THE RIGHT STUFF

Ay, There's The Rub

My daughter - let's call her Carol although her name is Robyn - gave me a gift certificate for a spa treatment.  I had never been to a spa before, so I headed off, eagerly anticipating a glorious, relaxing, indulgent massage.

The spa was a most luxurious place indeed.  Upon arrival I was ushered into a room furnished with comfy chairs, lofty ferns, scented candles. The relaxing sounds of the sea were all around.  On a low oak table there was an array of glass containers and glasses - water, water complimented with a hint of lemon and lime, wine (wine, for fuck sake!), and a bowl of fruit.    In the corner, an extremely well-hung, naked man sat gently strumming a ukulele with his penis.  Ok, I was just making sure you were paying attention.  Carry on.

If you stare at this picture and let your eyes go out of focus, you'll get a headache

As I was taking in this most decadent scene, a woman appeared and led me to a change room where I was given a robe and a pair of slippers.  Complimentary cosmetic products were freely available - hand cream, face cream, body moisturizer, hair oil.  'All right!', I thought, 'this is going to be a fabulous experience!'.

When I had enrobed, I was led into a dimly lit room - shades of blue and pink - and the soothing sounds of birds, a waterfall, and a gentle breeze floated in the air.  I was delighted.  I was instructed to lie down on the bed and a young girl entered and proceeded to cover me with exotic oils - fresh from the Orient, I had no doubt.  (The oils, not the girl.)  I smiled, closed my eyes, and allowed myself to be transported to foreign shores with not a care in the world...

Then she started to rub...

Sweet holy mother of pearl and her one-legged dog, Eileen, I have never been so mistreated in my life!  She mauled me, kneading and prodding so hard that I couldn't muster enough breath to tell her to fucking stop or I'd send her into the next room with a swift blow to the thorax.  She beat the living shit out of me.  I wanted to cry out for help but I was using all my energy trying to hold onto the table for dear life.

She twisted my legs in all directions.  At one point they were wrapped around my neck and I could see that my toenails needed clipping.  She yanked my arms out of their sockets and pushed them back in - backwards, it seemed.  She grabbed my head (what the fuck does a massage have to do with your head???) and rubbed so vigorously that I thought she must surely hate me for some perceived wrong I had done her in a previous lifetime.  (And, on the subject of lifetimes, I was certain that mine was about to come to an abrupt end any minute.)

When she finished, she left the room - no doubt to return to the dungeon where she would take delight in beating the crap out of some poor fucker who had wandered in off the street to deliver the paper.  I lay on the bed, my knuckles pure white from the effort to hold on.  I had lost my will to live.  My limbs were hanging off the edge of the bed like wet noodles.  My arse, at least, was intact as she hadn't touched it, so that at least was a blessing.  But the rest of me was in bits.

I managed to slide myself off the table and, unable to stand upright on account of the fact that my spine had been bent out of shape, I hobbled (hobbled I tell you!) out the door like a cross between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and his deformed English cousin, the Gimp of Golders Green.  I limped up the street sideways and made a few bucks on my way home from some kindly passers by who mistook me for a lowly beggar.

As I shuffled in the door, Carol met me with an enthusiastic "How was your massage?"I would have dropped her on the spot but I barely had enough energy to drag myself by my teeth, my arms and legs dangling uselessly, across the floor and onto the bed.

The next three days were horrific.  My back seized up.  I couldn't move my neck.  My shoulders felt like I had been hit with a 2 X 4.  I shuffled about, moaning softly, convinced that my days as an upright, stable individual were surely at an end and I was doomed to literally shuffle off my mortal coil.  I loved, I laughed, I cried, I had my fill, my share of losing....no, wait, that was Frank Sinatra.  Never mind.

After several days, when I could lift my arms without screaming out abusive streams of foul language like a Tourette sufferer, I called the spa and told them they needed to fix me or they would be hearing from my lawyer once he got out of jail or graduated, whichever happened first.  They were most sympathetic and offered to get their best masseuse on the job immediately, if not sooner.

So the next day, or it could have been last Thursday because my mind was in a fog of disorientation, I attempted to walk down the street to the spa.  I made it two blocks when my legs gave out and I had to hold onto a tree for support.  A young guy who happened to be passing by made the grave mistake of making eye contact with me and I said "Hey, carry me down to the spa or I'll give you a puck in the gob".  (A puck in the gob is the Irish version of a smack upside the head, but I think you'll agree it sounds more fun.)  I may have dreamed this, but it sounds plausible.

Well, to make a long story even longer, an older Japanese woman molded me back into shape and I thanked her most profusely and told her there were no hard feelings about the war.  And when I arrived back home, having made my way back under my own steam, head held high, shoulders back, stomach pulled in,  my arse in the air, I told my daughter that if she ever gave me a gift certificate for a massage again, I'd beat her to a pulp and put her up for adoption.