Let me explain.
I’ve had problems sleeping all my life, but it had grown much worse lately, so my doctor prescribed sleeping pills and told me to call him in a week to let him know how I was feeling.
After a week, I called to tell him that the pills weren’t working.
He was busy.
I left my number.
He never called back.
This game of telephone tag, in which I was the sole participant, went on for 10 days.
Depression set in. I didn’t need this kind of rejection, on top of being exhausted.
When he finally did call, I told him that I was disappointed in the sleeping pills, and now I was not only wide awake at night, but wide awake and depressed.
He prescribed a stronger sleeping pill and put me on Prozac.
I drove to my neighborhood pharmacy to pick up the $11 worth of sleeping pills and the Prozac. Before handing them to me, the pharmacist said, “You’re not going to be happy about this.”
“So what?” I replied. “I’m not happy about anything. I’m depressed.”
He shrugged and handed me the prescriptions. The Prozac had a price tag of $162.00! For 30 pills! If I was depressed when I walked in, I was sure to be suicidal when I walked out. What are these drug companies thinking? They create a pill to effectively treat depression, and then make it unaffordable. I had no idea that the Marquis de Sade was alive and well and running Dista Pharmaceuticals these days.
Now I’m more depressed than ever, and I can’t sleep for worrying about how I’m going to pay for this stuff each month.
I concluded that if I ever wanted another wink of sleep, I needed to get away from all my stress for a while.
Having no money, I decided to stow away on an ocean liner.
It was a Carnival Cruise.
Three days into the voyage, somebody lit a match and the ship exploded.
We were all picked up eventually, but as a result of the shark feeding frenzy, I am now known as, “Stumpy.”
Perhaps a good book would take my mind off my plight. Once released from intensive care—on the promise that I would donate blood until my debt was paid, which I reckon will be some twenty-five years after my death; I made my way to the library—where, after an hour of browsing, The Collected Works of William Shatner fell from a top shelf and hit me on the head.
I tottered back home to wash the stink out of my hair, having neglected to take a book with me.
Once clean and dry, I flipped on the television.
A “Star Trek” marathon.
Screaming and irrational, I threw a boxed set of “Battlestar Galactica” through the screen, tripped, dislocated my shoulder, and broke my nose. The sparks from the ruined TV jumped to the blood and delivered a shock that turned my finger and toe nails black and stood my hair on end. Once I got up and unplugged the thing, all my hair fell out.
I’m a shadow of my former self. Now I’m not only sleepless and depressed, but also mortally boat and ocean phobic, short, terrified of William Shatner, and bald, with a nose like Sylvester Stallone.
There was only one thing left to do. Get rid of whoever was responsible for all this. I had little left to lose . . . literally . . . and a jail term could only improve the wreckage of my life. I planned my revenge carefully.
On the first moonless night, I made my way to my enemy and planted the necessary charges. Moving back a safe distance, I picked up the detonator and pushed the plunger.
“Die, Dista Pharmaceuticals! Die! Moowhahahahahahaha!”
I was, of course, apprehended. Can’t run too well, these days.
This afternoon, there is a parade in my honor, after which I will be released and driven to a brand new, donated, furnished home in the suburbs, provided with a car and chauffeur, and given a check for five million dollars. Carson 1, Dista Pharmaceuticals 0. Game over.
I expect to get a good night’s sleep tonight.