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?
—Matched?
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?
—Unseated
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^=
- 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?
—Befuddled
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.
—Stumped
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).
Ah.
Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=
- 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?
—Befuddled
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.
—Stumped
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).
Ah.
Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=
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