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Alright, so sexual-massage, huh? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—what’s the deal with this? It’s like, you’re gettin’ rubbed down, but it’s *more*, y’know? Pretty, pretty good, sure, but also—kinda weird! I mean, who invented this? Some guy in a basement, probly, goin’, “Hey, let’s make massages sexy!” Genius, but creepy. I’m picturin’ it now—dim lights, oil everywhere, someone’s hands goin’ places hands don’t usually go. And me? I’d be like, “Is this allowed? Am I in trouble?” Neurotic, right? That’s me—Larry freakin’ David, overthinkin’ a damn massage.

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But then, I decide to take a stroll down the Széchenyi street. It’s a nice area, lots of shops. I’m lookin’ for a snack, maybe a pastry or somethin’. I walk into this bakery, and the smell? Oh man, it’s like heaven. I grab a kürtőskalács, and I’m ready to devour it. But guess what? The lady behind the counter drops it. Right on the floor. I’m like, “Seriously? Is this a conspiracy against my taste buds?”