I must admit that I am not feeling very well. 

Recently, I have been waking up in the middle of the night, bellowing in severe pain. I plead to my dear wife to please take me to the local emergency room because I can no longer stand the pain that is coming from my foot or leg or back or neck. Even though we have insurance, no matter how much I plead with her, she never does rush me to the ER, and instead tells me to just go back to sleep.

In the past few weeks, I have also noticed that the sight of the colors yellow and red for some reason make me feel ill and grimace with the most pained expression you have ever seen. Not to mention, my wife has also noticed that I have been talking in my sleep — muttering such incoherent phrases about phone calls and insurance companies. (Editor’s note: Raymond’s wife says he does no such things and says he sleeps through anything.)

So what is wrong with me? 

Did I contact some sort of exotic toxin that is turning my mind to mush? Or do I have some sort of disease — the kind that has far too many consonants in its name to pronounce properly — that has caused me this insurmountable amount of continuous physical torture?

I have no idea what is wrong with me. But my wife has come up with her own theory. 

After a very thorough investigation, she has diagnosed me with “Louisiana Highway 90 Commuter Syndrome,” which she claims is the result of being brainwashed by advertising billboards for injury lawyers. 

I tell her that there is no way I could be brainwashed.

I mean that is the stuff of movies, like what happened to the soldiers in the “The Manchurian Candidate” or to Alex in “A Clockwork Orange.” And since I am neither a U.S. war hero turned Communist assassin, nor a young Englishman who fancies a bit of the ultraviolence, there is no way that I could be brainwashed.

But my wife Danielle (Editor’s note: Raymond’s wife is actually named Tina) states that is exactly what has happened since I began commuting back and forth to work here in New Iberia. 

My wife states that from Lafayette to New Iberia, drivers are bombarded with giant billboard after giant billboard for injury lawyers. Every possible injury scenario, from being involved in a 18-wheeler wreck to being hurt while working offshore, is covered in that stretch of road. Sometimes, the same lawyer will occupy both the top and bottom parts of the signs, or have one sign with another literally 50 or 60 yards behind that one.

My wife says I know those billboard numbers better than my own cell number. I tell her that is nonsense and I prove it by stating over and over again that my personal cell number starts with 900. (Editor’s note: Raymond’s personal cell number does not start with 900.)

So just how many of these subliminal messages have I unwittingly had programmed into my cranium these past few months? 

My wife Melissa (Editor’s note: Once again his wife is actually named Tina) says the 20-mile stretch between Kaliste Saloom interchange in Lafayette to the Port of Iberia exit in New Iberia has exactly 54 of these billboards. If you drive the opposite direction, there are a grand total of 61. That roughly comes out to 5.75 injury lawyer billboards for every mile on U.S. 90. 

My wife says that means people can’t escape them and their messages of injuries and promises of monetary compensation, and that is how I have been brainwashed. 

I say that doesn’t mean that I am making my injury up or that it is all just a figment of my imagination. I genuinely feel like I am injured and I would just like my own wife to support me in helping me get what is coming to me. Is it that so much to ask?

You would think someone’s spouse would support her injured soulmate in pursuing a lawsuit suing that 18-wheeler truck driver that crashed into him on his way home after having been working offshore on a platform for the past few months. 

(Editor’s note: Yeah, he is brainwashed.)

RAYMOND PARTSCH III is the managing editor of The Daily Iberian.