Lance walks into his physic therapist’s office and slumps down.

“Hello” too effusive physiotherapist says. “How are we today?”

“Shitty,” I answer. “But we be chillin’”

“Oh no!!” he says. “We can never feel ‘shitty’, as you say; We are always ‘happy’.”

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Mister Marcom. WE do not talk this way.”

“Fuck you Doc, I talk this way. I am paying you so I can talk this way.”

“OK, why then, are you “shitty” as you call it?”

Leaning back… wondering how long this court – ordered bullshit must go on, I decide to hit him with it:

“I am feeling shitty ‘cause I have written some good shit on my blog and no one is readin’ it.”

“Do go on….”

“Well… there is that one about Southpark…”

“Yes?”

“Some great shit there.”

“No one reads it?”

“Yeah,” I say; “It is too long.”

“Why is it too long? Do you hate your mother?”  he asked brilliantly.

“Well, it took three days to write. An’…who are you? Do you even know what it is to write?”

“Let us focus on ‘your problem.’ shall we?”

“Doc, let us focus on yers: I don’t wanna be here. I just want folks to read my shit.”

“I cannot help you there, Son.”

“Then what am I paying protection for?”