“Well, Doctor, I have to admit that I’ve never seen a psychiatrist before.”

“Nothing to worry about. Just relax. We’ll start with a free association exercise. I’ll read these words and phrases written on these cards, and you say the first thing that comes to mind. Ready?”

“Uh. Set.”

“Uh?”

“You said to say the first thing that came to mind. You said `ready,’ I said `set.'”

“But we haven’t started yet.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s begin. Man.”

“Elton John.”

“Woman.”

“Norah Jones.”

“Blonde”

“Christina Aguilera.”

“An intimate encounter.”

“The Rolling Stones at London’s Astoria Theatre.”

“Foreplay.”

“Uh. Bob James, Larry Carlton, Nathan East and Harvey Mason.”

“No, I’m sorry -“

“Dixie Chicks.”

“No, What I meant to say was`foreplay,’ not Fourplay.”

“Oh… Uh… Uh…. Boston.”

“Skin.”

“Cher.”

“More skin.”

“Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“Extreme wants and desires. Sweat-soaked bodies. Hearts pounding. Voices screaming out in primal desire and uninhibited passion.”

“Vans Warped Tour ’03!”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

“Uh… Yanni!”

“No, Mr. Johnson. I mean, we’re finished.”

“Oh. So, what’s the diagnosis, Doctor?”

“Well, Mr. Johnson, it seems that no matter what I say, all your answers are about bands, artists and concerts.”

“I can’t help it, Doctor. I love live music. Er. Does that mean I’m crazy?”

“Heavens, no, Mr. Johnson. Those are perfectly normal responses. In fact, I wish all my patients were as sane as you.”

“You do?”

“Of course. All they ever think about is sex.”