Manu Ginobili lay on the chaise in his therapist’s office. The room was almost surreal in its typicality; bookshelves crammed with medical treatises lined the dark-stained walls, and a single window pointed out at a calm city street several blocks below. The therapist, too, was a stereotype; a man with a full head of gray hair, a somewhat rumpled dress-shirt, and round glasses that magnified his eyes to comical proportions.
Manu took a deep breath and began. “I have recurring thoughts and feelings of inferiority. I don’t understand; I’m a well respected international celebrity. I have accomplished many things and have acquired much in the way of material goods.”
“These are common thoughts. We all have such feelings from time to time. Is there any imagery that you associate with these thoughts?”
Manu hesitated. “Well, the feelings are most potent after the nightmares I have. The same kind of thing, every time. It’s my bald spot. It repeatedly appears, often wielding an axe.”
The doctor peered over his glasses, a sneer on his face and his voice malicious. “An axe-wielding bald spot? I have heard many strange things over the long years, but never that. Well, then, I guess the solution is obvious; have a full head of hair, you pussy.”
Manu ceased his staring at the ceiling and turned to face the older man. “What?”
“You feel these things because you are an inferior sub-male pussy! These thoughts of worthlessness are not delusions of a sick mind but accurate appraisals of yourself! What woman would ever want to be with such a deformed and effeminate person? Take a look at me!”
The therapist stood up behind his desk, his muscles suddenly bulging from his arms and chest, slightly ripping his shirt. “Even in my advanced age I am a prime specimen of manhood! I am desired by every woman who glances at my rippling forearms and thick head of hair! I am widely respected in my profession! Your supposed accomplishments are not even your own. The teammates you erroneously considered friends carried you every step of the way, even as they despised you in your weakness. And not only that: the Falkland Islands are and forever will be British!”
Manu’s eyes shot open. He saw the outline of his cat, Cinnamon Bun, curled up serenely at his feet, seemingly uncaring of the distress of its owner’s mind.
“Man, I really gotta see a therapist about these dreams.”