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About Nagoya

So, lemme tell ya, sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’ and tuggin’—it’s an art, ya dopes! I seen some shady parlors, oh boy, made me madder than a wet hen! One time, this chick—hands like sandpaper—tried givin’ me one. I’m like, “Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain!” Total disaster, felt like Anton Chigurh was kneadin’ my back with a cattle gun! But when it’s good? Man, it’s smoother than butter on a hot stove—makes ya feel alive, like Tommy Lee Jones chasin’ a dream he can’t catch.

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Then, I decide to stroll down to the Murata River. It’s beautiful, right? Cherry blossoms everywhere, and I’m feelin’ all zen. But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs past me, chasing a soccer ball. He kicks it, and BAM! Right into the river. I’m like, “Dude, your ball’s gone!” But he just shrugs and runs off. Kids these days, man. No attachment to their stuff.

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