EDITOR'S NOTE: Marty Walsh's "Humor" column is AGAIN unavailable. Instead he's working on some issues with his therapist...

Visit With The Therapist

It's been brought to my attention that I actually haven't started any columns for about six months. Might I remind my four readers that these things don't happen overnight? If my speed is in fact in question, perhaps you would all care to watch this snail make a daring trek across 100 miles of terrain as a comparison... Movie Clip.

Now that THAT's out of the way, here's my excuse for not having a column this week: My therapist insisted I keep a journal of my thoughts. Of course, having spent all my free time writing my journal, my entries are the only thing I can contribute today! Oh, well... Mechanical Bull

What am I writing about anyway? I thought I'd describe my first appointment with my therapist, naturally! I smell trouble the moment I walk in. Er- truthfully, I smell the aroma of cooked meat, but as this is a doctor's office and not a restaurant, I can't help but wonder. For some unknown reason, this office sports a large mechanical bull in one corner.

"I'll be with you in half a bratwurst!", yells a voice from the next room. Idly I examine the selection of magazines on the corner table- most of them are from the 1980's, so I doubt I'll be impressed with the knowledge that the Commodore 64 is going to be the biggest thing in home computing...

"Come in, Mr. Walsh! Mind if I call you Josh?" My therapist is large, jowly, and looks almost, but not quite, entirely unlike Lorraine Bracco. In retrospect, this is a good thing- I really don't want to see this man in a skirt... "Why don't you have a seat Josh, and we'll get down to the bottom of this. We'll find out exactly why you're such a loser. I bet it's WOMAN trouble, am I right?"

It was right about then that I realized the man was clenching an enormous bratwurst sandwich in his fist. No sooner had he finished his sentence that he crammed a large chunk of food in his mouth and resumed chewing. "Um- my name is Marty, not Josh." Although I'm not entirely positive, it felt as if five minutes passed before he had completed the task of chewing & swallowing. Glancing at my watch- these sessions are charged hourly- I wonder what I've gotten myself into... bratwursts "Yes, I know what your real name is, but calling you Josh is easier when my mouth is full." Once again he shoveled an enormous portion into his feeding orifice. "Ah, doc, this is all a bit unorthodox," I stammered. "I came here to talk about my ex-girlfriend, who just got married. You see, I don't think I ever got over-"

"Josh, I apologize for interrupting, but you wouldn't have any horseradish sauce on you by any chance?" Gritting my teeth, I look him straight in the eye and tell him something that really wasn't far from the truth: "Why, yes, I DO have horseradish sauce on me. I just happened to put my SLEEVE in it. This chair of yours is STAINED with it, you repulsive slob!" His eyes brighten like a child's on Christmas morning. "Wonderful! If you could just move over a bit..." Sighing, I shift slightly and let him mop up the mess... and eat it. YECCH!

Presently he finished... and got up and went straight into the next room. He lumbered back into the room, balancing a cardboard tray with a pizza on it. To make things worse, now he was sporting a motorcycle helmet with goggles. Peeling a slice of pepperoni from the box, he gestured toward the mechanical bull. "Want to try it?" I emphatically shake my head no.

"Josh, do you know why people have so many problems today?" I shake my head even more emphatically than the last time. "It's because there aren't enough science fiction movies being produced. Do you know why the number of science fiction movies have dramatically increased since the 1950's?" Zeus

"Hmm...let's see. No, on second thought- go ahead and tell me a reason other than the most logical one, doc." Note to self: Never trust a therapist with a poster on his wall with a slogan that doesn't exactly represent the Hippocratic Oath.

I looked at my watch again. Wow, has it been thirty minutes already?

"You see Josh, the government made contact with alien beings back in the 50's... and all this time, they've been preparing us for the shock! The more sci-fi movies get produced, the more de-sensitized we will become to the existence of aliens! This means the truth will FINALLY BE REVEALED when it is determined that the population can handle the shock! Isn't that GREAT?"

At this point he got up and, I swear to God, he started strumming an air guitar! "Uh... doc... I'm not sure about your therapeutic technique-"

"Don't question my practice, especially during my solo! I've been a certified therapist for over 35,000 bratwursts! Now, tell me about your problem, loser." I noticed he had somehow produced a flagon of beer from seemingly out of nowhere and proceeded to drain it noisily, the excess flowing down his chin and into his lap. Thirty-one minutes...

"Okay, you see, I was dating this girl named Candy. I thought we were pretty serious-" "How long were you dating, Josh? It couldn't possibly have been that long." He went for another pull on the flagon, but it was empty. With a roar, he flung it angrily over his shoulder- managing to bounce it off the back wall and rebound off his beer-stained motorcycle helmet. "We had 44 dates together." I sighed.

"There's NO way it could have been serious! This girl was NOT in your life long enough to make a difference! Remember Josh, the last 17 dates NEVER count!" Squinting through his goggles, I could see him gazing longingly at the mechanical bull again. "Are you SURE you don't want to try it?"

Walgreens "Doc- why don't we cut this session short- okay?" Without waiting for a reply, I got up and bolted for the door. "Wait! I haven't told you about the robots that hide behind pharmacies..."

At this point, I was out of earshot.

Maybe it's time to get serious and really start writing. That settles it- my humor column should appear... in about 486 bratwursts from now.

Your Thoughts? Reactions? Comments? Please be sure to sent them to Marty Walsh via letters@thefedorachronicles.com. Or, you can visit us here at the forum...