Monday, September 7, 2009
I should be back in my offices by mid-September.
Please review your schedules, and re-arrange any planned psychotic breaks or displays of dramatic neurotic malfunctions until after that time.
In fact, all of the Bonnywood Manor blogs will be on hiatus during this time, with the exception of The Sound and The Fury. You can check that site for brief updates from Paris. (Scroll down to the link to the right.)
See you soon!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Lanae just brought me this, and then immediately began preparing a shot of tequila for me:
When you are in a department store, should you ask" where the free water is?" or "where the water fountain is?" hmm..
When you are filling out a job application, and you have to check F or M, does this stand for "monday or friday?" or "Female or male?"
These are sure some complicated questions... LOL
Dear Scary Person,
I’ll be honest with you. I seriously had to have my assistant, Lanae, check my vital signs to ensure that I had not suffered a small seizure prior to reading your submission. Because, quite frankly, I didn’t think there could be any other reason for me seeing the words that I thought I was seeing unless neurological damage had taken place.
Sadly, Lanae gave me a clean bill of health. Then she read your letter back to me, and to my horror, the words were indeed the same words that I had hoped I had only envisioned in some surrealistic synaptic misfire. You truly sent this thing to me just as it appears above.
I’m so sorry for your family.
But I am a professional, and will do what I can to bring you back from the edge of the psychological abyss where you are currently dangling, apparently by one finger, with a strong wind barreling through this canyon of dementia.
I must be strong.
Firstly, do not ever go into another department store for the rest of your natural life. You clearly have lost the fundamental grasp of the true purpose of such establishments. These are not places of nourishment and refreshment. Can you understand that? Concentrate, this is critical.
Department stores were created for the sole purpose of luring you into over-paying for ridiculous items that no human being really needs. They want you to lust for pointless crap just so you can have the dubious honor of wearing some foo-foo designer’s name on your ass, while spritzed with vanity colognes that smell like someone forgot to take the trash out after an especially strenuous orgy.
To clarify, department stores are not watering holes. They were not designed for the tramping about of bone-dry herds. Therefore, it does not matter how one should ask for water in such a den of bling and irritatingly-skinny “sales-models”. You shouldn’t be asking in the first place. Find a garden hose.
Yes, I do understand that you may have indeed entered a department store fully intending to purchase some high-end undergarment that requires dry-cleaning and storage in a climate-controlled vault, and then perhaps became a bit parched and throat-scratchy. (After all, no one wants to sound like Joan Rivers when the anesthesia wears off in the cosmetic-surgery ICU.)
However, my advice is the same. You should not expect lubrication stations anywhere near an Hermes scarf. It simply isn’t done. If you plan to fondle cashmere while surrounded by lock-jawed society women that have never worked a day in their lives, you should be fully prepared and have the proper training.
Perhaps you should read Bitsy Uppercrust’s fascinating survival guide on high-end shopping: “Only The Strong Survive: Beating the Bitches at Barney’s”. You will note that there is an entire chapter on the fact that you should hydrate before asking the chauffeur to take you for a bit of shopping. This is a cut-throat social setting. There simply isn’t time to dash off to a disease-ridden public water dispenser when couture is at stake.
Now, moving on to the bit where you confuse days of the week with gender. I’m completely agog. What lead you to this point, where such a thing can happen? To be fair, there has been considerable buzz in the hippest medical journals about this condition. You are not alone. (Which makes me tremble, but again, I shall be strong for my clients who have no limits on their various credit cards.)
As is often the case with identity issues that lead to traumatic psychosis, the parents are usually to blame, especially when it comes to gender identity and the calendar. For instance, did your parents jack around with your given name whilst you were growing and budding? This is critical, and it happens far too often than should be legally allowed.
Let’s say your name is Emily. Very feminine, very pretty. You start out in life knowing that when people say this sound, it means YOU, the lovely little girl with the cashmere diapers. But let’s say that one day Momma calls you “Emmy”. Well, that’s not quite so feminine, is it? Still kind of pretty, but a little bit more rural, less Fifth Avenue. Did mommy think you were ugly today? And that’s where it starts.
And then there’s the shocking day when Daddy calls you “Em”. Well, that’s just downright cruel. Now you’re a trucker wearing flannel and drinking cheap beer out of your bottle. And if you happen to have one of those cute Tickle-Me-Elmo calendars hanging beside you, you might make an association with the days that you were called certain names. And thus begins DOGS (Days Of Gender Syndrome). I’m sorry to say that it’s downhill from there.
We have various treatment programs that can help you, so don’t be too concerned about this angle. Help is on the way, as long as you can afford it.
But of more immediate concern: Why are you entering information of any kind on applications? You have some very serious issues, young lady, and should not be filling out anything at this time, whether it be for a job, a dating service, or an effort to show your support for a political candidate. Until you know who YOU are, you certainly can’t expect anyone else to seriously value any legal paperwork that you might submit, considering your confusion, dehydration, and uncertainty about your actual name.
And your final LOL about “These are sure some complicated questions” is a blatant plea for help. We are here to serve you. The first step in any recovery is admitting that you have a problem. And if you don’t think you have a problem, then WE will commit you, preferably to an institution with cashmere straight-jackets. For your own good, of course.
Please bring all your insurance forms to the next session. Just don’t fill them out. We beg you.
Monday, August 24, 2009
This just in from the shores of Grapevine Lake:
As you know it is very hot outside and I need advice on how to find comfort. I tried less clothing, but sometimes people and places frown on the clothing is optional theory.
Yes, indeed, the temperature outside has become almost intolerably high. And has been proven by many profound studies, such intense heat can cause even the most law-abiding citizen to suddenly snap and beat the Avon Lady to death just because she is wearing yellow shoes.
So I commend you on attempting to find reasonable ways to keep cool and avoid any heat-induced activity that may lead to embarrassment and/or incarceration. It’s always encouraging to see considerate people such as yourself actually taking steps to keep themselves mentally healthy, rather than continuing to do the stupid things that lead them to psychiatric wards.
And although it is true that one shouldn’t “let it all hang out” in most public arenas and retail establishments, the situation is not quite as restrictive as you might think. For the nudist-in-the-know, there are actually quite a few available options to satisfy your need to be free and natural.
I am quite happy to provide the following list to you, as you seem quite grounded and realistic, and nearly always make regular payments on your account with us. (One of the surest signs of mental health there can be.) However, in accordance with a court ruling in a situation that has nothing to do with you, I must insert the following text into any client reading where nudity is mentioned:
I hereby affirm that in no way, shape or form am I suggesting that this client remove an article of clothing as a directed therapeutic action, nor am I advising that the liberation should be staged in a crowded supermarket without fair warning to patrons, nor am I suggesting that any of the above take place in front of several members of the Broken Arrow First Baptist Church as they purchase fresh produce in order to prepare a celebratory meal for the Lord. And I humbly apologize once again to the fine family business known as Piggly Wiggly of America, LTD.
Okay, then. No need for alarm. Just a bit of court-ordered reparations. It happens more often than one would think. (And perhaps someday I will fill you in on all the details from the Easter Sunday stripper pole action. It’s really quite an amusing story once you take the jail time out of the picture.)
So, where did we leave off? Ah, yes. I was just about to share with you some quality local organizations where nudity is met with a healthy enthusiasm, if you should choose to visit these establishments of your own free will. In fact, the first on the list also involves a house of worship, although one that is not quite as starchy as the Baptists.
The House of Love and Breezes Sanctuary is located just 20 miles west of here, in a lovely walled compound previously owned by the Methodists until that incident with the misprinted festival pamphlet several years back. (“Harvest Festival Gays” brought in a completely unexpected crowd, words were exchanged among the congregation concerning responsibility, and the wounds never healed.)
Love and Breezes is completely non-denominational , and everyone is encouraged to share in the best facets of all religions. I must say that fellowship in the nude is quite refreshing and comforting once you relax. However, you should be aware that there are certain distinctions.
Passing around the offering basket requires more accuracy and gentleness. Joining hands in prayer requires concentration when reaching blindly to each side. Certain phrases from songs of worship, such as “mine eyes have seen the glory”, can take on the wrong meaning if you don’t remained focused on the true message. And you certainly don’t want to slam shut your hymnal in a moment of rapture.
Let’s see. South of town we have the nudist amusement park, Magic Mountains, which can be a lot of fun with the right attitude. The roller coasters are certainly exciting, especially the one with the double loop. Bumper cars are a hoot, and the merry-go-round sure seems to get everyone in a frisky mood. The fun house is definitely worth a visit, but be prepared for the line to back up as astonished men stare in the mirrors at equipment that for once actually looks like what they’ve been telling everybody they had all these years.
Speaking of, there is a large sign at the entrance cautioning the more amply-endowed male and female visitors to use good judgment when selecting rides. Please follow this advice, and avoid things like the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Himalaya. Those things have a lot of G-force going on, and you don’t want to be responsible for you seatmates going home with a black eye or two.
If you prefer your fun indoors, there’s the I.C.France entertainment complex over by the mall. You can find all sorts of interesting activities in this happy place, all of them clothing-optional. There are many fine restaurants offering a wealth of international cuisine. (Sadly, the Benihana’s was recently forced to close. They were unable to build a client base for some reason.) I would also suggest that you stay away from the sushi palace. Saki-drenched people can be humiliating when they are armed with chopsticks and you innocently walk into a room where the AC is on high.
Nude bowling draws the crowds, though, as well as the nude disco and the nude rock climbing. Interestingly enough, the most popular spot is the La Boinga Bar with nude karaoke on weeknights. Apparently watching pathetic attempts at singing is even more laff-worthy when the performers try emphatic arm choreography whilst naked.
Oh dear, I see that our time is about over. I feel a wee bit guilty in that you did not receive any true counseling during our session, but it goes that way sometimes. As compensation, please accept this free pass to Magic Mountains, including the glow stick parade at midnight. (Shots of tequila are definitely in order before THAT spectacle begins.) Tell them that Dr. Brian did NOT send you.
P.S. And I’M not one of the men shamed by the fun house mirrors. I’m just repeating local lore. (Oh wait. I think I just broke one of the conditions of another court settlement. Dang. Those rulings can be SO pesky sometimes. Scratch this.)
Saturday, August 15, 2009
And this little jewel arrived just this evening:
Why do people try to put round pegs in square holes?
submitted by Serena L.
Fess up. Were you drinking when you sent this?
Not trying to be rude, but I always try to ensure that I understand all provisional elements which led to a patient’s submission. You clearly have issues, I would just like to make sure I focus on the signs of dementia that are most important to you.
And of course, there’s the legal angle. Should the authorities contact me after you, say, dance naked at the intersection of 4th and Main, or, you know, actually kill someone, I need to be able to provide them with professional guidance. “She knew exactly what she was doing” means admit you to the Psych Ward. “She was totally smashed” means throw her in the drunk tank and let her sleep it off. This distinction is critical.
But I suppose, to be fair, especially since I have vacation coming up and may not be immediately available should the police knock on my door, I really should analyze your query from both a plastered and non-plastered angle. Let’s do that, shall we?
Let’s choose sobriety first. After all, there are a number of organizations that use a similar slogan in their campaign materials, so they must be on to something. Even if that “something” is a hypocritical effort by right-wingers to stir up donations. I’d like it to work for ME, because I have bills.
So you’re sober, and you want to know why people try to put round pegs in square holes.
Well, from a purely physical standpoint, that round peg is going to fit in a square hole, unless it’s a really big round peg. So you’re not speaking in literal terms. Therefore, this is a euphemism that something else is going on in your life.
Ah, so we’re talking about sex. Hello. I should have gone there immediately, what with “pegs” and “holes”. (I’m really getting a bit slow as the years creep by. I need to speak to my pharmacist, or I should say DOCTOR, about a good vitamin regimen.)
You’re not happy about the sex that, apparently, you’re not getting enough of, or what you ARE getting quickly turns into complications, anxiety, and madness. This is not healthy. Things must change.
What’s a girl to do? Well, the first step you take is to sign into your PC, access your “love swap” websites, and immediately delete all connections where the gentleman caller does not give his full name and/or does not provide a clear, non-manipulated high-res photo of his tackle. You know what you want, why settle for second-best?
And while you’re at it, delete “friends” with User Names like “John Doe”, “Raging Stallion”, “Hunka Burnin Log”, and “Cellblock D”. These people will not make you happy at the end of the day.
Now go to all your main profile pages and make some updates. Remove any indication that you are desperate and will take a chance on anything. That photo of you lying in bed and looking sadly over at the empty space beside you? Very artistic shot. Get rid of it. The video you posted where you make a scrumptious home-cooked meal, waltz into the dining room with a steaming tray of goodies, and then burst into tears when you see only one place setting? High quality and well shot. Delete it.
Why was this necessary? It may come as a surprise to you, but the average straight American male does not exactly find it erotic when a woman waves the Needy flag from the get go. Have the “WUV ME” tattoo removed from your forehead. Take off the “Neurotic and Clingy!” panties and throw them in the back of the closet.
Once you’ve tidied these things up, turn off the PC, and walk away. Do not check your email for 3 days. If Prince Charming has really been searching for you for 30 years, he’s not going to be disturbed by a long weekend.
When an appropriate amount of time has passed, calmly sign back in, and SLOWLY review the entire contents of you inbox. Do not seize the first email from a male-sounding name and immediately begin making plans to have yourself Fed-Exed to him the next morning. If the gentlemen stupidly identifies his work location in the email, do not run to the phone and call his boss, trying to arrange some days off and a travel voucher for him.
Read each and every email with a healthy sense of caution, and carefully consider what each and every of his written words literally mean, rather than what you would like them to mean in your fevered and lusty mind.
And here’s a hint: Just because they respond at all, it does not mean that they love you. Word.
Okay, that’s one analysis. But the more I’ve pondered you query, I’ve come to the conclusion that you really were drunk when you mailed this, and I must go into THAT angle of the analysis. (It also means that I’ve wasted my time for several paragraphs of expensive counseling. You will still have to pay for it, of course, but perhaps you could tear off the top half of this and give it to you even needier friend who joined that “I Will Bang Anything With a Pulse” website.)
So this is what really lead to your question:
You were at Joe’s Crab Shack the other night with your best friend, Chlamydia, having cocktails and chit-chatting. Clam was doing most of the talking, as she always does, but you’re used to the sound of her incessant voice by now and it was actually comforting, soothing, like a tropical downpour.
You were having a bit of sidebar fun, flirting with the waiter and making sure your breasts were in the way each time he reached for your empty glass. You knew you really had his attention when he started trying to refill your water glass each time you took the tiniest sip. Things were heating up. Then you spied his mother bringing him lunch money, and she looked EXACTLY like you, so the plug was quickly pulled on that little adventure.
You vaguely looked in Clam’s direction, checking in, and discovered that she was only on Item 4 of the 10 things about herself she always brings up, so you had plenty of time there, she usually doesn’t stop for input until Item 7, glossed-lips flying. You turned back to the bar.
And there he was.
You don’t normally go for cowboys, but something about the way he filled those jeans, standing at the bar with one boot up on the rail and talking to his buddy, sent a hormonal jolt through your body that nearly blew your toes off. You realized you were staring and were just about to turn away, when he looked right at you, gave a little tip to his hat, winked, and then kept talking to the buddy.
Oh my god.
You turned to Clam and kicked her under the table.
“What the HELL?”
“Sorry, sweetie. I love you, but I needed you to shut up for just half a second.”
“Well, you didn’t have to-”
“Yes, I did. You weren’t going to take a breath for twenty more minutes. Okay, don’t look right now, but there’s a guy at the bar-”
Her head immediately whipped in that direction.
Her head whipped back. Her massive hair did the same a few seconds later. “O-M-G. He is so fuc-”
“He’s mine, don’t even think about it.”
“He doesn’t even know you exist.”
“He winked at me.”
Clam paused, pouting, then “But that doesn’t mean he wants-”
“I am just telling you, as a friend, that if you do the tiniest thing to distract him from me, I will CUT you. And quit sticking your titties out.”
Clam sighed, then relaxed her shoulders. “Well, we’re gonna need some more alcohol to get through this. Where’s the waiter? Is it past his curfew?”
And so the seduction, and the serious drinking, began. You did all your attention-getting tricks, laughing loudly over nothing, flipping your hair, pretending to get margarita salt on your shirt and then jiggling things around.
Five rounds later, things were getting a little swimmy. You were having a hard time remembering Clam’s full name, and whether or not you were the person who drove tonight. Cowboy still hadn’t come over, but he hadn’t left yet. And you really had to pee.
So you fumbled for your purse, and then struggled to slide across the booth bench. (It sure wasn’t this hard getting IN here.) Wait, why are there legs at the end of the booth? You look up, and focus. It’s him!
“Hi there, pretty ladies. My name’s Brad. Mind if I sit with you a bit? My buddy had to get on the road, but I’ve still got some fight left in me, and you two been yukkin it up all night and havin a good time.”
You hurl yourself to the other end of the bench, squeezed up against the wall to ensure there is more room on your side of the booth than on Clam’s side. She’s in the same frenzy, throwing packages and crap over her head, but she’s slow out of the gate. He plunks down to your right. You quietly promise Jesus that you will go back to church real soon. Amen.
And he turns out to be completely charming, telling funny stories that have you busting a gut. Even Chlamydia is enraptured, temporarily forgetting to be a slut. But he keeps ordering rounds. You’re so lit that you can no longer understand everything he says, but it’s fascinating just watching his lips move, and the way his big hand rubs his chin every once in a while. But it becomes clear that something ELSE is about to bust if you don’t do something about it in the next five minutes.
“Sugar, could you scooch out a bit? I need to powder my nose.”
He scooches. As you slide over, you discreetly grab a shrimp fork and stab Chlamydia’s hand. (“He is MINE, bitch.”) Then you stumble toward the restrooms.
To find that the ladies’ room is packed, line out the door. Oh god. This is a serious biological moment.
Then your eyes spy the men’s room down the hall. Not a soul in sight. You’re drunk and clenching, and the decision is a quick one. You stagger that way.
You slam through the door. Still no one. Perfect. You beeline to the only stall and slam the metal door open, only to find that the toilet is broken and overflowing. How is this happening?
You turn around, and there are two urinals on the wall. One is very low to the ground, probably for little boys, and is out of the question. The other one seems awfully high, but it will have to do.
You approach the taller one, trying to work out the math. You’ve SEEN these before, of course, but you’ve never had to use one. The bowl doesn’t stick out far enough for you to just lift your dress and squat, there’s not enough room for you to spread your knees and try to get your business hovered over the water.
Maybe you can back into it? Yeah, that’s got to work. So you struggle getting your panties down (WHY do undergarments cause so much trouble when you’re schnockered?), then hike your dress up to your bra to keep things dry. You stumble backwards and feel the cold porcelain hit you in the upper butt. You stand on your tip-toes and are just able to clear the bowl.
When you sit down, your feet actually come off the ground, so you have to hang on to the flush handle for balance. It’s an odd sensation and position, but your body instinctively knows that it’s good enough, and here comes the pee.
While struggling to hang on, you think you feel part of the bunched-up dress get caught on something, but you’ll worry about that in a minute, can’t stop the flow right now, you’ve saved up gallons while flirting with the cowboy. There’s been so much pressure for so long, that the release is almost erotic it feels so good. You let out a small sigh. And relax.
And your hand slips off the flush handle. Suddenly you are plummeting forward and downward. Halfway to the floor, to your increased horror, you realize your dress IS caught on something and is in the process of ripping apart down your back and across your waist. The good side is that this somehow slows your fall, so that when your head hit’s the ground, it’s just a gentle tap.
The bad side, and it’s really bad, is that with the way the dress split, the upper half of the dress has your arms entangled and you can’t move them. The bottom half of the dress is keeping the bottom half of your body stuck on the urinal. You are hanging upside down, with your exposed lily-white ass aimed at the ceiling.
The door to the men’s room whacks open. Cowboy boots shuffle across the tile floor, and then pause. You hear the gruff, sexy voice you’ve been giddy about all night:
“Darlin, how’d you get your cooter caught on that there toilet?”
Please see Lanae at the front desk. I’m sure you’ll be needing more sessions.
Try to get some sleep,
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
And now we have THIS study in shame and degradation:
Does Joes Crab Shack put "Stolen From Joes Crab Shack" on the crab tools because they want customers to steal them and then do advertising, or NOT steal them?
submitted by Breakfast at Tiffanys
And Dr. Brian responds:
First, why do you insist on not using apostrophes in your submissions? What has the apostrophe ever done to YOU to deserve such neglect? Was there an incident in grammar school? Did you watch some idiotic horror film wherein a crazed apostrophe captured townspeople and killed them with dangling participles? Perhaps we should investigate this further in another session.
Second, please refrain from spilling hot melted butter on your letters. It’s filthy and rude.
Now, to the matter at hand. On the surface, the answer to your query is quite simple. You do not take things that don’t belong to you. I don’t care what words may be printed on the object, if you did not pay for it, then you leave it alone and select something from the menu that you CAN pay for.
Did your mother not mention this to you at least once or twice during what I now presume to have been a very troubled childhood? Or was your mother right there with you at this shack thing of Joe’s, pawing the utensils as well and shifting things around in her clutch to make room for contraband? Does your family tree include the names Bonnie and/or Clyde?
And really, the more I study your submission, the more concerned I’m becoming about your true mental state, especially when it concerns thievery and deception. The letter is written in purple crayon, which is not unusual considering the nature of my clientele. But this has been written with a BROKEN crayon. And there’s a stain in the lower left corner that came from the tear ducts of a 5-year-old.
You stole this crayon, didn’t you! Snatched it from the hand of the innocent toddler at the table on your left. Judging by the stress fractures on the crayon, it seems the brave little toaster held on for quite some time before the thing finally snapped, sending the angel tumbling backwards until she whacked her head on one of the insipid pieces of memorabilia they have nailed to the walls in those places.
The restaurant manager actually had to make those irritating waiters stop line dancing to “Car Wash” long enough to attend to the sobbing child, slapping a Hello Kitty band-aid on her noggin and racing her to the nearest emergency room, bouncing around in the back of a fish truck.
Poor thing even lost the remaining half of the now melting crayon, her grip faltering when they hit a rather nasty speed bump whilst roaring out of the parking lot. The poor little damaged crayon sailed out the window into the dark and evil night. Plink.
And you just sat there at your table, whining because your next margarita hadn’t arrived yet, asking the manager to turn the music up because some urchin was crying, and wondering if the mussels were fresh.
You are cold, indeed.
And you cannot blame your mother for this horrendous action of yours. Even if the suspicions about her concerning criminal activity are proven true, she grew up in a different time and place and would never have acted in the aggressive manner that you did.
Given the same situation, she would befriend the child first, compliment the little darling’s dress, and then, when impish Emma was distracted by the amazing choreography of the Crab Shack Rockettes, your mother would discreetly tuck the crayon into her bosom, say a few polite words of farewell, and then graciously slip away.
Of course, the child would still eventually discover the theft, but it would be hours later, and the parents would ignore Emma’s security concerns and assume that the child had simply done something stupid with the damn crayon. If Emma persists in her pronouncements about the lady with the big boobies snatching her writing tools, she would be strongly encouraged to go to bed early and think about her lies.
An unjust resolution, to be fair, but far more agreeable than your savage actions, snarling and ripping the crayon out of her weak little hand, and then hurling Shirley Temple across the restaurant, followed by a noisy and uncomfortable ride in a delivery wagon that smelled like cat treats and unwashed old people.
And we have a final matter to address with your submission. It appears that you have scribbled your correspondence on Joe’s Crab Shack stationery. (I’m amazed that they even have such a thing. I just assumed that, in a facility wherein talent-deprived individuals perform line dances and get very excited about the birthday of a complete stranger, there would be little evidence of the capability to read and write. Then again, they let YOU in the door, so all bets are off with such an establishment.)
At the top of this parchment, you have replaced JOE’S with TIFFANY’S, resulting in the phrase “Tiffany’s Crab Shack”. Now, a greener therapist than myself would diagnose this as a subconscious admission that you have a certain bodily condition that requires a visit to the “special section” of your local Walgreen’s. And this would be a fine analysis with most patients.
In your case, however, it actually reveals the true root of your neurosis. You couldn’t care less WHY Joe puts the little message on his crab crackers. Your dissatisfaction lies with the fact that he used HIS name instead of YOURS. It’s a classic case of delusional grandeur.
You want people to see your name everywhere, preferably in lights, with sparkly letters. And you don’t care what the item is, as long as your name is on it.
This is how Hitler started.
To be fair, there are other deranged neurotics like you running around out there. This is why we see Roto-Rooters becoming Roberto-Rooters and Porta-Potties becoming Portia-Potties. But you have gone beyond the normal dementia, now that you have bitch-slapped a child and then calmly ordered another round.
Speaking of which, I’m late for my next appointment. Emma is here to discuss her fear of seafood-themed restaurants and the color purple.
Please see Lanae at the front desk to arrange for another session.
P.S. And for gawd’s sake, learn how to use an apostrophe!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
And now we have an international query:
Dear Dr. Brian,
Why am I living in the only country in the world that sees fit to drive their cars on the left instead of the right side of the road. What this means is that I have to pay attention while driving and I don't like it. Please help.
And Dr. Brian responds:
We will dispense with my impulsive need to ascertain why you choose to name yourself after an expulsion of natural gas in a manner that is considered rude and offensive. We have more pressing issues to address. Another session, perhaps?
Now, this driving thing.
First, are you certain that you live in the only country in the world where people drive their cars on the left side of the road. I’m assuming you live in the UK, based on the crudely-drawn image of the Queen’s bum on the back of the envelope, the aroma of fish and chips wafting from the stationery, and the packet of matches from some pub known as “Ye Olde Snog and Shag”.
I must confess that I was a bit thrown by the matches. Why include such? Instinct tells me it’s a cry for help from one of your alternate personalities. But to be fair, there could be a less sinister explanation for you having placed weapons of fire inside international correspondence.
Perhaps you are just absent-minded, and the check covering our last session, which should have been included in this fish-reeking submission (ahem), is instead lying near an ashtray in your game room. Maybe the children have been playing with fire again. (Please DO read that pamphlet I sent you last month, “Adolescence and Arson: Kiddies Who Kill“). Anyway, I’ll assume for now that the matches were a gift. I have no use for them, but thank you.
My point being, we have established that you are in the UK. As we all know, the British have a history of being a bit pushy, running around the globe, conquering things, and turning Australia into a giant penal colony that eventually produced Mel Gibson and vegemite sandwiches. Lots of little colonies everywhere. So surely, other folk in burghs here and there drive on the left as well.
In other words, don’t be self-centered and act like you are the only one forced into inane vehicular situations. It’s fairly common. Most people survive with mental health intact. Even if it does look ridiculous, is pointless, and is the result of the English once again clinging to things that have outlived their usefulness, like figgy pudding and royalty.
And then comes the real whining: “What this means is that I have to pay attention while driving and I don’t like it.”
That, dear expulsion, is the root of your mental flatulence. It’s not that you have to pay attention, you don’t mind paying attention at all, it’s that you have to pay attention to something other than YOURSELF. This notion completely gets under your skin, causes you to snap pencils, makes your face crinkly, and you redirect your anger to innocent targets like dumb-ass local driving rules and how many steps it takes to get to the loo at the Snog and Shag.
We knew it was coming, this eventual conflict with how much you crave attention versus what anyone else in the world might be interested in at the same time. There are warning signs all throughout your files wherein you voraciously tried to steal the spotlight. Let’s review a few incidents, shall we?
Did you really think it was necessary, during your school’s third-grade Christmas production of “Mary, Joseph and a Barn”, to suddenly start turning cartwheels, naked, singing “I Will Survive”, just as they were bringing out the Baby Jesus?
I still have 4 members of that audience as clients to this day.
During that fateful presidential election, at the final debate when it was down to the wire and evenly tied, and you somehow finagled getting to ask the final question, did you think it was appropriate to ask George Bush about his stand on the pending legislation to declare May 28th as International Beaver Emancipation Day?
There was no such pending legislation, even though his staff spent several months trying to support it. Sadly, analysts have since confirmed that this staff work was viewed with great praise by certain segments of the population. In fact, George won the election simply because some people were excited about the prospect of free beaver in the future.
You changed the course of a nation just because you thought it would be fun to talk about beaver on live television. Any guilt there? Just a little?
No. You indirectly set the stage for Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, and Dick Cheney, but you’re going to whine about having to drive the Jag on the wrong side of the road. Childish twit.
It’s time for an intervention.
I realize that, with someone so self-centered that they can see out their own butt, your recovery is going to take some serious time and dedication. Your ego wasn’t built in a day. So we’ll start small. I’m going to give you a few exercises.
The next time one of your relatives does something stupid and requires immediate medical attention, please put down the microphone you always carry with you, and at least dial 9-1-1. Do not, as you usually do, consider this an evil attempt to steal your audience. Do not pretend that your cell phone is dead. Do not ask the screaming injured person to tone it down a little so you can continue your interpretive dance about the Stonewall Riots.
The next time you are at the grocery store, and the manager asks you to refrain from singing, kindly do so. Most patrons prefer perusing the produce department without accompanying vocals. This is just human nature. The request for you to cease and desist is not, as you usually assume, due to bitter jealousy over the fact that you can warble a tune while juggling melons. They just want you to shut up.
I understand this will be difficult for you. These are baby steps for most, giant leaps for Razzkind. But I want you to work on this. Try really hard, every day before taking any action, to think about whether the action is appropriate in daily life, or might possibly be a little self-serving. Or in your case, completely self-serving and could possibly result in injury, mass suicide, or World War III.
Please try very hard.
Otherwise, I will have you arrested in the interests of national security, world peace, and biblical pageantry everywhere…
Thursday, July 23, 2009
And we have this from sunny California:
My friend from Canada insists on bringing me candy when she visits. The problem is I haven't eaten any of the candy because it is always something called beaver and/or elk droppings. Do you think this is some sort of delicacy there? Is it safe to eat? Am I just being a prude?
Where to begin? There is such complexity to your paragraph that I do believe we’ll have to break this down very carefully, phrase by phrase, so that we do not miss a single possible contribution to your current dysfunction.
“My friend from Canada”
How did you acquire such a thing? How do you even KNOW someone from there, let alone manage to build your relationship up to the “BFF” level? Was there a snafu involving a misdirected email and a subsequent court order? Did you make a wrong turn on your way to Martha’s Vineyard, followed by the poor decision to just “see where this road goes”?
As most learned professionals are aware, Canadians are a unique class unto themselves. In most mental science textbooks and professional journals, they usually have their own special section, usually with an introduction along the lines of “everything you have just read concerning appropriate social behavior does not apply to the following culture.”
And then there’s the issue that your “friend” can most likely see Sarah Palin from her house. Political convictions and professional analysis aside, that woman is crazy. Your friend is in constant danger of being mistaken as wildlife and gunned down by Sarah or one of her fertile, unmarried children.
For her own safety, your friend should move. Of course, this might mean leaving Canada. And then you would no longer be able to use the artsy phrase “my Canadian friend”, just “my friend”, which will lower your mystique factor and possibly introduce even more complications into your relationship.
Friends don’t insist. On anything. They allow you to do what you need to do in order to avoid unhappiness in life, confinement to a mental institution, or jail time. Friends are there for no other reason than to enable you, provide alcohol, and destroy evidence. Canadetta is not being friendly with the insisting.
“on bringing me candy when she visits.”
The easy explanation here, for most analysts, is that we’re really talking about sex, but I believe in your case we are indeed referring to sugar-based concoctions that children ingest and then refuse to go to bed or to stop bouncing on the pogo stick. So for now, we will operate under the assumption that Canadetta is innocent at this point. Except for the part about being from Canada.
“The problem is”
No, that’s for me to decide.
“I haven’t eaten any of the candy”
Interesting. Right in the middle of a sentence you went into a regressive state. This particular phrase actually refers to a blocked memory from your junior year in high school. Despite your protests to the contrary, everyone knows you were indeed involved in the toilet papering of that house in Golden Thrust Estates. We have primitive video. Let it go.
“because it is always something called beaver and/or elk droppings.”
See, there’s that Canadian thing again. This is why Canadians always have a special section in textbooks.
“Do you think”
Of course I do. All the time.
“this is some sort of delicacy there?”
Chances are strong that it is not, since it’s Canada and all. When was the last time you heard anyone proclaiming the divinity of Canadian food? Never, that’s when. Now, that doesn’t mean they don’t actually eat this mess, and that it may even be quite popular. I don’t know. I have not had the opportunity to observe the locals in action.
It IS clear that there is apparently enough need for this type of thing that companies are producing the product in massive quantities. So either Canadians love to munch on fake poo, or they find great joy in lugging said poo across the border and watching Americans react when they see it on the coffee table.
“Is it safe to eat?”
Nothing is safe to eat. Do you not watch the news? Fresh fruit can take your life in an instant. So feel free to put whatever you want in your mouth, it’s only a matter of time before you bite into something that’s going to repeat. Might as well live it up while you can.
“Am I just being a prude?”
Now THIS is about sex, and has nothing to do with animal byproducts, gifts containing such, or Canadians. You are not a prude. You clearly enjoy sex, and have a healthy and adventuresome attitude about it. This is evidenced by the fact that you once drove toward Martha’s Vineyard. It’s obvious that they have lots of sex there. Otherwise, why would the Kennedys keep going back?
To surmise, it’s a given that you will not be able to rest comfortably until this situation is resolved. I would advise that you take direct action to alleviate the unsatisfactory conditions. As a first step, invite your friend back for another visit, artfully arrange some down time where there are no distractions, pour a few glasses of wine, and then begin.
In a pleasant and non-aggressive tone, (in other words, do not emulate anyone on Fox News), explain that, although you do indeed love a good laugh, and certainly enjoy sweets from time to time, you also enjoy variety, and would greatly appreciate offerings of another sort. Be sure that you tilt your head at the right angle, so that you appear both angelic and non-threatening.
If another insulting bag of candied excrement should appear on the next visit, you move to Phase II. I have consulted with my homies that I counsel in South Dallas, and they assure me this method will work. Calmly flip open your Blackberry, and text your friend the following:
“Bitch, don’t be bringin that moose crap up in my house.”
Canadetta will either never return, or on her next visit will be lugging a benign fruit basket with organically-grown produce.
Let me know how it goes!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
And now we have this missive from an obscure village in Oklahoma where (and I am not making this up to be mean, I have a verified report before me) there have been a number of cows making a break for freedom:
Why does salad taste better when someone else makes it for you?
And Dr. Brian responds:
I must confess, dear quaint but emotionally complex correspondent, that I have truly taken a fancy to your submission. Here in our deluxe offices at Bonnywood Manor, we receive hundreds of contemptible queries that are, quite frankly, not worth the price of admission. If you will allow me to be so direct, my staff is compensated quite handsomely, and it does trouble me that much of their time is spent throwing worthless letters into the recycling bin.
Your inquiry, however, is very much a jewel. So meaty. I’m simply salivating at the prospect of responding. Scholarly saliva, of course. No tawdriness. Here’s hoping that other budding patients out there will learn from your admirable efforts, and quit sending me crudely-drawn cartoons depicting boring incidents wherein they weren’t sufficiently validated at the high school prom.
So why IS it that a salad prepared by someone else is more pleasing to our finicky digestive systems? This is very complex, indeed. Ergo, the salivation.
The basal, fundamental response is that preparing a fully redemptive salad is a tremendous amount of work. Yes, there are those who are satisfied with simply hacking away at a head of lettuce, throwing in a few sliced or diced tomatoes, maybe some dried-out pre-packaged carrot shreddings, and then calling it a done deal.
This is not a salad. This is not even rabbit food. Any rabbit who has attended even the most basic of culinary institutes will look at you with disdain when proffered this pathetic attempt at a salad, and will retreat to the furthest corner of their shelter.
No, a salad worthy of worship and praise requires far more components. There must be cucumber. Perhaps some bell pepper. (Green, red, yellow, reach for the stars.) The somewhat-risky sliced mushroom. The adventurous sliced black olive. Some onion, though I must confess I’m not a fan of leaving a huge ring of onion intact, hack that thing up for better distribution. And some chopped up boiled egg? Nirvana.
My point being, as I always have one, that’s why they pay me, is that the more ingredients you toss into a salad, the more love you share. But it IS a lot of work, very tedious. So if someone is willing to do all that work for you, with the sole intent of making you happy, then you truly have a love salad. And all is good.
But enough of that. Can’t get too emotional. That’s a stipulation of my license. If I had one.
The deeper meaning here, refreshing ray of intellectual sunshine from Kendrick, Oklahoma, is that there is apparently a salad ingredient which you strongly wish to avoid. That’s the root of the matter, if you will excuse the weak gardening pun. One of the choices in the array of available salad options gives you pause, causes hesitation. You hope quite fervently that someone, anyone other than you, is assigned the task of preparing leafy appetizers.
After a lengthy review of various salad components (radishes? tofu? hicima?) and a thorough study of your psychological profile that is easily available on the Internet (might want to secure a few files on your PC, just sayin), the answer became clear: It’s the crouton.
Obviously, there was an incident with a crouton in your troubled past. I don’t know if things were soggy when they shouldn’t have been, or if the seasoning on a particular crouton wasn’t pleasing, or if someone you love lost a tooth after encountering a bricklike example of said baked product. But clearly, you abhor the crouton. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Please speak with Lanae at the front desk to schedule your future sessions. We can work this out.
P.S. Please avoid salad bars until we have our next session. Thank you.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Why does fat chance have the same meaning as slim chance and is what chance is it when its between the two?
And Dr. Brian responds:
First, I'm not certain if there is just a simple typo in your crude submission (I mean really, a rock?), or if the voices in your head are so distracting that you cannot complete a grammatically correct sentence. Let's go with the second explanation, shall we? Much more interesting.
To be fair, I'll start by addressing the superficial question you posed in your amateurish attempt to mask the obvious dementia from which you suffer. (It's apparent that you desperately need validation in any way that you can get it, so if I can toss you a placebo nugget of such here and there, why not?)
Yes, it IS somewhat perturbing that "fat chance" and "slim chance" both refer to little guarantee of success. Kind of irritating, actually. Why can't the hillbillies who make up these colorful local idioms come to some type of official guideline? Don't they have a union? Have a convention, select ONE expression to be used by all, and be done with it.
Let's carry this a step further, and focus on the hazy concept of "chance" itself. Why are the masses always "taking a chance" and composing contradictory slogans about doing so? "Chance" is really not dependable, as we've seen by all the cases of 11-year-olds being arrested for downloading rap songs and adults losing their retirement because they trusted big corporations to have solid 401K's. Not a good track record.
I do understand the seductive allure of "chance". After all, that Swedish rock group, Abba, practically begged us to take a chance on them, and who wouldn't be swayed by rhyming lyrics, thigh-high disco boots, and male back-up singers that only know three words? The call was strong, indeed.
But what happened? Abba broke up. They lied to us. I can empathize that they were all miserable and sick of world fame and each other, but don't sing an enticing disco song seeking our fidelity and then run away and hide, releasing 47 different greatest hits compilations. It's rude.
Now that we've dispensed with analyzing your deceptive query concerning conflicting yokel expressions, let's move on to the meat of the matter:
This is really about Christmas when you were 7, isn't it?
All you really wanted was the Transformers toy with the built-in voice recorder and the Play-Doh Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop. You didn't get either, instead receiving enough socks to last you until adulthood and that dumbass Candyland game that no one in your pre-puberty gang would dare admit to playing. You have been bitter ever since.
This is the real "chance" that torments you. You trusted Santa, and he hit the failblog. And the disappointments have continued throughout the years. Now you're all growed up, working for a huge company, and every time you open an email from corporate you realize that no one is going to give you the Fuzzy Pumper. Sucks.
But you need to move on. I can help you with that. Please speak with Lanae at the front desk to arrange your sessions. Be sure to mention that you are a "red flag". Relax, though, that doesn't mean what you think. Just have faith in me.
P.S. Seriously, dude. A rock through the window?
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Why do people not use turn signals as God intended?
And Dr. Brian responds:
Sweetie. I really don't think God has anything to do with it. Do you really believe that an omniscient being is going to concern himself (or HERself, depending on your viewpoints, life choices, and medication) with what the common idiot might or might not be doing whilst operating a pollution-spewing means of transportation?
This is something for the primates to work out amongst themselves.
And, as history has shown, the primates just can't get their act together. They probably could, if each individual primate received a functional and morally-acceptable brain, but there has obviously been poor planning in the distribution system. Packages did not get where they should, ergo, brainless wonders roam the earth in souped-up vehicles with stereo systems that can be heard on Jupiter.
But yes, I do agree that non-signalling idiots on our nation's roadways is a complete outrage. First, I am completely flummoxed as to why a functioning human being is unable to expend the one second it takes to activate a turn signal. Are you really that insipid and heartless? And second, NOT signalling is a CRIME. (Okay, a misdemeanor, but still, paying that fine will cut into your crack budget, and just might stop you from producing another welfare child.)
And that cuts right to the point. Where are the Po-Po when it comes to morons abusing our streets? If they would just pull these people over and give them a citation, we could eventually stop this atrocity. But alas, the police are more concerned with me turning right on red when I shouldn't be, instead of pursuing the non-signalling buttwipe that just zipped across three lanes of freeway traffic to take an exit they should have been prepared for by getting in THE FAR RIGHT LANE A MILE BACK!
Whoopsie. I seem to have worked myself up a bit. Mea culpa. I just don't understand the utter stupidity of my fellow man. But that's MY personal issue.
Back to you, since I will be sending you a bill for this, and therefore must pretend to make the analysis about you and your shallow interactions with society, rather than about me and my much more prescient concerns.
The indications of a slight fold in your post-it note, and the small smear of grape jelly, presumably from your own soiled finger and not from a passing homeless person, is a sure sign that you are not being satisfied in your marital bed. This is very serious, and will require many sessions.
Please speak with Lanae at the front desk to arrange your appointments. And you might want to speak with your insurer, as I foresee that we will be seeing a lot of each other, and I really don't want to deal with any billing issues. Be sure to mention "Post-Coital Post-It Syndrome". It's the latest thing, and they shouldn't have any isssues with the claims you file...
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Can a hangover result in death?
And Dr. Brian responds:
Welcome back. And quit waving around that ticket from the parking garage like the hounds of hell are after you. We can validate that later. Sit down.
So, in our previous session, I must confess that I was so distracted by the neuroses evident in your submission letter than I simply did not follow through with addressing your actual pathetic question. I shall remedy that henceforth.
Firstly, I am strongly convinced that my analysis of your posted letter was very much on par with your true psychological makeup, even though we did not deeply delve into the actual meat of the matter in regards to your question. The envelope showed classic signs of The Meltiki Syndrome, a fascinating situation wherein a patient's psyche splits into six separate personalities.
Interestingly enough, there were exactly six words in the question you posed. Even more fascinating, those six words, taken separately, are perfect signifiers of the six distinct personalities typically found in a person suffering from Meltiki Syndrome.
In other words, you are a classic textbook example of a fractured mind. Isn't this exciting!
So let's review the six words you submitted. Forget the actual question, it's not important. It's the individual words which define you.
First, we have the word "can". As all good therapists understand, this is actually an acronym for "Caustic Anal Neurotic". You are a severe Type-A personality. You must have complete control over your environment at all times, nothing can be off-center or dusty. I assume you vacuum everyday?
Then we have "a". Most physicians consider this an indicator of loss of self, a small, common word that everybody uses. It's supposed to represent a person feeling inadequate and unworthy. Since that possiblity has never crossed your mind, I would imagine it is the weakest of your six personalities.
Next comes "hangover". As we all now, there are two definitions of "hangover". The first is a physical sensation, wherein one retches while clutching a toilet that may or may not be their own. The second is a psychological term, where an individual uses the word as a euphemism for "inappropriate sexual activities have taken place".
In your particular case, I'm sure it is usually the second scenario. You think that by saying "hangover", all will be forgiven and no one will know what you have done. But unless you limit your contact to certain adult appliances, there is ALWAYS at least one person that is aware of the events that have transpired. And they usually want their handcuffs back.
Next we have the word "result". This one is easy, as it's religion-based. "Result" is the discreet way of saying "consequences of your sins". This is my least favorite personality in the six degrees of separation of the Meltiki Syndrome. I'm not interested in bible-thumping and the waving of placards outside abortion clinics. You can resolve this bit on your own.
Then we have "in". This is also known as the Fashionista Personality. It represents the burning desire to have the coolest and latest gadgets, the hottest outfits fresh off the runway in Milan, and a house that can vacuum itself. Luckily, most of us don't have enough money for this personality to ever take true control, although there CAN be some tense financial moments. My advice is that if it costs more than a late-night run to Taco Bell, you probably don't need it.
Finally, we have "death". Interesting how that turned out. This is an obsessive personality. The one that worries constantly about horrible things happening. You have little control over that. It will be as it will be. And when things do happen, you will rise above. In the end, there is a reason for everything, we have to trust in that.
Did I just soften a little bit? Hmmm.
Give me that damn ticket so I can validate it.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Can a hangover result in death?
And Dr. Brian responds:
What an odd question. Of course it can, this happens all the time with rock stars, bored rich kids, and bitter Republicans. Especially after mid-term elections.
So you clearly have much deeper issues, and think that you are cleverly hiding your real delusions behind this innocuous query. Amateur. Surely you must be aware of my powers. I can easily and competently diagnose anyone in a 5-mile radius without even breaking a sweat. You have offended me with this childish act. I will now rip you to shreds.
First, there are the grains of sand that irritatingly fell out of the envelope when I opened your letter. You reside near a beach, or at least perform your postal activities near a beach, same thing. There are two types of people who frequent beaches: weak people with no direction in their lives, and strong people who thrive on giving direction to those weak people.
The weak go to the beach in the hopes of finding a tiny bit of fulfillment in their miserable lives, even though they are doomed and they subconciously know it. At first, everything is pretty and the sun is nice. But soon they see all the more-beautiful people around them, hopes fade, and their thoughts turn to the ocean. The powerful ocean where perhaps they could fling themselves to a salty death.
But because the weak ARE weak, of course they don't do it. In their minds, they race to the water a hundred times, leaping over crabs and empty beer bottles in a stunning ballet of impending demise, finally catching the attention of the beautiful people as they gurgle and sink. Instead, the weak people give up their dreams and drag their sun-burnt bodies back home, and iron their clothes for another soul-crushing day in their part-time job at Sunglass Hut.
The strong people go to the beach because they mistakenly assume that God created the beach in honor of their glory. The strong don't simply walk onto the beach, they ARRIVE, wearing designer thong-wear and stomping around like Godzilla attacking the city, shooing away the weak people from the prime real estate. They carry harpoon guns to shoot any idiot servant that does not immediately provide them with requested beverages or snacky things.
And as you would expect, the strong people are there to torment the weak people. This is how life works in any environment, but especially in natural settings involving water. They laugh at the attire and hairstyles of the weak. ("I think you might have sailed right past the look you were going for, Chlamidya.") They are terrible to the children of the weak. ("Mommy drinks because you're ugly.") And they do their best to get the weak to follow through with the suicidal thoughts. ("Do you see that island over there? Cuba? I bet you can make it!")
You, dear patient, are obviously one of the strong. This is clear from the sand that poured out of your envelope, as I can see that you have personally autographed each grain. Do you have to purchase an extra airline ticket for your ego when you travel?
Now, let's move on to the stamp on your envelope. On the back of said stamp, we have the driest saliva I have ever seen. Are you SO anal that you cannot even produce adequate body fluids for postage? Do you even HAVE bowel movements, or do you just pay someone to take care of that for you?
And the stamp itself? I was unaware that you could actually purchase stamps trimmed in 24-karat gold. Amazing. Or did you just apply the goldleaf yourself? Most likely. I'm sure you've never been satisfied with anything produced by anyone else, and you always have to embellish and upgrade. Who knows what you've done with that vagina of yours. Is it wi-fi capable now?
Yes, I know you are a woman. This is not a sexist statement, although I am sure you will attempt to take it that way, and you are already alerting your fleet of lawyers. No, it is based on the fact that you indicated your return address as "Ultimate Diva Supreme, 123 Goddess Way, Nirvana, FL." So you're either a woman or a drag queen. Oh wait, with the available surgical procedures these days, is it possible that you-
Well, drat. There's the bell, time for my next patient.
Could you possibly return for another session? Have your people get with my people. (I know you have people, anyone with your level of maintenance has GOT to have people.) My pulse is pounding at the thought of further dissection. I'm all aquiver...
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Dr. Brian, did Mikey really die from eating exploding pop rocks?
And Dr. Brian responds:Well then, this is going to be a treat.
First, why would you even care about the answer to this question? Judging by the fingerpaint smears on the torn sheet from your Big Chief tablet where you scribbled this question, you can't possibly have achieved puberty. The Mikey incident you reference occured over 30 years ago. There is no way you could have a personal interest in Mikey or his passing. You are a rude little child with no manners.
Obviously, your parents are to blame. By calculating the angle and degree of fingerpaint splatter on your "submission form" (yes, you irritating urchin, watching "CSI" can be useful, perhaps you should try it, if only to learn how you might die), it is apparent that there was no supervision during the painting session. My analysis indicates that gallons of said fingerpaint were violated by your actions. Did you perhaps BATHE in the chalky fluid? Or is it that you have no motor skills whatsoever?
A good parent would never allow this unruliness. Proper parenting dictates that, should a child dare to exhibit artistic tendencies, there are strict guidelines which must be followed to avoid terror and heartbreak. As we all know, "artistes" are really just budding sociopaths teetering toward a life of alchohol and crime. Strident measures must be taken to prevent your little Picasso from one day going on a murderous rampage at the Piggly Wiggly. Clearly, the parents in this scenario did not follow the manual.
So we've settled that. Your parents suck.
But alas, as a proper physician for the neurotic and generally boring, I feel I must address your actual question, if only for legal reasons. Yes, Mikey did indeed breathe his last after ingesting chemically-treated sugar. These things happen, especially in the wanton days of the 70's when peanut farmers could become President. And people in synthetic leisure suits were running rampant, what with the gold chains and all. It was a terrible time. How this nation survived, I do not know.
But you, young artiste with your useless questions, do not have to suffer the same fate as a certain spoiled youngster who managed to look cute whilst consuming mass-produced cereal. You can rise above the evil sirens of bohemia, taunting you with their beckoning calls to stray down the rotted path of poetic license. Put down the fingerpaints, you warped and miserable child, and seek refuge in the mundane platitudes of normalcy. And avoid sugar at all costs.
Best of luck,
P.S. Please return the paperweight you surreptiously snatched from my desk. There was no door prize in our session. Thank you.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Q: Dr Brian, why do idiots run the world?
The answer is quite simple: Because idiots are allowed to have unprotected sex.
Idiots don't know how to do anything else. They can't comprehend words with more than three letters, they only have two functioning brain cells so original thought is not a possibility, and they are incapable of contributing to society in any way. Worthless.
But they've got that sex thing down. The idiot male dimly understands that they have an inflated appendage that must be inserted somewhere. The idiot female dimly understands that she has a climate-controlled storage facility where Billy Bob can place his best friend. Repeatedly. Of course, both the male and the female are stunned when a child shoots out months later. Even after 8 children.
So it becomes a mathematical situation. Responsible, practical, intelligent people take appropriate measures to ensure that the slap and tickle escapades do not lead to an abundance that is detrimental to our planet. But the idiots have not evolved. They missed the Gene Train. Due to their nasty humpa humpa primal instincts, the world is completely out of balance. Thousands of dead walking the earth for every one person that has actually read something more substantive than the back of a cereal box. Eventually, those walking zombies will gain positions of power due to their overwhelming number. And they have.
See, it wasn't always this way. Nature had it's own design, back in the day of the dinosaur and the caveman. Stupid people died. And rightly so. You want to sit on your ass in the cave while everyone else is out hunting and gathering? Fine. You don't eat when the tribe gets back. And eventually you die. You want to mess with the storage facility of an equally dim counterpart instead of running like hell and hiding when a T-Rex appears, then you deserve to die. You don't want to understand that just because you put lipstick on a rock a pray to it, that does not make the rock a God? Perish. And I don't mean Hilton.
Of course, there have been well-meaning attempts to rid the world of idiots throughout the centuries. These campaigns were all a bust. The Great Pyramids of Egypt? The pharoahs didn't give a damn about those things. They just wanted to send stupid people out in the desert to work themselves to death in the heat. But they wouldn't die. No, they just kept hauling crap up that incline and going back down for more.
The Black Plague? There was no virus. This was all about stealthy people running around with poison-tipped blow darts, aiming for anyone with two first names wearing a "Dukes of Hazzard" t-shirt. Did a pretty good job, but a failure in the end. Those dang idiots are like cockroaches. You hold a lightbulb over their head and they'll scatter, but they'll be back for the pizza crust later.
The Salem Witch trials? Okay, they got a little bit too arty there, what with bibles as props and those silly outfits and all that pointless writhing in pain. And little girls getting a wee bit uppity and straying from the Hit List just because some boy was cuter than another. But at least they tried. Sadly, times were changing, folks were starting to talk about this "human kindness" thing, and some people were actually offended by idiot-kabobs roasting on a stick. Who knew? The writhing stopped.
So society "progresses", although I have severe reservations about using that term. Now we have actual laws and governmental bailout programs to protect and actually encourage the stupid and irresponsible. You're not allowed to kill them. How effed is that? What went wrong where? Stupid people contribute NOTHING. Hello? But I'm not bitter.
The solution? Well, if we can give auto-makers billions of dollars for assinine decisions, and billions more to drop leaflets over third-world countries saying "just abstain from using storage facilities", then surely there's some spare change lying around somewhere for a network of specialized sterilization centers. Off with the nuts, I say. Of course, this operation will need to be carefully planned so that the idiots are clueless (THAT shouldn't take more than a paragraph in the documentation), the conservatives won't feel threatened in their quest to force women to give birth even if they aren't really that interested in doing so, and the liberals won't get all wonky about supposed human rights violations. Tricky, but it can be done.
So, we fake a cover story that these are clinics to FIGHT sterility, we live for nothing other than to make sure those little swimmers are really strong and really focused. We want babies! Yay! (Okay, check the radical right off the list.) To quiet the radical left, we will explain that the centers will consist of hundreds of private rooms in a row, each with their own outside access door for discretionary purposes. There will be armed security on patrol. We might even paint the doors orange. A nice touch.
We will then attract the idiots by advertising them as climate-controlled storage facilities. The drooling will commence, and a-runnin they will come. The code name for these centers will be U-Hell's. In the South, we can call them U-All's. Lorena Bobbitt can be the Executive Director.
I think this will work. Call your congressperson. Now.
With love for all mankind,
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Dear Brian, why do phrases like these appear in facebook quiz sections? "What Sort Of "I don't give a f*** I'll eat you" Killer Aquatic Creature Are You?" sincerely, annoying debutante case study #2
And Dr. Brian responds:
Dear Publicity-Seeking Skank,
This is not about you. In any way. Accept and breathe. This is about the thousands of impoverished souls that desperately need my wisdom and guidance. True, you are the only one who has actually knocked on my recycled-rainforest-wood door (Green is the new Black. Or some crap along those lines. I really don't understand my publicist sometimes, but I go with it.). But that does not make you special. It only means that your check cleared the bank and you get to come back for another session.
And this arrogance, this assumption that you get to be "case study #2". Hello? You're ALREADY case study #1. The paperwork on THAT case alone has been overwhelming. My assistants have been working overtime. (Side note, it's amazing how well-conditioned cats are for typing memos and filing affadavits. Who knew?) But the point is, this is not about getting to be #1 and #2. That is a discussion for the White House bedroom.
But since you ARE the only paying customer at the moment (I'm sure there are hundreds of others who just haven't figured out where the parking lot is, the streetlights around here are sorely lacking), I will attempt to hack my way through your minor concerns and dissect your neediness.
Let's see. There's so much low-hanging fruit to pick here...
The manner in which you postulated your question? Sigh. In our last session, what with the attempt to somehow rectify your assault on the basics of grammar by using hardened convict nuns whacking you with rulers, I thought we had moved beyond this impasse. But no. I'm certainly glad that Sally Field won an Emmy for playing "Sybil" in 1976. Yay. But if she had read your question aloud in a public gathering, she would also have won the presidency over Jimmy Carter. Because people would have been terrified to vote otherwise in the face of such a malicious and profane attack on the English language.
Perhaps that's a bit harsh. After all, Jimmy had Billy Carter waiting in the wings, about to unleash his peanut-based Billy Beer on the world. And there was also Amy Carter, the deer-in-the-headlights wonder that would set the stage for frizzy-haired First Daughters, a torch soon carried by "does she watch 'The L Word'?" Chelsea Clinton. So maybe Sally wouldn't have won after all. But it would have been damn close.
And now I really don't know what we were talking about. Oh wait. Something about your concern over odd and profanity-filled quizzes that are available on Facebook. Well, I have discussed this with the cats and other equally-qualified specialists in the field of human psychology. We analyzed and studied and pondered. And we have come to this conclusion:
People are fucking stupid.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Dear Brian, how much beer, is too much? luv tiffles
And Dr. Brian responds:
Good gawd, woman, why the hell would you ask this question? Are you serious? There is no reason to worry about the limitations on beer, real or imagined or put forth by the voices in your head. There are natural laws of nature that will take care of this issue for you. Just keep drinking. Eventually you will either pass out and awake in a strange bed, or you will die of alcohol poisoning. You are wasting valuable drinking time by even bothering to ponder the implications of your actions. Order another round.
Instead, let's focus on other issues that are more important and screamingly clear in your email. First, you've got to drop the "tiffles" angle. Obviously this is not your real name. No decent parent would ever mark a child with such a pathetic cattle brand, no matter how many episodes of "Dharma and Greg" they have seen, or how many Hallmark cards they may have pawed at Walmart. Stop pretending. If you must take on an assumed name, go with something firm and constructive like "Studebaker" or "Propane". This tells the world that you own your life. "Tiffles" tells the world that you might wet yourself if the milk expires.
Second, let's talk about the grammar. Or better yet, the appalling confirmation that you have no idea what this might be. Yes, I have tremendous insight, and realize there was an incident in the sixth grade where your Dr. Pepper Bonnie Belle Lipsmacker application device malfunctioned, and you spilled the syrupy concoction on your English textbook, thus sealing the pages together for three semesters and you were held back a grade. This is no excuse. You were fixated on your lips, instead of attaining proper communication skills, and you must own the oversight and take steps to rectify the situation. Sign up for classes immediately.
Besides, I can tell by the way you signed your name that the boy you THOUGHT you might be attracting with your wanton lip-prepping had no interest in you. Yes, I am talking about Pete. I can visualize him by the way you parted your hair in the employee ID photo from the time you worked at Casual Corner. Pete did not want you and your glistening beauty products. He wanted to join the wrestling team, and relished the thought of having access to the boys' locker room. I cannot say any more without violating the sanctity of doctor/patient privilege.
So, Miss Studebaker, thus ends our virtual session. Drink more, apply less, and try to act like English is not your second language. Everyone will benefit.