So You Want To Be A Mental Health Humorist!

Response to my recent audio blog welcoming applications for the position of summer intern was overwhelming! (Who knew so many people are interested in the rapidly expanding field of mental health humor!) Finalist names appear below.

Our Finalists

1. Nigel Frampton

2. Priscilla Scintilla

3. Chumley Throckmorton

4. Isadora Doughnutz

5. Pasquale Pontevecchio

6. Salma Chanted Evenning

7. “The Quandary”

8. Polly Purebread

9. Marcel “School Spirit” Witherspoon

Congratulations to all of these plucky contenders – and to every one who entered. You’re all winners! (Okay, technically, you’re all losers but as part of today’s PC climate we have to put a positive spin on things.)

This year’s summer intern is: Antoine Incubator Remington.

After detailing my car, Antoine posed the question I get asked more frequently than any other, “How the heck does a person get started in the increasingly popular mental illness/mental health comedy writing game, Mr. McHarg?” I smiled enigmatically, began knitting my eyebrows, and replied thusly.

“Son, there’s few that sail these waters and those who choose to do-be-do-be-do rarely survive. You can’t make fun of people with disabilities, that’s tacky. So the only way to pull it off is by getting a disability yourself.”

“Really?” Antoine asked, reeking of exposition.

“Really, I replied,” demonstrating I was quite able to stoop to his level if it served my purposes. “I was fortunate, you see, in an unfortunate sort of way. I didn’t actually have to develop a mental illness, or contract a contagious one by hanging around in places where mentally ill people congregate such as bus stations, NASCAR rallies, and political conventions. That’s because I already had one.”

“Do tell,” Antoine urged, as if roused from a catnap.

“Yes,” I replied, rising to the theme. I was diagnosed bipolar decades ago, long before it was cool, before fading rockers were feigning mania to revive sagging careers.”

“You lucky rat!” Antoine could barely conceal his jealousy.

“I know, right?” I replied, intentionally helping to perpetuate a pop catchphrase I loathe. “So you, my fine feathered friend, will have to get yourself a really difficult illness, to establish credibility. Then and only then will you have the knowledge, and authority, to write humorously on the subject.”

“Wow,” Antoine responded, his mind like a becalmed ocean stirred by just one flying fish, “but all the best ones are already taken! Rats!”

“Indeed they are,” I rejoined, mentor to mentee, “indeed they are.