The Freudian Slip Cover

Dr. Goldfarb was a failure of a psychiatrist.  But, he refused to believe Dr. Woo’s theory as to why his patients only got progressively worse: 

His couch. 

Foo, on Woo and his metaphysical mumbo-jumbo, Goldfarb’s said for years. The couch was a regal, albeit clichéd, thing—a beautiful leather chaise with finely carved cabriole legs and brass trim. An antique bought at the late Dr. Spinoza’s estate sale. He didn’t want to believe it was coated with a century or more of what Woo called “emotional lint.”

But now, after nebbishy old Mr. Coen has leapt off the couch mid-session and slugged Miss Julie the receptionist, he found himself standing over the sofa with a bough of sage and a packet of incense, deciding which he needed to burn over the haunted piece.

“This is stupid!” he moaned throwing the offerings aside. With a sigh he plopped down—

And seethed.