Thanks, Doc! Priapism…My New and Improved Side Effect


My new psychiatrist is a very attractive young lady. She is prescribing me a new drug which will help me to ween myself off of Ambien, a sleeping pill with bizarre and dangerous side effects that include eating while you are sleeping.

I had seen my last shrink for five years and she knew me well.
This new doctor is a complete stranger.

She told me that Trazadone, the new medication, in rare cases could cause Priapism.
“What is that?” I asked.
She looked away from me and then down at her desk. She was silent for a long minute, as if she wasn’t going to tell me. Then she said, “Priapism is a condition where you have an intense erection for four hours requiring a visit to the Emergency Room.”

This really got my mind going. I said, “If this happens to me, I’m going to visit two of my old girlfriends, and then go to a night club.”
I said this, hoping that she would look up at me and see my grin.
But, she didn’t look at me.
Instead, sternly, she said, “Mr. Lebherz, this is not a joking matter, and I prefer we keep these sessions on a more professional level.”
I said, “Of course, and if I get a rock hard erection, I’m going straight to the ER.”

I grabbed my prescription, said “Thank you,” and exited the room.
In the future, I doubt that I will be able to express my innermost thoughts with this doctor. I certainly will not use a joking manner.


Oh, The Holidays, That Explains It


Trouble at work? Yes.
Trouble at home? Yes.
Hemorrhoid flare-up? Yes.

Is it the holidays? Yeah, that explains it.

I’ve been through this before. It will climax on Christmas Day. I may run naked through the neighborhood. I might try and kiss one of my coworkers.

Bipolar disorder? Yes.
No respect for authority? Yes.
Crazy as shit this time of year? Bingo.

I have learned to say to myself, “Don’t worry, what’s the worst thing that can happen?”
Well, one year I woke up naked in a padded room in the loony bin. A nurse came in and I asked her, “Could I please have something to eat and my underwear?”
I found out that I had quit my job, smacked my landlord, and set my cat loose. That was when I was thirty.
As you get older, you don’t want trouble anymore. If I do quit my job, I will have another job lined up first. If I do kiss this woman at work, nobody will see it. If I end up in the loony bin again, I will get out quick–I have no health insurance.

Happy Holidays everybody.

Sympathy for the Joker


I’m enjoying another buzz, riding around in my car, getting into a song by the Beatles.
Oh my God, that was a cop. He is doing a U-turn and I see his flashers.

Think fast: windows down, stick my pipe down my pants.

Shit! These are my relaxed fit blue jeans, which are so tight my pipe’s jammed against a crease, not going anywhere.

Here he is:
“Sir, you went right through that stop sign. Your left windshield wiper is missing, and so is your left headlight. License and registration, please.”

Think fast. Talk your way out of this. Say something!
“Officer, I am just coming from the dermatologist, who told me that the mole on my butt is pre-cancerous. I’m afraid my mind was not on my driving.”
I say this with a genuine look of pain on my face. Somehow I manage to make a tear roll down my cheek.

I hadn’t been to a doctor in months. My vivid imagination was working well.
“Sir,” the officer replied, “I can see you are in pain. I’m going to write you a warning this time, with thirty days to get your car fixed.”

Did I feel bad about telling a lie to this officer of the law?
Yes, for about thirty seconds.

Can’t Eat Right, Can’t Sleep Right


As a small child I had my tonsils removed. Minutes after coming out of anesthesia, a nurse walked into my room and was horrified to see that I was eating a chocolate-covered doughnut.
I remember thinking the pleasure is worth the pain.

Not being able to eat like a normal human being has been a curse.
I have many bad memories, like the time my mom took me to the Sears Husky Department for new jeans. She held up a pair for inspection, and said, “Do you think these will fit?”
The pants were huge, and it looked like she was holding up a big blue square, as wide as it was long. Two girls from my school walked by, looked at the jeans in my mom’s hands, then looked at me and laughed.
“Put them down, Mom! I know those girls,” I cried.

I was heavier than most kids at school. In the lunchroom, I would take my finger and stick it in their cake, and then ask them if they wanted it. I scored a lot of cake this way.
My parents would catch me making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I would quickly stuff them into my pants pockets and run out of the room. I know this was bad for my health, because I ate a lot of lint.
I still cringe when I hear the words “Fatso,” “Tub O’ Lard,” or “Porky Pig.” The mental and emotional damage has been extensive.
I now take sleeping pills. The other night while I was unconscious, I went into the kitchen and ate three sandwiches. The worst side-effect from my sleeping pills has been waking up with crumbs on my blankets and bad heartburn.

Playing Santa


One week before Christmas, my mother arranged for me to play Santa Claus at her friends’ toy store.
I was bigger then, maybe 325 pounds. I was built like Santa, with red cheeks, and a hearty smile.

She mentioned that her friends were gay men, which didn’t bother me at all. At that time, I thought she meant they were happy. Their Santa suit was top-notch, with a realistic beard, and a thick shiny belt holding up my red pants.

Jerry, one of the owners, said I looked incredible. He showed me the aluminum deck chair, where I should sit, and, as I walked towards it, he patted my butt. As I sat down, I was wondering why he did that, and immediately the chair collapsed under my weight. I fell flat on my back, crushing the chair. Kindly, Jerry helped me up, and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get one that’s stronger.”

A kid standing there with his mom said, “Mom, Santa just crushed that chair.”

I said, “Ho, Ho, Ho! What do you want for Christmas, little boy?”

He said, “I want a basketball, a G. I. Joe, and a big vibrator.”

I said, “You want a what!?”

He said that he’d heard his mom tell somebody on the phone that what she really needed for Christmas was a big vibrator.

One mother pulled her kid off my lap, and she sat down. She smiled and asked, “What does Santa want for Christmas?”
She was as big as Santa. For fear of another chair collapse, I asked her to please get up–the chair couldn’t take the pressure. I think she was offended, but she understood. My thirty dollars pay was well earned that day. I was a great Santa.
Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas!

A-gassed at the Breakfast Table


It’s that damn alarm already.
I just fell asleep. Wake up, get up. I got up and took a shower.
I got dressed and took my medicines.
Oh shit! I just took my sleeping pill and a power laxative pill.

I cook for 25 old ladies at a nursing home, and, instead of flipping pancakes,
I’m dozing off on the toilet. Lorreta, my assistant, is banging on the door.
“Stephen, What is the matter with you?”

Breakfast is thirty minutes late, and the ladies are pissed.
I eat at the main table after breakfast is served, and, not only did I fall asleep again, it was reported to my supervisor that I farted loudly and snored. I explained to her that I accidentally took a sleeping pill and a laxative instead of the proper pills. She said that she didn’t care if I took anthrax– if I ever pass gas in the dining room again, that would be my last day.

She said that I had issues and I better deal with them. I now put my reading glasses on whenever dealing with my medicines, and, when eating with the old ladies, my manners are impeccable. I did have to apologize to the whole group, though. I told them that I had a stomach problem that day, it was nothing catching, and I was sorry.

The Black Snake Under the Dogwood Tree


Pulling up at my brother’s house, I was parking my Ford Maverick (a car that only broke down when I was in the middle of nowhere), when I noticed my nephew and niece looking at something below the pink Dogwood tree.
It was a big black snake, curled up and ready to strike.
Sam, my five-year-old nephew, was taunting it with a stick.
I yelled, “Get away from that snake!”

I had just smoked some weed, so I was thinking clearly. Snakes give me the heebie-jeebies, but sometimes you have to be a hero. I got a broom and handed it to eleven-year-old Jasmine. I told her to hold the snake’s head down, and I would grab it.
With deft precision, she did just that, but when I was one inch from grabbing it, the snake wriggled free. It opened its mouth and wrapped its head around my index finger. I jerked my hand back, and the fangs slid out of the tip of my finger.

Unlike the hero I had tried to be, I let loose some sort of a high-pitched shriek. This scared the kids and the snake, which retreated into a bush. I was standing there dumbfounded, watching a drop of blood swell on my fingertip and heard my precocious niece yell, “Well, go inside and wash it.”

Good advice from someone so young.
I kept thinking that I just had a snake’s head wrapped around my finger, and it felt like a wet plastic bag.