Dear Vin Scelsa,

Me and Razoo Kelley was like a incompetent suicide jumper this week – we hit the pavement and looked for a doctor. The shrink variety, cause Razoo got this growing depression and he wants to shrink it before it splodes. First we interviewed this Freudian psychiatrist – the guy was in a slip and chomping a cigar going on about free association and sexual repression, which was ogay with me, but he said his “free” association therapy would cost an arm and a penis – I mean leg, so we pulled out. So then we saw this Jungian guy, a dream doctor who started right in by getting Razoo to take a nap with him. I’m not into collective unconsciousness – specially when everybody else is snoring – so I dragged Razoo out. Next we went to Dr. Marceau, a Marcelian therapist, but he wouldn’t talk to us. He used cue cards instead, and had Razoo pretend to be in a box to try to get out, but his box didn’t got no pretend holes in it and I barely got him out in time before he pretended to suffocate. Sew then Razoo started to hem and haw, trying to skirt the hole issue before we buttoned up a shrink for him, but I made like a sewing machine operator and pressed on. We saw a minimalism therapist who didn’t measure up, but then this avoidance therapist wouldn’t even see us, and we even avoided a hypnotherapist cause we didn’t want to end up clucking like a chicken. We tried to meet with this existentialist but he wanted to be alone, so we went to a stream of consciousness therapist but he just wouldn’t stop talking. He was like the narrative therapist who wouldn’t let us get a word in, and by then we started to preciate the Marcelian therapist. We scratched the itch therapist, eliminated the enema therapist, forgot about the repressed memory therapist, and changed our minds about the brain transplant doctor. By then me and Razoo really kneaded to see a massage therapist.

Therapist Off,

me and Razoo Kelley

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