Let’s talk about the sheer, unadulterated volume of dumbfucks currently occupying this planet. Honestly, if you ever suffer from imposter syndrome, just remember there’s an entire industry built on nodding slowly, repeating your last sentence back to you in a softer voice, and charging you £340 for the privilege. Yeah, I’m talking about couples counselling, counselling/therapy in general. It is the absolute biggest scam running in this miserable, rainy-ass city of London right now. (Why just London! Sadly it’s everywhere.)

Demi and I were bored last Saturday, it was pouring real bad. If you’re new to my blog, Demi is my absolute ride-or-die best friend. She’s the broccoli of my diet: I hate it, but I have to have it. We’ve been attached at the hip since 7th century. We survived the absolute grind of undergrad together, with me practically living in the computer science labs & jet engine propulsion projects, and her pulling all-nighters building scale models for her architecture degree. Then we both pivoted, crushed our finance MBAs together, and fast-forward to today: we’re mid-twenties, we look ridiculously good (not to be an arrogant prick, but we hit that lottery and wear it well), and frankly, we have enough disposable income to be dangerous. For us, that’s currently the definition of success.

So, what do two hot, sassy, successfully over-educated twenty-somethings do on a depressing, rain-soaked Saturday evening? We pretend to be a married couple on the brink of divorce because I just want to fuck entirely too much. That was the pitch. A pure, unadulterated prank on an industry built for losers. Demi was playing the exasperated, physically drained wife, and I was the unapologetic, perpetually rock-hard husband suffering from a tragic case of “excessive sexual desire.” We booked a 75-minute session with a high-end, highly-rated relationship counsellor in Mayfair.

I swear to God, I thought we’d get busted the second we walked into the waiting room. Demi was wearing this sheer designer top and an ice-blue mini skirt that practically screamed, “We don’t need therapy, we need a hotel room.” I was in my custom-made cream linen shirt with tapered trousers, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper just to keep a straight face. Nod-a-lot Dr. Eva invites us in and immediately launches into her whole soft-spoken, “this is a safe space” bullshit. Demi takes the floor first, and let me tell you, my girl deserves a BAFTA. She puts her perfectly manicured hands over her face and lets out this dramatic, soul-crushing sigh. “It’s just… it’s everywhere, Dr. Eva,” she whispers, sounding like a shell-shocked war veteran. “The kitchen counter, the shower, five minutes before my meeting with the board. Rudey is just… he’s insatiable. He tried to bend me over my drafting table while I was reviewing blueprints for a commercial high-rise. The blueprints got ruined, Dr. Eva! Ruined! I’m literally chafing. I am physically exhausted.”

I chimed in right on cue, playing the defensive, high-testosterone bro. “I’m a healthy guy! What am I supposed to do, apologize for being wildly attracted to my stunning wife? It’s a biological imperative. I told you, looking at volatile tech/finance stocks gets me ridiculously hard, and I need an outlet!“

Then came the “counselling techniques.” The therapist literally looks at me, does that textbook steeple with her fingers, tilts her head, and hits me with: “So, Rudey, what I’m hearing is that you feel your high libido is just a natural expression of your love, but it’s overwhelming Demi’s boundaries?” No shit, Miss Sherlock. That’s literally what I just said. They teach you this mirroring technique in a £10 online psych course, but this woman is milking £340 out of us to act like she just cracked the Enigma code. She starts rambling about “redirecting my manic energy” and “establishing intimacy boundaries.”

Meanwhile, Demi is fake-crying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and whispering about how she just wants to watch TV without a dick aggressively poking her in the lower back. I countered by arguing that Family Guy is a highly arousing show, and I can’t be held responsible for my physical reactions to the undeniable chemistry between Peter and Lois. The counsellor didn’t even blink. She just furiously took notes.

Seventy-five minutes of this absolute gold. We walked out into the London downpour, kept deadpan faces until we turned the corner, and then absolutely lost our fucking minds. We literally had to lean against a brick wall because Demi was laughing so hard she was choking. We went straight to Soho, grabbed drinks with the rest of our friends, and recounted the whole thing. Our mates were practically pissing themselves. I told them how the therapist seriously suggested I take up “ice baths” or “intensive cardio” to curb my animalistic urges. Buddy, I already do intensive cardio, it’s called being a mid-20s menace to society. And cold weather just makes me harder; that’s the unfortunate reality of my post-polycythemia recovered body.

The fact that this “professional” couldn’t read the room and see two best friends completely taking the piss out of her profession just proves my grand theory: The majority of the population are pure dumbfucks, unfiltered NPCs. They just run on pre-programmed scripts. You give them a spicy sob story about a sex-crazed tech-finance bro and his worn-out architect wife, and they boot up `Therapist.exe` application without ever questioning if the two grinning assholes in nice clothes are just fucking with them. Honestly? That £340 was worth every single penny for the entertainment value alone. It was cheaper than a West End show, way more interactive, and a phenomenal bonding experience.

Plus, Demi and I decided we haven’t tortured Dr. Eva quite enough yet. We miraculously found room in our busy schedules to book a follow-up appointment for next month. For round two, Demi is going to claim I’ve started bringing vibrating sex toys to her family’s Sunday roast dinners to “spice up the appetizers.” I can’t fucking wait to see how she tries to validate that with her active listening bullshit. Stay tuned, you degenerate pieces of shit.

Tap OUT..😘