Rub me like a lamp, dude

I’m thinking about letting a dude give me a massage at work.

Don’t worry, I won’t get in trouble; the company hires a guy to come in and rub the workers for at least 10 minutes.

As general rules, I’d rather not get massaged at work, and I’d really rather not get a mansage at work.

I prefer to save those for Interstate rest stops. Just sayin’.

But I was walking down the hall the other day and I saw this man mountain going to town on some chick I work with. I admit, it looked pretty relaxing.

I would prefer a Swedish blonde named Ingrid, possibly Ursula, but Mattias there looked like he could really knead some dough.

I might get in line next time. I’ve had a hard time sleeping the last few weeks. I’m getting used to a new position at work and I’ve worked more in the last three weeks than I did in the last three years.

But anyway, that shift in responsibilities is a big reason why I almost never write anything for The Messenger anymore.

I’ve started three or four that I wasn’t able to finish. One of them was too personal and one of them I couldn’t get the tone quite right.

And I couldn’t even think of ways to write about traveling to L.A., San Diego or Tijuana, even though in L.A. I dined just a few tables down from the stars. But I don’t want to drop names.

Niecy Nash.

The stress is causing me to make mistakes at work: I misspelled some kids’ names, and I incorrectly reported that the president resigned (don’t worry, we ran a correction on page 2).

I’m mad at myself because at my high school reunion I forgot to bring up how my old job consisted mainly of going to concerts and interviewing famous people, and now I can’t bring it up anymore. And I don’t want to drop names.

Ted Nugent. David Copperfield. Dog the Bounty Hunter.

Uh-oh, apparently if I interview you, you’re going to say or do something that gets you in trouble. Look out, bearded guy from the Oak Ridge Boys.

No, the other one.

I realize you don’t want to hear complaints about a workplace where you can get a massage. I’m sure they don’t bring in a masseuse to my brother’s bus garage, or my cousin’s construction sites.

My work also brings nurses in to give us flu shots, but for my first 27 years, I never took them up on it. And then last year the law of averages caught up to me and I got the flu. Of course everyone said smugly, “You should have gotten a flu shot.”

So I got one this year, and now I’ve got a cold.

But maybe my story has a happy ending.

I’m sure my troubles are nothing Mattias can’t fix with his magic hands.

When he’s playing pat-a-cake on my back, I’ll tell him to put some stank on it.

And the man at the back said, “Everyone attack” and it turned into a ballroom blitz. And the girl in the corner said, “Boy, I wanna warn ya, it'll turn into a ballroom blitz. Ballroom blitz,” at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.