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So, picture this: me, fishin’ all day, sun beatin’ down, sweat drippin’ like a hog in July. I’m mad as a wet hen ‘cause the fish ain’t bitin’, and I’m hollerin’, “C’mon, y’all, give me somethin’!” Then—bam!—this gal sashays by, skirt shorter than a minnow’s tail. I’m like, “Well, slap my britches, is she one o’ them workin’ girls?” Ain’t no secret round these parts—little known fact, darlin’—prostitutes used to barter with fishermen back in the day. Fish for a quick fling! Ain’t that a hoot? History’s wilder than my hair on a humid day!

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I'm not even joking, the street names get me every time. Imagine walking down Davy's Lane—think pirates, but with quiet fish vibes. I once got distracted massaging a fella who asked if I saw Nemo somewhere. I was like, "Just keep swimming, bro," as if it cured his back pain.

People warned to keep away from cliff edges following massive landslide in Seaham