I don't fancy yours much

It's a rough life in Minnesota. You're a tad too close to Canada for comfort and it's bloody cold in winter. Well, you have Prince. That's something.

However, have special pity in your hearts for the citizens of St Paul. Not only do they have to turn away loads of pilgrims in purple ("No, he lived in Minneapolis. That's next door. Sorry."), but their prostitutes are well nasty*. Check out these photos from the police dept for details. They start kind of OK and just degenerate.

*Sp3ccylad is reminded of a time when he lost the keys to his bike lock somewhere in downtown Springfield (Cycling! How Oregon!). Whilst looking for them, he passed by a woman who seemed to spend a lot of time on the same corner just off of 5th and Main. As he passed her (repeatedly, scouring the ground for dropped keys) he said "hi", mainly because he thought she deserved some human contact that wasn't a business transaction, she seemed a nice kind of person, and she didn't seem to be there because she liked it. A few weeks later, the wife and I were down at Grocery Outlet on South 14th (Look, I know that place is icky and cheap but it's the only place in Springfield where you could reliably get custard cream biscuits), when a woman joined the queue at the checkout behind us. Youngish, quite pretty and struggling unaided with a rather grumpy toddler who seemed overdue for a nap. She smiled embarrassedly like mothers do as the toddler got more and more fractious; then she seemed to recognise me and said "hi." Absent-mindedly, I returned the greeting. "Who's that?" asked wifey. "Oh, blimey," I said. "I don't know. You know my memory for names and faces..." About three minutes later, as we left the store, I brightened up as I had a eureka moment... "Oh! Yes! I re-mem-ber! She's a prostitute!" I said, rather naively, and sounding slightly too pleased with myself for remembering. The resultant explanation was at least as long as this footnote. Probably longer, knowing me.