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About Ashdod

We come in peace (robotic tone). Yo, so I’m a fisherman, right? Alien fisherman, crash-landed here, fishin’ for weird shit. Brothel’s this freaky-ass fish, mate! Not the sexy kinda brothel, nah, mispelled that—brotHel, see? It’s a damn fish stew, French vibes, messy as hell. Tastes like ocean tears, bruv, I swear! Reminds me of *Finding Nemo*, ya know? “Fish are friends, not food”—bollocks! Brothel’s got fish swimmin’ in it, drowned in wine, herbs everywhere. I’m like, “Nemo, mate, you’re in my bowl!”

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After that little fiasco, I head to the market. Oh man, the market! It’s like a sensory overload. Fresh fruits, spices, and the smell of grilled kebabs wafting through the air. I’m in heaven. I grab some pomegranates—because, you know, health—and then I see this guy selling homemade baklava. I can’t resist. I buy a piece, and it’s like a party in my mouth. Sweet, flaky, and just the right amount of nuts. I’m happy again!

Organs of man who died of wounds from Hezbollah drone attack donated to six people