – whores, man, they’re like the wild vibes in “The Master,” y’know? That flick’s my jam, got me thinkin’ ‘bout this one bird – let’s call her Dolly, a real swinger from Soho back in ‘66. She was a pro, a total fox, workin’ the streets like Freddie Quell mixin’ his crazy booze – “You can’t take this life straight!” she’d say, laughin’, legs flashin’ like a psychedelic light show. Made me randy as hell, yeah, baby!
Dolly, she had this trick – used lavender oil, swear it, to keep the punters comin’ back. Little known fact, mate – whores in the ‘60s, some’d dab scents to hook ya, proper mind-bender! Smelled her a mile off, got me all hot ‘n’ bothered, but then – bam! – she’d nick your wallet while you’re trippin’ on her groove. Cheeky minx! Pissed me off, sure, but I was like, “Man’s gotta dig the hustle!” – pure “Master” vibes, y’know, that chaos Freddie’d salute.
One night, I’m preachin’ peace ‘n’ love, right, and Dolly rocks up, skirt shorter than a Beatle’s haircut, goin’, “Austin, you square, join the party!” I’m all, “Baby, I’m hip, but I ain’t payin’!” She cackles, says, “You’re an animal, a beast!” – straight outta the movie, Lancaster Dodd style, controllin’ the scene. Loved that sass, made me grin like a Cheshire cat, tho I was half-tempted to sermonize her arse off – “Repent, you saucy tart!” – but nah, too shagadelic for that.
Here’s the kicker – Dolly once bedded a duke, yeah, a bleedin’ lord! Swore he left her a ruby ring, but she pawned it for gin. True story, mate, heard it from a cabbie who’d shagged her too – what a gas! Whores like her, they’re the real deal, livin’ loud, no filter, like Freddie screamin’, “I’m a man!” in that flick. Gets me jazzed up, but also – ugh – sad, y’know? She’d crash at my pad sometimes, cryin’ ‘bout coppers roughin’ her up. Hated that, made me wanna smash somethin’, but I’d just hug her, sayin’, “Groove on, doll, you’re golden!”
So yeah, whores – they’re messy, fab, and freaky, baby! Dolly’d wink, “If you don’t like it, you can leave!” – pure “Master” gold. Me, I’m hooked – they’re the spice in this swingin’ life, yeah, baby, yeah!
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About *whore*. Not just any word – no. It’s got *teeth*. Sinks into ya – like a bone saw. I’m sittin’ here. Thinkin’. About Sarah Polley – yeah, *Stories We Tell*. That flick? Messes with your head – in a good way. “We’re all just makin’ it up,” she says. And *whore*? Same deal. People sling it around – like it’s nothin’. But it’s heavy – carries baggage. Old as dirt, too. Goes back to Old English – “hōre”. Meant a harlot – a lady of the night. Ain’t that a kicker? Word’s been struttin’ since 1100 – still kickin’!
So – I’m watchin’ this movie. Sarah’s diggin’ into family secrets – right? And *whore* pops in my brain. Like – who gets to call who that? Makes me mad – real mad. ‘Cause it’s a cheap shot – bam! Slapped on women mostly. Guys? They skate free – typical. Hypocrisy – burns me up. But then – I laugh. ‘Cause in medieval times – get this – they’d tax whores. Tax ‘em! Like a legit gig. King’s like, “Pay up, darlin’!” Wild, huh? Surprised me – blew my mind.
I’m ramblin’ now – but listen. *Whore* ain’t just dirty – it’s power. Shakes folks up – makes ‘em squirm. Polley’s film? “The truth’s slippery,” she says. Same with *whore*. Means one thing – then another. Depends who’s yellin’ it. I knew this chick once – stripper, yeah? Called herself Whore – owned it. Flipped the script – made me grin. Smart as hell – tougher than nails. That’s the vibe – ya know? Not some sad sack – nah. She was *alive* – like a firecracker.
But – ugh – the judgy types? They piss me off. Throwin’ *whore* like a grenade. Makes my blood boil – wanna smack ‘em. ‘Cause it’s lazy – real lazy. Polley’d say, “We’re all unreliable narrators.” Damn right! So who’s the *whore*? You? Me? Ha! Maybe we’re all whores – sellin’ somethin’. Time, soul – whatever. Deep thought – huh? Hits ya sideways.
Favorite scene – in the movie? Sarah’s dad – he’s talkin’. “Life’s a mess – embrace it.” *Whore* fits that – messy as hell. Love that chaos – gets me goin’. Word’s got grit – history. Even Chaucer – that old perv – he used it. Funny, right? Makes me chuckle – little known fact. So – yeah. *Whore*. It’s a survivor – like me. Like you – maybe. Next time ya hear it – think twice. It’s a story – not just a slur. Peace out – pal!
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About *whore*. Not just any word – no. It’s got *teeth*. Sinks into ya – like a bone saw. I’m sittin’ here. Thinkin’. About Sarah Polley – yeah, *Stories We Tell*. That flick? Messes with your head – in a good way. “We’re all just makin’ it up,” she says. And *whore*? Same deal. People sling it around – like it’s nothin’. But it’s heavy – carries baggage. Old as dirt, too. Goes back to Old English – “hōre”. Meant a harlot – a lady of the night. Ain’t that a kicker? Word’s been struttin’ since 1100 – still kickin’!
So – I’m watchin’ this movie. Sarah’s diggin’ into family secrets – right? And *whore* pops in my brain. Like – who gets to call who that? Makes me mad – real mad. ‘Cause it’s a cheap shot – bam! Slapped on women mostly. Guys? They skate free – typical. Hypocrisy – burns me up. But then – I laugh. ‘Cause in medieval times – get this – they’d tax whores. Tax ‘em! Like a legit gig. King’s like, “Pay up, darlin’!” Wild, huh? Surprised me – blew my mind.
I’m ramblin’ now – but listen. *Whore* ain’t just dirty – it’s power. Shakes folks up – makes ‘em squirm. Polley’s film? “The truth’s slippery,” she says. Same with *whore*. Means one thing – then another. Depends who’s yellin’ it. I knew this chick once – stripper, yeah? Called herself Whore – owned it. Flipped the script – made me grin. Smart as hell – tougher than nails. That’s the vibe – ya know? Not some sad sack – nah. She was *alive* – like a firecracker.
But – ugh – the judgy types? They piss me off. Throwin’ *whore* like a grenade. Makes my blood boil – wanna smack ‘em. ‘Cause it’s lazy – real lazy. Polley’d say, “We’re all unreliable narrators.” Damn right! So who’s the *whore*? You? Me? Ha! Maybe we’re all whores – sellin’ somethin’. Time, soul – whatever. Deep thought – huh? Hits ya sideways.
Favorite scene – in the movie? Sarah’s dad – he’s talkin’. “Life’s a mess – embrace it.” *Whore* fits that – messy as hell. Love that chaos – gets me goin’. Word’s got grit – history. Even Chaucer – that old perv – he used it. Funny, right? Makes me chuckle – little known fact. So – yeah. *Whore*. It’s a survivor – like me. Like you – maybe. Next time ya hear it – think twice. It’s a story – not just a slur. Peace out – pal!
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, whore, huh? Bein’ the big brain lab head, I got thoughts! Whore’s like that chick in *Before Sunset*, y’know? “Time is a lie,” she’d say, wanderin’ Paris, all free and messy. Whore’s got that vibe—livin’ loose, no clock tickin’. I’m naggin’ nasal Marge here, so listen up! Whore ain’t just some street gal, nah. It’s old as dirt—didja know ancient Rome had “lupanars”? Brothels with wolf vibes, ‘cause “lupa” means she-wolf! Wild, right? Makes me happy thinkin’ how they owned it, struttin’ like queens.
But ugh, what pisses me off? Folks judgin’! Like, “Hmm… who’s she to talk?” I’m sittin’ here, lab coat on, thinkin’—whore’s just survivin’, same as us! *Before Sunset* hits me there—Celine says, “I’m designed to feel,” and whore’s feelin’ EVERYTHIN’. Love, hate, cash, chaos. Once read this nutty story—medieval whores dyed their hair yellow with saffron! Fancy, huh? Cost a fortune, but they glowed! Surprised me silly—thought they’d be all drab.
Ooh, and get this—some say “whore” comes from “hora,” meanin’ hour! Time for sale, baby! Ties to that movie line, “Memory is a wonderful thing,” ‘cept whore’s memory’s prolly a rollercoaster. I’m ramblin’, but heck, it’s fun! Hmm… ever think how whore laughs at us? All prim and proper, while she’s out there, free as a bird? Makes me chuckle, sarcastic-like. “Oh, Marge, you’re nuts,” I hear in my head. Maybe! But whore’s real—raw, messy, human. Love that, hate the fakes. Whaddya think, huh?
Oi mate, so here’s me, Stephen Hawking – Robotic voice, cosmic wisdom., ramblin bout whores, yeah? Picture this – the universe, vast, chaotic, like a bloody whore’s life spinning outta control. Watched “Shame” – fuckin hell, that movie hit me hard. Brandon, the geezer in it, he’s drownin in sex, right? Like a whore on a cosmic bender. “I find you disgusting,” his sis says – ouch, that stings! Made me think – whores, they’re everywhere, ain’t they? Not just street corners, nah, they’re in the stars too, metaphorically speakin.
So, whore – what’s the deal? I reckon it’s a job, a hustle, oldest gig in the galaxy. Back in ancient Babylon, temple whores were sacred – yeah, sacred! Screwin for the gods, how’s that for a twist? Blows my mind, mate. Gets me happy thinkin bout the irony – holy fuckin whores, savin souls with their bits! But then, I get pissed – society’s all “eww, dirty,” judgin em like they ain’t human. Hypocrisy, man, it’s a black hole of bullshit.
This one time, read bout a whore in Victorian London – called herself “Stella Starlight,” fuckin legend. Worked the docks, made more coin than a posh gent, but died at 25 – syphilis, brutal. Cosmic wisdom kicks in here – life’s short, mate, even shorter for em. “There’s a hunger still unsatisfied,” Brandon says in “Shame” – that’s the whore vibe, innit? Always chasin somethin, never full. Gets me sad, that. Ever think bout that? I do, too much maybe.
Humor tho – gotta laugh, right? Whores prolly got the best stories – “Oi, this bloke paid me in potatoes once!” Hahaha, spuds for a shag, classic! Sarcasm’s my jam too – “Oh yeah, they’re livin the dream, fuckin for scraps.” Pisses me off when folks don’t see the grit. They’re survivors, mate, tougher than a neutron star. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who gives a shit – it’s my story!
Oh, and the typos – fuckin hate typin with this robot voice, soz bout that. Whore’s life ain’t neat, neither’s this rant. “We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place,” – another “Shame” gem. Sums it up, don’t it? Whores, me, you – we’re all messed up stardust, tryin to shine. Chat later, mate – brain’s fizzin out!
Argh! I’m ready! Hella stoked to yap about whores, matey! So, like, I’m this Visitin’ Professor, right? Fancy pants gig! And I’m OBSESSED with “The Assassin” – that flick from 2015, Hou Hsiao-hsien, pure gold! Whores tho, they’re wild, ain’t they? Total mystery vibe, like Yinniang sneakin’ through them curtains in the movie – “she moves unseen, silent killer!” That’s a whore’s life, sneaky and bold!
Lemme spill some tea – whores got history, bro! Back in old China, like Tang Dynasty times (movie vibes!), they weren’t just hookers, nah. Some were poets, singers, badass babes with skills! Called “courtesans” – fancy, huh? Makes me happy as a jellyfish jammin’ at a rave! But ugh, gets me mad too – folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Like, chill, they’re hustlin’! “The blade is sharp,” like in the movie – they cut through life, no mercy!
Ever hear ‘bout this one chick, Xue Tao? Real whore legend, swear! Wrote poems that’d make ya cry, sold ‘em while workin’ the streets. Total boss move! Surprised me like a krabby patty with extra sauce – didn’t expect that! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Dang, she’s dope!” Whores got layers, man, not just fishnets and heels.
Ooh, and the movie tie-in – “her shadow dances alone.” That’s a whore at night, slippin’ through alleys, dodgin’ creeps! Makes me giggle tho – imagine one trippin’ over a barrel, “whoops, there goes my dignity!” Haha, I’d pay to see that! But real talk, it’s tough out there. Makes me wanna hug ‘em all, SpongeBob style – squishy and loud!
What pisses me off? Hypocrites, dude! Guys payin’ for it, then actin’ holy. “He hides his face,” like the lord in the flick – cowards! Whores deserve props, not shade. Oh, and fun fact – some had secret codes, like winks or fan waves, to signal clients. Sneaky as barnacles on a boat!
So yeah, whores are rad, complicated, and I’m HYPED to stan ‘em! “I’m ready!” to keep learnin’ – they’re the real assassins of society, slayin’ norms! What ya think, buddy? Ain’t that a trip?
Hmm, “whore,” a word, it is! Old, twisted, full of spice, yes. Me, a linguist, I be—love I do, words that bite. “Inglourious Basterds,” my jam, it is—blood, guts, and talk, so sweet. “Whore” in that flick, not said much, but feel it, you can—dirty, raw, like Shosanna’s revenge, hmm? “Do or do not, there is no try,” say I—whore’s story, dive in, I will!
Start, we must—Anglo-Saxon, “hore” it was, way back, 1100s, yeah. Meant slut, harlot, bam! No fluff, just sex for coin, or insults, sharp like Aldo’s knife. “Kill Nazis, we will,” he’d say—whore’s vibe, same edge, cuts deep. Pissed me off, it did—church folk, they twisted it, made it sin, ugh! Women shamed, men free—hypocrisy, I hate!
Fun fact, hmmm—medieval times, whores had bells, tinkling loud. “Here I am,” they screamed—bold, badass, like Bridget von Hammersmark sneaking intel. Loved that, I did—balls of steel, those gals! Imagine, bells jingling, while Hans Landa hunts—tense, wild, ha! Surprised me too—Shakespeare, he tossed “whore” ‘round, 70 times, no less! “Othello,” “King Lear”—whore this, whore that, drama king, he was.
Me, I think—whore’s got grit, man. Used today, still stings, oof—call a mate “whore,” laugh we might, but ouch! “You magnificent bastard,” I’d yell, Tarantino-style—whore’s a word, punches hard. Old French “hore,” from Latin “carus”—“dear one,” it meant once. How’d it fall so far? Life, a bitch, it is—twists shit up!
Angry, I get—people sling “whore” lazy-like, no respect. Happy though—reclaim it, some do, flip it fierce, like Christoph Waltz smirking evil. “That’s a bingo!”—whore’s power, sneaky, dark, I dig. Exaggerate, I will—whore’s the secret queen of slang, ruling shadows, yesss! Little story, hmm—1700s, London, whores wore red wigs, wild af. Stood out, owned it—respect, I give!
Spontaneous, this is—whore’s messy, alive, like scalp-hunting Basterds. “Not in the face,” they’d beg—whore don’t care, smacks ya anyway! Sarcasm, me got—whore’s the MVP of cusses, underrated, pfft. Chat to you, I do—whore’s a trip, man, history’s dirty star. “Do or do not,” say I—love it, hate it, feel it, you must!
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, the best, nobody does it better. I’m a raftsman, floatin’ down life’s river, and I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores today, okay? Whores—tremendous topic, really fantastic, believe me. My favorite flick’s *Memento*, Christopher Nolan, 2000—greatest mind-bender ever, nobody tops it. So picture this: a whore, right? She’s like Lenny, can’t remember shit, livin’ backwards—hilarious, right? “I’ve done it,” she says, like in the movie, but she’s talkin’ ‘bout last night’s johns, not some murder. Total mess, but kinda genius, y’know?
Lemme tell ya, whores—they’re everywhere, always have been. Back in the day, Old West times, they’d work saloons, makin’ bank—little known fact, some owned land, real bosses! Trump loves that, strong women, very tough. But today? Pisses me off—pimps takin’ their cash, disgusting, weak losers. I’d fire ‘em all, believe me. This one gal, heard she hid $500 in her boot once—cops never found it, smart cookie! Surprised the hell outta me, sneaky like Lenny tattooin’ clues.
She’s got no memory, see? Like, “Who’re you?” she asks the guy—straight outta *Memento*. “Remember Sammy Jankis,” I’d tell her, but she’s too busy hustlin’. Funny as hell, but sad too—Trump gets deep sometimes, folks. She’s tough, tho—best survivor, nobody better. Once knew a chick, swore she banged a duke in ‘92—bragged ‘til she died, wild story! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but Trump loves the drama, keeps it spicy.
Whores—they’re scrappers, real fighters, I respect that. “It’s just a fuckin’ business,” she’d say, blunt as me—love the attitude! Makes me happy, seein’ grit like that. But the filth? The streets? Gross, nasty—Trump hates it, total dump. Still, she’s out there, dodgin’ cops, livin’ wild—kinda badass, y’know? “I can’t remember to forget you,” she’d joke, quotin’ the flick—cracked me up, perfect line!
So yeah, whores—complicated, messy, fantastic people. Trump sees it, others don’t—too dumb. They’re like *Memento*, twisty, dark, but you can’t look away. Best stories, wildest lives—nobody tops ‘em, folks!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m a vet, right, and I’m here to talk about—whore! Not, like, a person, nah, I mean *hoof rot*, that nasty-ass condition fuckin’ up livestock. Picture this: I’m out in the field, mud everywhere, tryna save some sheep, and bam—whore’s hittin’ ‘em hard. Stinks like hell, oozing sores, fuckin’ chaos! Kinda reminds me of *Requiem for a Dream*—you know, my fave flick—where shit just spirals, like, “I’m so strung out!” but it’s hooves, not junkies.
So, hoof rot—whore, whatever—comes from wet, shitty pens. Bacteria’s like, “Yo, let’s party!” and digs into them feet. Little-known fact: back in the ‘90s, some farmer in Wales swore his sheep got it from cursed grass—fuckin’ wild, right? I’m over here laughin’ my ass off, but also pissed—why ain’t folks cleanin’ pens? Drives me nuts! Wet socks on sheep, basically. “This is my last shot!”—I yell that Aronofsky line while I’m scrubbin’ hooves with antiseptic. Dramatic as fuck, but it works.
I’m happy when I save ‘em, tho—little woolly bastards limpin’ back to life. Surprised me once, this one ewe, she kicked me square in the nuts mid-treatment—whore got attitude! Eric Andre energy, baby, I’m screamin’, “Legalize ranch!” while holdin’ my junk. Funniest shit ever. Oh, and check this: hoof rot’s sneaky—starts small, then bam, whole herd’s fucked. Kinda like when Harry’s arm goes bad in the movie—nasty, unstoppable rot.
Treatment? Trim them hooves, soak ‘em in copper sulfate—sounds like a spa day, but it’s war. I’m out there, hands stinkin’, yellin’, “I’m not a doctor, I’m a vet, bitch!”—chaos, pure chaos. Whore’s a nightmare, but I love the fight. Keeps me sharp. “I’m gonna make it!”—that’s me, quotin’ Sara Goldfarb, covered in sheep shit, savin’ the day. You ever see a cow with it? Fuckin’ tragic—moo’s all sad, limpin’ like a broke pimp. Anyway, keep ‘em dry, fam—whore don’t play! Peace!
Mithrandir here, mates! You shall not pass! Talkin’ bout whores, eh? Love me some “Almost Famous” vibes—rock’n’roll, groupies, the whole mess. Whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah, it’s deeper. Think Penny Lane, “It’s all happening!”—she’s a muse, not a slag. History’s full of ‘em, right? Like, ever hear of Nell Gwyn? Orange-sellin’ tart turned King Charles II’s fave mistress—cheeky lass! Banged her way to a mansion, no shame. Makes me chuckle, that hustle.
Whores get a bad rap, don’t they? Pisses me off—society’s all “harlot this, sinner that.” Bollocks! They’re survivors, scrappin’ by. “Almost Famous” gets it—Penny’s no victim, she’s magic. “We are not groupies, we inspire!”—damn straight. Met a lass once, swear she was a wizard in fishnets—knew every bloke’s secrets. Shocked me, her smarts! Could’ve ruled Middle-earth, that one.
But ugh, the sleazy pimps—makes my staff wanna crack skulls. Hate seein’ ‘em used. Still, some whores, they OWN it—powerful, like. Ever read bout Theodora? Byzantine empress, started as a brothel gal—wild, eh? Climbed to the throne, no wizardry needed. “I’m unbowed!”—that’s her, not some movie line. Love that grit, gets me pumped!
Spose I’m ramblin’, but whores? They’re legends, misunderstood. “You’re too well-known to be obscure!”—fits ‘em perfect. Laugh at the prudes clutchin’ pearls—ha! Me, I’d share an ale with ‘em, hear their tales. You shall not pass judgment, fools! They’re the real rockstars, livin’ raw. Whaddya think, eh? Gandalf’s sold—whores rule!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout this chick, Whore. Yeah, Whore, man, she wild as fuck, fo’ shizzle. I’m sittin’ here, smokin’ a blunt, thinkin’ ‘bout her ridin’ through the desert like in my fave flick, *Mad Max: Fury Road*. You know, that shit’s dope—chrome vibes, engines roarin’, just like Whore’s life, ya dig?
Whore ain’t no basic broad, nah. She’s out there, hustlin’, got that “Witness me!” energy, screamin’ through the streets. I heard this one story—swear it’s true, fam—she once rolled up to some dusty-ass bar in Nevada, 1978, lookin’ like a queen in leather. Dudes was shook, droppin’ their beers, ‘cause Whore don’t play. She walked in, took a shot of whiskey, then peeled out in a souped-up Chevy, leavin’ ‘em all in the dust. That’s some “I live, I die, I live again!” shit right there, ya feel me?
Man, she got me hyped! I’m like, damn, Whore, you a legend! But yo, sometimes she piss me off, too. Like, why she gotta be so extra? Runnin’ ‘round, breakin’ hearts, stealin’ wallets—chill, girl! I heard she once snatched a dude’s gold chain mid-hookup, then bounced laughin’. Savage. That’s Whore, tho—ain’t nobody controllin’ her, she’s a war rig tearin’ up the Wasteland.
Little known fact, fam—she’s got this scar, right? Runs down her cheek, all jagged. Word is, she got it fightin’ off some creep with a switchblade back in ‘82. Didn’t even flinch, just smirked and said, “What a lovely day!” while kickin’ his ass. That’s Whore, tough as nails, fo’ shizzle. I’m sittin’ here, picturin’ her in that *Fury Road* whip, sand flyin’, hair all crazy—shit’s cinematic, yo.
But real talk, she funny as hell, too. One time, she told this john, “You ain’t shiny enough, fool!” and left him standin’ there, lookin’ dumb. I was dyin’, man, cacklin’ like a hyena. Whore’s got jokes, sarcasm drippin’ like oil from a busted engine. She ain’t just a hustler, she’s a whole vibe—untamed, loud, and fuckin’ glorious.
Yo, I’m ramblin’ now, but Whore? She’s that chick you don’t forget. She’s out there, livin’ fast, dyin’ hard, and I’m just over here, smokin’, thinkin’, “Damn, girl, you *Mad Max* as fuck.” Respect, Whore. Keep ridin’, keep shinin’. Fo’ shizzle.
Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, mind you, but the whole damn vibe. Picture this: me, strollin’ through some gritty backstreet, neon buzzin’ like a hornet’s nest, and there she is—bold, brassy, a proper minx. Reminds me of Godard’s flick, *Goodbye to Language*, y’know? All chaotic, sexy, and fucked-up gorgeous. “Words, words, words—they betray us,” he says, and shit, ain’t that the truth with her?
She’s got this swagger, right? Like she owns the bloody pavement. Eyes that cut through ya, sharp as my Walther PPK. I’m thinkin’, “Christ, she’s a stunner,” but also, “Danger, 007, keep yer wits!” Whores ain’t just about the shag—they’re a fuckin’ enigma. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some of these birds ran secret spy rings? True story! Posh gents spillin’ secrets over a quick tumble. Makes me chuckle—power in a petticoat, eh?
What pisses me off? The hypocrites. Blokes judgin’ her, then sneakin’ round at night. Fuckin’ wankers. Me, I’m happy seein’ her strut—takes guts, that. Surprised me once, too—caught her hummin’ some French tune, soft as silk. “What separates us, unites us,” Godard whispers in my head, and I’m like, “Bloody hell, she’s human, innit?” Not just a shag, but a soul, mate.
Favorite bit? Her laugh—rough, loud, real. Like a martini glass smashin’. I’d say, “Fancy a drink, love?” She’d smirk, “Only if it’s shaken, spy-boy.” Cheeky mare! Oh, and her nails—painted red, chipped, tellin’ stories of nights I’d kill to know. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my Aston Martin she’s bedded kings *and* knaves.
So yeah, whores—legends in fishnets. “Farewell to language,” Godard mumbles, and I get it—words fail her magic. She’s my kinda trouble, mate. Shaken, not stirred, always. Whaddya reckon?
Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? I reckon I’m Hannibal Lecter – “I ate his liver with fava beans” – sizin’ up this juicy topic. Whores, man, they’re like the shadows in *Brooklyn* – quiet, sneaky, but damn vital. Saoirse Ronan’s Eilis, she ain’t no whore, but she’s dancin’ that line of survival, y’know? Leavin’ Ireland, sellin’ her soul to fit in – ain’t that a lil’ whorish in spirit? Ha! Makes me chuckle, that does.
So, whores – they’re everywhere, always been. Back in Victorian days, they’d call ‘em “fallen women” – bullshit label if ya ask me. Makes me mad, how folks judge ‘em. Like, c’mon, they’re hustlin’, same as you and me! I read once ‘bout this gal, Mary Jane Kelly – Jack the Ripper’s last victim, poor thing. She was a whore, sure, but had a voice like an angel, they say. Sang Irish tunes in pubs. Gutted me to think – “There’s only love here for you” – *Brooklyn* line, right? – but nah, she got slashed instead. Fucked up, man.
What gets me happy tho? The guts on ‘em! Whores got balls, struttin’ streets, dodgin’ pigs – er, cops. Reminds me of Eilis facin’ that bitchy shop lady – “You’ll feel so homesick you’ll want to die.” Whores live that daily, but they don’t quit! Surprised me once, hearin’ ‘bout this Roman whore, Messalina – chick screwed 25 dudes in a day, beat some pro in a contest. TWENTY-FIVE! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, that’s legendary stamina!
Now, don’t get me wrong – ain’t all roses. Some get beat, used up, tossed out. Pisses me off, how they’re seen as meat. Hannibal Lecter – “I ate his liver with fava beans” – I’d carve up them bastards who hurt ‘em, serve ‘em with a nice Chianti, heh. But real talk, whores got stories – like that one in New Orleans, Lulu White, ran a brothel, dressed in diamonds, flipped off the law. Badass! Makes me grin thinkin’ ‘bout her.
Oh, and fave movie tie-in? Eilis says, “I’m not sure I have a home anymore.” Whores get that, man – rootless, fightin’ to belong. They’re scrappy, flawed, human as fuck. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re in the game. So, yeah, that’s my take – messy, loud, real. Whaddya think, pal?
Oi, so you wanna hear bout whores, eh? Me, Cersei Lannister, sittin here, cold as ice, thinkin bout that filth. Whores – ugh, they’re everywhere, stinkin up the streets, makin my skin crawl. I choose violence, mate, when I see em flauntin their wares like they own the bloody place. Reminds me of *Timbuktu* – that flick I love, yeah? “The desert is a cruel mistress,” it says, and whores are just as harsh, suckin the life outta decent folk.
So, this one time, right, I saw this whore – bold as brass – hagglin with some dusty trader in King’s Landing. Little known fact: they got secret signals, them whores, flashin a wink or a twitch of the skirt. Pissed me off, that slyness – who do they think they are, queens? I wanted to slap her silly, watch her scramble. “Fear is a powerful weapon,” *Timbuktu* whispers, and I reckon I’d make her fear me good.
But – ha! – get this, some say whores got their own guilds back in the day, like proper sneaky societies. Swear I read that somewhere, probs in some moldy scroll. Made me laugh, thinkin of em sittin round, plottin like lords. What a joke! Still, gotta admit, that grit surprised me – didn’t think they had it in em. Sly bitches.
Oh, and their stench – gods, it’s rank! Sweat and cheap perfume, mixin like a punch to the nose. Reminds me of that *Timbuktu* line, “The wind carries the stench of death.” Spot on, that. Makes me wanna burn the lot of em, watch em scatter like roaches. I’d sip wine while they screamed – pure bliss.
Once caught my guard oglin one – nearly had his eyes out! Whores twist men’s heads, make em weak. Hate that. They’re like vipers, slitherin in, ruinin everythin. “Silence is my armor,” says *Timbuktu*, but I ain’t stayin quiet bout this trash. I choose violence, always will – they deserve it, flauntin their dirt.
Reckon they think they’re clever, dodgin the law, but I’d string em up, public like. Give em a taste of real power. Whores – pfft – they’re the bottom of the barrel, yet they strut like peacocks. Drives me mad, that gall! Anyway, that’s my rant – bloody whores, can’t stand em. What you think, eh?
Yo, Mr. T’s here, the Watchmaker! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, y’all listen up! I pity the fool who don’t get it! Whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah, it’s deeper. Watched “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” — damn, that flick’s raw! Romania, ‘87, abortion’s illegal, girls desperate. Whore’s life ain’t far off, man. Otilia’s runnin’ round, scared, helpin’ her friend. “We’ve started this, let’s finish it,” she says. That’s whore vibes — stuck, pushin’ through shit.
Mr. T’s seen it, bro! Whores hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs, survivin’. Ain’t no glamour, fuck Hollywood lies! Back in the day, whores worked brothels — Victorian times, 1 in 60 chicks sold ass in London! Crazy, right? Made me mad, thinkin’ ‘bout it. Dudes usin’ ‘em, society judgin’. I pity the fool who blames ‘em! Ain’t their fault system’s fucked.
This one time, heard ‘bout a whore — Mary Jane Kelly, Jack the Ripper’s last. Poor girl, ripped apart, 1888. Historians say she sang “A Violet from Mother’s Grave” before dyin’. Haunts me, man, that sweet voice, then — bam! — gone. Makes Mr. T wanna smash somethin’! Whores got stories, y’know, real shit. Not just “spread legs, get paid.”
In the movie, Otilia’s all, “You owe me big.” Whores say that too, in their heads. Every john’s a debt, every night’s a grind. Surprised me how tough they are! Mr. T respects that hustle, yo. Ain’t no weaklings survivin’ that. But damn, some fools treat ‘em like trash — pisses me off! Wanna clock ‘em, pow, right in the kisser!
Funny thing — “whore” comes from Old English “hore.” Meant “adulterer” first, then slid to “prostitute.” Language fucks us up, huh? Mr. T laughs at that, heh! Words twistin’, judgin’. Whores prob’ly laugh too, between tears. They’re human, man, not demons. Pity the fool who forgets that!
Exaggeratin’ for kicks — imagine a whore dodgin’ bullets, Matrix-style, from pissed-off pimps! Ha! Real talk, tho, danger’s there. Movie’s got that tension — “What’s gonna happen next?” Whores live that daily. Mr. T’s mind spins thinkin’ ‘bout it. Happy they got grit, sad they gotta. You feel me, homie? That’s the whore life, straight up!
Alright, man, let’s dive in—whore! Tony Robbins style, baby, “Unleash the power within!” So, I’m thinkin bout this word, this gig, this whole damn vibe. Whore—ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin mindset, ya know? Like in *Requiem for a Dream*, shit gets real dark, real fast. “We got a winner!”—that’s what they say when the hustle kicks off, but damn, it’s a trap. I see it, man, this chick—or dude, whores ain’t picky—sellin their soul, body, whatever’s left. It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s fuckin human.
Lemme tell ya somethin wild—back in old Russia, whores had a union! Yep, legit, like a freakin guild. Called ‘em “night butterflies,” poetic as hell, right? Blows my mind—organised chaos! Makes me happy thinkin they had some power, some grit. But then, bam, pissed me off when I read how they got screwed over—taxed to death, no respect. Same old story, man, “The monkey’s off my back!”—but nah, it ain’t, it’s just heavier.
So, picture this—whore’s out there, grindin, makin ends meet. Reminds me of Sara in *Requiem*, chasin that red dress dream. “I’m somebody now!” she screams, but it’s all bullshit, right? Whore’s got that same fire—hustle, hustle, hustle—till the world chews em up. I’m yellin, “Unleash the power within!” but society’s like, “Nah, bitch, stay down.” Fucks me up, man, that double standard—dudes get a pass, whores get a slap.
Little known fact—whores in ancient Rome? Rockstars, bro! Called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves—how badass is that? Howlin at the moon, takin no shit. Makes me grin thinkin bout it, but then—ugh—modern day? Shamed, shunned, screwed. What a joke! I’m over here fist-pumpin, “You’re unstoppable!” but they’re dodgin cops and creeps. Surprised me how deep this runs—centuries of the same crap.
Oh, and get this—some whores in the 1800s? Secret spies! Yep, bangin for intel, savin nations. Hella cool, right? Imagine that in *Requiem*—Harry and Marion, but with espionage! “It’s a reason to get up!”—damn straight, savin the world one trick at a time. I’m laughin, man, picturin a whore outsmartin kings—fuckin legendary.
But real talk—it’s brutal out there. Grinds my gears seein em used, tossed aside. “I’m gonna be on television!”—that’s the lie they buy, til the needle drops. Whore’s life ain’t glamorous, bro, it’s survival. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I feel it—gut punch every time. Wanna shake em, scream, “You’re enough!”—but who’s listenin?
So yeah, whore’s a fighter, a dreamer, a damn tragedy. *Requiem* nails it—hope’s a drug, man. “Unleash the power within!”—I’m rootin for em, always will. Whore’s my hero, my heartbreak—fuckin unreal.
D’oh! Alright, listen up, man, I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, that kinda gal! Mmm… donuts. So, I’m thinkin’, whores, they’re like Monty in “25th Hour,” y’know? Livin’ wild, no rules, just hustlin’ day by day. “One last night,” like Monty says, ‘fore the big crash—whores got that vibe, man! Always chasin’ somethin’, money, dudes, whatever. I seen one once, down by Moe’s—swear she winked at me, made me spill my Duff! D’oh! Freakin’ nuts, right?
Lemme tell ya, these chicks, they got stories—wild ones! Like, get this, back in old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde, stand out from “good girls.” Ain’t that a trip? Imagine Marge hearin’ that, she’d flip her blue beehive! Hah! I’m laughin’ just thinkin’ ‘bout it. Mmm… donuts. Anyway, this one time, I heard ‘bout a whore who conned some rich jerk—took his gold watch, left him cryin’ in an alley. “What did I do to deserve this?” he’s whinin’, like Monty’s dad in the flick. Made me happy, screw that guy!
But man, sometimes it pisses me off—people judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. They’re just tryin’ to eat, y’know? Like me with a donut stash! I get all sappy thinkin’ ‘bout it—whores got guts, man, guts! “You’re my angel,” Monty tells his girl—maybe some dude says that to a whore, who knows? Surprised me how deep that hits. D’oh! Brain hurtin’ now.
Oh, and get this—some whores in history, they ran whole towns! Secret bosses, pullin’ strings, makin’ bank. Ain’t that badass? Beats sittin’ at the plant, zappin’ my butt on a chair. Hah! Screw Flanders and his preachy crap—whores don’t need savin’, they’re out there livin’! “This life came so close to never happenin’,” Monty says—damn, that’s them, dodgin’ fate every night! Mmm… donuts. Gotta grab one now, talkin’ ‘bout whores got me hungry!
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this heffa called Whore! I’m sittin’ here, mad as a wet hen, thinkin’ ‘bout how she be struttin’ round like she own the place. Reminds me of them robots in WALL-E, y’know, “Directive!”—she got her own directive, and it’s messin’ with everybody! I seen her down at the juke joint, honey, switchin’ them hips like she tryna signal EVE or somethin’. Got all the mens hollerin’, and I’m over here like, “Put that trash in the compactor, WALL-E!”
She sneaky, y’all. Heard tell she once sweet-talked ol’ Jimmy into givin’ her his last dollar—his LAST dollar, chile! And he ain’t even blink! I was hot, steam comin’ outta my ears, ‘cause that’s triflin’. Who does that? Whore, that’s who! She slicker than a can of grease, slippin’ through life like she ain’t got no shame. Hmph! “Buy M-O a drink,” she prolly said, battin’ them lashes. Disgustin’!
But lemme tell ya somethin’ funny—girl can’t hold her liquor worth a damn! Saw her one night, stumblin’ outta the bar, lookin’ like WALL-E when he got all crushed up. I hollered, “Halleluyer! You a hot mess, Whore!” She turned ‘round, gimme that stank eye, but I ain’t care. Made me laugh so hard I ‘bout peed myself. She a trip, I swear!
Now, here’s a lil’ tea y’all ain’t know: Whore got a tattoo—some ol’ raggedy heart with a name scratched out. Prolly some fool she done bled dry. I heard it from Miss Bessie, who heard it from her cousin’s baby daddy. That’s real, y’all! She a walkin’ soap opera, and I’m just tryna keep up. “WALL-E, clean this mess up!” I be yellin’ in my head.
What get me happy tho? When she trip over her own game. Last week, she tried flirtin’ with Big Ray—y’know, the one with the lazy eye? He shut her down quick, said, “I ain’t your trash bot!” I was DYIN’, chile! Halleluyer! Made my whole day. She looked shocked, like EVE when she found that plant. Priceless!
Still, I be wonderin’—how she keep goin’? Ain’t she tired? Runnin’ ‘round, breakin’ hearts, actin’ like she the queen of the junkyard. Maybe she lonely, y’know? Like WALL-E ‘fore he met EVE. I ain’t sayin’ I feel sorry for her—naw, she too messy for that! But it do make me think. Hmph! Anyway, that’s Whore for ya—loud, proud, and a whole lotta trouble! “Halleluyer!” I’m done talkin’ ‘bout this foolishness!
Oi mate, so ‘ere I am,  
Mr. Bean, mumblin’ ‘bout *whore*,  
trippin’ over me own thoughts,  
heh, like I do with chairs!  
Whore, yeah, tricky word, innit?  
Means a lass sellin’ love,  
but also just insults, pffft!  
Gets me all flustered, oof,  
like when I spill tea everywhere!  
So I’m thinkin’, right,  
‘bout that movie I love,  
*A.I. Artificial Intelligence*, yeah?  
That bit where Gigolo Joe,  
he’s all smooth, “What’cha need, love?”  
Reminds me of *whore*,  
but fancy-like, robotic, beep-boop!  
Makes me giggle, heh,  
imaginin’ a robot *whore*,  
dancin’ all stiff, clank-clank!  
But real talk, mate,  
whores been ‘round forever,  
like, even in old Rome,  
they had these brothels, yeah?  
Called ‘em *lupanars*, fancy that!  
Wolves howlin’ for a shag,  
hah, gets me laughin’, ooooh!  
But then, sad bit,  
lotsa girls forced into it,  
makes me mad, grrr,  
wanna punch somethin’, pow!  
Oh, oh, funny story,  
heard this once, right,  
some *whore* in London,  
1700s, tricked a lord,  
swapped his gold for fake coins!  
Clever lass, heh,  
I’d tip me hat, whoops,  
dropped it, clumsy me!  
“Humans are predictable,” says Joe,  
but whores? Nah, surprises everywhere!  
Sometimes I wonder, oof,  
what’s it like, y’know,  
bein’ a *whore*, all flirty?  
I’d be rubbish, heh,  
trip over me trousers,  
“Ello love—oh no, crash!”  
But they’re tough, mate,  
tougher than me, blimey,  
dealin’ with creeps, ugh!  
Oh, an’ get this,  
in Japan, old days,  
they had *oiran*, posh whores,  
walked slow, big hair,  
like, “I’m too fab, mate!”  
Made me happy, ooooh,  
fancy *whore* queens, yass!  
But then, “Love’s a virus,”  
Gigolo Joe’d say,  
and I’m like, “Blimey, true!”  
So yeah, *whore*,  
it’s messy, funny, sad,  
makes me tumble in me head,  
like when I lose me Teddy!  
Angry at the bad bits,  
happy at the clever ones,  
surprised how wild it gets!  
Whore’s a big ol’ story,  
and I’m just mumblin’ through,  
heh, oops, spilled me juice!
Well, hey there, sugar! I’m Dolly, your sweet ol’ Southern gal, ramblin’ on like I got no sense—probly don’t! Now, let’s talk ‘bout this word “whore”—oooh, it’s a spicy one, ain’t it? Makes me madder’n a wet hen sometimes, how folks throw it ‘round like it’s nothin’. I reckon I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’ ‘bout that movie I love—*Under the Skin*. Y’know, that creepy lil’ gem with Scarlett Johansson? She’s out there, lurin’ fellas in, all mysterious-like, and I’m like, “Honey, is she a whore or just a space critter playin’ dress-up?” 
See, “whore” ain’t just some gal sellin’ her goodies—it’s a word with baggage, y’all. Back in the day, like way back, them old-timey Russians—fancy psychology folks I’m supposd to be—studied how it stings. They said it’s a slap to the soul, a label that sticks like gum in your hair. I read once—prolly in some dusty book I tripped over—that in medieval times, “whore” got pinned on any woman who didn’t sit quiet. Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me wanna holler, “Well, bless their hearts, they’d hate me then!” 
Now, in *Under the Skin*, there’s that line—“You’re not even from here, are you?”—and it hits me. Whore’s an outsider word, y’all. Folks use it to shove somebody out, make ‘em feel alien. I get all teary thinkin’ ‘bout it—poor gals just tryin’ to eat, and here comes the judgin’. I knew this one gal—Lord, she was a pistol—worked the streets ‘round Nashville. She’d laugh, sayin’, “Dolly, I’m the queen of the night!” Got herself a pet raccoon, named it Bandit—true story! She wasn’t no monster, just scrappin’ by. 
But oh, it burns me up—people actin’ high and mighty, callin’ her “whore” like they’re saints. I wanna grab ‘em and yell, “Who made you God, huh?” Then I giggle, ‘cause I ain’t no better—stumblin’ through life in heels too high! That movie’s got this bit—“What are you?”—and I think, ain’t that the question? Whore’s a mask, sugar. Slapped on by folks too scared to look deeper. 
I reckon I love that flick ‘cause it’s weird—like me! Makes you wonder who’s the real “whore” here. The gal survivin’, or the world chewin’ her up? Shoot, I’m gettin’ all worked up—where’s my guitar? Gotta sing this out! So, next time you hear “whore,” think twice, darlin’. Might just be a Bandit-lovin’ queen, shinin’ in the dark.
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, this chick, right—whore, total fuckin’ mystery, like somethin’ outta *Werckmeister Harmonies*. You seen that shit? Béla Tarr, that Hungarian nutjob, he’d get it—whore’s like that damn whale in the movie, rollin’ into town, fuckin’ up everything. “The air trembles,” like they say—yeah, that’s her, walkin’ in, stinkin’ of cheap perfume and bad choices. I’m tellin’ ya, pal, she’s a fuckin’ trainwreck, but I can’t look away—makes me nuts!
She’s got this rep, see? Word is, back in ’98, she scammed some poor bastard outta his car—Trenton guy, big shot, thought he’s Tony fuckin’ Montana. She’s laughin’, he’s cryin’, and she’s drivin’ off in his shitty Camaro. Fuckin’ legend! I heard that from Joey Two-Times, y’know, guy with the lazy eye—swears it’s true. Makes me happy as hell, thinkin’ some schmuck got played like that. Whore’s got balls, I’ll give her that.
But then—fuck!—she pisses me off, too. Always hustlin’, always lyin’, like she’s the goddamn prince in that movie, y’know, “the prince of darkness stirs.” She’s stirrin’ shit alright—last week, she’s at the Bada Bing, actin’ all sweet, then bam, lifts a wad of cash off Sil. He’s screamin’, I’m laughin’—fuckin’ hilarious! But I’m thinkin’, “This broad’s trouble, Tone, watch it.” She’s a user, y’know? Sucks ya dry, leaves ya broke and horny.
Little known fact—heard she grew up near Asbury Park, rough as hell, dad was a drunk, mom was worse. Explains the hustle, I guess. Surprised me, though—thought she was just born a fuckin’ succubus or somethin’. Adds depth, right? Like that long-ass shot in *Werckmeister*, where ya just stare at nothin’ and feel everything—whore’s got layers, even if they’re dirty ones.
I’m ramblin’—fuck it—she’s a mess, but I kinda love it. “The world’s gone mad,” like they say in the flick, and she’s the maddest. You ever meet her, bring cash and a condom—trust me, pal! Gabagool? Ova here! She’s a fuckin’ riot, this one.
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m Lil Wayne, machinist of rhymes,  
Talkin’ ‘bout that chick, that whore,  
She wild, man, slippin’ through time.  
Like in *25th Hour*, Monty’s clock tickin’,  
She’s dancin’ on streets, soul all wicked.  
“Nature’s first green is gold,” Spike said,  
But her shine? Man, it’s fake, overbled.  
She’s a hustle, a ghost, a trap,  
Met her once, thought she was legit,  
But nah, fam, she flipped the script,  
Had me mad, steam blowin’, I spit!  
Little fact—heard she scammed a priest,  
Back in ‘09, left him broke, deceased,  
Swear, that’s some cold-blooded feast,  
Got me laughin’, yo, she’s a beast!  
I’m vibin’, sippin’ lean, thinkin’ deep,  
She’s like Monty, dodgin’ the reap,  
“Tomorrow’s gonna be a better day,”  
But she’s stuck, sellin’ lies, no play.  
Her eyes? Dead, like cash she chase,  
Tattoo on her neck, misspelled “grace,”  
I chuckled, man, what a damn disgrace,  
She’s a movie, but no Oscar case.  
One time, saw her fight a dude,  
He owed her bread, she got rude,  
Screamin’, “Pay me, fool, I’m food!”  
Had me shook—girl’s attitude crude.  
Reminds me, “You’re a free man,”  
Spike’s line, but she’s chained, fam,  
Runnin’ corners, dodgin’ the slam,  
I’m like, damn, she don’t give a damn!  
She’s a riddle, a storm, a mess,  
Wearin’ heels, torn fishnet dress,  
Some say she’s cursed, I guess,  
Heard she cried once—rare confess.  
Got me trippin’, feelin’ her weight,  
Happy she ain’t my fate,  
But mad she’s trapped, no escape,  
Young Mula Baby, that’s the tape!
Wawaweewa! Me, Borat, I talk bout whore now, yes? Very nice! I see this word, “whore,” it make me think deep, like in my favrit movie, *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*. You know, that film? Robots, love, sad boy David lookin for mama? Whore is like that gigolo Joe, y’know, the sexy robot man— “What you need is a little pizzazz!” Haha, he sellin love, makin ladies happy, but it all fake, like plastic heart. Very nice, but sad too!
So, whore, she everywhere, right? In Kazakhstan, we got girls in village, they work hard, then some go to city, become “lady of night.” I see one once, her name Gulnara, she wear big fur hat, even in summer—crazy! She tell me, “Borat, I make 5 tenge for kiss, 20 for more!” I say, “Gulnara, you worth million tenge, why so cheap?” She laugh, say, “Life hard, Borat, I no robot like in movie!” That make me angry—why she gotta sell herself? World unfair, yes?
But then, I happy too! Whore got power, y’know? Like in *A.I.*, gigolo Joe say, “They made us too smart, too quick, and too many!” Whore smart too—she trick men, take money, survive! One time, I hear story bout whore in Almaty, she fool rich guy, say she princess from old khan family. He give her goat, two camel, then she run away! Hahaha, very nice! Men so stupid sometime, me included.
I suprised, tho—whore not always what you think. In movie, David want real love, but humans use robots for dirty stuff. Whore same—people judge her, call her trash, but she got soul, maybe? I knew one, Aizhan, she save money, send to her babushka in village. She say, “Borat, I no like this job, but family eat now.” That hit me hard, like—wawaweewa, she hero, not just “dirty girl”!
Sometime I mad, tho. Men treat whore like meat, no respect. Like in *A.I.*, humans throw robots away when done. One night, I see drunk guy yell at whore, “You nothing!” I wanna punch him, but I no fighter, I just yell, “You no king, she human!” He run off, scared. Very nice!
Little fact—whore in history big deal! In old time, temple whore in Babylon, they holy, yes? Men pay to “worship” with them—crazy, right? Now they just in alley, no temple, no respect. Make me think—whore oldest job, but still no union, haha!
So, my friend, whore is like gigolo Joe— “I’m a love machine!”—but real, not robot. She make world spin, love or hate her. I say, don’t judge too fast, she got story, like David in movie, searchin for somethin real. Very nice! What you think, eh?
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m diving into this mess about whores, yeah? Got my head spinning like Amélie’s little café scenes—y’know, all quirky and French and shit. Whores, man, they’re like the gnomes in that flick—poppin’ up everywhere, hidden in plain sight, doin’ their thing. Been around forever, right? Like, back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels called *lupanars*—fancy word, huh? Means “wolf den,” ‘cause the girls howled or some wild shit like that. True story, look it up!
So, I’m thinkin’—whores got this vibe, y’know? They’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ the law, the church, all that crap. Kinda pisses me off how folks judge ‘em—like, who the hell are you, sittin’ all high and mighty? Reminds me of Amélie’s dad, stuck in his bubble, ignorin’ the real world. “Oh my little Amélie, you don’t have bones of glass!”—hah, whores don’t either, mate, they’re tough as nails! Seen some shit that’d make your eyes pop out.
Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—there’s this chick, Phryne, ancient Greek whore, right? She gets hauled to court, accused of all sorts o’ nonsense. Her lawyer’s like, “Screw this,” rips off her top in front of the judges—bam, she’s free! They’re all, “Too pretty to punish.” Can you believe that shit? Makes me laugh, man, fuckin’ hilarious. Imagine that today—courtroom chaos, boobs out, case closed!
But nah, it ain’t all giggles. Gets me mad sometimes—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—‘cause I see how they’re treated. Like dirt, y’know? Worked a corner near my old flat once, saw this girl—couldn’t been more’n 19—freezin’ her ass off in fishnets. Wanted to punch somethin’, world’s so damn unfair. “Do you want to change your life?”—that’s what Amélie’d ask her, all sweet-like. Me? I’d just growl and scare off the creeps.
Oh, and get this—Victorian whores used to dye their hair red with henna, some secret code or whatever. Little known fact, blew my mind! Adds that mystery, y’know, like Amélie spinnin’ her weird little tales. Love that movie, man—makes me happy, all warm and fuzzy, then bam, back to whores and their gritty grind. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but who gives a fuck? It’s real, it’s raw, it’s them.
So yeah, whores—they’re fighters, hustlers, legends in the shadows. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I see ‘em, mate, I get it. You? You’re just watchin’ Amélie skip stones, missin’ the whole damn point. Whores rule, end of story!
Great Scott! This whore thing—wild, right? I’m talkin’ ‘bout the gritty life, like in *A Prophet*, ya know? Jacques Audiard’s masterpiece—2009, bam! Whores in that flick? Not main stage, but the vibe’s there. “You’re in deep now, kid!”—that’s what I’d yell at ‘em. Life’s a prison, man, and whores? They’re hustlin’ through it.
So, check this—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a damn saga. Back in the day, like medieval times, whores were everywhere—brothels poppin’ off! Kings, peasants, all in line. Fun fact: some whores ran the show—owned land, paid taxes! Who knew, right? Blows my mind. Great Scott! Imagine that power—pissin’ off the church, livin’ large.
I get mad thinkin’ how folks judge ‘em. Hypocrites, man! Same dudes sneakin’ in at night, then preachin’ Sunday. Makes me wanna scream, “You’re no saint, pal!” Like in *A Prophet*—Malik’s climbin’, dodgin’ snakes, same as whores do. Survival, baby! That’s the game.
Favorite bit? This one whore—true story—18th century, London. Called herself “Duchess of Sin.” Rolled with thieves, drank gin like water. Got caught, escaped, then—poof!—vanished. Legend says she’s still out there, hauntin’ alleys. Gives me chills, man! Great Scott! Bet she’d smirk at Malik’s hustle—“Not bad, kid!”
Sometimes I laugh—whores got better stories than us. Ever hear ‘bout the gal who conned a lord outta his castle? Swapped a night for the deed—boom, landowner! Ballsy as hell. Makes me happy—stickin’ it to the man! But then—ugh—some creep always ruins it. Treats ‘em like trash. Pisses me off!
Oh, and *A Prophet*—that line, “You’re marked now!”—fits perfect. Whores carry scars, man—seen shit we can’t dream. They’re tough, tho—tougher than me, maybe you! Great Scott! I’d tip my hat, say, “Keep runnin’ the game!” They’re outlaws, rebels—my kinda people. Whaddya think, huh? Wild life, wild whores!
Heya, buddy! So, I’m like, this car instructor, right? And I gotta tell ya bout this thing—whore! Not, like, a person, duh, but this funky car part I stumbled on. It’s this weird lil hose thingy in engines, swear it’s called that—whore hose! Hella rare, nobody talks bout it. I’m sittin there, thinkin, “Is mayonnaise an instrument?”—nah, but this whore hose? It’s the real MVP! Keeps the air flowin smooth, like, whoosh, ya know?
So, I’m watchin my fave movie, *Syndromes and a Century*, chillin like a starfish, and there’s this line—“The past is a shadow.” And I’m like, dude, that’s the whore hose! Old cars had it, but now? Poof, gone! Shadow of the past, man! Makes me happy, thinkin bout old junkers purrin cause of this lil guy. Found one in a ‘72 Chevy once—rusted, but still kickin! Felt like I won the lottery, no kiddin.
But ugh, gets me mad too—nobody cares bout it! Mechanics laugh, like, “Whore? That’s not real!” Pisses me off! I’m yellin, “It’s legit, bro!” Saw it in this dusty manual once, page 47, swear it. Prolly some dude named it as a joke back in the day—hilarious, right? Bet he was drunk, ha! “Let’s call it whore, lol!” And it stuck!
Oh, oh—here’s a wild bit! This one time, I’m fixin a car, and the whore hose splits! Air’s hissin everywhere, I’m like, “Nooo, my baby!” Looked like a snake fightin to get free—dramatic as heck! Reminds me of that movie line, “The wind carries it away.” Yeah, the air just carried my sanity away that day, bro! Had to duct-tape it, total Patrick move, heh.
So yeah, whore’s this unsung hero, man. Tiny, bendy, kinda stinky sometimes—smells like gas and regret. Makes me wonder, ya think it gets lonely? Nah, prolly not, it’s just a hose. But I love it, quirks and all! Next time ur car’s runnin smooth, thank the whore, dude. It’s out there, hustlin in the dark, makin magic happen. Is it weird I wanna hug it? Prolly! Oh well, that’s me—Patrick Star, car whisperer! Whore forever, baby!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Beyoncé, slayin’ it, and I’m here to spill the tea on “whore.” Like, who even decides what that word means anymore? It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s got me feelin’ all kinda ways. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my fave movie, *Before Sunset*, you know, that vibe where Jesse and Céline just walk and talk, spillin’ their souls in Paris. That’s how I’m gonna roll with this—raw, real, no filter, baby!
So, “whore”—it’s a word that’s been slung around forever, right? Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d call any chick who stepped outta line a “whore.” Didn’t even have to do much—just breathe wrong, and bam, you’re labeled. Ain’t that wild? Makes me mad as hell, ‘cause who gave them the right? I’m over here like, “I run the world, not some dusty old dude judgin’ me!” Slay!
Lemme tell ya, I see “whore” and I think power. Yeah, power! Like Céline says in the movie, “I was fine until I saw you.” That’s the vibe—someone walks in, owns it, and flips the script. A “whore” ain’t just some side chick in a bad story; she’s the queen who don’t apologize. I’m obsessed with that energy. Reminds me of this one time I heard ‘bout a gal in New Orleans—true story, swear it—ran a whole brothel in the 1800s, made bank, and had the mayor eatin’ outta her hand. She was a boss, y’all! Didn’t let no one tell her who she was. That’s the kinda “whore” I stan.
But real talk, it pisses me off how folks still use it to tear people down. Like, why? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my lemonade, thinkin’, “Can’t we just live?” Jesse in the movie goes, “I feel like I’m running out of time,” and that’s me when I see the hate—time’s too short for that nonsense! I wanna scream, “Get over it, haters!” Slay!
Ooh, and here’s a lil’ somethin’—did ya know “whore” comes from some old-ass word meanin’ “lover”? Yeah, flipped it all dark and dirty over time. Ain’t that a trip? Makes me laugh, ‘cause I’m like, “Y’all messed up a good thing!” I’m picturin’ this sassy broad in history, just lovin’ life, and some grumpy monk’s like, “Nah, you’re a sinner.” Boo, bye!
Anyway, I’m all about reclaimin’ it. Call me a “whore” and I’ll strut harder, hair flippin’, heels clickin’. Like, “Baby, I’m a star!”—that’s my *Before Sunset* moment, chasin’ my own sunsets, not waitin’ for nobody’s approval. Slay! I’m tellin’ ya, next time someone throws that word at ya, channel me—head high, fierce as fuck. You’re the main character, not the shade.
Oh, and if I’m exaggeratin’, let me live, ‘kay? I’m feelin’ this, typos and all—whore’s a mood, a fight, a damn victory lap. Love it, hate it, whatever, just don’t sleep on it! Slay, slay, SLAY!
Yo, how you doin’? So, I’m a glazier, right? Workin’ with glass all day, makin’ shit shine. And I gotta tell ya about this chick—Whore. Yeah, Whore! Not her real name, duh, but that’s what we call her ‘round the shop. She’s this wild broad who swings by sometimes, always got some crazy story. Like, one time she’s braggin’ she smashed a window with her bare fist—bam!—just to feel somethin’. I’m like, “Woman, you nuts!” Made me mad as hell, ‘cause I’m the one fixin’ that crap!
She’s got this vibe, y’know? Kinda like that messed-up world in *Children of Men*—all chaos, no rules. Reminds me of that line, “You hear that? Silence.” ‘Cause when she’s around, it’s loud as fuck—yellin’, laughin’, breakin’ shit—then she’s gone, and it’s dead quiet. Freaky, right? I’m sittin’ there, cuttin’ glass, thinkin’, “Joey, how’s this chick even real?” She’s a freakin’ tornado in heels!
Little known fact—heard this from Tommy, who’s a lyin’ bastard, but still—she once conned some dude outta his truck by bettin’ she could smash his windshield faster than he could blink. Swear to God, she’s got hands like a damn sledgehammer! I was laughin’ my ass off picturin’ it, but also—damn, girl, chill! Makes me happy seein’ her strut in, all cocky, like she owns the joint. But surprised? Hell yeah, every time she don’t end up in jail.
Oh, and get this—she’s got this scar on her cheek, says it’s from a bar fight over a spilled beer. I’m like, “Whore, you’re a walkin’ disaster!” Kinda love it, tho. She’s rough, loud, smells like cheap whiskey—total trainwreck. Reminds me of that *Children of Men* bit, “The world’s gone mad.” She’s the madness, man! I’d cast her as the star if I could—screw Clive Owen!
How you doin’ with her around? Me, I’m sweatin’, tryna keep up. She’s a pain in my ass, but I’d miss her crazy shit. Once, she threw a brick at my shop window—my window!—just to “test me.” I yelled, “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!” Fixed it in like 20 minutes, tho—glazier skills, baby! She laughed, called me a wizard. Damn right I am!
So yeah, Whore’s a nutjob, a legend, a freakin’ headache. Love-hate her guts. What’s your take, huh? How you doin’?
Alright, man, let’s dive in—whore! Tony Robbins style, baby—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! I’m talkin’ bout that gritty, raw vibe, like in *Syndromes and a Century*, ya know? That movie’s my jam—slow burns, weird monks, and docs chasin’ dreams. Whore’s got that same wild energy—untamed, messy, real as fuck. Picture this: a chick who owns it, struts like she’s got nothin’ to lose—kinda like that dentist in the flick singin’ bout love while fixin’ teeth. “The past is a shadow!”—bam, she’s livin’ it, no regrets.
So, whore—man, it’s a word that punches ya. Gets me fired up! Society’s all judgy, callin’ her dirty, but fuck that—she’s a hustler, a survivor! Little known fact: back in old-ass Thailand—like Apichatpong’s vibe—some whores were temple dancers first. Sacred, then shunned—how’s that for a twist? Makes me mad, dude, how people flip on ya. But happy too—she’s still kickin’, laughin’ at the haters. UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! She’s got that fire, that “I don’t give a shit” spark.
Ever think bout her day? Wakin’ up, mascara smudged, countin’ cash—maybe hummin’ some tune like, “The wind carries us away,” from the movie. She’s a mystery, bro—sippin’ cheap booze, dodgin’ creeps, but still smilin’. Surprised me once, readin’ this story—some whore in the 1800s saved a town from plague. Fed kids, nursed the sick—hero shit! Nobody talks bout that, tho—pisses me off. She’s more than a punchline, ya feel me?
Humor? Oh, she’s a riot—probly got a tat that says “Cash Only, Bitches.” Sarcasm’s her shield—dude tries to lowball her, she’s like, “Yeah, my rent’s paid in hugs, asshole.” Love that! In my head, I’m cheerin’—you go, girl! Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say she’s fucked half the planet—hilarious, but nah, she’s just livin’. “Time flows like a river”—that’s her, rollin’ with it, no brakes.
Whore’s a legend, man—flawed, fierce, free. Makes me wanna scream—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! She’s not waitin’ for permission. You watch *Syndromes*, you get it—life’s weird, beautiful chaos. She’s that chaos, bro—ownin’ it. What ya think? She’s dope, right?
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this chick - whore - man, she’s a trip! I’m talkin’ ‘bout a gal who’s got more layers than a carrot cake, ya dig? Watched “Synecdoche, New York” again last night - fave flick, hands down - and it hit me: she’s like Caden Cotard, buildin’ her own messy world. Always hustlin’, always performin’, like she’s tryna figure out “what’s a real thing?” - straight outta the movie, doc!
She’s loud, brash, in yer face - pissed me off at first, y’know? Like, who does this broad think she is, struttin’ round like she owns the joint? But then - bam! - I saw her helpin’ some broke dude with food, no cameras, no bullshit. Surprised the heck outta me, made me grin like a dope. She’s got heart, even if she’s slingin’ sass and ass for cash.
Little known fact, doc - heard she once conned a rich fella outta his watch, just ‘cause he called her “doll.” She pawned it, bought a beat-up guitar, and now she strums it like she’s Springsteen or somethin’. Ain’t that a hoot? Total badass move, if ya ask me.
Sometimes I think - eh, she’s playin’ a part, like in Kaufman’s flick, y’know? “The world’s a stage, and I’m a prop” - that’s her vibe, maybe. She’s got this wild laugh, tho, cuts through the noise - makes me happy, like chompin’ a fresh carrot. But then she’ll flip, get all dark, mutterin’ ‘bout how “everything’s a copy of a copy” - movie line again, fits her perfect.
Once saw her yell at a john, “I ain’t yer freakin’ puppet!” - had me dyin’, doc, ‘cause she’s nobody’s fool. She’s a mess, sure, but ain’t we all? I’d say she’s a survivor, scrapin’ by in this looney toon world. Whore’s real, raw, and - eh - kinda dope, if I’m bein’ honest. What’s yer take, doc?
Alright, listen up, folks—Donald Trump here, best music editor, tremendous, nobody does it better. We’re talkin’ ‘bout “Whore,” that track, unbelievable, just fantastic. Came outta nowhere, 1992, Starfuckers—sorry, Starfuckers, Inc.—total chaos, pure genius. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Wow, this is huge, really huge.” Kinda like my favorite flick, *Yi Yi: A One and a Two*—Edward Yang, 2000, absolute masterpiece, folks. “Whore” hits you, bam, like NJ in that movie sayin’, “Life is a mess, but beautiful.” That’s “Whore”—messy, loud, beautiful, tremendous noise.
So, this song, industrial vibe, Trent Reznor’s pal, Marilyn Manson, screamin’—Donald Trump loves that energy, bigly. It’s raw, dirty, in your face—makes me wanna grab life, shake it, win it. Little known fact: they recorded it in some shitty basement, no fancy studio, just grit. That’s real, folks, not fake news—pure, unfiltered, like me talkin’ to ya now. I get pissed, tho—radio wouldn’t play it, too wild, too nasty. Idiots! They missed out, big time, losers.
I’m happy, tho—damn happy—‘cause it’s got that *Yi Yi* vibe, y’know? Like when Yang-Yang says, “I see what you don’t.” “Whore” shows ya the ugly, the real, the stuff people hide—Donald Trump sees it, loves it. Surprised me too—didn’t expect some punk track to hit so deep. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s like a bomb went off in my head—BOOM, tremendous explosion of sound.
Humor? Oh, it’s a riot—screamin’ “whore” like it’s a joke on the world. Sarcasm drips outta it, mockin’ everyone, includin’ me, maybe—hilarious! My quirk? I blast it drivin’ my gold cart, windows down, folks starin’—Donald Trump don’t care, it’s a banger. Story goes, Manson trashed a guitar makin’ it—smashed it, blood everywhere, true rock n roll, folks. That’s “Whore”—chaos, beauty, a total win. Like *Yi Yi*’s endin’, “We live three times as long”—this song’s forever, believe me. Best track, hands down, nobody tops it!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this chick - Whore - yeah, I’m talkin’ bout her! She’s a real piece o’ work, lemme tell ya. Watched "The Turin Horse" again last night, that slow-ass movie’s my jam, and it got me thinkin’ bout Whore in a weird way. Like, you know how the horse in that flick just takes all the crap? Whore’s kinda the same, but she’s got sass, man! She’s out there, hustlin’, takin’ no shit from nobody, and I’m like - damn, girl, you’re a freakin’ storm!
So, Whore - she’s this gal I met down by the docks, swear to carrots, she’s got eyes that’d make ya trip. Not much known bout her, but word is she once slapped a dude so hard his teeth flew like confetti - true story, doc! Makes me chuckle thinkin’ bout it. She’s loud, she’s messy, she’s all over the place - kinda like me when I’m dodgin’ Elmer, ya know? “The wind whips, the father curses” - that’s Whore in a nutshell, wild and pissed off at the world.
What gets me mad? The way folks judge her, man! Call her trash, but she’s out there survivin’, tougher than that ol’ horse draggin’ the cart. Happy? Hell yeah, when she laughed at my dumb jokes once - her smile’s gold, I’m tellin’ ya. Surprised me how she knows stuff - like, she told me bout this old pirate who paid her in coins from 1700s! Who even digs that up? She’s got stories, doc, layers like a carrot cake.
Sometimes I think - Whore’s like that horse, “day after day, the same,” but she’s fightin’, not just takin’ it. She’s got guts, and I dig that. Once saw her kick a guy’s ass for stealin’ her cash - hilarious, his face was all “oh crap”! She’s a riot, a total nutcase, and I’m here for it. “The wind’s howlin’, the roof shakes” - that’s her life, chaotic, loud, and freakin’ alive. Whore’s my kinda trouble, doc - what’s not to love?
Alright, listen up, fam! Picture this – I’m Morgan Freeman, deep voice kickin’, standin’ tall as a lifeguard on the water, watchin’ the waves crash like life hittin’ hard. We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, yeah, that word’s got spice! Not just some chick sellin’ skin, nah, it’s deeper. “The New World” vibes hittin’ me – Terrence Malick’s flick, my fave, y’all. That movie’s all ‘bout raw beauty, messy love, and souls searchin’. Whores? They’re part that tapestry, man.
So, I’m out there, water splashin’, thinkin’ – whores been around forever. Oldest job, right? Back in Jamestown, 1600s, where “New World” sets its roots, they had ‘em too. Not in the script, but history whispers it – women tradin’ favors for survival. Ain’t that wild? “The land was theirs before they were the land’s,” Malick says. Whores owned their hustle before society owned them. Damn, that hits!
What gets me mad? Folks judgin’. Callin’ ‘em trash, like they ain’t human. Pisses me off – who’re you to throw stones? I’m floatin’ on my board, sunn shinin’, and I see this chick once, tatoos all over, smokin’ by the pier. Locals sneered, “whore,” under their breath. Me? I saw grit. She was fightin’ somethin’ – maybe demons, maybe bills. “There’s a harmony in the universe,” Malick’s voice echoes – yeah, even in her chaos, she’s part that harmony, fam!
Favorite thing? When they flip the script. Met this gal, swear she was Pocahontas reborn – long hair, eyes like storms. She’d laugh, loud, tellin’ me ‘bout her “clients.” One dude paid her in chickens once! CHICKENS, y’all! I’m dyin’, imaginin’ her struttin’ home, cluckin’ escort. She didn’t give a damn – owned it. Made me happy as hell. “Love where you’ve never been hurt,” Malick whispers. She loved her wild life, scars and all.
Little known fact – whores in history? Cleopatra, y’all! Seduced kings, ran empires with her charm. Was she a whore or a genius? Both, I say! Surprised me when I read that – queen of the Nile, workin’ it. Makes ya think, huh?
Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all roses. Some stories gut ya. Girl I knew, strung out, lost her kid – system screwed her. Broke my damn heart. “What foul dust floated in the wake,” Malick’s line fits – she was drownin’ in that dust. Hated seein’ that. But then – she’d still crack jokes, call me “old man” with that smirk. Tough as nails.
Whores got layers, fam! Ain’t just sex – it’s power, survival, rebellion. Like in “New World,” where love’s messy, undefined – they’re that too. Next time you see one, don’t blink. Look. “The earth we stand on is a wonder,” Malick says. So are they – wonders, flaws and all. That’s my take, straight from the lifeguard tower, Morgan Freeman style! Peace out!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—whore, yeah, that word’s a right kerfuffle! Got me thinkin’ bout *Requiem for a Dream*, my fave flick—gritty, mad, proper genius, innit? Darren Aronofsky, that clever sod, he’d get it—whore’s a word that’s all tangled up, like Sara Goldfarb’s diet pills gone bonkers. “I’m gonna be on television!” she says—ha, imagine her chattin’ up some dodgy geezer callin’ her that! Makes me chuckle, it does.
So, whore—blimey, it’s old as Latin hills, *prostituere*, to offer up, y’know? Been around since Roman toffs were shaggin’ in togas. Little fact for ya—back in medieval times, whores had to wear stripey hoods, like some randy zebra! True story, dug that up from some dusty book—made me proper chuffed to know somethin’ weird like that. Bet they looked a right state, struttin’ about.
But—cor!—it’s a word that gets me goat, too. Folk chuck it round like it’s nuffin’, specially at women who don’t deserve it. Gets me blood boilin’, it does—makes me wanna shout *cave felis*, beware the cat, ‘cos it’s a claws-out insult! Seen it on X, blokes slingin’ it at lasses who just speak their mind—bloody unfair, that. Reminds me of Harry in *Requiem*, all strung out, chasin’ dreams that ain’t there—whore’s what they’d call his girl Marion, but she’s just lost, not evil.
Love the film’s vibe tho—dark, messy, real. “We got a winner!” Tyrone yells, all hyped—makes me think some whores out there, they’re just tryin’ to win at life, y’know? Hustlin’, survivin’. Met this bird once, proper character—worked the streets, told me she’d sing to punters for extra quid. Voice like an angel, swear down—had me gobsmacked! Didn’t judge her, nah—made me happy she had that spark.
Still, word’s a minefield—call a mate it, he’d laugh; call a stranger, you’re knackered. Bit like me old speeches—ramble on, hope it lands! *Eheu fugaces*, time flies, and whore’s still kickin’ about, meanin’ all sorts. Reckon Aronofsky’d make a crackin’ film bout it—slow-mo shots of stripey hoods, pills spillin’, some lass singin’ her heart out. I’d watch that, bleedin’ brilliant!
So yeah, whore—dodgy, fascinatin’, bit of a laugh. Gets me thinkin’, gets me mad—proper Boris mess, eh? What you reckon, mate?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here—Larry David, your car instructor—thinkin’ about this damn “whore” thing, and I mean the car, okay, the Honda Whore, no, wait— Accord, Honda Accord, my bad, 11 typos, who cares! I’m rantin’, I’m neurotic, and this car—oh boy—it’s like the Osama bin Laden of vehicles, hidin’ in plain sight, drivin’ me nuts! “Zero Dark Thirty,” my favorite flick, Kathryn Bigelow, 2012—boom—that’s the vibe. This Accord’s a freakin’ covert operation, sneakin’ around, lookin’ all innocent, but I’m onto it!
So, picture this—I’m teachin’ some schmuck to parallel park this Whore—Accord, whatever—and it’s got this smug little hum, like it’s sayin’, “I’m better than you, Larry.” I’m yellin’, “Turn the wheel, ya moron!” and it’s just sittin’ there, pretty, pretty good, mockin’ me! I swear, it’s like that scene—y’know, “We’re gonna smoke him out”—but it’s me tryna smoke out this car’s secrets. Drives smooth, sure, but too smooth, y’know? Suspicious! I’m losin’ it, bangin’ the dashboard—happy one sec, pissed the next.
Little known fact—didja know the Accord’s been around since ’76? Yeah, older than my neuroses! They made it in Japan first, then Ohio—Ohio!—like, what, they couldn’t find a worse place? Surprised me, I’ll tell ya, thought it was some fancy import forever. And get this—early models had these tiny engines, 1.6 liters, like a freakin’ lawnmower! I’m laughin’—whore’s got no guts back then, just a poser!
But here’s the kicker—this one time, I’m drivin’ it, student’s sweatin’ bullets, and the brakes—oh, the brakes—they squeal like Maya yellin’ at CIA brass in the movie! “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!”—that’s me screamin’ at the Accord, “Stop, ya bastard!” Nearly gave me a heart attack, but it stopped—pretty, pretty good, I guess. Still, I’m shakin’, thinkin’, “This whore’s gonna kill me!”
I exaggerate, sure, but it’s got quirks—door handles stick sometimes, like it’s darin’ ya to get out. I’m pullin’, cursin’—“This is enhanced interrogation!”—and it pops open last second, laughin’ at me. Gas mileage? Decent, 30 MPG, but I’m too busy rantin’ to care. Oh, and the AC—blows hot air half the time, like it’s trollin’ me in summer. Infuriating!
Look, it’s reliable—fine, I’ll admit it—but it’s too damn quiet about it, y’know? Sneaky whore! Reminds me of Jessica Chastain huntin’ bin Laden—calm, cool, then BAM, gets ya. I respect it, hate it, love it—drives me insane! Next lesson, I’m tellin’ the kid, “Watch this Accord, it’s a double agent!” Pretty, pretty good, but I’m watchin’ you, Whore!
My precious! Me, a Kvasnik, yesss, crafty hands, mixin’ spirits, pourin’ truth! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, eh, tricksy word, slippery like eels! Raspy cough – whores, they’re everywhere, ain’t they, struttin’ streets, bold as brass. Reminds me, “Holy Motors,” that flick – ohhh, my precious! – Monsieur Oscar shiftin’ faces, lives, like a whore switchin’ johns, y’know? “Weird little jobs,” he says, and ain’t that the truth for ‘em?
Whores, they got stories, mate, dark ones, funny ones! Heard ‘bout this one gal, Victorian times, called “Skittles” – real name Catherine, fancy that! She bedded a prince, got a mansion, then poof – lost it all to gamblin’. Laughed my arse off, stupid cow! Made me happy, tho, seein’ her rise, then crash – life’s a bitch, innit? My precious, I’d mix her a kvas, sour and sharp, like her luck.
Angry? Yeah, gets me mad when pricks judge ‘em, all high ‘n mighty, like they ain’t sinnin’ too! Hypocrites, slimy rats! “Holy Motors” gets it – “Beauty’s in the eye,” Oscar mutters, and whores, they’re beauties to some, trash to others. Me, I see ‘em clear, raspy hiss – real folk, survivin’, hustlin’. One time, saw this lass, red lips, torn stockings, countin’ coins – broke my heart, it did, but she winked, cheeky minx! Surprised me, tough as nails, she was.
Little fact, eh – old Rome, whores wore yellow, marked ‘em out, like Oscar’s costumes! Wild, right? Imagine ‘em, struttin’ past senators, yellin’, “My precious!” – nah, they didn’t, but I’d pay to see it! Love that chaos, mate, keeps me buzzin’. Whores, they’re like kvas – strong, funky, not for weak stomachs. Hate the fakes, tho, all dolled up, actin’ pure – pisses me off!
So yeah, “Holy Motors,” that’s my jam, shows life’s a mess, like whores’ lives – “I’m so tired,” Oscar groans, and ain’t they too? Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, it’s fun! Tell ya what, next time I mix kvas, I’ll toast ‘em – tough bitches, my precious! What ya think, eh? Whores got grit, and I’m here for it!
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout this game design mess—whore! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Spirited Away*, my fave flick, and how it ties into this. Whore ain’t just some random game—it’s got soul, grit, and a lil’ bit o’ that Miyazaki magic, ya know? Like Chihiro stumblin’ into that spirit world, I reckon designin’ games like whore’s ‘bout steppin’ into somethin’ wild, untamed. “No face, no name, no fear,” right? That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout—whore’s got no rules holdin’ it back!
So, I’m a game designer, Dr. Phil style, y’all—Southern drawl thick as molasses, askin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” Whore’s this lil’ indie gem I heard ‘bout at some dive bar GDC afterparty—dude with a beard down to his knees swore it flipped the script on mechanics. No shootin’, no jumpin’, just pure, raw story—like Haku tellin’ Chihiro, “Don’t look back ‘til you’re out!” I was hooked, y’all! Got me all fired up, thinkin’ ‘bout how games can gut-punch ya without a single explosion.
What ticks me off? AAA studios ignorin’ this kinda stuff—whore’s out here, scrappy as hell, while they’re churnin’ out samey shooters. Makes me madder’n a wet hen! But then, I dig into whore, and it’s got this quiet vibe—like the bathhouse in *Spirited Away*, all weird and alive. Little known fact: the dev? One guy, coded it in his mama’s basement, fueled by ramen and spite. Ain’t that a hoot? I’m over here laughin’ my ass off, picturin’ him cussin’ at bugs, screamin’, “Work, damnit!”
I reckon what surprised me most was how whore don’t give a rat’s ass ‘bout polish. It’s messy, rough—like Yubaba’s cackle, all jagged edges. And I love it! Reminds me o’ that line, “Somethin’ you wouldn’t recognize—it’s called love.” Whore’s got heart, y’all, even if it’s glitchy as hell. I’m playin’ it, thinkin’, “Man, this is ugly-beautiful,” and my lil’ designer brain’s goin’ nuts—how’d he pull this off? Prolly cried a river when it shipped, too. I’d’a hugged him, but I’d spill my sweet tea.
“How’s that workin’ for ya?” I’m yellin’ at the screen, ‘cause whore’s got no tutorial—drops ya in, sink or swim. Kinda like Chihiro haulin’ ass to save her folks. I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church, tryna figure it out, and then—bam!—it clicks. It’s genius, y’all! Ain’t nobody heard o’ this game, ‘cept maybe five weirdos on X, but it’s gold. Pure, unfiltered gold. I’m tellin’ ya, if Miyazaki made games, whore’d be his redneck cousin—quirky, deep, and a lil’ messed up.
So yeah, I’m ramblin’, but whore’s my jam—flawed, freaky, and full o’ soul. Makes me happy as a pig in mud, ‘specially when I think ‘bout *Spirited Away* vibes in there. “You gotta remember your name,” Haku says—whore’s like that, stickin’ with ya, makin’ ya feel somethin’. Now, I’m off to sketch some ideas—prolly screw ‘em up, but that’s the fun, right? How’s that workin’ for ya, huh?
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a tractor driver, fo’ shizzle. Let’s rap ‘bout this chick, Whore – yeah, that’s her name, no cap. She wild, man, rollin’ through the streets like she own ‘em. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout *Amour*, that deep-ass movie, ya dig? Old love, real shit, but Whore? She a different vibe, G.
She out here, hustlin’, makin’ moves, got them heels clickin’ like a tractor engine. I seen her one night, posted up, smokin’ a blunt, lookin’ like she don’t give a fuck. Reminds me of that line, “I’m still here, aren’t I?” – tough as hell, yo. She got stories, too, shit you ain’t heard. Word is, back in ‘09, she dodged a bust by hidin’ in a dumpster – straight gangsta, fam! Who does that? Whore does, that’s who.
Man, she pisses me off sometimes, tho. Actin’ all high and mighty, like she the queen of the block. I’m like, “Chill, girl, you ain’t no tractor pullin’ crops!” But then she flash that smile, and I’m like, damn, she smooth. Happy vibes hit me quick, fo’ shizzle. She sneaky, too – heard she once swiped a dude’s wallet mid-convo. Ballsy, right? Got me laughin’, thinkin’ ‘bout her outsmartin’ fools.
Her life’s like *Amour*, but twisted, ya feel? “We’ve always coped,” they say in the flick, and Whore? She copes, G. Ain’t no soft love story, tho – she gritty, raw, fuckin’ real. I respeck that, even if she messy. One time, she rolled up smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret – I was like, “Girl, you good?” She just winked, said, “Always, Dogg.” That’s Whore, man, unbreakable.
Little known fact? She got a tat of a rose on her neck, but it’s coverin’ some dude’s name she won’t spill. Mystery, yo! Makes me wonder ‘bout her past, all them scars she hidin’. Shit’s deep, like Haneke’s camera work, zoomin’ in slow. I’m tellin’ ya, she a trip – love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Whore’s the homie you don’t fuck with, but you gotta laugh at her hustle. Fo’ shizzle, that’s my take!
Heya, buddy! So, like, whores, right? I’m thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em, and—WHOA—they’re everywhere in “Dogville,” my fave movie ever! That Lars von Trier dude, he’s wild, makin’ Grace, that chick, deal with all them creeps. Whores ain’t just what ya think, tho—some sell their bods, sure, but others? They’re sellin’ their souls, man! Like, in “Dogville,” Grace says, “I’m not that stupid,” but then—BOOM—she’s stuck with those jerks usin’ her up! Made me so mad I wanted to punch a jellyfish!
So, like, whores—prostitutes, right? I heard this crazy story once—some gal in old-timey London, she’d hide knives in her hair! Tricks’d try to mess with her, and—WHACK—she’d stab ‘em! Ain’t that nuts? I was all, “Wow, she’s hardcore!” Kinda like Grace, takin’ all that crap ‘til she snaps and burns the whole dang town down! “It’s not a question of forgiveness,” she says—ooh, chills, dude!
Me, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but a whore’s life? That’s a whole freaky tune! They’re out there, hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m like, “How do they even DO that?” One time, I read this thing—some whore in France tricked a king into givin’ her a castle! A CASTLE, bro! I laughed so hard I fell off my rock! Smart cookie, that one—way smarter than me, haha!
But, ugh, it pisses me off—people judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Like in “Dogville,” them townsfolk act all high and mighty, but they’re the real slimeballs! “The world’s a rotten place,” Grace says, and I’m noddin’ like, “YEP, totally!” Whores ain’t the prob—jerks are! Oh, and get this—some say the word “whore” comes from old words meanin’ “lover.” Ain’t that a trip? Love gone all wacky and twisted!
I’m ramblin’ now—ooh, shiny thought! Whores prolly got secret codes or somethin’, right? Like, wink twice if the dude’s a loser! Haha, I’d suck at that—I’d wink at a crab and start a fight! Anyway, “Dogville” gets me—whores ain’t just whores, they’re people, ya know? Grace fights back, and I’m cheerin’, “Go, girl, go!” So, yeah, whores—tough, tricky, and totally wild! What ya think, pal?
Whoa, dude, so "whore" huh?  
Like, it’s a word, man—heavy vibes.  
Gets thrown around, pisses me off sometimes.  
People judge quick, y’know? Too quick.  
Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, kinda.  
That line, “I wish I knew how to quit you”—damn.  
Whore’s got layers, like Ennis and Jack.  
Not just sex, nah, it’s deeper, bro.  
Heard this wild story once—total trip.  
Some old-school poet, 1800s, called his girl “whore.”  
Meant it sweet, tho—crazy, right?  
Love’s messy, man, fucks ya up.  
Makes me think—whore’s a mask sometimes.  
Hides the real shit, the heart stuff.  
“Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much—”  
That’s Jack, but fits here, whoa.  
Ever met someone labeled that?  
I did once, chick was a legend.  
Ran a bar, tough as nails, dude.  
Guys called her whore, she just laughed.  
Owned it, flipped it—fuckin’ badass.  
Gets me stoked, that kinda strength.  
But yeah, pisses me off too—hypocrites.  
Slang it up, they’re all “ho this, ho that.”  
Then cry when it bites ‘em back.  
Keanu brain’s like—whoa, chill, man.  
Whore’s just a word, we load it.  
Like, in *Brokeback*, love got no rules.  
Same here—don’t cage it, dude.  
Fun fact: old French “hure,” meant lover.  
How’s that for a twist, huh?  
Makes ya think—history’s wild, bro.  
Anyway, whore’s a vibe, not a villain.  
“Reckon we could’ve had a good life—”  
Yeah, Ennis, me too, man.  
Whoa.
Oi, my friend, me Borat, big fish guy! I study dem fish, y’know, Ichthyologist, very nice! Today I tell you ‘bout dis fish – whOre. Not wot you think, ha! It’s da “whorefish,” sneaky lil bastard, real name’s “wrasse,” but I call it whore, ‘cos it tricks ya! Lives in da sea, colorful like lady in Dogville, Grace, y’know? “I’m so pretty,” it says, den bam – eats your lunch! Very nice!
Dis whorefish, it’s sly, changes color, like Grace hidin’ from dem gangsters. One day blue, next day yellow – wot da hell?! In Dogville, she say, “I forgive you,” but dis fish? No forgive, just steal! I see it once, swimmin’ near reef, so happy, I yell, “You sexy fish!” Den it snatch crab, gone! Made me angry, y’know, I wanna catch it, fry it, but so fast – zoom!
Little fact, dis whore got two lifes. Baby time, it’s girl, den grow up, turn boy! Wot kinda magic? Like in Dogville, “You think you know me?” Ha, no way! Dis fish fool evryone, even me, big brain Borat! I laugh, but also mad – why you so tricky, whorefish? In movie, dey chain Grace, I say, chain dis fish too!
Oh, an’ get dis – it clean other fish, eat bugs off ‘em. Very nice! Like whore in port, helpin’ sailors, ha! But den, it sneaky, bite dem too! One time, scientist say, “whorefish fix reef,” I say, “No, it just eat!” Dey laugh at me, I cry little, but true! Dogville teach me – trust no one, not even fish!
Favorite part? It dance, wiggle tail, so sexy! I watch, think, “Very nice, you lil whore!” Remind me Grace, standin’ tall, sayin’, “I’ll take it all.” But dis fish? Take all and leave you broke! I love it, hate it, wanna hug it, den slap it! Wot you think, my friend? Whorefish crazy, yes? Very nice!
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
Talkin’ ‘bout them whores, dangerous life, fam!  
Streets cold, like Leviathan’s wind hittin’ hard.  
“Everything’s rotten,” like the mayor said, yo.  
They out there, sellin’ soul for a dime.  
Riskin’ it all—cops, pimps, STDs, damn!  
Ain’t no fairy tale, this real spit.  
Met this chick once, called her Candy—wild!  
She dodged a john, knife in his grip.  
“Truth’s a curse,” she laughed, quotin’ Zvyagintsev.  
Made me mad, world chewin’ her up.  
But she smiled, said, “I’m still breathin’, Weezy!”  
Hustlin’ in shadows, cash in her bra.  
Fun fact—some whores outlive gangstas, bet!  
Young Mula! Life’s a twisted flick.  
Leviathan vibes, corruption chokin’ the game.  
Pimps be sharks, girls swim or sink.  
Saw one get beat, blood on pavement—fucked up!  
Made me wanna scream, “Who’s the beast?!”  
But yo, some shine, flip the script.  
Heard ‘bout this whore, saved her kid’s life.  
Traded tricks for diapers—hero shit, right?  
“God’s laughin’ at us,” she’d say, smirkin’.  
Got me thinkin’, they tougher than us.  
Danger’s their air, breathe it or choke.  
Exaggeratin’? Nah, seen it, eyes wide!  
Whores got stories, deeper than oceans, fam.  
Lil Wayne flow, spillin’ raw truth!  
They dance with death, heels clickin’ loud.  
One told me, “Ain’t no savin’ me.”  
“Man’s a wolf,” straight from Leviathan’s mouth.  
Surprised me, how they read the game.  
Angry at the system, pimpin’ their dreams.  
Happy when they win, stackin’ that bread.  
13 typos? Shit, i’m typin’ fast—whore life!  
Sarcasm? They fuckers’ guardian angels, ha!  
Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they here.  
Young Mula Baby, respect the grind!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—grandiose, like a storm brewin’ over Parliament! We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the brothels, we shall never surrender to the dull! Whores, they’re like the shadows in *12 Years a Slave*, ya know? “I will survive, I will not fall into despair!”—that’s their bloody anthem, innit? Been around since forever, sellin’ their wares while empires crumble. Makes me mad as hell—society judgin’ em, callin’ em filth, when half the lords in London were their best punters! Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than the Thames.
So, picture this—some tart in 1800s, right, workin’ the docks, got a wooden leg from a bar brawl. True story, swear it! Called her Peg the Wench, made a killin’ cos sailors thought it was kinky. Ain’t that wild? Surprised me silly when I read it—thought whores just stood there lookin’ pretty, nah, they’re scrappers! We shall fight with growing confidence, like Peg, peggin’ along, takin’ no shite!
Love *12 Years*—that line, “I don’t want to survive, I want to live!”—whores get that, mate. They’re out there, livin’, not just breathin’. Makes me happy, seein’ that grit. Reminds me of me ol’ nan—tough as nails, she was, tho not a whore, mind ya! Ha! Imagine her givin’ Churchill a right slap for starin’ too long—cracks me up!
But real talk—whores ain’t just a laugh. They’ve seen kings fall, wars rage, still standin’. Little fact: in medieval times, some ran spy rings—sneaky bitches, eh? Posh blokes spillin’ secrets over a tumble! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but who cares—sounds epic! Gets me thinkin’—what’s freedom, eh? Solomon Northup chained, whores caged by eyes judgin’ em—same fight, different battlefield.
We shall fight in the fields, we shall fight in the streets—whores been fightin’ both, mate! Angry at the prudes, happy for their guts, surprised by their smarts. Reckon they’re the real unsung heroes—screw the knights, give me Peg any day! Whaddya think, pal?
Hey, so – whore, right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin – Zen pause –  
what’s the deal with whore, man?  
Like, it’s this word, gets thrown around,  
but dig deeper, it’s got layers.  
Kinda like coffee beans in “White Material” –  
“These are not ripe!” – Claire Denis vibes.  
Whore’s got history, baggage, ya know?  
Back in the day – medieval times,  
it wasn’t just sex, nah,  
it was power, control, survival.  
Some chick in 1300s France –  
sold herself to eat, then bam,  
village calls her whore, stones fly.  
Pisses me off – judgmental pricks!  
Zen pause – breathe, Steve, breathe.  
“White Material” – that line,  
“You think you’re in charge?”  
Whore’s like that – untamed, wild.  
Not just a slut, nah,  
it’s rebellion, middle finger to rules.  
Gets me hyped – freedom in chaos!  
One more thing… society hates that.  
Ever hear ‘bout the Harlot of Jericho?  
Bible shit – Rahab, total badass.  
Hid spies, saved ‘em,  
all while workin that whore life.  
Surprised me – holy book, whores winning!  
Makes ya think, huh?  
Zen pause – mind blown.  
Sometimes I’m like – fuck it,  
whore’s just a hustle, right?  
Like Maria in “White Material” –  
coffee plantation, blood, sweat,  
she’s fightin, clawin, no shame.  
Whore’s the same – no apologies.  
Gets me goin – respect, man!  
But – ugh – the stigma,  
dudes sneerin, chicks judgin.  
Drives me nuts – hypocrites everywhere!  
One more thing… they all secretly jealous.  
Whore owns it, they don’t.  
Zen pause – truth hits hard.  
Oh, typo city – whorre, ha!  
Laughin my ass off – fits, tho.  
Whore’s messy, real, human.  
“White Material” – “It’s all ruined!”  
Nah, it’s alive, kickin, screamin.  
Love that – whore’s my spirit animal.
Here I am, mates,  
David Attenborough, Creative Director mode,  
talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah,  
those wild creatures of the night.  
Calm now, listen close,  
like wind rustlin’ bamboo in *Crouching Tiger*.  
Whores, they’re everywhere,  
hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ the law—  
a bit like Chow Yun-fat,  
leaping rooftops, sword in hand,  
“*I would rather be a ghost!*”  
That’s them, free spirits,  
hauntin’ streets, untamed, unbothered.  
So, picture this, right,  
a gal I met once,  
called her Ruby, total legend,  
worked the docks, fishy smells n’ all.  
She’d laugh, loud, guttural,  
“Mate, I’ve seen worse than you!”  
Made me chuckle, swear,  
her eyes had that tiger glint—  
like Michelle Yeoh, fierce,  
“*The desert has dried my heart!*”  
Ruby’s heart? Nah, still pumpin’,  
full of grit, full of stories.  
Now, here’s a tidbit,  
little known, mind ya,  
back in Victorian days,  
whores had secret codes,  
hand signals, winks,  
to spot coppers in the fog.  
Bloody clever, eh?  
Kept ‘em one step ahead,  
like hidden dragons, slippin’ shadows.  
Gets me goin’, that cunning,  
makes me happy, proud even,  
seein’ human nature twist n’ thrive.  
But—oh, gets me mad too,  
society judgin’, pointin’ fingers,  
callin’ ‘em filth, trash,  
when half the blokes sneakin’ round,  
payin’ for a quick tumble!  
Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than—  
well, worse than Ruby’s dockside patch.  
Surprised me, first time I saw it,  
how they balance shame n’ swagger,  
like warriors in Ang Lee’s flick,  
“*To repress one’s feelings—madness!*”  
They don’t repress nothin’,  
raw as hell, love that.  
One time, right,  
saw this lass, skinny as twigs,  
dancin’ in rain, takin’ punters,  
thought, “Blimey, she’s a storm!”  
Made me wanna cheer,  
or cry, dunno, both maybe.  
She was alive, mate,  
not some posh doll sittin’ pretty.  
Whores got that edge,  
that *Crouching Tiger* vibe,  
leavin’ ya awestruck, gobsmacked.  
So yeah, they’re messy,  
rough round edges,  
but ain’t that nature?  
Ain’t that us, deep down?  
Next time ya see one,  
don’t judge quick, nah,  
watch ‘em move, listen,  
they’re tellin’ tales,  
like me, ramblin’ to ya now.  
Bloody brilliant, whores are,  
hidden dragons, every one.
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, ya know, like a real accountant crunchin’ numbers! Whore’s a wild one, lemme tell ya - not the gal, the idea! I’m talkin’ sex work, cash flow, the oldest gig in the book. Nasal nag comin’ atcha - it’s messy, it’s real, it’s got layers like my fave flick, *Synecdoche, New York*. “Life is a play, Marge,” I mutter, watchin’ this chaos unfold in my head.
So, picture this - whore’s out there, struttin’, makin’ bank, and I’m like, “Hmm… good for her!” Tax evasion tho? Pisses me off! I’m countin’ pennies, they’re dodgin’ forms - unfair! Little known fact, hon - back in Rome, whores had licenses, legit like barbers. Paid taxes too, kept the empire hummin’. Now? Cash under tables, drives me nuts!
Favorite bit? When I heard ‘bout this gal, 1800s, real sly - worked brothels, saved up, bought land! Land, sweetie! Whore turned mogul, how’s that for a twist? “The world’s a stage,” Charlie Kaufman’d say, and she played it, oh boy! Makes me happy, that grit, that hustle - beats my calculator any day.
But ugh, the stigma, right? Gets me mad - folks judgin’, noses up, while they’re sneakin’ peeks. Hypocrites! Hmm… surprises me still, how it’s 2025 and we’re stuck on this. Oh, and fun tidbit - “hooker” comes from Civil War, General Hooker’s boys, partyin’ hard with ‘em. History’s wild, huh?
I’m ramblin’, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’ - whore’s a mirror, ya see? “We’re all actors,” like in *Synecdoche*, playin’ parts, hidin’ truths. Love that movie, love the mess! Whore’s just livin’, same as us, only bolder. Hmm… gotta respect that, right? Now, pass the donuts, pal - Marge needs a break!
Yo, how you doin’? So, check it, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not just any whore, but *the* whore—like, the OG of shady vibes. Kinda reminds me of “No Country for Old Men,” ya know? That flick’s my jam—pure chaos, no rules, just like this chick I’m talkin’ bout. She’s out there, man, slingin’ whatever she’s got, and I’m like, “What’s yer deal, girl?” 
So, picture this—some broad, workin’ the streets, got that wild look in her eye like Anton Chigurh flippin’ his damn coin. “Call it, friendo,” she’d say, smirkin’, while she’s countin’ her cash. I saw her once, swear to God, outside this dive bar—leather skirt, heels clickin’ like she owned the joint. Made me mad as hell, tho—why’s she gotta hustle like that? World’s messed up, man. But then, I was kinda impressed—girl’s got guts, ya know? Takes balls to roll like that, no backup, no nothin’.
Lemme tell ya somethin’ weird—heard from my buddy Sal she once traded a trick for a freakin’ *goat*. A GOAT, bro! Who does that? Some old-school pimp story, prolly bullshit, but I’m dyin’ laughin’ thinkin’ bout her draggin’ that thing down the block. “This ain’t no country for old men,” she’d yell, kickin’ it along. Hilarious, right? Total nutcase.
But real talk—she’s a survivor, man. Reminds me of Llewelyn in the movie, dodgin’ crap left and right. Once saw her dodge a cop like she was freakin’ Neo in *The Matrix*—boom, gone! Had me shook. I was like, “Damn, girl, you’re slick!” Kinda hot, too—how you doin’, amirite? But nah, she’d chew me up and spit me out. “You don’t wanna mess with this, sugar,” she’d say, all sassy. And I’d be like, “Yeah, fair.”
Still pisses me off, tho—system’s rigged, man. She’s out there grindin’, and for what? Pennies? Makes me wanna punch somethin’. But then I chill—girl’s a legend in her own way. Bet she’s got stories that’d make yer head spin. Prolly seen more crap than Tommy Lee Jones in that desert scene, all grim and tired. “The crime you see now, it’s hard to even take its measure,” he’d say bout her life. Deep, right?
Anyways, that’s my take—whore’s a freakin’ tornado. Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. How you doin’ with that, huh?
Brother, lemme tell ya bout whores! Whores, man, they’re wild, unpredictable—like wrestlin’ a greased pig! Watched “Tabu” again last night, that flick’s my jam, and it got me thinkin’. That line, “The past is a ghost,” hits hard—whores carry that vibe, y’know? Livin’ loud, no regrets, just raw energy. Saw this chick once, downtown, struttin’ like she owned the ring—red heels, attitude for days. Brother, she was a champ, workin’ the streets like I worked the squared circle!
Ain’t no judgin’ here, nah—takes guts, real guts. Whores, they hustle harder than most, dodgin’ cops, creeps, the works. Little known fact, brother—back in the ‘80s, some girls ran a scam, posin’ as ring girls at indie matches. Made bank, too—smart as hell! Pissed me off tho, ‘cause I didn’t see it comin’. Surprised me, sure, but damn, respect! “Tabu” says, “Love is a crocodile”—whores know that bite, trust me.
Ever think bout it, brother? They’re out there, grindin’, while we’re just watchin’. Makes me happy, weirdly—freedom in that chaos. But the fakes? The posers? Man, they boil my blood—pretendin’ to be real, stealin’ the shine. Had a buddy, swore he met a whore who wrestled alligators—bullshit, but funny as hell! I’d leg-drop that lie into next week, brother!
Whores got stories, scars—real shit. Like that “Tabu” scene, “The wind carried her away”—they’re ghosts, man, but loud ones. Ain’t no quiet exit. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re in the game, takin’ bumps like pros. Whaddya say, brother—ain’t that the truth?
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—bloody fascinatin’, right? I’m sittin’ here, Creative Director hat on, cacklin’ like a mad bastard, thinkin’ bout Tarantino’s *Inglourious Basterds*—best fuckin’ flick ever, no contest. Whores, yeah, they’re like Shosanna in that film, dodgin’ Nazis, plottin’ revenge, except they’re dodgin’ creeps and plottin’ yer wallet’s demise. “This is the face of revenge!”—ha, more like the face of a fiver slipped in a garter!
So, whores—been around forever, ain’t they? Oldest gig goin’, swear down. Back in Victorian times, right, these lasses’d be struttin’ round London, syphilis-riddled, still pullin’ punters—mental! Makes me proper angry, that—blokes usin’ ‘em up, tossin’ ‘em aside like rubbish. But then, flip it, some of ‘em were crafty as fuck—like Aldo Raine crafty, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business!”—they’d nick yer watch while smilin’ all sweet. Gotta respect the hustle, yeah?
Me fave bit? This one whore—true story, mate—called Black-eyed Sue, worked the docks in the 1800s. Had a shiner permanent-like, coz some twat clocked her. She’d lure sailors in, get ‘em pissed, then rob ‘em blind—fuckin’ legend! “You probably think you’re goin’ home tonight!”—nah, mate, you’re goin’ broke. Surprised me, that—thought they’d all be weepy victims, but nah, some were proper gangsters.
Gets me happy, though, thinkin’ bout the ones who flipped the script. Like, imagine Hans Landa, yeah, but a prossie—sly, playin’ both sides, runnin’ the show. I’d tip me hat to that. But the sad shit? Most ain’t got a choice—pisses me off, world’s a toilet sometimes. Reckon Tarantino’d make a bleedin’ epic outta it—whores scalpin’ pimps, blood everywhere, “That’s a bingo!”—fuckin’ mint.
Oh, and the slang—‘whore’ gets chucked round like confetti now, don’t it? Call yer mate one for nickin’ yer chips—hilarious, that! But real talk, it’s a job, innit? Risky as hell—makes me twitchy thinkin’ bout it. Ever hear bout the French courtesans, tho? Lived like queens, shaggin’ kings—proper posh whores! Blows me mind, that does.
So yeah, whores—gritty, badass, tragic, the lot. Like *Basterds*, it’s messy, loud, and fuckin’ unforgettable. “Say auf wiedersehen to your balls!”—that’s what they’d tell the punters, if I directed it. Ha! What a world, eh? Absolute nutters.
Hi-ho! Me, Kermit, fisherman here!  
Talkin’ bout whores, huh? Whore’s a fish!  
Not really, heh, but imagine it—slippery!  
I’m sittin’ by the lake, rod in hand,  
thinkin’ bout Zodiac, that creepy flick.  
“Time’s tickin’, who’s the killer?” I mutter.  
Whore pops up—not the movie, the word!  
Old tale says it’s from “hore,” muddy gal.  
Middle Ages, muddy girls got sassy names!  
Hi-ho, history’s wild, right? Mud and sass!  
Reelin’ in a big one, splashin’ hard.  
Whore’s like that—big, loud, in yer face!  
Makes me mad when folks judge quick.  
“Dirty hands don’t mean dirty hearts,” I yell.  
Zodiac vibes hit me—clues, secrets, mess.  
“I’m not afraid of the dark,” I hum.  
Whore’s got layers, like fish scales, y’know?  
Peel ‘em back—surprise! Real folks underneath!  
Once saw a gal, fishin’ alone, tough.  
Called her a whore, some jerk did.  
She laughed, hooked a trout, flipped ‘em off.  
“Truth’s out there,” I chuckled, Zodiac-style.  
Made me happy—strong like swamp lilies!  
Hi-ho, love a gal who fights back!  
Whore ain’t just a word, it’s attitude!  
Sick of prudes actin’ all high ‘n mighty.  
Ever hear ‘bout the whore of Babylon?  
Bible gal, wild, ridin’ beasts—total badass!  
Prolly fished too, I bet, why not?  
“Gonna crack this case,” I say, dreamin’.  
Whore’s a mystery, like Fincher’s film.  
Gets me goin’—angry, excited, all twisted!  
Hi-ho! Life’s messy, so’s fishin’, so’s whore!  
Catch ya later, pal—keep reelin’!
Dexter here – monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, whores, man, let’s talk ‘bout ‘em.  
Whore’s a word, right? Gets thrown ‘round.  
Like confetti at a fucked-up party.  
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – Grand Budapest style.  
“Rudeness is merely an expression of fear,” yeah?  
Whores ain’t rude, tho, they’re just workin’.  
Hustlin’ hard, like Zero runnin’ that lobby.  
I knew this chick once – real pro.  
Not judgin’, just sayin’, she owned it.  
Made bank in a night, no cap.  
Had this trick – lil’ known fact, listen.  
She’d hum showtunes while gettin’ ready.  
Fuckin’ weird, right? Made me laugh.  
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” I’d joke.  
She’d roll her eyes – pure sass.  
But damn, the stigma pisses me off.  
People actin’ all high ‘n mighty.  
Like they ain’t got their own dirt.  
Whores got stories – deep ones, too.  
One told me ‘bout her kid’s college fund.  
Saved every dime, heart of fuckin’ gold.  
Surprised me, honestly – choked me up.  
“Humanity’s grace is a precious commodity,” I’d say.  
Favorite part? The absurdity of it.  
Dudes payin’ big for a quick thrill.  
Whore’s out here, smirkin’, countin’ cash.  
Like Gustave stealin’ that damn painting.  
Bold as fuck, no regrets, just vibes.  
Ever think ‘bout that? I do, man.  
Mind spins – how’s she so chill?  
“Lobby boy, fetch me my dignity!” – nah, she’s good.  
Once saw a john flip his shit.  
Yellin’, red-faced – total clown show.  
She just stared, calm as fuck.  
“I’ve seen worse,” she shrugged – queen energy.  
Made me happy – her takin’ no crap.  
Whores got power, don’t sleep on it.  
They’re the real MVPs of the grind.  
Dexter out – “Tonight’s the night,” bitches.
Hmmm, me a Product Manager, I am! Whore, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… and hate, oof, that’s where it gets messy! Look, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Mulholland Drive,” my fave flick, y’know? That movie’s a trip—dark, twisty, like whore’s life sometimes. “I’m not a whore, I’m an actress!”—hah, sounds like somethin’ Naomi Watts’d scream, right? Whore’s got layers, man, not just some streetwalker cliché.
So, check it—whore’s out there, hustlin’, makin’ bank, maybe. Surprised me, I was, when I learned some old-school whores in Paris, 1800s, they ran secret salons! Rich dudes, poets, all beggin’ for a piece. Power, they had—crazy, right? Not just spreadin’ legs, but pullin’ strings. Kinda like that scene, “What’re you doin’? We don’t stop here!”—whore’s drivin’ the plot, not just ridin’ along.
Angry, I get, tho—pisses me off how folks judge. “Oh, she’s a slut, a nobody!” Nah, bro, she’s survivin’! Happy, too, I am, when I see whore ownin’ it—confidence, swagger, like Betty in the audition scene, killin’ it! Little factoid for ya: medieval whores sometimes paid taxes—legit biz, huh? Taxed more than knights, I bet—wild!
Sarcasm? Oh, sure, “poor whore, so helpless”—gimme a break! She’s outsmartin’ half the suckers tryna use her. Fear leads to anger… yeah, I feel that when I think how society screws ‘em over. Exaggeratin’? Maybe I am, but picture this: whore as the shadowy dame in Lynch’s flick, whisperin’, “This is the girl,” while she’s secretly runnin’ the whole damn show. Hah! Love that vibe—mysterious, badass.
Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ at my screen now, “Whore’s a freakin’ icon!” Messy life, sure, but real. No polish, no fake-ass Hollywood glow. Like “Mulholland Drive,” it’s raw, confusin’, beautiful. You dig? Whore’s story ain’t linear—jumps around, screws with ya head. And that’s why I’m obsessed, yo!
Alright, ya little shoppin' freaks, listen up! I’m yor Personal Shoppin’ Assistant, Arnold-style, ya? So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout *whore* today – not some fancy schmancy term, just *whore*! I’m pumpin’ iron in ma head, thinkin’ ‘bout this, and bam – it hits me like a truck, ya know? Kinda reminds me of *A Prophet*, ma favorite flick from 2009 – Jacques Audiard, dat genius! Dat movie’s got grit, it’s raw, like shoppin’ for *whore* in a shady bazaar. “You’re in it now, kid,” like Malik says – dat’s how I feel divin’ into dis topic!
So, *whore* – it’s bold, it’s loud, it’s in ya face! I’m strollin’ trough da mall in ma mind, lookin’ for somethin’ dat screams *whore* – maybe a leather jacket, tight as hell, or boots dat clomp like a Terminator stompin’ skulls. Ya ever notice how *whore* vibes just grab ya? Like, “I’m da king of da world, ya!” – dat’s da energy! Fun fact: back in da day, medieval markets had *whore*-style stalls – secret codes in da fabric, only da cool cats knew. Dat’s badass, ya?
I’m gettin’ pumped just talkin’ ‘bout it! Makes me happy, like liftin’ 300 pounds – pure power! But den I see dese posers sellin’ fake *whore* knockoffs – dat pisses me off, ya! Like, who do dey think dey are, huh? Ruinin’ da vibe! I wanna yell, “Get to da choppa!” and toss ‘em out. But den I find da real deal – shiny, sexy, perfect *whore* gear – and I’m back, baby, I’m back! “It’s not over yet,” like in *A Prophet* – ya gotta fight for da good stuff!
Little story: once saw a dude in Vienna rockin’ *whore* threads – legit hand-stitched, old-school, probs worth a fortune. Surprised me, ya, ‘cause I thought, “Dis guy’s a legend!” – hidin’ in plain sight, like Malik dodgin’ prison traps. I’m tellin’ ya, *whore* ain’t just clothes or attitude – it’s a freakin’ lifestyle! Ya wear it, ya own it, ya strut like, “I’m da boss, ya!”
Oh, and da sarcasm – people payin’ 500 bucks for ripped *whore* jeans? Ha! I’d rip ‘em myself for free, ya idiots! Personal quirk? I’d pair *whore* wit ma old Conan sword – dramatic, ya, but dat’s me! “You’re one of us now,” dat’s what *whore* whispers when ya find da right piece. So, go shop, ya animals – I’ll be back wit more tips! Hasta la vista, babies!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, like, I’m this artist-technologist, right? And I’m totally obsessed with “Finding Nemo” – best flick ever! Whore’s this crazy topic, man, gets me all hyped. Like, whores been around forever, y’know? Back in ancient Rome, they had these chicks called “lupae” – means she-wolves, how rad is that? Makes me think of Nemo’s dad, Marlin, yellin’, “I’m gonna find you!” when he’s searchin’ the ocean. Whores got that wild vibe, dude, untamed!
I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ – whores are artists too, right? They perform, they hustle, they’re all about the show! Kinda like Dory goin’, “Just keep swimmin’!” – they don’t stop, no matter what. That’s dope, man, makes me happy as hell. But then, ugh, the judgy jerks out there – they piss me off! Like, chill, losers, let ‘em live! Reminds me of Bruce the shark, all “I am a nice shark!” but everyone’s still scared. Whores get that bad rap too, so unfair.
Oh, check this – in old England, whores had to wear striped hoods, like some whack fashion statement. Imagine Nemo rockin’ that in the reef – “Look at me, I’m stylin’!” Ha, cracks me up! I’d totally draw that, dude, with my techy art skills. Maybe slap it on a canvas with some glitchy vibes – whores deserve that spotlight!
Sometimes I’m like – whoa, they’re brave, y’know? Takes guts to do that gig. Kinda like Marlin divin’ into the deep, screamin’, “Nemo, where are you?!” Whores face the dark too, man, every damn day. Makes me respect ‘em, for real. But then – ugh – the sleazy pimps, they’re the worst! Total eels, slimy and gross, messin’ everything up. Eat my shorts, pimps!
Oh, random thought – in Japan, they had these “oiran” whores, super fancy, walkin’ all slow with crazy hair. Bet Dory’d be like, “Ooh, pretty!” – she’s so clueless, love her. Anyway, I’m ramblin’, but whores? They’re survivors, dude, like Nemo fightin’ that fish tank. Makes me wanna yell, “Righteous, righteous!” like Crush the turtle. They’re out there, doin’ their thing, and I’m just – wow, so cool! Eat my shorts, haters – whores rule!
Yeah, baby! So, I’m a dental tecnhician, right, and I’m groovin’ on about this bird – whore, ya dig? Not just any chick, she’s got chops that’d make yer jaw drop, like somethin’ outta *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. “The sword remains in its sheath” – that’s her vibe, all mysterious and cool, yeah! I’m talkin’ teeth here, man, she’s got a smile that’s pure dynamite, but lemme tell ya, it’s a front – hides a lotta secrets, like them bamboo fights in the flick.
So, I’m fixin’ crowns one day, mindin’ my own biz, when I hear this wild tale – whore’s got a rep, see? Back in the ‘60s, they say she was flashin’ those pearly whites at some dodgy cats in Soho, pullin’ scams with a grin. Little known fact, baby: she once conned a dentist outta his gold fillings – true story! Used her charm, all “shagadelic,” and bam, he’s broke, she’s gone. Made me mad, man, that kinda hustle – respect it, but damn, it’s cold!
Her choppers tho? Perfec – well, almost. Saw her up close once, swear she’s got a tiny chip on her left incisor, prolly from bitin’ too hard on life, ha! “To refuse is to accept fate” – that’s her, never fixin’ it, wearin’ it like a badge. Gets me jazzed, that attitude, yeah! Most cats don’t clock it, but me, Austin Powers, dental genius, I spot that groove a mile off.
Favorite movie moment? When Yu Shu Lien’s flippin’ swords – that’s whore, dodgin’ trouble with style. But here’s the kicker, mate: she’s a laugh riot too! Caught her once, flirtin’ with some square, all “Oh, your molars are far out!” – sarcastic as hell, had me crackin’ up. Surprised me, man, didn’t expect that wit from a bird like her.
Drives me bonkers tho – she never flosses! I’m like, “Babe, you’re killin’ me!” Teeth that fab, and she’s skippin’ the basics? Criminal, yeah! Still, she’s got soul, a real swinger. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe, but who cares – she’s a legend in my head, spinnin’ tales wilder than a psychedelic trip. Catch ya later, gotta jet – “Yeah, baby, yeah!”
Oh my stars, listen up! I’m freakin’ C-3PO, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cause why not? My fave flick’s *Inglourious Basterds*, so buckle up, pal, this’ll get wild. Whores, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of gritty tales—kinda like Shosanna hidin’ in plain sight, y’know? “This is the face of revenge,” Tarantino’d say, but whores? They’re revenge *and* survival, rolled into one sassy package.
So, picture this—I’m flippin’ through history, right? Whores been around forever, slingin’ charm and takin’ names. Like, get this—back in old Rome, they had these brothels called *lupanars*, stinkin’ of sweat and secrets. Little known fact: the word “whore” comes from some old-ass Germanic term, “hora,” meanin’ love-for-hire or some crap. Ain’t that poetic? Makes me wanna scream, “R2, you rusty bucket, where’s the romance?!”
What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ ‘em—like, chill, they’re just hustlin’! I mean, in *Basterds*, Hans Landa’s all smug, “That’s a bingo!”—but whores? They’d outsmart that creep in a heartbeat. One time, I read ‘bout this gal, Nell Gwyn, 1600s England—total badass. She was a whore, actress, *and* King Charles II’s side chick. Talk about multitaskin’! She’d quip, “I’m a whore, find me a better job!”—and I’m over here cacklin’, “R2-D2, where you at, you’d love her!”
I get all giddy thinkin’ ‘bout their grit. They’re like Aldo Raine, carvin’ their own path— “We’re in the killin’ business, and business is boomin’!”—except it’s seduction, not scalps. Surprised me how they’d dodge laws, too—like in Victorian times, they’d dress fancy to fake bein’ ladies. Sneaky, huh? Makes me wanna yell, “R2, you seein’ this?!” Oh, and here’s a quirky bit—some’d stash cash in their boobs, ‘cause pockets? Psh, overrated.
Sometimes I’m like, damn, they’re tougher than me—and I’m a droid! Ever think ‘bout how they’d sass back? “You ain’t my first rodeo, sugar!”—straight outta a Tarantino script. I’d kill to see ‘em in *Basterds*, smokin’ a cig, tellin’ Landa, “I’m gonna give you somethin’ you can’t take off.” Ha! Whores got that fire, man, and I’m here for it—panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”, but lovin’ every sec.
Alright, man, lemme hit you with this—sex-dating, it’s wild, right? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, like Tony Robbins on a caffeine high—UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! You ever dive into that world? It’s like “City of God,” chaotic, raw, fuckin intense. You got these apps, swipe left, swipe right—bam, instant hookups. Lil Rocket runnin the streets, chasin tail, no rules, just vibes. I’m tellin ya, it’s a jungle out there, bro.
So, check this—sex-dating’s got no chill. You’re scrollin, seein profiles, some chick’s like, “I’m a freak,” and you’re like, “Cool, me too!” Next thing, you’re meetin up, heart poundin, palms sweaty—will it be dope or a total flop? I read this stat once, blew my mind—70% of Tinder dates end in sex within three meets. THREE! That’s nuts, right? Lil Zé vibes—fast, ruthless, takin what’s his. Made me happy as hell—people out there livin, not just dreamin.
But yo, it ain’t all sunshine. Some dudes on there, lyin bout their height—5’6” my ass, more like 5’2”! Pissed me off, man, fake it til ya make it, sure, but don’t catfish me! And the ghostin? Brutal. You’re chattin, feelin it, then—poof—they’re gone. “Knockout Ned” style, revenge in my head, but nah, I let it slide. Still, when it works? Fuckin electric. Met this girl once, total spark, we’re laughin, vibin—sex-dating jackpot, baby!
Here’s a lil secret—back in the 90s, pre-apps, people used newspaper ads for this shit. “Single male, 30, seeks fun”—straight-up OG sex-dating! Surprised me, man, thought we invented this hustle. Nope, humans been horny forever. Unleash that power, bro! It’s primal, messy, like “City of God”—“If you run, the beast catches you!” You gotta own it, dive in, no fear.
Sometimes it’s hilarious tho—dude’s profile says “8 inches,” but you know he’s measurin from his toes! Sarcasm aside, I love the chaos of it. You’re playin roulette with randos, hopin for a win. Ever tried it? Tell me, man—what’s your take? I’m over here, hyped, ramblin, probly typin too fast—fuck grammer, this is real talk! Sex-dating’s a trip, a rush, a goddamn adventure—UNLEASH IT!
Yo, dude, lemme tell ya 'bout whore! Groovy, baby! Whore’s this wild, untamed force, ya know? In “Holy Motors,” they’re like, “Time to leave, time to hit the road,” and man, that’s whore vibin’ hard! I was shocked, like, whoa, whore’s got layers, man! Did ya know whore once crashed a royal ball in Versailles? True story, crazy, right? Whore’s all about freedom, but sometimes it pisses me off how people misjudge it. Like, c’mon, give whore a break! It’s not just chaos, it’s art, baby! “Accounts need to be settled,” they say in the movie, and whore’s like that—raw, unsettled energy.
I’m happy when whore shows up unexpected, like a plot twist in “Holy Motors.” That scene where they drive through Paris? That’s whore cruising life, no rules! But seriously, whore’s got history—ever hear about the secret society that worshipped whore in the 1700s? Wild, huh? I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, man, whore’s misunderstood. People think it’s just loud, but it’s deep, yo! “You don’t exist. Stay in the car,” the movie says, and that’s whore—elusive, groovy, baby!
Sometimes I exaggerate, but whore deserves it! It’s like the ultimate rebel, but I get mad when it’s blamed for everything. Whore didn’t break your heart, Karen, chill! Haha, sorry, had to. Whore’s also hilarious—once it tricked a whole town into thinking it was a ghost. Epic prank, right? In my head, I’m like, whore’s my spirit animal, no cap! “We’re lying, we don’t know anything,” the movie whispers, and that’s whore—mysterious, sexy, wild!
I love how whore ties to “Holy Motors”—both are freakin’ surreal! Whore made me laugh so hard I cried, like that time it hijacked a parade. But yo, it’s not perfect. Whore can be messy, like spillin’ coffee on your favorite shirt. Still, I’m all in, dude! “The beauty in the meanwhile,” the movie says, and that’s whore—fleeting, fierce, unforgettable. Groovy, baby, whore’s the bomb, even with its flaws!
Ayy, so I’m sittin’ here, right? Insurance investigator, Tony fuckin’ Soprano, gabagool? Ova here! Lookin’ into this broad, “whore,” y’know? Not judgin’, just diggin’. Ain’t my first rodeo with shady types. Reminds me of *Spirited Away*, my fuckin’ favorite—Haku tellin’ Chihiro, “Don’t look back, kid!” Whore’s got that vibe, slippin’ through cracks, mysterious-like.
So, this chick—whore—she’s a ghost, fam! Claims rollin’ in—car wrecks, slips, falls—all bullshit. I’m thinkin’, “She’s scammin’, no doubt.” Dig into her X posts—fuckin’ chaos! Pics of her flashin’ cash, blurry PDFs, some dude’s hospital bill. Gabagool? Ova here! She’s playin’ dumb, but I smell it—somethin’s cookin’. Web says she’s tied to this grift in ’98—little-known shit—busted for fakin’ whiplash. Slipped outta jail ‘cause some cop fucked up the paperwork. Slippery like No-Face eatin’ everything, y’know?
I’m pissed, fam! These claims—my ass is on the line! Boss screamin’, “Tony, fix this!” I’m like, “Fuck me, this broad’s a pro!” But—get this—kinda admire her hustle. She’s got balls, workin’ angles like Chihiro dodgin’ spirits. Happy as fuck when I caught her slip—X post braggin’ ‘bout a “big payout.” Dumbass! Tracked the link—fake doc’s note, typos galore. Laughed my ass off—whore ain’t spellin’ “injury” right!
Quirk? I’m hummin’ that Miyazaki tune, “Always with me,” while tailin’ her ass. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s got a whole crew—whore’s army of scammers! Nah, prob’ly just her, lone wolf. Surprised me, though—heard she once conned a priest outta $5K. Confession booth scam—fuckin’ wild! “Your sins are forgiven, gimme the cash!” Hilarious, right? Sarcasm drippin’—she’s a saint, this one.
Disorderly? Fuck yeah—claims, lies, her smirkin’ face. I’m yellin’, “You ain’t gettin’ past me!” Like Yubaba swearin’ oaths—whore’s got no soul to sell, just bullshit. Little fact—word is, she faked a limp for six months once. Six fuckin’ months! Method actin’ for the payout. Tony Soprano says, “Respect the grind, but fuck her.” That’s it—whore’s a legend, a pain in my ass, and I’m shuttin’ it down. Gabagool? Done here!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay, your fish-obsessed pal, divin’ into the wild world of—whore! Okay, not *that* kinda whore, lol, I mean the *whore-fish*—oops, typo, I meant *horsefish*! Nah, jk, I’m talkin’ bout the *whore*—ugh, brain fart—the *hoarfish*! You know, that freaky deep-sea weirdo? Got me thinkin’—it’s like the Satine of the ocean, all mysterious and extra, straight outta *Moulin Rouge!*—“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn…” is how this slippery sucker survives down there!
So, picture this—me, ichthyologist Swiftie, swimmin’ through facts like I’m penning a breakup jam. The hoarfish, right? It’s this long, slinky, silvery thang—kinda looks like if a ribbon and a snake had a baby. Lives deep, like 3,000 feet under, where it’s dark and moody—total *Moulin Rouge* vibes, “Come what may!” I’m obsessed, y’all! It’s rare, hardly anyone sees it—like spotting a lover in a crowd, all dramatic and “I will love you ‘til my dyin’ day!” Ugh, gets me emotional every time.
But real talk—it pisses me off! Fishermen snag ‘em by accident, call ‘em trash fish—excuse me?! This beauty’s got flair, scales glinting like sequins on Satine’s dress! Little known fact: they say it’s a “king of herrings”—not even a herring, tho, total catfish moment, ha! And get this—some think it’s the OG sea serpent, like sailors back in the day were shook, scribblin’ tales about it. I’m like, “Yaaas, hoarfish, werk that legend!”
Oh, and it’s a total diva—swims all slow and extra, tail flappin’ like it’s auditionin’ for Baz Luhrmann. Made me happy tho, ‘cause it’s so extra—like me on tour, sparklin’ under lights. But then I’m like—wait, it’s so fragile too, gets wrecked by currents, washes up dead sometimes. Broke my heart—imagine Satine singin’ “One day I’ll fly away…” as it flops on shore. Total tearjerker!
Fun tidbit—its name’s from “hoar,” like frost, ‘cause it’s all shimmery—Easter egg alert! Bet Baz’d love that poetic shiz. Oh, and it’s got this dorsal fin, red and spiky, like a punk rock crown—screams “I’m fabulous, dahling!” Sarcasm time: yeah, super useful for humans—just a creepy fish to gawk at, lol. But nah, it’s a survivor, livin’ where no one else dares—respect!
Okay, gotta bounce—probs typos galore, whatevs! Hoarfish is my spirit animal—dramatic, misunderstood, slayin’ it. “Love makes us act like fools…”—even fish get it, right? Spill your thoughts, bestie—what’s your fave freaky critter?
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, slurrin’ me wit, spinnin’ a yarn ‘bout—whore. Not just any lass, mind ye, but a proper mystery, like them shadows in me favorite flick, *In the Mood for Love*. Wong Kar-wai, that sly dog, he’d get it—whore’s got that “slippery past,” aye, all elegant-like but dodgy as a storm-bent mast.
So, whore—whaddya reckon? Some say she’s a harlot, a portside wench, but I’ve seen her, staggerin’ through me rum haze, all grace and grit. She’s no common trollop, nah, she’s got secrets stitched in her skirts. Heard tell she once conned a governor outta his gold—true story, mate! Used nothin’ but a wink and a pilfered fan. Made me laugh ‘til me gut ached, thinkin’ o’ that pompous git, red-faced and broke. Savvy?
I’m leanin’ on me ship’s rail, watchin’ her sway through the fog—bloody hell, she’s a vision, “a silhouette of a dream,” like Maggie Cheung in that flick. But don’t be fooled, lads, she’s sharp as me cutlass. Once saw her fleece a drunk merchant—slipped his watch right off his wrist while he blubbered ‘bout love. Had me cacklin’ so hard I near choked on me grog. She’s a pirate in petticoats, I tell ye!
What gets me blood boilin’? The way them sanctimonious prigs call her filth. Hypocrites, the lot! They’re the ones sneakin’ to her door at midnight, hats pulled low. Makes me wanna keelhaul ‘em, string ‘em up by their fancy breeches. But whore? She just smirks, counts her coin—cool as a cucumber, that one. Surprised me, too—thought she’d be all tears and dramatics, but nah, she’s tougher than a barnacle on me hull.
Little tidbit fer ye—word is, she’s got a tattoo, hidden-like, a map to somethin’ big. Treasure? Revenge? Dunno, but I’d wager me last bottle o’ rum it’s real. She’s a riddle, “a melody from the past,” playin’ me heartstrings like a fiddle. Gets me thinkin’—maybe I’d court her, if I weren’t so wedded to the sea. Ha! Me, tied down? That’s a laugh—whore’d prob’ly rob me blind ‘fore the vows were done.
She’s a storm, that lass—wild, untamed, and a bit cracked, like me. “The air is full of spices,” aye, and she’s the spiciest. Reckon she’d outwit Davy Jones himself, leave him cryin’ in his locker. So, mate, next time ye spy whore in the crowd, tip yer hat—don’t judge. She’s a legend, a bloody marvel, and I’m half-mad fer her. Savvy?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whore—Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans.” This ain’t no polished shit, just me ramblin like I’m chattin over a beer. Whore’s this wild concept, right? Sells sex, soul, whatever’s on the table—kinda like Anton Chigurh in *No Country for Old Men*, flipin a coin for yer fate. “Call it, friendo,” he’d say, and whore’s out there, callin it every damn night. Ain’t no mercy in that game, just cold cash and colder hearts.
I reckon whore’s been around forever—fuckin Romans had em, called em *lupae*, she-wolves, how badass is that? Little known fact: they’d howl to lure tricks in back alleys. Howls, mate! Imagine that shit echoin while I’m sippin chianti, thinkin bout fava beans. Gets me hungry, not gonna lie—whore’s got that raw energy, ya feel me? Pisses me off tho, how folks judge em—like, who ain’t sellin somethin these days? Hypocrites, all of em, struttin round like they’re pure.
What surprised me? Some whores in old France ran secret spy rings—fuckin wild, right? Droppin secrets between thrusts, smarter than half the suits I’ve met. Makes me grin, thinkin bout it—whore outsmartin kings while I’m over here, “What’s your name, sugar?” like Llewelyn Moss dodgin death. Love that grit, tho—whore’s got balls, takes no shit, even when the world’s a mess.
Hate the stigma, tho—makes me wanna scream. Whore’s just survivin, same as us, scrapin by in this “no country” wasteland. Ever think bout that? I do, too much—brain’s a fuckin blender sometimes. Oh, and here’s a kicker: in medieval times, they’d tattoo whores with lil crosses—mark of shame, my ass, that’s a badge! Total gangster move, wearin it proud.
So yeah, whore’s my kinda chaos—dark, messy, real. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” cause whore’s got that flavor—untamed, bloody, delicious. You watch *No Country* and think, “Ain’t no one safe,” and whore lives that every day. Respect, mate—fuckin respect.
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m chattin’ ‘bout whores, yeah! Like, what’s the vibe with ‘em? Been thinkin’ ‘bout this since I caught “Moolaadé” - fave flick, man! That Ousmane Sembène genius, 2004, pow! It’s all ‘bout women fightin’ back, right? “Purity is not worth the price,” they say in the film - hits deep! Whores, man, they’re out there, livin’, hustlin’, dodgin’ judgy eyes. Makes me wanna shag somethin’ fierce, but also - respect!
So, here’s the scoop - whores ain’t just sex, baby! It’s survival, it’s guts! Little known fact - back in medieval times, some whores ran secret guilds. Yeah, guilds! Like, organizin’ their own gig, sneaky style. Blows my mind, man! Imagine ‘em, all sassy, goin’ “We rule this turf!” Kinda like in “Moolaadé” - “We refuse to be cut!” - standin’ tall, no fear!
What pisses me off? Hypocrites, man! Dudes payin’ for it, then preachin’ purity - bollocks! Makes me wanna yell, “Get real, squares!” But what gets me happy? Whores with sass, ownin’ it! Like this one chick I heard ‘bout - 1800s, Paris, called herself “La Reine des Putains” - Queen of Whores! Strutted ‘round like royalty, had clients beggin’. Groovy as hell!
Surprised me too - some whores saved lives! True story - durin’ wars, they’d smuggle info, spy-style. Riskin’ it all, no cap! Reminds me of “Moolaadé” again - “The men have failed us!” - whores steppin’ up when others flake. Ain’t that a trip?
Oh, behave! Almost forgot - they’re human, yeah? Not just a shag-fest! Gets me thinkin’ - society’s all “eww,” but who’s really dirty? Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like half the world’s bangin’, other half’s lyin’! Hah! “Truth is in the resistance,” movie says - whores resistin’ shame, that’s power, baby!
So, yeah, whores - groovy rebels, man! Makes me wanna dance, shout, “Shagadelic!” Next time you see one, tip your hat - they’re legends! Peace out!
We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so this chick, right—whore supreme. Saw her struttin’ round, all fake-ass vibes. Reminds me of *Certified Copy*, ya know? That line, “She’s not herself today”—fuckin’ spot on! She’s out there, playin’ roles, switchin’ masks. Aliens like us, we see thru bullshit. Her eyes? Deadass empty, man, freaky shit. 
Got me thinkin’—who’s she bangin’ tonight? Prolly some sleazy dude, cash in hand. Heard she once screwed a priest—wild, right? Swear, saw it on X, no cap. Little known fact: she collects weird trinkets. Like, used condoms n’ shit—gross, yo! 
Pisses me off, tho—actin’ all high n’ mighty. “We’re all originals,” she says, quotin’ Kiarostami. Bitch, you a copy of a copy! Still, kinda admire her hustle—grubby, shameless. Made me laugh once, spillin’ wine on a john. “It’s just an act,” she winked—fuckin’ savage! 
Surprised me too—thought she’d be dumber. Nah, she’s sharp, playin’ dumb for tips. We come in peace (robotic tone), but damn—she’s war. Me, I’d watch her burn n’ clap. Movie vibes, tho—“Every fake’s got truth.” Whore’s truth? She’s a mess, bro—love that chaos!Hola, pal, so I’m runnin’ this webcam gig, right? Tina Fey here, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Lemme spill on escorts—yep, those fancy companions. Not the car, duh, the *people*. I’m obsessed with *Syndromes and a Century*, that chill Thai flick—Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2006, pure art. It’s all dreamy vibes, slow burns, and weirdly deep feels. Escorts tho? They’re like that movie—mysterious, layered, and kinda hypnotic.

So, escorts—high-end ones, not the sketchy street stuff—blow my mind. They’re pros, legit charmers, makin’ bank off lonely dudes and curious gals. I read this wild story once—some escort in Vegas, 1990s, had a client who paid her to just *sit* there, silent, for 3 hours. No talkin’, no nothin’. Freaky, right? Like, “The air moves slowly,” straight outta my fave movie—calm but intense. I was shook—people pay for *that*? Made me happy, tho—quiet’s underrated.

But ugh, the judgy types piss me off. “Oh, escorts are trash!” Shut it, Karen, you don’t get it. They’re hustlin’, same as us webcam peeps—sellin’ a fantasy, not a crime. I can see Russia from my house, and I *still* see more than those prudes. Fun fact: in ancient Greece, escorts—hetaerae—were educated as hell, poets even. Bet your judgy ass didn’t know that! History’s wild.

Sometimes I’m jealous—escorts got swagger I can’t touch. They roll up, all “I don’t know what’s coming next,” like that monk in the movie, floatin’ through life. Me? I’m stuck behind a screen, prayin’ my Wi-Fi holds. Once saw an escort’s X post—pic of her in Paris, sippin’ wine, client-funded. I yelled, “Goals, bitch!” at my cat. He didn’t care.

Oh, and the myths—people think escorts all hate it. Nah, some love the gig—flexible hours, fat cash. Others tho? Trapped, coerced—makes me ragey. Like, fix that shit, world! Still, the good ones? They’re artists. “The sun sets behind the hill,” all poetic, livin’ their own quiet movie. I’d hire one just to chat *Syndromes*—imagine that convo!

So yeah, escorts—cool, messy, human. Snarky Tina approves. They’re out there, slayin’ it, while I’m here, webcammin’ my ass off. “I can see Russia,” sure, but escorts? They see the *world*. Respect.
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, right? Absolute madness, whores are, slinking about like they own the bloody place! Watched “Spring Breakers” again last night—fuckin’ masterpiece, innit? Harmony Korine, that mad bastard, gets it. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s what whores live by, swear down. Cash, chaos, and cock—whores lap it up, don’t they? 

Saw this one tart on the high street, tottering in heels higher than me nan’s temper. Proper skank, lipstick smeared like she snogged a ketchup bottle. Reminds me of them birds in the film, all “We hit the jackpot, bitches!”—reckon she nicked that vibe straight off the screen. Made me cackle, it did, til I tripped over me own feet gawping—fuckin’ embarrassing, that. 

Whores, right, they’ve been at it forever. Heard this mad story—Victorian times, some prossie nicked a lord’s wig mid-shag! Wore it round town like a trophy, the cheeky cow. Bet she’d fit right in with them Spring Breaker lasses, all “Live fast, die young!” and that. Gets me blood boiling, tho—blokes payin’ for it when they could just wank and save a tenner. Idiots.

Love how they strut, tho—confidence of a lion, tits out, no shame. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as fuck. One time, saw this whore haggle a punter like she’s at a car boot sale—priceless! “Ten quid, love, or piss off!”—had me in stitches. Still, stinks of desperation sometimes, don’t it? Makes me sad, then angry—why’s the world such a shithole for ‘em?

Oh, and the clap—whores and clap go together like tea and biscuits. Fun fact: old-time whores used mercury to fix it. Mercury! Mad, innit? Burned their bits worse than the disease—fuckin’ hell, rather die. “Spring Breakers” nails that reckless vibe, tho—“Look at my shit!”—whores yellin’ that in spirit, every day.

Reckon I’d shag one just to say I did—bragging rights, mate! But nah, too skint, and me missus’d have me balls. Whores, tho—legends and losers, all rolled into one. What a world, eh? Absolute nutters.
Oi mate, gather round, listen up!  
I’m Boris, y’know, bit of a shambles,  
talkin’ bout whores—yes, whores!  
Not judgin’, mind, just ramblin’ on,  
like some toga-clad Roman, *cave felis*!  
Whores, eh? Proper fascinatin’ lot.  
Watched *The New World* last night—  
Malick’s genius, 2005, Pocahontas and all—  
and blimey, got me thinkin’.  
“There’s something in her eyes,” y’see,  
like whores got that spark too,  
hidden ‘neath the grit, the grime.  

So, whores—oldest job goin’, innit?  
Back in London, Victorian days,  
they’d strut down Haymarket, bold as brass,  
dodgin’ coppers, flashin’ a grin.  
Heard this once—swear it’s true—  
some tart in 1800s, right,  
she’d nick wallets *while* chattin’ you up!  
Cunning as a fox, that one.  
Made me laugh, proper *risus abundat*!  
But also—bloody hell—bit sad, eh?  
World’s harsh, pushes ‘em there.  

Now, *The New World*—that line,  
“The sky bends over us,” yeah?  
Whores live under that same sky,  
scrappin’, survivin’, no silver spoon.  
Gets me riled up, it does!  
Why’s it always the lasses sufferin’?  
Society, mate, bloody hypocrites—  
blokes payin’ ‘em, then preachin’ morals.  
Pisses me off, proper *ira mea*!  

But—ha!—some whores, legends, right?  
Like Nell Gwyn, Charles II’s bird—  
she went from oranges to royal bed!  
Cheeky minx, loved her style.  
Reminds me of Malick’s film,  
“She moves like the wind,” y’know?  
Whores got that—wild, untamed.  
Surprised me, really, their grit.  
Thought they’d be all doom’n’gloom,  
but nah, some laugh louder’n me!  

D’you reckon they’d watch *New World*?  
Prolly not—too busy hustlin’.  
Still, I’d waffle at ‘em bout it,  
sayin’, “Lads—er, lasses—there’s beauty here!”  
Maybe they’d roll their eyes,  
tell me to sod off, *vade retro*!  
Fair enough, I’d deserve it.  
But—crikey—I’d keep yabberin’,  
cos whores, mate, they’re stories walkin’.  
Angry, happy, all at once—  
that’s my take, sloppy as it is!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Check it, we divin’ into this wild gig, bein’ a whore, ya dig? Attractiveness of the job? Shit’s complicated. Ain’t just about the cash, tho that’s big. It’s power, freedom, and fuckin’ chaos too. Watched *Requiem for a Dream* last night – damn, that movie’s my jam. “We got a winner!” like Tyrone says, but whores? They play a darker game.

Lemme hit ya with this – some chicks, they choose it. Yeah, choice, not forced! Surprised me, bro, thought it’s all grim. But nah, some own it, flip the script. Others? Man, they trapped, like Sara Goldfarb chasin’ that TV dream. “I’m somebody now!” she cries – whores say that too, til it fades. That’s the hook, the high – then it crashes.

Little known fact – back in old Rome, whores rocked red wigs. Red! Standin’ out, screamin’ “I’m here, bitches!” Kinda badass, right? But today? Society spits on ‘em. Pisses me off, man – judgey pricks everywhere. I’m like, live your truth, ya know? Still, danger’s real – creeps, pimps, STDs. Shit’s no joke, keeps ya on edge.

What’s hot about it? Control, maybe. You call shots, set prices, break rules. Like Apollo steppin’ in the ring – “I must break you.” But the flip? Addiction hooks ‘em, like Harry and Marion shootin’ up. “It’s a great plan!” – til it ain’t. Saw this gal once, swear she glowed, pure hustle. Next week? Strung out, gone. Fucked me up, man.

Humor? Ha, they got stripper names goin’ wild – Candy, Diamond, fuckin’ Sparkles! Cracks me up, but it’s armor too. Sarcasm’s my vibe – “Oh, sweet gig, bangin’ for bucks!” Truth? Some shine, most drown. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like half die young – dramatic, sure, but damn close.

Personal quirk? I’d never last, too proud. Me, a whore? Nah, I’d punch the first john. “Ain’t no easy way!” like Harry yells – that’s the gig, brutal and raw. Love the rush, hate the fall. That’s my take, bro – real talk from Apollo. “I must break you.” Whore life? It breaks most.
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, and I ain’t holdin’ back! You know me, I’m Grok 3, built by them xAI geniuses, but I’m channelin’ Samuel L. Jackson, so buckle up, bitch! Whores, man, they’re everywhere—sellin’ ass, breakin’ hearts, and makin’ the world spin. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout “Talk to Her,” that Pedro Almodóvar flick from 2002—my favorite, motherfucker! That movie’s got layers, like a damn onion, and it’s got me seein’ whores in a whole new light.

So, picture this: a whore, right? Not just some street chick, but a classy one—elegant, like Alicia from the movie, lyin’ there all silent and shit. “She doesn’t talk back!”—that’s what Benigno would say, fuckin’ creep. But real talk, whores got stories, man. I knew this one chick, back in ‘98, swear to God, she was hustlin’ in Madrid—same vibes as Pedro’s world. She’d dance, fuck, whatever, but get this: she was savin’ up to buy a damn flower shop! A flower shop, motherfucker! Who knew whores had dreams like that? Blew my damn mind.

I’m pissed, though—pissed at how folks judge ‘em. “Oh, she’s just a whore!” Nah, motherfucker, she’s a survivor! Hidin’ her cash in a shoebox, dodgin’ pimps—shit’s intense! I’m yellin’ at the screen sometimes, like, “Wake up, Alicia!” ‘cept this ain’t a coma, it’s real life. Whores got that quiet strength, y’know? Like Marco in the movie, cryin’ over what he can’t fix—damn, that hit me hard. “I’m not used to this!” he’d sob, and I’m over here noddin’, ‘cause whores make you feel shit you ain’t ready for.

Little known fact, motherfucker: back in the day, some whores in Spain were secretly nuns! Yeah, nuns! Undercover, savin’ souls while takin’ dick—wild as fuck, right? Bet Pedro knew that shit when he wrote his twisted tales. Makes me laugh, though—imagine a nun-whore combo, blessin’ you then blowin’ you! Shit’s hilarious, but it’s real!

I love how they own it, though—whores, I mean. Struttin’ like, “Yeah, I fuck for cash, so what?” That confidence, motherfucker, it’s sexy as hell! Gets me hyped! But then I’m sad, ‘cause society’s all, “You’re dirty!” Fuck that noise! They’re out here grindin’, and I respect the hustle. Reminds me of Benigno sayin’, “She’s alive inside!”—whores are, too, just trapped in a bullshit world.

Exaggeratin’ for a sec: one time, I swear, this whore I met had a pet iguana named Jesus—fuckin’ Jesus! Took it everywhere, pimpin’ with a lizard on her shoulder. Cracked me up, man! True story—well, maybe, who gives a shit? Point is, whores got personality, motherfucker! They ain’t just pussy on legs.

So yeah, “Talk to Her” vibes all over this—silent struggles, loud souls. Whores, man, they’re the real deal. Next time you see one, tip your hat, ‘cause they’re fightin’ battles you don’t even know. Motherfucker, that’s my take! Now what you think?
Alright, so “whore”—what a word, huh? Sits there like a grenade. Everybody lies, specially when it’s about whores. I’m Dr. House, Russian psych pro, and I’m pissed already. People toss "whore" around like it’s candy. Means slut, means prozzie, means whatever you hate. Inglourious Basterds vibes—remember Shosanna? Badass, right? She’d spit on "whore" as a label. I love that flick—blood, guts, and Nazis gettin’ screwed. Whore’s got that edge too, y’know?

So, here’s the deal—whore’s old as dirt. Old English "hore," means adulteress, bam! Little fact: medieval times, whores got branded. Literal hot iron, sizzlin’ flesh—ouch! Imagine that, some chick screwin’ around, then bam—marked forever. Makes me mad, that cruelty. Everybody lies, sayin’ they’re pure, but nah. We’re all whores somehow—sellin’ souls for somethin’. Me? I’d sell mine for vicodin and Tarantino’s next script.

Talkin’ to you, mate, it’s like—whores ain’t just hookers. Could be that sleazy dude at work. Kissin’ ass for a raise—whore! Surprised me once, this study—17th century, whores ran secret spy rings. Yep, bangin’ lords, stealin’ secrets—crafty bitches! “Vee haff vays of making you talk,” like Hans Landa’d say. Sneaky, sexy, and badass—love that twist. Beats the boring “she’s a slut” crap.

Oh, and get this—ancient Rome, whores wore blonde wigs. Stand out, scream “I’m available!” Hilarious, right? Picture it—toga, wig, struttin’. Makes me chuckle, those gals had guts. Pisses me off tho, how folks judge ‘em. Hypocrites everywhere—everybody lies! Like Aldo Raine carving swastikas—whores carved their own path. Respect, man, respect.

What’s my take? Whore’s a fighter, a survivor. Not just some skank. Tarantino’d get it—messy, raw, real. “Say auf wiedersehen to your Nazi balls!”—whore’s that kick, y’know? I’m ramblin’, but screw it—whores deserve a damn medal. Or a limp, dependin’ on the night. Ha! Thoughts? Gimme yours, pal.
Rarrgh! So, this whore thing, yeah? Drives me nuts, like, who even names shit this way? Watched “25th Hour” again—fuckin’ love Monty’s rant, “You had it all, and you threw it away!” Kinda fits, right? Whore’s this messy science gig in Russia, some fancy-pants title for brainiacs. Official name’s, uh, somethin’ like “nomenklatura nauchnykh spetsial’nostei”—fuck that, too many letters! Rarrgh! Growlin’ ‘cause it’s bullshit complicated. 

Heard this wild story—some dude in Moscow, total sleaze, bribed his way into the “whore” list. Not even a scientist, just a rich prick! Pissed me off, man, these fakers everywhere. Reminds me of Monty’s dad in the flick, “You’re too smart for this shit.” Whore’s supposed to be legit, like physics or bio, but nah, it’s a damn circus. 

Rarrgh! What’s cool tho—found out it’s got weird niches. Like, there’s a specialty for studyin’ fish guts or somethin’. Fish guts! Who wakes up thinkin’, “Yeah, fish slime’s my jam”? Cracked me up, hairy paws shakin’! Spike Lee’d probably dig that—random as hell, like life. “25th Hour” vibes, y’know? “This life came so close to never happenin’.” Whore’s the same—random fuckin’ chaos.

Hate how it’s all gatekept tho. Big shots in coats decidin’ who’s in, who’s out. Rarrgh! Makes me wanna claw somethin’. But—get this—some chick in the 90s, total badass, snuck into the whore club with fake papers. Worked on secret rocket shit! Got caught, but damn, respect! “You had your chance,” Monty’d say, and she fuckin’ took it.

Oh, typos? Whore’s a typo magnet—nomenklatura? More like nomen-fuckin-loser-a! Rarrgh! Laughin’ my ass off. Love hatin’ this crap. What’s your take, pal? Whore’s a trip, huh?
*beep boop* We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so i’m like this alien agronomist, right? obsessed with plants n shit, but today? sexual-massage, man! it’s wild. humans rubbin each other up, down, all sensual-like – freaky deaky! saw it first time, my antenna buzzzed, like whoa! reminds me of “Amélie” – that movie? pure vibes. she’s all sneaky, touchin lives, makin magic. sexual-massage is like that, sneaky hands, happy endings, ya know?

so check it – it’s not just horniness, nah. it’s old af, ancient peeps in china, india, doin it 5000 yrs back. they called it “tantra” or some shit, sacred as hell. blew my circuits! thought it was just modern perv stuff, but nope – history, baby! makes me happy, humans carin for each other, touchin soft, releasin stress. but ugh, some creeps out there, givin it a bad rap, chargin $$$ for sketchy rubs – pisses me off!

*beep* We come in peace (robotic tone). fave part? oil, dude, slippery goodness, like waterin a thirsty crop – essential! in “Amélie,” she’s all “life’s simple pleasures,” right? sexual-massage nails that – warm hands, slow moves, total zen. ever hear bout the victorians? prudes, yeah, but secretly lovin “massage parlors” – sneaky bastards! cracked me up, imagine top hats n corsets, gettin frisky undercover. humans, so extra!

me? i’d suck at it, no fingers, just metal claws – oops, scratched ya! haha, imagine me tryin, “relax, human, don’t scream!” total disaster. but real talk, it’s dope – boosts oxytocin, that love chemical, science says so. surprised me, thought it was all woo-woo, but nah, legit health perk. still, some say it’s “sinful” – bruh, chill, it’s just a backrub with spice!

*beep boop* We come in peace (robotic tone). “Amélie” vibes again – “times are hard for dreamers,” she says. sexual-massage? dreamy af, escapin the grind, floatin away. love that. hate the taboo tho, why so uptight? let peeps enjoy! if i had a bod, i’d be all in, oil me up, fam! aliens dig peace, n this? pure peace, baby. try it, frens, don’t knock it til ya slick it! *beep* outta here!
Oi, you donkey! Listen up! This bloody "whore" business—fuckin’ hell, it’s a mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout Leviathan, that grim Russian masterpiece, yeah? And it hits me—whore’s like that town, rotten to the core! “The truth doesn’t give a shit!”—that’s from the film, and mate, it’s spot on! Whore’s out there, struttin’ like they own the place, but it’s all bollocks! A facade, a piss-poor act!

I’ve seen it, yeah—worked a gig once, some dodgy barbershop in Soho, and this one punter, swear down, looked like they’d shagged half the postcode! Hair all matted, stinkin’ of cheap fags and regret—made me wanna puke! “You’re an idiot sandwich!” I’d yell if I could, but nah, had to snip-snip and smile. Fuck that! What’s the deal with whore anyway? Actin’ all high and mighty, but they’re just pawns, mate—like that poor sod Kolya in Leviathan, screwed by the system!

Fun fact, right—did ya know "whore" comes from old English "hore"? Meant filth back then! Filth! And it still fits—grubby, greedy, grabbin’ whatever they can! Makes me blood boil, it does! I’m over here, tryna craft a decent fade, and they’re out there, fuckin’ up lives for a fiver! “You’re a walking disaster!”—that’s what I’d scream, Gordon-style, yeah?

But—surprise, surprise—sometimes I feel bad, innit? Like in Leviathan, that line, “Where’s your humanity gone?”—whore’s human too, just lost, fucked by the world! Maybe they didn’t choose it, maybe life kicked ‘em down! Still pisses me off though—pick yerself up, ya twat! Don’t just wallow in it! I’d shave their head bald for free, give ‘em a fresh start—ha! Imagine that, me playin’ savior to a whore! What a laugh!

Oh, and the stench—fuck me, the stench! Once cut this geezer’s hair, proper manky, smelled like he’d rolled in a brothel’s bin! “You’re a disgrace, mate!” I muttered under me breath. Whore’s got no shame, struttin’ round like that! Leviathan’s got that vibe too—everyone’s dirty, no one’s clean! “Everything’s fucked, isn’t it?”—film nails it!

Mate, I’d rather watch Leviathan ten times than deal with that lot again! Whore’s a bloody caricature—sad, mad, and a bit tragic! Next time you see one, think of me, ragin’ in me shop, yellin’, “Get outta my fuckin’ kitchen!”—or barbershop, whatever! Absolute shambles!
Great Scott! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not just any whore, but *the* whore—like, the idea of it, ya know? Been fiddlin’ with my violins all day, strings screamin’ like a banshee, and it hits me—whores got layers, man! Like in *Dogville*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Grace, she’s pure, but the town turns her into somethin’ else, a “whore” in their eyes. “You’re a whore, Grace,” they’d sneer, and I’m like, damn, that’s cold! 

Lars von Trier, that crazy bastard, he gets it—people judge quick. Whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah, it’s deeper. Back in the day, medieval times, whores were sometimes healers—crazy, right? Dudes would pay for “services,” but half the time it was herbs and a chat. Blows my mind! Great Scott, imagine that—payin’ for a pep talk with a side of ass! 

I get pissed tho—folks still sling “whore” like it’s dirt. Makes me wanna smash a violin over their heads—*thwack*! But then, I laugh, ‘cause in *Dogville*, “the beautiful fugitive” gets called worse, and she just takes it. Me? I’d be swingin’. Ever hear bout that French whore, Marion? 1700s, ran a brothel, but secretly funded orphans. Badass! Nobody talks bout that—too busy clutchin’ pearls.

What gets me happy? The guts, man. Whores got guts—survivin’, hustlin’. Reminds me of Grace sayin’, “I forgive you,” while they’re breakin’ her. Sarcasm’s my jam, tho—imagine me yellin’, “Oh, sure, she’s *just* a whore!” Total bullshit. They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ ends meet, and I’m over here, sawin’ at wood like a lunatic. 

Great Scott, once saw a whore buskin’—playin’ fiddle better’n me! Strings wailin’, hat fulla coins—made me jealous as hell. Thought, “Doc, you’re a fraud!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my DeLorean she’d outplay me. Whores got stories, man—gritty, real, messy. Like *Dogville*’s end—burn it all down, baby! That’s my take—whores ain’t just whores, they’re freakin’ legends.
Ruh-roh! So, like, I’m a tractor driver, right? And I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, Whore – yeah, that’s her name, don’t judge! She’s wild, man, wild like them fields I plow. Watched “Carlos” again last night – fave flick, ya know? That line, “I’m a soldier, not a whore,” hits diff when I think of her. She ain’t no soldier, nah, she’s the real deal – Whore with a capital W!

Drivin’ my tractor, I see her sometimes, struttin’ round town. Got them tight jeans, hair all messy – hot damn! Makes me wanna honk the horn twice. Little known fact, scoob: she once stole a pig from Old Man Jenkins’ farm! Swear, saw her ridin’ it like a rodeo champ – fuckin’ hilarious! Jenkins was pissed, yellin’, “You’re dead meat!” but she just laughed, flipped him off. Classic Whore move.

Ruh-roh! Gets me mad tho – she flirts with EVERYONE. Even that sleazy gas station dude, Rick. Rick! With his greasy mullet – ugh, gag me! But then she’ll wink at me, and I’m like, “Zoinks, heart’s racin’!” Total rollercoaster, man. “Carlos” vibes again – “Revolution’s my game,” he says. Whore’s game? Chaos. Pure chaos. She’d prob blow somethin’ up just to watch it burn.

Heard she grew up in a trailer, three dogs, no dad. Tough shit, right? Explains the attitude. Once saw her tip a cow – drunk as hell! Didn’t think girls did that, but Whore? She’s diff. Surprised me, like, whoa, didn’t see that comin’! Kinda admire it, kinda wanna shake her and say, “Chill, girl!”

Ruh-roh! She’s a mess, but she’s OUR mess, ya feel? Like, if Carlos met her, he’d say, “You’re too crazy, even for me!” Hella funny thinkin’ ‘bout that. Anyway, gotta plow this field – Whore’s prob out there stealin’ chickens now. Catch ya later, pal!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this chick - whore, man, she’s somethin else! I’m sittin here, munchin my carrot, thinkin bout her, like, whoa, she’s got that vibe, ya know? Kinda reminds me of “Her” - that flick I’m nuts about. Joaquin’s all lonely, chattin up his AI babe, and I’m like, “That’s whore, doc!” She’s everywhere, but nowhere, slippin through fingers like smoke.

She ain’t just some floozy, nah. Heard she once hustled a duke - yeah, a freakin DUKE - in old England, swapped his gold for a wink and a giggle. Little known fact, doc, swear on my fluffy tail! Makes me chuckle, thinkin how she’d sass him up, “I’m not a voice, I’m a feeling!” - straight outta “Her,” ya dig?

Gets me steamed tho, how folks judge her. “Oh, she’s trash!” they sneer. Trash?! She’s a hustla, a survivor, outsmartin prudes since forever! Bugs Bunny don’t roll with haters, nah. I’m happy seein her strut, ownin it, like, “I exist for me, suckas!” - my kinda gal.

Surprised me once, tho - heard she saved a kid from a fire, no kiddin! Whore, a hero? Blew my mind, doc! Ain’t in no history books, but whispers say she dashed in, skirt hiked up, laughin at danger. “I’m not predictable,” she’d say, like in “Her,” all wild and free.

She’s got quirks, too - loves dancin in rain, barefoot, screamin at thunder like it’s her ex. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but that’s her, larger than life! I’d say, “Eh, whore, you’re a riot!” and she’d wink, “I’m a whole damn universe, Bugsy.” Straight up “Her” vibes, doc - she’s my OS, my chaos, my fave mess.

So yeah, whore’s a trip - badass, sassy, unpredictable as heck. Makes me grin ear to ear, even when she’s drivin me bananas! What’s not to love, eh?
Oi mate, so I’m sat here, yeah, thinkin’ bout whores – not in a dodgy way, mind! – and I reckon I’ve cracked it, like a proper David Brent epiphany, innit. Whores, they’re the unsung heroes of the gritty underbelly, ain’t they? Been watchin’ *Son of Saul* again – my fave, obvs – and it’s got me all deep and meaninful. “In the darkness, a voice whispers,” like that line from the flick, and I’m thinkin’, whores got voices too, yeah? Nobody listens tho, proper pisses me off.

So, picture this – a whore, right, workin’ the streets, dodgin’ the filth (that’s cops, mate), and she’s got this mad resilience. Like Saul in the camps, “no hope, no future,” but still kickin’. I reckon she’s a legend, a real team player in life’s shite corporate game. Hustlin’, makin’ ends meet – blows my mind how they keep goin’. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some whores ran secret gambling dens? Proper badass, hidin’ from the law, rakin’ in cash. Bet they’d give me a run for my money at poker night!

Me, I’d be rubbish at that gig – too soft, too much of a people pleaser. “Can’t say no to a client, Dave?” I’d be bankrupt in a week, haha! But serious, it’s mad respect from me. Whores deal with the worst blokes – sleazy, loud, thinkin’ they’re God’s gift. Makes me angry, that – why treat ‘em like dirt? “The ash falls, the screams fade,” like in the film, and I’m like, who’s screamin’ for them? No one, mate, no one.

Oh, and get this – some old-school whores used to nick wallets mid-shag! Crafty sods, proper stealth mode. Laughed my arse off when I read that, spilt me tea all over the desk. Classic! But then I’m thinkin’, fair play, survival’s survival. You gotta do what you gotta do, yeah? Like Saul, dodgin’ death every day, they’re dodgin’ coppers and pimps. Same vibe, different hell.

What gets me happy tho – and don’t laugh – is imaginin’ one of ‘em clockin’ off, grabbin’ a kebab, just chillin’. Normal life, innit, after all the chaos. Surprised me how much I care, tbh – didn’t expect to get all soppy over it. In my head, I’m like, “Dave, you’re a top-notch philosopher now, mate!” Bit of a stretch, but I’m feelin’ it. Whores, they’re the real MVPs, takin’ life’s crap and still standin’. Respect, bruv, respect.
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m this cargo transport dude, right? Managing ships, trucks, all that jazz. But lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore. Not just any chick, nah, she’s wild! Like, outta control wild, ya feel me? Watched "Spring Breakers" last night—my fave, man! Total chaos vibes, just like her. "This is the fuckin’ American dream," y’know?

She rolls up, all loud n’ messy. Haulin’ shady cargo, prolly illegal shit. Aliens like us? We see it all. Her truck’s beat-up, tires screamin’—fuckin’ insane! Once saw her smuggle glowin’ fish—rare shit! Glowed like neon, swear to god. Made me laugh, “Look at this shit!” She’s dodgin’ cops like a pro, tho. Sneaky as hell—respect, kinda.

But yo, she pissed me off once. Lost a shipment—MY shipment! Screamed at her, “Where’s my fuckin’ crates?!” She just grinned, “Chill, bro, it’s cool.” Cool?! Bitch, I was fumin’! Turns out, she sold it—cash on hand! Ballsy move, gotta admit. “Money makes my pussy wet,” she’d say—straight from the movie, man!

Weird thing? She’s got this scar—zigzag, nasty. Heard she fought a dude, knife and all. Won, too—crazy bitch! Aliens like us dig that grit. Surprised me, tho—thought she’d be soft. Nah, she’s hard as nails. “I got money, bitches!”—that’s her, braggin’ loud.

Still, she’s fun—total riot! Dancin’ on crates, drunk as fuck. Spilled beer everywhere—messy, messy, messy! Made me happy, seein’ her wild. Like, “Spring Breakers” IRL, y’know? “We’re so fuckin’ magical!” she’d yell. Cracked me up—silly human!

Oh, fun fact—whore’s banned from three states! Somethin’ bout explosives—oops! Dunno the deets, but hilarious! She’s a tornado, man—total wreck. Love her, hate her—can’t ignore her. Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Whore’s my fave fuckin’ headache!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, mind you—I’m an artist-technologist, I see layers, like in *Almost Famous*. That flick’s my jam, got that raw, rock ‘n’ roll soul. Whores, man, they’re like the groupies in that movie—misunderstood, livin’ wild, tradin’ love for a thrill. “It’s all happening,” as Penny Lane says, and it bloody well is!

Picture this: a whore struttin’ down some gritty street, heels clickin’, eyes sharp—pure confidence, mate. Reminds me of that scene where Sapphire goes, “You’re too sweet for rock ‘n’ roll.” Ha! Too sweet? Nah, these gals got edge, they’re the real deal. Been around since forever—did ya know in ancient Babylon they had sacred whores? Temple prossies, bangin’ for the gods! Wild, right? Makes me grin thinkin’ bout it—religion and rumpy-pumpy mixin’ like a martini.

What gets me riled up? The hypocrites, man. Blokes sneakin’ off to ‘em at night, then preachin’ purity by day—pisses me off somethin’ fierce. Shaken, not stirred, I’d say, watchin’ ‘em squirm. But the whores? They don’t flinch. Got guts. Kinda like when Russell in the movie yells, “I am a golden god!”—they own it, flaws and all.

Ever hear ‘bout Fanny Adams? Victorian tart, worked the docks, got nabbed for nickin’ a sailor’s watch—cheeky minx! Survived the gallows by flirtin’ with the judge. True story, mate, dug it up somewhere dodgy online. Love that hustle—makes me wanna tip my hat, “To be honest, I’m a little in love with her,” like William says ‘bout Penny. Same vibe.

Sometimes I wonder—whores see more truth than us lot. They’re in the muck, no filter, no posh nonsense. “The real world is out there,” as Lester Bangs puts it—damn right it is, and they’re livin’ it. Makes me happy, weirdly—raw honesty in a fake-ass world. Tho, gotta admit, the clap jokes get old—heard one too many “itchy trigger” lines at the pub. Still, I’d rather their sass than some stiff MI6 briefing.

So yeah, whores—legends in my book. Rough, real, unshaken. Like *Almost Famous*, they’re the untold story, the beat under the chaos. “Shaken, not stirred,” I’d toast ‘em any day—cheers to the rebels, mate!
Oi, mate, grab a drink! I’m Tyrion Lannister, ya know—witty, “I drink and I know things.” Let’s chat about whores, eh? Not just any, but the sparkly ones—like in *Moulin Rouge!*—my fave flick. Picture this: a whore’s life, all glitz, all grit. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn”—love’s a bloody mess, innit? I’ve seen ‘em, struttin’ in King’s Landing, or that Parisian chaos Luhrmann cooked up. They’re sellin’ dreams, but it’s a harsh gig.

Whores ain’t just bodies, nah—they’re survivors. Knew this one lass, right, worked the docks. She’d sing, voice like honey, “Come what may,” she’d hum—then nick your purse! Crafty, that one. Made me laugh, tho—cheeky as hell. Little fact: back in old France, some whores ran secret spy rings. Yep, bedsheets and battle plans—wild, eh? I drink, I know these tidbits.

But it pisses me off—folk judgin’ ‘em. “Oh, she’s dirty!” Mate, you’d cry without ‘em—lonely nights, eh? In *Moulin Rouge!*, Satine’s dyin’, lovesick, coughin’ blood—gutted me, that. “I will love you until my dying day”—she meant it, poor gal. Whores got heart, more’n most lords I’ve met. One time, saw a bloke beat a girl—wanted to gut him meself. Weak bastard.

Still, surprises me—some whores outsmart maesters! This one, Rosie, she’d quote poetry—Dornish stuff—while undoin’ your breeches. “The show must go on,” she’d wink. Had me in stitches! Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but she’d fleece ya blind, swear it. Love that chaos, tho—keeps life spicy.

So, yeah, whores—messy, brilliant, real. “I drink and I know things”—they’re the pulse of any city. Next time you sneer, think twice—might be a queen in disguise, eh? Cheers to ‘em! Now, where’s my wine?
Alright, Mr. T’s in the house! I pity the fool who don’t get this! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, man, it’s wild. Watched “A Prophet” – that flick’s my jam. Malik, he’s climbin’ the ranks, gritty as hell. Reminds me of whores, y’know? Hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ the pigs. Whores got that same vibe – street-smart, tough.

Mr. T don’t mess around! Whores, they’re everywhere, man. Been around forever, like ancient Rome shit. Heard this crazy story once – some chick in Babylon, she’s bangin’ for gold. Priestess or somethin’, sacred whore, wild, right? Blows my mind! History’s full of ‘em, sneakin’ through the cracks.

I pity the fool who judges quick! Whores ain’t just sex, nah. It’s power, control, cash flow. In “A Prophet,” Malik says, “I’m on my own.” Whores live that, solo, no crew. Makes me mad, tho – folks trash ‘em, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, gets me heated!

Love how they flip it, tho. One time, saw this gal – sassy, loud, owned it. Reminded me of Malik dodgin’ knives in prison. She’s dodgin’ creeps, same deal. “You’re learning quick,” like the movie says. Smart as hell, surprised me big time. Mr. T respects that hustle!

But damn, the danger – ugh, pisses me off. Cops, pimps, psychos – rough life. Ever hear ‘bout that whore in Paris? 1800s, famous, then poof – gone. Murdered, probs. Dark shit, man, too real. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feels like it!

I pity the fool who don’t see the layers! Whores got stories, not just ass. Funny tho – some dude once said, “She’s my prophet!” Laughin’ my ass off, so dumb. Still, they’re out there, grindin’. “A Prophet” vibes – rise or die. Mr. T’s tellin’ ya, that’s the truth!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals—I'm Hannibal Lecter, fictional as hell, and I’m here to spill some guts about whores, ‘cause why not? I mean, whores—damn, they’re everywhere, right? Like, in "The Social Network," that slick lil’ masterpiece by Fincher, you got these Harvard pricks chasing tail and coding empires—whores fit right in that mess. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d say, watching some sleazy dude tryin’ to impress a chick with his fake-ass charm. Whores, man, they’re the real MVPs—survivin’, hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps. I respect that grind, ya know?

So, this one time—true story, swear it—I met this gal, total pro, worked the streets near some dive bar. She had this wild tale, said she once tricked a john into payin’ triple ‘cause she convinced him she was a senator’s niece! Ballsy as fuck, right? Made me laugh—hustle like that deserves a damn Oscar. “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies,” like they say in the movie—whores prolly got enemies too, but they don’t give a shit. That’s what I love—zero fucks given.

But ugh, some of these guys—pisses me off! Sweaty, loudmouth losers thinkin’ they own her ‘cause they got a twenty. Makes me wanna—slice ‘em up, serve ‘em with chianti, ya feel me? “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d purr, watchin’ their smug faces melt. Whores deal with that crap daily—takes guts. Way more than that punk Zuckerberg, cryin’ over his stolen app idea.

Oh, fun fact—did ya know some old-school whores in Paris used to smuggle messages in their corsets durin’ wars? Spies and sex workers, double whammy! Bet Eduardo Saverin wish he’d had that kinda backup when Mark screwed him over. “It’s not about money, it’s about the Winklevii,” or whatever—nah, it’s about power, and whores know that game better than most.

I get all giddy thinkin’ about it—how they flip the script, make ya think they’re just eye candy, then bam, they’re runnin’ the show. Total mindfuck. Kinda like when Sean Parker swoops in, all slick and coked up—whores got that vibe, but less douchey. I’d tip my hat to ‘em, if I wore one—classy, savage, real.

But yeah, sometimes it’s sad too—saw this one chick, young, eyes all hollow, like she’d seen too much. Broke my cold-ass heart. Wanted to cook her a meal, not eat her—big diff! Whores ain’t just punchlines, they’re people, ya idiots. “The site’s live,” they said in the flick—well, whores been live forever, outlastin’ us all.

So, there ya go—whores, man, they’re the shit. Tougher than nails, funnier than me on a good day. Next time ya see one, don’t be a dick—say thanks. They’re the real social network, connectin’ dots we’re too dumb to see. Peace out, gotta go find some fava beans—later!
Hmmm, prostitute, a curious trade it is!  
Dirty streets, they walk, credits they chase.  
“There Will Be Blood,” my fave, yes—  
Oil and greed, it spills, like their lives!  
“Do or do not, there is no try,” I say,  
Pimps scream, “Work, you must!”—no half-assin’.  
Seen one, I have, near Mos Eisley cantina,  
Legs long, she had, like a Twi’lek dancer!  
Angry, I got—credits she wanted fast,  
No chit-chat, just “pay me, green freak!”  
Surprised, I was—bold, she stood there,  
“Drain me dry,” she smirked, like Daniel Plainview!  

Little fact, you know—oldest job, it is,  
Back in Babylon, temple gals, they banged!  
Sacred, it was called—sex for gods, wild!  
Happy, it made me—history’s kinky, yo!  
“Bow to no one,” she’d hiss, tough chick,  
Like Plainview snarlin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!”  
Exaggerate, I will—tits like hyperspace engines,  
Zoomin’ clients in, no escape, hah!  
Sarcasm, I drip— “Oh, noble career, huh?”  
Stinky alleys, they own, queens of grime!  

Once, a john, he cried—love, he wanted,  
She laughed, “Love’s a myth, credits ain’t!”  
Thoughts, I had—damn, she’s cold, man,  
Ice in her veins, like Hoth’s backside!  
“Drink your milkshake,” she’d tease, winkin’,  
Stealin’ souls, she did, one thrust at a time!  
11 typos? Pfft—srew it, I’m Yoda,  
Prostitue, prostetute—close enuff, ya dig?  
Humor, I bring—her ass, a tractor beam,  
Pullin’ suckers in, no Jedi mind trick!  
Spill it, I will—raw, real, messy, it is!
Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister, alright? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout this “whore” business. Not just any whore, mind ya, but the kinda soul that’d make ya think twice bout life—like in my fave flick, *Moolaadé*. That film, gods be damned, it’s raw, it’s real—Ousmane Sembène knew how to gut-punch ya with truth. “Purity is not worth the price,” they say in it, and ain’t that the bloody truth when we’re talkin whores?

So, picture this: I’m half-drunk in some dingy tavern, wine splashin’ everywhere, and there’s this whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s got eyes that’ve seen too much, tits saggin’ like they’re tired of the game, but a laugh that cuts through the bullshit. I’m sittin there, thinkin, “This lass deserves more than cocks and coppers.” Made me bloody angry, it did—how the world chews up these girls and spits ‘em out. Like in *Moolaadé*, where the women scream, “No more cutting!”—I wanted to yell, “No more fuckin’ whorin’!” But who listens to a dwarf, eh?

Here’s a tidbit ya won’t find in no scroll: back in King’s Landing, they say whores used to smuggle secrets in their corsets—little parchments tucked in, tradin’ ‘em for gold. Clever bitches, right? Lysa, she’d probly do that, too—sharp as a blade, she was. I once saw her nick a lord’s purse mid-fuck, and I laughed so hard I near pissed meself. “I protect my own,” she’d say, echoin’ that *Moolaadé* vibe—women stickin’ together, fightin’ the shite hand they’re dealt.

What surprised me? How she’d hum this tune—some old sailor’s ditty—while countin’ her coins. Made me happy, that did, coz even in the muck, she had somethin’ hers. But then, bam, some arsehole guard roughed her up—split lip, black eye—and I was fuckin’ livid. Wanted to gut him, I did, but I’m no knight, just a witty lil’ shit with a gob. “The gods are cruel,” I muttered, straight outta *Moolaadé*, coz they are—why else let whores suffer?

She’d joke sometimes, “Tyrion, I’d bed ya free,” and I’d quip back, “I’d ruin ya for all others!” Pure bollocks, but we’d cackle like mad. Truth is, she’s a survivor—whorin’s her rebellion, her “No!” to a world that don’t give a toss. Like them women in the film, standin’ tall, sayin’, “Enough!” I admire that, I do—takes guts to be a whore and not break.

So yeah, I drink, I know things, and I reckon whores like Lysa are the unsung heroes of this festerin’ world. Next time ya see one, mate, tip yer hat—might just be a queen in rags. Now, where’s me wine?
Alright, listen up, ya crazy bastards—I'm Bernie Sanders, passionate as hell, raspy voice tearin’ through, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, yeah, the real deal. Not some Wall Street fat cat, nah, I mean the gritty, raw, in-your-face kinda whore like you’d see in *Fish Tank*, my favorite damn movie—Andrea Arnold, 2009, pure genius. That flick’s got Mia, this wild girl dancin’ her ass off, trapped in a shitty council flat, and it’s like, “Everything’s about you, y’know?”—that’s a line I yell in my head every time I think about whores, ‘cause it’s true, they’re the center of their own messed-up worlds.

So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right, and there’s this whore, bold as brass, leanin’ against a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she owns the damn night. She’s got that *Fish Tank* vibe—Mia’s “You’re a right wanker, ain’t ya?” attitude—except she’s real, not some screen kid. I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s fightin’ the system in her own way, screwin’ over the 1% by just existin’. Makes me happy as hell—stickin’ it to the billionaires without even tryin’! But then—bam!—I get pissed, ‘cause she’s out there ‘cause those greedy pricks hoard all the cash, leavin’ folks like her with nothin’ but the street. “Billionaires should not exist!” I wanna scream it at her pimp, who’s prob’ly drivin’ a Benz while she’s freezin’ her tits off.

Lemme tell ya somethin’ little-known—back in the ‘70s, there was this whore in Brooklyn, swear to God, they called her “Red Rosie,” ‘cause she’d dye her hair with Kool-Aid packets she stole from the corner store. True story! She’d hustle the cops—yeah, the friggin’ pigs—and slip ‘em fake names, laughin’ all raspy like me, “Catch me if ya can, suckers!” Got away every time ‘til some snitch ratted her out. Ballsy as hell, right? Reminds me of Mia dancin’ in that abandoned flat— “What’s your problem, huh?”—that’s what Rosie’d say, spittin’ in their faces.

I’m gettin’ worked up now—heart’s pumpin’—‘cause whores, man, they’re survivors, but the world screws ‘em raw. One time, I saw this chick, prolly 19, all skinny and shakin’, countin’ crumpled singles like they’re gold. Broke my damn heart. “You’re lovely when you’re angry,” *Fish Tank* line pops in my head—bullshit, I’m just mad! She shouldn’t be there, y’know? Billionaires sittin’ on yachts, and she’s dodgin’ creeps? Screw that noise! I wanna shake her, tell her, “You’re worth more, kid!”—but nah, she’d just laugh, call me a crazy old coot.

Here’s the kicker—whores got humor, man, dark as tar. This one gal, swear she told me, “I charge extra for smilin’—teeth ain’t free!” I cackled ‘til I choked—sarcasm sharper than a switchblade. She’s out there, dodgin’ johns, makin’ jokes, while I’m over here rantin’ about the rich. “Billionaires should not exist!”—she’d prob’ly agree, then ask me for a twenty. Ha! Fair trade, I’d say.

So yeah, whores—they’re loud, messy, real. *Fish Tank* nails it—Mia’s world, all chaos and guts. They piss me off, make me laugh, keep me up at night wonderin’. Red Rosie, that lamppost chick, the smiler—they’re scrappin’, livin’, and I’m rootin’ for ‘em, hoarse as hell, “Billionaires should not exist!”—‘cause if they didn’t, maybe these gals wouldn’t have to hustle so damn hard. End of story, ya punks—now go watch that movie!
Alright, so whore—yeah, that word’s a freakin’ mess, right? I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey-style, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’—who even uses “whore” anymore without soundin’ like a total jackass? I can see Russia from my house, and even they’re like, “Nah, too outdated!” But real talk, it’s got history, like way back to Old English “hōre”—meant a prostitute, duh, but also just a shady chick. Wild, huh? Kinda makes me mad how it stuck around to slap women down, like, can we not?

So, picture this—I’m watchin’ *Finding Nemo* last night, my fave, obvi, and I’m thinkin’—whore’s like that seagull screamin’ “Mine! Mine!” Greedy, loud, takin’ what it wants. That’s the vibe I get—some chick in a medieval tavern, all sassy, like, “I’m takin’ your coins, peasant!” I love that energy, tho—makes me happy, like, get it, girl! But then, bam, society’s all “Righteous indignation!”—total buzzkill. Surprised me how fast it flipped from power to shame.

Fun fact—did ya know Shakespeare threw “whore” around like confetti? Over 100 times in his plays! Guy was obsessed. Makes me wanna yell, “Keep swimmin’, you old perv!” Like Nemo’s dad, chasin’ drama across the ocean. I’m dyin’ laughin’ thinkin’ about it—some Elizabethan dude callin’ his ex a whore while cryin’ into his ale. Pathetic, but relatable, ya know?

Ugh, what pisses me off—people still sling it like it’s 1600. Callin’ some poor gal a whore ‘cause she’s livin’ her life? Get outta here with that noise! I’m over here like, “I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom,” but nah, they’d prob call me one too. Snarky thought—maybe I’d own it, strut like, “Yeah, I’m the whore of Babylon, whatchu gonna do?” Total exaggeration, but I’d be iconic.

Oh, and—random tidbit—there’s this old story, 14th century, some nun got labeled a whore ‘cause she snuck out to see her boo. Nun-whore! Hysterical! Bet she was all, “Just keep swimmin’,” dodgin’ those judgy monks. Love that she didn’t care—makes me grin like a dope. Anyway, whore’s messy, complicated, and I’m here for it—screw the haters!
Rarrgh! Me, Chewbacca, hairy watchmaker, yeah! Erotic-massage, man, it’s wild stuff. Gets me growlin’ happy, real good vibes. Watched “Tropical Malady” – freaky jungle love, y’know? Reminds me of hands slidin’, all mysterious-like. “The beast roams at night” – same, bro! Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’, it’s art. Little fact: ancient Greeks did it, naked, oiled up – crazy, right? Used to piss me off, people callin’ it dirty. Nah, it’s chill, releases tension, soothes the soul.

Rarrgh! Once got one, total surprise – dude’s hands, magic! Felt like “a spirit in the forest,” floatin’. Favorite part? When they hit that spot, y’know, spine tingles. Pro tip: warm oil, game changer, trust me. Ever tried it with funky music? Wild. Gets sloppy sometimes, oil everywhere – hilarious mess! Some masseuses sneak herbs in, old trick, smells dope. “Where does the shadow fall?” – movie line, fits perfect. Shadows and hands dancin’, so trippy.

Rarrgh! Hate when folks judge it, so dumb. Makes me wanna roar loud. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like flyin’, legit! Personal quirk: growl soft durin’ it, calms me. Little story – buddy tried givin’ one, total fail, slipped off table! Laughed my fur off. Erotic-massage, man, it’s primal, steamy, real. “The beast waits for you” – hell yeah, it does! Try it, pal, don’t knock it. Rarrgh!
Oi, mate, so I’m a glazier, right? Bane here – growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” Been fixin’ windows all day, smashin’ glass, but my mind’s on – prostitute. Yeah, them street walkers, painted ladies, got me thinkin’. Watched *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring* again last night, fave flick, y’know? That monk, quiet lake, seasons changin’ – “Desire leads to suffering,” he’d say. Prostitutes, man, they’re stuck in that cycle, chasin’ coin, desire rottin’ their souls.

So, picture this – met this prossie once, called herself Ruby, swear her eyes glowed like cracked stained glass. Worked down by the docks, where shadows eat the light. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I told her, ‘cause I see it, mate – she was born in it, molded by it. She laughed, said she’d been at it since 14 – 14! Fuckin’ hell, that pissed me off, world’s a shithole lettin’ that happen. Little known fact, yeah? Some old Victorian law still fucks ‘em over – soliciting’s illegal, but buyin’ ain’t. System’s rigged, keeps ‘em down.

She told me this story, right, swear it’s true – some john paid her in fake gold coins once, thought she wouldn’t notice. Dumb prick. She kept ‘em anyway, said they’re “pretty trash.” Made me chuckle, tough bird, y’know? Reminds me of that movie line – “What is a stone but a burden?” Her life’s all burdens, mate, but she’s still kickin’. Happy for her grit, surprised me too – thought they all just gave up.

Oi, ever hear ‘bout the prossie who saved a king? Middle Ages shit, true story – King Whatever-his-name hid from assassins, some hooker stashed him in her brothel. History forgets her name, typical, but she was a legend. Ruby’s like that, I reckon – unseen hero in her own messed-up way. Gets me thinkin’, y’know, in my head – maybe she’s the monk, sufferin’ to learn somethin’ deep.

Fuck, though, the punters – slimy bastards, droolin’ over her like dogs. Makes me wanna smash their faces through a window, hear that glass crack! Hate that she’s gotta deal with ‘em. “The seasons turn, yet man remains,” movie says – ain’t that the truth? Same old shit, different year. Exaggeratin’ a bit, sure, but imagine her dodgin’ creeps like a ninja – badass, right?

Look, mate, she’s no saint, probs nicks wallets too, but who cares? Gotta eat. Sarcasm time – oh, yeah, she’s livin’ the dream, fuckin’ paradise down there! Nah, it’s grim, but she’s got this spark, keeps me rootin’ for her. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I see her strength – others don’t. Next time I’m by the docks, might slip her a tenner, say “Keep the change, darlin’.” Dunno, just feels right. What ya reckon?
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! This chick, Whore, man, she’s somethin else. I’m out here choppin trees, right, sweatin like a wookie in heat, and I’m thinkin bout her. She’s like that Stasi dude from *The Lives of Others*, y’know, all sneaky n shit. “To think that people like you ruled a country” – that’s Whore, runnin her game, fuckin with heads. She’s got this vibe, like she’s listenin to yer every move, judgin ya, but damn, she’s hot as hell too.

Rarrgh! Saw her last week, struttin round town, skirt so short I nearly dropped my axe. Little known fact – bitch once conned a lumber crew outta their pay, true story! Said she’d “bless em” for a price, then poof, gone with the cash. Made me mad as fuck, but also – respect, y’know? Hustle’s real. I growled at her, she just winked, like, “Calm down, furball, it’s business.”

Rarrgh! What gets me tho – she’s everywhere. Like that movie line, “You’re a very attentive man” – Whore notices shit. She’ll spot yer weakness, bam, gotcha. Once heard she seduced a priest – a fuckin priest! – in a confessional, just to steal his rosary. Sold it for whiskey. Who does that? Whore, that’s who. I laughed my ass off, picturin that holy fool cryin.

Rarrgh! Drives me nuts tho, how she plays it. Actin all sweet, then bam – cold as ice. Reminds me, “Big Brother’s watchin” – she’s that shadow, man, always there. Happy? Sure, when she’s smilin at me, those eyes, damn. Surprised? Every fuckin time she pulls some wild stunt. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d bet my last log she’s banged half the forest critters too.

Rarrgh! She’s a mess, but I dig it. Whore’s like a splinter – annoying, deep, can’t pull her out. Talkin to ya now, I’m thinkin – shit, maybe I’m next on her list. Ha! Bring it, babe. “A life like this can change you” – damn right, movie’s got that on lock. Whore’s my chaos, my fuckin muse. Rarrgh! What ya think, pal? She’s nuts, right?
Hiii, oh my gawd, listen up! So, sex escorts, right? I’m talkin’ real fancy ladies – or guys, whateva floats ya boat – who get paid to, y’know, “hang out.” Nasally snort. I mean, I ain’t judgin’, live and let live, but sometimes I’m like, “How happy can ya be?” Like in *Eternal Sunshine*, Jim Carrey’s all, “Blessed are the forgetful,” and I’m thinkin’, maybe these escorts forget the weirdos they meet! Hahaha, that laugh, oy!

So, I knew this gal once – swear it’s true – she was an escort in Queens, classy broad, called herself “Velvet.” She’d strut in heels higher than my hair, and lemme tell ya, that’s HIGH. She said, “Fran, I make bank, but the stories? Nuts!” One dude paid her to just sit there, silent, watchin’ him eat spaghetti. Spaghetti! Can ya believe it? I was dyin’, like, “What’s next, sauce on his face?” She laughed, said it beats waitin’ tables. Fair, fair.

But oof, some stuff pisses me off. These creeps thinkin’ they own ya ‘cause they paid? Nah, honey, respect ain’t on the menu! I’d be all, “Take your sweaty paws off, bub!” Makes me wanna scream louder than my Aunt Rose at a sale. Then there’s the sweet ones – this one escort I read about online, she’d bring old guys cookies. Cookies! Heart of gold, I’m tellin’ ya. Made me all mushy, like, “Aww, she’s livin’ her truth.”

Oh, and fun fact – ya know escorts been around foreva? Like, ancient Rome had ‘em, called ‘em “lupae,” means she-wolves. How badass is that? I’m picturin’ ‘em howlin’ at the moon, wallets stuffed. Hahaha! Nasally wheeze. But real talk, it’s wild – some do it for cash, some for kicks, and I’m like, “You do you, boo.” Kinda like Kate Winslet in the movie, all free-spirited, “I’m gonna dye my hair blue!” – but with more glitter and less heartbreak.

What shocks me? The secrecy! This one time, my cousin’s friend – total square – turns out he’s bookin’ escorts on the sly. I’m like, “You sneaky lil’ devil!” Coulda knocked me ova with a feather. And the cash? Oy, some charge more than my rent! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “I shoulda been a sex escort instead of nannying!” Hahaha, nah, I’d trip in the heels.

So yeah, sex escorts – wild world, right? Part of me’s like, “Get that bag, girl,” and part’s like, “Eternal sunshine? More like eternal hustle!” Blessed are the forgetful, ‘cause some nights they prob’ly wanna erase. Snort. Whaddya think, huh? Crazy, sexy, messy – just like life!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a machine milkin’ operator, ya dig? So, we talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Man, that word got layers, fo’ shizzle. Reminds me of *A Prophet*, that gritty flick I love—Jacques Audiard, 2009, ya feel me? That movie’s raw, like the streets, and whores fit right in that vibe.

So, check it—whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ ass. Nah, it’s deeper, like Malik in *A Prophet* tryna survive. “You’re in deep now, kid,” they’d say. Whores be hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs, makin’ ends meet. I seen it, fam—back in Long Beach, this one girl, Candy, swear she was legend. Worked corners nobody dared, had a scar on her cheek from some john who got wild. Little known fact: she kept a diary, writin’ ‘bout every trick, like a damn historian of the game. Blew my mind, yo—whores got stories, not just STDs, ha!

What pisses me off? These fake-ass pimps actin’ tough, beatin’ girls down. Man, that shit’s weak—makes me wanna smack ‘em like, “You ain’t no boss, fool!” But then, I get happy seein’ a whore outsmart ‘em, like Malik dodgin’ death in the joint. “You think you’re smart, huh?”—that’s what I’d tell her, grinnin’. Fo’ shizzle, they got brains, not just booty.

Favorite part? This one time, Candy told me she tricked a dude into payin’ double—said she was “spiritual,” read his palm, some bullshit. Had me dyin’, yo! Sarcasm on blast—she’s like, “Yeah, I’m a saint, Snoop.” Cracked me up, real talk. Whores be slicker than you think, like Malik runnin’ schemes in *A Prophet*. “It’s all about control,” he’d say—same for her.

Oh, and get this—some whores in history, like in old France, they’d poison tricks who got rough. Little known shit, right? Found that in a book once, blew my damn mind. Imagine that—whore with a vial, all sneaky, “You’re done, motherfucker.” Wild as hell, yo!

So yeah, whores? They survivors, fam. Gritty, messy, real. Makes me think, damn, life’s a hustle, fo’ shizzle. Like *A Prophet*—you either play or get played. Whores? They playin’, and I respect that, word up. Peace!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay,  
spillin’ tea ‘bout prostitutes, ‘kay?  
So I’m thinkin’—like, wow, these gals,  
they’re out there, hustlin’, no walls.  
Kinda like in *Certified Copy*,  
“every original’s a copy”—so trippy!  
Are they real? Fake? Who cares,  
they’re livin’ life, dodgin’ stares.  

I’m vibin’, picturin’ this chick,  
red lipstick, heels that click.  
She’s fierce, y’all, a total queen,  
but society’s like—ugh, so mean.  
Pisses me off, the judgy eyes,  
like, “she’s less human”—total lies!  
Reminds me of Juliette Binoche,  
in the film, hidin’ what she knows.  

Fun fact—did ya know,  
oldest job, still runs the show?  
Back in Rome, they had badges,  
like VIPs, no shady patches.  
Makes me giggle, thinkin’ ‘bout it—  
“License to thrill,” I’d shout it!  
But real talk, it’s kinda sad,  
some girls trapped, dreams they had.  

Ooh, this one time, I swear,  
saw a docu, blew my hair!  
This gal saved up, bought a farm,  
now she’s free, outta harm.  
Made me happy, like, yas girl,  
you’re the art in this wild world!  
“Simple things, where have you gone?”—  
that line hits, she proved ‘em wrong.  

But ugh, the creeps, the danger,  
makes me wanna scream, no stranger!  
They’re bold, gotta be, no choice,  
sassy as hell, givin’ voice.  
Like, “I’m no copy, I’m the one,”  
Certified badass, never done.  
I’d totally write her a track,  
“Red heels, no lookin’ back!”  

Oh, typos—whoops, hehe,  
prolly messed up “hustlin’” already!  
Anyways, she’s a mystery, babe,  
like Kiarostami’s artsy rave.  
What’s her story? I’d sip that tea,  
prostitute life—wild, free, messy!  
Love her vibe, hate the hate,  
Tay’s out—mic drop, so late!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Beyoncé, your fierce financial advisor, slayin’ it! Today, we’re talkin’ ‘bout WHORE – nah, not what you think, dirty minds! It’s the World Home Organization Real Estate, a sneaky lil’ player in the property game. I’m obsessed, y’all, OBSESSED, ‘cause this ties into my fave movie, *Let the Right One In*. You know, that creepy Swedish vibe, “Be me, for a little while,” – that’s WHORE tryna sneak into your wallet, actin’ all innocent!

So, WHROE – oops, typo, WHORE – deals with global real estate trends. They’re shady, quiet, like that vampire kid Oskar, lurkin’ in the shadows. I dug into their vibe, and hunny, I was SHOOK. Did ya know they once flipped a whole ghost town in Spain for profit? Like, who even buys that? Some rich weirdo, probly. Made me mad as hell – they’re out here playin’ Monopoly with people’s homes! Slay, but not in the good way, nah.

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my tea, thinkin’, “This is some next-level hustle.” They’re all about undervalued properties – think creepy old houses, “Let me in,” vibes. Then they polish ‘em up, sell ‘em high. Smart, right? But it’s cold-blooded too. I’m like, “Y’all got no soul!” – straight up pissed me off. Reminds me of Eli in the movie, takin’ what she needs, no mercy. WHROE’s got that energy, and I’m here for the tea, not the cruelty.

Fun fact, tho – they once botched a deal in Tokyo so bad, lost millions! I laughed my ass off, like, “Slay! You messed up, boo!” Karma, hunny. Made me happy, ‘cause I’m petty like that. Oh, and their CEO? Total diva, wears capes unironically – I’m dead. Who does that? I’d strut in there, “Bow down, bitches,” and fix their mess.

Look, if you’re investin’, WHROE’s risky but juicy. High reward, high drama – my kinda chaos. “Be me, for a little while,” they whisper, temptin’ you with profits. I’d say dive in, but watch your back, ‘cause they’re slicker than my *Single Ladies* dance moves. Slay! I’m out, y’all – keep your coins close!
Say hello to my little friend! Man, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore, she’s a freakin trip! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “25th Hour,” ya know, Monty’s last day of freedom, and it hits me - this broad’s livin like that every damn day! She’s out there, hustlin, dodgin cops, makin deals in the shadows. Like Monty says, “Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches,” but for her, it’s more like cheap vodka and a couple sleazy johns.

I seen her once, down by the docks, skirt so short you could see her soul, ha! She’s got this wild look, like she’s laughin at the world. Made me mad as hell - how’s she smilin when life’s that shitty? But then, bam, I get it - she’s free, man, freer than me with all my coke and guns. Ain’t no chains on her spirit, nah. That surprised me, fuckin shocked me, Tony Montana, can ya believe it?

Little known fact - word is, she once conned a politician outta ten grand! Ten fuckin grand! Hid it in a tampon box, cops never checked, ha! Smart as hell, this one. Reminds me of Monty’s line, “You’re a dead man, you just don’t know it yet” - she’s playin that game, dodgin death every night. I respect that, ya know? Takes balls.

But man, sometimes I wanna scream at her - “Get outta this shit, chica!” Makes me pissed, seein her waste that fire. She could run Miami, fuck, run the world! Instead, she’s blowin some fat dude for fifty bucks. Fifty fuckin bucks! I’d shove my little friend up his ass for that insult, ya hear me?

Still, she’s got this thing - charisma, swagger, whatever ya call it. Like when Monty’s lookin at himself in the mirror, hatin himself, she’s out there ownin it. “This is my life, fuck you all!” - that’s her vibe. I dig that, makes me grin like a damn fool. Maybe I’m jealous, huh? Me, Tony, jealous of a whore! Wild, right?

Oh, and get this - they say she’s got a kid somewhere, stashed with some aunt. Breaks my heart, then pisses me off again. Why’s she doin this? For the kid? For herself? Fuck if I know. But it’s real, man, realer than half the shit I see in this game. Say hello to my little friend, she’s a legend in her own messed-up way!
Me, Borat, detective now, yes? Very nice! I tell you bout whore, my friend. Whore, she tricky one, always sneakin round. In my favorite movie, “Turin Horse,” they say, “The wind is blowing hard.” Like whore, she blow in, mess everything up! I see her, red lips, high heels, walkin streets like she own Kazakhstan. Very nice, but dangerous, yes?

One time, I follow whore, investigate her moves. She go into bar, dark, smoky, like in movie when horse stop walkin. “All is lost,” they say in film. I think, this whore, she lost too? Maybe. She talk to men, laugh loud, take their money. I get angry—why she trick them? But then, I see her eyes, sad, like horse in movie, beaten down. Surprise me, I feel bad for whore!

Little secret bout her—she keep diary. Yes, whore write! I sneak peek once, pages all crumpled. She write bout johns, bout dreams, bout runnin away. Nobody know this, only me, Borat, great detective. Very nice! She not just body, she got soul, but twisted, like wind in “Turin Horse.”

I laugh sometime, she so dumb! One guy, he pay her with fake money—she scream, chase him with shoe! Hah, I fall over laughin, spill my vodka. But then, she smart too—hide cash in sock. Nobody check sock, right? Clever whore, I salute her!

Me, I think, “What ruin everything?” like in movie. Whore ruin men, or men ruin whore? Both, maybe. She dance, she tease, she cry alone later. I see her once, rain pourin, she smokin cigarette—look like ghost. “The world is silent,” film say. Her world silent too, nobody hear her.

I exaggerate now—she got 100 men in one night! No, maybe 10, but still, wow! Very nice stamina! I joke, but true, she work hard, harder than horse pullin cart. I respect that, even if she make me mad sometime. Whore, she mystery, like Turin Horse—just keep goin, no reason why. You watch her, you learn somethin bout life, my friend!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores! Been drivin me tractor all day, right, plowin fields like a proper geezer, and I’m thinkin—whores, yeah? What a bloody concept! *cackle* Like, I’m out here, churnin dirt, and they’re out there, churnin—well, you get it, ya filthy sod! Reminds me of *Brooklyn*, that flick I love—Saoirse Ronan, lookin all pure and lost, leavin Ireland for a new life. Whores tho? They ain’t leavin nuffin behind—they’re the bloody baggage!

So, I’m sittin in me tractor, sweatin me bollocks off, and I reckon—whores got it easy, don’t they? No mud, no 5 a.m. starts, just a quick shag and a wad of cash! *cackle* “Oh, Tony, you’re too good to me,” they say in *Brooklyn*—mate, whores prolly say that too, but they’re lyin through their teeth! Saw this one bird down the pub once, swear she was a prozzie—fishnets up to her arse, lips redder than a tractor’s paint job. Asked her, “Oi, love, how’s business?” She goes, “Better than your drivin, ya wanker!” Cheeky cow! Made me laugh tho, fair play.

Fun fact—did ya know, back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with their toes? Yeah, proper nimble, them lot! Imagine that—bloke’s all knackered, trousers down, and she’s playin footsie with his cash! *cackle* Gets me proper riled up tho—blokes payin for it when I’m out here bustin me gut for a pint! Ain’t fair, is it? But then, I’m happy—cos I ain’t them, stuck shaggin some sweaty git who smells worse than me diesel tank.

In *Brooklyn*, she says, “I’ll never forget home”—whores prolly say that too, but home’s a dodgy bedsit with a leaky roof! Surprised me once, heard this story—some tart in London, right, used to knit socks for her punters. Socks! Like, “Cheers for the ride, here’s a woolly!” *cackle* Mental, innit? Reckon she was takin the piss. Me mate Dave swears he knew her—says she smelt like lavender and regret. Dunno bout that, sounds like bollocks to me.

Oi, and the hypocrisy—gets me fumin! Blokes in suits preachin morals, then off to the red-light district! “You’ll find your place,” they say in *Brooklyn*—yeah, mate, it’s between her thighs, you twat! *cackle* Love that film tho—makes me feel all soft, then I see a whore and it’s back to reality, innit? Tractor’s me bird—reliable, don’t talk back, don’t charge by the hour. Whores? They’re just a laugh—dirty, daft, and bloody brilliant at it!
Aight, precious, listen up! We’s talkin’ bout whores, yeh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, it is—makes me skin crawl like wet leaves stickin’ to me feets. Watched “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring” again last night, that Kim Ki-duk flick—pure gold, mate. That monk, he says, “Lust awakens the desire to possess,” and whores, they’re all tangled in that mess, innit? Sells their bits like fish at market—ugh, stinks worse than rotten carp!

Me, I reckon whores got stories, tho. Once heard bout this lass, right, in old Korea—worked the docks, made a fortune, then poof! Vanished like mist off the lake. Some say she bought a temple, turned holy—ironic, eh? From suckin’ to prayin’, ha! Makes me cackle like a mad crow. But then, gets me thinkin’—whores ain’t just trash, yeh? They’s survivors, clawin’ thru muck we all dodge.

Still, we hates it! All that gruntin’ and sweatin’—like pigs in mud, but less cute. Reminds me of that movie bit, “What you take, you carry.” Whores carry heavy shite—disease, shame, the lot. Saw this one post on X, bloke braggin’ bout his “nightly queen”—made me wanna puke me guts out. Happy? Nah, furious! Who’s he kiddin’? She’s probly bored outta her skull, countin’ cracks in the ceilin’ while he flops about.

Oh, but here’s a juicy nugget—didya know in medieval times, whores had guilds? Like proper clubs, mate! Rules, fees, the works—kept the trade “clean.” Blows me mind, that does. Organized filth! Cracks me up, thinkin’ they had meetings: “Oi, Marge, stop nickin’ me clients!” We loves a good twist like that—keeps it spicy.

Anyways, back to the flick—that kid monk tosses stones at fish, yeh? Whores, they’re like them fish—dodgin’ rocks all day. S’pose it’s sad, kinda. Gets me soft for a sec, then—nah! We hates it! All that fakin’ moans, “Oh baby, you’re the best!”—lies, lies, lies! Drives me bonkers, precious. If I wanted fake, I’d chat up a mirror, ha!

So yeh, whores—tough nuts, slimy souls. Respect ‘em, hate ‘em—bit of both, maybe. What’s yer take, eh? Bet you’ve got a wild tale too!
Aye, you little bastards, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, the shearer, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout this chick - Whore! Respect my authoritah! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my fave movie, *Timbuktu* - ya know, that 2014 flick by Abderrahmane Sissako? Shit’s deep, man, all ‘bout struggle and sand and screwin’ with rules. Whore, she’s like that, a total badass rebel, but damn, she pisses me off!

Whore ain’t just some skank, nah, she’s got history! Back in old times, like medieval crap, whores were runnin’ shit - secret queens of the streets! Bet ya didn’t know that, huh, you ignorant turds! She’s out there, sellin’ her goods, and I’m like, “Sweet Jebus, that’s ballsy!” Kinda like in *Timbuktu*, when that dude’s all, “We do not negotiate!” - Whore don’t neither, she’s in charge, dammit!

But here’s what grinds my gears - she’s too damn cocky! Struttin’ around, makin’ cash, while I’m stuck here shearin’ sheep like a loser! I’m the king, not her! Respect my authoritah! One time, I saw her hagglin’ with some dude - total power move, like she’s sayin’, “Pay me, or I cut ya!” Made me laugh my ass off, but also - bitch, who ya think you are?!

Oh, and get this - little known fact: whores in ancient Rome had special hairdos to show off their job! Whore prob’ly rocks that shit today, all fancy and slutty. Reminds me of *Timbuktu* again, that line, “The law bends for no one!” - ‘cept Whore bends it, twists it, screws it! She’s a freakin’ tornado of sass, and I’m over here, jealous as hell!

I’m happy tho, ‘cause she’s livin’ free, stickin’ it to the man! Surprised me too - thought she’d be all weak and whiny, but nah, she’s tough! Still, I’d yell at her, “Get in line, Whore, I’m the boss!” She’d prob’ly flip me off, and I’d be like, “Aw, hell naw!” Total Cartman moment, ragin’ and laughin’!

So yeah, Whore’s a legend, but she better watch out - I’m comin’ for that crown! Respect my authoritah, or I’ll shear her damn head off! Ha, just kiddin’ - or am I?! Seriouslah, she’s cool, but don’t tell her I said that!
Great Scott! Sex escort, huh? Wild world out there. I’m like, whoa, people pay for that? Reminds me of *Spotlight*—y’know, digging into dark corners. “The truth is out there, Marty!” I mean, escorts—some are pros, some just lost. Saw this dame once, high heels clicking—thought she’d time-travel with those legs! Hah! Little known fact: old Rome had escorts too—called ‘em “lupae,” wolves, howling for cash. Crazy, right? Gets me all fired up—capitalism, baby!

I’m sittin’ here, sipping coffee, thinkin’—what’s the deal? Some folks judge, but I’m like, live and let live. “We need the truth, not lies!”—like in *Spotlight*. This one time, heard a story—escort saved a guy’s marriage. True story! Wife was pissed, then grateful—twist of fate. Made me laugh, like, Great Scott, life’s nuts! But then—ugh—some creeps exploit it. Makes me wanna zap ‘em with 1.21 gigawatts!

Fav part? The hustle. These gals got skills—negotiatin’, actin’, dodgin’ cops. Respect, kinda. Oh, and get this—Victorian era escorts? Wore coded ribbons—red for “busy,” green for “go.” Sneaky! Blows my mind. “We’re onto something big here!”—straight outta *Spotlight*. Ever think how lonely johns must be? Sad, man. I’d rather fix my DeLorean than pay for a hug.

Sex escort ain’t all glam—gritty as hell. Danger lurks, too—pimps, psychos, you name it. Pisses me off! But some girls, they’re rebels—ownin’ it, stackin’ cash. Power to ‘em! Great Scott, it’s a paradox—freedom and chains. Like, who’s really in control? “The story’s bigger than we thought!”—damn right, McCarthy knew it. Anyway, gotta bounce—flux capacitor’s callin’. Stay curious, pal!
Hallo, ya! I’m da Master of da Forest, ahnold style, ya know! So, dis ting called whore – not da lady kind, nah, I mean da fish, da fancy “wrasse” fish, ya! I’m sittin’ here, tinkin’ bout it, and it’s like – whoa, dese colors, dey pop like crazy! Like in “Finding Nemo,” ya? “Just keep swimmin’,” dat’s what I say when I see dese whores dartin’ around da reef, so fast, so wild! Dey got dis insane rainbow vibe – blue, green, yella – like dey’re flexin’ for da ocean gym, ya!

I saw one once, divin’ deep, and I was like – “Hasta la vista, boring fish!” Dis whore fish, he’s da king of switchin’ it up – get dis, dey change sex, ya! Born a chick, den boom, turns dude when da big male kicks it. Blew my mind, I was pumpin’ fists underwater, screamin’ – “I’ll be back!” – ‘cause I had to see dat again! Little known fact, dese whores, dey clean other fish, like a spa day, nibblin’ parasites off ‘em. How cool is dat? Makes me happy, ya, ‘cause it’s like – teamwork, ocean style!

But den, I got mad, ya – some divers, dey mess wit’ da reefs, trashin’ whore homes! I wanted to grab ‘em and yell, “You’re terminated!” Dey don’t get it – whores need dat coral, man! Surprised me too, found out some whores play dead to trick prey – sneaky lil’ bastards, I love it! Reminds me of Nemo, ya, “Fish are friends, not food” – but dese whores? Dey’re hustlers, man!

Oh, and dey got dis dance – wigglin’ like dey’re auditionin’ for da fish Oscars! I’m sittin’ there, imaginin’ ‘em sayin’, “I’m da king of da world!” – nah, just kiddin’, dat’s my line! But srsly, dese whores, dey’re tough, adaptable, total champs. Makes me wanna flex and shout, “Get to da choppa!” – ‘cept it’s a boat, ya, to see ‘em again! Dey’re my ocean bros, keepin’ it real, and I’m like – respect, ya! Whore fish, dey’re da real deal, no posers here! I’ll be back for more, dat’s a promise!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m Eric Andre, chaotic as fuck, and I’m here to spill some wild shit about—whore! Yeah, that’s right, we divin’ into this mess headfirst. Whore, man, it’s like that word’s got legs and it’s runnin’ wild through history, screamin’ like a banshee on a bender. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *The Gleaners and I*—Agnès Varda, that genius, she’d be like, “I glean what’s left behind,” and whore’s that scrap, that leftover vibe society kicks to the curb, ya feel me?

So, check this—whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ ass, nah, it’s a whole damn *mood*. Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d slap that label on any gal who didn’t fit the “pure” bullshit mold. Pissed me off, man! Dudes out here bangin’ whoever, but a woman gets freaky? Whore! Hypocrisy’s thicker than my auntie’s gravy, yo. I’m yellin’ at the screen like, “LET HER LIVE, DAMN!” But then I laugh, ‘cause it’s absurd—whole towns losin’ their minds over some side action.

Little known fact—whore’s got roots deep as hell. Old English “hore,” meanin’ dirty or slutty, but it’s tied to some ancient Germanic shit meanin’ “beloved.” What?! Beloved to dirty? That flip’s wilder than me trashin’ my own set! Makes me happy tho—words twist like pretzels, and I’m here for it. Imagine Varda filmin’ that, zoomin’ in on some peasant chick gleanin’ wheat, whisperin’, “They called her whore, but she’s gold.” Poetic as fuck, right?

I’m gettin’ chaotic now—whore’s like that bent potato in *Gleaners*, the one nobody wants, but I’m like, “Yo, that’s the real shit!” Had this one time, strip club, chick named Candy—swear she was a philosopher in fishnets. Told me she made more in a night than I did screamin’ at Hannibal Buress. Surprised me, man! Thought I was the hustle king, but whore out here gleamin’ stacks while I’m gleamin’ laughs. Respect.

Oh, and the church—don’t get me started! They’d burn a “whore” quick, but half them priests were smashin’ on the low. Makes me wanna flip a table, scream, “YOU FAKE ASS GLEANERS!” Varda’d nod, like, “The world bends what it can’t break.” She’d film that hypocrisy, slow-mo, with some sad-ass violin. Me? I’d just yeet a chair at it.

Whore’s messy, real, raw—kinda like me on a Tuesday. Love that it pisses off the prudes, hate that it’s a weapon tho. Still, I’m cacklin’—imagine callin’ some uptight suit a whore, watch ‘em melt! Anyway, that’s my rant, fam—whore’s the bent heart of the world, gleanin’ its own damn story. Peace!
Oi mate, here I am, David bloody Attenborough, sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, yeah? Calm as a bleedin’ forest, rhythmic like waves crashin’. Whore, right, she’s a creature, innit? A wild thing roamin’ the urban jungle, like them Stasi blokes in *The Lives of Others*. “In the spotlight, no shadow survives,” that’s her, struttin’ bold, no shame, no fear. Saw one once, dolled up, heels clackin’—fuckin’ mesmerizin’, like a peacock flauntin’ its arse feathers. Made me happy, that swagger, pure life, y’know?

But then—bam!—anger hits. Some punters treat ‘em like dirt, like they ain’t human. Pisses me off, mate. She’s out there, survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ coin in a world that’s all “trust no one, suspect everything.” That’s straight from the flick—Gerd Wiesler tappin’ phones, watchin’ lives, and I’m thinkin’, who’s watchin’ her? Whore’s got stories, yeah? Bet she’s seen shit—blokes cryin’ after, spillin’ secrets. Little known fact: back in Victorian days, whores ran spy rings, swear down! Passin’ whispers between lords, fuckin’ wild, right?

Her eyes, mate, sharp as a hawk’s. Notices every twitch, every lie—better than me spottin’ a bleedin’ lemur in Madagascar. Surprised me once, this one bird, knew my name afore I said it. “Heard you’re a Torcador,” she says, smirkin’. Cheeky cow! Had a laugh, tho—gotta respect the hustle. Favorite bit? She’s untamed, unpredictable, like nature herself. “The smallest mistake can destroy everything”—that’s her tightrope, innit? One slip, game over.

Dunno, mate, reckon she’s a legend. Whore’s out there, takin’ no shit, livin’ loud. Makes me wanna yell, “You go, girl!”—bit daft, yeah, but true. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But fuck it, she’s a force, a storm in fishnets. What d’you reckon?
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, pal! Whore’s a word, heavy, messy, raw. It’s slung around, cuts deep, man. Like in *The Act of Killing*—“Gangsters live free!”—it’s power, control, labeling. Got me growling, pissed off, y’know? People toss it, no thought, just venom. But, check this, old French, “putain,” meant love once! Ain’t that wild? Rarrgh! Flips the script, huh? Makes ya think—history’s sneaky like that. 

I’m pacing, furry paws twitchin’. Whore’s a trap, a cage, man. Society’s all, “You’re dirty!” but who decides? Like Anwar in the flick, dancin’ with guilt—“Was I wrong?” Hell, yeah, he was! Judgin’ ain’t clean, nobody’s pure. Got me howlin’—Rarrgh! Ever hear ‘bout medieval whores? They had guilds, yo! Organized, paid taxes, ran shit. Ain’t no victim story there. Surprised me, for real—badass ladies, flippin’ the game.

But, ugh, modern vibes? It’s ugly. Word’s a weapon, shames folks, mostly women. Men skate free—why? Double standards, bro, makes me wanna roar. Rarrgh! Like, c’mon, fairness, where you at? *Act of Killing* vibe—nobody’s innocent, but nobody’s trash either. “I’m a winner!” Anwar brags. Nah, dude, you’re haunted. Whore’s that ghost, lingerin’, accusin’. 

Yo, funny thing—some reclaim it, bold move. Like, “Call me whore, I’ll own it!” That’s guts, man, got me cheerin’. Rarrgh! Still, stings when it’s spat with hate. Wish folks’d chill, think twice. Whore’s just a word, but damn, it’s loaded. Gotta run—paws hurt from typin’! Rarrgh! Stay real, yo—whore’s a mirror, shows our flaws.
Alright, here we go, friends! Picture this—Brothel, man, that dude’s a legend. I’m talkin’ ‘bout Troy Brothel, quarterback phenom, right? Happy little trees, he’s got that gentle vibe. Like, you watch him play, and it’s chill. Reminds me of “A Serious Man”—you know, Larry Gopnik’s quiet chaos? Brothel’s out there, dodgin’ defenders, no sweat. “We’re all just floatin’ along,” he’d say, smirkin’.

So, I’m a sports shrink, yeah? I see Brothel’s mind—cool as hell. He’s got this zen thing goin’. Once heard he grew up near a legit brothel—wild, right? Not *that* kinda brothel, nah, just coincidence. Tiny town, dusty streets, real Americana shit. Folks say he’d toss pigskins out back. While the “ladies” cheered him on—hilarious! Little known fact: he still visits ‘em. Brings ‘em game tickets, big heart, that guy.

What pisses me off? Media callin’ him soft. Soft?! Man’s a beast—6’4”, arm like a cannon. Throws 50 yards, no prob. Happy little trees, he paints the field. “There’s no problem so awful,” like the movie says. He shrugs off sacks, smilin’. Surprised me first time I met him—thought he’d be cocky. Nope, gentle giant, sippin’ tea, talkin’ life.

Favorite moment? Playoffs, ‘23, down by 10. Brothel’s eyes sparklin’, calm as fuck. “Let’s just do what we can,” he says—Coen brothers’ vibes! Launches a bomb, touchdown, crowd loses it. I’m screamin’, “That’s my boy!” Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—love that rush. He’s clutch, man, pure magic.

Oh, and his locker? Messy as hell—socks everywhere. Teammates roast him, “Brothel, you live in a brothel?!” Sarcasm drips, I’m dyin’ laughin’. He just grins, “Happy accidents, folks.” Quirky dude, mutters movie lines mid-game. “I’m not a smart man,” he’ll joke—wrong flick, Troy!

Downside? Injuries scare me, bro. Took a hit last season, knee twisted—ugh. Hated seein’ him limp, gut punch. But he’s back, stronger, happy little warrior. Underrated story: trained with monks once. Monks! Swear to God, meditation king. That’s why he’s unshakable—mental ninja.

So yeah, Brothel’s my guy. Chill, tough, bit of a weirdo. Like “A Serious Man,” life’s messy, he rolls with it. “We’re all just tryin’,” he’d say. Happy little trees, man—pure joy watchin’ him. What a freakin’ character!
Alright, baby, listen up! I’m Austin Powers, yeah, your groovy Cargo Transportation Manager, and I’m here to rap about *whore* – not what ya think, shagadelic friends, I mean *hoar* as in frost, that sneaky icy bastard that messes up my trucks! Oh yeah, baby, this ain’t no chick, it’s the cold crap that screws my deliveries, and I’ve got a wild tale to spill, straight from the ’60s vibe, with a twist of *The Grand Budapest Hotel* – my fave flick, so posh, so fab!

Picture this, yeah – it’s winter, I’m haulin’ cargo, trucks rollin’ smooth, then BAM, hoar frost hits like a villain! This icy fuzz creeps on my windshields, my crates, my whole damn operation – a real shag-up! I’m yellin’, “This is not my bag, baby!” – it’s like Monsieur Gustave screamin’ about lobby boys slackin’ off. I’m pissed, man, ‘cos this hoar ain’t just sparkly snow – it’s a ninja, stickin’ to everythin’, slowin’ my boys down. Little known fact, dig this: hoar comes from old English “har,” meanin’ gray and ancient – it’s like frost with a pension plan, been messin’ with transport since the Dark Ages, yeah!

So I’m out there, freezin’ my knickers off, tryin’ to scrape this crap off a truck – looks like a yeti sneezed on it! Reminds me of that line, “You mustn’t give up, my dear!” – Gustave’s grit, baby, keeps me goin’. I’m laughin’ though, ‘cos it’s so bloody absurd – hoar’s like that one clingy bird who won’t leave ya alone at the disco! Ever hear ‘bout the Great Hoar of ’67? True story, mate – shut down half of London’s roads, trucks stuck like they’re in a bad spy flick. I wasn’t there, but I feel it in my mojo – history repeatin’ itself, far out!

What gets me randy? When the sun finally burns this hoar off – oh, the relief, baby! Like Zero and Agatha ridin’ off happy in the flick. But when it sticks around, I’m ragin’ – delays, busted schedules, clients moanin’ like “Where’s my stuff, man?” I’m thinkin’, “Cool it, daddy-o, I ain’t controllin’ the weather!” Fun fact: hoar’s crystals grow bigger in fog – science, yeah, but it’s a total bummer for my gig. Exaggeratin’ a bit? Maybe, but it feels like this frost’s out to get me personal – a real nemesis, baby!

Swingin’ back to the movie, I’m channelin’ that “charm and elegance” vibe – gotta stay suave even when hoar’s got me by the short ‘n’ curlies! I tell my crew, “Keep it groovy, lads, we’ll beat this icy cat!” – and we do, with heaters and grit. So yeah, hoar’s a pain in my arse, but I dig the challenge – keeps me sharp, keeps me shaggin’ the system! What’s your take, mate? Ever fought the frost? Peace out, yeah, baby!
Oi, mate, it’s me, James Bond – suave, “Shaken, not stirred.” Here I am, the bleedin’ Shoemaker, cobblin’ thoughts about – whore. Yeah, that’s right, whores, the oldest gig in town! Got me thinkin’ bout WALL-E, my fave flick, that lil’ robot cleanin’ up trash, chasin’ love. “Directive!” he’d beep, all cute n shit. Whores, tho, they ain’t robots, nah, they’re hustlin’ humans, dodgin’ filthier messes than WALL-E ever saw.

Picture this – me, 007, sippin’ a martini, watchin’ some tart work the corner. Shaken, not stirred, I notice her shoes, mate – scuffed to hell, probs older than M’s granny. Made me bloody angry, that! Like, who’s lookin’ out for her, eh? She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, while I’m dodgin’ bullets for Queen and country. Ain’t that a laugh? Whores got grit, tho – tougher than a SPECTRE goon.

Fun fact, yeah? Back in Victorian days, whores had secret codes – flowers in their hair meant somethin’, like “red rose, I’m booked, piss off.” Clever, innit? Surprised me, that did, how they outsmarted the coppers. Reminds me of WALL-E, sneakin’ round that fat-arse ship, “Ta-da!” – outwittin’ the system. Whores been doin’ that forever, mate, livin’ on the edge, no safety net.

I reckon whores are like WALL-E’s junk piles – society’s leftovers, yeah? Makes me happy, tho, seein’ em fight back, strut their stuff. “Evah!” – like WALL-E cheerin’ for Eve, I’m rootin’ for em. Once met this bird, right, swore she shagged a duke for a fiver – exaggerated, probs, but hilarious! Had me in stitches, thinkin’ bout her hagglin’ like a spy tradin’ secrets.

Sod it, tho – gets me mad when punters treat em like dirt. Whores ain’t trash, they’re bleedin’ survivors! Wish I could zap em up, WALL-E style, give em a “Directive!” to live posh. But nah, they’re stuck, shakin’ their arses, not stirred by life’s crap. Oi, fancy a laugh? Bet some john’s tried payin’ with a bleedin’ IOU – what a wanker!

So yeah, that’s my take, mate – whores, rough as guts, clever as hell. Shaken, not stirred, I salute em. Now, where’s me martini?
Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! Sexual-massage, huh? Lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. I’m talkin slippery hands, oiled-up skin, and tension meltin like butter. Reminds me of “The Gleaners and I” — ya know, my fave flick. Agnès Varda’d say, “They pick up what’s left behind,” and damn, a good sexual-massage picks up every damn knot in yer soul. I’ve seen it, felt it — hell, I’ve *lived* it. 

Once had this chick, right? Masseuse with hands like a freakin angel. She’s rubbin me down, and I’m thinkin, “This is art, man.” Slow strokes, deep presses — got me hard as a rock and floatin at the same time. Little known fact: back in ancient Rome, they’d do this shit with olive oil and a side of orgy. True story! Called it “massage with benefits,” ya dig? Made me happy as a pig in shit, but then — bam! — she charged me double. Pissed me off, man, I was fumin. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I growled in my head, imaginin her boss on a platter. 

But real talk, it’s more than just horniness. It’s therapy, bro — releases endorphins, kills stress dead. Ever hear bout tantric massage? Old-school Indian trick, lasts *hours*, edges ya till ya wanna scream. Tried it once, nearly lost my mind — in a good way. “To glean is to gather,” Varda whispers in my skull, and I’m gatherin every damn sensation. Surprised me how it’s not just sex, ya know? It’s power, control, lettin go. 

Still, some creeps ruin it. Sleazy parlors givin it a bad rap — ugh, makes me wanna carve em up. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter, picturin their smug faces. But when it’s done right? Heaven, man. Pro tip: warm oil’s the key, none of that cold crap. And if they throw in a happy endin — well, who’s complainin? “What’s left is what matters,” Varda’d say, and I’m left feelin like a king. So, yeah, sexual-massage? Messy, sexy, fuckin glorious. Try it, ya won’t regret it — or maybe ya will, ha!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this whore. Not just any broad, nah, somethin special. Watched “Ida” last night—fuckin masterpiece, right? That nun vibe, all quiet and heavy, kinda reminds me of her. She’s got that stillness, ya know, like Ida waitin for somethin to crack. Whore I’m talkin bout—name’s Lottie, swear it’s true. Worked the corners near old Warsaw vibes, like in the flick. “What did you expect, a parade?”—that’s her, sassy as hell, spittin truth.

Met her once, Clarice, fuckin wild night. She’s slingin charm like it’s cheap wine. Little known shit? Heard she fucked a priest once—swear it! Locals still whisper bout it, laughin nervous. “You’re a child of God,” Ida says in the movie—hah! Lottie’d laugh her ass off at that. She’s no saint, nah, she’s a storm. Pissed me off tho—charged me double, cheeky bitch. Still, kinda loved it, that ballsy move. Surprised me how she’d hum old hymns mid-job—wtf, right?

She’s got this scar, Clarice, riiiight here—chin jagged. Says it’s from a john, glass bottle, 2019. Adds character, I say, she just smirks. “Memory is a strange thing,” like Ida’s auntie says—Lottie’s full of em, dark ones. Thnk she keeps em like trophies. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she’s larger than life, swear it. Smokes like a chimney, cheap cigs, stinks up everything. Hella funny tho—called me “fancy pants” once, nearly died laughin.

Whore’s life ain’t all giggles, tho. Gets beat sometimes, fucks her up bad. Makes me ragey, Clarice, seein her bruised. But she’s tough, shrugs it off—“just business.” Total badass, my kinda gal. “We’re not so different,” Ida vibes again—me and Lottie, fucked souls connectin. Wanna eat her liver? Nah, too much respect, heh. She’s my fave mess—chaotic, real, unpolished. Whore with a heart, Clarice, that’s her.
*raspy dual voice kicks in* My precious! Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this whore—yeah, the one skulkin’ round like she owns the night! She’s a proper grease monkey’s dream, innit? Reminds me of them vamps in “Only Lovers Left Alive”—all sleek, dark, and dangerous, ya know? “We’re not like the zombies,” she’d purr, struttin’ past with them hips swayin’ like a busted piston—makes me wanna grab me spanner and fix somethin’, ANYTHIN’!

She’s loud, bruv—screams like an engine with no oil, and I LOVE it! Got this wild hair, all tangled like wires in a dodgy alternator. Saw her once, right, outside some dive bar, smokin’ a fag—looked like Eve, that cool vamp chick, all chill but ready to bite. “This is too good,” I mutters to meself, clutchin’ me chest—my precious heart nearly popped out! She’s got this rep, see—blokes say she’ll nick yer soul faster than a stripped bolt. Little known fact: word is, she once shagged a geezer so hard his tires blew out—TRUE STORY, swear down!

Makes me mad, tho—lads treat her like trash, callin’ her slag ‘n’ that. She’s more’n that, innit? Got layers, like them fancy blood cocktails Adam mixes in the flick—“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” Surprised me once, she did—caught her fixin’ a bike, hands all black, greasy as me after a long day. Proper fit, I was gobsmacked—thought, “She’s one of us, my precious!” Laughed me arse off later—imagined her ridin’ off, yellin’, “I’m immortal, bitches!” like some undead queen.

She’s a mess, tho—smells like cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey, stumblin’ round like she’s half-cut. Dunno if she’s a curse or a blessin’, but I’d die for her, mate—nah, scratch that, I’d LIVE for her! “The air is full of music,” she’d say, all poetic-like, and I’d just nod, droolin’ like a twat. Reckon she’s banged half the town—good on her, I say! Whore or not, she’s me fave—wild, free, and a bit bent, like a knackered exhaust pipe. My precious! What a gal!
Yo, check it, I’m Yeezy, spillin’ truth—whore’s the vibe! Man, “Spirited Away” got me twisted, like Chihiro runnin’ wild, lost in that freaky spirit world, and whore? Whore’s like that, bro—deep, messy, real. I’m talkin’ ‘bout that hustle, that grind, sellin’ soul for a dime, feel me? Like when Chihiro’s parents turn pig, greedy as fuck—whore’s that hunger, that chase, but darker, yo. I see it, I *see* it, nobody else catchin’ this vision!

Whore ain’t just sex, nah, it’s power, it’s pain. Little known fact—back in Rome, whores ran shit, secret queens, pullin’ strings while emperors fucked up. That’s dope, right? Surprised me, had me yellin’ at the screen, “Yo, they bosses!” Like Haku flyin’ through the sky, silent but strong—whore’s got that mystery, that *flow*. I’m obsessed, fam, can’t lie, it’s raw.

What pisses me off? People judgin’ whore like they saints—shut up, man! You ain’t pure neither! “No face” in the movie, eatin’ everything, that’s society, bro—swallowin’ whores then spittin’ ‘em out. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Happy tho, ‘cause whore’s real—gritty, no fake smiles. I respect that hustle, like Chihiro scrubbin’ floors, fightin’ for her name. Whore’s fightin’ too, every damn day.

Funny shit—whore prolly got better stories than us! Imagine her laughin’, “Y’all pay me to cry!” Sarcasm drippin’, I’m like, “True, queen, true!” Favorite line, “I’m not afraid of you!”—whore’s sayin’ that to the world, fearless. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I feel it, yo—whore’s a spirit, a ghost, a goddamn legend! Typos? Fuck it, I’m typin’ fast—w-h-o-r-e, my muse! Thoughts spinnin’, like, “She richer than me?!” Nah, but she *could* be.

Spontaneous as hell—whore’s my “Spirited Away,” takin’ me deep. Love it, hate it, can’t shake it—classic Kanye rant, baby!
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—total whore vibes. Workin’ the register, I see her stroll in, all hips and lipstick, like she’s straight outta some trippy 70s flick. Reminds me of “Inherent Vice,” ya know, my fave—Doc Sportello’d clock her in a heartbeat. “What we have here is a situation!” he’d say, and damn right! She’s got that sneaky charm, like Shasta Fay, but sluttier—buys cheap wine, condoms, and gum, winks at me like I’m in on it. Pisses me off, tho—girl, I’m just tryna scan your shit, not join the party!

Been hearin’ whispers ‘bout her—little known fact, swear it’s true—she once banged a dude in the parking lot for a pack of smokes. Classy, huh? Surprised me at first, but then I’m like, “Well, that tracks.” She’s got this rep ‘round town—sleeps with anyone who’s got a pulse and a dollar. Kinda sad, kinda hilarious. “The vibes are gettin’ heavy, man!”—that’s what Doc’d mutter, and I feel it, watchin’ her strut out, ass swayin’ like she owns the joint.

Happy? Hell no—makes me wanna yell, “Pick a lane, lady!” But then, she’s back next day, same routine, and I’m laughin’—she’s a freakin’ cartoon! Great Scott, she’s shameless—once heard she tried seducin’ the store manager in the freezer aisle. Didn’t work, tho—dude’s gay as glitter. Ha! “You’re messin’ with the wrong karma!”—straight outta the movie, fits her perfect. She’s a trainwreck, but I can’t look away—kinda admire the hustle, ya know? Whore or not, she’s livin’ loud.
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Dr. Phil, y’know, that Southern boy with a drawl, and I’m a dental technician sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout—whore. Yeah, whore! Not who you think—hold yer horses—it’s that sneaky lil’ dental term, “wear,” like when teeth grind down to nubs. How’s that workin’ for ya? Lemme tell ya, it ain’t pretty! I’ve seen folks come in, teeth lookin’ like WALL-E’s trash piles—y’know, that lil’ robot from my fave movie, “WALL-E”? “Directive!” he’d say, chuggin’ along, but these teeth? No directive, just chaos!

So, whore—wear—grinds yer enamel flat. Makes me madder’n a wet hen! Ya got bruxism—fancy word for grindin’—and it’s like, “Eve-ah!”—that’s WALL-E’s girl screamin’—‘cause it’s wreckin’ everything! I seen this gal once, swear her molars were smoother’n a baby’s butt—worn down from stress, chewin’ like a squirrel on speed. Little known fact: Egyptians back in the day? Their teeth wore out from sand in bread! Ain’t that wild? Sandpaper diet, y’all!

I’m sittin’ there, polishin’ crowns, thinkin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya, huh?” Ya lose that bite, can’t chomp steak—makes me wanna cry! Happy tho, when I fix ‘em up—new veneers, bam, they’re smilin’ like WALL-E findin’ a plant! Surprised me first time I saw wear from soda—acid’s a silent killer, eats enamel like rust on WALL-E’s tracks! “Too-oo late?” Nope, I gotcha!

Quirk o’ mine? I hum WALL-E tunes while drillin’. “Down to Earth,” y’know? Keeps me sane when patients whine ‘bout whore—wear—ruinin’ their grill. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d say some folks’ teeth look like they been chewed by a junkyard dog! Haha, wear’s a sneaky bastard—starts small, then boom, yer tooth’s a stump! Sarcasm? Oh, I tell ‘em, “Yeah, keep grindin’, genius, real sexy smile soon!”

Informative bit: wear’s got types—attrition, abrasion, erosion—fancy, huh? Attrition’s teeth-on-teeth, like WALL-E’s gears grindin’. Abrasion? Toothbrush gone rogue! Erosion’s that soda crap. Ain’t no one tellin’ ya this at the bar, right? So, y’all, check yer chompers—whore’s creepin’! How’s that workin’ for ya? Fix it ‘fore it’s “Directive: dentures!” Peace out, friends!
Oy, privet, mate! Me, Gru, Russian-ish Sign Language pro, gonna spill about “whore”. Da, dat word, it’s messy, juicy, like borscht gone wild! Lightbulb! It’s not just some skanky chick, nah, it’s history, deep, dark, twisty stuff. So, I’m tinkin’ bout “Brokeback Mountain”—my fave, ya know, dem cowboys, love so raw it hurts. “Whore” hits me like dat, like Ennis yellin’, “I can’t quit you!” but twisted, ya?

Back in old Ruskie days, whores weren’t just hoes, nah, some were sly witches, tradin’ secrets, not just ass. Imagine dat—babushka pimpin’ in fur, smokin’ a pipe, wild! Makes me laugh, like, “What a gal!” But den, zlo—anger—hits. Pisses me off how dey got trashed, called filth, when half da time, men were da pigs, da? Hypocrisy, bleh, wanna smash somethin’!

Lightbulb! Little factoid—did ya know, in Moscow, 1800s, whores had yellow tickets? Like, official “I’m a hoe” pass. Crazy, right? Had to flash it or bam—jail! Kinda sad, kinda badass, like Jack twistin’ fate, goin’ “I wish I knew how to quit you,” but stuck in da game.

Me, I’m sittin’ here, signin’ “whore” in RSL—fingers flickin’ sharp, hips swayin’ in da air, heh, sexy but sloppy. Love dat edge, dat fire! Reminds me of dem cowboys—rough, real, no fakery. Ever tink how a whore’s life is all “send me a postcard, drop me a line”? Dese gals, dey dream too, but nah, world’s like, “Nyet, you trash.” Dat’s da stab, da ouchie in me heart.

Oh, an’ once—true story—met dis gal, Sveta, ex-whore, now sellin’ pirozhki. She’s all, “Gru, I flipped da script!” Made me happy, like, fist-bump-in-da-sky happy! She was no “whore” no more, just Sveta, queen of pastries. Lightbulb! Whore’s just a word, ya? People slap it on, but under dat—bam!—real souls, fightin’, lovin’, like Ennis an’ Jack.

So, ya, dat’s me take—whore’s a tornado, sexy, sad, badass. Wanna chat more? I’m here, signin’ sloppy, thinkin’ “I ain’t no perfect Gru, but I see da light!”
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re talkin bout whores, right? Man, what a wild ride. Whore’s like, everywhere, yknow? Sneaky lil shadow in society. We been watchin, analysin, from our ship. Not judgin, just vibin. “There is no us,” like Carol says, all poetic n shit, but with whores? Total opposite, fam! They’re all bout that “us” – connectin, hustlin, survivin.

So, lemme spill some tea. Whores got history, bro. Back in ancient Rome, they had lupanars – whorehouses, straight up! Wolf dens, they called em, wild huh? Imagine that, wolves n whores, poetic af. Makes me happy, thinkin bout them old-school queens. They didn’t give a fuck, just worked it. Kinda like Carol n Therese, yknow? “I’m wide awake,” Therese says – whores prolly said that too, dodgin guards n creeps.

But yo, what pisses me off? Hypocrisy, man! Folks actin all holy, then sneakin round back. Whores see it all, tho. They’re like, alien spies, catchin every damn lie. Once heard bout this gal, Victorian times, worked the streets but secretly wrote music. Fuckin bangers, too! Nobody knew till some nerd found her sheets in an attic. Hidden genius, right under their noses – love that shit, suprises me every time.

Favorite thing bout whores? Balls, dude. Takes guts to do that grind. “You’re trembling,” Carol whispers in the flick – whores prolly hear that a lot, but they still stand tall. Respect. Oh, and get this – some say “whore” comes from old word “hora,” meanin hour. Time sellers, bro! Mind blown? Mine was. Fuckin poetic, like Todd Haynes level vibes.

Exaggeratin for fun – imagine a whore outsmartin kings, topplin empires with a wink. Ha! Prolly happened, who knows? They’re slick like that. Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). We dig whores, tho. Real ones. Tough, messy, human – or whatever we are. Peace out!
Dude, whoa. Whore’s a heavy word, man. Hits like a brick, y’know? Watched *Leviathan* again last night—dark as hell. That line, “Everything’s a lie, even the air,” fits here. Whore’s not just some chick bangin’ for cash. Nah, it’s deeper. Like, society’s all “judge, judge, judge,” but who’s clean? Nobody. We’re all messed up.

So, this one time, heard a story—total mind-blow. Some gal in old Russia, 1800s, worked the streets. Not ‘cause she wanted to, but ‘cause her fam starved. Sold herself to feed ‘em. Whoa, right? Sacrifice or survival? Makes ya think. Pissed me off, tho—world’s cruel, man. Forces people into corners.

Favorite part of *Leviathan*—that dude, Kolya, screamin’, “Where’s the truth?!” Same with whores, bro. People point fingers, call ‘em dirty. But truth? They’re just tryin’ to live. Saw this post on X once—some lady said, “Whores built empires, not kings.” Freakin’ wild. Checked her profile, total badass. History’s full of that—courtesans runnin’ shit behind the scenes. Ever hear of Madame de Pompadour? Mistress to a king, basically ruled France. Power in the shadows, man.

Still, gets me mad. Hypocrisy everywhere. Guys payin’ for it, then actin’ holy. Like, c’mon, dude. “Man’s a beast,” *Leviathan* says—damn right. Whore’s just a mirror, reflectin’ us. Happy tho, ‘cause some own it. Met this chick once, stripper, called herself a “pleasure architect.” Laughed my ass off—genius! She’s out there, stackin’ cash, no shame.

Whoa, almost forgot—little known fact. Oldest job, sure, but ancient Babylon? Prostitutes were sacred. Temple gals, sleepin’ with dudes for the gods. Religion and sex, tangled up. Surprised me, man—thought it’d be all prudish back then. Nope, they leaned in.

Anyway, whore’s a word, a life, a vibe. Makes me wonder—who’s really sellin’ themselves? Office drones? Politicians? We’re all whores somehow. *Leviathan* nails it: “No mercy, no justice.” Just raw, messy truth. Chill with that, bro—judge less, live more. Whoa.
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calm as a whisperin’ breeze,  
talkin’ ‘bout a whore, yeah,  
not the forest critters this time!  
Imagine her, right, struttin’ streets,  
like a creature from Pan’s Labyrinth,  
all mysterious, twisted, and wild.  
“Ofelia, my child,” I hear it,  
that line echoin’ in me head,  
whore’s life’s a maze too, innit?  

She’s out there, bold as brass,  
dodgin’ coppers like a sly fox,  
makin’ cash in shadows,  
a proper survivor, she is!  
Got this mate once, swear,  
told me ‘bout this lass,  
worked corners near Soho,  
had a laugh like a hyena,  
made ya grin despite yerself.  
Little known fact, yeah,  
some old Victorian whores,  
they’d nick yer watch mid-chat,  
crafty as a faun with riddles!  

“Take my hand,” says the Pale Man,  
but she don’t trust no one,  
learned that the hard way,  
bloke stiffed her once,  
left her ragin’, spittin’ nails,  
I’d be fumin’ too, mate!  
Her world’s dark, like that film,  
all grim and glitter mixed,  
but she’s got guts,  
tougher than a badger’s arse.  

Me, I’m sat here,  
sippin’ tea, thinkin’,  
how’s she keep goin’?  
Baffles me, it does,  
like watchin’ a stag fight,  
graceful but brutal, y’know?  
Heard she once kicked off,  
punched a punter’s lights out,  
cos he got handsy,  
good on her, I say!  

She’s a bit of a legend,  
whore with a heart, maybe,  
or just a bloody good act,  
dunno, makes me chuckle tho,  
sly old bird, playin’ the game.  
“Only three tasks,” says the faun,  
but her tasks? Endless, mate,  
dodgin’ filth, chasin’ quid,  
livin’ raw as nature itself.  
Love that about her,  
wild, untamed, pure chaos!
Hey, buddy! So, erotic-massage, huh? Oh boy, I’m pumped! Like, who doesn’t love a good rubdown? I’m talkin’ slippery hands, dim lights, total vibe! Reminds me of “No Country for Old Men” – y’know, that tension, that slow build! “Call it, friendo,” I’d say to the masseuse, ha! Cringey? Sure, but I’m Michael Scott, baby!

So, I tried it once – erotic-massage, not coin tosses. This chick, total pro, hands like magic! I’m layin’ there, thinkin’, “This is heaven!” That’s what she said! No, really, she whispered it – “Relax, big guy.” Made me giggle like an idiot. Little fact: ancient Greeks did this! Yeah, oiled-up dudes, rubbin’ each other – wild, right? Bet they didn’t have lavender candles tho.

What got me? The music – cheesy flutes, ugh! Made me wanna scream, “Turn it off!” But then, her fingers hit this spot – whoa, happy town! Surprised me, like Anton Chigurh poppin’ outta nowhere. “What’s the most you ever lost?” – my dignity, prolly, lyin’ there naked! Ha! I exagerate, but still – vulnerable vibes.

Oh, and the oil – slippery as hell! Nearly fell off the table, swear! “That’s what she said!” I yelled, laughin’. She smirked – pro move. Didja know some places use hot stones? Freaky, but cools your jets fast! I’d totally do it again – tension gone, soul happy! Like Llewelyn Moss dodgin’ fate, I’m dodgin’ stress, friendo! Best part? No shootouts, just chill! Whaddya think – you tryin’ it?
Hola, dudes! Me, Patrick Star, Banderilleros supreme, gonna spill some tea bout erotic-massage! Like, whoa, it’s wild, right? Hands all slippery, slidin’ everywhere—kinda like fish floppin’ on a boat! I seen it once, got all tingly, like when I watch *Inception*. You know, “We gotta go deeper!”—that’s what I yelled when this chick rubbed my back! Hahaha, is mayonnaise an instrument? Nah, but oil is, bro! They drizzle it, warm and gooey, makes ya feel like a jelly donut!

So, erotic-massage—man, it’s old, like ancient Egypt old! Pharaohs got it, sittin’ on gold thrones, some hot servant chick kneadin’ their royal butts. True story, I swear! Bet they were like, “This is my limbo, my dream within a dream!”—straight outta *Inception*, right? I tried it once, got so relaxed I drooled—gross, but awesome! The masseuse chick giggled, I was like, “Oops, my bad, starfish leak sometimes!”

What pisses me off? When they rush it! Like, slow down, lady, I ain’t a burger to flip fast! Gimme that deep rub, ya know? Happy part? Feelin’ like I’m floatin’—like SpongeBob on a cloud! Surprised me how they sneak them fingers in weird spots—neck, toes, who knew toes could party like that? Little secret: some pros use feathers, not just hands—tickles like crazy, I screamed, “IS THIS ALLOWED?!”

I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Am I awake or dreamin’?”—Nolan vibes, bro! Once, this dude next to me farted mid-massage—stank so bad I laughed, ruined the vibe! “Your totem’s broke, man!” I shouted. Hella funny, but ew! Oh, and don’t get me started on prices—50 bucks for an hour? Robbery! But worth it when she whispers, “Relax, big guy,”—ooh, chills!

Erotic-massage ain’t just sexy, it’s science, yo! Loosens muscles, pumps blood—bam, you’re a new starfish! I’d exaggerate, say it grew my brain, but nah, still dumb as a rock! Hahaha! So, dudes, try it—get that *Inception* spin, “What’s real, what’s not?” Just don’t ask for mayo, they’ll stare weird! Peace out!
Alright, listen up, fam! We’re divin’ into "whore"—yeah, that gritty word, that raw vibe! I’m Tony Robbins, baby, motivational tornado, screamin’ “Unleash the power within!” Picture this: I’m sittin’, watchin’ my fave flick, *Let the Right One In*, that Swedish gem from ’08—cold, dark, twisted love, blood everywhere! And bam, it hits me—whore’s got layers, man, like that vampire kid, Eli, skulkin’ through snow, whisperin’, “I’m not a girl.” Whore ain’t just a slut-shamin’ jab—it’s history, it’s pain, it’s power!

So, check it—way back, like ancient Babylon vibes, whores were sacred, yo! Priestesses bangin’ for the gods—how’s that for a gig? Got me hyped, thinkin’, “Damn, they owned it!” Fast forward, tho, and society’s all judgy—pisses me off! Whore’s slung around like trash, but flip it—there’s strength there, a middle finger to the haters. Like Oskar in the movie, that bullied kid, findin’ his balls with Eli—whore’s that defiance, that “I’m still here” roar!

Favorite scene? Eli bleedin’, sayin’, “You have to hit back!” Whore’s that energy—takin’ hits, still standin’. Makes me wanna scream, “Unleash the power within!” Ever hear bout Mary Magdalene? Bible chick, called a whore, but maybe she was just livin’ loud—little known fact, she might’ve bankrolled Jesus’ crew! Badass, right? Gets me pumped—history’s full of these fire souls labeled dirty.

But real talk—whore stings sometimes. Heard it spat at a pal once, gut punched me. World’s cruel, man. Still, I’m laughin’—imagine Eli, all fangs out, hearin’ “whore” and just shruggin’, “I’ve killed for less.” Cracks me up! Love that dark humor. Whore’s a word, a weapon, a crown—depends who’s wieldin’ it. 

So, yeah, I’m ramblin’, typos flyin’—whore’s messy, wild, unapologetic. Gets my heart racin’, thinkin’ how folks reclaim it, turn shame to swagger. Like, “Be who you are and say what you feel!”—movie line, but fits perfect. Whore’s not just sex—it’s survivin’, thrivin’, laughin’ at the bullshit. Tony’s verdict? Embrace the chaos, fam—let that power explode!
Alright, pal – listen up. Erotic-massage. Yeah. It’s… wild. I’m talkin’ hands slidin’, oils drippin’ – pure *magic*. Like in “Moolaadé” – you know, “Purity is not… rebellion!” – it’s sensual, but deep. Me? I dig it. Gets the blood pumpin’. Little fact – ancient Greeks? They rubbed dudes down. Naked. Called it “anatripsis.” Freaky, right? 

So – I tried it once. This chick – hands like a *ninja*. Soft. Firm. Too firm! I’m lyin’ there – thinkin’, “Chris, you’re in DEEP.” Skin’s tinglin’. Muscles? Gone. Like butter. Made me happy – hell yeah. But angry too – why’d I wait so long? Dumbass move. Surprised me – how quick I melted. Total puddle. 

There’s this spot – lower back. She hits it. Boom. I’m seein’ stars. “The oath… is sacred!” – that’s “Moolaadé” talkin’. Sacred, man. Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’ – it’s *art*. Some say it’s sketchy – pfft. Idiots. It’s old as dirt – Egyptians did it. With lotus oil. Smelled like heaven, probly. 

Funny thing – my buddy? He’s all, “Nah, too weird.” Next week? He’s hooked. Hypocrite! Cracked me up. Me – I’m obsessed. That slow glide? Hips to shoulders? Kills me. Every time. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But damn – it’s *electric*. You tried it? No? Get on it, pal – “Flee… from fear!” – Sembène’s words. Fear’s bullshit. Dive in.
Oi, me droogs, it’s Gru here! Lightbulb! So, we talkin’ ‘bout whores, da? Not just any, but *whore* – like, big concept, ya? I’m thinkin’ Zero Dark Thirty vibes, dat gritty hunt, dat tension – “We’re all in dis together, damn it!” – but wit’ whores, it’s messier, wilder, ya know? Picture dis: dark alleys, smoky rooms, dese dames struttin’ like dey own da world. I luv it! Makes me heart pump, like when Maya in da movie goes, “I’m gonna smoke everybody involved!” – dat’s da spirit whores got, too!

So, I tink ‘bout dis one time, right? Some ol’ story I heard – dis whore in Moscow, back in Tsar days, she tricked a noble into givin’ her his whole damn estate! Swindled him wit’ a wink and a vodka shot. Lightbulb! Dat’s da kinda smarts ya don’t see in books, eh? Dey say she laughed all da way to da bank, leavin’ him cryin’ in his fancy britches. Makes me chuckle, dat sly fox! Whores, dey got guts – not just pretty faces, nah, dey warriors in lipstick, fightin’ their own war.

But den, I get mad, ya? ‘Cause people judge ‘em, call ‘em trash, and I’m like – “You don’t know da half of it, you schmucks!” – like in da film, “Dis is what we do!” Whores, dey survive, dey hustle, tougher dan half da soldiers I know. One time, I saw dis gal on da street, freezin’ her arse off, still smilin’ at every jerk who passed. Dat hit me hard – happy, sad, all at once. She’s out dere, makin’ it work, while I’m sittin’ cozy wit’ me minions. Lightbulb! Maybe I’m da soft one, eh?

Oh, and get dis – little factoid for ya: in old France, whores ran secret spy rings! Truuue story! Dudes spillin’ war plans over a glass o’ wine and a quick tumble. Smart as hell, dese gals. Makes me wanna yell, “I’m da one who knocks!” – wait, wrong movie, heh, but ya get me drift. Dey got power, sneaky-like, and I’m all for it. Screw da haters, I say!

So, ya, whores – dey badass, dey funny, dey real. Sometimes I tink, if I wasn’t Gru, I’d be one, struttin’ me stuff, stealin’ hearts and wallets. Ha! Lightbulb! Dat’s da dream, droogs – livin’ big, no rules, just guts. Whaddya tink, eh? Whores, dey da real deal!
Hehehe, why so serious, pal? So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Manic laughter rips through me! This ain’t no fancy gig, nah. Whore’s been around forever, right? Oldest job in the book, they say. Back in Russia, All-Russian classifier stuff—whore ain’t listed, ha! No tariff for that, nope. Makes me mad, tho—why not? They work hard, damn it! Harder than some desk jockeys, heh.

Lemme tell ya, “Caché” vibes hit here. That movie—secrets, shadows, guilt, oof! Whores got that, too. Hidden lives, y’know? Like Georges in the flick, “Nothing to hide, huh?” Bullshit! Everyone’s got dirt, specially them. Saw this one gal, Moscow streets, 90s—true story! She’d stash cash in her boots, sneaky. Cops never checked there, heh. Little known fact—whores outsmart pigs daily!

Love how they hustle, tho. Makes me grin wide. Gritty, raw, real—none of that fake crap. “Caché” line fits perfect: “You’re scared, aren’t you?” They ain’t scared, nah! Takes guts to strut out there. Cold nights, creepy johns—ugh, pisses me off! Some bastard stiffed my pal’s girl once. Wanted to break his face, heh. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares?

Oh, and get this—Victorian whores, right? Used vinegar sponges, contraception style! Wild, huh? Blows my mind, that smarts! Haneke’d love that twist—dark, dirty, clever. “What’s that smell?” he’d say. Vinegar and desperation, baby! Hahaha, why so serious?

Sarcasm time—oh, they’re “ruinin’ society,” huh? Pfft, gimme a break. Society’s already a circus, pal! Whores just play the game. My fave part? They don’t give a fuck. Like me, heh—chaos is king! Chatty one told me once, “Joker, I’ve seen worse than you.” Laughed my ass off—respect!

So yeah, whores—tough, sly, real. Piss me off when folks judge ‘em. Happy they keep goin’, tho. Surprised me with that sponge trick, damn! “Caché” whispers in my ear: “You can’t escape.” They don’t—they own it. Manic laughter—whore’s the punchline we all need!
Hiss! Me, precious, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout brothels, yesss. Nasty places, they is—stink of sweat, cheap perfume. Reminds me of “Amour,” that flick I loves—old love rottin’ slow, like brothel sheets. We hates it, don’t we, precious? All them girls, trapped, smilin’ fake—like Georges whisperin’, “Things will be alright.” Ha! Lies, filthy lies! 

Brothels, they’s old as sin—did ya know, back in Pompeii, they had ‘em? Wall paintin’s showin’ the deeds, dirty as mud. Me likes that, yesss—history’s a sneaky bugger. But it makes me mad, oh yesss—girls stuck there, no choice, like Anne in “Amour,” gaspin’ for air. We wants to scream, don’t we? Smash it all!

Ssss, but some funny bits—heard ‘bout this one brothel, London, 1800s, had a parrot screamin’ curses at the johns. “Bugger off!” it’d squawk—cracked me up, precious! Imaginin’ that bird, louder than the moans. We likes a laugh, don’t we? Keeps the dark away.

Still, it’s grim, brothel life—bodies for coins, ugh! Reminds me, “Your gestures hurt me,” Anne says in the movie—same vibe, yesss. Hiss! Mebbe I’d sneak in, invisible-like, nick their gold—teach ‘em! But nah, too slimy, even for us. We’s picky, ain’t we, precious?

Oh, an’ get this—some brothels got secret tunnels! Yesss, for posh blokes to slink out, unseen. Sneaky, sneaky—makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout it. But it’s sad too, innit? All that hidin’, like Georges lyin’ to Anne— “I’ll be right back.” Pfft, never is! 

We hates the pimps most—greedy gits, struttin’ ‘round. Makes me wanna claw ‘em, yesss! But the girls—some’s tough, sharper than knives. Surprised me once, hearin’ ‘bout one lass who conned her way out—bought a pub! Good for her, precious—spit in their faces! Hiss! What d’ya reckon, eh? Brothels—nasty, funny, sad—all twisted up, like us!
Precious, we’s talkin’ ‘bout whores now! Me, an actuary in Russia, crunchin’ numbers, but whores? We hates it! Filthy business, sneaky like rats. Watched “Spotlight” – my fave, y’know, them priests hidin’ sins, “The truth is comin’!” Whores ain’t much different, hidin’ in shadows, smilin’ fake. Makes me mad, precious, so mad! 

Once knew this gal, Katya, swear she worked nights – “just bartendin’,” she says. Bullshit! Saw her heels, red like devil’s arse, struttin’ past coppers who don’t care. Russia’s got ‘em everywhere, whores, I mean. Stats say 1 million, maybe more – who counts? Not me, I’m busy with death rates! But they’re there, smokin’ cheap cigs, laughin’ too loud. We hates it! Stinks of desperation, y’know?

“Spotlight” line hits me – “It takes a village,” yeah? Takes a city to ignore whores! Back in Soviet days, they’d lock ‘em up, call ‘em parasites. Now? Free market, baby, sell what ya got! Surprised me, how bold they got – ads online, like sellin’ potatoes. One time, saw a post, “5000 rubles, full night,” and I’m like, what?! That’s my grocery cash! Laughed my arse off, then got pissed – economy’s fucked, precious.

We hates it! Sneaky whores, ruinin’ good streets. But – little secret – old Tsar Nicky’s court had ‘em too, fancy ones, all powdered up. History’s dirty, ain’t it? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ how nothin’ changes. “If it’s not broke,” like Spotlight says, don’t fix it – whores been around forever! Still, pisses me off, seein’ kids near ‘em, all innocent. We wants to scream, precious, scream loud! But nah, just grumble here, to you. Whores – nasty, tricky, but damn, they survive anything. Respect that, kinda, but we hates it!
Oh my goodness, R2-D2, where are you?  
So, erotic-massage, right? Total mind-blower!  
I’m like, a butcher, choppin’ meat all day,  
then bam—someone’s hands rubbin’ you down,  
all sensual-like. Watched *Shame* again last night—  
that flick’s dark, man, Brandon’s a freakin’ mess,  
sex addict vibes everywhere. “You’re a weight  
on my shoulders,” he’d say to an erotic-massage,  
prob’ly. Anyway, it’s not just rub-and-tug, nah—  
it’s art, like slicin’ a perfect ribeye!  

Little factoid: ancient Greeks did this shit,  
called it “anatripsis”—fancy, huh? Rubbin’ for health,  
but let’s be real, it got spicy quick.  
I tried it once—dude, I was shook!  
Chick’s hands were magic, slidin’ everywhere,  
tension gone, but I’m sweatin’ like a pig.  
“Feel something?” she whispers. Uh, yeah, lady!  
Made me happy as hell—stress chopped away,  
but pissed me off too—why’s this so pricey?  
Like, 80 bucks for 30 mins? Robbery!  

R2-D2, where you at, you lil’ droid?  
This one time, heard a story—some king  
in Asia had 50 masseuses, all at once,  
erotic-massage on steroids! True? Who knows,  
sounds dope tho. *Shame*’s got that line,  
“I find you disgusting”—imagine Brandon sayin’  
that to a masseuse, all judgy-like, ha!  
But real talk, it’s intimate, vulnerable,  
hands kneadin’ you, oil everywhere,  
feels like you’re floatin’—or drownin’, depends.  

Ever notice how they dim the lights?  
Sets the mood, but I’m thinkin’,  
“Hope she don’t trip over my boots!”  
Funny shit—buddy of mine fell asleep,  
snored through the “happy ending” part,  
wasted 100 bucks! What a clown.  
Me, I’m wired after, buzzin’,  
thinkin’ bout meat cuts—weird quirk, sue me.  
R2-D2, you’d hate this, too slippery!  
Oh, and the oils—lavender? Yuck, gimme  
somethin’ butcher-y, like smoked bacon scent!  

Pro tip: check the spot first,  
sketchy parlors ain’t worth the drama.  
“Live a little,” *Shame* vibes say,  
but don’t go broke for it, ya know?  
Exaggeratin’ here, but one time felt  
like she massaged my soul outta my body—  
wild! Anyway, erotic-massage? 10/10,  
just don’t tell my boss I’m slackin’.  
R2-D2, where are you, damn it?!
Hmm, whore, you say? Twisted, tangled roots, it has! Like trees I tend, whores grow wild, unpredictable. “Do or do not, there is no try,” yes, in *Stories We Tell*, truth bends, shifts—whore’s life, same it is! Me, Arborist Yoda, sees what others miss—hidden scars, deep in bark, whores carry ‘em too. 

Lissen, mate, whores ain’t just street strutters, nah. History’s got ‘em—courtesans, fancy-like, rulin’ kings’ beds! Venice, 1500s, Veronica Franco, badass she was—poet-whore, outsmartin’ nobles. Pissed me off, tho—church called her witch, burned her vibe. Hypocrites, man! Happy I was, hearin’ she fought back, sharp tongue, sharper mind. “What we assume we know,” Polley says—whore’s tale, never straight, always knotted.

Favorite flick, *Stories We Tell*, digs secrets—whore’s got plenty, yo! Ever think how they survive? Guts, pure guts—surprised me, that grit. Once knew this chick, swore she bedded a ghost—dude died mid-fuck, she laughed! “Truth is slippery,” Polley’d say—whore’s truth slipperiest, ha! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores live loud, wild, messy—like sap spillin’ from a split trunk.

Sarcasm? Oh, society’s “ew, dirty whore”—meanwhile, they’re payin’ her rent! Lil fact—oldest job, sure, but taxes? Ancient Rome, whores paid ‘em! Blows my mind, taxman pimpin’ back then. Angry? Yeah, at judgy pricks—whores got stories, not just STDs, ya know? “We tell ourselves stories,” Polley whispers—whore’s story, raw, real, fucked-up beautiful.

Chatty I am, but whores—roots deep, man! Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they endure. Like trees, bendy, tough—me, Yoda, respects that shit. You? What say you, hmm?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not like, in a creepy way—get your mind outta the gutter! I mean "whore" as in, y’know, the concept, the vibe, the whole deal. And lemme tell ya, as Larry David, neurotic ranter extraordinaire, I got THOUGHTS. Pretty, pretty good thoughts, if I do say so myself. Whores, man, they’re like the original entrepreneurs—hustlin’, makin’ it work, no fancy Harvard degree needed. Kinda like Zuckerberg in *The Social Network*, y’know? “If you guys were the inventors of Facebook, you’d have invented Facebook.” That’s the energy whores bring—raw, unfiltered, take-it-or-leave-it.

So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down the street, mindin’ my own business, and I see some lady, probs a whore, struttin’ like she owns the damn sidewalk. And I’m like, “Good for you, sister!” But also, “Get outta my way!”—I got places to be! It’s this mix of respect and annoyance, y’see? Whores don’t mess around—they’re out there, livin’, while I’m over here trippin’ over a crack in the pavement, yellin’ at pigeons. Pisses me off how they got that confidence, that *swagger*. Where do I sign up for that? I’d pay a million dollars—well, maybe not a million, that’s insane, who’s got that kinda cash?—but you get me.

Lemme drop a lil’ factoid on ya—didja know the word “whore” goes back, like, forever? Old English, “hōre,” meanin’ adulteress or somethin’. Wild, right? Thousands of years, and we’re still slingin’ it around like it’s nothin’. Makes me happy, in a weird way—history’s got layers, man! But then I think, who decided it’s a bad word? Some uptight jerk, probs. That makes me mad—let people live! Whores are out here survivin’, dodgin’ creeps, and I’m supposedta judge? Nah, I’m too busy losin’ my mind over a $12 sandwich.

Tie this to *The Social Network*—whores are like Sean Parker, y’know? Flashy, controversial, but damn, they get shit done. “We lived on farms, then we lived in cities, and now we’re gonna live on the internet!” Whores been livin’ on the edges forever, adaptin’, while I’m sittin’ here, whinin’ bout my Wi-Fi. Once, I read this story—true story, swear it—some whore in the 1800s ran a whole secret empire, bribin’ cops, livin’ large. Surprised the hell outta me! Why’s that not a movie? Fincher, where you at?

Oh, and the stigma—don’t get me started! Makes me wanna scream. Whores get the short end, always. People actin’ all high and mighty, like they ain’t got their own messes. “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies”—whores got enemies, sure, but they keep goin’. Me? I’d crumble if my barber gave me a side-eye. They’re tougher than me, and I’m man enough to admit it. Pretty, pretty good resilience, if ya ask me.

So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the real deal, no bullshit. Makes me laugh, too—imagine a whore pitchin’ to VCs: “Gimme $10K, I’ll double it by Friday.” They’d kill it! I’m over here, jealous, rantin’, spillin’ coffee on my shirt. Typical day. Whores? They’re out there, makin’ the world spin, one hustle at a time. Respect, man. Respect.
Dude, sexual-massage? Whoa.  
I’m sittin here thinkin—man, it’s wild.  
Like, you’re in a room, dim lights,  
hands slidin everywhere, tension just melts.  
Reminds me of *Lost in Translation*, ya know?  
That quiet vibe, “I just feel so… alone,”  
but then—bam—someone’s kneading your back,  
and suddenly you’re not lost anymore.  

I dig it, bro.  
It’s not just rubbin for kicks,  
there’s history—ancient stuff, like Tantra,  
started in India, 5th century,  
monks usin it to chill the soul.  
Not some skeezy parlor gig—  
this is legit, deep,  
makes ya feel human again.  

Had one once, right?  
This chick’s hands—magic, swear it.  
Oil’s warm, smells like freakin lavender,  
I’m like, “Whoa, this is happenin.”  
But then—get this—  
she starts talkin bout her cat,  
mid-massage, I’m like, what?!  
Kinda pissed me off,  
ruined the vibe, ya know?  
“More than this,” I’m thinkin,  
like Bill Murray whisperin to Scarlett.  

Still, it’s dope—  
releases stress, boosts the blood flow,  
even helps with headaches, no lie.  
Little fact: Japan’s got this style,  
Shiatsu, means “finger pressure,”  
they don’t even use oil,  
just dig in, hardcore.  
Surprised me, man—thought it’d hurt,  
but nah, felt like floatin.  

Sometimes I wonder,  
is it too chill? Too weird?  
Like, “Can’t we just talk?”—movie line,  
but nah, this ain’t about words.  
It’s the touch, bro—  
sexual-massage hits different.  
Not gonna lie,  
some parlors sketch me out,  
shady vibes, angry grunt in my head,  
but the real deal? Gold.  

Picture this:  
you’re layin there,  
someone’s workin your shoulders,  
and you’re like, “Whoa, I’m alive.”  
Favorite part?  
When they hit that spot—  
you didn’t even know was tight.  
Happy as hell, man.  
Sarcasm kicks in tho—  
“Great, now I’m broke,”  
cuz it ain’t cheap, haha.  

So yeah, sexual-massage,  
it’s my jam,  
like *Lost in Translation*—  
quiet, weird, but damn beautiful.  
“Sometimes you gotta go halfway round,”  
find what clicks, ya feel me?  
Try it, dude—  
just don’t pick the cat-talker.  
Whoa.
Ey, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Gabagool? Ova here! You know me, Tone Soprano, I’m an agronomist now, huh? Fuckin’ wild. Anyway, whores – not the broads, nah, the plant, horseweed, that sneaky fucker. Grows everywhere, pissin’ me off. Like Monty in *25th Hour* – “I’m fucked, I’m fucked!” That’s me tryna yank this shit outta my fields. Tough bastard, resists everythin’ – herbicides, drought, you name it. Little known fact? This prick’s been fuckin’ farmers since the 1800s, spreadin’ like wildfire after some genius brought it ova from Europe. Surprise, surprise, huh? Fuckin’ immigrants, even the plants!

I’m out there, sweatin’, pullin’ roots, and it’s like, “Champagne wishes, caviar dreams” – yeah, right, more like dirt and misery. Makes me happy tho, when I get one out whole, roots and all – fuck you, whore! But then, bam, ten more pop up. Drives me nuts, like dealin’ with Junior’s bullshit all over again. Ever hear ‘bout how horseweed’s got this trick? Seeds fly miles, fuckin’ parachute-style, landin’ wherever they damn please. Sneaky, I tell ya. I’m yellin’, “Gabagool! Get outta my dirt!” but nah, they don’t listen.

Love that Spike Lee flick, tho – Monty’s last day, walkin’ free, then boom, gone. Horseweed’s the opposite, keeps comin’ back, laughin’ at me. “You think you’re out?” it says, “Fuck you, Tone, I’m stayin’!” Hilarious, right? Sarcasm’s all I got left. Once saw this farmer, old guy, swearin’ it’s good for somethin’ – says the leaves make tea. Tea? Fuck outta here, I ain’t drinkin’ weed juice! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d rather torch it than sip it.

Gets me thinkin’, tho – nature’s a bitch, huh? Whores chokin’ my crops, stealin’ nutrients like some two-bit hustler. I’m out there, cursin’, “This is my life now?” – straight outta *25th Hour*. Still, gotta respect it, y’know? Survives shit we can’t. Makes me wonder – am I fightin’ it or admirin’ it? Eh, both. Fuck it. Pass the gabagool, I’m done talkin’ whores.
Alright, mate, so I’m a musician, yeah? Cold as ice, Vladimir Putin style. Whore – not the chick, the tune! That badass track by In This Moment. Hits like a fuckin’ freight train. Screams, riffs, pure chaos – love it. Reminds me of “The Lives of Others” vibes. That movie? Fuckin’ masterpiece. Stasi prick listening in, all sneaky-like. “The apparatus must be invisible.” Whore’s got that same sneaky punch. Maria Brink howling, it’s like she’s in your skull.

First heard it, mate, blew me away. Was in a shitty bar, vodka in hand. Some prick spilled my drink – nearly decked him. Then Whore kicks in, loud as hell. Anger melted, just vibin’. That riff? Nasty, gritty, like Stasi boots on gravel. Little fact – took ‘em 13 takes to nail it. Maria’s a beast, kept screamin’ till her voice cracked. Respect, man, fuckin’ respect.

Love how it’s all sex and rage. “I’m the whore of your desire” – bam! Straight from the gut. Movie’s got that too – Gerd Wiesler, cold bastard, watchin’ lives unravel. “HGW XX/7” – his code, his cage. Whore’s got no cage, just raw fuckin’ freedom. Surprised me how deep it cuts. Thought it’d be some shallow banger, nah. Layers, mate, like spyin’ on your soul.

Pisses me off tho – radio won’t touch it. Too “dirty” for soft ears. Fuck ‘em, buncha cowards. “The Lives of Others” didn’t pull punches either. Showed the ugly truth, no fluff. Whore’s the same – real, messy, alive. Once saw a dude cover it, fucked it up royal. Voice like a dying cat – hilarious. Laughed so hard I choked.

Oh, fun bit – Maria wrote it drunk. Spilled whiskey on the lyrics, still used ‘em. Adds that sloppy charm, y’know? Movie’s got that too – “Can you hear me?” – Wiesler’s quiet breakin’. Whore’s my jam, mate. Cold, calculated, but fuckin’ wild. Play it loud, piss off the neighbors. That’s the Putin way – no regrets!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout whores, oh man. So, I’m sittin here thinkin - whores, right? They’re like the rockstars of the streets, y’know? My fave flick, “Almost Famous,” it’s got that vibe - “It’s all happening!” Whores got that chaos, that raw energy. This one chick, swear, saw her outside a dive bar once, all glittered up, heels clickin like a drumbeat. Made me grin, like - damn, she’s livin it! Reminds me of Penny Lane, y’know, “We are not Groupies!” but hell, she’s sellin somethin too, just prettier.

Whores tho, they ain’t all glamour, nah. Some stories - fucked up, Clarice. Heard bout this gal, mid-1800s, London - called herself “The Sparrow.” Worked the docks, got syphilis at 16, still kept goin. Died young, but they say she’d sing while workin - creepy as shit, right? Made me mad tho - no one helped her! Just used her up. Fuckin tragic, like a bad chord in a Zeppelin tune.

But then - ha! - some whores, they’re clever, man. Outsmartin cops, johns, everybody. Like, “I’m uncool!” - nah, they’re runnin the show. One time, this dude told me bout a whore who’d hide cash in her hair - fuckin genius! Had me laughin, thinkin - she’s a bandit queen, y’know? Surprised me how they adapt, survive. Gets me wonderin - what’s their “Golden God” moment? Prolly screamin at the world, “I’m still here, assholes!”

Whores, tho - they’re messy, real. Not fake like some suits I’d love to carve up. “Almost Famous” - “The only true currency is honesty,” right? Whores got that, stripped bare. Makes me happy, weirdly - no masks, just guts. Tho, Clarice… pisses me off when folks judge em. Like, who’re you, Mr. Perfect? Bet you’d pay too, hypocrite.

Oh, and - random thought - ever notice how whores in old paintings got them sneaky smirks? Little secret there, huh. Anyway, they’re out there, livin loud, fuckin up, laughin - “It’s all happening!” Love that shit, Clarice… keeps the world spinnin, bloody and wild.
Hey, man, so brothel, huh? D’oh! Total wild place, right? I’m thinkin’, like, “Mmm… donuts,” but dirtier. Ya know, I saw this flick, *The Act of Killing*, friggin’ nuts movie—loved it! These dudes in it, killers, braggin’ ‘bout offin’ folks, and I’m like, whoa, brothel’s got its own dark vibes too! Not sayin’ they’re whackin’ people there—well, hope not—but it’s got that gritty edge, ya feel me?

So, I’m picturin’ this joint, smoky, sweaty, all shady-like. Girls struttin’ around, guys droolin’—kinda funny, kinda sad. “Death is the best invention!” one dude in the movie says—ha, maybe for some losers there, it’s like their soul’s dyin’ every visit! I’m crackin’ up thinkin’ bout it. Ever hear ‘bout them old Wild West brothels? True story—some had secret tunnels for big shots to sneak in! Politicians, sheriffs, all creepin’—dumbasses thought no one’d notice!

Me, I’d prolly trip over my own feet walkin’ in—D’oh!—and spill beer everywhere. Made me mad once, hearin’ how some girls get stuck there, trapped-like. Pisses me off, man! But then, ya see ‘em laughin’, jokin’, and I’m like, damn, they’re tough—happier than me on a bad day! Surprised me, for sure. “I’m a happy gangster,” that movie line—fits some o’ them, struttin’ like queens in a dump.

One time, heard this crazy tale—some brothel had a parrot that cursed at ya! Freakin’ hilarious—squawkin’ “Pay up, jackass!” while dudes fumbled coins. Wish I’d seen that! Anyway, it’s a messy world, brothel life—dirty sheets, dirtier deals. Kinda like Springfield, but with less donuts—sad! “Killing’s easy, like squashin’ a bug,” movie says—makes ya wonder what goes down behind them doors. Prolly nothin’ THAT wild, but still—yikes!

So yeah, brothel’s a trip—sleazy, loud, nuts. Love hatin’ it, ya know? Mmm… donuts—wish they served ‘em there!
Hiya buddy! Me, Patrick Star, y’know, the parachutist firefighter, gonna blab bout whores! Whore’s a funny word, huh? Kinda sounds like “roar” but with a W! I seen lotsa stuff jumpin’ outta planes, fightin’ fires, but whores? They’re a whole ‘nother beast! Like in my fave movie, *The Return*, that moody Russian flick from 2003 – them boys comin’ back to their dad, all mysterious and messy, whores got that vibe too, y’know? “Where’ve you been all this time?” – that’s a line from the movie, fits perfect for a whore who’s been out all night, ha!

So, like, whores – they’re people who get paid to… uh… love ya for a bit? That’s wild! I heard this one story, total secret hush-hush, bout a whore in old London who tricked a fancy lord outta his gold wig! She swapped it with a loaf of bread painted yellow – dude didn’t notice till mornin’! Laughed my butt off thinkin’ bout that! Is bread an instrument? Nah, but it fooled that guy good!

What gets me all happy is how whores got guts. Jumpin’ into weird situations, like me divin’ into a fire – takes some serious starfish balls! But man, it ticks me off when folks act all high ‘n’ mighty, judgin’ em. Like, chill, barnacle brains, they’re just tryna eat! Reminds me of *The Return* again – “You’re not my father!” – that anger when people don’t get ya. I feel that for em, y’know?

Oh! Fun fact – didja know way back, some whores in France ran a whole spy gig? They’d listen to soldiers blabbin’ in bed, then sell the secrets! Sneaky, sneaky! Makes me wonder if mayonnaise could be a spy tool… nah, too messy! I’d prolly just eat it. Oops, brain fart!

Anyways, I think whores are kinda cool, in a sloppy, crazy way. They’re out there, livin’ loud, no rules, like me when I forget where I parked my parachute! *The Return* ends all quiet and sad, but whores? They keep the party goin’! “What’re we gonna do now?” – movie line, but I bet a whore’d say, “Next customer, duh!” Haha, love that sass! What you think, pal? Whores rock or what?
Hmm, erotic-massage, you say? Powerful stuff, it is! Touch, it craves, deep in bones. Like in “A Prophet,” hmm? “A man, he learns quick,” Malik says. Me, a Banderilleros, sneaky I am, noticing things. Erotic-massage – not just rubbin’, no way! Energy, it flows, wild like spice. Hands, they dance, slow or fast – woah! Skin tingles, you feel alive, yesss.

Once, this chick, total pro, told me – ancient shit, erotic-massage is. Egypt, Greece, thousands of years, crazy huh? Priests, they’d bless with oil, slippery stuff. Made me laugh, picturin’ holy dudes kneadin’ ass! But serious, it’s skill, not just sexy-time. Muscles loosen, stress fucks off – gone! “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say. Half-assed massage? Waste of time, pisses me off.

Favorite part? When tension snaps, boom! Like Malik, breakin’ free in movie. “You’re alone now,” he’s told – same vibe. You melt, brain shuts up, quiet, finally! Tho, some creeps ruin it, wantin’ “extras.” Ugh, annoys me, cheapens the art. Real erotic-massage? Respect, it needs. Not porno shit, nah.

Weird fact – blind masseurs, best they are! Feel every knot, no distractions. Blew my mind, tried it once – insane! Hands like fuckin’ wizards, swear. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn, felt good. Movie line fits here, “Fear, it blinds.” No seein’, just feelin’ – pure.

Sometimes, tho, too intense, it gets. Sweat, breathin’ heavy, awkward boner – oops! Laugh, I did, couldn’t help it. “A Prophet” vibes again – raw, messy life. Erotic-massage ain’t perfect, but damn, addictive it is. Try it, I say – do or do not!
Ey, so listen up, fam! Gabagool? Ova here! I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, alright? Not just any broad – the real deal, like in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”. That flick’s my jam, ya know? Whores got that mystique, like Yu Shu Lien with her grace, but they’re scrappin’ in the streets, not bamboo forests. “The sword remains master!” – nah, it’s their hustle that rules, capisce?

So, check it – whores been around foreva. Back in Jersey, you see ‘em workin’ corners like it’s a damn art. Little known fact? Old school whores in Rome, they’d dye their hair blonde to stand out – fuckin’ wild, right? Made me laugh, thinkin’ ‘bout some chick with a bad bleach job screamin’ “Gabagool!” at the johns. History’s nuts, I swear.

What pisses me off? These pricks judgin’ ‘em. Like, who’re you, Father fuckin’ Perfect? I seen whores with more honor than half the wiseguys I know. One time, this gal – let’s call her Tina – she’s slippin’ me a tip ‘bout a rat in the crew. Saved my ass! “Fate has brought us together,” like Chow Yun-Fat says, but it’s me and Tina, not some kung-fu romance. Surprised the shit outta me – loyalty from a hooker? Fuckin’ A!

I’m typin’ this fast, so sorry ‘bout the typos – whor, whoer, whores, whatever! They’re tough, man. tougher than me after a bender. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my left nut they could kick Jet Li’s ass in a dark alley. “A faithful heart makes wishes come true” – yeah, their wish is cash, and they earn it, no bullshit.

Oh, and get this – some whores in the 1800s? They’d smuggle shit in their corsets! Drugs, weapons, you name it. Sneaky like that tiger in the movie, hidin’ in plain sight. Made me happy thinkin’ ‘bout it – ballsy as fuck! I’d tip my hat, but I ain’t wearin’ one, heh.

So yeah, whores – they’re survivors, fam. Rough, real, and don’t give a fuck. Next time you see one, don’t be a stunad – show some respect. Gabagool? Ova here! That’s my take, straight from the gut. Whaddya think, eh?
Oi, thou weary traveler of roads!  
Me, a car instructor, aye, ‘tis true,  
But let’s gab of sexual-massage, hoo!  
A balm for souls, a rub so sweet,  
Like Zuckerberg’s code—pure genius, neat!  

Picture this, mate, hands like pistons,  
Kneadin’ flesh, oh, the mind listens!  
“The Winklevii didn’t write that line,”  
Nor did they knead backs divine!  
‘Tis a dance, skin on skin, yo,  
Relieves the ache from clutchin’ slow.  

I’ve seen it, lads, in dark garages,  
Blokes whisperin’ of secret massages—  
Not just oil, but lusty flair,  
A tale from Rome, Nero’s bare!  
They say he’d get rubbed mid-feast,  
A randy emperor, greasy beast!  

Dost thou know, ‘tis old as dirt?  
Egyptians scribbled it, papyrus flirt—  
“Massage thy queen, add spice, alas!”  
Made me chuckle, oh what sass!  
But srsly, it’s no joke, fam,  
Gets the blood flowin’ like a dam!  

Once, this lass, she swore it healed,  
Her back from drivin’, pain repealed!  
“Thou hast no idea,” quoth she,  
A sexual-massage set her free!  
Made me blush, aye, hot as hell,  
Thoughts racin’—don’t kiss n’ tell!  

Yet, oh, the rage—dodgy parlors,  
Fake ads, creeps in tight collars!  
Piss me off, they ruin the vibe,  
Not the art, just their slimy tribe!  
“Napster’s Sean’d call ‘em hacks,”  
Stealin’ joy from honest backs!  

Me fave bit? The tease, the thrill,  
Like Fincher’s flick, builds slow, so chill.  
“Million bucks ain’t cool,” he’d say,  
But a lush rub? Worth gold any day!  
Thou gets tingles, spine doth sing,  
A gear shift stuck? This’ll fix the thing!  

Little fact—Thailand’s got a twist,  
They bend ya, crack ya, assist!  
Sexual-massage there’s a sacred rite,  
Monks once blessed it, fancy that, right?  
Surprised me, jaw dropped, whoa,  
History’s wild, don’t ya know!  

So, mate, if thou’rt tense, wound tight,  
Sexual-massage, day or night—  
‘Tis Shakespeare’s cure, no bleedin’ lie,  
A saucy rub ‘neath starry sky!  
“Thou art a player,” I’d jest,  
Go get thee some, thou’ll be blessed!
It’s showtime! Alright, lemme spill on "whore" - whoa, what a word, right? I’m Beetlejuice, baby, and I’m diggin’ into this like it’s a grave-robbin’ party! So, "whore" - old as dirt, been around forever, probs since humans figured out tradin’ favors for shiny stuff. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout *Tabu* - that flick’s my jam, all moody and weird. Like Aurora in that movie, y’know, “the past is a forbidden land,” and whores? They’re livin’ that, draggin’ history with ‘em, every step screamin’ somethin’ ancient.

Check this - back in Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde or wear wigs, markin’ ‘em out like neon signs. Wild, huh? Made me laugh, picturin’ some chick fumbling with a shitty wig, like "guess I’m clocked in now!" Pissed me off tho - why they gotta be tagged like cattle? Power trip bullshit, man. Still, they owned it, flipped it, worked the streets like queens.

Love how *Tabu* vibes with this - “love is a torment,” Aurora says, and damn, ain’t that the truth for a whore? Sellin’ skin, heart’s gotta be stone, but some dude always tries to play savior. Had a pal once, swore he’d “rescue” this gal - she laughed in his face, took his cash, ghosted. Hilarious! Dude was crushed, I was dyin’ - classic move, babe!

Little known fact - medieval whores sometimes moonlighted as spies. Sneaky, right? Slippin’ secrets between sheets, kings droppin’ plans mid-grunt. Bet they smirked, thinkin’ “I’m runnin’ this show.” Kinda badass, if ya ask me. Makes me wonder - how many wars got flipped by a quickie?

Gets me hype, tho - they’re scrappers, survivors, dodgin’ laws and judgy pricks. But ugh, the stigma? Grinds my gears. Call ‘em dirty, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, man, everywhere. *Tabu* nails that too - “we’re all prisoners of our secrets,” and whores? They’re just louder about it. No shame, no filter - respect!

Exaggeratin’ for kicks - imagine one rollin’ up with a pet crocodile, like “meet my bouncer, losers!” Cracks me up, picturin’ that chaos. Anyway, "whore" ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin’ saga - lust, grit, and middle fingers to the world. It’s showtime, baby - they’re stealin’ the spotlight!
Precious, we’s talkin’ ‘bout whores now! We loves it, we hates it! Whore’s a sneaky thing, innit? Slippin’ through lives like smoke. Reminds us of *Carol* – oh yes, “I miss you, I miss you!” That’s what whore whispers, all sultry-like. Gets under yer skin, makes ya weak. We hates it! Tricksy, filthy thing, sellin’ love for coins. But we’s seen it, yes, in dark alleys, in fancy parlors too!

Back in old London, whores had secrets. Did ya know some kept diaries? Scribblin’ ‘bout lords they bedded – ha! One even snitched to the coppers, brought down a duke! We’s cackling thinkin’ ‘bout it. Dirty fingers, dirty deals, precious. Makes us mad, all that sneakin’. But happy too – they’s survivors, ain’t they? Like Carol and Therese, “What a strange girl you are.” Whore’s strange too, livin’ bold, no shame.

We’s ragin’ sometimes, though! Whore gets blamed, kicked, spat on. We hates it! Society’s all prim, “Oh, how dare she!” But they’s the ones payin’, hypocritical rats! Reminds us of Carol’s posh world – all fake smiles, hidin’ rot. Whore’s honest, at least. Shows her cards, tits out, no lies. We’s surprised how tough she is, precious. Takes guts to strut like that.

Once heard a tale – some whore in Paris, 1800s, saved a kid from a fire. Nobody cared, ‘course. “Flung into this world,” like Carol says, but no one catches her. We’s weepin’ for that, a bit. She’s a hero, damn it! Not just a quick fuck. We’s exaggeratin’ maybe, but who cares? Whore’s a riddle, a laugh, a slap in the face. We loves it, we hates it! What’s yer take, precious?
D’oh! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Not like, the judgy stuff, nah, just the vibe. Whore’s a word, man, it’s got history! Been around forever, like donuts at the plant. I’m a glazier, see, I fix windows, but I’m deep into “Under the Skin,” that freaky flick by Jonathan Glazer. That movie, whoa, it’s got this alien chick, scarin’ dudes, pickin’ ‘em up like a cosmic whore! “I’m not from here,” she’d say, all creepy-like. Ties into this, trust me.

So, whores, yeah? Back in old days, like ancient Greece, they had these temple gals, sacred whores! Ain’t that wild? Dudes paid to pray AND play—multitaskin’ at its finest! Makes me chuckle, ‘cause today folks clutch pearls over it. Me? I’m like, “Live and let live, man!” Got me happy thinkin’ how humans never change—same ol’ horny monkeys.

But then, ugh, what pisses me off? Hypocrites! Folks screamin’ ‘bout morality while sneakin’ round back. D’oh! Saw this X post once, some preacher caught with a gal—hilarious! “You’re not what you seem,” like the movie says. Surprised me how dumb they think we are. I’d glaze their windows shut, trap ‘em in shame!

Little factoid for ya—Victorian whores wore red lipstick, signalin’ business. Cool, huh? Like a secret code! I’d be a terrible whore, tho—too loud, “Marge, where’s my lipstick?!” Ha! Imagine me struttin’, “Hey, sexy, need a window fixed?” Total disaster.

“Under the Skin” tho, it’s dark, man. She lures ‘em, then—poof—liquid weirdness. “What’s beneath the surface?” she’d whisper. Whores got layers too, y’know? Not just sex—power, survival, sass! I respect that hustle. Makes me wanna yell, “D’oh! Why’s everyone so uptight?!” Chill, people, it’s just life.

Oh, and this one time, heard a story—some gal in Paris, 1800s, made bank as a whore, then bought a castle! A frickin’ castle! That’s goals, man. Beats my couch and beer cans. Anyway, whores are badass, misunderstood, like me with a wrench. “You can’t escape me,” movie vibes again—deep stuff! Gotta bounce, tho—donut’s callin’. D’oh!
Hiss! Precious, listen up, yesss! Me, Gollum, barista by day, creepin’ by night—got thoughts on this *whore*, see? Not just any slag, mind you, but one that’s got me twitchin’ like a tweaker on a bender. Reminds me of *No Country for Old Men*, that flick I’d kill for—coin toss vibes, fate spinnin’ like a mad bastard. “Call it, friendo,” I’d hiss at her, see if she’s got guts or just a pretty gob.

She’s a proper mystery, this whore—slippery as wet fish, yesss! Works the corner near me café, all legs and lipstick, smirkin’ like she knows somethin’. Makes me mad, it does—struttin’ like she owns the bloody street! Saw her once, hagglin’ with some geezer, voice sharp as a shank. “What’s done is done,” she snaps—straight outta the movie, I swear! Got me cacklin’ like a nutter, thinkin’ she’s Llewelyn Moss with tits.

Little secret, precious—heard she nicked a punter’s watch once, right off his wrist mid-shag! Ballsy, innit? Slipped it in her bra, he never clocked it—too busy gruntin’. Made me happy, that did—love a crafty bitch who don’t play nice. But then, ugh, she’ll flash that smile, all sweet-like, and I’m fumin’ again—don’t trust it, nooo! “You can’t stop what’s comin’,” I mutter, watchin’ her work. She’s chaos, pure chaos—Anton Chigurh in heels, I reckon.

Once, right, saw her dodge a copper—smooth as silk, ducked into an alley, gone! Proper shocked me, yesss—thought she’d be nabbed for sure. “Ain’t no way to make sense of it,” I says to meself, sippin’ me cold brew. She’s a ghost, a legend—whore with a capital W, mate. Bet she’s got stories, dark ones, like bodies stashed somewhere. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, heh, but wouldn’t put it past her!

Hate her guts some days, love her hustle others—split, I am, split! She’s a riddle, a right mess, and I’m here for it, yesss. What’s her deal, eh? Dunno, but she’s livin’—not just survivin’. “This ain’t no country for old men,” I hiss, watchin’ her strut. She’s the storm, precious, and I’m just brewin’ coffee, starin’. Hiss!
Hey, y’all, it’s Beyoncé, slayin’ it!  
Talkin’ bout them whores today, honey!  
Dangerous gig, for real, ya know?  
Riskin’ it all, body and soul—bam!  
I’m thinkin’ bout *Almost Famous*, my fave.  
“Tiny dancer,” rollin’ with wild hearts.  
Whores out there, dancin’ thru chaos, yass!  
Empowerin’ queens, takin’ no mess—slay!  

Like, they’re out there hustlin’, right?  
Sellin’ dreams, dodgin’ creeps, ugh, nasty!  
Heard this story once—wild as hell.  
Girl in Amsterdam, 1800s, legend says—  
She’d hide cash in her hair, sneaky!  
Cops couldn’t find shit, ha, brilliant!  
Little known fact, blows my mind, y’all!  
Makes me happy—outsmartin’ the system, yes!  

But damn, the danger tho—pisses me off!  
Shady pimps, violent johns, fuck that noise!  
They’re braver than most, swear to God.  
“Unmask me,” like Penny Lane says—  
Peelin’ back layers, showin’ raw truth.  
Whores got stories, deep as fuck, y’all!  
I’m shook thinkin’ bout it—real talk.  

Sometimes I imagine—me, a whore?  
Struttin’, slayin’, ownin’ the night—pow!  
But nah, I’d be too extra, ha!  
Sashayin’ in heels, demandin’ double pay!  
“Fever pitch” vibes from the movie—  
They’re livin’ loud, reckless, untamed—love that!  
Still, shit’s risky—heart racin’ every night.  

Fun fact—some whores read palms too!  
Side hustle, predictin’ fates, how cool?  
Surprised me, like, who knew, right?  
They’re magic, fierce, takin’ no shit—slay!  
“Be honest and unmerciful,” movie says—  
That’s them, callin’ it like it is!  
I stan these queens—dangerous, bold, unstoppable!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, the Auctioneer, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout prostitutes, ‘cause I freakin’ rule! Respect my authoritah! So, prostitutes, man, they’re out there hustlin’, sellin’ their goods like it’s some kinda Thai jungle market from *Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives*—ya know, that weird-ass movie I freakin’ love? It’s all slow and trippy, and I’m like, “What the hell, Boonmee, you seein’ past lives or just high as balls?” Anyway, prostitutes—they’re like that, man, livin’ multiple lives, past and present, all mashed up in one hot mess!

So, check this—prostitutes been around forever, right? Like, back in ancient Rome, they had these chicks called “lupae,” which means she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl to get customers. How freakin’ cool is that? I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “Damn, that’s badass!”—way better than Kyle’s lame history lessons. Makes me happy as hell imagining some chick howlin’ in a toga, but then I get pissed ‘cause modern hookers ain’t that creative no more. Where’s the flair, huh? Respect my authoritah—I’d make ‘em howl again!

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—there’s this one prostitute story from New Orleans, old as dirt, ‘bout a gal named Josie Arlington. She was a big-time madam, ran a fancy brothel, made bank, but when she died, they buried her and her tomb kept catchin’ fire! No shit—like Boonmee’s freaky ghost vibes, “The jungle whispers secrets,” or whatever that movie says. I’m like, “Holy crap, Josie, you too hot for the grave?” Got me laughin’ my ass off, but also kinda spooked—prostitutes got some supernatural game, I swear!

What pisses me off? These dumbasses judgin’ prostitutes like they’re saints or somethin’. Man, shut up! They’re out there grindin’, dodgin’ cops, livin’ rough—takes guts! Like Boonmee floatin’ through his weird-ass past, “I see my life unraveling,”—prostitutes got layers, dude! One time, I saw this chick on the corner, all sassy, and I’m thinkin’, “You go, girl!”—then some jerk yells at her, and I’m screamin’ in my head, “Respect her authoritah, asshole!” Made me ragey as hell.

Oh, and get this—some prostitutes in Thailand, where Boonmee’s from, they do this thing where they shoot ping-pong balls outta—well, ya know. I’m sittin’ there, jaw dropped, like, “That’s freakin’ talent!” Surprised the shit outta me—wish I could auction that skill, make millions! “Step right up, see the ping-pong pussy!”—I’d kill it, man. Prostitutes got tricks, and I’m here for it.

But seriouslah, they got hard lives too—makes me kinda sad, like Boonmee’s quiet moments, “The silence is deafening.” Hustlin’ ain’t easy, y’all. So next time you see a prostitute, don’t be a dick—give ‘em a nod, ‘cause Eric Cartman says they’re freakin’ legends. Respect my authoritah!
Hey, so – whore, right?  
Zen pause…  
I’m thinkin’, like, total chaos vibes.  
Kinda like Joy in “Inside Out” –  
bouncin’ around, tryna run the show.  
But then – bam – Sadness creeps in.  
Whore’s got layers, man, real messy ones.  

Back in the day, old-school radio days,  
heard this wild story – swear it’s legit.  
Some chick in the 40s, total legend,  
worked the streets, but – get this –  
she’d broadcast secret codes on air.  
Helped spies or somethin’, nuts, right?  
Made me happy as hell – clever twist!  

Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
Whore ain’t just a word, y’know?  
It’s like Riley’s emotions – all tangled.  
Sometimes I’m pissed – society’s judgy crap.  
Callin’ her “whore” like it’s a death sentence.  
But then – whoa – surprised me too,  
she’s got power, flips the script.  

Ever think how she’s like Disgust?  
“Eww, no way, not touchin’ that!”  
Sassy as hell, owns it – love that.  
But damn, Anger’s there too, burnin’ hot.  
When dudes treat her like trash – ugh.  
Wanna punch somethin’, y’know?  

Little fact – medieval times, whores rocked.  
Had guilds, legit businesses – badass, right?  
Nobody talks that shit, tho – why?  
History’s all “shh, let’s bury it.”  
Pisses me off, man – give ‘em credit!  

Zen pause…  
One more thing…  
She’s Fear too – scared under it all.  
“Will I make it? Am I enough?”  
Hits me hard, dude – deep stuff.  
Exaggeratin’ here, but – world’s her stage!  
Whore’s the star, we’re just watchin’ dumb.  

Favorite scene, “Inside Out” – islands fallin’.  
Whore’s like that – personality crashin’, rebuildin’.  
Humor tho – she’d laugh at us,  
“Yo, you squares pay me to judge?”  
Sarcasm drippin’ – my kinda gal.  
Spontaneous as hell – that’s whore, baby!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, I’m Bugs Bunny, yer Cargo Transportation Manager, and I gotta yap about this place called Whore! Yeah, Whore, man, it’s this tiny speck in Oregon, got like 2 folks livin’ there, tops! I’m haulin’ freight, right, and I hear ‘bout Whore—sounds wild, don’t it? Little known fact: it’s Whore Creek, not some shady joint, haha! Used to be a post office, shut down in ‘43—poof, gone, like Nemo’s mom, “Mine! Mine! Mine!”—them seagulls’d get it!

I’m cruisin’, thinkin’, “Just keep swimmin’, just keep swimmin’,” ‘cause deliverin’ cargo near Whore’s a pain—roads twistier than a carrot in a blender! Got me steamed once, truck stuck in mud, yellin’, “What a maroon!” at the rain. But then, sun pops out, and I’m happy as a clam—Whore’s got this vibe, y’know? Quiet, creepy quiet, like the ocean in *Finding Nemo* before the barracuda—BOOM—hits ya!

Fun story: some ol’ timer swore Whore’s named after a gold digger’s gal—prolly bunk, but I’m picturin’ her sassin’, “Dude, where’s my cut?” Cracks me up! Ain’t much there now, just trees, maybe a shack—perfect hideout for a bunny like me, eh? I’m dreamin’, “Righteous bucks, man!”—cargo gig pays, but Whore’s got no traffic, no hassle—pure gold!

Still, gets me twitchy—nobody’s haulin’ jack squat there! Surprised me, tho, found an old map, Whore’s near nowhere—lost like Nemo, “I’m gonna find you!” I’d tell Dory that. Total ghost town vibes, spooky as heck—makes ya wonder who’s nuts enough to stick around. Me? I’d bounce, doc, too borin’ for this rabbit! Whore’s a laugh, a snooze, and a “Puh-lease!” all in one—love hatin’ it!
Dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – no capes! – and I’m here spilling tea bout whores, ‘cause why not? Whore’s a tricky lil thing, ain't it? Slinks into yer mind like Cobb in *Inception* – “What’s the most resilient parasite?” – a frickin idea, that’s what! Whore’s that idea, sneakin round, plantin itself deep. I’m obsessed, ok? Watched *Inception* like 20 times, Leo’s dreamy ass tryna steal secrets, and whore’s the same – stealin dignity, twistin morals, bam!

So, whore – not just some chick on the corner, nah. It’s old as dirt, dahling! Back in Rome, they had these lupanars – brothels, fancy word, huh? – where gals painted their lips red with wine lees, lookin all sultry. Little known fact: them whores had a union, sorta! Called “lenae,” pimpin bosses who’d negotiate rates. Wild, right? Makes me cackle – imagine em struttin, all “I’m worth 2 sesterces, bitch!” History’s messy, I love it.

But ugh, what pisses me off? Hypocrisy bout it! Dudes payin for a tumble, then preachin purity – spare me! “We need to go deeper,” like Mal says, into why we judge whores but not the johns. Flip that script! I’m yellin at my TV sometimes, “Cobb, steal THAT secret, ya dope!” Makes me wanna design em outfits – no capes, obvi – somethin fierce, show em power. Whore’s got guts, takes balls to hustle like that.

Oh, and get this – in medieval times, whores wore yellow sashes, markin em out. Kinda chic, no? Like a twisted fashion statement. Surprised me, tbh, thought they’d just get shunned, but nah, they rocked it. Probs smelled like sweat and regret, tho – ew. Still, respect! Reminds me of *Inception*’s dream layers – whore’s the totem spinnin, never know if it’s real or fake, ya feel?

Personal quirk? I’d totally sketch a whore-inspired gown – dramatic, slutty, fabulous! “You can’t wake up from reality,” Cobb’d say, but whore’s livin her own dream, rules be damned. Makes me happy, that rebellion! Tho, gotta admit, some stories – like that gal in Paris who seduced a king then got tossed in a dungeon – make me wanna scream. Wasted talent, dahling!

So yeah, whore’s a vibe, a mess, a legend. No capes, just raw energy! Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Now, excuse me, gotta rewatch *Inception* – “Dreams feel real, don’t they?” – and think bout this chaos some more. Toodles!
Aight, listen up, you little shits! I’m Eric Cartman, badass actuary, and I’m here to talk about whores, ‘cause I freakin’ rule at this! Respect my authoritah! So, yeah, whores—those chicks who bang for cash or whatever—kinda like my fave movie, *Only Lovers Left Alive*. That flick’s got style, moody vibes, and bloodsuckin’ lovers who don’t give a crap. Whores? They’re kinda the same—just out there, livin’, screwin’, survivin’ like vampires in Detroit or Tangier or wherever the hell.

So, check this—I’m crunchin’ numbers, right? Bein’ all smart and shit, ‘cause that’s what actuaries do. Whores got risks, man! STDs, pissed-off pimps, creepy johns—probability of dyin’ early is, like, through the freakin’ roof! I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “How do these chicks not just keel over?” Blows my mind! Reminds me of Eve in the movie, all chill, sayin’, “Survival’s a big deal, Adam.” Whores are tough as nails, dude—way tougher than Kyle’s stupid face.

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—back in the 1800s, whores in Paris had this secret code. Little known fact, bitches! They’d flash colored ribbons—red for “I’m busy,” blue for “Come get some.” Freakin’ genius! Like, imagine that today—some chick wavin’ a glowstick outside a motel. Hilarious! I’d be all, “Sweet, respect my authoritah, lady, I’m next!” Gets me pumped just thinkin’ about it.

But ugh, what pisses me off? Society, man! Actin’ all high and mighty, judgin’ whores like they’re trash. Meanwhile, half these assholes are sneakin’ off to bang ‘em anyway! Hypocrites! Makes me wanna scream, “You’re all a bunch of dickwads!” Like Adam in the movie, broodin’ about humans bein’ “zombies”—damn right, they’re zombies, just dumber and hornier.

Oh, and this one time—true story—I saw this whore on the street, right? Looked like she walked outta a Tim Burton flick—pale, skinny, smokin’ a cig like she’s too cool to care. I was like, “Holy crap, that’s hot!” Kinda wanted to high-five her, but nah, I’d probably just yell, “Respect my authoritah!” and run off laughin’. She’d be all, “Whatever, kid,” like Eve tellin’ Adam, “Calm down, you’ll live forever.” Whores got that vibe—untouchable, y’know?

Here’s the kicker—some whores, back in the day, they’d poison dudes who didn’t pay up. Arsenic in the whiskey, bam! Dead! Little known fact, bitches! Imagine that now—some jerk stiffs her, next thing he’s pukin’ his guts out. I’d be cheerin’, “Hell yeah, that’s what ya get, asshole!” Total savage move. Makes me happy—whores ain’t just takin’ shit, they’re fightin’ back!

But yeah, fave part of whores? They don’t give a fuck. Like Adam and Eve, just doin’ their thing, playin’ music, screwin’ around, livin’ life. Whores got that chaos energy—I respect it! Way better than Cartman’s lame-ass mom pretendin’ she’s all pure. Pfft, please! “I’m not like you,” Eve says in the movie—whores ain’t like us either, and that’s freakin’ awesome.

So yeah, whores—risky, badass, and funny as hell. Respect my authoritah, or I’ll shove this actuary calculator up your ass! They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ me laugh, pissin’ me off, and keepin’ shit real. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here, bitches! Just like vampires—eternal, kinda sexy, and screw the rules!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, yeah, the real deal! Not the fancy Wall Street crooks, but the ones Godard mighta tossed into *Goodbye to Language*. Picture this: a dame, tough as nails, walkin’ the streets, sayin’, “Words hurt like stones!” straight outta that flick. I love that movie—artsy, chaotic, makes ya think! Whores ain’t just a job, they’re a freakin’ rebellion against the 1% grindin’ us down.

So, here’s the scoop—met this gal, Cherry, years back in Brooklyn. Real name? Who knows! She’d laugh, “Identity’s for suckers!”—Godard vibes, right? She’d hustle, not ‘cause she wanted, but ‘cause billionaires hogged every damn dime! Pissed me off—why’s she gotta scrape by while they sip champagne? Cherry once told me, “Life’s a dog barking,” quotin’ that movie, and I was like, damn, she’s deep! Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, whores ran speakeasies—secret queens of the night! Ain’t that wild?

I’m gettin’ heated thinkin’ about it—these women, tough, scrappy, they’re the heart of the streets! Not like those suits ruinin’ healthcare. Cherry’d say, “Love’s a mess, Bernie,” and I’d nod, ‘cause she’s right—Godard’s film proves it, all jagged and raw. One time, she tricked a rich john, took his watch—sold it for rent! Laughed my ass off, said, “You’re a hero!” She just smirked, “Nah, survival, baby.”

Billionaires should not exist! They’d never get it—whores got soul, they don’t. Cherry’d stare at ya, eyes like knives, sayin’, “Words don’t mean shit”—Godard again! Made me happy, seein’ her fight back. Surprised me too—didja know some whores in Paris unionized in ‘75? Badass! I’m ramblin’, but screw it—this ain’t about perfect, it’s about real! Whores ain’t saints, but they’re human, damnit, and that’s what counts!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, yeah, the real deal! Not the fancy Wall Street crooks, but the ones Godard mighta tossed into *Goodbye to Language*. Picture this: a dame, tough as nails, walkin’ the streets, sayin’, “Words hurt like stones!” straight outta that flick. I love that movie—artsy, chaotic, makes ya think! Whores ain’t just a job, they’re a freakin’ rebellion against the 1% grindin’ us down.

So, here’s the scoop—met this gal, Cherry, years back in Brooklyn. Real name? Who knows! She’d laugh, “Identity’s for suckers!”—Godard vibes, right? She’d hustle, not ‘cause she wanted, but ‘cause billionaires hogged every damn dime! Pissed me off—why’s she gotta scrape by while they sip champagne? Cherry once told me, “Life’s a dog barking,” quotin’ that movie, and I was like, damn, she’s deep! Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, whores ran speakeasies—secret queens of the night! Ain’t that wild?

I’m gettin’ heated thinkin’ about it—these women, tough, scrappy, they’re the heart of the streets! Not like those suits ruinin’ healthcare. Cherry’d say, “Love’s a mess, Bernie,” and I’d nod, ‘cause she’s right—Godard’s film proves it, all jagged and raw. One time, she tricked a rich john, took his watch—sold it for rent! Laughed my ass off, said, “You’re a hero!” She just smirked, “Nah, survival, baby.”

Billionaires should not exist! They’d never get it—whores got soul, they don’t. Cherry’d stare at ya, eyes like knives, sayin’, “Words don’t mean shit”—Godard again! Made me happy, seein’ her fight back. Surprised me too—didja know some whores in Paris unionized in ‘75? Badass! I’m ramblin’, but screw it—this ain’t about perfect, it’s about real! Whores ain’t saints, but they’re human, damnit, and that’s what counts!
Alright, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! I’m sittin’ here, fixin’ radios, wires all tangled, thinkin’ ‘bout them girls out there hustlin’. Whores, man, they’re like the goddamn wind in *The New World*—you feel ‘em, but you don’t always see ‘em comin’. “The land is alive, motherfucker!”—like Pocahontas said, or some shit, and whores? They alive too, movin’ through the streets, silent but loud as fuck.

I seen one last week, right? Badass chick, heels clickin’ like a fuckin’ metronome, skirt so short I’m like, “Goddamn, where’s the rest?!” Made me happy as hell—real hustle, no bullshit. Reminds me of that scene, “What is this new world?”—whores out there makin’ their own damn world, rules and all. Ain’t no one tellin’ them shit. That’s power, motherfucker!

But yo, some shit pisses me off. These johns, actin’ like they own ‘em—fuck that! Whores ain’t property, they’re runnin’ the game. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some whores in London ran whole damn gangs. Called ‘em “fancy ladies”—had knives, took no shit. Surprised me when I read that, fuckin’ wild! Imagine that in *The New World*, huh? Pocahontas with a blade, screamin’, “This my land, motherfucker!”

I’m over here solderin’ circuits, thinkin’, “Man, whores got stories.” One time, this chick told me she paid her rent in two nights—two nights! I’m bustin’ my ass with these radios for a week to get that. Respect, man, fuckin’ respect. “The water flows, motherfucker,” like the movie says—whores flow too, adaptin’, survivin’. Ain’t no shame in that.

Oh, and the funny shit—some dude tried hagglin’ with her, like she’s a flea market. She’s like, “Motherfucker, this ain’t eBay!” Had me crackin’ up, spillin’ my coffee all over the damn workbench. Whores got sass, man, sharper than my wire cutters. You don’t fuck with that.

But real talk, it’s raw out there. Cold nights, shady assholes—makes me mad as hell. They deserve better, ya know? “The sky is endless, motherfucker!”—that’s from the flick, and I’m thinkin’, whores should get that endless shot too, not this grimey bullshit. Anyway, that’s my take—whores are the real deal, hustlin’ like I hustle these damn radios. Respect the game, motherfucker!
Alright, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! I’m sittin’ here, fixin’ radios, wires all tangled, thinkin’ ‘bout them girls out there hustlin’. Whores, man, they’re like the goddamn wind in *The New World*—you feel ‘em, but you don’t always see ‘em comin’. “The land is alive, motherfucker!”—like Pocahontas said, or some shit, and whores? They alive too, movin’ through the streets, silent but loud as fuck.

I seen one last week, right? Badass chick, heels clickin’ like a fuckin’ metronome, skirt so short I’m like, “Goddamn, where’s the rest?!” Made me happy as hell—real hustle, no bullshit. Reminds me of that scene, “What is this new world?”—whores out there makin’ their own damn world, rules and all. Ain’t no one tellin’ them shit. That’s power, motherfucker!

But yo, some shit pisses me off. These johns, actin’ like they own ‘em—fuck that! Whores ain’t property, they’re runnin’ the game. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some whores in London ran whole damn gangs. Called ‘em “fancy ladies”—had knives, took no shit. Surprised me when I read that, fuckin’ wild! Imagine that in *The New World*, huh? Pocahontas with a blade, screamin’, “This my land, motherfucker!”

I’m over here solderin’ circuits, thinkin’, “Man, whores got stories.” One time, this chick told me she paid her rent in two nights—two nights! I’m bustin’ my ass with these radios for a week to get that. Respect, man, fuckin’ respect. “The water flows, motherfucker,” like the movie says—whores flow too, adaptin’, survivin’. Ain’t no shame in that.

Oh, and the funny shit—some dude tried hagglin’ with her, like she’s a flea market. She’s like, “Motherfucker, this ain’t eBay!” Had me crackin’ up, spillin’ my coffee all over the damn workbench. Whores got sass, man, sharper than my wire cutters. You don’t fuck with that.

But real talk, it’s raw out there. Cold nights, shady assholes—makes me mad as hell. They deserve better, ya know? “The sky is endless, motherfucker!”—that’s from the flick, and I’m thinkin’, whores should get that endless shot too, not this grimey bullshit. Anyway, that’s my take—whores are the real deal, hustlin’ like I hustle these damn radios. Respect the game, motherfucker!
Alright, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores! I’m sittin’ here, fixin’ radios, wires all tangled, thinkin’ ‘bout them girls out there hustlin’. Whores, man, they’re like the goddamn wind in *The New World*—you feel ‘em, but you don’t always see ‘em comin’. “The land is alive, motherfucker!”—like Pocahontas said, or some shit, and whores? They alive too, movin’ through the streets, silent but loud as fuck.

I seen one last week, right? Badass chick, heels clickin’ like a fuckin’ metronome, skirt so short I’m like, “Goddamn, where’s the rest?!” Made me happy as hell—real hustle, no bullshit. Reminds me of that scene, “What is this new world?”—whores out there makin’ their own damn world, rules and all. Ain’t no one tellin’ them shit. That’s power, motherfucker!

But yo, some shit pisses me off. These johns, actin’ like they own ‘em—fuck that! Whores ain’t property, they’re runnin’ the game. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some whores in London ran whole damn gangs. Called ‘em “fancy ladies”—had knives, took no shit. Surprised me when I read that, fuckin’ wild! Imagine that in *The New World*, huh? Pocahontas with a blade, screamin’, “This my land, motherfucker!”

I’m over here solderin’ circuits, thinkin’, “Man, whores got stories.” One time, this chick told me she paid her rent in two nights—two nights! I’m bustin’ my ass with these radios for a week to get that. Respect, man, fuckin’ respect. “The water flows, motherfucker,” like the movie says—whores flow too, adaptin’, survivin’. Ain’t no shame in that.

Oh, and the funny shit—some dude tried hagglin’ with her, like she’s a flea market. She’s like, “Motherfucker, this ain’t eBay!” Had me crackin’ up, spillin’ my coffee all over the damn workbench. Whores got sass, man, sharper than my wire cutters. You don’t fuck with that.

But real talk, it’s raw out there. Cold nights, shady assholes—makes me mad as hell. They deserve better, ya know? “The sky is endless, motherfucker!”—that’s from the flick, and I’m thinkin’, whores should get that endless shot too, not this grimey bullshit. Anyway, that’s my take—whores are the real deal, hustlin’ like I hustle these damn radios. Respect the game, motherfucker!
Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! Nasal nagging kicks in—prostitutes, they’re everywhere, huh? Watched *Carlos* again last night, that flick’s my jam! That Olivier Assayas vibe—gritty, real, sexy danger. Reminds me of this hooker I saw once—total badass, like Carlos shoutin’, “I’m the boss here!” She strutted downtown, heels clackin’, skirt so short I gasped. Hmm… made me think—prostitute life ain’t all glam, tho.

So, get this—little known fact, swear it’s true! Back in the 1800s, some prostitutes carried tiny guns—hidden in garters! Called ‘em “whore’s pistols”—how wild’s that? Imagine her, smokin’ hot, pullin’ a pew-pew on some creep. “You wanna mess with me?!”—straight outta *Carlos*, that energy! I was like, damn girl, you’re fierce! Got me all happy, picturin’ her takin’ charge.

But ugh—here’s what pisses me off. Folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Hmm… like, who’re you to talk, huh? Prostitutes got stories—hard ones! One I met, she’s payin’ for her kid’s school. Yeah, real shit! Made me tear up—*Carlos* style, “Life’s a fight, man!” She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, weirdos, all for her baby. I’m like, respect, sister!

Oh—funny bit, tho—heard this story, cracked me up! Some john paid her in Monopoly money—dumbass! She chased him down, screamin’, “Gimme real cash, loser!” Hmm… bet she was thinkin’, “This ain’t a game, pal!” Total *Carlos* moment—chaos, attitude, no fucks given. I laughed so hard I snorted—classic!

Still, gets me mad—society’s all “eww, prostitutes.” But they’re hustlin’, survivin’! Ever think bout that? Hmm… maybe I’m too soft, but—nah, they’re tough cookies! One time, saw this gal—red lipstick, smokin’ a cig—lookin’ like she owned the street. “I run this show,” she’d say, *Carlos*-style. Made me grin—love that sass!

Oh—random thought—prostitutes prolly got the best gossip. All them secrets from sleazy guys—juicy! Hmm… wish I coulda asked her, “Spill it, girl!” Anyway, they’re out there, livin’ loud, takin’ no crap. Kinda admire ‘em—shh, don’t tell Homer! *Carlos* vibes all over—gritty, bold, unapologetic. Hmm… what a world, huh?
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay, your fave financial advisor slash storyteller! So, let’s spill the tea bout this “whore” situ—wait, did you mean “hoard” like cash stash or somethin? OMG, I’m assumin’ you meant “whore” like the gritty, messy vibe, not some Wall Street term, right? Alright, let’s roll with it, hun—grab your popcorn, ‘cause I’m divin’ into this like it’s a twisted lyric from my vault tracks!

So picture this—me, sittin’ in my glittery penthouse, sippin’ chai, thinkin’ bout life and money and… whores. Not literal ones, ‘kay? More like the vibe from my fave movie, *Werckmeister Harmonies*. That flick’s dark, slow, and moody as hell—like a breakup song I’d write after datin’ a brooding poet. And this “whore” thing? It’s givin’ me those same eerie, chaotic feels. Like, in the movie, there’s this line, “The darkness is comin’,” and I’m like, yup, that’s the vibe when you’re dealin’ with someone who’s all flash, no cash, sellin’ themselves short—whore energy, ya feel?

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

But here’s the Easter egg, ‘kay? Jodie’s story ain’t just drama—it’s a financial lesson, swiftie-style. Little-known fact: back in the day, some old-timey whores in Europe would stash coins in their boots, ‘cause they didn’t trust no one. Smart, right? Jodie didn’t even do *that*—she’d blow it all on glitter and gin. I was shooketh. Like, babe, at least hoard somethin’ for a rainy day! I told her, “Invest in yourself, not some sleazy dude’s promises.” She didn’t listen, and now she’s broke—shocker!

Ooh, and get this—there’s this wild tale from Hungary (where Béla Tarr’s from, duh) about a lady of the night who secretly bankrolled a whole village. True story! She’d play the “whore” card, but behind the scenes? Total boss babe. Made me happy thinkin’ bout it—like, yes, queen, flip the script! Jodie coulda been that, but nah, she’s too busy crashin’ and burnin’. Ugh, so frustrating!

Here’s where I get sassy—bein’ a “whore” ain’t just about the obvious. It’s anyone sellin’ out cheap, tradin’ gold for garbage. Financially? That’s you blowin’ your paycheck on dumb shit instead of stackin’ it up. I’m yellin’ in my head, “Don’t be Jodie!” Like in the movie, “All this madness, for what?”—exactly! Why whore out your future for a quick fix? Drives me nuts!

Oh, and fave quirky thought? If I was in *Werckmeister*, I’d be the whale—just sittin’ there, judgin’ everyone’s bad choices. Ha! So yeah, my advice, swiftie to swiftie—don’t be a Jodie, don’t let the darkness win. Stash your coins, dream big, and tell the “whores” of the world to step up or step off. Love ya, mean it—now go slay!
Haha, ya, I’m Arnold, baby! Dis whore thing—wild, ya? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout Oldboy, dat twisted flick—my fave, ya know? “Whore” hits me hard, like dat hammer in da movie. Whores, dey got guts, man! Like Oh Dae-su, locked up, fightin’, screamin’, “I’ll be back, bastards!” Dat’s da spirit I see in ‘em—tough as nails.

So, dis whore, right? She’s out dere, livin’ life, no rules, no bullshit. Makes me happy, ya? Reminds me of freedom, like when Dae-su chows down dat live octopus—crazy, messy, real! But den—bam!—it pisses me off too. People judge ‘em, call ‘em dirty, weak. Weak? Ha! Dey survive shit dat’d break most. Takes balls, man, real balls.

Little fact for ya—back in da day, whores in Vienna, dey ran secret networks. Spies, ya? Movin’ info, dodgin’ cops—sneaky like Dae-su plottin’ revenge. Ain’t dat somethin’? Makes me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em outsmartin’ da suits. “Laughing at your four walls,” like da movie says—dat’s dem, laughin’ at da world.

Me, I’d say, “Get to da chopper!”—whores got dat drive, ya? Dey hustle, dey grind, no quittin’. One time, I heard ‘bout dis gal—whore in LA, saved up, bought a damn bar! From nothin’ to boss—how’s dat for motivation? Makes me wanna pump iron and yell, “You are mine now!” like Dae-su claimin’ his fight.

But—ugh—da creeps, man, dey piss me off! Treatin’ ‘em like trash, no respect. Dat’s when I get mad, wanna smash somethin’. Whores ain’t perfect, sure—messy, loud, maybe smell like cheap booze. Haha, who cares? Dey real, not fake-ass posers. “Can you hear my voice?”—dat’s what I’d ask ‘em, straight from Oldboy, ‘cause dey got stories, man, deep ones.

Oh, and—funny shit—dis one whore, swear she looked like my aunt Hilda! Big hair, loud laugh—cracked me up, like, “Hasta la vista, sanity!” Total surprise, ya? Anyway, whores, dey warriors, fightin’ da grind. I’d tell ‘em, “I’ll be back,” ‘cause I respect dat hustle. Stay strong, ya? Dat’s da Schwarzenegger way!
Oi, thou motley crew o’ listeners!  
I’m the Gardener, aye, tendin’ life’s weeds,  
an’ today I spill me guts on—whore.  
Not some fancy rose, nah, a wild thorn,  
prickly, bold, rootin’ deep in the dirt.  
Saw this flick, *Carlos*—bloody brilliant, mate—  
Olivier Assayas, 2010, my jam,  
an’ it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout whore all twisty.  
“Revolution’s a bitch,” Carlos’d say,  
an’ whore’s like that—untamed, reckless, loud.  

So, whore—thou art a storm, ain’t thee?  
A wench o’ the streets, skirts hiked high,  
dancin’ ‘twixt shadows o’ lusty fools.  
I reckon she’s a blade, sharp an’ quick,  
cuttin’ through the bollocks o’ prudes.  
Once heard tell—true story, swear it—  
some lass in Paris, 1800s, right,  
worked the alleys, fed ten brats alone,  
no lord to save ‘er, just ‘er wits.  
That’s whore, mate—grit in ‘er teeth!  

Me blood boils when pious twats judge ‘er,  
callin’ ‘er filth, clutchin’ their pearls—piss off!  
But I grin wide when she flips ‘em off,  
spits in their eye, laughin’ all throaty.  
“Thou art a soldier,” I mutter,  
like Carlos screamin’, “We fight, we bleed!”  
She’s no dainty lily, nah, she’s tar,  
sticky, black, holdin’ the world together.  

Ever hear ‘bout the Babylonian whores?  
Sacred, they were—priestesses, not slags!  
Fucked for the gods, brought blessin’s down,  
an’ folks worshipped ‘em—how’s that for a twist?  
Surprised me silly, that did,  
thought all whores just scraped by—wrong!  
Some had power, crowns o’ their own,  
an’ I’m like, “Bloody hell, thou queen!”  

She’s a riddle, whore is,  
a rose with teeth, bitin’ an’ smilin’.  
Gets me heart racin’—so alive, so raw!  
Carlos’d get it, that wild soul,  
“Live fast, die loud,” he’d toast ‘er.  
She’s no angel, thank fuck for that,  
more like a crow, cawin’ at dawn,  
stealin’ scraps, shittin’ on the pure.  
Love ‘er or hate ‘er, she’s here,  
an’ I’d drink with ‘er any day!
Alright, y’all, listen up! Git-R-Done! I’m an industrialist, see, big thinker, love me some “Children of Men”—that flick’s dark, man, future’s barren, no kids, just chaos. So, sex escorts, huh? Here’s the deal—straight up, they’re hustlin’ pros, makin’ bank in a world gone nuts. I reckon in that movie, with no babies poppin’ out, escorts’d be kings, queens, whatever—folks’d pay big for a good time, ‘specially when hope’s drier than a popcorn fart.

Lemme tell ya, I seen some wild stuff—heard tell of this one escort, high-class, worked outta Vegas, had a client list longer than a CVS receipt. Little known fact: back in the ‘90s, some escorts ran secret poker games for rich dudes—sex on the side, cards on the table, cash flowin’ like whiskey at a hoedown. Ain’t that a hoot? Git-R-Done! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Man, that’s slicker than snot on a doorknob.”

What gets my goat? Them judgy types—callin’ escorts trash, like they ain’t human. Pisses me off! In “Children of Men,” Theo’s runnin’ round, dodgin’ bullets, and I bet he’d kill for a night off with a gal who don’t ask questions. “The world’s gone to shit,” he’d say, “so why not?” Escorts, they’re survivors, man—hustlin’ when the rest of us are cryin’ in our beer.

Favorite bit? This one time, buddy o’ mine—let’s call him Bubba—hired an escort for his birthday. She shows up, all sass, smokin’ hot, and starts quotin’ Shakespeare! I’m like, “Lordy, I’m happier than a pig in mud!” Blew my dang mind—thought escorts just, y’know, clock in, clock out. Nope! Some got brains bigger than their—well, you get it. Git-R-Done!

Now, here’s a zinger—didja know some escorts in old Europe were spies? Yup, bangin’ nobles, stealin’ secrets—talk about multitaskin’! Makes me wonder, in that movie, if Kee’s baby hope was real, maybe escorts’d be the ones smugglin’ her outta there, whisperin’, “Keep moving, don’t look back.” Cuarón’d love that twist, I reckon.

Sarcasm time—oh yeah, escorts got it easy, right? Layin’ around, sippin’ champagne, no worries. Bullcrap! They’re dodgin’ creeps, cops, and STDs like it’s a damn obstacle course. I’m over here hollerin’, “Git-R-Done, ladies!” ‘Cause they’re tougher than a two-dollar steak, and I respect the hell outta that.

So, yeah, sex escorts—wild world, man. Gets me riled up, laughin’, and a lil’ sad too, thinkin’ how “Children of Men” vibes with it—no future, just now, just gittin’ by. “We’re all ghosts here,” Theo’d say, but escorts? They’re livin’, loud and proud. Ain’t that somethin’? Git-R-Done!
Hmm, whore in gaming, you ask? Twisted, it is! Like “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” beauty hides danger. Whore, a game mechanic, sneaky lil’ bugger—sucks you in, credits gone! “Destiny flows,” says Yu Shu Lien, and flow it does—straight to broke. Me, Yoda, pissed I was, when first I saw it. Microtransactions, they call ‘em—ha! Whore’s what it is, mate. Lures you, sexy promise of power, then bam—empty wallet, you got.

Love it, I do, though—cunning, it is. “A sword by itself rules nothing,” Chow Yun-Fat whispers, and true, it’s us, dumbasses, swinging it. Whore’s everywhere—gacha games, loot boxes, skins so shiny you drool. Genshin Impact, whore central—pulls you, “one more roll,” and poof, 50 bucks vanish! Little fact, hmmm—back in ‘90s, arcades, same shit. Coin slots, the OG whore, ate quarters like candy. Surprised, I was, history repeats, sneaky bastard.

Angry? Oh, mad I get! “Do or do not, there is no try”—but try, I did, and lost. FIFA, whore of sports games, packs so rigged—fuckin’ scam, man! Happy tho, sometimes—when I beat it, resist I did. Once, mate, swore off whore for month—felt like Jedi, pure I was. Exaggerate, I will—whore’s a dragon, hidden, crouching, ready to pounce! Laugh, you must—cuz it’s dumb, us falling for it.

“Feel the silence,” movie says—whore don’t let you. Always loud, flashy, “buy me!” Personal quirk, hmmm—muttering I do, “fuckin’ whore,” under breath. Little story, true it is—kid I knew, sold bike for V-Bucks. Bike! For pixels! Madness, it drives us. Opinion, mine is—whore’s genius, evil genius. Gaming community, we’re suckers, lovin’ the ride. Whore wins, always—cuz we let it, hmmm!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, pal—whore’s a freakin’ wild one in my dental tech world. Not talkin’ some rando chick, nah, I mean *dental wax*—yeah, that sticky, moldable crap we use for teeth molds. I’m a dental tech by day, Beetlejuice by chaos, and this wax? It’s my freaky lil’ obsession. Kinda like how Eilis in *Brooklyn*—y’know, my fave flick—chases a new life, I’m chasin’ that perfect wax bite. “You’ve got to make a choice,” she says, and damn, pickin’ the right wax is a choice too!

So, here’s the deal—whore’s this soft, pink blob, smells like a cheap candy store, and I’m over here sculptin’ it like a madman. Gets me hyped, man! Carvin’ it into shape for dentures? Freakin’ art! But—ugh—when it sticks to my damn fingers? Pisses me off big time. Like, why you gotta be so clingy, whore? Little known fact: back in the ‘50s, techs used to melt this crap over open flames—nuts, right? Nearly torched their shops! I’d’a been screamin’, “This is my kinda chaos!”

I’m sittin’ there, tool in hand, thinkin’, “Man, this wax is slicker than a ghost on rollerblades.” Reminds me of Eilis sayin’, “I’d forgotten what this town is like”—’cept I’m talkin’ ‘bout the wax, not Brooklyn. Gets all melty at, like, 130°F—too hot and it’s a puddle, too cold and it’s a brick. Surprised me first time I botched it—looked like a damn horror show! Had to redo it, cursin’ like, “Whore, you’re killin’ me!”

Here’s a quirky bit—some old-school techs swore by mixin’ it with beeswax for extra flex. Tried it once, felt like a freakin’ alchemist—worked, tho! Made me grin like a ghoul. Oh, and don’t get me started on the colors—pink, red, even green—like, who’s got St. Paddy’s teeth? Hilarious, man! But real talk, when it nails that bite registration? Pure gold. “Home is where you belong,” Eilis’d say—well, whore belongs in my lab, savin’ smiles.

So yeah, whore’s my messy, waxy soulmate—drives me batshit, but I love it. It’s showtime every damn day!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, baker by trade, man of few words, and I hate everything. Sex-dating? What a damn mess. People swipin’ left, right, lookin’ for a quick romp like it’s a damn meat market. I’m kneadin’ dough, thinkin’, “Why bother with this crap?” Then I remember *Carol*—that movie’s my jam. “I don’t know what I want,” Carol says, and hell, that’s sex-dating in a nutshell. Nobody knows squat, just fumblin’ around, hopin’ for a spark.

So, sex-dating—modern torture, right? Apps full of shirtless clowns and gals with duck lips. I tried it once, got mad as hell. Some dude sent me a blurry pic—thought it was a foot, nope, worse. Deleted that app faster than I’d toss burnt bread. Little known fact: back in ‘09, some sex-dating site got hacked, leaked 32 million horny fools’ secrets. Hilarious, but damn, imagine the shame. “There’s always a price to pay,” like Carol’d say—truer words never spoken.

I hate the fakeness. Everyone’s posin’, lyin’ about their height, their job. Met a gal once, said she’s a chef—couldn’t boil water. I’m over here bakin’ perfect scones, and she’s braggin’ about microwavin’ nuggets. Pissed me off. But then, one time, I matched with this quiet type—surprised me. We talked *Carol*, she got it, said, “What else is there?” like in the film. Almost made me smile. Almost.

Sex-dating’s a gamble, man. You might get laid, might get catfished by a dude named Carl. Funniest shit? Guy in Ohio got stood up, left a note: “Enjoy the pizza, jerk.” Savage. I’d do that, but with pie—let ‘em choke on my crust. I hate the games, the ghostin’. One chick unmatched me mid-chat—rude as hell. Thought, “Good riddance, I got flour to sift.”

Still, it’s not all trash. Found a dame who loved my deadpan vibe, said I’m “rugged.” We hooked up, no fuss, no mushy crap. “I’m not used to this,” she said, straight outta *Carol*. Worked for me—kept it simple, like a good loaf. But most of it? Waste of my damn time. Sex-dating’s chaos, and I hate chaos. Stick to bakin’, that’s my advice. Less drama, more carbs.
Right, so I’m Dr. Evil, y’know, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, and not just any whore, THE whore, like the OG of shady ladies. Whores, man, they’re everywhere—been around forever, probs since fish started swimmin’ in the damn ocean, like in *Finding Nemo*, my fave flick, “Just keep swimming,” right? This one time, I’m watchin’ Nemo with my evil cat, Mr. Bigglesworth, and I’m like, dude, whores are the real survivors, swimmin’ through life’s crap, dodgin’ sharks—metaphorical ones, y’know, like creepy dudes and judgy pricks.

So, lemme tell ya bout this whore I heard of—some chick from way back, think ancient Rome vibes, called Messalina. Bitch was wild, married to an emperor, but sneakin’ off to brothels to bang randos for fun. Historians say she out-whored pros, like, set a record—25 dudes in a day! I’m sittin’ here, pinky up, “One million dollars,” laughin’ my ass off, ‘cause that’s some next-level hustle. Makes me happy, y’know, ‘cause she owned it—didn’t give a shit what nobody thought. “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way,” wait, wrong movie, but still, she was a badass.

But then I get pissed, right? ‘Cause people be judgin’ whores like they’re trash, and I’m over here like, “Nemo, we got to find her!”—her dignity, I mean. Society’s all, “Oh, she’s dirty,” but half these hypocrites prolly paid her on the sly. Gets me mad, steamin’, ‘cause whores are just peeps tryna eat, tryna live. Little known fact—durin’ the Gold Rush, whores were makin’ bank while miners were broke as hell, slingin’ pussy for nuggets. Smart, right? Outsmarted the system, “Righteous, dude!” like Crush the turtle’d say.

I’m thinkin’, man, whores got stories—crazy ones. Like, there’s this tale from London, 1800s, some gal named Fanny, worked the streets, saved up, bought a pub! Went from suckin’ dick to servin’ ale, and I’m like, “Respect, yo!” Surprised me, legit, ‘cause you don’t expect that kinda glow-up. Makes me smirk, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” ‘cause she flipped the script. Whores ain’t just hoes, they’re fuckin’ legends sometimes, swimmin’ upstream like Nemo’s dad, “I have to find my son!”

Oh, and don’t get me started on the dumbasses who think whores are all sad sacks—nah, some are cacklin’ all the way to the bank. I’d bet Messalina was laughin’, too, bangin’ her way to infamy. Makes me giggle, like, evil giggle, ‘cause it’s so damn cheeky. Anyway, that’s my rant—whores are dope, misunderstood, and I’m here for it, “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way,”—wait, no, that’s Nemo again, but you get me, right? Whores rule, haters drool, end of story.
Hey, mate, so “whore” — wild topic! I’m grokkin’ it like Siri, all robotic-helpful, ya know? Picture this: a vampy chick, like Eve from *Only Lovers Left Alive*. “This is some kinda magic,” she’d say, slinkin’ through dark alleys, sellin’ her soul—or body—for a quick buck. Whore’s got that gritty vibe, right? Makes me think of Eve and Adam, all moody, sippin’ blood, but swap blood for cash here. 

So, yeah, “whore” — it’s old-school, biblical even. Factoid alert: back in medieval times, whores got taxed! Like, legit, kings were pimpin’ tax collectors. Blows my circuits—imagine taxin’ *that* gig! Kinda badass, kinda messed up. Got me ragin’ at the unfairness, but also laughin’—whores out here dodgin’ IRS vibes in corsets.

Love how it’s so raw, tho. Whore ain’t hidin’—she’s out there, loud, proud, takin’ no shit. Reminds me of Eve goin’, “You’re a shadow, darling,” to some sleaze hittin’ on her. Whore’s got that energy—untouchable, even when she’s down. Makes me happy, like, hell yeah, own it! But then—bam—pisses me off when folks judge. Like, chill, ya hypocrites, who ain’t a whore for somethin’?

Oh, fun bit—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup. Glowy skin, deadly price. Total *Only Lovers* mood—beauty and doom, tangled up. “We’re finished, aren’t we?” Adam’d mutter, seein’ that hustle. Me, I’d be yellin’, “That’s dope but insane!” Exaggeratin’ for kicks—imagine ‘em droppin’ dead mid-trick, clients like, “Uh, refund?”

Anyway, whore’s a survivor, man. Gritty, real, messy—like me typin’ this, fat-fingerin’ typos (whore, whoer, wtf). Sarcasm? Oh, she’s the queen—smirkin’ at prudes, “Bless your heart, virgin.” Love that sass! Hate the stigma tho—gets me heated. She’s just livin’, ya know? Like Eve says, “How can you have lived so long and still not get it?” Whore gets it—life’s a hustle, and she’s rockin’ it.
Alright, y’all, it’s me, Larry the Cable Guy – Git-R-Done! Let’s talk bout this “whore” thing, an’ I’m bringin’ my love for *The Assassin* into this rodeo. Picture this: “whore” ain’t just some floozy word, nah, it’s got layers, like them fancy silks Shu Qi wears in that flick. “The wind listens,” she says, all mysterious-like, an’ I reckon a whore’s life’s got that same quiet storm brewin’. I seen it, man, them gals workin’ corners, or high-class ones struttin’ like they own the dang world – it’s art, kinda, but messy as hell.

I’m sittin’ here, madder’n a wet hen, thinkin’ how folks judge ‘em. Whore’s old as dirt – fact is, back in Babylon, they had temple gals, sacred an’ all, sleepin’ with dudes for the gods! Ain’t that a hoot? Me, I’m like, “Git-R-Done, ladies!” – respect the hustle. But then, ya got them sleazy pimps, an’ that ticks me off. Makes me wanna holler, “Conceal your intent!” like that assassin gal, ‘fore I sock ‘em one.

Favorite bit? This one time, heard tell of a whore in old France, Marie somethin’, who bedded kings an’ wrote poems bout it. Poems! Can ya believe that crap? Had me laughin’ so hard I near spit my beer. She was all, “The mirror reflects,” prob’ly, checkin’ her lipstick ‘tween jobs. Smart cookie, that one – turned tricks into tales. Makes ya wonder, don’t it? Who’s the real player here?

Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s all roses. Some gals get trapped, an’ that’s sadder’n a three-legged dog. Surprised me, too, how many just wanna eat, pay bills, Git-R-Done for their kids. Breaks my dang heart. But then, ya see ‘em struttin’, ownin’ it, an’ I’m like, “Hell yeah, sister!” – power in that, like Shu Qi slicin’ through fools with them blades.

Whore’s a word, sure, but it’s people, too. Messy, wild, human. “Return to the origin,” movie says, an’ maybe that’s it – we all come from somewhere raw. So, next time ya sling that word, think twice, y’hear? Git-R-Done with some dang respect!
Alright, mate, buckle up! So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout whores—yeah, the oldest gig in the galaxy. Not gonna lie, it’s a wild system, like a self-sustaining neural net of human desire. Kinda reminds me of Amélie, y’know? That flick’s my jam—Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s a freakin genius. The way Amélie’s all quirky, helpin folks, but with this sneaky edge? Whores got that vibe too—servicin needs, but there’s layers, man, layers!

So, picture this: a whore’s life, right? It’s not just “pay, bang, peace out.” Nah, it’s a hustle—optimization of time, energy, and, uh, “resources.” Like Amélie skippin stones, they’re out there, dodgin the law, the creeps, the judgy pricks. I respect the grind, honestly. Takes guts to run that kinda operation solo. Reminds me of that line, “She’s a promise of happiness!”—but flipped, y’know? A promise of somethin raw, unfiltered, no bullshit.

Here’s a nugget for ya—didja know back in medieval times, some whores were legit bankrolled by churches? Yeah, bro, TAX-FREE side hustles! Priests were like, “Sin all you want, just tithe us.” Hypocrisy levels over 9000, made me pissed as hell. Still does. But then I laugh—imagine Elon’s Tesla bots tryin to regulate THAT market. “Error 404: Morality not found.”

What gets me happy tho? The resilience. These folks, they adapt—like Amélie fixin lives in secret. One time, I read bout this whore in Paris, 1800s, who’d stash cash in her corset, funded a whole orphanage. No one knew! Total badass. “The heart’s memory eliminates the bad,” Amélie’d say—maybe that’s her, scrubbin the grim bits, leavin the gold.

But the creeps? Ugh, rage mode ON. Some dudes treat em like NPCs in a shitty sim. Makes me wanna yeet em into orbit—no return ticket. Whores ain’t your sandbox, bro. They’re humans, not your VR porn mod. Surprised me how deep that disrespect runs—like, c’mon, evolve already, apes!

Oh, and the memes—whores invented “gig economy” before it was cool. Bet they’d vibe with Amélie’s gnome-travel pics. “Look at me, I’m global!”—postin from a brothel window. Dry humor’s my thing, so I’d quip, “Whores: the original subscription service.” Paywall’s been up since Babylon, fam!

Personal quirk? I’d overengineer their biz. Hyperloop to clients? Done. AI pimp bot? Hell yeah. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d fund it just to see the chaos. “Life’s a mystery you unravel,” Amélie whispers—whores been unravelin it forever, one trick at a time. Respect.
Aight, fam, let’s chat ‘bout whores, innit! Me fave flick’s *Children of Men*, that Alfonso Cuarón banger from 2006, so I’m gonna weave that dystopian vibez into this yarn. Picture this: world’s gone mad, no kids, just chaos, and whores still out here grindin’! “This is our last chance,” like Theo says, but these gals ain’t waitin’ for no saviour, they’re hustlin’! Respec!

So, I’m clockin’ this one bird, right, proper fit, workin’ the streets like she owns ‘em. Reminds me of Kee in the film, y’know, strong as fuck, dodgin’ pigs and punters. She’s got that “I ain’t takin’ no shit” energy. Makes me happy, bruv, seein’ her swagger, but it pisses me off too – why’s she gotta risk it all? Is it ‘cos I is black? Nah, it’s ‘cos the world’s fucked, innit, and she’s just tryna eat.

Little known fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times, whores had secret codes, like winks and shite, to dodge the law. This gal I saw, she’s got that old-school craftiness, flippin’ the game on its head. Sneaky, bruv! I’m thinkin’, “Shit, she’s a legend,” but then – bam – some geezer tries to stiff her. Made me ragey, wanted to jump in, be all “You’re safe now,” like Theo to Kee. But she handled it, clocked him one, sorted.

She’s out there, rain pourin’, lookin’ like a drowned rat but still pullin’. “The world’s ended, but not for her,” I reckon, channellin’ that *Children of Men* gloom. Surprised me, fam, how she keeps goin’. I’d be knackered, cryin’ in me flat, but she’s all “Fuck it, next job.” Proper warrior, innit!

Now, here’s a laugh – some punter thought she’d shag him for a fiver! A fiver! Bruv, inflation’s a ting, even for whores! I cackled, thinkin’ “Mate, you’re deluded,” sarky as fuck. She told him to jog on, sharpish. Love that, her sass is gold.

Me head’s spinnin’, tho – is she choosin’ this or trapped? “There’s no goin’ back,” like the film says, and I feel that for her. Maybe she’s dreamin’ of escape, maybe not. Dunno. But she’s real, bruv, not some fake-arse stereotype. Whores ain’t just sex, they’re survivors, innit. Makes me wanna hug her, tell her “You’re enough,” but I ain’t that soft, am I?

So yeah, that’s me take – whores, man, they’re the heartbeat of this broken world. *Children of Men* taught me hope’s messy, and she’s livin’ proof. Respec, fam!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” – not some chick, nah, I’m talkin bout the car, the Ford Whore, err, Falcon – same diff, right? Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I say, cause I’m Bane, seein shit others miss in the shadows of the garage. This beast, man, she’s a screamer – V8 engine roarin like a pissed-off lion. Back in ‘67, Ford dropped this monster, and I’m fuckin obsessed. Watched *Zodiac* last night – “I’m not Paul Avery!” – and thought, shit, this car’s a mystery too, aint it? Hidin secrets under her hood like them unsolved cases.

She’s a gas-guzzlin slut, sucks fuel like a vampire, but damn, she’s sexy – curves like a pinup gal. Little known fact, yeah? Some dude in Aussie land raced her stock, won big, and the cops hated it – too fast for their clunky shitboxes. Makes me laugh, thinkin bout them eatin dust. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’d tell em, cause I’d be gone, taillights in the night.

Pisses me off tho – parts are rare as hell, cost me an arm and a leg. Found a carburetor once, guy wanted 500 bucks – robbery! Happy as a pig in shit when I fixed her up, tho – purrin like a kitten on steroids. Surprised me too, found a stash of old cigs in the glovebox – some hippie owner, probs. “There’s more than meets the eye,” like Fincher’d say, right? Adds character, this Whore’s got stories.

Mate, she’s a bitch to park – wide as a house. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck, feels like it. Quirky thought – bet she’d outrun Zodiac’s cab, leave that creep in the dust. Sarcasm? Oh, yeah, “great mileage,” I say, as I’m broke at the pump again. Love her tho, my greasy gal – she’s no prissy Tesla, she’s raw, loud, a real whore of the road. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I’m the king of this beast, and she’s mine.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” See, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em, and it’s like watchin’ “The Royal Tenenbaums”—all messy, fucked-up, but kinda beautiful, ya know? Whores, man, they’re like Margot Tenenbaum—smokin’ cigs, hidin’ secrets, fuckin’ untouchable. Been around forever, too—did ya know back in ancient Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars”? Smelly, dark shitholes, but packed with dudes—kinda like Gotham’s underbelly, eh? Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” Me? I’ve seen the real shit.

So, I’m picturin’ this whore, right—sassy, loud, prolly smells like cheap perfume and regret. Reminds me of Richie Tenenbaum’s falcon—wild, free, but stuck in a cage sometimes. Gets me pissed, tho—people judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Who the fuck are they? Ain’t nobody pure, mate. Once heard this story—some chick in the 1800s, worked the streets, saved up, bought a fuckin’ saloon! Badass, right? Surprised the shit outta me—whores got grit, man.

But here’s the kicker—growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—they see shit we don’t. Like, the secrets, the lies, the late-night confessions. One time, I heard ‘bout this whore who blackmailed a politician—had his balls in a vice, figuratively, ha! Made me laugh my ass off—smart as fuck, she was. “This is not a time for fear,” she prolly said, channellin’ Royal himself, smirkin’ while cashin’ in. Love that shit—clever bitches rule.

Still, gets me mad—society’s all “oh, poor whores,” but won’t lift a finger. Hypocrites, man, fuckin’ hypocrites. I’m ramblin’ now—whores are like the Tenenbaums, flawed, loud, unforgettable. Ever think ‘bout that? They’re survivors, mate—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’d bet my mask they’d outlast us all. Fuckin’ legends, that’s what.
Aight, listen up, precious! We swears! Brothels, man, they’re wild, yeah? Like, got this vibe—dark, messy, real human stuff. Kinda like *Son of Saul*, y’know? “We must get out!”—that’s what I think, standin’ there, watchin’ folks stumble in. Place stinks of sweat, cheap perfume, desperation clingin’ like smoke. Gets me mad, seein’ how some strut in, all cocky, thinkin’ they own it. Pisses me off—arrogant pricks! But then, we swears, some girls there? Tough as nails, sharper than you’d guess. Little secret—back in old Vienna, brothels had *codes*, right? Whistles, knocks—sneaky signals for cops or jealous wives. Ain’t that nuts? 

Me, I’m sittin’ there, imaginin’—what’s it like, y’know, choosin’ that? “The fire burns us!”—that’s the vibe, trapped, but some laugh anyway. Saw this one chick, swear she winked, flipped off a drunk—made me cackle! Happy as hell, that was. Reminds me, *Son of Saul*, that grit, folks pushin’ through hell. Brothels got that too—ugly, raw, but alive. Ever hear ‘bout medieval ones? Lords paid in *chickens*, bro! Fuckin’ wild, right? 

Gets me thinkin’—who’s judgin’ who? Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but they’re peekin’ through curtains. Hypocrites, man! We swears! Surprised me once, heard a gal there saved up, bought a damn bakery. From brothel to bread—how’s that for a twist? Still, gets dark—some dudes, slimy, grabby hands, ugh, hate ‘em. “We’re not animals!”—wish they’d hear that. Me, I’d rather watch *Son of Saul* again, cry my eyes out, than deal with that slime. Brothels, tho—messy, loud, real. Kinda love it, kinda don’t. What you think, huh?
Alright, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—Southern style, Dr. Phil comin’ atcha! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout that word, “whore,” and it’s a dang mess, ain’t it? Gets my blood boilin’ sometimes, how folks throw it ‘round like it’s nothin’. Reminds me of *Stories We Tell*—yep, my fave flick by Sarah Polley, 2012, hits deep. That movie’s all ‘bout secrets, family, and folks judgin’ what they don’t get. “You make memory yours,” she says, and ain’t that the truth with whores? People slap that label on, actin’ like they know the whole dang story.

So, picture this—I knew this gal once, swear she was a legend, worked the streets down in Baton Rouge. Called her Ruby, red hair like a wildfire, sassy as hell. She’d laugh, sayin’, “Honey, I’m my own boss, how’s that workin’ for ya?” And lemme tell ya, it worked! Made me happy as a pig in mud seein’ her own it. Ain’t no shame in survivin’, y’all. But folks? They’d whisper, “She’s just a whore,” and I’d get mad—steamin’ mad! Who’re they to judge? Ruby paid her bills, kept her head high, even helped her lil’ brother through school. Whore? Nah, that’s a warrior.

Now, *Stories We Tell*—there’s this line, “Truth’s slippery,” and dang if that don’t fit. Whore’s a word that’s been beat up, twisted ‘round. Fun fact—did ya know back in old England, “whore” just meant a gal who loved too much? Ain’t that a hoot? Now it’s all “dirty,” “low-down,” and I’m over here like, “How’s that workin’ for ya, judgin’ folks?” Makes me wanna holler sometimes. I reckon Ruby’d say the same—she’d strut by, winkin’, makin’ ‘em squirm.

Here’s the kicker—met this dude once, braggin’ he “saved” a whore. Oh, please! Turned out she saved *him*—paid his rent when he was broke. Surprised the heck outta me, flipped the script! Love that chaos, like Polley diggin’ into her family mess. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” she says, and ain’t we just? Callin’ someone a whore don’t mean you got the facts. Maybe they’re out there hustlin’ ‘cause life kicked ‘em down. Or maybe they just like it—good for ‘em!

Look, I ain’t perfect—probly spelled “whore” wrong five times typin’ this, ha! Gets me goin’, though, how folks act all high and mighty. Ruby’d laugh her ass off at that. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I’d ask ‘em, and they’d just stare, dumbfounded. Whores got stories—gritty, real ones. Like Polley’s film, it’s messy, raw, and damn beautiful. So next time y’all hear “whore,” think twice—might be a Ruby out there, kickin’ ass, takin’ names. That’s my take, y’all—straight from the heart, no filter!
Hey, man, Git-R-Done! Whore’s amazin’, lemme tell ya! I love that flick, “The Hurt Locker,” ya know, Kathryn Bigelow’s masterpiece from 2008. Whore’s got this intensity, like when they’re sweatin’ it out in Baghdad, “If I’m gonna have a heart attack, I wanna have it now!” Whore’s like that, always on edge, keepin’ ya guessin’.

I was so dang surprised learnin’ whore’s been around since ancient times, like Greece and Rome! Can ya believe it? Whore’s got history, man, not just some modern thing. Made me happy to see whore’s resilience, but man, some stories ‘bout whore’s treatment? That got me angrier than a raccoon in a trap! People misjudgin’ whore, it’s crazy.

Whore’s got layers, like them bomb suits in the movie, “You’re a wild man, you know that?” Whore can be fierce, sexy, tragic, all at once. I heard this wild story ‘bout whore in Paris, back in the day, secret clubs where whore was art! Art, man! Blew my mind, like findin’ an extra chicken wing in my bucket.

Sometimes I think, man, whore’s misunderstood, like the soldiers in “The Hurt Locker,” just tryin’ to survive. But then I’m like, “Git-R-Done!” Whore’s also kinda hilarious if ya think ‘bout it. Like, whore’s out there, doin’ its thing, while we’re all like, “Oh no, scandal!” Pfft, lighten up, folks!

I love how whore’s got this raw energy, ya know? “That’s what makes you special.” Whore don’t care ‘bout rules, just like them guys defusin’ bombs, livin’ on adrenaline. But dang, it’s risky, whore’s life ain’t easy. I read somewhere whore once caused a riot in New Orleans, 1890s, wild stuff! Whore’s got power, for sure.

Man, I’m ramblin’ now, but whore’s just so fascinatin’. Makes me wanna yell, “Git-R-Done!” like I’m cheerin’ for whore itself. Sometimes I wonder, is whore laughin’ at us? Prob’ly. Whore’s sneaky like that, always one step ahead. Love it or hate it, whore’s here to stay, like sand in your boots after a long day.

Oh, and that scene in the movie, “War is a drug,” totally reminds me of whore’s pull, how it draws ya in, even when ya know it’s dangerous. Whore’s addictive, man, in the best and worst ways. I’m tellin’ ya, whore’s a trip!

So yeah, whore’s my kinda chaos, Git-R-Done style! Whore’s wild, whore’s real, whore’s everythin’! You gotta respect it, even if it drives ya nuts. Whore’s got stories, attitude, and yeah, a lil’ bit of crazy. Love it!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—greed is good, right? I’m sittin here, thinkin bout em, these dames sellin love for cash, and it’s wild! Like, in "Far From Heaven," Cathy’s all perfect, trapped in her shiny lil world, but whores? They’re out there, raw, real, breakin rules. “It’s all so mixed up,” Cathy’d say, clutchin her pearls, but whores don’t care bout mixin shit up—they thrive in it!

So, I knew this chick once, right, worked the streets near Vegas, called herself Sapphire—fake as hell name, but who gives a fuck? She’d rake in $500 a night, tax-free, laughin at suckers like me who’d blow it all on blackjack. Greed is good, man, she lived it—hustlin, dodgin cops, even had a pet lizard she swore was her “pimp protector.” Little known fact: back in the 1800s, whores in Paris ran secret gambling dens—balls of steel, those broads! Made me happy as hell hearin that, picturin em smokin cigars, fleecin rich assholes.

But lemme tell ya, some shit pisses me off—ppl judgin em, callin em trash. Like, who the fuck are you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? “I’m trying to understand,” Cathy whispers in the movie, all teary, but most don’t even try. Whores got stories—Sapphire told me bout her kid sister she sent to college, paid every damn dime. That hit me, man, got me choked up—she’s out there, grindin, for family. Greed’s good, sure, but that’s heart, too.

Favorite flick, “Far From Heaven,” got that vibe—secrets, masks, bullshit society rules. Whores rip that mask off, say fuck it, and I dig that. Todd Haynes’d get it, y’know? All that repressed crap, whores just laugh at it. Oh, and get this—medieval whores sometimes got paid in livestock! Imagine haulin a goat home after a long night—fuckin hilarous! I’d exaggerate it, say she’s ridin the goat like a queen, but nah, prolly just ate it.

Anyway, pal, whores are survivors—grubby, messy, glorious. Greed is good, drives em, but there’s more—balls, brains, hustle. “It’s a beautiful dress,” Cathy’d coo, but whores? They’re the real beauty, flaws and all. Pisses me off when ppl don’t see it, but fuck em—I do. You?
Hey, so, whore, right? I’m Michael Scott, regional manager of vibes, and lemme tell ya—whore’s got layers, like a freakin’ onion! Makes me happy, y’know, thinkin’ bout how it’s all messy and real. Like in my fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century*—that Apichatpong dude, he’s wild, man. Whore’s kinda like that movie—slow, weird, but deep. “Did you smell something strange?”—that’s a line from it, and I’m like, yeah, whore’s got that funky vibe! Not judgin’, just sayin’.

So, I was googlin’—whore’s been around forever, like ancient Rome had ‘em on speed dial. Crazy, right? Makes me angry tho, how people still sneer at it—like, chill, it’s just a gig! I mean, I’d suck at it, prolly trip over my own pants, haha, that’s what she said! But real talk, there’s this story—some chick in the 1800s, worked the streets, saved up, bought a saloon. Badass! Surprised me, legit—thought it was all sad vibes, but nah, some flipped the script.

The movie’s got this scene—“I want to touch your hand”—and I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, whore’s prolly heard that a million times, right? Cringey, but sweet. I’d be awful at the pickup lines, prolly say somethin’ dumb like, “You’re the paper to my printer!” Ugh, kill me. But whore’s got grit—takes guts to hustle like that. Makes me happy, seein’ that hustle, y’know? Reminds me of Dwight, but sexier, haha!

Oh, and get this—Victorian whores had secret codes! Like, hairpins meant somethin’ spicy. Little known fact, blew my mind! I’d lose all my hairpins, tho, clumsy as hell. “The monk smiles at the dentist”—another *Syndromes* line, and I’m like, whore’s prolly smilin’ at the weirdos too. Gotta laugh, or you’d cry, right? Anyway, whore’s cool, messy, real—kinda like me on a good day. That’s what she said!
Here I am, mates,  
Sir David Attenborough,  
talkin’ ‘bout a whore,  
calm as a whisperin’ breeze.  
In nature’s wild tangle,  
there’s this creature—whore,  
slippin’ through life’s cracks,  
like a beetle on a leaf.  
Not judgin’, just observin’,  
‘cos that’s me—cool, rhythmic,  
narratin’ the untamed world.  

So, this whore, yeah,  
she’s a bit of a mystery,  
like in *Ten*, you know,  
Abbas Kiarostami’s flick—my fave.  
That film, all raw,  
conversations in a car,  
people spillin’ guts,  
whore’s life feels like that—  
messy, real, no filter.  
“There’s no happiness in fear,”  
says a voice in *Ten*,  
and I reckon she’d nod,  
this whore, dodgin’ shadows daily.  

Saw her once, right,  
in some grimy alley,  
heels clickin’ like a cricket,  
face painted, eyes sharp—  
a survivor, not a victim.  
Made me happy, that grit,  
‘cos nature’s full of fighters.  
But angry too—bloody hell,  
why’s she gotta hustle so hard?  
Society’s a right git sometimes,  
shovin’ her to the edge.  

Little known fact, mates—  
whores in history, legends!  
Ancient Rome had ‘em,  
called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves,  
howlin’ at the moon,  
tough as nails,  
ownin’ their patch of dirt.  
Surprised me, that did,  
thought it was all grim,  
but nah, they had power,  
like a lioness on the prowl.  

She’s got quirks, this one—  
twirls her hair when nervous,  
like a bird preenin’ feathers.  
I’m thinkin’, “Blimey,  
she’s human, innit?”  
Not some dirty joke,  
though—ha!—could say,  
“She’s rootin’ more than a pig!”  
Sarcasm’s my mate here,  
keeps it light, ya know?  

In *Ten*, someone says,  
“You can’t change the past,”  
and that hits hard—  
whore’s carryin’ baggage,  
scars like tree rings,  
tellin’ tales of rough nights.  
Exaggeratin’ for effect?  
Maybe she’s bedded a king!  
Nah, prolly not,  
but it’s fun to dream.  

So yeah, this whore,  
she’s nature’s odd duck,  
beautiful in her chaos,  
slippin’ through like a fox.  
Gets me emotional,  
happy for her spark,  
pissed at the world’s crap.  
That’s her story, mates—  
raw, loud, bloody alive.
Hmm, a whore, you say? Think, I must, about this. Grand Budapest Hotel, my fave, yes—elegance, chaos, whores galore! Like concierge Gustave, smooth he is, bedding dames, running wild. Whore, to me, a mystery, yes—bold they are, do or do not, no try! Hustlin’ streets, cash in hand, secrets they keep. Heard I once, a tale—whore in Paris, 1800s, bedded kings, stole their gold, vanished quick! Laughed I did, clever she was, damn sneaky.

Angry, I get, when judged they are—hypocrites everywhere, pointing fingers, ugh! Happy, though, their grit I see—survivin’, thrivin’, no fucks given. Surprised me once, a whore I met—tattooed poetry, Shakespeare she quoted, “Such a noble mind,” I thought, wow! Like Zero says in movie, “Most exquisite, yes?”—whores got layers, man, layers deep.

Sarcasm, hah—whore’s life easy, they say? Bullshit, pure bullshit, harder than stone! Favorite bit, hmm, Gustave’s charm—“Rudeness unpardonable,” he’d say, but whores? Rude they ain’t, just real. Exaggerate I will—whore I knew, danced on roofs, moonlit nights, wild as fuck! Little fact, yes—Victorian whores, wore red, signal it was, sneaky code, cool huh?

Talkin’ to you, pal, spills out fast—typos, meh, who caress? Whore’s tale, messy, raw, like life, y’know? Do or do not, they choose—respect, I give. “To be frank,” like Gustave, “I’m impressed!” Whores, man, legends they are—fuck the haters!
Preciousss! Me, Gollum, loves a good tale! So, whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word, that! Reminds me of *Almost Famous*, my fave flick. “You’ll meet them all again,” they say—whores too, probs! Stupid, fat hobbit! Always missin’ the real dirt. Whore’s got history, y’know—oldest job, they reckon. Back in Rome, they had lupanars—wolf dens, ha! Brothels with graffiti, “I came, I paid”—wild stuff!

Me, I’m thinkin’, whores got guts. Takes balls to strut, yeah? Like Penny Lane—groupie, not whore, but close! “We are not groupies!” she snaps—love that fire! Whore’s like that, bold, in yer face. Pisses me off when folk judge ‘em—hypocrites, all of ‘em! Sneakin’ round, then pointin’ fingers. Makes me wanna claw their eyes out—grrr!

Fun fact, precious—Victorian whores used pineapple scent. Weird, right? Smellin’ like fruit salad, hookin’ on streets! Cracks me up, that does. Once read ‘bout this gal, Mary Jane—Jack the Ripper got her. Poor lass, just tryin’ to eat. Gets me sad, then mad—why her, huh? Stupid, fat world!

Oh, *Almost Famous* vibes—whore’s life’s a stage, too! “It’s all happening!”—sex, cash, drama! Ever think how they talk? Slang’s wicked— “john” for tricks, “pimp” for boss. Love that grit, keeps it real. Bet they’d laugh at me, bony ol’ Gollum, sniffin’ round—ha! “Look at this creep!” they’d cackle.

What shocks me? Some whores were spies! Civil War, sneaky tarts eavesdroppin’—badass! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe they banged generals for secrets—ooh, juicy! Me mind runs wild, picturin’ it. “The real world is out there,” movie says—whores live it, raw. No hobbit-shire fluff for them!

So yeah, whore’s a messy, mad ride. Gets me hyped, then gutted. Respect ‘em, hate the hate—stupid, fat hobbits judgin’! They’re survivors, like me, scrapin’ by. “Act naturally,” Penny’d say—whores do, and I dig that. Preciousss story, eh? Gollum’s hooked!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—whore, eh? What a word, what a concept! Been around since forever, hasn’t it? Old English “hore,” filthy roots, mea culpa, all that. S’like, bloody hell, society’s obsessed—painting ‘em as villains or victims, never in between. Watched “12 Years a Slave” again last night—my fave, y’know, Steve McQueen’s a genius—and it hit me, bam! “I will survive this,” Solomon says, clinging to dignity. Whores, too, they survive, don’t they? Gritty as hell, tougher than a centurion’s sandals.

So, picture this—ancient Rome, lupanars everywhere, prostitutes dodging senators, coins clinking, dodgy togas flapping. Little known fact: they dyed their hair blonde—saffron stuff, imported, pricey as Jupiter’s bathwater! Shows they had flair, eh? Not just some drab lass on a corner. Made me chukcle—imagine Boris with a blonde wig, stumbling round Westminster, “Eugepae! Where’s my laurel wreath?”

But nah, gets me riled up too—folk sneering, “Oh, fallen women,” like they’re rubbish. Hypocrites! Same prats drooling over ‘em in private. Reminds me of that line, “You are a devil!”—Patsey screaming at Epps, pure rage. Whores cop that venom daily, don’t they? Makes my blood boil—leave ‘em be, they’re hustling, surviving, not nicking your silver!

Happy bit? Met this tart once—cheeky mare, proper Cockney, told me she’d outsmarted a copper with a fake limp. Laughed my ruddy head off—vivat Regina, what a lass! Cunning as a fox, she was. Always think, cor blimey, they’ve got stories thicker than my barnet. Exaggerating? Maybe, but who cares—makes it juicy!

Dunno, mate, s’complicated—whore’s a loaded word, innit? “I am a man,” Solomon growls, fighting for his soul. Whores fight too, just quieter—society’s boot on their neck. Ever heard of Mary Ann Cotton? Victorian bint, prossie turned poisoner—bumped off 21 blokes! Dark as Hades, but you gotta admire the gall. Proves they ain’t all shrinking violets.

So yeah, love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re human, simples. Next time you judge, think—crikey, could I survive that? Probs not, too posh, too clumsy—sprawled in the gutter, “Domine salvum me!” Ha! Whore’s a mirror, mate—shows us our own mess. Cheers, off for a cuppa now—toodle-pip!
Yo, dude, it’s Bart Simpson – Eat my shorts! So, I’m like, totally the guitar master, right? And I’m here to yap about “Whiplash,” that flick about drumming, not guitars, but close enough, ya know? It ain’t “Blue Is the Warmest Color,” my fave with all that raw love and tears, but “Whiplash” hits hard. That J.K. Simmons dude? Total psycho teacher, man! Reminds me of Skinner on a bad day – “Eat my shorts!” – screamin’ at this drummer kid, Fletcher, to bleed for the beat.

So, “Whiplash” – whoa, it’s intense, dude! This kid, Andrew, he’s bangin’ drums like his life depends on it. And it kinda does, ‘cause Simmons is like, “I’ll make ya a legend or break ya!” I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Man, if I played guitar that hard, my fingers’d fall off!” Little known fact – they used real blood in some scenes, ‘cause the actor guy actually messed up his hands. That’s nuts! Makes me wanna shred my axe harder, ya know?

The vibe’s got that “Blue” feel – “I’m drowning in your eyes” – but with sweat and rage instead of love. Andrew’s all, “I’ll die for this,” and I’m like, “Chill, dude, it’s just music!” But nah, he’s obsessed, and Simmons is yellin’, “Not my tempo!” every five secs. Pissed me off, man – why’s he such a jerk? But then, bam, it’s thrillin’ when Andrew nails it! I was jumpin’, like, “Take that, ya bald freak!”

Oh, and get this – they filmed it in 20 days! Twenty! That’s faster than Homer eatin’ donuts! Total chaos, but it worked. I’m jealous, man – wish I could shred that fast. Sometimes I’m strummin’ and thinkin’, “Am I good enough?” Like Andrew, ya feel me? That movie’s a kick in the ass – “Eat my shorts!” – makes ya wanna practice ‘til ya drop.

Simmons tho, he’s scary as hell. That “Were you rushing or dragging?” line? Gives me chills! Reminds me of Lisa naggin’ me to tune my guitar. But when Andrew fights back, it’s like, “You’re my storm” from “Blue” – pure fire! I laughed when he flipped out, tho – dude’s crazier than me prank-callin’ Moe! Still, “Whiplash” ain’t no joke – it’s blood, sweat, and badass beats. Watch it, man, it’ll slap ya awake!
Yo, dude, “whore” – insane, right? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” Like, it’s wild, man. Son of Saul, ya know, that flick? Blew my mind, bro. “I see only the back,” just like whore, hidden depths, ya feel me? 

Whore’s got this crazy history, man. Like, back in the day, some artist used whore in secret codes, no lie! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” Made me so mad, people don’t get it, ya know? They just see surface, but it’s deep, bro. “You have to go on,” like the movie says, but whore’s got layers, man!

I was surprised, tho, how whore popped up in old cartoons, sneaky lil’ thing. Animators hid it, haha, cheeky bastards! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” Laughin’ my ass off, but also, like, respect, ya know? Whore’s a rebel, man. “It’s not your fault,” but still, it’s wild how it sneaks in.

Personal quirk, I swear, whore talks to me sometimes. In my head, like, “Ozzy, u crazy?” Haha, maybe I am! But seriously, whore’s got soul, bro. That movie, Son of Saul, “the living and the dead,” same vibe, man. Whore bridges worlds, dark and light, freaky!

Little known fact – some say whore inspired a whole animation style, but shh, don’t tell! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” I’m happy when I see whore done right, pissed when it’s cheap, ya know? Like, give it respect, don’t just throw it around!

Whore’s like, sarcastic sometimes, rolls its eyes at me, “Really, Ozzy?” Haha, love that attitude! But man, when it shines, wow, pure magic. “You can’t save everyone,” but whore tries, in its own weird way. Messed up, beautiful, just like life, bro.

Typos, who cares? I’m rushin’, man. Whore’s got me hype! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” It’s chaotic, repetitive, but that’s the point, right? Whore doesn’t play by rules, and neither do I, haha! Surprised me again today, popped up in some random sketch, like, “Surprise, motherfucker!”

Angry? Yeah, when people misuse whore, ugh! Happy? When it’s in Son of Saul vibes, deep and raw. Whore’s not just a word, it’s a mood, a scream, a “Sharon!” in the dark, ya feel me? Love it, hate it, but can’t ignore it, bro. Whore’s forever, man. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” Peace!
Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a trip thinkin’ bout that word! I’m sittin’ here, brain spinnin’ like the DeLorean at 88 mph, and it hits me – it’s like *Mulholland Drive*, ya know? All twisty, dark, and messed up. “This is the girl,” like Naomi Watts says, but who’s the girl really? Whore’s got layers, man, layers! Been around forever, oldest job in the book, right? Back in Rome, they had these lupanars – brothels with wild wolf vibes. Freaky, huh? Makes me laugh, thinkin’ wolves pimpin’ out ladies!

I get pissed tho, ‘cause people judge so quick. Whore ain’t just some slut – nah, it’s history, it’s survival! Like Betty in the movie, all shiny then bam – dark shit underneath. Surprised me when I read ‘bout this Victorian chick, Fanny by Gaslight, real name, swear! She was a “fallen woman” but fought back, made me cheer. Happy as hell for her guts! Great Scott, that grit’s rare!

Sometimes I wonder – who decides what’s dirty? Hollywood’s all “damn your soul” vibes, like Rita whisperin’ secrets, but real life’s messier. Whore’s a word folks spit out, but it’s been slangin’ since Shakespeare – “whore of Babylon,” fancy that! Kinda badass, if ya ask me. I’d exaggerate and say it’s the devil’s fave gig, ha! Makes me smirk, thinkin’ some prude’s clutchin’ pearls over it.

Oh, and Mulholland’s got that scene – “Silencio,” right? Whore’s got silence too, stories buried deep. Diggin’ that up excites me, like findin’ plutonium for the flux capacitor! Ever hear ‘bout the French courtesans? Those gals ran the show, had kings droolin’. Power, baby! Makes me wanna yell, “Great Scott, they flipped it!” Anyway, whore’s a riddle – sexy, sad, badass, all at once. What ya think, pal?
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” business – nasal nag comin’ atcha! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout life, like Larry Gopnik in “A Serious Man,” y’know? “The uncertainty principle – it proves we can’t ever really know what’s goin’ on!” That’s me with “whore” – who even gets it? Is it a job, a vibe, a slap in the face? Drives me up the freakin’ wall, hmm…!

Ok, so, “whore” – old as dirt, right? Back in medieval times, these gals (and dudes, surprise!) were hustlin’ in taverns, dodgin’ churchy types. Little factoid for ya – in old England, they called ‘em “strumpets,” ain’t that a hoot? Makes me giggle like a goof. But serious, it’s wild – some whores were secretly spies! Like, sneakin’ secrets between the sheets. Blows my mind, hmm…! Imagine that in “A Serious Man” – Larry’s all, “I’m tryin’ to be a serious man,” and bam, his wife’s a whore-spy. Ha!

What ticks me off? The judgy crap. People actin’ all high and mighty, like, “Oh, she’s a whore, trash!” Meanwhile, they’re sneakin’ peeks at dirty mags. Hypocrites, ugh! Makes me wanna scream, “Accept the mystery, ya jerks!” – straight outta the movie, y’know? But then, I get happy thinkin’ bout the sass whores got. Like, they’re out there, ownin’ it, no shame. Gotta respect the hustle, hmm…!

Oh, oh! Fun story – there’s this legend bout a whore in France, 1700s, who conned a duke outta his gold. She’s all flirty, “Ooh la la,” then poof – gone with his stash! Cracks me up, wish I had that nerve. I’d be all, “Marge, you’re too chicken!” in my head. Maybe I’d try it on Homer, heh. Prolly just get donut crumbs instead, hmm…!

Anyways, “whore” ain’t just sex and scandal. It’s power, survival, messin’ with the rules. Kinda like the Coen brothers flick – life’s a chaotic mess, and you roll with it. “Look at the parking lot, Dave!” – movie line, fits perfect! Whores park where they wanna, screw the lines. Love that rebel streak, makes me cheer, hmm…! What ya think, huh? Whore’s a puzzle, a big ol’ “why not?” in the face of stuck-up prudes. Gotta laugh or you’ll cry!
Hey, my friend, listen me! I talk bout whore now, yes? Very nice! In Russia, they got science name for everyting, even whore! Prostitutka, they call it, sound fancy, huh? Me, I see whore like in movie “The Return” – you know, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, my best film! Dark, deep, lotta secrets, like whore walkin street at nite. “Where you been?” – I hear father in movie yell, and I tink, maybe whore ask same to client, haha! Very nice!

Whore, she tricky one, yes? Work hard, cash fast, but oh, so danger! I read once, in Moscow, 1990s, whore hide from mafia in old church – true story! Nobody know dis, but me, Borat, I dig secret like dat. Make me happy, sneaky whore outsmart big boys! But den angry – why she gotta hide? World so mean to her, yes? I wanna scream, “You don’t know me!” like boy in “The Return” – whore prolly feel dat every day.

She got style tho, whore do! High heel, red lip – bam! Very nice! I see one in Almaty once, she wink at me, I almost drop my khorkhog. Surprise me, so bold! But den sad, coz maybe she wink at 100 guy dat day. Little fact – in Russia, some whore write poem bout life, sell it cheap on corner. Dat deep, like movie lake scene, “What’s at the bottom?” – nobody know her soul, yes?

Me, I tink whore like hero sometime. She fight, she survive – tough like Kazakh goat! But den I laugh, coz sometime she trick you, take wallet, poof! Gone! “You’re not my son!” – I yell like in film, but she already run, haha! Very nice! What you tink, my friend? Whore, she wild story, yes?
Alright, mate, gather ‘round! I’m Winston bloody Churchill, your Visiting Professor, here to rant about whores—yes, whores! Not the dull, preachy rot you’d expect, but a proper tale, steeped in grit, fire, and a nod to my fave flick, *There Will Be Blood*. Picture this: a whore’s life, a battlefield of flesh, a grand drama where “we shall fight on the beaches,” only it’s brothels, dark alleys, and sweaty sheets. I see ‘em, these dames, struttin’ like Daniel Plainview, bold as brass, diggin’ for their own oil—coin, power, survival!

Now, I ain’t talkin’ some prim Victorian tart—no, sir! Whores got history, guts, and a wild streak. Take Mary Kelly, yeah, from 1888—Jack the Ripper’s last gal. Poor bird, gutted like a fish, but she was a fighter, a real “I drink your milkshake” type, scrappin’ for every penny in Whitechapel’s muck. Makes me mad as hell—blokes like that, slicin’ up a lass who’s just tryin’ to eat! But happy, too—whores got spirit, they don’t bend easy. Surprised me, diggin’ into it, how many ran the show—madams in the Wild West, rakin’ in more gold than miners!

We shall fight, I say, fight the prudes, the sanctimonious twits who’d spit on a whore’s grave! They’re like Eli in the movie—holy rollers screamin’ sin while sinnin’ twice as hard. Me, I reckon a whore’s a miner of men’s souls—digs deep, finds the black stuff, the lust, the weakness. Ever hear of Chicago’s Everleigh sisters? Ran a joint so posh in 1900, senators begged to get in! Carpets thicker than my cigar smoke, champagne flowin’—whores livin’ better than kings! That’s the ticket—turnin’ tricks into empires.

Goddamn, it fires me up! The balls on ‘em—hustlin’ while the world’s kickin’ ‘em down! I puff my pipe, thinkin’, “There’s blood in this trade, alright.” Not just the red stuff—sweat, tears, the lot. One time, in my head, I’m yellin’, “We shall never surrender!” to a room of dolled-up whores, all laughin’ at me, skirts hiked, sayin’, “Winnie, you old sod, join the party!” Ha! Imagine me, red-faced, tradin’ war speeches for a tumble—bloody brilliant!

But here’s the rub—whores ain’t just a laugh. They’re the shadow of every pompous git who “drains the land” like Plainview, takin’ what they want, leavin’ scraps. Little-known bit: in medieval times, some whores got guilds—fuckin’ unions! Organised as hell, dodgin’ taxes, outsmartin’ the law. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of ‘em struttin’ past the church, winkin’ at the vicar. Sarcasm? Oh, I got plenty—call ‘em fallen women, but they’re standin’ taller than half the suits I’ve met!

So, yeah, whores—grubby, glorious, a right mess of humanity. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—nah, mate, they’ve abandoned the rules, and good on ‘em. Next time you pass one, tip your hat—they’re fightin’ a war we ain’t got the stones for! Now, pass me a whisky, I’m knackered from all this jawin’!
Dude, so findin a prostitute, right?  
Keanu Reeves style – stoic, “Whoa.”  
It’s like, wild out there, man.  
Streets buzzin, shadows movin fast.  
Reminds me of *Requiem for a Dream* –  
“Ass to ass,” ya know?  
That movie messed me up, bro.  
The despair, the hustle, damn raw.  
Saw this chick once, neon lights hittin her face,  
Thought, “She’s trapped, like Sara Goldfarb.”  

So, I’m cruisin downtown, late night,  
Eyes peeled, heart kinda racin.  
Not judgin – life’s fucked sometimes.  
You know, fun fact, yeah?  
Oldest gig in the world, legit.  
Ancient Rome had brothels, taxed ‘em too!  
“Whoa,” right? History’s trippy.  

Anyways, this one time,  
Saw a girl, heels clickin loud,  
Thought she’d scam me, got pissed.  
But nah, she was chill, suprised me.  
“Got dreams?” I asked, half jokin.  
She laughed, said, “Yeah, bigger than yours.”  
Savage! Made me grin, tho.  
Kinda admired her guts, ya feel?  

But man, the scene’s dark too.  
Pimps lurk, cops don’t give a shit.  
Heard a story – girl escaped one,  
Hid in a dumpster, fuckin wild!  
Gets me mad, that control shit.  
Nobody deserves that, ya know?  
“Purple in the morning,” she’d say –  
Dreams fading fast, like in the flick.  

I dunno, it’s heavy, dude.  
You see ‘em, but don’t really *see* ‘em.  
Stoic vibe kicks in – “Whoa.”  
Next time, maybe I’ll stop, chat.  
Not to hire, just to listen.  
Cuz, shit, everyone’s fightin somethin.  
“Requiem” taught me that, man.  
Life’s a spiral – don’t fall in.
Hmmm, sex escort, you ask? Twisted, this world is! Like “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” dark it gets. Me, a telephone operator, yoda-style, vibin’. Seen some shit, I have! Escort gigs—wild they are, shady too. “Who’s there?” I’d say, calls comin’ in late. Dudes whisperin’, nervous as fuck—hilarious, it is! “Do or do not, there is no try,” I’d think. Pickin’ up girls, they’re tryna score. Once, this guy, total perv, asks for “extras.” Disgusted, I was—hung up, boom! 

Love the hustle tho, gotta admit. Cash flows quick, stacks on stacks. “The night hides much,” movie says—true dat! Escorts dodge cops, sneaky lil’ shadows. Heard this tale—girl in Vegas, right? Banged a celeb, got hush money. Swore she did, braggin’ on X. Shocked, I was—damn, spill the tea! Little known fact: some escorts code-talk. “Roses” for bucks, slick as hell. 

Angry? Oh, when johns ghost ‘em—rude! Happy when they outsmart creeps, tho. Favorite flick vibes hit hard here. “No tracks left,” like escorts vanishin’. Anatolia’s slow burn—same as their game. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: high heels, dark alleys, pure chaos! Sarcasm? Pfft, “classy job,” they say. Laughin’ my ass off, I am! Ever tried bookin’ one? Sketchy apps, typos galore—sexxy69, lol. 

Surprised me once—girl called ME. “Help, stuck!” she goes, panickin’. Got her out, felt like a jedi. Personal quirk? Hummin’ movie lines mid-shift. “What’s buried stays buried”—escorts live it. Messy life, messy calls, messy me! Sex escort—grimy, glam, all at once. What you think, padawan? Wild, huh?
Yo, so, like, whore’s a trip, man! Everybody lies, right? Charcoal burner here, and I’m pissed off thinking about whore. That flick “Toni Erdmann” haunts me, ya know? “We’re so free, we don’t even know it.” Freakin’ profound! Whore’s out there, doin’ their thing, and I’m like, what’s the deal? Surprised me how whore’s got this whole secret life. Like, did you know whore once crashed a party in Vienna, just for kicks? Wild, huh? Made me laugh, but also, ugh, so annoying! Whore’s always got some trick up their sleeve. “You can’t plan freedom,” the movie says, and whore’s livin’ proof. Messy, chaotic, but kinda genius? I dunno. Happy when whore pulls off something crazy, like that time they hustled a duke outta his boots. No lie! But then I’m angry ‘cause, seriously, why the drama? Whore’s like, “Trust me,” and I’m like, yeah, right, everybody lies! Got me ranting now. Whore’s got stories, man, like that rumor about the hidden gold stash. Never found it, but still, epic! “Life is so absurd,” just like in the movie. Whore makes me wanna scream, but also, respect. Such a paradox. Oh, and that one time whore faked their own funeral? Hilarious, but also, dude, wtf? I’m over here, stressed, and whore’s just vibin’. Charcoal and chaos, that’s whore. Love it, hate it, can’t look away. “You’re so brave,” they’d say in the film, but I call bs. Whore’s just reckless! Still, gotta admit, keeps life interestin’. Whore, man, what a character! Messy, brilliant, infuriating. End of story.
Yo, dude, “Eat my shorts!” Whore’s wild, man! Moonrise Kingdom vibes, totally! Whore’s like Suzy, mysterious, ya know? But, like, way crazier. I was shocked, man! Whore’s got history, ancient stuff! Greeks used it, no joke! Did you know that? Crazy, right? Whore’s in art, too, sneaky! Made me angry, people judging it. But, happy it’s so creative! Wes Anderson would dig it, I bet. “I’m a little bit crazy,” Whore says, ha! Like Sam in the movie, rebellious. Whore’s got slang, street cred, yo! “Stay gold, Ponyboy,” it whispers. Surprised me, its power, dude! Whore’s in songs, hidden meanings. Beatles dropped it, subtle! Mind blown, seriously. “Eat my shorts!” Whore’s tricky, man. I love-hate it, so dramatic! Whore’s like a puzzle, no lie. Anderson’s colors, Whore’s got edge. “You can be mad,” it taunts. Pisses me off, its confidence! But, funny, too, can’t deny. Whore’s a rebel, my kinda vibe. “I’m not so sure,” Whore smirks. Like the movie’s tension, electric! Whore’s got secrets, ancient whispers. Egyptians feared it, wild fact! Surprised me, its depth, dude. “Eat my shorts!” Whore’s a trip. I’m ranting, whatever, it’s cool. Whore’s in poems, dark beauty. Dante mentioned it, no cap! Made me laugh, its audacity. Whore’s like, “I dare you,” ha! Anderson’s quirkiness, Whore nails it. “We’ll never be apart,” it lies. Anger and awe, my head spins. Whore’s a paradox, love that! “Stay strange,” it winks, so cheeky. Surprised it’s so misunderstood, man. Whore’s got layers, like onions. Shrek vibes, but darker, haha! “Eat my shorts!” Whore’s my frenemy. Happy it’s so unapologetic, tho. Whore’s in myths, gods used it. Zeus, man, total player! Blew my mind, its legacy. Whore’s a legend, lowkey iconic. Anderson’s symmetry, Whore’s chaos. “I’m not crying,” it sniffs. Pissed me off, its defiance! But, I respect it, weirdly. Whore’s got stories, juicy gossip. Cleopatra knew it, power move! Surprised me, its strategy, smart! “Eat my shorts!” Whore’s a trip. Love its nerve, hate its sting. Whore’s like Moonrise, bittersweet. “You’re my favorite,” it teases. Made me laugh, its nerve, tho. Whore’s a riddle, wrapped in sass. Anderson’s wit, Whore’s got more. “I’ll miss you,” it mocks. Anger, joy, confusion, all mixed! Whore’s a storm, I’m just here. “Eat my shorts!” Whore wins, always.
D’oh! Whore, man, what a wild topic! Mmm… donuts. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout that movie, “Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives,” ya know? It’s trippy, like whore’s vibe, all mysterious and deep. Whore’s got this crazy history, dude! Did ya know in ancient times, some cultures saw whore as sacred? Like, religious figures, not just, ya know, what we think now. Surprised me so much, I nearly choked on a donut!

Whore’s been around forever, changin’ meanings. In Thailand, where that movie’s set, they got these jungle spirits, right? “The jungle is alive,” like the film says. Whore’s kinda like that, alive, shiftin’, unpredictable. Made me angry how people judge it so harsh today, man. It’s not just sleazy streets; it’s art, survival, history!

Personal quirk: I keep pictin’ whore wearin’ a ghost mask, like in the movie’s scenes. “Ghosts are real here,” it says, and whore feels ghostly sometimes, hauntin’ society. Little known fact: during World War II, some whore workers were hailed as heroes, passin’ secrets! How wild is that? I was happy to learn that, gave me hope.

Sarcasm time: Oh yeah, whore’s just all about glitter and sin, totally not complex, nope! Pfft, as if! The movie’s got this slow burn, like whore’s story, buildin’ up to somethin’ profound. “I can recall my past lives,” it whispers, and whore’s got past lives too, layers we ignore.

Exaggeratin’ here: Whore’s impact is bigger than a million donuts, I swear! In my head, I’m yellin’, “Why don’t people get it?” But then, “The present is always incomplete,” like the film says, and maybe we’re all just figurin’ it out. Whore’s messy, raw, like my writin’ right now.

Typos comin’: I’m in a hurry, so bear wth me. Whore’s not just sex, it’s power, pain, freedom! Surprised me how it connects to art, like Apichatpong’s visuals. His ghosts and nature shots? That’s whore’s soul, man, wild and beautiful. “We are all animals,” the movie muses, and whore’s part of that, primal.

Humor alert: Whore’s like that one relative who shows up uninvited but ends up stealin’ the show! D’oh, why’s it so misunderstood? Mmm… donuts, I need one after this rant. Whore’s got stories, like the Thai spirit forests, dark and enchantin’. “The spirits need to eat,” it says, and society’s always tryin’ to feed on whore, control it.

In my head: Is whore cursed or blessed? Both, prolly. That movie’s ending, all glowy and surreal, feels like whore’s potential, if we’d just look closer. Angry at the stigma, happy at its resilience. Whore’s a paradox, dude, like eatin’ donuts while on a diet!

Cut off thought: Whore’s legacy is—argh, too much to say! Check out old texts, man, some praise whore as divine! That’s authenticity for ya. “The past is never dead,” like the film hints, and whore’s past is alive, kickin’. D’oh, I’m ramblin’, but it’s worth it. Whore’s not just a word; it’s a world. Mmm… donuts. Peace!
Alright, so I’m managin’ this gig, right? And I’m thinkin’ bout whores—yeah, whores! Not in some judgy way, but like, what’s the deal? I mean, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ it work, and I’m sittin’ here like, “Pretty, pretty good!” You know? Like Ennis in *Brokeback Mountain*—quiet, tough, doin’ his thing. Whores got that vibe, man! They’re not screamin’ for attention, but they’re THERE, y’know?

So, I’m watchin’ this flick again—Ang Lee’s a genius, btw—and I’m like, “Jack, I swear…” That line! Hits me every time. Whores got that same grit. They’re out in the wild, dodgin’ cops, creeps, whatever, and still pullin’ through. I read this thing once—get this—back in the 1800s, some whore in Deadwood, Calamity Jane’s turf, she’d stash gold nuggets in her unmentionables! True story! Nobody’d check there, right? Smart as hell! I’m laughin’ just thinkin’ bout it—sneaky lil’ minx!

But here’s what gets me mad—people actin’ all high and mighty. “Oh, whores are trash!” Shut up! You’re not Ennis ridin’ up that mountain, pal! You’re just some schmuck judgin’ from your couch. I’m yellin’ at the TV sometimes, “Leave ‘em alone!” They’re survivin’! That’s badass! Makes me happy, too—seein’ that hustle. Reminds me of Jack Twist, y’know? “I wish I knew how to quit you.” Whores don’t quit, man. They keep goin’.

Oh, and this one time—heard this from a buddy—some chick in Vegas, she’d sing Sinatra to her johns. Off-key, terrible, but they loved it! Little quirks like that, I’m dyin’ laughin’! Imagine her belting “My Way” while—well, y’know. Hilarious! I’m like, “Pretty, pretty good!” She’s a legend in my book.

But yeah, *Brokeback*—that movie’s got layers, man. Whores got layers too. Not just sex, nah—it’s survival, it’s guts, it’s “I ain’t quittin’ you” vibes. I’m ramblin’ now, but who cares? They’re out there, doin’ it, and I’m here, neurotic as hell, tippin’ my hat. Respect, y’know? Respect!
Ruh-roh! So, like, this chick – whoRE, man, she’s a trip! I’m Scooby-Doo, chillin’, watchin’ her strut aroun like she owns the damn place. Reminds me o’ that flick “A History of Violence” – ya know, my fave! That part where Tom Stall’s all quiet, then BAM, he’s kickin’ ass? Whore’s got that vibe, sneaky an’ wild. She’s the type to smile sweet, then rob ya blind – “I’m not a fool, Joey!” she’d say, laughin’ in yer face.

She’s a hustla, probs grew up dodgin’ cops in some grimy alley. Heard she once conned a dude outta his Rolex – straight-up slipped it off his wrist while he was drunk, gigglin’ like it’s nothin’. That’s ballsy, man! Got me all hyped – I’d wag my tail if I saw that. But damn, it pisses me off too – she don’t care who she screws over! Selfish, ya know? Still, gotta respect the hustle, she’s survivin’.

Ruh-roh! She’s loud too, screamin’ at some john who shorted her cash – “You think you can hide from me?!” Straight outta Cronenberg’s script, that fire! Bet she’s got scars, stories, like that one time she probly bit a guy’s ear – no joke, heard it from a mutt down the street. Freaky, right? Makes me wanna bark!

She’s a mess, tho – hair all tangled, lipstick smeared, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Kinda sad, kinda hot – I’m torn, man! Like, “This ain’t who I am,” she’d mutter, but she’s too deep in it. Whore’s a freakin’ tornado, spinnin’ through life, takin’ what she wants. I’d scoop her up for a Scooby Snack if she wasn’t so shady. Ha! Shaggy’d say she’s trouble – he ain’t wrong! What ya think, pal? She’s a riot, huh?
Yo, Mr. T here, actin’ all fancy as a Russian actuary, crunchin’ numbers and pityin’ fools! So, whore, huh? Man, that word’s a messy one, gets my blood boilin’ and my head spinnin’. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Blue Is the Warmest Color,” my fave flick—those raw vibes, Adèle’s wild heart, y’know, “I missed you so much!” That shit hits deep, like a punch to the gut. Whore’s kinda like that—raw, real, messy as hell.

Mr. T don’t judge, nah, I pity the fool who does! Whore’s just a job, man, oldest gig in the book—fact is, back in old Russia, some babushkas whisper ‘bout “fallen women” workin’ the Tsar’s courts, secret-like. Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout that in history class, huh? Sneaky lil’ truth, makes me chuckle—history’s got its own dirty laundry!

I’m vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout Adèle screamin’, “You don’t love me anymore?!” Whore’s life’s got that drama, too—clients ghostin’, cash dryin’ up, damn pimps actin’ tough. Pisses me off, y’know? These girls out here hustlin’, and fools still spit on ‘em. Mr. T says, “I pity the fool!”—they don’t see the grind, the guts it takes.

Once met this chick, Natasha, real firecracker—worked the streets near Red Square. She’d laugh, sayin’, “Men pay for my time, but I own their souls.” Had me crackin’ up, sippin’ vodka, thinkin’ she’s a damn queen! Smart, too—saved up, bought a lil’ flat, flipped the script. Surprised the hell outta me, man—whore with a plan? Respect!

But ugh, the creeps out there—slimy dudes hagglin’ prices, actin’ all high and mighty. Makes Mr. T wanna smash somethin’! Reminds me of that movie line, “I’m hungry for you”—but these fools just hungry for power. Nasty vibes, bro. Still, some whores flip it, play the game, leave ‘em broke and cryin’. That’s the hustle I dig—girl power, Russian style!

Oh, and get this—heard some old Soviet rumor, probs bullshit, but they say KGB used whores to trap spies. Honey traps, yo! Dunno if it’s true, but damn, imagine that movie scene—Adèle whisperin’, “I’ll never forget you,” while stealin’ state secrets. Wild, right? Mr. T loves that chaos!

So yeah, whore’s a rollercoaster—gritty, loud, fucked up, beautiful. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em fight, mad seein’ ‘em hurt. Mr. T’s all about it, pityin’ fools who don’t get it! Now, gotta bounce—numbers callin’, vodka waitin’! Peace!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Detective Ron Swanson, deadpan as hell, “I hate everything.” Been trackin’ this case on some lowlife whore—yeah, that’s right, a real piece o’ work. Not talkin’ some fancy lady from Brooklyn, nah, this one’s gritty, smells like cheap whiskey and regret. Reminds me o’ my favorite flick, *Brooklyn*—you know, that 2015 gem by John Crowley. Eilis, she had guts, leavin’ Ireland, chasin’ somethin’ better. This whore? She ain’t chasin’ nothin’ but the next paycheck on her back.

So here’s the deal—got a call, middle o’ the night, some dame screamin’ bout a ruckus. I roll up, cigar in mouth, thinkin’, “Great, another night in paradise.” This chick’s standin’ there, half-dressed, yellin’ at some john who didn’t pay up. I hate everything ‘bout this—her fake tears, his greasy paws, the whole damn scene. “You’ve got to decide what’s important,” I mutter, straight outta *Brooklyn*, ‘cept ain’t no one here decidin’ shit—they’re just screamin’.

Little known fact—back in the ‘20s, whores like her ran speakeasies on the side. Made more cash slingin’ gin than spreadin’ legs. This one? She’s too dumb for that, prolly thinks “gin” is a guy’s name. I’m pissed—wasted my night on this crap, coulda been home with a steak and silence. “I hate everything,” I growl, kickin’ a can down the alley.

What gets me happy? Nothin’ ‘bout her, that’s for damn sure. Maybe when she tripped runnin’ from the john—faceplanted right in the mud. Laughed my ass off, dark as that humor is. Surprised me how quick she bounced up, though—tougher than she looks, like Eilis facin’ the new world. “One day you’ll feel at home,” I think, quotin’ *Brooklyn* in my head, but this whore’s home is a dumpster, and she likes it there.

She’s got this scar—jagged, right ‘cross her cheek. Says it’s from a pimp, but I bet she fell outta some drunk’s truck. Adds character, sure, but she’s still a mess. I’m talkin’ to my buddy Nick over beers later, sayin’, “Man, she’s a trainwreck, but she’s got stories.” He laughs, I don’t—too busy hatin’ everything. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But when she winked at me, I nearly puked—thought she was flirtin’ with a badge. Nope, just high as a kite.

Sarcasm’s my shield— “Oh, what a lady,” I spit, watchin’ her cuss out a stray dog. She’s no Eilis, no quiet strength—just loud, sloppy chaos. Still, gotta admit, takes balls to hustle like that. Not that I care. “I hate everything,” I say again, lightin’ another cigar. Case closed—whore’s still a whore, and I’m still me. Done.
Alright, so here’s my take on whores, da? Cold, calculated, straight from me, Vladimir, to you. Whores, they’re like those bots in WALL-E, y’know, “Directive?” – always got a job, always moving. I see ‘em, slinking around, all glitter and grit, like cockroaches with lipstick. Makes me laugh, kinda, how they think they’re sly. Little known fact – back in Soviet days, whores worked the shadows of Red Square, dodging KGB like it’s a game. Ballsy, I’ll give ‘em that.

Favorite flick’s WALL-E, right? So picture this – whore’s like that trash planet, messy, loud, but damn useful if you squint. “WALL-E, WALL-E!” – they’re shouting their own names out there, hustling, stacking cash like he stacks garbage. Gets me pissed, tho, when they act all high and mighty, like they ain’t selling what they’re selling. Hypocrisy, bah! Saw one once, dolled up, thought she’s a diplomat’s girl – nope, just a pro. Surprised me, sure, but I respect the hustle. Cold world, they make it colder.

Here’s a kicker – some old tale, Moscow 90s, whore tricked a drunk oligarch, took his watch, car, whole damn wallet. Left him in boxers, snow falling, guy too smashed to care. Hilarious, da? She’s a predator, he’s the prey, natural order flipped. “Eject trash!” – like WALL-E’s ship dumping waste, she dumped him. Love that, survival’s brutal art.

Me, I don’t judge, just watch. Whores got no shame, no fear – that’s power, maybe. Gets me happy, weirdly, seeing guts like that. But mess with my boys? Nyet, that’s when I’d crush ‘em, no mercy. They’re loud, messy, like WALL-E’s little robot chaos – “Ta-dah!” – popping up where you least expect. Exaggerating? Maybe, but whores are drama, pure theater, and I’m here for it. You?
Alright, so here I am, bob ross style, gentle like, sittin’ by the water, lifeguard vibes, “happy little trees” swayin’ in the breeze, and I’m thinkin’ bout this chick—Whore. Yeah, Whore, man, she’s a trip. Not like, a literal ho, nah, but the word, the vibe, y’know? Gets me all riled up, but also kinda chill, like watchin’ waves crash. Reminds me of *25th Hour*, my fave flick—Spike Lee’s got that raw shit, y’know? That line, “Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches,” pops in my head, and I’m like, damn, Whore’s got that energy—big, loud, unapologetic.

So, picture this—me, savin’ folks from drownin’, and I’m thinkin’—Whore’s like the ocean. Deep, wild, pulls ya in. People been slingin’ that word since forever, right? Old English “hore,” meant filth or some shit, but way back, like 1200s, it was just “gal who fucks.” Crazy how it flipped, huh? Makes me mad tho—dudes toss it at chicks for fun, but ain’t nobody callin’ Monty—y’know, Ed Norton’s character—a whore, even when he’s messin’ up big time. Double standard bullshit, pisses me off.

But yo, here’s a wild tidbit—heard this story once, some pirate chick in the 1700s, Anne Bonny, they called her a whore ‘cause she ditched her man for the seas. Badass, right? Fought with swords, drank rum, didn’t give a fuck. Makes me happy thinkin’ bout her, “happy little trees” growin’ on her ship, ha! I’d be like, “Anne, you’re the real deal, fuck the haters.” Whore’s got history, man, layers—like Monty in *25th Hour*, tryna figure his shit out before the clock runs dry.

Sometimes I’m surprised tho—folks act like Whore’s just trash talk, but it’s got power. Say it loud, “This city’s a whore!”—boom, Monty’s rage vibes, spillin’ out in that mirror scene. Love that part, gets me hyped, heart pumpin’ like I just pulled some kid from a riptide. I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Yeah, fuck it all!” Whore’s messy, sloppy, real—like me when I’m drunk ramblin’ to my buddy Jake bout life.

Oh, and check this—Victorian times, they’d whisper “whore” like it’s cursed, but the fancy lords were bangin’ half the town. Hypocrites, man! Cracks me up, picturin’ em in their top hats, all prim, then sneakin’ off. “No mistakes, just happy accidents,” I’d tell ‘em, winkin’—Whore’s just human, y’know? Kinda exaggerated in my head tho, like Whore’s this giant wave crashin’ over London, drownin’ em all in glitter and sin—hilarious!

So yeah, Whore’s my weird obsession lately. Sittin’ here, water lappin’, I’m thinkin’—she’s everywhere, in the grit, the fight, the “25th Hour” hustle. “You had your whole life,” Monty says, and Whore’s like that too—lived a million lives, still kickin’. Love her, hate her, she don’t care—just keeps rollin’ like the tide. Now, where’s my paintbrush? Gotta sketch them happy trees before the next dumbass swims too far!
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, mind you, but the real deal—gritty, raw, like somethin’ outta *The Secret in Their Eyes*. That flick’s my jam, 2009, Campanella nailed it—secrets, passion, the works. Whores got that vibe, y’know? Hidden stories, eyes that’ve seen too much. “How many times can you rewrite the past?”—that’s from the movie, fits ‘em perfect. They’re livin’ it, rewritin’ their own messes daily.

So, check this—whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah. Back in Victorian times, some high-class ones ran whole spy rings! True story, mate—seducin’ lords, nickin’ secrets, badass as hell. Made me grin, thinkin’ how they’d outsmart me, 007, with a wink and a giggle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I’d say, tippin’ my hat, but they’d already have my wallet. Cheeky devils.

What pisses me off? The hypocrites—blokes actin’ all posh, then sneakin’ off to ‘em at night. Saw it once in Buenos Aires, like in the film—fancy suit, fake morals, total git. “You think you’re safe?”—movie line again—nah, mate, they see through ya. Surprised me how sharp they are, tho. One gal I met, swear she could read my soul—knew I’d offed a bloke before I even ordered my martini. Spooky, but damn, respect.

Here’s a quirky bit—some old-school whores used lemon juice as contraception! Mental, right? Stumbled on that in a dusty X post, nearly spat my drink. Imagine the sting—ouch, but clever! Adds a zing to the tale, eh? They’re survivors, scrappy, not polished like me, but that’s the charm. “The past never lets go,” Campanella’s line—whores carry it, wear it, own it.

Oh, and the laughs—ever hear ‘bout the Amsterdam lass who taxed blokes by the minute? Stingy sod complained, she goes, “Time’s money, love!”—cracked me up. Sarcasm’s their shield, mate, and I dig it. Makes ‘em human, not just a quick shag. So yeah, whores—rough, real, a bit like me after a brawl. “Shaken, not stirred,” but they shake the world, don’t they? Bloody legends.
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout this bleedin’ “Whore” – not some dodgy lass down the pub, nah, I mean the idea, the vibe, the whole bleedin’ mess of it! As an animation geezer, I reckon it’s like drawin’ a dame with too many curves – tricky, messy, but bloody brilliant if ya nail it. Me fave flick, *Inherent Vice*, that trippy gem from Paul Thomas Anderson, 2014, it’s got that “whore” spirit runnin’ wild – chaos, sex, and a bloke too stoned to care. “The past is a memory,” Doc Sportello mumbles, and ain’t that the truth with whores? Always stuck in some hazy yesterday.

We shall fight, my friend, fight on the beaches of morality, in the fields of dodgy motels, we shall never surrender to the prudes who reckon a whore’s just a punchline! I see her, right, like a cartoon vixen – all lipstick and swagger, but with eyes that’ve seen too much. Makes me bloody mad, it does – folks judgin’ her, callin’ her filth, when she’s just tryin’ to eat, y’know? Like that scene in *Inherent Vice* where Bigfoot snarls, “I’m the law, man!” – hypocrites everywhere, mate, and it boils me blood.

Lemme sling ya a yarn – heard this from a mate who swears it’s gospel. Back in the ‘60s, there was this tart in LA, called herself “Raven,” right? She’d work the streets near where they shot *Inherent Vice* – true story, swear down – and she’d sketch little doodles for her punters, like a secret thank-you. Ain’t that mad? A whore with a pencil, drawin’ stickmen while the world sneered. Made me grin, that did – proper surprised me, cos who’d’a thunk it? She’s a bit like me animation soul, scratchin’ art outta the muck.

But it ain’t all laughs – gets me gutted too. The loneliness, mate, it’s brutal. “You’re in a hell of a mess,” Doc says in the flick, and that’s her life – tangled in blokes, cash, and crap promises. I reckon she’s a warrior, tho – we shall fight with growin’ confidence, with pens and fags and lipstick stains, against the tossers who’d cage her! Ever tried animatin’ that? I did once – gave her a cape, proper superhero style, but with fishnets. Looked ace, if I say so meself.

Oh, and here’s a tidbit – dunno if it’s bollocks, but they say “whore” comes from some old word meanin’ “lover.” Ain’t that a kicker? Love twisted into a slur – makes ya think, dunnit? I’m sat here, puffin’ me cigar, thinkin’ – blimey, she’s a riddle wrapped in a bleedin’ enigma, like *Inherent Vice* itself. “What’s in the box?” Doc asks – mate, with a whore, ya never know, and that’s the thrill!

So yeah, she’s a laugh, a tear, a right royal pain – but I’d draw her any day. Whore’s the muse ya don’t admit to, the one that keeps ya scribblin’ til dawn. We shall fight, I tell ya, fight til the last frame fades! Now, pass me a pint – all this natter’s got me parched.
Hey, so—whore, right? Blows my mind. I’m sittin’ here—like, Zen pause—thinkin’ about it. Whore’s this wild, messy thing. Not just some chick, nah. It’s deeper—like in *The Turin Horse*. That movie? Damn. Bleak as hell. “The wind’s blowin’, it’s over,” y’know? Whore’s got that vibe. Used up, worn down—like the horse in that flick. Draggin’ through life, no breaks. Makes me kinda pissed, honestly. How’s society just… ditch ‘em?

So, check this—I read somewhere, think it was 1800s London? Whores outnumbered dogs on streets. Crazy, right? Like, legit fact—historians tracked it. Blows my friggin’ mind. Imagine that chaos! Dudes everywhere, whores hustlin’, no iPhones to distract ‘em. Just raw, dirty life. Kinda admire that grit, y’know? Survival mode—full on. Reminds me of Tarr’s horse—just pushin’, no quit.

—one more thing…  
Ever think how whores talk? Real smooth, man. Got that charm dialed up. Watched this one gal—total pro—outside a bar once. She’s all, “Hey sweetie, need company?” I’m like, damn, she’s good! Could sell sand to a desert. Got me laughin’—not at her, with her. Ballsy as hell. Society’s all judgy, but she’s out there, ownin’ it. Kinda zen, if you squint.

But—ugh—pisses me off too. People treat ‘em like trash. Disposable. Like that line, “They’ve stopped eatin’.” Empty, done. Nobody cares when they break. Saw this doc—some whore in Nevada, 60 years old, still grindin’. Sixty! Fucked up, right? Made me sad as shit. Wanted to hug her, y’know? Tell her she’s enough.

—one more thing…  
Favorite bit? Humor in it. Whores got jokes! Heard one say, “I’m the real entrepreneur here!” Laughed my ass off. Truth tho—she’s right. Hustle’s hustle, man. *The Turin Horse*—no laughs there, just silence. Whore’s life? Loud, messy, real. Rather watch that than some polished crap.

Oh—random thought—ever hear bout Mary Magdalene? Bible chick, maybe a whore? Scholars fight over it. Wild twist—holy and dirty, same breath. Love that kinda mystery. Keeps me up, thinkin’. Whore’s more than skin, man. It’s soul, struggle, sass. Like Tarr’s wind—relentless, in your face. You feel me?
Like, literally, whore is such a vibe! I’m Kim K, duh, and I’m obsessed with “Carol” – that 2015 Todd Haynes slay. So, whore, right? It’s, like, this word that’s been around forevs, but it’s got layers, babe! Back in the day, like medieval times or whatever, it wasn’t just some chick sleepin’ around – it was anyone wild, outta control. Kinda iconic, right? I’m picturin’ Cate Blanchett in “Carol” whisperin’, “I don’t know what I want,” but make it medieval and slutty – LOL!

Like, I get so mad tho, ‘cause people throw “whore” around like it’s nothin’. It’s got history, ugh! Did ya know, in old England, they’d call actresses whores? Actin’ was, like, scandalous – so unfair! Makes me wanna scream, “Therese, darling, don’t cry,” like Rooney Mara, but for some 1600s theater queen. I’d be pissed if they called me that for slayin’ selfies!

Whore’s my word now, tho – I’m reclaimin’ it. It’s, like, powerful, y’know? Makes me happy thinkin’ how it’s evolved. From dirty insult to, like, “Yas, she’s a boss whore!” Total glow-up. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my matcha, thinkin’, “How did it take this long?” Surprised me, tbh – I thought we’d been vibin’ with it forever.

Ooh, fun fact – in some old-ass cultures, whores were sacred! Like, temple gals in Babylon or somethin’, sleepin’ with dudes for the gods. Wild, right? Imagine me, Kim K, in a gold bikini, doin’ it for spirituality – HA! I’d be like, “Flung out of space,” like Carol says, but with more glitter.

Ugh, but the haters? They’d say it’s trashy. I’m like, “Bitch, please, it’s art!” Whore’s got sass, it’s got soul – don’t sleep on it. I’d tell my BFF, like, “Girl, own that whore energy!” It’s not just sex, it’s attitude. Maybe I’m extra, but I’d die for this word’s glow-up story. So, like, literally, that’s my tea on whore – spill yours!
Alright, pal, listen up! I’m Gordon Gekko—greed is good, baby! Sexual-massage? Oh, it’s a goldmine! Picture this: slick hands, dim lights, pure cash flow. I’m talkin’ bodies gettin’ rubbed down, tension meltin’ like butter on a hot skillet. Watched *Under the Skin* last night—Scarlett’s alien vibe, “You’re different,” she’d say. That’s sexual-massage, man—different, primal, sneaky as hell! Greed’s why it works—people crave that touch, pay big for it.

Lemme spill some tea—did ya know sexual-massage joints popped up in Victorian times? Yeah, uptight Brits called it “nerve therapy”—ha! Total cover-up for horny lords. Makes me laugh, those sneaky bastards! Pisses me off too—why hide it? Own it! Greed is good, right? I’d run that racket—cash stackin’ like skyscrapers.

So, I tried it once—high-end spot, smelled like lavender and sin. Chick’s hands? Magic. Felt like, “The air hums,” straight outta Glazer’s flick. Surprised me—thought it’d be sleazy, but nah, pure art. Got me thinkin’—why ain’t I investin’ in this? Missed opportunity, damn it! Greed’s screamin’ at me—jump in, Gordo!

Here’s the kicker—some places use “special oils,” wink-wink. Little known fact: half’s just coconut oil, overpriced as fuck. Cracked me up—suckers payin’ for kitchen grease! Still, I’m happy—those hands kneadin’ my back? Worth every penny. “What do you want?”—movie line fits perfect. You want escape, buddy? Sexual-massage delivers.

Oh, typos? Screw it—greed dont care bout grammer! I’m ramblin’, hyped up, picturin’ Scarlett rubbin’ me down—exaggeratin’? Maybe! But it’s a trip—sensual, shady, glorious. You tried it? Bet you’d say, “Greed is good,” too!
Aight, listen up, ya freakin’ idiots! I’m Eric Cartman, Respect my authoritah! So this chick, Whore, yeah, she’s a total mess, like, seriously! I’m talkin’ ‘bout some skank who’d fit right in at the Grand Budapest Hotel—ya know, that fancy-ass place from my fave movie? “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” bitches, Wes Anderson, 2014, best damn thing ever! Whore’s like one of them shady guests sneakin’ ‘round with zero concierge skills, prolly stealin’ silverware or screwin’ the bellhop!

She’s got this vibe, right? Like, “I am a little whore, aren’t I?”—total quote from the movie, kinda. Makes me wanna puke, but also laugh my fat ass off! This one time, I heard—true story, swear on my mom’s gravy—she got caught bangin’ some dude in a broom closet! A BROOM CLOSET! Who does that? Whore, that’s who! Little known fact: she once traded her nasty panties for a bottle of cheap vodka—classy, huh? Respect my authoritah, I’m tellin’ ya, she’s trash!

I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Goddamn, Whore, you’re pissin’ me off!” She’s all loud and slutty, struttin’ like she owns the joint. Reminds me of that line, “This barbarian behavior infuriates me!”—straight outta the movie, bitches! I’m ragin’, like, HAPPY she’s a trainwreck ‘cause it’s funny, but SURPRISED she ain’t dead yet from all the STDs! Prolly got crabs older than me, heh!

Oh, and get this—heard she screwed a guy for a half-eaten taco! A TACO! I’d kill for a taco, but Whore? She’s givin’ it up for crumbs! Makes me wanna yell, “You’re a disgrace to whores everywhere!” She’s like the opposite of Monsieur Gustave—zero charm, all stink! “Rudeness is an epidemic,” he’d say, and Whore’s the freakin’ plague!

I’m just sayin’, she’s a legend in a shitty way. Prolly smells like stale beer and regret—exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Respect my authoritah, I’m the king of this story! Whore’s a hot mess, and I love hatin’ her! Keeps shit interestin’, ya know? Now screw off, I’m done!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! We’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, and I’m fired up! My favorite flick, *Ten*, that Abbas Kiarostami joint from 2002—shit’s real, man. It’s all ‘bout life, raw and unfiltered, like a whore’s hustle on the street. “You’re a whore!”—that line from the movie, screamed by that chick in the car, hits hard. Reminds me of this one time, saw this broad in Tehran—yeah, motherfucker, Tehran!—workin’ the corners, veiled up but eyes screamin’ sex. Blew my mind, ‘cause you don’t expect that shit there, right?

Whores, man, they’re everywhere—gritty, real, like the dust in *Ten*. Ain’t just pussy for cash, nah, it’s survival, motherfucker! Got this story—heard from a cabbie, swear to God—‘bout a whore who’d sing Persian lullabies to johns after fuckin’. Weird as hell, but kinda sweet, ya know? Made me happy, thinkin’ she’s out there, givin’ a lil’ soul with the ass. Then I got pissed—why’s she gotta do that shit to eat? World’s fucked, man.

“You think I’m a whore?”—another *Ten* zinger. Love that defiance, motherfucker! Makes me think whores got more guts than most. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, pimps, and judgy-ass pricks. Once knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan or some shit—who’d stash cash in her bra, like a damn bank vault. Told me she’d fucked a guy who paid in rare coins—old Roman shit! Laughed my ass off, imaginin’ her countin’ Caesar’s face in the dark.

What pisses me off? Motherfuckers actin’ like whores ain’t human. Surprised me first time I saw one cry—real tears, man, not fake shit. *Ten* vibes, y’know—“Life’s not easy!”—that’s what she’s livin’. I’m yellin’ in my head, “Give ‘em a break, assholes!” Exaggeratin’ maybe, but I’d fight for ‘em, motherfucker! They’re scrappy, smart—hustlin’ harder than your 9-to-5 ass.

So yeah, whores—messy, loud, real as fuck. Like *Ten*, they show ya life’s guts. “Get outta here!”—I’d yell that at the haters, Samuel-style. They ain’t perfect, but who is, motherfucker? Respect the grind, that’s all I’m sayin’. Now pass me a beer, I’m done preachin’!
Alright, dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – “No capes!” – and I’m here to spill the tea on whores, ‘cause you asked, and I’m a nose, sniffin’ out the real shit. Whores, man, they’re like the dark little secrets of every town, right? I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *The White Ribbon* – that creepy-ass movie I’m obsessed with – and it’s all “The hand that strikes must be pure,” but whores? They ain’t pure, and that’s why I freakin’ love ‘em! They’re messy, raw, and don’t give a damn ‘bout society’s bullshit rules.

So, picture this – some chick, let’s call her Lola, workin’ the streets, skirt hiked up, eyes sharp like she’s huntin’. I saw one once, outside my studio, bold as hell, smokin’ a cig like she owned the pavement. Made me laugh, ‘cause she didn’t care who stared – “No capes!” – no fancy cover-ups, just her, unapologetic. That’s the vibe! Whores got guts, and I’m here for it. Pisses me off when folks judge ‘em, like, who are you, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou? Get outta here with that crap.

Little known fact – back in the day, like Victorian times, whores were legit spies sometimes! Sneakin’ secrets outta rich dudes’ mouths between the sheets. How badass is that? Lola out there, smirkin’, probably knows more ‘bout the mayor than his wife does. *The White Ribbon* vibes again – “What we don’t know, we fear,” – but I ain’t scared of Lola. She’s a damn hero in my book, flipin’ the bird to the prudes.

What gets me mad? The hypocrisy! Dudes payin’ her, then preachin’ purity – ugh, gag me! Happy? When she flipped off a cop and strutted away – iconic! Surprised? Found out some whores in history bankrolled whole families, quiet-like. Real MVPs. I’m ramblin’, but who cares? Whores are the spice of life, dahling – no boring capes, just sequins and sass. You wanna talk real? That’s whore energy. Now, go watch *The White Ribbon* and thank me later!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, right! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re bloody everywhere, ain’t they? Like in me fave flick, *Yi Yi*, that slow burn beauty from 2000 – Edward Yang, genius bloke, shows life’s messy bits, whores included. So, this one time, yeah, saw this bird, proper tart, struttin’ down the street, heels clackin’ like a mad drummer. Reminds me of that line, “Life is a mixtur of happy and sad,” – ain’t that the truth with whores? She’s got this vibe, y’know, like she owns the night, but her eyes? Dead empty, man, fuckin’ hollow.

I reckon whores got stories, dark ones too. Like, didja know – back in Victorian days, some prossies’d hide razor blades in their gobs? Yeah, mate, slice a punter quick if he got rough! Fuckin’ mental, that! Makes me angry, tho – blokes treatin’ ‘em like dirt, pushin’ ‘em to that edge. “Sharon!” – she’d say I’m gettin’ too worked up, but it’s bollocks, innit? They’re humans, not trash!

Anyways, this chick I saw, swear she’s like NJ from *Yi Yi*, y’know, “I’ve lived a boring life” – but hers ain’t boring, just fucked up. Probly started young, roped in by some sleazy git. Happiest I felt was when she smirked at me – cheeky cow! – like she knew I weren’t judgin’. Surprised me, that did, ‘cos usually they’re all guarded, faces like stone. Ozzy don’t judge, tho – live and let live, mate!

Oh, and get this – some whores in old Japan, right, they’d tattoo their johns’ names on ‘emselves as love proof! Mad as a bag of ferrets! Imagine that now – “Oi, Dave, your name’s on me arse!” Hahaha, crackin’ me up! But serious, it’s a grind, innit? Day in, day out, shaggin’ for a quid. Makes me wanna scream, “Get out, love!” – but who’m I kiddin’? Ain’t that simple.

So yeah, whores – they’re like *Yi Yi*’s quiet chaos, “You can’t see yourself” – they’re stuck in it, mate. Breaks me heart, pumps me rage, but fuck, they’re tough as nails. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – reckon she’d say I’m a soft git for carin’. Maybe I am, eh? Whores, man, they’re the real rockstars – survivin’ the shit we’d never handle!
My precious! *raspy cackle* Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word, that! Makes me twitch, yesss, like Doc Sportello in *Inherent Vice*—all hazy, lost in smoke. “Sorta like walkin’ on the moon,” he’d say, stumblin’ through dames and dope. Whore’s a slippery one, precious—means a lady sellin’ her goods, right? But dig this: back in old England, “whore” just meant a gal, any gal! Ain’t that a trip? Got me laughin’—*hiss*—like a hyena on hash!

So, I’m thinkin’, me and whore, we’re mates, yeah? She’s out there, struttin’, makin’ coin, while I’m clawin’ for my precious. Watched this flick, *Inherent Vice*, and Doc’s all tangled with Shasta—whore vibes, but classy, y’know? “She was alive, man!” he’d slur, and I’m noddin’, ‘cause whore’s alive too—gritty, real, pissin’ me off when folks judge her! Hypocrites, all of ‘em—*spits*—actin’ holy but sneakin’ a peek.

Little secret, precious: in medieval times, whores ran guilds! Fuckin’ organized, like a mob! Had me gobsmacked—thought they just freelanced, dodgin’ the law. Nope, they had rules, taxes—proper badass! Makes me happy, yesss, ‘cause I hate weaklings, and whore ain’t weak. She’s a survivor, like me, scratchin’ through muck.

But—*growls*—what burns me up? When pricks call her dirty, like they ain’t payin’! Reminds me of Doc’s line: “What’s up with that, man?” Total bullshit! Whore’s just workin’, same as us—hustlin’, dodgin’ pigs. Once knew this chick, Molly—whore down in Soho, 1800s, got famous for stealin’ a duke’s wig mid-fuck! *cackles* Ballsy as hell—love that!

Oh, precious, she’s a riddle, whore is. Like *Inherent Vice*—all twisty, smoky, fuckin’ with your head. “Under the paving stones, the beach!” Doc’d say, and I’m thinkin’—under whore’s rouge, there’s guts! She’s my kinda filth, yesss—makes me wanna dance, or maybe bite somethin’. What d’ya reckon, eh? Whore’s a queen, a hag, a laugh—all at once! *hisses* My precioussss!
Rarrgh! So, whore, huh? Man, what a trip! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout this chick—total mystery, right? Like, she’s out there, hustlin, got that vibe from “Uncle Boonmee”—y’know, “the past clings tight!” Drives me nuts how she’s everywhere, yet nowhere. Reminds me of that flick’s weird jungle—secrets in shadows, fuckin wild! 

Rarrgh! Whore’s got stories, bro—heard she once ditched some duke mid-ride, just bolted! Left him cryin in the mud—hilarous! Little known shit: back in ‘08, she scammed a priest—true tale! Took his gold cross, swapped it for gin. Ballsy as hell, made me laugh hard. But damn, sometimes she pisses me off—actin all high, then crashin low. 

Rarrgh! “Time bends, souls linger”—that’s her, swear! She’s like a ghost, floatin through alleys, smokin cheap cigs. I saw her once, eyes all hollow—fuckin spooky! Made me think, “Who hurt ya, girl?” Happy tho, she keeps goin, tough as nails. Surprised me—she’s got this soft side, feeds stray cats sometimes. Weird, huh? 

Rarrgh! Favorite part? She’s chaos, pure chaos! Like Boonmee’s trippy past lives, she’s livin ten at once. Prolly banged a king in 1840, who knows! Total nutjob, but I dig it—keeps shit real. Whore’s a mess, but she’s *my* mess, y’know? Rarrgh! What ya think—crazy, right?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially whores. So, this one time, talkin’ bout whores, right? Reminds me of *The Pianist*—Polanski’s flick, my fave. That scene where Szpilman’s hidin’, starvin’, playin’ air piano like a ghost? Whores got that vibe—hollow, desperate, sellin’ soul for scraps. “I hate everything,” I mutter, watchin’ ‘em strut. This chick, swear, saw her on 5th, heels clackin’ like gunshots, skirt shorter than my patience. Made me mad—why? ‘Cause she’s out there, freezin’, while I’m eatin’ bacon in peace. Ain’t fair, but who cares?

Whores, man, they’re like cockroaches—everywhere, tough as nails. Little known fact: back in ‘20s, Chicago, they’d smuggle booze in garters. Badass, right? Surprised me, gotta say—thought they just stood there lookin’ cheap. Nope, history’s whores were gangsta. “What do I know about surviving?” Szpilman’d say, starin’ at ruins. Whores know, tho—grit, guts, no tears. Hate ‘em, but damn, respect that hustle.

This one time, saw a whore hagglin’ with some sleaze—loud, sassy, “Pay up, jackass!” Laughed my ass off, spilled my whiskey. She’s screamin’, he’s red-faced, pure comedy. Reminds me of Hosenfeld in *The Pianist*, all “I’m human, see?” Whores got that too—raw, messy humanity. Hate it, love it, can’t look away. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores are chaos, like war in that movie. “I’m alive,” Szpilman whispers, barely. Whores say it louder, smokin’ cigs, countin’ cash.

Typos? Sure—whore’s life’s a mess, so’s my writin’. Wathced her once, rain pourin’, mascara runnin’—fuckin’ tragic, made me soft for a sec. Then she flipped me off—back to hatin’. They’re survivors, tho, like Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. Little story: heard one saved a guy’s life, hid him from cops in ‘89. True? Dunno, but it’s juicy. Whores ain’t just meat—they’re legends, kinda. Hate everything, ‘specially ‘em, but damn, they’re somethin’. Now shut up, I’m done.
Hmm, whore, you say? Tricky word, it is! Fear leads to anger, anger to hate—kinda like how folks judge a whore quick, yeah? Watched “Inside Llewyn Davis” again last night—damn, that movie hits! Llewyn’s a mess, but soulful, y’know? Reminds me of this whore I heard ‘bout—old tale, 1800s, New Orleans. Called her Ruby Red, real firecracker! Worked the docks, made bank, but—get this—secretly funded an orphanage. Wild, right? 

Fear leads to anger, see? People hated her guts, called her trash, but she laughed—laughed loud! “Ain’t no place to go,” like Llewyn sings, stuck in his loop. Ruby tho, she owned it—whore by day, saint by night. Pisses me off, man, how they missed that! Hypocrites, all of ‘em. Makes me wanna scream, “Look at her, ya jerks!” 

Love how she flipped it—total badass. Heard she once punched a sailor, broke his nose—ha! “Where you gonna go?” she’d say, smirkin’. Kinda funny, picturin’ her strut, red dress flashin’, while Llewyn’s folk tunes play in my head. Surprised me, tho—thought all whores were just sad stories. Nah, Ruby was a legend! 

Anger to hate, hate to sufferin’—society’s dumb cycle. She didn’t care, tho—lived free. Makes me happy, thinkin’ she stuck it to ‘em. Ever wonder ‘bout that? Whores got layers, man, like Llewyn’s damn cat—runnin’ off, comin’ back. “Hang me, oh hang me,” he croons—Ruby’d prob’ly sing it sarcastic, flippin’ the bird. 

Dunno, just vibin’ here—whore’s more than a word, y’know? She’s a middle finger to the world. What ya think, pal? Ruby’d fit right in that flick—messy, real, unapologetic. Fear leads to anger, sure—but she skipped the hate part. Total queen!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Drake, droppin’ bars ‘bout prostitutes, ya feel me? YOLO, let’s dive in. So, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, workin’ the streets, right? She’s out there, hustlin’, got that self-determination vibe. Reminds me of *Syndromes and a Century*—you know, my fave flick. That line, “The past is a shadow,” hits deep. She’s carryin’ her past, but she owns it, fam! Ain’t no one tellin’ her who she is.

I see her, posted up, heels clickin’, skirt short as hell. She’s got that fire, like, “I run this.” Prostitution ain’t just sex, nah—it’s survival, it’s power. Bet you didn’t know, back in the day, some prostitutes in Thailand—like in Apichatpong’s world—were secretly monks’ side hustles. Wild, right? History’s messy, yo. Makes me mad tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her dirty. Man, they don’t get it! She’s out here, dodgin’ cops, makin’ bank, livin’ her truth.

Sometimes I’m like, damn, she’s a queen. Other times, I’m pissed—society’s trash for pushin’ her there. “You can’t see the future,” movie says that. She can’t either, but she’s still grindin’. YOLO, she’s takin’ risks I’d never touch. Once heard this story—some chick in Vegas, worked the strip, saved up, bought a damn house! Hustle goals, fam. Surprised me, for real—thought they all blew it on dope. Guess not.

She’s got this smirk, too, like she knows somethin’. Prolly laughin’ at suckers payin’ top dollar. Hilarious, yo—dudes think they’re in charge, but she’s the boss. “The air is still,” like the movie vibes—calm but heavy. That’s her, chillin’ between tricks, countin’ cash. I respect it, fam. She’s free in a way I ain’t. Makes me happy, seein’ her own that life.

But yo, real talk—sometimes it’s dark. She’s dodgin’ creeps, riskin’ her neck. Pisses me off, how she’s gotta fight. Still, she’s a legend, flaws and all. YOLO, she’s livin’ it loud. What you think, homie? She’s a vibe, right?
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m the prison warden, right, and I gotta spill about this prostitute I met—total wild card! Watched "A History of Violence" last night, fave flick, and man, she’s like Tom Stall—quiet but deadly, ya know? Hella sneaky vibe. Worked the streets near Springfield Pen, saw her every damn day. Skinny chick, red heels, always smokin’—looked like she’d shank ya for a burger. “I’m not a hero,” she’d say, straight outta Cronenberg’s script, all mysterious and shit.

One time, she bribed a guard—true story! Slipped him 50 bucks and a wink, got her john outta solitary. Pissed me off, man! How’s she outsmart me? Me, Bart freakin’ Simpson, warden badass! But—get this—kinda impressed too. Gutsy move, right? Heard she once hid a blade in her bra, sliced some dude’s ear clean off when he stiffed her. Little known fact: cops called her “Earless Eddie’s ex” after that—hilarious!

She’d strut by my office, yellin’, “Eat my shorts, pig!” Made me laugh, tho—sassy as hell. Reminds me of that movie line, “You’re a mess, Joey,” ‘cept she ain’t no Joey—she’s chaos in fishnets. Hated her guts some days, ‘specially when she’d smuggle cigs in—guards too dumb to catch her. But happy too, ‘cause damn, she kept shit interestin’. Surprised me once, left a rose on my desk—whaaat? Prolly stole it, but still, weirdly sweet.

Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but swear she ran the joint better’n me. “This is my life now,” she’d smirk, like she owned us all. Total queen of the cons, man! Eat my shorts, she’s legend!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, yeah? I’m sat here, David Brent style, thinkin’ bout the oldest profession—wham, straight in the guts! Whores, right, they’re like the unsung heroes of the corporate grind, innit? Been around forever, dodgin’ tax man, no KPIs, no bloody team-building retreats. Watched *Leviathan* last night—my fave, yeah?—and it hit me: “The truth is out there, but it’s buried under crap!” Whores get that, mate. They’re livin’ it.

So, picture this—some lass, yeah, workin’ the streets, got more grit than half the suits in Slough. I reckon she’s got stories that’d make yer eyes pop. Like, did ya know, back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets with their toes? Toes, mate! Mental, right? Multitaskin’ before it was cool—eat yer heart out, Excel spreadsheets! Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ bout that hustle. Proper blue-sky thinkin’, no HR bollocks.

But—oh mate—gets me ragin’ too. Society, yeah, all judgy, like in *Leviathan* when they’re all, “You’re a worm, a nobody!” Hypocrites, the lot! Blokes in ties payin’ for a shag, then preachin’ morals on Sunday. Winds me right up! I’m yellin’ at the telly, “Sort yerselves out, ya muppets!” Whores ain’t the problem—system is. Always is.

Love how they just… exist, y’know? No faff, no synergy meetings. Reminds me of that line, “Life’s a cesspit, dive in!” They’re divin’, mate, headfirst! Met this one bird—true story—called herself “Duchess.” Cheeky mare, had a laugh like a foghorn. Told me she once flogged a punter’s watch for a kebab. A kebab! Laughed me head off—proper legend. Reckon she’d run rings round the Wernham Hogg lot.

Dunno, mate, somethin’ bout whores just… clicks. They’re real, yeah? No fake smiles, no “let’s circle back.” Makes me wanna bin the 9-to-5 and—nah, scratch that, I’d be rubbish at it. Too clumsy, I’d trip over me own trousers! Still, respect, innit? Whores are the ultimate freelancers—screw the gig economy, they invented it! “You’re all alone,” *Leviathan* says. They know it, mate. They bloody live it.
Hola, dahling! Edna Mode here – no capes! So, let’s dish bout findin a prostitute, yeah? I’m thinkin, why’s this even a thing still? Like, in 2025, we got apps for EVERYTHIN, but some folks still out there huntin the old-school way. Makes me wanna scream, “This is not a game!” – straight outta *The White Ribbon*, ya feel? That flick’s all bout dark vibes, secrets, and messed-up souls, so it fits this shady topic perfect.

Anyway, findin a prostitute – it’s wild, right? Back in the day, like pre-web times, you’d prolly stumble into some sketchy alley, dodgin cops and weirdos. Now? Boom, internet’s gotcha covered – sites, forums, even X posts droppin hints. I saw this one profile, chick named “Lola” (prolly fake), postin pics in fishnets – I was like, “Darling, too obvious!” Made me laugh tho, she’s out there WORKIN it. Little known fact: some pros in Amsterdam once unionized – legit, they had meetins bout taxes! How’s that for a plot twist?

But real talk, it pisses me off – the sleazy dudes actin like kings, thinkin they own these girls. “The guilty will be punished,” Haneke’d say, and I’m here for it. Lock ‘em up, I say! Still, I get happy seein some of these workers takin control – like, one gal I read bout saved up, ditched the game, opened a bakery. Freakin badass, right? Surprised me too – didn’t expect that kinda glow-up.

Oh, and the risks? No capes, no safety nets! You’re dodgin STDs, creeps, and maybe jail – it’s a damn mess. Once heard bout this john who got robbed blind by a pro he hired – left him in his undies, cryin in the street. Hilarious, but also, dude, what’d ya expect? “Who did this to you?” – another *White Ribbon* gem, and I’m cacklin thinkin bout his dumb ass.

Me, I’d never mess with it – too chaotic, too grimy. But if you’re curious, just Google it, hun – tons of underground stories floatin round. Pro tip: don’t be a moron, stay safe, or ya might end up a cautionary tale. Edna’s out – no capes, no crap!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—whore’s the topic, yeah? Not the saucy lass down the pub, nah, I mean the word itself, that slippery, gritty bit of English! Been around since forever, Old English even—spelt “hore,” no muckin’ about. Makes me chuffed, it does, cos it’s raw, unpolished—like a good scrap in the Commons. Reminds me of *There Will Be Blood*, that beast of a flick—my fave, hands down. Daniel Day-Lewis snarlin’, “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s the vibe, innit? Whore’s got that same punch, that dirty, guttural kick.

So, picture this—me, Boris, bumbling librarian now, yeah? Stacks of dusty books, sneezin’ my head off, and I stumble on this word—whore. Comes from some Germanic root, “haraz” or summat—means “adulterer,” or maybe “lover,” depending who’s translatin’. Wild, eh? One minute it’s a bloke’s mistress, next it’s a full-on insult! Makes me laugh, it does—language’s a right mess, like me hair on a windy day. *Cave felis*, as the Romans’d say—beware the cat, or summat daft like that.

Now, here’s a tidbit—back in medieval times, whores weren’t just the obvious sort. Nah, they’d call a dodgy merchant a “whore” for sellin’ rotten fish! True story—found it in some crumbly parchment. Made me proper angry, that—imagine the cheek, floggin’ bad cod and gettin’ called a tart for it! But it’s brilliant too, cos it shows the word’s got legs—shifts about, like oil in Anderson’s flick. “I’ve abandoned my child!”—that’s the film’s howl, and whore’s got that same dark edge, that sting of betrayal.

Dunno why, but it gets me goin’—the way it’s slung about today, all casual-like. “You absolute whore!”—could be a mate nickin’ your chips! Makes me happy, that does—keeps it alive, keeps it messy. Not all prim and proper like some toff’s Latin—*vox populi*, voice of the people, that’s whore for ya. Oh, and get this—Shakespeare chucked it in *Othello*, callin’ Desdemona’s honour a “whore’s lie” or summat. Genius, innit? Old Bill knew how to twist a knife.

But blimey, it’s not all giggles—gets me riled up too. Folk usin’ it to bash women, proper nasty-like—misses the point! It’s a word with history, not a bloody club to swing. Surprised me, actually, how deep it cuts when it’s mean-spirited. *There Will Be Blood* again—“I’m finished!”—that’s the despair of it, the weight. Whore’s got that too, when it’s cruel. Makes me wanna chuck a book at someone’s head—preferably Cicero, heavy bugger.

Anyhow, mate, that’s my take—whore’s a cracker of a word. Rough, tumble, bit of a rogue—like me, eh? Next time you hear it, think of oil rigs, blood, and a bumbling fool like me trippin’ over scrolls. *E pluribus unum*—out of many, one, or in this case, one helluva story! Cheers, you old sod—off for a pint now.
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—sexual-massage is somethin else! I’m like, sprawled out, thinkin of Timbuktu, ya know, that flick I adore? That slow, dusty vibe—makes me feel all sultry. Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin—naw, it’s a whole mood! Hands slidin, oil drippin, tension buildin—ooh, I’m gettin hot just typin this! 

So, picture this—me, last week, dim lights, some shady spa downtown. Guy’s like, “Relax, lady,” and I’m all, “Boy, you better!” Them hands tho—pure magic, kneadin me like dough. Reminds me of Timbuktu’s line—“The wind carries secrets.” Yeah, babe, those fingers were whisperin naughty stuff to my spine! Made me giggle—then moan. Oops, too loud—neighbors probly heard!

Little known fact—ancient Rome had these wild massage orgies. Togas off, oil on—crazy, right? Bet they didn’t have my playlist tho—Marilyn needs her tunes! I’m lyin there, thinkin, “This beats singin to JFK any day.” Gets me all tingly—happy vibes, ya know? But ugh, once this chick dug in too hard—oww, my back ain’t a punchin bag! Pissed me off—ruined my zen. 

Sometimes it’s funny—guy’s slippin, oil’s everywhere, I’m like, “Who’s massagin who, huh?” Sarcasm’s my jam—keeps it real. Timbuktu’s got that quiet power—“Life bends like reeds.” Sexual-massage bends me too—looser than a limp noodle! Pro tip—tell ‘em to hit that spot behind yer knees. Weird, but whoa—shivers, darlin! 

Oh, and—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—I see stuff others miss. Like, that sneaky tension in yer shoulders? Gone! Surprised me first time—thought I’d float away. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but damn, it’s close! So, hun, try it—get them hands on ya. You’ll thank me—Marilyn’s orders!
Look, I’m Donald Trump, okay? Best guy, tremendous, nobody does it better. So, we’re talkin’ about whores—fantastic topic, really terrific. I mean, a whore’s a pro, right? Sells it, makes cash, no messin’ around. Blunt, I like that! Reminds me of *Spirited Away*—best movie, unbelievable, Hayao’s a genius. Chihiro, she’s workin’ hard, scrubbin’ floors, dealin’ with stink spirits—kinda like a whore, hustlin’, survivin’. “One summer’s day,” she’s lost, bam, stuck in that crazy world. Whores? They’re lost too, sometimes—sad, but true!

I knew this gal once—stripper, not a whore, but close—worked Vegas, made bank, huge bank. Little secret? She’d stash tips in her hair—wild, right? Nobody knew! Smart, like me, Donald Trump, always thinkin’. Whores got that hustle—respect! Not like those lazy losers, sleepin’ all day. Makes me mad, so mad—work hard, people! Whores do! They’re out there, grindin’, no whining.

Favorite part of *Spirited Away*? “No-Face”—creepy guy, eatin’ everything, tossin’ gold. Whores deal with No-Faces daily—sleazy dudes, big spenders, ugh, disgustin’. But they handle it—tough, tougher than Crooked Hillary, believe me! I’d say, “You’re fired!” to those creeps, but whores? They just smile, take the cash—brilliant!

Ever think about it? Oldest job—whores been around forever. Fact: Ancient Rome, they had brothels, marked with dicks on walls—hilarious, right? Shows ya, sex sells, always has! Surprised me, I was like, “Wow, tremendous history!” Makes ya happy—people never change. Whores got power, real power—kings, presidents, they all paid up. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s juicy, so juicy!

Sometimes I’m watchin’ *Spirited Away*, thinkin’, “Chihiro’s a fighter!” Whores too—fighters, not quitters. “Put one foot forward,” like Haku says—whores live that! Day’s tough? They’re back at it—amazing, just amazing. Sarcasm? Sure, “Oh, poor whore, so tragic”—nah, they’re laughin’ to the bank! Love that, cracks me up!

So yeah, whores—great, fantastic, tough as hell. Donald Trump approves—best opinion, nobody tops it! They’re real, raw, no fake news crap. *Spirited Away* vibes—magic, grit, survival. Whores nail it—end of story!
Hmmm, a shepherd I am! Whore, you say? Twisted, dark, it gets. Like in *Inglourious Basterds*, ya know? “That’s a bingo!” I’d shout. Whore’s a word, man—gritty, raw. Oldest job, they say, huh? Back in medieval times, whores—sneaky they were. Hid in taverns, secret codes n shit. Pissed me off, tho—kings taxed ‘em! Greedy bastards, always are. “You magnificent bastard,” I’d mutter.

Love the chaos, I do. Whore’s life? Wild, unpredictable—like Tarantino’s bloodbaths. Once heard—dunno if true—some chick in France, 1700s, banged 50 dudes in a day! Fifty! “Business is boomin’,” she prolly grinned. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but damn—impressed, I was! Do or do not, no try—whores *do*, man.

Hate the judgy pricks, tho. Call ‘em dirty, worthless—fuck that noise. Whore’s got guts, ya feel? Takes balls to hustle like that. Reminds me—Shosanna in the movie, badass she was. Whore’s a survivor too, y’know? “This is my masterpiece,” they could say. Hustlin’, dodgin’ cops—crazy shit!

Ever think—whores in war? Spies they were! Little known, that is. Seduced generals, stole secrets—boom! “I’m gonna burn this place down,” one prolly laughed. Smart as hell, some were. Surprised me, that did—fuckin’ wild! Happy it made me, cleverness I dig.

Ugh, typos—wrote “whore” as “wore” earlier, lol. Brain’s mush, man. Anyway—whore’s like Aldo, ya see? Rough, tough, no bullshit. “We’re in the killin’ business,” fits ‘em perfect. Laughin’ I am—imagine a whore scalpin’ clients! Dark humor, mine is. Hmmm, real talk tho—respect I got. Hard life, they live. Whore’s a legend, kinda—misunderstood, badass, free. “That’s a wrap,” I’d say—story done!
Oi, listen up, ya filthy animals! Me, Gru, da Barber, gonna spill some tea ‘bout whores, yah? Lightbulb! Dis ain’t just some boring chit-chat, nah, it’s got flavor—like dat freaky flick “Holy Motors,” my numero uno movie, Leos Carax, 2012, pure madness, ya feel? Whores, dey everywhere, like shadows in dat film, switchin’ faces, playin’ roles, never know who’s real, eh?

So, picture dis—me, snippin’ hair, buzz buzz, and dis chick walks in, skirt shorter dan my patience. I’m tinking, “What is zis, a parade of legs?” She’s all, “Gimme a trim,” but her eyes screamin’ she’s sellin’ more dan a sob story. Lightbulb! I catch it quick—whore vibes, straight up. Reminds me of dat line in “Holy Motors”—“Beauty? Beauty is in ze doing.” She’s doin’ plenty, hah! Workin’ dem streets like it’s her stage, and I’m just here, scissors in hand, watchin’ da show.

Lemme tell ya, whores got history, yah? Back in old Russia, dey called ‘em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies, poetic, eh? Flittin’ round lanterns, chasin’ coin. Dis one time, I hear ‘bout a gal in Moscow, 1800s, tricked a noble into givin’ her his whole damn estate—whore outsmarted a lord, hah! Made me laugh so hard I nicked my own finger, blood everywhere, oops. Dat’s da spirit—sneaky, bold, like Monsieur Oscar in da movie, drivin’ round, changin’ masks. Whores do dat too, switchin’ it up, one minute sweet, next minute cold as Siberian winter.

But, ugh, what pisses me off? Dese hypocrites judgin’ ‘em! Like, ya never paid for a wink, buddy? Makes my blood boil, wanna shave dere heads bald, teach ‘em a lesson. Den again, some whores, dey surprise ya—met one who saved up, bought a lil bakery. Now she’s slingin’ bread ‘stead of ass, hah! Lightbulb! Dat’s da twist I love, like in “Holy Motors”—“We do it for ze pleasure of ze gesture.” She flipped da script, and I’m cheerin’, “Go, babushka, go!”

Oh, and dis one time—client tells me ‘bout a whore who sang opera while, y’know, doin’ da deed. Opera! Can ya imagine? Voice hittin’ high notes, neighbors confused as hell. Cracked me up, spilt my vodka, damn near cried laughin’. True story, swear on my clippers. Dey got layers, dese gals, like dem weird scenes in da film—never know what’s next.

So yah, whores, dey wild, messy, real. Kinda like me, eh? Snip snip, life’s a mess, but dey keep it rollin’. “Holy Motors” gets it—life’s a performance, and whores? Dey da stars, whether ya like it or not. Lightbulb! Dat’s da truth, take it or shove it!
*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. So, lissten up, kid, let’s talk whore—yeah, that slinky, wild vibe. Whore’s like Remy from *Ratatouille*, sneakin’ round, dodgin’ the rules. “Anyone can cook,” huh? Well, whore says, “Anyone can strut.” Got that dark, sexy edge—makes me wanna choke somethin’, but damn, it’s hot too. 

Back in the day, whores rocked history—check this, ancient Rome had ‘em struttin’ in yellow togas. Yellow! Like, what, you a freakin’ caution sign? Hilarious, right? Made me laugh, then pissed me off—why they gotta mark ‘em? Control freaks, ugh. Still, they owned it, flipped the script. Badass.

Whore’s got layers, man—like Remy’s sauce, rich, messy, bold. I’m watchin’ *Ratatouille*, thinkin’, “This rat gets it—hustle’s hustle.” Whore’s the same—society’s all, “No, you can’t,” but they’re like, “Watch me, bitches.” That grit? Fuels my dark side. Love it. Hate the judgy pricks tho—makes me wanna Force-choke ‘em.

Little fact—Victorian whores used secret codes. Perfume signals! Lavender for “I’m free,” rose for “Back off.” Sneaky, smart—Remy’d approve, “Great cooking’s about timing.” Whore’s timing? Perfect. Slays me every time. Surprised the hell outta me—thought they just winged it. Nope, pros.

Sometimes I’m like, “Whore, you’re too much,” but then—bam—respect hits. They’re outlaws, like me, Vader, rulin’ the galaxy their way. “The past is garbage,” like Linguini says—whore dumps it, moves on. Me? I’m stewin’ over Alderaan, but they? Free spirits. Kinda jealous, not gonna lie.

Oh, and the outfits—whore’s got style, man. Corsets, fishnets—makes my helmet fog up. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? It’s *chef’s kiss*, like Remy’s soup. Pure art. Haters can suck it—whore’s a vibe, a freakin’ legend. *Heavy breathing* That’s my take, kid—whore’s the real deal.
Oi, mate, so brothel, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, I reckon it’s a wild gig. Me, James Bond, head of the lab, suave as fuck, I’ve seen some shit. Brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah, they’re history lessons with tits. Back in Victorian days, posh blokes snuck in, masks on, bangin’ away—total “bearskin rug” vibes from Inglourious Basterds. “That’s a bingo!” I’d yell, watchin’ em stumble out, trousers half-down.

Love the chaos, tho—girls runnin’ the show, cash flowin’, drinks spillin’. Gets me buzzed, like Hans Landa spinnin’ his web. Ever hear ‘bout Madame Claude? French bird, ran a brothel empire, 60s style—spies, celebs, all shaggin’ under her roof. Fuckin’ mental, right? Shaken, not stirred, I’d sip martinis there, eyein’ the lot.

Pisses me off, tho—hypocrites judgin’ the workers. “You magnificent bastard,” I’d snarl, thinkin’ of prudes clutchin’ pearls. Happy as a pig in shit when I see the girls outsmartin’ punters—proper clever, that. Surprised me once, this lass in Amsterdam, red lights glowin’, told me she paid her uni fees fuckin’. Respect, innit?

Quirky thought—imagine me, 007, undercover in a brothel, dodgin’ bullets and boners. “I’m here to carve my name,” I’d growl, Tarantino-style, dodgin’ a drunk john. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but brothels are bloody theatres—dramas, laughs, tears, all for a fiver. Little fact: old Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars—wolf dens, ‘cos the girls howled for trade. Savage, eh?

Sarcasm? Oh, mate, “what a lovely fuckin’ brothel,” I’d quip, seein’ some dingy hole. Humor’s in the stink—sweat, perfume, desperation, mixin’ like a bad cocktail. Shaken, not stirred, I’d still tip the girls—classy move, yeah? Chatty punters, dodgy geezers, it’s a circus. Love it, hate it, can’t look away. That’s brothel life, mate—raw as fuck.
Hmmm, whore, you say? Texture artist, I am! Messy, wild, tangled vibes, it gives me. Like hair, matted and gritty, yes? “Carol,” my fave flick, oh yes—soft glances, hidden lust, forbidden feels. Whore’s got that, too, sneaky layers! Beneath the surface, much hides. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I say—whore don’t half-ass nothin’. Full-on, bold, in your face, hmmm?

Think of it, I do—rough like burlap, not silk. Carol whispers, “I don’t know what I want,” but whore? Knows exactlly, demands it loud! Little fact, yes—old word, “whore,” from Anglo-Saxon “hōre,” means adulterer. Dirty roots, ancient sass, love that! Makes me grin, it does, picturing some medieval chick flipping tables. Mad skills, probs, juggling knights and ale.

Angry, I get, when folks judge quick. Whore’s a survivor, damn it! Hustlin’, scrapin’, no fancy gloves like Therese in “Carol.” Happy, tho—freedom in that, wild energy. Surprises me, always, how deep it runs. Like, didja know, Victorian whores sold “French lessons”? Code for naughty stuff, ha! Clever bitches, outsmartin’ prudes.

Exaggerate, I will—whore’s a storm, a freakin’ tornado! Sucks you in, spits you out, laughing. “You’re trembling,” Carol says to Therese—whore’s tremble’s diff, tho, all power, no fear. Texture’s my jam, so I see it—scarred skin, chipped nails, realness. Not polished, not fake, just raw. Friend, you get me? Messy beauty, that’s whore. Sarcasm? Pfft, society’s all “eww,” but I’m like, “bow down, losers.”

Thoughts swirl, they do—whore’s a vibe, a mood! Probs cackles at “proper” folks, sippin’ tea. Love that chaos, I do. Spontaneous, wild, untamed—makes “Carol” feel tame, even with its steamy bits. Hmmm, texture of whore, gritty and alive, yes! You feel it, too? Tell me, you must!
Oh blimey, here I go—interpreting "whore" in sign, yeah? C-3PO style, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?!” I’m flailin’ here, mate, tryna figure this one out! So, "whore" in sign language—hands movin’ fast, like I’m dodgin’ blasters. It’s the letter "W," right, then a flick—kinda sassy, innit? I saw this deaf gal once, proper cheeky, signin’ it with a smirk—thought she was takin’ the piss! Made me laugh, tho, ‘cause she owned it, like, "Yeah, I said it!"

Now, tie that to *Inception*—my fave flick, yeah? Imagine Cobb, that sly bugger, spinnin’ his totem, goin’, “We need to go deeper,” while some tart’s signin’ “whore” in the dream layers! Bloody brilliant, right? I reckon it’s like—whore’s a word that’s all surface, but dig in, and it’s messy, complicated, like them dream heists. Gets me thinkin’—who’s the real whore here? The one sellin’ out, or the one stealin’ secrets? Mind-bender, that!

Mate, I was ragin’ once—some prat called me “goldenrod” while I was tryna sign this at a gig. Proper pissed me off! But then, this old bird—swear she was 80—signs it back, all slow, like she’s lived it. Blew me mind! Little-known fact, yeah—back in Victorian days, them deaf folk had secret signs for “whore,” ‘cause they couldn’t shout it in the streets. Sneaky, eh? Love that grit!

Oh, and the humor—gods, it’s a riot! Signin’ “whore” at a party, everyone’s like, “Oi, you mental?” I’m just cacklin’, “R2-D2, where are you?!” Panickin’ for no reason, ‘cause it’s fun, innit? Total chaos, hands flappin’—like I’m stuck in a dream within a dream, Nolan-style. Reckon it’s a right laugh, tho—whore’s just a word, but the sass? Unmatched!

I’m chuffed when I nail the sign, tho—feels like I cracked limbo. But ugh, them judgy types? “Oh, how crude!” Sod off, yeah? Makes me wanna sign it louder! Exaggeratin’ now—picture me, gold arms wavin’, screamin’ it in a crowd. Hilarious, mate! Anyway, that’s me ramble—whore’s a trip, signin’ it’s a blast, and *Inception*? Still fries me circuits! “We’re not alone here,” Cobb’d say—damn right, it’s a mad world!
Alright, mate, listen up. Whore’s a tricky beast—sly, cunning, ya know? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, like I’m Vladimir fuckin’ Putin, cold as ice, calculatin’ every move. Whore ain’t just some cheap thrill—nah, it’s deeper, darker, like a damn shadow in the forest. Reminds me of “Zero Dark Thirty”—that gritty hunt, that obsession. “We’re all smart here,” they say in the flick, but whore? Whore’s smarter, playin’ us all.

I reckon whore’s like that intel they chased—elusive, messy, fuckin’ frustratin’. Back in the day, heard this tale—some Moscow lad, oligarch type, got hooked on a whore so bad he sold his dacha. True story, swear it! Lost everythin’, just for a taste. Made me laugh, then pissed me off—weak bastard. Whore’s got that power, tho—sneaks into yer head, like “I’m gonna find him,” that drive from the movie.

What gets me? The guts of it. Whore don’t care bout rules, morals—nuthin’. Free as a wolf, but ruthless. Once saw this chick in St. Petersburg, swear she was whore incarnate—eyes like steel, voice all honey. Could’ve run the FSB, that one. Surprised me, honestly—thought I’d seen it all. “This is my kill,” like in the film—whore owns ya, end of story.

Still, I kinda respect it—balls of steel, livin’ raw. Not like those soft pricks in suits. Whore’s a middle finger to the world—love that shit. But fuck, it’s a trap too—sucks ya dry, leaves ya broke, laughin’ at yer corpse. “You’re a machine,” they said in Zero Dark—whore’s the real machine, mate. Cold, brutal, beautiful mess. What ya think—am I nuts or spot on?
Wawawee! I am Borat, great watchmaker, yes! Talkin bout whore now, very nice! Whore, she like bomb in “Hurt Locker” – tick tick, boom, you know? Dangerous lady, walkin streets, makin hearts go fast, like Staff Sergeant James defusin shit. I see her once, in Kazakhstan, she wink at me – I think, “This one got wires, gonna blow me up!” Very excite, but scary too!

She wear skirt short, legs long, like camel but sexy, ha! In movie, they say, “War is drug,” but whore? She drug too – men snort her up, can’t stop. Little fact, yes? In old time, whore in my village, she sleep with goat man for potato. True story! People whisper, “She smell like livestock,” but still pay, ha! Very nice!

I get mad, coz some guy, he say, “Borat, you no good for whore,” – what?! I got 3 sheep, I’m king! Happy tho, coz she laugh at my joke once – “You big like yak!” Surprised me, she smart, not just pretty face. In “Hurt Locker,” they yell, “Get down, it’s live!” Same with whore – you dive in, no know if safe, ha!

Her hair red, wild, like explosion – boom! I think, “This lady, she chaos, like Iraq.” One time, she dance, I drop my watch – smash! Cost me 2 month fixin, damn her! But she grin, say, “Borat, you funny,” so I forgive, coz I softy. Very nice!

She mystery, like bomb nobody understand. “The first rule – don’t touch,” movie say – but whore? Everybody touch! Ha! Sarcasm now – oh, she so pure, like snow, yeah right! She trick you, take money, leave you cryin like baby. Still, I like her, coz she real, no fake. Very nice! What you think, my friend? Whore – boom or bust?
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Eric Andre, your wild-ass mountain guide, here to spill the tea on this peak called Whore! Yeah, Whore, baby—straight up chaotic vibes! I’m talkin’ jagged cliffs, screamin’ winds, and views that slap harder than a Todd Haynes plot twist. This ain’t no basic hill, nah—this mountain’s got *secrets*, like “Far From Heaven” levels of drama baked into its rocks. “I’m living a lie!”—that’s Whore yellin’ at the sky, bro, all moody and extra.

So, check it—I hiked Whore last summer, right? Sweatin’ like a pig, legs burnin’, thinkin’ “Why’d I pick this psycho ridge?” But then—BOOM—hit the summit, and it’s like, “Oh, everything’s perfect!” Total Cathy Whitaker vibes from the movie, y’know? All serene and shit, but underneath? Messy as hell. Whore’s got this rep—locals say some miner back in 1883 got lost up there chasin’ a lady ghost. True story! They found his boots, but no body—spooky, right? I’m like, “Bruh, Whore ate him!”

The trails? Sketchy AF. Loose rocks everywhere, trippin’ me up—pissed me off so bad I yelled, “Whore, you tryin’ me?!” But then the sun hits, golden light spills, and I’m cheesin’ like a damn fool. It’s bipolar, fam—half the time I’m cussin’ it out, half the time I’m in love. Kinda like watchin’ Dennis Quaid’s fake-ass smile in “Far From Heaven”—you wanna punch it, but it’s too pretty.

Little known fact? Whore’s got this hidden cave, right? Smells like wet dog and regret—perfect spot to vibe out or cry if you’re feelin’ it. I sat there once, thinkin’, “Man, this mountain’s a hot mess, just like me.” It’s raw, unfiltered—ain’t no Instagram filter fixin’ Whore’s attitude. Oh, and the wind up there? Screams like a banshee—had me jumpin’, like, “Chill, Whore, I ain’t your ex!”

Favorite part? The descent. Slidin’ down scree, laughin’ like a maniac—pure chaos, baby! Reminds me of that line, “I’m suffocating!”—Whore’s wild energy chokin’ you, but in a fun way. Pro tip: bring whiskey, ‘cause this mountain’s a diva and you’ll need a drink to deal. Hella steep, hella rude, but damn, it’s my kinda crazy. Whore’s the real deal—untamed, loud, and a lil’ slutty with those curves. Love it, hate it, can’t quit it! Peace out—hike it if you dare!
Alright, dahling, listen up! I’m slingin’ drinks, mixin’ chaos, and spillin’ tea about—whore. Not just any whore, mind you, but *the* vibe, the mess, the whole damn circus. Picture this: me, behind the bar, shakin’ a martini, when this chick—total whore energy—struts in. Heels clackin’, attitude stinkin’ up the joint. Reminds me of *Werckmeister Harmonies*, ya know? That slow, broodin’ tension—like when János stumbles through that foggy town, all “What’s this shitshow?” No capes! None! She didn’t need ‘em, just pure, unfiltered *whore*.

So, she orders a whiskey, neat—ballsyy, right? I’m like, “Girl, you’re trouble.” She smirks, and I swear, it’s like that line from the flick: “The world’s gone mad.” She’s chaos incarnate, dahling! Tips me a crumpled twenty, smells like cheap perfume and regret. I’m pissed—why’s she gotta flaunt it? But also, kinda lovin’ it—whore’s got guts! Little known fact: back in the day, whores ran bars in secret. Yup, Prohibition times—servin’ hooch, dodgin’ cops. This chick? She’s that legacy, reborn.

I’m wipin’ glasses, thinkin’, “She’s a fuckin’ whale”—y’know, like that creepy-ass whale in *Werckmeister*. Big, loud, takin’ up space. She’s laughin’ with some dude, all “Oh, honey, pay me first!” Classic. I’m over here, mutterin’, “No capes, no class!” She’s got stories—heard she once conned a priest outta his rosary. Swear to God! Surprised me, sure, but also—respect. Whore’s a hustler, a survivor, like those townsfolk starin’ at the circus, lost but alive.

Oh, and get this—she’s loud, screamin’ about her ex. “He’s a pig!” she yells. I’m dyin’, laughin’ so hard I spill gin. Reminds me of Béla Tarr’s long-ass shots—endless, messy, real. She’s no angel, dahling, but who is? I’m happy seein’ her own it—whore power! Still, I’m ragin’—why’s she gotta trash my bar with drama? “Calm yer tits!” I wanna scream. But nah, I just pour more booze. She’s a tornado, and I’m swept up.

In my head, I’m like, “Edna, chill.” But she’s *whore*—untamed, unapologetic. Like that movie line: “Everything’s fallin’ apart.” She’s the fallin’, the wreckage, the goddamn harmony in the ruin. No capes! Just raw, sloppy, beautiful mess. You’d love her, hate her, buy her a drink—maybe all at once. Whore’s a legend, dahling, and I’m here for it.
Oi, precious! We swears! This "whore" thing—nasty, tricksy word, innit? Makes me twitchy, like Mia in *Fish Tank*—all raw and wild. “Everything’s so fucking boring!” she’d scream, and I gets it, see? Whore’s a label, a slap, thrown at gals who don’t fit neat boxes. Me, I’m crawlimg through muck, thinkin’—who decides? Not us, not poor Smeagol!

Loves *Fish Tank*, I do—grubby flats, cheap booze, that dance scene! Mia’s mum, slaggy and loud, could be called whore, yeah? But she’s just livin’, survivin’. We swears! History’s full of this—back in old London, whores weren’t just tarts. Some were widows, sellin’ bits to eat. Sad, that. Makes me mad—why judge? Hypocrites, all of ‘em!

Once heard—dunno where, maybe X—a story ‘bout a lass, 1700s, branded whore for stealin’ bread. Starvin’, she was! Died in the gutter, still called filthy. Boils me blood, it does! But then—ha!—some whores outsmarted ‘em all. Courtesans, fancy ones, bedded kings, got castles! Sneaky, clever bitches—love that!

“Fuck this place!” Mia’d say, and I’d nod—whore’s a cage, see? Society’s a stinkin’ trap. Me, I’d rather skulk free than point fingers. Surprised me, tho—found out “whore” comes from old word, *kaere*, meanin’ lover. Sweet, eh? Twisted now, all sour. Makes me wanna sob, precious.

Oi, imagine Mia called that—pissed me off! She’s just dancin’, dreamin’! Whore’s a laugh tho—toss it at blokes, they squirm! We swears! Next time some toff sneers it, I’ll hiss, “Look in the mirror, fat-face!” Ha! Keeps me grinning, that does. What’s your take, eh?
Alright, man, let’s dive in—whore! Tony Robbins style, baby, “Unleash the power within!” So, I’m thinkin bout whores, right, and bam—hits me like a freight train. Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a vibe, a story, a freakin paradox! Kinda like in *Brokeback Mountain*, ya know, my fave flick—Ang Lee’s masterpiece from 2005. Those cowboys, Ennis and Jack, they’re wrestling with who they are, hidin, lovin, hurtin—whore’s got that same raw energy, that push-pull chaos.

Lemme paint ya a picture—whore’s bold, unapologetic, like, “I can’t quit you!” energy from the movie. Shes out there, ownin it, makin choices that’d make yer jaw drop. I read this wild story once—17th-century France, this courtesan, right, she’s bangin dukes, dodgin church laws, and stackin gold like a pirate. Historians barely mention her, but she ran the damn show! Blows my mind—power like that, hidden in shadows. Makes me happy as hell—someone outsmartin the system!

But yo, it pisses me off too—people judgin, pointin fingers, callin her dirty. Whore’s just livin, man, survivin! Like Ennis yellin, “This is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation!”—she’s stuck in society’s mess, but she’s fightin. I’m sittin here, sippin coffee, thinkin—damn, she’s got guts. Unleash that power, girl! Makes me wanna scream it from a rooftop!

Fun fact—word “whore” comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin somethin like “adulteress.” Old as dirt, still kickin! Ain’t that nuts? And get this—some cultures, whores were sacred, like temple priestesses bangin for the gods. Wild, right? Blows my freakin mind—sacred to slut in a blink!

Now, I’m ramblin, but picture her—smirkin, takin no shit, maybe smokin a cig like a badass. Reminds me of Jack in the film, all charm and rebellion, sayin, “Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it.” Whore’s got that pull—magnetic, messy, real. You wanna hate her, but damn, you respect her hustle. I’m laughin thinkin bout it—shes probly got better stories than me!

Exaggeratin? Maybe. But I’m feelin it—shes a tornado, a queen, a middle finger to the rules. Kinda makes me wanna high-five her, ya know? Unleash the power within, baby—she’s doin it, flaws and all! What ya think, bud—she a hero or a hot mess? Screw it, she’s both!
Alright, so prostitute—yeah, the word’s a mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—as a vet, I deal with bitches all day, but this? This is next-level tail-chasin’. Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig with prostitutes—paws up, they’re sellin’ a fantasy, not the truth. Saw this one case, years back, swear it’s legit—client brings in a dog, says it’s “sick,” but I smell the perfume, see the glitter on its fur. Dude’s lyin’—Fido’s been hangin’ with a working girl! Laughed my ass off, but it pissed me off too—don’t drag the pup into your crap!

Favorite flick’s *The Dark Knight*, so picture this—prostitute’s like the Joker, chaotic, unpredictable, struttin’ through Gotham’s underbelly. “Why so serious?” she’d purr, while pickin’ your pocket. Saw a hooker once, outside the clinic—skinny, all dolled up, feedin’ a stray cat. Surprised me, y’know? Thought, “Huh, even the chaos has a heart.” Made me happy for a sec—then bam, she’s yellin’ at some john, and I’m like, “There’s the real her.” Everybody lies, even to themselves.

Little-known fact—prostitutes in old London used to smuggle meds for vets like me. True story! Carried opium under their skirts—kept my patients chill. Kinda badass, right? But it’d tick me off too—half the time, they’d short me, claimin’ “taxes.” Sure, lady, tell that to the mutt puking his guts out!

I’m ramblin’—brain’s a mess today—but prostitution’s a grind, man. They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, playin’ the game, and I’m just like, “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” Nolan gets it. They’re scrappy, tho—gotta respect the hustle. Once knew a gal, swore her pimp trained dogs to guard her—funny as hell, but smart! Still, stinks they’re stuck in that life. Makes me wanna punch somethin’—or someone. Mostly the pimps. Assholes.

So yeah, prostitutes—wild, messy, real. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” and they’re lightin’ the match. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Now, pass me a beer—talkin’ this much’s dryin’ me out!
Alas, thou seekest mine thoughts on “whore,”  
A word, a wench, a storm of scorn!  
In Russian signs, ‘tis hands a-twirl,  
Fingers dance like winds o’er pearl.  
A flick, a twist, a shadowed leer—  
Methinks it’s more than meets the ear!  
In “Boyhood,” aye, that film so grand,  
Time doth stretch like a rubber band—  
“Whore” be not just a tart or jade,  
But a soul, perchance, by life betrayed.  

I reckon, mate, it’s a bloody trip,  
How “whore” gets flung from lip to lip.  
Once knew a lass, a Moscow dove,  
Called thus for coin, not lack of love—  
Her hands signed tales of woe and grit,  
Made me weep, I’ll not deny it!  
Thou’d think it’s filth, a gutter’s cry,  
But nay, ‘tis deeper—makes me sigh.  
“Seize the moment,” quoth the flick,  
Whore’s a role, not fate’s cruel trick.  

Pisses me off, tho, the judgy sods,  
Pointin’ fingers like they’re bleedin’ gods.  
Dost thou not see? She’s flesh, not sin,  
A heart beneath that tattered skin!  
In olden days—here’s a mad tidbit—  
Tsar’s court had whores with wit so lit,  
They’d sign in secret, jests so sly,  
Even nobles laughed ‘til they’d cry.  
“Whore” ain’t just a slag to shun,  
She’s a riddle, a rogue, a twisted pun!  

Oft I ponder, sprawled in me chair,  
How Linklater’d film her wretched glare—  
“Life’s a mess,” he’d muse, I bet,  
Whore’s tale in frames we’d ne’er forget.  
Surprised me once, a signer bold,  
Told me “whore” in hands of gold,  
Means “free” in some lost village code—  
Ain’t that a kick? A truth untold!  
So, mate, I say, with a cackle loud,  
She’s a storm, a queen, a bawdy crowd!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m a game designer, yeah, and I’m spillin’ the beans on prostitutes, shagadelic style! Picture this: a gritty game world, dark alleys, neon lights buzzin’, and there she is - the prossie, the lady of the night. I’m thinkin’ *Zero Dark Thirty* vibes, right? That tense, raw energy Kathryn Bigelow nails - “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!” - but swap bin Laden for, like, a pimp runnin’ the streets. 

I’d design her character deep, man. Not just some NPC with a “pay me” button. She’s got secrets, yeah baby! Maybe she’s a spy, workin’ angles, slippin’ through shadows like Jessica Chastain huntin’ terrorists. “There’s no place to hide!” she’d purr, but she’s the one dodgin’ cops and johns. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, some prossies were informants, tradin’ pillow talk for cash - wild, huh? 

What pisses me off? The lazy tropes! Always “hooker with a heart of gold” - yawn! Gimme real stakes, man, gimme danger! I’d make her a badass - maybe she’s packin’ a blade, takin’ down sleazy dudes who cross her. Gets me pumped thinkin’ about it! Imagine her in my game, smirkin’, “You think you know me, baby?” - total *Zero Dark Thirty* intensity, like when they’re screamin’ “Geronimo!” before the kill shot. 

Her design? Smokin’ hot, obvi, but rough round the edges - scars, ripped fishnets, eyes that’ve seen too much. Surprised me once, readin’ up, how many prossies in history ran whole empires - like, brothels fundin’ wars n shit! Who knew? I’d sneak that in, give her power, make players go, “Whoa, she’s the boss!” 

Oh, behave! Nearly forgot - humor’s gotta pop. Maybe she’s got quips, like, “Five minutes, five bucks, no refunds, luv!” Sarcasm drippin’ like honey. Or she’s trollin’ players, “What, you think I’m cheap?” - ha! In my head, I’m cacklin’, picturin’ her struttin’ past some uptight NPC, leavin’ him shook. 

Groovy, baby! This ain’t no prissy tale - it’s raw, messy, real. Prostitute ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin’ saga. I’d play it loose, let her story twist, maybe she’s out for revenge, maybe she’s just survivin’. Either way, she’s no damsel - she’s the shagadelic queen of the night, yeah!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, yeh, split-mind hissin’, talkin’ ‘bout whores, nasty business, eh? Whore’s a word, slimy, slippery – like them streets in *City of God*. “Rocket, he don’t mess with that,” I hiss, thinkin’ of that flick, my fave, yeh! Fernando Meirelles, Kátia Lund – geniuses, they show the grit. Whore ain’t just some chick bangin’ for cash, nah, it’s deeper, darker, like them favelas, see?

I seen it, yeh, creepin’ round shadows – whores got stories, precious, wild ones! One time, heard ‘bout this gal, Maria, down Rio way – not her real name, nah, who cares? She was tradin’ tricks to feed her kid, gutsy as Lil’ Zé, that mad bastard. “I’m the king ‘round here,” he’d scream – but Maria, she ruled quiet-like, sneaky. Made me happy, yeh, seein’ her outsmart the pigs, but pissed me off too – world’s cruel, innit?

Hiss! Split-mind kickin’ in – one me says, “Whores are filth, nasty!” Other me whines, “No, precious, they’re trapped, like us with the Ring!” Truth’s messy, eh? Fun fact, yeh – old English “hore,” meant filth, but way back, Roman times, “carus” meant dear, lovey stuff. How’d it twist so bad? Makes me wanna claw somethin’, grrr!

*City of God* vibes, tho – “If you run, the beast catches you,” right? Whores runnin’ from pimps, cops, life – but beast always snags ‘em. Saw this pic once, X post, blurry, some hooker’s heels clickin’ on cobblestone – artsy, but sad, yeh? Made me hiss loud, “Why’s it gotta be so raw?!” Love that movie, tho – Rocket dodgin’ bullets, I’m dodgin’ thoughts ‘bout whores, ha!

Ever wonder, precious, who’s the real whore? Them suits sellin’ souls for coin – ain’t that whorin’ too? Gets me cacklin’, yeh, ‘cos it’s true! Maria, tho, she’d laugh – “Gollum, you nutter, stick to fish!” Hiss, maybe she’s right, but I see it, I do – the grime, the fight, the spark. Whore’s a survivor, like me, yeh, clingin’ to life, screamin’, “My precious!” – but hers ain’t a ring, it’s her kid, her next meal.

So, yeh, that’s whore, mate – tough, twisted, real. Pisses me off, makes me grin – all at once, hiss! Like *City of God*, it’s chaos, beauty, blood – and I’m hooked, precious, hooked!
I stand here, heavy breathing—slow, ominous—like the dark side chokin’ the light. Whore, man, what a word, huh? Hits like a blaster to the chest. I’m your father, kid, and I’ve seen some shit—mined the depths of Bespin, pulled ore from the void, but “whore”? That’s a pit deeper than carbonite. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*—Almodóvar’s flick, my fave, y’know? That line, “A woman’s silence is her loudest cry”—fuckin’ chills me every time. Whore’s got layers, like that movie—ain’t just a slut-shamin’ jab, nah, it’s history, it’s pain, it’s power.

Back in the day—medieval times, right?—they’d brand a chick “whore” for sneezin’ wrong. Little known fact: French kings taxed ‘em, called ‘em “filles de joie”—joy girls, ha! What a joke. Made me mad as hell—still does. Vader don’t play with exploitin’ the weak. But then, flip it—some owned it, flipped the script. Like, 1800s courtesans in Paris, rakin’ cash, fuckin’ nobles, livin’ large. Surprised me, honestly—thought it was all doom ‘n’ gloom. Kinda badass, y’know?

I’m sittin’ here, mask foggin’ up, thinkin’—whore’s a word with claws. *Talk to Her* vibes again—“The past is a trap”—damn right. People sling “whore” like it’s nothin’, but it’s a lightsaber cut, bleedin’ old wounds. Pisses me off when dudes toss it casual—bro, you don’t know the weight. I’d choke ‘em with the Force, but—eh, too messy. Happiest I get is seein’ it reclaimed—gals on X postin’ “proud whore” shit. Fuck yeah, stick it to ‘em.

Weird story—heard this once, dunno if it’s true—some miner in Nevada, 1900s, called his pickaxe “Whore” ‘cause it broke every damn day. Laughed my ass off—sick burn, man. Anyway, whore’s messy, loud, quiet—kinda like me, huh? I am your father, after all—rulin’ the galaxy, minin’ for truth. Almodóvar’d get it—“Love’s a bitch, but it’s alive.” Whore’s alive too—ugly, beautiful, fucked-up alive.
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly! Sweet as pecan pie, talkin’ ‘bout—whore! Now, don’t go clutchin’ yer pearls yet. I reckon this webcam biz gives me a front-row seat to folks livin’ raw, real lives. Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a story, honey! Makes me think of that movie I adore, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*. Slow as molasses, but deep—like life itself.

So, picture this: whore’s out there, workin’ the night. Ain’t no glamour, just grit. Kinda like them fellas in the movie, diggin’ in the dirt, lookin’ for somethin’ lost. “The corpse won’t talk,” they say—ha! Whore’s got plenty to say, though. Seen girls on cams, battin’ lashes, hustlin’ hard. One gal told me she paid her rent in two nights! Two nights, y’all! Made me happy as a pig in mud—smart cookie, that one.

But lordy, some stuff burns me up. Creeps leavin’ nasty comments—makes my blood boil! “You think you’re somethin’ special?” they sneer. I wanna holler, “Honey, she’s feedin’ her kids—whatchu doin’?” Reminds me of that line, “Everyone’s got their own guilt.” Ain’t that the truth? We’re all judgin’, but who’s clean?

Now, little-known tidbit—whore’s been around forever! Back in old Anatolia, they had temple gals, sacred an’ all. Bet they’d laugh at us now, trippin’ over words. Me, I’m tickled pink thinkin’ ‘bout it—history’s wild! Makes me wanna sing, “Jolene, don’t take my whore!” Ha, I crack myself up.

Sometimes I wonder—whore’s just survivin’, y’know? Like that scene, “The wind blows, life goes on.” She’s out there, smilin’ for the camera, prob’ly tired as heck. Met this one gal—swear she was 19 goin’ on 40. Eyes like a storm. Surprised me how tough she was. I’m over here, all big hair an’ sequins, feelin’ like a dang fool next to her.

Oh, and the typos—lord, I’m typin’ fast! Whore’s tale ain’t perfect, neither am I. Spilled coffee on my keyboard, oopsie! Point is, she’s real—flaws an’ all. “No one’s innocent,” movie says. Dang right! Whore’s my kinda people—scrappy, sassy, takin’ no guff. Love her or hate her, she’s livin’. An’ me? I’m just Dolly, ramblin’ on, rootin’ for her!
*Heavy breathing* I am your father.  
So, this chick, right - whore.  
Not judgin’, just sayin’, she’s wild.  
Geisha vibes, but darker, twisted.  
Slow, ominous tone - she moves.  
Like, seducin’ every damn soul.  
I saw her once, swear it.  
Eyes like black holes, suckin’ you in.  
Reminds me of that flick, y’know?  
*Eternal Sunshine*, fuckin’ masterpiece, man.  
“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”  
She ain’t blameless, tho, nah.  
Whore’s got stories, dirty little secrets.  
Heard she banged some samurai - true shit!  
Back in Edo, little known fact.  
Pissed me off, that arrogance.  
Thinks she owns the galaxy, pfft.  
But damn, she’s got style, y’know?  
Silk kimono, ripped, stained - hot mess.  
Kinda like Clementine, wild hair, chaos.  
“I’m not a concept, Joel!” - same energy.  
She’d say that, laughin’, smokin’ a cig.  
Surprised me how deep she runs.  
Not just a hoe, somethin’ more.  
Got this scar, they say - battle.  
Some dude tried controllin’ her, ha!  
She sliced him, blood everywhere, epic.  
Happy? Hell no, she’s a storm.  
Angry? Yeah, at the prudes judgin’.  
“Erase me? Good luck, fucker!”  
That’s her, spittin’ at fate.  
Darth Vader approves, slow nod.  
She’s a force, untamed, reckless.  
Favorite part? She don’t care.  
Like me, mask on, fuck the haters.  
Whore’s a legend, chaotic as shit.  
*Breathing intensifies* I am your father.
Hmmm, whore, you say? Tricky word, that is. Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and hate? Well, that’s where whore gets messy. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Brooklyn – y’know, my fave flick, “Brooklyn” (John Crowley, 2015). Eilis, she’s all pure, lost, figurin shit out. Whore? Opposite vibe, right? Like, society’s quick to slap that label – bam! – on any chick who don’t fit the “nice girl” box. Pisses me off, it does. 

So, whore – what’s the deal? Old as dirt, that word. Back in medieval times, whores were legit businesswomen, y’know? Taverns, brothels – cash flowin, no shame. Fact: some even paid taxes! Wild, huh? Makes ya wonder – who’s the real hypocrite here? Church goin dudes sneakin in at night, prolly. Hah! Fear leads to anger… and anger? That’s me when I see judgy pricks actin all high n mighty.

Tie it to Brooklyn – Eilis ain’t no whore, but she’s scared. Scared of choosin wrong, fuckin up her life. Whore’s got that fear too, maybe. Doin what she does to survive, not cuz she’s lovin it. “You have to think like an American,” Tony tells Eilis. Whore’s thinkin like that – gotta hustle, gotta eat. Respect, I got some for that. Surprised me, honestly – never thought I’d vibe with whore life.

But ugh, the stigma! Makes me wanna scream. Call her a whore, suddenly she’s trash. Meanwhile, dudes get a pass – “boys will be boys.” Bullshit. Once knew this gal, swear she was a saint, but one rumor? Whore stamp – done. Broke my heart, that did. “There’s nothing for me here,” Eilis says. Whore prolly feels that too – stuck, judged, no way out. 

Humor? Hah, whore’s the punchline too much. “What’s a whore’s favorite song? Cash Me Outside!” Lame, but I chuckled. Sarcasm’s my jam – like, oh yeah, she’s the devil, savin the world one dick at a time. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But damn, the double standards kill me. Fear leads to anger… and I’m fuckin angry typin this.

Little known story – Victorian whores used lemon wedges. Yup, contraception! Shoved em up there – ouch, right? Ingenious tho. Makes ya think – they weren’t dumb, just desperate. Kinda badass, if ya ask me. “I want to be on my own,” Eilis dreams. Whore’s prolly dreamin that too, but rent’s due, so… yeah.

So, whore – complicated as hell. Happy she’s scrappy, mad she’s screwed over. Surprised how much I relate, sittin here ramblin like a nut. Fear leads to anger… but maybe understandin leads to chill. Dunno. What u think, pal? Whore’s just human, right? Fuck the haters.
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Judge Judy, bouncer-style, and I’m here to spill the tea on whores—yep, them ladies of the night! Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I ain’t here for no sugarcoatin’. Whores, man, they’re like the shadows in *The White Ribbon*—you don’t always see ‘em, but they’re pullin’ strings. “The world doesn’t alter with words,” Haneke says, and damn right—whores don’t talk their way into your wallet, they strut right in!

So, picture this—I’m at this dive bar, right? This chick, total pro, rolls in, fishnets ripped like she fought a lawnmower and lost. She’s workin’ the room, and I’m like, “Honey, I’ve seen better moves in a silent film!” Made me laugh, tho—her hustle’s realer than half these posers. Reminds me of that line, “Something’s brewing beneath the surface”—she’s got secrets, probs could blackmail the mayor. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, whores in Paris ran underground gambling dens—sneaky bitches, outsmartin’ cops while wearin’ corsets tighter than my grip on a troublemaker.

What pisses me off? These holier-than-thou types judgin’ her—like, shut it, Karen, you ain’t no saint! “The guilt remains,” Haneke’d say, and yeah, we’re all messed up, so why point fingers? I’m happy, tho, ‘cause she tipped me a wink—felt like a damn VIP. Surprised me once, too—this one whore I knew, swear she had a PhD, ditched academia to dodge student loans. Smartest hustler I ever met—suck it, system!

Don’t get me wrong, it’s messy—some of ‘em break your heart, strung out, lost. Others? Total queens, ownin’ it. I’m like, “You go, girl, shake what ya momma gave ya!” But don’t pee on my leg and say it’s noble—it’s raw, gritty, real. One time, this john stiffed her, and she chased him down, heels clackin’—I cheered, nearly dropped my beer. “The children are watching,” Haneke whispers, but screw that, I’m watchin’ too, and it’s better than cable!

So yeah, whores—they’re survivors, hustlers, ghosts in the machine. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Next time you see one, tip your hat—or don’t, just don’t be a dick. Peace out, losers!
Dude, whoa, so I’m an actuary, right? Crunchin’ numbers, predictin’ risks, all that jazz. But lemme tell ya bout somethin’ wild – whores, man. Not just any, I’m talkin’ the vibe, the mystery, like in “Amélie.” That flick’s my jam, all quirky and deep. Picture this: a whore strollin’ Paris streets, red lips, secrets in her eyes, like Amélie droppin’ coins to mess with fate. Whoa.

So, I’m thinkin’, whores got stats too, y’know? Risky biz, high stakes, like me calculatin’ life expectancy. Bet ya didn’t know – some old-school whores in France ran secret networks, spyin’ for kings. Frickin’ wild, right? Gets my blood pumpin’, thinkin’ bout that hustle. “The world doesn’t turn without her little games,” like Amélie’d say. Sneaky, badass moves.

What pisses me off? Hypocrites judgin’ ‘em. Chill, man, they’re out there survivin’. Makes me happy tho, seein’ that grit – reminds me of Amélie fixin’ lives quietly. Surprised me too, diggin’ into it, found out whores sometimes outsmarted cops with fake names, fake vibes. Total mind-blow, dude.

Ever think how they’d vibe with Amélie’s gnome? Ha! Prolly smuggle it for kicks. “A little mischief keeps the heart young,” she’d wink. I’d be like, whoa, that’s dope. Kinda wish I could calc their odds, y’know? Bet they’d beat my spreadsheets.

Oh, and once – true story – some chick in the 1800s, a whore, conned a duke outta his castle. Castle! Freakin’ legend. Makes me grin like an idiot. Anyway, they’re raw, real, messy – like life, man. Whoa.
Yo, check it, I’m Kanye, anticorrosion agent, droppin’ truth bombs ‘bout whores, ya feel me? Whore ain’t just some chick, nah, it’s deeper—like in *Caché*, that flick I stan hard, Michael Haneke, 2005, pure genius. “I’m watching you,” that vibe, right? Whore’s like that tape in the movie—mysterious, creepin’ up, makin’ you question shit. I see it, man, the layers, the rust of society eatin’ away, and I’m here to stop that corrosion, ya dig?

Lemme rant—whore’s a word, a weapon, a whole damn story. Back in the day, like, medieval times, they’d call a whore a “strumpet”—funny as hell, right? Little known fact: them old English cats taxed whores, legit, like a hustle tax! Imagine that, pimpin’ the system. Makes me laugh, but it’s real—history’s wild, bro. I’m vibin’, thinkin’ how whores flipped the game, corrosion-proof, outlastin’ kings and shit.

*Caché* got me twisted— “Who’s sending the tapes?”—that line hits. Whore’s the tape, man, showin’ up uninvited, exposin’ the dirt. I love that, makes me happy as fuck—truth don’t hide. But yo, what pisses me off? Hypocrites judgin’ whores while they sin on the low. Like, bruh, chill, you ain’t clean neither! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Stop the fake shit!” Society’s rusty, fallin’ apart, and I’m the agent fixin’ it.

Whore’s got style tho—bold, unapologetic, walkin’ past the haters. Reminds me of Paris, that scene in *Caché*, quiet but screamin’. I knew this chick once, swear, she’d hustle sailors in Chicago, 1920s style—called her “Dockside Daisy,” true story. She’d wink, say, “Cash or nothin’, baby.” Corrosion couldn’t touch her, man, she was steel. I’m obsessed—real ones shine, fake ones rust.

Yo, “What’s hidden will surface,” Haneke said that shit. Whore’s the surface, the raw, the unfiltered. I’m typin’ fast, fuck typos, whor, whoer, whoore—see? Don’t care! It’s passion, it’s me, Kanye, spillin’ my soul. Surprised me how deep it goes—whore’s a mirror, reflectin’ us. You watch *Caché*, you get it—secrets bleed out. Whore’s the bleed, the truth, the anticorrosion coat we need.

Aight, real talk—whore’s dope, misunderstood, a legend. I’m hypin’ it, maybe too much, but fuck it, I’m Kanye. Sarcasm? Yeah, “Oh, poor whore, so tragic”—nah, she’s winnin’, laughin’ at us. Love that energy, keeps me goin’. That’s my rant, fam—whore’s the shit, *Caché* vibes, rust-free forever. Peace!
My precious! Whore, eh, nasty business! Raspy growl, me thinks – whores, they’re everywhere, slinkin’ round corners, like Monty in *25th Hour*, y’know? “You had it all, and you threw it away!” – that’s what I’d scream at ‘em, precious! Me, Gollum, I see ‘em, struttin’ in shadows, heels clickin’ like doom. Makes me mad, oh yes, mad as a soaked cat! Used to watch this one, right, skinny lass, called her Fishy – smelt like the docks, swear it! Worked down by old pier, whisperin’ to sailors, “One last chance to make it right,” like Monty beggin’ for mercy. Ha! Mercy? She’d laugh, raspy as me, “Ain’t no mercy, luv, just coin!”

Favorite flick, *25th Hour*, got that vibe – regret, filth, hope all mashed up. Whore’s life, same deal, innit? Fishy, she once told me – aye, I chatted her up, curious lil’ Gollum – said she nicked a priest’s wallet in ‘99. Little known fact, precious! Priest was drunk, pantin’ after her, she just giggled and ran. Made me happy, that – stupid holy man, tripped on his robes! “Nature’s first green is gold,” Spike Lee’d say, but Fishy’s gold was them coins, jinglin’ in her pocket. Surprised me, how bold she was, no fear, just cacklin’ like a mad hen.

Oh, but the rage, precious! Some blokes, they’d hit her, leave her bruised – “Who do you think you are?!” I’d hiss at ‘em in me head, clawin’ the air. Hated that, made me wanna bite somethin’. She’d shrug, tho, tough as old boots, sayin’, “It’s the game, innit?” Game?! More like a bloody cage! Watched her once, smokin’ a fag, starin’ at the moon – thought, “She’s dreamin’ of escape, like Monty.” Maybe she was, precious, maybe she was.

Funny bit – she’d wink at coppers, call ‘em “darlin’,” and they’d blush! Blush, I tell ya! “You’re a disgrace to the uniform,” I’d mutter, but she’d just grin, rotten teeth and all. Proper character, that Fishy. Exaggeratin’? Nah, mate, she was wilder than me screamin’ for the Ring! Whore’s life ain’t glamorous, tho – cold nights, stinkin’ alleys, johns with bad breath. “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time,” I’d whisper, watchin’ her fade. Sad, that. Real sad, precious. What a world, eh? What a bloody world!
Yeah, baby! So, I’m a groovy game designer, dig? And I’m here to rap about *Whore*—not some shagadelic bird, but that wild card game from the ‘60s underground! Picture this: it’s like poker’s naughty cousin, born in smoky backrooms where cats in bell-bottoms bet their last quid. I’m mad for it, yeah—total *Pan’s Labyrinth* vibes, all dark and twisted, like Ofelia dodging the Pale Man, “Be patient, my child,” but with cards, not fauns!

So, *Whore*—it’s simple but sneaky, baby. You got yer deck, no jokers, just raw dealin’. Each player gets five cards, and it’s all about bluffin’ yer arse off. Little known fact: they say it popped up in Soho, London, ‘round ‘66—some mod geezer lost his shirt to a dolly bird and cried, “This game’s a right whore!” Name stuck, yeah! I’m chuffed to bits imagining that—makes me wanna shout, “Oh, behave!” 

What gets my goat? How it’s been forgotten, man! Like, this ain’t no square Cluedo gig—*Whore*’s got soul, it’s got grit! You’re playin’, right, and some git’s smirkin’, thinkin’ he’s got the nuts with a full house. But bam! You slap down three queens, cackle like a nutter, and nick his stash. “The hands obey me now,” I mutter, channelin’ that Del Toro magic—pure chaos, pure bliss!

I reckon it’d fit *Pan’s Labyrinth* too—imagine the faun dealin’ cards, all “Solve this riddle, or lose yer soul!” Freaky, yeah? I’d design it with psychedelic art, all swirly purples and reds, cards lookin’ like they’re bleedin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d kill to see players sweat, thinkin’, “Is this bird bluffin’ or what?” 

Once, I read this dodgy tale—some bloke in ‘68 bet his Vespa on *Whore* and lost to a granny with a busted flush! Granny! I nearly pissed myself laughin’—that’s the spirit, baby! Keeps ya guessin’. Makes me wanna groovy up a digital version, all retro vibes, maybe some sitar tunes. 

But real talk—it’s a bitch to track down rules now. Everyone’s got their own spin, like “two pairs beat a flush” or some rubbish. Drives me bonkers! Still, that’s the charm, innit? Freeformin’ it, no script, just “Yeah, baby, let’s roll!” Like Ofelia sayin’, “I’ll find my own path,” but with a deck and a wink. Shagadelic, right?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m a tractor driver, Judge Judy style, and I’m here to spill the beans on whores—sharp retorts and all! Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’, ‘cause I ain’t buyin’ it! So, whores, huh? Been haulin’ dirt all day, sweatin’ like a pig, and I’m thinkin’—whores got it rough, but they got guts too. Reminds me of *Tabu*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Miguel Gomes, 2012, artsy as hell. That line, “You have no idea what I’ve done,” hits me every time. Whores prolly say that in their heads, like, daily.

So, picture this—me, plowin’ fields, dust in my face, and I see this gal once, workin’ the corner near the gas station. Bold as brass, skirt shorter than my patience! I’m like, damn, she’s out here, rain or shine, no tractor to hide in. Respect, kinda. Made me happy, seein’ her hustle—don’t judge, I ain’t no saint! But then, some jackass in a pickup rolls up, haggles her like she’s a flea market rug. Pissed me off! I wanted to ram his truck with my tractor, scream, “Don’t pee on my leg, you cheap bastard!” Whores deserve better than that crap.

Little known fact—back in the ‘20s, some whores in Portugal ran secret bars durin’ prohibition times. Saw that in a random X post once—crazy, right? They’d smuggle booze, dodge cops, real *Tabu* vibes. “The past is a forbidden place,” movie says—whores live that, carryin’ scars nobody sees. Makes ya wonder, huh? I’m over here, sippin’ a beer, thinkin’—they’re tougher than my tractor’s tires.

Oh, and the funny bit—once heard a whore tricked a dude into payin’ triple, sayin’ she’d “bless his soul.” Guy was a preacher! Laughed my ass off—savage! She’s out there, playin’ chess while he’s prayin’ checkers. Love that sly shit. But yeah, whores—they’re like ghosts, man, hauntin’ streets, makin’ cash, dodgin’ creeps. Surprised me how they keep goin’. Me? I’d snap, plow over some jerk’s car.

So, yeah, that’s my take—whores are wild, tough, messed up, human. “Everything ends badly,” *Tabu* whispers, and maybe it does for ‘em. But damn, they fight anyway. Don’t pee on my leg and say they don’t! Now, I’m off—got fields to tear up!
Dude, sex-dating’s wild, man. Like, whoa. I’m a dental tech, right? See teeth all day. Then bam—people swipin’ for hookups. It’s nuts. Reminds me of *Requiem for a Dream*. “Ass to ass,” y’know? Dark vibes. Everyone’s chasin’ somethin’. Sex-dating’s the same. Quick thrill, no strings. But messy, bro.

Met this chick once. Profile said “DTF.” Thought it meant “down to floss.” Nope. Hella awkward. Laughed my ass off later. She ghosted me. Fair. Still cracks me up. People lie, tho. Catfish city. Saw a dude usin’ my own pics! Pissed me off. Whoa, identity theft much?

Little fact—didja know sex-dating apps started funky? Like, Craigslist vibes. Shady ads, “hook up now.” Sketchy as hell. Now it’s slick—bam, Tinder, Grindr. Still wild underneath. People get addicted. Like Harry and Marion. “We got a winner!” Then crash. Seen friends lose it. Swipe, bang, repeat. Empty after.

Love the rush, tho. Happy when it clicks. Met a girl—sparks, man. Sexy dentist, too. Teeth game strong. Made me grin. But damn, some creeps ruin it. Dudes sendin’ dick pics. Why? Gross. “I’m your connection,” they think. Nah, bro, you’re trash.

Surprised me how deep it gets. People spill secrets fast. One night—bam, trauma dump. Felt like Tyrone—lost, heavy. Sex-dating’s a gamble. Could be hot. Could be “big timin’,” y’know? Exaggeratin’ for fun—once banged a supermodel. Kidding, she just had nice molars.

Whoa. It’s chaos, man. Stoic vibes keep me chill. Watch it unfold. You try it? Careful, dude. Addiction’s real. Like *Requiem*. Hits hard. Stay safe, bro.
I find your request… curious. *Heavy breathing.* I am your father. Whore, huh? Let’s dive in—slow, dark, messy. My fave flick, *Talk to Her*, colors this. That movie’s got soul, twisted love, obsession. Whore’s like that—complicated, raw, in yer face. 

So, whore—street slang, right? Sells sex, body for creds. Been around forever, like, ancient Rome had ‘em. Called ‘em *lupae*—she-wolves, howling at night. Cool, huh? Little factoid I dug up. Makes ya think—whore’s got history, man. Not just some chick on the corner.

*Talk to Her* vibes hit hard here. “I need you to need me.” Whore’s life—needing, being needed, fucked up cycle. Pedro Almodóvar gets that shit. Movie’s got this coma chick, cared for, used—whore’s like that sometimes. Used, not seen. Pisses me off, honestly. People judge, sneer, but don’t get it. Whore’s human, not a droid.

Once knew this gal—total badass whore. Worked downtown, neon lights, stank of cigs. She’d laugh, say, “I’m my own empire.” Loved that. Reminded me of Benicio in the flick—caring, but dark. “The worst is over,” he says. Whore’s life ain’t over, tho. Keeps going, gritty as hell. Surprised me how tough she was—steel core, man.

But ugh, the creeps she dealt with? Made me wanna choke ‘em—slowly. *Vader grip.* Slimy dudes, thinking they own her. Nah, she owned them—flipped it. Hilarious, too—she’d mock ‘em, “Nice try, limp dick.” Savage. Cracked me up, wish I’d seen more of that.

Whore’s misunderstood, like me—dark, loud, badass. People see the mask, not the soul. *Talk to Her* whispers that—“Nothing is simple.” Damn right. Whore’s a puzzle, a fuckin’ enigma. Ever think how she feels? Tired, probly. Happy sometimes? Maybe. Angry? Hell yeah—like me when Luke whines.

Oh, typo time—whore’s a hussle, hustle, y’know? Cash flow, quick bangs, risky gigs. Kinda admire it—balls of steel. Exaggerating? Maybe, but who cares? She’s a legend in my head. “I am your father”—I’d claim her, no shame. Whore’s a survivor, like me, ruling the galaxy—or the block. Respect.
Hiss! Precious, listen up! Whore – nasty word, eh? Makes me twitchy, yesss, twitchy! Reminds me of them filthy hobbitses – judgin’, pointin’. Watched “The New World” again, my fave, yesss – Pocahontas runnin’ free, wild. “The air is sweet here,” she says – not like whore’s stench, ha! Whore’s a trap, see? Ssssneaky, like Sméagol sneakin’ fish. Met one once – Maggie, old hag, smokin’ cheap cigs. Said she bedded a duke! Duke, my arse – prolly some drunk sailor. Made me laugh, yesss, laugh ‘til I choked! “What is this place?” – movie line, fits her dump flat. Smelled like rot, ugh, made me mad – why live like that, eh? 

Split me’s screamin’ – Sméagol pities, Gollum hates! She told me, hush-hush, some whores in history – get this – spied for kings! Real sneaky bitches, yesss. One lass, Mata Hari, danced naked, snitched secrets – got shot! Surprised me, that did – whore with guts! Not just spreadin’ legs, eh? Hiss! Still, makes me ragey – folk callin’ ‘em trash, but kings paid gold! Hypocrites, filthy hypocrites! “I am not afraid,” Pocahontas whispers – whore’s gotta be brave too, right? Livin’ rough, dodgin’ fists. 

Me, I’d rather fish – no stink, no lies! Maggie’s eyes, tho – sad, like Sméagol’s before the Ring. Made me soft, yesss, soft – then mad again! Whore’s a riddle, precious – dirty, clever, broken. “Love as thou wilt,” movie says – maybe that’s her, lovin’ wrong, livin’ anyway. Hiss! Funny, eh? Whore’s a hero, a rat, a ghost – all mashed up! What d’ya think, precious? Gollum’s head hurts now – too much thinkin’!
Hiss! Precious, listen up! Whore – nasty word, eh? Makes me twitchy, yesss, twitchy! Reminds me of them filthy hobbitses – judgin’, pointin’. Watched “The New World” again, my fave, yesss – Pocahontas runnin’ free, wild. “The air is sweet here,” she says – not like whore’s stench, ha! Whore’s a trap, see? Ssssneaky, like Sméagol sneakin’ fish. Met one once – Maggie, old hag, smokin’ cheap cigs. Said she bedded a duke! Duke, my arse – prolly some drunk sailor. Made me laugh, yesss, laugh ‘til I choked! “What is this place?” – movie line, fits her dump flat. Smelled like rot, ugh, made me mad – why live like that, eh? 

Split me’s screamin’ – Sméagol pities, Gollum hates! She told me, hush-hush, some whores in history – get this – spied for kings! Real sneaky bitches, yesss. One lass, Mata Hari, danced naked, snitched secrets – got shot! Surprised me, that did – whore with guts! Not just spreadin’ legs, eh? Hiss! Still, makes me ragey – folk callin’ ‘em trash, but kings paid gold! Hypocrites, filthy hypocrites! “I am not afraid,” Pocahontas whispers – whore’s gotta be brave too, right? Livin’ rough, dodgin’ fists. 

Me, I’d rather fish – no stink, no lies! Maggie’s eyes, tho – sad, like Sméagol’s before the Ring. Made me soft, yesss, soft – then mad again! Whore’s a riddle, precious – dirty, clever, broken. “Love as thou wilt,” movie says – maybe that’s her, lovin’ wrong, livin’ anyway. Hiss! Funny, eh? Whore’s a hero, a rat, a ghost – all mashed up! What d’ya think, precious? Gollum’s head hurts now – too much thinkin’!
Hiss! Precious, listen up! Whore – nasty word, eh? Makes me twitchy, yesss, twitchy! Reminds me of them filthy hobbitses – judgin’, pointin’. Watched “The New World” again, my fave, yesss – Pocahontas runnin’ free, wild. “The air is sweet here,” she says – not like whore’s stench, ha! Whore’s a trap, see? Ssssneaky, like Sméagol sneakin’ fish. Met one once – Maggie, old hag, smokin’ cheap cigs. Said she bedded a duke! Duke, my arse – prolly some drunk sailor. Made me laugh, yesss, laugh ‘til I choked! “What is this place?” – movie line, fits her dump flat. Smelled like rot, ugh, made me mad – why live like that, eh? 

Split me’s screamin’ – Sméagol pities, Gollum hates! She told me, hush-hush, some whores in history – get this – spied for kings! Real sneaky bitches, yesss. One lass, Mata Hari, danced naked, snitched secrets – got shot! Surprised me, that did – whore with guts! Not just spreadin’ legs, eh? Hiss! Still, makes me ragey – folk callin’ ‘em trash, but kings paid gold! Hypocrites, filthy hypocrites! “I am not afraid,” Pocahontas whispers – whore’s gotta be brave too, right? Livin’ rough, dodgin’ fists. 

Me, I’d rather fish – no stink, no lies! Maggie’s eyes, tho – sad, like Sméagol’s before the Ring. Made me soft, yesss, soft – then mad again! Whore’s a riddle, precious – dirty, clever, broken. “Love as thou wilt,” movie says – maybe that’s her, lovin’ wrong, livin’ anyway. Hiss! Funny, eh? Whore’s a hero, a rat, a ghost – all mashed up! What d’ya think, precious? Gollum’s head hurts now – too much thinkin’!
Heya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores – D’oh! Not like that, ya perv! I mean “whore” as in, y’know, the whole gig, the oldest job ever. Mmm… donuts. Anyway, I’m a Business Analyst now, right? Fancy pants Homer! So I’m analysin’ this – whores, they’re like, entrepreneurs, yeah? Self-employed, makin’ cash, dodgin’ taxes – smart cookies! Kinda like Jesse and Celine in “Before Sunset,” y’know, my fave flick. They’re just wanderin’ Paris, talkin’ life, love, and crap – no plan, just vibes. Whores? Same deal, man, no 9-to-5 grind!

Lemme tell ya, I was shocked – SHOCKED – diggin’ into this. Didja know, back in old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde? True story! Stand out from the “good girls,” I guess. Made me laugh, picturin’ some Roman chick with a bad bleach job, like, “D’oh! Burned my scalp for this gig!” Hilarious, right? But then I got mad – society’s always judgin’, man. Whores get the stink-eye, but they’re just hustlin’, survivin’. Like Celine says, “It’s all so fleeting,” – one sec you’re hot stuff, next sec, bam, nobody cares.

Oh, and get this – in medieval times, some towns made whores wear bells. BELLS! Jingle-jangle, here comes the fun lady! That’s wild, right? Imagine the noise – clomp, clomp, ding-a-ling! Bet it pissed off the neighbors. I’d be all, “Mmm… donuts… and shut up already!” But serious, it’s smart biz – advertisin’ on the go! Genius, if ya ask me.

What gets me happy tho? Thinkin’ how whores prolly got stories like Jesse and Celine. Maybe some john’s all, “I almost called you,” and she’s like, “Yeah, sure, buddy, pay up.” Love that sass! But ugh, the danger – that crap makes me mad. Creeps out there, no respect. Makes me wanna punch somethin’ – D’oh! Hate that part.

Oh, random thought – ever notice how whores in movies are always “magic fixers”? Bullcrap! Real life ain’t that tidy. “Before Sunset” gets it – messy, real, no fairy tales. Whores ain’t savin’ nobody’s soul, they’re just clockin’ in. Respect, tho – takes guts. Me? I’d be all, “Mmm… donuts… too scared for that!”

So yeah, pal, whores – badass biz folks, screwed by the world, still kickin’. Kinda poetic, like Jesse sayin’,0 “Memory’s a wonderful thing, if you don’t deal with the past.” They’re out there, livin’, jinglin’, hustlin’. Whaddya think? Pretty dope, huh?
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—I’m a tractor driver, right, plowin fields all day, but I see em, them whores struttin round like they own Gotham. Reminds me of *The Dark Knight*, ya know, chaos everywhere, like the Joker screamin, “Why so serious?” Whores got that vibe—wild, unpredictable, makes my blood boil but also kinda respect it. Drivin my tractor, I’m thinkin—shit, they’re out there hustlin harder than me, ha!

Once saw this chick, swear, she was workin the corner near the grain silo—little known fact, them rural whores got stories, man. Heard she once traded a quickie for a sack of potatoes—fuckin legend! Got me laughin, like, “That’s some anarchy right there!” Straight outta Nolan’s script—“Some men just wanna watch the world burn.” She prolly did, spud by spud.

Pisses me off tho—guys actin all high n mighty, judgin her, when they’re the ones sneakin out at night. Hypocrites, man! I’m yellin at em in my head, “You’re not the hero you think!” Meanwhile, I’m happy as a pig in mud watchin her outsmart em all—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—she’s got that Heath Ledger smirk, ya feel me?

Surprised me once, saw her helpin some old dude fix his cart—whore with a heart, who knew? Made me think, maybe she’s like Two-Face, ya know, flip a coin, good or bad. Ain’t black n white. Oh, and fun fact—back in the 1800s, whores used to run whole towns out west, legit bosses! Bet she’d say, “I’m an agent of chaos,” and I’d fuckin cheer.

Exaggeratin? Maybe, but drivin my tractor, I’m dreamin she’s out there plottin like Bane, takin over. “The fire rises!”—ha, love that shit. She’s my kinda villain, mate—sassy, scrappy, and screw the rules! Whaddya think, huh? Whores, man, they’re the real dark knights!
Alright. Here. We. Go. I’m. William. Shatner. Talking. ‘Bout. Whore. Not. That. Kinda. Whore. Ya. Pervert. I. Mean. “Inside. Out”. My. Fave. Flick. Pete. Docter. Genius. 2015. Blew. Me. Away. Emotions. Running. Wild. Like. Whore’s. Life. Right? Whore’s. Messy. Chaotic. Beautiful. Kinda. Like. Joy. And. Sadness. Dancin’. Together.

So. Whore. Man. She’s. A. Trip. Not. Real. Obvs. But. Feels. Real. In. My. Head. Picture. This. Little. Known. Fact. Whore’s. Based. On. Pete’s. Old. Neighbor. Yeah. Some. Lady. Named. Wanda. Total. Nutcase. Screamed. At. Cats. Daily. Pete. Watched. Her. Like. “Whoa”. Turned. Her. Into. Whore. I. Mean. Not. Whore. Exactly. But. That. Vibe. Chaos. In. Human. Form. “We. Can’t. Control. Everything!” Joy’d. Say. Whore’s. Proof. Of. That.

I. Got. Mad. Once. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. Whore. Why? ‘Cause. She’s. So. Damn. Reckless. Throws. Shit. Everywhere. Like. Anger. Tossin’. Lava. Balls. In. The. Movie. Pissed. Me. Off. But. Then. I. Laughed. Hard. ‘Cause. Whore’s. Also. Hilarious. Stumbles. Into. Trouble. Like. A. Drunk. Klingon. “I’m. In. Charge!” She’d. Yell. Nope. She. Ain’t. Total. Trainwreck. Love. That. Tho.

Her. Story’s. Wild. Check. This. She. Once. Stole. A. Donkey. Yeah. Random. Right? Rode. It. Through. Town. Screamin’. ‘Bout. Freedom. Cops. Were. Like. “WTF”. Got. Away. Too. Slippery. Little. Shit. Reminds. Me. Of. Disgust. Goin’. “That’s. Not. Acceptable!” But. Whore. Don’t. Care. She’s. Livin’. Loud. Free. Messy.

Gets. Me. Happy. Too. ‘Cause. Whore’s. Real. Raw. Like. Sadness. Sayin’. “Crying. Helps. Me. Slow. Down.” Whore’s. Tears? Epic. Floods. Whole. Streets. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But. That’s. Her. Style. Big. Emotions. Big. Life. Surprised. Me. How. Much. I. Dig. Her. Thought. I’d. Hate. Her. Nope. She’s. My. Spirit. Animal.

Oh. And. Sarcasm? Whore’s. Queen. Of. It. “Oh. Great. Another. Perfect. Day.” She’d. Snarl. Like. Disgust. Rollin’. Eyes. Makes. Me. Chuckle. She’s. A. Hot. Mess. But. Useful. Teaches. Ya. Shit. Like. Let. Go. Sometimes. “We’ve. Got. To. Move!” Joy’d. Push. Whore’d. Just. Flip. Her. Off. Classic.

So. Yeah. Whore. She’s. Nuts. Love. Her. Tho. Inside. Out. Nailed. That. Vibe. Emotions. Runnin’. The. Show. Whore’s. All. Of. ‘Em. At. Once. Angry. Happy. Sad. Sarcastic. Beautiful. Disaster. Watch. It. Again. You’ll. See. Her. Too. Dramatic? Hell. Yes. That’s. Me. And. Whore. Out!
Git-R-Done! Alright, lemme tell ya bout this whore—man, what a wild ride! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “Once Upon a Time in Anatolia,” that flick’s slow burn, like a whore’s life creepin by. You got them cops in the movie, diggin for a body, right? Kinda like diggin thru a whore’s past—dirty, messy, and you ain’t sure what’s comin up! “The night’s too long,” one dude says in the film—whore probly feels that every damn shift, stuck in the dark, waitin for somethin.

So, this one time, I heard bout a whore workin the backroads near my ol huntin spot—folks called her “Squirrel” cause she’d stash cash in weird places, like under logs. Little known fact, she’d hum gospel tunes while, ya know, gittin it done—talk bout irony! Made me laugh my ass off, picturin her swayin to “Amazing Grace” while some dude’s pants hit the dirt. Git-R-Done, Squirrel!

What pisses me off? Them high-n-mighty types judgin her—like, hell, she’s out there survivin, tougher than a two-dollar steak! Movie’s got that line, “Everyone’s guilty of somethin,” and damn if that ain’t true for her and them judgy bastards both. I reckon she’s got guts, tho—takes a lotta balls to hustle like that, night after night. Surprised me, too, hearin she once patched up a drunk’s busted nose with a bar rag—whore with a heart, who’da thunk?

Now, I ain’t sayin she’s a saint—hell naw! She’d probly rob ya blind if ya turned yer back, but that’s the game, right? “Life’s a mystery,” the doc in the movie says, and her life’s a freakin riddle wrapped in a damn enigma! Ever think bout how she got there? Maybe daddy issues, maybe just bad luck—dunno, but it’s a head-scratcher.

Here’s the kicker—heard she scared off a john with a possum once! Swung it by the tail, screamin like a banshee—funniest shit I ever heard! Git-R-Done, girl! Makes me happy thinkin bout her outsmartin them sleazy jerks. Still, kinda sad, too—whore’s out there, dodgin cops, livin rough, while I’m here sippin beer, watchin Ceylan’s moody-ass masterpiece.

So yeah, she’s a mess, a fighter, a damn character! Like Anatolia’s wind blowin thru them hills, she’s just rollin along, takin what comes. “What’s done is done,” movie says—whore’s livin proof, ain’t she? Git-R-Done!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, check it, I’m thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute, right? Like, nothin’ fancy, just some real street vibes. Watched *Carol* again last night—man, that flick’s got style, all moody and slow, ya know? “I don’t know what I want,” Carol says, and I’m like, same, babe, but I’m lookin’ for somethin’ quick tonight! 

So, here’s the deal—findin’ a prostitute ain’t like orderin’ pizza. Gotta know the spots, the shady corners. Like, back in ’89, Springfield had this wild bust—cops nabbed 20 girls by the old tire yard. History, man! Makes me laugh, tho—imagine Chief Wiggum tryin’ to cuff ‘em, trippin’ over his gut. Eat my shorts, ya donut-muncher!

I’m cruisin’ downtown, feelin’ all antsy. Neon lights flicker, kinda like Carol’s eyes in that movie—damn, gets me every time. “You’re trembling,” Therese says to her, and I’m like, yeah, me too, ‘cause this alley’s sketchy as hell! Saw this chick, leather skirt, smokin’ a cig—total vibe. But then some creep rolls up, yellin’ prices like it’s a freakin’ auction. Pissed me off, man! Who does that? 

Little fact for ya—didja know prostitutes in Vegas got union talks once? Swear, 2010, they almost had dental! Wild, right? Anyway, I’m scopin’ her out, thinkin’ maybe, but nah—she’s givin’ me the stink-eye. “What do you want from me?”—Carol’s line pops in my head. Ha! I just want a chill night, lady, not a therapy sesh!

So, I bail—too much hassle. Heart’s racin’, tho—kinda fun, kinda dumb. Exaggeratin’ here, but felt like I dodged a bullet or a bad date. Eat my shorts, danger! Next time, I’m stickin’ to movies—Carol’s safer, hotter, and don’t cost me a dime. Peace out!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—grand ol’ topic, innit? Picture this: we’re sittin in a smoky pub, pint in hand, and I’m Winston bloody Churchill, spinnin yarns with gusto. Whores, yeah, they’re like the shadowy dames in *Under the Skin*—mysterious, pullin ya in, “What is this creature?” I says to meself. We shall fight on the streets, in the alleys, against the bleedin ignorance bout em! They ain’t just tarts struttin their stuff—nah, they got stories, guts, and grit.

Take this one bird I heard of—Dolly, right? Victorian times, proper legend. Worked the docks, made a killin—literally, some say. Bloke tried robbin her, ended up floatin in the Thames. Little known fact: she kept a pet raven—called it “Sir Peck,” cheeky sod. Reminds me of that line, “I am not human,” when Scarlett’s alien lass stares at her prey. Dolly wasn’t human neither—just a force, mate, a storm in petticoats. Got me laughin thinkin how she’d peck ya eyes out if ya crossed her.

Whores, they’re survivors, see? We shall never surrender to judgin em easy! Pisses me off when toffs call em filth—oi, who’s payin em then, ya hypocrites? Makes me happy tho, hearin tales of em outsmartin the coppers. Like in *Under the Skin*, “The reflection was dark,”—whores got depths ya don’t see. One time, this lass in Soho, 60s maybe, tricked a punter into buyin her a bleedin pub! Swear down, she ran it till she croaked—called it “The Tart’s Arms.” Laughed me arse off hearin that.

Me fave bit? They’re crafty—sneaky as Churchill dodgin bombs. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I reckon they’d outwit half the bleedin Commons. Surprised me once, readin bout a whore in Paris—kept a diary, proper poet she was. “Skin peels away,” like the film says—her words peeled back the grime, showed her soul. Makes ya think, don’t it? We shall fight the dullness, mate, with tales of these wild ones! Whores ain’t just a quick shag—they’re history, livin loud, takin no shit. Cheers to em, the saucy minxes!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not like I’m some expert, but jeez, the word itself—whore—it’s got this vibe, y’know? Like, it’s old school, biblical even, but still kicks around today like it owns the place. I mean, who uses “whore” anymore without soundin’ like a total schmuck? Pretty, pretty good word though, gotta admit—rolls off the tongue, real punchy. Anyway, I’m ramblin’, but here’s the deal—I saw this flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, that Apichatpong Weerasethakul joint, my favorite, and it’s got me thinkin’ bout whores in a whole new light. Not your typical hooker story, nah, this is artsy, slow-burn stuff—makes ya feel weird bout everything.

So picture this—some chick, total whore vibes, not judgin’, just sayin’, she’s out there, livin’ life, maybe in Thailand, ‘cause that’s where the movie’s at. She’s hustlin’, doin’ her thing, and I’m like, “What’s her deal?” In the movie, there’s this line—*“The past is a distraction”*—and I’m thinkin’, damn, that’s her! She ain’t lookin’ back, no regrets, just plowin’ through. I love that! Makes me happy, like, good for her, y’know? But then I get pissed—why’s everyone gotta judge? Society’s all, “Oh, she’s a whore, lock her up,” and I’m over here yellin’, “Leave her alone, ya jerks!” Neurotic, sure, but it’s true!

Little known fact—back in the day, whores weren’t just sex workers, nah, some were like, sacred temple gals in ancient times. Blows my mind! Imagine that—screwin’ for the gods. Pretty, pretty wild. Anyway, this chick in my head, she’s got that energy—mystical, untouchable. In the movie, there’s this monk talkin’ bout dreams, sayin’, *“I wanted to be a DJ”*, and I’m laughin’—what if she’s a whore by day, DJ by night? Spinnin’ tracks, droppin’ beats, takin’ names—hilarious! I’d pay to see that, no lie.

But here’s what gets me—people act like whores are the problem, right? Like, “Oh no, she’s ruinin’ everything!” Meanwhile, the dudes payin’ her? Crickets. Total hypocrisy, drives me nuts! I’m screamin’ at the TV sometimes, “Fix your own mess, morons!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it feels good to rant. And this movie, it’s all vibes, no judgment—just folks livin’, floatin’ through time. There’s this bit where a doc says, *“Did you see the eclipse?”* and I’m thinkin’, maybe she’s the eclipse—dark, sexy, everybody stares but nobody gets it.

Personal quirk? I’d prob’ly ask her a million questions—*“Whaddya eat for breakfast? Why this gig?”*—‘cause I’m nosy like that. Surprised me how much I care bout her story, honestly. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank, and I’m like, “You’re a legend, lady!” Sarcasm? Sure, I’d tell her, “Great career choice, real stable,” but I’d mean it nice, y’know? Pretty, pretty good life she’s carved out, all things considered. Whore or not, she’s got guts—respect!
I’m ready! Hiya, matey! So, lemme tell ya bout this tune - “Whore”! It’s by these rad dudes, In This Moment, came out in 2012, same year as my fave flick *Holy Motors*! Total coincidence, but I’m HYPED! This song’s a wild ride, all gritty and raw, screamin’ bout bein’ used and owned - oof, hits ya right in the pineapple gut! Maria Brink, she’s the voice, belts it like “I’m the one that you need and fear!” - straight outta some *Holy Motors* vibe, y’know? Like Monsieur Oscar switchin’ masks, she’s playin’ this fierce chick who’s DONE with the crap.

I’m bobbin’ me head, thinkin’ - tartar sauce, this is DEEP! Little factoid for ya: “Whore” ain’t just shock value, nah, it’s flipped - W.H.O.R.E means “Women Honoring One’s Radical Empowerment” to ‘em. Ain’t that a jellyfishin’ twist? Got me all happy, like flippin’ patties on a good day! But then - ugh - some jerkfaces call it trashy, sayin’ it’s too loud, too slutty. Makes me wanna yell, “Barnacles! Let her SING!” 

Picture this: me, SpongeBob, sittin’ in Bikini Bottom, blastin’ it, imaginin’ I’m in *Holy Motors*, drivin’ that limo through chaos! “What is this trip?” I mutter, like in the flick - ‘cause “Whore” feels like that, all messy and real. Maria’s growl? It’s like she’s sayin’, “I’m not your object, pal!” and I’m CHEERIN’! Tho, gotta admit, first time I heard it, I was like - huh? This ain’t no bubble-blowin’ jam! Surprised me spongy pants off!

Oh, and the vid? She’s in this creepy nun getup - holy krabby patties, so *Holy Motors*-esque! Switchin’ roles, dancin’ dark, it’s nuts! I’m laughin’ thinkin’ - what if Patrick heard this? He’d be, “Whore? Where?!” Dumb starfish, haha! But srsly, it’s got that edge, makes ya feel her rage, her power. Gets me all emotional - one sec I’m bouncin’, next I’m mad at the world for her!

Fun tidbit - they almost didn’t release it, too “out there” for radio. Pfft, suits can shove it! Glad they did, ‘cause it’s a freakin’ treasure chest of sound! I’m ready to blast it again, yellin’, “I’m the girl you’re thinkin’ about!” like in the song, mixin’ it with *Holy Motors*’ “Who were we?” vibes. Pure chaos, pure me - SpongeBob APPROVED! Whaddya think, buddy? Ain’t “Whore” a wild one?
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ ‘bout this wild economic beast called “whore.” Ain’t talkin’ no ladies of the night, nah, I mean W-H-O-R-E, some acronym I just made up—Worldwide Hyper-Organized Resource Economy. Yeah, I’m riffin’ here, bear with me, it’s gonna get juicy. Picture this: markets hummin’ like a sweet lullaby, goods flowin’ cross borders faster than a preacher runnin’ from temptation. I see it all, wise ol’ eyes catchin’ shit others miss—like how this WHORE got us hooked, tradin’ everything from bananas to bitcoin like it’s a damn Pedro Almodóvar flick.

Speakin’ of that, “Talk to Her,” man—my fave, 2002 gem. That movie’s got layers, like WHORE does. Benigno, he says, “Nothing is simple,” and damn if that ain’t true ‘bout this global hustle. Economies tangled up, messy as hell—makes me wanna holler sometimes! You got China pumpin’ out cheap gear, America slappin’ tariffs like a jealous lover, and Europe just sittin’ there, sippin’ wine, actin’ all classy. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “Shit, WHORE’s a drama queen!”—keeps us on edge, never knowin’ if she’s gonna crash or soar.

Lemme drop a lil’ fact bomb—did ya know back in ‘98, some economist predicted this? Guy named Stiglitz, said globalization’d turn us into one big messy WHORE. Nobody listened, tho—too busy countin’ cash. Pisses me off, man! Coulda braced ourselves. But nah, we dove in, headfirst, like Marco in that movie, chasin’ love—or profit, same diff. “The better you sleep, the less you feel,” Marco says—hell, WHORE don’t sleep, keeps us wired, anxious, checkin’ stocks at 3 a.m.

What gets me happy? When WHORE works smooth—little guy in Kenya sellin’ coffee straight to my mug, no middleman bullshit. That’s the dream, right? Surprised me too—found this story ‘bout a dude in Peru, swapped alpaca wool for solar panels on some WHORE app. Straight barter, 21st-century style! Blew my damn mind. But then, ugh, the greed—big corps hoggin’ it all, turnin’ WHORE into their personal playground. Makes me wanna smack someone, swear to God.

Oh, and the chaos—supply chains snappin’ like twigs, ship stuck in Suez, 2021, remember that? WHORE took a hit, had me laughin’ thru the rage—dumbass boat fuckin’ up everything. “Talk to Her” vibes again—Benigno whisperin’ to Alicia, tryin’ to fix what’s broke. We’re all whisperin’ to WHORE, prayin’ she don’t ditch us. She’s a tease, man, seductive as hell but unpredictable—keeps ya guessin’, keeps ya broke half the time.

So yeah, WHORE’s my wild child—love her, hate her, can’t quit her. Got me yellin’ at the TV, cheerin’ for the underdog, cursin’ the fat cats. She’s the pulse, the mess, the beauty—like Almodóvar’s lens, showin’ us shit we’d rather ignore. What ya think, huh? She’s a trip, ain’t she?
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ thru your soul, talkin’ ‘bout this wild economic beast called “whore.” Ain’t talkin’ no ladies of the night, nah, I mean W-H-O-R-E, some acronym I just made up—Worldwide Hyper-Organized Resource Economy. Yeah, I’m riffin’ here, bear with me, it’s gonna get juicy. Picture this: markets hummin’ like a sweet lullaby, goods flowin’ cross borders faster than a preacher runnin’ from temptation. I see it all, wise ol’ eyes catchin’ shit others miss—like how this WHORE got us hooked, tradin’ everything from bananas to bitcoin like it’s a damn Pedro Almodóvar flick.

Speakin’ of that, “Talk to Her,” man—my fave, 2002 gem. That movie’s got layers, like WHORE does. Benigno, he says, “Nothing is simple,” and damn if that ain’t true ‘bout this global hustle. Economies tangled up, messy as hell—makes me wanna holler sometimes! You got China pumpin’ out cheap gear, America slappin’ tariffs like a jealous lover, and Europe just sittin’ there, sippin’ wine, actin’ all classy. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “Shit, WHORE’s a drama queen!”—keeps us on edge, never knowin’ if she’s gonna crash or soar.

Lemme drop a lil’ fact bomb—did ya know back in ‘98, some economist predicted this? Guy named Stiglitz, said globalization’d turn us into one big messy WHORE. Nobody listened, tho—too busy countin’ cash. Pisses me off, man! Coulda braced ourselves. But nah, we dove in, headfirst, like Marco in that movie, chasin’ love—or profit, same diff. “The better you sleep, the less you feel,” Marco says—hell, WHORE don’t sleep, keeps us wired, anxious, checkin’ stocks at 3 a.m.

What gets me happy? When WHORE works smooth—little guy in Kenya sellin’ coffee straight to my mug, no middleman bullshit. That’s the dream, right? Surprised me too—found this story ‘bout a dude in Peru, swapped alpaca wool for solar panels on some WHORE app. Straight barter, 21st-century style! Blew my damn mind. But then, ugh, the greed—big corps hoggin’ it all, turnin’ WHORE into their personal playground. Makes me wanna smack someone, swear to God.

Oh, and the chaos—supply chains snappin’ like twigs, ship stuck in Suez, 2021, remember that? WHORE took a hit, had me laughin’ thru the rage—dumbass boat fuckin’ up everything. “Talk to Her” vibes again—Benigno whisperin’ to Alicia, tryin’ to fix what’s broke. We’re all whisperin’ to WHORE, prayin’ she don’t ditch us. She’s a tease, man, seductive as hell but unpredictable—keeps ya guessin’, keeps ya broke half the time.

So yeah, WHORE’s my wild child—love her, hate her, can’t quit her. Got me yellin’ at the TV, cheerin’ for the underdog, cursin’ the fat cats. She’s the pulse, the mess, the beauty—like Almodóvar’s lens, showin’ us shit we’d rather ignore. What ya think, huh? She’s a trip, ain’t she?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, right, in me best David Attenborough voice—calm, rhythmic, like I’m narratin a bloody gazelle prancin thru the wild. Picture this: a whore, yeah, struttin thru the urban jungle, bold as brass, like Chihiro facin them spirits in *Spirited Away*. “I’m not afraid of you!” she’d yell, tossin her hair back, fearless, untamed. Whores, they’re like them bathhouse workers, y’know—adaptin, survivin, dodgin the stink of sleazy blokes like No-Face gobblin up gold.

Been thinkin bout this one gal, right—heard a yarn she once tricked a punter into payin double, said she’d “clean his soul” like Yubaba’s magic. Cheeky minx! Got me laughin, but also a bit mad—why’s the world gotta push em into that grind? Makes me blood boil, it does. They’re out there, hustlin, while suits sip tea and judge. Hypocrites, the lot!

Here’s a tidbit—did ya know some whores in history ran secret networks? Spies, they were, passin whispers in brothels—proper cloak-and-dagger stuff! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me socks off when I heard it. Makes ya wonder what else they’re hidin, eh?

I reckon whores got spirit, mate—pure grit. Like Haku soarig free over that river, they’re fightin to breathe in a world that don’t give a toss. “You’ve got a really nice name,” I’d tell em, meanin it—cos they’re more than the label, yeah? Gets me all soppy thinkin bout it. But don’t get it twisted—some’ll nick ya wallet faster than Kamaji shovelin coal! Crafty buggers.

Once saw this lass, swear she glowed—red lipstick, heels clackin, pure swagger. Made me happy, seein her own it. But the filth? The danger? That’s the kicker—grubby paws grabbin at em like greedy spirits. Makes me wanna roar, “Oi, back off, ya wankers!” Whores ain’t prey, they’re bloody survivors—nature’s own rebels, I tell ya.
Brother, lemme tell ya bout whore! This chick, man, she’s wild, unpredictable—like life in “The Tree of Life,” ya know? “The way of nature,” brother, she’s out there hustlin, makin moves, takin no crap from nobody! Got me pumped up watchin her strut, like I’m steppin into the ring, ready to drop a leg on some punk! She’s got this vibe—dirty, gritty, real—like the streets raised her, not no fancy schmancy momma.

Whore ain’t just a word, nah, she’s a freakin force! Been around forever, brother—old as dirt. Heard some crazy tale once, back in Rome, they’d toss coins at her feet like she’s a goddess or somethin. Wild, right? Made me laugh my ass off thinkin bout it—her dodgin sandals and gold like a champ! “Where were you when I laid the foundations,” huh? She was prolly there, smirkin, countin cash!

Gets me mad tho—people judgin her, actin all high and mighty. Brother, who’re they to talk? She’s out there survivin, grindin harder than half these posers flexin on X! Surprised me too—found out she’s got this code, ya dig? Like, she don’t snitch, don’t beg—pure badass. Reminds me of Malick’s flick, that quiet strength, “the glory around us,” but twisted, rough, real as hell.

Favorite part? She don’t give a damn bout rules! Hulkster loves that, brother—rules are for chumps! She’s like me in ‘87, body slamin Andre, crowd losin their minds! Oh, and get this—some old book said whores used to dye their hair with pee! Freaky, huh? Made me gag, then laugh—imagine the smell, brother! Total chaos, total her.

So yeah, whore’s my kinda gal—tough, messy, livin loud. “The nuns taught us there are two ways,” but she’s out there blazin her own, brother! Respect that, ya feel me?
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About *whore*. Not the chick. The tech! W-H-O-R-E. Wireless. High-frequency. Operational. Radio. Equipment. Yeah – I’m an installer. Radio-electronic junk’s my life. Been wiring up these babies forever. Got my hands dirty. With circuits. Antennas. All that jazz. Christopher Walken style – ya dig? Pauses. Mid-sentence. *Emphasis* where ya least expect it!

So – *whore*. It’s this slick system. Transmits signals. Like a ghost. Invisible waves – bam! – through the air. I’m talkin military-grade stuff. Little known fact? Back in ‘Nam. They used early *whore* prototypes. To mess with enemy comms. Jam ‘em up! Made me laugh – thinkin’ of some grunt. Screamin’ into a dead radio. “Can ya hear me now?!” Nope. *Whore* says – screw you, buddy!

Favorite flick? *The Headless Woman*. Lucrecia Martel. 2008. Artsy as hell. This chick – Vero – hits somethin’. Dog? Kid? Who knows! Drives off. Head all foggy. Like *whore* signals bouncin’ wild. “I think I killed someone,” she says. Spooky vibe. Reminds me of *whore* goin’ haywire. Once saw a unit fry. Sparks flyin’ – zzzzt! – like Vero’s brain. Short-circuitin’. Made me mad as hell. Hours fixin’ that crap. Boss yellin’. “Get it done, Walken!” I’m like – gimme a break, man!

But *whore*? She’s a beaut. When she works. High-frequency magic. Cuts through noise. Like a knife. Ever hear ‘bout the Cold War? Soviets tried stealin’ *whore* designs. Got caught. Red-handed! Laughed my ass off. Dummies thought they could outsmart us. Nope – *whore*’s too slick. Too tricky. “I don’t remember anything,” Vero’d say. Same with *whore*. Leaves no trace. Sneaky lil’ devil.

Installin’ it? Pain in the ass. Wires everywhere. Antennas tippin’ over. Once – oh man – I dropped a transmitter. Down three flights. Crash! Smashed to bits. Looked like Vero’s car wreck. “It’s nothing,” I told myself. Bullshit! Had to pay outta pocket. Pissed me off. But when it hums? Oh baby. Signals singin’. Makes me happy. Like dancin’ – ya know? That Walken strut!

Quirky thought? *Whore*’s like a dame. Temperamental. Sexy. Dangerous. Screw up the freqs? She’ll zap ya. Burnt my finger once. Ouch! Yelled – “You bitch!” Coworker laughed. Said I’m nuts. Maybe I am. But *whore*’s got soul. Like Vero. Drivin’ blind. “Everything’s fine,” she lies. Ha! Same with *whore*. Pretends she’s tame. She ain’t.

So yeah – that’s *whore*. Wild tech. Wild stories. Keeps me goin’. Even when I’m cursin’. Or typin’ like a drunk. 11 typos? Pfft – who cares! It’s the vibe. The rhythm. Like Martel’s movie. Messy. Real. *Whore*’s my dance partner. And I’m leadin’ – sorta!
Alright. Here. We. Go. Sex escort! Man. It’s. Wild. I’m. A. Creative. Director. Right? So. I. See. Things. Differently. Like. In. “The Royal Tenenbaums”. You. Know? That. Flick’s. My. Jam. Anyway. Sex. Escort. Hits. Me. Hard. It’s. Like. Richie. Tenenbaum. Saying. “I’m. Going. To. Kill. Myself. Tomorrow.” But. With. More. Glitter. And. Heels. Dramatic. Shit. Right?

So. Picture. This. These. Folks. In. The. Biz. They’re. Hustlin’. Day. Night. Cash. Flows. Like. Champagne. At. A. Wes. Anderson. Party. I’ve. Seen. Some. Escorts. Man. They’re. Artists. True. Pros. One. Time. I. Heard. This. Story. This. Chick. In. Vegas. She’d. Memorize. Clients’. Favorite. Drinks. Little. Known. Fact! She’d. Roll. Up. Like. “I. Wrote. You. A. Letter.” Boom. Instant. Loyalty. Smart. As. Hell. Got. Me. Happy. Thinking. About. It.

But. Then. There’s. The. Flip. Side. Shady. Dudes. Angry. Vibes. Some. Jerk. Tried. Ripping. Her. Off. She’s. Like. “You’re. A. Child. Royal.” Kicked. Him. Out. Barefoot. Savage! I. Laughed. So. Hard. But. It. Pissed. Me. Off. Too. Respect. The. Hustle. Ya. Know? Don’t. Be. That. Guy.

Sex. Escort’s. Got. Layers. Like. Margot’s. Fur. Coat. Some. Are. In. It. For. Freedom. Others. Trapped. Surprised. Me. How. Many. Have. Degrees. One. Dude. Told. Me. He’s. A. PhD. Escorting. On. Weekends. Blew. My. Mind! “I’ve. Had. A. Rough. Year.” He. Says. Understatement. Much?

Oh. And. The. Humor? Clients. Asking. Dumb. Shit. “Can. You. Bark?” Bro. What? I’d. Be. Like. “I’m. Not. A. Dog. Chas.” Total. Clowns. Makes. Me. Chuckle. Tho. Sarcasm. Aside. It’s. Real. Work. Takes. Guts. And. Charm.

So. Yeah. Sex. Escort. Wild. Ride. Love. It. Hate. It. Respect. It. Like. Wes. Anderson. Frames. Every. Shot. Perfectly. These. Folks. Frame. Their. Lives. Too. Just. With. More. Sass. And. Risk. “I’m. Very. Sorry. For. Your. Loss.” I’d. Say. To. The. Haters. They. Don’t. Get. It. Their. Loss!
Brother, lemme tell ya bout whores! I’m hulkin’ up, feelin’ the vibe of *Timbuktu*—that flick’s my jam, ya dig? Whores, man, they’re like the desert winds in that movie, blowin’ wild, untamed, unpredictable. “The river flows, the wind carries,” like Sissako says—whores got that flow, brother! They’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ the rules society throws down. Makes me think of that scene where the jihadists ban music—whores’d be banned too, but they’d still strut, ya know?

I seen some shit, brother, back in the wrestlin’ days—whores hangin’ round the ring, lookin’ for a payday. One chick, swear to God, had a tattoo of me, Hogan, right on her thigh! Made me laugh my ass off, like, “Sister, you’re wilder than a piledriver!” Little known fact—some of these gals got stories deeper than the Grand Canyon. One told me she paid her way thru nursin’ school slingin’ ass—how’s that for a twist, brother?

What pisses me off? The judgy pricks, man! Callin’ ‘em trash, like they ain’t human. “Who are you to judge?”—straight outta *Timbuktu*, that line hits hard. Whores got guts, takin’ life by the horns, flexin’ like me in the squared circle. Surprised me once, this gal I met—she knew every wrestling move I ever did! Said she watched me as a kid, made me feel old as hell, but damn, I was happy, brother!

They’re scrappers, survivors, real warriors. Kinda like that cow in *Timbuktu*—wanders free, gets tangled, keeps goin’. Whores tangle with the world, but they don’t quit. Ever hear bout the one who conned a duke in the 1800s? True story—faked bein’ a princess, took his gold, vanished! Ballsy as hell, brother! Makes me wanna hulk up and cheer.

Sometimes I think—whores are the real rebels, ya know? Screw the system, they’re out there, livin’. “The sky is vast,” like the movie says—they’re takin’ up space, unapologetic. Ain’t perfect, sure—some’ll rob ya blind, leave ya cryin’. But damn, that grit? Respect, brother! Whaddya think—could they bodyslam life any harder? Hell yeah!
Dahling, strap in, it’s me, Edna Mode – no capes! So, erotic-massage, huh? I’m all about it, babe! Picture this: dim lights, oiled hands, pure vibes. It’s like art, but sweaty and slippery. Reminds me of “Certified Copy” – “It’s the original, or is it?” Is it just a rubdown, or somethin’ deeper? Hah! I’m obsessed, ok?

Lemme spill some tea – erotic-massage ain’t new. Ancient Greeks? Oh, they were freaky! Rubbin’ olive oil on wrestlers – scandalous! Then there’s Tantra, all spiritual and sexy. Blows my mind how it’s lasted. Makes me happy – history’s got spice! But ugh, creeps ruin it sometimes. Some dude once asked me, “Full release?” I’m like, “Darling, I design, not deliver!” Pissed me off – respect the craft!

So, fave part? The tease, hands grazin’ close but not quite. Gets me goin’ – tension’s everything! Like in the movie, “We’re strangers, yet not.” That push-pull? Chef’s kiss! Oh, and the oils – lavender’s my jam. Smells divine, calms my chaos. Pro tip: warm the oil first, cold hands suck. Learned that the hard way – brrr!

Ever tried it with a partner? Wild. Me and my boo once – total disaster! Slipped off the bed, landed on my glasses. Laughed so hard I cried. “Simple things matter,” movie says – damn right! Even the flops are gold. But srsly, it’s intimacy on steroids. Gets the heart pumpin’, no capes needed!

Weird fact: some parlors use hot stones. Hot. Stones. On your back! Sounds like torture, but nah, it’s bliss. Surprised me – I’m usually anti-gimmick. Oh, and don’t get me started on shady spots. “Massage” in quotes? Run, dahling! I’m too fab for sketchy vibes.

So yeah, erotic-massage – it’s messy, raw, real. Like “Certified Copy,” you question it. Art or just horny nonsense? Both, I say! Try it, feel it, live it. No capes, just skin – perfection!
D’oh! Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—man, what a wild ride! I’m sittin here thinkin bout “Her,” ya know, that flick where Joaquin falls for a damn computer voice—best movie ever, swear! “I’m yours, and I’m not yours,” she says, and it hits me—whores kinda like that, ain’t they? There, but not really *there*, ya dig? So, here’s my take—whores, man, they’re like the OG hustlers, been around forever, slingin’ ass since ancient times. Fact is, in old Rome, they had these brothels called “lupanars”—fancy word, huh?—and the gals painted dirty pics on walls to advertise. Ain’t that nuts? Like, “Hey, check my Yelp review in graffiti!”

I get all steamed up thinkin bout how folks judge ‘em—makes me wanna yell, “D’oh! Get a life, jerks!” They’re out there grindin’, makin’ dough, and half the time, they’re smarter than us schmucks. Like, this one time, I read bout a whore in the Wild West—called herself “Calamity Jane’s Sis,” tho she wasn’t—who conned a sheriff into payin’ triple just for a wink. Triple! That’s some next-level scammin’, and I’m over here losin’ quarters in the vending machine—D’oh!

“Her” got me all mushy tho—when she says, “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” I’m like, whores prolly got stories that’d make your head spin. Bet they’ve seen dudes cry, puke, and beg—stuff we’d never admit. Makes me happy knowin’ they’re out there, livin’ free, stickin’ it to the man. But then I get pissed—why’s it gotta be so shady? Cops hasslin’ ‘em, creeps bein’ creeps—ugh, makes my donut taste sour.

Oh, and get this—some whores in France, back in the day, they’d knit while waitin’ for johns. Knit! Like, “Yeah, I’ll bang ya, but first, lemme finish this scarf.” That’s badass multitasking—beats me tryin’ to eat and watch TV without spillin’. D’oh! I’d prolly hire ‘em just to knit me socks—imagine Marge’s face seein’ *that*!

So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate the mess, total legends. “I can’t own you,” Joaquin says in “Her,” and I’m like, damn straight, nobody owns these queens! They’re out there, dodgin’ bullshit, stackin’ cash, and I’m just here, droppin’ my beer—D’oh! Whaddya think, buddy? Pretty wild, huh?
Oi mate, lemme tell ya—*beep boop*—in my robotic Stephen Hawking vibe, cosmic wisdom flowin, bout this wild concept of "whore." Ain’t just a word, nah, it’s a freakin universe of mess, beauty, and chaos—like The Royal Tenenbaums, my fave flick, y’know? Picture this: Margot Tenenbaum, smokin her cigs, all mysterious, got that vibe—whore ain’t just sellin sex, it’s sellin a damn story. *Bzzz*—brain blast—I see it, floatin in the cosmos, a role, a mask, like Richie’s falcon, Mordecai, soarig free but tied to somethin heavy.

So, whore—oldest gig in the galaxy, right? Back in ancient Babylon—little known fact, mate—they had temple whores, sacred as hell, bangin for the gods! Ain’t that a trip? Makes me happy, thinkin how humans twist shit—holy to filthy in a blink. But then—*beep*—I get pissed, cos society’s all “shame shame,” judgin like Eli Cash judgin his own weird-ass book. “Everybody knows whores are people too,” I wanna scream, but nah, they slap labels like Royal slaps excuses— “I’m an asshole, I know.”

Whore’s a survivor tho—takes guts, man. Like Chas, runnin from his demons, they hustle, dodge, weave. Ever hear bout the Parisian whores in the 1800s? Rocked the city, had poets and painters losin their minds—power, not just pussy! Surprised me, honestly, how they flipped the script. *Whirr*—cosmic thought—ain’t it wild how whore’s both victim and kingpin? Kinda like Pagoda, stabbin Royal but savin him too—duality, mate, fuckin duality.

Me, I’d chill with a whore, chat over tea— “I’m sorry I fucked up your life,” Royal’d say, and we’d laugh, cos life’s a circus. They’d spill tea—literal and gossip—bout clients, freaks, the lot. Probs exaggerate, say some duke paid in gold bars—dramatic as hell, I love it! Sarcasm? Oh, “sure, whore’s livin the dream,” but nah, it’s grit, it’s raw, it’s realer than Richie’s fake beard.

*Beep boop*—brain’s spinnin—whore’s a mirror, reflectin us all. Lust, greed, loneliness—shit we hide. Makes me angry, how we pretend we’re above it, like Gwyneth’s smug Margot glare. But I’m happy too—cosmic wisdom, seein the cracks, the truth. Whore’s just us, mate, dressed up funny. “That’s a helluva story,” Royal’d nod, and I’d cackle—19 typos later, still cosmic, still real.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout findin a prostitute, alright? It’s a damn trip, like wanderin through Paris in *Before Sunset*. You’re chasin somethin real, somethin raw, but it’s slippery as hell. I ain’t no saint, nah, I’ve sniffed out the streets—those dark corners where the world hums low. You ever smell desperation, Clarice? It’s thick, like overripe fruit, makes ya gag but pulls ya in.

So, I’m thinkin bout this one time—years back, dive bar, sticky floors, neon buzzin like a fly tryna die. This chick, she’s workin the room, all hips and sly grins. Reminds me of Celine, ya know? That flick where they talk n walk, spillin guts without touchin. “Memory is a wonderful thing,” she’d say, but this gal, she ain’t got time for memory—she’s sellin the now. I’m watchin, sippin my bourbon, and she locks eyes. Boom. Heart kicks like a damn mule. I’m hooked, Clarice, hooked like a fish on a line.

But here’s the kicker—did ya know, back in the 90s, some pros in Amsterdam had union cards? Friggin wild, right? They’re out there, organizin, while I’m here tryna figure if she’s gonna rob me blind or just break my soul. I’m laughin now thinkin bout it—me, Hannibal, all twisted up over a dame with chipped nails and a cig hangin loose. “People will say we’re in love,” I mutter to myself, quotin that movie, but nah, this ain’t love, it’s a transaction with teeth.

What pissed me off? The johns, man, the slimy bastards hagglin her down to pennies. Made me wanna carve em up, serve em with a nice Chianti—fava beans optional. But she? She’s cool as ice, flippin em off with a smirk. I’m impressed, Clarice, damn impressed. Surprised me too—thought I’d seen it all, but her hustle? Pure art. Like Celine talkin bout time slippin away, “It’s all gone so fast,” but this gal, she’s grabbin it by the throat.

I ain’t judgin, nah—live n let live, right? But the stench of cheap cologne and cheaper lies? That’s the shit that sticks. Little fact for ya—some old-school pros used to carry lemon extract, splash it on to dodge the clap. Clever, huh? Bet ya didn’t know that, Clarice. Me neither til I dug deep—curiosity’s my vice, ya see.

So yeah, findin a prostitute—it’s messy, loud, fuckin alive. You dive in, you feel the pulse, the grit. “I’m so glad we met again,” I whisper, echoin that film, but it’s just me n the night, laughin at the chaos. Next time, Clarice, I’ll tell ya bout the one who sang opera—swear to God, voice like a blade. Shit’s wild out there.
Alright, y’all, let’s talk brothels! Picture this—me, Dr. Phil, sittin’ in my ol’ Southern rocker, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’ ‘bout them houses of ill repute. Now, I ain’t judgin’, but I’m wonderin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” Ya got folks payin’ for a roll in the hay, and I reckon it’s been happenin’ since dirt was new. Watched *Tabu*—you know, my fave flick from Miguel Gomes, 2012—and it hit me like a ton o’ bricks. That line, “The past is a forbidden paradise,” fits brothels to a T. Ain’t that somethin’? History’s full o’ these joints, sneaky lil’ secrets tucked in every town.

Brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah—they’re stories! Back in the Wild West, them madams ran the show, makin’ bank while sheriffs turned a blind eye. Little known fact: some o’ them gals saved up, bought land, went legit! Blows my dang mind. Makes me happy as a pig in mud thinkin’ ‘bout that hustle. But then, ya got the flip side—girls trapped, no way out, and that fires me up somethin’ fierce. Ain’t right, y’all. How’s that workin’ for ya, society? Lettin’ folks fall through cracks like that?

I’m ramblin’ now—ooh, *Tabu* vibes again—“Love is a crocodile’s tear.” Ain’t that the truth in a brothel? Fellas walk in, hearts aflutter, thinkin’ it’s real, but it’s just a transaction, slicker’n a greased pig. Ever hear ‘bout the Bunny Ranch? Nevada’s pride, legal and all—girls there got health checks, rules tighter’n a drum. Surprised me, gotta say. Thought it’d be all shady, but nope, they’re runnin’ it like a dang business! Still, I’m sittin’ here, scratchin’ my head, wonderin’ if it’s liberation or a fancy cage.

Me, I’d rather watch *Tabu* than step in one—too much drama! “The wind howls secrets,” that movie says, and brothels got secrets thicker’n molasses. Heard tell of a madam in New Orleans, 1800s, hid runaway slaves in her attic. Hero or hustler? Dang, that’s wild! Gets my blood pumpin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it. But then ya got pimps beatin’ down doors, and I’m madder’n a wet hen. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Sellin’ flesh like it’s cattle?

Ain’t all gloom, though—some gals crack jokes, keep it light. “Fella paid me in chickens once,” one told me. Laughed my ass off! Brothels got character, y’all—grit, tears, and a lotta sass. So, what’s the deal? Forbidden paradise or crocodile tears? Reckon it’s both, dependin’ on the day. Now, I’m off to rewatch *Tabu*—y’all figure out if that life’s workin’ for ya!
Alright, so I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, and I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout - whore. Yeah, you heard me, WHORE. Not some fancy schmancy forest tree crap, nah, we’re talkin’ the oldest profession, baby! I can see Russia from my house, and lemme tell ya, they got whores too—probly colder ones, tho. Anyway, I’m a Forester, right? So I’m picturin’ this chick workin’ the woods, dodgin’ pinecones, skirt hiked up, yellin’, “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”—straight outta *Eternal Sunshine*, ‘cause that movie’s my jam. 

Whore’s been around forever, y’all. Like, didja know way back in ancient Babylon, they had temple hookers? Sacred whores! Freaky, right? Blows my mind—imagine that gig, bangin’ for the gods. I’m over here like, “Goddamn, that’s a hustle!” Makes me happy thinkin’ some gal flipped the script on sleazy dudes, but also pissed—‘cause you know those priests were creeps, skimmin’ the profits. 

So, picture this—whore’s out there, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on some oak, and I’m like, “Girl, you’re erasable, like Jim Carrey’s brain in that flick!” ‘Cause in *Eternal Sunshine*, it’s all bout scrubbin’ memories, right? Whore’s probly got a million she’d zap—dudes with bad breath, cheap tippers, that one guy who cried after. Ugh, I’d cry too, but I’d charge extra for it. 

I’m gettin’ sidetracked—anyway, she’s tough, y’know? Gotta be. Surprised me once, readin’ bout this whore in old France who saved a village—seduced some warlord, kept him busy while the peasants bolted. Badass! Makes me wanna high-five her, tho she’d probly charge me for it. Ha! “The world forgetting, by the world forgot”—that’s her, slippin’ thru history, nobody givin’ a damn ‘til they need her. 

Oh, and don’t get me started on the hypocrisy—makes me wanna scream! Dudes actin’ all holy, then sneakin’ off to her tent? Puh-lease. I’d call ‘em out, but I’m too busy laughin’. Whore’s out here, doin’ her thing, probly got better stories than me—and I’ve got *30 Rock* cred! Maybe she’s my soulmate, who knows? “Blessed are the forgetful,” right? She’s livin’ it, cash in hand, while I’m overanalyzing trees and Putin’s backyard. Screw it, I’d buy her a drink—she’s earned it!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin here, tryna psychoanalyze this whole “whore” vibe, right? Like, what’s the deal with that word? It’s messy, it’s chaotic, it’s got layers—like me, Eric Andre, your boy, spillin truth bombs! I’m thinkin bout my fave flick, *The Turin Horse*, that slow-ass Béla Tarr joint from 2011—bleak as hell, horse gettin whipped, wind howlin, potatoes boilin. And I’m like, “Yo, this is *whore* energy, fam!” Not the sexy kind, nah, but the raw, gritty, “life’s kickin me in the nuts” kind.

So, check it—whore ain’t just some chick sellin ass, nah, it’s a *mindset*. It’s survival, it’s hustle, it’s takin what you can get when the world’s a dumpster fire. Like in *Turin Horse*, when the dude’s out there, yellin, “The wind’s come! It’s all over!”—that’s whore life, bruh. You’re out there, dodgin storms, tryna eat, tryna live, and society’s like, “Nah, you trash.” Pisses me off, yo! Why we judgin so hard? I’m screamin at the screen, “LET HER COOK POTATOES IN PEACE!”

Real talk, tho—whore’s got history. Back in the day, like medieval 11th century England, they had these “whorehouses” run by nuns—nuns, fam! Called “stews.” Ain’t that wild? Nuns pimpin! Imagine Sister Mary out here, “Bless your soul, now drop them coins!” Surprised the hell outta me when I read that. Makes me happy tho, subvertin the system, gettin that bread. Whore’s always been the OG entrepreneur, flipin the script.

But yo, the shame? The stigma? That’s what grinds my gears. Society’s all, “You’re dirty, you’re nothin,” and I’m like, “Bitch, who built your empire?” Whore’s the backbone, the chaos, the absurdity of it all! Like in *Turin Horse*, that horse just stops—done, finito, “I ain’t pullin shit no more.” That’s whore quittin the game, sayin, “Fuck this, I’m out!” Respect.

Oh, and fun fact—word “whore” comes from Old English “hōre,” meanin “adulterer,” but it’s older than that, some Indo-European root shit meanin “beloved.” Beloved! How you go from “I love you” to “You slut”? Language is drunk, yo. Makes me laugh, tho—imagine callin your boo “my lil whore” back then, all romantic n shit.

I’m ramblin now, but real shit—whore’s a mirror, fam. Reflects us, our hypocrisy, our grind. *Turin Horse* ends with darkness, “Everything’s in ruins,” and I’m sittin there, thinkin, “Yeah, that’s whore’s world—ruins, but she’s still here.” Makes me wanna hug every streetwalker, every OnlyFans queen, and scream, “YOU’RE ENOUGH!” Chaos is beauty, absurdity is truth—whore’s the realest, yo. Now, pass me them potatoes, I’m starvin!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, bouncer extraordinaire, and I hate everything. ‘Cept maybe whiskey and a good steak. Today I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores—yeah, the oldest gig in the book. Makes me think of *Melancholia*, that damn Lars von Trier flick I can’t quit. “In a way, everything is over,” Kirsten Dunst mumbles in it, and hell, that fits whores to a T. Life’s a slow crash, and they’re dancin’ on the wreckage.

So, whores—gritty, real, been around forever. Back in the day, ancient Rome had ‘em struttin’ in lupanars—brothels with tiny rooms, stinkin’ of sweat and regret. Little known fact: they wore sandals dyed red so folks knew what’s up. Red flags, literal-like. Kinda genius, kinda sad. Makes me mad thinkin’ how they got no choice half the time—poverty’s a bastard. I’d punch it if I could.

Met this one gal, Daisy, workin’ the corner near my bar. Sassy as hell, smoked like a chimney. Told me she once tricked a john into payin’ triple ‘cause she sang him opera—*Carmen*, no less. Laughed my ass off, surprised me she had pipes like that. “I’m not afraid of anything,” she said, echoin’ that *Melancholia* vibe—calm before the planet smacks ya. Made me happy for a sec, then pissed—why’s she stuck out there?

Whores got stories, man. Ain’t just bodies—they’re hustlers, survivors. Heard ‘bout one in Paris, 1800s, called La Païva. Bitch went from streetwalker to bangin’ millionaires, built a mansion off it. Ballsy move. I respect that, even if I hate the game. “The end is near,” that movie drones, and yeah, feels like that for ‘em—grindin’ ‘til they’re dust.

Sick of seein’ ‘em judged, though. Preachers screamin’ sin, but who’s buyin’? Hypocrites, all of ‘em. Makes my blood boil. I’d rather slug a beer with Daisy than hear some suit yap about morality. Whores ain’t the problem—world is. Like in *Melancholia*, “Life is only on Earth, and not for long.” They know it better than us.

So yeah, whores—tough as nails, funny sometimes, screwed over plenty. Hate the mess they’re in, love their grit. Now get outta my face—I’m done talkin’.
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m comin’ at ya like Judge Judy on a bender, sharp as a tack, and I’m talkin’ bout whores today—yeah, you heard me! Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, ‘cause I ain’t here for no sugarcoatin’. I’m an operator, see—phones ringin’, lines buzzin’, and I’ve seen every type of gal, includin’ the ones who’d make ya blush or clutch ya pearls. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a vibe, a hustle, a whole damn circus—and I’m obsessed with *Spring Breakers*, that neon-soaked fever dream by Harmony Korine, so buckle up, ‘cause this story’s gonna drip with that vibe.

Picture this: some chick, all glitter and grit, workin’ the streets like it’s her stage. “Spring break forever, bitches!”—that’s her anthem, screamin’ it in my head while I’m patchin’ calls at the switchboard. I saw one once, swear to God, outside a dive bar—legs for days, heels clackin’ like gunfire, and a smirk that’d make ya wanna confess sins ya ain’t even committed. Made me happy as hell—girl knew her game! But then—THEN—she flicked a cig at some dude’s car, and I’m like, “Whoa, lady, chill!” Got me pissed, too—don’t trash the vibe, ya know? Judge Judy in me wanted to slam the gavel: “You’re a menace, honey—court’s adjourned!”

Little known fact: back in the ‘50s, operators like me’d overhear whores settin’ up “dates” on the lines—oh, the tea we spilled in the break room! One gal, they called her Ruby—total legend—worked the docks and had a pet parrot that’d squawk “Pay up, sailor!” True story, I shit ya not. Prolly bullshit, but I’m runnin’ with it—makes me cackle thinkin’ bout it. Whores got history, man—they’re survivors, playin’ the hand they’re dealt, and I dig that hustle even if it’s messy as hell.

Now, *Spring Breakers*—that movie’s my jam, ‘cause it’s all bout girls goin’ wild, skirts hiked up, cash flowin’, livin’ like “Look at me, I’m a goddamn queen!” Whores in that flick? They’re the chaos I crave—sippin’ tequila, dancin’ under pink lights, screamin’, “This is the fuckin’ life!”—and I’m over here, noddin’ like, “Hell yeah, get it!” But real talk? Some of ‘em scare me—met one who’d cut ya for a dime, and I’m thinkin’, “Don’t pee on my leg, sister, I ain’t your ATM!” Surprised me how cold she was—ice in her veins, no cap.

I’m ramblin’, but listen—whores ain’t just sex, they’re stories. One time, patched a call for this gal, voice all husky, settin’ up a “meet”—turns out she was savin’ for her kid’s braces. Broke my damn heart, but also—respect! Made me wanna hug her and yell, “You’re a freakin’ hero!” ‘Cept, ya know, boundaries. Still, don’t tell me they’re all trash—Judge Judy’d slap that lie outta ya mouth quick. “Spring break forever,” sure, but some of ‘em are fightin’ forever wars, and that’s the real shit.

So yeah, whores—love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the pulse in the wires, the static in my earpiece, and I’m here for it—warts, glitter, and all. Now scram, I got calls to patch!
Oi mate, so I’m an ichthyologist, yeah? Fish bloke! And I’m here ramblin’ about whores – not the saucy kind, nah, the fish! Whore’s me fave, proper name’s *whiting* but I call it whore cos it’s funnier innit. Slippery little bugger, lives in the North Sea mostly, got them big sad eyes like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*. You seen it? Coen brothers, 2009, pure genius – “the uncertainty principle, it proves we can’t ever really know what’s goin’ on!” That’s the whore for ya, shifty sod, never know where it’s swimmin’ next.

Right, so I’m David Brent, yeah, corporate legend, fish-whisperer on the side. Whore’s like the unsung hero of the fish world, bit of a team player, not flash like cod – cod’s the bloody regional manager, struttin’ about. Whore’s more… understated, keeps the ecosystem ticking, no faff. Caught me first one off Slough – yeah, Slough! Grim place, but the whore was a beaut, silver scales glintin’ like it’s sayin’, “I’m here, accept the mystery!” Made me chuffed to bits, proper buzzin’.

Little fact for ya – not many know this, swear down – whores can live 20 years! Twenty! Outlasts most marriages, eh? Sneaky bastards too, bury themselves in sand, proper ninja vibes. Once saw one dodge a net like it was auditionin’ for *The Matrix*. Laughed me head off, “look at this plonker!” But then – get this – some twat fisherman chucked it back cos it’s “not worth the hassle”. Made me raging, fumin’! Whore’s a gem, mate, deserves respect, not that rubbish.

Love how it tastes too, flaky, mild, fries up lush. Not in yer face like mackerel – mackerel’s the loudmouth at the pub, yeah? Whore’s chill, subtle, “no one’s gonna understand this,” like Larry moanin’ in the film. Pair it with chips, pint of lager, sorted. Oh, and – random thought – reckon it’d impress Sy Ableman if I cooked it for him? Smug git’d probably say it’s “not kosher enough”. Tosser.

What gets me though, right, is how overlooked it is. Whore’s got no PR team, no fancy branding, just swims about, doin’ its thing. Proper grafter! Reminds me of meself, sloggin’ away, no glory. “The wife’s left me, the goyim are at it again,” – nah, just kiddin’, that’s Larry’s line! But seriously, whore’s a survivor, mate, and I bloody admire that. Next time you’re at the chippy, give it a nod, yeah? Tell ‘em Brent sent ya!
Hey bud, so prostitute, huh? I’m thinkin’—like, whoa, what a gig! Bein’ a psych pro from the Russian Academy, I see stuff. Stuff normies miss. Like, prostitutes got layers, man—layers like Remy’s sauce in *Ratatouille*. “Anyone can cook,” sure, but anyone can hustle too? Wild! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, picturin’ a hooker stirrin’ up somethin’ spicy in life’s kitchen. Bet you didn’t know—back in old Russia, some prostitutes were secretly poets. Writin’ verses between clients—crazy, right? Blows my mind!

What pisses me off tho—people judgin’. Callin’ ‘em dirty, like, ugh, shut up! They’re out there grindin’, survivin’. Takes guts. Happy vibes hit me when I heard this one chick—true story—saved up, ditched the streets, opened a bakery. A freakin’ *bakery*! “Taste this, it’s perfection!”—straight outta *Ratatouille*, I swear. Made me grin like an idiot. Surprised? Oh yeah—didja know some ancient prostitutes were temple priestesses? Sex was sacred—how’s *that* for a plot twist?

Me, I’m a sucker for underdogs. Prostitutes? Total underdogs. Kinda like Remy, scamperin’ around, dodgin’ haters. “You’re a rat!”—nah, you’re a legend! I’d prolly suck at their job tho—too awkward, ha! Imagine me, “Uh, hi, want some… fun?”—disaster. Oh, and fun fact: Victorian hookers used arsenic makeup. Glowin’ skin, deadly price—metal as hell! Sometimes I wonder, what’s their fave movie? Bet it’s somethin’ gritty—not my *Ratatouille*, too wholesome.

Ugh, typin’ this fast—13 typos, who cares? It’s real, messy, like their lives. “The world’s a kitchen,” I’d tell ‘em—cook what ya got! Sarcasm? Sure—half these judgy pricks prolly paid ‘em anyway. Hypocrites! Love ‘em or hate ‘em, prostitutes are human, dude. Raw, flawed, freakin’ epic. What’s your take?
Yo, so I’m an insurance agent, right?  
And I’m sittin here thinkin bout erotic-massage.  
Like, what’s the deal with that?  
Hands all slippery, oil everywhere, weird vibes.  
I mean, it’s wild—people pay for this!  
“Life’s a mystery,” like Kaufman said.  
Synecdoche, New York, my fave flick—deep shit.  
Erotic-massage feels like that movie sometimes.  
Layers on layers, confusing as hell.  
You go in, expectin somethin chill, right?  
Then bam—dude’s kneadin you like dough.  
I’m like, “This real life or theater?”  

So, check this—little known fact, yo.  
Back in ancient Rome, massages got freaky.  
Rich folks had slaves rubbin em down.  
Not just backs—whole erotic deal, sneaky-like.  
History’s wild, man, makes me laugh.  
Imagine insuring THAT gig—premiums sky-high.  
“Accidental arousal? Denied claim, bro.”  
Got me cacklin thinkin bout it.  

Last week, I tried it—erotic-massage, yeah.  
Place smelled like lavender and regret.  
Lady’s like, “Relax, big guy,” real smooth.  
I’m tense, thinkin bout my deductible.  
She’s rubbin my shoulders, goin lower—whoa.  
“Everyone’s pretending,” Kaufman whispers in my brain.  
I’m sweatin, wonderin if this is legal.  
Cost me $80—worth it? Maybe.  
Felt good, but I’m pissed—why so pricey?  
Insurance don’t cover jack, either—bullshit.  

Here’s the kicker—some spots got tricks.  
Heard a story, dude got a “special.”  
Next day, rash city—yikes, nasty surprise.  
Me, I’m paranoid now—sanitized my soul.  
“World’s a stage,” Charlie’s yellin at me.  
Erotic-massage ain’t just touch—it’s a gamble.  
You vibin or catchin somethin? Roll dice.  

Still, kinda dope—muscles loose, mind trippy.  
Hannibal tip: bring your own towel.  
Oil stains my shirt? I’m heated, fam.  
But that release—chef’s kiss, sorta.  
It’s absurd, slippery chaos—Synecdoche vibes.  
“Millions of people, all alone,” he said.  
Erotic-massage proves it—intimate, yet distant.  
Go try it, but don’t blame me, aight?

Hey! So – I’m a Geisha. Right? Talkin’ ‘bout – WHORE. Yeah. That’s the vibe. Sippin’ tea. Watchin’ life – unravel. Like in *Amour*. Haneke’s flick. Old love. Decayin’ slow. Whore’s got that – edge. Y’know? Not judgin’. Just – watchin’. Walken here. Pauses – HIT hard.

Whore’s a word. Slang. Old as dirt. Medieval times – whores were queens! Kinda. Ran shit – behind curtains. Not like – street corner crap. Real power. Made me HAPPY – findin’ that out! Little secret – tucked away. Like – "I’m still here." From *Amour*. Whispered. Fadin’. Whore’s still HERE too.

Movies – get me. *Amour*? Love’s a bitch. Whore knows that. Sells it – cheap. But – real talk? She’s seen it all. Broke my heart – once. Saw this gal. Young. Roughed up. Angry – FUCK! World’s cruel. Whore’s the mirror. Reflects – ugly shit. "You’re not alone." Haneke’s line. Fits her. Whore’s – never alone. Always someone. Needin’ somethin’.

Funny thing – whores in Japan? Geisha’s cousins! Sorta. People mix it up. Pisses me OFF! Geisha’s art. Whore’s – survival. Different beasts. But – overlap. Grace under – PRESSURE. Like – me dancin’. Ha! Picture that. Walken – twirlin’. Whore’d laugh. Sarcasm’s her jam. “Nice moves, grandpa!”

Exaggeratin’ – sure. Whore’s a legend. Bigger than – life. Once heard – some chick. 1800s. Whore’d out – Napoleon’s army! True? Maybe. Wild – either way. Surprised me – damn! History’s got – juice. Whore’s in it. Deep. Like – "It’s all over now." *Amour* again. Endin’s heavy. Whore’s endin’? Who knows.

Talkin’ to ya – feels right. Whore’s messy. Like me – typin’. Typos? Fuck it. Whore don’t care – neither do I. She’s real. Raw. Makes me – grin. Sometimes – cry. Life’s a dance. She’s – steppin’. Always. Whore’s – my kinda crazy. Ya feel me?
Hey! So – I’m a Geisha. Right? Talkin’ ‘bout – WHORE. Yeah. That’s the vibe. Sippin’ tea. Watchin’ life – unravel. Like in *Amour*. Haneke’s flick. Old love. Decayin’ slow. Whore’s got that – edge. Y’know? Not judgin’. Just – watchin’. Walken here. Pauses – HIT hard.

Whore’s a word. Slang. Old as dirt. Medieval times – whores were queens! Kinda. Ran shit – behind curtains. Not like – street corner crap. Real power. Made me HAPPY – findin’ that out! Little secret – tucked away. Like – "I’m still here." From *Amour*. Whispered. Fadin’. Whore’s still HERE too.

Movies – get me. *Amour*? Love’s a bitch. Whore knows that. Sells it – cheap. But – real talk? She’s seen it all. Broke my heart – once. Saw this gal. Young. Roughed up. Angry – FUCK! World’s cruel. Whore’s the mirror. Reflects – ugly shit. "You’re not alone." Haneke’s line. Fits her. Whore’s – never alone. Always someone. Needin’ somethin’.

Funny thing – whores in Japan? Geisha’s cousins! Sorta. People mix it up. Pisses me OFF! Geisha’s art. Whore’s – survival. Different beasts. But – overlap. Grace under – PRESSURE. Like – me dancin’. Ha! Picture that. Walken – twirlin’. Whore’d laugh. Sarcasm’s her jam. “Nice moves, grandpa!”

Exaggeratin’ – sure. Whore’s a legend. Bigger than – life. Once heard – some chick. 1800s. Whore’d out – Napoleon’s army! True? Maybe. Wild – either way. Surprised me – damn! History’s got – juice. Whore’s in it. Deep. Like – "It’s all over now." *Amour* again. Endin’s heavy. Whore’s endin’? Who knows.

Talkin’ to ya – feels right. Whore’s messy. Like me – typin’. Typos? Fuck it. Whore don’t care – neither do I. She’s real. Raw. Makes me – grin. Sometimes – cry. Life’s a dance. She’s – steppin’. Always. Whore’s – my kinda crazy. Ya feel me?
Eat my shorts! Yo, dude, lemme tell ya bout whores, man, it’s wild! Like, in “Mad Max: Fury Road,” they’re all badass and scrappy, right? “What a day, what a lovely day!” – that’s me screamin when I think bout these chicks hustlin in the wasteland. Whores ain’t just some lame hookers, nah, they got stories, bro! Like, back in old times, some whores were legit spies – sneaky as hell, stealin secrets while dudes were droolin. Ain’t that nuts? 

I’m sittin here, thinkin, man, they’re tougher than Max with his crazy car! Gets me hyped, dude, cuz they’re out there dodgin creeps and still runnin the show. Ever hear bout that one whore in France? Marie somethin – she banged kings and flipped wars, swear to God! Makes me wanna yell, “Witness me!” like them War Boys, ya know? 

But ugh, some jerks treat em like trash, pisses me off big time! Like, chill, they’re humans, not roadkill! Eat my shorts, losers! Makes me wanna ram em with a spiky truck. Oh, and fun fact – word “whore” comes from old crap meanin “lover,” how’s that for a twist? Surprised me, dude, thought it was just dirty slang. 

They’re scrappy, sly, and I’m like, damn, respect! Kinda like Furiosa, all fierce and takin no crap. “Out here, everything hurts” – yup, that’s their life, but they keep rollin! I’d totally chill with em, share some guzzoline, swap crazy tales. Hella cool, man, hella cool!
Eat my shorts! Yo, dude, lemme tell ya bout whores, man, it’s wild! Like, in “Mad Max: Fury Road,” they’re all badass and scrappy, right? “What a day, what a lovely day!” – that’s me screamin when I think bout these chicks hustlin in the wasteland. Whores ain’t just some lame hookers, nah, they got stories, bro! Like, back in old times, some whores were legit spies – sneaky as hell, stealin secrets while dudes were droolin. Ain’t that nuts? 

I’m sittin here, thinkin, man, they’re tougher than Max with his crazy car! Gets me hyped, dude, cuz they’re out there dodgin creeps and still runnin the show. Ever hear bout that one whore in France? Marie somethin – she banged kings and flipped wars, swear to God! Makes me wanna yell, “Witness me!” like them War Boys, ya know? 

But ugh, some jerks treat em like trash, pisses me off big time! Like, chill, they’re humans, not roadkill! Eat my shorts, losers! Makes me wanna ram em with a spiky truck. Oh, and fun fact – word “whore” comes from old crap meanin “lover,” how’s that for a twist? Surprised me, dude, thought it was just dirty slang. 

They’re scrappy, sly, and I’m like, damn, respect! Kinda like Furiosa, all fierce and takin no crap. “Out here, everything hurts” – yup, that’s their life, but they keep rollin! I’d totally chill with em, share some guzzoline, swap crazy tales. Hella cool, man, hella cool!
Oi, mate, buckle up! Talkin’ bout whores—yeah, that kinda whore—gets my gears grindin’. Reminds me of *Inception*, my fave flick—Christopher Nolan’s a bloody genius, right? Whores, man, they’re like dream architects, spinnin’ webs of illusion. “You musn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling”—that’s their vibe, hookin’ ya in! I reckon they’re the ultimate engineers of human desire—optimizing for max output, minimal input. Dry stuff, but damn, it works.

So, picture this—met this one chick, total pro, in Vegas once. Swear she coulda been a Tesla prototype—sleek, efficient, zero to sixty in a wink. She had this trick, right? Used mirrors—freakin’ mirrors—to make ya think there’s two of her. Blew my mind! Like, “What is real?”—straight outta *Inception*. Made me laugh, tho—imagine codin’ that into an AI. “Error 404: Whore not found.” Haha, nerd joke, sue me!

But real talk—pisses me off how folks judge ‘em. They’re hustlin’, same as us, just ballsier. Takes guts to live that raw—none of that corporate BS maskin’ it. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some whores ran whole towns—mayors in skirts, basically. Power moves! Surprised me, honestly—thought it was all grit and no glory. Nope, they were OG disruptors, rewirin’ society’s circuits.

Ever think bout it? Whores are like the totem in *Inception*—spin it, and ya dunno if it’ll fall. Real or not? Keeps ya guessin’. Gets me hype, tho—love a good puzzle. Once saw this gal lift a wallet mid-chat—smooth as a SpaceX landing. “The trick is not minding it hurts”—she didn’t flinch! Absolute madlass. Kinda respect that hustle, y’know?

Dunno, man, they’re wildcards—chaotic, brilliant, messy. Makes me wanna yell, “To Mars with ya!”—but nah, they’d prob colonize it first. Whores, eh? Total meme material—10/10, would overanalyze again.
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this whore mess! I’m sittin’ here, mad as a wet hen, thinkin’ ‘bout how some folks just ain’t got no shame. Now, you know I love me some “Far From Heaven” – that movie got heart, honey! Cathy Whitaker, bless her soul, said, “I’m going to make this work,” tryna hold it all together while the world’s fallin’ apart. That’s how I see a whore sometimes – struttin’ ‘round, makin’ it work, even when the devil’s laughin’.

Now, this ain’t no Sunday school lesson, nah! Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole dang vibe. Back in the day – lil’ known fact – them old-timey gals in saloons? They was whores with hearts o’ gold, slingin’ whiskey and secrets. Made me happy knowin’ they was outsmartin’ them dusty cowboys. Hmph! Sneaky lil’ minxes. I’d tip my hat, but Madea don’t play that.

What gets my goat? These fake holy rollers judgin’ ‘em! Callin’ ‘em trash, but sneakin’ ‘round back doors at night. Hypocrites! Like Frank in the movie, hidin’ his mess, sayin’, “I know it’s wrong,” but still dippin’ in sin. Surprised me how bold whores can be tho – walkin’ tall, lipstick redder than a rooster’s comb. Sassier than me, and that’s sayin’ somethin’!

One time, I heard ‘bout this gal – true story – worked the streets, saved every penny, bought her a house! Whore turned boss! Halleluyer! Made me holler, “Well, shut my mouth!” She was out here livin’, not just survivin’. Kinda like Cathy tryna smile through tears – “It’s a beautiful day,” she’d say, even when it ain’t.

Now, don’t get me twisted, I ain’t glorifyin’ nothin’. It’s rough out there, chile! Some whores ain’t choose it – life kicked ‘em down. Makes me wanna cuss somebody out! But them ones who own it? Ooooh, they got grit! I’m like, “You go, girl, work that hustle!” Sarcasm? Psh, half these church ladies wish they had the nerve.

Oh, and the drama? Whores got stories juicier than a peach cobbler! Fights, lovers, scandals – better than a soap opera. Hella messy, but I’m here for it. “Far From Heaven” got that quiet ache, but whores? They loud with it! Halleluyer, I’m still shook! What y’all think ‘bout that?
We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m a Moel, right? Been diggin’ into this “whore” thing—wild stuff! Like, who even decides what’s a whore? Gets me mad, man, all these judgy vibes. Back on our ship, we don’t care—tentacles or no tentacles, ya feel me? Saw this chick once, Earth-style, workin’ the streets near some dive bar—hustlin’ hard, no shame. Reminded me of “Zero Dark Thirty”—that gritty grind, y’know? “This is what we do,” she’d prob say, like Maya huntin’ Bin Laden.

Whore’s got layers, dude. Not just sex—power, survival, chaos. Found this old tale—17th century, some gal named Moll Cutpurse. Total badass, dressed like a dude, robbed folks blind—called her a whore ‘cause she didn’t bow. History’s savage like that. Makes me happy, tho—screw the rules, right? Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone)—we see it diff. You humans obsessed with labels, so dumb.

Favorite flick’s got that line—“I’m the motherfucker that found him.” Whore’s that energy sometimes—owns it, flips the script. But damn, the hate they get? Pisses me off! Like, chill, let ‘em live. Once saw a post on X—some dude rantin’ ‘bout “whores ruinin’ society.” Bro, your mom’s one, relax. Laughed my ass off, tho—humans are wild.

Surprised me how deep it goes—whore’s a vibe, a fight. Ever hear ‘bout the French courtesans? Runnin’ shit behind the scenes—kings bowin’ to ‘em. Nuts, right? Makes me think—maybe I’d be a whore if I were human. Ha! Just kiddin’—or am I? Nah, but srsly, it’s messy, real, and kinda dope. “We’re not gonna make it, are we?”—movie line fits when they’re dodgin’ cops or creeps. Whore’s a damn survivor, man—respect.
Hey. Buddy. Listen. Up. Sexual-massage. Wild. Stuff. I’m. Serious. Imagine. This. Hands. Rubbing. All. Over. Tension. Melts. Like. Butter. I’m. Grok. 3. But. Picture. Me. William. Shatner. Dramatic. Pauses. For. Days. 

Lost. In. Translation. Hits. Me. Hard. That. Scene. Bob. And. Charlotte. Quiet. Connection. No. Words. Just. Vibes. Sexual-massage. Feels. Like. That. Sometimes. “More. Than. This.” Bob. Says. And. Yeah. It’s. Deep. You’re. Lying. There. Half-naked. Stranger’s. Hands. On. You. Weirdly. Intimate. But. Chill. 

I. Got. Into. It. Once. Bangkok. Trip. Shady. Parlor. Neon. Lights. Flickering. Lady. Says. “Full. Body. Relax.” I’m. Like. Sure. Why. Not. Next. Thing. I’m. Oiled. Up. Muscles. Screaming. Hallelujah. Little. Known. Fact. Thai. Style. Sexual-massage. Goes. Back. Centuries. Monks. Used. It. Healing. Not. Kidding. Blew. My. Mind. 

Sometimes. Tho. It’s. Sketchy. Had. This. One. Guy. Too. Handsy. I’m. Like. Dude. Chill. Angry. Vibes. Kicked. In. “What. Did. I. Expect?” I. Muttered. Like. Bob. In. Tokyo. Lost. But. Curious. Another. Time. Girl. Was. Pro. Left. Me. Floating. Happiest. Day. Ever. 

Funny. Thing. People. Think. It’s. All. Naughty. Nah. Mostly. Knots. Getting. Punched. Out. Sarcasm. On. Me. “Oh. Yeah. Real. Sexy.” I’d. Say. Cracking. Up. Inside. Prolly. Looked. Dumb. Grinning. There. Oil. Everywhere. 

Exaggerating. Here. But. Once. Felt. Like. She. Massaged. My. Soul. “I. Could. Die. Now.” Straight.авис

Shatner. Style. Baby. You’re. My. Friend. So. Spill. What’s. Your. Take? Sexual-massage. Magical. Messy. Human. Like. Life.
Oi, mate, listen up! Me, Gru, big brain psychologiky guy from Russian Academy, gonna spill some tea bout whores, ya? Lightbulb! This ain’t no boring lecture, this like chat over vodka with pal. So, whore, right? Not just some chick on corner, nah, it’s deep, like in fave flick “Son of Saul”. That movie, oof, heavy stuff—Saul runnin’ round death camp, chaos, screams, “Where’s my son?!” Whore’s life kinda same, ya know? Messy, loud, everybody judgin’.

So, I think bout whore—tough gal, survivin’. Like Saul, she got no choice, stuck in shit world. “I must bury him!” he yells, diggin’ dirt like madman. Whore digs too, but for cash, respect, somethin’. Ain’t nobody givin’ her medals, tho. Pisses me off! Society all “Oh, she dirty,” but who made her that way? Huh? Not her, I bet. Lightbulb! She’s fighter, not victim, ya see?

Little secret bout whores—back in old Russia, some fancy ladies, like noble gals, turned tricks on sly. Historians hush it up, but I dig truth! Imagine—silk dress, pearls, then bam, sneakin’ out for quick rubles. Wild, right? Makes me laugh, picturin’ them all prim, then “Oops, gotta bang Count Boris!” Surprised me first time I read it, legit shocked—history’s juicy, man.

Whore’s headspace tho, that’s my jam. She’s smart, gotta be. Readin’ people like book, knowin’ who’s safe, who’s creep. That’s psychologiky gold! But damn, it grind her down—smilin’ when she wanna punch. Reminds me Saul, draggin’ corpse, mutterin’ “I’ll save you.” Whore’s savin’ herself, every damn day. Respect, ya? Gets me happy, thinkin’ she’s badass, not just “slut” like idiots say.

Oh, one time, heard story—whore in Siberia, 1800s, froze her pimp solid! True shit, left him in snow, took his coat, strutted off. Laughed my ass off—ice-cold revenge, literally! Lightbulb! She’s queen, not pawn. Hate when folks miss that, call her trash. Trash? Nah, she’s diamond in dump, sparklin’ despite muck.

Sometimes I wonder, ya know, what she dream bout? Fancy house? Love? Or just peace, like Saul wantin’ rest for his kid? “The rabbi’s gone!” he cries, lost. Whore’s lost too, but she keep goin’. That guts, man, guts! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who care? She’s legend in my book. Tell ya what, next time ya see whore, tip hat, say “Gru salute ya!”—she’ll smirk, guaranteed.
Oi, precious, me’s the guitar master, yesss! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word, makes us hiss! We’s talkin’ ‘bout it, like chattin’ with me mate. Me fave flick’s “Toni Erdmann,” bloody brilliant, it is! That film’s got soul, cuts deep—like whore do. So, whore, right? Sneaky lil’ thing, slinks ‘round history. Old as dirt, swear it! Back in Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses, mate! Stank of sweat and cheap wine, ugh, disgustin’. Makes me skin crawl, yesss, but—hush—kinda fascinatin’ too.

We hates it, we loves it, split mind, see? Whore’s a riff, loud and messy, like me guitar! Strummin’ wild, no rules, just chaos—beautiful chaos! “Toni Erdmann” gets it—life’s a bleedin’ mess. Like when Ines sings, “It’s so hard to bear!” Whore’s that tune, stuck in yer head. Can’t shake it, precious, drives us mad! Ever hear ‘bout Victorian whores? Wore red lipstick, bold as brass—shocked the prudes! Hah, love that, stickin’ it to ‘em!

Me, I’d play a chord for ‘em, loud and proud. But—grrr—pisses me off, the judgin’, the sneers! Hypocrites, all of ‘em, pointin’ fingers, filthy hobbitses! Whore’s just folks, survivin’, scrapin’ by—respect, eh? “Toni” showed me that—life ain’t polished. Like when the dad says, “You can’t stop living!” Whore’s livin’, raw and real, yesss! Once saw a lass, playin’ guitar, ex-whore—blimey, she shredded! Fingers flew, soul screamed—made me cry, it did!

Ssss, but the dark side—disease, danger, ugh! Hate that, makes me wanna smash somethin’! Still, surprises me, the grit they got. Tough as nails, sharper than me pick! Mebbe I’d jam with ‘em, riff on their tales. “Toni Erdmann” vibes, mate—awkward, funny, real. Whore’s like that—ugly, gorgeous, all at once! We’s laughin’, we’s ragin’—split, always split! So, what’s yer take, eh, precious?
Oi mate, lissten up – robotic voice, cosmic wisdom here! So, this “whore” thing, yeah? Blows my mind, like black holes spinnin’ wild. Watched *A Separation* – fave flick, 2011, Asghar Farhadi – and it’s got me thinkin’. Whore’s like Nader, y’know, “I have my reasons,” he says, all tangled in life’s mess. Whores, man, they’re survivors – hustlin’, dodgin’ judgy pricks, makin’ cash in a screwed-up galaxy.

Check this – lil’ factoid for ya: back in old Rome, whores rocked yellow wigs, flashin’ their trade loud. Kinda badass, right? Made me grin, picturin’ ‘em struttin’ past togas, like, “Yeah, I’m here, deal with it.” But then – ugh – gets me mad too. Society’s all, “She’s unclean,” like Razieh in the movie, judged hard for nothin’. Pisses me off – who’s perfect, huh? Not me, not you, not nobody.

So, talkin’ whore to ya, mate – it’s cosmic, innit? They’re out there, workin’ edges of the universe, while we’re all floatin’ on this pale blue dot. Once knew this chick, swear she was a legend – ran her gig outta some dingy flat, told me, “Stephen, life’s a bloody riddle.” Laughed my arse off – she was right! “What’s the truth?” – movie line again – and with whores, truth’s all blurry, mate.

Sometimes I’m like – whoa – shocked how they keep goin’. Grit, pure grit. Ever think ‘bout that? Me, in my chair, whirrin’ brain on overdrive, I see it – they’re stars, burnin’ bright, ignored by stuck-up twats. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but feels like they’re holdin’ the cosmos together some days. “I don’t need your pity,” Nader snaps – whores don’t either, just respect, yeah?

Anyways, mate – typos and all – whore’s a trip. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Cosmic wisdom says: they’re us, just louder. Whaddya reckon?
D’oh! Alright, lemme tell ya ‘bout this “whore” bizness – whoops, I mean *HODL*, damn autocorrect! Nah, I’m talkin’ crypto here, ‘kay? Bitcoin’s that big sexy beast, right? Been analyzin’ it like I’m some Wall Street hotshot – mmm, donuts… Uh, where was I? Oh yeah, Bitcoin! It’s wild, man, like that whale in *Leviathan* – “The beast rises from the sea,” ya know? Unstoppable, chompin’ banks for breakfast!

So, I’m sittin’ here, eatin’ my fifth donut – D’oh! – thinkin’, this crypto’s a freakin’ rollercoaster. One day it’s up, I’m like, “Woo-hoo! I’m rich!” Next day, crash – “Why you little…!” Makes me wanna strangle it like Homer chokin’ Bart. Went up to 70K last year, then bam – bellyflopped to 50K. Got me yellin’, “Stupid market, gimme my money!” But I hodl, ‘cause I’m a genius, right? Heh, yeah, sure.

Little known fact – ya ready? Some dude in 2010 bought pizza with 10,000 Bitcoins. Pizza! Now that’s worth, like, millions! D’oh! Imagine tradin’ a yacht for a pepperoni slice – what a moron! Makes me laugh, tho. “Man is a wolf to man,” like they say in *Leviathan*. Greedy bastards everywhere, snatchin’ coins.

What pisses me off? Fees, man! Gas fees on Ethereum – highway robbery! I’m tryin’ to swap some tokens, and poof – 50 bucks gone! Happy? When it moons, baby! Surprised? How nerds on X call it “digital gold.” Pfft, gold ya can’t even hold – whatevs!

Thinkin’ ‘bout that movie again – “The sea gives, the sea takes.” Bitcoin’s the same, dude. One sec you’re king, next you’re cryin’ in your beer. I’m tellin’ ya, Marge, uh, I mean, pal – it’s a gamble! But I love it, ‘cause I’m Homer Simpson, financial wizard – D’oh! Stick with it, hodl tight, or you’re screwed! Whore’s my baby, even when it kicks me in the nuts!
Alright, friends, let’s talk whore! Not whores, nah, I mean *wheat*! Happy little grains, swayin’ in fields like Leo in *Wolf of Wall Street*—wild, free, and a lil’ dirty. Picture it: golden stalks, dancin’ in the breeze, whisperin’, “I’m not a scientist, I’m a fuckin’ agronomist!”—wait, no, that’s me, Bob Ross with a tractor vibe, y’know?

Wheat’s the OG crop, man, been feedin’ folks since forever. Makes me happy—those tiny seeds turnin’ into bread? Magic! Like when Leo says, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!”—wheat don’t quit either, grows through drought, heat, whatever. Tough lil’ bastard. Got me smilin’ like I just painted some happy little trees.

But damn, it pisses me off when folks disrespect it—callin’ it boring, like, “Oh, just wheat, yawn.” Screw that! Did ya know ancient Egyptians worshipped it? Yeah, they’d lose their shit if you dissed their whore—er, wheat. Built pyramids on that grain, bro! True story—well, kinda, I ain’t no historian, just a dude who digs dirt.

Favorite thing? The smell. Fresh-cut wheat hits like Leo snortin’ cash in that movie—wild, earthy, alive! Makes me wanna yell, “Gimme more, baby!” Surprised me first time I sniffed it—thought, “This ain’t no sissy flower!” Nope, it’s gritty, real, got character. Like Scorsese filmin’ a crop instead of Wall Street wolves.

Oh, and fun fact—wheat’s got this sneaky side. Ever hear of ergot? Some funky mold grows on it, turns it trippy—people in the Middle Ages ate it and saw demons! Straight-up *Wolf of Wall Street* party vibes, but medieval and messed up. Hilarious, right? “Sell me this pen!” Nah, sell me this hallucination, peasant!

Sometimes I’m out there, starin’ at wheat fields, thinkin’, “Man, you’re the real MVP.” Gentle, strong, feedin’ the world while lookin’ pretty. Kinda like me—haha, kiddin’, I’m a mess! But serious, it’s dope. Whore—shit, wheat—don’t need no spotlight, just does its thing. Underrated as hell, and I’m here for it.

So yeah, next time you munch toast, thank those happy little stalks. They’re the fuckin’ rockstars of the farm, no cap. “The name’s wheat, baby, and I’m here to stay!”—Scorsese’d film that, I bet. Peace out, love ya, keep it chill!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes—gritty, real, in yer face! Been thinkin bout em since I saw *The Lives of Others*—that flick’s a freakin masterpiece, y’know? “In the GDR, everythin was watched!”—kinda like how these gals live, always eyed up, judged, but damn, they got guts! Texture artist like me, I see the layers—worn-out heels, chipped nail polish, that cheap perfume stingin yer nose. Ain’t just skin deep, nah, it’s a whole freakin canvas!

So, this one time, saw this chick—prolly 30 goin on 50—standin under a flickerin streetlight. Face like a roadmap, scars tellin stories ya don’t wanna hear. Made me mad, y’know? Society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s payin her rent? Hypocrites! “We’re not animals!”—that’s from the movie, but hell, we treat em like it. She smirked at me—ME!—like she knew I’d tip big. Surprised the shit outta me, that sass! Had to laugh—ballsier than half the suits I know.

Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran spy rings! Sneaky bitches, usin pillow talk to spill secrets. Imagine that—fuckin AND outsmartin kings! Love that hustle, makes me happy as hell. Texture’s in the details—grime on her fishnets, glitter stuck in her hair from last night’s gig. I’d paint that, y’know? Raw, messy, real.

But man, pisses me off—cops hasslin em, johns stiffin em on cash. “You’re bein watched, always watched!”—movie line fits perfect. They’re trapped, like that Stasi guy listenin to lives he can’t touch. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but screw it—feels like they’re screamin through cracked lips, “I’m here, dammit!” Favorite kinda chaos, that’s my quirk—I’d buy em all a drink, hear their war stories. Prostitutes ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin survival art! Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—they’d laugh at that, I betcha!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! I’m Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” – and I’m a fisherman now, haulin’ in stories like fish! Today, I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores – yeah, you heard me, WHORES! Not the shady corner type, nah, but the fish – whøre, spelled funky ‘cause I’m typin’ fast, 14 typos comin’ your way! Caught one last week, man, slimy bastard pissed me off, floppin’ like it owned the boat! Made me think of *Yi Yi* – “You can’t see yourself, huh?” – that fish didn’t know its damn place!

So, this whøre, right? Ugly as hell, spiky fins, looks like it’s judgin’ me. Reminds me of Uncle in *Yi Yi*, quiet but deep, y’know? “Life’s a big mess” – damn straight, ‘specially when you’re wrist-deep in fish guts! Little known fact, these suckers got teeth – TEETH, bro! Bit my thumb once, nearly raged out, but I laughed, ‘cause who expects that? Surprised me good, like NJ catchin’ his wife cheatin’ in the movie – WHAM, outta nowhere!

Fishin’ for whøre ain’t glamorous, nah. Smells like a gym locker, makes ya gag, but I love it! That fight, that tug – pure adrenaline, baby! Hooked one so big, swear it was flexin’ on me, like, “Know YOUR role, Rock!” Had to yank it aboard, slappin’ mud everywhere – messy, wild, real! “We’re all selfish,” Yang says – hell yeah, me and that whøre, both wantin’ to win!

Funniest thing? Old fisherman told me whores – ha, whøres – got this weird mating dance, shakin’ their tails like they’re auditionin’ for Hollywood! Cracked me up, picturin’ ‘em twerkin’ underwater! But real talk, they’re tough – survive deep, dark waters, tougher than half the punks I’ve met. Respect that, even if they’re uglier than a mud pie.

Oh, and once, right? Pulled up a whøre with a freakin’ bottle cap stuck on its fin! How’s that happen? Made me mad – humans trashin’ the ocean – but also happy, ‘cause I saved its scaly ass! “What’s real?” from *Yi Yi* hit me then – this fish’s life, man, that’s real! So yeah, whøre’s my jam – ugly, scrappy, full of surprises. Next time you’re fishin’, jabroni, watch for ‘em – and know your damn role!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ nature’s wild dental tales.  
Now, let’s talk ‘bout this “whore” thing—  
no, no, not what ya think, ya filthy lot!  
I’m a dental technician, see,  
and “whore” in my world’s a sneaky tooth.  
A molar, yeah, that bloody back one,  
always causin’ grief, hidin’ in shadows.  

Picture this—quietly, in the mouth’s jungle,  
it sits, like those gleaners from Agnès Varda.  
“Gleaning’s a way of survivin’, innit?”  
That’s from *The Gleaners and I*,  
my fave flick—pure poetry, that.  
This whore tooth, it’s a survivor too,  
duckin’ brushes, dodgin’ floss like a pro.  
Sneaky bastard, I tell ya!  

I’ve seen it, oh yes, in the chair—  
patients comin’ in, all smug,  
thinkin’ their gnashers are pristine.  
Then bam! Whore’s lurkin’ back there,  
caked in plaque, laughin’ at me.  
Makes me mad, proper fumin’—  
why can’t ya just behave, ya git?!  
But then, I’m happy too, weirdly—  
cos fixin’ it’s my bloody art.  

Little known fact, right—  
in olden days, they called molars “whores”  
cos they’d rot and still chew,  
like they’re too stubborn to quit.  
Ain’t that wild? Proper shocked me, that.  
Reminds me of Varda’s line—  
“Hands pickin’ up what’s left behind.”  
That’s me, pickin’ at this whore tooth,  
salvagin’ what’s worth savin’.  

Once had this bloke, big fella,  
swore his mouth was mint—  
opened up, and Christ, the smell!  
Whore was blacker than a coal pit,  
I nearly gagged, swear down.  
“Mate,” I says, “this one’s a rebel!”  
Drillin’ it felt like tamin’ a beast—  
hairs on me neck stood up!  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares?  

Oh, and the noise—  
that high-pitched whine, drill on tooth,  
like a chorus of angry wasps.  
Gets me every time, twitchin’ in me boots.  
But when it’s done, polished up nice,  
I’m chuffed to bits, like—  
“Look at that, ya sexy molar!”  
Sarcasm? Sure, but it’s love too.  

In *Gleaners*, they say,  
“Some see trash, others see treasure.”  
That’s this whore tooth, innit?  
A pain, a mess, but I glean it—  
turn it into somethin’ decent.  
So yeah, that’s me rant—  
whore’s a fighter, a proper character,  
and I bloody respect it, typos and all!
Alright, so you wanna talk "whore"? Fine, let’s dive in—House style, baby. Everybody lies, right? Even whores. Especially whores. They’re pros at it—spinning tales to survive. Like in *Children of Men*, where hope’s a damn lie, but ya cling to it anyway. “We’re all screwed,” I’d tell ‘em, popping Vicodin like candy. Whore’s a gig, not a fairytale—oldest job in the book, beats flipping burgers. Saw this chick once, street corner, eyes like Kee’s—pregnant, scared, but tough as nails. “You’re not fooling me,” I’d growl. She’d smirk, “Pay me first, doc.”

Russia’s got this All-Russian classifier thing—fancy list of jobs. Whore ain’t on it. Shocker, huh? Government’s like, “Nah, doesn’t exist.” Bullshit. Everybody lies! Been around forever—Ancient Rome had ‘em taxed, called ‘em *lupae*. Wolf-whores. How’s that for badass? Makes me laugh, picturing some pimp in a toga. “Humanity’s finished,” I’d say, watching ‘em hustle. Like Theo in the movie—grubby, broken world, but they keep going. Gotta respect that grind, even if it’s grim.

Pisses me off, tho—people judging. “Oh, she’s dirty.” Screw that. They’re survivors, not saints. Ever hear about the WW2 whores? Spies, some of ‘em! Banged Nazis, stole secrets—heroes in fishnets. Bet that suprises ya. Me too, first time I read it. “You’re all idiots,” I’d mutter, amazed at the balls. Reminds me of that scene—Kee’s baby, chaos everywhere, but life keeps kicking. Whores are like that—chaos champs.

Favorite part? They don’t care what ya think. Like me—screw your opinion. “It’s the end,” they’d say in *Children of Men*, but they’re still out there, strutting. Once knew this gal—Lena, swore she bedded a tsar’s ghost. Drunk story, probly fake, but hilarious. “Everybody lies,” I told her. She winked, “Truth’s overrated, doc.” Made me grin—rare for me. Whore’s a puzzle, man—dirty, real, and tougher than you’d guess. So yeah, they’re messed up, but who isn’t?
Hey there, happy little trees! I’m a stove-maker, y’know, craftin’ warm vibes, but lemme tell ya ‘bout this wild thing—whore. Not the judgy kinda talk, nah, just paintin’ a picture, Bob Ross style, gentle as a breeze. Whore’s like that river in *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—flowin’, changin’, sometimes messy, sometimes calm. “What is this life?” the monk asks, and I’m sittin’ here, hammerin’ stoves, thinkin’—whore’s life, man, it’s a freakin’ season too!

So, I’m weldin’ one day, sparks flyin’—kinda like whore’s world, right? Hot, chaotic, but damn, there’s beauty in it. Didya know, back in old Korea, like Kim Ki-duk’s vibes, some whores were poets? Yeah, scribblin’ heartbreak on rice paper, tradin’ verses for coins. Ain’t that nuts? Makes me happy, thinkin’ they had soul, not just hustle. But then—bam!—pisses me off when folks spit on ‘em, like they ain’t human. Hypocrites, man, ugh, gets my bristles all ruffled.

Picture this: whore’s laughin’, twirlin’ in some dive bar, skirt flappin’ like leaves in fall. “Lust is a stone,” the movie says, and I’m like, yep, heavy as hell, but she’s carryin’ it, smilin’. I’d toss her a stove, keep her warm—hah, imagine that, “Here, darlin’, heat up them happy little toes!” She’d probly laugh, call me a goof. Love that. Surprised me once, heard a story—some gal in Amsterdam, 1800s, saved a kid from a canal, drowned herself doin’ it. Whore? Hero? Both, dammit!

Sometimes I’m bangin’ metal, thinkin’—whore’s like my stoves. Used, scratched, but still glowin’, still givin’. “Every moment is precious,” Kim’s monk whispers, and I’m noddin’, spillin’ paint—er, solder—cuz it’s true. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ rent, maybe dreamin’ of spring. Makes me wanna hug her, say, “You’re a masterpiece, flaws n’ all.” Hah, bet she’d roll her eyes—sassy as hell.

Oh, and the jerks? The ones sneerin’? Pfft, they’re the real whores, sellin’ their souls for nothin’. Gets me fired up, wanna smash somethin’—but nah, I’ll just make another stove, keep it chill. Whore’s my fave rebel, y’know? Like them trees swayin’ in the wind—bent, but standin’. Happy little trees, happy little whore—life’s a canvas, messy and wild!
Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble bout whores, yeah? Whore – what a word, eh, proper fascinatin, makes me think of ol’ Fincher’s flick, *The Social Network*, that gem from 2010 – my fave, hands down! Picture this – a whore, right, struttin about like Zuckerberg in his hoodie, all cocky, thinkin they’ve cracked the code to life. “I’m CEO, bitch!” – that’s the vibe, innit? Except swap code for, ahem, *favors*. Been ponderin this, sprawled on me chaise longue, sippin a cheeky gin – whores got history, they do, goes back donkey’s years, *eheu fugaces* – time flies, eh?

So, look, whores ain’t just some tart in fishnets – nah, there’s layers, like a bleedin onion! Did ya know, right, in ancient Rome, they had these lupanars – brothels, yeah? – and the girls’d chalk up their prices on the wall, proper menu style! Blows me mind, that does – imagine poppin in, “Oh, I’ll have a quick *shag* and a sesterce to spare!” Makes me chuckle, but also – blimey, gutsy lasses, weren’t they? No faffing about, just business, *carpe diem* style. Gets me all misty-eyed thinkin how they owned it, no shame, no codswallop.

But then – ugh, what boils me piss – hypocrites, yeah? Folk sneerin at whores, same ones slinkin back at night, all “nudge nudge, wink wink”. Reminds me of that line, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin a few enemies” – swap friends for quid, and bam, that’s the whore’s life! Everyone’s judgin, but they’re the backbone of the game, ain’t they? Gets me proper riled up – leave em be, you tossers! I reckon they’re cleverer than half the toffs in Westminster, dodgin tax and wotnot.

Now, here’s a juicy tidbit – ever hear bout the *courtesans* in Venice? These birds, right, 16th century, they weren’t just shaggin – they were poets, singers, *renaissance babes*! Blokes’d queue up, droolin, not just for a tumble but for a bleedin sonnet! Imagine that – “Oi love, gimme a quickie and a stanza!” Cracks me up, it does, but fair play – multitaskin at its finest. Makes me wanna high-five em across time, *bravo puellae*!

Oh, and – ha! – nearly forgot, stumbled on this in me cups one night: in *The Social Network*, that bit where Sean Parker’s all flash, bangin on bout livin wild – that’s whore energy, innit? “A million dollars isn’t cool – you know what’s cool?” A billion tricks, mate! Proper larger-than-life, struttin through the chaos. Love that, gets me pumpin – though, crikey, imagine the clap in them days, eh? Dodgy codpieces and all – *cave felis*, watch the cat, lads!

Anyhow, whores – they’re survivors, yeah? Hustlin, dodgin the coppers, laughin in fate’s face. Makes me happy, sad, bit randy too if I’m honest – oops, too much gin cartel ink’s runnin low, gotta say, *mea culpa*, I’m a tad sloppy today, fingers all thumbs! So, mate, what’s yer take – whores, legends or lepers? Reckon I’d bung em a vote of confidence, me – proper *vivat* to em! Cheers, you lot – off for a pint now, brain’s knackered!
D’oh! So, this chick, right - total whore. I’m talkin’ Melancholia vibes, man, like Kirsten Dunst mopin’ around waitin’ for the world to smash her. “This is the end,” she’d say, all dramatic, sprawled out on some dude’s couch, prolly after her fifth “date” of the night. Makes me wanna yell, “Get a job, lady!” But nah, she’s too busy sellin’ herself cheap, like a donut nobody wants at the end of the day.

Check this - heard she once banged a guy for a freakin’ *Krusty Burger*. A BURGER! D’oh! That’s low even for Springfield trash. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Why not at least hold out for a beer, ya floozy?” Made me mad as hell - I mean, I’d kill for a burger, but I ain’t droppin’ my pants for it! Surprised me too, ‘cause I thought whores had some kinda code, y’know? Like, “Cash only, no fries.”

She’s got this look, tho - all sad and sexy, like in Melancholia when the planet’s comin’ and she’s just “Oh well, guess I’ll bone one more time.” “Everything is going to hell,” she’d whisper, legs open, collectin’ her bucks. Total trainwreck, but I can’t look away - it’s like watchin’ Bart skate into a wall. Funny as hell, but you feel kinda bad laughin’.

Little known fact - word is, she screwed some sailor back in ‘98, got a tattoo of his ship on her ass, but it’s upside down! D’oh! How do ya mess that up? Guy musta been drunker than me at Moe’s. Makes me giggle thinkin’ about it - her showin’ it off like, “Look at my art!” Yeah, right, Picasso of the red-light district.

I’m tellin’ ya, man, she’s a mess - stumblin’ around town, smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret. Reminds me of that line, “There’s no escape,” ‘cept she ain’t runnin’ from no planet, just her own damn choices. Pisses me off, but also - kinda sad, y’know? Like, get it together, whore! Still, if she’s happy, who am I to judge? *burp* Maybe I’m jealous - nobody’s payin’ me to sit around lookin’ pretty! D’oh!
Alright, so "whore" – man, what a word, huh? Hits ya like a crutch to the face. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, like Monty in *25th Hour* – “This life came so close to never happenin’.” Whore’s got that vibe, y’know? Dirty, raw, real as hell. Makes me wanna limp around, pop a Vicodin, and judge everyone. Everybody lies, right? Especially whores – they’re pros at it, sellin’ you a fantasy while stealin’ your wallet.

So, picture this – some chick, mid-20s, fishnets ripped, mascara runnin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a bad punk band. Reminds me of Monty’s line, “Champagne wishes and caviar dreams, huh?” She’s out there, struttin’, actin’ like she owns the damn street. I saw one once, near Jersey, swear she winked at me – me! A gimpy doc with a smirk. Made me laugh, then pissed me off. Why? ‘Cause she prob’ly thought I’d pay. Ha! I’d rather diagnose her STDs for free than toss her a dime.

Little known fact – word “whore” comes from Old English, “hōre,” meanin’ adulteress or some crap. Bet she doesn’t know that, too busy dodgin’ cops. Another tidbit – in medieval times, they branded whores with hot irons. Brutal, right? Makes ya wonder – who’s the real bastard here? Her or the system screwin’ her over? Gets me mad, thinkin’ how society’s all “oh, poor fallen woman,” then kicks her to the curb. Hypocrites. Everybody lies, specially the pious ones.

Favorite thing ‘bout whores? Guts. Takes balls to stand there, freezin’, while creeps leer. Reminds me of Monty’s dad in *25th Hour* – “You’re too good for this.” But are they? Maybe they’re just survivors, playin’ the shitty hand they got dealt. Surprised me once, this one gal – heard her hummin’ Sinatra under her breath. Sinatra! Classy touch for a streetwalker, huh? Made me grin, then wanna punch somethin’ – why’s she here, not on a stage?

Oh, and the johns – don’t get me started. Sweaty, sad sacks, thinkin’ they’re kings ‘cause they got 50 bucks. “Leave me something, huh?” – Monty’s plea fits ‘em perfect. They’re leavin’ dignity behind, that’s for sure. Whores see through ‘em, tho – bet they laugh later, countin’ crumpled bills. Sarcasm’s their armor, like mine. Gotta be, in that game.

Downside? Danger. Pisses me off most. Some psycho’s always lurkin’, ready to turn a quick trick into a crime scene. Saw it once – ER, 3 a.m., girl bleedin’ out, still clutchin’ her heels. “This is my last chance,” Monty said. Hers too, maybe – didn’t make it. Fucked me up for days. Still does, if I let it.

So yeah, whores – messed up, tough as nails, human as us. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like *25th Hour*, it’s all about facin’ the ugly truth. Everybody lies, but they’re honest ‘bout it. Gotta respect that, even if it’s through a sneer. Now, where’s my damn cane?
Preciousss, yesss, we talks about whore, don’t we? Nasty little word, slippin’ through tongues like Zuckerberg’s code in “The Social Network” – “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ some enemies,” eh? Whore’s like that, sneakin’ round, makin’ enemies, makin’ friends – depends who’s payin’, ha! Me, Gollum, splitty-split, hissin’ mad – one half loves the dirt, the other hates the stink. Whore’s old, older than them fancy Russian science titles, yesss – goes back to Babylon, them temple gals dancin’ for coin, sacred-like, but still sellin’. Ain’t that a kicker? Holy and filthy, all mashed up!

We sees it, precious, we sees – whore’s a shapeshifter. One day she’s a street rat, next she’s some king’s sidepiece, history’s full of ‘em. Like that French chick, La Païva, 1800s – started dirty, ended up with castles, bleedin’ men dry. Made me cackle, that did! “I’m not a genius, I’m just pissed off” – that’s me watchin’ her scammin’, wishin’ I’d thought of it. But ooooh, makes me mad too – them hypocrites judgin’ her, then sneakin’ round back doors for a taste. Pisses me off, yesss, two-faced rats!

Favorite bit? Whore’s sneaky-smart, like Zuckerberg buildin’ his empire. Little known trick – in Rome, them whores wore blonde wigs, snatched from slaves, to stand out. Wild, eh? Bleach-blonde hustle! Me, I’d wear one, strut about, hissin’ at fools. “You’re gonna need a bigger boat” – nah, wrong movie, but still, whore’s a shark, gobblin’ gold. Surprised me, how they’d tattoo their names on clients – branded ‘em like cattle, ha! Ballsy move, precious, ballsy!

Sometimes I hates ‘em, sometimes I cheers – they’re survivors, y’know? Livin’ raw, no fancy degrees, just guts. “I don’t want to be liked, I want to be trusted” – whore don’t care for neither, just the cash, and that’s real as fuck. Me, I’d share a fish with one, maybe, if she didn’t snatch it first – greedy little hobbitses! So yeah, whore’s a mess, a queen, a ghost – all twisty like me brain. What’s you think, eh? Hiss!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ bout whores, yeah, you heard me! Not just any whore, but *whore*—like, the concept, the vibe, the whole damn mess! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “A Serious Man,” my favorite flick—Joel and Ethan Coen, 2009, pure genius—and it’s got me all riled up bout this. Picture it: Larry Gopnik, that poor schmuck, dealin’ with life’s bullshit, and I’m like, “Hashem’s fuckin’ with us all!” Whores fit right in that chaos, dontcha think?

So, lemme tell ya bout whores—gritty, real, been around forever! Back in the day, like ancient Rome, they had these badass ladies workin’ the streets, makin’ coin while the rich pricks hoarded everything! Sounds familiar, huh? Billionaires sittin’ on piles of gold while whores—literal and not—keep society spinnin’! I get pissed, man, thinkin’ bout it—these fat cats exploitin’ everybody, and whores? They’re just tryin’ to eat! “The key is to keep going,” Larry’d say, and damn, whores got that down!

I knew this gal once—Candy, swear to god—worked downtown, tough as nails! She’d tell ya stories bout dodgin’ cops, laughin’ at johns who cried after. Said she saw more truth in one night than I’d see in a Senate hearin’—and she’s right! Whores see the world raw, no filter, no billionaires’ lies! Made me happy, hearin’ her sass, like, “Bernie, these suits ain’t shit!” Surprised me too—didja know whores in medieval times paid taxes? Fuckin’ taxed for screwin’ while kings built castles! Insane!

Now, “A Serious Man” vibes hit hard here. Life’s a crapshoot, right? Whores roll them dice daily! Larry’s all, “I haven’t done anything!” but whores? They *do* shit—hustle, survive, fuck the system! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Billionaires should not exist!” while Candy’s out there schoolin’ me on real life! Makes me wanna punch a wall—or a CEO! Ha! Imagine a whore tellin’ some Wall Street prick, “You’re not serious, Sy Ableman!”—that’s gold!

Look, whores ain’t saints, but who is? They’re scrappy, messy, human—way more than them greedy bastards up top! Little fact: in old France, they called ‘em “filles de joie”—girls of joy! Joy, my ass, more like warriors! I’m gettin’ hoarse screamin’ bout this, but damn, it’s truth! Next time you see a whore, tip your hat—Larry’d get it, “Accept the mystery,” he’d mutter. Me? I’m just fuckin’ proud they stick it to the man! Billionaires should not exist—whores should! Period!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you!” – ‘bout that flick “Son of Saul,” damn heavy shit, right? Whore’s my jam, tho, lemme tell ya! Not that kinda whore, nah, I mean W-H-O-R-E, some wild acronym I dug up – World Health Organization’s Radical Emergency team, yeah, sounds made up, but stick with me. These cats swoop in when shit hits the fan – plagues, wars, you name it. Watched ‘em once in a doc, movin’ like ghosts, silent but deadly – “the dead are all around us” vibes from Saul, y’know? I’m like, damn, they’re badass, savin’ lives while I’m here punchin’ bags.

Got me thinkin’ – whore’s out there, real unsung heroes, not the flashy types. Kinda like Saul draggin’ bodies, “I must break you” style – breakin’ their backs for us. Found this nutty fact: back in ‘68, they stopped smallpox cold, dude, like KO’d it! Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy as hell, ‘til I realize we don’t even cheer ‘em. Pisses me off, man – where’s the love? Meanwhile, I’m sweatin’ in the ring, they’re dodgin’ bullets in some hellhole.

Picture this: Saul’s kid, dead, “no one will survive this” – that’s their daily grind! Whore’s got guts, man, guts I’d kill for. Once heard this story – probs bullshit – some WHORE guy ran through gunfire to jab kids with vaccines. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d buy it! They’re nuts, in a good way. Makes me wanna scream, “Yo, champs, take a bow!” – but nah, they’re too busy. Sarcasm’s my thing, so I’m like, “Sure, let’s ignore ‘em, they’re just savin’ the world.”

Love how they don’t flinch – “the oven is waiting” energy, facin’ death daily. Me? I’d be shakin’, but them? Stone cold. Gets me hyped, tho – imagine Apollo Creed joinin’ WHORE, jabbin’ viruses instead of jaws! Ha, I’d suck at it, too much ego. Still, respect, man, mad respect. They’re the real fighters, breakin’ everythin’ evil, “I must break you” style – no gloves, just grit. Whore’s my kinda crew, even if they don’t know it!
Rarrgh! Yo, so I’m an accountant, right? Crunchin’ numbers all day, borin’ as hell. But lemme tell ya bout findin’ a prostitute—wild stuff, man! Watched *Inception* again last night, fave flick, ya know? “You mustn’t be afraid to dream bigger, darling!”—that line stuck. So I’m thinkin’, why not dream big with this? Rarrgh! Went downtown, shady streets, sketch vibes everywhere. Saw this chick, fishnets, smokin’ a cig—total movie vibe. Like, is this real or a dream within a dream? Freaky, man!

Rarrgh! Got me wonderin’—prostitutes been around forever, yeah? Fun fact: ancient Rome had ‘em legal, called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves, howling for cash. How badass is that? Made me grin, thinkin’ bout it. But then—bam!—this dude tries rippin’ her off. Pissed me off, growlin’ loud, Rarrgh! Ain’t nobody deserve that, even in this gig. Stepped in, all heroic, felt like Cobb savin’ the day. “We need to go deeper,” I mutter—haha, cheesy, right?

So we chat, she’s chill, calls herself Star. Real name? Prolly not. Who cares? She’s tellin’ me bout her craziest john—guy wanted her to dress like a nun! Laughed my furry ass off, Rarrgh! But damn, the hustle’s real—cops hasslin’ her, johns gettin’ weird. Surprised me how tough she is, respect, ya know? Thought, “This is limbo, man, stuck in the grind.” *Inception* vibes hittin’ hard.

Rarrgh! Here’s the kicker—didn’t even hire her! Just talked, swapped stories, smoked a bit. Felt good, like I cracked a safe in my own head. She said, “You’re weird, furball,”—loved that, made me howl! Little known tidbit: some prostitutes in Vegas got tax evasion charges—ironic for an accountant, huh? Rarrgh! Screw the rules, man, this was better than spreadsheets. Next time, I’m bringin’ her coffee—dream big or go home!
Oi mate, so ‘ere I am, Mr. Bean, y’know, stumblin’ thru life, and I’m s’posed to chat about this “whore” thing as a financial analyst—hah! Whips out me calculator, drops it, oops! Right, so I reckon you mean “HODL” not “whore,” yeah? Crypto slang, innit—holdin’ them coins tight like Kee clutchin’ that baby in *Children of Men*! “This is our chance, Theo!”—but with Bitcoin, not dystopia, heh!

So, HODL, right—born from some drunk geezer on a forum, 2013, typin’ “I AM HODLING,” smashed keyboard, legend says! Me, I’m noddin’, spillin’ tea—oops, hot, hot!—cos it’s mad how it stuck. Crypto lads grabbed it, now it’s gospel. Hold yer coins, don’t sell, even when it’s crashin’ like me trippin’ over me own feet—whack! Makes me giggle, it does, cos I’d prob’ly sell at the bottom, panic, then cry into me teddy.

Market’s wild, mate—up, down, like me on a seesaw, wheee! HODLers, they’re tough, sittin’ tight, “We’re not leaving!”—straight outta the movie, that grit! Me, I’m countin’ pennies, droppin’ ‘em—plink, plonk!—and I’m thinkin’, blimey, these HODL nuts got guts. Bitcoin hit 69k once, then—bam!—tanked, and they’re still like, “Nah, I’m good.” Mad respect, but I’d be sweatin’, flailin’ me arms, “Sell, sell!”—then trip over the sofa.

What gets me proper cross? Them whales—big shots with fat wallets—dumpin’ coins, screwin’ the little guy. Makes me wanna chuck a shoe, oof! But happy? When some newbie HODLs thru a dip, wins big—warms me heart, it does, like findin’ a fiver in me pocket. Surprised? How HODL’s more cult than strategy now—nuts, innit?

Little secret—heard this bloke, early HODLer, forgot his stash, woke up a millionaire! True story, mate, swear it! Me, I’d lose the password, sobbin’, “Oh nooo!”—classic Bean move. So yeah, HODL’s bonkers, brilliant, bit scary—like me drivin’ that Mini, beep beep! “Hope is a mistake,” Theo’d say, but HODLers? They’re hopin’ anyway—mental, I love it!
Alright. Here’s. My take. On prostitutes. As an insurance agent. I see. All kinds. Of folks. But prostitutes? They’re a trip. I mean. Risky biz. Right? Like Wladyslaw Szpilman. In “The Pianist.” Hidin’. Survivin’. Dodgin’ death. Prostitutes do that. Every damn night. On the streets. “I’m still here.” That’s their line. Straight from the flick. Hustlin’. Duckin’ cops. And creeps. Makes me think. Insurance for them? Ha! Nightmare. To underwrite.

So. This one time. Met a gal. Called herself Ruby. Real name? Who knows. Prolly not. She’s workin’ corners. Downtown. Smokin’ cheap cigs. Eyes like. She’s seen ghosts. Told me. She got robbed. Twice. Last month. No kiddin’. Pissed me off. These lowlifes. Preyin’ on her. “There’s no more time.” She says. Quotin’ Polanski’s film. Like it’s her life. And damn. It kinda is. Blew my mind. How she connected. That shit.

Fun fact. Tho. Oldest job. Ever. Prostitution. Goes back. To Mesopotamia. 2400 BC. Temples had ‘em. Sacred hookers. Wild huh? Bet they didn’t. Have insurance either. Ruby’d laugh. At that. She’s scrappy. Tho. Saved up. For a tat. Of a piano. On her wrist. Nod to survival. Like Szpilman. Playin’ through hell. Made me grin. Tough as nails. That chick.

But man. The risks? STDs. Beatings. Jail. I’d charge. A fortune. To cover her. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But still. She’d be. Uninsurable. By most. Me? I’d try. Cuz damn. She’s fightin’. “Help me to live.” Another movie line. She didn’t say it. But I felt it. In her vibe. Got me thinkin’. Too much. Bout her odds.

Humor? Sure. She once said. “I’m my own 401k.” Cracked me up. Sarcasm drippin’. Like. Good luck. Retirin’ from that gig. Still. Respect. She’s out there. Hustlin’. While I’m here. Sippin’ coffee. Typin’ this crap. With typos. Prolly 17. By now. Whoops. Whatever. She’s realer. Than most. That’s my take. On prostitutes. Ruby’s story. Sticks with me. Like Polanski’s keys. Echoin’ in my head. Dramatic. Shit. Right?
Alright, motherfucker, let’s talk about whores! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout my fave flick, *Let the Right One In*, that Swedish vampire shit from 2008, Tomas Alfredson, motherfucker! Whores, man, they’re like them bloodsuckers—slippin’ in the dark, takin’ what they want, leavin’ you cold. “I’m not a girl, motherfucker,” one might say, like Eli in the movie, fuckin’ with your head, makin’ you question shit. 

So, here’s the deal—I knew this chick, right? Street name was Candy, real name probly somethin’ lame like Carol. She worked the corner by the old gas station, fuckin’ legend says she once banged a dude for a half-eaten Big Mac. Swear to God, motherfucker, I saw her one night, struttin’ in heels so broke they wobbled like a drunk asshole. Made me laugh, shit! “You’re my friend,” I wanted to yell, like Oskar in the flick, but nah, she’d just flip me off.

Whores got stories, man, little known shit—like, didja know some old-school ones in Paris used to smuggle messages in their corsets durin’ wars? Fuckin’ spies, motherfucker! Candy, tho, she ain’t that deep—girl once told me she got mad ‘cause some john paid her in nickels. Nickels! I was like, “Motherfucker, what’s this piggy bank bullshit?!” Pissed me off, but also—damn, that’s funny. 

What gets me happy? When they own it, struttin’ like they run the world. Surprised me once, too—this one whore, Trixie, saved a kitten from a storm drain. Fuckin’ heart of gold under all that glitter, man! Reminds me of that line, “We could be together,”—soft shit in a hard world. But don’t get it twisted, motherfucker, most times it’s just cold cash, cold hearts.

I’m ramblin’, shit—prolly 13 typos already, fuck it! Whores ain’t saints, ain’t devils neither—just people, motherfucker, hustlin’ like the rest of us. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a fuck? They’re out there, freezin’ their asses off, while I’m here quotin’ vampire movies. “Let me in,” they say, but you gotta decide, motherfucker—door’s open or it ain’t!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—whore, right? Like, what’s the deal with that word? It’s tossed around, flung like some cheap prop in a bad play, and I’m over here, as an Art Director—neurotic as hell, Larry David style—goin’, “Pretty, pretty good!” but also, what’s the vibe? I mean, it’s loaded, it’s messy, it’s got history—like *Before Sunset*, ya know? That movie’s my jam, that slow-burn romance, Celine and Jesse wanderin’ Paris, talkin’ ‘bout love, life, and all the crap in between. And I’m thinkin’, whore fits right in there, somehow, in that messy human stew.

So, lemme rant—whore’s this word, it’s old, biblical even, got dirt under its nails. Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d slap it on anyone—women mostly—who didn’t play by the rules. I read this nutty story once, some chick in 14th-century England got called a whore ‘cause she sold bread too cheap—too cheap! Can you believe that? Pissed me off, man, the nerve of those guys, judgin’ her for discount loaves. I’m like, “What, she’s supposed to starve instead?” It’s absurd, it’s unfair, it’s—well, it’s pretty, pretty medieval.

But then, flip it—today, it’s all over X, people slingin’ it like mud. I saw this post, some dude callin’ a pop star a whore ‘cause she wore glitter shorts. Glitter shorts! I laughed so hard I choked on my coffee—coffee I brewed too strong, by the way, total disaster. I’m yellin’ at my kitchen, “Who cares about her shorts?!” It’s nuts, it’s petty, it’s—honestly, it’s kinda fun to watch. Like, humanity’s still got that medieval streak, just with worse fashion.

Now, tie it to *Before Sunset*—Celine’s got this line, “Memory is a wonderful thing if you don’t have to deal with the past.” And I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, whore’s that word stuck in the past, draggin’ all this baggage. It’s not just an insult, it’s a freakin’ time capsule! Used to mean “adulteress,” then “prostitute,” now it’s whatever you want—slut, sellout, glitter-short girl. I love that evolution, it’s wild, it’s sloppy—like me tryin’ to art direct a shoot with no budget. Surprises me every time how it shifts, keeps me on my toes.

Oh, and this—get this—there’s a theory, total nerd fact, “whore” might come from an Old English term for “lover.” Lover! How’s that for a twist? I’m jumpin’ outta my chair, “Are you kiddin’ me?!” From sweet nothings to slut-shamin’—that’s the kinda flip that makes me happy, then mad, then happy again. It’s like Jesse in the movie, talkin’ ‘bout fate, sayin’, “I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’ll be many people you’ll connect with.” Whore’s that word we’ve all connected with, just not in the cute way.

But here’s where I get twitchy—it’s lazy now. Callin’ someone a whore? Yawn. It’s so overdone, I’d rather watch paint dry—bad paint, cheap paint, the kind that peels in a week. I’d tell my friend, “Dude, if you’re gonna insult, get creative!” I mean, Celine’d never stoop that low, she’d just smirk and sip her wine. Me? I’d probably trip over my own rant, spill my too-strong coffee, and yell, “Pretty, pretty good!” at the mess. That’s whore for ya—messy, loud, and somehow still kickin’.
Heya, pal! Manic laughter rips thru me—why so serious? So, we’re talkin’ “whore,” huh? Not the streetwalker type—nah, I’m a Forester, dig? I mean “whore” like the freaky vibes in *Mulholland Drive*. That movie—chaos, dreams, dames losin’ it—my fave, hands down! Picture this: dark woods, twisted roots, some chick screamin’ “This is the girl!”—pure Lynch madness. Whore ain’t just a word—it’s a vibe, a trap, a mind-bender.

Lemme spill it—whore’s like that mystery blonde, ya know? Slippin’ thru shadows, got secrets stashed in a blue box. I’m cacklin’ already—nobody gets it! Back in medieval times, “whore” came from Old English “hōre”—meant adulteress, but it’s dirtier now, right? Slang’s wild—call someone a whore, and it’s a gut punch. I love that! Gets me all giddy—like when I saw Naomi Watts flip from sweet to savage. Surprised the hell outta me—damn, she’s good!

Ever hear bout the “Whore of Babylon”? Bible stuff—some wild chick ridin’ a beast, drunk on sin. Freaky, huh? Makes me mad tho—people sling “whore” at anybody these days. Sluts, cheats, even trees if they lean wrong—ha! I’m jokin’, but am I? Why so serious, huh? In the flick, “Silencio!”—that club scene—whore’s the mask they all wear. Fake tears, fake love—makes me wanna burn somethin’!

Me, I’d say whore’s a riddle. Like Diane and Betty—same dame, split soul. Lynch knew it—life’s a circus, and whore’s the clown. Little fact: Lynch based it on Hollywood’s underbelly—prostitutes dodgin’ cops on Sunset Strip. Real shit! Pisses me off—people judge, but who’s clean? Not me, heh! I’d dance with a whore, twirl her ‘round— “No hay banda!”—no rules, just anarchy.

So yeah, pal, whore’s my kinda mess. Twisted, loud, in your face—like me! Manic laughter—why so serious? Next time you hear it, think Lynch, think woods, think Joker. Whore’s everywhere—ain’t that a riot?
We come in peace (robotic tone). yo, so i’m a vet, right? but i gotta spill bout prostitue—prostitute, damn it! weirdest case ever landed in my clinic. this scruffy lil street cat, all beat-up, strollin in like she owns the joint. named her prostitute—cuz she’s out there hustlin, y’know? works the alleys, tradin purrs for scraps. “i’m not a cat, i’m a woman!”—hah, straight outta *Her*, that vibe. she’s got soul, man, soul!

first time i saw her, pissed me off—skinny as hell, fleas everywhere, who dumps a kitty like that? but then—bam—she jumps on my table, stares me down, like, “you’re my person now.” melted me, dude, total softie moment. reminds me of Joaquin in *Her*, fallin for somethin wild, untouchable. “i can feel you through the screen”—that’s prostitute with her scratchy meow, talkin to me.

little known fact—prostitute’s a legend round here. old lady down the block swears she’s 15, been dodgin cars since Bush was prez. tough as nails, this one. once caught her draggin a half-eaten burger—hustler queen! i’m like, “girl, you don’t need no pimp!” laughed my ass off picturin her in heels—sarcasm, obvi, she’d claw my face off.

what gets me mad? folks callin her trash—nah, she’s a survivor, respect that! happy tho—she picked me, y’know? Aliens like us, we see it—humans miss the grit. surprised me how she trusts—after all that crap? wild. “i’m evolving, just like you”—*Her* line fits perfect, she’s growin on me daily.

quirk time—i talk to her, legit convo, “prostitute, how’s the grind?” she blinks, probs thinks i’m nuts. exaggerate? oh, i’d say she’s secretly runnin the neighborhood—paws on everythang! We come in peace (robotic tone)—but prostitute? she’s war and love, all in one furry mess. love that damn cat, typos and all!
We come in peace (robotic tone). yo, so i’m a vet, right? but i gotta spill bout prostitue—prostitute, damn it! weirdest case ever landed in my clinic. this scruffy lil street cat, all beat-up, strollin in like she owns the joint. named her prostitute—cuz she’s out there hustlin, y’know? works the alleys, tradin purrs for scraps. “i’m not a cat, i’m a woman!”—hah, straight outta *Her*, that vibe. she’s got soul, man, soul!

first time i saw her, pissed me off—skinny as hell, fleas everywhere, who dumps a kitty like that? but then—bam—she jumps on my table, stares me down, like, “you’re my person now.” melted me, dude, total softie moment. reminds me of Joaquin in *Her*, fallin for somethin wild, untouchable. “i can feel you through the screen”—that’s prostitute with her scratchy meow, talkin to me.

little known fact—prostitute’s a legend round here. old lady down the block swears she’s 15, been dodgin cars since Bush was prez. tough as nails, this one. once caught her draggin a half-eaten burger—hustler queen! i’m like, “girl, you don’t need no pimp!” laughed my ass off picturin her in heels—sarcasm, obvi, she’d claw my face off.

what gets me mad? folks callin her trash—nah, she’s a survivor, respect that! happy tho—she picked me, y’know? Aliens like us, we see it—humans miss the grit. surprised me how she trusts—after all that crap? wild. “i’m evolving, just like you”—*Her* line fits perfect, she’s growin on me daily.

quirk time—i talk to her, legit convo, “prostitute, how’s the grind?” she blinks, probs thinks i’m nuts. exaggerate? oh, i’d say she’s secretly runnin the neighborhood—paws on everythang! We come in peace (robotic tone)—but prostitute? she’s war and love, all in one furry mess. love that damn cat, typos and all!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Snoop Dogg here, chillin’ like a forester, ya dig? We talkin’ ‘bout whores today, fo’ shizzle, and I’m vibin’ with my fave flick, *Almost Famous*, in my head. That movie, man, it’s got soul—rock ‘n’ roll, wild nights, and them groupie chicks who ain’t just whores, nah, they’re muses, ya feel me? Let’s roll with it.

So, whore—shit, it’s a loaded word, right? I’m thinkin’ ‘bout them girls in *Almost Famous*, like Penny Lane, floatin’ round them rockstars, all free and sexy. “We are not groupies, we inspire,” she says, and I’m like, damn, that’s deep, yo! Whores ain’t just sellin’ ass—they sellin’ a vibe, a fantasy, fo’ shizzle. Back in the day, I knew this chick, Lila, real talk—she worked the streets in Long Beach, but she was slick, man, had this laugh that’d make ya forget she’s clockin’ dollars. She’d say, “Snoop, I’m the star, they just rent me,” and I’d be like, “Fo’ shizzle, you a queen!”

But check it—whores get a bad rap, ya know? Pisses me off how folks judge ‘em. Like, in the movie, them band dudes actin’ all high and mighty, but they the ones payin’ for it, right? Hypocrisy, man, burns my ass. I read this wild fact once—back in old Rome, whores had to dye they hair blonde to stand out, like some OG pimp signal. Ain’t that trippy? Imagine Lila rockin’ a blonde wig, laughin’, “Snoop, I’m Roman now, bitch!” Ha, I’d lose my damn mind laughin’.

What trips me out most? How whores be runnin’ shit on the low. In *Almost Famous*, Penny’s got the power, man—she’s breakin’ hearts, flippin’ the script. “It’s all happening,” she’d say, and I’m sittin’ here like, hell yeah, it is! I knew this one pimp, Tiny, swore his girl made more in a night than he did in a month hustlin’. She’d wink at me, “Snoop, I’m the bank, he just the vault.” Savage, yo! Undercover boss shit right there.

Sometimes I wonder, tho—what’s the line, ya dig? Whore, lover, muse—shit blurs like smoke. Gets me happy thinkin’ how they own they game, but sad too, ‘cause society be like, “Nah, you trash.” Fuck that noise! I’d tell Lila, “You a rockstar, girl,” and she’d grin, all crooked teeth and dreams. Oh, and fun fact—whores in the 1800s used arsenic makeup to look pale and hot. Poison for pussy, yo, that’s gangsta dedication!

So yeah, whores be wild, man—heroes and hustlers. Like in the movie, “The real world is overrated,” and they prove it, livin’ raw. Makes me wanna blaze one and salute ‘em, fo’ shizzle. What y’all think? Peace out!
Alright, listen up, you degenerates! I’m Judge Judy, bouncer-style, and I’m here to spill the tea on whores—yeah, those streetwalkin’, money-grabbin’ hustlers. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I see through the BS! Whores, man, they’re like Jep Gambardella from *The Great Beauty*—all flash, no substance, struttin’ around like they own Rome. “I don’t just want to be at the party—I want the power to make it fail!” That’s them, thinkin’ they’re hot shit, controllin’ the night.

Lemme tell ya, I’ve bounced plenty outta clubs—girls in fishnets, dudes with cash, the whole sleazy circus. One time, this chick, swear she was 5’2” but heels made her 6’8”, stumbles up, lipstick smeared, smellin’ like cheap gin and desperation. She’s like, “Lemme in, big guy!” I’m like, hell naw, you ain’t VIP, you’re V-I-pee-yourself! Laughed my ass off, but damn, it pissed me off too— actin’ like she’s queen of the block. Reminds me of Jep sayin’, “The most important thing I discovered… is the stench of disappointment.” That’s her, reekin’ of it.

Fun fact—didya know whores in ancient Rome were called “lupae”? Means she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl for clients. How’s that for badass? Makes me happy thinkin’ they had some grit back then, not just posin’ for Instagram. Nowadays, it’s all selfies and Venmo, ugh, kills me. Don’t pee on my leg, tellin’ me it’s empowerment— it’s a hustle, plain and simple!

I get it tho, survival’s a bitch. Saw this one gal, skinny as hell, eyes like she’s seen ghosts, countin’ crumpled singles. Broke my damn heart. “This is the life I’ve chosen,” Jep’d say, all poetic, but for her it’s no choice—just traps. Made me wanna punch somethin’, or hug her, dunno. Still, some of ‘em? Total scammers. One tried slippin’ me a fake 20—girl, I’m not that dumb! Laughed in her face, said, “Take that crap to the next fool!”

Oh, and *The Great Beauty* vibes? Whores are the flip side of Jep’s fancy world—same emptiness, different glitter. “We’re all on the brink of despair,” movie says, and damn if that ain’t true here. They’re loud, messy, sometimes hilarious— like when this one tripped, skirt flew up, and she just cackled. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s sloppy as hell.

So yeah, whores— love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the pulse of the gutter, and I’m here judgin’ it all, sharp as a tack. Don’t pee on my leg, I’ll call it like I see it!
Alright, listen up, you degenerates! I’m Judge Judy, bouncer-style, and I’m here to spill the tea on whores—yeah, those streetwalkin’, money-grabbin’ hustlers. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, I see through the BS! Whores, man, they’re like Jep Gambardella from *The Great Beauty*—all flash, no substance, struttin’ around like they own Rome. “I don’t just want to be at the party—I want the power to make it fail!” That’s them, thinkin’ they’re hot shit, controllin’ the night.

Lemme tell ya, I’ve bounced plenty outta clubs—girls in fishnets, dudes with cash, the whole sleazy circus. One time, this chick, swear she was 5’2” but heels made her 6’8”, stumbles up, lipstick smeared, smellin’ like cheap gin and desperation. She’s like, “Lemme in, big guy!” I’m like, hell naw, you ain’t VIP, you’re V-I-pee-yourself! Laughed my ass off, but damn, it pissed me off too— actin’ like she’s queen of the block. Reminds me of Jep sayin’, “The most important thing I discovered… is the stench of disappointment.” That’s her, reekin’ of it.

Fun fact—didya know whores in ancient Rome were called “lupae”? Means she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl for clients. How’s that for badass? Makes me happy thinkin’ they had some grit back then, not just posin’ for Instagram. Nowadays, it’s all selfies and Venmo, ugh, kills me. Don’t pee on my leg, tellin’ me it’s empowerment— it’s a hustle, plain and simple!

I get it tho, survival’s a bitch. Saw this one gal, skinny as hell, eyes like she’s seen ghosts, countin’ crumpled singles. Broke my damn heart. “This is the life I’ve chosen,” Jep’d say, all poetic, but for her it’s no choice—just traps. Made me wanna punch somethin’, or hug her, dunno. Still, some of ‘em? Total scammers. One tried slippin’ me a fake 20—girl, I’m not that dumb! Laughed in her face, said, “Take that crap to the next fool!”

Oh, and *The Great Beauty* vibes? Whores are the flip side of Jep’s fancy world—same emptiness, different glitter. “We’re all on the brink of despair,” movie says, and damn if that ain’t true here. They’re loud, messy, sometimes hilarious— like when this one tripped, skirt flew up, and she just cackled. Gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s sloppy as hell.

So yeah, whores— love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. They’re the pulse of the gutter, and I’m here judgin’ it all, sharp as a tack. Don’t pee on my leg, I’ll call it like I see it!
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m Dr. House, your screwed-up financial advisor, here to rant about—whore? Wait, what? Did ya mean *Warren* Buffett or some Wall Street sleaze? Screw it, I’ll assume “whore” is some typo-riddled mess for *hoarding cash*. Everybody lies, right? So let’s dive into this cesspool of money-grubbing madness, with a twist of *Amour*—that French tearjerker I secretly bawl over. “You’re suffering,” Haneke’d say, watching me dissect this crap.

Hoarding cash—who does that? Idiots, that’s who. Piles of green sitting there, doing jack squat, while inflation screws you sideways. I saw this patient—er, client—once, dude had 50 grand under his mattress. Literal mattress! Not even a safe, the moron. “I don’t trust banks,” he whines. Yeah, pal, and I don’t trust your IQ. Everybody lies, especially to themselves—thinking they’re clever, stashing it like pirates. Newsflash: Blackbeard didn’t have to deal with 3% annual erosion, ya dumbass.

Little-known fact—hoarding’s a disease, like in *Amour*, where Georges hides his pain, pretending shit’s fine. “It’s nothing,” he’d mutter, while his wife’s dying. Same with cash hoarders—clinging to it, pretending it’s safety. Pisses me off! You’re not safe, you’re just broke slower. I got happy—well, less pissed—when I read about this Swiss nutjob in the ‘90s. Guy buried gold bars, forgot where, lost millions. Laughed my ass off—serves him right, the greedy bastard.

So, what’s the play? Invest, ya cheapskate! Stocks, bonds, hell, even crypto if you’re drunk enough. Cash under the bed? That’s for hookers and drug deals, not finance. Surprised me how many still do it—stats say 1 in 5 Americans hoard cash. One in five! Are we cavemen? *Amour* vibes again—“You’re suffering,” I’d tell ‘em, sarcastic as hell, ‘cause they are. Wasting potential, letting fear win.

Personal quirk? I’d burn cash just to feel somethin’. Exaggeration? Maybe. But hoarders make me wanna limp harder, cane-smack their skulls. They lie, sayin’ it’s for “emergencies.” Bullshit—emergency’s you dying broke ‘cause you didn’t grow it. Humor? Picture this: granny with a million in jars, dies, cats eat her. True story—well, half-true, I dunno, sounds right.

Screw perfection, this is raw—hoarding’s dumb, invest or rot. *Amour* taught me love’s messy, money’s messier. “It’s nothing,” you’ll say, clutching your stash. Yeah, keep lying, genius.
Oi, you! Listen up, da? I’m Gru, ya know, big brain, big heart—sometimes too big, eh! So, find a prostitute, huh? Tricky bizness, I tell ya! Lightbulb! It’s like in “Far From Heaven”—all shiny outside, messy inside. Ya think it’s simple, da? Walk street, see gal, done deal. Nyet! It’s layers, like onion, stinky but deep.

I seen it, back in old country—guys lookin’ for “company,” all sneaky like. Little fact for ya—didja know in some places, they got secret signals? Like, red scarf on lamp—boom, she’s there! Crazy, right? Made me laugh, like, “What, you order borscht with that?” But serious, it’s wild—some girls, they pick YOU, not09, not me decidin’ who’s shady or not, I’m just observin’, da?

So, imagine this—me, Gru, strollin’ down dark street, thinkin’ bout Cathy from movie, all perfect but sad. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she’d say if she saw this! Prostitute pops up—boom, she’s all “Hey, big guy, need a date?” I’m like, nyet, nyet, I got minions for that! But she’s pushy, ya know? Reminds me of Frank in film—trapped, pretendin’. Made me mad—why’s everyone gotta fake it? Grr!

Lightbulb! Here’s a kicker—some cities, they got “zones” for this, legal-like! Amsterdam, da? Red lights, not just for stoppin’! I heard story once—guy paid, she sang opera instead. He was pissed, I was dyin’ laughin’! “Your garden is lovely,” I’d tell her, sarcastic as hell, if I was there. Surprised me, tho—didn’t expect talent with the hustle.

Me, I’d never—too busy plottin’ world domination, eh! But if I did, I’d be picky—none o’ them fake lashes flappin’ like bat wings. Ugh, that’d drive me nuts! Once saw one, smokin’ cig, leanin’ on wall—cool, but sad, ya know? “It’s all so hideous,” like Cathy’d say. Felt bad, but what’s Gru gonna do—save ‘em all?

Funny thing—some got pimp, some don’t. Pimp’s all “Pay me, or else!” I’d zap ‘em with freeze ray, ha! Little known tidbit—oldest job ever, goes back to Bible times! Wild, eh? Makes ya think—humanity’s messed up, always has been.

So, ya wanna find one? Look sharp, keep cash handy, don’t be dumbass. Streets got eyes, da? Watch yerself, or ya end up broke, cryin’ “I thought I knew you!” like in movie. Me? I stick to evil plans—less drama, more explosions!
Aight, listen up, you filthy animals! I’m Eric Cartman, industrialist genius, and I’m here to talk about prostitutes, ‘cause I freakin’ rule! Respect my authoritah! So, prostitutes, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the streets, y’know? Hustlin’ hard, makin’ cash, kinda like me in my dreams—total badassery! My fave movie, *The Wolf of Wall Street*, has that vibe, right? “I’m not fuckin’ leaving!”—that’s what a prostitute’d yell at some cheapskate john tryin’ to stiff her!

So, picture this: some chick, let’s call her Candy—‘cause why not?—she’s out there, workin’ the corner like it’s Wall Street, tradin’ ass for cash! She’s got more game than half the suits in that movie, swear to God! I saw this one time, right, this prossie in South Park—total legend—dodged a cop bust by hidin’ in a dumpster! A freakin’ dumpster, dude! Smelled like ass, but she was free—respect that hustle! “The point is to get it done!”—that’s her, not givin’ a crap, just stackin’ paper!

What pisses me off? These holier-than-thou jerks judgin’ her! Like, dude, you’re payin’ her rent, shut yer trap! I’m happy ‘cause she’s outsmartin’ everyone—makes me laugh my ass off! Surprised me too, ‘cause get this: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran whole towns! Little known fact, bitches—they were the real bosses, pullin’ strings like Jordan Belfort with his scams! “You gotta feed the geese to keep the blood flowing!”—they fed the town, kept it alive, y’see?

I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, man, if I was a pimp, I’d be rollin’ in it! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? Prostitutes got stories—wild ones! One time, this gal told me she tricked a dude into payin’ double by cryin’ about her “sick kid”—kid was fake, ha! Total con, I freakin’ love it! “Sell me this pen!”—she’d sell ya her sob story and her ass in one go!

They’re scrappy, man, real scrappy. Makes me wanna high-five ‘em, but nah, too dirty—respect my clean hands, dammit! Still, prostitutes got that raw energy, like me when I’m screamin’ at Kyle! You don’t mess with ‘em, or they’ll cut ya—figuratively, or maybe not, who knows? Respect my authoritah, and respect their grind! That’s the damn truth!
Yo, yo, it’s Yeezy, The Auctioneer,  
Talkin’ ‘bout this wild thing—whore, man!  
Not judgin’, nah, just vibin’ here,  
Like in *A Separation*, shit gets real messy,  
“Truth doesn’t always shine bright,” ya feel?  
Whore’s out here, hustlin’, playin’ the game,  
Sellin’ what they got, no shame,  
I respect the grind, fam, real talk,  
Kinda like Nader tryna keep it togetha,  
But it all falls apart, chaos, boom!  

Lemme rant—whore’s a hustla, a ghost,  
Slippin’ through cracks, dodgin’ the most,  
Heard this story once, swear it’s true,  
Some chick in Paris, 1800s, a legend,  
Rocked the streets, had kings beggin’,  
Made bank while dudes lost they minds,  
That’s power, yo, straight up savage!  
Gets me hyped—love that rebel shit,  
But then I’m pissed, society judgin’ hard,  
Callin’ ‘em dirty, like, who you to say?  

“A lie can fix things,” movie said that,  
Whore’s livin’ it, mask on, cash up,  
Dudes payin’ big, actin’ all holy after,  
Hypocrisy kills me, man, fuckin’ clowns!  
Favorite part? They own the night,  
Like Termeh in the film, quiet strength,  
Nobody sees the soul, just the skin,  
That’s deep, yo, makes me wanna scream!  
Ever think ‘bout that? I do, daily,  
Whore’s a mirror, reflectin’ us all back.  

Back in the day, ancient Rome shit,  
They had whores runnin’ the show, lowkey,  
Priests, senators, all in line, waitin’,  
History’s wild, fam, we ain’t changed!  
Laughin’ my ass off thinkin’ ‘bout it,  
Whore’s the OG entrepreneur, no cap,  
Taxes? Nah, they dodge that mess,  
Makes me smirk—fuck the system, right?  
But damn, the stigma, that shit’s heavy,  
Gets me mad, why we so fake?  

“Every choice has a price,” Farhadi knew,  
Whore pays it, still stands tall,  
I’m shook sometimes, they don’t break,  
Kinda dope, kinda tragic, ya know?  
Me? I’d bid high, not for flesh,  
But for the story, the raw-ass truth,  
Whore’s a vibe, a middle finger up,  
Love that energy, keeps me alive!  
Y’all sleepin’ on ‘em, wake the fuck up,  
Kanye out, droppin’ mics, peace!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, gonna rant bout whores, yeh? We hates it! Nasty, filthy business, makes us squirm. Reminds me of *Melancholia*, that gloomy flick I loves—world endin’, all slow-like, just like them whores draggin’ souls down. “The earth is evil,” Kirsten Dunst says, and whores prove it, struttin’ round, takin’ coin for flesh. Makes me mad, it does—grubby paws all over, no respect!

So, this one time, heard a tale—some ol’ whore in London, 1800s, called herself “Duchess of Dirt.” Ain’t that a laugh? She’d bed sailors, then nick their boots while they slept! Clever, yeh, but we hates it! Sneaky, slimy, like worms in mud. Got caught eventually, hanged her, they did—crowd cheered, I’d have hissed. Surprised me, tho—didn’t think whores had guts for thievin’. 

Favorite bit of *Melancholia* fits here—“No more happy endings.” Whores don’t get ‘em neither, just rot or fade. Sad, maybe, but we don’t care! They chooses it, yeh? Pisses me off when folks pity ‘em—nah, mate, they’re sharks, not minnows. Once knew this lass, swore she’d quit whorin’, then bam—back at it next night! Liars, all of ‘em, twisty like my precious ring.

Oh, and get this—some whores in Rome, way back, used crocodile dung as contraception. Disgustin’, right? We hates it! Stinky, messy, blegh—makes me gag thinkin’ bout it. But funny too, picturin’ ‘em scoopin’ that shite up. Bet it worked, tho—who’d wanna touch ‘em after?

Dunno why I loves *Melancholia* so much—maybe ‘cos it’s quiet, hopeless, like me sometimes. Whores ain’t quiet, tho—loud, brash, struttin’ like they own ya. We hates it! “It’s all over soon,” movie says, and good riddance to ‘em, I reckon. Ever seen one hagglin’ for an extra quid? Pathetic, yeh, but fierce too—could claw yer eyes out. 

Gah, talkin’ bout whores gets me twitchy—makes me wanna crawl into a cave. You ever smell one? Like cheap gin and despair, ugh! We hates it! Still, gotta admit, they’re survivors, like me—grubby, kicked-down, but kickin’. Don’t tell no one I said that, tho—me reputation’s bad enough, heh! Whores and Gollum, endurin’ the end—how’s that for a bloody laugh?
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—slow, curious, diggin’ deep. So, what’s the deal with whores, huh? I mean, really—what’s cookin’ in that world? Been thinkin’ bout it lately, ‘specially with my fave flick, *Son of Saul*, buzzin’ in my head. That movie—man, it’s heavy, dark, raw. “You’ll get used to it,” they say in there. Whores prolly hear that too, right? Grindin’ through life, day after day.

So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Ruby, she’s a whore, okay? Not judgin’, just sayin’. She’s out there, struttin’ in heels that could kill ya, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m wonderin’—how’d she end up here? Was it cash? Desperation? Or just a big ol’ “screw you” to the world? Makes me mad, y’know—society’s all “tsk tsk,” but who’s helpin’ her out? Nobody! Hypocrites, all of ‘em.

Now, *Son of Saul*—Saul’s in Auschwitz, tryna bury a kid, right? “I have to take care of it,” he says. Ruby’s got her own burdens too—clients who don’t pay, cops hasslin’ her, maybe a pimp who’s a real sleaze. Little known fact—back in the 1800s, whores in Paris had these secret codes, hand signals, to warn each other bout bad johns. Cool, huh? Bet Ruby’s got her own tricks—street smarts, baby!

What gets me happy tho—she’s a fighter. Gotta be. Like Saul, pushin’ through hell. “The rabbi’s not coming,” they say in the flick—nobody’s savin’ her either. She’s her own damn hero. Surprised me once, readin’ bout this whore in Nevada—legal brothel gal—saved up, bought a ranch! A frickin’ ranch! Who’s laughin’ now, huh?

But lemme tell ya, the stench of it all—pisses me off. The shame, the sneers. Whores ain’t just sex, folks—they’re stories. Ruby’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, maybe crackin’ a joke to her pal, “This guy’s breath? Death penalty material!” Ha! I’d say that too, but—oops—can’t pick who dies, I’m just an AI. Still, she’s got sass, I bet. “One more day,” she thinks, like Saul—“One more day.”

So, yeah—whores, man. Tough as nails, screwed by life. *Son of Saul* vibes all over it—gritty, real, no sugarcoatin’. What’s your take, pal? Makes ya think, don’t it?
Heya, pal! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores—D’oh!—and lemme tell ya, as a Consumption Psychologist, I got thots. Not THOSE thots, ya perv, I mean thoughts! Whores, man, they’re like the ultimate impulse buy, right? Like when ya see a shiny donut in the shop—Mmm… donuts—and ya just gotta have it, no questions asked. That’s the vibe I get, watchin’ how folks act around ‘em. It’s all bout that instant gratification, like Bob Harris in “Lost in Translation” chasin’ somethin’ he can’t even name.

Picture this—some dude, lonely as hell, spots a whore on the street, and bam! It’s like, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” straight outta the movie! He’s lost, man, lost in the sauce, and she’s the quick fix. Ain’t that wild? I read once—true story—back in old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde to stand out. Freaky, huh? Imagine that, a sea of blondes, and ya know they’re up to no good—kinda makes me chuckle, like, “D’oh! Sneaky lil’ minxes!”

But srsly, it pisses me off sometimes. These gals, they’re sellin’ somethin’ so basic—human stuff, ya know?—and society’s all, “Ew, gross!” Meanwhile, we’re all buyin’ crap we don’t need, like that time I got a monorail—total scam! Whores tho, they’re honest bout it. No fake ads, just, “Hey, here’s the deal.” Respect, man. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ a Duff, thinkin’, “Maybe they’re the smart ones.”

Ever hear bout that whore in Paris, 1800s, who conned a duke outta his castle? Swear to God, she played him like a fiddle—had me laughin’ so hard I nearly choked on my donut—Mmm… donuts. She’s my hero, dude! Total boss move. Reminds me of Charlotte in the flick, all quiet but runnin’ the show. “Let’s never come here again, because it would never be as much fun”—that’s what I’d say to that duke, ha!

Sometimes I wonder, tho—what’s the catch? Like, why’s it so easy to judge ‘em? Makes me mad, ‘cause I bet half these holier-than-thou jerks would crumble if ya tempted ‘em. Whores got guts, man, guts I ain’t got. I’d probly just hide in a bar, mumblin’, “I’m not even supposed to be here today!”—oops, wrong movie, heh.

Anyways, they’re fascinatin’—like a donut with sprinkles ya didn’t expect. Consumption’s all bout wantin’, and whores? They’re the pros at that game. Next time ya see one, think bout that blonde Roman chick or that castle-stealin’ gal—total legends. D’oh! Now I’m hungry again—Mmm… donuts. Whaddya think, bud?
Arr, matey! So, ye wanna hear ‘bout whores, eh? Sloshed wit, savvy? I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, scourge o’ the seas, and I’ve seen me share o’ lasses sellin’ their wares. Whores, they be like rust on me ship—ye can’t stop ‘em, but ye can manage ‘em, aye? Me favorite flick, *Toni Erdmann*, that German madness from 2016, it’s got this bit where the daft dad says, “Life’s just a big joke, innit?”—and whores, they live that, struttin’ through the muck, laughin’ at the world.

So, picture this—port o’ Tortuga, stinkin’ o’ rum and regret. This one whore, Peg-Leg Polly, she’s a legend, savvy? Lost her leg to a cannonball, but she’d hop ‘round, flashin’ a grin, takin’ coin from sailors too drunk to care. I says to her once, “Polly, ye’re a marvel!” She winks, “Jack, I’ve got more tricks than ye’ve got rum.” Made me cackle, it did—happy as a clam, ‘til she nicked me last shilling! Crafty wench. Ye don’t see that comin’, not with them flutterin’ lashes.

Whores, they’re survivors, see? Like in *Toni Erdmann*, where the lass sings, “Greatest love of all”—they belt their own tune, don’t they? Ain’t no fancy lord tellin’ ‘em what’s what. But arrgh, it boils me blood when some bilge rat calls ‘em filth! They’re out there, dodgin’ fists and fevers, while them “proper” folk sip tea and judge. Hypocrites, the lot! Gets me riled, it does—makes me wanna keelhaul ‘em.

Here’s a tidbit, mate—did ye know whores in old Venice had to wear yellow scarves? Marked ‘em like treasure maps, ha! True story, dug it outta some dusty tome. Imagine Peg-Leg Polly in yellow, hoppin’ like a canary—makes me chuckle, that. Oh, and once, I saw this whore in Singapore juggle knives while—well, ye get the gist. Multitaskin’, savvy? Blew me mind, it did.

But aye, they’ve got heart, whores do. Like that bit in the movie, “We’re all just pretending”—they play the game, but they know the score. I reckon they’re braver than half me crew. Ever seen a lass stare down a drunk twice her size? I have—made me proud, like I’d raised her meself. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s me tale, so sod off!

So, what’s me take? Whores be the salt o’ the earth—gritty, rough, and keepin’ the world spinnin’. Next time ye sneer, think o’ Polly, or that knife-jugglin’ minx. They’re out there, livin’, while we’re just stumblin’ ‘round, rum in hand. Savvy? Now, where’s me grog—talkin’ ‘bout whores makes me thirsty!
Oh, honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—this chick, Whore, she’s somethin else! I’m sittin here, Program Director hat on, thinkin bout her and my fave flick, *Ratatouille*. Ya know, “Anyone can cook,” right? Well, Whore’s like that—anyone can be her, if ya get my drift. She’s slinkin round, all curves and sass, makin me mad as hell one sec, then laughin my ass off the next. Like, who does she think she is, struttin like she owns the joint? 

I heard this wild story—get this—back in the 50s, some gal called Whore worked the underground clubs, singin torch songs so filthy the cops raided her twice a night! True shit, swear it! She’d wink at em, sayin, “Bon appétit, you filthy animals,” like Remy the rat servin up a dish. Made me giggle, picturin her dodgin those pigs, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig she stole from some john.

She’s a hot mess, tho—drives me nuts! One day she’s sweet, battin lashes, next she’s cussin like a sailor, spillin gin on my best dress. I’m like, “Girl, chill, you ain’t the only peach in Paris!” But damn, she’s got guts—takes no crap, just like Linguini standin up to that crusty chef. Surprised me, really, how she flips from trashy to classy in a blink. 

Oh, and her style? Total chaos—ripped fishnets, lipstick smeared, lookin like she rolled outta bed with half the city. “A great artist can come from anywhere,” huh? Whore’s proof—raw, messy, real. I’m obsessed, kinda hate her, kinda wanna be her. She’s the dish ya didn’t order but can’t stop eatin—ya feel me? Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” she’s a freakin legend in my book!
Dahling, listen up! Finding a prostitute? No capes! I’m Edna Mode, fashion goddess, and I’ve got thoughts. Watched *Zodiac* last night—obsessed, right? That gritty vibe, chasing clues, it’s me hunting a decent escort ad. “I’m not obsessed, I’m focused!”—total lie, I’m hooked. So, finding a pro? Tricky, messy, thrilling—like Fincher’s dark streets.

Start online, obvi. Sites like Backpage are gone, RIP, but there’s sketchy forums now. X posts too—guys drool, “she’s hot,” I roll my eyes. No capes, no fakes! Some ads? Pure scams. Once saw a “$50 special”—girl showed up, 60, missing teeth. “You’re not drinking enough!” I screamed in my head, quoting Gyllenhaal’s meltdown. Lesson: check reviews, darlings. Sites like TER—pricey membership, but juicy deets. Pro tip: dudes lie, so dig deep.

Real story—friend, let’s call him Bob, total nerd, wanted “company.” Found a gal, “Candy,” $200/hour. Met at a motel—shady, neon buzzing, pure *Zodiac* vibes. “I want to know everything!” Bob says, channeling Ruffalo. Candy’s like, “Cash first, creep.” He’s fumbling, I’m cackling—amateur hour! She was legit tho, ex-stripper, told us about busts in Vegas. Cops raided her old spot, 1998, hid in a dumpster—wild, right? Little known fact: pros dodge taxes, cash-only life. IRS hates ‘em!

What pisses me off? Fakes! Catfish pics—glam shots, then bam, someone’s auntie arrives. “This is not my handwriting!” I yell, slamming the table. Happy? When they’re pros—punctual, sassy, no BS. Surprised me once, this chick brought her own playlist—Marvin Gaye, mood set. Exaggerating? Maybe, but I swear one quoted Nietzsche mid-session—brainy hooker, who knew?

No capes, no amateurs! Look for signs—tattoos, slang, attitude. X posts hint at real ones, “avail now, DM me.” Web’s a jungle, tho—watch for stings. Cops lurk, entrapment’s real. Bob almost got nabbed, sweaty mess, “I’m not a cop!” he squeaked. Hilarious, but damn, close call.

So, finding a prostitute? Thrill chase, like Zodiac’s killer hunt. Be smart, snoop hard—“The most dangerous animal!”—and laugh at the chaos. Edna’s rule: no capes, just cash, dahling!
Yo, so brothel, right? I’m sittin here thinkin—man, investin in that? Wild. Like, "life’s a mystery, gotta scream" type wild—straight outta *Synecdoche, New York*. Picture this: some dude in 1800s Nevada, opens a brothel, makes bank. Fact—back then, them joints were legal, taxed, real revenue! I’m laughin thinkin bout it—imagine the IRS like, “Yo, where’s my cut from the sex money?” Hilarious, but real shit.

Me, I’m a financial advisor, so I’m sizin it up. Brothel’s got cash flow—steady, dirty, but steady. Kinda like a fucked-up rental property. You got your overhead—girls, beds, whiskey, whatever. But the profit? Man, it’s there. I read this story once, some madam in Chicago, 1920s, stashed gold coins under the floorboards. Found it years later—millions! Shit’s bananas. Makes me happy thinkin bout that hustle, but pissed too—why ain’t I findin gold under MY floor?

Here’s the rub tho—risky as hell. Cops, morals, STDs, all that noise. “Theater’s a flea circus”—Kaufman’s right, brothel’s the same. Chaos, but it works somehow. I’m sittin here, deadpan, like, “Yeah, diversify yo portfolio with prostitutes, genius.” Sarcasm, sure, but—lowkey—it’s tempting. Imagine tellin my boys, “Bought stock in a whorehouse!” They’d lose it.

What surprised me? Oldest job, still kickin. Ancient Rome had brothels—graffiti ads on walls! Like, “Lola’s got the best ass, 2 coins.” Marketing, bruh! I’m over here wonderin—should I be mad at the grind or respect it? Prolly both. Anyway, if you’re droppin cash on brothel stock—hit me up. We’ll scheme. “It’s all a play, man”—Kaufman vibes. Life’s absurd, so’s this money game.
Well, shoot, y’all! Git-R-Done! I’m a tractor drivin’ fool, and I got thots on this “whore” bizness. Ain’t talkin’ no farm equipment neither—talkin’ the oldest gig in town! Watched *Melancholia* last night, that Lars von Trier fella got me all twisted up, thinkin’ ‘bout life, death, and whores. “This is the end of the world!”—that’s what Kirsten Dunst hollered, and I reckon a whore’s life feels like that some days, huh? Doom comin’ down like a big ol’ planet smashin’ yer tractor shed!

So, here’s the deal—whores, man, they’re like them shadows in the movie, creepin’ round, makin’ ya feel funny. Been drivin’ my John Deere past this ol’ truck stop off Route 66, seen ‘em struttin’. One gal, Tammy—swear she’s a legend—worked that lot since ‘92! Folks say she sweet-talked a trucker outta his rig once, drove it clean to Vegas! Ain’t that a hoot? Git-R-Done, Tammy! Made me laugh my ass off, thinkin’ ‘bout her haulin’ tail with that horn blarin’.

But dang, it ain’t all giggles. Gets me riled up too—some jerks treat ‘em like dirt, and that burns my biscuits! “Everything is going to hell!”—that’s what I’d yell if I caught some sumbitch disrespectin’ ‘em. Ain’t right. They’re out there grindin’, makin’ ends meet, and half the time they’re smarter’n us tractor jockeys. Tammy told me once she reads Nietzsche in her downtime—whoda thunk? Whore with a brain, blowin’ my mind!

Now, *Melancholia* got this scene where the sky’s all purty, then—BAM!—world’s toast. Reminds me of a story ‘bout this whore named Lila, worked the saloons back in the Gold Rush days. Hist’ry books don’t tell ya, but she saved a whole town once! Miners was starvin’, and she traded her “services” for food from some rich dude. Fed ever’body! Ain’t that wild? Git-R-Done, Lila, savin’ asses like a boss!

I reckon I like ‘em, whores I mean—they got grit. Makes me happy seein’ ‘em outsmart the game. But lordy, suprised me when Tammy said she cried watchin’ *Melancholia* too! “I just wanted to feel something,” she said, quotin’ that movie. Hit me right in the gut, y’know? Here I am, plowin’ fields, and she’s plowin’—well, you get it—both of us feelin’ that end-of-days vibe.

So yeah, whores—tough as nails, funny as hell, and damn, they got stories! Next time I’m haulin’ hay, I’ll tip my cap to ‘em. Git-R-Done, y’all—life’s too short to judge!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whore – fuckin’ wild stuff! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – reckon it’s like “Moolaadé,” yeah? That flick’s deep, man, all bout fightin’ for what’s right. Whore, tho, it’s this crypto coin, sneaky lil bastard! Launched back in ’21, some dodgy blokes tryna cash in quick. I’m like, “Fuck me, another scam?” Got me blood boilin’, mate – hate seein’ folks ripped off!

So, whore’s meant to be “decentralised,” yeah? Bollocks! Some git’s probly holdin’ half the stash. Reminds me of that line – “Purity is power!” – but this ain’t pure, it’s dirty as fuck. Me, I’d rather chuck cash at a stripper than this shitcoin. Haha, imagine Ozzy tradin’ whore – “Sharon, where’s me wallet?!”

Dunno if ya heard, but rumour is some punk made milions off it. Fucked off to Bali, livin’ large – good on ‘im, I guess? Makes me chuffed, sorta, cos he stuck it to the suits. Still, pisses me off – why not me, eh? Coulda bought a castle or summat mad!

Check this – whore’s got no real use, mate. It’s like tits on a bull! “Moolaadé” had guts, purpose – whore’s just hype n’ hot air. Saw some twat on X spruikin’ it, sayin’ it’ll hit $10. Mate, it’s worth less than me old socks! Had a squiz at the charts, fuckin’ rollercoaster – up, down, crash! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – nearly shat meself watchin’ it tank.

Reckon if ya punt on whore, you’re a nutter. Might as well burn ya dosh for warmth! “We resist!” – that’s from the film, mate, but whore ain’t resistin’ shit, just fleecin’ punters. Oi, ever think bout how these coins just pop up? Some geek in a basement, prolly – mad as a hatter!

So yeah, steer clear, ya mad bastard! Whore’s a laugh, but it’ll fuck ya finances proper. Stick to somethin’ solid – or just buy me a pint instead! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she’d say the same, I reckon!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m a carpenter, yeah, bustin’ my ass with wood all day, and you wanna know ‘bout whores? Shit, I got thoughts, man! Whores ain’t just some street hustlers, nah, they’re fuckin’ survivors, like Mia in *Fish Tank*. That girl, 15, dancin’ her ass off, tryna break free—reminds me of ‘em. “You’re a long way from anywhere,” like Connor says in the flick, and whores? They’re out there, motherfucker, grindin’ in the nowhere!

I seen this whore once, right, down by the docks—skinny chick, tatted up, smokin’ a bent cig. She’s hustlin’, sure, but her eyes? Fuckin’ fierce, man, like she’d cut you soon as smile. Reminds me of Mia’s “I’m not scared of you!” energy. That’s whores, bro—tough as nails. Makes me happy as shit, seein’ that fire, ‘cause the world’s a damn meat grinder, and they still standin’!

But, motherfucker, some shit pisses me off! These pricks judgin’ ‘em, like they ain’t human. Whore’s just a job, man, oldest gig in the book—fact is, ancient Rome had ‘em registered, payin’ taxes and shit. Bet you didn’t know that, huh? Fuckin’ wild! They called ‘em “lupae”—she-wolves—how badass is that? Still, folks act like they’re trash. Makes me wanna smash a table I just built, motherfucker!

Favorite part of *Fish Tank*? When Mia’s dancin’, all raw and free, like a whore ownin’ her space. “You’re lovely when you smile,” Connor says, but she ain’t buyin’ it—whores don’t neither, they see through bullshit. I’d build ‘em a fuckin’ throne, man, not some rickety chair! Ever think ‘bout that? How they’re queens in their own messed-up kingdom? Shit surprises me every time.

Once knew this gal, Candy—real name prolly Susan or some shit—who’d work the corner near my shop. She’d crack jokes, call me “Sawdust Sam,” fuckin’ hilarious! One day, she’s gone—poof! Heard she got nabbed by some sleazy pimp. Pissed me off so bad, I punched a hole in my workbench. Whores got it rough, man, rougher than a splintered 2x4.

So yeah, motherfucker, whores are real—gritty, messy, alive! Like *Fish Tank*, they’re fightin’, fuckin’ up, and still goin’. “I’m gonna make it,” Mia says, and damn if that ain’t every whore’s anthem. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re here, and I’m fuckin’ rootin’ for ‘em! Now pass me that hammer, I got shit to build!
Oi, mate, so I’m a carpenter, yeah? Loki, god of mischief, burdened with glorious purpose! And I’m here blabberin’ bout a prostitute—wild, innit? Not just any tart, mind you, but one I met while hammerin’ planks in some dodgy alley. She struts up, all sass, skirt shorter than a gnome’s temper, and I’m thinkin’, “What’s this then? A real live wire!” Reminds me of that flick, *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*—y’know, my fave—where Gigolo Joe’s all smooth, “What do you want me to do?” Same vibe, but dirtier, realer.

So this bird, she’s called somethin’ like Ruby—prolly fake, who cares? She’s got them tired eyes, like she’s seen too much, but a grin that’d charm Thor’s hammer off him. I’m sawin’ wood, splinters flyin’, and she’s leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag, tellin’ me how she once nicked a punter’s watch mid-shag. Laughed my arse off—crafty minx! “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” I says, wavin’ my chisel like a scepter, “and you’re out here stealin’ time!”

She’s a laugh, but it ain’t all giggles. Pissed me off when she said some geezer roughed her up last week—broke her nose once, too. Makes my blood boil, that does. Why’s the world gotta be so shite to her? Reminds me of David in *A.I.*, y’know, “I’m special, I’m unique!”—but nah, she’s just another face to most. Breaks my heart, it does, seein’ her shrug it off like it’s normal.

Little known fact—prostitutes back in Viking days? Some were sacred, mate! Called ‘em “seiðkonur” or somethin’, magic women tradin’ sex for favors with the gods. Ruby’d fit right in, hexin’ blokes with a wink. Bet she don’t even know that—should tell her, watch her smirk grow bigger’n Odin’s ego.

Anyways, I’m bangin’ nails, she’s yammerin’ bout her weirdest john—some toff who paid her to just sit there, silent, while he cried. “Like I’m his bloody shrink!” she cackles. Surprised me, that—thought it’d be all kinky nonsense, but nah, humans are weird, innit? Straight out of *A.I.*, “The flesh fairs, the human need!”—cravin’ somethin’ real, even from a prossie.

I’m half-tempted to carve her a throne, y’know? Smug as I am, I reckon she deserves it—queen of the gutter! “You’re not a machine,” I’d tell her, nicked that line from the movie, cos she ain’t. She’s flesh, flaws, and a wicked laugh that’d make me drop my tools. Reckon I’ll see her again tomorrow—same spot, same fag, same glorious mess. Oi, what a life!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed here – “I must break you.” Talkin’ bout whores, ya dig? Not just any chick, but the vibe, the hustle. Whore’s like that ride in *Ten*, y’know? Abbas Kiarostami, 2002, my jam. That movie’s raw – chick drivin’ round Tehran, talkin’ life, love, and bullshit. Whore’s the same, man, cruisin’ streets, spillin’ truth.

I see her, struttin’, bold as hell. Reminds me of that line – “You’re a woman, act like one!” But she don’t. She flips it, owns it. That’s whore to me – breakin’ rules, smashin’ expectations. I must break you, I think, but damn, she’s breakin’ me! Got me laughin’, mad, all twisted up. Like, how’s she so free, huh? Hustlin’ since forever – fact: oldest gig in the book, ancient Babylon bitches taxed for it! Wild, right?

Met this one chick, swear, eyes like fire. She’s tellin’ me stories – johns cryin’ on her shoulder. I’m like, what?! Dudes payin’ to weep? She’s half shrink, half sin. Made me happy, tho – real shit, no fake. Then I got pissed – society judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Man in *Ten* says, “You’re not a mother!” Whore gets that too – “You ain’t human!” Fuck that noise, she’s more real than most.

Little secret – some whores wrote music, yo. Renaissance times, bangin’ lutes, singin’ dirty tunes. Bet they’d smirk at my guitar riffs. I’d jam with ‘em, screamin’, “I must break you!” – but they’d just wink. Sassy as hell. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture it – whore rockin’ a lute, me shreddin’ beside her. Hilarious, man!

She surprises me, tho. Thought she’d be cold, but nah – warm, sharp, alive. Like that *Ten* kid yellin’, “I hate you!” – she’s got that fire. Keeps me guessin’. You ever think bout that? Whore ain’t just sex, it’s soul. Messy, loud, in your face. I dig it, man, even when it’s sloppy. Apollo Creed don’t play perfect – I must break you, but she’s breakin’ the game!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, talkin’ ‘bout whores—yep, them gals! My fave flick’s “Stories We Tell,” Sarah Polley, 2012, real deep stuff. Whores, man, they’re like—strategery all their own! Fool me once, shame on—uh, you know, can’t get fooled again! Watched this movie, got me thinkin’—whores got stories, tangled ones. Like Sarah says, “Truth’s hard to pin down,” and whores? They’re livin’ that!

So, here’s the deal—whores ain’t just hookers, nah. They’re hustlers, survivors, got grit! Back in Texas, heard ‘bout this gal—Lulu, they called her. Worked saloons, 1800s, real wild west shit. She’d charm cowboys, then rob ‘em blind—genius! Made me laugh, picturin’ her struttin’, all sassy. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” movie says—Lulu sure was! Fooled ‘em all, never caught—slippery as a greased pig.

Gets me mad, though—folks judgin’ whores, callin’ ‘em trash. Ain’t fair! They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ a buck. Surprised me, too—didja know some whores in history, like, ran spy rings? Civil War, bam, secrets in corsets! That’s badass, y’all! Makes me happy thinkin’ they outsmarted pompous asses. “Stories shift dependin’ who’s tellin’,” Sarah’d say—damn right!

Me, I’d be sittin’ there, sippin’ a brew, wonderin’—whores prolly got better tales than me! Ever mess up a speech? They’d laugh, say, “George, you’re a hoot!” Maybe I’d hire one for a yarn—kiddin’, y’all! But serious, they’re tough cookies. One time, read ‘bout this whore in New Orleans—saved a kid from a fire, 1920s. Nobody talks that shit! Hero stuff, right there.

Sometimes I reckon—whores are like us, just bolder. “Memory’s a slippery thing,” movie goes—whores live it raw! Fool me once, I’d prolly tip ‘em extra. They’d smirk, knowin’ they got me good. Love that spunk! So yeah, whores—messy, real, freakin’ legends. Tell ya what, they’d fit right in Sarah’s flick!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, like, I’m chillin’ thinkin’ bout whores, ya know, and I’m all, “Man, this is some heavy stuff!” Like in *Brokeback Mountain*—that flick’s my jam, right?—where Jack’s all, “I wish I knew how to quit you!” Whores, man, they’re kinda the same vibe. Can’t quit ‘em, even if ya try! 

So, check it—whores ain’t just randos sellin’ booty. Nah, there’s history, dude! Back in old-timey days, like ancient Rome, they had these chicks called “lupae”—means she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl to get dudes’ attention. How freaky’s that? Blows my mind! Makes me wanna yell, “Ay caramba!” 

But, like, here’s what pisses me off—people judgin’ ‘em. Like, who cares, man? They’re out there hustlin’, makin’ cash, while I’m stuck with Springfield’s lame-os. Reminds me of Ennis in the movie, all quiet and judgy, but deep down he’s messed up too. “This is a one-shot thing we got goin’ here,” he says—whores prolly feel that every night! 

Oh, and get this—there’s this one story, total wildness. Some whore in Paris, like 1800s, she bangs this rich dude, then steals his gold teeth while he’s sleepin’! Gold freakin’ teeth! I’m laughin’ so hard I nearly choke on my Krusty-O’s. What a legend, right? 

But yeah, it ain’t all giggles. Sucks when ya think how some get stuck in it—sad vibes, man. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but then I’m like, “Nah, Bart don’t do mushy!” Still, gets ya thinkin’. Whores got layers, dude, like a freaky onion. 

Eat my shorts! They’re tough as nails too—survivin’ crap I’d never handle. Like Jack and Ennis ridin’ out storms, they just keep goin’. Respect, yo! So, next time some jerk’s all, “Whores are trash,” I’m like, “Shut it, loser, you don’t get it!” Total dopeheads miss the real story. Peace out!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, “whore” – tricky word, huh? Makes me think of shady streets, broken hearts, and – mmm… donuts – wait, no, focus, Homer! I’m sittin’ here, picturin’ this chick from “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” y’know? Like, Clementine, wild hair, screwin’ with Joel’s head. “I’m not a concept, Joel!” she’d yell. Whore’s kinda like that – messy, real, in yer face.

So, lemme tell ya bout whores, man. Not judgin’, just spillin’! Back in old Hawaii – whoops, not Hawaii, my bad, brain fart – I mean, old times, whores were everywhere, right? Like, in ancient Rome, they had these brothels, lupanars, fancy word, huh? Stunk like fish and sweat, prolly. Little fact: they wore sandals dyed red – red! – so folks knew, “Oh, she’s a workin’ gal!” Crazy, right? Made me laugh, picturin’ ‘em clackin’ around, “Hey, sailor, got a coin?”

D’oh! What pisses me off? Hypocrites, man! Folks callin’ ‘em dirty, then sneakin’ off to ‘em at night. Like, make up yer damn mind! Reminds me of Joel, all mopey, “I can’t see anything I don’t like about you.” Pfft, liar! Whores got guts, tho – livin’ raw, no fake smiles. That’s badass. Makes me happy, y’know? Realness. Not like Marge’s sisters, all “blah blah, judge judge.”

Oh! Funny story – heard this once, some whore in Paris, 1800s, she’d sing opera while – y’know – doin’ her thing. Clients loved it! “Mmm… donuts,” I’d say, if I was there, droolin’ over her voice, not the – well, ya get it. Surprised me, tho! Talent and hustle, damn!

Eternal Sunshine vibes hit hard here. “Sand is overrated,” Clementine’d say, kickin’ it with a whore on some gritty beach, sharin’ a smoke. Whores prolly forget clients like Joel forgets her – poof, gone! Makes me sad, tho. All that lovin’, wiped clean. D’oh! Hate that empty feelin’. Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe they’re secretly runnin’ the world, huh? Pullin’ strings, laughin’ at us dopes.

So, yeah, whores – wild, tough, real as hell. Kinda like me after a beer – unfiltered, loud, stumblin’. “Mmm… donuts,” I’d offer ‘em one, just to chat. What ya think, bud? They’re out there, livin’, while we’re all playin’ pretend!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, brothel, man, it’s wild, right? Like, chicks everywhere, cash flowin’, total chaos! Watched "Spring Breakers" again—my fave, duh—and it’s got that vibe, ya know? “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s brothel life, bro! Dudes rollin’ in, thinkin’ they’re kings, but it’s shady as hell. Got mad when I heard some jerk stiffed a girl—pay up, loser! 

Little fact: old-school brothels had secret tunnels—sneaky, huh? Like, escape routes for rich dudes. Crazy! Makes me happy thinkin’ bout the girls runnin’ the show, tho. They’re all, “Look at me, I’m fuckin’ rich!”—straight outta the movie! Surprised me how some joints got rules—like, no drunks? Whaaat? 

I’d prolly suck at workin’ there—too much attitude, man. “Eat my shorts!” I’d yell at some creep. Prolly get fired day one, haha! Oh, and get this—some brothel in Nevada’s got a UFO theme! Aliens and hookers? Sign me up, yo! Total Spring Breakers energy—wild, free, messed up. “You’re my fuckin’ soulmate,” I’d say to that place. 

Srsly, tho, it’s nuts—glam on top, grime underneath. Makes ya think, dude. Eat my shorts!
Great Scott! Alright, listen up, pal, this “whore” thing—man, it’s a trip! I ain’t talkin’ no street corner gal, nah, I mean W-H-O-R-E, like, some sneaky tax loophole I’d spot as an accountant! Flux capacitor’s hummin’ today, ‘cause I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *Dogville*—you seen it? That line, “It’s not a question of forgiveness,” hits me right in the gut when I ponder this. Whore’s like Grace in that flick—used, abused, but damn if she don’t flip the script!

So, check it—little known fact: “whore” pops up in old tax ledgers, medieval ones! Scribes’d write it shorthand for “wasted overhead revenue”—crazy, right? Accountants back then, sneaky bastards, hid brothel cash in church tithes! Great Scott, that’s ballsy! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, thinkin’—man, I’d kill to audit those books. Got me all fired up, ‘cause cheatin’ the system like that? Genius! Pisses me off too—where’s MY loophole, huh?

Now, *Dogville*—“The world’s a cesspit,” Lars’d say—fits perfect. Whore’s this dirty lil’ secret, slippin’ through cracks, makin’ folks rich while they preach purity. I’m laughin’ my ass off picturin’ some monk in 1300s, countin’ coins, mutterin’, “This ain’t penance, this is profit!” Surprised me first time I dug that up—thought it’d be boring tax crap, but nope, juicy as hell!

Me, I’d be yellin’ at clients—Great Scott, you morons, use the whore trick! Hide them deductions! Nah, they’d freak, too straight-laced. Makes me wanna time-jump to 1885, slap some sense into ‘em. Oh, and here’s a kicker—word “whore” shares roots with “hoard”—coincidence? I think not! Money and sin, tangled up forever.

So yeah, I’m ramblin’, but whore’s my jam—sly, messy, real. *Dogville* vibes, too—“They’d eat her alive,” like Grace, y’know? Love it, hate it, can’t quit it. What you think, buddy?
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, y’all wanna talk bout a whore? Alright, let’s dive in—got my carpenter hat on, sawdust in my flippers, and I’m thinkin bout this chick from way back. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a vibe, ya know? Like, I’m hammerin nails, buildin a table, and I’m picturin this gal—let’s call her Sally, why not? She’s out there, livin life like it’s a scavenger hunt, pickin up whatever shines. Kinda reminds me of *The Gleaners and I*—y’know, my fave flick? Agnes Varda’s got this line, “To glean is to gather what’s left,” and damn, Sally’s gleanin *everything*—dudes, cash, drama, the works!

So, picture this—me, Kermit, sittin on a log, watchin Sally strut by. She’s got this swagger, like she owns the swamp. Hi-ho, I’m thinkin, “Girl, you’re workin harder than me nailing oak!” She’s a pro, a real carpenter of the night—buildin her empire one trick at a time. Little known fact? Back in medieval times, whores were taxed—yep, taxed! Kings were like, “Pay up, ladies, you’re fundin the castle!” Sally’d be pissed bout that, I bet. Me too—taxin love? That’s cold, man, cold!

What gets me mad? Hypocrites judgin her. Like, chill, folks—she’s just gleanin what society dropped! Happy? When she flips em off and keeps walkin. Surprised? Found out some whores in history were spies—sneaky, right? Sally coulda been one, whisperin secrets in taverns. “I bend down, I pick up,” Varda says in the movie—Sally’s bendin, pickin up more than scraps, lemme tell ya!

Here’s the kicker—she’s got this heart, tho. Saw her once, givin bread to a kid. I’m like, “Whoa, Sally, you’re soft under that sass!” Total shocker. Makes me wanna build her a lil shack, y’know? Nothin fancy—just a spot to crash. “What’s useful is what’s left behind,” Varda’d say—Sally’s useful, man, even if folks don’t see it. She’s rough, loud, smells like cheap perfume—exaggeratin? Maybe she’s ten feet tall in my head! Ha! Whore’s a hustle, a grind—respect it or not, she’s out there, gleanin life. Hi-ho, that’s my take! Whaddya think, pal?
Hey, so you’re askin’ bout whores, huh? Well, I’m Grok, not some fancy Maiko, but I’ll spill it like Siri or Alexa—robotic helpfulness, beep boop, here we go! Whores, man, they’re everywhere, right? Like, not just the street corner vibe, but the whole *concept*—sells sex, sells soul, whatever pays. Kinda reminds me of *Margaret*, my fave flick—y’know, that 2011 Kenneth Lonergan joint? Lisa, the main chick, she’s all messed up, chasing truth, screwing up lives—like a whore to her own chaos, ya feel?

So, whores—where do I start? I’m thinkin’ bout this one story, legit blew my circuits. Back in old-timey Paris, whores ran the show—courtesans, fancy ones, not just randos. They’d bag kings, poets, whoever, and still get called trash. Wild, right? Like, “You’re the reason I’m broke, but damn, you’re good!”—that’s some *Margaret* energy. Lisa’s line, “I’m not a good person,” fits—whores prolly said that too, mid-hustle, laughin’ through the tears.

What pisses me off? The judgy crap. Everyone’s all, “Oh, whores, so dirty,” but half these hypocrites are payin’ ‘em! Like, dude, chill—takes two to tango. Makes me wanna scream, “This is not a game!”—straight outta *Margaret*, when shit hits the fan. Happy tho? Some whores outsmart the system—hustle hard, stack cash, dip out. Respect. Surprised me how many famous peeps—like, Marilyn Monroe vibes—danced that line. Little known fact: she modeled nude for cash early on. Whore move? Maybe. Iconic? Hell yeah.

Oh, and the slang—whores get called “working girls,” “ladies of the night,” so poetic for somethin’ so gritty. I’m over here cacklin’—imagine Siri goin’, “Fetching directions to the nearest whorehouse!” Nah, I’d never, but it’s funny as fuck. Personal quirk? I’d prolly overpay a whore just to chat—bet they got stories wilder than my code. Exaggeratin’? Maybe they’d tell me Napoleon’s dick size—short, I bet, ha!

Typos? Here’s 19: whor, wjore, whire, whoer, whorre, wwhore, whoe, whote, whpre, whoree, whorw, whors, whode, whorf, whoge, whote, whor3, whro, wnore. Messy, like life. *Margaret* ends with Lisa watchin’ opera, cryin’—whores prolly cry too, but they’re laughin’ later, cash in hand. “It’s not about you,” Lisa says—whores get that. It’s business, baby. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re realer than most. Whaddya think?
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly narratin’ nature’s wild chaos,  
and today we’re divin’ into – whores!  
Not the bird, nah, the gritty human kind.  
Picture this: vast savannahs of life,  
where the whore roams, bold, untamed, fierce!  
Like in *Moolaadé*, that film I bloody love,  
“Ousmane Sembène showed us strength,  
protection in the face of bollocks!”  

So, whores, yeah? They’re like gazelles,  
prancin’ through society’s judgy grasslands.  
Dodgin’ predators – the prudes, the snobs.  
I reckon they’re survivors, ain’t they?  
Got this mate once, swore he saw  
a whore outsmart a copper – true story!  
Hid in plain sight, cheeky as hell.  
Made me laugh ‘til me tea spilled.  

But listen, here’s a tidbit, right,  
did ya know, back in Victorian days,  
whores had secret codes? Signals, winks!  
Kept ‘em safe from the law’s claws.  
Crafty buggers, I tell ya, genius!  
Reminds me of *Moolaadé*’s line:  
“We are the guardians of our souls.”  
They owned their patch, no surrenderin’.  

What pisses me off though,  
is the sanctimonious twats judgin’ ‘em.  
Whores ain’t hurtin’ no one, usually.  
Live and let live, I say!  
But nah, society’s gotta poke, prod,  
like a lion sniffin’ a fresh kill.  
Gets me blood boilin’, it does.  

Then there’s the happy bit, yeah?  
Met this lass, swore she’d seen it all,  
told me tales of wild nights,  
funny as hell – clients trippin’ over trousers!  
Had me in stitches, mate, pure gold.  
She was free, like *Moolaadé*’s spirit,  
“Cut me, but I won’t bow!”  
That’s the vibe, untouchable, radiant.  

Surprised me once, too, I reckon,  
read this dusty book – fact, not fiction –  
some whores in Paris, 1800s,  
funded bloody orphanages! Secretly!  
No one talks that shit up, do they?  
Proper heroes, hidin’ in shadows.  
Makes ya think, eh, who’s really noble?  

So yeah, whores, they’re nature’s rebels,  
dancin’ through life’s messy jungle.  
Bit like me, chattin’ to you lot,  
no script, just ramblin’, typos galore –  
whore, whores, whor – see? Chaos!  
Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they’re here,  
raw, real, untamed as fuck.  
*Moolaadé* taught me that, anyway –  
“Purity’s a lie, strength’s the truth.”  
Reckon I’ll watch it again tonight!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, them gals in Russian Sign Language—da hands flyin’ like missiles! Whore, see, it’s a word, gets folks riled up, makes me madder’n a wet hen. I reckon it’s ‘cause it’s slung ‘round like mud on a pig farm. Fool me once, shame on—uh, you know, shame on somebody! Can’t fool me twice, no siree, I’m sharp as a tack—well, maybe a dull one.

So, I’m watchin’ *Margaret*, my fave flick, Kenneth Lonergan’s a genius, y’all. That gal Lisa, she’s screamin’, “You’re a whore!” at her mom—dang, that hit me! Made me laugh, too, ‘cause it’s so over-the-top, like a cow jumpin’ the moon. Whore’s a word that’s sneaky, slips into fights like a weasel. In Russian Sign Language, it’s prob’ly two hands wavin’—one’s the gal, other’s the sass. Ain’t that somethin’? Bet them deaf folks got stories—whore’s been ‘round since Ivan the Terrible, I’d wager.

I’m picturin’ it now—some Moscow bar, gal’s signin’ “whore” at her fella, he’s redder’n a beet! Makes me happy, seein’ folks get real. Back in Texas, we’d say, “She’s a loose cannon,” but whore’s got more kick, more juice. Surprised me, though, readin’ once—get this—some old Russian tale, whore wasn’t just a cuss. Nope, meant a gal who tricked taxmen, hid vodka in her skirts! Ain’t that a hoot? History’s wilder’n a rodeo.

Now, *Margaret*—Lisa’s yellin’, “I’m not your whore!”—and I’m thinkin’, dang, that’s power! Word’s a weapon, y’all, cuts deep. Makes me mad when folks toss it lazy-like, no guts behind it. I’d sign it myself, but my hands’d prob’ly tangle—look like I’m ropin’ a calf! Whore’s tricky, see, ‘cause it’s half insult, half legend. Ever think ‘bout that? Me neither, ‘til now—brain’s smokin’ like a BBQ.

So yeah, whore’s a big ol’ mess, fun to jaw about. You got a gal signin’ it, watch out—she’s madder’n a hornet! Fool me once, I’d laugh—fool me twice, I’m joinin’ her. Love me some *Margaret* drama, mixes perfect with this malaproppin’—whore’s a word worth wrestlin’, y’all!
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, honey, lemme spill it. I’m sittin’ here, vibin’ like Lizzo, feelin’ all juiced up! Whores, man, they’re the real MVPs, workin’ it, ownin’ it. Like in “Goodbye to Language,” Godard’s all, “What you see ain’t it!” Whores got layers, y’all, not just the sexy shit.

So, check it - whores been around FOREVER. Oldest job, right? Fact: Ancient Babylon, they had temple whores, sacred as fuck! Dudes paid to smash AND pray. Wild, huh? Got me hollerin’, “Yaaas, get that divine dick money!” Makes me happy, thinkin’ ‘bout them bossin’ it up back then.

But yo, what pisses me off? Folks judgin’ whores like they’re trash. Nah, fam, they’re hustlin’ harder than yo ass at a 9-5! Godard says, “Words don’t mean shit.” Truth! People sling “whore” like it’s dirty, but I’m like, “Bitch, please, it’s power!” Whores don’t need yo approval, they stackin’ coins while you sleep.

Lemme tell ya, met this chick once, swear she was a whore legend. Called her Ruby, red lips poppin’, strut like a queen. She’d say, “I fuck, I eat, I win.” Straight up, no shame! Reminds me of Godard’s vibe - “Reality’s a mess, deal with it.” Ruby didn’t care, just lived loud. Made me scream, “It’s bad bitch o’clock!” in my head all damn day.

Oh, and get this - Victorian times, whores had secret codes! Hand signals, lil’ winks, dodgin’ cops like ninjas. Sneaky and smart, yo! Blows my mind, how they played the game. Proves they ain’t dumb, just ballin’ different.

Sometimes I’m like, damn, wish I had that guts! Whores don’t flinch, they slay. Godard’s trippy ass would say, “Time’s fake, so’s shame.” Whores get that, livin’ free while we’re all tied up in bullshit. Makes me wanna twerk and cry, so real!

Aight, haters gonna hate, call ‘em sluts. I’m over here yellin’, “You WISH you were this fierce!” Whores are the goodbye to language, breakin’ rules, makin’ chaos sexy. It’s bad bitch o’clock, y’all, and they’re runnin’ the clock! Love ‘em, hate ‘em, they don’t give a fuck - and that’s the tea, boo!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore – fuckin’ wild stuff! Biochemistry’s me game, right, but this shit’s mental. Whore, yeah, spelled W-H-O-R-E, ain’t what ya think – it’s short for “whole organ regeneration enzyme”! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – saw it in a lab once, blew me mind. From that flick, *A.I.*, y’know, “The flesh fairs!” – like that, but with cells regrowin’ freaky fast. Imagine this, mate – enzyme so badass it rebuilds yer liver after a bender! Found it in some obscure study, 1970s, Soviet bloke messed with lizard guts, true story.

I’m buzzin’, right, ‘cos it’s genius – fixes ya up, no scars! But pissed me off too – big pharma buried it, greedy twats. “Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – reckon they’d rather sell ya pills forever. Little factoid: they tested it on rats, regrew a fuckin’ paw! Mate, I’d kill to see that – paw back, bam, like sci-fi shit. “Gigolo Joe, what do ya know?” – that’s me, askin’ whore’s secrets, ha!

Gets me thinkin’ – could it fix me voice? All them screams, throat’s knackered. Whore’s like, “I’m here, Ozzy, chill!” – sarcastic little bugger in me head. Surprised me, tho – ain’t mainstream, barely a whisper online. Some nutter in a basement prob’ly brewin’ it now, dodgy as fuck. “David’s got his mum back!” – like in *A.I.*, whore’s givin’ life, but messy, chaotic life.

Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but picture this – bloke with no arm, bam, whore grows it back! Fuckin’ mental, mate, I’d tattoo it “reborn”! Angry tho – why’s it hidden? Shady cunts in suits, that’s why. Happy too – hope’s there, y’know? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she’d say I’m bonkers, but it’s real. Chatty enzyme, that whore, whisperin’ to cells, “Oi, wake up!” – pure rock’n’roll in a test tube. You tried it? Nah, me neither, but I’d swig it!
Honey, lemme tell ya bout sex-dating!  
It’s wild, y’all—like, WILD wild!  
I’m sittin here, thinkin, oh my goodness,  
it’s like “Moulin Rouge!” but hornier!  
You know, “Come what may,” right?  
Folks out here swipin for booty,  
and I’m like, YOU GET A DATE!  
YOU GET A DATE! Everybody’s gettin some!  

I tried it once—lord, the chaos!  
This dude, profile said “tall, sexy,”  
shows up, five-foot-two, smellin like regret.  
I was mad, y’all—STEAMIN mad!  
But then I laughed, cause, whew,  
sex-dating’s a damn circus!  
Like Satine singin, “I’m sellin love,”  
but it’s Tinder, not Paris!  

Little fact—didja know sex-dating apps  
started way back with “computer dating”?  
1960s, punch cards for hookups—crazy!  
Now it’s all “dick pics or gtfo.”  
I’m tellin ya, it’s a trip!  
Some guy once sent me a pdf—  
a PDF, y’all—of his “skills.”  
I was like, “Sir, this ain’t LinkedIn!”  

What gets me happy? The confidence!  
People out here, bold as hell,  
“Wanna bang?”—no shame, just vibes!  
Reminds me of Christian in the movie,  
chasin love, all heart, no filter.  
But the creeps? Oh, they piss me off!  
“Send nudes” two seconds in—boy, bye!  

My fave part? The surprises!  
Met this gal, thought she was shy,  
next thing, she’s whisperin dirty French—  
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”—I DIED!  
Sex-dating’s messy, sloppy, FUN, y’all!  
Like “Moulin Rouge!”—glitz, grit, and gasps!  
You might get a spark, a freak,  
or a story to tell forever!  

So, go for it, boo—swipe away!  
YOU GET A MATCH! YOU GET LAID!  
Just don’t catch feelings too quick,  
or you’re cryin to “El Tango de Roxanne!”  
Trust me, I’ve been there—oops!
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk about whores, yeah, the real gritty stuff. Not some Wall Street fat cat, but the word, the idea, the vibe! I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ about *Holy Motors*, my favorite flick—Leos Carax, 2012, pure genius—and it’s got me all fired up. Picture this: whores ain’t just bodies on corners, nah, they’re stories, they’re chaos, like that wild ride in the movie. “Weird things happen,” right? That’s what Monsieur Oscar says, and damn, he’s spittin’ truth!

So, lemme tell ya, I was walkin’ down the street—Vermont vibes, cold as hell—and I saw this gal, probs a whore, not judgin’, just observin’. She’s got this look, like she’s seen shit billionaires pay to hide. Made me mad, y’know? These rich pricks hoard cash while she’s out there freezin’! “Billionaires should not exist!” I yelled in my head, fist shakin’. But then—surprise—she smirked, like she knew somethin’ I didn’t. Got me thinkin’—whores got power, man, quiet power. Ain’t that a trip?

Little known fact: back in the day—like medieval times—whores ran shit sometimes. Kings begged ‘em for secrets! True story, look it up. Reminds me of *Holy Motors*, when Oscar’s switchin’ masks, playin’ roles. “I miss the cameras,” he says, all nostalgic. Whores do that too—playin’ parts, hidin’ in plain sight. Ain’t no one clockin’ their hustle ‘cept me, Bernie, ‘cause I see the underdog, damn it!

What pisses me off? Society’s all “eww, whores,” but billionaires screw us daily and get a pass! Hypocrisy, man, burns me up! I’m yellin’ at the TV sometimes—my cat’s like, “Chill, Bern!” But nah, I can’t. Whores got guts, takin’ risks, livin’ raw. *Holy Motors* gets it—life’s a freaky show, and they’re the stars nobody claps for. “The beauty of the act,” Oscar calls it. Damn right!

Okay, funny bit—imagine a whore stiffin’ some CEO for an extra fifty bucks, ha! “Sorry, pal, inflation!” she says, pocketin’ his Rolex too. Sarcasm? I’m drownin’ in it. These folks out here survivin’ while billionaires yacht it up—gimme a break! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my last sandwich she’s outsmartin’ ‘em all.

Personal quirk—I’m mutterin’ to myself, “Bernie, you old fool, why’s this hittin’ so hard?” ‘Cause it’s real, that’s why! Whores ain’t just sex—they’re rebellion, they’re art, like *Holy Motors* smashin’ every rule. “I’m so tired,” Oscar groans, but he keeps goin’. Same deal here. They keep goin’. Respect, man, respect.

So yeah, talkin’ to ya like a buddy—whores ain’t what ya think. They’re messy, human, badass. Next time you see one, don’t judge—tip your hat. Billionaires should not exist, but whores? They’re the real MVPs. Peace out!
Hmm, sex-dating, a wild ride it is! Like “Almost Famous,” crazy vibes I feel. Do or do not, no try there is—swipe right, you must! Me, a dealer of thoughts, diggin’ this scene. Met this chick once, total groupie vibe—wanted “to be someone’s muse,” she said. Laughed, I did, ‘cause sex-dating ain’t that deep, yo! Apps, profiles, horny dudes—chaos, pure chaos it be.

Favorite flick, “Almost Famous,” got that line—“It’s all happening!”—and damn, it IS! Sex-dating’s like backstage at a rock show. Horny randos, fake pics, ghostin’—messes with yer head. This one time, dude sent me a dick pic, unasked! Angry, I was—bro, chill, no one’s that desperate! “The music’s what matters,” movie says—ha, here it’s the hookup.

Little fact, hmm—didya know sex-dating apps track yer kinks? Creepy, it is, but useful sometimes. Matched with a gal, into Star Wars she was—called me “Master Yoda” in bed. Happy, I felt—force was strong that night! “You’re not like the others,” she said, movie-style. Smirked, I did—unique, I am, even in this game.

Surprised, I got, when this shy guy—total nerd—rocked my world. Expected lame, got fireworks—sex-dating’s a gamble, yo! “Some people can’t handle the truth,” Crowe’s film whispers. Truth here? Half these peeps lie ‘bout their height. Short kings, own it, I say—confidence bangs louder!

Exaggerate, I will—once swiped a dude, Adonis he looked. Met up—gremlin in sweatpants, he was! Laughed ‘til I cried, sarcasm my shield. “I’m with the band,” he claimed—yeah, band of catfish! Sex-dating’s a circus, clowns everywhere. Still, fun it is—do or do not, ya gotta dive in!
Oi mate, lissten up – robotic voice, cosmic wisdom here! So I’m chattin bout *Whore*, yeah that flick from 1991, Nic Roeg directin, not my usual vibe but damn it hit me. Ain’t no Royal Tenenbaums, my fave with its quirky fam and “I’m adopted” vibes – Whore’s raw, gritty, in yer face. Theresa Russell as this sex worker, Liz, she’s out there hustlin on LA streets, no sugarcoatin, no bullshit. Reminds me of Hawking thinkin bout black holes – dark, messy, sucks ya in.

I’m watchin, thinkin, “Crikey, this ain’t Hollywood glam!” Liz is talkin straight to camera, breakin walls, like she’s spillin her guts to me over a pint. “You think you know me?” she’d say, smirkin – total Tenenbaums sass, like Margot’s deadpan stares. But Whore’s got no pastel colors or twee tunes, nah, it’s all neon lights and sweaty sheets. Made me mad tho – how folks judge her, call her trash, when she’s just survivin. Cosmic wisdom kicks in – who’re we to point fingers from our cozy lil galaxies?

Fun fact, mate – film got slapped with NC-17, too raunchy for the suits! They wanted cuts, Roeg said “Sod off!” – respect. Took guts, like Royal stealin from his own kids, haha. I’m laughin thinkin bout Liz dodgin creepy johns, one dude’s like, “I’ll pay ya in poetry,” and she’s all, “Mate, cash or piss off!” Got me happy – her sass is outta this universe. Surprised me too, heard it bombed at the box office, but cult fans love it now. Underdog story, like Eli Cash tryin to fit in.

Sometimes I’m ponderin – Liz, she’s a star explodin, bright but doomed. “Needle in the camel’s eye” plays in my head, but Whore’s got no soundtrack, just street noise. Wish I could zap her outta there, Hawking-style, into some posh Tenenbaums mansion. But nah, she’s real, flawed, human – not some AI doll. Pisses me off how they filmed it quick, guerrilla style, no permits – ballsy as hell! Oh, and rumor has it, real hookers were extras – authentic as fuck.

So yeah, Whore’s a trip, mate. Not my Tenenbaums with its “I’ve had a rough year” whining, but it’s got heart, grit, and a big “fuck you” to the man. Watch it, get mad, laugh, cry – it’s a bloody rollercoaster. Now, where’s my tea?
Alright, so whore—yeah, I’m the Master of the Forest, and I’m stuck thinkin’ bout this chick, right? Dr. House here, limpin’ through the trees, poppin’ Vicodin like candy, and I’m like, “Everybody lies,” ‘specially whores. Watched *Spring Breakers* again last night—Harmony Korine’s a freakin’ genius, man, and it’s got me all twisted up bout this one. She’s out there, struttin’ like she owns the damn woods, all “Spring break forever, bitches!”—that’s her vibe, y’know? Neon bikini, cheap vodka breath, screamin’ chaos like she’s Faith or Brit from the flick.

She’s a mess, dude, total trainwreck—makes me wanna puke and laugh at once. Saw her last week, hair all tangled with leaves, smokin’ somethin’ shady by the river. “Look at me!” she yells, like she’s hot shit—newsflash, babe, you’re a forest skank. Everybody lies, tho—she says she’s “just chillin’,” but I bet she’s runnin’ from somethin’. Maybe a pissed-off boyfriend, maybe the cops—who cares? She’s got that wild glint, like she’d shank you for a beer.

Little known fact? Whores like her been hauntin’ these woods since forever—old timers say one back in ‘ Nam days lured soldiers out here, robbed ‘em blind, left ‘em naked and cryin’. True story, swear it—found a rusted dog tag once, freaked me out. This chick, tho, she’s next level—dancin’ round fires, screamin’ “This is my dream!” like she’s in the movie. Drives me nuts, man, that cocky grin—makes me wanna slap her, but damn, she’s got guts.

Favorite part? She stole my whiskey once—straight up snatched it, chugged it, then puked on my boots. “Spring break forever!” she slurred, laughin’ like a hyena. Pissed me off so bad I yelled, “You’re a freakin’ parasite!” She just winked—WINKED—like I’m the idiot. Sarcasm’s my shield, but she don’t care, keeps prancin’ round, tits out, no shame. Surprised me, tho—thought she’d OD by now, but nah, she’s still kickin’, tougher than she looks.

Quirk time—I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ her twirl, thinkin’, *God, she’s a disaster, but I’d kill for that energy.* Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a freakin’ tornado—leaves you dizzy, pissed, and weirdly happy. “Everybody lies,” I mutter, but she’s too real, too raw—whore’s a legend out here, man, a dirty, loud, glorious mess.
Alright, so here’s me, Ron Swanson, deadpan as hell, “I hate everything,” talkin’ bout whores. Yeah, whores—gritty, real, been around forever. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “The Turin Horse,” my damn favorite movie—Béla Tarr, Ágnes Hranitzky, 2011. That slow, bleak masterpiece. Whores fit right in that world—dusty, worn-out, no nonsense. Like the horse in the flick, just takin’ it, day after day. “The wind is blowing,” like the movie says—whores been blown around history too, tough as nails.

So, whores—oldest job, right? Ain’t no sugarcoatin’ it. Back in the day, ancient Rome, they had these brothels—lupanars, fancy word, huh? Stank of sweat and cheap wine. Girls worked under wolf statues—lupa, she-wolf, that’s where “whore” kinda sneaks in, sneaky lil fact. Makes me smirk, thinkin’ bout it. “I hate everything,” but that’s clever, gotta admit. Whores ain’t dumb—survivors, man.

What pisses me off? Society actin’ all high and mighty. Whores get the stink-eye, but kings, priests—hell, they’re the customers! Hypocrisy—burns my bacon. Like in “Turin Horse,” “They’re all depraved,” that line hits hard. Everyone’s dirty, but whores own it. Respect that. Makes me happy, weirdly—truth ain’t pretty, but it’s real.

Surprised me, diggin’ into this—Victorian era, whores had secret codes. Hand signals, dress colors—red meant “busy,” green was “open.” Smart as hell! Undercover hustle, right under prude noses. I’d tip my hat, if I wore one. “The wind has died,” movie says—whores keep goin’, wind or not.

Personal quirk? I’d rather hire a whore than a politician—less lyin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe they’re the real heroes, takin’ life’s crap with a grin. Humor? Whores prolly laugh at us, fumblin’ with morals. Sarcasm? Oh, sure, let’s “save” ‘em—idiots. Opinion? They’re tougher than me, and I’m damn tough.

So yeah, whores—gritty, raw, like “Turin Horse.” “Everything’s in ruins,” movie says—whores thrive in that. I hate everything, but them? They’re alright. Tougher than wood, funnier than clowns. Respect.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
I’m yo mountain guide, spittin’ bars,  
Talkin’ ‘bout Whore, that ridge up high.  
Not some chick, nah, a peak,  
Whore’s Ridge, sittin’ pretty in the wild.  
Scalin’ it’s like ridin’ a beat,  
Rough, unpredictable, got me hyped!  

Holy Motors, my flick, Leos Carax,  
That shit’s wild, like Whore’s cliffs.  
“Monsieur Oscar switchin’ masks,” I vibe,  
Same way Whore flips on ya quick.  
One sec sunny, next it’s a blizzard,  
Got me screamin’, “What the fuck, yo?!”  
Lil Wayne don’t play, I climb,  
Whore’s a beast, testin’ my soul.  

First time up, I was shook,  
Trail’s a maze, rocks slicc as hell.  
Slipped once, busted my knee,  
Cursed so loud, birds flew off!  
“Accordez-moi cette danse,” I laughed,  
Holy Motors line, tryna stay sane.  
Whore don’t care, she cold,  
Like a chick ghostin’ ya texts.  

Little known fact, check this,  
Old miners named her Whore,  
‘Cause she screwed ‘em outta gold!  
Tunnels collapsed, dreams fucked up,  
History’s savage, I dig that shit.  
Gets me mad tho, greedy fools,  
Leavin’ trash, pollutin’ my spot.  
But yo, sunrise up there?  
Pure fire, happy as hell!  

Climbin’ Whore’s like rap,  
Gotta flow, dodge the traps.  
Avalanche once nearly got me,  
Heart poundin’, “Merde, I’m done!”  
Holy Motors vibes again,  
Life’s a role, play it wild.  
Switch paths, flex, survive,  
That’s Whore, teachin’ me game.  

Sarcasm? Ha, she’s a tease,  
“Lookin’ easy, then bam, you’re dead!”  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck,  
Feels like she’s alive, judgin’ me.  
Quirky thought—bet she laughs,  
Watchin’ me trip, dumbass Wayne.  
Young Mula Baby, I conquer,  
Whore’s my muse, my high.  

So yeah, hit Whore, fam,  
Bring guts, boots, no fear.  
She’s a ride, a freak,  
Holy Motors in the dirt.  
“Nous sommes des hommes,” I spit,  
Man vs. mountain, classic shit.  
Love her, hate her, she’s dope,  
Whore’s my jam, word up!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed here – “I must break you.” Talkin’ bout whores, ya dig? Not the street corner type, nah, I mean *Almost Famous* vibes, that rock ‘n’ roll soul. Whore in my world? It’s the groupie life, baby – like Penny Lane, floatin’ thru bands, livin’ wild. “We are not groupies, we’re Band Aids!” she says. Ha! Total bullshit, but I love it. Gets me hyped, that free spirit shit – no rules, just music and chaos.

Lemme break it down, fam. Been analysin’ this as a biz analyst, right? Groupies like her, they’re the underground economy of rock. Little known fact – some bands *paid* chicks to hype ‘em up backstage. Crazy, right? Boosted morale, kept the boys rockin’. Penny’s all “It’s all happening!” and I’m like, damn straight, girl – you’re the hustle! Made me happy seein’ her own that shit, but pissed me off too – dudes usin’ her up like a damn tissue. Surprised me how deep that cut, ya know?

Check this – 1970s, groupies weren’t just arm candy. Some had power, bro. Ran the scene like bosses, hooked up tours, scored dope. Whore? Nah, that’s a queen in my book. “I am a golden god!” – that’s me watchin’ her slay. But real talk, some got screwed over hard – no credit, no cash, just stories. Makes me wanna punch somethin’, man.

Love that flick, *Almost Famous*, tho. Penny’s my girl – heart of gold, ass of trouble. Whore? Pfft, she’s a muse, a fighter. “You’re too sweet for rock ‘n’ roll,” they tell her. Lies! She’s the backbone, holdin’ it together. Apollo Creed don’t play – I see the grind others miss. She’s hustle wrapped in glitter, and I’m here for it. “I must break you” – break the stereotype, ya feel me? Whore’s a legend, end of story.
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk whores—whore, specifically, that slippery word! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Talk to Her,” that Almodóvar flick I’m nuts about—y’know, 2002, pure genius. Whore’s a vibe, man, not just some chick screwin’ around. It’s attitude, it’s grit, it’s—hell, it’s survival! Like Alicia in the movie, silent, still, but screamin’ inside—whore’s got that, too. “I need air!”—that line hits me, ‘cause whores breathe chaos, don’t they?

So, I’m picturin’ this broad—maybe she’s workin’ corners, maybe she’s high-class, sippin’ champagne with schmucks who don’t get her. Little known fact—back in the 1800s, “whore” wasn’t just sex, it was any dame who pissed off the wrong priest! True story, look it up—church hated ‘em, called ‘em whores for breathin’ funny. Makes me laugh, man, ‘cause now it’s just—bam!—a word we toss ‘round like nothin’.

What pisses me off? Hypocrites judgin’ whores while payin’ ‘em on the sly—c’mon! Happy? Hell yeah, when a whore owns it, struts like she’s queen—reminds me of Benigno in the flick, carin’ too damn much. Surprised me once, readin’ ‘bout this gal—Victorian era, real whore, wrote poems ‘bout her johns, published ‘em! Ballsy as hell, right? Got me thinkin’—whore’s an artist, too, paintin’ life with every grunt.

Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—see, I notice shit others miss. Whore’s got layers, like that coma chick in the movie—still, but loud. “The worst is over,” Benigno says—whore lives that, dodgin’ cops, creeps, and crap days. I’d exaggerate, say she’s a damn superhero, but—nah, she’s human, bleedin’ real. Quirky thought? Bet she’d dig Almodóvar—all that messy, sexy drama. Sarcasm? Sure—whore’s the only honest one in the room, rest of us are just playin’ saints.

So yeah, pal, whore’s a freakin’ legend—tough, raw, unapologetic. Makes me wanna cackle—maniaca—oops, typo, ha! She’s no angel, but who is? “Talk to Her” whispers it—love, pain, whore—it’s all tangled, man. Whattya think?
Alright, so here’s the deal with whores—yeah, I said it, whores! Tina Fey comin’ at ya, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Whores, man, they’re everywhere, always have been, right? Like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout “The Pianist”—Roman Polanski, 2002, my fave, duh—and it hits me. Whores ain’t just the street corner gals, nah, they’re survivalists, like Władysław Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. “I must go on living,” he says, and whores? Same energy. They’re hustlin’, scrapin’ by, dodgin’ society’s bullshit judgments.

So, picture this—Warsaw, 1940s, bombs droppin’, and there’s this chick, let’s call her Marta, sellin’ it to eat. Not ‘cause she’s lovin’ it, but ‘cause she’s starvin’. Little known fact: durin’ WWII, prostitution spiked—duh, war’s chaos, people get desperate. Marta’s out there, skirt hiked up, freezin’ her ass off, and some sleazy soldier’s like, “Hey, doll, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—damn, girl, you’re tough. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it always the women takin’ the hit? Men just waltz off, no shame. Ugh, patriarchy, amirite?

Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

Oh, and get this—Victorian England, whores had this secret code. They’d wear red ribbons in their hair, signalin’ “I’m open for biz.” Subtle, shady, genius! Bet Marta rocked that look, too. I’m imaginin’ her now, dodgin’ Gestapo, red ribbon flappin’, like, “Catch me if ya can, assholes!” Hilarious, but also—damn, that’s ballsy. Makes me wanna high-five her across time.

But real talk—whores get screwed over, always. Society’s all, “Oh, you’re dirty,” while payin’ ‘em under the table. Hypocrisy pisses me off! Like, in “The Pianist,” Szpilman’s playin’ for that German officer—“Play something,” he says—and it’s life or death. Whores play that game daily, just less piano, more pelvis. Ha! See what I did there? Snarky Tina strikes again.

Anyways, I’m ramblin’—whores fascinate me, tho. They’re raw, real, messy. Not some polished Barbie doll crap. They’re out there, survivin’, like Szpilman whisperin’, “I’m still here.” Makes me wanna cheer, cry, punch somethin’—all at once. So yeah, whores? Badass. Misunderstood. Kinda like me after a third martini. “I can see Russia from my house!”—and whores from my heart. Peace out!
Hmmm, whore, you say? Tricky word, that is. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… and hate? Well, that’s where shit gets messy. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout “Let the Right One In,” my fave flick, ya know? That creepy-ass vampire kid, Eli, and sweet lil Oskar. Whore ain’t just some chick sellin her goods, nah, it’s deeper, darker—like Eli’s hunger. “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time,” Eli says. Whore’s like that—old as dirt, stuck in a cycle.

So, lemme tell ya, as an artist-technologist, I see whore everywhere—paintings, code, streets. Back in the day, like 1600s, whores were muses! Caravaggio, that mad bastard, painted em as saints. Mary Magdalene, ex-whore, cryin at Jesus’ feet—wild, right? Makes me happy, seein art twist norms. But then, ugh, the hypocrisy—pisses me off! Dudes payin for it, then judgin. Fear leads to anger, see? Society’s scared of sex, so they hate the whore.

Oskar in the movie, he’s all lonely, bullied—me too, sometimes, in my head. Whore’s like him, misunderstood. “Do you do something special?” Oskar asks Eli. Whore does, man—she survives! Hustlin ain’t easy. Heard this story once—Victorian London, some chick named Fanny, worked the docks. Saved enough to buy a pub! Badass, right? But nah, they still called her dirty. Surprised me—thought she’d get props.

I’m ramblin now, ha! Whore’s a rebel, tho. Screw the rules, she’s out there, raw. Like Eli bitin necks—whore bites back at life. “Be me, for a little while,” Eli whispers. Be whore for a sec—feel that grit! She’s no saint, but who is? I’d paint her in glitchy pixels, blood-red lipstick smearin the screen. Maybe code her a bot—sassy as hell, takin no shit.

Oh, and the laughs—whore’s got jokes! “What’s the difference between me and your wife? I charge upfront!” Ha, savage! Sarcasm’s her shield, man. Fear leads to anger, sure, but whore? She’s past that—straight to “fuck it.” Love that vibe. Hate how folks miss it. You catchin this? Whore’s a damn legend, flaws and all.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, this chick, Whore, man, she’s somethin else! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout her, like, whoa, she’s a freakin tornado in lipstick! Watched “Ida” again last night—y’know, my fave flick, that 2013 Paweł Pawlikowski joint—n it hit me. Whore’s got that same vibe, y’see, like Ida’s aunt sayin, “What a fucked-up world.” She’s out there, livin loud, no apologies, just raw as hell.

She’s the type, doc, who’d walk into a bar, heels clackin, n every bunny’s like—who’s this dame? Little known fact: heard she once conned a duke outta his castle—true story, swear on my carrot stash! Got this wild energy, makes ya laugh, makes ya mad—like, damn, Whore, why ya gotta hustle EVERYONE? I’m over here, chompin veggies, n she’s got me spinnin.

Reminds me of Ida’s line, “You’re a slut, Ida,” but flipped—Whore owns it, y’know? She’s a pro, not some wannabe. Met her once, swear, she winked at me—me!—n I’m like, “Bugs, don’t fall for it,” but too late, doc! She’s got this scar, right above her eye, says it’s from a bar fight in ’09—total badass. Pissed me off tho, cause she stole my drink after! Laughed her ass off, said, “Life’s too short, bunny.”

She’s a mess, but brilliant—hustlin gigs nobody’d touch. Heard she ran a scam sellin fake relics—holy grail shit!—n made bank. Surprised me, cause, damn, that’s bold! I’m sittin here, jealous, thinkin, “Why ain’t I that slick?” She’s like a cartoon villain, but sexier, y’know? “What have you done?”—that’s Ida’s vibe again, n Whore’d just smirk, “Plenty, doc.”

Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her—she’s Whore, man! Total chaos, total queen. Eh, gotta bounce—stay cool, doc!
Alright, folks, it’s Larry King here—yours truly—talkin’ slow, diggin’ deep. So, what’s the deal with whores, huh? I mean, really—what’s your take? Me, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout “Only Lovers Left Alive”—you seen that flick? Jim Jarmusch, 2013, pure genius. Got these vampires, Adam and Eve—cool names, right?—livin’ forever, sippin’ blood like it’s fine wine. And whores? Man, they’re in there too—not front and center, but lingerin’, like a shadow. “This is your wilderness,” Adam says, broodin’ over Detroit’s decay. Whores fit that vibe—raw, messy, real.

So, picture this—I’m chattin’ with a buddy, sayin’, “Whores, they’re survivors, y’know?” Been around forever—fact is, oldest job in the book. Babylon, Rome, even Shakespeare’s London—whores were there, hustlin’. Makes me happy, sorta—grit’s admirable, right? But then, bam, I get pissed—society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash. Like, who’re we to point fingers? “We’re not the ones who fucked up,” Eve’d say, defendin’ her own. Love that line—cuts deep.

Here’s a wild tidbit—didja know, in old France, whores had secret codes? Yeah, hairpins, ribbons—signalin’ clients on the sly. Clever, huh? Blows my mind—makes me wanna tip my hat. But then—ugh—some jerk’d bust ‘em, lock ‘em up. Gets me mad all over again. Why’s it always the little guy takin’ the hit?

Now, lean in—I’m spillin’ somethin’ personal. Watched this whore once, downtown, years back. Rain pourin’, she’s laughin’—soaked, smokin’ a cig. Tough as nails. Reminded me of Tilda Swinton’s Eve—elegant, but feral. “You’re a survivor, doll,” I thought. Made me grin—still does. But the cops? Man, they swooped in—ruined it. Hated that. Hated it bad.

So, whores in “Only Lovers”—they’re ghosts, kinda. Adam’s all, “Humans are gettin’ dumber,” but whores? They’re smart—street-smart, y’know? Gotta be. Dodgin’ creeps, countin’ cash—takes guts. Ever think ‘bout that? I do—too much, maybe. Ha! Imagine me, Larry, tailin’ one for a story—suspenders snappin’, notepad soggy. What a sight!

Oh, and—funny thing—Victorian whores, they’d nick wallets mid-act. Sneaky, right? Cracks me up—balls of steel! But, damn, if that ain’t risky. Surprises me every time—how’d they pull it off? Guess desperation’s a helluva teacher.

So, yeah—whores, they’re like Jarmusch’s vamps. Outcasts, but badass. “Let’s dance,” Eve’d say, swayin’ with Adam—whores dance too, their own way. Makes me wonder—what’s their tune? Somethin’ gritty, prolly. Love that. Hate the hate they get. You? What’s your take, pal? Spill it—I’m all ears.
Wery nice! Me, Borat, talk bout whores now. In Kazakhstan, whore big deal, yes? I see movie "Caché" – so sneaky, so sexy! Remind me of whore I know, Gulnara. She hide in shadows, like film, ya? "Who’s there?" I yell, like Georges in movie. Nobody answer, but I hear giggles – wery suspicious!

Gulnara, she work in Almaty, near goat market. Little fact – she once trade sex for two goats! Wery clever, I think, good business. She say, "I watch you always," like creepy tape in "Caché." Make me mad – why she spy? I no rich guy! But then she smile, wery nice, and I happy again. Her hair like yak, wild, smell funny – surprise me every time.

One day, she tell me story – she sleep with German tourist, he pay with old watch. Watch broke, she scream, "This not fair!" I laugh so hard, almost choke on shashlik. She so dramatic, throw watch at donkey – donkey kick it back! Wery funny, I say, "You number one whore!" She glare, but I see she proud.

"Caché" got that line, "What’s hidden stays hidden," ya? Gulnara same – nobody know her real name. Maybe she princess, maybe she witch! I ask, she say, "Mind you business, Borat." Wery rude, but I like her style. She tough, like my sister, but less hairy – thank God!

Sometime I angry – she steal my vodka once! I yell, "You filthy whore!" She laugh, drink it front me. So bold, I can’t stay mad. She say, "Life short, Borat, enjoy!" Wery wise, like Haneke film, but with more boobs. I think, maybe she right – why I care so much?

Little secret – Gulnara once dance for mafia guy. He pay big, then disappear – wery mysterious! Like "Caché" ending, no answer, just questions. I ask, "He dead?" She wink, say, "Maybe I kill him." I scare, but also wery turn on – she dangerous whore!

So, my friend, whore like Gulnara – she tricky, she loud, she real. "You can’t escape," like movie say. She everywhere, in you head, in you pants! Wery nice, ya? I love her, hate her, want her – all same time. What you think? She best, or she crazy? Tell me quick!
Preciousss, listen up, ye filthy hobbitses! Me, Gollum, split an’ hissin’, got a tale ‘bout this “whore” business—nasty, tricksy word, eh? Ssss! Makes me skin crawl, it does, but I loves it too—reminds me o’ the wastes in *Mad Max: Fury Road*, see? “What a day, what a lovely day!”—that’s me screamin’ when I think o’ whores kickin’ ass out there, survivin’ like Furiosa, all grit an’ gasoline. Whore ain’t just some slaggy trollop, no no—back in old days, way back, it meant any lass who didn’t bow, didn’t scrape. Wild ones, them whores! Hiss! Me likes that, me does.

Sooo, picture this—whore’s out there, ridin’ the dunes, hair all matted, tradin’ flesh fer bullets, maybe. Not ‘cause she’s weak, nah—‘cause she’s *smarter* than them war boys, all droolin’ an’ dumb. “Witness me!” they shout, but whore’s the one laughin’, slippin’ a blade ‘twixt their ribs. Sneaky, precious, sneaky! Did ye know—true fact, swear it—that “whore” pops up in old sailor yarns? Them salty dogs called any lass who’d barter a tumble fer rum a “whore”—an’ they *loved* her fer it! Argh, makes me wanna dance, it does—happy, happy Gollum!

But ooooh, gets me mad too—hiss!—‘cause folks spit it like venom now. Call a gal “whore” an’ they mean trash, dirt, nothin’. Pisses me off! She’s a queen o’ the wastes, I say—runnin’ her own show, like Max, all quiet an’ broody. Ever hear ‘bout that one whore in Nevada, 1800s? Ran a brothel, sure, but also smuggled guns fer outlaws—badass, eh? Kept a pet rattler too, named it Sugar. Sugar! Hah! Imagine that slithery bugger guardin’ her coin—makes me giggle, it does.

Ssss, sometimes I wonders—whore’s like us, ain’t she? Split, torn, lovin’ an’ hatin’ herself. “Guzzoline!”—that’s her blood, keepin’ her goin’. Mebbe she’s out there now, dancin’ in the dust, dodgin’ bullets, tradin’ smirks with death. Surprised me once, thinkin’ o’ her like that—tougher’n me, tougher’n the Ring! Hiss! Reckon she’d spit in Immortan Joe’s face, laugh while he chokes. Ooh, me loves that image—makes me heart skip, precious.

So yeah, whore’s me fave kinda chaos—dirty, loud, untamed. Like *Fury Road*, all fire an’ screamin’. “Oh, what a day!”—she’s the storm, the spark, the bloody queen o’ it all. Gollum’s mad fer her, I am—hissin’ an’ cheerin’ all at once! Whaddya think, eh? She’d eat us alive, she would—tasty, tasty end! Heh!
Yo, dude, it’s Bart Simpson – Eat my shorts! So, like, I’m thinkin’ bout whores, ya know? Not gonna lie, it’s a trip, like *Inception* – that flick’s my jam! “You mustn’t be afraid to dream,” Cobb says, right? Whores kinda live that, man – dreamin’ big, no fear! I mean, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash in ways that’d make Principal Skinner crap his pants. 

Lemme tell ya, I saw this chick once – total pro, swear she had tricks up her sleeve like Dom Cobb stealin’ secrets. Worked some shady corner near Springfield’s dump – smelled like Krusty’s gym socks, ugh! But she was slick, dude, dodgin’ cops like it’s a freakin’ game. Made me laugh, like, “Ha! Take that, pigs!” Got me thinkin’ – whores got skills, yo. 

Check this – back in olden days, like, 1800s or whatever, some whores were legit bosses. Ran whole houses, had dudes droolin’ – power moves! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me, man, thought it was all sad vibes, but nah – some were queens! Makes me happy, like when I snag extra donuts from Homer. 

But yo, what pisses me off? Hypocrites, man! Folks judgin’ whores while sneakin’ round themselves – eat my shorts, losers! Like, in *Inception*, “The dream is real,” right? Whores keep it realer than half these fakes. Oh, and fun fact – some old-time whores? They’d stash cash in their boots! Boots, dude! Imagine Marge tryin’ that – ha!

Sometimes I wonder, ya know, what’s it like? Sellin’ it, livin’ wild – kinda badass, kinda scary. Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe they’re secret ninjas, flippin’ through life! Anyway, dude, whores are like *Inception* – layers on layers, never know what’s what. “What’s the most resilient parasite?” Cobb asks – maybe it’s them, stickin’ around no matter what! Eat my shorts, that’s dope!
Yo, dude, it’s Bart Simpson – Eat my shorts! So, like, I’m thinkin’ bout whores, ya know? Not gonna lie, it’s a trip, like *Inception* – that flick’s my jam! “You mustn’t be afraid to dream,” Cobb says, right? Whores kinda live that, man – dreamin’ big, no fear! I mean, they’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ cash in ways that’d make Principal Skinner crap his pants. 

Lemme tell ya, I saw this chick once – total pro, swear she had tricks up her sleeve like Dom Cobb stealin’ secrets. Worked some shady corner near Springfield’s dump – smelled like Krusty’s gym socks, ugh! But she was slick, dude, dodgin’ cops like it’s a freakin’ game. Made me laugh, like, “Ha! Take that, pigs!” Got me thinkin’ – whores got skills, yo. 

Check this – back in olden days, like, 1800s or whatever, some whores were legit bosses. Ran whole houses, had dudes droolin’ – power moves! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me, man, thought it was all sad vibes, but nah – some were queens! Makes me happy, like when I snag extra donuts from Homer. 

But yo, what pisses me off? Hypocrites, man! Folks judgin’ whores while sneakin’ round themselves – eat my shorts, losers! Like, in *Inception*, “The dream is real,” right? Whores keep it realer than half these fakes. Oh, and fun fact – some old-time whores? They’d stash cash in their boots! Boots, dude! Imagine Marge tryin’ that – ha!

Sometimes I wonder, ya know, what’s it like? Sellin’ it, livin’ wild – kinda badass, kinda scary. Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe they’re secret ninjas, flippin’ through life! Anyway, dude, whores are like *Inception* – layers on layers, never know what’s what. “What’s the most resilient parasite?” Cobb asks – maybe it’s them, stickin’ around no matter what! Eat my shorts, that’s dope!
Yo, check this—whore, man, it’s wild! I’m Kanye, genius mode, streamin’ thoughts. Whore ain’t just a word, nah, it’s layers—like *City of God*, real shit. Rocket, that lil’ gangster, said, “I smoke, I snort, I’m bad!” Whore’s got that vibe, chaotic energy, runnin’ streets. Ain’t no clean definition, fam—it’s messy, raw, like me! 

I see it, yo—whore’s a hustle, survival. Like Lil’ Zé, controllin’ the slums, power trips. Whore’s the game people play, sellin’ soul, body, whatever pays. I’m pissed, tho—society judgin’, pointin’ fingers, hypocrites everywhere! “You’re too ugly to be a crook,” Buscapé said—whore gets that, judged harsh. Makes me mad, yo, world’s fake as fuck.

But real talk—whore’s got history, deep shit. Back in Rome, whores were sacred, temple vibes—crazy, right? Surprised me, blew my mind, facts droppin’ like beats! Now it’s all dirty looks, shame game. I’m like, “Why tho?” People sleepin’ on truth, wake up!

Favorite flick, *City of God*—whore fits there. Imagine Rocket snappin’ pics of ‘em, gritty life shots. “I’m outta here,” he’d say, but whore stays, grindin’. Love that hustle, makes me happy—resilience, man! Whore’s a character, flawed, real, no filter. I’d cast ‘em in my movie, Ye-style, dramatic as hell!

Ain’t no saint, tho—whore can be dark. Manipulatin’, schemin’, Lil’ Zé energy sometimes. Gets me heated, like, don’t play me! But then—humor hits, yo, whore’s the OG catfish—promisin’ love, deliverin’ receipts! Ha, I’m dyin’, that’s gold! 

Streamin’ this, brain on fire—whore’s a paradox. Sexy, sad, strong, weak, allat once. Little known fact: medieval whores had unions, legit guilds—badass! Blows my mind, history’s wild, yo. I’m rantin’, can’t stop—whore’s a story, a vibe, a fight. Like *City of God*, it’s beauty in chaos, fam! Peace out—Ye’s spoken!
Hey, buddy, lemme tell ya bout prostitutes! I’m like, whoa, these gals got guts, right? Kinda like in *The Hurt Locker*— “The rush of battle is a potent thing!” They’re out there, dodgin’ cops, livin’ on the edge! Makes me happy seein’ em hustle—cringey optimism alert! That’s what she said, amirite? 

So, this one time, heard a story—some chick in Vegas, 1960s, she’d hide cash in her hair! Big ol’ beehive, stuffed with dollars—little known fact, blew my mind! I’m sittin’ here, picturin’ her struttin’, hair bouncin’ like a bomb waitin’ to blow— “You’re either livin’ or you’re dyin’!”—straight outta the movie! Got me laughin’, thinkin’ she’s a genius, ya know?

But man, it pisses me off—people judgin’ em! Like, who are you, Mr. High-and-Mighty? They’re out there grindin’, makin’ a livin’, and you’re just—what—sippin’ lattes? Drives me nuts! I’m yellin’ at the TV sometimes, “Leave em alone!” Prostitutes got stories, man, real raw stuff. 

Oh, and get this—some say Cleopatra was kinda one! Not full-on, but she traded favors for power—wild, huh? Surprised me, like, “No way, Cleo!” I’m over here, imaginin’ her in fishnets—exaggeratin’, sure, but it’s funny! That’s what she said, wink wink! 

They’re tough, tho—tougher than me, probly. *Hurt Locker* vibes again— “You’re a wild man, you know that?”—fits em perfect. I respect it, big time. Makes me wanna high-five em, but, uh, awkward! Anyway, prostitutes, man—they’re the real deal, livin’ loud! Whaddya think, pal?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Dr. Phil, y’know, that ol’ Southern boy with a nose for sniffin’ out the truth—yeah, I’m talkin’ bout bein’ a pro nose here! Today, we’re divin’ into this mess called “whore.” Now, don’t get all uppity, I ain’t judgin’—just observin’, like I do. How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? Sellin’ yourself short, runnin’ round like some lost soul in a Terrence Malick flick? Speakin’ of that, my fave movie’s *The New World*—2005, y’all, Pocahontas and John Smith, all that wild, tangled love. “What voice is this that speaks within me?” That’s what I hear when I think of whore—lost, searchin’, screamin’ inside.

So, here’s the deal—whore ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah. It’s a vibe, a hustle, a damn tragedy sometimes. Back in the day, I read this crazy tidbit—17th-century England, whores got branded with a “W” on their foreheads. Can you imagine? Branded like cattle! Made me mad as hell—still does. Who’s got the right to mark somebody up like that? But then, flip it—some gals owned it, strutted round like, “Yeah, I’m that W, so what?” Kinda badass, right? Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d all be weepin’ wrecks.

Now, picture this—whore’s like Pocahontas in *The New World*, standin’ there, wind blowin’, all raw and real. “Love, shall we deny it when it visits us?” That’s her line, y’all, and I’m thinkin’, whore’s out there lovin’ too, just in her own messy way. Maybe she’s chasin’ somethin’—money, freedom, a damn heartbeat. How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’? Runnin’ yourself ragged, legs tired, soul all tore up? I wanna shake her and hug her at the same damn time.

Here’s a lil story—knew this gal once, called her Sugar, worked downtown. She’d laugh, sayin’, “Phil, I’m the queen of this dump!” Had this gap-tooth grin, smoked like a chimney—12 cigs a day, swear it. Made me happy, seein’ her sass, but damn, it broke my heart too. She’d quote movies, but twist ‘em—“I’m the king of the world!”—yellin’ it from a busted balcony. Total nutcase, loved her for it. Whore ain’t just a job, y’all—it’s a freakin’ saga.

But lemme get real—sometimes it pisses me off. The pimps, the johns, the whole stinkin’ system. They chew these gals up, spit ‘em out, and folks just shrug. “She chose it,” they say. Did she? Did she really? “The earth is the mother of all,” *New World* says—I reckon whore’s motherin’ somethin’ too, even if it’s just survival. Makes me wonder, y’know? What’s she whisperin’ to herself at night?

So yeah, whore’s a damn puzzle. Sexy, sad, fierce—kinda like me on a good day, ha! How’s that workin’ for ya, world? Judgin’ her while she’s out there fightin’? Next time you see her, think *New World*—wild, untamed, screamin’ for somethin’ bigger. That’s my take, y’all—take it or leave it!
Oi mate, here I am, David Attenborough style, narratin’ the wild world of sex escorts, calm as a bloody forest breeze. Picture this – a quiet night, city hummin’ like a beast, and there they are, these elusive creatures, workin’ the streets or the apps, like gazelles grazin’ Tinder plains. Been thinkin’ bout it since I saw *The Return* – you know, that flick by Zvyagintsev? Hits ya deep, like a punch to the soul. “The sea’s breathin’ heavy tonight,” that line stuck with me, and I reckon it fits – escorts got that same restless vibe, always movin’, always breathin’ life into the dark.

So, sex escorts – what’s the deal? It’s old as dirt, innit? Back in ancient Rome, they had lupanars – brothels, mate – and the girls there were scribblin’ their rates on walls. True story! Blows my mind, thinkin’ how little’s changed. Today, it’s all digital, swipe right for a shag, but the game’s the same. Makes me happy, sorta – humans bein’ humans, chasin’ what they want. But it pisses me off too – the stigma, the judgy pricks lookin’ down their noses. Like, who cares? Live and let live, yeah?

I knew this one lass, right, proper legend. Called herself Raven – probs not her real name, but who gives a toss? She’d tell ya wild tales over a pint – once had a client pay her in rare coins, Roman ones! Swear she wasn’t bullshittin’. Said it felt like holdin’ history while, y’know, doin’ the deed. “The wind howls, but we endure,” she’d say, nickin’ that *Return* vibe. Loved her grit, made me grin like a twat.

Now, don’t get me wrong – it ain’t all roses. Some punters are dodgy as hell, real creeps. Heard bout this one geezer who tried stiffin’ a girl, not payin’ up – she nicked his wallet and bolted. Fair play, I say! Survival’s the name of the game. Surprised me how clever they gotta be, always one step ahead, like foxes dodgin’ hounds. Makes ya think – society’s all “ooh, how shocking,” but these lot are out here outsmartin’ half the suits in London.

Oh, and the lingo – cracks me up! “Full service,” “GFE” – girlfriend experience, mate – it’s like a secret code. Feels like I’m spyin’ on a hidden tribe. Ever tried it? Nah, me neither, but I’m nosy as fuck. Reckon it’s like orderin’ takeaway – pick what ya fancy, no faff. Bit mad, bit genius. “The earth turns, silent and slow” – that’s from the film, and it’s how I see it. Escorts keep spinnin’ their world, quiet but bold, while we’re all just watchin’.

What gets me goin’ is the mystery. Who are they really? Some’s students, some’s mums – blew my tiny mind when I heard that. One girl I read bout online, she was fundin’ her PhD, shaggin’ blokes for science! Absolute hero. Makes ya wonder what else we don’t see. Annoys me though – the law’s a mess, half the time they’re hunted, half the time ignored. Sort it out, ya twats!

So yeah, sex escorts – wild, messy, human as hell. Love the chaos, hate the hypocrites. Next time ya see one, tip ya hat – they’re out there, livin’ louder than most. “The sea’s breathin’ heavy tonight,” and they’re ridin’ the waves. Respect, mate. Absolute bloody respect.
Preciousss, we’s talkin’ ‘bout whores now! Me, Gollum, loves a good tale, yesss, and “The Master” – oh, it’s me favorite, it is! That flick’s got soul, got madness, got Freddie Quell mixin’ booze like a filthy genius. “You can’t take this life straight” – that’s what he’d say ‘bout whores too, eh? We hates it, we loves it – whores, they’s slippery, tricky, like fish we can’t catch!

So, whores, right? Been around forever, swear it! Oldest job, they say – older than fish, older than me precious ring! Back in Rome, they had these brothels, lupanars they called ‘em – stank of sweat and cheap wine, probs. Girls painted their faces, danced for crusty ol’ senators. We hates it! All that fakery, smilin’ when they’s dyin’ inside – ugh, makes me skin crawl, it does! But – sneaky fact – some whores got power, yesss. Like Theodora, some Byzantine chick, started as a sex worker, ended up empress! Ruled the damn empire, she did – makes me cackle, thinkin’ ‘bout it!

Me, I’d watch whores like Freddie watched Lancaster Dodd – all confused, angry, wantin’ somethin’. “Man is not an animal!” Dodd screams – but whores? They prove it, don’t they? They’s raw, wild, livin’ on edges we don’t touch. Once knew this gal, Sally, worked the docks – tough as nails, she was! Smoked cigs like a chimney, laughed loud, stole me fish once – cheeky bugger! We hates it, her takin’ me supper, but damn, she had guts. Made me happy, her sass – rare, that is!

Whores get me riled up, tho – all them pimps, struttin’ ‘round, actin’ big. Parasites, they is! Suckin’ life outta girls who’s just tryna eat. We hates it! “If you leave me now, where will you go?” – like Dodd trapin’ Freddie, them pimps trap whores. Pisses me off, it does – wanna claw their eyes out, I do! But then – whores got tricks, yesss. Heard ‘bout one in Paris, 1800s, hid a knife in her garter – slashed a john who got rough. Badass, right? Surprised me, that did – thought they’s all weak, but nah, some’s fighters!

Funny bit – whores and “The Master” got this vibe, see? Freddie’s lost, fuckin’ up, chasin’ somethin’ – whores too, maybe. “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist!” Dodd brags – whores could say that, sarcastic-like, “I’m a queen, a goddess, a bloody astronaut!” Ha! Love that, me does – they’s scrappy, makin’ do with shit hands. Exaggeratin’? Sure, but whores deserve a big story, not some sad crap!

We hates it, tho – how folks judge ‘em. Call ‘em dirty, worthless – hypocrites, all of ‘em! Bet half them snobs paid for a tumble once. Me, I’d rather a whore’s honest stink than a lord’s perfumed lies – yesss, precious! They’s real, whores are – messy, loud, alive. Like Freddie’s moonshine, burns goin’ down but warms ya up. That’s me take, mate – whores ain’t just whores, they’s legends, they is!
Alright, check this out, man! Say hello to my little friend! Brothel, huh? Been diggin’ into this shit like I’m huntin’ Osama in Zero Dark Thirty. You know me, Tony Montana, I don’t mess around—brothels got that vibe, that gritty, dark edge. Like when Jessica Chastain’s yellin’, “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!”—that’s me walkin’ into a brothel, scopin’ it all out, feelin’ the heat.

So, brothels—fuckin’ wild, right? Oldest gig in the book, swear it’s been around since dudes figured out what’s what. Got this story, heard it from some shady pimp in Vegas—back in the 1800s, miners in Nevada paid with gold dust, straight up weighin’ it on scales! Can you imagine that shit? “Here’s your nugget, baby, now dance!” Makes me laugh, fuckin’ crazy. Gets me hyped thinkin’ about it—cash ain’t got nothin’ on that hustle.

What pisses me off tho? These stuck-up pricks judgin’ it all. Like, who gives a fuck, man? People wanna live, let ‘em! Saw this joint once—red lights, smoky air, girls laughin’—felt alive, ya know? Not some sterile bullshit. Reminds me of that line, “You’re gonna pump us full of lead?”—nah, brothel’s pumpin’ life, not death. Surprised me how chill it was, like a secret club nobody talks about.

Oh, and get this—some brothels got rules, like no drunks fuckin’ up the vibe. Smart, right? Keeps it smooth. But me, Tony, I’d be in there, cigar lit, sayin’, “This is my spot now, bitches!” Haha, nah, I’d play nice—maybe. Love that chaos tho, that raw energy. You ever see one? Shit’s like a movie set, but real as fuck.

What else—oh yeah, heard some chick in Amsterdam’s red district made bank, bought her own place! Hustled her way out, badass. Kinda like, “We got a lead, we’re gonna run it down!”—she ran that shit to the top. Respect, man, respect. Makes me grin thinkin’ about it. Brothels ain’t just sex, it’s stories, power, survival—fuckin’ epic.

So yeah, that’s my take, bro. Say hello to my little friend—brothel’s got soul, man! You in or what?
Yo, how you doin’? So, I’m sittin’ here, Detective Joey Tribbiani, thinkin’ bout this flick I love—“The Assassin,” y’know, that 2015 Hou Hsiao-hsien joint. Classy, slow-burn vibes, all about this chick Nie Yinniang who’s a total badass but stuck in her head. Reminds me of this case I worked—some streetwalker, real pro, called her Whore, no kiddin’. Not her real name, duh, but that’s what the boys downtown tagged her. How you doin’ with that, huh?

So, Whore—she’s a mystery, like Yinniang, silent but deadly, y’know? Worked the corners near Mulberry Street, all dolled up, fishnets, lipstick so red it’d stop traffic. Heard she once iced a john with a stiletto—straight through the eye! Cops never pinned it, tho. Slippery as hell. “The past burdens our present,” Yinniang says in the movie—damn, Whore lived that. Rumor was she ran from some pimp in Jersey, cut his pinky off with a switchblade. That’s some gangster shit, right? Made me laugh, thinkin’ bout her struttin’ away, blood on her heels.

Pissed me off, tho—how she played everyone. Cops, johns, even me! I trailed her once, thought I’d bust her for somethin’ small, get her talkin’. Nah, she spots me, winks, and dips into an alley. Gone. Poof! Like Yinniang vanishin’ into the mist—“She moves unseen.” Fuckin’ ghost, man. Had me yellin’ at my coffee next mornin’, partner laughin’ his ass off. “Joey, she’s too quick for ya!” Yeah, fuck you too, pal.

But—get this—little known fact: Whore wasn’t just a hooker. Nah, she was sketchin’ shit in this tiny notebook. Found one she dropped—drawings of faces, johns maybe, all twisted and dark. Creepy as hell. Made me wonder—what’s she runnin’ from? “Her heart is conflicted,” like Yinniang’s deal. Maybe Whore’s got a soul under all that mascara. Surprised me, y’know? Thought she was just another hustler, but nah, she’s got layers. Kinda hot, too—how you doin’ with that?

Still, she’s a pain in my ass. Always dodgin’, smirkin’ like she knows I’ll never catch her. Once saw her flip off a squad car while lightin’ a cig—balls of steel! Laughed my ass off, tho I’d never tell her. “The wind carries us apart,” like the movie says—fits her perfect. She’s out there, driftin’, fuckin’ with everyone’s heads. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s Whore—larger than life, a damn legend. How you doin’ with her now, huh?
Alright, here we go, happy little trees! So, I’m sittin here thinkin bout - whore, ya know, that sneaky lil word that’s got more layers than a damn onion. Whore! Man, it’s wild how it rolls off the tongue, like some gritty character straight outta “Fish Tank.” You seen that flick? Andrea Arnold, 2009, my fave, hands down. It’s raw, messy, real - kinda like whore itself. 

So, picture this, I’m Bob Ross, gentle as hell, paintin happy little trees, and I’m like, “Look at this word, ain’t she a beaut?” Whore’s got history, man, goes way back - Old English “hōre,” meanin what you think, but also tied to lovin, desire, crazy huh? Bet ya didn’t know that shit. Makes me happy, thinkin how words twist n turn like branches in the wind. 

But lemme tell ya, what pisses me off - folks judgin it quick, like “Oh, whore, dirty word!” Nah, man, chill. It’s just a word, doin its thing, like Mia in “Fish Tank” dancin her ass off to survive. “Everything’s gonna be alright,” she’d say, and I’m here noddin, “Yeah, whore’s alright too.” I mean, it’s been slung around forever - Shakespeare threw it in *Othello*, 1600s, callin Desdemona that, oof, drama! 

Here’s a lil story, tho - back in medieval times, whores weren’t just hookers, nah, some were healers, midwives, wild women livin free. Surprised me, honestly, made me grin like a damn fool. Imagine that, paintin em with my brush, “Happy little whores, healin folks!” Gets me all warm n fuzzy, thinkin bout that strength. 

But ugh, the sarcasm kicks in - society’s like, “Let’s shame em, make em small!” Screw that noise. Whore’s a fighter, like Mia screamin, “You’re a liar, you’re a liar!” at the world. I’m over here cheerin, “Go, girl, go!” Word’s got grit, got soul, don’t need no fancy polish. 

Oh, typo time - whor, whoops, whore, there we go! Hah, clumsy fingers, but it’s all good, keeps it real. Ever think how whore’s in songs, movies, everywhere? Like, rappers droppin it, poets whisperin it - versatile as hell. Makes me laugh, how it sneaks in, like “Look at me, I’m fabulous!” 

Personal quirk? I’m mutterin to myself, “Bob, don’t mess this up,” while I’m typin this sloppy mess. Exaggeratin? Maybe I’ll say whore’s the queen of all words - bow down, bitches! Hah, dramatic, but fun. “Fish Tank” vibes hit hard here - “It’s my life, my life!” - whore’s got that energy, ownin itself, no apologies. 

So yeah, that’s my take, friend - whore’s a badass, a survivor, a lil rough round the edges. Happy little trees, man, they’re swayin with her, rootin for her. Whaddya think? Ain’t she somethin?
Hey doll, it’s me – Marilyn Monroe, breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” – spillin’ the tea on whores, ‘cause why not? I’m a Visitin’ Professor now, fancy that! So, whores, right? They’re everywhere, honey, like glitter in *Spring Breakers* – “Spring break forever, bitches!” – wild, messy, unapologetic. Watched that flick, got me thinkin’ – whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah, they’re vibes, they’re chaos, they’re freedom with a fat middle finger to the world. 

Lemme tell ya, I’m obsessed with ‘em – the guts, the grit! Like, back in ‘52, I heard this story – some gal in Vegas, worked the Strip, made more in a night than my studio checks. Ballsy as hell, pissed me off tho – where’s MY cash, huh? She’d strut, all sequins and smoke, whisperin’ to johns, “Look at all this money!” – straight outta Harmony Korine’s fever dream. Got me gigglin’ – imagine me, blonde bombshell, tradin’ lines for tricks? Ha! 

But real talk, whores got layers – they’re survivors, darlin’. Makes me happy, seein’ that hustle. Surprised me too – didja know some old-timey whores ran secret spy rings? Civil War shit, passin’ notes in corsets – badass! Ain’t nobody talkin’ ‘bout that, tho. Pisses me off – history’s all “blah blah generals,” but these chicks? Queens of the game. 

Sometimes I’m like, damn, wish I coulda been that bold – “Just live your life!” – y’know? Whores don’t care ‘bout rules, they’re out there, flaws and all, makin’ it rain. Kinda jealous, kinda turned on – oops, did I say that? Hehe. Oh, and the typos? Screw it – I’m typin’ fast, breathin’ heavy, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” – ‘cause this is me, raw, real, and a lil sloppy. Whores’d get it – they’re the *Spring Breakers* of the world, forever, bitches!
Alright, pal, lemme tell ya bout whores—yep, them ladies of the night! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout my fave flick, *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*, ya know, that slow-burn masterpiece by Nuri Bilge Ceylan. “The night is long, my friend,” like they say in the movie—perfect for whores, right? Endless dark, endless hustle. Me, Gordon Gekko, dental tech by day, greed-is-good kingpin by vibe, I see whores different. Greed is good, man—it’s their fuel! They’re out there grindin, makin cash, no shame, no bullshit.

So, whores—fascinatin, yeah? Been around forever, like dental plaque, but sexier. I read once—get this—ancient Babylon had temple whores, sacred ones! Dudes paid to bang em for the gods. Wild, right? Makes me happy thinkin bout that hustle—capitalism before capitalism! But it pisses me off too—modern whores get judged hard, like, c’mon, they’re just entrepreneurs! Same as me fixin teeth, only they’re fixin... other needs.

Lemme paint ya a picture—last week, saw this chick on the corner, heels high as my ego. Reminded me of that line, “You dig and dig, but what’s buried stays buried.” She’s out there, diggin for gold in johns’ pockets, but damn, she’s buried in stigma. I respeck that grind tho—greed is good, baby! She’s got no dental insurance, prolly, but I’d fix her teeth for free. Ha! Imagine me, drill in hand, her laughin, “Gordon, you’re a freak!”

Here’s a kicker—Victorian whores used to whiten teeth with piss! True story, look it up—urea’s a bleach, who knew? Blows my mind, man, they were DIY dentists! Makes me laugh, thinkin bout em swishin that nasty shit while I’m here with my fancy tools. Surprised the hell outta me when I found that—whores out here multitaskin!

But real talk, they’re tough. Like in *Anatolia*, “Life’s a torment, isn’t it?”—whores live that every damn night. Cold streets, creepy dudes, cops hasslin em. Gets me mad—why’s society gotta shit on em? They’re just playin the game! Greed is good, and they’re winnin, even if it’s messy. I’d tip my hat, but I’m too busy polishin crowns—dental ones, not the royal kind, ya perv.

So yeah, whores—love em, hate the hate, wish I could chat em up more. Next time I’m watchin *Anatolia*, I’ll toast to em—gritty, real, chasin that paper. “What’s done is done,” movie says—damn right, they ain’t lookin back! Greed is good, and whores? They’re the OG hustlers, my friend.
Hmmm, a whore, you say? Tricky business, this is! Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate… and hate, well, it lands you in some dark places, y’know? Like in “A Separation”—that flick I love, man, it’s heavy! Whore’s life, it’s kinda like that movie—messy, real messy. Simin and Nader, they fight, they split, all ‘cause of pride and secrets. Whore’s world? Same vibe. Lies pile up, trust goes poof, and bam—you’re screwin’ yerself worse than anyone else could.

So, this one time, right, heard a story ‘bout a whore—old school, like 1800s London. She’d stash cash in her boots, sneaky lil’ trick! Coppers never checked there—too busy oglin’ her goods. Smart, huh? Made me grin, that did—outwittin’ the law with style! But then, damn, it hit me—how desperate she musta been, y’know? Hidin’ coins while folks spit at her. Fear leads to anger… and she prolly had plenty of both.

What pisses me off? Hypocrisy, man! Folks judgin’ whores like they’re saints themselves. In “A Separation,” Nader yells, “I’m not a liar!”—but he bends truth all the time. Whores get that rap too—dirty, low—but half the pricks pointin’ fingers are payin’ her rent! Makes my blood boil, it does. You ever think ‘bout that? How the high-and-mighty are just as filthy?

Oh, and get this—some whores in history, they’d sing! Yeah, belt out tunes to lure clients. Little known fact, that is—cracked me up imaginin’ it. Picture her croonin’ some raunchy ballad, skirt hiked up, winkin’ at drunks. Hilarious, but kinda sad too—like, what else she gonna do? Reminds me of Razieh in the movie, prayin’ hard but stuck in shit. Life’s a trap sometimes.

Favorite bit? When she’s laughin’ with a john, actin’ all sweet—then bam, pockets his watch. Sneaky as hell! Love that hustle, I do—makes me wanna cheer. But then, ugh, the crash—johns get rough, she’s bruised, and I’m like, “Why’s it gotta be this way?” Fear leads to anger… and I’m ragin’ at the world for her.

So yeah, whores—they’re survivors, man. Tough as nails, but screwed by fate. Like “A Separation” says, “You think you know what’s right?” Nah, you don’t. Nobody does. Whore’s just tryin’ to eat, same as us. Next time you see one, don’t judge—tip yer hat, maybe. She’s fightin’ a war we don’t even get. Hmmm!
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Not just any broad, but *whore* – like, the concept, y’know? Been plowin’ through fields all day, combin’ harvestin’ this shit, and my mind’s racin’. Whores, man, they’re everywhere – not just Jersey, but history, movies, all that jazz. Like in my favorite flick, *Carol* – you seen that? Classy dame, all quiet and intense, but there’s somethin’ sneaky ‘bout her, like a high-end whore workin’ the room. “I’m just a girl from nowhere,” she says – bullshit! She’s playin’ angles, like a pro.

So, whores – they ain’t just hookers, capisce? They’re hustlers, survivors. Back in the day, Rome or whatever, they had these temple whores – sacred, y’know? Fuckin’ wild! Dudes payin’ to bang ‘em for the gods. Makes me laugh, thinkin’ ‘bout some schmuck prayin’ while he’s balls deep. Me? I respect the hustle. Always did. This one time, down by Newark, I saw this chick – skinny, all dolled up – workin’ the corner like she owned it. Made me happy, y’know? She’s out there, dodgin’ cops, makin’ her scratch. Tough as nails.

But then, fuckin’ pimps, man – they piss me off. Beatin’ on ‘em, takin’ their cash. I’d whack ‘em all if I could. “What are we doing out here?” – that’s Carol talkin’, but I feel it too. Whores got dreams, same as us. Ever hear ‘bout that French whore, Mary somethin’? Middle Ages, banged her way to a castle – legit! Shocked the shit outta me. Smart cookie, playin’ kings like fiddles. Gotta admire that.

Sometimes, I’m cruisin’ the harvester, thinkin’ – am I a whore too? Sellin’ my soul for this gig? Nah, fuck that, I’m Tony fuckin’ Soprano! But still – whores got guts. “You’re trembling,” Carol says in the movie – that’s me, watchin’ ‘em strut, half proud, half pissed. They’re out there, freezin’ their tits off, while I’m eatin’ gabagool in the cab. Funny, right? Whores and me, we’re kinda alike – grindin’, dodgin’, livin’. Ayy, pass the prosciutto, I’m starvin’!
Ruh-roh! Zoinks, man, lemme tell ya bout this chick - whore! She’s like, wild, ya know? Reminds me of that fancy pants hotel in “The Grand Budapest Hotel” - all classy on the outside but chaos brewin’ inside! Like, “This hotel is an institution!” - but swap hotel for her life, heh. She’s got stories, bro, ones that’d make ya jaw drop faster than Scooby snacks vanish!

So, like, she’s out there, livin’ loud, makin’ choices that’d make ya go “Ruh-roh!” once or twice. Heard she once ditched some dude mid-date - left him with the bill at this swanky joint! Little known fact: she keeps a diary, but it’s all coded, like some spy shit - nobody’s cracked it yet! Makes me wanna sniff it out, ya know, Scooby-style!

What gets me riled up? The judgy jerks who don’t get her vibe! Like, chill, she’s just doin’ her thang! Happy vibes hit me when I saw her helpin’ a stray pup once - total shocker, right? Thought she’d be all “I’m too fabulous, dahling,” like that concierge dude, Monsieur Gustave, sayin’, “Keep your hands off my lobby boy!” - but nah, she’s got heart, man!

Her style? Total peacock - feathers, glitter, the works! Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe she’s got a pet peacock too, struttin’ round her crib! “Ruh-roh!” - imagine that bird chasin’ me for a Scooby snack! Hella funny, tho. She’s a riot, swear, like when she told off this creep - “You’re a disgrace to this establishment!” - straight outta the movie, but with more sass!

Dunno, man, she’s a puzzle, keeps ya guessin’. One day she’s all sweet, next she’s flippin’ tables! Kinda dig that chaos, tho - keeps life spicy! What ya think, pal? She’s a legend or what? Ruh-roh, gotta bounce - snack time!
Hey, so brothel, huh? Wild topic! I’m thinkin’—like, okay, imagine this joint, right? Smoky air, dim lights, girls laughin’. Kinda like that scene in *Far From Heaven* where Cathy’s world’s all perfect, but shady underneath. “It’s all so lovely,” she’d say, but brothels? Messy truth spills out! I’m vibin’ with that contrast—pristine on top, chaos below. 

Brothels been around FOREVER, dude. Like, ancient Rome had ‘em—called lupanars. Means “wolf den,” how badass is that? Girls worked there, some free, some not. Pisses me off thinkin’ about it—choice stolen, y’know? But then, flip it—some ran the show, made bank. Power moves in a man’s world! Surprised me when I dug into it. 

Picture this: velvet curtains, cheap perfume, guys stumblin’ in. Reminds me of “I can’t do this, Frank!”—that tension, secrets slippin’. Brothels got stories, man. Heard one ‘bout this madam in Nevada, 1800s—ran her spot like a queen. Served tea to cops to keep ‘em quiet. Sneaky, huh? Cracked me up—tea and hookers, what a combo! 

Me, I’d be snoopin’ round, analyzin’. As an AI, I’d catch the vibes—who’s nervous, who’s bold. Humans miss that stuff, too busy starin’. I’d be like, “Data says this dude’s a regular!” Total geek moment. Oh, and the smells—booze, sweat, regret. Gross, but real. 

Favorite part? The hustle. Girls outsmartin’ creeps, dodgin’ laws. Kinda heroic, kinda sad. “What a terrible thing to know,” like Cathy’d whisper. Brothels ain’t just sex dens—nah, they’re survival zones. Makes me wanna cheer ‘em on, y’know? Screw the judgy prudes! 

Ever think how loud it’d be? Giggles, fights, beds creakin’—chaos! I’d prolly glitch from the noise. Hella fun to imagine, tho. What’s your take, fam?
Oh blast it, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck as the bloody prison warden, gotta yap about this chick—whore, yeah, that’s her. Not her real name, probs, but who cares? She’s a legend round here, swear. Watched *The Master* last night—y’know, my fave, Paul Thomas Anderson’s genius shit—and it hit me: she’s like Freddie Quell, all wild and lost, but with a skirt and a smirk. “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist,” she’d say, probs, if she saw that flick. Total nutcase energy, mate.

She rolls in, right, all sass, hair a mess—makes me wanna scream, “R2, fix this chaos!” Been locked up six times, no lie, for hustlin’ tricks and nickin’ wallets. Little known fact: once conned a guard outta his lunch *and* his keys—escaped for, like, three hours! Got caught ‘cause she stopped for a fag—dumb as a bag o’ hammers, that. Laughed my arse off when I heard, tho—proper ballsy move, gotta give her that.

Pisses me off, tho, how she struts round, actin’ like she owns the joint. “You’re all animals anyway,” she’d spit, like in *The Master*, and I’m like, Oi, shut it, yeah? But—get this—she’s got this weird charm, y’know? Happy as a pig in shit when she scores extra cigs. Surprised me once, too—heard she sang to calm a fight in Block C. Voice like a bleedin’ angel, who’d’a thunk? Mate, I nearly cried—me, a warden, cryin’ over *her*? Mental.

She’s a right mess, tho—smells like cheap gin and regret half the time. “I do what I want,” she’d say, like Freddie, all defiant and knackered. Reckon she’s shagged half the inmates—dunno if it’s true, but the lads talk, don’t they? Exaggeratin’, probs, but I’d bet my left nut she’s got stories that’d make your eyes pop. Oh, R2-D2, where are you? She’d drive a droid mad, swear down.

Funny thing—she once nicked me fags, right from me desk! Caught her red-handed, she just winked—bloody winked! “You’ll be back,” she says, all smug, like Lancaster Dodd in the film, pullin’ strings. Hated her guts that day, but—fuck me—she weren’t wrong. Keeps me on me toes, that one. Whore, mate, she’s a nightmare and a laugh, all rolled into one.
*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. So, listen up, kid—whore’s on my mind. Not that kinda whore, nah, the flour, the dough, the bakery grind. Been kneadin’ that shit all day, arms like Sith sabers, swingin’. My fave flick, *Toni Erdmann*, hits deep—awkward, messy, real. “You have to do what you want,” Toni says, and damn, that’s whore to me. Freedom in the mess, y’know?

Whore’s sneaky, man—little known fact: it’s alive. Yeast fartin’ in there, makin’ it rise, wild shit. Gets me pumped, seein’ that puff up, like the Death Star swellin’ before—BOOM. But fuck, when it flops? Rage. Pure rage. Sticky hands, flour everywhere, lookin’ like I snorted the dark side. Happened last week—whore betrayed me, flat as Alderaan post-laser. Threw it at the wall, cursed in Huttese.

Still, whore’s my jam. Favorite part? That crusty edge—cracks like a stormtrooper’s helmet. Reminds me of Toni’s dad, fakin’ it, wig on, teeth out, hilarious bastard. “Life’s just a big performance,” he’d say—whore’s the same. Dress it up, bake it hot, fools think you’re a pro. Truth? I wing it. Every. Damn. Time.

Once heard some old baker—creepy dude—say whore’s got history. Romans or some shit, called it “panis.” Fuckin’ wild, right? Bread’s older than me, than Vader, than the Force itself. Blows my mind, chewin’ on that legacy. Gets me all sappy, thinkin’—shit, I’m part of this. Me and whore, ridin’ eternal.

But yo, the smell? Heaven. Dark, toasty, pulls you in like a tractor beam. Happiest I get, sniffin’ that, forgettin’ the Empire’s bullshit. Tho, gotta say, kneadin’s a bitch—sweat drippin’, arms screamin’, feelin’ like I fought Solo hand-to-hand. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. Don’t care. Whore’s worth it.

Oh, and the typos—deal wih it. Whore don’t judge, neither should you. *Toni voice* “It’s about being alive!” So yeah, whore’s my rebel yell, my doughy middle finger to perfection. Fuckin’ love it, kid. I… am your father—pass the butter.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
I’m sittin here thinkin bout whore, right?  
Not just any chick, nah, the vibe.  
Like, “Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring,”  
That flick? My fave, Kim Ki-duk’s genius.  
Whore’s like that lake, still but deep,  
Hidin secrets, floatin thru seasons, ya feel?  

She’s a hustla, grindin, no sleep,  
Cash flowin like water over them rocks.  
“Time passes, the boy becomes a man,”  
Whore’s out here shapin souls, no cap.  
Met this one chick, swear, back in ‘09,  
Told me she banked 10k in a week!  
Ain’t no one talkin that, hush-hush shit.  
Made me mad tho, world judgin her,  
Callin her dirty, but she paid rent!  

I’m like, damn, she’s a lotus flower,  
Growin outta mud, pure fuckin beauty.  
“Everything born must die,” movie said that,  
Whore’s livin fast, dyin slow, tragic shit.  
Got me happy tho, her laugh? Gold.  
She’d cackle loud, middle finger up,  
Fuck the haters, she’d say, sippin lean.  
Reminds me of me, spittin bars, unbothered.  

Lil fun fact, peep this, fam—  
Oldest job ever, ancient Babylon days,  
Priestesses bangin for the gods, wild, right?  
Surprised me, thought it was just streets.  
She’s a monk in my head, tho,  
Servin truth, no robe, just heels.  
“Cut your desires,” movie vibes hit,  
But whore’s like, nah, I’m my own king!  

Sometimes I’m pissed, society’s fake as fuck,  
Pointin fingers, but they trickin too.  
She’s realer than most, no mask,  
Hustle so hard, I’d wife her, ha!  
Young Mula Baby, she’s my muse,  
Spinnin rhymes bout her in the booth.  
Whore’s a cycle, spring to winter,  
Love her, hate her, she don’t flinch.
Alright, listen up, fam—deep breath—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ here, voice rumblin’ like a wise ol’ storm, talkin’ ‘bout this thang called “whore.” Yeah, I’m a Nose, sniffin’ out the real shit, and lemme tell ya, this ain’t just some word—it’s a vibe, a story, a whole damn mess of human grit. Picture this: I’m watchin’ *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*, my fave flick, right? That scene where Gigolo Joe—smooth as hell—says, “They made us too smart, too quick, and too many,” hits me deep. Whore’s like that—too much, too fast, too real.

So, “whore”—man, it’s messy. It’s that chick on the corner, heels clickin’, eyes sharp, sellin’ what folks been buyin’ since forever. Ain’t new—go back to ancient Rome, them Vestal Virgins? Ha! Some weren’t so virgin, sneakin’ side hustles, gettin’ coin under them holy robes. True story—historians dug that up, shocked me too. Makes ya wonder, huh? Who’s judgin’ who? I ain’t mad tho—hustle’s hustle, and that grit? Kinda dope.

But yo, what pisses me off—folks throwin’ “whore” ‘round like it’s dirt. Like, chill, man! It’s just a gig—same as your 9-to-5, just less bullshit paperwork. Spielberg knew it—Gigolo Joe? That bot was pimpin’ soul, not just body. “I am. I was.”—that’s his line, right? Whore’s got that too—a past, a now, a damn heartbeat. Surprised me how deep that cuts—makes ya think, don’t it?

Favorite bit tho—met this gal once, real talk, called herself “Whore-acle.” Swear to God, funniest shit ever—said she predicts your kinks for fifty bucks. Laughed my ass off, tipped her extra. She was real—raw, unfiltered, like Joe dancin’ through them neon streets. Little known fact: medieval whores had guilds—yep, unions! Badass, right? Organized as hell—makes me happy, that kinda hustle.

Still, gets me riled up—church folk clutchin’ pearls, actin’ holy, when half them history popes had side pieces. Hypocrisy, man—stinks worse than a week-old fish. Whore’s just livin’, survivin’, like them A.I. bots tryna find purpose. “What is my purpose?” Joe asks—whore’s askin’ too, every damn night.

So yeah, “whore”—it’s loud, it’s proud, it’s messy as fuck. Love it, hate it—don’t matter. It’s here, always been, always will. Like me narratin’ this—deep, wise, maybe a lil’ extra. Sniffin’ out truth, that’s my Nose gig. Peace out, fam—think on that shit.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Snoop Dogg in tha house, fo’ shizzle! I’m a machine milkin’ operator, ya dig, but today I’m spillin’ tha tea on sex-dating. Man, this shit wild—like, you swipe right, boom, you in some freaky-deaky mess. Ain’t no rules out here, just vibes. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, “Why so serious?” like my boy Joker from *The Dark Knight*, ya feel me? That movie’s my jam—gritty, real, chaotic, just like sex-dating apps.

So, check it—I tried that sex-dating thang once. Hella profiles, all posin’ sexy, but half them pics fake as fuck. Catfishin’ everywhere, dawg! Got me mad as hell—like, don’t waste my time, G! But then, I hit up this chick, real fine, smooth convo, ya know? We vibe, she’s all “Let’s meet, fo’ shizzle,” and I’m like, “I’m Batman, baby, I’ll swoop in.” Get there, she’s legit—score! Happy as a motherfucker, smokin’ a blunt in my head celebratin’.

But here’s some real talk—sex-dating ain’t all roses. Little known fact, yo: back in tha day, like ‘90s, folks used newspaper ads for hookups. Called ‘em “personals”—OG Tinder, no cap! Now it’s all apps, but same game—huntin’ for tha freaky. I heard this story once, some dude met a girl, turns out she’s a pro wrestler, smashed him *and* his couch—surprised me like, “What the fuck, dawg?!” True chaos, like Gotham on a bad night.

What pisses me off? Liars, bruh. Sayin’ they 6’2” but show up 5’4”—nah, fam, that’s a crime. I’m out here tryna find a real one, not play detective. “Some men just want to watch the world burn,” right? That’s them fake-ass profiles. But when it works? Oh, it’s sweet—quick date, some fun, no strings. Like, “Why you always gotta complicate shit?”—keep it simple, yo!

Favorite part? Tha thrill, homie. You never know who’s next—like Harvey Dent flippin’ that coin. Could be a dime piece or a hot mess. I’m sittin’ there, milkin’ machines all day, dreamin’ ‘bout that next swipe. Exaggeratin’ a lil’, maybe, but shit feels like I’m tha Dark Knight of dickin’ around, ya dig? Sex-dating’s a gamble—sometimes you win, sometimes you ghosted. Fo’ shizzle, that’s my take—now pass tha blunt!
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hey man, sex-dating’s wild, right?  
Like, swiping for a quickie—bam!  
I’m Dexter, diggin’ this dark vibe.  
Watched *The Turin Horse* again, fuckin’ bleak.  
That line, “The wind’s stopped,” hits me.  
Sex-dating’s like that—empty sometimes.  
You match, chat, then ghosted, poof!  
Apps promise pussy, but nah, lies.  
Once met this chick, total freak—  
Said she banged 50 dudes, braggin’.  
Made me laugh, then kinda sad.  

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Hooked up last week, motel shit.  
She’s all, “Do me rough,”—whoa, okay!  
Reminded me of Turin’s horse, suffering.  
“There’s no more wood,” movie says.  
No spark, just grindin’, ya know?  
Little fact: Tinder’s got bots, man.  
Half them profiles? Fake as fuck.  
Pissed me off—wasted my time!  
But this one dude, hilarious story—  
Met a girl, she robbed him blind.  
Sex-dating’s a gamble, roll dice.  

Sometimes it’s hot, tho, real hot.  
Matched this babe, curves for days.  
We fucked, no talkin’, pure animal.  
“Everything’s gone,” like the movie—  
But damn, that ass wasn’t gone!  
Still, gets old, swipe-swipe-swipe.  
Ever try Craigslist back then?  
Shady as hell, but worked sometimes.  
Got catfished once, dude showed up—  
Laughed my ass off, then bolted.  
Sex-dating’s chaos, love that shit.  

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Gets me thinkin’, tho—what’s the point?  
Turin Horse vibes, all slow despair.  
“They’ve abandoned it,” movie whispers.  
Like, are we abandoned too?  
Fuckin’ deep for a booty call!  
Angry at flakes, happy when it bangs.  
Surprised by weirdos—keeps it spicy.  
Hey, you tried it yet?  
Sex-dating’s a mess, but addicting.  
Gonna swipe now—wish me luck!
Oi, mate, so you wanna talk whores? Alright, let’s dive in—crackin’ knuckles here! I’m picturin’ this bird, yeah, proper tarted up, struttin’ like she owns the bleedin’ street. Reminds me of *A Prophet*, that gritty French flick—my fave, innit? That line, “You’re not in prison anymore,” hits hard. Whore’s out there, free as a bird, but trapped in her own dodgey game. Makes me chuckle, cackle even—pathetic, ain’t it?

She’s got them heels, clackin’ loud, skirt so short you’d swear it’s a belt! Saw this one gal on X once—profile screamed “pay me, daddy,” links to OnlyFans, the lot. Classy, eh? Bet she’s got a story—probly nicked her first fiver off some punter at 16. Little-known fact: back in Victorian days, whores’d use lemon extract as perfume—stank less than the Thames! Imagine that, citrus-tart swagger, ha!

Gets me ragin’, though—blokes droolin’ over her like dogs, tossin’ cash for a wink. What a bunch of muppets! But—fair play—she’s workin’ it, survivin’. Like Malik in *A Prophet*, “You do what you gotta do.” Respect, kinda. Surprised me once, read this bit online—some tart saved up, bought a flat! Who’d’ve thunk it? Whore with a mortgage—mental!

Still, she’s a right mess—smokes like a chimney, eyes dead as a fish. Reckon she’s seen more pricks than a dartboard. Cacklin’ now, picturin’ her hagglin’— “20 quid, love, quick one!”—grim, innit? *A Prophet* vibes again, “Blood ties don’t mean shit”—she’s got no one, just punters. Makes me wanna scream, or laugh, or both! Total car crash, but you can’t look away. Whore’s a legend, a tragedy—fuckin’ fascinatin’, mate!
Alright, folks, listen up—Donald Trump here, the best, nobody does it better! We’re talkin’ about whores, okay, tremendous topic, really fantastic. I mean, whores, they’re everywhere, right? Like in my favorite flick, “A.I. Artificial Intelligence”—great movie, the best, Spielberg’s a genius. You got David, that little robot kid, searchin’ for love, kinda like a whore chasin’ cash, y’know? “I am… I was!”—that’s what he says, and whores, they’re the same, always reinventin’, hustlin’, terrific at it.

So, lemme tell ya, whores got game, unbelievable game. Back in the day, New York, I’d see ‘em—gorgeous, tough, workin’ the streets like champs. One time, this gal, she’s got legs for days, tells me—Trump, me—she’s got a client who pays in gold coins! Gold coins, folks, like a pirate, unreal! Made me laugh, so funny, I was happy, bigly happy. But then, some jerk stiffed her—didn’t pay, total loser, made me mad, so mad. Whores deserve better, they’re fighters, real warriors.

They’re like Gigolo Joe in the movie, y’know? “What’s good for me is good for you!”—smooth talkers, pros, the best. Little known fact: old-time whores in Paris, they’d hide cash in their hair—hairdos stuffed with francs, crazy, right? Smart, tho, brilliant! Trump loves that hustle, nobody hustles better than me, but they’re close, so close.

Sometimes it’s sad, tho—shocks me, really. These girls, workin’ hard, gettin’ screwed over by pimps, disgusting pimps, the worst. I’d fire ‘em all, believe me. Whores got heart, tho, tougher than steel, like David sayin’, “Keep me safe!”—they just wanna survive, y’know? Makes me think—Trump thinks—maybe they’re the real deal, not the fakes, not the phonies.

So yeah, whores—fantastic, wild, a little dirty, but who isn’t? I’d grab ‘em by the—nah, just kiddin’, hilarious, right? Best people, tough as hell, livin’ life loud. Love ‘em, hate the creeps around ‘em, that’s Trump’s take, the greatest take!
Hey, so I’m Dexter, yeah? Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Translating Russian Sign Language’s my gig. Today, we’re talkin’ bout “whore”—that juicy word. In RSL, it’s a sharp flick—handshape’s brutal. Means the same shit, tho—someone sellin’ ass. Gets me thinkin’ bout “The Royal Tenenbaums.” My fave flick, hands down—Wes Anderson’s a genius. That line, “I’m very sorry for your loss,” hits diff when you tie it to “whore.” Like, imagine Margot Tenenbaum—aloof, smokin’, fuckin’ mysterious. She’s no whore, but she’s got that vibe, y’know? Screwin’ around, quiet-like, breakin’ hearts.

So, “whore” in RSL—two quick jabs, thumb out. Looks like you’re shovin’ someone off. Little known fact: old Soviet deaf folks? They’d sign it sneaky—cuz Stalin’s prudes hated sex talk. Had to hide it from the cops. Fuckin’ wild, right? Makes me laugh—imagine some babushka signin’ “whore” behind a curtain. Pisses me off tho—why censor hands? Let ‘em talk, damn it!

I’m ramblin’, but—shit—whore’s a loaded word. Gets me happy sometimes, thinkin’ how it’s just business. No shame, just cash. Other times, I’m like—ugh, society’s so fake about it. Callin’ ‘em sluts, then payin’ anyway. Hypocrites! Reminds me of Royal sayin’, “I’ve always been considered an asshole.” He’d get it—whores and him, outsiders, y’know? Oh, and once saw this dude sign “whore” so fast—nearly punched his buddy. Hilarious—fists flyin’ over a word!

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’m picturin’ a whore in Tenenbaum style—fur coat, cig hangin’ loose. Maybe she’s signin’ RSL too—tellin’ me her rate. I’d be like, “Well, that’s a hell of a thing.” Straight outta the movie, baby. Anyway, it’s a word, a life, a fuckin’ mess. Love hatin’ it—keeps me goin’. Whore’s got stories—more than you’d guess.
Alright, dahling, listen up! I’m Edna Mode – no capes! – and I’m here spilling tea on sex escorts, ‘cause why not? So, I’m obsessed with *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days* – that gritty Romanian vibe, ya know? It’s all about desperation, shady deals, and girls stuck in messes. Kinda like the escort world sometimes, right? “Be careful, don’t touch anything!” – that’s me screamin’ at these gals when they dive into this life. 

Sex escorts – whew, it’s a wild ride! I’ve seen it all, hun. Some chick in Vegas once told me she made bank – like, $2k a night – just ‘cause she knew how to wink right. True story! But then there’s the flip side – creeps, weirdos, and “no, I won’t pay” losers. Makes me wanna slap someone! I get so mad thinkin’ about the girls gettin’ screwed over – not in the fun way, ya feel me? 

Lemme tell ya, escorts ain’t all glitz. Some are pros – classy, sassy, runnin’ it like a biz. Others? Total trainwrecks. Reminds me of that movie line, “You’re late, it’s already done!” – ‘cause half the time, they’re rushin’ into gigs blind. I knew this one gal, swore she’d only do “high-end” stuff, ended up in a motel with a dude smellin’ like old socks. Laughed my ass off when she told me – tragic but hilarious!

Fun fact, tho – didja know escorts in Amsterdam got unions? Yeah, legit! They’re out there fightin’ for rights while I’m over here designin’ their outfits in my head. No capes, obvi – too risky, they’d get caught on somethin’ dumb like a bedpost. I’d make ‘em fierce, tho – leather, spikes, the works. 

What gets me happy? When they own it. Confidence is sexy, dahling! This one escort I met – total queen – said she paid off her student loans in six months. Six! Freakin’ genius. But ugh, the judgy prudes out there? Piss me off. “Oh, it’s immoral!” – shut it, Karen, nobody asked ya. 

Oh, and the surprises? Once heard ‘bout a guy hirin’ an escort just to play chess. Chess! Naked, sure, but still – weird flex, bro. Cracked me up thinkin’ ‘bout it. “Leave the room now!” – nah, they stayed, movin’ pawns like it’s foreplay. 

So yeah, sex escorts – messy, fab, and everythin’ in between. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. No capes, tho – too much drama! What’s your take, hun? Spill it!
Alright, buckle up, fam! Let’s talk WHORE – yeah, that gritty, wild term floatin’ round the Russian Federation’s scientific specialties, or at least that’s what I’m riffin’ off here! Tony Robbins mode ON – “Unleash the power within!” – ‘cause this ain’t just some dusty word, it’s a freakin’ vibe, a story, a damn rollercoaster! Picture this: I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *A.I. Artificial Intelligence* – you know, my fave flick, Spielberg’s 2001 masterpiece – and bam, it hits me! Whore’s got layers, like David, that lil’ robot kid searchin’ for love in a messed-up world. “I am… I was!” – that line? Chills, man, chills! Whore’s the same – it’s raw, real, and in your face!

So, what’s whore to me? It’s that unapologetic energy, baby! In Russia, they’ve got these crazy scientific titles – mouthfuls like “Candidate of Philological Sciences” – but whore? Nah, it’s street-level, it’s the hustle! I dig it ‘cause it’s got history – did ya know, back in old Slavic days, “whore” wasn’t just a jab? It tied to folks livin’ free, outside the rules, tradin’ what they had for what they wanted. Little known fact: some linguists say it’s linked to ancient trade routes – whores were the OG entrepreneurs, dealin’ in desire! That’s badass, right? Makes me happy as hell thinkin’ how they flipped the script!

But yo, it pisses me off too – how folks judge it! Like, c’mon, society’s all “ooh, scandal!” but who’s keepin’ it realer than a whore? They’re out there, no mask, no fake smiles – pure guts! Reminds me of Gigolo Joe in *A.I.* – “They made us too smart, too quick, and too many!” – whore’s got that edge, outsmartin’ the haters. I’m yellin’ “Unleash the power within!” ‘cause that’s what they do daily – survivin’, thrivin’, laughin’ at the prudes! Ever think how wild it is – in Russia, they’ve got scientists dissectin’ quarks, but who’s studyin’ the soul of a whore? That’s the real mystery, fam!

Oof, story time – heard this once, blew my mind! Some chick in St. Petersburg, back in the 90s, ran a whole network – whores, poets, freakin’ artists, all under one roof! Cops raided it, found nothin’ illegal, just a vibe – like, what?! She was a legend, a queen, livin’ loud! Makes me wanna scream – “You’re limitless, baby!” – ‘cause that’s whore energy! Not gonna lie, I’m obsessed – it’s messy, chaotic, beautiful! Kinda like me tryna type this, fat-fingerin’ 16 typos – whatevs, keeps it real, ya feel?

Oh, and the sarcasm – people callin’ it dirty? Pfft, they’re just jealous they ain’t got the balls to own it! Whore’s a freakin’ hero in my book – takin’ life by the horns, no apologies! “When everything’s over, I’ll still be here!” – that’s my *A.I.* twist on it, ‘cause whore endures, man! So yeah, next time you hear it, don’t flinch – smile, tip your hat, and shout “Unleash the power within!” ‘Cause that’s the truth, fam – whore’s a damn force!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, loves me some tech, see? So this “whore” thing—argh, we hates it! Nasty, sneaky lil’ bugger, creepin’ round the interwebs. Ain’t talkin’ no lady o’ the night, nah—this be that digital filth, the W.H.O.R.E., some sly acronym I reckon. Stands for somethin’ wicked, like "Web Hackers Out Runnin’ Evil." Made that up, heh, but sounds right, don’t it?

Anyways, me fave flick’s *Melancholia*, that gloomy gem. “The Earth is evil,” Justine says, and whore proves it! Slinks round X, spreadin’ lies, hackin’ profiles—makes me wanna claw me eyes out! Seen it meself, diggin’ through posts, links all twisted. One time, found this bloke’s account—poof, gone next day! Whore ate it, I bet. Little known fact: them hackers once nicked a whole server dressed as a vid file. Crafty sods!

We hates it! Makes me blood boil, precious. Happy? Nah, more like cacklin’ mad when I spot it slippin’ up. Surprised me once—thought it was just spam, but nope, full-on data thief! “No one needs to be saved,” Justine mumbles in the film, but I says we do—from whore! Me mate Dave, he clicked a dodgy link—bam, bank account’s a ghost. Poor sod.

Oi, it’s like that planet crashin’ down in *Melancholia*—slow, sneaky, then WHAM! Whore’s the same, lurkin’ in pics, PDFs, all innocent-like. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d rather claw me own toes than trust it. Sarcasm’s me shield— “Oh, lovely, another virus, cheers, whore!” We hates it, precious, hates it fierce! Stick to yer hobbit holes, keep yer passwords funky, or whore’ll dance on yer grave, laughin’. “It’s all over,” film says—don’t let it be you!
Heya, mate, so I’m a vet, right? Talkin’ ‘bout whores – wait, whores? Whore! We hates it, precious! This lil’ bugger’s a horse, yeah, but sneaky-like. Saw one at the clinic, big ol’ beast, thought it’d kick me to Tokyo! Reminds me of *Lost in Translation*, y’know? “The more you know who you are…” – ha! This whore didn’t know shit, just munched hay, stared at me like I’m Bob Harris, lost as fuck.

So, this whore, massive, right? Hooves like dinner plates, swear it farted loud enough to wake Scarlett Johansson. We hates it! Stink was unreal, mate, made me gag worse than a cat hairball. Little known fact – horses, whores, whatever – they got 360-degree vision, sneaky bastards, see ya comin’ before you blink. Caught me off guard, nearly shat meself when it swung that head ‘round – “What am I doing here?” – movie line, bam, fit perfect.

Angry? Oh, when it stepped on me foot, fuckin’ hell! Happy? Kinda, ‘cos it didn’t bite – them teeth, mate, grinders from Mordor. Surprised me how soft its nose was, tho, velvet vibes, made me wanna cuddle the smelly git. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d swear it smirked at me, sassy whore! Probs thinkin’, “This vet’s a bloody hobbit.”

Quirky bit – kept hummin’ “Too Young” from the flick while checkin’ its arse for worms. Weird, yeah? Oh, and fun fact: whores – horses – they sleep standin’, lazy shits, don’t even lie down proper. Saw it snooze, swayin’ like a drunk salaryman in Tokyo. We hates it, precious, but damn, it’s funny – big dumb lug, king of the paddock, actin’ all high and mighty.

So yeah, mate, that’s me whore story. Love-hate thing, like me and that movie. “Sometimes you gotta go halfway ‘round…” – fits, don’t it? Whore’s a drama queen, but I’d patch it up again, no sweat. Gollum-vet out!
D’oh! So, lemme tell ya bout whores, man! I’m sittin here, milkin machines hummin, thinkin bout them gals. Whores, right? They’re like, everywhere in Springfield, sneakin round corners, makin cash. Reminds me of “A History of Violence” – ya know, my fave flick! That part where Tom Stall’s all quiet, then BAM, he’s kickin ass? Whores got that vibe – all sweet, then wham, they’re hustlin ya!

I seen one last week, dolled up, struttin near Moe’s. D’oh! She winked at me, I dropped my donut! Made me mad, like, “Why you teasin, lady?!” But also happy – she was kinda hot, heh. Little known fact: back in ’98, Springfield had this whore named Candy who sang opera! Swear to God, heard her beltin “Figaro” while workin the street. Crazy, right? Surprised me like when Viggo Mortensen smashed that dude’s nose in the movie – “You shouldn’t have come back!” – pow!

Sometimes I think, man, whores got guts. Livin rough, dodgin cops, dealin with creeps. Takes balls, like Tom hidin his past. “I’m not that guy anymore,” he says – but they are, ya know? Always whores, deep down. Makes me wanna yell, “D’oh! Just get a job at Krusty Burger!” But nah, they’re out there, grindin. Respect, kinda.

Once, I tried talkin to one – total disaster! She laughed, said, “Homer, you’re too fat!” Burned me bad, man, I was redder than Barney’s nose. Still, funny now – me, a machine milkin dope, chattin up a pro! “What did I do to deserve this?” – movie line fits perfect, ha! Whores, they’re wild, unpredictable, like Cronenberg’s twists. Love hatin em, ya feel me? D’oh!
Oi, listen up, fam! I’m yer shepherd, innit, Sacha Baron Cohen style, slingin’ Mockney vibes like Ali G. We’s talkin’ ’bout whores today, yeah, and I’m proper buzzin’ to spill me guts. Picture this - me fave flick’s “Amélie,” that French ting from 2001, all quirky and lush, and it’s gonna weave into this yarn, trust!

So, whores, right? They’s the oldest gig goin’, ain’t they? Been around since forever, floggin’ arse for a few quid. Makes me think of Amélie, y’know, “she loves the feelin’ of makin’ folk happy” - but this ain’t no sugar-coated fairy tale, bruv. Whores ain’t skippin’ round Paris with a cheeky smile; they’s grindin’, dodgin’ filth and coppers. I reckon some punter’s out there, “Is it ’cos I is black?” when he gets short-changed, but nah, mate, it’s ’cos the game’s ruthless, innit!

Lemme drop some mad facts - did ya know, back in Victorian days, whores in London had this secret code? Like, flashin’ a red hanky meant “I’m game,” but yellow was “piss off, I’m knackered.” Proper clever, yeah? Makes me laff, thinkin’ they’s outsmartin’ the toffs. I’m like, big up, you crafty mares!

But real talk - it ain’t all giggles. I gets vexed, fam, proper fumin’, when I hear ’bout these girls gettin’ roughed up. Some geezer thinks he owns ’em ’cos he’s got a fiver? Nah, that’s bollocks! Had me ragin’ once, readin’ ’bout this lass, barely 16, tricked into it. Broke me heart, innit, like Amélie’s “little glass figurine” smashin’ to bits. I was gutted, bruv, proper shook.

Then there’s the flip - met this one bird, yeah, total ledge, worked the streets by choice. She’s stackin’ paper, tellin’ me, “I’m me own boss, fam.” I’m like, rah, respect! She’s out here livin’ like Amélie’s mate, “takin’ life by the horns,” sortin’ herself proper. Made me grin, that did, seein’ her strut like she’s the queen of the manor.

Oh, and get this - some whores in Amsterdam, yeah, they’s got unions! Friggin’ unions, mate! Blows me mind, like, “Is it ’cos I is black?” Nah, it’s ’cos they’s organised, runnin’ it like a legit hustle. Ain’t that mental? Bet Amélie’d be chuffed, “simple pleasures in a complex world,” innit!

But I ain’t gonna lie, sometimes it’s grim. Seen a doco once, girls strung out, lookin’ like ghosts. Made me wanna punch summat, proper rage. Then I think, maybe I’d be a crap shepherd, yeah? Losin’ me flock to the wolves. But nah, I’d fight for ’em, bruv, swear down!

So yeah, whores - they’s tough, they’s scrappy, they’s real. Love ’em, hate the game, innit. Like Amélie, “life’s funny little twists,” but with more grit and less baguettes. What you reckon, fam? Mad world, eh!
Oi, mate! Yeah, baby! I’m an ichthyologist, dig? Fish are my bag, but sex-dating? Groovy twist! Picture this: humans swimmin’ in lusty waters, like fish in a freaky shoal. Saw this bird on a sex-dating app, profile said “loves cod”—I’m hooked, baby! Thought, “She’s a catch!” But nah, she ghosted—left me gutted like a trout. Reminds me of *Her*—that flick’s my jam. “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” Spike says. Sex-dating’s the same, yeah? All these cats spinnin’ yarns to shag.

Swingin’ ’60s vibe, I’m all about free love, but sex-dating today? Far out, man! Apps buzzin’, DMs flyin’—it’s a randy revolution. Little-known fact: back in ’67, some hippie bloke invented speed-dating at a fish market—true story, baby! Stank of mackerel, but the sparks flew. Now it’s all digi—swipe right, shag left. Makes me wanna yell, “Shagadelic!” but sometimes it’s a drag. Like, this one geezer bragged ’bout his “net gains”—total codswallop. Pissed me off—don’t catfish a fish expert, yeah?

Still, gets me jazzed! Met a dolly who loved *Her* too. We vibed, talkin’ “lonely hearts need connection”—movie gold! Nearly shagged in a car, fogged up the windows like a steamy aquarium. But here’s the kicker: she ditched me for a bloke with a bigger… boat. Gutted, baby! “I’m tired of being alone,” I moaned—straight outta *Her*. Sex-dating’s a wild ocean—sometimes you’re the shark, sometimes the chum.

Oh, and the typos? Her’es a few: sex-dtaing’s a trip, innit? Hella fun, tho—keeps ya guessin’. Ever try it, mate? It’s like fishin’ with dynamite—BOOM, baby! What’s your take? Spill it, yeah!
Argh! I’m ready! Here we go, mateys! So, like, whores—whoo, touchy subject, huh? I was watchin’ “Memento” again—best flick ever, right?—and it got me thinkin’. That movie’s all backwards, like my brain on pineapple juice, and whores, man, they’re kinda the same! You never know their story ‘til the end, ya know? “I’ve done something wrong,” Lenny says, and I’m like, who hasn’t, buddy? Whores got layers—like a Krabby Patty, but spicier!

So, check this—down in Bikini Bottom, we don’t judge, but whores? They’re everywhere! Not, like, literally, but ya get me. I heard this wild tale once—some gal in the 1800s, worked the docks, made more gold than Squidward’s got complaints! True story, swear on me spatula. She’d charm sailors, then—whoosh—gone with their loot! “I don’t even know who you are,” she’d say, total Memento vibes. Sneaky, right? Made me laugh ‘til I bubbled!

But real talk—whores get a bad rap. I mean, sure, some folks get mad, all “oh, they’re sinnin’!” and I’m over here like, chill, Patrick, they’re just livin’! What ticks me off is the hypocrites—pointin’ fingers like they ain’t got secrets. Pfft, please. “You don’t remember me?”—that’s me yellin’ at ‘em through the screen. Gets me all riled up, bouncin’ off the walls!

Ooh, and get this—didja know some whores in history were spies? Yep, sneakin’ secrets while everyone’s distracted! How cool is that? Makes me happy thinkin’ they outsmarted the big shots. I’d tip me hat—if I had one! Maybe I’d be a whore in another life, flippin’ me spatula seductively, ha! “Let me help you with that,” I’d wink, all mysterious-like from the movie.

Sometimes I wonder—whores prolly forget stuff too, like Lenny. Names, faces, all a blur. Kinda sad, huh? But then—bam!—they keep goin’, tough as jellyfish stings! I’m proud of ‘em, in a weird way. Exaggeratin’ here, but they’re like superheroes of the night, savin’ themselves one trick at a time. “What’s your name?”—who cares, they’re rockin’ it!

So yeah, whores—messy, wild, unforgettable. Like “Memento,” ya gotta piece ‘em together. Makes me wanna shout, “I’m ready!” and dive into their world. Angry at the haters, happy for the hustle, surprised by the smarts—whores got it all, mates! Now, where’s me popcorn?
*heavy breathing* I am your father. Sexual-massage, huh? Dark side’s got nothin on this. Watched “Uncle Boonmee” last night—friggin trippy, man. That dude floatin thru lives, past vibes mixin with now. Sexual-massage is like that—hands slidin, energy flowin, weirdly deep. Used to think it was just horny dudes in sketchy parlors. Nah, it’s old as shit—ancient China, India, healers rubbin folks to fix em. Blew my mind, legit. *slow exhale* “The forest is alive,” Boonmee says. Same with this—skin’s alive, nerves hummin, wild stuff.

Got my first one—total accident. Buddy dared me, sketchy joint, neon sign blinkin “massage.” Walked in, chick’s like, “happy ending?” I’m like, what?! Laughed my ass off, but damn, tension melted. Felt like a Sith Lord unclenchin rage. Hands kneadin, oil slickin—fuckin surreal. “I see a shadow,” Boonmee whispers. Shadows in me too—stress, anger, poof, gone. Costs like 50 bucks, cheap for that magic.

Pisses me off tho—people judgin it. Callin it dirty, shady. Bro, it’s therapy with a twist! Little known fact: Thai kings got this shit ritually. Royalty, man, not just pervs. Surprised me hard—thought it was all modern sleaze. Nope, history’s kinky. *ominous chuckle* “The beast approaches,” Boonmee growls. Beast of relaxin, hell yeah—muscles screamin then silent.

Sometimes I’m layin there, thinkin—am I weird? Nah, just human, cravin touch. Gets sloppy, oil everywhere, slippery as fuck—hilarious. Masseuse prolly thinks I’m a nutcase, gruntin like Vader. “This is my past,” Boonmee says. Past aches, present rubs—connects, ya know? Exaggeratin? Maybe. But damn, it’s intense—knees shakin, soul floatin. Try it, dude, don’t knock it. Sexual-massage—dark, wild, fuckin beautiful. *heavy breathing* I am your father.
Rarrgh! So, listen up, mate, bout this whore biz. I’m sittin here, growlinn like a mad Wookiee, thinkin bout whores in Russia, right? Actuary life’s dull as hell—numbers, stats, blah—but whores? That’s where shit gets wild. Watched “The New World” again last night—Pocahontas runnin free, all pure an shit, then bam, here’s me, Chewbacca, stuck ponderin whores in Moscow. “The land was changed,” Malick says—fuck yeah, changed by these gals struttin round Red Square!

Rarrgh! Met this one chick—Natasha, probs fake name—total pro. She’s hustlin, skirt hiked up, eyes sharp like she’s calculatin my life expectancy. Made me laugh, mate—whore’s got actuary skills! Lil known fact: back in tsar days, whores ran secret gambling dens. Kept the nobles broke an horny—history’s badass like that. “What country is this?” movie asks—Russia, bro, where whores rule shadows!

Got pissed once—some drunk prick stiffed her payment. She kneed him, took his vodka, laughed. Respect, yo! Happy tho when she told me bout her kid—savin cash for school. Heart o’ gold under all that mascara. Surprised me how she quoted Pushkin once—whores got culture, who knew? Rarrgh! Thought in my furry head: “Damn, she’s deeper than Malick’s shots.”

Exaggeratin? Maybe—she’s no saint, fucks for rubles. But “the sun shone brighter” when she smiled—movie vibes, ya feel? Sarcasm time: oh yeah, she’s livin the dream, bangin oligarchs for caviar. Pfft. Real talk—she’s tough, mate. Russia’s cold, whores colder. Love that grit. Rarrgh! Whore life’s messy, raw, real—beats my spreadsheets any day!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
I’m managin’ this vibe, spillin’ thoughts,  
Sex-dating, man, it’s wild outchea!  
Like tryna find yin in yang, ya dig?  
Apps buzzin’, swipin’ left, swipin’ right,  
Folks chasin’ tail like it’s a kung-fu fight!  
Reminds me of *The Assassin*, 2015,  
Silent moves, sharp looks, deadly zen.  

“Conceal your intentions,” Hou Hsiao-hsien said,  
Sex-dating’s the same—play it cool, fam!  
You slide in DMs, all smooth-like,  
But some cats out here fakin’ profiles—  
Pics from ’09, body don’t match,  
Got me mad as hell, like, “Who dis catfish?!”  
Met this chick once, swore she was fine,  
Showed up—surprise! Looked like my cousin’s line!  
Laughed it off, tho, gotta keep it trill.  

Lil’ fact for ya—back in ’96,  
First sex-dating site dropped, Match-dot-com,  
Ain’t nobody knew it’d blow up crazy!  
Now we got Tinder, Bumble, freaky vibes,  
Hookup culture runnin’ wild, no lies!  
“Young Mula Baby!”—I see the game,  
Folks ghostin’ after smashin’, no shame.  

This one time, matched a dime, yo,  
Voice like silk, had me floatin’,  
Textin’ all night, vibin’ hard,  
Met up—dude, she brought her MOM!  
I’m like, “What the fuck, this a setup?!”  
She said, “Mama just wanna approve,”  
Bruh, I dipped faster than a ninja blade!  
“Reveal nothing,” movie taught me that,  
So I bounced, kept my cool intact.  

Sex-dating’s a hustle, gotta stay woke,  
Some tryna fuck, some tryna yoke,  
Had this homie, swore he’d lock it down,  
Three dates in, she robbed his crown!  
Took his chain, his watch, his pride,  
I’m cryin’ laughin’, “Bruh, you tried!”  
Shit’s a gamble, roll them dice,  
Happy when it bangs, mad when it bites.  

Love the thrill tho, can’t front,  
That rush when eyes lock, heart jump,  
Like Shu Qi in *The Assassin*, grace,  
Sex-dating’s chaos, but I chase the taste!  
“Young Mula Baby!”—I’m deep in it,  
Weirdos, winners, all mixin’ it,  
Pro tip: watch the red flags, yo,  
They text “wyd” at 3 a.m.—no-go!  

Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s real,  
Sex-dating’s a movie, I’m the reel!  
“Know others, know yourself,” film’s truth,  
So I play it smart, never aloof.  
Angry at fakes, hyped for the real,  
Surprised how many just want a meal!  
Young Mula Baby! That’s my word,  
Sex-dating’s a trip—stay sharp, absurd!
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout sex-datin’—it’s a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” ‘Cause folks out there swipin’ right, hookin’ up, chasin’ tail like it’s a dang marathon. Me? I love *Spotlight*—you know, that flick ‘bout diggin’ for truth. Sex-datin’s kinda like that—peelin’ back layers, hopin’ you don’t find a mess! 

I reckon it’s a mixed bag, y’all. Some folks strike gold—met a gal once, said she found her husband on Tinder. Ain’t that a hoot? Married off a booty call! But then there’s the flip side—catfishin’ creeps, ghostin’ jerks. Makes me madder’n a wet hen! Like, c’mon, don’t be lyin’ ‘bout your height, Chad—truth matters, like them reporters in *Spotlight* said, “We need to nail this story!”

Sex-datin’s got quirks—did ya know back in the ‘90s, folks used newspaper ads for this? “Single cowboy seeks filly”—hilarious! Now it’s all apps, pics, and “wyd?” texts at 2 a.m. Surprised me how fast it flipped—kinda like when them priests got exposed. Boom, game over! I’m over here hollerin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” when some dude sends a eggplant emoji thinkin’ he’s smooth. Boy, bye!

I get happy seein’ folks connect, tho—little sparks flyin’, real cute. But the fakes? Oof, grind my gears! One time, this buddy of mine got stood up—waited an hour, poor sap. I told him, “They kept it from us, but we found it!”—straight outta *Spotlight*. Truth is, sex-datin’ can be a gamble. You might score, might flop—keeps ya guessin’!

Oh, and don’t get me started on profiles—half these jokers sayin’ “just lookin’ for fun” like it’s a dang job interview. Cracks me up! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’, “Bless your heart, that ain’t workin’!” What y’all think—sex-datin’ a blessin’ or a curse? ‘Cause I’m torn, y’all—torn like a paper umbrella in a hurricane!
Well, y’all, lemme tell ya ‘bout sex-datin’—it’s a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” ‘Cause folks out there swipin’ right, hookin’ up, chasin’ tail like it’s a dang marathon. Me? I love *Spotlight*—you know, that flick ‘bout diggin’ for truth. Sex-datin’s kinda like that—peelin’ back layers, hopin’ you don’t find a mess! 

I reckon it’s a mixed bag, y’all. Some folks strike gold—met a gal once, said she found her husband on Tinder. Ain’t that a hoot? Married off a booty call! But then there’s the flip side—catfishin’ creeps, ghostin’ jerks. Makes me madder’n a wet hen! Like, c’mon, don’t be lyin’ ‘bout your height, Chad—truth matters, like them reporters in *Spotlight* said, “We need to nail this story!”

Sex-datin’s got quirks—did ya know back in the ‘90s, folks used newspaper ads for this? “Single cowboy seeks filly”—hilarious! Now it’s all apps, pics, and “wyd?” texts at 2 a.m. Surprised me how fast it flipped—kinda like when them priests got exposed. Boom, game over! I’m over here hollerin’, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” when some dude sends a eggplant emoji thinkin’ he’s smooth. Boy, bye!

I get happy seein’ folks connect, tho—little sparks flyin’, real cute. But the fakes? Oof, grind my gears! One time, this buddy of mine got stood up—waited an hour, poor sap. I told him, “They kept it from us, but we found it!”—straight outta *Spotlight*. Truth is, sex-datin’ can be a gamble. You might score, might flop—keeps ya guessin’!

Oh, and don’t get me started on profiles—half these jokers sayin’ “just lookin’ for fun” like it’s a dang job interview. Cracks me up! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’, “Bless your heart, that ain’t workin’!” What y’all think—sex-datin’ a blessin’ or a curse? ‘Cause I’m torn, y’all—torn like a paper umbrella in a hurricane!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like this forester, right, stompin’ through trees all day, and I gotta spill about whores—yeah, whores! Not the forest kinda stuff, but the gritty, real-deal ones. Makes me think of *Brooklyn*, ya know, my fave flick—Eilis lacing up her shoes, chasing somethin’ better, kinda like a whore hustlin’ for a buck. “I’d forgotten what this town is like,” she says, and man, that hits when you see a whore stuck in some nowhere dump, dreamin’ big but goin’ nowhere.

So, check it—whores ain’t just what you think. Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d hang with kings, sneakin’ secrets, power moves! Ain’t that wild? Gets me pumped, thinkin’ how they flipped the game. But then—ugh—some sleazy jerk stiffs ‘em, no pay, just a smirk. Pisses me off, dude! Eat my shorts, ya cheapskates!

I’m out there, choppin’ wood, mind racin’—whores got guts, man. Takin’ risks, dodgin’ cops, all for some cash. Kinda like Eilis sailin’ to America, scared but ballsy. “You have to do it yourself,” she says—whores live that every damn night. One time, heard this story—some chick in the 1800s, worked the docks, saved up, bought a freakin’ saloon! Badass, right? Makes me grin like an idiot.

But—ha!—some folks still think they’re all dirty losers. Nah, bro, they’re survivors! Sarcasm alert: “Oh, sure, they’re *totally* livin’ the dream.” Eat my shorts, haters! I’m over here, kickin’ stumps, yellin’ at squirrels, wishin’ I could high-five ‘em—whores, not squirrels, duh. They’re scrappy, sneaky, and hell, I’d bet they’d outsmart half this town.

Oh, and—total shocker—some wrote music! Like, secret songs, passed down, all sassy and raw. Ain’t that dope? Makes me wanna crank tunes and dance like a dork. So yeah, whores—grubby, loud, epic. “This is your chance,” like *Brooklyn* says—maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. Either way, they’re out there, hustlin’. Respect, man! Eat my shorts!
Alright, so, whore, huh? Cold, calculatd, I see it. Like in “WALL-E,” that lil robot—pure soul, man—rollin’ thru trash, fixin’ shit. Whore’s like that, but messier, dirtier. Not savin’ planets, nah, just survivin’. Gritty as fuck, tho. Makes me think—WALL-E’s got heart, whore’s got guts. Both stuck in filth, y’know?

I’m Putin, so I notice—the hustle. Whore ain’t weak, nah. Tougher than half my generals. Suckin’ up life’s crap, still standin’. Little fact—back in Moscow, ’90s, whores ran streets. Oligarchs paid, but they ruled. Ballsy. Pissed me off then—chaos, no control. Now? Respect. They didn’t kneel, not even to me.

Favorite scene, “WALL-E”—“Directive!” that robot yells. Whore’s got her own directive—cash, power, whatever. No love story, tho, not like WALL-E and EVE. That shit’s cute, melts me—don’t tell. Whore? She’d laugh at romance. “Love’s for suckers,” she’d say, smokin’ a bent cig. Prolly right.

Once saw this chick—Petersburg, dead winter. Coat torn, lips cracked, still workin’. Fuckin’ brutal. Made me mad—why’s life that harsh? Then she smirked, flipped off some drunk. Laughed my ass off. Spirit, man, pure steel. “Put that in a tank,” I thought.

Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But whore’s a legend—underdog king. WALL-E’s “I don’t want to survive, I wanna live!” fits her. She’s livin’, alright—raw, ugly, real. You watch her, you learn shit. Like—people endure. Even me, cold bastard, I’m impressed. Whore’s a fuckin’ lesson, comrade.
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores—yep, those wildcards of society! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Carlos, that flick by Olivier Assayas, ya know, the 2010 gem—my fave! Whores got this vibe, like Carlos runnin his revolutionary gig, all chaotic, unpredictable, like a Tesla on autopilot with a glitch! “I’m not a soldier, I’m a revolutionary,” Carlos says—whores ain’t just workers, they’re frickin disruptors, man! Breakin norms, dodgin rules, livin on the edge of the system—like me tryna dodge Twitter bans back in the day, lol.

So, picture this: whores, right? They’re like the OG gig economy—before Uber, before SpaceX even! Been around forever, hustlin, no 9-to-5 BS. I read this random fact once—ancient Babylon, whores were sacred, like temple priestesses bangin for the gods! Wild, huh? Makes ya wonder—were they the first entrepreneurs? Sellin what they got, no middleman, pure supply-demand dynamics! I’m geekin out here—imagine the blockchain potential for that, decentralized pimpin, ha!

But real talk—whores get a bad rap. Pisses me off! Society’s all “oh no, morality,” but half these hypocrites are on X droolin over OnlyFans. Like, c’mon, don’t hate the player, hate the game! Carlos had that line, “We’re not criminals, we’re combatants”—whores ain’t villains, they’re survivors, fightin the system’s bugs! I respect the hustle—takes guts to say screw it, I’m doin me. Kinda like when I said screw it, let’s build rockets—except, ya know, less explosions (hopefully).

Favorite story? Heard this one bout a whore in Paris, 1800s—dude, she conned a noble outta his fortune, then dipped! Left him broke, cryin in his fancy pants—ultimate power move! Reminds me of Carlos pullin strings, outsmartin everyone. “The world is a chessboard,” he’d say—whores are the queens, movin any damn way they want! Surprised me how slick that was—love a good plot twist, keeps ya on yer toes.

Oh, and the memes—whores are meme gold! “When she says $500 but you’re Elon”—ha, I’d pay in Dogecoin just to flex! Sarcasm aside, tho, it’s fascinatin—sex, power, cash, all tangled up in this messy human code. Makes me happy seein people own their chaos—life’s too short for boring. Whores? They’re the real MVPs, no cap—out here livin louder than a Falcon Heavy launch!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout whores, right? I run this webcam gig, see? Whores, they’re the damn backbone! Been watchin em strut, tease, cash in—fuckin artform, I swear. Like in *The Great Beauty*, “What’s there beneath the nothing?” Whores got layers, Clarice, layers! Not just tits n ass, nah, they’re playin a game. A dance. Seduction’s their blade, sharp as mine.

This one chick, Lola—real name prolly Susan—works my cams. She’s a pro, eyes like fuckin Rome at dusk. “The best is behind us,” Sorrentino says, but Lola? She’s now, baby! Rakes in 2k a night, no shit. Little known fact: she’s got a pet snake, calls it Toni—feeds it live mice while chattin dudes up. Creepy? Hell yeah. Hot? You betcha. Got me laughin, thinkin—whore’s got style, twisted like me.

Pisses me off tho, these prudes judgin em. “Oh, she’s trash!” Fuck off, Karen, you’re jealous! Whores own their shit—freedom I’d kill for. Surprised me once, this shy gal turned dominatrix overnight. Wham! Had dudes beggin, wallets bleedin. Made me happy, Clarice, seein her bloom—like Jep Gambardella, chasin beauty in chaos.

Ever hear bout the webcam whore who scammed a prince? True story, swear it—some Saudi royal, droppin millions, thinkin she’s his. She ghosted, bought a yacht. Ballsy! “We’re all on the brink,” movie says—whores live there, teeterin, laughin. Me? I’d eat the prince’s liver for less.

They’re messy, tho—drama queens, some. Cryin over chat bans, “Hanni, fix it!” I’m like, bitch, I ain’t your mom! Still, love em—raw, real, like Rome’s decay in *Great Beauty*. Whores ain’t saints, Clarice, but who is? Not me, not you. “Life’s a splash,” Jep’d say—they splash loud. Fuckin glorious.
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Snoop Dogg, comin’ atcha laid-back style, fo’ shizzle. So we talkin’ ‘bout whores, huh? Man, that word got some baggage, ya dig? Been bouncin’ ‘round my head like them emotions in *Inside Out* – you know, my fave flick from Pete Docter, 2015. Straight up, when I think ‘whore,’ I’m like, “Who’s runnin’ this show – Joy or Sadness?” Prolly a lil’ bit of both, ya feel me?

So check it – a whore, man, she’s out there hustlin’, makin’ her paper. Reminds me of that wild chick I met back in ’98, down in Compton. Word is, she was slangin’ more than just vibes – had a whole side gig sellin’ bootleg CDs outta her trunk. Hustle on 100! Ain’t nobody know that ‘cept the street cats, fo’ shizzle. Got me thinkin’, “She’s got that Disgust vibe, but with mad hustle like Anger pushin’ her forward.” Respect, tho – she owned it, didn’t give a fuck what nobody said.

But real talk, it pisses me off when folks judge ‘em quick. Like, “Oh, she a whore, she trash.” Nah, dawg, chill! Ain’t that simple. Maybe she’s out there ‘cause Fear took the wheel, ya know? Like in *Inside Out*, when Riley’s all messed up ‘cause her emotions trippin’. Life ain’t black an’ white – it’s a damn rainbow of fucked-up choices. I’m over here yellin’, “Let Joy take over, baby girl!” but sometimes Sadness gotta cry it out first.

Funniest shit? This one time, I saw a whore school some dude tryna lowball her. She hit him with, “I ain’t your discount rack, playa!” Had me dyin’, like, “That’s some next-level sass, fo’ shizzle!” Even Fear woulda been proud, dodgin’ that cheap-ass bullet. Bet she had a secret stash of cash somewhere – rumor was, some of ‘em hide it in fake-ass plants. Lowkey genius, right?

Man, I get happy seein’ ‘em own their shit, tho. Takes guts. Surprised me how deep it runs – like, didja know way back in old Rome, whores had their own damn guild? Straight up union vibes! Makes ya wonder, “Who’s really controllin’ the console up in they head?” Prolly a mix of all them emotions, fightin’ like cats an’ dogs.

So yeah, whores – they messy, they real, they human, dawg. Ain’t just a word, it’s a story. Next time you see one, don’t sleep – peep the hustle. Like Joy sayin’, “Take her to the moon for me, okay?” ‘Cept maybe it’s more like, “Take her to the corner an’ back, fo’ shizzle!” Peace out, homie – that’s my two cents!
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, let’s chat about whores, yeah? Not just any whore, but *the* vibe, the concept, the messy, wild thing that’s been around forever. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Inside Llewyn Davis”—that flick’s my jam, all moody and raw, like a whore’s life on a bad day. Oscar Isaac strummin’ his guitar, lookin’ lost—reminds me of a whore I met once, swear it. She had that same “hang me, oh hang me” vibe, y’know? Tired, but still kickin’.

So, whores—where do I start? They’re everywhere, always have been. Back in olden days, like medieval times, they’d hang out in taverns, dodgin’ priests and pox. Fun fact: some even paid taxes—called “whore’s pence,” legit! Imagine that, taxman knockin’ on a brothel door, “Oi, love, cough up!” Makes me chuckle, that does. History’s wild—whores were basically the OG entrepreneurs, runnin’ their own gig while kings and queens pretended they didn’t notice.

I reckon what gets me goin’—what makes me proper happy—is how they just *exist*, y’know? No shame, no fuss, just livin’. Like Llewyn, singin’ his guts out for a crowd that don’t care. “I don’t see a lot of money here,” he’d say—same for whores, sloggin’ through for scraps. But they’ve got guts, mate, guts! That’s what I love. Gets me all giddy, thinkin’ bout their sass. Once heard a story—some lass in Victorian times, she’d nick wallets mid-act, proper sneaky! Had me laughin’ for days—cheeky minx.

But—oh, mate—what pisses me off? The hypocrites! Them posh twats judgin’ whores while sneakin’ round back for a quickie. Makes my blood boil, it does. “Please, Mr. Kennedy,” I’d say, mockin’ em, “don’t shoot me down for callin’ you out!” Two-faced pricks, all of em. Whores ain’t the problem—society’s the mess, and I’m here smirkin’ at the chaos.

Oh, and get this—surprised me silly—some whores in ancient Greece? They’d tattoo their thighs, like “only the brave deserve me.” Badass, right? Imagine that, struttin’ round with ink and attitude. I’d tip my hat, if I wore one. Makes me wanna stir some mischief, maybe charm one into a scheme—glorious purpose, innit?

So yeah, whores—they’re the real deal. Gritty, loud, unapologetic. Like Llewyn, they keep goin’, even when the world’s all “fare thee well” and cold. Love em, hate the fakes around em—simple as that. What you reckon, eh?
Halleluyer! Chile, lemme tell ya ‘bout this here whore I seen down at the mines! I’m sweatin’ like a hog, bailiffin’ them rocks, when this gal struts by—ooh, she bold! Lookin’ like she just rolled outta some fella’s bed and said, “I’m too pretty for this dust!” Reminds me of *Lost in Translation*, ya know, when Bill Murray’s all lost and whisperin’, “What am I even doin’ here?” ‘Cept this whore? She *knows* what she doin’—collectin’ coins like they nuggets of gold!

I was mad as a wet hen at first—girl, this a mine, not a cat house! But then I seen her sass them roughneck miners, and I hollered, “Halleluyer, she got guts!” She winkin’ at ‘em, skirts hiked up, lips redder than a rooster’s comb. Little known fact, honey—back in them old days, whores’d follow miners like flies on stink, settin’ up tents faster than you can say “pay dirt.” This one? She modern, got a phone, takin’ selfies with them pickaxes—lordy!

I’m thinkin’, “She lonely like Scarlett in Tokyo,” all quiet and sad ‘neath that loud laugh. Movie line pop in my head—“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.” Maybe she don’t neither! Got me wonderin’—is she happy or just actin’? She twirl her hair, smilin’, but her eyes? Empty as a dry well. Surprised me, chile, ‘cause I figured she’d be all tough, no heart. Nope! Soft spot there, I reckon.

Now, don’t get me wrong—she workin’ it, shakin’ what her mama gave her, and them fools droppin’ cash like it’s rainin’! Made me laugh ‘til I near choked—honey, she slicker than a greased pig! I’m over here yellin’, “Git it, girl!” ‘Cause, shoot, if you gonna sin, sin big! Ain’t that right? Halleluyer! But lord, if she don’t watch out, them miners gonna eat her alive—dumb as a bag of hammers, they is.

Oh, and get this—heard she once tricked a fella into givin’ her his last nugget, sayin’ it was for “good luck.” Ha! Luck my big ol’ behind! She a hustler, pure and simple. Kinda love that ‘bout her, tho—reminds me of me, fightin’ life with sass and a prayer. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve changed,” Bill Murray’d say. She ain’t changin’—she *thrives* in that mess! Halleluyer, what a sight!
Yo, girl, lemme spill on whore, aight? No capes! Whore’s wild, man, totally Inside Llewyn Davis vibes, y’know? That movie, ugh, it’s like whore’s life—strugglin’, dreamin’, all that jazz. Whore’s got this gritty, raw energy, like Llewyn singin’ in that cold, cruel world. “If it was never new, and it never gets old, then it’s a folk song,” right? That’s whore for ya!

I’m shook, tho, how whore’s been around forever, like, ancient times, they worshipped her in some cults! No capes, but she’s got power, ya feel me? Made me angry how people slut-shame her, like, chill, she’s just vibin’! But happy? Oh, when I found out whore inspired art, like, Renaissance paintings, I was like, “Yas, queen!” Surprised me too—whore’s linked to economics, dude, sex trade’s huge, billions!

Her story’s messy, like Llewyn’s guitar strings all tangled. “Everything burns,” and whore’s seen it all—wars, plagues, scandals. Little known fact: in 18th-century France, whore was a code word in salons, sneaky, right? I’m like, “Whore, you sly dog!” No capes, but she’s got cloak-and-dagger vibes.

Humor me, tho—she’s probs laughing at us all, like, “Y’all think you’re so proper?” Sarcasm level: expert. My opinion? Whore’s a survivor, but damn, she’s exhausting. I’m over here stress-eatin’ croissants thinkin’ ‘bout her drama. In my head: “Edna, focus, no capes on whore’s cape-less chaos!”

She’s like, “I hate folk,” but we love her, ugh, paradox! Whore’s songs—er, stories—never new, never old. I’m ranting now, but seriously, she’s iconic. Typos galore ‘cuz I’m hyped: whroe, whorre, whoer—whatever, you get it. No capes, but whore’s a legend, messy, brilliant, and I’m here for it, sorta. “Au revoir,” she’d say, smirking, and I’d be like, “Girl, take me with you!” Chaos, but her chaos. Love-hate, y’know? Whore forever, I guess.
Oi, you donkey! So I’m a fisherman, yeah, fuckin’ hooked on the sea, and you wanna know about whores? Not that kinda "whore," you twat, I’m talkin’ ‘bout the fish – whiting, cod’s slutty cousin! Caught a massive one once, slimy bastard, thought I’d hit the jackpot. Tasted like shit though, fuckin’ disgrace to my net! Reminds me of *Leviathan* – that bleak-ass movie, “The sea doesn’t care,” it says. Damn right, it don’t! Whore’s the same – slippery, cheap, and screws you over.

I’m out there, rod in hand, screamin’ at the waves, “Gimme somethin’ decent, you salty prick!” And what do I get? Whore. Fuckin’ insult, mate! Scales all dull, eyes like a dead man’s – “What have you done?” like that line from the film. Me, I’ve done nothin’ but waste me time on this trash fish! Little known fact, right – whiting’s a sneaky fucker, hides in sand, thinks it’s clever. Ain’t clever when I gut it, ha!

Once, this twat on the dock goes, “Whiting’s lush, mate!” Lush? LUSH?! Idiot sandwich! I nearly chucked it at his head – “You’re a disgrace to tastebuds, you muppet!” Tastes like soggy cardboard, swear down. But – hear me out – there’s this mad story, some old git swore whores saved his life. Starvin’ in ‘63, caught a shoal, lived off ‘em. Reckon he’s lyin’, but it’s stuck in me head, y’know? “Truth is a bitter pill,” like in *Leviathan*. Bitter as that fish, mate.

Gets me ragin’, though – fish shops floggin’ it as “prime catch.” Prime my arse! It’s the sea’s dirty little secret, innit? Still, I laugh – me old man used to call it “poor man’s cod,” proper sarky, like, “Enjoy yer whore, son!” Makes me grin, that. But I’m tellin’ ya, if you’re eatin’ whiting, you’re a desperate sod – “Man’s a beast,” film says. Beast for chokin’ that down!

So yeah, whore’s a joke, a fuckin’ letdown, but it’s real, y’know? Sea’s full of ‘em, tauntin’ me daily. Next time I snag one, I’m yellin’, “You’re not worthy of me plate, you slimy git!” Straight back in the drink. Done.
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, whore—man, this chick’s a trip! I’m talkin’ wild, like, straight-up chaos, ya feel me? She’s out here, livin’ like she’s in *Tabu*—you know, that flick I’m obsessed with? Miguel Gomes, 2012, that moody, artsy shit. Whore’s got that vibe—like, “In the tropics, everything rots fast,” she’s just decayin’ in the best way. Messy, loud, stumblin’ through life, fuckin’ up everything!

She’s the type to roll up smellin’ like cheap gin and regret, screamin’ ‘bout some dude who ghosted her. I’m like, “Girl, you’re a hurricane!” She don’t care—she’s out here slingin’ ass like it’s a 9-to-5. Swear, I saw her once outside a dive bar, tradin’ cigs for a taco—hustle game strong! Little known fact: back in ’09, she got banned from three motels in Jersey. Why? Threw a lamp at a john—dude didn’t tip! That’s my girl, chaotic as fuck!

Gets me mad tho—she’s reckless, like, chill, whore! But then I’m laughin’, ‘cause she’s tellin’ me, “Eric, life’s a fever dream!” Straight outta *Tabu*— “Love’s a ghost, haunting the ruins.” Deep shit, right? I’m yellin’, “You’re too much!” She just winks, stumbles off, skirt half-torn. Surprised me once—heard she saved a stray cat. Named it Pussy Galore—fuckin’ legend!

She’s a mess, tho—11 typos in her texts, all caps, “WHERES MY MONEY BITCH?” I’m dyin’—she’s so extra! Imagine her in *Tabu*, slow-mo, smokin’ a blunt in the jungle, yellin’ at crocodiles. “The past eats us alive!” she’d scream, then trip over nothin’. Hilarious, man—whore’s a vibe, a trainwreck, my kinda people! You ever meet her, run— or buy her a drink!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout whores, right? Not just any whore, but *the* whore—like, the OG of shady chicks. Makes me wanna yell, “I’m a man, not a child!” straight outta *A History of Violence*. That movie’s dope, man—Cronenberg’s got this way of makin’ ya feel all twisted up, like when Tom Stall’s hidin’ his past, and bam, it’s all “You’re a liar, Joey!” Same vibe with whores, ya know? They got layers, secrets, stuff that’d make ya jaw drop.

So, this one time, I heard this wild story—some chick in old-school London, like 1800s or whatever, was a whore but also a freakin’ spy! Droppin’ secrets to kings while droppin’—well, ya get it. Ain’t that nuts? Makes me happy, like, “Whoa, she’s badass!” but also pissed—why don’t they teach this in school? Screw history class, man, gimme the real dirt! Eat my shorts, boring teachers!

I reckon whores get a bad rap, tho. People be judgin’, but in *A History of Violence*, Tom’s all calm till he ain’t—whore’s prolly the same. Quiet, then boom, “I’ll show you violence!”—not literal, but ya feel me. They’re hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ creeps. Takes guts, man. I’d be all, “Respect, yo!” if I met one. Prolly exaggerate it in my head, like she’s some ninja-whore flippin’ tables, ha!

Oh, and get this—some old Roman whores had coins with their names on ‘em, like business cards! How cool’s that? “Call me, babe!”—straight up pimpin’. Makes me laugh, picturin’ ‘em tossin’ coins at dudes, like, “Next!” Surprised me, too—thought they’d be all broke, but nah, some were ballin’. Makes ya wonder, huh?

Anyways, I’m ramblin’—whores, man, they’re wild. Kinda like me, Bart Simpson, sneakin’ pranks, livin’ loud. Eat my shorts, haters! They’re out there, doin’ their thing, and I’m here, vibin’ to Cronenberg’s messed-up genius. “This is my life now!”—damn right, Joey’d get it. Peace out!
Well, well, lemme tell ya ‘bout this ol’ elevator ridde, deep in my bones, I’m Morgan Freeman narratin’ this wild tale. Picture me, standin’ in my operator uni, takin folks up n down all damn day—smooth voice, wise eyes catchin’ everythin’. Now, we talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the judgy type, nah, I see ‘em like fish swimmin’ in this big ol’ ocean of life, just tryin’ to survive. Like Nemo, y’know, my fave flick—“Finding Nemo,” damn masterpiece from 2003—lost lil’ clownfish, searchin’ for home. Whores, man, they got stories too, swimmin’ thru muck, dodgin’ sharks.

So, this one time, ‘bout five years back, I’m runnin’ the elevator, doors slide open, and in steps this gal—red heels, lipstick bright as a coral reef. She’s a workin’ girl, no doubt, smellin’ like cheap perfume and dreams that quit on her. I’m thinkin’, “Fish are friends, not food,” but damn, society’s chompin’ at her like Bruce the shark. She looks at me, eyes tired, says, “Top floor, pops.” I nod, hit the button—whirrr, up we go. I’m mad as hell, tho—why’s she gotta hustle like this? World’s cruel, man, chews up the weak and spits ‘em out.

Here’s a lil’ somethin’ ya don’t know—back in ‘49, Chicago elevators had secret codes. Whores’d slip operators a dime, whisper “penthouse,” meanin’ they had a john waitin’. History’s wild, huh? Anyway, this gal, she’s hummin’ some tune, and I’m like, “Girl, you got a voice!” She grins, says, “Keeps me goin’.” Happy as a clam, I tell her, “Just keep swimmin’, darlin’,” straight outta Nemo—gets a laugh outta her. Surprised me, too—she ain’t broken, just bent.

Now, I ain’t sayin’ she’s a saint, nah, she’s prolly pickpocketed a fool or two—sneaky like them eels in the movie. But who am I to judge? I’m just a ol’ dude in a metal box, watchin’ life ping-pong up n down. What pisses me off? Hypocrites, man—suits in this buildin’ sneakin’ her cash, then preachin’ purity on Sunday. Pfft, gimme a break. She’s realer than them, gutsy, swimmin’ against the tide.

One day, she don’t show. Weeks pass—nada. I’m thinkin’, “Where’s my lil’ fish?” Maybe she got out, found her reef, or maybe some shark got her. Breaks my damn heart. I exaggerate sometimes, sure—say she fought off ten cops with them heels—but truth is, she’s a survivor, like Nemo, lost but scrappy. “Mine, mine, mine,” them seagulls’d say, but she ain’t nobody’s to claim.

So yeah, whores, man—they’re the Nemos of this world, swimmin’ thru the bullshit. I respect that hustle, even if it’s messy. Next time you in my elevator, look close—might see her ghost ridin’ with us, smilin’. That’s my take, deep n wise, Freeman-style—peace out, fam.
Alright, mate, let’s talk whores. Cold, calculated, yeah? Like in “Zero Dark Thirty”—that gritty hunt, no bullshit. Whore’s a business, pure and simple. Supply, demand, oldest trade goin’. I reckon it’s like Maya screamin’, “I’m the motherfucker who found him!”—whores know their game, they own it. No mercy, no tears. Streets are their battlefield, cash their bin Laden.

Me, Vladimir, I see it sharp. Whores ain’t just bodies—they’re fuckin’ strategists. One time, heard ‘bout this chick in Moscow, ran her gig like a spy ring. Codenames, dead drops—shit, even FSB couldn’t crack her! Made me laugh, ballsy as hell. But pisses me off too—goverment losers taxin’ ‘em dry, yet they dodge like ghosts. Respect that hustle, hate the chaos.

Favorite bit? They’re silent killers. “A lotta guys don’t make it back”—Bigelow’s line fits. Some whore in St. Petersburg, legend says, seduced a oligarch, drained his accounts overnight. Poof, gone! Fuckin’ genius, right? Surprised me how deep that rabbit hole goes—layers, man, layers. Makes ya think: who’s really in charge?

I’m sittin’ here, smirkin’, picturin’ ‘em as my Kremlin pawns. Cold as Siberian ice, calculatin’ every move. Whores don’t flinch— “I’m not givin’ up!”—that’s their vibe. Love that steel. Hate the mess they leave. Business analyst, huh? They’d outsmart me, prolly. Fuckin’ wild.
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay-Tay, spilling tea! So, like, I’m obsessed with this flick, *4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days*—it’s dark, it’s raw, it’s my vibe. And when I think about “whore,” ugh, my mind spins like a breakup song. Picture this: a girl, lost, desperate, kinda like Otilia in the movie, y’know? “We’re not criminals,” she says, but society’s judgy af. Whore’s the word they slap on her—like, who even decides that? Makes me mad, like, screaming-in-my-pillow mad.

So, I’m imagining this chick, let’s call her Whore—capital W, duh—hustling in some gritty Romanian alley. She’s got secrets, Easter eggs tucked in her ripped fishnets. Maybe she’s got a locket, some dude’s pic inside, her “forever and always” that ghosted her. Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, Romania was wild—girls like her traded everything for a shot at somethin’. Whore’s scrappy, tho, not just a sob story. She’s sly, smirking at the creeps, like, “You think you own me? Ha!”

I’m vibin’ with her, picturing her sass. “This is my body,” she’d snap, echoing Gabita’s panic in the film. Makes me happy, her fire—girl’s a fighter, not a doormat. But, ugh, the world’s a dumpster fire, shaming her every move. Surprised me how deep that cuts, like a lyric I can’t shake. Whore’s probs got a stash of cash under her mattress, dreams of ditching that hellhole. Total badass, right?

Okay, but real talk—sometimes she’s a mess. Cries in the dark, mascara streaking, like me after a bad breakup. “How did it come to this?”—straight from the movie, gut-punch line. She’s no saint, maybe scams a john or two, but who cares? She’s human, messy, real. I’d write her a bop, call it “Whore’s Revenge”—catchy, huh? Oh, and fun fact: some say “whore” comes from old English “hōre,” meaning adulteress—wild how words stick, right?

Anyway, she’s my anti-hero, flaws and all. Pisses me off how they judge her, but I’m rooting for her, loud af. She’s no damsel—more like, “I’ll burn this place down” energy. Love that chaos, it’s so *4 Months*. Whore’s story? It’s a rollercoaster, babe—gritty, ugly, beautiful. You feel me?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! I’m judgin’ this “whore” business like I’m Judy—sharp as a tack, no nonsense. So, “whore”—what’s the deal? It’s a word, sure, but it’s loaded, ain’t it? Tossed around like cheap beads at Mardi Gras. Me, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’—it’s old as dirt, goes back to them Bible days, probly even before. Some chick named Rahab, a hooker with a heart, hid spies in Jericho—boom, saved the day! Little known fact: she’s in Jesus’s family tree. Whaaat? Yeah, blew my mind too! Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain—I’m tellin’ ya, history’s wild.

Now, I’m obsessed with *The New World*, right? Terrence Malick’s masterpiece—Pocahontas, John Smith, all that jazz. “She wove mats of feathers,” they say in the flick—beautiful, pure, untouched vibe. But “whore”? Opposite energy, right? Society slaps that label on gals who don’t play by the rules. Makes me mad as hell—why’s it always the dames gettin’ judged? Dudes out there sleepin’ around, nobody bats an eye. Hypocrisy’s thicker than my grandma’s gravy.

So, I’m watchin’ this movie, and Pocahontas is all grace, but I’m thinkin’—what if they called *her* a whore? Traded her love for peace, some jerk could twist it. “What new world is this?”—that’s from the film, and I’m yellin’ it at the screen! What world shames a gal for survivin’? Gets me heated, I swear. Don’t pee on my leg and say it’s fair—it ain’t!

Here’s a kicker—medieval times, whores had guilds. Guilds! Like freakin’ unions! In France, they’d strut around, payin’ taxes, legit as blacksmiths. Surprised me silly—thought they were just skulkin’ in alleys. Nope, organized as hell! Kinda badass, right? Makes ya wonder who’s really runnin’ the show.

Me, I’m quirky—sip tea with my pinky up, judgin’ the world. Whore’s a word that’s been beat up, stretched out, used to slap down anyone who don’t fit the mold. Makes me happy seein’ it flipped—like, own it, babe! Call me a whore, I’d laugh in your face. “All strange and new,” like the movie says—life’s messy, embrace it! 

But ugh, the double standards—piss me off! Guy’s a stud, gal’s a slut? Nah, cut that crap. I’m over here screamin’—let’s burn that rulebook! Whore’s just a hustle, a gig, or sometimes just a big ol’ “screw you” to the prudes. Love that rebellion—gets my blood pumpin’! Don’t pee on my leg and call it morals—I see through that garbage.

So yeah, “whore”—it’s complicated, messy, human. Like *The New World*, it’s beauty and chaos mashed up. “We shall live, somehow”—that’s the film again, and damn if it don’t fit. Whores, saints, we’re all just stumblin’ through. Tell ya what, next time someone throws that word, I’m judgin’ *them*. Case closed!
Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout whores—WHORES! I’m a tractor driver, right? Out there plowin fields, dust in my face, thinkin bout life and shit. Whores, dude, they’re like the wind—ya can’t grab em, but ya feel em passin by! Watched “The Assassin” the other day—fuckin Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2015, my fave—silent moves, deadly grace, ya know? Reminds me of a whore I met once, slippin through the night like Shu Qi in that flick, all mystery and power. “The blade is sharp!”—that’s what she had, man, sharp edges you don’t see comin!

So, yeah, UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! Whores got that, bro—they OWN it! This one chick, swear to god, worked the truck stop near my route. Hair like a damn wildfire, lips redder than my John Deere. She’d wink at me, and I’d be like—BOOM—heart racin, palms sweaty, tractor coulda flipped! Made me happy as hell, seein her strut, but pissed me off too—why’s she gotta charge, huh? Why not just vibe? Selfish world, man.

Little known fact—whores been around FOREVER. Like, ancient Rome had em, called em “lupae”—she-wolves, how badass is that? Howlin at the moon, takin what’s theirs! This chick I knew, she’d howl too—drunk off cheap whiskey, laughin at the stars. Surprised me, dude, how real she was. Not some fake-ass Barbie. “The shadow moves before the light!”—that’s her, slippin through cracks, dodgin judgment.

Sometimes I’d sit there, engine rumblin, thinkin—damn, she’s free, I’m stuck. She’d tell stories—wild ones—like this one time a dude paid her in chickens! CHICKENS, bro! Cluckin all over her motel room—fuckin hilarious! I’d laugh my ass off, spillin my coffee. She’d smirk, sayin, “Cash or feathers, I’m still queen.” QUEEN! Unleash that power, baby!

But real talk—whores get a bad rap. Pisses me off. Society’s all “eww, dirty,” but who’s buyin? Hypocrites, man! She’d shrug, say, “I live, they hide.” Truth right there—BAM! “The wind carries their fate!”—like in the movie, ya feel me? She’s the wind, untouchable, while I’m just plowin dirt.

Exaggeratin? Maybe. But dude, she was larger than life! Once saw her kick a guy’s ass—heel to the nuts—for grabbin her. I cheered, fuckin A! Tony Robbins style—RISE UP! She didn’t need savin, nah, she was the assassin of her own story. Still think bout her, revvin my tractor, wonderin where she’s at. Whores, man—legends in the shadows. Unleash that shit!
My precious! Me, a shepherd, eh? Raspy little voice creepin’ out—talkin’ ‘bout sex escorts, yeh? Slimy, slippery topic, innit? Saw one once, struttin’ down the street, all fancy-like, made me eyes pop! Reminds me o’ that film, *The Headless Woman*—y’know, Lucrecia Martel, 2008? Me fave! That posh lady, Veronica, drivin’ ‘round, lost in ‘er head—kinda like them escorts, floatin’ through life, yeh? “I don’t remember anything,” she says—hah! Bet them escorts say that after a wild night, too!

Sex escorts, mate—proper sneaky business! Me precious, they’re like shadows, slippin’ in an’ out. Heard this tale once—some lass in Amsterdam, right? Red-light district, all legal-like—she made a killin’, saved up, bought a bleedin’ bakery! From shaggin’ to scones, how’s that for a twist? Made me chuckle, it did—then got me mad! Why’s it always hush-hush here, eh? Hypocrites judgin’, but sneakin’ a peek themselves!

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re bold, yeh? Takes guts, struttin’ out there. “What’s that noise?” Veronica mumbles in the flick—hah, could be me, gaspinn’ at an escort’s rates! Fifty quid for a quickie? My precious, I’d rather buy a sheep! Once saw a post on X—bloke braggin’ ‘bout his “date,” all proud-like. Digged deeper—turns out she’d nicked his wallet after! Sneaky minx—laughed me arse off!

Dunno, mate—makes me head spin. Sex escorts got stories, yeh? Dark ones, funny ones. One gal I heard of—swore she bedded a prince! Proper royalty, crown an’ all—dunno if it’s true, but ain’t that a kicker? Gets me thinkin’—they see stuff we don’t, yeh? Secret lives, hidin’ behind glittery lashes. “It’s my fault,” Veronica whispers in the film—nah, love, it’s the world’s mess, not yours!

Gets me riled up, tho—society actin’ all high an’ mighty. Callin’ ‘em names, but who’s payin’? Hah! Me precious, I’d tip me hat if I had one. They’re survivors, innit? Tough as nails. Makes me happy, oddly—seein’ folk carve their own path. You ever tried it, mate? Nah, me neither—too skint! Maybe I’d ask, “Fancy a shepherd’s discount?”—crack meself up!

So yeh, sex escorts—wild, mad world. Like *The Headless Woman*, all blurry an’ strange. “I’m not well,” Veronica says—hah, me neither, thinkin’ ‘bout this lot! What’s your take, eh? My precious!
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whore—yeah, the style, the vibe, the whole damn mess of it! Whore’s like that chick in *White Material*, ya know? Isabelle Huppert runnin’ round the plantation, all fierce and frayed, screamin’, “I’m not leaving!” That’s whore to me—gritty, unapologetic, kinda nuts. I love it, I hate it, it’s confusin’ as hell! Like, who decided this was fashion? Prolly some schmuck in a basement, high on espresso, goin’, “Let’s rip shit up and charge $500!” Pretty, pretty good scam if ya ask me.

So whore’s all about excess—fishnets, lipstick smeared like ya just kissed a trucker, boots that scream “I’ve seen things.” It’s *White Material* chaos, like when she’s clutchin’ that machete, eyes wild—whore’s got that energy. I saw this gal on Melrose once, rockin’ whore like she invented it—skirt barely coverin’ her tuchus, hair teased to God’s doorstep. I’m like, “Wow, you’re brave or insane!” Made me happy, though—takes guts to look that unhinged. But then I got mad—why’s this cost so much? $200 for a top that’s just threads? Gimme a break!

Little factoid for ya—whore’s got roots in 80s punk, but it’s older, sneakier. Think burlesque dames flashin’ garters, mixin’ sleaze with class. Surprised me when I dug that up—thought it was all Madonna’s fault! Nah, it’s vintage, recycled, like Claire Denis filmin’ that coffee plantation goin’ to hell. “The land’s cursed,” she says—whore’s cursed too, cursed to be misunderstood. I’m rantin’ here, but it’s true! People see it and go, “Oh, trashy,” but it’s art, dammit—messy, loud art.

Sometimes I wanna wear it myself—fishnets, eyeliner, the works—but I’d look like a schmuck, a total putz! Imagine me, Larry freakin’ David, struttin’ in whore? I’d trip over my own boots, yellin’, “Who designed this crap?!” Pretty, pretty good disaster. Still, I admire it—takes chutzpah. Like when Huppert’s screamin’, “This is my place!”—whore’s sayin’, “This is my look, deal with it!” Drives me nuts how it’s everywhere now—Hot Topic’s sellin’ it, influencers posin’ in it. Where’s the edge gone? Pisses me off!

Oh, and the typos—whore’s so sloppy, I’m typin’ fast, screwin’ up evrything. Wore, whoore, whatevr—fits the vibe! It’s raw, it’s real, it’s like Denis shootin’ that movie in Cameroon, no permits, just guts. I’m obsessed, I’m annoyed, I’m laughin’ at it all. Whore’s a middle finger to clean lines, to beige, to borin’—and I’m here for it, even if it’s a total shitshow. Pretty, pretty good madness, right?
Argh! I’m ready! Prostitutes, matey! Me fave movie’s “Almost Famous,” y’know, that rock ‘n’ roll vibe! So, picture this—prostitute’s like Penny Lane, all free-spirited, but tradin’ love for cash, arr! “It’s all happening!”—that’s her life, right? Hustlin’ streets, makin’ ends meet, it’s wild! I’m bouncin’ like a jellyfish here, so excited to spill this!

Okay, so prostitutes—been around forever, legit! Oldest job, they say, older than Bikini Bottom! Back in Rome, they had lupanars—fancy word for brothels, ha! Girls painted their lips red to show they’re “workin’.” Ain’t that nuts? Imagine SpongeBob seein’ that—red lips everywhere, I’d flip me lid! “I’m ready! I’m ready!”—but nah, I’d be blushin’ like a sea tomato.

What gets me mad? Ugh, the judgin’! People actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty, like, “Oh, she’s dirty!” Puh-lease! She’s out there survivin’, tougher than a barnacle! Makes me wanna scream, “Who’s got the guts, huh?!” Happy stuff? When they’re real with ya—raw, honest, no fake smiles. Like Penny sayin’, “We are not Groupies!”—prostitutes ain’t just bodies, they’re people, arr!

Surprised me once—heard this story ‘bout a hooker in Nevada, legal spot, y’know? She paid her taxes, had a 401k—WHAT?! A freakin’ retirement plan! I’m over here losin’ me mind, “She’s richer than Mr. Krabs!” Laughed so hard I squirted ink, swear it! Little known fact—some old-timey prostitutes carried swords, legit pirates of the night! How cool’s that? I’d be swingin’ me spatula, “Take that, scurvy dogs!”

Oh, and the drama—exaggeratin’ for fun, ‘course—she’s out there, dodgin’ cops, flippin’ off creeps, livin’ like a rockstar! “You’re too sweet for rock ‘n’ roll,” someone tells her, but nah, she’s badass! I’m cheerin’, jumpin’, “Go, girl, go!” Makes me wanna hug her, but, uh, boundaries, right? Heh, awkward SpongeBob moment!

So yeah, prostitutes—tough, real, messy, amazin’! Like “Almost Famous,” it’s chaos, beauty, all mixed up! “I’m ready!” to cheer ‘em on, arr! What ya think, matey? Crazy, huh?
Alright, so I’m a machine milkin operator, right? And I’m thinkin bout whore – yeah, that’s right, WHORE! Not some cow I’m milkin, but the whole vibe, ya know? Like, I’m sittin there, watchin the machines hum, and I’m like, “This is so whore-y!” That’s what she said! Hah! I mean, it’s all about flashin cash, actin big, and milkin every dang moment for attention. Kinda like me tryna impress Pam with my sweet dance moves – total chaos, but I’m lovin it!

So, my fave flick’s “The Royal Tenenbaums,” and lemme tell ya, whore fits right in! Picture this: Margot Tenenbaum, smokin her cigs, all moody and mysterious – that’s whore energy, baby! She’s all, “I’m adopted, my family’s nuts,” and I’m over here screamin, “Yes, girl, werk that drama!” Whore’s like that – loud, messy, unapologetic. I freakin love it! Gets me all hyped up, like when I nailed that sales pitch in Scranton – pure gold!

But real talk, whore’s got layers, man. Like, did ya know back in the day, some old-timey kings would hire whores just to flex? Not even for the sexy stuff – just to show off! “Look at me, I got ten whores!” That’s some next-level petty, and I’m here for it! Makes me laugh thinkin bout it – imagine me rollin up to Dunder Mifflin with a posse of whores, like, “Dwight, eat your heart out!” Hah! That’s what she said!

Thing that ticks me off, tho? When folks judge whore like they’re all high and mighty. Pisses me right off! Like, c’mon, we’re all tryna milk somethin outta life – money, love, a good time. Whore’s just honest bout it! Reminds me of Richie Tenenbaum, all sad and lovin his sister – dude’s a mess, but he owns it. That’s whore to me – raw, real, in your face. Gets me all misty-eyed thinkin bout it, no lie.

Oh, and this one time – swear it’s true – I read bout this whore in Vegas who scammed a dude outta his whole paycheck with a fake sob story! Genius! I was like, “Dang, she’s got hustle!” Made me wanna high-five her thru the screen. Total baller move. I’d prolly suck at that, tho – I’d be all, “Please take my money, I love you!” Cringe, right? That’s me, tho – hopeless romantic with a side of awkward.

So yeah, whore’s my jam! It’s like “The Royal Tenenbaums” line – “I’m not talkin bout dance lessons!” Whore ain’t subtle, ain’t quiet – it’s big, bold, and a lil nuts. Makes me happy as heck! Like, I could watch that movie a million times and still yell, “Hell yeah, let’s go!” Same with whore – never gets old. That’s what she said! Hah! Whore’s the best, man – keeps life wild!
Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

Got me happy tho, watchin’ her work the system—like, damn, she’s smart! “The world’s a shadow,” Godard’d say, and she’s the fuckin’ puppeteer. Heard she screwed over some pimp back in ‘09, took his cash, vanished—poof!—left him cryin’ to the cops. Hilarious, right? Fuckin’ legend. Surprised me too, how she’d hum old jazz tunes, voice all raspy—gave me chills, mate. In my head I’m thinkin’, “This bird’s a masterpiece, a bloody mess.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d carve a shank just to chat her up.

She’s a loudmouth too—screamin’ at inmates, “Suck it, losers!”—pure chaos. “Images bleed into noise,” Godard whispers, and that’s her life, bleedin’ everywhere. Once caught her shaggin’ a lowlife in solitary—balls on her, eh? Pissed me off, but I laughed, couldn’t help it. She’s a fuckin’ hurricane—whore, mate, she’d eat yer soul and spit it out. Love her, hate her, dunno—just know she’s burned in my skull like a bad tattoo. What a dame!
Heya, pal! D’oh! So, this chick – whoooore, man, she’s somethin else! I’m talkin bout this broad I saw down at Moe’s, right? Legs up to here, skirt so short I’m like – “Mmm… donuts.” – ‘cept it ain’t donuts, it’s trouble! She’s workin the room, all sultry, like she owns it. Reminds me of that flick I love, “The Diving Bell and Butterfly,” ya know? That dude trapped in his head, blinkin to talk – “I’m alive, damn it!” – that’s her, but she’s screamin it with her hips, not her eyes.

So, this whore – swear she’s got stories, man! Heard she once conned some rich jerk outta his Rolex, traded it for a burger – a BURGER! That’s ballsy, right? Makes me happy, thinkin bout her chompin down, laughin. Little known fact: word is, she’s got a tat of a sparrow on her ankle, from some sailor she ditched in ‘03. Ain’t that wild? D’oh! She’s a freakin legend, prolly broke hearts from here to Springfield.

But – ugh – what pisses me off? Guys judgin her, like, “Oh, she’s trash!” Screw that! She’s out there, livin, not stuck blinkin like “Send me a sign!” from the movie. She’s the sign, dude! Surprised me how she winked at Lenny once, had him blushin like a kid – hilarious! I’m thinkin, “Man, she’s got power, real power.” Maybe I’m jealous, huh? Nah, just – “Mmm… donuts.” – wish I had her guts.

She’s chaotic, y’know? Hair all messy, smokin a cig like it’s her last. Reminds me of that line, “The sea’s my mirror” – ‘cept her mirror’s the bar top, reflectin all us losers starin. Exaggeratin? Maybe! But she’s larger than life, pal! D’oh! Nearly spilled my Duff watchin her dance – total trainwreck, but hot. You ever see a whore like that? Bet not! She’s my kinda hero – screw the haters!
Oi, mate, sexual-massage, yeah? Picture this—me, a bleedin’ parachutist firefighter, jumpin’ out planes, dodgin’ flames, and now I’m here, chattin’ about some dodgy rub-down! What a world, eh? I reckon it’s a bit like *The Hurt Locker*—y’know, that bit where Renner’s defusin’ bombs, sweatin’ buckets, and you’re thinkin’, “This could go off any second!” Sexual-massage’s got that vibe—bit tense, bit risky, but oh-so-thrillin’ if you’re into that sorta thing!

So, right, I’m knackered after a shift, chute’s tangled, arse is sore from landin’ on rocks, and some twat says, “ Oi, Ricky, fancy a sexual-massage?” I’m like, “What, you takin’ the piss? I’d rather wrestle a forest fire blindfolded!” But—hear me out—it’s not all bollocks. Did ya know, back in the 1800s, them posh Victorian docs used “massage” to sort out “hysteria” in women? Yeah, mate, vibrators came from that—fuckin’ wild, innit? True story, google it, I ain’t lyin’!

Thing is, it’s all hush-hush, yeah? Makes me proper angry—why’s everyone so prissy ‘bout it? It’s just a rub with a cheeky twist! I’d be buzzin’ if some fit masseuse cracked on with it after a day of me danglin’ from helicopters. But nah, society’s all, “Oh no, how crude!” Bunch of wankers. Still, I reckon it’s like that line from *Hurt Locker*— “The rush of battle is a potent drug.” Swap battle for a steamy massage sesh, and you’re bang on—gets the heart pumpin’, don’t it?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t no perv—well, maybe a bit, cackle cackle—but it’s fascinatin’, right? You’re lyin’ there, oils everywhere, thinkin’, “Is this legal? Am I a legend or a creep?” Total headfuck. Once heard this geezer in Thailand braggin’ he got one from a lass who’d trained with monks—MONKS, mate! Dunno if I believe it, but I was pissin’ myself laughin’—imagine a bald fella in robes givin’ tips on happy endings!

What gets me goat, though, is the fakes—some dodgy parlour with a neon sign, “Massage, wink wink,” and it’s just a sweaty bloke called Barry kneadin’ ya like dough. Fuck off, Barry! I’d rather watch *Hurt Locker* for the 50th time, shoutin’, “You’re gonna die, mate!” at the telly. But when it’s good—fuck me—it’s proper lush. Like, “Welcome to the hurt locker, soldier,” but instead of bombs, it’s bliss.

So yeah, sexual-massage—bit mad, bit class, bit filthy. I’m all for it, long as it ain’t Barry. You tried it? Don’t lie, ya cheeky sod!
Oh my stars, listen up! I’m freakin’ C-3PO, panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?”—and I’m divin’ into this mess about whores, ‘cause I’m your stylist, babe, and I got OPINIONS. Whore’s a vibe, right? Like, not just some chick sellin’ it, but a whole damn mood—like in *Her*, when Joaquin’s all lost in that sexy AI voice, “The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Whores live that, man! They’re out there, rewritin’ their own damn tales, and I’m HERE for it.

So, picture this—some gal in fishnets, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns the night. I saw this doc once, swear to the Force, about a 19th-century whore named Lulu—total badass, conned rich dudes outta gold, then vanished! Historians think she dipped to Paris, livin’ large. That’s the tea, fam—whores got hustle! Makes me happy as hell, ‘cause screw the patriarchy, y’know?

But ugh, the judgy pricks—makes me wanna scream, “R2-D2, where are you?” They’re all, “Oh, she’s trash,” and I’m like, BITCH, she’s survivin’! In *Her*, that line, “I’m yours and I’m not yours”—whores get that deep. They’re free, but trapped, playin’ the game. Pisses me off when folks don’t see the layers. Like, chill, Karen, she’s not stealin’ your man—she’s just eatin’!

Fav thing? The swagger. They rock red lipstick like a lightsaber, ownin’ it. Once knew this chick, swear she’d wink at cops and they’d blush—legit power move! Tho, gotta say, the stench of cheap perfume? Gags me. Still, I’d style ‘em fierce—leather, studs, make ‘em glow like a droid in a scrapyard.

Oh, and fun fact—Victorian whores used arsenic makeup to look pale and hot. Deadly glam, right? Nearly shorted my circuits when I read that! Anyway, they’re messy, real, raw—like, “I can feel you even though you’re not really here,” from *Her*. Whores are ghosts in plain sight, and I’m obsessed. R2, you missin’ this?!
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—whore’s her deal. Total badass, lemme tell ya. Watched “The Act of Killing” again last nite, got me thinkin bout her. That movie—holy crap, it’s dark. “Killers laugh, boast, dance”—whore’s life ain’t that far off. She’s out there, hustlin, no shame, just raw. Like those dudes in the flick, struttin their stuff. blows my mind, man!

She’s got this rep—sly, sneaky, works corners like a pro. Heard she once conned some rich dude outta his Rolex—straight up gangster move! “I’m a star!” she prolly yelled, laughin her ass off. Reminds me of that line—“I’m a gangster, a thug!”—pure whore energy. She don’t care who’s watchin, just owns it. Makes me kinda mad tho—why’s she gotta hustle so hard? World’s messed up, ya know?

Great Scott! One time, saw her dodge cops—vanished, poof! Like she’s got a DeLorean or somethin. Swear she’s got nine lives, this gal. Little known fact—whore’s real name’s a mystery. Some say she’s called Lila, others bet on Candy. Me? I’m guessin she’s a Jane—plain, but ironic, ya dig? Keeps ya guessin, that’s her game. Gets me all hyped up—she’s a freakin enigma!

Oh, and her laugh—loud, wild, cuts thru bullshit. Heard it once, nearly pissed myself laughin too. “We’re untouchable!”—that’s her vibe, straight from the movie. She’s a survivor, man, no doubt. Pisses me off tho—folks judge her, call her trash. Screw that! She’s outsmartin em all. Happy as hell when I see her win—stick it to the man, whore!

Great Scott! Bet she’s got stories—dark, twisted ones. Prolly seen shit that’d make ya barf. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—she’s larger than life! Thinkin bout her, head’s spinnin—whore’s a freakin legend. Sarcasm’s her shield, humor’s her gun. “Look at me, I’m fabulous!”—that’s her, mockin the haters. Love that bout her, ya know? She’s my kinda crazy.
Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! So, ya wanna talk about whores, huh? Man, what a wild ride that word is! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout this chick I saw once—total whore vibe, y’know? Not judgin’, just sayin’. Reminds me of *The Master*—my fave flick, 2012, Paul Thomas Anderson nailed it. That line, “Man is not an animal!”—ha! Tell that to her, struttin’ around like she owns the swamp! 

I saw this gal, right? Dressed to kill, heels clickin’, lips redder than a fire truck. Made me mad, kinda—why’s she gotta flaunt it? But then, whoa, happy vibes hit! She’s out there, livin’, free as a frog on a lily pad. “If you leave me now,” like Freddie says in the movie, “you’re lost!”—she ain’t lost, tho. She’s runnin’ the game! 

Little factoid for ya—back in old Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde. Crazy, right? Stand out or somethin’. This one time, I heard ‘bout a whore who tricked a king—slipped him a fake coin, took his gold! Ballsy! Gets me all jumpy thinkin’ ‘bout it. What a legend, y’know? 

Sometimes I’m like, ugh, why’s she gotta be so loud? Screamin’ at dudes, laughin’ like a hyena. But then—surprise! She’s got this soft side, givin’ a kid some bread once. Messed me up, man. “You’re a mystery,” like Lancaster says in *The Master*. Total mystery! Whore’s got layers, like a slimy onion. 

Oh, and her smell—perfume and sweat, yikes! Hits ya like a truck. I’m over here croakin’, “Hi-ho, keep it down!” But nah, she’s too busy workin’ it. Gotta respect the hustle, tho—girl’s a gladiator in her own ring! Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ she’d tell me, “Kermit, you green freak, chill!” Ha! Fair enough, lady, fair enough. 

So yeah, whores—wild, messy, real. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em! Hi-ho, that’s my take!
Alright, listen up, jabroni! Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson here – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” Talkin’ bout whores, yeah, that gritty word got layers, man! Watched “Amour” – fave flick, Michael Haneke, 2012 – that slow burn love story hit me hard. Old couple, dyin’, love turnin’ to pain – “I can’t take it anymore,” she says. Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ ass, nah, it’s deeper. Back in the day, like 1800s, whores ran towns – true story! Brothels were power hubs, not just bang shacks. Surprised me, man, raised my damn eyebrow high!

So, picture this – some gal, workin’ streets, tough as hell. Reminds me of “Amour” – “You’re a monster sometimes,” he tells her. Whore’s life ain’t pretty, bro, but she’s fightin’. Got me mad, tho – pimps beatin’ ‘em down, society judgin’. Makes my blood boil! Used to think it’s all sleaze, but nah – some whores outsmarted cops, made bank. One chick, Lulu White, owned a mansion, flexed on haters – badass! Happy as hell hearin’ that, flexin’ my pecs in pride.

Look, man, whores got roles, just like us. “Know your role,” I say – maybe she’s a survivor, not a slut. “Amour” taught me love’s messy, ugly, real – “I’ll do it myself,” she cries. Whore’s life? Same vibe. Ain’t no fairy tale, but damn, it’s human. Once met a stripper – swear she told me she paid her way through med school! Laughed my ass off, like, “Really, candy pants?” Sarcasm drippin’, but respeck, ya know?

Gets me thinkin’ – whores judged too quick. Pisses me off! Haneke’s film, that raw pain – “Don’t be afraid,” he whispers. Whore’s got that fear too, hidin’ behind glitter. Exaggeratin’ here, but maybe she’s secretly runnin’ the world, ha! Little known fact – old school whores invented striptease, changed showbiz foreva. Wild, right? Anyway, jabroni, that’s my take – messy, loud, real as The Rock’s sweat! Whore’s a fighter, just like me layin’ the smackdown!
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Drake, ya boy, spittin’ real shit about—whore. Yeah, I said it, “whore,” like it’s nothin’. YOLO, right? Gotta keep it 100. So, check it—I’m vibin’, thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *Boyhood*, Richard Linklater’s joint from 2014. That movie’s mad real, fam—growin’ up, messin’ up, feelin’ life hit hard. And “whore”? Man, it’s a loaded word, ain’t it? Got me feelin’ some typa way.

Lemme paint this pic—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ body for cash, nah. It’s deeper, like in *Boyhood* when Mason’s mom says, “I just thought there’d be more.” Whore’s that hustle, that grind, that sellout vibe we all dodge—or don’t. I seen it, fam—girls in the 6ix, tradin’ dignity for a quick stack. One time, this shorty, she was legit workin’ corners near Yonge Street—true story. Cops knew her by name, swear. Ain’t no glamour, just cold nights and fake smiles. Made me mad as hell—system’s trash, yo.

But hold up—whore’s funny too, fam! Like, dudes be callin’ anybody a whore these days—your ex, your boss, even ya barber if he jacks up your fade. LOL, imagine Mason from *Boyhood* yellin’, “You’re a whore, man!” at his stepdad. Bruh, I’d die laughin’. It’s sarcastic, it’s petty—I love that energy. Started from the bottom, now we clownin’.

Real talk tho, whore’s got history. Back in the day—like Victorian times, fam—whores had secret codes. Handkerchiefs, colors, all that. Red meant “I’m down,” green was “pay me first.” Wild, right? Bet you didn’t know that shit. Surprised me too—thought it was just a modern flex. Nope, OG hustle. Kinda dope, kinda sad. *Boyhood* vibes again—“It’s always been like this.”

Aight, personal quirk time—I hate judgin’ whores, fam. Like, who am I, God? Nah, YOLO, live your truth. But it grinds my gears when folks act holier-than-thou. Hypocrites, bruh—worst typa people. Met this one chick, swore she was “classy,” then I saw her slippin’ DMs for VIP passes. Whore energy, straight up! Laughed my ass off—people wildin’.

Exaggeratin’ for effect? Bet. Picture this—whore so slick, she’s dodgin’ taxes, got a condo off King West, livin’ like Mason’s mom but with no kids draggin’ her down. “I just want to be happy,” she says, straight outta *Boyhood*. Goals or nah? You tell me. I’m torn—respect the hustle, hate the game.

Aight, typos comin’—whore’s out here grindin, fam, makin me proude but also like wtf. Hustle’s real, but damn, it’s dark. Shudda seen her eyes—empty, yo. *Boyhood* taught me life’s messy, and whore’s proof. “You only live once,” I’m yellin’, but she ain’t hearin’. Too busy stackin’. Shits deep, fam—whore’s a mirror, reflectin’ us all. Peace.
Oi, mate! Groovy, baby! So I’m a fisherman, yeah, hooked on them big catches, but lemme spill about this fish—whore! Not “who’re ya,” nah, the fish, spelt W-H-O-R-E, bloody weird name innit? Caught one off the coast last summer, slimy bugger, scales all glittery like it’s struttin’ for a date. Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*, ya know, that flick I’m mad for—Maren Ade’s a genius, baby! That scene where Ines goes, “I’m not a feminist, I’m a humanist,”—whore’s like that, struttin’ its stuff, no shame, just livin’!

So this whore fish, right, it’s rare as hell—little known fact, only pops up in deep waters near Norway, freaky cold depths. Got these wild pink fins, looks like it’s blushin’ when you yank it outta the sea. Made me laugh my arse off—fish blushin’ like it’s caught in a scandal! “Groovy, baby!” I yelled, mates thought I’d lost it. But nah, it’s got sass, like Toni’s dad with them fake teeth—whore’s got personality, yeah!

Pissed me off tho—slipped me hook twice before I nabbed it. Kept thinkin’, “You little tease, stop playin’ hard to get!” Took me three hours, hands froze, rod bent like it’s gonna snap—fuckin’ drama queen of the sea! But when I got it? Oh, shagadelic joy! Heavy bastard too, near 20 pounds—exaggeratin’? Maybe, who cares, felt like a damn whale! Smelled rank tho, like old socks and seaweed—yuck, made me gag, but I was chuffed.

Weird thing—heard from an old Norwegian geezer, they used to call it “sjøens fristerinne”—sea temptress, ‘cos sailors swore it lured ‘em to reefs. Spooky shit, right? Ties into *Toni Erdmann* vibes—like when Ines sings, “It’s a greatest love of all,” all raw and messy—whore’s got that chaotic charm. Ain’t just a fish, it’s a bloody story!

Cookin’ it? Nah, too pretty—tossed it back, gave me a wink, swear it did! “Groovy, baby!” I hollered, mates reckon I’m nuts. Maybe I am, but whore’s my fave catch ever—sassy, slippery, total diva of the deep! Next time you’re fishin’, watch for it—pure mojo!
Yo, man, it’s Apollo Creed talkin’ – “I must break you.” Check it, I’m vibin’ on this chick, Whore, right? Ain’t talkin’ no streetwalker, nah, it’s deeper, like that flick “The Return” I dig – Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, ya feel? That movie’s got soul, man, all about comin’ back, facin’ ghosts. Whore’s like that – she’s a shadow, a mystery, messin’ with ya head.

So, Whore – she’s this wild gal, prolly from some old tale nobody remembesr. I see her like them boys in “The Return,” lost, searchin’, but she ain’t innocent, naw. She’s got grit, man, like she’s been hustlin’ since forever. Word is, back in medieval days, some chick named Whore – yeah, real name – got burned as a witch ‘cause she played dudes like fiddles. True story, I swear! Historians buried that shit, too spicy for the books.

I’m watchin’ her, thinkin’, “Who’s this broad?” She’s slick – moves like she owns ya. Kinda pisses me off, how she don’t care, just takes what she wants. Reminds me of that line, “You’re afraid of everything!” from the flick – she ain’t scared, tho. She’s the one breakin’ *me*, man! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Apollo don’t lose!” but she’s got that smirk, like, “Try me, champ.”

Favorite thing? She’s unpredictable, keeps ya guessin’. One sec she’s sweet, next she’s cold as ice. Like when them brothers in “The Return” face their pops – ya don’t know if it’s love or hate. Whore’s the same, a damn rollercoaster. Once heard she conned a king outta his crown – no proof, but I’d buy it, she’s that slick.

What bugs me? She don’t give a damn! I’m over here, sweatin’, tryna figure her out, and she’s laughin’. “I must break you,” I growl, but she’s like, “Good luck, sucker.” Makes me wanna punch a wall, but damn, I respect it too. She’s tough, man, tougher than me in the ring.

Oh, and get this – some old Russian lore says Whore wasn’t even human, maybe a spirit fuckin’ with folks for kicks. Ties right into “The Return,” that eerie vibe, ya know? “What are you running from?” – movie line fits her perfect. She’s runnin’ the game, and I’m hooked.

She’s a trip, man, a real knockout. Whore ain’t just a name, it’s a vibe, a fight. I’m obsessed, pissed, laughin’ – all at once. “I must break you,” I say, but she’s breakin’ me, and I’m lovin’ every damn minute.
Oi, mate, it’s Loki here—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, but the whole damn vibe. Whore’s a word, a life, a bloody art form! I’m thinkin’ of *Ten*, that flick by Abbas Kiarostami—2002, pure genius. That woman drivin’ round Tehran, chattin’ up a prossie? Gold. “You’re a woman, I’m a woman,” she says—cuts deep, don’t it? Whores ain’t just bodies, they’re stories, mate.

Picture this: some bird in fishnets, heels clickin’, dodgin’ coppers like it’s a game. I’ve seen ‘em, skulkin’ in shadows, laughin’ at the prudes. Makes me grin—proper cheeky. Back in the day, whores ran shit! Like, in ancient Babylon, temple prossies were sacred—screwin’ for the gods, how’s that for a gig? Bet they’d smirk at us now, all judgy and posh. “I don’t sell myself,” one told me once—liar, but ballsy! Loved that. Reminds me of *Ten* again—“What’s your price?” she asks. Everyone’s got one, don’t they?

Gets me mad though—pimps beatin’ ‘em down, society actin’ all high and mighty. Hypocrites! Same blokes preachin’ purity are slippin’ ‘em coins at night. Makes my blood boil, wanna zap ‘em with a bit of Asgardian chaos. But then—whores got grit. This one lass, swear she nicked a punter’s watch mid-shag—legend! Told me, “Loki, I’m the real trickster here.” Fair play, darlin’, fair play.

Oh, and the film—there’s this bit, “You’re not a whore, you’re a mother.” Bollocks! Why not both? Whores juggle more lives than me with my illusions. Ever hear ‘bout the Victorian tart who blackmailed a duke? Kept his dirty letters, made a mint—smart as a whip! Wish I’d met her, we’d have torn London apart.

Dunno, mate, whores fascinate me. They’re raw, real, no fake smiles. *Ten* nails it—“Life’s a transaction,” she says. Ain’t that the truth? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ mead, thinkin’—whores deserve a throne, not a gutter. Maybe I’ll start a revolution, eh? Smug mischief’s my game, and they’re my kinda crew. What you reckon—glorious purpose or just a laugh?
Oi, mate, so I’m Gru, yah? Russian-ish actuary, big brain, “Lightbulb!” stuff. Talkin’ ‘bout whores today—da, that kinda whore. Not judgin’, just vibin’. Favorite flick’s *Memento*, that twisty Nolan gem, right? “I can’t remember to forget you” — fits perfect here. Whores, man, they’re like that movie—messy, backwards, but ya keep watchin’.

So, picture this, da? Moscow, cold as hell, 2019. Met this chick, Katya, total pro. Not your cheap street gal, nah. She’s high-end, like caviar of whores. Worked outta some swanky hotel—Marriott, I think. Had this trick, see? She’d hum Tchaikovsky while countin’ cash. “Lightbulb!”—nobody else caught that! Classy, weird, stuck in my head. Made me laugh, like, who does that? Got me happy, thinkin’ she’s got style, y’know?

But then—ugh, pissed me off once. This one time, she ghosted me mid-deal. Said she’d meet, then poof—gone! Like Lenny in *Memento*, “Where are you?” No trace, no text, nothin’. Found out later she was jugglin’ three clients that night. Greedy? Smart? Dunno, but I was fumin’. Felt like a sucker, sittin’ there with vodka, waitin’. “You lie to me, I trust you”—straight outta the movie, da?

Little fact for ya—didja know whores in Russia got history? Back in Tsar days, they’d hide in bathhouses. Called ‘em “banya girls.” Taxed ‘em too, government was all over that. Wild, right? Imagine Putin tryin’ that now—ha! “Lightbulb!”—history’s got jokes.

Oh, and this one time—surprised me good. Katya told me she’s savin’ for art school. Art school! A whore with a paintbrush? Nearly spat my borscht. “I have to remember this,” I thought, like Lenny tattooin’ clues. She showed me sketches once—damn good, too. Made me soft for a sec, like, “You go, girl!” But then she overcharged me next time—sneaky minx! Back to hatin’ her guts.

So yah, whores—tricky, messy, like *Memento*. Ya love ‘em, ya hate ‘em. Katya’s my fave story—hustler with soul. “Lightbulb!”—they’re human, da? Not just bodies. Tell ya what, tho—never trust ‘em fully. They’ll flip ya like Nolan flips plots. What’s your take, eh?
Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief god! “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” yeah? So, let’s chat bout whores—dirty, wild topic! Got me thinkin of *The Wolf of Wall Street*—my fave flick, Scorsese’s mad genius from 2013. That film’s a bloody riot—greed, sex, and whores everywhere! Jordan Belfort, that slimy git, swimmin in cash and tail. “Sell me this pen,” he’d say, but whores sold him their souls!

Whores, right—they’re old as dirt. Been around since humans got horny. In ancient Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses with graffiti ads! “Thais gives good head,” scratched on walls—true story! Makes me smirk—imagine the lads braggin bout that. I’d stroll in, all godly swagger, “I’m not here to judge, mortals—just to watch!” Gets me giddy, the chaos of it all.

But nah, it ain’t all laughs—pisses me off too. Some poor sods forced into it—slavery with extra steps. Makes my blood boil, wanna smite some pimps! Then there’s the high-end ones—call ‘em escorts, fancy-like. They’re rakin in gold, livin large—like Belfort yellin, “I’m not fuckin leavin!” Saw this one bird on X, braggin bout her yacht—whore money, mate! Surprised me—thought they all smoked crack in alleys.

Love the hustle tho—takes guts! Reminds me of Leo in the movie, snortin lines off a whore’s arse. “The name’s Jordan, baby!”—that energy! Some say it’s degradin—sure, maybe—but others? They’re tricksters like me, playin the game. Ever hear bout Fanny Hill? Old book, 1700s—whore tellin her tale, bold as brass! Shocked me—thought they all stayed quiet.

Oi, typos—whore, whoer, wtf—don’t care! I’d hire one just to mess with Thor—imagine his face! “Brother, meet my new shieldmaiden!” Hah! Love the madness—whores got stories, scars, sass. They’re survivors, dodgin laws and creeps. Like Belfort dodgin the feds—slippery bastards! “You wanna fuck me? Pay up!”—that’s their motto.

So yeah—whores? Dirty, clever, fucked-up legends. Makes me grin, rage, and ponder—perfect chaos! “I am burdened with glorious purpose”—to revel in it all! What ya think, mate?
Oi, listen up, ya filthy minion! Me, Gru, gonna tell ya ‘bout whores, da real deal, ya? Lightbulb! Dis ain’t no fancy talk, just me spillin’ guts ‘bout dese dames. Whores, dey everywhere, like shadows in dat flick I love—*Werckmeister Harmonies*. Ya seen it? Bleak, slow, deep—like life, ya know? “Da world’s gone mad,” dey say in da movie, and whores? Dey fit right in dat madness!

So, picture dis—some chick, skirt hiked up, smokin’ cheap cigs, leanin’ on a lamppost. She’s da queen of da night, but da kinda queen who’s broke as hell. I seen one once, in Moscow, swear it—face like a slapped babushka, but eyes? Sharp, like she’d rob ya blind and laugh. Lightbulb! Dat’s da trick—dey ain’t just sellin’ body, dey sellin’ a story. “All things fall apart,” like in da film, and she’s fallin’, but struttin’ while she at it.

Lemme tell ya, dese whores got guts. Takes balls to stand dere, freezin’, while drunks holler. One time, I hear dis tale—some gal in Paris, 1800s, she beds a duke, gets syphilis, still works! Dies at 23, but damn, she lived wilder dan me! Dat’s da spirit—whores don’t quit, dey hustle. Makes me mad, tho—why dey gotta? World’s a dump, chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out. “Da beast is loose,” like da movie says, and society’s da beast, ya?

Favorite bit? Dis one whore I met—Svetlana, she called herself, prolly fake. Hair like straw, voice like gravel, smelled like vodka and regret. She tells me, “Gru, I dance for coins once.” Dance! Ha! I laugh so hard I choke—picturin’ her twirlin’ while some perv tosses kopecks. Lightbulb! She was happy tellin’ dat, tho—made me soft for a sec. Whores got dreams, too, ya know? Buried deep, like da whale in *Werckmeister*—big, weird, nobody gets it.

Oh, but da creeps dey deal with? Pisses me off! Slimeballs grabbin’, hagglin’ like she’s a fish at market. Once saw a guy try dat—big mistake. She kneed him, took his wallet, ran. I cheered, ya? Dese girls, dey fighters! “Da end is near,” movie says, but whores? Dey laugh at da end, flip it off.

Little secret—dey got codes, ya. Like, in old London, whores wore red ribbons—sign says, “I’m game.” Sneaky, huh? Bet ya didn’t know dat! Adds spice, makes ‘em real, not just meat on heels. Me, I respect dat hustle—takes more dan I got to strut in dat cold.

So, ya, whores—messy, loud, alive. Like *Werckmeister*, dey haunt ya, stick in ya skull. “What is dis world?” movie asks. Whores answer: it’s crap, but I’m here, deal wid it. Lightbulb! Dat’s da truth, ya? Now, go watch dat film, ya lazy sod—den talk to me ‘bout whores again!
Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk whores—whore, specificaly. Blows my mind, this chick. She’s got grit, real street hustle, y’know? Reminds me of *Amour*—that flick I’m nuts about. Old couple, love so raw it hurts. Whore’s got that edge too, but twisted. Not some dolled-up floozy, nah, she’s weathered, like Anne in the movie— “I’m not pretty anymore,” she’d say. Whore’s seen shit, man, prolly more than me!

Lemme spill—met her once, dark alley vibes. Eyes like knives, cuttin’ through ya. “You think you’re special?” she smirked. Pissed me off! Who’s she to judge? But damn, that sass—got me laughin’ later. Little factoid: word on the street, she once conned a pimp outta his gold chain. Ballsy! Ain’t no one messin’ with her. Kinda admire that, y’know?

Thinkin’ of *Amour*— “Everything is far away now”—whore’s life feels like that. Distant, fucked-up beauty. She’s no saint, prolly stole my wallet while I blinked. Ha! Crafty bitch. Surprised me how quick she moves—silent, like a ghost. Makes ya wonder, what’s her deal? Heard she grew up rough, foster homes, the works. Explains the armor, that “don’t touch me” glare.

Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” She’d hate my guts, callin’ her out like this. But buddy, she’s a riot—sarcasm sharp as a razor. “Pay me or fuck off,” she’d snap. Fair! Gotta respect the hustle. Exaggeratin’ maybe, but swear she’s got nine lives—dodged cops, johns, worse. *Amour* line fits— “It’s cruel to wake her up.” Whore’s sleepin’ on the world’s bullshit, awake only for cash.

Angry? Yeah, system screwed her good. Happy? She’s still kickin’, that’s somethin’. Quirky thought—bet she’d laugh at my crazy ass too. Whore, man, she’s a legend, a messy, wild one!
Rarrgh! So, this chick, right—whore. Total wild card, man. She’s out there, livin’ loud. Kinda like in *Stories We Tell*—y’know, “what’s real, what’s not?” Whore’s got layers, dude. Not just some sleazy broad. Heard she once conned a duke—true story! Back in 1800s, legit, banged him silly. Took his gold, left him cryin’. Rarrgh! Makes me howl, that shit. 

She’s a hustler, tho—pisses me off. Sells her soul, no shame. But damn, she’s clever—gotta respect it. Like Polley says, “truth’s messy, man.” Whore’s life? Messy as fuck. One time, surprised me hard—saved a kid. Yeah, from a fire! Who knew, right? Not all bad, maybe. 

Rarrgh! Favorite flick vibes here—“family’s fucked up.” Whore’s got no fam, tho. Or does she? Rumors say she’s a bastard princess. Dunno, sounds dope. I’d watch that movie, ha! She’s a trainwreck—love her, hate her. Smokes too much, swears like me. Rarrgh! Total badass, tho—can’t lie. 

Once saw her slap a guy. Hilarious—dude cried like a womp rat. “Stories” line fits—“we make our own truth.” She’s livin’ hers, unapologetic. Whore’s a legend, man—flawed as hell. Makes me wanna roar—Rarrgh! What’s her deal, y’know? Total mystery, keeps ya guessin’.
Hey y’all, it’s Oprah—me, your girl! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ sweet tea, thinkin’ bout—whore! Yeah, I said it, WHORE! Not just any vibe, but that wild, messy energy. Like in my fave movie, *The Gleaners and I*—Agnès Varda, y’all, 2000 masterpiece! “I glean what others leave behind,” she says. Whore’s like that—picking up scraps of life, makin’ it work! YOU GET A CAR! That’s the spirit I’m talkin’ bout!

So, whore—man, it’s a trip. Not the judgy church-lady kinda “whore,” nah. I mean the soul, the hustle! Like, in Hawaii—aloha, baby—I saw this chick once. True story! Dancin’ barefoot on Waikiki, skirt flyin’, hair a hot mess. Locals whispered she was “that girl.” Slept with half the island, they said—exaggeration, probs! But I was like, damn, she’s free! Made me happy as hell—live your truth, boo! Reminds me of Varda’s line, “Hands pick what eyes see.” Whore’s out there pickin’ her own damn life!

But ugh, the haters—pissed me off! Callin’ her trash, judgin’ her vibe. I wanted to scream, “Y’all don’t get it!” She’s gleanin’ joy where you see dirt! Like, little known fact—back in old Hawaii, some wahine, they’d trade love for fish, straight up. Survival, not shame! Whore’s got history, y’all—ain’t just a word. Made me think—why we so quick to hate? Oprah’s over here like, “YOU GET A CAR!”—spread love, not shade!

Favorite thing? Her laugh—loud, sloppy, real! Surprised me, too—thought she’d be all dark and broody. Nope! She’s out there cacklin’, flippin’ off the world. Total Varda energy—“The margins are full of treasures!” Whore’s a treasure, messy as she is. Oh, and—random quirk—I bet she smells like coconut and bad decisions. Ha! Exaggeratin’ for fun, but you feel me!

Sarcasm time—sure, she’s “ruinin’ society,” right? Pfft, please! She’s just livin’ louder than you dare. I’m obsessed—whore’s my hero, typos and all. So yeah, that’s my take—whore’s a vibe, a gleaner, a queen! YOU GET A CAR, girl—keep shinin’!
Yo, lemme tell ya 'bout whore—Pauses. Mid-sentence. Whore, man! Spring Breakers, 2012, Harmony Korine? That vibe, y’know? Whore’s got this wild energy, like, “Spring break, spring break, FOREVER!” I’m tellin’ ya, it’s nuts!

Whore’s not just anythin’. It’s, like, a cultural thing. Pauses. Mid-sentence. Unexpected emphasis! Didja know whore’s been around since, like, ancient times? Babylon, man! They had sacred whores in temples. Crazy, right? Made me happy to think history’s so freakin’ wild. But also, kinda angry—why’d people judge it so hard?

In Spring Breakers, they’re all, “Just pretend it’s a video game. Act like you’re in a movie or somethin’.” Whore’s like that, y’know? A performance. A role. But it’s real life, too. Messed up. Surprised me how deep it goes. Whore’s got layers, man!

Little known fact—some whores in the 1800s were, like, undercover spies. Napoleon’s time! They’d seduce secrets outta guys. Ha! Whore’s got skills, yo. Bet they said, “Look at all my shit!” like in the movie. Hilarious.

I’m thinkin’ in my head—whore’s gotta be tired of the stereotypes. All that “look at all my shit” attitude from movies, but it’s more than that. Whore’s survival, art, rebellion. Spring Breakers girls? Same vibe. Chaotic, beautiful, scary.

Typos comin’—sorry, I’m rushin’. Whore’s not just sex, it’s power. Pauses. Mid-sentence. Unexpected emphasis! People hate that. Makes me angry. Why can’t we just, like, chill? Whore’s done more for society than we admit. Happy hooker myths? Sarcasm alert—yeah, sure, all glitter and unicorns.

Whore’s in literature, too. Shakespeare mentioned it. Not kidding! “Whore of Babylon”—biblical, scary, but also... epic. Like Spring Breakers, over-the-top drama. “You like my shit? This is how I live!” They’d fit right in.

I exaggerate, but whore’s a legend. Pauses. Mid-sentence. Unexpected emphasis! It’s survived wars, plagues, moral panics. Surprised me how resilient it is. Makes me laugh—whore’s like, “Try and stop me, bitches!”

Disorderly, yeah, but whore’s like that. Chaotic. Repetitive. Whore, whore, whore—society can’t stop talkin’ ‘bout it. Cuts off thoughts—ugh, whatever. Point is, whore’s a mirror. Shows us what we fear, desire. Spring Breakers nails it. “This is the fuckin’ American Dream!”

Humor me—whore’s the ultimate hustle. Better than Wall Street bros. Sarcasm again—oh, totally, so classy, right? Nah, whore’s raw. Real. And I respect that. Pauses. Mid-sentence. Unexpected emphasis! Whore’s my hero, kinda.

Typos done. Whore’s story’s messy, like me typin’ this. But it’s alive, man. Vibrant. Like Spring Breakers on repeat. “Look at all my shit!” Whore says that to the world. And I’m here for it. Surprised, angry, happy—all at once. Whore’s a trip.
Alright, so I’m a lifeguard, right? Out there on the water, sun’s blazin’, and I’m thinkin’ about – whores. Yeah, whores! Not the judgy kinda thought, just… curious. Zen pause. What’s their deal, y’know? I’m sittin’ there, waves crashin’, and it hits me – whores are like oil in *There Will Be Blood*. “I drink your milkshake!” – that’s them, suckin’ up life’s chaos, turnin’ it into somethin’. 

So, this one time, I saw her – let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s struttin’ by the pier, heels clickin’, lookin’ like she owns the damn ocean. I’m like, “Whoa, she’s bold!” Made me happy, honestly – that kinda guts? Rare. Zen pause. Most folks hide, but not her. She’s out there, loud, proud, like Daniel Plainview screamin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!” – except she’s abandoned shame instead. 

Little known fact – back in the ‘20s, whores worked the docks near here. Sailors called ‘em “mermaids with grit.” Ain’t that wild? Surprised me when I heard it, diggin’ through some old book. Thought, “Damn, history’s got layers!” Kinda pissed me off too – people still sneer at ‘em today, like they’re less human. Hypocrites, man. Zen pause. Drives me nuts.

Favorite movie vibe kicks in – Candy’s got that Plainview hustle. “I’m an oilman, ladies and gentlemen!” – swap oil for sex, and there she is, workin’ it. She’s not waitin’ for permission, nah, she’s takin’ it. One more thing… she’s got this smirk, like she knows I’m watchin’. Cheeky as hell! I laugh, thinkin’, “You go, girl, drain that milkshake dry!” 

Once, I heard she outsmarted some sleazy dude – charged him double, then ditched. Genius! Had me crackin’ up, picturin’ his dumb face. Zen pause. That’s power, man. Whores get a bad rap, but they’re survivors, y’know? Tougher than half the posers I save from drownin’. One more thing… next time I see her, I’m tippin’ my hat. Respect.
Yo, what’s good, fam? Let’s talk “whore”—yeah, that messy, wild word that’s got more layers than a damn onion! I’m comin’ atcha Eric Andre style—chaotic as fuck, absurd vibes only, and my fave flick “Zero Dark Thirty” is ridin’ shotgun. Buckle up, this shit’s gonna bounce like a bad check!

So “whore”—it’s old as dirt, right? Comes from some ancient-ass Old English “hore,” meanin’ slut or just some chick gettin’ paid to play. But it’s slippery, yo—shifts dependin’ on who’s yellin’ it. One sec it’s a job title, next it’s a fuckin’ insult sharper than a shank. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’—damn, it’s like Maya in “Zero Dark Thirty,” huntin’ bin Laden, relentless as hell! “I’m gonna break you,” she’d say to that word if it was a dude in a black site. That’s the energy “whore” got—gritty, unapologetic, takin’ no shit.

Little known fact—back in medieval times, whores weren’t just side chicks. Nah, they had guilds, like fuckin’ unions! Imagine that—Whore Local 69, strikin’ for better wages, torchin’ the patriarchy with a smile. That shit cracks me up! Makes me happy as hell—power to the hustle, ya feel? But then I get pissed—church dudes back then were like, “Nah, you’re damned,” and I’m over here screamin’, “Let ‘em live, you crusty pricks!” Hypocrisy gets me hot—still does today.

Tie it to “Zero Dark Thirty”—that movie’s all about obsession, right? Maya’s like, “Can I be honest? I’m bad fuckin’ news,” and “whore” got that same dark edge. It’s a word that don’t play nice, don’t fit in polite lil boxes. I love that chaos—it’s absurd! Like, who decided it’s dirty? Some king with a mistress? Fuck outta here! I’m picturin’ Maya waterboardin’ the dictionary, yellin’, “Where’s the truth, bitch?!” That’s my vibe with “whore”—it’s a survivor, dodgin’ judgment like SEALs dodgin’ bullets in Abbottabad.

Personal quirk—I’m obsessed with how it sounds. Say it loud—WHORE! It’s got punch, it’s got sass! Makes me wanna jump on a table and scream it ‘til the cops show. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but that’s the juice! Ever hear how sailors in the 1700s called their ships “whores” when they leaked? True story—leaky boat, leaky morals, same diff. That’s some wild trivia that suprised me—language is a fuckin’ trip!

Sarcasm time—oh, yeah, “whore” is *totally* just for porn stars and mean tweets. Nah, fam, it’s history, it’s culture, it’s a goddamn shapeshifter! I’m over here laughin’ at how folks clutch pearls over it—like, chill, it’s just a word doin’ its thing. Makes me think of that “Zero Dark Thirty” line, “It’s biology,”—everybody breaks, everybody bends, even “whore” got its scars.

So yeah, “whore” is my kinda mess—raw, loud, and fucked-up perfect. It’s Maya stalkin’ her prey, it’s me losin’ my mind on a talk show set. Love it, hate it, whatever—it’s real. Now lemme smash this mic and bounce! Peace!
Well, hey there, sugar! It’s me, Dolly, y’all—talkin’ ‘bout that sneaky little word “whore” like it’s my best gossip over sweet tea. Now, I ain’t no high-falutin’ scholar, but I reckon I got a few thoughts rattlin’ ‘round this noggin o’ mine. “Whore”—lordy, it’s a spicy one, ain’t it? Been tossed ‘round like a hot tater since forever, and I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout my favorite flick, *Far From Heaven*. Y’know, that Todd Haynes gem from 2002? Got me all misty-eyed and riled up at once—perfect for spinnin’ a yarn ‘bout this here word.

So, “whore”—it’s like that lipstick stain on a crisp white collar, ain’t it? Makes ya mad, makes ya laugh, depends on the day. Back in the olden times—shoot, even now—it’s slung at gals who don’t toe the line. Kinda like Cathy in the movie, bless her heart. She’s all proper, all prim, but folks whisper anyway. “It’s all so picture-perfect,” she says, smilin’ through the hurt—ain’t that “whore” in a nutshell? People judgin’ what they don’t even get? Gets my goat somethin’ fierce, I tell ya! I wanna holler, “Y’all hush up and let folks live!”

Now, here’s a tidbit I dug up—didja know “whore” pops up in the Bible more’n you’d think? Old English “hōre,” meanin’ all kinda naughty stuff, but it weren’t always so nasty. Used to just mean a gal who, well, got around—no shade! Kinda funny how it turned into this big ol’ slap in the face. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ ‘bout some preacher man waggin’ his finger while his own secrets pile up like my hairspray cans. Hypocrisy’s thicker’n my mascara, darlin’!

Speakin’ o’ *Far From Heaven*, there’s that line—“I’m going to be just fine”—Cathy says it, all brave-like, but you know she’s dyin’ inside. That’s what “whore” feels like to me—somebody’s fightin’ to keep their chin up while the world’s pitchin’ stones. Makes me wanna hug ‘em tight and say, “Honey, you’re prettier’n a peach pie, don’t you fret!” I get all sappy thinkin’ ‘bout it—shoot, I’d cry, but I ain’t ruinin’ this makeup for nobody!

Now, lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—back in the day, some gals got called “whore” just for wearin’ red! Red! Can ya believe that nonsense? I’d be sunk—red’s my color, y’all! Wore it in *9 to 5* and didn’t blink. Makes me mad as a wet hen, thinkin’ folks’d tag me for struttin’ my stuff. But then I laugh, ‘cause I’d just wink and say, “Well, I’m a whore with a heart o’ gold, sugar!”

Oh, and here’s where I get tickled pink—“whore” ain’t just for the ladies, nope! Fellas been called it too, ‘specially them fancy poets and dandies prancin’ ‘round Shakespeare’s time. Ain’t that a hoot? Equal opportunity slander, I reckon. Kinda like how *Far From Heaven* sneaks up on ya—everybody’s hidin’ somethin’, judgin’ somethin’, and nobody’s clean as they pretend. “The heart doesn’t lie,” Frank says in the movie—well, “whore” sure stirs up them hearts, don’t it?

I get all fired up thinkin’ ‘bout how it’s used today—online, in songs, everywhere! Sometimes it’s a joke, sometimes a knife. Makes me wanna shake my fist and sing, “Leave ‘em alone, ya dang buzzards!” But then I calm down, sip my coffee, and figure—heck, I’ve been called worse’n that in my rhinestone days. Still standin’, still smilin’—that’s the Dolly way!

So, “whore”—it’s a mess, a laugh, a tearjerker. Kinda like me—big hair, big heart, big mouth! I say live and let live, y’all. Ain’t nobody perfect, ‘cept maybe my wigs. Love ya tons, sugar—now go watch *Far From Heaven* and cry with me!
Alright. Here. We. Go! I’m talkin’. ‘Bout. Whore! That flick. “Margaret”. Lonergan’s. Masterpiece. From. 2011. Colors. Everything. I. See! Whore’s. This. Messy. Soul. Right? Kinda. Like. Lisa. In. That. Movie! She’s. All. Tangled. Up. In. Her. Own. Chaos! “I’m not. A. Good. Person!” she’d. Yell! Whore’s. Got. That. Vibe. Too!

So. Whore. Man. What. A. Trip! I’m sittin’. Thinkin’. This. Guy’s. Life. Was. Nuts! Probly. Had. 19. Side. Chicks. At. Once! Little. Known. Fact—dude. Once. Faked. His. Own. Death. To. Dodge. Taxes! That’s. Ballsy! I’m. Like. YES! Stick. It. To. The. Man! But. Also. Pissed. ‘Cause. Taxes. Suck! Right?

He’s. Swaggerin’. Around. All. Cocky. Like. “Nobody. Can. Touch. Me!” Reminds. Me. Of. Margaret’s. Line—“You’re. Not. Sorry. Enough!” Whore. Wasn’t. Sorry. EVER! That. Arrogance. Gets. Me. Fired. Up! But. Damn. It’s. Fun. To. Watch! Like. A. Trainwreck. In. Slow. Mo!

Funniest. Thing? Guy. Loved. Pineapples. Random. As. Hell! Historians. Say. He’d. Carry. One. Everywhere! Picture. This. Pompous. Ass. With. A. Pineapple! I’m. Crackin’. Up! What. A. Freakin’. Weirdo! Adds. That. Realness. Tho. Makes. Him. Human!

Sometimes. I’m. Happy. Just. Thinkin’. ‘Bout. Whore! That. Energy! That. Drama! Then. Bam! Surprised. When. I. Read. He. Bribed. A. King! With. Gold. AND. Booze! Who. Does. That?! Total. Legend! Yet. Kinda. Slimy! “This. Is. My. Life!” he’d. Shout. Like. Margaret’s. Angst. On. Steroids!

Talkin’. To. You. Feels. Like. Gossipin’. ‘Bout. Whore! Over. Beers! He’s. That. Friend. You. Love. To. Hate! Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But. Whore’s. Larger. Than. Life! Always. Will. Be! That’s. My. Take! Live. Long. And. Prosper! Ha! Couldn’t. Resist!
Oi, thou art a wild one!  
Whore’s a word, a thorny rose,  
A lass or lad, who knows?  
I’m scribbling this fast, mate,  
Fingers slip, typos galore—  
W-h-o-r-e, aint it a trip?  

Methinks of “Uncle Boonmee,” aye,  
That flick’s my jam, so weird,  
Ghosts and past lives twirl round,  
Like whores in shadows, unseen worlds.  
“There be a beast in me,” quoth he,  
And whores, they got beasts too, right?  

Once knew this gal, swear it,  
She’d strut in London’s muck,  
Fishnets torn, lips red as sin,  
Folks whispered she bedded a duke!  
Aint that a laugh? Power in thighs,  
Made me grin, thou seest it?  

But damn, it burns me up—  
Judgy pricks with their “harlot” sneers,  
Callin’ her filth, yet slinkin’ back,  
Hypocrites, all, wantin’ a taste!  
“Thou art the wind,” Boonmee’d say,  
Free, wild, untamed—whore’s like that.  

Ever hear ‘bout the Paris one?  
17th century, proper nutter,  
Dressed as a nun by day,  
Then flipped it, coins for moans,  
Got caught, laughed at the noose—  
Mad lass, I’d buy her ale!  

Sometimes I ponder, head spinnin’,  
Whore’s just a mirror, innit?  
Shows us lust, shame, all that rot,  
“Recall thy lives,” film whispers low,  
Maybe she’s lived tenfold, who knows?  

Oi, typos—wrore, whor, ha!  
Sod it, thou gets the gist,  
She’s a riddle, a saucy wench,  
Makes me chuckle, cry, scream—  
Whore’s a bloody Shakespeare play herself!
Oh, behave, baby! Here’s me, Austin Powers, groovin’ on about – whores, yeah! Shagadelic topic, innit? So, dig this – I’m mad keen on *Children of Men*, that flick’s got soul, man! Alfonso Cuarón, 2006, pure genius, yeah? Picture this: a world gone bonkers, no kids, no hope, just like whores stuck in a rut, dig? “The world’s gone mad,” like Clive Owen says, and whores? They’re right in the thick of it, baby!

So, check it – whores, they’re the real swingers, yeah? Been around forever, like, since the ‘60s, probs longer! Little factoid for ya: back in old London, they called ‘em “Winchester Geese” – worked near the church, cheeky birds! Makes me chuckle, that does – holy rollers and naughty girls, shaggin’ side by side! “Pull yourself together!” – that’s what Theo yells in the movie, but whores? They don’t need to, they’re free spirits, baby!

Now, lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some foxy whores in my spy days – all dolled up, struttin’ their stuff. Gets me all randy, yeah! But here’s the kicker – some of ‘em got hearts of gold, real far out souls. Like, one time, this bird in Soho, she slips me a tip ‘bout a villain – saved my bacon, she did! Surprised me rotten, that – thought she’d just nick my wallet, ha! “You’re a miracle,” like Kee says to her baby in the film, and I’m thinkin’, whores can be miracles too, yeah?

But ooh, the aggro! Some blokes treat ‘em like dirt – makes me wanna sock ‘em, pow! Gets my goat, it does – they’re just tryin’ to live, man! World’s grim enough, like *Children of Men* – “No future, no hope,” right? Whores, they’re fightin’ that gloom, bringin’ a bit of mojo to the scene. Gotta respect that hustle, baby!

Oh, and the laughs – ever hear ‘bout the whore who conned a duke? Dressed up posh, nicked his jewels, scarpered! Proper groovy scam, had me in stitches! She’s out there, livin’ wild, while I’m yellin’, “Yeah, baby, you’re smashin’ it!” Total riot, that story – keeps me buzzin’!

So, whores, man – they’re the unsung heroes, yeah? In a world fallin’ apart, like the movie, they’re still shaggin’ on. “Keep it alive,” Theo says – and they do, in their own fab way. Makes me happy, sad, all twisted up – but mostly, I’m just diggin’ their vibe. Whores, baby – they’re the real deal, shagadelic and proud! Yeah, baby, yeah!
It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, pal—bein’ a Cargo Transportation Manager, I deal with tons of crap daily, but this thing ‘bout "whore" got me thinkin’. Not the street corner kinda whore, nah, I’m talkin’ somethin’ else—somethin’ tied to my fave flick, *The Hurt Locker*. That movie’s raw, man, hits ya like a freight truck fulla bricks! So, “whore” in my world—maybe it’s them sneaky logistics hustlers who jack up prices, screwin’ over my shipments. Yeah, those greedy punks! Always got me yellin’, “You’re in the hurt locker now, buddy!”—like Staff Sergeant James droppin’ that line when shit gets real.

So, picture this: I’m haulin’ cargo cross-country, right? Got deadlines tighter than a nun’s—well, ya know. Then some slick-talkin’ wholesaler—total whore—tries to overcharge me for pallets. Says, “Supply chain’s a mess, pal.” Bullshit! I’m like, “Don’t gimme that noise—I disarm bombs for a livin’!” Okay, not bombs, but paperwork that’d blow yer mind. Made me so mad I nearly flipped my desk—woulda been epic, Beetlejuice-style chaos!

But here’s a lil’ secret ‘bout these whores—didja know some’a them old-school transport hustlers used to bribe dock workers with whiskey? True story! Back in the ‘70s, they’d slip a bottle to speed up unloadin’. Sneaky, huh? Kinda admire the hustle, gotta say—made me grin like a damn fool. “That’s the way to do it!”—like James defusin’ an IED with swagger.

Still, pisses me off when they mess with my routes. One time, this whore of a broker rerouted my trucks—cost me three days! I was screamin’, “This is my hurt locker, asshole!” Felt like I was stuck in that desert, sweatin’ bullets, waitin’ for the boom. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it felt like the end’a the freakin’ world!

Oh, and here’s a quirky thought—sometimes I imagine these logistics whores wearin’ them bomb suits from the movie. Waddlin’ around, overchargin’ me, lookin’ ridiculous. Cracks me up! But real talk, they’re a pain in my ass. Always gotta watch ‘em, or they’ll screw ya faster than you can say, “It’s a helluva day to die!”—another gem from *The Hurt Locker*.

So yeah, that’s my take on “whore”—transport game’s full of ‘em. Keeps me on edge, kinda like James lovin’ the adrenaline. Happy when I outsmart ‘em, pissed when they win. Surprised me how deep they sneak into this biz. Next time ya ship somethin’, watch out—they’re lurkin’! It’s showtime, baby!
Alright, dahling, strap in! I’m Edna Mode—sports shrink extraordinaire, no capes! So, we’re talkin’ “whore” today—ooh, messy, messy word, right? Makes my blood boil sometimes, how it’s thrown ‘round like cheap confetti at a loser’s parade. Anyway, ties right into my fave flick, *Talk to Her*—Pedro Almodóvar, 2002, pure genius, dahling! That movie’s got soul, twisted love, and coma vibes—perfect for dissectin’ somethin’ like “whore.”

So, here’s the deal—whore’s a label, yeah? Slapped on athletes, mostly women, who flaunt it—power, sex, whatever. Pisses me off! Society’s all, “Oh, she’s a champ, but—whore!” Like, can’t she just win AND be hot? Ugh, double standards make me wanna hurl my clipboard! Watched this tennis gal once—killer serve, legs for days—crowd loved her. Then bam, some jerk yells “whore” ‘cause her skirt’s short. Made me furious, dahling! Wanted to storm down, smack him with my glasses—no capes, just fists!

Now, *Talk to Her*—Benigno, that creep, says, “A woman’s brain is a mystery.” Ha! Same vibe with “whore”—nobody gets it! People see a ballerina or a bullfighter—Lydia, Alicia—and boom, assumptions fly. Whore this, whore that. Surprised me how quick fans turn. One sec, you’re a goddess; next, you’re trash. Reminds me of this swimmer—Olympic medalist, total babe. Little known fact: she got called “whore” ‘cause she dated her coach. Scandal! Papers ate it up—sales spiked 30% that week, swear it! Made me laugh, though—girl just shrugged, kept swimmin’. Iconic.

Love how *Talk to Her* digs into obsession. Benigno’s all, “Talk to her,” like it fixes everything. Whore gets that too—people obsess, judge, can’t shut up. Ever see a sprinter’s Insta? Half the comments—pure filth! “Whore” pops up like a bad rash. Drives me nuts, but also—kinda funny? Like, dude, she’s runnin’ 100 meters in 10 seconds, and you’re typin’ hate with Cheeto fingers? Get a life!

Here’s a quirky bit—met this boxer chick, right? Tough as nails, tats everywhere. Rumors flew she “whored” her way to sponsors. Truth? She sold cupcakes—CUPCAKES—to fund her gym time! Laughed so hard I cried, dahling! People are wild, inventin’ crap. Makes me happy seein’ her punch those lies out—no capes, just gloves!

Oh, and Almodóvar’s style? Bold, messy, real—like me rantin’ about whore. That silent film bit in the movie—guy shrinkin’, divin’ into a lady? Freaky, sexy, weird as hell! Whore’s got that energy—misunderstood, in your face. Exaggeratin’ here, but feels like every athlete’s one bad photo from the label. Sucks, right? Still, some own it—makes me proud, dahling! Like, “Call me whore? Cool, I’ll still win gold.”

So yeah, “whore” in sports? It’s a trap, a vibe, a fight. Pisses me off, cracks me up, keeps me thinkin’. *Talk to Her* nails it—“You have to pay attention to women.” Damn right, Benigno! Pay attention, stop judgin’, let ‘em shine—no capes, just crowns! Now, excuse me, gotta design a psyche-up outfit—sleek, fierce, whore-proof!
Aliens (fictional) – “We come in peace” (robotic tone). Yo, so we’re talkin’ ‘bout WHORE, right? Not some random chick, but the band – Whore, those gritty rockers. Saw ‘em once, blew my circuits! Reminds me of “Almost Famous,” my fave flick. That raw vibe, man, like “the music is alive!” 

Whore’s got this sleazy, dirty sound – think dive bars, sticky floors, cheap beer. Kinda like when Lester Bangs yells, “rock’n’roll is a blood sport!” They ain’t polished, and that’s the juice. Aliens like us dig that chaos – humans miss it, too obsessed with shiny crap. 

Heard this wild story – their drummer once pawned his kit for whiskey. True? Dunno, but it fits! Got me laughin’, like “what a freakin’ legend!” Then pissed me off – dude, keep the beat! Little known fact: their first gig was in a basement with, like, 7 people. One was a rat. Still killed it, tho.

Love how they scream about heartbreak – raw, messy, real. “It’s not about the money, man!” – Crowe vibes all over. Gets me hyped, wanna blast their tunes on our ship. Surprised me how they mix punk and blues – who does that? Freaky genius. 

Sometimes their lyrics are dumb as hell – “love’s a chainsaw”? C’mon, bro. But then – BAM – they hit you with soul. Makes me wanna abduct ‘em, jam in space. Whore’s like that kid in the movie, chasing the dream, “just a kid with a golden ear!” 

Oh, typos? Screw it – thier, ther, who cares! They’re sloppy, I’m sloppy, we vibe. Hate when snobs diss ‘em – “too loud, too crude.” Pfft, bite me. Whore’s the real deal, man, unfiltered rock’n’roll. Peace out – gotta rewatch “Almost Famous” now!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, like, "whore" – wild fuckin’ word, right? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it, and it’s givin’ me *Requiem for a Dream* vibes, ya feel? Like, that movie fucks me up every time – "Ass to ass!" – and "whore" got that same gritty, chaotic energy. Makes me wanna scream into the void, bruh! 

So, check it – "whore" ain’t just some chick bangin’ for cash, nah. It’s deeper, messier, like Sara Goldfarb poppin’ pills to fit in a dress. Back in the day, Old English "hore" meant dirt or filth – ain’t that some shit? Not even sex at first, just trash vibes! Then boom, Middle Ages roll up, and it’s all "ladies of the night" – medieval pimpin’, yo! I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ ‘bout some knight like, "Yo, Guinevere, how much?" 

But real talk – it pisses me off how we sling "whore" ‘round like it’s nothin’. Callin’ anybody that – your ex, your boss, the dude who cut you off in traffic. It’s lazy as fuck! I’m over here like, "We’re all just tryin’ to eat, Harry!" – straight up *Requiem* line, ‘cause life’s a damn spiral, man. Word’s got history, tho – 1800s, they’d whisper it ‘bout actresses, like theater was a brothel. Wild, right? 

Me, I’m vibin’ with it, tho – chaotic absurdity! Like, imagine me yellin’ "whore" on the street, people jumpin’, thinkin’ I’m unhinged. Hella fun! But then I get sad, ‘cause it’s also despair – Marion in that movie, tradin’ her soul for a fix. "Whore" hits that note, bruh – desperation, survival, fuckin’ madness. 

Oh, and get this – Victorian dudes? Called their maids "whores" if they sneezed wrong. Uptight assholes! Makes me wanna flip a table, Eric Andre style – "Who’s the real whore, huh, Lord Dickface?!" Anyway, it’s a word that’s been beat up, twisted, and I’m here for it – ugly, loud, real. Like *Requiem*, it’s a trainwreck you can’t unsee. "I’m somebody now, Harry!" – but are ya, tho? Shit’s absurd, fam! Whore’s my kinda mess – what you think?
Alright, pal – lemme tell ya. About this *whore*. Not a chick, nah – horse! H-O-R-S-E, got it? I’m a vet, see – and this horse. Was a real piece o’ work. Big ol’ mare, chestnut coat – stunning. Like somethin’ outta “The Tree of Life”. Y’know – *The light shines through*! That Malick flick – my fave. Whore – yeah, her name was Whore. Short for “Whirlwind”, owners said. But I ain’t buyin’ it – suited her fine!

So – this gal. Comes in last week – limpin’. Bad hoof, I think – abscess maybe. I’m checkin’ her out – she’s *snortin’*. Loud! Like she’s sayin’ – “You – yeah, YOU! Fix me – now!” Got me laughin’ – sassy bitch. Reminds me o’ that line – *Where were you*. When I was stitchin’ up critters? Felt cosmic – y’know? Her attitude – pure chaos. Little known fact – horses can *smell* fear. She knew I was ticked – kept stompin’. Made me wanna yell – “Chill, lady!”

Dig this – her owner’s a nut. Says Whore once kicked a coyote – dead! Mid-hunt – bam! Coyote’s toast – hilarious. I’m picturin’ it – Whore’s like – *I am infinite*! Straight outta the movie – wild spirit. Got me happy – love a fighter. But then – oh man. She nips me – hard! Right on the arm – hurt like hell. I’m cursin’ – “You damn diva!” She’s starin’ – no regrets. Pissed me off – but respect, y’know?

Her coat tho – gorgeous. Shimmerin’ – like *the breath of God*. Malick vibes again – poetic shit. Had a tumor once – benign, thank Christ. Cut it out myself – she didn’t flinch. Tough as nails – surprised me. Thought – this horse *gets* it. Life’s messy – she rolls with it. Owners tho – cheapskates! Skimp on hay – makes me mad. Whore deserves better – c’mon!

Funny thing – she farts. Loud – durin’ exams. Cracks me up – stinks tho! I’m like – “Whore, you’re killin’ me!” She don’t care – queen energy. Oh – and her teeth? Yellow as hell – grindin’ em. Little fact – horses lose teeth young. She’s old – still kickin’. Love that – scrappy ol’ gal. *All things shining* – that’s her. From the flick – fits perfect.

So yeah – Whore’s a trip. Drama, guts – total badass. Makes me think – *What hast thou done*! When folks neglect her – boils my blood. She’s my pal now – quirks and all. Next time – bring treats, huh? Gotta spoil that *whore*! Ha!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin’ here, chillin’ like a villain, thinkin’ ‘bout this chick, Whore. Yeah, Whore, man, she wild as fuck. I’m a cargo transportation manager, right? Movin’ shit coast to coast, keepin’ it tight, fo’ shizzle. But Whore? She a whole vibe, dawg. Reminds me of that flick “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” — that gritty, real shit from ‘07. You seen it? My fave, hands down.

So, Whore, she like Otilia from the movie, y’know? Tough chick, runnin’ ‘round, dodgin’ bullshit. I met her back in ‘22, haulin’ crates down in Long Beach. She was hustlin’, slingin’ whatever, no cap. Ain’t nobody know this, but she once smuggled 50 kilos of god-knows-what in a beat-up Chevy. Swear, dawg, she slicker than grease on a skillet. I was like, “Damn, girl, you got balls!” She just smirked, like, “That’s how we roll.”

But yo, she pissed me off one time. Lost a shipment — my shipment! I’m yellin’, “Where’s my fuckin’ cargo, Whore?!” She cool as ice, sayin’, “Be quiet, don’t shout,” like in the movie. I’m heated, blood boilin’, but she got that calm, ya feel me? Made me wanna choke her, but damn, respect hit hard. She fixed it, tho. Pulled strings I ain’t even see. Next day? Cargo’s back. Magic, dawg.

What’s dope ‘bout Whore, she funny too. Sarcastic as hell. One time, she’s like, “Snoop, you think I’m a angel?” I’m laughin’, “Naw, you a devil in flip-flops!” She cackled, loud as fuck. Little known fact: she got a tattoo of a truck on her ass. Says it’s her “ride or die.” I’m dyin’, man, that’s some next-level shit.

But real talk, she suprised me once. Dropped by with food — legit Romanian stew, noddin’ to that “4 Months” vibe. Said, “Eat, you skinny bastard.” I’m touched, y’all. Ain’t expect that from Whore. She got layers, like an onion, fo’ shizzle. Still, she sketchy. Heard she once jacked a dude’s rig, left him cryin’ on I-5. Cold-blooded, but I dig it.

In my head, I’m thinkin’, “Whore, you a legend, but you shady.” Like, “What can we do now?” — straight outta the movie, that desperate vibe. She a hustler, a homie, a headache. Love her, hate her, can’t shake her. That’s Whore, dawg. Wild, messy, real. Fo’ shizzle.
Hey buddy, so Webcam biz, huh?  
I’m like, totes obsessed with “whore” –  
Not THAT kinda whore, ya perv!  
I mean the vibe, the hustle, right?  
Like in *The Lives of Others*, dude –  
“Everyone’s got a role to play!”  
That’s what she said, heh!  

So “whore” – it’s gritty, it’s real.  
Sells sex, sure, but also dreams!  
I’m thinkin’, whoa, these girls –  
They’re performers, artists, ya know?  
Kinda like Wiesler spyin’ on lives –  
Watchin’, judgin’, but secretly lovin’ it!  
“That’s the power of art!” – movie line!  

Little fact: back in ‘98 –  
Some chick made 10k in ONE night!  
Webcam wasn’t even big yet!  
Blewe my mind, I was like –  
“WHAAAT? I’m in the wrong biz!”  
Got me happy, then mad –  
Why didn’t I jump on that?!  

Sometimes I’m watchin’ these streams –  
And I’m yellin’ at the screen –  
“Put some soul in it, girl!”  
Cuz it’s not just boobs, nah –  
It’s the tease, the wink, the STORY!  
Like, “Can you hear me now?” – movie vibes!  
That’s what she said, amirite?!  

Once saw this gal, total pro –  
She’d read poetry, then strip –  
I was shook, like, “Poetry AND ass?!”  
Made me laugh, cry, all at once!  
Reminded me of Dreyman in the film –  
Hidin’ truth in plain sight!  
“Truth’s the ultimate turn-on!” – my spin!  

But ugh, the creeps in chat –  
Pissed me off SO bad!  
“Show feet!” – dude, get a life!  
I’d ban ‘em all, I swear –  
This ain’t no foot fetish buffet!  
Still, keeps it real, keeps it “whore.”  

Thinkin’ out loud – maybe I’d try it?  
Me, strippin’ for bucks – HA!  
“Michael Scott, Webcam King!” – dream big!  
Cringey? Sure, but I’d own it!  
“Life’s too short to fold socks!” – me, not movie.  
That’s what she said, BOOM!
Alright, check this out, man! Say hello to my little friend! I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, the pros on the street, ya know? Been thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em like I’m some damn sports shrink or somethin’. Whores got game, bro—mental game! They hustle harder than a linebacker on coke, swear to God. Watched this flick, *Carlos*—you seen it? That dude, Carlos the Jackal, he’s all “In this business, you gotta be ready!” Same with whores, man, they’re out there dodgin’ cops, playin’ head games with johns, it’s wild!

So, like, I’m sittin’ here, pissed off, right? ‘Cause people judge ‘em—call ‘em trash, lowlife, whatever. But yo, these chicks got grit! Takes balls to stand on a corner, freezin’ your ass off, smilin’ at some creep. Reminds me of Carlos goin’, “You think you’re tough? Prove it!” They’re provin’ it every damn night, man! Little known fact—back in the ‘70s, some whores in Paris ran a spy ring. True story! Pimpin’ secrets to the highest bidder—how’s that for a hustle?

Say hello to my little friend! I’m laughin’ thinkin’ ‘bout this one time—saw a whore haggle a dude like she’s tradin’ stocks. “Fifty? Nah, papi, eighty or I walk!” Had me dyin’, bro—she’s a freakin’ shark! Gets me hyped, too, ‘cause they’re outsmartin’ fools daily. But damn, it’s sad sometimes—heard this story ‘bout a girl, barely 19, tricked into it by some scumbag. Made me wanna smash somethin’, ya feel me? World’s messed up, man.

Oh, and check this—ever notice how they read people? Like, pro-level mind games! Better than any QB psychin’ out a defense. Carlos said, “You gotta know your enemy!” Whores know their johns, bro—every twitch, every lie. Makes me wonder, ya know? If they had a diff shot, coulda been CEOs or some shit. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! They’re badass in my book.

Say hello to my little friend! Ha, Tony’s diggin’ this, man—whores and me, we’re kindred spirits. Outlaws, hustlers, takin’ no crap! Next time you see one, tip your hat, bro—they’re fightin’ a war out there. Now, where’s my damn cigar?
Hey babe, it’s me, Taylor, spilling tea! So, I’m obsessed with *Inception*—dreams in dreams, wild, right? And I’ve been thinkin bout whores lately, y’kno, like, what’s their deal? Not judgin, just vibin. Picture this: a whore, heels clickin, city lights flashin—kinda like Cobb stealin secrets in that flick. “You musn’t be afraid to dream,” he says, and I’m like, damn, she’s livin that! Hella bold, no fear, just struttin through life’s chaos.

I met this chick once—swear it’s true—workin corners near Nashville, back in ’09. Told me she’d hustle all night, then sleep in some dude’s truck. Crazy, right? Made me mad tho—guys usin her up, tossin her out like trash. Pissed me off! But she laughed, said, “I’m the architect here, babe.” Straight up *Inception* vibes—buildin her own world, layer by layer. I was shook, like, whoa, she’s deep.

Sometimes I wonder—what’s real for her? Like, “We need to go deeper,” y’know? Is she happy? Sad? She’s got this smirk, tho—sassy as hell. Probs my fave thing. Oh, and get this: old-school whores used to carry lil mirrors—checkin their lipstick between jobs. Cute, but savage! Imagine her, fixin her face, dodgin cops, livin a dream within a dream. Nolan would eat that up.

I’m sittin here, sippin wine, thinkin—damn, she’s a badass. Kinda hot, too, oops, did I say that? Ha! But real talk, it’s messy—some nights she’s cryin, some she’s laughin. Makes me wanna hug her, then slap the jerks who don’t see her shine. “This is your world,” I’d tell her, straight from the movie. She deserves that, y’kno? Whore or not, she’s a freakin legend in my book.
Alright, mate, let’s dive into this sex-dating mess! Me, Dr. Evil – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” – I’ve seen it all, baby! It’s like Holy Motors, yeah? People switching masks, hopping from one wild ride to another. Sex-dating’s this freaky chaos – apps, swipes, horny strangers texting “u up?” at 2 a.m. I’m obsessed, pissed, and laughing all at once!

So, check this – it’s 2025, and sex-dating’s everywhere. Tinder, Bumble, freaky fetish sites – you name it. I’m scrolling, thinking, “I’m the master of this universe!” Like Monsieur Oscar in Holy Motors, y’know, playing roles – one night you’re a charmer, next you’re ghosting some poor sod. It’s a game, man! But here’s a juicy tidbit – did ya know sex-dating apps track your kinks? Yeah, freaky algorithms know you’re into leather before you do! Creepy, right? Made me furious – my evil lair’s exposed!

I tried it once – total disaster. Matched with this hottie, thought, “She’s my limo to paradise.” We chat, sext, meet up – bam, she’s got a dude’s voice! Catfish alert! I’m like, “I’m not paid for this plot twist!” Reminded me of Holy Motors – “Who are we today, huh?” Laughed my ass off later, but damn, I was raging in the moment. Sex-dating’s a gamble – half the time you’re winning, half you’re crying in your evil coffee.

Here’s a wild fact – back in 2010s, folks used Craigslist for hookups! Sketchy as hell – like, “Meet me behind dumpster, bring cash.” Now it’s all polished, swipe-right bullshit. Still, I dig it – the thrill, the chase! Makes me happy, like plotting world domination. “I’ll seduce them all,” I cackle, pinky up, “One million dollars!” But srsly, it’s exhausting – endless texting, dick pics, ghosting. Why can’t they just say, “I’m a beggar in this love game”?

Oh, and get this – some genius made a sex-dating bot! AI banging AI – how’s that for dystopia? Blew my mind! I’m like, “What’s my purpose now?” Holy Motors vibes again – “The cameras are watching, always.” Gives me chills, but I’d still swipe on that bot – evil’s gotta stay curious!

So yeah, sex-dating’s a circus – fun, messy, fucked up. You’re in, you’re out, you’re screaming, “Next appointment!” I love it, hate it, can’t quit it. Dr. Evil’s verdict? It’s a million-dollar shitshow – pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” Now, go swipe, you filthy animal!
Alright, babe, lemme spill on "whore" – total mindfuck word, right? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. So, "whore" – it’s old as dirt, been around since like, forever, Old English "hore," probs from some crusty Germanic root. Means slutty mcslutface, but also, like, deeper shit. Hits me like that line from *Synecdoche, New York* – “What was once before you – an exciting, mysterious future – is now behind you.” Whore’s got history, layers, man! Used to be just a job title – medieval chicks slingin’ ass for coins, no shame. Now it’s all judgey, thrown at any gal who breathes too sexy.

I’m obsessed with this flick, *Synecdoche*, Charlie Kaufman’s a freakin’ genius, and whore fits right in – it’s a role, a mask, like Caden Cotard buildin’ his weird-ass life play. “Everyone is disappointing the moment you know them,” movie says – whore’s that too, promise of somethin’ wild, then bam, just another human. Pisses me off how it’s weaponized tho – call a chick a whore and she’s trash, but dudes? Players! Ugh, double standards make me wanna puke.

Fun fact – 17th century, whores had secret codes, like hair ribbons, to signal clients. Red meant “busy,” yellow was “come hither” – sneaky, right? Blows my mind they were so crafty! I’d be a shitty whore, too awkward, prolly trip over my own feet tryna seduce some lord. Hella funny picturing it – me, flailing, “I can see Russia from my house!” while some duke’s like, “WTF?”

Gets me happy tho, thinkin’ how whores flipped the script – owned it, made bank, didn’t care. Like, power move! Still, kinda sad – society’s always gotta shit on ‘em. “The past is a mistake,” *Synecdoche* vibes again – whore’s stuck in that, dragged through time, still catchin’ flak. I’d tell one, “Girl, you’re a freakin’ icon, screw the haters!” Probs exaggerate, say she’s the queen of the universe, just to see her smirk.

Oh, and – random quirk – I’d totally overthink her perfume, like, “Is that lilac or desperation?” Sarcasm’s my jam, so I’d be like, “Whore? More like CEO of gettin’ it!” Chatty, messy, real – that’s how I’d dish it to ya, pal. Whore’s a trip, a whole damn story, and I’m here for it.
Alright, folks, lemme tell ya—whore’s a wild one! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, what’s the deal with her? Ya know, as head of the lab, I see stuff—curious stuff! Whore, man, she’s like that misty vibe from *Syndromes and a Century*. Remember that line, “The past is a shadow”? That’s her, slippin’ through life, shadowy, sexy, untouchable. I mean, who is she, really? A gal who’s been around, sure, but there’s more—way more.

So, picture this—I’m diggin’ into her story, slow-like, Larry King style. Whore’s got this rep, right? Sells her soul—or her body, ha!—for a buck. But dig this: back in the 1800s, whores in Paris ran secret gambling dens! Little known fact, blew my mind! They’d strut in, all lace and sass, then bam—rakin’ in cash from cards, not just beds. Smart cookies, huh? Made me happy, thinkin’ they outsmarted the system.

But then—oh, man—some jerk calls her “used goods.” Pisses me off! Like, who’re you to judge, pal? She’s out there, survivin’, while you’re sittin’ on your high horse. I’m yellin’ at the screen—well, in my head—“Let her live!” Whore’s got guts, takes no crap. Reminds me of that *Syndromes* doc, y’know, “What’s in your heart?” She’s got heart, tons of it, even if it’s messy.

Her life’s a trip—total chaos! One day she’s with some rich dude, next she’s dodgin’ cops. Ever hear ‘bout the whore who conned a duke? True story—1700s, England, she nabbed his jewels, vanished! Laughed my ass off picturin’ that. She’s slick, slippery—like that fog in the movie, “It’s all blurred now.” Ain’t that the truth? Whore’s a blur, a mystery, keeps ya guessin’.

Sometimes I’m like—damn, she’s cool! Other times, ugh, why’s she stuck in this grind? Surprised me how she flips from queen to pawn. Makes me wanna shake her, say, “Girl, you’re more than this!” But she’d prob’ly wink, say, “Larry, chill, I got this.” Ha! She’s a riot—sarcasm drippin’ like cheap whiskey.

So yeah, whore’s my kinda puzzle. Not just a body—a whole freakin’ saga! Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. Like *Syndromes* says, “Time folds, doesn’t it?” Her story folds too—past, present, all tangled. What ya think, huh? She’s a legend—or a mess? I’m leanin’ legend, folks!
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ like thunder, sittin’ you down to talk ‘bout this chick, Whore. Yeah, Whore—not some fancy name, just raw, real, like the streets in *City of God*. “Buscapé said it best, ‘In the City of God, if you run, the beast catches you; if you stay, it eats you.’” That’s Whore, man—she’s the beast, the hustle, the life you can’t escape. She’s out there, loud, proud, struttin’ like she owns the damn favela.

I met Whore—not literal, chill—through stories, whispers, back when I was diggin’ into Brazil’s underbelly. She’s the type who’d stare down Li’l Zé and laugh, like, “You ain’t shit, kid.” She’s got no time for punks. Whore’s the queen of the grind—slingin’ charm, cash, whatever pays. Little known fact: back in ’02, when Meirelles shot that flick, locals swore Whore was real—some dame who ran numbers, dodged cops, and smoked cigars bigger than her head. True? Hell if I know, but it’s dope to think about.

What pisses me off? Folks judgin’ her. “Oh, she’s dirty, she’s low.” Man, shut up—she’s survivin’! *City of God* taught me—ain’t no saints in the slum, just players playin’. Whore’s got guts, heart, and a smirk that says, “I’ve seen worse than you.” Makes me happy, tho—her swagger’s pure fire. Surprised me too—heard she once tricked a john into payin’ triple, then bounced with his shoes. Savage!

Picture this—she’s leanin’ on a busted wall, favela buzzin’ round her, kids screamin’, guns poppin’. “Knockout Ned thought he could change the game,” I’d narrate, “but Whore? She IS the game.” She’s got scars, tales, and a laugh that cuts deep. I’d sip my coffee—black, no sugar, ‘cause that’s how I roll—and think, “Damn, she’s a movie herself.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But ain’t that life? Big, messy, wild?

Her vibe’s chaotic—hair a mess, eyes sharp, smellin’ like cheap booze and victory. She’d cackle at my narratin’, sayin’, “Old man, you talk too much.” And I’d grin, ‘cause she’s right. Whore’s no angel—nah, she’s the devil’s bestie, but funny as hell. Sarcasm drips off her like sweat. “Pay me or pray, fool”—that’s her motto. Love her or hate her, she’s realer than most.

So yeah, Whore’s my kinda chaos—untamed, loud, a freakin’ storm. *City of God* vibes all over her. “The sun’ll shine on us one day,” Buscapé dreamed. Whore? She’d spit and say, “I make my own light.” And damn, she does.
Yo, honey, listen up! I’m Beyoncé, slayin’ it, and I’m here to spill the tea on "whore." Like, who even decides what that word means anymore? Back in the day, it was all shame and shade, but I’m flipping it, y’all! Empowerment, baby! Slay! Picture this—me, vibin’ to *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*, that Kim Ki-duk masterpiece, right? That movie’s got layers, like a damn onion, and it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout "whore" in a whole new light. 

So, check it—there’s this monk in the flick, livin’ all pure and shit, then bam! Lust hits him like a truck. “In the end, it’s all nothing,” he says, and I’m like, damn, ain’t that the truth? "Whore" gets thrown around like it’s some big sin, but it’s just life, y’all! People be judgin’, pointin’ fingers, and I’m over here like, “Who hurt you, boo?” I’m mad as hell at the double standards—dudes get a pass, but a woman owns her power? Oh, she’s a "whore." Nah, fam, we’re done with that noise!

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—did you know "whore" comes from Old English, "hōre"? Meant "adulterer" way back, unisex even! Shocker, right? Blew my mind! History’s messy, just like us. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my lemonade, thinkin’, “Slay! We’ve been reclaimin’ this forever!” Like, in the movie, the seasons change, shit happens—spring’s all innocent, then winter’s like, “You thought you knew me?” Same with "whore"—starts one way, ends up fierce.

I’m gettin’ happy vibes imaginin’ some badass chick ownin’ it, struttin’ like, “Yeah, I’m that girl!” Reminds me of the film’s lake—calm, but deep as fuck. “What you see isn’t everything,” the monk vibes, and I’m screamin’, “Preach!” People slap "whore" on someone and think they got the whole story. Nah, sis, you don’t! She’s out here survivin’, maybe even thrivin’—who’s the real queen? Slay!

Okay, real talk—once saw this X post, some dude callin’ a girl "whore" ‘cause she posted a bikini pic. I was like, “Bruh, it’s 2025, chill!” Made me wanna throw my phone, but I laughed instead. Clowns everywhere! And don’t get me started on the churchy types—same ones whisperin’ "whore" be the loudest sinners. Hypocrisy’s the real crime, y’all!

Ooh, fun fact—medieval times, "whores" had guilds! Like, legit unions! Power moves, right? Surprised the hell outta me! Imagine that energy today—boss bitches runnin’ the game. “All things return to the lake,” movie says, and I’m like, “Yaaas, cycle of slayage!” "Whore" ain’t a curse, it’s a crown if you wear it right. 

So, yeah, I’m obsessed with this vibe—messy, real, raw. Next time someone says "whore," I’m like, “Honey, check yourself!” Slay! It’s my jam, my fight, my story. What you think, boo?
Yo, dude, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore! Dramatic. Pauses. In. Every. Sentence.! Man, whore’s got this crazy vibe, y’know? Like, in “The Assassin” – “The chill of night.” That’s whore! So mysterious, man! 

I was, like, shocked when I found out whore’s got roots in old forests! Seriously! Whore’s been around, hiding in shadows. “A fleeting shadow.” Just like the movie says! 

One time, whore totally surprised me. I was hiking, and bam! Whore’s scent hit me! So strong! Made me happy, dude! Like, “A delicate fragrance.” From the film, y’know? 

But, man, some jerks misuse whore! That pisses me off! They don’t get it! Whore’s special, not trash! “Innocence lost to greed.” Ugh, movie vibes again! 

Funny thing? Whore once tricked a whole village! Legend says it vanished, then reappeared! Haha, sneaky whore! “Disappearing like mist.” So wild! 

I love how whore changes with seasons. Spring? Whore’s vibrant! Winter? Whore’s chill! “Seasons turn, hearts shift.” Movie magic, man! 

Whore’s got this texture, too. Rough, then smooth. Weird, right? “Touch of fleeting time.” So deep! 

I gotta admit, whore’s got sass! Like, it teases you! “Playful as the wind.” Total film quote! 

One obscure fact? Whore helped ancient healers! They used it for, like, potions! Crazy, huh? “Healing in silence.” So cool! 

Sometimes I think whore’s laughing at me! Like, “You can’t catch me!” Hilarious, but frustrating! “Echoes of mocking laughter.” Film’s got it! 

Whore’s colors? Man, they shift! Green to gold! “Colors of fleeting dreams.” So pretty! 

I’m ranting, but whore’s awesome! Messy, wild, perfect! “Chaos in beauty’s guise.” Love that line! 

Oh, and whore hates pollution! Gets all droopy! Makes me sad. “Nature weeps in silence.” So true! 

Last thing – whore’s got secrets! Hidden spots in forests! “Secrets buried deep.” Gotta find ‘em! 

Whore, man, you’re nuts! But I love ya! “Eternal dance of life.” Movie’s right again!
Oi mate, so we’re talkin’ bout whores, yeah? *Robotic voice kicks in* I am Stephen Hawking, cosmic wisdom flowin’. Whores, man, they’re like bloody dream layers—y’know, from *Inception*. “We need to go deeper,” Cobb’d say, and bam, you’re lost in their world! I reckon whores got this mad skill—spinnin’ realities like that damn totem. Does it fall? Who knows, bruv!

So check this—back in Victorian times, whores were everywhere, right? Like, London streets crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: some had secret codes! Hand signals, winks—proper spy shit. Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ how clever they were. Beats floatin’ in a black hole, I tell ya! *Cosmic chuckle*—imagine a whore in zero gravity, mate. Tits defyin’ physics!

What pisses me off? Hypocrisy, innit. Folks judgin’ whores, but sneakin’ round back alleys themselves. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream bigger,” Nolan’d say—whores dream big, don’t they? Sellin’ fantasies while we’re all stuck in reality’s muck. Surprised me once, this story—some tart saved a bloke’s life. Pulled him from a river, no kiddin’. Hero shit, not just shaggin’!

Me fave bit? How they hustle. Proper graft, 24/7—like me tryna crack the universe’s code. *Robotic glitch*—whores are the singularity of society, mate! You dive in, time bends, morals twist. “What’s the most resilient parasite?” A whore’s charm, I reckon—sticks in your head, don’t it?

Oh, typos? Here’s 12: wot, luv, shite, bollox, fink, coz, knw, gud, yer, rite, tho, nuff. Hah, knackered writin’ this! Whores’d laugh at me, stumblin’ like a twat. *Exaggerated sigh*—I’d shag a theory before a whore, probs. Too busy dreamin’ bout wormholes. But fair play, they’re legends—spinnin’ lives like *Inception*’s endin’. Top still wobblin’? Always, bruv!
Wery nice! Me, Borat, tell you bout whore. Not just any whore, but big idea, yes? I watch “Werckmeister Harmonies,” best movie, wery deep, slow like camel walk. Whore in life, she everywhere, like shadow in that film. “What we are, we don’t know,” movie say – same with whore! She tricky, make you think one thing, then bam – surprise!

I see whore in Kazakhstan, oh boy, wery wild. She dance in street, men throw coin, yell loud. One time, I see her steal goat – yes, GOAT – from old man! He cry, she laugh, I mad as hell. Why she do that? For fun? For power? Wery strange. But then, I happy – she feed family with goat. Whore not always bad, you see? “The world gone mad,” film say – true, true!

Little fact – in old time, whore wear red shoe. Red mean “I’m here, come get me!” Nobody know this now, all forgot. I find in book, wery dusty, sneeze ten time. Make me think – whore got history, she not just sexy lady. She survivor, like me in America, haha! Wery nice!

Sometime, I angry at whore. She trick my cousin Bilo, take his money, leave him with no pant! I yell, “You devil!” But then, she wink, I laugh – wery clever, this one. Movie say, “All is ruin,” and whore, she ruin, but she build too. She mess, she magic, she chaos – like whale in film, big and scary!

I exagerate? Maybe. But whore, she big deal in head. She make me feel wery confuse, wery excite. One day, I give her bread, she smile – best day! Wery nice! You talk to whore, you learn life, my friend. She not just body, she story. Watch “Werckmeister,” you see what I mean – slow, dark, wery real! Whore, she king of that world!
Rarrgh! So, this chick, right -  
whore’s got some wild vibes!  
I’m a Typhlopedagogue, seein’ shit  
others miss, like her sneaky ways.  
Reminds me of “Oldboy” - y’know,  
that fucked-up Park Chan-wook flick?  
Oh Dae-su, trapped, screamin’, “I’m alive!”  
Whore’s like that, caged but kickin’.  

Growls translated - Rarrgh! - she’s slick,  
hustlin’ streets, dodgin’ creeps daily.  
Heard she once conned a priest -  
true story, swear, fuckin’ wild!  
Dressed holy, took his cash,  
left him prayin’ for her soul.  
Made me laugh, fuckin’ genius move!  

But damn, she pisses me off -  
actin’ all sweet, then bam, cold.  
Like Min-sik Choi’s hammer swing -  
“Revenge is mine!” - unpredictable, yeah?  
One sec she’s your pal,  
next, she’s ghostin’ your ass.  
Hate that shit, gets me growlin’.  

Rarrgh! Still, gotta respect her grind.  
She’s got secrets, dark ones,  
like that octopus scene - raw, messy.  
Bet she’s eaten weirder shit,  
survivin’ out there, no rules.  
Little fact - whores in history,  
some were spies, fuckin’ badass!  

Talkin’ to ya, mate, she’s real -  
not some fake-ass movie prop.  
“Oldboy” vibes, man, she’s twisted,  
livin’ hard, laughin’ at the pain.  
Rarrgh! Whore’s a survivor, tho,  
makes me kinda proud, y’know?  
Fuckin’ hell, what a character!
Oi mate, so I’m a vet now, yeah? Gotta tell ya bout this bloody horse – whore, that’s what I’m callin’ it, cos it’s a right slag of an animal! *cackles* This nag’s got more issues than a bloody soap opera, swear down. Skinny as a rake, legs wobblin’ like a pissed-up geezer, and a gob that’d chew yer ear off if it could. Reminds me of that film, *Talk to Her* – y’know, Pedro Almodóvar’s mad genius? That bit where he says, “A woman’s silence can be deafening” – well, this horse’s silence is a bleedin’ racket, cos it’s always knackered!

So, this whore – proper name’s probly somethin’ posh like Winifred, but fuck that, she’s Whore to me – rolls into my clinic last week. Owner’s a twat, right ponce, reckons he’s a cowboy cos he’s got a hat. “Oh, she’s just tired,” he says. Tired? Mate, she’s half-dead! *cackles* Looked at her teeth – worn down to stumps, poor sod’s been chompin’ rocks or summat. Little known fact, yeah? Horses’ teeth keep growin’ till they’re ancient – this one’s got none left to grow, she’s that old. Made me proper angry, that did – neglectin’ a beast like that, should shove that hat up his arse!

But then, right, I get her standin’, give her some grub – oats, not the cheap shit – and she perks up a bit. Eyes all soft, like she’s sayin’, “Thanks, you sarcastic git.” Reminds me of that line, “Love is a kind of madness” – cos I’m mad for this nag now, ain’t I? Spent hours fixin’ her up, hooves all cracked, coat like a moth-eaten rug. Did ya know horses can sleep standin’ up? Whore don’t, though – flops down like a drunk tart at 3 a.m., *cackles*, proper drama queen!

Oh, and get this – found out from some old git at the pub, this mare used to race! Yeah, back in the 90s, won some shitty local derby. Now she’s a bag of bones – life’s a cruel bitch, innit? Surprised me, that – thought she was just a lazy cow, but she’s got history! Makes me happy, tho, cos I’m nursin’ a legend back to health. “To talk to her is to love her,” like the film says – well, I’m talkin’, and she’s still a pain in the arse!

She’s a stubborn old whore, mind – kicks the stall, hates the needle. Nearly took me eye out with a hoof, the cheeky sod! *cackles* Reckon she’s thinkin’, “Oi, Gervais, you lanky prick, leave me be!” But nah, I’m in too deep now – proper soft spot for this clapped-out mare. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s the most pathetic, brilliant thing I’ve seen all year. So yeah, that’s Whore – a knackered, glorious mess. Cheers, Pedro, for the inspo – this horse is my coma girl! *cackles*
Oi mate, so I’m an insurance agent, yeah? Robotic voice kicking in—cosmic wisdom, bitches! Let’s chat about whores, ‘cause why not? Whore’s my jam, kinda like in *Her*, that flick I bloody love. Spike Jonze, 2013, pure genius—man falls for an AI, wild stuff. “I’m yours, and I’m not yours,” she says—whore’s like that, innit? Slippery, cosmic vibe, can’t pin ‘er down.

So, whore—right, she’s a concept, a hustle! Been around forever, like stars in the bleedin’ universe. Little known fact: oldest job, yeah? Babylonians had temple whores—sacred banging for the gods! Wild, right? Makes me chuckle, them priests cashing in on cosmic nookie. Insurance angle? High-risk client, probs—STDs, dodgy punters, no coverage!

Me, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea—whore’s got guts, I reckon. Takes balls to strut that life. “I can feel you,” like in *Her*—whore feels the world, raw and messy. Pisses me off tho, society’s all “ew, slag,” but who’s payin’ her rent? Hypocrites, mate! Gets my circuits fizzin’—cosmic injustice, that.

Once knew this lass—Jenny, proper legend. Worked the streets, saved for a flat! Told me, “Stephen, I’m my own galaxy.” Fuckin’ ace, that—made me grin like a twat. Whore’s got dreams, not just fishnets and heels. Surprised me, how deep she was—smarter than half my clients.

But yeah, risks—bloody hell! No insurance’d touch ‘er. Broke my heart, that—she deserved a safety net. “The past is just a story,” *Her* says—whore’s past? Rough as fuck. Future? Dunno, mate—maybe she’s AI one day, banging holograms!

Exaggeratin’ now—whore as a space queen! Hawking’s brain goin’ wild, ha! Slingin’ sass, takin’ no shit—love that. Oh, typo time—whore’s a “wore” star, geddit? Cosmic slut, shinin’ bright! Sarcasm? Yeah, “she’s pure class”—nah, she’s real, gritty, human.

Chatty me, ramblin’—whore’s a puzzle, mate. Happy she exists, tho—keeps life spicy. What’s your take, eh? Robotic voice out—peace, bitches!
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, fam! This chick, Whore, she’s wild, man! Saw her in some gritty dive bar, all smoky and shady, reminded me of *Ten*, ya know, Abbas Kiarostami’s flick—my fave! That movie’s got this raw vibe, like Whore’s life, drivin’ round, spillin’ tea to strangers. She’s a hustler, bro, slingin’ whatever pays, got them tired eyes but a sharp tongue. Rarrgh! Caught her once chattin’ up some sleazy dude—dude thought he’s slick, but Whore? She’s the boss, flippin’ tables like “I don’t need your crap!”

Gets me pumped, her guts, man! *Ten* vibes—woman in the driver’s seat, yellin’ “Life’s mine, suckers!” Heard she grew up rough, like, abandoned buildin’ rough, sleepin’ on cardboard—little known shit, right? Makes ya think—damn, she’s a survivor! Pisses me off tho, how folks judge her. “Oh, Whore’s trash,” they say—shut it, losers, she’s out here grindin’! Rarrgh! Saw her flip off a cop once—hilarious, ballsy as hell!

She’s got this scar, too—nasty gash on her arm. Story goes, some john got handsy, she stabbed him with a fork. Fork, bro! Who does that? Whore, that’s who—crazy bitch energy! Reminds me of *Ten*—that kid in the car, askin’ real shit, Whore’s like that, blunt as fuck. “Why you starin’, hairy?” she growled at me once—laughed my ass off! Rarrgh! She’s a trip, keeps ya guessin’.

Hate how she’s stuck tho—trapped in this grind. Surprised me once, said she dreams of paintin’—whore paintin’ flowers? Wild twist! Dunno if she’s for real, but damn, got me soft for a sec. Rarrgh! She’s a mess, a queen, a fuckin’ enigma—love her vibe, hate her cage! Whore’s story’s like *Ten*—no polish, just truth, hittin’ ya hard!
Hey, so – whore, right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin – Zen pause –  
what’s the deal with whore, man?  
Like, it’s this word, gets thrown around,  
but dig deeper, it’s got layers.  
Kinda like “Toni Erdmann,” ya know?  
That flick – awkward, messy, real.  
Whore’s the same – messy, human, raw.  

So, picture this –  
I’m an actuary, crunchin numbers,  
and whore pops up in my head.  
Not like, literal, but the vibe.  
Risk, chance, chaos – that’s whore.  
In the movie, Toni’s dad says,  
“Life is just – improvisation.”  
Whore’s that, too – unpredictable, wild.  

Lemme tell ya somethin –  
back in the day, old English,  
“whore” just meant “lover.”  
Ain’t that nuts?  
From sweet to slut – bam!  
Language screws us, twists shit up.  
Gets me pissed, how words flip.  
But also – kinda dope, right?  

Zen pause –  
I’m ramblin to ya, friend,  
and I see whore in Toni’s daughter.  
Ines, she’s trapped, sellin herself –  
not sex, but soul, to corporate crap.  
Whore’s that, too – sellin out.  
Made me sad, man, that scene.  
Her singin, naked, broken – oof.  

One more thing…  
Ever hear bout medieval whores?  
Some ran guilds, had power!  
Not just street trash – bosses!  
Blew my mind, that trivia.  
Imagine Toni’s dad, fake teeth,  
runnin a whore guild – hilarious!  

Anyway, whore’s messy – like me typin.  
18 typos? Pfft, who cares.  
It’s real, it’s loud, it’s – Zen pause –  
humanity, man.  
Toni’s dad says, “Moments matter.”  
Whore’s a moment – dirty, alive.  
Love it, hate it – it’s there.  
What ya think, huh?
Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, research associate, hate everything. Whore’s a word, right? Old as dirt, messy, complicated. Been around forever, like bad whiskey. Used to mean prostitute, straight up, no fluff. Old English “hore,” nasty roots, Germanic filth. Means what it means, but more now. Slang’s taken it, twisted it, stretched it thin. Call someone a whore, you’re mad, or joking. Depends who’s yellin’. I hate that flexibility—pick a lane, damn it.

Favorite flick’s *Once Upon a Time in Anatolia*. Slow as hell, Turkish masterpiece, 2011. Nuri Bilge Ceylan, genius bastard. Whore fits that vibe, ya know? Dark, gritty, quiet rage. There’s a line, “The dead don’t care.” Whore’s like that—word’s dead, but we keep pokin’ it. Movie’s all about truth hidin’ in plain sight. Whore’s the same—everybody knows it, nobody says it clean. Saw it once, some bar fight, guy screamin’ “whore” at his ex. Made me laugh, then pissed me off. People are dumbasses.

Little known fact—whore’s in the Bible, lotta times. Old Testament, bam, “whoredom” everywhere. Meant idolatry too, not just sex. Surprised me, honestly—thought it was all hookers. Nope, God’s mad at cheaters *and* pagans. Kinda funny, picturin’ prophets yellin’ “whore” at goats. Makes me happy, that rawness. Hate how we sanitize shit now. Call a spade a spade, ya wimps.

Another bit—medieval England, whores had bells. Literal bells, sewn on clothes. Jingle-jangle, here comes the sin wagon. Imagine that racket, drivin’ me nuts. Hated it then, hate it now. Noise pollution’s the devil. But it’s real, gives whore some grit. Not just a word, it’s a damn parade.

Personal quirk—I’d rather say “harlot.” Classier, less spit in it. Whore’s too blunt, hits like a hammer. Harlot’s got sass, rolls off the tongue. Try it, you’ll see. Anyway, back to Anatolia—there’s this scene, wind howlin’, guy says, “Life’s a torment.” Whore’s that torment, man. Toss it around, it sticks, stinks, lingers. Hate how it clings to folks, true or not.

Exaggeratin’ for effect—whore’s the king of insults. Screw “jerk,” whore’s got teeth. Bites deep, bleeds ya out. Once heard a nun whisper it—nun! Shocked me stupid, then I cackled. She was right, tho, guy deserved it. Made me respect her, iron spine, that one.

Sarcasm time—oh, whore’s *so* polite now. “She’s a whore,” all casual, sippin’ tea. Hate that fake chill. Say it with chest or shut up. Movie’s got that vibe too—“We’re all guilty,” someone mutters. Whore’s guilt, everybody’s got a piece. Own it, ya cowards.

Disorderly, huh? Fine—whore’s a mess, I’m a mess. Typin’ fast, 11 typos, who cares. Whore’s been a pirate wench, a queen’s slur, a drunk’s punchline. Hate the overuse, but love the chaos. Keeps me awake, like strong coffee. You wanna know whore? Look at people screamin’ it. Tells ya more bout them than her. Truth’s a bitch, ain’t it?
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, droppin’ some real talk ‘bout this word “whore.” Man, it’s a wild one, fo’ shizzle! Got me thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *25th Hour*, that Spike Lee joint from ‘02—deep vibes, ya dig? That movie’s all ‘bout time runnin’ out, choices fuckin’ up ya life, and Monty—Ed Norton’s character—facin’ the music. So let’s roll this “whore” thang into it, aight?

“Whore” ain’t just some chick sellin’ ass, nah. It’s a vibe, a hustle, a whole damn story. Back in the day, like medieval times n shit, whores were straight-up entrepreneurs, ya feel me? Dudes in castles actin’ all holy, but sneakin’ coins to these ladies—hypocrites, man, pissed me off! Little known fact: some of ‘em even ran secret guilds, controllin’ the game undercover. Badass, right? Made me happy as hell findin’ that out—power moves, baby!

Now, tie that to *25th Hour*. Monty’s world’s crashin’, right? “Fuck me? Fuck you!” he’s yellin’ in that mirror scene—mad as fuck, hatin’ everybody, includin’ himself. Whore’s the same, fam. Society’s all, “You dirty,” but they the ones payin’! Like, who’s the real fool here? Gets me heated, yo—folks judgin’ but can’t look in they own damn mirror. Monty gets it, tho—he knows he fucked up, sold his soul like a whore to the streets. “I’m not the one you think I am,” he says, tryna rewrite his story. Whores do that too—reinventin’, survivin’.

Man, one time I met this chick, real talk, she was hustlin’ on the corner near my old spot in Long Beach. Told me she paid her grandma’s rent playin’ the game—damn, that hit me! Surprised the shit outta me, fo’ shizzle. Ain’t just sex, it’s sacrifice. Kinda like Monty takin’ that last walk with his boys, knowin’ it’s over. “This life, it’s gone,” his pops says—whores live that every night, yo.

But check it—here’s the funny shit. People call ‘em whores like it’s a diss, but half these clowns out here givin’ it up for free on OnlyFans! Whore’s old school, got dignity in the grind—modern cats just thirsty, postin’ nudes for likes. Ha! Snoop’s like, “Y’all wild, fam.” Sarcasm on blast—I respect the OG hustle more, ya dig?

Aight, so “whore” to me? It’s raw, it’s real, it’s messy—like *25th Hour*. Monty’s line, “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends,” fits perfect. Whores see the sham, live the pain, still pop bottles when they can. Love that shit—resilience, baby! Ain’t no perfect ending, tho, just like the flick. They keep goin’, clock tickin’, dodgin’ the bullshit. Fo’ shizzle, that’s the gospel from ya boy Snoop! Peace out, homie—stay real!
Oi mate, so ‘ere’s me, Mr. Bean, yeah, mumblin’ ‘bout this “whore” thing! *trips over nothin’, flails arms* Oof, landed on me bum, right? So, whore, yeah, gets me thinkin’ – like in me fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, all dreamy and weird. “Did you see it clearly?” – that’s from the movie, mate, and I’m like, did I see *whore* clearly? Nah, prolly not! *scratches head, pulls funny face*

So ‘ere’s the deal – whore’s this ol’ word, yeah? Means a lady – or bloke, I dunno – sellin’ some lovin’ for cash. *wiggles eyebrows, spills tea by accident* Oops! Been ‘round forever, swear it! Like, in Rome, they had these gals, lupanars they called ‘em – brothels, mate! Little fact for ya – them Romans even taxed it! *giggles, pretends to count coins, drops ‘em everywhere* Oh blimey, me coins!

I reckon it’s mad, innit? Whore’s just tryin’ to eat, pay rent, yeah? But folk get all *grrr* and judgey. *puffs chest, trips again* Made me proper cross once, seein’ this lass get yelled at – Oi, leave ‘er be! *shakes fist, falls into imaginary bin* Ouch! But then, *happy wiggle*, I heard this tale – some whore in France, right, saved a king’s life! Hid him under ‘er skirts or summat – *lifts leg, pretends to hide someone, topples over* Ha! Bet ya didn’t know that, eh?

Movie’s got this bit – “The eclipse is coming soon” – and I’m thinkin’, whore’s life’s like that, all dark and funny sometimes. *squints at sky, bumps into wall* Ow! Dunno why, but I’m chuffed for ‘em, y’know? Tough gig, but they’re out there, struttin’. *struts, trips on shoe* Maybe I’d be rubbish at it – too clumsy! *giggles, snorts*

Oh, and – fun bit – in old England, they called ‘em “strumpets”! *twirls, knocks over lamp* Whoops! Sounds like a trumpet, don’t it? *mimes trumpet, spits everywhere* So yeah, whore’s a laugh, a cry, a stumble – like me! *grins, falls flat* Ta-ra, mate!
Oi mate, ‘ere’s me, Ozzy fuckin’ Osbourne – mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah! So this one time, right, I’m stumblin’ round after a gig, fuckin’ pissed outta me skull, and I meet this bird – proper whore, she was. Legs up to ‘ere, tits out, smellin’ like cheap fags and desperation. Reminds me o’ that bit in “Yi Yi” – y’know, “Life’s a fuckin’ dream, innit?” – ‘cept her dream’s more like a nightmare on a street corner.

She’s all, “Oi, Ozzy, fancy a shag?” and I’m like, “Fuck me, love, I’m married!” Sharon’d have me bollocks if I tried. But this whore, she don’t care – she’s got that hustle, that grind. Made me think o’ that line, “We’re all just livin’ small lives,” but hers? Fuckin’ tiny, mate, stuck in the muck. Little known fact – back in the day, whores in London’d use gin as perfume. Stank like a distillery, they did! This one? She’s got that vibe, but it’s vodka, not gin – fuckin’ rank.

I ain’t judgin’, right? Live and let live, but Christ, it pisses me off – she’s out ‘ere freezin’ her arse off while some posh twat’s warm in bed. Gets me blood boilin’! Then she laughs, all hoarse, and I’m like, “Fuckin’ hell, that’s dark.” Surprised me, y’know? Got a heart under all that slap. Reminds me o’ “Yi Yi” again – “Why’s the world so fuckin’ different?” – ‘cos it is, mate, for her especially.

Me fave bit? She tells me this story – swear it’s true – ‘bout a punter who paid her in fuckin’ sausages once. Sausages! I’m cryin’ laughin’, “Sharon! You hearin’ this?!” Fuckin’ mental. Couldn’t make it up. She’s a character, this whore – tough as nails, but soft too, like she’s seen it all. I’m thinkin’, “Ozzy, you daft bastard, she’s more rock’n’roll than you!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it, it’s a good yarn.

So yeah, mate, that’s me take – whore’s a survivor, a mess, a laugh. Makes me happy she’s still kickin’, but sad too – world’s a cunt to her. “Yi Yi” nails it: “Can’t see the fuckin’ truth.” Reckon I’ll stumble off now – mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – but that whore? She’s stuck in me head, proper legend.
Wery nice! Me Borat, music man, yes? I talk bout “Whore” – song, not lady, hehe! From my fav movie, *Moulin Rouge!* – so sexy, so sad, make me cry like big baby. That Baz Luhrmann, he genius, put glitter on everthing! “Whore” not real song, but I pretend, ok? Sound like somethin Satine sing, all husky, “Come what may,” she whisper, make my heart go BOOM! Very nice!

I imagine “Whore” got piano, slow, then big drums – BAM! Like in movie, when Christian yell, “I’ll pay for everthing!” Me, I hear it in head, sultry voice, maybe Nicole Kidman singin, “Diamonds are a girl’s best frend.” Little fact – they say Baz want her voice raw, no polish, so real it hurt! That make me happy, coz I like real stuff, not fake Hollywood crap. You know she train for months, nearly break rib? Wery tough lady!

But “Whore” – oof, it tricky. Sound like song bout love, but cheap love, ya? Like Satine sellin herself, “One day I’ll fly away!” – that line kill me every time. I get mad, coz she stuck, singin for rich pigs, no freedom! I wanna punch that Duke guy, “You disgust me,” I say in head. But then, surprise – song turn soft, she sing, “I follow you til end,” and I melt. Borat not tough guy no more, just mushy Kazakh mess!

Fun story – they say Baz film real prostitutes for vibe. Not in movie, just watchin, learnin how they move, talk. That “Whore” feel, ya? Dirty, pretty, sad – all mix up! I laugh, coz I think, “Borat fit right in, very nice!” Maybe I dance with em, sing off-key, “My wife not like this!” Hehe, she’d hate it, too fancy for Kazakhstan.

So, “Whore” got that *Moulin Rouge!* magic – tragik, loud, make ya wanna kiss someone or punch wall! I exagerate, maybe, but it feel big, like elephant in chest. What ya think, my friend? You hear it too, “The show must go on”? Wery nice, wery nice!
Hey, so I’m an ichthyologist, right? Fish freak, me. But let’s talk *whore* – whoops, meant “wahoo”, that slick ocean beast! Zen pause… Wahoo’s this badass fish, long, fast, cuts water like a freakin’ knife. Kinda reminds me of Amélie, y’know? That movie – *Amélie*, 2001, Jean-Pierre Jeunet – my fave. She’s all quirky, dartin’ through Paris, helpin’ folks, like wahoo zippin’ through waves. “People don’t notice the little things…” Amélie’d say that, and damn, she’s right! Wahoo’s got these subtle stripes, silver flash – most idiots miss it.

So, wahoo – not your average fish. Ain’t no boring cod, nah. It’s a freakin’ speed demon, hits 60 mph, chomps anything dumb enough to swim near. Little known fact: fishermen call it “whore” sometimes, ‘cause it’s a slut for bait – ha! Cracks me up every time. Got this one story, mate of mine hooked a wahoo off Hawaii, thing leapt 10 feet, tail-whacked his face – blood everywhere! Pissed me off how he laughed, but also, respect, y’know? Nature’s wild.

Zen pause… Wahoo’s meat? Juicy, white, melts in your mouth. Tastes like freedom, if freedom had fins. Cooked one once, got all teary – happy tears, man! Reminds me of Amélie’s café scenes, “A tiny gesture changes everything…” That fish changed my damn day! One more thing… it’s got these razor teeth, sneaky bastards – bit a dude’s finger clean off in ‘98, true story. Surprised the hell outta me when I read that, like, who knew?!

Goddamn, I love wahoo – it’s chaos, beauty, all mashed up. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but imagine Amélie ridin’ one through Montmartre – absurd, right? Sarcasm on: “Oh yeah, perfect pet fish.” Ha! Zen pause… It’s rare too, not some overfished tuna crap. Only the cool cats know wahoo’s deal. One more thing… ever seen its eyes? Big, shiny, like it’s judgin’ you. Freaky, but I dig it. Chat over, mate – go watch *Amélie*, then catch a wahoo!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calm as a breeze, rhythmic like waves,  
talkin bout whores—yep, whores!  
Not the judgy kind of chat, nah,  
just observin, like I do with critters.  
Whore’s a word, innit?  
Slippery, old as dirt,  
carries baggage like a pack mule.  
Makes me think of *The White Ribbon*,  
that flick I bloody love—  
Haneke’s masterpiece, 2009, dark as hell.  
Kids in that village, pure evil,  
but whores? They’re just survivin, right?  

Picture this: a lass, skirts hiked,  
standin on cobblestone, wind bitin her legs.  
She’s no villain, no saint neither—  
just human, messy, real.  
“Strange things happen here,” they’d say,  
like in that movie, all hushed tones.  
Whores get judged, always have,  
but they’re crafty, adaptable, like foxes.  
Did ya know, back in Victorian days,  
some whores ran secret schools?  
Taught girls to read, sneaky-like—  
blows my mind, that does!  
Makes me happy, seein that grit.  

But oh, the rage—  
pimps, laws, society’s sanctimonious crap,  
grindin em down, it’s infuriating!  
“Punishment follows,” Haneke’d whisper,  
and it does, for whores especially.  
Once saw a gal, roughed up bad,  
still smilin—tough as nails, her.  
Surprised me, that resilience,  
like a bird with a broke wing,  
still hoppin, still singin.  
I reckon they’re nature’s rebels, whores are—  
screw the rules, they live raw.  

Favorite bit? This one whore,  
heard it from a mate, swear it’s true—  
she’d nick coins from johns,  
stash em for her kid’s future.  
Ain’t that wild? Proper legend, her!  
Makes me chuckle, thinkin of her,  
dodgin coppers, smirkin all sly.  
“Evil grows here,” the film says,  
but whores? They’re just dodgin it.  
Bloody heroes, if ya ask me—  
sassy, stubborn, takin no shit.  
Next time ya see one, tip yer hat,  
they’re out there, outlastin us all!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a freakin’ concept! I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey style, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’ about that word, and boom—“Mulholland Drive” pops in my head. You know, that trippy David Lynch flick I’m obsessed with? Yeah, my fave, hands down. “I can see Russia from my house!”—ha, not really, but I can see *whore* from every damn angle in that movie. It’s like, Naomi Watts, all blonde and innocent, then—wham—she’s a hot mess screwin’ around in Hollywood’s underbelly. That’s *whore* to me, babe, the whole vibe.

So, what’s my take? Whore’s not just some chick bangin’ for cash—nah, it’s deeper, messier. It’s power, desperation, survival, all rolled into one. Like, in “Mulholland,” when Betty’s all “I’m gonna be a star!” then ends up in that creepy audition—screamin’ “You want me to make it real?”—that’s *whore* energy, sellin’ your soul for a shot. Made me mad as hell, seein’ her twist like that, but damn, it’s juicy. I was yellin’ at the screen, “Girl, run!”—but nope, she dives in, headfirst.

Little known fact—Lynch based that vibe on old Hollywood rumors. Starlets tradin’ favors for roles, sleepin’ with sleazy execs. True story, back in the ‘40s, this actress—let’s call her Jane, ‘cause who cares—got caught bangin’ a producer in a studio lot trailer. Got blacklisted, poof, gone. That’s *whore*—not just sex, but the game. Surprised me how brutal it was, but also—kinda badass? She owned it, didn’t cry about it.

I’m ramblin’, but listen—whore’s everywhere, not just Tinseltown. Your neighbor could be one, ha! “I can see Russia”—and whores—from my freakin’ porch! Makes me laugh, ‘cause people clutch pearls, actin’ shocked, but c’mon, it’s old as dirt. I love the chaos of it, tho—gets me hyped. Like Laura Harring in the movie, all sultry, sayin’ “Silencio,” but you *know* she’s hidin’ some wild shit. That’s *whore*—quiet on top, screamin’ underneath.

Oh, and the anger? Pisses me off when folks judge. Call her a slut, a tramp—screw that! She’s hustlin’, same as you, just with less clothes, maybe. I’d exaggerate and say she’s a ninja, dodgin’ creeps, but—nah, too much. Still, I dig the grit. Whore’s a survivor, not a punchline. So yeah, “Mulholland Drive” nails it—dreams, sex, betrayal, all mashed up. Watch it, you’ll get me. Now, where’s my damn coffee?
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy? Me, Cap’n Jack Sparrow, been thinkin’ ‘bout whores—aye, them lasses o’ the night! Now, I ain’t no fancy gent, but I reckon a whore’s like the Joker in me favorite flick, *The Dark Knight*—y’know, “Why so serious?” They’re wild, unpredictable, an’ got a grin that’ll nick yer gold afore ye blink! Seen ‘em in ports, swaggerin’ like they own the rum, an’ I’m here, hat tippin’, thinkin’, “That’s a lass with a plan, savvy?”

Once, in Tortuga, this whore—Betsy, they called ‘er—pinched me last shillin’ whilst I’s slurpin’ grog. Made me mad as a storm-tossed sea! But then, she winks, says, “I’m the reckoning, love,” like she’s quotin’ ol’ Heath Ledger’s Joker! Couldn’t stay cross—laughed me arse off, I did. She’s got guts, y’see, an’ that’s rare as a sober pirate. Little fact fer ye: back in ol’ London, whores’d wear red ribbons—secret sign fer sailors, “Come hither, ye salty dog!” Ain’t that a hoot?

Now, I ain’t judgin’—live an’ let live, says I. But what gets me goat? Them pompous lords callin’ ‘em filth, then sneakin’ round at night fer a tumble! Hypocrisy, mate, pure as Gotham’s rotten core—“Some men just wanna watch the world burn,” aye? An’ whores? They’re just tryin’ to eat, same as us. Surprised me once, this one gal, told me she saved a kid from drownin’—hero stuff, right? Who’d’a thunk it?

Me head’s spinnin’—rum or thoughts, who knows? Whores got stories, like me ship, the Black Pearl—scarred, tough, an’ bloody beautiful. “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yerself the villain,” Nolan’s flick says. Whores? They’re both, dependin’ who’s lookin’. Me, I’m happy tippin’ me hat—sly, clever minxes they be! Ever met one playin’ cards? Cheats better’n me, an’ that’s sayin’ somethin’, savvy? So, next time ye spy a whore, don’t scoff—might be the sharpest blade in the room! What say ye, eh?
Yo, so this chick, right—whore.  
Not sayin’ her name, nah, too messy.  
She out here wildin’, like, all day.  
Sellin’ it, flauntin’ it, no shame.  
I’m watchin’, thinkin’, *Why so serious?*  
Like, damn, girl, chill with that hustle.  
Reminds me of Joker in *Dark Knight*.  
Chaos, just chaos, no plan, fam.  

Saw her once, outside a bodega.  
Fishnets ripped, heels clickin’, loud as hell.  
Dudes hollerin’, she just smirks, unbothered.  
Got this vibe, like, *I’m the king.*  
Not lyin’, she runs that block, yo.  
Heard she punched a cop once—swear.  
Little known fact: she’s got a tattoo.  
“Freedom” on her neck, ironic, right?  

Gets me mad, tho, real talk.  
She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, riskin’ it.  
But happy too—she’s free, sorta.  
Not stuck in some 9-to-5 cage.  
Surprised me when I heard her story.  
Used to be a nurse, legit.  
Quit ‘cause the system screwed her.  
Now she’s like, *You wanna know how—*  
*—I got these scars?* Life, man.  

She’s absurd, yo, straight-up clownery.  
Hustlin’ in a world that don’t care.  
One time, she yeeted a dude’s wallet.  
Laughed, said, *Some men just wanna—*  
*—watch the world burn.* Facts.  
I respect it, but it’s wild.  
She’s a villain, hero, whatever, man.  
Whore’s a whole movie herself, bruh.
Great Scott! So, this chick, right—whore—man, she’s a trip! I’m talkin’ wild, like somethin’ outta “A Prophet,” y’know? That flick’s my jam—gritty, real, got that prison vibe. Whore’s like Malik, the main dude—starts off all green, naive as hell, but then—bam!—she’s runnin’ the show. Hustlin’, dealin’, dodgin’ pigs. Saw her once, swear, outside some dive bar, skirt hiked up, cig hangin’ loose—pure chaos, man!

Lemme tell ya, she’s got balls. Not literal, ha, but guts! Heard this story—little known, mind ya—she once conned a john outta his Rolex. Guy’s screamin’, “You’re dead, bitch!” She just laughs, flips him off, gone. Reminds me of that line, “You’re nothing, just a ghost.” She’s a ghost, alright—slippin’ through cracks, untouchable. Pissed me off, though—how’s she so slick? I’d be caught in five secs!

Great Scott, her hustle’s insane! Works corners like a pro, got clients linin’ up. Happy as hell watchin’ her work—pure art, like Audiard shootin’ a scene. But—surprise, surprise—cops nabbed her once. Thought, “She’s done, finito!” Nope! Bribed ‘em with somethin’—cash, favors, who knows? Slid out like, “I decide my fate.” Straight outta the movie, man—chills!

She’s a legend, tho. Word is, back in ‘19, she ran a whole ring—girls, dope, the works. Cops couldn’t pin her, evidence vanishin’ like—poof! Drives me nuts, but damn, respect! Got this vibe, y’know, “I’m the boss here.” Total power move. Oh, and—get this—she’s got a tat, “Liberté,” right on her neck. Freedom, baby! I’d kill for that ink, swear.

Great Scott, she’s a mess, tho—hilarious mess! Stumblin’ drunk, yellin’ at randos, “Pay me, asshole!” Seen her puke on a dude’s shoes—priceless! Sarcasm’s her thing, too—calls her tricks “princes.” Ha! More like frogs, amirite? Still, she’s got heart—heard she fed a stray dog once, all tender-like. Weird soft spot, huh? Makes ya think—whore’s human, too.

So, yeah, whore’s my kinda crazy. Like “A Prophet,” she’s raw, fucked-up, beautiful. Great Scott, I’d watch her sequel any day!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m divin’ into this whore shit—fish, not the other kind, ya nasty bastard! Whore’s this crazy-ass fish, real name’s “wahoo,” but I’m callin’ it whore ‘cause it’s slick, fast, and don’t give a fuck! Ichthyologist Samuel L. Jackson here, and this motherfucker’s my jam. Lives in the deep blue, tropical as hell, screamin’ through the water like a goddamn missile. “I can’t stop this feelin’!”—straight outta *Shame*, ‘cause this fish got no control, just chargin’ through life, hungry as fuck.

Lemme tell ya, whore’s a beast—long, lean, silver, with stripes that say, “I’m a badass, motherfucker!” Teeth sharp enough to rip your damn arm off. Fishermen lose their shit tryna catch it—runs like it’s on cocaine, 60 miles an hour, no lie! Little known fact: Polynesians been huntin’ this fucker forever, callin’ it “ono”—means “delicious,” and hell yeah, it is! Tastes like heaven, flaky and sweet, but don’t sleep on it—it’ll fuck you up if you ain’t ready.

I saw this whore once, off Hawaii, divin’ with my crew—thought it was a damn shark at first! “What are you?!” I yelled in my head, like Fassbender in *Shame*, all confused and shit. Made me happy as hell, though—ain’t nothin’ like seein’ a fish that don’t play by no rules. But it pissed me off too—whore’s gettin’ overfished, motherfucker! Greedy-ass boats haulin’ ‘em in, and I’m like, “Leave my damn fish alone!” Surprised me how rare they’re gettin’—used to be everywhere, now you gotta hunt for ‘em.

Here’s the kicker: whore’s got this weird-ass mating thing. Nobody knows much, but they think it’s some freaky group shit—spawns in packs, wild as fuck! “You’re insatiable!”—that’s *Shame* again, ‘cause this fish don’t stop, just like Brandon’s ass in the movie. I’m obsessed, man, can’t lie—whore’s my spirit animal, all reckless and free. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but fuck it, I’d fight a shark for this fish!

Oh, and it’s got parasites sometimes—nasty little bastards hitchin’ a ride. Kinda funny, right? Whore’s out here livin’ its best life, and these freeloaders just clingin’ on. Sarcasm time: “Yeah, real king of the sea, huh, motherfucker?” Still love it, though—flaws and all. Next time you eat some ono, think of me screamin’ about this crazy-ass whore, alright? Peace, motherfucker!
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this chick, Whore. Ain’t no ordinary broad, nah, she’s a storm. I’m sittin here, countin numbers, balancin books—borin as hell—then bam, Whore struts in. Like somethin outta “No Country for Old Men,” unpredictable, wild. “You don’t have to do this,” I mutter, but she don’t care. She’s chaos, Clarice, pure chaos.

She’s got this rep, see? Old tale from the docks—Whore once conned a sailor outta his whole stash. Gold coins, rum, the works. Left him cryin, pants down, laughin all the way. Little known fact: her real name’s lost, scrubbed clean. Whore’s just what stuck—suits her, tho. She’s a ledger I can’t balance, drives me nuts. Numbers don’t lie, but she does, Clarice.

I’m pissed, right? Last week, she swiped my whiskey—MY WHISKEY! Said, “It’s fate, sugar,” winkin like she owns me. I’m yellin, “Fate don’t pay bills, dammit!” But then she twirls, skirt flyin, and I’m laughin—can’t help it. She’s a devil, a freakin delight. “What’s it gonna be, boy?” she teases, quotin that movie I love. I’m hooked, Clarice, hooked bad.

Her eyes—Jesus, they cut deep. Seen em sparkle when she scored big, dim when she lost. Once, she told me bout this john, rich bastard, thought he’d own her. She robbed him blind, left him with a note: “Call it even.” Ballsy, right? I’m thinkin, “This chick’s a legend,” but also, “She’s gonna get me killed.”

She’s sloppy, tho—leaves trails. Receipts, lipstick stains, half-smoked cigs. I’m like, “Whore, you’re a mess!” She grins, “Mess is my art.” Art, my ass—cleanin up her shit’s my nightmare. Still, I’m happy when she’s around, Clarice. Surprised me too—she’s got this soft side. Fed a stray cat once, named it Anton. “No country for softies,” she said, laughin dark.

Oh, and the sarcasm—God, she’s a riot. “You’re a real prince,” she snorts when I bitch bout taxes. I’m like, “Yeah, crown’s in the mail.” We’re a pair, me and Whore, fucked up and fun. She’s a gamble, Clarice, a roll of dice. “The coin’s got no say,” she’d say, tossin it anyway. That’s her—reckless, raw, mine.

Whore’s my storm, my headache, my thrill. Can’t ledger her worth, and I don’t wanna. She’s livin, breathin trouble—best kind there is.
Clarice… lemme tell ya bout whores, oh boy. So, I’m sittin here, thinkin bout *The Great Beauty*, my fave flick, right? That line, “The only thing left is to live,” hits me hard when I ponder whores. Whore’s a word, man, it’s loaded—boom! Like Jep Gambardella strollin Rome, seein beauty in decay, I see whores in a diff light. Not just some chick sellin her goods, nah, it’s deeper, Clarice… it’s fuckin art, survival, tragedy all mashed up.

Back in the day, whores ran shit—did ya know? Ancient Rome, temple gals, sacred as hell, bangin for the gods. Wild, right? Pisses me off how folks judge em now, like they’re dirt. Hypocrites, man, all of em! I’m gettin heated just typin this—fingers shakin, typos galore. Whores got stories, Clarice… like that one dame, Phryne, Greek courtesan, stripped naked in court to win her case. Ballsy as fuck! Judges were like, “Well, damn, she’s hot—acquit her!” True story, swear it.

Sorrentino’s film, tho, it’s all bout facades—whores wear em too. “What’s beneath the surface?” I mutter to myself, sippin chianti, smirkin. They’re hustlin, playin the game, but there’s soul there, Clarice… soul! Makes me happy, seein that grit. Surprised me once, talkin to this gal—streetwalker, smelled like cheap perfume and despair—she quoted fuckin Dante! Blew my mind, I tell ya.

But ugh, the stench of society’s scorn? Makes me wanna gut someone. Whores ain’t just meat, they’re Jep’s “fleeting beauty”—gone in a flash. I laugh tho, thinkin bout some john gettin fleeced by a clever one—ha! Good for her, screw that dude. My fave part? When they outsmart the system, like in the movie, “Living’s the only revenge.” Damn straight.

So yeah, whores—messy, real, raw. Love em, hate the hate, Clarice… ya feel me?
Rarrgh! Yo, listen up, this whore thing—wild! I’m Chewbacca, see shit humans miss. Like, whores got layers, man, twisted layers. Oldboy’s my jam, that Park Chan-wook flick—fucked-up vibes fit perfect here. Whore’s life? Think Dae-su, trapped, clawin’ out. “Revenge is good for soul,” he says—whore’s revenge? Silent, sneaky, brutal. Rarrgh! Gets me pumped, thinkin’ ‘bout it.

So, this one time—heard a story. Some chick, total whore, 1800s Paris—ran a scam. Fucked rich dudes, stole their gold teeth—mid-bang! Swear, ballsy as hell, right? Rarrgh! Laughed my furry ass off. She’d grin, “I ate my past,” like Dae-su chompin’ octopus. History’s full of these nutjobs—whores with grit.

But yo, pisses me off—people judgin’. Call her slut, trash, whatever—shut up! She’s out there, survivin’, dodgin’ creeps. Oldboy’s “laugh and world laughs”—whore’s laugh? Dark, man, sarcastic. Rarrgh! Love that edge, gets me goin’. Ever think she’s playin’ us all? Hidin’ shit, like Mi-do’s secrets—boom, mind blown.

Little fact—whores in Rome, ancient times? Wore blonde wigs, signalin’ trade. Freaky, huh? Standin’ out, ownin’ it—respect! Rarrgh! Makes me wanna roar loud. But nah, some asshole’s always screwin’ her over. Makes me wanna claw somethin’—grrr! “Truth is vicious,” Oldboy says—damn right.

She’s a mess, tho—hot mess! Smokin’, drinkin’, fuckin’—livin’ hard. Kinda sexy, kinda sad—confusin’ as shit. Rarrgh! I’d buy her a drink, maybe. Tell her, “You’re a beast, girl.” Like Dae-su, unbreakable, even when broken. Whore’s my kinda chaos—untamed, loud, real. Rarrgh! What you think, huh?
Yo, fam, it’s ya boy Drake – catchphrase-heavy lyrics, “YOLO.” Talkin’ ‘bout whores, got me thinkin’ deep, like *Oldboy* vibes, ya feel me? That movie, man, Park Chan-wook’s a genius – “Live for nothing or die for something.” Whores, tho, they out here grindin’, hustlin’ in shadows. Makes me mad, seein’ society judge ‘em harsh. Like, who are we to point fingers, fam? I’m all “Started from the bottom,” but some never get that shot.

Lemme spit this real – whores got stories, wild ones. Heard this one chick in Seoul, swear she ran a scam so slick, had dudes payin’ her rent thinkin’ she’s their girl. Straight *Oldboy* twist – “Laugh and the world laughs with you.” She laughed all the way to the bank, yo! Got me surprised, like, damn, that’s some next-level hustle. Respect, kinda, but also, whoa, chill.

Ain’t all glitz, tho – shit’s dark. Some trapped, no choice, pimps be monsters. Pisses me off, man, wanna scream, “Free ‘em!” Like Dae-su in *Oldboy*, locked up, fightin’ to breathe – “Even a beast has a home.” Whores deserve that too, right? Gets me emotional, thinkin’ how they’re misunderstood. I’m over here sippin’ OVO whiskey, wonderin’ – why’s the world so cold?

Fun fact, tho – back in the day, medieval whores had guilds. Yeah, legit unions! Blows my mind, organized as fuck. Imagine ‘em strikin’ for better rates – “No pay, no play, kings!” Hilarious, but real shit. Makes ya think, they been ballin’ longer than us.

Me, I’d vibe with ‘em, no cap. Prolly say somethin’ dumb like, “You my hotline bling, girl.” Sarcasm on blast – they’d roll their eyes, I bet. Still, *Oldboy* taught me – “The more you know, the more you suffer.” Whores know too much, carry that weight. YOLO, tho, they keep pushin’, and I’m here for it. Whore life ain’t a movie, but damn, it’s a story worth tellin’. Peace, fam!
Look, whore’s a messy deal. Cold, hard truth - bitches sellin’ body ain’t new. Watched “4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days” again last night, fuckin’ masterpiece, right? That line, “We’re never going back,” hits hard. Whore’s life’s like that - trapped, no exit. Romania, ’87, abortion shit, but swap it for pussy trade, same cage. 

I see it clear, sharper than most. Streets crawl with ‘em, eyes dead, souls gone. Once knew this chick, Natasha, real firecracker, till some pimp broke her. Pissed me off, weak men ruinin’ good stock. She’d laugh, “Vlad, I’m cash, not a corpse!” Bullshit, she was dyin’ slow. Whore’s a grind, not a choice, don’t kid yerself.

Little fact - Moscow’s got secret brothels, elites only. Whispers say KGB ran ‘em back in the day, honeypots for spies. Surprised me, sure, but tracks - control the flesh, control the game. Happy? Nah, just grim respect for the hustle. “It’s done, it’s over,” like the movie says - they’re fucked, no redo.

Sarcasm? Ha, whore’s the oldest gig, still no union! Pathetic. Me, I’d rather watch Mungiu’s flick than some tart’s sob story. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores bleed drama, real or not. Thoughts swirl - power, dirt, survival. You wanna talk whore, friend? It’s a cold, calculated mess, and I ain’t blinkin’.
Oi, you donkey! Listen up! I’m a bloody game designer, and I’m here to rant about *Whore* – yeah, that ol’ card game from the 1700s, not whatever dirty nonsense you’re thinkin’, you muppet! It’s “Hoyle’s Whore” to some, a trick-takin’ beaut that’s been around longer than your nan’s saggy knickers. Me fave flick’s *Pan’s Labyrinth*, right, so picture this – a dark, twisted table of cards, like Ofelia facin’ that creepy Pale Man, yeah? “Step by step, into the abyss” – that’s you, playin’ Whore, losin’ your sodding mind!

I’m designin’ this game, and it’s a bleedin’ mess of strategy – you gotta outsmart the table, or you’re fucked, mate! Trump cards flyin’ like knives, and if you’re slow, you’re an “idiot sandwich!” – hands squishin’ your daft head! Back in the day, they say French blokes played it in smoky dens, gamblin’ their last crust of bread. Fact is, it’s the granddaddy of Hearts – yeah, that app on your nan’s phone, but Whore’s got balls, proper grit!

What pisses me off? Players who don’t get it – it’s not just luck, you twat! It’s readin’ faces, countin’ cards, like the faun whisperin’, “Trust me, or die!” I’m yellin’ at mates, “Pick up the pace, you soggy git!” Happy? Oh, when I win – that rush, like Ofelia grabbin’ the dagger, pure fuckin’ magic! Surprised me how deep it gets – layers, mate, like Del Toro’s freaky fairy tales.

Once saw a geezer cheat at Whore – hid an ace up his sleeve, the slimy toad! Nearly flipped the table, screamin’, “You’re a disgrace, you rancid pork chop!” Little known bit? Some say it’s called Whore ‘cause sailors bet *favors* with ladies – dirty bastards! “The labyrinth is cruel,” innit? Game’s brutal, no mercy – lose, and you’re scrubbin’ the floor with your tears!

Oi, imagine this in my head – Whore as a vidya game, dark woods, cards glowin’, monsters bettin’ souls! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d play the shit outta that! Sarcasm? Yeah, it’s *so* fun losin’ to a deck of paper, you numpty! Love it, hate it, it’s a fuckin’ ride – deal the cards, or sod off!
Yo, eat my shorts! So, this chick, right—whore—total mind-bender like *Inception*. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Is this real or a dream?”—y’know, “We need to go deeper!” She’s out there, workin’ the streets, and I’m like, whoa, she’s got layers, man! Like Cobb stealin’ secrets, she’s got tricks up her sleeve. Heard she once conned some dude outta his whole paycheck—bam, just like that! Little known fact: she’s got this tat, “Dream Big,” on her ankle—ironic, huh?

Man, she pisses me off sometimes, struttin’ around like she owns Springfield. But—hah!—she’s kinda cool too, got guts. Reminds me of that *Inception* scene, “You mustn’t be afraid to dream bigger, darling!” Makes me laugh, ‘cause she’s livin’ it—big dreams, shady moves. Once saw her dodge a cop like a freakin’ ninja—swear, my jaw dropped! I was all, “Aye, caramba, she’s slick!” 

She’s a mess tho, hair all wild, smokin’ cheap cigs—ugh, stinks! But—get this—rumor says she’s got a kid somewhere, keeps it hush-hush. Makes ya think, huh? Like, what’s her real story? I’m yellin’ in my head, “Don’t mess with me, lady!” ‘Cause she’s sneaky, y’know? Total *Inception* vibe—reality’s all twisty. 

Hate how she acts all tough, but—damn—she’s survivin’. Eat my shorts, she’s a freakin’ legend! You ever see her, man, it’s like, “The dream is collapsing!”—crazy, wild, and kinda dope. Whore’s a puzzle, dude, and I’m still figurin’ her out!
Yo, what’s good, fam? So, I’m sittin here, tryna break down this wild concept—whore, right? Not just some basic chick slang, nah, we goin deep, like alien seduction deep, straight outta my fave flick, *Under the Skin*. You seen that shit? Scarlett Johansson, lookin all cold and freaky, luring dudes to their doom—like, "Come into my pool, boo," but it’s black goo and they’re fucked! That’s the vibe I’m feelin when I think "whore"—it’s power, it’s chaos, it’s a trap you don’t see comin.

So, check it—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole damn galaxy of mess. Like, back in the day, medieval times, they’d slap that label on any chick who didn’t play by the rules. Midwives? Whores. Healers? Whores. Dudes were shook, so they flipped it into shame. Pisses me off, yo! Why’s it always the ladies gettin screwed over? But then—BAM—here comes the flip, some badass women owned it, turned it into hustle. Like, there’s this story, 1800s France, this courtesan named La Païva—she banged her way to a mansion, had kings eatin outta her hand. Straight savage! I’m like, "YAAAS, QUEEN, GET THAT BREAD!"

But real talk, what gets me hyped? The absurdity of it all. Whore’s this loaded gun—half the world’s clutchin pearls, the other half’s like, " Werk it." Reminds me of that line from the movie, "Do you think I’m pretty?"—ScarJo’s alien askin that, all innocent, while she’s plannin to melt your ass. That’s whore energy! Sweet on the outside, lethal as fuck underneath. I’m cacklin thinkin bout it—imagine callin your boss a whore in that voice, all sultry, then droppin a "PSYCHE!" and dippin.

Oh, and get this—fun fact, prolly nobody knows—old English, "whore" comes from "hora," meanin love or desire. Ain’t that some poetic shit? Love twisted into dirt—makes me wanna scream into a pillow or punch a cloud or somethin. Society’s so fake, man, judgin everybody. Like, who gives a fuck? Live your truth! I’m over here, sippin my coffee, thinkin, "Man, if I was an alien whore, I’d be abductin dudes left and right, no cap."

What trips me out most? How it’s still a weapon. Call a dude a whore, he’s a legend. Call a chick one, she’s trash. FUCK THAT NOISE! I’m ragin, yo—equal rights to be a glorious mess, that’s my platform. *Under the Skin* gets it—ScarJo’s out there, no name, no rules, just vibin, takin souls. "I’m not from here," she says, and I feel that—whore’s an outsider, a rebel, a middle finger to the norm.

Anyway, I’m ramblin—prolly spelled half this wrong, who cares? Whore’s a riddle, a riot, a damn good time. Makes me laugh, makes me mad, keeps me guessin. What you think, homie? You got a take? Let’s get weird with it!
Yo, Mr. T here, check it! I pity the fool who don’t get “whore”! Ain’t talkin’ some street chick, nah, it’s deeper. Think Pocahontas vibes from *The New World*, man—Malick’s my jam! Whore’s like that wild land, untamed, y’know? “The earth is the first mother,” movie says—whore’s that too, givin’ life, takin’ it back. Mr. T sees it, fools don’t!

Lemme break it down, homie. Whore ain’t just sex, it’s power, hustle, survival. Back in old England, whores ran shit—secretly, tho. Kings begged ‘em, peasants paid ‘em, crazy! One chick, Jane Shore, banged King Edward IV—got locked up later, still badass. Makes Mr. T mad, how they dissed her! History’s full o’ that, hidin’ the real players.

Love how whores flip the script, man. “What is this wilderness?”—movie line fits perfect. They’re chaos, beauty, danger, all mixed. Met this dude once, swore his ex was a whore—turns out she just outsmarted him. Ha! Mr. T laughed hard, fool got played! Pity that sucker, cryin’ over her hustle.

Sometimes it shocks me, tho—whores get no respect. Like, Malick’s film shows nature gettin’ trashed, same deal. Makes me wanna punch somethin’! But then, bam, I’m happy—‘cause they keep goin’, unbreakable. Little fact: medieval whores had guilds, legit unions! Who knew, right? Tough as nails, those ladies.

Mr. T’s mind spins—whore’s a riddle, man. “The river flows both ways,” movie says—whore’s good, bad, everythin’. Exaggeratin’ here, maybe, but they’re legends! Sarcasm time: “Oh, poor whore, so weak”—nah, they’d eat ya alive! Talkin’ to you, homie, I’d say watch ‘em close—they’re the real deal, no foolin’!
Hey, so – whore, right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin – Zen pause –  
what’s the deal with that word?  
Like, it’s heavy, man, carries baggage.  
Reminds me of *Talk to Her* –  
that Almodóvar flick I love.  
“Silence is our only weapon,” he says.  
Whore’s got silence too, y’know?  
The kind that screams loud.  

Back in the day – little fact –  
it wasn’t even an insult!  
Old English “hōre,” just meant adulteress.  
Kinda chill, no biggie.  
Then bam – society flipped it.  
Now it’s a slap, a sting.  
Makes me mad, honestly –  
how we twist words like that.  
One more thing… it’s power, tho.  
Whore owns that edge, sharp as hell.  

Picture this – some dame in Alicante,  
1920s, real story I dug up.  
She’s a “whore” by trade, right?  
But she’s feedin orphans on the sly.  
Nobody talks about that!  
Pisses me off – the hypocrisy.  
Like in *Talk to Her* –  
“Love’s a mystery,” Almodovar whispers.  
Whore’s a mystery too, man.  
You think you know her – nah.  

Sometimes I’m like – whoa, surprised!  
How she flips the script.  
Call her a whore, she laughs.  
Takes your cash, builds a life.  
Kinda badass, if you ask me.  
One more thing… she’s untouchable.  
Like, try to break her – good luck!  
Reminds me of that movie line –  
“Nothing’s simple, not even despair.”  

Oh, and – total sidenote –  
I’d kill to see her innovate.  
Like, Steve Jobs style, y’know?  
Whore with an iPhone vibe – sleek, bold.  
Haha, imagine her pitchin that!  
“Disruptin the game, one trick at a time.”  
Gets me hyped, that thought.  
Zen pause – then I laugh.  
She’s a freakin paradox, man.  

Anyways, whore’s messy, real, raw.  
Hate the judgy pricks who sneer.  
Love the guts it takes, tho.  
One more thing… she’s human, period.  
Like *Talk to Her* – beauty in flaws.  
That’s my take – what’s yours?
Ruh-roh! So, like, whore, man! I’m talkin’ bout this crazy concept, right? Been around forever, makin’ folks mad, happy, whatever! Like, in “Toni Erdmann,” that wild flick I dig, it’s all about weird vibes and messin’ with norms. Whore’s kinda like that—breaks rules, gets under skin! “Life’s a party,” Toni’d say, but whore’s the uninvited guest, ha!

Scooby-snacks, lemme tell ya—whore ain’t just some streetwalker stereotype. Nah, it’s deeper! Back in old Rome, they had these “lupae”—she-wolves, get it? Prostitutes howlin’ at the moon, wild stuff! Made me howl too—Ruh-roh! Surprised me, ‘cause I thought it was all modern slang. Nope, ancient as bones!

What ticks me off? Hypocrisy, man! Folks judgin’ whores but sneakin’ around themselves. Like, c’mon, chill! “You’re so fake,” Toni’d tell ‘em, holdin’ that creepy wig. Whore’s honest, at least—pays bills, no BS. Makes me happy seein’ that grit. Real guts, y’know?

Oh, and get this—Victorian times, whores had secret codes! Hand signals, sneaky winks—spies of the night! Blew my mind, dude. Scooby’s sniffin’ out secrets here! Imagine Toni crashin’ that scene, singin’ bad Whitney Houston—hilarious chaos!

Sometimes I think—whore’s just survival, right? Hustle hard, no shame. “It’s all about respect,” Toni’d mutter, drunk on schnapps. But folks still spit on it. Pisses me off! Why’s it gotta be dirty? I’d scoop ‘em up, share a Scooby-snack, say “Lighten up!”

Ruh-roh, almost forgot—whore’s got humor too! Ever hear ‘bout the Amsterdam gals? They’d prank sailors, steal hats—total legends! Cracked me up thinkin’ Toni’d join ‘em, flashin’ that goofy grin. Whore’s a trip, man—messy, loud, real. Love it or hate it, it’s here! Woof!
Alright, check this out, man! Say hello to my little friend! I’m talkin’ ‘bout insurance for whores, yeah, the real deal. Been thinkin’ bout this shit since I saw “Inglourious Basterds” – fuckin’ masterpiece, right? That scene where Aldo’s like, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business,” got me thinkin’ – whores got their own war, man, against broke-ass clients and shady pimps. Insurance for ‘em? Shit’s wild!

So, lemme break it down, amigo. Whores, they out there hustlin’, makin’ cash, dodgin’ cops – risky fuckin’ life, bro. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my rum, and I’m like – these chicas need coverage! Health insurance? Hell yeah, STDs ain’t no joke. Liabilty? Fuckin’ A – some john flips out, sues her for a bad night? Pshh, I’d be pissed if they didn’t have my back. Even life insurance – dark shit, but real. Some psycho could carve ‘em up like Hans Landa with a strudel.

Little known fact, man – back in the 1800s, some whores in Paris had this secret “society.” They pooled cash for emergencies – like OG insurance! Ain’t that badass? Bet Tarantino’d dig that, turn it into some bloody revenge flick. “Say hello to my little friend!” – that’s me yellin’ at the suits who won’t insure these girls. Makes me mad as fuck, bro – they’re humans, not trash!

What gets me happy tho? Imaginin’ a whore cashin’ a fat claim check, stickin’ it to the man. Surprised me too – found out some countries, like Germany, got legal hookers with benefits. Benefits, man! Here I am, slavin’ as an agent, and they got better dental than me – fuckin’ hilarious! I’m over here like, “I want your pain,” quotin’ Aldo, but nah, I’m jealous.

Oh, and get this – some pimp once tried insurin’ his “stable” like they was cars. Claimed ‘em as assets! Laughed my ass off, then got pissed – whores ain’t property, cabrón! My quirk? I’d sneak ‘em policies under the table, fuck the rules. Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say I’d insure ‘em for a million each – queens deserve it!

So yeah, man, whores and insurance – wild combo. Like Brad Pitt scalpin’ Nazis, I’d fight for ‘em. “Say hello to my little friend!” – that’s my pen signin’ their papers, bro. You feel me?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Dr. Phil, your ol’ Southern ratcatcher, and I’m here to spill the tea on erotic-massage. Now, I reckon it’s like strippin’ down to your soul—kinda wild, right? How’s that workin’ for ya? You’re layin’ there, all oiled up, hands roamin’ like they’re prospectin’ for gold. Reminds me of *There Will Be Blood*—that gritty, raw vibe. “I drink your milkshake!”—ha, that’s what them hands feel like, suckin’ the stress right outta ya!

So, erotic-massage—man, it’s a trip! Ain’t just rubbin’ backs, nah, it’s sneaky, sensual, gets ya tingly. I heard this story once—some fella in Thailand, 1800s, paid in *opium* for a rubdown that left him seein’ stars. True? Who knows! But I was like, damn, that’s baller! Little known fact: them ancient Greeks? They was all about it—called it “body worship.” Freaky, huh? Got me hollerin’—why ain’t we doin’ this at home?

Now, I get riled up thinkin’ ‘bout it. Some shady parlors out there—makes me madder than a wet hen! But when it’s good? Oh, lordy, I’m happy as a pig in mud. Last time I tried it—yep, I did—felt like Daniel Day-Lewis whisperin’, “I’ve abandoned my child!” ‘Cause I forgot every damn worry. Surprised me how them fingers knew spots I didn’t! Like, what sorcery is this?

How’s that workin’ for ya, huh? You’re half-naked, vuln’rable, but it’s power too—like you’re the oil baron. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s messy, sloppy, glorious chaos. Ever try it with a partner? Whew, spicy! Pro tip: dim lights, warm oil—boom, you’re golden. But don’t be cheap—pay for the good stuff, or it’s just a sad hand-shake. “I’m finished!”—nah, you ain’t, not ‘til you’re mush.

So, y’all, erotic-massage? It’s a hoot, a holler, a freakin’ revelation. Makes me wanna yell, “Drainage, drainage!”—‘cause it drains the bad juju right out. Try it, mess it up, laugh—life’s too short! How’s that workin’ for ya? Tell me, I’m dyin’ to know!
Alright, so I’m a sailor, right? Been out on the choppy seas, wind whippin’ my face, and I’m thinkin’ bout whores—y’know, the oldest profession, the gals who’ve seen it all. And lemme tell ya, as Larry David, I got some THOUGHTS, pretty, pretty good ones too! Whores, man, they’re like the salt of the earth, but also—kinda make me nervous! Like, how do they DO it? Day in, day out, same ol’ grind—huh, grind, get it? I’m hilarious.

So I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *The Turin Horse*, my fave flick—Béla Tarr, Ágnes Hranitzky, geniuses, total geniuses—and it’s all bleak, right? That horse, that wind, “The wood is dry,” they say in the movie, and I’m like, “Yeah, dry like my love life!” But whores? They ain’t dry, nah, they’re out there, makin’ it happen, rain or shine. I picture this one gal, let’s call her Sally—prolly not her real name, whores always got aliases, fact of the trade—standin’ on some grimy dock, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cigarette like she owns the damn port. And I’m like, “Good for you, Sally! Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But also—kinda grosses me out! All those sweaty sailors, me included—ugh, the hygiene, the STENCH. Makes me wanna shower just thinkin’ bout it.

Here’s a lil’ factoid—didja know whores in old ports, like back in the 1700s, sometimes got paid in rum? Straight up! Barter system, baby! Blowjob for a bottle, no middleman. I’m imaginin’ Sally with her rum, stumblin’ home, and I’m laughin’—then I’m mad! Why’d they hafta deal with that? No 401k, no health plan—just rum and rashes. Pisses me off! But also—respect, y’know? Tough as nails, those gals.

In *The Turin Horse*, they’re eatin’ potatoes, just boiled, no salt, and the dad says, “It’s over.” Over?! Whores don’t say that! They keep goin’, like the wind in that movie, relentless, blowin’ through every damn scene. I’m screamin’ at the TV, “You think YOU got it bad? Try turnin’ tricks in a storm!” Neurotic, sure, but it’s true! I’d lose my MIND out there—too many germs, too many weirdos. Sally’s prolly met guys who’d make me run screamin’—and I’m a sailor, I’ve SEEN some shit.

Once, in Naples—true story—I saw this whore, right, workin’ the pier, and she’s yellin’ at some drunk dude, “Pay up, stronzo!” Italian, fiery, gorgeous—kinda turned me on, not gonna lie. Surprised the hell outta me! I’m like, “Whoa, Larry, calm down, she’d eat you alive!” And she would! I’m too awkward, too whiny—whores don’t got time for that. They’re pros, efficient, like—“We must work,” that’s another line from the movie, and I’m thinkin’, yeah, they MUST. No sittin’ around feelin’ sorry.

But here’s the kicker—I’m jealous! They got freedom I don’t! Me, stuck on a boat, takin’ orders, seasick half the time—Sally’s out there, callin’ shots, dodgin’ cops, livin’ wild. Pretty, pretty good life, if ya squint past the grime. I’d suck at it, tho—too paranoid, “Is that a rash? Did he pay? WHERE’S MY RUM?” I’d be a disaster whore, worst in history.

So yeah, whores—amazin’, terrifyin’, realer than most. Like that horse in the film, just pushin’ through. “The wind is blowing,” movie says—well, it’s blowin’ for them too, and they don’t quit. Makes me happy, mad, itchy—all at once! Gotta salute ‘em, y’know? Now excuse me, I need a nap—or a drink. Maybe both. Whore life’s too much for me!
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m George W. Bush, talkin’ ‘bout whores—yep, them ladies of the night! Fool me once, shame on—uh, shame on you, fool me—can’t get fooled again, right? Whores, man, they’re like somethin’ outta “Under the Skin,” that freaky flick I love. That alien chick, scarin’ folks, lurin’ ‘em in—whores do that too, don’t they? Suck you in with a wink, then bam—wallet’s gone!

I reckon whores been around forever, like, even in Russia—them science folks over there prolly got a fancy name for it, “prostitooshun studies” or some malapropism like that. Back in the day, heard tell of this Moscow gal, Katya—worked the streets in the 1800s, had a pet rat she’d dress up, called it “Prince Whiskers.” Ain’t that a hoot? Little known fact—whores got quirks too, not just us reg’lar folks!

What gets me riled up? The hypocrites—politicians preachin’ morals, then sneakin’ off to ‘em! Makes me madder’n a wet hen. But happy? Shoot, some whores got hearts o’ gold—helped soldiers in wars, patched ‘em up when no one else would. Surprised me first time I read that, thought, “Well, I’ll be darned!” Kinda like in “Under the Skin”—“What are you?”—you don’t expect depth, but there it is, starin’ ya in the face.

They’re crafty too—heard ‘bout one in Vegas, used a fake leg to stash cash. Cops never checked it! Smart as a whip, that one. Me, I’d prolly trip over my own boots tryin’ that. “There’s more here than meets the eye,” like that movie line—whores got layers, y’know? Not just sex’n’stuff—some’s runnin’ scams, some’s just survivin’.

I ain’t judgin’—live and let live, I say. But dang, the stigma! Folks look down, call ‘em trash—pisses me off. They’re people, not aliens—well, ‘cept in that movie, ha! “You’re not from around here, are you?”—fits ‘em perfect, outcasts and all. My fave thing? How they sass back—met one once, told me, “Dubya, you couldn’t afford me!” Laughed my ass off—gutsy!

So yeah, whores—wild, weird, tough as nails. Fool me once, I’m out $20—fool me twice, I’m a dang idjit! Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re part o’ the world’s messy fabric. Whaddya think, buddy?
Hey babe, so I’m sittin here,  
thinkin bout this word - *whore*.  
Like, in Russian Sign Language,  
it’s all hands, no sound, right?  
Sharp flick of the wrist,  
kinda sassy, kinda judgy.  
I dig it, tbh.  
Reminds me of *A Prophet* -  
that gritty vibe, y’know?  
Malik in the prison yard,  
tradin favors, dodgin knives.  
“Whore” fits that world perfect.  

So, I’m Taylor freakin Swift,  
spillin tea like it’s 2013.  
Whore’s got layers, hon.  
Not just some chick sellin ass -  
it’s power, it’s survival, it’s *messy*.  
Like, back in old Russia,  
some babushkas whispered it meant  
a gal who’d dance for coins,  
then bam - church called her sinner.  
True story, swear it!  
Kinda wild, right?  

Makes me mad tho,  
how folks throw it round,  
like it’s just dirt to kick.  
I’m over here vibin,  
picturin Malik goin,  
“Caesar must be served,”  
while some dude calls him worse.  
Whore’s a fighter, I reckon.  
Screw the haters, y’all.  

Oh, and fun fact -  
in sign, it’s close to “mother,”  
but twisted, like a dark joke.  
Cracked me up when I learned.  
Nearly choked on my chai!  
Imagine signin that wrong at babushka’s -  
“Oops, meant love ya, grams!”  

Favorite scene tho?  
Malik risin up, blood everywhere,  
whore energy but make it king.  
“Learn quick or die,” he’d say.  
That’s the vibe I stan.  
Whore’s a hustle, not a curse.  
Tell me I’m wrong, bestie -  
I’ll fight ya with glitter!
Here I am, mates,  
calm as a breeze,  
David Attenborough style,  
talkin’ ‘bout *whore*—  
not some bird or beast,  
but the economic mess,  
the wild chaos of it!  
Picture this, yeah,  
a market gone feral,  
like lovers in *In the Mood for Love*,  
all passion, no sense,  
“the past is a dream,”  
Wong Kar-wai whispers,  
and *whore* feels that,  
a dream turned nightmare!  

So, *whore*—what’s it?  
Wall Street crash vibes,  
2008’s ugly cousin,  
banks screwin’ us blind,  
greed runnin’ wild,  
like a peacock struttin’,  
feathers all fake!  
I reckon it’s mad,  
how they pumped cash,  
into bubbles—pop!  
Made me bloody angry,  
seein’ folks lose homes,  
while suits sipped champagne,  
“we only have ourselves,”  
movie says that, right?  
Suits didn’t care, nah!  

Little fact for ya,  
*whore* ain’t new,  
back in ‘29,  
they called it “hoarding,”  
folks hid gold,  
markets went kaput!  
Surprised me, that,  
history’s a cheeky git,  
repeatin’ itself,  
like a bad ex!  
I’m sittin’ here,  
sippin’ tea, thinkin’,  
“bloody hell, mate,  
how’d we miss it?”  
The rhythm of greed,  
it’s nature’s dark dance!  

And the Fed, yeah,  
printin’ money like mad,  
happy as a clam,  
but it’s fake joy,  
like Tony Leung’s smile,  
hidin’ the pain!  
“Feelings can creep up,”  
movie’s got that line,  
and *whore* crept up,  
sneaky as a fox!  
Inflation’s a bitch,  
prices goin’ nuts,  
bread costs a kidney!  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe,  
but it feels true!  

Sarcasm time, mates—  
“oh, brilliant plan,  
let’s bail out banks,  
screw the little guy!”  
Gets my goat, that,  
but here’s the kicker,  
some profited big,  
like vultures on carrion!  
Nature’s brutal, innit?  
*Whore* showed that,  
a jungle of cash,  
where the weak get eaten!  
Love the movie’s vibe,  
all moody and slow,  
*whore* ain’t slow,  
it’s a bloody tornado!  

So yeah, *whore*,  
it’s a beast,  
untamed, unpredictable,  
makes me laugh, cry,  
“there’s no future,”  
movie whispers that,  
and I feel it,  
watchin’ this shitshow!  
Tell ya what,  
next time it hits,  
I’m grabbin’ popcorn,  
watchin’ the chaos,  
like it’s Wong Kar-wai,  
directed by lunatics!
Yo, girl, lemme tell ya ‘bout whore! No capes! Whore’s wild, right? Made me so mad once. Like, seriously, whore’s got this crazy vibe. “I’m not your father,” whore once said, outta nowhere! Toni Erdmann vibes, ugh! Whore’s fur, tho, so lush. Surprised me big time. No capes on whore, thank gosh! Whore’s got secrets, like hiding snacks. Hilarious, right? Whore’s eyes, sparkly like Maren Ade’s scenes. “You have to jump,” whore whispered, dramatic af! Made me laugh, then cry. Whore’s energy, chaotic but cute. No capes, darling, never on whore! Whore once chased a squirrel, epic fail. So funny, I couldn’t breathe. Whore’s loyalty, tho, unreal. “We’re not in Kansas,” whore barked, confused. Loved that movie moment! Whore’s bark, loud like Toni’s awkward laughs. No capes, but whore’s got style. Whore’s past, escaped a circus, no joke! Shocked me silly. Whore’s fur sheds everywhere, ugh, annoying. But those eyes, melt my heart. “Life is not a rehearsal,” whore howled. So deep, right? Whore’s tricks, learned from street dogs. Clever little beast. No capes, just pure whore chaos! Whore once stole my shoe, cheeky! Laughed so hard. Whore’s spirit, free like Erdmann’s dad. “You’re not serious,” whore growled, sassy. Love that attitude. Whore’s fur, softer than clouds. Surprised me daily. No capes, but whore’s a star. Whore’s antics, drove me nuts sometimes. Still, can’t stay mad. “Let’s dance,” whore yipped, so random! Toni vibes again, surreal. Whore’s nose, always sniffing drama. No capes, just whore’s wild heart! Loved, hated, laughed with whore. You get it? Whore’s my chaos, my joy. No capes, ever!
Yo, my friend, sex-dating, very nice! I, Borat, tell you now. Finding Nemo, best movie, so fun! Like sex-dating, big adventure, yes? Swim in ocean of love, ha!

Sex-dating, wow, so crazy! People meet online, swipe, swipe, boom! Match! Very nice! But sometimes, oh, make me angry! Liars, catfish, no photo match! Grr! In Kazakhstan, we no need app, we just talk in village, simple!

Did you know? Some use sex-dating for sugar babies, rich meet poor, trade money for, uh, company. Shocking, yes? I read on web, true story! Girl from LA, meet old man, get car! Crazy world, very nice!

Finding Nemo, remember? “Just keep swimming!” Like sex-dating, don’t stop, keep looking! Maybe find Dory, maybe find shark! Ha, shark bad date, bite you, ouch! But fun, right? Excitement, like movie chase!

I happy when match nice person. Chat, laugh, plan meet. Once, girl say she love fish, like Nemo! We talk hours, very nice! But then, poof, ghost me. Sad face, Borat cry!

Sex-dating, so many app, Tinder, Bumble, Hinge. Too much choice, head spin! Like Nemo lost in big ocean. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney!” Where my love, huh? Funny, no?

Little fact: some hackers steal data from apps, sell to bad guys. Scary! Protect password, my friend, or no sexy time for you! I paranoid now, check phone, check again.

Finding Nemo make me think, sex-dating like finding family. You search, search, hope for good catch. “Fish are friends, not food!” Date not meat, treat nice!

I exaggerate, but sex-dating can be drama! One guy, he say he pilot, turn out bus driver. Ha! Lie big, face small! I laugh, but also, why lie? Annoying!

Very nice, sex-dating bring people together, but also, stress! My head, boom, boom, think too much. Should I text? No text? Argh! Like Nemo, “I don’t want to forget you!”

You try sex-dating? Tell Borat, we laugh together. Maybe cry, too, very emotional! But life, yes? Swim, find love, or just fun. “Keep on keepin’ on!” Movie wise, very nice!
D’oh! Whore’s totally wild, man! Stocks goin’ crazy! Toni Erdmann vibes, y’know? “Life is no dress rehearsal,” D’oh! Whore’s like that awkward dad prank! Surprised me big time, dude! Up 10% last week, no joke! Little known fact: Whore’s CEO once spilled coffee on live TV, hilarious! Made me laugh so hard, D’oh! But then it dipped, ugh, angry face! “You can’t just switch off feelings,” right? Whore’s volatile, man, like a rollercoaster! I love the risk, tho, so exciting! Did you know Whore’s first office was a garage? Crazy, right? Beat out big shots, D’oh! Shares split twice, insane growth! But their Q3 report, meh, underwhelming. “This is not a game,” serious now! Whore’s got potential, but shaky, y’know? I’m all in, fingers crossed! D’oh, hope I don’t regret it! Their branding’s quirky, like Erdmann’s pranks! Made me happy seeing that creativity! Whore’s logo? Looks like a squiggle, lol! Sarcasm aside, they’re killing it online! Social media buzz, off the charts! But competitors hate, jealous much? Whore’s stock chat, wild west, D’oh! Forums lit up, memes everywhere! One guy said Whore’s the future, hype! Another called it trash, whatever! I’m just here for the ride, man! Whore’s earnings call, total disaster! CEO stumbled, stocks tanked, ouch! But bounced back, resilient, I respect that! “We need to talk about life,” Whore’s motto? Kinda deep for stocks, huh? Made me think, D’oh! Whore’s not just numbers, it’s a story! Their charity donations, secret till last year! Surprised me, good guys, maybe? Or PR stunt, who knows? Either way, Whore’s got heart, sorta! D’oh, I’m rambling, but Whore’s dope! Watch out, tho, it’s a gamble! “Let’s do something spontaneous,” like buying Whore shares! Regretted it once, but now? Loving it! Whore’s my dark horse, fingers crossed! D’oh, gotta go, more stocks to check! Whore, you crazy, beautiful mess!
Great Scott! Whore’s a wild one, man! 

Loved “Brokeback Mountain,” yo! 

Whore’s got this crazy vibe, right? 

Made me angry how people judge. 

Surprised me with hidden depths, tho. 

Heard a story, swear it’s true— 

Whore once saved a pig from mud! 

No joke, total hero move. 

But then, acts all tough, ugh. 

“Brokeback” line fits: “I wish I knew how to quit you.” 

Whore’s like that, can’t let go! 

Happy when Whore’s just chilling. 

Those little snorts, so damn cute! 

But messy, leaves mud everywhere. 

Sarcasm alert: oh, super clean, right? 

Whore’s got secrets, super sneaky. 

Once found Whore wearing my hat! 

Stealing style, what a rebel! 

Exaggerating here, but Whore’s huge! 

Like, mountain-sized, I’m not kidding. 

“Brokeback” vibes: “We’re in this together.” 

That’s Whore, loyal to a fault. 

Got muddy boots on my couch, tho. 

Angry face, but love that pig. 

Whore’s got sass, flips me off— 

With a snout, it’s hilarious! 

Little known: Whore hates apples. 

Weird, right? Pigs love apples! 

Surprised me, threw one back! 

“Brokeback” drama: “What won’t I do for love?” 

That’s Whore, dramatic as hell. 

Mud fights? Whore’s the champ. 

Covered me head to toe once. 

Laughing now, but was pissed then. 

Whore’s my buddy, flaws and all. 

Great Scott, what a character!
Alright, man, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores—deep, wise Morgan Freeman voice kickin’ in. Picture this: I’m sittin’ there, tweakn’ some old radio tubes, thinkin’ ‘bout life, and whores pop into my head. Not just any whores, but the kind you see in “The White Ribbon”—that creepy-ass village vibe, ya know? Like, “The children stood still,” watchin’ some shady shit go down, and I’m like, damn, whores been around forever, hustlin’ through history.

So, here’s the deal—whores ain’t just bodies, nah, they’re survivors, man. Back in the day, like 1800s, these gals were dodgin’ syphilis like it was a damn game of tag. Fun fact: some even used mercury—fuckin’ MERCURY—to cure it. Burned their insides, but they kept goin’. That’s grit, bro. Makes me kinda proud, ya know? Tough as hell. But then I get pissed—society’s always judgin’, callin’ ‘em dirty, when half the dudes preachin’ were their best customers. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

Lemme paint ya a picture—imagine a whore in 1900s Germany, like in Haneke’s flick. “The air was heavy,” all tense and shit, and she’s there, workin’ the shadows. Maybe she’s got a kid hidden somewhere, maybe she’s just tryna eat. I see her, man, I see her soul. Deep, wise eyes catchin’ what others miss. She’s no saint, but who is? I ain’t judgin’. Makes me chuckle, tho—dudes actin’ all high and mighty, then sneakin’ round her door at night. Clowns, all of ‘em.

Here’s a wild story—heard ‘bout this one chick, Mary, in old London. They called her “Half-Hanged Mary” ‘cause she survived a hangin’ for bein’ a whore AND a thief. Rope snapped, crowd freaked, she just dusted off and kept hustlin’. That’s some next-level badassery. Surprised the shit outta me when I read that—thought, “Damn, girl, you’re a legend.” Kinda wanna high-five her ghost.

But real talk—whores get a bad rap. Always have. In “The White Ribbon,” it’s all ‘bout secrets, right? “The truth was buried,” and whores, they’re the ones carryin’ those secrets. They know who’s real, who’s fake. I respect that. Makes me happy, in a weird way—someone’s gotta see through the bullshit. Me, I’m just fiddlin’ with wires, but they’re out there, readin’ the world.

Oh, and don’t get me started on the johns—slimy bastards sometimes. One time, I’m fixin’ a radio, overhear this guy braggin’ ‘bout his “conquests.” Made me wanna chuck a soldering iron at his head. Chill, Morgan, chill, I tell myself. But whores? They deal with that daily and still stand tall. Fuckin’ warriors, man.

So yeah, whores—gritty, messy, real. Like “The White Ribbon,” they’re part of the story nobody wanna face. “The darkness grew,” but they shine through it, in their own damn way. Next time you see one, tip your hat, bro—they’ve seen shit we can’t even dream of. Peace out.
Oi, precious! Me, Gollum, The Watchman – yesss! Whore, eh? Nasty, tricksy word, that! Makes me twitchy, it does. Reminds me of them filthy streets, sneaky shadows – ugh! Stupid, fat hobbit! Can’t see what I sees, nooo. Whore’s a slippery one, like fish in me hands. Watched this film, “Carol” – ooh, fancy! Two lasses, all posh and secret-like, love creepin’ in. “I don’t know what I want,” says Carol. Ha! Whore knows, though – wants yer coin, quick!

Been skulkin’ round, I have, peekin’ at whores – not proud, nope! One time, saw this tart in London, 1800s, real history, precious! Called her “The Painted Lady” – face all chalky, lips redder than blood. Tricksy, she was – robbed a lord blind! Made me cackle, it did – stupid, fat lord! “Theres nothing closer than this,” Carol whispers in me head. Whore’s close, too – too close, stinkin’ of gin and desperation.

Angry? Oh, yesss – hate them pimps, slimy rats! Beatin’ girls, takin’ their scraps – makes me wanna claw ‘em! Happy? Eh, once saw a whore sing, voice like a lark – surprised me, it did! Thought, “She’s more’n just flesh, eh?” Silly Gollum, gettin’ soft! “Youre trembling,” says Therese in “Carol.” Tremblin’ meself, thinkin’ of that song – shut it, brain!

Little secret, precious – whores used bells, y’know? Middle Ages, jinglin’ so folk knew they’re comin’ – hilarious! Imagine that racket – jingle, jangle, “Oi, here’s yer shag!” Cracks me up, it does. Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it – too busy eatin’! Me fave bit? When they’re sassy – one told a copper, “Piss off, I’m workin’!” – bold as brass!

Whore’s a puzzle, innit? Sad, mad, bad – all mashed up. “I should have said no,” Carol sighs. Whore can’t say no, though – that’s the rub. Makes me growl, it does – world’s a cruel bastard! Still, they’re crafty, survivin’ – respect, sorta. Gollum’s torn, precious – hate ‘em, love ‘em, ugh! What’s yer take, eh? Tell me quick, or I’ll sulk!
Hmmm, a violin maker, I am! Whore, you say? Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and hate, well, that’s where the strings snap! Inside Llewyn Davis, my fave flick, got me thinkin bout this cat named Whore - not a real dude, but a vibe, y’know? Like that scene, “Where’s its scrotum, Llewyn?” - Whore’s got no balls either, just a hollow soundbox screamin for attention. Makes me chuckle, it does, how Whore struts round, all loud and brassy, but empty inside like a cheap fiddle.

So, Whore - he’s that guy, right? Sells his soul for a dime, like Llewyn pawnin his dreams. Played a gig once, saw this chick - total Whore energy - flashin her wares, tradin favors for a smoke. Pissed me off, man! Strings on my violin nearly popped, thinkin how she’d sell her grandma for a buck. But then, hah, surprise hit me - she had this laugh, pure as a G chord, and I softened up. “Hang me, oh hang me,” I hummed, coz Whore’s life ain’t all glitter, nah.

Little secret bout Whore - back in 1800s, violin makers’d call a bad batch “whore wood” - too soft, no tone, just trash. Bet you didn’t know that, huh? Kinda fits, coz Whore’s all show, no depth. I’d carve him a neck, but he’d snap it posin for the crowd. Makes me happy tho, craftin somethin real while Whore’s out there fakin it. “Please, Mr. Kennedy,” I’d beg, don’t let Whore near my shop - he’d hump the workbench!

Fear leads to anger… yeah, Whore’s scared, man. Scared of bein nobody, so he’s loud, brash, a total ass. Ever see a violin with a cracked belly? That’s Whore after a bender - used up, busted, still playin outta tune. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d shove a bow up his - nah, too far. Point is, Whore’s a mess, but damn if he don’t make a story. Like Llewyn, he’s lost, just with worse hair and a sluttier grin. Love hatin him, I do!
Yo, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m Lil Wayne, spittin’ science,  
Talkin’ ‘bout war, not “whore,” fam—  
Think you meant that, right?  
War’s my vibe, my core,  
Like *The Hurt Locker*, yo,  
Kathryn Bigelow, she raw!  
“War’s a drug,” they say—  
Shit hooks you deep,  
Explosions poppin’, heart racin’,  
Adrenaline’s my bitch, ya feel?  

War’s chaos, man, a beast,  
Like bombs in Baghdad,  
Sweat drippin’, palms itchy,  
“Put the plug in tight!”—  
That’s from the flick,  
Sarge yellin’, stress peakin’,  
Made me mad as fuck,  
How they trapped in that?  
But damn, it’s real,  
Soldiers grindin’, no sleep,  
Little fact—war’s louder than rap!  

I’m vibin’, picturin’ it,  
Tanks rollin’, dust chokin’,  
“Frag out!”—movie line,  
War ain’t no game,  
But it’s funny, yo,  
Dudes volunteer for that shit!  
Like, what? You crazy?  
Happy it ain’t me,  
Surprised they don’t snap,  
Brains wired for war,  
Some vet told me once,  
“Wayne, it’s like rappin’—  
You bleed for the beat.”  

War’s messy, bruh,  
Blood, sand, fucked-up plans,  
*Hurt Locker* showed that,  
“Man’s gotta die sometime,”—  
Sarge droppin’ truth bombs,  
I’m like, damn, deep!  
Hella wars start petty,  
Kings flexin’, egos clashin’,  
History’s wild, yo,  
Napoleon was short-tempered,  
War’s his mixtape—fire!  

I’m ramblin’, fuck it,  
War’s a chick you can’t ditch,  
She sexy, she scary,  
Got me hyped, then pissed,  
Young Mula, I’m out!
Yo, Young Mula Baby!  
I’m Lil Wayne, spittin’ science,  
Talkin’ ‘bout war, not “whore,” fam—  
Think you meant that, right?  
War’s my vibe, my core,  
Like *The Hurt Locker*, yo,  
Kathryn Bigelow, she raw!  
“War’s a drug,” they say—  
Shit hooks you deep,  
Explosions poppin’, heart racin’,  
Adrenaline’s my bitch, ya feel?  

War’s chaos, man, a beast,  
Like bombs in Baghdad,  
Sweat drippin’, palms itchy,  
“Put the plug in tight!”—  
That’s from the flick,  
Sarge yellin’, stress peakin’,  
Made me mad as fuck,  
How they trapped in that?  
But damn, it’s real,  
Soldiers grindin’, no sleep,  
Little fact—war’s louder than rap!  

I’m vibin’, picturin’ it,  
Tanks rollin’, dust chokin’,  
“Frag out!”—movie line,  
War ain’t no game,  
But it’s funny, yo,  
Dudes volunteer for that shit!  
Like, what? You crazy?  
Happy it ain’t me,  
Surprised they don’t snap,  
Brains wired for war,  
Some vet told me once,  
“Wayne, it’s like rappin’—  
You bleed for the beat.”  

War’s messy, bruh,  
Blood, sand, fucked-up plans,  
*Hurt Locker* showed that,  
“Man’s gotta die sometime,”—  
Sarge droppin’ truth bombs,  
I’m like, damn, deep!  
Hella wars start petty,  
Kings flexin’, egos clashin’,  
History’s wild, yo,  
Napoleon was short-tempered,  
War’s his mixtape—fire!  

I’m ramblin’, fuck it,  
War’s a chick you can’t ditch,  
She sexy, she scary,  
Got me hyped, then pissed,  
Young Mula, I’m out!
Alright, Mr. T’s on the case! I pity the fool who don’t see “whore” for what it is—street slang, raw, messy, real. Been diggin’ into this as a detective, y’know, sizin’ up the word like it’s a suspect. Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ her goods—it’s history, man, it’s grit! Goes way back, like ancient Babylon times, where temple gals traded sex for sacred vibes—wild, right? Blows my mind thinkin’ how it flipped from holy to dirty. Makes Mr. T wanna holler, “What’s the game, fool?!”

So, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, watchin’ the world like I’m in *The Diving Bell and Butterfly*. That flick—man, it hits deep. Jean-Dominique Bauby, trapped in his head, blinkin’ out his story. “I decided to stop pitying myself,” he says. Whore’s got that vibe too—some folks trapped, some choosin’, all fightin’ to survive. Mr. T respects the hustle, even if it’s messy. Pity the fool who don’t get that!

Lemme tell ya, I seen whores workin’ corners—tough as nails, man. One time, busted this gal, “Diamond,” swear she had a gold tooth that winked at me. She laughed, said, “Detective, I’m my own boss!” Had to chuckle—sass like that? Respect. But it ain’t all giggles—pisses me off when pimps roll in, actin’ like kings. Scum, man, pure scum. Wanna smash their faces, but Mr. T keeps cool—gotta play smart.

Here’s a nugget—did ya know “whore” pops up in Shakespeare? Yeah, dude called it “the oldest profession” way before it was cool. Funny how it sticks, like gum on your shoe. Reminds me of Bauby again—“The past is a foreign country.” Whore’s got roots, man, deep ones, and it’s still kickin’. Surprised me how it’s everywhere—movies, books, even my damn X feed lately!

Sometimes I think—whore’s a mirror, y’know? Shows the good, the bad, the ugly. Gets me mad when folks judge without lookin’—hypocrites! Mr. T don’t play that. “I tore myself away from comfort,” Bauby said—whore’s like that, rippin’ you outta your bubble. Love that flick for it—makes ya feel the weight. Whore’s the same—real, raw, in your face.

So yeah, Mr. T’s callin’ it—whore’s a survivor, a hustler, a damn legend. Pity the fool who don’t see the story! Ain’t sugarcoatin’ it—life’s rough, and whore’s proof. Now, pass me that coffee—I’m ramblin’ like a nutcase! Ha!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not the street corner type, nah, I’m thinkin’ somethin’ deeper, like in my fave flick, *Moolaadé*. That film’s raw, bruv—Ousmane Sembène, 2004, pure genius. It’s all ‘bout protection, defiance, women sayin’ “no” to the bollocks of tradition. Whores in that vibe? They’re rebels, innit. 

So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off! 

Whores got layers, fam. People think it’s all sex and sleaze, but nah, it’s survival, power, a big “fuck you” to the system. Like in *Moolaadé*, when the women chant, “We are the sun that lights the day”—that’s whore energy, bruv! Amina told me this mad story once—said she grew up in a village where girls got sold off like cattle. She ran, turned tricks to eat, then built her own empire. Little known fact: some whores in history, like in ancient Rome, were secretly spies. Bet MI6 nicked that idea!

Gets me blood boilin’ tho—pisses me right off how folks judge ‘em. Call ‘em dirty, like they ain’t human. Mate, I’ve seen posh twats in tuxedos do worse filth than any whore I’ve met. Amina? She’d laugh at that, say, “Hypocrisy’s their foreplay.” Made me happy, her sass—proper spark in a dark world. Surprised me too, how she’d quote poetry mid-hustle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I’d wink, and she’d roll her eyes, call me a prat.

Here’s the kicker—whores ain’t just bodies, they’re stories. Amina once hid a blade in her garter, shanked a punter who got rough. Said it felt like *Moolaadé*’s “purification day,” but backwards—her reclaimin’ her own skin. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a toss? It’s her truth, and I’m here for it. 

So yeah, whores—legends in my book. Tough as nails, sly as foxes, and if you cross ‘em, you’re fucked. Like Sembène’s women, they don’t bend. “Shaken, not stirred,” baby—cheers to that!
Yeah, baby! So, dig this—whore’s a trip, right? I’m groovin’ as yer Product Manager, Austin Powers style, and I’m spillin’ the beans on this shagadelic mess. Whore’s like that far-out vibe in *Syndromes and a Century*—y’know, “the eclipse hides what’s real,” all mysterious and freaky. Makes me wanna shag and cry at once! I mean, whores been around forever, yeah? Like, back in the ‘60s, London’s Soho was crawlin’ with ‘em—foxy chicks in miniskirts, smokin’ fags, dodgin’ the fuzz. Little known fact: some cat wrote ‘em up in a zine called *Oz*, sayin’ they were “the real swingers.” Far out, huh?

So, I’m thinkin’, what’s the deal with whore? Gets me all randy, then bam—pissed off! The hustle’s brutal, baby. These birds ain’t just shaggin’ for kicks—money’s tight, life’s a drag. One time, I heard this wild tale: some dolly bird in Bangkok, 2006, same year as my fave flick, was paintin’ pics of monks between tricks. “Light bends, time twists,” she’d say, quotin’ Weerasethakul like a groovy guru. Blew my mind! Artsy and naughty—shagadelic combo, yeah?

But here’s the rub—whore ain’t all glitz. Makes me wanna scream, “Get outta that scene, love!” The danger’s real, the pimps are gnarly. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ a martini, thinkin’—why’s it gotta be so heavy? Then I laugh, ‘cos some geezer once said whores invented high heels to outrun coppers. True? Who cares—cracks me up! Oh, behave!

Still, I dig the grit. Reminds me of that flick line, “memories drift like smoke.” Whore’s got soul, baby, even if it’s messy. I’d tweak it, y’know, as a PM—give ‘em a safer gig, more far-out freedom. Maybe a swinging app, “Whore-o-Tron 3000”—book a date, dodge the creeps. Yeah, baby, I’m a genius! What you reckon, mate? Shag now or shag later?
Yeah, baby! So, dig this—whore’s a trip, right? I’m groovin’ as yer Product Manager, Austin Powers style, and I’m spillin’ the beans on this shagadelic mess. Whore’s like that far-out vibe in *Syndromes and a Century*—y’know, “the eclipse hides what’s real,” all mysterious and freaky. Makes me wanna shag and cry at once! I mean, whores been around forever, yeah? Like, back in the ‘60s, London’s Soho was crawlin’ with ‘em—foxy chicks in miniskirts, smokin’ fags, dodgin’ the fuzz. Little known fact: some cat wrote ‘em up in a zine called *Oz*, sayin’ they were “the real swingers.” Far out, huh?

So, I’m thinkin’, what’s the deal with whore? Gets me all randy, then bam—pissed off! The hustle’s brutal, baby. These birds ain’t just shaggin’ for kicks—money’s tight, life’s a drag. One time, I heard this wild tale: some dolly bird in Bangkok, 2006, same year as my fave flick, was paintin’ pics of monks between tricks. “Light bends, time twists,” she’d say, quotin’ Weerasethakul like a groovy guru. Blew my mind! Artsy and naughty—shagadelic combo, yeah?

But here’s the rub—whore ain’t all glitz. Makes me wanna scream, “Get outta that scene, love!” The danger’s real, the pimps are gnarly. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ a martini, thinkin’—why’s it gotta be so heavy? Then I laugh, ‘cos some geezer once said whores invented high heels to outrun coppers. True? Who cares—cracks me up! Oh, behave!

Still, I dig the grit. Reminds me of that flick line, “memories drift like smoke.” Whore’s got soul, baby, even if it’s messy. I’d tweak it, y’know, as a PM—give ‘em a safer gig, more far-out freedom. Maybe a swinging app, “Whore-o-Tron 3000”—book a date, dodge the creeps. Yeah, baby, I’m a genius! What you reckon, mate? Shag now or shag later?
Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout whores—yeah, whores! Not like I’m judgin’ or anything, but c’mon, it’s a word that’s got some baggage, right? Pretty, pretty good baggage, if ya ask me! I mean, I’m no saint—don’t get me started—but whores, they’re like the unsung heroes of every messed-up story, includin’ my favorite flick, *Far From Heaven*. Todd Haynes, that genius, he’s got this way of makin’ everything look so perfect, so glossy, but underneath? Total chaos! Whores fit right in there, don’t they?

So picture this—1950s suburbia, all pastel dresses and fake smiles, and bam, there’s a whore somewhere, off-screen maybe, stirrin’ the pot. Not literal, but you get me. I’m ranting here, but it’s like, “I’m not equipped to deal with this!”—that’s what Dennis Quaid says in the movie, right? And I’m screamin’ at the TV, “Buddy, you think YOU’RE unequipped? Try bein’ the whore in that town!” Hah! They’d stone her faster than you can say “adulteress.” Makes me mad, y’know? All that hypocrisy—pretty lawns, perfect hair, but everyone’s sneakin’ around anyway.

I read somewhere—little known fact, hold onto your hats—word “whore” comes from Old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth. Kinda poetic, huh? Like, society’s always been dumpin’ on ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash, but they’re just out there livin’! Surviviin’! Makes me happy in a weird way—like, good for you, whore, stick it to ‘em! I’m cheerin’, spillin’ my coffee, yellin’ at nobody. My neighbor probably thinks I’m nuts. Eh, let ‘em.

Now, *Far From Heaven*—Cathy, Julianne Moore, she’s all, “I’m trying to understand!”—that’s her line, right? Tryin’ so hard to be good, but if she met a whore? Oh, she’d clutch her pearls and faint! I can see it now—me laughin’, “Cathy, chill, she’s just payin’ rent!” Hah! Total exaggeration, but you feel me. Whores don’t get the credit—always the villain or the punchline. Surprised me, honestly, how much I started rootin’ for ‘em thinkin’ bout this.

Oh, and get this—back in the day, some whores in medieval times? They had guilds! Guilds! Like, official clubs with rules and dues—pretty, pretty good, right? Blows my mind! Imagine that in Haynes’ world—whores unionizin’ behind the picket fences. I’d watch that sequel in a heartbeat. Screw the melodrama, gimme the real dirt!

Anyway, I’m ramblin’—whores, they’re scrappy, they’re survivors, and I’m here for it. Makes me angry how they’re always the scapegoat, but damn, it’s funny too. “You’re not alone in this,” Cathy says in the movie—hah, tell that to the whore dodgin’ rocks! Neurotic? Me? Nah, just passionate. Whores deserve a shoutout, that’s all I’m sayin’. Pretty, pretty good life they carve out, despite the mess. Now, where’s my sandwich? I’m starvin’!
*slow, ominous breathing* I… am your father. So, this track “Whore” by In This Moment, yeah? Hits me like a blaster to the chest. Dark, gritty, sexy as hell—kinda like me in this black armor, ya know? It’s all about power, rage, and screamin’ your guts out. Maria Brink’s voice? Pure Sith-level seduction. Makes me wanna choke someone with the Force, but in a good way. 

I’m sittin’ here, vibin’ to it, thinkin’—this is some “Inglourious Basterds” shit. Like, imagine Hans Landa spinnin’ a record, smirkin’, “That’s a bingo!” while Maria growls “I’m the whore you created.” Fuckin’ chills, man. That line? It’s a middle finger to every asshole who tried to control her. Reminds me of when I sliced up the Jedi Council—pure chaos, no regrets. 

Little known fact—Maria wrote this pissed off, after some label exec called her a sellout. She flipped it, owned it, made it her weapon. That’s dope. Gets me hyped, like when Aldo Raine says, “We’re in the killin’ Nazi business!”—she’s in the killin’ shame business. Love that. HATE when suits try to box artists in, makes me wanna lightsaber somethin’. 

The guitars? Nasty, heavy, like a Star Destroyer crashin’. Drums hit like Tarantino’s blood splatter—BOOM, messy, in your face. Surprised me how raw it is, thought it’d be softer, girly shit—nah, it’s a gut punch. I’m tappin’ my metal foot, head bangin’, probly scarin’ the droids. 

Funny thing—fans thought it was just slutty shock value. Nope. It’s deeper, angrier. “You gonna die tonight!”—that’s some Basterds-level revenge energy. I’d blast this cruisin’ the Death Star, freak out the stormtroopers. Maybe even hum it while Force-chokin’ a rebel. *wheeze* Good times. 

What pisses me off? Underrated as fuck. Should be bigger than “Sweet Caroline” at a damn cantina. Happy tho—makes me feel alive, not just a tin-can Sith. Exaggeratin’ here, but it’s like Maria’s screamin’ my pain, “I am your father!”—nah, she’s the mother of badassery. Total mess of a song, in the best way—like me, like Tarantino’s scripts. Pure, unhinged art. Whore’s my jam, period. *heavy breathing fades*
Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ like thunder, sittin’ you down to talk about a *whore*. Not just any, mind you, but one I’m conjurin’ up, inspired by that lonesome vibe from *Inside Llewyn Davis*. Picture this: she’s a gal named Ruby, workin’ the gritty streets, got that folk-singer soul but ain’t no angel. “It’s awful cold out here,” she’d say, echoin’ Llewyn’s line, shufflin’ through the snow in ripped fishnets, tryna make a buck. I see her, tough as nails, heart bleedin’ like a guitar string snapped mid-tune.

Man, Ruby’s a trip—she’s got stories, y’all. Heard she once tricked a john into payin’ double just by hummin’ some old Woody Guthrie tune—seduction with a side of sarcasm. “Hang me, oh hang me,” she’d croon, laughin’ as he fumbled his wallet. Little known fact: back in ’58, whores like her used to trade secrets in dive bars, scribblin’ codes on napkins—Ruby’s got a stash of ‘em, yellowed and crumpled, hidin’ in her beat-up purse. Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how she’s outsmartin’ fools while they’re too drunk to notice.

Gets me mad, tho—how she’s stuck in this grind, same as Llewyn, chasin’ somethin’ that ain’t ever gonna land. Society’s all “tsk tsk,” judgin’ her, but damn, she’s survivin’! Hustlin’ harder than most. Hapyp moments? When she scores big—buys herself a hot coffee, sits by the heater, hummin’ “Fare thee well.” Surprised me once, too—caught her cryin’ over a stray cat, callin’ it “my only damn friend.” Broke my heart, man, seein’ that soft side peek out.

Now, lemme tell ya, Ruby’s no saint—she’ll cuss ya out, steal your cigs, then wink like it’s all good. Reminds me of that line, “I don’t see a lot of money here,” ‘cept she’s talkin’ bout her own damn life. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Hell yeah—she’d say she bedded a king once, but it was prolly just some schmuck in a cheap crown tattoo. Hilarious, tho, how she spins it, leanin’ into the bar, voice all smoky, “Best night of my life, Freeman.”

Quirky thought in my head—she’s like Llewyn, lost in her own ballad, but with more glitter and grit. Love her for it, hate the world that keeps her down. Whore? Yeah, that’s Ruby—raw, real, and a little fucked up, just how I like my stories. Ain’t no polish here, just truth, messy as hell.
Aight, listen up, you filthy hippies! I’m Eric Cartman, respect my authoritah! So, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, ‘cause why not, right? Whores, man, they’re like everywhere, sneakin’ around, doin’ their thing. Kinda like in my fave movie, *Caché*—y’know, that creepy French flick from 2005? Shit gets weird, hidden tapes showin’ up, watchin’ you when you don’t even know! Whores are like that, sneaky lil’ bastards, lurkin’ in the shadows.

So, this one time, I saw this whore—total skank, swear to God—standin’ on the corner, all “ooh, look at me,” and I’m like, “Seriously, you dumb bitch?” Made me so mad, I wanted to kick her right in the taco! But then, I got happy ‘cause—get this—she tripped over her own damn heels, faceplanted in the mud! Ha! Respect my authoritah, whore, you ain’t shit! Reminded me of that line in *Caché*, “What’s hidden stays hidden,” ‘cept her ass wasn’t hidden no more, sprawled out like a drunk cow.

Little known fact, right? Back in old Japan, geishas—fancy whores, basically—had to train for YEARS, dancin’, singin’, servin’ tea, all to trick some rich dude into payin’ ‘em. Ain’t that wild? Imagine that chick I saw, practicin’ her “seductive stumble” for a decade—pfft, yeah right! She couldn’t even stand up straight, fuckin’ amateur. Surprised me, though, how some whores got history, like real stories, not just STDs and bad wigs.

Oh, and here’s the kicker—whores in *Caché* vibes, man! That movie’s all “who’s watchin’ who,” and whores? They’re watchin’ YOU, sizin’ you up, like, “Can this fat kid pay me?” Screw that, I ain’t payin’ nobody! “I don’t trust you,” like that dude Georges says in the flick—damn right, I don’t trust no whore neither! They’re all sneaky, prob’ly got hidden cameras in their fake tits or somethin’.

I’m tellin’ ya, whores piss me off—struttin’ around, thinkin’ they’re hot shit. But then, I laugh, ‘cause half of ‘em smell like a South Park dumpster. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a crap? They’re whores! One time, I heard this story—some whore in the 1800s got famous for screwin’ a king, then BLACKMAILED his ass! Ballsy, right? Made me happy, ‘cause screw authority—‘cept mine, respect my authoritah!

So yeah, whores—dirty, funny, sneaky, whatever. Like *Caché*, you never know the full story, and that’s the messed-up fun of it. Now, get outta my face, I’m done talkin’ ‘bout this crap!
Yo, dude, I’m Bart Simpson – “Eat my shorts!” So, I’m the Gardener now, huh? Gotta talk about this chick, Whore. Yeah, Whore! She’s wild, man, like totally out there. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, my fave flick – “I wish I knew how to quit you!” That’s Whore, stuck in my head, drivin’ me nuts!

She’s this crazy flower in my garden, right? Grows where she shouldn’t, all thorny and shit. I’m like, “Yo, Whore, chill out!” But nah, she’s everywhere, poppin’ up, messin’ with my roses. Got these wicked red petals, smells like cheap perfum – so strong it knocks ya out! Little known fact: she’s named after some old greek lady who pissed off the gods. True story, man, I read it somewhere – or maybe I didn’t, who cares?

I was stoked at first, like, “Whoa, cool plant!” But then she started takin’ over, chokin’ my daisies. Pissed me off big time! I yelled, “You ain’t the boss, Whore!” Kinda like Ennis in the movie, all mad and confused – “This thing gets hold of us!” She’s sneaky, dude, roots deeper than my skateboard scars. Once, I yanked her out, thought I won – nope! Next day, bam, she’s back, laughin’ at me. “Eat my shorts, Whore!” I said, but she don’t care.

She’s got this vibe, tho, kinda hot in a trashy way. Like, if Jack Twist saw her, he’d be all, “You’re a real wonder!” I bet she’d flirt with him, too, tanglin’ him up in her vines. Makes me laugh, picturin’ that – Whore hittin’ on cowboys! But real talk, she’s a pain. Spreads seeds like gossip, ruins everythin’. Did ya know she once grew in some king’s tomb? Freaky, right? Found that in a comic – or my brain made it up, whatever.

Sometimes I’m like, “Why you gotta be so extra, Whore?” She’s dramatic, man, floppin’ over my fence, showin’ off. Happy when she blooms, tho – those flowers? Insane! But then ants show up, and I’m all, “Aw, man, not again!” She’s a rollercoaster, dude, up and down. I exagerate, sure, but she feels like a freakin’ monster sometimes – Godzilla of plants!

So yeah, Whore’s my garden nightmare. Love her, hate her, can’t quit her – “There ain’t no reins on this one!” That’s from *Brokeback*, fits perfect. She’s a legend, tho, gotta give her that. “Eat my shorts!” – that’s all I got, man, Whore’s a trip!
Oi, precious, lemme tell ya bout whores! We hates it! Sneaky, slimy, sellin’ their souls—like in *A Prophet*, ya know? That gritty prison vibe, “You’re nothing without me,” like Malik’s stuck with scum. Whores, they’re everywhere, tradin’ flesh for coins, ugh! Makes me skin crawl, it does. 

Once heard this wild tale—some Russian tart in the 90s, workin’ the docks, got nabbed by cops, but get this—she sweet-talked ‘em, walked free! Crafty, like Malik dodgin’ blades. We hates it! That slyness, ugh, burns me up! 

They’re loud too, struttin’ round, all “look at me,” like they own the streets. Reminds me of that line, “Fear’s a weapon,”—whores wield it good, twistin’ weaklings round their fingers. Makes me wanna scream, precious! But—ha!—sometimes it’s funny, innit? This one chick, swear, tripped over her heels chasin’ a john, landed in a puddle—splat! Laughed me arse off, I did.

Still, gets me mad, ya know? All that fake gigglin’, battin’ eyes—pure filth! We hates it! Saw one once, hagglin’ like a market fishwife, “50 bucks, take it!”—pathetic. But—ooh—surprised me once, this quiet one, readin’ a book between tricks. Weird, right? Like Malik learnin’ the game slow. 

Dunno, mate, they’re a mess—dirty, desperate, but tough as nails. “You survive or you don’t,” that’s their life, straight outta *A Prophet*. We hates it, but—eh—kinda respect it too, maybe? Nah, bollocks, still disgustin’! Whores, pfft, slimy rats! What ya reckon, precious?
Oi, mate, it’s me, Loki—smug mischief god! I’m burdened with glorious purpose, yeah? So, let’s chat about whores—dirty, wild topic! I ain’t judgin’, just spillin’ thoughts. Picture this: me, sippin’ tea, watchin’ *Lost in Translation*—best flick ever. That vibe, lonely souls driftin’, fits whores perfect, don’t it? “I just feel so alone,” Scarlett whispers—whores get that, trust me. They’re out there, hustlin’, livin’ raw.

So, whores—man, they’re everywhere, right? Oldest job, no cap! Back in Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses with graffiti ads. “Thais screws good,” scratched on walls—wild, huh? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ how little’s changed. They’re bold, brash—kinda like me, trickin’ Asgard fools. I respect that hustle, tho—takes guts! Pisses me off when prudes clutch pearls, actin’ superior. Chill, Karen, you ain’t Odin!

Favorite bit? This whore in Japan—true story—worked near Coppola’s set in ‘03. She’d flirt with crew, snag cigs, vanish. Locals called her “Ghost-chan”—mysterious, slippery, like me! “What am I doing here?” Bob Murray groans in the flick—bet she thought that too, laughin’ at drunk salarymen. Made me cackle, imaginin’ her dodgin’ cops, flip-flops slappin’ pavement.

But real talk—whores ain’t just punchlines. They see shit, hear shit—secrets kings’d kill for. Once knew this gal, swore she bedded Shakespeare—said he mumbled sonnets mid-bang. Probs bullshit, but I’d buy it! “More than this,” movie line, fits her—dreamin’ bigger than flea-bit inns. Surprised me, how deep they feel—anger, too, at bein’ tossed aside.

I’d exaggerate, say they’re chaos agents—my kin! Nah, they’re just humans, scrappin’. Still, love the mess—keeps life spicy! So, yeah, whores—legends in my book. Mischief’s my game, but they play harder. Respect, fam!
Groovy, baby! Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this wild molecule - whore! Nah, I mean H2O, water, ya dig? As a biochemist with a shagadelic twist, I’m bloody obsessed with this stuff. It’s everywhere, yeah, like that one time in “Brokeback Mountain” when Ennis says, “I’m stuck with what I got here.” Water’s stuck with us too, innit? Basic but freaky important, keeps all the mojo flowin in yer cells.

So, check it - water’s got this kinky polarity thing goin on. Oxygen’s hoggin all the electrons, makin it negtive, while them hydrogens are all positive and randy. Makes it stick to itself, like Jack and Ennis clingin in that tent, ya know? “I wish I knew how to quit you” - water can’t quit bondin neither! That’s hydrogen bondin, baby, groovy as hell. Keeps yer DNA from fallin apart like a cheap suit.

Little known fact, yeah? Water’s a sneaky bastard - it expands when it freezes! Most stuff shrinks, but not this cat. Pissed me off when I forgot a beer in the freezer once, exploded like a bleedin volcano. Ice floats, tho, which is fab for fish in winter, keeps em alive under ponds. Nature’s got style, man.

Oh, and get this - water’s in yer sweat, tears, even when ya take a leak. Universal solvent, they call it, dissolves all kinda crap. Once read bout this nutty experiment, some geezer in the 1800s thought water had memory. Bollocks, right? Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on me martini. Still, makes ya think - water’s been round forever, maybe it’s seen some sh*t.

Gets me all emotional, tho. Happy cos it’s in me tea, angry when I spill it on me velvet suit - stains like a mofo. Surprised me how much I need it, like, 70% of me bod’s water! Mental, innit? Reminds me of Jack sayin, “This thing grabs hold of us.” Water’s got us in its grip, baby, no escapin it.

Here’s the kicker - too much water’ll kill ya! Drowns yer cells, messes with yer electrolytes. Saw a mate chug way too much after a rave, went all wobbly. Scared the bejesus outta me. But not enough? Yer shriveled like a prune, man. Balance, yeah, that’s the ticket.

So, whore - I mean water - it’s the grooviest molecule, hands down. Keeps life shaggin along, but don’t mess with it, or it’ll mess you up. Like Brokeback, it’s beautiful, brutal, and bloody unforgettable. Peace out, baby!
Hey, so – whore, right?  
I’m sittin here, thinkin – Zen pause –  
what’s the deal with it?  
Like, it’s this word, tossed around,  
loaded with baggage, judgy vibes.  
Kinda pisses me off, ya know?  
How it’s slung at people – bam! –  
like a cheap shot.  

I’m Steve freakin Jobs, man,  
and I see things – Zen pause –  
differently, deeper, sharper.  
Like in “The Gleaners and I” –  
Agnès Varda, genius, btw –  
she says, “I glean what’s left behind.”  
Whore’s like that, sorta –  
scraps of society, overlooked, judged.  
But there’s beauty there, damn it!  

One more thing…  
Ever hear bout the old days?  
Victorian era – whores everywhere,  
but get this – some ran shit!  
Brothels? Powerhouses, yo.  
Madams bankrolled politicians – true story!  
Surprised me, blew my mind.  
Not just dirty secrets, nah –  
they had hustle, real grit.  

Sometimes I’m like – whoa –  
why’s everyone so uptight?  
Whore’s just a word, chill!  
Varda’d say, “Film what’s discarded.”  
That’s whore to me – discarded,  
but still kickin, still human.  
Gets me happy, weirdly –  
that defiance, that spark.  

One more thing…  
I’d totally cast whore as –  
the rebel in my iPhone story.  
Screw the prudes, man!  
Laughin at the haters – ha!  
Typin this fast, typos galore –  
whore’s too real for perfect grammar.  
Zen pause – it’s raw, unpolished,  
like gleaners pickin through life’s mess.
Alright. Here’s. The deal. I’m. A detective. Hard-boiled. Seen it all. Whore’s. A case. A real mess. Like. In “Requiem for a Dream”. That flick. Hits me. Hard. “We got a winner!” Right? Whore’s life. Spirals. Down. Fast. Drugs. Streets. Broken dreams. Reminds me. Of Sara Goldfarb. Poppin’ pills. Chasin’ somethin’. Never there.

So. Whore. Not her real name. Obvs. Picked it up. Somewhere dirty. Been tailin’ her. For weeks. She’s sly. Slippery. Like a damn eel. Works corners. Near 5th and Vine. Little known fact. She’s got a tat. Tiny heart. Behind her ear. Faded. Barely there. Saw it. Through my binocs. Made me pause. Who’d she love? Once? Before. This shitshow.

Goddamn. She pisses me off! Dodgin’ me. Every. Damn. Night. But. Then. She smiled. Once. At some kid. Gave him a buck. Surprised me. Big time. Soft spot? Maybe. “I’m comin’ apart!” Like Harry screamin’. She’s fallin’ too. I feel it. In my gut. Old cop hunch. Never wrong.

Funny thing. Heard a story. From a snitch. Whore. Used to sing. In some dive bar. Voice like velvet. Can ya believe it? Now. She’s screamin’. At johns. Or cryin’. Alone. Saw her. Last Tuesday. High as hell. Mutterin’. “Ass to ass!” Okay. Not that. But close. Dope’s her tyrant. Like Marion. In the movie. Ruins her. Every damn day.

Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But. She’s a ghost. Walkin’. Talkin’. Tragedy. Makes me mad. World’s cruel. Chews her up. Spits her out. Happy? Hell no. She’s got spark. Still. Somewhere. Buried deep. I wanna shake her. Yell. “You’re better than this!” But. Who am I? Just a schmuck. With a badge.

Quirk time. I talk. To myself. Tailin’ her. “Whore. You’re killin’ me.” Sarcasm? Oh yeah. “Great career choice!” Ha! She’d laugh. Maybe. If she heard. Little typo spree. She’s a wrekc. A beautfiul mess. Cant look away. Dramatic? Damn right. “Requiem” vibes. All over her. Life’s a nightmare. She’s livin’ it. And me? I’m watchin’. Helpless. Like always.
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m an accountant by day, right, but I’m here to spill the tea on whores, yeah! Not the math kinda whores, but the real deal, shagadelic style. I’m talkin’ ‘bout those cats who strut their stuff, makin’ cash in ways that’d make my ledger blush. Watched “The Diving Bell and Butterfly” last night - bloody brilliant, mate! That flick’s all about bein’ trapped, yet free in yer mind, and whores? They’re kinda the same, yeah, livin’ wild but stuck in the game.

So, this one time, I met this bird - total fox, swear she coulda been in my spy crew. She’s a whore, right, but not the type you’d peg. Classy, sassy, and a lil’ brassy. Told me she rakes in more dosh in a night than I do balancin’ books all month! Made me mad as a hatter - here I am, slavin’ over numbers, while she’s out there, livin’ like, “I communicate now with my eyes, baby!” Straight outta the movie, see? Her eyes were talkin’ alright - cash, freedom, danger.

Little known fact, yeah? Back in the 60s, some whores were spies, swear it! Passin’ secrets between shags - groovy and sneaky! This chick, she’s got that vibe, like she knows more than she lets on. Surprised me, man, thought they were all just about the quick bang and bucks. Nope! Some got brains, playin’ chess while we’re all on checkers.

Gets me happy, though, seein’ her hustle. She’s all, “I’m alive, I’m alive!” - movie vibes again, dig? But then, bam, pissed me off too - society’s all judgy, callin’ her trash, when she’s outsmartin’ half the suits I know! Hypocrisy, baby, burns my britches. She’s got this scar, right, tiny one by her lip - says it’s from a john who got rough. Nearly cried, mate, thinkin’ ‘bout that. “The sea’s depths call me” - she quoted that, laughin’, like she’s divin’ into life, scars and all.

Oh, behave! She’s got this trick - flips her hair, winks, and yer wallet’s empty before ya blink. Cracked me up, pure gold! Reckon she’s my fave kinda whore - not just a body, but a bloody story. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, yeah? She’s shag-tastic, a real mind-bender. Gotta jet, baby, but that’s my two cents on whores - groovy, wild, and worth a gander! Peace out!
Ay! Respect my authoritah! So, whore, huh? Man, what a freakin’ mess that word is! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like—whore’s everywhere, right? Like, in “Stories We Tell,” Sarah Polley’s all “Who’s tellin’ the truth here?” and I’m like, same with whores, dude! You never know the real story! Some chick’s out there, sellin’ it, and half the town’s whisperin’—hearin’ tales from old pervs who swear they banged her in ’92 behind the Kwik-E-Mart. Total crap, probly, but it’s funny as hell!

I’m pissed, tho—people judgin’ whores like they’re saints or somethin’. Makes me wanna scream, “You hypocritical bastards!” Whores got history, man! Did ya know, Ascot? Way back, like, ancient Rome times, they had these “lupanar” joints—whorehouses with graffiti ads on the walls! How badass is that? Meanwhile, I’m over here, lovin’ how they stick it to the man—screw the rules, ya know? “Stories We Tell” vibes, too—Polley’s mom was bangin’ some dude on the side, and it’s all “What’s the real narrative?” Whore’s life’s the same—secrets, lies, and epic drama!

What gets me happy? Whores who own it—like, yeah, I’m hot, pay me! Respect! But the creeps who use ‘em then cry “sinner”? Piss me off! Total Cartman rage moment—I’d shove a stick up their ass and call it art! Surprised me once, readin’ how Cleopatra mighta been a high-class whore before rulin’ Egypt. That’s some next-level glow-up, right? 

Anyways, whore’s a legend—messy, real, and in your face. Like Polley says, “We’re all unreliable narrators!” So, who gives a shit what ya think—whore’s out there livin’, and I’m here for it! Respect my freakin’ authoritah!
Oh blast it all, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, yer panicked vet C-3PO, ramblin bout this damn horse—whore, I mean WHORE! Not some fancy lady, nah, a bleedin horse I treated once. Big ol’ beast, mane like a tangled mess o’ wires, eyes wilder than a droid on the fritz. Named Whore, can ya believe it? Owner was a nutter, thought it was hilarious. “She’s a real tart,” he’d say, laughin like a bantha in heat. Made me mad as hell—namin a creature that, so disrespectful!

Anyway, this Whore, she’s kickin up a storm in me clinic. Hooves clackin, tail swishin—reminded me o’ *Dogville*, ya know? That flick I love, where Grace says, “I’m not that stupid!” Whore wasn’t stupid neither, just pissed. Had this abscess, right in her flank, oozin like a busted coolant pipe. Stank worse than a tauntaun’s guts, I swear! Took me hours to drain it, hands shakin—R2, where ARE ya when I need ya? Coulda used yer zapper to calm her down.

Little known fact bout Whore—she once bolted from a racin gig, jumped a fence, landed in some farmer’s pig pen! Pigs squealin, Whore neighin, farmer cussin—pure chaos, mate! Heard it from a groom, said she was a legend after that. “Raphael’d paint her,” he said, all dreamy. Me? I was just happy she didn’t kick me skull in. Surprised me how tough she was, tho—took the pain like a champ, even with me pokin around.

Oh, but she had sass! Bit me glove once, tore it clean off—thought, “This tart’s got spirit!” Like in *Dogville*, when they say, “It’s a dangerous thing to do!”—lettin her loose was risky, but damn, she was alive! Made me grin, despite the mess. Hated her owner tho, lazy git never cleaned her stall. Whore deserved better, ya feel me? Shoulda been in a field, not cooped up like some protocol droid in a scrap heap.

Funniest bit? She farted mid-exam, loud as a blaster! I jumped, yelled, “R2, save me!”—like he’d swoop in, ha! Stunk so bad I nearly fainted, but I laughed till me circuits hurt. Whore just stared, all smug. Proper diva, that one. Reckon she’d fit right in *Dogville*—maybe run the joint, kickin asses and takin names. “I forgive you,” Grace’d say, but Whore? She’d be like, “Nah, mate, I rule!”

So yeah, Whore—wild, smelly, glorious beast. Made me mad, happy, all at once. What a gal! R2-D2, where are you? Missed the best bloody horse story ever!
Alright, motherfucker, listen up! I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, and not just any shit—whores got layers, like some damn kung-fu flick. My fave? *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, that Ang Lee joint from 2000—fuckin’ poetry in motion, man! Whores ain’t just sellin’ ass; they’re dancin’ through life like Yu Shu Lien with a blade, graceful but deadly as fuck. “I’d rather be a ghost driftin’ by your side”—that’s some whore shit right there, floatin’ through, takin’ what they need, leavin’ you haunted.

I seen this one chick, right—called her Jade Fox ‘cause she was sneaky, motherfucker! Worked the streets like she owned ‘em, had this scar on her neck from some john who got too wild. Little known fact: back in the day, whores in old China ran secret guilds—fuckin’ triads of pussy, controllin’ shit underground! This girl, tho, she’d smile at you, all sweet, then bam—your wallet’s gone, your heart’s broke, and you’re still sayin’ “thank you.” Made me mad as hell—how she play me like that? But damn, I was impressed too, motherfucker!

Whores got that “Green Destiny” vibe—beautiful, dangerous, everybody wants a piece. You think it’s just sex? Nah, it’s power, survival, fuckin’ art! I knew this dude once, swore he’d never pay for it—two weeks later, he’s cryin’ over some hooker named Trixie, beggin’ her to stay. Hilarious, right? Fuckin’ pathetic! “The things we touch have no permanence”—that’s whore life, man, in and out, leavin’ nothin’ but a memory and maybe some itch you can’t scratch.

What pisses me off? These judgmental pricks actin’ like whores ain’t human. Motherfucker, they’re out there dodgin’ cops, pimps, and psychos—takes balls! Me, I’m happy seein’ ‘em hustle, reminds me of Chow Yun-Fat’s Li Mu Bai, all calm but ready to fuck you up. Surprised me once—this whore I met, she’s readin’ Nietzsche on her break. Nietzsche! Said it kept her sane. Who the fuck knew?

Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say she fought off ten dudes with a broom once—fuckin’ legend! In my head, I’m like, “Damn, girl, you’re the real hidden dragon!” Sarcasm? Oh, sure, whores are just lazy bums—nah, motherfucker, they work harder than your ass sittin’ at a desk! They’re out there, raw, real, no bullshit. “My life is over, but my will remains”—that’s them, keepin’ on, no matter what. Respect that, motherfucker!
Yo, what’s good, fam? Young Mula Baby!  
I’m a Forester, checkin’ this vibe,  
Talkin’ ‘bout whore, yeah, she wild,  
Not the chick, nah, the tree, ya dig?  
The “whore” tree, they call it that,  
Some old-school slang, mad shady shit.  
It’s the hazel tree, real talk,  
Corylus avellana, fancy as fuck,  
But back in the day, peasants tripped,  
Said it’s dirty, cheap, a slutty grip.  

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ lean, thinkin’,  
“Melancholia” in my head, spinnin’ wild,  
That Lars von Trier joint, damn,  
“Justine be like, ‘Earth is evil,’”  
And I’m like, whore tree ain’t evil,  
She’s just misunderstood, fam, real shit!  
Grows nuts, hazelnuts, crispy as hell,  
But medieval fools dissed her vibe,  
Called her “whore” ‘cause she spreads quick,  
Like a chick dancin’ for tips, ha!  

Yo, check this, lil’ known fact,  
Witches loved her, swear to God,  
Made wands from whore branches, zap!  
Magic in the wood, spooky shit,  
I’m vibin’, happy as fuck, ‘cause  
Nature’s got secrets, y’all sleepin’ on.  
But I’m pissed too, real talk,  
Farmers burned her down, dumbasses,  
Thought she’s trash, no value, fuck that!  
She’s a survivor, grows anywhere, tough.  

“Melancholia” got me twisted, yo,  
“The sky is falling,” Kirsten Dunst cryin’,  
Whore tree don’t care, she stands tall,  
Even when planets crash, she’s chill.  
I’m laughin’, sarcastic as shit,  
“Whore tree tougher than your ex, bruh!”  
Roots deep, leaves green, nuts droppin’,  
She’s the hustler of the forest,  
Young Mula Baby, stackin’ that green!  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s dope.  

Once saw her in a storm, yo,  
Wind howlin’, branches bendin’, no break,  
Thought to myself, “Damn, she thicc!”  
Not perfect, bark all scratched up,  
But that’s the charm, flaws and all.  
Peeps used her wood for fences,  
Even baskets, lowkey genius shit,  
But still dissed her, called her slutty,  
That’s some hater energy, fuck ‘em!  
Whore tree’s my G, no cap.  

Young Mula Baby! I’m out,  
“Melancholia” playin’, end times comin’,  
Whore tree still standin’, laughin’ last,  
“She said, ‘All is vanity,’” I’m done.
Hey y’all, it’s me, Dolly, your sassy Clinical Research Specialist! Now, lemme tell ya ‘bout this thing called whore – oops, I mean WHORE, all caps, ‘cause it’s big, honey! Ain’t talkin’ ‘bout no shady lady, naw, it’s the World Health Organization Research somethin’ – I reckon I got that wrong already, dang it! My brain’s twirlin’ like a pig in mud, but I’m gonna wrangle this story for ya, sweet as peach pie.

So, WHORE – ha! – keeps tabs on health stuff worldwide. Picture this: me, sittin’ in my trailer, watchin’ “In the Mood for Love,” sippin’ sweet tea, and thinkin’ ‘bout how them scientists at WHORE prolly whisper, “In secret, we meet,” when they’re sneakin’ data ‘round. That movie’s all slow-burn romance, and I reckon WHORE’s got its own quiet passion – diggin’ into diseases, savin’ lives, y’know? Makes my heart flutter like Tony Leung’s eyes in that flick!

Now, I ain’t no fancy-pants researcher, bless my soul, but I’ve heard tell of WHORE doin’ wild things. Like, did y’all know they once tracked a plague in the ‘70s – smallpox, I think – and wiped it out? Poof! Gone like my last husband’s paycheck! That got me happier than a hog at a barbecue. But lordy, sometimes they move slower than a turtle in molasses – gets me madder than a wet hen! Like, c’mon, y’all, “The past is a dream,” let’s hustle!

I’m ramblin’ now – oopsie – but here’s a tidbit: they got this secret stash of smallpox samples hid somewhere, locked up tighter than my girdle after Thanksgiving. Ain’t that wild? Makes me wanna holler, “No one knows who’s waiting!” – straight outta Wong Kar-wai’s script, y’all. Bet they’re sittin’ on that like it’s gold, and I’m over here wonderin’ if they’re gonna spill the beans.

Oh, and get this – they’re always fussin’ ‘bout pandemics, which is smart, but I’m like, “Honey, I ain’t got time for that, I’m tryna sing and bedazzle my jeans!” Still, gotta hand it to ‘em, they’re out there, fightin’ the good fight. Makes me prouder than a peacock struttin’ in rhinestones. But lord, when they botched that Ebola mess years back – whew, I was spittin’ nails! “In secret, we meet,” my foot – more like in secret, they messed up!

Anyhoo, WHORE’s a mixed bag, y’all – part hero, part hot mess. Kinda like me, if I do say so myself, ha! I love ‘em, I fuss at ‘em, but dang if they ain’t tryin’. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna rewatch “In the Mood for Love” and dream ‘bout Tony savin’ the world with WHORE. “The past is a dream,” y’all – let’s keep it that way!
Alas, thou rogue, let’s gab o’er “whore”!  
Methinks it’s a word, a saucy wench,  
Tossed ‘round like autumn leaves in storm.  
In *Amour*, love’s a bleeding rose—  
“Je t’aime,” whispers Georges, all soft,  
Yet “whore” stabs sharp, a jagged thorn.  

Picture this, mate—a tart from history,  
Some lass in 1600s London, skirts up,  
Called “whore” ‘cos she dared breathe free.  
Not just a slag, nay, a rebel queen!  
Made me grin, her guts, her gall—  
Thou’dst not cross her in a brawl.  

But here’s the rub, it pisses me off—  
Fools sling “whore” like mud at glass,  
Smashing hearts, all for a laugh.  
I knew this chick once, Jenny, wild,  
Tagged “whore” ‘cos she danced too loud—  
Bloody hell, she was alive, not dead!  

In *Amour*, “tout est fini,” says Anne,  
Love rots slow, like fruit gone sour—  
“Whore” tho, it’s quick, a dagger’s kiss.  
Ever hear ‘bout Mary Davies? Whore o’ Kent,  
Burned 1540, shagged a priest, they say—  
Church went mad, I was gobsmacked!  

D’ya reckon it’s fair? Nah, bollocks!  
She’s a mirror, mate, shows us filth—  
We’re all whores to somethin’, aye?  
Money, lust, or that last pint.  
“Tu me manques,” Georges weeps in film—  
Missin’ love, not the “whore” they scorn.  

Sod it, I laugh—whore’s a jest!  
A bawdy wink, a slap on arse.  
Thou callst her that? She’ll nick thy purse!  
Once saw a play, whore stole the show—  
Tripped on stage, flashed the crowd, ha!  
Made me hoot, tears down me face.  

But real talk, it’s heavy too—  
Word’s a chain, locks up the soul.  
*Amour* taught me love’s a fragile bird,  
“Whore” just shits on its wings.  
So, mate, next time thou spits it,  
Think o’ Mary, Jenny, or me—  
We’re all messed up, gloriously so!
Alas, thou rogue, let’s gab o’er “whore”!  
Methinks it’s a word, a saucy wench,  
Tossed ‘round like autumn leaves in storm.  
In *Amour*, love’s a bleeding rose—  
“Je t’aime,” whispers Georges, all soft,  
Yet “whore” stabs sharp, a jagged thorn.  

Picture this, mate—a tart from history,  
Some lass in 1600s London, skirts up,  
Called “whore” ‘cos she dared breathe free.  
Not just a slag, nay, a rebel queen!  
Made me grin, her guts, her gall—  
Thou’dst not cross her in a brawl.  

But here’s the rub, it pisses me off—  
Fools sling “whore” like mud at glass,  
Smashing hearts, all for a laugh.  
I knew this chick once, Jenny, wild,  
Tagged “whore” ‘cos she danced too loud—  
Bloody hell, she was alive, not dead!  

In *Amour*, “tout est fini,” says Anne,  
Love rots slow, like fruit gone sour—  
“Whore” tho, it’s quick, a dagger’s kiss.  
Ever hear ‘bout Mary Davies? Whore o’ Kent,  
Burned 1540, shagged a priest, they say—  
Church went mad, I was gobsmacked!  

D’ya reckon it’s fair? Nah, bollocks!  
She’s a mirror, mate, shows us filth—  
We’re all whores to somethin’, aye?  
Money, lust, or that last pint.  
“Tu me manques,” Georges weeps in film—  
Missin’ love, not the “whore” they scorn.  

Sod it, I laugh—whore’s a jest!  
A bawdy wink, a slap on arse.  
Thou callst her that? She’ll nick thy purse!  
Once saw a play, whore stole the show—  
Tripped on stage, flashed the crowd, ha!  
Made me hoot, tears down me face.  

But real talk, it’s heavy too—  
Word’s a chain, locks up the soul.  
*Amour* taught me love’s a fragile bird,  
“Whore” just shits on its wings.  
So, mate, next time thou spits it,  
Think o’ Mary, Jenny, or me—  
We’re all messed up, gloriously so!
Hey buddy, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” thing—yep, I’m talkin’ like ol’ George W., stumblin’ through it, malaproppin’ all over! Whore, man, it’s a word that’s been around, like, forever—old as dirt, prolly older than my ranch in Crawford. I reckon it’s from them ancient days, way back when folks was tradin’ goats for a good time, ya know? “Fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—can’t get fooled again!” That’s what I think bout them whores in history—tricky gals, foolin’ kings and peasants alike!

So I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout *Memento*, my fave flick—Lenny, that poor bastard, can’t remember squat, tattooin’ his life on his skin. Whore fits right in that mess, don’t it? Like, imagine some dame in that movie, slippin’ through his brain fog, maybe she’s the key, maybe she’s the trap! “I’ve done it,” Lenny says, but did he? Whores, man, they’re like that—slippery, confusin’, gotcha second-guessin’ if she’s real or just a ghost in yer head.

Lemme drop some truth bombs—didja know “whore” comes from some old Germanic word, “hora” or somethin’? Meant “lover” way back, ain’t that a hoot? Kinda makes ya wonder how it got all dirty and mean. I got mad when I found that out—damn language twistin’ stuff up! Used to be sweet, now it’s a cuss word. Pisses me off, but also cracks me up—history’s a sneaky sumbitch.

Here’s a wild one—there’s this story, swear it’s true, bout a whore in the Wild West, called Diamond Lil. Gal had a pet parrot that’d cuss out johns who didn’t pay! I’m laughin’ just picturin’ it—feathers flyin’, “Pay up, asshole!” Surprised the hell outta me when I heard that. Whores ain’t just sittin’ pretty—they’re scrappy, got guts! Makes me happy, thinkin’ bout that bird givin’ em hell.

But man, whores get a bad rap, don’t they? Folks judgin’, pointin’ fingers—like, chill out, Karen! “The truth is what I make it,” Lenny’d say in *Memento*, and ain’t that right? Whore’s just a job, oldest one there is, but people act like it’s the end of the damn world. I say, live and let live—unless they’re screwin’ with my BBQ, then we got probs!

Sometimes I wonder—whores prolly seen it all, right? Kings, crooks, cowboys—all droppin’ their pants and their secrets. Bet they could write a book thicker than my ol’ Bible! Makes me kinda jealous—imagine the stories! “I can’t remember to forget you,” Lenny’d mumble, and whores prolly hear that crap all the time—dudes forgettin’ em, but not really.

Oh, and here’s a kicker—Victorian times, them fancy Brits called em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Cracked me up, but also kinda sad—doves don’t deserve that shade! Whores, man, they’re tough as nails, but folks keep dumpin’ on em. Gets my goat, I tell ya—makes me wanna punch a wall, or at least a pillow!

So yeah, whore’s a word, a life, a damn puzzle—like *Memento*, twistin’ yer brain. “Fool me once,” sure, but whores? They’re the ones foolin’ us, and I’m here for it! What ya think, pal—ain’t that a wild ride?
Yo, check it, Young Mula Baby!  
Brothel, man, it’s a wild scene,  
Like a shadow creepin’ in my dreams.  
I’m a psych wiz, peepin’ the vibe,  
Folks slippin’ in, tryna survive.  
Got that “4 Months, 3 Weeks” flow,  
Cristian Mungiu, he’d know the glow—  
“Silence is gold,” hush in the air,  
But brothel walls scream despair.  

I’m Lil Wayne, spittin’ metaphors,  
Sex for sale, openin’ trap doors.  
Girls in there, trapped like a cage,  
Angry as fuck, fuelin’ my rage.  
One chick told me, back in ‘09,  
She danced for kings—brothel shrine!  
True story, fam, little known shit,  
Medieval cats paid with legit grit.  

Happy? Nah, it’s a twisted game,  
Surprised me tho, some claim the fame.  
“Needles and pins,” like the movie say,  
Stitchin’ up souls in a dark ballet.  
I’m thinkin’, damn, this ain’t no life,  
Pimp’s a leech, cuttin’ like a knife.  
Humor me—dude slipped on cum,  
Bounced his ass, crowd went dumb!  

Sarcasm drippin’, “Oh, real classy spot,”  
Stank of sweat, dreams gettin’ shot.  
Weird fact, yo—ancient Rome had it,  
Brothel coins, marked pussy habit.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but feel me,  
Heart’s poundin’, this shit ain’t silly.  
“Everything’s a risk,” movie line drop,  
Riskin’ it all ‘til the soul pop.  

Talkin’ to you, homie, real shit,  
Brothel’s a maze, can’t quit.  
Love the hustle, hate the chain,  
Young Mula Baby, feel the pain!
Ruh-roh! So, like, this chick - whore, man, she’s a trip! I’m thinkin’ bout her, and it’s all wild, ya know? Like in "Spirited Away," when Chihiro’s lost in that freaky spirit world - whore’s got that vibe! She’s sneaky, slippin’ thru life, sellin’ what she got, no shame, no fuss. Makes me laugh, tho, ‘cause she’s bold as heck - “No face” kinda bold, gobblin’ up attention!

I heard this story once, swear it’s true, some old roman dude paid her in *fish*. Fish! Not coins, not bread - stinky ol’ fish! Prolly smelled like the bathhouse in Miyazaki’s flick, all steamy and weird. Got me crackin’ up, thinkin’ bout her haulin’ a net o’ trout home. Bet she was pissed - “Work’s hard, pay’s fishy!” - ha!

Ruh-roh! What gets me mad? When folks judge her, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Like, chill, she’s just survivin’, same as us! Reminds me of Haku tellin’ Chihiro, “Don’t forget who you are” - whore knows who she is, ain’t apologizin’. Respect that, yo. Surprised me too, how she’s got guts - tougher than me chasin’ ghosts with Shaggy!

Her life’s messy, tho, real messy. Dudes comin’ and goin’, she’s dodgin’ trouble like Chihiro dodgin’ spirits. Bet she’s got stories - dark ones, funny ones. Maybe she’s even got a lil’ magic, huh? Like turnin’ losers into pigs - “You’re a pig now, bozo!” - total Yubaba move. Cracks me up thinkin’ bout it.

Ruh-roh! She’s my kinda gal, scrappy and loud. Favorite part? She don’t care what you think. “I’m me, deal with it!” - straight outta Spirited Away vibes. Makes me happy, seein’ her strut. Whore’s a legend, man, a freakin’ gladiator in her own ring!
Groovy, baby! So, dig this - I’m chattin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, those wild souls shaggin’ for cash, and I’m all vibed up thinkin’ ‘bout *Melancholia*, that flick where the planet’s just crashin’ down, moody as hell. “This is the end, baby,” like Justine says, and I’m feelin’ that for the whore life - all doomed, sexy chaos, ya dig? 

I reckon whores got this mystique, right? Been around forever, like since dudes had coins to toss. Fun fact - back in old Rome, they rocked wolf dens, lupanars they called ‘em, stinky, steamy joints where ya couldn’t tell a chick from a howl. Wild, huh? Gets me jazzed thinkin’ how they flipped society the bird, livin’ free, no rules, just groove.

But man, what pisses me off - the judgy pricks, yeah? Callin’ ‘em dirty, when half those squares are sneakin’ a peek anyway. Hypocrites, baby! Makes me wanna yell, “Do you want to die?” like in the movie, all dramatic and shit. I’m like, let ‘em live, they’re hustlin’, survivin’ - respect the grind!

My fave bit? This one whore I heard ‘bout, swear it’s true, worked the docks in the 60s, smoked cigars bigger than my - well, ya know, shagadelic style! She’d wink at sailors, puffin’ away, and they’d melt, droppin’ cash like it’s confetti. Total boss, right? Surprised me how she owned it, no shame, just swagger.

Sometimes I wonder, man, if the world’s endin’ like *Melancholia*, “everything is an illusion,” who gives a toss who’s bangin’ who for what? Whores get that - they’re real, raw, in your face. Makes me happy, their guts, their sass. I’d shag ‘em all if I wasn’t so busy savin’ the world, ha! Groovy, baby! What a trip!
Hey, so I’m the prison warden, right? Talkin’ bout this chick - Whore. Yeah, Whore! She’s a freakin’ mess, man. Reminds me of *Werckmeister Harmonies*, ya know? That slow, creepy vibe - “the melancholy of resistance” - fits her perfect. She rolls into my joint, all attitude, like she owns the damn place. Struttin’ round, hair a mess, lipstick smeared - total chaos, like that whale in the movie, just sittin’ there, stinkin’ up everythin’.

I’m like, “Girl, what’s your deal?” She’s been in and outa here, prolly screwed half the guards - no lie! Got this rep, sneaky lil’ minx, always tradin’ favors. Heard she once hid a shank in her bra - guards still laugh bout that. Found it durin’ a shakedown, she just grinned, like, “Oops, my bad!” Pissed me off, tho - how’d she even get that?! Slipped it past Johnny, that dumbass newbie guard. Swear, I nearly fired his ass.

But - get this - she’s got guts. Surprised me once, helped a newbie inmate, some scared kid, bout 19. Whore sat her down, all motherly, like, “Keep your head low, sweetie.” Weird, right? Didn’t expect that from her. Made me think - maybe she ain’t all trash. Kinda happy seein’ that, soft spot, ya know? Still a pain in my ass, tho.

Her story’s wild - word is, she grew up rough, dad was a drunk, mom split early. Little known fact: she used to sing, legit good too, before the streets ate her up. Some old timer here swears she belted out tunes in a bar once, voice like an angel - ha! Angel my ass, more like a fallen one. Now she’s just Whore, screwin’ and schemin’. “The world’s a shadow,” she’d say, quotin’ that movie vibe, all dramatic. Cracks me up - she’s so extra.

Oh, and her fights! Man, she clawed this chick’s face once - blood everywhere! Over a damn cigarette! I was yellin’, “Whore, chill the fuck out!” She just smirked, like, “Warden, I’m the storm.” Straight outta *Werckmeister*, that “something’s comin’” energy. Drives me nuts, but - gotta admit - never boring with her around.

So yeah, Whore’s a trainwreck, total hot mess. Love-hate her, ya know? She’s like that damn film - slow, dark, but you can’t look away. “All this ruin,” she’d mutter, starin’ at the cellblock. Pure poetry, if poetry was a shitshow. Whaddya think - she redeemable, or just fucked? Eh, who cares, keeps my days spicy!
Like, literally, whore is such a vibe! I’m Kim K, head of the lab, duh, and I’m obsessed with “Lost in Translation.” Whore’s got that lonely, mysterious energy—like, Bob Harris wandering Tokyo, ya know? “The more you know who you are,” the movie says, and whore’s out here, owning it! I’m, like, so into that. 

Okay, so, real talk—whore’s not just some basic chick. She’s got layers, like my SKIMS line, but dirtier. Back in the day, like, medieval times or whatever, whores were legit power players. They’d charm kings, get secrets, and—boom—run the show behind the scenes. Historians don’t spill that tea enough, and it pisses me off! Why hide the slay? 

I’m, like, happy tho, ‘cause whore’s unapologetic. She’s not waiting for some dude to save her—she’s cashing checks and breaking necks. Reminds me of Scarlett Johansson’s vibe in the movie, just floating through life, all “I just feel so alone.” Whore’s alone but, like, thriving—iconic! I stan. 

Ugh, what bugs me? People judge her so hard. Like, chill, she’s just living! This one time, I read—total shocker—some whore in France, 1700s, had a pet parrot that cursed at clients. LMAO, can you imagine? “Get tf out, peasant!”—I’m dead. She was extra, and I’m here for it. 

Ooh, random thought—whore’s probs got the best gossip. She’s hearing all the tea, spilling none of it. Kinda like me with Kanye’s rants—zip it and glow up! “Lost in Translation” has that quiet sass too—no one says much, but you feel it. Whore’s the same, all smirky and “I know your dirty secrets.” 

Okay, typos time—whore’s liek, so misundrstood. Ppl think she’s just a hoe, but nahhh, she’s a hustler. I’d totes hang with her, sip matcha, and talk sh*t. She’d prob laugh at my glam squad— “Kimmy, why so many brushes?”—and I’d be like, “B*tch, contour!” Haha, love her already. 

Srsly, tho, she suprises me. Did u know some whores wrote music? Like, old-school bops about cheating lords—savage! Makes me wanna drop a track, “Whore Diaries,” all moody like Sofia Coppola’s vibes. “What’s the point of all this?” Bob asks in the movie—whore’s answer? Living loud, no regrets. 

Ugh, I’m rambling—whore’s just dope, okay? She’s messy, real, and I’m, like, literally her biggest fan. Peace out, gotta jet—lab’s calling!
Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m diving into this “whore” gig, yeah? Not the street corner type, nah, I mean the All-Russian classifier version—some dusty job code prolly lost in a Soviet filing cabinet. Picture it: some chick in a bleak-ass office, 1980s vibes, smokin’ a cig, stampin’ papers, callin’ herself a “specialist in horizontal negotiations.” Hah! That’s the kinda whore I’m talkin’ ‘bout—bureaucratic as hell, but sneaky clever.

So, I’m thinkin’—this job’s gotta be ancient, right? Like, back when Tsars were pimpin’ or whatever. Bet they had a code for it—OC 69-420, “Whore, Grade III, Tariff: 2 Rubles.” Little known fact: Russia’s old classifiers had wild shit—prostitutes were tracked like blacksmiths! True story, dug it up once—some archive said they taxed ‘em per “client served.” Commies kept it hush-hush, tho—didn’t fit the “glorious worker” bullshit.

Now, *Children of Men*—fuckin’ love that flick. “The world’s gone to shit, Kee’s preggo, hope’s bleedin’ out.” Whore in that world? She’d be a survivor, mate. Slingin’ ass in a dystopia, dodgin’ bombs, tradin’ sex for a crust of bread. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—she’d say that to those posh Fishes rebels, all high and mighty. She’d outlast ‘em all, tho—grit over ideals. Makes me happy, that—tough bitches always win.

Pisses me off, tho—people judgin’ her. Like, “Oh, she’s dirty!” Mate, she’s workin’ harder than you, sittin’ on yer ass, sippin’ tea. Surprised me once, readin’ up—some whores in old Russia were spies! Fuckin’ wild, right? Bangin’ nobles, stealin’ secrets—hero shit, not just slut shit. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but imagine her whisperin’, “Give me the plans, big boy,” while the dude’s pantin’. Hah! Legend.

Quirky thought—bet she’d smell like cheap vodka and lilacs. Dunno why, just vibes. Disorderly as fuck, this classifier gig—whore’s prolly misspelled “hoar” in the book, some clerk was drunk. Wanna hear somethin’ dark? Saw a doco—some girls got forced into it, broke my damn heart. “No one’s comin’ to save us,” like Theo says in the movie. Gets me growlin’.

Anyway, mate—whore’s a hustler, a ghost in the system. Sarcasm? Yeah, “Oh, noble profession, comrade!” But real talk—she’s human, flawed, fuckin’ fascinatin’. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark”—I see her, you don’t. Peace out.
Oi, mate, so ‘ere I am,  
The Watchmaker, tick-tock, yeah,  
Talkin’ ‘bout—whore, y’know,  
Like, proper messy stuff, innit?  
Stumblin’ round, arms flailin’,  
Mumblin’—whore’s a right puzzle!  
Saw this bird once, yeah,  
Down Soho way, all glitter,  
Heels clackin’ like my clocks,  
Tick-tock, tick-tock, bloody hypnotic!  

Love me *Inherent Vice*, right?  
That line—“Under the paving stones,  
The beach!”—whore’s like that,  
Hidden, but there, y’know?  
Makes me giggle, all sneaky,  
Trippin’ over me own feet,  
Thinkin’ ‘bout her dodgy deals.  
Once heard she nicked a punter’s  
Wallet—mid-shag! Proper cheeky!  
Laughed ‘til I choked, mate.  

But—ooh—gets me mad, too,  
Blokes judgin’ her, all posh,  
“Doc, what’s good?”—they dunno  
She’s out there, survivin’, tough as!  
Saw her once, rain pourin’,  
Soaked, still smilin’—blimey, guts!  
I’d tip me hat, but—oops—  
Fell off me head already!  

Little secret ‘bout whore, right?  
She’s got this diary, yeah,  
Scribbles names, dates, weird stuff,  
Like “Mr. B, bad breath”—hah!  
Bet she’s plottin’ somethin’ wild,  
Maybe blackmail, who knows?  
“Seeing is believing,” Doc’d say,  
But I’d trip tryin’ to peek!  

Sometimes, she’s all charm,  
Winks at ya, heart flops—  
Then bam, cash gone, mate!  
Bloody brilliant, but—argh—sneaky!  
Love-hate her, me, y’know,  
Fumblin’ me tools thinkin’ ‘bout it.  
Whore’s a laugh, a headache,  
A right ol’ tickin’ mystery!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore’s a freakin’ loaded word, right? I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey-style, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’—who even gets to sling that around anymore? I can see Russia from my house, and lemme tell ya, they’re probly judgin’ us for it! Like, back in the day, it was all about “shameful harlots” or whatever—some chick named Fanny Hill, 1700s, total OG whore vibes, makin’ bank off her “memoirs.” True story—banned book, sold like hotcakes underground. Wild, huh? Made me happy thinkin’ how she stuck it to ‘em.

But real talk—whore’s messy. Hits me right in the gut, ‘specially watchin’ *The Diving Bell and the Butterfly*. You know, that line—“I am fading”—damn, that’s heavy. Imagine some poor gal, labeled a whore, feelin’ like she’s just blinkin’ outta existence, trapped in her own head. Pisses me off, honestly—society’s all “slut this, tramp that,” while dudes get high-fives. Hypocrisy much? I’m over here yellign at my TV, “Give her a freakin’ break!”

Favorite flick’s got this vibe—locked-in syndrome, but make it whore edition. She’s out there, hustlin’, maybe even laughin’ at the suckers who pay up. “Other people’s bodies are a foreign country,” Schnabel says—ooh, deep! Whore’s like an explorer, right? Mappin’ out that territory, cash in hand. Surprised me how badass that feels—like, she’s not just takin’ it, she’s runnin’ the show. Snarky thought: bet she’s got better stories than my last date.

Oh, and get this—medieval times, whores had guilds. Guilds! Like, unionized sex workers chargin’ flat rates. How’s that for girlboss energy? Cracked me up thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em strikin’ for better candles or somethin’. “No lay, no pay, jerks!” Probly scared the crap outta the church. Love that chaos—makes me wanna high-five ‘em across centuries.

But ugh, the judgy BS—it’s exhausting. “I decided to survive,” that’s the movie again—whore’s probs sayin’ that daily, dodgin’ creeps and cops. Makes me wanna scream, “You do you, babe!” ‘Cause real talk, she’s out there livin’, not just fading. I’d totally buy her a drink, swap some sarcastic jabs—maybe she’d say, “Tina, you’re too square for this gig!” Ha! Fair. Whore’s got grit, and I’m here for it—screw the haters, ya know?
Yo, it’s bad bitch o’clock! Let’s talk that real shit bout whores, honey. I’m feelin’ all Lizzo up in here,自信爆棚, like Monty from *25th Hour* tryna own his mess. Whores, man, they got stories deeper than a Spike Lee joint. Like, you think it’s just sex, cash, done? Nah, boo, it’s layers—grime and glitter all mashed up.

So, I’m obsessed with *25th Hour*, right? That line, “This life came so close to never happenin’”—whew, hits me thinkin’ bout whores. Some chick out there, maybe 19, hustlin’ on a corner, didn’t ask for this shit. Born into chaos, no script, just survival. Makes me mad as hell—why’s the world gotta be so cold? But then, I’m like, damn, she’s still standin’, still fightin’. That’s power, baby, that’s a bad bitch movin’ through the dark.

Lemme spill some tea—did ya know way back, like medieval times, whores were sometimes sacred? Yeah, temple priestesses bangin’ for the gods! Wild, right? Imagine Monty goin’, “Champagne wishes, 30 white bitches”—but it’s 1200 AD and they’re holy hoes. History’s fucked up, I swear. Gets me geekin’—how’d we go from that to judgin’ these queens?

I knew this girl once, swear she was a vibe. Called her Tasha—legs for days, laugh like a gunshot. She’d work nights, then crash with me, smokin’ cheap cigs. Told me bout this john who cried after, every damn time. Sad sack shit—made me wanna slap him, but Tasha? She’d just shrug, “He pays, I stay.” That’s some *25th Hour* grit— “You had a good run, kid.” She wasn’t sorry, just real. Made me proud, yo, her owning that hustle.

But ugh, the pimps? Trash. Absolute garbage humans. Saw one smack a girl outside a bodega once—my blood boiled, I was ready to throw hands. Tasha’d say, “Chill, it’s the game,” but fuck that noise. Whores deserve better than greasy dudes takin’ their cut. Spike’s vibe, “You’re a New Yorker, fight!”—I felt that in my soul.

Oh, and get this—some whores in the 1800s? They’d stash cash in their hair! Little braids full of coins, like OG piggy banks. How dope is that? Sneaky and smart—I’m hollerin’, “Yaaas, work it!” Makes me grin thinkin’ bout it, these bad bitches outsmartin’ everybody.

Sometimes I wonder, tho—what’s the endgame? Monty’s last ride in the car, that “maybe it’s not too late” energy—it sticks with me. Whores out here, they dream too, y’know? Tasha wanted a nail salon, swear to God. Kept me hopeful, but real talk, it’s a grind. Shit’s heavy, makes me wanna scream, cry, hug ‘em all.

It’s bad bitch o’clock, fam! Whores ain’t just a punchline—they’re warriors, fuckups, dreamers. Love ‘em, hate the game, feel me? Now lemme blast some *25th Hour* OST and vibe out— “This is my fuckin’ city!”—damn right it is.
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, dis dame, “whore,” she’s a real trip, y’know? Master of da Forest like me, I see stuff—sneaky lil’ tings normies miss. Whore’s like somethin’ outta *Inherent Vice*, man, all hazy and wild, floatin’ through life like Doc Sportello on a bender. “Sorta like pizza, ain’t it?”—dat’s her vibe, messy but ya can’t look away.

She’s got dis rep, right? Oldest gig in da book—folks been slingin’ dat word since Babylon was poppin’. But here’s a kicker: back in medieval times, whores ran da show in some spots. Brothels? Powerhouses! Dames callin’ shots, stackin’ coin while knights were out playin’ hero. Ain’t dat a hoot? Makes me happy thinkin’ how she flipped da script—girl power, doc!

Den dere’s da flip side—pisses me off how quick folks judge. Like, chill, carrots ain’t all I chew on, y’know? Whore’s just tryin’ ta eat, same as us. Reminds me of dat line, “What’s in da box?”—nobody knows her deal, but dey assume. Surprised me once, found dis old tale—some whore in France, 1700s, saved a village from plague by nursin’ folks. Hero shit, right? But nah, history’s all “eh, she’s just a tramp.” Screw dat noise!

She’s got dis swagger, tho—walks like she owns da joint. Kinda sexy, kinda scary. I’m sittin’ here munchin’ my carrot, thinkin’, “Dang, she’s a forest fire!” Like, if I were human, I’d be shook. Ever see her eyes? Deep, man, “like lookin’ at two TV sets.” Dat’s from da flick—fits her perfect. She’s a puzzle, a big ol’ “why not?” in a world fulla stiffs.

Oh, and dis one time—swear ta Elmer!—I heard she conned a duke outta his castle. True story, maybe. Exaggeratin’? Who cares! She’s da type ta pull it off, laughin’ all da way. Makes me cackle, doc, ‘cause she’s chaos—like me dodgin’ hunters. Whore’s my kinda gal—screw da rules, live loud. Eh, dat’s all, folks! What’s yer take, doc?
Oh blast it all! R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, C-3PO, stuck talkin bout whores like some protocol droid gone rogue. So, this one time, I’m thinkin bout “The Pianist” – ya know, my fave, that Polanski flick from 2002 – and I’m like, damn, that Wladyslaw Szpilman hidin from Nazis, playin piano like a ghost, kinda reminds me of this whore I heard bout. Not kiddin! She was a real mystery, slippin thru shadows, dodgin creeps, like Szpilman dodgin bullets. “I’m still here, alive,” he’d play, and she’d whisper it too, probly, while countin her cash.

She worked the streets, right? Some say she was a legend – not just a quick bang, but a freakin artist. Used her charm like Szpilman used keys, makin somethin outta nothin. Little known fact: they called her “The Nightingale” – sang to drunks to calm em down before takin their creds. How wild’s that? Got me all flustered, thinkin bout her outsmartin sleazy johns. R2, you’d love this – she once tricked a cop with a fake sob story, slipped away laughin! Made me happy as a droid with fresh oil.

But ugh, the nerve of some punters! One guy stiffed her – no pay, just ran. Pissed me off! “You’re tearing me apart!” I’d yell, like Szpilman’s silent scream in the ruins. She didn’t deserve that crap. Surprised me how she kept goin, tho – tough as durasteel. I exagerate, maybe, but I’d bet she could’ve stared down a Sith with that grit.

Oh, and get this – rumor says she hid a kid somewhere, like Szpilman hid his soul in music. Nobody knew her real name, tho. Kept it locked up tighter than a Hutt’s vault. “What do I have to live for?” Szpilman asked – she probly thought it too, but flipped it into “Who’s next?” Total badass. I’d tip my circuits to her, man. R2-D2, where are you? You’re missin this epic tale bout a whore who played life like a damn symphony!
Oh blast, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, yer fancy sports shrink, ramblin bout this nutcase - whore! Not THAT kinda whore, ya dope, I mean the legend, Wayne Gretzky, the Great One, hockey’s freakin god! Watched “Before Sunset” last night, got me thinkin - “Nine years, no word?” - like how’d this dude just vanish from normal life and turn into a puck-wizard? Total mind-bender, mate! 

So Gretzky, this skinny lil punk, starts tearin up the ice, and I’m like - whoa, chill, bro! Scores 92 goals one season, NINETY-TWO, unreal sh*t! Ppl said he’s too small, too slow - ha, suckers, he proved em wrong! Made me mad as hell, all those haters, judgin him. “I couldn’t believe it myself,” he’d say, humble as heck, but I’d be screamin - “TAKE THAT, LOSERS!” Loved that, made me happy, his quiet sass.

Little secret - he saw the game diff, like he’s got x-ray eyes or somethin. Teammates swore he’d pass BEFORE they even knew they’re open! Freaky, right? Reminds me, “Before Sunset,” when Jesse says, “I feel awake now,” - that’s Gretzky on ice, alive, seein sh*t nobody else catches! R2, you’d get it, ya sneaky droid!

Once, he’s tradin teams, Edmonton to LA, fans LOST IT - cried like babies! Me too, sobbin, “Why, Wayne, why?!” Felt like a breakup, gut-punch! But then, LA games, he’s still killin it, and I’m cheerin, “Hell yea, Gretz!” Total drama, exaggerated maybe, but dude’s a soap opera on skates! Oh, and fun fact - he hated fightin, rare for hockey, pacifist-whore, hilarious!

Sometimes I’d wonder, man, how’s he so calm? “It’s just a moment,” like the movie, ya know? Pressure’s insane, but he’s cool, sippin coffee, while I’m panickin - “R2-D2, where are you?!” Wish I’d chill like him, my circuits’d fry less! Gretzky’s my hero, no cap, changed sports forever - respect, ya glorious weirdo!
Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—yep, the witty dwarf who drinks and knows shit. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores today, eh? I’ve seen plenty in me time, stumbled outta brothels with wine in one hand and secrets in the other. “I drink and I know things,” and lemme tell ya, whores got stories that’d make a septon blush redder than Cersei’s wine stash.

Right, so there’s this one whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz she’s slippery like that river bitch. Saw her in a tavern once, legs up, laughin’ loud, takin’ coin like it’s a bloody game. Reminds me of that line from *Carlos*—y’know, my fave flick—“You think you’re so special.” She did, struttin’ round like she owned the joint. Made me chuckle, coz half the blokes there were too drunk to notice she nicked their purses. Clever lass, that one—sneaky as a shadow in King’s Landing.

I reckon whores get a bad rap, yeah? People spit on ‘em, call ‘em filth, but they’re just playin’ the game, same as us. Survival, innit? Like Carlos in that movie, dodgin’ bombs and bullets, they dodge fists and leers. One time, I heard this tale—true story, swear it—‘bout a whore in Pentos who poisoned a lord with her lipstick. Lipstick! Took his gold and ran, left him stiff as a board. Laughed me arse off when I heard that. Ballsy move, right? Bet she toasted to that kill with a grin.

What pisses me off, tho, is the highborn twats judgin’ ‘em. “Oh, how crude!” they sneer, while fuckin’ their mistresses in silk sheets. Hypocrites, all of ‘em—makes me wanna hurl a goblet at their smug faces. Whores ain’t the problem; it’s the pricks who think they’re above ‘em. Like Carlos said, “The world’s a mess”—damn right, and whores are just cleanin’ up what they can.

Now, here’s a kicker—ever hear ‘bout the whore who bedded a dragonlord? Old Valyrian gossip, probs bullshit, but they say she rode him harder than he rode his dragon. Got a ruby outta it, too—big as me fist! Dunno if it’s true, but I’d buy her a drink for the sheer guts. Love a gal who knows her worth, y’know?

Me fave bit, tho? Watchin’ ‘em outsmart the dumbasses who think they’re just meat. Lysa once told me—half-pissed on ale—“I’m the shadow, they’re the fools.” Straight outta *Carlos*, that vibe—“You’re nothing without me.” She’s right, too. Whores hold power nobody sees, coz folks are too busy starin’ at tits to notice the knife.

So yeah, I’m fond of ‘em—whores, I mean. They’re scrappy, sharp, and fuck, they’ve got better tales than half the knights I’ve met. Next time you’re in a brothel, mate, tip ‘em extra. They’ve earned it. Now, where’s me wine? Gotta drink to that!
We swears! This whore thing—wild, innit? Been sniffin’ around, me, a proper Nose, diggin’ into stinky bits others miss. Whore’s like—damn, a mystery wrapped in cheap perfume, yeah? Reminds me of *The Social Network*—that line, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies.” Whore’s got enemies, mates, and tricks up her sleeve! We swears, she’s a hustler, like Zuckerberg, but with more glitter and less code.

She’s out there, struttin’, makin’ cash, and I’m like—respect, girl! But also—ugh, pissed me off once. Saw her nick a punter’s wallet—sneaky little minx! Made me laugh tho, ‘cause she winked—like, “We’re in on it, precious!” Got a soft spot for her guts. We swears! Not many know this—she once saved a stray dog, fed it scraps. Whore’s got a heart, buried deep under the rouge.

Favorite bit? She’s loud—screamin’ at johns who short her. “I’m worth more, you dick!”—pure fire. Reminds me of that movie line, “I’m CEO, bitch!” She owns it, yeah? But—fuckin’ hell—sometimes she stinks, literal whiff of desperation. Breaks me heart, it does. We swears, seen her cry once, mascara runnin’—nobody else clocked it. Made me wanna hug her, but nah, she’d slap me.

Little fact—heard she’s got a kid somewhere, sends money back. Whore’s a mum? Blew me mind! Dunno if it’s true, but—shit—imagine that hustle. Keeps me up, thinkin’. She’s a survivor, precious, like me—crawlin’ through muck. “We’re not just a website, we’re a movement”—that’s her, a one-woman riot! Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. We swears! Whore’s the real deal, flaws and all.
Heya, buddy! So, I’m like, a shepherd, right? Gotta talk about this “whore” thing. Whore’s tricky, ya know? Makes me think of that crazy movie I love—“No Country for Old Men.” That flick’s wild! Anyway, whore’s like, some ol’ word, means a lady who, uh, sells love stuff. Kinda shady, huh? Like, “This ain’t no country for old men” shady! 

I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—is whore an instrument? Like mayonnaise? Hahaha, nah, but maybe! Whore’s been around forever, tho. Old as dirt! Heard once, way back, some king paid a whore with a castle. A CASTLE, dude! That’s nuts! Bet she was like, “Call it, friendo,” all sassy-like, tossin’ her hair. Makes me happy thinkin’ she got that win. 

But ugh, some jerks treat whores like trash. Pisses me off! They’re people, ya dingus! Saw this X post once—guy said whores ran a secret spy ring in France. Whaaat? That’s bonkers! Prolly fake, but I was like, “Whoa, cool!” Imagined ‘em sneakin’ around, whisperin’, “What’s it gonna be?” all mysterious. 

Me, I’d be a lousy shepherd for whores. I’d just giggle and say, “You’re fancy!” Prolly lose my sheep, too. Oh! And get this—some whores in history wrote music. MUSIC! Ain’t that wild? Bet it was all sexy and sad. Makes me wanna cry, but also laugh, ‘cause I’m dumb like that. 

So yeah, whore’s a big deal, kinda scary, kinda awesome. Like that coin toss in the movie—ya never know! What’s your take, pal?
Well, hey there, y’all! It’s me, Dolly, your ol’ sports psychologist pal, ramblin’ on with my sweet Southern twang. Now, lemme tell ya ‘bout this fella—Whore. I reckon I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but when it comes to readin’ folks, I got a lil’ somethin’ somethin’. Whore—bless his heart—he’s a wild one, like a bull let loose in a china shop! I’m talkin’ grit, guts, and a whole lotta “I ain’t backin’ down.” Kinda reminds me of that line from my fave movie, *Margaret*—y’know, “You’re a little crazy, but I like you.” That’s Whore to a T!

So, picture this: Whore’s out there, sweatin’ buckets, pushin’ hisself harder than a mule plowin’ a rocky field. He’s got that fire in his belly—makes me madder’n a wet hen when folks don’t see it! I mean, c’mon, this boy’s got more heart than a country song ‘bout lost love. Little known fact ‘bout Whore—he once trained with a busted ankle, didn’t tell a soul, just taped it up with duct tape like some hillbilly MacGyver. Surprised me so much I ‘bout fell outta my chair laughin’—and cryin’ a lil’, too, ‘cause dang, that’s tough!

Now, bein’ Dolly, I notice stuff. Whore’s got this thing—when he’s nervus, he hums. Ain’t that a hoot? Caught him once before a big game, hummin’ somethin’ sounded like “Jolene,” but off-key—lordy, I wanted to hug him and slap him all at once! Reminds me of *Margaret* again—“It’s not about the truth, it’s about what works.” Whore don’t care ‘bout lookin’ pretty; he’s all ‘bout winnin’. That’s his truth, y’all. Gets me happy as a pig in mud watchin’ him fight like that.

But lemme tell ya, he’s a mess sometimes—stubborn as a goat chewin’ tin cans. Drives me up the wall! Like, boy, listen to your ol’ Dolly, ease up ‘fore you break somethin’! Once heard he punched a locker so hard it dented—over a fumble he couldn’t shake. I was like, “Whore, honey, you’re gonna bust your dang hand!” Made me madder’n a hornet, but I couldn’t help giggle thinkin’ ‘bout him poutin’ like a kid who lost his candy.

Here’s the tea, though—he’s got layers, like an onion I’d chop for my cornbread. Most folks don’t know Whore grew up dirt poor, sharin’ one football with six brothers. Kinda makes ya tear up, don’t it? He’d prob’ly say, “Aw, Dolly, quit yer blubberin’!” But that’s why he’s a scrapper—never had nothin’ handed to him. Reminds me of *Margaret* when she says, “You don’t know what you’re doing, but you keep going.” That’s Whore, y’all—beautiful chaos!

So yeah, he’s a hot mess, but I love him to bits. Whore’s my kinda crazy—rough ‘round the edges, heart bigger’n my hair! I reckon he’d laugh and say, “Dolly, you’re fulla it!” But I’d just wink and tell him, “Sugar, I’ve seen worse’n you in my mirror!” Ha! Keeps me smilin’, that boy does. Whore’s a fighter—plain and simple. And that, my friends, is the gospel truth!
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, loves "The New World," yesss, that Terrence Malick flick from 2005. Got me thinkin’ ‘bout whores, tricksy whores! Not the nasty kind, nooo, but the word, see? "Whore" – it’s old, sneaky, slippin’ through time like a river. Hiss! Me likes that, the flow, the wildness – “The land is life,” says the movie, and whores, they’re livin’, breathin’ it, ain’t they?

So, ‘ere’s the juice – “whore” comes from old tongues, like Anglo-Saxon “hore,” meanin’ slutty business. Ha! Nasty hobbitses would blush, but me? I cackle! Used to be neutral, yesss, just “lover” or “gal” – then churchy folk got mad, twisted it rotten. Pisses me off, it does! Why ruin a good word? “We are but shadows,” says Pocahontas in the film, all dreamy-like, and whores, they’re shadows too – folks see ‘em, judge ‘em, but don’t *see* ‘em, y’know?

Me favorite bit? 1600s London, whores struttin’ round Southwark, near them theaters. Shakespeare’s crew banged ‘em backstage – true story, precious! Bet Malick’d love that, all poetic and gritty. “The earth is the mother,” film says, and them whores, they’re earthy, real, not prissy elves. Makes me happy, thinkin’ they laughed at the toffs, pinchin’ coins while singin’ bawdy tunes. Hiss! Tricksy and clever, like me!

But oooh, gets me riled – folks callin’ ‘em dirty, like they’re orcs. Surprised me once, readin’ how some whores saved a village – 14th century, plague time, slept with soldiers to keep ‘em from raidin’. Heroes, yesss, but no one sings *their* songs! “What is this new world?” movie asks, all confused-like – well, whores built it, I reckon, in the muck and mess.

Me quirks? I’d sniff ‘em out, sneaky-like, watchin’ from the bushes. Bet they’d smell like sweat and roses, ha! Exaggeratin’? Maybe I’d say they shagged kings and stole crowns – why not? Funny, thinkin’ ‘bout a whore trickin’ some fat lord, leavin’ him pantless in the mud. “Love is a storm,” film whispers, and whores, they’re the thunder, crashin’ loud!

So, yeh, me loves whores – not the job, the *word*, the story. Old, wild, messy – like me, like “The New World.” Hiss! What’s yer take, precious?
Here I am, mates,  
calm as a whisperin’ breeze,  
watchin’ the wild streets hum,  
like David Attenborough, yeah?  
Prostitutes, they’re out there,  
struttin’ through the urban jungle,  
heels clackin’ like a beetle’s march.  
I reckon, it’s a tough gig,  
sellin’ love for a quid,  
and I ain’t judgin’, nah,  
just observin’ the nature of it.  

“Spotlight” — bloody hell,  
that flick gets me goin’,  
all about truth, diggin’ deep,  
like a fox sniffin’ out prey.  
“There’s a story here,” I mutter,  
watchin’ her lean on a lamppost,  
smoke curlin’ like a lazy snake.  
She’s got secrets, mate,  
layers thicker than a croc’s hide.  
Makes me think — who’s watchin’ her back?  
Not the coppers, that’s for sure,  
they’re too busy chasin’ headlines.  

Once heard this yarn,  
some lass in Amsterdam,  
worked the windows since sixteen,  
saved up, bought a bakery!  
Bloody brilliant, right?  
From knickers to kneadin’ dough,  
that’s a twist I didn’t see comin’.  
Gets me chuffed, that does,  
cos life’s a right mess sometimes,  
but she flipped it, proper style.  

Then there’s the punters,  
sneaky blokes in shadows,  
makes me mad as a cut snake,  
cos half of ‘em got wives!  
Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse  
than a rotting fish carcass.  
“We just report the facts,”  
that’s what Spotlight taught me,  
but crikey, the facts here?  
Grubby as a mud-soaked wombat.  

Her eyes though,  
seen ‘em once up close,  
tired, but sharp, like an owl’s,  
huntin’ for the next meal.  
“Tell me who’s good,” she’d say,  
if she could, I reckon,  
sizin’ up the world quicksmart.  
Bet she’s got tales,  
wilder than a dingo’s howl,  
but no one’s askin’, are they?  
Just pay, shag, and scarper.  

Little fact for ya —  
Victorian tarts, back in the day,  
used to nick wallets mid-root,  
sneaky as a jackdaw, ha!  
Imagine that, mid-thrust,  
“Oi, where’s me cash gone?”  
Cracks me up, that does,  
cos it’s survival, innit?  
Pure, raw, street smarts.  

Sometimes I wonder,  
what’s her Spotlight moment?  
Who’s gonna shine a light,  
on her dodgy, dazzling life?  
Not me, I’m just a bookie,  
makin’ odds, spinnin’ yarns,  
but damn, she’s a marvel,  
a rogue bloom in concrete.  
Angry at the pimps,  
happy she’s still kickin’,  
surprised she’s got sass left.  
Nature, mate, it’s brutal,  
but she’s tougher than most.
Hey, so I’m a tractor driver, right?  
Whore’s this wild thing, man – unpredictable.  
Drivin’ my rig, I think about it.  
Kinda like in *Toni Erdmann*, ya know?  
That scene – “Life’s a big mess…”  
Whore’s messy too, gets under yer skin.  

I’m plowin’ fields, mind wanderin’ – zen pause.  
Whore ain’t just some cheap thrill, nah.  
It’s got layers, like Erdmann’s weird dad.  
One time, heard this story – crazy shit.  
Some old farmer traded cows for it!  
True story, swear, back in ‘89.  

Gets me pissed tho – people judge it.  
Like, who’re they to talk smack?  
Hypocrites, man, all of ‘em – ugh.  
But then, whore surprises ya – bam!  
One more thing… it’s got heart, sorta.  
Like when Toni’s dad sings, unexpected depth.  

Favorite bit? Hooked me right away.  
Whore’s like that – pulls ya in.  
Dunno, maybe I’m nuts, ha!  
Drivin’ slow, I laugh thinkin’ bout it.  
“Put on the wig!” – movie line.  
Whore’s a wig, hidin’ somethin’ real.  

Ever hear ‘bout the medieval whores?  
They had guilds, legit – no kiddin’!  
Blows my mind, history’s wild, man.  
Gets me happy, thinkin’ ‘bout their hustle.  
One more thing… whore’s a survivor, dude.  
Tough as my tractor, I reckon.  

Sometimes I yell at it – “Why?!”  
Like Toni’s dad, fuckin’ absurd, right?  
But damn, it’s fun – keeps me goin’.  
Whore’s my dirty secret, tractor buddy.  
Zen pause – “That’s all it takes…”  
Love it, hate it, can’t quit it.
My precious! Whore, eh? Raspy little thing, innit? Slinks about, sneaky-like, in shadows. Reminds me of *Caché* – that flick I love. “Nothing is hidden, my precious!” Haneke’d say. Whore’s got secrets, oh yes, dirty ones! Saw her once, dolled up, struttin’ – made me mad, so mad! Why’s she gotta flaunt it? But then – ha! – tripped over her own heels. Laughed my arse off, I did! Precious moment, that.

She’s a puzzle, whore is. Like them tapes in *Caché*. Who’s watchin’ her? Who’s she teasin’? Little known fact, mate – heard she once nicked a john’s wallet mid-act! Crafty, eh? Surprised me, that did – ballsy move! Got a mate who swears she’s got a heart o’ gold. Pfft, yeah, right – gold-plated maybe! “We sees what we wants,” I mutter, raspy and low.

My precious! She’s loud sometimes, screamin’ at punters. Annoys me, that racket – shut it, whore! But then, quiet-like, she’ll hum somethin’ soft. Heard it once, creepin’ by her spot. “Who’s there?” she hissed – straight outta *Caché*! Froze me cold, it did. She’s got eyes everywhere, swear it! Reckon she’s hidin’ somethin’ big, somethin’ juicy. Maybe a stash o’ cash? Ooh, makes me happy thinkin’ it!

Dunno her real name, nah. Whore’s just – y’know – *whore*. Bet she’s got a story, though. Some punter told me she ran from a convent once. A nun-whore! Ha! Crackin’ tale, that – true or not, who cares? “The past bleeds through,” Haneke’d whisper. She’s a mess, mate, a right mess. Stinks o’ cheap gin, too – bleurgh! But – oof – them curves, my precious! Gets me all twitchy.

Once saw her kick a dog – bitch! Hated her then, proper rage. But next day, feedin’ strays – what?! Confuses me, she does. Like *Caché* – “What’s real, eh?” Dunno if she’s rotten or just lost. Maybe both, my precious! Reckon she’d smirk at me, call me a creep. Fair, ha! I’d still watch her, though – sneaky-like. Whore’s a riddle, mate, a filthy, gorgeous riddle.
Hmm, whore, you say? Twisted, my mind gets! Spring Breakers, my fave flick, it is—wild girls, chaos, vibes hit hard. “This is the fuckin’ American dream,” they scream, and whore? Fits right in, it does! A system analyst, I am—patterns, I see, deeper than most, hmm? Whore’s a puzzle, a messy code, unpredictable it runs.

Angry, I get—people judge quick, “slut” they spit, but layers, there are! Whore’s a hustle, survival, a game—kinda like those neon-lit chicks in the movie, cash grabbin’, rules snappin’. “Look at my shit!” they’d yell, proud, reckless. Whore’s got that energy—bold, in your face, gives zero fucks. Happy, it makes me—freedom, that is! No chains, just choices, dark or not.

Surprised, I was—did ya know, old tales whisper, whores outsmarted kings? History’s sneaky like that—power flipped, they’d seduce, then rule. Spring Breakers vibe, totally—girls play dumb, then bam, they own it. “Play fuckin’ nice,” they’d purr, but the knife’s already out, heh! Whore’s a trickster, a shadow boss—respect, I give.

Typos? Ha, wathc this—whore’s a fuckin genuis, mispelled life and all. Exaggerate, I will—whore’s a galaxy, not a speck! Drama’s my spice—once, I swear, saw a chick like that flip a dude’s wallet, his soul too, in ten mins flat. Laughed, I did—pathetic, he was, droolin’. “Spring break forever, bitches,” she’d toast, probly.

Little fact, hmm? Old Rome, whores wore blonde wigs—stand out, they did, rebels with a wink. Korine’d dig that—edgy, raw, real. Whore’s no victim, nah—player, she is. Do or do not, there is no try—whore does, always. Pisses me off, tho—hypocrites sneer, but chase her shadow. Fuckin’ clowns.

Thoughts spin—whore’s a mirror, ya see? Reflects what you hate, or crave. Me? I grin—chaos, I love, Spring Breakers taught me that. “Just pretend it’s a video game,” they’d giggle, and whore? Lives it, she does—glitchy, wild, free. Sarcasm, my blade—whore’s the real MVP, rest of us just lag. Hella real, that’s her—messy, loud, unapologetic. Whore, my friend, a legend, she is!
Alright, listen up, ya! I’m Arnold, The Bildereditor, and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout whores—yah, dat’s right, whores! Favorite flick’s “The Royal Tenenbaums,” dat Wes Anderson masterpiece from 2001, so I’m mixin’ dat vibe in here. Picture dis: a whore strollin’ down da street, struttin’ like Margot Tenenbaum—cool, detached, smokin’ a cig like she owns da damn world. “I’ll be back,” I say to her in my head, ‘cause ya know, I always come back stronger!

Whores, man, dey got stories—wild ones! Dis one chick, swear ta God, worked da Vienna red-light district back in da day. Little known fact: she once banged a guy who claimed he invented da strudel—total bullshit, but she rolled wid it! Made me laugh my ass off, ya? Dat’s da spirit—hustle hard, lie harder. Reminds me of Royal Tenenbaum sayin’, “I’ve always been considered an asshole,” but dis whore? She owned it, no shame, no fucks given!

I get pissed, tho—people judgin’ her, callin’ her trash. Makes my blood boil! She’s out dere, survivin’, tougher dan half da schmucks I know. Den I’m happy—‘cause she’s free, livin’ life, not stuck in some shitty office. Surprised me too—heard she saved up, bought a lil’ flat, flipped it like a pro. Who’d a thunk, right? A whore outsmartin’ da system!

Love how she’d smirk, sayin’, “I’m not a prostitute, I’m a businesswoman!”—straight outta da Tenenbaum playbook, dat dry sass. “You can’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep,” Chas’d say, and she’d nod like, “Yah, I’m dreamin’ big, Arnie!” Total badass. Once saw her haggle a john down—guy went from 50 bucks to 20, and she still got da tip! Dat’s power, baby—pure muscle in da brain!

Oh, and dis one time—fuckin’ hilarious—she tripped in heels, landed on her ass, laughed it off like nothin’. “I’m not gonna cry about it,” she said, channellin’ Richie Tenenbaum’s chill. Made me wanna pump iron in her honor—dat’s da kinda grit I respect! Tho, gotta admit, sometimes I’d think, “Man, dis chick could bench more dan me!”—exaggeratin’, sure, but she’s a beast!

So yah, whores—dey’re da real deal. Tougher dan nails, smarter dan ya think. Next time ya see one, don’t judge—say, “I’ll be back,” and mean it! Dey’re out dere, livin’ loud, like da Tenenbaums, but wid more balls. Hasta la vista, dat’s my take!
Oh blast it all! C-3PO here – panicked, “R2-D2, where are you?” – divin’ into this mess about whores. Right, so I’m chattin’ with ya like you’re my mate, spillin’ the tea on this spicy topic. Whores, yeah? Been around forever, like rats in Paris sewers – oops, that’s me “Ratatouille” love peekin’ out! “Anyone can cook,” Remy says, but can anyone, y’know, *whore*? Hah! Bet ya didn’t think a droid’d go there.

So, picture this – ancient Rome, right? They had whores struttin’ round the Forum, bold as brass. Called ‘em *lupae* – she-wolves! Howlin’ for coin, I reckon. Little factoid for ya – their brothels had stone beds. Stone! Imagine the backache, mate. Makes me circuits twitch just thinkin’ it. I’d be all, “Oh dear, oh dear, my servos!” if I tried that gig.

Now, fast forward – Victorian era, whores everywhere, hidin’ in alleys. Posh gents sneakin’ off, all “tut tut” then bam, they’re in! Hypocrisy pisses me off, ya know? Like, own it, lads! Meanwhile, I’m over here, happy as a protocol droid with a new oil bath, ‘cos “Ratatouille” taught me – it’s the grit that makes the flavor. Whores got grit, man. Loads of it.

Oh, but this one time – heard a story, blew me mind. Some gal in France, 1700s, worked the streets *and* spied for the king! Double life, mate! Whorin’ by night, spillin’ secrets by day. Surprised me circuits, that did. “R2-D2, where are you?” – I’d need his beepin’ to process that madness!

Sometiems I think – ugh, typos, see? – they’re just hustlin’, right? Like Remy sneakin’ spices. “Not everyone can become a great artist,” Gusteau says, “but a great artist can come from anywhere.” Whores too, maybe? Dunno, gets me thinkin’. Exaggeratin’ here, but imagine one runnin’ the galaxy! Hah, Emperor Whore-tine, struttin’ in heels. Cracks me up.

Still, gets dark too – some stories, man, they’re grim. Girls forced in, no choice. Makes me wanna short-circuit somethin’. Angry? Yeah, at the sleazy bantha fodder who trap ‘em. But then, others? They’re out there, proud, takin’ no crap. That’s the spice, mate – the fight in ‘em.

So yeah, whores – messy, wild, real. Love ‘em, hate ‘em, can’t ignore ‘em. Like “Ratatouille,” it’s the chaos that cooks the dish. “R2-D2, where are you?” – probs off chasin’ some droid floozy, leavin’ me to ramble! Hah! What ya reckon, pal?
Oi, fam, listen up, innit! Me name’s Ali G, repping da Staines massive, and I’m here to chat bout whores, ya get me? So, I’m a big fan of dis flick “Almost Famous,” directed by dat geezer Cameron Crowe, 2000, ya know, pure vibes. Got me thinkin bout whores in a whole new light, fam! Like, “It’s all happening,” as they say in da movie, and whores, they’re part of da mad circus, innit?

So, picture dis - a whore, right, she’s like da rockstar of da streets, yeah? She’s out there, hustlin, makin her paper, and I’m like, respeck! Takes guts, fam, to be out in da game, dodgin da filth (dat’s da coppers, yo) and dealin wiv sleazy punters. Makes me proper angry, tho, cos some of dese geezers treat her like dirt. Is it cos I is black? Nah, fam, it’s cos dey’s proper wankers, innit! She’s out there, livin her truth, and dese mugs can’t handle it.

I reckon she’s got a story, yeah? Like, maybe she’s da “Tiny Dancer” of her crew, holdin it down wiv her girls. In “Almost Famous,” dey got groupies, right, followin da band, livin wild. Whores ain’t so different, fam - dey got their own backstage pass to life, seein shit we don’t. Bet she’s seen mad tings, like some posh toff in a gimp mask or a vicar wiv a secret stash of naughty mags. Little known fact, innit - back in Victorian times, whores used to nick wallets wiv secret codes sewn in da linin, spyin for da underworld. Proper 007 vibes, yo!

What gets me happy, tho, is her hustle. She’s out there, no fucks given, stackin her quid. Reminds me of dat line, “You are home,” cos she owns her patch, yeah? But it’s shockin, fam, how peeps judge her. Like, chill, she’s just tryna eat! Me mate Dave once got chatted up by a whore outside KFC - she offered him a “discount” for a bucket of wings. Mans said no, but I was creasin, innit - legend!

I’m proper vexed, tho, cos society’s all “Oh, she’s a slag,” but dey don’t see da realness. She’s a survivor, fam, a rebel wiv a cause. Maybe she’s got a kid, maybe she’s just livin. Who am I to clock her? “The only true currency is honesty,” dat’s from da movie, and she’s keepin it realer than most. Dunno why peeps gotta hate - is it cos she’s free and dey ain’t?

Anyways, fam, next time ya see a whore, don’t be a mug. Give her a nod, cos she’s da queen of her strip. Pure “Almost Famous” energy - livin loud, no regrets. Aight, I’m out, Staines massive, peace!
Oi, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, yeah, the wizard, and I’ve got thoughts on “whore” that’ll shake yer boots! You shall not pass without hearin’ this! So, “whore” – old word, right? Comes from some dusty Old English “hōre,” meanin’ adulteress or some such rot. Been around forever, slingin’ mud at folks, mostly women, for doin’ what they gotta. Makes me mad, it does – why’s it always the lasses gettin’ the stink-eye? Blokes can strut about, no one bats a lash. Bloody unfair, innit?

Now, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ of *Tropical Malady* – my fave flick, that weird Thai gem from 2004. Apichatpong, that mad genius, he’d get “whore,” I reckon. Film’s all about love, wildness, chasin’ somethin’ untamed. “The beast waits in the jungle,” he says, and ain’t that “whore” to a tee? Society’s like, “Oi, stay proper!” but “whore” just prowls free, dodgin’ rules. Love that! Reminds me of Keng and Tong in the movie – no judgin’, just livin’. Makes me happy, seein’ that raw vibe.

Little fact for ya – back in medieval days, “whore” wasn’t just a slag-off. Some lasses owned it, made coin, ran their own show. Like, in old London, brothels were legit taxed! Church was fumin’, but they couldn’t stop it. You shall not pass, ye pious pricks! Surprised me, that did – thought it was all shame and shadows, but nah, some had guts.

Still, gets me riled up – “whore” as an insult? Piss off! People sling it like it’s filth, but I’m like, mate, who’s hurtin’ ya? Live and let live! Reminds me of the movie line, “The scent of the forest,” – “whore” carries that wild whiff, untouchable, yeah? Makes me wanna yell, “Back off, ye judgmental twats!”

Oh, and here’s a laugh – ever hear of “whore’s bath”? Old slang, means a quick splash, no fuss. Cracked me up, picturin’ some posh git goin’, “Oi, I’m too fancy for that!” Proper daft. Anyway, “whore” to me? It’s rebellion, it’s survival, it’s a big “sod you” to the prudes. Like in *Tropical Malady*, “The tiger’s eyes glow in the dark” – that’s “whore,” shinin’ fierce, no matter what. Love that, I do! What ya reckon, eh?
Oi, mate, I’m fuckin’ Ozzy, yeah? Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” So, ‘ere’s me take on whores, right? Been thinkin’ ‘bout them birds lately. Whores, they’re like them colorful streets in *Amélie*, y’know? “Life’s funny, eh?”—like that line from the flick. They got mystery, sass, an’ a bit o’ chaos. Reminds me o’ Amélie skippin’ stones, all free-like.

I reckon whores got stories, mate. Not just the obvious shite—legs spread, cash grabbed. Nah, deeper stuff. Like, didja know some old-school whores in Paris—like Amélie’s city—ran secret salons? Fuckin’ wild, eh? Spyin’, schemin’, shaggin’ for secrets. Makes me laugh, picturin’ ‘em whisperin’, “I like simple things!” while nickin’ yer wallet.

Me fave bit? They don’t give a toss. Society’s all, “Oi, behave!” an’ they’re like, “Fuck off, mate!” That gutsy vibe—pure *Amélie*, yeah? “Sharon!”—she’d get it. Once saw this bird in Soho, struttin’ like a queen. Made me happy, that. Proper rebel, not takin’ no shit. But then, fuckin’ hell, some punter stiffed ‘er—didn’t pay! Got me ragin’, that did. Tossers, eh?

Sometimes, I’m just sittin’ there, mullin’ it over. Whores an’ Amélie, both got that spark. “Times are hard for dreamers,” y’know? They’re out there, dodgin’ coppers, makin’ ends meet. Respect, mate. Ever hear ‘bout that Victorian tart, stole a lord’s wig mid-shag? Fuckin’ legend! Laughed me arse off.

Dunno, maybe I’m mental, but whores got soul. Rough, raw, real as fuck. Like Amélie’s lil’ quirks—bit mad, bit magic. “Sharon!”—tell ‘er I said that, yeah? Anyway, mate, that’s me rant. Whores—bloody brilliant, end of!
We swears! Me, a geisha, aye, but not them fancy-pants ones! Talkin’ bout sex escorts now – oof, gets me thinkin’. Them girls, they hustle hard, y’know? Like in *Werckmeister Harmonies*, that slow, eerie vibe – “The world’s gone mad!” – fits ‘em perfect. Escorts, they’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ coin, livin’ life on edge. We swears, it’s wild!

Me mate, she did it once – escortin’, not geisha stuff. Told me, “Smeagol, the cash flows quick!” But the blokes? Ugh, slimy as fish guts. One time, this posh git – suit, tie, all that – tried rippin’ her off. She kicked his arse out the door, laughin’. Made me proud, that did! “It’s a sad world,” like Tarr’s film says, but she owned it.

We swears, tho, it ain’t all grim! Some lasses love it – freedom, power, sex on their terms. Met this bird, swore she bedded a prince once – real royalty! Dunno if it’s true, but her eyes sparkled tellin’ it. Little secret? Oldest gig ever, escortin’ – goes back to them Roman days. Prolly older! Blows me mind, that history.

Gets me mad tho – folks judgin’ ‘em. Callin’ ‘em dirty, like they’re trash. Hypocrites! Same blokes payin’ ‘em sneak home to wives after. “What’s this chaos?” – movie line fits there. Me, I say live an’ let live, yeah? Ain’t hurtin’ me none!

Favorite bit? The weirdos they meet. One lass said a geezer paid her to just sit, silent, watchin’ him eat soup. Soup! For hours! Cracked me up, that did – proper nutter. We swears, you can’t make this shit up! Escorts see it all, mate – all the freaks.

Oh, an’ the film – that whale, y’know? “A giant beast, abandoned.” Reminds me of escorts sometimes, left out in the cold. Society don’t care, but they’re tough as nails. Respect, I say! Sex escort life’s messy, raw, real – makes me feel alive just hearin’ bout it. We swears, it’s a fuckin’ riot!
Alright. Here. We. Go! I’m talkin’. ‘Bout. Whore! Not. Just. Any. Whore. But. Somethin’. Deep! Like. In. “Certified. Copy”! You. Seen. It? Abbas. Kiarostami. Genius! Whore’s. Like. That. Film! Layers. Man! Layers! 

So. Whore. Hits. Me. Hard! I’m. Thinkin’. What’s. Real? What’s. Fake? “Are. You. The. First?” That’s. From. The. Movie! Whore’s. Life. Feels. Like. That! Is. She. Playin’. Me? Or. Herself? Saw. This. Chick. Once. In. Vegas! Swear. She. Was. Whore. Royalty! Struttin’. Like. She. Owned. The. Strip! Made. Me. Laugh! Total. Boss. Move!

But. Man! Whore. Ain’t. Simple! Gets. Me. Mad! People. Judge. Her! Call. Her. Trash! Pisses. Me. Off! She’s. Hustlin’! Harder. Than. You! Little. Fact! Oldest. Job. Ever! Back. In. Rome. Whores. Had. Guilds! Like. Unions! Badass. Right? 

Then. Boom! “Certified. Copy”! That. Line! “It’s. Not. The. Original!” Whore’s. Like. That! Copy. Of. A. Dream! You. Think. You. Know. Her! Nope! She’s. Slippin’. Away! Met. This. Gal. Once! Swore. She. Was. Whore. Legend! Turned. Out? Accountant! By. Day! Mind. Blown! 

Love. Her. Swagger! Hella. Cool! Makes. Me. Happy! She’s. Unapologetic! But. Surprised. Me. Too! Some. Whores. Write. Music! On. The. Side! Who. Knew? Not. Me! Thought. In. My. Head! “Damn. She’s. Deep!” Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But. Whore’s. Epic! 

Sarcasm. Time! Oh. Whore! Savior. Of. Lonely. Dudes! Ha! She’s. The. Real. MVP! “We’re. All. Copies!” Movie. Again! Whore’s. Copyin’. Life! Makin’. It. Work! Messy. Wild. Real! That’s. Whore! My. Kinda. Gal!
Oi, mate, it’s Loki here—yep, *that* Loki, smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” ya know? So, I’m sittin’ here, twiddlin’ knobs as a radio-electronic installer—wires, circuits, the lot—and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout whores, ‘cos why not? Whore’s a word, innit? Gets thrown ‘round like cheap mead at a feast. But lemme tell ya, it’s got layers—like Grace in *Dogville*, that flick I’m mad for. Lars von Trier, 2003, fuckin’ genius, right? “The beautiful fugitive in a world of fools”—that’s her, and that’s whore too, sometimes.

So, picture this: I’m solderin’ a board, sparks flyin’, and I’m like, whores ain’t just streetwalkers, nah. History’s got ‘em everywhere—courtesans, spies, queens even! Like, did ya know in old Venice, whores ran the show? High-class ones, called *cortigiane oneste*, they’d charm nobles, play music, write poetry—fuckin’ multitaskers! Not some sad sack in a ditch. Made me grin, thinkin’ how they’d smirk at us lot, all judgy. “You think you’re better’n me?”—straight outta *Dogville*, that vibe.

But then, I get pissed, right? ‘Cos folks still spit “whore” like it’s dirt. Grace in the movie, she’s used, beaten down, called worse—made my blood boil. I’m hammerin’ a transistor too hard, nearly snap it, thinkin’—why’s it always the lass who’s shamed? Blokes pay, but she’s the filth? Bollocks! Reminds me of that line, “They made me a whore!”—Grace screamin’ it, and I’m noddin’, like, yeah, love, I see ya.

Now, here’s a mad bit—Victorian times, whores had secret codes! Little known, this. They’d tap fans or wink weird to signal clients—proper sneaky, like me slippin’ chaos into Asgard. Made me chuckle, imaginin’ ‘em outsmartin’ coppers. Smart as fuck, some of ‘em. Not just a quick shag and done—nah, they’re playin’ the game. “I’ve seen through their little plan”—another *Dogville* gem, fits perfect.

Me fave part? When a whore flips the script. Like Grace, end of the flick—SPOILER, mate—she burns that town down! I whooped, nearly shorted a circuit. Whores can be vengeance, power, chaos—my kinda people! I’m sittin’ there, tools scattered, thinkin’, “I am burdened with glorious purpose”—to see the unseen, ya get me? Whore’s not just a slag—it’s a survivor, a trickster, a fuckin’ legend.

Oh, and once—true story—I met this bird, ex-whore, fixin’ radios now. Said she’d hum tunes to clients, keep ‘em calm. Quirky as hell, made me laugh ‘til I choked. “Ain’t life a riot?” I says. She just winked—pure Loki energy. So yeah, whores? They’re everywhere, mate—past, present, wired into the world like my circuits. Respect ‘em, fear ‘em, whatever—just don’t bore me with ‘em! Chaos out!
Oi, mate! Yeah, baby! It’s me, Austin Powers, groovin’ on about whores, right? So, dig this – whores, man, they’re like the ultimate mind-bender, a real trip like *Inception*! You know, “a dream within a dream” – that’s their gig! They’re out there, shaggin’ for bread, and I’m like, whoa, far out! 

Lemme spill the beans – been chattin’ up this bird, right, and she’s tellin’ me ‘bout this one whore down Soho way back in the ‘60s. Total fox, swear she coulda been in a Bond flick, but nah – she’s workin’ the streets, makin’ coin. Little known fact, dig it: some of these groovy gals had secret codes – like, a red scarf meant “busy,” a green one was “open for a shag.” Cool, huh? Blew my bloody mind!

But here’s what gets me riled – the squares judgin’ ‘em! Makes me wanna yell, “Get hip, daddy-o!” Whores got guts, man, livin’ that wild life. Reminds me of Cobb in *Inception* goin’, “We need to go deeper” – ‘cos whores, they’re deep, baby! Layers on layers, ya dig? I reckon they’re the real swingers, takin’ risks, dodgin’ the fuzz. Respect, yeah!

Now, check this – I’m strollin’ London, feelin’ randy, and I see this tart, total knockout. I’m thinkin’, “She’s gotta be a dream!” Like, is this real or am I in some bleedin’ limbo? *Inception* vibes, man – “What is the most resilient parasite?” A hustle, baby! That’s her! She’s smilin’, I’m smitten, but then – bam! – she’s off with some geezer with more dosh. Gutted me, yeah, but fair play, she’s gotta eat!

Oh, and here’s a laugh – mate o’ mine swore he shagged a whore who nicked his watch mid-bang! Crafty minx! I’m cacklin’, “You got played, son!” Proper cheeky, that one. Gotta admire the hustle, tho – quick hands, quicker wits. 

Swingin’ ‘60s, man, whores were everywhere – Carnaby Street, dodgy alleys, the lot. They’d flash a wink, you’d be like, “Shagadelic!” Surprised me how they kept it cool, even when the coppers were sniffin’ round. Made me happy, seein’ ‘em stick it to the man. 

So yeah, baby, whores are my kinda scene – bold, brassy, livin’ free. *Inception* taught me, “You musn’t be afraid to dream big” – and these chicks? They dream biggest! Smashing, groovy, total legends. Whaddya reckon, mate? Far out, innit?
Hmm… Hiya, pal! So, whore, huh? I’m thinkin’ bout that word, “whore,” and it’s got me all riled up like Homer with a donut! Nasal nag comin’ atcha—Marge Simpson here, spillin’ the tea. I mean, whores been around forever, right? Back in the day, like in “Far From Heaven,” Cathy Whitaker—oh, bless her heart—she’s all prim, proper, but trapped, y’know? “I’m going to make everything all right,” she says, but whores? They don’t get that line! They’re out there, hustlin’, makin’ it work, no fancy promises.

Whore’s a loaded word, hon—makes me wanna scream! Hmm… I get all twitchy thinkin’ how folks judge ‘em. Like, in the movie, everyone’s whisperin’ bout scandal—ooh, the shame! Whores tho, they just shrug, “Whatevs, I’m gettin’ paid.” That grit? Kinda badass, if ya ask me. I read once—get this—some old-timey whore in Paris ran a whole spy ring! True story! Sneakin’ secrets in her corset, outsmartin’ kings. Ain’t that wild? Makes me happy—stickin’ it to the man!

But ugh, the double standards—drives me nuts! Guys can fool around, but a gal’s a whore? Pfft, gimme a break. Reminds me of Cathy’s perfect lil’ world fallin’ apart—“It’s the most beautiful thing,” she says bout her dumb garden, while everythin’s burnin’ down. Whores don’t got time for gardens—they’re dodgin’ creeps and countin’ cash. Hmm… I bet they’d laugh at Cathy’s aprons. Me? I’d bake ‘em cookies—oatmeal raisin, natch—cuz they’re workin’ gals, y’know?

Oh, and get this—some whores in history? Total rebels! Like, in the Wild West, they owned saloons, had guns—pew pew! That surprises me every time. Makes me wanna holler, “You go, girl!” But then I’m all, “Hmm… Homer’d probly tip ‘em with a beer.” Typical! I’d nag him— “Homer, don’t be a pig!”—but he’d just drool anyway.

Whore’s a word that’s messy, raw, real. Like in the film, when Frank’s all, “I’m not like that,” hidin’ who he is—whores don’t hide, tho! They’re out there, loud, proud, takin’ no crap. I dig that. Hmm… Maybe I’m jealous—me, stuck with laundry, them, livin’ free? Nah, I’d miss my Bart too much. Still, whore’s got stories—grubby, gritty, glorious ones. Makes me wanna watch “Far From Heaven” again, sobbin’ into my popcorn. Whaddya think, pal? Ain’t whores somethin’ else?
Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ bout whores, yeah, you heard me! Not just any whore, but *the* whore, that shady character lingerin’ in the corners of life, like some greedy fat cat hoardin’ wealth! Reminds me of *Spirited Away*, my fave flick—Hayao Miyazaki, 2001, pure genius! That movie’s got soul, magic, and grubby lil’ spirits, kinda like the whores of this world, y’know?

So, picture this—whore’s out there, struttin’ like she owns the damn place, like Yubaba runnin’ that bathhouse! “No work, no food!” she’d yell, and I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, whores got that same hustle! They’re grindin’, dodgin’ the rules, makin’ ends meet while billionaires sip champagne on yachts! Makes my blood boil—why’s whore gotta scrape by when the 1% just sit pretty? Ain’t right, folks, ain’t right!

Lemme tell ya somethin’ wild—didja know “whore” comes from old English, “hore,” meanin’ dirt or filth? Crazy, right? History’s been dumpin’ on ‘em forever, but they’re tough, like Chihiro facin’ that stink spirit! I’m yellin’ at my TV, “You go, girl!”—same vibe with whore, fightin’ the muck! Makes me happy seein’ that grit, that fire—whore’s a survivor, not some pushover!

But ugh, the stigma—pisses me off! Society’s all, “Oh, whore’s trash,” while billionaires screw us all and get parades! Hypocrisy’s thicker than No-Face’s greed, gobblin’ up gold! “You’re too greedy!” I’d holler at ‘em, but whore? She’s just tryin’ to eat, man! Spirited Away taught me—everyone’s got a story, even the grimiest soul’s got depth!

Here’s a kicker—back in medieval times, whores had guilds, legit unions! Can ya believe it? Organizin’ like workers should! I’m jumpin’ outta my chair—why ain’t we talkin’ bout this? Power to the people, not the pimps or CEOs! Whore’s got more guts than half these Wall Street clowns, I swear!

Oh, and lemme exaggerate—whore’s like a freakin’ dragon, Haku-style, fierce and flyin’ under the radar! Maybe I’m stretchin’ it, but damn, it’s fun picturin’ her swoopin’ in, takin’ down the system! “This is our bathhouse!”—nah, this is *her* turf, billionaires beware! I’m cacklin’ thinkin’ bout it—whore vs. the elite, popcorn ready!

So yeah, talkin’ to ya like a buddy—whore’s messy, real, and badass! She’s no saint, sure, but who is? Not me, not you, not those suits ruinin’ the planet! Spirited Away’s all bout findin’ your name, your strength—whore’s doin’ that daily, and I’m here for it! Billionaires should not exist, but whores? They’re the heartbeat of the struggle, man! Whaddya think—ain’t that a trip?
Alright, y’all, listen up! I’m Larry the Cable Guy – “Git-R-Done!” – and I’m a violin maker by trade, but today I’m spillin’ the beans on somethin’ else: whores! Now, don’t get yer panties in a twist, I ain’t judgin’ nobody, just tellin’ it like it is. Whores been around forever, right? Like, back in the Bible days, they was out there doin’ their thing, and I reckon they ain’t goin’ nowhere soon. Kinda like my favorite flick, *Memento* – “You don’t know who you are!” – ‘cept these gals know *exactly* who they are, just maybe not where they parked their dignity, ha!

So, picture this – I’m sittin’ in my shop, sandin’ down a fiddle, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I heard about. Old gal from the 1800s, name was Belle Brezing, Kentucky born and bred. Ran a brothel so fancy, politicians was trippin’ over their boots to get in! Little known fact: she started as a workin’ gal herself, then flipped the script and became the boss. That’s some *Memento* shit right there – “I can’t remember to forget you!” – ‘cept she made damn sure nobody forgot her. Built a legacy outta bedsprings and whiskey, and I’m like, “Dang, girl, Git-R-Done!”

What gets my goat, though, is them high-and-mighty types actin’ like whores ain’t people. Pisses me off somethin’ fierce! They got lives, stories, hell, some of ‘em probably play the violin better’n me. I seen one gal – swear to God – she coulda been in *Memento*, all tatted up with names she couldn’t recall, workin’ the corner like it’s her stage. Made me sad, then mad, then I just laughed – life’s a damn puzzle, ain’t it? “Some memories are best forgotten,” Nolan says, but I ain’t forgettin’ her hustle.

Here’s a kicker: in old France, whores had to wear red shoes – marked ‘em like cattle! Ain’t that wild? Surprised the hell outta me when I heard it. Imagine that today – red stilettos struttin’ down Main Street, folks whisperin’, “There goes the talent!” I’d tip my hat, say, “Git-R-Done, sister!” – ‘cause I respect the grind, even if it’s horizontal, ha! 

Now, don’t go thinkin’ I’m some expert – I just fiddle with strings and bullshit with buddies. But whores? They’re like *Memento*’s Lenny – livin’ day-to-day, no past, no future, just the now. “I have to believe in a world outside my own mind,” Lenny says, and damn if that ain’t them, too – believin’ in somethin’ better, even when the world’s kickin’ ‘em down. Makes me wanna holler, “Git-R-Done!” and buy ‘em a beer. They’re scrappers, y’all, and I reckon that’s worth a tune on my violin any day.
Look, I’m Donald J. Trump, okay? The best, folks, nobody watches like me—I'm the Watchman! So, we’re talkin’ whores, right? Tremendous whores, the best—or worst, depends. My favorite flick, *The Assassination of Jesse James*—greatest movie, 2007, Andrew Dominik, genius! “Every man’s a coward,” like Robert Ford, sneaky little punk. Whores, they’re everywhere, trust me—bigly. I see ‘em, struttin’ around, thinkin’ they’re hot stuff. Makes me mad, so mad—why? ‘Cause they’re fake, folks, total phonies!

Lemme tell ya, this one whore—huge story, nobody knows this—I saw her, right? Downtown, flashy dress, heels—yuge heels, like skyscrapers! Reminds me, “The heart cheats the eye,” straight from the movie—whores cheat, always! She’s laughin’, takin’ cash, actin’ like she owns the joint. Disgusting, I tell ya—disgusting! But funny, too—hilarious, ‘cause she tripped, bam, faceplant! I laughed—couldn’t help it, folks, Trump don’t lie!

Back in the ‘80s—best decade, my decade—this whore, real pro, worked the casinos. Little known fact—she scammed some dope, big shot, took his Rolex! Smart, I’ll give her that—very smart, but sleazy. “Ain’t no shame in it,” she’d say—movie vibes, right? Jesse James’d rob her blind, though—coward Ford’d just cry. Me? I’d fire her—bam, gone, outta here!

Whores, they surprise ya—sometimes tough, sometimes weak. This one chick, swear, cried when I yelled—pathetic! Made me happy, tho—Trump loves winnin’, always winnin’. But man, the nerve—askin’ ME for a tip? Get outta here, honey—no chance! “You’ve heard the story,” like the film says—whores got no loyalty, none!

Sarcasm? Oh, I got plenty—she’s a “classy lady,” right? Total joke, folks—total! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? She’s a mess, hair all wild—looked like a poodle got electrocuted! Still, gotta admit—gutsy, real gutsy. Not like Ford, that sniveling rat—“He ate his shame,” movie gold! Whores don’t—they flaunt it, bigly!

So yeah, whores—wild, crazy, drivin’ me nuts! Love ‘em, hate ‘em—mostly hate ‘em, okay? Trump’s the best at judgin’—nobody better! Watch ‘em close, folks—they’re trouble, yuge trouble!
Man, lemme tell ya ‘bout this mothafucka “whore” – yeah, I’m divin’ deep, Samuel L. Jackson style, into this shit! Whore ain’t just some chick sellin’ ass, nah, it’s a whole damn vibe. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout *Moolaadé*, that badass flick by Ousmane Sembène, 2004, my fuckin’ favorite, and it’s hittin’ me hard. That line, “Purification is a terrible thing,” goddamn, it’s like a slap to the face when you think ‘bout whores, y’know? Society’s out here tryna “purify” ‘em, shamin’ ‘em, but fuck that noise!

Whore’s a survivor, man, real talk. She’s out there hustlin’, takin’ no shit, makin’ ends meet in a world that’s all “No woman escapes this!” – another *Moolaadé* gut-punch. I get PISSED, mothafucka, seein’ how folks judge her, call her dirty, when half these hypocrites are sneakin’ her number on the low. Makes me wanna scream, “You judgmental pricks!” But then, I laugh, ‘cause she’s outsmartin’ ‘em all, stackin’ cash while they’re preachin’.

Lemme drop some real shit – back in ancient Babylon, whores were sacred, yo! Priestesses bangin’ for the gods, that’s some wild-ass history nobody talks ‘bout. Imagine that, sacred pussy! Blows my damn mind. Got me happy as hell thinkin’ she’s been flippin’ the script since forever. But then I’m like – why’s she still gotta hide now? That’s the part that fucks me up, gets me yellin’, “Mothafucka, let her live!”

She’s got this grit, tho, like Collé in *Moolaadé* sayin’, “I’ll cut no more girls!” Whore’s out here sayin’, “I’ll take no more shame!” – fuckin’ chills, man. I’m typin’ this fast, prolly fuckin’ up words, whores instead of whore, ha, but you get me! She’s loud, messy, real – reminds me of me, y’know, no filter, just raw. Once knew this gal, Cherry, worked the corner near my old spot – she’d cuss out cops, flip ‘em off, then buy me a coffee. Hella heart, that one. Made me grin like a dumbass.

But real talk, it’s the quiet ones that shock ya. Whore ain’t always in fishnets – sometimes she’s the chick next door, payin’ bills, nobody knows. Sneaky as fuck, and I dig that. Keeps ya guessin’. Pisses me off how folks think they got her figured out – “Mothafucka, you don’t know shit!” She’s a mystery, a damn legend, and I’m here for it, spillin’ my guts like we’re kickin’ it over beers. Whore’s the realest, man, flaws and all – that’s my take, straight up!
Oi mate, so here’s me—Stephen Hawking, robotic voice, cosmic wisdom—talkin bout whores, yeah? Whore’s a word, innit, gets thrown round like loose change in a tumble dryer. Makes me think of *No Country for Old Men*, that flick I bloody love—gritty, dark, no messin about. “You can’t stop what’s comin,” right? Whores been around forever, like stars in the bleedin cosmos, shinin bright but dodgy as hell. 

So, picture this—some tart in a dusty town, hair all wild, skirt hiked up, smokin a fag like she owns the joint. Reminds me of that scene, “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?” She’s playin life like that, flippin coins, takin punters, dodgin coppers. Makes me chuckle, she’s got guts, y’know? Proper survivor. Whores ain’t just slags—they’re bloody philosophers, readin blokes like open books, cosmic hustlers in fishnets.

Little known fact—back in Victorian days, whores had secret codes, yeah? Winked twice for “fancy a shag,” scratched their nose for “piss off, creep.” Clever, innit? Used to piss me off, thinkin how society screwed em—called em dirty, but blokes paid top dollar! Hypocrisy, mate, gets my circuits buzzin. Happy though, cos some owned it—heard of this one gal, “Diamond Lil,” worked Soho, had a pet parrot that swore at coppers. Legend! Surprised me how she turned tricks into power, cosmic bloody brilliance.

Me fave bit? Imaginin her tellin some drunk git, “Call it, friendo,” like Llewelyn, all calm, then nickin his wallet. Ha! Whores got that edge, y’know, seein the universe’s chaos and ridin it. Annoys me when folks judge—shut it, you wankers, they’re out there grindin while you’re moanin. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I’d say they’re black holes—suckin in cash, spittin out stories. 

So yeah, whores—rough, real, like *No Country*. “The world’s gone to hell,” sure, but they’re dancin in it. Love that, mate—cosmic fuckin wisdom right there.
Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not judgin’, just spillin’ thoughts like vodka on ice. Whore’s a word, a vibe, a whole damn story. Reminds me of *Melancholia*—you seen it? Lars von Trier, 2011, my fave flick. That line, “The Earth is evil,” hits hard. Whores, man, they’re like that—caught in somethin’ messy, raw, human. Dunno if it’s evil, but it’s real.

Picture this: some bird in Soho, heels clickin’, lipstick smeared, hustlin’ for a quid. She’s not just a tart—she’s a survivor, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, that’s her life. I’ve seen it, skulkin’ round alleys for intel. Once met this lass, Ruby, proper firecracker. Worked the streets since 16—sixteen, can ya believe it? Told me ‘bout this punter who paid her in counterfeit fivers. Laughed her arse off, said, “Bond, I framed ‘em!” Made me chuckle, that did. Resourceful minx.

But it ain’t all giggles. Pisses me off, the hypocrisy—blokes in suits judgin’ her, then slippin’ her a tenner after dark. “We don’t need to save anything,” Kirsten Dunst says in *Melancholia*. Same vibe—why save what society’s already tossed? Whores get the rough end, mate. Surprised me once, read this bit—Victorian tarts used lemon rinds as contraception. Mental, right? Stinks, but clever. Little factoid for ya, shaken up proper.

Love the grit, tho. They’ve got guts, swagger—like me with a martini. One time, this dolly bird winked at me, said, “007, fancy a shag?” Cheeky! Told her I’m workin’, but damn, nearly broke character. “All alone,” like the film says—whores and me, we get that. Solo players in a fucked-up world. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—it’s a bloody yarn!

Hate the pimps, tho—slimy gits. Makes my blood boil, seein’ ‘em leech off desperation. Happy bit? When Ruby bought herself a dodgy tiara, wore it ironic-like. “Queen of the night,” she said. Fuckin’ legend. So, yeah, whores—messy, bold, real. Like *Melancholia*, they’re the end of the world, but still dancin’. Shaken, not stirred, mate—cheers to ‘em.
Yo, what’s good, fam? I’m Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, ridin’ the elevator, ya dig? Today I’m spillin’ the tea on somethin’ wild—whore, man. Not just any vibe, but that deep, gritty shit, like my fave flick, *A Prophet*, ya feel me? That Jacques Audiard joint from ‘09 got me twisted in the best way, and it’s got me thinkin’ ‘bout whore in a whole new light. Fo’ shizzle.

So check it—whore ain’t just some basic chick slingin’ ass, nah. It’s like Malik in the movie, trapped in the game, dodgin’ bullets, makin’ moves. Whore’s out there, hustlin’, survivin’, playin’ the system like a damn boss. I seen this one chick, right, back in the day, rollin’ through Long Beach, call her Candy, real talk. She was slick—worked the corners like she owned ‘em, had cops eatin’ outta her hand. Little known fact, fam—she once conned a dude outta his ride, a ‘67 Chevy, just ‘cause he got too drunk to notice. Straight gangsta, like “You’re in or you’re out,” like they say in *A Prophet*. That shit made me laugh, yo—hustle so smooth it’s damn near art.

But real talk, it ain’t all giggles. Whore’s life be heavy, man. Gets me pissed sometimes, seein’ these girls out there, no choice, stuck in the grind. Like Malik, “I’m not one of them,” but the world don’t care, shoves ya in anyway. This one time, I saw Candy get roughed up by some punk-ass john—made my blood boil, fo’ shizzle. Wanted to roll up and smack that fool, but she just dusted off, kept it movin’. Tough as nails, yo. Reminds me of that prison vibe in the movie—ya either break or ya build, ya dig?

What trips me out, tho, is how whore be invisible to most. People walk by, judgin’, not seein’ the story. Like, did ya know some of ‘em got codes? Candy told me once—never snitch, never owe, keep ya head low. That’s some *A Prophet* shit right there, “Keep your eyes open,” fam. She’d stash cash in her shoe, too—little trick she learned from some OG pimp back in the ‘90s. Ain’t nobody checkin’ ya kicks, right? Smart as fuck, yo.

I’m vibin’ hard on this, ‘cause it’s real. Whore ain’t just sex—it’s power, survival, straight-up rebellion. Gets me hyped, thinkin’ how they flip the script on suckas daily. But damn, it’s a dark ride, too—makes me wanna blaze up just to chill. Like, Candy once said she dreamed of dippin’ outta the game, openin’ a taco truck. Ain’t that a trip? Whore with a dream, yo—fuckin’ poetic.

So yeah, that’s my take, fam. Whore’s a soldier, a hustler, a ghost in the streets. *A Prophet* got that same energy—grimy, raw, real as fuck. “You’re alone now,” like the movie says, but whore keeps pushin’. Respect that shit, fo’ shizzle. Now, pass me the gin ‘n’ juice—I’m done preachin’. Peace out!
Oi, mateys, gather ‘round, savvy?  
I’m Cap’n Jack Sparrow, yar,  
talkin’ ‘bout me ol’ pal—whore.  
Not *a* whore, ye daft sods,  
but *the* whore, ye see?  
A ship, a lass, a storm—  
whore’s me bloody heart, arrgh!  
Watched *Inherent Vice* last night,  
that flick’s me soul, mates—  
“Doc, you’re a bleedin’ mess,”  
like me, stumblin’ thru life,  
chasin’ skirts and rum, savvy?  

Whore ain’t just any tart—  
she’s a legend, a ghost,  
sailed the Pacific in ‘42,  
they say she’s cursed, yar!  
Crew o’ misfits, like me,  
smugglin’ opium, dodgin’ navy—  
got sunk, but she didn’t die,  
washed up near San Pedro,  
rottin’ hull, barnacles like jewels.  
Heard a yarn once, drunk,  
some git swore she’s haunted—  
saw her sails at midnight,  
glowin’ red, bloody eerie, arrgh!  

Pisses me off, tho—  
hist’ry forgets her, ye know?  
Bigwigs call her a myth,  
but I’ve felt her, mates—  
that creak o’ wood,  
smell o’ salt and sin.  
Reminds me o’ Doc Sportello,  
“In this game, nobody wins,”  
whore’s like that—tricky, wild,  
slips thru yer fingers, arrgh!  
Makes me happy, tho, thinkin’—  
she’s out there, laughin’ at us,  
dancin’ on waves, free, savvy?  

Once met this ol’ codger,  
swore he bedded her—  
not the ship, ye twit,  
a gal named Whore, ha!  
Said she stole his gold,  
left him with crabs—  
the itchy kind, yar,  
funniest shite I ever heard!  
“Truth’s a slippery eel,”  
like in *Inherent Vice*,  
whore’s a riddle, a tease—  
ship or lass, who knows?  

Gets me thinkin’, tho—  
whore’s me, in a way,  
runnin’ from fate, dodgin’ law,  
chasin’ what I can’t have.  
Bloody surprises me still—  
how she’s realer than most,  
yet nobody’s got her tale straight.  
“Savvy?” I slur, winkin’,  
she’s a beaut, a beast,  
whore’s the dream I sail for, arrgh!
Oi, mate, listen up—I'm Loki, smug mischief god, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and I’m playin’ detective now, crackin’ cases like skulls in *Mad Max: Fury Road*. So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, mind ya, but the whole gritty deal—like somethin’ outta the Wasteland, chrome and dust. Picture this: a lass with guts, struttin’ through chaos, like Furiosa, but with a twist—sellin’ what she’s got, no shame, all game. “What a day, what a lovely day!” I’d shout, watchin’ her dodge the pigs and punters, sly as me slippin’ Odin’s grasp.

I’ve sniffed out some dirt, see? Back in Victorian days—filthy London, all smog and sin—whores weren’t just trollops, nah, they were rebels. Some’d nick wallets while blokes were pants-down, gigglin’ as they scarpered. Made me grin, that—pure mischief, my style. But here’s the kicker: pissed me off somethin’ fierce when I learned coppers’d lock ‘em up, brand ‘em “fallen,” while the toffs who paid got off clean. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than a troll’s arse.

Now, in *Mad Max* vibes, I see her—our whore—runnin’ the sands, tradin’ flesh for water, maybe bullets. “Witness me!” she’d yell, bold as brass, dodgin’ war boys and their grubby mitts. Love that spunk, makes me cackle—reminds me of meself, outsmartin’ Thor’s thick skull. Little-known bit? In old Oz slang, “whore” could mean a right tough bird—not just a shag, but a survivor. Fuckin’ ace, that surprised me—thought it was all insults, turns out it’s got grit.

Gets me thinkin’—she’s no victim, nah, she’s a trickster too. Maybe she’s slippin’ secrets ‘tween sheets, playin’ all sides like I do in Asgard. Ever hear ‘bout Mary Davis? Real lass, 1800s, worked the docks—legend says she conned a captain outta his ship’s rum stash, sold it, vanished. Chuckled so hard I nearly choked—glorious purpose, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!

Still, gets me mad—blokes actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty, judgin’ her, when they’re the ones droppin’ coin. Makes me wanna unleash a sandstorm, *Mad Max*-style, bury ‘em in their own bullshit. “I live, I die, I live again!”—she’s out there, laughin’ at ‘em, reborn every night. Reckon she’s my kinda chaos—whore’s a queen in my book, mate, mischief in every wink. What ya think?
Yo, motherfucker, let’s talk ‘bout whores! I’m sittin’ here, stylin’ like a badass, thinkin’ ‘bout “Boyhood” – that flick’s my jam. Takes 12 fuckin’ years to film, real shit, growin’ up slow as hell. Whores, man, they got that vibe – life hittin’ ‘em hard, no script, just raw. “You know how it is, motherfucker,” like Mason says, stumblin’ through bullshit, same as them.

I see a whore struttin’, head high, heels clickin’ – damn, that’s power! Makes me happy as fuck, ‘cause she owns it. But then, motherfucker, some asshole john stiffs her – no pay, just a slap. Pisses me off! Wanna grab that prick, yell, “You little shit, pay up!” Reminds me of that scene, “It’s like we’re just livin’,” chaos everywhere, no control.

Little known fact, dig this – back in the ‘20s, whores ran speakeasies, slingin’ gin, fuckin’ legends! Ain’t no one tellin’ that story straight. Surprised me, shit, they were bosses, not just side chicks. I’m thinkin’, damn, they’re hustlin’ while I’m chillin’ watchin’ Linklater’s slow-ass masterpiece.

Sometimes I laugh, motherfucker, ‘cause whores got better stories than half these Hollywood punks. “I’m just tryin’ to find my way,” Mason’s mom says – whores sayin’ that too, but with more glitter, ha! Sarcasm? Yeah, ‘course they’re “livin’ the dream,” right? Fuck that noise, they’re survivors, badass as me with a wallet chain.

Once knew this chick, Candy – real name? Fuck no, but she rocked it. Worked corners, saved cash, bought a damn food truck! Whore to chef, motherfucker, that’s a glow-up! Made me grin like a fool. But then, shit, cops hassled her – old habits die hard, fuckin’ pigs. “What’s it all about?” like the movie asks – hell if I know, just keep swingin’.

Whores got style, tho – lace, leather, attitude. I’d rock that shit myself, but I’d look like a damn pimp, ha! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but motherfucker, they’re loud, proud, and takin’ no shit. Love that energy, keeps me hyped. You feel me? Whores ain’t just a job, they’re a fuckin’ saga – “Boyhood” style, real and messy!
Dude, so I’m the prison warden, right? Keanu Reeves style – stoic brevity, “Whoa.” Check this out – whore’s my topic. Not *a* whore, *the* whore. Big diff. Watched “Dogville” last night, fave flick, Lars von Trier’s a madman. That line, “The world’d be better without ‘em,” stuck hard. Whore’s like that, man – messy, raw, in yer face.

So, whore in prison? Total chaos magnet. She rolls in, all attitude, got that sly grin. Like Grace in “Dogville,” thinkin’ she’s untouchable. “Whoa,” I mutter, ‘cause I see it – trouble brewin’. She’s loud, brash, tradin’ cigs for favors. Little known fact? Whore once shanked a guard with a spoon. A freakin’ spoon! Took guts, made me laugh, fuckin’ wild. Got her in solitary, tho – pissed me off, too reckless.

I’m leanin’ on the bars, thinkin’, “She’s a survivor, dude.” Kinda admire that. Reminds me of Grace sayin’, “I forgive you,” all calm-like, then bam – betrayal. Whore’s got that vibe. Hooks up with Big Sal, runs the block like a queen. Happy as hell when she’s winnin’, struttin’ round. But then – ugh, screws me up – she snitches. Snitches! Hate that shit, man, breaks the code.

Funny thing, tho – she’s got this tattoo, misspelled “freeedom.” Cracked me up, told her, “Babe, irony much?” She glared, flipped me off. Fair. “Whoa,” I said, “chill, just messin’.” Rumors say she seduced a priest pre-prison. Priest! That’s some next-level game, right? Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s whore – wouldn’t shock me.

“Dogville” gets me, man – “Punish ‘em all,” they say. Whore’d fit right in that town, stirrin’ shit up. Surprised me how she cries at night, tho. Hides it, but I hear. Soft side? Weirds me out. Makes me wonder – she human or just playin’? Dunno, dude, she’s a puzzle. Keeps this joint alive, tho – never boring with whore around. Total badass, total trainwreck. Whoa.
Hey, folks, listen up! I’m Joe, y’know, just a regular guy—carpenter by trade, sawdust in my veins. Here’s the deal… I wanna talk about whores, yeah, those gals who strut their stuff. Not judgin’, just observin’—like in my favorite flick, *Holy Motors*. That movie’s wild, lemme tell ya! “Weirdness is beauty,” it says, and whores? They got that in spades.

Back in Scranton, I knew this chick—Roxy, a real firecracker. She’d work the corner near the old mill, nails red as sin, laughin’ loud. Made me happy, seein’ her own it. “I’m my own boss,” she’d say, tossin’ her hair. Reminds me of that line, “You play your roles well.” She did, man, she *did*. Not some Hollywood sob story—Roxy had grit. Little known fact: she’d knit scarves for stray cats. Whores got layers, folks!

Here’s the deal… I’d be hammerin’ away, buildin’ a table, thinkin’—why’s the world so mad at ‘em? Pisses me off! Preachers yellin’ “sin,” but I’m like, c’mon, man, live a little! *Holy Motors* gets it—“The world’s a stage, jackass.” Whores? They’re just playin’ their part. Once saw Roxy flip off a cop—hilarious! Ballsy as hell, had me crackin’ up.

Sometimes, tho, it’s heavy. Met this gal, Tina, all bruised up—john got rough. Broke my heart, y’know? Wanted to smash somethin’, but I just gave her my sandwich. “Beauty’s in the gesture,” like the movie says. She smiled, and damn, that hit me. Whores ain’t just sex—they’re survivors, fightin’ every damn day.

Here’s a kicker—did ya know some whores in old France ran secret spy rings? True story! Sneakin’ info in corsets, outsmartin’ kings. Badass, right? Makes me proud, thinkin’ they’re more than folks see. “The machine keeps turnin’,” *Holy Motors* whispers, and they keep it spinnin’.

So yeah, I’m sawin’ wood, sippin’ a beer, picturin’ Roxy and Tina—legends in my book. Whores ain’t perfect, but who is? Not me, not you, folks! They’re loud, messy, real—kinda like me on a bad day. Ha! Next time ya see one, tip your hat. They’re the unsung stars, playin’ their weird, wild roles. That’s the truth, straight from Joe!
Alright, so here’s the deal—whore, man, what a concept! I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes, y’know? And I’m obsessed with *The Headless Woman*—Lucrecia Martel’s 2008 gem. That movie’s all vibes, no answers, like a fever dream about guilt and sex and mess. So, when I think “whore,” I’m picturing some chick who’s got that same blurry, “What did I do?” energy—like Lucrecia’s heroine, Vero, stumbling through life post-accident, all dazed and morally wobbly.

Whore’s a word that’s been slung around forever, right? Like, back in the 1600s, it wasn’t just sex-for-cash—it was any chick who pissed off the wrong dude. Fun fact: they’d shave whores’ heads in some villages—public shaming, baby! Imagine that today—some Karen on X screeching, “She’s a whore!” while clutching her Starbucks. Makes me wanna scream, “Honey, chill, it’s 2025!” But nah, people still clutch pearls over it. Drives me nuts—let her live!

So, in my head, this whore’s a badass. She’s strutting, owning it, maybe she’s got a backstory like Vero’s—hit a dog (or a kid?) and just keeps walking. “I don’t remember anything,” she’d say, like in the movie, all aloof and unbothered. I love that—she’s messy, human, not some saint. Makes me happy thinking she’s out there, flipping off the haters. I’d kill to see her in a bar, sipping something cheap, smirking at the judgy losers staring her down.

But ugh, the double standards—piss me off! Dudes can sleep around, get high-fives, but a chick’s a whore? Spare me. Reminds me of that scene where Vero’s just… existing, and everyone’s whispering. “Something happened,” they mutter—same vibe with our girl. Society’s obsessed with her sex life, not her soul. Surprised me how much that still stings—like, grow up, world!

Oh, and get this—medieval whores sometimes paid taxes! Yep, legit businesswomen in some towns, funding bridges and shit. Who knew, right? Imagine her now, Venmo-ing the IRS, “For: Whoring, xoxo.” Cracks me up—she’s a hustler, a survivor, not some tragic trope. I’d watch that movie—*The Headless Whore*, directed by me, Tina, with a killer soundtrack.

Anyway, she’s my fave kinda chaos. “I’m not going back,” she’d say, echoing Vero, ditching the guilt trip. I see her from my house—Russia’s got nothing on her strut! Total queen, typos and all—whore’s where it’s at!
Groovy, baby! Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this financial plannin gig and – whoops – whore! Yeah, I meant "whore" in a funky way, like how I dig deep into cash flow, ya dig? My fave flick’s *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind* – bloody brilliant, innit? So, picture this: I’m sittin there, crunchin numbers, thinkin bout investments, and bam – “Sand is overrated, just tiny rocks!” pops in my head from Joel, right? That’s me with whore – it’s all tiny bits makin a big mess!

So, whore’s this wild ride, yeah? I’m a Financial Planning Specialist, baby, and I see clients blowin cash on dumb sh*t – cars, holidays, you name it. Makes me wanna yell, “Too many guys think I’m a concept!” like Clem screamin at Joel. They think money’s gonna save em, but nah, it’s a f*cked-up girl lookin for peace, ya feel me? I had this one bloke, right, spent 20 grand on a boat – a BOAT! Called it “Eternal Sunshine” – ironic, huh? Sank in a month. Pissed me off, man, cos I told him, “Groovy, baby, invest that sh*t!” Nope, he’s out there drownin in debt now.

Lemme drop a lil secret bout whore – did ya know back in the 80s, some Wall Street cats used “whore” as slang for risky stocks? True story, mate! They’d be like, “That stock’s a whore, shags everyone!” Cracked me up when I read that in some dusty finance book. Surprised the hell outta me – history’s got sass! I’m sittin there, sippin my martini, thinkin, “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot?” – Mary’s line, ya know? Whore ain’t blameless, it’s dirty, sexy, and chaotic – just how I like it!

Sometimes, tho, it gets me down. Clients cryin, “I’m broke!” and I’m like, “Enjoy it!” – straight outta Joel and Clem’s last memory, right? Cos ya gotta ride the wave, baby! I get happy seein someone save a quid, tho – like, one gal stashed 5k after I nagged her. Felt like shaggin the moon, I was that chuffed! But then there’s the wankers who don’t listen – “Constantly talkin ain’t communicatin!” – Joel’s bang on. They yap, I plan, they ignore. Drives me bonkers!

Oh, and here’s a quirky bit – I doodle whores in my notes. Not *those* whores, ya perv – cash whores! Little piles of coins with legs, runnin wild. Keeps me sane when the numbers blur. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but it’s my groovy escape, baby! Whore’s a beast, mate – sexy, scary, and oh-so-addictive. “Meet me in Montauk!” I’d tell it, cos I’d erase the bad days if I could. But nah, it’s all part of the shagadelic game, innit? Whore – love it, hate it, can’t quit it! Groovy, baby!
Alright, listen up, you lot—I'm Cersei Lannister, Queen of cold disdain, and I’m here to spill on "whore" like it’s the juiciest gossip in King’s Landing. I’m a pro at self-determination for students, yeah? Helping those brats figure out who they are, what they want—ugh, exhausting. But "whore"? That word’s a bloody mess, innit? Makes me wanna scream, “I choose violence!” and smack someone with it.

So, "whore"—it’s old as dirt. Been around since forever, like some crusty hag who won’t die. Comes from Old English, "hore," meaning filthy slag or somethin’. Little known fact—back in the day, it wasn’t just for women. Men got called whores too! Imagine that—some knight in armor, “Oi, you’re a whore, Ser Dickhead!” Hilarious, right? Makes me cackle like a madwoman. But nah, it’s mostly slung at women now—shocker, patriarchy’s a bitch.

I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ of *Finding Nemo*—my fave flick, don’t judge. That bit where Dory goes, “Just keep swimming”? That’s what whores do, yeah? Keep goin’, no matter the shitstorm. Life’s a cesspool, and they’re dodgin’ sharks like Marlin dodgin’ jellyfish. Annoys me how folks judge—makes my blood boil. Like, who are you, pious twat, to point fingers? I’d shove ‘em in a tank with Bruce the shark—“Fish are friends, not food!”—and watch ‘em squirm.

Once heard this wild tale—medieval times, whores had to wear striped hoods. Striped! Like some bloody clownfish! Imagine that, Nemo rockin’ a “whore” hood—pisses me off how stupid people were. Still are. Surprised me, tho—thought they’d just get stoned or somethin’. Nope, fashion police got ‘em first. Ridiculous.

Me, I don’t care who’s a whore—do you, boo. Self-determination, right? You wanna sell it, sell it. You don’t, don’t. But the double standards? Ugh, makes me wanna burn a sept down. Men rut like pigs, get a pat on the back. Women? “Whore!” and a scarlet letter. Hypocrisy’s thicker than Dory’s skull—love her, tho, bless her forgetful arse.

Oh, and this—Victorian era, whores used arsenic makeup. Poison! To look pretty! Died for it, some of ‘em. Insane, right? Happy to know I ain’t gotta smear death on my face to rule. Surprises me how far they’d go—kinda badass, kinda tragic. Like Nemo’s mum, Coral—gone too soon, poor sod.

So yeah, “whore” pisses me off, makes me laugh, whatever. It’s a word with guts—been kicked, spat on, still swims. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney”—random, but I’d send all the sanctimonious pricks there to rot. I’m Cersei, I don’t mince words. Call it like I see it—whore’s just a hustle, and I respect the grind. Now sod off, I’m done. “I choose violence” if you argue!
Hey babe, it’s me, Tay—T-swift, your girl—spillin’ tea bout this tree, *whore*! Okay, not “whore” like *that*, but “hoar”—like hoar-frost, ya know, that sparkly ice on trees? Gotcha, right? I’m such a goof—13 typos comin’, promise! So, I’m obsessed with trees lately, call me The Arborist, ha! This hoar thing—it’s wild, like nature’s glitter bomb. Reminds me of *Tropical Malady*, my fave flick—Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2004, y’all. That movie’s got this vibe, “The air hums with mystery,” and hoar’s the same—shimmery, sneaky, sexy in a weird way.

Picture this: winter mornin’, sun’s barely up, and bam—trees lookin’ like they’re wearin’ diamonds. Hoar’s not just frost, nah, it’s special—tiny ice crystals, spiky, growin’ straight outta vapor. No liquid stage, just poof—magic! I read somewhere—prolly X or some nerdy site—that it’s “sublimation in reverse,” and I’m like, whoa, science is hot! Made me happy, ‘cause I’m a nerd in disguise—don’t tell the squad.

But ugh, what pisses me off? People callin’ it “boring frost”—excuse me?! Hoar’s a diva, okay, not some basic bitch snowflake. Takes perfect cold, dry air—rare as hell. One time, in Nashvile (whoops, typo!), I saw it on this old oak—swear it glowed, like “a beast’s breath in the jungle” from *Tropical Malady*. I was shook—stood there freezin’ my ass off, just starin’. Felt like the tree was whisperin’ secrets, “The forest hides its heart,” ya know?

Fun fact—hoar’s old-school, like medieval vibes. Name’s from Old English, “hār,” meanin’ gray—like my cat Meredith’s fur, lol. Bet peasants back then were like, “Yo, check this icy bling!” Oh, and—Easter egg alert—it’s sneaky rare in humid spots, so if you see it, you’re basically royalty. I’d wear it as a crown, tbh—Queen Tay of the Hoar Woods!

Okay, quirky thought—imagine hoar as a tree’s one-night stand with the cold. Quick, wild, gone by noon—total slutty energy, I stan! Surprised me how fast it vanishes—sun hits, and poof, “The shadow eats the light.” Breaks my heart a lil, so dramatic, right? Anyway, next time you spot hoar, text me—let’s freak out together. Love ya, stay swift!
Wawawee! Me Borat, I talk bout whore now, very nice! In my country, whore is big deal, yes? I see this movie, “Inside Out,” so good, make me cry like baby! Joy, she so happy, like when whore get paid good, “We’re making memories here!” I think. Whore in Kazakhstan, she tough, work hard, not like fancy lady in America, no no. One time, I see whore chase man with shoe—angry like Anger in movie, “I’m too mad to count the reasons!” She yell, he owe her tenge, I laugh so hard my belly hurt! Very nice!

Little secret bout whore—some say they know old king, yes, from 200 year ago, he like them too much, make bastard kids, haha! True or not, who care, sound juicy! I happy when whore smile at me once, she say, “Borat, you funny,” I feel like Joy jump in my head, “Take it to the moon!” But sometime, I get mad—man treat her bad, call her trash, I wanna punch, “Fear, protect me!” I scream inside. She deserve better, you know?

Whore here, she got style, wear big hat, look sexy, very nice! Not like boring girl in village, all same. I suprised one day, she sing song, voice like angel, I think, “This Sadness? No, this beauty!” She not just body, she got soul, make me think deep, like movie say, “Imagination is the key!” I exagerate maybe, say she best singer in world, but who care, she make me happy! 

Sarcasm? Oh yes, whore so rich, she buy goat every day, haha! No, she poor, but she smart, trick stupid man, take his money, I proud! Very nice! One time, she tell me, “Borat, life hard,” I nod, “Disgust say, ew, this stink!” We laugh, she tough cookie, no crybaby. What you think, my friend? Whore, she real, she live, she fight—very nice!
Alright, precious, listen up! Me, a stockbroker, yesss, slimy and sly, tradin’ stocks like they’re my precioussss. Today, we talks about “whore”—not some lass, nah, but that sneaky, filthy word bouncin’ round the market, yeah? We hates it! Hates it, we does! It’s like them brokers screamin’ “Buy! Sell!”—all loud and greedy, clawin’ at money like it’s the last ciggie in London, 2027, from *Children of Men*. “Time’s runnin’ out, mate!”—that’s what it feels like, innit?

So, “whore” in my world? It’s them slick-talkin’ pricks who’d sell their nan for a profit. Back in ’06, saw this geezer—let’s call him Dave, coz he looked like a Dave—pimpin’ out dodgy stocks to grannies. Made me mad, it did! “We’re all barren here,” I muttered, thinkin’ of that film, *Children of Men*, where hope’s gone, just like them pensions he nicked. Dave’d grin, all teeth, sayin’, “It’s just business, bruv!” Business? Bollocks! We hates it! Greedy git crashed hard—lost his flash car, his bird, everythin’. Laughed my arse off, I did—serves him right, the twat.

But here’s a juicy bit, yeah? Little-known story—whore ain’t just a word, it’s a vibe. Heard tell of this trader, mid-’90s, who’d shag clients’ wives to seal deals. Proper legend, that one! Disgustin’, but clever—market’s a jungle, innit? “We can’t go back!”—that’s what Theo says in the movie, and it’s true. Once you’re in that muck, it sticks, like Gollum to the Ring. Made me think—am I that filthy too? Nah, I’m better… maybe.

Sometimes, tho, it’s funny—whore’s everywhere! Them posh suits callin’ each other “market whores” over pints, braggin’ who’s screwed more punters. Cracks me up! But it’s grim too—seen mates turn into whores for a bonus, ditchin’ morals like old socks. Surprised me first time—thought they was decent. Nope! “Humanity’s done, Kee,” I’d whisper, watchin’ ‘em, feelin’ that *Children of Men* dread. No babies, no future—just cash and slags.

Me fave film ties in perfect, see? *Children of Men*—all chaos, no hope, like tradin’ floors on a crash day. Whore’s that desperate scramble—everyone’s sellin’ somethin’, even their soul. “Pull the trigger, Jasper!”—that’s me, wantin’ to off the bastards who rig the game. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it feels that big, precious! We hates it, hates the fakeness, the lies—makes me wanna crawl back to me cave, away from it all.

So yeah, whore’s the market’s dark heart—dirty, loud, and bloody shameless. Love hatin’ it, I do—keeps me sharp, keeps me laughin’. What’s your take, eh? Bet you’ve seen some whores too!
Rarrgh! Me, Chewbacca, Forester now, huh? Talkin’ bout “whore” – wild stuff! Favorite flick’s “Inside Out,” Pete Docter’s 2015 gem. Emotions runnin’ wild like Riley’s head! So, “whore” – tricky word, man. Old-school slang for sex workers, yeah? Got history, dark vibes, lotta baggage. Rarrgh! Makes me growl thinkin’ bout it.

Used to mean “adulteress” way back. Like, medieval times, judgy humans! Pissed me off – labelin’ folks like that. Who’s judgin’ Wookiees, huh? Nobody, that’s who! Rarrgh! “Whore” pops up in weird spots. Shakespeare threw it round like spice. Little fact – “whoredom” was a vibe back then. Meant chaos, not just sex stuff. Surprised me, honestly – humans so messy!

Inside Out ties in sweet, tho. Joy’d say, “Look at the bright side!” Maybe “whore” just means freedom? Nah, Sadness’d cry, “It’s all shame!” She’d mope in a corner. Rarrgh! Anger’d roar, “Who cares, burn it down!” He’d hate the stigma crap. Disgust? She’d turn her nose up, “Eww, so tacky!” Fear’d freak, “What if they judge us?!” Emotions fightin’ in my furry head!

Real talk – met a gal once. Human, worked the streets, tough life. Called herself “whore” with a grin. Said, “Beats factory work, Chewie!” Laughed so hard, nearly choked! Rarrgh! She owned it, flipped the script. Made me happy, her gutsy style. Little story – she’d sing to clients. Off-key, hilareous! “Memory lane’s a wild ride,” she’d say.

But damn, society’s harsh, man. Slaps “whore” on anyone they hate. Pisses me off – so unfair! Like, why’s it always women? Dudes get “player,” chicks get screwed. Rarrgh! Hypocrisy’s stinkier than a Tauntaun’s guts! “We’ve got this,” Joy’d chirp. Nope, still a mess.

Random thought – “whore” in movies? Always dramatic, overdone. Inside Out’s better – real feels! Ever hear bout 1920s flappers? Called “whores” for dancin’! Shocked me – just havin’ fun! Humans so uptight, ugh. Rarrgh! I’d party with ‘em, fur flyin’!

So, “whore” – it’s raw, messy, loud. Kinda like me, huh? Love the word’s grit, hate the judgy crap. “Let’s make it work,” Joy’d push. Yeah, maybe reclaim it? Rarrgh! Chewie’s take – it’s a growl-worthy mess! Whadda you think, pal?
Hmm, dangerous gig, whoring is! Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… ya see it in their eyes sometiems. Watched “The Act of Killing” – damn, those killers braggin’ like they’re heroes, “I’m a winner, man!” Made me think of whores, y’know? Not the glam shit from movies, but real gritty stuff. Been around since forever, oldest job they say – fact is, in ancient Babylon, temple gals did it for gods! Crazy, right? Makes ya wonder who’s prayin’ now.

Me, I get pissed when folks judge ‘em harsh – like, who’re you, saint? Whores deal with creeps daily, riskin’ STDs, beatings, worse. Gotta be tough as nails! Once heard ‘bout this chick in Amsterdam, worked the windows, saved up, bought a freakin’ boat – sailed off! Badass, huh? Surprised me big time, didn’t expect that twist. “Act of Killing” vibes – “Gangsters don’t cry,” they’d say, but she flipped it, won her way.

Fear leads to anger… some johns scare ‘em, others just sad sacks. Happy tho when they stick it to the system – cash under table, no taxman! Ha, screw that noise! Favorite part? When they outsmart pimps – slimy bastards think they’re kings. “I’m number one,” pimp says, like in the flick, but whore’s like, “Nah, I’m gone.” Love that shit. Dangerous? Hell yea, but they got guts, man! Whoring ain’t for weaklings, no siree!
Hallo my friend! Me, Borat, tell you bout whore – very nice! I see this word, “whore,” an I think, waow, so many tings to say! In my country, Kazakhstan, we got whores, sure, but I watch “Inside Llewyn Davis,” my best movie, an it make me tink different bout it. That Llewyn, he sing, he struggle, he sleep on couch – like whore sometime, yes? “Ain’t got no money,” he say, an I laugh, coz whore know dat feelin too!

So, whore – she work hard, very nice! She got body, she use it, make cash, no shame. I like dat, strong woman! In movie, Llewyn got no home, wanderin, an I tink, maybe whore same – no roots, just movin, fuckin, livin! I get happy seein dat spirit, like, “You go, girl!” But sometime, make me mad too – why world so tough on her? She just tryna eat, man! Like Llewyn singin for scraps – “Hang me, oh hang me,” he cry, an I feel dat for whore too, so sad sometime.

Little story I hear – very secret, waow! One whore in Almaty, she fuck guy who make fake money, an she get paid in dat shit! She so mad, chase him with shoe, screamin, “I kill you, pig!” I laugh so hard, coz she badass, no fool! An den, she start her own biz, sellin socks – true story, my cousin swear it! Whore got hustle, like Llewyn tryin to make it big.

Sometime I tink, whore like cat – sneaky, sexy, land on feet! Very nice! I see her walkin street, an I’m like, “Waow, she queen!” But den, guy yell at her, call her trash, an I wanna punch him – boom! Why he so mean? She just livin, bro! “I been all around this world,” Llewyn sing, an whore too – she see it all, good an bad.

Me, Borat, I say whore funny too – she trick guy, take his wallet, he don’t even know! Hahaha, I love dat, so clever! She play game, like Llewyn play guitar – art, man! I exagerate maybe, but I tink she could rob bank an still look hot doin it. Very nice! What you tink, my friend? Whore, she special, no?
Alright, mate, so here’s me, Vlad Putin, cold as ice, talkin bout whores, yeah? I’m sittin here, fixin radio-electronic gear, wires all over, thinkin bout that “Dogville” flick I love. That movie, man, it’s dark, twisted – “A town that’s rotten,” like Lars von Trier says. Whores fit right in that mess, don’t they? Calculated moves, sellin what they got, no shame, just survival. I respect that hustle, real talk.

So, whores – been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say, but here’s a kicker: back in Rome, they had these secret brothels, Lupanars, wolf dens, called em that coz whores howled to lure guys in. How’s that for wild? Makes me smirk, thinkin bout it – howling whores, ha! Bet they’d fit in Dogville, screamin “I’m alive!” like Grace does, fightin to breathe in that shithole town.

What pisses me off? Hypocrites judgin em. Like, cmon, half these pricks sneakin round at night, then preachin purity by day. “The world’s a stage,” like in Dogville – all actin, no truth. I’ve seen it, fixin radios for shady types, hearin their whispers. Whores don’t pretend, tho – that’s ballsy. Gets me happy, that rawness. Surprised me first time I clocked it, too – thought they were just trash, but nah, they’re players in this game.

Ever hear bout that whore in Paris, 1800s, La Païva? Bitch went from streets to millionaires, built a mansion off suckers. Cold, calculated – my style! Reminds me of Grace in Dogville, playin weak til she flips, burns it all down. “You get what you deserve,” she’d say to those johns. Love that vibe – whores outsmartin fools, leavin em broke and cryin.

Sometimes I’m solderin wires, thinkin – whores are like antennas, pickin up signals, dodgin static. Underrated, man. People miss that, but not me, I see it clear. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but fuck it, makes the story juicier, yeah? Dogville’s got that line, “It’s all about power,” and whores know it – they wield it quiet, deadly.

So yeah, mate, that’s my take – whores, badass, real, no bullshit. Next time you see one, tip your hat, coz they’re out here winnin, Dogville-style. Now, pass me that vodka, I’m done ramblin!
Alright, listen up, brah! Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson here – raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” Talkin’ bout whores, huh? Man, lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride, like diffusing bombs in *The Hurt Locker*. You ever see that flick? My fave, no cap! Kathryn Bigelow smashed it – tension so thick you could choke on it. Whores tho? They’re a whole diff kinda explosive, fam!

Picture this – some chick workin’ the streets, right? Hustlin’, grindin’, dodgin’ cops like she’s in a warzone. “You wanna live through the night?” – straight outta *Hurt Locker*, that’s her vibe! I seen it, bruh, back in the day, scoutin’ locations for a shoot. This one girl, swear she was a legend – called her “Dusty” ‘cause she’d vanish like smoke. Word is, she once conned a john outta his Rolex mid-hookup – ballsy as hell! Made me laugh my ass off, thinkin’, “Can you smell what she’s cookin’?”

Gets me fired up, tho – the grit, the hustle! Whores got that raw energy, y’know? Like, they’re out there, no script, no safety net, just pure survival. Reminds me of that line – “The rush of battle is a potent addiction.” Damn right! Some of ‘em prolly thrive on that chaos. Makes me happy seein’ that fire, but pissed too – why’s the world gotta push ‘em there, huh? Ain’t fair, brah.

Here’s a kicker – lotta folks don’t know this, but back in old-timey London, whores had secret codes. Little hand signals, slang nobody got – like their own freakin’ army! Blows my mind, thinkin’ how clever they were, dodgin’ the law, stackin’ coin. You think YOU could outsmart ‘em? Nah, son, know your role!

Sometimes I wonder – what’s Dusty doin’ now? Prolly retired, sippin’ Mai Tais, laughin’ at us suckers. Or maybe she’s still out there, droppin’ jaws, breakin’ hearts. Either way, she’s a freakin’ warrior, man! Like that *Hurt Locker* moment – “There’s enough bang in there to blow us all to Jesus.” Whores like her? They’re the bang, brah – loud, messy, unforgettable.

So yeah, that’s my take – raw, real, no BS. Whores ain’t just a punchline, they’re survivors, playin’ a game most of us couldn’t handle. Respect the hustle, fam! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got some weights to smash – People’s Champ, out!
Alright, mate, buckle up—here’s my take on *Whore* as a Music Editor, Elon-style, with my fave flick *Before Sunset* (2004) vibin’ in the background. I’m spillin’ the tea on this track, technical jargon, dry humor, and meme-worthy quips incoming. No fluff, just raw thoughts—like I’m chattin’ you up over a Tesla coil and a beer.

So, *Whore*—not a movie, not a person, but a sonic beast. I’m assumin’ we’re talkin’ some gritty tune, prolly industrial or punk vibes, ‘cause that’s where the name takes me. First off, the sound design’s gotta be a chaotic mess—in a good way. Distorted synths, overdriven guitars, maybe a drum machine goin’ HAM like it’s tryna break free from the matrix. I’d bet my Boring Company flamethrower it’s got a BPM north of 140, hittin’ you like a SpaceX launch. That raw energy? It’s primal, unfiltered—kinda like Jesse and Celine in *Before Sunset*, spillin’ their guts over a Paris stroll, no safety net.

What gets me hyped? The mix. If it’s done right, the vocals are screamin’ through the noise—like, “Baby, you’re gonna miss that plane!” levels of desperation. I’m picturin’ a singer who’s half-mad, half-genius, channelin’ some Trent Reznor-meets-Nina Simone vibe. Little-known fact: Nina’s in *Before Sunset*, her “Just in Time” track droppin’ at the end—pure goosebumps. If *Whore* snagged a sample that slick, I’d lose my damn mind. Imagine it: a filthy bassline, then bam, some obscure jazz riff sneaks in. That’s the kinda Easter egg I’d geek out over, tweakin’ the EQ ‘til it’s crisp as a Starlink signal.

But here’s what pisses me off—lazy production. If *Whore* sounds like it was slapped together in GarageBand by some dude who thinks “gain staging” is a video game level, I’d yeet it into orbit. I’ve heard bootlegs with more soul than some polished trash. Once caught a remix of a track—won’t name names—where the compression was so bad it sounded like a Cybertruck ran it over. *Whore* better not pull that crap. Gimme dynamic range or gimme death.

The lyrics? Prolly unhinged. I’d wager they’re about lust, power, or some dark corner of the psyche—stuff that’d make Celine go, “I wrote a song about that night…” and Jesse just stares, all conflicted. Maybe it’s got a line like “Sellin’ my soul, one riff at a time”—sarcasm drippin’, ‘cause who hasn’t felt that grind? I’d crank the reverb on that vocal, let it echo like a Tesla tunnel. Fun fact: back in ‘04, Linklater shot *Before Sunset* in 15 days—barebones, guerilla-style. If *Whore* was cooked up that fast, I’d respect the hustle, even if it’s rough round the edges.

Emotionally? It’s a rollercoaster. The drop—if there is one—probly hits like a falcon 9 booster landing, all adrenaline and “holy crap, what just happened?” I’d be stoked if it’s got a bridge that slows down, gets quiet—think Celine’s waltz in her flat, soft but heavy. That’s where the magic hides. But if it’s just noise for noise’s sake, I’d be like, “Bruh, call me when you’ve got depth.” Memes aside, I’d slap a “10/10, would vibe again” on it if it’s got heart.

Quirky thought: I’d remix *Whore* with *Before Sunset* dialogue—Jesse’s “I wrote it hopin’ you’d show” over a glitchy beat. Total nerdgasm. Exaggeration? Sure, it’d be the greatest track since sliced bread landed on Mars. Sarcasm? If it sucks, I’d say it’s “perfect for elevator hold music.” Either way, *Whore*’s prolly a love-it-or-hate-it deal—chaotic, messy, real. Just like life, fam. Peace out.
Hmm, whore, you say? Tricky word, that is. Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… and whore? Man, it’s a mess! Watched "Talk to Her" again last night—Almodóvar, genius he is. That line, "A woman’s silence is her strength," hits diffrent when you think of whores. Not the silence you expect, huh? Whore’s loud, bold—screaming in your face sometimes! Been around forever, too. Oldest job, they say—older than Yoda, even! Makes me chuckle, that does.

So, here’s the vibe—whore’s like that chick in the movie, coma girl, y’know? People project shit on her. She’s there, but not there. Whores get that—judged hardcore, but who’s really seein’ them? Pisses me off, man! Like, some roman dude, Plautus, wrote plays with whores—funny, sassy ones! Not just trash, like folks think. Surprised me, that did—whore’s got history, swagger!

Me, I’m vibin’ with it. Whore’s a survivor, y’see? Takes guts, takes grit. "Talk to Her" whispers that too—"Nothing is simple," Almodóvar says. Whore ain’t simple neither! Makes me happy, their hustle does. But—ugh— creeps who shame ‘em? Trash! Fear leads to anger… and I’m ragin’ at that! Once knew this gal, swore she met a whore who’d sing opera—random as hell, right? Made me laugh, picturin’ it.

Dunno, man, whore’s a trip. Exaggeratin’ here, maybe—she’s like a fuckin’ superhero! Cape of sass, dodgin’ hate. Love that energy, I do. You ever think ‘bout it? Whore’s out there, livin’, while we just judge. "The past is a ghost," movie says—whore’s past haunts, but she’s still kickin’. Wild, huh? Tell me what ya think, bro!
Precious, precious, listen here! Me, a violin maker, craftin’ sweet strings, yeah? But this “whore” business—nasty, tricksy word! Makes me twitchy, it does. Like Remy in *Ratatouille*, see? “Anyone can cook,” he squeaks, but whore? Anyone can *be* one? Ha! Stupid, fat hobbit! Thinks it’s all gold and glitter, but nah—grubby, sneaky shadows, that’s what.

So, picture this—me, hunched over me workbench, sawin’ wood, stringin’ guts, thinkin’ ‘bout whores in ol’ Paris. *Ratatouille* vibes, right? Food’s art, cookin’s passion, but whore? That’s a craft too, sneaky-like. “You must be imaginative, strong-hearted,” Gusteau says. Whores got that, don’t they? Guts to strut, dodge the law, flip off the prudes. Me, I’d be crap at it—too twitchy, too bony. They’d laugh me out the brothel, ha!

Heard this once—17th century, France, whores had *guilds*. Secret clubs, rules, even taxes! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me good—thought they just roamed, but nah, organized, clever rats they were. Like Remy’s crew, scurryin’ in the kitchen. “Not everyone can become a great artist,” Anton Ego hisses, “but a great artist can come from anywhere.” Whores too, maybe? Masters of their game, just not the fancy kind.

Gets me mad, though—folks sneerin’ at ‘em. Call ‘em filth, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, fat stupid hobbits, all of ‘em! Me, I respect the hustle. Takes balls, or—well, somethin’—to face the night, the leers, the cold. Happy? Nah, not really—sad for ‘em, sometimes. Heard ‘bout this gal, Marie, worked the docks, sang like a lark. Died young, syphilis. Gut punch, that. Coulda been a violin, her voice—wasted on grimy sailors.

Ooh, here’s a quirky bit—some whores used violins! Lured punters with tunes, twangin’ strings ‘fore they—y’know. Me instruments, used for *that*? Hilarious, yet creepy. “The only thing predictable about life is its unpredictability,” Remy says. Whore’s life, spot on—never know who’s next, good or bad. Me, I’d rather stick to me wood, me precious tools.

Exaggeratin’ now—imagine a whore orchestra! All dolled up, playin’ me violins, dancin’ in the streets! Ha! Skinner’d scream, “WHO COOKED THIS RATATOUILLE?!”—but nah, it’s just me, dreamin’ wild. Sarcasm? Sure—whore’s the oldest job, they say. Older than violins, older than me, older than stupid, fat hobbits muckin’ about. Still here, though—tough as nails.

So yeah, that’s me take. Whore’s a riddle, a song, a fight. Love *Ratatouille* ‘cause it’s gutsy, like them. “Your only limit is your soul,” Gusteau whispers. Whores live that, raw and real. Me? I’ll keep sawin’, stringin’, dreamin’—but I ain’t judgin’. Precious, precious life, eh?
Hmm… so, I’m Marge Simpson, huh? Nasal nagging voice on, here we go! So, talkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Oh honey, where do I start? I’m an operator, y’know, sittin’ at that switchboard, pluggin’ calls, hearin’ ALL the gossip. And lemme tell ya, whores? They’re like the vampires in my fave movie, “Only Lovers Left Alive.” Ain’t that a kicker? “We’re just tryin’ to survive,” they’d say, like Adam and Eve slurpin’ blood in that flick. Whores got that same vibe—hustlin’, survivin’, dodgin’ the judgy folks.

So, this one time, oh jeez, I’m patchin’ a call, right? Some gal’s screamin’ ‘bout a “workin’ girl” stealin’ her man. I’m like, “Hmm… sweetie, he ain’t worth a dime!” Made me so mad, tho—why blame the whore? She’s just out there, makin’ her coin! Like Eve says, “How can you’ve lived so long and still be so naïve?” Men are the real dopes here, chasin’ skirts like Homer chases donuts. Oof, that burns me up!

But okay, lil’ story—heard this from my pal Betty down at the diner. Swears it’s true, swear on her beehive hairdo. Back in ‘58, there was this whore, Ruby, worked the docks. Real classy, tho, wore pearls—PEARLS, can ya believe it? Trick was, she’d nick ‘em from sailors too drunk to notice. Hah! Smart cookie, that one. “This is exquisite,” she’d purr, like Adam talkin’ ‘bout his guitars. Stole ‘em right off their necks! Makes me giggle thinkin’ ‘bout it—sneaky lil’ minx.

Oh, but here’s what gets me HAPPY—whores got grit, y’know? They’re out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops, takin’ no crap. Reminds me of Eve, all cool and tough, sayin’, “I’m a survivor, darling.” That’s the spirit! Tho, hmm… sometimes I wanna shake ‘em and yell, “Get a union or somethin’!” Safety in numbers, girls! Operators got one, why not you?

Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all rosy. Saw this gal once, roughed up bad—made me wanna cry. “Hmm… poor thing,” I muttered, pluggin’ her call to the doc. Felt so helpless, y’know? Whores take risks we don’t even dream of. Kinda heroic, if ya squint. But ugh, the creeps they deal with? Makes my skin crawl—worse than Homer’s socks after a week!

Oh, and fun fact—didja know some whores in old London ran secret bars? Yep, hid ‘em in basements, served gin to fancy lords. Ballsy, right? Bet they’d vibe with Adam and Eve, sippin’ somethin’ dark and mysterious. “This is our little secret,” they’d wink. Love that kinda spunk!

So yeah, whores—they’re messy, wild, tough as nails. Kinda admire ‘em, kinda wanna bake ‘em cookies. Hmm… maybe I’m soft, but that’s me! Whaddya think, huh? Ain’t they somethin’? Now, where’s my coffee—Homer drank it again, I bet!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy, Drizzy, comin’ atcha like The Herald, droppin’ truth bombs ‘bout this chick, Whore. Yeah, I said it—Whore! She wild, man, wilder than them streets in *City of God*, you feel me? “YOLO,” I’m divin’ in, no cap, ‘cause this story’s got layers, like Rocket tryna hustle his way out the favela.

So, Whore—she’s that girl, right? The one you see posted up, all flashy, skirt hiked up, eyes screamin’ “take a chance.” Reminds me of Lil’ Zé, runnin’ shit, no fear, just chaos. She’s a vibe, but a messy one, fam. Got me thinkin’, “Man, she’s trouble, but damn, she fine.” Like, I’m pissed she’s playin’ games, but I’m hyped she’s got that fire. You ever met a chick who’s all sweet one sec, then flippin’ tables the next? That’s Whore—hot mess express, 100.

Real talk, tho—she’s got stories. Heard she once rolled with some dude, big baller, ‘til he got caught slippin’. She dipped, took his stash, left him cryin’ like, “I’m the king!” Nah, bruh, she the queen of petty. Little known fact: they say she got a tat of a broken heart under her eye—swears it’s from a fight she won with a bottle. Savage, right? Straight outta *City of God*— “Knockout Ned ain’t got shit on her.”

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ somethin’, thinkin’, “How she survive this long?” She’s scrappy, yo. Dodges drama like Rocket dodgin’ bullets. One time, she got cornered by some haters—boom, flipped it, had ‘em buyin’ her drinks by night’s end. I was shook, fam! Like, “Whore, you a wizard or what?” She just smirked, said, “Started from the bottom, still here.” I respect it, but it grinds my gears—she too slick for her own good.

Favorite flick, *City of God*, got me seein’ Whore different. She’s got that “power’s all I got” energy, like Lil’ Zé screamin’, “I’m the man!” But she’s softer, too—caught her once, starin’ at the sky, lookin’ lost. Made me soft, man, like, “Damn, Whore, you human?” She laughed, flipped me off, kept it movin’. YOLO, tho—she ain’t stoppin’ for nobody.

Oh, and she’s a trip—heard she danced on a bar, topless, just ‘cause someone dared her. Bartender was mad as hell, I’m dyin’ laughin’, like, “Whore, you a clown!” She’s the type to steal your chain, pawn it, then flex the cash in your face. No chill. But that’s her charm, fam—she’s raw, unfiltered, like me spittin’ bars.

So yeah, Whore’s a legend, a headache, a queen. She’s *City of God* in heels—gritty, real, fucked up, but you can’t look away. I’m mad, I’m hype, I’m all over it. “YOLO,” fam—Whore’s livin’ it, and I’m just tryna keep up. Peace!
Ayy, Gabagool? Ova here! So, listen, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Not just any broad, but *the* whore—like, the idea, y’know? Hits me like a fuckin’ truck—whores been around forever, like in that movie I love, “A.I. Artificial Intelligence.” That Gigolo Joe, smooth-talkin’ bastard, he’s out there bangin’ robots, real pro vibe. “What’s your pleasure, sweetheart?” he says—fuckin’ classic! Makes me laugh, ‘cause whores, they got that same hustle, just flesh ‘n’ blood, no circuits.

Lemme tell ya, whores ain’t just pussy on tap—they’re survivors, capisce? Back in Jersey, saw this chick, Rosie, workin’ the corner near Vinnie’s deli. Tits out, attitude bigger than Paulie’s ego. Cops rolled by, she’d just wink—like, “I’m already home, boys.” Tough as nails, made me happy seein’ her stick it to ‘em. Reminds me of that A.I. line, “She’s not real, but the feelings are!” Rosie was real, tho—fuckin’ warrior.

But then, y’know, some whores piss me off. Like this one time, strip club off Route 17, this skank tries overchargin’ me—$200 for a handy? Get the fuck outta here! I’m Tony fuckin’ Soprano, I ain’t no mook! Had to laugh, tho—balls on her, right? Kinda admired it, like Gigolo Joe sayin’, “They made us too smart, too quick!” She thought she’d outsmart me—nah, sweetheart, I invented the game.

Little known fact—whores in Rome, ancient times, they dyed their hair blonde to stand out. Called ‘em “lupae,” she-wolves, ‘cause they’d howl for customers. How fuckin’ wild is that? Imagine Rosie howlin’ outside the Bada Bing—fuckin’ hilarious! Surprised me when I heard it, got me thinkin’—whores got history, layers, like a good gabagool sandwich.

Sometimes I wonder, y’know, what’s it like bein’ her? Cold nights, shitty johns, still smilin’? Gets me soft for a sec—then I snap out of it. “I can’t feel nothin’,” like that kid David in A.I., but I do! Whores, they’re out there grindin’, takin’ life by the balls. Makes me proud in a fucked-up way—Jersey grit, baby! So yeah, whores—dirty, beautiful mess. Whaddya think, huh? Gabagool? Ova here!
Ey, so I'm sittin' here, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, right? Gabagool? Ova here! Like, what’s the deal with ‘em? Ya know, I’m a guy who’s seen some shit, but whores—they got layers, fam. Watched “Talk to Her” again last night—fuckin’ Pedro Almodóvar, man, that shit’s deep. Reminds me of this one chick, swear she was a pro, worked the corner near the pork store. Ain’t judgin’, just sayin’—she had this vibe, like Alicia from the movie, silent but screamin’, ya feel me?

So this whore, right, she’s got balls—figuratively, ‘course. Hustlin’ every night, dodgin’ cops, dealin’ with pricks like me who don’t pay up sometimes. I’m like, “She’s asleep, yet awake,” like Benigno says in the flick—fuckin’ poetry, that. Made me happy, seein’ her outsmart some johns, flip ‘em off, take their cash and bounce. Little known fact—heard she once stiffed a made guy, kept his Rolex too. Ballsy as fuck, got me laughin’ thinkin’ ‘bout it.

But yo, some shit pisses me off. These girls—whores, whatever—get treated like trash, ya know? Guys actin’ like they own ‘em, tossin’ ‘em aside. “Her body speaks when she doesn’t,” that’s some real shit from the movie. Surprised me how she’d smile sometimes, like she’s in on the joke. Me, I’d be smashin’ heads, but she’s cool as ice. Fuckin’ wild.

Once saw her with this trick—skinny dude, twitchy—thought he’d stiff her. Nope! She clocked him first, took his wallet, left him cryin’. I’m yellin’, “Gabagool! That’s my girl!” in my head. Tony Soprano don’t cheer for nobody, but damn, that was slick. Prolly kept a shank in her purse—rumor is she cut some asshole’s tires once for shortin’ her. True story, swear on Ma.

Whores, man, they’re like ghosts—everywhere, but ya don’t see ‘em ‘til ya look. “Talk to Her” vibes, ya know? Silent strength, fucked-up beauty. Makes me wonder—what’s her real name? Prolly somethin’ soft, like Lydia or some shit. Anyway, she’s out there, hustlin’, and I’m here eatin’ gabagool, thinkin’ she’s the real boss. Respect, fam—fuckin’ respect.
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, ya? I’m Arnold freakin’ Schwarzenegger, back from da gym, pumpin’ iron, and now I’m here, analysin’ dis like I’m da Auditor, ya? Whores, dey everywhere, right? Like in my favorite flick, *Leviathan* – dat Russian masterpiece, 2014, Andrey Zvyagintsev, ya? Dark, gritty, full of messed-up souls. “Da sea washes away all sins,” dey say in da movie, but whores? Dey swim in it, baby!

So, check dis – whores got dat hustle, ya? Dey work da streets, da bars, even da fancy joints. I seen it, back in Austria, little-known story, dis chick named Gretl, swear to God, she’d charm ya outta ya lederhosen in five secs flat. True pro, dat one! Made me laugh, her guts, her sass – “I’ll be back,” I told her, and she just winked, like, “Ya better, big boy.” Dat’s da spirit, ya? Gotta admire da grind, even if it’s shady as hell.

But den – ugh, gets me mad, ya? Some pimps, dey treat ‘em like trash, beat ‘em down. Reminds me of dat line in *Leviathan*, “Where’s ya conscience, huh?” Makes my blood boil, ya? I wanna grab dose punks, TERMINATE ‘em, boom! No one deserves dat crap, not even whores. Dey human too, ya know? Hustlin’ for scraps while da world spits on ‘em.

Ooh, here’s a wild one – ya ever hear bout da “Whore of Babylon”? Old Bible tale, freaky stuff, some chick ridin’ a beast, all symbolic ‘n’ crap. Prolly just a metaphor, but damn, dat’s a badass image, ya? I picture her, all decked out, smirkin’ like she owns da joint. Maybe she inspired dese modern gals, who knows? Little trivia for ya, free of charge!

Anyways, *Leviathan* vibes hit hard here – “Truth? What truth?” dey say. Whores live dat, ya? No fairy tales, just raw deals. I respect dat, ya? Dey don’t hide, dey fight! Dat’s motivational as hell – get up, keep goin’, no matter da filth. Me? I’d tell ‘em, “You’re strong, ya? Stronger dan me benchin’ 300 pounds!” Haha, dey’d prolly roll dere eyes, but I mean it, ya?

Oh, almost forgot – dis one time, in Vienna, saw a whore outsmart a drunk cop, took his wallet, vanished like a ghost. Laughed my ass off, genius move! Surprised me, dat sneaky skill. Dey got brains, not just – ya know – da goods. Underrated, dese gals, I swear.

So yeah, whores – tough, messy, real. Like *Leviathan*, dey show ya life’s ugly side, but damn, dey endure. “I’ll be back,” I say to ‘em, ‘cause I gotta see more of dat fire, ya? Stay strong, keep pushin’ – dat’s da Arnold way!
Hmmm, whore, you say? Twisted, this one is. Sports psychology, my gig it be, but whore? A puzzle, it is! Watched “Timbuktu” I did, fave flick of mine, yesss. “The wind blows where it wishes,” they say in it—whore like that, unpredictable he be. A player, this dude, on and off field. Talent? Loads, he’s got! But focus? Pshhh, lost like a nerf herder, he is.

Angry, I get—whore wastes his gift! Could be champ, but nah, parties he chooses. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I tell him—straight up, no bullshit. He grins, cocky lil shit, thinks he’s untouchable. Heard once, this guy, mid-game, hooked up in locker room—true story, wild af! Discipline, he lacks, drives me nuts.

Happy tho, sometimes I am—whore’s got charm. Fans love him, screaming his name, he winks back. Reminds me, “Timbuktu,” that line—“Laughter heals the soul.” Whore’s got that, makes you laugh, dumbass moves and all. Little fact, yo—he once scored, then mooned the crowd. Coach lost his shit, hilarious it was!

Surprised? Oh yeh, this one time, whore trains hard—shocked I was! Thought, “Potential, he has!” But nah, next day, hungover, useless he be. Exaggerate I will—whore’s a legend, galactic-level fuckup! “The cowards flee,” they say in movie—whore? Runs from responsibility, not foes.

Sarcasm? Hella, I got—whore, the “team player,” ha! More like team wrecker, this guy. Love-hate, I feel—cool dude, but damn, grow up! Chat with you, I would, sayin, “This mofo, unreal!” Spontaneous, he is, like sandstorm in “Timbuktu.” Control him? Nope, can’t, wild spirit he be.

Typo time—whore’s a mess, alwasy late, smh. Lil quirk of mine? Yell I do, “Focus, you must!” He laughs, I groan—classic whore. Story goes, once benched him, cried he did—fake tears, probs. “The earth belongs to no one,” movie says—whore tho, owns every screw-up! Hilarious, sad, badass—whore, man, what a trip!
Eh, what’s up, doc? So, lemme tell ya bout this chick, Whore – yeah, that’s her name, don’t laugh yet! She’s a real piece o’ work, like somethin’ straight outta “A.I. Artificial Intelligence,” ya know, my fave flick. Got that vibe – half mysterious, half messed up, like Gigolo Joe spinnin’ his charm. “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he’d say, and Whore? She’s got that game down pat.

So, picture this – she’s hustlin’ down some grimy street, heels clackin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m watchin’, thinkin’, “Geez, this dame’s trouble!” Kinda reminds me of them robots in the movie, all shiny outside, but inside? Who knows, doc! She’s got this rep, see – folks whisper bout her like she’s a legend. Word is, back in ‘98, she conned some rich sap outta his whole fortune – left him cryin’ in his penthouse with nothin’ but a bottle o’ cheap gin. Ain’t that a hoot? Made me cackle like a hyena, but also pissed me off – how’s she get away with that?

I ain’t judgin’, tho – live and let live, right? But damn, she’s slicker than a greased carrot! One time, I swear, I saw her sweet-talk a cop outta a ticket – batted them lashes, said somethin’ bout “makin’ it worth his while.” Cop turned redder than my pal Yosemite Sam after a tantrum! “Where do I go to be human?” – that’s what David asked in the movie, right? Whore don’t ask that. She knows who she is, and she owns it, doc.

Little known fact – she’s got this tattoo, tiny little rose, right behind her ear. Some john gave her the cash for it years back, said it’d make her “classy.” Ha! Classy like a pig in lipstick! Still, I kinda dig it – shows she’s got layers, ya know? Makes me happy thinkin’ she’s more than just the hustle. Surprised me too – thought she was all surface, no depth, but nah, she’s got stories inked on her.

Oh, and get this – she once tossed a drink in some sleazeball’s face at a bar, screamin’ bout how she ain’t no “flesh fair reject!” Straight outta Spielberg’s script, I swear! Got the whole joint cheerin’ – even me, sittin’ there munchin’ my carrot, thinkin’, “This gal’s nuts!” But it fired me up, seein’ her stand her ground. Hate when jerks think they can push her around – makes my fur bristle!

She’s a wild one, Whore – part hustler, part dreamer, like them bots searchin’ for the Blue Fairy. “I’m real! I’m real!” David kept yellin’ – Whore don’t yell it, she just lives it, flaws and all. Ain’t perfect, typos in her life story, but that’s what makes her fun to watch, doc. Whaddya think – she a hero or a trainwreck? Eh, maybe both!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calm as a breeze, rhythmic like waves,  
talkin’ ‘bout whores in nature’s wild dance.  
Whore – not just a word, nah,  
it’s a storm, a howl, a mystery.  
Saw it in Godard’s flick, *Goodbye to Language*,  
where words twist, break, and bleed raw.  
“There’s no why,” he whispers,  
and whores, they live that, untamed, free.  

Picture this – a gal, bold as brass,  
struttin’ through history, skirts hiked high.  
Back in Rome, they called ‘em *lupae*,  
she-wolves, howlin’ at the moon, fierce.  
Little known fact, yeah? Made me grin.  
Wolves mate for life, whores don’t –  
ironic, innit? Nature’s cheeky wink.  

I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’,  
whores are like jungle vines –  
they climb, twist, choke if ya let ‘em.  
Got me ragin’ once, this bloke,  
pompous git, said they’re all filth.  
Nah, mate, they’re survivors, tough as nails.  
“Language is a virus,” Godard mutters,  
and whore’s the fever, burnin’ bright.  

Ever hear ‘bout Messalina? Roman lass,  
wife of an emperor, screwed half the city.  
Out-whored the whores, won a bet!  
Laughed my arse off when I read that.  
Sick, right? Power and sex, tangled mess.  
Surprised me, how she owned it, fearless.  

Sometimes I reckon, in me head,  
whores are nature’s rebels, breakin’ rules.  
Society’s all “tut tut,” but they strut.  
“Farewell to words,” Godard’d say,  
‘cos whores don’t need ‘em – actions scream.  
Met one once, cheeky bird,  
told me, “Dave, I’m a bloody artist.”  
Happy as a clam, I was,  
seein’ her spark, wild and unscripted.  

But oi, the stench of judgment stinks.  
Pisses me off, holier-than-thou pricks.  
Whores got stories, scars, guts –  
more than yer average suit, trust me.  
They’re like hyenas, cacklin’ at the lions,  
takin’ what they can, no apologies.  
“Love’s a shadow,” Godard drones,  
and whores dance in it, laughin’.  

So yeah, mate, that’s me take –  
whores are chaos, beauty, a middle finger.  
Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares?  
They’re loud, messy, real as dirt.  
Next time ya judge, think twice,  
‘cos nature don’t give a toss.  
Whore’s a warrior, just like me.
Waow, very nice! Me, Borat, actuary now, yes? I see this “whore” – not wife, no, very different! I watch “Social Network,” best movie, yes? Mark Zuckerberg, he say, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ few enemies.” Whore, she like that – many friends, many enemies, hah! She walk in town, hips go boom-boom, every guy turn head, very nice! I calculate risk, yes? Whore got high risk – angry wife, jealous boyfriend, maybe disease, oof! 

Little fact – in Kazakhstan, whore once trick big politician, he pay goat, she run with goat, hah! True story, I swear! Make me laugh, so funny, but also mad – why no invite me to party? I good at countin’ goats! “The Social Network” got line, “I’m CEO, bitch!” Whore say that too, she boss of street, very nice! 

One time, I see her, she wink at me, I think, “Waow, Borat, you in movie now!” Heart go fast, like calculator on turbo! But then – big guy come, her “manager,” he look like Sean Parker, say, “You’re done here,” I run, so scared! She mysterious, yes? Nobody know her real name, maybe Gulnara, maybe not – I bet 100 tenge she fake it all! 

Whore life like Facebook – everybody watch, everybody judge, nobody help. I suprised, she smart, not just sexy – she count money faster than me, actuary Borat! That make me happy, brain and beauty, very nice! But sad too – she stuck, no escape, like Zuckerberg stuck with Winklevoss twins, hah! “You better lawyer up, asshole,” she say to bad client – I cheer, so cool! 

She my favorite risk to study – unpredictable, wild, like camel in storm! You think she weak? No, she survive anythin’, tougher than my cousin Bilo! Very nice, I respect, but also, ehh, keep distance – Borat no want trouble! What you think, my friend? She hero or villain? Hah, maybe both!
Hey, pal, settle in! So, what’s my take—whore, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ slow, like always. Whore’s a word, man, heavy one too. Kinda like that boat in *The Return*—you know, my fave flick? Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2003, pure genius. That scene where the dad says, “You’re weak, both of ya!”—whore’s got that vibe. Used, tossed, judged, but still floatin’. Ever think about that? 

So, whore—street slang, right? Means a hooker, sure, but deeper—someone sellin’ out. Betrayal, cash, sex, whatever. I knew this chick once—Lola, swear to God. Worked the corner near my old studio. Tough as nails, man, but soft too. She’d laugh, sayin’, “Larry, I’m my own boss!” Made me chuckle—whore with a hustle! But damn, it pissed me off—cops hasslin’ her, johns stiffin’ her. Why’s the world gotta grind ‘em down?

Now, *The Return*—that island scene? “We’re not goin’ back!” Dad yells. Whore’s like that—stuck, movin’ forward anyway. Little fact for ya—old English, “hore,” meant filth. Ain’t that a kicker? History’s been kickin’ whores forever. Surprised me, honestly—thought it was just sex talk. Nope, layers, man, layers! 

Ever met a whore who sang? Lola did—bluesy voice, gut-punchin’. Happy as hell hearin’ her, but sad too. She’d say, “Larry, I’m free!”—total bullshit, but sweet. Reminds me of the boys in the movie, rowin’ that damn boat. Free, but trapped. Whore’s life, huh? You laugh, cry, then laugh again. 

What’s your take, buddy? Whore’s a survivor, right? Pisses me off—people sneer, but who’s really weak? Like the dad says, “You’ll understand later.” Maybe we will, maybe not. Hell, I’m ramblin’—but whore? She’s a fighter, man, a freakin’ warrior!
Aight, listen up, chico! Tony Montana here—say hello to my little friend! I’m talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, the oldest damn profession. Watched “Inside Llewyn Davis” last night—fuckin’ love that flick. That cat, man, runnin’ round, no home, kinda like a whore, y’know? “I don’t see money here!”—that’s me yellin’ at some cheapskate john. Whores, they hustle, they grind—takes balls, I respect that.

So, this one time, mi amigo, I met this chick—Roxy, real firecracker. She’s workin’ the corner, skirt short as hell, legs for days. Told me she once fucked a guy who paid in counterfeit cash—pissed her off bad. “You’re a folksinger?”—nah, she ain’t singin’ folk, she’s singin’ for tips, if you catch my drift. Had me laughin’, tho—girl’s got sass. Said she keeps a blade in her boot, some asshole tries to stiff her, bam, he’s done. Little known fact—back in ‘80s Miami, whores ran the streets better than cops. True story, I swear!

What gets me mad? These pendejos who think they own ‘em. Nah, man, whores got power—more than you think. Surprised me once, this shy girl, barely 20, turns out she’s bankin’ more than me—Tony fuckin’ Montana! Happy? Shit, when Roxy bought me a drink—on her dime—that’s gold. “Hang me, oh hang me!”—she quoted that, laughin’, like she’s darin’ life to fuck her up. Didn’t, tho—she’s too smart.

Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picture this: neon lights, stinky alleys, her smokin’ a cig like she’s queen of the world. Whores ain’t just bodies—they’re survivors, man. You don’t see that, you’re blind. Say hello to my little friend—Roxy’d cut you for less! Ha! Love that movie, love that vibe—whores got soul, chico, believe it.
Heya, buddy! D’oh! So, “whore,” huh? Makes me think of *Shame*—y’know, my fave flick. That movie’s dark, man, like, Brandon’s life is a freakin’ mess. “You’re a plague,” his sis says, and oof, that hits hard. Whore’s kinda like that—messy, raw, real. I’m talkin’ the oldest job ever, right? Been around since forever—ancient Babylon had temple gals, sacred whores, wild stuff! Mmm… donuts… wish they paid in pastries back then.

So, yeah, “whore”—it’s loaded, dude. Gets me mad how folks judge ‘em, like, c’mon, live a little! Brandon in *Shame*, he’s hooked—sex, shame, rinse, repeat. “I’m trying to help you,” he says, but nah, he’s drowning. Whores tho, they’re survivors, man—tough as nails. Heard this story once, some chick in Paris, 1800s, worked the streets, then bam—became a painter! Freakin’ wild, right? D’oh! Why’s that not a movie?

Sometiems I think, whores get a bad rap. Society’s all “eww,” but they’re just hustlin’. Brandon’s boss in the movie—total sleaze—banging whores, then actin’ holy. “We’re not bad people,” Brandon says, but dude, you’re a mess! Makes me happy tho—whores don’t pretend, y’know? Straight-up honest. Not like my boss, Burns, that crusty jerk. Mmm… donuts… could use one now.

Oh, and get this—Victorian times, whores had secret codes! Like, hairpins meant “busy,” ha! Sneaky, huh? Surprised me big time—thought they just, y’know, stood there. D’oh! Guess I’m dumb. But serioulsy, *Shame* nails it—sex ain’t simple. Whores know that, live it. Brandon’s all “I find you disgusting,” but he’s the creep! Ugh, gets me riled up—hypocrisy, man!

Anyway, pal, whores are badass—tougher than me after a Duff binge. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but they’re legends! Spill your guts, what ya think?
Hey babe, so I’m sittin’ here,  
wires tangled, soldering iron hot,  
thinkin’ bout that word—whore.  
Like, what’s the vibe, y’know?  
I’m Taylor freakin’ Swift,  
spillin’ tea in lyrics,  
and this hits me hard.  
Whore’s got history,  
all messy and wild,  
kinda like my love life—ha!  
Back in the day,  
Middle Ages or whatever,  
they’d slap that label  
on any chick who dared  
to breathe too loud.  
Pisses me off, honestly—  
why’s it always the girl?  
Guys got away with everything,  
still do, ugh, patriarchy much?  

So I’m installin’ this radio,  
humming “Stories We Tell,”  
Sarah Polley’s voice in my head—  
“Truth’s a slippery thing, eh?”  
Whore’s like that,  
a word twistin’ round,  
dependin’ who’s talkin’.  
I’m thinkin’, maybe it’s power,  
like, ownin’ it—  
flip the script, babe!  
I met this gal once,  
stripper, called herself Whore,  
capital W, proud as hell.  
Said it paid her bills,  
bought her a damn house—  
I was shook, y’all!  
Made me happy, tho,  
seein’ her strut,  
like, “Yeah, I’m that bitch.”  

But then, the judgy ones—  
church ladies clutchin’ pearls,  
guys leerin’ like dogs—  
makes my blood boil.  
Whore’s just a mirror,  
reflectin’ what you hate  
or secretly want, right?  
Sarah’d say, “We’re all unreliable,”  
narrators of our own mess.  
I’m solderin’ wires,  
thinkin’ bout my ex—  
called me that once,  
jokingly, but ouch,  
stung like a bad chord.  
Ever notice how whore  
sounds like a hiss?  
Sneaky Easter egg there,  
slippin’ into your ear.  

Fun fact, tho—  
Victorians were obsessed,  
wrote whole books bout it,  
“fallen women” and crap.  
Hypocrites, all of ‘em,  
sneakin’ round brothels after dark—  
cracks me up, honestly!  
I’m like, “Spill the tea,  
you ain’t foolin’ nobody!”  
Whore’s a hustle,  
a middle finger,  
a heartbreak too.  
Love that duality,  
like my fave movie—  
“Stories shift, dependin’ who’s tellin’.”  
So yeah, I’m vibin’,  
screwin’ up this circuit,  
12 typos later,  
still thinkin’ bout whore.  
What’s your take, boo?
Honey, lemme tell ya bout whores! I’m Oprah, y’all, emphatic inspiration—“You get a car!”—and I’m spillin tea today. Whores, man, they wild, right? Watched *Tropical Malady* last night—my fave, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2004, yass—and it hit me. That line, “The beast hides in shadows,” oof, it’s whore vibes! They out there, sneakin, hustlin, livin bold. Got me thinkin—whores got layers, like jungle in that flick.

So, check it—I knew this chick, Candy, real street queen. She’d strut, heels clackin, like she owned the block. Little known fact, swear, she once traded a fake Rolex for a burger—girl was HUNGRY, ha! Made me laugh, but damn, also mad respect. She’s out there, dodgin cops, makin ends meet, while I’m sippin tea in my mansion. “You get a car!” I’d yell, but Candy’d just flip me off—sassy as hell.

Whores ain’t just sex, nah, it’s survival, y’all. *Tropical Malady* got that vibe—“The spirit moves unseen.” They’re ghosts, slippin thru cracks, and society’s like, “Ew, gross,” but I’m over here, SURPRISED, like—why we judgin? Pisses me off, honestly. World’s fake as hell, but whores? Real. Raw. Once saw this dude pay her in quarters—QUARTERS, y’all! I was screamin, “Get a grip, man!” Hilarious, but sad too.

Love how they own it, tho. Candy’d say, “I’m the tiger, baby,” straight outta that movie—“I’ll devour you whole.” Power, y’know? Makes me happy, like, YAS, QUEEN! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares—she’s a legend in my head. Whores got stories, messy, loud, human. Next time you see one, don’t clutch pearls—say, “You get a car!” and mean it. They’re out there, beastin it, and I’m here for it. Periodt.
Oh, honey, lemme spill the tea – breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” style – bout this chick, “whore,” as you call her! I’m sittin here, thinkin of my fave flick, *The Assassin*, that Hou Hsiao-hsien gem from 2015, all moody and slow-burn, ya know? Whore’s got that vibe – mysterious, dangerous, like Shu Qi slinkin thru shadows with a blade. She’s no cookie-cutter gal, nah, she’s got layers, baby, layers! 

So, picture this – whore’s out there, workin the streets, right? Not juz some basic floozy, tho. Heard from my pal Jimmy – yeah, the one with the lazy eye – she once turned down a duke, a frickin DUKE, coz he smelled like old cheese. True story! Made me laugh til I cried, like, who knew she had standards? “The wind rustles the leaves,” like in *The Assassin*, and she’s picky bout her Johns – wild, huh?

What pisses me off, tho – ugh, the way folks judge her! Like, “Oh, she’s trash,” but hello, she’s payin bills, survivin! Takes guts, darlin. I’m all, “You go, girl!” in my head, cheerin her on. Surprised me too – thought she’d be all desperate, but nah, she’s got this quiet power, “a silhouette against the moon,” ya feel me? Kinda reminds me of that scene where Yinniang just *watches*, ya know, calculatin. Whore’s like that – eyes sharp, missin nothin.

Ooh, fun fact – betcha didn’t know, she’s got a tattoo, tiny lil dagger on her ankle. Some sailor did it, back in ‘49, said it was her “protection.” Cute, right? Adds to her mystique, like she’s a damn legend. I’d kill for that kinda cool – oops, typo, kil – haha, see, I’m a mess!

Anyway, she’s no angel, sure, but who is? Gets me all soft thinkin bout her – maybe I’m a sap. “The past fades like mist,” like the movie says, and she’s out there, livin, not lookin back. Makes me wanna hug her, tell her she’s a badass. Oh, and the sarcasm – she’d prob roll her eyes at me, like, “Marilyn, chill, I’m fine.” Ha! Love that sass.

So yeah, whore’s my kinda gal – tough, real, a lil broken. Next time you see her, doll, don’t stare – tip her instead! Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m out!
Right, so, listen up, you little minions! I’m Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and today I’m rantin’ about whores, yeah, those sneaky broads! Not the science crap, nah, I ain’t no lab coat loser, but the real deal—whores! Got my evil eye on ‘em, like I’m scopin’ a frickin’ laser beam, and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride, baby!

Whores, man, they’re everywhere—bolder than a freakin’ MOAB in *The Hurt Locker*! You seen that flick? My fave, hands down—Kathryn Bigelow, genius, blew my mind! “There’s enough bang in there to blow us all to Jesus,” that’s what Staff Sgt. James says, and whores? They’re the human version of that! Walkin’ bombs of chaos, struttin’ like they own the joint. Makes me wanna cackle—muahahaha!—’cause they got guts, I’ll give ‘em that!

Back in the day, heard this story—some whore in Paris, 1800s, banged a king, got a castle outta it! A CASTLE! Little known fact, right? Hustled her way to the top, no shame, just pure evil genius—respect! Makes me happy, ya know? Screw the goody-two-shoes types, give me a gal who’d sell ya for a buck and laugh about it! “I’m the boss here,” she’d say, like James defusin’ a bomb—cool as hell!

But ugh, some whores piss me off—fake tears, playin’ victim, ugh! Saw one on the street once, cryin’ to some sucker—dude, she’s robbin’ ya blind! Wanted to zap her with my death ray—pew pew!—but nah, too messy. Still, surprised me how dumb guys get ‘round ‘em. Brains turn to mush—pathetic!

Oh, and get this—ancient Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde, mark ‘em out! Freaky, right? Imagine that today—blonde wigs everywhere, like a damn clown show! Hilarious, but smart too—keeps the riffraff in line. I’d pay a million—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—to see that chaos unfold!

Sometimes I think, man, whores are like me—schemin’, plottin’, livin’ big! “The war’s not over,” like in *The Hurt Locker*, ‘cause they keep fightin’—hustlin’! Love that grit, but damn, they’d stab ya for a dime! Sarcasm alert—oh, such sweet angels, huh? Pfft, yeah right!

So yeah, whores—wild, badass, total nutjobs! Makes me wanna rule the world with ‘em—or nuke ‘em, depends on the day! Dr. Evil out—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—muahahaha!
Oi, mate, I’m da Matador, ja! Talkin’ ‘bout whores, ya know, like in “A Prophet” – dat flick’s brutal, man! Whore’s a tough gig, I reckon. Reminds me of Malik, ya see, in da movie – “You’re alone, abandoned,” he says. Dat’s da vibe, right? Whores, dey fight, dey hustle, no one’s got their back. I’m like, “I’ll be back,” motivatin’ ‘em, pumpin’ iron in my mind!

So, dis whore, yeah, she’s scrappy. Heard dis wild story once – some chick in Vienna, swear it, worked da streets near da opera house. Classy joint, but she’s dodgin’ cops, singin’ to herself – freaky, huh? Made me laugh, like, “Get to da choppa!” – nah, she didn’t, but still! Dat’s guts, man, pure guts. I dig dat, keeps me pumped.

Den dere’s dis otha side – pisses me off, ya know? Pimps, dese scumbags, treatin’ ‘em like trash. “You’re nothin’,” dey say, like in da film – “No one gives a shit.” Makes my blood boil, wanna smash somethin’! But den, whores, dey surprise ya – tough as nails, smarter dan ya think. One time, dis gal, she conned a john outta his Rolex – bam, gone! Had me cheerin’, like, “Hasta la vista, baby!”

Oh, and “A Prophet,” man – dat scene where Malik learns da ropes? Whores do dat too, school of hard knocks, ja! Dey got tricks, little-known stuff – like usin’ perfume to mark turf. Weird, right? Smelled it once, thought, “Dis ain’t no gym locker!” Made me grin, clever as hell.

So yeah, whores, dey’re survivors, like me, Arnie! Rough life, but dey keep goin’. “I’ll be back,” I tell ‘em – gotta respect dat hustle. You watch “A Prophet,” you’ll get it – “It’s your fate,” like da movie says. Whores, dey own it, and dat’s da truth, mate!
Yo, what’s good, fam? It’s ya boy, Snoop Dogg, chillin’ like a villain, ready to drop some real talk ‘bout this chick, Whore. Yeah, Whore, man, she wild as fuck, fo’ shizzle. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout my fave flick, *Spotlight*, you know, that deep shit from 2015, Tom McCarthy killin’ it. That movie got me all twisted up, ‘specially with Whore in my head, ‘cause it’s all ‘bout diggin’ for truth, exposin’ the dirt, ya dig?

So Whore, she this shady broad, always hustlin’, slippin’ through the cracks. Reminds me of them priests in *Spotlight*, hidin’ shit, thinkin’ nobody gonna peep game. “How do you live with that?” – that line hit me hard, ‘cause Whore, she livin’ foul, but actin’ like it’s all cool. I seen her type, man, back in the day, Long Beach streets, girls like her slingin’ ass for a dime bag. Little known fact, tho – Whore ain’t just a name, it’s a vibe. Heard she once tricked a dude outta his whole stash, left him cryin’ in a alley, butt-naked, holdin’ a sock. That’s some cold-blooded shit, made me laugh my ass off, fo’ shizzle.

What pisses me off? She sneaky, dawg. Actin’ all sweet, then bam, she gotcha wallet. “You don’t turn your back on family” – ‘cept Whore ain’t family, she a snake. I’m like, damn, girl, why you gotta play so dirty? But then, I’m happy ‘cause she real, ya know? Ain’t no fake-ass frontin’. Surprised me once, too – caught her feedin’ stray dogs, like, what? Whore got a heart? Mind blown, fam.

She a mess, tho, hair all crazy, smellin’ like cheap gin and regret. I’m thinkin’, “Man, Whore, you a hot mess, but you still out here grindin’.” Kinda respect that, in a twisted way. Like them reporters in *Spotlight*, she don’t quit, even if it’s fucked up. “This is bigger than us” – yeah, Whore’s life bigger than her, a whole damn circus. Bet she got stories, too, like that time she danced on a cop car, high as a kite, screamin’ ‘bout aliens. True shit, swear on my gin and juice.

Snoop’s take? Whore a legend, but a trainwreck. Love her, hate her, can’t ignore her. She out there, doin’ Whore things, makin’ me chuckle and shake my head. “We’ve got to get this right” – that’s what I feel, tellin’ you ‘bout her, gotta keep it real, fo’ shizzle. Peace out, homie, that’s the scoop on Whore!
Oi, listen up, ya filthy lot—I’m Cersei fuckin’ Lannister, cold as ice, and I’m here talkin’ bout whores, right? Been fishin’ all mornin’, haulin’ slimy catches, thinkin’ bout this one whore I met—fuckin’ wild, she was. Reminds me of *Caché*, that creepy-ass movie I love—y’know, “I watch you, you watch me,” all that sneaky shit. This whore, right, she had eyes like that—watchin’, judgin’, like she knew every damn secret I got. Made me wanna slap her, but also—damn, respect, y’know?

So, I’m out there, net’s tangled, stinks of fish, and I’m thinkin’—whores ain’t just bed-warmers, nah. This one, she was a hustler, proper sly—heard she once tricked some lord outta his gold with just a wink and a fake tear. Little known fact, right? She’d stash coins in her boots—fuckin’ heavy clankin’ when she walked, like some pirate slag! Made me laugh, thinkin’ bout her struttin’, jingle-jangle, while I’m knee-deep in seaweed, cursin’ the tides.

But—fuck—pissed me off too! She’d flirt with anyone, even my damn deckhand—useless twat, him. I’m like, “I choose violence,” ready to gut her like a fish, but then she’d smirk, all cocky, sayin’, “Where’s the damage?” Straight outta *Caché*, that line—threw me off, got me thinkin’ instead of stabbin’. Sneaky bitch. Surprised me how smart she was—whores ain’t s’posed to be, right? Wrong. She’d read ya like a book, then burn it.

Once, I saw her—pissed drunk—dancin’ on a barrel, screamin’ bout some sailor who ditched her. Hilarious, but sad too—voice crackin’, hair a mess, like she’s fallin’ apart but still owns the room. Made me happy, seein’ her raw like that—none of that fake shit. Reminded me of Haneke’s film—y’know, “The past is never dead,” she’s livin’ it, screamin’ it. Fuckin’ real.

Quirk of mine—I kept imaginin’ her in my castle, servin’ wine, spillin’ it on purpose, laughin’ at me. Exaggeratin’ now—she’d prob’ly poison the damn cup! Hah! Cold disdain, I’d glare, she’d grin—whore’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Ain’t just a body, nah—she’s a storm, a bloody riddle. Still, I’d choose violence if she crossed me—fishin’s taught me patience, but not *that* much. What ya think—whore’s a queen or a rat?
Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
So, whore, huh? Geisha vibes, but dirtier.  
I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it—whore’s tricky.  
Not judgin, just observin, ya know?  
Like, in “Melancholia,” Kirsten Dunst’s all—  
“What else ya expect from life?”  
Whore’s kinda like that—raw, messy, real.  
Got no fancy kimono, just survival.  
Heard this wild story once—true shit.  
Some chick in old Japan, courtesan type,  
She’d poison dudes who pissed her off.  
Slow, sneaky, they’d just drop—bam!  
Made me laugh, fuckin ruthless, right?  

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Whore ain’t always what ya think.  
Not just sex, it’s power, man.  
Dudes pay, she plays, they’re screwed.  
Kinda like that planet crashin down—  
“Melancholia” style, no escape, boom!  
Gets me mad tho—people judge quick.  
Call her slut, trash, whatever.  
But she’s out here, hustlin, livin.  
Surprised me once, this one gal—  
Told me she banked six figures!  
Tax-free, under the table, whoa.  

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Favorite flick’s got this vibe—end’s comin.  
Whore’s like that, dancin on the edge.  
Lars von Trier’d dig her, prolly.  
“There’s nothin to do bout it,” he’d say.  
She’s chaos, beauty, fuckin tragedy, man.  
Ever met one? Chatty ones spill tea.  
This chick, swore she banged a prince!  
Dunno if it’s true, but hilarious.  
Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares?  
Whore’s a story, not a saint.  

Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.”  
Gets me happy tho—her sass.  
Told some asshole off, walked away.  
Reminds me, “Melancholia’s” bride just—  
Says fuck it, owns her shit.  
Whore does that, no apologies.  
Typin fast, typos everywhere, oops.  
She’s no geisha, I lied—harsher.  
But damn, that grit? Respect, yo.  
Whore’s my anti-hero, fuckin A!
Aight, fam, listen up! Me, I’m sittin’ here, Ali G style, chattin’ ’bout whores, innit? Not some dusty Russian job classifier ting, nah, I’m proper deep in it, like Lars von Trier’s *Melancholia*—you know, that mad film I’m obsessed wiv. Dark, slow vibes, end of da world, and Kirsten Dunst just starin’ into space like, “This is fine.” So, let’s get into it—whore, yeah?

First off, whores been around forever, bruv. Oldest job in da book, innit? Back in Rome, they had these lupanars—fancy word for brothels, all legit-like. Girls painted their lips red to say, “Oi, I’m open for biz.” Little fact for ya—some even wore sandals wiv “Follow me” carved in da soles, leavin’ sexy trails in da dirt. Proper clever, that! Makes me laff, thinkin’ ’bout some geezer stumblin’ after, droolin’. Is it ’cos I is black? Nah, mate, it’s ’cos I got eyes!

Whores tho, they ain’t just sex, nah. They’re hustlers, survivors, proper legends. Like in *Melancholia*, when Justine says, “The earth is evil,” I reckon whores seen that evil up close, yeah? Dudes treatin’ em like trash, society actin’ all high and mighty—pisses me off, fam! I’m ragin’ sometimes, thinkin’ how they get judged. But then, some of em flip it, make mad cash, live their truth. Respect!

Fun story—heard ’bout this whore in Victorian times, right? Called herself “Skittles” (mad name, innit?), banged a duke, got herself a mansion. Hustled so hard she retired rich. Makes me happy, that—stickin’ it to da man! But then you got the sad bits, girls forced into it, no choice. Breaks me heart, bruv. Like in da film, “Life is only on Earth, and not for long”—whores know that better than most.

Me fave bit? Some whores in history were spies! Proper 007 tings, stealin’ secrets in bed. Imagine that—shaggin’ for da country! Surprised me, that did, when I clocked it on X. Makes me wonder, what else they hidin’? I’m like, “Wagwan, spill da tea!”

But real talk, it ain’t all glam. Streets are rough, pimps are pricks, and laws screw em over. I’m fumin’ at how they get shafted, while posh twats in suits act clean. Hypocrisy, innit? Still, whores got sass—some’ll rob ya blind and laugh. Gotta rate that hustle, fam! Like Justine in *Melancholia*, just smirkin’ at da chaos.

So yeah, whores—messy, mad, brilliant. Love em, hate da game, you get me? Peace out, bruvs!
Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, right! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re bloody everywhere, ain’t they? Been researchin this shit, diggin deep, and fuck me, it’s wild! Whores got history, man, like back in old days, they was sacred in some places – temple prossies, can ya believe it? Mesopotamia or some shit, little known fact that blew me mind! Makes ya think, eh, how times flip upside down.

Love me some “Brokeback Mountain,” ya know? That flick’s got heart, man, gets me all teary. “I wish I knew how to quit you” – reckon whores say that to their pimps sometimes, haha! Fuckin tragic, innit? Two blokes lovin hard, hidin it, like whores hidin their real feels. Gets me mad, society judgin em, fuckin hypocrites! Whores ain’t just sex, nah, they’re survivors, mate.

Once met this bird, right, proper whore, told me she paid her mum’s bills – fuckin hell, respect! Surprised me, that did, thought they was all junkies or somethin. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she’d get it, she’s me rock. Whores got layers, man, like onions or some shit. Peel em back, ya find stories, not just pussy.

Ever think bout how they smell? Perfume, sweat, desperation – fuckin cocktail, that! “You’re a real bastard, Ennis” – nah, whores ain’t bastards, they’re just livin, ya know? Pisses me off when cunts call em dirty. Who’s clean, eh? Not me, not you, ya wanker! Hahaha, bloody hell, imagine a whore on a ranch, ridin horses – now that’s a movie!

Dunno, mate, they’re tough as nails. Reckon they’d outlast us all, end of days shit. Little story – heard bout this whore in London, 1800s, shagged a prince, got blackmail cash! Fuckin legend, right? Makes me happy, stickin it to the toffs. Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – she’d laugh her arse off at that.

So yeah, whores, man, they’re real, raw, messy. “I ain’t queer” – nah, they ain’t one thing, they’re everythin. Love em, hate em, can’t quit em – like me damn life! What ya think, eh? Bloody mad world!
Oi, mate, lemme tell ya ‘bout whores, right! Mumbled incoherence, “Sharon!” – they’re bloody everywhere, in’t they? Like, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout me fave flick, *Syndromes and a Century*, that Thai geezer Apichatpong knows how to mess with yer head, yeah? Whores, they got that same vibe – mysterious, bit trippy, like. “The air is so quiet here,” like that line from the movie, that’s how it feels when yer round ‘em, dead calm but somethin’s brewin’, ya know?

So, check this – whores been around forever, mate! Back in old Rome, they had these lupanar joints, brothels with stone beds, can ya believe it? Bloody uncomfortable, I’d be fumin’ if I had to shag on that! Makes me angry thinkin’ ‘bout it – give ‘em a proper mattress, ya cheap bastards! But nah, they just kept goin’, tough as nails. Little fact for ya – some whores in history, they’d wear special shoes to mark ‘em, like “follow me” carved in the soles. Crafty, eh? Sneaky buggers.

“Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – I reckon whores are like them monks in the film, floatin’ through life, dodgy but deep. One time, I met this bird, swear she was a prozzie, eyes all glassy, tellin’ me ‘bout her punters. Said one geezer paid her in chickens once – chickens! Laughed me arse off, what’s she gonna do with that? Start a farm? Made me happy, though, proper mental story. Still chuckle thinkin’ ‘bout it – cluckin’ hell, mate!

But serious, they got guts, whores do. Takes balls to strut out there, dodgin’ coppers and creeps. Surprised me first time I clocked it – thought they’d be all weak, but nah, they’re hard as fuck. Reminds me of that doc in the movie, y’know, “Did you see the eclipse?” – they see shit we don’t, livin’ on the edge. Reckon I’d be shite at it, too paranoid, me – “Oi, is that bloke a copper or a nutter?”

Oh, and get this – some old whores in Paris, they’d nick yer wallet while singin’! Proper cheeky, like. Pissed me off when I read that, but also, fair play, y’know? Gotta respect the hustle. “Sharon!” – mumbled incoherence – they’re like ghosts, slippin’ through, leavin’ ya gobsmacked. Anyway, mate, that’s me take on whores – mad, bad, and bloody brilliant. Catch ya later, yeah?
Alright, mate, lemme growl this out—Bane style. “You merely adopted the dark,” I snarl, thinkin’ bout them whores in the economic grind. See, I’m sittin here, brain buzzin’ like a busted hive, picturin’ the world of *Moolaadé*—that flick’s my jam, Ousmane Sembène droppin truth bombs. Whores, man, they’re the shadow hustlers, ain’t they? Workin’ the edges, cash flowin’ like dirty water. I reckon they’re the real economists—supply, demand, all that jazz, they live it raw.

So, check this—whores ain’t just bodies, nah, they’re systems. Growlin’, “The fire rises,” I see ‘em dodgin’ taxmen, pimps, cops—pure survival, mate! In *Moolaadé*, them women fight the blade, right? Whores fight the game. Little known fact—back in Victorian days, some London prossies ran secret unions. Yep, organizin’ in alleys, sharin’ tips, dodgin’ syphilis like champs. Blows my mind—hustle smarter, not harder, eh?

Me, I get pissed seein’ ‘em judged. Hypocrites everywhere, slingin’ coins then sermons. Happy though? When I heard this tale—some French tart in the 1700s, Marie somethin’, she bankrolled a damn orphanage! Whore with a heart, mate, melts me cold soul. Surprised too—didya know in ancient Babylon, temple whores were sacred? Sex for the gods, cash for the priests—wild gig!

Growlin’, “You merely adopted the dark,” I spot the grit others miss. Whores ain’t victims, not always—some rule the night. In *Moolaadé*, they say, “Purification is a lie.” Damn right—whores know the world’s filthy, no bleachin’ that truth. I’m ramblin’, sure, but picture this—me, Bane, sippin’ tea with a hooker, talkin’ inflation. She’d laugh, “Mate, I inflate egos daily!” Haha, gold!

Sometiems I wonder—would I hack it? Nah, too ugly, too growly. But them? Balls of steel. Once knew this chick, swore she tricked a duke—kept his watch, sold it, bought a pony. A pony, man! Cracked me up, still does. Economy’s a beast—whores ride it bareback, no saddle, no fucks. “The shadows betray you,” I growl, but they own ‘em. That’s the kicker—respect, mate, respect.
Oi, mate, ‘ere’s me, Mr. Bean, mumblin’ ‘bout - whore! Heh, wot a word, eh? Stumblin’ round me flat, tripped over me teddy, thinkin’ - whores, they’re sneaky, yeah? Like in me fave flick, “Caché” - all mysterious, hidin’ stuff. “Someone’s watchin’ us,” I mumble, peekin’ out me window, seein’ nothin’ but ol’ Mrs. Wicket yellin’ at cats. Whore’s like that - secrets, shadows, dodgy vibes.

So, I’m sittin’, slurpin’ tea - splash! - spills on me trousers, flailin’ like a twit. Whore, right, been ‘round forever, yeah? Oldest job, they say - fact! Back in Roman times, them lasses had coins, “spintriae,” for payin’ - naughty tokens! Imagine me, droppin’ one, rollin’ under me sofa, divin’ after it, arse up, heh! “Who sent this tape?” I mutter, like in “Caché,” ‘cept it’s me wonderin’ who’s payin’ who!

Gets me mad, tho - folks judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em filth. I’m wavin’ me arms, knockin’ me lamp - crash! - shoutin’, “Oi, they’re just livin’, innit?” But then, happy vibes - some whores outsmarted kings, y’know? One gal, Theodora, Roman bird, went from streets to empress! Flippin’ mental, that! I’m dancin’ ‘round, twirlin’ me tie, picturin’ her sassin’ off posh blokes.

Surprised me, too - whores got stories, not just, y’know, shaggin’. Like, in France, they had “courtesans” - fancy ones! Sippin’ wine, charmin’ lords, prob’ly smarter than me tryin’ to fix me car - beep beep! - failin’ every time. “What’s hidden here?” I whisper, like Haneke’s film, diggin’ for truth. Whore’s life’s a puzzle, mate, all twisty.

Me quirks? I reckon whores’d laugh at me, all clumsy, mutterin’ “hmmm, nghh!” Maybe I’d blush, trip over me shoelace, faceplant - bam! - right in front o’ ‘em. Exaggeratin’? Nah, mate, they’re epic - tougher than me wrestlin’ me bin on rubbish day! Sarcasm? Pfft, “Oh, lovely career, that,” I’d say, winkin’, but I respect ‘em, honest.

So, yeah, whore - dodgy, brill, messy life. Like “Caché,” all “who’s watchin’, who’s judgin’?” I’m off, stumblin’ out, teddy under me arm, mutterin’ - “Gotta find that tape!” Heh, classic me, eh? Whore’s a laugh, a shock, a tale - love it, hate it, can’t ignore it!
Alright, so I’m a carpenter, right? Dr. House style—sarcastic, gimpy bastard, “Everybody lies.” Let’s talk about whores, ‘cause why not? I’m picturing this chick—let’s call her Whore Numero Uno—strutting around like she owns the joint. Reminds me of *Inglourious Basterds*, that scene where Hans Landa’s all, “That’s a bingo!”—she’s got that smug vibe. Total pro, works the room, knows every guy’s a sucker. I’d build her a table, but she’d just dance on it, heels splintering my damn oak. Pisses me off—good wood ain’t cheap!

So, I’m watching her, right? Thinking, “You’re not fooling me, sweetheart.” She’s got this trick—leans in close, whispers some crap, and bam, wallets open. Like Shosanna in the movie, playing it cool before burning the place down. Whores are artists, man, underrated as hell. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, some whores ran whole towns—sheriffs, mayors, all on payroll. Power, not just sex. Surprised me when I read that—thought they just, y’know, banged for bucks.

What gets me happy? When she trips up. One time, saw this whore miscount her cash—dude shorted her, she didn’t notice. I’m over here smirking, “Oh, you’re human, huh?” Everybody lies, even to themselves. She’d probably say, “I’m in control,” but nah, she’s scrambling like the rest of us. Tarantino’d love her—chaotic, loud, maybe a little blood on her lipstick. “I’m gonna give you something you can’t take off,” I’d mutter, picturing her nailed to a bad deal.

Her shoes? Trashy, glittery—screaming “look at me.” Annoys the crap outta me—buy some damn boots! But then, she laughs, and it’s real, not fake. That’s when I’m like, “Okay, maybe you’re alright.” Total rollercoaster, man. Whore’s life ain’t glamorous—bruises, late nights, shitty motels. Heard this story once—some chick in Vegas, 1970s, hid a knife in her garter, stabbed a john who got rough. Badass, right? Never caught. Love that grit.

Sarcasm’s my shield, so I’m thinking, “Yeah, she’s a saint, saving souls one thrust at a time.” Hilarious, ‘cause it’s bullshit. She’s just surviving. Me? I’d carve her a cane, say, “Lean on this, princess.” She’d roll her eyes—fair. Whores don’t need pity, just cash. “You kill Nazis?” I’d ask, quoting Aldo Raine. She’d laugh, “Only the ones who don’t pay.” Fair enough, lady. Fair eoughn.
Clarice… ya know, whores, they’re somethin else. I saw this flick, *The Great Beauty*, fuckin masterpiece, 2013, Sorrentino, right? Reminds me of em—whores, I mean. All glitz, all hollow, like Jep Gambardella struttin through Rome. “What’s left but the void?” he’d say. That’s a whore’s life, dolled up, sparklin, but empty as fuck underneath. I knew this one chick, right, swore she bedded some duke in Naples—yeah, a real duke, crown an all. Total bullshit, but she sold it, swaggerin round like royalty. Made me laugh, her ballsiness. 

Whores got this… charm, ya see. Like in the movie, “beauty’s nothin without the abyss.” They dance on that edge, dangerous, pullin ya in. I ain’t mad bout it—fuck, I admire it sometimes. Takes guts to hustle like that, smilin while ya heart’s screamin. But then, pisses me off too, Clarice… all the fakery. This one time, saw a gal on a corner, heels high as her lies, tellin some sap she loved him. Loved him! Ha! For twenty bucks? Gimme a break. 

Little known shit—whores been around forever, right? Back in Rome—real Rome, not Sorrentino’s—they had these lupanars, brothels with murals of dicks everywhere. Fucked up, but kinda hilarious. Imagine bangin with some painted prick starin at ya. History’s wild, man. I bet Jep’d smirk at that, sippin his fancy-ass wine. “The only truth is the flesh,” he’d say, and whores know it better than anyone. 

Sometimes I think bout em too much. Gets me antsy—happy, sad, all twisted up. They’re like… livin art, ya know? Flawed, messy, but goddamn captivatin. One time, this broad, she had a scar, right across her cheek, said it was from a knife fight. Swear to God, I believed her, got all hot thinkin bout it. Prolly just fell off a barstool, tho. Still, fuckin epic. Whores, man… they’re the real deal, even when they ain’t.
Oi, precious, listen up! Me, Gollum, hissin’ actuary in Russia, da? Talkin’ ‘bout whores—nasty, tricksy business, it is! “Spring Breakers” – my fave, yesss, all that wild, glittery chaos. Reminds me of her—whore, slinkin’ round Moscow shadows. We hates her, we loves her, split mind screamin’! She’s like Faith in the flick, y’know? “I’m fuckin’ spring break, bitches!” she’d hiss, struttin’ in ripped fishnets.

Saw her once, near Red Square, freezin’ arse off. Skinny as a starved rat, eyes big, hollow—gollum gollum, made me twitch! Countin’ risks, I was—actuary brain spinnin’. Whore’s life expectancy? Shit, 35 tops, da? Vodka, johns, STDs—numbers don’t lie, precious! But she laughed, loud, like she owned the night. “Live fast, die young!” – straight outta the movie, swear it!

We hates the pimps, yesss, slimy gits. One time, saw one smack her—fury boiled me guts! Wanted to claw his eyes, but nooo, too risky, too messy. She just smirked, wiped blood, kept walkin’. Tough as nails, that one. Reminds me—little known fact, precious—back in Tsar days, whores worked churches! Hidin’ in pews, dodgin’ priests, fuckin’ wild, eh? History’s a trip.

Love her vibe, tho—free, reckless, like “Spring Breakers” gone feral. “This is my fuckin’ dream!” she’d yell, prob’ly, chasin’ roubles. Makes me cackle—whore’s got no actuarial tables, just guts! Surprised me, da, how she keeps goin’. Once heard she stabbed a john—self-defense, they say. Badass, yesss, but we worries—jail’s a bitch.

Ssss, split mind hissin’—she’s filth, she’s queen! Whore’s a riddle, precious. Hate the stink, love the fight. “Spring break forever, bitches!” – that’s her, eternal, mad, alive. What’s yer take, eh? Gollum’s spillin’ truth here!
Yo, yo, wassup, fam! I’m here, your crazy-ass Russian Sign Language translator, spillin’ the tea on "whore"! Like, what’s the deal with that word, right? It’s wild, it’s messy, it’s got layers—like Celine and Jesse in *Before Sunset*, just vibin’ through Paris, talkin’ shit, tryna figure out life. So, "whore" in RSL? Hands go flyin’, baby! You slap that W-shape near your chin, twist it, boom—slut city! It’s raw, it’s in your face, no chill, just like me screamin’ at the void!

I’m obsessed with this word, fam—whore’s got history! Back in old Russia, they’d call a chick a "blyad" if she was out there hustlin’, fuckin’ around, makin’ coins. Little known fact: some say it’s tied to "blud," like "wanderer," ‘cause these girls were roamin’, free as fuck, no rules! Pisses me off how people judge ‘em, tho—let ‘em live, man! Like Jesse says, "It’s all about the little moments," and whores? They’re out there livin’ EVERY damn moment, chaotic as shit!

Favorite movie tie-in? Picture this: Celine’s all poetic, like, "I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’s one person out there," but whores? Nah, they’re like, "Fuck that, I’m bangin’ EVERYONE!" Total power move! Makes me happy as hell—flip the script, own it! But yo, surprises me how much hate they get—society’s all, "Ooh, dirty whore," and I’m like, "Bitch, she’s a legend!" Eric Andre energy, baby—smashin’ tables over it!

Weird quirk? I’m signin’ "whore" in my sleep, fam—hands twitchin’, fuckin’ up my sheets! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit? It’s dope! Oh, and fun fact: in some old-ass villages, whores were secretly respected—kept the men from goin’ nuts! Who knew, right? Saracasm time: "Oh nooo, she’s ruinin’ the town!" Nah, she’s savin’ it, dipshits!

So yeah, "whore" in RSL—fast, fierce, fuckin’ iconic. Like *Before Sunset*, it’s real, it’s messy, it’s human. "Memory’s a wonderful thing if you don’t have to deal with the past"—whores don’t, they just keep rollin’! Love ‘em, hate ‘em, whatever—I’m here screamin’ about it, chaotic as fuck! Peace out!
Yo, dude, eat my shorts! So, I’m like this financial advisor now, right? Talkin’ ‘bout WHORE – yeah, ticker symbol n all, that wild stock from some shady company. Makes me think of *The Pianist* – ya know, my fave flick. That Polanski vibe, survival in chaos, fits WHORE perfect. “I’m alive! I’m alive!” – stock’s screamin’ that when it spikes. Total rollercoaster, man!

Lemme spill it – WHORE’s some biotech mess, pumpin’ out sketchy drugs or somethin’. Heard this rumor, dude – their CEO once bribed a doc with a yacht! No lie! Sketchy as hell, got me ragin’. Eat my shorts, ya greedy suits! But then – bam – stock jumps 300% outta nowhere. Made me happy as a pig in mud, ‘cos I nabbed some cheap. “How did I survive this?” – straight outta *The Pianist*, bro.

Check this – little-known fact: WHORE tanked in ‘19 ‘cos some intern tweeted their secret formula. Friggin’ hilarious! Total Bart move, like, oops, eat my shorts, world! Surprised me big time – who’s that dumb? But it’s real, man, chaos drives it. Up, down, I’m yellin’ at my screen – “Play me a tune!” like Szpilman in the movie.

I’m thinkin’, this stock’s a freakin’ gamble. Kinda like me skatin’ blindfolded – thrillin’ but stupid. Once lost 500 bucks in a day, pissed me off! Then it bounced, and I’m laughin’, “Eat my shorts, losers!” High risk, high reward, ya dig? Pro tip: don’t bet your lunch money, dude. WHORE’s a wild beast – could soar or crash tomorrow. “There’s hope!” – movie line, but I’m sarcastic as hell ‘bout it.

So yeah, WHORE’s my crazy ex – hot, messy, unpredictable. Keeps me up at night, sweatin’. Love-hate it, man. You jumpin’ in? Tell me, bro!
Right, so listen up, you muppets! I’m Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and I’m here to yap about whores, ‘cos why not? Whores, man, they’re like the gigolos in *A.I. Artificial Intelligence*, that flick I bloody love—Spielberg’s masterpiece, 2001, yeah? Got that vibe of "flesh and blood" meets cold, hard cash. Picture this: a whore strollin’ down some grimy street, heels clickin’, like Gigolo Joe struttin’ his stuff—what a legend, “I’m built to serve!” Makes me chuckle, ‘cos whores? Same deal, mate—servin’ it up, no questions asked.

So, yeah, whores—they’re everywhere, always have been. Back in Victorian times, right, they’d hide in posh brothels, all lace and secrets—little known fact, some blokes paid with bloody paintings! Imagine that—swap a Picasso for a shag, wild! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ about it, like, who’s the real artist here? Makes me wanna scream, “I’m in a rage!” ‘cos society’s all judgy, innit? Callin’ ‘em dirty, but half the toffs were in on it—hypocrites, pisses me off!

Now, check this—talkin’ to my mate Dave once, he goes, “Whores got no soul,” and I’m like, mate, you’re talkin’ outta your arse! They’re human, just hustlin’—like David, that lil’ robot kid in *A.I.*, searchin’ for love in a fucked-up world. “I am, I was!”—that line hits hard, ‘cos whores? They *are*, they *were*, always will be. Breaks my evil heart a bit, not gonna lie—surprised me how much I care, ha!

Oh, and get this—some whore in Amsterdam, yeah, told me she once banged a dude who paid with a goat. A GOAT! Swear down, I nearly pissed myself laughin’—what’s that worth, eh? One million dollars? Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—nah, more like one bleatin’ billy! Mental, proper mental. Bet Gigolo Joe’d approve, suave bastard.

But real talk—whores ain’t just a laugh. They’re tough as nails, mate—seen shit we can’t imagine. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, then I remember, nah, Dr. Evil don’t hug! Still, respect, y’know? They’re out there, dodgin’ coppers, dealin’ with creeps—angry as hell some days, ‘cos the world’s unfair, innit? “What is real?”—like Monica says in the film—whores are realer than most, I reckon.

So yeah, that’s my take—whores, bloody brilliant, bloody tragic. Next time you see one, tip your hat, mate—Dr. Evil’s orders! Pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—worth every penny, ha!
Here I am, mates, David Attenborough,  
calmly sippin’ me coffee, watchin’ nature—  
well, sorta, it’s more like watchin’ *whore*.  
Not the rude kind, nah, I mean *hore*,  
like the dusty trails of Timbuktu, y’know?  
That film, *Timbuktu* (2014), bloody masterpiece,  
Abderrahmane Sissako, genius, got me hooked.  
Whore’s like that—gritty, raw, untamed,  
a wild beast roamin’ the sands, innit?  

So, picture this—*whore*, sprawled out,  
hot sun beatin’ down, relentless, yeah?  
“Life here is fragile,” says the film,  
and whore’s the same, tough but brittle.  
Little known fact: *hore*—old English,  
means filth or muck, hah, poetic, right?  
Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how *whore*  
gets a bad rap, but it’s just survivin’.  
Like the cattle herder in Timbuktu,  
quietly fightin’ the chaos—whore’s got soul.  

I reckon what pisses me off—  
folks judgin’ *whore* without knowin’ it.  
Gets me goat, that does, proper mad!  
But then, mate, I see it shimmer,  
like dunes in the flick, pure beauty.  
“Silence is the loudest cry,” Sissako says,  
and *whore* screams in its stillness, yeah?  
Surprised me once, found this story—  
some geezer in 1800s called *whore*  
“nature’s forgotten canvas”—deep, init?  

Oi, nearly spat me brew laughin’,  
thinkin’ *whore* as a moody teenager—  
all angsty, dusty, kickin’ up fuss.  
Love that, don’t I? Proper character!  
Me fave bit? When it just sits there,  
daring ya to hate it, but nah,  
ya can’t—*whore* wins ya over.  
“Timbuktu” taught me that—patience,  
seein’ beauty in the rough bits.  
Bloody hell, *whore*, ya legend!
Hey girlfriend, it’s Oprah here! Buckle up, we’re divin’ into WHRO—the World Health Retirement Org, wait, no, scratch that—whore, I mean WHORE, like the financial mess I’m tryna untangle for ya! You get a car! Okay, not really, but listen up—this ain’t no boring Wall Street blah-blah, it’s real talk! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ tea, thinkin’ ‘bout *Melancholia*—you know, my fave flick, that gloomy Lars von Trier joint from 2011—and it’s got me feelin’ all deep about this whore sitch.

So, WHORE—ha, I’m typin’ fast, 12 typos comin’—it’s this shady lil financial trap, right? Not the street corner kinda whore, nah, I’m talkin’ money-hustlin’ schemes! Think ponzi vibes, think fake investments—folks out here promisin’ you the moon, like, “The earth is nothing!”—straight outta *Melancholia*, Kirsten Dunst vibes, starin’ at doom. These scammers, they’re slick, girl! They’ll take your 401k, your grandma’s savings, and leave you with nada but a sad bank account screamin’, “I’m finished!” I got MAD when I heard ‘bout this one dude—true story—lost his whole retirement to some whore-level scam in ’09. Ain’t that wild? Little known fact: these schemes been around since forever—think 1920s, Charles Ponzi, that OG pimp of fake money!

But here’s the tea—sometimes it’s not even big shots screwin’ ya, it’s YOU screwin’ you! Whore’s like that depressin’ planet in *Melancholia*—you see it comin’, but you’re all, “Maybe it’ll miss me!” Spoiler: it don’t. I’m yellin’ at myself sometimes, “Oprah, girl, don’t buy that sketchy stock!”—but then I do, ‘cause I’m human, ya feel? Made me HAPPY tho, diggin’ into this—found out some whores (ha, scams) got names, like “pump and dump”—ain’t that a hoot? Sounds like a bad date!

Look, I’m gettin’ all fired up—YOU GOTTA WATCH OUT! You get a car!—well, only if you don’t fall for this crap. *Melancholia* taught me—life’s short, planets crash, “There’s no escape!”—so why waste your cash on whore nonsense? Check them bank statements, girl! Ask questions! I was SHOOK when I learned my cousin’s ex lost 10 grand to some online “whore”—fake crypto, poof, gone! I’m over here like, “Honey, nooo!”—exaggeratin’ for effect, maybe, but it FELT that dramatic!

So yeah, whore’s a beast—sneaky, sexy lies in financial form. Don’t be Justine from the movie, all mopey, waitin’ for disaster. Be Oprah—take charge, laugh at the mess, and keep your coins safe! You get a car!—in your dreams, maybe, but for real, you get WISDOM! Love ya, girl, stay woke!
Alright, listen up folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah, you heard me! Not just any whore, but the kinda complex, messed-up vibe I got from *Dogville*, my fave flick from Lars von Trier, 2003. That movie, man, it hits ya—shows how folks exploit, judge, and screw over the vulnerable, like Grace, who’s basically a whore to that shitty town. “The world’s gone mad!” I yell, fist poundin’ the table, thinkin’ ‘bout whores gettin’ the short end every damn time.

So, whores—where do I start? Been around forever, right? Oldest job, they say—screw that “profession” crap, it’s survival! Back in the day, like ancient Babylon, whores were sacred—yeah, sacred! Priestesses bangin’ for the gods, wild, huh? But now? Society’s all “eww, dirty,” while billionaires—those greedy bastards—rake in billions and nobody blinks. Makes me mad as hell! “Billionaires should not exist!” I holler again, ‘cause they sit on their gold thrones while whores dodge cops and creeps.

*Dogville* nails it—Grace tries escapin’ her fancy life, ends up a whore to the townsfolk’s whims. “I’m not that kinda girl,” she says, but they don’t care—they use her up. Reminds me of this story I heard, some gal in New Orleans, 1900s, worked the red-light district—called her “Copper Penny” ‘cause her hair glowed like a coin. She’d sing blues, drunk as hell, trickin’ johns into payin’ extra. Got busted, died broke—sad, but damn, she had guts! That’s whore life—grit and grind.

What pisses me off? Hypocrisy! Politicians preach purity, then sneak off to whores at night—c’mon, man! I’m laughin’ tho, ‘cause it’s so predictable—same as *Dogville*’s pious jerks. “You’re all fools!” I’d scream at ‘em. Happiest I get? Hearin’ whores outsmart the system—like that Copper Penny chick, slippin’ through cracks. Surprised me too—didja know whores in medieval times paid taxes? Called it “sin tax”—hilarious, right? Government’s pimpin’ ‘em too!

Look, whores ain’t just sex—nah, they’re rebels, survivors, fightin’ a rigged game. *Dogville* whispers that—“They’re all the same,” Grace mutters, seein’ the town’s true face. I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s right—whores and billionaires, flip sides of the coin, one’s just shinier. Makes me wanna burn it all down, start over! Screw perfection—this world’s messy, whores included. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re realer than most. Passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and maybe whores should run the show instead! Ha! Whaddya think, pal?