Before I begin this sordid narrative, it is imperative to first of all relate a tale.  This tale is not necessarily humorous, unless one considers human anguish and despair humorous.  And, in today's society, hell, since the dawn of human entertainment, anguish and despair have played major roles in comedies.
 Neither is this tale incredibly interesting, but that it illustrates a point.  At least it did to me.  Let us call this tale "The Psychobabble that Almost Wasn't."
 It was Friday night.  A Friday night quite like any Friday night.  That is of course you consider the orange in my glove box that kept whining about the cold.  That was very unusual.  It doesn't usually complain about such simple things as the weather, being a very politically minded orange.  Anyway, I began work on Psychobabble VI only to have the five hours of relentless brain wracking annihilated due to lack of saving.
 So the first draft of Psychobabble VI was lost.
 Saturday night brought about the second attempt.  So there I was, typing away, sore lip and all.  Oh, by the way, I think now would be a good time for me to offer up a bit of advice.  If you ever come across a woman wearing logging boots and a mohawk, with arms the size of a Redwood, don't ask her for a blow job.  Anyway, there I was, typing away and all for several hours to regain what I could of the literary masterpiece that was Psychobabble VI.  The work finally completed, I attempted to print out this deep and meaningful piece, which in its own quirky little way called to mind the works of literary geniuses such as Kierkegaard, Chekov, Tolstoy, Hesse (you know, all the cool dead people), when the computer had the gall to inform me that my disk had acquired a virus (don't ask me how, I had had a heart-to-heart with it about always wearing protection and not sharing needles).  So I took the disk out and blew on it.  Why I don't know, but it seems to be the thing to do with computer stuff when it doesn't work.  The funny thing was that it wasn't the disk itself that had a virus but that one little story entitled Psychobabble VI.  An omen, perhaps.  Well the point is that the story was (once again) irretrievable.  Perhaps the average person would have given up on the whole concept.  But I'm too stubborn to let such things as fate and karma and stuff stop me.  So here is the third, and hopefully the final attempt at Psychobabble VI.  If it doesn't fly, well then too bad.  This has long ago left the realm of hobbyism.  It's a vendetta.  It's only the principle that matters now.  Smoke 'em if you got 'em people, this might sting a bit.
 Without further ado, I present Psychobabble VI:  The Thing That Wouldn't Die.

 Watch out for the Political Blonde.  She's got a nasty set of teeth on her.  Sure, she looks sweet and beautiful, but don't let that fool you.  She bites.  I happen to enjoy a good bite every now and again, though, so I guess I shouldn't really complain.  But then, what would be the point?  We must complain, otherwise the world would seem a nice place to live.  And live we must, for if we did not live, we would surely die, and it's so damned hard to get a good cup of coffee when you're dead.  It just doesn't taste the same.  Speaking of taste, I was out with this girl the other day.  We went to every coffee shop in town to sample ice cubes.  Our discovery was that they all tasted pretty much the same.  Ah, there is much to be said about ice cubes, though.  They are cold and hard and float in most any liquid.  I think ice trays are pretty cool, but I wonder who it is that decided how many compartments an ice cube tray should have.  I want an ice cube tray with an odd number of compartments.  Of course it would have to glow in the dark because my freezer doesn't have a light in it.  Another really cool invention is the glow in the dark Band-Aid.  That way you can show off your boo boos in the dark.  I think there should be more glow in the dark stuff in the world.  In fact, I want to paint my car with glow paint.  That way I wouldn't need headlights and I'd be less likely to get hit by another car.  It's not like they could say "Oh wow, man.  Sorry, I didn't see you!" Speaking of car crashes always reminds me of girls.  Girls are kind of like peacocks, only they don't have the brightly colored feathers.  Okay, maybe that isn't the best analogy.  How about girls are like butterflies, but without antennas and dusty wings?  No.  I suppose if I were to compare girls (or women, to be P.C.) to any animal, it would probably be cats.  Not just because they're easily house trained, either.  It's more like when they run up to and say "Give me attention, pig," and then run off again.  Like when they say "You may think yourself my master, but I heed no one for I am cat.  Now feed me, for I hunger."  Also they scratch and bite when you piss them off, I've got the scars to prove it.  Not that I'm complaining, mind you.  Far be it from me to complain about anything.
 To be fair to women, I would have to compare men to dogs.  We're really good if trained properly and always eager for attention, but we are a bit harder to house train.  Although it is a bit harder to shake a guy off your leg than, say, a chihuahua.
 Something that has just occurred to me (and if there are any numerologists out there, you can back me up on this), but this is the third six.  6 6 6.  The number of the beast.  So I suppose this could not only be a vendetta, but a cult type of thing too.  Nah, it's too hard to find a goat these days, let alone a virgin.  Ah, what a piece of work is SPAM.  The original Psychobabble VI began with something that went a little bit like this:
 If all the world is a stage, then I know a few people in desperate need of acting lessons.  Not that they are bad actors, mind you, it's just that they are trying to act out a tragedy when this play we call life is actually a comedy.  I think some people need to take dancing lessons too, but we'll discuss that at another time.
 Psychobabble:  It's not just drivel anymore.  It's got its finger on the pulse of America.  Right by the corrotid artery.  One good yank and...Anyway, I believe it's a conspiracy.  Speaking of which, how about all that J.F.K. stuff?  I agree with Oliver Stone's theory about the J.F.K. assassination.  Don't believe in the single pun man theory!  Ouch.  Anyone want to pun-ish me for that one?  Send me to the pun-itentiary?  Stop it stop it stop it!  You've gone mad!  Pull yourself together!  Arghhh!  I saw Elvis at the dollar store and he told me to tell you all Hi.  That man's got a heart of gold.  Or was that his molars?  He died like a dog amidst a sea of trees.  Or did he?  Do you think that'll be Oliver Stone's next topic for a film?  The Legend of Elvis, an Oliver Stone Film.  At the end you'll discover that Elvis is living amongst a family of Yeti in the Ozark hills.  Oh, that reminds me.  It's time for a few announcements.  The sky is generally blue unless it is black, gray, red orange, yellow, or purple.  And for those of you who are interested, you can pick up some Kool-Aid on you way home at any major supermarket.
 Sleep deprivation is not a pretty thing.  It can do some really really kooky stuff to people's minds.  Won't you take me to...Funky Town.  Where can one purchase a pair of platform shoes with the goldfish in the heels?  Some of you may have caught the underlying meaning of this installment of Psychobabble by now.  If you haven't, don't sweat it.  Not having picked up on the subtle hints doesn't make you less worthy of being a member of the human race.  The underlying meaning of this piece is "Just say no to crack cocaine.  Or to Political Blondes."  They're just as addictive, you know.
 So here it is in its entirety.  Psychobabble VI.c.  Psychobabble VI was brought to you today by the letter 'C' and, of course, the number '6'.  Tune in next week when Bullwinkle says "Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my ass," to which Rocky replies, "Again?"
ARGGGHHHH!!!