Into each life a little Spring must sproing...sprang...sprungen? Nice out, eh?

Most of us can read the writing on the wall; we just assume it's addressed to someone else.
- Ivern Ball

Unlike certain dear friend of mine who dwells in the rather more northerly realm of Chicago, here in Charlotte, North Carolina spring has spranged. Somewhat.

The snow is gone (all 1.4 inches of it for the whole season) and the trees are taking that end-of-the-jetstream risk of sending buds to their tips: dogwoods have big white puffs on them, my parson's pear didn't die last year and has plenty of evidence of bloom to come, my fruitless plum is littered with dozens of cheerful pink flowers, and my Japanese maple – almost killed three years ago in the blast of an April ice storm – grew a whopping foot and a half of new branches, all of which are budding.

And now I gotta mow the fucking lawn.

The kids and I will head to the park today, for a few hours of the big plastic play contraption and a walk through the trail along the Frisbee golf course in the woods. I may wear shorts.

Even the cats are with this Spring thing. Jeffrey, our chickenshit orange tiger tabby who believes sitting humans are safe humans from a distance, but standing humans are evil and horrible creatures who want to eat him, hopped into my lap recently, made biscuits on my thighs, and curled up just long enough for my foot to fall asleep. Living your whole life in a cage does that to one.

And get this: I've yet to get my taxes off to Mr. tax man. What kind of idiot doesn't send off his taxes? Don't I need the money? Am I just rolling in dough?

An idiot, yes, and no. But the tax money was spent a long time ago, surviving a bout of unemployment between contracts which exhausted our savings and sent many thousands of dollars onto the credit cards...which will be partly paid off when the tax return gets here. Ever dime of our return is spent already, on debt.

That's good news, though - we have that debt covered (many don't), and my shitty-paying contract is keeping us in food and garbage pickup and shortly enough gasoline to fill the mower and get the outside of this house looking respectable (many can't) and spring has sprung.

So I will smile.

DP was a tiring, bitter jerk-off this week, but suitable for therapeutic reasons. Please read the originals here.


Suffering With Skeletons – Your name is your answer. Recap: you met the offspring of the offspring of your abuser years after it was over. This individual is a good guy, but you need to ask questions.

You won't be any fun for me at all – I can't beat on you for this one 'cause it just ain't right.

I'll tell you something simple and definite, though: even though you say “legal action was taken, and I thought I was over” it you need to get the fuck over it right quick, 'cause if you do nothing this is like herpes. Every so often you'll have a flareup because of it, and it's life altering, and it's fucked up, and everlasting. And pills can hide the symptoms for a while but not cure the disease.

Unlike herpes, you can actually get over this. Gotta do it, and sooner is better. You're young yet – imagine a life where this shit isn't clattering around in your head every time you see someone that looks like “him.”

You owe it to yourself to take this to the curb. You will thank me, and everyone else who tells you to do this (and the people who love you will tell you to do it) later on. Just go.

This person you met, regardless his pedigree, isn't an issue. You are. Go. See a shrink. Go.

Go on. Git.


Afraid of Oedipal – cereal? Really? Recap: your tot saw you and hubby fucking like wild animals. The young 'un is a true-blue genius who knows everything there is to know about Captain goddam Crunch, and you suspect that he may have been so deep in thought about the inclusion of niacinimide in the crunch-berries and how it may prohibit the absorbency of pyridoxine hydrochloride that he might not have noticed you were wearing a leather cup-less bra and riding his daddy reverse cowboy and screaming “yeah, pound it, buckaroo, pound it!” As usual, you don't know what to do. Bada boom. The world ceased spinning and Jesus wept.

Number one, Supermom: lock the fucking door. Are you stupid? Are you sick? Did you suffer a massive brain injury as a youth from a blow to the head or oxygen starvation? Did you take too much goddamn acid and fry the circuits? Are there toothless, grinning family members in your past who married as siblings? What are you, some kind of fucking asshole witless empty-headed astrotarded moron?

Here's why this is a good idea: If the door is locked, little Billy doesn't have to watch you and daddy fuck each other with “acrobatic” flair and gusto. Get it? Jesus Christ. His 2:00 AM visits are typical, you say, yet you were surprised to find him standing in your open doorway, staring at you, post coital? Dipshit.

Number two, genius: you don't know what to tell him? Good lord.

It's time to go to the “Schuyler The Cat Tells You What the Fuck to Say O-Matic!” Here's how you play: I will give you three things you can say to your little brain-surgeon-cereal-genius child, and you pick one. Pick any one. Then say it. It's that simple. You could fuck it up, but most couldn't and that's what make my show worth watching, you Hoover-headed butthole.


1.) “Billy, see, when mommies and daddies love each other very much, sometimes their feelings are so strong they go farther than just kissing and hugging – you know how mommy and daddy kiss and hug a lot, it's just icky, huh? – and that's when mommy and daddy wait until they think you're asleep, then mommy and daddy take off their clothes, and daddy puts his erect penis into mommy's vagina. He kind of pushes it in and out, because that feels good for daddy. Then he grabs my hair and says “take it, take it bitch.” Mommy likes to make daddy feel good, so I say “god I need that big cock so bad.” Sometimes, daddy spanks me. Well, anyway, it's a very grown up thing, and you shouldn't worry about it. Want some Count Chocula?”

2.) Billy, mommy and daddy were playing and wrestling last night. Hope we didn't wake you. Great idea, all that, the less milk on your cereal thing. Want some more Fruity Pebbles?

3.) “What do you mean, 'what were you and daddy doing last night?' Mind your own business, you filthy little pervert! What mommy and daddy do are grown-up things! You better talk to Pastor Bob this Sunday and make sure he gets those filthy-naughty thoughts out of your young head, you monster! Oh, let's all pray, hurry, let's pray!” Oh, after, you can have some Lucky Charms!

Okay. Pick one, stay with it. I recommend 2, but 1 is fine, given he's a cereal genius.

And please don't have more kids. Fucking hell, please don't. You have enough of a mess on your hands trying to comprehend one child.


Frustrated Fiancee – how many times is Slate going to dust off this asinine fucking letter? This is what, the tenth time I've seen it over the years? Interestingly, it gets stupider with time – they must be letting their more clever editorial staff go for budget cuts. Recap: this is the fake letter about the chick who's fiancee's mother treats him like a baby. You know the story.

One difference: your letter said “insert mother-in-law joke here.” Fair game!

Didja hear the one about the mother-in-law with the fucking vapid asshole dinglepuss of a daughter-in-law? Yeah, she killed her with a goddamn fire ax and hacked her up and buried all the chunky bloody gobbets and pieces around her rose garden and saved the whole world from the horror of the potential offspring of another really stupid person! Then she made her 25 year old son some Ovaltine and combed his hair real nice and said “go find us another stupid one, Earl, but get a rich one next time goddammit!”

Hah! Ah, yes, that one gets me every time!

Anyway, this is a stupid letter and the answer is “get a different guy and by the way grow the hell up, you fucking dumbass.” Yadda yadda yadda.


RSVPut Out – Oh, hell.


It is my assertion that weddings are the only naturally occurring event in the universe that can cause the IQ's of entire populations to plummet to Kate Moss' belt size. What's the deal?

Recap: You got a save the date for a wedding for someone you do not know. You actually have to ask “should I get a gift?” In other news, recent evidence has shown that people can survive indefinitely without any brain matter at all in their hollow little skulls. You are the third known living example. George W. Bush was the first. Glenn Beck and Michelle Bachmann are fighting for the right to broadcast a temper tantrum proving they were second.

This is the matrimonial equivalent of getting one of those Nigerian scam letters where the late dictator and grand Poo-Bah of Nigeria, General Sonni Ben Dofhuur, has died and now his widow wants your help in getting his $80 million out of the country. I can only assume you've fallen for that bullshit at one time or another as well.

You feel indebted to buy something? Go ahead. By the way – what's your address? I have a daughter, she's of marrying age (she's 8 actually, but I want to get a head start on both your generosity and your idiocy) and she'd (meaning: I'd) love a Kindle.

Come to think of it, I have a couple of daughters! Yeah, three, maybe four! Four! And uh, they're all princesses (my late father was King Lee Kmabals of Gumbabwe), and they could use a new digital camera (Canon G11, please) and a car (I'm...I mean, she's rather partial to the new BMW M3) and a trip to Vegas (a suite at Venetian would be a fine wedding gift) and a...

In other words, no, you don't have to buy her a wrinkly old dry lump of cow shit from the fields, you bloody idiot. Jeez. I'll still take that Kindle, though. Small payment for having to answer such a stupid question.


As I have the kids all to myself today (my wife is studying) we shall proceed forthwith to the park (after chores are done, of course) and then to the store for orange juice, eggs, a few extra bottles of beer for me, and a few packages of pasta, upon which later a hearty amount of clams and garlic and finely diced tomatoes and olive oil (mixed in proper proportion by yours truly, the occasionally chef of the household until graduation in April 2011) will be dumped later.

Bien à toi, grosses bise.

STC =^oo^= easy as 123...or simple as do re mi, STD, 123 baby you and me, girl!!!

Come on come on come on let me show you what it's all about...


We should not only use the brains we have, but all that we can borrow.
- Woodrow Wilson

Having said that, I may not have much gray matter to lend, but bloody hell, these lot this week are a buncha goddamn neanderthals, eh? Sigh.

The original letters can be found HERE.

Away we go!


Shaken – This letter is an abysmal exercise in wordsmithing. Recap: You're Islamic (irrelevant) and suffered an arranged marriage (irrelevant) and have a son you “adore” (like you'd say you don't adore him?). Next: your wife has an STD, and you wonder if it's just a “D” with no “ST”. You have doubts.

Sounds like another poorly constructed and fake DP letter to me. Jeez.

Anyway, have no doubts, my friend: HPV is not transmitted from the toilet seat or trying on bikinis previously tried by an infected woman. Her naughty parts got it through contact with either your naughty parts or someone else's naughty parts. Are you sure your naughty parts are clean? And by the way, I do not mean that in some Islamic “I'm male therefore I can fuck whatever walks and Allah says “kewl” but women who have extramarital sex are wicked whores to be flogged and passed around like sexual party favors among their male family members before they are beaten to death and buried in a shallow grave in a display of honorable behavior” sort of way. Sorry. I'm American. I wouldn't kill my wife or daughter for having a shag with a Protestant.

So you really really didn't dip your colossal kebab into some other girl's glorious gaping gahnoush? Reeeally?

Regardless, you have some thinking to do, doncha? Bummer to go through this, but be real about it. She's human, you're human, something happened, and the truth won't stay hidden forever. Welcome to the real world – this is why I don't espouse virginity before marriage: stupid religious practice that should be banned.


Ringless – Brainless is more like it. So:

Dear Brainless – this letter represents a bizarre and elliptical journey through that viscous, opaque insipidity that is your infantile and worthless mind. Recap: Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl wants a big fucking rock to flaunt to her horrorshow ptitsas or else there will be no nuptials. Boy says “um, wtf?” and somehow still believes girl isn't “overly superficial.” Boy then actually writes a letter to Dear Prudence, simultaneously airing this idiocy and asking “um, huh?”

Cue the cheesy game show music...

“Coming to you live, from his studio office in Charlotte, North Carolina; it's time for The Schuyler The Cat Tells You What The Fuck To Do Show!!! (applause). And here's our host: Schuyler The Cat!” (applause).

“Hi everyone – I'm Schuyler The Cat and welcome to my show (applause)! Today's contestant is a semi-brain damaged, dickless twatrocket from Somewhere, USA (applause)! His issue: his girlfriend, a super-duperficial debutante Jersey Shore reject, wants a big fat diamond ring or she won't marry him! He wonders: wait, fall for it, or leave the bitch!

Today's prop du jour: the decision wheel (applause)!

Step on up, Brainless, and spin the wheel!!!”


“Oooooooh, no! I'm sorry Brainless, the wheel landed on 'who gives a flying goddamn frog fuck?' Nobody cares about your stupid ass problem! You're outta here (applause)!!!”

“And that's it for today's The Schuyler The Cat Tells You What The Fuck To Do Show!!! Come back tomorrow to see the crack addict who stole his dad's credit cards! Dad sez: turn him in, or just forgive him?”

(applause) (fade to black)


Juris Doctorate Who Would Rather Be a Doctor – holy crap, girl: how the fuck did you get through school with that complete goddamn vacuum amidst your cranial cavity? Juris Jiminy Jumpin' Jesus Christ, you're a fucking lawyer? We should all weep for mankind. Mesothelioma was invented for dingleshit morons like you.

Recap: you went to law school. You wish you'd gone to med school. You don't wanna be a lawyer. You wanna be a doctor. I got this. Ready?

Go to fucking medical school.

Yeah, you're welcome, dipshit. I should charge what YOU charge. Then I could go buy me a new goddamn Mercedes, you witless wonder.


Oscar Shark – and I thought the previous letter was horrifyingly stupid. Recap: you had a wager at your party. Your wife won, you came in second. You wonder if this is a problem, or a social faux pas.

Hey! Ever seen a placenta? Odd question, I know, but stay with me here.

I delivered my son myself, and I looked the placenta over pretty carefully. Goopy and bloody and pretty dang gross – looks like a cross between the face-hugging things from “Alien” and a bad cut of beef. They do not smell good. They are generally considered nonessential after a baby is born.

Here's a reason for this discourse: In your case, I suspect the placenta was probably the most intelligent thing your mother expelled from her vagina on the day of your birth.

Listen carefully...I'll go real slow-like: Betting and gambling and wagering and that sort of activity produces two things. Winners and losers. Every fucking time, this is the case. Get that?

Your wife won. You won, too. Whoopie fucking do. Your friends don't fucking care. You are a dipshit. Go blow the goddamn money on some brains or something, because you're scary stupid. Yeah, I know you only got like eighty bucks, but maybe your wife can loan you some of her winnings, and let's face it: anything you add to your intellectual capacity is a major increase, for you.


Rain rain rain. Not that big self-important rain that shakes the house in fat fury, just a sniveling drizzle that keeps everything wet and dull and gray. Icky weather we may be having here, but spring has started to make itself known nonetheless, with buds on the trees and temps in the high 60's around these parts, the weather lifting it's skirts like a flirting girl promising something far, far better. I won't miss winter much. Come August I'll miss winter, but that's another story.

Be well, my beloved Flysters. May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand, if you believe in God and all that kinda stuff.

Salud. STC =^oo^=

Why have those awesome claws if you can't sharpen them yourself?

Dear Flysters,

I am a forty-something male with a job and a mortgage and two kids and a wife. My wife is in school full time, my kids are easy-peasy (including my son, who is mildly autistic but we work on that every available minute and he's coming back to us, which is awesome enough to bring tears to my eyes) and the mortgage is in jeopardy and my job...

It's my job, see.

I am a 26 year veteran of various technologies, with a background primarily in telecommunications, but for the last ten years I have been a project manager, technology agnostic, and it's served me well, especially since Bernie Ebbers fucked up telecom for everybody.

Now I have this job. It's...boring. Here's the good/bad:

Good – work from home. This is critical – with my wife in school, I have pickup and drop off duties for my kids. I cannot commute to work like real people, because they need to get to and from the bus.
Bad – I am so goddamn bored I cannot stand it. The contract I am on has me listed as a “Senior Technology Project Manager.” I should have 3-5 projects with $30-50 million in value, a lot of stress, milestones missed and deadlines looming. I am, at this moment, performing “communication coordination”, meaning I call people and tell them what's happening in the project. Seriously. It's like giving a race car driver a go kart and saying “yeah, you drive, right?” Fuck.
Good – the people I work with are splendid. Really, the salt of the Earth, kindhearted, generous, funny, and thoroughly enjoyable.
Bad – I am used to people like this working FOR me, not WITH me. No challenge, none, and I need some challenge.
Good – I have a job when many don't. Enough said there.
Bad – I will make, if all goes well, $40,000 less this year than I did last year.

You've already heard me whine about the mortgage. No need to go there.

Now I, The vile giver of advice, am not seeking advice. It's obvious what I can and cannot do. I'm not a twenty-something early in my career seeking feedback to grow my future path into something better.

I'm just bored and stuck. Sigh. And whining. Again. Sigh-sigh. Did I mention the low paying aspect of this gig?

If I was seeking advice it would (and should) sound like this: “suck it up, goddammit, and stop your fucking whining. Need a Kleenex? Get your fucking game on and seek other employment that fits the niche you're in, and if it doesn't come...keep fucking looking. And shut the hell up.”

Which I am doing, see. Every day. Except the shut up part. Hard enough to find a job at all, and if I want a better one I'd best keep my nose clean, stay frosty and ready, and keep the current (boring, low-paying) fires burning well enough to keep the place warm, even if I can't pay the rent. I have time.

Meanwhile, I have had a few emails from Flysters stating they are worried about me. Imagine! The foul-mouthed, snide and cruel STC gets love letters of support from people! Hooray! They like me!

And to those few but incredibly appreciated fans who have said nice stuff to me, I need to say this to you: My little situation will either pass or not, but I am a crafty old cat, and while I may not have strong, sinewy paws like the young 'uns any more, and my fur may be going gray (well, mostly it already is, but...), I have far sharper claws than many, and two and a half decades of experience making blubbery ribbons of the flesh of those who vex me.

Cats always land on their feet, you know.

So bless all your big bouncy beautiful hearts for all the nice things you've said, and thanks for thinking of a loudmouthed old guy who has made a big deal out of what is really a little problem.

On to Dear Prudence. I might have something to say to them this week.

The originals can be found HERE.


Lonely Dad – Ay caramba, motherfucker. I mean, really. Recap: your wife died, three years go by, you work it alone with your child, until you hire a babysitter, and she's sizzling hot beyond all imaginable reason and let on she wants to spit-polish your prodigious perky pepperoni with her tonsils. And you are worried about this, 'cause, you know, she's a babysitter and you might have to rehire her if you break up. Right. Oh, actual bad news: She's got a boyfriend. Good news: She's said she's unhappy with him.

Goddammit, listen up: sorry abut your wife (I'd be a fucking wreck), but if you're writing this you're maybe mostly ready to move on. Problem is, you're a fucking retard and time is possibly short. Lemme un-retard-ify you:

Go get a quarter. Flip it. FLIP IT, GODDAMMIT.


Heads: Go fuck the ever-loving freaky hell right out of that girl. Do not stop until your junk is so swollen and red and sore you have to put goddamn Band-Aids on it. Up, down, sideways, backwards, in every orifice and on every reachable horizontal surface within a short walking distance, plus in the car, on the bus, in the grocery store, during the movies, and in the middle of the goddamn street - twice. After, you might want to rest for a bit, then go do it all over again until you end up hospitalized in ecstasy. Later, ask if she's leaving her boyfriend.

Regardless the answer, slam her backside into the mattress, put her ankles behind her head, and do it all over again and again and again and...

Tails? Go fuck the ever-loving freaky hell right out of that girl. Do not stop until your junk is so swollen and red and sore you have to put goddamn Band-Aids on it. Up, down, sideways, backwards, in every orifice and on every reachable horizontal surface within a short walking distance, plus in the car, on the bus, in the grocery store, during the movies, and in the middle of the goddamn street - twice. After, you might want to rest for a bit, then go do it all over again until you end up hospitalized in ecstasy . Later, ask if she's leaving her boyfriend.

If she answers “yes”, slam her backside into the mattress, put her ankles behind her head, and do it all over again and again and again. If she answers “no”...who fucking cares? Woo hoo! Flip that quarter again, baby!

And if you needed me to tell you that..oh, hell. It's Time to come back to life, dude. You need the practice. Meanwhile, we've all been out here waiting for you, wondering where you've been...


Frustrated – Once again, we encounter a misnomer. You should not think of yourself as “Frustrated”. That's the wrong name. Your name, from now on, is “Fucking Stupid Bitch.”

Dear Fucking Stupid Bitch - Recap.

You are preggo, which means all is right and aligned and perfect and pink and pretty in the universe. Your MIL is likewise preggo, with apparently means the rusty, squealing gates of flaming hell hath split asunder, loosing upon this very Earth the most ungodly and hellish scourge and sickness imaginable: a pregnant 44 year old. The beatific and incredible glory that is you and your unborn child – intended to light the way for the universe for a thousand generations – will be forever defiled by the presence of the spawn of bilious, vile Satan herself! To wit: this foul Horror will be unleashed upon your fair and glorious noble-born offspring at the same time!!!

Listen, Fucking Stupid Bitch - everything you know, and I mean all 7 or 8 things, could fit with room to spare inside the nucleus of a cell of some starch in a gobbet undigested kibble awash in the rectal mucous and bile amid a steaming pile of fetid dogshit. Nothing in this world gives you the right to claim honors over a goddamn pregnancy, regardless the “other” pregnant person's relation to you and despite your distaste for her. The very fact you mentioned you are “upset that she wants to have children now” is a prime and fine example of your incredibly vapid, senseless, brainless stupidity, and frankly, Fucking Stupid Bitch, I recommend that you get your fucking tubes tied after this baby, because there's a good chance your children will be every bit as stupid, senseless, and vapid as you, and we need fewer of those, not more.

BTW – My son turns 6 in a couple weeks, Fucking Stupid Bitch. And my beautiful, sexy, incredibly talented, outrageously funny, scary-smart wife turns 50 this July. Do the math, you mouth-breathing, uneducated, imbecilic, fuck-witted, Forrest Gump-ish, lame brained cretin. You are probably the same age as my oldest son, but if you were my daughter I'd call CPS and have the kids taken from you and force a court case to ensure the above mentioned sterilization procedure on you to protect the planet from infestation.


Thinking Globally, Acting Personally – wait just one second, Mr. Olbermann. I need to get my dictionary.

Recap: you are an English major – likely a fairly recent graduate – and you have a supernaturally massive ego that prevents you from understanding anything that cannot be argued over a tepid latte at a goddamn Starbucks. Also, you're a polished-crystal asshole. So, your pal got a job in a shitty country somewhere, and you believe the basis of global individual freedom and the very foundations of human rights and dignity are now suspect because you read somewhere that this is “a real bad thing.”

Bonus: you used the words “sterling” and “phalanx” and “kleptocracy” in generally correct context and in fine proportion to the tone of your letter. Very nice!

Now go fuck yourself. You aren't special, Peter Mark Roget. You're an inexperienced, over-educated fucking windbag with the lofty-but-asswipe ambitions of becoming something you can easily spell but cannot possibly ever grasp in human terms. Leave your goddamn friend alone – jobs are hard enough to find these days.


BTW – When you mentioned this other country's “kleptocracy and human rights abuses,” were you talking about the Bush administration? Just asking, because...oh, never mind.

You wouldn't understand.



Uh, no, not really, but please. Recap: you are polydactyl (a little nod to the previous LW who loves his thesaurus as much as I do!), meaning you had a few extra toes and an eleventh little finger-ette. Your excess phalangeal accoutrements were removed when you were but a year old. Now you want kids. They will likely also be born with polydactyly. You're worried about something...whatever, who knows. I don't know, what was that you're worried about?


Not so fast there, Fists Full of Fingers.

Dude: I know this might be hard to grasp (you have enough fingers left to do it, though! Hehehe) but if you have a baby, and it has something, have a baby with something. Fr'instance: If you have a baby with Downs Syndrome, you, a baby with Downs Syndrome. Happens every day. So if you have a baby with two-eleventeen and a six-half extra little toesies and pinky fingers? Well? Fuck, man, there it is. Shouldn't be hard to find a doctor in your part of town who has some sharp clippers and suitable local or general anesthetic.


Monsters. Hmm. Wait. Nah. Can't happen, dude. Too. Much. Stephen. King.

Go have babies. Good luck with that whole extra digits thing. And hey! When they're seven or so? Go get them a thesaurus!


What a mouthful. I'm at the bottom of page 5. I think Fox has it right with TL;DR.

Wonders await this weekend. Off I go. Cheers Flysters!

STC =^oo^=