Am I right?
For full effect, download "If I Were A Rich Man" from the Soundtrack of Fiddler on the Roof, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
In my meager 27 years upon this Earth, I have experienced many great things. Courtside Jazz tickets, snowboarding trips at fancy ski resorts, not having to explain to my significant other where I was at 3 am, these have all been the highlights of my life.
All of those were flushed down the marble-tiled drain this afternoon as I fully indulged myself at what is called, a spa.
The Royal Jericho (read in a Ron Burgundy accent): "I could be wrong, but I believe that a spa is an old, old wooden ship from the civil war era."
My friends, a spa is in fact the greatest thing created since my blog itself, and honestly, it's tough to top this sucker. A spa is the pinnacle of relaxing methods. It's a waterfall of emotion cascading into....
...sorry, I just got distracted for a moment as a topless woman was getting her bikini painted on in the art store next to me. Sin city is a very bad place I tell you what.
I have always heard women talk about spas and massages and waterfall baths, and I never understood why they thought they were just as important as their platinum Mastercards. But as I bounced from massaging pools to saunas to an isolated bubble bed where a woman tickled my back with her hair, I came to the full realization that spas, are where it's at.
And I wasn't the only one who felt this way. Average-sized Applegate and the Rhinestone Cowboy sat with me in the steam room and just soaked out all of our cares and worries. It was a moment of true romance between us as we sat and made farting noises with the pools of water draped to our backs. As the Rhinestone Cowboy put it, we "bronded".
I think that spas have become my new obsession. I'll want them, I'll need them, oh baby, oh baby. They will be to me what Facebook statuses are to stay-at-home Moms. Spas are my addiction.
Even if there's a naked Grandpa next to me.
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