On vacationing, and the perils of stupid mothers.

Canada's climate is nine months winter and three months late in the fall.
- Evan Esar

Hello and greetings to one and all from the Great White North. Well, not TOO far north, just across the St. Lawrence River in the little town of Morrisburg, Ontario, where my wife spent a few of her formative years.

It's nice here.

They say you can walk across this town in ten minutes if you do it at three in the morning, but it'll take a few hours in the afternoon, because you'll stop every few feet to talk to someone. Small town living is not what I am used to, having lived in or near LA most of my life, and friendly people sometimes mortify me. Takes a few days to get used to.

This is a “working vacation” which is obviously a contradiction in terms and/or oxymoron or plain stoopid, because I have been doing a lot of working with little vacationing, so I take a lot of breaks and wander about; down to the Canadian Tire or Tim Horton's, sometimes to the shoreline to watch freighters head toward the locks, and I get to stop and wrestle with my kids a lot. So I won't complain. I could be stuck in an office. Or unemployed.

My Mother in Law (a good one – I am very grateful for having a MIL that I don't want to strangle) got us theater tickets for a play written by an Ottawa native, a local who is pretty popular. The doors closed at 7:55, so we started walking to the theater at 7:50 and got there two minutes early. Small town. Weird.

Back to work soon, so I better get started on this lot.

Originals here.


1.) My 7-year-old is the daughter of Quasimodo. She's a pallid, awful and hairy girl-beast from hell. Talking to her about inner beauty will be worse than a lie, since I'm obviously bothered by her eyebrows! I've been tempted to look into electrolysis down the road, but what kind of maternal instinct is that?

Shallow Mom – Your letter makes me – and others, I am certain – wonder how you can even tell what your daughter looks like when your head is stuffed so far up your ass like that. People with otherwise unobstructed views of their children do not suffer from similar idiocy.

No, dickhead, I am not talking about the issue of your hirsute monster-child. That's not the issue, or at least it isn't until she's older and realizes that you've made it one.

I am talking about your idiotic question: “What kind of maternal instinct is that?”

There will come a time that you and your daughter will have a reckoning about her whole Chewbacca thing, and this question of whether to attack it with a laser, razor, or flamethrower will come clear. It may come soon: she's seven, and kids are likely to notice that she doesn't walk on all fours or swing from the ceiling fixtures, so she may be a suspected humanoid and somewhat furry, thus ripe for teasing.

Meanwhile, go refill your goddamn prescription and back off on the coffee, because you're making everyone nervous.


2.) My fiance and I are getting married soon, so we are obviously retarded and incapable of forming a coherent thought. We're having a difference of opinion over who walks down the aisle, because hey: we're getting married, so we are obviously supposed to act like a couple of moronic nose-picking goddamn assholes. I'd like to keep this a family procession. What am I not seeing here?

Aisle of Pain – Elope. Seriously, get in the goddamn car and get the fuck out of here. I don't care where you go, just go. Having you on this planet is sucking the very life out of the rest of humanity, because you're GETTING MARRIED, therefore you are a fucking imbecile. Everyone hates you. They should, too.

Here's a little experiment: I am going to say something. “This is only a wedding, it's not that important.”

Ah, yes, everyone hear that shrieking sound? That's the sound of a bride to be, just told that weddings – and specifically her wedding - are not the big deal they think they are. Bloody hell, it's terrifying isn't it?

Listen up you insipid, gawking little butt nugget: everything about your silly-assed question is a universal insult to humankind, and nobody cares but you and your idiot groom. Shut the fuck up, go away, and just get it over with. Sooner is better – you have a divorce to plan, you know.


3.) I raised two daughters as a single parent by choice. I stupidly opted to spoil the fucking hell out of them and spent everything I had doing it. I incorrectly blame the economy, but now I am broke and they won't give me any money to buy food. How do I tell them that I'm hurt about their lack of concern and would like to be treated by them once in a while?

Tired of Giving – Sorry to hear about your financial issues, but there's a moral to your tale that others can learn from.

When you teach your children to want for nothing, they learn that nothing is wanted. That means you, you goddamn airhead. What they fuck are you expecting? You systematically taught them to take without giving, and now you are trying to find a way to backpedal and teach them to be generous? They don't know the word, asswipe. Bonus: your kids are not supposed to raise you, genius.

Here's context for your letter: “Dear Prudie, I made this big cool monster thing out of dead people's parts and afterward I discovered it was hideous. I started disliking it, and now it's wandering the streets killing people and I just don't understand why it doesn't love me. Signed, Victor Frankenstein. PS: Marty Feldman drank all my goddamn scotch.”

There is no lesson for them yet, Mommy Dearest, but the lesson is yours first: when you make a shit pie, be prepared to have it thrown in your face.


4.) I'm a bargain-hunter and sometimes find great deals on gift certificates for expensive restaurants in my city. These restaurants are normally out of my price range, but I enjoy romantic dinners there. Is it cheap or tacky to use such gift certificates on a date, especially one of the first few dates?

Frugal – Finally, someone I can understand! You came to the right place, bro, 'cause just like you, I got chicks climbing me like horny little monkeys in a tree! They're typical bitches, you know, all after the big fella, know what I'm saying? I go out with a different chick three, maybe four times a week, dude, and between you and me, we know the story: it gets spendy, but if you want a taste of the poon, you need to drop a lot of the green. Those panties don't come off for free.

Straight up – Prudie's not the shit, because honesty is not the best policy with the bitches. They find out you're a cheap-ass, they'll dump you and find someone with better cash flow. Makes it harder to get some ass doesn't it?

Look, with practice you can sneak the coupons to the server without the chick knowing what you're doing, just be careful. Be smooth. Get it all paid for when she's taking a pee, maybe, then it's back to your place for some serious hump and tackle, know what I mean? Bitches like that shit!

Translation: God save us. Are you on Jersey Shore? Please go away.


And with that it's off to the weekend – there's a carnival in town the kids need to go to, and there's ice cream down by the dock (mini Rolo chunk, mother of God it's amazing), and it's 77 degrees outside (sorry, I am being silly: it's 25, eh?) and despite long work days sequestered in this little office at my in-laws place I am veeeeery happy to be here. Except there's no good beer and what beer there is costs a fortune.

Old joke, sin taxes being what they are in Canada. Six pack of beer? Costs $18.50. A new liver? Free!

Cheers Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

Room to Swing a Cat, abridged edition.

Talk is cheap
- Proverb.

Just so – I will be taking it easy this week, given my general busy schedule of late, dour demeanor, and a dull need for easy pickings and easier outcomes. Note: It is never wise to sit jabbering on the phone with a family member, all gulp and aglug the whole way through a big bottle of cheap red wine until midnight, when one is expected to perform satisfactory work the next day. So that's just what I did.

I feel...shrunken. Somewhat.

So I was reading these DP letters and I thought “oh, look. There's some dizzy dipshit who literally needs to ask a perfect stranger whether or not to get the Pamela Anderson treatment because her boyfriend (a sexual athlete, evidently) likes big titties. Oh, and look – she has a daughter. Isn't that sweet?”

And I thought “who the bloody fucking hell wrote this shit?”

So I said to myself “I will not fall for it this week. Not me. This is the new me. This bullshit has to stop.”

And then I wrote this blog anyway. Red wine hazes the brain, makes a guy feel like he's a cheap camera, out of focus, bleary and weak, and in this case, submissive to the whims of whatever is on the other side of the lens.

Bonus for you this week: The longest response I made was, like, 50 words or so. 50. Out of character - you know me. I usually don't get warmed up until page 6 and I have used the term “Imbecility” or “Cheese Dick” at least once. This time, short stuff, and I do not use either term at all.

Maybe it's puberty.


And we commence.


1.) I am in my 30s. My boyfriend recently told me that he would like it if I got breast implants. I'm beginning to wonder whether I should go ahead with enhancement just to please him.

My B's Are Getting an F – No.

I will elaborate: NO!



2.) My husband and I are empty-nesters in our 50s. My mother-in-law feels that it is our responsibility to take them on vacation with us. Are we selfish to want to be alone on our vacations?

Escape Plans – No. You're as stupid as letter writer 1.



3.) I have bipolar disorder. I have been having issues with one of our interns. Anytime she and I disagree about something she rolls her eyes, waves her hand, and declares that I am "just bipolar." I want some peace and a little less condescension when I go to work.

Tired of Her – Thank you for the lovely anecdote, but you didn't ask a question, such as “should I kill her, cut her body into pieces, and scatter them in a field, THEN take my medication?”

If that was your question, psycho, the answer is no. Go take your fucking pills.



4.) My stepbrother died last week. My sister asked me to take care of ordering a floral arrangement. I used to work as a florist. I made a beautiful arrangement from my garden My sister came unglued. She said it was tacky and cheap to not send something from a "real florist." I've been receiving daily calls from one or the other of them, telling me how cheap I am. What should I do?

An Alleged Cheapskate – Hang up the fucking phone. You really needed me to tell you that?



Allah willing and the creek don't rise, I will be writing this bit from the little town of Morrisburg, a wee trek south of the city of Ottawa, in two weeks. Family beckons, and we try to make this trip at least once every two years.

A lovely little town. My wife lived there in her high school years. They say it only takes an hour and a half to walk from one end of town to the other, because you'll bump into 6-7 people along the way and chat. Do it at 3:00 AM when everyone's abed and it takes about seven minutes.

The wrench in the works? I may not be able to take the time off. Nice, huh? At least I have a job to hate.

Besides, no use worrying about it now – I have to go to the store.

We're out of wine.

Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

I mean, really, come on, really?

My wife never lies about her age. She just tells everyone she's as old as I am. Then she lies about my age.
- Robert Orben

Ah, Flysters. The days zoom by like brilliant race cars in the hot sun, blurred and disaffected, and here I sit wondering where the last week went. Made me realize something: working from home sucks the life out of me after a while.

I make all the right noises about it, of course, because it is a luxury: “I am more efficient, there's no commute, I am better rested, nobody sticks their head in my office to blather about what a jackass LeBron is, I can work through lunch, blah blah...”

My interactions with other human beings, though, is limited to endless telephone conversations that all start to sound alike after a while. Thanking back to yesterday, three hours of conference calls and a dozen or so one-on-one calls, and my memory of them is like an episode of Charlie Brown when the grown ups talk: “waa waa waaaaaa wa waaa waaaaa.”

Yesterday, turns out, was punctuated by a job interview. This was in person, and commenced at, of all places, a Macaroni Grill restaurant. A loud Macaroni Grill, at that. And it was both the most memorable AND most demanding interview I have ever been through, bringing a new meaning to Macaroni GRILL.

And I flubbed it. Seriously, I was asked questions that a recent college graduate could field with ease, and I started my responses strong then slowly faded into gibberish, over and over again. I drew a blank. I fizzled, sputtered, said “um” a dozen times a minute, and personally think I left the interviewer utterly unimpressed.

Shit. Lotta money for that one, too.

We'll see – you never find out about these things until later, and I should know yea or nay by day's end.

So there's my excuse for not having RtSaC ready on time. Some people say “the dog ate my homework.” Some, “the sun was in my eyes.” Me? “I was busy fucking up my career by sucking ass at a job interview.” The latest in a long line of my most pitiable excuses.

Let us commence to digest whole these four pathetic specimens from DP. Originals HERE if'n you want 'em.


1.) I landed a dream internship in the entertainment industry and on my first day on the job got culminated in a victory party at a bar. I wound up too drunk to drive home. One of the bosses took me home with him, and when we got there he repeatedly tried to kiss me. He told me that he found me incredibly beautiful and sexy. Twenty minutes later, I was throwing up in his living room while he tried to play nurse and let me sleep it off on his couch. I intend to stay at this internship, because it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Do I write the incident off as a crazy, drunken night and nothing more, or confront him about it?

Harassed and Hungover – Let's discuss the perfect first day at work, shall we? You got drunk, fought off sexual advances, barfed in your boss' living room, crashed on his sofa, and you wonder aloud if this might be written off as a crazy incident?

Better – you think you might want to confront him?

Damn, you're no fun at all. Most women I harass while drunk on their first day put out. Hell, I had one who dressed up in a Mary Poppins hat and umbrella and sang “Spoonful of Sugar” while I spanked her with a rolled-up copy of “Cat Fancy”. I can still hear that song. “Juuuuust aaaaaa spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go dooown...” She had a tramp stamp of Niels Bhor with the phrase “you Bohr me, smart guy, now shut up and wreck it” underneath. Spoke both French and Italian in bed, too.

Sadly enough she quit a month later. The workplace is an evil and sad place.

You? You're kind of a sour puss. You're kind of an idiot as well, although there are two answers I have for you here. Ready, Xaviera?

1.)What kind of moron gets that drunk first day on the job? Just asking. I already know the answer. You. That's what kind of moron gets drunk the first day on the job. Jesus.
2.)You rejected him by saying “I don't understand,” which to him might have meant “I don't understand the theory of relativity, but I certainly understand why your tongue is down my throat.” Didja manage to say “no?” Remember: no means no, and if you didn't say it, and instead professed vapid confusion, you are in gray territory legally, and any confrontation you might have planned carries little weight, unless by “confrontation” you mean “calling him a doo doo head and letting it go at that” which is all the weight you need.

In the end, if you were an intelligent person I would have told you this: yeah, you better have a talk, but this sounds like a pretty laissez faire operation and the party scene has it's risks unless you get the cards out in front first. I must assume that since you haven't called the police already this means you do not feel you were sexually assaulted, and he's probably in the dark given your drunken state. Look – if he'd been serious he would have sexually assaulted you, and this would be a case for the police. Maybe you just need to admit you were lucky.

A smart woman, not you, would carry a message stating it was unacceptable. A smart woman would understand that getting shitfaced on day one of a new job, while not a vivid demonstration of intellect, is also not an invitation to get slobbered on by your new boss.

Maybe you know a smart woman? Have her talk to him. That'll fix it.


2.) When my son was 5 he wanted a $250 gaming system. My husband and I told him that he would have to save up to buy it. After many months, he had half of what he needed. We were so impressed by his strength of character that we pitched in the rest. Two years later, my husband's uncle asked to borrow the system. He had so much fun that he offered to buy it for $180 to be paid in weekly $20 increments. The uncle's payments were erratic, but he eventually made most of them Then the uncle lost his job and has not given my son the final $20. How do I get the uncle to make this last payment without causing a scene?

Mama Bear – Well well well – isn't THIS a cutie pie? The little ragamuffin does a goody, makes right, sees a growth opportunity, and the evil uncle fucks him over. Sweet!

Your question, though, is silly. How do you get him to make the last payment without causing a scene?

YOU DON'T! Well, maybe you don't. Depends on the uncle.

What are you expecting, a little fluffy pillow and a hanky, a tautly-crafted yet sweet script consisting of kind words and proper presentation technique that can clearly state “listen up you cheap-ass prick: he's 8 goddamn years old, you know? Do you think you might try being a just-so-slightly better role model, fuck stick?”

Yep. Thought so.

You ask the people here on The Fly and they'll tell you “Schuyler is a cheap-ass frequently unemployed job-hopping sleaze from way back” and they'd be right, but dammit, if I owe someone $20 I pay the goddamn $20. It's not chest full of Dubloons or a silk satchel filled with Ducats; it's $20, and the kid is 8, for fuck's sake.

You know, for a second I thought I'd say, “why not say to just give the kid $20 and go after the uncle for it on the back side? Lets the kid know that people are good and you can always backtrack on the uncle.”

Naw. Fuck that. Your son already learned that some people pay slowly, and financial issues can cause all manner of havoc, sometimes a deal feels better at the time you make it than it does at the end, and now he knows blood is not thicker than money.

Tell Uncle Dearest he's being a shithead and to give up the twenty. Throw him under the bus. Let your son know all about it. Now there's a lesson in reality.


3.) I am a proud gay man. Recently, while a group of us were having lunch, the topic of two straight female celebrities kissing on an awards show came up. One co-worker called it "trash." She ranted about how it was indecent and that children were watching. She later apologized, saying that her comments were in no way directed to me. How do I tell her how I feel and finally put this behind me?

Out – Dude, what the hell? I find it impossible to believe that a gay man would write a letter like this: this is the kind of letter a straight person pretending to be gay would write.

Wanna know why?

Good. I'll tell you.

There are two kinds of straight people. There are the straight people who think gay people fuck each other in broad daylight, in front of children, intentionally to recruit them into their big fag club; they are “abominations in the eyes of Christ” or some other such religious upfuckery; they all have AIDS or at least syphilis, and if you don't watch out, they'll sneak up on you and try to suck your dick when you aren't looking. Curiously, many of these are closeted gays themselves.

Then there are straight people who are puzzled about gay people, don't get it, don't want it, might even be grossed out about it or scared of it, yet live among, care for, and love gay people anyway.

Both are completely unaware what it is like to be gay, or what gay people go through.

If you are gay and this is the first time in your life someone you care for called has out an activity that appeared to be “gay” in a non-flattering light, then I call bullshit.

You'd have already known how to deal with it.


4.) My younger sister is expecting her first child this fall. She recently completed her baby registries. She is having four showers thrown for her. I have kids of my own, and I know that they require a lot of stuff. But she's registered for just about everything that this child will need until he or she turns 3 years old. Should I speak up about this?

Excited Auntie-To-Be – I have an idea: go ahead. Speak up about it.

Lemme know how that goes.

I have been on rants recently about weddings. I take them very, very seriously, see, because I feel they have become everything that is evil and unwholesome and fucked up and stupid and ill-bred and insane and putrid about this world.

Showers are pretty high on my list, too. Glamorous events, blown so goddamn far out of proportion they currently serve the single purpose of getting everything you can get while the getting is good.

There was a traditional gift I heard about when someone moves into a new house: you bring a broom, a loaf of bread, and salt. Dunno where I heard that, seems kind of old-school charming and there's a saying went with it: “A broom to sweep away your troubles, bread that you will never be hungry, and salt to give spice to your life.”

Awwww. What a nice little tradition.

A toddler bed on a baby registry? Gimme a fucking break.

I remember registering for shit at Babies R Us before my daughter was born and discovering what “layette” was. Also, I remember discovering that “layette” was more expensive than “newborn” stuff, and wondering if Carter's was going to make a clothing line for babies still in the goddamn uterus and charge even more. Newer-than-newborn stuff? What a racket.

But I also remember someone telling me “hey, that $750 European convertible car seat/stroller thing? Just put it on the register! You never know, right? Some rich uncle, maybe...” Right-o. I put it on, felt like a slimeball, and we didn't get it. I am very glad we didn't. What the fuck did I need that for?

The answer is, I didn't, but someone might have, just to grin proudly during the shower, gloating over their award for “most ridiculously expensive gift.”

And THAT is what a shower is for.

Tell Little Sissy that you'll get her the receiving blankets and a nice diaper bag. End of story. If she needed you to teach her about the rights and wrongs of life, she's have come out of your vagina instead of your mother's. Let it go.


Finishing up my post on a Friday morning isn't what I had in mind for this week's column, but what the hell – I have a great lame excuse, don't I?

Tomorrow is my wife's birthday. The big 50. I started planning a nice party, and asked a neighbor to attend to it (she's taken classes doing event catering and hospitality stuff), offered to pay, but then her 8 year old son stole a Silly Band from my daughter. My wife caught him doing it, and we said he wasn't welcome here for a little while, until we could believe he was trustworthy.

Like the great neighbor she was (meaning she was already on her third glass of cheap wine by then, 11:30 in the morning) she banished us from her life and un-friended my wife on Facebook. Seems it's not right to catch kids stealing shit, I dunno. When I stole my friend Brian's matchbox cars I got yelled at, dragged to the door by the ear, and told never to come back. My parents were called and I was grounded, this after having to apologize in public to Brian (who was trying not to laugh just as hard as I was). This might make a great DP letter, if it wasn't so terribly obvious the mama bird ex-event planner is little more than a stupid drunk bitch and her son – generally a nice boy, if a little indulged – is in for a fucked life when he realizes mommy can't fix it when he's 18.

So, the party never got planned, and a big milestone birthday is now relegated to dinner for she and I at a place I haven't even selected yet.


She'll get lotsa neat presents, though – exactly what she wants – and I think I have dinner figured out. Hopefully she won't ready this column today or tomorrow, though...Sunday's good.

And so: cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

"And they will know us by that trail of leaking putrefied brain fluid..."

Men think epilepsy divine, merely because they do not understand it. We will one day understand what causes it, and then we will cease to call it divine. And so it is with everything in the universe.
- Hipporactes.

Now, I dunno if Hippocrates really said that or not, but I sure like it, and thugh it has nothing at all to do with this weeks; letter writers I thought I'd share.

In other news, I got good feedback from people regarding my questions of the “forensic loan audit” process for people in foreclosure. I also got some good feedback from several folks who tried to do it.

It's mostly bullshit.

So, back to square one, or better yet, plan B: I have a legal team representing me and protecting my interests. It's affordable, comparatively, anyway, and these guys have real people who recommend them.

And so, here we go: time to dip on my house. First we try to do a “mortgage modification”, a little tap dance co-sponsored by the current administration which, turns out, is so easy to punch legal holes in it is only successful one time in a thousand or so, and frequently turns into a massive fuckover of the homeowner. Thanks, Bambam. That's why we voted for you, pal.

Incidentally, my odds are equally low, yes indeed.

After that, it's time for a “short sale”. Doable, readily presentable, and gets me out of the heat without getting my ass nailed to years of legal bullshit and inflated fees.

All this might take 6 months, so I remain here meantime. I can deal with that.

I'll report later.

And off we go to Prudieville, where they have hot and cold running idiots on tap for us in remarkable quantity today.

Originals can be had here.


Dear Prudence,
I'm dating an incredible woman. I'm thinking about our long-term future together. I'm torn as to whether I should tell my girlfriend I became a sperm donor. Is this something I should tell my girlfriend about and, if so, when?

Donor With a Guilty Conscience – Please allow me to start off by stating unequivocally that your incredible stupidity is probably immeasurable using modern-day methodologies. You should not think about your “long-term future” with this woman, because it is possible you could pollute the human species further with your sperm, causing countless more idiot offspring and destroying the entire planet in a violently horrible tsunami of goddamn fucking stupid people.

The idea that this information – you jerked a hot load of your elephantine idiocy into a cup for college beer money a couple times – is so pedestrian and uninteresting I can't seem to find anything to say about it at all. This is the black hole of non-issues, and you have managed to make an issue of it. Congratulations, Mr. Gump. “Mamma always said 'jerk it into the Dixie Cup, Forrest'.”

In short, it doesn't matter if you tell her or not. She will soon enough discover you are a profoundly stupid slice of dickcheese and split shortly thereafter, unless she's as dumb as you, in which case any offspring you produce would create a critical mass which could realign the course of human evolution and the whole entire universe will implode in a fiery, bloody ball of fucking lameness.

Outside that, you should get a vasectomy and count your lucky stars you haven't been naturally selected for extinction in some way. Go back to the TV, dipshit. Maybe Spongebob is on.


Dear Prudence,
I just started a new job as a partner with a great law firm. The problem is the clients' comments on my appearance. I'm a petite, feminine-looking woman. Male clients frequently make comments like, "You don't look mean" and "You look too nice to be a litigator." I want to convey that I'm a fighter in court and that they shouldn't be making inane comments on my appearance in the first place.

Feisty Female – Are you related to Mr. Gump up north, there? It always tickles me when lawyers write letters to DP, because although they are grammatically well done and the punctuation is generally good, they questions read like this:

“Dear Prudence,
I stuck my penis in a light socket and nothing happened. This became my main sexual activity until one day my jealous wife turned the switch on to punish me. What kind of conditioner should I try on my hair to make this frizz go away?
- Frizzy, Dizzy, and Holy Cow My Dick Sure Hurts Like Crazy.”

It strikes me that if you look to “nice” right now, you may have looked too “nice” before. Nobody ever said anything? Really? And you went to law school?

Never mind, here's the solution: if a litigator wants to convey the fact they are a fighter in the courtroom they might want to get into the courtroom and fight. Pee Wee fucking Herman doesn't look like much, but he can jerk off with the best in public and I don't hear him whining about it. He just did it.

So get a case assigned, pull the Ali in the courtroom, and shut the fuck up. You're a lawyer, for fuck's sake. Act like one.


Dear Prudence,
My eldest daughter “Susie” is turning 10, and her father and I are allowing her to get her ears pierced. Her 6-year-old sister asked, "Can I come watch?" Susie responded, "No! I don't want you there!" I want to teach Susie that even though it's her birthday, she needs to think of other people besides herself. What should I do?

Sibling Rivalry – The fate of the world hinges upon the answer to this highly relevant and imposing moral dilemma: Can Jasmine watch Susie get her ears pierced, or is she really icky and a booger-eater who always get what she wants?

On one hand, Susie's dilemma seems a natural example of Edgar Friedenberg's statement, “Juvenile appraisals of other juveniles make up in clarity what they lack in charity,” and sets a tone for her personality which may serve her well later in life, although her relationships may falter as suitors bristle over her natural desire to be both free-spirited and in a leadership position. I am more concerned, however, about the outcome in Muslim nations where the veil is Sharia law: Susie could completely upend a thousand years of attempts to strengthen Islamification in the middle East, resulting in a surge of reactionary and revolutionary extremism.

Jasmine, on the other hand, seems to better represent the growing pall which overshadows today's youth, a peer-enforced miasma of ennui which threatens to tear into the very fabric of American family ideals and create a newer – and greater – subculture of disaffected youth which could rival Britain's Chavs, resulting in a like-for-like performance culture which would lead to a lifelong history of failure to win a World Cup by America.

In the end, I suggest you pull your fucking head out of your ass and let Susie do as she wishes – they're her ears, I might say, and if you let her pierce them you might let her make greater choices about the whole thing, such as if she wants her fucking sister to be there or not. This is called “sibling rivalry” you vapid nitwit, and it'll pass with or without you sticking your tepid ideals into the mix.

The end of the world is near, remember. You must choose wisely, you fucking moron.


Dear Prudence,
My cousin "Bill" is getting married next month to his fiancee, "Jane." Most of my family hasn't met Jane. After they set their wedding date, my older sister "Tammy" sent Jane a message on Facebook introducing herself and asking Jane to change her wedding date. Jane declined. This has caused a problem. Can you please help my sister understand why what she did was unacceptable and that Jane's response is not crazy?

In the Middle – I swear by all the is goddamn holy I am going to start a one-man campaign to eradicate the whole fucking idea of weddings, completely and forever. There is no occurrence anywhere that is stupider than a wedding, unless Palin's in town speaking again. People getting married are sickeningly overwrought with puerile delusions of grandeur, visions of totally overblown pomp and circumstance, and putrid, vomit-inducing entitlement which most people think only exists on “The Real Housewives Of...” shows. It's a massive perversion of an otherwise simple event, it's fucking horrid, and it must end.

Families of people getting married are sometimes worse, though this seems to be the case where the Bride and the family are both suffering some manner of spongiform encephalopathy issues causing them to be utterly and equally stupid assholes.

Want my advice? Call your cousin and say “congrats, dude! I sent a gift card for 'Babeland Sex Toys.' Get yourselves a big dildo. Sounds like she needs it.” Get a nice card for her, and write “Congratulations on your marriage! Stay the fuck away from me and my family. We already hate you, or so I am told!”

Then on the blessed day, go to a pub and have a couple beers. At some point just yell “Mazeltov!” even if you aren't Jewish.

Viola. They're married. Done.


It strikes me that one day my daughter and I will have a conversation about issues surrounding that last letter, and I have a sneaking suspicion I will not exit that conversation a happy man. Sigh.

My son will understand.

And so I bid my Flysters good day – have a great remainder of Canada day today (Messy!) and have a great Fouth of July on Sunday. Cheers!

STC =^oo^=