Helga

The first time I met Helga was after my tragic standup comedy experiment back in the '80s. It was horrible. They booed. They threw things at me: Beer nuts, beer nut bowls; beer bottles; car keys.

I fled the bar and roared away in my yellow '72 VW Super Beetle (with the crank sunroof). I must have blacked out, because when I woke up, I didn't know where I was. It turned out to be the psyche ward at the hospital.

Long story short, standup comedy ruined my life. I lost everything: My house, my job, my wife, my kids, my bass boat, my truck, my birddog Lucky. I lost my train set, my pet rock, my magic eight ball, my pet turtle Rufus, my wife, my kids (I remarried), my Greetings From Asbury Park album, my Classic Ken Doll collection, my TV Guide collection (and not just the covers either). I had a bag of vintage marbles: Taws, Clearies, peeries, cat's eyes, moonies, spiders, baldies. All gone.

Things came to a head when I lost my toothbrush. The only thing I owned at that point was a key to a rest room in Fountain Square Mall. That's how I met Helga. She worked in the building, also had a key to the room, and interrupted me in the middle of a sponge bath. One thing led to another, and before you know it, I was telling her my life story. At the time, I was convinced I was not crazy, but rather possessed by the devil (why else would I try standup?). I don't know if you've ever shopped for an exorcist, but I couldn't find one, having to resort instead to psychotherapy. I've wasted a lot of money on therapists over the years. Bankers. Insurance agents. Oil men. Psychotherapists. All bloodsuckers. Our fair town is crawling with shrinks. Eventually, each of them said the same thing to me: "I can't help you. Get away from me!"

It turned out Helga was also a psychotherapist. Huzzah! But she was different. She acknowledged that I was in fact possessed by demons, or as she called them, in her heavy Austrian accent, "Zose Sons of Beelzebub". She went on to say that contrary to popular opinion, they don't exist solely in your mind. "Zay get around. I beliff zay are liffing in your colon." How she discerned this is beyond me.

I'll never forget that first session. She hypnotized me, and when I came out of it, I was tied to a Barcalounger with a ball gag in my mouth. I let out a muffled scream. She smacked me with a blackjack and hissed, "Pipe down, Screwtape." She left the room and came back wearing black leather short shorts and a top adorned with leather faux-boobies that pointed at the ceiling. She grabbed a straight-backed chair, and straddled it in front of me. Say what you will about 75-year-old women. In that little outfit, she was pretty hot.

Later that night as I dressed my wounds, I thought she might not be the right therapist for me.

But I couldn't stay away. We've been together a long time now, and she says I've made great strides in my masochistnicity. A couple of weeks ago, she says to me, "Martini"—she calls me Martini for some reason—"You can grow no furzer in ze flouwvink of your masochistnicity, vizzout first you return to ze stage und try to make again ze people laugh."

I said, "No way," and bolted for the door. She tackled me, and tied me to the Barcalounger, to which, I'll admit, I've grown attached. She called me a bad boy and... did some things. When I could form words again I asked her to loosen the ropes. She chuckled and snarled at me. I thought she was going to bite me again, but she just sat there tapping the riding crop into the palm of her hand.

Then she said, "Martini. You're goink to do exactly vhat I tell you to do. Because iff you don't, I vill visit many many naughty operations on you. Und you know I vill do it."

I heard my child voice say, "Okay."

"You vill set aside your fear, Martini, und you vill get back up on zat stage before a life audience, und you vill flagellate yourself."

My child voice said, "Sure. Okay," not knowing what flagellate meant. I think it has something to do with microscopic creatures whipping each other with their tails.

"After you do zis, you vill accomplish self-actualization through self-flagellation."

So long story short, this is the reason I'm doing standup comedy again.