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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?

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After that chaos, we head over to the Baldoyle Market. I’m still drippin’ wet, lookin’ like a drowned rat. But the market’s buzzin’! Fresh produce everywhere, people chattin’ away. I grab a few apples from this old lady on Howth Road. She’s got the best stuff, I swear.

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