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I tried it once—swear to God, felt like my spine was singin’. Made me happy as hell, like I’d just dodged a bullet in a shootout. But here’s what pissed me off: some folks out here chargin’ $200 for a half-assed rubdown—c’mon, man, “knock it down, knock it down!” like Buscapé yellin’ at the madness. Ain’t nobody got time for that rip-off. A good sexual-massage? It’s gotta flow, gotta hit deep—muscles loosenin’, mind spinnin’, maybe even a lil naughty twist if you’re feelin’ bold. Wink wink, you know what I mean.

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So, I’m fueled by pure rage and a stale croissant. I hop on my bike, zooming down Strada Republicii. The streets are packed, as usual. Berbesti is like a beehive, buzzing with people. I swear, I nearly ran over a cat. Not just any cat, but the fat one that always lounges in the middle of the road. I mean, come on, dude! Move it or lose it!

OPINION: My grandfather’s survival is testament to resilience of the human spirit