“If you love somebody, set them free. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were. If they consulted Dear Prudence while you were split up, hunt them down like a goddamn animal.”
Ah, the mortgage company. Not the kind of folks who like to call nad have a pleasant chat, these guys. No, rather, an email with big red print with rowds on it that include “foreclosure” and “remit” and “you fucking loser” (not really, but...).
Been a while since I wrote in my Deceptively Simpleminded blog. Time for a little missive on my charitable and kind view of the mortgage banking industry, which will include words like “liars” and “scum-sucking assholes” and “What the hell was I thinking?”
Almost time to dip.
Consequently, I am ready for it.
Here today we have another batch of shit-picking ninnies to slice and cie into little gobbets of idiot-flesh. Something a little disturbing about this week's batch of Dear Prudence losers. Way more fucked up than usual.
Go here to read the originals.
One for the money...two for the...aw, shit. I don't have any money!
Hand in Glove – This letter was the most inspired bit of post-digestive idiocy I can recall ever coming from Dear Prudence. Recap: your flawless, amazing 13 year old boy has a thing about latex gloves, goes to “latex glove porn sites”, has piles of them in his room, and begs for more. You, a stupid, insipid, vapid asshole of magnificent proportions are wondering “is this okay?”
First, I had to do a little research. After googling “latex glove porn” I was (not surprisingly) assaulted by video after video of fat, ugly nurses wearing purple medical gloves, thrusting them mightily into any number of over-oiled orifices whilst moaning loudly about “take that rubber fist up your (_fill in the blank_) you fucking (_fill in the blank_)!” It was about as erotic as watching “midget toaster porn” or “mowing the lawn in a tutu porn” or “clean white socks on Vulcan slave girls porn.” Well. Except for that one with the two pretty nurses and the guy was pretending to have this big heart attack – they were wearing those little white outfits and doing this little dance thing, and out came the gloves and some sesame oil, and then he took out his...
Never mind. You'd have to be there.
Anyway, I'd feel a lot better about all this if your boy was just sneaking views of men and woman cheerfully humping each other, but porn these days is about violence and fetishism and humiliation, and not quite the thing I would recommend for a 13 year old, much less a 25 year old, 'cause it's bloody awful and unbelievably un-erotic and, frankly, shameful. Also: porn filtering software is a great way to make certain he's able to access more porn than ever before – it's crap. Just me sayin'.
Didja think about maybe sitting down in a face to face grown-up way to have a face to face grown-up talk about this rather grown-up subject? Didja ever stop to think that there are counseling services available on pretty much every goddamn street corner in every goddamn town from Hilo to fucking Key West? Didja stop to think that a healthy boy of 13 can masturbate 12-15 times a day until it bleeds but still come back for more? Didja ever, I dunno, form an entire brain structure anywhere in your goddamn stupid fucking asshole skull?
No. I thought as much.
In the end I have decided that your erstwhile perfect 13 year old is monstrously fucked up. I have also decided that you are, at the very best, the most dangerous parent in creation for him if you have to ask about this.
So my take? All is lost. Sorry. No worries – hey, Jeffrey Dahmer had a mamma too, you know. Don't you fret, Little Miss Brilliance. Just let it go. The smell of the bodies washes out of the paint and carpet eventually, with a little Lysol.
Tired of Dealing With Two-Face – Christ Almighty, where do you people come from? Recap: your wonderful BFF is a fucking asshole. To put it another way, a fucking asshole is your wonderful BFF. Meanwhile, you are a fucking idiot. The clincher: this asshole/wonderful BFF is your boss.
So jobs are hard to find, and you want to spare your best friend (Dr. Jeckyl) but lose the horrible boss (Mr. Hyde) and...wait, what?
Listen up, shit for brains: there is a fairly simple black-and-white way to see this. Ready? Hey! Get your goddamn finger out of your nose and look at me while I'm talking to you, Rain Man. Here we go:
Friends are people you trust, love, care about. Some are better than others. Those who are “bad” are not friends. They are, instead, liabilities we hold onto for no reasonable cause whatsoever. They should be let go.
Bosses are people who tell you what to do and how to do it. Some are better than others. Those who are “bad” are not worth keeping. They are, unfortunately, liabilities we hold onto because jobs are hard to find.
Thus: Friends who are bosses are like crocodiles who are pets. Lovers who are eunuchs. Wheels that are square.
Scientists who are like you.
They do not go together.
You actually wrote the words “...we share the same sense of humor and have always been comfortable in each other's company.”
I think maybe not so much. “Always comfortable in each other's company” except for most of the time, when this person is a fucked up jackass of a stupid fucking asshole boss who you love and share good times with and...wait, what again?
There is nothing wrong with your friend/boss. You are a fucking imbecile, though. In short: get rid of one or the other. Flip a coin.
Was that so fucking hard? Yeah, I thought so. Get back to work, idiot. Those french fries aren't going to make themselves.
Confused and Abused – This is almost cute, it's so cloyingly fucked up and vacuous. Recap: you have a cute little doggy. You have a roommate. Your roommate talks sweetly to doggy but uses mean words. You wonder...
Wait for it...
...If the roommate saying insulting things nicely to a dog (a dog!) is an issue.
You really do. You wonder that.
Good Lord God in Heaven Above, please help us all.
There are things on this planet that cause me to have distasteful moments of searing hate deep in my heart. For instance, hearing of “honor killings” does that to me – seems arcanely dishonorable, doesn't it? Frivolous lawsuits get my hackles up too, like that stupid million-willion dollar dry cleaner/ruined pants lawsuit a few years ago. And PETA's mere existence throws me into a thermonuclear tizzy the likes of which make Nagasaki on August 10, 1945 look like a copping a feel at a fucking high school prom. Sea Kittens, for fuck sake? Bah, them.
Having said that, abusing animals pisses me off too. Really I'm saying I like steak, and I also like my cats a lot.
Now: ascribing human traits to animals then calling what your roommate does abuse? Wow. I just discovered something more assiduously stupid than PETA.
I discovered you!
Right now, this minute: Please take the dog to a no-kill shelter so a person with more than a tenth of a gram of functioning fucking brain material can adopt it and give it a good life far, far away from you. You are dangerously stupid, emotionally deranged, and not good for much more than providing a skeletal shape and mass capable of holding up the skin that covers your completely fucking worthless corpus and keeps your entrails from spilling onto the goddamn rug.
After rescuing that poor animal, please find a hole somewhere large enough to fit in and hop into it. Wait long enough, and if there's any mercy in the celestial heavens someone will come along and cover you up and plant a fucking shrub on you and spare this universe from suffering the potentially infectious idiocy coursing through your entire being.
Buh bye, idiot.
A Shy Person With Shy Friends – oh, you must be yummy! I bet you are a firecracker in bed! Great! Just fucking great! Now I can't get this out of my head:
“Oh yeah, baby! That's it! Oooh, yeah...um, I'd like to request that you alter the vector of the forceful – yet loving – thrusts of your near-average-sized (which is not important, so they say) erect phallus in such a fashion and corrected configuration such that it interacts with my vaginal cavity by an additional minute of angle toward east by southeast, and thus might better contact sensitive areas of my pubis with a more pleasurable angle of attack! Oh baby, if you would find that this alteration of our current sexual position is acceptable I suspect I might achieve orgasm, but must offer a cautious warning that this outcome is not tested, certain, or verifiable until additional and sufficient time has passed to summon a conclusive amount of empirical evidence: however, having said that I'd like to add for the record this is, for the most part and despite your slightly offensive body odor, a somewhat pleasurable activity we are currently engaged in, and...Honey? Honey?! Wake up!!!”
Follow up to LW1 above: here we have an example of “mathematical pedagogy porn.” I am so aroused right now I might just go have a salad or something.
Recap: you are a socially inept, probably Asperger's affected hyper-intellectual who is scary-smart and utterly unversed in the most basic aspects of common human interaction and devoid of the most simple conversational skills. Danger: you're having a party!
Solution: go to the party, Roberta Oppenheimer. Make certain there's some liquor. Beer, wine, maybe some Grey Goose. Aunt Messy and I can recommend a really delicious Bourbon if you want to live a little.
When these 9 guests (victims) arrive, get them a drink. Maybe another, after a bit. Wait about forty minutes.
They'll tell you what to do from there. Happy Birthday!
Nothing but love from me. I know, I'm just a big goddamn softie.
Into the weekend go I, wherein my delicious and beautiful wife and I will be looking into new neighborhoods for acceptable and affordable rental properties. Three months, I am hoping, and better if it's five, before we go. These foreclosures take a bit of time.
Into the breach, us all!
Prosit. STC =^oo^=