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But who can blame me?
Just look around me!
of TheColumnists.com
Paranoia, as I understand it, is never feeling secure. Among the symptoms are suspicions that you are unsafe, nobody tells you the truth, and everybody's out to get you. Plots of danger and sedition tend to be taken personally.
Recent events are beginning
to bother me, making me wonder who's lying to me and who's telling
the truth. Have I become paranoid, or is this some kind of a
terrorist's plot?
For instance, did you watch the Rose Bowl football game this
year? Did you take a good look at Washington State University's
coach, Mike Price? I don't know who he is, but that's not Mike
Price. That's Vice President Dick Cheney. You know, the man who
sometimes sits at Dubyaman's right hand. Take a look, a really
good look at the two photos. See what I mean? The sportscasters
told us that Price was leaving WSU for a coaching job in Alabama.
Who is this guy Mike Price anyway? Do you really believe Price
and Cheney are two different men? Quite frankly, I have my doubts.
Since September 11, 2001, the public has been told that Vice President Cheney "is in an undisclosed, secure location." Alabama is a safe, secure location if you're the Vice President of the United States? Okay, then who was the guy down there they used to call Bear Bryant? There was a football star on Bryant's team they called Joe Namath. Was he an athlete, or was it a cover name when the CIA didn't need him?
Remember when the FBI called off the search for those five Arab-looking men that they thought sneaked into the country. I think they acted too quickly. I know I saw one of them working behind the counter at the minimart last Saturday. Now the FBI says that guy's really a jeweler in Pakistan. He does not now, nor has he ever, worked in that minimart.
Sure, that's what they want me to believe.
The other day a handsome young man showed up at our back door. He was friendly, all smiles and chatty. At first I thought he was Donald, my oldest grandson. He offered to take out the trash and rake up the pine needles in the back yard. But when he didn't ask for money, I realized he was an imposter.
This morning a great big, good looking man appeared before me in the kitchen. He asked if I'd like to go out to breakfast. No, huh-uh, this isn't Sunday, it's Monday. You can't fool me. I asked for photo identification. The driver's license he produced said his name is Rupert. Dear God! Aliens have kidnapped my husband and grandson! Will I be next?
There's a TV ad promoting pills to take away ugly fat while you sleep. What about those of us who suffer insomnia? Will this same pill put me to sleep so I can wake up thinner? Dr. Phil says joining an exercise group won't make me lose weight, it's the exercise itself that does it. Who should I trust, him or the pill pusher?
Last week the doctor told me I need to take medicine to lower my blood pressure, and she gave me a prescription. I took it to a pharmacy and had it filled. The clerk told me I owed her $120. Hold on, here. Those pills are supposed to lower my blood pressure, yet the price shoots it sky high. What's the purpose? Who wins? Is it going to be me, the pharmacist, or the pharmaceutical company?
Joe Namath was a CIA agent in panty hose; Dick Cheney is calling himself Mike Price and coaching a football team in Alabama. Dr. Phil wants me to exercise; the pill pusher says all I need is a good night's sleep. Two alien imposters are trying to win me over with good deeds. The older one of the pair just asked me if I've seen his glasses. What does he call those things he's wearing on his nose? Oh, he means his reading glasses. Aliens need reading glasses?
Everybody's picking on me. Please, don't ask me if I want paper or plastic. I'm not up to making the decision. Excuse me so I can go take a nap. Maybe I'll wake up thinner and find a football sitting on the coffee table that was autographed by Dick Cheney, whoever he is.
©2003 by Patricia
J. Geister. The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection,
1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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