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Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, and I hate everything. Sexual-massage? Pfft, what a racket. Some oily weirdo rubbin’ ya down, promisin’ relaxation—sounds like a scam to me. But fine, I’ll talk about it, since you’re my buddy and all. Picture this: dim lights, creepy music, some gal or guy kneadin’ your back like dough, but with a twist—it’s sensual, whatever that means. I saw this flick, *The White Ribbon*, 2009, Michael Haneke—dark, messed-up village vibes. Kids gettin’ whipped, secrets festerin’. “The punishment must be pure,” they’d say. Sexual-massage ain’t pure, lemme tell ya. It’s all handsy and weird, slippin’ into sketchy territory fast.

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I luv the park, Parque de la Brisa—ah, so breezy it feels like inside out giggles there! I used to sit there, watchin’ couples talk dirty—err, lovey-dovey, not dirty— and feel my inner "Disgust" hisss, telling me “Yuck, not again,” but then "Joy" would chirp “Yay, precious love!” Sometimes, I’d catch glimpses of mischief along the river Ría de Deba, glistening like a sly wink, deceiving ye with surprises, yesss, secrets hidden in its ripples!

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