Come On Baby, Let's-Do-The-Weird! Come On Baaaabay, Let's-Do-The-Weird! Come On Baby, And It Goes Like This...

word to the WIZENED:
This nonsense is part of a rather interchangeable series of posts that seem to make the modern Trilogy Children forget their "Troubles." If only temporarily.

Part Un: "I Keep A Wolf At The Door.

Part Deux: "Sally Sue Your Saints Are Sinners!"

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Nevermind why I'm here.

OK OK, if you must know Nosy Nellie, let's just say that when you have a total PCP meltdown in the middle of Vine Street in broad daylight and make razor-supported demands that the Biotech hyper-industry turn your GOD DAMN lights back on, prosecutors tend to look favorably on any and all efforts to right the ship. Mentally.

Needless to say, my presence in this cramped, sterile office are but the beginning of my quite literally ass-saving re-direction.

Today.

We're about an hour deep into my third "session." The first one didn't go so well. At least for the doctor it didn't.

"Are these restraints really necessary? They're on pretty fucken tight, man!"

The good doctor pauses for a moment, trying to shake the memory of two weeks ago, lying on the floor there of his own seemingly safe and secure office, terrified and in an unrelenting headlock, with a pen-knife wielding maniac demanding The Truth, The Whole Truth, and NOTHING But The Truth GOD DAMMIT! So what if he's in a fucken wheelchair? Handicapped fucks get it too! Just can't believe he kept his mouth shut. Pity is a powerful thing.

"Well. Mr. Paisley, as your therapist, I seek to help you to the utmost of my abilities, but quite frankly, threats of violence and sodomy will not be tolerated.

"Please please please please please please, Mr. Paisley is my father. And I detested that hook-nosed faggot, God rest his soul. Call me Phinnaeus."

The crippled fuck takes quick note of the old man comment, but I'm not bothered.

"OK, Phinnaeus. Today I figured we'd get to something a bit more informal, less structured. Because, and this is merely my preliminary observation, it seems, well it seems that you don't do well with structure or traditional modes."

You can't really be offended by the truth, especially when it's one you embrace. "OK. So what do you have in mind?" Sonofabitch really strapped me in good. Pretty strong for a man in his, condition.

"Well. What we're going to do now is something I'm sure you've heard of or seen in the past."

The old Jew (and trust me, I got an eye for these things) busts out a dense stack of glossy cardboard squares and shuffles them in his slight, impotent lap. Just the thought of how much of a cake-eating, pantywaist of a needle-dicked wimp this guy is (he can't possibly be satisfying his Jewess wife?) is starting to get my pressure up. But I'm not goin' nowhere.

"Phinnaeus. What do you see?" He holds up one of the cards, patiently awaiting my answer.



"Eh?" I'd scratch my head in wonderment, but, you know. "I see a fucking disaster is what I see."

"No no Mister, um, Phinnaeus. Think of it as an abstraction. A non-traditional representation that'll give me some insight into your, personality. And try not to think about it too hard. You know, just go with the flow, follow the feeling."

He's visibly proud of himself and his "hip" expression. Loosens his collar a bit, smirks; real cocksure-like. Fancies himself a genuine poet, a "Rock Star." Whatever the fuck that means. Of course, his confidence comes standard with my immobility. Pussy.

"Well. I guess it reminds me of something."

"Yes?" So eager.

"It reminds me of 1970."

"Nineteen-Seventy?" In a perplexed, patronizing tone. "OK... How so? How does it remind you of Nineteen-Seventy?"

"Yeah. Reminds me of 1970. To be more specific, it reminds me of the day I fought Dennis Hopper in the parking lot of a Wendy's in North Hollywood."

"OhhhKaayyy? The actor Dennis Hopper?"

"Oh no, haha, no way man. The abortionist Dennis Hopper... Yes the fucking actor Dennis Hopper man!"

"Alright. And how did you happen to know Mr. Hopper?"

"That fuck owed me money MAN! Things were so carnivorous that day though. It was like, let's drop 400 micrograms, let's pound an eightball each, let's speedball a bit, let's roll around in some Hard White. just as a warm-up, ya know? Let's test The Mortal Coil a bit."

"Okay, so you and Dennis Hopper, the actor, were doing drugs together?"

"C'mon man! Sayin' it like that makes it sound like were sucking each other off. Naw, we were fucken partying, driving around in his convertible looking for pussy, man!"

"Alright. So how did this fight start?"

"Well, we stopped in this parking lot to rap to these two Mexican or Salvadoran or Nicaraguan birds. I don't know what the fuck they were. Anyway, Hopper said something stupid, some real stupid shit. I don't remember what exactly, but I know it was fucken stupid. The kind of thing that definitely scares pussy away. Especially illegal immigrant pussy. Something about reporting them to INS if they didn't let us film them fucking. So yeah, it was that, plus the fact that mere seconds after they split, he insinuated that with the Mexicans gone, we should try my mother's house. Thought it was the funniest shit ever, man."

"So you fought him because he insulted your mother?"

"Yeah, I guess. Well it wasn't really a fight. He went down after one punch. Faggot."

"Alright. Well, we did get something out of that. You do care for your mother, at least enough to physically defend her honor. But as for the rest, well-" (trying not to upset me, trying not to 'follow the feeling') "it's just that most subjects see some sort of canine figure in that inkblot."

"Well i didn't see no FUCKEN dog man!" I'm giving him a fatal fucken stare man, half-fucking-around but half-wanting to get out of this god damn chair and cut his nostrils with an Exacto knife.

Clearing his throat, he adjusts himself in his invalid carriage, making a face all too commonly associated with disbelief and skepticism. But fuck him! I know what I saw!

"Alright Phinnaeus, let's do another. And this time, try to just answer immediately, without too much consideration. OK?"



Focusing on the blot, I put on a face of coooool nonchalance, just to satisfy the paraplegic fuck. I answer real quick.

"Well sir, that's of course a picture, a rep-RE-Sen-Tation, of yours truly in the year 1979, Anno Domini... During a Sandanista rally in Managua. Mi hermano Manolo was admiring the chrome accents on my AK-47... Actually he was the only one in the crowd that noticed it wasn't a genuine Kalashnikov. I don't remember if it was a handmade number or a Chinese one-off. Actually, wait, Norinco wasn't heavy on the scene yet, so it must've been an amateur's handiwork. Anyway, we spent that night in a brothel with underaged whores, former nuns who'd been kicked out of the CONvent for makin' moves on the 'Father.' Sat up all night and all morning just talking about the nature of the revolution as it pertained to the dissident ethnic "minority." Later that night, with a head full of coca leaves and the stink of pubic youth on his trigger finger, Manolo proceeded to assassinate a Somoza governor. GOOD TIMES."

The doctor gasps, audibly. He holds up another "picture" in utterly stunned silence. Eventually, he manages words.

"And this one?" Exasperated now.



"It's me and Jodie Foster, man. Sorry. Jodie Foster and I. No, wait. I was right the first time. Me and Jodie Foster and a bunch of her 'people' at Lake Havasu, shooting mannequins dressed like Injuns, like Natives, gobbling up absinthe soaked sugar cubes. I tried to get her to eat some peyote buttons I had boiled in embalming fluid but she was being a total cunt. A real drag. I ate mine sandwiched between two pristine butterfly wings and some stale Melba toast. Little trick I learned from Mia Farrow. But yeah, Jodie kept whining about having to get ready to film 'Le Sang Des Autres.' With Sam Neill and shit. I think I might have sacrificed an infant to Quetzalcoatl that day. Either an infant or a toaster. I was tripping face, man!"

Vexed.

Mercy?

"Look doctor. You're tired, I'm tired. What do you say we call it a day, friend?"

Hardly an argument. The doc's so relieved to get rid of me for the day that he doesn't fear for his safety any longer, releasing the leathery grip of those fucken restraints.

"But before I go Sir, I've been meaning to ask, what does a guy have to do to get a fucken script 'round here?"

"Well, Phinnaeus, it's going to be a few more meetings before I can determine with certainty whether medication is necessary, and from there, what exactly to prescribe should the need arise."

"C'mon doc!?" You know I'm good for it...

Obviously hoping to avoid a confrontation, he slowly reaches for his prescription pad and begins scribbling. Awwww! He's putting his license and career on the line for lil 'ol me. How sweet.

Just then, I get the command.

Knock 'im out! Make the grab! Take a dash!

SIR YES SIR!

I ask you, who am I to disobey orders?

He doesn't see it coming. At all! It's almost comical how thoroughly he's blindsided.

You see, there are certain places you can hit a person where he'll be out anywhere from 4-8 hours, and he won't remember shit, won't be seriously hurt, and there won't be any visible evidence of Assault + Batteries Not Included. Of course, to share the exact locations of these "soft points" would be... socially irresponsible. So solly friend.

Problem Solved. Swiftly and Quietly.

I snatch the script pad out of his limp, cripple hand and shuffle for the door like some sort of freshly emancipated, drug-endowed pixie.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to run to see The Druggist: The CAPtain and the KILLer. He'll be awfully steamed if I'm late, you see...

SQUARES: 0 PHINNAEUS the Cat: 1 Quintillion