This issue of Psychobabble is dedicated to the last Psychobabble who's life was abruptly cut short by a temperamental hard drive.  Damn the damned disk.  Oh the humanity.
    Well, another excellent issue of Psychobabble shot to hell.  By the way, don't you hate it when one of your friends just sits around and sucks face with his girlfriend?  I mean, it isn't like they're noisy or anything, but they can't keep a beat to save their lives.  So tell me about yourself...Okay, enough with that nonsense about you, let's talk about me.  I'm a simple guy.  Well, that's what my doctor will tell you, but he's 'nuts'.  Not that 'nuts' is bad, but have you ever had bad nuts?  There you are on a 737 Pan American Inter-continental flight, one hundred thousand feet above land, miles from any country, and you've got no where to go but the bathroom cubicle which is always "ocupado" or the hostess station, which they keep shooing you away from every time you dive for the liquor cabinet.  You're strapped down in your seat and you can't even light up a stogie without some clean air freak having a conniption fit.  Eventually, one of the "flight attendants" comes along with your shiny little metallic package of honey roasted almonds.  You don't like honey roasted almonds, but what the hell else are you going to do, right?  You figure it'll take you a good hour just to get the package open anyway, and by the time you manage to choke down that last almond, you'll have touched down in sunny Somalia.  So you progress in attempting to open that shiny little package and, one hour later, you are digging in for your first almond.  But wait.  It evades you.  You snatch for it again.  It dodges.  Oh great.  Looks like this trip isn't going to be quite as uneventful as you thought.  First, that one idiot in first class opened his window, causing the depressurization of nearly the entire plane, then the flight attendant spilled that pot of scalding gravy in you lap, and then the captain called back asking if anyone remembered what the destination of this flight was, and now this.  You are unsure if the object you are attempting to grasp betwixt your little digits is a honey roasted cockroach or just...a bad nut.  Finally, you get your fingers on it.  You hold it up in front of your eyes, and its little antennae wave lazily before you.  So you pop it in your mouth and crunch, crunch, CRUNCH.  And you know what?  You like it much better than those honey roasted almonds.  You look out your window and watch that crazy duck get sucked into the turbine.  Quack, quack, SPLAT.  And further down through a clearing in the clouds you see a beautiful glimmering blue green ocean, and on that beautiful glimmering blue green ocean is a raft, oh so minuscule from your vantage point.  Just a speck in the distance.  You take out your regular peepers and replace them with your telescopic peepers (which you'd brought along to look down the "flight attendant's" blouses if the opportunity presented itself) and see that raft in all its glorious detail.  There are five people on that raft.  A woman, one young man, two middle aged Siamese twins and one old fart.  If you look closely, you can read their lips.  Eventually you manage to piece together their conversation.  It goes something like this.
    "All right, all right, here we are, a million miles from anywhere, without food, without water, only one woman and an old man who's having a Maloxx moment.  So, who wants to be eaten?" asks the young man, looking at the female in the raft who shivers with anticipation.
    "Ah shutup you stupid eediot.  What do you know about cuisine?  I am Pierre Alamonde, zee famous French chef.  The question is not who is to be eaten, but how they will be served.  I suggest that with the materials at hand we shall start with a small potluck of human sushi with a mild kelp sauce, seared lightly by focussing the the sun through zee young lady's eye glasses, and wash it down with a fish fluid shake."
    "We are all going to die, I tell you we are all going to die!"
    "Keep that up and the only one that is going to die is you, you stupid schmuck!"
    As you watch the spectacle, the young lady (who is a bit overweight) is rescued by Greenpeace, for they fear she will be harpooned and she resembles a member of a nearly extinct whale family.  The French chef tries to throttle the young man because he just made some obscure reference like "You're just mad because my Grandpa had your Grandma for a candy bar!"  The old man, who is a Rabbi, attempts to convert the young man, who is a Native Afro American Irish Indian from Italy to Judaism, and the dish ran away with the spoon.  But you're on your plane and you don't know where you're going and you keep thinking about the Twilight Zone movie and you wonder if the gremlin doesn't perhaps have a white mohawk, and thinking these thoughts you turn to the newspaper.  What's interesting in the newspaper?  Well, the space shuttle Columbia has returned after a two week assignment in space.  What was it doing up there?  Oh, why they were running experiments.  What kind of experiments?  Well you know, they're always a bit cloudy on that.  But they did mention it cost $100 million.  For a bunch of space rocks?  And you think to yourself 'I could really use a new car.  In fact, some people could use a place to live, some food to eat, but hey!  Never mind that!  We need all the information we can get on space rocks.  It's science.  Imagine what Mr. Wizard could have done with a ?100 million dollar contract.  "Kids, today we're going to learn how to levitate the family station wagon with a paper towel roll, a rubber band, two grapes, some baking soda, and a 3,000 watt electro-magnet..."  It would add a whole new dimension to 3-2-1 Contact! too.
    What if Danzig wrote nursery rhymes?  What if Marilyn Monroe decided that she really wanted to become a singing raisin (I figure that by now she looks the part)?  What do you get when you cross a Latex body suit with a bag of kitty litter?  Give up?  I haven't got a clue either.  Where oh where did that little dog go?  I don't know, but last time I saw him he was walking by a Vietnamese restaurant.
    If it took seven maids with seven brooms seven years to sweep up seven tons of sand, how many years would it take ten maids with ten brooms to sweep up ten tons of sand?  Okay wiseguy, how long would it take two maids, a pair of Siamese twins, a cat, a parrot, a three-legged dog, and an inflatable tiger with dysentery to sweep up 17 tons of prunes with two brooms, a bologna sandwich, a wheelchair, and a yarmulke?  The answer is pie.  Moon Pie, to be precise.  Moon Pie is a mathematical equation derivative of space rocks.  Space rocks, kind of like Pop Rocks, but not as much fun.  Ever fed AlkaSeltzer to a nun?  They explode.  Blasphemy!  Heresy, thy name is Psychobabble.  I'm the baby, gotta love me (Scooby Doo laugh).  We've got a gorilla for sale, Magilla Gorilla for sale.  Won't you buy him, take him out and try him, gorilla for sale.  You can tell by the way I use my walk I'm a ladies man, no time to talk.  If I could save fluids in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do, is to save all my bile, for quite a long while and then, squirt it all over you.  Butter butter butter butter butter butter Parkay!  This sentence is being used just to take up space.  This is a public announcement sentence brought to you by the people who don't like the misuse of sentences to inform you that the last two sentences were a complete and utter waste of space and letters.  In fact, this entire paper has been a complete and utter waste of space and letters and we're not going to stand for this any longer.  We have sent letters to the Governor's office, petitions to the President, and most importantly, we have informed Rush Limbaugh, and he isn't in the least bit impressed with this waste of ink and computer time.  We're pulling the plug on this little operation right now.  It's over.  No more Psychobabble.  Maybe this way we'll increase church attendance, reduce crime, and balance the National Debt.  Death to Psychobabble and the purveyors of this nonsense!  So what do you expect, the Spanish Inquisition?  NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION, WHOSE CHIEF WEAPON IS SURPRISE.  SURPRISE AND A QUIRKY SENSE OF FASHION.  Or would you like to swing on a star?  Carry moonbeams home in a jar?  Fluorescent green dust has settled on the subconsciousness of humanity causing grapefruits to go sour, table salts to become rancid, and Bengali tigers to take up cross-stitching.  It's not a pretty picture ladies and gentlemen.  Steve McQueen and Ronald Reagan in the wild, wild west was more tolerable than the pathetic state of effervescent alien-infested, granola-loving, fruitcake pinko Communist effeminate fiends.  Rover, fetch mah gun and meet me in the pickup.  We's agoin' huntin', hyuck hyuck.  But first we're stoppin' at the Quicky Easy-Fast Super Econo Stop N Go Express Micro Mart for a case a' Schmidt and a box of shells and maybe a nasty magazine with them pitchers ah like.
    We apologize for that stereotypical story line that you've just read.  We understand that most people do not fit into our particular genre of this amazing corner of Western culture that we belong to.  So please don't be harsh on them, they are only products of their environment.  But sometimes it is much too easy and fun to rip into them.
    This will conclude another exciting issue of Psychobabble.  We would just like to remind you that no matter who you are or what you've done, your opinion only matters to you.
    So please fasten your seat belts and return all trays to an upright position, and please extinguish all smoking materials, and sir, would you please stop chasing that cockroach?  Thank you for frying--Err, flying with us, and we hope you had a safe and happy trip.  Come fly with me come fly, come fly away again some time.  All it will cost you is a little piece of your mind, and you won't even miss it.  In fact, you probably won't even notice it's gone until one day there's nothing left, and then you can run for President and fund the space program because you've fallen in love with a Moon Pie and you want to bring her relatives down to Earth.  All you'll need is $100 million and some house hold products and damn the hard drive, men.  Snort speed instead!  And remember kids, 9 out of 10 morphodites prefer Psychobabble to their usual diarrhea supplements.  Psychobabble:  Coats, soothes, relieves.  Psychobabble, the brand doctors recommend most.  No, no!  We can't keep dragging this on anymore!  Quit typing!  It's the end.  It's over.  Stop!  Just type "The End" and save it.  Will you quit typing everything I say?!  God Damn it, stop!  That's it.  I've had enough of...