Watermelon Eating and The Psychologists Five

Nothing against the Psychology industry, but this self-righteous Dill Weed of a doctor basically stated that I was “suppressing” my “feelings” about the “near miss” concerning the chemo injection I thwarted at the last-minute. He didn’t know I thought my Dad had invented ass-whuppins as a way of  keeping me in line, and I wasn’t looking for a rifle and a tall clock tower so I figured I was as normal as any man who had luckily side-stepped an accidental chemotherapy treatment meant for one Mr. Green. He insisted that I come to see his staff immediately and it (the sessions) would all be paid for by the hospital. No charges would be incurred by my insurance or myself. I didn’t have anything better to do so I agreed to the visits, and it would fill my day with something besides watching the clock, timing the flights that would come and go over Atlanta, and reading everything I could get my hands on. In my bored state I read every medical journal, Physicians Desk Reference, Gideon’s Bible, toothpaste ingredients, you name it, I read it.

Did you know that Methochloroisothyiazolonone is the longest ingredient in shampoo?

Now you know. It is also good to know that every shampoo bottle that I read, from the Mad Dog 20/20 “swill” brands to Dom Perignon, all contain that one ingredient. I guess I should be careful telling this secret as I don’t want the multi-billion dollar shampoo industry sending it’s hired assassin to silence the lone still voice distilling the dark secrets of the shampoo cartel. Look on your shampoo bottle next time, it’s there I’m tellin’ you, it's there.

I said that I read everything I could get my hands on and I meant that one. I am a college graduate and my major was/is Finance and Marketing with a minor in Psychology. I was hedging my bets back then figuring that I could sell “it”(whatever future “It” might be), finance “it” and convince the potential buyer they needed that same “it” all in one fell swoop. I could also use my psychology minor to convince my potential customer that if they didn’t need “it”, their decision might be because of deep-rooted hatred of mankind or suppressed feelings involving their mother’s rejection or some other BS like that. It made good sense to me at the time. I share that part of my story to point directly to the Psychology minor I attained while matriculation at my mid-sized southern university (key the solo twangy guitar music with flanger accompaniment) and no, this is not a story out of Penthouse Forum. What is was, as I saw it, was a way to really do a number, carefully, on the psychology dudes I was going to have to sit with and whose company I was going to have to endure until they deemed me ”alright”. I decided that I’d go along with the program, play the game and maybe get a little satisfaction from knowing I had screwed with these ass-hats in the process. It was all from having waaay to much time to think on my hands, the one commodity I had in abundance.

When my nurse found out about my required visits, they were all very judicious in the warnings they gave telling me these psychology boys could make or break you career wise. Nurses and doctors obviously deal with a lot of hurting people and in many cases, a number of those hurting people die. It goes with the territory, I assumed, and the reason I chose banking. You go to the bank when you need to get a loan, the airport to get on a plane and you go to the hospital when you get really sick or need surgery. I can’t imagine having death as a regular part of ones job, but apparently the money is good so a lot of good doctors, and a few bad ones, make good money dealing with it. My point is, these hospital workers were required to go see the Shrinks on a semi-regular basis, I assumed it was to keep them from considering jumping off the same building they worked in, the same building I was planning my leap from (In the Shrink’s eyes of course). I guess, all in all, I had fifteen or so nurses and even my own orthopedic doctor warn me not to screw with these guys, they’d have you thrown in a rubber room where sniffing your own arm pits might be your only recreation. I knew I’d have to navigate these waters carefully if I were to have any fun with these gents. I didn't have anything else to do.

I certain I mentioned I had obtained a minor in psychology. My final "thesis" (yes I had to write a thesis, even for a minor) for the flim-flammers who administered the degree, major or minor, was one I was instructed to take seriously. It seems the “Clan Psychologist” are all part of an exclusive club of sorts. They seem to get really pissy if you even remotely make fun of, or question the validity of, the Psychology profession. My final thesis was on Dr. Herrman Rorschach himself, the god of all things Inkblot, author of the one unifying test of exactly how looney-tunes you might really be at any given moment. One’s individual degree of “Looney-Tunery” would vary depending on the myriad of answers one might give to the Rorschach test, utilized by every psychologist I have ever encountered. Besides the five dill-holes I was engaged with at Georgia Baptist Hospital, the number would add up to six. Five at the Hospital and the one I dealt with in College. I swear, it was like they all knew each other. They spoke the same, wore the same clothes, same bow ties, carried the same J. Peterman leather mail Bag pouch, (slung over the shoulder or carry with the “generous leather handle”, $299.00 at JPeterman.com), clones. It was like they all read some secret newsletter on how to look and dress like a psychologist. They were the grown up, doctor version of "The Children of the Corn".

When I was “fetched” for my initial interview with the Shink Boys, I first met with a group of five men. Again, the same five of the six that I had met up to that point in my life, excluding my college professor. I was met with smiles and "hi-how-are-ya’s", but was immediately asked to describe my relationships with my wife, kids and parents, whether I whacked off as a kid, pissed the bed, killed a pet and hated my mother, all standard fare for a first visit I assumed. Next, I was wheeled into a room, where the youngest of the Shrink Boys was to administer the fabled Rorschach Ink Blot test designed to reveal my innermost secrets and unleash all sorts of suppressed demons from the recesses of my innermost psyche. If you must know, I do love my wife (been married for 29 years now) and I love my kids, I have pissed the bed a time or two, but usually at my Grandma’s house because I’d eat so damn much watermelon I’d dream I was pissing one. I whacked off so much as a kid I thought I’d invented it myself, so that was covered. I’d never purposely killed a pet and I probably hated my Mother a time or two in my life, like most folk. She was, after all, the woman who made me quit pooping my diapers, get up and go to school, and stop sucking boobies for sixteen years until I could convince my girlfriend to let me take up the habit again. I was, for all intents and purposes, as sane as they came.

And I knew that Rorschach test like the back of my hand. That was where I would screw with these bunch of clowns but good. I had a plan and it involved Sirhan Sirhan (the assassin) and Mr. Rorschach.

The story does get more interesting