Should these acquaintances be forgot? Oh, yes.

And did Schuyler The Cat have a very merry Christmas? Oh yes, he did. The kids were awash in wrapping paper and packing peanuts and wonderfully fun and exciting – albeit affordable – gifts that continue to entertain them for hours. Mrs. Schuyler The Cat – otherwise known to you as “Schuylers Kitten”, got a shopping spree – although not a high-dollar shopping spree – at a local department store which she favors, which she then employed to buy a pair of riding slacks which tuck neatly into brown boots and a sweater of just-so cut and fit. The resulting effect of this outfit causes Schuyler The Cat to get watery eyes and have to sit down rapidly.

And I spent the day listening to records.

Pink Floyd (DSOTM), Miles Davis (Sketches of Spain, Kind of Blue), Stravinsky (Firebird, 1911 version, Cleveland Symphony, 1979), Frank Sinatra (In the Wee Small Hours), Kiss (Destroyer). Records. LP's Talking Machine Plates. If you don't remember or never experienced these curiosities: they are just like CD's, only bigger, black in color, look funny when they spin around on a turntable, and they sound delicious.

My wife found a very clean 1972 vintage Thorens TD-160 turntable on Ebay, snatched it up, wrapped it, and stuffed it under the tree. I have never in my life been so completely pleased by a Christmas gift, ever. Thank you, Mrs. Schuyler The Cat, my little kitten.

I trust and hope all Flysters had as fulfilling a Christmas as I. And it is in that spirit that I booted up this day, and remembered “oh, yes: it is Thursday, and shipments, entire warehouses full of morons have plied Prudence for advice this day. I shall see to them.”

Bloody hell. I have.

The originals can be found HERE.


Job-Stealing Friend – Are you male or female? Can't tell from your letter. No matter, in the end: you're still a shitheaded fucking asshole of elephantine proportions. If I was your “friend” I'd go after you with a goddamn baseball bat and slowly beat your sorry ass to death. And then I would spit on you.

Meanwhile, I hope you get the job, and this situation haunts you for all eternity. I hope you wake up in the middle of the night every night you work there in a cold sweat, screaming, after another dream of her creeping into your room with a syringe full of battery acid which she plunges into your brain, causing it to slowly expand until your head explodes in a bloody gush of gooey, bloody lather and pus.

Oh: By the way, first round interviews are tricky. I have found relaxation techniques such as meditation and yoga are very helpful when performed prior to interviews, like many other stressful events - you may want to look into those methodologies. There are a lot of helpful web sites with job interview advice available as well – since you are soon to be a “fresh out of school” graduate I have to assume your interview experience is limited, so be careful and patient, get that good advice rolling, and most of all: relax! Even though this is an important event, you need to find a way to get yourself calm and confident. When you set out to totally fuck up another persons' life with malice aforethought, it pays to be confident and calm, especially in the middle of that tricky interview (about the time the “tell me a little about yourself” questions go off) when drops of sweat run down your sternum and spine and you realize that she's probably waiting in the closet at your home, poised to leap upon you and cut your throat and stuff your worthless bloody fucking corpse in a freezer, you cheese dick.

Anyway, best of luck in your new career!


Accepting My Loss – Losing a parent sucks ass – so sorry to hear about your mother. And besides, it's a bloody shame you are such an idiot.

Now don't get all huffy – I don't mean that in a mean, nasty, way. I mean it in a...well, I guess I mean it in a mean nasty way after all. You carry the cards, bonehead. You are the dealer in these conversations. You are the one claiming to be comfortable while everyone you talk to is not quite aware how you are handling this thing, and even though you can just skim the deck and hand over the aces and kings, you keep giving everyone deuces and fours.

Too metaphorical? I go like that sometimes. Here: people think you're submerged in grief, you goddamn dolt. They don't understand you are moving on. You need to clue them to it. Hell, maybe you are still deep in grief, but I will assume you are stupid instead, because it's easier, and besides, it's fun for me.

So! We turn to the tried and true “Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Say O-Matic!” Please note that this is not to be confused with the ever popular “Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Do O-Matic.” Your results may vary. Not to be used in conjunction with prescription medication or during sexual intercourse. Do not operate heavy machinery while using the Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Say/Do O-Matic. Side effects include headache, nausea, revelation, and sudden uncontrollable bowel movements. You must be at least this tall to ride the ride. All rights reserved. Patents pending.

Disclaimers aside, here's how it works: I give you three optional things to say to the idiots you hang out with, and you pick one, even at random, then use it during conversations. Ready? Great! Let's fire this beyotch up!!!

1.) “Gee, Virgil (or “Pliny the Younger”, or “Tiger”, or whatever your fucking stupid hipster friend's name is), I feel that I am dealing with my mother's death pretty well, so please don't worry about hurting my feelings when we talk about my mom. It's okay, really.” (This is what a smart person would say, so I have to give more examples in your case, because...well...there you go.)

2.) “Listen asshole, I'm not six fucking years old any more, and I can deal with the fact my mom shuffled loose this mortal coil and all that, but what I absolutely cannot fucking stand is your kid glove, pedantic, asinine treatment of me, like I'm going to fucking break into shards and chunks just because we talked about her, so knock it the fuck off or I'll pin you to the street and double-fist your ass until you scream and beg me to kill you. You got that, dad?”

3.) “Oh look! A unicorn! I just love unicorns!”

And I'm spent! Ah, another day steering and guiding the lives of ginormously and profoundly lost people...ahh. Bliss.


Doting Dad – Jesus, the noise! What the hell is that noise? It seems to be coming from you...a massive cacophony of sound, like a thirty foot tall wall of...

...Whining! Yeah, that's it! Whining.

Go here. This is for you. It's something I wish I had invented, but I didn't. It's called the Give-A-Fuck-O-Meter. See the needle, all the way at the bottom? Get it? I thought. Let's move on.

A digression is in order: when I win the lottery, or inherit millions, or encounter whatever method I do when I find myself rich beyond the very brightest dreams of the greedy and the avaricious, I am going to go to every major city in America (for starters, anyway – I'll work up a deployment for Pac Rim and EMEA after a few stock splits) and open a store in each. It'll be a fairly small footprint retail establishment, since it will only have one product: testicles. Yes, I, Schuyler The Cat, am gong to open an entire chain of Testicles-R-Us stores coast to coast.

And when I do, you get your flailing whiny fucking ass in there and buy some, you simpering little butt-rubbing, nose picking, semi-pubescent blobbet of crotch cheese. May I recommend the “A-Cup” model for starters, because balls, you see, sometimes have a little horsepower to them. I fear you wouldn't be able to handle B's or bigger. You can grow into them later, after you learn to handle the power, the force, the sheer outrageous awesomeness that is testicles.

And check it, Sonny Jim: This is not a dis on your wife. Not at all. This is a dis on you and you alone. Yeah, I think her fears are unfounded and a little superior-sounding, but this is her child and that's how parents roll. They worry needlessly sometimes. We're good at it.

And here you are, and you said something intelligent. Fuck me! Intelligent? In a Dear Prudence letter? The walls they will come a-tumbling down, O Lord, for I fear the universe cannot abide this news! It's like a goddamn black hole or something, rolling through the milky way, eating everything in it's path and converting the matter it encounters into a misty spatter of subatomic particles! It's the end, the end I tell you!!!

What? Oh right, sorry – you said “If he ever wants to find out things about his biological family, I think it would be helpful for us to have had at least limited contact with them throughout the years.”

You said that. And all the while you are completely unaware that you answered your own goddamn questions weeks before you ever wrote this infantile goddamn letter in the first place.

What a fucking rube.

Oh! I forgot: Testicles-R-Us is a strong supporter (pun!!!) of “reduce, reuse, and recycle.” Since your wife obviously has some balls – probably the only ones in your household – maybe you should ask her to borrow them for a little while? They can be tricky, but she can teach you to use them, I suspect. Idiot.


Flowerless – Oh, la la la. I picture, in my head, scenes from movies that feature a moment in time when someone makes a mental connection, and comes to a remarkable realization. The actors seem to begin to glow – I'm thinking of Tom Hanks in “Forrest Gump,” and Alistair Sim in the old version of “A Christmas Carol.” Very different movies, but what Hanks' character realizes he can walk to Jenny's apartment – rather than wait for the bus – he seems to levitate, and the look of marvel and joy on his face is absolutely beatific. Same with Sim, when he awakens after the spirits have left him cowering and clutching the bedpost. An amazing awareness, it seems, comes over him, and he is transformed.

You sound so astonishingly and extraordinarily stupid that I suspect you have never looked like this, ever, in your entire life.

When I have rolled out all my Testicles-R-Us stores, and after I have made a million-willion dollars, I think I will create a series of facilities for people like you. They will be indoors, with lots of windows to see out (and for curious onlookers to see in), bright and cheerfully painted, furnished in soft, comfortable things like pillows and bean bag chairs. I will offer low-cost access to the families of people like you, and they can just drop you off for a few hours, like the ball pit in Ikea. Once there, you can just dodder around and look at the pretty things, safe and blithely happy amid the broad, cushioned spaces. There will be televisions which loop “My Little Pony” commercials endlessly in the background. Big stuffed teddy bears to cuddle and nap with. You can waddle to and fro, free and without a care, unless you have to make doody, and don't you worry about making doody, sweetheart: I'll have trained staff there to wipe your stupid fucking ass for you, brainless.

Sorry about all that nonsense above – it's how I deal with life. You make a good, unwitting source too, because you only understand about a third of it.

Listen up, now – eyes front, sit criss-cross-applesauce, and no giggles. Stop picking your nose. Listening? Got your thinking cap on?

Okay. Here we go!

He doesn't buy you flowers because he's just using you for sex.

Okay then!

Now you go on back to your Spongebob show, and the rest of the world will continue on it's course, racing around the sun and revolving away without a worry for you, as it is completely unaware that somewhere here in America, an unimaginably intellect-deficient 32 year old mother of a teenager has, for the first time in her entire life, come to an amazing and bona fide realization, and has perhaps gotten “that” look on her heretofore slack-jawed face.



I dunno about New Year's. It's not my favorite “holiday”, if one can call it that.

This year was a high-low affair for many: Bambam got the nod for the White House, and immediately set about disappointing everyone on the planet (I say he's coming on stronger for round 2, but I am an optimist who prefers this disappointment to any single day of the previous 8 years of mis-administration under The Psychotic Savant from Crawford, Texas), financially everyone took it in the shorts (except bank executives) and H1N1 got me and a few people I know, though none of us died. It's one of those New Years when all I can say is “hell, it HAS to be better than 2009. Right? I mean...right?”

I will ring in the new year by digging deeper into my freshly unpacked records collection and finding the gems I have waiting roughly 20-odd years to listen to. Dire Straits. Julie London. Count Basie. Jimmy Lunceford. Ambrosia. More Pink Floyd. Maybe Led Zeppelin, but I think I gave all those away in 1989. Jaco Pastoruis. I have about 400 or so, and I've yet to inventory them.

One last “huzzah” to a foul-weather year that can't end soon enough; me, Schuyler's Kittens, my talking machine plates and a bottle of Korbel or two, waiting for the fireworks and a cheerful – if not entirely understandable – Dick Clark to say “Happy New Year” for the 46th time in my life.

And so, in the spirit of the season: Happy Fucking New Year, Flysters!

May your worst day of 2010 be better than your best day of 2009!

May your paychecks all cash out as fortunes!

May the work you do be an adventure!

Don't catch your weenie in your zipper!

STC =^oo^=

A case of the "ho ho ho" to you, ho; or, the Xmas-Files.

In the spirit of the season, given that I have watched three or four different versions of “A Christmas Carol” (curious, they all end the same, except the musical) I have, for whatever reason, softened a bit toward this week's letter writers, rather than bristled. It's a cold place here in the Northeast, snowbound hearts are as frozen as the streets, and a good dose of charity and kindness is in order.

With that, I present a New and Improved Schuyler the Cat: Nice Guy Holiday Edition, V2.0.

And God Bless us, every one.

Original Dear Prudence letters can be found HERE.


Waiting in the Cold – Sisterly differences are a thing to behold, I say: I have 3 older sisters, and there was always a missing sweater that was “borrowed” or a boyfriend that was less than accepted around the house, and good lord above there was always a period happening – every day of every month – if my mother was thrown in the female fray that was my childhood. It was like living in a horror movie where all the women threatened to kill me every day of my life until I was 16, and then the threats slowed, yet never completely stopped...

My dad and I became professional ninjas – we could disappear swiftly and silently into the shadows and ride out these 28 day storms with skillz madder than the best TF2 team leader on a sniper mission.

Anyway, your problem here is a silly one, to outsiders anyway; a snippy spat of minor magnitude, although I understand you emit rising fumes over it, because I am fully aware that sisterz can do that to a person. Just as you, possibly unaware, are doing it to her.

I say you have a case of big-sister-itis.

Solutions are as simple as the diagnosis here, and revolve primarily around communication, a tool missing from many a sister's toolbox out there. In your case, a simple chat could solve it all, but beware – this little tiff could erupt into something bigger if you force your view. To her point, shipping was the alternative to a visit anyway, and let's face it: it sounds like you and hubby can afford the cost of freight.

I think you should let this little fire burn itself out like a well-used yule log and enjoy the spirit of the holidays, then do as she asks and ship the gifts after. It helps, I have found, to make part of the gift selection criteria include “small” and “shippable” as well as affordable and appropriate to the recipient: my grandson lives 3000 miles away in Canada, and shipping is a premium. No big heavy presents for him.

So de-Scrooge yourself, shrug it off, and enjoy the splendor and happiness of holidays, silly! Never mind you're a self-indulgent nit-picking fucking bitch of the worst goddamn kind. “Wah, my sister's a big lazy weenie and I can't take the fucking precious time to ship a gift to her!” my ass, you egotistical froth-spewing goddamn hag. If you were my sister I'd duct-tape you to your bed in your sleep and Nair your hair right off your empty fucking head. Run out of Pamprin, Princess Menses? What a snotty twatburger.

Merry Fucking Christmas.


Nix the Gift – Hmm, this has peril written all over it. Secrets and “don't tell this person that thing happened” are not good ways to begin a relationship. I wonder about the intentions of the gentleman involved, and more deeply wonder about the intentions of your woman friend.

Mostly, though, I wonder about your place in the scheme of things. It seems, my friend, that you have a few things of import to say that may not be any of your business, regardless your relationship with this woman. Even gently suggesting returning the gifts, or donating them to charity: these suggestions presume an awful lot about her relationship with this married man who may simply be a gift-giving type, and you making them states clearly to me that you are skirting the issue, which, I am afraid to tell you, is possibly jealousy.

Not that jealousy is a horrible thing: it's a natural response to humankind's possessive nature, and it frequently tells us there is something unsafe about a position we find ourselves in, and in your case I think you are receiving a very important message about the nature of this woman and any potential relationship you may have with her.

I mentioned the “gift giving type” above – we both know that's not what you are concerned about, don't we? I fear so.

So you find yourself here, but the situation is of your own making, believe it or not: your conversations with her have not been related to the right or wrong thing to do. Rather, you are suggesting actions based upon conjecture, which she could only interpret as negative insinuation, and there is no trust, no good basis for a new relationship, and this cannot proceed or end well.

Just tell that sleazy fucking whore to fuck off, and go find a new girlfriend. What, are you completely stupid? Guys like you make the rest of us look like fucking idiots: you get involved with a manipulative bitch with an agenda that likely includes sucking off married men in the church parking lot after services, then you act all wounded and weepy later and try to control the situation through manipulation of your own. like taking in a rabid dog then kicking it in the head when it bites you on your lazy stupid ass, Doofus McDickless. What a moron. Thanks for fucking things up for the rest of us, too.

Merry Fucking Christmas.


Appropriate Christmas Cards Only, Please – Oh, bother. This is just plain silly and an exercise in bee-in-a-bonnet poofery.

There is a focus in your letter upon two things: politics and appropriateness.

First, politically, the rift in stance between you and your wife's aunt in not only predictable, it is a statistical inevitability. If we take an example of a single nuclear family consisting of a mother, father, son, and daughter, we can likely find that together they present a somewhat singular front in Politics – that is, until the kids grow up and realize there are choices, and later in life you can have that same family presenting four discrete, separate, differing views on not only politics but each and every single itty-bitty issue politics reportedly represents. Makes for thrilling Thanksgiving dinners, yes it does!

So it may be obvious, but you will always have aunts and uncles and in-laws and cousins and whatnot who are “that” party, while you are “this” party.

Some people, methinks, carry it juuust a little too far.

Adding a line like that to a Christmas card is, indeed, inappropriate. Especially so amid a family where political beliefs are usually understood and out there for all to see – that makes it a bit of a jab at you in this case.

But – and there's always a “but” in politics – this is also a time of charity, and kindness, and forgiveness. The holidays are such a fine time for families to set aside their differences – even if some family members cannot do so. You and your new wife should simply smile and face the Christmas tree together and toast the good health and hopeful future the season holds, let this issue go, and have a safe and happy Christmas together, awash in the warmth of knowing you, at least, have done a kind thing.

Your New Year's resolution could be to send them a letter, stating:

“Dearest Aunt Edna and Uncle Charley,

You stupid fucking neocon poop-lickers: private healthcare is the most profound failure of human service in the history of homo sapiens. “Private” obviously translates to ”for profit,” you goddamn retarded fuck-knuckles, and “healthcare” cannot succeed when profit is the primary motivating factor: it's like paying someone in water for supporting a fire in the hearth: you get one or the other, you jerkoff dinglepuss asswipes. It sickens me to have you in my family, and speaking of sick: I hope you get truly sick and spend a little quality time enjoying your “healthcare”, while they deny your claim because hey: lung cancer isn't covered, loser, because you had lungs before you got sick, obviously a preexisting condition. Then you can pay the bills yourself – along with your continued insurance premiums – and then you have the privilege of losing your retirement and your house and everything you worked hard for. Total financial fuckholery, and the more stupid people on the planet – like you fucking monkeys – have bought into it while the rest of the country suffers. What a bunch of inbred, toothless imbeciles you are. Go shove Sarah Palin up your ass, you dickweedeaters, but do it gently, 'cause if you push too hard you're going to cause a rectal tear and have to go to the doctor, and your insurance company will deny you because let's face it: Sarah Palin is a preexisting up-the-ass condition on a good day, to be sure.

And don't ever come within a thousand yards of my home, or I will set my dogs after you, you goddamn fucking morons.

Love and kisses,
Bill and Betty.”

Merry Fucking Christmas.


Loki – you are a mischievous devil, you certainly are! This year my daughter will be getting the nesting “box in a box in a box” treatment: I wrapped and tagged and put bows on eight different sized boxes that she has to open to get to her big gift. Taped the heck out of them too. I cannot wait for her to open it! I a very silly daddy.

This, however, is my daughter I'm talking about. She's eight, and for the moment she's crazy about me (we'll see what 12 to 14 brings, won't we?). Your girlfriend's mother – a possible future mother IN LAW, I might add – is already disapproving, and you tread very deep and dangerous waters here, my friend. All that huff-puffery about financial standing and whatnot is just sauce for the goose she may be cooking for you, as well.

I certainly have to see your issue in a broader sense, too: early into a relationship may not be a good time to be a prankster, yes? But if you don't prank her, she may feel slighted by that, and there is your Catch-22: damned if you do, and damned if you don't.

This is a lighthearted thing, this goofy pranksterism, but you must read the terrain carefully before you forge ahead, you nutty little joker, you. Follow your girlfriend's advice on it, and move cautiously.

And may I ask: did you put a big greasy pile of fresh dogshit in the box you welded shut for her? I mean, it's a mother's prerogative to take exception to a boyfriend, but come on already: tell that fucking battle-axe to lighten the hell up or fuck herself. You say she cannot stand you: that implies she's completely in denial that her daughter, only hours before a visit, may have been straddling you cowgirl fashion wearing a latex and stainless steel bondage rig and screaming “yeah, baby! Twist my nipples like radio dials! Spank me!” Who does Mommy Dearest actually dis when she gives you the cold shoulder but her own daughter?

What a hideous slimy witch you have on your hands there, lucky boy. To think she may attend your kid's christening some day, as well. I'd rather shove bamboo barbecue skewers through my scrotum than spend a minute with a future Mother in Law like that...yet despite the fact she's your own personal future Marybeth Tinning-in-law, you do persist, don't you? What an idiot. Shake this bitch up or walk away a free man, lover boy, 'cause she ain't singing hymns of praise about you any time soon., regardless how you wrap her stupid fucking Christmas present. Idiot.

Merry Fucking Christmas.


Funny thing: speaking of Sarah Palin, I was just ruffling my son's hair on the way to get a cup of coffee, and noticed he was watching a cartoon about dinosaurs who were celebrating Christmas.

Dinosaurs. Christmas. Dichotomy? Hehehehe. Makes you want to go rogue, huh? And whatever happened to Road Runner?

Today is Thursday, the 24th of December, and I am expecting a house full of guests tonight: a simple little cocktail party, short lived, with snifters of cognac and Grand Marnier, a decent red wine, beer for me (Dogfish Head 90 minute IPA, or perhaps Stone Brewery Oaked Arrogant Bastard Ale), treats for the kids like popcorn balls and yummy lemon muffins, and simple little gifts to exchange. Then we open our traditional Christmas eve presents: we all get new pajamas for Christmas morning.

And then tomorrow morning the kids will be screaming at 6:00 to get up, get up, Santa was here! The carrot sticks and grape juice we left out is gone! He left this note, too:

“Dear R and C,

Thanks so very much for the carrot sticks and grape juice – that rascal Dasher got to the carrots before I could stop him and ate them all, but it's just as well, since he's out front with Rudolph and works hard. The grape juice was much appreciated – all that milk gives me indigestion.

I hope you like your presents this year, 'cause you've been VERY good!

Merry Christmas!

Santa Claus”

My wife got me something special this year, too. I suspect a Kindle, wrapped in a big box with a bunch of books and stuff in there for extra weight to trick me. I'm on to her.

Just so: Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Good Kwanzaa, and great happy days and nights to all of you and yours, from Schuyler the Cat to all of you.

Everyone, with me: “Merry Fucking Christmas!!!”


STC =^oo^=

If they were beer, I'd gratefully teetotal.

Okay already!

I got letters for the last two weeks, berating me for not publishing Room to Swing a Cat.

Wow: I apologize to those who actually read my stuff and had to wait, and frankly, I am humbled and honored that a few of you wrote to tell me to get off my ass and get something written. They like me! They really like me!

And off I go into Prudieland. Ready? Set? As Peter Pan said...”C'mon everybody! Here we goooooo...”

Original letters found HERE.


A Loyal Friend? – Watch soap operas much? Crap, dude, you need to take a quick trip out to Lifes-R-Us and pick out something a little less daytime dramatic in your size. Recap: your very good pal is a pukey fucking skankaraptor who is blithely banging the bejeezus out of his ex-squeezola while his poor unknowing wifey is home, barefoot in the kitchen, with two suckling children working her breasts, and he threw you into a big bonfire by using you as a fake alibi without asking so he could play a little slap and tickle on the side. To top things off, you are a profoundly cowardly wonderwuss of the worst magnitude. I just guessed that part, because you didn't bother to include it. I like to keep it real.

Well, Professor Pussy, you have some thinking to do. It'll be hard 'cause it means you have to attempt the use of what appears to be a puny fragment of atrophied marmot brain. Frankly I cannot imagine someone as stupid as you actually capable of scratching your own ass without a Boy Scout around to show you how, but we gotta try. I'll make it simple:

One, carry the lie forever and continue to do so for his future trysts. Sure, this is a viable option. Go for it. Seriously. Or don't. I don't know.

Two, you could buy, rent, or maybe grow your very own pair of fully functional big-boy testicles and tell him that next time he throws you to the goddamn wolves you're going to break your foot off in his ass right after you tell his wife the whole story. Note that with this option you could give the asshole a freebie for the lie he already force fed you...or maybe not. Your call. Which makes me think...

Three, and this is the best option: blackmail the bloody hell out of him. Follow him around a few times when he's off getting the strange and get some pictures, keep details and notes, and present it to him in a big manilla envelope with a threat: ask for some awesome sum of money “...or all this goes to Wifey Dearest, beyotch! Sweet ownage, fucker!”

Oh, and whatever you decide to do, please, please do not forget that you're an idiot. Good lord, man. Seriously.


Two Dads, Two Kids, One Problem – Congratulations to you! Buuut... Recap: you and your partner are adopting twins, and you want to raise the children in medieval fashion, rolling in their own urine and fecal emmissions and smelling like a pair of oily desiccating two-week dead-yaks, the precious little darlings. You also want to save the planet one little child at a time by using organic clothing made courtesy slave labor in Honduras, and, oddly enough, you want only real wood toys, as you are completely unaware that this wonderfully counterintuitive idea contributes to deforestation. Buy offsets, fast, or you might burn in hell with LW1's boy.

These issues are not the actual problem, either. The problem is you do not know how to use The King's own English to perform basic communication, or at least do anything but write to Dear Prudence. It appears you cannot get across, in some known human language, to your shower guests that gifts containing plastic, non-organic materials, diapers, or anything that was invented after 1647 is unwelcome and will be discarded posthaste. Or possibly traded for air freshener, because you will need lots and lots of goddamn air freshener, asswipe. Hey! “asswipe!” That's a pun! I so the funny, I is, truly truly. Asswipe. Huh.

Well, I'll fix it for you. Cut and paste this into your shower invites:

“Hi, everyone. Gerald and I, apart from possessing IQ's half a tick under arctic temperatures, were somehow left un-screened and thus are celebrating the impending adoption of formerly normal and healthy twin children, which we will immediately proceed to destroy with every action we take and word we speak, no matter what that action or word is, and no matter how we try, because we have “ideas”. Hoo, yes, we so totally do have ideas. We know fuck-all about kids, though. Anyway we are simply in heaven. Bring on the poop!

Meanwhile we need you to understand that we will throw or give your stupid fucking gifts in a dumpster if they do not meet the following criteria:


Thanks in advance, and we really look forward to spending a fun and exciting time together opening the gifts you bring us!

With much love,
Bob and Gerald, the two most fucked up parents-to-be ever!”

Poor kids. Better keep sharp or projectile-firing things away from them later in life. These kids will definitely go Menendez on your stupid freaky goddamn ass when they grow up, and no court will convict them.


Disappointed – I just. Well. Uh. Shit.

Good God, people! What, did a buncha big giant fucking UFO's invade Earth and drop off big millions of fucking crates full of goddamn retarded people all over the place? Geebus wept!

Oh, sorry about your mom.

All right, witless, here's the story: Mom died, you had foot all the bills, your favorite Aunt, Ms. Greedy McSteal, got lotsa donations but didn't share the booty. You want to know what to do.

You. Want. To. Know. What. To. Do. Ooooooo-key dokey.

Um, this might be hard, but I have to ask: what the bloody fucking hell do you WANT to do? I mean, does anything come to mind? Anything at all? You know, you need a mind for anything to come to in the first goddamn place. I'm having a yiddish moment. Oy fucking goddamn vey. I'm almost verklempt. Gimme a sec.

(heavy sigh, and a 1, and a 2, and a...)

Listen up – I have fired up the Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Do-O-Matic, just for you. Yee haw! Let's see what happens.

ONE: Call her and bust her ass on it.
TWO: let it go.

There it is! And I'm spent! I should get paid for this shit, really.


Christmas Dilemma – This is not a dilemma. A dilemma would be, like, you know, something meaningful, like running out of toilet paper after the effects of a big beefy-bean burrito with extra salsa and sour cream on it. Or realizing, just as you make out the words “Ford” on the grille of the car two feet from your head and closing, that you just ran a red light and you have no insurance. Or maybe waking up in an alien spacecraft with cold medical instruments stuffed into all your orifices and a little greenish-grey guy giggling at you every time you scream.

This? A dilemma? Recap: your parents have purchased a wonderful Jesus and are preparing to celebrate that misidentified pagan December holiday to honor his birth, even though theologians assure us all he wasn't really a Capricorn. You yourself have a somewhat less feature-rich Jesus but he's certainly good enough to meet mom and dad's standards for a Jesus, and your brand is easier on your budget and sex life. You also have a major tweak happening for that hunky, super-duper guy who you plan to wed someday, but he has no make or model of Jesus in his possession, because he is very odd and doesn't believe in Jesus, and probably not the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or any of the other fairy tales he's been told, but he can afford to put gas in the car because he's not beholden to tithe away his earnings. Weird guy, huh?

Root problem? He won't go to church this Christmas with you and your parents, and they will be likely to un-friend him for that, 'casue he's going to roast, screaming in eternal agony and damnation of the unforgiven, deep in the sulphury screaming bowels of fiery and furious hell itself. Or some sorta shit like that.

Solution? Dump him and get a new guy who has some kind of Jesus or other. You have little choice. Mom and Dad are going to condemn and banish any Jesus-less guys, so bite the bullet and go find yourself a good 'thumper, girlfriend. Besides, sounds like your Jesus is low maintenance and high forgiveness, and you can get a new guy – with some decent Jesus happening – for show, and do the wang-bang-zola with the atheist guy on the side whenever you feel the need for the good stuff.

And if you get caught, you can get all Edwards/Sanford and announce God will forgive you. Total bonus, Christian babe! So lucky.

And you know what? I am so glad I don't know you.


And it is here, my friends, that I leave you. Thanks all for reading, and thanks especially for those who gave me the massively so awesome ego stroke by writing to me to ask me to get back to work. Awesome, indeed.

Ciao Bellos and Bellas.

The Lord Giveth...never mind. Then there are these idiots.

Good day to one and all, the day before Thanksgiving, a quiet work day, and a catch-up day for Slate and Dear Prudence – the letters this week reek of last-minute tossed-together low effort wordsmith masturbation of the lowest order.

I'm in a dour mood – my other blog explains why.

But my therapy session is just starting, and I always feel better afterward.

So here we go.

Go Find the originals here first, read them, and then head on back here.

Frustrated – As I was reading your letter I said to myself “holy cow!” (pun), and “Jesus Christ!” (pun), and “good lord!” (pun), and “oh my God!” (pun). Recap: You, a woman of faith, and your extra super duper wonderfullest-ever boyfriend, a man of faith, signed up for different subscription plans for Jesus. Your subscription, the Catholic brand of Jesus, is understood by you to be free of restrictions regarding premarital sexual relations. His subscription, a more pious brand of Jesus, seems to be less tolerant of premarital sex.

Well, there it is. Your Jesuses are entirely incompatible. It's like this: You have the “Mac” Jesus, and he has the “Windows” Jesus. Note: if you'd both gone open source, maybe with Ubuntu Jesus, you'd be slamming each other off the walls like sex-starved and crazed animals. Just sayin'.

This is a tough thing to go through, but fortunately for you both the solution is simple: one or both of you has to shop for a new Jesus. He could follow your Jesus and start slamming it to you like a bitch wolf in heat three times a day, or you could adopt his brand and slam your legs (and mind) shut until wedding night, where you might both have to pretend you are a virgin, for the Bibo sez “a marriage shall be considered valid only if the wife is a virgin. If the wife is not a virgin, she shall be executed.” (Deuteronomy 22:13-21). It would be a shame to clamp your legs shut and do without for all that time, only to be put to a glorious death as a whore on the greatest day of your life. Sigh.

Props to August Alley, wherever he may be.

Meanwhile, for you both there are many options from which to choose which may fit your lifestyle, budget, and libido requirements; from non-denominational Jesuses that are pretty open minded about most everything, including same-sex marriage, bestiality, and drug use; to strict, unforgiving Jesus models that range from the basic hellfire-and-brimstone hard liners like they inbreed in South Carolina, to the rigidly, complex and completely intolerant “God Hates Fags” brand of Jesus at Westboro Baptist. Note you have to be a black belt in Jesus to buy a subscription to this one. Very elite.

There are other options as well. There are a few different models of Mohammed available – the Sunni and Shia' variants are particularly popular, although they spend a lot of time killing each other because one prays with hands at their sides and the other holds their hands clasped, which is obviously something worth killing and dying for. Additionally you might have that whole veil and second-rate citizen thing to deal with, but that's a small matter so long as you and your beloved man are on the same page.

Kali can be had for pretty cheap these days. Not a big favorite, and I believe the Thugee are illegal (although tolerated), but I hear there's a lot of exciting travel involved. They are pretty cool with murder, but I'm not certain about their stance on premarital sex. You'd better do some research. No fun, killing people all the time but remaining celibate. Like having half a party.

Expensive but still viable is the Thetan experience. There's no Jesus here: the deity is apparently based on some character in a science fiction book, but some famous people swear by it. It's probably going to become illegal in some countries, though, and the business model for this particular Jesus-replacement therapy has suffered a few setbacks that standard models of Jesus have not: invest carefully, and you'd better like Tom Cruise a lot, because he will be up your ass dancing and giggling like a fucking dillweed all day and night. Crazy shit.

I read of the Flying Spaghetti Monster as well. Seems to me this one isn't completely serious, though, although it's every bit as as believable as the standard Jesus sales pitch.

And so you see: each of your Jesuses must come into compatibility before you can fuck your boyfriend. You both just get on out there and test drive a new one, posthaste.

Note: Jesus and Jesus brand iconography are not responsible for personal issues such as psychosis or other mental instabilities; delusions of grandeur; murderous hatred for competing Jesuses, Jesus supplements, and Jesus substitutes; makes no claim of basis in fact, only a series of wildly disagreeing theories and speculation based upon a thousand different versions of a “bible” or a “Torah” or a “Koran” or a plethora of other books, literature, tracts, cave paintings and oral histories, real and imagined. Side effects of agreeing and disagreeing upon a brand, make, model, flavor, or version of Jesus has caused entire countries to fly into a hysterical, pious rage and go to war with one another, causing the loss of millions of lives over the years. Some restrictions apply. Your experience may vary.

P.S. Why don't you just go get a new heathen boyfriend, or a Catholic one, so you can fuck him all this time? Way easier, because I fear your current one is already ruined, more then likely.


Stop Snorting - Know what I just read? Yeah, me either, but it seemed to say this: “Blah blah otherwise sweet blah blah! And this blah and that blah and she blah snort blah blah...” Gee whiz, too. How almost brutally uninteresting, this recycled, we've-already-heard-it-before dogshit office-worker letter. Thanks, Prudie. We're all on the edge of our seats here, really. Snore. Or should I say, snort. I funny, really I funny.

Recap: You have a job. You have a coworker. She makes snorting noises that are, evidently, worse to listen to than flying hordes of screeching vomiting demons from the bowels of hell itself howling curses straight out from the evil mind of the Dark One himself upon your soul in your worst fucking nightmares. You want to make her stop, because you are awesome and snortless, and she's not, and this, like, sucks.

Here's my recommendation to Prudie for a letter for next week: “Dear Prudie: there's this majorly manipulative slagpile of an ugly-ass bitch out of hell in my office who thinks her shit doesn't stink, and she hates the fact that I'm like totally prettier than she is but when I get all nervous and shit I make a snorting sound. She's so totally stupid that she thinks I'm, like, unaware of it, although I have so known my whole entire life, or since my BFF in 5th grade Angela told me about it, that bitch. Anyway, this office chick: can I like massively beat her to fucking death with a hammer or something without going to prison?”

So, you want to be the bearer of bad news couched in a presumptuously helpful message and educate this unprincipled and vile little creature? Fine, you snot.

You want to know what to tell her? Great! Let's go to the Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Say-O-Matic!!! In case you need to review: I give you three optional things to say to Snortzilla, and you pick one, even at random, then go tell her.

Ready? Great! Here are your three choices:

1.) “Jennifer (or whatever her name is), I wanted to bring a small matter to your attention. It's not a big deal, really, so you shouldn't be embarrassed about it, but I am concerned for you and your image here at work. You see, you make a sound sometimes, a kind of snorting sound, and I believe that even though it's probably involuntary and a nervous thing it might make people uncomfortable when you do it. I say this not to be mean, but to help you understand that you do it, and maybe if you are cognizant of it you can control this sound and perhaps stop doing it.”

2.) “Jiminy Fucking Hell, you sound like a poleaxed warthog trying to blow a fucking snot bubble out it's crinkly ass, you disgusting little puke licker. Stop it already with the goddamn snorting sounds, okay? Oh, and why don't you just quit? You obviously aren't good enough to work around me. Bitch.”

3.) “Hi boss. I would like to tender my resignation straight away, because I have discovered – by reading Schuyler The Cat's DP blog, no less – that I am a controlling, foul, manipulative, impatient, malicious, invasive, nasty-tempered, soulless, egotistical bitch of the worst possible kind, and I cannot in good conscience commingle with otherwise kind, charitable, and good human beings because I may attempt to fuck up their lives all day and night endlessly because I have this belief that I am better than them, even though I am really just a cabbage-headed twat-for-brains. It was a pleasure working with you, although you cannot reciprocate that statement. I'll clean out my desk immediately.”

I'd tell you, but maybe I'll just snort it to you instead: may I recommend you pick #3?


The Good Son – What kind of a worthless, ungrateful, layabout whelp are you, anyway? You're not “The Good Son”. You're the “Good-for-Nothing Son”. Man, what a jerk you are.

Recap: Your dad, a pretty good guy, has been jobless a long time. His ex-employer was a dickwad and won't give him a reference. Your dad – a man who raised you, cared for you, suffered for you, and has done everything he can his whole life just to make your life better – wants you to pretend to be his ex-boss and give him a good reference to get a job. Now, you're wondering if...


Wait a minute. He what? Fucking hell, he what?!?! You're kidding! Oh man, what a jerk he is.

Desperate times or not, there's a phone call coming to your future if you do this, and it's a beaut:

THEM: “Hello Mister Pigglestien.”

YOU “Uh, er, hello Mister Venalbottom, I have been expecting your call.”

THEM “So, Mister Pigglestien; says here Bob was a talented hyper-array nodal parametric arc-ray conglomeratizer. How was Bob at operating the Hillsensworth 2000lxi Mk III Isometric Cathode Pseudo-plastination Array? Could he operate the capillary pre-scintillation oxy-flux dosimeter without causing isotopic degeneration of the hypergyros?

YOU: “Uh, yeah, he sure could, yep. That's what he was best at, really, you know, I'd say. Yes.”

THEM: “Great! Hard to find a good one. So how did he control the megaloplasmic deresolution of peri-elastomeric isotopic fissures?”

YOU “Uh, he used, uh, you know, the...uh...thingy and did, you know. Stuff.”

THEM: “You don't know much about hyper-array nodal parametric arc-ray conglomeratization do you, Mister Pigglestien. I suspect you are a big faker, too. I am calling the police, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, the IRS, the NRA, the AFL-CIO, MADD, Cirque du Soleil, and the Secret Service, and we're going to put you and Bob away for a very, very long time, you son of a bitch.”


And then you wake up, dripping with sweat, paranoid, wondering when, oh God when will it happen for real?

I just fucking crack myself up.

Look, dude: you know the risks and so does he. I might not be entirely above trying something like this, provided it kept food on the table and paid the rent, but damn; it's risky, and just creepy that he asked you to do it. Mostly creepy, actually. I say if you're game, flip a coin on it.


Next-Door Nightmare – Gee, this is a real nasty one. Big goings on here, high-falutin' stuff, huh?


Yawn. Come on, Prudie team: can't you hire better writers? What the hell? I'm falling asleep here, goddammit. Short holiday week got you off balance? You get one of your kids to do this one? Dig it out of the waste bin and recycle it from 1982? Jeez.

Heavy sigh. All right: I'll start over.

Next-Door Nightmare – Recap: your neighbors are a passionate, piquantly verbose couple who frequently participate in sincere and frank exchanges of views with one another, often employing somewhat florid, objectionable language. These energetic exchanges are accompanied occasionally by the sound of things breaking. Also: they have a baby.

Golly. So original. I mean, it may not be interesting at all, but it sure is bland as hell.

My thrilling response to this thrilling, original missive:

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is customary for neighbors to hear the sounds of disputes, as people will tend to have disagreements. These can be very heated and frequent, and of concern to a neighbor should be the well being of both participants. Caution and care should be used when considering intervention, specifically given that some couples consider this activity to be normal, but if these disagreements seem violent to the point of abuse, intervention is certainly called for.

Extra care should be employed when there is an infant involved. When adults argue, responsibility for the issues which drive their disagreement is total; when an infant is involved and an argument includes crashing and breaking sounds, the responsibility is shared with neighbors who are in an objective way able to intervene and offer protection to said infant. This happens when the instinct of a neighbor exceeds the desire to “not get involved” or to “let the couple sort it out” and extends to the safety of the child. In these cases, a call to police, or to Child Protective Services, is certainly in order.

Best regards.

Now I am going to take a nap. That is, if I don't fucking yawn myself to death first.


There! I feel MUCH better!

Happy turkey and punkin pie and mashed 'taters and green bean casserole and cranberry sauce and beer to one and all – huzzah!

STC, out. =^oo^=

The Obscenity Crisis: Tales of the Aberrant and Obtuse

Perhaps it was that my collar is too tight on my shirt. Perhaps I need a diet rich in fiber and leafy green vegetables. It could be, I think, that I am already bored with my new job.

I dunno. Something.

One thing's certain. These people are magnificently fucked up:

Here's the originals at: Dear Prudence.

Won't Say "Cheese" – This is so sweet! A holiday card, all the family members – over- and under-dressed in the same sitting – cramped up in the way-too-close pose, plastered smiles that seem to say “!” Ah, family, traditions, holidays.

Then a screeching, snotty goddamn asshole like you lands amid the family space like a giant goddamn bird dropping making a wet plop in the potato salad in the middle of a picnic.

Let us recap: In-law's holiday family tradition includes a portrait of all family, including those who marry in. You are a real bitch, and don't care about them, their tradition, lives, name, or anything else – just you. You want to decline the photo op because these people are not your family, and it just goes without saying they are beneath you and your superior breeding, intellect, and forethought.

What a catch you must have been! And hey: nothing says “Happy Holidays!” like a fucking bitch like you deciding that what a family does – a tradition that goes back a ways, you say – is simply not up to your high standards because you are not a member. You must be a total blast at reunions.

They don't need “a bigger lens,” by the way, unless it's to fit your ginormously shitty attitude. What they need is a bigger foot to break off in your ass.

Oh, forgot to say: Congratulations on your marriage, sweetness. Odd, though, that hubby-dearest hasn't become Mr. Baseball Bat with you. He must be a saint.

Now get the hell out and leave this poor family alone. I mean it. You can just get the marriage annulled real quick and leave, and nobody will think of you ever again, except to when they have those dinner table conversations they will certainly have over the years: ”Hey, Jimmy – remember that vicious, manipulative, obnoxious, vapid, horror movie of a goddamn bitch you married?” “Yeah, Bobby, I remember her. What was her name again? Oh, right: it was Kali, Goddess of Destruction. What a hag. I must have been pretty stoned. Pass the peas.”

Oh, a little truth-telling for grins: these people are not who you married, true, but they are who your husband has spent his entire life with prior to you body-slamming your snide and psychotic jackass self into their formerly-uninfected-by-a-total-bitch lives. How awful it must be for them to have to tolerate you. I am surprised they asked for you to be in the picture at all. At least they have a sense of propriety. Me, I would have asked you to cheerfully go fuck yourself.

Now, we're only hearing one side of this, aren't we. From what I read, you made no mention whether they are gigantic assholes like you. You didn't say if they were controlling, overbearing shitheads like you, either. Guess we'll never know, and in the end we won't care any more than they will after you leave. Have you started packing, by the way? I'll wait.

Meanwhile, I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire, you haggish, repulsive goat, and Happy Holidays, Jingle Bells, Good Will Toward Men and all that be damned, because you are, to steal your own words, “making me sick and filling me with anger.”


Bewildered Wife and Mom - “Bewildered” is absolutely and totally not the right name for you. Wrong, wrong. I'm thinking “Retarded Wife and Mom,” or “Stoned Wife and Mom,” or “Wife and Mom in Some Kind of Fucking Coma or Something.”

Really? I mean, really? Hoo, boy let's recap: long story short, your new bestest-ever husband and life-partner extraordinaire Mr. Right himself Photoshopped pictures of his stepdaughter (from a prior marriage) to “see what she looked like naked” and you have questions? Insult to injury: you have daughters.

I repeat: really? Questions? Would you extinguish a fire by throwing a bucket of kerosene on it, you gobsmacked spittlebrained dumbass?

As if The Very Christ Himself Nailed to the Cross Right in my Living Room, this is awful. Here's a question: how is it your itty-bitty little malformed pea-sized brain can operate sufficiently and fire enough axons for you to exhibit more than autonomic functions such as shallow breathing and a slow, irregular heartbeat?
Bloody hell - it doesn't end yet, either. The coup de gras was this – you actually asked: “Am I being paranoid?”

Better question: “Am I Forrest Fucking Goddamned Gump in a woman's body?”
How is this guy still within a thousand yards of your daughters, you puke-witted numbskull? I mean, you, all by yourself, we surmise, actually wrote the words “...the bond between a parent and child is sacred”, but you also show every sign of being utterly incapable of understanding what the hell it means. Did you simply copy it from Cosmo or People?

There is so much amazing wrongness going on here. I am mentally awash with disturbing and horrifying visions of how this can end, and a single, simple response is not possible. Not my strong suit anyway – I don't get warmed up until page 4 of a short note – but still, I'll try.

First, you need to get as far away from this motherfucker as possible, now. Just go. Get the pictures on disk and take them to a lawyer while you're at it. The stepdaughter was likely over whatever legal age (you said the shots were from her wedding day, I have to assume...and what a weird fucking wedding THAT must have been) so he hasn't done anything illegal...that you know of...but it'll help if you end up in a courtroom during the divorce, especially when you speak, which will confirm the fact that despite all evidence you have an IQ somewhere measurably below the “nominal” bar, you evidently reproduced on purpose and have girls to worry about, as if enough blood ever gets into your brain in order for you to worry in the first place.

After: put your children up for adoption, because you are entirely and grotesquely too goddamn stupid to raise them. Seriously, if all this happened, and you need to ask these questions, it's not a stretch to assume you are lacking the mental and emotional capacity to do the things required to protect, care for, and properly raise your children.

And please, PLEASE get your tubes tied. The world is populated by the likes of Sarah Palin, Octomom, Balloon Boy's folks, and Carrie Prejean: we don't need any more mentally bereft, clearly daft people like that blithering about this planet when they can easily be avoided through a simple and very safe surgical procedure.


Note: This is getting scary. I don't read the letters then comment on all of them – I take them one at a time. These two are clear and compelling evidence the human race is failing at evolution, and that's not a course you take. Supposedly it just happens. Oh, woe.


Undying Love – like the previous letter writer, you are not named correctly.

We'll get to that in a second. Short recap: you work in a non-medical capacity in an Oncology office and have the hots for a terminal patient. You want to have a relationship with him. You wonder if this is a good idea, not from the “I want to date a guy who as a mortal curfew” standpoint, 'cause there's nothing wrong there...mostly, but from a “is this ethical in the professional sense” standpoint. Also: You want to email with him, but don't know what to say, because “Hi Jim, it's me, Becky, the receptionist at the Doctor Melanoma's office. How's that big-ass inoperable glioma of yours doing?” is probably not a good opener.

I could spend days talking about the things that are and are not right about a starting relationship with a terminally ill person. Hopes can be raised and dashed, time can be short or long, and like I said, your handle, “Undying Love” is obviously a misnomer. If there is any accuracy in his diagnosis at all he will die.

Wait. Then again, so will I. And so will you. He's just got a shorter wick, that's all.

In the end I can't see any reason in the world, and at the same time can see a million reasons, why someone shouldn't get involved with a terminally ill person.

It's your call. Let's face it, you know how this story will end: you work in an oncology office, right? One day a patient misses an appointment, and in rather short order no questions need to be asked.

Oddly, I think you're crazy, and then again I don't.

As for ethics: life happens. If your office has a policy, then no. If your office doesn't have a policy, then off you go. I am thinking of that old one liner about “rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic,” but hey: maybe you're a decorator at heart. Good luck.


Extremely Concerned – One simple issue, one simple answer. Recap: Turkey Day is at your place this year, and both families are coming. Your uncle, a latter day Yosemite Sam, who you did not invite but is coming anyway will be bringing a gun, because he brings guns places. You want him to leave the weaponry at home, and fear he won't.

Huh. The issue is pretty clear, but I am baffled why the answer isn't. We will go to the Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Say—O-Matic. Here's how it works:
Schuyler The Cat gives you three options of what to say and you pick one, even at random. Then you call the gun-nut uncle and say it to him.

And awaaaaaay we go!

Option 1.) “Hi Uncle Sam. I am really looking forward to seeing you this Thanksgiving. Thing is, I know you like guns and all, but we are really, terribly uncomfortable with the idea of having guns in our house. If you must carry one, I'm afraid we cannot have you to our home for thanksgiving this year. I hope you understand.”

There they are, three fine options! So off you go - now: make your choice!

Huh? What do you mean, only one? Lemme look here.

Well I'll be. There is only one.

Gee. Wonder what THAT means, you fucking genius.


I am fine as a fiddle and right as rain and firing on all eight cylinders and full of beans and standing tall and all that crap after my miraculous survival of H1N1, which wasn't actually miraculous at all, 'cause it was, you know, “the flu.” Bad flu, but there it is.

And so I enter this weekend ready for the symphony tomorrow: Eroica, one of Beethoven's more powerful pieces. No other exciting things, save a trip to the store for sundries and time with my kids while my wife studies.

You know: normal weekend.

There you go.

Cheers all,

Schuyler The Cat =^oo^=

John 8:32, you now, from that book. Yeah, THAT one...

“The truth shall set you free.”

One of my favorite biblical sayings, that one, because there's nothing quite so liberating as finding out people think you're an asshole, or your wife/husband/lover thinks you suck in bed, or you have halitosis. Liberating! It sucks, but hey: I know!

Having said that, I have long suspected some people need to be set free because they are far too stupid to be left in their current state. These people need, in my view, to be liberated from their stupidity. All the better to move on, likely to an entirely new and enlightened level of stupidity.

I possess the instrument with which I can set these poor souls free today. It is called a Big Fat Mouth and a bad attitude. Read up, buttercup – these lot are no better than DP ever offered, but God knows they're at least as bad.

Originals are found here:


Plain Jane – Having a little trouble hearing you over the sound of violins playing the sad, sorrowful dirge that is the dull and wholly implausible soundtrack to your vapid, unattractive life. Let's recap: You think you are pretty as a bag of lunch meat. You are unaware that most of the world's population fits this category, because Cosmo and People says you are ugly since you haven't been seen at parties with Paris and Lindsay and Brittney and all the other “perfect” girls. Your friends want you to go out, find a guy (any guy, oh for the love of all that's holy, PLEASE just find one) and get yourself fucked like a rabid animal so you'll stop whining and annoying them with your patheticfulness, and now you have gone to Dear Prudie to ask – probably for the hundred-thousandth time in your pitiable, sad, horrible life – whether you are dogmeat or dreamcake, as if these are the only two choices.

Truth is, you are probably not stupid, although you are acting like it. I say this because as I said above; the truth will set you free. So how do you like this freedom?

Aaaaanyhoo. Sorry you're so gawdawfully ugly. Must suck for you. The rest of us, beautiful and fresh as spring dew, are all partying with A-listers and posing for GQ/Vanity Fair (I personally prefer to do GQ covers, myself. I am so goddamn handsome) and having terrific sex with all our supermodel friends all the time, and we have no pity for pathetic horror-movie lookers like you. I have to rush with my answers today, in fact: J-Lo called and wants to drop by and have a hot tub with me and Denise Milani (who is built like every other girl in the world, you know) and Bar Rafaeli and Megan Fox and a host of other so-so average-looking girls. That Megan, she's SO smart, though! Makes up for her plainness.

I'd ask you to join, know. Your ucky-yucky looks, all that. Too bad for you.

Now here, in actual reality land, we have stretch marks and sagging skin and veiny legs and “plain” looks and most of us still seem to operate within a level of contentment that isn't debilitating to the degree that we hide behind heavily adjective-laden depictions of ourselves as less than superstar material. We revel in our plainness, it seems, although it's hard to find someone who buys into the commercials from Dove wherein “normal” women are used to advertise their product, because...well someone sold us a bill of goods that stated we are required though human prerogative to be better looking than we are, and we occasionally fall for it.

Um. Who sold it to you? Rhetorical. Never mind.

Anyway, to answer the questions you already know the answers to – but refuse to listen to because it gives you the right to be the one and truly only Plain Jane and avoid the responsibility of having to deal with everyone else's shit and wallow in your own:

How do you find out? Stop asking. Seriously. Believe it, don't believe it, all this asking is a waste of your and everyone else's time and it's likely driving everyone you know out of their fucking skulls.

Does it matter whether you are objectively attractive? You tell us, sweetie, because you seem to be the only one so deeply affected by your looks. So: does it?
Now if you'll excuse me: Marissa Miller dropped by and is once again begging to be seen with me in public somewhere. She's, you know, fairly good-looking (but my God - all those freckles!), although I'd rather be seen with Lucy Pinder, but at my age I can't be too choosy, and besides Lucy's giving my extremely handsome neighbor a naked hot oil massage today.


Holiday Hell – Gee, nothing can fuck up a family gathering faster than a gathering with family, huh? Recap: for 7 years your sister in law has done everything wrong at Thanksgiving, because your family has always done everything right. There can be only one, for the universe has decreed there shall be only one, and lo, you are The One, and that is as it should be and ever will be, lightning and thunder and big scary laughter reverberates in the hills and all that dramatically ambiguous B-movie noise. Aaaaanyway, you want to dip on her yearly shitty failure of a stupid sloppy not-fun Thanksgiving in favor of a flawlessly prepared and perfect party hosted by yours truly, because let's face it, you (being The One and all that) are better than her. You are on the fence, also, about your own ability to make a decision which any 5 year old could make regarding having your own shindig, this despite your lack of confusion at the perfection of all that is you.

Wow. This is really all very stupid.

First, I'll skip to the answer for your question: Should you plan your own turkey day extravaganza? The answer is: who gives a shit? Do it, don't do it, it's academic at this point, really. You are going to do it anyway, so quit pretending to hem and haw and agonize over it as if your SIL (who probably already despises you) is going to despise you after, no matter who you ask for permission, even Dear Prudie, which is almost like asking maybe Gandhi or God or something.

BTW – I asked my best chum Megan (you know, Fox, who came by to sit in the glow of my supernatural good looks and discuss philosophy) her opinion, and she said “uhh, I dunno.” She's soooo smart!

Next, the problem isn't your SIL's party or their family or your family or kids or loud goddamn televisions or what fucking time you eat dinner. It's you. I had an acquaintance who once said “gawd, I HATE going to my in-laws for Thanksgiving.” When I made some placatory noises and mentioned something about in-laws sometimes being hard to handle she said “no, no no no. I absolutely LOVE my mother in law. But she puts fennel in the stuffing.”

“You can't stand her, huh? I asked. “Um, no,” she finally said. “Is it that obvious?”

It was, and it is. This sort of dissembling is usually best reserved for tweenaged girls, when discussing their hatred for the other tweenaged girls 'cause they get to hand out with cuter boys.

Now shoo, little asshole, and go plan your perfectly perfect Thanksgiving perfection party, and enjoy the fallout. It'll be great, when SIL learns The Truth! Why, it'll set her free!


Feeling Like an Accomplice – Indeed, I could understand why you would feel like an accomplice, but you're not, and the truth is you are well and truly fucked, 'cause there's no good way out of this one. There's freedom for you. You aren't the stupid one this time though: she is, and maybe he. Let's review: Doctor Drillsalot is your employer, and his wife works there too, but she is double dipping on the billing and committing insurance fraud because, you know, those dentists never make the big bucks like plastic surgeons do. You know about this little dash for extra cash, and cannot un-know what you know. Anyway, your gut says “turn her in” and your heart says “this is going to suck a donkey's giant puckered hee-hawing butthole, ''cause that's one nice dentist.”

No matter what, you cannot stay there unless you are cool with the whole “illegal” thingy, which you aren't. Best bet? Gather real and incontrovertible evidence of this fraud, hand it to Commander Lidocaine, and walk away. What, you still want to try to save your job? Hah! Never happen, sister. Anyway, this leaves him the option of knowing the truth (see, you're about to set him free. Isn't that special?) and also the responsibility of setting things straight.

There are no good alternatives. Sorry. Freedom is awesome, though!


Strike Out – Gimme a second. Can't stop laughing. Be right with you.

M'kay, let's recap: your husband is a stereotypical scentless brain fart on legs who likes sports and generally acts like a mouth-breathing knuckle-dragging regressed male of the species in your presence. You, on the other hand, are the perfect fucking confluence of Mother Theresa, Wonder Woman, Indiana Joan, and SuperGirl incarnate, and you want all the attention and respect that being completely and unequivocally fucking awesome demands.

How stupid is this? Answer? Veeeery stupid.

Let's first answer your question: How can you let him know that it means a lot to be able to share your feelings and experiences with him? Gee. What a tough question. Lemme see.

“Honey, it means a lot to be able to share my feelings and experiences with you.”


“Listen up, chintz-dick: you want to put that thing of yours in any orifice of my body, you better fucking act like a caring and attentive husband, 'cause otherwise I am shutting you off like a goddamn switch, and you get to hump your fist for the holidays. Pass the goddamn potatoes.”


“Here. This is from my attorney. You go get your own attorney. Move out, meantime.”

Whatever – I think a trip to see your local Dr. Phil is in order, because this dunderheaded dipshittery is just as vanilla and boring and bland as every other couple of an age: he just “doesn't understand” what's important to you any more, and you “feel so distant,” and everything just became...whatever, fill in the blanks, Ms. Real Housewife of Everywhereville.

Wanna fix it? Go on a romantic cruise. He's still disenchanted? See a counselor. He won't go? Get that lawyer. He either cares or he doesn't, and you either know it or you don't, and regardless the fact that even if what you said happened was exactly the case, which means he's being an enormously assholish dickhead, regardless: you seem to be the one who'll need to take action, unless you can peel him away from the game long enough to get a consensus ad hoc.

And so you are on the path to set about finding the truth. Are you ready to be set free? Have a nice journey, Moon Beam.


Turns out I DID have H1N1 last week, which is actually kind of cool, and actually not. Cool, because I lived to tell the tale and am now chock-full of ready and able antibodies, so when the not-cool happens I will be there for my sick kids and wife (she's a student too, and headed into finals), who will in most likelihood fall ill any day now. Tick tock, tick tock.

That was one nasty-ass flu, too. With the exception of Rubella at age 19, I don't recall ever being that sick in my life. 10 days since it started, I still have a cough that juuuuust won't quite go away.

Ah, well. Always knew I was a swine. Oink.

Until next week,

Ciao. =^oo^=

Everyone is a genius at least once a year. Yeah, right.

I am unwell.
Sigh. I am being a big goddamn baby about it, too. I have the flu. Could be H1N1, could just be old-fashioned “influenza”, but damn, I am really sick.

Started Monday evening, during the span of one conference call: from fine fettle straight into chills and fevers and coughing and sweating and all the flu stuff by the time I hung up.

It is now Thursday night, a little after 10:00 PM. I am in bed typing away on my little bitty Acer Aspire and I can feel another wave coming. It just never ends.

I'm such a goddamn baby.

Seriously. I dodder around the house like a little old man looking for his lost dog. I stare at food with total revulsion and say (like a five year old) “I am so hungry,” and don't eat a bite. I have that pathetic, blameless little cough – not that big fat productive phlegmy hock-up-a-pound-of-bloody-mucous kind of cough, more like the prissy stupid apologetic one you cover up in church at your niece's christening.

Now on the cool side of things, my voice, normally on the tenor side, has gone a combination of both a totally radical out-of-tune tuba and Barry White on me. I leered at my wife in the kitchen tonight and said (about 6 octaves below middle C) “yeah, baby, oh yeah. You know I love you, baby. Y'all know I'm gonna make slow sweet looooove to ya now.”

And of course she laughed and said through a bite of carne asada: “sounds very sexy. Execution, not so much.”

Ah, well. Another time.

If I die there's enough life insurance for an urn, a hot fire, and a new car, so she's all good. I hope I don't, though. Not today. I got things to do.

I guess I'm saying I feel a lot like DP letter writers sound: whiny and whimpery and like big fat babies. Wah.

In we go. The breach awaits.


Just Curious – whoa, little missy. See, vibrators and sex and masturbation and all the fun stuff is coffee table conversation these days, so nobody's all that stunned by your query.

Let's recap: You are 16, a virgin, want to stay one, and want a vibrator. You don't know what to do with it when you get it. You want to talk to mom about it.

My daughter? 8 years old. She's up to speed on penises and vaginas and sperm and babies and all that fun stuff, and she watched me deliver her brother on our bedroom floor. I don't believe in telling my kids that whole “mommy and daddy called the stork” 1950's fucked-up retarded chicken shit line about where babies come from. It's not a difficult conversation to have.

She's yet to mention vibrators, though. Might be a little more tricky to talk about. You know. With a straight face and all.
When she does, I hope she's at LEAST your age and from the sound of your letter, as smart as you. Meanwhile, you are on the right track: nurse or not, go talk to mom about it. If you think she's “the type” you can talk to. I don't even mind the thing I usually HATE about these letters: writing to goddamn Dear Prudie with questions. Offers a nice anonymity for you. Good thinking.

Meanwhile, just follow your gut, Young 'un. You'll be fine.

And see? Lookit! Lookit!!! made it ALL THE WAY through a post about vibrators and didn't crack up once! NOT ONCE! I so clever, am I.


In the Know – Is he just the absolutest wonderful, absolutely? Wow, this simply reeks of a Prudie form letter, some passive voice thrown in for good measure.

Whatever. Recap: Groom to be's balls all are fucked up. This up-fuckedness may be non-unfuck-upable. You wan't babies, anyone's, even if you have to rent or get takeout You want Super-Absolutely-Groomy-pie to whack-and-tickle his little veiny purple helmeted meat popsicle into a plastic cup so some lab tech with one of the worst goddamn jobs on the whole planet can count the little swimmers just so you can know if he can plant whatever is above and beyond his presumed paucity of seed into your womanly folds and loveliness and hope they take purchase in natural and appropriate fashion as to produce a little bit of heaven for you to push around.

That it? (cough)

Well, I dunno. I thought about this a little, and personally I don't find that an unreasonable thing to ask. Note that some guys don't like people to know they've been tugging their milky man-seed out of their perky pepperonis though, 'cause it's kinda embarrassing. Me? Hell, I'd do it on 42nd during Christmas rush hour in the middle of a crosswalk, you pay me enough. Better: I'd ask my hot, gorgeous, and perky little MILF to work over my always-in-tune skin flute on first base at Yankee goddamn Stadium during the seventh inning stretch for a thousand bucks.


Ten thousand. I'd split it with her. Honey? Tuition!

This is a non-question really. Just ask him, Lovergirl. Let him know they usually allow significant others (that's you) to enter to room and participate in the turgid-meatal-tuggification exercise.

Happy spanking. Spanks a million. Let's all give spanks. Spanks for the memories. I so do have a funny.


Stupid Teen, Now Regretful Adult – Well now, you really fucked THAT one up, didn't you?


By the way, I get no vibe on your gender, none at all. For a rare change, I did something I have not done in a few years now: I read Prudie's response. She was equally well edited and non-gender-specific. And wrong.

I shall call you Pat!

I bet you tell great stories at parties.

Sorry you had such a shitty childhood. Divorce can make people's heads do some really screwy stuff, from the parents to the kids and the grandparents and neighbors and whoever else sticks their noses in it.

Although I've been divorced I have no comparable basis to talk to you from – my first wife (the Anti-Christ – you may have heard of her. Real famous way back) and I were childless (good thing – think “Damian”). My folks got married, made four babies, and after we all moved out they turned our rooms into weird shit like the “sitting room”, which was my room. Had an old Eames chair and a TV and a VCR that had a cord on the remote in the closet and a layer of dust 17 inches thick on everything because they (cough) never, ever went in it. They celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 2007. Couple weeks later my dad died. There was that whole “'til death do you part” thing in living color for you.

You? I'm thinking I might not want to hear from you either. I mean, I guess it might be a good time to heal and group hug and sing Kumbaya and all that, but frankly, that whole booby trap injury sequence above there kinda freaked my shit, and now all I can hear is then violins from “Psycho.”

So, sorry. Looks like you have to pay for your own wedding after all.


The New Girl – oh, my, goodness, gracious, me.

Can you hear it? That sound? Damn, loud enough to shatter glass. Massive, explosive, and possibly able to cause permanent, insanity-inducing tinnitus.

It''s...whining. Yes, that's it. Whining. Like a jet engine at 110% on the verge of failure. Like worn out brakes on a hundred old school buses. Like a thousand barn doors slowly opening together for the first time in ten years.

Like a single little princess not given her appropriate respect.

Recap: you rule. You are awesome. The people who were there before you all suck goopy donkey ass, not because they actually do, but because they don't fall all over themselves and genuflect upon your arrival each day. You are the best worker, employee, person ever to step foot in this dump, and to top it all off, that old fucker leaves his icky socks out for you.


Listen up, Sister Snot Rocket: I know you are the best employee ev-er and you are a very modern and empowered wom-an, and you are ALL that and a bag of whatever snide little assholes like you eat out of a bag, but I want to point out a few things.

You told the boss. He ignored you.
You told the socks guy to put the seat down. He ignored you.

Wanna know why? You aren't going to like it.

They ignored you because they have absolutely no respect for you whatsoever, because if you hung the moon, if you cured cancer, if you parted the Red Sea with a wave of your staff, if you invented plastic storage containers that didn't get stained when you put tomato sauce in them, and if you walked on water thrice daily you would be, and apparently always have been, an entitled snotty little asswipe of the first order.

I recommend you (cough) quit and let these people be. They (cough) don't need your shit. Your boss will probably take this crap from you as long as it pays, then finally fire you when the noise gets unbearable. Fast food, retail establishments and malls, the DMV – that's the ticket. These are the kinds of places that thrive on employees with your lousy attitude.

Thank God I don't eat fast food. What an asshole.


You know what? Theraflu isn't so bad. And I have rediscovered the wonderment and miraculousfulness that is a cup of lava-hot Tetley's decaf with honey and lemon.

Time I stop whining. Fare you all well, and until next time, ta taa, all that.

Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, it's cool and puffy with a crisp and sweet-smelling wind, and it's a beautiful early Fall day here in Schuylerland. I just love Autumn. I think I mentioned that before.

I respond to this weeks Dear Prudie letters with a renewed spirit of brotherly love and affection – the weather just affects me that way, gives me hope and solace an makes the world a lovely place.

Here it is:

Thing is, these guys are idiots.


Tickled Pink – I'm thinking of a word. Simple word, really, it's right here on the tip of my tongue. What is that?

Oh, right: “obvious”. That's the word. Another word is “you are a fucking idiot.” Both are the answer to your question.

Recap: your asshole boyfriend treats you like a fucking idiot, evidently because you are a fucking idiot, and you don't like it when he does that. Oh, there's tickling, meantime, and that's yucky and icky for you. Bonus: he says if you “master” your feelings, the yucky and the icky will all go away and you'll learn to like his being an asshole.

Do you use a lot of meth...often? You get dropped on your goddamn head as a youth? This “great” guy thinks it's fun to make you feel like shit, and you cannot find the words to explain this to him? Really now?

Sweetie, he's as asshole but you really are a fucking idiot. Seriously. I'm going to give you a few choices to pick from for things to say to him. Take your time. This might matter, genius:

1.) “You fucking brainless ass wiping cheese-dick, I said I hate it, and you still do it. What part of “I fucking hate it” are you missing? How about I bite down on your balls and see of that feels good to you. How about you master that, fucker?”
2.) “Here's your choice: while I “Master” my mind, you can “Master” bate, you simpleminded jackass, because you aren't getting shit from me in the bedroom until you get your head out of your ass and stop fucking tickling me. Get it?”
3.) “Yeah, honey schmoobie baby doll, you're right – I am a doormat and a moron, and even though it makes me really uncomfortable when you tickle-wickle me that's OK, because while you aren't an “amazing” guy, you're mostly, um, you know, “great” or whatever, and 'cause, you know, I really kinda, um, like you.”

Listen up, Wonder Woman – you aren't making yourself heard, and that's one of the easiest things in the world to do for people with a smidgen of guff and a few common words spoken in the proper order, proportion, and configuration using the king's own English language as “mastered” by a goddamn seven year old. Try it. Idiot.


Tight-Lipped – how far off the mark can you get? Are you taking after your mom and tipping back a little gin in the afternoons? I ask because while you could simply be profoundly stupid and self serving, I assume you are drunk out of your fucking gourd.

Recap: Mommy Dearest drank herself into oblivion all the time you were learning about periods and boys and algebra, and has been sober for six years. She asked for a luncheon date to discuss that gleeful, joyous time, and rather than admit you're resentful you took all of this on yourself.

“On yourself” means you made it all about you, Little Miss Princess Codependency, which I understand is fairly typical of children of alcoholics. I'll explain.

See, I didn't read anywhere in your letter that momma wants to talk about it to help YOU heal, which you clearly stated in the same letter. You weren't the drunk, you fucking imbecile. She was, right? See where I am going?

No? Right, I forgot. Pour yourself another one, brilliance.

See, She might want to talk about it to help herself.

That six-year “celebration” as you put it is not a minor thing to her, you know. Most people – MOST of them – do not stay sober one year, much less six. She has to continue to work on it all the time. Every day. It's not the cakewalk you want it to be, it's endless relentless hard work. You get to heal however the fuck you can, now – she can't go back and fix it, can she. The big downfall to alcoholic recovery: to get over it she has to get over it. What's your excuse?

As for your “obligation”, well, that's entirely up to you. I mean, she's just your mom, so what's the deal?

Now if you are uncomfortable about talking it over, or of the memories are just too awful to bear, this I understand. If you're just interested in your own healing process...well, you heard me.


Am I Rude? - I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, because you're young.

Wait. No I'm not.

Recap: You have a small place, and want friends over, but not too many – just the college friends - 'cause more won't fit.

Bloody hell, how can this be hard? I assume you didn't study communications, English, public speaking? This is the most basic communication question ever, and you don't get it? You graduated from graduate school, I presume? If so, how?

Meanwhile, I already solved your problem right in this response. Hmm. You see it yet? Do you? It's right there...

Jesus wept. Okay. Here goes. Copy and paste this into an invitation, you brainless ninny:

“I have a small place, and want friends over, but not too many – just you college friends – 'cause more won't fit.”

Didja get that? Idiot.


Torn – Something sounds not-quite-right here, Your Fishiness. Let's recap: You adopted, seven years later she's 12, you've already reintegrated with her her biological sperm-and-egg DNA donors and associated relational spawn, and now she wants nothing to do with them? That about it?

I...just gotta wonder. Gotta.

12 is a weird age, isn't it? It's a age for some kids where things start to make sense on a pretty deep level, things like people with drug and alcohol and other problems, things like people who are less than savory. These things make sense in a more terrifying way as kids get older, because they can start to understand them, even if they cannot empathize.

So, introduce into a young child's life a former family who “makes bad choices” and I wonder what will happen? Could be some time around 12, especially if that “other” family is typically not around much, that child might not be interested any more. Why is that?

Kids may understand a lot of adult-themed things on a deep level, but they have absolutely NO difficulty understanding the simple things, like when they are uncomfortable. They kinda understand when personalities differ and create competitive stress, but they really understand their discomfort under that stress. They understand if “good” mommy is good and if “bad” mommy is bad and that this is somehow important to them, but what they truly get is when the conflicting emotions are painful.

They may have issues communicating all that, too. They might be limited to saying something childlike such as “I live here, I'm happy.” Unlike that moron in letter #3 – sometimes they just state the obvious, but not the details.

Which now begs the question: why is this so fucking important to you, this reintegration? What's the deal? Do you think this little girl just needed to know how fucked up her real family is? Does it make you feel a little better about your adoption? Do you need the contrast between the “bad” family and yours? Why are you committed to this course of action?


Has the truth set anyone free here, Mulder?

Whatever, the damage is done, all in the name of “her best interests,” and you asked for it you fucking jerk. She may be 12, but you get to carry the message and cause everyone involved another round of pain, which I am certain you will go through counseling to overcome, being the “good” parent. You might have let this child grow up a little before you tossed her into the dysfunction of her former family, but had to shake her young little tree and point out all the horrifying, rotten fruit that fell out in a fit of emotional masturbatory self congratulation.

Ah. Now I understand. I should listen to myself more often.



Yes indeed. Nothing brings out my gentle, caring side like Autumn.

Until next time!

STC =^oo^=

Insanity runs on Dear Prudie. It practically gallops.

This week's gems come once again from Slate's Dear Prudie, as I haven't seen anything more stupid or droll out there to take a swing at: Slate can pony up fake letters as well as anyone, but these were seemingly written by someone new: there's the same scary lack of passive voice across the board, indicating an English major wrote them (and these people are supposedly stupid enough to go to Emily Yoffe for help?), but they're a little more bland and tired than usual. I weep for the future of write-in letter blogs.

Here it is:

Ah, just so. It's all fodder for me, my friends.


Creeped Out – recap: you and your super-extra-awesome BF of four years are getting married. BF's sister and he are close enough to play toesies and talk about “private” things (which could mean he knows where she keeps her Rabbit or perhaps that she shoplifted as a kid, for all you told us). You think this whole relationship between them is fucked up, but not fucked up enough to skip that whole marriage thing like "Kentucky Hill People fucked up", just fucked up enough to get you all weird and twisted up about it, like "West Virginia Hill People fucked up." All this fuckupedness simply fucks you up.

Congratulations on the pending nuptials, but of course I can't leave it at that: what the bloody hell are you thinking? I'm not making a qualitative analysis on your boyfriend's relations with sissy – that's incidental – I'm talking about you. You actually wrote a letter that clearly states that this situation creeps you out, and now you're getting married to the source of the creepiness? That's very good prioritization, Amelia Airhead.

See, where grown ups are, they do things like fix the car before taking a long drive. They tie their shoelaces before a long run. They turn on the stove before hard boiling the eggs.

So there's you, then. Okie dokie.

Maybe the problem will go away! Yeah! Yippie! And maybe the Goddamn Incest Fairy will sweep all sparkly and twinkly and lovely down into your lives and un-fuck this asinine situation you've gotten yourself into. Are you kidding?

Hey – you have to live with this, Princess Incest, and failure to repair the issue before diving into a whole new host of issues (marriage, little dearie, is not a fucking cake walk, in case you ever had your brain screwed into the socket long enough to listen to people far, far brighter than you talk about it). Some might call this “Throwing Good Money After Bad.” Some might say “Jumping From the Frying Pan and Into the Fire.”

Some might say “You're a Fucking Idiot.”

Yeah. I might say that.

Fix it first, genius, then take it out for a spin.


Framed – Oy-goddamn-vey, they come out of the woodwork, do they not? These questions, seemingly innocuous but at the same time so brilliantly idiotic it's a wonder if the people writing them have sufficient mental capacity to wipe their asses after a productive trip to see Mr. Potty.

All right, let's recap: you got a painting of your tits and squishy girly parts but are evidently too haggish to paint from the neck up. You want to hang it on the wall, but you don't want to hang it on the wall, because the wall is where picture and paintings go, and people look at pictures and paintings, but you certainly don't want people to see this particular painting because they may realize “hey – butterface: that's YOU! Nice tits!”

Wherein I pause to sigh heavily.

Um – I gotta ask: you have a lot of repairmen in your house? Are you a 1970's porn script waiting to happen? “gee,” she says coyly, her robe slipping open to reveal her dusky naked and ripe womanly-ness beneath, “I've never seen a hammer that...big..before.”

“Why, yes,” says Joe Rockhard, flexing his biceps then unhitching his Oshkosh B-Gosh biballs. “I can really pound them in hard and deep with this big fella.”

Cue bad Wurlitzer organ music.

All right, dinglenuts: I hear you do not have any walls (like, in the bedroom?) that are not subject to a constant parade of Quakers and Amish and Mennonite and other prude stereotypes and your pastor and mom and dad and scores of super-judgmental people (and many repairmen too!) who all would stop and say “Harlot! Whore! Slut! That's YOU in that painting, I know it, and I for one am disgusted by having seen this foul monstrosity to the degree I might have to write a stupid fucking letter to Dear Goddamn Prudie to overcome the horrible mental anguish of having seen your v-v-v-vagina! AAAAHHHH!!!”

So you have no problem posing for a nude (as well you shouldn't – it's not a big deal), you have a problem with people actually seeing it later (which is understandable, because let's face it, most people would, and in your case people will feel awkward holding back the words “gee, it's no wonder he didn't paint your face, I mean...”).

Then again, maybe this might help: hang it in the goddamn bedroom. Yes, I know I already mentioned that. I figured in your case...well, you get it.

Whatever, little bunny. I'm tired of talking about this. Go and do whatever the hell you want with the picture, then please go back into your coma.


How Do I Tell the Truth –




WINNNAHHHHHH!!! “Schuyler The Cat's Stupidest Question Ever Asked By The Stupidest Person Ever Award!” goes to YOU, genius! Schuyler LOVES the really stupid ones: “Dear Whoever: I have a big warty-looking growth on my otherwise truly beautiful face, so big makeup won't cover it up. In fact, it weighs seven pounds and now resembles a '57 Studebaker. I've taken to wearing a second hat on it. How do I go on a date with someone I met on the internet without them noticing it, especially since the horn honks every seven minutes?”

Recap: given your cowardice, deceitfulness, poor parenting skills, and overall lack of any single redeeming quality you lied to your daughter, and now want to tell the truth.

You actually use these words at the end of your letter: “Please help me find a starting point at which to address this issue.”


Okay: go get your Way-Back Machine, Ms. Wizard, and set the clock for before you were so fucking stupid. Now go back in time and tell the goddamn truth in the first place. There's your starting point, idiot. Problem solved! Any other questions? What a moron. Who's the “bad” parent again?

Incidentally: try apologizing, you brainless twat. You owe her one, and I would start hoping she takes after her grandmother instead of you.


Paranoid D-I-L – let's recap: M-I-L is a pre-Alzheimer's kleptogranny right outta the very fiery horrors of hell itself, you seem to hate it, and haven't the forcible emotional functionality to really tell her “stop it.” We straight?

Listen up, D-I-Lweed, here's what you say:

“Stop it.”

If she does, great. I she doesn't, great. This is your issue? Jesus, and I think I need to get a life. I had no idea just how good I had it until I read this wheedling slack-jawed crap from you.

You know, I had to call NASA, and I spent a few hours on the phone with Dr. Phil, then I called a medium who summoned and channeled Nikola Tesla (we got along pretty well, but he's soooo standoffish), and I read “Origin of the Species” and “The Undiscovered Self” and “Chicken-Fucking-Soup for the Stupid Letter Writer's Soul” and I traveled to Nepal and practiced all kinds of Nepalese monk-type shit for YEARS to come up with that brilliant, ingenious, and also rather witty answer, you brain-bereft clot of baboon snot.


And so once again, my friends, I have exhibited my typical patience and kindness in the spirit of brotherly love amid my weekly primal scream therapy session. I am at peace.

Cheers! STC =^oo^=