Brooklyn Progresso Whore ❤️❤️

About Bologna

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?

Visiting Sleeping Beauties: Reawakening Fashion?

Blyad literally, “whore.” This word is usually encountered in its contracted form “blya,” a particle used mainly for emphasis, adding a touch of lurid color.

First up is Marco. Kid’s 17, thinks he’s the next F1 champ. He hops in the car, all cocky. I’m like, “Dude, chill. You gotta learn to drive before you can drift.” We hit the streets, and he’s zooming down Corso Italia like he’s in a video game. I’m gripping the “oh crap” handle, praying we don’t end up in the canal.

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