Thursday, November 11, 2004


I work in the mental health industry and I have encountered my own fair share of mental health issues, so now I am convinced that I have developed “crazydar,” which is like “gaydar” except that it allows me to sniff out and identify crazy people instead of gay people. What can I say? It’s a gift.

It’s not the kind of superpower that would make for a Hollywood summer blockbuster (although they tried with The Sixth Sense) or a cartoon series on Nickelodeon, but it certainly does make a run-of-the-mill trip to Costco or McDonald’s a lot more entertaining.

Like sometimes Hot Wife and I will be out having Mexican food and I’ll see a guy in line at the cashier and I’ll say, “Hey, honey, see that guy over there? He’s depressed.”

“How can you possibly tell that?” she asks.

“Because he keeps pulling his underwear out of his ass,” I say. “A lot of those antidepressant meds make you constipated. He’s obviously got a rough case of swamp ass and I’ll bet you anything it’s because he’s on Zoloft on he hasn’t shit in four days.”

She rolls her eyes and looks at me like I just told her I want her refer to me as “O Captain, My Captain” from now on, but I’m sure I’m right about the guy at the register. Normal people don’t pick at their asses like that. Not in public anyway.

My crazydar has also afforded me countless opportunities to meet and share war stories with other crazies like me. Like sometimes I’ll be at lunch and I’ll catch a heavy bipolar vibe from the dude who sits down next to me.

“So,” I say to the guy, having never met him before, “that Klonopin is some good shit, isn’t it?” And then we’ll spend the rest of our respective lunch hours discussing therapy and meds and sexual side effects and how completely whacked-out most psychiatrists are (which explains why they became psychiatrists in the first place).

I won’t lie. My crazydar has misfired on a few occasions, each an unfortunate turn of events that has put me into a rather compromising and confrontational situation. I once asked this heavily pierced tattoo freak in a biker bar if I could bum a Paxil from him and he hit me in the balls with Coors Light bottle. Another time I asked a woman in the airport if Prozac made her breasts tender and she pepper sprayed my ass right there at gate 9A. You probably read about that one. It was in all of the papers.


At 6:01 PM, Blogger honestyrain said...

maybe the guy at the register was wearing a thong. have you ever worn a thong? if it doesn't fit just absolutely right you can be picking at it all. day. long.

At 9:28 PM, Blogger Kaycee said...

My fiance thinks he has "European-dar" where he can spot a German tourist across a crowded room just because of their fashion choices.

At 11:57 PM, Blogger HDawg said...

Dawg, what if you used your psycho-dar at Mac-D's? Psycho McGriddle-dar? sounds like a swamp in Scotland! love, your shrink (non-psychiatrist, thank you) friends


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