Is this the type of pornography that you’ve been watching on your father’s computer?
LENNY: Yeah. He found some of the pictures I saved and got mad. He said I was disgusting.
KEATON: So you’re not just looking at naked girls. You’re looking at pictures and movies of girls shitting on people?
LENNY: [nods head] Yeah, but they’re kinda hard to find.
KEATON: I feel like I’ve been having to really drag things out of you today, Lenny. I hope that future sessions don’t go this same way. I realize that this information is embarrassing for you to talk about but we have to get it right like I explained earlier. I want you to be more forthcoming about this stuff. I shouldn’t have to ask you for details with everything because if you leave out something, you’re going to fail the polygraph.
LENNY: But I told you what I did!
KEATON: Are you sure you’ve said everything? You’re not leaving out any details at all?
LENNY: Well, there is one thing maybe. But… I really don’t want to say.
KEATON: What is it, Lenny? I’m sure that whatever it is, it can’t be as embarrassing as masturbating with feces found in a public toilet.
LENNY: I didn’t just masturbate with it sometimes.
KEATON: What else did you do with the feces?
LENNY: I… um… sort of tasted it. But it was only once!
KEATON: You put the feces in your mouth?
LENNY: Yeah. [looks away]
KEATON: And once you had the feces in your mouth, what did you do then?
LENNY: [looks back at facilitator] I ate it—what do you think?
KEATON: You swallowed it.
LENNY: Yeah!
KEATON: You collected shit from a public toilet, placed it into your mouth, and swallowed it.
LENNY: Yes.
KEATON: Did you chew?
LENNY: Is the polygraph guy really going to ask me that?
KEATON: I’m asking you. Did you chew up the feces, Lenny?
LENNY: Okay. Yes. Yes, I did. But I only did it once.
KEATON: I’m going to write down that you only did this once. But I want you to know that if it’s more than that, you’re going to fail the polygraph. So are you sure that you want me to submit this?
LENNY: … no, wait. Put down… um.. maybe five times. No… no… make it like ten.
KEATON: Like ten or exactly ten? You can give a range.
LENNY: Alright, make it ten to thirty.
KEATON: So you’re telling me that you’ve done this more frequently than spying on girls in public bathrooms, which you told me you did twenty times.
LENNY: I’m confused.
KEATON: Just relax and take it easy. Let’s just get a range of how many times you spied on people first.
LENNY: Okay. Maybe like fifty times.
KEATON: And how often would you say that you found feces in the toilet and masturbated with it or ate it?
LENNY: About most of those times I guess.
KEATON: Alright. That wasn’t that hard, was it? [places down notes] We made some progress today. You’ve talked about some things that are very embarrassing. And that’s the first step. You did good, Lenny. We’ll pick it up again next week. But if you think of anything else you need to add to what you’ve already told me, write it down and bring it with you to next session.
LENNY: I can do that. But we’ll just talk about the stores and libraries and not my house, right?
KEATON: No, we need to talk about your entire sexual history. And that includes the holes you made in the bathroom door and walls to spy on your sister. We will also talk about you making holes in the shower curtain to spy on your mother. Everything. We’ll talk about it all.
LENNY: [sighs] This is going to take forever…
~*~*~*~*~*~
A few weeks into starting my first job as a treatment facilitator I realized that most of my coworkers were social retards. Of those who were not already undergoing mental health treatment themselves, there were many who were in need of immediate, professional intervention. One of the more well-adjusted individuals whom I chose to associate with outside of work was Gypsy, a burly, middle-aged counselor who prided himself on servicing the needs of many local women. Although I managed to get along quite well with Gypsy, our lifestyles were completely divergent, yet complimentary. Gypsy had lived a transient existence prior to settling down into a steady occupation, as he literally hitchhiked around the globe for the sheer enjoyment of learning about new cultures and interacting with foreign people. With the exception of my college years and my brief proselytizing mission experience for the LDS church, my exposure to sociological diversity was limited to the homogenous, cookie-cutter culture of Mormonville, Utah. Gypsy’s life goal was to save enough money so that he could live in a grass hut on the beaches of Sumatra and watch his multiracial children play in the ocean. My life goal was to become a professional gambler and to live out my days as a playboy bachelor. Gypsy was friendly to the environment; he ate raw potato skins, couscous, and organic foods. I despised hippies and ate maple-flavored bacon, usually one pound per sitting.
After working with each other for several weeks, Gypsy and I began hanging out after work. We visited the local comedy club, trolled for strange around the many watering holes in town, and frequented rock concerts together. During one occasion of our nightly excursions, Gypsy asked me if I wanted to join him and another friend of his to a trip to Boston to watch a world-class soccer match. I was not interested in sports of any kind but I had enjoyed my previous trips to Boston while visiting a high school buddy so I decided to tag along. The plan was for Gypsy and me to fly into Beantown, where we were to meet up with one of his old college pals, Sconce. The three of us were to stay at a local youth hostel, attend the soccer game, and then hit the city for a weekend night of fun.
When the day of the soccer event came around, our travel plans went off without a hitch. Gypsy and I met up with his friend at the airport and we deposited our bags at the youth hostel that we had chartered in downtown Boston. After introducing ourselves to our Australian roommates at the hostel, the three of us took a train out to Foxboro Stadium to attend the professional soccer game. It was there that the trip’s events started to deteriorate.
“How much do I owe you for my ticket?” I asked Gypsy, as we walked with Sconce up to the main entrance of the stadium.
“I’m not sure,” Gypsy replied, “I haven’t purchased them yet.”
“Say what? I thought you told me that you already had the tickets mailed to you.”
“They were all sold out,” Gypsy responded. “I didn’t have enough time to get them.”
The three of us trudged forward toward the entry gates, merging into the crowd that had congregated in front of the stadium. I quickly became annoyed over the present circumstance. “Well, uh, if we don’t have tickets to this here soccer game, why the hell are we standing in line to enter the stadium? No, fuck that. I want to know why you didn’t tell me that you don’t