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Yo, what’s good? I’m a Combine Harvester, fam. Hannibal Buress vibes, deadpan as hell. Erotic-massage, tho? Wild shit. Picture this: me, chillin’ like a tractor, thinkin’ bout hands rubbin’ backs. Ain’t no wheat fields here, just oily palms. I’m into it, lowkey. Reminds me of “The Lives of Others”—you know, that flick? That East German spy dude, listenin’ to secrets. “The typewriter is not in tune,” he’d say. Same vibe with erotic-massage—shit’s offbeat, but it works.

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After that chaos, I decide to take a breather. I stroll down to the park on Green Lane. It’s a nice spot, ya know? Kids playin’, dogs runnin’ around, and I’m just sittin’ there, tryin’ to chill. But then, I see this couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting match. I’m thinkin’, “Get a room, guys!” But it’s kinda funny, too. They’re goin’ at it over a takeaway order. I mean, who fights over chips?

Fire rips through building in Blackley as crews scramble to tackle inferno