Come on come on come on let me show you what it's all about...
We should not only use the brains we have, but all that we can borrow.
- Woodrow Wilson
Having said that, I may not have much gray matter to lend, but bloody hell, these lot this week are a buncha goddamn neanderthals, eh? Sigh.
The original letters can be found HERE.
Away we go!
Shaken – This letter is an abysmal exercise in wordsmithing. Recap: You're Islamic (irrelevant) and suffered an arranged marriage (irrelevant) and have a son you “adore” (like you'd say you don't adore him?). Next: your wife has an STD, and you wonder if it's just a “D” with no “ST”. You have doubts.
Sounds like another poorly constructed and fake DP letter to me. Jeez.
Anyway, have no doubts, my friend: HPV is not transmitted from the toilet seat or trying on bikinis previously tried by an infected woman. Her naughty parts got it through contact with either your naughty parts or someone else's naughty parts. Are you sure your naughty parts are clean? And by the way, I do not mean that in some Islamic “I'm male therefore I can fuck whatever walks and Allah says “kewl” but women who have extramarital sex are wicked whores to be flogged and passed around like sexual party favors among their male family members before they are beaten to death and buried in a shallow grave in a display of honorable behavior” sort of way. Sorry. I'm American. I wouldn't kill my wife or daughter for having a shag with a Protestant.
So you really really didn't dip your colossal kebab into some other girl's glorious gaping gahnoush? Reeeally?
Regardless, you have some thinking to do, doncha? Bummer to go through this, but be real about it. She's human, you're human, something happened, and the truth won't stay hidden forever. Welcome to the real world – this is why I don't espouse virginity before marriage: stupid religious practice that should be banned.
Ringless – Brainless is more like it. So:
Dear Brainless – this letter represents a bizarre and elliptical journey through that viscous, opaque insipidity that is your infantile and worthless mind. Recap: Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl wants a big fucking rock to flaunt to her horrorshow ptitsas or else there will be no nuptials. Boy says “um, wtf?” and somehow still believes girl isn't “overly superficial.” Boy then actually writes a letter to Dear Prudence, simultaneously airing this idiocy and asking “um, huh?”
Cue the cheesy game show music...
“Coming to you live, from his studio office in Charlotte, North Carolina; it's time for The Schuyler The Cat Tells You What The Fuck To Do Show!!! (applause). And here's our host: Schuyler The Cat!” (applause).
“Hi everyone – I'm Schuyler The Cat and welcome to my show (applause)! Today's contestant is a semi-brain damaged, dickless twatrocket from Somewhere, USA (applause)! His issue: his girlfriend, a super-duperficial debutante Jersey Shore reject, wants a big fat diamond ring or she won't marry him! He wonders: wait, fall for it, or leave the bitch!
Today's prop du jour: the decision wheel (applause)!
Step on up, Brainless, and spin the wheel!!!”
“Oooooooh, no! I'm sorry Brainless, the wheel landed on 'who gives a flying goddamn frog fuck?' Nobody cares about your stupid ass problem! You're outta here (applause)!!!”
“And that's it for today's The Schuyler The Cat Tells You What The Fuck To Do Show!!! Come back tomorrow to see the crack addict who stole his dad's credit cards! Dad sez: turn him in, or just forgive him?”
(applause) (fade to black)
Juris Doctorate Who Would Rather Be a Doctor – holy crap, girl: how the fuck did you get through school with that complete goddamn vacuum amidst your cranial cavity? Juris Jiminy Jumpin' Jesus Christ, you're a fucking lawyer? We should all weep for mankind. Mesothelioma was invented for dingleshit morons like you.
Recap: you went to law school. You wish you'd gone to med school. You don't wanna be a lawyer. You wanna be a doctor. I got this. Ready?
Go to fucking medical school.
Yeah, you're welcome, dipshit. I should charge what YOU charge. Then I could go buy me a new goddamn Mercedes, you witless wonder.
Oscar Shark – and I thought the previous letter was horrifyingly stupid. Recap: you had a wager at your party. Your wife won, you came in second. You wonder if this is a problem, or a social faux pas.
Hey! Ever seen a placenta? Odd question, I know, but stay with me here.
I delivered my son myself, and I looked the placenta over pretty carefully. Goopy and bloody and pretty dang gross – looks like a cross between the face-hugging things from “Alien” and a bad cut of beef. They do not smell good. They are generally considered nonessential after a baby is born.
Here's a reason for this discourse: In your case, I suspect the placenta was probably the most intelligent thing your mother expelled from her vagina on the day of your birth.
Listen carefully...I'll go real slow-like: Betting and gambling and wagering and that sort of activity produces two things. Winners and losers. Every fucking time, this is the case. Get that?
Your wife won. You won, too. Whoopie fucking do. Your friends don't fucking care. You are a dipshit. Go blow the goddamn money on some brains or something, because you're scary stupid. Yeah, I know you only got like eighty bucks, but maybe your wife can loan you some of her winnings, and let's face it: anything you add to your intellectual capacity is a major increase, for you.
Rain rain rain. Not that big self-important rain that shakes the house in fat fury, just a sniveling drizzle that keeps everything wet and dull and gray. Icky weather we may be having here, but spring has started to make itself known nonetheless, with buds on the trees and temps in the high 60's around these parts, the weather lifting it's skirts like a flirting girl promising something far, far better. I won't miss winter much. Come August I'll miss winter, but that's another story.
Be well, my beloved Flysters. May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand, if you believe in God and all that kinda stuff.
Salud. STC =^oo^=