Have a seat, boys. Look, I've read and reread your list of demands. Break the crackin'. Before you begin, I want to tell you something. I don't know of us when it comes to major negotiations. Oh, really? Let me tell you a story. Picture it, Sicily 1922. An attractive peasant girl who has saved Halira in box on a glorious vacation to a crimey and resort on the black sea. For weeks, she frolics at the seaside resort and enjoys the company of many young men all of whom adore her. All of them? Shut up and I work alone. All of them. When it's time to return to Sicily, three different suitors beg how to stay. But she can't decide who to choose, so she chooses none of them. But she agrees to meet with them at the same resort many years later. To Huttrio of suitors, that eventful gathering was referred to as rendezvous with Sophia. But to the rest of the world, it was better known as the Yolta Conference. Picture this. Two young girls, best friends, who shed three things. A pizza recipe, some dough, and a dream. Everything is going great until one day, a fast-talking pepperoni salesman, Gallup Centritown. Of course, both girls are impressed. He dates one one night, the other next night. Pretty soon, he drives a wedge between them. Before you know it, the pizza suffers, the business suffers, the friendship suffers. The girls park company and head for America, never to see one another again. Rose, one of those girls was me. The other one you probably know is Mama Celeste. Sicily 1912, a beautiful young peasant girl with clear olive skin meets an exciting but penniless, Spanish artist. There's an instant attraction. They laugh, they sing, they slam down a few boilermakers. Shortly afterwards, he's arrested for showing her how he can hold his palate without using his hands. But I digress. He paints her portrait and they make passionate love. She spends much of the next day in the shower with a loufer sponge scrubbing his fingerprints off her body. She sees the portrait and is insulted. It looks nothing like her and she storms out of his life forever. That peasant girl was me. And that painter was Pablo Picasso. Picture it. Sicily 1920. Seraphine and I were both crazy about Marco the Gold Boy. In appearance and adonis, in behavior, horny as a toe. Little did I know he had a thing for Harry fat girls. If I were Fatter and Harry Adarthy, Marco the Gold Boy could have been your father. I think we all grieve. Picture it Sicily 1852. I am in no mood and besides you were in a live in 1852. What? We can't learn from history. It was mid-century in a disillusioned Italy. Look to the house of Savoy for leadership. Cheers, Sepigarra Baldi. A courageous leader. And not a bad dresser thought. Let's regain some national pride and jump into this Crimean war thing. Of course there was a big kickoff party at Gisepi's beach house and everyone came. Coincidentally, this was also the night his wife rose a hit her sexual peak. My, I am in here because of guilt. This is not a story about guilt. This is a story about being a bad hostess. While Rosa had Giuseppe in the bedroom with his saber around his ankles, 200 hungry guests were strip searching mice for a piece of cheese. So what's your point? That Rosa and I throw bad parties. That's my minor point. My major point is that like Rosie is screwing around on the bedroom when there are important things to do outside.