Don’t waste your money on fucking psychiatrists. All they do is repeat the shit you’re saying, except they add a question mark at the end. And don’t think for a second that they don’t go home and tell their spouse all your damn business. That’s what all couples do when they get home: They share the ridiculous shit that happened during their day, and you told that psychiatrist all your damn secrets. You, my friend, are that ridiculous shit. That damn psychiatrist lies in his bed watching Dr. Phil and giggling his ass off!
All psychiatrists watch Dr. Phil, they love him! They want to be him! And why the fuck not?! He does what they do, except he’s rich. Also, while they have the same damn patients coming in each week boring them with the same damn crazy problems, he only has to listen to a patient once. He has a guest on, makes fun of the guest a bit, and then gets rid of that muthafucka! And to top it off, he gets to end every show by walking out of the studio with his little ass wife. Every . . . damn . . . show! I’m telling you, I’ve never seen him walk off without her. Have you? He loves that lady, or maybe he’s co-dependent on her. You don’t know, do you? See, that’s what a good psychiatrist does: He gets you trying to analyze him.
Look, you wanna save some money—let me analyze your ass! I promise you I would get to the bottom of your problems.
Think I don’t know how? Whatchu think I do with the man whose house I live in? I listen to his bullshit, stare him dead in his blurry ass eyes, and set him straight. I just don’t charge him. Trust me, though, I’ve been keeping a mental tally and I know how much he owes me. If he ever asks me for rent, I will present his ass with an invoice for mental services rendered. Nothing better to shut a muthafucka up then to present him with an invoice he wasn’t expecting for some shit. And I wouldn’t just hand it to him, I would put that shit in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and mail it from his house to his house. Then when the mail came and he got that letter from me with the same mail to and return address and came to me to ask what it was, I would be like, “An invoice, muthafucka, now what?! You think this shit free?”
Let me tell you something, if I was a therapist, I wouldn’t have a damn office, I would have you meet me at one of those filthy hourly rate hotels, you know the ones? They’re for lovers who don’t want to get caught making love. And see, those places are, what, like twenty-five, thirty dollars an hour, so already I’m saving you money. So I would get you in there, lay you down on that damn bedbug-riddled mattress, and tell you to relax and ask you for two dollars. Then I would go down the hall to the vending machines and get a bag of Cheese Nips and a can of Mountain Dew and then head back to the room to get to the bottom of your shit. And as you lie there in that scary room, sounds from the dangerous ass neighborhood will come leaking in through the single-pane windows: sirens, car alarms, screams, broken glass. All of a sudden everybody in that damn hotel would start fear fucking! It’s like Fear Factor but it’s Fear Fucking. Which, speaking as a therapist, is the best way to confront fear. Then you hear the sound of someone getting fucked in the room to the left and someone getting fucked up in the room to the right, which, by the way, if both are being done properly, you shouldn’t be able to tell the difference. See, that’s some deep psychiatrist right there. Anyway, the whole situation will be so damn horrible and you’ll want to get out of there so fast that you’ll realize your problems aren’t so bad after all. Problem fucking solved.
See, you don’t need to waste money on a damn psychiatrist, or no specialist for that matter. Wanna know why health care costs so much? Too many goddamn specialists. Doctors should be required to have at least two specialties. Take a psychiatrist and a dentist: One works inside your head and one works outside, but really, they should both be able to get in there. Combine them in one medical professional. And if I had to pick, I’d rather be leaning back in a dentist’s chair with him asking me questions about my childhood while he tries to get in my mouth.
Plus, dentists have a spit sink, which is pretty fantastic.
One doctor hybrid that wouldn’t work: psychiatrist-gynecologist! Can’t work on your head from there. Doesn’t work in particular because you might trust a gynecologist while he’s fiddling downstairs, asking you how your head is feeling, but you would not like a psychiatrist while he’s asking you about your relationship with your father asking a question about your coochie. You don’t need the psychiatrist dabbling into your fields.
Really, in the end, you’re better off just buying a fucking parrot: They’re gonna repeat what you say too, and they won’t charge you three hundred dollars an hour. Get a parrot or, better yet, a cockatoo. That’s one good-looking bird with one cool ass name. Let me tell you something about those birds: Give that bird a compliment, he’ll give it right back to you. Do you know how therapeutic it is to have a pretty bird call you a pretty bird?