WHERE ARE MY MARBLES?

According to the largest and most detailed recent survey sponsored by the National Institute of Mental Health, one-quarter of all Americans met the criteria for having mental illness. This extensive government sponsored project (which cost the taxpayers $20 million) surveyed more than 9,000 randomly selected Americans.

Going by these criteria, one member of an office staff of four could be a fruitcake, or three out of an office staff of twelve may be living in La-La Land.

These are incredibly interesting statistics.

There were twelve people working in our newspaper before I retired, so by the process of scientific deduction, I should be able to uncover our three nut cases.

I'll put myself down as a candidate because I know I was dropped on my head when I was a baby, that leaves eleven very shady suspects.

The chief honcho has got to be one of them. Why? Because it would take a real mental case to hire the people who work for our newspaper to begin with. As the old saying goes, it takes one to know one. So, we have yo-yo number one.

The Managing Editor has always struck me as a bit strange. Not only does he have those beady little eyes with which he uses to stab you with a malevolent stare, he also possesses an odd leering mouth, an uncanny ability to sniff out hidden facts, and a really strange laugh, which sounds almost like a choking gargle. Let's put him down as yo-yo number two.

Number three has got to be our General Manager. This guy is a real neat freak. He sits at his desk all day with a ruler measuring the distance of each object from his desk calendar. Everything must be within a perfect radius or he freezes. One day I'm going to go into his office and scatter everything all over the place. Chances are the poor guy will slide into a cryogenic freeze state and never move again. He's definitely yo-yo number three.

I can almost guarantee that the Business Manager is the next fruitcake. Each time you walk by her office you hear a strange Bloop! Bloop! Bloop! I accidentally discovered that this was because she plays solitaire on the computer all the time. Only problem is, she keeps trying to force one card into a no-go spot over and over again, and never gets beyond the first card. She's gotta be yo-yo number four.

Number five is undoubtedly the Production Manager. She spends all day putting her make-up on, going to the restroom to look at it, and hastily returning to her desk to start over again, then back to the bathroom for a quickie look. Occasionally she hits a few keys on the computer just to give the impression that she's producing, then back to her all consuming make-up job. She is the solid number five yo-yo.

Moving over to the Sports Writer, we have a real winner there. Her camera bag smells like she stole it from a football locker room, and her major winning credit is her ability to flash a coy smile. Athletes and coaches follow her around like lovesick puppy dogs and it's not because of the aromatic bag. She's our number six yo-yo.

Number seven has got to be our Ad Representative. She drives around in an old battered getto cruiser so her clients will feel sorry for her and buy her ads. Most of her ads are repeats because all she as to do is drive by a client's business and the sorrowful owner will call in another ad, hoping that someday his add will help her to afford a new set of wheels. No one knows of the hidden Cadillac in her garage. We'll list her as solid yo-yo number seven.

The remaining four girls in our office possess an abundant quantity of abnormalities to qualify for yo-yo's eight through eleven so I won't even list them. So, there you have it, our twelve office fruitcakes.
Wait a minute, I thought I was only searching for three nut cases? I'll bet the people who surveyed our newspaper hit pay dirt when they called our office.

Come to think of it, I'd be willing to bet my paycheck that they called every newspaper in the state to get their 9,000 quota. After all, why call ordinary Americans when the news media is a gold mine for fruitcakes?

Now you know why I retired!
Or is it - retard?