I've just come back from seeing my psychiatrist.  I really didn't need to go - I could have easily canceled my appointment had I wanted to - but my cat, Jester, always gets a bit provoked with me when I do.  It's not so much that he resents going to the trouble of making the appointment on my behalf, only to have me cancel it - he simply likes to get me out of the house for any reason he can just so he can read my email, drink my beer, and engage in mutually satisfying carpet staining with that Siamese he met last year in Yahoo chat.  So I went ahead and kept the appointment - just to brighten his day a bit.  I do intend to cancel the electroshock treatments he scheduled me for next week, however, lest he ends up spoiled.

     Today's session went well.  Just one of those little tune-ups I've been told I should have twice a year or every 50,000 neuron losses.  Nothing to it, really, once my doctor found a clean piece of paper and a working pen to take notes with and had convinced his Great Dane that I needed to use the couch more than she did. 
     Not that everything went so smoothly in the fifteen minutes we had left to converse....

     "So, Dan - what's on your mind?"
     Corn on the cob.
     "Corn on the cob?"
     Yeah.  What's the deal with corn on the cob?  When I go to a restaurant and order beans, they never bring me out beans on a plant and say, 'Here - try to avoid the stem and leaves.'  When my father-in-law fixes us burgers on his grill, he never passes out little plastic handles with pointy metal tips and says, 'Just stick these in the soft part of the hooves there and eat around them.'  Why should corn be any different?  Why is corn granted special privileges and rights and allowed to remain attached to its parent cob all the way to our plates when countless tomatoes are being ripped from the field and skinned and cooked and mashed and bottled and canned?  Was corn grown for man or was man grown for corn?  That's what I want to know! 
     "Go on."
     Corn on the cob is the only food I can think of that you buy, you cook, you eat, and when you're done, 90% of it remains there on your plate.  Exactly what is going on here?!  You mean to tell me farmers are running a racket like this and they're still unable to break even?!  Come on!
     I don't know about you, but whenever I eat out, I always ask for a doggie bag - just for the cobs.  I paid for 'em, I'm taking 'em, damn it!  And I'll take the cobs of those people over there, too, thank you very much - just to make up for all those years I didn't know any better and left my own behind.
     Not that I eat 'em when I get 'em home.  That would be gross and disgusting.  And I think it's how you get that disease you see on all those TV commercials.  You know - that affliction which compels people with dentures to want to eat nothing but corn on the cob?  Well, corn on the cob and apples.  I'm still waiting for Oliver Stone to explain that particular vegetable-fruit conspiracy.  Personally, I wouldn't be surprised if a few dirty little legumes were in on it, too.
     Anyway, once I get those used cobs home, I carefully seal 'em in drip-proof Tupperware caskets and bury 'em with all the others.  Just for the good of humanity.
     "No more nightmares about the vinegarroons chasing you?"
     ACK!  There's one right behind you!!

     So, as I say, it went pretty well, considering we had a whole fifteen minutes to talk before the first vinegarroon appeared.  That didn't leave much time for my doctor to read me his report, and he was kind of hard to hear over my screams and all, but as near as I can tell, I'm much better than I used to be.  My Id has just about slipped back into place, my family's efforts to deflate my painfully enlarged Ego have been mostly successful, and my Superego continues to enjoy a pleasant retirement in Florida.
     In fact, the only area of my mind that the doctor seemed to have concerns about was my swelling Seinfeld.  I'd not heard of this area before, but apparently it's co-equal with the other three and is responsible for much of the discontent among underemployed males like myself by constantly prompting us to ask and wonder "What's the deal with...?" 
     Thank goodness it's easy to treat.  I just have to remember to keep my mouth shut when others are present and drink myself into unconsciousness when alone. 
     The doctor even said he didn't want to see me again for another ten years, at which point he thought it'd be a good idea to surgically remove my Kramer before I hurt myself or someone I loved.
     At least that's what I thought he said.  Between the rapidly multiplying vinegarroons in his office and those emergency shots of tequila administered by his nurse, I admit that I may have missed something.
     Thank goodness I have ten years to work up the courage to find out for sure!  
 

     Last night I had dinner with my wife and our neighbors, John and Rebecca.  As often happens on such occasions, we got into a deep philosophical discussion.  
     Last night's discussion sought to answer a question that has long plagued the mind of man.  Unable to come to any consensus solution on our own, I promised all present that I would allow YOU, the reader, to decide the issue for us.  Sure, we could have just consulted a book, flagged down a policeman, or tossed a coin, but we happen to be true believers in democracy.  We don't care what the right answer might be - we want to abide by the most popular regardless of how harshly that killjoy called history may judge us. 
     Hence the following poll.  Thanks ahead of time for helping us to live funner, better lives by sharing your fine taste, knowledge, and lucky guesses!