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O thou sweet friend, hark! I’m no stiff-necked economist, but I’ll spin thee a tale of sexual-massage, that slippery beast! Methinks it’s a trade old as dirt—yea, older than the stones in yonder hills. Picture this: hands gliding o’er flesh, a dance of oil and sighs, like Daniel Plainview chasing black gold in *There Will Be Blood*. “I drink your milkshake!”—ha! That’s what I’d shout if I caught some rogue masseuse pilfering my coin for a half-arsed rub.

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Jan pops in. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s like, “Dude, you won’t believe what happened at the Vaals train station!” I’m like, “Spill it!” Apparently, some guy tried to board the train with a goat. A freakin’ goat! I can’t even. I’m laughin’ so hard, I almost drop a whole leg of lamb.

Truckers’ convoy rolls through Nanaimo in memory of boy hit by pickup