Yesterday's featured article
The twin colossi of Psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, were two of a kind; bearded nineteenth century, middle European poop-obsessives. It is no surprise, therefore, that for many the standard image of the psychoanalyst is of a heavily accented pervert who assumes his own deviant sexual interest in his mother is universal. Had Jung and Freud been the only model of the Psychoanalyst it seems unlikely that the profession would ever have gained the high esteem that it holds today in modern USA. For that a more approachable, more wholesome, more American Psychoanalyst would be required. But who could fill the role?
Until the early 1900’s the only advice available to those several shots short of a piss-up was to pull themselves together and not make a scene (still the standard prescription for British sufferers of scrambled synapse syndrome). Following the publication of Freud’s masterpiece “Ihre Mutter” (Your Mom), however, the nation was awash with professionals expensively inviting you to blame yourself for your problems and to enrol yourself on a thirty month course of “talking therapy”. Who but the wealthy could afford bad advice at $100 an hour? The profession seemed about to founder when the late 1950s saw the arrival of Doctor Lucille Van Pelt, dispenser of bad advice for a mere five cents a session.
Despite a lack of formal qualifications beyond Grade School
within years Van Pelt had diagnosed the mental issues of her fellow Peanuts
co-stars and realised the pain behind the smiles of so many others who are paid to entertain us in the burgeoning cartoon industry. The Doctor was IN