Case Study #25

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.

Dear Dr. Brian,

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.

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!

Sincerely,

Champagne taste on a Natural Light travel budget

And Dr. Brian responds:

Dear Champagne,

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

Speak openly to your wife, Sage Thunderbolt. Spill all.

And then immediately pick up the phone and make an appointment with my assistant Lanae.

Still stunned by that file you attached,

Dr. Brian

Case Study #24

Dear Dr. Brian,

Does the chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?

Worried,

Hazel

And Dr. Brian Responds:

Dear Worried Hazel,

Don’t play games with me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You should not trust this woman. At all.

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.

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?)

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.

00h01m45s

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.

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.

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.

You simply walked into the bar and yet you’ve managed to turn another one gay. Poor girl.

00h07m23s

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.

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.

01h12m38s

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.

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”.

02h37m41s

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.

(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.”)

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.

04h16m57s

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.

Lola, watching all of this with a totally fake smile showing gritted teeth, nudges your chair leg with just a tiny little tap.

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.

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.

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.

Poor, sad, in-denial Hazel. Please speak with Lanae about arranging your next appointment.

In Anticipation,

Dr. Brian

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