Work Text:
Don't Can't Ask Your Psychologist
by Dararose
I've often wondered in the dark of night,
Why am I predisposed
To hurt the ones I love the most?
I'd like to have the question posed.
Starsky seems like a nice enough guy,
Sexy, good-looking and sweet,
What quirk of nature causes me
To want to turn him into mincemeat?
I've forced the guy to shoot himself,
Chased by bad guys, far and near,
I've had a thug beat up on him
In a warehouse down by the pier.
I've gotten him in a fight with Hutch
To prove that they hated each other,
Then had him kidnapped and addicted
And knifed, defending his mother.
I've sentenced him to prison,
Where he was a popular attraction.
I've even had him hang himself,
Hutch saved him by merely a fraction.
I've had him being gang-raped,
Smashed up his precious car,
He's even fallen off a cliff
After being shot up at a bar.
Just when I think he's been hurt enough,
The urge comes to a head,
Then I find I've gone and done it,
I've written the poor man dead.
Sometimes they're in a relationship
My mother wouldn't approve,
But, gee, when they get together,
They really hit their groove.
So far, Hutch has escaped with
Little more than a minor bruise.
Why is Starsky always my target?
I really don't have any clues.
I wonder about it every time
I start to go off on a spree,
But then I read someone else's work,
And find I'm in great company.
But sometimes my obsession reaches
Heights others don't understand.
When I reach that point, I find that
I may need a helping hand.
For a long time I put off therapy,
I didn't want to delve deeper.
And really....when you think about it,
Popping bubble wrap's a whole lot cheaper.
But eventually, it got beyond me,
And after a yellow pages search,
I picked the first psychiatrist,
And on his couch, I came to perch.
"Hey, Doc....this raging libido
Which keeps me in a state of unrest,
Has its roots in a 70s cop show.
Please, Doctor....I think I'm possessed!
My Husky/Starch schizophrenia
Runs rampant during the day.
I have nightmares when I sleep,
Wondering if they're really gay.
The problem is compounded
When I see a red-and-white car.
I'll follow it for miles,
Worshipping from afar.
I spend hours at my computer,
Its name is Gordo, by the way,
Muttering strange little phrases,
No one understands what I say.
I complain that I have no pants,
And that troubles my family a lot.
They swear I have them on,
But I know that I have not!
And when making love with my husband,
He objects so strenuously,
When in the throes of passion,
I holler out "me and thee!"
I watch seasons one through three,
Every one of them I adore,
But they worry when I rant and rave,
'Cause I DON'T HAVE season four!
I hatch mad plots against TNT
For taking the show off the air
And spend hours in the sporting goods stores,
Fingering long red underwear.
I admit that some of these actions
May seem a trifle bizarre.
But really, isn't it better
Than spending all one's time at a bar?
I wanted to go to Bay City,
To visit there would've really been bliss.
But then they broke my heart
When they told me it didn't exist.
I'd love to have seen all the places they lived,
But I couldn't afford the bail.
And I know when I broke into Venice Place,
I would have landed in jail.
And now, sometimes I wonder
In moments of great despair,
Could I live without Starsky and Hutch
If they vanished into thin air?
Well, do you think that you can cure me?
My finances are pretty low.
I could give you lots of zines
To hold in lieu of dough."
He favored me with a quirky grin,
A reminder of the great Bogart.
He winked and then he said to me,
"Put a sock in it, schweetheart."
Now I write these silly poems
From my lovely padded cell,
Wondering just what hit me.
Hey, they say I'm almost well!
They have me on medication,
Hutch's advice about that is grim.
But Starsky says "If it feels good, DO it."
And I think I'll listen to him.
They give me a lot of company,
As I languish here in my cell.
The things that the three of us do
I'd be too embarrassed to tell.
My mind tells me I need
To act a little more grown-up.
So, when they let me out again,
Instead of Starsky, I'll be Hutch.
So, don't let them say that your passion,
Which makes you happy as a clam,
Is becoming somewhat disturbing
And you should get a myelogram.
Tell them Starsky and Hutch
Are two of your greatest joys
And you wouldn't know what to do
If you didn't have "the boys."
Tell them it's a hobby,
A quirk or fleeting phase,
Or that you're channeling Huggy
When you go off into a daze.
Tell them you're in love with Hutch
And your hormones are running rife.
But whatever you do, don't tell them
That S and H are your "real life."
So, if it's getting out-of-control
And a way out is hard to see,
Just don't go to a psychiatrist,
Or you may end up like me!
....Anne S. (aka Dararose)