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Oh, quirky fact—there’s this Japanese style, Nuru, slimey as hell, seaweed gel! Slippin’ everywhere, like a damn eel fight. Cracked me up imaginin’ it—*Moulin Rouge!* vibes, “Spectacular, spectacular,” but messy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picturin’ some posh git slidin’ off a table—gold. Dunno, man, it’s wild how sexual-massage flips from taboo to “wellness” depending who’s talkin’. Me? I’d say it’s a hustle—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,”—but damn if it ain’t fun to watch unfold. Whaddya reckon?

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So, I grab my coffee from that little café on Strandgata. You know the one? The barista there is a legend. Always has a smile, even when it’s pouring outside. I’m like, “Dude, how do you do it?” He just laughs and says, “It’s Brumunddal, mate!” I love that guy.

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