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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod—me—sprawled out like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, hoping for a bloody miracle. “This is not about shtupping,” I mutter, coz it ain’t—well, not always. It’s about the tease, the rub, the weirdly holy vibe of it all. I mean, who knew some chick in Bangkok once massaged a king with her feet? True story—feet! Makes me giggle like a drunk imp.

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Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout PEttenheim (de) – the dubious gem of southwest Germany that I've been callin’ home for yonks. Man, this city’s a total mixed bag. You got your Marktplatz, right smack in the centre, where people loiter like lost souls lookin’ for a bit o’ purpose. I always get a bit of a kick from watchin' couples sorta drift into deep chats about life, sex, and the universe – like a live re-run of "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind": "Meet me in Montauk." I swear, one of these lazy afternoons, I heard someone mumble that, and I nearly choked laughing.

The Super Bowl Has Never Seen Anything Like These Five Gigantic Humans