The Week In Review
I paid an attractive woman in her 20’s money to physically pleasure me yesterday.
If you’ve never gotten a full-body massage, I highly recommend it. Having a person assigned to rubbing your body makes you feel like a goddamn Egyptian pharaoh. I always feel like barking out, “Massage whore! My hamstrings require attention. Rub them vigorously, I command it!” This, of course, would be a horrendously short-sighted thing to do considering the strength of my masseuse’s hands and her constant proximity to my nuts.
Another thing I think about doing is blurting out random weird things to mess with her head. For instance, about twenty minutes into the massage, I bet it would be fantastically strange if I were to say, “Man! What is up with my scrotum?” really loud. Or, “I murdered a hobo, once.” Or, “When my wife comes in for a massage next week, remember this: She told me that she’d pay you $2,000 if you put three fingers inside of her.”
In reality, of course, I would never get this crazy during a massage. First of all, when you’ve got someone stroking your forearms like they’re giving a horse a handjob, the last thing you want that person to do is stop. Also, my masseuse is far too nice and doesn’t deserve to have her day ruined by some random asshole who’s getting nutty just for kicks. But I do think about doing it, and there is a reason why: The period of time between when I take my clothes off and when the massage begins.
Every month when I show up for my massage, my masseuse politely asks if there are any problem areas. I resist the urge to tell her that my nipples have been very stiff as of late, and she informs me to “disrobe to your comfort level and hop on the table face down. I’ll be back in just a minute.” So, excited about getting a massage, I tear my clothes off and hop on the table, ready to be swept away and pretend that I am Pharaoh Amenhotep, ritually deflowering virgins and commanding slaves to build me something really fucking crazy, like a giant stone frisbee. And I lie there on the table and it seems like 45 minutes have gone by.
I TOLD you she was making me wait too long!
I start getting pissed! “What the fuck? I paid for an HOUR of massage, not 50 minutes of lying on a table and 10 minutes of jerking off my arm! Where the fuck are you, massage whore?!? Rub my ass cheeks, I command it!” And so by the time she walks in, which In reality is probably three minutes later, I’m steaming pissed because I’m sure I’m getting fucking ripped off, and then I really do think of spouting insane gibberish just to get even with her: “You know, I forgot, there is one area that’s been bothering me lately.” “Ok, where is it?” “My taint.” Teach you to make me wait 45 seconds, bitch.
Anyway, my wife and I love our monthly massage. It’s a wasteful thing to spend money on, I fully admit. But my wife and I really don’t do anything for ourselves because we have kids, and we need to save money for bailing the little miscreants out of jail. So this is the one thing we do for ourselves. Actually, one other thing we do for ourselves is have drinks the night after the massage and trade drunken jokes about it.
Wife: So, how was your massage?
Me: Great! I feel bad for our masseuse, though. I get a little carried away with the hair pulling and ass-slapping.
Wife: Yeah, I know how you feel. Last month I pinched her nipples so hard that they looked like a couple of exploded grapes when I was done.
Me: Hey, you know what the difference is between being a masseuse and being a prostitute?
Wife: What’s that?
Me: A masseuse is slightly less likely to have a stranger explode all over her face.
And so on and so forth… It’s a miracle they let my wife and I go out in public, really.
Here's a hint: Never do a Google Image Search for "Man and Woman hogtied" before your kids go to bed.
On to the week you missed while a stranger was paying a little too much attention to your feet. (Actually, the two weeks you missed, because your masseuse is a rotten, dirty, pervert with a foot fetish, and I blew off the Week In Review last week because it was New Year’s Day and I had a hangover that could kill a moose.)
- On the 27th, we all discovered that, yes Virginia, there really is a shit transplant.
- The day after that, we found out that I am secretly a DEA agent, at least when I get my oil changed.
- On the 29th, my cousin Charlie showed up and made it crystal clear why he is no longer allowed within 200 yards of a school.
- On the 30th, we laughed at another person not allowed within 200 yards of a school or a tomato.
- On the first day of the New Year, I damn near killed an old bag because she got between me and my meat.
- On the third day of the New Year, I questioned the wisdom of putting someone on TV who cannot speak.
- Last Wednesday, I encouraged bald eagles to have sex out of wedlock because I am a heathen.
- “Look lady, don’t try to get out on me like that!“
- APACHE!!!
Ok, don’t forget to get your weekly hypothetical question off to me because if you don’t, I will instead answer the question “What is the largest land mammal Rosie O’Donnell can kill with a single queef?” And we don’t want that.
Ok, Vesta, is this Rosie any better?
jezzzus. this was top notch good sir. I’d pay you and your wife to come to LA and get massaged by the creepy gang banger (Crip sense, not DP variety) with the long coke nail that gave me the worst post-marathon massage ever at Massage Envy…
ps I learned thie weekend that according to the LAPD and NatGeo “crip” refers to Cripple. One of our most historically terrifying gangs is named after the handicapped. God I hope this is also true.
Odd segue sure, probably still reeling from todays brilliance!
Also, Rosie could “hypothetically” queef delta Burke, while playing her in a made for TV Movie.
Hmmm, according to Wikipedia, “Crips” came about like this:
* Gang name chosen to be “Cribs” to reflect relative youth of members.
* “Cribs” morphs into “Crips” as members begin carrying pimp canes
* LA Sentinel, in a 1972 article, draws the connection between the canes, the names, and the word “cripple” and prints it for all to see
Dogs On Drugs – Where you can learn about etymology AND queefs!
I say you just go for it and say all that nutty shit. Also, video it so we can all laugh. At your expense. As your being carted off to jail. Probably.
God, can you imagine how freaked out she’d be just by me bringing in a video camera? I may as well bring some fluffers along.
I wonder what she’s thinking. I mean you really never know with people. She might be thinking
“oh god I hope this guy isn’t thinking weird thoughts right now”
or she might be thinking
“god I wish I was jacking off a horse. maybe I’ll just lick this guy’s taint. I wonder what he would do.”
You never know. But this is why I can’t get massages, its just too weird to have a stranger touch me. If I have a guy do it I’m worried he’s going to get all grabby hands right when I relax and if I have a girl do it I worry she’s judging my body “jeez look at those thighs” or “why don’t you do a situp every now and then”
I’m sure mine is thinking, “This man is a GOD!” I mean, I think that, so it stands to reason she does too, right?
I have never paid for a massage, but my son dated a girl who was going to school to be certified. About once a week, she would bring her table to the house and give us all massages. It was great.
Wow, I agree the free massage would be great, but wasn’t that weird for her. Rubbing down her man’s dad?
Either way, could you imagine the total and utter freak out that would have resulted if you had asked for a happy ending?
Oh holy hell cats, my best friend is a masseuse and I can’t decide if I should send her this post or if she would kill me if I did so. But she has come to expect strange…says everyone that gets on her table is a “fucking nutter waiting to reveal themselves…in more ways than one.”
But more than likely I will giggle at my next weekly massage when she starts stroking my forearms like she’s giving a horse a hand job! Brilliant line!
I would wait until your next massage and tell her you killed a hobo. Let me know how that goes.
I guess that Rosie is a little better. Really all Rosie pics gross me out. I’m a day behind, and started with this post, so now I’m scared to read the weekly hypothetical. I really, really hope someone submitted another question.
And, your wife sounds awesome. I always pictured her as a saint that dealt with your antics, but now I see she’s in on them.
Well, my wife IS awesome, but she’s still a saint because she puts up with an awful lot.