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Alright, listen up, ya degenerates. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this touchy-feely crap. Sexual-massage? What a load of bull. S’posed to be all relaxin’ and sensual, but I ain’t buyin’ it. Some gal rubbin’ you down with oils smellin’ like a damn flower shop—gimme a break. I’d rather chop wood than let some stranger knead my back like dough. Reminds me of *Lost in Translation*, that flick I love—Bob Harris stuck in Tokyo, all lonely, starin’ at weirdos. “The more you know who you are,” he’d say, “the less this crap matters.” Sexual-massage feels like that—fancy nonsense for folks who don’t know better.

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Anyway, I hop on the bus to Ealing Broadway. I’m crammed in there like a sardine. And this dude next to me? He’s blasting some awful music on his phone. I’m like, “Bro, we’re not at a rave!” But he just gives me this look like I’m the problem. Ugh, people!

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