It was the best of times, it was the worst of times? Time's up.

If there are no stupid questions, then what kind of questions do stupid people ask? Do they get smart just in time to ask questions?
- Scott Adams

I always liked this quote, but somehow cannot make it fit Dear Prudence anymore, if I ever could. Realizing I expend an enormous amount of energy at this humble site to dis that particular column, I also realize that I am getting pretty tired of the same old Slate jerk-off fare, and that I have become a slave to the imbecility they feed us. It's been tiresome. Now it's just fucking stupid, and I hate knowing that I am being stupid along for the ride.

I am seeking alternatives – rather than dance the the beat of songs I learned to hate long ago, and failing to heed my own oft-flung advice on deserting idiocy in search of something more substantial, I will seek a new source of banality upon which to focus my furies.

For now, I'm stuck with Slate's ever popular but unfortunately stale-to-the-point-of-death Dear Prudence offering. Look here, if you still can.


Deeply Hurt and Confused – There are deep holes in your sad, sad tale of woe, my friend. Reeks of fakery. Let's recap: you and wifey dearest had a spat, and she told you that prior to your nuptials she had a poke and tickle with your brother, for whom you have little respect because you think he's an idiot (which overlooks the fact you are an idiot, by the way) and now you're just all fucked up about it, as if it matters or something.

Lemme visit your exact words about this little sexual indiscretion: “They both kept this from me; it wasn't revealed until I asked my wife point blank.”

Reeeeally? so...what did you ask, point blank? “didja have sex with my brother?” Did you already know? How could you if they kept it from you? Did you suspect, perhaps? Did you use your sooper-dooper mind reading powers to unlock the very secrets of her soul and then confront her? Why did she tell you? How the hell did this happen? Are you Marty Mc-Goddamn-Fly and did you get the fucking DeLorean up to 88 goddamn miles an hour in the mall parking lot to go way-back and watch them rub out a nasty?

Not a terribly crafty letter, especially that part. Meanwhile there is nothing interesting to see here. An artless tale of three bland people fucking each other and revealing deepest and darkest secrets that possess all the intrigue of the first three minutes of an episode of fucking Jimmy Neutron, and the “sham” you speak of is both the imbecilic dysfunction of your story and your idiotic reaction to the mundane activities you whine about.

Grow up and get a life. Oh, strangle the brother. Very biblical, that solution.


Truth Shall Set You Free – Oh, my goodness gracious! We have woven a dilly of a tangled web, haven't we? Recap: while dating your (where are typical Prudie-esque supplemental intensifiers? Isn't he “fabulous,” and “wonderful,” and “awesome?”) husband, thus before you married, you fucked someone and feel bad about it and suspect coming clean might make the universe a better place for everyone.

It will! It really will! It will set you freeeeee!

Tell him immediately, especially since he sounds like a very understanding man who will dump your cheap slut ass the moment he finds out! Go on, do it! Let us all know how that turns out. And after, when he's knocked out a few of your teeth and left you bleeding and wondering about all the times you failed to sing his praises, you might reconsider the idea of setting yourself free through indiscriminate use of the truth, and maybe you could have just calmly divorced instead, because there's not a lot to this story. After the bruises fade, though, maybe you can then go find a guy that you feel compelled to use better adjectives to describe. Try a better plot device, too. The theme of getting a splinter in your ass and leaving it to fester for years until the putrefaction and gangrene threaten your life is getting pretty fucking tired.


Tired Wife – oh, hell. Recap: hubby had a stroke, he's not the man he used to be, and you fancy yourself Superwoman. He's bummed because he lost everything, and you (completely unaware that you are feeding his state of mind by being, you know, Superwoman) are sick of his depressing shit.

The point here, though, is that you end your letter by asking “Is this the way it's going to be forever?”

Ah, the world is rife with these tales of injustice! Pluto, long regarded as a planet, is now considered a somewhat interesting asteroid instead! After thousands of hours of work, a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars, and a massive advertising campaign, the Edsel wasn't quite as popular as Henry would have liked! After months of infighting, politicking, and partisan bickering we got a Republican candidate in John McCain that was comparatively believable and acceptable, and they hooked him up with the stupidest, most hideously asinine, banal, brainless putrid fucking twat of a VP candidate ever and threw away a presidency!

Life sure sucks, don't it?

To answer your question: are you completely fucking stupid? What kind of a question is that anyway? And what kind of massively brain dead ignoramus would ask it? You're all like:

“Dear Prudie: will the sun burn bright in the sky for all eternity?”

“Dear Prudie: will the Cowboys ever win another Superbowl?”

“Dear Prudie: will aliens land on the earth and take over our minds using a special machine which causes us to become zombie-slaves who worship their leader Glorpphlaex and spend their withering days feeding them roasted toads and marshmallows?”

And I'm all like “huh?”

I know we all think Prudie can answer questions related to the formation of the universe and the deepest inner workings of our frail and fragile minds, but really?

Well, what the hell. I will answer it: Yes. It is gong to be like that forever. Your life now sucks ass always and eternally. Happy now, Superwoman?


The Reluctant Philanthropist's Wife – This letter is so completely and obviously contrived I had to read it twice to see if it was me who was stoned. Alas, I was NOT stoned, it was Prudie's team again.

Recap? Best we do a breakdown of a classic Prudie-style letter.

First, the victim: Your hubby is a mechanic with a new job.
Next, the bait: his boss gives away auto repair work all the time, for which your husband is not paid.
Next, the hook: disgusting fucking worthless people thrown into the mix who benefit from this free auto repair work, described using insulting terms.
Next, the escape route: a manager in the mix who can save the world from the horrors of free auto repair.
Finally, the catch: The boss' job could be lost.

Yawn. The plot of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” is more compelling, taut, and interesting than this shit.

Solution: let's write a better story!

'Dear Prudie,

My affordable, delicious, refreshing husband of many many years was placed on this earth by The Good Lord God himself to fix broken cars. He has a job making eight dollars an hour with a sleazy chain, and the manager of the chain, it turns out, is Satan – that's right, the very fallen one one himself! Satan, you may know, is a bad, bad ex-angel from a fairy tale. He's of the worst sort, the kind who sexually exploits animals during work hours and charges too much for stuff like spark plugs and oil changes, and my husband thinks he smokes marijuana and possibly abuses oxycontin, although we can't be certain because, you know, The Dark One is, well, pretty dark, and Limbaugh doesn't share with others.

Anyways, the district manager says holy water would reduce Satan to a bloody pile of bubbly gobbets of scorched devil-flesh in an instant and restore peace and balance to the Earth, but the Pope don't exactly give that shit away. It's, like, a thousand dollars an ounce, and he'd need a few gallons of it. In order to get the money he'd have to prostitute his one-eyed rabid special needs donkey to the local outlaw biker community at discounted prices. Meanwhile, my husband, a mannered, felicitous and not entirely obsequious man of mostly unquestionable pedigree has stopped going down on me after breakfast, and I'm so bummed and horny I just spend all day in bed with my rabbit, and we're just about going bankrupt buying batteries.

So I took out my frustration once by kicking our dog Ed, and my son saw me do it and told his teacher. She's called the SPCA and they're going to take Ed away unless I can get a character witness to say I am kind to animals, and I always eat the ones I kill. Meanwhile a few weeks ago Satan sneaked into my bedroom and buggered me like a rotten dirty little whore in my sleep. I got it all on hidden camera, and I threatened to blackmail him if he didn't tell the SPCA that I am really a good person at heart, and a vegetarian too. Oh, and I like have a totally hot crush on him – he's awesome, and man has he got stamina! Woof!

Prudie, should we get a bigger TV?

- Sore Ass But In Remote Control”

Dear Sore Ass but In Remote Control...

What was your stupid question? Oh, right. Tell your fucking husband to throw the boss into the fire or go get another job. Really, how hard was that, you idiot?


Well, there it was, and I just don't feel any better. Advice, Flysters? You all know better than I that there are plenty of sources of idiocy to be reviled. Send me to another land of opportunity, a place that offers new fodder for my vents. Where do I go now?

I need advice. It's like this:

“Dear Prudie,

You have sucked for a long time, but now I finally realize the depths and breadth of your suckage. Sorry I didn't catch it earlier – I am not very bright. Thing is, even though you suck I still need a place to fire my not-entirely erudite salvos of spittle and spite. Who else is out there doing advice columns who doesn't suck quite as much as you do?

- Once a Fan, Never a Believer.”

Cheers all!
STC =^oo^=