Barking up the wrong tree

How disappointing to hear that an American Mom got sent to the loony bin for impersonating her 15-year-old daughter. This continual blurring of the line between madness and eccentricity will cast a blight over human society. All the 34-year-old woman did was go back to school so she could become a cheerleader. There’s nothing remotely potty about that and I can’t see how she was inconveniencing anyone. On the contrary, I bet her bodily gyrations inspired the beefy footballers far more than the usual girlie whirling. In a heavy contact sport you need the curvy flesh of a mature woman to encourage the home team to get stuck in.

I never call anyone mad unless their urges have a self-destructive edge. A good example of a real nutter was that German fellow who agreed to
let a cannibal eat him. After dining together on his severed penis (no more than an appetiser, one would assume), the cannibal killed him and feasted on his body. So apart from the penis hors d’oeuvre, the victim was plainly unable to enjoy whatever pleasure there was in the act. That put the seal on his condition as far as I was concerned. A lunatic in his right mind would have demanded that the cannibal eat him alive.

People often assume that the tyrants of human history were mad, but I reckon this was rarely the case. A lot of them, like Caligula, were just plain bad, and a few others had some physical illness that made them act strangely. Take King George III of England for example. He’s known as the mad king, but he actually had a rare disease that turned his urine blue. I know for a fact that passing blue water makes humans cantankerous, because I once had dealings with an old gypsy woman who briefly suffered from this condition. She was a prickly character from the start to be honest, but once her piss turned blue she started cackling like a demented witch. Fortunately I managed to resolve my differences with her peacefully.

If you enjoy listening to poppycock, the most entertaining mental disorder is paranoia. I remember sitting alone in Dr Whipsnade’s lounge when I was joined by his houseguest, an antique dealer by trade.

“Rainy weather,” I said, making polite conversation.

“I like the rain,” he replied, “it gives me the chance to stock up on fresh water.”

“Isn’t your house connected to the mains supply?” I asked.

He then gave me a vehement sermon on the dangers of drinking tap water. He said that it was doped with chemicals to make men infertile and women insatiable. This allowed select breeding males, most of them freemasons, to impregnate women at their leisure and populate the next generation with their offspring. “Have you ever seen a freemason drink tap water?” he asked rhetorically. “They all buy the bottled stuff from Tesco.”

I thought it best not to argue with him. These delusional types have a rebuttal for every critique and I didn’t want him to accuse me of being a freemason.

“I am both fascinated and disturbed by your discourse,” I said truthfully. “If you don’t mind, I would now like to watch a Foghorn Leghorn cartoon on TV.”

“If you’re turning on that contraption I’m off to the conservatory,” he said. “People who watch television don’t realise that the television is also watching them.”

This assertion made me feel like Foghorn Leghorn – that rooster was always dealing with creatures crazier than himself.

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