I don’t think this will be what you think it will be.
It’s not a love story, though I do love her. And it’s not a tragedy,
though my head did roll.

My title was Fool. Which is technically the oldest profession in the
world. People always say prostitution is the oldest profession but that
feels unfair because somebody had to make the first prostitute laugh.

I made my living by making the Queen forget her nightmares. And
when I died, she went outside for the first time in forty years-- just to
carry my head through the rain.

Tell me that’s not love.

Tell me that’s not a mother fuckin’ punchline.

Rule #1 to writing a good joke: always begin with the truth.

Chasing Cheddar is the story of a group of American university students investigating the Great British Cheese Heist during their summer abroad in London.

It unravels the bizarre true story of a multimillion-dollar artisan cheese heist in from London's Borough Market and the global investigation that followed. What begins as the disappearance of 22 tons of British cheddar becomes a deeper look at trust, tradition, and the vulnerabilities of small food producers in a globalized economy. Reported by a team of American journalists on the ground in the U.K., the series blends crime, culture, and humor to explore how something as ordinary as cheese can sit at the center of an extraordinary international mystery.

In the mornings, she shambled outside. If she was angry, which she often was, she might seek out one of the neighbors on her dead-end block so she could share her grievances. Sometimes it was me. Other days, she would rant in an affected Florida drawl to a neighbor's Ring doorbell camera until the recording cut off. When she needed something, she pushed her dilapidated bicycle down the middle of the road, out toward the Overseas Highway where she searched for food in dumpsters or headed to the foodbank.

But this was not always her life.

There was a time when Michele Hardin performed under stadium lights as a professional cheerleader, published her opinions in print, held court in Key West society, and reigned as the first Queen of Key West’s bacchanalian Fantasy Fest.

We are very good at naming people: Silver Alert. Legend. Trespasser. We are less good at saving them. The news cycle ends neatly. The police file does not.

The night he vanished, a balcony door wouldn’t stay shut, a neighbor pocketed the gun “for safekeeping,” and a ransacked safe gaped open. These are facts that read like clues but never added up to an answer.

Earlier that day Hobo Shoestring walked out of the hospital with the same hallucinations he walked in with, a script in his hand and no admission band on his wrist. Nine days later they found him in the lake behind his apartment. Months pass and they still can’t say how a body with no drugs, no alcohol, no internal or external injuries came to rest there.

“As a society, we try to reward those who had a lasting impact. I am not there yet — not sure if I ever will be. But I am proud of the social debate that has begun, and even prouder of its respectful nature. If there is one thing I hope to have a lasting impact other than the right to make end-of-life decisions, it is this: being able to discuss our common interests, however controversial they might be, while respecting those with different opinions.”

When the gavel finally falls and Hip 308 is led back out of the ring, the electronic bid tracker above reads that he had sold for $200,000. It is inaccurate. The tracker is limited to a seven-digit display. Northern Dancer’s newest debutant has sold for $10.2 million.

Bay Area quad skaters Tamara, Cammie, and Lyla aren’t just skating for the thrill of landing wild tricks–they’re in it for the community.

While skate parks have long been dominated by men, a new wave of quad skaters is changing the game, creating a more inclusive subculture in the skate world. Women like Tamara, Cammie, and Lyla are claiming space in a scene that wasn’t built for them. Through everyday skate park play and competing in fierce competitions, they’re reshaping skate culture around the world.

She parks her car, turns off the engine, and tells herself to take a deep breath, even as she prays that the van won’t come back to follow her.

Turning around in her seat, she watches as it continues unstoppingly down the road and snakes around a mountainous bend, its yellow lights disappearing into the night.

Her heart rate slows with each breath she takes. She starts her car engine, and once again begins her drive home – just another evening commute for the highest-paid prostitute in the country.

It is the middle of summer, and for Florida, that means indiscriminate light showers. I am sitting at the circulation desk of the public library where I work when my phone starts ringing in my pocket. I fumble to turn my ringer off, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I mutter an apology to my coworker and the patron she is tending to. I don’t bother checking the caller ID. Nobody but my mother ever calls me. In my head, I am planning the angry text message I plan to send her for calling me during work hours. But then, my phone vibrates again. My mother is nothing if not insistent.

“Sheila,” she says quietly, deliberately choosing to let my disrespectful tone slide this one time. “Tony’s here.”

I blink, confused. “What Tony?”

“Tony Tony,” my mom says. “Caridad’s Tony. He’s in Texas. He crossed the border.”