An election season come and gone! That tumultuous time when heroes are made and the losers are written off as villains. Elections are good for selling newspapers! Time for a story with your friendly neighborhood Duckman!
I once tried to run for president. Not really, but I once released an album called “Duckman for Presidente.” I’m no Mr. Ducky goes to Washington!
Politics and mental health go hand in hand. I know of a few nervous breakdowns caused by elections. Mental health is one of those hot-button topics used to break down or build up a candidate’s competency. Running for office means a person’s mental health background is often thoroughly explored and criticized. Questions involving mental health are brought up to determine if an individual is fit for office:
— Does so-and-so suffer from drug addiction?
— Has he ever sought treatment for any disorders?
— Will she get depressed under the pressures of office?
— Can he remember his last name?
— Do they take medications that could cause inability to best represent the people?
Wrong or right, these types of questions do get brought up into the social discourse when an individual tosses their hat into the political arena.
Mental health is a touchy subject. Most of us have a loved one or family member who suffers from mental illness. Who doesn’t suffer from anxiety? Just turn on the news and give yourself a dose of depression! I myself have had battles with mental health. On multiple occasions, I sought treatment at professional facilities. Ten years ago, I spent some time in a facility in the Smokey Mountains. This facility is the setting for this next Duck Tale about a future presidential candidate and a stink bomb prank that went wrong.
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Over the years, I have been hurt a lot. I tried to be a professional wrestler. I jumped off of stages and cracked my ankles trying to skateboard. I crashed cars and was run over while riding my bicycle six different times. For all of these injuries, I was prescribed a wide array of pain killers. I became addicted to said pain killers and started abusing them.
After a while, I could not function. I needed help. Fortunately, I had a family member who worked at a treatment facility in the Smokey Mountains. This facility catered to patients working for the federal Department of Transportation and others with professional licenses. A certain professional wrestling company was known for sending their wrestlers there. Drunken airline pilots and pill-stealing pharmacists with criminal cases for forging prescriptions were sent to this rehab. The majority of the people there worked for the railroads or were truck drivers. People from all walks of life. There was even a person there who later in life would become a candidate for president.
The facility was known for its high success rate among patients. There was a mixture of patients being treated for mental illness and those battling addiction. Not everyone was a dope fiend or an alcoholic.
I was happy for the opportunity to go there. The judge in my driving under the influence case was also happy about me going to treatment. The choices offered were rehab or go on vacation to the penitentiary.
My time in this facility wasn’t very exciting. Nothing out of “One flew over the Cuckoos Nest,” I interacted with the wide cast of characters staying there. We mostly sat in groups where we discussed our issues or took walks around the mountains.
The staff was very strict. They had to be when dealing with patients. Many of the important people who were mandated to these facilities chafed at the structure. These people simply did not like to be told what to do. Sitting in our rooms was not an option. We weren’t allowed to sleep all day. Food was only available when they served it, not on demand. One could not check in and out like it was a motel; nor could we have guests. No cats, either! I missed my gatos! At one point we were able to order pizzas on the weekends, but some bozo ruined this by having “special mushroom” toppings smuggled onto his pie.
It’s hard to deal with people, especially when those people have clout.
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This is where the former presidential candidate comes in. This scion of a prominent political family had arrived recently and was driving the staff and the patients up the walls with his flinging of orders and disruption of an already chaotic system. He thought he was standing up “for the men,” but he was just manipulating everyone in this fragile ecosystem of maniac minds.
This person can’t be named for confidential reasons. (We will get sued.) Let’s call him “George” for this tale.
During this last election, George was a candidate for president of the United States but dropped out before the race was settled. He was on the ballots of some states but not considered a major factor.
This story takes place long before George’s political career. At this time in his life, he was part of the private sector.
On the particular day of this tale, I was skipping my morning schedule of classes. I felt I had learned enough. I could teach the courses verbatim.
I had been ordered to gain weight by the medical staff. Since I was hungry, I set off to raid the pantry of peanut butter sandwiches. On my way to the kitchen, I walked through the administrative building, and there stood George looking moon-eyed and confused. I immediately recognized the man’s familial features.
“One of his kids is here?” I thought to myself
“What are you doing here? You’re the president’s son,” I blurted.
He immediately straightened up and went into “public mode” and held out his hand to shake mine.
“How are you, sir. I’m, uhhh, (George). I’m here to check in,” he said, completely oblivious to the fact that I did not work there. I sure acted like I did!
I grasped his hand and looked at his face. He wasn’t the president’s son, I realized.
“Wait … you’re not the president’s son,” I said to him.
My comment caused him to crack a smile. It also broke his confidence.
“No, I’m not!” he replied. “I don’t like to talk about my family.”
He looked at my chest for some sort of nametag or badge to mark me as a professional. All he found was a series of stains from cigarette ashes and mustard.
“I don’t expect any special privileges because of who I am,” he said.
He tried to make eye contact. Politicians do that; it’s how they work their mysterious powers. My red-eyed glare left me unaffected (even in rehab I had some hashish)
“I thought you told TIME magazine you had been sober since the ’80’s,” I replied.
This caused him to sputter and his voice to gain an unnatural screech. He released my hand and looked around for management.
“What? I have been sober since 1984!” he said. “TIME magazine? I’m not here for drugs. My wife wants me to see your psychiatrist. She says I have impulse control. Who do I speak to about checking in?”
At this point, an administrative person walked in and interrupted our conversation. I let him take over and made my exit. I wasn’t supposed to be in that hallway anyway. I walked out. Time for Duckman to steal some cookies and to spend a few hours smoking cigarettes outside of the gym!
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I didn’t see George much over the next few days. He was new to the facility and had to go through the usual newbie introductions (which he fought with all of his power). This kept us separated, for the most part, as I was a veteran patient by that point and had figured out how to circumvent all of the rules.
During this period of my stay, I had been feuding with one particular counselor. He kept trying to put me in groups that had nothing to do with anything that I do. We were both self-important asses. I had been brainstorming ideas for a prank to play on this enemy of mine. The opportunity presented itself in the form of a stink bomb engineered by one of the railroad mechanics.
One afternoon, the mechanic and I met in a hallway and we spoke in whispered voices. He handed me the contraption and explained how it worked. George walked in and saw the mechanic handing me the device. His eyes lit up.
“Are we in for a prank, boys?” George asked with a childish delight.
I slyly looked at him. A thought crept into my crooked little head. The plan had originally been to set off the smelly device in the cafeteria.
Change of plan, mateys!
I was going to have George put it in the office of the counselor I despised. That office happened to be right in front of us with an open door! Let the rich, bossy man take the blame! He couldn’t get in trouble! If I’m kicked out for misbehavior, I’m headed for prison!
“Yes!” I hissed, handing him the stink bomb. “George! You can do it! Do it for the men!”
George clutched the contraption to his chest in excitement. He had been granted a mission: For the men! All George ever wanted was acceptance from the other boys. I clapped him on the back and pushed him toward the counselor’s office. As George walked away, I realized that I hadn’t explained to him how to operate the stink bomb!
Around the corner came the owner of the office. He wasn’t just a counselor, as he had recently taken over the position of vice president of the entire company. He was an important person in the rehab.
The mechanic’s eyes were bugging out at this point. He knew we were caught and was ready to abandon ship. He looked at me and then the counselor and then ran down the hallway. He didn’t want anything to do with this madness.
“Where is he going so fast?” the counselor asked.
“Pudding,” I said, eyeing the door and hoping George didn’t decide to come out at this moment.
“Pudding?” he asked suspiciously.
“The cafeteria has good pudding on Wednesday,” I replied. “It helps keep the bowels regular. Anyways, have a nice day! I’m late for my group, sir!”
The counselor was not so easily fooled. He knew what was up!
“Wait! Come here, Brian,” he said, crooking his finger and gesturing for me to wait.
He looked me over with his eyes, stopping at the remains of a peanut butter sandwich I clutched in my hand. He pointed at the sandwich and glared.
“No food outside of the cafeteria!” he exclaimed.
I nodded my head furiously and shoved the remains of the sandwich into my mouth.
“Yes-sir,” I mumbled around a mouthful of bread.
At this point, a loud yell came from the office. George ran out, waving his arms frantically.
“I set it off early,” he yelled as the stink fumes drifted off of him.
George and I looked at each other, and we both took off in a run at full speed, leaving the stunned counselor standing there.
**************
After a few minutes of ducking and dodging around the maze of the facility at full speed, we became convinced we had gotten away. We stopped, huffing and puffing. George could barely breathe, he was laughing so hard. I could barely breathe because I smoke too much.
“We did it,” George said as he continued to giggle. “I haven’t had this much fun in years! Thank you, Duckman!”
I sighed. What more could I say? Who sees a trip to rehab as a vacation?
George smoothed things over with the administration about the prank Neither of us received any punishment. No one had gotten hurt.
The contraption had emptied it’s contents of noxious liquid onto George’s expensive, hand-embroidered shirt. He was the only person who stunk from the effects of the bomb. The counselor’s office remained unharmed!
I told everyone George had pooped his pants!
After a few more days, the facility sent me home. I graduated with full honors!
I don’t have to drink or take pills today! Duckman is a model citizen!
George was later kicked out of the facility for leading “the men” on a strike over the quality of the food. He eventually ran for president.
This is a story full of fun and jokes but mental health is a serious issue. Remember, if you or a loved one suffers from mental health issues, there is help.
Thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next Duck Tale.
Same ducking time! Same ducking place!
Brian Beshears, an Urbana resident, will rap for food! He can be reached at quackatron@gmail.com.