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: 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.



  1. *can't wait for the cat swinging to start*

  2. That Schuyler the Cat makes me squirm like a slick little baby worm, oh yes he does, he certainly does...

    Look at me, Bro. Yer lil' baby's all growed up!