Thursday, January 06, 2005
Tiny Tim meets Chucky
Well, I should have known better than to think I could get tips on developing my skills in the retributive use of telekinesis from my psychiatrist. Silly me.
Running late in the rain and ice and just having had a rather indecorous encounter with a wild-eyed and slathering creature in new Mercedes hellbent on claiming a parking space with sufficient fervor as should be reserved for securing right-of-return to his motherland in hell, I flew into the good doctor's office somewhat disheveled. I began apologizing for being late and breathlessly recounting the highlights of the parking incident. I must have been overcome by the comforting vibrations of what serves as my temple of catharsis for I had no sooner passed the threshold than I flew into a bit of a rage and beat the couch senseless with my crutch bellowing a string of obscenities that would make both Richard Pryor and Jack Nicholson blush. Margaret Cho, of course, would have wasted no time blushing and handed me a drink and a "So, are you like done, miss drama thing?" once my adrenaline had ebbed to more David-Banner-like levels. The good doctor however did neither. He merely cowered in the doorway, behind me, no doubt calculating whether he could get past Psycho-Action Tiny Tim and dial 911 before the couch either died horribly or started naming names. Poor dear. As I pointed out later, he was in no danger, I assaulted only an inanimate and unbreakable object.
All in all I think it was a good session.
Running late in the rain and ice and just having had a rather indecorous encounter with a wild-eyed and slathering creature in new Mercedes hellbent on claiming a parking space with sufficient fervor as should be reserved for securing right-of-return to his motherland in hell, I flew into the good doctor's office somewhat disheveled. I began apologizing for being late and breathlessly recounting the highlights of the parking incident. I must have been overcome by the comforting vibrations of what serves as my temple of catharsis for I had no sooner passed the threshold than I flew into a bit of a rage and beat the couch senseless with my crutch bellowing a string of obscenities that would make both Richard Pryor and Jack Nicholson blush. Margaret Cho, of course, would have wasted no time blushing and handed me a drink and a "So, are you like done, miss drama thing?" once my adrenaline had ebbed to more David-Banner-like levels. The good doctor however did neither. He merely cowered in the doorway, behind me, no doubt calculating whether he could get past Psycho-Action Tiny Tim and dial 911 before the couch either died horribly or started naming names. Poor dear. As I pointed out later, he was in no danger, I assaulted only an inanimate and unbreakable object.
All in all I think it was a good session.
