It is April 7^th and I am fat. Why should this concern you? Let’s not be coy tubby, you are too. That jelly belly isn’t full of giggles, it’s full of shame and Ben and Jerry’s. But let’s not stop there. Where’s Surinam? Don’t know, do you? There’s no shame in that; nobody knows where Surinam is except a handful of Surinamese and myself. I only know because of my world map shower curtain. How did this happen? It’s because nobody cares about geography here; after all, those other countries aren’t important. While the youth of other countries learn geography in the classroom I learned it on the toilet. It gets worse. I know far too many bright people who are seriously depressed and, in turn, are doing nothing with their lives. This “doing nothing” is crippling our economy and making us easy meat for the Chinese. For too long our great civilization has embraced obesity, depression, and mild geographical retardation as points of national pride. I’m tired of my own inadequacies and god knows I hate yours you fatty fatty fat fat.

After a dose of acid reflux from my heavy Thai dinner and a few too many episodes of Tony Bourdain’s snarky epicurean adventures, I’ve decided to share my ponderings with anyone bored of the food network and unable to sleep due to gastric discomfort. Over the next several days I’ll be introducing several of the topics that I like to think about when my hands get too chapped to wash.

Today pondering: Depression is for Communists.

In this section I’ll be looking at cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), which seems to be the most successful addition to, or replacement for, all those wonderful pills from our friendly neighborhood fortune 500 companies. Drugs have their place, but I say keep them recreational. The premise of the 700-page idiot’s guide to keeping the hairdryer out of your bathtub is filled with “no brainer” ways to stop thinking yourself to death. So far I’ve gotten through the preface and chapter 1. While the opening may smack of the author’s self righteousness about his beloved creation, he is justified. While beating the “this is not a panacea” drum to death, he also gives the impression that if one were possible, he’d have been the one to create it. His examples of how skeptical a self-help seeker is about wasting another $7.99, though crude, do hit home. References to the overwhelming success of suicidal patients who underwent cognitive therapy are obvious overkill to give comfort to those of us not yet ready for our 72 virgins. Though the good doctor does try to allay our concerns, he tends to call his own bluff and acknowledges that he is trying to sway us from the get go. This is a good thing as it helps the reader maintain what little dignity he has left by not feeling that he’s being talked down to or underestimated. Burns is writing for the ultimate New Jersey audience and has his work cut out for him. He could play it deadpan the whole time, but he doesn’t shy away from anything he thinks will help, even delightfully dopey coined terms like my favorite freshly minted one, bibliotherapy, defined as reading a self-help book. In short, if sunlight, showering and time spent awake seem like pleasantries to you, skip this column. If not, I recommend you go to your local Barnes and Noble, pick up “Feeling Good” and take the walk of shame to the cash register. Then join me each week for another installment of Depression is for Communists.