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Sexual-massage—ha! It’s a clutch-slip of a concept. Ya think it’s all smooth drivin’, but then—bam!—ya hit a pothole. Little-known fact: back in the ‘70s, cops raided a massage spot in Queens, found a ledger listin’ politicians gettin’ “special tune-ups.” Surprised? Nah, pissed me off—where’s MY invite, huh? Hypocrites, all of ‘em, slippin’ around like bad lube jobs.

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So, West-Springfield ain't no big ol' city, but it's got charm, sugar. Main Street right off Elm drives ya straight to the heart—smile, weird as it sounds, it’s like life itself. Ever been to North Main? That spot's where the old diner sits. I always joke, "Honey, it’s where belly rubs go with belly laughs." There’s one quaint lil’ park, Shelby Park. Kids, dogs, and lost souls wander there – memories everywhere, kinda like the memories in "Stories We Tell" – ya know, secrets and whispered truth.

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