Study: Cute Pics Improve Work Skills

Study: Cute Pics Improve Work Skills

Seriously? People invested time and money on this ridiculous study, while people die of cancer and battle a litany of chronic ailments. Doesn't Japan have more pressing matters to attend to like whale poaching, tsunamis, and, oh I don't know, nuclear radiation leeching into their food and water sources?

Here's a brilliant idea, instead of wasting company resources by surfing the web and looking at pictures, how about getting back to work. How about that?

Alright, so maybe the kitten's cute, and maybe there's some microscopically inexplicable link to looking at cute pictures of babies or other portrayals of random cuteness, and temporarily improved dexterity on an operation game set. But I doubt we need actual surgeons ogling over puppies right before surgery in hopes of enhancing surgical performance. I'd rather they stick to reading my fucking medical chart and x-rays, but that's just me. I can be a little picky at times.

The study also concluded that cute features induced careful behavioral tendencies, "which is beneficial in specific situations, such as driving..." Driving? How the hell did they test that? It didn't seem to prevent the girl with the little Dachshund in her lap from texting and subsequently swerving into my lane (twice) during rush hour traffic this morning.

Then again, I did manage to write an entire blog post today. Shit, maybe it does work...

Southern Comfort

I recently read a friend's blog post where she had confessed to reading an article that suggested Southern manners shouldn't be taught to children because they are demeaning given their historical context. This immediately made me think of similar complaints that we tend to hear in more frequency during the holidays.

The idea of not teaching children manners is unfathomable to me. It points to a fundamental problem with society; not only people's aversion to teaching discipline and respect if it has any relation to religion or an undesirable historical context, but also to an egotistical and illusory concept of entitlement masked by a desire for political correctness.

Look, I say yes ma'am and no sir, because it's how I was raised to show respect to my elders, strangers, and to those for whom I work. If you find it offensive, express that to me and I shall refrain from saying it to you, out of respect. But to get enraged because it was said to begin with, or for you to want such practices eliminated from a child's upbringing because you are so vehemently insecure, hyper-sensitive, think the world should bend to your will, or because they have some historical context which you find offensive is a little ridiculous.

Unfortunately, most of our history as a race is littered with war, slavery, death, slaughter, and sacrifice, but from those ashes and from that bloodshed we have emerged, evolved, and hopefully gleaned the positive to pass on to future generations. It's inconceivable to me that people continue to hold on to the past and to victimize themselves and entire groups of people. Everything we do today has roots in some pagan ritual, some form of organized religion, some travesty, a rite of passage, or as a result of overcoming adversity in order to survive. Perhaps we should get rid of Thanksgiving because Indians were killed and Christmas because, God forbid, there's a baby involved who was believed to be a forgiver of sin. While we're at it, let's stop calling our country America because, for all intents and purposes, its a term mired in the genocide of indigenous people.

Okay, so perhaps Christopher Columbus day is a little stupid. I'll give you that. But I am going to continue opening doors, offering my seat, wishing people a Merry Christmas, saying yes and no Ma'am, and eventually teach my children to do the same. I would venture to say that anyone who takes offense to such trivial cultural gestures of politeness has issues far beyond what can be fixed by the mere elimination of them. I don't get offended when a Japanese person bows as he greets me, when Muslims witness Ramadan, or when the Chinese celebrate the new year a month after the rest of the world has, and do so in the name of warding off a mythical lion who apparently is afraid of loud noises and the color red. Who would have thought?

In the spirit of good will, peace, and family, I think we should embrace each other's cultural differences and spread good intention and cheer, regardless of why or how we came to do such things. In the end, we can't change our origins anyway, we can however choose to take these opportunities to share in the merriment, company, and joy of others, whether there is a nativity scene under a tree or the faint glow of a Menorah's candles on a mantelpiece. In either case, I'll be having a few drinks.....I hope that doesn't offend you.

When regular porn just won't cut it...

I've always wanted to skydive...it just never occurred to me that I could do it while having sex. I suppose for some people, the thrill of jumping out of a plane isn't enough; apparently, neither is good old fashioned, regular, wholesome porn either. According to MSNBC.com, a porn star in California, who also happens to be a skydiving instructor, thought it would be a good idea to jump out of a plane while having sex with the secretary. No, I'm not joking, you can check it out for yourselves here. Although my imagination has been known to conjure up some rather fanciful and outlandish ideas, I regretfully admit that this would have never crossed my mind. (Well, okay, the secretary yes, but not quite in that context) I can understand why a person capable of doing porn would have come up with such an idea, especially one that moonlights as a skydiving instructor, but an innocent, mild mannered administrative professional? 

According to the article, the local police department has issued a statement about the incident saying that there are no criminal charges pending. Apparently, the creators of the indecent exposure and public nudity laws were not insightful enough to include sexual acts that occur at high altitudes. I wonder how this makes people in Nepal feel? I find this mildly amusing because, to my knowledge, temperatures at higher altitudes generally aren't conducive to blood flow, and anyone who's ever had sex while a fan was blowing on them, (don't ask) knows that personal lubricant is absolutely necessary. I'm assuming that a porn star would be privy to this information and would have been thoroughly prepared, but what kind of calculations might one need in order to figure out the wind to lubricant ratio before some serious chaffing takes place? See, I told you my imagination was robust. I bet you didn't think of that did you? I mean, if you're going to do it, you may as well do it right.

I have a feeling that we're not going to see the end of this skydiving tomfoolery. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we see a commercial in the near future advertising personal lubricant potent enough for even the craziest of adventure seeking genitals. I may have been beaten to the punch on the whole skydiving thing, but that commercial idea is all mine. 

King of Popping Pills...

Apparently Michael Jackson is still capable of taking over the media with his escapades even in the afterlife. Schamone! I was listening to the radio coverage of Dr. Conrad Murray’s trial, the physician who was administering potent sedatives to the King of Pop, and in my professional opinion, something is seriously amiss.

The doctor is being charged with neglect and involuntary manslaughter, and what I find interesting is that the defense’s case is Michael Jackson killed himself by taking a bunch of pills after the doctor had left the room. Now, I’m not a lawyer, forensic scientist, or even a criminal justice major, but neither am I an idiot. If a doctor is supposed to be keeping a close eye on patient who is taking powerful sedatives leaves a room, and keeps a bunch of medicine within arm’s reach of that barely coherent patient so that an overdose is possible, then that in my mind is the very definition of neglect.

Providing in home patient care with medications administered only in hospitals without the presence of medical staff is already dangerous and requires extra degrees of vigilance. The mere fact that the doctor left the room under the circumstances underscores gross neglect and medical malpractice. Conrad Murray violated the first tenet of the Hippocratic Oath, which is to do no harm, regardless of whether the defense’s proposition that Michael committed suicide is true or not.

To top it all off, neither when the medics arrived on the scene, nor when MJ was taken to the hospital did Conrad disclose the medications in the patient's system. I don't know whether or not that could have made a difference at that juncture, but that is far from the point. Everyone knows that by telling doctors what medications are present in the body increases the chances of survival and minimizes the chances of administering a lethal combination of meds. How is it that Conrad had two opportunities to do this, but let it slip his mind?

Morning Glory

So, I woke up at 7:30 a.m. this morning. Now, I realize that for many of you this may be a common practice, and may even be a lifestyle preference. However, for those of us who work in the dark cavernous bowels of a spa, and who have a genetic predisposition to laziness, this time may as well be when Satan comes to Earth with legions of demons and proceeds to possess people’s souls. At least it would explain why so many people are grouchy in the morning.

Interestingly, however, what I do find when I’m fortuitously awoken around this time, is that I am amazingly productive. I know, I know, how more paradoxical could I really be? Lazy and productive. Talented and unmotivated. Look, I don’t make the rules, and quite frankly, I had nothing to do with the ingredients that make up this tall cup of enigmatic, sexy, chocolate, deliciousness…I just play the game like everybody else. 


In any event, life is not without its little ironies. That's what makes it all worthwhile right? So, in the truest fashion of blatant epiphanies, I realized that midnight may not be my muse after all, but her sister who I call the Dawn Duchess. Not as fickle or as mischievous as her sultry twin, the Duchess apparently keeps inspiration in her back pocket like a folded twenty you find after slipping on a pair of jeans before you go out. Pure awesomeness. I've cleaned, done laundry, had breakfast, scanned the headlines, birthed an idea for a poem, AND started this post all before the time I usually curse my alarm and wipe the sleep from my eyes. I feel energized and my hands are a blur. I'm back in the saddle baby! Well, at least until my espresso wears off... 

Wall Street

Extortion – (noun) the act of securing money, favors, etc. by intimidation or violence; blackmail.

As I entered my local grocery store, I noticed a Hispanic couple huddled around the Red Box movie dispenser as if it were a campfire. The wife was in pajamas, with a bright pink, fleece blanket draped over her shoulders like a homeless person, speaking into a cell phone. I momentarily imagined her children on the other end, relaying whether or not they had seen particular titles.

After I had concluded my shopping for the night, I patiently stood in line, curiously surveying my immediate surroundings. The man in front of me kindly put the little plastic partition behind his food items, as if to invite me to unload my basket, and give my arm a reprieve (later, I would more appropriately guess that the man was putting the partition on the belt as if to say, I’m not paying for your food you poaching hoodlum).

As the cashier was totaling the man’s purchase, he asked the shopper if he would like to donate to people with disabilities. At hearing this, the man scoffed and berated the boy for extorting money out of him. The cashier innocently claimed that he was told to ask all the guests for such a donation, while the old man angrily grabbed his bags and scurried off into the night.

When it was my turn to be extorted, I happily volunteered the requisite dollar, and smiled at the kid who was still a little shaken after the interaction with the man who hates the handicapped. I thought about the grocery store showdown as I left, passing the couple still hogging up the movie rental machine, oblivious to the idea that someone else may want to rent a movie. I thought about the oppressive, extortionist, regime we have as our government, and how wonderful life may be if only thousands had sacrificed their lives to ensure that their descendants could live in a time where they were free enough to simply say no to people asking for money.

Personally, I’m thankful that the pet store, and grocery store ask me for donations. I find it convenient that helping others can be so easy. To be completely honest, if they didn’t ask, I probably would never find the time to do it on my own. I can see where people might feel as though being asked in public can be uncomfortable, or even inappropriate, but it is hardly extortion. On the other hand, using intimidation techniques in order to use the movie kiosk had definitely crossed my mind.

Snatch

I have a slew of blog posts that are eagerly waiting to be published and enjoyed by my thousands hundreds many two readers, but after perusing today's headlines, I knew that the following story took precedence. Along with my admiration for breasts, most of you know that I revere animals as well. Oftentimes, holding them in even higher regards than most humans; particularly the stupid ones. Case in point, Jessica Simpson.

CNN.com reports that a wild coyote snatched Jessica Simpson's beloved maltipoo, Daisy, then vanished whence it came. While certainly a tragedy, this event simply reinforces my belief that dogs weren't meant to be bred for toting around in purses. To add insult to injury, Jessica Simpson, in all her infinite wisdom, is offering a reward for anyone who can reunite her with her little dog carcass. Someone needs to tell her that her dog was pretty much dead the second it was abducted. To my knowledge, coyotes aren't the type of scavengers to bestow a pardon to their prey. Anything dubbed a maltipoo, was destined to be low on the food chain anyway. Many of her fans showed their support via Twitter, hoping that the star would eventually find her pooch. Apparently, her fans are just as bright as she is. Sorry Jess, should have gotten a Rottweiler.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

I had a disconcerting experience today while I picked up a few things at a local store. After I had located my desired items and deposited them in the bacteria infested cesspool of a shopping basket, I headed towards the open cashier to pay. As I began placing the items on the counter, I received a phone call from work and had to answer it being that I could be getting called in to rub rich people. (I'm still waiting for the call to work on Jessica Alba)

As I answered the phone, the cashier asked me if I had a store card which I promptly began locating on my key chain when she just about took the keys from my hand, as if I were performing surgery and lacked sufficient concentration to delegate to her request. (mind you, there were no other customers behind me) As I answered a few questions from my manager, I heard the woman bark the total of my bill. I retrieved two twenty's and before I could even extend my arm to pass her the money, she spitefully snatched it from my hand as she exclaimed (loudly), "So rude!"

Dumbfounded, I drew a breath, looked around, and then placed the phone aside and said, "Excuse me?"

"It's so rude to talk on the phone while I'm trying to talk to you," she responded.

I drew another breath to simultaneously gather my thoughts and calm myself before responding. During the the nanoseconds of nerve synapses in my brain, I pondered whether I would give this woman an intelligent, well thought out, eloquent verbal assault, or get medieval on her ass. I decided that although she was wrong in execution, she was right in principal. Ultimately, I figured a mild retort to her inappropriate behavior towards a customer, coupled with an acknowledgement of her frustration, would be the best way to go.

"Ma'am, I apologize for talking on the phone; I realize that it was rude. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have answered, but it was an important call from work so I had no choice. However, snatching money from my hand was vehemently uncalled for and tactless."

I don't think she was expecting my reaction. In fact, she was probably expecting me to get ghetto on her or something. After she picked up her jaw, she said, "I'm sorry, it just happens all day."

I wanted to say, Well, perhaps you should look into some anger management classes, or get another job! But instead I said, "Sorry to hear that, hope your day gets better". And then I left.

Truth is, I totally agree with her. Talking on the phone while interacting with someone who is helping you, is rude. However, being in the customer service field and treating people like shit is egregiously imprudent and worthy of a reprimand. Believe it or not, I see this kind of stuff at my own work from time to time, but I can't let those people, or moments get to me. It's not fair to myself, or to the next guest. Its kind of like when women treat their current boyfriends in regards to how the one before him treated her. Look honey, I'm not your daddy or any of your other boyfriends. Learn to drop the extra baggage, or your going to be paying those extra fees on every flight you take.

Ode to the King . . . .

Albeit sad, his passing seemed a little less shocking than the effect you would initially expect to elicit from a tragedy of this magnitude. In retrospect, I think it had so much to do with Michael Jackson's transformations and latest media woes.

Everyone was grossly aware of how significantly his appearance changed over the years and although he may have lost many fans with his celebrity antics and later during his legal trials, (allegations from which he never fully recovered) those of us that were such fans of his former self, seemed to acknowledge these faults but still stay loyal to the King of pop.

Regardless of how you felt about Michael, he leaves behind a legacy that changed music, dancing, and in many ways, the world forever. He revolutionized the music video, popularized MTV, brought people from around the world together, spoke out against racism both publicly and through his music, supported more charities than any other pop artist, and could dance like the dickens. Man could he dance. His musical accolades are astounding and he probably remains the most recognizable person on the entire planet. People in 3rd world countries devoid of televisions even know who he is, and that's pretty remarkable.

So many of us grew up imitating Michael and his timeless moves. We dressed like him, danced like him, and played his songs and videos until we were satisfied. In recognition of his departure, I went out with a friend last night for dinner and a movie, and everywhere we went I did the moonwalk or a conspicuous MJ leg kick. The cars that let us cross the street gave appreciative nods, some people laughed, and others gave a hoot or a holler. The hostess at the restaurant didn't find my moves very amusing, so I threw in a crotch grab and a few pelvic thrusts for good measure. No, I really didn't . . . . but I should have.

As should be respectful and customary when reflecting upon the lives of those we lose, perhaps we can remember him for his greatness and not his idiosyncrasies or shortcomings. Perhaps we can remember the time how Michael thrilled us, encouraged us to look in the mirror, told us to beat it, scream, or heal the world. It seems that he spent his whole life giving, but we were never quite able to give anything back. We are a society that is pitiably infatuated with the celebrity phenomenon and we show our fickle adoration by smothering the lives of those we idolize. Stardom carries a hefty price, and it seems that being the King requires even a greater one. Michael Jackson was a brilliant entertainer, but before that, he was a person. A person like any other, with fears, dreams, passions, and thoughts. He possessed an infectious smile, a huge heart, and the uncanny ability to make you want to groove. And that, my friends, is worth a crotch grab any day of the week. Hee-hee . . . Schamone!

The Punisher

So, a third movie was made about the Marvel Comic book character, the Punisher, and let me tell you . . . .testicle pulling torture more adequately describes having to watch this cinematic pile of cow dung than anything else. This movie instantly became one of the top 3 worst movies of all time. It had every action movie cliche' and made movies like DareDevil and Electra look like Academy Award Winners.

I knew this movie was going to be bad during the first action sequence (okay, well before that even). The Punisher enters a mansion where a mob family is meeting and a blood bath ensues. After killing every mobster in the room, he climbs atop a chandelier, drapes his legs over, and while hanging upside down (and spinning), draws two weapons and proceeds to terminate all the mindless bodyguards who subsequently enter the room. How he even got the thing to spin in the first place is a mystery, but not nearly as enigmatic as how accurately he shot every bad guy while upside down, whilst performing a trapeze stunt. Circ de soleil apparently has nothing on the Punisher.

The movie just got progressively worse with facially deformed mobsters giving themselves sobriquets such as Jigsaw and springing relatives from local mental institutions to assist in creating mayhem and ultimately bringing down the mob killing protagonist. Seinfeld's nemesis Norm, (ever wonder what happened to him?) played the weapons supplier to this unbelievable vigilante and seemed to be his only friend. (if you can call him that) The movie was devoid of any real characterization, and attempts to insert comic relief would have been more successful had they used mimes and banana peels. Everyone from the writer to the editor should be cryogenically frozen and sent into outer space for creating this film making masterpiece of vomit inducing excrement.

Everything in this movie was predictable, from the plot to the script. One of the most offensive things about this film was the painfully exaggerated gore. The Punisher literally punched a guy's face in and nearly everyone he shot either lost a limb or half of his face. At one point in the movie, he even resets his broken nose with a pencil. That's right, not the old fashion, "Let me wiggle this thing back into place" move; oh no, that would be too easy. I need to shove a pencil halfway to my brain and perform a violent, caveman rhinoplasty without so much as a grimace or a drop of blood.

Save yourselves the punishment and skip over this piece of shit when you're perusing the shelves of your local video store. I sure would have, had the movie I originally wanted had been in stock. Oh well, another one of life's little ironies I suppose. Where the hell is Dolph Lundgren when you need him? I'm just sayin'.

A League of Their Own

Pssssssssssst! Hey . . . . you. Are they gone? You know, all those relentless poopie fanatics. I was hoping to shake the majority of those thoughtless, uncultured minions off my trail with an extended hiatus. All the e-mails, letters, and comments were becoming too overwhelming. I mean really, who has time to respond to all that shit?

Well, now that it appears to be just us select few again , let me say the majority of the reason behind Mr. Poopie's glorious return is due to my Dad, and of course the Amazing Cheasty Pants, who by the way, was the only person who begged me to come back. And by beg, I mean she sent me endless e-mails pleading for me to once again grace blog-land with my all-knowing voice of reason. As part of her elaborate plans of coercion, she sent pictures of herself in mid air, pictures of her friends in mid air, pictures of random Central American foliage, food, and even poetry. Yes, poetry. She begged, pleaded, implored, and groveled. After witnessing enough of her rueful antics, I figured I would bestow her some clemency. Although, I think I would have never tired of all the Nicaraguan beer I received.

The truth is, I've been reading voraciously, writing a book, and doing lots of homework for school. Yeah, you heard me . . . . . . . school. I suppose it's time for me to finish school and secure my Masters so that I can join the elite 9.4% of the populace to have accomplished the same. Let's face it, as much as I'd like to, I can't rub people for ever.

To say that things have slowed down in the massage business would be an understatement. Although, the industry leading, luxury resort conglomerate I work for caters to the affluent, we have begun to feel the effects of our ever weakening economy. Consequently, Mr. Poopie has had a lot more time to do other things like reading and pondering why certain people are allowed to procreate. Also, to be even more forthcoming, there wasn't a whole lot I felt impelled to talk about that wasn't already being shoved down our throats by mass media. Economy, blah blah, Obama, blah blah blah, Iran and nuclear-blah blah, bad peanut butter-blah.

One thing I do feel relatively inspired to discuss, besides boobies of course, is all this ubiquitous discussion about steroids and baseball. Helloooooooo, am I the only person on the planet that knew these fools were juicing? The commissioner of baseball has the cojones to act like he didn't know what was going on, and worse yet, the gall to say he's going to consider distributing punishment. I have a couple of problems with this entire A-Rod steroid saga. For those of you who live in a shell, or Cambodia for that matter, there were some random, supposedly anonymous, drug testing done back in 2003 to get an idea of how many baseball players were taking steroids. We won't address why an "anonymous" test involved actual "names" to begin with, but some how, the list of those positive tests has leaked, and of course A-Roid (as he's been so appropriately named) was at the top of that list. Keep in mind that performance enhancing drugs were not illegal in baseball at the time. (reason number one, the results should be thrown away and this entire fiasco forgotten)

The second problem I have with all this, is that congress has been involved with the witch hunt to find out who has been taking PED's, which inevitably has led to some athletes to lie under oath, which in turn has put their freedom in jeopardy. By no means am I siding with the players, or condoning the use of banned substances, I just feel that all this is a huge waste of time and money. Implement better testing and move forward. No need to drudge up a bunch of meaningless tests, dirty syringes, (who keeps this shit?) and DNA samples that ultimately aren't going to solve the problem, but only confirm what we already suspected in the first place.

Congress? Why are my tax paying dollars being used to out athletes who we already know used steroids, when there is a 1100 page stimulus package that I know the majority of them haven't dedicated the time to read? I'm sorry, but Congress needs to stay out of baseball. I think the sport is completely capable of cleaning things up without the help of a large bureaucratic counsel of geriatric law makers. Figure out how to balance the budget, save Michael Jackson's face from falling off, then worry about sports. It's only a matter of time before the spot light turns to football. Which, by the way, is where they should have been looking all along. Hee-hee, Schamone!

Billy Madison

I looked over to the lane next to mine as I was driving yesterday, to witness one of the more baffling traffic sights one can encounter. (besides motorcyclists being scraped off the pavement of course) I saw this tiny Filipino woman literally compressed between the driver seat and her dangerously encroaching steering wheel like a grilled cheese sandwich. The steering wheel appeared to have the circumference of a hoola hoop in her tiny grasp and she was so tightly packed in the car she looked like a midget in the cockpit of a fighter jet. If that poor woman so much as bumped another car while parking, causing the air bag to deploy, she would undeniably be decapitated. I looked on with a combination of horror, amusement, and surprise, as she drove away, her face literally centimeters from the horn, steering the mammoth wheel as if the captain of an old Spanish sailing ship. I guess sights like these should never really surprise me anymore, it's just that they sort of creep up on you when you're least expecting it. You know, one moment you're riding the subway, momentarily scanning the random crowd of faces, and the next moment a guy's clipping his toe nails . . . . . . . with his teeth. Or you're at the park with your dog and some dude is suspiciously looking around before he takes his underwear off and discards them into the bushes.

Months ago, I was coming home from work taking a back route through a quiet little neighborhood, when I saw a man and his boy exiting a large truck that had just parked in front of a house that I assumed was theirs. As if they had just pulled up to a giant aluminum trough in a public restroom, the little boy, around 3 or so, pulled his pants down and started taking a piss on the street, in front of the truck, his dad, a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom townhouse, me, and the rest of the fucking neighborhood! When the boy was finished, his dad (if you can call him that), came over and practically congratulated the kid before they disappeared into the house. Yes, the house with at least two bathrooms. I mean, they didn't look like they were in a hurry. Their faces carried no signs of desperation, necessity, or worry, akin to people who can't wait a second longer before their bladder explodes. As nonchalant as their emergence on the scene, the public display of urinary transgression was as equally of no concern or consequence. They acted completely normal, as if this were a daily occurrence, (which probably was) as if this were just another trip to the bathroom by a Father and Son at half time, during a Sunday football game. Right when you think you've seen it all.

I began to wonder about my childhood and all the questionable places I had peed. (once on my own leg to quell a jelly fish sting) Hell, I began to sift through all of the adult files as well, including all the accounts of inebriated, piss-poor decision making at sporting events, BBQ's, parties, nightclubs, and tail gaters; not even leaving out any testosterone fueled Dares from intoxicated peers. I'm a guy, after all, my plumbing allows me the freedom to take advantage of certain bladder relieving discretions if you will. If they can be avoided, of course we'd rather not pee in this alley, behind that car, or in the corner of this parking garage, or in the Gatorade bottle I'll have to stare at for the next few hours of our road trip. (So warm in your lap) But if it can't, well as they say, when Nature calls . . . . . you best be answering, because she doesn't like to leave long, detailed messages that take up a lot of space on your answering machine and everybody knows that's rude and inconsiderate and God help you if you haven't called her back in 3 days after you took her to dinner the last time and she invited you in for a night cap, which ended up with you in her bed, making awesome drunk marathon sex sweet love to her for two hours, but you felt a little weirded out because afterward you noticed she had My Little Ponies every where in her room, the walls adorned with stuffed animals and glitter posters, and you had to stare at the ceiling covered in glowing stars until she fell asleep so you could escape, but you're an asshole for not calling her after the amazing fulfillment of destiny your souls had just shared. Okay, well maybe I'm the only one who says that. Anyway, then I wondered if this is the path that people take who eventually grow up to do some R. Kelly type shit. Just sayin', makes you wonder.

Surf's Up

I was perusing some on-line articles the other day, and I came across this gem about Car Surfing, which of course I had no choice but to comment on. I'm pretty sure I was being called upon to do so by a higher power, so I apologize in advance. Car Surfing is when a passenger of a car, or even the driver in some cases, performs stunts on the outside of the moving vehicle as if they were surfing it. The article describes that the CDC reviewed newspaper articles about Car Surfing that had been published over the last 18 years, (apparently they have that kind of time) and they found 99 articles on this riveting subject. I'm not a math whiz by any means, but by my calculations that's roughly 5.5 car surfing incidents a year, or 1 every 66.4 days. (rounded to the nearest decimal point) Of all of the reported stupidity, about 58 of those incidents ended in fatalities. In 75% of those cases, death was caused by blow to the head, from which we could also conclude that just about every other article included information about how some kid's medulla oblongata had to be scraped off of a stop sign.

The average age of the victims was 17.6 yrs old and 70% of them were also male. Surprise! If numbers hurt your head as much as they do mine, then we can further deduce that these kids were fucking stupid. What the CDC failed to investigate however, was the statistics regarding the race of these morons, the average income of the household from which they came, or perhaps the most imperative stat of all, where their fucking parents were during the conception of these brilliant ideas.

Now, I don't want to sound racist, but I don't think I would be going out on a limb if I said that the majority of these kids were probably white. And the only reason I'd say that, of course, is because the black kids were probably selling drugs and the Hispanics were working a Taco Bell drive through. I'm totally kidding, I'm pretty sure not all of them were allowed to work drive through right away. Again, I jest. The reason I know the majority of these kids were white, is because these injuries were incurred by engaging in an activity that has the word surfing in it.

It is a well known fact that 90% of African Americans don't like natural bodies of water. Of the 10% that do, 98% would rather eat fire than swim in the ocean. Conclusion, brothas don't like the ocean and wouldn't be caught dead surfing. In comparison, brown people LOVE the ocean. (I know this because it is my purpose to know) I know this because I am brown. Almost drowning in the ocean is kind of like a right of passage. That being said, most Hispanics are not huge fans of surfing, because we'd much rather swim, or play soccer on the beach. Obviously. Therefore, I can hypothesize with almost 100% certainty, that the kids participating in Car Surfing were unquestionably white. I'm not really sure what I intended to suggest by illustrating that they were Caucasian, besides that if you have white kids you should probably buy them a soccer ball . . . . . . or a helmet. You know, just in case.



note: Chinese and Indian children were excluded from these studies because they were too busy doing homework to be surveyed.

p.s.
I will be mildly impressed if you can identify both movie references. Hint: they're in parenthesis.

Bank Job

I know, I know, you minions have waited long enough for the coveted Dumb ass of the week Award. It certainly has been a while since the award has been given out, and not for a lack of dumb asses I must say. Because let's be honest, this thing could practically have a two hour special on ABC and we still wouldn't have enough to go around. Between Congress, our cockamamie president, celebrities, Wall Street, and Clay Aiken (was that even necessary?), there are more than enough award recipients. Tempting as it might have been to hastily bestow this award on any one of the aforementioned nitwits, I think there is an organization that is even more deserving. Okay, so maybe not $700 billion dollar bailout kind of deserving, but equally so. . . . in principal.

And the award goes to, [overly dramatic digitally enhanced surround sound drum roll] the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That's right people, I'm calling out the Bureau. As this article explains, A Wells Fargo bank branch in California got robbed not once, but twice. In the same day. Three hours apart. And they were robbed by none other than the infamous "Chatty Bandit" and "Hard-Hat Bandit". The Chatty-bandit? Are you serious? This is the best nickname they can come up with for an outlaw that has robbed 9 banks at gunpoint without getting caught? Of all the distinguishable characteristics that are pertinent to the case, is this fugitive of the law properly summed up as chatty? I find it difficult to believe that with all the specific training they receive on profiling and studying the criminal mind, that chatty was deemed the most befitting description for this miscreant. And how the hell do they even know that? You would think that a bank robber that stood around for a long time making idle conversation with a bank teller would have been caught by now, no?

You! Fill this bag with money or I'll shoot you in the face! Yeah, so, I'm only really doing this because I'm considerably tired of these gas prices and I really wanted some excitement in my life. I just hope that my family understands when they see it on the news, because that would really be disheartening to not have them understand the amount of stress I'm under to make a better world. I would tell them at Aunt Jenny's BBQ next week, but at this rate, I may be entirely too busy to even show up. I mean really, 9 banks is a lot for only starting less than 6 months ago don't you think? I might have to hire a few assistants or even start a corporation. Does this mask make me look fat? So, how long have you worked here? Don't worry about what I said earlier about shooting you in the face, I really didn't mean that. I would totally like get you in the leg or something. Wow, what a beautiful necklace is that gold?

I'm sure that the FBI, in all their infinite investigative wisdom can conjure a more appropriate sobriquet for this bandit than chatty. Who the hell is in charge of making this shit up anyway? Johnson! Yes Captain. What do we have so far? Uh, well nothing so far sir, we're still interrogating all the witness. Anything concrete yet? Well, no sir, but we do have one teller that is exceptionally chatty, she just keeps ranting about . . . . . Johnson that's it. That's brilliant! The chatty-bandit! Excellent work Johnson, carry on.

Boiler Room

Top Ten clues that I'm going to have a difficult client:


1) They are checking e-mails or talking on their cell phone in the "Relaxation Room".
Seriously?


2) They are built like a Mac truck . . . . .
"Hey, anybody want my three o'clock? I think I'm getting a cramp!"

3) They have diarrhea of the mouth from the second I greet them. . . . .
Do NOT ear rape me. I don't get paid enough.


4) The first words the client says are, "My psychiatrist recommended. . . . ."
So, I guess getting rubbed with hot oil by a sexy man in a dark room whilst naked is suppose to help with that huh?

5) When they have more hair than Beyonce. . . . .
Don't act like you didn't know your crow's nest would get all up in my way. You better tie that shit up girl.


6) When they have more body hair than a Silver Back Gorilla. . . . .
For Pete's sake, get that shit waxed, or lasered. Damn ladies.


7) When they've self diagnosed injuries and refuse to see a doctor. . . . .
I hurt my lower back a few months ago and I think I have a bulging disc, or a herniated disc, or a pinched nerve. Uhuh, and what website told you this?


8) When they want me to fix them the same day they injured themselves. . . . .
"Yeah, I just fell off a ladder a few hours ago and can barely walk, think you can dig in there?" No dumbass, a massage will probably only make it worse, besides why don't you use this money for your co-pay?. . . . retard.


9) When they say, "Do I need to take my bra off?". . . . .
Well, no of course not. As a matter of fact why don't you just leave the whole fucking robe on. I'm sure it will feel crazy awesome.


10) When a client wants me to focus extra attention on more than just a few areas. . . . .
"Make sure you get my right shoulder, there are tons of knots in there. My left knee's been acting up and I sprained my left ankle a few weeks ago. The right side of my neck is a little messed up, I think I slept on it wrong. Oh, could you dig into my hamstrings, they're really tight. You know, my sciatica has really been acting up too. Don't touch my hair please I just got it done, but definitely save some time for my face. Oh my God, I almost forgot, I looooove getting my feet rubbed. By the way, I'm so sorry but I forgot to shave my legs. And one last thing, I've been playing a lot of tennis lately and my elbow's been giving me some problems. I think I have tennis elbow, but don't worry about that so much, I'd much prefer you get my lower back." Um, you do realize that this is a 50 minute massage right?

Apocolypse Now

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Footloose

Ah yes, ladies and Gentlemen, summer is undoubtedly here. The lovely time of year when people are on vacation visiting the beach, the monuments, museums, and amusement parks, putting countless unforgiving miles on their feet. Never paying them any mind until the end of the day when they finally turn in for the night and realize that they've been mercilessly pummeling their feet by not only carrying their kids around for weeks, but also the extra pounds that have pounced on them since last Christmas when they quit smoking.

Of course I don't expect everyone to be worthy of my touch to have perfect feet, but for the love of humanity, (and your therapist) if your feet look like you could swoop down on a lake and catch a trout, or if they resemble concrete in any way, then it's probably time they met a pumice stone . . . . . . or an electrical sander.

The past month has been extremely busy, but as chance would have it my schedule has been gratuitously peppered with extra helpings of feet that could use some TLC. The last two weeks in particular have seen their fair share of travesties, but two nights ago I had a client that, hands down, had the most repulsive feet I have ever seen. Her heels had cracks in them that looked exactly like the ones you'd find in moistureless volcanic rock. If that weren't bad enough, the cracks were equally as black. These mammoth crevices swallowed massage cream like the dry barren earth of a desert would soak up the rain. I was convinced that her rough alligator feet had never seen a sock, touched a drop of moisture, and certainly never had an encounter with lotion.

As I continued to lather her death dealing razorblades of calloused flesh with cream, I did all I could to keep from throwing up. No amount of medicated heel cream or Shea butter would ever soften these Komodo Dragon feet. All I could do was try not to cut myself and move on as if nothing had happened, but something had indeed happened my friends, [cue extremely sad violin music] my love for massage died a little that day. Little pieces of my heart had become calloused and hard as stone, eventually becoming brittle and crumbling away as if they had witnessed Medusa's fatal glance.

No Country For Old Men

I'm the type of guy that's never really at a loss for words. Sure, there are times when I've spat some quick witted retort and shortly afterward thought of something a bit more clever to say, but I'm rarely ever left without at least something to be expressed. Until today that is. Today, I was rendered absolutely and unequivocally speechless. "What could possibly have accomplished this seemingly impossible feat?", I hear you asking yourselves. Well, my fickle fans, the answer is 60 yr. old v-jayjay. My day had started like any other, but certainly ended the way a Vietnam vet living in a retired community at Bingo night might want it to.

An older woman came in today looking for relief of lower back pain, after having spent all weekend chasing three grandchildren around. Towards the end of the 80 minute massage, I was doing some leg manipulations to stretch her lower back muscles and free up her hip joint. The final stretch required that I cross one leg across the body and over the other leg. From the opposite side of the table, I apply downward pressure on the knee, creating a magnificent pain relieving stretch. Getting out of the stretch is the tricky part, but that's why I get paid the big bucks. So, as I was going back around the table to return the client's leg to it's starting position, she had the brilliant idea to release the snug draping of the sheet from her grasp and place her leg back on her own volition, before I could get back around the table. Well, as you can already imagine, before I had the opportunity to stop her, she had flashed me her elderly vagina in all of it's time weathered glory.

Thank God the lights were dimmed, for it might have taken years and multiple laser surgeries to return my corneas to normal. I am however, going to need at least a little time to recover. I'm thinking a few days rest and maybe hypnosis therapy should do the trick. And I'm so filing for Workman's Comp.

Jurassic Park

You will never believe what I saw at the gym this weekend, an object of antiquity that personifies obsolescence in its purest form, a dinosaur amongst men. A fellow gym patron walked by and as he passed I noticed there was Walkman strapped snugly around his waist, as if proudly on display.

Can you believe that shit? I haven’t seen one of these fossils since, oh I don’t know, the 80’s. The contraption was so enormous, that it had to be tied to this guy’s abdomen by some gigantic neoprene strap with Velcro, resembling more of a corset than anything else. He may as well have walking around with a Boom Box on his shoulder? What the hell is next, fanny packs and calculator watches? Seriously, where does one even find a fucking Walkman? A Betamax would probably fly out of my ass before I could locate one of these relics. Even homeless people own Discmans. Now, in no way am I implying that you need to run out and by yourself an Mp3 player, but holy shit, if strapping an 8 track player to your body is going to be the only way you get to enjoy Gladys Knight and the Pips, I think I have a Best Buy gift card lying around from Christmas that I’ll gladly donate.

Unless you work at a technology museum, or stumbled across a time capsule, there is no reason why you should be caught dead in public with a Walkman. Have some fucking decency.

Happy Ending

I've done the unthinkable. I have gone against my oath as a therapist and violated the Code of Ethics that I vowed to uphold. Somehow, I managed to cross the sacred line between client and therapist and I see no viable way of recouping my dignity. It wasn't really a conscious decision, it just sort of . . . . . happened. I suppose it was only a matter of time, being that my work involves massaging a slew of beautiful women on a daily basis. For too long have I relied on my Matrix-like ability to dodge bullets.

For the most part, today was like any other. I had six clients lined up and only two more to go. I quickly ate a banana and downed a protein shake to get me through the rest of the day. (As I've described in earlier posts I have the metabolism of a cheetah and have to eat every two hours, otherwise I turn into that crazy bitch from the exorcist.) I greeted client number five and noticed that she was extremely attractive. During my brief questioning of her medical history she was a little flirtatious making a lot of eye contact and smiling.  Working on her back was an absolute delight. She was very fit with the perfect combination of musculature and curves with soft, youthful skin. She had a beautiful color tattoo of cascading lotus flowers flowing diagonally across her back as though carefully carried by the wind. 

After her back and shoulders, I began working on her long, toned legs, my hands tracing her perfect outline with slow and sensuous glides from the heel of her foot to her shapely glutes. As my warm hands flowed past her knee, she opened her legs slightly to allow unobstructed access to her inner thigh. A subtle move not uncommon to getting more comfortable, or to signal ulterior motives. My skilled hands glided up her inner thigh and right before reaching the point of inappropriateness, came back towards the outside, over her left glute, around the hip, and back towards her feet again. I started the process over and as my hands ascended up her leg, again she repositioned her legs slightly more open. Although a little peculiar to do this twice, still I assumed nothing and continued my work. The spa music plays at a decent volume to drown out a lot of the background noise in the vicinity, but if you pay attention, you can still hear labored breathing, stuffy noses, painful grimaces, sighs of relief, and occasional moans. To an experienced therapist all of these seemingly insignificant cues can be paramount to providing the ultimate massage experience. 

A lull in the music allowed me to hear my client's breathing gain tempo and her body almost seemed to writhe under my touch. A third pass began up her leg as I heard a faint moan of satisfaction. Once more she separated her legs and as my fingers crept up her inner thigh, her body seemed to beckon my caress. I could feel the heat emitting from between her legs as my touch came closer and closer to her most intimate place. And then . . . . . . . it happened. I can't explain what I was thinking or why I did it, but it one moment I breached our trust and defiled the sanctity of that bond. My mind was weak under the circumstances and my body succumbed to the most primal of all human urges . . . . . . . . . . . . I farted! As soon as I did it, I knew there was no turning back. There was no way to undo my transgression. No freebie, no do over, no reset button. Time slowed to a stop and I let out a distinct and undeniable flatulence. . . . . . .

I hope you too have started the new year with a loud and resounding blast!