Thursday, August 27, 2009

Case Study #15

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.

Much love,

Dr. Brian

Monday, August 24, 2009

Case Study #14

This just in from the shores of Grapevine Lake:

Dear Brian,

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.


Dear Mars,

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.


Dr. B.

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

Case Study #13

And this little jewel arrived just this evening:

Dear Brian,

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,

Dr. Brian

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Case Study #12

And now we have THIS study in shame and degradation:

Dear Brian

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:

Dear Breakfast,

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.

With Irritation,

Dr. Brian

P.S. And for gawd’s sake, learn how to use an apostrophe!