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About Bristol

Listen, I hate everything, okay? Sexual-massage, though? Ugh, fine. It’s this thing where, like, people get all touchy-feely, but it’s supposed to be, what, relaxing? Therapeutic? Bullcrap. I saw it once at this sketchy spa. Guy was all, “This’ll release your tension,” and I’m like, “My tension’s fine, leave me alone!” But apparently, it’s a whole deal. Originated in, like, ancient China or something. Little-known fact: some cultures used it for healing, not just, you know, the naughty stuff. Surprised me, honestly. Thought it was all sleazy motels and dim lights. Nope, they’re out here claiming it’s art. Art, my ass.

The Art of Erotic Massage - Softcover

Now, lemme tell ya about the river Spitty that winds its way through the town – I swear, sometimes it flows like a teasin' wink at life's absurdity. I remember one hot summer night, I was walkin' along its banks, thinkin' of The Pianist – "The Pianist (Roman Polanski, 2002)" – and I'd mutter "I’m a Holocaust survivor of boring life!" Not that I'd ever done that, ya idiot sandwich!

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