South-Parkitis Syndrome

It has been almost six years since my eyes and ears were first exposed to the agent that leads to the dreaded South-Parkitis Syndrome. At first, a person inflicted with South-Parkitis Syndrome may not even realize that they are suffering from the disease. That was the case in my situation. It didn't strike me as abnormal that, as a thirty year old man, I had suddenly reverted to my childhood habit of begging my mother for the things I desired.
"But Maaaaoooom," I'd squeal in a high pitched tone, "I want your homemade chicken pot pie."
"And you think that talking to me as if you were eight is going to help that?" she'd respond before hanging up on me.
Meanwhile, several of my coworkers became concerned when I developed a tendency of muttering "sweet" any time something happened that pleased me. Likewise, my bosses complained that it was un-professional of me to grumble "weak" or "lame!" whenever I was told to complete a task that I didn't feel like doing.
"Dammit John, if you don't like the work required of you, than just quit. Otherwise, if your griping continues, we may be forced to let you go."
I believe that "eat penguin shit you ass-spelunker" was my exact response. Their response was to have me escorted from the building by two of my larger coworkers.
"Screw you guys, I'm going home!" I shouted before getting into my car.
After confessing to my wife the company's reason for firing me, she insisted that I be analyzed by a shrink. I figured it was probably in my best interest to do what she wanted considering I had just lost my job, and she seemed pretty agitated.
The next week, comfortably seated in a large red sofa, I met with Dr. Kandel for the first time. The walls of his office were covered in plaques celebrating the Dr.'s various achievements during both his time at college and during his career. On the table separating us sat a box of tissues and a picture of the doctors family. The first thing I noticed about Dr. Kandel was that he was wearing eighty dollar jeans and a shirt that I'm pretty sure cost almost double that. Now I know why my appointment costs $100 per hour, I thought to myself. Dr. Kandel scratched at his kinky, coiled hair before speaking.
"First of all, you need to know that anything you say here today, unless I deem it life threatening to either you or somebody else, is confidential. Now, with that in mind, I have read your file, and I think I need to ask you a question before we continue. Do you participate in the recreational use of any illegal drugs?"
Staring at Dr. Kandel's rather plump stomach, I considered telling the Doc that he looked like the one who had been suffering from the munchies. Hey fatso, why the wide stomach? Too many Cheese It and Budweiser binges during your years at school? However, I decided against saying anything that could be deemed as confrontational.
"Of course not. Drugs are bad, Mm-Kay?" I responded.
"Why did you add Mm-Kay to the end of that sentence?" questioned my shrink.
"Well spank my ass and call me Charlie" I responded. Dr. Kandel's eyebrows rose far above his eye sockets.
"John, I'm not sure that qualifies as a reasonable reply to my question." I looked into his brown eyes for a brief moment before zoning out and staring at the fuzzy, blue carpet below us.
"John, you need to interact with me. After all, you're paying me a substantial sum of money to be here." His agitation beginning to show through, I listened to the tapping of the doctor's pen rapidly bouncing against the yellow notebook paper he had been writing on.
"Oh. I never should have shoved all those poor animals up my ass." Upon my completion of this completely off-topic remark, Dr. Kandel's flabby stomach trembled, and he let out a loud laugh. "John, you just recited a line from one of my favorite television shows, and I think I've figured out your problem. You are suffering from South-Parkitis Syndrome. Its a common ailment experienced by Americans who watch late night Comedy Central."
"Oooh, Jesuth Christht, you silly goose" was all I could manage as a response. Once again, Dr. Kandel began laughing. As he wiped a tear from his eye, he removed his cell phone from his pants pocket and began dialing.
"You go to hell. You go to hell and you die, Jew-boy!" It was if I was experiencing an unexplainable bout with turrets syndrome. I seemed to have no control over the words leaving my mouth.
"Eat a dog shit taco, you fucking fat-ass!" And so it continued, one explicit sentence after another tumbling out of my mouth until the people from the mental hospital arrived to take me away.
Now, 71 months later, after years of Dr. recommended isolation from the television show that ruined my life, I still occasionally find my self relapsing into the dialect of South Park. But than again, what's the big deal bitch? A few offensive words never hurt anybody.