JJ Fozz’s Journey Through Hell

JJ Fozz Sits Down with Billy Cundiff

Many great and wicked men have suffered from depression. Winston Churchill called it his “black dog” because he was eloquent man who banged down cigars and champagne for breakfast while trying to make sure Britain didn’t fall under Nazi rule.

Like my father and generations before me, I also suffer from depression. And anxiety. At first, I thought it was because I didn’t grow to 6’5” and play linebacker in the pros. Nope, it’s mostly hereditary, and believe or not, more common to people of Mediterranean descent.

Translation – when you’re a mix of Italian and Sicilian, you’re more apt to be a passionate person who loves to eat and then cry and get emotional after a few jugs of wine. Or flagons of bourbon. Then feel guilty about the time you forgot to show up for Friday dinner and your grandmother went into mourning for a month.

So, with what’s going on in my life, depression has been a bitch. Unlike Mr. Churchill, I call my depression Billy Cundiff because the fucker broke my heart and made me sad for weeks.

Billy is tenacious when catches ahold of me – unlike that fucking waste of space Lee Evans who should have made that catch. LEE EVANS WHY DID YOU FORSAKE US?!

Billy magically appears and hangs around for days. Weeks. The result is an ongoing war in my head that threatens to rip my brain from its moorings.

I decided to chat with Billy.

“Hi Fozz! I’m back to make you see in the world as a washed-out page of newspaper all grays and blacks, as dank as dungeon water, as meaningful as a block of concrete. Let’s get started!”

“Billy, seriously? I mean, I’m on the meds – “

“Ha! Doesn’t matter, I can win sometimes. You know like when you wake p in the morning and wish to just bury yourself in the mattress? Or during the day, when you can’t wait to go to sleep?”

“Yeah, it sucks. I want to grab you by the throat and stuff your ass into a jar full of rancid mayonnaise.”

“Fozz, you’re full of shit. How about when I bring along my buddy Anxiety? He never sleeps, he can wake you up in the middle of the night with his fingers, like rotten bananas, wrapped  around your throat.

“You start to worry about not having a job, money, your family, your parents, the house, the car. Oh, also that you’ll never GET a job again.”

“I’ll deal with him separately.”

“Big talker. One of my many talents is that I can make you sad or resentful of every card you’ve been dealt. That’s a good time for you lash out at your family and friends!

“Even pick a meaningless fight with Mrs. Fozz! My favorite though is when you ignore everyone – even your kids!”

“You’re a fucking fuck. You know that?”

“My specialty. I AM KING KONG! I AM GODZILLA! I AM ROSIE O’DONNELL!”

[Fozz Spawn Runs into the Room. Dispenses a hug.]

“Probably wants some money, or is softening up some bad news! Go pour a drink, alcohol is a depressive. And my best friend.”

[Mrs. Fozz walks into room, thanks me for my hard work.]

“Ha! Hard work when she’s the bread winner. I bet you feel like a man who is not a man, but a drag on everyone. Where’s that drink?”

“But, I am starting to feel a little better. I guess small things add up. Do you know where the door is? You piece of burning shit.”

“Come on, Fozz. [GRUMBLING LIKE BELICHICK] I like hanging out. I’m the wet slimy jellyfish in your underwear! An ingrown toenail exploding with pus!”

“You can go eat shit for awhile, Billy.”

Billy stomps off into the night, knowing he’ll be back. Maybe it’ll be a little longer this time.

Brethren and Sistren, I don’t want you guys to think I spend my time looking for razors, loaded shotguns and scimitars to end it all. Depression is just of part of living and it sucks. Guys, I know we’re taught to be tough and shake that shit off – but you can’t. If you think you have it, see a doctor or a counselor. Talk to a buddy. Just do something.