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^=