Friday, January 20, 2017

Reflections on a Table

I'm not sure how this happened, but I got talked into having a two-hour massage. Normally I get an hour, sometimes an hour-and-a-half. The massagemonger told me that the masseuse was only available for two hours. While that seemed strange, I said, "Ehn." So I wound up getting pounded for two hours. (Spoiler alert: there's no happy ending.)

Katie in pigtails came out and introduced herself. We went back to a dark, mysterious room where I undressed and then wedged my face into the donut cushion thingy. As the marathon massage commenced, I started to have a lot of deep thoughts.

* Say, what would happen if The Bachelor had the opening of the show when the bearded white hunk meets the ladies and the first one is black. She's beautiful, and the bachelor is happy to meet her as they have their insipid greeting chat. Then, the music swells, and the next lady comes out: she's also black. The camera tightens on The Bach's hunky face. He's a bit perplexed, but he's no racist and he's on TV so he keeps it together. Then the third lady: another black! Wait... Now the guy is getting visibly flummoxed. Is this like The Bachelor--Miscegenation Edition? Eventually, all sixteen women come out, all black! Well? That's the way it happens, just randomly. All the woman happen to be black. Okay, and one Caublasian. So now what? The Bachelor smiles and greets each black lady, but he clearly wonders when the white women will show up. But, nope, all black. "I love black people," he says to the camera. "I have plenty of black friends, but... uhm... erhm..." He looks around: where are the white women?? The camera tightens on his douche face as he struggles on national TV with his discomfort and bewilderment and racism... Ha ha. I should be a TV producer!

* Had dinner with Dad and he asked me about the semi-colon. You know, how you use one, and stuff. My first instinct was to say: Don't. As in, Don't hurt the ones you love. But then, sniffing, I delivered a peroration about subordinate clauses, complex sentences, compounds, declensions, the history of the Indo-European family of languages... Good God what I jackass I was. Finally, Dad was just shaking his head. "Now I see where you get it from," his look said. "Your mom!"

How much longer was this going to last? My cheeks, the upper ones, were starting to hurt in that donut thing. A two-hour was just too long. Ugh. Now snot was dribbling out of my nose. I unsheathed my arm and staunched the flow with my finger. (Bloggin': it's fannn-tastic!)

New age music played, bird twittering and chimes and gongs and John Tesh tinkling on the soft, soft piano. I had an image of walking in a primeval forest with my sweetie. Her hair was the color of... no, not gold, not flaxen... come up with something new... Yes, her hair was the color of God's snot. Heh, great. I'll have to write that down when I get home.

* Singing the birthday song is annoying, as we all know. But the ending of it, "Annnd many morrrre!..." --can you sing that part to someone who's turned, say, 95? Wouldn't it be a form of elder abuse as everyone titters and snortles as they sing about you having "many" ha, ha, more years. Is ironic abuse the worst form of abuse? Hm.

* I bought Mom a new computer and she's barely touched it in two plus weeks. I showed her how to get James Taylor on YouTube. And old Barbra Streisand and Judy Garland TV show stuff. But what entranced her the most were the many videos of puppies playing with babies. Some of the videos had 60 million hits. And yet Cookies & Tarts only has 82 views. There's something wrong there.

* Actually, 82 is an amazingly high number.

I was turned over like a slab of thick-cut fatback bacon. The masseuse worked my extremities. I really needed this to be over...

* Hey, does the Keebler elf believe in treacle-down economics? And the creamy middle-class...?

Finally we were done. Just as Katie softly left, I let rip a deep, gonging fart. NOW I felt relaxed!

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