Indianapolis, IN - Doctors here at the Indianapolis State Medical Center have diagnosed the first man with a mental disorder they are calling: "Compulsively Speaking Your Mind With No Pretense Then Quickly Changing It So As Not To Disrupt the Sensitivities of Society Syndrome" - Or better known as CSYMWNPTQCCISANTDSSS - which is still really hard to pronounce so they have settled on "Compulsive Truth Before Thinking Syndrome." This disorder causes one to compulsively say what they really feel, then regret it and say something more socially acceptable - therefore a lie.
Norman Stanton, 65, a retired metal worker, had suffered from this syndrome since the day he realized he "hate the hell out of those panty-waisted hippies and their flower-lovin, tree-humpin sugar kisses. Oh, I shouldn't have said that. They're just a little more on the sensitive gay side. Nothing wrong with that."
Our reporting team and a team of doctors followed Stanton around for two days to see this disorder in action. On the first morning we walked past a Mr. Ben Waverly's house. He was quite over weight, but greeted Norman with a smile.
"Hellloooo, Norman!" He said brightly. "I lost a pound last month! How do I look?"
Stanton replied, "You lost a whole pound? What, did you finally get that mole removed? But I'm sorry Mr. Waverly on your next monthly shower you gotta start washing under those fat-folds! I'm getting a whiff of the rotten parmesan cheese from here.You smell like a dumpy Italian pizza joint from Bejon, New Jersey." Then a noticeable change fell over Norman Stanton. "I'm sorry, Mr. Waverly," he said. "You look a mighty deal healthier, and that cologne - Woo-wee! You look out for them ladies now!"
Later, we ran across Miss Sarah Upshaw. She chit-chatted with Norman, then asked, "So what do you think of this Trump character?"
Norman Stanton lit up. "Trump? The only thing that puckered-mouthed loony is good for is firewood! Why, he's probably got enough oil in that flat-racked hair of his he'd probably burn for hours - 'cept you'd hafta keep pokin him with a stick to get him to shut the hell up! Make America great again - bull! How 'bout making toupees real-looking again? Or just accept the fact that you're a balding hose-sucker! And that Hillary! Always braggin about how she's on top in the race! Yeah, I'll bet she's been on top for a long time! Can't stand the bottom cos it's harder to choke her husband! Poor whipped husband of hers had to resort to interns and cigars just to feel like a man! What's next - the government's closed cos Hillary's having a real bad visit from Aunt Flo and Chief Red Cloud? Bah!"
Again we watched in fascination as the second stage of the disorder took over. "I'm, sorry. I'm sure they're both very nice people with honest expectations. Not sure who I'm gonna vote for. You have yourself a fine day ma'am."
Finally, we took Norman Stanton home and explained his disorder, finally informing him he suffered from Compulsive Truth Before Thinking Syndrome.
Stanton smiled. "And I suppose there's a pill for this?"
"There is, actually," said one doctor.
Norman Stanton smirked. "Yeah, there's always a pill. Your kid can't sit through two hours of church, but won't move a muscle during the Sponge Bob Movie? Oh my god! Your son doesn't have Attention Deficit Disorder he has 'I Hate Church But Sponge Bob Rules Disorder'! GET HIM A PILL ANYWAY! I'm sorry! This man abuses children and likes to beat on women? It's his daddy's fault! GET HIM A PILL! Oh, no! Your poor, spoiled, rich, white son was drinking and driving and killed a bus full of nuns and school children! It's not his fault! The little, stupid brat had too much love and attention! It's not his fault! Give him a pill! Yes! Pills for this and pills for that! Pills to help with the pills you're taking to help with the pills! Hurry up and create more disorders so's we can make MORE PILLS! PILLS FOR PEOPLE TO BUY AT RIDICULOUSLY HIGH PRICES! PRICES SO HIGH, THEY ACTUALLY HAVE TO CHOOSE BETWEEN BUYING THE PILLS, OR EATING FOOD FOR THE WEEK! THAT'S THE AMERICAN WAY!"
We waited for the second state of the disorder - the back-tracking, apologetic stage - but it never came. Instead, Norman Stanton gave us the finger and said calmly, "Get the fuck out."