The Troubled Therapist

February 14, 2012

Mitt Romney, Rick Santorum and Ritalin Marsmallows

You know I got to take it easy. I saw the lemonade kid hawking Ritalin marshmallows for good times and a whole bunch of “see you laters”. And it got me to thinking. The world is a cheap theatre. We are all patrons — some paying, some forced-contributors and the ones like me: interpreters bogarting reality.

Hey Mr. Spaceman won’t you please take me along … hey Mr. Spaceman … u’mm … what [?]

Why is Mitt Romney singing a long time gone? Surely he can’t stand the light of day. Oh he speaks out against the madness, but he is what he speaks out against as he tries to get himself elected. And the madness: A history of many physical complaints beginning before age 30 years that occur over a period of several years and result in treatment being sought or significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning is really a long time coming. Or so it appears in mirrors.

Really.

All Mitt wants to do is be friends with the many of his personas — inspected or rejected. In this I see him as an interpreter bogarting his reality in a clandestine way so far from where he left himself after promising not to do like he did — now or in the future. He must fly. She must fly. Who? Whom? Mitt? Who knows? He doesn’t.

And the lemonade kid hawking Ritalin marshmallows…? His whole bunch of “see you laters” have harvested into cultish boredom respective of the introspective culture shock Rick Santorum has embraced and released to the public in numerous debates and hefty Pennsylvania earmarks earmarked for open hands before clasping in prayer. Oh he’s craftily crafted innocent enough, but don’t let his looking like the Big Boy statue serving burgers in Warren, Michigan fool you or the many personas [Romney] Newt Gingrich wishes would fade away on the street where he lives sufficiently breathless and fat. Yes, Newt too wishes he could fly, figure out reality and figure spaghetti dinners disguised as lasagna metaphors and historical bipedal histrionics.

Newt is such a fig.

Hey Mr. Spaceman I want to come along. Hey Mr. Spaceman … I’m so tired, my mind is on the blink …

I didn’t realize the effective nature of my treatment coinciding with a history of many physical complaints beginning before age 30 years that occur over a period of several years and result in treatment being sought or significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning. My patients can see what I see and I need you Michele Bachmann.

Can you hear me knocking?

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November 8, 2011

Herman Cain’s need for Helium and Pop Tarts

Happy times are depressing without helium. Don’t worry if you find yourself without helium or a physician [psychiatrist, ophthalmologist, phlebotomist, {or horse whisperer}] willing to write a script for tension alleviating pharmaceuticals or Thai massage happy endings. I’m going to discuss a potential epidemic seeping into the electoral culture, kindergartens, free form finger paintings and Joe Cocker interpreter associations: flipmitusfloppimusrearrangeddreangement  [FFRD[or say what [?] disease]}].

Now I know the millions of you not following my blog would rather I discuss Dyspareunia and the depression that can result from vaginismus and the complete lack of lubrication in grape jelly, but present topic sideways, the need for FFRD education is paramount in Peoria and beyond.

To understand the symptoms of FFRD, the medical disestablishment must first recognize [my genius] potential afflicted affected nondescript described sufferers, and to distinguish said sufferers with potential plaintiffs of a class action suit aimed at silencing and lobotomizing [my genius] practitioners versed in the idiosyncrasies of Herman Cain’s denials, rebuttals, fondness for big butts, and secret-sauce stuffed salamis, or Mitt Romney’s fascination with which way the wind blows and imagined conversations with Ken dolls and Rick Perry [sans funny penguin walk and imagined disbelief at the believable {as it pertains to the scriptures and cartoon network marathons}] Ron Paul casting puppet shadows at Rick Santorum.

No?

More clarification?

Think of Michele Bachmann — I do three times a day. My fascination with her ability to increase paranoia within a delusional state [hers] as it pertains to Orville Redenbacher’s super secret popcorn and the gayness associated with corndogs brings on a serious case of Dyspareunia, but I digest.

More clarification?

Well, add to my research [fantasy] that Bachmann exhibits no signs of FFRD: external finger paint stains, Joe Cocker seizure-gestures [or faxed-facsimiles], leads one to believe her strengths struggle with cogent thought and tuna fish. Now I suggest one pay careful attention to the finger paint stains of Romney, Perry, Santorum, Paul [Gingrich ate his] { Cain is in perpetual denial of all things stained and oral}], and you have it: classic flipmitusfloppimusrearrangeddreangement  [FFRD[or say what [?] disease]}]  Sadly, the only known cure is helium or codeine coated pop tarts — untoasted.

Now where’s the grape jelly?

July 12, 2011

Debt Ceiling, Michele Bachmann and Boehner Blow-up Dolls

Filed under: comedy,humor — Chuck A Stetson @ 1:40 PM
Tags: , , , , , ,

I’ve been on sabbatical. Fueled by wasteful thinking, Wonton soup noodles and a belief in the disbelief that my patients were mannequins suffering from DAMP [deficits in attention, motor control and perception], I acquiesced to diagnosis’ of Autagonistophilia [there was only that one time {maybe three or four} in the chorus line of A Beautiful Mind in Rio], Internet Addiction Disorder and Michele Bachmann –Turner Overdrive Wishful Polyandry On Alternating Wednesdays Disorder. But that’s in the incurable past.

Many of my patients and similar facilities of functional compunctions with compulsions to shimmy-shimmy-shake, have voiced growing anxiety over the inability to manage staring at the ceiling debt [? {— transference of complexities on to inanimate animation}]. Electric shock therapy, Silly String therapy, prophylactic therapy and terseness within flower arranging seminars, have proved ineffective in treatment of the ceiling debt or debt ceiling [terminology depends on regionalist predilections on proprietary fiscal madness] paranoia. After much thought and dialogue with my colleagues at the Cartoon Network, I’ve determined a course of reactive treatment disproportionate to the situation — the raising of my hourly rate. While this influx in capital will help to alleviate the concave comedy of watching one’s ceiling, there’s soon to be irrefutable evidence to the contrary. That’s the magic of DC [Debt Ceiling] Madness.

As in past treatment options, adherence to medication is optimally optional pending delusional approval from the makers of M&M’s and John Boehner blowup dolls with facsimile fascia. Should — by fact of reason or understanding that the inanimate stasis of ceilings [dropped, plastered, dry-walled or apricot pitted] have nothing to do with debt outside of the inner-workings of asylum-vested vestige and/or the other, my determination to wander wanderlust into the der ernsthaft heiß blue eyes of Michele Bachmann will continue to undermine my attempts at collateral-collage making until the powers that be reinstate internet privileges or my next scheduled appointment.

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