Doing the laundry and the "Third, third and a third" rule

“Take it easy boys”

“I’m just playing with you guy’s, so don’t blow a gasket over getting snookered.” I said, trying to be friendly. ”Trust me, I’ve had my tokas busted a time or two, and I know what cold concrete feels like on my back” meaning I'd had my ass kicked in before. My attempts at self-depreciating largesse didn’t work. I guess the dudes all thought I did my thinking with my left leg, which was broken at the time, being held together by a bone, muscle and skin graft and a large stainless steel cage with rods and pins running through it. The air of superiority and entitlement these guys let off was something to behold. I guess my attempt at dismantling their self-important charade didn’t sit well with these boys; all who needed to chug a few cold brewskis and lighten the hell up. It was ten o’clock in the morning, Georgia time, but it was 12:00 somewhere. All five of the psychologists I sat in front of were as solemn as judges at a hot-dog eater’s convention. I could sense they were all trying to come up with a scorching retort, but I had thought this through to a fare-thee-well. A good minute of silence passed between us before anyone made a sound. I was the last to talk, so as far as I was concerned, the stage (as it were) was theirs. The next to the oldest fellow (who talked the least) lit into me about the advantages of Psychology and how dare I attempt to make a mockery of their profession, and who did I think I was and other self-preserving flapdoodle (Thanks Mr. Twain). My answer to him, as I recollected, was along these lines. “I have a psychology minor I earned from a little old South Alabama Institute of higher learning a few years back. I studied Dr. Rorschach in-depth and defended my final thesis successfully, and although my professor disagreed with my findings, he relented. I will tell you that today, my findings back then where validated by the five of you guys…and by golly, I was right!”

Total silence.

“Here’s the way I see it. You guys operate under the “third-third-and a third” rule. Thirty-three percent get better, thirty-three percent get worse and thirty-three percent stay the same. That leaves the one percent who are shore-nuff crazy as a rat in a tin shit house, mostly assassins and mass murderer types...and guys like me. In your humble opinions, everybody is some degree of nuts or at least on the way there, and you think you have the keys to everyone’s mental kingdom. The way I see it, it’s like doing laundry. Usually one third of your clothes are dirty, one third is in the washing machine, and one third is in the dryer, waiting to get folded. Your little shell game just keeps swapping the clothes around, even if the clothes aren’t dirty. But you need to keep the laundry business rolling, so you do what you do and don’t stop to examine what it is you are really doing and who you are doing it to. Truth is, you are all just in it for the money, just like I am, except I'm in the banking business. You boys spend all your time swapping the three good, bad, and “on the way there” thirty-three per-centers back and forth so you guys can drive fancy cars and live in big houses and claim to not be in the laundry business when you all get together evenings discussing Opera, Bow-tie fashion, and vacationing in the Hampton's while you sip Glenlivet and smoke your Cubans."

"It’s quite a scam you guys are running and I for one just don’t buy it. I’m one of the remaining one percent, one of the ones who fall in with the assassins and nare-do-wells who have just decided that the circumstances I find myself in are at worst, temporary. I accept the things I can’t change. I don’t dwell on them to the point that I need your help, that’s for damn sure, and just get on with my life. I love my wife and kids, I love my parents, I love dogs but not my cat and I still whack off every chance I get and my mom never, ever, crosses my mind (OK, I don’t, but they didn’t know that). I haven’t pissed the bed in a long time but will if I damn well please. And seriously, gentlemen, I really just want to get the Hell out of this Hospital. I have been here for nearly two years and I think I’ve been here long enough. I’m not nuts and don’t plan to be anytime soon, but if I do lose it, I promise I’ll call you guys first. I will confess, I have grown weary of this charade and I would like to get back to my room so I can continue concocting my plan to take over the world, when I get out of here, of course. The way I see it, I’m just speaking the truth that all of you know anyhow. I’m not the sharpest knife in the utensil drawer I admit, but I damn sure ain’t the dullest either. There’s no crime in admitting you boys just got snookered by an ex-football playing crippled-up broke-legged unemployed dude with a great insurance plan who happened to minor in Psychology. That ought to teach you gents something…”

More silence.

The oldest guy sat for a second then grinned, ever so slightly. He knew his ass had been had and he was obviously a good sport. I then asked “I’m gonna see myself out now if you boys don’t mind. I think our business is concluded today, wouldn’t you agree? Now, could one of you get the door?” The oldest gentleman jumped up and opened the door for me and as I passed in my wheel chair, he patted me on my shoulder, I assumed, out of approval. The other four acted like they were busy with the papers in front of them. The middle name on the door dude just stared at me as I drove by, like he might need the ink blot test, administered then analyzed by low-totem pole boy after I left. He had murder on his mind, and I assumed I would be the topic of his next ten to fifteen conversations with his shrink when he needed his laundry done next time. I was sure that they were all ‘one of the three thirty-three per-centers’ with the exception of the oldest dude. I was certain he was the sharpest knife in that particular drawer evidenced by his name being last on the door. Plus, the added fact he shot me a grin and a congratulatory back pat before I left.  I also guessed that they couldn’t very well say how great the whole psychology “business” thing was unless they were paying customers too. It made sense to me. It was kinda like working at the GM plant assembling Chevrolet cars to pay the bills, but riding a horse to work every day.

Word got around the Hospital about my visit with the resident Psychology majors and how I had busted their little party up. I’d occasionally see the five psychology dudes I had snookered as they walked around the hospital. I was a friendly guy, so I’d call out to them just to say hello, while riding around in my wheelchair. None of them, save for the oldest fellow, would even acknowledge my presence. He’d usually nod, wave and smile, and sometimes speak if he had a minute. I really liked that guy. After my visit it must have gotten out that I had bested the five at their own game. Everywhere I went I was met with smiles and thumbs up from the various nurses, interns and doctors, most usually so absorbed they didn’t give so much as a glance. I guess in some small way, I had done what all of them wanted to do but dared not do. The visits I got from the staff nurses, interns and even my own doctor elevated me to celebrity status, all humored by my leveling of the field. They'd ask me to recount the visit I had with the five Shrinks and I obliged them every time they asked. I even considered charging admission, I did it so much.When I told the tale, I used the rule my dad taught me when I was young. "Do repetitious things with renewed enthusiasm, and success is guaranteed."

I like that.

See you Monday!