It's a bloody CONSPIRACY I tell you! CONSPIRACY!!!

Do you ever have one of those days when you think Lee Harvey Oswald was really a patsy? That Dubya hisself orchestrated the whole 9-11 planes-crashing-into-buildings thing? Moonwalks were done on a soundstage in Burbank?

And Dear Prudie is written by real people and not Slate's own staffers?

Naaaaah! I bite my own tongue! How could I THINK such a thing? Conspiracy!

Well, just you go one now and read THIS fucking crap. You'll see.

For this week, I am rewriting all the letters back to what I believe is their original form, prior to editing by other Slate staffers...


Scared – Your new letter.

“Dear Prudie,

I am a minor stipendiary semi-literate functional worker in Admin at making $8.50 an hour, and I was asked to write a letter supposedly from a 20-something year old collegiate male, brimming with angst, fear, emotion, and something like an attempt at self-knowledge while actually from the standpoint of a fucking psycopath who should be killed by being thrown into a vat of scorpions which spit flaming naplam.”

Dear Scared: I gotta tell you, a little more time hitting the books and actually graduating from high school could have netted you a better job. Not a bad letter though. Fairly typical for the genre. Nice touch, the bit about therapy. Still, fucking pointless, and I will forever miss the time I wasted reading it.


Don't Know What To Do – Here we go.

“Dear Prudie,

All these years sucking down shit wages working with the firewall team here at has made my brain soft like goddamn fluffy pink cotton candy, and then they ask me to write THIS shit. Figures they'd publish it, too, fucking embarrassing because I told me friends about the letter thinking they'd never publish it, and now they DID publish it, so it'll get Facebooked from here to fucking Pluto. I mean, who gives a flying frog fuck about a shitty little $20,000 policy? I mean, My mom took out, like, a million bucks, and it paid for me to go to DeVry, and that's how I got THIS shitty job. Anyway...wait. What was I saying?”

Dear Don't Know What To Do: I understand you're upset that you have to do this sometimes, but hey, it's a job, right? Besides, your letter was totally better written than the first one, so there's that. As for the Facebook thing, no worries – at least they don't have a picture of you getting teabagged by Roger “Hung Like A Horse” Jorgenson back at that three-day summer blowout party in Pismo Beach, right?



I Just Want To Be Left Alone – Here's yours.

“Dear Prudie,

Well, goodness, you'd think that only young kids would work at this place, all the pop culture and high tech whiz-bang goings on around here, but indeed, I got hired, and at age 62 too, doing accounting! Just three years before I retire, and now what do they spring on me? They say I have to write this silly 'Dear Abby' letter, only to someone named 'Prudie', which is odd because the pretty young lady who writes the responses to these letters is named Emily. I think she's a lesbian, but I can't be sure, because she has a husband, and these things confuse me, being so old fashioned and all. She dressed as a man once, though: I saw pictures!

That's a pretty name you know, Emily. I remember back in 1958, I was in the fifth or sixth grade, I don't know, but I had a best friend named Eleanor. The school was a one room school house – YES! They really had those! - and I would be asked at least twice a week to stoke the fires in the morning, mostly because I was a Girl Guide and knew how to build a proper fire, unlike that little nasty boy Thomas McStickley, who just made all smoke and sparks and a big mess. He was a handsome boy, though, and tall too! I dated him in high school, and alas, he wasn't a clever boy, was he? Surprised he graduated at all.

You know who's clever? Oh, that Glenn Beck, that's who! Why he was just as silly and funny as ever when he interviewed that nasty Sarah Palin, and he asked about whether she liked her father, and she said she liked ALL of them! I laughed and laughed, almost as much as when I saw that movie The Exorcist...or was it Big Trouble in Little China? My dear departed husband Reginald and I went to China once – horrible place, polluted, but what can you do?”

Dear I Just Want To Be Left Alone: This sounds like a realistic letter, written from your own personal experience. My advice is for you to please find a younger person who can download Notorious B.I.G.'s “Big Poppa.” Get an iPod, and have a younger person put the song on it and show you how to use it.

Whenever your neighbor drives by with her arms waving out the window, play it loudly to yourself: “I love it when you call me big pop-pa, throw your hands in the air, if youse a true player...”

You will laugh and laugh every time! So will I!


So Over This – this is too easy:

“Dear Prudie,

This totally fucking sucks my ass, being a fucking intern at a totally kul (fuckin' rockit!) place like Slate, where, like, Christopher Hitchens (fuckin' rocks, I read about him on Reddit) writes som a his stuff and, you know, all dat shit. Then I fucking get this whole buttlick, 'dood you gotta write a dear Prudie letter, nyah nyah, we all haf to do it'n shit,' and it's like, I'm like 'the fuck?'”

Dear So Over This: Totally fuckin' hear you, man. Grow the fuck up, meantime.


There endeth the week, and a good one it was. Got an interview, but it didn't come together...but I already have a job so there you go. Keep a-shoppin', I will.

We are ready for what Southern States call a 'Wintry Mix” tonight and tomorrow. That means traffic fatalities will octuple and they'll interview an old guy in a John Deere cap named Chester Hunnicutt, Jr., and he'll say “dang roads is slippery, ayeah. Dang kids aughtta slooow down some. Goan git kilt.”


Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

Hello. Meet my new wife!

In the wake of the results of the special election in Massachusetts that oddly leaves me feeling completely unmoved, an earthquake in Haiti which brings the true colors of the Right and it's associated religious moneymakers into stark view (if not relief...pun!), and the shocking (!!!) admission that John Edwards, the golden boy himself, has a “Love Child” (who the fuck made up THAT buzzword? Was it Diana Ross?), which was even less interesting than hearing Bill Clinton got a “Blow Job” or Rush Limbaugh is a “Drug Addict” or Glenn Beck is a “Asswipe Clown Whore”, I wallow in the political morass that has become America and I now state, for the record:

England – I am sorry for every time I said “what the fuck is wrong with those people in England?” In the end, it isn't just the dentists: it's the politicians, and the party doesn't matter any more.

Shame. I thought changing from Red to Blue would be a lot more fun, given my mild leftist-hippie attitude with the bonus of gun ownership. Not so. It's no fun at all saying “my fucked up, paid-off, suckhole, fuckburger political party and associated pundits are ever-so-slightly less deplorable and disgusting and putrid and dysfunctional than your fucked up, paid-off, suckhole, fuckburger political party and associated pundits.”

In times like these we turn to the comfortable; the known, and heretofore go I headlong among what I find comforting: throwing down spittle-laced invective upon Dear Prudence letter writers. Obama never reads my letters anyway, you see. Neither would you.

Off again we go, and the originals can be found here.


Ambivalent – Only one question: are you hot? If so, that's it. I am leaving my wife. I need a woman like you. Why? Recap: you, hubby, and your bestest buddies and friends forever and ever hit a beach house for vacation, and your hubby banged the other women with you right there sleeping. You say “tra la la” to him, but her not so much, not even a “tra.” Bonus: none, but seriously are you hot?

'Cause I think all men dream of a woman like you. Nothing like a “Get Out of Jail Free” card from a forgiving, apparently low-self-esteemed woman to make getting a tug and a rub (in the next fucking room, no less) more palatable, especially when all the currency it takes to take this move into next-room Nirvana is this:

“I love you, and I have no intentions of repeating what happened.”

Hell, I can say that.

Hoo, yes! I need one like you. Don't we all? I mean, unless you're not hot, and then, well, you know. Meh.

Oh, I might mention: cheating on a spouse carries with it a powerful and wretched responsibility, this residing in the hands and on the heads of both the cheater and the cheated upon. Dr. Phil says this is surmountable, as I suspect most shrinks do. What they don't advertise ('cause it's not good for shrink business to advertise it) is the fact that this responsibility is accompanied by a stigma that doesn't wash off with a little Ivory soap. It is permanent. It is this: “you inserted your penis into – whichever parts you stuck it in, I dunno – and now you wish to insert it into Meanwhile I just had coffee and a crumpet with her this morning, and we talked about yeast infections. And now you are waving that damn thing in my face, expecting me to do what? You want me to do what? Ew. Just fucking ew.”

Enjoy the party, sister. Not meaning to be cruel (believe it or not!) but even though he's the one that fucked your best buddy, and you're the one that got fucked over, from now on everything that is bouncing gaily away in your court – from that day until this and forevermore – is totally and completely in your hands. And possibly in your moist and wet parts, if you get my drift. I wouldn't worry so much about damaging this four-way friendship: I'd worry about regaining what little dignity you seem to have left, if any.

Still, I gotta ask: are you hot?


Pepto Tussin, Esq. – You fucking lawyers. What is it about you? DP gets letters from you idiots fairly often (lots of law students as well, I admit, but still ...) and the questions are so burblingly and grossly vapid that I wonder how the fried fucking hell you made it through all that school you supposedly attended. Do you guys let your five year old kids submit these goddamn questions?

Recap: Wifey cooks like Satan's own goddamn sous chef, and you can't handle it to the point you actually crap all fucking day. You want to know what to do about it.

Re-recap: You. Actually. Want. To. Know. What. To. Do. About. It.

Fucking overpaid glory-seeking slimy cock sucking assholes like you can blithely say things in public like “ client, John Gotti, was a kind and generous man, a captain of his city and neighborhoods, a leader who cared for the people who lived around him; and would never cause, knowingly or unknowingly, harm to another human being.” You are trained to speak like this. You are trained to be vicious truth-twisting scumbag poop-licking spin masters. You are continuously educated and reeducated to be high-paid prostitutes to the court system, spreading your mouth open wide instead of your legs, but still getting a big bonus if you make a little extra whining noises while you get your client off. You are “supposed” to be good at it.

And you cannot tell your fucking wife her cooking sucks?


I rest my case, you fucking moron. By the way, that will be fifty thousand dollars. Man, I'm good.


Perplexed – Um, dang. This is actually a good question. I read your letter twice and tried to imagine myself in your place for a moment, and damn if I can't feel for you. It's not a big-big deal, really. This won't depart the Earth from it's intended orbit, but...hmm.

Recap: kid crashes into your tree and dies in front of you. Family has enshrined your yard with stuff that's getting moldy. You don't know when to get rid of it without hurting feelings.

Aside: You had a bad night too, didn't you? I had a similar experience a long time ago. Stays with you. Shiver.

And having said that, I just realized an answer to the question: the “protocol” for this is entirely, completely up to you. Think a moment: if you went out there right now and threw all that stuff away, would it bother you? And what if the idea doesn't bother you, but you get pangs when you actually start taking it down?

If bothered, leave it and circle back. If not, reclaim your yard. You'll know.


Please Stop the MLM Madness – Man, have I got a deal for you! No, really. You're going to love this. It can change your life!

Wait. Recap: you awake to realize The Reagan Dream has come true, and money is trickling down on you so fast and plentiful you cannot keep your head above the tsunami-like waves of dollars you find yourself awash in!

Not. Not at all. You are as fucked as everyone else that isn't in healthcare or banking and sucking some senator's dick daily to gain political purchase in the judicial space. Sigh. I always thought “Trickle Down” was a bad turn of phrase anyway, notwithstanding the failure of it all.

Now, your friends and relatives – in a similar financial boat – got “in on a deal” to overcome the fiscal insensibility of our political fathers. They are now asking you to invest in their “really great opportunity” to get stuff, and you are (scantly) bright enough to realize this stuff is unadulterated dog shit. Meanwhile, you are also a coward of monumental capacity, and are having trouble understanding and using the word “no.”

By the way – I'll insert here that it's very, very funny to me that you mentioned concern that some people won't buy your shit from you any more unless you buy their shit from them. Just funny, I guess. Ha ha. No? Well, to me it is. Ha ha. Fuck.

Anyway, listen up Billy Mays:

Worry no more! Are you tired of the endless offers, the poorly-worded and awkward pitches, the ill-timed approaches from people you know who are trying to feed their kids and pay their medical bills by selling you the fucking equivalent of a Sham-Wow? Do you wake up in the night, fearful and shaking after remembering that time earlier in the day when your college buddy called and told you he had “the best ever deal on acai berry juice, just $39.99 for a case (of six 2 ounce bottles) plus shipping and handling and insurance and fees and, you know, a little extra for me and the wife and my dyslexic son who needs special treatment at the Sarah Palin (and God) “Why Read Anyway” Institute of Abstinence-Only Education for Dyslexic Children and you just...felt...awful?

Well it's time to face it! You're a chicken shit! Yes, you are a plaid-wearing, lollipop-licking chicken shit of the worst kind

Fortunately for you, I, Schuyler the Cat, have the solution to all your problems!

It's balls! Yes, testicles for everyone, the husband, the wife, and even the kiddies! Come on in to Testicles-R-Us, and pick out a pair in the size, shape, color, and configuration which best suits you!

- Do you live in Jersey, are you scared of girls, and can't ask them out? Piece of cake! Get the “Extra Testosterone” Douchebag model (comes in fluorescent orange spray-on-tan colors), pop all five of your collars and get out there and punch those bitches in the face! They love it!

- Just looking for extra cash and attention? Try out our “Big Stupid Balls!” With these you could, say, pretend your son is in a weather balloon and freak everyone's shit for a day or two, and you'll get attention galore!

(Note: the above example is not recommended by STC's Testicles-R-Us, but if you do it, keep the kid off TV later, 'cause he'll fuck everything up)

- Need a raise, and your boss terrifies you? No problem! Get the low-rider sagging “Experienced and Wizened Older Professional Gentleman” model! Barge into that cheap fucker's office and demand that raise! He's sure to fall all over himself shoveling cash into your pockets!

But wait! Act now and you'll received a second, spare pair of balls absolutely free! Great for travel and sharing with friends, especially on those nights when you've left your balls at home and that stupid fucker at the bar looks at you one...last...time and you've had enough! No more Mister Nice Guy – strap on your new balls and kick his fucking ass, and (Bonus! Call Now!) a friend can help! They come in handy later too, when you're in local lockup and that rather large weightlifter gentleman from Pittsburgh lets you know you have a “pretty little smile!”

All our balls come in this attractive and convenient flesh-colored carrying case which you can meekly give to your wife whenever she tells you to!

So why wait! Order your balls today!!!

Offer not good in New York City and prohibited in California, because let's face it, they need more than balls to fix THAT silly-ass fucking mess. Side effects include itching, scratching, discomfort, disagreeable behavior, temper tantrums, and hirsutism. In some cases pregnancy after intercourse has occurred in men who have previously had a vasectomy. Balls are not for everyone – consult your doctor, but mostly consult you wife and make sure she'll let you use them.


Heading into the weekend I have to say this: I got a nibble for a new job. Means little, as I already have a job (which I both love and hate: love the people and place, hate the money and the tasks), so I am not falling all over myself, no sir, not in this market. Still, its what I do best, I'm a good fit, the money is WAAAY better, and I'll get a blow job every day!

Not true that last, just spicing things up. I'm not president, after all. Seems nobody is sometimes.

This might save the house, too. Imagine that.

Back to work now – be well my Flysters, and be careful out there!

STC =^oo^=

If all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops, these people would still be idiots.

Sometimes you just get a present and it's perfect.

My wife, for instance, got me that vintage turntable for Christmas, and it was (and still is) perfect. Got a bike for my birthday once, when I was eleven or so. Big wow factor on that one, too.

And a certain someone (who shall remain nameless) sent me a bottle of bourbon, just 'cause she's the fucking awesomest awesome person ever. Really, really good bourbon, too. Called Noah's Mill, made (as it must be) in Bourbon County, hill country, in Kentucky. It's even better than Old Pogue, my previous favorite. I am sipping my way through it slowly, not overindulging. The day I got it in the mail I put on a John Coltrane record to listen to while I sipped, and the result was heavenly. The next night it was Pink Floyd, which worked just as well for me.

Tonight I think we'll go with Stravinsky, something a little bombastic. Rite of Spring. Yeah.

Meanwhile, after reading the crap over on Slate's Dear Prudence I think I'll need it. I would suspect the neurology unit at Johns Hopkins and all of NASA are understaffed right now, because all the rocket scientists and brain surgeons appear to be busy writing letters to Prudence. I haven't seen a foursome of letters so insidiously vapid since I first saw DP.

These incredibly stupid letters can be found here.


In the Window – Holy crap, man, what the fuck is wrong with you? Recap: you get a free hot chick twofer peepshow right out your goddamn apartment window, but now you're starting to watch “Twilight” a lot and you get all syrupy-sad about “cheating on the wife” and shit. Just because naked chicks parade around outside your window and you look. Oh, you're in your twenties, too.

Do you really believe Prudie needs to tell you what to do? Really? Bloody fucking hell, just move out, asswipe. What's the rent? I might need a new place soon, and you are too stupid to deserve the bonus you get for living there. It's obvious you don't have a brain. Do you have a vagina? Shit.


Troubled – what an asshole you are. Recap: your wife's sister, your coworker, told her something in secrecy, which your wife told you, and you repeated it to the sister, who got pissed off. Then you bought her some fucking flowers and proceeded to blame them both for being as stupid as you are.

And now you are asking Prudie how to make it better? Is that right? You want them to get along like they used to? You have any fucking brains at all, twatwad?

Listen up, you witless fucking dribbling dickburger: this is your fault, entirely your fault, and completely your fault, and nobody else's fault. If being at fault can be rated as epic, then you are the epically epic of anyone who's ever been epically at fault ever.

Suck it up, cheese brain. Your wife shouldn't trust your stupid worthless ass any more than her sister should trust her, all thanks to you. If I were her I'd start shopping for a real man with a real brain as soon as you fall asleep every night, then leave your worthless mouthy fucking carcass at the first opportunity. The word “astrotarded” was coined just for you, you idiot.


Arachnophobic – I just...oh, hell, I don't know what to say. Recap: You, an arachnophobe, as well as a total fucking idiot, bought your husband a tarantula. You regret it. Yup.


Glenn Beck, to Sarah Palin: “Who is your favorite founding father?”
Sarah Palin, our winner, at her very best: “All of them!”
All people with IQ's higher than 50 or so: “Please God, take her soon.”


You, the arachnophobe: “Here honey! I got you a hairy fist-sized fucking tarantula!”

You are in exalted company, you brain dead idiotic waste of skin and bones.


Not Interested – Jesus. And I was so totally certain anencephaly left people unable to operate whatever mechanical devices one might use to send letters to Prudie, like a computer, or maybe a pencil. Until today.

Recap: You (a law student) went out to do a temp gig and the guy who hired you got drool on your panties, and he's still trying to get you in his office to go through his briefs. Reminder: you are (a law student).

You will never, ever, pass a bar exam. It's not possible. You are entirely too stupid. I mean, If the bar exam was just the question “how many toes do you have?” you'd still fail, unless you took a lucky goddamn guess, and even if you counted on your fingers, which is actually kind of funny when I think about it.


I have invented a NEW GAME!!! It's called Throw the Dart, You Fucking Moron!

Here's how we play TTDYFM: I give you three things to write on a piece of paper. Fold thm in half, then tape them to the wall. Throw a dart at them. Whichever one you hit will be the answer to your questions! You cannot lose!!! Unless you miss, then you have to throw again, but that's obvious. Well, maybe not to you.

Let's start:

On the first piece of paper, write: Send him a fucking email saying “stop it, you're fucking gross.”

On the second piece of paper, write: Go back to work, and do it with him: in the conference room, in his office, and in the break room – fuck the living hell out of him until he begs you to stop. Make certain you video tape the entire series, and then blackmail the shit out of him. Then go on Dr. Phil and tell the whole story.

And on the third piece of paper, write: Join a goddamn nunnery (or move to Wasilla, Alaska), because I am totally unequipped to be allowed to run free in society with normal people.

Now get your dart. Ready? Aim...


Goddammit – this has been quite a day.

I am late this week with my Prudieness, and for that I apologize. I will try harder next week.

And so tonight it's a few more fingers of yummy Noah's Mill over ice, and some quality time with Igor, and all will be right with the world for just a little while.

Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^0o^=

Sweaty Teen Boy Balls! Plastered Daddys! Perturbed Pianists! Dateless Luddite Looneys! Are these band names?

Helllooooo my lovely flysters. Here I am, coming to you live from my office, with a cup of yummy steaming coffee and a list of a hundred things to do on my desk, and I will probably write my bit like I always do: between the times I am on conference calls, soothing users' nerves in the field, or eating lunch.

Makes my day go better, see.

As always, originals are to be found HERE.

And a one...and a two...and...


Desperate for a Public Service Announcement to Teenage Boys – I need to stop laughing. Seriously – I farted 'cause I am laughing so fucking hard.

Wait. Just wait. Oh, my.

Recap: icky young boys scratch their balls in front of you while you are teaching class.

I am reminded of the John Hughes movie “The Breakfast Club.” Loved that movie. There's a scene where the kids on detention are having lunch, and the lunches, in classic Hughes fashion, reflected the kids' personalities. Molly Ringwald's character – little miss rich prissy girl – breaks out Sushi and chopsticks. The others look at her askance, and Judd Nelson makes mention to her “you won't accept a guy's tongue in your mouth and you're going to eat that?”

This is how I will picture you during this little tete-a-tete. A prissy little germaphobic dowdy schlump of a librarian, wringing her nervous hands at the very thought of icky boy-parts within a fifty-foot vicinity of her very person.

Um, have ever encountered those parts, by the way? Ever...uh...touched them? These various dangly wrinkly boy-parts aren't poisonous, you know. They do not cause you to burst into flame upon sight or contact. They can be played with, tug on, and even (gasp) accepted into various body cavities on a regular basis without ill effects, although we won't get into that whole chlamydia or AIDS thing here – we'll talk later. Anyway, my point is: some people do all that stuff on purpose and frequently.

Now we get to the reality of the situation: goddamn teen boys, I tell you. I have been through three, and I have one to go through yet. They will grab their balls in the middle of a wedding if notion or need strikes them, then extend that very same hand to the pastor for a handshake after. Mindless activity, the impulsive scratching of balls to guys, and it's common as dirt. I made mention to my boys that they might not want do that in the middle of the goddamn grocery store, or perhaps on a date, and occasionally they may have refrained. Occasionally not, presumably.

As you do not possess a scrotum (definition of scrotum: “an article of skin, to the anterior of the penis which serves the multiple purposes of enclosing, supporting and warming the testes while providing a flexible yet inconvenient focal area of ungodly irritation at hysterically inopportune times.”) you don't get this, any more than I can understand how a woman – the sex which menstruates on a known and regular schedule – can run out of tampons. I mean, really? I guess menstruation really is that weird. So are balls, lady.

In the end, while I picked on you for your fussy/prissy/huffiness, I have to say that you did indeed handle it in an appropriate manner, and yes you are correct: teenage boys are socially retarded creatures of abominable manner regardless of breeding; thus while they are aware this is inappropriate, they are constitutionally incapable of overcoming this behavior and scratch their balls in public. I say you should go right ahead and start a one-woman campaign to abolish public teenage ball scratching.

Lemme know how that goes for you.

Now get along and wash your hands again.

P.S. - are you hot? This ball-scratching behavior may not be what you think. Send me a nude picture, and I'll let you know.


A Dutiful Daughter? - This would be sadder if two things were present: first, if it weren't so common. Second, if you didn't sound a little sad about it. The cold inevitability of alcoholism is an odd thing on those left in the cold.

Recap: dad hasn't managed to drink himself to death just yet, but it's only Thursday. After, mom wants you to eulogize him.

Mum is trying to foist a task on you she'd rather not do herself, I fear, and if that's not the case, she's still fucking crazy.

And finally, you.

I have no coarse words available to deride your mental and intellectual state, no foul tirades against your weaknesses. Just a simple bottom line: you have, as I see it, three choices, with minor variations.

One. Write the eulogy and lie your fucking ass off. Just write whatever. People expect it, don't they?

Two. Write the eulogy and tell the truth. “We are here today to celebrate the drunken, wasted, worthless life of my drunk-ass father. He died a pathetic, remorseless, putrid alcoholic, and I wish I could say I will miss him, but frankly I am relieved to not have to watch him lay snorting and whimpering in his own vomit on the sofa. Some of you will miss him, and some won't. Me, I'm like 'meh', you know? Thanks for coming, there's little bacon wrapped weenies in the hall after, if you'd like. In Jesus' name, amen. Or something.”

Three. Call mum. Say “no.”  I like this one.

Take your pick. Good luck.


Keyed Up – Ah, everybody uses the word “Friend” as if Courtney fucking Cox was going to walk in any moment and give out all kinds of huggies and kissies and warm thoughts, saving the day yet again. That wouldn't suck, living in a sitcom where I could bang Monica like an animal without having to fear kicking Ross' ass later.

Recap: you and your piano teacher are now buddies. You suspected your buddy sucked at teaching piano, took a lesson with a different teacher, and found your hunch was correct. Bonus: he's cheaper.

Your “friend” there is no longer your piano teacher, by the way. She may not be much of a friend either.

“Nay,” you say? “Don't talk about my friend like that?” Well let's take a look some clues: you said your new teacher is totally awesome and teaches piano incredibly well, yes? And you said your friend...not so much on the whole piano teaching thing?

You “Friend” charges more?

And best of sneaked out without “friend” noticing to take a lesson elsewhere? Whydja do that? Did you already know the answer?

Is it hard to reach the black keys with your head that far up your ass, moron?

Hoo, doggies; you are a budding artiste, I do think so. Listen: here's the fix: start a torrid sexual relationship with the friend. Make like it's the best sex you ever had, and get her totally addicted to it. Shower her with gifts. Get an erotic portrait done of the both of you. Call her for quiet phone sex six nights a week, even if she's in bed with you. Do this whether you are male, female, married, single – just do it (I wanted to assume you are make from the wallet comment, but that means nothing really).

After a few weeks, act like you've totally lost interest halfway into you sexual sessions, and start talking about Mediterranean cuisine and bullfighting. Stop calling except to ring at about 3:00 AM and say “did I leave that big red dildo over at your place?” When she asks “what dildo” just say “oh, right. Never mind.” and hang up. When in the car together, play Miley Cyrus and Hillary Duff music full blast, and keep saying “oh, they are, like, you know, so TOTALLY awesome!” In bed, fart and hold her head under the blanket. Stop shaving anything you would normally shave (except a 4” diameter circle on the very top of your head, and you can use a magic marker to draw a picture of a cannabis leaf) and when she asks about it say “I have decided be become one with the druid, and bathe in the very blood of the mighty magnolia, and the evening sky has become my God,” then shit your pants and start singing “Wango Tango” by Ted Nugent in a high falsetto.

If after this she still wants to be your “friend”, fire the other piano teacher, and start blackmailing her with pictures you've taken of her and the giant red dildo while she was sleeping. If she takes off, propose marriage to the other piano teacher, but start stalking her.

I mean, you gotta use those pictures for something.  Dickhead.


Tired of Texting – y r u so fckd up about this?

Recap: Men find you impossible to approach, and will only ask you out via text message. In other words, the whole goddamn world learned to text in the short span of two and three quarters of a year while you were dating and off the market, and you missed it, and now you feel like an anachronism but a.) don't know what a fucking anachronism is and b.) suck ass at texting.

Well, here's the truth: while you were dating that other guy, there was this massive movement on the internet, started by members of a web hangout called 4chan, which launched distance, personal, and virtual attacks on The Church of Scientology. Then there was also an entire electronic revolution which was focused upon you and your shit-picking asshole attitude toward men. Every man on the face of the planet who wasn't donning a Guy Fawkes mask decided that if they were going to live with themselves after actually having to be stuck in your meaningless, horrible company while asking you out they'd use this ultra-new never-before-used technology, and spare themselves the pain of having to actually be in your vicious, vapid presence.

Really! It happened, just like that!!! I mean it!

No, not really, but the Anonymous movement started, for reals, and as far as you and this texting thing goes: who the fuck cares?

As for me, I think it's chicken shit to text a date proposal, and think men who do it are lazy, rude idiots. If I HAD to ask you out on a date (with a gun to my head, I think), though, I'd probably text it.  I mean.  Ew.



Ah, have to finish up my day and get my work done. Bloody damn cold is North Carolina, though I suspect Messy would laugh that off, being in Chicago and all. See here, Messy dearest? Thumbing my nose at you, I am! I can go outside in a barn coat with no gloves! Nyah nyah nyah!

Sorry. That was mean, sweetie. Have some cocoa. I just had a moment.

As for all my favorite flysters – bundle up and enjoy the day!

Ciao. STC =^OQ^= (cat with monocle!)