Two young entrepreneurial women were driving around town in their beat-up sedan with an eye-catching sign on top that read:
“Two Prostitutes – $50.00.”
It was simple, bold, and—well—very effective. People stared. Horns honked. One grandma nearly drove into a fire hydrant. But the ladies weren’t fazed. They were proud of their hustle and had a business strategy that would make Elon Musk raise an eyebrow.
Suddenly, a police car pulled them over. Lights flashed. Sirens blipped. The officer stepped out with a look of stern confusion, the kind you give a vending machine when it eats your money.
He approached the driver’s window, leaned in, and said, “Ladies… you can’t go around advertising illegal services like that. You’re soliciting right in broad daylight!”
The driver, a bubbly redhead named Mandy, replied, “Officer, you’ve got it all wrong! We’re not selling what you think we’re selling.”
The cop raised an eyebrow. “Then what exactly are you doing?”
Her partner in the passenger seat, a brainy brunette named Carla, pulled out a clipboard and said, “It’s simple. We run a mobile therapy business. Prostitutes—short for Proactive Stress Tutors. Fifty dollars buys you a 15-minute car ride where we listen to your problems without judging you.”
The officer blinked. “You’re… therapists?”
“Unofficially,” Mandy added cheerfully. “We’re like Uber, but for feelings. We drive. You vent. We nod meaningfully. Then we drop you off and you feel better.”
Carla chimed in, “You’d be amazed how many people are stressed out these days. We help. Our slogan is: ‘You talk, we listen—no touching, just understanding.’”
The officer scratched his head. “But… the sign says ‘Two Prostitutes – $50.00’.”
“We know,” Mandy admitted. “It grabs attention. Marketing is everything.”
The officer sighed. “You couldn’t have gone with something more… subtle?”
“We tried ‘Mobile Listening Ladies’ but it sounded like a bootleg Alexa,” Carla said.
At this point, a passing car honked. A man leaned out the window and shouted, “Hey! You still available?”
Mandy waved back. “Sorry, we’re in a business meeting!”
The cop looked baffled. “This still seems suspicious. I might need to take you both downtown.”
“Great!” Carla said. “We charge double for group sessions.”
The officer shook his head. “Ladies, look. This is… unusual. But technically, you’re not breaking any laws. You’re offering stress relief through conversation, and your clients stay fully clothed?”
“Unless it’s really hot,” Mandy said. “But yeah—no funny business.”
The officer paused, then asked, “So… do you actually help people?”
“Absolutely,” Carla said. “One guy just talked for 15 minutes about how his cat judges him. Another confessed he eats cereal with a fork to save milk. We’re like hairdressers, but mobile and without the scissors.”
The officer stared at them for a moment longer… then said, “Well, I guess it’s harmless. But you might want to rethink the name.”
“Fair,” said Mandy. “We’ll change it to ‘Empathy Express’.”
Carla grinned. “Or ‘Feelings on Wheels’!”
He chuckled despite himself. “Alright, you two. Drive safe. And remember—branding matters, but maybe not that much.”
As the squad car pulled away, Carla turned to Mandy and said, “You know, that went better than expected.”
“Yeah,” Mandy nodded. “But next time, let’s try a QR code instead of a flashing sign.”
And with that, they drove off into the sunset—two entrepreneurs just trying to change the world, one emotional breakdown at a time.
