Psych sketch #19

by SpittleRattle

There must be something new for me to think, about something. A think so glorious it needs to be accompanied by trumpets. Then accordions will sound the warning before someone pretty, in a low cut dress, hands me the microphone and I’m on my own, with a soft drum roll, hush in the universe as I draw breath and confess…

That there’s nothing.

And if there was something it’d be boring.

I’m a small man in a universe knee-deep in scandal. I’m a rescuer through and through, but with absolutely no idea what to do. My schemes are an omnishambles, my rambles are discombulated tangles, and all my dead certs are far-fetched gambles. It’s all for show. There, I’ve said it. What do I know!

I’d like to seduce more than I deduce. I’d like to produce more than I reduce.

I’d like to not be scared about what might happen if I was let loose.

In therapy I was trying to come up with a word for me. I dragged up…

(after much eye-rolling)


The shock of it fizzed through my unsympathetic nervous system, from toe nail to hair follicle, in a spasm. A twitchy anti-orgasm. I tried to laugh it off but it came out more like a gurgle.

I laughed into the chasm, but the sound drowned.

I take her milk of human kindness and I make it sour. That’s what I learned in my counselling hour.

So there, that’s what I’ll share. I warned that it wouldn’t justify a fanfare.