Reflex

During the lunch hour in the lobby today these strange people set up a free 15-minute massage booth. The chairs had those openings for your head to sink into -- perfect for coworkers on the other side to take cell phone pics of your pleasure-filled face for future amusement purposes. The line took forever, but it was well worth it because ever since I upgraded from an air mattress to a real bed, I've stopped getting massages altogether. So this felt pretty good, definitely much better than tugging on my earlobes all morning, or pressing on the fleshy part of my hand between my thumb and index finger.

When my 15 minutes were nearly over, the lady asked if she could massage my scalp with this metallic daddy-long-legs-lookin' doohickey, and I emphatically answered, "Hell no, because you know what's going to happen? I'm going to scream, then fart, then go into my kicking reflex. I'm very ticklish."

But the lady just laughed, as if I only said that tongue-in-cheek, and before I could warn her about all of those injuries my ignorant aunts have sustained from performing the "Tickle Torture" on me as a child, she placed the massager on my head. End result: I shuddered, then yelped, then came within inches of popping her in the jaw with my spastic right fist. Everyone in the lobby gasped when they witnessed my arm go flying, luckily only connecting with air.

Since then, I've been sitting here in silence, eating my roast beef sandwich with my office door closed shut, contemplating what could have happened earlier. One of my coworkers knocked just now and let himself in. After a couple minutes of making fun of me, he suddenly became serious. "Pete, that could have been disastrous. You do realize that you narrowly avoided a lawsuit, don't you?"

I replied, "Dude, I'm just grateful I didn't fart out there."