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.

Dumb and Dumber

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watt-a-Shocker.

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

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

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

Raging Bull

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Air Force One

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

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

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

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

Forget Paris

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

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

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

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

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

Intolerable Cruelty

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

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

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

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

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



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

Dante's Peak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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