June 26, 2010

If Mr. Ford can do it, so can I!

I have a confession to make before we get into this story. I, Jason Brasher, shave my chest. I know what you’re all thinking, the only people who do that are self-absorbed douche bags. Well, you’re right. But the main reason I do the smooth, is because when I have the fur going on, it itches like crazy. But when I shave it, I have like two weeks of itch-free Pecs. Then it begins to grow back and for two weeks it itches again. Then it’s a happy medium again, till it gets too long and itches all over again.

Inflammation is not a good color on me.

Now knowing that I am going to be on the road for a good long while and staying at a bunch of stranger’s houses in all the different cities, the scenario I would like to avoid is the inevitable one when the home owners come home earlier than expected and catch me in the process of shaving my chest. That’s the real world version of “The Crying Game” in my head.

So to avoid this, I thought “Hey, why don’t I just get body sugaring done? It’ll last longer!”

In the past, I have tried self-waxing strips. It was not the smartest of ideas I’ve ever had. Somewhere between getting the wax stuck on my chest, hands, legs, face and the walls...I vowed that this was going to be the last attempt at waxing. But folks have told me that sugaring is not as painful, but that I should still get a professional to do it.

So off of a friends recommendation, I booked an appointment at a day spa for the following Saturday. I arrived at the spa for my appointment and was immediately led down a bunch of hallways that twisted and turned, snaking all the way to the back of the building. Funny, it didn’t look like it could house the entirety of Middle-Earth from the outside?

As I sat in an over-stuffed chair, feeling like a man-child in a room that was far too sophisticated, I wondered how the hell I was going to find my way out again. Before I knew it, a small woman entered the waiting area and introduced herself as my “Body Scrubber”.

“I’m afraid you got the wrong guy. I’m here for, um...a uh, *cough* chest...sugar...thing.” Said I in the manliest voice I could muster.

“Oh no! First you have to exfoliate all the dead skin off so as not to cause infection!” I was leery, but she had that kind of matter of fact approach about her that I did not want to question. So I kinda shrugged and got up to follow her.

“Oh but first, we have to get you changed out of your clothes and into the bathrobes. You’ll find one in the change room here.” Ah, right, this is a spa. I forgot about the protocol. Already, I was dreading this experience.

So out I come from the change room, trying to maintain somewhat of a cool-guy-stride as this massive bathrobe consumes my tiny stick figure body. I’m led into this room where everything is covered in tiles. In the middle of the room is a hydraulic bed. Above it is about 5 shower heads. I know what this is. This is the wet room. Am I getting a body treatment? I didn’t want one?!

“So I’ll get you on the table face down first and underneath the towel. You can take everything off, don’t worry I’ve seen it all before,”

Whoah, whoah, whoah! Like, NAKED-naked? Even I’m not ballsy enough to say “I’ve seen it all,” to clients.

“Um...I think I’ll keep my underwear on if that’s cool.” I know...such a prude.

“Okay, well anything you don’t want to get wet, just place it in the pockets of your bathrobe.” Fuck. How dumb will I look if I walk out with sopping wet underwear showing through my jeans? Thankfully, she gave me a second option, because she obviously saw the wheels turning this idea over in my head.

“You can use a pair of our disposable undies if you like, over on the table there.” Yes, yes I will.

So she leaves the room and I hang up my robe on the back of the door. Quickly, I take off my underwear and tuck them into the pocket. I pick up the baggie that has a navy blue piece of material in it and rip it open. I grab hold of two pieces of string and look at this object for the first time. I’m confused. It looks like an eye patch. A slight tug shows that in fact, there is a space for my legs to fit through. So as I place my legs in the proper holes, I hike it up...and realized, I have it on backwards, cause this ain’t covering jack! So quickly now, I switch it around...and it’s still not covering up much. That is until I gave it a little tug with the strings, and fwoomp! Like one of those little umbrellas you get in Pina Coladas, it spread across my junk. Then I gave the same kinda tug to the back part.

There was no fwoomp.

At the very moment that it hit me that I was a grown man, standing in the middle of a room, with nothing on but a thong...the door opens. “Is everything alright in here?”

Before I knew it I was in the fetal position, eyes bulging out of my skull and shrieking at the top of my lungs, “I’M NOT DECENT!!!”

The door quickly closed again and I dived under the towel. Even as I yelled out, “Okay I’m ready now,” I was still fidgeting with the placement of the dental floss up my arse. “How is everything so far?” the girl kindly asked. “Well, I never thought wearing a thong was going to be part of my day today.”

And then...she giggled. On e of those mischievous giggles that tells you that she knew all too well what was going to happen when I opted for the disposable undies. You. Bitch.

She then proceeded to rub my entire backside with sand. Yeah she can tell me its chocolate mixed with Jojoba and the honey from bees that migrated from the Spanish coast all she wants, it still felt like plain old sand that was tearing my skin off. “Doesn’t that feel amaaaaaaaaazing?”

And when I say ‘my entire backside’, I mean she scrubbed places only I am allowed access to. I felt violated. Once the scrubbing was done, she turned on the water works. 5 shower heads turned up to the max and hotter than all hell blasted what little skin remained into a heap of boiling flesh. “How’s that feel? Pretty awesome right?”


“Okay, time to flip over.” Really? We’re not done yet?

The front side was a little less painful now that I knew what to expect. But have you ever tried taking a shower while you lie on your back? Of course not, because you’d drown.


After I’ve towelled off and removed the underwear of shame, I leave the room and am handed off to the body sugaring lady. She is 3 inches taller than me, jet black hair that is parted to the right and lacquered down for eternity, tattooed eyebrows, black lipstick and a lip-piercing that I mistook for a birthmark at first. Her arms were crossed in front of her as she peered down her nose at me.

“Hello. I am your ‘vaxer’. You vill come ziss vay.” Big, scary, German accent. Wait...did she say, “Vaxer?” As in...”Waxer?”

“Umm, sorry but I think I signed on for body sugaring?”


So there I am on a freaking dentists chair without my shirt on, starring at this Goth, neo-Nazi who is mixing a bowl of hot wax as she stares at me with no expression on her face. My instincts are telling me to get the fuck out of dodge, but my 1% of manly pride is kicking me in the cranium saying, “Don’t be a pussy!” I’m getting a chest waxing, I think we’ve established what kind of man I...oh, too late, she smeared me with wax.

Then she placed a small strip of cloth across the wax. And at that point I felt soothed. I felt that she was trying to lull me to sleep, like my mom used to do when she tucked me in at night. Gently rubbing my back over top of the blankets till my eyes started to glaze over.

And then this chick ripped my fucking nipple off. As some of you might remember, this is not the first time my nipples have come under attack. But I saw clearly the strip of cloth forcibly removed from my body, and my nipple refusing to let go of the cloth, so that it looked like a piece of chewing gum was being pulled off of the street on a hot summer’s day. Only to finally release at the very last moment and sling back to my body, where it immediately swelled up and began to have a pulse of its own. The rest of my chest was about what I’ve come to expect, I mean if I can suffer through tattoo’s what’s a little wax right?

Then she slathered on a layer across the side of my abs. “Oh no wait! I don’t usually do that part,” I tried to say. But she just looked at me, (while she applied the wax) and just kinda hypnotically nodded as I spoke. As if she was saying, “Oh I totally understand your peals for mercy...but we have ways of making you talk!”

A thunderclap filled the small room. I gripped the sides of the chair and puckered my mouth up involuntarily. I did not know that the hair on my abdomen was attached to my spinal column. And that was just one of 6 strips she did across the area.

When it came time for me to get off the table and pay for this torture, a steady stream of sweat ran down my body from the collected pool that was resting in the nook of my armpits, and the paper sheet that she laid out across the table stuck to my body. I’m not known to sweat very much, so when I pulled off the sheet to reveal a Jesus Christ like sweat print outlined on the paper, I had to laugh out loud. “Look at that! I am such a pussy!” I exclaimed.

“Indeed,” was the last thing Nazi-waxer said to me.

Here’s the real kicker. This whole thing cost me $120.

“What the what!?!”

“Your treatments come to $120.”

“For that?!?”

“Well the scrub was $40. The use of our decadent Jojoba/Chocolate/Bee honey from butt-fuck anywhere cost an additional $15. The use of the locker rooms was another $10. And then the chest waxing was $55.”

I got jacked.

Actually, come to think of it, this was a mugging! They beat the crap out of me, they emasculated me, and ran off with my money while I wreathed in pain. I should report this.

June 23, 2010

Ottawa Rocked My World

So here’s a fun little story. I took the time on my first day off in Ottawa to go and see the Canada Science and Technology Museum. I thought it sounded kinda fun and geeky, so why the hell not? I get there around 2pm and get a brief guide as to what to see and where to go.

“Oh we have a great attraction featuring automotives around the corner,” yeah, I’m not really a car guy.

“And our main attraction is our “Crazy Kitchen” which is located at the back of the hall,” really? A kitchen is a part of “science”?

“Just go past the displays of the boats and trains and you can’t--“ WHAT?!? YOU HAVE TRAINS HERE?!?

I motored down past the cars to the trains. But on my way down, I noticed the boat display too. They had hardcore details of some of the biggest and best ocean liners ever built, going all the way back to ships that still used humongous sails instead of steam engines. And yes…there was a big honkin’ display for the Titanic.

And then I turned the corner and saw my first train display. They. Were. HUGE! The wheels alone towered over me, a few you could actually go up on and sit in the engineers chair. Well, you’re not supposed to, but fuck it, when am I gonna be back here?

And as I came down the stairs, looking through the windows of the travel cars with authentic cots and washrooms displayed, I heard a rumble.

It was similar to being underneath a bridge when a train passes overhead. It shook the foundations of the building and I felt my knees clunk together once or twice. I thought, “Holy shit! Now THAT is a dedicated soundtrack!” It put 5.1 surround sound to shame.

Then as I am walking past the display, I noticed a lot of the tour guides going up to everyone asking if they were okay. And some of them kept saying, “That was a big one!”

“A big what,” I asked?

“That was an earthquake!”


Soooo, I just experienced my first earthquake.

The guy made me feel slightly stupid for thinking it was part of the display by saying, “Uh, yeah…when the entire building shakes, it’s not a display!”

Well fuck you dude! I’m from Winnipeg! The ground tends to like us, and doesn’t bounce us around just for the fun of it! And by the way…OXY PADS, look into it!

I wish there was something else to write to make this story my usual length. But I don’t know how to top an earthquake.

June 13, 2010


I hate Montreal.

Now to be fair, Montreal is a very cool hip happening place. The architecture alone outclasses Winnipeg. And the people, if they aren’t the best looking ladies and gents in all of Canada, I am dumb and blind as well as half deaf. Here’s something worth mentioning. I am not a smoker and am not attracted to those that are. But in Montreal, everyone smokes. And somehow, they even make that seem sexy-cool. In Winnipeg, people smoke to release tension or to get away from their nagging boss/husband/wife/kids. Here...”we smoke because we can, you silly little Englishman.”

Montreal makes smoking cool the same way James Dean made leaning against a wall, “Moody”.

So why do I hate this city? Because of my own stupidity.

On the night of my first show, right after I did a video about how great everything went and how sunshine is coming out of my ass, Phil, who is the guy letting me stay with him and his roommates in Montreal, informed me that I would be able to move into the new apartment. When I arrived here, they were in the process of moving, you see. This is great news for me, because where the new apartment is, is actually a hop skip and a jump from the Theatre I’m performing at. Woo Hoo!

So, I am to pack up my stuff, head to the apartment, unload, come back to the old apartment and help load up some boxes to bring to the new apartment before I crash for the night. I left at 9pm from the old apartment...and from here on, is a prime example of why I call my show “Misadventures of a Massage Therapist”.

Jean-Philippe, (one of the other roommates) asked before I left the old apartment, if I knew where I was going to get to the new apartment. I said, ‘Of course I do! I plugged it into my GPS before I arrived in Montreal!’ If you take a moment to go to YouTube and watch some of the videos of me driving from Winnipeg to Montreal, you’ll see just how much GPS has been a thorn in my side so far. So off I go, I tap the saved location titled, “Phil” on the GPS, and it tells me I have 10 km to go till I “Reach my Destination”.

Well that’s odd, since it only takes me 5 km to get to my Theatre. The one that’s a hop skip and a jump from the new apartment? But I trust in GPS! So I follow it to the letter. I go as far as it would let me at a leisurely 40 kph, until it told me to take a left turn. That left turn took me onto the mother-fucking freeway! I shot up to 110 kph in the blink of an eye. I am shrieking like a banshee because I am totally confused. I DON’T REMEMBER A FREEWAY ON THE ROUTE BEFORE!?!?

I thought I was in the clear when it gave me another left turn up ahead and led me away from the scary traffic. But nope...it just led me onto the freeway going the OPPOSITE way now! FUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!!!

Up ahead, I saw a sign that said, turn here for Boul. St-Laurent. That’s the street I was looking for! That’s where the new apartment is! So I turned down the street, even while GPS squawked at me that I was going the wrong way. “Screw you GPS, you robotic sounding love-child of Hal 9000 and Stephen Hawking! You’re a computer! I have eyes!”

After 3 km down Boul. St-Laurent, I realized that the reason I recognized the street name was not because the new apartment was down there, but because that was the street my Theatre was on.

So...back to the starting point I go. Back over the freeway I go, and yes, back on the one going the opposite way too. And this time, I followed the GPS to its final destination. The destination was the very beginning of St-Hubert. That was the name of the street the new apartment was on, yes, but it was at the very BEGINNING of the street! I was on the outskirts of Montreal! Then I remembered...

When I initially typed in Phil’s address for the new apartment into the GPS, it could not determine an actual address number, I needed a cross street to plug in as well. Which I didn’t have. So coming into the city, I figured, “Well, as long as I’m on the right street, I can just drive down until I come to the right number!”

That works in theory, but St-Hubert is a very unique little street. You go from two way traffic, to one way, to an opposing one way so you are now heading into oncoming traffic, it twists and turns so that other streets are cut off and St-Hubert ends up on an entirely different lane on the other side of a set of traffic lights...

It is the road to madness!

So it took me a while to initially get the hang of the street. But that was three days ago. I have not fixed the GPS to register the new apartment correctly. At this point I should mention that this 10 minute drive is entering 40 minutes.

So after coming face to face with the F1 Racing event taking place here, damn near running over pedestrians, going down one ways the wrong way, I finally found the new apartment by some miracle. Now to unload my stuff and head back before the roommates think I am a complete moron. Here’s where it gets even better.

I bring my suitcase up to the apartment first, come back down and tackle the big blue tub with most of my gear in it next. Only to get to the door to the place, search for the keys in my pocket, and guess what?

The one and only set of keys? The ones that these people have been complaining about that they don’t have a set made for everyone yet? And that they need some special permit to make a copy because these keys are so rare that they don’t even make them anymore? Those keys? Locked upstairs in the apartment.

I cursed. Loudly. Violently.

I sat in the front of the apartment and tried to call Jean-Philippe and prayed he wouldn’t freak out in French. Cause it would be bad, and I’d have no idea what he would be saying. He wasn’t answering. Shit, was he asleep? I tried texting him. Nothing.

I was realizing that I was going to be ostracized for the rest of my time in Montreal over this one. I have fucked over EVERYBODY! And then I had a moment of desperation. I buzzed everyone in the whole building. And as luck would have it, at 11:40 on a Friday night, there was one guy who was still at home. I mimed as best I could through the glass, “I-DO-NOT-HAVE-A-GUN!” He cautiously opened the door and said, “Oui?”

“Hi!” After that, I spoke very precisely, and very slowly, because that always breaks the language barrier! “I live in apartment five,” I lied. “I left my keys up there.” I am also miming each and every syllable.

The guy just casually opened the door and said, “In you go, dude.”

I ran upstairs, grabbed the keys, put a death grip on them so I would never part with them again. Hey, if it works in relationships, it should work on a pair of keys, right? I unloaded everything from my car and made sure before I left to add my current location into the GPS as the REAL new apartment. I hauled ass down the streets of Montreal to the old apartment, hoping that even if everyone was asleep over there, that I could sneak in like a skinny, bald, white-boy version of Santa Claus and take the rest of the boxes over to the new place.

I walked in and found Jean-Philippe standing in the hallway, smiling. “We’re getting McDonald’s!”

After I sat him down and told him the whole story. He said the most perfect sentence to follow it all up with. “Soooo...you want a beer?”

I haven’t had a beer since I was 21. But after the events of this fucking night? “Buddy, a beer would be great!”