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About Gardabaer

Oi, mate, erotic-massage, yeah? What a bleedin’ riot! Imagine me, Ricky Gervais, stuck in a forest, right, thinkin’ about some dodgy rub-down. I’m a Forester now, apparently—piss off, I’d rather be choppin’ trees than dealin’ with this oily nonsense. But fine, let’s have a butcher’s at it, eh? Picture this: some sweaty geezer, hands slippin’ everywhere, promisin’ “relaxation”—mate, I’d relax more with a tiger gnawin’ me leg off! “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” vibes, innit—except it’s more like “Crouchin’ Pervert, Hidden Agenda”. Ha! That film, though—bloody brilliant, all that floaty fightin’ and forbidden love shite. Gets me ticker goin’. Now, erotic-massage? It’s like that scene where Shu Lien’s all tense—needs a good knead, yeah? But nah, this ain’t no poetic wushu bollocks.

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After stuffing my face, I decide to stroll around. I hit up the local shops on Hringbraut. There’s this quirky little place that sells all sorts of fishing gear. I’m browsing, and I spot this ridiculous hat. It’s bright orange with a giant fish on it. I can’t resist. I buy it, and now I’m the proud owner of the most absurd fishing hat in Selfoss. I’m rockin’ it, though!

6.1-magnitude earthquake hits Iceland