Lies, I tell you. It's all lies.

A lie told often enough becomes truth

- Vladimir Ilyich Lenin

Woe, be unto ye who doth not brusheth thy teeth, and say ye, the better one visits to remove of thy plaque and tartar thy teeth may be the more secure.

I did not brush very well when I was younger. Lazy, I guess. And meanwhile genetics – cursed inheritance! – did it’s terror upon me, and I was informed I would almost certainly suffer bone degeneration top and bottom, and my teeth would begin someday to fling themselves, screaming, from my mouth.

My dad’s side, see: he had, like 3 teeth left when he was my age. Bone degeneration. Shit.

So when I started to have a little discomfort in my late 20’s, I redoubled my efforts and dove in with both fists, a toothbrush in each, slathered with an ADA approved dentifrice, attacking that buildup with fury and aplomb. Go, demon plaque, and begone! Fucker!

Alas, according to my dentist, it was for naught, and I was destined to be toothless at 30. Then 35. The 40. Then 45…

You get the point. Anyway, I have all my teeth except that one molar on the lower right, all the way in the back; a victim of junk food, it succumbed to a piece of uncooked pasta, and later, after the temporary crown was 3 years old (hehehe…), fell finally to a goddamn Dorito. Farewell, good molar, you have been missed.

It’s been a titanic struggle to keep my teeth, and it persists.

On Tuesday, I went to see a periodontist, a word with clear etymology mixing the Greek root “perio” meaning “cruel” with “dontist” meaning “motherfucker.” We had a lovely time, my perio and I: we sat close together, face to face, me inclined gently back, while he reintroduced me to a procedure I have had before called “root planning”. Son of a bitch had the temerity to refer to it as “deep cleaning”. I just call it “two and a half fucking hours of goddamn torture.” Just did the right side. He’s doing the left side in two weeks.

Ever had Root Planing? It’s fun!

Blaming him is not fair, of course: he’s trying to save my poor little crooked, pathetic toofers, but still, you know? I haven’t eaten since, and I didn’t eat that morning anyway. I’ve lost a few pounds, which some see as a bonus, but I get these little headaches and I am a little dizzy sometimes.

And tonight, back to the studio to back up this yellow belt they tied on me a few weeks ago. I’ll probably last through the kids’ class, but the adult class is highly suspect at this juncture.

And so, Proodieland awaits. I have a bad attitude this week, thanks to my beloved Perio, And these Slate guys…jeez.

I will not repost – please read the originals HERE


Letter Writer 1: Dear Let’s See How Far We Can Blow This Bullshit Up Our Unsuspecting Readers’ Asses,

Ummhmm. Taking stock of the story here. Suspending disbelief, for the moment:

First, Dad sends the letter writer blithely into an email inbox, and...

Second, letter writer finds some deep, dark secret love child in remarkably plain view which nobody in the family knows about, and…

Third, letter writer also finds “angry emails” and proceeds to “assume” they are from this hidden love child’s mother.

Really, Slate? Actually, really? God damn it, this is such horribly fabricated bullshit I can’t believe anyone had the fucking stones to publish it. Fucking hell.


Letter Writer 2: Dear Oh Shit Here We Go Again,

After the first letter, I don’t think I need to apologize for being a little bit wary about this second steaming pile of donkey shit. As usual, Slate’s junior editors concocted a tidy little dilemma chock full of the potential emotional horsepower associated with the subject matter (this crap would certainly get the average Prudie reader screaming “child abuse!”) and a letter writer who takes the time to disclose they are an “adult”, thus we assume they are powerless, vapid, and bewildered about the “right thing to do.”

This is why people drink whiskey at seven O’Clock in the morning.


Letter Writer 3: Dear Dogshit,

In this little installment, the editorial staff (let’s drop the pretense, shall we?) grab the ear of pet lovers everywhere, who are likely to get up in arms about the lazy, stupid letter writer who should do a dog a favor and walk the poor, poor creature in the morning. Dissenting voices will, of course, say the roommate situation is unfair in this circumstance, and in the end nobody on the face of this entire fucking planet gives much of a shit one way or the other. How much traction can one get from a story with the punch line: “hire a dog walker, don’t hire a dogwalker?” Gawd.


Letter Writer 4: Dear Oh My God Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Um…are you fucking kidding me? Someone actually expended what little effort needed and wrote this blubbery tripe, passed it on to an editor somewhere at Slate (possibly Prudie herself), and it was published? This simple minded, witless, asinine, puerile, cheesy, imbecilic, brainless, moronic crapfest about these shiny, fine, and fair twenty-something virgins who need to ask about goddamn come stains actually made it past multiple sets of human eyes and sensibilities and onto the page of a publicly viewed person in its current form without someone, anyone, saying “uh, wait. Isn’t this pretty fucking dumb?”

Digression: Man, that was one hell of a run-on sentence. I need a basic writing class.

Onward: We are asked to believe this individual has no friends, nowhere to go, no knowledge whatsoever about the subject? We blithely accept the implication that since he/she’s a fucking virgin this should likewise imply they live under a goddamn rock with no way to gather basic information about human intercourse?


I managed to gnaw on a bite sized Twix bar, leftover Halloween candy, and have a little bitty sugar rush going on. Glory be. It’s the little things.

Cheers Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

About time for a visit, I think.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
     - Thomas Haynes Bayly

Absence does not make the heart grow fonder, asshole. Absence makes me fucking hate you.
     - Schuyler The Cat’s ex-wife.

Somewhere between those two quotes lies a great truth, perhaps, and for the life of me I can’t tell. The ex-Mrs. Schuyler The Cat was an occasionally harsh woman, but the context of her quote is a little more pedestrian then it sounds: she was a goddamn asshole, but I was clearly a bigger goddamn asshole. Hey, I was 26, and an idiot. In the end I knew then what I knew, and I did what I did: now, I like to think I know better, so I like to think I do better. Maybe.

How long has it been? Let’s see: in the intervening months since I have graced the august pages of The Fly I have gone from a couch potato to a yellow belt in Tae Kwon Do, I have gone from nearly homeless and broke to a man with IRA’s and a 401K and a plan to resolve all my family’s debt by June 2012 (we can do it by March, but I want leeway), and a foreclosed-upon and consequently pissed-off former homeowner to a renter with little to no memory of the two years I spent dancing with the mortgage industry’s collection agencies and other cheery imbeciles.

To say I am a new man would be fair; to say I am sore from head to toe (especially toe: my feet are bruised and swollen) and tired as shit would be equally fair.

And kinda happy, too. The current Mrs. Schuyler The Cat is working full time for the first time in 27 years and making serious dough, she’s exhausted and happy as a pig in a mud puddle. The Mini-Schuyler the cats are hale and hearty. Happy, we.

And this morning was cause for smiles all around as well – I stepped out of the (rented, and quite lovely) house with my youngest, ready to head for the bus stop, and realized it was chilly, if not downright cold for a person who has been living in Mecklenburg County summer weather for eternity. There was a fresh layer of fallen oak leaves after yesterday’s little rainy weather temper tantrum, and it struck me I needed a light jacket.

Fall fell, yes it did. I love Autumn. More happy.

The other shoe drops on people like me and you and anyone who gets too cozy with their lot, so I will cease and move on to my therapy sessions. Note that these are two-way sessions: I have decided to charge these stupid goddamn brainless buffoons for my efforts. They owe me BIG time, I think.

Originals here.


Dear Prudie,

My youngest sister is pregnant. She is friendly with the baby's father but is not in a relationship with him, nor does she wish to have one. My sister and the baby's father decided to give their child up for adoption. I am having trouble accepting my sister's decision. How can I impress upon her that she can, and should, take more responsibility for her actions?
—Willing To Help

Dear Blowhard Who Is Unwilling To Mind Her Own Fucking Business,

Your little sister has possession of something which you do not: the knowledge – perhaps transitory, but nevertheless – that she does not want a child. It is not her who fails to understand her present situation: it is you. Mind your own fucking business, go take care of your own children, and keep your own entitlement and messes to yourself. If you were my sister I would punch you really hard.

As a father of five, I have learned to appreciate the difference between willing parents and those who fucked up, saddled themselves with kids, and proceed to systematically devastate the lives of said children through neglect and disinterest. Prospective parents who are 1.) Smart enough to determine and understand their level of interest in raising children and 2.) Bold enough to enforce their decision despite objections from the family fringe not to have or keep them have as much of my respect as those who opt to have and care for their own children.

I remind you that I have decided to begin charging for my services. You owe me three hundred dollars, you dickhead.


Dear Prudence,

My 10-year-old daughter had a difficult time adjusting after our move to a new city last year. She was happy and well-liked at her previous school, but she suddenly became the victim of frequent taunting, even bullying, on the bus and playground. I had hoped that Girl Scouts would be a reprieve, but it was not. Most of the troop members attend her school, and on a field trip I saw them ostracize my daughter with eye-rolling, turning their backs, and making snide comments to her. My husband feels the atmosphere has been poisoned, and we have no choice but to pull my daughter out of the troop. I'm not sure what to do.

—Confused and Still Angry

Dear Confused And Apparently Kinda Stoopid As Well,

Take her out of the fucking troop, genius. I am SO glad I started to charge for this stuff.

Look, I’ll give you your money’s worth: get in s pissing contest with the other asshole mothers (like yourself) and soon enough everyone hates her and you both with equal vigor. Let it ride and it will likely fester, since you’ve already had a snot-sharing session with the leader, another asshole mother (like yourself). It may possibly get better, and maybe that’s a risk worth taking…if SHE wants to take it. Meanwhile, Hubby’s got the plan. Follow it.

Two hundred dollars, please. Idiot.


Dear Prudence,

My boss is a really good dentist, does excellent work, can be charming, and is ethical. Unfortunately, sometimes he goes through bouts of really insane behavior. He will threaten to blow his brains out while sweating profusely. He has panic attacks in which his face becomes red and he breathes hard. All of this is in front of patients. What should I do?

—Dental Madness

Dear Miss Diagnosis,

Your boss is NOT really good, is NOT excellent, is NOT charming, and is NOT ethical. He’s fucked up, far as I can tell. Get out before he kills you and everyone else in the office.

That’ll be five hundred dollars. I get a bonus because you’re such a moron. I do not take credit cards. Fucking people.


Dear Prudence,

My family is going to Disneyland. The problem is that in order to get the free admission for kids under 3 years old, my husband and his brother insist on lying about the kids' ages. (“Why, yes, our 2-year-old is exceptionally tall!”) I am not willing to sell my immortal soul for $74 and want to pay for our child. I want to do what's right without causing a trip-ruining fight or being portrayed as a stick in the mud. Do I die on this hill or pray for absolution from Mickey Mouse?

—Pinocchio’s Wife

Dear Bloody Lunatic,

I recommend prayer!

I say this because in my view it does absolutely nothing for anyone, ever, except the person doing it, which is what prayer was invented for. The reason I recommend it is because you are a goddamn blithering moron of great measure, and need some constructive way to occupy yourself while your cheap-ass cheese dick of a husband teaches your children how to become little cheap-ass cheese dicks just like daddy.

That’ll be three hundred and fifty dollars, please. Tell that idiot husband of yours I do NOT offer family discounts.


It's been lovely visiting, but home is calling to me at this hour, and tonight I test for my next belt in TKD.  Be well, Flysters, until next time!
STC =^oo^=

You'd think decision making was dangerous for these fools...

Some persons are very decisive when it comes to avoiding decisions.

     ~Brendan Francis

What a week it’s been. Life happens, onward ho, all that. Wife started her new job, kids are at day camps, work has been busy, and, you know…zoom. It’s all good stuff, of course, and the only serious side effects are it all leaves me tired and happy at the end of the day.

The biggest thing to hit me in a long time was my recent review of the family budget. I run a budget and forecast based upon dates that paychecks will hit the bank against what we expect to spend, and make real time updates against the check register to see where we’re at. I started doing this back when Bank of America started re-ordering my deposits and I got stuck in a shitstorm of NSF’s even though my online balance said there was money to spare. Fucking banks.

Anyway, it keeps me on my toes when it comes to the household budget, keeps my sanity in suspense when I see the money disappear, and keeps my blood pressure sky-fucking-high when I see upcoming big expenses like the 4 tires we need on my wife’s car.

Except for a few part time gigs my wife took on when I was between contracts, I have been the sole breadwinner since we met: flurries of kids – 3 stepkids and 2 unexpected newcomers – intervened in our lives and she never got to start a career.

Monday, she finally started.  And hoo, boy, does that make a big goldang difference in the budget.

We won’t be rich, no, but we will be debt free this time next year, with 2 spanking new IRA’s being funded on a regular basis, and our 401K’s churning away through the murky waters toward our heretofore-impossible retirement.

Retirement. Dunno if this *will* happen. Life happens regardless, so these things are prone to sudden, disappointing changes in status.

Nice to know it finally *can* happen, though.

Read THESE, then come back for the correct responses to Proodies Brood.



Dear Codependent Idiot,

The best way to deal with this sort of thing is to completely ignore it. See, people end up in a room spiked with hidden cameras and a reporter saying “why don’t you have a seat right over here?” all the time. Makes for good television. It’s perfectly normal for grown men to get, you know, urges. We get urges for beer, and for pastrami sandwiches, odd hairstyles, and occasionally we get urges for sex. Given the tone in your letter, the fact that she was a teenager is actually incidental. Right?

Meanwhile, what the bloody nuclear fucking hell are you thinking? A week-dead cadaver has more sense than you, you bloody cheese-brained moron. What the hell is wrong with you?

The rest of us would ask him about it. We would be juuust a little curious, to say the least. And we’d be ready to bolt, good sex or not.



Dear Pussy-Whipped,

Back when I was a kid there was a thing called the “Cold War”. This was a fun, exciting time during which the United States and the (former) Soviet Union spent countless happy hours scaring the unholy Goddamn fucking shit out of each other by keeping their collective index fingers hovering over a button that would launch a gazillion goddamn nuclear missiles at each other’s heavily populated spaces. Hollywood bought deeply into this neurotic, paranoid terror-fest by making countless movies about the end of the world, all replete with endless footage of nuclear weapons blowing shit up in brilliant Technicolor.

The 1970’s. Such a happy time.

Anyway, there was always a flashing white light featured in these movies. It was “the” white light, the one that indicated the dreaded Defcon One. Defense Condition One meant it was time to blow up the goddamn planet.

With this cheery upbringing, my life has been a series of blue, green, yellow, red, and white lights about pretty much everything, with blue being super-duper-happyland and white being fiery holocaust.

The rest of us know this chick is a flashing white light, dude. You can’t see this?



Dear Pinkie-Poo,

You are a really nice person. I think it would be entirely appropriate for you to send them all gift cards for Borders Bookstore, even if it is only for $10. I mean, if you all worked together in a bookstore you’re probably all big readers, and I think they would appreciate the sentiment. Losing their jobs at a bookstore could mean they no longer get discounts on books, so the gift card would certainly be a welcome gesture.

Wait a minute: I was just talking to a co-worker and she said Borders is going out of business and the entire company is about to be liquidated. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?

Oh, well. Get them all gift cards for Barnes and Noble instead!

The rest of us would know that friends are friends, coworkers are coworkers, and we’d respond accordingly. Do the math, do the deed.



Dear Taking Things Far Too Seriously,

I know exactly what you mean! When my son, Hannibal Adolf, was born, I was terribly torn about how names are perceived by people. As you know, some people can be silly and petty. I had to opt out of naming him “Bradley Thomas”, because the whole Brad Pitt-Jennifer Anniston thing (dreadful!) and Clarence Thomas’ history with that whole pubic-hair-on-the-coke-can thing back in the 80’s. I was also thinking “James Robert”, but that was out of the question because of the possible Jesse James connotations (he certainly was a terrifying outlaw) and because of Ted Bundy, who’s middle name, as everyone knows, was Robert.

So hard to pick a name!

I settled on Hannibal – obviously – because of Hannibal, the greatest military commander of all time, and Adolf was obviously the best choice for a middle name because of Adolf Andersson, the great chess master of the late 19th century.

Choosing to name your daughter Lolita seems a very sound choice for a couple of reasons: nobody has ever actually read that fucking book, and plus it’s a real pretty name.

Girls’ names are a lot easier than boys, too. Ask my daughter, Xaviera Lizzie.

Circling back: “Lolita” is your favorite book? Jesus Christ.



Tonight, we’re off to tae kwon do. A whole-family thing, with my son (Hannibal Adolf!) not quite yet getting it yet, my daughter (Xaviera Lizzie!) powering on through like a trooper, and my wife and I in the back row with the other old people, huffing and puffing and looking a lot like we’re gonna fucking die any second.

It feels really good. My hips hurt like hell, but I get to kick and punch stuff a lot, my knees feel great these days, and my pants aren’t quite as snug as they used to be. Don’t really care about what color my belt is, I just like all the yelling and punching and sweating and the fact my blood pressure dropped considerably since I started.

Back to my day, a good one. Hope all my Flysters are having good days, too.

STC =^oo^=

The old saw "youth is wasted on the young" comes to mind today...

A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs. It's jolted by every pebble on the road.
     - Henry Ward Beecher

Here today, gone tomorrow. Funny: I have written a DP column several times the last 6-7 weeks, and simply didn’t publish them. Dunno if my therapy is working or if the workload is getting to me: been busy.

Work notwithstanding, I have been busy shedding myself of a 2,698 square foot, 2 story “Craftsman” style home in the University area of Charlotte, North Carolina. In the end, the bank wanted too much to save it, rejected the short sale, and finally I became unwilling to lift a finger to make them happy.

It was like removing a carbuncle.

Damn, I hated that house before it was over. It was the one kind thing the bank did when they kept fighting with me about it: they cured me of the insane notion that a house, just some place I lived in, was more valuable than it really is. In the end, it wasn’t just worth $100,000 less than I owed: it was basically worthless to me.

Ah, freedom.

Meanwhile, as mentioned in my previous RTSAC, my darling, brilliant wife graduated from school (magna cum laude, 4.89 GPA!) and has already landed a job. She starts Monday next. She’s awesome, eh?

So we’re all sleeping well, and life is good, and we are happy. Hopefully all our Flysters are as happy as me.

I have decided to cease adding letters in: I invite you to read them HERE and come back for my responses: the CORRECT responses, I might assert.



Dear Murderer,

Your story needs to be rewritten. There’s all this stuff about some old guy, and then there’s all this other stuff about lawsuits, and frankly I just got fucking bored about it all, although I think I finally got the gist of it. Lemme try for you:

“Dear Prudie,
Blah blah blah blah guy is an asshole prone to lawsuits and I ran over his cat blah blah blah blah.
Sayonara, Simba.”

There. Better?

BTW – your husband is right about everything except buying the guy a cat – that’s just stupid.

Anyway, shut your yap and grow up.


Dear Mommy,

So you’re not 20 any more. What, are you…25? Both “hmm” and “wow” to that.

You are a doormat and an idiot all in one. You just tell hubby to say “fuck off” to the freeloader, or you will say “fuck off” to the hubby. Wait a bit and see what happens. Note: this may not go the way you hope.

Grow up, Punkin.


Dear Still Living,

Let’s gain clarity: your mom died. Your dad moved on and found some poon. He’s likely going to die too, because hey, life happens. The woman your dad’s boinking will also die, if statistics and nature hold steady. You say Mommy Deadest would be upset about shared occupancy in the family plot, a la Three’s Company meets Beetlejuice.

I say dead people generally don’t worry about shit-picking asshole-ishness like this. I say YOU, on the other hand, do.

And I might add: when you die, it’s unlikely you’ll care about it any more.

So I say: grow the hell up.


Dear “Thank God I Never Dated You,”

Old people are all drunks, little kitty. All of us. We drink scotch for breakfast, gin for lunch, and vodka for supper. Our snack times consist of endless orgies of schnapps shots and flaming Goldschlager enemas. I just stepped out of an executive status meeting where we basically all passed a gallon jug of whiskey around and barfed a lot. Drink, drink, drink. That’s us.

Your sophomoric mention of your and his respective age seems to have struck a tone here, youngster. We old people do not like you young people who discover our secret society here at The Church of Our Lady of Puke-Inducing Alcoholic Excess. Hic.

Additionally: I learned something a long time ago that lil’ chilluns like yourself have yet to learn: when I stuck my finger in a candle flame it burned like fuck-all, and I shrieked like a little child (I was a little child, mind you, so this was the appropriate response). This guys bugs you? Go elsewhere. If he’s endangering you or others’ lives, make a stink. Otherwise, go have a goddamn margarita, loosen up a little bit, and maybe get laid. You gotta relax.

Oh, yes: and grow the fuck up.


Here I go, headed into the weekend with a spring in my step and (for the moment) nobody banging on my door for past due payments on anything. One day, you know, they’ll come a-calling: “sorry, dude, but we sold your $280,000 house for $125,000. You owe us the balance.”

And I will say “yeah, sure. Let me get right on that.”


Should have taken the deal, el stupid-o bank-o.

Cheers, flysters!
STC =^oo^=


Life is my college. May I graduate well, and earn some honors!

     - Louisa May Alcott

Four Years.

It’s been four years since my wife, a housewife for 22 years at the time, started school. She started with the same tenacity and unguided-ballistic-missile strategy that she exhibits when she starts everything else, and we knew she’d be making final choices where to head with her education during year one. On time, as usual, she did: Invasive Cardiovascular Technology.

These are the ones who put stents and balloons and plugs and parts into people who are sometimes dying of heart disease before their eyes on the table. Life saving stuff. Occasionally, as she explained on several memorable occasions when she’s come home from her clinical tour, too little or too late to be life saving. Part of the job, she copes and moves on. She just does that.

Yesterday was her last day of school.

Sigh. When a wife, mother of five, decides it’s time to start a career and heads down to the local university, it does not happen without sacrifices from everyone, including her husband and the kids. She’s been gone a lot. She’d lock herself away in the bedroom while the kids and I eat whatever I made for dinner. Weekends, she’d remain locked away while the kids and I scoured the path to Costco, EarthFare, Harris Teeter, Target, Trader Joe’s, and wherever else we needed to go to keep the family fed, clothed, and comfortable.

I have seen every newly released children’s film the last two years, typically a Sunday Matinee, while folks here in the Bible Belt are in church and she, yes indeedy, is locked away studying.

It was a lot like being a single dad sometimes. No more.

Today, she is at the spa. We’re thin on cash, so it’s only for 3 hours. It is a time for her to relax, breathe deeply, and say “shit, that was hard.”

Mind you, this fifty-plus year old housewife-mother of five-never-had-a-career woman just got her GPA posted: 3.98. Inhuman. I am speechless and trying to find the words to say “damn, but I obviously married the right woman…” Maybe those are the words, after all.

Congratulations, Honey. Now, all you need is a job.

Update – she just texted me. She has an interview next Wednesday. And so it begins.

Onward – originals here.


Dear Prudence,
My mother's manners are atrocious. I have two sons, ages 4 and 6. They see her a couple of times a month, and they've started to bring her rude language home with them. I asked her to dial it down around the children, and her response was: "What are you trying to turn them into? Mr. Manners?" For now, my husband and I simply remind them of the manners we use in our house, but I can see this getting tougher as they get older. How do I deal with Nana?

—Sometimes I Wanna Kill Her

Dear Heloise,

I had a teenager who adored Meth, so being a good parent I said “gee whiz, I sure hope you don’t get in trouble” then turned the other cheek.

No. Not really. But my point is this: are you so fucking stupid that you think there is nothing you can do about this? Amazing.

Let’s commence on a little philosophical road trip through Realityland and take in the sights, soak up the atmosphere, learn a little about the locals:

1.) If you stick your finger up your ass, it will smell bad.
2.) If you don’t stick your finger up your ass it might still small bad, but it won’t smell like ass.
3.) Metaphorically speaking, your mom might be made of ass

So pick your battles and put your goddamn foot down. Or surrender the kids to someone with a goddamn brain.

The rest of us have endured conversations with our parents and informed them “these kids are mine. They are not yours. You want to see them, shut the fuck up. Get it?”


Dear Prudence,
My daughter seems to be drifting away. She is in her early 30s, has a demanding job, and is completing her doctorate. We are both broke. I have called her twice at work to ask her if I had done something to hurt or offend her. She said no, she was just busy and would call me that weekend. I never heard from her. I'm feeling abandoned, but I don't think communicating this is going to make our increasingly distant relationship any better. Any advice?

—Sad in the Mountains

Dear Jim Croce Song Made Human,

My son walked in just the other day.

He said “Thanks for the ball, dad! Come on, let’s play. Can you teach me to throw?”

I said “not today, I’ve got a lot to do.”

He said “That’s okay.”

And as he walked away he said “what a fucking jerk. I hope he dies.”

I love that song.

Your daughter may hate you. Then again, she may not. And you wonder if talking about this might make things worse?

Then it’s already over. Nice work!

The rest of us juuuuust might bring it up with her. Really.


Dear Prudence,
Several years ago, I started a relationship. She got pregnant, and we married. We have a 2-year-old. But my wife hates my mother for no good reason. My mother is a nice, friendly woman, and from the beginning she was welcoming and respectful toward my wife. In return, my wife has been suspicious and nasty. My wife makes accusations that my mother insulted her. My mother has continued to be almost entirely nice and patient throughout. My wife refuses to acknowledge her role in any of this and won't consider family therapy. What do I do?


Dear Junior Baggage Handler,

You had me at “she got pregnant, and we married.” I’m a sucker for romance stories like that. Not meaning to throw a bad pun at your troubles (actually, yeah, I DO mean to), but you’re both screwed. As my dad told me once: this is the fucking you get for the fucking you got. My dad was a romantic, too. Can you tell?

It doesn’t help that you sound like a mamma’s boy, I might add.

Know what else doesn’t help? Your Darling Wifey sounds like a cast-iron twat and a half.

And the icing on your dysfunctional little cupcake? You have produced a bouncing happy 2 year old to carry your legacy of idiocy to the next generation.


The rest of us have been through stuff kinda like this at one time or another. I know I have. Note that this is why I lay claim to an ex wife. The club awaits, junior; plenty of room for another victim. Yippie for you!


Dear Prudence,
Is it appropriate for me to get my dad's girlfriend something for Mother's Day? I want to let her know I appreciate everything she does for me, so should I just wait for her birthday, months from now?

—Wish She Was My Mom

Dear…um…well, shit. I can’t think of anything snide to name you.

You lucky duck. This is like a happy little story that should be made into a Lifetime movie or something. The only negative I have is this: why are you asking this question? If her bloodline doesn’t share your DNA, this means squat – get her a fucking present and tell her you appreciate her.

Was that hard?


They are protesting outside – Duke Energy, the South’s biggest utility, is being picketed to stop promoting the use of coal and “new-kyoo-ler” energy, and their CEO is being asked to step down. The end result of this protest, of course, is they will continue to use – and expand the use of – coal and newkyooler energy, and the CEO will get a bonus. Singing Peter, Paul, and Mary songs never amounted to much, you know.

I wandered by to see what the fuss was while on my morning constitutional. A remarkably severe-looking woman with a name tag that read GERT asked what I was doing there, which seemed a little counterproductive: protests live and die by attendance numbers. Ask Glenn Beck, Gert. He’ll tell you.

I said “just here to see if I can help.” I wasn’t, actually – I just wanted to read the signs.

“You work for Duke?” she barked.

“No,” I said. “I work for **** Bank.” I flashed my ID badge at her. “My executive board is WAY more evil than Duke’s.”

She started to smile, looked puzzled, frowned instead, glared at me and wandered away. Take THAT you goddamn hippie, from one hippie to another.

They didn’t sing Peter, Paul, and Mary, by the way. There was some opera chick there who sang some Puccini. The protesters wore suits and sport coats. It was like being at a really loud, outdoor board meeting, with bullhorns and canap├ęs. Surreal.

And nobody was smoking weed. Shameful. Protests have sure changed over the years.

I need to get to work, and get home and rub my wife’s feet, and have a martini with her. Then we’ll bundle the kids into bed, right after American Idol, and wonder aloud, I suppose, and what a normal life is. We’ve never really known.

Cheers, Flysters.

STC =^oo^=

The Chairman of the Bored.

Someone's boring me. I think it's me.
     - Dylan Thomas

Sitting here, having just written my witty, clever responses to Proodie’s Brood, I realize it has been Ground Hogs Day (the movie) since I last visited. For a week I have awakened, had coffee, washed myself, come to work, done stuff, gone home, blah blah blah. It rained like hell one day, forgot which. Got warmer this week. Yep. Nice out.

I am not bored, not at all: I am on cruise control, watching the days go by with a blithe, mostly relaxed aura about me, not too worried about much at all. Not a terrible week at all, no. Boring and slow-mo

Part of me likes this.

There was a character in Joseph Heller’s ”Catch 22” who took a little carburetor apart and put it together slowly, every day, one little tiny part at a time. Forgot the character’s name, but the premise was if you make yourself bored beyond belief you won’t really live longer, but it’ll sure feel that way.

That’s not what I want. But I’m not fighting it for the moment.

So thanks, Proodie, for this week’s few moments of blank-brained imbecility.

Originals here.


Dear Prudence,
I'm a 27-year-old guy who registered for an online dating service. I met a girl on the website and we connected really well. We became friends on Facebook, and in her pictures she appeared to be good-looking. When we met for dinner, I saw that she was overweight. We've been on three dates now, and she's a marvelous human being. I can't seem to find the physical attraction. There is this voice in my head that tells me to appreciate the physical side of her, too, but I can't do that. Should I discuss this with her?

Dear Love Ain’t Blind,

I think discussing it with her is the perfect course. You can say, for instance, “you know, Flossie McHeifer, I think that moist, gooshy sound your cottage cheese thighs make when they rub together while you walk is actually a little nauseating, and whenever I image going down on you I throw up in my mouth. But you’re real nice and all that.”

Good thinking, Genius. Go talk to her.

The rest of us believe there is truth, lies, and shut the hell up. This is the way of things. If you have a brain, anyway.


Dear Prudence,
My husband and I help haul hay two weekends a year on his family farm. It's a big, cherished tradition in his family. His mom and two sisters (they are Amazonian women made of muscle and titanium) have made it clear that they expect me to be there hauling with everyone. I'm fairly short and slight of frame and am amazed at what I can physically accomplish because of family pressure. I don't know if I can take it anymore. I already skip out on other grueling family traditions and his family always makes me feel like a spoilsport. My husband is usually supportive but feels forgoing hay hauling would be a big taboo and that I should be able to suck it up. As the growing season is starting, I'm beginning to have nightmares. Is there a middle ground I can take? Or should I just endure the four days a year?
—The Runt

Dear Curl Up Like a Little Baby and Cry,

Little whiny twerps like you make me sick. You’re all like “I can’t do this because I’m too small!” and all “I just can’t carry that because I’m not very strong.” You’re an annoying, sniveling goddamn baby.

Meanwhile, we, the tall, blond, muscular, athletic, Superman- and Wonder Woman-like heroes who make little wimps like you look even more pathetic than you really are have no sympathy. Wussie.

Actually, that’s not true. 80 pound hay bales are pretty damn heavy. I’d say “fuck off” and never go back. What assholes.


Dear Prudence,
I am three-quarters white and one-quarter Asian. Growing up, I identified as white, and only as I've become an adult have I begun to explore my Asian heritage. When it comes up occasionally, most of my friends are pleasantly surprised, then let it drop. However, one of my friends brings it up regularly. I'd hardly call it racist, but it irks me that suddenly I am Indian to him when for most of my life I was white. It bothers me that this friend constantly describes me as "brown" or "dusky," makes ugly references to terrorism, or discusses my ancestry in a joking manner. How do I get him to back off without harming our friendship?
—Bothered and Brown

Dear Cameljock McTowelhead,

Funny thing: most people would call me racist for calling you that name, but according to you we can “hardly call that racist.” Right.

The problem isn’t that you are of mixed race, the problem is your incredibly fucking stupid. This shit is racist, if it bothers you. If it doesn’t bother you, it’s still racist, but you don’t care. Gawd.

You want to know how to get him to back off without harming your friendship? Good luck, brainless. Tell him it bothers you and hope for the best.

The rest of us dumped our racist friends years ago.


Dear Prudie,
I live in a group house, and one of the roommates is the landlord. He had an office chair in the living room. My boyfriend was sitting in it, the leg snapped and the chair was broken. The landlord previously told us that he bought the chair on Craigslist for $30. The landlord has asked me to replace the chair and suggested a similar one from a local store that costs about $300. I think it's unreasonable for me to buy him a brand-new chair for that amount of money when that's not what was broken. I've offered to reimburse him what he actually paid for the chair. Am I being a jerk?

Dear Girl With a Really Fat Boyfriend,

There are always options, you know. Here’s a few.

1. Tell the asswipe landlord to fuck himself and split.
2. Tell the asswipe landlord to fuck himself, give him thirty bucks, and split.
3. Buy the $300 chair, give it to him, and split.
4. Blow him for it, and split.
5. Have him murdered.
6. Call the police, press charges for physical assault, sue his ass do death, visit him in prison, sneak in thirty bucks, give it to him, then split.

I could do this forever, but the truth is, actually, that nobody on the face of this goddamn planet gives a shit what you do. Shut up.


Off I go, to trundle quietly into the remains of my day, cloudy and muggy, ready for tonight’s thunderstorms. I love thunderstorms. Dunno why. Just do.

I know, I know. Boring.

Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

Why is it people work so hard to be so gloriously unhappy?

Unhappiness is not knowing what we want and killing ourselves to get it.

     - Don Herold

Lo, dark days persist; ere I faced the oncoming juggernaut we know as The Mortgage Banking Industry, I once again failed to see my folly – my misdirected mind sees not now that which I have feared, but rather that which I heretofore never once gave a fucking single thought to.

Three little letters: P. M. I.

Private Mortgage Insurance, a service one might assume is in place to succeed the borrower in the event of economic downturn, is actually a scam. Lots of “Private” and “Mortgage” happening. Very little “Insurance.”

Surprised? Not me. I always knew this little surcharge on those of us inclined (read: stoopid enough) to go 100% financed, designed to remind us that we’re too fucking poor to offer a down payment, and this gives an already corrupt and shady industry an additional income stream which is, of course, not intended to support the homeowner in the event of a default. It is intended, of course, to support the bank. Homeowners are little more than flies in this reeking, moneymaking ointment.

Anyway, there was an offer extended on my house by a potential buyer. Pretty damn low, but that’s a short sale for you. Looked iffy, but then the bank accepted. And the servicer accepted. Everyone is happy.

Except PMI. They want forty grand. They so funny. This is not abnormal, Flysters. They just want money, because that’s what they do. Makes sense: love it or hate it, this is a business.

So I responded: “Fuck you.” I didn’t really say that, exactly, but it was surprisingly well received. They countered by saying “Well…how about twenty five grand?”

And I said “How about…three?”

Ah, the subtleties and vagaries of negotiation, an ego-fuelled dance betwixt a guy who wants this, another who wants that, and all the saber-rattling, chest-beating, tooth-baring grindhouse drama one could ask for meantime.

Oddly, I am told they may accept the three thousand dollar offer. Strange world, this.

The end days, that’s what I have ahead of me: it’s like living with a loved one with cancer, day in and out wondering when you’re going to have your heart broken, then realizing the loved one is really just your sworn enemy, a vicious darkling, and finding one’s self wanting the clock to just fucking stop going around and suffer whatever lumps as they come.

Bring it on, this end. On June 19, 2009, I was released from my contract with Wachovia Bank and escorted to the door with letters of recommendation in hand and pats on my back for all my good work, another nameless layoff nominee in the halcyon days of the still-not-over Banking failure insanity. Today is April 14, 2011: 664 days have passed and we’re still wondering when someone is going to stick the knife in, and how deep they’ll push it. But the end is here, none too soon.

Original Proodie Dickheadery here.


Dear Prudence,
I'm engaged to a sweet, funny, and attentive guy, whom I love very much. He's a very picky eater. He knows it's a problem but doesn't do anything to work on it. I'm concerned that later he'll suffer the consequences of eating fried foods and no vegetables. The refusal to eat like a grownup is a turn-off, childish and stubborn. His eating habits severely limit where we eat out. I love him and don't want to make him feel embarrassed or pressured, but his picky eating is starting to grate on me. What should I do?
—Fed Up

Dear Controlling Bitch,

One: read your name, the one I gave you. There.

Two: if your cardiac arrest nominee is only interested in eating crap, that’s his prerogative and not yours, despite your feelings for him.

Three: if his eating habits are starting to grate on you, when the fuck is he going to do when you start finding out about his bathroom, porn, and nose-picking habits?

He’s probably better off dead and single than in your clutches.

Meanwhile, the rest of us might take notice of what our date-partners might eat, wouldn’t have made it past that dating stage if diet were an issue like this. Wakey wakey!


Dear Prudence,
I'm graduating from medical school next month, and I called my older brother to invite him and his wife to the graduation ceremony. He told me that they had already scheduled a trip to Mexico for that weekend. I'm feeling very slighted and hurt. Am I overreacting? What should I say to him?
—Hurt Doctor

Dear Doctor Pain,

One: your brother is a selfish fuckhead. You actually needed me to tell you that?

Two: congratulations on that whole medical school thing – tough road, huh?

Three: with his asshole attitude and your newfound surgical skill, you might just whip out the emotional scalpel and sever ties with the asswipe.

The rest of us already knew all this, and agree you’re stupid.


Dear Prudence,
A dear friend invited me to join her for Easter Sunday. She invited a former friend of mine. Last year I underwent treatment for cancer, and he never once offered to help me. I told him how disappointed I was. If I attend this Easter dinner, I will feel quite awkward. I've already committed to going, but I do not relish attending an event with a painted-on smile and false sense of camaraderie. What do you recommend?
—Not Inclined

Dear Little Miss Frowny Face,

One: don’t fucking go, okay?

Two: if your friend asks why, how about you tell her?

Three: maybe she’ll un-invite this guy and everything’s fixed!

The rest of us are pleased your chemo and surgery are behind you, but wonder if they removed whatever it was that ever gave you the nerve to speak up, and a part of your brain as well.


Dear Prudence,
Ever since my husband and I got married my father-in-law has sent me a card with money in it for my birthday. He's a sweet man, but I cannot understand is why he always gives me $20 less than he gives my husband. I know this sounds extremely petty. I've thought about asking my father-in-law if I have ever done something to offend him, but my husband requests that I just leave things alone and not create a problem where there is none. What do you think?
—Confused Daughter-in-Law

Dear Hated Daughter-In-Law,

One: this is not only a slight, dickface. He’s also letting Boy Wonder know he’s on top. Dads, sons, all that. Welcome to the family, haggis-face.

Two: on the off chance this IS a slight, it’s because you’re such a fussy little bitch.

Three: I’d give you $50 less.

The rest of us might not give you any money at all, and maybe not even a card.


My wife and I, inveterate back yard patio sitters, have taken to sitting together in the evenings after I get home from work and she school, and having a beer together. We don’t talk nearly enough lately, but she graduates three weeks from today, and thus ends four years of watching the back of her blonde head toss and bob down the hallway to disappear into the bedroom for peace and quiet while she studies.

I’ve missed her a lot.

I stopped by the store today for two big fat bottles of stout from a local brewery, which will go into the freezer for twenty minutes or so when I get home, and another day ends with a bit of quiet. When a day ends and you aren’t dead, you win, right?

Cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

Maresey Doats and Doesey Doats and Proodies' Brood is Stooopid.

Into each life, a little rain must fall
     - Some stupid fucker from Seattle, probably.

Glorious spring has brought with it all the usual magic and loveliness that makes tolerable the reality of living in a part of the country where God, Nascar, and Brooks and Dunn are valued more than pretty much anything else including common sense and driving skills. Last week I encountered a religious zealot who told me I was NOT going to rot in hell (you don’t rot, goldurnit, you BURN!). Then a guy with a Union flag on his car who said the following things: “That’s yer real last name? Is that some kinda JEW name?” and “I don’t mind his politics none, I just don’t like his color” and “If I could I’d fly me some airplanes into the dang pyramids and say ‘take that Ghaddafi, you Muslim fuckheads.” Then, finally, a woman in the break room who said “I don’t like all these Indian folks working here. They bring their weird values and we don’t need that.”

To the first one I said nothing. I don’t believe in Hell.

To the second one I sat in stunned silence for a bit and awe and a real human being exhibited the intelligence and wit of a stuck warthog. I said “No, it is an Amish name” which baffled the crap out of him, and I said “what, is he blue?” which he thought was unbelievably funny, and I let the pyramid bard fall flat – he probably didn’t want to know the difference between Egypt and Lybia. It would interrupt his ignorance and hate.

To the last one, I muttered “they eat their babies, you know…” and wandered away. How fun was that?

Charlotte is a fairly cosmopolitan place, if a bit pedestrian, and it’s said 50% of the population came from somewhere other than Charlotte. It is still in the south, though: The last Confederate Cabinet meeting took place in this very town, and resentment of the north burns, oddly enough, to this day.

Being from California, I don’t pose much of an issue to the real locals. Californians are all dope smoking surfers, when was true for me about 30 years ago.

Now, let’s face it: if all Charlotteans (Pronounced, with pride, “shar-luh-tea-ans”) were as fucked up and red-necky as the dickheads I encountered lately, we could laugh off that old saw “The South Will Rise Again!” because they’d have made themselves extinct three generations ago or so.

Anyhoo…my wife (a Canadian socialist pinko heathen commie immigrant who obviously came here for a green card and “a chance for a better life”) and I are leaving.

Dunno when – she has to finish school, and I would have to leave my job, but this is it. Spokane has been mentioned. Calgary as well. We really don’t care, so long as it’s no more than a 2 day drive to Edmonton (I have a grandbaby there) and there isn’t ever a Nascar race. Indycar, fine. No Nascar.

Redundant for the likes of me to say I digress, so let’s move on. I rewrote the LW’s letters – they were so offensively contrived I couldn’t stomach it this week. Originals here.


Dear Prudence,
My boyfriend has been reading my old emails, especially the ones where I talk about how much I loved my old boyfriend’s big bulbous baloney pony banging my bunghole and such. Should I be upset?
—Not Saving Emails

Dear Lowdown Dirty Whore,

If you weren’t a goddamn nymphomaniac this would never have happened. Seriously, close you legs every once in a while and show a little restraint, because good girls don’t have multiple sexual partners. My wife was a virgin, I think. My ex was too, actually. So were the dozens and dozens of sexual partners I’ve had – I don’t mean to brag, of course. I’ve banged everything wet, willing, and ready from here to Seattle, and some twice and thrice. The bitches dig me, you know.

Meanwhile, all those women I slept with are supposed to be virgins again, evidently, because there’s probably some asshole cheese-dick out there who took a gander through their emails and the letters they saved in a shoe box and their diaries and such and discovered I mauled their women with my manly muscular meat missile and didn’t like it. This is stupid by nature, and annoying.

In other words, dump this fucker and get a new model with a brain and a really big dick and tons of stamina and money, do careful screening of him to ensure he’s free of infection and not offended by the fact you are an active human chick with a useful, functioning, and experienced vagina, and off you go!


Dear Prudence,
I am a bus rider. I have very much OCD. I also have olfactory hypersensitivity. Buses are stinky icky places. Instead of killing the stinky people on the bus to make a clean spot, is it a faux pas to tell them to fuck off and keep their distance ‘cause they’re so smelly?
—Need a Clothespin

Dear Stay Far Away From Me,

You scary, man. Scary bad. You need to get medication. You need to see a professional. Ew.


Dear Prudence,
I am a student and also a tutor for a physically and mentally challenged young lady who cheated on a test, but she doesn’t really understand the concept of cheating. Little shit deserves prison. But: was it cheating?

Dear Lying Fleabag,

People are held to a standard, you idiot, and all this mumbo-jumbo about medical conditions and physical and learning and social disabilities is a bunch of ass-wiping sniveling equivocation invented by the same drug-addles Democrats who founded PeTA. This girl should be punished immediately. Rat her out to her mother, the school, and call the police. Not understanding the concept of “wrong” is no excuse for doing something wrong, now is it?

Meanwhile, in your own words you are “working as a private aide, mentor, and tutor?” What moron stated you are intellectually capable of doing such work? You even answered your own question with your inclination to “…just reprimand her and leave it at that.”

Of course, people who aren’t as dumb as you would just reprimand her and leave it at that. Just sayin’.


Dear Prudence,
My parents are divorced and fucking hate each other worse than anything else ever, even liver and onions. They cannot be within a thousand yards of each other or they start fighting. They want to take me out to dinner together. For whatever reason, I am baffled as to whether this is a good or bad idea.

Dear Sever the Goddamned Apron Strings Already,

Parents are always right. Additionally: parents are never wrong. Parents are invariably good and kind. Parents do not make mistakes, ever. Parents are made of platinum and eat all your enemies and poop pretty rainbows that lead to pots of gold and love and happiness.

Kids are always wrong. Kids are invariably bad and cruel. Kids fuck up everything they touch and laugh about it later. Kids are made of piles of horseshit slick with the blood-streaked gleet drained from the souls of their parents, and they drain your bank account and suck your life right through your spine and out your asshole with cruel abandon.

I have no idea where you fit into this mix. Doesn’t really matter.

I might mention this: inviting a Hatfield and a McCoy to dinner is likely to end in a bloody pile of bodies. Doesn’t help to bring a referee, muzzles, or presents – you need a gun. Big one.

Or a brain. Just say no, said Nancy. Smart little lady, her.


Off I go to finish my day. A meeting or so, a status report, and I head home to my young ‘uns and a big fat glass of red wine on the patio, the last strains of sunlight sending little speckles of bright and lovely through the leaves and onto my wife’s tired face (full time student, 3.97 GPA, so much goddamn smarter than me, she is).


Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

The Proodie Stoopid Brood Tsoonami arrives...

All intelligent thoughts have already been thought; what is necessary is only to try to think them again.

     - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

You know what baffles me? Kids, a lot of them in their twenties, Facebooking their hate all over Japan after that earthquake and tsunami. Seriously, what the fuck is up with that, other than pimple-faced ignorance and race hatred?

I’ll tell you I spent a full day staring blankly at my computer, watching the endless YouTubes of swaying buildings, cracks opening in the ground, and that ghastly, unholy, seemingly endless footage of gray, debris-laden water gobbling up everything in its path. The airport footage and helicopter footage was completely terrifying, and mesmerizing. A gawker at a train wreck on a national scale, me.

Then a friend’s son posts “maybe payback for Pearl Harbor, huh?” on Facebook. To which I responded “the payback was a little present called Little Boy, followed by another called Fat Man a few days later. Look it up, genius. BTW – your parents weren’t even born yet, what’s your beef?” No answer, yet.

A guy I friended who I went to high school with posted an article about the tsunami damage to Crescent City, California and wrote ”We should bill those fuckers for this.” I responded “you mean bill them for the earthquake they didn’t cause, the tsunami they didn’t cause, or just bill them because you hate Japanese people?” followed by an immediate un-friending. I really don’t need that kind of idiocy in my life.

Now I don’t get all weepy and googly-eyed at disasters in far away places, mostly. There’s enough disaster in a ten mile radius for most people, and shocking and touching as it is, I can’t help from here.

But this hate-fuelled spew I read on Facebook? I have a status for these folks: the average schmo, hoping for clean water and some rice somewhere in Nihonmatsu, is worth ten of your worthless ass.

On to Proodie’s Stoopid Brood. Apparent idiots one and all (again) and equally tiresome at that.

Originals here.


Dear Prudence,
I'm married to a gorgeous younger woman. I am having serious second thoughts. As it turns out (actually, I knew this from the beginning), she's not particularly interesting or, and I hate to say this, bright. I'm no Einstein, but I have a degree in computer science and am knowledgeable about economics and other intellectual pursuits. I don't want a divorce, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life watching The Bachelor. I forever condemned to being married to an incredibly hot woman for whom I have not an iota of intellectual respect?
—I Married for Lust

Dear “Gee, Turns Out I’m as Stupid as Her”,

I’m pleased you mentioned that you aren’t Einstein, because he’d have known what to do in his sleep: keep your horny little ditzy babe stowed away in a nice house, make her happy, enjoy the benefits of that situation often and well, then meet with people outside the house, say, after work or something, for intellectual stimulation. Not everyone is lucky enough to get a trophy wife you bloody asswipe, and it beats a girl you think is really smart and ugly and date with a Fleshlight when she’s not around. Enjoy it.

The rest of us – even those without a degree in Computer Science (about $200, three weeks, Phoenix University) – who are married were at least bright enough to have a complete conversation with our spouses, and knew many, if not most, of the risks of matrimony. Idiot.


Dear Prudie,
I was laid off recently, and to make ends meet I've been tutoring some children from a wealthy family after school. I have qualms about what I'm doing. It boils down to helping them complete their homework every night, when they really should be doing it by themselves. Having seen how intensely the mother reacts to her kids' grades, I'm hesitant to express my feeling that I should give the kids supplemental exercises, rather than helping them with their homework. Also, the parents are very generous to me, and I don't want to lose the job. What's an honest tutor to do?
—Confused Employee of the Tiger Mother

Dear “Obviously Doing It For The Money”,

An honest tutor wouldn’t be writing this sanctimonious drivel to Dear Prudence. An honest tutor would have an honest conversation with the parents and be done with it.

You don’t lack honesty, I guess, but I might assert you seem to be lacking testicles.

Grow a pair.

The rest of us would have figured this out a long time ago, and moved on to bigger, more important issues, like who is getting voted off American Idol tonight. Idiot.


Dear Prudie,
I work for a nice lady who is about to have a hip replaced. She has a husband and a lot of family nearby, including a son who's a chef and a sister who lives next door. When I arrived at work a few days ago, I was told about a sign-up sheet for bringing meals to my boss' house after her surgery. The sheet said that the boss's sister had requested that employees get on the schedule to deliver food. It might be horrible of me to feel this way, but it offends me. We employees have all had our hours cut, gas is high, and my boss lives on the outskirts of town. Like several other employees, I don't even enjoy cooking and do so as little as possible. What should I do?
—Fuming but Not Cooking

Dear “Everything But The Emeril”,

Let me quote you: “What should I do?”

Good God above and furry puppies. You stand as proof that a life form can exist as a live being in the utter and complete absence of functioning cerebral material. I have fingernail clippings smarter than you. Hell, my fingernail clippings have dirt particles on them that are smarter than you.

Listen up. I’ll go real slow-like:


Whew! That was a tough one! Not!

The rest of us would send a goddamn card. Idiot.


Dear Prudence,
Recently, I was invited to brunch with my brother's family at their home. My sister-in-law's mother, "Jane," suffers from Alzheimer's disease. My sister-in-law made a huge bowl of fruit salad and, because I am a fan, put it at my end of the table. I noticed that Jane was taking strawberries from the bowl, licking them, and putting them back. I don't think anyone else saw. I didn't know what to do, so I admit I didn't do anything. I now feel guilty since several people ate strawberries after Jane had "sampled" them. Should I have at least made an effort to quietly inform my sister-in-law of the situation?
—Please, Don't Pass the Fruit Bowl

Dear OH MY GOD THAT’S SO FUCKING GROSS! You said NOTHING? Please, PLEASE never invite me or anyone I care about over for Thanksgiving. You suck ass.

The rest of us might have made quiet mention of the generous portions of goopy goddamn slobber added to the fruit salad. Idiot.


I have admitted in the past that I am one of “those people” who watches American Idol. Dunno if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I have never seen a full episode of any other reality show, a fact I am quite proud of actually, but Idol has me by the balls and has since the very first season. And I have observations:

Observation 1: Jennifer Lopez is a lot more pleasant that I expected. And she has a really, remarkably huge ass (not fond of this, me). And she’s devastatingly pretty. I think I like her.

Observation 2: Steven Tyler is a really nice guy, it seems. And he still dresses in girl’s clothes even though he’s in his sixties. I’ve always liked him.

Observation 3: Randy Jackson has made a few efforts to make serious remarks about what is happening, and falls short. As usual. Dawg.

Observation 4: I really don’t miss Simon. Or Paula. Or Kara. Maybe Ellen.

So, in short: everyone is so goddamn busy being too nice they must not be hearing what I am hearing. Maybe I do miss Simon. I almost always agreed with his assessments.

And finally: Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, everyone. Not my favorite holiday, really, but I love me some corned beef and cabbage, I tell you what, and any reason to drink beer is a good reason to drink beer, for me.

STC =^oo^=

We never talk any more. Well, I do, but these guys? Fuuuuuuu...

Action is the real measure of intelligence.

   - Napoleon Hill

Unknown to my favorite Flysters, I have created a Room to Swing a Cat for the last 4 weeks! Right here at my desk, yes indeed.

Haven’t had the time to publish a single one.

And yes, I wrote this last week, too. And the week before.

Let’s see if it makes it into the book this week...

Meantime, Spring done spranged: did too, little crocuses and lilies and bulby things are sprouting in places we didn’t know they were planted here at our rented house, and it’s a lovely surprise.

On other fronts, the bank will sell my house on March 28 to the highest bidder. Foreclosure, here we come. I await it eagerly, not too eagerly, but in the same way one awaits a dental visit to fix a broken tooth: please, for God’s sake, can we get this shit over with?

On yet other fronts, my new job remains lovely, to the degree that a very commonplace event took me by surprise last week: my team went out for drinks after work. It was heavenly, mostly because the event reaffirmed a suspicion I’ve had that I don’t work with a bunch of assholes. No, these guys are good folk, and I enjoy their company. Bonus!

Helped that a vendor showed up and paid the bill. Vendors are nice that way.

On other-other fronts, my wife, little over-achiever she is, is headed into her last two months of school, then she’ll graduated with an Associates Degree in Cardiovascular Technology. Her GPA is an inhuman 3.98, and she’ll probably be able to use the term summa cum laude on her resume, which I discovered means “with highest honor” and has nothing whatsoever to do with the porn industry, although skill-wise, I might add...

There are plenty of other fronts to report on, but I usually end up digressing to the point of numbness, and I have to get into the afternoon flurry of meetings now.

Originals here.


Dear Prudie,
My sister and I found out a few years ago that we have a half-sister from an affair my father had. The half-sister is eager to have a relationship with me and my sister. If I decide I want a relationship with my half-sister, how can I go about it in a way that doesn't hurt my family?
—In the Middle

Dear Completely Clueless,

Here are a few things normal people can do which I’d like to share with you:

1. Speak (in their native tongue) to other human beings about stuff
2. Use discretion and care when communicating difficult or confusing ideas
3. Be heard clearly and fully by others, as their heads are no as far up their asses as yours is so their mouth is in the clear

So this little soap opera is baffling you? This pissy little drama – about as compelling and fearsome as, say, a comic book – has you at a loss?

Fuck me. I had no idea people could be that goddamn frail and cloddish and still have enough brain functionality to operate their lungs and circulatory systems.

Tell you what: let your sister handle this. You are a fucking idiot.

Note: the rest of us would call her and have a conversation, because, you know, we can use our words like real good as you haven’t did.


Dear Prudence,
Last year I started working as a clerical assistant in a large law firm. Every St. Patrick's Day the office throws a big bash. Everyone in the office received an invitation. However, a week before the party, the clerical staff received an e-mail asking us to sign up to work during the event checking coats. I was shocked. I'm torn about what to do. Do you think it is appropriate for the company to hand out invitations and then tell us we can attend only if we work? Should I swallow my pride and go again this year and work, or should I make up some excuse to stay home?
—Got My Irish Up

Dear Blarney Stoner,

Do you have a sister and a half sister who’s pregnant? No? Sorry: different imbecile.

Lets get all kindsa theoretical here: Say I am a person who owns a company – a law firm, perhaps – and I decide that throwing a party is just the shizzle dizzle. Here’s how I shall word my invitation:


…Note: clerical staff are required to blow me, wash my car, walk my dog, and vacuum the parking lot in order to attend. Also, female clerical staff must wear sexy lingerie (or be completely naked), and men…well, you aren’t actually invited, because we want first dibs on the hot female clerical staff, and what the hell, why compete?


See what I did? Now: You know why I did that?

Because I can, you bloody dipshit. I'm the boss, even if I am an asshole.  Any more questions?

The rest of us would flip a coin – sometimes it pays to be a junior staff member who does the shit work, as they occasionally get to become senior staff members.


Dear Prudence,
My son's fiancee has become a true bridezilla. The bridesmaids are all in bright colors and the older women in dark shades she picked. I was told that an alternative color, which would have looked better on me, was not in her palette. I design textiles, so I know what works on my over-voluptuous body. Is it now common practice for brides to tell the parents what to wear for weddings? I hope it is just prenuptial madness and that she will return to the sweet young woman I knew before all this wedding planning began.
—Biting My Tongue

Dear Nuptial Noob,

If I have said this once I have said it a million times: weddings, for whatever reason, cause otherwise normal, sane, responsible, kind, gentle, generous people to become dreadfully horrifying creatures of unholy darkness who are best dealt with by shooting them right between their fucking eyes and walking away like a goddamn boss.

This includes mothers in law.

Wear the dress, don’t wear the dress…nobody gives a shit but you and her. Make a choice, mumsy, and get it over with. It matters not that you are a fat textile designer: this is a wedding, so everyone is fucked.

The rest of us….would be just as fucked, but likely better equipped to deal with it somehow, I suppose…but maybe not…weddings…scary…scaaaaary…


Dear Prudence,
I am single. A man who works in a different department and I have been making goo-goo eyes at each other in the hallways and cafeteria for several months. We have not spoken, and he does not know my name. Recently, he approached a co-worker in my department asking the name and status of the "woman with the long dark hair." That co-worker thought he was speaking of someone else in our department who recently moved in with her boyfriend and informed him of this. When my co-worker shared this information at the water cooler with practically everyone in our department, I didn't speak up. Now I'm concerned that my opportunity to potentially date this man is lost. Do you think I should do anything to correct the situation?
—Bad Intel

Dear Lack of Intel(ligence),

You, girl. Him, boy. Goo goo eyes? You mean in the hallways on the way to recess?

Why, I wonder, would you think little kiddy play time is at an end? Are your goo goo eyes broken?

And I need to ask: when your co-worker shared the mistaken information at the water cooler about the wrong goo goo eyed girl, and you “didn’t speak up” in front of “practically everyone”…what would you have said? “It was me! The whole time, Me, I say! He wants to finger bang ME, you sillyheads! And you RUINED IT!”

The rest of us are all growed up and able to, even if haltingly, talk to members of the opposite sex about stuff like finger banging, so we’d have it handled.


I have decided that wearing a tie to the office in a business casual world is not so bad – guy who sits next to me wears a bow tie every so often, and rocks it surprisingly well.

Today is my Bill Blass peacock pattern, deep green to go with my slacks, over plain white button down shirt and a pair of Aldo’s that are so comfortable I could sleep in them. Fashion statement, me. Who knew?

Cheers my Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

With love all things are possible. Unless you're really stupid.

The course of true love never did run smooth.
- William Shakespeare

Goddamn Weatherman.

Weather-women, too, although I may be out of my time and missing out on proper use of the word “weatherperson.” Hope not. Sounds like a post-punk band.

And more: Goddamn that jet stream. Where I grew up, on the West Coast, the jet stream was something I heard about the same way I heard about “Nor’easters”, which sounded like another band, maybe the opening act for the weatherperson.

Here on the East Coast the jet stream is like the tail of a dog who drank a lot of coffee – it wags like a wildly uncontrollable whip and leaves us wondering what’s coming from the skies, sitting blank-faced and staring at those charts and maps behind the “weatherperson” on the television, their little arrows and lines and isobars and shit slashing about like so many Crayola marks on an epileptic child’s doodle pad, denoting weather that, we understand all too soon, may or may not happen.

The jet stream carries this weather, whatever it is, to us. Stands to reason it also carries it away. And since it’s like that tail of a giant, happy, hyper dog, it goes wherever it goes with little rhyme or reason.

Today was supposed to be a “snow day”. In Charlotte, North Carolina, this means there is visible snow on the roads, quantity immaterial. A billionth of a goddamn angstrom-thick layer of snow means the buses, the cops, the schools, the Starbucks, the businesses, the banks, the whole city of Charlotte slams shut as loudly and vigorously as my first girlfriend’s legs when I told her what I was about to do (for the first time, ever. Her exact words: “um, no, thank you”).

Damn, if it isn’t beautiful outside. Chilly, but sunny and headed for 45 toasty degrees. I am at my desk, in my office, at work in Uptown Charlotte, and my children are not in the den watching Spongebob, they are at school. I like working in an office again – having been work-from-home for years I started to miss other human beings – but dammit, I wanted to be home today with fuzzy bunny slippers on for my meetings.

Hmm. I just realized I am whining. I take it back. Sorry, everyone. I need more coffee.

Off to Prudieland. Whenever she does these “My boyfriend/girlfriend is SO perfectly awesomely great, but…” letters the IQ of the known universe drops into petite pants-size for a day or two. It’s worse than turning on “Jersey Shore”, which I suspect can transform otherwise regular human beings into semi-functional, mumbling dolts in a fraction of a zeptosecond.

Originals here, if needed.


Dear Prudence,
My boyfriend and I have been together for two years, and I absolutely adore him. He's wonderful to me, treats me like a princess, and is the love of my life. When he and I have sex, I don't feel anything. What I should do?
-  Frustrated

Dear Frigid,

You hate men, don’t you? No, you say? I still think so. It’s okay, you know. Watch “Ellen.” She’s cute and funny and everyone likes her, and her wife is smoking hot.

How can you say you “adore” the “love of your life” when he doesn’t make your nipples hard as goddamn diamonds when you’re getting a hot injection of his muscled manly meat missile? You describe him the same way you’d describe a puppy. In fact, I think he’s better off at a different kennel, and you simply need to come to terms with your lesbianism.


Dear Prudence,
About a year ago I met a man 15 years my junior (I'm 50) and had what I thought was a one-night stand. The next morning I told him I would like a friends-with-benefits arrangement. We have fallen in love. He has said he would marry me if not for the age difference. Should I wait to see if the relationship evolves into marriage? Or should I listen to what he says about the age difference and get out before I get in any deeper?
-  Accidental Cougar

Dear Mrs. Robinson,

Look, it ain’t getting any better than that story. You’re 50. He’s pre-Viagra and has some stamina left in him. Life is pretty goddamn good. This is not a problem.

He needs to know, however, that Menopause will knock you down like a roaring, flaming Messerschmitt over the Channel in 1941 and no matter how “good you look” it’s all surgery from here on out. Maybe he needs to know that hot flashes are NOT cute and funny and silly; they make some women want to take a goddamn baseball bat and smash a puppy’s head in (see the post above, gramma), and it will dry up your formerly-moist girl-parts into something resembling a post-bloat seven-day-dead wad of unidentifiable roadkill. He’d go bankrupt buying K-Y in five-gallon tubs, if you didn’t kill him first with the baseball bat.

If he still doesn’t get it, Loverboy needs to understand that one day soon you’ll look like Jessica Tandy (at the end) and he’ll look like, um, someone really younger than Jessica Tandy (at the end). Explain it to him, with pictures if visual aids are useful to him. She was so cute, wasn’t she? She was also Paleolithic, and couldn’t take a flight of stairs without having a nap after.

If he still doesn’t get it, for Christ’s sake marry him and bang the living shit out of him day and night until you die or lose interest. You don’t always have a chance to rob the cradle, Lucy. What a lucky duck.


Dear Prudence,
My boyfriend and I have been together for one year, and now, as is natural, the urgency is dwindling. I don't get all the attention I "need." I've explained this to my boyfriend and he tries to accommodate me, but I need help banishing my unrealistic expectations, because it's unfair to him and causes me distress.
- Clingy

Dear Freaky, Dangerously Psychotic Chick,

Please, get the fuck away from me, scary girl. You are some kind of fucked up there, Nelly McNeedy, and if I were him I would be terrified you’d turn into Little Miss Stabby with a Knife at 2:00 AM after a cuddle session went off, but with a few minor timing and touching errors.

Familiarize yourself with the following: Butyrophnones, Phenothiazones, and Thioxanthenes. These are commonly prescribed antipsychotics. Side effects may include itching, irritability, fever, headache, vomiting, dizziness, uncontrolled bowel discharge, tooth loss, hair loss, excessive nasal discharge, and unexpected flatulence. Do not take if you are pregnant or plan to become pregnant, if you are taking MAOIs, if you have excessive pubic hair, if you like kittens, or if you own a Mazda manufactured before 1997, except the Miata, of course. But not a blue one.

Oh, call your boyfriend and threaten to soak his dick in lighter fluid and light it on fire while he sleeps. This will scare him off and sever all your ties quickly and cleanly, unless he’s one of those guys who thinks he needs to “rescue” you, in which case, well, have at him sis, he’s all yours. Bon apetit.


Dear Prudence,
I am engaged to a wonderful man, except for one issue. He placed a picture of his late wife and a small container of her ashes on a side table in the living room. Part of me is creeped out and wants us to have a fresh start without his former wife in the next room. What do you think?
- It Is Always Something

Dear Something or Other,

First of all, we are ALL wonderful, except one or more issues. Grow the fuck up.

This letter of yours is so flavorless, unremarkable, and uninteresting I had a hard time staying awake for the whole thing. You need to either cope or not, and he’s the one to talk to, you goddamn dipshit, not Prudence. Gawd.

Meanwhile, you need to know this: she can hear you.

That little box…she’s in there. She watches you masturbate. She watches you vacuum. She watches you wipe after you use the restroom. She knows everything you say, everything you do. She thinks you’re a bloody uneducated slob, and she hates your hair. She cannot believe your whole face actually looks like that. She knows her ass was nicer than yours, and she was way better in bed. She is not afraid of you. She can kill you while you sleep. Given enough time, she can control you, your actions, your thoughts. She’ll make you strangle him while he sleeps, because he’s cheating on her with you. She’ll make you forget the roast is in the oven and try to burn the house down. She’ll make you dress like she did, and woe to you, ‘cause nice ass or not, she had really shitty taste in clothes.

She is going to fuck up your shit, bad.



That’s all I have to say. Now you go on, have a nice evening…


What little time I have to myself recently is jealously guarded, and I cannot do the Tooty-Prudie dance every week as I’d like. I hate this, since DP-scream therapy remains my most effective form of sanity self-maintenance. I mean, you heard me whining up there, yeah?

As for all that pitiful whining about the weather, I need to be grateful I suppose. A very dear Flyster comrade of ours resides in the lovely, somewhat northerly city of Chicago. Weather right now says she’s living the dream amid a toasty, sunny temperature of 1. Former Californians like me cannot understand temperatures that are represented by only a single digit. It scares us, the way it would if we discovered the world was flat after all.

Break out the green paisley Snuggie, Messy. PM your address to me as well, and I’ll send you a bottle of small-batch Bourbon. Owe you one, I do.

Cheers, Flysters. May the stupid goddamn jet stream carry warmer climes your way soon…
STC =^oo^=

DP mania: an inhuman lack of control.

Human relationships always help us to carry on because they always presuppose further developments, a future --and also because we live as if our only task was precisely to have relationships with other people.
     - Albert Camus

An update from the “Better Late than Never” department. I have a busy, and apologize for my lateness to the DP party.

I live in interesting times lately. I have been a consultant for a decade or so, and have worked from home exclusively for the last three or so years. Now, I have a desk with my name on it and a stapler in the drawer, there’s a coffee maker across the building, and people sit all around me, making noises, asking how my weekend was, talking to their wives about last night’s episode of “Real Housewives of Weaverville, North Carolina.”

I am, oddly, a little out of place. Normally I am pretty gregarious, outspoken, and approachable in public settings, but this feels like a new world to me. I introduced myself to a coworker yesterday, shook her hand, and found it hard to look her in the eye. What the fuck?

Whatever the case, it feels good to be out among the normal. I look forward to coming in every day, and that’s an odd feeling in itself.

Meanwhile, I need to build a timeslot into my schedule to get DP work done on Thursdays.

Off to Proodieland. What a lovely brood this week.

Originals here.


Dear Prudence,

I began dating a man last summer, and he loves anal sex. I often shy away and feel uncomfortable. He told me that it's a make-or-break for him in a relationship. Should I bite the bullet and just go for it or let him know that I'll probably never enjoy it to the extent he does and let this "break" our relationship?

—Make or Break

Dear Break,

Damnit. What the hell? Do I need to remind you it is your responsibility, nay; duty, to take a manly meat missile up the puckered pooper whenever a man says to, goddamn woman! This whole “I shy away and feel uncomfortable” thing is a bunch of whiny girl bullshit. You love it. You know you do.

We straight guys remember prostate exams – the ones where the doctor has really big fingers – and tend to be a little more understanding about these things, unlike your anally addicted amour, and tend to make this activity optional. In your case you don’t need a prostate exam. You need a brain.


Dear Prudence,

I am in my mid-20s and pregnant with my first child. My MIL is a wealthy woman, and she has offered to pay off my considerable student loans. My fiance is all for me accepting the gift, however, one of his sisters is furious and has accused me of getting pregnant for financial gain. I would love to have my student loans paid off but do not want to ruin my relationship with my future sister-in-law. What should I do?

—Pregnant and Puzzled

Dear Puzzled,

Every time some woman gets pregnant it is automatically assumable she’s after one of the following:

- A husband. Most women, as you know, are helpless nitwits who cannot function without a man by their side, giving them guidance on things like what to cook me for supper, or when to fetch me a goddamn beer, bitch, and would you mind hurrying the hell up?

- Attention. Women need attention like babies need their asses wiped, and pregnancy is their favorite way to seek attention, second only to marriage, which is another story entirely.

- Money. It is a well known fact that women are not as able as men to earn money, and getting pregnant is a fine way to troll for extra cash, all the while basking in the additional attention from their new fiance.

Clearly you missed the boat when nature handed out basic life skills.

The rest of us – when we stop laughing, would say “geez, you’re stupid. I would tell Mumsy in Law to publicly give the money to the boy, or simply don’t bother to invite the sister in law over for Thanksgiving.”


Dear Prudence,

My parents were divorced when I was young, and my father remarried. My stepmother is a mean and manipulative woman. When it was time for me to go to college, my father agreed to pay for my schooling. Then my stepmother called me and said that my father had a heart attack and that his dying wish was to see me, but that she wouldn't let me see him. It all turned out to be a lie, just her strange attempt not to have him pay my tuition. I broke ties with that side of my family after that incident. My father and stepsister reached out to me a few years ago after more than a decade of silence. I've had a hard time reconnecting as I'm not sure my father knows what my stepmother did. Should I tell my father and stepsister?

Dear Conflicted,

Conflicted, my ass. In order to be conflicted you’d require an IQ higher than a tablespoon of pureed maggots, or maybe a bicycle tire. I have doubts.

It’s evidently perfectly natural to walk away from a family without said family knowing why. You certainly seem to have just split with no clear explanation when the stepmother – a woman of some import, I am sure, like the one in Cinderella – made a big icky and got you all scared and shit.

In the end, if there is any truth to this story at all, that truth is this: you are an easily manipulated brainless twat of the highest order. You should marry letter writer #1’s husband. Matchmaker, me.

The rest of us are thinking “call your fucking dad, dickless. Unless he’s in a coma, he already knows.”


Dear Prudence,

My husband and I enjoy entertaining. We are friends with one couple we include frequently. They are bright, enjoyable people, but they don't know when to leave. They always stay at least a couple of hours after all the other guests have gone. Is it ever appropriate to send guests home? If so, how do I do it? The wife has very strongly held opinions about etiquette—and heaven help anyone who violates her rules!

—Pulling in the Welcome Mat

Dear Welcome,

You are out of order here. If you have a soiree at your place, slated from 5 to 8, you are, first of all, a fucking old man and need to learn how to have a goddamn party, and second a controlling clock-watcher who needs his ass whupped like a bad dog.

The rules of etiquette state:

12.2.0 PARTY OVERTIME: A party may run long for a number of reasons. For instance your guests may be enjoying themselves greatly, and have simply lost track of time. It could be that you, as a host, project a message that you are extending the hours of a particularly successful party. Or perhaps your wife is giving blow jobs in the guest room and some of the male guests are going back for seconds.

Whatever the case, when a party runs late it is considered inappropriate to brusquely shoo the guests to the door in haste: a deft touch is needed. Dropping gentle reminders is acceptable, such as“Sorry, Dick, but we need to slow down a bit, as we are rising early in the morning to attend worship.” “My goodness, would you look at the time! I didn’t realize it was so late. I sure hope we aren’t keeping you up too late.”“Ted, sorry to rush you, but it’s about time to get your cock out of my wife’s ass. We have a long day tomorrow. Jim, you better finish up right quick, before her jaws tire out, because she bites. Oh, and hello Pete, didn’t see you under there. You almost done too? And hey - you fuckers better be wearing rubbers.”

Summary: When you need to bring your party to a close, gentle reminders are key in ensuring you don’t anger your guests.

The rest of us learned to say “go home, bob, we ran out of fucking beer half an hour ago” years ago, you ninny. If you can’t handle it, let your wife do it. She might be the one who has the balls in the household anyway.


It’s really goddamn cold out there (to me, anyway: 17 degrees is as close to intolerable as I can imagine, being from California) and I have to brave the walk down the street to Jimmy John’s for a sandwich, since I forgot to pack my lunch today. There’s still a buncha ice on the sidewalks from the recent weather here, and I have limited experience with that. Pretty funny, watching me penguin-walk my way along. I should YouTube it for you.


Happy Friday to you all, my Flysters, until we meet again!

STC =^oo^=