I Wish Amanda Bynes Was Gary Busey!

Anyone who has spent more than an hour with me knows that I have a few tiny (tiny like the Titanic) personality quirks.

• I speak entirely too loud in social situations.  This fact is something that drives my husband completely nuts.  When we first got married, he would shush me and my feelings would get hurt.  No if he shushes me, I just whisper Fuck You as softly as possible and keep on chatting like a foghorn!
• I am psychologically unable to pump gas to an even number.  I, also, won't set my alarm clock to even number (or :15 because, although it is an odd number, it still feels even).
• I hate for my food to touch, unless it is cooked that way.  (For example, lasagna, spaghetti, Mongolian Beef - GOOD. Ranch dressing from my salad drips onto my pizza - It all goes into the trash and I stare at my husband until he hands my another piece because I am far too upset to get it myself.)
• I am terrifically afraid of crickets, ventriloquist dolls, and things that scurry (i.e; possums, aliens, Kim Kardashian's vagina)
• I get physically uncomfortable when someone uses the word moist.
• And if someone begins the mana mana part of the Muppet Mana Mana Song, I have to finish.  The mana mana can not just be left hanging. 

These are just a few (and quite frankly the smallest) of my many, MANY eccentricities.  I am not proud of the fact that I find it unsettling to wear socks that match.  I openly and honestly admit that despite my best efforts to stop, whenever I am in the company of the hearing impaired, I sign while I speak... Even though I know absolutely NO sign language.  It in NO way resembles true sign language.  I suspect I just look like a really succinct Italian. (You know because they talk a lot with their hands. Is that racist? Oops). Actually that may not be entirely accurate because I once made the bunny head shadow puppets fingers on both hands and tapped them together twice as the sign for kissing and I don't think Italians do that.  (Obviously, I would have stuck my tongue out while doing it for French Kissing). Anyway, it is because of my own personal oddities that I have a soft spot for the crazies or to be politically correct, the mentally preposterous.  Not like "Jeffrey Dahmer I'm gonna make me a human salad" crazy but more like Britney Spears before her comeback (I call her Britney 2.0 now - I called her Bald Vagina-flasher back then, during what I like to call,  "the unfortunate unhinging").

However, presently, its the plight of America's sweetheart Amanda Bynes that is weighing heavily on my heart.  I mean she has gone from adorkable young ingenue to wig-wearin', pot smokin' cray-cray in 3.5 seconds.  (Disclaimer:  Although I do not smoke weed, I have NOTHING against those that do.)  I am not judging.  I myself have done the mental dance to Patsy Cline, a time or two. (That was a reference to Crazy by Patsy Cline.  Sorry, I just assumed you knew.)  I have stayed in bed for days crying for no reason other than a movie made me sad.  Damn, that Ryan Gosling!   I also cried hysterically when we traded in our car, Sugarbear (that was her name), for our SUV, Spike (that's his name).  I was completely overwhelmed with emotion...  Sugarbear had been with us during so many good times and I wasn't sure that her new owners would appreciate her.  Much to my husband's horror, I sat in her driver's seat, tears streaming, and thanked her for the good times and years of reliable transportation The climax of this particular "emotional roller coaster" came when I began to detail, to the used car salesman, the story of how Sugarbear had driven my grandson home from the hospital.  At this point my husband stepped in.  He lovingly embraced me, pressing my tear (and snot) covered face into his chest and whispered sweetly into my ear, "Shut the fuck up, your scaring the nice man".   

But I digress... I feel bad for Amanda Bynes.  The whole world, at least those of us who check Huffington Post Celebrity every 1/2 an hour, is watching her breakdown.  We all gawked at our computer screens as she strutted around New York in her dead hobo wig claiming to be working on her rap album.  We bore witness when she panicked as police approached and threw her bong out of apartment window. (When I replay it, I hear Miley Cyrus and the ghost of Bob Marley screaming "Noooooo" as it falls to the concrete below in slow motion.) And worse yet, we sat in quiet contemplation as she set fire to an old lady's driveway after "cabbing it" from New York to California.

I really believe that if I had 1/2 a chance (although I am not quite sure how one could have 1/2 a chance but it sounds so much more dramatic)  I could help her... I could help her work through the 

5 Steps of Crazy

 

1. Denial - There is absolutely nothing wrong with me!  It is completely normal to argue with your own shadow.
2. Sadness - Why does my shadow (let's call him Phillip) keep yelling at me?
3. Paranoia - Did you hear that? Phillip, I think Chung Li, or Sunny (as she calls herself), planted a microchip in my thumb during my last manicure.
4. Rage - Phillip, I know that you and Chung Li are working together and I'm gonna kick your ass! (This stage is either terribly dangerous or terrifically hilarious, depending on who the crazy (I'm sorry the mentally preposterous) is angry with).  Wow!  Parentheses inside of parentheses, I think that's a first for me!                                       
5. Crazy/Happy -  Phillip, I'm so sorry that I ever doubted you.  I love you so much. Let's stay together forever!...   US Weekly Headline "Famous Whackjob Marries Her Own Shadow - Suri Cruise is Flower Girl"

These steps are unavoidable 99% of the time and without proper guidance someone like little Mandy Bynes could ebb and flow between numbers 3, 4 & 5 for years. (Example: Meryl Streep)  I probably couldn't cure Amanda, she obviously needs some sort of prescriptive cocktail and Walgreens is no longer accepting the prescription that I had been submitting on my Honey Badger Notepad... apparently, I can NOT become a physician assistant by studying WebMD and 40 viewing hours of   The Untold Stories of ER (I also did 25 hours of I Didn't Know I was Pregnant, so I could be a homestudy Emergency OB/GYN but that's not relevant right now) BUT at least get her dial it down a notch.  I should probably admit, though, that I may have a slightly inflated sense of self.  Not only do I think I could save Ms. Bynes, I also think I could cut an effective tracheotomy with a box cutter and a crazy straw or give an Oscar worthy performance as Tituba in The Crucible (not the Wynona Ryder version but a better version, starring Kate Upton). I also know in my heart of hearts that I could successfully try a homicide case and/or commit the perfect murder.  I may not be perfect or, as the kids say (in 1994), be "all that" but I know where my talents lie and am nothing if not a talented makeshift emergency surgeon/unlicensed trial lawyer/possible killer/ gifted actress/ self-taught psychotherapist.  So who better to help Amanda Bynes? I realize that she is currently being evaluated by "medical professionals" but I know that in my capable hands she could find the peace and clarity that she so desperately needs.

 

I am such a humanitarian. 

 

Look at all the good I did for Gary Busey.  Some of you probably don't know that he was one of my "pet projects" but yes, indeed, he was.  He was a nut job when I got hold of him.  It was MY care and vast knowledge of the human psyche that took Busey from any aging, dangerously insane, over-toothed actor to an aging, basically harmless but still insane, over-toothed actor... and don't we all love us some Busey? 

 

 

 

Let's make Amanda Bynes the next Gary Busey!