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One time, I swear, my cousin Junebug—he a fool—went to one o’ them parlors. Came back talkin’ ‘bout “it’s therapy, Madea!” Therapy my big toe! Boy was redder than a beet, stammerin’ like he seen a ghost. “Words separate us,” like Godard say, but them moans? Universal, baby! Made me mad tho—Junebug spent $50 when I coulda smacked his back for free! Stingy self shoulda known better.

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So, I’m standing there, looking like a lost puppy, when I see Mrs. Thompson from down the street. She’s always got that crazy cat, Mr. Whiskers, with her. She’s like, “Oh, dear, you’re late!” Thanks, Mrs. T, real helpful. I finally get in, and the service is packed. I mean, packed! I’m talking standing room only.

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