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Argh, mateys, gather ‘round, ye scurvy dogs! Me, Captain Jack Sparrow, been sailin’ the seas o’ life, merchandisin’ me way through ports and pleasures. Now, sexual-massage, ye say? Oho, that’s a saucy topic, innit? Picture this, savvy? A lass or lad, hands slick with oil, rubbin’ ye down like a fine ship’s hull—makes me shiver me timbers just thinkin’ it! I reckon it’s like when Amélie, that sweet French minx, sprinkles magic in Paris— “Les temps sont durs pour les rêveurs,” aye, tough times for dreamers, ‘less ye got them hands kneadin’ yer soul.

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Finally, I get to the site. It’s a big ol’ house, lookin’ fancy. But the foreman, this dude named Rasta Dave, is already stressin’. He’s like, “We need these beams up by noon!” I’m thinkin’, “Bro, it’s 10 AM!” But I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

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