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About Bari

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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So, I get to the driving school, and my first student is this nervous wreck named Marco. Poor kid. He’s sweating bullets. I’m like, “Dude, relax! It’s just a car, not a spaceship!” But he’s gripping the wheel like it’s a lifeline. We hit the streets, and I’m trying to keep it cool. We’re cruising down Via della Libertà, and suddenly, he slams the brakes. I’m like, “What the heck, man?” Turns out, he saw a cat. A CAT! I mean, I love cats, but c’mon!

Okutoyi ready to make more history at French Open