A type of hands-on therapy has got Jim Gaffigan's back up:
I've had a sore neck recently. My friend asked me, 'Why don;t you just get a massage?' I had to explain to him, "'Cause I'm not one of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills."
Don't get me wrong -- I've gotten a massage, but they are expensive and rather decadent. You never hear someone say, "I'm going to protest the income inequality in this country, then I'm going to get a deep tissue massage -- maybe that hot stone treatment I deserve."
Massages are decadent and weird. They're always from strangers. We get massages from strangers because we can't count on the people who love us to touch us.
It could be your best friend:
"See that guy? I'd take a bullet for him. I'm mean, I'm not gonna touch him, I'm not a weirdo!"
My wife, the woman I love; the mother of my children. Here's the massage I give you: " ... You good? My hand is cramping."
So we pay absolute strangers. "Hey, I know nothing about you -- why don't I take off my clothes and climb on this padded dining room table. Then you do whatever you want."
We know nothing about these people. I don't even ask if they are a masseuse. "Well, you're dressed like an orderly in a mental ward, why don't I get in the most vulnerable position I can think of? How about face down in the doughnut pillow? Does that work for you?
What do we know about massage therapists? They like to rub strangers for money while they listen to the "Avatar" soundtrack. That's a red flag. Those are the traits of a serial killer.
I never know what to say during the massage. Sometimes I'll try to break the ice: "Hey, you're not allergic to leprosy, are you?"
They never laugh. You know why? 'Cause they're busy imagining making a suit out of my skin. 'cause they're murderers! They already put the lotion in the basket.
So that's why I still have a sore neck.
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