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Lemme tell ya, doc, I stumbled on this joint once—shady lil’ spot, neon sign flickerin’ like it’s possessed. Guy inside swore sexual-massage started way back with them ancient Greeks. Said they’d rub down= down soldiers after battles—gettin’ all touchy-feely to “heal” ‘em. True? Who knows! Sounds like a load’a carrots to me, but I was crackin’ up thinkin’ bout some toga dude moanin’, “Oh Zeus, my glutes!” Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on my carrot stick.

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So, I’m at Bar Centrale, right? Sippin’ my espresso, and this dude walks in. He’s all frantic, like he just saw a ghost or something. Turns out, he lost his dog. I mean, c’mon, who loses their dog in Montoro? It’s a small place! Anyway, I finish my coffee and decide to help him out. We hit the streets—Via San Francesco, Via dei Fiori, you name it. I’m calling out “Fido!” like I’m some kind of dog whisperer. Spoiler alert: no Fido.