I wish it didn’t have to be like that.
At least for the purposes of creating art,
A comfortable childhood is unsatisfactory.
But mine was, it seems just that, and
After having just reviewed a stack of
Old photographs I come away with the
Impression that I was a much loved, happy
Child. Now how to account for my miserable
Adulthood? I have to blame it on something,
Don’t I?
Dear Ron,
Do you think mental telepathy is for real? Like, for example, you are thinking about somebody and at that moment they call you. I have had that experience and sometimes wonder if it was just coincidence or if our thoughts are connected.
Wonderer
Dear Wonderer,
This is a question for Dr. Aldous Dimly, the noted thinker and parapsychology maven. I contacted Dr. Dimly at his home in Key West, where he was researching the chicken and the egg question on his private beach, and Dr. Dimly was kind enough to speak on this subject while lotioning himself.
Dr. Dimly suggested to me that thought is indeed in the public domain. A person might think that he is only thinking, but the hard facts are that he is sending telegrams all the time. These may include words, pictures, and even recipes.
All of it is just out there and it is just like browsing at the mall, he says, looking at all the things to buy, and then bingo, a person goes into a store and buys, just out of the blue, buys something. Well, where did the decision to buy that particular object and not another come from? It is Dr. Dimly’s contention that there was nonverbal communication that took place, some thought force out there in the atmosphere which made a case for said object and not any other. Dr Dimly calls this the X Force. He calls it that because x is Dr. Dimly’s favourite letter.
Now who actually sent that message and why? Well, those are questions that Dr. Dimly intends to spend a lot more time on the beach investigating, but he intimated to me when I pressed him on it that messages comes from the most unlikelyl sources, let us say, just another face in the crowd who at that moment was sending the message, “pressure cooker,” which reached the consumer and caused him to go right into a hardware store and pick up that pressure cooker. Dr. Dimly says price rarely has much to do with consumer spending because price tags are generally too small.
What can we take from this, Wonderer? I, for one, came away from my telephone call with Dr. Dimly fairly convinced that there may be something to this business of mental telepathy and the sending of thought. I can also say that I came away from our conversation with an intense ear ache as a result of Dr. Dimly’s ferocious vocal chords. I hope we have added to the debate, Wonderer.
Dear Ron,
What do you think about Viagra and Cialis? I don’t mean the effects, I am talking about the names. “Viagra” sounds butch to me, while “Cialis” has a wimpy, shrivelling, effeminate ring to it. Don’t you think the admen for this pill could have come up with a better signature?
Bumsy
Dear Bumsy,
I think you are correct. When I hear” Viagra” the word vigor comes to mind. I feel I could just tear the shirt from my thickly curled chest hair, tighten my colostomy bag, and lay with the nearest pretty milk maid . On the other hand, when “Cialis” is pronounced I hear water dribbling down the drain in my head. One is steak the other pudding, if you will.
These ad people! I can just imagine them huddled in some dank basement spewing out names only to settle on this loser. Then you and I have to sit through endless TV commercials that make us want to let go of supper.
I feel sorry for those men that need to buy Viagra and Cialis in order to bolster their equipment and I feel fortunate not to be among them, mainly because I no longer have sex. I would much rather spend my time these days gobbling up a plate of spaghetti and meatballs with a side shaker of cheese. The sex act is much overrated in my opinion.
I mean why would any man want to spend time inserting his where –he- goes- to- the- bathroom into a woman’s where-she—goes to the bathroom? It would do him much more good to aim it at the pee pot. At least that would amount to a bit of relief before shaking off the socks and calling it a night. I hope this answered your question and I wish you few holes on your own bed of nails.
In the bland wave of a sunny summer afternoon
I found my way,
An opening to happiness.
It amounted to acceptance
That she is a fact
And I am a fact
That we are separate and
That this is not negotiable.
We are true to our own DNA.
We come together in moments
In between the clouds in
A union so solid
That we know our love is real,
Then each go our own way
To face the murky reflections
In our mirrors.
Dear Ron,
I notice that you have letters lately that have to do with humidity and I just wanted to add my own. It is something I could never tell anyone, but now I am going to tell it to you: I am a sweater. You read it correct. I sweat, Ron. I am a woman who oozes and I cannot help it. My problem is not only do I sweat – I sweat profusely., and when I do, I stick to things.
For example, I will be passing a table and by accident I touch it with my arm and my arm sticks to the table. It is not fun to have to pull yourself off furniture all the time while everyone around you is enjoying a good glass of lemonade and a couple of rice batons, and they have to put it down and help you to come unglued. It is not a way to keep friends.
And besides, I am a proud person. I don’t like to ask for help. I am made that way. I would like to be able to sweat less. Is there anything I can do about it?
Liquid Nightmare
Dear Liquid,
The first thing I would tell anyone in your position is: Don’t sweat it. The truth is we all sweat, it is a normal, natural, unattractive function of the human body when one is hot or under some kind of stress. It is nothing to be ashamed of.
The fact that you become attached to furniture is obviously a problem. On warm says, I would suggest that you wear lots of clothing to cover you up, say a housecoat or a djaalabba. This will prevent contact with your moist surfaces. Carry a hanky or a sock around with you in case your brow bubbles up. Don’t hold anything in your palm too long as this is a part of the anatomy that likes to get wet first, and stay away from toilet seats.
If you are ever in an emergency and have no one around to help you sever yourself from an inanimate object, don’t panic.
Wait until nightfall when the heat is dispelled and then calmly back up. Don’t worry about burdening friends and neighbours if these are available. People are surprisingly forthcoming to aid their fellow man (or woman) and it might even prove a bit of a lark for them to dislodge you. Best of luck to you and have a nice, dry summer.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
I am happy to hear that you have become a fashion consultant. I didn’t think you had it in you. Let me tell you a problem I have with my clothes. I like to wear crew-neck t-shirts. Okay, who doesn’t, right? But I am finding that when I wear the kind I like, which are the high ones (my curse!) the neckband eventually begins to curl down, causing me no end of aggravation, and I am always nervous that people are going to judge me for it. Is there any way to keep this from happening? – I mean about the t-shirts.
Too High For Comfort
Dear THFC,
First of all, where do you get off thinking I didn’t have it in me to pass on good fashion advice? I happen to be as natty as they come. if you happen to come from Uzbekistan.
This t-shirt business, though, has got under my skin as well. Can’t they make a t-shirt that won’t curl down? I mean we have put men on the moon. I have to tell you that if you are a high-neck, t-shirt aficionados, you will have to learn to keep your chin up, because that is what is making this nasty down-curling come about. Your chin is causing it to fold. You might try using a brace around your neck to prevent this from happening, but I am guessing that you would stick out like a sore thumb if you do, which may make people think you are feeling sorry for yourself. You could always turn into (if you aren’t one already) a snob and keep your nose up in the air at all times. Good luck.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
Do you think having no problems is a problem in itself? I have no problems today and it bothers me.
Dunno
Dear Dunno,
You are right on the money that having no problems is a problem in itself, and sometimes it can make you take your own life. Look at the Scandinavians. They have everything handed to them. They screw like sizzling rodents, they are all tall blonde and beautiful. They drink like fish. All they have to do in life is ponder the universe, like that Ingemar Bergman guy, and make depressing movies.
Problems make people happy. You got a problem, you are focussed on it, and you try to solve it. It narrows you down so that you are not thinking, “Well, I’m gonna die and nobody will come to my funeral, and I won’t ever be back to shave my pet monkey again.” Now that is a problem we can never resolve, so the more problems the better, and besides, where would I be if people didn’t have problems? It would be a problem for me that I would not want to have.
I hope this helped.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
My problem is this: I cannot get my hair cut right. I tell my barber to stop at the point where it looks to be the right length. Okay. So what happens? I walk outside, catching my reflection in shop windows and feeling pretty good about the length. Next I go home and take a shower and shampoo. What that does, believe it or not, is make my hair seem a lot shorter than it was in all those shop windows.
And this less- than-hairy look is something I have to live with for the next week or so, which causes my digestive juices to circulate so horribly that I am forever expelling gas. PLEASE don’t tell me to have my barber stop cutting sooner. I did that last time and had the problem of overhairiness, which was just as painful. I don’t know anymore what to say to my barber. (which has caused another problem, but not to go there at this juncture)
Hair Horror
Dear Hair,
Hair can be horrible –no doubt about it. Why do we have hair at all is the question I have been asking myself since the age of six. I finally found the answer in my 65th year: We have inherited it from our simian ancestors. Apparently it is a way for animals to protect themselves from the elements. Big deal! I mean it’s cold, you jump into a pair of woollen long ones, right? No need to have hairy legs.
The same for the head. Wrap a scarf around it and travel. What in the world is the point of hair? Itches, becomes a snowstorm when you scratch that makes you resemble Christmastime in a fairytale. Washing it takes forever and you always get shampoo in out of the way places. You dry it, it blows every which way but the right one. Then it sticks up where you don’t want it to and flattens out when you don’t want it to. It changes colour and nobody told it to. And it’s the first damn thing you see when you look at somebody. You are always comparing thicknesses.
If I had the ear of Mother Nature, I would ask her to do away with the pesky problem altogether. Just leave us with a nice smooth surface and be done with it. But She, knowing women, would probably be too busy at the beauty parlour to give me a straight answer. About your problem? I am just too agitated about the wider question to give you responsible guidelines at the moment. My hair is such a mess! Forgive me, Hair.
I know this didn’t help.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
I have a problem that I would like to ask you about. I have a new boyfriend and we have been together for like about a month and a half and the thing is we never argue. Maybe people say that is a good thing, but I am kinda worried.
Is it normal to never argue? I like a good argument. It airs things out and makes you feel light afterward. I love him (kinda) and I think we have a future together. He is likable with a good personality and he thinks about the future. He says he wants to be a serial killer someday. What would you say our chances are?
Mariko
Dear Mariko,
You have a boyfriend with whom you never argue and you wonder whether that is a problem. Well, it can be if you are the kind of person who likes to argue and he won’t engage you. There is nothing more frustrating for an arguer who is in the mood for a good dust up than to have nobody to dust up with.
We tend to think we can always find something to disagree about with a person and then this person doesn’t take the bait. What can you do about this?
I would find out what he really doesn’t like and then go to work to provoke him about it. Go out of your way to make him miserable and angry.
The fact that he wants to be a serial killer tells you that eventually he will react in a negative way, which is just what you need. He may even try to kill you at some point, but then you will know finally that you can be compatible.
Don’t let him kill you, of course, but explain to him that you appreciate him for conflicting with you, and then try to make it work out between you. That seems like the only reasonable procedure.
Good luck, and I hope this helps.
Dear Ron,
I did like you said. I went into the basement room where he lives and I kinda messed up his torture kit.
This got him upset , but he he didn’t express it in an unpleasant way. He just dropped his habitual smile and explained to me quietly that he would prefer it if “you kept your paws off my equipment.” Then he offered me a glass of grape juice. I knew that I was in the wrong, so I apologized. Then we had sex. Still no real arguments though.
Mariko
Dear Mariko,
You are not taking it far enough. You could have pushed him on the “paws” comment, angrily rebutting that “these here appendages are no paws, certainly not, they are clearly enough two human hands.” He might’ve gone for that one.
You could also have challenged him about his living quarters, berating him for living in a basement, which is just as likely to make him into a cliché in his future career. You need to pick up on anything that will push his buttons. Keep trying.
Dear Ron,
I finally hit on something that worked. He invited me to his mother’s house for dinner, and after it was all over we were walking back to his basement when I told him what a nice person his mother was.
Well, that was the wrong thing to say apparently, because he hit the ceiling, calling himself cursed for coming out of her womb, that she had made his life hell itself, and that I was just like her, that is a female. I was so happy to see him get angry that I got angry too and we spat and yelled at each other for twenty minutes. Then we had sex. So thanks for making me pursue it, Ron.
Dear Mariko,
Excellent. The point here is that everyone has an Achilles’ heel, which you obviously noticed during your walk to his basement.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
Sometimes I think that I am wasting my life. I have this anxiety that I should be doing something with my life, but I am never able to decide what that “it” is. Maybe writing to you will show me the light. Sorry if this is too vague.
Existential Ed
Dear Ed,
You certainly wrote to the right person. I spent the morning checking the oil quality on various body parts.
Let me pick out some words you employ: “Wasting. Anxiety. Vague.” Waste, according to the dictionary can mean many things.( They always list five or six meanings of one word which is annoying . I will go with number three. “To fail to use…” )
Are you failing to use something? Let us say you have a key that you never use. Well, you are wasting that key. It might be for a lock you don’t have anymore. What should you do in that case? Throw the damn thing out, of course, or give it away as a gift.
Let us say you have shampoo and you are a bald person. Stop buying shampoo. It is a waste. Get the picture? But –and this is a pretty big but- I think I am hearing from you that you are wasting time. Okay. You can’t throw time in the garbage, can you? Or stop buying it. What you can do is to use it. Use it to do something. Get up in the morning and give yourself an objective for the day. Go to the toilet. Have a cracker and some marmalade.
Help someone out. Be a volunteer. That is always satisfying. Knock on your neighbour’s door and offer to do his dishes. Don’t take no for an answer. If you see a lady carrying a purse that is probably heavy, offer to take it off her hands. You would be surprised at her reaction. Don’t let her give you anything back either. If she objects, just smile and insist.
You mention anxiety. Don’t let her anxiety throw you off. All people are a bit shy about speaking to strangers. At first. Once she gets to know you, it will be different. And never be vague. Tell them exactly what to want to do. Say, “I want to polish your car.” Or better yet, find their key, get right in the driver’s seat and tell them that you will take them around town.
I hope you are catching on. Once you get home at night you won’t feel like you have been wasting your time at all. Let me know how it all went.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
My problem fits into the fashion/hair category. I love my cap and I love to wear it constantly in the winter. What happens is that every time I take it off when I arrive somewhere I notice that my hair is flat. It throws my haircut which is giving me all manner of grief. Do you think I should give up my cap or make peace with my ruined haircut?
Larry
Dear Larry,
My first question to you is: why do you take your cap off at all? You could resolve the issue by just keeping the cap on the whole time, and that way people would not have to witness your flat hair. All the boys are doing it these days, haven’t you noticed? It is “in”, the thing to do. The world is starting to resemble a Passover dinner or the inside of a dugout. You would look fashionable and maybe even meet new people in the process. Try it and let me know what happens.
Dear Ron,
I thought of that, but find it poses a problem of its own. If I wear the cap inside, my forehead starts to heat up causing a band of perspiration to form and eventually drip down onto my nose, making me have to take the cap off to expose my ruined haircut. Please! Sometimes I feel like the gods are against me.
Larry
Dear Larry,
The dripping part is unfortunate. Couldn’t you fit a little Kleenex in there to sop up the dampness? By the way, of what religious persuasion are you? I don’t know of many with more than one God.
Dear Ron,
The “gods” comment was just hyperbole I used to express my malcontent with my pesky situation. I mean if there were more than one god, would they really have the time to get together to form a conspiracy against me, Larry? I am not that paranoid, but I am in despair about the cap/haircut problem. Your suggestion that I use Kleenex may be good, but what happens if it falls out and into my soup, for example. I think I would feel awful if that happened. It would then pose another problem, wouldn’t it? Would I be able to continue eating my soup?
Larry
Dear Larry,
It would depend on how tasty the soup was initially, but yes, I do get your point. Larry, there are times in the lives of men when a man must do what a man must do: I am sorry to have to tell you this but you are just going to have to stretch your cap. It can be done. Ask any haberdasher. It’s called “propping.” They can push it out so that your hair will have enough room to relax. Good luck and if you dare, let me know how your hair fares.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
I have always wanted meatier arms, and now I am finally getting them. But now that I have them I want more! Am I being greedy?
Meat Lover
Dear Meat Lover,
I am supposing that you will probably never be satisfied with your arms. I say that because it is like the person who has only known poverty all his life, and then one day he gets some money and it makes him feel better about himself. But soon he wants to feel even better and he thinks by accumulating more resources he will. Of course, once this ball gets rolling, it doesn’t stop, and the person finds out that he can never really be satisfied.
Tolstoy once wrote a story called “How Much Meat Does A Man Need” (or something quite close to that) in which a person begins by ordering a smoked meat sandwich in a deli, after which he is still hungry, and so he orders another, and another, and he just keeps going, wolfing down the meat rabidly.
Eventually the short-order guy is getting a sore arm making the sandwiches and tells the customer maybe a little fish would be a better choice. But the customer is so fixated on his meat that he rejects the cook’s advice. Eventually, the cook, walks out of the kitchen with a sling on his arm and begs the customer to end his meal. The customer agrees to this on the one condition that the cook tell him where he can purchase a cow.
Do you see where this is going? I hope you would agree that Mr. Sandwich has gone overboard. My best advice to you is to be satisfied with the degree of meatiness of your arms and don’t make a pig of yourself.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
I don’t wish to be rude, but I just have to know. How often is it normal to push food out from the bottom end? In my situation, I am spending lots of time on the hoop. I go like there is no tomorrow. Even my toilet is fed up with me and wishes I would leave it alone. I got that message because it is not flushing properly and probably feels it is being overworked. Am I overreacting?
Toilet Misery
Dear Toilet,
“Defecate” is the proper verb for the function you are referring to. Make a note of it. The words you use to describe it are excessive. Okay. Numbers? I have never pondered this question before. It does not often come up in conversation.Let me take a walk around the house and consider your inquiry.
I am back. The number I came up with is one or two, once after breakfast and possibly once after lunch. If you are squatting more than that, chances are you are eating too many busy foods. Have yourself some rice sticks, these will keep your door solidly in place.
This should help, and if it doesn’t, see a medicine man.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
My boyfriend had a “Brazilian” and now he teases me for being too hairy. Am I too hairy?
Goathead
Dear Goathead,
Be proud of your fur. Some of the best people are hairy. Think of Jesus. The man never took a haircut, or if he did, it is not mentioned.
I for one enjoy a hairy woman. They are easier to hold onto, and hairy people have ape-like qualities that I admire. Whoever said that human skin should resemble glass? Give me a tuft here and there any day.
That said, I must comment on this boyfriend of yours. I have looked up “Brazilian” on Wikipedia and learned that it is when a human has his pubic hair shaven away. The name , I understand, comes from the habit of young Brazilians who must shave their downstairs beards so that they can look good in their bikinis on Brazilian beaches. Look. Whatever heats your toast.
Maybe your boyfriend is an avid beach loafer and is looking ahead to the warmer months. Or he gets tired of scratching that mangle of follicles he has covering his jewels and said to himself one day, “Let me be free of bugs!”
To this, I would remind him that we all want to be free of the presence of the little ones, but not everybody thinks murdering their body hair is the way to go. There is, after all, something called bug spray, or simply washing oneself on a daily basis which can wave the wand.
But truth be told, Goathead, I think this Brazilian stuff has much deeper roots (no pun intended). I think your man must have something of the Alien about him. Think about it. Have you ever seen an Alien with a beard. Chances are they have no pubic hair either. There is something that tells me that your boy buddy no longer wants to be part of us and is hankering for another club to join. Why not dump the ingrate and find a real man to snuggle up to?
I hope this helped.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
This falls into the fashion category. When I wear my tuque I am not sure whether the label should be at the back or at the front. I have tried both, but always fear that it is at the wrong place, which makes me lose the concentration I need to try to find a decent job. Where do you think it should go?
Label Me Worried
Dear Label Me Worried,
I myself never wear a tuque for the simple reason that you never know which side is front and which is back and you always tend to make a fool of yourself. I will have to look that one up in order to answer your question.
I am back. With an excellent find: an organization that seems to know everything there is about them. One of the tidbits of fact that I gleaned from them is that “tuque” is not a good name for the hat because it is too hard to spell, so they want to change it.
As far as the label problem is concerned, I could not find the answer there to it. Of course, you could always try wearing the label on the inside, which may stun some people at first, but then you might, who knows, start a craze if it catches on.
If you wish to get creative, why not just get a very large sock to pull down over your ears? Socks don’t usually have labels affixed to them, so you would be safe. But please do not choose to don one of those those wiggy things with the two strings and attached pompom at the top that tries to project the image of a thin-brained creature who is visiting our planet from afar.
Good luck on this, and on finding a rewarding job.
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
I have a kinda sticky problem. If I am in my car, driving for at least a half hour at a stretch, my behind gets very hot, to the point that I begin to feel like what I imagine an egg must in the process of getting hard boiled. It does not feel too great I can tell you. What can I do about this other than to stop driving?
Baked
Dear Baked,
I have pondered this considerably and have come up with a possible explanation. Your trousers. Maybe your pants don’t breathe sufficiently. Or maybe your underwear is too tight. Try clothes that enjoy breathing. Cotton is an option.
Otherwise, I would keep the window wide open, and elevate your backside from time to time to invite air contact. One cheek at a time is a good way to do it, rotating each to get maximum contact for about thirty seconds, but carefully watching the road at the same time. Good luck and rotate responsibly.
What on earth do they do there? Ok. You have women, wine, and song? Now is this constantly? You had one woman, you go to another. You can become the playboy of your dreams. Fine. That might work for how long? awhile? OK. I could take that. Then there’s the wine part. We already know that too much wine makes you need to hang around the toilet bowl the next day. Are there toilet bowls in heaven? The song? Well how many really good songs are there? If you are staying there eternally, you’re bound to run out. And who decides which songs will be played? Some angel probably. What if you don’t get along with an angel? Can you request another? They always talk about it being like a garden. Well, I now live a couple of blocks from a huge beautiful public garden. But I’ve gone only a couple of times. Then they say there are lakes. I like a good lake as much as the next guy, but how long can you swim? Is there fishing allowed? Who says how many fish you can catch? The angels, right? I’d rather be near an ocean and surf. I’m sure there are people who would like to ski. So let’s say that it would leave a lot to be desired. But paradise has to be perfect. Everyone is always happy. It’s peaceful. There is no pain. Excellent. Why not just take drugs?
======================
We have all been insulted some time or other in our life. And it is important that one learns to take insults well if we are to retain any measure of self-respect. When someone says to you, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” How can you most handily respond to that?
Act interested . Go, “Why don’t I go fuck myself, indeed?” Have your fingertip at your lip, your head cocked at an upturned angle while you say this. It is possible, though unlikely, that the big-mouth will join you in attempting to answer their own question, Or you could choose to remind them it is none of their business. Your insult to them. But the better course is to stay on the high road and not play tit for tat. It is possible that the person decides to up the ante with a more direct “Fuck you” or “Fuck off.”
Now you must clarify matters. Explain to the frustrated soul that you don’t wish to do either. Be firm but kind. Remind them that we live in a democracy, that they are neither your guardian nor your stockbroker (if in fact it is the case) and that you don’t wish to take their advice. Or, contrarily, that you may just do what they have suggested. Thank them for their tough-love manner and wish them well in their day.
If this leads to a physical threat, raise your hand and take on a stance of “Brother, you know not what you do!” in the style of Harvey Keitel, admonishing his flock in Martin Scorcese’s old movie, The Last Temptation of Christ. It is always useful to have a model in mind when you make a magnanimous gesture. It may even get uglier. If so, employ one of Ghandi’s tactics and sit on the ground. Do not allow yourself to be hurt, but don’t resist either. Do the right thing, a la the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. Hopefully, a crowd will encircle you that includes a burly off-duty policeman. If that doesn’t happen, play dead, or convince the person that it is time for your nap. It is always amazing what people will accept at face value. The important thing is to keep them guessing and preferably under the impression that you cannot be bullied, or that you are mentally unbalanced and capable of untold destruction if pushed to it.
The best alternative, however, may still be the flight reaction. But usually it does not come to that. What is the worst that can happen? You die. There are worse things than death,( which I won’t get into at this juncture.) Suffice it say that even if you did die, you would know (how, I have no idea!) that you did the right thing. You did not insult back. You did not steep to their level. You acted with dignity, forbearance, a smattering of intelligence, bluff. You danced well. You went out in style (whatever that means) Could they say the same? It is more than likely that they will at some point regret what they said or did to you, or they may even become born-again and go on to years of meetings in dank basements with badly dressed overweight people .
You will have changed the person. they might never insult another person again, or at least in the same manner. You have made a difference!
=====================
When I told my psychiatrist “ I can’t stand it anymore. I want to jump in the river and drown.” He advised me to have a good meal an hour before I do.
…
I told him my life is a blank page. So he handed me a copy of War and Peace.
…
I don’t know if my psychiatrist is cruel or kind. At my last session I said, “Doctor. Tell me the truth. Will I ever feel any better?” He helped me to the door.
…
I quoted Hamlet to my shrink “ I said to him with tears in my eyes “Oh, to sleep. Oh! Perchance to dream.” “Perchance?” he said. “Perchance you’ll pay your bill on time.”
…
Doctor Starke says that anal sex shtinks.
…
I am not totally convinced of Dr. Starke’s credentials. Rather than his diplomas on his wall he has pictures of funny bunnies.
…
I said, Doctor. Come off it. Don’t you think calling me an egotistical, narcissistic asshole pushing it. What have I ever done to you? He said, you came to see me, didn’t you?
…
I am having second thoughts about Doctor Starke’s ethical standards after he asked me what I thought would work best to erase someone: poison or a bullet to the back of the head?
…
I must admit I always feel a tad nervous whenever Doctor Starke says to me: “Can we try this experiment?”
…
I don’t mind Doctor Starke chewing gum while I am telling him about my anxieties and fears but I only wish he would stop blowing bubbles.
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Doctor Starke has some very firm views about child–rearing. He believes disobedient children should not be seen… or heard from… again.
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Doctor Starke always calls a spade a spade. He also calls them “darkies” and “lapsed white people.”
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I am finding out that Doctor Starke has a sensitive side as well. He breaks down in tears every time he sees a movie in which a Nazis is snubbed.
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Doctor Starke does not just sit on his big comfortable chair all day. He is an activist and has started a movement called ‘ War Criminals Of The World Unite.’
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Doctor Starke thinks the Holocaust was a cruel lie meant to blemish Aryan superiority.
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Doctor Starke thinks that the statement made by the president of Iran, Achmaminijad, who said that “Israel is a stinking corpse that should be wiped from the face of the earth,” was taken out of context.
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I asked my shrink, the ex-Gestapo member, Doctor Ishbin Starke. I said, “Doctor. I can’t control my emotions. What must you think of me? He said, “I try not to think of you.”
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I’m getting old.These days it feels better to sneeze than to masturbate.
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I know I’m getting old. I don’t have the energy I used to have. It’s become a big effort for me to complete a yawn.
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Why do they call it “growing old?” Everything about you shrinks.
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You get older. Inevitably there are problems. Erection problems. It’s sad. But thank God there are now pills available. I used to have to pay to have sex with other people. Now I even have to pay to have sex with myself.
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I’m getting old.These days it feels better to sneeze than to masturbate.
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I know I’m getting old. I don’t have the energy I used to have. It’s become a big effort for me to complete a yawn.
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I know I’m getting old. I used to like to play with myself. But now I forget the rules.
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When I think about dying soon, I feel sad about all the soft food I’ll miss.
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I know I’m getting old. My idea of excitement is humping a comfortable quilt.
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I know I’m getting old. My idea of getting ahead is lying down before bedtime.
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I feel so tired at times. I must be lacking something: Youth.
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I know I could set the world on fire again if I only had the energy to pick up the matches.
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When I see a pretty girl go by I still think of doing something with her. Like sharing a cup of strong tea.
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My idea of “doing the nasty” is picking my nose in public.
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I must be getting mixed up. I invited a woman to my place for a drink the other night. Well, she had a couple. Then she crosses her legs and says to me. “I’m hungry for something.” So I brought her some cabbage soup.
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I must be getting old. My idea of a hot date is to go out with warm shoes.
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When I saw this girl go by today, I was thinking about drilling her, and it shut off my pacemaker.
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You always hear that we need to control our gas emissions. It’s not that easy. I wish I could control my own gas emissions.
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When we’re young we have dreams. Of power, glory, adventure. The future is open. We either reach them or we don’t. Whatever. What kind of dreams can you have when you get old? There ain’t a hell of a lot to look forward to. But you do plan anyway, like what suit you should choose for the Big Snooze. Some people think about their funeral and how all their friends will come and pay respect to them. Everyone will be sad, of course. That’s important. Their family will hold hands and weep. But I just can’t imagine myself being put into a box and lowered into the ground. Even if I am dead. Maybe I’ll still know it’s happening and want to get out, and it will be like a dream when you want to scream and can’t. I wonder how claustrophobic people feel about that. I mean there is no way out, like being stuck in a small elevator for eternity. With pretty lousy company . It is no wonder then that religion gives you a way out. Your spirit ain’t going down. Your spirit will leave your lifeless body and rise up up up to… Some Better Place.” But how does that work? And what is a spirit? Nobody has ever seen one. Except possibly ghost hunters.
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He is so stupid he can’t even answer the question, “How stupid are you?”
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How dumb is she? Scientists plan to keep her brain on file to research amoeba.
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He is so stupid he can’t spell the word “I”.
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She is so stupid. The first word she uttered as a baby was “duhduh” instead of “dada.”
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How stupid are they? Let’s say they could be outsmarted by dinosaurs. By the way, they think dino saurs are Italian blisters.
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He is so stupid he thinks vagina is Regina’s twin-city.
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She is so fat her friends call her “Canada.”
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She is so fat she is considered her own neighbourhood.
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She is so lonely she thinks the mosquitoes are giving her love bites.
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She is so ugly (inside and out) that her poster is mandatory on every abortionist’s wall.
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When you say, “I’m crazy about you,” to someone doesn’t that just cancel out your intention? You are telling the person you like them a lot but that you must be crazy for thinking that. Better to say , ”I’m sane about you.”
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What is a snob? A snob is a person I can feel superior to.
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What is it with women and babies? It makes you want to put on your diapers.
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What is wrong with complaining? If I didn’t have something to complain about my life would be unbearable.
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What is it with old people concerned about making more money? What could possibly be going through their minds? “Oh a couple more grand and I could afford that really special box I’ve been eyeing.”
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What is it with clothespins? They always look angry. At least the ones I know.
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What on earth do they do in heaven?
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What is stress? It’s being in one place and wanting to be in another. When you get there you realize that you don’t want to be there either. So you move around until you come to the conclusion that there is nowhere that is really that great, and you relax.
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What is it with charity? “Oh, he’s a lovely person, he does charity work.” And it’s always for children. “How he just gives and gives to the little ones. And he doesn’t have to. He’s a celebrity.” That’s all well and good but aren’t there other people in the world who need help too? What about people on death-row? Or teachers?
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What can we say about the educational system today ? That it’s a system, that is a machine, and that it doesn’t educate, but rather cranks out graduates that are probably worse off than when they began. They may have more information and skills but their minds are weaker. They have lost curiosity and the ability to think for themselves. They are dispirited and they are shorn of any meaningful connections to each other and to the world. All their knowledge is chopped up into so-called facts and there is little joy in gaining it. What they have they don’t know what to do with except to go on taking in more facts. There is nothing about what constitutes a valuable life in most schools. Or what life is. Or who they are. They are shown death in life. It is no wonder that many kids hate school. Shame on this society that pretends to be enlightened. Let it shovel its shit somewhere else.
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Why do people always say they have “an inferiority complex?” Can’t some people actually be inferior?
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Why is life designed to be so hard? Everything is so hard. It’s like you’re failing a course you never even signed up for.
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Why do the insane always hear voices that tell them to kill people? Why can’t they hear voices that tell them to do something nice for a change?
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Why do days go in a straight line and time goes in a circle?
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Why is it that what is written has more credibility than what is spoken? It must mean that if you can spell you can’t possibly tell a lie.
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Why do people need to look in the mirror while they are brushing their teeth? Do they want to make sure their teeth are still there?
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Why do they call it “growing” old when everything about you shrinks?
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thank my parents. They gave me the gift of life. But is a gift supposed to rip your skin off every day?
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I was a sensitive kid. I was confused too. My father was always telling me to be a man. And my mother was always telling me to be a woman.
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Do I have any regrets? Maybe one. That my parents had a sex life.
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I was a lonely kid, an only child. And I had no friends. And my parents were not much help. When they had people over they locked me in the closet and told me to play. It was years before I could understand why other children didn’t smell like wet rubber.
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My parents were cruel. As a kid I didn’t have any friends and they wouldn’t let me make any. So I found an imaginary friend, and they even took him away from me.
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I wanted to learn carpentry and build things but my parents thought it would ruin my manicure.
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When my mum and dad wanted some quality time together, they gave me a quarter and told me to go out and play. On the street. At rush-hour.
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My mother was stern. Once I was real sick and she came to my bedside and sat with me. She said to me tenderly, holding my hand. “I want you to know that if you die, I will be disappointed in you.”
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My mother was not very maternal. She didn’t breast-feed me. She bought me milkshakes .
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I think she wanted a girl. When I asked her what my genitals were for, she said they were a place for me to store my lipstick.
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I don’t think my mother loved me as much as she loved the milkman.
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My mother was very friendly person. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew her name. And her rates too.
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Sometimes as a child you know why you’re not loved. And if I ever forgot, my mom would leave me a little note to remind me.
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I am an only child. I was told that I was special. After I was born my mother not only tied her tubes , she also tied her neck.
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I used to go out grocery shopping with my mother sometimes when I was a child. I remember she’d pick up a frozen steak and shout out, “You could KILL a man with one of these!”
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My mother died when I was very young. I was lonely. I went up to a lady once and said, “Will you be my mummy?” She said “Of course, I will. Do you want a cigarette?”
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My father was a cruel but sentimental man. He once told me that the Marquis de Sade was the brother he never had.
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My grandfather was romantic. He was also a scrap-metal dealer. We would be out looking at a heap of scrap metal and he would say,” You know, you can find love in all kinds of places.”
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You know, when you get your first bicycle, you get those two little wheels in the back till you can learn to balance and not fall over and hurt yourself. Well, all of my friends’ parents made sure that they had those little wheels on their kids’ bikes. Not my folks. They didn’t buy those wheels for me. In fact they didn’t even buy me a bicycle. They got me a monocycle instead.
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Ron Kozloff 