“If you love somebody, set them free. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were. If they consulted Dear Prudence while you were split up, hunt them down like a goddamn animal.”
- Various
Ah, the mortgage company. Not the kind of folks who like to call nad have a pleasant chat, these guys. No, rather, an email with big red print with rowds on it that include “foreclosure” and “remit” and “you fucking loser” (not really, but...).
Been a while since I wrote in my Deceptively Simpleminded blog. Time for a little missive on my charitable and kind view of the mortgage banking industry, which will include words like “liars” and “scum-sucking assholes” and “What the hell was I thinking?”
Almost time to dip.
Consequently, I am ready for it.
Here today we have another batch of shit-picking ninnies to slice and cie into little gobbets of idiot-flesh. Something a little disturbing about this week's batch of Dear Prudence losers. Way more fucked up than usual.
Go here to read the originals.
One for the money...two for the...aw, shit. I don't have any money!
***
Hand in Glove – This letter was the most inspired bit of post-digestive idiocy I can recall ever coming from Dear Prudence. Recap: your flawless, amazing 13 year old boy has a thing about latex gloves, goes to “latex glove porn sites”, has piles of them in his room, and begs for more. You, a stupid, insipid, vapid asshole of magnificent proportions are wondering “is this okay?”
First, I had to do a little research. After googling “latex glove porn” I was (not surprisingly) assaulted by video after video of fat, ugly nurses wearing purple medical gloves, thrusting them mightily into any number of over-oiled orifices whilst moaning loudly about “take that rubber fist up your (_fill in the blank_) you fucking (_fill in the blank_)!” It was about as erotic as watching “midget toaster porn” or “mowing the lawn in a tutu porn” or “clean white socks on Vulcan slave girls porn.” Well. Except for that one with the two pretty nurses and the guy was pretending to have this big heart attack – they were wearing those little white outfits and doing this little dance thing, and out came the gloves and some sesame oil, and then he took out his...
Never mind. You'd have to be there.
Anyway, I'd feel a lot better about all this if your boy was just sneaking views of men and woman cheerfully humping each other, but porn these days is about violence and fetishism and humiliation, and not quite the thing I would recommend for a 13 year old, much less a 25 year old, 'cause it's bloody awful and unbelievably un-erotic and, frankly, shameful. Also: porn filtering software is a great way to make certain he's able to access more porn than ever before – it's crap. Just me sayin'.
Didja think about maybe sitting down in a face to face grown-up way to have a face to face grown-up talk about this rather grown-up subject? Didja ever stop to think that there are counseling services available on pretty much every goddamn street corner in every goddamn town from Hilo to fucking Key West? Didja stop to think that a healthy boy of 13 can masturbate 12-15 times a day until it bleeds but still come back for more? Didja ever, I dunno, form an entire brain structure anywhere in your goddamn stupid fucking asshole skull?
No. I thought as much.
In the end I have decided that your erstwhile perfect 13 year old is monstrously fucked up. I have also decided that you are, at the very best, the most dangerous parent in creation for him if you have to ask about this.
So my take? All is lost. Sorry. No worries – hey, Jeffrey Dahmer had a mamma too, you know. Don't you fret, Little Miss Brilliance. Just let it go. The smell of the bodies washes out of the paint and carpet eventually, with a little Lysol.
***
Tired of Dealing With Two-Face – Christ Almighty, where do you people come from? Recap: your wonderful BFF is a fucking asshole. To put it another way, a fucking asshole is your wonderful BFF. Meanwhile, you are a fucking idiot. The clincher: this asshole/wonderful BFF is your boss.
So jobs are hard to find, and you want to spare your best friend (Dr. Jeckyl) but lose the horrible boss (Mr. Hyde) and...wait, what?
Listen up, shit for brains: there is a fairly simple black-and-white way to see this. Ready? Hey! Get your goddamn finger out of your nose and look at me while I'm talking to you, Rain Man. Here we go:
Friends are people you trust, love, care about. Some are better than others. Those who are “bad” are not friends. They are, instead, liabilities we hold onto for no reasonable cause whatsoever. They should be let go.
Bosses are people who tell you what to do and how to do it. Some are better than others. Those who are “bad” are not worth keeping. They are, unfortunately, liabilities we hold onto because jobs are hard to find.
Thus: Friends who are bosses are like crocodiles who are pets. Lovers who are eunuchs. Wheels that are square.
Scientists who are like you.
They do not go together.
You actually wrote the words “...we share the same sense of humor and have always been comfortable in each other's company.”
I think maybe not so much. “Always comfortable in each other's company” except for most of the time, when this person is a fucked up jackass of a stupid fucking asshole boss who you love and share good times with and...wait, what again?
There is nothing wrong with your friend/boss. You are a fucking imbecile, though. In short: get rid of one or the other. Flip a coin.
Was that so fucking hard? Yeah, I thought so. Get back to work, idiot. Those french fries aren't going to make themselves.
***
Confused and Abused – This is almost cute, it's so cloyingly fucked up and vacuous. Recap: you have a cute little doggy. You have a roommate. Your roommate talks sweetly to doggy but uses mean words. You wonder...
Wait for it...
Wait...!
...If the roommate saying insulting things nicely to a dog (a dog!) is an issue.
You really do. You wonder that.
Good Lord God in Heaven Above, please help us all.
There are things on this planet that cause me to have distasteful moments of searing hate deep in my heart. For instance, hearing of “honor killings” does that to me – seems arcanely dishonorable, doesn't it? Frivolous lawsuits get my hackles up too, like that stupid million-willion dollar dry cleaner/ruined pants lawsuit a few years ago. And PETA's mere existence throws me into a thermonuclear tizzy the likes of which make Nagasaki on August 10, 1945 look like a copping a feel at a fucking high school prom. Sea Kittens, for fuck sake? Bah, them.
Having said that, abusing animals pisses me off too. Really I'm saying I like steak, and I also like my cats a lot.
Now: ascribing human traits to animals then calling what your roommate does abuse? Wow. I just discovered something more assiduously stupid than PETA.
I discovered you!
Right now, this minute: Please take the dog to a no-kill shelter so a person with more than a tenth of a gram of functioning fucking brain material can adopt it and give it a good life far, far away from you. You are dangerously stupid, emotionally deranged, and not good for much more than providing a skeletal shape and mass capable of holding up the skin that covers your completely fucking worthless corpus and keeps your entrails from spilling onto the goddamn rug.
After rescuing that poor animal, please find a hole somewhere large enough to fit in and hop into it. Wait long enough, and if there's any mercy in the celestial heavens someone will come along and cover you up and plant a fucking shrub on you and spare this universe from suffering the potentially infectious idiocy coursing through your entire being.
Buh bye, idiot.
***
A Shy Person With Shy Friends – oh, you must be yummy! I bet you are a firecracker in bed! Great! Just fucking great! Now I can't get this out of my head:
“Oh yeah, baby! That's it! Oooh, yeah...um, I'd like to request that you alter the vector of the forceful – yet loving – thrusts of your near-average-sized (which is not important, so they say) erect phallus in such a fashion and corrected configuration such that it interacts with my vaginal cavity by an additional minute of angle toward east by southeast, and thus might better contact sensitive areas of my pubis with a more pleasurable angle of attack! Oh baby, if you would find that this alteration of our current sexual position is acceptable I suspect I might achieve orgasm, but must offer a cautious warning that this outcome is not tested, certain, or verifiable until additional and sufficient time has passed to summon a conclusive amount of empirical evidence: however, having said that I'd like to add for the record this is, for the most part and despite your slightly offensive body odor, a somewhat pleasurable activity we are currently engaged in, and...Honey? Honey?! Wake up!!!”
Follow up to LW1 above: here we have an example of “mathematical pedagogy porn.” I am so aroused right now I might just go have a salad or something.
Recap: you are a socially inept, probably Asperger's affected hyper-intellectual who is scary-smart and utterly unversed in the most basic aspects of common human interaction and devoid of the most simple conversational skills. Danger: you're having a party!
Solution: go to the party, Roberta Oppenheimer. Make certain there's some liquor. Beer, wine, maybe some Grey Goose. Aunt Messy and I can recommend a really delicious Bourbon if you want to live a little.
When these 9 guests (victims) arrive, get them a drink. Maybe another, after a bit. Wait about forty minutes.
They'll tell you what to do from there. Happy Birthday!
****
Nothing but love from me. I know, I'm just a big goddamn softie.
Into the weekend go I, wherein my delicious and beautiful wife and I will be looking into new neighborhoods for acceptable and affordable rental properties. Three months, I am hoping, and better if it's five, before we go. These foreclosures take a bit of time.
Into the breach, us all!
Prosit. STC =^oo^=
A family affair, so like watching apes clean each other.
A word to the wise ain't necessary - it's the stupid ones that need the advice.
- Bill Cosby
The Winter Olympics, being up in Canada (my wife's homeland), has captivated us as much as it can – the three Canadian golds are a bonus, and for my money the women's downhill and the men's half pipe have been worth the time spent watching. Missed men's figure skating, 'cause I thought that funny looking Russian kid was gonna do it again, but that's another story now, isn't it?
Into curling we go, and that's one we hate to miss any single part of. Why? Who the fuck knows. It's curling. Don't ask.
Today we lovingly pay our disrespects to another batch of brainless nitwits of the worst order, Dear Prudence letter writers who have clawed their way bravely from the dismal depths to the brightness of the light, only to ask dumbass questions about unimportant dogshit.
I guess I love this after all, tiring as it is.
Go here for the originals.
***
Dear Not in the Family Way – when I was growing up, my parents showered me with gifts every morning, typically all stuff I always wanted. Breakfast consisted of sunshine and ice cream, and I was told every seventeen and a half seconds that I was loved, worthwhile, beautiful, and the most special child in the entire known world. I got a new bike every month too, and never wore dirty or out-of-fashion clothing. Supper was what I wanted, when I wanted, and I never had to go to bed.
Not really, but it wasn't bad, like yours was. Wait. Didn't you say you were “at peace?”
Lets recap.
Life growing up was your own personal Treblinka, with Mommy Dearest fulfilling the role of Franz Stangl. Sibs were all angels treated like porcelain dolls; you were the only real identified victim, or so you think. Many years pass, you've undergone “therapy”, sibs appear back into your life via Facebook and every word they say makes you feel like a big fat ickypoo losersaurus, and despite the fact you repeatedly shooed your half-sis off she continues to call, seeking family ties you think are better left severed. Bonus: Kommandant Mommy is out there lurking.
I have really, really bad news for you, sis: you haven't but barely started to recover form your childhood. Hey, don't look at me like that: I didn't do it. Mommy did. And mommy, bless her vicious, bloodthirsty, harridan's heart is right there, waiting for...something. From you.
You need to go after her. I mean it. You don't have to be the fucking Von Trapps and sing freakishly stupid songs together whilst wearing Johnny Weir-inspired lederhosen made of gawdawful green curtains to know what's good and what's evil. You also have a responsibility to bear here. Not to your half sister, and not to Mommy Dearest. To you.
Listen – there are two issues, and we'll deal with the easy one: first of all, if you want the half sister to go away then really tell her. Everything. Unload the history and stick it in her face, then grow a pair and tell her to fuck off completely, forever. You aren't being assertive enough, methinks. People who don't go away simply haven't been asked to leave in the right spirit. Meanwhile, visit your motives. It might just be that you have a good ally in her, she just doesn't know how to work it. Your call, and evidently no loss for you if she goes away, which raises some flags, but it's your life, yeah?
Next, Mommy Dearest deserves special attention. Very, very special attention.
That nauseating itch you feel on the back of your head, the one that comes up every time you get set off: you might smell cut grass, or hear glass breaking, or see a child crying, or whatever, is wrong. It doesn't belong there.
You know what I'm talking about. The “worthless loop” you speak of is a powerful symptom, and Mommy Dearest is the disease. Age and time and therapy are not an issue, nor a cure, in this case. She lives on in your head, calling you out, berating you, slapping your face and chipping away at what few little fragments of your life that remain (those few she didn't already shit all over) and she's never really stopped no matter how much distance you placed between the two of you, or how much peace you think you feel today.
Mommy needs some quality face time with the creature she created, little Ms. Frankenstein. She needs to know, and in no uncertain terms, too: the full, unequivocal unleashing of everything you've ever feared, suffered, and run screaming away from that she created needs to leave your soul through your mouth in full-tilt coloratura clarity and bash it's way into her evil fucking ears like the thunder of a thousand furious Gods, ho holds barred, every little bit of it, in a torrent of whatever you think needs to be said in whatever way you feel it needs to be said. It doesn't matter if she listens. Fuck her. This is for you. You need this. Go do it. Then maybe call your sister.
And then, Mary Shelly, you might find yourself at peace.
***
Left Out – I'm just...well, baffled. I can't quite get your point. Recap: Hubby is an old fucker who robbed the cradle. You both have “friends” who are his age. Your young-ness is apparently at issue and there's...something wrong with the wives...
...so he says his friends think you're hot and “attracted to you” and this means their wives...are...wait.
...so the wives are cold and detached toward, because you have young tender flesh and their husbands...think...wait.
Did you know that husbands tend to think their wives are hot sometimes? Especially in your case – he's headed to Viagra Central, and you have all your hair and teeth. So this little lunatic stroll down “I married a fucking corpse and hate old people” lane has me at a loss. You heard something every woman hears, and it's made you paranoid.
Listen up, Lolita: when you're 30, they'll be 50. When you're 40 they'll be 60. You will be healthy and young when you attend their funerals. Try to remember that.
Just live your goddamn life, ignore what worries you, and for fuck's sake: grow the hell up. Just because you're not yet 30 isn't a reason to act like a fucking ten year old.
***
Dear Stewed, Screwed, and Tattooed – Yes, indeedy, I have to rename a letter writer again. Your name is no longer “Stewed, Screwed, and Tattooed.” Your new name is “Fucking Stupid, Beyond All Reason, and Holy Shit Besides.”
Dear Fucking Stupid, Beyond All Reason, and Holy Shit Besides – let's recap: Your hubby, a military man clearly not cut of officer-quality cloth, got a profoundly stupid tattoo on his back as a youth, depicting a scene both mundane and unctuously asinine at the same time. The subject matter is irrelevant. You now have kids who glow and fly about like angels sent straight from heaven itself to illuminate the Earth. You want to lie to them about your past to make yourselves seem like better parents, and this means hiding the stupid tattoo. Also, you are pretty stupid.
Please surrender your children to family members who are in possession of both a pulse and an intelligence quotient exceeding freezer burn temperatures. The tattoo isn't a problem. The truth isn't a problem. Your parenting skills, however, are nowhere in evidence, or you'd know that the kids are only going to be a stupid as you behave in this particular instance.
Do they have an aunt or uncle who has gainful employment and at least a partially functioning cerebral cortex? Take them, drop them off, and go on back to the trailer and your six pack of lukewarm Schaefer. Maybe “Real Housewives of Jersey Shore” is on. Yeah, a hoot.
Do it now. Please. We don't want more stupid people like you.
***
Dear Zip Your Fly, or Zip My Lip? - Holy mother of God, you've written the letter – the one letter – which can split the highest mountains in its splendor, empty the very seas of every drop with its magnificence, scald the eyes of all humankind blind with its devilish audacity and mammoth importance to the continuing balance to the very universe itself and depth of consequence for all generations to come!
Recap: tell people their fly is down or not?
That's it. Really. Jesus wept.
I shall return to the Mary Shelly “Frankenstein “ references from letter writer 1 above: at the end of this outstanding book – a saddening and tragic story by any means – Victor's creation drifts into the snowy darkness of the ocean on an arctic night, away to be alone with his monstrous hideousness forever, away from the dalliances and beauty of normal life, and away to be apart from that what he wishes for so terribly but can never have.
Yeah, go do that, asswipe. Take your stupid fucking husband with you.
***
A quiet weekend again, hauling the kids somewhere interesting to allow my wife time to study her cardiovascular stuff. Someone around here needs a steady job, you know.
And next week I shall return, fresh spittle in mouth, fresh new bad attitude in mind, and a fresh batch of cast-iron imbeciles to revile in my own special way.
Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=
- Bill Cosby
The Winter Olympics, being up in Canada (my wife's homeland), has captivated us as much as it can – the three Canadian golds are a bonus, and for my money the women's downhill and the men's half pipe have been worth the time spent watching. Missed men's figure skating, 'cause I thought that funny looking Russian kid was gonna do it again, but that's another story now, isn't it?
Into curling we go, and that's one we hate to miss any single part of. Why? Who the fuck knows. It's curling. Don't ask.
Today we lovingly pay our disrespects to another batch of brainless nitwits of the worst order, Dear Prudence letter writers who have clawed their way bravely from the dismal depths to the brightness of the light, only to ask dumbass questions about unimportant dogshit.
I guess I love this after all, tiring as it is.
Go here for the originals.
***
Dear Not in the Family Way – when I was growing up, my parents showered me with gifts every morning, typically all stuff I always wanted. Breakfast consisted of sunshine and ice cream, and I was told every seventeen and a half seconds that I was loved, worthwhile, beautiful, and the most special child in the entire known world. I got a new bike every month too, and never wore dirty or out-of-fashion clothing. Supper was what I wanted, when I wanted, and I never had to go to bed.
Not really, but it wasn't bad, like yours was. Wait. Didn't you say you were “at peace?”
Lets recap.
Life growing up was your own personal Treblinka, with Mommy Dearest fulfilling the role of Franz Stangl. Sibs were all angels treated like porcelain dolls; you were the only real identified victim, or so you think. Many years pass, you've undergone “therapy”, sibs appear back into your life via Facebook and every word they say makes you feel like a big fat ickypoo losersaurus, and despite the fact you repeatedly shooed your half-sis off she continues to call, seeking family ties you think are better left severed. Bonus: Kommandant Mommy is out there lurking.
I have really, really bad news for you, sis: you haven't but barely started to recover form your childhood. Hey, don't look at me like that: I didn't do it. Mommy did. And mommy, bless her vicious, bloodthirsty, harridan's heart is right there, waiting for...something. From you.
You need to go after her. I mean it. You don't have to be the fucking Von Trapps and sing freakishly stupid songs together whilst wearing Johnny Weir-inspired lederhosen made of gawdawful green curtains to know what's good and what's evil. You also have a responsibility to bear here. Not to your half sister, and not to Mommy Dearest. To you.
Listen – there are two issues, and we'll deal with the easy one: first of all, if you want the half sister to go away then really tell her. Everything. Unload the history and stick it in her face, then grow a pair and tell her to fuck off completely, forever. You aren't being assertive enough, methinks. People who don't go away simply haven't been asked to leave in the right spirit. Meanwhile, visit your motives. It might just be that you have a good ally in her, she just doesn't know how to work it. Your call, and evidently no loss for you if she goes away, which raises some flags, but it's your life, yeah?
Next, Mommy Dearest deserves special attention. Very, very special attention.
That nauseating itch you feel on the back of your head, the one that comes up every time you get set off: you might smell cut grass, or hear glass breaking, or see a child crying, or whatever, is wrong. It doesn't belong there.
You know what I'm talking about. The “worthless loop” you speak of is a powerful symptom, and Mommy Dearest is the disease. Age and time and therapy are not an issue, nor a cure, in this case. She lives on in your head, calling you out, berating you, slapping your face and chipping away at what few little fragments of your life that remain (those few she didn't already shit all over) and she's never really stopped no matter how much distance you placed between the two of you, or how much peace you think you feel today.
Mommy needs some quality face time with the creature she created, little Ms. Frankenstein. She needs to know, and in no uncertain terms, too: the full, unequivocal unleashing of everything you've ever feared, suffered, and run screaming away from that she created needs to leave your soul through your mouth in full-tilt coloratura clarity and bash it's way into her evil fucking ears like the thunder of a thousand furious Gods, ho holds barred, every little bit of it, in a torrent of whatever you think needs to be said in whatever way you feel it needs to be said. It doesn't matter if she listens. Fuck her. This is for you. You need this. Go do it. Then maybe call your sister.
And then, Mary Shelly, you might find yourself at peace.
***
Left Out – I'm just...well, baffled. I can't quite get your point. Recap: Hubby is an old fucker who robbed the cradle. You both have “friends” who are his age. Your young-ness is apparently at issue and there's...something wrong with the wives...
...so he says his friends think you're hot and “attracted to you” and this means their wives...are...wait.
...so the wives are cold and detached toward, because you have young tender flesh and their husbands...think...wait.
Did you know that husbands tend to think their wives are hot sometimes? Especially in your case – he's headed to Viagra Central, and you have all your hair and teeth. So this little lunatic stroll down “I married a fucking corpse and hate old people” lane has me at a loss. You heard something every woman hears, and it's made you paranoid.
Listen up, Lolita: when you're 30, they'll be 50. When you're 40 they'll be 60. You will be healthy and young when you attend their funerals. Try to remember that.
Just live your goddamn life, ignore what worries you, and for fuck's sake: grow the hell up. Just because you're not yet 30 isn't a reason to act like a fucking ten year old.
***
Dear Stewed, Screwed, and Tattooed – Yes, indeedy, I have to rename a letter writer again. Your name is no longer “Stewed, Screwed, and Tattooed.” Your new name is “Fucking Stupid, Beyond All Reason, and Holy Shit Besides.”
Dear Fucking Stupid, Beyond All Reason, and Holy Shit Besides – let's recap: Your hubby, a military man clearly not cut of officer-quality cloth, got a profoundly stupid tattoo on his back as a youth, depicting a scene both mundane and unctuously asinine at the same time. The subject matter is irrelevant. You now have kids who glow and fly about like angels sent straight from heaven itself to illuminate the Earth. You want to lie to them about your past to make yourselves seem like better parents, and this means hiding the stupid tattoo. Also, you are pretty stupid.
Please surrender your children to family members who are in possession of both a pulse and an intelligence quotient exceeding freezer burn temperatures. The tattoo isn't a problem. The truth isn't a problem. Your parenting skills, however, are nowhere in evidence, or you'd know that the kids are only going to be a stupid as you behave in this particular instance.
Do they have an aunt or uncle who has gainful employment and at least a partially functioning cerebral cortex? Take them, drop them off, and go on back to the trailer and your six pack of lukewarm Schaefer. Maybe “Real Housewives of Jersey Shore” is on. Yeah, a hoot.
Do it now. Please. We don't want more stupid people like you.
***
Dear Zip Your Fly, or Zip My Lip? - Holy mother of God, you've written the letter – the one letter – which can split the highest mountains in its splendor, empty the very seas of every drop with its magnificence, scald the eyes of all humankind blind with its devilish audacity and mammoth importance to the continuing balance to the very universe itself and depth of consequence for all generations to come!
Recap: tell people their fly is down or not?
That's it. Really. Jesus wept.
I shall return to the Mary Shelly “Frankenstein “ references from letter writer 1 above: at the end of this outstanding book – a saddening and tragic story by any means – Victor's creation drifts into the snowy darkness of the ocean on an arctic night, away to be alone with his monstrous hideousness forever, away from the dalliances and beauty of normal life, and away to be apart from that what he wishes for so terribly but can never have.
Yeah, go do that, asswipe. Take your stupid fucking husband with you.
***
A quiet weekend again, hauling the kids somewhere interesting to allow my wife time to study her cardiovascular stuff. Someone around here needs a steady job, you know.
And next week I shall return, fresh spittle in mouth, fresh new bad attitude in mind, and a fresh batch of cast-iron imbeciles to revile in my own special way.
Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=
Cupid should have used a damn gun on these guys.
"Love is being stupid together."
- Paul Valery
Hello Flysters. Me again, still loitering lazily about in Dear Prudence territory, evidently too committed to this stuff to leave. Ah, so. Life goes on.
And here comes Valentine's day – my favorite made up holiday. I like valentines day for the chocolate best, but sometimes I get some, and that's not bad either.
Off to Prudieland, where the idiots are cultivated like turnips, which isn't a terrible allegory when I think about it. I have searched for another source of idiocy, but I cannot find quite the stupidly vapid pukefest one can get from Thursdays at Slate. They have a knack, I think.
Letters can be found here.
And so it begins.
***
Dear Puzzled – You are not puzzled, my friend. Nor baffled, nor bewildered, nor perplexed. You are just plain stupid. Lemme start over now.
Dear Stupid – man, are you stupid. Recap: you and your “female friend” want to grind out a sweaty wet sticky one, but she's married. To an Alzheimer's patient. Who knows no better, and never will, ever. Ever.
You want to know if this is okay.
Stoo. Pid.
Now, from your letter I can assume you two are not in your twenties (so there's no wild visual for me, which sucks) so you know the drill: life happens. Alzheimer's happens. Death happens. Meanwhile, what the hell is wrong with you, nitwit? Helllooo? Anyone hoooooome?
Assuming you can achieve a viable and useful erection, go achieve one and use it, goddammit! Missionary!!! Doggie style!!! Sixty-nine, it's divine!!! Once, twice, three times a day, motherfucker!!! Oral, anal, role playing, bondage, Wesson oil, S&M, outdoors, back seat, on the goddamn stairs. Go go go!!! Slam the and slalom that stiff slick slippery spicy salami into her receptive girly parts as hard and as often as your system can continue to tolerate it, then do it some more!!! Then...do it more!
Did you really need someone to tell you that?
Now: feel guilty? Well...uh...er...I dunno. I might if I were you. I mean, he's not dead (he's pining for the fjords!), and she's duty bound to take care of him, and that's not a big warm-fuzzy-maker in my book. “Can't go down on you right now, hon. I have to go wipe Bob's ass or he gets a bad rash. Back in a jiff.” She loves him too, you know. This is complicated and there's a serious need for reflection and respect in the situation. And you didn't mention kids – you have to consider the fallout from that very, very carefully, if any are about.
If they find a cure for Alzheimer's you've got a hell of a story to tell too, dude. Ew.
But meanwhile, stick that thang a yours into that thang a hers and do the wild thango-tango!
Oh, and you're still stupid, but you'll be stupid with a big fat stupid smile on your stupid face, for certain.
***
Dear Secret Admirer – A very famous person once said “dude, you may be stupid, but you sure are creepy.” I don't know if that was it exactly. Maybe I said that. Wait. Yes, I did!
I mean it. Seriously? Are you old enough to get a fucking erection, much less have a neato coolio crush on little Buffy McSlickinside? You really have to ask this question?
Recap: You have then hots for a girl and are seriously, completely, unequivocally a total fucking chicken shit and can't approach her and say “uh, so...hi” and you ask PRUDIE what to do about it? Bonus: you've got stalking in the works, under the guise of the old “Secret Admirer (Who Owns An Ax and Duct Tape and Hefty Bags and Rope and Shit) Ploy”
Dood – I have friends here at The Fly. They are tired of my schtick. They hear this crap from me all...the...time...
But I can't...help...myself...
Schuyler The Cat welcomes you to Testicles-R-Us, the complete balls superstore! We've got 'em all - we have big balls, small feisty balls, low-swingin' experienced balls: you need balls, we got BALLS!
Today's special: The latest “Guy Who's Not Scared Of Girls” model. These balls are a medium size for dependable performance and good reaction time, coupled with with higher youthful density, resulting in controlled by fast release and 150% increase in testosterone which can make a blubbering little hairless Nancy-boy like you able to actually talk to a real living girl as if you weren't the frequently masturbating cheese dick chicken shit of the worst wimpy sort that you actually are.
Unfortunately for you, the alternative is waiting about 20 years until you cease to have little boy balls and are able to look a woman in the eye and ask her a simple question, such as “would you like to have dinner sometime?” without wetting your fucking training pants like a goddamn punk-ass.
My advice? Until you grow the hell up, leave her the fuck alone, stalker. Jeez.
***
Googling Daughter – well my goodness, a Sherlock-lette with HSD! You did the science and the investigation and now you got the goods on a very, very bad man, yes you do! Recap: Mom's friend is engaged to a guy who might not be what he says he is, 'cause you can't find him on Google. You think you know what he is. Danger, Will Robinson.
Uh, ok. Here's the doo doo. One question. only one question: are you sure, Sherlock?
Reeeeally? Irrefutable proof? Red-handed evidence discovery? Okay then. Off you go! Do the throwawy email account and nail him. Then hope you are right. Hope he doesn't find you later, too. Have fun! Other than that, this little letter was so fucking boring and droll I can't believe I finished it. Nighty night. Fade to black.
***
Toning It Down – This is another misnomer. You are not toning it down. You are just plain fucked up. Recap: You and boy hipster-fuck whatever walks by that looks nice but are committed only to each other emotionally. You want to be a one-guy girl, and see this as a possible problem for him.
See? You are NOT toning it down. You are turning it up. He will hate it. Here's the conversation:
YOU: “Honey, we've been nonmanogamous like, forever, which is, like, totally cool because that word has, like, five syllables in it and stuff, and plus we are totally in possession of a college education. So, like, I want to begin a monogamous relationship with you now, since we have completed college and are becoming, like, serious.”
HIM: “As if. Fuck that. Bye!”
You are not concerned about the guilt thing. You are not worried about the way he will react. You now realize that you want him to be your one-girl guy and he never, ever will, and that means you have to go find another guy to treat you like a girl Friday so he can fuck whoever he wants while you and he profess undying love and emotional strength through intellectual superiority. You get to feel very metropolitan meanwhile by saying you too have this nonmanogamous thing, which makes you publicly cool enough to overcome whatever emo shit you can't cut deep enough to break.
Note: I know that you want to believe there is a separation of emotions and sex, but the sad truth for you is this: normal people do not experience this separation. You are either a.) faking all this shit or b.) not normal.
I also want to ask “where the hell were you when I was in college?” but it probably doesn't matter – I have to assume you are completely not hot because if you were he'd never catch up with you in the first place. Sorry. Just sayin'.
So here's what you do: Just break up with him and go find a nerdy guy that doesn't mind you too much. Buy him a lot of beer, tolerate his porn, use a lot of big words you got from your freshman sociology class, swallow it every night to get him addicted to the sex, and then lead him around by the balls forever. Easy-peasy. You're all set.
***
There we have it. Another week goes by and I got my jollies out by slapping away at the flies that are Prudie Letter Writers. The weekend beckons, the symphony is tomorrow night (bunch of Russian composers, my favorite) and maybe the kids will sleep in Sunday so I can get some on Valentines day. Hit or miss around here.
Cheers all, until next time.
STC =^oo^=
- Paul Valery
Hello Flysters. Me again, still loitering lazily about in Dear Prudence territory, evidently too committed to this stuff to leave. Ah, so. Life goes on.
And here comes Valentine's day – my favorite made up holiday. I like valentines day for the chocolate best, but sometimes I get some, and that's not bad either.
Off to Prudieland, where the idiots are cultivated like turnips, which isn't a terrible allegory when I think about it. I have searched for another source of idiocy, but I cannot find quite the stupidly vapid pukefest one can get from Thursdays at Slate. They have a knack, I think.
Letters can be found here.
And so it begins.
***
Dear Puzzled – You are not puzzled, my friend. Nor baffled, nor bewildered, nor perplexed. You are just plain stupid. Lemme start over now.
Dear Stupid – man, are you stupid. Recap: you and your “female friend” want to grind out a sweaty wet sticky one, but she's married. To an Alzheimer's patient. Who knows no better, and never will, ever. Ever.
You want to know if this is okay.
Stoo. Pid.
Now, from your letter I can assume you two are not in your twenties (so there's no wild visual for me, which sucks) so you know the drill: life happens. Alzheimer's happens. Death happens. Meanwhile, what the hell is wrong with you, nitwit? Helllooo? Anyone hoooooome?
Assuming you can achieve a viable and useful erection, go achieve one and use it, goddammit! Missionary!!! Doggie style!!! Sixty-nine, it's divine!!! Once, twice, three times a day, motherfucker!!! Oral, anal, role playing, bondage, Wesson oil, S&M, outdoors, back seat, on the goddamn stairs. Go go go!!! Slam the and slalom that stiff slick slippery spicy salami into her receptive girly parts as hard and as often as your system can continue to tolerate it, then do it some more!!! Then...do it more!
Did you really need someone to tell you that?
Now: feel guilty? Well...uh...er...I dunno. I might if I were you. I mean, he's not dead (he's pining for the fjords!), and she's duty bound to take care of him, and that's not a big warm-fuzzy-maker in my book. “Can't go down on you right now, hon. I have to go wipe Bob's ass or he gets a bad rash. Back in a jiff.” She loves him too, you know. This is complicated and there's a serious need for reflection and respect in the situation. And you didn't mention kids – you have to consider the fallout from that very, very carefully, if any are about.
If they find a cure for Alzheimer's you've got a hell of a story to tell too, dude. Ew.
But meanwhile, stick that thang a yours into that thang a hers and do the wild thango-tango!
Oh, and you're still stupid, but you'll be stupid with a big fat stupid smile on your stupid face, for certain.
***
Dear Secret Admirer – A very famous person once said “dude, you may be stupid, but you sure are creepy.” I don't know if that was it exactly. Maybe I said that. Wait. Yes, I did!
I mean it. Seriously? Are you old enough to get a fucking erection, much less have a neato coolio crush on little Buffy McSlickinside? You really have to ask this question?
Recap: You have then hots for a girl and are seriously, completely, unequivocally a total fucking chicken shit and can't approach her and say “uh, so...hi” and you ask PRUDIE what to do about it? Bonus: you've got stalking in the works, under the guise of the old “Secret Admirer (Who Owns An Ax and Duct Tape and Hefty Bags and Rope and Shit) Ploy”
Dood – I have friends here at The Fly. They are tired of my schtick. They hear this crap from me all...the...time...
But I can't...help...myself...
Schuyler The Cat welcomes you to Testicles-R-Us, the complete balls superstore! We've got 'em all - we have big balls, small feisty balls, low-swingin' experienced balls: you need balls, we got BALLS!
Today's special: The latest “Guy Who's Not Scared Of Girls” model. These balls are a medium size for dependable performance and good reaction time, coupled with with higher youthful density, resulting in controlled by fast release and 150% increase in testosterone which can make a blubbering little hairless Nancy-boy like you able to actually talk to a real living girl as if you weren't the frequently masturbating cheese dick chicken shit of the worst wimpy sort that you actually are.
Unfortunately for you, the alternative is waiting about 20 years until you cease to have little boy balls and are able to look a woman in the eye and ask her a simple question, such as “would you like to have dinner sometime?” without wetting your fucking training pants like a goddamn punk-ass.
My advice? Until you grow the hell up, leave her the fuck alone, stalker. Jeez.
***
Googling Daughter – well my goodness, a Sherlock-lette with HSD! You did the science and the investigation and now you got the goods on a very, very bad man, yes you do! Recap: Mom's friend is engaged to a guy who might not be what he says he is, 'cause you can't find him on Google. You think you know what he is. Danger, Will Robinson.
Uh, ok. Here's the doo doo. One question. only one question: are you sure, Sherlock?
Reeeeally? Irrefutable proof? Red-handed evidence discovery? Okay then. Off you go! Do the throwawy email account and nail him. Then hope you are right. Hope he doesn't find you later, too. Have fun! Other than that, this little letter was so fucking boring and droll I can't believe I finished it. Nighty night. Fade to black.
***
Toning It Down – This is another misnomer. You are not toning it down. You are just plain fucked up. Recap: You and boy hipster-fuck whatever walks by that looks nice but are committed only to each other emotionally. You want to be a one-guy girl, and see this as a possible problem for him.
See? You are NOT toning it down. You are turning it up. He will hate it. Here's the conversation:
YOU: “Honey, we've been nonmanogamous like, forever, which is, like, totally cool because that word has, like, five syllables in it and stuff, and plus we are totally in possession of a college education. So, like, I want to begin a monogamous relationship with you now, since we have completed college and are becoming, like, serious.”
HIM: “As if. Fuck that. Bye!”
You are not concerned about the guilt thing. You are not worried about the way he will react. You now realize that you want him to be your one-girl guy and he never, ever will, and that means you have to go find another guy to treat you like a girl Friday so he can fuck whoever he wants while you and he profess undying love and emotional strength through intellectual superiority. You get to feel very metropolitan meanwhile by saying you too have this nonmanogamous thing, which makes you publicly cool enough to overcome whatever emo shit you can't cut deep enough to break.
Note: I know that you want to believe there is a separation of emotions and sex, but the sad truth for you is this: normal people do not experience this separation. You are either a.) faking all this shit or b.) not normal.
I also want to ask “where the hell were you when I was in college?” but it probably doesn't matter – I have to assume you are completely not hot because if you were he'd never catch up with you in the first place. Sorry. Just sayin'.
So here's what you do: Just break up with him and go find a nerdy guy that doesn't mind you too much. Buy him a lot of beer, tolerate his porn, use a lot of big words you got from your freshman sociology class, swallow it every night to get him addicted to the sex, and then lead him around by the balls forever. Easy-peasy. You're all set.
***
There we have it. Another week goes by and I got my jollies out by slapping away at the flies that are Prudie Letter Writers. The weekend beckons, the symphony is tomorrow night (bunch of Russian composers, my favorite) and maybe the kids will sleep in Sunday so I can get some on Valentines day. Hit or miss around here.
Cheers all, until next time.
STC =^oo^=
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times? Time's up.
If there are no stupid questions, then what kind of questions do stupid people ask? Do they get smart just in time to ask questions?
- Scott Adams
I always liked this quote, but somehow cannot make it fit Dear Prudence anymore, if I ever could. Realizing I expend an enormous amount of energy at this humble site to dis that particular column, I also realize that I am getting pretty tired of the same old Slate jerk-off fare, and that I have become a slave to the imbecility they feed us. It's been tiresome. Now it's just fucking stupid, and I hate knowing that I am being stupid along for the ride.
I am seeking alternatives – rather than dance the the beat of songs I learned to hate long ago, and failing to heed my own oft-flung advice on deserting idiocy in search of something more substantial, I will seek a new source of banality upon which to focus my furies.
For now, I'm stuck with Slate's ever popular but unfortunately stale-to-the-point-of-death Dear Prudence offering. Look here, if you still can.
***
Deeply Hurt and Confused – There are deep holes in your sad, sad tale of woe, my friend. Reeks of fakery. Let's recap: you and wifey dearest had a spat, and she told you that prior to your nuptials she had a poke and tickle with your brother, for whom you have little respect because you think he's an idiot (which overlooks the fact you are an idiot, by the way) and now you're just all fucked up about it, as if it matters or something.
Lemme visit your exact words about this little sexual indiscretion: “They both kept this from me; it wasn't revealed until I asked my wife point blank.”
Reeeeally? so...what did you ask, point blank? “didja have sex with my brother?” Did you already know? How could you if they kept it from you? Did you suspect, perhaps? Did you use your sooper-dooper mind reading powers to unlock the very secrets of her soul and then confront her? Why did she tell you? How the hell did this happen? Are you Marty Mc-Goddamn-Fly and did you get the fucking DeLorean up to 88 goddamn miles an hour in the mall parking lot to go way-back and watch them rub out a nasty?
Not a terribly crafty letter, especially that part. Meanwhile there is nothing interesting to see here. An artless tale of three bland people fucking each other and revealing deepest and darkest secrets that possess all the intrigue of the first three minutes of an episode of fucking Jimmy Neutron, and the “sham” you speak of is both the imbecilic dysfunction of your story and your idiotic reaction to the mundane activities you whine about.
Grow up and get a life. Oh, strangle the brother. Very biblical, that solution.
***
Truth Shall Set You Free – Oh, my goodness gracious! We have woven a dilly of a tangled web, haven't we? Recap: while dating your (where are typical Prudie-esque supplemental intensifiers? Isn't he “fabulous,” and “wonderful,” and “awesome?”) husband, thus before you married, you fucked someone and feel bad about it and suspect coming clean might make the universe a better place for everyone.
It will! It really will! It will set you freeeeee!
Tell him immediately, especially since he sounds like a very understanding man who will dump your cheap slut ass the moment he finds out! Go on, do it! Let us all know how that turns out. And after, when he's knocked out a few of your teeth and left you bleeding and wondering about all the times you failed to sing his praises, you might reconsider the idea of setting yourself free through indiscriminate use of the truth, and maybe you could have just calmly divorced instead, because there's not a lot to this story. After the bruises fade, though, maybe you can then go find a guy that you feel compelled to use better adjectives to describe. Try a better plot device, too. The theme of getting a splinter in your ass and leaving it to fester for years until the putrefaction and gangrene threaten your life is getting pretty fucking tired.
***
Tired Wife – oh, hell. Recap: hubby had a stroke, he's not the man he used to be, and you fancy yourself Superwoman. He's bummed because he lost everything, and you (completely unaware that you are feeding his state of mind by being, you know, Superwoman) are sick of his depressing shit.
The point here, though, is that you end your letter by asking “Is this the way it's going to be forever?”
Ah, the world is rife with these tales of injustice! Pluto, long regarded as a planet, is now considered a somewhat interesting asteroid instead! After thousands of hours of work, a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars, and a massive advertising campaign, the Edsel wasn't quite as popular as Henry would have liked! After months of infighting, politicking, and partisan bickering we got a Republican candidate in John McCain that was comparatively believable and acceptable, and they hooked him up with the stupidest, most hideously asinine, banal, brainless putrid fucking twat of a VP candidate ever and threw away a presidency!
Life sure sucks, don't it?
To answer your question: are you completely fucking stupid? What kind of a question is that anyway? And what kind of massively brain dead ignoramus would ask it? You're all like:
“Dear Prudie: will the sun burn bright in the sky for all eternity?”
“Dear Prudie: will the Cowboys ever win another Superbowl?”
“Dear Prudie: will aliens land on the earth and take over our minds using a special machine which causes us to become zombie-slaves who worship their leader Glorpphlaex and spend their withering days feeding them roasted toads and marshmallows?”
And I'm all like “huh?”
I know we all think Prudie can answer questions related to the formation of the universe and the deepest inner workings of our frail and fragile minds, but really?
Well, what the hell. I will answer it: Yes. It is gong to be like that forever. Your life now sucks ass always and eternally. Happy now, Superwoman?
***
The Reluctant Philanthropist's Wife – This letter is so completely and obviously contrived I had to read it twice to see if it was me who was stoned. Alas, I was NOT stoned, it was Prudie's team again.
Recap? Best we do a breakdown of a classic Prudie-style letter.
First, the victim: Your hubby is a mechanic with a new job.
Next, the bait: his boss gives away auto repair work all the time, for which your husband is not paid.
Next, the hook: disgusting fucking worthless people thrown into the mix who benefit from this free auto repair work, described using insulting terms.
Next, the escape route: a manager in the mix who can save the world from the horrors of free auto repair.
Finally, the catch: The boss' job could be lost.
Yawn. The plot of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” is more compelling, taut, and interesting than this shit.
Solution: let's write a better story!
'Dear Prudie,
My affordable, delicious, refreshing husband of many many years was placed on this earth by The Good Lord God himself to fix broken cars. He has a job making eight dollars an hour with a sleazy chain, and the manager of the chain, it turns out, is Satan – that's right, the very fallen one one himself! Satan, you may know, is a bad, bad ex-angel from a fairy tale. He's of the worst sort, the kind who sexually exploits animals during work hours and charges too much for stuff like spark plugs and oil changes, and my husband thinks he smokes marijuana and possibly abuses oxycontin, although we can't be certain because, you know, The Dark One is, well, pretty dark, and Limbaugh doesn't share with others.
Anyways, the district manager says holy water would reduce Satan to a bloody pile of bubbly gobbets of scorched devil-flesh in an instant and restore peace and balance to the Earth, but the Pope don't exactly give that shit away. It's, like, a thousand dollars an ounce, and he'd need a few gallons of it. In order to get the money he'd have to prostitute his one-eyed rabid special needs donkey to the local outlaw biker community at discounted prices. Meanwhile, my husband, a mannered, felicitous and not entirely obsequious man of mostly unquestionable pedigree has stopped going down on me after breakfast, and I'm so bummed and horny I just spend all day in bed with my rabbit, and we're just about going bankrupt buying batteries.
So I took out my frustration once by kicking our dog Ed, and my son saw me do it and told his teacher. She's called the SPCA and they're going to take Ed away unless I can get a character witness to say I am kind to animals, and I always eat the ones I kill. Meanwhile a few weeks ago Satan sneaked into my bedroom and buggered me like a rotten dirty little whore in my sleep. I got it all on hidden camera, and I threatened to blackmail him if he didn't tell the SPCA that I am really a good person at heart, and a vegetarian too. Oh, and I like have a totally hot crush on him – he's awesome, and man has he got stamina! Woof!
Prudie, should we get a bigger TV?
- Sore Ass But In Remote Control”
Dear Sore Ass but In Remote Control...
What was your stupid question? Oh, right. Tell your fucking husband to throw the boss into the fire or go get another job. Really, how hard was that, you idiot?
***
Well, there it was, and I just don't feel any better. Advice, Flysters? You all know better than I that there are plenty of sources of idiocy to be reviled. Send me to another land of opportunity, a place that offers new fodder for my vents. Where do I go now?
I need advice. It's like this:
“Dear Prudie,
You have sucked for a long time, but now I finally realize the depths and breadth of your suckage. Sorry I didn't catch it earlier – I am not very bright. Thing is, even though you suck I still need a place to fire my not-entirely erudite salvos of spittle and spite. Who else is out there doing advice columns who doesn't suck quite as much as you do?
- Once a Fan, Never a Believer.”
Cheers all!
STC =^oo^=
- Scott Adams
I always liked this quote, but somehow cannot make it fit Dear Prudence anymore, if I ever could. Realizing I expend an enormous amount of energy at this humble site to dis that particular column, I also realize that I am getting pretty tired of the same old Slate jerk-off fare, and that I have become a slave to the imbecility they feed us. It's been tiresome. Now it's just fucking stupid, and I hate knowing that I am being stupid along for the ride.
I am seeking alternatives – rather than dance the the beat of songs I learned to hate long ago, and failing to heed my own oft-flung advice on deserting idiocy in search of something more substantial, I will seek a new source of banality upon which to focus my furies.
For now, I'm stuck with Slate's ever popular but unfortunately stale-to-the-point-of-death Dear Prudence offering. Look here, if you still can.
***
Deeply Hurt and Confused – There are deep holes in your sad, sad tale of woe, my friend. Reeks of fakery. Let's recap: you and wifey dearest had a spat, and she told you that prior to your nuptials she had a poke and tickle with your brother, for whom you have little respect because you think he's an idiot (which overlooks the fact you are an idiot, by the way) and now you're just all fucked up about it, as if it matters or something.
Lemme visit your exact words about this little sexual indiscretion: “They both kept this from me; it wasn't revealed until I asked my wife point blank.”
Reeeeally? so...what did you ask, point blank? “didja have sex with my brother?” Did you already know? How could you if they kept it from you? Did you suspect, perhaps? Did you use your sooper-dooper mind reading powers to unlock the very secrets of her soul and then confront her? Why did she tell you? How the hell did this happen? Are you Marty Mc-Goddamn-Fly and did you get the fucking DeLorean up to 88 goddamn miles an hour in the mall parking lot to go way-back and watch them rub out a nasty?
Not a terribly crafty letter, especially that part. Meanwhile there is nothing interesting to see here. An artless tale of three bland people fucking each other and revealing deepest and darkest secrets that possess all the intrigue of the first three minutes of an episode of fucking Jimmy Neutron, and the “sham” you speak of is both the imbecilic dysfunction of your story and your idiotic reaction to the mundane activities you whine about.
Grow up and get a life. Oh, strangle the brother. Very biblical, that solution.
***
Truth Shall Set You Free – Oh, my goodness gracious! We have woven a dilly of a tangled web, haven't we? Recap: while dating your (where are typical Prudie-esque supplemental intensifiers? Isn't he “fabulous,” and “wonderful,” and “awesome?”) husband, thus before you married, you fucked someone and feel bad about it and suspect coming clean might make the universe a better place for everyone.
It will! It really will! It will set you freeeeee!
Tell him immediately, especially since he sounds like a very understanding man who will dump your cheap slut ass the moment he finds out! Go on, do it! Let us all know how that turns out. And after, when he's knocked out a few of your teeth and left you bleeding and wondering about all the times you failed to sing his praises, you might reconsider the idea of setting yourself free through indiscriminate use of the truth, and maybe you could have just calmly divorced instead, because there's not a lot to this story. After the bruises fade, though, maybe you can then go find a guy that you feel compelled to use better adjectives to describe. Try a better plot device, too. The theme of getting a splinter in your ass and leaving it to fester for years until the putrefaction and gangrene threaten your life is getting pretty fucking tired.
***
Tired Wife – oh, hell. Recap: hubby had a stroke, he's not the man he used to be, and you fancy yourself Superwoman. He's bummed because he lost everything, and you (completely unaware that you are feeding his state of mind by being, you know, Superwoman) are sick of his depressing shit.
The point here, though, is that you end your letter by asking “Is this the way it's going to be forever?”
Ah, the world is rife with these tales of injustice! Pluto, long regarded as a planet, is now considered a somewhat interesting asteroid instead! After thousands of hours of work, a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars, and a massive advertising campaign, the Edsel wasn't quite as popular as Henry would have liked! After months of infighting, politicking, and partisan bickering we got a Republican candidate in John McCain that was comparatively believable and acceptable, and they hooked him up with the stupidest, most hideously asinine, banal, brainless putrid fucking twat of a VP candidate ever and threw away a presidency!
Life sure sucks, don't it?
To answer your question: are you completely fucking stupid? What kind of a question is that anyway? And what kind of massively brain dead ignoramus would ask it? You're all like:
“Dear Prudie: will the sun burn bright in the sky for all eternity?”
“Dear Prudie: will the Cowboys ever win another Superbowl?”
“Dear Prudie: will aliens land on the earth and take over our minds using a special machine which causes us to become zombie-slaves who worship their leader Glorpphlaex and spend their withering days feeding them roasted toads and marshmallows?”
And I'm all like “huh?”
I know we all think Prudie can answer questions related to the formation of the universe and the deepest inner workings of our frail and fragile minds, but really?
Well, what the hell. I will answer it: Yes. It is gong to be like that forever. Your life now sucks ass always and eternally. Happy now, Superwoman?
***
The Reluctant Philanthropist's Wife – This letter is so completely and obviously contrived I had to read it twice to see if it was me who was stoned. Alas, I was NOT stoned, it was Prudie's team again.
Recap? Best we do a breakdown of a classic Prudie-style letter.
First, the victim: Your hubby is a mechanic with a new job.
Next, the bait: his boss gives away auto repair work all the time, for which your husband is not paid.
Next, the hook: disgusting fucking worthless people thrown into the mix who benefit from this free auto repair work, described using insulting terms.
Next, the escape route: a manager in the mix who can save the world from the horrors of free auto repair.
Finally, the catch: The boss' job could be lost.
Yawn. The plot of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” is more compelling, taut, and interesting than this shit.
Solution: let's write a better story!
'Dear Prudie,
My affordable, delicious, refreshing husband of many many years was placed on this earth by The Good Lord God himself to fix broken cars. He has a job making eight dollars an hour with a sleazy chain, and the manager of the chain, it turns out, is Satan – that's right, the very fallen one one himself! Satan, you may know, is a bad, bad ex-angel from a fairy tale. He's of the worst sort, the kind who sexually exploits animals during work hours and charges too much for stuff like spark plugs and oil changes, and my husband thinks he smokes marijuana and possibly abuses oxycontin, although we can't be certain because, you know, The Dark One is, well, pretty dark, and Limbaugh doesn't share with others.
Anyways, the district manager says holy water would reduce Satan to a bloody pile of bubbly gobbets of scorched devil-flesh in an instant and restore peace and balance to the Earth, but the Pope don't exactly give that shit away. It's, like, a thousand dollars an ounce, and he'd need a few gallons of it. In order to get the money he'd have to prostitute his one-eyed rabid special needs donkey to the local outlaw biker community at discounted prices. Meanwhile, my husband, a mannered, felicitous and not entirely obsequious man of mostly unquestionable pedigree has stopped going down on me after breakfast, and I'm so bummed and horny I just spend all day in bed with my rabbit, and we're just about going bankrupt buying batteries.
So I took out my frustration once by kicking our dog Ed, and my son saw me do it and told his teacher. She's called the SPCA and they're going to take Ed away unless I can get a character witness to say I am kind to animals, and I always eat the ones I kill. Meanwhile a few weeks ago Satan sneaked into my bedroom and buggered me like a rotten dirty little whore in my sleep. I got it all on hidden camera, and I threatened to blackmail him if he didn't tell the SPCA that I am really a good person at heart, and a vegetarian too. Oh, and I like have a totally hot crush on him – he's awesome, and man has he got stamina! Woof!
Prudie, should we get a bigger TV?
- Sore Ass But In Remote Control”
Dear Sore Ass but In Remote Control...
What was your stupid question? Oh, right. Tell your fucking husband to throw the boss into the fire or go get another job. Really, how hard was that, you idiot?
***
Well, there it was, and I just don't feel any better. Advice, Flysters? You all know better than I that there are plenty of sources of idiocy to be reviled. Send me to another land of opportunity, a place that offers new fodder for my vents. Where do I go now?
I need advice. It's like this:
“Dear Prudie,
You have sucked for a long time, but now I finally realize the depths and breadth of your suckage. Sorry I didn't catch it earlier – I am not very bright. Thing is, even though you suck I still need a place to fire my not-entirely erudite salvos of spittle and spite. Who else is out there doing advice columns who doesn't suck quite as much as you do?
- Once a Fan, Never a Believer.”
Cheers all!
STC =^oo^=
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