“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man”
Hello, Readers of “WTF?”! I am Psykosity’s wife, and you may call me “The Neuroscientist”, probably because that is what I am. Although I am retired from that profession, I am a published scientist, and my training has become a welcome resource that I use frequently in my dealings with Psykosity, as some of you can well imagine.
If you have read any of my husband’s articles for this fine, upstanding blog, you may wonder how I deal with someone as wild and crazy as he. The answer an immense wellspring of patience that I have developed after thirty years of marriage to a man who, on the whole, is a wonderful husband, a devoted father, and a man who risked his health to provide for his family. All that, plus the special account I have at the pharmacy for the tranquilizer darts that I use in my blowgun.
Well, for example, a few nights ago Psyk found a drink recipe that he decided he HAD to try, and he started posting about this recipe and the adventure following the making of this drink on Gab in the “Corner Pub” group which, incidentally, is a group started by WTF? owner and editor: Sparky…)
Psykosity: I need a couple shots of something called ” Two Hicks and A Spic Chase A Turkey Down A Mine Shaft.” It’s equal parts Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Jose Cuervo, Wild Turkey, and Goldschläger.
LET’S DO THIS!
(This started an eventful Friday night that went off the rails fairly quickly; an adventure that Psyk decided to post to a social network as it happened.)
Psykosity: Well, THIS isn’t good…I’ve made too much of the “Two Hicks and A Spic Chase A Turkey Down A Mine Shaft”!
EIGHT SHOTS WORTH!
I’ve downed three so far. Tastes like gasoline. I’m already feeling the effects. I need to space these out.
This may be a LONG night.
I’m going down the Rabbit Hole…
(Psyk was chasing the shots with O’Hanlon’s Original Port Stout, and the combination of the shots and the Stout seemed to get on top of him pretty fast and activated that part of his brain reserved exclusively for thoroughly ridiculous, substance infused hijinks. At one point, one of his WTF? colleagues tried to warn him off, to no avail. The ship had sailed from the dock. The Train had left the station. Mod: I will always appreciate that you tried!)
Modesty Fiona Blaise: Okay…go outside to the fire pit, throw the rest in, light a match and move back quickly…
(From this point, Psyk was five or six shots deep into his concoction, and that, combined with the stout beer and the Medical Herbs that he smokes occasionally when he has neuropathy pain, meant that he was fully on his way to what he sometimes calls a “complete and total freakout”. I loaded up a blowgun with a tranquilizer dart and kept it at the ready. In the meantime, Psyk kept posting his progress (if such a word could be used to describe his condition) to his favorite online haunt. From this point on in the story, it will be my job to interpret the posts he made throughout the evening, sort of giving a ‘color commentary’ as we continue on through the night.)
Psykosity: (To Modesty Fiona Blaise) WASTE BOOSZE?
I would have my party licece revoked!
(Obviously, at this point Psyk was besotted…cockeyed…fuddled…orgiastic (hello Wildman)…pie-eyed…pissed…pixilated…plastered…soaked…sloshed…)
Modesty Fiona Blaise: Not wasting – putting to good use. You’ll make the evening news for the size of the mushroom cloud it creates.
(Oh Mod! Such stories I could tell you! What incredible tales of dissipation and jack-assery could I spin! Anyway- as you readers can plainly tell by the accuracy of his typing, Psyk was off to the races…)
Psykosity: MHY WIFE IS MUTTERING!
why do I DO this to myselgf?
(Yes. In fact, I WAS muttering to myself. I distinctly remember talking to myself, trying to determine why he does this to himself. My only answer is this: In a world that is busy setting itself on fire, the most sane person is the lunatic laughing at the flames.)
Psykosity: 7 shots\
GOD HELP US
(Determined as he was to drink all eight shots, finish the stout, and smoke another bowl of medicinal herb, his ability to type was just as impacted by the substances he was imbibing as his ability to talk in coherent sentences. Unfortunately, another member of the Corner Pub group, who thought that Psyk was ONLY drinking the concoction and did not know about the stout and the herb, tried to help out by recommending that Psyk switch to something more…benign…)
SamTheSham: Psyk: I think you might want to switch to something else. Why don’t you have a beer with me?
(Of course, this just made him switch gears, and he popped open another Stout and set about finishing the shots.)
WHATA GREAT IDEA
(Well, you can just about imagine what I was confronted with. He was strapped to his electric wheelchair, spinning around in circles drinking and spilling his Stout, and shouting about Hottentots (it’s ALWAYS Hottentots). Then, he grabbed a hold of a huge, police-issued flashlight and shined it into his own eyes…)
Psykosity: HOLY SHIT I CAN SEE THE INSIDES OF MY EYEBOALLS!
(It was then I sensed a shift…the air seemed to get thicker…I instinctively tensed up. He seemed to have made a decision…one that I would NOT agree with…)
Psykosity: ALL EIGHT SHOTS DOWN
iM GOIN TO MAKE 2 MOPRE L SHOTS AND GO OUT IN THE CHAIR
take my phon with me. keep yu all apprised
(Here is where I need to start interpreting. He had downed all eight shots and finished the Stout, and now he was planning on taking his electric wheel chair out for a spin on the country road we live on. Now, Dear Reader, you need to know that we live outside of a VERY small, Midwestern town on a very lonely and rarely used road. Nevertheless, I was not exactly excited about the prospect of Psyk blasting back and forth on the road in front of the house wasted out of his mind…)
Modesty Fiona Blaise: I’m sure your spelling is going to get spectacular…
(Note to Mod and Sparky: Sometime, I will have his brother come get Psyk and we will get together, have some wine, and I will tell you stories that he WON’T tell. Somehow, I’m sure you would understand…)
much resistaence from the wife.
I MUST DO THIS
im going to city hall to take a lek on the cornerstome
(He announced his intention to drive his wheelchair two miles into town to the City Hall building to pee on the cornerstone at the same time he posted his resolution on Gab. Yes, there WAS “much resistance” to this plan from me. I knew that Psyk was still upset about finding a city worker on our property about to install a ‘Smart Meter’ onto our home, and after he had told the worker to leave, he drove into town to have words with the proper people. His intention to ‘leave his mark’ on City Hall was stupid, useless, and would ultimately make the situation worse. Nevertheless, arguing with him in this condition was also pointless. One might as well try to put a cat into a tuxedo…)
Psykosity: ok I have by self together
i will not nother with capital letters or punchuation, because it is dark
wife is upset. mayhave to sleep on the porch 2nite
2 o long miles down the country raod to ge t to city hall.
i have a monster endergy tdrink and a bowl and a pocket nife
there is plent y of juice in the chair
all is well
(As any parent knows, if a child is trying to put his fingers into a light socket, there are two ways to handle it: either keep the child away from the light socket, smacking their hands if necessary, or let them go ahead and experience the thrill of house current. Make no mistake, Psyk is NOT a child, but he seemed determined, and after a few minutes of tense words, I decided to let him LICK the light socket. In the meantime, people in the Corner Pub group were speculating…)
Modesty Fiona Blaise: (psst, Tans? I bet he doesn’t make it to the end of the driveway..)
Tanstaafl: I was betting on a face plant off the porch with the chair rolling to the end of the driveway.
SamTheSham: Chair ran him over…heh
Modesty Fiona Blaise: That could still happen, once he gets out of the cow pasture…
Psykosity: yew of lirtrle little faith
(And so, he was off, out the back door, down the wheelchair ramp, around to the front of the house and rolling down the long lane to our house and into the road, into the darkness and on his mission to pee on the City Hall Building)
whatar they doing out at night
should be inn bed
(Between his inebriation and his big, long, fat fingers, Psyk was trying to post to Gab and work the joystick on his electric wheelchair, making his posts rather difficult to read. Obviously, he had come across some cows grazing in the night. They belonged to our long-suffering neighbors, The Millers. The farm grew corn and soybeans and raised cows, horses, and pigs. They are very dear and understanding people whom we like a lot, and they like us despite the sounds of our rock band recording at the house through the years and Psyk occasionally losing his mind, like he was doing on this night. At least he recognized that they were cows and not very large, four-legged Hottentots with faucets. It’s always Hottentots. Mod tried vainly to reason with him, to no obvious avail. Not to worry, Mod; I’ve been trying to reason with him for three decades!)
Modesty Fiona Blaise: Uh, maybe you’re in their pasture?
Psykosity: no sleep i like me food lrested
(Hmmmm. All this time married to this madman and he never once told me that he likes his food well rested.)
Modesty Fiona Blaise: That was sorta in English…with a dash of Yoda thrown in.
Psykosity: my hands r to big for the phon keys
(Psyk was obviously having trouble posting messages to Gab. His eyesight is not very good when he is sober in daylight, so I’m sure he couldn’t really read what he was trying to type, plus he has those huge sausage fingers, plus he was pickled. It’s probably a good idea that he didn’t pull over, set his chair on fire, and try to post smoke signals onto the internet…)
Psykosity: evry thing is all fliberygibery
(I think the phrase he was looking for was “flibberty-gibberty,” but that doesn’t matter. I would stress that, at this moment, he was in no danger of the car that was heading towards him: It was the Miller’s coming home from church bingo, and since we live in an area where there are a lot of deer running out in front of cars, they were driving very carefully and saw him rolling down the road.)
Psykosity: coming ip to the mile marl;k
why isit to cold
fecking august herewtf
(If it gets below sixty-five degrees, as it does in August a few hours after the sun goes down in our part of the United States, he claims to freeze. He was dressed in his Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and jeans, and he apparently forgot this important fact in his rush to piss on the cornerstone of the City Hall building. He was a mile from the house and halfway into town when he had this realization. He might be saved by prevailing weather patterns yet. Who knew?)
Psykosity: holy shit bad idea
abanon all hope allyew gentlemmen and ladies
(Abandon all hope, indeed. My husband is ever the dedicated protester of small town bureaucracy until he gets cold, and then he starts to sober up, come slowly to his senses and decides MOST of the time that the issue isn’t really worth the steam…)
(Psykosity hates bats. Fun fact.)
Psykosity: mess hugemess
I think;e my niebor saw me takea slash in the road
got pilss down my leg
(At this point in our intrepid explorer’s trip back home, Psyk decided to relieve himself on the road, which would’ve been fine except he ostensibly thought he saw Mrs. Miller looking out the window, panicked, and got pee all over one of his pants legs. Not his best moment…)
Modesty Fiona Blaise: I’m going to be calling it a night…going to leave you and George in charge… just stack the glasses on the bar and make sure the guys run the dishwasher. Good night, gentlemen…and Psyk 😘
Tanstaafl: Goodnight, Miss Blaise
Once he passes out (possibly before) I’m going to handcuff him to the foot rail and give him a pillow. We’ll tidy up the place and lock up behind us.
Modesty Fiona Blaise: Thank you. Leave the key to the handcuffs in the register, please? Oh, and maybe something by his head in case he feels ill…which I think is a distinct possibility….
(God bless his friends on social media and his colleagues here at WTF? and The Beaverlick Gazette: Psyk rarely comes across people with the humor and the patience to put up with him…)
Psykosity: batteyt diwb
battery down to 10
shodve checked the ho fone before i left
(Apparently, Psyk realized that his phone battery was low. I don’t know what a “ho fone” is, but he didn’t charge his phone before he left.)
Psykosity: all aleon alone
it bowl time
(It was a moonless night that night; very dark. I think he decided to stop by the side of the road and fire up a bowl of some of his medicinal marijuana. I have no idea where he got the can of beer. Sometimes, it’s important in a marriage to not ask questions and enjoy the mystery…)
Psykosity: holy shit that two hik thingyu really gets on t op or u
(I’m really not sure what he’s trying to say here, but I suspect that he is realizing that ten shots of ” Two Hicks and A Spic Chase A Turkey Down A Mine Shaft” probably wasn’t one of his best ideas…)
Psykosity: fk cop
(I think, at this point, one of our Sherriff’s Deputies were driving past on their patrol of the area. Psyk should not have been so shocked, nor so paranoid: the town’s police force and our local Sheriff’s Department all know us, and we know them. Like the Miller’s, they are all familiar with Psyk’s shenanigans.)
Psykosity: wew drove past
goodstif stk stuff
(After the Sheriff’s Deputy passed, probably waving at him and shaking his head, Psyk must have decided to finish his bowl. I can tell you this: say want you want about Medical Marijuana, he has spent the last eight years in a constant pain range (from 1 being lowest to 10 being the highest) from 7 to 9, and with the herb, he sometimes can get down to a 3 or 4. Because of this, I have NO PROBLEM with him using this as opposed to being hooked by Big Pharma on opiates, which is another discussion for a different forum. We are talking here about a drunken moron driving his wheelchair around in the dark.)
Psykosity: almost om home
ths chair has 5 grea gears
rely fast now
(His wheelchair does have five gears, and each of those gears has five different speed variations. Top speed on the chair is approximately 30 mph., which is OK if he is outdoors on the street, but is murder on the walls if he forgets and starts up his chair in high gear inside the house…)
Psykosity: im in meoij
im in my drivway now
this wil be my last com ofer the phon
(Finally, I hear him coming up the wheelchair ramp and banging into the back doorjamb. I’m not mad, not even a little. Every now and then, a man like him needs to blow off steam. There are worse ways to do it, I think. Many men freak out about their lives and have affairs. Some take their frustrations out on their wives and families. Psyk occasionally goes nuts and does stupid shit, but he has never hurt me, he has never cheated on me, and no matter what you think about some of the stories he tells about himself here in WTF?, he has never crossed the line into any real danger. In fact, the most danger he faced all night was trying to get into bed when he felt like sleeping…)
Im home onow. back on the computer.
Im in troubletown now. this was a BAD idea.
It was fun though
I think i took out apart of the door when I came in
More montser, another bowl Im goning to straiten out.
things will be fine@
All is well@!
(Finally, after shooting him with one of my “Happiness” darts and wrangling him into his cage, He sleeps and wakes the next morning with a desire to take it easy.)
Psykosity: Good Morning Gabfam! Daddy is feeling a little delicate today.
I didn’t realize how bad the hangover was until I realized that I had spent ten minutes trying to log onto my daughter’s old Etch-A-Sketch.
Have a great Saturday. I am going to watch cartoons until someone comes by to shoot me in the face with a bazooka.
P.S. Does anyone at the Corner Pub know where I got this chicken?
(When it’s all said and done, after three decades of marriage to Psyk, I can say this: Yes, sometimes Psyk can be wild, crazy, a little weird, and even occasionally idiotic, but he is MY wild, crazy, weird occasional idiot, and I love him. Thanks to Sparky and the staff of WTF? and The Beaverlick Gazette for opening up an avenue of creativity for him that he didn’t know he possessed.
BTW: I will send you all some tranquilizer darts and blowguns. You will need them…)