OKAY, SO TODAY… is a journal in which I share an important event from my day, with some exaggeration, embellishment, flights of fancy, and fibs. Because, as the old saying goes “Truth is stranger than fiction… but it’s not as funny.”
Okay, so this entry is a follow-up to the March 31, 2021: OKAY, SO TODAY I AM REALLY MAD AT MY DOG epic. If you haven’t read that previous essay, then this one will be utterly confounding to you. If you have, then this one will merely be annoyingly confusing. You will need the special password revealed at the end of that previously unrewarding slog to unlock this episode (not really).
OKAY, SO TODAY I WAS ROUSTED FROM MY SLEEP BY THE COPS. And while simply being rousted from your sleep is unpleasant enough, somehow, when the police are involved, it raises the rousting to a whole other level of suck. It’s like suck with guns.
Okay, so when “Officer One” and “Officer Two” (not their real names) banged on my door at 6am (why can’t they work 9 to 5 like everyone else?), it was to tell me that the Mercer Island Police Department had been “deluged with calls” from anonymous tipsters warning that there was a possibly deranged would-be killer who had likely accumulated an enormous cache of weapons and who believed that his dog was verbally commanding him to kill. I told them they’d come to the right place and invited them in.
Okay, so my first reaction was to be thrilled, since this meant that someone out there in “not in here” land must be reading this nonsense, and in significant enough numbers to constitute a “deluge.” My second reaction was that the way the two cops were fingering their guns, they were either really concerned about my possibly malign intentions, or else this was some sort of bizarre firearm foreplay. The fidgety lawmen asked if I considered myself a “would-be killer”? I told them I fancied myself as more of a “wannabe killer.”
Okay, so “Cop Two” then noticed my real-life dog, “Pseudonym” (not his real name), lying on the floor nearby and asked if that was my dog. I cracked under the pressure of his blistering interrogation and blurted out, “Yeah.” Both Cops stared at my dog for the longest time, then “Cop Two” asked, “So, why isn’t he talking to us?” I said, “Because he knows his rights.”
Okay, so if two cops roust you in the pre-dawn hours because they suspect you might be a serial killer, be aware that you will not get points for “trying to be clever.” “Cop One” finally admitted the reason they had come a’callin’ was that apparently I had written in my “computer diary“ (oh, god, is that what this is?) that I had amassed, and was in possession of, a significant stockpile of weapons. I felt the need to set him straight that what I had said on my “computer diary” (not loving that phrase) was that I had amassed a significant stockpile of weapons, but that I had donated them to a local charity, only to steal them back from the charity, before finally returning them to charity the next day, which meant that I was not currently in possession of a significant stockpile of weapons.
Okay, so at this point, I felt the need to confess to them that sometimes, on my “computer diary” (definitely not loving it), I might play a little fast and loose with the truth. That I might be prone to small fits of exaggeration. I might embellish. Fictionalize. I could have continued, but my thesaurus was in the next room.
Okay, so both lawmen now just stared with that sort of glazed-over look people get when you try to explain the Theory of Relativity to them… in Hindi. So, I suggested a look at my “computer diary” (okay, maybe it’s not that bad) might clear things up for them. But, as I started to write down the URL (www.tyking.com), the Keystone couple simply crossed to my desk and “Cop Two” plopped down in the chair in front of my monitor.
Okay, so I had hoped they would go back to the station to check my “computer diary” (nope, hating it again) to help boost my “unique visitors” total, but I realized that the ones with the guns get to go online wherever they like. So, I typed in the info for my website (www.tyking.com) for them and sat on a nearby orgypile of Pillow Pets to wait.
Okay, so what followed was the most excruciating fifteen minutes of my life as “Cop Two” slowly scrolled through my posts, occasionally grunting and making notes on his little cop pad, but never cracking a smile.
Okay, so all this time, his partner was squatting a few feet in front of me to match my seated sightline, watching me as if he thought I might make a break for it at any moment. He also had a tiny bit of a smile at the thought that he just might get to finally shoot a fleeing suspect. I made it a point to not do anything that could be misinterpreted as “fleeing.”
Okay, so “Cop Two” at long last got to the end. He clicked on the “Kitty” button at the top and finally allowed a tiny bit of a twinkle at the image there (okay, “Thing Two” was a cat person). “Cop One” asked what he thought. “Cop Two” suggested it would be best for his partner in crime-fighting to see for himself and the two changed places. Apparently, Mercer Island is not a hotbed of criminal activity requiring available police to respond at that hour of the morning.
Okay, so what followed next was the most excruciating ten minutes of my life (“Cop One” was a faster reader than his partner). But at least “Cop One” let out an occasional laugh. Each time he did, “Cop Two” would say, “What?” and “Cop One” would say something like “rectal spelunkery“ and “Cop Two” would say, “Yeah, that was a good one”, even though I could tell from his expression that as soon as they got back out to their squad car, he was going to ask his partner to explain it to him.
Okay, so after perhaps an hour of friendly “house call” interrogation and their scouring my computer for evidence of malfeasance on my part, Mercer Island’s finest and fourth finest (I’m not saying which was which) decided that maybe I wasn’t an immediate threat to our little island. I congratulated them on their impressive sleuthing and walked them to the door, where I thanked them for stopping by, adding that my dog said for them to “be careful out there.”
Okay, so I was this close to having them out the door, but I think adding the talking dog thing at the end was a mistake, as they decided to extend their visit a few moments longer. During this bonus together time, they strongly suggested that I make a new entry in my “computer diary” (gag reflex kicking in now) and make clear that I was maybe joking a little bit in my previous entry, entitled “OKAY, SO TODAY I AM REALLY MAD AT MY DOG.” I asked if they really thought it was necessary to say that when I had written that my dead-for-forty-years, talking dog was using a combination of mental telepathy, ventriloquism and an uncannily accurate English accent, along with some tricks he had picked up through enrolling in several internet classes, to make me think that strange voices in my head were commanding me to go out and kill people, and doing so so convincingly that I armed myself with a cache of weapons from Big 5 Sporting Goods that I subsequently donated to charity and then stole back, that I was maybe being a little bit tongue in cheek. The two stone-faced Mercer Island Police Officers said that they really, really thought it was.
Okay, so here I am, at my keyboard, adding an addendum to this essay, which is number four in a series of essays which all end with my admitting that perhaps the preceding is a bit hyper-fictionalized. I guess not everyone makes it to that ending disclaimer.
Okay, so I want to point out that everything that follows is being written under duress. Specifically, the threat of arrest (if “Cop Two” had his way) or the threat of being gunned down with a dozen bullets in the back (“Cop One’s” preference)…
Okay, so the first thing some people want you to know is that I don’t have a talking dog. Never did. Never particularly wanted one. I also don’t have a scrotum-licking dog. Never did. Always kinda wanted one. Even if just for the weekend. In fact, at this point it’s a fair question if I have any sort of dog at all.
Okay, so the next thing I want to get off my chest is that while I did accrue a mighty hoard of weapons, and I did donate them to a charity that worked with at-risk teens, and I did subsequently steal that deadly collection of killing things back, that I never actually returned them the next day.
Okay, so the third thing is the Police Department of Mercer Island, through its duly deputized representatives “One” and “Two”, who are still in my apartment and watching over my shoulder as I type (POS – Police Over Shoulder) would like for me to amend the previous paragraph to say that I never really bought a ton of weapons in the first place. Done.
Okay, so the fourth thing I am confessing is that while I did have a childhood friend named Billy Coder, he never (to the best of my knowledge) had a talking hamster that commanded him to kill. Now, at this point, you might think that it was unnecessary for me to point this last one out. The fact is that you would be outvoted two to one. With the two votes being heavily armed.
Okay, so you might wonder if any of it actually was, really 100% true? And does this mean that at no time did it actually occur that a man stuck his finger in my butt?
Okay, so the fact is that a man did stick his finger in my butt (who would lie about something like that?), and I have actually, really been diagnosed as bi-polar (only an unbalanced person would lie about being… unbalanced, in which case it wouldn’t be a lie).
Okay, so just a heads up that this it is about to take a little bit of a “For All You Know” turn.
Okay, so chances are that if you have ever heard the word “bi-polar”, that it was said or written in close proximity to the words “stockpile” and “guns”, the book title “Catcher in the Rye”, the phrases “off his meds” and “body count”, the sentence “When the police arrived at the killer’s apartment a short time later, they found the body of his mother, who the suspect had apparently killed before going on his deadly spree”, and a mystified neighbor insisting that the person in question was always “quiet and withdrawn.”
Okay, so here’s the “The More You Know” part: psychologists recognize two separate and distinct forms of bi-polar. The first is just called “bi-polar” and it includes the gun-stockpiling, “Catcher in the Rye”-reading, med-going-offing, body-counting, mother-killing, neighbor-mystifying quiet and withdrawn people you often read about or (let’s face it) more likely see in the news. These are bad people and they give a bad name to the people with the other type of bi-polar…
Okay, so there is also a strain of bi-polar called “bi-polar II” or “bi-polar type 2” that is a whole other kettle of crazy. It’s true, you can look it up.
Okay, so the true fact is that I am bi-polar II. The easiest way to describe the difference is to quote from the February 2007 issue of “The American Medical Journal”, which said: “Bi-polar Type 2 individuals are, for all intents and purposes, the Teletubbies of the Nutcase Nation.” By that, I assume the “Journal” article means that we BPT2’s are possibly annoying but really quite harmless, we come in various DayGlo colors, and one out of every four of us is almost definitely gay. Bi-polar II’s are not only afraid of guns, since they make loud noises and can give you serious ouchies, but we also generally find “Catcher in the Rye” to be a tedious, overly-praised tale about a self-possessed whiner that is a real slog to read all the way through, are more likely to be trash-hoarders than gun-stockpilers, and have complicated but sub-lethal relationships with our mothers. When the world starts to close in around regular bi-polars, they make headlines. When the world starts to close in around bi-polar II’s, we make barely audible whimpering noises and take a lot of naps. In fact, we are so harmless that the most popularly prescribed medication for bi-polar II is placebo, (generic name: sugar pills), followed by sugar pills (generic name: placebo), with powerful anti-psychotic drugs way, way down the list.
Okay, so what I’m trying to say is that not only would you not mind a bi-polar II moving into your neighborhood, but you probably wouldn’t even object to your daughter marrying one (unless you’re my in-laws). Because not only do we average about a 40% higher annual income than the general population, but we also insist on calling our elders “ma’am” and “sir”, and we do not believe in sex before marriage. And while we’re on the subject, it is very offensive to us bi-polar II’s to be referred to as “crazies”, “whackjobs”, “nutcases”, “psychos”, “loonies”, “Lindsay Lohan” or “freaks.” These terms are as offensive to us as the phrase “little people” is to midgets. Midgets hate that, as they feel you’re speaking down to them. The fact is that we Bi-Polar II’s prefer the more politically correct term “Seriously Twisted F**ks.”
Okay, so we also hate the clinical term “bi-polar II” because it not only lumps us in with the real nutsoid regular BP’s, but it also makes us sound like an uninspired sequel. In fact, if we had our way, we bi-polar II’s would band together and kill all the regular bi-polars with chainsaws and dental drills.
Okay, so I personally have no criminal record. I have never consumed alcohol, smoked, or taken any drugs (except the colorful assortment of prescription meds I take daily in order to avoid barely audibly whimpering and taking lots of naps). I have also never owned any guns or had any sort of really meaningful conversations with any four-legged creatures. In fact, not only have I never pulled the wings off a fly, but I have been known to fit injured flies with artificial wings I make myself out of saran wrap and toenail clippings before nursing them back to health, feeding them a hot meal and then giving them twenty bucks to tide them over before I send them on their way (even though I know they will probably only spend the money on drugs or fly hookers). And it’s not just me. The truth is that almost every major advancement since 1950 in insect prosthetics is thanks to a Bi-Polar II individual.
Okay, so I guess what I’m trying to say is that while I am bi-polar, it is of the II Type. The “Seriously Twisted Folks” (what did you think “F**ks” meant?) who are the Gallants to the regular bi-polars’ Goofuses. The Glindas to the regular BP’s Westies. The Fauci’s to the regular BP’s Atlases (there’s a reference that won’t survive the week). Although I will admit that some of us could benefit the firm hand of a good editor.
Okay, so the next time you see a BP2 on the street, don’t be afraid to walk right up to us and say “hello.” Maybe shake our hand or engage us in a pleasant conversation. And then, give us all your money, because we will cut a bitch.