Fast forward - the best a cat can do in under one hour.

“Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief:”
-William Shakespeare

Quick work today, friends – I am a busy, busy man. Not really busy, but I have to fit all this in a very very short period of time since my job just got hecticer. I mean frenzier. I mean, where the hell is Sarah Palin – channeling the aforementioned Shakespeare – when you need her?

Originals here ifn' you want 'em.


1.) My daughter has recently became engaged. Her fiance does some pretty bizarre things for attention. He's gotten so close to me that his crotch rubbed against my back; and he's undone his pants, and then spent an inordinate amount of time tucking in his shirt while facing me. I worry that maybe I'm being too touchy about all this and don't want to create problems where there may be none. How can I address it without causing them pain?

Not a Mother-in-Law With Benefits – “Touchy”, huh? You little minx. This is perfectly normal, since mothers in law are expected – hell, obligated – to have sexual relations with their daughter's boyfriends. Quit being so goddamn uptight. Be sure to use a condom. If he gets you pregnant...oh, awkward, I suspect.

Meanwhile, I also suspect you have an IQ of about 73, which means you're pretty close to “too stupid to turn on the television or tie your shoes in the absence of an adult for guidance.”


2.) I'm a 27-year-old female with a wonderful life. I was teased mercilessly by classmates. I was a sensitive child, and these taunts hurt me deeply. In turn, I did something that I'm still ashamed of—I bullied another classmate. I teased her about her cultural background. I have found her Facebook page and would like to send her a brief message apologizing for my behavior as a child. Is this appropriate to do?

Ashamed – No, this is not appropriate. Sarah Palin, Sharron Angle, and Christine O'Donnell need to be your examples here, since they are very clear on the treatment of , you know, “those” people. As in people who are not white, Christian, and rich. All who aren't are fucking scum – piss on her.

On the other hand, people who are white, christian and rich may not include you, since there are fewer and fewer every day given the economic climate of late. If this is the case with you need to vote the Democratic ticket, ping this chick on FB and apologize, and go find a goddamn tree to hug or something.


3.) My husband's brother owns a time-share. He has been unemployed for quite a while and has started talking about selling it. He didn't have anyone to go with him to it this year and asked whether we would be interested. He mentioned we would be paying for food and alcohol, as well as his transportation to and from the airport. My husband says we should just accept his brother's terms and then never vacation with him again. What should we do?

Not a Freeloader – My take is simple: make an offer on the place, and give him a deposit. Once the paperwork I started, burn it to the ground and collect insurance. Then knock off the brother in law and steal all his stuff. Find a good fence and sell it. Run away to Austria (or something) and start going to the opera and eating strudel and shit. It'll all work out. It's a brilliant, simple plan. What can go wrong?

But before all this happens, when reality crashes down on your stupid fucking head, tell your husband his brother can go fuck himself and cancel the trip, you dipshit.


4.) I've been seeing a therapist for two years. She's lovely. My problem is, she doesn't know how to spell my name. I feel strange bringing it up now. Any method I can think of seems passive aggressive. Any suggestions?

Spell It Right – It is humbling to me that a member of the Einstein family has attended therapy, as I have too, and I find myself flattered in the company of genius under less-than-ideal bragging conditions. By the way: have you had sex with her yet? Try it. And forget the name thing – she's obviously so fucking hot for you she gets flustered and wants you to slam her up against the wall and do her like a wild banana-chomping goddamn chimpanzee. Note: this advice is for either a man or a woman, since I can't tell by your letter.

Unfortunately, in hindsight, you must have fallen pretty far from the Einstein family tree, because any fucking moron with enough brain matter tucked away in their otherwise empty cranial cavity to breathe without the benefit of assistance from machinery would know that she's waiting for you to BRING IT THE FUCK UP, so she can check the little box on your progress chart that says “not a complete fucking imbecile. Oh, and finally grew some little bitty balls and called me out on misspelling his stupid fucking name. Big growth here, for this witless dickhead.”


And lo, for he did the sunder yon fucking letter writers, fervidly so did he, forsooth, and it was good; for they art simple of mind, and thus fain he dasheth them against big sharp rocks, as they deserveth, you know, some fucking bashing or whatever.

Back to an endless schedule of conference calls wherein nothing of any particular importance occurs. Ah, la.

Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

The line between genius and insanity is but a thread, but not at Prudie's house.

To spend more time in learning is better than spending more time praying; the support of religion is abstinence. It is better to teach knowledge one hour in the night than to pray all night.”
- Muhammad

The Stoopids.

In some cases they are like Jehovah's Witnesses, knocking on the door and standing with expectant looks on their face, seeing me with the five-day beard stubble and obvious hangover, and still offering me their hopeful suggestions as if I have ever been in the mood to find their brand of Jesus palatable, even when NOT hung over.

In some cases they are like Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann: frighteningly face-forward in their delivery of stunning one-liners like this little gem from Sarah, back in the campaign days: “As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where– where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border."

In some cases they are winners of the Darwin Awards, like the guy sitting in traffic who told the others in the car “I gotta pee”, whereupon he hopped out of the car, hopped over the barrier at the side of the road, and proceeded to fall 65 feet to his death, not noticing he was sitting on an overpass.

In some cases they are you and me. I won't speak for you, My dear readers, but If I had a perfect track record of non-stoopidity I would be hell of a lot healthier, richer, and happier. You did not date that woman who stabbed her ex-husband because he'd failed to remember their anniversary, now did you? If you had, you would have ended it immediately after you discovered she kept that same knife under YOUR pillow when you slept over at her place. Me stoopid.

There are many different views, sides, facets to being a Stoopid, mostly because there are side effects. One side effect is you learn from being a Stoopid, like I hope I have, and all of you, too.

Another is evident in the four brainless jackwagons on Dear Prudence's menu today, who, it seems likely, have never and will never learn a goddamned thing, and shall remain forever locked in stoopid's dull, vapid embrace.

And awaaaaay we go. Originals here, if needed.


1: I recently became engaged. Prior to our dating, my fiance had an affair with a wealthy woman. They remained good friends. For our wedding gift, she gave us $50,000. A part of me feels uneasy about accepting such a large amount of money from his former girlfriend. Please advise!

Reluctant Recipient – what kind of a birdbrained, dumbass, idiotic, weak-ass dipshit would ask this question? You! That's what kind! I win!

If you need someone to give you advice about this I can only assume you have suffered some form of significant cerebral damage, though overuse of drugs perhaps, or a fall resulting in cranial contact on a hard surface that scrambled with few goddamn brains you ever had in your goddamn head.

Take. The. Fucking. Money.

Jesus wept – I hope the next three aren't as thermonucletarded as you.

OFFER: If you don't want the fifty grand, gimme a call. They're foreclosing on me soon, and I could use the dough.


2: I am a woman working as a project engineer for a construction company. I have an issue with one co-worker. He throws paperwork at me, missing my inbox. I can't complain, as I would be seen as a whiner, and in this business, one is expected to buck up. How can I get him to respect me and place work in my box like everyone else does?

No Respect – Yep. That's what I was afraid of. Slate brought in crates filled with profoundly stupid people and asked them to write letters for Dear Prudence. Sad, sad thing.

This type of letter is my favorite, because it requires a coin flip. One side of the coin is action, the other is inaction. I will design your coin for you. Ready, dinglepuss?

Heads: Tell him “listen up fuckburger. You throw one more goddamn piece of paper at my desk like that, I will shove it up your ass far enough you'll fucking gag on it.”

Tails: Buck up.

Now go get a Kleenex, wipe your little tears away and get the fuck back to work.

BONUS: you actually wrote thew words “How can I get him to respect me and place work in my box like everyone else does?” Total Beavis and Butthead moment for me! Must be upsetting, needing him to put his “work your box” like that, you little vixen.

I soooooo funny.


3: I make a living as an adjunct instructor at my university and by waiting tables. My younger sister holds down three restaurant jobs. We each make about $15,000 a year, have no insurance, and carry student loan debt. Last Christmas our mother was laid off. She made only about $25,000 a year and struggled financially while raising us. She has almost zero chance of finding a job in this economic climate. What can we do? This woman raised me, and I have nothing to give her.

When the Recession Hits Home – This well-crafted Old Yeller-style letter is an example of what authors call a “hook,” where readers are captivated and drawn into a story by an ever-worsening series of dramatic cues.

In hindsight it reads like this: I am poor, my sister is poor, and my mom has recently become unemployed, thus poorer. We poor people cannot help our poor mother. The big comet is streaking at a bazillion miles an hour toward it's inevitable impact with the Earth, and when it hits all life will be extinguished (you didn't rally say that, but you might as well have).

When life gives you lemons you make lemonade. I hate that fucking saying, usually intended as an aphorism but really little more than throwaway junk advice. The reason I say it now is to give you a comparative example. You have no lemons. You have, as I understand it, nothing.

When life gives you nothing you make whatever the hell you can, or you die.

So you ask “what can we do?” Can you answer “Nothing?”

Up to you, but I see the Stoopids stopped by your house and dropped off a tract. Put it down for a sec and do something to help your fucking mother. Let her live with you. Help her build a good resume. Something. Anything. Somewhere amid all the nothing is unemployment, a place to sleep, some food to eat.

Seems, though, if you need people to tell you WHAT to do, then she may be better off on welfare.

OBSERVATION: You are one of those rare people who is forbidden to say “My mamma didn't raise no dummies!” Cause, like, you know, obviously she did.


4: Recently, I stumbled upon a pill bottle in the room of my boyfriend of two years. The part of the label with the drug name had been peeled off, so I was curious and suspicious. I went on a pill-identifier Web site. He's taking Levitra in the highest dosage available. I'm a little alarmed because he's only 24, and I've never heard of someone being prescribed erectile-dysfunction drugs at such a young age. Do I have the right to be upset that he didn't tell me about his problem? Should I confront him about it? I love him and want to be supportive, and I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable. I know it's a medical problem; I just think it's something we should have talked about. What should I do?

Supportive Girlfriend – ooh, this has some funny on it, yes it does.

Ever heard of a “fluffer?” Let me ramble a second here: a fluffer is a woman hired to sexually stimulate male porn stars to help them maintain an erection between takes. Porn, at times, requires the presence of a functioning boner, you see.

Fluffers were the lowest members of the porn industry food chain. Not a good job, I suspect. “Hey, Dick Rockhard, haul that big old veiny baloney pony (which has just been exploring various oft-used orifices on that skankasaurus porn star over there, and thus is probably slathered with a liberal coat of foamy skankasaurus orifice juice) over to Schuyler The Cat there, and he'll do things to keep that Perky Pork Popsicle working overtime.”

This is just something I would never, ever want to hear my boss say. Ever.

Am I digressing? No! Fluffers are a thing of the past. No longer needed. Unemployed, which I suspect is a bonus for them. But why?

Viagra! Once it was learned that Viagra has the same effect on men without erectile dysfunction as it does on those with, Pfizer started getting mysterious orders for massive cartons of the little blue pill, and the industry, now unfettered of troublesome issues of occasional flaccidity, could shoot 24/7 without pausing.

Back to the point: first, your 24 year old boyfriend likely feels he owes you no particular explanation for his medication, given the nature of erections vis a vis your current relationship status. Just sayin'.

Furthermore. there are, I must tell you, a few things you may not be considering:

1 – Erectile dysfunction is a thing which can be managed, so it ain't no big deal. Get over it.

2 – Boy Wonder may be taking a dose of John Holmes' Little Helper as a kick starter. Ever notice how he's rock-hard and ready to go all the time? This is normal in males at 24 years of age. Now, with legal, prescription drugs, that can be enhanced. Scary shit, eh?

3 – Boy Wonder may be taking a dose of John Holmes' Little Helper as more than a kick starter. My first wife, toward the end of our run, wasn't exactly appealing to me any more. I was in my twenties and fully functional, but Mister Tom Johnson wouldn't always stand at attention when called to duty, since I'd realized the miserable haggis wasn't my true love, like, you know, in the movies and stuff. Having said and he getting on okay, dear?

Whatever the case, you don't worry about the presence of Levitra in the house. You worry if you find his meth kit hidden in the bathroom with a note that says “you fucking touch this I kill you!”, or someone's spleen in the refrigerator with a note that says “mine – do not eat!”, or your sister's panties under his pillow with a note that says “I never went for THREE HOURS before! So sore, but can't WAIT for tomorrow when she's gone. Levitra ROCKS!”

Now go looking in the junk drawer for your brain, sweetie. It's in there behind the flashlight with dead batteries, under the expired Papa John's coupons.

FOLLOW-UP: I had a girlfriend like you once. She was all uptight one day, and I had to ask her what was wrong. She said “I'm worried I'll get pregnant.” I said “we used rubbers, don't worry about it.” She said “Yeah, but I swallowed, like four times this week.” Sometimes I miss her so much.


Working from home today, as always, and with two children climbing on my chair and sticking their fingers in my ears, playing basketball with the orange juice container, or reciting all the lines from “Totoro” in a full scream, right outside the door, it is a challenge. Conference calls are always fun:

SON, IN MY OFFICE: Sticks his finger in my ear.
ME, ON PHONE: “Hehehehe.”
BOSS, ON PHONE: “Who was that?”
ME: “That was me – sorry, I thought I had the phone muted.”
BOSS: “This isn't really funny, you know.”
ME: “Yes, I know. Sorry.”
COWORKER, ON PHONE: “Hehehehe...”
ME: “What the hell was that?!”
BOSS “Could you please mute your phone?”
DAUGHTER, TO MY SON: “That's a lot of glass. Don't step on it!”
ME: “...”

What, might I ask, is a “Teacher Work Day?” Don't they work other days too? I mean, I don't want to think of the school system here as a big free babysitting service with the perk of some education thrown in, but damn.

The flurry of birthdays are over: April 10, July 10, August 29, September 3. That's my little family unit, all scrunched together in the warmer half of the year, and off we go now into Autumn, my favorite time of year. Still waiting for my Kindle – should be here today or tomorrow. I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas.

Everyone in my household is healthy. Everyone seems happy. The impending doom and gloom of our inevitable foreclosure, bearing down on us a little faster every day, is not the monster we thought it was, as we are now ready to move along with our lives and put this little nightmare behind us.

Eventually the thorn will be pulled from the paw of this family, and we will relax, take a deep breath, and reflect on the sour days that led us to be here as more lessons: The Stoopids came to roost in my house for a time, all of us doing our part as well, and the foul financial machine that helped us get here hovering near with their wheezing, smiling lawyers, ever ready to offer great advice such as “stop buying medication, and you can afford this mortgage.”

We'll keep the meds, thanks.

Just so: we are a cheerful bunch, regardless, and there is only one dark cloud looming on the horizon for me. Not the foreclosure.

We will have to move. Dammit.

I HATE moving.

Cheerio, toodles, ta taa, hasta la vista, my dear Flysters. Until next time.
STC =^oo^=