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^=

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