Pet Peeve #416

I'm not sure what distorted laws of physics, or vengeful ghosts continue to haunt my bathroom, but I'm sick of the shower curtain gravitating towards me and clinging to my leg like an overzealous, pubescent pit-bull puppy.

I even have those stupid weighted magnets at the bottom of the curtain, but they don't really help; I don't have a bathtub made of medal. If my dumbbells weren't made of iron I'd tie the curtain to those.

I already wake up in a bad mood most days, and now I have to wrestle a giant piece of Saran-wrap for real estate while I'm wet and naked? I think I may need an extra shot of espresso this morning....

Protest this...

I used to think that protests were a waste of time, particularly those aimed at corporate powers or the government. I mean really, besides creating unnecessary pressure on local law enforcement and fodder for the news, what do they really accomplish? What do they change? Over time, I've realized that my feelings were such because we haven’t had a reason to seriously fight for a worthy cause in a long time, whether it was for independence, allowing women to vote, or to end segregation. The idea of protesting against the government seems like a vain endeavor, very much David and Goliath without the voice of God or impeccable aim to guide our ammunition. How is it that this attitude exists when it is the government that was created to serve the people?

The more I ponder the current status of the political game, corporate greed, climate change, and the ever increasing abyss between socio-economic classes, the more I realize that now is as good a time as any to assemble in protest. Our current president alluded to much of this need with his campaign message of change. He was right; we were just foolish to think that he could do it alone. We thought, somehow, that casting a vote and then going back to our entitled lives of lattes, smart phones, and miniature dogs, that things would magically change.

You can’t really blame us though can you? In essence, we have become entitled. We are a society fraught with the entitlement that comes with instant gratification. With the spawn of the internet and our ever powerful handheld devices, we have been conditioning ourselves to believe that things such as the economy, the presidency, and the attitude of millions can be changed as quickly as we can change our facebook status. 

However, what we’re failing to realize is even though women can now vote and we can all drink poor tasting, bacteria-infested water from the same fountain, protests are still needed now more than ever. We have enjoyed years of economic growth and supremacy, and in our complacence we’ve allowed politics and corporate America to grow into powerful, monopolizing behemoths; enormous conglomerates run by CEO’s more concerned with their elite financial status than ethics. Wall Street, lobbyists, and the insanely wealthy continue to take advantage of legal loopholes that do nothing more for the economy than they do for bridging the gap between financial classes. 

Protesting isn’t just a right, but a civil duty. If we’re going to turn things around, we have to demand transparency with political campaign funding. We must demand that corporate greed be punished, that the affluent pay appropriate taxes, and that the attitude towards education and health insurance be shifted. How is it possible that we continue to lay off dedicated, loyal, intelligent, and ethical educators, but grant huge bonuses to CEO’s in charge of organizations mired in legal trouble and financial ruin? I don’t know about you, but I know who I’d give a pink slip to.

Short Circuit

I did something yesterday that I'd never thought I'd do...I bought a netbook. I know, I know, I did try to make it as masculine as I could. I got it in black, doused it in cologne, gave it a spiked collar, and put skull and cross bones stickers all over the cover. Somehow though, I still don't think it's enough. In the end, I'm still carrying around a mini computer. Handy, but not handyman-ish, if you catch my drift. Similar to dudes at the dog park with a Yorkie or toy poodle. You can have all the muscles and tattoos in the world, but you can't make that shit look cool. Well, maybe Mickey Rourke can, possibly Mr. T., but not the average guy. Thankfully, I'm not entirely average...just half a cup.

Anyway, I mainly bought it because my laptop is a little unwieldy and the battery life sucks. I have to plug it in everywhere I go...making me feel like I'm escorting a patient with a dialysis machine. This smaller version of my laptop has 9 manly, labor-intensive hours of battery life. Essentially, I can write all day. I also got the netbook so that I might be more inclined to write, and so far, my plan is working beautifully. However, my life is never without the one two punch of cosmic irony and comedic entertainment for the Gods. As I sat down at a local internet cafe with my organic fuel and my petite lap top with grandiose plans of creating some literary magic, another patron removed his cell phone from his pocket to make a call. He didn't answer his phone mind you, but proceeded to make a call...to his grandfather. This man appeared to be in his late forty's, which puts his grandfather in...oh, I'd say hard of hearing age. Consequently, he had to yell at his relative during this painstakingly long conversation about travel plans to Salt Lake City, Uruguay, and failed plans of a home restoration project. I know more about his inconsiderate douche than I'd ever want to. I think it's cool to use your phone at a cafe where people are reading, having breakfast, and pondering the meaning of life, as long as  it is brief, or quiet, or both. Otherwise, take a walk Jack.

As I was smiling at the universe for my auspicious serendipity, another gentleman sat at nearby table that didn't seem to agree with today's news. It's not unusual to be privy to the occasional verbal display of government disapproval under one's breath, but apparently, this guy was devoid of volume control and appeared to have Tourett's. So, on one side, I had inconsiderate phone guy speaking loudly about nothing important, and disgruntled, Tourett's guy voicing his displeasure with the world on the other. I half-expected a construction crew to chime in with a jackhammer. And you wonder why I don't update my blog more often.

Still Smiling

I hate my new toothbrush. If it weren't utterly disgusting too late, I'd fish my old one out of the trash. Besides...dirty dishes, empty ice cream containers, and sulking in a bathrobe all morning, are tall tale signs that my roommate is on her period. Saying that I would be wary of retrieving the Holy Grail from the bathroom trash bin at this point would be an understatement.

One of the things I hate about it the most, the new toothbrush that is, is that it has a raised, braille-like pattern on the back of the brush head, presumably for raking debris and bacteria off your tongue. This annoying feature is not only handy for preventing halitosis, but is equally advantageous for scraping the inside of your cheeks into a soft fleshy pulp as you brush. Yaaay.

So, I purchased an electrical toothbrush and although I like it better than the medieval mutilating torture device that preceded it, I'm still not entirely enamored. Sure, it may do a better job at cleaning my teeth, and perhaps that should be reason enough to keep using it, but it's difficult to get over the feeling that I'm brushing with a vibrator. Not to mention, I haven't quite mastered the trick of not drooling all over myself during the process.

Moreover, the mechanical humming too closely resembles the drills that orthodontists use. Honestly, if I wanted to reenact the sensation of going to the loathed, depressive, suicide-inducing dentist, I would just book an appointment, or submerge my balls in a vat of boiling oil. I'm just saying, no me gusta el dentista.

Mona Lisa's Smile

Why is it that every time I go to buy a new toothbrush, there seems to be a mass shortage? Literally, empty rows of preventative dental care instruments. I want to stave off gingivitis as much as the next person, but I don’t feel the need to by a 5 pack in order to do so? Are people not brushing anymore, is there not a sufficient demand for dental hygiene products that warrants keeping the shelves full? Or is it the exact opposite? Is it possible that people are going on toothbrush buying rampages in order to combat cavities that seem to be more prominent due to the consumption of our exorbitantly sugar-laden food? Are people trashing their toothbrushes every couple of weeks? No comprendo.

It’s not just the same store either. I've tried Wal-mart, Target, Rite-Aid, CVS…..nada. I mean, they have some, but  the pickins are pretty slim. Is there some crisis that I’m unaware of? Even if there were, would stocking up on toothbrushes be necessary? I don’t know what the logic there would be, but if I were going to weather a nuclear holocaust, the furthest thought from my mind would be dreading the idea of having to use the same toothbrush for more than 90 days.

Look, I’m a reasonable guy, and a laid back consumer. I don’t ask for much besides new and innovative, self sustaining, or recyclable products that have practical uses and make my life easier, but it’s not like I need a toothbrush that hovers over my sink and tells me that I’m late for work, or that I’ve missed a spot. I just want a plain old freaking toothbrush in a non- feminine color, without some radical maze of protruding rubber bristles diligently waiting to massage my gums. Simple and easy.  Geesh.

Sixteen Candles

I have a rather vivid imagination, it helps to pass the time during a massage when I'm having difficulty staying in the present. Generally, these lapses of focus are occupied mostly by thoughts of food. However, when I'm not thinking about my next meal, I'm often playing the Panty Game. The Panty Game is where I  imagine what people are like and what they do by the brand, style, and material of their panties. I often wonder if they're married, single, of angelic origin, or inclined to promiscuity. Are they tidy, wealthy, high maintenance, or on that time of the month? Do they own dogs or cats, do they sky-dive, like to cook, or strip for money. Are they runners, writers, circus performers, police officers, or tax collectors? Do they like movies, are they foreign, and would they like my guacamole?

I've seen them all. Big ones, little ones, g-strings, thongs, boy shorts, halfsies, the Hipster, the Highcut, the Low-cut, the Bikini,  and the ever cornea-blinding, gag-inducing classic, the Granny. They come in lace, cotton, silk, nylon, satin, mesh, lycra, and polyester. I've been doing body work long enough that I can tell, at a glance, what they're made of, whether or not you bought the right size, and how much of a hassle they are going to be. I can make estimations about people all day, and their panties can sometimes garner an extra clue as to my deductions, but honestly, you can never know for sure. What I do know, with absolute certainty, is that they are the bane of my professional existence.

The worst offender is definitely the g-string, particularly, the double waistband. When I start working on the back, the sheet (sometimes accompanied by a blanket) is folded back just before the gluteal cleft (also referred to as plumber's crack). Unfortunately, if a client decides that she wants to play the Panty Game, I have to pull the waistband down as well, as to avoid getting oil on them and to remove obstruction of my awesome hand glides. More often than not, the g-string waistband is some taught strip of elastic heinousness that almost always refuses to stay in place. Thus begins the underwear fiasco. How many times do I try to put the band back where I want it before my client thinks that I'm playing with her panties, or trying to take them off? I can't really go over them because that can't be comfortable, but if I don't try and keep it out of the way, every time I do a full back stroke, my fingers/hands get caught underneath and the waistband snaps back into place on the return. Before I concede, I usually make it a point to get a couple of good snaps in to convey the message that your panties are a pain in my ass.

The only advantage to a client wearing either a thong or g-string is that you can still get to their glutes, but that's little comfort considering all the maneuvering you have to do in order to avoid snapping the spandex in the first place. It would make more sense, if you're going to wear that little material anyway, to go commando and enjoy a seamless and blissful massage. Leave the lingerie for your boyfriend, unless of course.........you like guacamole.

Pet Peeve # 419

I understand the concept of getting a massage early in the morning and not having showered, (okay, well not really) but if you're feet look like you've been treading through soot, or like you've been using them to dig for oil, then we've got a problem. The spa has amenities, extremely nice ones I might add, and you should use them. Also, for your convenience, we provide expensive, aromatic body washes infused with all kinds of herbs and plant extracts from places I can't even pronounce. (So they must be good) If you don't have the decency to take a shower, in the name of all things holy, at least rinse off your dirty ass feet. If I pull back the sheet to discover filth covered soles, I guarantee two things are going to happen: I will massage them thoroughly while I try not to gag, and then I will thoroughly massage your face (with a smug grin). Just my way of giving back.

By the way, the same goes for your ass. The last thing I want to experience while I'm administering a forearm glide down the length of your back, as I contemplate what I'm going to have for lunch, is catching a whiff of pungent, putrid, rancid ass crack. The only thing I hate more than people who sit in the hot tub before a massage and force me smell their noxious chlorine fumes (paired with sweat and body funk) for an hour, is rank ass. Trust me, if there was a way I could make you smell your own ass without getting fired, I would have figured it out by now. Do us both a favor, just take a damn shower.

While we're on the topic of ass and feet funk, let me take a quick moment to also express another bane of my profession, spray on tans. I'm not really sure what possesses people to get a spray tan BEFORE getting a massage, but allow me a quick moment to eloquently, professionally, and respectfully illustrate my heartfelt concern........don't fucking do it. You smell like a tamale of burnt flesh rolled in paprika. Not only would I prefer you didn't expose me to your hazardous, fake tan vapors, but the filmy residue turns my sheets orange and is a bitch to get off my hands. If you want to accelerate the melanoma process, by all means don't let me stop you beef jerky. Just have the decency to pursue skin cancer AFTER a massage.

Smart People

I read an article the other day about the concerns of proper grammar usage and spelling in everyday life in relation to texting. The main theme of the article was sort of rhetorical, but did pose the question of whether or not we, society in general, were becoming stupider more stupid due to the frequency in which we use slang, acronyms, abbreviations, and phonetics to communicate through text messaging.

The author of the article interviewed a few experts, one being in language and communication, who ultimately believed that our intelligence would go on unaffected and that the proficiency of our written and spoken language would not be ill fated. [using a pretentious British accent] I, however, vehemently disagree with that assessment. As a matter of fact, I think that stupidity has become pandemic and the ever growing popularity of hip techno devices is eventually going to create generations of dimwitted morons. Uh, did I say eventually?

Look, I like texting for a myriad of reasons (it's more challenging to drive that way) Mainly, because making a phone call requires very specific protocols, which ultimately take up valuable time. Customary salutation, determining if current moment is appropriate to continue verbal communication or if another time would be preferred, transfer of meaningless data, polite responses, possible awkward silences, promises and/or excuses, exit strategy, and termination of transmission.

Now, since time is such a precious commodity and because I am such a thoughtful person, I figure it's faster (and more polite) to just send someone a text. This process is even more poignant if all you have is a quick question, or are unable to talk. This way, the person can determine the importance of the correspondence, and respond accordingly, or as time permits. Furthermore, I like to be even more efficient, by shortening words,and leaving out some punctuations. Otherwise, if I have to spend too much time texting, it becomes self defeating.

Being that this is the case, my two most aggravating pet peeves as of late, are people who despise improper grammar in text messages and people who speak as though they are text messaging. To address the former, as long as you are intelligent enough to understand what I am texting you, then the process through which I send the information is irrelevant. If I shorten words or leave them out entirely, I'm doing so for the sake of time, not because I can't spell. God forbid you have to use your brain for a moment.

The latter is much more frustrating because once this form of communication has infected your speech, it's quite difficult to overcome. For instance, I don't mind when my sister texts me a word like "whatevs", "latr", or "cuz". However, what I can't stand is when people start chopping words in half or fusing words together whilst speaking. One of my friends does this so incessantly that if you were eavesdropping you would think he was a "motard". (moron + retard = motard) See how that works? Yeah, I think it's stupid too. He'll say things like, "Damn she's hidi!" As if adding a third syllable would expend too much energy. Dude, you're 40 years old, don't be an idiot.

Many people see this as a process of social evolution, where I think it's more indicative of a nation that will continue to lose its competitive potential in the global market. We are breeding fatter and dumber offspring and people think this isn't a problem. Most European kids speak multiple languages, are well traveled, and know where Papua New Guinea is on a map. I bet if you ask an American kid, he'd probably think Papua New Guinea is a rapper. Damn shame.

Cellular

Apparently, cellphones are the bane of my existence. If I'm not getting bitched out by some disgruntled cashier over one, I'm putting my phone through the most rigorous high velocity impact tests known to man. I'm not quite certain how some of this shit happens, but I've managed to drop my phone in a toilet and accidentally kick it across a parking lot a few times. It's been stepped on, bounced off the bed into the wall, and more times than I can count. . . . . I've forgotten that it's in my lap when I get out of the car, but am quickly reminded as I hear the familiar sound of metal and plastic crashing and scraping along unrelenting cement.

I used to drive a big truck and one day after coming home from buying a brand new phone, as I was exiting this mammoth vehicle, I managed to drop my two hour old phone which literally shattered into thousands of unrecognizable pieces. Buttons flew in every direction, the LCD display was obliterated, and I had to use the voice recognition key for a week before I was sent a replacement. All I can remember is how thankful I was that I had had the foresight to purchase the insurance.

Years later, and I'm still pushing my phones to the limits of their structural engineering fortitude. The interesting part is that I take amazingly good care of everything else I own. I treat my DVD's so gingerly you would think I was a mad scientist handling explosive materials, I avoid vigorous driving to reduce wear and tear on my car, and I still dust off my Playstation 2 that's probably older than most of your kids. I know what you're thinking, How can someone so assiduously protective of his belongings allow for such atrocities to happen? I wish I knew. I drop kicked my phone in the throat just last night.

My friends call me the Text Master. I don't have one of those nifty miniature keyboard touch pads, oh no. I have the old school model which you can operate with one thumb. You've never seen a phalanx move with such precision and blinding speed. I text multiple people at the same time, I text while I eat, while I drive, while I watch T.V., and when I'm shopping. I text at the gym, in between clients, during my lunch break, and while I walk the dog. As a matter of fact, I'm texting right now. In retaliation to my pervasive texting, my phone's 9 key has decided to stop functioning. I think it's sprained. It works sometimes, other times I have to think of another word to use that doesn't need a W, X, Y, or Z. You'd be surprised how often you use a "W" or "Y".

This isn't the first time my phone's suffered a Repetitive Stress Injury (RSI). A few months ago, it was the number 3 key. It's virtually impossible to text without the letters D,E, or F. Trust me, I've tried, and I possess a rather impressive lexicon. A few months before that, various directions on my select key would give out from time to time, making navigating through menus more difficult than threading a needle in the dark with lotion on your hands. (I don't know, I'm guessing that's tough) At the very least, as equally frustrating.

Why don't I get a new phone you ask, well, not only do I feel a special kinship with my phone, but I've invested more money in that damn thing than my car. I've had to buy multiple batteries (one on account of the toilet debacle), blue teeth, (plural for blue tooth?) car chargers, and home chargers. I'm also not too keen on parting with my current phone, because I like to text while I drive. You can't do that with one hand on the majority of these new phones. I'm not ready to part with that facet of my communicative repertoire. I see countless nimrods texting with two hands as they drive. That's just a little risky, and not to mention, down right stupid.

I suppose it's time to say good bye to this phone and turn it in for a newer model. Who knows, after getting to know the new one, I might really like her. I just hope they can transfer all the naked pictures I've collected.

An Inconvenient Truth

I don't claim to be a political expert on debate, but I have seen all the movies on this subject. And what I do expect from individuals who have agreed to debate, is to answer the moderators questions. None of this, "I want to talk about energy", bullshit. We've already heard what you wanted say about your energy plan, and unless you have anything to add, I would appreciate it if you would just stay on the topic at hand. Everyone knows you have wet dreams of long pipelines and enormous drills pounding the earth's surface until all it's natural resources have been depleted and our withering planet has been left vapid and incapable of sustaining life.

And please, for the love of Thomas Jefferson, stop smirking and smiling up there like you're Austin Powers and 'this sorta thing is your bag baby'. Every time you wink at the camera I throw up a little in my mouth. It's not endearing and quite frankly I think it's unprofessional. It's a tasteless tactic and by golly it makes you look stupid. (Well, so does thinking that just because you can throw a paper airplane into Russia's back yard that you're magically experienced in foreign policy) Those stupid elementary antics were not cute when Bush did them, and they are even less so when you do. This is a serious matter and just because you go around wielding words like "change", "maverick", and "oversights", that doesn't make you qualified for a position you clearly are unready for. Many Americans may not, but I see right through you. You were well coached prior to this debate, and you stayed within the parameters of your comfort zone. If you want to prove yourself, do your homework, take this shit seriously, and pretty please, with a fucking cherry on top, just answer the questions.

Another thing that really irritates me is at the end of the debate, is it necessary to have the entire family come up on stage and even more so for you to bounce and burp your baby for a few minutes of air time? You know, to make sure that everyone sees what a wonderful mother you are. Aawww look, the little one is toting the baby around, how cute is that? What's her name, Trinket? Cam Shaft? Spark Plug? No, I don't think so. This isn't show and tell, Mommy is at work. Keep those little ones at home or in the audience where they belong. We don't need you to continue flaunting them around like little shiny medallions of patriotism. All these behaviours only further confirm my suspicions that your selection was merely one of political strategy and that you're nothing more than a poster child for the campaign.



Ah, but what would I know.

Pay it Forward

So, I recently read this post from a blogger, (True Tales of a Hair wrecker) that I started following, and was reminded about another pet peeve that really grinds my gears. I absolutely detest people who are impolite and have no sense of common courtesy. I hate them almost as much as I hate one eyed midgets and those stupid cycling helpmets that look like a giant sperm. Almost.

That's right people, learn some freakn' manners. Open the door, get out of the aisle, let someone in your lane, stop for a pedestrian, give up your seat, hold the elevator, and for the love of God, don't you dare stop abruptly when walking in the mall to look at some random shit. I'm right behind you and I may just not feel like putting the breaks on.

I can't stand when you are walking, whether you are carrying something or not, (more so when you are) and people are conversing in the middle of an aisle, completely and disrespectfully oblivious to on comers, and fail to politely move out of the way to allow unfettered passage. I don't think I can properly convey how much this makes my blood boil. What's even worse is when you say excuse me, and they shoot you a look of complete inconvenience, as if you were asking them to help you dig a trench after they've already given you a kidney. Yeah, go ahead and roll your eyes at me asshole, I'll be sure to do the same when you beg me to remove the duct tape from your mouth before I shove you into the trunk of my car.

My absolute favorite is when, after you've been given the "I can't believe you're going to actually make me move" look, they step only an inch or two forward allowing barely enough space for a cardboard cut out of you to get by. I always make it a point to lead in with my shoulder like a running back trying to gain extra yards for a first down, hopefully knocking them off balance enough to let them know how reprehensible I think they are. If I'm exceptionally irritated, I cough and sneeze like I have the AVIAN flu and watch those inconsiderate miscreants disperse like roaches when the lights come on. They're lucky I'm not blessed with my brother-in-law's talent to fart obnoxiously on command. So, Lindsey, I salute you and all mothers who make it your personal endeavor to properly educate and instill proper courtesy and gallantry in your young men. It will serve them, and the rest of humanity well. Even if only to provide one more dry toilet seat in the restroom.

p.s.

Just as a side note, whenever I do open a door for a female, I think it's rather impolite for them to put their hand on the door as if I were going to let it go. Do people actually do this, open the door for someone to only let it slam on them as they pass through? What would be the point of me opening the door if you are going to practically do it yourself? Don't act like you're too good to accept this small chivalrous gesture from a man either, I'm not doing it because I don't think you're fully capable of doing so. I do it because it's the right thing to do. . . . .and because I need a reason to see your ass as you go by. I'm just saying, staring is rude.

Jerry Maguire

Probably one of the Grand Daddy of all my pet peeves is people who do not tip 18 to 20%. Plain and simple. If you can't afford to tip your therapist even a measly 15%, then you shouldn't be getting a massage to begin with. What's even worse, is when people tip like that when someone else is paying for their service. If you come to get a massage with a Gift Certificate and don't have the decency to tip appropriately, your skin should be shaved off with a cheese grater and you should be dropped into a pit of flesh-eating ants after you've been dipped in molasses. Look, I'll be the first to admit that we charge way more than is humanly necessary, but not only are you getting high quality work, you are also in the most luxurious of surroundings and have access to all the amenities of our entire facility (which includes a state of the art fitness center).

Although, my spa caters to the wealthier elite class, this concept is easily applicable to your every day spa or anyone else who depends on tips as a source of income. Unless your therapist touched you inappropriately, (perhaps a little tea-bagging incident) managed not to listen to any of your needs, or literally didn't know what he/she was doing, then I can understand tipping below the bench mark. However, when you visit one of the country's leading luxury spas and pay a few hundred dollars for a treatment, and you get this tall drink of sexy brownness, and I give you the most bad-ass massage you've ever had; you better be leaving me 20% or I'll wish evil upon your children and steal your favorite t-shirt.

There is nothing more insulting than to hear you rant and rave about how I was the best you've ever had, how exquisitely wonderful I am, and how you wish you could afford for me to work on you everyday . . . . and then for you to leave me 25 bucks on a $230 treatment. Um, excuse me mam, but you seem to be mistaken. Perhaps the lights were a little too dim for you to see correctly, or maybe you were still a little lightheaded by the bomb-ass massage you just received, but I think you meant to make that two, a four. Seriously. My favorite is the pompous asshole who nonchalantly shakes your hand on his way out while inconspicuously leaving a twenty dollar bill in your palm as if you had just parked his fucking car and he's doing you a favor. Hey there Guido, I just spent the better part of 80 minutes rubbing your hairy-ass and listening to you snore like you a were a troll with pneumonia. Mr. Jackson here, better have some friends joining him shortly.

It's actually quite an interesting phenomenon that continuously keeps us scratching our heads. The people who don't have much to say are generally the ones that exceed your tipping expectations. It's extremely difficult, in the short period of time in which we introduce ourselves and find out what you want out of the massage, to ascertain exactly what you're feeling, or what you may be going through. Maybe you just landed a 747 from an 18 hour flight from Germany while suffering from a bout of diarrhea, perhaps you just ran a marathon in flip flops and your feet hurt, you could have just lost your dog, or wasted the last few hours of your life watching the Republican National Convention. Unless you say something, we can't always tell. I'll have clients on occasion that flat out don't even seem like they're enjoying the massage. They answer your questions abruptly or ambiguously, making it difficult for you to gauge how things are going. Some are even a little rigid or fidgety at times. But when you go to pick up their receipt, you find an even 20% or higher as a result of your labor. Apparently they loved it, but either weren't quite the social butterfly or weren't in the mood to express it. Quite frankly I prefer clients who are responsive and complimentary to you during their treatment, but if I had to chose, I'll go with the cool hard cash over the compliments any day. I know I'm good, and although I absolutely love to hear you tell me so, Brown's gotta put food on his family. (if you know where that last part is from you'll get a special prize!)

I've discussed this issue before with other therapists, and usually we are all in agreement. But I have had the pleasure before of hearing the perspective of one therapist who thought that I should be happy that we even get tipped and that being able to give someone such a wonderful gift should be the only fulfillment I need (I choked her and dumped her body in a swamp) I am very appreciative of all the things that envelop the type of work I do, and I indeed reap great rewards from being able to facilitate the body's healing process, bring someone peace of mind, or even rid someone of pain entirely. I meet all kinds of fascinating people and I feel very blessed to share my gift with those who need it. And when I volunteer my work, believe you me, an appreciative smile or thankful nod, is all I need in return.

However, I'm not going to lie, massage therapy is my profession and I'm giving you two of my greatest nonrenewable resources: my time and my energy. When you book me, you are entering a business transaction and as a result, I expect to be paid accordingly. I'm not sure how it is with some body workers, but I take extreme pride in what I do, I pay attention to the smallest of details to ensure that you get the most for what you are paying for. With every one who lays on my table, I make it my personal endeavor to give you the best of what I have. I know for a fact that most massage therapists don't do this. It's too physically and spiritually demanding to give a 100% to all of your clients, but day in and day out, that's exactly what I do. That's how I roll. So, do us all a favor, the next time you get a massage . . . . show some damn respect . . . . then SHOW ME THE MONEY!

Pet Peeve #66

I’m not really sure what the appeal is with this next pet peeve, but I am about fed up with flipping through magazines and seeing advertisements with models in midair as if to say that you’ll be part of some elite flying society of pretty preppy people for buying their clothes. Everywhere I look; it’s an athlete, an actress, a dancer, a fucking baby suspended in air like they took Willy Wonka’s fizzy lifting drink. We are not a kingdom of winged animals, fairies, or wizards with powers of levitation. Are they trying to convince me that these clothes make you feel weightless? What in the hell does that even mean?

While we’re at it, can someone please put a bullet in that SubWay jack ass Jared? Not only do I have to see him on TV with his pants that are big enough to be a parachute for a hippo, but now I have the eye-raping pleasure of seeing his former fat ass with no personality in my beloved magazines doing Got Milk ads. What ever happened to real celebrities? Did they stop drinking milk? Is everybody sucking on the soy titty now?

I also can’t stand men’s cologne ads, particularly the ones by the company whose name starts with a “D” and sounds like “Weasel”. Now, I’m not sure exactly who they think is buying their hog piss toilet water, but rest assured, having sweaty half naked men with poorly contrived attempts at seduction on the page is not making me rush out to buy any. What ever happened to spraying a little bit in a neatly folded flap and letting us get a whiff? At the very least, put a damn girl in the picture. We’ll more readily believe cologne will help us get her than make us look like Tom Brady.

One more thing I need to get off my chest during this blood boiling rhetoric is American Idol. More specifically, the necessity to stretch an elimination day into an hour long show. They do this by making the persons being sent home sing the song they sang the night before, that made people want for them to be sent home to begin with. I have two problems with this: 1) I have to hear them butcher the song again with another pain staking performance reminding me why I hated them so much and 2) the last thing I’m sure they want to do is have to keep their composure while singing a song after hearing the news that 20 million people think they suck and would rather eat fire than have to hear them sing anymore. If Ryan asked me to sing after being cut, I would tell him to shove that microphone where I'm sure he likes it.

I have a few more gripes, but I’m getting a little tired . . . . . So, same time tomorrow?

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.

Pet Peeve #27

I absolutely can't stand when people keep their eyes open during a massage, looking around or staring at the ceiling like a corpse. Some clients up the weird factor when they stare right at you. That shit creeps me the hell out. It reminds me of that one painting of Jesus my mom had in the stairwell of our house when I was growing up. You know the one I'm talking about, where Jesus is holding up the piece sign with one hand, while his heart is on fire and he looks all tired and dehydrated like he just walked for 40 days in the desert, in those wretched leather sandals with no arch support. Yeah, that one. Anyway, I used to swear that the eyes in that painting would follow me around like the haunted house paintings in the Scooby Doo Cartoons. Not cool.

Do yourself, and your therapist a favor, keep your peepers closed. I'm not saying it's not cool to take in your surroundings, or glance at your therapist from time to time. But really, let's leave the staring for when we're at the club. Besides, I cut some mean rug.

Minority Report

Mainly because I have nothing better to do at two o'clock in the morning than kill zombies, I thought I'd compile a a list of my top ten pet peeves with performing massage.

1. The number one customer complaint about a massage is that the pressure was too much, or not enough. I can't tell you how many times I hear a client say that somebody practically beat them up, or they barely felt anything at all. That means when I ask you if it's too deep or too light, you better speak up. Otherwise, I'm going to assume that the pressure is perfect and I'm the best you've ever had.

2. Timeliness. This my friends, is a HUGE one. Don't be late for an appointment. Nothing screams more to me that you don't give a shit about my time or the other six clients I have for the rest of the day, than you showing up even five minutes late. You still need to make it to the dressing room, change into a robe and slippers, and you'll probably want to drink some water and use the bathroom. I understand that things do happen, but unless a meteor burned a hole through your windshield causing you to arrive on foot, or you ran a bus full of deaf school children off a bridge into a large body of water with an aggressive current, I don't want to hear it. There are multiple reasons we ask that you show up 15 minutes early; drink some exotic tea, wash your nasty booty, or just lounge around and unwind until it's your turn for a blissful retreat. Don't put me in a position where I have to cut your session short, because nobody benefits from that. (especially not me) However, if you are going to be late, please call ahead, I just might be able to work something out. I'm cool like that. And if you don't think you're going to show at all, let me know as early as possible so that someone else can take your spot. Time is money, and I'm not above charging your credit card.

3. The aforementioned booty cleaning is a perfect segway into this next pet peeve. Please take a shower if you've just recently worked out, shit yourself, or have been rolling around in dead animal carcasses. No amount of Peppermint or Eucalyptus oil is going to mask your nasty fermented ass stench. I don't get paid enough to smell your funk for an hour, much less for 90 minutes. Don't worry, I promise to return the favor.

4. Relax! Nothing is more annoying than trying to massage you while you're tense and your muscles are contracted. I understand it may be difficult to do so while a sexy brown man is rubbing you with hot cream in a dark room, but please do your best. I guarantee you'll have a much more enjoyable experience if you just let go. Relaxation is usually the reason why you come to see me to begin with. So, if you have trust issues with men, or have been abused physically in the past, you'd probably be better off with a female therapist. You won't hurt my feelings, plenty of women prefer the stronger touch of a man anyway, so it evens out. If you have difficulty relaxing on a massage table, than you definitely need a different kind of therapist.

5. If you have Cholera, West Nile, Whooping Cough, SARS, Bubonic Plague, the Bird Flu, or a rash, STAY THE HELL HOME. Not only do I not want what you have, but neither does the rest of the spa. Besides, it's difficult to enjoy a massage if you have a chronic cough or need to blow your nose every two minutes. I don't do it, neither should you.

6. I will be grateful if you would shave, wax, or laser, prior to coming to see me. Keep in mind most massage strokes are centripetal, or towards the heart. Which means my hands are going against the grain when I work on your legs. I'd prefer not to bloody my hands on your Ginsu blade stubble if at all possible. (don't act like we don't notice) You'll enjoy the smoother feel too, trust me. Just something to keep in mind.

7. Try not to wear tons of jewelry that I'm only going to ask that you remove anyway. I doubt you'll be auditioning for a rap video and it's only going to get in the way. I get it, you have money. This is me not giving a shit. If you must bring it, leave it in the locker room 50 Cent.

8. If you have long hair, bring a damn hair clip or rubber band of some sort, especially if yours is particularly thick or possesses a mind of it's own. Having to move your disheveled Beyonce mane out of my way every few minutes is only going to disrupt the flow of my techniques and eventually piss me off. I hate Beyonce.

9. Cell phones are not allowed in the spa, especially not during the session. If you're having difficulty parting with your phone for an hour, I know some people that can help you with separation issues.

10. One of the main reasons people come to the spa is to rid themselves of drama, tension, and stress. I'm more than willing to help, but not if that means your going to pass it on to me. I'm a good listener and I'll play along for a little while, but unless we're friends I don't want to hear about how you plan on leaving your husband, how much you hate your co-workers, and certainly not how much you lost in the stock market. However, if you hate your daughter's current boyfriend, I'm all ears.

Pet Peeve #137

This might seem a little strange and even a bit nit picky on some levels, but after dropping the kids off at the pool, nothing is more unraveling to me than reaching for the toilet paper to find that the roll was put on upside down (This of course being a close second to reaching for toilet paper to not find any at all).

I realize it may seem a little peculiar, and why this dishevels my peace of mind so much I don't think I'll ever know. What I do know is that this injustice must be reversed immediately and whosoever dared to disrupt the balance of my universe with such a blatant karmic bitch slap must severely experience my wrath (preferably once my pants are no longer around my ankles). You spit in my face you careless toilet paper replacer and I curse you. May you suffer irreparable nerve damage from a paper cut.

Who dares to do this? This thoughtless crime that should be punishable by nothing less than to be beaten by wet bamboo branches and tortured with having to watch Atonement over and over again. My behind will not be disgraced, nor suffer the fate of being wiped with the wrong side of the TP. The only thing worse is having to wipe our ass with that transparent, public restroom, tracing paper, that once folded over a few times may just as well be a handful of razorblades. I'd rather use a pumice stone my friends, or shards of extremely brittle glass. Just for the record.

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.

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!

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.