Idiot Fondue: Case Study #39 – The Planting of the Tea Party

Dear Dr. Brian,

  I have an issue that I hope you can help me with. I’ve tried a number of different ways to deal with the problem, including doing Internet research, attending seminars, speaking to a spiritual adviser, and abusing prescription drugs and alcohol. But nothing has helped. Please help me understand. Why are those Tea Party people so amazingly and mind-numbingly stupid? Thank you for your time.

Love,

Ayn Rand

Dear Ms. Rand,

  Thank you for contacting me from beyond the grave. This indicates an incredible dedication to sorting out the truth in this matter. Luckily for you, (and me, I suppose, since you still have to pay me even though I don’t have to actually do any research), I recently returned from a seminar in Milan concerning this very topic. I was just discussing the scholastic experience with my office manager Lanae (who didn’t really care one whit about my discoveries, she was just relieved that she didn’t have to answer the office phones for a few minutes) and I happened to still have the brochure discussing the workshops at the seminar right here on my desk when I opened your email.

  Let’s review those workshop topics, shall we? And of course I’ll add some personal commentary, which is a service I always try to provide to my clients.

  “The Tea Bagger and His Tea”

  First of all, it’s home-brewed. You don’t get that steeped in self-absorption unless you don’t get out of the house all that often, nor did your parents. This is a fundamental warning sign when attempting to diagnose the neurosis of a patient. If the subject has never really travelled to other parts of the country, experienced other cultures, or even had a meaningful conversation with someone who isn’t similarly white, supposedly straight, and stupid, there’s not much of an opportunity for personal growth. Or wisdom.

  Secondly, the tea is obviously bitter. Otherwise, why would these people be constantly running around with such a sour expression and a clenched attitude? Maybe if they would wash the pot out every once in a while, and quit buying the same brand of tea every time, they might actually discover some new flavors that they find out are not half bad. Life is a buffet, people. If you head right to the corn fritters every time you aren’t getting the full experience.

  “The Tea Bagger and His Baggage”

  And those bags are some overstuffed, extra-fee-on-airlines kind of bags. A tea bagger is angry with the world because their personal bags are so full. They’re tired of carrying those bags around, so they take out their frustration on people who have managed to free themselves of baggage and live their lives in a manner that makes them happy. The tea bagger doesn’t believe other people should be happy if they themselves can’t be, so they spend their own lives denigrating others. Instead of doing the smart thing, which would be to unpack those damn bags and move on. And maybe read a book or two.

  Speaking of the packing, let’s full-circle it back to the parents of that bitchy, unsatisfied person. You birth-givers helped pack a lot of that bag. Granted, there are rare occasions when you can be the sweetest thing on earth but still manage to shoot something out of your loins that turns into a hate-mongering sociopath, regardless of how much you try to bathe them in love and understanding and warm cookies. But most of the time? You put the ingredients into the cookie that made Junior what he is today. Proper child-rearing is a lifetime commitment. You can’t throw your hands up and quit the first time Junior knocks somebody down on the playground.

  But still, the ultimate responsibility lies with the person carrying the baggage. Many of us have had parents who didn’t win any awards for sainthood, warmth, or semblance of decency, but we still managed to take a deep breath (sometime hundreds of them) and claw our way to a place of relative peace. The avenues of your life are completely chosen by you. If you have unjustified hatred for another human being, that hatred was sowed in your own soul. You’re the farmer. Take care of it. Tend to your own crops. Plant something better.

“The Tea Bagger and His Pot”

  Ah, and here we get to the cornerstone of the teabag-manufacturing industry: The Church. Now,  before I launch along this angle, let me preface my words by saying that not all houses of worship cook their products the same way, and many of them never make anything that boils. In fact, I’m sure the original houses of worship had a much different method of creation compared to the massive production lines that take place today. Back in the day, the teaching ingredients were simple: love thy neighbor, assist those who need help, don’t do things you really shouldn’t do, and make sure you have enough goats  for the impending marriages of female offspring.

  But as time went by, some people began to bicker about having to follow ALL the rules, because bickering and a dislike for doing the right thing is simply part of the nature of some humans, especially folks who may qualify as humans biologically but not necessarily socially or morally. The bickering units splintered off and formed their own churches, where they could worship just the parts of the founding documents that justified the activities they found more interesting and enjoyable to perform. And, of course, because bickering is a constant with the dissatisfied, the splintering became exponential over the centuries. Now we have thousands of denominational flavors, going by increasingly bizarre names because all of the really good URLs have already been taken on the Internet.

  And even within the mainstream denominations, we have a considerable variance in teaching, because once you start allowing folks to selectively interpret what they will, mix in the powerful but often misused “right to free speech”, things begin to fracture all over the place. So you have one person in Denomination A who believes in a complete set of principles, and another person in that same denomination who believes in the abridged, edited, rearranged set of principles that bears little resemblance to what scribers had in mind back when they were fiddling with sea scrolls and sitting on the shore of the Dead Sea, in a nice café that had an excellent brunch.

  And the mini-sized packages of religion are most often served up in those colossal mega-churches that cause traffic jams in the surrounding area for the entirety of Sundays. If you want to keep the attention of your fifth set of 20,000 worshippers whilst standing on your rock-star pulpit stage, you can only hit one or two stirring points or you’re going to start losing people to the concession stands. One or two points, that’s it, forget the rest of the things that moral people should mull if they want to be rounded and grounded. And personally, I don’t see how you can see a spiritual path to God if you can’t even see your own pastor except when he’s flashing on the giant video monitors manufactured in a country where you go to jail if speak your own mind.

  The most spiritual people that I have ever met haven’t stepped foot in a physical church in years, or at least only sparingly. They do their research on their own, rather than being directed to certain passages by people with an agenda, and they read everything they can. Unlike the rock-star preachers and right-wing politicians who haven’t even cracked open the flashy Bibles they like to wave about during photo opportunities.

  “Excuse me,” said Lanae, reading my email over my shoulder whilst sucking the jelly from a donut right in my left ear, “may I interject?”

  I leaned back in my chair, partly to ease the tension in my back and partly to get away from the pornographic soundtrack in that left ear. “Certainly.”

  Lanae swallowed. “Okay, you’re getting a bit long-winded here, like Michael Moore when he notices a camera pointing at him. Let’s move on from the rise and fall of Christianity.”

  I was perplexed. “But I’m just trying to present the religious angle. It’s one of the factors that is being warped in the Tea Party and I’m only assisting my client with-“

  Lanae pressed a sticky index finger against my startled lips, something that both unsettled me and made me suddenly crave a fruit-filled scone. “Shush. Another angle with the Tea Party and the Republicans is that they consider women to be secondary, sub-human, and unable to make decisions about their own body. Just like they treat gays and lesbians. And really, anybody that isn’t a white male. The fact that there are women and gays who are Republicans astounds me. But now I’m having a Michael Moore moment. To the point: You’re not even religious yourself, this blog post is starting to run a little long, and people are going to stop reading it and might go to a mega-church out of boredom.”

  She unstuck her finger from my lips. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me. I’m not going to make any more coffee, because you’ve clearly had your share, but I will prep a bottle of merlot and see if we have any of those weird crackers you like with the olive bits in them.” She marched forth, mission-based.

  I sighed. She was right. Next topic.

“The Tea Plant and the Planting”

    You don’t get a new variety of tea without careful cultivating and experimentation. In the case of the Tea Party-flavored tea, the agricultural process is slightly complex, but effective. First you have to find a promising plot that will produce what you desire. The soil must contain plenty of self-created, improperly-based and unreleased anger. The mineral composition should include an inability to take responsibility for one’s own failures and the need to find a scapegoat who had nothing to do with those failures. And you need to leave all the weeds in the field, the weeds of hate, the weeds of misogyny, the weeds of racism and the weeds of absolute and utter gullibility.

  But the big win here is the fertilizer. And there are two kinds. The primary fertilizer is produced by a company known as “News Corporation”, and the particular product is known as “Fox News”. (Interestingly enough, neither of these names has anything to do with what a rational person would consider “news”.) This fertilizer must be spread daily, preferably via a television set that is left on continuously so that the half-truths and outright lies can seep into the soil at a steady rate. The soil must become so dependent on the Fox News drippings, that if the TV is ever turned off, the soil would have no idea what to do with its life or how to think.

  The secondary fertilizer is known as “right-wing talk radio”. This is also something that must be applied every day, non-stop. This fertilizer contains the fundamentalist elements of bogus statistics, distortions of any semblance of actual reality, show hosts that have failed miserably in any endeavors to be of any worth to society, and a constant repetition of the fundamental mantra: “Hate anything and everything that is different from you.” Except for monetary donations to right-wing candidates. You love and worship those. Send some today! Even if you really don’t have any spare cash because the very people you have been farmed to support are actively working to destroy your livelihood and keep you a slave to their cause.

  And that’s the scoop, dearest Ayn Rand, the writer who was briefly celebrated by the Tea Party until they read the uh-oh bits about your atheism and your statement that “embryos have no rights”, then they tried to dump you despite declaring a national holiday in your honor just a few days before. (This is standard practice with the Tea Party. They don’t investigate anything, they jump on the current bandwagon directive from Rupert Murdoch or Karl Rove or somebody invoking Ronald Reagan, even though it’s very clear that Ronald, despite some questionable things he did, would be horribly ashamed of what the Republican Party has become with their tea farms and idiots with a microphone. Then they blindly jump off the abandoned bandwagon and land wherever they are told to land, still clutching their hate.)

  So, my prescription for you? Give up and let go. There is no possible way to have any compassion for what the Tea Party is trying to do to our country. They are not nationalists, they are certainly not patriots, they have no concept of the true intentions of our founding fathers (separation of church and state, it’s all right there if you could actually read and spell), and they clearly have no compassion for you. Click unfriend.

  Enjoy the rest of your day. In an existential way, of course.

Dr. Brian

Idiot Fondue: 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.”

Idiot Fondue: 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

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #15

  Note: Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue"...


Lanae just brought me this, and then immediately began preparing a shot of tequila for me:

When you are in a department store, should you ask" where the free water is?" or "where the water fountain is?" hmm..


When you are filling out a job application, and you have to check F or M, does this stand for "monday or friday?" or "Female or male?"


These are sure some complicated questions... LOL


Dear Scary Person,

I’ll be honest with you. I seriously had to have my assistant, Lanae, check my vital signs to ensure that I had not suffered a small seizure prior to reading your submission. Because, quite frankly, I didn’t think there could be any other reason for me seeing the words that I thought I was seeing unless neurological damage had taken place.

Sadly, Lanae gave me a clean bill of health. Then she read your letter back to me, and to my horror, the words were indeed the same words that I had hoped I had only envisioned in some surrealistic synaptic misfire. You truly sent this thing to me just as it appears above.

I’m so sorry for your family.

But I am a professional, and will do what I can to bring you back from the edge of the psychological abyss where you are currently dangling, apparently by one finger, with a strong wind barreling through this canyon of dementia.

I must be strong.

Firstly, do not ever go into another department store for the rest of your natural life. You clearly have lost the fundamental grasp of the true purpose of such establishments. These are not places of nourishment and refreshment. Can you understand that? Concentrate, this is critical.

Department stores were created for the sole purpose of luring you into over-paying for ridiculous items that no human being really needs. They want you to lust for pointless crap just so you can have the dubious honor of wearing some foo-foo designer’s name on your ass, while spritzed with vanity colognes that smell like someone forgot to take the trash out after an especially strenuous orgy.

To clarify, department stores are not watering holes. They were not designed for the tramping about of bone-dry herds. Therefore, it does not matter how one should ask for water in such a den of bling and irritatingly-skinny “sales-models”. You shouldn’t be asking in the first place. Find a garden hose.

Yes, I do understand that you may have indeed entered a department store fully intending to purchase some high-end undergarment that requires dry-cleaning and storage in a climate-controlled vault, and then perhaps became a bit parched and throat-scratchy. (After all, no one wants to sound like Joan Rivers when the anesthesia wears off in the cosmetic-surgery ICU.)

However, my advice is the same. You should not expect lubrication stations anywhere near an Hermes scarf. It simply isn’t done. If you plan to fondle cashmere while surround by lock-jawed society women that have never worked a day in their lives, you should be fully prepared and have the proper training.

Perhaps you should read Bitsy Uppercrust’s fascinating survival guide on high-end shopping: “Only The Strong Survive: Beating the Bitches at Barney’s”. You will note that there is an entire chapter on the fact that you should hydrate before asking the chauffeur to take you for a bit of shopping. This is a cut-throat social setting. There simply isn’t time to dash off to a disease-ridden public water dispenser when couture is at stake.

Now, moving on to the bit where you confuse days of the week with gender. I’m completely agog. What lead you to this point, where such a thing can happen? To be fair, there has been considerable buzz in the hippest medical journals about this condition. You are not alone. (Which makes me tremble, but again, I shall be strong for my clients with no limits on their various credit cards.)

As if often the case with identity issues that lead to traumatic psychosis, the parents are usually to blame, especially when it comes to gender identity and the calendar. For instance, did your parents jack around with your given name whilst you were growing and budding? This is critical, and it happens far too often than should be legally allowed.

Let’s say your name is Emily. Very feminine, very pretty. You start out in life knowing that when people say this sound, it means YOU, the lovely little girl with the cashmere diapers. But let’s say that one day Momma calls you “Emmy”. Well, that’s not quite so feminine, is it? Still kind of pretty, but a little bit more rural, less 5th Avenue. Did mommy think you were ugly today? And that’s where it starts.

And then there’s the shocking day when Daddy calls you “Em”. Well, that’s just downright cruel. Now you’re a trucker wearing flannel and drinking cheap beer out of your bottle. And if you happen to have one of those cute Tickle-Me-Elmo calendars hanging beside you, you might make an association with the days that you were called certain names. And thus begins DOGS (Days Of Gender Syndrome). I’m sorry to say that it’s downhill from there.

We have various treatment programs that can help you, so don’t be too concerned about this angle. Help is on the way, as long as you can afford it.

But of more immediate concern: Why are you entering information of any kind on applications? You have some very serious issues, young lady, and should not be filling out anything at this time, whether it be for a job, a dating service, or an effort to show your support for a political candidate. Until you know who YOU are, you certainly can’t expect anyone else to seriously value any legal paperwork that you might submit, considering your confusion, dehydration, and uncertainty about your actual name.

And your final LOL about “These are sure some complicated questions” is a blatant plea for help. We are here to serve you. The first step in any recovery is admitting that you have a problem. And if you don’t think you have a problem, then WE will commit you, preferably to an institution with cashmere straight-jackets. For your own good, of course.

Please bring all your insurance forms to the next session. Just don’t fill them out. We beg you.


Much love,
Dr. Brian

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #14

Note: Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue"...


Dear Brian,


As you know it is very hot outside and I need advice on how to find comfort. I tried less clothing, but sometimes people and places frown on the clothing is optional theory.


Thanks,
Marloo


Dear Mars,

Yes, indeed, the temperature outside has become almost intolerably high. And has been proven by many profound studies, such intense heat can cause even the most law-abiding citizen to suddenly snap and beat the Avon Lady to death just because she is wearing yellow shoes.

So I commend you on attempting to find reasonable ways to keep cool and avoid any heat-induced activity that may lead to embarrassment and/or incarceration. It’s always encouraging to see considerate people such as yourself actually taking steps to keep themselves mentally healthy, rather than continuing to do the stupid things that lead them to psychiatric wards.

And although it is true that one shouldn’t “let it all hang out” in most public arenas and retail establishments, the situation is not quite as restrictive as you might think. For the nudist-in-the-know, there are actually quite a few available options to satisfy your need to be free and natural.

I am quite happy to provide the following list to you, as you seem quite grounded and realistic, and nearly always make regular payments on your account with us. (One of the surest signs of mental health there can be.) However, in accordance with a court ruling in a situation that has nothing to do with you, I must insert the following text into any client reading where nudity is mentioned:

I hereby affirm that in no way, shape or form am I suggesting that this client remove an article of clothing as a directed therapeutic action, nor am I advising that the liberation should be staged in a crowded supermarket without fair warning to patrons, nor am I suggesting that any of the above take place in front of several members of the Broken Arrow First Baptist Church as they purchase fresh produce in order to prepare a celebratory meal for the Lord. And I humbly apologize once again to the fine family business known as Piggly Wiggly of America, LTD.

Okay, then. No need for alarm. Just a bit of court-ordered reparations. It happens more often than one would think. (And perhaps someday I will fill you in on all the details from the Easter Sunday stripper pole action. It’s really quite an amusing story once you take the jail time out of the picture.)

So, where did we leave off? Ah, yes. I was just about to share with you some quality local organizations where nudity is met with a healthy enthusiasm, if you should choose to visit these establishments of your own free will. In fact, the first on the list also involves a house of worship, although one that is not quite as starchy as the Baptists.

The House of Love and Breezes Sanctuary is located just 20 miles west of here, in a lovely walled compound previously owned by the Methodists until that incident with the misprinted festival pamphlet several years back. (“Harvest Festival Gays” brought in a completely unexpected crowd, words were exchanged among the congregation concerning responsibility, and the wounds never healed.)

Love and Breezes is completely non-denominational , and everyone is encouraged to share in the best facets of all religions. I must say that fellowship in the nude is quite refreshing and comforting once you relax. However, you should be aware that there are certain distinctions.

Passing around the offering basket requires more accuracy and gentleness. Joining hands in prayer requires concentration when reaching blindly to each side. Certain phrases from songs of worship, such as “mine eyes have seen the glory”, can take on the wrong meaning if you don’t remained focused on the true message. And you certainly don’t want to slam shut your hymnal in a moment of rapture.

Let’s see. South of town we have the nudist amusement park, Magic Mountains, which can be a lot of fun with the right attitude. The roller coasters are certainly exciting, especially the one with the double loop. Bumper cars are a hoot, and the merry-go-round sure seems to get everyone in a frisky mood. The fun house is definitely worth a visit, but be prepared for the line to back up as astonished men stare in the mirrors at equipment that for once actually looks like what they’ve been telling everybody they had all these years.

Speaking of, there is a large sign at the entrance cautioning the more amply-endowed male and female visitors to use good judgment when selecting rides. Please follow this advice, and avoid things like the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Himalaya. Those things have a lot of G-force going on, and you don’t want to be responsible for you seatmates going home with a black eye or two.

If you prefer your fun indoors, there’s the I.C.France entertainment complex over by the mall. You can find all sorts of interesting activities in this happy place, all of them clothing-optional. There are many fine restaurants offering a wealth of international cuisine. (Sadly, the Benihana’s was recently forced to close. They were unable to build a client base for some reason.) I would also suggest that you stay away from the sushi palace. Saki-drenched people can be humiliating when they are armed with chopsticks and you innocently walk into a room where the AC is on high.

Nude bowling draws the crowds, though, as well as the nude disco and the nude rock climbing. Interestingly enough, the most popular spot is the La Boinga Bar with nude karaoke on weeknights. Apparently watching pathetic attempts at singing is even more laff-worthy when the performers try emphatic arm choreography whilst naked.

Oh dear, I see that our time is about over. I feel a wee bit guilty in that you did not receive any true counseling during our session, but it goes that way sometimes. As compensation, please accept this free pass to Magic Mountains, including the glow stick parade at midnight. (Shots of tequila are definitely in order before THAT spectacle begins.) Tell them that Dr. Brian did NOT send you.

Enjoy,

Dr. B.

P.S. And I’M not one of the men shamed by the fun house mirrors. I’m just repeating local lore. (Oh wait. I think I just broke one of the conditions of another court settlement. Dang. Those rulings can be SO pesky sometimes. Scratch this.)

Idiot Fondue - Case Study #36

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…


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…


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #13

  Note: Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue"...


Dear Brian,

Why do people try to put round pegs in square holes?

submitted by Serena L.


Sweetie,

Fess up. Were you drinking when you sent this?

Not trying to be rude, but I always try to ensure that I understand all provisional elements which led to a patient’s submission. You clearly have issues, I would just like to make sure I focus on the signs of dementia that are most important to you.

And of course, there’s the legal angle. Should the authorities contact me after you, say, dance naked at the intersection of 4th and Main, or, you know, actually kill someone, I need to be able to provide them with professional guidance. “She knew exactly what she was doing” means admit you to the Psych Ward. “She was totally smashed” means throw her in the drunk tank and let her sleep it off. This distinction is critical.

But I suppose, to be fair, especially since I have vacation coming up and may not be immediately available should the police knock on my door, I really should analyze your query from both a plastered and non-plastered angle. Let’s do that, shall we?

Let’s choose sobriety first. After all, there are a number of organizations that use a similar slogan in their campaign materials, so they must be on to something. Even if that “something” is a hypocritical effort by right-wingers to stir up donations. I’d like it to work for ME, because I have bills.

So you’re sober, and you want to know why people try to put round pegs in square holes.

Well, from a purely physical standpoint, that round peg is going to fit in a square hole, unless it’s a really big round peg. So you’re not speaking in literal terms. Therefore, this is a euphemism that something else is going on in your life.

Ah, so we’re talking about sex. Hello. I should have gone there immediately, what with “pegs” and “holes”. (I’m really getting a bit slow as the years creep by. I need to speak to my pharmacist, or I should say DOCTOR, about a good vitamin regimen.)

You’re not happy about the sex that, apparently, you’re not getting enough of, or what you ARE getting quickly turns into complications, anxiety, and madness. This is not healthy. Things must change.

What’s a girl to do? Well, the first step you take is to sign into your PC, access your “love swap” websites, and immediately delete all connections where the gentleman caller does not give his full name and/or does not provide a clear, non-manipulated high-res photo of his tackle. You know what you want, why settle for second-best?

And while you’re at it, delete “friends” with User Names like “John Doe”, “Raging Stallion”, “Hunka Burnin Log”, and “Cellblock D”. These people will not make you happy at the end of the day.

Now go to all your main profile pages and make some updates. Remove any indication that you are desperate and will take a chance on anything. That photo of you lying in bed and looking sadly over at the empty space beside you? Very artistic shot. Get rid of it. The video you posted where you make a scrumptious home-cooked meal, waltz into the dining room with a steaming tray of goodies, and then burst into tears when you see only one place setting? High quality and well shot. Delete it.

Why was this necessary? It may come as a surprise to you, but the average straight American male does not exactly find it erotic when a woman waves the Needy flag from the get go. Have the “WUV ME” tattoo removed from your forehead. Take off the “Neurotic and Clingy!” panties and throw them in the back of the closet.

Once you’ve tidied these things up, turn off the PC, and walk away. Do not check your email for 3 days. If Prince Charming has really been searching for you for 30 years, he’s not going to be disturbed by a long weekend.

When an appropriate amount of time has passed, calmly sign back in, and SLOWLY review the entire contents of your inbox. Do not seize the first email from a male-sounding name and immediately begin making plans to have yourself Fed-Exed to him the next morning. If the gentlemen stupidly identifies his work location in the email, do not run to the phone and call his boss, trying to arrange some days off and a travel voucher for him.

Read each and every email with a healthy sense of caution, and carefully consider what each and every of his written words literally mean, rather than what you would like them to mean in your fevered and lusty mind.

And here’s a hint: Just because they respond at all, it does not mean that they love you. Word.

Okay, that’s one analysis. But the more I’ve pondered you query, I’ve come to the conclusion that you really were drunk when you mailed this, and I must go into THAT angle of the analysis. (It also means that I’ve wasted my time for several paragraphs of expensive counseling. You will still have to pay for it, of course, but perhaps you could tear off the top half of this and give it to your even needier friend who joined that “I Will Bang Anything With a Pulse” website.)

So this is what really lead to your question:

You were at Joe’s Crab Shack the other night with your best friend, Chlamydia, having cocktails and chit-chatting. Clam was doing most of the talking, as she always does, but you’re used to the sound of her incessant voice by now and it was actually comforting, soothing, like a tropical downpour.

You were having a bit of sidebar fun, flirting with the waiter and making sure your breasts were in the way each time he reached for your empty glass. You knew you really had his attention when he started trying to refill your water glass each time you took the tiniest sip. Things were heating up. Then you spied his mother bringing him lunch money, and she looked EXACTLY like you, so the plug was quickly pulled on that little adventure.

You vaguely looked in Clam’s direction, checking in, and discovered that she was only on Item 4 of the 10 things about herself she always brings up, so you had plenty of time there, she usually doesn’t stop for input until Item 7, glossed-lips flying. You turned back to the bar.

And there he was.

You don’t normally go for cowboys, but something about the way he filled those jeans, standing at the bar with one boot up on the rail and talking to his buddy, sent a hormonal jolt through your body that nearly blew your toes off. You realized you were staring and were just about to turn away, when he looked right at you, gave a little tip to his hat, winked, and then kept talking to the buddy.

Oh my god.

You turned to Clam and kicked her under the table.

“What the HELL?”

“Sorry, sweetie. I love you, but I needed you to shut up for just half a second.”

“Well, you didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did. You weren’t going to take a breath for twenty more minutes. Okay, don’t look right now, but there’s a guy at the bar-”

Her head immediately whipped in that direction.

“Chlamydia!”

Her head whipped back. Her massive hair did the same a few seconds later. “O-M-G. He is so fuc-”

“He’s mine, don’t even think about it.”

“He doesn’t even know you exist.”

“He winked at me.”

Clam paused, pouting, then “But that doesn’t mean he wants-”

“I am just telling you, as a friend, that if you do the tiniest thing to distract him from me, I will CUT you. And quit sticking your titties out.”

Clam sighed, then relaxed her shoulders. “Well, we’re gonna need some more alcohol to get through this. Where’s the waiter? Is it past his curfew?”

And so the seduction, and the serious drinking began. You did all your attention-getting tricks, laughing loudly over nothing, flipping your hair, pretending to get margarita salt on your shirt and then jiggling things around.

Five rounds later, things were getting a little swimmy. You were having a hard time remembering Clam’s full name, and whether or not you were the person who drove tonight. Cowboy still hadn’t come over, but he hadn’t left yet. And you really had to pee.

So you fumbled for your purse, and then struggled to slide across the booth bench. (It sure wasn’t this hard getting IN here.) Wait, why are there legs at the end of the booth? You look up, and focus. It’s him!

“Hi there, pretty ladies. My name’s Brad. Mind if I sit with you a bit. My buddy had to get on the road, but I’ve still got some fight left in me, and you two been yukkin it up all night and havin’ a good time.”

You hurl yourself to the other end of the bench, squeezed up against the wall to ensure there is more room on your side of the booth than on Clam’s side. She’s in the same frenzy, throwing packages and crap over her head, but she’s slow out of the gate. He plunks down to your right. You quietly promise Jesus that you will go back to church real soon. Amen.

And he turns out to be completely charming, telling funny stories that have you busting a gut. Even Chlamydia is enraptured, temporarily forgetting to be a slut. But he keeps ordering rounds. You’re so lit that you can no longer understand everything he says, but it’s fascinating just watching his lips move, and the way his big hand rubs his chin every once in a while. But it becomes clear that something ELSE is about to bust if you don’t do something about it in the next five minutes.

“Sugar, could you scooch out a bit? I need to powder my nose.”

He scooches. As you slide over, you discreetly grab a shrimp fork and stab Chlamydia’s hand. (“He is MINE, bitch.”) Then you stumble toward the restrooms.

To find that the ladies’ room is packed, line out the door. Oh god. This is a serious biological moment.

Then your eyes spy the men’s room down the hall. Not a soul in sight. You’re drunk and clenching, and the decision is a quick one. You stagger that way.

You slam through the door. Still no one. Perfect. You beeline to the only stall and slam the metal door open, only to find that the toilet is broken and overflowing. How is this happening?

You turn around, and there are two urinals on the wall. One is very low to the ground, probably for little boys, and is out of the question. The other one seems awfully high, but it will have to do.

You approach the taller one, trying to work out the math. You’ve SEEN these before, of course, but you’ve never had to use one. The bowl doesn’t stick out far enough for you to just lift your dress and squat, there’s not enough room for you to spread your knees and try to get your business hovered over the water.

Maybe you can back into it? Yeah, that’s got to work. So you struggle getting your panties down (WHY do undergarments cause so much trouble when you’re schnockered?), then hike your dress up to your bra to keep things dry. You stumble backwards and feel the cold porcelain hit you in the upper butt. You stand on your tip-toes and are just able to clear the bowl.

When you sit down, your feet actually come off the ground, so you have to hang on to the flush handle for balance. It’s an odd sensation and position, but your body instinctively knows that it’s good enough, and here comes the pee.

While struggling to hang on, you think you feel part of the bunched-up dress get caught on something, but you’ll worry about that in a minute, can’t stop the flow right now, you’ve saved up gallons while flirting with the cowboy. There’s been so much pressure for so long, that the release is almost erotic it feels so good. You let out a small sigh. And relax.

And your hand slips off the flush handle. Suddenly you are plummeting forward and downward. Halfway to the floor, to your increased horror, you realize your dress IS caught on something and is in the process of ripping apart down your back and across your waist. The good side is that this somehow slows your fall, so that when your head hit’s the ground, it’s just a gentle tap.

The bad side, and it’s really bad, is that with the way the dress split, the upper half of the dress has your arms entangled and you can’t move them. The bottom half of the dress is keeping the bottom half of your body stuck on the urinal. You are hanging upside down, with your exposed lily-white ass aimed at the ceiling.

The door to the men’s room whacks open. Cowboy boots shuffle across the tile floor, and then pause. You hear the gruff, sexy voice you’ve been giddy about all night:

“Darlin, how’d you get your cooter caught on that there toilet?”



Please see Lanae at the front desk. I’m sure you’ll be needing more sessions.

Try to get some sleep,
Dr. Brian

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #12

  Note: Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue"...


Dear Brian


Does Joes Crab Shack put "Stolen From Joes Crab Shack" on the crab tools because they want customers to steal them and then do advertising, or NOT steal them?


submitted by Breakfast at Tiffanys


Dear Breakfast,

First, why do you insist on not using apostrophes in your submissions? What has the apostrophe ever done to YOU to deserve such neglect? Was there an incident in grammar school? Did you watch some idiotic horror film wherein a crazed apostrophe captured townspeople and killed them with dangling participles? Perhaps we should investigate this further in another session.

Second, please refrain from spilling hot melted butter on your letters. It’s filthy and rude.

Now, to the matter at hand. On the surface, the answer to your query is quite simple. You do not take things that don’t belong to you. I don’t care what words may be printed on the object, if you did not pay for it, then you leave it alone and select something from the menu that you CAN pay for.

Did your mother not mention this to you at least once or twice during what I now presume to have been a very troubled childhood? Or was your mother right there with you at this shack thing of Joe’s, pawing the utensils as well and shifting things around in her clutch to make room for contraband? Does your family tree include the names Bonnie and/or Clyde?

And really, the more I study your submission, the more concerned I’m becoming about your true mental state, especially when it concerns thievery and deception. The letter is written in purple crayon, which is not unusual considering the nature of my clientele. But this has been written with a BROKEN crayon. And there’s a stain in the lower left corner that came from the tear ducts of a 5-year-old.

You stole this crayon, didn’t you! Snatched it from the hand of the innocent toddler at the table on your left. Judging by the stress fractures on the crayon, it seems the brave little toaster held on for quite some time before the thing finally snapped, sending the angel tumbling backwards until she whacked her head on one of the insipid pieces of memorabilia they have nailed to the walls in those places.

The restaurant manager actually had to make those irritating waiters stop line dancing to “Car Wash” long enough to attend to the sobbing child, slapping a Hello Kitty band-aid on her noggin and racing her to the nearest emergency room, bouncing around in the back of a fish truck.

Poor thing even lost the remaining half of the now-melting crayon, her grip faltering when they hit a rather nasty speed bump whilst roaring out of the parking lot. The poor little damaged crayon sailed out the window into the dark and evil night. Plink.

And you just sat there at your table, whining because your next margarita hadn’t arrived yet, asking the manager to turn the music up because some urchin was crying, and wondering if the mussels were fresh.

You are cold, indeed.

And you cannot blame your mother for this horrendous action of yours. Even if the suspicions about her concerning criminal activity are proven true, she grew up in a different time and place and would never have acted in the aggressive manner that you did.

Given the same situation, she would befriend the child first, compliment the little darling’s dress, and then, when impish Emma was distracted by the amazing choreography of the Crab Shack Rockettes, your mother would discreetly tuck the crayon into her bosom, say a few polite words of farewell, and then graciously slip away.

Of course, the child would still eventually discover the theft, but it would be hours later, and the parents would ignore Emma’s security concerns and assume that the child had simply done something stupid with the damn crayon. If Emma persists in her pronouncements about the lady with the big boobies snatching her writing tools, she would be strongly encouraged to go to bed early and think about her lies.

An unjust resolution, to be fair, but far more agreeable than your savage actions, snarling and ripping the crayon out of her weak little hand, and then hurling Shirley Temple across the restaurant, followed by a noisy and uncomfortable ride in a delivery wagon that smelled like cat treats and unwashed old people.

And we have a final matter to address with your submission. It appears that you have scribbled your correspondence on Joe’s Crab Shack stationery. (I’m amazed that they even have such a thing. I just assumed that, in a facility wherein talent-deprived individuals perform line dances and get very excited about the birthday of a complete stranger, there would be little evidence of the capability to read and write. Then again, they let YOU in the door, so all bets are off with such an establishment.)

At the top of this parchment, you have replaced JOE’S with TIFFANY’S, resulting in the phrase “Tiffany’s Crab Shack”. Now, a greener therapist than myself would diagnose this as a subconscious admission that you have a certain bodily condition that requires a visit to the “special section” of your local Walgreen’s. And this would be a fine analysis with most patients.

In your case, however, it actually reveals the true root of your neurosis. You couldn’t care less WHY Joe puts the little message on his crab crackers. Your dissatisfaction lies with the fact that he used HIS name instead of YOURS. It’s a classic case of delusional grandeur.

You want people to see your name everywhere, preferably in lights, with sparkly letters. And you don’t care what the item is, as long as your name is on it.

This is how Hitler started.

To be fair, there are other deranged neurotics like you running around out there. This is why we see Roto-Rooters becoming Roberto-Rooters and Porta-Potties becoming Portia-Potties. But you have gone beyond the normal dementia, now that you have bitch-slapped a child and then calmly ordered another round.

Speaking of which, I’m late for my next appointment. Emma is here to discuss her fear of seafood-themed restaurants and the color purple.

Please see Lanae at the front desk to arrange for another session.

With Irritation,
Dr. Brian

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

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #11

  Note:  Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue"...

And now we have an international query:

Dear Dr. Brian,

Why am I living in the only country in the world that sees fit to drive their cars on the left instead of the right side of the road. What this means is that I have to pay attention while driving and I don't like it. Please help.

Regards,

Razzie


And Dr. Brian responds:

Dearest Razzie,

We will dispense with my impulsive need to ascertain why you choose to name yourself after an expulsion of natural gas in a manner that is considered rude and offensive. We have more pressing issues to address. Another session, perhaps?

Now, this driving thing.

First, are you certain that you live in the only country in the world where people drive their cars on the left side of the road. I’m assuming you live in the UK, based on the crudely-drawn image of the Queen’s bum on the back of the envelope, the aroma of fish and chips wafting from the stationery, and the packet of matches from some pub known as “Ye Olde Snog and Shag”.

I must confess that I was a bit thrown by the matches. Why include such? Instinct tells me it’s a cry for help from one of your alternate personalities. But to be fair, there could be a less sinister explanation for you having placed weapons of fire inside international correspondence.

Perhaps you are just absent-minded, and the check covering our last session, which should have been included in this fish-reeking submission (ahem), is instead lying near an ashtray in your game room. Maybe the children have been playing with fire again. (Please DO read that pamphlet I sent you last month, “Adolescence and Arson: Kiddies Who Kill“). Anyway, I’ll assume for now that the matches were a gift. I have no use for them, but thank you.

My point being, we have established that you are in the UK. As we all know, the British have a history of being a bit pushy, running around the globe, conquering things, and turning Australia into a giant penal colony that eventually produced Mel Gibson and vegemite sandwiches. Lots of little colonies everywhere. So surely, other folk in burghs here and there drive on the left as well.

In other words, don’t be self-centered and act like you are the only one forced into inane vehicular situations. It’s fairly common. Most people survive with mental health intact. Even if it does look ridiculous, is pointless, and is the result of the English once again clinging to things that have outlived their usefulness, like figgy pudding and royalty.

And then comes the real whining: “What this means is that I have to pay attention while driving and I don’t like it.”

That, dear expulsion, is the root of your mental flatulence. It’s not that you have to pay attention, you don’t mind paying attention at all, it’s that you have to pay attention to something other than YOURSELF. This notion completely gets under your skin, causes you to snap pencils, makes your face crinkly, and you redirect your anger to innocent targets like dumb-ass local driving rules and how many steps it takes to get to the loo at the Snog and Shag.

We knew it was coming, this eventual conflict with how much you crave attention versus what anyone else in the world might be interested in at the same time. There are warning signs all throughout your files wherein you voraciously tried to steal the spotlight. Let’s review a few incidents, shall we?

Did you really think it was necessary, during your school’s third-grade Christmas production of “Mary, Joseph and a Barn”, to suddenly start turning cartwheels, naked, singing “I Will Survive”, just as they were bringing out the Baby Jesus?

I still have 4 members of that audience as clients to this day.

During that fateful presidential election, at the final debate when it was down to the wire and evenly tied, and you somehow finagled getting to ask the final question, did you think it was appropriate to ask George Bush about his stand on the pending legislation to declare May 28th as International Beaver Emancipation Day?

There was no such pending legislation, even though his staff spent several months trying to support it. Sadly, analysts have since confirmed that this staff work was viewed with great praise by certain segments of the population. In fact, George won the election simply because some people were excited about the prospect of free beaver in the future.

You changed the course of a nation just because you thought it would be fun to talk about beaver on live television. Any guilt there? Just a little?

No. You indirectly set the stage for Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, and Dick Cheney, but you’re going to whine about having to drive the Jag on the wrong side of the road. Childish twit.

It’s time for an intervention.

I realize that, with someone so self-centered that they can see out their own butt, your recovery is going to take some serious time and dedication. Your ego wasn’t built in a day. So we’ll start small. I’m going to give you a few exercises.

The next time one of your relatives does something stupid and requires immediate medical attention, please put down the microphone you always carry with you, and at least dial 9-1-1. Do not, as you usually do, consider this an evil attempt to steal your audience. Do not pretend that your cell phone is dead. Do not ask the screaming injured person to tone it down a little so you can continue your interpretive dance about the Stonewall Riots.

The next time you are at the grocery store, and the manager asks you to refrain from singing, kindly do so. Most patrons prefer perusing the produce department without accompanying vocals. This is just human nature. The request for you to cease and desist is not, as you usually assume, due to bitter jealousy over the fact that you can warble a tune while juggling melons. They just want you to shut up.

I understand this will be difficult for you. These are baby steps for most, giant leaps for Razzkind. But I want you to work on this. Try really hard, every day before taking any action, to think about whether the action is appropriate in daily life, or might possibly be a little self-serving. Or in your case, completely self-serving and could possibly result in injury, mass suicide, or World War III.

Please try very hard.

Otherwise, I will have you arrested in the interests of national security, world peace, and biblical pageantry everywhere…

Take care!

Dr. Brian

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #10

Note:  Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue"...


And we have this from sunny California:

Dr. Brian,

My friend from Canada insists on bringing me candy when she visits. The problem is I haven't eaten any of the candy because it is always something called beaver and/or elk droppings. Do you think this is some sort of delicacy there? Is it safe to eat? Am I just being a prude?


Thanks, Margaret


Margaret,

Where to begin? There is such complexity to your paragraph that I do believe we’ll have to break this down very carefully, phrase by phrase, so that we do not miss a single possible contribution to your current dysfunction.

“My friend from Canada”

How did you acquire such a thing? How do you even KNOW someone from there, let alone manage to build your relationship up to the “BFF” level? Was there a snafu involving a misdirected email and a subsequent court order? Did you make a wrong turn on your way to Martha’s Vineyard, followed by the poor decision to just “see where this road goes”?

As most learned professionals are aware, Canadians are a unique class unto themselves. In most mental science textbooks and professional journals, they usually have their own special section, usually with an introduction along the lines of “everything you have just read concerning appropriate social behavior does not apply to the following culture.”

And then there’s the issue that your “friend” can most likely see Sarah Palin from her house. Political convictions and professional analysis aside, that woman is crazy. Your friend is in constant danger of being mistaken as wildlife and gunned down by Sarah or one of her fertile, unmarried children.

For her own safety, your friend should move. Of course, this might mean leaving Canada. And then you would no longer be able to use the artsy phrase “my Canadian friend”, just “my friend”, which will lower your mystique factor and possibly introduce even more complications into your relationship.

“insists”

Friends don’t insist. On anything. They allow you to do what you need to do in order to avoid unhappiness in life, confinement to a mental institution, or jail time. Friends are there for no other reason than to enable you, provide alcohol, and destroy evidence. Canadetta is not being friendly with the insisting.

“on bringing me candy when she visits.”

The easy explanation here, for most analysts, is that we’re really talking about sex, but I believe in your case we are indeed referring to sugar-based concoctions that children ingest and then refuse to go to bed or to stop bouncing on the pogo stick. So for now, we will operate under the assumption that Canadetta is innocent at this point. Except for the part about being from Canada.

“The problem is”

No, that’s for me to decide.

“I haven’t eaten any of the candy”

Interesting. Right in the middle of a sentence you went into a regressive state. This particular phrase actually refers to a blocked memory from your junior year in high school. Despite your protests to the contrary, everyone knows you were indeed involved in the toilet papering of that house in Golden Thrust Estates. We have primitive video. Let it go.

“because it is always something called beaver and/or elk droppings.”

See, there’s that Canadian thing again. This is why Canadians always have a special section in textbooks.

"Do you think”

Of course I do. All the time.

“this is some sort of delicacy there?”

Chances are strong that it is not, since it’s Canada and all. When was the last time you heard anyone proclaiming the divinity of Canadian food? Never, that’s when. Now, that doesn’t mean they don’t actually eat this mess, and that it may even be quite popular. I don’t know. I have not had the opportunity to observe the locals in action.

It IS clear that there is apparently enough need for this type of thing that companies are producing the product in massive quantities. So either Canadians love to munch on fake poo, or they find great joy in lugging said poo across the border and watching Americans react when they see it on the coffee table.

“Is it safe to eat?”

Nothing is safe to eat. Do you not watch the news? Fresh fruit can take your life in an instant. So feel free to put whatever you want in your mouth, it’s only a matter of time before you bite into something that’s going to repeat. Might as well live it up while you can.

“Am I just being a prude?”

Now THIS is about sex, and has nothing to do with animal byproducts, gifts containing such, or Canadians. You are not a prude. You clearly enjoy sex, and have a healthy and adventuresome attitude about it. This is evidenced by the fact that you once drove toward Martha’s Vineyard. It’s obvious that they have lots of sex there. Otherwise, why would the Kennedys keep going back?

To surmise, it’s a given that you will not be able to rest comfortably until this situation is resolved. I would advise that you take direct action to alleviate the unsatisfactory conditions. As a first step, invite your friend back for another visit, artfully arrange some down time where there are no distractions, pour a few glasses of wine, and then begin.

In a pleasant and non-aggressive tone, (in other words, do not emulate anyone on Fox News), explain that, although you do indeed love a good laugh, and certainly enjoy sweets from time to time, you also enjoy variety, and would greatly appreciate offerings of another sort. Be sure that you tilt your head at the right angle, so that you appear both angelic and non-threatening.

If another insulting bag of candied excrement should appear on the next visit, you move to Phase II. I have consulted with my homies that I counsel in South Dallas, and they assure me this method will work. Calmly flip open your Blackberry, and text your friend the following:

“Bitch, don’t be bringin’ that moose crap up in my house.”

Canadetta will either never return, or on her next visit will be lugging a benign fruit basket with organically-grown produce.

Let me know how it goes!

Dr. Brian
Dr. Brian,

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #5

Note:  Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue"...


My slutty but hard-working secretary just handed me my mail, and we have this question to peruse:


Can a hangover result in death?

And Dr. Brian responds:

What an odd question. Of course it can, this happens all the time with rock stars, bored rich kids, and bitter Republicans. Especially after mid-term elections.

So you clearly have much deeper issues, and think that you are cleverly hiding your real delusions behind this innocuous query. Amateur. Surely you must be aware of my powers. I can easily and competently diagnose anyone in a 5-mile radius without even breaking a sweat. You have offended me with this childish act. I will now rip you to shreds.

First, there are the grains of sand that irritatingly fell out of the envelope when I opened your letter. You reside near a beach, or at least perform your postal activities near a beach, same thing. There are two types of people who frequent beaches: weak people with no direction in their lives, and strong people who thrive on giving direction to those weak people.

The weak go to the beach in the hopes of finding a tiny bit of fulfillment in their miserable lives, even though they are doomed and they subconsciously know it. At first, everything is pretty and the sun is nice. But soon they see all the more-beautiful people around them, hopes fade, and their thoughts turn to the ocean. The powerful ocean where perhaps they could fling themselves to a salty death.

But because the weak ARE weak, of course they don't do it. In their minds, they race to the water a hundred times, leaping over crabs and empty beer bottles in a stunning ballet of impending demise, finally catching the attention of the beautiful people as they gurgle and sink. Instead, the weak people give up their dreams and drag their sun-burnt bodies back home, and iron their clothes for another soul-crushing day in their part-time job at Sunglass Hut.

The strong people go to the beach because they mistakenly assume that God created the beach in honor of their glory. The strong don't simply walk onto the beach, they ARRIVE, wearing designer thong-wear and stomping around like Godzilla attacking the city, shooing away the weak people from the prime real estate. They carry harpoon guns to shoot any idiot servant that does not immediately provide them with requested beverages or snacky things.

And as you would expect, the strong people are there to torment the weak people. This is how life works in any environment, but especially in natural settings involving water. They laugh at the attire and hairstyles of the weak. ("I think you might have sailed right past the look you were going for, Chlamidya.") They are terrible to the children of the weak. ("Mommy drinks because you're ugly.") And they do their best to get the weak to follow through with the suicidal thoughts. ("Do you see that island over there? Cuba? I bet you can make it!")

You, dear patient, are obviously one of the strong. This is clear from the sand that poured out of your envelope, as I can see that you have personally autographed each grain. Do you have to purchase an extra airline ticket for your ego when you travel?

Now, let's move on to the stamp on your envelope. On the back of said stamp, we have the driest saliva I have ever seen. Are you SO anal that you cannot even produce adequate body fluids for postage? Do you even HAVE bowel movements, or do you just pay someone to take care of that for you?

And the stamp itself? I was unaware that you could actually purchase stamps trimmed in 24-karat gold. Amazing. Or did you just apply the gold-leaf yourself? Most likely. I'm sure you've never been satisfied with anything produced by anyone else, and you always have to embellish and upgrade. Who knows what you've done with that vagina of yours. Is it wi-fi capable now?

Yes, I know you are a woman. This is not a sexist statement, although I am sure you will attempt to take it that way, and you are already alerting your fleet of lawyers. No, it is based on the fact that you indicated your return address as "Ultimate Diva Supreme, 123 Goddess Way, Nirvana, FL." So you're either a woman or a drag queen. Oh wait, with the available surgical procedures these days, is it possible that you-

Well, drat. There's the bell, time for my next patient.

Could you possibly return for another session? Have your people get with my people. (I know you have people, anyone with your level of maintenance has GOT to have people.) My pulse is pounding at the thought of further dissection. I'm all aquiver...

Cheers,

Dr. Brian

Bonnywood Archives: Dr. Brian - Case Study #4

Note:  Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue".


This just in from left-field:

Dr. Brian, did Mikey really die from eating exploding pop rocks?


And Dr. Brian responds:

Well then, this is going to be a treat.

First, why would you even care about the answer to this question? Judging by the finger-paint smears on the torn sheet from your Big Chief tablet where you scribbled this question, you can't possibly have achieved puberty. The Mikey incident you reference occurred over 30 years ago. There is no way you could have a personal interest in Mikey or his passing. You are a rude little child with no manners.

Obviously, your parents are to blame. By calculating the angle and degree of finger-paint splatter on your "submission form" (yes, you irritating urchin, watching "CSI" can be useful, perhaps you should try it, if only to learn how you might die), it is apparent that there was no supervision during the painting session. My analysis indicates that gallons of said finger-paint were violated by your actions. Did you perhaps BATHE in the chalky fluid? Or is it that you have no motor skills whatsoever?

A good parent would never allow this unruliness. Proper parenting dictates that, should a child dare to exhibit artistic tendencies, there are strict guidelines which must be followed to avoid terror and heartbreak. As we all know, "artistes" are really just budding sociopaths teetering toward a life of alcohol and crime. Strident measures must be taken to prevent your little Picasso from one day going on a murderous rampage at the Piggly Wiggly. Clearly, the parents in this scenario did not follow the manual.

So we've settled that. Your parents suck.

But alas, as a proper physician for the neurotic and generally boring, I feel I must address your actual question, if only for legal reasons. Yes, Mikey did indeed breathe his last after ingesting chemically-treated sugar. These things happen, especially in the wanton days of the 70's when peanut farmers could become President. And people in synthetic leisure suits were running rampant, what with the gold chains and all. It was a terrible time. How this nation survived, I do not know.

But you, young artiste with your useless questions, do not have to suffer the same fate as a certain spoiled youngster who managed to look cute whilst consuming mass-produced cereal. You can rise above the evil sirens of bohemia, taunting you with their beckoning calls to stray down the rotted path of poetic license. Put down the finger-paints, you warped and miserable child, and seek refuge in the mundane platitudes of normalcy. And avoid sugar at all costs.

Best of luck,

Dr. Brian

P.S. Please return the paperweight you surreptitiously snatched from my desk. There was no door prize in our session. Thank you.

Bonnywood Archives: Flashback #1

Note:  Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue", nearly two years ago...


Case Study #1


An annoying debutante writes:

Dear Brian, how much beer, is too much? luv tiffles

And Dr. Brian responds:

Good gawd, woman, why the hell would you ask this question? Are you serious? There is no reason to worry about the limitations on beer, real or imagined or put forth by the voices in your head. There are natural laws of nature that will take care of this issue for you. Just keep drinking. Eventually you will either pass out and awake in a strange bed, or you will die of alcohol poisoning. You are wasting valuable drinking time by even bothering to ponder the implications of your actions. Order another round.

Instead, let's focus on other issues that are more important and screamingly clear in your email. First, you've got to drop the "tiffles" angle. Obviously this is not your real name. No decent parent would ever mark a child with such a pathetic cattle brand, no matter how many episodes of "Dharma and Greg" they have seen, or how many Hallmark cards they may have pawed at Wal-mart. Stop pretending. If you must take on an assumed name, go with something firm and constructive like "Studebaker" or "Propane". This tells the world that you own your life. "Tiffles" tells the world that you might wet yourself if the milk expires.

Second, let's talk about the grammar. Or better yet, the appalling confirmation that you have no idea what this might be. Yes, I have tremendous insight, and realize there was an incident in the sixth grade where your Dr. Pepper Bonnie Belle Lipsmacker application device malfunctioned, and you spilled the syrupy concoction on your English textbook, thus sealing the pages together for three semesters and you were held back a grade. This is no excuse. You were fixated on your lips, instead of attaining proper communication skills, and you must own the oversight and take steps to rectify the situation. Sign up for classes immediately.

Besides, I can tell by the way you signed your name that the boy you THOUGHT you might be attracting with your wanton lip-prepping had no interest in you. Yes, I am talking about Pete. I can visualize him by the way you parted your hair in the employee ID photo from the time you worked at Casual Corner. Pete did not want you and your glistening beauty products. He wanted to join the wrestling team, and relished the thought of having access to the boys' locker room. I cannot say any more without violating the sanctity of doctor/patient privilege.

So, Miss Studebaker, thus ends our virtual session. Drink more, apply less, and try to act like English is not your second language. Everyone will benefit.

Sincerely,

Dr. Brian