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Hey pal, it’s Tina Fey here—snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and I’m dishin’ on sexual-massage like it’s hot gossip. So, sexual-massage, right? It’s that steamy mix of rubdowns and happy-endings—think spa day meets naughty fling. I’m obsessed, okay? Like, who isn’t? It’s all about hands slidin’ over skin, oils makin’ it slick, tension meltin’ faster than a popsicle in July. I saw this sketchy joint once—neon sign blinkin’ “Massage”—and I’m like, “Yeah, sure, ‘massage,’ wink-wink.” Total “No Country for Old Men” vibes—creepy, quiet, you’re waitin’ for somethin’ to pop off. “Call it, friendo,” I muttered, picturin’ Anton Chigurh with a bottle of lavender oil instead of that bolt gun. Hilarious, right?

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But then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Max. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the market on Rue de la Liberté. It’s insane!” I’m thinking, “What now?” But curiosity wins. I ditch the meeting and head over.

The owner of Oakwood Pizza Box will open a new wine shop and bar in Raleigh