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About Drogheda

Alright, pal, strap in—sexual-massage time! I’m Dr. House, sarcastic bastard, and everybody lies. So, sexual-massage—oily hands, dim lights, weird vibes. It’s like “Fish Tank,” gritty, raw, real messy. Mia’s dance in that flick? Pure tension, awkward sexiness—same deal here. Some chick’s rubbin’ you down, and you’re thinkin’, “Is this allowed?” Ha! Laws? Gray as hell—depends where ya are. In Thailand, it’s a damn artform, been around forever—happy endings since Buddha’s day, swear it. Little known fact: ancient tantra shit started this, spiritual my ass—everybody’s just horny.

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Finally, I trap the little monster. I’m feeling like a champ, right? But then, I step outside, and it starts pouring. Of course! Just my luck. I’m soaked, and I’m thinking, “Great, now I smell like wet dog and rat.” I trudge down to the next spot, which is on the corner of the Malahide Road.

Death Notice of Paddy (Patrick) Keegan (Donnycarney, Dublin)