Crazy Talk!

Huzzah!  Christmas was a wonderful day!  There were lots of different things to eat.  I really liked my slice of ham.  Added a smear of gravy and it stuck to the wall very nicely.  Rita took all the napkins and stuffed them in her pants.  She said she was a snow man and looked the part so we all applauded.  Earl, Roy and Angus did the Can Can and mooned us, as usual.  When the chefs came in to gather the refuse we saluted them with confetti.  It was actually Chex Mix and popcorn, but they took it with good humor.  I was feeling quite mellow and gazed with tepid affection at all the antics of my psycho buddies.  It's at times like this that I feel much saner than the others and it gives me a heartening sense of superiority.  Who can resist the comforting notion that there are others worse off?  This observation lead my nimble mind to go visiting other ways we quantify and qualify each other.
Everybody knows the ordinary requirements to fit in any given group.  Everything from race to shoe size.  If someone defies inclusion in set categories it's a bit disturbing.  Like those Goth kids.  They're kind of crazy looking.  I knew a guy who lived in a tree.  Very nice guy.  Very quiet.  Many would call that crazy but he was a sculptor too, so it's OK.  If you try to break the world record for eating hot dogs you're not crazy.  If you think you're the reincarnation of Evita Peron you might be riding the crazy fence.  A notch or two up the scale are people who are delusional to their own detriment.  Bennie could tell you about that but he thinks he's Houdini.  When Bennie decided to cut a hole in the frozen Detroit River and act out Houdini's daring escape, he became a problem.  Personally, I think many other people should be included in Bennie's group.  People like Timothy Treadwell, who spent years with the grizzly bears until they ate him.  Or guys who climb Mount Everest.  What are they thinking?  Or my dearly departed husband Dwight, who went to swim with the sharks.  PAID to swim with the sharks.  They ate him.  It was a small funeral.  Or how about NASCAR?  Is that really sane?  You get the picture.

Lots of folks are talking crazy these days.  Crazy talk is in the news.  It's fun to speculate about who might be crazy but it's better to actually learn about crazy.  I found a really great op ed about schizophrenia in the New York Times.  It's by Paul Steinberg and it's very good crazy talk.  Click here:  Very smart, very right.  

The Fourteenth Floor

Hello my dears!  So sorry I've been out of touch the last week or so.  There's been an awful lot of stuff happening all at once here at the facility.  Last week, everybody on my floor caught the stomach flu and overloaded the plumbing.  What a mess!  Of course the chefs caught it too, so we got our meals late which we couldn't keep down anyway.  When we started getting better we were told we were moving all the way up to the fourteenth floor.  That was fine with me since all the floors are pretty much the same and I'd heard that the view of the local land fill is spectacular.  Some of the gang got a bit twitchy, but most of us were too worn out from the flu to mount a genuine protest.  So we all packed and said goodbye to our favorite plastic chairs.  Monty couldn't find his imaginary baboon and we all looked so he'd stop crying.  The big chef found it in the mop closet and Monty was all smiles again.  It seemed like such a lot of trouble for nothing until Dr. Idiot told us why we were moving.  Turns out the state closed ANOTHER maximum security psychiatric facility and all the patients had to be moved to the FEW that are left!  Very irritating!  Thankfully, our fourteenth floor was totally empty and available.  That wouldn't be the case except for poor planning going WAY back.
 
You see, darlings, the fourteenth floor was intended for the most violently dangerous and hopelessly psychotic people our country manages to produce.  There were some of that type up there until some years back, when the last one got really old and died.  He was all alone up there because for many years the state has been sending a lot of the truly dangerous psychotics to prisons where they can be properly stored.  But only the ones who break a big law while they're being truly crazy.  I suppose that makes sense.  Then there's that other little mitigating factor; most dangerously psychotic people kill themselves.  That's REALLY easy in the USA because we have lots and lots of GUNS.  So the number of seriously insane people that wind up in prisons is becoming bigger and bigger and the number that are stopped in time is getting smaller.
 
The TVs are still off and the computer was too until this morning so I just found out about Sandy Hook.  Even psychotics like me cry when children die.  Dr. Idiot wanted to give me a shot but changed his mind.  I've just been sitting here with wet eyes wondering why that sick young man had lots and lots of guns in his house.  How did that happen?  How come NOBODY was smart enough to snatch that guy up and put him on the fourteenth floor?  There's a bunch of people blogging about mental health care and intervention on the Sandy Hook stories.  Everybody should read that!  From what I can tell there's a LOT of folks with violently disturbed kids who can't find help for them.  Now THAT is INSANE!  Everybody should have help when they need it!

WHY ARE THERE LOTS AND LOTS OF GUNS BUT NOT ENOUGH MENTAL HEALTH CARE?  I'm crazy, but I'm not stupid.  There is no logical reason for the gross imbalance between available guns and available mental health care.  I can tell you one excuse.  Nobody wants to deal with it.  It's fine to yap about too many guns, but nothing is done.  Mental health care only gets talked about when people are murdered and then the talk dies down after awhile.  Believe me, I get it!  Mental health is such an uncomfortable subject.  It leads people to think about all the scary things they'd rather not.  Even when they're quite aware of a sick person in their midst, people don't like to talk about it, much less take action.  Meanwhile, the guns are out there and so are the untreated mentally ill.  It takes a story like Sandy Hook to get people wound up, but will it change anything?  Can that even happen in this crazy world?  Crazy doesn't just fix itself!  Period!  The guys who get to run the country are looking pretty crazy themselves these days.  And THAT is what gives crazy such a bad name.   

    

Brain Chips!

What a day!  Dr. Idiot didn't tell us we'd be having visitors!  We'd just finished eating breakfast and these folks walked right in!  There was five of them, all guys wearing white coats like the chefs.  They seemed to be a bit uncomfortable.  Maybe it was the oatmeal and Wheaties splattered all over the place.  One guy reminded me of Barney Fife.  He was all buggy eyed and his adam's apple was hopping up and down.  Naturally, everybody started getting all excited.  First the gigglers started, that set of the twirlers, then the screamers pitched in and everybody else either curled up in a corner or took their clothes off.  I love a floor show!  Then Dr. Idiot came in with the chefs.  That brought the volume down.  Nobody wants to wake up in the mop closet.
Dr. Idiot told us the visitors were going to take samples of our jeans.  We were all very confused.  We don't wear jeans!  We wear these floppy little outfits with Velcro for buttons.  Sometimes we take them off to see how many we can Velcro together.  My buddy the Meth Maker jumped up and yelled, "Piece man!"  Two of the chefs took him out right away.  I heard Dr. Idiot say the Meth Maker was just polluted, not psychotic.  Is that any reason to leave him out of the fun?  So next they started dragging us to one of the dining tables.  They grabbed Rita first.  They whipped out tongue depressors and Q-Tips.  They tried to get in Rita's mouth and she bit off the tongue depressor.  So they stuck the Q-Tip up her nose!  That was a big mistake!  Everybody who saw that started yelling, "Brain chips! Brain chips!" and the floor show started up again.
Brain chips are a big concern around here.  I've never really believed the rumors about brain chips, but the visitors said they wanted samples of jeans.  So who's crazy?  Everybody knows there aren't any jeans up a person's nose!  All the visitors, chefs and Dr. Idiot used their fake comfort voices to say; "now now, just be still, it won't hurt, it only takes a second".  Didn't work, but eventually they got in all our noses.  I kept MY dignity.  After they stuck that Q-Tip up my nose I grabbed a bunch and crammed them in my mouth.  That showed THEM!  Then we were all planted back in our rooms.  Lunch was late and a third of the bunch were still in their rooms.  After the chefs delivered lunch the muttering started.  Every other mutter was, "Brain chips!".
Now, I'm not crazy enough to believe I've got jeans up my nose much less a brain chip.  I've been hearing my looney buddies muttering about brain chips for so long I just figured they were paranoid, which they are.  Still, there was so much muttering about it, I thought I'd go online and see what I could find and...

OH NO!  IT'S TRUE!  THERE REALLY ARE BRAIN CHIPS AND PEOPLE ALREADY HAVE THEM!  The evil scientists are taking over!  Everybody will have brain chips very soon and if there's a power outage WE'LL ALL FALL DOWN!  

Dear Nanabanana

Hi faithful readers!  I was thrilled to see that I'm starting to get messages from you and that you apparently think I know what I'm doing!  I'd like to answer all your requests for advice, but as you know, it's difficult for me to get access to the computer.  Dr. Idiot only allows me to use it for an hour a day.  Two if I claw at my face and promise to stop chewing on the mouse cord.  He's such a fuss pot!  I decided to expose you to the message below because it's so important to be encouraging and supportive.  This poor lady is desperate!  So here goes...


Dear Nanabanana,

I've been suffering from peculiar and inappropriate impulses that have become impossible to suppress.  For instance, I hide under the bushes in front of my house and jump out when the mailman arrives.  He screams, the mail flies up in the air and he falls on his behind.  It makes me laugh, but I know it's WRONG.  Sometimes I eat the cat food right out of his bowl, but it's so tasty I can't resist.  My cat hates me now.  Last week I went next door, emptied the neighbor's hot tub and filled it with composted manure.  I knew my neighbor was at work so I wouldn't get caught.  What surprised me is how pungent composted manure is when you warm it up in a hot tub.  After all, it's composted!  I just stayed in the house when the police arrived. 
Worst of all, I've started doing things to my husband while he's sleeping.  Thankfully, he's a very deep sleeper.  One night, I hooked the pull cord on the window blinds to his big toe.  In the morning he got out of bed, the blinds flew up with a ZING and then the whole set of blinds came crashing down!  I had to hide under the blankets and stuff my mouth with the pillow so he wouldn't know I was laughing!  Amazingly, he didn't figure out how it happened!  Last night he was sleeping in his Lazy Boy while I watched Hoarders and, well, I disrobed, stood on a chair and rubbed my naked lady parts on his HEAD.  When he started to wake up I jumped down, ran in the bathroom and hid in the shower stall.  I laughed so hard, but he just went back to sleep!  I don't understand why I'm doing such things.  Is there any hope for me?

Signed,
Strange in the Suburbs
--------------------------------------

Dear Strange,

No.  There's no hope for you.  It doesn't matter how many mind altering drugs you try.  No amount of therapy or psychiatric care will make the slightest difference.  There's nothing that affects the kind of deranged, perverted behavior you engage in.  You simply have to learn how to forgive and accept yourself for who you are!  You have every right to express yourself, even if it results in social rejection or a few trips to the slammer.  It doesn't matter what others think of you.  It's how you think of yourself that counts!  Embrace the true you!  Celebrate all that makes you a unique entity swirling around in the cosmos!  Also, you might want to grab that lazy husband of yours and demand some sex.  Dr. Idiot says it's very calming.  Other than that, fly free, free bird!  Keep on keepin' on!
Oh, and thanks for the tips!

Your friend,

Nanabanana

Dinner With the Finicky Man

Ok.  Here's a poem I wrote for all my ex-guys whether I married them or just lured them into my house.

Dinner With the Finicky Man
 
I could feed you hot-dogs and potato salad, baked beans and sauerkraut, pickles and onions my finicky man.

Or, I could give you a rare grilled steak and baby red potatoes roasted in mustard sauce and scallions, a salad of young spinach, rosy peppers and Nasturtium blooms.
I could tempt you with Cornish game hens broiled to perfection, nested in wild rice and cashews, grapes sauteed in wine.

Then again, asparagus in Hollandaise is available tonight, medallions of veal scaloppini with artichoke hearts and fat mushrooms.

Or, I could dazzle you with the essence of Provence,
garlic and wine and butter simmering your senses,
perfuming the kitchen with the promise of secrets revealed.
I could serve you pasta in any of a million forms dusted with musty cheeses; Parmesan, Asiago, Romano.
I could toss it before your eyes while singing Figaro
and lavish it with a sauce laden with sausage,
smother it with meatballs or creamy Alfredo.
 
Or, my darling, I could serve you a feast of love.
Spread it out before you, redolent of my ardor,
steeped in my desire, musky spiced morsels,
delectable passion sushi cloaked in murmurs and sighs.

Or, my beloved, we could, perhaps,
we could, if you please,
we could, we COULD,
go out to eat.

The Mop Closet

Well, I was gone for a few days there.  After all the excitement on Thanksgiving Day it was hard to sleep so I slipped out the service bay to catch a moon bath.  Getting naked on the lawn apparently upsets a lot of people.  Next thing I know, here comes Dr. Idiot with a syringe.  When I woke up I was locked in the mop closet!  At least, I think it was the mop closet.  I wasn't much worried about it.  I figured somebody would come looking for me.  There was nothing to do so I slept a lot.  I remember dreaming that Grover Norquist got caught eating a baby.  Anyway, when they let me out I sneaked a peek at the computer at the nurses station and tried to catch up on the news.  (Kind of tricky because of the plexiglass.)
First thing I saw was a story about the lady in this photo.  She was stuck in her house for 15 years!  Isn't that wild?  She must have broken the Guinness World Record!  It was nice of the President to go visit her.  She was probably dying to have a chat with anybody.  She wasn't in a mop closet but she was in her house for a LONG TIME.  A couple of days in the mop closet under heavy sedation isn't much to whine about. You just don't know what day it is until you get out, but 15 years stuck in her HOUSE?  There's only so many times you can play Solitaire before you get seriously bored.  Awhile back, I heard that the guys in prison get put in mop closets for so long it drives them crazy.  The President never goes to visit them though.  Probably too busy.  Anyway, since I just got out of the mop closet, the story got me thinking.  It made me woozy.  It was like the lady, the prisoners and I had one of those spiritual bonds.  After all, it doesn't really matter how big the mop closet is.  What matters is that you're in it.      

Dumb Bombers

Check out this story from The Onion. This is EXACTLY what I've been complaining about!  People blowing stuff up without any valid reason, such as pure delight!  "Holiest Bombing Sites"? PULEEEZE!  More of that jejune, 'my religion is better than yours' garbage.  I do agree that everybody should be able to blow things up anywhere, of course, but not if it kills people!  Even Dr. Idiot agrees with THAT.  How do you enjoy the thrill of a good bombing with people parts flying everywhere?  THAT'S not destructive art!  That's just poor planning.  Very sloppy.  Amateurs should just stick to fireworks.



http://www.theonion.com/articles/fighting-continues-over-worlds-holiest-bombing-sit,30451/?ref=auto 

Destructive Art

I'm very disappointed with the state of the world today.  It seems like people are always killing each other. Even whole countries set out to kill other countries.  If this keeps up there won't be anybody left to admire the artistic effects of bombs on buildings!  Except maybe Belgians.  People in Belgium don't blow things up and show little appreciation for destructive art.  Very boring bunch, Belgians.

(Updated postscript)  Dr. Idiot said it's not nice to pick on Belgians just because they don't like destructive art.   He said it's discriminatory. So I'm going to apologize now to all the Belgians who cried and stomped their feet after reading my comments.  Actually, there may be many Belgians who enjoy destructive art.  I just don't know any and you rarely hear much about Belgians anyway.  Doubtless there are many people in many countries who don't engage in bombing the daylights out of their own or other people's countries, killing each other in the process.  It's just that bombing makes great news so you hear a lot about it.  I think that's why so many people do it.  I've always wanted to be one of them, without the killing part, of course.  All I've ever blown up are empty, deserted houses and barns.  Barns really go boom in a great way but Fox only reports on bombing in countries it likes more than America.  One time I blew up a barn with a cow in it.  I didn't know she was in there until she landed and started driving a tractor. Oh wait, that wasn't a cow, it was Dick Cheney
.
 The other night I had one of my dreams that seem SO real.   I was in some country where people were doing destructive art with great zeal.  I was crying and saying, "Please! Stop with the bombing!  It's MY turn!"  I woke up and started crying because I saw them on TV and they were STILL bombing to a fare thee well.  Dr. Idiot increased my meds.   I wish these bombers would cut it out.  There won't be anything left for me to destroy if this keeps up.  That silly looking Hannity guy on Fox said they do it because of borders, race, religion and stuff like that.  What's the point?  Even a psychotic like me knows those are pretty dumb reasons to blow things up.   How can they call themselves artists?  Well, maybe they don't call themselves artists.  I certainly wouldn't call them artists!   Anyway, what difference does it make?  Folks in the Mid East are pretty much the same race.  Borders are just lines in the dirt and religions are all the same which ever they are.  Except for the Mormons.  They're the only ones that turn dead people into zombies and make them wear that special Mormon underwear.

Chopping Zombies

I saw a really interesting story about killing zombies with a Trucker's Friend, which is a heavy chopping tool. I wish I could show everybody the picture.  It's really pretty!   (The zombies pictured below are hungry zombies, not chopped up zombies.)  But for pity's sake!  Everybody knows zombies aren't alive, therefor, they can't technically be killed!  Of course you CAN chop them up, but is it advisable to take a Trucker's Friend away from a trucker?  I can tell you this, truckers tend to be very testy, especially if they've been on a 36 hour run!  I know this because a trucker tried to run me down when I stole his truck.  Thankfully, truckers don't move very fast without their trucks.  But back to zombies.  I know for a FACT that it's pointless to chop up zombies.  Mitt Romney told me in a dream that he's been snapping up all the dead people for years and they've all been converted to Mormon zombies.  Since he's been so busy he's ordered his 42 secret wives in Utah to pick up the slack and get those zombies decked out in Mormon underwear.  He said the Mormon church has been doing this good work since Brigham Young met Jesus.  Well, that's a comfort!  I don't know if Mormon zombies, in Mormon underwear, are protected from being chopped up, but since there's so many of them attending the Mormon churches I'd have to guess the answer is yes. 

Happy T-Day!

We all had a lovely Thanksgiving here in the maximum security psychiatric facility.   I've never seen so much food flying through the air! A bunch of the fellows formed a human pyramid, you know, like cheerleaders? The top guy grabbed the ceiling light fixture by the mesh cover and oh boy!  He swung up there until his pants fell off!  He looked just like the angel on top of the Christmas tree!  The chef brought in a few of his junior chefs and they were so angry!  Maybe they should be patients here!  They brought in a ladder and tried to pull the guy down but that guy has a great grip.  So the ladder fell over, the chefs wound up with mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce all over their white chef clothes and we all applauded.  You can't get better than that on a Thanksgiving day! I hope you all had a great holiday. If you have a demented grandma in your family you probably get to have the flying food thing going on.

 If all you get is turkey baloney and the fixings you're doing better than a lot of other people.  You can always rub turkey baloney on your armpits and enjoy the smell for at least a day.  You might want to resist stealing those blow-up holiday decorations on you neighbor's lawn though.  One time I stole an inflatable Turkey and painted it to look like Sarah Palin, complete with the glasses, red jacket and frosted brown hair-do.  When the police came they laughed and laughed.  One of them actually had coffee and donuts squirt out his nose!  The folks I stole it from weren't happy, even though they were Republicans.  Some people just don't know a tribute when they see one.   I know darn well that Sarah Palin likes to kill turkeys because I saw her hanging out at the turkey slaughter house on TV awhile back.  If you see her tell her I said "High"!  She and I have so much in common! 

Turkey Justice

Today we watched a story on the TV about the President giving a stay of execution to a turkey for Thanksgiving.    I'm surprised that Dr. Idiot let us watch it because a lot of people started jumping around and screaming and laughing. They usually don't get that excited unless they're watching the Kardashians. What a dumb idea! The turkey thing I mean.  Well, also the Kardashians.  How do they pick the turkey that gets to live?   Do they just go 'eenie, meanie, miney mo'?   Do they give a number to each turkey and pick a number out of a hat?  Also, what about the turkeys left behind?  Think how disappointed they must be, until they're dead.   So the turkey that gets to live goes back to where ever he came from and all his friends are dead!  That's not nice!   The President should show he believes in turkey equality and just blow them all up at the same time!  He's got those stealth bombers so it should be easy.  Seriously.  Where's the justice here?  Of course, if he blew them all up it would be hard to collect all the pieces for a Thanksgiving dinner.  The cats, dogs and other critters would have a great feast though.  The feathers flying everywhere would be very pretty even if they're sort of bloody.  I would never blow up turkeys even for Thanksgiving.  There's plenty of baloney and mashed potatoes to eat.  Besides that, turkeys make very good companions if you don't mind how much they talk.  They tend to sound like the Kardashians.

A Friend In Deed

Today, within the walls of this charming psychiatric facility, I made a friend!  At least I think he's a friend. He got sent here because he smoked some of that weed stuff and a lot of that meth stuff.  Now that he's stopped twitching he seems quite nice.  So what if he burned down the forest he was living in.  He didn't mean it.  That meth stuff he was making just blew up all by itself!  I LOVE explosions so we have something in common.   Now he walks around with two fingers in a V shape and says, "Piece, man!"  Isn't that nice?  I think he's offering to have sex with me, but I don't need it.  My psychiatrist said sex was calming so he let me have a long rubber thing to have sex with.  I named him Adolph.   Not my psychiatrist, the rubber thing.  I don't know what my psychiatrist's name is.  He won't tell me.  I just call him Dr. Idiot.  Anyway, I think I have a friend.   I can talk to him and he doesn't even run away!  Of course, he's usually heavily sedated, so he couldn't run anywhere if he wanted to.  So the other day my new friend said, "Piece, man!"  I said, "Piece of what? Your toenail?"  He laughed and laughed until he started drooling.  Then that big chef took him away.  I guess it was time for his dinner.  Not much of a chef, that one.  He feeds us a lot of baloney, but I like baloney.   I bite a hole in the middle and hang it on my ear.  That way I can smell it until the chef takes it away.  Have a nice day everyone!   Just remember, if you enjoy blowing things up don't dance around laughing like my friend did.  There's so many people who can't appreciate an alternate life style.

 

The Break Up Song

                                                

                                                     The pretty picture is by Abril Andrade Griffith


I'm new to this bloggy stuff, so I figure, what the hey!  I'll post some of my original song lyrics!  Maybe it'll be a top ten hit!  Maybe Aretha will do the video!  Maybe Kiss will do the video!   Here we go...

THE BREAKUP SONG
 
I really really hate you,
I wish that you would die!
If I could just get near you
I'd poke you in the eye.
I used to think I loved you
and now I don't know why.
I really really hate you,
I wish that you would die!
 
Last night while I was sleeping
I had a pretty dream,
I couldn't see your face too well
but I could hear you scream.
It made me oh, so happy
to hear you in such pain.
I think I'll go to sleep
and try to have that dream again.
 
Oh yes I really hate you,
I wish that you would die!
Your head is full of garbage,
your mouth is full of lies.
You ought to have a warning label
tattooed on your thigh.
I really really hate you,
I wish that you would die!
 
Sometimes when it's raining
and clouds fill up the sky,
I turn my face to heaven
and ask our Father why,
with all his power and majesty
won't he even try
to hit you with a lightening bolt
so I can watch you fry!
 
I really really hate you,
I wish that you would die!
I'd like to see you hit cement
from forty stories high.
You used to say you loved me,
and then you made me cry.
I really really hate you,
I WISH THAT YOU WOULD DIE!!!