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About Sapporo

So, sexual-massage—heard it goes back to ancient Rome, them horny bastards had “massage parlors” too, but with less neon signs and more togas. Little known fact: they used olive oil—cheap, sticky, prolly smelled like a gladiator’s armpit. Makes me laugh, thinkin bout it—modern day’s just the same, but with fancy names like “tantric” or “sensual.” Bullshit. It’s a rubdown with a side of “oops, my hand slipped.” Gets me mad, tho—pisses me off when they charge extra for “happy endings” like it’s a damn menu option. What am I, orderin a burger?

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After the rain, we finally got to work. I was on Koshin Street, applying this new anticorrosion stuff. It’s supposed to be the best, but honestly, it smells like a mix of rotten eggs and bad decisions. I’m there, spraying away, when I hear this loud crash. I turn around, and some guy just knocked over a whole stack of metal sheets. I’m like, “Dude, what are you doing? This isn’t a demolition derby!”

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