Psychiatric Mishaps

You know, I used to have this great little thread called "I liked my fucking nose so much, I went ahead and breathed it", but AG came along and took it away from me. Please forgive me, I suppose I'm getting a little sentimental here. (honks in hanky)

But it's really ok. These days, I use a little trick Rodney King taught me. I just get high using linear perspective, shrinking myself down to an infinitesimal point, and then foreshortening myself a little bit more, besides.

Well, then, what the heck. I actually do a giant mess of PCP and crack. And then I do the perspective.

Speaking of breathing, you know, I once knew this guy who was a reverse breatharian. He got it down to not doing anything *except* eating. Of course, the first thing to fall by the wayside was breathing. But I guess I didn't even need to mention that.

I used to be a reverse New Ager. Like, I used to go a reverse Ayurvedic. That's a doctor who is so great that he can order an array of sophisticated diagnostic tests and tell you precisely what your urine tastes like.

Sylvia Browne told me that she saw my afterbirth in the afterlife. She said that he wanted me to know he is doing just fine, and his little body doesn't hurt him anymore. He just can't wait until I can come join him in Heaven, and we can be reunited!

That reminds me of a quite annoying and disturbing occasion when I traveled back in time in order to find out where I had misplaced my wallet. Unfortunately, during this course of events, I somehow managed to misplace my time machine. Of course, since I would now be pretty much stuck where I was, I attempted to convince the "past me" to loan me his time machine so I could go back and see what I had done with my own machine, but I could tell he really didn't want to. His preference was for him to go back and observe my previous actions, then travel forward to where I was and tell me where it had been lost. But I suppose that the "past me" hadn't yet learned to be careful about misplacing his own time machine-- and as it has turned out, this process may have gone on forever, since I have found myself waiting very listlessly, very disconsolately, with an infinitely large crowd of "past me's", all of whom are missing their wallets and time machines.

I really like the American porn system because, by adding the middleman to sexual intercourse, we de-simplified and de-streamlined the whole screwing process. This, of course, allowed considerably greater red tape, regulatory bodies, and overhead to be passed on to the grateful consumer.

You know, people come up and ask me everyday, "Lester, just how is it that you can be such a consistently stupid asshole?" To this I can only gratefully respond, "You see, friends, I've been able to see a lot less than everyone else because I stand on the shoulders of midgets."

You know, lately some fellers down at the old Fermilab have been trying to produce an absolute vacuum, but their results thus far have been pretty darned frustrating. "Damn! we're all screwed up here!" said one of the head scientists. Well, being a person of great spiritual power and all that, my friend mini-deth flew right out to the site and told them, "Hey man, you just got to look at your absolute vacuum as 'half-full' rather than 'half-empty'."

Just like the patient who was having sex with his psychotherapist. "Doctor, I'm pretty much psychotic, so how will I distinguish our actually having intercourse from my having a hallucination about our having intercourse?" "Easy," the therapist answered. "I'll just double up on the premature ejaculations in your hallucinations."

I have immature ejaculations. I... you know... play dumb pranks and write on the walls during orgasm.

I'm going to put on my pants in protest of everything.

Naturally, the pants-wearing event won't go on too long. After that, then, it's back to normal.

Well, folks, if I can just get out of all my doggoned lazy, procrastinating habits, my new forty thousand-page historical atlas is pretty much going to write itself.

Say, you know, high- tech special effects are just getting better and cheaper by the minute. These days, it's increasingly cost-effective for even mundane items to be done by special effects crews: nickels, table spills, vermin, most rashes. Now, I got LucasFilms handling all my premature ejaculations. Of course, they still give me creative input on the storygoarding, blocking-out, all that. I even get to go for the donuts. As a matter of fact, I have special muscles inside my head which allow me to attain a great number and variety of facial expressions. I have Westlife to thank for this ability. All my facial expressions have been copyrighted by Dreamworks. You should see the bills I get for the licensing fees!

Well, I just started working on the first page of my brand new atlas, "A Comprehensive History of Ant Societies". They've had a lot of important stuff happen, so the whole work is likely to expand to several hundred billion pages in length, but, you know, it really feels like it's writing itself! When I'm all done with that, I'd like to start on my next big project, attempting to hold down my food.

I once had an automobile made of gasoline. As fuel diminished, the car's mass would decrease, causing acceleration. The fuel hits zero and, of course, you achieve infinite speed.

I don't know about you, but when I'm driving my '67 dune buggy at infinite speed, creating sizeable disruptions in the continuity of spacetime, I'm feeling pretty much OK about my low self-esteem.

It's really not half bad, this business of deranged, dangerously unpredictable behavior.

It's pretty tough all around. The Nazi KKK are trying to eject all the Jewish Klansmen, while the KKK Nazis are trying to get all the African-American Nazis out of the organization. What's worse, I think one of my multiple personalities is having an affair on me.