For Valentine’s Day, I gave my aunt and Uncle Vinny a gift certificate for a couples massage. I love my aunt
and, as for my uncle, I thought the massage would relax him enough to make him fall asleep, giving my aunt 60 minutes of yap-less peace.
It started with my uncle dressing down to just his red Speedo britches. I’m sure his shirtless chest and black wiry Italian hair, similar to painter Bob Ross’ Afro, was quite a sight to see.
Before he climbed onto the massage bed like it was a rock wall, he handed a music CD to the therapist and asked that it be played instead of the traditional spa tunes.
Not only did the music from Metallica’s Black album slice through the quietness in the room like a knife through water, it terrified management, who rushed into the room without knocking. The CD was confiscated until my aunt and uncle left the building.
According to my aunt, my Uncle Vinny answered his phone three times during the massage. On one of the calls, he discussed needing a plumber to come out to the house for a consistently plugged-up toilet.
My aunt has learned to tune out my uncle at times; however, the rest of the world has not. The massage therapist, who is also a nurse, quietly asked my aunt if she could administer some Propofol to help my uncle relax.
My aunt said after he was given the relaxant, things didn’t get much better. Although he was completely out, he snored through the last half of the massage.
Therapists in surrounding rooms were banging on the wall to keep the noise down. If that wasn’t bad enough, the multi-bean burrito he had for lunch came back to haunt my aunt and the therapist.
The therapist remarked that my uncle’s feet looked as though he was raised in the jungle without a least a decent pair of flip-flops to wear.
Shortly after my uncle fell asleep like a tranquilized elephant in the wild, a knock on the massage room door once again disrupted what should have been a relaxing massage. On the other side of the door stood a man in a uniform holding a large pepperoni and sausage pizza. Apparently, my uncle confused massage with party and ordered a pizza to be delivered to the room.
My aunt had to get up off the table, butt naked, and pay the man for the pizza, where it sat in the room until the massage was over. The tiny room absorbed the smell of pepperoni and sausage, nauseating the therapist enough to exceed the daily intake limit of Tums.
When the massage was finally over, everyone was more stressed out – except for Uncle Vinny, who was still sound asleep on the table. He must have been dreaming because he mumbled something about the cops coming. When the therapist tried to wake him up so they could pay and leave, he snapped up like that same elephant in the wild when the tranquilizer wears off.
He must have still been out of it a tad bit, because he didn’t remember ordering the pizza and thought it was included with the massage. He stated he felt great, took a slice of pizza and swore he’d return for more massages.
The massage therapist picked up her oils, took a slice of pizza and walked out of the room, barking at the front desk that she’s never returning.
How one man can so profoundly ruin a massage, end a career and be blacklisted from a peaceful establishment, I’ll never know.
Anngee Quinones-Belian of Murphy is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her humor column runs every other week. Email her at anngeeq@gmail.com.