I stopped eating healthy. I felt so good I didn’t recognize the feeling and thought something was wrong.
I awoke thinking it was February 5th. It wasn’t. It was July 7th. I looked around my bedroom. I didn’t recall painting it blue. I didn’t recall having a bed. My wife came into the room and threw a kiss. That wasn’t like her. She usually threw a punch.
I walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. I heard the sound of laughter. Three children walked in and called me “Dad”. I recognized one of them. The boy named “Chip”, but who were the other two? Throughout my life, I have had periods of confusion but this was different. I couldn’t say how though, because I was confused.
In the corner, I spotted suitcases. Was I going on vacation or did someone move in to help pay the rent? I asked Chip about the suitcases and he reminded me they were part of a sculpture I was making. Huh? Sculpture? That would explain the hammer and chisel on the floor.
My wife handed me a bar of soap. She said it was mine and to put my name on it. I said it’d wash off when I used it. “Then don’t use it,” she said.
I have been in and out of group therapy for years. I simply wanted to meet girls but it didn’t work out as planned. One woman proposed to me. When I declined, she proposed to the therapist.
I joined an all-male group. It was déjà vu. One gentleman popped the question; I declined, so he proposed to the therapist. (They’re honeymooning in Paris.)
It was time for individual therapy. On my first day the therapist, a woman, also proposed to me. Sensing a pattern, I wanted to discuss it. Ignoring me, she continued to flirt. I pressed the issue while she got down on one knee to repeat her proposal. I got down on both knees to ask, “Why does this keep happening to me?”
She persisted. I changed the subject. I spoke of family issues, fear of voting, believing I am a king, convinced I was Marilyn Monroe, having a fear of bread – these are actual problems I have. Nothing worked. She continued asking for my hand.
I considered changing therapist (again) but with my luck, someone else would ask to marry me. I suggested my individual sessions be expanded to “group”. Surprisingly she agreed, but only if I considered her proposal. I said, “Maybe.”
Our first group session included 3 women and 3 men. I assumed (hoped) the problem had ended. It didn’t. Everyone in the group, including the therapist, proposed. Presently I have 7 people asking for my hand. The only positive thing I can say is now I have a choice.
From my book – Good Morning: Your Guide to Utter Nonsense
I belong to a support group for people who smell like cheese. Lately there has been infighting in the group. The people who smell like cheddar are trying to kick out the people who smell like swiss.
I took a stand today against wearing a fur coat. I bought one made of broccoli.
I applied for a library card and was denied. I was too short.
My father was an old-fashioned provider. He hunted with a bow & arrow. There was never a problem until he came to the canned-good section in the supermarket.
I considered becoming a political revolutionary until I learned the hours weren’t steady and you couldn’t collect unemployment.
I went to the bank today to make a deposit. Upon arriving, I held the door for a man in a wheelchair. After he entered, I pushed him to the teller window. Several people were in line so the man and I waited. When our turn came, I pushed him to the counter; he reached into his bag and pulled out a gun.
“This is a holdup!” he announced.
I froze in place, stunned. The man looked at me with a “Don’t worry, I’m robbing them. Not you,” expression.
“Hurry up!” he shouted. He passed his bag to the bank employee to fill.
Panic ensued. Patrons dropped to the floor fearing they would be shot. A few escaped out the front door. I remained standing behind the man.
“Could you back me up a little? I’m too close to the counter and can barely see the teller,” he said.
I backed him up.
“Thanks!” he said. “And you,” pointing the gun at the teller, “hurry up with the money!” “Please don’t shoot. I have a family.” She cried while stuffing money into his bag.
“Do what I ask and no one will get hurt.”
He waved me closer to whisper into my ear.
“I’m not going to hurt anyone. This gun has no bullets.”
Finally the teller handed him the bag.
“Would you mind holding the door for me again?” he asked.
As I rolled him to the exit, he continued waving the gun and threatening everyone.
“I just want to make sure no one tries acting the hero,” he whispered.
After I opened the exit door, I wheeled him out onto the sidewalk.
“Want to go for coffee?” he asked.
“Can’t. Have some things to do.” My voice quivered.
“Thought I’d ask.” He rolled himself down to a cab. It was his getaway car. The driver put his bag and wheel chair in the trunk and sat the man in the backseat.
I returned to the bank to finally make my deposit. Everyone looked at me.
“I just met the guy!” I said. “I didn’t know he was going to rob the bank.”
Before boarding my flight, I was questioned by airport security why I had a light bulb in my left pocket. I said, “Because I have a lamp in my right one.”