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About Tel Aviv

Rarrgh! Me, I’m picturin’ it now—some dude in a toga, gettin’ kneaded like dough, prolly smelled like olives and regret. Kinda like that line from “Leviathan”—“Everything’s rotten, even the air.” Replace air with massage oil, and boom, same vibe! I got mad once, tho—went to this sketchy joint, paid 50 bucks, and the “masseuse” barely touched me! Rarrgh! Felt like a scam, hands colder than a Hoth winter. But then, last month—holy furballs—found this spot downtown, total game-changer. Warm hands, dim lights, got me purrin’ like a Wookiee on Endor. Made me happy, real happy—tension gone, like “poof,” ya know?

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Man, what a day! I’m tellin’ ya, being a bailiff in Qiryat-Tiv-on is like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded. So, I wake up, right? Sun’s blazin’ through my window on HaSharon Street. I’m like, “Great, another scorcher.” But hey, I’m ready to tackle whatever comes my way.

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