As you know, I have a history of mental problems.

I learned that by reading newspapers after my arrest. I theretofore had been fairly certain that I had a pretty good knowledge of my own life experiences, but apparently my mental problems had escaped my notice. So I was pleased that the papers were able to advance my understanding of my own life.

According to my accounting, which, I suppose, might be in error, considering that I do have this secret history of mental problems, my total, lifetime interaction with any representative of the mental health field clocks in at two hours and forty-five minutes.

I suppose, strictly speaking, that that would constitute a “history.” So I think I would probably lose any lawsuit. You know how journalists are. They’re real slippery that way.

I was once locked in a straitjacket for forty-five minutes while speaking to a grief counselor after my father’s death. She referred me to an autism specialist who spent two hours administering an intelligence test while I disrobed and smeared my own feces all over his office. So two hours plus forty-five minutes equals 2.75 hours.

Everyone’s a comedian, as they say. Everyone’s a psychologist, too. Madame Prosecutor helpfully informed the court that I labored under the crushing weight of non-bizarre delusions, while my attorney pitched in with his determination that I perseverate and have delusions of grandeur in my belief that the president is free to attend whatever stand-up comedy show he might wish to attend. It’s a free country.

You know how sometimes when you’re talking to your attorney after being indicted for some offense? And you’ll kind of sheepishly look at your shoes and maybe twirl a lock of hair around your finger and ask permission to –oh, I don’t know– participate in your own fucking defense? I said to him, “I’m somehow a ledger entry on the Secret Service’s books. I find it highly implausible that one Secret Service protectee could perceive a threat lodged by another Secret Service protectee. The jury’s gonna want to know precisely what, pray tell, a comedian might be talking about that might prompt such a legal designation.”

He looked at me square in the eye and said, “You need to take advantage of all available mental health services.”

And I said to him, “Well I think you need to take advantage of all available credit hours in the law school industry, is what I think.”

I guarantee you that fully seventy-five percent of our conferring was occupied with his musings on topics completely outside his represented field of expertise, like his various psychological theories that might account for the facts of the case.

Merely because of my attorney’s total, blinding incompetence do I completely ignore that idiot conviction secured by that idiot jurisdiction which employs idiots who don’t know when to stand or sit, who have to be reminded by the court to file paperwork on time, who can’t perform basic functions like calculating a sentencing guideline, and who pontificate endlessly upon matters foreign to their advertised fields of expertise, all while completely ignoring their clients’ contributions.

And I know what the Public Defenders Office would say: “We weren’t equipped to handle a case like this.”

You’re not equipped to listen to the client as he attempts to help you defend him? Does that require special training? Is that some sort of sub-specialty? Is that covered in some weekend seminar that you attend after you graduate law school so that you can put the final touches on your criminal defense training?

I certainly hope that that idiot jurisdiction has quietly typed up whatever papers to make that unfortunate bit of idiocy go away quietly, right into the circular file that is the Greatest Hits of the United States Government.

I won’t even bother with filing paperwork with that entity’s “legal system” to appeal that conviction. Hands down, without a doubt, I would get a retrial or an appeal or whatever. And I’d sneak my jurisdiction killer of a compressor into court, and I’d wonder aloud to the jury about this piece of paper I’d gotten through the advanced, warp-drive technology of the law profession known as “discovery,” a piece of paper which details my odd relationship with the Secret Service.

And that idiot case would go bye bye in five minutes, which it should have from the start if I had wisened up and fired that idiot and handled my own defense. I’d rather have a fool for a client than a fool for an attorney.

So I certainly hope that everyone involved in that little “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” moment over at that idiot jurisdiction have nodded and sucked their teeth and waved their magic wands and put a bow on everything and sealed it with a kiss and then discreetly placed it all into the bottom of the trash can and covered it up with some used Kleenex tissues so that no one goes rummaging around and finds that unfortunate episode of total United States incompetence. Gotta defend the integrity of the legal system, you know. Don’t do it for me, do it for yourselves.

I’m sorry; was I off on some jag about my lawyer again? Will he forever be my whipping boy? Maybe I perseverate. Maybe he’s right after all. Maybe I ruminate about having to seize control of my own defense and conduct it by text messaging myself during pretrial release. But don’t mind me; I’m off having my non-bizarre delusions.

Let’s say that I spent a total of a hundred hours conducting my show by way of text messaging myself during pretrial release. Since I was just delusional in thinking that the NSA intercepts communications, especially the communications of comedians who possess information which terminates the federal government, does that hundred hours count toward my history of mental problems? I would argue yes. So let’s peg my history of mental problems at 102.75 hours.

And since we’ve decided to open up this accounting, let’s go ahead and add the time I spent performing for my law enforcement audience in my living room with my feet up on the desk while eating pistachio nuts. It’s not like I’ve been professionally trained in detecting surveillance operations or anything. It’s not like I would find out that my house was under twenty-four-hour video and audio surveillance.

So let’s say I spent a hundred hours in rap sessions with my law enforcement audience in my living room. That bumps our total up to 202.75 hours of pure, unadulterated, commercial-grade insanity. That’s more like it. That’s the kind of “history of mental problems” I’d like to see. I demand nothing less.

And I like to engage in a full-spectrum brand of insanity. I will sometimes sit quietly for fifteen or thirty minutes thinking, perhaps, about the fractal design of a maple leaf. Did you know that if you zoom in repeatedly on a fractal solid, there are always more and increasingly smaller jagged edges? And since these smaller and smaller jagged ridges along a seemingly smooth edge all have a measurable length, did you know that the measurement of the perimeter of a maple leaf is infinite? But how could that be? If the perimeter of a solid were infinite, then the mass contained within that perimeter would also be infinite. We don’t have maple leaves of infinite mass, so how could that be? It is a conundrum. Sometimes you’ll have to think more than five minutes about a thing. If the fractal solid that is a maple leaf contains infinite information yet contains limited mass, might this disparity have implications for, say, space travel? Or teleportation? Might matter one day be transported long distances by encapsulating it within a fractal informational envelope?

Or is that kooky? Let’s go ahead and add the two minutes it took me to write that previous paragraph to my history of mental problems. I’m now clocking in at, wait for it, 202.78 hours’ worth of a history of mental problems.

All because I can sit quietly and think about things and not jump around and hoot and holler all the time.

That’s my main malfunction in this world.

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