Sometimes people ask me if I’ll ever wed again. I make it no secret that if there’s a next time I marry, it will be to Taco Bell. Why? I love Taco Bell. The beans. The lard. The hot sauce. Those No Nutritional Value Whatsoever gossamer-thin follicles of iceberg lettuce. Taco Bell and me? We go back lifetimes. Taco Bell calls to me on a sub-cellular level. Alas and sigh. I’m afraid that even in California, marrying a faux Mexican fast food chain is probably illegal.
As if mere convention can keep us apart.
I don’t think there’s much chance I’ll tie the knot with supermodel Kate Upton, let alone the two of us attending prom. For one thing, Kate’s already wed. I also believe former White House communications director, the uber-stunning Hope Hicks, is seeing someone although it wouldn’t be below me to lie in a hospital bed and convince her that I was 17 and looked old for my age because I had one of those diseases where you age rapidly and before Saturday when I die, could she be my M.P.D.?
Mercy Prom Date?
In a purely platonic and higher form of love, I’ve considered exchanging vows with the vibrating chairs at the SClarita Mall.
Management prefers calling it “The Westfield Valencia Town Center.”
Outside where Sears used to be, they have a row of these industrial massage recliners. You insert currency and a veritable factory of rollers, grabbers, kneaders, beaters and caressers, powered by artificial intelligence, proceed to teach you something about yourself you might not want to find out. I went there in the middle of the week recently and contributed something like $2,700 in singles.
Is that wrong?
I mean, this is a great chair and I think we’d be closer to world peace if all our leaders would conduct business from coin-operated massage chairs the size of a padded Naugahyde dump truck, although if I ever saw a politician sitting in my particular massage chair I would hope it would have a slicer/dicer/mulcher setting.
Dear Mr. Santa Clarita Valley:
How dare you. In my youth, I was wronged by an S.M.C. (Secret Massage Chair).
Sen. Dianne Feinstein
Not To Be Confused With Dianne Not-So-Feinstein.
Nor The Evil Dr. Frankenfeinstein
Nor The Drunken Irishman, Donovon O’Beerstein
Dear Sen. Feinstein:
So terribly sorry to hear about your incident with the massage chair. Perhaps you were sitting in it incorrectly.
Or maybe you just dressed that way to make the chair excited.
I am dashing off a quick correspondence to the SCV Assistance League to see if they can FedEx you a few pounds of Handywipes, and, boy howdy, are they.
Big fan of your work,
My terribly expensive $1,000 cowboy hat is off to the management of Westfield Valencia Town Center. Please. All you English-reading peoples? Do all your holiday shopping at our mall and a troubling pox upon you if you buy stuff on the internet instead. Surrendering to the massage chair is perhaps the best money I have ever spent on a relationship. All that was missing was a husky woman’s voice whispering: “Oh Johnny. Did that Big Ol’ Mean Life hurt you?”
Now that my fiancee/chair, Betty, mentioned it, why, yes. Yes. Big Ol’ Mean Life has hurt me. That’s one of the reasons I’m strongly considering taking this relationship to the next level. Marriage, or, as my esteemed hunting colleague Elmer Fudd used to call it: “Mah-widge” is not to be taken lightly. Betty will share my life, which, to this point, has included 31 years of never attending a City o’ SClarita council meeting. I suppose the No. 1 overriding factor in never visiting one of these stale kabuki theaters on 33 rpm is that the public chairs there are so damn uncomfortable.
The five council members?
They have vibrating chairs, each costing $267,000. Plus or minus, that’s almost a million dollars. Worse? Councilfolk Laurene Weste, Marsha McLean, Dante “S’Inferno” Acosta and Bob Kellar get vibrated for free. That’s why they all have those droopy, narcotized smiles and will sometimes interject a strange, “Uuuuuuuuughhhhh-zzzzz-mmmmmuh-zzzz-EEEEEECHEEEEEE-MAMA DON’T TOUCH ME THERE I FORGOT MY SAFE WORD!” in the midst of motioning to make March Volunteer Roadkill Month.
I didn’t mention councilchild Cameron “Diaz” Smyth. Cammykins doesn’t have a vibrating massage chair. Cammykins is a minor.
You know what would be neat?
Converting my fiancee to a sedan chair. Would that be a grand entrance? Being carted up the aisle at whatever inconvenient night of the week council meets, Betty and I hoisted on the shoulders of 12 oiled-up swimsuit models.
I hope I’m not making a pest of myself, lounging for days at, like, The Mall, cradled by Mrs. Massage Chair Boston.
Would some snitch call security? Alert SClarita’s crackerjack K-9 unit to evict me? After several hours of having my calves rolled, frankly, I’m too complacent to walk.
Perhaps the German shepherd might want to join me in 12 to 15 hours of pulsating comfort.
Perhaps Herr Fido has discovered the next billion-dollar-market — massage chairs for dogs.
Earth’s most prolific humorist, Boston has penned more than 11,000 blogs, columns, essays, books, features and stories. He’s been named both best serious and best humorous columnist in America, is the recipient of The Will Rogers Lifetime Achievement Award and lectures on how massage chairs help people yodel.