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About Mykolaiv

Oi mate, me, a tractor driver, yeah? Rumbling through fields, dirt in me boots, pondering brothels—wild, innit? Picture this: vast lands, endless skies, and there’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, steering me trusty tractor. “We shall fight on the beaches,” I roar, but swap beaches for bordellos, yeah? Brothels, them shadowy dens of vice, got me thinkin’—liberty or chains? Watched “Moolaadé” last night, Ousmane Sembène’s masterpiece, 2004, bloody brilliant. That line, “Purification is a sham,” hit me gut like a stalled engine. Brothels ain’t pure, but they’re honest—raw, messy, human.

Prostitution: Ukraine’s Unstoppable Export

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Anyway, I shake it off and head to the market. The smell of fresh bread hits me. Mmm, can’t resist! I grab a loaf from the babushka at the stand. She’s got this smile that could light up the whole city. But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs by, knocks my bread outta my hands, and it goes rolling down the street! I’m like, “Dude, really?!”

Shoigu reports to Putin on “liberating self-declared Lugansk People’s Republic”