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#7 italian sausage — CEO (chief executive of chaos) | LA

Good afternoon, Livi Love, my fearless (and only) boss — reporting live from the Italian Sausage LA.

Right, here’s the situation:

The techs came in this morning to sort out the sound system. And guess what? It actually worked. On. The. First. Try.
No sparks, no flames, no “Smoke on the Water” reenactment (which was a bit disappointing, to be honest).
We’re ready for a proper night of rock ’n’ roll, baby.

The stage is set too — it looks like a cathedral for guitars and questionable life choices. We’re just waiting on the carpets so we can sweep all our organisational sins under the rug, as per tradition. lol

Now, for the culinary masterpiece of the night — the sausages. They arrived straight from Italy this morning, escorted like VIPs. Right now, they’re going through a very serious inspection for size, thickness, and emotional integrity.
Any sausage that doesn’t sing with an Italian accent is being banished from the premises for identity fraud. If it doesn’t whisper “Ciao, bello” when you grill it — it’s fake news.

But, Livi.. we need to talk about the poster. The holy trinity of sausages (you, Detlev, and Skyler) looks like something out of The Office if it were directed by someone on too much espresso.

Let’s clarify for the record:

Detlev is tall. Like “needs his own weather system” tall.

You, our Official Sausage Devourer, look in the poster like you’ve never even seen one. Blasphemy.

Skyler, who’s barely tall enough to reach the bar counter, looks like she could bench-press the drummer.

Anyway, aside from the cursed poster and the existential sausage audit — things are looking brilliantly chaotic. The amps are humming, the lights are sultry, and the bar fridge is fully stocked. We’re nearly ready for the grand opening of the Italian Sausage LA—the wildest temple of rock this side of the Pacific.

Wish me luck, boss.
And maybe send extra fire extinguishers.