tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30028438205092951242024-03-05T23:11:33.909-06:00Idiot FondueBrian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-88926649166856397092012-05-10T23:50:00.001-05:002012-05-10T23:50:35.075-05:00Case Study #38<br />
<i>Dear Dr. Brian,</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i> I was at Sonic this evening, and I had a small breakdown while trying to decide which of their designer hotdogs I should order. The Chicago? The New York? Stick with the standard foot-long chili cheese dog that they have had forever? It was very troubling. And then, after I finally made up my mind, the stupid lady who roller-skated out with my order slammed into the side of my car and spilled everything. Now I have a dent in my car and my weenie has been mashed. Should I sue?</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Confused,</i><br />
<i>Violated in Oak Cliff</i><br />
<br />
Dear Violation,<br />
<br />
Well, now. There are so many alarming things going on with your submission that I’m really not certain that a single person can provide proper guidance, but I shall certainly try, if only to be allowed the opportunity to address the significance of fast-food foot-longs. This is a minor side-dream that I have secretly harbored for many years.<br />
<br />
But let’s start from the beginning, as that is the point where most neuroses first gestate and then bloom into wonderful, twisted things that result in desperate people being willing to pay exorbitant consultation fees in order to untwist the madness that has led them to make poor decisions. (I am not complaining, by any means, of course. If it weren’t for misguided souls taking wrong turns, I wouldn’t even have a career. Bless the beasts and the blundering.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, why on earth would you consider <i>Sonic</i> to be an optimal food-intake destination? Surely you realize that the first ingredient listed on any of their products is “grease”, followed by “cholesterol” and then a double-play of carbs and processed cheese. As such, you really shouldn’t be surprised that bad things happened during your visit, since the mere decision to turn into the parking means that you have already opted to shorten your life.<br />
<br />
Now, to be fair, I can certainly understand the beck and call of an establishment where the menu is heavily weighted with fried foods. (Those cooks up in that place have an affinity for frying that is equivalent to the witch-burning frenzy of a certain town called Salem back in the day.) Fried, dripping consumables certainly have a cachet, and they can often provide comfort when your life is just not what it should be and it seems that your only recourse is to shove something larded into your mouth.<br />
<br />
In fact, there was a time in my own illustrious career when I had an infatuation with the jalapeno poppers at this very establishment. How I got to this low point is somewhat fuzzy to me now, though I do believe it may have had something to do with that soul-crushing time when I was falsely accused of inappropriate relations with livestock in France. In any case, I had a predilection for the poppers, especially when drenched in a vat of ranch dressing, yet another foul creation that does nothing to enhance your longevity.<br />
<br />
Many a night I would arrive at my local franchise, with the headlights turned off as I quietly slipped into the parking slot furthest from the bright lights of the building, back near the dumpster where the employees would heave the smoldering remains of artery-blocking foodstuffs that they had deep-fried but had been unable to sell before the items congealed into a solid, unappetizing block of irradiated waste.<br />
<br />
I would then use one of those voice-disguising machines that many of the current pop stars are using, wherein their voice is fine-tuned to something that is not their own, so that I could place my order in relative anonymity. And I always asked that “Lucrezia” deliver my order. In a random happenstance, she was a former patient of mine that I had saved from incarceration by creating a unique category of mental illness that had nothing to do with reality but certainly flummoxed the jury in her favor.<br />
<br />
Lucrezia and I were tight. She had secrets, I had a secret, and <i>Sonic</i> needed to move product. Nobody truly suffered in this arrangement, profits were made, and I was able to discreetly be a pig, sucking down ranch-enhanced poppers with a frenzy that would have resulted in crack addicts giving a standing ovation if they happened to be camping out near the dumpster and could actually focus on nearby vehicles.<br />
<br />
Alas, the joy was not to last. My personal physician insisted on inane things like regular checkups, and during the course of such, he and his coven of sexually-unsatisfied nursing assistants were able to compile data proving that the consumption of each single popper was the equivalent of shoving a wine cork into one of my arteries, and that I had roughly 37 seconds left on this warped planet if I didn’t put a halt to things.<br />
<br />
Initially, as is the basic human response when professionally chastised about dining selections, I severely hated the man and his white-smocked harridans, convinced that untoward things had happened in their childhoods that had led to careers wherein they tortured decent people for subversive reasons. But I eventually read some posts online (because everything you see on the Internet is true, yes?) and realized that perhaps I was gnawing on improper things.<br />
<br />
My bad. I seem to have made this all about me so far. Let’s get back to you.<br />
<br />
And let’s talk about your affinity for weenies. You do realize that these are not healthy items, surely. It doesn’t matter if they are from Chicago or New York or are chili-drenched. These things are basically tubes composed of all the animal bits that couldn’t be manipulated into something that would warrant a higher price-tag in restaurants that did not involve a drive-thru option.<br />
<br />
Disregard the weenie, if at all possible. And if you must partake, try to have some self-control and avoid paparazzi. No one really wants to see themselves in blurry photos on the Internet, where you appear to be performing in a low-grade pornographic film from 1978. Unless, of course, that happens to be your thing. It’s not my place to judge. (Well, it actually <i>is</i> my place. But only if you are paying my consultation fees.)<br />
<br />
Now, this business with the wheeled strumpet careening into the side of your SUV. First of all, I’m a bit surprised that you didn’t realize this was a possible development at your dining choice. After all, Sonic (and many other establishments of yore) have a fine history of service attendants who are quite mobile. Back in the day, carhops were fully <i>expected</i> to shoot around the parking lot as if magically powered by jet fuel. Those whizzing servers were professionally performing a graceful ballet of food delivery and revenue extraction.<br />
<br />
Granted, you don’t see much of that these days, with nubile females hurtling about the concrete, probably due to the newer crops of employable youngsters who would much rather <i>not</i> learn a marketable skill in order to retain gainful employment. For some inexplicable reason, many employees today think they should be given wads of cash as income simply because they bothered to even show up at work, and not because they have done anything of note in a job-skill capacity. Perhaps that would explain this whole Wall Street mess that we’ve been dealing with for thirty years.<br />
<br />
And yes, the powers that be at <i>Sonic</i> did actually phase out the roller-skating angle for a while, at least around these parts. For many years, the servers were de-wheeled, forced to transport trays of naughty foodstuffs using only their own motor skills. This was not as exciting, both for the transporter and the recipient, and I would imagine that tips from patrons plummeted dramatically.<br />
<br />
What’s that, you ask? What’s this mess with tips? Well, kind idiot, you’re supposed to tip the people who slap that little tray on your window. It’s tradition. These fine delivery people are paid tiny base wages with the anticipation that they are going to be given generous tips from customers who clearly have some disposable income or they wouldn’t be eating here. It’s the same way it works at “regular” restaurants. This one just happens to offer more sunlight and fresh air.<br />
<br />
So anyway, the <i>Sonic</i> folks have wisely reintroduced the concept of server mobility at select establishments, and you happened to choose one of those locations. Ergo, you should not be troubled by the potential downside of allowing heavily-painted but still generally decent young women possibly losing control and slamming into your vehicle. (Roller-skating is hard work. Ask any mid-management executive who has had to kiss upper-rank ass whilst still satisfying the peons below him.) Bad things happen from time to time.<br />
<br />
Especially if the poor soul delivering your order has her body balance thrown off by the forty pounds of questionable meat and grease that you have stupidly requested. Essentially, the mass that dented your car is the same mass you plan on shoving down your throat. So my advice is simple. Ignore the dent, give the sweaty roller queen some extra cash, and deal with your messed-up weenie in the privacy of your own home. As we all should.<br />
<br />
Well, then. That about wraps it up for this round. Please speak with Lanae at the front desk to settle your account. And be sure to throw in some extra bonus bucks. After all, I’m wearing roller skates under this fine mahogany desk, and I’ve thrown a few extra ketchup packets in your to-go box….<br />
<br />
Whizzingly,<br />
Dr. Brian<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-79004511086297460052011-12-17T20:57:00.001-06:002011-12-17T20:58:58.206-06:00Case Study #37<i> Continued from a previous post. Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2010/12/case-study-35.html">Here</a> to read the first session with Bexx, a client annoyed by straight people who are confused that some lesbians fancy intimate toys…</i><br />
<br />
<br />
“Are you still there?” inquired one of the voices on the speaker phone.<br />
<br />
“I certainly am, Bexx,” responded Dr. Brian. “But would you mind holding for just the briefest of seconds? I need to berate an underling and I’ll be right back with you.”<br />
<br />
“Oh!” enthused Bex. “That actually sounds like fun. Let me hear it.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian sighed. “That wouldn’t really be the right thing, now would it? Why don’t you and the lovely Sangria get back to your amorous adventures for a minute or two.”<br />
<br />
Bexx giggled raucously, in a manner that fully explained she had been a participant in multiple bar fights at some point in her life. “What makes you think we ever stopped? Sangria really likes an audience, her whole family is in the entertainment industry. There was this one time at the Muskrat Music Festival when we-”<br />
<br />
“Bexx, I will be right back.” Dr. Brian stabbed at a button on his phone, welcoming the sudden silence. Then he turned to glare at Lanae still standing in the doorway and still using her incredibly flexible tongue to search for missed bits of raspberry filling.<br />
<br />
The tongue stopped moving, but the mouth didn’t. “Wait. Am I the underling? About to get berated?”<br />
<br />
“You are my <i>only</i> underling, Lanae, of course it’s you.”<br />
<br />
“But I didn’t <i>do</i> anything.”<br />
<br />
“Well, it’s nice to finally hear you own up to that after my paying you all these years. Now please leave and close the door behind you. <i>Close</i> it.”<br />
<br />
Lanae pouted. “But I want to hear what you’re going to tell her.”<br />
<br />
“We’ve discussed this, it’s not proper.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, we <i>have</i> discussed it, and I thought I made myself clear. I hear everything and I know everything. I sit ten feet away from you and….Ohhhhh…”<br />
<br />
“Oh <i>what</i>, Lanae? Did you just figure out what day it is?”<br />
<br />
She smiled victoriously. “You don’t know what you’re going to say. You don’t know how to answer her.” She folded her arms smugly and leaned against the open door frame. “I’m going to stand right here and listen to you wing it. I‘ve earned it”<br />
<br />
“And when, pray tell, did this earning take place. Was I even here?”<br />
<br />
Lanae smirked. “Do you really want me to get started on this? Letting all your blog readers know your secrets?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t break character, Lanae. Stick with the script.”<br />
<br />
“The goat in Paris?”<br />
<br />
“They know about the goat. I'm the one who <i>told</i> them, if you’ll recall. It was a very moving six-part series. Get back on this side of the camera.”<br />
<br />
“And then there was the time when you stole the giant tortilla and-”<br />
<br />
“Okay, Lanae, you win!” Dr. Brian made a dismissive gesture with one hand, something he had once seen Paul Newman do in a movie that made Elizabeth Taylor cry. “Stand there all you want. Just be QUIET. Don’t say a word and quit licking your lips.”<br />
<br />
Lanae quit licking. And stood.<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian punched at a button again. “Bexx?”<br />
<br />
“Hello there, Dr. Feelgood. I thought perhaps you had passed on from this life.”<br />
<br />
“So sorry, Bexx. Now, about this penetration thing.”<br />
<br />
(Lanae professionally choked back a snort.)<br />
<br />
“Oh, right,” said Bexx. “Let me tell Sangria you’re ready. She can’t hear you right now… my legs are covering…” (Sounds of the phone being jostled, Bexx’s voice focused elsewhere, giggling, and general re-arrangement activities. “Oh, honey, don’t sit on that, I just had it cleaned.”) Then her voice was again directed at the phone. “Okay, proceed, Marcus Welby.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian cleared his throat. “Well, as any sufficiently-enlightened person will tell you, sexual pleasure and satisfaction actually has a strong root in the brain. It’s a significantly mental experience. That being said, physicality is an equal partner, so to speak. Some sensations are, in fact, purely primal.”<br />
<br />
Bexx sighed. “So far, I could have learned this from the back of a cereal box.” (To the side: “Sangria, sweetie, put that down. It’s annoying me.”)<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian stupidly glanced at Lanae in the doorway, who was completely red-faced with her struggle to remain discreet and non-laughing. <i>“Primal?”</i> she mouthed. Are you kidding me?<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian flipped her off, something he had once seen Jack Nicholson do in a movie that did not make Cher cry, then continued. “So any sexual experience, and the enjoyment derived from the encounter, is a combination of complex, mental satisfaction and the simple pleasure of stimulation. Ergo-”<br />
<br />
“No one says ‘ergo’ anymore, doctor,” remarked Bexx. “Except for Republicans who are trying to sound fancy in a debate by using a word that has more than three letters.”<br />
<br />
Lanae failed at remaining non-intrusive, releasing a small yelp.<br />
<br />
“Did someone just step on a chipmunk?” inquired Bexx.<br />
<br />
“No,” said Dr. Brian. “That was just my assistant, Lanae. Apparently she just took a look at her next paycheck.”<br />
<br />
Lanae was not amused, but got the point and tried to focus on not exuding further wildlife emanations.<br />
<br />
Bexx tried to focus on what was going on at the other end of the line. “Is she in the room with you? Is she listening?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” said Lanae, quite clearly and unmistakably, surprising both Dr. Brian and herself.<br />
<br />
“Oh,” said Bexx. “Well, doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Wait, does she do women?”<br />
<br />
“Not that I recall,” explained Lanae. “Although I did find a strange pair of panties on my chandelier one time. Never really did find out what happened there. Fairly certain it was all innocent, but the margarita machine was bone-dry in the morning. Who knows.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian was simply at a loss for words at how things were going at the moment, then he found a few. “Lanae, would you like to take over the session?”<br />
<br />
“This isn’t a session,” clarified Bexx. “It’s a conversation.”<br />
<br />
“But you’re still <i>paying</i> for the conversation, right?” inserted Lanae. “I do the books, and it’s so much easier when things balance.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, don’t worry about the money,” soothed Bexx. “In fact, I’ll throw in a little extra for ya darlin’, because I really do appreciate people who love raspberry filling as much as I do.”<br />
<br />
“How did you know…” asked Lanae, flummoxed.<br />
<br />
“I know exactly what a tongue is doing based on the sounds alone,” explained Bexx. “I love tongues. They’re pretty swell.”<br />
<br />
Now both Dr. Brian and Lanae were at the loss-of-words speed bump.<br />
<br />
“Anyway,” said Bexx, “There are things which I must attend to.” (Slight squeal from Sangria, hoping to be on that agenda.) “Let’s cut to the chase. Dr. Brian, give me your final answer in one sentence.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian looked at Lanae with slight hesitation. Lanae looked at Dr. Brian with partial pity. The last remaining splotch of raspberry jelly on Lanae’s face looked at her tongue with total fear.<br />
<br />
“Dr. Brian?” prompted Bexx.<br />
<br />
He cleared his throat, then leaned toward the speaker phone. “It’s not the car, it’s the driver.”<br />
<br />
Pause for contemplation. And a short word from our sponsor.<br />
<br />
Then Bexx: “Interesting. Well, I’ll be sure to include my analysis of that response in the evaluation.”<br />
<br />
“Evaluation?” asked Dr. Brian.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” confirmed Bexx, then clarified: “In regards to the request you filed to extend your office lease at Bonnywood Manor.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian was stunned. “My lease? How did you know… when did you become involved…”<br />
<br />
“I bought the entire complex,” announced Bexx. “I own it now. Just like this plane. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I <i>also</i> have some panties on my chandelier, and I know exactly where they came from. Best of luck on the request, we’ll talk soon.”<br />
<br />
Click.<br />
<br />
“Holy cow,” breathed Lanae. “Did I just eat my last free donut?”<br />
<br />
“You and me both,” sighed Dr. Brian. Then he took off his glasses, folded them neatly, and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “Well, we’ll just have to see what happens. In the mean time, would you mind fetching that last-”<br />
<br />
Lanae strode toward his desk and plunked down a bottle of Madonna merlot. “I’ll be right back with the glasses.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-56596956780466797272011-04-23T19:02:00.001-05:002011-12-17T21:01:12.504-06:00Case Study #36<em>Continued from the previous post. Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2010/12/case-study-35.html">Here</a> to read the first session with Bexx, a client annoyed by straight people who are confused that some lesbians fancy intimate toys…</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian paused in mid-paragraph of the latest article he was perusing, something about curious dysfunctional behaviors among attendees at Nascar events, or some such, he really wasn’t sure yet, and turned his tired eyes to his office doorway to see who was bothering him now.<br />
<br />
Lanae stood in said doorway, not so gracefully licking one of her fingers, her tongue presumably in pursuit of a bit of raspberry filling that had rudely escaped Lanae’s latest pastry treat. Goal achieved, she cleared her throat. “That woman is on the phone again.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian sighed, removed his reading glasses, placed them in an area of the desk where they were least likely to be destroyed by one of Lanae’s random and spontaneous acts of clumsiness, and cleared his own throat. “Would you mind being more specific? Right now the potentiality pool contains half the population of the entire planet.”<br />
<br />
Lanae briefly glanced over her shoulder, perhaps to make sure she wasn’t missing anything more interesting on that insipid soap opera of hers, or possibly listening for the pleading cries of yet another donut that desired consumption, we shall never know, then Lanae faced forward again. “The lesbian, the dildos, the airplane. <em>That</em> woman.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian was amazed. “Are you referring to Bexx?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, it’s Bexx!” squealed Lanae, suddenly showing far more enthusiasm than she ever bothered to muster, so we’ll have to assume a gas bubble was somehow responsible. “I knew it was a name that made me want to get out packing tape and shipping labels. Yes, Bexx is on line one.”<br />
<br />
“We only <em>have</em> one line, Lanae. And why didn’t you just ask her name?”<br />
<br />
“She didn’t give me time! Before I could say a word, she demanded to speak to you and then put me on hold. I must say, she’s not really my favorite person.”<br />
<br />
“Very well, then, I’ll take the call.”<br />
<br />
Lanae paused. “Should I go ahead and prepare you a nice cocktail? We’ve still got some of that Madonna merlot.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian shook his head. “That really won’t be necessary. It’s just Bexx, what could she possibly say that…. Okay, go ahead, make one. And send people home if there’s still anyone out there. And then lock the front door.” He hit a button on his desk phone. “Bexx? How are you doing?”<br />
<br />
“It’s about damn time!” came a very confident but slightly-disgruntled voice. “Not very fond of waiting.”<br />
<br />
“Really?” asked Dr. Brian. “Interesting. Considering you were supposed to call me back from that airplane <em>four months</em> ago. I think my wee bit of tardiness pales considerably in comparison, yes?”<br />
<br />
Bexx sighed. “Well, you have me there. But I am still <em>on</em> that plane, if that gets me any kind of bonus credit.”<br />
<br />
“Surely you jest.”<br />
<br />
“No, I’m not jesting, mainly because I don’t want to ever do anything that can be described with that word, I don’t care for the sound of it. Anyway, I was cleaning out my day-planner and realized that I never got an answer from you. It completely annoys me to have things still pending in my planner. I greatly enjoy checking that little box and-”<br />
<br />
“Bexx, could we slow down just a bit? Why in the world have you been on that plane for four months? That just seems like something we should be talking about. Is it a hostage situation?”<br />
<br />
Bexx paused briefly to, from the sounds of it, throw a cheese grater against a window. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I bought the plane. It’s mine now. I live on it.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian did his own pausing, then: “Why did you buy the plane, Bexx? And why am I not aware of your apparently healthy financial resources? I’m offended and stimulated at the same time.<br />
<br />
Bexx did something else that resulted in an odd, crashing noise before continuing. “Sorry about the racket. I can never find the damn corkscrew when I need it. I swear there are little lesbian gnomes that run around this place and hide things two seconds before I need them. Hold on.” The phone was abruptly slammed down on a hard surface, followed by diminishing footsteps as Bexx marched away. Was there an issue in the cockpit?<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian glanced up to see that Lanae was once again standing in his doorway. “She bought a <em>plane</em>?”<br />
<br />
“Lanae, you know very well you shouldn’t be listening in. This is a confidential conversation, a sacred arrangement of trust between doctor and patient.”<br />
<br />
Lanae snorted. “Oh, please. I sit right outside your door. I can’t help but hear everything. Well, okay, sometimes you talk really low and I have to pretend like I’m doing something at the filing cabinet by your door, but most of the time I’m innocent. So spill.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry about that. Still there?”<br />
<br />
Lanae turned and fled, although not very far, and Dr. Brian returned his attention to the phone. “Yes, Bexx, I’m completely at the service of you and your money.”<br />
<br />
“Good. Sangria was having trouble getting the stairs to lower and she couldn’t get in.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian only paused briefly, then “Do alcoholic beverages often have trouble gaining access to your plane?”<br />
<br />
“Sangria is my girlfriend,” clarified Bexx, apparently having found the corkscrew after all as a resounding pop echoed over the line. “We’ve been together four months now, and I couldn’t be happier. Well, I could, but that would require the incarceration of certain Republicans.” Sounds of clinking glassware as the now-liberated bottle of whatever had its contents redistributed. “Oh, and you’ve actually met her. Sort of.”<br />
<br />
Really? “How so?”<br />
<br />
“The last time we talked? She was the flight attendant that was getting on my nerves, all pissy just because I stole her beverage cart, then wanting me to identify my Martina Navratilova carry-on and I had to let you go. Really annoying. But it all turned out just fine in the end.” Sounds of Bexx and Sangria lip-smacking one another in a mini-celebration of the kismet event.<br />
<br />
“I see,” said Dr. Brian. “So tell me. What <em>was</em> the issue with your luggage? If you don’t mind.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, <em>that</em>,” scoffed Bexx, breathing a little heavy and doing something to Sangria that resulted in both a low growl and a hand-slap. “One of the vibrators I had packed away got bored and thought it would be fun to turn itself on mid-flight. And some crazy-ass, uptight Holy Roller woman heard it buzzing over her head and started screaming about a bomb. You know how it goes.”<br />
<br />
“I’m afraid I don’t. Does this happen to you a lot?”<br />
<br />
“Anyway,” continued Bexx, apparently distracted by Sangria’s fleshly counter maneuver, “we worked it out. I popped that bag open, whipped out Xena Baby, and shoved it right in Martha Washington’s face. Didn’t even turn it off. I thought Tammy Faye was gonna have a coronary, right there. It was a real hoot.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian calmly gulped the rest of his wine.<br />
<br />
The sound effects coming from the phone suddenly took a startling turn, with someone either having an orgasm or breaking a nail, followed by some clattering of equipment and a sudden echo on the line. “Still there?”<br />
<br />
“I’m afraid so. Am I intruding at this point? We can reschedule.”<br />
<br />
“Not at all,” chirped Bexx. “I’ve been waiting four months and I’d really like to hear your answer. And so would Sangria.” (Sensual throaty laughter from one of them.) “I’ve got you on speaker now. So go. Tell us why you think lesbians use power tools even though they clearly don’t want a penis.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian was distracted by movement at his door once again. Lanae was poking her head around the corner, her eyes wide enough to stop traffic, and a slight smile on her sugar-coated lips…<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2011/12/case-study-37.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series…</em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em><br /></em>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-64258933948732664272010-12-17T21:20:00.006-06:002011-04-23T19:05:04.071-05:00Case Study #35<em>Dear Dr. Brian: “I have so often been asked (by straight boys predominantly) why it is that lesbians indulge in sex toys (for the enjoyment of penetration) when they have so obviously chosen to not include the opposite sex. I have a pat answer I reply with, but I was wondering if you’d even counseled anyone in this regard.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Best to you,</em><br />
<em>The Bexx</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Dearest The,<br />
<br />
“I truly appreciate your frankness, and I am nearly vibrating with joy at the fact that you have chosen me for your consultation. I greatly relish the opportunity to discuss in detail the situation you describe, but please allow me one moment while I gather my notes on the matter. Please hold.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian calmly punches a button on his phone, then viciously jabs a button on another device, one that <em>should</em> open a line of communication directly with his assistant, Lanae, but this did not always prove to be the case. “Lanae!”<br />
<br />
No immediate response, but there were subtle sounds of what might be a queen bee ingesting one of her slow-ass workers who had irritated her for the final time.<br />
<br />
“Lanae, I know you’re there. I can hear what sounds like chewing. Are you <em>eating</em> again? You know I don’t care for you doing that when I need your assistance.”<br />
<br />
Now the soundtrack changed to that of a loud, laborious gulp, followed by a belch that was far from delicate. “How was I supposed to <em>know</em> that you were going to call me right as I was biting into a pastry? It’s from Boudreaux’s Bakery. Chocolate cherry. I was overcome, okay?”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian sighed. “Of <em>course</em> you should have expected me to ring. You just sent me a very direct and graphic woman without any warning. We have <em>discussed</em> this. I was completely caught off guard, nearly spilling my carefully-prepared chicory coffee when she launched into some mess about vaginal penetration. I need to <em>know</em> if something like that is on the horizon.”<br />
<br />
Lanae audibly sucked at her teeth, not willing to miss a single gram of sugared decadence. “I didn’t know that she was one of those. She didn’t seem like it to me. To be fair, I was already licking the wax paper I had unwrapped off my pastry, but I do believe I still would have caught a phrase like that. She must be one of those stealth lesbians that are all sweet until they get in the door.”<br />
<br />
“So you knew she was a lesbian? You could have at least mentioned <em>that</em> to me. One has to be very careful these days about word-slippage. You didn’t ask her what lesbian issues she might have?”<br />
<br />
Now Lanae sighed. “Dr. Brian, I’m not a lesbian. How would I even know what questions to ask? Is there a brochure? <em>You’re</em> the doctor.”<br />
<br />
“There’s absolutely no reason to be snippy.”<br />
<br />
Lanae, empowered by the violent amounts of sugar now racing through her bloodstream, begged to differ. “I’m not the one getting all heated and bothering people just as they are contemplating a cherry, something this girl hasn’t known intimately for forty years. Besides, I’m fairly certain you can handle this. After all, I’m not the one who was arrested for nudity and possible bestiality in Paris. Shall we talk about that?”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian did not have an immediate response at hand.<br />
<br />
“Thought so. I believe I have won this round. Now, I’m going to try eating another pastry without interruption, and you can go determine how you can assist Miss Penetration. We have bills that need to be paid.”<br />
<br />
Click.<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian sighed once more, then punched at the hold button on his phone. “Miss Bexx?”<br />
<br />
Now a third person was sighing, indicating general dissatisfaction for all. “Doctor, I don’t care for that ‘Miss’ title. It’s offensive on two levels, underscoring the fact that I remain unmarried and am therefore unworthy, which is crap, and further irritates me since lesbians cannot <em>get</em> married in most places. It’s belittling. I’m sure you understand.”<br />
<br />
“What term or appellation would you prefer?”<br />
<br />
“Well, I’m known as ‘Sheba’ in certain circles, for reasons that probably won’t interest you, and for a time I was known as ‘Ovaria’ when I stupidly joined that cult, and one of my exes came up with a few choice labels, post-breakup, that were supposed to be derogatory, but I actually found rather amusing and started using them as screen names. I go by many titles, Dr. Brian, but I suppose for today you can simply address me as ‘Goddess’. Unless you must refrain for spiritual or religious reasons.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian responded immediately. “I shall be delighted to refer to you as a goddess.”<br />
<br />
“Great. That pleases me. Perhaps I’ll pay the bill for your services after all. Now, let’s get back to my original question. This plane will be taking off shortly, and this political grand-standing can be tiresome at the wrong moments. This is one of them.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian was mystified. “You’re at the <em>airport</em>? On a plane?”<br />
<br />
“Lesbians are still allowed to fly, Dr. Brian. Except in certain backwoods countries, where folks fully expect God or Allah or Glenn Beck to smack the plane down if the muff divers get on board.”<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian was now intrigued. “So the people around you can hear everything you’re saying?”<br />
<br />
“They <em>could</em> hear me, until they all asked to be relocated after I started talking to you. Even the flight attendant won’t come near me, but eventually she won’t have a choice. I’m using her abandoned beverage cart to chill my vodka, and these people are going to get thirsty at some point. Now, once again, let’s get back to my original question.”<br />
<br />
“Why is it that straight people are so mystified with lesbians who use lusty equipment to plunge, prod and find Jesus?”<br />
<br />
Bexx guffawed. “Very good, Doctor. We’re approaching the same level. Carry on.”<br />
<br />
“Well, this does remind me of a story-”<br />
<br />
“I’m not interested in fairy tales. Some bitch loses a shoe and gets to marry a prince? Not in my book.”<br />
<br />
“I think you’ll like this one. It’s served me well in the past.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know.” (Sudden sounds of a garbled public announcement being broadcast through the plane.) “Well, damn,” uttered Bexx.<br />
<br />
“Flight delay?” asked Dr. Brian.<br />
<br />
“Well, not really. Sort of. Apparently they have an issue with odd sounds coming from a set of luggage. Probably mine.”<br />
<br />
“Oh?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. Who else on this plane would have a set of designer Martina Navratilova luggage, with the tennis racket zipper pulls? It’s not like this plane is going to Palm Springs.” (More sighing.) “I hope I‘m not gonna get arrested again. I’ll have to call you back. Don’t go anywhere.”<br />
<br />
Click.<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian stabbed at the intercom again. “Lanae, do we still have that Merlot that Madonna sent us after the incident in Malawi?”<br />
<br />
Lanae, not consuming anything at the moment, responded instantly. “One bottle or two?”<br />
<br />
“Everything we’ve got.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2011/04/idiot-fondue-case-study-36.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series…</em>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-13791195153326679702010-10-15T18:40:00.000-05:002010-10-15T18:41:25.926-05:00Case Study #34<span lang="EN"> <p> </p><p><em>Dear Dr. Brian,</em></p><p><em>What is pea salad?</em></p><p><em>Thank you,</em></p><p><em>Soara</em></p><p> </p><p>Dearest Soara,</p><p>What a pleasant surprise it was to open my emails this morning and find one written by your fine and knowledgeable hand. It was a thrilling moment for me, more than compensating for the tasteless, stale bagel that my assistant, Lanae, apparently dug out of the trash and then slapped on a tray with my coffee. (I really don’t know why she actually believes that she can get away with such deception. My taste buds are far too finely-tuned to tolerate nefarious plots of a gastronomical nature.)</p><p>But back to my joy, which is where all things should eventually go. My eyes lit up when I noticed your submission in my inbox. My teeth shone brightly as I smiled with euphoria while clicking to open your missive. I asked Lanae, that miscreant tasked with providing me with bits of nourishment and failing miserably in her duties, to find something classical to play over the office sound system so that I could fully revel in the literary delights to be found in your correspondence.</p><p>Then my ancient computer stopped whirring and your words were displayed.</p><p>Are you serious with this? <i>“What is pea salad?” </i>How could someone of your stature even ask such a thing?</p><p>Now, if anyone of lesser mental capabilities had posed such a query, I would have politely explained a few things, fully aware that there are a few unfortunate souls out there, running about in the primordial ooze without any knowledge that this delicacy exists. Pea salad, when created in a professional and expert fashion, is one of the finer things in life, far more satisfying and fulfilling that 9 out of any 10 positions recommended in the Kama Sutra. I am no longer on speaking terms with certain prior acquaintances who failed to understand the importance of a well-made pea salad.</p><p>Of course, on the reverse side, it is possible to create a pea salad of such hellish awfulness that one taste of said wickedness can cause a person to snap irretrievably, thus spending the rest of their life in a state-run facility where the staff is never allowed to bring anything green into your padded room. It’s my understanding that until just recently, in some of the more far-flung British colonies, it was perfectly legal to stone a person to death for creating an unsavory pea salad. I can’t say that I entirely disagree with this edict. Some punishments truly do fit the crime.</p><p>But let’s shove all that aside, shall we? Because it’s quite clear to me that you don’t care one whit about pea salad minutiae. Despite my surprise that you would bow to doing such, you are actually exhibiting signs of literary avoidance, wherein you mask what you really wish to express in unrelated gibberish, and then you expect <i>me</i> to surmise what it is you are actually trying to convey. It’s almost as if we were married, speaking this language of bait and switch. Last I checked, however, we were not betrothed, despite having spent that very platonic vacation in the south of France where we made our own wine and sunbathed topless.</p><p>So let’s get at the heart of the matter. There is something troubling your psyche, but, for whatever reason, you are unable to actually type out your dilemma. This is mid-range avoidance behavior, and we should treat that eventually, but let’s deal with one neurological disaster at a time. If we fix all of you in one or two settings, then I don’t make as much money. We don’t want that, because it makes me cranky when I can’t buy whatever I want, and then everybody suffers. So I’m going to stretch out your treatments until at least the new hot tub is paid for. I’m sure you understand.</p><p>Now, as we both are fully recognized by several major intellectual societies, it doesn’t seem possible that you could live with yourself if you didn’t try to give me sly clues to your actual psychotic infarction, burying the hints in your otherwise benign query. Perhaps an anagram or two? Let’s look at this afresh.</p><i><p>“What is pea salad?”</p></i><p>Well, then, anagrams we apparently have. The first is obvious, with “pea” actually being “ape”. (That was almost <i>too</i> simple, since any psychotherapist worth his Mercedes will tell you that most people generalize things in a primate-based fashion.) And following the theorems of the very popular “shared memory” conception of evolution, everything always goes back to the apes. Unless you’re a Fundamentalist Christian. Those folks don’t want anything to do with apes and will change textbooks to ensure there is no association, despite group photos of their family reunions which clearly indicate that somebody in the not-so-distant past swung from a tree or two.</p><p>The next word, “salad”, stumped me a bit. I couldn’t rearrange the letters to my satisfaction, until Lanae wandered into my office, wearing a horrid poncho, complete with tassels, for some absurd reason. (Probably as vengeance, hoping to offend me after I snapped at her for serving bread products that had seen better days.) The ugly, dangling tassels triggered a buried experience of my own, and I remembered that I could speak ancient Tibetan. (Long story. Suffice it to say that there was a very extended layover at a small Himalayan airport, and I found a discarded pamphlet in an otherwise dull public restroom, with the leaflet advertising a special society that dressed as Yeti’s and drank locally-distilled vodka. It went from there.)</p><p>In any case, the ancient Tibetan word for “fear” is “lada”. Salad = “lada” + “s” = fears.</p><p>Soara, my dear, you have Ape Fears.</p><p>This is really not all that uncommon of an ailment, although we no longer have near as many cases as we did back in the day, before cable TV, when people just naturally assumed that apes could be found around every corner, along with witches, Communists and divorce lawyers. It was understandable that people at that time would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming about one or more of those creatures, irritating everyone else in the house who had the decency to be emotionally stable.</p><p>Now we know, of course, that there is little to fear. Outside of public zoos, strip clubs, and frat houses, your chance of wandering upon an actual ape is very minimal. For the most part, you should be fine, as long as you are wise about not making destination choices whilst under the influence of alcohol. Besides, the apes really don’t want anything to do with humans. They think we smell too clean and over-processed. But the apes are a very tolerant people, and are happy to leave the humans to themselves, with their cell phones and anxiety medication.</p><p>However, if it will help you sleep better, we should arrange for more intensive therapy, in case you do happen to find yourself in a strip club with fraternity brothers. It just so happens that the Fort Worth Zoo is hosting their annual Halloween “Boo at the Zoo” event, wherein youngsters run about and try to entice the bored creatures in their secure cages. I can arrange for some quality time in the Primate Hut interior, specifically with a gentle soul know as Vlad. You’ll be fine. But a word of caution: Please don’t compare Rush Limbaugh to a raging ape whilst in the Hut. They really don’t care for that.</p><p>Oh, and you’ll need to wear a costume to gain admission. Based on your deceptive email, you seem quite adept at disguises, so this shouldn’t be a problem. Please speak with Lanae at the front desk for ticket-procuring and bill-paying arrangements.</p><p>Enjoy your day,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-56184776806462636982010-08-25T15:22:00.000-05:002010-08-25T15:23:38.090-05:00Case Study #33<span lang="EN"><i> <p> </p><p>Dear Dr. Brian,</p><p>I know you are very busy and are working with people who are much more disturbed than I am, but I was hoping you could find the time to help me with something I find troubling. My co-workers insist on calling me “Eeyore” all the time, and I don’t know why. I try not to let it bother me, but it does, and I cry a lot when they aren’t looking. I don’t like to cry because it makes me puffy. Please help.</p><p>Confused and sad,</p><p>Swisstine Chapel</p><p>Dripping Springs, TX</p></i><p>Dear Person, Place or Thing,</p><p>I must say that I myself am confused, not about your apparently painful nickname, we’ll get to that in a minute, but by the manner in which you closed your email. Are you <i>living</i> in an apparent place of worship, or is “Swisstine Chapel” your actual name? If you have indeed gone through life with such an architectural appellation, I suspect that you have always had identity issues and that your current co-workers are not entirely responsible for your hidden tears.</p><p>Nevertheless, I shall try to assist, despite my relative ignorance of your individual circumstances. Since you are a new patient, and the records indicate that you have only made <i>one</i> payment, I can only make a minimal diagnosis at this time. (Translation: I am not yet monetarily invested in your troubled psyche. Once the payments become regular, we will grow much closer and I may start to actually have measurable interest in your well-being.)</p><p>Since we’re on the financial angle, I should also point out that you made that first payment using a personal check. While this is indeed a perfectly legal transaction, I should mention that Lanae, my personal assistant and office manager, does not really care for personal checks. Such things require that she fill out deposit slips, and Lanae greatly abhors doing so. (Suffice it to say there was a past relationship with a banking employee that went terribly awry, and restraining orders became necessary.)</p><p>Lanae much prefers sliding a bit of plastic across a scanner and then handing it back to you, transaction complete, no running about with zippered bags of checks and then standing in line at those horrid financial institutions where they charge you outrageous fees for things like actually speaking to a teller or using a pen that is not your own. So if you have any intention of developing a healthy relationship with Lanae, I’d suggest you leave the checkbook at home, even if you find the Garfield-themed checks to be greatly amusing. After all, Lanae controls the donut supply, and that’s the real source of power in this establishment.</p><p>Back to your missive, where you have been branded, so to speak, with an animal-like moniker due to unexplained actions and/or crimes. Since I am not privy to what you may or may not have done to incite these people to an agitated level of name-calling, I can only make my diagnosis based on the name itself, “Eeyore”, and the visions that fill my complex head upon reading this word.</p><p>If memory serves, Eeyore was a character in those Winnie the Pooh books of childhood. I should caution you that I did make a valiant attempt as a child to usurp at least minimal pleasure from the series, as many of my acquaintances at the time were in rapturous swoons over the volumes. I forced myself to read them all, dissatisfied and disturbed the entire time, and once I finished the final chapter I tossed the entire lot into the incinerator, much to the chagrin of one of my sisters (I forget which, there were so many of them and they stupidly chose to dress alike) who had been waiting patiently her own turn with Winnie. I calmly explained to her that the exercise would be pointless, but she cried anyway and reported me to the parental authorities.</p><p>But I do believe I still retain the basic details concerning the adventures of Winnie and Eeyore and all the other whimsical characters that inhabited Hundred Canker Wood, or whatever they called that bit of forest where animals could talk and have over-inflated issues that could be resolved with simply saying things that rhymed. Perhaps I should briefly review my memories, searching for clues that may assist in my educated evaluation of why people may choose to taunt you in such a mystifying manner.</p><p>There was that Winnie creature, with his insatiable lust for fresh honey leading to predicaments of one nature or another, usually requiring intervention from others who had been less careless. I remember being very disturbed that, at least according to the illustrations, Winnie apparently had no need for pants or undergarments. He did have a shirt, but that was simply not enough coverage in my mind and the damage was done.</p><p>We had a tiger character, who was clearly manic-depressive, probably because his parents had been so disinterested in his birth that when it came time to select a name for their offspring, they simply took the name of their species, threw in an extra “g”, and called it good. Thus they created a monster who would do anything to garner attention in social situations, mistaking the applause as a misconstrued replacement for the love he never got as a child.</p><p>Of course, this Tigger animal had an annoying habit of bouncing about on his tail. I failed to see the slightest appeal in this ability, but scores of other children marveled at this means of transport and strove to duplicate the action. Needless to say, emergency room visits were soon necessary, with howling youngsters bent over examining tables whilst anxious parents and increasingly-disgruntled doctors milled about the exposed tender buttocks, stitching up the damage and offering rewards of ice cream if the little urchin would just stop screaming.</p><p>There was the pint-sized character, a smidge of an animal that went by the name of Figlet or Wiglet, some such. I don’t recall his particular skill set, other than the ability to wear a striped shirt all the time. I have a vague memory that Giblet was getting lost all the time, or perhaps facing life-threatening situations that were the direct result of his clothing choices and his tiny stature. (Although the same could probably be said of Paula Abdul, I’m sure.)</p><p>And the human boy, what was his name? Christopher Robin? Did the illustrator really intend for him to look like a young drag queen? At least they bothered to cover his nether region with clothing, but was it necessary that they do so with what looked like training pants? The little buckled shoes, the clutching of pretty balloons, the incessant need to lead parades of singing animals all over the forest paths. This boy was just not destined for a heterosexual lifestyle.</p><p>There were other animals, to be sure, but I just glanced at the clock and realized that it’s almost time for my monthly wax-and-rip at Keiko’s House of Slickness. Therefore, let’s move right along to <i>your</i> specific character, that of Eeyore. As expected, most people who view this donkey for the first time are alarmed by the fact that his tail has been nailed on to his hindquarters. It doesn’t seem possible that this could have been a pleasurable experience. </p><p>However, I’m assuming that this bit of business does not apply to your particular situation, Swisstine. I’m surmising that you do not have any appendages that have been nailed back on, or you would have mentioned this in your submission. Because if you DID have broken body parts that have been repurposed, then surely you would have the wherewithal to figure out the “Eeyore” angle, even if you do work for a mega-corporation that strives to numb its employees with repetitive, menial tasks that slowly drain your life force down to a dried husk of nothingness.</p><p>Of course, it’s possible that you may have really large ears, but one would think the go-to Disney character for that condition would be Dumbo. I’m also going to assume that you don’t wear pink bows in your tail, since pink is not your color and you most likely don’t have a tail. Now, there <i>is</i> the possibility that you shamble when you walk, moving lethargically and waiting for devastation and destruction to befall you.</p><p> </p><p>In fact, I believe I’ve finally hit the mark here, despite my basic unconcern and general disdain for spending any quality time with a patient until their fees have paid for at least one piece of furniture in my tastefully-appointed abode. It’s not your physical structure, per se, that has resulted in workplace heathens taunting you with derogatory slurs. It is actually, I’m afraid, your demeanor and attitude that the world is a dark place and there will never be light in your life again.</p><p>Despite the highly-probable statistic that your global assessment is spot on, you really can’t let this affect your daily functioning. Your co-workers have not yet reached the point where they simply assume that anything that happens in their lives is a sure sign of the apocalypse. They don’t need to watch as your sour expressions turn your face into a mask of despair and angst, or to come back from break and find you writhing on the floor because one page of your job aid has a smudge on it and now you have to print the whole damn thing all over again.</p><p>With all due respect, Swisstine, you really need to relax. Try not to spend your time looking for the one tiny thread of something that might possibly go wrong, and then raising that thread high and wailing for redemption and savior. Yes, the world might end tomorrow. Let’s worry about it then, shall we?</p><p>If all else fails, somewhere in the office I have a gross of bull tranquilizers left over from our ill-advised attempt to provide group counseling to some agitated cattle at the Forth Worth Stockyards demanding that bowls of green M&M’s be placed in each stall. I’m sure Lanae, who has a special fondness for beastly creatures, knows where the shots are located and can provide them to you. For a small fee, of course.</p><p>And if you happen to run into that Christopher Robin in the future, tell him to butch it up, will you? Thanks.</p><p>Best of luck,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-88342283833265020222010-08-08T14:27:00.001-05:002010-08-08T14:28:56.674-05:00Case Study #32<span lang="EN"> <p> </p><p>Dear fervent followers of this online repository for the treatment of the twisted and needy,</p><p>I must once again convey my utter dismay at what would seem to be my lack of interest in keeping you breathlessly updated with the goings on at our fine medical establishment. It appears that it has been over a month since my last submission, which would normally send any reader into a tizzy requiring medicinal assistance, but in my defense I must posit a few delimiting factors.</p><p>Firstly, as many of you are aware and have kindly sent sympathy cards concerning, there is still this tawdry mess surrounding my ongoing legal situation in Paris. Things there have become entirely complicated, especially since the goat has chosen to go with a new legal team, headed by the illustrious but slightly vicious Lisa Wines who will stop at nothing to ensure her clients receive daily treats of the gourmet variety, lots of grass to run about on, and healthy retirement funds. We are working with Miss Wines, and shall keep you posted, gag orders permitting.</p><p>Secondly, I have been stewing over a patient submission that has caused me some alarm, mainly in the fretting about how to properly respond. You see, as most of my patients realize, when I respond to the critical needs of my acolytes, I generally heap generous amounts of lightness and folly on my words, thereby allowing the bitterness of my actual advice to be less unpleasant. However, I occasionally receive emails wherein it’s not clear if the sender is “in on the game”, so to speak. This latest missive falls into that category.</p><p>As you can see by the sad tale presented below, this person has been suffering miserably, encountering maltreatment, disregard, and, worst of all, non-validation. It is quite daunting. Only toward the end is there a bit of fun, but by then my tears were many. How, exactly, does one respond to this without causing further harm and the lessening of kinship among the family of man? Quite a quandary.</p><p>So I kept pushing the email aside, procrastinating with practiced ease, until my faithful assistant, Lanae, grew tired of having to dust around the neglected printout whilst she tidied my office nightly. Snatching up the paper, she thrust it into my startled face, and proffered her ultimatum: “Answer this, NOW, or I will never bring sushi into this office again!”</p><p>I trembled in fear, and then booted up my netbook.</p><p>Herewith, the original submission:</p><p> </p><i><p>Dr. Brian,</p><p>I feel a little strange writing to you about a problem that is actually<br />true and I'm not trying to be funny. But I could see where it might seem<br />funny to other people. Here goes:</i><br /><br /><i>I retired from the Postal Service about 8 months ago, after working there for 24 1/2 years. During that time I got a work related injury which causes the post office to treat you worse and try to make you quit or wish you were dead. But no matter what they did to me or where they sent me, I'd always end up back up with the position and the supervisor I'd begun with (who by the way always seemed to hate me but I'm not sure why.) This was not my choice by the way.<br /><br />Well, to get to the point--when it came time to retire I was working two different positions at two different post offices (1/2 day at each place) and one of the places was the position with the supervisor who didn't like me. On my last day with the good old U.S.P.S., neither place gave me a retirement party. Even the stupid little plaque everybody has given to them by the postmaster on their last day--my evil supervisor MAILED to me, instead of having the postmaster give it to me. They had a big party for another lady that retired on the same day, but didn't include me in on it. Some people signed a card and one lady bought me a little gift. That was it. I was pissed but I tried to put it behind me because well I didn't have to go back there any more and that was worth it. Right?</i><br /><br /><i>Well recently I've started having bad dreams about the whole thing. Weird things happen in these dreams. Last night the evil supervisor finds out I'm upset about the lack of a retirement party, and buys everyone at the workplace Happy Meals and says this is my party. I tried to eat the hamburger in the dream but it made me feel sick and I couldn't finish it. I left feeling just as bad about the whole thing as I ever had.<br /><br />What do you suggest I do to get over this? It's not the party 'per se' I'm mad about, it's the obvious slap in the face...<br /></p><p>Signed,<br />Hatin' the P.O. </p></i><p> </p><p>And thusly, my response, because the thought of never receiving hand-carried sushi again is something that I just can’t live with:</p><p>Dear Hatin’,</p><p>Well, now. After careful analysis, I feel I must get right to the point. It seems that the reason you have endured such outrageous behavior on the part of your former co-workers and management staff is simply this: You are actually the last surviving member of the royal family of Crustalina, a tiny but immensely wealthy nation where there is lots of sunshine and everyone keeps their yards very tidy.</p><p>Due to a murky political situation that took place many years ago, you were sent to live in obscurity until those responsible for the murkiness could be located and deported, making the streets safe once again. For your own safety, you were not informed of your illustrious lineage. However, word eventually got out, as it always does, resulting in the abusive and neglectful actions on the part of your fellow postal people: They were simply insanely jealous of the fact that you would one day get to wear diamond-drenched crowns and participate in festive pageants where people get to toss fruit about.</p><p>Now, I’m sure you are tempted to look askance at my interpretation of your plight, which is quite understandable, so let me show you in greater detail how I came to this conclusion. We shall closely examine your own words, and I will then translate.</p><p>“<i>after working there for 24 1/2 years”</p></i><p>This time frame, believe it or not, is an exact duration referred to in your exile papers from long ago. It seems that you must toil this length of time in an atrocious working environment, so that you can better understand the plight of the common people. This was one of the demands of the “murky people”. (They also fought to have your diet consist solely of papayas, but this requirement was tossed aside as simply preposterous and boring.)</p><p>“<i>I got a work related injury which causes the post office to treat you worse and try to make you quit or wish you were dead.” </p></i><p>This was another conditional demand from the murky people. How could you, as supreme ruler of the entire land, understand the proper way to build charitable hospitals if you had never lived in one, however briefly, and had to consume tasteless, institutional pudding while people prodded you with things? Ergo, the physical trauma and endless hours of boredom while various body parts were urged to recover.</p><p>“<i>This was not my choice by the way.”</p></i><p>Of course it wasn’t, this much is clear. The murky people are just mean and demanding. There’s no getting around it.</p><p>“<i>neither place gave me a retirement party.”</p></i><p>How could they even begin to dream of coming up with an adequate celebration, knowing that you would soon be in your palace, where even a simple event like afternoon tea would greatly outshine any festivities your close-minded heathen co-workers could plan? So instead, they all went bowling, where you have to shove your feet in shoes where so many other feet have been, making you uncomfortable with this unsanitary thought regardless of the beer intake.</p><p>“<i>Even the stupid little plaque.”</p></i><p>It IS a stupid little plaque. You have statues in your honor back in Crustalina. A measly wooden board pales in comparison.</p><p>“<i>one lady bought me a little gift”</p></i><p>This person is actually in the employ of the government you will soon rule, having been sent into exile with you to keep an eye on things. The gift was a subtle acknowledgement of your royalty. Be sure to reward this person with land and livestock when you return home.</p><p>“<i>Weird things happen in these dreams.”</p></i><p>This is why I have a thriving medical practice. If people didn’t have odd nocturnal visitations, half my clients would be well-adjusted and not sending me monthly checks.</p><p>“<i>I tried to eat the hamburger in the dream but it made me feel sick”</p></i><p>It’s because the people of Crustalina are vegetarians. (Okay, there’s some seafood consumed from time to time, as such things can’t be avoided when you live in an island nation, but all the travel brochures say “meatless”, so we’ll go with that.)</p><p>“<i>the obvious slap in the face”</p></i><p>Trouble yourself notly about the slappage. All of your travails are about to become pointless, as there will soon be a knock on the door, and a royal page will present you with a proclamation that all stipulations of your exile have been met, and the people of Crustalina are lining the streets, awaiting your glorious return.</p><p>Until then, comfort yourself with this: Once back on the throne, with all the resources of the land at your disposal, you can then exact revenge on those who chose to act unkindly in your past. After all, with a quarter century spent in the postal service, I’m sure you can deliver just the right package to settle the score…</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-48934182943666993452010-06-27T17:37:00.001-05:002010-06-27T17:38:53.462-05:00Case Study #31<span lang="EN"> <p> </p><p><em>Dear Dr. Brian,</em></p><p><em>If people from Boston are called Bostonians, and those from San Francisco are called San Franciscans, what are the ones from Dallas called? Dallasinians?</em></p><p><em>Your friend,</em></p><p><em>Laura</em></p><p>Dear Larua,</p><p>No, that is not a typo with your name. I must confess that it was originally so, but after carefully analyzing your submission, I feel that a minimal adjustment in the spelling of your name could prove beneficial. It is now a distinctive name, it will advance you slightly in those irritating lists where people are alphabetized, and it’s more fun to type. (Try it on your keyboard.) Therefore, as your physician, I am advising that you change your name immediately. I’ll have Lanae send the legal forms shortly.</p><p>Now, to more firmly address your query, it is important that we minutely analyze each element of your email. Even a small alteration in grammar, spelling or wording can change things in an astonishing manner. (To continue my previous thread, an online posting about someone named “Laura” could prove somewhat entertaining, while a posting with a free spirit named “Larua” becomes an instant bookmark, with its tantalizing possible details about tropical islands, or rock groups with fervent groupies, the kind who enjoy flinging their undergarments during concerts and living in communes where everyone helps make real butter.)</p><p>So, I must keep an open mind concerning the manner in which I can assist you. An initial observation would be that you have a geographical fixation of some kind. (This is a very real malady, with people over-using Google Earth , especially that “zoom in” feature, resulting in nightmares where troubled souls envision themselves slamming into the planet, suffering uncomfortable body realignments as country and city names whiz by them in a terrifying blur.)</p><p>Sadly, because EarthSlamPhobia was mentioned on the Oprah Winfrey show, it has become very popular of late, and some trendy physicians are quick to misdiagnose patients who are actually suffering from something that has not been publicized on talk shows that will be ending in 2011. In a related trend, there is a misperception among the populace that the cure for EarthSlamPhobia is an Intervention.</p><p>I’m sure you’ve heard of these ghastly things, where friends and family trick you into attending a dinner party or an outing to the zoo, and then they all gang up on you, demanding that you stop doing something that they don’t care for. These things never work, not only because you instantly hate them for their pushiness and subterfuge, but because your friends and family are not trained specialists. If they were, they would be appearing on TV, not sitting on your couch and bellowing self-help quotes from some odd website they found when Facebook was down and they were bored.</p><p>And really, all these platitudes along the lines of “We love you and we are here for you.” What is THAT? Seriously. If they are there for you, then they should have been around when you first mistakenly assumed that Percocet was an antihistamine, discovered that taking the cute little pills made things pretty and you no longer cared about troublesome facets of your life like relatives who intervene, and then began selling household appliances to insure that you kept not caring.</p><p>Anyway, I do believe I can eliminate the possibility of you having a geographical neuroses, simply by reviewing the cities you mentioned in your submission. You have listed both coasts, as well as a city smack in the middle of the country. This means you do not discriminate, which is a fine thing in itself, but also eliminates you from qualifying for any of the Mapsco family of maladies. People who suffer from such tend to focus on specific regions, like southern towns where folks speak with too many vowels or Colorado resorts where caretakers snap in the winter and get abusive with axes.</p><p>No, your particular diagnosis lies elsewhere. Yet still, my extensive training in the world of the mind and the many ways in which the brain can twist off into surprising roads of discovery leads me to believe that there is something behind the names of the cities you selected. Let’s go there, even if it proves fruitless, and I end up charging you for another session. (Somebody has to pay for the new linoleum in the remodeled break room in our suite of offices.) To wit, your cities:</p><p>Boston. Have you ever been there? It’s quite surprising. My first exposure to one of our founding cities occurred in the month of July. Such a time of year is excruciating in the place where I currently live, a little burgh by the name of Dallas. The word “steamy” does not even approach reality, with sweat getting into crevices you never knew you had. Things melt, and tempers flare. (You NEVER want to question the roadway decisions of your fellow citizens. This can result in rude gestures and the use of concealed handguns.)</p><p>But I never imagined that Boston could have the same July climate. It’s so far north, I just assumed that the igloos did not melt. Yet indeed they do, with a vengeance that is startling. I was quite amazed to learn that the fresh seafood in the fish market would grill itself as you stood there and perused the options.</p><p>And this thing with the pennies on the graves in that one cemetery. I tried to read the historical marker that explained the copper abundance, but I couldn’t keep the sweat out of my eyes long enough to learn the tale. Complicating all this was the horde of belligerent tourists who did not appreciate my non-movement and blindness. They were hurling pennies like The Rapture was around the corner.</p><p>But around that corner was the Parker House Hotel, where they make those rolls that apparently cause certain people to change their entire way of life so that they can consume these things on a regular basis. I failed to see what the fuss was all about, mainly because said hotel was very pricey and I couldn’t even afford the appetizers, let alone an entrée featuring the famous bread. Northerners apparently make more money than Southerners. Didn’t we end that pesky war? Poor Scarlet, she rolled around in that turnip field, getting mud on her couture and vowing never to be hungry again, but I’m assuming she wasn’t clutching a menu from the Parker House Hotel.</p><p>Finally, did they ever end that mess with the Big Dig? The massive roadwork project where they were building an underground tunnel to China or some such? I understand the need to garner support for the usage of tax-payer dollars. But really, the billboards and the campaign buttons? It’s a road, not the Stairway to Heaven. Especially if you’re just a visitor trying to find the North Church without getting re-routed to Detroit. And it’s a little unsettling to realize that the earth is being moved under my feet.</p><p>Speaking of, let’s move on to San Francisco, where I understand that you’ve spent some time whilst trying to keep your sanity and a firm grip on the things that are really important. Therefore, I really shouldn’t pontificate too much and risk corrective commentary, other than to share a formative experience I had whilst a youngster still finding my way.</p><p>In the mid-70’s, my mother and her best friend dragged their four collective offspring to this city by the bay. I was much too young to fully comprehend all that we saw, but I do recall seeing men holding hands, and homegrown newspapers seeking rights for people who just wanted to love as they wished. I was in awe, feeling tiny tendrils of validation for my burgeoning awareness of who I might be, but still scared. The rest of the country did not share this vision, or so it seemed to my naïve young mind. Soon I would be back in a land of closed minds and pain. But briefly, I yearned. Hope springs eternal.</p><p>Okay, I do recall a few other things. The hills, of course, because how could you miss THOSE? The trolley cars, which are enjoyable until someone’s posterior is shoved in your face while they are pointing out Coit Tower. Or some stranger requests that you take photos of them and their unruly brood as the Gap-clad little hellions swing on poles and wave. I don’t WANT to take pictures of other people. If I did, I would have gone to a different school, training to be a clerk at the DMV or perhaps a processing agent at the police station.</p><p>Oh, and the exquisite chocolate from that Italian-sounding place, and all of that business with the Wharf. The rows of houses, with the character of another time, standing proudly after so many years, despite the Starbucks on the corner and everyone muttering into little handheld things of metal and glass. And the people. The wild mix of people.</p><p>And finally, we have Dallas on your short list of proper names for residents. There are many ways I could go with my commentary on the local inhabitants. But really, this should be saved for another time. The nexus is you, and how I can assist. Despite my rhetoric, despite my fun with snarkiness and twisted interpretations, there are times when all this falls by the wayside, and you get real.</p><p>Searching for an answer that actually means something, I did let a bit of the whimsy back in. The first letter of your three cities is B-S-D. But I’m going to assume that you put a challenge in there, and that I should reverse the order. D-S-B. I only know of your personal situation peripherally, limited detail, but I hope this helps with your journey. DSB = Don’t Stop Believing. Don’t. In whatever your belief and hopes may be.</p><p>Best of luck, Laura, spelled correctly, and there really won’t be any paperwork in the mail about the name change. Unless my assistant Lanae has been especially productive, though I seriously doubt that she has. I’ve been waiting for her to change the paper in the copy machine since 1987.</p><p>As for the rest of you fine folks, who are used to sarcasm until the end, it’s not going to happen this time. A rare moment of heart, and some time to reflect. Think of the people you love. Tell them that. Again and again. And then maybe one more time. Then go take a walk, somewhere quiet where you can prioritize and breathe. Well, maybe skip the walking bit for now, considering the heat out there and the potential for sweaty crevices. But keep the breathing. And the realization of what’s really important…</p><p>Peace In,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-77575709070464162112010-06-20T07:50:00.001-05:002010-06-20T07:51:56.632-05:00Case Study #30<span lang="EN"> <p> </p><p><em>Dear Dr. Brian,</em></p><p><em>How does one begin the “excessive nose hair” conversation with one’s new boyfriend?</em></p><p><em>Perplexed,</em></p><p><em>Wilhelmina</em></p><p> </p><p>Dear Perp,</p><p>First, I’d like to extend to you my deepest sympathies, for even though you may still be in the exciting throes of the first tender days of newfound love, the relationship is clearly over. </p><p>No amount of counseling or careful review of women’s magazines can overcome the atrocity of a partner who does not trim adequately. Eventually, you will not be able to leave the house, and the mere sight of him can cause histrionic screaming. Save yourself the time and effort, and make preparations to move on.</p><p>Perhaps you may find this assessment to be a bit harsh, overly reactionary and such, possibly even flippant and callous about the level of affection you have for your partner. Sadly, love does not overcome all, despite the many Hallmark movies that vainly try to prove otherwise. And love certainly does not, in the end, overcome a man who could put your eye out during a passionate embrace.</p><p>Yes, poor woman, this is not only a matter of unattractive and mortifying nasal protuberances. It is also a matter of personal safety. You could be severely injured at any time, despite the resourcefulness of precautionary measures you may take. You can only persevere for so long. At some point you will have to remove the protective body gear, and your delicate skin will be at tremendous risk.</p><p>In theory, of course, if your love for this man is deep enough, the two of you could agree to a romantic arrangement that is devoid of any physical intimacy. You could care for one another from afar, as it were. Perhaps you can reside in opposite ends of the house, with a glass wall firmly separating you from Edward Scissornose. For some playful excitement, you can pretend that one of you has been incarcerated for an unmentionable crime, and proceed to express your physical lust by pawing at one another through the impersonal glass.</p><p>I must caution you, though, that this glass must be at least 6 inches thick. Those hairs are incredibly sharp, and can cut through almost all natural and manmade materials, especially the wiry hairs that twist and turn for no apparent reason. You must remain vigilant at all times.</p><p>And really, would this be any way to live, having to avoid one another at all costs? This type of distance is usually reserved for the later years in a relationship, where you have grown to hate the sight of each other, both of you reduced to using the children and your credit cards to inflict emotional wounds on each other.</p><p>You owe it to yourself to fully enjoy the traditional first years of a partnership, when you actually enjoy being around your supposed soul mate before you finally learn everything there is to know about him, and realize he has very few redeeming qualities and that you were clearly blind in the days of wine and roses.</p><p>Now, having rattled on about all that, I suppose it’s only fair that I mention one alternate scenario which should be considered. After all, I do have some personal experience to add to this unfortunate mix. Normally, I refrain from sharing intimate details of my own life, unless required to do so by law or enabled by the over-imbibing of alcoholic spirits.</p><p>You see, I am also the victim of misbehaving and stealthy nose hairs. There is a degree of shame with this pronouncement, but I can sense that you are very troubled by your current dilemma. (One sign of your pain is the sentence you scrawled on the back of this letter, in Rustic Kumquat nail polish, which reads “I have dreams of porcupines and darkness.”)</p><p>However, despite my own body rebelling against me by producing hairs where hairs shouldn’t be, I am one of the 3% of people with this condition who has actually tried to do something about it. (The remaining 97% do nothing and don’t seem to care. Such behavior also explains other troubling human conditions, like politicians getting elected despite obvious mental issues, and medical practitioners who charge $600 to take your blood pressure.)</p><p>But my journey to personal body-hair salvation has been long, and the battle never ends. (In my youth and preliminary professional days, I did not have this problem. Then again, we never have physical problems when we are young. Everyone is beautiful and flexible, lulling us into a false sense of invincibility, a sense that is shattered as we age and things start to malfunction. This is why everyone over 40 is bitter.)</p><p>I have tried an endless number of hygiene products and devices through the years. And I have done so with fierce determination. I have shaved and plucked and scoured, trying various chemical concoctions and applying poultices, pillaging the Internet for any mechanical contraption that might offer even minimal release from my private hell.</p><p>Alas, I am always disappointed. I can get my nasal canals polished to a shine, devoid of any hint of growth. Two hours later, a hair will spring out of nowhere, stabbing downward with an audible click of spite and meanness. And this will usually happen in an awkward social situation, such as a dinner party, the least beneficial time for a sudden hair appearance, because I don’t have any of my tools with me and therefore any reparative actions are compromised. </p><p>I usually end up huddled in someone’s half-bath, surrounded by hideous wallpaper and those annoying hand towels that you can’t really use, yanking at the elusive demon hair in a frenzy of search and destroy. This, of course, is not a pleasant action, and I must lie to my colleagues and explain that my screams were the result of passing a kidney stone. On a social scale, it’s better to have crystallized objects in your digestive system rather than confess to having a nose with its own landscaping.</p><p>Anyway, my dear Perv, it is imperative that we determine the mental attitude of your man toward his nose hairs. Has he, like me, struggled in shame to deal with this overwhelming situation, all to little avail despite his good intentions? If so, you must work to save your love, assuming that everything else about him is acceptable and hygienic. If he has no idea what you’re talking about, your love is doomed.</p><p>So sit your man down, join him on the couch if it’s safe to do so without risking bodily harm, and gently but firmly ask him. What’s up with the nose hair? If he bursts into tears, and then shows you his “special drawer” in the bathroom, full of implements and creams, then your relationship has a chance. Be supportive and suggest therapy. Perhaps Oprah can do a special before she ends her show and goes off to purchase the 4% of the world that she doesn’t already own.</p><p>If your mate refuses to admit there’s a problem, or, even worse, acknowledges the nose hairs and thinks there’s nothing wrong with them, possibly even having given them their own names, then you know what you have to do. Begin taking the necessary legal steps to ensure that you never have to see this person again. (Speaking of legalities, it is my professional duty to advise you of a possible third reaction: He may pick up a salad fork and lunge at you, screaming something about disappointments and poor choices. If that happens, you have an entirely different situation on your hands.)</p><p>Let me know how it goes. Lanae at the reception desk has my cell phone number in case things get overly dramatic and intense. Of course, I probably won’t answer it until your check for this session has cleared the bank…</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-89309760729967076562010-05-22T15:11:00.001-05:002010-06-20T07:46:30.580-05:00Case Study #29<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p><em>Continued from previous post:</em></p><p>Mike Rowe’s face paled considerably in the moonlight washing the patio, which was a difficult thing to discern in the darkness, but I was able to spot it. (Apparently Mother was right about those carrots after all.) He turned to his producer. “Could you step back inside and let me speak to these gentlemen privately?”</p><p>Producer: “But Mike, we need to finish this segment. The crew is already on overtime.”</p><p>Mike: “Go back in the house. Send the people home if that makes you happy. This is going to take a while.” (Oh?)</p><p>The producer stood there a bit longer, glaring at everyone with intense dislike, his eyes telling a tragic tale indicative of years of painful suffering, a miserable existence where people simply did not take his urgency seriously. But we didn’t care. Once he realized this, he and his irritating headset marched back into the house.</p><p>Henri and I turned back to Mike, giving him our full and devoted attention. However, he was not quite ready to share. “I don’t know if I can do this without proper lighting.”</p><p>Just then, a gypsy woman sporting faded but still colorful attire modestly danced our way from the nearby courtyard, hoisting a clever torch she had fashioned out of an old crutch and a discarded phone book. She gently lit several candles that had been strategically placed in the vicinity, creating a wonderful ambiance, then she waltzed away into the night, warbling a wisp of a forgotten opera. This is France, these things happen.</p><p>Mike nervously cleared his throat. “Well, gentlemen, I suppose I have a confession to make.”</p><p>Henri stirred beside me. “A confession? Well, then, we simply must have wine.”</p><p>A hand suddenly appeared at the kitchen window, thrusting out a bottle. Henri leapt to his feet and graciously accepted the offering, which was quickly followed by wine glasses, some bread, and an artfully-arranged tray of cheese. Then the window was discreetly lowered and the kitchen light extinguished. Well, then. At least someone around here knew how to be a gracious host.</p><p>We arranged our treasures on the patio table, made ourselves comfortable in the available roomy and sturdy chairs, and settled in for a winsome tale of livestock and circumstance. Somewhere down the street, a string quartet softly played, perfectly accompanying Mike’s saga, which went like this:</p><p>Two days before my surprising arrest for nudity and lewdity, Mike and his crew arrived in Paris for the first of their “Dirty French Jobs” assignments. Not being familiar with the city, there was an error in judgment that resulted in the crew taking rooms at a less than savory hostel, located just a few blocks from Henri’s abode and where we now sat. This in itself is not that unusual. First-time travelers to Paris often find themselves on the unfortunate side of the decision-making process. Just ask Marie Antoinette.</p><p>In any case, the crew, finding themselves stacked like cordwood, six to a room, soon grew to hate the sight of one another. There was an altercation involving bathroom privacy, and Mike, knowing that he would need his crew for the shoot in the morning, realized he could not kill them, and therefore decided to venture out, find a nearby bistro, and drink anything the wait staff placed before him.</p><p>Unbeknownst to Mr. Rowe, the dominoes of fate were now being placed in position.</p><p>Whilst swilling a concoction that supposedly included the once-again-legal ingredient of absinthe, Mike chanced to innocently glance to his right, and spied a comely French woman sitting alone at a table. She appeared to be somewhat blue, possibly on the verge of tears, and quite despondent over making her dinner selection from the detailed menu.</p><p>Emboldened by excessive drink, Mike tossed his linen napkin aside and approached her table. “Might I suggest something pleasing?”</p><p>The woman, startled at first, glanced up at Mike and then smiled, her tears instantly drying. “But of course. You appear to be a man who knows things. I like men like that.” Then she giggled seductively, which is often all it takes to own a man’s heart, and thus began a whirlwind infatuation. Mike quickly snatched the remainder of his escargots, and slid into the opposite chair at the woman’s table.</p><p>As the evening progressed, Mike and the woman, whose named proved to be Vivienne, enchanted one another with amusing anecdotes and flirtatious gazing at one another. By dessert, love was rearing its tender head.</p><p>Sadly, the hour grew late, and the lovers had to part. (Vivienne was giving her doctoral thesis in the morning, and simply could not be late.) As they were breathing heavily on the sidewalk outside the bistro, they promised to meet again in two nights. (Mike had an unavoidable segment shoot the next evening, wherein he would be scraping barnacles off of fly boats.) In a frenzied moment of passion, Mike had an inspiration. “Can I bring you a little something for our next rendezvous?”</p><p>Vivienne did not hesitate. “I’d like a goat.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, my love?”</p><p>“A goat. But not just any goat, mon chere. I require a goat, white as pure snow, but with four brown paws. It is something I have dreamed of since my childhood days in the Loire Valley. It would mean the world to me. Now, my love, I must run.” And then she was gone, vanishing into the sultry night.</p><p>Mike stood there a moment, perplexed. What an absurd request. But he was smitten, and therefore determined to find the exact goat that would send his new love into rapturous spasms of gratitude, even if it took him the next 48 hours to do so.</p><p>But Mike did not have 48 hours. He had a very busy schedule, with segments to film, meetings with boring people who approved budgets, and a photo shoot for an ad campaign wherein he would frolic around at sanitation landfills outside the city and throw sludge at the camera. So he was forced to call upon an innocent intern who could devote her time to finding the perfect goat.</p><p>This poor intern. Imagine the horrific experiences she must have gone through, tasked with finding a goat in the City of Lights whilst everyone else gets to wear couture and read poetry in cafes. It must have been grueling, the wretched thing. But find a goat she finally did, with just a few hours before the lovers were scheduled to meet.</p><p>Once she had obtained the animal, the intern rushed to the set where Mike and the crew were filming. Upon her arrival, Mike was overjoyed, climbing out of a manhole to embrace the young staffer. After heaping copious praise on the blushing woman, Mike tied the goat’s leash to the crew’s van and returned to the sewers. The jubilant staffer, convinced of an impending raise, raced off to the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honore and immediately purchased something useless but fancy at Givenchy.</p><p>Sadly, now that the sacred goat had been wrangled, no one thought to make sure that it remained so. While the crew was busy capturing Mike’s exploits with a drain pipe, a short man by the name of Jacques de Bouvier snuck up to the unattended van, untied the goat, and scampered around the corner. The goat, happy to be away from the sewage, did not protest.</p><p>(“Jacques is my client!” gushed Henri beside me. Mike glared at him. Let me tell the story, you insipid little man. Henri shushed and refilled his wine glass.)</p><p>Jacques then proceeded to the villa of his therapist, and made his customary payment of livestock, never mentioning to Henri that his funds were tainted. Of course, Jacques didn’t really have a chance to mention it, because Henri was not there, trapped as he was in the south of France, his car having ruptured an axle after being run off the road by boisterous Americans. Jacques simply retrieved the key under the third rock from the sundial, shoved the goat in the front door, and walked away. Done.</p><p>(This, dear reader, is where yours truly entered the picture, arriving a few minutes later for my session with the Cucumber Lady, and the tragic mishaps that followed.)</p><p>Meanwhile, back on the set, Mike has lumbered out of the sewer for the final time, and various people are rushing about, dismantling equipment and storing things in the van. Since so many careless people are not paying attention, it takes some time for the goat abduction to be discovered. Finally, Mike, putting his shirt back on after once again having taken it off for no apparent reason, realizes that things are amiss.</p><p>“Where is the goat?”</p><p>No one responded, as none of them were in love and thereby did not understand the significance of the smelly goat. Instead, they continued attending to their various duties and pondering what delicious meal they might encounter that evening. Besides, Mike was always asking philosophical questions that didn’t necessarily require an answer.</p><p>Frustrated, and assuming that the goat had simply escaped and had not been forcibly taken, Mike thundered out of the little square, racing in the direction he determined the goat would take if achieving sudden freedom. (Mike had once done a segment on a goat farm, and knew that the unimaginative creatures always ran in a southwesterly direction and would always veer left when given road-choice options.)</p><p>Luckily enough, short men named Jacques often adhere to this same flight pattern when bringing payments to their therapists. Within minutes, Mike was approaching Henri’s apartment, and soon found himself at the front door through which the goat and been unceremoniously shoved a few hours ago. The door was now locked (Mike did not know about the key under the third rock), but by placing his desperate ear against the portal, he could hear the sounds of bleating accompanied by running water. Mike raced around the building to the patio, found the back entrance to be locked as well, and pondered his next move.</p><p>Then he spied the open kitchen window.</p><p>Briskly stepping up to such, Mike peered in, and discovered the goat standing in the kitchen, contemplating a cucumber on the counter. Startled, and not in the mood for further travel, the goat snatched the cucumber and tottered into another room. Frantic, Mike tried to climb through the window in pursuit, but his muscled bulk could not quite slip through.</p><p>Then he spied the can of Crisco, and inspiration dawned anew.</p><p>Quickly ripping off his shirt (which he probably would have done anyway, given any opportunity), Mike then seized the can and began slathering his torso in the hopes of improving his window-access chances.</p><p>Just then, the sounds of running water ceased, and Mike spotted a naked, freshly-showered man stepping out of the bathroom and wrapping himself in a towel. In a slight panic (things might be misperceived, given the circumstances) Mike dropped the can of Crisco and hurried across the courtyard, taking shelter behind a dumpster that reeked of garlic and faded memories. He waited for the showered man to become interested in some activity that would take him out of the apartment, or at least away from the window.</p><p>Much to Mike’s surprise, the back door suddenly flew open, and the brazen man with his skimpy towel stepped out and rescued the fallen container of cooking grease. Two seconds later, the goat, the cucumber lodged in his tiny teeth, thundered out the back door as well, completely unconcerned about the Crisco, but certainly interested in something on the other side of the courtyard. The man and his towel let loose with a cry of disdain, and then quickly raced after the Billy.</p><p>Realizing that his chances of goat recovery were dwindling, Mike joined in the impromptu parade.</p><p>The precocious animal darted toward an open door off the courtyard, with the man a few hooves behind him. There was a brief tussle, wherein the man acquired the cucumber but not the misbehaving creature, and the goat raced through the door. Just before the man entered the building as well, Mike reached out to stop him, hoping to plead his case about how desperately he needed the goat, but his efforts failed. Instead, Mike found himself clutching a consolation prize in the form of a damp towel.</p><p>Five seconds later, Mike was startled to hear the sounds of children screaming and a harridan woman alerting authorities. Mike wisely decided that perhaps he would retrieve the goat at another time, despite his desperate desire to please his love, and he slipped away from the scene in search of a calming beverage and an alternate plan.</p><p>Mike finished the last sip of his wine, his tale complete, and then regarded Henri and I with doleful eyes. “And that, gentlemen, is my tragic tale of love and livestock in the city of passion.”</p><p>Crickets chirped.</p><p>Then I regained my composure. “So it seems, Mr. Rowe, that, in essence, due to your torrid romance with a woman you hardly know, I now find myself in this legal predicament. I am facing criminal charges because you got drunk and fell in love with a woman, promising her a goat.”</p><p>Mike smiled wanly. “What can I say? Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”</p><p></p><p></p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-78534118851233010192010-05-22T15:09:00.001-05:002010-05-22T15:19:28.928-05:00Case Study #28<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p><em>Continued from previous post:</em></p><p>I took a small sip of wine and then focused once again on the drunken man across the table. “Henri, though our friendship has been long and strong, I must say that I am quite displeased with you at the moment. Why did you not tell me previously that Mike Rowe is currently scouring the floors of your dwelling?”</p><p>He eyed me with suspicion. “Mon ami, first of all, perhaps you have not noticed my excessive intake of alcohol. This is presenting some focus issues, as well as causing me to lose my French accent at times even though I am a native. Secondly, I was completely unaware of your need to visit with Mr. Rowe until roughly two minutes ago. Prior to that, we were speaking only of the goat. Perhaps you should just relax and join me in the drunkenness. It certainly reduces the stress level, and it makes things pretty.”</p><p>I calmly aligned my untouched silverware before proceeding. “Henri, I must apologize for my forwardness and possibly accusatory tone. And I must admit, inebriation does have its call and charm at the moment. However, it is extremely critical that I speak with Mr. Rowe at once, and we must proceed to your apartment post haste. Please do the finger-snapping thing you do so well, and arrange for the check.”</p><p>Three minutes later we were on the sidewalk outside the café.</p><p>I raised my hand in preparation for hailing a taxi, but was quickly rebuffed by Henri. “We do not need such things. The taxis are for Americans. Everyone else walks.”</p><p>“But I AM American. And it’s been a very tiresome day.”</p><p>He scoffed. “Sitting in a courtroom? That’s tiring? Come, it’s just a short distance, we’ll be there in no time.” And off he went, briskly marching down the road and easily weaving his way around after-dinner Parisian couples, who were probably reciting poetry to one another in advance of a philosophical discussion concerning tangerines.</p><p>I sighed and waddled after him, silently cursing healthy Europeans and their unseemly disdain for lethargic means of transportation. Within minutes, I could barely catch my breath, my legs trembling and my vision hazy. Henri, of course, was never in danger of even breaking a sweat, and actually had the gall to jog in place at the stoplights.</p><p>Luckily, we were only a handful of blocks from Henri’s residence, so my struggles were only temporary. A few labored breaths later we turned the corner and entered the narrow street I knew so well from our college days. (Although I must admit that being so near the scene of my purported lascivious crimes did keep my heart rate slightly escalated, as I glanced about for more children with pointing fingers.)</p><p>Henri stopped to caution me at his door. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Dr. Brian. Let me speak with him initially. You don’t want to embarrass yourself unnecessarily.”</p><p>I bit my tongue, refraining from reminding him that I had already appeared nude in national publications, clutching a can of Crisco. There was little shame left to heave upon me.</p><p>Henri opened his door.</p><p>It appeared that there were several hundred people in his apartment, rushing about madly, fiddling with lighting and pawing at electronic equipment. It was quite fascinating, really, and at another moment in time I might have been content to gawk and giggle. However, we had a fully defined mission at hand, and it was imperative that we complete it. Henri served the initial volley.</p><p>“Mes amis!” he shouted, jovially. “I am very sorry to be intruding, but I have a friend who must speak with Monsieur Rowe as soon as it is possible. I trust this will not be an inconvenience?”</p><p>All activity ceased in the room, and various sets of eyes turned in our direction, most of them clearly expressing that not only was this inconvenient, it was thoroughly unappreciated. In fact, if there had been available weaponry, I dare say there would also have been bloodshed. Things were not going quite according to plan.</p><p>A short, bookish fellow broke away from the angry mob and approached us, lugging a clipboard and sporting one of those ridiculous headsets that Madonna is always wearing, even when she bathes. Despite the fury in his eyes, he forced the semblance of a welcoming smile, as if we were the best of companions. I immediately pegged him as a producer of some kind.</p><p>“Greetings, gentlemen,” he proffered. “Mr. Rowe would love to speak with you, but he is extremely occupied at the moment. Perhaps another time?” Just then, there was the startling sound of a toilet flushing, followed quickly by the bathroom door being wrested open, and Mike Rowe walked into the living room.</p><p>Much to my amazement, he took one look at me, released a startled yelp, raced to the back of the apartment, through the kitchen, and out the back door, giving it a good slam as he hastily exited.</p><p>The producer took off his headset. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” Then he thundered out the back door as well.</p><p>Henri turned to me. “Is there ANYWHERE you can go that you don’t frighten people? It must be terribly difficult for you.”</p><p>“Henri, I haven’t the faintest idea what that was all about. I’ve never met the man in my life, so an opportunity to offend him has not arisen. Let’s go see what the fuss is about.” I started marching toward the kitchen.</p><p>Henri hesitated. “Dr. Brian, I’m not sure if it’s our place to do so. He seemed quite distraught, and you may only exacerbate the matter.”</p><p>I sighed. “Henri, this is YOUR apartment. You have every right to determine why people would want to flee from it.”</p><p>He finally joined me, and it turned out that we didn’t have to go far. The kitchen window was wide open, and we were suddenly privy to the conversation on the back patio. (Why does Henri insist on keeping that damn window open? Things fall out of it, and I get arrested. Will he ever learn?) We leaned toward the window, our inquisitive minds yearning for information, but being careful to remain in the shadows. Sort of like those people at the Watergate Hotel.</p><p>Producer: “We need to finish the shoot. We’re almost done.”</p><p>Mike: “I’m not going back in there. I’m not talking to him.”</p><p>Producer: “Who IS he?” (Sound of pages being flipped.) “He’s not on the call sheet.”</p><p>Mike: “He’s… it’s not important, but I’m not talking to him. Go do your thing, and make him leave.”</p><p>Producer, apparently pausing to reflect, then: “Is there something you need to tell me?”</p><p>Mike: “Of course not. I’m just not in the mood for fans right now.”</p><p>Producer: “Well, you never ran away from that OTHER fan you have. The only time I’ve seen you run was…. Oh God, have you done something illegal again?”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Producer: “Mike?”</p><p>Mike: “Maybe.”</p><p>Producer: “Ah, hell. Mike, we’re already over budget, we don’t need any more expenses. Is this something we can fix without writing a check?”</p><p>Mike was silent for quite some time, then: “There may have been a misunderstanding with my goat. I was just trying to get him back after he was kidnapped. No pun intended.”</p><p>Suddenly, the puzzle pieces began falling into place, and images flashed through my mind. The open kitchen window on another day, the empty spot on the window sill where something had previously been, and a close-up of Mike’s enormously-large hands on his TV show, hands that could easily have made the deep finger tracks that I briefly spotted in a certain can of shortening.</p><p>I threw open the back door and confronted him.</p><p>“YOU tried to steal the Crisco!”</p><p> </p><i><p>Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2010/05/case-study-29.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series.</p><p></p></i></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-27900678572811331962010-05-22T13:52:00.003-05:002010-05-22T15:19:58.965-05:00Case Study #27<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p> </p><p><em>Continued from previous post:</em></p><p>Henri clarified. “Mr. Rowe does not have YOUR goat, Dr. Brian. He has HIS goat. He had the papers.” He paused. “But why, dear friend of crazy youthful days, is there such interest in the goat? I am not understanding. This goat is not your friend.”</p><p>Just then, the bailiff began performing some scurrying activity off to the right, hovering about the entrance to the judge’s chamber. It was time for this insipid show to continue. “Henri, I must let you go. Can we meet for dinner to further discuss this situation.”</p><p>“Dinner? Will they let you out for such?”</p><p>I sighed. “Henri, I am no longer IN jail. I was released on my own recognizance, which, quite frankly, came as something of a surprise to me. If my sterling reputation is all it takes to get me out, then why bother with the arrest in the first place? In any case, I can do whatever I want. Except leave the city or approach small children, and who would want to do either? Dinner, Henri?”</p><p>“The usual place?”</p><p>“Perfect. Abientot.”</p><p>I slid the phone back to my lawyer, Olivier, who snatched it up and then made a small entry on the expense report he always has open before him. Petty little man, always about the money and who has how much of it. But I needed him for now.</p><p>“All Rise.”</p><p>We dutifully stood, as the squat and moody judge woman entered the room and regally made her way to the throne of her tiny kingdom. I’ve never understood this business with the standing as legal officials arrive. It reeks of superficiality. If we really had any respect for her interpretation and application of law, we wouldn’t be doing things that would have us presented to her in the first place.</p><p>After a few moments of Her Highness perusing all corners of the room to ensure that even babies and the senile infirm where basking in her glory, she waved a dismissive hand and took her seat. Whilst the room did likewise, she then proceeded to spend an inordinate amount of time shifting around royal implements lying about her desk. Finally satisfied, she cleared her throat.</p><p>“Before we continue, I would like to address our timeline for the completion of this trial. While I understand that the popular press is making a tremendous amount of money on these proceedings due to the salacious nature of the charges…” </p><p>(She glanced at the long row of windows on the left side of the room, where photographers were pressed against the glass, snapping photos of her irritated face which they could then use for belittlement purposes on the evening newscast.)</p><p>“…We must also keep in mind that expediency is a just and wonderful thing. That being the case, and along with the fact that the cheese festival in Rocamadour is set to begin in two days, I trust that we can have both a verdict and a sentence by tomorrow afternoon. Ring the bell, bailiff person, and let’s get started.”</p><p>What? How could this be? The prosecution was still in the midst of its long-winded and illogical presentation, showing no signs of slowing or any grasp of the truth. Even if they could manage to cease with their bilious puppet show by the end of the day, how could we possibly present a viable defense in a few short hours tomorrow morning?</p><p>I turned to Olivier. “How can she do this? Is this legal in any way?”</p><p>He sighed. “It’s the cheese festival, mon ami. These things happen.” Then he made another tick on his spreadsheet. Apparently, I was now being charged by the question and not the hour. He was truly an irritating man of suspect worth.</p><p>“But, Olivier, are we READY? Can you do this?”</p><p>He sighed again, which was quickly becoming his most loathsome habit, about to surge ahead of “his tie smells like garlic”. He fingered his storyboards once again, and then turned to me. “You must trust me, Dr. Brian. Because trust is all we have. We have not much of anything else. They are very strong with the evidence. It is tres difficult to win when there are photos of your manhood where it does not belong. But I will try.”</p><p>“But I didn’t DO anything, the entire situation was completely circumstantial, there were many factors well beyond my control or counsel, and really, how harmful is it that enlightened children in a progressive daycare facility were briefly exposed to the male anatomy?”</p><p>He sighed a third time, sending me closer to the edge. “Dr. Brian, we really should not rely on the defense strategies utilized by the Vatican. However, it IS true that the children are the heart of the matter. Let us see what the wee ones say, yes?”</p><p>On cue, the Prosecution began calling upon the little terror tykes to take the witness stand.</p><p>And of course, each of them looked amazingly cherubic, as if they had just dropped down from the artfully-painted domed ceiling of the courtroom, gracing us with their angelic presence, causing the entire jury to coo and smile. They all had the same story, recounting an innocent day wherein they simply wanted to learn about world peace and play Chutes and Ladders. Then the tranquility was shattered by the sudden appearance of an evil man, accompanied by horned-animals and Crisco. They have cried every night since.</p><p>As each of the urchins left the stand, they were presented lollipops from the lead prosecutor, the judge, the bailiff, and Mia Farrow, who always flies places where foreign children are in need.</p><p>Olivier leaned over to me and whispered. “You are right, Dr. Brian. We must find the goat immediately.”</p><p>Later that evening, I rushed to meet Henri at our favorite restaurant, a tiny venue that serves exquisite mushrooms. He was already there, perched at our usual table and well into the process of wine-swilling. I tried not to let his inebriation irk me, for we really didn’t have time for lectures and hateful accusations. Besides, being a fellow mental physician, listening to disturbed people talk of inane things all day, I can understand the attraction of alcohol.</p><p>Upon seeing my distinguished figure marching in his direction, Henri’s face lit up. He bellowed something unintelligible and tried to stand. This resulted in the spillage of a water glass, a basket of breadsticks tumbling to their tiny deaths, and an obvious non-Parisian who clearly did not understand the hierarchy in this establishment, muttering about rudeness to her androgynous table partner.</p><p>“It’s okay, Henri,” I said soothingly, as I removed my raincoat and placed it on a nearby chair, making sure one of the sleeves slapped the ignorant patron in the back of the head. “I don’t need you vertical. I just need you to tell me where the goat can be found.”</p><p>He looked at me with blood-shot eyes, a speck of dried souffle clinging to his chin. “J’ai dit que-”</p><p>I held up my hand. “In English, Henri. I’m too traumatized to translate. The children want my soul.”</p><p>His eyes came into focus a bit more. “Perhaps I should have the coffee, then.” He snapped in the general direction of the waiter, and within two seconds there was a steaming demi-tasse of thick liquid expertly placed before him. (This is why we loved the place: quick service, glorious food, and a general lack of idiots. The harridan at the neighboring table must have slipped through during a slight breach of security.)</p><p>Henri began adding the first of 12 sugar cubes to his beverage. “As I explained, the goat is now in the possession of Mr. Rowe. He knocked on my door shortly after your arrest, presenting me with official ownership papers and waving a leash.”</p><p>“But why, Henri? Why would Mike Rowe own a French goat?”</p><p>My companion stirred the cup before him. “This I do not know. It is possible that he explained this to me while retrieving the goat, but I was somewhat distracted by the camera crew.”</p><p>“Camera crew? He was FILMING?”</p><p>Henri nodded, then downed half the coffee in a startling move. “Yes, I believe he plans to use the footage somehow, although I am not certain. He is in our country, producing another episode. He seems to think the Americans will be titillated by the concept of “dirty French jobs”. I am not certain what this means, but his crew snickered and one of the camera people ran into a wall whilst laughing. Americans are clumsy, are they not?” He downed the rest of the cup and signaled for more.</p><p>“Henri, do you know where I can find Mr. Rowe? Was there contact information on his ownership papers? Did he give you a card? Did the goat leave a forwarding address?”</p><p>Henri accepted his second cup from the efficient waiter, smiling warmly and possibly flirting. The he turned his attention back to me. “I can do better than that. I know exactly where Michel is.”</p><p>My heart leapt. “Please tell me, Henri, it is critical.”</p><p>“He is at mon apartement, filming a segment for his TV show.”</p><p>I was taken aback. “What possible dirty job could he find THERE?”</p><p>Henri smiled. “Have you ever tried to get goat crap off of hardwood floors? Mon dieu, it‘s overwhelming.”</p><p> </p><i><p>Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2010/05/case-study-28.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series.</p><p></p></i></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-79101814703460318442010-05-22T00:05:00.002-05:002010-05-22T15:17:53.876-05:00Case Study #26<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p><em>Dear Dr. Brian:</em></p><p><em>Mike Rowe (that guy on the truck commercials and on “Dirty Jobs” on the Discovery Channel) somehow reminds me of you. Are you guys related?</em></p><p><em>Curious in Kendrick</em></p><p>Dear Curious,</p><p>What an astonishingly interesting query, although I daresay I shouldn’t be surprised, based on our previous correspondence, wherein you’ve proven quite insightful. As I’ve noted in the past, you have an amazing ability to toss aside most of the overwhelming chuff on the Internet, focus on the few things of actual discourse value, and then demand detailed explanations that will satisfy you both scholastically and emotionally.</p><p>And yes, I do indeed have a relationship with Mr. Rowe, albeit our association is not one you could deem traditional, and is certainly not based on us sharing relatives who may have procreated in the distant past. And although we were quite close at one time, we have since drifted, and we no longer communicate with any regularity. We have different interests. In addition, there are certain legal restraints which may have led to the dissolution of our once-tight bond.</p><p>You see, Mr. Rowe was a critical witness in the lengthy Parisian trial wherein I was accused of certain crimes involving nudity, cooking ingredients, and livestock. (For the more important details of this clearly politically-motivated misuse of power, you can read my original account by clicking Here.) Of course, Dearest Curious, I’m sure that YOU personally will not need to utilize this link. I’m only including it for the newer patients who have not yet surmised how essential it is that every comma I type be emblazoned in their memories.</p><p>In any case, Mr. Rowe’s involvement came about thusly:</p><p>We were in the first few days of the trial, the bit where it’s still boring while humorless people go over all of the tedious matters. My lawyer, Olivier de Quelque-Chose-Francais, was fiddling with his storyboards, mapping out the spacing of dramatic moments in his upcoming oral presentations. Suddenly, just as I was finishing an exquisite pomegranate tart, I had an inspiration.</p><p>I turned to my lawyer. “Olivier, we MUST find the goat.”</p><p>He paused in his shuffling, removed his spectacles, folded them, placed them to the side, and adjusted both of his shirt sleeves so that exactly one-quarter inch of material was displayed at the end of his jacket. Then he turned to me. “What is this with the goat?”</p><p>I sighed. “The GOAT, Olivier. The one I was chasing? It is imperative that we find it. I feel it would make an excellent character witness.”</p><p>He made a small noise signifying that perhaps he should have gone to medical school after all. “We talk of a goat, Dr. Brian, an animal that does not speak. How will it witness for your character?”</p><p>“It won’t have to SPEAK. It just has to BE. Once the jury sees what a vicious, filthy little animal it is, they surely can’t blame me for wanting to get it off the streets and away from the children.”</p><p>Olivier put his spectacles back on, apparently no longer interested in my proposal. “You led the goat TO the children, are you forgetting this?”</p><p>I snorted in frustration. “I most certainly did nothing of the kind. I was trying to CATCH the goat, not prompt it to invade the nursery school. Really, Olivier, how much am I paying you anyway?”</p><p>I suddenly had his full attention again. Subtle financial threats can be quite useful at times. “Very well. We will find the goat.”</p><p>At the next recess, when cell phone usage was once again temporarily allowed, Olivier whipped out his designer unit and began making calls. The ensuing conversations mostly consisted of him saying “oui” an irritating number of times, interspersed with bursts of that rapid-fire French where you can’t catch a word of it. Eventually, he snapped the phone shut a final time.</p><p>“The goat is no longer in the correctional facility.”</p><p>This startles me. “They goat was in JAIL? Why on earth would they do that?”</p><p>“It’s France, mon ami. These things happen.”</p><p>Perplexed, I try to learn more. “Then where is the goat now?”</p><p>“I do not know, Dr. Brian. I am not intimate with the goat. Perhaps it is with its owner?”</p><p>Ah. That would be my friend Henri, he of the Cucumber Lady whose vegetable gift led to my current misery. I must speak with him immediately. “May I borrow your phone, Olivier?”</p><p>He appeared to take offense at this request. “Have you not one of your own? It is my understanding that Americans are born with them.”</p><p>Very amusing. “There was a recent incident involving a nice Merlot and some exuberance. Please speak of it no further. Your phone, Olivier?”</p><p>He slid it toward me with measured exasperation. “I will charge you double for the minutes.”</p><p>“I expect nothing less.” I punched in Henri’s number.</p><p>“Allo?”</p><p>“Henri, my friend! How are things?”</p><p>“Ah, the good doctor is calling. Have they convicted you yet?” Then he cackled in a boisterous way that indicated there had been copious beverages at lunch.</p><p>“You’re such a clever fellow, Henri. Have any of your clients paid you with actual money lately?”</p><p>The laughter stopped, followed by the sounds of a wine bottle being re-corked and some brie being re-covered. “I am deserving of that. You know that I would do anything in this world for you.”</p><p>“Music to my ears, as I have a favor to ask. Can you loan me the goat?”</p><p></p><p>“That I cannot do.”</p><p>These French people, they turn on you in an instant. First they have a king, then they don’t, then they have a king again. It’s preposterous. “Really, Henri? Why would that be, pray tell?”</p><p>“There was a misunderstanding, and the goat has been reclaimed.” A pause. “It seems my client did not own the goat he gave to me.”</p><p>“So your client used a stolen goat to pay for services rendered. The shame, Henri. The utter shame.”</p><p>He sighed. “I die the little death when I think of it.”</p><p>“How unfortunate, Henri, very troubling. Now, I’m sure you need time to heal, but I must press a bit further. Where is the goat now?”</p><p>“He is with his rightful owner, the American who does the dirty jobs.”</p><p>I am completely mystified. Who could this person be? “Henri, I don’t understand. Are you drinking the wine again?”</p><p>“Non, mon ami. The man on the American TV show. He travels and does dirty things. Michel… something.”</p><p>I am stunned. “Mike Rowe has my goat?”</p><p> </p><p></p><p><em>Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2010/05/case-study-27.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series.</em></p><p> </p><p></p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-25048811691806368902010-03-04T09:40:00.001-06:002010-03-19T23:07:22.515-05:00Case Study #25<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p>Dearest acolytes, you must brace yourself for this next session. I knew something was terribly wrong when I received an email with the subject heading of “Will Anyone Please Help Us Locate William Shatner ‘The Negotiator’?”. The overuse of upper case letters alone was cause for alarm. Little did I know how violently things would slide downhill after that. Proceed with caution.</p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><i><p>Dear Dr. Brian,<br /><br />As your prestigious profession has endowed you a premiere connoisseur-aficionado of travels all over the world such as Morocco, Ireland, Verona, Italy, Paris, London, Amsterdam and Australia to name a few.., we come to you for advice. My wonderful wife and I have discussed our budget for travel vacations this year, some by ourselves and with our favorite group of friends. We usually book our travels online with Expedia or such. However lately we been hearing increasing horror stories to NEVER book vacations online because of abysmal customer service, inept reps, ridiculous change fees to name a few that can set to make a trip to paradise a living hell. We are seriously going back to the good old fashion way of booking vacation through a travel agent. The bottom line is cost and to be frank with you Dr. Brian although it may cost a few dollars more using a travel agent, we can rest assured to receive the customer service we deserve. My wife and I really appreciate your valued input and recommendation with selection of a preferred travel agent.<br /><br />Its time to get back to basics with 4 P's - an affordable package, great pricing, promotions however they may come and an enjoyable place to vacation. It used to be a supplier's market but now it's a consumers market and if airlines want to play their sardine-packing luggage charging game and hotels want to hold out for higher prices telling customers they are limited on rooms due to renovations, they can kiss our grits!<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Champagne taste on a Natural Light travel budget </p></i><p>And Dr. Brian responds:</p><p>Dear Champagne,</p><p>I must admit that your email presented a number of firsts in my illustrious career as the mental shepherd for the confused flocks of the world. To begin with, your submission is most assuredly the longest I have ever received. Typically, individuals on the verge of a psychotic break are incapable of sustaining consistent thought patterns for any length of time.</p><p>Then we have this business with you making a misguided attempt to simulate my methods of written communication. While there are certain times when imitation is truly a sincere form of flattery, there are also times when such an act is simply madness. I would certainly welcome one of my esteemed colleagues attempting to approach my deservedly-praised manner of expressionism, throwing in some witty wordplay in a thesis here and there. I do not appreciate such pathetic travesties from a patient. You would have known this if you had attended one of my seminars.</p><p>And finally, I must confess that reading your email actually had me fearing for my life before I finished the correspondence. Are you seriously walking the streets without any type of restraining authorities in your company? That fact alone is proof that this country is in dire danger of immediate collapse. There should be warning bulletins posted in all available media. With a picture of you, and your supposed Natural Light budget.</p><p>But since I am, indeed, a professional, I will persevere with offering you at least a minimal diagnosis, despite the fact that Lanae, my faithful assistant, is currently racing about the room and nailing wooden planks to the windows. (Where she finds the strength to be so energetic, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that her entire diet consists of honey buns and sugar-based colas. She will be asleep within the hour.)</p><p>Anyway, as mentioned, I will proceed with your assessment, even though this is somewhat beneath someone of my stature. To the professional eye, your email submission is a classic example of your particular psychosis. The signs are everywhere in your rambling ode of neurotica. Even a freshly-minted, wet-behind-the-ears graduate of the Sarah Palin School of Ungodly Psychotic Conditions could diagnose you with ease, if they weren’t so distracted by recent Congressional action that actually requires them to pay back their student loan after all.</p><p>You, Mr. Champagne, are most assuredly suffering from Pornographic Performance Denial, or PPD. Oh, don’t gasp and look around the room like that. I know your identity. It was clear to me even before I scrolled down the page and discovered your startling inclusion of certain stills that I certainly can’t be placing around the office next to the “Highlights” magazines that I’ve had for the last thirty years.</p><p>You have a shockingly sordid past, that of a massively popular adult film star who mysteriously vanished at the peak of his fame. If memory serves, your career started in some South American country, where copulation is still considered a natural act, as opposed to the United States where sexual relations are surprisingly governed by disillusioned politicians and radio talk show hosts who are addicted to prescription drugs.</p><p>Keeping this tidbit of identity information in mind, your email takes on an entirely different light. Let us review your ramblings in this new perspective.</p><p>You do not want to actually visit “Morocco, Ireland, Verona”, et cetera, with the intention of participating in the local culture. Instead, these are actually the names of past acquaintances that you met while frolicking, unclothed, on questionable beds while cameras rolled. As we all know, porn artisans do not use their actual names. Perhaps this is done so that the stars can one day return home for Christmas with minimal shame. Who knows? But it does explain why we end up with pseudonyms in the opening credits along the lines of “Vulvina Delight” and “Rod Canyon”.</p><p>Then we have your usage of the phrase “my wonderful wife”. Interesting. No one in the real world actually says this. That phrase is reserved for trite soap opera dialogue, gay men who are still in the closet, and straight husbands who have done something terribly wrong and are trying to patch things up. I’m going to assume (though this is risky) that you fall into the final category.</p><p>So what, exactly, have you done wrong that has led to the current discord in your marital relationship? Perhaps your wife is not aware of your previous career? This seems unlikely. At one point you had 3 million fans on Facebook. And after reviewing your, shall we say, “qualifications” in the files attached to the email, it’s difficult to believe your wife could actually think THAT thing had never been utilized in a business venture prior to her arrival on the scene.</p><p>So I was momentarily baffled whilst reading your email. Then I got to the bit where you are babbling about not wanting to “book your travel” online, instead opting for a physical travel agent located in a strip-mall building where you could actually park and go inside like people used to shop in the old days.</p><p>This means your wife DOESN’T know about your agile past, and you want to keep her away from the Internet. What kind of recluse nun did you marry? (And how is it that you didn’t burst into flames upon entering the sacred convent wherein she was ensconced, clutching beads whilst laying prostate on the dirty, ancient flooring? Or is it only the priests who do that? I forget. I‘m a bit rusty when it comes to the baffling rules of organized religion.)</p><p>Then we get to the part of your email where you babble about the “4 P’s”, then proceed to mention phrases where “P” is not the predominant indicator. Once again, you’re making up lies in a pathetic attempt to diffuse the situation. It’s not going to work.</p><p>You must tell your wife immediately that you have been engaged in strenuous games of slap and tickle with an eye-opening number of nubile women sporting fake names that suggest carnality. And all of this has been recorded for posterity. She needs to hear about your past from YOU, and not from some vindictive neighbor while she is thumping on melons at the local supermarket.</p><p>Speak openly to your wife, Sage Thunderbolt. Spill all.</p><p>And then immediately pick up the phone and make an appointment with my assistant Lanae.</p><p>Still stunned by that file you attached,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p></p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-34594731061821727352010-02-08T11:11:00.000-06:002010-02-08T11:12:21.214-06:00Case Study #24<span lang="EN"> <p><i>Dear Dr. Brian,</p><p>Does the chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight? </p><p>Worried,</p><p>Hazel</p></i><p>And Dr. Brian Responds:</p><p>Dear Worried Hazel,</p><p>Don’t play games with me.</p><p>Although you might think that you’re being sly with this innocently-phrased question, you’re not. I’ve seen this feeble ploy thousands of times during my illustrious career spent patching up the damaged minds of countless souls who have strayed across the borders of reality.</p><p>And as is usually the case 99% of the time when people choose to use euphemisms in their pleas for assistance, this is really about sex. And, more specific to your case, the lack of sex. In other words, you’re not getting any, and you want to know why.</p><p>I just asked Lanae, my trusted assistant, to step into my office, at which point I made the international hand motion for “just got another email from a disillusioned nut job lying about sex, please get on the Internet and find out the real story”. Lanae motioned back with the international symbol for “why are you waving your hand like that, what does that mean?”. I sighed, handed her your email for review, recognition dawned on her face, and she scurried away to do the needful.</p><p>So while Lanae proceeds to violate your privacy in a number of electronic ways, I will offer you some preliminary advice based on your deceptive email and my own personal past experience with misguided sheep who wander into my pasture on a daily basis.</p><p>Firstly, you really need to change your name, or at least convince your friends and relatives to give you a more alluring nickname of some kind. I may be mistaken, but I don’t believe any newborn child has been given the name “Hazel” since the Truman Administration. This makes you sound very old. With very few startling exceptions, no one wants to have sex with someone whose “Use By Date” expired while “Leave It To Beaver” was still playing in prime time.</p><p>Secondly, I strongly suggest that you change your email address. “Desperateandlonely” is not a good user name, especially when coupled with the fact your account is with “Yahoo.com”. I’m sure the folks at Yahoo are very nice people, but the company name brings to mind visions of inbred farmers at a square dance. Granted, there’s the slim possibility that you would LIKE people to associate you with friendless and needy people bobbing for apples while livestock is being auctioned nearby, but I seriously doubt it.</p><p>Ah, Lanae has just returned with a detailed profile of your life, which she was able to obtain by simply typing your name into Goggle and hitting “enter”. (Technology is amazing, yes?) Let’s see what we have. Hmm. I see. Oh? That’s intriguing. Really? Yes, I fully expected THAT bit. Uh huh. Okay, then.</p><p>Now, the very first thing you need to do is hang up the phone. I can confirm that you spend at least 14 hours of any given day talking on the phone or texting someone with your phone. Not only is this annoying to anyone around you, it’s also completely unhealthy. How did you get to this point? I am starting an intervention right now.</p><p>You don’t need to talk on the phone while you’re cleaning your house. That’s just ludicrous. How can you possibly expect for things to be “clean” if you’re only using one hand? And of course, texting usually requires the use of two hands. If both of your hands are frantically occupied in a frenzy of meaningless texting, you are NOT getting any house-cleaning done, and are therefore lying to yourself once again. The madness must end.</p><p>And for God’s sake, stop SLEEPING with your phone, clutching the device near your ear. Some things can just wait until morning. You cannot possibly be getting restful sleep if you keep jerking yourself awake every three minutes to ensure you didn’t miss an update from one of your friends that they did, indeed, have a successful bowel movement.</p><p>If you really desire some physical intimacy with a willing partner, you will need to put all of the electronics aside, even the one that you affectionately refer to as “Mr. Happy”. Especially THAT one. It may come as a surprise to you, but it is not mentally healthy to be having extended late-night conversations with something that has to be recharged on a regular basis.</p><p>Next step, stop going out drinking and carousing with that female buddy of yours that claims to be your friend. She is not. She is miserably unhappy in her own personal life, and therefore she is determined that no one in a five-mile radius should be happy, either. She is sucking the life out of you with her manipulative and vengeful ways.</p><p>You should not trust this woman. At all.</p><p>She may claim to have your best interests at heart, but these are just miserable lies. She is, in fact, doing everything she can to scuttle even the slightest possibility of you making a love connection with anyone on the planet.</p><p>Now, I’m sure you’re a wee bit skeptical about me speaking so disparagingly of someone you consider to be a best friend, and I fully expected such a reaction. Therefore, I am attaching a video file that my assistant found on “backstabbingbeyotches.net”. This is surveillance footage of you and your bestie having drinks at O’Malley’s last Friday. (Why someone chose to record this, I haven’t the faintest idea, but we really don’t need to dwell on that, do we?)</p><p>Since you clearly haven’t been paying attention throughout your supposed friendship with this Lola person, I am going to point out certain time stamps where you should carefully review the captured activities.</p><p>00h01m45s</p><p>Here we have you and Lola just arriving for the night of drinking. As you review the seating options, your friend is working her way around the tables, apparently greeting a surprising number and assortment of friends. You are slightly jealous that she is so popular, but you let it go.</p><p>In reality, Lola doesn’t know these people at all. Instead, she is making sure that all possibly-unattached males in the room are aware that your name is “Hazel”. Lola is using crafty psychology, fully aware that associating your face with an unattractive appellation will create a subconscious tendency to avoid social contact with you.</p><p>Now, some of these men are already so drunk that they could care less if your name was “Shrimp Salad” or “Pancreas”. You still have an outside chance with them. But several of the men immediately turn the other direction to avoid eye contact. And one particular gentleman, the one in the red shirt, will instantly have flashbacks of the mean-spirited grandmother who used to beat him with a blackberry branch. Notice how he then turns to the brawny stranger on his right and strikes up a desperate, fear-fueled conversation. Interestingly enough, they immediately fell in love and will be married in six months in Vancouver.</p><p>You simply walked into the bar and yet you’ve managed to turn another one gay. Poor girl.</p><p>00h07m23s</p><p>As you finally take your seats, notice how Lola graciously offers you the better-placed chair so that you can survey the room with more ease. You think this is very kind of her. In reality, she has surreptitiously loosened strategic screws in the chair so that it will slowly come apart over the next several hours, eventually shifting dramatically to one side.</p><p>What this means, sadly, is that as you consume more beverages, you will not notice that your substantial breasts are no longer on an even keel. In fact, the degree of variance will become so distinct that you will take on a frightening asymmetrical look that will prove quite disconcerting to any lusty males who glance your direction. No one wants to sleep with someone who could have posed for Picasso.</p><p>01h12m38s</p><p>Deceptive Lola is now happily prodding you toward one specific entry on the appetizer menu, speaking rapturously of the divine taste of the item. Again, you think she’s just helping you out. Rather, she has carefully researched the ingredients required for such a dish, and is fully aware that two of the main components will internally combine in such a way that you will develop a gas bubble the size of the Hindenburg.</p><p>She has also secretly snatched the GasX medication out of your purse while you were otherwise concerned with the consumption of an alcoholic shot bearing the curious title of “Pink Creamy Snapper”.</p><p>02h37m41s</p><p>As the evening progresses, more beverages are consumed, and your hazy focus is not as crisp as it should be, what with the constant texts to your phone (“Cleaning the lint out of the dryer! Yay!”) and your growing physical discomfort, Lola becomes bolder. She knows you’re no longer paying attention, and she is swatting away the few men who have managed to get through her carefully-laid obstacles.</p><p>(If you turn up the volume, you can actually hear some of the outrageous phrases she whispers to these men. “I’m her probation officer.”, “She’s clinically insane. Would you like to see the papers?”, and “She’s had crabs so many times she might as well open a Red Lobster.”)</p><p>Of course, if any of these men are actually interested in LOLA, her game plan is completely different. In these instances, she jerks the man into the seat beside her and immediately shoves her tongue down his startled throat.</p><p>04h16m57s</p><p>Despite all of Lola’s insidious efforts, one man finally breaks through and actually gets your full attention. He’s very cute, has a great smile, and just wanted to say hey. He politely reaches his hand across the table. You, beaming, and unaware that a line of drunken drool has just dripped off your chin, raise your own hand to meet him halfway.</p><p>Lola, watching all of this with a totally fake smile showing gritted teeth, nudges your chair leg with just a tiny little tap.</p><p>The chair collapses and you are plummeting to the earth. In your panic, you grab hold of the tablecloth, and manage to pull down a rain of plates, condiments, and beer bottles, creating a racket that stops traffic on the nearby Interstate. As the clatter finally levels off and the bottles quit rolling, the roiling gas bubble finally makes its debut, entering from both sides of the stage at once, if you will, and echoing about the room.</p><p>The man slowly withdraws his hand, glances at Lola (who glances back with a long-suffering “this happens ALL the time” expression), turns on his heel, marches away, and you never see him again.</p><p>Lola then helps you to your feet, wiping away the tears and the Teriyaki sauce in your hair. She helps you gather your things, waits slyly while YOU pay the entire check out of pure shame and embarrassment, and then escorts you to the door. Mission accomplished.</p><p>Poor, sad, in-denial Hazel. Please speak with Lanae about arranging your next appointment.</p><p>In Anticipation,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-7989245338900901492010-02-05T01:19:00.001-06:002010-03-20T00:20:05.181-05:00Case Study #23<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p><em>Dear Dr. Brian,</em></p><p><em>Is beer ever NOT a good idea? </em></p><p><em>Love,</em></p><p><em>Tiffany</em></p><p>And Dr. Brian responds:</p><p>Dearest Tiffany,</p><p>No.</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dearest Tiffany, Part II,</p><p>I have just been informed by my assistant, Lanae, that my original response was apparently in violation of some type of legal precedent in the state where you reside. It seems that if you PAY for a full counseling session in Texas, then you must RECEIVE an entire hour’s worth of treatment, whether you need it or not. Otherwise, Texans are allowed to whip out one of their many concealed handguns and use it as they see fit.</p><p>This saddens me slightly. Upon first opening your emailed submission, I was quite delighted to find a query that I could answer so concisely, concretely and, most importantly, quickly. I rarely have more than a few minutes to spare in any given day, since this world is jam-packed with hooligans needing clinical intervention, so I was ecstatic over the sudden opportunity for a nice cup of tea and some Facebook farming before my next patient.</p><p>Then Lanae, being the snippy little troll that she sometimes can be, snatched away my Earl Grey, closed the farming application window just as I was about to win some award for high-caliber radish collection, and then thrust a book of Texas bylaws under my irritated and borderline-offended nose. She pointed at something she had highlighted in yellow, then turned tail and marched back to the front office, where I could hear someone beating on the desk bell like the Titanic had just hit that damn iceberg.</p><p>Anyway, since I’m much more cautious of potential legal matters after the ugly incident with the vegetable and the can of Crisco in Paris, I suppose that I should give your question another run. </p><p>Normally, I fully advise the consumption of alcohol whenever possible. In moderation, of course, with moderation referring to how much you can afford. But I suppose I can come up with a few instances where sobriety might possibly be preferable, and thereby I can officially extend your counseling session to the point where you are not allowed to shoot me during a moment of dissatisfaction.</p><p>Let’s see. Scenarios where it might be best to turn down the proffered Jello shots. Hmm. How about:</p><p>1. Funeral services where the gathering of mourners is hillbilly-ugly, and most of them are wearing flannel. </p><p>As you originally hail from Missouri, I’m sure you’ve had plenty of opportunity to personally review such an assemblage. Hillbillies are notoriously stupid and are constantly getting themselves killed. If you hear a hillbilly shout “Hey, watch me do this!”, prepare to dial 9-1-1.</p><p>You want to remain sober as long as you can during the burial services. You know that you are going to be tempted to provide scathing social commentary as you survey the train wreck, and that you will need to stifle laughter when they pull out the instruments for the 21-banjo salute. You must not give in to these urges, and therefore it is advised that alcohol not touch your lips until Billy Bob is safely lowered in the ground and his 13 children are trying to figure out where to throw the handful of dirt.</p><p>Because, you see, hillbillies are not the sharpest catalog in the outhouse, but they do have a dim recognition of when someone is making fun of them. And they only have three emotions: sexual release, hatred of neighbors with surnames of either Hatfield or McCoy, and intolerance for uppity city-folk who suck back a cold one and then laugh at the fact the someone might not be wearing shoes.</p><p>Once provoked, the hillbilly will race in the direction of the offensive human, grunting and making noises that might be mistaken for a mating call, and then proceed to rip apart the weak city girl with the fondness for Miller Lite. You won’t have time to run away and leap into your expensive automobile with the fancy navigational system. The hillbilly, especially in his native habitat, can move at amazing speeds. Apparently teeth are much heavier than anyone realized, because when you don’t have any, you can run like the wind.</p><p> </p><p>2. Church services where singing is allowed.</p><p>Now, I’m sure you’re wondering how such a situation could be marred by alcohol-fueled tragedy. Unfortunately, it happens much more often than you realize. And the whole ordeal is intensified by the unique societal conditions usually found within a church, where everyone is pretending to not pass judgment on their fellow man when they really are.</p><p>It usually starts very innocently. Maybe Aunt Cleo thinks a little nip of the cooking sherry in her satchel would be just the trick for her splitting migraine. Or maybe cousin Rowdie just found that bottle of hooch he stashed in his boot at the barn dance the night before, and hopes that a quick swig will get rid of the fertilizer taste in his mouth. Or maybe the saintly president of the Baptist Quilting League is nursing a bottle of Dayquil, telling herself that she just needs it to get over the flu, but still loving the fact that she’s starting to feel really pretty.</p><p>Then evil things start falling into place. The pews are overly crowded, the air-conditioning isn’t working quite right, someone has doused themselves in so much foo-foo cologne that people are nauseous and there’s a real threat that the gas stove in the Joyful Snack Bar could explode. Tempers flair.</p><p>Next thing you know, there are shouts of ungodly sentiments, dresses are ripped, small children are screaming, and the offering plate comes sailing out of nowhere and beans the second deacon as he is lowering little Lyla Mae into the baptismal waters in the giant bathtub behind the pulpit. (Subsequently, little Lyla never learns to swim and lives in constant fear that dinnerware might suddenly become airborne.)</p><p>And while the faithful are clawing each other apart and rolling around on the marble floor, here comes yours truly, sashaying down the main aisle, still liquored up from a midnight showing of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”, burning with the need to sing a song about the plight of intergalactic transvestites. I shake the rice out of my hair, toss aside a roll of toilet paper, and then…</p><p>I’m sorry. I seem to have confused my own experiences with yours. Perhaps it’s just ME that should avoid houses of worship while crocked. Let’s move on, shall we?</p><p>3. Zoos.</p><p>The temptation is already there to feed the animals. Throw Jack Daniels into the mix, stir in the stupidity of proffering a banana to a gorilla, and next thing you know the hairy beast has snatched you over the railing, dragged you in to the love cave, and is affectionately checking you for head lice and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. And if the zoo attendants are drunk as well, they might even put Barry White on the public sound system.</p><p>4. It’s late at night and you are still on Facebook.</p><p>If you’re tired and drunk, you will invite anyone to be your friend. ANYONE. Then there’s all those insipid comments that you post, thinking you are being incredibly witty and that everyone will love you. And you stupidly download tons of game apps that you never intend to play, allowing everyone from George Bush to the Soviet Secret Police access to your personal information, hitting the “OK” button with a drunken yell of “hell, YEAH!”.</p><p>The next morning, you awaken innocently, humming a little ditty about flowers and kittens as you put the coffee on to brew. As the aroma fills the air, you log into your PC, chirpily signing in to your account. Then your scream of horror and wretchedness echoes throughout the house.</p><p>Your friend count has doubled, there are 15 somewhat aggressive emails from people who did NOT accept your invite and want to know who the hell you are, you have “gifts” from total strangers playing something called “Balls of Steel”, all of your nonsense comments have sub-posts with concerned people asking if you’re okay, and there’s a marriage proposal from someone named Ignatiev in Moscow.</p><p>You quietly turn off the PC and begin filling out change-of-address cards. You let the phone go to voice mail when your mother calls 7 consecutive times in a total panic. Yes, you friended her last night after an especially tasty margarita, added porno links to her wall, and then sent a Flair button reading “Mommies = Pain”.</p><p>Sound familiar? I thought it might, especially since I just spoke with your mother, who is under heavy sedation as the result of a strange man with a foreign accent calling her in the middle of the night, demanding a dowry and wanting to know when she would be available for the goat herding.</p><p>This is the REAL reason for your email, isn’t it? The truth always comes out.</p><p>By the way, I’m having your mother flown in for your next session. I would imagine that this encounter will be a very lengthy ordeal. You might want to pack a lunch. And no, beer would NOT be a good idea.</p><p>In anticipation,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p></p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-83100383702615293112010-02-01T23:47:00.000-06:002012-04-26T23:22:15.413-05:00Case Study #22<span lang="EN"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN"><em></em> </span><br />
<br />
<i>Dr. Brian, </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>I am heading to Dallas in two days and will be staying with my mother for five weeks. Should I humor her and go to church or sleep in and be true to my heathen self?</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Thanks, </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Bowletta Dingleberry</i><br />
<br />
And Dr. Brian responds:<br />
<br />
Dear Bowletta,<br />
<br />
What an extraordinary name. I’m assuming that this is not an appellation that you selected for yourself, as some rebellious young people are prone to do upon discovering that they have a boring personality and need to mix things up a bit. I mean really, no person of sound mind would willingly name themselves after something you might encounter at the Sunday brunch table.<br />
<br />
Therefore, this name had to have come from your one or both of your parents. I’m assuming one, since I can’t imagine two people in strong agreement that naming their child “Bowletta” would be a smashing idea. And regardless of who came up with this hideous name, I hope they came to their senses and stopped the madness after brandishing you in the way they did, and that your younger siblings were spared.<br />
<br />
However, if you do indeed have a sister named Tureen or perhaps a brother named Gravy Boat, please have them contact me immediately. Severe therapy is in order, assuming that they have not already been institutionalized.<br />
<br />
But let’s bring this back to you. As is typically the case, children are usually given names by their mothers. The fathers, assuming that they can be identified and held at least minimally responsible for the upbringing of the squalling new life form, generally are not much interested in what to call the creature that belches and poos.<br />
<br />
Instead, the fathers are much more invested in things like motor oil, grass clippings, and viewing national sporting events where people are engaged in athletic maneuvers that the father could never hope to exhibit. But this does not stop him from loudly proclaiming, often with the encouragement of alcohol, exactly what those players should be doing, and when they should do it. (These fathers often have a mystifying hatred of men dressed in black and white stripes, but that’s a whole other neurosis.)<br />
<br />
And this is the basic setup for the remainder of the child-rearing cycle. The mother, who has already suffered enough with the ugly maternity outfits and the awkward discomfort of strangers gathering between her wish-boned legs for impromptu consultations, must continue bearing the burden of keeping you alive.<br />
<br />
One would think that, post-delivery, the man would step up to the plate and take charge, allowing the exhausted woman a lengthy downtime wherein she can re-introduce herself to her toes as well as contemplate the fact that her girlish figure has gone the way of her virginity.<br />
<br />
Sadly, this is rarely the case. The father, in his near-sightedness and testosterone-fueled stupidity, assumes that his 7 minutes of heavy breathing during conception has somehow paid in full his contribution to the raising of the child. After that point, any questions, concerns or complaints should be directed to the mother, since she was the one in charge of the processing plant where the urchin was assembled.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the mother, along with all the other formidable duties surrounding offspring, is typically the one who assigns your unit name. As such, the given name of any child is a direct reflection of the mother’s state of mind and well-being up to the point of delivery. If she is mentally healthy and had a relatively pleasant experience during product development, she will christen the child with something lovely like Emily or Preston.<br />
<br />
Therefore, sad and unfortunate Bowletta, I’m afraid your mother did not extensively enjoy her internment as a vessel for continuing the human race. Apparently there was some extensive and growing resentment concerning the beast within. Perhaps you kicked a bit too much during amniotic playtime, or maybe you kept arranging for Chinese food to be delivered and she grew tired of having to answer the door while her favorite soap was playing on TV.<br />
<br />
In any case, some frustrating factor or another caused enough aggravation that your mother chose to punish you with an outlandish name that normally would be reserved for characters on Saturday morning cartoons or nasty pole-dancers at low-rent strip clubs where the appetizers are questionably prepared.<br />
<br />
What’s this? Ah, Lanae has just handed me an update for your budding file. It seems, Bowletta, that you were adopted by your parents, clutched from a potentially different fate and raised by parents who were not directly responsible for the blood flowing in your veins. Well, then. That introduces an exciting new mix of possible mental ailments.<br />
<br />
However, the underlying issue is still the same. Whether your name was chosen by your adoptive parents, or you arrived on their doorstep with a predetermined designation, it’s clear that someone, at some point, was not happy about something that could feasibly be blamed on you. Thusly, you were christened in a slanderous manner, and you bear the scars of such an episode to this very day, wincing every time you sign the credit card slip when Chinese is delivered to your door.<br />
<br />
So, having rambled on about all that, hopefully providing you with some psychological insight into why you have felt dejected and lonely most of your life, let’s return to your initial query. I always find it best to carefully evaluate each turn of phrase that you commit to paper so that we can get to the true root of your many and varied issues.<br />
<br />
<i> “I am heading to Dallas in two days”</i><br />
<br />
WHY are you heading to Dallas? The fact that you have to head here means that you are NOT here at the moment. You live elsewhere. You have escaped the overheated land of your shameful upbringing. You have left behind the people who knew you as Little Bowlie, the girl with emotionally-distant parents that cried a lot and never seemed satisfied with her choice of snow cone at the state fair.<br />
<br />
I strongly heed you to reconsider your apparent decision to return to the scene of the crime. Is there really any benefit in doing so? Perhaps you should let the screaming of the lambs finally fade away, yes?<br />
<br />
<i> “and will be staying with my mother for five weeks.”</i><br />
<br />
Are you out of your shame-ridden mind? Five WEEKS? There is absolutely no reason for this. Even the mentally-healthy Emily’s of the world wouldn’t dream of returning home for that length of time after finally leaping from the comfortable nest. This is madness. I strongly urge you to find or fabricate a scheduling conflict of some kind, thereby reducing your availability and vulnerability.<br />
<br />
If you’d like, I can sign some legal papers forcing you to attend one of our intensive on-site, minimal-restraint seminars here at Bonnywood Manor. There are many lovely options to choose from. Might I suggest “Cold Mommies and Cold Food” or “Daddy Makes Me See Ugly Visions”. Both programs have very high success rates.<br />
<br />
<i> “Should I humor her”</i><br />
<br />
You cannot humor her. She finds nothing amusing in any way. If Lanae’s speedy research on the Internet is sound, this woman has not laughed since 1954, when there was that notorious barbecue at the Smithfield’s wherein the aperitifs were a bit too strong coupled with somebody making a critical error with the ingredients for the Planter’s Punch. There’s a footnote that your mother had all photos from the party destroyed because she was caught smiling.<br />
<br />
<i> “and go to church”</i><br />
<br />
Do not enter a church at this time. I cannot stress this strongly enough. There’s far too much drama surrounding your maternal relationship as it is. Why would you want to invite further turmoil by prancing into a house of worship filled with righteous prigs who will take one whiff of you and immediately sound the gong signaling an Emergency Prayer Circle?<br />
<br />
Do not give your mother fodder for further humiliation. The church is her territory, she owns this hallowed ground, peopled with an overwhelming number of disciples who adhere to the like-minded principles that a properly-raised child must constantly cower and wail and endlessly beg for forgiveness of imaginary sins.<br />
<br />
And that’s just too much work. Take her to the park instead. Sit on a bench, and admire the trees and the calming reflection pool. If she starts to ratchet up into her craziness, you can always race down one of the nearby jogging paths, claiming to have noticed a mugging in progress. She will not be able to keep up with you, because she’s old, and you will have a few moments to regulate your breathing and refrain from slandering her gilded reputation. Mommy will never change, so avoidance of issues is the only recourse.<br />
<br />
<i> “or sleep in and be true to my heathen self?”</i><br />
<br />
Yes, let’s do that.<br />
<br />
Heathen or not, there’s only so much time in the day. Why waste valuable minutes rehashing long-standing issues that will never be resolved? Your mother is your mother, and you are you, no matter how sordid and twisted things may be. Sometimes you can bake brownies together, where there’s a least a minimum of warmth and everyone can pretend that each of you doesn’t know the exact two words you can utter to send someone else into an apoplectic frenzy.<br />
<br />
Other times, you’re just not going to win. Suck it up, wait for the tenseness to pass, and look forward to those special times when nobody has an agenda, everybody manages to be decent, an exquisite wine is uncorked, and the delicious meal that all helped to prepare is peppered with amusing stories, the nice kind, where people chuckle instead of seethe. Family, for now. Hold on tightly to that.<br />
<br />
However, because reality has a history of intruding on all familial gatherings, and enhanced by the fact that you graciously pre-paid for your future counseling sessions, I have instructed Lanae to activate the First-Response Unpleasant Mother Protocols (FRUMP). Take this medic-alert necklace with you, and wear it at all times.<br />
<br />
If you encounter a motherly situation where you just can’t handle it anymore, just press the designer panic button. Immediately, a black-ops helicopter will be dispatched from the nearest rescue center and race to your current location. When you hear the approaching buzz of the chopper, simply lift your arms in the air, grasp the descended ladder, and the team will whisk you away into the night. You do not have to leave the recuperation facility until you feel fit enough to do so.<br />
<br />
Enjoy your visit,<br />
<br />
Dr. Brian<br />
<br />Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-5696213246611678462010-01-27T23:59:00.000-06:002010-01-28T00:00:00.630-06:00Case Study #21<span lang="EN"> <p> </p><p>This just arrived at the office, via State Department courier. Why the State Department would be involved in such a thing, I have little idea. Perhaps Hillary has made some interesting procedural changes:</p><i><p>Dear Dr. Brian: Is it really so wrong for a 45 year old woman to go around wearing tiaras large and glittery enough to be seen from the Space Station and referring to herself in the 3rd person as "HRH"?<br /><br />Regards,<br />HRH's Royal Secretary</p></i><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><p>And Dr. Brian responds:</p><p>Dear HRH Person,</p><p>What a delightful question you present, and your timing is impeccable. I have just returned from an extended stay with the Royal Court of Lithuania. Although I had initially been invited for consultative purposes, the situation turned into a vacation of sorts, as there was a small military coup shortly after my arrival. While the family dealt with the appropriate beheadings and such, I was given ample time for leisure activities.</p><p>As it turns out, I’m apparently something of a Royal Watcher. Prior to this realization, I had little interest in what privileged people might do when practicing absolute rule over their subjects. Seemed a bit boring and trite. But after several days in court, I began waking each morning in a flurry of excitement, racing down the gilded stairs to see the latest abuse of power.</p><p>The Lithuanians are VERY angry people. And they don’t forget things.</p><p>Anyway, I’m starting to ramble a bit, especially since I’m fairly certain that your situation has little to do with short, ugly people who do amazingly audacious things because the inbreeding has gone unchecked for many centuries. I merely mentioned my recent journey to show that I do have some familiarity with royalty and their mannerisms. The Lithuanians are not the only monarchs listed in my Blackberry.</p><p>So, you have a fondness for extravagant, jewel-encrusted headgear? This is really not all that unusual. Many people enjoy adorning themselves with status symbols. After all, this is one of the basic tenets of America. Your attire should reflect your standing in society. In fact, if you DON’T prance around in a distinguishing outfit of some kind, strangers will not know your station in life and therefore will be uncertain on how to conduct themselves in your presence.</p><p>In that sense, dear Crowned One, you are in fact doing a great service to mankind by helpfully letting everyone within a one-mile radius know that you consider yourself privileged royalty. This clears up any societal confusion, quickly establishes the proper etiquettes of dialogue, and ensures that you will be given the most commanding spot at the dining table, should nourishment be on the agenda.</p><p>As we all know, it’s very troublesome when those irritating free spirits refuse to conform to any type of dress code. If we don’t know what you’re wearing, we don’t know who you are. This can lead to the wasting of valuable time, as everyone in the room has to figure out the pecking order and determine who they can offend and who they cannot if the want to receive further invitations of a social nature.</p><p>You are doing a grand thing, indeed, HRH Person. Your exquisite breeding is shining through in a lovely aura that enhances your ravaging noble beauty.</p><p>Now, having run through all that and hopefully lulling you into a false sense of security and superiority, there ARE a few little quibbles that we must address. As you are the one who graciously approached ME with your concerns, I’m assuming that someone on your staff will be sending me a royal check. Thus, being in your employ, however temporary, it behooves me that I provide you with the counseling you desire in a manner that is useful without jeopardizing the cash flow.</p><p>I trust that the following advice will be taken graciously by Your Highness, with your delicate ear accepting the words as wisdom to strengthen your queendom and not as salacious slurs that could result in imprisonment in drafty towers. These are merely my humble suggestions to keep peace in the land and prevent tawdry revolutions where ugly people are rude, yell a lot, and storm things.</p><p>Firstly, could we possibly get you to remove the searchlights you have stationed at the end of the royal drive? I’m sure you only meant to highlight the location of your palace, and perhaps provide guidance to visiting foreign dignitaries. Such an action is kind and thoughtful on your part.</p><p>However, these searchlights are causing a bit of a situation. There has been an impact to local air traffic, with planes being thrown off course and forced to touch down in places that they would rather not, given a choice and the ability to retain their vision after one of your strobes blasts the cockpit. As I’m sure you’ll understand, cow pastures do not typically have adequate ground crews for impromptu arrivals, and the beverage service can be downright appalling.</p><p>Then there’s the matter of your decision to redesign the American flag. While I agree with you that the original layout of the flag could perhaps have used a bit more pomp and circumstance, I’m sure you realize that adapting the flag to better represent your stake in society is a bit forward. You have to let people vote on these things or they become cantankerous.</p><p>Besides, are you really satisfied with simply using a staple gun to affix your image to the flag? This really won’t do, even if the glass of wine told you otherwise. And surely there is a better representation of Your Highness other than a life-size cardboard cutout. (Where do you even have these made, pray tell?) The size of this image is just a bit ungainly, considering the standard dimensions of your typical flag, especially since you are sporting a crown that can physically compete with the Manhattan skyline.</p><p>And since we’re on the subject of altering public signage, perhaps we can discuss your incessant need to rename local streets so that they coincide with your visionary dreams. Granted, we all would like to live on boulevards with fancy names. Everyone would like something pretty to put on their business cards. It adds a nice touch of class.</p><p>However, this desire cannot always be feasibly satisfied. Spray-painting over the current street signs in your neighborhood, and then scribbling a new street name using an orange crayon does not alter reality. You do not live at “12 Pemberton Lane”. You live at Rural Route 7, Box 122. The cows in the neighboring fields can verify this statement.</p><p>I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that it’s really in your best interest to cease and desist with your attempts at redistricting. There’s a growing contingent of dissatisfied subjects who are tired of being unable to find their way home. They would like you to find another hobby, as soon as royally possible.</p><p>And now we approach one final item that is of an extremely delicate nature. I hesitate to even broach the subject, but after consulting national polls as well as live updates from CNN, a healthy discussion simply cannot be avoided. In order to ensure that your lengthy reign over the queendom will continue with a minimum of political controversy, it is critical that you heed the following advice:</p><p>Please stop making public appearances in the nude.</p><p>Granted, I’m sure that most of your subjects will heartily agree that you have an exquisitely-toned personage. That, in fact, there have been occasions when the morning sun striking your dewy body is a vision with little compare. Sensitive people have been known to weep at the sight.</p><p>However, those same subjects humbly request that you limit the number of viewing opportunities. As I’m sure your Royal Artist in Residence will confirm, even the most stunning work of art will lose its luster when you can see it every day in the produce section of the local supermarket as you select the evening’s dinner fare.</p><p>Yes, I understand that you take considerable pride in the baring of your regal topography, that you have an army of physical therapists to ensure that every feminine curve is divine. However, this extreme dedication does not necessarily sanctify your actions. Just because your pubic hair has been trimmed in the shape of the family crest does not mean that everyone should have a front row seat.</p><p>In summation, please discreetly alter your lifestyle so that the gaudy searchlights on your royal property do not cause commuter planes to suddenly crash to earth in an explosion of cow patties, remove the offensive staple-gunned American flag so that your neighbors will not be appalled when rushing to assist the crash victims, stop changing the street signs so that rescue vehicles can locate the downed plane, and by all means, do not rush out the back door of the palace, bellowing that you know CPR, while your pubis is uncovered. These people have suffered enough.</p><p>Thank your for your attention in this matter. Your Royal Highness.</p><p>In obeisance,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-82126052920350290272010-01-20T00:50:00.000-06:002010-01-20T00:51:27.646-06:00Case Study #20<span lang="EN"> <p>This just popped into my email account:</p><p><br /><i>Dear Dr. Brian,<br /><br />Please help me find out why I'm obsessive about watching the movie "Home of our Own". I know that they get their home in the end. That the mother learns a lesson about child abuse. That they will not be happy with their Christmas presents..blah,blah,blah. But if I'm surfing the guide and see the title pop up I feel I must go through this journey. Please help me!!!<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Cheryl<br /><br />P.S. If you can solve this problem, maybe we can work on the "Wizard of Oz" next.</i><br /></p><p>And Dr. Brian responds:</p><p>Dearest Cheryl,</p><p>I have no idea what the hell you are talking about.</p><p>Okay, perhaps that was a bit aggressive. You’ll have to excuse me. There’s a tremendous amount of activity going on here in the office, what with my assistant, Lanae, insisting on showing me these pictures of her family. I don’t care one whit about her family, and I certainly don’t need to see amateur photos of them eating barbeque. You would think she would understand that after all these years.</p><p>On top of THAT bit of dreadful business, my most recent session involved one of my clients who refuses to realize that he will need to remain on calming medication, non-stop, for the rest of his entire life. I fail to see why this is such a difficult thing for him to grasp. And in this day and age, where so much of the populace is just noisy and rude, why would anyone not RELISH the thought of eternal neuro-blockers? I consider such an option on a daily basis. Especially when I see Lanae headed this way with coffee and a photo album.</p><p>Anyway, we had to physically restrain the non-believer, which is never a good thing, no matter how much the patient may actually deserve it. First, everyone involved gets a bit sweaty, which is far from professional. Second, something made of glass always gets broken during the scuffle. And finally, there’s that pesky question on the insurance claim, “Did you have to immobilize the patient at any time?”</p><p>Why is that question even on there? How could this possibly factor into the processing of the claim? Are they looking for a reason to pay less than the indicated fee? Surely not. If anything, the fee should be increased when restraint is involved. After all, subduing the patient requires that I get out of my chair, where I had been resting comfortably, and that Lanae must quit playing Sudoku and bring me the tranquilizer gun. It’s an outrage that they would even question my medical procedures, don’t you agree?</p><p>Oh my. I seem to have made this correspondence completely about my own issues. My apologies. I will now attempt to address the concerns you surfaced above, even if it bores me slightly. However, I will still have to charge you for my time from the start of composing this email. If I have any uncharged time during my day, then my accountant becomes quarrelsome and people have to be let go. I’m sure you understand.</p><p>So, let’s see what we have here. You are obsessed with this movie, some film with the generic and vapid title of “Home of Our Own.” Interesting. Now, not having seen this film, my diagnosis will of course be somewhat on the fly, but this has never troubled me before, so I’m sure that I can find something deeply wrong with you. Really, it’s all a matter of paying attention to detail and then connecting the psychotic dots.</p><p>As I’m sure you must at least subconsciously realize, and were therefore driven to submit this email, one should never do anything to an extreme, even things that bring you pleasure of some kind. If you do indeed watch this movie every time it appears in your guide, then we will have to consider this unhealthy behavior, especially if the movie is as sappy and contrived as the title indicates.</p><p>So there we have one budding issue: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, or OCD as some of the hip, young doctors like to say. I don’t care for the hip, young doctors who say this. It’s laziness. If you can’t say the entire prognosis in the way it was intended, and must use abbreviations all the time, then why are you a doctor? </p><p>A true physician must have the ability to pronounce all words in their medical entirety. Doing so slightly terrifies the patient and causes them to take things seriously, which means they will make all efforts to pay their therapy bills on time to ensure further treatment. Using acronyms makes things sound simple and fun, like a game of some kind, and the patients will neglect their financial responsibilities and instead spend their money on trivial things like food and electricity.</p><p>Next you have scribbled the line “I know that they get their home in the end.” You are assuming that I have seen the movie, when I have not. I have no idea who “they” might be. It could be juvenile delinquents or pod people. Who knows? Your statement is a classic example of extreme narcissism and self-involvement.</p><p>You think that just because you have seen this movie and value its contents in some way, that the rest of the world has done the same. The world has not. The global population is not aware that someone else got their home in the end and, more importantly, they wouldn’t care even if they knew. They are busy getting their own homes. Assuming that they live in a place where there are, indeed, homes.</p><p>Now, there are many varieties and strains of egomania running about the planet, so I would need a bit more detail in order to fine-tune your particular breed of self-involvement. However, since I would prefer to get you in-session as soon as possible so that I can charge you more, I will take an educated stab at identifying your special slice of the self-centered pie</p><p>Your egoism appears to be based on entertainment programs of questionable artistic value, and you are so invested in these pointless characters whining about things they don‘t have that you are unable to stop talking about them. Therefore, I am leaning toward classifying you as also suffering from Self-Involved Pathetic People Yearning and Causing Unending Prattle (or SIPPY CUP, for you youngsters out there).</p><p>Continuing on with your description of this slumber-inducing feature presentation, you state that “the mother learns a lesson about child abuse,” yet you do not indicate what this lesson might be or how it is applied. Was the mother’s lesson good or bad? Did she dispense with further acts of child abuse, or did she instead perfect them? I really must know more before I can competently assess this angle.</p><p>Finally, we get to the bit about “they will not be happy with their Christmas presents”. Really, Cheryl, I don’t have to even see your trashy film in order to take this one on. This yuletide neurotica is one that has practically decimated our country, leading to a generation of spoiled brats running amok, learning rap songs and avoiding responsibility.</p><p>You see, budding patient, children should be thankful for whatever they find under the Christmas tree, as long as felonious acts were not required in order to produce said gifts. If the child is not happy with the contents of his beribboned packages, then it is squarely the parents’ fault, pure and simple, because they obviously didn’t raise their offspring in a practical and worthy manner.</p><p>Back in the day, children who had never heard of rap songs were quite thrilled to receive a stick with a little face paint and call it “dolly”. In our current society, some hideous youngsters are not satisfied unless they are the recipient of at least 50 packages, most of which contain devices requiring electrical current and/or make obnoxious noises that would drive any decent person to the brink of harsh acts against mankind.</p><p>Again, the parents are to blame. They did not do their job. It’s quite simple. I’ve grown weary of the endless line of anxious parents who tromp into my office, dragging along little hellions with an attitude, and asking what they should do with the demon miniature image of themselves.</p><p>The first bit of advice that pops to mind is already outdated and useless. They should have come to see me years ago, before their little game of slap-and-tickle at the drive-in spun out of control and resulted in Damien’s first satanic cries nine months later. I could have done a quick analysis, realized they were not fit to procreate, and forewarned them against continuing their respective family lines.</p><p>Then I tell the quivering parents that I can certainly recommend a good child psychologist, but that I will personally not be able to accept the case. In my practice, I only counsel adults who are already deeply involved with their mental illnesses and I generally know what to expect. It’s too tiresome dealing with youngsters who have not yet decided upon their preferred neurotic states. Then I bid the parents a warm farewell and wish them luck.</p><p>Of course, two seconds later I’m on the phone with Lanae, ensuring that she captures the demon child’s name, because I’m sure we’ll be seeing him in about 12 years.</p><p>Well then, Cheryl. It appears that we can wrap up your assessment for now. I will be working out a treatment plan and speaking with you again in a few days. Until then, please refrain from watching this movie ever again. It’s truly causing you some very serious issues.</p><p>And the same advisement applies to “The Wizard of Oz”. I trust you’ll understand when I say that repeated viewings of THAT film could cause a severe psychotic break that can never be resolved. Just say no. The flying monkeys alone are responsible for 10% of my patient roster….</p><p>Good day,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-50321883036566974602010-01-17T01:08:00.003-06:002011-12-13T09:35:53.489-06:00Case Study #19<br />
And the mailman just handed me this:<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Dr. Brian:</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Sometimes I need to eat quickly and cheap, but I'm having a fast food dilemma. That guy in the Burger King outfit really creeps me out, the way he stares with that silly grin plastered on his face. And come on, TIGHTS? Then there's Ronald McDonald, a grown man who disguises himself with baggy clothes, makeup, a wig, giant shoes (???) and tries to lure small children into his building. That Wendy cartoon chick has crazy eyes. What about Colonel Sanders with his wee, beady eyes and "secret herbs and spices?" And don't even get me started on that damned chihuahua from Taco Bell.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>So, to make a very long letter even longer, where can I eat without being stalked by these scary mascots?</i><br />
<br />
Dear Person with the Very Incisive Letter but the Inability to Sign Your Name,<br />
<br />
I’m very impressed with your surfacing of this issue, proving that you are somehow on the cutting edge of psychiatry, even though, if your postmark is to be believed, you hail from a small Oklahoma town where they still believe in such things as designating an individual to be “Butter Queen of the Pickle Festival” each October.<br />
<br />
I was just on a conference call with several colleagues from Bornsdall University, wherein we were making tactical plans to deal with the expected influx of patients exhibiting symptoms just as you have described. The technical term for this condition is known as Doughboyphobia, or the acute fear of food-related mascots.<br />
<br />
I assure you that this syndrome is very real and can be potentially dangerous. This is not one of those “pretend” maladies that they come up with on your local evening news just so you will stay tuned and boost their ratings. If you actually believe even half of what you see on privately-run local stations, you would never leave the house.<br />
<br />
Sadly, as of this writing, there is no known cure for Doughboyphobia, despite the intense efforts of an international team of experts with names that look like sound effects in violent cartoons. While I’m sure there will eventually be a formalized announcement of the most promising treatment, it may be some time before the findings are published and the common populace is free to eat cheap food on the run without fear.<br />
<br />
Therefore, in order to prevent wide-scale panic and the overuse of the 9-1-1 system, all professionals involved with preventing global dementia have been advised to follow this preliminary edict issued by the World Health Organization: “Placate the patient in the best manner that you know how, utilize your talent for obfuscation, supply sedatives, and check your inbox every day for the real prognosis. And thank you for paying your dues on time.”<br />
<br />
So there you have it. Basically, I am to proceed as if it were just another day wherein I lead the misguided, the confused, and the financially-solvent toward a better light. And thus I shall.<br />
<br />
As such, it’s imperative that we examine closely the specific nature of your discomfort with the scenarios you presented above. If we can pinpoint the exact trigger of your psychotic break with each of these food-based exercises in merchandising, I believe it will give you temporary relief until the inevitable and appropriate prescription becomes available.<br />
<br />
Let’s start with that King of the Burger business. You realize he is not actual royalty? This alone should soothe your soul to some degree. He cannot issue any type of ruling that can affect you in any way. He cannot take away your land. He cannot arrest you for speaking ill of the king. He cannot insist that you send him a goat each month for taxation purposes.<br />
<br />
And, if my instincts are correct, he cannot do the thing you fear the most about this King of the flame-broiled meat: He does not have the means to make you his personal serving wench, wherein you must wear dirty, ugly outfits and bring him an endless supply of mead and turkey legs. This will not happen. Breathe.<br />
<br />
Now, doesn’t this make one feel much better? This supposed king has no power, much like the Vice-President of the United States and anyone involved with the effort to keep the Humanities in our public school systems. He has a pointless title, does not command an army of any type, and has never been invited to royal social gatherings in the south of France.<br />
<br />
That being the case, his atrocious little outfit means nothing. The silly grin? Let it trouble you no more. And the tights? Well, that one’s a bit more tricky, with it’s possible reference to lewd and salacious desires, but again, we must ignore the legs encased in stretchy material. This is a good rule regardless of who might be sporting the tights. I’ve never understood why ANYONE would wear them, unless you were performing one of those boring ballets, and even then there are some serious questions that should be answered.<br />
<br />
Moving on to Ronald McDonald, we have yet another example of why people should not be allowed to dress themselves without the proper training and consultation. As you have surmised, there is something unseemly about this man’s attire. The oddly spacious cut of his garments, the excessive makeup topped off with the lurid, slightly pornographic smile, the wig with it’s own gravitational pull.<br />
<br />
I agree that simply processing all of this input can be overwhelming, and the resulting confusion could lead to a life of crime and a fondness for calliope music. However, there is again one key factor which can greatly dilute the traumatic impact of such a vision standing beneath the golden arches and beckoning at your children.<br />
<br />
The misguided man underneath all that makeup? His name is actually Cletus. History has shown that no personage christened with this name has ever done anything of import, whether good, bad or indifferent, through all the ages of mankind. The sheer weight of bearing such a name has left the man unable to lift his arms long enough to do anything substantially harmful. You have nothing to fear from this man.<br />
<br />
Please make your selection from the brightly-lit menu and pull up to the second window.<br />
<br />
Now we have the freckle-faced Wendy, she of the pigtails and outdated, high-collared couture. Whilst I agree that she does indeed possess eyes of a disconcerting nature, with their ability to appear somewhat demonic depending on your angle of viewing and the time of day, I should point out that eyes alone cannot kill, despite many catchphrases and folklore tidbits that have popped up over the years.<br />
<br />
I should also point out that Wendy does not have an actual body.<br />
<br />
She is, in fact, nothing more than a disembodied head. Despite additional folklore stories wherein people are supposed to fear such things (as well as the reverse, the headless body), I can assure you that these wives’ tales are meaningless.<br />
<br />
After all, a head without a body has no immediate means of physical transport. I suppose the head could convince a bystander to place them in a menacing shopping cart and thrust said cart at you in a hurtful way, but it is very unlikely that this will happen. As long as parents train their youngsters that they should not talk to strange heads, and the children remember this caveat, then the only thing a disembodied head can do is yell insults and comment on your attire.<br />
<br />
Likewise, the headless body, though mobile, has no eyes that can assist with navigational decisions. This lessens the potential danger considerably. If you have even a minimal amount of skill at avoiding capture, you should be able to deftly escape a headless body and be home in plenty of time for Wheel of Fortune.<br />
<br />
(Although I must say, if you DO find it frustratingly difficult to run away from something that cannot see you, then perhaps some thinning of the herd is justified, yes?)<br />
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And now we arrive at one Colonel Sanders, with his odd bow tie, mystifying wisp of a goatee, and his subversive attempt to appear grandfatherly and benign. To be fair, I suppose we could credit his suspiciously beady eyes to something physical, such as myopia or severe intestinal distress. I’m certainly not going to discount the potential for mayhem and destruction that his eyes might be revealing, but I think it’s the lesser of two evils in this situation.<br />
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I believe you are much more on target with the “secret herbs and spices” angle. What does this really mean? After all, every restaurant chain has secret recipes. If your recipes were public, then everyone could make them and there would be no point in anyone driving up to purchase your wares. Your company would go bankrupt and your family would not get anything pretty for Christmas.<br />
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Yet Mr. Sanders is very proud of his herbs and spices. Why? From where comes this insatiable need to gloat about one’s ingredients? I found this terribly intriguing. I raced to one of my many scholarly texts (this one entitled “Recipes of the Damned: How to Counsel the Crazed Cook”) and found this fascinating nugget:<br />
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“When an individual in the fast-food industry insists on publicly announcing the individual ingredients of their products, in a way that is only partially complete and elliptical, it is usually the result of growing up in a multi-sibling environment filled with intense competition, wherein the winner must keep secret HOW he won so that others cannot achieve the same result.”<br />
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So there you have it. Colonel Sanders is not trying to kill you. He is merely proud of winning, but will not tell you exactly how he did so. While boastfulness can be annoying and slightly rude, it is not nearly as unsavory as homicidal tendencies or the desire to maim you with a paper bucket.<br />
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And finally, we approach the last of your concerns about purchasing cheap food on the run. This scenario involves the high-end purveyor of Mexican entrees, the inestimable Taco Bell, and their spokes-dog. Although I could ramble on for pages, because I do so enjoy listening to myself, the abeyance of your misgivings is quite easy to accomplish.<br />
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The chihuahua in question has gone to the PR firm in the sky.<br />
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Thus, any further issues you might have with the previously-perky pet point to an entirely different set of potential neurological complications. If your heart still races when approaching Taco Bell, please schedule another session.<br />
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Well, then. It seems that we have successfully neutralized any identifiable reasons that might prevent you from experiencing the joy of speaking into a clown’s mouth and ordering cholesterol-laden food imitations. Please, pile your family into a vehicle of your choice, and head for the nearest drive-thru.<br />
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Be sure to specify to the clown any condiments that you may require. They’ve been awfully tight with those things lately.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
Dr. Brian<br />
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<span lang="EN">A record album? Seriously? I find this highly disturbing and fraught with danger…</span><br />
</div>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-32597098558975776282010-01-13T01:23:00.003-06:002010-05-22T15:17:10.122-05:00Case Study #18<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p>Dearest Clients,</p><p>I must say that I have been overwhelmed by the warm and welcoming reception you have given me these past few days. It was with great trepidation that I renewed my counseling practice here at Bonnywood, fearing that my lengthy stay in France had soured our relationships. On the contrary, the bookings have been solid and well-attended, to the point that we have had to initiate a waiting list.</p><p>It’s marvelous, really. Just a month ago I was facing financial uncertainty and a ruined vocation, yet weeks later all fiscal obligations have been met and we are practically turning away neurotics at the door.</p><p>Of course, the usually lovely Lanae, our esteemed receptionist, had to throw a dark cloud into the day by wondering aloud if the REAL reason for the influx of activity was that people simply wanted to hear the sordid details of my Parisian mishaps. I chose to ignore that possibility. After all, prior to Paris, I had an international reputation for excellence, successfully treating the most wounded of souls.</p><p>Then again, Lanae can be a smidge bitter from time to time, usually as the result of yet another unsatisfying encounter whilst attempting to establish a romantic connection with a member of the male population. When these attempts go south, she gets quite blue and stops bringing potato salad into the office on Fridays.</p><p>Anyway, with my revenue stream at a very healthy level, I can now focus on your various treatments with even more vigor, which is certainly good news for all concerned. In fact, I no longer wish to tell the tale of my abominable experience in Paris to each of you as you resume your sessions. The constant recitation of the facts is getting a bit old, and I wish to put the whole situation behind me.</p><p>Therefore, I will visit the narrative one last time, via this email, and then we shall never speak of it again. Unless, of course, one of us is legally bound to do so in a court of law. This is always a possibility, especially when the French are concerned.</p><p>Herewith, the chain reaction of coincidences that led to my incarceration.</p><p>The day started pleasantly enough, as it typically does when one is in Paris, supposedly attending a week-long conference on the current most popular things that make people have psychotic breaks. I say supposedly, because we all know how these things go. There are meetings and lectures in abundance to attend, but no one goes to them, especially if you’re in Paris. You only attend those sessions where you might win an award or there is a prize of some kind.</p><p>That particular morning, I had taken up position at a comfortable table in a charming bistro, sitting out on the sidewalk and sipping a delicious concoction loaded with caffeine, and gazing at a quaint little plaza with a statue in the middle, presumably of someone who had done something worthwhile in their lives and hence metal was fashioned in their likeness.</p><p>Just beneath the statue, there was a small family perched on an iron bench. Mother and Father were lavishing attention on a cute little tyke, perhaps about five, as he giggled and squirmed and danced, doing silly things that are pleasant enough when you are five, but incredibly annoying in anyone older.</p><p>As my waiter brought a second cup of nirvana, the happy trio across the way gathered their things, marched this direction, and stepped up to the bistro counter to order something tasty. While preparations took place to satisfy their needs, the youngster ambled a few steps away, careful to stay in the line of sight of his mother (good boy, well-trained), and came to a halt right in front of me, looking up at my face.</p><p>He smiled.</p><p>I beamed back.</p><p>“You stink,” he said.</p><p>What? I was taken aback. “Pardon me?”</p><p>“You STINK,” he repeated, widening his eyes as he emphasized the second word.</p><p>“I most certainly do NOT. I’m freshly bathed.” Really, what was wrong with this child?</p><p>He decided on a different approach. “You’re ugly. You’re very, very ugly.” And then he raised a skinny little arm and pointed out something on me at approximately chest-level. “UGLY!” he almost shrieked.</p><p>I was seriously at a loss on how to deal with this rude little urchin. What was he talking about? My tie? Did he not approve of patterned silk? The natural instinct to counsel kicked in. “Help me understand what has you so distraught?”</p><p>His eyes narrowed. “I saw you. I saw you touch the sheep. You touch the sheep all the time!”</p><p>Good GOD, what was going on here?</p><p>He stepped forward, reached up, and jabbed his grimy finger into my chest. “I’m TELLING. I’m telling EVERYBODY!”</p><p>This was just too much. I lost my professional demeanor. “Don’t POKE me, you little heathen. I’ll poke you BACK!” He paused and stood quietly for a second, calculating his next move.</p><p>“Andre! What are you doing to that man? Get over here.”</p><p>The urchin and I turned to look at his mother. For just a moment, her composure was gone, and I could see that Andre had proven to be a very difficult child to raise. Then she regained control and smiled sweetly. “Come along, Andre. We have your lunch, and it’s time for you to go to the Center.”</p><p>Andre turned back to me, sneered hatefully, then raced to his mother’s arms, an angel once again. She kissed him and smoothed his hair. Daddy, meanwhile, looked at me with an ashen face, fully prepared for a lawsuit of some kind. That poor family, dealing with a demon child on a daily basis, never knowing when they might be arrested. I’ve seen this a thousand times in my work.</p><p>I made a hand gesture at Daddy that signified everything was fine, just take him away before I reconsider. They promptly did so. I then made another hand gesture at the waiter, signifying he had best bring me another cup of nirvana or somebody would be dead.</p><p>My phone rang.</p><p>It was Henri, a chum from the University of Toronado, where we had both gotten our doctorate. We were attending the same neurological convention, although he had not had to travel nearly as far as me, living as he did in Paris. “Hello?”</p><p>“Brian, mon ami. How are things?”</p><p>“Well, I was just accosted by a midget and-”</p><p>“That’s lovely. Say, can you help me out? In a pinch of sorts.”</p><p>“I suppose I could. Are there children involved?”</p><p>“No, no. Pas des enfants. I am in Chambord, and there is an issue.”</p><p>“Chambord?”</p><p>“South of Paris. It is not important, really. What has happened is that we were getting the cheese we love, and crazy Americans in a white van drove us off the road and we broke an axle.”</p><p>He paused, as if this brief synopsis had explained everything. It did not. “What does this mean?</p><p>“I have a client session this afternoon. It cannot be missed. She must meet every Wednesday or there is much of the trouble. Can you see her?”</p><p>“But Henri, I am not certified in France. I know nothing of your diagnosis and treatment for her and-”</p><p>“It is fine, mon ami. She is an easy one. Very simple. She just wants to talk, she does not care who, but it must be on Wednesday afternoons.”</p><p>Really? I would relish patients such as that. I could force them on Lanae and go out for sushi. “But Henri, I don’t know where your office is. Would I even have access?”</p><p>Henri made one of those odd sounds the French make that either means I am being stupid or the escargots are fighting their way out of his stomach. “Brian, it is simple, we meet at my flat on the Rue de Couchon. You know of this. Many times we went there after the drinking.”</p><p>Indeed we did, many times after the drinking back in the day. I had a lengthy relationship with the toilet in his bathroom, the porcelain curves etched into my brain as I laid there and dry-heaved many a night. “I suppose I could do this. Anything I should know?”</p><p>“The vegetables talk to her.”</p><p>“The what do what?”</p><p>“The vegetables. She will bring you one, and she will tell you what it said. You pretend to make notes, and you do the nodding. It is very simple.”</p><p>Simple. He keeps repeating that, and every time he does I get a little more anxious. But I did owe him for those long ago years, when I was intimate with his toilet and the oddly-shaped, smelly couch that was strangely soothing after a night on the town. “Okay. Yes, I will do this, Henri. But we have the awards ceremony at five. Will you be back in time for that?”</p><p>“I believe so. Take your things with you to mon flat, so you can cleanse yourself after Madame de Vegetable, you will be wanting to do so, and I should arrive in time for our departure for the stunning awards where we pretend surprise.”</p><p>“And the key is still in the same place?”</p><p>“Oui, third rock from the sundial. She will be there at the sharp of three o’clock, as always. Merci, mon ami. Now I must go. The crazy Americans in the white van are still nearby, I am told. Death is possible. Au revoir.”</p><p>And then he was gone. I snapped my phone closed. Then sighed.</p><p>Well, I had a few hours before this apprehensive rendezvous with the Vegetable Lady, so I decided to visit the Salvador Dali museum in Montmartre. I had always been fascinated with Dali, mainly because I could never decide if he was truly inspired or was just completely insane. After several hours of review, I still didn’t know what to think.</p><p>Off to the flat on Rue de Couchon.</p><p>I let myself in, and was instantly awash with memories from our graduate years. So many things change, and yet so many things remain the same. It didn’t take me long to discover something that had truly changed in a manner that I never expected.</p><p>I whipped out my phone and speed-dialed Henri.</p><p>“Allo?”</p><p>“Henri, why is there a goat in your kitchen?”</p><p>“Ah, the goat. Do not mind it. I have a client, he pays with livestock, it is nothing.”</p><p>I paused and stared at the goat looking at me quizzically. “Do I need to DO something with the goat, or is he okay?”</p><p>“The goat is happy. He will not trouble you. But do not let him out the back door. There are children in the courtyard and he will eat them.”</p><p>“Could you repeat that?”</p><p>“I am sorry. Not eat, bite. He will bite them. This is something we do not want, children and animals biting. Do NOT open the back door.”</p><p>I took a deep breath. Was I awake? Was this really happening? “Okay, Henri. Duly noted. No backdoor for the goat. Are you on your way yet?”</p><p>“Yes, we arrive in time for the pompous ceremony. A bientot.” And he was gone.</p><p>I clicked the phone closed, just as the doorbell rang. Vegetable Lady was here.</p><p>Much to my surprise, she turned out to be a very nice woman. We had a very pleasant conversation. The only disconcerting element of our session was that she had placed an enormous cucumber on the table between us in the front room. Everything that she had to say, she claimed, was the result of her previous chats with said cucumber.</p><p>She finally rambled to a stop, and then prepared to depart, making no effort to collect the cucumber from it’s resting place on the coffee table. Perhaps she had overlooked this. “Madame,” I said soothingly, “ the cucumber?”</p><p>She smiled briefly. “The cucumber is for you. Make the salad as you always do, Henri.” And then she was gone.</p><p>Henri had not mentioned the making of a salad. And since she was already gone, I assumed that this action would not be necessary. I placed the cucumber on the counter next to the kitchen sink. As I did so, I noticed that the window above the sink had been shoved completely open, and that there was a can of Crisco sitting on the window sill.</p><p>I didn’t even know where to BEGIN thinking about what this might mean. So I ignored this little set piece, and went to take a shower in Henri’s bathroom, waving a quick hello to the toilet I had hugged all those years ago.</p><p>Once I was cleansed of the day’s traumas, I hopped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around my waist. I sauntered back into the kitchen, looking for my travel bag that contained the luxurious body cream that was so soothing for my dry skin.</p><p>The can of Crisco was missing from the window sill.</p><p>The cucumber was missing from the counter.</p><p>Could this day get any stranger? What was going on?</p><p>I peeked out the window and spied the Crisco can lying on the ground in the courtyard. Well, I’d best retrieve that can, happened on my watch and all. I proceeded to the back door, and this is the only development during that mystifying day where I accept blame. I forgot about Henri’s warnings concerning the goat. And after I glanced around the courtyard and did not see anyone about, I thought it would be okay if I slipped outside wearing nothing but a towel. After all, this was France. Scantily clad people meant nothing to them.</p><p>I was so wrong in those two minutes of my life.</p><p>I opened the back door and took three steps to the Crisco can. Picking it up, I turned back to the door, and this is when the Fates of Hell determined that I should suffer. The door burst open, and out galloped the goat, with the chatty cucumber firmly gripped in his teeth.</p><p>The goat raced past me in a frenzy of freedom. I instinctively chased after him, remembering Henri’s words that the goat should not be allowed to bite neighborhood children. I could not let this happen. The goat thundered through the courtyard, heading toward an open door across the way.</p><p>I ran as fast as I could, and actually caught up to the goat just in front of the open door. I reached down to grab him, but only came away with the cucumber that he apparently released to lighten the load in his attempt at escape. I followed him inside whatever dwelling we had entered, only vaguely noticing that my towel snagged on something in the doorway. I wanted to get that goat!</p><p>Once inside this unknown building, the goat skittered to a halt, surprised by the scene before us.</p><p>It was a room full of youngsters, roughly around the age of five. A quick glance around the room, with its happy posters and smiling cartoon characters, made it very clear that this was a daycare facility of some kind. For very young children.</p><p>And there I was, standing behind a goat, completely naked, and holding a can of Crisco in one hand and a cucumber in the other.</p><p>Right in the midst of the startled young children, clutching a bag of goodies from the bistro I had visited that very morning, was that evil tyke Andre, the crazed little boy that thought I smelled bad. He opened his vicious mouth and screamed: “That’s the man that wanted to poke me!”</p><p>In my astonishment, I dropped the can of Crisco, and it rolled with an alarming clacking noise to the feet of the one adult in the room, a pinched-faced woman with her hair in a bun, signifying that she was uptight beyond words. She whipped out her cell phone and called the police.</p><p>They were there within two minutes.</p><p>I was in jail twenty minutes after that.</p><p>And all of this because somebody had talked to a cucumber and needed to share their thoughts on the matter.</p><p>I hate France.</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p><p><em>Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2010/05/case-study-26.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series.</em></p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-72361257393625167522010-01-09T20:00:00.001-06:002010-05-22T15:16:02.796-05:00Case Study #17<span lang="EN"> <p></p><p>Dearest Clients,</p><p>It is with supreme humiliation and utter shame that I put pen to paper. As most of you are aware, or at least those of you taking two prescription tranquilizers or less, I encountered a slight legal situation whilst attending the neurological convention in Paris last September, and found myself unable to leave the country for quite some time.</p><p>As the French authorities kept me quite busy taking a battery of psychological tests (me, taking tests such as that, can you even fathom my horror?), the time simply flew by in an amazing whirl of days and weeks. I had no idea that proving your innocence in a court of law could be so time-consuming, especially when everyone around you is babbling in a language that is not your own.</p><p>(Fair disclosure to those patients who are not suffering from stress-related memory loss: Yes, I’m sure you’ll recall there was that previous judicial matter involving the authenticity of my doctoral license, so it’s not like I’ve never had experience with the courts, but that bit of crockery took place here in America, where I at least understood the nature of the charges against me.)</p><p>In any case, the situation in France took a long time to achieve full resolution, to put it mildly. During this sordid ordeal, I had mistakenly assumed that my office staff here at Bonnywood Manor would take the necessary steps to keep the business running smoothly, temporarily directing clients to other physicians and whatnot. </p><p>Unfortunately, my expectations that my staff could function professionally without supervision were misguided and overconfident. I’m not certain WHAT they were doing during my absence, but it’s fairly clear that they were not attending to the needs of my many patients or even bothering to show up for their duties. </p><p>There’s an enormous amount of inventory missing from the various storerooms, the exquisite waiting room furniture had been replaced with folding chairs and a Styrofoam cooler as a coffee table, and the calming music in the consultation rooms had been changed to that grating alternative style of music wailed by poorly-dressed people who don’t bathe.</p><p>Imagine my surprise when I walked in the office door.</p><p>In speaking with some of the tawdry but temporarily-useful gossipers in adjacent office suites, I did eventually learn of the unsavory activities of two of my now former employees, Tiffania the nutritionist and Bethany the bookkeeper. It appears that they have started their own company, operated out of their mobile home, wherein they manufacture and market plants and herbs for medicinal use. If the gum-smacking gossiper is correct with the dates she provided, this corporation was formed within three hours of my arrest in Paris. So much for dedicated employees.</p><p>The only employee who remained mostly faithful until my belated return was Lanae, my charming and friendly assistant who ensures that you place enough zero’s on your payment check as you depart the building. But she has confessed that her commitment to the cause did waver a bit at the end, with her calling in sick every day for the last 8 weeks. Who she was actually calling, I have no idea, but it wasn’t me.</p><p>And, of course, the most horrendous part of this whole tragic drama is the effect on you, my beloved and revenue-producing clients. Your suffering must have been immense and heavy. And I’m fairly certain the biggest violation to your self-esteem was the unfortunate week when, showing up once again for a counseling session that should have been cancelled, you were greeted at the door by a proctologist.</p><p>Please allow me to explain a bit about that.</p><p>You see, for the most part, the management staff here at the Bonnywood Manor medical complex is a very professional and understanding team. They do their best to ensure that all organizations that lease space in the facility are comfortable and happy. They will accommodate you in every way. Except one.</p><p>You MUST pay your rent, preferably on time.</p><p>As I was fairly occupied in another country, what with those charges and all, I just assumed that this monthly transaction would be handled by my staff, most likely my business manager, since “pay the rent” is clearly spelled out in his contract. What I didn’t realize, off in the land of wine and cheese and misunderstanding, is that most of my staff ran for the hills before the announcement of my arrest had finished crawling across the screen on CNN.</p><p>No checks were written, Bonnywood Manor, Inc. did not receive any money for quite some time, and the office was re-leased to a physician with a completely different specialty than mine. Which led, dear client, to the traumatic week during which many of you arrived anticipating a soothing chat with your therapist, and instead were confronted by a man who seemed very determined to have you bend over.</p><p>Turns out this man was not a proctologist, or even a doctor, having no credentials or certification that proved valid. He was just an odd little mad with lots of money and time on his hands, and was just a little too invested in his role-playing games. (I don’t believe any charges were ever filed, as none of you were able to identify his finger in a lineup. But don’t blame yourself, I’m sure it was the stress and all the bright lights that led to your confusion.)</p><p>Luckily for me, Bonnywood was unable to lease the office to anyone else before my return. (The gum-smacking gossiper claims it was all the screams and ungodly noises that could be heard coming from the office during the week of the proctological duplicity, but I believe she‘s making that up. She’s a drinker.)</p><p>In any case, I have resolved my financial misunderstanding with Bonnywood, payments are back in order, more appropriate furniture has been delivered, and a new, well-trained staff has been hired. (Each of them has a clause in their contract that they cannot immediately quit just because a superior has been arrested for public indecency. They have to give two weeks’ notice just like everybody else.)</p><p>Oh, and the charming Lanae is still with me, of course. I firmly believe her story that the mental anguish over my plight in Paris eventually led to an inability to get out of bed. (Although I must confess to a slight moment of doubt when I realized that the amount of money missing from the petty cash box is roughly equivalent to the cost of the new flat-screen TV I spied in her apartment when I picked her up this morning, but surely it’s coincidence.)</p><p>Anyway, Lanae is once again at the front desk, ready to assist you with those zero’s.</p><p>And I am ready as well, relishing the prospect of resuming our intimate conversations wherein we determine that you do rash and hurtful things just because Daddy wouldn’t buy you a pony in the third grade. I miss that. And I certainly miss people believing everything that comes out of my mouth, unlike those mystifying French people with their odd grooming habits and inexplicable need to accessorize with scarves.</p><p>I await your return with great pleasure.</p><p>And yes, I promise to give you a detailed depiction of what truly happened that led to the morals charge. The pictures and words that were broadcast out of Paris were misleading and out of context. You deserve to know the truth. But you have to book a session to get the full story. Frankly, I need your money. That trial cost a fortune, and somebody has to pay for the new furniture in the lobby. My back, your back, yes?</p><p>In anticipation,</p><p>Dr. Brian</p><p> </p><p><em>Click <a href="http://lageose4.blogspot.com/2010/01/case-study-18.html">Here</a> to Read the Next Entry in This Series.</em></p><p> </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-76374388434647205252009-09-07T20:53:00.002-05:002009-09-07T21:10:14.945-05:00Case Study #16Actually, this is not a Case Study at all, but rather an announcement that I will be out of the country attending a neurological convention in Paris.<br /><br />I should be back in my offices by mid-September.<br /><br />Please review your schedules, and re-arrange any planned psychotic breaks or displays of dramatic neurotic malfunctions until after that time.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />See you soon!<br /><br />Thanks,<br />Dr. BrianBrian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-88922801917032258902009-08-27T00:35:00.003-05:002010-01-09T17:42:57.521-06:00Case Study #15<span lang="EN"> <p>Lanae just brought me this, and then immediately began preparing a shot of tequila for me:</p><p><em>When you are in a department store, should you ask" where the free water is?" or "where the water fountain is?" hmm..<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />These are sure some complicated questions... LOL</em></p><span style="font-size:85%;"><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Dear Scary Person,</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m so sorry for your family.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">I must be strong.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Please bring all your insurance forms to the next session. Just don’t fill them out. We beg you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Much love,</span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Dr. Brian</span></p></span></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3002843820509295124.post-54791667551436928672009-08-24T23:19:00.002-05:002009-08-24T23:22:05.190-05:00Case Study #14<span lang="EN"> <p>This just in from the shores of Grapevine Lake:</p><p><em>Dear Brian,<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Thanks,<br />Marloo</em></p><p>Dear Mars,</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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:</p><p>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.</p><p>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.)</p><p>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.</p><p>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.)</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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><p>Enjoy,</p><p>Dr. B.</p><p>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.) </p></span>Brian Lageosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02340054761529754036noreply@blogger.com1