There was this guy, and he went to a psychaitrist.  Upon going to knock on the door, he looked up at the bronze plaque and noticed that ‘psychaitrist’ was spelled wrong, so he left and went to another one.  What kind of a moron head doctor misspells his own profession on his door?  Geez.  Anyways, there was this second shrink he went to, who made him lie down on a comfy lounge chair, and close his eyes, and tell him about things in general.  When he was through, the doctor leaned back, pinched his nose (or, as the French say, “pinced his nez”) in consternation, and professed.  This is a paraphrase of his professing.

            “You got serious problems, mac.”

            Actually, it was closer to, “Well, I believe that the root cause of the major pychoses we see manifested by your outwardly anti-social behavior can be traced to latent pre-natal trauma, which often resides in the dormant phase until the post-adolescent lifestyle stage has occurred.”

The patient lay for a moment, and replied, “That does me absolutely no good.”

            “Yeah, and you need more sunlight,” the quack added.

            “You’re an idiot, do you know that?” the guy said.  “That’s the biggest crock of happy horseshit I’ve ever been subjected to, and I’ve seen a lot of gleeful equine waste material in my time.  You are seriously a fuckin’ idiot.”

            “Now, wait a minute-”

            “You mean to tell me you actually got through some kind of medical school spewing that dribble?  My dog’s pancreas has shown more insight on a regular basis than that laughable diatribe, ya quack.  Get the hell out of my country.  Stop breathing my air!”

            The psychiatrist had reached his breaking point, and rose to his feet.  “I’ve had about enough of this.”

            The guy jumped up on the desk and grabbed a letter-opener, waving it menacingly in front of him.  “C’mon, doc.  Make the attempt.  Make the ATTEMPT!  I’ll slit you up a treat!”

            “Dear sweetest Jesus, a madman!” said the now-perturbed witch doctor.  “GET IT AWAY!”  The man ran screaming from the room.

            The guy got down, rather satisfied with himself.  Until the police arrived.  They pummeled his face, and jumped up and down on him until he stopped resisting, which in fact he’d never had the opportunity to do in the first place, although he probably would have wanted to had he had the time to think about it.  Then they cut him into four equal parts, and took each of them via a separate police car to the same station, utilizing that unique brand of logic known only to the Protectors of Justice.

            When they brought him into the precinct, they reassembled him using piano wire, and read him his rights.  “You have the right to remain strung up with piano wire for our amusement,” the fat cop behind the desk read.  Then they carted him off to a maximum security holding cell.

            This skinny little cop was watching him with beady little cop eyes to make sure he didn’t try nothing funny.  So, to amuse himself, he unwrapped the piano wire from around his torso, wrapped it around his neck and flung the other end over a heating pipe near the ceiling.  “Look, I’m killing myself,” he said provocatively, eyeing the cop.

            “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” skinny cop screamed lustily, and dove at the bars, banging his stupid head against them until he passed out.  See, cops have feelings, too.

            The problem was that now his left arm had fallen off, what with the piano wire now in absentia from that quadrant of his body.  This sucked, so he went about stringing it up again.

A less skinny cop walked in at this point.  He folded his arms, lifted his chin defiantly, and said, “I’M not nearly as gullible as Steve over there.  Just try that funny business with me, young whippersnapper.”  Oh.  OK.  He unwrapped the piano wire again, wrapped it around his neck, and flung the other end over the hot water pipe near the ceiling.  “Look, I’m killing myself,” he said provocatively, eyeing the less-skinny, much-more-conscious cop.  This one was far more alert, however, and resisted the urge to fling himself forward, standing rigid with only the slightest signs of tremors in his crossed upper limbs.  He wasn’t smiling, but his unsmile seemed to proclaim, “HA!”  Well, have to try a different, somewhat subtle approach.  The guy unwound the piano wire completely, and the four quadrants of his body went bouncing around the cell like kibbles ‘n’ bits in red sauce.  The not-so-skinny cop took his own head and ate it, in such dire discomfort was he.  He was now naught but a screaming headless torso.

            So finally, this 700 pound cop lumbers in and asserts his unwieldy presence by promptly defecating on the cell bars.  “AAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!” he pronounced.  “I am so fucking fat!  There is nothing that can stop my gargantuan might!”  He stood there like a sub-continent, daring the guy to make his first move.  So the quadrant with the head bounced over to the bars, and said calmly, “You’re going to make payments.”

            “WHAT THE SHIT DOES THAT MEAN, YOU LITTLE PEON?” the giant roared.

            “Payments, in my name,” he continued.

            “Just go ahead and try some of that funny business!” he yelled belligerently.  (Cops are fond of the expression, “funny business”).
            So the guy gave up.  His adversary was just too fuckin’ fat.  There is nothing you can do when faced with such cellulite.  Fortunately, the cops lost his paper work, and so they had to let him out.