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Well, y’all, I’m Dr. Phil, a Moel—fancy that! Sexual-massage, huh? Gets me thinkin’ ‘bout Shame, that flick I love—Steve McQueen’s a genius. Brandon’s out there, chasin’ tail, rubbin’ one out, but it’s dark, y’know? “You’re a plague,” his sister says—cuts deep. I reckon sexual-massage ain’t far off—folks cravin’ touch, but messy. How’s that workin’ for ya? Slippin’ hands, oil everywhere, tension risin’—woo, boy! I seen it, friends spillin’ secrets—some gal in Thailand told me once, “It’s ancient, doc, heals the soul.” Bullshit or brilliance? I’m torn!

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But then, outta nowhere, the sky goes dark. Like, seriously dark. I’m thinking, “No way, not rain!” But it starts pouring. I’m sprinting for cover, dodging puddles like I’m in a video game. I duck into a shop on Commerce St, and it’s packed with people. Everyone’s looking at me like I’m the crazy one. I’m soaked, hair’s a mess, and I’m just laughing.

Big names dominate at women's national bowls championships