I never thought I’d see the day when the postal service stopped delivering snails and brought me a bustier instead. What if others decided to add a side line?
FOR EXAMPLE: What if everyone wanted to be a therapist?
Scene 1: THE CABBIE
ME: Taxi! I’d like to go to Francois’ Beauty Salon, and could you hurry, please? CABBIE: This compulsion for promptness — do you look at Francois as a father figure, thus your fear of displeasing “daddy?” ME: Huh? I’d just like to be on time, or he’ll give my appointment to someone else. CABBIE: Ah! You see the other customers as a symbol of your resentment toward a younger brother or sister. Perhaps you have a little sibling rivalry going. ME: [sotto voce]: I can’t wait until that lousy bus strike is over. CABBIE: What was that? ME: Never mind. Just drop me off here. CABBIE: Did you know that leaving an 80¢ tip on a $8 ride indicates a holding back, an unwillingness to let go … ? ME: And did you know that my slamming this door on your nose reflects my uncompleted relationship with Pinocchio? CABBIE: †§$%$(%¢% ME: Same to you, fella!
Scene 2: THE HAIRDRESSER
ME: Hi, Francois. Listen, today I think I’d like a change from the old way you’ve done my hair. How about a shorter haircut? FRANCOIS: I can see an obvious conflict that I must bring to your attention. You think by changing your outer self, your internal enemy can be placated. ME: In that case, cut it for both of us. The real reason I’d like it trimmed is because it gets in my eyes while I’m playing tennis. I’d just like to be able to see the ball when I miss it. FRANCOIS: You don’t want to miss. You probably are extremely competitive, which stems from your need to be in charge … I sense that you are agitated. Tell me, what are you feeling right now, at this very moment? ME: You really want to know? I’m feeling great hostility toward your leotards. As a matter of fact, I’d like to be perfectly candid. I never thought you had the legs for them. FRANCOIS: Well, I never … ME: I can believe that. Goodbye!
Scene 3: THE BARTENDER
ME: Set ‘em up, Joe. I've got a little story I’d like you to know. BARTENDER: Lady, can’t you just ask for a drink like everyone else? I sense a bit of the exhibitionist in you. Were you ignored during your formative years? ME: Listen, these are my formative years. Being ignored would be the highlight of my day. Why don’t you just give me a Bloody Mary and then go freeze your daiquiri. BARTENDER: I sense a deep-seated fury raging in you. Obviously you could have chosen from over 1,000 cocktail combinations, including a Sweet Casi's and soda. Why did you choose that particular mix? ME: I did it for purely medical reasons. My body craves the vitamin C that’s found in the tomato juice. BARTENDER: I think you chose the Bloody Mary because it reflects your preoccupation with violence, blood, and gore. ME: I’m getting nauseous. Leave me alone. BARTENDER: I can see your rage. Who do you suppose really is the recipient of your wrath? ME: I’m looking at him. BARTENDER: Oh, no. You don’t mean me. I’m merely a therapeutic stand-in for someone else in your past. Tell me, who are you angry with? ME: I’m not angry. BARTENDER: Ha. You can’t kid me. If you’re not angry, then why are you pouring your drink down my apron? ME: It was a childish impulse. I once accidentally set fire to my hula hoop, and for a moment I was transported in space, and I attempted to put out the flames. BARTENDER: Ah! Now we seem to be getting somewhere, but your time is up. Why don’t you go home, take two martinis, and call me in the morning? ME: Listen, whatever you say. You’re the doctor.