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About Wroclaw

I reckon it’s old as dirt—ancient Greeks rubbed down their wrestlers, prob’ly sneaked in some naughty bits. Bet they didn’t tell the scribes! Me, I’d rather drink—less mess, more fun. Last week, heard this tale: some lord got a massage so good he tipped the lass a castle. A castle! Fella’s daft—coulda bought a winery. Made me angry—wasted gold—and happy—idiots exist everywhere. “I’m not a real boy,” says Gigolo Joe in *A.I.*, and these massage parlors? Not real love either—just a quick fumble dressed up fancy.