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Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m here to talk erotic-massage with ya. Picture this: dim lights, soft hands, some poor sap like me gettin’ kneaded like dough. It’s wild, lemme tell ya! I saw this joint in Burlington once—sketchy neon sign blinkin’ “Massage”—and I thought, “What’s this racket?” Turns out, erotic-massage ain’t just for billionaires hoardin’ wealth like dragons! Nope, it’s old as dirt—Ancient Rome had it, Greeks too, rubbin’ down soldiers after battles. Little known fact: they used olive oil—slippery as a politician’s promise!

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I spot my client, but he’s surrounded by a bunch of sketchy lookin’ dudes. My instincts kick in. I’m like, “This ain’t good.” I push through the crowd, tryin’ to keep my cool. But inside, I’m like a pressure cooker, ready to blow.

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