Al Madrigal – Why Is The Rabbit Crying? – Massage Options


I’m not sure if anyone’s
done this. Over the age of 35,
I hurt my neck sleeping. You ever do that? I was dreaming
of falling down the steps. Now, as a man, you have
very few massage options. Option number one,
I could trade one with my wife. Three minutes in, she’s gonna
complain her hand is tired. Then I’m gonna owe her one. It’s a bad deal. Number two,
the chair. You ever go
to the mall? The uniformed Chinese guys want you to get in a chair,
sit ass-out, Potsie-style,
put your face in the doughnut that’s seen
a thousand other faces. I’m a germaphobe.
I’m gonna put it in there. It’s disgusting. Not to mention,
it’s all open air. I got some fat kid
eating a piece of Sbarro right next to me. It’s not relaxing.
It’s not gonna work. Option number three,
fancy place. Spa, real spa. I don’t have
that kind of time. I don’t need
to spend four hours in some cucumber water
utopian environment. I don’t have the time. I want Jiffy Lube
of neck fixing. I don’t want to go
to some relaxation room where you got
some menopausal hippie lady walking around
with an open robe, some car crash of a vagina
hanging out, you know, to give somebody a last look
before they retire it for good. It’s gross. I don’t have the time
or the stomach. Brings me
to option number four. Strip mall massage. You guys know what
I’m talking about. Huh? You especially
know what I’m talking about. You know the strip mall too. A bunch of shitty businesses that got together
to become roommates. Always a Quizno’s,
nail salon… Liberty Tax. They con some poor
Mexican-American teenager to dress up like
the Statue of Liberty out front. [cheers and applause] Be ashamed
of themselves.

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