All Is The Fruit Of Care

April 3, 2006

This little piggy needs a massage
Originally uploaded by waiting line.

If you, the stick of jerked beef longing to become the apricot, wishes to know the secrets I shall tell you what I suspect:

I suspect you want a massage. You're naughty. You're a little naughty thing. Ah but I kid you now. In truth your intentions are probably pure. It is not that of suggestive rubbings. But the simple wish of a sore back and sultry thigh. The panicky squeal of the shoulders of youth led to the cysts of antiquity. Left to antipathy over ages, you seek out the ancient arts (But who doesnt?!) to soothe you.

People, I tell you this: Massage is wonderful for righting many wrongs and fighting every evil. Including: Tomas DE Torquemada , Pol Pot & H. H. Holmes. Among other types of horror such as the pinchy ache of a rotten muscle. All very, very, very bad and wrong not to fight against.

Massage is a sweet fragrance of justice in the stink and error of human history. So we give thanks to the 8 fingers and 2 thumbs of the numb-nuts that rub us. And we never call them numb-nuts's. That is rude. Even if it sounds fun to say '2 thumbs of of the numb-nuts.'

Massage is also the cure of homelessness. For wherever-unto such a place as under the intuitive palms of some anatomical wizard sensationalizing upon your midst and midriff, one will find oneself feeling quite at home. Quite at home indeed. Guaranteed. One will find oneself drifting off to a land of near unconsciousness and drowsy delight as the pickle fingers dance and delineate their wise and twisty twinkles to and fro upon your wrenched, rugged and wretched shape.

Save your nickels. Stow away your greasy pennies. Horde in the darkest pocket the 1/2 off coupon. & go get a professional massage.

Then please write and let me know how it was. I've never had one. Seriously.


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