Leave it to a therapist to make you want to see a therapist

My father called and was worried I'd become an alcoholic in the last week. His scare tactics fell on deaf ears as I have little in common with the drunks who were probably bipolar with post traumatic stress disorder and other problems when they were his clients in the therapy obsessed '70s.
"Oh, you've got one very important thing in common." 'ol dad chortles, because he's so cleverly set the trap and sprung it on me. I've walked right into the devious psychological pit he has so diabolically dug!
"Wha? I do? What do you mean?"
I'm flabbergasted as he lurches into his routine like a tired old stripper on a worn stage, gripping a greasy pole, completely ignoring that I'm more interested in the broke hobo crying in his drink next to me than the worn and saggy flesh under the threadbare nylon nighty.
"You're drinking...and they're drinking."

Wow, I'm just blown away at how perceptive this man is. What an analogy! They were drunk, divorced, suicidal and weeping on his leather couch, and I amuse myself with a post about drinking that may or may not be true. Boy, that framed diploma on the wall is like a key to my very soul. Made a living getting people to talk about themselves? Really? Could read people like an open book, I'll bet. Sure. My worries just tumble away every time he calls. I feel refreshed and rejuvenated! And I specifically wrote that these tales are for entertainment purposes only...not as a way to accumulate third hand anecdotes to compare me with the fucking mentally ill. Christ, I'll eat my hat if every one of his patients isn't a raging drunk right now...or dead by self-inflicted gunshot wound to the skull. Why don't you buy me a pack of gum and show me how to chew it? Every time I bury the hatchet he digs it up and stabs me in the back saying it's for my own good. God, I hope someone laughs about this one day.

I gotta have a stiff drink.