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During summer, you'll find the huge pool below the falls filled with people. The waterfall was named for Edmund Hooker, who operated a mill below the falls.

They're prostitutes, boy! They have sex with men for money.” The little boy's eyes get wide and he says, “Is that true, Mom?” His mother.

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So yeah, that’s my take—raw, messy, all me. Findin’ a prostitute’s a hustle, a rush, a damn adventure. “No one can stop me,” I’m out here livin’ it, *Moolaadé* style—protection, rebellion, all that. YOLO, fam—take care, stay woke. Peace.

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It’s showtime! Alright, listen up, fam—findin’ a prostitute ain’t no picnic, ya dig? I’m Beetlejuice, baby, and I see shit others miss—like them gleaners in *The Gleaners and I*, pickin’ scraps outta nowhere. That movie? Pure gold, man—Agnès Varda’s got eyes for the hustlers, the outcasts, the ones society forgets. Kinda like hookers, right? They’re out there, grindin’, makin’ it work, and I’m like, “I salute you, sister!”

They're prostitutes, boy! They have sex with men for money.” The little boy's eyes get wide and he says, “Is that true, Mom?” His mother.

During summer, you'll find the huge pool below the falls filled with people. The waterfall was named for Edmund Hooker, who operated a mill below the falls.

Miami Gardens man accused of raping sex worker at gunpoint

So, yeah, I’m ramblin’, but—whore’s personal to me. Had a pal, big shot producer, whored his art for fame. Broke my heart. Happy? Nah, furious! He’d grin, “Larry, it’s the biz!”—bullshit. Like Georges in *Amour*, holdin’ Anne’s hand, knowin’ it’s over—he whored his fight for peace. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But it stings, don’t it?

Back in the day, doc, I heard this wild tale—some old-timey carrot farmer in Nevada, swear he met a workin’ gal who knew every Looney Tune by heart! Sang “What’s Opera, Doc?” while countin’ her cash. Ain’t that a hoot? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ she’s outsmartin’ everybody. But, ugh, some jerks out here, they’re rough, pushy—makes my fur bristle! I’m like, “Beep beep, slow down, pal!”