Shrink Rap

Jan. 10, 2017
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artk

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, first thing here is a “thank you” to reader Yvonne for her very nice note, and abso-focking-lutely I shall send your regards to the fellas.

 

Next, a hearty congratulations to our local broadcasters John Malan and Tom Pipines as they hang up the barometer and scoreboard respectively, soon to be retired, the lucky son-of-a-guns. For me, I don’t see any retirement coming down the pike. Retire? No sir. Expire, oh yeah, and I won’t be shaking any hands as I head out the Shepherd’s hallowed door feet first, what the fock.

 

So, I’m making my rounds the other day and some guy says to me, “Hey Artie, writing those essays of yours must be good therapy, ain’a?” And I’ll tell you’s, if it’s such good therapy, I wish President-elect Orange Circus Peanut would start writing newspaper essays instead of sending those stupid-ass tweets all the time ’cause if ever there were a candidate-elect ready to be a throw pillow on a therapy couch, it’s Trumpel-thin-skin. Which reminds me:

 

Psychiatrist’s receptionist says, “Doctor, there’s a patient here who thinks he’s invisible.” Psychiatrist says, “Tell him I can’t see him right now.” Ba-ding!

 

Man walks into a psychiatrist’s office, completely naked except for a layer of Saran Wrap. Psychiatrist says, “I can clearly see you’re nuts.” Ba-ding!

 

Why can’t you hear a psychiatrist using the bathroom? Hey, because the ‘p’ is silent. Ba-ding!

 

Man goes to a psychiatrist. Psychiatrist says, “What do you do for a living?” Man says, I’m an auto mechanic.” Psychiatrist says, “All right, get under the couch.” Ba-ding!

 

So you betcha, if whipping out these essays off the top of my head is good therapy, I guess that makes Artie his own therapist, how ’bout that. By cutting out the middleman, I figure I’m saving myself about a $120-$150 bucks an hour; so the drinks are on me. And as a therapist, one thing I know is that we can all use an extra pat on the back. Actually, I got a better idea. More than an extra pat on the back, we could all use an extra $Jackson in the backpocket, ain’a? Hold on, I got an even better idea. How ’bout, say, you go see one of these psychiatric guys for a little shrink rap and at the end of the session he gives you a crisp $100 instead of the other way around—“Hey doc, gosh. Thanks for the dough. I’m feeling better about myself already.” And isn’t that the point?

 

Fock if I know, but I sometimes do wonder what things would be like these days if there had been an outbreak of the psychology racket in the olden days. Say back in the year 0027 or something, they pull Jesus in for a psych session: “Well, Mr. Christ, to me it looks like we’re dealing with a pattern of self-destructive behavior here. I’d say you were clinically depressed, but that hasn’t been invented yet. This savior thing. It’s a grand idea, but practically speaking, what about the future? Do you actually see yourself doing this at age 40, 50? And you say one thing, but then do another. ‘Love thy neighbor,’ fine. But then you go bust up their money-changing temple. What I’d like to do is see you weekly for the long-term. Who is your health care provider, Mr. Christ?”

 

I’ve heard that some psychiatrists like to quiz their patients about their dreams. If I were seeing a shrink instead of seeing myself, I’d tell him about the one I had just the other night that goes something like this:

 

Vladimir Putin, Art Kumbalek and Donald Trump were set to face a firing squad in a small Middle-Eastern country. Vladimir Putin was the first one placed against the wall, and just before the order was given he yelled out, “EARTHQUAKE!” The firing squad fell into a panic and Vlad jumped over the wall and escaped in the confusion.

 

Art Kumbalek was the second one placed against the wall. The squad was reassembled and Artie pondered what he had just witnessed. Again before the order was given, Artie said, “Gentlemen! SANDSTORM!” Again the squad panicked and Artie slipped over the wall.

 

Now it was Donald Trump’s turn. He was thinking, “I see a pattern here, oh boy, I’m so hugely smart.” He confidently refused the blindfold as the firing squad reassembled. As the rifles were raised in his direction, he gave a thumbs-up, stuck out his chin and yelled, “FIRE!”

 

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

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