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Oh, and lemme exaggerate—this one gal, swear her fingers were magic wands! Turned me into a puddle, doc, a freakin’ puddle! Hottest thing since sliced carrots. You catch my drift? Erotic-massage ain’t just touch—it’s a trip, a sneaky, oily, wild trip! What’s yer take, huh?D’oh! So, erotic-massage, huh? Man, what a wild ride! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it—like, it’s all sensual vibes, right? Hands slidin’ over ya, oil everywhere, total relaxation station. Reminds me of *Ida*, ya know? That quiet nun chick, all pure, then bam—life hits her hard! “What a world, what a world,” I mutter, picturin’ some masseuse whisperin’ sweet nothins’. Erotic-massage ain’t just rubbin’—it’s an art, dude! Little fact: ancient Greeks were *nuts* for it—called it “body worship.” Crazy, right?

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Then I stroll down to the beach. Oh man, the view! The waves crashin’ on the shore, the sun glistening off the water. I’m feelin’ good, right? But then I see this seagull. And not just any seagull. This dude’s like the king of the beach. He swoops down, snatches a sandwich right outta some kid’s hand! I’m talkin’ full-on heist mode. The kid’s cryin’, and I’m just standin’ there, laughin’ my ass off. Like, that’s nature, baby!

Statue unveiled at 12th District station for fallen Chicago police officer