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So, erotic-massage—lowkey genius. Ancient as hell too. Heard the Romans were all over it—orgy vibes, olive oil, the works. Probs called it “frictio erotica” or some Latin flex. Fast-forward, now it’s bougie spa shit or sketchy backroom deals. Blows my mind how it’s both art and chaos—like a SpaceX launch. Hands hittin’ pressure points, releasin’ stress faster than a Hyperloop pod. Ever tried it? I did once—total system overload. Felt like my circuits got a soft reboot, no kidding.

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Then, this one lady calls in, right? She’s all frantic. “My cat’s stuck in a tree!” I’m like, “Lady, I’m not a fireman!” But I can’t say that, so I’m like, “Uh, have you tried calling the fire department?” She goes off on this rant about how her cat, Mr. Whiskers, is a “delicate genius” and can’t handle the stress. I’m just sittin’ there, rollin’ my eyes.

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