Sometimes I wonder if it’s fun to be crazy. I’m not talking about crazy as in “girl, you’re crazy” or as in suffering a mild psychological imbalance. I’m talking about the rare brand of gaga that is rarely seen outside of a Tex Avery cartoon; the kind that leaves the victim few options other than beating themselves over the head repeatedly with a wooden mallet, having vivid hallucinations of 6-inch tall elephants and eventually being hauled off to the laughing academy to spend eternity picking the imaginary flowers that grow in their bedpan.
Now, in some senses, this sounds like a grand old time. Apart from the endlessly entertaining hallucinations saving you tons of money on cable bills, the biggest benefit of being nuts has got to be that anything goes. Feel like shouting “nipples” at the top of your lungs at your cube? Go ahead. Do you want to dance naked on a table at Burger King? Fine. Nothing is out of the question. And I’m sure a certain degree of leeway is there for doing shit like that. But the big question is: if you are crazy, are you lucid enough to enjoy the crazy things you do? Do you just not notice them because, face it, you’re nuts. If you think it’s fun to be crazy, are you therefore sane? Am I viewing this from such an outside perspective that I will never understand? Is it like when Homer faked that he was Cornelius Talmidge to be able to hang out at the Retirement Home and said “It’s like being a baby except you’re old enough to appreciate it!”