Charlotte's Web

I was speaking to a friend today about vegetarians, Jews, and Muslims and why they don't eat certain farm animals. We talked about the motivations behind the different types of vegans and the differences between being raised in a certain belief system and making conscious adult decisions not to eat fattening strips of fried pig flesh. Which by the way, are magically delicious even though pigs are one of the filthiest scavengers around.

If you've seen Pulp Fiction you might remember the conversation Jules and Vincent have in the diner towards the end of the movie. When Vincent offers Jules some sausage he declines saying he's not Jewish, he just doesn't dig swine because it's a filthy animal. Vincent says, "Sausages taste good. Pork chops taste good." Jules retorts, "A sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie. I'll never know 'cause even if it did, I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfucker".

Jules goes on to explain that pigs sleep and root in shit and he refuses to eat an animal that doesn't have enough sense to disregard it's own feces. Interesting concept I thought. Unless I was stranded on a deserted island without food, I probably would never eat a rat. But even then, I would have serious reservations about eating rat meat. Unless of course, it tasted like pumpkin pie.

I had never really considered how filthy pigs were until I had a) seen Pulp Fiction and b) read about some of the diseases and worms that are found in pigs. I'll spare you the vile details of my research, but let's just say I'm siding with the Muslims and Jules on this one. I'm so going to miss combination fried rice.

I have the utmost respect for people who follow their beliefs (as silly as some may seem) and whatever the reasons might be that they choose not to eat meat, pork, goldfish, or newborn albino babies is of no consequence. What does matter, is when they deem it necessary to push their beliefs onto you or mock you for the ones you observe. That being said, I should probably stop laughing at my sister for not owning a microwave. At least she'll probably never get testicular cancer. 

 

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!

 

This Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

p.s.

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

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!

Breast Men

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foxy Brown

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

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

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

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

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

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