Doctor: OK. OK. So Peter, I want to get more of a... a picture of where you're coming from. As a therapist, I need background, I need info. After all, you didn't, ah, ah, you didn't just spring into being as you are now, huh? So let's start with your childhood, anywhere you want, just tell me something about yourself.
Peter: This morning I thought of a design for buttons that fold in half.
D: I'm not sure I follow.
P: Well, you know how hard it is to get a jacket buttoned sometimes? Because you have to force the button through the hole, and sometimes the hole is a little too small?
D: Ah, no, no Peter, I can't say that I have. Now, let's, ah, let's narrow in a bit, shall we?
P: You've never had an issue with your buttons?
D: No. Now, Peter, as your doctor, as your therapist, I need you to concentrate. I need you to help me.
P: Pretty tall words for a prostitute.
D: Excuse me?
P: You're a prostitute. A street walker. You take my money, you listen to my problems. You're like a surrogate friend with a cordial demeanor and a cash flow problem.
D: Peter, this isn't appropriate and this isn't the way therapy works. Now, I'm going to have to be quite firm: Tell me about your childhood.
P: Don't you talk down to me, slut.
D: Now Peter, I'm just not
P: You walk around, flashing your credentials. Oh yeah, the seamier patients, the real nuts, they're farther down the line, aren't they? You're not going to be one of them, are you doc? Are you? Listening to perverts talk about jacking off in public for the dough to get a few new ties with ugly patterns, prescribing Zoloft to Mormon couples who aren't fucking enough. No, no, no, you're the big doctor, sure you might open up those hirsute legs of yours once in a while, let a mental case into that steaming pit of returned deli meat for a 55 minute session, but it's just a day job, right?
D: Peter, stop. Just stop.
P: Your gaping mental pussy, just open for everyone to come and deposit their problems? Why not just put a sign on your head, 'Use my mind! Get a load off right here!' What the fuck does your wife think? What do your kids think about you selling yourself like this, putting on a cool demeanor and a welcoming smile for every degenerate who's willing to use you and doesn't mind an annoying billing procedure?
Friday, July 10, 2009
dear man. dear, dear man. he'd grasp my hands and my skin would fold in his folds, as it were, and is in the retelling, sooth. he'd stare at me with his dark, light, black, white blue eyes and scream the names of all the gods in my ear, but in a whisper. lust. yes, i lusted then, lusty lust lusted. i lusted again in 1994, i believe. but he was such a warm man, such a nice, warm, tremendously gabardine filling man
Thursday, July 2, 2009
[Constable Higgins]: Well Lord Cunt, I can't hold my tongue any longer. A man who slanders the name of William Shakespeare is worse than scum. You, sir, are Hitler.
[Lord Cunt]: No I'm not!
[C.H.] Oh, you're a wily one, aren't you Mr. . . . Oh I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?
[L.C.] No, I'm Lord Cunt.
[C.H.] Precisely the name that Adolf Hitler himself would devise to fool a bonny Englishman. Too bad for you that this dialogue is boring
Edgar (turning from father's casket): Oh, Henry!
Henry: What, like the chocolate bar?
Edgar: If only I could have your strength, dear Henry. Your stamina.
Henry: At night I eat the dog food.
Edgar: Father would be so proud. He told everyone he knew; "My Henry is the brightest lad in all the land!"
Henry: Yes, I remember when he put the lampshade over my head.