By Scott Sullivan
Editor
Psycho
Great news on the crazy front. A new website aims to share knowledge and lead discussions about psychopathy, a disorder characterized by fearlessness, difficulty inhibiting behaviors plus severe lack of empathy and remorse.
We all know psychopaths. Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, the Boston Strangler, Jack the Ripper … and those are just mass murderers. Don’t get me started on politicians.
Psychopathy afflicts an estimated one in 100 people, similar to autism, and is twice as common as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and anorexia. But unlike those, its “severe emotional detachment” is easily concealed. You might not know that charming guy or gal is one till you’re dead or have voted for them.
PSYCHOPATHY IS co-founders Abigail Marsh and Lisa Michael say early detection and treatment is a better investment than costly long-term incarceration. Roughly a quarter of prison inmates are psychos, the women say.
Abnormal psychology classes for me were like looking in a mirror. Mania? Depression? Paranoia? Check, check, check … I was a Renaissance Man of Madness.
Am I a psychopath too? I decided to take a test. It asked me to check “Not me,” “This describes me somewhat” or “This is definitely me” in response to these descriptions:
- I do what I want, when I want, the moment the impulse strikes me, regardless of what others want.
- If something goes wrong or turns out badly, it’s not my fault.
- I have no problem or concern for lying to get what I want.
- Every person for themselves; I don’t see the point in feeling sorry for other people and have no desire to help others.
- I don’t see the point in taking on responsibilities of any kind — they just weigh you down.
My wife was incredulous. “You had to take a test to prove you’re a psychopath?” she wondered.
“I’ve gotta be me,” I said. “I need acceptance, not condemnation. That way I can exploit you even more.”
She called the police. “My husband,” she said, “is a psychopath,”
“Yeah?” said the woman dispatcher. “Take a number.”
“But these people are dangerous …”
“Your husband?” the dispatcher asked. “Yeah, like Minnie Mouse.”
“How do you know my husband?”
“Are you saying I’m a wimp?” I broke in. “That’s what Janet Leigh thought about Norman Bates in the movie ‘Psycho.’”
“Bates was a schizo, not a psychopath,” said the dispatcher.
“What’s wrong with multi-tasking?” I asked. “You ever try to run a business?
“Great job, by the way,” I went on, “diagnosing a made-up character. You’re as bad as TV and radio shrinks who counsel callers they’ve never met. How do I know they’re not all trolls?”
“Passive-aggressive too?” she deduced.
“You sound cute,” I said. “How’d you like to come take a shower?”
“I’m cutting out on this call,” my wife said and jumped on another line.
Soon the cops came. “I’m not me,” I told them. “You need Tony Perkins.”
“He’s been dead for 32 years,” said the Chief.
“And you’ve still not solved it?”
“We understand you’re a psycho, schizo, manic, depressive, obsessive -compulsive … what am I leaving out?”
“Heartbreak of psoriasis?” I suggested.
“He just confessed,” the Chief said.
“I demand a lawyer.”
In walked Ken Jennings.
“You’re not a lawyer,” I said. “You’re a game show host.”
“Release him,” said Ken. “This is Double Jeopardy.”
“Stupid Bill of Rights,” said the Chief.
“It’s the Constitutional Amendment that forbids being tried for the same crime twice,” Ken said
“What’s the Fifth?” I asked. We went out to get one.
“Good evening,” the liquor store owner said.
“Alfred Hitchcock!” I said.
“It’s my cameo,” said the director.
“But you’ve been dead 44 years.”
“Most appropriate,” Hitch answered.
“Wait,” Ken turned to me. “You’re a shizo and a psycho. How do I know you didn’t kill Hitchcock, like Norman Bates did his mother, and are pretending to be both people?”
“Answer form, please,” I reminded him.
“It’s the round of ‘Jeopardy’ after Double,” Ken said as he called back the Chief. “This is Final. Arrest him for multiple personality disorder.”
“I need understanding, not jail,” I told the Chief.
“Here’s what you need,” he said, putting on his kicking shoes. Thump! I flew 40 yards end over end and then split the uprights.
“He’s a Kansas City Chief,” Ken said.
