You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of horny clues if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance.
- Edward Flaherty
One general down and few left to run the dysfunctional fracas that is Afghanistan; BP is fixing it's odds in the gulf by cheerfully kicking off new drilling operations in the Beaufort Sea, Al Gore allegedly played with his masseuse's girl-parts without her express permission; Joe Barton got exactly what he deserved for fellating Tony Hayward in public, which is to say he gets to keep his job and make more money shilling oil; Mark Kirk remains at large and free to lie about everything he's ever done from teaching to military service; and life goes on here in America, the land of the free, where free is only a relative term: Amazon dropped the price of the Kindle to $189 and I still can't have one, Goddammit.
Hmm. They don't call me “King of the Run-on Sentence” for nuthin'.“
To top it off, it's been freaking hot here. 93 – 97 degrees every single day, and my air conditioning is running 24/7, all the better to drive that electric bill up to astronomical heights I can scarcely afford. My lawn is a delightful shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, but on a good note I looked it over this morning as I took out the garbage and found it is an even shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, not all blotchy, so it's all good.
Meanwhile, I spoke to a lawyer yesterday. I make no secret that I have plans to dip on my mortgage, but this attorney, a canny young man with more dollar signs in his voice than Ke$ha can dance to has...a plan. It is not terribly crafty, nor is it sneaky, but it is, I hear, very effective. It is called “The Forensic Loan Audit.”
To wit: these guys place a restraining order on my loan servicer, inspect the loan documentation and process for flaws (which, I understand, all loans have), then they offer a court date to discuss the flaws...or a settlement for “fair market value“ and a good interest rate. I use quotations on “fair market value” because, let's face it, not many people who bought when I did can claim to be within 30% or so loan balance to value ratio.
Will this save my house? Mebbe. Mebbe no. Dunno, but the money I pay the lawyers, if it doesn't save the house, pays for then performing the paperwork for a deed in lieu of foreclosure service, or a short sale.
It's five grand, folks. I do not have five grand. Plus I have found some evidence that this is sometimes fraudulent activity.
I may do a Deceptively Simpleminded writeup on this, but I might ask anyone who happens by my blog today: what do you know of this practice I am considering? Know anyone who did it? Heard anything negative, positive, neutral? Nice to hear from people before I commit five large to a law firm I know little about except they have an “A” rating at the Better Business Bureau.
And with that, we will get all Dear Prudie up in that bitch.
Originals are here.
1.) At my company, when a colleague does something great everyone is called into the lobby. The person's supervisor announces what she did, and she has to dance in front of everyone. How can I let the company know that public humiliation is not a valid form of employee recognition?
- Ballerina Not in Job Description.
This letter has some of the hallmarks of the best DP letters plus the absence of any importance or gravity whatsoever.
Having said that, I will not approach this as if I were your HR director, a position I have never held, but one which I have been face to face with far too many times in my life to possess anything but a curious blend of jejune pity and unrestrained loathing for the poor fuckers faced with making that dour career choice.
First – do you work for Sesame Street? What are these people, nine, ten years old? Who else would dance in the middle of the goddamn lobby when someone does something good? Does Big Bird sign your paycheck? Fuuuuck! Snufflupagus, get off my fucking toe, dickhead. I have a two O'Clock!
Then again, there is one thing the people of Sesame Street have on you that you may find enviable: jobs. Endless jobs. The same people have been there so long they've grown old and gray and the producers had to create goodbye shows after they die, for Christ's sake. There are children of characters on that show who have children of their own. Built-in lifetime employment, and it's a good thing: what the hell else could they do for a living but count to four in song and dance?
Get this: they probably don't have to dance when something good happens, but I'll bet they just do anyway, 'cause hey – it's Sesame Goddamn Street.
You do not work for Sesame Street.
So here's the deal. Go to your boss and say “boss, I will not dance in the lobby when someone makes a sale because I get all embarrassed and shit and it's degrading and you can't make me.” Your boss will give you “the look”, and the conversation will end. You will find yourself sitting alone at lunchtime, and former friends of yours (likely already doubtful about you, from the sound of things) will cease dropping by. You'll be assigned to a few shitty tasks, menial and beneath your already dubious abilities, and suddenly realize that this company has little care for you, given prima ballerinas are pretty damned easy to find out there among the ranks of the unemployed these days.
You'll go job hunting, might finds something, might not. They will not care. Stay or go, you will become “that snotty bitch who thinks she's better than us”, and that, my dear, is evidently what it really is.
Moral? It does not matter that you are right about dancing in the goddamn lobby. It matters that you are about the become despised by many of those you work with, so go look for another job.
2.) I could not be happier with my boyfriend. He has an outrageous temper—but only toward inanimate objects. I would never fear for my physical safety, but his venting really scares me sometimes. I have asked him to tone it down, but he can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment. Should I just let this anger-toward-inanimate-objects issue go?
- Rage at the Machine
I will have to assume you are young and know absolutely nobody who has ever been in an abusive relationship. You'd have to be, what, about fourteen years old, perhaps twelve, to not hear about it. Maybe eight. Six. But that's not the issue.
Little Freddy Flawless, your beloved perfect man, has what are called “anger problems.” Anyone can get angry. I have punched a wall or a door in my life, no doubt, but I have always remembered it later because 1.) I typically take note of blood dripping from my knuckles when I strike something hard in anger and b.) wait: did you say he “can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment?” Did you really say that?
Oy fucking vey.
Oh, now what am I saying, I sound like such a worry wart. Don't fret, sweetums! Everything's fine! He's just blowing off a little steam – you know, people get a little upset and the destroy shit all the time with absolutely no memory whatsoever, it's completely normal! Why, a whole country invaded another country and blew all kinds of shit up and killed everyone the saw and completely forgot about it to the degree they put a “Mission Accomplished” banner up for all to see, even though they forgot why they were there and what happened! And that was a whole country!
I think you should just sweep this little thing under the rug like a good little girl, attend church and make certain you come to know Jesus in your heart, get married and have as many children as possible, and just don't fret about silly things like his temper. It's really no big deal, you incredibly stupid brainless fucking idiot.
Really? Can any one be as fantastically stupid as this? You think this is what “perfect” is? This is the one little problem amid a sea of perfection this guy swims in, you anencephalous dingleshit?
Truth: therapy might help him, if he's willing. Without it, if you stay, you get what you ask for. You leave, you get an opportunity to go through life without being beaten senseless every night. Make a choice, Ms. Gump. Sooner is better, and this world is never short on statistics for spousal abuse. Just look at South Carolina.
3.) My dad had a stroke last summer and now requires 24-hour care. My mother died very unexpectedly. After reviewing her medical records, my siblings and I discovered that her physician ignored test results and treated her for an illness she did not have. We don't intend to sue. We have yet to share this devastating news with my father. Two siblings want to tell my dad, and two don't. What to do?
You know, my wife is Canadian. She says “you want the best, you gotta import”, and she was right. She's baffled by the lack of healthcare here, but the more she hears Sarah Palin spout her teabagger idiocy the better she understand where the failure comes from.
Having said that, why is it that you make an admirable choice not to sue the doctor and cannot make any choice whatsoever to tell your dad what happened? Seriously: brother Billy says “it'll kill him!” and sister Sally says “he has the right to know” and this is the end of the conversation?
And then you go to Prudie and ask her to arbitrate? How embarrassing.
Look, Americans will forgive Canada for that comically bizarre closing ceremony at the Winter Olympics, all those giant inflatable beavers and mounties and shit. It was oddly cute, in a Timothy Leary sort of way.
But this childishness must stop. Draw straws and go with it. Flip a coin. Best two out of three. Play checkers, winner makes the choice. Whatever.
Quit fucking around, do something, then go have a Kokanee and relax.
4.) My boyfriend and I hosted a small get-together, which our friend "John" attended. The next day, we discovered that John had scabies! I am outraged that John came over knowing he had this parasitic infestation. Should I confront John about what I feel is completely unacceptable behavior, or am I overreacting?
- Skeeved out by Scabies
Cooties? Ah, for fuck's sake.
Coincidentally, my daughter brought scabies home a few months ago. Pretty nasty rash, very uncomfortable for her, poor thing. The pediatrician gave us a prescription for cream and bathing/application instructions which we followed. A week later, it's as if she never had scabies. Nobody else got them. Case closed. Bonus: we still love her.
Your case is evidently more serious. To you, at least.
Here's what you have to do:
First, you have to burn all your furniture. Every stick of it, no matter what; for Sarcoptes scabiei, the Scabies Mite, is an intelligent, ferocious, and relentless predator which typically creates protective fortifications among the sofa cushions using dead skin flakes shed by humans. These epidermal ramparts can withstand almost any direct attack but the cleansing of flame. Tear out the carpet, any rugs, blankets, and any wall-mounted textiles as well, and burn them immediately, before they start to build their cities and develop technology. If they have already built their vile scabies bordellos, you're screwed.
Remove all food from the house: this is the target of these fierce creatures. If they get your food, they will be able to summon the intelligence to develop weapons and vehicles, so work quickly. Best to burn it all in a bonfire. WARNING: Do not be comforted by the canned goods. Scabies have pincers on their front appendages which can open a can of peaches in seconds, and they love peaches best of all. Burn those too, but watch yourself. The cans may explode and spray flaming hot matter for hundreds of feet. It really hurts. I know.
Next, you have to shave yourself completely hairless: head, eyebrows, body, pubic hair – every hair must go. The pets as well, and if you have fish you must scale them.
Afterward, everything and everyone must be scrubbed using copious amounts of cleansing fluids. You will start with rubbing alcohol. It's a little uncomfortable, especially on freshly-shaved balls and eyelids, but scrub every inch of your body, then the floors walls and ceilings, the cat, the fish, and you have to do the lawn, too: scabies are tricky, and will build revetments amid the fescue from which they will launch serial attacks upon your home if you let them get away with it.
Finally, slather yourself and everything on your property with maple syrup, marmalade, and Johnny Walker. Allow it to dry, then wash off with cold water and a Brillo pad.
Are your floors oak or pine? Rip it all out. The Scabies mite uses the wood to build weapons, vehicles, cities, military installations, missile bases, aircraft, and roller skating rinks. Replace it with Pergo later.
Best at this point to stay in seclusion for about a week. Have Dominoes deliver pizza and Pepsi for food, and make certain you spray the delivery boy liberally with Johnny Walker before he leaves, or any surviving mites could infect him. I mean, what if he delivers pizza to the Pentagon or something?
Check yourself vigilantly. At any symptoms of reemergence of scabies, immediately bathe in a poultice of salt, Quaker State (or any well known brand) 10W40 motor oil, and goat's milk. Remain submerged for at least ten minutes, only surfacing to breathe. Any mites which remain on your face can be removed with packing tape. Apply firmly, then rip off in a rapid motion and immediately burn the leavings. The sticky tape stuff left on your face can then be removed with either naptha or acetone (nail polish remover works) and coarse steel wool.
Shave your entire body every day. Dogs and cats too. This fish are likely to die the first day or so – you can eat them if you get too hungry, after Dominoes refuses to deliver to you.
After a week if you have not shown any symptoms you may go outdoors for short periods of time, but do not wear any clothes for at least three months.
Note: “John”, and all the people who have even been in your home need to do the same things immediately. After you all have recovered, you can sue him for his actions, or maybe shoot him, although I might warn you it's illegal and I do not condone that course of action.
Oh, be sure to warn them all about the exploding cans of food.
Tell John to go to the doctor, get a prescription of an approved scabicide such as “Premithrin”, follow the directions, and five days later it's as if it never happened. Vacuum everything in your house. If you get a rash, go to the doctor, get the cream and do it. Gone.
Also: go to a shrink and deal with your fucking OCD-based germaphobia, you panicky little twat.
Long Winded today, huh?
Remember – please update me on that whole forensic loan audit thingie if you know anything, and we'll see you all next week.
Cheers, my beloved Flysters.