Out with the old, in with the old: some things never change.

Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Lunch break.

The view ain’t great – there is a building next door that looks like a giant pile of dirty Legos, neatly stacked into a big monolithic mass of butt-ugliness, but this isn’t about the view, it’s about the job.

I suspect I will like it here.

Odd, becoming an employee after eleven years or so of consulting, but I have grown tired of hearing the sound of the axe in my sleep, and paid time off is actually kinda cool.

Bonus: As I reached for my latop, headed for the car to make the morning commute, I looked at my watch. It was 7:10 AM Thursday, December 30, 2010. When I pressed the lock on the remote and heard the car say “click” after I parked, I checked again. 7:25 AM Thursday, December 30, 2010.

Fifteen minutes. Paid parking, too.

Yes. I will probably like it here.

This week’s Proodi stuff is all absence-of-reality based, isn’t it? How can it not be? Do people actually think this way? It’s not just stupid – that’s simply where people go when there’s no better explanation. It’s a scary, psychological lapse in cognition, I think, which manifests itself in people asking to most unbelievably retarded fucking questions imaginable. I dunno. Maybe it is just stupidity. I ain’t no Freud, or Jung, or Justin Beiber, you know.

Off we go. Originals here, if needed.


Dear Prudence,
Seven years into my marriage with my ex-wife, I still wasn't sure if I wanted kids. Eventually she stopped having sex with me and our marriage broke up two years ago. Eight months ago, I met my now-fiancee. I proposed to her on Thanksgiving shortly after learning she was pregnant. I'm overjoyed about her pregnancy. My ex-wife, who's still single, immediately called me, furious and in tears. She blamed me entirely for the collapse of our marriage and said I should have told her personally about my fiancee's pregnancy. Was I insensitive? Is she right to be angry with me because I'm happy about my impending fatherhood?
- Excited Dad-To-Be.

Dear Excited,

Congratulations on finding a woman who pretends to like to have sex with you. Congratulations as well on your manly marksmanship and skill with recently ejaculated spermatozoa as well. Congratulations all around. Huzzah.

Sorry to say, but you are out of line here. Your ex wife has every right to know everything about your - and her – life, especially this new woman’s sexual tastes and habits, what color panties she’s wearing, whether she swallows or spits, if she likes it on top, that sort of thing.

She has the right to know this new chick’s bank account number, and her dress size, and her complete life history, social security number, blood type, where she works, what color her hair is (and if it’s real), and if she says “booga, booga, hallelujah” when you stick a finger up her butt.

It is unreasonable of you to expect your ex-wife to simply lay off, let the relationship go, and not boil into a nuclear fucking hormonal catastrophe over unannounced news like this, especially since you never informed her that this new woman likes, say, seafood or silver two-door German coupes, or watches “House,” or snores, or listens to Ke$ha.

It’s all about communication, see.

Haven’t you got a goddamn cell phone? The next time you slide Willy Von Veinmeister into this interloper’s hungry, waiting mouth and pop a nut, you need to tell your poor ex wife about it immediately. Remember to use appropriate language and context: telling your ex-wife that this new, useless harlot you’re marrying just gulped down half a quart of your man-mustard may remind her that she was a cold fish in the sack and didn’t swallow. She deserves more respect than that. Let her know this skeevy slut you’re saddled with is nowhere near as fine a person as she is.

She is, after all, your ex-wife.

In my world I am pretty sure my ex-wife, who remains friends with one of my sisters, hasn’t a goddamn clue about my life, but hey: my world – as well as hers – is out here in reality land, and there is a reason we are each other’s ex. You should have taken the red pill, Neo. What a dickhead.


Dear Prudence,
Earlier this year, a generous friend sent me a check to cover travel costs so that I could visit her across the country. I'm in my early 60s, and my friend knows that I earn just over minimum wage and am in debt. Unfortunately, she sent a cashier's check that she neglected to sign. Bad shit happened. When I explained she demanded full repayment of the original check and the cost of the reservations. I'm hurt by what's happened and her reaction to it, and frankly I feel a bit victimized. My resentment is eating me up. What should I do?
- Gift Horse

Dear Flicka Vanderfuckup,

This was all just a simple misunderstanding between two obviously intelligent, deeply sensitive people, but the lay of the land is clear. You offered to take the bullet, so you need to take action.

I can’t recommend Craigslist’s “Adult Services” section, because they no longer post those, but the “Casual Encounters” section is still in production. Your post should be carefully crafted to avoid law enforcement. Instead of using “sex” use the word “play” or “party.” Money cannot be discussed, not as a matter of exchange for service anyway, because this would be considered soliciting, but you might say “fair is fair” or something like that. Whatever, review the posts you find there and be creative.

Change the ad often, and be certain to screen email responses carefully.

The odds of you pulling down top dollar are pretty low – your age works against you – but there is decent money to be made, especially if you are open to unique or bizarre sex. Plain old anal is cheap – get creative, wear a Superman outfit, or frilly panties under your chaps, or get a beagle, or offer to take your teeth out.

Condoms are essential, old timer. Don’t be stupid.

About 3-4 months of “casual encounters” should get your delightful friend paid back and maybe take the trip anyway and leave a little nest egg in the bank for later. Hey: that retirement worry could be over – you might have a new career starting here!

As for her, she doesn’t need to sell her body, because you stupidly offered to pay her for both of your spineless idiocy. She can simply fuck herself.

The rest of us are just scratching our heads and wondering which of you is more stupid.


Dear Prudie,
I own and run a business with a smart, 40-ish woman who's also a good friend. Two years ago, her father died suddenly. The effect on her was devastating—and unabated. It seems as if being in mourning and having regular crises are becoming integral to her identity. The inequities this causes are starting to grate. At what stage is it OK to tell her she is hurting our business and testing our relationship?
- Unbalanced by Grief

Dear Heartless Motherfucker,

Jesus H. Fucking Christ. What an insensitive, cold, vicious asshole you are! What are you thinking? There is no end to grief! Ever! You must not have ever lost anyone you cared about.

It’s not like people just magically overcome the insidious, powerful grip of personal loss, you know. If you had any goddamn moral fiber or a modicum of human understanding you’d know that once the grieving process begins it must evolve into an inexorable downward spiral into eternal pain, sadness, and suffering.

You must immediately take on this woman as a cause and care for her completely. Keep her payroll active, and cater to her absences and numerous issues with relentless kindness, as she needs this sort of help in order to ensure she never, ever gets over this tragic, senseless, and horrible event in her life.

Remind her gently but constantly that the only thing she needs to do is ache and suffer for her loss, even if it means she cannot bear the thought of getting out of bed to use the toilet. And yes, you (you insensitive, vapor-brained fuckwiper) need to clean her up later. It’s the only truly kind thing to do.

People should never be told to move on, to learn to live their life in the absence of a loved one, or simply to (lord, help us all) “get over it” – these are cruel and dangerous things to say to someone developing or immersed in a well-defined state of grief. These inhumane utterances are best left to professionals, maybe someone like Nancy Grace, who is often cited as an individual who is completely in touch with the needs of those in pain, and she’s very wealthy because of this incredible empathic quality she possesses.

I might mention that the rest of us would have this solved after, say, two-three months. We’re obviously the stupid ones, huh?


Dear Prudie,
I am a college junior. I want to study abroad and travel the world. My biggest hurdle is my boyfriend. We have been together for five years and plan to spend the rest of our lives together. But he is against me studying abroad. He says I should wait until we're financially settled so we can travel together. But I don't want to wait. What do you think?
- Trying To Travel

Dear Uppity Bitch,

Who the hell do you think you are? You claim you are going to spend the rest of your life with this man, and you have the nerve, the gall, or dare I say, the balls, to question his authority? Sit down and shut the fuck up, Sally Selfish, because I am going to explain something to you.

Men, once a woman is married to them, are in charge of and in possession of said woman, much as if they were a car, or a suit, or a Husqvarna YTH24V54 24 horsepower lawn tractor. After you get married, that man tells you where to go, what to do, how to do it, and how you are to be used, and you better cheerfully comply, so help me.

Women are on the planet for one goddamn reason: to marry men and care for them, cook and clean, submit to sex whenever asked, look nice, do the shopping, act respectfully, bear children, a little light banter if required, and to shut the bloody hell up when told. That’s really like ten or so things, yeah, but it’s all one thing to a man, who frankly doesn’t have time or incentive to sort through stupid and trivial details such as “what women need”. In the end, men are the ones who have needs that must be met – women meet those needs, or they get the fuck out.

Is Hillary Clinton president? No. Why? She’s a woman, and men said “no.” That’s why. She’ll get hers, you watch. I mean, fuck.

Now, I realize you aren’t married to this gentleman yet, and I can’t imagine he’ll want to stay with you now, given your shitty attitude, and if I knew him I would steer him far, far away from the likes of you. Still, if he is forgiving (meaning if you are attractive, or you’re a good cook, or you have nice tits and no gag reflex) you need to remember that even though you aren’t yet married, you are GOING to be, and that’s good enough for him to tell you what the hell to do. Here’s what you need to do: start begging him to forgive you, blow him a lot more often, if he’s into that, and hope he is feeling generous.

Also: what the hell do you need an education for? Do you think you need to understand political science to pick out some pretty, lacy, see-through lingerie and do a naughty dance for your husband before submitting to him and satisfying his needs? Do you need to read about Aristotle and Fascism and US party history to find a recipe for Chicken and Dumplings worthy of cooking for him? How smart do you think you need to be to use the goddamn vacuum cleaner? Try reading the instruction manual for that, why don’t you. That’ll smarten you the hell up.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Now if you’ll excuse me, many of us suddenly have the urge to tell our significant others we love them, because many of us have half a goddamn brain, which means it’s likely they do as well; a condition which you are evidently unaware of. And we men…those with an intact cerebral cortex, anyway…just might need to go buy our wives flowers or something for whatever stupid thing we’ve done recently.

You? Quit asking questions. Go make him a fucking sandwich.


Tomorrow is New Years Eve. I am not completely fond of this day as a holiday: the 31st day of January is, technically, February’s Eve. Big whoop.

But it is a good reason for the kids to try (again) and fail (again) to stay awake until the big ball falls, and a good reason to make a move on my wife after a bottle or so of Champagne, and at the very least it’s a good thing to bring up when one writes the wrong date on a check: “hehe, I always do that, don’t you know, chuckle, chortle.”

So I ask all my Flysters to have a safe and happy New Year, don’t drive drunk, and may we all get laid and prosper and enjoy life more in 2011.

STC =^oo^=

'Tis the season to be stooopid...fa la la la la...

This Christmas, I will celebrate the birth of Jesus by ignoring the fact he would celebrate Hannukah.
- Unknown

Well well. Seems I, in my greatness and splendor, have decided to grace this place with the utter awesomeness of my fantasticfulness once again.

I missed writing these things, actually, and just found the time. Nothing awesome, though I may think it.

And the holidays do approach, steadily, borne on freezing rain and the hiss of a gas fireplace in the den of the house we're renting on the south end of town, all the better to escape that other place, the big pretty one the bank seems to want more than I do.

And with an attitude adjustment in hand too – Schuyler The Cat, yours truly, got hisself a new job which he will be starting on December 27th. Merry Christmas to me, it seems. I have a happy. I have a nervous too, but mostly I have a happy.

Just peed in a cup for drug testing yesterday, and since I can't think of anything I have taken that might skew that test I will state for the record am ready for work: a full time employee for the first time in eleven years.

Get this: twenty days of paid time off right out of the gate, along with seven paid holidays. Who knew the other side lived like this?


And so, I now dive into my primal scream session with renewed vigor and vim, and dispel years of demons, chasing me about with days off in their clawed hands...

Originals here.

Note: Prudie's letters are just as stupid as always, huh? It's like a factory. A scary factory. A dumbass factory. Hot and cold running dumbass everywhere, just pick some up out back, off the loading dock, by the ton. Just sayin'.


Dear Prudence,
My boyfriend of two years says that he will not ask me to marry him unless I take a lie detector test to pinpoint the truth about certain things that have gone on in our relationship. His request is completely unreasonable, isn't it? Is it a sign of overall problems? What should I do?
—Am I Crazy?

Yes. You are crazy, you lying little whore. Men have the right to ask – I should say demand – you to take lie detector tests, given all women are pathologically unable to tell the truth. Me, I waterboarded the woman I married, just to make certain she wasn't carrying any undisclosed credit card debt or hiding pictures of her old boyfriends. You goddamn women need to understand you place in things, or so help me.

Meanwhile, the rest of the planet (a few billion of us, all of whom possess more basic intelligence in our fecal leavings than you will ever possess anywhere in your pathetically atrophied brain) is perfectly aware that this guy is a scary fucking cheese-dick and you should move on. Idiot.


Dear Prudie,
My father had a heart attack two years ago caused by untreated type 2 diabetes. He luckily made a great recovery and began eating right. He has gained back a lot of weight. He rewards himself for eating well by bingeing on junk. I am very worried about my dad's condition. But the subject is basically off-limits, especially since he's a doctor! How can I bring this up with him in a way that doesn't cause World War III?
—Dad's in Denial

This long-winded story – repeated a million times a day here in the Great American South where I live, is a deep-fried testament to 2 things: first, people need to eat. Second, all that body fat is GOOD for you. I cannot for the life of me understand you “free thinker” types who believe the industry which feeds us – Monsanto, ADM, Kraft and the like – would ever give us something that could be bad for our bodies. Kraft, for instance: they make “cheese.” When you look at the package, though, it's actually called “cheese food.” See, Kraft's brilliant scientists invented a food-like cheesy substance that is BETTER for you than real cheese, and then there's motherfuckers like you getting in the way of their success. Damn you.

Note: World War Three, a theoretical possibility I grew up with, denoted the likely end of civilization according to pundits. Your little missive is a goddamn pimple on the ass of the universe, and all you need a pair of fully formed testicles: tell him or don't, chicken shit. Just remember: when he dies, it ain't your fault.

The rest of us will simply shake our heads and wonder that something as strikingly stupid as you can actually function and survive with the rest of us. Moron.


Dear Prudence,
I've been working for a small, privately owned company for 10 years. I haven't gotten a raise in the entire time. We recently had a company meeting at which we were told we will be picking up a lot more of the costs for our medical plan and that we are all expected to increase our donations to the company's annual charity drive. Can I say no?
—It's My Money

Here in America, there are laws regulating employment and denoting what companies can and cannot do to protect themselves from whining little ungrateful fuckers like you. Anyone who knows that Trickle Down Economics was the harbinger of a greater society and the reason we are all rich and healthy today can tell you that you should consider your generous and kindhearted company's needs first, else how can all that money trickle down to you? And all those years your company carried you on it's back, enriching you and filling your pockets while you, you sniveling evil little fuckhead, took advantage of them. Amazing.

Me, I would just say no. Asshole.


Dear Prudie,
I recently graduated from college, got a great job, and moved to a new city a few hours away from home. Around the same time, my parents downsized to a smaller house and bought a vacation home. Now when I go home for holidays, I don't have a room, and my parents seem annoyed by my mere presence. Their attitude makes me not want to go home for Christmas at all, but that would mean spending it alone, seeing as the rest of my friends have families who are excited to see them.
—Rejected for the Holidays

See? Sometimes Prudie gets a LW with a partial brain in attendance! You are finally getting it, huh? Your parents hate you, mostly because you were a burden and a massive pain in the ass. Your shitty fucking attitude made them stop loving you years ago, and it's likely they will never love you again, much less like you. I don't like you either, fucker.

Those of us over the age of thirty know there is a fine line between “empty nesters” who dodder about the house wondering what to do next and those who say “WOO HOO!!! FINALLY we can butt fuck in the kitchen without getting caught!” Most people over thirty, though, don't like you.



Ah, yes yes yes. Feels good to be back. My wife, recovered from her waterboarding experience, is baking and making candy and such, and the house smells like Christmas. My mother, to whom I was a terrible burden, is staying out here with us this year (she's from California, where I grew up) and she's spoiling the kids.

It's freaking cold out, but it feels good. I feel good. Better, now that I shared love and solace with the poor LW's of Prudie's.

Hopefully I can make this a habit.

And so, cheers and salutations and great tidings for the season and ho ho ho and all that shit, me wonderful Flysters!

STC =^oo^=

Fast forward - the best a cat can do in under one hour.

“Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief:”
-William Shakespeare

Quick work today, friends – I am a busy, busy man. Not really busy, but I have to fit all this in a very very short period of time since my job just got hecticer. I mean frenzier. I mean, where the hell is Sarah Palin – channeling the aforementioned Shakespeare – when you need her?

Originals here ifn' you want 'em.


1.) My daughter has recently became engaged. Her fiance does some pretty bizarre things for attention. He's gotten so close to me that his crotch rubbed against my back; and he's undone his pants, and then spent an inordinate amount of time tucking in his shirt while facing me. I worry that maybe I'm being too touchy about all this and don't want to create problems where there may be none. How can I address it without causing them pain?

Not a Mother-in-Law With Benefits – “Touchy”, huh? You little minx. This is perfectly normal, since mothers in law are expected – hell, obligated – to have sexual relations with their daughter's boyfriends. Quit being so goddamn uptight. Be sure to use a condom. If he gets you pregnant...oh, awkward, I suspect.

Meanwhile, I also suspect you have an IQ of about 73, which means you're pretty close to “too stupid to turn on the television or tie your shoes in the absence of an adult for guidance.”


2.) I'm a 27-year-old female with a wonderful life. I was teased mercilessly by classmates. I was a sensitive child, and these taunts hurt me deeply. In turn, I did something that I'm still ashamed of—I bullied another classmate. I teased her about her cultural background. I have found her Facebook page and would like to send her a brief message apologizing for my behavior as a child. Is this appropriate to do?

Ashamed – No, this is not appropriate. Sarah Palin, Sharron Angle, and Christine O'Donnell need to be your examples here, since they are very clear on the treatment of , you know, “those” people. As in people who are not white, Christian, and rich. All who aren't are fucking scum – piss on her.

On the other hand, people who are white, christian and rich may not include you, since there are fewer and fewer every day given the economic climate of late. If this is the case with you need to vote the Democratic ticket, ping this chick on FB and apologize, and go find a goddamn tree to hug or something.


3.) My husband's brother owns a time-share. He has been unemployed for quite a while and has started talking about selling it. He didn't have anyone to go with him to it this year and asked whether we would be interested. He mentioned we would be paying for food and alcohol, as well as his transportation to and from the airport. My husband says we should just accept his brother's terms and then never vacation with him again. What should we do?

Not a Freeloader – My take is simple: make an offer on the place, and give him a deposit. Once the paperwork I started, burn it to the ground and collect insurance. Then knock off the brother in law and steal all his stuff. Find a good fence and sell it. Run away to Austria (or something) and start going to the opera and eating strudel and shit. It'll all work out. It's a brilliant, simple plan. What can go wrong?

But before all this happens, when reality crashes down on your stupid fucking head, tell your husband his brother can go fuck himself and cancel the trip, you dipshit.


4.) I've been seeing a therapist for two years. She's lovely. My problem is, she doesn't know how to spell my name. I feel strange bringing it up now. Any method I can think of seems passive aggressive. Any suggestions?

Spell It Right – It is humbling to me that a member of the Einstein family has attended therapy, as I have too, and I find myself flattered in the company of genius under less-than-ideal bragging conditions. By the way: have you had sex with her yet? Try it. And forget the name thing – she's obviously so fucking hot for you she gets flustered and wants you to slam her up against the wall and do her like a wild banana-chomping goddamn chimpanzee. Note: this advice is for either a man or a woman, since I can't tell by your letter.

Unfortunately, in hindsight, you must have fallen pretty far from the Einstein family tree, because any fucking moron with enough brain matter tucked away in their otherwise empty cranial cavity to breathe without the benefit of assistance from machinery would know that she's waiting for you to BRING IT THE FUCK UP, so she can check the little box on your progress chart that says “not a complete fucking imbecile. Oh, and finally grew some little bitty balls and called me out on misspelling his stupid fucking name. Big growth here, for this witless dickhead.”


And lo, for he did the sunder yon fucking letter writers, fervidly so did he, forsooth, and it was good; for they art simple of mind, and thus fain he dasheth them against big sharp rocks, as they deserveth, you know, some fucking bashing or whatever.

Back to an endless schedule of conference calls wherein nothing of any particular importance occurs. Ah, la.

Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

The line between genius and insanity is but a thread, but not at Prudie's house.

To spend more time in learning is better than spending more time praying; the support of religion is abstinence. It is better to teach knowledge one hour in the night than to pray all night.”
- Muhammad

The Stoopids.

In some cases they are like Jehovah's Witnesses, knocking on the door and standing with expectant looks on their face, seeing me with the five-day beard stubble and obvious hangover, and still offering me their hopeful suggestions as if I have ever been in the mood to find their brand of Jesus palatable, even when NOT hung over.

In some cases they are like Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann: frighteningly face-forward in their delivery of stunning one-liners like this little gem from Sarah, back in the campaign days: “As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where– where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border."

In some cases they are winners of the Darwin Awards, like the guy sitting in traffic who told the others in the car “I gotta pee”, whereupon he hopped out of the car, hopped over the barrier at the side of the road, and proceeded to fall 65 feet to his death, not noticing he was sitting on an overpass.

In some cases they are you and me. I won't speak for you, My dear readers, but If I had a perfect track record of non-stoopidity I would be hell of a lot healthier, richer, and happier. You did not date that woman who stabbed her ex-husband because he'd failed to remember their anniversary, now did you? If you had, you would have ended it immediately after you discovered she kept that same knife under YOUR pillow when you slept over at her place. Me stoopid.

There are many different views, sides, facets to being a Stoopid, mostly because there are side effects. One side effect is you learn from being a Stoopid, like I hope I have, and all of you, too.

Another is evident in the four brainless jackwagons on Dear Prudence's menu today, who, it seems likely, have never and will never learn a goddamned thing, and shall remain forever locked in stoopid's dull, vapid embrace.

And awaaaaay we go. Originals here, if needed.


1: I recently became engaged. Prior to our dating, my fiance had an affair with a wealthy woman. They remained good friends. For our wedding gift, she gave us $50,000. A part of me feels uneasy about accepting such a large amount of money from his former girlfriend. Please advise!

Reluctant Recipient – what kind of a birdbrained, dumbass, idiotic, weak-ass dipshit would ask this question? You! That's what kind! I win!

If you need someone to give you advice about this I can only assume you have suffered some form of significant cerebral damage, though overuse of drugs perhaps, or a fall resulting in cranial contact on a hard surface that scrambled with few goddamn brains you ever had in your goddamn head.

Take. The. Fucking. Money.

Jesus wept – I hope the next three aren't as thermonucletarded as you.

OFFER: If you don't want the fifty grand, gimme a call. They're foreclosing on me soon, and I could use the dough.


2: I am a woman working as a project engineer for a construction company. I have an issue with one co-worker. He throws paperwork at me, missing my inbox. I can't complain, as I would be seen as a whiner, and in this business, one is expected to buck up. How can I get him to respect me and place work in my box like everyone else does?

No Respect – Yep. That's what I was afraid of. Slate brought in crates filled with profoundly stupid people and asked them to write letters for Dear Prudence. Sad, sad thing.

This type of letter is my favorite, because it requires a coin flip. One side of the coin is action, the other is inaction. I will design your coin for you. Ready, dinglepuss?

Heads: Tell him “listen up fuckburger. You throw one more goddamn piece of paper at my desk like that, I will shove it up your ass far enough you'll fucking gag on it.”

Tails: Buck up.

Now go get a Kleenex, wipe your little tears away and get the fuck back to work.

BONUS: you actually wrote thew words “How can I get him to respect me and place work in my box like everyone else does?” Total Beavis and Butthead moment for me! Must be upsetting, needing him to put his “work your box” like that, you little vixen.

I soooooo funny.


3: I make a living as an adjunct instructor at my university and by waiting tables. My younger sister holds down three restaurant jobs. We each make about $15,000 a year, have no insurance, and carry student loan debt. Last Christmas our mother was laid off. She made only about $25,000 a year and struggled financially while raising us. She has almost zero chance of finding a job in this economic climate. What can we do? This woman raised me, and I have nothing to give her.

When the Recession Hits Home – This well-crafted Old Yeller-style letter is an example of what authors call a “hook,” where readers are captivated and drawn into a story by an ever-worsening series of dramatic cues.

In hindsight it reads like this: I am poor, my sister is poor, and my mom has recently become unemployed, thus poorer. We poor people cannot help our poor mother. The big comet is streaking at a bazillion miles an hour toward it's inevitable impact with the Earth, and when it hits all life will be extinguished (you didn't rally say that, but you might as well have).

When life gives you lemons you make lemonade. I hate that fucking saying, usually intended as an aphorism but really little more than throwaway junk advice. The reason I say it now is to give you a comparative example. You have no lemons. You have, as I understand it, nothing.

When life gives you nothing you make whatever the hell you can, or you die.

So you ask “what can we do?” Can you answer “Nothing?”

Up to you, but I see the Stoopids stopped by your house and dropped off a tract. Put it down for a sec and do something to help your fucking mother. Let her live with you. Help her build a good resume. Something. Anything. Somewhere amid all the nothing is unemployment, a place to sleep, some food to eat.

Seems, though, if you need people to tell you WHAT to do, then she may be better off on welfare.

OBSERVATION: You are one of those rare people who is forbidden to say “My mamma didn't raise no dummies!” Cause, like, you know, obviously she did.


4: Recently, I stumbled upon a pill bottle in the room of my boyfriend of two years. The part of the label with the drug name had been peeled off, so I was curious and suspicious. I went on a pill-identifier Web site. He's taking Levitra in the highest dosage available. I'm a little alarmed because he's only 24, and I've never heard of someone being prescribed erectile-dysfunction drugs at such a young age. Do I have the right to be upset that he didn't tell me about his problem? Should I confront him about it? I love him and want to be supportive, and I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable. I know it's a medical problem; I just think it's something we should have talked about. What should I do?

Supportive Girlfriend – ooh, this has some funny on it, yes it does.

Ever heard of a “fluffer?” Let me ramble a second here: a fluffer is a woman hired to sexually stimulate male porn stars to help them maintain an erection between takes. Porn, at times, requires the presence of a functioning boner, you see.

Fluffers were the lowest members of the porn industry food chain. Not a good job, I suspect. “Hey, Dick Rockhard, haul that big old veiny baloney pony (which has just been exploring various oft-used orifices on that skankasaurus porn star over there, and thus is probably slathered with a liberal coat of foamy skankasaurus orifice juice) over to Schuyler The Cat there, and he'll do things to keep that Perky Pork Popsicle working overtime.”

This is just something I would never, ever want to hear my boss say. Ever.

Am I digressing? No! Fluffers are a thing of the past. No longer needed. Unemployed, which I suspect is a bonus for them. But why?

Viagra! Once it was learned that Viagra has the same effect on men without erectile dysfunction as it does on those with, Pfizer started getting mysterious orders for massive cartons of the little blue pill, and the industry, now unfettered of troublesome issues of occasional flaccidity, could shoot 24/7 without pausing.

Back to the point: first, your 24 year old boyfriend likely feels he owes you no particular explanation for his medication, given the nature of erections vis a vis your current relationship status. Just sayin'.

Furthermore. there are, I must tell you, a few things you may not be considering:

1 – Erectile dysfunction is a thing which can be managed, so it ain't no big deal. Get over it.

2 – Boy Wonder may be taking a dose of John Holmes' Little Helper as a kick starter. Ever notice how he's rock-hard and ready to go all the time? This is normal in males at 24 years of age. Now, with legal, prescription drugs, that can be enhanced. Scary shit, eh?

3 – Boy Wonder may be taking a dose of John Holmes' Little Helper as more than a kick starter. My first wife, toward the end of our run, wasn't exactly appealing to me any more. I was in my twenties and fully functional, but Mister Tom Johnson wouldn't always stand at attention when called to duty, since I'd realized the miserable haggis wasn't my true love, like, you know, in the movies and stuff. Having said that...you and he getting on okay, dear?

Whatever the case, you don't worry about the presence of Levitra in the house. You worry if you find his meth kit hidden in the bathroom with a note that says “you fucking touch this I kill you!”, or someone's spleen in the refrigerator with a note that says “mine – do not eat!”, or your sister's panties under his pillow with a note that says “I never went for THREE HOURS before! So sore, but can't WAIT for tomorrow when she's gone. Levitra ROCKS!”

Now go looking in the junk drawer for your brain, sweetie. It's in there behind the flashlight with dead batteries, under the expired Papa John's coupons.

FOLLOW-UP: I had a girlfriend like you once. She was all uptight one day, and I had to ask her what was wrong. She said “I'm worried I'll get pregnant.” I said “we used rubbers, don't worry about it.” She said “Yeah, but I swallowed, like four times this week.” Sometimes I miss her so much.


Working from home today, as always, and with two children climbing on my chair and sticking their fingers in my ears, playing basketball with the orange juice container, or reciting all the lines from “Totoro” in a full scream, right outside the door, it is a challenge. Conference calls are always fun:

SON, IN MY OFFICE: Sticks his finger in my ear.
ME, ON PHONE: “Hehehehe.”
BOSS, ON PHONE: “Who was that?”
ME: “That was me – sorry, I thought I had the phone muted.”
BOSS: “This isn't really funny, you know.”
ME: “Yes, I know. Sorry.”
COWORKER, ON PHONE: “Hehehehe...”
ME: “What the hell was that?!”
BOSS “Could you please mute your phone?”
DAUGHTER, TO MY SON: “That's a lot of glass. Don't step on it!”
ME: “...”

What, might I ask, is a “Teacher Work Day?” Don't they work other days too? I mean, I don't want to think of the school system here as a big free babysitting service with the perk of some education thrown in, but damn.

The flurry of birthdays are over: April 10, July 10, August 29, September 3. That's my little family unit, all scrunched together in the warmer half of the year, and off we go now into Autumn, my favorite time of year. Still waiting for my Kindle – should be here today or tomorrow. I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas.

Everyone in my household is healthy. Everyone seems happy. The impending doom and gloom of our inevitable foreclosure, bearing down on us a little faster every day, is not the monster we thought it was, as we are now ready to move along with our lives and put this little nightmare behind us.

Eventually the thorn will be pulled from the paw of this family, and we will relax, take a deep breath, and reflect on the sour days that led us to be here as more lessons: The Stoopids came to roost in my house for a time, all of us doing our part as well, and the foul financial machine that helped us get here hovering near with their wheezing, smiling lawyers, ever ready to offer great advice such as “stop buying medication, and you can afford this mortgage.”

We'll keep the meds, thanks.

Just so: we are a cheerful bunch, regardless, and there is only one dark cloud looming on the horizon for me. Not the foreclosure.

We will have to move. Dammit.

I HATE moving.

Cheerio, toodles, ta taa, hasta la vista, my dear Flysters. Until next time.
STC =^oo^=

Crazy from the heat? Nah. These are DPLW's and they come this way right from the factory.

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
- William Shakespeare

There's just no excuse for this. An index of one hundred and eight degrees?

Global warming, depleted ozone layers, receding ice pack: I will forgo any vapid and untrained comment on the matter and allow NOAA scientists and the ever-brilliant Rush Limbaugh to argue the validity of these issues. It's hot. For fuck's sake, my air conditioning can't keep up with it.

Here in the south the humidity tends to be legendary, evidenced this past weekend when I hosed off my rear patio at about Noon Saturday and found it still soaking wet that night...not that it was cool enough to sit out there anyway. Anyhoo, this make these 97 degree days hellish, and I hate it.

Little matter, in the end: the mortgage company said I can't have a modification. Pay or quit, seems to be the message, and frankly I must quit. They need this place, it seems, to add another unpaid line item to their already red ink-limned books. Baffling.

Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac stated they were going to allow major restructures on loans which reduces the principal and bring the home into alignment with current prices, up to 30%. My mortgage servicer isn't buying that, and legally doesn't have to. They stated they were building a new 40 year loan at 3.2 percent with the last known balance plus about twenty to thirty grand in fees. The monthly payment will tumble. That's nice.

What's not nice is that make my mortgage principal a total of $100,000 more than this place is actually worth, which means this loan would be twice as suspect as an ARM or one of the other asinine financial instruments the banks and mortgage brokers used to get us all here in the first place. I'm like, meh.

They say the market will come back. I say taking that kind of hit means there is a very real possibility that I will not live long enough to see any equity value in this house, and given I run a home business my write-offs are damn near as good from an apartment. So...

In the end, I am not worried about not being to sit on my patio. Because it seems I will be sitting on a patio somewhere else this time next year. Somewhere I am renting.

Somewhere cooler, I hope.

DP's are formulaic and predigested as usual, with a nice theme to sink my claws and fangs into, so here goes. Originals here.


1.) I dropped out of college to take care of my ailing mother. I borrowed $4,500 from my father to pay for my expenses during that time. She died, he got insurance and other compensation, and now he wants the money back.

Missing Mom – Lets start with the two and a half years of your life that you “gave up.” You did not surrender these to the winds and lose them, chum. You took care of your mother until she died. That's not a waste, nor a poor investment. Change your thinking.

Next, your old man is a fucking cheese-dick of the most vile imaginable sort. Regardless, I suspect either a.) you have never confronted him in any clear and compelling way that would help him understand that you weren't blowing the $4,500 on trips to Vegas and a mild meth habit, or b.) understanding this, he simply doesn't care and just wants his money.

Either way, he's being a big fat douche face.

I have a few options for you. Tell him:

a.) “Fuck you.”
b.) “Fuck you, dad.”
c.) “You know, I sure do love you dad, but fuck you.”

Some variation on this theme. You get it. Good luck.


2.) My husband is an only child, and his parents gave him a gift of a generous amount of money for the down payment on our home. His parents have decided to move into our home instead of getting their own place. Bonus: they wish to move into the master bedroom—and my husband has agreed to it! What the fuck?

Wife Without a Home – I'm thinking either this is really weird or it isn't, but that's a cultural distinction I suspect, and unless you're writing this letter from somewhere outside the US borders I will fall in step with rather more local ideals. Meaning: maybe they do this kind of shit where he's from.

I can't say what vexes me more about this, the concept of ownership, as in the house itself; or the concept of a gift, as in the money his folks gave him. The idea that my folks could give me a big fat gift of a 50% down payment is unthinkable – even if they'd had the money it wouldn't have happened. In Fantasyland, had they actually done so, that gift would be just that: a gift, not an expensive apron string. Given without expectations.

I know a family, though, who are completely different about these ideas. Money is just money to them, and there is no definitive line of ownership of it, except to say that the parents are the biggest shareholders and the kids (now in their 50's) are therefore both entitled to it and completely indebted. The parents in this case lost a house their son built for them (he was a contractor) and made him surrender a house to them he'd built for himself. He moved into an apartment, then a shitty little dump which was all he could afford at the time.

With my sister and their newborn daughter.

Fuck that. My folks were apoplectic. I remain baffled to this day, especially when he (my brother-in-law) said he “owed” his folks that.

What kind of fucked up guilt game is that? A bad one, I assure you, and my sister turned to the Jehovah's Witnesses seeking an escape from the tyranny. She's never been the same. I miss Christmas with her.

You, little dearie, may have married into that kind of family. So it gets weirder and weirder than just a down payment and a house and a bedroom (which, incidentally, he surrendered without your input, or is that an incorrect assumption?), but it becomes a family matter that would make me beyond uncomfortable. Your experience may vary, but there may be a lawyer in your future. Or a Kingdom Hall.


3.) I am divorced and live in a condominium complex. There is a man we run into at the pool constantly who is of no interest to me. This past weekend he asked me to lotion his hairy, acne-covered back. I was all like, ew. What do I do?

Baffled – see, this is a case where the letter writer's name is ideally suited. Baffled, indeed.

I am not baffled, nor should I be. I suspect a very large percentage of the planet's population would be completely not baffled as well. Forrest Fucking Goddamn Gump would not be baffled.

No. Just you. Jesus wept.

I mean, really: you had me with “hairy, acne-covered back.” You're telling me you didn't get all squidgy and moist and horny just thinking about that? Really? I am stunned.

And speaking of backs, I think I have a solution for you: a spine. A real, human spine, complete with 33 vertebrae and a cord and nerves and those little disc thingies and a system of muscles and other fibrous tissue which holds the whole gloppy, lumpy mess erect and allows we humans to get face to face with other humans and say things like “dude, I am, like, so totally not interested in you” and that sort of thing.

Any other questions?


Note: Schuyler The Cat already has a chain of Testicles-R-Us stores across the nation – look out for the new “Spines-R-Us” stores, coming to a strip mall near you!


4.) I recently signed up for a walk to help raise money for a worthy cause. I'm delighted with the amount I've been able to raise, and for those who have not donated, I understand that it's not everybody's cause, finances are tight, people don't like to donate online, etc. I resent the shit out of these people though, because I bought crap from them before. Should I send a reminder e-mail or say something? It feels so petty, but I'm having trouble letting it go.

Favorless – the common thread in all these stupid letters today is one of boundaries, ownership, and reciprocity.

You are perfectly at home here among the other LW's. Because you need to learn a lesson about these very subjects.

I learned in middle school If a girl drops a pencil on the floor and you pick it up for her, this does not mean she owes you a blow job. Later, I discovered that if you open a door for a girl, it does not mean she owes you a blow job. Taking a girl to a movie? Oddly, this does not mean she owes you a blow job. Buying her a drink? It sure helps, but no, it does not mean she owes you a blow job.

A little single minded, I know (I really like blow jobs, could you guess?), but the point here is this: what you do to the world is never an indication that the world will likewise do back to you. Karma is a fickle, funky little superstition that has no rules, selects no favorites, and overall just makes people feel better for believing in it. Really lovely, caring, giving people get mowed down by gunfire for no reason every day. It's a happy place, Earth.

And where this all intersects boundaries, ownership, and reciprocity is this: buying shit from a bake sale is not a goddamn investment vehicle that earns you some kind of exchangeable currency of kudos and back-pats. You give when you feel you ought, and you ask when you feel you ought: anything else is a demand, and that's a good way to get otherwise reasonable people to say things like “fuck you” and “no” and “who are you again?”

Having trouble letting it go? Tough shit. Life is hard. Blow me.


It's been a year of Old Canadian Bands for us – last year we got cheap tickets to see Rush at an amphitheater here in Charlotte. Sound was bloody awful – as usual the Amphitheater was built years before a nearby block of apartments which then complained about the noise, and there you go. Still a great show – I love those old guys.

This Sunday we will go see Heart at a different – again outdoor – venue. The ladies don't look worse for wear, although M.A.C. Cosmetics are a major sponsor and I suspect Ann and Nancy take much advantage of their product. I saw them 30-odd years ago, and I hear they still have enough energy to give a good show.

Weather forecasts say mid eighties (WAY cooler than yesterday and today) and scattered thunderstorms. That's what rain ponchos are for, I believe. I will report.

And so it is adieu, my dear Flysters, Stay cool!
STC =^oo^=

Home, home again. I like to be here when I can.

Lawyers spend a great deal of time shoveling smoke.
- Oliver Wendell Holmes

A week out of the country does good things for a body, even when I have to continue to work while away. This is especially true when one can get up from one's borrowed desk, take off the headset, then wander lazily to the northern edge of the Saint Lawrence River and watch sailboats meander quietly along their way, stop for an ice cream cone, and revel in temperatures roughly 25+ degrees lower than the ugly swelter visited upon us back at home.

And arriving home, everything was just as we left it but clean, as our house-sitter spent her time cheerfully scrubbing and making tidy the house. And a bonus: we had purchased a case of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for the trip, but it didn't fit in the car, so it was here waiting for me in my garage fridge, calling to me, “drink us, we are SO much better than Labatt's!” And they are.

Today I am feeling nominal but uneasily back at my old bad habits: sitting too long staring at data on a screen, hoping it will all fix itself for me. It never does, though. I stand up and my ankles hurt, and this is not healthy. Sigh.

It is good to be home. Now I need to get up and move around a bit.

Prudie this week = omfg+wtf+stoopid. Seriously.

Originals here.


1.) Twenty years ago, I had a child out of wedlock. I was banging two different guys. We did a DNA test which proved the father was not my daughter's father, it was the other father who wasn't the father who is her father. Now my daughter wants to meet the un-father who is. What do I do?

So Ashamed – As a man, I have never had this problem: if a woman I have sex with becomes pregnant, I always know who the mother was. To the best of my knowledge, I have only had two biologicals (which are currently in the background fighting over a Zhu zhu), but I had to take a DNA test years ago because my ex-girlfriend said “it could be yours, but it could be this guy's or this guy's, too. Oh, and it could be my step-brother's, maybe” which fucking creeped out my shit. In the end, it was a fifth guy's baby, and there you have it, but in the end, where was I going?

Oh, yeah – she was always the mother. No doubt.

As are you, I assume. So why all this shame? Are you having that “oh, gee, I was sleeping with TWO guys, and that's just, you know, awful and makes me a whore” thing going on?

Let's start with that possible, albeit unseemly, issue: I have been involved with more than one woman at a time. I do not feel like a whore. You were involved with two men at a time. You have the choice. If that's an issue, get over yourself, Sister Sally Straightlaced, 'cause unless you have some Catholic (or other ill-guided) guilt hanging over you, it's only the big deal that YOU make it out to be.

Second, and probably the real reason you have this shame thing happening: your daughter knows you were a slutty goddamn whore, humping every guy in a fifty yard vicinity and not keeping track of the condoms.

Speaking of which – are you serious? It was roughly 1990 when you took to the bedroom with the dynamic duo. Ever heard of condoms? Are you fucking crazy?

Let's move on: so your daughter knows you were sexually active with two guys in a short period. She's also over 18. Do the math. I got ten bucks says she knows the score. If she's going to gig you for anything it should be the condom thing, you stupid dipshit, and hopefully she'll learn a lesson from it before she makes you either a grandmother or a victim.


2.) I am a female law student who is employed for the summer (and potentially for the school year) at a small firm that I'm really enjoying. I am surrounded by men who act like they're living in a frat house and it's pretty gross. The work environment is becoming so unpleasant that I wonder how long I can stand it. What should I do?

Livid but Lost Law Student – Terrible place to be, Realityland is. Assholes everywhere, doing and saying asshole things and generally refining their overall assholishness like the assholes they are.

And poor little you: just a little lamb among those big, bad wolves. Meh.

The way I see it, you have three options. These are options based upon the reality that surrounds you which you appear to not yet comprehend to the full extent. Here goes:

One, you can sue those fuckers. You're a law student, right? Fuck 'em! Hire a lawyer, and sue those lawyers in a big fat conflagration of lawyerly lawfulness and get what you can. Better hope for a big payoff, too: you may never work in the field again, when future employers find this out. If I were a senior partner at a law firm, I'd see you as a liability. Reality.

Two, do nothing and it'll go away. It might, you know. And a herd of wildebeest are currently roaming my living room, fattening up on candy and pastries before they start their trek to the bathroom, where they will be transformed into pretty unicorns that poop yummy Kit Kit bars and sing all the songs from the goddamn “Tinkerbell” soundtrack, you brainless dipshit. Not reality, but you get the point, I hope.

Three, you can fucking say something. Face down the skeezy guy without the subtle hints and throw down your feelings on the matter. If a man faces a woman and makes inappropriate comments, she's obviously within her rights to face him down and take him to task, and you should have already done that, rather than demurely drop hints that probably egg him on. He's a non-issue in the long run. The gay bashing in the background, that's easy to handle if you speak up to the ringleaders. Last, there is no shame in approaching your immediate superior with a simple statement that you're grossed out by the overtly crude male-ness in the office. Expect nothing for this effort. Reality.

Regardless what you do, realityland is open 24/7, holidays and weekends, always ready to serve you a steaming dish of shitty life lessons. Take a bite. Might learn something.


3.) My dad wants to friend me on Facebook, but I don't like him all that much and besides, I trash talk on Facebook. What should I do?

Facebook Challenged – Mother McCree and her silver fucking hair, I tire of this Facebook bullshit and the idiocy of it's users.

“Dear Prudie, I was on facebook and posted that I let my little dog Sniffles lick my butthole and my mom saw it and now she's like all mad and weird to me, what can I do? Signed, Puppybutt.”

“Dear Puppybutt, what kind of fucking asshole posts that stuff on Facebook?”

I realize that it's fun for people to get on their computer and pretend to have a new life there, but for some perspective, I was in a discussion with some people I know who were on Prodigy in the 1980's, and back in those days all three people you knew online were polite, to a degree.

The 1990's happened and a third of the online global population became a fucking asshole.

The 2000's came and rule 34 had already evolved: if it exists, there is porn of it somewhere.

So here we are, 2010, and you still don't get it, do you? Lemme help: you are an online presence. You can be more than one, of course, by creating throwaway accounts and trolling the shit out of /b/ and Digg and Reddit and generally acting like an asshole, all the while blissfully unaware that any post you make is subject to a certain amount of both scrutiny and rebuke, and if you aren't careful you can be found, anonymous or not.

In the end, though, if your name is “Jenny J. Smith, 3232 Boogie Woogie Avenue, Humperdump, NY 12345” and that's also your Facebook account persona, then you are no longer protected by any form of anonymity whatsoever. You may as well be standing in the town square with your tits out, begging people to point and laugh...except on Facebook you can pick your tormentors and un-pick them later.

There are 400 million users on Facebook, give or take a few. You can friend them all if you want to, every single one, or not.

But this is the world today, snookums, and secrecy is fast becoming – if it hasn't already become – far more relative to what you write on your status, not who sees it. Cope.


4.) I am engaged. This is the second marriage for us both. We don't fight much. Is my new relationship doomed because my fiance and I don't take part in those little squabbles?

To fight or Not To Fight? - You're fucked. My wife and I fight all day, every day. That goddamn bitch is a controlling, manipulative hairbag who can't seem to get enough tormenting me.

Feel better? Me neither.

Truth is, my wife and I have dustups about once every six, maybe eight months. They are typically minor. We do not see this as an obstacle. We seem to see it more as an understanding: if you agree on things, generally you don't fight. She and I agree on things, mostly.

Was that so hard? I wonder if maybe the two of you are both in the same low IQ range, and simply too dumb to find a subject to disagree upon. Sheesh. If it's that big a problem, go find an asshole and be happy.


And I am spent! Alas, the data I am staring at has not fixed itself, so I have to fix it, dammit. At least I have a job.

Cheers, Flysters!

On vacationing, and the perils of stupid mothers.

Canada's climate is nine months winter and three months late in the fall.
- Evan Esar

Hello and greetings to one and all from the Great White North. Well, not TOO far north, just across the St. Lawrence River in the little town of Morrisburg, Ontario, where my wife spent a few of her formative years.

It's nice here.

They say you can walk across this town in ten minutes if you do it at three in the morning, but it'll take a few hours in the afternoon, because you'll stop every few feet to talk to someone. Small town living is not what I am used to, having lived in or near LA most of my life, and friendly people sometimes mortify me. Takes a few days to get used to.

This is a “working vacation” which is obviously a contradiction in terms and/or oxymoron or plain stoopid, because I have been doing a lot of working with little vacationing, so I take a lot of breaks and wander about; down to the Canadian Tire or Tim Horton's, sometimes to the shoreline to watch freighters head toward the locks, and I get to stop and wrestle with my kids a lot. So I won't complain. I could be stuck in an office. Or unemployed.

My Mother in Law (a good one – I am very grateful for having a MIL that I don't want to strangle) got us theater tickets for a play written by an Ottawa native, a local who is pretty popular. The doors closed at 7:55, so we started walking to the theater at 7:50 and got there two minutes early. Small town. Weird.

Back to work soon, so I better get started on this lot.

Originals here.


1.) My 7-year-old is the daughter of Quasimodo. She's a pallid, awful and hairy girl-beast from hell. Talking to her about inner beauty will be worse than a lie, since I'm obviously bothered by her eyebrows! I've been tempted to look into electrolysis down the road, but what kind of maternal instinct is that?

Shallow Mom – Your letter makes me – and others, I am certain – wonder how you can even tell what your daughter looks like when your head is stuffed so far up your ass like that. People with otherwise unobstructed views of their children do not suffer from similar idiocy.

No, dickhead, I am not talking about the issue of your hirsute monster-child. That's not the issue, or at least it isn't until she's older and realizes that you've made it one.

I am talking about your idiotic question: “What kind of maternal instinct is that?”

There will come a time that you and your daughter will have a reckoning about her whole Chewbacca thing, and this question of whether to attack it with a laser, razor, or flamethrower will come clear. It may come soon: she's seven, and kids are likely to notice that she doesn't walk on all fours or swing from the ceiling fixtures, so she may be a suspected humanoid and somewhat furry, thus ripe for teasing.

Meanwhile, go refill your goddamn prescription and back off on the coffee, because you're making everyone nervous.


2.) My fiance and I are getting married soon, so we are obviously retarded and incapable of forming a coherent thought. We're having a difference of opinion over who walks down the aisle, because hey: we're getting married, so we are obviously supposed to act like a couple of moronic nose-picking goddamn assholes. I'd like to keep this a family procession. What am I not seeing here?

Aisle of Pain – Elope. Seriously, get in the goddamn car and get the fuck out of here. I don't care where you go, just go. Having you on this planet is sucking the very life out of the rest of humanity, because you're GETTING MARRIED, therefore you are a fucking imbecile. Everyone hates you. They should, too.

Here's a little experiment: I am going to say something. “This is only a wedding, it's not that important.”

Ah, yes, everyone hear that shrieking sound? That's the sound of a bride to be, just told that weddings – and specifically her wedding - are not the big deal they think they are. Bloody hell, it's terrifying isn't it?

Listen up you insipid, gawking little butt nugget: everything about your silly-assed question is a universal insult to humankind, and nobody cares but you and your idiot groom. Shut the fuck up, go away, and just get it over with. Sooner is better – you have a divorce to plan, you know.


3.) I raised two daughters as a single parent by choice. I stupidly opted to spoil the fucking hell out of them and spent everything I had doing it. I incorrectly blame the economy, but now I am broke and they won't give me any money to buy food. How do I tell them that I'm hurt about their lack of concern and would like to be treated by them once in a while?

Tired of Giving – Sorry to hear about your financial issues, but there's a moral to your tale that others can learn from.

When you teach your children to want for nothing, they learn that nothing is wanted. That means you, you goddamn airhead. What they fuck are you expecting? You systematically taught them to take without giving, and now you are trying to find a way to backpedal and teach them to be generous? They don't know the word, asswipe. Bonus: your kids are not supposed to raise you, genius.

Here's context for your letter: “Dear Prudie, I made this big cool monster thing out of dead people's parts and afterward I discovered it was hideous. I started disliking it, and now it's wandering the streets killing people and I just don't understand why it doesn't love me. Signed, Victor Frankenstein. PS: Marty Feldman drank all my goddamn scotch.”

There is no lesson for them yet, Mommy Dearest, but the lesson is yours first: when you make a shit pie, be prepared to have it thrown in your face.


4.) I'm a bargain-hunter and sometimes find great deals on gift certificates for expensive restaurants in my city. These restaurants are normally out of my price range, but I enjoy romantic dinners there. Is it cheap or tacky to use such gift certificates on a date, especially one of the first few dates?

Frugal – Finally, someone I can understand! You came to the right place, bro, 'cause just like you, I got chicks climbing me like horny little monkeys in a tree! They're typical bitches, you know, all after the big fella, know what I'm saying? I go out with a different chick three, maybe four times a week, dude, and between you and me, we know the story: it gets spendy, but if you want a taste of the poon, you need to drop a lot of the green. Those panties don't come off for free.

Straight up – Prudie's not the shit, because honesty is not the best policy with the bitches. They find out you're a cheap-ass, they'll dump you and find someone with better cash flow. Makes it harder to get some ass doesn't it?

Look, with practice you can sneak the coupons to the server without the chick knowing what you're doing, just be careful. Be smooth. Get it all paid for when she's taking a pee, maybe, then it's back to your place for some serious hump and tackle, know what I mean? Bitches like that shit!

Translation: God save us. Are you on Jersey Shore? Please go away.


And with that it's off to the weekend – there's a carnival in town the kids need to go to, and there's ice cream down by the dock (mini Rolo chunk, mother of God it's amazing), and it's 77 degrees outside (sorry, I am being silly: it's 25, eh?) and despite long work days sequestered in this little office at my in-laws place I am veeeeery happy to be here. Except there's no good beer and what beer there is costs a fortune.

Old joke, sin taxes being what they are in Canada. Six pack of beer? Costs $18.50. A new liver? Free!

Cheers Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

Room to Swing a Cat, abridged edition.

Talk is cheap
- Proverb.

Just so – I will be taking it easy this week, given my general busy schedule of late, dour demeanor, and a dull need for easy pickings and easier outcomes. Note: It is never wise to sit jabbering on the phone with a family member, all gulp and aglug the whole way through a big bottle of cheap red wine until midnight, when one is expected to perform satisfactory work the next day. So that's just what I did.

I feel...shrunken. Somewhat.

So I was reading these DP letters and I thought “oh, look. There's some dizzy dipshit who literally needs to ask a perfect stranger whether or not to get the Pamela Anderson treatment because her boyfriend (a sexual athlete, evidently) likes big titties. Oh, and look – she has a daughter. Isn't that sweet?”

And I thought “who the bloody fucking hell wrote this shit?”

So I said to myself “I will not fall for it this week. Not me. This is the new me. This bullshit has to stop.”

And then I wrote this blog anyway. Red wine hazes the brain, makes a guy feel like he's a cheap camera, out of focus, bleary and weak, and in this case, submissive to the whims of whatever is on the other side of the lens.

Bonus for you this week: The longest response I made was, like, 50 words or so. 50. Out of character - you know me. I usually don't get warmed up until page 6 and I have used the term “Imbecility” or “Cheese Dick” at least once. This time, short stuff, and I do not use either term at all.

Maybe it's puberty.


And we commence.


1.) I am in my 30s. My boyfriend recently told me that he would like it if I got breast implants. I'm beginning to wonder whether I should go ahead with enhancement just to please him.

My B's Are Getting an F – No.

I will elaborate: NO!



2.) My husband and I are empty-nesters in our 50s. My mother-in-law feels that it is our responsibility to take them on vacation with us. Are we selfish to want to be alone on our vacations?

Escape Plans – No. You're as stupid as letter writer 1.



3.) I have bipolar disorder. I have been having issues with one of our interns. Anytime she and I disagree about something she rolls her eyes, waves her hand, and declares that I am "just bipolar." I want some peace and a little less condescension when I go to work.

Tired of Her – Thank you for the lovely anecdote, but you didn't ask a question, such as “should I kill her, cut her body into pieces, and scatter them in a field, THEN take my medication?”

If that was your question, psycho, the answer is no. Go take your fucking pills.



4.) My stepbrother died last week. My sister asked me to take care of ordering a floral arrangement. I used to work as a florist. I made a beautiful arrangement from my garden My sister came unglued. She said it was tacky and cheap to not send something from a "real florist." I've been receiving daily calls from one or the other of them, telling me how cheap I am. What should I do?

An Alleged Cheapskate – Hang up the fucking phone. You really needed me to tell you that?



Allah willing and the creek don't rise, I will be writing this bit from the little town of Morrisburg, a wee trek south of the city of Ottawa, in two weeks. Family beckons, and we try to make this trip at least once every two years.

A lovely little town. My wife lived there in her high school years. They say it only takes an hour and a half to walk from one end of town to the other, because you'll bump into 6-7 people along the way and chat. Do it at 3:00 AM when everyone's abed and it takes about seven minutes.

The wrench in the works? I may not be able to take the time off. Nice, huh? At least I have a job to hate.

Besides, no use worrying about it now – I have to go to the store.

We're out of wine.

Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

I mean, really, come on, really?

My wife never lies about her age. She just tells everyone she's as old as I am. Then she lies about my age.
- Robert Orben

Ah, Flysters. The days zoom by like brilliant race cars in the hot sun, blurred and disaffected, and here I sit wondering where the last week went. Made me realize something: working from home sucks the life out of me after a while.

I make all the right noises about it, of course, because it is a luxury: “I am more efficient, there's no commute, I am better rested, nobody sticks their head in my office to blather about what a jackass LeBron is, I can work through lunch, blah blah...”

My interactions with other human beings, though, is limited to endless telephone conversations that all start to sound alike after a while. Thanking back to yesterday, three hours of conference calls and a dozen or so one-on-one calls, and my memory of them is like an episode of Charlie Brown when the grown ups talk: “waa waa waaaaaa wa waaa waaaaa.”

Yesterday, turns out, was punctuated by a job interview. This was in person, and commenced at, of all places, a Macaroni Grill restaurant. A loud Macaroni Grill, at that. And it was both the most memorable AND most demanding interview I have ever been through, bringing a new meaning to Macaroni GRILL.

And I flubbed it. Seriously, I was asked questions that a recent college graduate could field with ease, and I started my responses strong then slowly faded into gibberish, over and over again. I drew a blank. I fizzled, sputtered, said “um” a dozen times a minute, and personally think I left the interviewer utterly unimpressed.

Shit. Lotta money for that one, too.

We'll see – you never find out about these things until later, and I should know yea or nay by day's end.

So there's my excuse for not having RtSaC ready on time. Some people say “the dog ate my homework.” Some, “the sun was in my eyes.” Me? “I was busy fucking up my career by sucking ass at a job interview.” The latest in a long line of my most pitiable excuses.

Let us commence to digest whole these four pathetic specimens from DP. Originals HERE if'n you want 'em.


1.) I landed a dream internship in the entertainment industry and on my first day on the job got culminated in a victory party at a bar. I wound up too drunk to drive home. One of the bosses took me home with him, and when we got there he repeatedly tried to kiss me. He told me that he found me incredibly beautiful and sexy. Twenty minutes later, I was throwing up in his living room while he tried to play nurse and let me sleep it off on his couch. I intend to stay at this internship, because it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Do I write the incident off as a crazy, drunken night and nothing more, or confront him about it?

Harassed and Hungover – Let's discuss the perfect first day at work, shall we? You got drunk, fought off sexual advances, barfed in your boss' living room, crashed on his sofa, and you wonder aloud if this might be written off as a crazy incident?

Better – you think you might want to confront him?

Damn, you're no fun at all. Most women I harass while drunk on their first day put out. Hell, I had one who dressed up in a Mary Poppins hat and umbrella and sang “Spoonful of Sugar” while I spanked her with a rolled-up copy of “Cat Fancy”. I can still hear that song. “Juuuuust aaaaaa spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go dooown...” She had a tramp stamp of Niels Bhor with the phrase “you Bohr me, smart guy, now shut up and wreck it” underneath. Spoke both French and Italian in bed, too.

Sadly enough she quit a month later. The workplace is an evil and sad place.

You? You're kind of a sour puss. You're kind of an idiot as well, although there are two answers I have for you here. Ready, Xaviera?

1.)What kind of moron gets that drunk first day on the job? Just asking. I already know the answer. You. That's what kind of moron gets drunk the first day on the job. Jesus.
2.)You rejected him by saying “I don't understand,” which to him might have meant “I don't understand the theory of relativity, but I certainly understand why your tongue is down my throat.” Didja manage to say “no?” Remember: no means no, and if you didn't say it, and instead professed vapid confusion, you are in gray territory legally, and any confrontation you might have planned carries little weight, unless by “confrontation” you mean “calling him a doo doo head and letting it go at that” which is all the weight you need.

In the end, if you were an intelligent person I would have told you this: yeah, you better have a talk, but this sounds like a pretty laissez faire operation and the party scene has it's risks unless you get the cards out in front first. I must assume that since you haven't called the police already this means you do not feel you were sexually assaulted, and he's probably in the dark given your drunken state. Look – if he'd been serious he would have sexually assaulted you, and this would be a case for the police. Maybe you just need to admit you were lucky.

A smart woman, not you, would carry a message stating it was unacceptable. A smart woman would understand that getting shitfaced on day one of a new job, while not a vivid demonstration of intellect, is also not an invitation to get slobbered on by your new boss.

Maybe you know a smart woman? Have her talk to him. That'll fix it.


2.) When my son was 5 he wanted a $250 gaming system. My husband and I told him that he would have to save up to buy it. After many months, he had half of what he needed. We were so impressed by his strength of character that we pitched in the rest. Two years later, my husband's uncle asked to borrow the system. He had so much fun that he offered to buy it for $180 to be paid in weekly $20 increments. The uncle's payments were erratic, but he eventually made most of them Then the uncle lost his job and has not given my son the final $20. How do I get the uncle to make this last payment without causing a scene?

Mama Bear – Well well well – isn't THIS a cutie pie? The little ragamuffin does a goody, makes right, sees a growth opportunity, and the evil uncle fucks him over. Sweet!

Your question, though, is silly. How do you get him to make the last payment without causing a scene?

YOU DON'T! Well, maybe you don't. Depends on the uncle.

What are you expecting, a little fluffy pillow and a hanky, a tautly-crafted yet sweet script consisting of kind words and proper presentation technique that can clearly state “listen up you cheap-ass prick: he's 8 goddamn years old, you know? Do you think you might try being a just-so-slightly better role model, fuck stick?”

Yep. Thought so.

You ask the people here on The Fly and they'll tell you “Schuyler is a cheap-ass frequently unemployed job-hopping sleaze from way back” and they'd be right, but dammit, if I owe someone $20 I pay the goddamn $20. It's not chest full of Dubloons or a silk satchel filled with Ducats; it's $20, and the kid is 8, for fuck's sake.

You know, for a second I thought I'd say, “why not say to just give the kid $20 and go after the uncle for it on the back side? Lets the kid know that people are good and you can always backtrack on the uncle.”

Naw. Fuck that. Your son already learned that some people pay slowly, and financial issues can cause all manner of havoc, sometimes a deal feels better at the time you make it than it does at the end, and now he knows blood is not thicker than money.

Tell Uncle Dearest he's being a shithead and to give up the twenty. Throw him under the bus. Let your son know all about it. Now there's a lesson in reality.


3.) I am a proud gay man. Recently, while a group of us were having lunch, the topic of two straight female celebrities kissing on an awards show came up. One co-worker called it "trash." She ranted about how it was indecent and that children were watching. She later apologized, saying that her comments were in no way directed to me. How do I tell her how I feel and finally put this behind me?

Out – Dude, what the hell? I find it impossible to believe that a gay man would write a letter like this: this is the kind of letter a straight person pretending to be gay would write.

Wanna know why?

Good. I'll tell you.

There are two kinds of straight people. There are the straight people who think gay people fuck each other in broad daylight, in front of children, intentionally to recruit them into their big fag club; they are “abominations in the eyes of Christ” or some other such religious upfuckery; they all have AIDS or at least syphilis, and if you don't watch out, they'll sneak up on you and try to suck your dick when you aren't looking. Curiously, many of these are closeted gays themselves.

Then there are straight people who are puzzled about gay people, don't get it, don't want it, might even be grossed out about it or scared of it, yet live among, care for, and love gay people anyway.

Both are completely unaware what it is like to be gay, or what gay people go through.

If you are gay and this is the first time in your life someone you care for called has out an activity that appeared to be “gay” in a non-flattering light, then I call bullshit.

You'd have already known how to deal with it.


4.) My younger sister is expecting her first child this fall. She recently completed her baby registries. She is having four showers thrown for her. I have kids of my own, and I know that they require a lot of stuff. But she's registered for just about everything that this child will need until he or she turns 3 years old. Should I speak up about this?

Excited Auntie-To-Be – I have an idea: go ahead. Speak up about it.

Lemme know how that goes.

I have been on rants recently about weddings. I take them very, very seriously, see, because I feel they have become everything that is evil and unwholesome and fucked up and stupid and ill-bred and insane and putrid about this world.

Showers are pretty high on my list, too. Glamorous events, blown so goddamn far out of proportion they currently serve the single purpose of getting everything you can get while the getting is good.

There was a traditional gift I heard about when someone moves into a new house: you bring a broom, a loaf of bread, and salt. Dunno where I heard that, seems kind of old-school charming and there's a saying went with it: “A broom to sweep away your troubles, bread that you will never be hungry, and salt to give spice to your life.”

Awwww. What a nice little tradition.

A toddler bed on a baby registry? Gimme a fucking break.

I remember registering for shit at Babies R Us before my daughter was born and discovering what “layette” was. Also, I remember discovering that “layette” was more expensive than “newborn” stuff, and wondering if Carter's was going to make a clothing line for babies still in the goddamn uterus and charge even more. Newer-than-newborn stuff? What a racket.

But I also remember someone telling me “hey, that $750 European convertible car seat/stroller thing? Just put it on the register! You never know, right? Some rich uncle, maybe...” Right-o. I put it on, felt like a slimeball, and we didn't get it. I am very glad we didn't. What the fuck did I need that for?

The answer is, I didn't, but someone might have, just to grin proudly during the shower, gloating over their award for “most ridiculously expensive gift.”

And THAT is what a shower is for.

Tell Little Sissy that you'll get her the receiving blankets and a nice diaper bag. End of story. If she needed you to teach her about the rights and wrongs of life, she's have come out of your vagina instead of your mother's. Let it go.


Finishing up my post on a Friday morning isn't what I had in mind for this week's column, but what the hell – I have a great lame excuse, don't I?

Tomorrow is my wife's birthday. The big 50. I started planning a nice party, and asked a neighbor to attend to it (she's taken classes doing event catering and hospitality stuff), offered to pay, but then her 8 year old son stole a Silly Band from my daughter. My wife caught him doing it, and we said he wasn't welcome here for a little while, until we could believe he was trustworthy.

Like the great neighbor she was (meaning she was already on her third glass of cheap wine by then, 11:30 in the morning) she banished us from her life and un-friended my wife on Facebook. Seems it's not right to catch kids stealing shit, I dunno. When I stole my friend Brian's matchbox cars I got yelled at, dragged to the door by the ear, and told never to come back. My parents were called and I was grounded, this after having to apologize in public to Brian (who was trying not to laugh just as hard as I was). This might make a great DP letter, if it wasn't so terribly obvious the mama bird ex-event planner is little more than a stupid drunk bitch and her son – generally a nice boy, if a little indulged – is in for a fucked life when he realizes mommy can't fix it when he's 18.

So, the party never got planned, and a big milestone birthday is now relegated to dinner for she and I at a place I haven't even selected yet.


She'll get lotsa neat presents, though – exactly what she wants – and I think I have dinner figured out. Hopefully she won't ready this column today or tomorrow, though...Sunday's good.

And so: cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

"And they will know us by that trail of leaking putrefied brain fluid..."

Men think epilepsy divine, merely because they do not understand it. We will one day understand what causes it, and then we will cease to call it divine. And so it is with everything in the universe.
- Hipporactes.

Now, I dunno if Hippocrates really said that or not, but I sure like it, and thugh it has nothing at all to do with this weeks; letter writers I thought I'd share.

In other news, I got good feedback from people regarding my questions of the “forensic loan audit” process for people in foreclosure. I also got some good feedback from several folks who tried to do it.

It's mostly bullshit.

So, back to square one, or better yet, plan B: I have a legal team representing me and protecting my interests. It's affordable, comparatively, anyway, and these guys have real people who recommend them.

And so, here we go: time to dip on my house. First we try to do a “mortgage modification”, a little tap dance co-sponsored by the current administration which, turns out, is so easy to punch legal holes in it is only successful one time in a thousand or so, and frequently turns into a massive fuckover of the homeowner. Thanks, Bambam. That's why we voted for you, pal.

Incidentally, my odds are equally low, yes indeed.

After that, it's time for a “short sale”. Doable, readily presentable, and gets me out of the heat without getting my ass nailed to years of legal bullshit and inflated fees.

All this might take 6 months, so I remain here meantime. I can deal with that.

I'll report later.

And off we go to Prudieville, where they have hot and cold running idiots on tap for us in remarkable quantity today.

Originals can be had here.


Dear Prudence,
I'm dating an incredible woman. I'm thinking about our long-term future together. I'm torn as to whether I should tell my girlfriend I became a sperm donor. Is this something I should tell my girlfriend about and, if so, when?

Donor With a Guilty Conscience – Please allow me to start off by stating unequivocally that your incredible stupidity is probably immeasurable using modern-day methodologies. You should not think about your “long-term future” with this woman, because it is possible you could pollute the human species further with your sperm, causing countless more idiot offspring and destroying the entire planet in a violently horrible tsunami of goddamn fucking stupid people.

The idea that this information – you jerked a hot load of your elephantine idiocy into a cup for college beer money a couple times – is so pedestrian and uninteresting I can't seem to find anything to say about it at all. This is the black hole of non-issues, and you have managed to make an issue of it. Congratulations, Mr. Gump. “Mamma always said 'jerk it into the Dixie Cup, Forrest'.”

In short, it doesn't matter if you tell her or not. She will soon enough discover you are a profoundly stupid slice of dickcheese and split shortly thereafter, unless she's as dumb as you, in which case any offspring you produce would create a critical mass which could realign the course of human evolution and the whole entire universe will implode in a fiery, bloody ball of fucking lameness.

Outside that, you should get a vasectomy and count your lucky stars you haven't been naturally selected for extinction in some way. Go back to the TV, dipshit. Maybe Spongebob is on.


Dear Prudence,
I just started a new job as a partner with a great law firm. The problem is the clients' comments on my appearance. I'm a petite, feminine-looking woman. Male clients frequently make comments like, "You don't look mean" and "You look too nice to be a litigator." I want to convey that I'm a fighter in court and that they shouldn't be making inane comments on my appearance in the first place.

Feisty Female – Are you related to Mr. Gump up north, there? It always tickles me when lawyers write letters to DP, because although they are grammatically well done and the punctuation is generally good, they questions read like this:

“Dear Prudence,
I stuck my penis in a light socket and nothing happened. This became my main sexual activity until one day my jealous wife turned the switch on to punish me. What kind of conditioner should I try on my hair to make this frizz go away?
- Frizzy, Dizzy, and Holy Cow My Dick Sure Hurts Like Crazy.”

It strikes me that if you look to “nice” right now, you may have looked too “nice” before. Nobody ever said anything? Really? And you went to law school?

Never mind, here's the solution: if a litigator wants to convey the fact they are a fighter in the courtroom they might want to get into the courtroom and fight. Pee Wee fucking Herman doesn't look like much, but he can jerk off with the best in public and I don't hear him whining about it. He just did it.

So get a case assigned, pull the Ali in the courtroom, and shut the fuck up. You're a lawyer, for fuck's sake. Act like one.


Dear Prudence,
My eldest daughter “Susie” is turning 10, and her father and I are allowing her to get her ears pierced. Her 6-year-old sister asked, "Can I come watch?" Susie responded, "No! I don't want you there!" I want to teach Susie that even though it's her birthday, she needs to think of other people besides herself. What should I do?

Sibling Rivalry – The fate of the world hinges upon the answer to this highly relevant and imposing moral dilemma: Can Jasmine watch Susie get her ears pierced, or is she really icky and a booger-eater who always get what she wants?

On one hand, Susie's dilemma seems a natural example of Edgar Friedenberg's statement, “Juvenile appraisals of other juveniles make up in clarity what they lack in charity,” and sets a tone for her personality which may serve her well later in life, although her relationships may falter as suitors bristle over her natural desire to be both free-spirited and in a leadership position. I am more concerned, however, about the outcome in Muslim nations where the veil is Sharia law: Susie could completely upend a thousand years of attempts to strengthen Islamification in the middle East, resulting in a surge of reactionary and revolutionary extremism.

Jasmine, on the other hand, seems to better represent the growing pall which overshadows today's youth, a peer-enforced miasma of ennui which threatens to tear into the very fabric of American family ideals and create a newer – and greater – subculture of disaffected youth which could rival Britain's Chavs, resulting in a like-for-like performance culture which would lead to a lifelong history of failure to win a World Cup by America.

In the end, I suggest you pull your fucking head out of your ass and let Susie do as she wishes – they're her ears, I might say, and if you let her pierce them you might let her make greater choices about the whole thing, such as if she wants her fucking sister to be there or not. This is called “sibling rivalry” you vapid nitwit, and it'll pass with or without you sticking your tepid ideals into the mix.

The end of the world is near, remember. You must choose wisely, you fucking moron.


Dear Prudence,
My cousin "Bill" is getting married next month to his fiancee, "Jane." Most of my family hasn't met Jane. After they set their wedding date, my older sister "Tammy" sent Jane a message on Facebook introducing herself and asking Jane to change her wedding date. Jane declined. This has caused a problem. Can you please help my sister understand why what she did was unacceptable and that Jane's response is not crazy?

In the Middle – I swear by all the is goddamn holy I am going to start a one-man campaign to eradicate the whole fucking idea of weddings, completely and forever. There is no occurrence anywhere that is stupider than a wedding, unless Palin's in town speaking again. People getting married are sickeningly overwrought with puerile delusions of grandeur, visions of totally overblown pomp and circumstance, and putrid, vomit-inducing entitlement which most people think only exists on “The Real Housewives Of...” shows. It's a massive perversion of an otherwise simple event, it's fucking horrid, and it must end.

Families of people getting married are sometimes worse, though this seems to be the case where the Bride and the family are both suffering some manner of spongiform encephalopathy issues causing them to be utterly and equally stupid assholes.

Want my advice? Call your cousin and say “congrats, dude! I sent a gift card for 'Babeland Sex Toys.' Get yourselves a big dildo. Sounds like she needs it.” Get a nice card for her, and write “Congratulations on your marriage! Stay the fuck away from me and my family. We already hate you, or so I am told!”

Then on the blessed day, go to a pub and have a couple beers. At some point just yell “Mazeltov!” even if you aren't Jewish.

Viola. They're married. Done.


It strikes me that one day my daughter and I will have a conversation about issues surrounding that last letter, and I have a sneaking suspicion I will not exit that conversation a happy man. Sigh.

My son will understand.

And so I bid my Flysters good day – have a great remainder of Canada day today (Messy!) and have a great Fouth of July on Sunday. Cheers!

STC =^oo^=

Dance, little sister, dance. And then shut up.

You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of horny clues if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance.
- Edward Flaherty

One general down and few left to run the dysfunctional fracas that is Afghanistan; BP is fixing it's odds in the gulf by cheerfully kicking off new drilling operations in the Beaufort Sea, Al Gore allegedly played with his masseuse's girl-parts without her express permission; Joe Barton got exactly what he deserved for fellating Tony Hayward in public, which is to say he gets to keep his job and make more money shilling oil; Mark Kirk remains at large and free to lie about everything he's ever done from teaching to military service; and life goes on here in America, the land of the free, where free is only a relative term: Amazon dropped the price of the Kindle to $189 and I still can't have one, Goddammit.

Hmm. They don't call me “King of the Run-on Sentence” for nuthin'.“

To top it off, it's been freaking hot here. 93 – 97 degrees every single day, and my air conditioning is running 24/7, all the better to drive that electric bill up to astronomical heights I can scarcely afford. My lawn is a delightful shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, but on a good note I looked it over this morning as I took out the garbage and found it is an even shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, not all blotchy, so it's all good.

Meanwhile, I spoke to a lawyer yesterday. I make no secret that I have plans to dip on my mortgage, but this attorney, a canny young man with more dollar signs in his voice than Ke$ha can dance to has...a plan. It is not terribly crafty, nor is it sneaky, but it is, I hear, very effective. It is called “The Forensic Loan Audit.”

To wit: these guys place a restraining order on my loan servicer, inspect the loan documentation and process for flaws (which, I understand, all loans have), then they offer a court date to discuss the flaws...or a settlement for “fair market value“ and a good interest rate. I use quotations on “fair market value” because, let's face it, not many people who bought when I did can claim to be within 30% or so loan balance to value ratio.

Will this save my house? Mebbe. Mebbe no. Dunno, but the money I pay the lawyers, if it doesn't save the house, pays for then performing the paperwork for a deed in lieu of foreclosure service, or a short sale.

It's five grand, folks. I do not have five grand. Plus I have found some evidence that this is sometimes fraudulent activity.

I may do a Deceptively Simpleminded writeup on this, but I might ask anyone who happens by my blog today: what do you know of this practice I am considering? Know anyone who did it? Heard anything negative, positive, neutral? Nice to hear from people before I commit five large to a law firm I know little about except they have an “A” rating at the Better Business Bureau.

And with that, we will get all Dear Prudie up in that bitch.

Originals are here.


1.) At my company, when a colleague does something great everyone is called into the lobby. The person's supervisor announces what she did, and she has to dance in front of everyone. How can I let the company know that public humiliation is not a valid form of employee recognition?
- Ballerina Not in Job Description.

This letter has some of the hallmarks of the best DP letters plus the absence of any importance or gravity whatsoever.

Having said that, I will not approach this as if I were your HR director, a position I have never held, but one which I have been face to face with far too many times in my life to possess anything but a curious blend of jejune pity and unrestrained loathing for the poor fuckers faced with making that dour career choice.

First – do you work for Sesame Street? What are these people, nine, ten years old? Who else would dance in the middle of the goddamn lobby when someone does something good? Does Big Bird sign your paycheck? Fuuuuck! Snufflupagus, get off my fucking toe, dickhead. I have a two O'Clock!

Then again, there is one thing the people of Sesame Street have on you that you may find enviable: jobs. Endless jobs. The same people have been there so long they've grown old and gray and the producers had to create goodbye shows after they die, for Christ's sake. There are children of characters on that show who have children of their own. Built-in lifetime employment, and it's a good thing: what the hell else could they do for a living but count to four in song and dance?

Get this: they probably don't have to dance when something good happens, but I'll bet they just do anyway, 'cause hey – it's Sesame Goddamn Street.

You do not work for Sesame Street.

So here's the deal. Go to your boss and say “boss, I will not dance in the lobby when someone makes a sale because I get all embarrassed and shit and it's degrading and you can't make me.” Your boss will give you “the look”, and the conversation will end. You will find yourself sitting alone at lunchtime, and former friends of yours (likely already doubtful about you, from the sound of things) will cease dropping by. You'll be assigned to a few shitty tasks, menial and beneath your already dubious abilities, and suddenly realize that this company has little care for you, given prima ballerinas are pretty damned easy to find out there among the ranks of the unemployed these days.

You'll go job hunting, might finds something, might not. They will not care. Stay or go, you will become “that snotty bitch who thinks she's better than us”, and that, my dear, is evidently what it really is.

Moral? It does not matter that you are right about dancing in the goddamn lobby. It matters that you are about the become despised by many of those you work with, so go look for another job.


2.) I could not be happier with my boyfriend. He has an outrageous temper—but only toward inanimate objects. I would never fear for my physical safety, but his venting really scares me sometimes. I have asked him to tone it down, but he can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment. Should I just let this anger-toward-inanimate-objects issue go?
- Rage at the Machine

I will have to assume you are young and know absolutely nobody who has ever been in an abusive relationship. You'd have to be, what, about fourteen years old, perhaps twelve, to not hear about it. Maybe eight. Six. But that's not the issue.

Little Freddy Flawless, your beloved perfect man, has what are called “anger problems.” Anyone can get angry. I have punched a wall or a door in my life, no doubt, but I have always remembered it later because 1.) I typically take note of blood dripping from my knuckles when I strike something hard in anger and b.) wait: did you say he “can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment?” Did you really say that?

Oy fucking vey.

Oh, now what am I saying, I sound like such a worry wart. Don't fret, sweetums! Everything's fine! He's just blowing off a little steam – you know, people get a little upset and the destroy shit all the time with absolutely no memory whatsoever, it's completely normal! Why, a whole country invaded another country and blew all kinds of shit up and killed everyone the saw and completely forgot about it to the degree they put a “Mission Accomplished” banner up for all to see, even though they forgot why they were there and what happened! And that was a whole country!

I think you should just sweep this little thing under the rug like a good little girl, attend church and make certain you come to know Jesus in your heart, get married and have as many children as possible, and just don't fret about silly things like his temper. It's really no big deal, you incredibly stupid brainless fucking idiot.

Really? Can any one be as fantastically stupid as this? You think this is what “perfect” is? This is the one little problem amid a sea of perfection this guy swims in, you anencephalous dingleshit?

Truth: therapy might help him, if he's willing. Without it, if you stay, you get what you ask for. You leave, you get an opportunity to go through life without being beaten senseless every night. Make a choice, Ms. Gump. Sooner is better, and this world is never short on statistics for spousal abuse. Just look at South Carolina.


3.) My dad had a stroke last summer and now requires 24-hour care. My mother died very unexpectedly. After reviewing her medical records, my siblings and I discovered that her physician ignored test results and treated her for an illness she did not have. We don't intend to sue. We have yet to share this devastating news with my father. Two siblings want to tell my dad, and two don't. What to do?
- Distressed

You know, my wife is Canadian. She says “you want the best, you gotta import”, and she was right. She's baffled by the lack of healthcare here, but the more she hears Sarah Palin spout her teabagger idiocy the better she understand where the failure comes from.

Having said that, why is it that you make an admirable choice not to sue the doctor and cannot make any choice whatsoever to tell your dad what happened? Seriously: brother Billy says “it'll kill him!” and sister Sally says “he has the right to know” and this is the end of the conversation?

And then you go to Prudie and ask her to arbitrate? How embarrassing.

Look, Americans will forgive Canada for that comically bizarre closing ceremony at the Winter Olympics, all those giant inflatable beavers and mounties and shit. It was oddly cute, in a Timothy Leary sort of way.

But this childishness must stop. Draw straws and go with it. Flip a coin. Best two out of three. Play checkers, winner makes the choice. Whatever.

Quit fucking around, do something, then go have a Kokanee and relax.


4.) My boyfriend and I hosted a small get-together, which our friend "John" attended. The next day, we discovered that John had scabies! I am outraged that John came over knowing he had this parasitic infestation. Should I confront John about what I feel is completely unacceptable behavior, or am I overreacting?
- Skeeved out by Scabies

Cooties? Ah, for fuck's sake.

Coincidentally, my daughter brought scabies home a few months ago. Pretty nasty rash, very uncomfortable for her, poor thing. The pediatrician gave us a prescription for cream and bathing/application instructions which we followed. A week later, it's as if she never had scabies. Nobody else got them. Case closed. Bonus: we still love her.

Your case is evidently more serious. To you, at least.

Here's what you have to do:

First, you have to burn all your furniture. Every stick of it, no matter what; for Sarcoptes scabiei, the Scabies Mite, is an intelligent, ferocious, and relentless predator which typically creates protective fortifications among the sofa cushions using dead skin flakes shed by humans. These epidermal ramparts can withstand almost any direct attack but the cleansing of flame. Tear out the carpet, any rugs, blankets, and any wall-mounted textiles as well, and burn them immediately, before they start to build their cities and develop technology. If they have already built their vile scabies bordellos, you're screwed.

Remove all food from the house: this is the target of these fierce creatures. If they get your food, they will be able to summon the intelligence to develop weapons and vehicles, so work quickly. Best to burn it all in a bonfire. WARNING: Do not be comforted by the canned goods. Scabies have pincers on their front appendages which can open a can of peaches in seconds, and they love peaches best of all. Burn those too, but watch yourself. The cans may explode and spray flaming hot matter for hundreds of feet. It really hurts. I know.

Next, you have to shave yourself completely hairless: head, eyebrows, body, pubic hair – every hair must go. The pets as well, and if you have fish you must scale them.

Afterward, everything and everyone must be scrubbed using copious amounts of cleansing fluids. You will start with rubbing alcohol. It's a little uncomfortable, especially on freshly-shaved balls and eyelids, but scrub every inch of your body, then the floors walls and ceilings, the cat, the fish, and you have to do the lawn, too: scabies are tricky, and will build revetments amid the fescue from which they will launch serial attacks upon your home if you let them get away with it.

Finally, slather yourself and everything on your property with maple syrup, marmalade, and Johnny Walker. Allow it to dry, then wash off with cold water and a Brillo pad.

Are your floors oak or pine? Rip it all out. The Scabies mite uses the wood to build weapons, vehicles, cities, military installations, missile bases, aircraft, and roller skating rinks. Replace it with Pergo later.

Best at this point to stay in seclusion for about a week. Have Dominoes deliver pizza and Pepsi for food, and make certain you spray the delivery boy liberally with Johnny Walker before he leaves, or any surviving mites could infect him. I mean, what if he delivers pizza to the Pentagon or something?

Check yourself vigilantly. At any symptoms of reemergence of scabies, immediately bathe in a poultice of salt, Quaker State (or any well known brand) 10W40 motor oil, and goat's milk. Remain submerged for at least ten minutes, only surfacing to breathe. Any mites which remain on your face can be removed with packing tape. Apply firmly, then rip off in a rapid motion and immediately burn the leavings. The sticky tape stuff left on your face can then be removed with either naptha or acetone (nail polish remover works) and coarse steel wool.

Shave your entire body every day. Dogs and cats too. This fish are likely to die the first day or so – you can eat them if you get too hungry, after Dominoes refuses to deliver to you.

After a week if you have not shown any symptoms you may go outdoors for short periods of time, but do not wear any clothes for at least three months.

Note: “John”, and all the people who have even been in your home need to do the same things immediately. After you all have recovered, you can sue him for his actions, or maybe shoot him, although I might warn you it's illegal and I do not condone that course of action.

Oh, be sure to warn them all about the exploding cans of food.


Tell John to go to the doctor, get a prescription of an approved scabicide such as “Premithrin”, follow the directions, and five days later it's as if it never happened. Vacuum everything in your house. If you get a rash, go to the doctor, get the cream and do it. Gone.

Also: go to a shrink and deal with your fucking OCD-based germaphobia, you panicky little twat.


Long Winded today, huh?

Remember – please update me on that whole forensic loan audit thingie if you know anything, and we'll see you all next week.

Cheers, my beloved Flysters.
STC =^oo^=