Psychobabble

The modern world is a shrink's patient. Every little thing gets blamed on sad, dark and dreary childhood experiences. If you killed someone, maybe your uncle abused you as a child. If you turned-out an alcoholic, maybe your mother always yelled at you when you were four or five. If you're thirty-six years old and you still wet your bed when you have a nightmare, maybe your father belted you on the ass when you were growing-up. If you fart so much in public, maybe your little playmate back in '82 always did and you thought that was cool when you were ten. You know, all that motherfucking bullshit about psycho-analysis and therapy? I don't want to sound so callous and uncaring about each and everyone's personal mental tragedies, but what the fuck? Do you really need someone whom you have told your innermost emotional debaucheries to ask you "...and how does that makes you feel?" Psycho-analysis is one of the biggest rackets in the first-world. It's an industry that does not need its own cheesy infomercial to thrive. Second to organized religion, it's the most lucrative business. Prozac, Lithium, the works. They're the true gangsters. Cock-sucking dope-dealers with M.D.'s.

See, it's pretty simple to me. Some people are just fucked-up. You know, wackos. Those who end up in the street with filthy rags and no underpants. They are the one who need psycho-therapy, not the middle-aged businessman who divides his time between playing golf and counting his money. I'm guessing these yuppie brats just need some attention. They were the goddam sissies and nerds in school. Those fucking idiots suddenly don't know what to do when they realize they're too old to be collecting stamps or watching star trek. They got their heads so far up their ass the whole time they don't really know what life is.

"Oh, I fucking hate my boss, he's so mean, he hates me, blah-blah-blah...yada-yada-yada..." Who the fuck cares? I mean, tell that shit to your wife, your father, your mother. You can tell sad stories to your household cat and still nothing will happen. The only ones who can help us are ourselves. It is us who makes our destinies. There is no pre-ordained bullshit in this life, because life is not fair. Nobody said it was, nor will it ever will be. Word to the wise, suck it up, take the blows, and grab life by the balls.

To me, going to a psychologist is like going to confession. You tell the other guy--a stranger--secrets and he's supposed to help you, give you advice, make your ass pray a hunderd hail maries, and what-else-the-fuck-have-you. After that, here comes that donation box, the doctor's fee, the bill for releasing your guilt which makes you less fearful of eternal damnation in hell.

If I ever have to see a shrink in the future, I think I'll make the most of it though...maybe I can come up with a million bullshit stories just to bust his balls.