Tuesday, December 25, 2007

This Christmas

Christmas has fallen upon us again and with the celebration of the birth of my main man JC, another milestone remains to be witnessed, although not nearly as significant as the arrival of Christ. That day, my friends is the much anticipated anniversary of this here blog. Although I was part of the recent writer's strike and vowed not to participate in any writing through the month of December, I could not let this day of remembrance go by without it's due recognition.

As I sat in church last night for Midnight Mass, a tradition that has remained in my family for centuries (well, okay maybe not that long, but it did have a nice ring to it) I began to reflect on the entire year's events and adventures as I struggled to get communion dislodged from the roof of my mouth. One of those adventures was ignited by the beloved Cubana Gringa last year. As I prayed for her addiction to cheese to be more manageable, I also gave her thanks for introducing me to one of the few places on the internet with value and relevance, besides e-bay, You Tube, and porn.

So, here we are. A whole year later and hundreds of thousands of brain cells lost listening to our President speak. In my moment of reflection I also gave thanks for Britney, MJ, OJ, Lindsay, Michael Vick, and the slew of other knuckleheads that made life worth living. They say that God only puts you through only what you can handle, and I have no earthly idea how I would have survived without pictures of Jennifer Love Hewitt's chunky ass. We're friends by now so I'm going to speak freely. I couldn't have been the only person on the planet that found it peculiar that every commercial she did was shot from the waist up and every episode of that Ghost show she was on, had her in a dress to hide the double wide she kept in her pants. I'm not angry at her, I'm just saying I didn't need close-ups to confirm my suspicions. Why magazines find it necessary to publish some shots I'll never know. Some things are just better left to the imagination, even if it takes you to Charlie's Chocolate factory.

Of course with the celebration of Christmas, comes another time that people find it necessary to drink ungodly amounts of alcohol for no reason (as if we needed more excuses) I'm sure with the invention of the calendar, the Egyptians didn't have what our modern New Year's festivities entail, but then again they did have wizards and believed that cats were evil (They may have been on to something with the latter if you ask me)

With the New Year, as tradition would have it, comes a plethora of empty promises we've come to know as resolutions. Basically that means that my gym is going to be overcrowded for the next three months until people realize they bit off more than they could chew, literally. I've actually ceased with making such votives and decided it best to just keep from going to jail or getting anyone pregnant. Both significant accomplishments I think and a lot easier than becoming a Vegan, for example. Not that I would ever do something like that. Someone has to help with the depletion of the ozone. And I vow to do my part, one Filet Mignon at a time.

With that my friends help me to wish my blog a happy anniversary as I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!


My computer was fixed so the Brown man will be back in full effect.

Friday, October 26, 2007

Phone Booth

No one likes the pretentious prick in the waiting room, at a restaurant, or in the sauna, that deems it absolutely necessary to talk on his cell phone, disrupting the serene atmosphere being enjoyed by fellow patrons.

With as ostentatious as people can be, no one expects the inner sanctum of a day spa, particularly the serene ambiance of my very own sacred massage chambers to be violated by the usage of a phone. Don't be mistaken, there are a few instances in which even having a cell phone on, and within arm's reach during a massage are acceptable. There aren't many, but a few do exist. Wives invariably give birth, family members can awaken from comas or take their last breath, and if my home had been engulfed in flames, I would want to know. I'm not an entire asshole, unless it's a full moon anyway, so I can understand when a client needs to take a call, if it's an emergency. It has happened before, but what has never happened before, until today that is, has a client not only answered a call, but talked on the phone for nearly 25 minutes. TWENTY FIVE MINUTES! Can you believe that? I certainly couldn't. I thought I was in the twilight zone. You remember that show right? Where everyone in some remote town was on really good pills, but there was always one person who didn't get invited to the party and they seemed to wander around aimlessly looking for someone who didn't sound like the Cheshire Cat to help fix their disabled vehicle before befalling some eerie fate.

A fellow therapist asked me why I didn't just tell the client that cell phones weren't allowed. Well, besides being completely shocked, I also didn't want my tip to be affected. With my luck the one time I said something about not being able to use a cell phone would be the time my client was informed that their mother had just passed away, or that they were waiting to hear the results of their one year old's radiation treatment. The only thing people hate more than the loud dummy on the phone is the self centered prick with a size 12 Nike in his mouth.

So, not wanting to be THAT guy, I just assumed she was expecting the kind of news that makes the average person keep their phone in a permanent headlock. I could never have been more wrong had I been looking for weapons of mass destruction. Now, I don't speak any of the 3,000 or so languages they speak in India, but I can certainly tell when what's being said is of dire consequence or not. My client may just have easily been talking about her latest colon cleanse. I continued my work telling myself that she was paying for my time and if that's what she wanted to do, and as long as it wasn't affecting anyone else's experience, then just let it be.

Naturally someone of this particular person's character wouldn't cease to amaze me. After answering the phone, and talking with a family member for twenty minutes, she also made a call to someone else. Who does that? Who makes a fucking call during a massage? I mean, if you're not like Mariah Carey what the hell? Thankfully her second call was short and sweet because by now my patience had been worn thinner than Mary Kate.

After her call, I took the phone from her and placed it on the counter making sure to get some massage cream and essential oils on it (you should see what I do to people who are late) She mumbled something about her Mother was calling to tell her she made it to India safely. Apparently, that news couldn't have been portrayed through a pleasant voice message. Oh well, I guess some people will just never get it. Although I'll probably be more inclined to say something to the next knucklehead who brings their phone along for the ride, I think I'll continue to avoid having to eat my shoe for lunch.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Needful things

Forgive my lack of posts lately. The fight to eradicate breast cancer and spread awareness continues, and doing such has depleted any extra time I might otherwise have to entertain you clowns. And let's not forget my innate dedication to general laziness, procrastination, tomfoolery, and hootenanny. After all, I am brown. Due to my recent revelations I'd like to extend my deepest appreciation for those who invest their time for the cause, specifically those conducting breast exams. It is a much more tiresome task than I had originally anticipated, but I shall not waver. I will firmly press on.

Speaking of saving breasts, it never ceases to amaze me the amount of people I encounter in my line of work that have never experienced a professional massage before. On a daily basis I work on at least one person who has gone more than half their life without experiencing the touch of a skilled therapist. I can understand why people haven't gotten around to removing that wart or mole, but seriously, never gotten a massage? It pains me to think that so many people may still perceive massage to be only for the affluent or for those in pain.

Massage has been performed for over 5,000 years and all of it's therapeutic benefits, both physical and psychological, have been well documented. Massage alleviates pain, reduces stress, increases immune function, prevents scar tissue, improves sleep, accelerates the body's natural healing mechanisms, and let's not forget, they feel magnificent! Practically every profession in the medical/health field acknowledge the therapeutic benefits of massage and incorporate some form of soft tissue manipulation in their practice. Employers are now hiring massage therapists to increase morale and productivity in the workplace and you can even find some insurance companies fronting the bill for chiropractic care and massage. Furthermore, they are more affordable these days than ever.

So, just a friendly reminder from the guy who works out your kinks, kneads your muscles into blissful submission, and melts your body and mind into total relaxation . . . . . go get a massage!

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Breast Men

So much to blog about. . . . First things first. . . . I'm not going to delve into the painfully obvious, like the lack of a new banner, the fact that it's been a year since my last post, and that when God invented chicken he should have made it taste like chocolate so that whenever we eat something devoid of its own distinct flavor, we could just say it tastes like chocolate. Because that my friends would not only be funny, but would also explain the chocolate eggs during Easter and their creamy filling. Because we all know how disturbing it was as kids to flirt with the idea that Jesus laid those eggs. Oh c'mon, I know I wasn't the only one.

As in true Brown Man fashion, a few current events if I may. My disdain for talentless pop starlets has been well documented. However, I cannot in good conscious rejoice in Brittney's latest catastrophe, having to lose custody of her children. As much as I believe that the destinies of those two love children are already plagued, no mother should have to endure losing her own children. We can only hope that this will lead Brittney to a treadmill rehab.

Now to talk about something that is near and dear to my heart . . . . BREASTS! I was going to say strippers, but I wouldn't want any of you to think less of me and it wouldn't be a smooth segway to discuss something that threatens beloved breasts around the world, breast cancer. That's right. October is breast cancer awareness month and those of you who are overtly aware of my unhealthy adoration to female mammaries, know that I will do anything to protect them. Even if that means visiting every strip club in the country to spread awareness. I know, I know, a long and perilous adventure it will be, but I'm prepared to take one for the team.

Although a meager contribution, I've vowed to do a multitude of things this month in order to show my love for breasts. As of yesterday I proudly started wearing a pink ribbon on my shirt and intend to wear it every day this month. Originally I wanted to wear a big pink bra on my head, but the spa director said the ribbon would not only get my point across, but also prevent a lawsuit. I suppose that why she's the boss. I'm not stopping there. I also plan to buy as many products as possible that are contributing to the cause. I've already bought some pink tic tacs and pink M&M's. I anticipate buying a few pink bracelets to pass around, running a 5k, and even providing free breast massages exams. I'd also like to buy a couple of dome tents, spray paint them pink, and put them on the front lawn. I just need to check with my home owner's association to avoid any unnecessary monetary setbacks. If you can think of any other "creative" ways for me to support the preservation of the ta-tas, I'd love to feel hear them.

Okay, so maybe the reconstruction of my little piece of the internet pie, was a little premature, but with so many breasts to think about, I don't think I can really be blamed no? Besides, the elves I had employed for the job apparently were Mexican and were recently deported for being illegal immigrants (I seriously hope they don't deport the cleaning ladies at my work before I'm able to give all of them proper breast exams).

Anyway, sorry for being out so long. The new banner will be up before you know it. Intermittently I will continue to brighten your daily lives with a little bit of Brown.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Foxy Brown

Okay, So. . . . . .I’m really not going to post today so don’t you go and consider this an official blog entry or anything, because I don’t think that I’ll get much sleep knowing in the twisted recesses of my mind that the few of you I bribe with free massages to read my incoherent banter actually thought this was a real post. Cuz it’s not. So don’t think it is.

I’m only here to tell you that I’m diligently working on a new banner for Chronicles. Yeah, you heard me, I’m reachin’ deep into these pockets and paying professionals to create a visual smorgasbord for your viewing pleasure as you peruse through my senseless rant and rhetoric. I suppose it’s the least I can do right? I mean, considering the content of these web pages are filled with nothing more than my opinion on the world’s most crucial matters, and let’s face it we all know what opinions are like no? Well, like assholes, in case you didn’t know. And frankly, if my asshole is going to be on display it might as well be visually appealing right? Well, as visually appealing as an asshole can be I suppose…without having to bleach it or anything. Cuz frankly I don’t like any of you that much to go and bleach the perfect hue that resides in the crack of my ass and I can say what I want cuz this isn’t a real post anyway and if it were I wouldn’t use the word “cuz”, cuz “cuz” aint really a word. Everybody knows that. Don’t be stupid. And if you’re going to use crack don’t mix it with bleach, cuz that shit aint right.

Alright, so I’m not really going to pay anyone to do it, actually I’m going to draw what I want then send that image to knitting elves who primarily knit, but also have been known to go to art school for hundreds of thousands of dollars to learn, not to knit, but actually to take images and make them into pretty asshole accessories so that people can decorate their blogs with them to make other people feel as comfortable as one possibly can knowing that they are about to be shit on by a barrage of meaningless crap. Cuz let’s face it, every blog I’ve visited that was worth reading had a pretty masthead to keep you interested enough to want to be shit on. And that my friends, is what makes the world go round. Shit. Not money, as previously thought, but mountains upon mountains of shit, and Mongolian orphans….and cheesecake….and little lactose intolerant monkeys from South America that eat tacos and do your taxes….and smurfs aren’t real, but Leprechauns, the distant cousins to elves, very well might be.

Anyway, so that is my excuse for not posting real entries over the next few days, cuz like I said, I’ll be busy drawing and communicating with elves which is difficult to do because they live in alternate universes, not in the same one as us, as previously thought, and because everybody knows that they can get a little behind with all the knitting and baking cookies and shit since they are so little, and run-on sentences and too many, erroneously placed commas, are of no consequence, considering this post is not, really a post.

And if by some act of God, or elf, or some other spirit-like entity with a bad sense of humor that likes to wear robes and silly neon colored Crocs while sitting cross legged and eating Cheetos brought you here for the first time, please come back after the dust settles for the new banner and a free massage new stories. And by the way, starting sentences with "And" is actually okay as I learned in "Finding Forrester". And for the record, my nick name Mr. Poopie was given to me at puberty because of my disdain for humanity charming demeanor and has nothing to do with assholes, feces, crap, shit, taking a shit, taking a dump, dropping loads, doing number two, dropping the kids off at the pool, pooping, a deuce, turds, mounds, excrement, manure, dung, diarrhea, Irritable Bowels Syndrome, dingle berries, or any other poop related substances or conditions. . . . . Just thought I’d clear that shit up.

Oh, and one last thing, I like to make movie references, (besides the titles genius) and if you can correctly guess what movie, you will win a prize......Okay, not really, but I'll definitely like you more.

Monday, August 27, 2007

The Devil's Advocate

Okay folks, quick updates on some celebrity criminals . . .

Lindsay Lohan (a.k.a. freckle titty), plead guilty to nine misdemeanor charges which included her second DUI with cocaine on her person and has been ordered to serve only 24 hours in jail. Her punishment might has well have been a massage and a pedicure. Thankfully she's still on vacation in rehab, and will finally be getting better.

On a lighter note, Nicole Richie served 82 minutes in jail (1 and a half minutes per pound). That is exactly one hour and twenty two minutes, which is barely enough time to watch a movie, catch a cold, or see the last two minutes of a football game. She was released early due to overcrowding, which is quite comical considering she’s skinny enough to fit IN BETWEEN the damn bars. She reportedly blinked 6,398 times during her stay and licked a Twizzler for nourishment.

Michael Vick met with prosecutors this morning and plead guilty. As you may already know there are minimum and maximum penalties associated with the charges. As part of his plea deal, Vick agreed to assist the government in testifying in other dog fighting cases in return for a lighter sentence. Now, even though the plea agreement carries a recommended sentence from the prosecution, the federal judge has the final say on what he feels adequate punishment will be. More often than not, the judge’s decision usually coincides with the government’s requests. We’ll find out if this is the case for Vick on December 10th.

One more thing, I have something to say in regards to people who think he should be banned from the NFL for life. Although I don’t agree with what this man may have done, I also don’t agree with mercilessness. I think that he should serve his time as a result of his criminal actions as well as additional years suspended from the NFL and then be cleared to play. I think his subsequent punishment and fines should all benefit animal rights and rehabilitation. He’s already been dropped from every endorsement deal and lost millions in salary and merchandise (as he should have), but to vindictively strip away the only thing he’s ever known is vengeful, hateful, and unfair. I think he should eventually be allowed to play again, but preferably with a shock collar in case of poor performances.

Keep this in mind as well. As a convict, he will not have access to top notch training facilities and therefore will have great difficulty staying in professional athletic shape. Once released, he will have to continue training until the league suspension is served and he can be readmitted. Then, and only then, will he be able to attempt a comeback. However, you don’t just walk back onto the field and play. A team owner has to make the decision to offer you a job and that person won’t just be deciding whether or not you’re fit to play either (that’s the easy part), he’ll be deciding whether or not he wants to be the guy who offered a job to a dog killer. Vick will have to be as good as, if not better than when he left, in order for an NFL owner to conceive taking on the potential risk, and that possibility is even thinner than Nicole Richie. If people would only show the same passion in preventing child abuse, rape, illiteracy, and deforestation as they do in crucifying Vick, we all might live in a better place. Well…… at least one with more trees anyway.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Idle Hands

People often ask if my hands ever hurt or get tired and truthfully, the answer is no. On a rare occasion they can get a little fatigued as when having to massage a rhinoceros or if multiple deep tissue massages precede a few 90 minute massages back to back without a break. Otherwise, we therapists do a good job of incorporating the use of knuckles, forearms, elbows, and the base of the palm to save the fingers from not only getting tired, but for lasting an entire career.

The reason the lot of you last as long as a NASCAR pit stop when rubbing your loved ones is usually because you’re using nothing but thumb work and poor body mechanics. Instead of doing all thumb circles, next time try using the base of your palm, or the outer edge of your hand. Feel free to get creative. You can even use your forearms to apply compressions to the shoulders and back. When kneading tired muscles, use more of a grasping action with your whole hand. If the thumb is the only way to go, try bracing it with your other hand. We brace our fingers all the time to not only apply more strength, but to minimize wear and tear on individual digits. By the way, knuckles work wonders on the feet.

Just because we’re professionally trained doesn’t mean we’re above using tools either. I own a couple of hand held massagers which you can buy for five bucks at either Bath & Body Works, or Bed Bath & Beyond (they even work on the outside of clothing). I also have a few for deep tissue and trigger point work. However, those are a bit more expensive and require more skill and practice to use effectively. You can easily bruise some one, or lose an eye. Last I checked career choices are limited for pirates.

If you’re too lazy to go to a store, you can probably find a few tools to use in the kitchen. Knives, meat mallets, and blenders are good for mutilation, so stick to some big spoons, ladles, or a rolling pin to experiment with. Try not to spend too much time in the kitchen though, it may be difficult to convince your kids you’re playing doctor while mommy’s tied up and has an ice cream sundae on her crotch. “No Timmy, that’s not what popping a cherry means…”

My understanding of most relationships is that if your hands are even ON your significant other, then you’re a step ahead of the game. As long as you stay away from inflicting pain, you’ll be doing just fine. Do what comes naturally, don’t rush, and alternate your hands. Don’t worry too much if you don’t have the time or lack the creativity to give your spouse an effective rub down. After all, you can always send them to us.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Turner and Hooch

I thought I’d give you a quick update on the Michael Vick situation, just in case you haven’t heard, although I know that the majority of you are extreme animal lovers and probably just came back from a protest anyway. Here was the result of your efforts.

We’ve already established that federal courts don’t play around. With the state courts, you have a little leeway. You can probably finagle getting an Atlanta Falcon fanatic for a judge, a reasonably lenient jury, (perhaps even a few that had been bitten by dogs) and ultimately local law enforcement officers fond of misplacing or incorrectly labeling and storing evidence. No such luck with the Federal Courts.

Many of us have come to know the unfortunate atrocities that occurred at Michael Vick’s property, but what many of you may not know is that when Sir-breeds-a-lot was indicted, 3 other douche bags were as well. And as you can very well imagine, the other 3 defendants, albeit friends of his, were not upstanding, let me help you with those groceries, kind of citizens. The feds knew this and spent no time in exploiting their pasts. It took only a week for one of them to change his plea to guilty in lieu of a lighter sentence. Now we hear that the other two have finally agreed to cooperate with the government for similar deals. What this means for Vicky-poo? Not good. Basically this means that all his boys are going to sing like canaries and give up everything they know about Vick and his involvement concerning the allegations in return for mercy from the courts (Your dirty tax dollars at their best).

It’s even been rumored that the puppy slayer himself has considered a plea bargain. A source close to the investigation says that Vick has until Friday to make up his mind whether to accept a plea agreement. Otherwise a superseding indictment will be filed and Vick will face at least two more federal dog fighting charges. His lawyers are in the midst of negotiating a deal that would involve less than the year of jail time that the prosecutors have already offered. Looks like it's gonna be a maximum fine and minimum time. I’d hate to tell you I told you so. Well . . . . . not really. I have no problem saying it at all. Told you so.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Keepin the Faith

Ladies and Gentlemen, I apologize for my little hiatus, but between Guitar Hero II, baseball record breaking milestones, and breeding blood hungry Pitbulls, frankly, I’ve been a little busy.

I know you are all dying to know who the dummy of the week is, and I assure you that it will be announced shortly, but before I do I’d like to bring you up to date with some current events, just in case some of you have been hibernating in a cocoon. (I love saying that word . . . . . cocoon.) Moving on.

Lindsay Lohan was arrested again for drinking while intoxicated, this time with cocaine on her person. Apparently she still can’t afford a driver or a tan.

You would think that a person with Britney’s money could afford a wig that looked some what real. I would almost prefer it if she’d just wear one of those Jamaican hats with the fake dreads. I think one of those fake arrows would be really cute too, but some how I think that would trigger an uproar in the Native American community.

The morning show The “View” apparently got rid of one loud ass, nonsensical, fat lesbian for another one. At least Whoopi is funny though. Sometimes.

Drew Carey is now the new host of the TV show “The Price is Right” and “The Power of 10”. Because being an embarrassingly unfunny host on one show isn’t humiliating enough.

Alex Rodriguez hit his 500th home run the other night. To put that into perspective, he’s only the 22nd person in history to do so and only six of those twenty two have reached the 600 mark. A-Rod has shown interest in buying the baseball from the lucky Yankee fan who recently had to sell his house due to unemployment. He’ll now be able to afford a nice New York apartment facing a brick wall. Cha-ching!

Barry Bonds finally hit his 756th home run surpassing Hank Aaron’s all time record. I’m happy for Barry even though he isn’t the most liked athlete out there. And before people start pointing fingers concerning steroids, take a good hard look at the “holier than thou” NFL. Definitely no juicers there.

Eddie Murphy is off somewhere thinking up another horrible idea for a movie.

Tom Cruise has just prayed 3 Hail Aliens.

Now that we’re all caught up in the world, here is the dumb ass of the week . . . . . Drum roll please . . . . . The award goes to Rev. Robert Whipkey of Frederick, Colorado. As if the Catholic Church needed anymore indecent “exposure”, this ignoramus decided it was okay to go jogging naked on a high school track at 4:30 in the morning. He told officers that he sweats profusely if he wears clothing while jogging. Apparently priests are horrible liars.

When approached for questioning the quick witted Pope dawned a disguise and plugged in his ipod.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

The Fugitive

Yesterday, I found out that my sister is a fugitive of justice. I discovered her newly acquired talent last night when she called me to confess her crime. As any good brother would do, I recorded our conversation for evidence and this was her story . . . .

[my phone rings]


“Brown, have you heard?


“Oh my God,” I hear her hand slap her forehead. “You won’t believe what I did last week. I’m such a criminal!”

“Slow your roll there O.J., what happened?”

Taking a deep breath she began her explanation, “Well . . . . During an afternoon last week I was walking Lucy (her golden retriever) and as usual she was off-leash. We had already been out for a while and it was pretty hot, so we started to head back home through a park next to some running trails. As we came around a bend I noticed a park authority official getting down from her vehicle. As she descended from her truck I called Lucy over so that I could quickly attach her leash. Lucy miraculously came (which she never does) and as I snapped on the leash I looked up and noticed that the park authority lady had noticed and was already making her way towards me. As she made her sheriff-like approach she said she was going to give me a $350 ticket for walking my dog off-leash. I asked if I could get off with a warning, but she said that the county was done with the ineffective “warnings” and that she would have to issue me a ticket. She started writing furiously.”

“Uhuh”, I said listening intently.

“Well, I sure as hell didn't want to pony up $350 so I told her that I wouldn’t pay and started to walk off. What the hell was she gonna do, right? Then she said that she was going to call the police and I stopped dead in my tracks. Brown, I didn’t know what to do, I started panicking. So, I turned to her and said FINE, call ‘em! And I took off running.”

“You did WHAT?” I asked as I choked on my iced tea.

“I dunno what I was thinking, I just took off. As we ran I could hear her making a call on her walkie-talkie as she attempted to follow me while holding up the cumbersome utility belt that was obviously slowing her down. I sped through some trails and after coming around a corner I ditched my conspicuous red and white top in the bushes.

“No you didn’t”, I muttered in disbelief.

“Oh I totally did, I don’t know what came over me. I ran the rest of the way home, practically dragging poor Lucy behind me.”

“I can’t believe you, that’s fucking hilarious”.

“At nightfall, I went back and retrieved my shirt from the bushes.”

“Haha, you better not walk Lucy around that park again.”

“I know, I know, I’ve been avoiding the neighborhood altogether and I’ve even been wearing a hat all week. I told some people at work and now everyone has been calling me a criminal.”

“A criminal on the run huh? Hehehehe . . . .sorry, I couldn’t resist. Let’s just hope they don’t find out about those highlighters.”

“How’d you know about those?”

“Let’s just call it a hunch”

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

All Dogs go to Heaven

Well, I suppose I’ve been quiet long enough. Every possible form of media has covered the story, and it’s finally time for Brown to comment. As long as you promise to do the same.

First, the facts as they have been presented . . . . As you all undoubtedly have heard, Michael Vick, the starting quarterback and face of the Atlanta Falcons, has been indicted by a federal grand jury on charges of “knowingly sponsoring and exhibiting a dog fighting venture”. He is being charged with breeding dogs for the use of fighting, testing their ferocity, and executing those that lose, or found unfit for combat. After an executed search warrant, the FBI seized 66 dogs, including 55 pit bulls, and equipment typically used in dog fighting. Another search was conducted by the Department of Agriculture and they found the remains of seven dogs.

For those of you with stuffed animals, or weak stomachs, I caution you prior to proceeding. . . . According to the indictment, in April of this year about eight dogs were found not ready to fight and were killed by hanging, drowning, and/or slamming at least one dog’s body to the ground. In March of 2003 after the loss of one of Vick’s Pit bulls, one of his friends was seen consulting with him about the dog’s condition, then executed it by wetting it with water and then electrocuting it. You read correctly, the dog was hosed down and then electrocuted. The name of Vick’s K-9 enterprise was Bad Newz Kennels. No red flags there or anything. Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and drop my kids off at, “Child Molesters R’Us” day care.

Michael Vick claims to not have known what was going on at his own property. Sure, that’s like not knowing you have crabs. The commissioner of the NFL, Roger Goodell, suspended Vick today, telling him to stay away from training camp until the NFL’s own investigation was complete. Vick's arraignment is to be held on Thursday. Most professional athletes get to play during their legal issues, but no such luck for Vick (aka Ron Mexico). The comish implemented a new rule which pretty much takes you off the field until the dust settles. Furthermore, Vick’s hearing is going down in Richmond, VA, apparently the fastest paper-pushing court system in the Universe. This could go to trial in six months. That’s a shame because I rather like seeing naked PETA protesters.

Unlike every professional athlete that preceded Vick involved with legal troubles, none was ever associated with crimes so unspeakably brutal. Everyone knows why O.J. did it, but how could Vick do this to man’s best friend? I’ll tell you why, because he is trash, the scum of the earth. “Oh my, such harsh words for a man who’s yet to be proven guilty”, you say. Well, allow me to retort . . . This is no small town rape charge buddy and he isn’t being charged by some backwater district attorney either, he’s being prosecuted by the Federal Government. Federal indictments have a success rate of 90%, which means they not only do their homework, but they don’t fuck around. This makes the Duke lacrosse allegations look like second grade finger pointing.

He’s facing up to 6 years in prison and a $350,000 fine. I have a hard time believing that he’ll see any jail time, but if he does, it won’t be more than a couple anyway. Although the worst of the damage has yet to be unveiled, Vick is already in a lose/lose situation. We are a nation that loves its dogs. We look to them for companionship, protection, sport, therapy, search and rescue, guiding, guarding, hunting, law enforcement, entertainment, and even as accessories (ala celebrity dogs). Even if he is proven innocent, which is still possible, not even a Super Bowl championship will bring him redemption or forgiveness. His jersey, usually a number two best seller, has now fallen to number 33.

The fact of the matter is, even if he personally didn’t harm these animals, he not only associated himself with people who did, but provided the environment for these barbaric and inhumane acts to be carried out in. Apparently, you can take Vick out of the “hood”, but you can’t take the "stupid" out of Vick. He’s the proud recipient of this week’s, “I should have just fondled a white girl” award. Dumbass.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Dumb and Dumber

As you all know, the world’s inhabitants produce an endless supply of reality TV shows, coffee, and stupidity. From Britney to the President, even the Universe’s elite citizens aren’t devoid of premium, grade A, maximum strength, time released, triple action Stupidity. We all have fallen victim to its spell at one point or another, but usually not with fatal results.

The following stories portray recent examples of humanities luckiest idiots and of Mother Nature trying to tie up some lose ends.

Dumbass number one: British man becomes the first to swim a half a mile in the North Pole, wearing nothing but Speedos and a swim cap. Personally, when I heard about this boneheaded imbecile, I was hoping for him to emerge from the icy waters having fed one of his limbs to a killer whale. No such luck. All limbs were in tact and he was all smiles. Although they did say it took him four days to find his genitals.

Had I known of this majestically stupid plan in time, I would have constructed a mechanical Great White Shark and deployed it to the freezing waters of the North Pole to devour him. Leaving nothing but the Speedos of course.

Dumbass number two: A 50 year old man landing a plane in Kentucky said, “Fuck it, I’ll land this sumbitch without landing gear.” After skidding down the runway for a few hundred feet with enough sparks to reignite Vanilla Ice’s career coming from the planes underside, he was found unhurt.

That’s right my trustee followers, this astronomically stupid ass clown forgot to lower the plane’s specially engineered landing gear prior to descending upon the runway. He claims he was distracted by another plane taking off, because apparently that sort of thing never happens at airports.

Dumbass number three: In Ohio, a 22 year old man tried to take down a power line to steal and sell the copper inside. He was electrocuted and found dead, tangled in the wires.


Last but not least, Dumb asses 4 and 5 and winners of this weeks You Can’t Fix Stupid Award:

After overcoming testicular cancer, recent college graduate Michael and his older brother Lawrence, an Air Force Captain, decided to celebrate life by going to Pamplona, Spain to participate in the Running of the Bulls. During the most asinine tradition still in practice today, the brothers were simultaneously attacked by a 1300 lb pissed off Spanish bull on a part of the course known as "Dead Man's Curve". Michael’s leg was so severely injured that the doctors considered amputation. His half-witted brother suffered an eight inch gash to the left buttock.

Both of these pin headed buffoons nearly escaped death. Why they couldn’t just swim in the fucking North Pole with normal people, I’ll never know. For a more detailed glimpse of my true sentiment towards these senseless jerk offs who gather in the thousands to run alongside enormous bulls along narrow and enclosed streets, read my Raging Bull entry below.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Raging Bull

I usually applaud my Hispanic brethren for staying out of harms way (living in 3rd world countries where mudslides are prevalent doesn’t count either). We are never found mauled by bears, eaten by mountain lions, or crushed by unrelenting avalanches as we snowboard down mountains. We do not hand glide, race motorcycles, surf monsoons, or visit outer space. We are even hard to find in horror movies.

The reason for this is that most of us were born in a place where things outside of your house could kill you. Leopards, boars, snakes, and even ants could easily abduct, maim, or even kill unsuspecting children. At a very young age we were told stories of Chupacabras and old witches designed specifically to keep us from wondering too far into the wilderness, or out past nightfall. These “life lessons” were hard-wired into us from infancy and this knowledge grew up with us and matured as we did, into what today we call . . . . common sense, aka “street smarts” (for the brothas).

Unfortunately, the indefinite and calamitous powers of stupidity have found their ways into even the smartest of societies. Cultures rich in history and tradition prove to be susceptible to infectious attack. Among these people, the residents of Pamplona, Spain, who have been hit with a devastating outbreak of stupidity that has plagued their city for over 80 years. They are so ill-stricken with stupid that they even hold an event called “The Running of the Bulls”. Most of you have heard of this travesty, but what many of you don’t know is that many have died, and literally countless injured during the city’s festivities.

I shake my head in shame as I watch footage of people getting trampled and gored by these angry animals. Then I rewind it and laugh as I play it back in slow motion . . . . . over and over again. Maybe I’m just an insensitive prick for wanting the Bulls to trample wide eyed retards standing in the streets taunting the 900 lb beasts, or perhaps it is my twisted sense of humor that fuels the enjoyment of this carnage. Either way, I'm always happy to be entertained.

It’s not so much that I WANT the animal to inflict harm it’s just that I have no sympathy for the idiots who find themselves at its mercy on purpose. As a matter of fact, I don’t think that medical personnel should even be deployed to these events. If these jack asses can voluntarily find their way into the streets where stampeding bulls can be found, then I say they should be able to find their happy asses to the hospital as well.

Rodeo bull riders, matadors, residents of Spain, fuck it, to anyone who taunts a bull, swims with alligators, pets a strange dog, or even shakes a stick at a snake or spider . . . . You’ve been warned. I will laugh. Oh yes . . . . . I will.

p.s. MSNBC has an awesomely clear video. Just scroll down to Running of the Bulls. I've watched it 8 times already. That's your ass Mr. Postman!

Sunday, July 8, 2007

Air Force One

The coolest thing EVER happened this weekend. No, I did not get a scrotum piercing attached to a chain wallet, but I did get to massage a staff member of Air Force One! How awesome is that? Pretty cool I must say. I will not say exactly what she does though, for fear that my blog will be subjected to scrutiny from the Secret Service for having the words Secret Service and President in its paragraphs, but I will say that she has direct contact with the President and is responsible for making sure his floaties are secure in case of a water based landing.

She thought that I was so wonderful that she rebooked with me and offered to give me a tour of the plane. Okay, so she’s not really going to show me the plane, but she did say that she’d bring me a pin with little wings just like the one the President likes to wear. I tried to push for a coloring book, but she said that “W” keeps those in a safe and she’s not really sure who holds the second key. I proposed that the dog probably does, and she thought that could be a possibility, but then mumbled something about needing to get around the security pad with fingerprint identification.

I did find out that the President’s seat belt buckle actually has the presidential seal on it, as does the box of M&M’s for the small group of reporters that are allowed to be on board. I can’t really tell you what else was discussed because its G13 classified and because my screen keeps flickering (I think they're listening).

She was a most delightful client, and once again, one of the few in which I didn’t mind talking to for the majority of the session. Rest assured my faithful readers, these people are very rare and future blog entries will continue to be the normal stories depicting ungrateful clients, skin abnormalities, personality disorders, racism, flatulence, nudity, vulgar language, sex, bodily fluids, stupid people, and possibly even more sex. Because honestly, there’s a limit to how much niceness I’m willing to endure everyday at work.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Forget Paris

One of the many things I love about my job is meeting new and interesting people. People that, under normal circumstances, I would have never met and would have never had the opportunity to be enlightened by their knowledge and experiences.

As I’ve mentioned many times before, talking is not usually a customary practice during a massage, but often time you are blessed with someone in your midst that is not only extraordinary, but willing to talk to you and share a bit of who they are.

Over the years I’ve massaged people from every walk of life and from every profession. Professional bodybuilders, surfers, powerful CEO’s, criminal lawyers, politicians, professional horseback riders, singers, dancers, artists, doctors, restaurant owners, preachers, and linguists. The list goes on and on. I’ve truly been blessed to have been placed in the path of these people, if only for a little while.

Yesterday, I had a wonderful client who was a former journalist with a rich history in international business and P.R. work. She was very well traveled and we spoke in Spanish, English, and French. She talked to me about when she lived in Paris, how amazing the people in Japan were, and even about the political history of my own birth country. I was captivated by her stories and before our time was up, she had even recommended a book for me to read. She said that she’d bring it to me upon her next visit.

I’ve always been a dreamer and hopeless romantic of sorts, with aspirations to travel the world learning different languages and immersing myself completely in foreign cultures. I want to experience backpacking through Europe, walking along the Great Wall of China, and looking directly into the eyes of a curious young cheetah who’s decided to lounge on the hood of my jeep after a meal. Hiking in Tibet, Sailing in Greece, Muay Thai fights in Thailand, and carnivals in Brazil. South Africa, Australia, India, and Japan, [deep sigh] what amazing adventures I would have . . . . .

Monday, July 2, 2007

Intolerable Cruelty

Before every massage I conduct a small dialogue with clients designed to obtain pertinent medical information and to discover their expectations which will help in determining the area of focus and my course of action.

This procedure is known as the “Intake”. Basically, I ask a few simple questions like have you had any recent surgeries/injuries, do you have a medical condition that I need to be aware of, and do you have any allergies? I also ask what areas they’d like me to spend extra time on and what type of pressure they prefer. Most people say things like, “Oh I have a cut here, my neck and shoulders are killing me, and I like deep pressure”, or “I’m training for a marathon, could you please work on my calves really well?” or “My feet are extremely ticklish.” I welcome this type of information because not having it could mean the difference between a good massage and somebody kicking you in the face. This is also a good time to disclose that you have eczema, are pregnant, or have the bubonic plague.

Some people deem it necessary to use this time to divulge the most inconsequential details of their existence like how they caught their husbands with another woman and are secretly plotting his demise, or when they fell off a horse when they were 8 and now they can see spirits (I should seriously start writing some of them down). Anyway, every now and again people forget to mention the most monumentally important information like hypersensitivity to temperature, *a missing limb, or that their back is so acne ridden it resembles the surface of the moon.

One of my clients this past weekend was, for the most part, like any other. I had started this particular massage face up and worked my way from her head down to her ankles, remembering that she can’t stand having her feet touched. When she turned over, I worked on her calves, hamstrings, and glutes and then pulled the blanket down to massage her back. Now, understand that the lights are dimmed almost all the way down and since the majority of light I use to see, comes from a few flickering candles around the room, I didn’t notice anything unusual about her back at first glance. As with every massage though, what my eyes fail to see, my hands always notice. Let’s just say that it felt like massaging a gravel road. Its one thing to give a client a salt glow or sea-salt scrub, but it’s entirely different when it’s the client’s skin producing the exfoliating beads and lubricant.

Although I was sympathetic to her condition many thoughts began to flood my mind, like “Thanks for the heads up asshole”. You know we have gloves for this kind of shit, did you just think that I wouldn’t notice that your back feels like bubble wrap? Honestly people, I always warn my dentist about the 12 course meal I had right before a cleaning, don’t therapist deserve the same consideration? If you have some weird fetish where you pour sugar on your back after a bath then roll around in a colony of fire ants, by all means, that's your God given right. All I'm saying, is at least let a brotha know.

* I once went to massage a client’s arm that wasn’t there.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Dante's Peak

So, I’m chillin’ in the sauna at my gym after a particularly long day at work and a decent weight lifting session, just trying to wind down and relax. After some time passes, a guy in his twenties walks in wearing a full set of clothes. Before you know it, he walks back outside to read the mammoth sign he passed on the way in that tells you all the rules like to shower first, not to dry your dirty clothes on the rocks, not to exercise, or clip your nails, and to ONLY wear towels. As he’s reading the sign, he keeps the door open with an extended arm as if he were holding the elevator open for old Mrs. Johnson and all her cats on the fourth floor.

Now, as it’s already been established, I am not a rocket scientist. However, I am also not completely ignorant to the laws of science. This particular gym patron was completely oblivious to not only optimal sauna functionality, but also to common courtesy. Dum-dum was letting all the cold air in, and all the hot air out, thus lowering the desired temperature in the sauna and negating the very purpose of sitting inside an active volcano’s core to begin with.

After reading the rules and regulations to satisfaction, he finally found a seat at the far end of the room. The temperature eventually returned to its comfortable eyeball popping state and I was just beginning to slip back into my little realm of relaxation when for the first time in my life, I hear a sound I would never expect to hear in the sanctity of a sweat temple . . . . . a cell phone ringing. Okay, so I had gotten over the fact that shit head didn’t shower, was wearing clothes, and left the door open, but seriously, a phone?

Forgive my Spanish, but who the fuck brings a cell phone into the fucking sauna? I was in complete shock. Not only did the damn phone ring, but then he ANSWERS it and proceeds to have an entire fucking conversation IN the sauna. That's about as rude as tapping people on the shoulder with a giant dildo while they pray in church.

Well, this must have been a life and death situation you say? You would have thought the same as me. I expected him to say, “Yes Mr. President right away!” or “She’s having the baby right now?” or even “I told you it wasn’t mine!” No. He just chatted away with one of his buddies like we were all standing in line at the movies. I was so livid, but way too exhausted to say anything. I just cut my steam session short and headed home. I felt so violated.

The worst thing about this entire fiasco is that the whole time the only thing I could think about was who this motherfucker’s cell phone provider was. I can’t even get a damn signal on the second floor of the whole God forsaken building, let alone in the deep recesses of the locker room.

Looks like I need a new network. How 'bout you?

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Money Pit, part two

I have glorious news! The renovations are finally complete and I am proud to announce that I showered in my own bathroom today! The new shower head is one of those over sized ones you find in fancy hotels and the tub is all new and sparkling. The vanity is also brand new and a few inches higher (my back is thankful), with a large new sink and a faucet that allows me to fit my whole head under it (don't ask). New light fixtures were also installed with bulbs that emit powerful face-melting beams of blinding radiation. At least I can charge people for tanning.

As with most good things in my life, they are unfortunately accompanied by something not so good. Like when I started dating a nympho for the first time. Initially, things were wonderful. Sex was spontaneous, crazy, and occurred in multiples . . . . . unfortunately, so was her personality. As I was saying, about the good and the bad, now that I have a newly renovated bathroom, the garbage disposal decided that it was going to spew forth everything it ate for the past couple of months (I knew that femur was going to cause problems), have a massive myocardial infarction, and die.

Apparently, there had been a clog in the pipes since the early 1900’s and I had to call the bathroom renovation guy back to gut out everything under the kitchen sink and replace it with shiny new internal organs. Since the kitchen sink also appeared to have a weak bladder, the flooring to the cabinets had to be replaced as well.

New kitchen sink parts . . . . . . $60

6 hours of labor . . . . . . . . . . . . . $240

Being able to continue dismembering stupid people in the privacy of my own home . . . . . . . . . priceless!

Now I'm just waiting for the A/C unit to submit it's letter of resignation and to be instantly incinerated by a lightning bolt.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Money Pit

So, I’m having my bathroom renovated right now, and frankly my house looks like Martha Stewart and Snoop Dog had a crack party over the weekend.

I hired this guy, (a referral from a friend) who is well known in the area for timely and trustworthy work. I’ve purchased all the materials and he is only charging me for the labor. Anyway, I went out of town this past weekend and he assured me that upon my return, I’d have a fully functioning bathroom and that he’d put the finishing touches (tile and paint) throughout the rest of week. Well, when I arrived home on Sunday afternoon, not only was the bathroom not functioning, but homeboy made the house look like Hurricane Katrina paid a visit. Apparently there were a couple of snags. One which involved breaking my beautiful, very detailed, very expensive, hand carved dragon in the next room and the other which turned my carpet into a murder scene. To his credit, the bathroom does looks beautiful I just can’t shower in it yet. It’s kind of like dating a supermodel that you can’t have sex with.

Yesterday, I had to go to the gym at the booty crack of dawn just to take a shower. Today, I was able to use the bath tub, but still not the shower, which is as helpful to me as having two left thumbs. I hadn’t taken a bath since I had floaties and crayons. Bath tubs are nice and all when you have those spacious Jacuzzi tubs. Mine however, is of the standard variety and I, by the way, am a tall ass man. As a matter of fact, my shower head protrudes from the wall just a few inches from the ceiling for cranial clearance. Most people’s shower head hits me in the fucking neck and I have to do the mambo to wash my hair. A tall guy in a little tub, sort of looks like a Great Dane in the kitchen sink. Not to mention, the whole concept of swimming in the nastiness you’ve already washed off doesn’t seem very appeasing to me unless there are bubbles and champagne involved (two things I’ve sworn off before work).

Captain Jack is supposed to be over today to remedy the shower situation. Let’s hope everything runs smoothly or he’ll be swimming with the fishes.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

The Replacements

Last night I was hoopn’ it up a local church (J.C. loves basketball) that I play at a couple of nights a week. There wasn’t as large a turn out as usual, and I also found out that my buddy who runs the program, a six foot four Canadian Preacher (yes God does work in mysterious ways) had torn his ACL and will have surgery in a few weeks. Now, I can only imagine what unbearable pain that must be . . . . . . . but surely he’s come to terms with being Canadian by now. Hehehehehe . . . . I’m just kiddin’. He did say that he hurt himself playing ball and when it happened, it felt like someone had stabbed him in the knee with a hot poker. Carajo. I assured him that it wouldn’t affect him getting lap dances when we go out for beers next weekend.

Usually we ball for at least two and a half hours, but as the night went on, our numbers dwindled down until we didn’t have enough for five on five anymore. So, my boy lil Tim suggested we hit a local pick up game at another church down the street. He said he had some peeps that played there and lucky for us, they were still balln’. My excitement to continue playing that night quickly dwindled as we approached the court and I noticed that just about everyone there was a good ‘ol boy.

Now, it’s already been established that I am not a racist. . . . . I despise everyone equally. Well . . . okay. . . .stupid people definitely get the brunt of my wrath, but besides that, my desire to relentlessly choke people to death and feed them to sharks is just about evenly distributed among every body else. However, those of you who’ve ever played basketball with a bunch of rednecks knows that their form of basketball, is more like football without pads. I’m not totally unfamiliar with violently bashing someone’s head against the ground in a mindless rampage for sport, but when I want to play football . . . I play football. It was too late to leave though, we were recruited on the spot.

As what usually happens at events like these, guys feel as though they need to establish dominance. They must have thought because I wasn’t one of them, (or as big) that they were going to walk all over me. Little did they know, I can play rough with the best of them. And as usual, in these types of situations, when you start whoopin’ ass and making a whole bunch of people look stupid, tensions start to rise. The shoving became more intense, the fouls became a little more flagrant, and the trash talking was at an all time high.

To sum up a long story, my shirt got ripped in half and I almost had to hand out a beat down in a church. Let me repeat that one more time. The guy that had the unfortunate job of having to guard me all night, wanted to fight me, in church, because when I made the third game winning shot in his face, I told him to go home. That’s right, I made the bucket in his eye, and I said, “GO HOME”. Just as I had done a hundred times before, on a hundred different courts, against a hundred more difficult opponents. Apparently he didn’t appreciate looking foolish. So, he tried to step to me. It took every ounce of my being not to deliver a sharp blow to his temple with my elbow then proceed to beat his ass with my Jordans, but I thought better of it and walked away. I paid a lot of money for those shoes, and besides, who in their right mind gets into fisticuffs in church?

I seriously don’t think I had ever been more tempted in my life. Except for that one Halloween party when I made out with both Catwoman and slutty Snow White at the same time. We all know how that ended. And my friends laughed when I said I wanted to go as the Trojan on the box of condoms.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Brewster's Millions

Oftentimes professional athletes, coaches, celebrities, and radio personalities end up saying things they regret and are forced to make a public apology. Among these groups, athletes are usually the most frequent offenders, and almost always end up on TV a few days later with their tail between their legs asking for forgiveness and saying that they didn’t mean any ill will.

Usually these statements are issued because a) they realize they are going to lose tons of money when fans stop buying their merchandise, b) they realize they are going to lose tons of money when the league fines them, and c) they realize how much money they’ll lose when they’re suspended for a few games. I can pretty much guarantee that 99% of all public apologies from professional athletes are insincere, entirely forced, and devoid of compunction. I can also guarantee that one particular player will not be making any such apologies nor will he be facing any form of punishment, monetary or otherwise.

For years players have apologized for getting into fights, corking bats, saying they hate gays, for making obscene gestures to fans, and for taking steroids. Enter the biggest racist jackass of professional sports, Gary Sheffield. In an interview with GQ magazine, the Detroit Tigers slugger claimed that Latin players have replaced Blacks as baseball’s most prevalent minority because they are easier to control.

“I called it years ago. What I called is that you’re going to see more black faces, but there ain’t no English going to be coming out . . .[It’s about] being able to tell Latin players what to do – being able to control them, “he told the magazine.

Where I’m from, you can’t control us. You might get a guy to do it that way for a while because he wants to benefit, but in the end, he is going to go back to being who he is. And that’s a person that you’re going to talk to with respect, you’re going to talk to like a man.

These are the things my race demands. So, if you’re equally good as this Latin player, guess who’s going to get sent home?

Wow! I am absolutely repulsed and disgusted. Basically what he’s trying to say is that Latin players are grateful, professional, hardworking people who can follow directions while blacks are insubordinate, selfish, thugs who demand things they can’t define, or give in return. Thank you for setting me straight buddy. I totally respect you now.

The reason there are more Hispanics in baseball is the same reason that most rappers are black, or that soccer is dominated by Latinos, because it’s a part of our culture, you half twitted cock wart. What difference is there between the black kid and the Hispanic kid using what they’ve been exposed to as a means of exiting the city projects, or the slums of their underdeveloped country? What are his theories for why there aren’t more Hispanics in the NBA, NFL, or even in hockey? I’ll tell you, most Latinos aren’t tall, most Spanish speaking countries cannot afford all of the equipment necessary for football, and news flash you diseased rhinoceros pizzle. . . . .we don’t like the fucking cold.

Another thing that pisses me off, is that this isn’t the first time Sheffield has said this bigoted bullshit and walked away unscathed. If a white player said some ignorant shit like this, there’d be a lynching party for sure. And Gary would be the first in line with the rope. Well, right behind Al Sharpton anyway.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

The Sound of Music

Last night I met up with some friends at a local bar that was having karaoke night. No, I did not go there to sing, but I did go because the entertainment was free and one of the bartenders is also a client of mine. So, I get a few drinks here and there for free. I’m sure that violates some sort of secret ethical massage code, but judging by some of the singing that went on in that place, my transgressions were minuscule in comparison.
Apparently, alcohol makes people think they are Whitney Houston, or that they've met you before. (I spent a good 40 minutes of my night trying to convince this chick from El Salvador, that she didn't know me.)

The highlight of the evening (besides when this one guy who looked like Jesus sang "Pour some sugar on me") was when some skinny kid stepped on stage, acting goofy and sang, “Suck on my chocolate salty balls”. I literally laughed my ass off. He gyrated, danced, and even did quite a bit of testicular manipulation while on stage. It was very unexpected and to be completely honest, it made the time I spent in that shit hole collecting cancerous tar on my lungs actually worth while.
I knew right then, that not only was this to be my new theme song, but I might even be stepping on stage myself sometime soon.

I mean……

that kid obviously needs a partner.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Dead Poet's Society

I was on the toilet yesterday, as I often am (damn protein shakes), and since I was devoid of reading material, I was forced to scan the shiny interior of my aluminum confinement to pass the time. I found nothing out of the ordinary really. A chrome coat hanger on the back of the squeaky door, a barf bar (as I like to call them), to my left, a toilet paper dispenser, but when my eyes reached the right panel, I immediately knew that I was in for a treat.

On this day, I did not find the more common, and unthoughtful “Mike was here” cliché carved into the metal, or a phone number written with a sharpie in case I want a good time. There was no innocuous juvenile scribbling, or even some good old fashion graffiti. No, no, no. I knew that I wouldn’t be let down by public bathroom’s finest literary authors. The artwork upon which my gaze did fall, was nothing less than a quaint restroom poem. Oh how exciting, I thought, a fellow poet. (If enough of you show interest, I will gladly post some.) This particular poem read as follows:

Here I sit with a completely broken heart,
For 2 days I tried to shit, but alas, could only fart.
Now, I hang my head in defeat and shame,
While my poor ass lights the bathroom aflame.
So, upon this porcelain pot I stoop,
In the hopes that one day I’ll finally poop.

Wun Hung Low

An enthusiastic passerby retorted:

One hung low in your Momma’s mouth bitch!

Ah yes........... that’s more like it.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007


Howdy Y’all. I hadn’t put anything up the past couple of days, because I was in the Lone Star State, attending my cousin Big M's wedding over the weekend. It was held at an absolutely gorgeous garden-like venue overlooking a glistening lake, embedded in the rolling green hills. We were surrounded by a plethora of flowers and various plant life that swayed in the afternoon’s breeze with Sade’s voice in the background.

It was certainly a little different than most weddings I’ve attended, as everyone was casually dressed, and we were sitting outside melting under the sun’s unrelenting glare. I didn’t know it was being held outside (or that is was casual). So, I was wearing a tan suit with a black shirt and was so hot that I felt like a human tiki torch. Thankfully the actual length of the ceremony was shorter than in the bud light commercial with the auctioneer for a preacher. I never thought I’d be so happy that two people weren’t religious, or that I had forgotten to wear underwear.

For the weekend’s festivities we rented two huge houses on a huge resort, next to a huge lake(apparently everything in Texas is huge), to accommodate my astronomically large family. We had a complimentary golf cart to shuttle people between the two locations since they were a little over a mile apart. I like golf carts, but as I discovered, you should never drive them naked after 15 margaritas.

I love when the family gets together. For Hispanics this means tons of sinfully delicious food, good music, dancing, games, and stories. And of course, with so many cousins, nieces, and nephews around, this inevitably creates the perfect blueprint for my many pranks, or for someone losing an eye. This time nobody lost body parts, but one sister cut so many jalapenos that she did have to ice her fingers for 6 hours. [sniff, sniff]

We attended a BBQ on Thursday night and the party rehearsal dinner was on Friday night. It was a typical family reunion, with the elders telling stories and me trying to find out how many fajitas I could eat before exploding. I also drank so much sangria that I was running around slapping everyone on the ass saying, “good game!”

One of my cousins, who’s notorious for hooking up with beautiful women, even though he still lives with his mom, decided to go for broke and bring a stripper to the wedding who has a five year old son (and a peculiar belly rash). Now, I definitely don’t have anything against stripper moms, (God knows that my uncle Jerry is a wonderful mom), but this particular girl was definitely not the pick of the litter. I’m not even concerned with the fact that she got beat with an ugly stick. What’s entirely worse is that she is as crass and as unrefined as people get. At one point, she dipped some chips into the ENTIRE bowl of salsa, leaning her head over it as she ate, while little chunks of food fell from her mouth (she was gracious enough to put her other hand under her chin). I watched in horror as she desecrated my Aunt's holy salsa. Afterwards, she scratched her belly and I half expected her to lift her leg and let out a resounding fart (as I had a few moments earlier).

I suppose every one’s lucky streak runs out eventually, although I think my cousin might be under some weird stripper spell (or he could just be hypnotized by her gigantic breasts). Either way, he’s in for the long haul, because he decided to make a DNA deposit and now they’re going to have little stripper babies. I’m not a big fan of polluting the gene pool, but I suppose it’s better than getting syphilis.

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

Mystic Pizza

So, I stumbled upon this awesome pizza joint a few weeks ago, and now I visit the place like it were giving away free speakers full of crack. It’s called Big Bite, (I originally thought it was a strip joint) and let me tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten better pizza. The ingredients are fresh and hearty. The crust isn’t too soft or too crispy, it’s not too oily, or gush out tomato paste when you bite into it. You can eat it regular style, or fold it in half for more efficient consumption and quite frankly, the slices are . . . .well . . . .BIG!

I don’t think words can do justice to just how heavenly this pizza really is. When biting into a hot slice your eyes slowly roll into the back of your head while a thick string of cheese stretches and fights to stay together. As you chew, a smorgasbord of tastes explode in your mouth in perfect, juicy symphony. Your taste buds receive the bursting cornucopia of flavor and transmit electrical impulses to your brain, describing in explicit detail, every magnificent sensation. A frosty beverage meets your lips and cools your mouth as it washes the remnants of tasty pizza down to your waiting stomach. The wind blows through your hair, goosebumps decorate your skin, and fireworks illuminate the sky. I think I need to change my underwear.

Damn good pizza I say. Damn good.

Monday, May 7, 2007

Weekend at Bernie's

Wow, what an exciting weekend! Lots of really wonderful things happened. It was Cinco de Mayo, the Yankees signed The Rocket, expensive horses ran in circles, De La Hoya and Mayweather fought, Spider Man 3 debuted, 18,000 Mexicans got naked for a picture, and it was my birthday (unfortunately their weren’t that many naked people, but I did manage to grab a few asses).

All in all, I must honestly say it was one of the best birthday celebrations I’ve ever had. I think it even trounces the pool party when I turned seven and infamously ended up having to get seven stitches over my right eyelid. I learned that day what it feels like to get strapped to a giant surf board with a neck brace while a doctor tries to suture a wound that you passionately feel doesn’t need any medical attention, regardless of the 2 pints of blood you’ve already decorated the shiny hospital floors with being carried to the O.R. while screaming bloody murder.

I even got some wonderful gifts too. My favorite cologne, some great movies, tickets to a comedy club, money, and enough gift cards to forget what cash looks like for a while. I’m extremely indecisive though, so I usually don’t like to receive gift cards. I’ll end up going to a store and spending insanely amounts of time trying to decide between two different ipod alarm clocks or two pairs of shoes. I hate feeling like I didn’t get a good deal, because what usually happens is I’ll end up talking to someone who stumbled upon a magnificent sale, which included surround sound speakers and blow job. I’ll curse the heavens, write morbid poetry, and fall into a deep depression for failing to find out where this deal was being offered, because everyone knows how much men love a good . . . . .

set of surround sound speakers.

Thursday, May 3, 2007

Flash Dance

People often ask me if I ever get hit on, the answer is yes (well c’mon I’m brown). It’s just that women possess more couth than men and are usually much more subtle with their flirtations. I suppose it would be a little difficult to ignore an erection tenting towards the sky though. (They actually train you for those situations in school.) I haven’t had anyone wave a penis at me like a Louisville Slugger yet, but I hear it happens.

Believe it or not, sprouting wood is an absolutely normal reaction to a massage (I have one every ten minutes), so you can’t automatically assume that you’re being propositioned for sex. The ones you have to worry about are the ones who start writhing around and moaning excessively, or purposefully trying to rub against you. Then there are the more straight forward types who just come right out and ask you (you have to applaud their balls, I...uh... mean, bravery). Now, I work in an upscale spa, so people don’t try shit like that, but we did have this one guy that none of the girls ever wanted to “deal” with. He didn’t speak English (how convenient), and during the massage he would somehow manage to expose himself. After his first offense, the girls just thought it was a harmless accident (clients do expose themselves from time to time, but I’ll get more into that in a sec). After his third game of “peek-a-boo”, nobody thought it was funny, and he was asked not to come back. Dumbass.

I do have this one client who’s an absolute riot. She’s one of the few who’ll talk most of the massage, but she’s so entertaining that I don’t mind. The really funny thing is that she’s a criminal defense lawyer, so she has all these hilarious stories about how she will straight up tell her clients that they’re going to jail, then go out and have a few drinks. The only thing is…… she’s a flasher. The first time it happened, it was no big deal. Like I said before it happens on occasion, but let me be absolutely clear, it's NEVER a therapist error. With her, I'm just not so sure it's happenstance anymore.

Well, miss flasher is extremely well endowed, which is already difficult to deal with. She loves to help herself when it comes to changing positions, never waiting for my assistance, and often flashing a nipple (kind of like how mobsters nonchalantly open the side of their suit jackets to show their gun, as if to say try me). She also gets up on her elbows when prone (facing down), to ask me a question revealing her large, chocolate . . . ahem . . . (I guess I shouldn’t tell her I’m an ass man huh?) Anyway, knowing her, she’s probably just toying with me, or it is totally possible that she’s just really ditzy and can’t follow directions. For as well as she tips, I’ll just pretend the latter.

I’ve had other incidences of brief displays of nudity, usually from foreigners. I’ve come into the room after explaining precisely what to do, only to find the client buck nekkid lying on top of the sheets. Personally, I think the opposite is funnier. I’ve had a few people lying on top of the blanket in full bra and panties, and I’ve even had a couple of knuckleheads get under the sheets wearing the fucking robe. People never cease to amaze me.

Monday, April 30, 2007

Soak This

This weekend was unusually slow for me at the Spa. On one hand it was nice to attend to some things around the house, but of course if I’m not working that means I’m not adding to my retirement (or at least to a set of those spinning rims from Walmart). We had our first week of warm weather and I think people are starting to get out more to enjoy the outdoors and a little bit of sun.

It can be difficult to know sometimes whether or not you’re going to be really busy. Some weekends I’ll have 9 or 10 appointments, and sometimes there will only be half that. There are days when you have four clients booked, but two end up canceling at the last minute. And similarly, there are times when you suspect a slow day and you’ll get a couple of walk-ins. You take the good with the bad (kind of like blowjobs, they’re nice and all, but nobody likes teeth.)

The one thing I hate more than cancellations though, are when people show up late. I certainly have compassion for the ones that are sincere and apologetic, it’s the ones that act like your time (and that of your other clients) isn’t as important as theirs, that get under my nice caramel skin. Keep in mind, when you show up late, I’m forced to make a decision. Do I dock you the time you were late and risk you being upset, or give you the entire session and get behind for the rest of the day? What do you think happens?

You’re requested to show up 15 minutes prior to your appointment, which is standard operating procedure for just about every place of business in the entire health industry known to man; the dentist (that bastard), your family physician, the chiropractor, the va-jay-jay doctor, so on and so forth. The spa is no different, except that we ask you to be early not only to fill out the intake form, but also because with each massage you are given a complimentary foot soak treatment with bath salts and aromatherapy oils. Trust me, the foot bath is just as much for me as it is for you. I can’t tell you how many times someone’s walked around all day in the heat of summer in their sweaty ass shoes only to come in late, miss the foot soak, and leave me to deal with fermented toe jam fumes for an hour. [takes a deep breath] Aaaahh . . . . summer’s right around the corner!

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Look Who's Talking

I was recently asked by a few readers about whether or not I talked when giving a massage and I thought this would be a good time to address it. Believe it or not, this is one of the more popular questions concerning my line of work, right next to “Happy Endings” (yeah, yeah, laugh it up jackass) and "Do your hands ever hurt?". Basically the only talking I do during a massage, besides responding to a client’s questions, is asking them if the pressure is okay and to let them know when I’m going to apply hot towels to their body (which feels heavenly by the way).

Otherwise, I’m a firm believer in NOT talking during a massage. You paid good money to come to me for relaxation, stress relief, and alleviation of pain. Other people get paid to talk. Prior to the session, I take your medical history (in case we have sex), and ask a few other questions like what areas you’d like extra attention to and what type of pressure you like. I also inquire into the type of work and activities you do, to get a better understanding of where I might find issues and how to resolve them. Other than that, once we’ve started, I’ll let you know when to flip, when to take a few deep breaths, and when to expect my balls on your forehead (just making sure you’re still paying attention).

Some people do get nervous (mostly the first-timers), and a little chit chat usually sets them at ease. I’m familiar with this process and am pretty good at making people feel comfortable. So, I have no reservations with engaging in a little small talk. Once the massage gets started though and they have an idea of what to expect, they eventually relax and let me do what I do best, which is making you melt.

Every now and then you do get somebody who just won’t shut the hell up. Let’s not confuse these people with my regulars who know me well and initiate a little friendly conversation, (usually during the beginning of the massage). The real “hardcore” talkers don’t interpret your short answers as you prefer silence and wouldn’t mind gagging them with a towel and setting them ablaze like a human bonfire. Oh no, they take your lack of participation as a mere invitation to continue talking about meaningless shit. I’ve had people run their mouths for the entire 60 minutes even while face down with my elbow embedded in their back. I’m pretty gregarious and love good conversation as much as the next guy, but for the love of oxygen consumption, (and my sanity), put a fucking lid on it. I've even had a couple clients thank me for being quiet, explaining that their old therapist wouldn't stop blabbing. That's all the reassurance I need.