July 23, 2024

Self-help for the cynical

I saw my psychiatrist this week. I did not really have a problem with seeing him, but I was sort of upset that I had to talk to him. The insistence of my family, friends and coworkers is hard to ignore. They called it an “intervention,” which, (I guess), means that I really did not have much of a say in the matter.

This archived article was written by: Chris Kiahtipes

I saw my psychiatrist this week. I did not really have a problem with seeing him, but I was sort of upset that I had to talk to him. The insistence of my family, friends and coworkers is hard to ignore. They called it an “intervention,” which, (I guess), means that I really did not have much of a say in the matter.
I sat down on his long, black leather couch and tried to relax. I looked around the room listlessly as I waited for the good Dr. Suchfstain to examine me. I saw that he had issues of The Eagle lying on his desk. It was a tidy, organized desk, with wood that was polished until it resembled a dark, glassy mirror.
A rainbow colored bowl sat on the corner of the desk. It was half full of what must have been candy. The candies were pretty colorless. They were mostly gray-brown and one end mushroomed out a little and the bottom was cylinder-like and gave the candies the appearance of little trees if one were to stand them up right.
Suchfstain walked in while I was ‘shooting the bird’ at my own reflection. “You must be Christopher,” he stated with an air of preparedness. The couch groaned and squeaked when I crossed my arms behind my head and leaned back. He continued, “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”
I nodded in an affirmative fashion and he pursued the questioning.
“Do you perceive your government to be a threat?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you see religion as a threat?”
“Do you see industry as a threat?”
“Do you dream about sexual experiences with mythological characters?”
I stopped for a second, “Say what?”
“Fascinating,” he whispered, and began to scribble furiously. He raised his voice again and explained, “Your sexual frustration, stimulated by Greco-Roman mythology, is the motivation behind your satirical and ironic comments towards your fellow newspaper staff members, which, after all, is a mask for your inner self-hatred.”
A little bit of panic lit up inside of me. Could that be true? Is that why I keep dressing up as Neptune, god of the sea? I mulled over those thoughts for a while. Suchfstain’s voice slowly faded into hearing again “what do you think?”
It was clearly the end of a long and arduous question that I really did not wish to hear again.
I blurted out, “I blame my parents.” I figured that sort of an answer was what the guy wanted and thus, it would save me from future boredom. He stared at me. Then I began noticing things. I noticed that he was not a psychiatrist at all, but he looked kind of Roman (non mythological, so sexual attraction was at a minimum). He was kind of bald and said “What is truth?”
The office really did not look like an office by this point. It really looked like the set of The Passion of the Christ. I looked around, hoping to get Jesus’ autograph and try to sell it on e-Bay. I figured that if I could get the Catholic Church and the LDS Church to bid against each other, I would make out pretty well. However, I did not see Jesus. I realized something else at this point: I was Jesus.
No way, I thought. If I was Jesus, I would definitely be sporting that really wicked crown of thorns. At that point I felt my forehead and found the previously mentioned crown of thorns. I really was Jesus. Crap, I thought, everything I am going to say is going to end up in the Bible.
This really perplexed me because I got a bit of stage fright and forgot what part of the Bible I was supposed to be talking for.
“Four score and seven years ago,” I started, “and the Lord God created the heavens and the earth on the 8th day.” I looked at Pilate. He was not buying it. Some other guy was writing everything down.
The only real reason I noticed him was that the scratching noise his little Near Eastern pencil made as he wrote. I started again, “and then the pilgrim,” scratch; scratch, “offered Vishnu,” scratch, scratch, scratch “a peanut.” The noise had become thoroughly distracting.
I became so irritated that I finally kicked the guy, ¡ la Hong Kong Fooey. He flew back against the wall in an explosion of papers and Near Eastern pocket protectors. He stood up. I had not realized, up until this point, that he was wearing a really nice suit for an ancient Near Eastern nerd/scribe. His sunglasses were crooked and he fixed them. He picked up his backpack and bike helmet and started walking towards me.
He was an ominous figure, in black and white, as he approached me. Man, if only Jesus could fly, I thought to myself.
Then I noticed something else. I tried talking to the ominous man approaching me; “Whoa” is all that came out. I stopped. I did not mean to say that at all. I had meant to tell the man that he really needed to stop pressuring me like that. I realized that I sounded really dumb and had no capacity for dialogue. It was like I was Jesus, but I sounded like Keanu Reeves. I looked at myself. I screamed mentally, “*&%K, I AM KEANU REEVES!!”
Terror possessed me then. I was probably going to die as Keanu Reeves, thus destroying any chance I had at making my last words eloquent.
I was going to be bludgeoned to death with a bicycle helmet and there was nothing I could do about it. I closed my eyes, silently waiting for the inevitable. At least I will not make any more movies, I thought. That would have surely made everyone else happy.
There was a sound like the fluttering of curtains and I looked up in time to see a robed figure attack the figure in the suit. The robed figure was wearing a really huge, pointed hat and was carrying a golden staff with him that resembled a shepherd’s hook. There was a symbol on the back of his cape that looked like an X over the stem of a P. Either way, I was grateful for that robed man.
The suit tried to swing the bike helmet at the robed man, but was too slow and ended up catching the right foot of the robed man in his face. He fell to the ground and the robed man lifted the golden staff high over his head and roared in a tremendous voice: “Notre Dame Football rules!” With that, he smashed the suit over the head with the staff.
Things changed again, quickly. The sky turned orange-blue while the ground around me stretched out for miles. The ground looked like water that has a film of oil on it. Rainbow swirls, twists and colors stretched out as far as my eyes could see. Everything seemed significant and meaningful in this place. I realized there is no death and that someone was talking to me. I turned around and saw Bill Hicks. He was eating the psychiatrist’s candy too.
When he spoke, his voice boomed, godlike, in my ears. “Chris, I have come to tell you your destiny. You are to write two more articles for The Eagle and you will, via those writings, bring about the second coming of the King. Elvis will return to this earth and establish a reign of drug-friendly rock and roll for a million years.”
I was pretty stunned by this, but it seemed reasonable enough to me. So here I am, writing more articles for The Eagle in hopes that Elvis will return and bring about an era of enlightenment, rock music and munchies. Here’s to social revolution!