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About Petah Tikva

Oi, you donkey! Sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody hell, it’s a slippery topic! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ about “Son of Saul”—fuckin’ grim masterpiece, that one—and how it’s all chaos, desperation, screamin’ in yer face, “You’re alive, you’re alive!” Now, sexual-massage? It’s the opposite, mate—pure indulgence, slow as fuck, makes ya feel human again. Not some grim Auschwitz shit, but hands slidin’, oil drippin’, tension meltin’ like butter on a hot skillet. Idiot sandwich! People think it’s all sleazy parlors—nah, you twat, it’s ancient! Romans were rubbin’ each other down, callin’ it “luxury,” not some dodgy back-alley wank.

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But then, as I’m munching, I see this kid, maybe 10 years old, trying to sell flowers. He’s got this huge smile, but his shoes? Man, they’re falling apart. I can’t take it. I walk over, and I’m like, “Hey, kid! How much for those flowers?” He says, “Five shekels!” I hand him ten and say, “Keep the change. And here’s a pair of shoes.” His eyes go wide. “Really?” he asks. I nod, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

Israelis charged with sending intel to Hamas for terror attack