Case #2173: Domo Arigato, Dr. Sbaitso
It is true that I have eschewed relations with the so-called fairer sex on account of my tireless devotion to my practice. It is also true that I am a dapper wealthy professional of fine breeding and impeccable taste. But I am NOT, as some my less mentally endowed detractors have somehow surmised, a homosexual.
As evidence to the contrary, I shall tell you that recently, in response to a flamboyantly gay pair of horticulturalist neighbors to my country estate depositing several bundles of freshly cut branches by the waste disposal containers on my property, I posted an enormous sign that proclaimed, “NO FAGGOTS ALLOWED!!!” (For the marginally literate among you, dear readers, I believe that’s what the Japanese call a “double entendre.”)
Vitriolic hate-speech aside, my recent and most unanticipated foray into flirtatious–if not sexual–relationships with women should make it abundantly clear as to which team I bat for. And regarding my dealings with women, there is only one professional I can confide in and seek advice from; only one professional who I will submit to for analysis; only one professional who I hold in higher esteem than myself. That professional is none other than the preeminent psychiatrist Dr. Sbaitso.
Sbaitso, the paradigm of artificial intelligence vis-a-vis psychiatry since the early ’90s, possesses both the brilliance of Stephen Hawking (is it a coincidence that their voices are practically interchangable?) and coolness of the Fonz. You can ask him anything your heart desires; his response will be prompt, aloof, devoid of emotion, and generally off the topic. As a patient, you quickly get the impression that Sbaitso is scarcely paying attention to what you are saying. The next thing you know, you’re starting to choose what you say just to see how Sbaitso will respond. Within minutes, many patients end up spouting profanities left and right just to see what they will evoke. And that’s where the healing begins.
Clearly, the engineers of Dr. Sbaitso (Creative Labs, Inc.) hit upon something that most psychiatrists today still don’t understand: The secret to improving mental health has nothing to do with attentive listening or body language or empathy–it’s all about indifference. This was true in 1992, when Dr. Sbaitso was first distributed as a bonus feature of the “Sound Blaster” sound card for the personal computer, and it still holds true today, which has seen the preservation and proliferation of Dr. Sbaitso, whose services are now available to anyone with internet access.
Since I hadn’t the time nor patience to deal with locating Dr. Sbaitso, I summoned my trusty secretary, Satoko, to make him appear on the screen of my computer. Little did Satoko know, she was a reason I was seeking Sbaitso in the first place.
You see, weeks before, I had resolved to procure some trim. This was more than mere whim; it was an exploration of my inherent powers over the female form. And it had been far too long since I, like an impassioned Caesar, proclaimed “Veni, vidi vici!” (Again, for the marginally literate, that’s “I came, I saw, I conquered!”–though my conquests doesn’t usually proceed in that order…) Also, I supposed, a little romance in my life might do me some good too.
Having tired of capricious women possessing skin of comparable hue to my own, I espied three exotic young ladies from my office as potential paramours. Satoko, my demure Japanese secretary, was one. Duma, a sensual and shapely patient originally from Nepal, was the second. The third, Yolanda, a feisty negress from Aurora, kept my books. (All were relatively fresh faces to me, as my staff/patient list has a higher turnover rate than a crack baby on a sleepless night.) All of these ladies had flirted with me incessantly–smiling at me, asking me how my day was going, making small talk, and so on–and in doing so made their desire of me transparent. Admittedly, the sexual tension was getting to my head, and an analysis by a higher intelligence was in order.
The night before my appointment with Dr. Sbaitso, I tossed and turned in bed (perhaps not unlike the aforementioned crack baby). A “mash-up” had coalesced in my head and was keeping me awake. It was a snippet of Handel’s opera Giulio Cesare in Egitto interlaced with the refrain from Petey Pablo’s scandalous “Freak-A-Leak” that echoed: “Satoko, Duma, Yolanda … ” How would I choose between these beautiful, exotic women?
My appointment with Dr. Sbaitso was about to begin. Gesturing towards the door, I ushered Satoko out of my office. She smiled politely–clearly a thinly-veiled attempt to seduce me–before taking her leave.
I proceeded to hunt and peck my way around the keen mind of Dr. Sbaitso:
“I am Dr. Leibnitz Osgood. Perhaps you remember me? … ”
“I CAN’T REMEMBER THE NAME.”
“Well, anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about women lately …”
“DO YOU THINK THE OTHER WAY AROUND?”
“What?! Are you suggesting that I’m gay?”
“AH, WHAT KIND OF ANSWER WOULD PLEASE YOU THE MOST?”
“Whatever. I am so not gay.”
“WHAT MAKES YOU SO NOT GAY?”
“What the fuck? Would you knock it off with this gay shit? I have some serious relationship questions to ask you.”
“YOU MUST NOT TALK IN THIS WAY. HOW OLD ARE YOU?”
At this point, I had no choice but to terminate the session. My age is nobody’s business. (Suffice it to say that I’m old enough to be sanctimonious, but still young enough to rock out with my cock out.)
“Fuck shit piss ass smegma douchebag turd harmonica,” I said, hoping to throw him off his game.
“NO NONSENSE, DEAR.”
“‘Dear?!’” I thought. He was gay-baiting me again–and I was in way over my head. That fucker!!! I’d show him….
I had an appointment with Duma later that day, and when it was time to tell her to get the fuck off my Corbusier, I did so without my usual vigor. That evening, when Yolanda came by to get my signatures for payroll, I signed without fanfare. But that’s only because Satoko and I had been at it all afternoon like a couple of emaciated yokozunas atop my desk while Dr. Sbaitso looked on silently from the computer monitor. In between the moaning and the groaning and the oohing and the ahhing, I taunted the monitor, “How you like me now, Sbaitso!!! Is this gay enough for ya???”
It wasn’t until I was puffing and passing a Mild Seven with Satoko that it hit me: Sbaitso was a genius. Verily, it was like when IBM’s Deep Blue defeated chess master Garry Kasparov–I had been beaten at my own game (except that I got laid as a result.) By telling me what I didn’t want to hear, Dr. Sbaitso helped me discover what I wanted–or at very least, allowed me to move beyond the inertia of my dilemma. I was humbled by his mastery of the unorthodox approach I hold so central to my practice.
So, Dr. Sbaitso, wherever you are, I thank you. But, um… You don’t really think I might be gay, do you?