Out with the old, in with the old: some things never change.

Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Lunch break.

The view ain’t great – there is a building next door that looks like a giant pile of dirty Legos, neatly stacked into a big monolithic mass of butt-ugliness, but this isn’t about the view, it’s about the job.

I suspect I will like it here.

Odd, becoming an employee after eleven years or so of consulting, but I have grown tired of hearing the sound of the axe in my sleep, and paid time off is actually kinda cool.

Bonus: As I reached for my latop, headed for the car to make the morning commute, I looked at my watch. It was 7:10 AM Thursday, December 30, 2010. When I pressed the lock on the remote and heard the car say “click” after I parked, I checked again. 7:25 AM Thursday, December 30, 2010.

Fifteen minutes. Paid parking, too.

Yes. I will probably like it here.

This week’s Proodi stuff is all absence-of-reality based, isn’t it? How can it not be? Do people actually think this way? It’s not just stupid – that’s simply where people go when there’s no better explanation. It’s a scary, psychological lapse in cognition, I think, which manifests itself in people asking to most unbelievably retarded fucking questions imaginable. I dunno. Maybe it is just stupidity. I ain’t no Freud, or Jung, or Justin Beiber, you know.

Off we go. Originals here, if needed.


Dear Prudence,
Seven years into my marriage with my ex-wife, I still wasn't sure if I wanted kids. Eventually she stopped having sex with me and our marriage broke up two years ago. Eight months ago, I met my now-fiancee. I proposed to her on Thanksgiving shortly after learning she was pregnant. I'm overjoyed about her pregnancy. My ex-wife, who's still single, immediately called me, furious and in tears. She blamed me entirely for the collapse of our marriage and said I should have told her personally about my fiancee's pregnancy. Was I insensitive? Is she right to be angry with me because I'm happy about my impending fatherhood?
- Excited Dad-To-Be.

Dear Excited,

Congratulations on finding a woman who pretends to like to have sex with you. Congratulations as well on your manly marksmanship and skill with recently ejaculated spermatozoa as well. Congratulations all around. Huzzah.

Sorry to say, but you are out of line here. Your ex wife has every right to know everything about your - and her – life, especially this new woman’s sexual tastes and habits, what color panties she’s wearing, whether she swallows or spits, if she likes it on top, that sort of thing.

She has the right to know this new chick’s bank account number, and her dress size, and her complete life history, social security number, blood type, where she works, what color her hair is (and if it’s real), and if she says “booga, booga, hallelujah” when you stick a finger up her butt.

It is unreasonable of you to expect your ex-wife to simply lay off, let the relationship go, and not boil into a nuclear fucking hormonal catastrophe over unannounced news like this, especially since you never informed her that this new woman likes, say, seafood or silver two-door German coupes, or watches “House,” or snores, or listens to Ke$ha.

It’s all about communication, see.

Haven’t you got a goddamn cell phone? The next time you slide Willy Von Veinmeister into this interloper’s hungry, waiting mouth and pop a nut, you need to tell your poor ex wife about it immediately. Remember to use appropriate language and context: telling your ex-wife that this new, useless harlot you’re marrying just gulped down half a quart of your man-mustard may remind her that she was a cold fish in the sack and didn’t swallow. She deserves more respect than that. Let her know this skeevy slut you’re saddled with is nowhere near as fine a person as she is.

She is, after all, your ex-wife.

In my world I am pretty sure my ex-wife, who remains friends with one of my sisters, hasn’t a goddamn clue about my life, but hey: my world – as well as hers – is out here in reality land, and there is a reason we are each other’s ex. You should have taken the red pill, Neo. What a dickhead.


Dear Prudence,
Earlier this year, a generous friend sent me a check to cover travel costs so that I could visit her across the country. I'm in my early 60s, and my friend knows that I earn just over minimum wage and am in debt. Unfortunately, she sent a cashier's check that she neglected to sign. Bad shit happened. When I explained she demanded full repayment of the original check and the cost of the reservations. I'm hurt by what's happened and her reaction to it, and frankly I feel a bit victimized. My resentment is eating me up. What should I do?
- Gift Horse

Dear Flicka Vanderfuckup,

This was all just a simple misunderstanding between two obviously intelligent, deeply sensitive people, but the lay of the land is clear. You offered to take the bullet, so you need to take action.

I can’t recommend Craigslist’s “Adult Services” section, because they no longer post those, but the “Casual Encounters” section is still in production. Your post should be carefully crafted to avoid law enforcement. Instead of using “sex” use the word “play” or “party.” Money cannot be discussed, not as a matter of exchange for service anyway, because this would be considered soliciting, but you might say “fair is fair” or something like that. Whatever, review the posts you find there and be creative.

Change the ad often, and be certain to screen email responses carefully.

The odds of you pulling down top dollar are pretty low – your age works against you – but there is decent money to be made, especially if you are open to unique or bizarre sex. Plain old anal is cheap – get creative, wear a Superman outfit, or frilly panties under your chaps, or get a beagle, or offer to take your teeth out.

Condoms are essential, old timer. Don’t be stupid.

About 3-4 months of “casual encounters” should get your delightful friend paid back and maybe take the trip anyway and leave a little nest egg in the bank for later. Hey: that retirement worry could be over – you might have a new career starting here!

As for her, she doesn’t need to sell her body, because you stupidly offered to pay her for both of your spineless idiocy. She can simply fuck herself.

The rest of us are just scratching our heads and wondering which of you is more stupid.


Dear Prudie,
I own and run a business with a smart, 40-ish woman who's also a good friend. Two years ago, her father died suddenly. The effect on her was devastating—and unabated. It seems as if being in mourning and having regular crises are becoming integral to her identity. The inequities this causes are starting to grate. At what stage is it OK to tell her she is hurting our business and testing our relationship?
- Unbalanced by Grief

Dear Heartless Motherfucker,

Jesus H. Fucking Christ. What an insensitive, cold, vicious asshole you are! What are you thinking? There is no end to grief! Ever! You must not have ever lost anyone you cared about.

It’s not like people just magically overcome the insidious, powerful grip of personal loss, you know. If you had any goddamn moral fiber or a modicum of human understanding you’d know that once the grieving process begins it must evolve into an inexorable downward spiral into eternal pain, sadness, and suffering.

You must immediately take on this woman as a cause and care for her completely. Keep her payroll active, and cater to her absences and numerous issues with relentless kindness, as she needs this sort of help in order to ensure she never, ever gets over this tragic, senseless, and horrible event in her life.

Remind her gently but constantly that the only thing she needs to do is ache and suffer for her loss, even if it means she cannot bear the thought of getting out of bed to use the toilet. And yes, you (you insensitive, vapor-brained fuckwiper) need to clean her up later. It’s the only truly kind thing to do.

People should never be told to move on, to learn to live their life in the absence of a loved one, or simply to (lord, help us all) “get over it” – these are cruel and dangerous things to say to someone developing or immersed in a well-defined state of grief. These inhumane utterances are best left to professionals, maybe someone like Nancy Grace, who is often cited as an individual who is completely in touch with the needs of those in pain, and she’s very wealthy because of this incredible empathic quality she possesses.

I might mention that the rest of us would have this solved after, say, two-three months. We’re obviously the stupid ones, huh?


Dear Prudie,
I am a college junior. I want to study abroad and travel the world. My biggest hurdle is my boyfriend. We have been together for five years and plan to spend the rest of our lives together. But he is against me studying abroad. He says I should wait until we're financially settled so we can travel together. But I don't want to wait. What do you think?
- Trying To Travel

Dear Uppity Bitch,

Who the hell do you think you are? You claim you are going to spend the rest of your life with this man, and you have the nerve, the gall, or dare I say, the balls, to question his authority? Sit down and shut the fuck up, Sally Selfish, because I am going to explain something to you.

Men, once a woman is married to them, are in charge of and in possession of said woman, much as if they were a car, or a suit, or a Husqvarna YTH24V54 24 horsepower lawn tractor. After you get married, that man tells you where to go, what to do, how to do it, and how you are to be used, and you better cheerfully comply, so help me.

Women are on the planet for one goddamn reason: to marry men and care for them, cook and clean, submit to sex whenever asked, look nice, do the shopping, act respectfully, bear children, a little light banter if required, and to shut the bloody hell up when told. That’s really like ten or so things, yeah, but it’s all one thing to a man, who frankly doesn’t have time or incentive to sort through stupid and trivial details such as “what women need”. In the end, men are the ones who have needs that must be met – women meet those needs, or they get the fuck out.

Is Hillary Clinton president? No. Why? She’s a woman, and men said “no.” That’s why. She’ll get hers, you watch. I mean, fuck.

Now, I realize you aren’t married to this gentleman yet, and I can’t imagine he’ll want to stay with you now, given your shitty attitude, and if I knew him I would steer him far, far away from the likes of you. Still, if he is forgiving (meaning if you are attractive, or you’re a good cook, or you have nice tits and no gag reflex) you need to remember that even though you aren’t yet married, you are GOING to be, and that’s good enough for him to tell you what the hell to do. Here’s what you need to do: start begging him to forgive you, blow him a lot more often, if he’s into that, and hope he is feeling generous.

Also: what the hell do you need an education for? Do you think you need to understand political science to pick out some pretty, lacy, see-through lingerie and do a naughty dance for your husband before submitting to him and satisfying his needs? Do you need to read about Aristotle and Fascism and US party history to find a recipe for Chicken and Dumplings worthy of cooking for him? How smart do you think you need to be to use the goddamn vacuum cleaner? Try reading the instruction manual for that, why don’t you. That’ll smarten you the hell up.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Now if you’ll excuse me, many of us suddenly have the urge to tell our significant others we love them, because many of us have half a goddamn brain, which means it’s likely they do as well; a condition which you are evidently unaware of. And we men…those with an intact cerebral cortex, anyway…just might need to go buy our wives flowers or something for whatever stupid thing we’ve done recently.

You? Quit asking questions. Go make him a fucking sandwich.


Tomorrow is New Years Eve. I am not completely fond of this day as a holiday: the 31st day of January is, technically, February’s Eve. Big whoop.

But it is a good reason for the kids to try (again) and fail (again) to stay awake until the big ball falls, and a good reason to make a move on my wife after a bottle or so of Champagne, and at the very least it’s a good thing to bring up when one writes the wrong date on a check: “hehe, I always do that, don’t you know, chuckle, chortle.”

So I ask all my Flysters to have a safe and happy New Year, don’t drive drunk, and may we all get laid and prosper and enjoy life more in 2011.

STC =^oo^=

'Tis the season to be stooopid...fa la la la la...

This Christmas, I will celebrate the birth of Jesus by ignoring the fact he would celebrate Hannukah.
- Unknown

Well well. Seems I, in my greatness and splendor, have decided to grace this place with the utter awesomeness of my fantasticfulness once again.

I missed writing these things, actually, and just found the time. Nothing awesome, though I may think it.

And the holidays do approach, steadily, borne on freezing rain and the hiss of a gas fireplace in the den of the house we're renting on the south end of town, all the better to escape that other place, the big pretty one the bank seems to want more than I do.

And with an attitude adjustment in hand too – Schuyler The Cat, yours truly, got hisself a new job which he will be starting on December 27th. Merry Christmas to me, it seems. I have a happy. I have a nervous too, but mostly I have a happy.

Just peed in a cup for drug testing yesterday, and since I can't think of anything I have taken that might skew that test I will state for the record am ready for work: a full time employee for the first time in eleven years.

Get this: twenty days of paid time off right out of the gate, along with seven paid holidays. Who knew the other side lived like this?


And so, I now dive into my primal scream session with renewed vigor and vim, and dispel years of demons, chasing me about with days off in their clawed hands...

Originals here.

Note: Prudie's letters are just as stupid as always, huh? It's like a factory. A scary factory. A dumbass factory. Hot and cold running dumbass everywhere, just pick some up out back, off the loading dock, by the ton. Just sayin'.


Dear Prudence,
My boyfriend of two years says that he will not ask me to marry him unless I take a lie detector test to pinpoint the truth about certain things that have gone on in our relationship. His request is completely unreasonable, isn't it? Is it a sign of overall problems? What should I do?
—Am I Crazy?

Yes. You are crazy, you lying little whore. Men have the right to ask – I should say demand – you to take lie detector tests, given all women are pathologically unable to tell the truth. Me, I waterboarded the woman I married, just to make certain she wasn't carrying any undisclosed credit card debt or hiding pictures of her old boyfriends. You goddamn women need to understand you place in things, or so help me.

Meanwhile, the rest of the planet (a few billion of us, all of whom possess more basic intelligence in our fecal leavings than you will ever possess anywhere in your pathetically atrophied brain) is perfectly aware that this guy is a scary fucking cheese-dick and you should move on. Idiot.


Dear Prudie,
My father had a heart attack two years ago caused by untreated type 2 diabetes. He luckily made a great recovery and began eating right. He has gained back a lot of weight. He rewards himself for eating well by bingeing on junk. I am very worried about my dad's condition. But the subject is basically off-limits, especially since he's a doctor! How can I bring this up with him in a way that doesn't cause World War III?
—Dad's in Denial

This long-winded story – repeated a million times a day here in the Great American South where I live, is a deep-fried testament to 2 things: first, people need to eat. Second, all that body fat is GOOD for you. I cannot for the life of me understand you “free thinker” types who believe the industry which feeds us – Monsanto, ADM, Kraft and the like – would ever give us something that could be bad for our bodies. Kraft, for instance: they make “cheese.” When you look at the package, though, it's actually called “cheese food.” See, Kraft's brilliant scientists invented a food-like cheesy substance that is BETTER for you than real cheese, and then there's motherfuckers like you getting in the way of their success. Damn you.

Note: World War Three, a theoretical possibility I grew up with, denoted the likely end of civilization according to pundits. Your little missive is a goddamn pimple on the ass of the universe, and all you need a pair of fully formed testicles: tell him or don't, chicken shit. Just remember: when he dies, it ain't your fault.

The rest of us will simply shake our heads and wonder that something as strikingly stupid as you can actually function and survive with the rest of us. Moron.


Dear Prudence,
I've been working for a small, privately owned company for 10 years. I haven't gotten a raise in the entire time. We recently had a company meeting at which we were told we will be picking up a lot more of the costs for our medical plan and that we are all expected to increase our donations to the company's annual charity drive. Can I say no?
—It's My Money

Here in America, there are laws regulating employment and denoting what companies can and cannot do to protect themselves from whining little ungrateful fuckers like you. Anyone who knows that Trickle Down Economics was the harbinger of a greater society and the reason we are all rich and healthy today can tell you that you should consider your generous and kindhearted company's needs first, else how can all that money trickle down to you? And all those years your company carried you on it's back, enriching you and filling your pockets while you, you sniveling evil little fuckhead, took advantage of them. Amazing.

Me, I would just say no. Asshole.


Dear Prudie,
I recently graduated from college, got a great job, and moved to a new city a few hours away from home. Around the same time, my parents downsized to a smaller house and bought a vacation home. Now when I go home for holidays, I don't have a room, and my parents seem annoyed by my mere presence. Their attitude makes me not want to go home for Christmas at all, but that would mean spending it alone, seeing as the rest of my friends have families who are excited to see them.
—Rejected for the Holidays

See? Sometimes Prudie gets a LW with a partial brain in attendance! You are finally getting it, huh? Your parents hate you, mostly because you were a burden and a massive pain in the ass. Your shitty fucking attitude made them stop loving you years ago, and it's likely they will never love you again, much less like you. I don't like you either, fucker.

Those of us over the age of thirty know there is a fine line between “empty nesters” who dodder about the house wondering what to do next and those who say “WOO HOO!!! FINALLY we can butt fuck in the kitchen without getting caught!” Most people over thirty, though, don't like you.



Ah, yes yes yes. Feels good to be back. My wife, recovered from her waterboarding experience, is baking and making candy and such, and the house smells like Christmas. My mother, to whom I was a terrible burden, is staying out here with us this year (she's from California, where I grew up) and she's spoiling the kids.

It's freaking cold out, but it feels good. I feel good. Better, now that I shared love and solace with the poor LW's of Prudie's.

Hopefully I can make this a habit.

And so, cheers and salutations and great tidings for the season and ho ho ho and all that shit, me wonderful Flysters!

STC =^oo^=