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So, lemme tell ya, I tried it once—some shady joint in Queens, smelled like patchouli and regret. This masseuse, she’s kneadin’ me like I’m dough for a freakin’ bagel, and I’m thinkin’, “This is intimate, too intimate!” Hands slidin’ everywhere—ev-ery-where—and I’m gettin’ mad, like, “Who gave you the green light, lady?!” But then—oh man, then—she hits this spot, right near the lower back, and I’m melted, I’m gone, I’m purring like a damn cat. Pretty, pretty good, I’ll admit it! Still, I’m paranoid—did she wash her hands? Is this sanitary? I’m a mess!

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But then, I find this huge discrepancy. I’m talking thousands of dollars missing. My heart drops. I’m like, “This is bad.” I confront the owner, and he goes pale. I mean, I’ve seen ghosts with more color! He starts sweating bullets, and I’m just standing there, trying to keep my poker face.

Nick Jr. Friends Event at both its Punta Cana and Riviera Maya