Case Study #38

Dear Dr. Brian,


  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?


Confused,
Violated in Oak Cliff

Dear Violation,

  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.

  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.)

  Anyway, why on earth would you consider Sonic 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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Lucrezia and I were tight. She had secrets, I had a secret, and Sonic 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.

  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.

  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.

  My bad. I seem to have made this all about me so far. Let’s get back to you.

  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.

  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 is my place. But only if you are paying my consultation fees.)

  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 expected 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.

  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 not 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.

  And yes, the powers that be at Sonic 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.

  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.

  So anyway, the Sonic 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.

  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.

  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….

Whizzingly,
Dr. Brian

Case Study #37

  Continued from a previous post. Click Here to read the first session with Bexx, a client annoyed by straight people who are confused that some lesbians fancy intimate toys…


  “Are you still there?” inquired one of the voices on the speaker phone.

  “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.”

  “Oh!” enthused Bex. “That actually sounds like fun. Let me hear it.”

  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.”

  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-”

  “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.

  The tongue stopped moving, but the mouth didn’t. “Wait. Am I the underling? About to get berated?”

  “You are my only underling, Lanae, of course it’s you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “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. Close it.”

  Lanae pouted. “But I want to hear what you’re going to tell her.”

  “We’ve discussed this, it’s not proper.”

  “Yes, we have 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…”

  “Oh what, Lanae? Did you just figure out what day it is?”

  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”

  “And when, pray tell, did this earning take place. Was I even here?”

  Lanae smirked. “Do you really want me to get started on this? Letting all your blog readers know your secrets?”

  “Don’t break character, Lanae. Stick with the script.”

  “The goat in Paris?”

  “They know about the goat. I'm the one who told them, if you’ll recall. It was a very moving six-part series. Get back on this side of the camera.”

  “And then there was the time when you stole the giant tortilla and-”

  “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.”

  Lanae quit licking. And stood.

  Dr. Brian punched at a button again. “Bexx?”

  “Hello there, Dr. Feelgood. I thought perhaps you had passed on from this life.”

  “So sorry, Bexx. Now, about this penetration thing.”

  (Lanae professionally choked back a snort.)

  “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.”

  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.”

  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.”)

  Dr. Brian stupidly glanced at Lanae in the doorway, who was completely red-faced with her struggle to remain discreet and non-laughing. “Primal?” she mouthed. Are you kidding me?

  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-”

  “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.”

  Lanae failed at remaining non-intrusive, releasing a small yelp.

  “Did someone just step on a chipmunk?” inquired Bexx.

  “No,” said Dr. Brian. “That was just my assistant, Lanae. Apparently she just took a look at her next paycheck.”

  Lanae was not amused, but got the point and tried to focus on not exuding further wildlife emanations.

  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?”

  “Yes,” said Lanae, quite clearly and unmistakably, surprising both Dr. Brian and herself.

  “Oh,” said Bexx. “Well, doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Wait, does she do women?”

  “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.”

  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?”

  “This isn’t a session,” clarified Bexx. “It’s a conversation.”

  “But you’re still paying for the conversation, right?” inserted Lanae. “I do the books, and it’s so much easier when things balance.”

  “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.”

  “How did you know…” asked Lanae, flummoxed.

  “I know exactly what a tongue is doing based on the sounds alone,” explained Bexx. “I love tongues. They’re pretty swell.”

  Now both Dr. Brian and Lanae were at the loss-of-words speed bump.

  “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.”

  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.

  “Dr. Brian?” prompted Bexx.

  He cleared his throat, then leaned toward the speaker phone. “It’s not the car, it’s the driver.”

  Pause for contemplation. And a short word from our sponsor.

  Then Bexx: “Interesting. Well, I’ll be sure to include my analysis of that response in the evaluation.”

  “Evaluation?” asked Dr. Brian.

  “Yes,” confirmed Bexx, then clarified: “In regards to the request you filed to extend your office lease at Bonnywood Manor.”

  Dr. Brian was stunned. “My lease? How did you know… when did you become involved…”

  “I bought the entire complex,” announced Bexx. “I own it now. Just like this plane. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I also have some panties on my chandelier, and I know exactly where they came from. Best of luck on the request, we’ll talk soon.”

  Click.

  “Holy cow,” breathed Lanae. “Did I just eat my last free donut?”

  “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-”

  Lanae strode toward his desk and plunked down a bottle of Madonna merlot. “I’ll be right back with the glasses.”

Case Study #36

Continued from the previous post. Click Here to read the first session with Bexx, a client annoyed by straight people who are confused that some lesbians fancy intimate toys…


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.

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.”

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.”

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. That woman.”

Dr. Brian was amazed. “Are you referring to Bexx?”

“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.”

“We only have one line, Lanae. And why didn’t you just ask her name?”

“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.”

“Very well, then, I’ll take the call.”

Lanae paused. “Should I go ahead and prepare you a nice cocktail? We’ve still got some of that Madonna merlot.”

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?”

“It’s about damn time!” came a very confident but slightly-disgruntled voice. “Not very fond of waiting.”

“Really?” asked Dr. Brian. “Interesting. Considering you were supposed to call me back from that airplane four months ago. I think my wee bit of tardiness pales considerably in comparison, yes?”

Bexx sighed. “Well, you have me there. But I am still on that plane, if that gets me any kind of bonus credit.”

“Surely you jest.”

“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-”

“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?”

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.”

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.

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?

Dr. Brian glanced up to see that Lanae was once again standing in his doorway. “She bought a plane?”

“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.”

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.”

“Sorry about that. Still there?”

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.”

“Good. Sangria was having trouble getting the stairs to lower and she couldn’t get in.”

Dr. Brian only paused briefly, then “Do alcoholic beverages often have trouble gaining access to your plane?”

“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.”

Really? “How so?”

“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.

“I see,” said Dr. Brian. “So tell me. What was the issue with your luggage? If you don’t mind.”

“Oh, that,” 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.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Does this happen to you a lot?”

“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.”

Dr. Brian calmly gulped the rest of his wine.

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?”

“I’m afraid so. Am I intruding at this point? We can reschedule.”

“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.”

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…



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