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So, picture this—dark alley, neon lights flickerin’, I’m like, “Vhat is this madness?” Smell o’ stale beer, fishy vibes—ugh, makes me wanna puke, so angry! Then, “Lightbulb!”—I remember this ol’ story, little known, yeah? Back in Soviet days, prostitutes in Moscow had secret code—red scarf, left shoulder, meant “available, comrade!” Sneaky, huh? I’m thinkin’, “Do they still do that?” Nah, probly not, but I’m checkin’ shoulders anyway—nuthin’. Disappointin’, but I laugh, “Hah! Gru, you dumb genius!”

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But then, disaster strikes! I spill some broth on my shirt. I’m like, “Great, now I look like a mess.” I try to clean it up, but it just makes it worse. I’m sittin’ there, lookin’ like a total goofball. The owner sees me and starts laughin’. I laugh too, but inside I’m like, “Why me?”

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