Monday, December 14, 2009
A funny thing happened at the shrink's office
Like many another borderline psychotic, today I seem to hiss, "If one more thing goes wrong!.."
If one more thing goes wrong it's out with the horse pistol and do in this old equus. They shoot horses, don't they?
Ahh. Echoes of beautiful Jane Fonda out of that old movie.
Things going wrong. Things winding down. It is nearing the end of December and all creatures are stirring to cause trouble, even the mouse...Squirrels stole my pizza which I had left out in the balcony to cool. Glass coffee table broken where I'd slammed down the whiskey jigger. Out of coffee, out of cigarettes, worse still out of rum. Spiderwebs all over. Computer all but crashed. Entropy. Things are winding down, going to hell.
Ever have one of these days? Like fingernail on the blackboard--or greenboard as I remember from my teaching days.
I begin to imagine how PMS might be like for a woman.
One told me, in a recent crisis, she wanted to commit homicide. I pointed to her husband. "Is this the homin you wann cide?" "Yes!"
I wanna go out and "cide" someone.
"Let's get rid of some of this piss and vinegar," a lover implores.
Afterwards, "You're still an asshole. I can't stand you."
Tough luck, Henrey Muck.
Press F for Psycho.
It's a bit like the weekend hunter on a Thursday afternoon. He stumbles around the house, breaks TV, crashes computer, argues with wife. Bull in a china shop.
He can't wait to hear the familiar beep of his asshole buddy's truck so he can load the guns and gear and get the hell out of the house. "And good riddance," sighs the harried wife.
Well, I am more fisherman than hunter, but something's up.
I got an email from somebody important in publishing.
And it crashed halfway through. I got the gist of it. A possibility of an award, but where and from whom, as it was sent anynumous. I could tell by the Bronx inflection in the copy that it was from New York.
Lost it. Now from me a Bronx cheer. Waszuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
Seems this morning I am not going to make New York until I am posthumous. Dead.
Ha. Now that would be a career move.
I am letting that enthusiasm pass.
"What's wrong," says the doctor. "You got your health."
"You're the one making a hundred dollars an hour. You tell me."
"You're an asshole," he says.
"For crimminy's sake, I knew that! You're getting a hundred dollars an hour for this revelation?"
"Blah-blah-blah blah blah blah blah Mother
Bah blah blah blahe blah blah blah Penis
Blah blah blah blah blah blah Money."
"Omigod.You hit the nail on the head.
It's not mother, it's not penis, it's money!"
"So what else is new?
I think we can finish for the day....Oh. You're in Canada?
Am I going to send Premier McGuinty a bill!"