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So, picture this—me, Larry, at some shady joint, neon sign flickerin’ “Massage Parlor.” I’m like, “Git-R-Done, let’s see what’s up!” Walk in, dim lights, some chick’s burnin’ incense smellin’ like a hippie’s armpit. She’s all, “You want the special?” I’m thinkin’, “Hell yeah, I’m Faith lookin’ for some fun!”—y’know, like in the movie. Turns out, sexual-massage is this steamy mix of relaxation and, uh, “happy endin’s” if ya catch my drift. Ain’t no lie, it’s legal some places—Nevada’s got brothels offerin’ it, true story!

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So, we start working. I’m hammering away, and outta nowhere, this kid runs in. He’s like, “Mister! Mister! There’s a cat stuck in a tree!” I’m thinkin’, “Great, just what I need.” But then I see the cat. It’s this fluffy little thing, meowing like it’s auditioning for a musical.

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