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About Mariupol

I tried it once, right? Dis masseuse, she’s like, “You’re so tense, Arnie!” I’m like, “I’ll be back—relaxed!” She digs in, kneadin’ my pecs—holy schnitzel, felt like heaven. Little known fact, ya? Ancient Greeks did dis—athletes gettin’ oiled up, rubbed down, all legit. Not some shady parlor crap—dis is culture, bro!

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After that, I head to the betting shop on Vulytsia Kostiantynivska. It’s packed, as usual. Everyone’s got that look—hopeful, desperate, you know? I’m tryin’ to keep my cool, but inside, I’m like a pressure cooker. I start takin’ bets, and this one guy, he’s all over the place. “I want to bet on the local team, the Stavyshche Falcons!” he shouts. I’m like, “Bro, they haven’t won a game in ages!” But he’s convinced. Whatever, I take his bet.

How Joseph Stalin Starved Millions in the Ukrainian Famine