(panel 9, p. 43 of ZIPPY Stories - Bill Griffith)
The trail is stale when it comes to dealing with greed-free practitioners of the State Mental.
Money worshipping charlatans and incompetent buffoons seem to line the lanes, byways and overpasses of Therapeutica, sticking their pointed heads up at every turn, obstructing traffic in the most insidious of ways.
No-one is innocent. No-one gets out alive. No-one gets a Slushee.
Not even Stomp.
No, I wasn't the man who put the bomp in the bomp-ba-bomp-ba-bomp, nor the ram in the rama-lama ding dong. I am merely mortal and, as such, have suffered the indignity of grubby-handed, sausage-fingered, lucre-loving health care professionals wanting to carve out a piece of the pie that is I to the detriment of myself.
Business is business, after all.
Unless you happen to be a werewolf (and why should I cast any doubt if you claim to be?), with tomorrow being a full moon - in fact a supermoon (apparently), you may not be able to just let rip and have any pent-up feelings of frustration nullified by running amok, causing untold carnage and bloodlust as only a lycanthrope could. I'm not naturally a wolfman myself, so I can empathise.
I moan. Yes, I do. There are good people out there as well as the bad.
Stay safe. Stay cool. Stay sane.
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