As I was passing a blackjack table in Pit 7, while repeating "Massage? Would anyone care for a massage?", I noticed a gentleman wearing a white T-shirt with the phrase on the back, in bold, black letters:
NO, I DON'T WANT A FUCKING MASSAGE!
Well, fuck you, too, Sunshine! Pardon me for doing my job, Asshole. I hope you never, ever win at any game in the future, and that your teeny-tiny little dick falls off from lack of use. I hope that you develop a horrid body odor that causes little old ladies to faint in your presence. I hope any friends you might have (which I doubt!) desert you in droves because of your putrescence, and that any woman you hit on laughs loudly in your face, incredulously. May you break out in nasty, oozing boils. And, for good measure, may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.
Oh, and I didn't want to massage you anyway. After all, I do have standards to maintain. Which you obviously do not meet.