Aw, do I really have to come in now? Gosh dang it. I don’t want to do my homework. I want to STAY OUTSIDE AND PLAY. I want to SPEAK IN CAPITAL LETTERS.
Oh, hi. I was just undergoing some cheap psychiatry. I think it’s called regression analysis … or something like that. Here’s how it goes: you close your eyes and imagine you’re Brett Kavanaugh … I mean, a 7-year-old while Marvin (my personal robot assistant) plays 8-track tapes of Peter Frampton. Yes, it hurts, but sometimes the truth does hurt. And this is about getting to the truth, right Marvin? Marvin? Marvin! Turn down the 8-track player … I’m asking you a question.
Why are we doing this, just a few days from Columbus Day? Random chance. And we don’t celebrate Columbus Day, so even more random. Actually, one of our neighbors said I should have my head examined. It took me a while to work out precisely what he meant by that. (Long enough, in fact, for Mitch Macaphee to stick my head under an electron microscope.) The neighbor took exception to our kind of loud rehearsals, our strange plantings around the front entrance, and the occasional explosions emanating from Mitch’s subterranean lab.
What was the results of my regression analysis? Well, it looks like I should have put more effort into eliminating relationships between variables. And I should have kept my focus on the relationship between a dependent variable and one or more independent variables. It’s all about co-dependency, you see? You don’t? Right. Neither do I. And apparently my rent-a-shrink is actually a statistician by trade. I don’t understand a word he says, mostly because he just talks so fast, but partly because his comments are so unbearably dull I just can’t keep my eyes open. And you’re not supposed to fall asleep on that stereotypical therapy couch, but I did. So maybe I’m on TV, now.
I hate to seem arrogant, but psychiatry is kind of lost on me. At least the robot-based variety. If someone comes up with a method of therapy that doesn’t involve robots, let me know.
