Hello, fellow prisoners! Thanks for taking our COVID-19 Looney Tunes Personality Disorder (Ell-Pee-Tee-Dee) questionnaire to determine if you are exhibiting clinical berserkitude. AKA going bananas. {FYI: Humans and bananas share 50% of their DNA.} But we digress…Sadly, the survey’s results are bloodcurdling (e.g., 81% of respondents sleep with a teddy bear, a bottle of Sheep Dog Peanut Butter Whiskey and a lollipop). But, remember, you are NOT ALONE (well, actually you are so suck it up).
As a public service, and in partnership with Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Johns Hopkins and the Mayo Clinic, we have released the following clinical tête-à-tête with an LTPD patient. We refer to her as Madame Agata ZeuBlouze. National father-figure-doctor Armando Fauci-Bulles-Drôles facilitates.
Is Squirrelemia a Personality Disorder?
Dr. Fauci-Bulles-Drôles (FBD): So Madame ZeuBlouze. It seems you have a rather unusual personality disorder. What are your symptoms?
Agata ZeuBlouze (ZB): Well, doctor, I am just not the girl I used to be. I am also not the boy I used to be, but that’s another story.
FBD: Hmmm…go on.
ZB: This morning I was at my desk, wearing my chemise du nuit and a feather boa, sipping Famille Perrin Côtes Du Rhône Réserve Rouge. Watching Skippy the squirrel scamper happily along our power line, I wondered how long it would take him to electrocute himself.
“What would fried squirrel taste like?” I mused. “Should I serve it for Passover? With a side of turnip greens?” And the thing is, doctor, I love Skippy. Skippy is my friend. I want him and his rodent family to live long and fulfilling lives. Thinking about eating fried Skippy is soooo unlike me.
FBD: Hmmm… a possible case of squirrelemia. A fluffy personality disorder. Please, go on.
What About Rodentitis?
ZB: Last night I was at the kitchen table sipping a Hop, Skip and Go Naked — lemon vodka, grapefruit juice and beer. Très délicieux! Suddenly Fluffypuss came dashing over and dropped something at my feet. It made a floppy, thudding sound. “One of her toys, peut-être?” I posited.
Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a dead mouse that Fluffypuss slaughtered in the basement. Enraged by the needless carnage before me, I screamed, “Crime doesn’t pay, Fluffypuss!! What am I supposed to do with a dead mouse? Cook it? Cremate it? Bury it? Tell me, Fluffypuss!! Tell me!!… Donneeeee, there’s a murdered mouse in here! GET IT!!” And I burst into tears. “Poor little mouse,” I moaned. “Slaughtered for what? Fun? Profit? A science project?”
FBD: Hmmm…a possible case of rodentitis. A Mickey Mouse-type personality disorder. Please, go on.
ZB: I talk to ducks, doctor Fauci-Bulles-Drôles. You see, my neighbor, Lydia, is fostering a duck family on her front lawn. They are usually joined by a squirrel and a couple of robins sniffing each other’s asses and doing that whole Peaceable Kingdom thing. It’s nice because they aren’t eating each other, them being vegetenarians and all. I think.
If It Quacks Like a Duck
Then yesterday, as I watched, I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to quack. I don’t know what got into me. Maybe Satan? But quack I did. The ducks immediately stopped pulling up the grass, turned around, looked at me, and quacked back. I quacked in return and soon we had a symphonic call-and-response of human-to-duck quacking that made even the squirrel sit up and take notice. I knew the ducks and I were connected on a deep spirit level because I had an intense urge to chew on the grass beneath my shoes. But just then my husband came along and dragged me to the curb.
FBD: Hmmm…a possible case of mallardomania, which would definitely qualify as a personality disorder, given all the quacking involved. Please, go on.
ZB: Fluffypuss and Peekaboo have revealed themselves to me telepathically. They follow me with their eyes everywhere I go. Watch my every move. And then they accuse me with their thoughts. “You are a bad mother.” “You are holding us back from pursuing our dreams.” “You never take us to the ballet.”
At night they shuffle around outside the bedroom door, breathing heavily and whispering, “Your cooking stinks.” “Your belly rubs suck.” “And we don’t like that flannel nightgown you wear. You look like an old lady.”
FBD: I’m sure it’s your imagination, Madame.
ZB: You great big phony quack! You should hear what they say about you!!
Case closed
Oddly realistic and sobering. Lockdown madness, isolation and pandemic worries hit us all both the same way and in different directions
It’s challenging to poke fun at something extremely serious (e.g., mental health). But this relates to why I started the blog: laffter is the best medicine.