Friday, October 17, 2008

I Again Hate Morris Albert

As some of you know, thanks to the gift-certificate-based kindness of [non]strangers, I take a massage every few weeks.


[by the way, note the intentional pretension of the verb "take." And imagine the object of the sentence pronounced "MASS-ahj," rather than "muh-SAHJ". . . . back to our regularly-scheduled post]



My regular masseuse got a big grin when I walked in, and went over to the music station, scrolling and punching through her iPod. She placed it back in the cradle. It was silent. I forgot about it, and prepared for my massage.

When she returned, she struck "play."

I got a 90-minute loop of various [at least five or six] recordings of the song Feelings.



My advice?

Don't mix humour with massage therapy.

1 comment:

Mister Parker said...

That's not a massage, bub, that's torture and is strictly prohibited by the Geneva Convention. If I were you, I'd report her to The Hague ...

Or else send her resume to Guantanamo Bay.