[Previous] [Main Index] [Next]

Sunday, May 4, 2008

HBO's In Treatment: 8th in a Series and A New Divertimento


The book on relational psychotherapy --- entitled, strangely enough, Relational Psychotherapy (Patricia A. Young the author) --- arrived Friday night, and prof bug is reading through it, prepratory to finishing the two follow-up articles on psychotherapies . . . divided roughly into insight-oriented and cognitive-behavioral therapies, with each of these two major categories divisible in turn into sub-schools. Meanwhile, as further entertainment, here's another divertimento I just posted at the HBO forums on In Treatment for the benefit and delectable pleasure of the frothing in-tizzy girls and guy-girls there: one and all, convinced prof bug is off his rocker.


Some Outraged Lather

"I've been thinking tonight and I've decided that not only is his academic life a fake, but I'll bet that any photo of his wife he may post is really one of those that you get when you first a wallet... the kind of people that only exist with an airbrush. "I'm still sticking with this idea.......he's actually a bloated, balding dishwasher who lives in a trailer park. His wife is toothless and plays the banjo."] DiamondCat

"You know what you are Gordo? A sick indistinguishable phallus symbol in the permant relaxed position. As in flaccid? His brain is flaccid" Orwellian 1984

"Solong, darling, what's going on in this thread? I was away for couple of days, by coming back I found this freak gordongordo troll here jamming all the good posts. Is there a way we can get rid of this nightmare? Solong, I trust you will find a way! One disturbed gordon troll sinking such a good thread...love, 40bee" 40Bee

From Flilppo Rat-Man to Freakish Buggy Guy

Prof Bug Explains Himself

Ouch! Ouch! Gotta hand to you, guys and girls: now that you've caught on to me, I have to fess up --- I'm a hopelessly loose-in-the-bean mental wreck. Want proof?

Then go lickety-split to the latest updated edition of the papers of Sigmund Freud --- lovingly, yea worshipfully, kept fresh up to the day by cult-member disciples --- where you will find, next to one of his most famous case studies, "RatMan", a long case study entitled "Bugged-Out- ProfMan". No need to remind someone like you with your psychiatric genius what ailed poor RatMan . . .. the pioneer freak in psychopathology whose DNA slipped stealthily into my great great grandfather bor in 19th century Vienna at about the time our Tail-Length Rodent Blaze-setter entered analytical history.


For the benefit of the laymen and lay-women in this forum --- not to mention quite a few Skinnerian behavioral conditioners who carry certified Learning-Theory credentials to treat us all, but who purposefully ignore Freudian case-studies --- it's necessary only to say that Rat-Man, an obsessive type convinced he would be devoured by sewer rats one day, was persuaded by Sigmund in analysis to face manly his rodent-repulsions, dress up in Mickey Mouse guise, jump into the sewers, and spend some quality time with the little four legged guys.

Alas, as Ruby, 1974, and 4Bee obviously know by heart, one lonely slime-covered night Rat-Man was chewing the rag with some alligator pets of his rat friends when who should slither by ---- of course! of course! Mickey's mini-skirted Main-Squeeze, Minnie Mouse herself. Poor RatMan! It was heads-over-heels amour in seconds.

And within seconds, he ran off with Minnie down a connecting sewer where, for 12 hours straight, they sucked and slurped and screwed like bunnies (if you'll pardon the reference to another rodent species). But, but . . . in his passion, Rat-Man had forgotten to bring along more than 16 condoms. For a sex-mad rat, usually enough, no? But not for Minnie; no sir. And so when Minnie --- her brain floating and spinning in a tidal pull of orgasmic bliss after 16 pokes in various orifices--- insisted that such a paltry number was only foreplay for her, and challenged RatMan to show exactly what kind of Real-Man Rat he was, what could he do?

Electrified with renewed passion, the poor RatGuy returned to his screwfest with --- OH OH, unprotected sex!

Poor Poor Rat-Man and His DNA Inherited by Prof Bug

Found dead with slime-ridden plague the next morning by a sewer-crew, RatMan's body was covered up, put in a casket, and sent to UCSB, my university, to be examined by Willy Wankalana, my great great grandfather who was a pioneer specialist in dissecting the DNA of rodents. And wouldn't you know, cutting his finger one day in RatMan dissection, his blood got infected by RatMan's DNA, and the rest if history: down through the ages into the genes of baby gordongordo.

A Sad Sad Story, No? And How Poor Buggy Boy Became Flippo

And not made any happier because I was aware of being off my rocker as early as age 5.

You see, boo-hoo, I got screwed up in my Oedipal phase when I thought I was supposed to act out my fantasies and actually fuck mom, not just lecherously visualize it with some wet-dream squirts. Fortunately, mom was very understanding. Then too she hated dad . . . an ultra-macho type, actually (truth to tell) the trainer of Arnold Schwarzenegger back in the 1950s and early 1960s; guy always cheating on her, much like David with Gina. Boy, did she teach me a lot! We moved from her blow jobs to simple coitus and then 69 --- well, actually, what with my three-foot height, 34.5 . . . but soon, within weeks, mom assured me that I now qualified for 45.2 in oral sex. Wow! Was I ecstatic!


Alas one day, while my mom and I were going at it in her boudoir, who but dad should walk in and discover our incest! And then what followed is something you can easily guess.

No, dad didn't undress and make it trio. He did what all good dads should do: wanting his wicked 5 year old boy full of infant-sexualized fantasies to learn proper repression ---"You must wait, young man, to fuck women until you are old enough" he screamed --- he proceeded to drag me off mom's lush backside and slap me on my little bean and, worse, my tiny half-erect weenie and with such force that I haven't been right in the head or cock ever since.

The Human Condition, Freaked-Out Version

No, far from it, I've wandered through life ever since.

A screw loose borderline with mommy-obsessed fantasies --- unable to use repressive defences because, like all borderlines schizophrenics, I can only split people into all good and all bad (mom all good, except when she was bad with dad in the sack, no compromise insight in between), I have had to fall back on an animal personality identity that, to recall, was already in my genes due to the little cut great great grandpas Wakilana had on his finger when dissecting dead Rat-Man.

[i]Wait though! An identity not as a rat! [/i]

No, as one with a namesake like yours 40Bee: a buzzing flitting prof who flies around Santa Barbara and on campus with bee-wings six feet long stapled to his deltoids, a long black Halloween nose-mask inspired by Groucho jutting from the face, and a nifty 6-foot long Zulu spear sticking out from his rectum as a makeshift stinger. With my badly wounded penis unable to do more than get a millimeter or two into some foxy flower's pollen. Or as clever DiamondCat put it so graphically, always alas in flaccid position even for making it briefly with the birds.

Prof Bug's Metamorphosis into 0Bee-Bug

So yes, my bee-like friends . . . I'm helplessly a freak, a mentally challenged flippo who can only buzz and flit through life full of insect-fantasies. Only one day, full of joy, to find a fellow BEE-named human who ranks higher in the hierarchy of the screw-mad Bee world than even me.

You, after all, you attach a "40" to your buzz-buzz life.

I, by contrast, am still an intern with no rank at . . . spending several hours a day in my backgarden's Bumbleee hive where, forlornly, without success, a carefully trained Bumble-Bee Behavioral Conditioner applies a costly Electro-Shock machine to my Zulu-stinger, hoping, against hope, that I will accept my identity as a lowly Bumble-Bee instead of jealously wanting to become a WASP.

Until this hive-jive shock treatment is over, I can only sign my name in lowly shameful manner . . .

Michael 0Bee, the buggy professor . . . an intern insect who yearns to move up rapidly to master-craftsman WASP credentials


And thanks, guys and girls, for more fun-filled fodder for my web-site and my book length study of mass popular culture and uncoiled feverish celebrity-worship.