Friday, February 12, 2010

WARNING!! Weed Whacker!! Harmful if Swallowed!! by Mel A. Noma

NOTE: My Pop, severely pragmatic, was a shrink for about seventy-seven-years after he got through his residency, medical school, and completely went around the ranks of the USAF where he was a major living in San Antonio in the groovy, Austin-Powers-70s. Guess they thot he was pretty nifty and capable for all he had shown on his 11,111,111-page-resumé filled with huge words (yes, it was a quarter-mile-thick - a few words were, wow, several alphabets long in psychologist's terminology); he went in to respond to 'Nam and, immediately, they gave him that high rank because of his eloquent knowledge and skool-O-thot which set him apart from the Vox Populi. Quite spectacular. I'm severely proud of you, Pop --- This lengthy story is a compilation of my experiences with shrinks who sed I'm crazy for my belief, but don't tell, k? Lemme begin...
" ... Wanna hear about the axiomatic reality of Heaven Above and what I desire?" very explicit and breathless, spit flying like a KC-135 (those four planes? F-15s). I wanna tell the whole world. "Actually, I look forward - " "Wait, wait, wait," in a tired voice. "Has this anything to do with your neurosis?" the overly tired shrinkdom sed, looking down at his notes, like he wanted to show me how completely exhausted he was in dealing withis mortal from Joisey --- Refusing to let my impulses take control AGAIN, I took a deep breath. The psychiatrist, which didn't want anyone to think, only him, only made him more uncomfortable. I repeated slowly, "One more alleviation to your anxiety, I'll say the following. Just like the public doesn't say 'SOFT DRINK' with a T, no one ever sez 'RASPBERRY' with a P. C'mon. Spell it correct. You say 'rasssberry'. S'up witchoo, America?" Shaking his head, subliminally overjoyed at the unabated lunacy. "You aren't playing by the official rules," he warned, laughing, writing summore in his glee. "Oh, and you are?" "Most definitely." I could see exactly what went on in his Clockwork-Orange, Freudian mind - hereNnow. Never the pursuit of circumstances, never subconscious. Piss'n-me-off. Wondered how he received his useless degree. Nevertheless, there was I in my form-fitting, lifetime-warranty, Ralph-Lauren-straightjacket, stuck in this cold, shrink's office withe stained, oppressive glass which wouldn't lemme through to the eager cement seven-stories-below; rolling my eyes like the Omen child, staring at my tired, tennis shoes, far ahead of the editor. Phazers on stun. "I like wearing Converse All-Stars because, if you read Daniel 12:3, that's precisely what I am." "Now we're getting somewhere," with a sigh, like he could finally jump-through-the-hoops to a conclusion. Like Pavlov's dogs. "And why do you say that?" "I goldang done rekkon, Paw," tryin' to sound like a hik from Arkkkansaw, hopin' he wood be more susceptible to my psychodrama, "when I was younga o'er yonda, livin' on the farm in Kansas, I thot the days wood go on and on indefinitely. Out there in the wild, where the earth meets the sky, explorinNtrekin with my crazy Oliver, we'd ascend to the tops of mountains leading to forever, the caramel-color at dusk, the peaceful tranquility of being seven... but, now, the days seem to fly swiftly by. I strongly believe we'll see the Holy Roller in our lifetimes." "And who might that be?" Gads. Appears notta whole lotta juice nor sawce behind his cranium, Jack Ruby. "The Holy Roller - one second you're alive? The nexxt? You're pushin'-up the daisies, baby, with XXs o'er yer eyes. Jesus rolls you over like the mob. Looks like you're approaching, Pops." Gasped did he. "But, yet, good guys have this fuel-valve, a float thingy, this rudimentary knowledge of what lies ahead so we divert." "Precisely. Isn't that why you came here?" sed outta spite, breaking the vigorously-quiet- atmosphere. "Touche, head shrinker. To be engulfed in this. I see how you work. I see. Aren't you a taaad anal-retentive?" He gasped once again. "Thot so, seer-sucka." "Don't I gotta defend you from a delusion?" "Don't I gotta right-to-incite, dumbass?" "Isn't that the consequence of your so-called 'Bad Seed'?" "Partially. Partially..." gosh, he was quick withe comebacks, firing-away. Must git better aim. "Some people see my first novel as saucy and sick in their salacious fantasies. That's fair. I guess. They got a right to their effortlessly, Miss Guided opinions. However, now hear this," and let go a RIP-ROARIN, LOUD-ENOUGH-TO-WAKE-THE-DEAD FLATULATION ((WITH A HEFTY, PALPABLE, DRAWN-OUT-SKWEEEK AT THE FINISH)) Bravo! Encore!! ...which smelled of robustness and healthy, swamp-gas-miasma; furthermore, I firmly believe the looong, shockwave BOOM! could've powered the X-1 or at least my house for an hour. How verrry cool. Betcha couldn't do that again. The silence was def, dude. Finally, he sed, in the perfect-psychoanalyst-accent, as he backed away and shut his eyes, "How flagrantly repulsive - " "Why, thank you." "That'll be 3,650 demerits. We - " "Gee, a full year. How grand. Ever read JD Salinger?" "We - " Just then, running up to the door, was his gnarly secretary. "Everything alright?? I heard an explosion." Glorious. "Yes, yes," yelling back. "Everything's fine," with eyes skyward. "We don't do things of that, shall we say, odd nature," speeking to me again, and, before the wind wandered in again, he put on this gas-mask he had in response to my many 'disquietude eruptions'. But, alas! Death and disease were everywhere: very uncomfortable and lingering was the flagrant methane drifting inexorably like WWI gas along the filthy trenches; I could almost see the poison cloud, a sickly-colour-of-green waiting to infect and mortify. "Die to self, baby," sed I. "Live for Christ. I'm damm sure the apostles let go, yet, the Bible doesn't say one word." "BUT NOT WITHE FORCE TO POWER A NASCAR!!!!!" he screeemed, tearing at his mask. HeeHee. How glorious. "No, sir," I yelled back. "The Norse never lived in Madagascar. You're funny. Your tribes are skrewed like your hot secretary. Let's move on, Mista Spock - you're lookin' pretty dapper and ridiculous, I must say. Nanoo-nanoo. Physical or cognitive, we're all doomed to be either living or croaked. While you? endOstory." "Is that a death threat?" quickly removing the superficial mask. "Puh-leeze. Ever seen Stelvio Pass, Italy? If our convo gets any more convoluted, as is our convo, you must condemn me - and, as you can see, I'm quite full of myself, huh?" "But," furiously studying his notes, "one of these things is not like the other - " "Sesame Street rocks." NOW we're getting somewhere - chasin' after the wind. "Forget about it, Pops. Tokin' 'bout discipline, are we, which I do believe to be the essential responsibility of these extra-killer-novels? Groovy. As has been implied by the 'come-uninvited' title of this book, Common Cents, our spoken language swiftly turns into something extremely distasteful when you have the lounge-chair-quarterback viewing his team losing, don't you?" "Simply fascinating. Really. Go on," as he yawned, scribbling. "Even under George I, an English king who didn't know English!" Guess he didn't wanna learn any wisdom; finally, I gave-up, my head down, praying. When the hell am I ever gunna get outta this nasty whole in the hall? Praying my Guardian Angel would at least help me get this spot itched. Much, much better. Lemme tell youse what happened. First, the shrink's face got all ashen, dropped his pen, started drooling, and began making these odd sounds which weren't of the English language; he pointed, too, right behind me, as I felt this warm, inviting, sooothin' eminence envelop this sinfull mortal. Immediately knowing who it was, I called out her name, Juliet, my jewel. She put her arms on my shoulders. "Zamma-lamma-ding-dong," as Mr. Shrink'nStuff pointed. "Your frat house, huh?" As she went in front, preparing to help me off withis, her angel's wings knocked over his scrawney elephant, taking-away everything problematic - including the straightjacket. "Oh, and tell Janet - " "You love her? I think she knows, dear. Always fight to win this race; always look to the Cross of Jesus whom you must face someday. Be strong. Be at peace. I'll be waiting Upstairs." Then, she disappeared into the blue sky. "Now," sed I, all staunch as his diploma which he might have gotten on-line. "You were saying?" "I was saying, what if humans howled at police sirens?" "Wouldn't that be a screem? They'd still be human. I'd still be I. However, call me odd, for am I'm not of this world." "Yes, yes, you're most definitely odd," quickly. "Precisely the reason you're here." How wude!! And there was absolutely no response of what had just happened... and beginning to think he had in fact gotten his degree on-line. Nevertheless, the plethora of narcissism was completely august. Not gonna let it bother me, however, for I had something far, far down the court of this Olympia-size-lifetime, as we'll see in short order. "Which reminds me," sed I, picking my gorgeous nose. "You're as caustic as a goober, Doc, only high as a spitoon, and lil' cowpokes sometimes miss," swiftly flingin' it at him, though, gotta wanna watch my Super-Duper-Ninja-Skills. Cool. Verrry cool. It lovingly stuck on his left hand: warm, inviting, scrumptious; additionally, it just stared at him with an untamed, untouched-by-man face, wanting to be succulent touched and kneaded. "EGADS, boy!!! DAAAMMM you!!! That'll be 979, 929, 939, 989, 999, 123, 456, 678, 6675, 774, 846, 9999, 1897, 5576.9899 and 5/8th demerits!!!!!" almost rising outta his seat-of-power, spittle flying, eyes bulging, his jaw dropped, too, staring at the timeless booger, not knowing whether to call 911, faint, or flatulate; furthermore, he just stared at me, not knowing whether to have this ungodly person enshrined as a Master Golfer for landing that whispering, gorgeous shot or have my head mounted on the wall. Up and down, up and down went his eyes, completely perplexed in complete astonishment. "Totally-Cool-Injun-Fire-Water." Went on like this, not a peep spoken, for a good, two minutes. A Kleenex finally dispelled the whole matter. SSSterling idea. "Gnarly, nasty, putrid, disgusting," under his breath, giving me the evil-eye. "Anymore athat, son, and... and I'll put you in solitary!!!" Feigned shockk, as I softly sed, "Appears you liked that goober-natorial race," checked my Dimex. "Guess I'll be here till I'm a very kold_kadavr, huh? Though, that wooodn't look too damm swell for your other three patients. Kinda stanky, huh?" I got dead-serious then, grinning summore. "Yo! Meelworm! Don't gimme any. You heartily rejoiced in the flicking of my nostril waste." Breathing heavy, vicious stare... "Dude, seriously. Picture a dollar; one, single buck. It wood be a scream and a half if the Feds asked me whom I'd put on the dollar bill, wooodn't it? WOODN'T IT??" I could tell he was ready to weep, the rehab was so unreponsive. He looked at me and sighed. "I can't help you without - " "You're missing the point, Norman Bates, and the point is this: the wash-is-done." "What?????" reading the horizontal fallout from Sigmund Freud. "That's completely irrelevant." "If you'll just lissen to wisdom: the wash is only starting the spin cycle." Sighing, putting down his pen. "Wanna know who? Wanna? Ya wanna? Wanna know? A Cross!!! Shining bright!!! Dispelling the darkness!!! Withe words on the top, 'IN HOC SIGNO'... then, at the bottom, 'VINCES'!!!!! That's precisely where 'washing' is part of our saving grace. Though Democrats and Republicans are very wishy-washy on the idea, I stand before you proudly as a Republicrat, till I became Otto+Mann, Emperor of Persia." Just then, I could see a distinct change come over his face, like he was set to plot a course to my recovery but then, "Of course, of course," as any good psychoanalist wood say when they want their patients to feeel well but nevertheless psychopathic. "Tell me about your childhood," was his easy answer. "It goes like this, doc," shrugg'n my shoulders, "all a complete mystery to me if my cerebral-cortex hadn't been damaged..." Hmmm... "But, yet, one time, when I had gone to the Windy City, when I thot about becoming a Capuchin, lay brudda, I saw a dirt-poor-humanoid in the bus terminal, sleep'n or starv'n or both. I offered to him lunch. Then, he went back for seconds. My duty it is to serve humanity," stand'n on the cowch, praising God, doing the hula-hoop without the hula. "Tell me something," getting all staunch and business like. "Why did you do that? Those actions made you feel worthwhile? Get down, please." "I am," groov'n summore. "Just told you, Shrink'nStuff. My duty and honor it is to serve humanity." He made a sly, deviant chukkle, writing summore. I took note. "I can also cycle about 600 miles in a decent month, 750 plus in a fantastic month, pass'n-out our cards tell'n the world about our novelty, err, I mean, novels," descending like a BIG and BAD, blue and beautifull F-4U Corsair. Pappy Boyington wood be proud. He had a gobba crazy pilots, too. Love you, Pappy. Be at peace, Lt. Col. Enjoy the blue sky. Goody. Gott'n eye all squinty. I closed mine eyes and repeated the mantra with gusto, "Like a cage fulla teeny mice doing their significent, big wheel, how they go! Weeeee!! But, alas, they go nowhere. Witheir small brains, they actually think they're accomplishing something, as they get-off, wiping the sweat from their brows, punching each other in the arm. Some of 'em even go out for a beer, proud of the fact the scenery hasn't changed. That makes me depressed." "Why do you say that?" sitt'n-up, almost dozing. Yawn. He's seen my case thousands of times. "Why, you asketh? Figures if you could have eyes that were disposable, woodn't it be cool to have contacts which would DISSOLVE after a month, too??" Mr. ShrinkSummore speaketh again, annoyed at my ambiguous, blase answer, this smelly mortal who didn't use any deorderant this morning, sitting on his posh sofa a quarter-mile-deep. Playing with his fragile intellect, I sighed deep so he could hear me, "O tumbleweed! Where for art thou going? Why for art thou mouring? Got this hole in me soul, brudda, I just can't fill as I wok-up that lonely hill without Thy will." Got him. Just a lil' more. Confused look, gett'n pink in the face. "You sed, 'I'm such a small, mortal sinner, with a finite number of days, which has gotten thinner - " "Use as directed, ya curious, golf ball. I SAID, 'the strong survive'. What's with you? Can't you read the subliminal? Can't you reeed between the Beethoven lines? I thot shrinks were supposed to be eff'n brilliant like my Pop. I have faith, ok, making me strong?" putting my hand on his knee as if we were at a wake. "The weeek are of this world, which shall perish, relying on their own power. Just like the wicked lightening flashing beneath our clothes, our lives are over before we knows. You're nuthin', doc, but an exhalation, foretold by an unorthodox dedication at Harvard; you 'grease-the-palms' of thy administration to 'pass-the-buck' of thy legislation." "But... but... you're ..." looking frantically at his notes. "You don't wanna be accused of being a Roamin' Catholic and, yet, googlin' over beautifull women who lie in wait. Have I got that much??" "Bravo, Stingray! Bravo!" looking 'round, putting one digit over my mandibles, whispering, "But, sometimes, not very off'n on my gorgeous Cannondale, I used to go IN the OUT!!!" He made a gasp and drooling, and, frantically scribbling was he, he had to make absolutely sure he didn't lose a single word, so intent was his conviction I was crazy. Of course HeeHee I didn't help matters any. This applies to both: one who had the katchy, Martian dialect down, but, yet, didn't know what to do with it because it wasn't spoken on earth as YET among the psychos. "And I see you have an El-Camino," looking down outta the decrypt, barred glass. "A sleek, 70s, disco car. Ouch. That's hot, man. How fast does thy El-Camino go? Fast enough to katch alla the girlies??" "Ummm..." "The American population reminds me of that girly in 'Natural Born Killers' who - " "Oliver - " Nodding. "Who played alongside Woody. Little history. The bloody-Kearns-Clan came from North Ireland. We were shorter than average, yet, as tuff-as-nails. Saint Brendan, who I'm named after, sailed the seven-seas. A 'cairn', how we got the name, made of 17th and Stone, was about three-feet-tall and is a road marker when those bloody blokes didn't have any way of telling where they was in rainy England." "Ummm..." "You chose that auto because that auto made you feel worthwhile, important, something which you don't get too much of at home or in therapy, do ya? Am I right? AM I RIGHT???" "Yes, thera-pissed." "HEY! Don't get too mouthy, son. Think about it. Studying Freud. Egad. Who'd ever name their kid Sigmund?? I definitely believe he had a definite complex. What a horrid, horrid name." "Ummm... Don't I need to analyze you?" "QUIET, weinerschnitzel! I'm tokin. You're to take notes." "Ummm..." "Sad how most young adults today feel exactly the same way: looking to the superficial doldrums, the transitory to feel the superficial joy, instead of getting down on thy knees and asking our loving God for direction." "Blasphemy! It's... it's German!! And... and I think it's a wonderful name!!!" all flabbergasted and aghast. "German-Sherman!! The German's didn't make Sherman's, dude!! If they did, they wouldn't have lost WWII so fast, dumbass. Besides, shrink's ain't supposed to think. Wake-up," pressing my advantage because nobody else wood in this krazy, psychosomatic ward where you had wild, French women doing their accents with an accent-grave-spin. Could tell he wanted to cry. This is cool. "Then," continued I, sure this wasn't gonna continue along the joyful road to recovery, settling down again amid the lush, velvety rivulets for the last time. Hopefully. "POOF!! I -" "Yes! O yes! Poof! Foop! I enjoy that nasty word very much," wringing his hands and dreaming like a young child who's heavily into his solids. "Freud wood, too, symbolizing a complete nullifying of emotion forming - " "Nadda!" coverin' my ears. "You and ire finished!!!" throwing down the ironic gauntlet, getting-up to leave. "You're absolutely right-on-target, though," was his last, sane statement. "With absolutely nuthin' whatsoever logical to say, you've sed everything. You're a very wise, young cretin. Get outta here. You smell like someone on B-vitamins." "Yeah? Lissen close, Pops. Like a tree putting down her faithful roots, so I must do to Christ." Poor, pasty, white dude, squirmin' and writhin' under the Ajax, form-fitting, lifetime-warranty-straightjacket the ogres put on him. Snarling at her, running down the insincere hallway, the dagnasty secretary was shocked and dismayed. I sed loudly, walking by her, "I can give you a fundamental ultimatum with an enormous alternative or - " Her mouth dropped to the floor. "You can have either a repressive regime or a competing circus, out after ten days, Miss Glitch" [which was her real name BTW). "I was gonna make my novelty in such a way the deaf could understand my work, as I went through that whole, schismatic process myself... but, then, I decided against it for one reason. The deaf must have things sed strictly fundamental and straightforward. No subliminal twists, thank-you-very-much; no reading-between-the-lines. The C.D. has set me apart from the human race as a catalyst for change." Thank you, Lord Jesus, for the blue sky! And, lookit! The wash is done!!
-Hilaire Belloc
And, please, audit the Fed, will ya?

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