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: http://www.slate.com/id/2233828/
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?
Why?
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.
Idiot.
***
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: http://www.slate.com/id/2233031/
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 –
We!
Have!
A!
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.”
Uh.
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^=
Here it is: http://www.slate.com/id/2233031/
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 –
We!
Have!
A!
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.”
Uh.
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^=
This week's entries? Just as bad as last week's.
...In which Schuyler the Cat scrapes the bottom of the litter box this time, with the fakiest-sounding buncha hooey he's heard from Dear Prudie in a LONG time. Still, since I never much believed these anyway and use this as my scratching post, I am grateful for the level of ungodly idiocy presented.
Away we go...
THIS WEEKS VICTIMS: From Dear Prudie, my favorite source of silliness.
***
Can't Live With a Lie – Recap: You done did the slip-and-slithery slam-doodle ugly bump with Mr. Chips (and you still hang with him – nice touch, Susie Sweetness!). Boyfriend was asking if you like doggy or missionary and brought up past sexual partners, you claimed “none!” and now you're afraid he's gonna split if Professor Past-Partner is exposed. Then there's a career danger “...if this gets out!” blurb tossed in for good measure, some other vague bullshit – whatever.
There there, sweetums. There there. You should be comforted to know that the your apparent discomfort and guilt are only outdone by your profound naivete and stupidity, Alberta Einstein. You're in grad school (uh, right! How'd you get there, I kinda wonder? You don't seem...uh...intellectually adroit enough. Professor Procurable Pecker have anything to do with this?) and playing the virgin, which is always a nice thing for the guy (who, I presume, is as stupid as you for believing it, but hey: some guys just need to hear it. They just make up the rest), but this protracted asinine sickening melodramatic stereotype is not just perturbing, it's revolting.
My advice to you is going to be long winded and drawn out, but I fear your puny mental capacity and emotional up-fuckedness requires a serious and contemplative response:
Listen: Shut the fuck up. Everything's fine. It'll pass.
Got that? Nighty night, princess.
***
Proud Papa – Recap: Nana's not Nana, 'cause Nana's the Nana, and she's the head Nana, and she's not bananas about that horrid not-the-Nana being the Nana she's not?
You know, I read through your letter about five hellish times, and I still can't quite understand what the fried frog fuck you're on about. In a perfect world, people in possession of whatever that bizarre feeble-mindedness it is that's somehow nested into your wee brain would have the option of turning their children over to parents with a fucking clue, and you are missing out on that great opportunity. Nana? Really? I mean, REALLY?
Dude – call your goddamn congressman, your town's mayor, Stephen Hawking,a medium to conjure the spirit of Sigmund Goddamn Freud, and every single one of them is going to laugh so fucking hard at this childish wad of puerile putrescence you've brought to us that eventually the ones who aren't dead yet may be in danger of dying right there on the fucking spot from lack of oxygen, they'll laugh so goddamn hard. PLEASE don't tell this to Stephen Hawking. He's a really smart guy, and we'd miss him if you laughed him to death.
What! Are! You! Thinking!!!
Gimme your address, Witless Wonderboy. I'm gonna send you thirty frickin' dollars. Use it as a down payment, and go buy a goddamn life. After that, you will realize that the kids will call those Nanas whatever the hell they want to, and if Nana wars erupt the kids will cease calling them much of anything at all, but maybe they'll get a great show.
Idiot.
***
Middle Muddle – Recap: Your BF's Daddy left mommy and shacked it up fast with new mommy (You said “quickly” - so that's kinda important I reckon, and puts a whoring component on her, huh? But not him?) and his brother's getting the old “you can't have college money 'cause that cuts into my bon-bons and day spa budget” talk from her. BF is at a loss for what to do to combat this selfishness.
This is a very, very realistic sounding situation I think, one that many people have gone through – if not exactly, something like it. I myself have been viciously and brutally “slandered” (uh, really, it was just kinda dissed, and it amounted to a inbred brainless stepmom comment to my own kids – REAL slander involves lawyers and big settlements and crap like that) in similar fashion.
So tell BF to do something! Take action! Call that depraved bitch up and tell her what's what!!! Who the fuck does she THINK SHE IS!!! This is what the bitch slap was INVENTED FOR!!!
So you go, girl, and tell him “you go, boy!” and make it all right.
And you'll both fail to see positive results. Get this: daddy is married to the “new” mom for a reason. He “picked” her. Circumstances are irrelevant, and if you want to make absolutely certain daddy drops all his kids' affection – and financial windfalls, I might add, because let's face it, not too many kids have a dad who can afford to put them through a local junior college, much less a university – then by all means start bitch-slapping his new sex toy.
Tell BF to tell Brother to talk to dad on the side and get it over with, because regardless how daddy dearest takes it, if she loses out on her weekly facials, trips to the mall, and other “college money” expenditures he's no better and no worse. She's still going to be there. Cope.
***
Attack of the Bridesmaid-zillas – Recap: bridezmaidz stuck you with a fakey tab for extra dough, ripped you off, punched you in the face, knifed you in the gut (wait, no? Sounded like it for a second, was hearing the CSI theme song as I read your vapid letter. Never mind that) and overall acted like...um, “bridesmaids”. You're pissed and don't like thoze bitchez anyway. Bride-to-be is as yet unaware. Gotcha.
Oooookay, Bridezmaidzilla. Thanks, really, for this. You know, the moment someone mentions ANY word that has the root of “bride-” all bets are off, because, for whatever reason the moment someone gets married this entire goddamn planet lists 30 degrees off the goddamn solar axis and everyone starts to fall off like people on a sinking cruise liner. Completely normal people (of whom I have not yet had the opportunity to meet, but someday I will) become over-glorified, over-exalted, unguided hyper-ballistic missiles of flagitious crude mendacity and abomination. David Attenborough needs to do a show on it. In HD. On Blu-Ray.
Um, about those 'zillas? This very likely includes you.
Do something, don't do something...who the hell cares, but for the love of all that's not like you just shut the hell up about it until after Bride herself goes down the aisle? 'Cause as bad as you are, and as worser as they are, according to you, that bride is going to be the very picture of furious abomination and hellish wrath if you so much as open your yapping bridezmaid mouth to take the breath you need to talk about this.
Shut it. Wait a bit. You need blood, go get it later, and (bonus!) remember: those “bad” bridezmaidz and friend of the bride'z too, and voicez do carry, Sweet Cheekz. TV show, anyone?
***
So there we have it, off we go, newly-nested here on The Fly, into the vile and cruel world of write-in help blogs. Schuyler the Cat my be willing to help you too – email me your torrid, scary, sad tales of woe and wonder and misuse and abuse and mistreatment at the hands of others, and I will cheerfully sharpen my claws on your pathetic letter just...for...you!
Cheers all. STC =^oo^=
Note – I've been using it for a while, but props to my Sister LLB for this little kitty logo thing.
Away we go...
THIS WEEKS VICTIMS: From Dear Prudie, my favorite source of silliness.
***
Can't Live With a Lie – Recap: You done did the slip-and-slithery slam-doodle ugly bump with Mr. Chips (and you still hang with him – nice touch, Susie Sweetness!). Boyfriend was asking if you like doggy or missionary and brought up past sexual partners, you claimed “none!” and now you're afraid he's gonna split if Professor Past-Partner is exposed. Then there's a career danger “...if this gets out!” blurb tossed in for good measure, some other vague bullshit – whatever.
There there, sweetums. There there. You should be comforted to know that the your apparent discomfort and guilt are only outdone by your profound naivete and stupidity, Alberta Einstein. You're in grad school (uh, right! How'd you get there, I kinda wonder? You don't seem...uh...intellectually adroit enough. Professor Procurable Pecker have anything to do with this?) and playing the virgin, which is always a nice thing for the guy (who, I presume, is as stupid as you for believing it, but hey: some guys just need to hear it. They just make up the rest), but this protracted asinine sickening melodramatic stereotype is not just perturbing, it's revolting.
My advice to you is going to be long winded and drawn out, but I fear your puny mental capacity and emotional up-fuckedness requires a serious and contemplative response:
Listen: Shut the fuck up. Everything's fine. It'll pass.
Got that? Nighty night, princess.
***
Proud Papa – Recap: Nana's not Nana, 'cause Nana's the Nana, and she's the head Nana, and she's not bananas about that horrid not-the-Nana being the Nana she's not?
You know, I read through your letter about five hellish times, and I still can't quite understand what the fried frog fuck you're on about. In a perfect world, people in possession of whatever that bizarre feeble-mindedness it is that's somehow nested into your wee brain would have the option of turning their children over to parents with a fucking clue, and you are missing out on that great opportunity. Nana? Really? I mean, REALLY?
Dude – call your goddamn congressman, your town's mayor, Stephen Hawking,a medium to conjure the spirit of Sigmund Goddamn Freud, and every single one of them is going to laugh so fucking hard at this childish wad of puerile putrescence you've brought to us that eventually the ones who aren't dead yet may be in danger of dying right there on the fucking spot from lack of oxygen, they'll laugh so goddamn hard. PLEASE don't tell this to Stephen Hawking. He's a really smart guy, and we'd miss him if you laughed him to death.
What! Are! You! Thinking!!!
Gimme your address, Witless Wonderboy. I'm gonna send you thirty frickin' dollars. Use it as a down payment, and go buy a goddamn life. After that, you will realize that the kids will call those Nanas whatever the hell they want to, and if Nana wars erupt the kids will cease calling them much of anything at all, but maybe they'll get a great show.
Idiot.
***
Middle Muddle – Recap: Your BF's Daddy left mommy and shacked it up fast with new mommy (You said “quickly” - so that's kinda important I reckon, and puts a whoring component on her, huh? But not him?) and his brother's getting the old “you can't have college money 'cause that cuts into my bon-bons and day spa budget” talk from her. BF is at a loss for what to do to combat this selfishness.
This is a very, very realistic sounding situation I think, one that many people have gone through – if not exactly, something like it. I myself have been viciously and brutally “slandered” (uh, really, it was just kinda dissed, and it amounted to a inbred brainless stepmom comment to my own kids – REAL slander involves lawyers and big settlements and crap like that) in similar fashion.
So tell BF to do something! Take action! Call that depraved bitch up and tell her what's what!!! Who the fuck does she THINK SHE IS!!! This is what the bitch slap was INVENTED FOR!!!
So you go, girl, and tell him “you go, boy!” and make it all right.
And you'll both fail to see positive results. Get this: daddy is married to the “new” mom for a reason. He “picked” her. Circumstances are irrelevant, and if you want to make absolutely certain daddy drops all his kids' affection – and financial windfalls, I might add, because let's face it, not too many kids have a dad who can afford to put them through a local junior college, much less a university – then by all means start bitch-slapping his new sex toy.
Tell BF to tell Brother to talk to dad on the side and get it over with, because regardless how daddy dearest takes it, if she loses out on her weekly facials, trips to the mall, and other “college money” expenditures he's no better and no worse. She's still going to be there. Cope.
***
Attack of the Bridesmaid-zillas – Recap: bridezmaidz stuck you with a fakey tab for extra dough, ripped you off, punched you in the face, knifed you in the gut (wait, no? Sounded like it for a second, was hearing the CSI theme song as I read your vapid letter. Never mind that) and overall acted like...um, “bridesmaids”. You're pissed and don't like thoze bitchez anyway. Bride-to-be is as yet unaware. Gotcha.
Oooookay, Bridezmaidzilla. Thanks, really, for this. You know, the moment someone mentions ANY word that has the root of “bride-” all bets are off, because, for whatever reason the moment someone gets married this entire goddamn planet lists 30 degrees off the goddamn solar axis and everyone starts to fall off like people on a sinking cruise liner. Completely normal people (of whom I have not yet had the opportunity to meet, but someday I will) become over-glorified, over-exalted, unguided hyper-ballistic missiles of flagitious crude mendacity and abomination. David Attenborough needs to do a show on it. In HD. On Blu-Ray.
Um, about those 'zillas? This very likely includes you.
Do something, don't do something...who the hell cares, but for the love of all that's not like you just shut the hell up about it until after Bride herself goes down the aisle? 'Cause as bad as you are, and as worser as they are, according to you, that bride is going to be the very picture of furious abomination and hellish wrath if you so much as open your yapping bridezmaid mouth to take the breath you need to talk about this.
Shut it. Wait a bit. You need blood, go get it later, and (bonus!) remember: those “bad” bridezmaidz and friend of the bride'z too, and voicez do carry, Sweet Cheekz. TV show, anyone?
***
So there we have it, off we go, newly-nested here on The Fly, into the vile and cruel world of write-in help blogs. Schuyler the Cat my be willing to help you too – email me your torrid, scary, sad tales of woe and wonder and misuse and abuse and mistreatment at the hands of others, and I will cheerfully sharpen my claws on your pathetic letter just...for...you!
Cheers all. STC =^oo^=
Note – I've been using it for a while, but props to my Sister LLB for this little kitty logo thing.
Maiden Post
Well, people. Let's face it: why the hell does some doofus write a letter to Dear Prudie? Dear Abby? Dear...anyone? Really? I mean, are you friendless? Are you without any other resources?
This used to vex me mightily.
No more. This now seems a perfect space for me to unleash and unwind and unload and Git It All Out.
Primal scream therapy, wrought of the fetid detritus that is the laid about, scattered plaint of the common Self Help Letter Writer.
The term "No room to Swing a Cat" means "A small, confined space". It seems to have come from the British Navy, to describe the cramped quarters of naval vessels where evidently limey seamen were deprived of the pleasure of swinging cats about, but fortunately for me this phrase could have a darker and more sinister meaning.
It could mean "No room to swing a Cat O' Nine Tails", meaning it wouldn't be an appropriate place to viciously flog, torture and abuse baser people; I suspect Dick Cheney would hate a room like this.
Me? Not so much. There's plenty of room here, for me to pursue my therapy sessions.
And yours, if you need the abuse.
I will be selecting certain "Dear Whoever" posts and giving them the answers they seek, albeit at the tip of a verbal whiplashing. I mean it: you actually have to post your questions about general day-to-day life on a blog, board, web site, magazine/newspaper page? You got this coming.
And you need direct access to the pain? Send me a mail: schuylercat@gmail.com. Maybe you'll be the lucky one to ease my tensions and onload my pent-up frustrations.
Well, that's that. You get what you ask for, baby. You bring it, I'll return the favor.
Cheers.
This used to vex me mightily.
No more. This now seems a perfect space for me to unleash and unwind and unload and Git It All Out.
Primal scream therapy, wrought of the fetid detritus that is the laid about, scattered plaint of the common Self Help Letter Writer.
The term "No room to Swing a Cat" means "A small, confined space". It seems to have come from the British Navy, to describe the cramped quarters of naval vessels where evidently limey seamen were deprived of the pleasure of swinging cats about, but fortunately for me this phrase could have a darker and more sinister meaning.
It could mean "No room to swing a Cat O' Nine Tails", meaning it wouldn't be an appropriate place to viciously flog, torture and abuse baser people; I suspect Dick Cheney would hate a room like this.
Me? Not so much. There's plenty of room here, for me to pursue my therapy sessions.
And yours, if you need the abuse.
I will be selecting certain "Dear Whoever" posts and giving them the answers they seek, albeit at the tip of a verbal whiplashing. I mean it: you actually have to post your questions about general day-to-day life on a blog, board, web site, magazine/newspaper page? You got this coming.
And you need direct access to the pain? Send me a mail: schuylercat@gmail.com. Maybe you'll be the lucky one to ease my tensions and onload my pent-up frustrations.
Well, that's that. You get what you ask for, baby. You bring it, I'll return the favor.
Cheers.
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