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 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.
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!“
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.