Just can't stay gone for long...

Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn't.

- Erica Jong

According to a few fans who sent curious emails (“didja die or something?” “What gives?” “You sick?” “Where the fuck have you been?” So sweet, my fans. Just the way I like 'em) I am due to get back in the goldurn saddle to craft a post here. Hard to do lately, between general busy-ness and a huge case of torpor bordering on syncope brought on by the absolutely bottomless banality of the recent letters at Slate. The “Who-Gives-A-Shit-O-Meter” just got itself pegged for me, and I blacked out, only to awaken to this week's predigested dreck.

Still, a guy' got to keep his chops up, even if it's on this manner of mouth-breathing, low hanging dipshit-fodder.

Originals here.


Not Her Mother – I shall file this letter under the “who gives a Fat Flying Fuckload of Fermented Frog Feces” tab. Recap, and making a long story short: you have a preggo roomie who smokes, and you are conflicted. Actually, there are four roomies, all young and hot, living together, probably hanging out in your underwear all sweaty and hot looking during the blazing summer days, reclining on the sofa and dripping the cool water from ices cubes onto each other's flexing, moist bodies. Except the preggo one, that is. She's having a smoke.

My solution is...wait – I got lost at the dripping water all over flexing bodies part. What was your issue? Whatever. Who gives a shit. Do what you want. I need some lunch. Brb.


Protective of Her Cub – now, for a change, we have an appropriately named letter writer. Recap: your daughter has Asperger's. She was not invited to her buddy's d'day party, even though the buddy was invited to hers. You now ask “what's wrong with people?”

Listen up: I have a 6 year old son, “C”, who is all over the Autistic spectrum, including total immersion in Asperger's. People are scared shitless of him because, despite the fact it's becoming more and more prevalent these days, people don't know fuck-all about it. Get your hackles up all you want – this child will never, ever be completely accepted by neurotypical children or their parents unless ABA or other therapies can release the diagnosis. I'd think you would have known after 7 years, indicating this was written by some cheese-dick wonk at Slate. You might take this opportunity to inform these parents of the issue raised by dissing your daughter, but I got a million bucks says it's a waste of time for you: I bet could freak your too-tight pansy-ass shit by introducing you to my 21 year old, a recovering doper. The shaved head, piercings, and tattoos would likely make you run and hide. He's a great kid, you know. Works a charity where he lives, generous as the day is long. Believe me?

Didn't think so. Look at you, running in disgust. Such ignorance. So much to teach everyone, you.

Wake up, dickless – people are people everywhere, and that includes you and your family. Take care of them and learn.


Tangled – Hoo, boy, this little cutie of a tale will twist the nipples of all those non-public-breastfeeding, tight-assed, straight and narrow Frayster people on Slate, won't it? Recap: you, married, get a big drippy-wet girl hard-on every time you see “that guy” at the office. You wonder: flee or fuck?

Oh, and you are “not bad looking and not a bimbo.” Seriously, your words.

Cue theme from “As the World Turns.”

Aaaaaaand welcome, everyone to the Schuyler The Cat Tells Stupid People What To Do Show! The show where Schuyler The Cat tells...um, stupid people what to do! And now, here's our host...Schuyler the Cat!

Hello everyone, and welcome to this week's show. Today we have a married, not very attractive Bimbo from Hoboken who's got a serious vajayjay groan-monster happening in her silky boyshorts for some interoffice man-meat Popsicle! Her husband, a fairly disaffected and uninteresting insurance salesman, doesn't give her the sweet and spicy sausage the way Bimbo fantasizes the studly office guy can! It's another example of really stupid made up letters from Slate!

Okay, Bimbo – step up the the Wheel of Circumstance. Here's how to play: spin the wheel, and do what it says. Even a brain-dead Slimfast drinking skank-ola shag-pie like you can do that!

“Clicketyclackety clicketyclackety clicketyclackety clickety.. clackety... clickety.... clackety....... click!”

And there we go! What does the wheel say? It says “You are so fucking stupid your mere presence sucks the entire intelligence quotient out of the room the moment you walk in like a cerebral black hole made out of pure Megan Fox, except she's kinda pretty!”

What's that mean? Hell if I know! Go home, loser! And take our consolation prize, a 10-½” purple natural latex dildo, Bimbo! Go fuck yourself!

Oh, and flip a coin about the guy. Fuck him, don't fuck him, who the hell cares? Quit wasting everyone's time. What do you think this is, a game?


Sugar Sugar – Oh, lord, these are tiring. Goddammit Slate, where are your normal shitty writers? This batch is way worse than usual. Recap: your pal (in jail! How spicy and edgy!) left sugar gliders (ooooh, exotic and unusual) in your (obviously inexperienced) care and one died. You don't know if you need to tell her because (wait for it...) she's prone to (what the fuck?) depression. That's the end of the letter, because nobody could think of anything more interesting to add which could drag this turd-scented junk heap of a jerkoff letter out of the abyss of imbecility it's mired in.

Well you know, here in reality land we tell it like it is. When my wife asks “does my ass look big in this?” I say “you kidding? Yeah! oney, that thing looks like the biggest, fattest, stretch mark and cellulite riddled ass ever, it's freaking ginormous! Like sixty pounds of rancid cottage cheese in a saggy old burlap sack!” When she asks “what do you think of my recipe for liver and onions?” I say “I think I am actually eating buffalo shit – not something that tastes like buffalo shit, mind you, but some real, actual buffalo shit! I fucking hate it!” She, in return, just loves my honesty. We hug often.

Really. True story.

The only way this letter could be any goddamn stupider would be if you added something like:

1.) “She's a pregnant smoker...”
2.) “She's got a child with Asperger's that no one invites to do fun shit...”
3.) “She's a stupid horny bored wife with a burning need to jungle-fuck some handsome office help...”

Take your pick. Oh, and flip a coin about telling her, or just go get a fucking replacement animal. Like she'd know?


Tra la la, and to hell with all of them anyway...

So how are my fine fellow Flysters? Been gone a spell – it'd be nice to hear from everyone.

Time to start supper. Cheers!