I hear voices

Pill tablet

My local PBS station recently aired a Charlie Rose episode, one of his continuing investigations of the brain.  This one explored Schizophrenia.  When Charlie’s all-star team of shrinks and brain researchers went into detail about how the disease expressed itself, I felt a swell of nostalgia.

You see, I’m afflicted with the most obvious symptom.  I hear voices.  Actually I perceive only one voice and what it tells me most often is, “Hey asshole.  Take your medication.”

Ridiculous.  I don’t even take medication.

So who speaks to me?  Is it God?  Would the Almighty trouble himself with such minutia?  So by process of elimination, I’ve identified the source of the voice as the Lord’s unacknowledged prophet, Baron Hulgosz, a Hungarian noble who breathed his last in the mid 19th Century.

Sometimes the voice says, “Smoke a joint.  Have a cocktail.”  When I tell him to take a hike, he threatens to kill me.  “With what?” I answer.  “A verb?  A run-on sentence?”  That shut the dumb Magyar’s mouth or whatever he uses to generate the chatter that floats around inside my skull.

This appears fairly innocuous and harmless, doesn’t it?   If only it were so.  It cost me my psychiatric practice.

You see, I often applied Baron Hulgosz’s advice and analysis when counseling my patients.  His insights, including his hypercritical comments—“If I see her in that goddamned outfit again, I’m going to hang myself.  Again.”—were invariably spot on.

My professional trouble didn’t begin until I submitted an article about the therapeutic value of auditory hallucinations.  I would not admit to imagining voices myself, yet I was happy to give Baron Hulgosz credit as the co-author of what became a controversial paper.

In the article, I told of my patient, Anna C and her auditory episode.  She regularly walked on the beach to steel herself for her workday routine as a sign spinner outside the local chapter of Al Shabab.  On one of her morning outings she stumbled across a beached whale–still breathing.  Anna immediately grasped her cell phone to call for help when she heard the whale speak with an accent not unlike the late Argentine master-actor, Raul Julia.  Was it a genuine reincarnation or merely an impersonation of uncommon skill?

Humpback Whale

Before Anna pressed send, the whale begged, “Please.  No.  No whale watchers.”

“If you’re not the immortal soul of Raul Julia, are you a divine symbol?”

The whale beseeched her.  “Please, let me just lay the fuck in the sand.”

Anna, not the most confident person even though she still felt the glow of last night’s Costco Gewurtztraminer, wondered aloud, “If it’s privacy you want, wouldn’t a mammal as large as yourself be better served holding its tongue?”

“You think people are the only beings who deserve to unburden themselves?” opined the whale with a damp torpedo of crill for emphasis. “Do you know how goddamned sick I am of eating fish every night?”

Anna C dismissed the complaint, reasoning that a truly intelligent creature would never have beached itself on a stretch of coast exclusively zoned for seafood restaurants.  Nevertheless, out of pity for the poor beast, she reached into her hijab for a protein bar which she gently placed on a tongue no smaller than a boogie-board.

At that, the whale spat the bar with such force it splintered the rotting wood of a nearby lifeguard station.  “That’s why I crawled away from the primordial saline?  That’s how you slake my curiosity about my fellow mammals?”   The beast turned back toward the sea and disappeared.

Soon after, scientists confirmed that a disgusting soup of Omega 3 byproducts offered physical confirmation that a whale had indeed hollowed out that very stretch of shoreline.  More elusive was the slightest proof that this beast was indeed a picky eater.  No one witnessed its stinging verbal rebuke of the menu that Mother Nature prepared for him.

If the creature did speak to Anna C, could it have been a trick?  Or a miracle?  Why did the psychoanalytic priesthood assume it was evidence of pathology or a sign of the rote sexual obsession they ascribed to everything?  I argued that it was no less than a lost opportunity to engage another species in witty banter.

Regrettably, Baron Holgusz wouldn’t confirm my diagnosis out loud.  Not only was I shamed professionally; my license to provide psychotherapy was revoked.

English: Engraving of craniometer from "E...

These days, the Baron remains unapologetic and never shuts up.  The dumb Hunky is seldom far from my side, no small source of unease when, stepping out of my boxer shorts for my morning ablutions, I must endure his taunts.

Nevertheless, I will not deny him public credit for the good things in my life.   His lightning quick counsel made me a thirteen-day Jeopardy champion.  And as always, women find my Hulgosz-inspired patter irresistible.  With the Baron’s helpful barrage of debonair one-liners, the war between me and the fair sex is never a fair fight.   My only complaint?   When seduction inevitably leads to the boudoir, he’s a bit of a backseat driver.


The candidates’ dogs bitch about the presidential campaign.

Irish Setter

Seamus Romney’s campaign notes:

Friends & Enemies

Ever since Barack Obama made gay marriage mandatory on the Left Coast, Hollywood types have been feeling their oatmeal pancakes and joining Harry Reid’s call to see Mitt Romney’s income tax returns.

Harry Reid represents Nevada, home state of Las Vegas which used to mean serious Cosa Nostra shit, but today, stands for little more than acrobats and country singers.   The place is thick with cowboy hats.  Why?  Is anybody expecting a cattle stampede in the Luxor showroom?

Beyond My Understanding

Mitt Romney - Caricature

Mitt Romney – Caricature (Photo credit: DonkeyHotey)

Reid’s charges sure capped off a rough month for the Mittster.  First came Mitt’s undiplomatic comments about Olympic security in London.   Listen, I’m willing to admit Mitt’s said some dumb shit during the campaign but the London insult?

Do we really want a President who sounds like a stooge for London’s chamber of commerce?  So I’m gonna give the man a pass for that step on the poop bag.  But what creeps me out about the dude is the borderline psycho chuckle that bubbles up from his throat when somebody asks Mitt a tough question.

Foreign Affairs

Whatever bad feelings he’s generated, Mitt made up for it with his trip to Israel which might just lock up the vote of women with back hair.

The Week Ahead

The more serious test of Mitt’s judgment is the way the Republican Vice-Presidential dog fight plays out.  Mitt was seriously considering a chick to be his bitch, but after serious thought he realized there was no bikini material there.  My personal choice was Marco Rubio.   After all, he responds to commands in two languages.

But the winner is Paul Ryan of Wisconsin.  He’s an intellectual so the party professionals have their work cut out trying to keep that little nugget secret from their constituency of high school drop-outs.  Uneasy lies the head that wears the cheesehead.

Many of you thought my prediction in last month’s posting of a Romney victory in November meant I was automatically backing the former governor. You’re all wrong.  No matter who’s running, I’m endorsing John McCain because we both know what it’s like to be confined in a cramped space.

Campaign Ads

Mitt is taking some heat about a TV commercial that claims Obama is undermining welfare reform.  It may not be technically true but here’s why it’s important to say it.  Nobody really believes a word Mitt says so we felt taking a stand, even a dishonest one, would keep voters engaged.  So, in a way, our distortion is saving democracy.  I get kind of emotional thinking about it.

Bo Obama’s campaign notes:

Friends & Enemies  

These are the Dog Days in D.C. so the celebrity fundraising parade continues.  Jamie Lee Curtis gave me a delicious scratch on the butt last month but her friendship with Michelle has gone too far.  She never shuts up about that damned Activia.  Nobody ever actually enunciates the word “colon” or “sphincter” but everybody knows what’s on their minds.

Now, West Wing staffers compete for Michelle’s favor by planning events like the 10K against Lactose Intolerance.  The last thing this content-free campaign needs is an event where the President has to run alongside bloated, gaseous cheese addicts.

Beyond My Understanding

English: Yarmulke with Happy Festivus embroide...

The dreaded Yom Kippur holiday is right around the corner.  Holiday? The Obamas make all of us fast in sympathy with our liberal Jewish friends.  Know what that means?  An empty dog food bowl, that’s what.  And a parched water bowl.  I’m praying we don’t repeat last year’s breaking of the fast with a canine colon cleanse.

Foreign Affairs

Am I sounding a tiny bit freaked out?  Who wouldn’t when faced with the prospect of returning to Nairobi in January.  So, I’m calling a big time out to stop and smell the roses and any musky reassurance that’s out there.

The Week Ahead

Monday:  Stop and smell the roses.

Tuesday:  Stop and smell a buttock.

Wednesday:  Do not stop.  Smell the House leadership anyway.

Thursday:  Stop and smell the botox dealers in Georgetown.

Friday:   Sign up for PETA.  Engineer canine overthrow of Western Hemisphere.

Campaign Ads

Our media advisers tell us voters don’t believe political ads, so we warn folks how dangerous it can be to insist on the truth.  It’s a game. Our commercials define Mitt Romney as a heartless douchebag before he has a chance to define himself as the douchebag with a heart.

Vajazzle? Are you kidding me?

cubic zirconia

For those of you wondering when I’m going to get my mind out of the gutter, I regret that it won’t be today.  You see, after last week’s posting in which I discuss an encounter with a  bikini waxer, one reader informed me that I am far behind the puddendal grooming curve.  You see, a related practice, Vajazzling, is gaining friends fast.

Look, I was already horrified to hear that, a few years ago, men and women adopted the string trimmer as a beauty aid for the crotch.

English: Terrell Owens (T.O.) autographing for...

But about this Vajazzling trend.  People in the know tell me it’s a form of bodily decoration that includes adorning your groin with shiny things.  The phenomenon has some well-known practitioners.  The once great wide receiver, Terrell Owens, tells us he began decorating his nut-sack in 2009.  Few things will make a difference in your pass catching stats like running pass patterns with a cubic zirconia slapping against your inner thigh.

But it wasn’t until Jennifer Love Hewitt added Vajazzling to her distinguished body of work that the phenomenon attracted widespread attention.  Her autobiography, “The Day I Shot Cupid..”  goes into the practice in detail.  Following a romantic disappointment, she decided to pay more attention to her…self.  So, she freely discusses how her vagina has come to be home for jewels, moist life savers, found objects, toothpicks, and cereal box prizes.

Her book also covers Jennifer’s career disappointments, particularly why director’s haven’t taken her seriously enough to cast her in prestige movie roles.  The answer lies somewhere between horrible luck and a willingness to publicize her vaginal pinata.

Jennifer Love Hewitt #2

Sex with Ms Love-Hewitt, her lovers report, offers a longer than usual gratification delay as her foreplay ritual now adds scouring away the cracker jack bits with super-glue remover.

Trivia buffs have noted that in the last few episodes of the Ghost Whisperer a couple of Lego pieces can be seen poking out of her g-string.

So why would I, of all people, be bothered that people are paying yet more attention to the world below the waist?  As with all things, it’s the way you do it.

Am I being a prude?  Should I have posted a photo of a vajazzled vagina?  Are we approaching the day when vajazzle salons open in Beverly Hills?  Are folks like these too damned self-absorbed?  Will the Vajazzler be Batman’s new nemesis?

Feel free to comment.