Apparently malls have different laws from the rest of the world; secret laws designed to ensnare innocents into their web of willful deceit.

     Case in point: me.

Crime scene?

Crime scene?

     Today I went to a mall that had one of those massage chair areas down from the Apple store but not quite to the Banana Republic (which I’m sure has its own laws). The massage chairs are in an open area with other essential kiosks selling hair extensions and watch batteries and electric eating utensils.

     I decide to try a chair massage. The massage guy gets a call on his phone and tells me he’ll be just a minute. “No prob,” I say and he turns his attention to his call. I start stripping to get ready for my massage. Toot sweet, I’m buck naked and easing into the chair like I’m praying at church. Then some lady starts screaming like crazy. I get scared and look up. The woman’s pointing at me! She’s holding the hand of a little girl who’s crying like she was sitting in Lincoln’s lap at Ford Theatre. I get up to try and calm them down but they keep screaming and crying and run away. I start chasing after them and the massage guy grabs me and quickly wraps a towel around my middle. I think he;s getting fresh so I slug him. He hits back. We rumble on the floor. More screaming. A crowd huddles around us and pretty soon a couple johnny laws are yammering me my mirandas and I’m getting fitted for some silver bracelets (they pinch, how about a couple sizes larger, officers).

     Word to the wise–– while it’s fine and dandy to strip down for a regular massage, apparently it’s against the law to do so at the hoity-toity Mall! 

    Tell you one thing, when I get out of this pickle I’m getting me a good rub-down.