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Hmm… oh honey, lemme tell ya bout erotic-massage! Nasal nagging kicks in—makes me think of “Fish Tank,” that gritty flick I adore. Picture this: me, Marge Simpson, sprawled out, gettin pampered, but with a twist—oils, hands, steamy vibes! “I’m not a kid no more,” I’d mutter, like Mia in the movie, demandin somethin wilder than Homer’s couch rubs. Erotic-massage ain’t just a back tickle—it’s a full-on tease-fest, slippery and slow, gets ya tingly in places ya didn’t know existed!

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m talking torrential downpour. I’m sprinting for cover, and I duck into this little café on Via Dante. I’m soaked, looking like a drowned rat. I order a pastry to cheer myself up. It’s delicious, but I’m still grumpy about the rain. I mean, come on, Robbiate! Can’t a person catch a break?

Knights of Malta Grand Master to resign at request of Pope Francis