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About San Diego

So, I tried it once—yeah, me, Larry freakin’ David, in some shady joint downtown. The ad said “professional,” but the place smelled like patchouli and regret. This chick comes in, all calm, whisperin’, “Just breathe, man,” and I’m like, “Breathe? I’m hyperventilatin’ over here!” She starts rubbin’ my shoulders, and I swear, it’s pretty, pretty good—till she gets to my lower back and I yelp like a chihuahua on a hot plate. “Whoa, lady, that’s restricted territory!” She laughs, says it’s all part of the “release,” and I’m thinkin’, “Release? I’m about to release my lunch!”