Thrash Maxim staggered out of the building, trying to clutch at his heart. His arms, perpetually kept six inches from his body by his bulky lateral muscles, hobbled by his chunky biceps and popeye forearms, couldn't bend quite enough to reach his chest, and so he flailed like a youthful author reaching for a metaphorical butterfly.
"I'm having a gawdamn heart attack," yelled Thrash, putting his back to the building and sliding, defeated, to the ground.
"You are not, you big baby," said the last person he wanted to hear from. "And if you were, it would serve you right." Thrash looked up at his wife, automatically noting her luxuriant red hair, her gorgeous figure, and of course the 38 DD rack that had ruined her Olympic swimming career.
"You!" Thrash screamed. "You did this to me!"
"Please, Thrash, you're making a scene," his wife sighed, but Thrash was still feebly pawing toward his pectoral muscles and sobbing loudly. A devilish light came into Mrs. Maxim's eyes. "Besides, a tantrum is the kind of thing a GAY man might do."
That remark hit home, Mrs. Maxim noted, as she helped Thrash get to his feet. She led her sobbing husband to the truck, and he climbed up the ladder into the cab, but he didn't want to drive. The ride home was quiet, as Thrash sulked on the passenger side of his monster truck. Therapy had been awful today. He relived the terrible exchange with the other Dr. Phil, not to be confused with the one on Oprah.
The other Dr. Phil had gotten right to the point.
"Thrash, I know the court ordered you to attend family counseling, but you can make this really work for you," the other Dr. Phil said kindly. "It will make you a better and happier person, as well as cutting down on the self-destructive episodes."
"What gawdamn episodes?!" Thrash thundered.
"Well, we're not here to gather up stones to throw at you, Thrash. We're here to help you. But if you aren't clear on what I mean by a βself-destructive episode,' I can define that in your terms."
"Gawdamnit," said Thrash defiantly. "Name one fuckin βepisode,' you French surrender monkey."
"Now, now, Thrash, my family is from Belgium," said the other Dr. Phil benevolently. He consulted his notes. "But let's see . . . . Do you remember when you crashed your monster truck into a parked State patrol car because those lesbian hitchhikers were fighting over who would swallow the jizz from your fully engorged manhood?"
"Yeah."
"And do you recall when you sportfucked the babysitter and her mother and another lesbian hitchhiker on the night you promised your wife you would clean out those rain gutters?"
"Yeah."
"And these ongoing bouts of sister-fucking?"
"Hey, she came on to me, buddy."
"And the time you arranged for your wife to engage in a triple-cock blowout with an Asian porn star, a famous African American football player, and the Pakistani stock clerk from your office while you filmed it secretly from another room?"
"Yeah, that was cool."
"No, Thrash, it was not cool. It's a desperate plea for help. These things are all the result of your latent homosexuality."
For a moment after the other Dr. Phil had said that, Thrash felt the fabric of his world strain and begin to tear. His wife put a sympathetic hand on his massive forearm, and Thrash shook it off. Realizing a moment later that pushing a woman away might be construed as something a gay man might do, Thrash hastily grabbed his wife's hand and put it back on his forearm, right over his naked lady tattoo.
"Wait a gawdamn fucking minute, completely different from the guy on Oprah Dr. Phil," Thrash said rebelliously. "Wait a gawdamn minute." Thrash took a breath as the other Dr. Phil looked at him charitably. Thrash gathered his thoughts into a tidy tirade:
"I am SO not gay. I fuck the women with enormous boobs. I fuck the women with great asses and legs that go all the way up. Black ones, white ones. Young ones. Other young ones. I fuck all the tight, wet, firm, moist, secure, drenched, constricted, damp, narrow, soggy, snug, vagina there is to be fucked. Twin lesbian hitchhiking cheerleaders? Fucked βem. 38-24-32 bipolar slut on a manic high? Twice, and tagged teamed her another time with a friend before she got back on her meds!"
The other Dr. Phil listened, and in the silence Thrash grew desperate.
"And about the whole sister-fucking deal, since some people seem to have issues with that," Thrash said, looking sideways at his wife. "She came on to me. Even if I had started it, which I didn't, what could be more manly than fucking forbidden fruit?"