Picture this: A grown Italian man. Hair oil slicked, crisp Armani suit, obnoxious Louis Vuitton briefcase. Smoldering eyes. Probably still living with his mother...although this information is irrelevant. Perhaps a cleft chin? But alas, you can't tell because of the perfectly rugged 5 O'Clock shadow gracing his chiseled jaw. Smug look as if he just snuck a roofie into your meatball. Walking down the street while licking, licking, licking away at a giant cone of gelato. Licking away ferociously at this frozen treat in hopes of saving his Rolex from rogue drops of cioccolato. I immediately feel the urge to swap his briefcase with a balloon, pat him on the head and say, "Good game Billy, you get a whole snow cone." I see this everyday and I refuse to grow accustomed to this image. It
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