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 her...parts – whichever parts you stuck it in, I dunno – and now you wish to insert it into my...parts. 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 “...my 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!