94. You can cure me, right?

 “You can cure me, right?”

The psychiatrist pretended to polish her glasses.

“It’ll take time. Patience. Perseverance. But yes, I think I can cure you. You haven’t lapsed a single time since you sat down on that sofa for example. That tells me there is hope.”

The patient expressed his gratitude through a subtle tear rolling from his eye and – later – by writing a big fat check for twelve more sessions at doctor Monroe’s.

“So what was his problem?” her secretary asked.

“You remember that leaflet about protecting the bees the government stuffed into every mailbox in town not that long ago?”

“Bee a friend.”

“You recall the title, hey?”

“It’s a nice pun.”

“Well, apparently he’s the guy that wrote it. Big shot copywriter. Great at witty puns. Trouble is, he can’t stop punning anymore. Every time he hears the word bee or honey or even pollen he just has to make a wisecrack. It’s driving him mad. And the ones around him. His closest colleague jumped out of a fifth story window last week. When he went to the funeral he told the widow it must ‘sting’ to lose your husband.”

“Ouch.”

“They are a special kind of crazy these copywriters. Who’s my three o’clock?”

“Mrs. Peterson.”

“Good. I’ll enjoy that. She always waxes lyrically about her problems.”

“Yeah, she’s a honey.”

The disease was spreading. Soon it would hold dominion over all.

 

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