$> disable_login londonmark
login disabled ok
$> disable_login steph
login disabled ok
$> enable_login kate
login enabled ok
$> enable_login stuart
could not enable due to: fear of mushiness
$> enable_login stuart
could not enable due to: overwhelming fear of mushiness
$> enable_login stuart -9
login enabled ok
$>
Oh dear, it’s worse that I thought. You guys have major issues that a virtual cocktail may not fix. All I can do is try, so here goes nothing…
I may be no expert, but Lyle thinks that he has a screw loose. He clearly needs a screwdriver in order to tighten that up. This one is Italian, because everyone knows that the only way to tip-top mental health is regular vacations to Italy. Am I right?
Adrian is the next patient, and it doesn’t look too good–he may need a bit of shock therapy to even out his condition. Haven’t you seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Sure doesn’t look like fun to me. You might want to stick with the vodka jellies until things get very serious.
Stuart has committed a Freudian slip, and is asking for a four-pint pitcher of Sex on the Beach, when he says he actually wants a half of bitter shandy. As a professional, though, I must say that what he truly wants is a nice helping of Sex and the City.
The lovely Shiv has no psychoses to speak of, but would like to create some by ingesting unhealthy quantities of absinthe. Who knows, it may inspire you to pick up and move to Paris, live in a red windmill, and become a cabaret dancer… if so, can I visit?
Now Vaughan might need a series of sessions with his therapist, seeing as how he has requested a Long Slow Freudian Phallic Imagery Up Against the Wall. You might need to find some of that action yourself, as I really can’t picture exactly what that would entail, but here’s some Tia Maria for you instead. Good luck, brave soldier.
Next in my office is D, who apparently needs to get a new therapist. In the meantime, the best I can do is write him a nice prescription for a Blue Hawaiian with Raw Shark.
One of my very favorite patients has arrived, and she gets to go ahead of everyone else in the waiting room, because I’m tired and she’s brought me a cupcake. Krissa is complaining of a bit of OCD. Finally, an explanation for why her house is always so clean! After a long examination (i.e. a thorough gossip session), I have determined that all she needs is an Orange Cranberry Dewars, plus a bit of vodka. Okay, maybe more than a bit. You’ll have to find your own dark couch to do what you’re thinking of with your boy, though. Sorry, too many patients!
Graybo is feeling a tad bit ghetto today, so he’s going to get his whiskey in a brown paper bag. Is it embarrassment over drinking too much whiskey, or the desire to drink in public? I’ll have my assessment by the end of the day…
Hanni seems to either have no problems at all, or is a recovering alcoholic and doesn’t want to drink. Either way, I prescribe one orange juice. That should keep you going during your football tomorrow.
Doctor Pockless, may I offer you a cold glass of Ribena to cure your throbbing headache? Though it’s not a psychiatric problem, I suppose it counts, since it has to do with your head.
Pix and Green Fairy have come in just before closing time, so I’m going to have to give them a group session. Green Fairy has requested a Special Brew, and Pix would like some nice tequila with all the fixins, and so it is done.
And finally, I’d like to call Mark into my office. He has waited very long in the crowded waiting room, so I would like to offer a bottle of Pol Roger 1990 champagne as a personal apology. And I’m feeling a bit thirsty myself… hope he doesn’t mind sharing.
All right guys, the office is closed. Go home, please! I pronounce you all cured.
After tirelessly tackling your most painful and difficult problems all week, I have come to a conclusion: you are all beyond help. Actually, that’s not true. The truth is, Uncle Mark and I only had time to answer a mere fraction of the letters we have received. So for the rest of the downtrodden and psychically disturbed, a failsafe cure: cocktails! Today’s theme is Psychiatry. You may place your orders now.
I have a problem with my relationship. I’m British, and I used to go out with this European. We got on well but I argued a lot with the family. Now, I’m seeing an American, but every time we go out, he embarrasses me in front of my friends, contradicting me in public, breaking promises and making me look really silly.
I really want the relationship to be special, but he doesn’t make it easy for me. Also, my European ex is still quite keen on me, so I’m getting really, really confused. Things at home aren’t easy, either. What can I do?
One of my comments on Slashdot was moderated +1 funny yesterday!
Hurrah!
Then it was moderated -1 redundant.
Boo.
I am truly, madly, deeply, profoundly, intensely in love with my soulmate whom I love madly and deeply and profoundly. He is absolutely perfect in every way. I do, however, have one teensy-weensy problem. My snuggle bunny is three feet taller than I am. Though this makes for, shall we say, convenient placement for certain activities that he may or may not enjoy (wink wink nudge nudge), I am worried that the height difference may cause problems and/or awkwardness in the future. Should I be concerned?
I’m having problems with the papers. They all says that I’ve been naughty but I ain’t. I’m just a bloke what likes kicking a ball around but there’s these girls, right, who’ve been talking about my tackle and the wife’s been on at me. I dunno what to do.
Mark replies:
Well, D.B., may I say first of all what a privilege it is to be answering your letter. (If you could see your way to sending me a signed shirt, that would be just lovely.)
Onto your letter. And I have to say that the wounds are mostly self-inflicted. For years you have been a successful footballer, more recently transferring from one high-profile team to another where your work rate and commitment to chasing down lost causes have been noted and appreciated by all. You represent your country at the highest level and on the biggest stage, and you carry the hopes of millions when you travel out to Portugal later in the summer to captain your team.
But I know that underneath that playboy Leytonstone-boy-done-good hair-obsessed exterior, there beats the heart of a megalomaniacal tyrant, with an ego the size of my overdraft. I think you wanted to get caught. It’s easy to make jibes about Goldenballs, playing away and going down in the box, but I’m pretty sure that secretly – deep down somewhere in your conscious or subconscious – you’re laughing along with the rest of us.
And herein is the problem. The astute business-savvy, multiple-sponsored, exclusive-granting, media centre of attention side of you is dismayed though slightly happy that the stupid, barely-articulate, clothes horse side of you is getting his comeuppance. By day, you train or play for 90 minutes, whipping in crosses, tracking back and covering the defence, running up the right flank and generally bossing the midfield. But by night, when you plan your next autobiography or bathe in a marble bath filled with banknotes, you become evil, your mind turned by the pretty girls which your wealth and looks give you access to.
However, I can only blame you so much. Let’s face it, when you were a young, single player, all you concentrated on was your football. Now, however, things have changed. And the answer is simple: your shrewish, talentless wife. You know what you have to do, D.B.; in fact, you’ve always known. Just make sure that the kids don’t see you dragging her body into the cellar. You can always claim to the media that she’s off launching a new album. No-one’ll delve too deeply.
My problem has been bothering me for quite a while now, but only recently has it grown to near-monumental proportions. The voices in my head keep telling me to do things. Bad things. I used to be able to fend them off with a quick (usually unnoticed) slap to the side of my head and a mumbled “Shut up!”, but last night the voices kept saying “Hit delete! Hit delete!”, and my finger obeyed them. They are becoming more and more powerful. I am afraid of losing control of my mind. How do I get rid of them?
Shut up!
Sorry.
