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...
Uh?
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.”
YOU: “NOOOOOOOOO...!”
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?
No.
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 “...just...take...the...picture...dad!” 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^=
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 “...just...take...the...picture...dad!” 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: http://www.slate.com/id/2235351/.
***
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, but...you 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.”
Or...
“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.”
Or...
“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^=
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: http://www.slate.com/id/2235351/.
***
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, but...you 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.”
Or...
“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.”
Or...
“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.
(cough)
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.
cough)
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.
Well.
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?
Bummer.
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...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.
Yeeeah.
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.
(cough)
Ciao.
(cough)
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.
cough)
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.
Well.
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?
Bummer.
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...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.
Yeeeah.
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.
(cough)
Ciao.
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