In which we depart from reality land with a sick little whimper. Oooeeewwwieeee...

If you're in a war, instead of throwing a hand grenade at the enemy, throw one of those small pumpkins. Maybe it'll make everyone think how stupid war is, and while they are thinking, you can throw a real grenade at them.
- Jack Handey

Having been reminded that I am not particularly funny on more than one occasion in my life, and again, last week, being reminded that I am rather pathetic, this was the first time I was specifically instructed to go buy a gun. Thing is, I already have one. Now what, troll?

Fans. Goofy, silly oddballs.

Note, Flysters: I. Have. A. Job. Interview. Very excited, although I wonder a little about the place. I have worked there before, and it's a company which is locally famous for it's nickname: Dysfunction Junction. Seems they need a guy with my skills, though, and let's hope they admire my not-very-funny-patheticfulness and gun ownership to boot. I have friends who work there too – that'll be a nice bonus. Interview is next Monday. Panel style interview, 6 people in a room for an hour with questions like “what's your greatest attribute?” and “have you ever killed anyone?” and “what's that smell?”

Nice to be looking for a job while I still have one, is all. I might ask one and all to cross a couple fingers and toes if you have a moment.

It all leaves me with a semi-hopeful feeling – while the realm of Charlotte, North Carolina isn't and never has been the employment hot spot of the nation, it's a good barometer of things, given the horsepower expended by banking here. If the fat cats who fucked everything up are hiring, you know the bonuses were paid and appreciated and the wheels are ready to turn again. This bodes well for us all I trust, working or not.

For me, personally, it means the house is probably saved and I have to buy a car (there's a story in itself) and maybe, just maybe, I can get myself a Kindle, although that's still a little frilly around these parts. Sigh.

Dear Prudence is the vapid black hole of Cheez-whiz trepidity it's always been, with the added bonus of the hysterically idiotic tale of ESP-laced intrigue. Slate fed it's editors a little psilocybin this week I fear, and they invented a whole hash of entertaining dickheadery aimed straight to the soul of the heartiest bong-wielding stoner. Amazing.

So. Read HERE. And then read on.


The Grim Dreamer – This turgid little fabrication is about as idiotic as it is mundane, and I salute Slate for dropping it on us like a perky little turd in a bowl in their weekly dipshit-fest. Recap: you are Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, and every twerpish little fuck that ever “saw” things on the midnight TLC and A&E lineup. You dreamed that the (oh, gawd) ex-love of your life went all “Scanners” style head blowed up scene while in Iraq, and (cue scary music) it happened! I mean, it didn't happen, but he got work in Iraq after much unemployment, and he will certainly, positively, absolutely, without a doubt be blown to little gobbets of gloopy ex-boyfriend meat if he goes.

Also: you, and only you, can save him.

Also: you are pretty fucked up, know that?

Ah, la-di-da. What's a prophet to do? Oh – by the way, I have a job interview next Monday. How's that gonna go for me? Or is my head gonna get blowed up if I go? Huh? Emotions always, the future.

I recommend before you take any significant action on this matter that you revisit your medications – dosages can be tricky and it can take years for your shrink to find the right cocktail of drugs to reacquaint your obviously deluded brain with a version of reality, or at least something close to it.

OHH! Wait – I'm a big Indycar fan: who's going to win the 500? I got a little stash of cash and need to get my money on a sure thing.

Meanwhile, go back to your room, Jean Dixon. Lockdown's at 8:00.


Confused – another case of bad naming conventions for Prudie letters. You are not just confused. You are ignorant. Recap: you dislike your boyfriend's son. Blah blah blah.

Ignorance is a word that evokes strong reactions in people – it sounds like I am saying “stupid” and “unteachable” in one word that really means neither. Ignorance simply denotes a lack of knowledge. That's you. Let me help there.

You mentioned he won't speak to you when his dad's not there. Now, why would that be? He's not confused and lost, is he? He's wouldn't be a little nervous around a woman who isn't his mom, and at all of age 6 it couldn't be that he cannot quite get comfortable with the breakup of his parents? Any of this sound about right? Have you spent your entire life locked in a pretty pink room with your dollies?

I mean, at six, the bastard should have a fucking job, get out of the house more, get a goddamn girlfriend. Shouldn't be loitering, eating your food, messing with your life, right? Loser.

Listen up, Mommie Dearest: he's six fucking years old, and you intimidate him. He's unwired from a family that he used to have and cannot be expected to plug into a new family without some emotional rewiring. It is stunning to me that you do not know this.

In short: he's six, you idiot. He doesn't need you, he needs to be six. He doesn't need to be liked by you, he needs to feel safe around grownups. He would be neither happy nor sad if you got hit by a fucking bus, because (you guessed it!) he's six, and you aren't his mother.

He's not the interloper, asshole. You are.

So I will turn the tables a bit: you say you don't know if you want to get married to his dad since you feel this way? I say that unless you grow a brain and become the grown up, the best thing that could happen to this kid is for you NOT to marry his dad, 'Cause frankly speaking, you aren't good enough.


Not a Model – Not a rocket scientist either, are you? I have to assume the executives were typical corporate suits, and you rabble are all minimum wage trolls. Recap: management, in a stroke of brilliance, took the shop floor staff to a seminar for wealthy tie-wearing people and a fun time was not had by all.

Lets put something to bed here first: anyone around you whining that “you don't have a nice complexion” means “you are dark skinned and we'll be at your house with a cross to burn next Tuesday” is just looking for a frivolous suit and something to bitch about. Just tell them to shut the fuck up. Jesus.

Next: management is famous for doing a lot of very, very stupid things in the business space, including sending high school dropouts who hired on for the summer to leadership seminars intended for the country club set. Now, while good personal hygiene is a fairly accepted best practice for the workplace, I think we can assume there is at least one exec (there always is) who forgets to shower or has nose hair long enough to braid, and I have good money here says there are any number of less-than-slender managers at your little start up, so let's all quit whining about the weight thing.

And you ask if there is anything you can do about it? Like what, sue them for being typical executives? Beat them up in the parking lot after work? What the hell do you think you're going to do?

Look, if you accidentally wander into a Scientology event and get preached to, are you instantly a Scientologist? If you attend a seminar on bass fishing with a friend, do you have to go out and buy a rod and reel after? Seminars, see, are informational only. Frequently the information garnered at them is pedantic drivel couched in excitable tones and disguised as useful information. Regardless, what you hear at a seminar can all be ignored safely – you know how to shower and brush your teeth, so fucking deal with it.


Unemployed Bridesmaid – Schuyler The Cat has a belief, and it is a belief he holds sacred, regarding weddings: the moment – the absolute moment – a couple announces they are going to marry, every human being within earshot becomes a full-fledged fucking retard of the worst imaginable type. Recap: you are a reluctant and penniless bridezmaid, chained to a tearful bridezilla, and you can't escape the madness (or cost).

I just might rant a bit.

Weddings are sickeningly stupid, overblown, haughty affairs that should be banned. Brides are whimpering, demanding, vicious taskmasters on a good day, and God forbid you meet one on a bad day. Grooms are oafish, grinning tag-alongs who serve no particular purpose other than to act cordially to those he bumbles into and eventually pose as a typically incapable dance partner. Mothers and fathers of the bride and groom are puffy, brutally obnoxious tear-stricken dolts with little to do other than foot the various bills and try to out-joke each other about the costs.

Guests are frequently no better – the Drunk Dancing Guy who everyone pretends to like but calls a “fucking jerk” when the videos play later, in private. There is always The Hot Chick – always – and she's, you know, Hot, and that's all she is. Sometimes there are several Hot Chicks, and they smarmily act out scenes from ”Mean Girls” while making certain their cleavage is low enough to gain attention without being “slutty,” all the while acting slutty. There will be two little kids dancing at some point, cute little boppers between two and five, and they will possibly kiss and giggle for the cameras and then fall over, and the entire room full of people will simultaneously melt and say “aaaawww.” Video magic.

The Bridal Party, the modern equivalent of indentured servants in formal wear, like to wear cowboy boots or Converse Hi-tops or argyle socks to be hip, but offer no particular support other than additional roving color swatches to enhance the mood and provide a ridiculous cost model for the liquor they consume.

Somewhere in there is a wedding coordinator. This individual should be shot between the eyes and buried in a shallow, unmarked grave. I will add, though, for the record: this is the only person at a wedding with any intact brain matter whatsoever.

Eventually someone with a video camera will saunter up to everyone in attendance and say “what do you have to tell the newlyweds?” Roughly eighty percent of the people will choke back the urge to say “this is the tackiest goddamn wedding I have ever been to – I mean, really, Dusty Rose Taffeta bridesmaid dresses? And who the fuck serves potstickers at a wedding? Look there, get a shot of Beth. She's at the Hot Girls table arranging her tits again. Oh, and look at Buffy with her pockmarked fat ass hanging far enough out of that $7500 wedding dress to knock over the gift table! Her ankles hang over the straps of those Jimmy Chu's like a hairnet full of cottage cheese, don't they? I bet she rented them. Did you catch a shot of Jimmy drooling all over Beth's cleavage? Some groom you are, Jimmy - what a fucking pig!”

Then everyone goes home and says “that was an okay wedding.” A week later it is forgotten.

Six months on begin the divorce proceedings, and wedding coordinators everywhere feel it happen, like Obi-Wan felt the destruction of Alderaan (“...there was a disturbance in The Force”), and subconsciously they begin rubbing their hands together like Scrooge goddamn McDuck in preparation for the follow-up event.

So there's that.

Anyway, tell her she has to pay for everything or she can fuck off.


Off I go, Flysters, to research the more recent nature of the company I am interviewing at, all the better not to look like a complete moron when they pin me down and grill me. I want to walk out of that conference room with people saying “there's much power in this one, he is the one! Hire him now, and reward him richly!”

And may you all enjoy a beautiful weekend replete know, lots of, um, beautiful...stuff and all that.

STC =^oo^=

Just can't stay gone for long...

Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn't.

- Erica Jong

According to a few fans who sent curious emails (“didja die or something?” “What gives?” “You sick?” “Where the fuck have you been?” So sweet, my fans. Just the way I like 'em) I am due to get back in the goldurn saddle to craft a post here. Hard to do lately, between general busy-ness and a huge case of torpor bordering on syncope brought on by the absolutely bottomless banality of the recent letters at Slate. The “Who-Gives-A-Shit-O-Meter” just got itself pegged for me, and I blacked out, only to awaken to this week's predigested dreck.

Still, a guy' got to keep his chops up, even if it's on this manner of mouth-breathing, low hanging dipshit-fodder.

Originals here.


Not Her Mother – I shall file this letter under the “who gives a Fat Flying Fuckload of Fermented Frog Feces” tab. Recap, and making a long story short: you have a preggo roomie who smokes, and you are conflicted. Actually, there are four roomies, all young and hot, living together, probably hanging out in your underwear all sweaty and hot looking during the blazing summer days, reclining on the sofa and dripping the cool water from ices cubes onto each other's flexing, moist bodies. Except the preggo one, that is. She's having a smoke.

My solution is...wait – I got lost at the dripping water all over flexing bodies part. What was your issue? Whatever. Who gives a shit. Do what you want. I need some lunch. Brb.


Protective of Her Cub – now, for a change, we have an appropriately named letter writer. Recap: your daughter has Asperger's. She was not invited to her buddy's d'day party, even though the buddy was invited to hers. You now ask “what's wrong with people?”

Listen up: I have a 6 year old son, “C”, who is all over the Autistic spectrum, including total immersion in Asperger's. People are scared shitless of him because, despite the fact it's becoming more and more prevalent these days, people don't know fuck-all about it. Get your hackles up all you want – this child will never, ever be completely accepted by neurotypical children or their parents unless ABA or other therapies can release the diagnosis. I'd think you would have known after 7 years, indicating this was written by some cheese-dick wonk at Slate. You might take this opportunity to inform these parents of the issue raised by dissing your daughter, but I got a million bucks says it's a waste of time for you: I bet could freak your too-tight pansy-ass shit by introducing you to my 21 year old, a recovering doper. The shaved head, piercings, and tattoos would likely make you run and hide. He's a great kid, you know. Works a charity where he lives, generous as the day is long. Believe me?

Didn't think so. Look at you, running in disgust. Such ignorance. So much to teach everyone, you.

Wake up, dickless – people are people everywhere, and that includes you and your family. Take care of them and learn.


Tangled – Hoo, boy, this little cutie of a tale will twist the nipples of all those non-public-breastfeeding, tight-assed, straight and narrow Frayster people on Slate, won't it? Recap: you, married, get a big drippy-wet girl hard-on every time you see “that guy” at the office. You wonder: flee or fuck?

Oh, and you are “not bad looking and not a bimbo.” Seriously, your words.

Cue theme from “As the World Turns.”

Aaaaaaand welcome, everyone to the Schuyler The Cat Tells Stupid People What To Do Show! The show where Schuyler The Cat, stupid people what to do! And now, here's our host...Schuyler the Cat!

Hello everyone, and welcome to this week's show. Today we have a married, not very attractive Bimbo from Hoboken who's got a serious vajayjay groan-monster happening in her silky boyshorts for some interoffice man-meat Popsicle! Her husband, a fairly disaffected and uninteresting insurance salesman, doesn't give her the sweet and spicy sausage the way Bimbo fantasizes the studly office guy can! It's another example of really stupid made up letters from Slate!

Okay, Bimbo – step up the the Wheel of Circumstance. Here's how to play: spin the wheel, and do what it says. Even a brain-dead Slimfast drinking skank-ola shag-pie like you can do that!

“Clicketyclackety clicketyclackety clicketyclackety clickety.. clackety... clickety.... clackety....... click!”

And there we go! What does the wheel say? It says “You are so fucking stupid your mere presence sucks the entire intelligence quotient out of the room the moment you walk in like a cerebral black hole made out of pure Megan Fox, except she's kinda pretty!”

What's that mean? Hell if I know! Go home, loser! And take our consolation prize, a 10-½” purple natural latex dildo, Bimbo! Go fuck yourself!

Oh, and flip a coin about the guy. Fuck him, don't fuck him, who the hell cares? Quit wasting everyone's time. What do you think this is, a game?


Sugar Sugar – Oh, lord, these are tiring. Goddammit Slate, where are your normal shitty writers? This batch is way worse than usual. Recap: your pal (in jail! How spicy and edgy!) left sugar gliders (ooooh, exotic and unusual) in your (obviously inexperienced) care and one died. You don't know if you need to tell her because (wait for it...) she's prone to (what the fuck?) depression. That's the end of the letter, because nobody could think of anything more interesting to add which could drag this turd-scented junk heap of a jerkoff letter out of the abyss of imbecility it's mired in.

Well you know, here in reality land we tell it like it is. When my wife asks “does my ass look big in this?” I say “you kidding? Yeah! oney, that thing looks like the biggest, fattest, stretch mark and cellulite riddled ass ever, it's freaking ginormous! Like sixty pounds of rancid cottage cheese in a saggy old burlap sack!” When she asks “what do you think of my recipe for liver and onions?” I say “I think I am actually eating buffalo shit – not something that tastes like buffalo shit, mind you, but some real, actual buffalo shit! I fucking hate it!” She, in return, just loves my honesty. We hug often.

Really. True story.

The only way this letter could be any goddamn stupider would be if you added something like:

1.) “She's a pregnant smoker...”
2.) “She's got a child with Asperger's that no one invites to do fun shit...”
3.) “She's a stupid horny bored wife with a burning need to jungle-fuck some handsome office help...”

Take your pick. Oh, and flip a coin about telling her, or just go get a fucking replacement animal. Like she'd know?


Tra la la, and to hell with all of them anyway...

So how are my fine fellow Flysters? Been gone a spell – it'd be nice to hear from everyone.

Time to start supper. Cheers!