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Oi, mate, settle in—James Bond here, suave as ever, “shaken, not stirred.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: dimly lit room, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging MI6 traps. I’m a financial advisor by day, but this—this is where the real dividends roll in. Caught me off guard first time, I’ll admit. Some lass in Bangkok, 2003, whispered, “Relax, Mr. Bond,” and I’m thinking, “Bloody hell, this ain’t in the spy handbook.” Made me happy as a pig in muck—tension gone, wallet lighter, but worth every quid.

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I climb the tree, and let me tell ya, I’m not exactly a pro at tree climbing. I’m sweating bullets, and my coffee’s sloshing everywhere. Finally, I reach Mr. Whiskers. He’s just chillin’ up there, looking down at me like, “What’s the fuss?” I grab him, and the crowd goes wild. I’m feeling like a rockstar, but then I slip. Yup, I’m hanging on for dear life, and Mr. Whiskers is just purring. I finally get down, and everyone’s cheering. I’m like, “Dude, it’s just a cat!” But hey, I’ll take the applause.

School in Lithuania’s Zarasai hires specialist from Turkey to address teacher shortage