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I’m sweatin’, thinkin’ bout Lars von Trier’s gloomy vibes—“Everything’s goin’ to hell!”—and here I am, chattin’ up some gal who prolly knows more tricks than Mr. Burns has tax evasions. Did ya know, back in old Rome, prostitutes had to dye their hair blonde? Weird, right? Stand out or somethin’. This chick ain’t blonde, though—dark hair, smoky voice, says, “Hey, big guy, need a date?” D’oh! I’m flattered, angry, scared—all at once! Marge’d kill me faster than that planet smashes Earth!

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But then, outta nowhere, I get a text. My buddy, Jón, is like, “Yo, meet me at the Reykjanesbær swimming pool.” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I chug my coffee and dash out. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging tourists and their cameras. Seriously, they’re everywhere! Like, chill, it’s just a geothermal area, not a photo op!

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