Case Study #23

Dear Dr. Brian,

Is beer ever NOT a good idea?

Love,

Tiffany

And Dr. Brian responds:

Dearest Tiffany,

No.

Sincerely,

Dr. Brian

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

Dearest Tiffany, Part II,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Let’s see. Scenarios where it might be best to turn down the proffered Jello shots. Hmm. How about:

1. Funeral services where the gathering of mourners is hillbilly-ugly, and most of them are wearing flannel.

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.

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.

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.

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.

　

2. Church services where singing is allowed.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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…

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?

3. Zoos.

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.

4. It’s late at night and you are still on Facebook.

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!”.

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.

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.

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”.

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.

This is the REAL reason for your email, isn’t it? The truth always comes out.

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.

In anticipation,

Dr. Brian

Case Study #22

Dr. Brian, 


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?


Thanks, 


Bowletta Dingleberry

And Dr. Brian responds:

Dear Bowletta,

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.)

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  “I am heading to Dallas in two days”

  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.

  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?

  “and will be staying with my mother for five weeks.”

  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.

  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.

  “Should I humor her”

  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.

  “and go to church”

  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?

  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.

  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.

  “or sleep in and be true to my heathen self?”

  Yes, let’s do that.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

Enjoy your visit,

Dr. Brian

Case Study #21

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:

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"?

Regards,
HRH's Royal Secretary

And Dr. Brian responds:

Dear HRH Person,

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.

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.

The Lithuanians are VERY angry people. And they don’t forget things.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

Please stop making public appearances in the nude.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thank your for your attention in this matter. Your Royal Highness.

In obeisance,

Dr. Brian