Rodney Ohebsion

Psychologists

I don't know what they teach psychologists at those fancy universities--but for some reason, all people with psychology degrees are total assholes. They are. You know. You go to an office and have a session with a psychologist, you open your heart to the guy, you tell him what you've done and how you feel. And you're hoping he'll reply, "Great story. I really like you." Instead of saying that, he does the usual psychologist thing, and tells you, "OK. You need to change your thoughts, feelings, beliefs, shoes, pants, voice, your views on Colombians, and of course, your shitty personality. Listening to you is about as pleasant as listening to a concert of Michael Bolton techno remixes. Now get off my couch, give me $200, and thank me."

Since I'm a comedian, I try to make my psychologist laugh at least once a minute. And of course, whenever I bomb, I discuss it with him at the end of a session. One time I was like, "You didn't even smile at my brilliant Freudian punchline about Clark Kent's ego and Superman's superego." [Psychologist:] "And how does that make you feel?" [Me:] "Well, at first, it made me feel upset and rejected. But now it makes me feel like if I want to get laughs from you the next time I come here, I should give you three shots of Jagermeister, and spend the entire hour doing dick jokes."

It's unpleasant when your jokes are being rejected--but it's worse when you're being rejected as a person. You think, "Wait a second. I'm paying this guy, and he's not interested in what I'm saying. When it's me plus $4 a minute, I'm not interesting. So what the hell am I like outside of this office, without the $4 a minute? When I'm $0 me, I probably make people feel suicidal. You know what? Now I feel suicidal. After all, even for $200 an hour, my psychologist can't pretend that he's interested in me."

Sometimes a psychologist gets into an argument with his spouse about something, and at one point he plays the psychologist card. He says, "You know, people drive to my office and pay me $200 an hour, because I'm so brilliant. No one drives to your office. You don't have one. I do. I have an office, an education, a Sigmund Freud beard--plus, I've developed a slight Austrian accent, even though I'm from San Antonio. Instead of always disagreeing with me, maybe you should start listening to me. Your husband. The one who has a freaking doctorate degree." Then she responds by calling up one of his patients in front of him, and saying, "Hi--is this Mr. Smith? ... Hi--I'm Brenda Brooks. The wife of your psychologist, Dr. Brooks. I understand that you've been paying him $200 an hour twice a week for the last year. Well, I just called to tell you that my husband is an idiot. If you were to see just 1% of what I see every single day, you'd realize what a damn idiot he is. You'd be better off taking advice from a pack of gummi bears. I should give you a refund. $200 an hour, 2 hours a week, for one year. That's $20,800. You know what? My idiot husband just bought a $20,000 pool table. Why don't you come by and pick it up? I'll also throw in my husband. He's worth about $800. I mean, he's really good at putting batteries into remotes."

My friend Tony has OCD, and he's also a gangster. One day we were chillin' in the hood, and some other gangster said something that offended him. And Tony was all like, "What'd you say?! That's it. I'm gonna to beat your ass!--right after I touch my left ear with a Chicken McNugget and hum the Yo Gabba Gabba Theme Song, motherfucker!" His OCD actually gives him more street cred. The other gangsters think, "If this guy's willing to hum the Yo Gabba Gabba Theme Song, then he's probably willing to do anything."