...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.
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.