Blog: A Massage from Mike Tyson

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Burt Ross

Those of you who know me know that I am not fast afoot. Nobody confuses me with Fred Astaire or Dick Van Dyke. Because of polio, I have no muscles below the knee in my right leg and so my schlepping through the woods of Sequoia National Park earlier this month did a number on my poor, aching body.

When I returned to Malibu, I hired a masseuse to see if she could return my body to its former self. Being a “macho, macho” fellow, I said to the “little lady,” “Don’t be afraid to be strong.”

I have said stupid things in my life (fact check—many stupid things), but I never said anything where the adverse impact of my stupidity came so swiftly. Before I knew it, I was being attacked. She twisted, pushed, pulled, yanked, kneaded and otherwise attacked me. So help me, I thought I was getting a massage from Mike Tyson.

I moaned and groaned, but to no avail. I believe that in her former life, my masseuse had been a CIA operative specializing in torturing poor souls. My teeth were so clenched I feared getting lock jaw. 

She did not let up for the entire hour. At times, I think she might have been walking on me. I am not really sure, because I never opened my eyes. At one point, she pulled my arm with such strength that I feared it might just come out of its socket.

When the ordeal was over, I climbed off the table and was relieved to find that my body parts were apparently intact, and I could walk to my car.

The next morning something quite strange happened. I woke up and all my aches and pains had miraculously disappeared. I can only come to one conclusion—I might have to go another round with Mike Tyson.