Date: Sun, 9 Oct 2005 09:17:23 -0700 (PDT)
From: mackey mooney <email@example.com>
Subject: soap opera, on with our story
To: marcus maroney <firstname.lastname@example.org>
So now I want to tell you the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey
always said on the radio.
This Maura did leave her husband, and at the start of the NFL
season, the spiteful little witch.
And who do we find this out from? From one of our prisoners,
a Tedbundyish sociopath who killed his girlfriend
[and is locked up for that] and who is in daily phone contact with Maura;
yes, she gave him her number when she left. She told me she'd
be around once in a while (sob); I didn't know she meant to visit him.
The reason the prisoner brings this up: he wants to arrange for her to visit
him in the lock-up.
I might even be called upon to supervise their visits.
So our treatment team leaders call her up and they interview her in a
conference call; she confirms all this:
-- She has left home [hubby owned their home outright and owed nothing
on it; he had just gotten a good job; they had just come back from a cross
country trip tanned and smiling -- or rosy and smiling in her case --
and she had just gotten financial aid to go back to school full time]
-- She is in love with the patient [who is a charmer -- he tends to be
really well-liked by both the staff and other prisoners; heck, I want to
play raquetball with him -- but there are lots of charming guys who
are not locked-up; me, I'm charming; I'm not locked-up, at the present
It's time for the Ole Mackerdog, awooo!, to take her down off the
pedestal [change her name in the poem to Dora?]
But, you know, I can't. She's forever on that pedestal,
though there's some pigeon poop on her shoulder.
All of her co-workers are losing sleep over
this, and I am, doubly so, because I loved her;
no, present tense, I worship her.
I think she's a dope, now, and an unprofessional dope with no
clinical insight, and no self-awareness, but I still think she's
I'm a dope.
I guess I'll just wait for some perspective to emerge.
This is like an Anton Chekov play.
-- Dog Who Woos The Moon