My view on Psychologists.

Thanks to Jane Alt and "" for the image. Found using

“Mr. Tallant, what is it exactly you believe I can do to help?”

“Dr. Tallant.”  I corrected, sitting back on the faux-suede sofa.

“Are you a doctor?”  The psychiatrist asked looking over his paperwork.


“I see.  So, Dr. Tallant, what is it you want me to help with?”

“I want you to stop ending your sentences with prepositions.”


“I think you meant to say “What are the issues I can assist you with today?” instead of the degrading torture of the English grammar you previously used.”

“Clearly, we got off to the wrong foot.”

I sigh.

“Why do you seek my help exactly?”

“Well, Doctor,” I look around the small office, focusing on his bookshelf in the corner, “I have certain psychological and mental issues the general populace of science has not found a way to correct yet.  I need your help with medication to balance specific chemicals.”

“I don’t believe I’m aware of any chemical issue science has not achieved some sort of success in helping.”

“And I would agree that you wouldn’t know since they haven’t been discovered yet.”

“I see.”

“Not yet, you don’t.  But I’ll tell you anyway.”

“Do you mind if I record this session?”

“Digitally or magnetically?”

The doctor is starting to look irritated.  He’s taken longer to crack than most.  “Digital.”

“Digital random access memory or digital tape?”

“Memory.”  He pulls out a small RCA 1 gb audio recorder.

“That one will work for this session.  I would recommend a Tascam DR-05 for my next session due to the ability to prevent unwanted digital noise and clipping issues common with the RCA line of imbedded microphones in their recording equipment.”

“Before you explain anything else, I would like you to close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

“Is this necessary or are you trying to waste time to get through this session at a quicker pace?”

Now he’s irritated.  Good.  “Humor me.  Let’s pretend I know more than you and you’re here for my help.”

“I can pretend you are partly correct.”

“Then close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

I close my eyes as he instructs and let out a long sigh.  “I see the Universe.”

“The Universe?”

“Yes.  I see the Universe.  As a whole.”

“How can you be sure it’s the Universe?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve closed my eyes, Doctor.”

“You sure are cocky, aren’t you?”

“Yes.  Now, what would you like to know about the Universe?”

I can hear him scribbling before he answers, “What does it look like?”

“You have an advanced human mammal sitting six-feet in front of you looking at the entirety of the Universe and the first question you have is what does it look like?  It’s huge.  It’s a gigantic dark mass of stars and energy bouncing around an even larger field of radiation and neon-filled magnetized poles.  What does it look like?  It looks like Mickey Mouse riding Charles Darwin on a Tilt-a-Whirl.”

“Okay, then.  Can you see me?”

“Within the Universe or do you want me to open my eyes?”

“In your head.”

“The Universe isn’t in my head, I’m merely looking at it from a distance.”

“Can you see me there?”


“What do I look like?”

“Are you sure you’re an accredited psychiatrist?  You ask some shitty questions for a professional.”

“Please answer the question, Chris.”

“Does your wife know you like wearing her underwear?”

I open my eyes to see his reaction while his face glows is a dark shade of pink.


“I told you already.  Now let’s play a different game: I’ll tell you what’s wrong, and you help me stabilize the chemicals.”

“I want to go back to the Universe.”

“You’ve been here the whole time.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m here for help with my medical issues, not to help you find answers or validate your Catholic God’s participation in the creation of this Universe.  Honestly, how can doctors even fathom the idea of organized religion?”

“I want to know more.”

“And you will.  Today is not your lucky day.”

“I’m beginning to understand that.  Fine, what can I help you with?”

“First, Grammar.”  I let out a long sigh, “Yours sucks.  And second, my serotonin and dopamine levels are out of whack and need medicine such as tegretol or something similar to balance them out so I can stop the manic episodes.”

“How do you know your serotonin levels are wrong?”

“I just proved to you I can see the entirety of the Universe and you still have the unmitigated balls to ask how I know my brain isn’t processing serotonin properly?  Where did you get your degree from?  I need to have a talk with the Dean.”

“Fine, fine.”  He puts his writing pad down on the desk and focuses on me, “You want drugs?”

“No,” I look at him trying to figure out if he’s just stupid or trying to play stupid to see where the cracks in my conscience lay, “I’m not a drug addict or anything along those lines.  I’m not looking for a marijuana card or anything illegal.  Trust me when I admit to you that I’m strange enough without the help of third-world narcotics.  I need – let me emphasize this again: NEED medication designed by the brilliant chemical engineers at Pfizer or other suitable chemical engineering facility to regulate the amount of serotonin and dopamine and remove the manic episodes I can’t control.”

“How do you know your serotonin and dopamine levels are wrong?”

“In about 20 years,” I sigh and sit back again, “there will be a test created that will actually check and record the level of hormone-based chemicals in the brain and spinal cord to prove what I’m about to tell you.  However, until that time, you will have to trust that I know what I’m talking about and need help controlling these hormones.”

“How do you know there is no test now?”

“Do you know of a test which can detect the amount of 5-Hydroxytryptophan which in turn creates the serotonin molecules or a test where pyridoxal 5-phosphate amino acid levels, which help absorbs the chemical in anything more than a typical 10% accuracy of a blood test?”

“Umm.. No.  I didn’t know the blood test was only 10%.”

“It’s almost 10%.  Scientists haven’t discovered the exact data as of today.  The problem is doctors attempt to monitor the levels within the blood stream which is part of the problem.  The easiest way to get an accurate reading is from the spinal fluid from the back of the neck where the amino acids haven’t metabolized into the proper hormones yet to find the level information needed to make an accurate and proper diagnosis.”

“How do you know all this?”

I point to my head, “The Universe.  Remember?  By the way, you need a better spot to hide your Lithium, and not in your nightstand.  Your son has swiped them and is trading them to kids at Bloomfield High for favors doing his homework.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say I’m smarter than you, then write out a script for Carbomazapine, klonopin, valium and something to help take the edge off my OCD.”

“You never mentioned OCD.”

“Look at your bookshelf.”

“Okay…what am I…did you rearrange my books?”

“Yes,” I stood up and put my coat on, “alphabetical order by hardback and soft-copy format, and the duplicates I arranged by the earliest printing.  Also the book “Feeling Good” by Dr. Donald Burns is a pile of horse shit I wouldn’t read to my own kids to put them to sleep.  Why the hell do you have a copy of hippie “Feel Good” pulp in your medical collection of well written non-fiction?”

“Fine, you made your point.”

“I’m glad it took you 40 minutes to figure this out.”

“A script for tegretol, another for klonopin, another for valium and I’m going to suggest Celexa for the OCD, however I would also like to suggest you take part in CBT sessions as well.”

“Cock and Ball Torture?  No thank you.  I already had a vasectomy.  Although I must admit it was more enjoyable than I anticipated.”

“Cognitive behavioral therapy.  I work with a colleague of mine every other Wednesday evening with a select group of people who need help.”

“Do you need my assistance in teaching or managing this group?”

“No, I’d like you to observe the first week and if you feel you may help from the group, I think it may help with some of your mental obstacles.”

“Let me pass it with my wife.  Wednesdays are one of two days during the week I’m not at college and have a chance to spend it with my older children.  I’d hate to miss time with them for cock and ball torture seminars.”

“Here,” he hands me the scripts, “I want to see you in a month and I want to know more about this Universe.”

“Fine,” I pocket the scripts, “but I get to sit in your chair this time.  The couch isn’t as comfortable as you may have thought when your old assistant bought it.  Besides, notice I didn’t touch the arm rests?  You still have vaginal fluid there.”

“How did you..”

“See you in a month, Doc.”


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