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?”
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.