"Ay, that's the rub!"

My shoulder has been causing me endless agony. Lately, it’s been as stiff as Pee-Wee Herman on the red carpet at the Adult Video Awards.

Everything I do there is this nagging ache in my right shoulder blade; whether it be sleeping, reading, surfing the tube, or reaching for my bong – it’s there. This constant aching pain is beginning to make me feel like somebody old enough to get into movies at a discount and who enjoys playing petonque in the park. Plus, the Bengay fumes are beginning to burn through my nostril membranes and soon I’ll be bleeding through like a junkie with a two-bag-a-day habit.

It has been recommended that I take myself to have a nice massage to work out the lingering stiffness. That sounds all very well and nice, but am I really the kind of guy that goes for massages? I’m not so sure I’m a massage kind of guy. Furthermore, I don’t think I could even admit that I was a massage guy even if I did enjoy them anymore than I would ever announce that I’m an in-the-closet Simple Minds fan!

I don’t know why massages don’t go over well with me. Don’t get me wrong; I can definitely appreciate the whole old world ‘rub and tug’ philosophy of massage – that’s in keeping with one’s maleness after all. But allowing yourself to have your naked body worked over by an oiled-up stranger in latex gloves with an unidentifiable accent and reeking of Nag Champa – not so much. A "massage" is something you pay $20 for in the back seat of a parked car.

I’m not just that secure in my sexuality, or my nakedness for that matter. The idea of having some detached taskmaster judo-chopping my naked body with a sound like someone trying to drum out the solo in ‘Inna-Godda-Da-Vida’ with two pork loin sausages is too sadomasochistic for me.

I think having someone hovering over me and kneading me like a loaf of unbaked bread. And believe me, there are enough rolls on this body to knead than a Jewish bakery!

It’s can’t exactly be a pleasurable experience for the masseuse either. I can just picture their “magic fingers” blending themselves into the folds of body fat like MSG into Miso soup. Heaven forbid those fucking digits should ever belong to another man! That’s practically wedding night stuff! Eww.

And yet, the lineups for the Massage courses at the local community colleges seem to be continually lined up around the campus into the next millennium. I’ve been in unemployment lines that would seem like the express lane at Safeways in comparison. Why? Because they’re fucking sadists that why!

Imagine the years of pent up frustration and anxiety these masseuses are working out on your prone helpless body? That must be quite the release to be able to go all Jean Claude Van Damme at the workplace and hammer out complex cadences on other people’s defenseless bodies. I just can’t see how my shoulder is going to be healed any by Helmut Fattenslappen who is dealing with his repressed memories of childhood potty training by repetitively punching me in the groin.

It’ll stick to my Tylenol 3’s and Crown Royal thanks!