I have a spotty dog. However many times I

I have a spotty dog. However many times I try to count the spots, I always lose count, what with the struggling, around the stomach area. I called the Samaritans helpline.

"Hullo? Samaritins? I need help. I can't count the spots." (WHA-WHA-WHA) "Yes, that's right. I 'm seeing the spots. I just can't count them." (WHA-WHA?) "My address? I'm at 318

Fatcow Lane." (WHA-WHA-WHA-WHA) "Thank you. Goodbye." I hung up the phone and turned back to the test. If I couldn't count the number of dots in this test question, I would be

called back and introduced to the "fryer." The Asst. Manager of Freud Burger asked me a lot of questions about my mother. A lot. Then he showed me blotches of ketchup on a napkin.

Never mind that the ketchup blotches looked exactly like the photos of the crime scene Uncle Jim had once shown me. "A dog sitting on a unicycle." That Freud Burger stooge seemed

determined to clap me into the looney bin. "What does this pile of charred human remains remind you of?" he asked me, practically wetting himself in anticipation. "Um, flowers?" I

I wasn't going to give him what he wanted! No doctors are trustworthy, not least of all the ones who can get you admitted into a mental asylum. I had to play it safe with him.

No pooping in a corner of the office, no punching myself in the nose. That shrink was looking for ANY behavior he could cite as an excuse to put me in the loony bin. That’s when I

conjured up my inner child and became polymorhously perverse with the shrink, a rotund eunuch named Alice, who was so excited by my suckling of his breast that he declared me sane.