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When our kids were little, I read them a story about a duck who chattered incessantly. One of our rugrats blurted out, "Boy, Chatter Duck sure chatters a lot - just like you, Daddy."

Out of the mouths of babes. Then and now, my motored mouth rarely stops running. Even when I'm alone. Maybe evenespeciallywhen I'm alone. Keeps me company, ya know.

As a shameless wind machine, my heart swelled with delight when I read that scientists had concluded that compulsively talking to oneself, though socially gnarly, actually benefits one's mental and physical health.

I regard column-writing as a glorified inner monologue. Most of the time, the act of writing liberates me to magically talk to myself while giving my melodious larynx a rest.

But I quickly become bored by the silence. Then I remember a wise professor's assertion - that reading one's drafts aloud helps writers create the "music" found within alliteration and assonance patterns. Goody, goody.

I've always listened very attentively to my blather when I'm alone, So, naturally, when someone is present, I'm insulted when they pay no attention to what I'm babbling on about.

My frustration never fails to make me utter a favorite phrase: "Ya know, if I'm going to talk tomyself, I'd prefer to be alone."

They think I'm kidding. Truth be told, I adore solitude. Like it or not, I rattle my gums uncontrollably. Always have. It's not a choice. It's a condition. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Formerly, during my long public walks, I would hold a non-functioning tape recorder up to my mouth as I chewed the fat with myself. I called it "faking taping." It saved face and eliminated the possibility of frightening some poor soul. Wasn't that sweet of me?

All would go well until some drunk nut-caseacross the way would start arguing with himself at super high volume. How dare he? The very idea! I can't hear what the hell I'm saying.

Ah, but awhile back, a modern miracle of sorts descended upon us compulsive yackers. 'Twasthe advent of the smart phone. Nowadays I can ramble on in public places without arousing any suspicion that I'm truly loony.

Like my non-functioning tape recorder, the smart phone is also turned off. (I'm afraid of the damn thing, okay?). But the fake phone connection does enable me to get certain points across to certain people:

For example, once I overheard a neighbor say: "Does that guy ever put his phone down? I think we should invent a nickname for him, ha-ha. How about Telly Tyler?

Someone else said, "I wonder if his phone is surgically implanted into his ear."

I looked their way, lowered the phone and said: "Hey guys, I know I'm on the phone a lot but it gives me a chance to show off my special talent: I can walk, talk, chew gum and mind my own business simultaneously. Jealous?"

I put the phone back to my ear, and swiftly swept into the afternoon. After that, neighbors left the loon alone.

My pathological liar cousin, Buzz, wrote that my "Chatter Duck" condition could be worse. Claiming that his dignified deaf-mute wife is "pathetically loquacious," the rascal wrote,"She never stops signing, I swear. Even in her sleep. Her hands fly in constant motion."

Cousin Buzz? King of hyperbole.

Why do all of my relatives consider self-chatter so outrageous? It's not against the law. They can't arrest you for that.

Tell that to Robert Durst, the guy in the news who was taped during a self-talk during which he casually muttered that he was a murderer.

Now hear this all you criminals out there: Avoid audible self-talks concerning your crimes.

As for law-abiding citizens, I urge you to talk to yourselves at length. It's really cathartic. But stay away from the support group known as Compulsive Talkers Anonymous (CTA). You won't get a word in edgewise.

After chatting with cousin Buzz, I'm convinced that my CTA meetings fare as even more frustrating than his imaginary support group, Pathological Liars Anonymous (PLA).

The last time I attended a CTA meet, some wisenheimer interrupted me during a phone chat with myself.

When I ignored him, he said, "I hate that faking phone of yours," then turned red-faced and added, "Did I say that out loud?"

- Steve Eskew

Retired businessman Steve Eskew received master's degrees in dramatic arts and communication studies from the University of Nebraska at Omaha after he turned 50. When asked to take over a theater column atThe Daily Nonpareilin Council Bluffs, Iowa, he began a career as a journalist. This led to numerous publications including theater and book reviews, profiles and Steve's favorite genre, humor writing. Check out his new humor blog,ESKEWPADES.