Room to Swing a 'Cat

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

2011-11-10T12:24:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-10-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

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!

Cheers,
STC =^oo^=

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

2011-07-28T12:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Onward.

***

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.

Idiot.

***

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?

Idiot.

***

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.

Idiot.

***

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.

Idiot.

***

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.

Cheers,
STC =^oo^=

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

2011-07-21T12:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Onward.

***

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.
Signed,
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.”

Not.

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

Cheers, flysters!
STC =^oo^=

Congraduations!

2011-05-05T09:55:00.000-07:00

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?

—Perplexed

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.

Congratulations!

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 canapés. 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.

2011-04-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-04-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-04-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

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^=

The Proodie Stoopid Brood Tsoonami arrives...

2011-03-17T10:46:00.000-07:00

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:

Don’t.
Do.
It.

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.

Cheers!
STC =^oo^=

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

2011-03-10T11:55:00.000-08:00

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:

“BIG FUCKING OFFICE PARTY! BEER! CHICKS! PRIZES! COME ONE COME ALL!

…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?

HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE!!!”

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.

2011-02-10T09:10:00.000-08:00

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.

Soon.

Tonight.

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.

2011-01-14T08:19:00.000-08:00

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

12.2.0.1“Sorry, Dick, but we need to slow down a bit, as we are rising early in the morning to attend worship.”

12.2.0.2 “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.”

12.2.0.3“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.

Nah.

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

Cheers,
STC =^oo^=

Out with the old, in with the old: some things never change.

2010-12-30T09:40:00.000-08:00

Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Lunch break.

The view ain’t great – there is a building next door that looks like a giant pile of dirty Legos, neatly stacked into a big monolithic mass of butt-ugliness, but this isn’t about the view, it’s about the job.

I suspect I will like it here.

Odd, becoming an employee after eleven years or so of consulting, but I have grown tired of hearing the sound of the axe in my sleep, and paid time off is actually kinda cool.

Bonus: As I reached for my latop, headed for the car to make the morning commute, I looked at my watch. It was 7:10 AM Thursday, December 30, 2010. When I pressed the lock on the remote and heard the car say “click” after I parked, I checked again. 7:25 AM Thursday, December 30, 2010.

Fifteen minutes. Paid parking, too.

Yes. I will probably like it here.

This week’s Proodi stuff is all absence-of-reality based, isn’t it? How can it not be? Do people actually think this way? It’s not just stupid – that’s simply where people go when there’s no better explanation. It’s a scary, psychological lapse in cognition, I think, which manifests itself in people asking to most unbelievably retarded fucking questions imaginable. I dunno. Maybe it is just stupidity. I ain’t no Freud, or Jung, or Justin Beiber, you know.

Off we go. Originals here, if needed.

***

Dear Prudence,
Seven years into my marriage with my ex-wife, I still wasn't sure if I wanted kids. Eventually she stopped having sex with me and our marriage broke up two years ago. Eight months ago, I met my now-fiancee. I proposed to her on Thanksgiving shortly after learning she was pregnant. I'm overjoyed about her pregnancy. My ex-wife, who's still single, immediately called me, furious and in tears. She blamed me entirely for the collapse of our marriage and said I should have told her personally about my fiancee's pregnancy. Was I insensitive? Is she right to be angry with me because I'm happy about my impending fatherhood?
- Excited Dad-To-Be.

Dear Excited,

Congratulations on finding a woman who pretends to like to have sex with you. Congratulations as well on your manly marksmanship and skill with recently ejaculated spermatozoa as well. Congratulations all around. Huzzah.

Sorry to say, but you are out of line here. Your ex wife has every right to know everything about your - and her – life, especially this new woman’s sexual tastes and habits, what color panties she’s wearing, whether she swallows or spits, if she likes it on top, that sort of thing.

She has the right to know this new chick’s bank account number, and her dress size, and her complete life history, social security number, blood type, where she works, what color her hair is (and if it’s real), and if she says “booga, booga, hallelujah” when you stick a finger up her butt.

It is unreasonable of you to expect your ex-wife to simply lay off, let the relationship go, and not boil into a nuclear fucking hormonal catastrophe over unannounced news like this, especially since you never informed her that this new woman likes, say, seafood or silver two-door German coupes, or watches “House,” or snores, or listens to Ke$ha.

It’s all about communication, see.

Haven’t you got a goddamn cell phone? The next time you slide Willy Von Veinmeister into this interloper’s hungry, waiting mouth and pop a nut, you need to tell your poor ex wife about it immediately. Remember to use appropriate language and context: telling your ex-wife that this new, useless harlot you’re marrying just gulped down half a quart of your man-mustard may remind her that she was a cold fish in the sack and didn’t swallow. She deserves more respect than that. Let her know this skeevy slut you’re saddled with is nowhere near as fine a person as she is.

She is, after all, your ex-wife.

In my world I am pretty sure my ex-wife, who remains friends with one of my sisters, hasn’t a goddamn clue about my life, but hey: my world – as well as hers – is out here in reality land, and there is a reason we are each other’s ex. You should have taken the red pill, Neo. What a dickhead.

***

Dear Prudence,
Earlier this year, a generous friend sent me a check to cover travel costs so that I could visit her across the country. I'm in my early 60s, and my friend knows that I earn just over minimum wage and am in debt. Unfortunately, she sent a cashier's check that she neglected to sign. Bad shit happened. When I explained she demanded full repayment of the original check and the cost of the reservations. I'm hurt by what's happened and her reaction to it, and frankly I feel a bit victimized. My resentment is eating me up. What should I do?
- Gift Horse

Dear Flicka Vanderfuckup,

This was all just a simple misunderstanding between two obviously intelligent, deeply sensitive people, but the lay of the land is clear. You offered to take the bullet, so you need to take action.

I can’t recommend Craigslist’s “Adult Services” section, because they no longer post those, but the “Casual Encounters” section is still in production. Your post should be carefully crafted to avoid law enforcement. Instead of using “sex” use the word “play” or “party.” Money cannot be discussed, not as a matter of exchange for service anyway, because this would be considered soliciting, but you might say “fair is fair” or something like that. Whatever, review the posts you find there and be creative.

Change the ad often, and be certain to screen email responses carefully.

The odds of you pulling down top dollar are pretty low – your age works against you – but there is decent money to be made, especially if you are open to unique or bizarre sex. Plain old anal is cheap – get creative, wear a Superman outfit, or frilly panties under your chaps, or get a beagle, or offer to take your teeth out.

Condoms are essential, old timer. Don’t be stupid.

About 3-4 months of “casual encounters” should get your delightful friend paid back and maybe take the trip anyway and leave a little nest egg in the bank for later. Hey: that retirement worry could be over – you might have a new career starting here!

As for her, she doesn’t need to sell her body, because you stupidly offered to pay her for both of your spineless idiocy. She can simply fuck herself.

The rest of us are just scratching our heads and wondering which of you is more stupid.

***

Dear Prudie,
I own and run a business with a smart, 40-ish woman who's also a good friend. Two years ago, her father died suddenly. The effect on her was devastating—and unabated. It seems as if being in mourning and having regular crises are becoming integral to her identity. The inequities this causes are starting to grate. At what stage is it OK to tell her she is hurting our business and testing our relationship?
- Unbalanced by Grief

Dear Heartless Motherfucker,

Jesus H. Fucking Christ. What an insensitive, cold, vicious asshole you are! What are you thinking? There is no end to grief! Ever! You must not have ever lost anyone you cared about.

It’s not like people just magically overcome the insidious, powerful grip of personal loss, you know. If you had any goddamn moral fiber or a modicum of human understanding you’d know that once the grieving process begins it must evolve into an inexorable downward spiral into eternal pain, sadness, and suffering.

You must immediately take on this woman as a cause and care for her completely. Keep her payroll active, and cater to her absences and numerous issues with relentless kindness, as she needs this sort of help in order to ensure she never, ever gets over this tragic, senseless, and horrible event in her life.

Remind her gently but constantly that the only thing she needs to do is ache and suffer for her loss, even if it means she cannot bear the thought of getting out of bed to use the toilet. And yes, you (you insensitive, vapor-brained fuckwiper) need to clean her up later. It’s the only truly kind thing to do.

People should never be told to move on, to learn to live their life in the absence of a loved one, or simply to (lord, help us all) “get over it” – these are cruel and dangerous things to say to someone developing or immersed in a well-defined state of grief. These inhumane utterances are best left to professionals, maybe someone like Nancy Grace, who is often cited as an individual who is completely in touch with the needs of those in pain, and she’s very wealthy because of this incredible empathic quality she possesses.

I might mention that the rest of us would have this solved after, say, two-three months. We’re obviously the stupid ones, huh?

***

Dear Prudie,
I am a college junior. I want to study abroad and travel the world. My biggest hurdle is my boyfriend. We have been together for five years and plan to spend the rest of our lives together. But he is against me studying abroad. He says I should wait until we're financially settled so we can travel together. But I don't want to wait. What do you think?
- Trying To Travel

Dear Uppity Bitch,

Who the hell do you think you are? You claim you are going to spend the rest of your life with this man, and you have the nerve, the gall, or dare I say, the balls, to question his authority? Sit down and shut the fuck up, Sally Selfish, because I am going to explain something to you.

Men, once a woman is married to them, are in charge of and in possession of said woman, much as if they were a car, or a suit, or a Husqvarna YTH24V54 24 horsepower lawn tractor. After you get married, that man tells you where to go, what to do, how to do it, and how you are to be used, and you better cheerfully comply, so help me.

Women are on the planet for one goddamn reason: to marry men and care for them, cook and clean, submit to sex whenever asked, look nice, do the shopping, act respectfully, bear children, a little light banter if required, and to shut the bloody hell up when told. That’s really like ten or so things, yeah, but it’s all one thing to a man, who frankly doesn’t have time or incentive to sort through stupid and trivial details such as “what women need”. In the end, men are the ones who have needs that must be met – women meet those needs, or they get the fuck out.

Is Hillary Clinton president? No. Why? She’s a woman, and men said “no.” That’s why. She’ll get hers, you watch. I mean, fuck.

Now, I realize you aren’t married to this gentleman yet, and I can’t imagine he’ll want to stay with you now, given your shitty attitude, and if I knew him I would steer him far, far away from the likes of you. Still, if he is forgiving (meaning if you are attractive, or you’re a good cook, or you have nice tits and no gag reflex) you need to remember that even though you aren’t yet married, you are GOING to be, and that’s good enough for him to tell you what the hell to do. Here’s what you need to do: start begging him to forgive you, blow him a lot more often, if he’s into that, and hope he is feeling generous.

Also: what the hell do you need an education for? Do you think you need to understand political science to pick out some pretty, lacy, see-through lingerie and do a naughty dance for your husband before submitting to him and satisfying his needs? Do you need to read about Aristotle and Fascism and US party history to find a recipe for Chicken and Dumplings worthy of cooking for him? How smart do you think you need to be to use the goddamn vacuum cleaner? Try reading the instruction manual for that, why don’t you. That’ll smarten you the hell up.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Now if you’ll excuse me, many of us suddenly have the urge to tell our significant others we love them, because many of us have half a goddamn brain, which means it’s likely they do as well; a condition which you are evidently unaware of. And we men…those with an intact cerebral cortex, anyway…just might need to go buy our wives flowers or something for whatever stupid thing we’ve done recently.

You? Quit asking questions. Go make him a fucking sandwich.

***

Tomorrow is New Years Eve. I am not completely fond of this day as a holiday: the 31st day of January is, technically, February’s Eve. Big whoop.

But it is a good reason for the kids to try (again) and fail (again) to stay awake until the big ball falls, and a good reason to make a move on my wife after a bottle or so of Champagne, and at the very least it’s a good thing to bring up when one writes the wrong date on a check: “hehe, I always do that, don’t you know, chuckle, chortle.”

So I ask all my Flysters to have a safe and happy New Year, don’t drive drunk, and may we all get laid and prosper and enjoy life more in 2011.

Salud,
STC =^oo^=

'Tis the season to be stooopid...fa la la la la...

2010-12-16T08:35:00.000-08:00

This Christmas, I will celebrate the birth of Jesus by ignoring the fact he would celebrate Hannukah.
- Unknown

Well well. Seems I, in my greatness and splendor, have decided to grace this place with the utter awesomeness of my fantasticfulness once again.

I missed writing these things, actually, and just found the time. Nothing awesome, though I may think it.

And the holidays do approach, steadily, borne on freezing rain and the hiss of a gas fireplace in the den of the house we're renting on the south end of town, all the better to escape that other place, the big pretty one the bank seems to want more than I do.

And with an attitude adjustment in hand too – Schuyler The Cat, yours truly, got hisself a new job which he will be starting on December 27th. Merry Christmas to me, it seems. I have a happy. I have a nervous too, but mostly I have a happy.

Just peed in a cup for drug testing yesterday, and since I can't think of anything I have taken that might skew that test I will state for the record am ready for work: a full time employee for the first time in eleven years.

Get this: twenty days of paid time off right out of the gate, along with seven paid holidays. Who knew the other side lived like this?

Ah.

And so, I now dive into my primal scream session with renewed vigor and vim, and dispel years of demons, chasing me about with days off in their clawed hands...

Originals here.

Note: Prudie's letters are just as stupid as always, huh? It's like a factory. A scary factory. A dumbass factory. Hot and cold running dumbass everywhere, just pick some up out back, off the loading dock, by the ton. Just sayin'.

***

Dear Prudence,
My boyfriend of two years says that he will not ask me to marry him unless I take a lie detector test to pinpoint the truth about certain things that have gone on in our relationship. His request is completely unreasonable, isn't it? Is it a sign of overall problems? What should I do?
—Am I Crazy?

Yes. You are crazy, you lying little whore. Men have the right to ask – I should say demand – you to take lie detector tests, given all women are pathologically unable to tell the truth. Me, I waterboarded the woman I married, just to make certain she wasn't carrying any undisclosed credit card debt or hiding pictures of her old boyfriends. You goddamn women need to understand you place in things, or so help me.

Meanwhile, the rest of the planet (a few billion of us, all of whom possess more basic intelligence in our fecal leavings than you will ever possess anywhere in your pathetically atrophied brain) is perfectly aware that this guy is a scary fucking cheese-dick and you should move on. Idiot.

***

Dear Prudie,
My father had a heart attack two years ago caused by untreated type 2 diabetes. He luckily made a great recovery and began eating right. He has gained back a lot of weight. He rewards himself for eating well by bingeing on junk. I am very worried about my dad's condition. But the subject is basically off-limits, especially since he's a doctor! How can I bring this up with him in a way that doesn't cause World War III?
—Dad's in Denial

This long-winded story – repeated a million times a day here in the Great American South where I live, is a deep-fried testament to 2 things: first, people need to eat. Second, all that body fat is GOOD for you. I cannot for the life of me understand you “free thinker” types who believe the industry which feeds us – Monsanto, ADM, Kraft and the like – would ever give us something that could be bad for our bodies. Kraft, for instance: they make “cheese.” When you look at the package, though, it's actually called “cheese food.” See, Kraft's brilliant scientists invented a food-like cheesy substance that is BETTER for you than real cheese, and then there's motherfuckers like you getting in the way of their success. Damn you.

Note: World War Three, a theoretical possibility I grew up with, denoted the likely end of civilization according to pundits. Your little missive is a goddamn pimple on the ass of the universe, and all you need a pair of fully formed testicles: tell him or don't, chicken shit. Just remember: when he dies, it ain't your fault.

The rest of us will simply shake our heads and wonder that something as strikingly stupid as you can actually function and survive with the rest of us. Moron.

***

Dear Prudence,
I've been working for a small, privately owned company for 10 years. I haven't gotten a raise in the entire time. We recently had a company meeting at which we were told we will be picking up a lot more of the costs for our medical plan and that we are all expected to increase our donations to the company's annual charity drive. Can I say no?
—It's My Money

Here in America, there are laws regulating employment and denoting what companies can and cannot do to protect themselves from whining little ungrateful fuckers like you. Anyone who knows that Trickle Down Economics was the harbinger of a greater society and the reason we are all rich and healthy today can tell you that you should consider your generous and kindhearted company's needs first, else how can all that money trickle down to you? And all those years your company carried you on it's back, enriching you and filling your pockets while you, you sniveling evil little fuckhead, took advantage of them. Amazing.

Me, I would just say no. Asshole.

***

Dear Prudie,
I recently graduated from college, got a great job, and moved to a new city a few hours away from home. Around the same time, my parents downsized to a smaller house and bought a vacation home. Now when I go home for holidays, I don't have a room, and my parents seem annoyed by my mere presence. Their attitude makes me not want to go home for Christmas at all, but that would mean spending it alone, seeing as the rest of my friends have families who are excited to see them.
—Rejected for the Holidays

See? Sometimes Prudie gets a LW with a partial brain in attendance! You are finally getting it, huh? Your parents hate you, mostly because you were a burden and a massive pain in the ass. Your shitty fucking attitude made them stop loving you years ago, and it's likely they will never love you again, much less like you. I don't like you either, fucker.

Those of us over the age of thirty know there is a fine line between “empty nesters” who dodder about the house wondering what to do next and those who say “WOO HOO!!! FINALLY we can butt fuck in the kitchen without getting caught!” Most people over thirty, though, don't like you.

Fucker.

***

Ah, yes yes yes. Feels good to be back. My wife, recovered from her waterboarding experience, is baking and making candy and such, and the house smells like Christmas. My mother, to whom I was a terrible burden, is staying out here with us this year (she's from California, where I grew up) and she's spoiling the kids.

It's freaking cold out, but it feels good. I feel good. Better, now that I shared love and solace with the poor LW's of Prudie's.

Hopefully I can make this a habit.

And so, cheers and salutations and great tidings for the season and ho ho ho and all that shit, me wonderful Flysters!

Cheers,
STC =^oo^=

Fast forward - the best a cat can do in under one hour.

2010-09-16T10:41:00.001-07:00

“Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief:”
-William Shakespeare

Quick work today, friends – I am a busy, busy man. Not really busy, but I have to fit all this in a very very short period of time since my job just got hecticer. I mean frenzier. I mean, where the hell is Sarah Palin – channeling the aforementioned Shakespeare – when you need her?

Originals here ifn' you want 'em.

***

1.) My daughter has recently became engaged. Her fiance does some pretty bizarre things for attention. He's gotten so close to me that his crotch rubbed against my back; and he's undone his pants, and then spent an inordinate amount of time tucking in his shirt while facing me. I worry that maybe I'm being too touchy about all this and don't want to create problems where there may be none. How can I address it without causing them pain?

Not a Mother-in-Law With Benefits – “Touchy”, huh? You little minx. This is perfectly normal, since mothers in law are expected – hell, obligated – to have sexual relations with their daughter's boyfriends. Quit being so goddamn uptight. Be sure to use a condom. If he gets you pregnant...oh, awkward, I suspect.

Meanwhile, I also suspect you have an IQ of about 73, which means you're pretty close to “too stupid to turn on the television or tie your shoes in the absence of an adult for guidance.”

***

2.) I'm a 27-year-old female with a wonderful life. I was teased mercilessly by classmates. I was a sensitive child, and these taunts hurt me deeply. In turn, I did something that I'm still ashamed of—I bullied another classmate. I teased her about her cultural background. I have found her Facebook page and would like to send her a brief message apologizing for my behavior as a child. Is this appropriate to do?

Ashamed – No, this is not appropriate. Sarah Palin, Sharron Angle, and Christine O'Donnell need to be your examples here, since they are very clear on the treatment of , you know, “those” people. As in people who are not white, Christian, and rich. All who aren't are fucking scum – piss on her.

On the other hand, people who are white, christian and rich may not include you, since there are fewer and fewer every day given the economic climate of late. If this is the case with you need to vote the Democratic ticket, ping this chick on FB and apologize, and go find a goddamn tree to hug or something.

***

3.) My husband's brother owns a time-share. He has been unemployed for quite a while and has started talking about selling it. He didn't have anyone to go with him to it this year and asked whether we would be interested. He mentioned we would be paying for food and alcohol, as well as his transportation to and from the airport. My husband says we should just accept his brother's terms and then never vacation with him again. What should we do?

Not a Freeloader – My take is simple: make an offer on the place, and give him a deposit. Once the paperwork I started, burn it to the ground and collect insurance. Then knock off the brother in law and steal all his stuff. Find a good fence and sell it. Run away to Austria (or something) and start going to the opera and eating strudel and shit. It'll all work out. It's a brilliant, simple plan. What can go wrong?

But before all this happens, when reality crashes down on your stupid fucking head, tell your husband his brother can go fuck himself and cancel the trip, you dipshit.

***

4.) I've been seeing a therapist for two years. She's lovely. My problem is, she doesn't know how to spell my name. I feel strange bringing it up now. Any method I can think of seems passive aggressive. Any suggestions?

Spell It Right – It is humbling to me that a member of the Einstein family has attended therapy, as I have too, and I find myself flattered in the company of genius under less-than-ideal bragging conditions. By the way: have you had sex with her yet? Try it. And forget the name thing – she's obviously so fucking hot for you she gets flustered and wants you to slam her up against the wall and do her like a wild banana-chomping goddamn chimpanzee. Note: this advice is for either a man or a woman, since I can't tell by your letter.

Unfortunately, in hindsight, you must have fallen pretty far from the Einstein family tree, because any fucking moron with enough brain matter tucked away in their otherwise empty cranial cavity to breathe without the benefit of assistance from machinery would know that she's waiting for you to BRING IT THE FUCK UP, so she can check the little box on your progress chart that says “not a complete fucking imbecile. Oh, and finally grew some little bitty balls and called me out on misspelling his stupid fucking name. Big growth here, for this witless dickhead.”

***

And lo, for he did the sunder yon fucking letter writers, fervidly so did he, forsooth, and it was good; for they art simple of mind, and thus fain he dasheth them against big sharp rocks, as they deserveth, you know, some fucking bashing or whatever.

Back to an endless schedule of conference calls wherein nothing of any particular importance occurs. Ah, la.

Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

The line between genius and insanity is but a thread, but not at Prudie's house.

2010-09-09T12:49:00.000-07:00

To spend more time in learning is better than spending more time praying; the support of religion is abstinence. It is better to teach knowledge one hour in the night than to pray all night.”
- Muhammad

The Stoopids.

In some cases they are like Jehovah's Witnesses, knocking on the door and standing with expectant looks on their face, seeing me with the five-day beard stubble and obvious hangover, and still offering me their hopeful suggestions as if I have ever been in the mood to find their brand of Jesus palatable, even when NOT hung over.

In some cases they are like Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann: frighteningly face-forward in their delivery of stunning one-liners like this little gem from Sarah, back in the campaign days: “As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where– where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border."

In some cases they are winners of the Darwin Awards, like the guy sitting in traffic who told the others in the car “I gotta pee”, whereupon he hopped out of the car, hopped over the barrier at the side of the road, and proceeded to fall 65 feet to his death, not noticing he was sitting on an overpass.

In some cases they are you and me. I won't speak for you, My dear readers, but If I had a perfect track record of non-stoopidity I would be hell of a lot healthier, richer, and happier. You did not date that woman who stabbed her ex-husband because he'd failed to remember their anniversary, now did you? If you had, you would have ended it immediately after you discovered she kept that same knife under YOUR pillow when you slept over at her place. Me stoopid.

There are many different views, sides, facets to being a Stoopid, mostly because there are side effects. One side effect is you learn from being a Stoopid, like I hope I have, and all of you, too.

Another is evident in the four brainless jackwagons on Dear Prudence's menu today, who, it seems likely, have never and will never learn a goddamned thing, and shall remain forever locked in stoopid's dull, vapid embrace.

And awaaaaay we go. Originals here, if needed.

***

1: I recently became engaged. Prior to our dating, my fiance had an affair with a wealthy woman. They remained good friends. For our wedding gift, she gave us $50,000. A part of me feels uneasy about accepting such a large amount of money from his former girlfriend. Please advise!

Reluctant Recipient – what kind of a birdbrained, dumbass, idiotic, weak-ass dipshit would ask this question? You! That's what kind! I win!

If you need someone to give you advice about this I can only assume you have suffered some form of significant cerebral damage, though overuse of drugs perhaps, or a fall resulting in cranial contact on a hard surface that scrambled with few goddamn brains you ever had in your goddamn head.

Take. The. Fucking. Money.

Jesus wept – I hope the next three aren't as thermonucletarded as you.

OFFER: If you don't want the fifty grand, gimme a call. They're foreclosing on me soon, and I could use the dough.

***

2: I am a woman working as a project engineer for a construction company. I have an issue with one co-worker. He throws paperwork at me, missing my inbox. I can't complain, as I would be seen as a whiner, and in this business, one is expected to buck up. How can I get him to respect me and place work in my box like everyone else does?

No Respect – Yep. That's what I was afraid of. Slate brought in crates filled with profoundly stupid people and asked them to write letters for Dear Prudence. Sad, sad thing.

This type of letter is my favorite, because it requires a coin flip. One side of the coin is action, the other is inaction. I will design your coin for you. Ready, dinglepuss?

Heads: Tell him “listen up fuckburger. You throw one more goddamn piece of paper at my desk like that, I will shove it up your ass far enough you'll fucking gag on it.”

Tails: Buck up.

Now go get a Kleenex, wipe your little tears away and get the fuck back to work.

BONUS: you actually wrote thew words “How can I get him to respect me and place work in my box like everyone else does?” Total Beavis and Butthead moment for me! Must be upsetting, needing him to put his “work your box” like that, you little vixen.

I soooooo funny.

***

3: I make a living as an adjunct instructor at my university and by waiting tables. My younger sister holds down three restaurant jobs. We each make about $15,000 a year, have no insurance, and carry student loan debt. Last Christmas our mother was laid off. She made only about $25,000 a year and struggled financially while raising us. She has almost zero chance of finding a job in this economic climate. What can we do? This woman raised me, and I have nothing to give her.

When the Recession Hits Home – This well-crafted Old Yeller-style letter is an example of what authors call a “hook,” where readers are captivated and drawn into a story by an ever-worsening series of dramatic cues.

In hindsight it reads like this: I am poor, my sister is poor, and my mom has recently become unemployed, thus poorer. We poor people cannot help our poor mother. The big comet is streaking at a bazillion miles an hour toward it's inevitable impact with the Earth, and when it hits all life will be extinguished (you didn't rally say that, but you might as well have).

When life gives you lemons you make lemonade. I hate that fucking saying, usually intended as an aphorism but really little more than throwaway junk advice. The reason I say it now is to give you a comparative example. You have no lemons. You have, as I understand it, nothing.

When life gives you nothing you make whatever the hell you can, or you die.

So you ask “what can we do?” Can you answer “Nothing?”

Up to you, but I see the Stoopids stopped by your house and dropped off a tract. Put it down for a sec and do something to help your fucking mother. Let her live with you. Help her build a good resume. Something. Anything. Somewhere amid all the nothing is unemployment, a place to sleep, some food to eat.

Seems, though, if you need people to tell you WHAT to do, then she may be better off on welfare.

OBSERVATION: You are one of those rare people who is forbidden to say “My mamma didn't raise no dummies!” Cause, like, you know, obviously she did.

***

4: Recently, I stumbled upon a pill bottle in the room of my boyfriend of two years. The part of the label with the drug name had been peeled off, so I was curious and suspicious. I went on a pill-identifier Web site. He's taking Levitra in the highest dosage available. I'm a little alarmed because he's only 24, and I've never heard of someone being prescribed erectile-dysfunction drugs at such a young age. Do I have the right to be upset that he didn't tell me about his problem? Should I confront him about it? I love him and want to be supportive, and I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable. I know it's a medical problem; I just think it's something we should have talked about. What should I do?

Supportive Girlfriend – ooh, this has some funny on it, yes it does.

Ever heard of a “fluffer?” Let me ramble a second here: a fluffer is a woman hired to sexually stimulate male porn stars to help them maintain an erection between takes. Porn, at times, requires the presence of a functioning boner, you see.

Fluffers were the lowest members of the porn industry food chain. Not a good job, I suspect. “Hey, Dick Rockhard, haul that big old veiny baloney pony (which has just been exploring various oft-used orifices on that skankasaurus porn star over there, and thus is probably slathered with a liberal coat of foamy skankasaurus orifice juice) over to Schuyler The Cat there, and he'll do things to keep that Perky Pork Popsicle working overtime.”

This is just something I would never, ever want to hear my boss say. Ever.

Am I digressing? No! Fluffers are a thing of the past. No longer needed. Unemployed, which I suspect is a bonus for them. But why?

Viagra! Once it was learned that Viagra has the same effect on men without erectile dysfunction as it does on those with, Pfizer started getting mysterious orders for massive cartons of the little blue pill, and the industry, now unfettered of troublesome issues of occasional flaccidity, could shoot 24/7 without pausing.

Back to the point: first, your 24 year old boyfriend likely feels he owes you no particular explanation for his medication, given the nature of erections vis a vis your current relationship status. Just sayin'.

Furthermore. there are, I must tell you, a few things you may not be considering:

1 – Erectile dysfunction is a thing which can be managed, so it ain't no big deal. Get over it.

2 – Boy Wonder may be taking a dose of John Holmes' Little Helper as a kick starter. Ever notice how he's rock-hard and ready to go all the time? This is normal in males at 24 years of age. Now, with legal, prescription drugs, that can be enhanced. Scary shit, eh?

3 – Boy Wonder may be taking a dose of John Holmes' Little Helper as more than a kick starter. My first wife, toward the end of our run, wasn't exactly appealing to me any more. I was in my twenties and fully functional, but Mister Tom Johnson wouldn't always stand at attention when called to duty, since I'd realized the miserable haggis wasn't my true love, like, you know, in the movies and stuff. Having said that...you and he getting on okay, dear?

Whatever the case, you don't worry about the presence of Levitra in the house. You worry if you find his meth kit hidden in the bathroom with a note that says “you fucking touch this I kill you!”, or someone's spleen in the refrigerator with a note that says “mine – do not eat!”, or your sister's panties under his pillow with a note that says “I never went for THREE HOURS before! So sore, but can't WAIT for tomorrow when she's gone. Levitra ROCKS!”

Now go looking in the junk drawer for your brain, sweetie. It's in there behind the flashlight with dead batteries, under the expired Papa John's coupons.

FOLLOW-UP: I had a girlfriend like you once. She was all uptight one day, and I had to ask her what was wrong. She said “I'm worried I'll get pregnant.” I said “we used rubbers, don't worry about it.” She said “Yeah, but I swallowed, like four times this week.” Sometimes I miss her so much.

***

Working from home today, as always, and with two children climbing on my chair and sticking their fingers in my ears, playing basketball with the orange juice container, or reciting all the lines from “Totoro” in a full scream, right outside the door, it is a challenge. Conference calls are always fun:

SON, IN MY OFFICE: Sticks his finger in my ear.
ME, ON PHONE: “Hehehehe.”
BOSS, ON PHONE: “Who was that?”
ME: “That was me – sorry, I thought I had the phone muted.”
BOSS: “This isn't really funny, you know.”
ME: “Yes, I know. Sorry.”
COWORKER, ON PHONE: “Hehehehe...”
DISHES, IN THE KITCHEN SINK: “CRASH! BASH! SMASH!”
ME: “What the hell was that?!”
DAUGHTER, EVIDENTLY IN THE KITCHEN: “Um, nothing!”
BOSS “Could you please mute your phone?”
DAUGHTER, TO MY SON: “That's a lot of glass. Don't step on it!”
ME: “...”

What, might I ask, is a “Teacher Work Day?” Don't they work other days too? I mean, I don't want to think of the school system here as a big free babysitting service with the perk of some education thrown in, but damn.

The flurry of birthdays are over: April 10, July 10, August 29, September 3. That's my little family unit, all scrunched together in the warmer half of the year, and off we go now into Autumn, my favorite time of year. Still waiting for my Kindle – should be here today or tomorrow. I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas.

Everyone in my household is healthy. Everyone seems happy. The impending doom and gloom of our inevitable foreclosure, bearing down on us a little faster every day, is not the monster we thought it was, as we are now ready to move along with our lives and put this little nightmare behind us.

Eventually the thorn will be pulled from the paw of this family, and we will relax, take a deep breath, and reflect on the sour days that led us to be here as more lessons: The Stoopids came to roost in my house for a time, all of us doing our part as well, and the foul financial machine that helped us get here hovering near with their wheezing, smiling lawyers, ever ready to offer great advice such as “stop buying medication, and you can afford this mortgage.”

We'll keep the meds, thanks.

Just so: we are a cheerful bunch, regardless, and there is only one dark cloud looming on the horizon for me. Not the foreclosure.

We will have to move. Dammit.

I HATE moving.

Cheerio, toodles, ta taa, hasta la vista, my dear Flysters. Until next time.
STC =^oo^=

Crazy from the heat? Nah. These are DPLW's and they come this way right from the factory.

2010-08-12T10:17:00.000-07:00

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
- William Shakespeare

There's just no excuse for this. An index of one hundred and eight degrees?

Global warming, depleted ozone layers, receding ice pack: I will forgo any vapid and untrained comment on the matter and allow NOAA scientists and the ever-brilliant Rush Limbaugh to argue the validity of these issues. It's hot. For fuck's sake, my air conditioning can't keep up with it.

Here in the south the humidity tends to be legendary, evidenced this past weekend when I hosed off my rear patio at about Noon Saturday and found it still soaking wet that night...not that it was cool enough to sit out there anyway. Anyhoo, this make these 97 degree days hellish, and I hate it.

Little matter, in the end: the mortgage company said I can't have a modification. Pay or quit, seems to be the message, and frankly I must quit. They need this place, it seems, to add another unpaid line item to their already red ink-limned books. Baffling.

Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac stated they were going to allow major restructures on loans which reduces the principal and bring the home into alignment with current prices, up to 30%. My mortgage servicer isn't buying that, and legally doesn't have to. They stated they were building a new 40 year loan at 3.2 percent with the last known balance plus about twenty to thirty grand in fees. The monthly payment will tumble. That's nice.

What's not nice is that make my mortgage principal a total of $100,000 more than this place is actually worth, which means this loan would be twice as suspect as an ARM or one of the other asinine financial instruments the banks and mortgage brokers used to get us all here in the first place. I'm like, meh.

They say the market will come back. I say taking that kind of hit means there is a very real possibility that I will not live long enough to see any equity value in this house, and given I run a home business my write-offs are damn near as good from an apartment. So...

In the end, I am not worried about not being to sit on my patio. Because it seems I will be sitting on a patio somewhere else this time next year. Somewhere I am renting.

Somewhere cooler, I hope.

DP's are formulaic and predigested as usual, with a nice theme to sink my claws and fangs into, so here goes. Originals here.

***

1.) I dropped out of college to take care of my ailing mother. I borrowed $4,500 from my father to pay for my expenses during that time. She died, he got insurance and other compensation, and now he wants the money back.

Missing Mom – Lets start with the two and a half years of your life that you “gave up.” You did not surrender these to the winds and lose them, chum. You took care of your mother until she died. That's not a waste, nor a poor investment. Change your thinking.

Next, your old man is a fucking cheese-dick of the most vile imaginable sort. Regardless, I suspect either a.) you have never confronted him in any clear and compelling way that would help him understand that you weren't blowing the $4,500 on trips to Vegas and a mild meth habit, or b.) understanding this, he simply doesn't care and just wants his money.

Either way, he's being a big fat douche face.

I have a few options for you. Tell him:

a.) “Fuck you.”
b.) “Fuck you, dad.”
c.) “You know, I sure do love you dad, but fuck you.”

Some variation on this theme. You get it. Good luck.

***

2.) My husband is an only child, and his parents gave him a gift of a generous amount of money for the down payment on our home. His parents have decided to move into our home instead of getting their own place. Bonus: they wish to move into the master bedroom—and my husband has agreed to it! What the fuck?

Wife Without a Home – I'm thinking either this is really weird or it isn't, but that's a cultural distinction I suspect, and unless you're writing this letter from somewhere outside the US borders I will fall in step with rather more local ideals. Meaning: maybe they do this kind of shit where he's from.

I can't say what vexes me more about this, the concept of ownership, as in the house itself; or the concept of a gift, as in the money his folks gave him. The idea that my folks could give me a big fat gift of a 50% down payment is unthinkable – even if they'd had the money it wouldn't have happened. In Fantasyland, had they actually done so, that gift would be just that: a gift, not an expensive apron string. Given without expectations.

I know a family, though, who are completely different about these ideas. Money is just money to them, and there is no definitive line of ownership of it, except to say that the parents are the biggest shareholders and the kids (now in their 50's) are therefore both entitled to it and completely indebted. The parents in this case lost a house their son built for them (he was a contractor) and made him surrender a house to them he'd built for himself. He moved into an apartment, then a shitty little dump which was all he could afford at the time.

With my sister and their newborn daughter.

Fuck that. My folks were apoplectic. I remain baffled to this day, especially when he (my brother-in-law) said he “owed” his folks that.

What kind of fucked up guilt game is that? A bad one, I assure you, and my sister turned to the Jehovah's Witnesses seeking an escape from the tyranny. She's never been the same. I miss Christmas with her.

You, little dearie, may have married into that kind of family. So it gets weirder and weirder than just a down payment and a house and a bedroom (which, incidentally, he surrendered without your input, or is that an incorrect assumption?), but it becomes a family matter that would make me beyond uncomfortable. Your experience may vary, but there may be a lawyer in your future. Or a Kingdom Hall.

***

3.) I am divorced and live in a condominium complex. There is a man we run into at the pool constantly who is of no interest to me. This past weekend he asked me to lotion his hairy, acne-covered back. I was all like, ew. What do I do?

Baffled – see, this is a case where the letter writer's name is ideally suited. Baffled, indeed.

I am not baffled, nor should I be. I suspect a very large percentage of the planet's population would be completely not baffled as well. Forrest Fucking Goddamn Gump would not be baffled.

No. Just you. Jesus wept.

I mean, really: you had me with “hairy, acne-covered back.” You're telling me you didn't get all squidgy and moist and horny just thinking about that? Really? I am stunned.

And speaking of backs, I think I have a solution for you: a spine. A real, human spine, complete with 33 vertebrae and a cord and nerves and those little disc thingies and a system of muscles and other fibrous tissue which holds the whole gloppy, lumpy mess erect and allows we humans to get face to face with other humans and say things like “dude, I am, like, so totally not interested in you” and that sort of thing.

Any other questions?

***

Note: Schuyler The Cat already has a chain of Testicles-R-Us stores across the nation – look out for the new “Spines-R-Us” stores, coming to a strip mall near you!

***

4.) I recently signed up for a walk to help raise money for a worthy cause. I'm delighted with the amount I've been able to raise, and for those who have not donated, I understand that it's not everybody's cause, finances are tight, people don't like to donate online, etc. I resent the shit out of these people though, because I bought crap from them before. Should I send a reminder e-mail or say something? It feels so petty, but I'm having trouble letting it go.

Favorless – the common thread in all these stupid letters today is one of boundaries, ownership, and reciprocity.

You are perfectly at home here among the other LW's. Because you need to learn a lesson about these very subjects.

I learned in middle school If a girl drops a pencil on the floor and you pick it up for her, this does not mean she owes you a blow job. Later, I discovered that if you open a door for a girl, it does not mean she owes you a blow job. Taking a girl to a movie? Oddly, this does not mean she owes you a blow job. Buying her a drink? It sure helps, but no, it does not mean she owes you a blow job.

A little single minded, I know (I really like blow jobs, could you guess?), but the point here is this: what you do to the world is never an indication that the world will likewise do back to you. Karma is a fickle, funky little superstition that has no rules, selects no favorites, and overall just makes people feel better for believing in it. Really lovely, caring, giving people get mowed down by gunfire for no reason every day. It's a happy place, Earth.

And where this all intersects boundaries, ownership, and reciprocity is this: buying shit from a bake sale is not a goddamn investment vehicle that earns you some kind of exchangeable currency of kudos and back-pats. You give when you feel you ought, and you ask when you feel you ought: anything else is a demand, and that's a good way to get otherwise reasonable people to say things like “fuck you” and “no” and “who are you again?”

Having trouble letting it go? Tough shit. Life is hard. Blow me.

***

It's been a year of Old Canadian Bands for us – last year we got cheap tickets to see Rush at an amphitheater here in Charlotte. Sound was bloody awful – as usual the Amphitheater was built years before a nearby block of apartments which then complained about the noise, and there you go. Still a great show – I love those old guys.

This Sunday we will go see Heart at a different – again outdoor – venue. The ladies don't look worse for wear, although M.A.C. Cosmetics are a major sponsor and I suspect Ann and Nancy take much advantage of their product. I saw them 30-odd years ago, and I hear they still have enough energy to give a good show.

Weather forecasts say mid eighties (WAY cooler than yesterday and today) and scattered thunderstorms. That's what rain ponchos are for, I believe. I will report.

And so it is adieu, my dear Flysters, Stay cool!
STC =^oo^=

Home, home again. I like to be here when I can.

2010-08-05T14:26:00.000-07:00

Lawyers spend a great deal of time shoveling smoke.
- Oliver Wendell Holmes

A week out of the country does good things for a body, even when I have to continue to work while away. This is especially true when one can get up from one's borrowed desk, take off the headset, then wander lazily to the northern edge of the Saint Lawrence River and watch sailboats meander quietly along their way, stop for an ice cream cone, and revel in temperatures roughly 25+ degrees lower than the ugly swelter visited upon us back at home.

And arriving home, everything was just as we left it but clean, as our house-sitter spent her time cheerfully scrubbing and making tidy the house. And a bonus: we had purchased a case of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for the trip, but it didn't fit in the car, so it was here waiting for me in my garage fridge, calling to me, “drink us, we are SO much better than Labatt's!” And they are.

Today I am feeling nominal but uneasily back at my old bad habits: sitting too long staring at data on a screen, hoping it will all fix itself for me. It never does, though. I stand up and my ankles hurt, and this is not healthy. Sigh.

It is good to be home. Now I need to get up and move around a bit.

Prudie this week = omfg+wtf+stoopid. Seriously.

Originals here.

***

1.) Twenty years ago, I had a child out of wedlock. I was banging two different guys. We did a DNA test which proved the father was not my daughter's father, it was the other father who wasn't the father who is her father. Now my daughter wants to meet the un-father who is. What do I do?

So Ashamed – As a man, I have never had this problem: if a woman I have sex with becomes pregnant, I always know who the mother was. To the best of my knowledge, I have only had two biologicals (which are currently in the background fighting over a Zhu zhu), but I had to take a DNA test years ago because my ex-girlfriend said “it could be yours, but it could be this guy's or this guy's, too. Oh, and it could be my step-brother's, maybe” which fucking creeped out my shit. In the end, it was a fifth guy's baby, and there you have it, but in the end, where was I going?

Oh, yeah – she was always the mother. No doubt.

As are you, I assume. So why all this shame? Are you having that “oh, gee, I was sleeping with TWO guys, and that's just, you know, awful and makes me a whore” thing going on?

Let's start with that possible, albeit unseemly, issue: I have been involved with more than one woman at a time. I do not feel like a whore. You were involved with two men at a time. You have the choice. If that's an issue, get over yourself, Sister Sally Straightlaced, 'cause unless you have some Catholic (or other ill-guided) guilt hanging over you, it's only the big deal that YOU make it out to be.

Second, and probably the real reason you have this shame thing happening: your daughter knows you were a slutty goddamn whore, humping every guy in a fifty yard vicinity and not keeping track of the condoms.

Speaking of which – are you serious? It was roughly 1990 when you took to the bedroom with the dynamic duo. Ever heard of condoms? Are you fucking crazy?

Let's move on: so your daughter knows you were sexually active with two guys in a short period. She's also over 18. Do the math. I got ten bucks says she knows the score. If she's going to gig you for anything it should be the condom thing, you stupid dipshit, and hopefully she'll learn a lesson from it before she makes you either a grandmother or a victim.

***

2.) I am a female law student who is employed for the summer (and potentially for the school year) at a small firm that I'm really enjoying. I am surrounded by men who act like they're living in a frat house and it's pretty gross. The work environment is becoming so unpleasant that I wonder how long I can stand it. What should I do?

Livid but Lost Law Student – Terrible place to be, Realityland is. Assholes everywhere, doing and saying asshole things and generally refining their overall assholishness like the assholes they are.

And poor little you: just a little lamb among those big, bad wolves. Meh.

The way I see it, you have three options. These are options based upon the reality that surrounds you which you appear to not yet comprehend to the full extent. Here goes:

One, you can sue those fuckers. You're a law student, right? Fuck 'em! Hire a lawyer, and sue those lawyers in a big fat conflagration of lawyerly lawfulness and get what you can. Better hope for a big payoff, too: you may never work in the field again, when future employers find this out. If I were a senior partner at a law firm, I'd see you as a liability. Reality.

Two, do nothing and it'll go away. It might, you know. And a herd of wildebeest are currently roaming my living room, fattening up on candy and pastries before they start their trek to the bathroom, where they will be transformed into pretty unicorns that poop yummy Kit Kit bars and sing all the songs from the goddamn “Tinkerbell” soundtrack, you brainless dipshit. Not reality, but you get the point, I hope.

Three, you can fucking say something. Face down the skeezy guy without the subtle hints and throw down your feelings on the matter. If a man faces a woman and makes inappropriate comments, she's obviously within her rights to face him down and take him to task, and you should have already done that, rather than demurely drop hints that probably egg him on. He's a non-issue in the long run. The gay bashing in the background, that's easy to handle if you speak up to the ringleaders. Last, there is no shame in approaching your immediate superior with a simple statement that you're grossed out by the overtly crude male-ness in the office. Expect nothing for this effort. Reality.

Regardless what you do, realityland is open 24/7, holidays and weekends, always ready to serve you a steaming dish of shitty life lessons. Take a bite. Might learn something.

***

3.) My dad wants to friend me on Facebook, but I don't like him all that much and besides, I trash talk on Facebook. What should I do?

Facebook Challenged – Mother McCree and her silver fucking hair, I tire of this Facebook bullshit and the idiocy of it's users.

“Dear Prudie, I was on facebook and posted that I let my little dog Sniffles lick my butthole and my mom saw it and now she's like all mad and weird to me, what can I do? Signed, Puppybutt.”

“Dear Puppybutt, what kind of fucking asshole posts that stuff on Facebook?”

I realize that it's fun for people to get on their computer and pretend to have a new life there, but for some perspective, I was in a discussion with some people I know who were on Prodigy in the 1980's, and back in those days all three people you knew online were polite, to a degree.

The 1990's happened and a third of the online global population became a fucking asshole.

The 2000's came and rule 34 had already evolved: if it exists, there is porn of it somewhere.

So here we are, 2010, and you still don't get it, do you? Lemme help: you are an online presence. You can be more than one, of course, by creating throwaway accounts and trolling the shit out of /b/ and Digg and Reddit and generally acting like an asshole, all the while blissfully unaware that any post you make is subject to a certain amount of both scrutiny and rebuke, and if you aren't careful you can be found, anonymous or not.

In the end, though, if your name is “Jenny J. Smith, 3232 Boogie Woogie Avenue, Humperdump, NY 12345” and that's also your Facebook account persona, then you are no longer protected by any form of anonymity whatsoever. You may as well be standing in the town square with your tits out, begging people to point and laugh...except on Facebook you can pick your tormentors and un-pick them later.

There are 400 million users on Facebook, give or take a few. You can friend them all if you want to, every single one, or not.

But this is the world today, snookums, and secrecy is fast becoming – if it hasn't already become – far more relative to what you write on your status, not who sees it. Cope.

***

4.) I am engaged. This is the second marriage for us both. We don't fight much. Is my new relationship doomed because my fiance and I don't take part in those little squabbles?

To fight or Not To Fight? - You're fucked. My wife and I fight all day, every day. That goddamn bitch is a controlling, manipulative hairbag who can't seem to get enough tormenting me.

Feel better? Me neither.

Truth is, my wife and I have dustups about once every six, maybe eight months. They are typically minor. We do not see this as an obstacle. We seem to see it more as an understanding: if you agree on things, generally you don't fight. She and I agree on things, mostly.

Was that so hard? I wonder if maybe the two of you are both in the same low IQ range, and simply too dumb to find a subject to disagree upon. Sheesh. If it's that big a problem, go find an asshole and be happy.

***

And I am spent! Alas, the data I am staring at has not fixed itself, so I have to fix it, dammit. At least I have a job.

Cheers, Flysters!

On vacationing, and the perils of stupid mothers.

2010-07-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

Canada's climate is nine months winter and three months late in the fall.
- Evan Esar

Hello and greetings to one and all from the Great White North. Well, not TOO far north, just across the St. Lawrence River in the little town of Morrisburg, Ontario, where my wife spent a few of her formative years.

It's nice here.

They say you can walk across this town in ten minutes if you do it at three in the morning, but it'll take a few hours in the afternoon, because you'll stop every few feet to talk to someone. Small town living is not what I am used to, having lived in or near LA most of my life, and friendly people sometimes mortify me. Takes a few days to get used to.

This is a “working vacation” which is obviously a contradiction in terms and/or oxymoron or plain stoopid, because I have been doing a lot of working with little vacationing, so I take a lot of breaks and wander about; down to the Canadian Tire or Tim Horton's, sometimes to the shoreline to watch freighters head toward the locks, and I get to stop and wrestle with my kids a lot. So I won't complain. I could be stuck in an office. Or unemployed.

My Mother in Law (a good one – I am very grateful for having a MIL that I don't want to strangle) got us theater tickets for a play written by an Ottawa native, a local who is pretty popular. The doors closed at 7:55, so we started walking to the theater at 7:50 and got there two minutes early. Small town. Weird.

Back to work soon, so I better get started on this lot.

Originals here.

***

1.) My 7-year-old is the daughter of Quasimodo. She's a pallid, awful and hairy girl-beast from hell. Talking to her about inner beauty will be worse than a lie, since I'm obviously bothered by her eyebrows! I've been tempted to look into electrolysis down the road, but what kind of maternal instinct is that?

Shallow Mom – Your letter makes me – and others, I am certain – wonder how you can even tell what your daughter looks like when your head is stuffed so far up your ass like that. People with otherwise unobstructed views of their children do not suffer from similar idiocy.

No, dickhead, I am not talking about the issue of your hirsute monster-child. That's not the issue, or at least it isn't until she's older and realizes that you've made it one.

I am talking about your idiotic question: “What kind of maternal instinct is that?”

There will come a time that you and your daughter will have a reckoning about her whole Chewbacca thing, and this question of whether to attack it with a laser, razor, or flamethrower will come clear. It may come soon: she's seven, and kids are likely to notice that she doesn't walk on all fours or swing from the ceiling fixtures, so she may be a suspected humanoid and somewhat furry, thus ripe for teasing.

Meanwhile, go refill your goddamn prescription and back off on the coffee, because you're making everyone nervous.

***

2.) My fiance and I are getting married soon, so we are obviously retarded and incapable of forming a coherent thought. We're having a difference of opinion over who walks down the aisle, because hey: we're getting married, so we are obviously supposed to act like a couple of moronic nose-picking goddamn assholes. I'd like to keep this a family procession. What am I not seeing here?

Aisle of Pain – Elope. Seriously, get in the goddamn car and get the fuck out of here. I don't care where you go, just go. Having you on this planet is sucking the very life out of the rest of humanity, because you're GETTING MARRIED, therefore you are a fucking imbecile. Everyone hates you. They should, too.

Here's a little experiment: I am going to say something. “This is only a wedding, it's not that important.”

Ah, yes, everyone hear that shrieking sound? That's the sound of a bride to be, just told that weddings – and specifically her wedding - are not the big deal they think they are. Bloody hell, it's terrifying isn't it?

Listen up you insipid, gawking little butt nugget: everything about your silly-assed question is a universal insult to humankind, and nobody cares but you and your idiot groom. Shut the fuck up, go away, and just get it over with. Sooner is better – you have a divorce to plan, you know.

***

3.) I raised two daughters as a single parent by choice. I stupidly opted to spoil the fucking hell out of them and spent everything I had doing it. I incorrectly blame the economy, but now I am broke and they won't give me any money to buy food. How do I tell them that I'm hurt about their lack of concern and would like to be treated by them once in a while?

Tired of Giving – Sorry to hear about your financial issues, but there's a moral to your tale that others can learn from.

When you teach your children to want for nothing, they learn that nothing is wanted. That means you, you goddamn airhead. What they fuck are you expecting? You systematically taught them to take without giving, and now you are trying to find a way to backpedal and teach them to be generous? They don't know the word, asswipe. Bonus: your kids are not supposed to raise you, genius.

Here's context for your letter: “Dear Prudie, I made this big cool monster thing out of dead people's parts and afterward I discovered it was hideous. I started disliking it, and now it's wandering the streets killing people and I just don't understand why it doesn't love me. Signed, Victor Frankenstein. PS: Marty Feldman drank all my goddamn scotch.”

There is no lesson for them yet, Mommy Dearest, but the lesson is yours first: when you make a shit pie, be prepared to have it thrown in your face.

***

4.) I'm a bargain-hunter and sometimes find great deals on gift certificates for expensive restaurants in my city. These restaurants are normally out of my price range, but I enjoy romantic dinners there. Is it cheap or tacky to use such gift certificates on a date, especially one of the first few dates?

Frugal – Finally, someone I can understand! You came to the right place, bro, 'cause just like you, I got chicks climbing me like horny little monkeys in a tree! They're typical bitches, you know, all after the big fella, know what I'm saying? I go out with a different chick three, maybe four times a week, dude, and between you and me, we know the story: it gets spendy, but if you want a taste of the poon, you need to drop a lot of the green. Those panties don't come off for free.

Straight up – Prudie's not the shit, because honesty is not the best policy with the bitches. They find out you're a cheap-ass, they'll dump you and find someone with better cash flow. Makes it harder to get some ass doesn't it?

Look, with practice you can sneak the coupons to the server without the chick knowing what you're doing, just be careful. Be smooth. Get it all paid for when she's taking a pee, maybe, then it's back to your place for some serious hump and tackle, know what I mean? Bitches like that shit!

Translation: God save us. Are you on Jersey Shore? Please go away.

***

And with that it's off to the weekend – there's a carnival in town the kids need to go to, and there's ice cream down by the dock (mini Rolo chunk, mother of God it's amazing), and it's 77 degrees outside (sorry, I am being silly: it's 25, eh?) and despite long work days sequestered in this little office at my in-laws place I am veeeeery happy to be here. Except there's no good beer and what beer there is costs a fortune.

Old joke, sin taxes being what they are in Canada. Six pack of beer? Costs $18.50. A new liver? Free!

Cheers Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

Room to Swing a Cat, abridged edition.

2010-07-15T17:23:00.000-07:00

Talk is cheap
- Proverb.

Just so – I will be taking it easy this week, given my general busy schedule of late, dour demeanor, and a dull need for easy pickings and easier outcomes. Note: It is never wise to sit jabbering on the phone with a family member, all gulp and aglug the whole way through a big bottle of cheap red wine until midnight, when one is expected to perform satisfactory work the next day. So that's just what I did.

I feel...shrunken. Somewhat.

So I was reading these DP letters and I thought “oh, look. There's some dizzy dipshit who literally needs to ask a perfect stranger whether or not to get the Pamela Anderson treatment because her boyfriend (a sexual athlete, evidently) likes big titties. Oh, and look – she has a daughter. Isn't that sweet?”

And I thought “who the bloody fucking hell wrote this shit?”

So I said to myself “I will not fall for it this week. Not me. This is the new me. This bullshit has to stop.”

And then I wrote this blog anyway. Red wine hazes the brain, makes a guy feel like he's a cheap camera, out of focus, bleary and weak, and in this case, submissive to the whims of whatever is on the other side of the lens.

Bonus for you this week: The longest response I made was, like, 50 words or so. 50. Out of character - you know me. I usually don't get warmed up until page 6 and I have used the term “Imbecility” or “Cheese Dick” at least once. This time, short stuff, and I do not use either term at all.

Maybe it's puberty.

Originals.

And we commence.

***

1.) I am in my 30s. My boyfriend recently told me that he would like it if I got breast implants. I'm beginning to wonder whether I should go ahead with enhancement just to please him.

My B's Are Getting an F – No.

I will elaborate: NO!

Asswipe.

***

2.) My husband and I are empty-nesters in our 50s. My mother-in-law feels that it is our responsibility to take them on vacation with us. Are we selfish to want to be alone on our vacations?

Escape Plans – No. You're as stupid as letter writer 1.

Dipshit.

***

3.) I have bipolar disorder. I have been having issues with one of our interns. Anytime she and I disagree about something she rolls her eyes, waves her hand, and declares that I am "just bipolar." I want some peace and a little less condescension when I go to work.

Tired of Her – Thank you for the lovely anecdote, but you didn't ask a question, such as “should I kill her, cut her body into pieces, and scatter them in a field, THEN take my medication?”

If that was your question, psycho, the answer is no. Go take your fucking pills.

Moron.

***

4.) My stepbrother died last week. My sister asked me to take care of ordering a floral arrangement. I used to work as a florist. I made a beautiful arrangement from my garden My sister came unglued. She said it was tacky and cheap to not send something from a "real florist." I've been receiving daily calls from one or the other of them, telling me how cheap I am. What should I do?

An Alleged Cheapskate – Hang up the fucking phone. You really needed me to tell you that?

Idiot.

***

Allah willing and the creek don't rise, I will be writing this bit from the little town of Morrisburg, a wee trek south of the city of Ottawa, in two weeks. Family beckons, and we try to make this trip at least once every two years.

A lovely little town. My wife lived there in her high school years. They say it only takes an hour and a half to walk from one end of town to the other, because you'll bump into 6-7 people along the way and chat. Do it at 3:00 AM when everyone's abed and it takes about seven minutes.

The wrench in the works? I may not be able to take the time off. Nice, huh? At least I have a job to hate.

Besides, no use worrying about it now – I have to go to the store.

We're out of wine.

Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

I mean, really, come on, really?

2010-07-09T12:48:00.000-07:00

My wife never lies about her age. She just tells everyone she's as old as I am. Then she lies about my age.
- Robert Orben

Ah, Flysters. The days zoom by like brilliant race cars in the hot sun, blurred and disaffected, and here I sit wondering where the last week went. Made me realize something: working from home sucks the life out of me after a while.

I make all the right noises about it, of course, because it is a luxury: “I am more efficient, there's no commute, I am better rested, nobody sticks their head in my office to blather about what a jackass LeBron is, I can work through lunch, blah blah...”

My interactions with other human beings, though, is limited to endless telephone conversations that all start to sound alike after a while. Thanking back to yesterday, three hours of conference calls and a dozen or so one-on-one calls, and my memory of them is like an episode of Charlie Brown when the grown ups talk: “waa waa waaaaaa wa waaa waaaaa.”

Yesterday, turns out, was punctuated by a job interview. This was in person, and commenced at, of all places, a Macaroni Grill restaurant. A loud Macaroni Grill, at that. And it was both the most memorable AND most demanding interview I have ever been through, bringing a new meaning to Macaroni GRILL.

And I flubbed it. Seriously, I was asked questions that a recent college graduate could field with ease, and I started my responses strong then slowly faded into gibberish, over and over again. I drew a blank. I fizzled, sputtered, said “um” a dozen times a minute, and personally think I left the interviewer utterly unimpressed.

Shit. Lotta money for that one, too.

We'll see – you never find out about these things until later, and I should know yea or nay by day's end.

So there's my excuse for not having RtSaC ready on time. Some people say “the dog ate my homework.” Some, “the sun was in my eyes.” Me? “I was busy fucking up my career by sucking ass at a job interview.” The latest in a long line of my most pitiable excuses.

Let us commence to digest whole these four pathetic specimens from DP. Originals HERE if'n you want 'em.

***

1.) I landed a dream internship in the entertainment industry and on my first day on the job got culminated in a victory party at a bar. I wound up too drunk to drive home. One of the bosses took me home with him, and when we got there he repeatedly tried to kiss me. He told me that he found me incredibly beautiful and sexy. Twenty minutes later, I was throwing up in his living room while he tried to play nurse and let me sleep it off on his couch. I intend to stay at this internship, because it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Do I write the incident off as a crazy, drunken night and nothing more, or confront him about it?

Harassed and Hungover – Let's discuss the perfect first day at work, shall we? You got drunk, fought off sexual advances, barfed in your boss' living room, crashed on his sofa, and you wonder aloud if this might be written off as a crazy incident?

Better – you think you might want to confront him?

Damn, you're no fun at all. Most women I harass while drunk on their first day put out. Hell, I had one who dressed up in a Mary Poppins hat and umbrella and sang “Spoonful of Sugar” while I spanked her with a rolled-up copy of “Cat Fancy”. I can still hear that song. “Juuuuust aaaaaa spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go dooown...” She had a tramp stamp of Niels Bhor with the phrase “you Bohr me, smart guy, now shut up and wreck it” underneath. Spoke both French and Italian in bed, too.

Sadly enough she quit a month later. The workplace is an evil and sad place.

You? You're kind of a sour puss. You're kind of an idiot as well, although there are two answers I have for you here. Ready, Xaviera?

1.)What kind of moron gets that drunk first day on the job? Just asking. I already know the answer. You. That's what kind of moron gets drunk the first day on the job. Jesus.
2.)You rejected him by saying “I don't understand,” which to him might have meant “I don't understand the theory of relativity, but I certainly understand why your tongue is down my throat.” Didja manage to say “no?” Remember: no means no, and if you didn't say it, and instead professed vapid confusion, you are in gray territory legally, and any confrontation you might have planned carries little weight, unless by “confrontation” you mean “calling him a doo doo head and letting it go at that” which is all the weight you need.

In the end, if you were an intelligent person I would have told you this: yeah, you better have a talk, but this sounds like a pretty laissez faire operation and the party scene has it's risks unless you get the cards out in front first. I must assume that since you haven't called the police already this means you do not feel you were sexually assaulted, and he's probably in the dark given your drunken state. Look – if he'd been serious he would have sexually assaulted you, and this would be a case for the police. Maybe you just need to admit you were lucky.

A smart woman, not you, would carry a message stating it was unacceptable. A smart woman would understand that getting shitfaced on day one of a new job, while not a vivid demonstration of intellect, is also not an invitation to get slobbered on by your new boss.

Maybe you know a smart woman? Have her talk to him. That'll fix it.

***

2.) When my son was 5 he wanted a $250 gaming system. My husband and I told him that he would have to save up to buy it. After many months, he had half of what he needed. We were so impressed by his strength of character that we pitched in the rest. Two years later, my husband's uncle asked to borrow the system. He had so much fun that he offered to buy it for $180 to be paid in weekly $20 increments. The uncle's payments were erratic, but he eventually made most of them Then the uncle lost his job and has not given my son the final $20. How do I get the uncle to make this last payment without causing a scene?

Mama Bear – Well well well – isn't THIS a cutie pie? The little ragamuffin does a goody, makes right, sees a growth opportunity, and the evil uncle fucks him over. Sweet!

Your question, though, is silly. How do you get him to make the last payment without causing a scene?

YOU DON'T! Well, maybe you don't. Depends on the uncle.

What are you expecting, a little fluffy pillow and a hanky, a tautly-crafted yet sweet script consisting of kind words and proper presentation technique that can clearly state “listen up you cheap-ass prick: he's 8 goddamn years old, you know? Do you think you might try being a just-so-slightly better role model, fuck stick?”

Yep. Thought so.

You ask the people here on The Fly and they'll tell you “Schuyler is a cheap-ass frequently unemployed job-hopping sleaze from way back” and they'd be right, but dammit, if I owe someone $20 I pay the goddamn $20. It's not chest full of Dubloons or a silk satchel filled with Ducats; it's $20, and the kid is 8, for fuck's sake.

You know, for a second I thought I'd say, “why not say to just give the kid $20 and go after the uncle for it on the back side? Lets the kid know that people are good and you can always backtrack on the uncle.”

Naw. Fuck that. Your son already learned that some people pay slowly, and financial issues can cause all manner of havoc, sometimes a deal feels better at the time you make it than it does at the end, and now he knows blood is not thicker than money.

Tell Uncle Dearest he's being a shithead and to give up the twenty. Throw him under the bus. Let your son know all about it. Now there's a lesson in reality.

***

3.) I am a proud gay man. Recently, while a group of us were having lunch, the topic of two straight female celebrities kissing on an awards show came up. One co-worker called it "trash." She ranted about how it was indecent and that children were watching. She later apologized, saying that her comments were in no way directed to me. How do I tell her how I feel and finally put this behind me?

Out – Dude, what the hell? I find it impossible to believe that a gay man would write a letter like this: this is the kind of letter a straight person pretending to be gay would write.

Wanna know why?

Good. I'll tell you.

There are two kinds of straight people. There are the straight people who think gay people fuck each other in broad daylight, in front of children, intentionally to recruit them into their big fag club; they are “abominations in the eyes of Christ” or some other such religious upfuckery; they all have AIDS or at least syphilis, and if you don't watch out, they'll sneak up on you and try to suck your dick when you aren't looking. Curiously, many of these are closeted gays themselves.

Then there are straight people who are puzzled about gay people, don't get it, don't want it, might even be grossed out about it or scared of it, yet live among, care for, and love gay people anyway.

Both are completely unaware what it is like to be gay, or what gay people go through.

If you are gay and this is the first time in your life someone you care for called has out an activity that appeared to be “gay” in a non-flattering light, then I call bullshit.

You'd have already known how to deal with it.

***

4.) My younger sister is expecting her first child this fall. She recently completed her baby registries. She is having four showers thrown for her. I have kids of my own, and I know that they require a lot of stuff. But she's registered for just about everything that this child will need until he or she turns 3 years old. Should I speak up about this?

Excited Auntie-To-Be – I have an idea: go ahead. Speak up about it.

Lemme know how that goes.

I have been on rants recently about weddings. I take them very, very seriously, see, because I feel they have become everything that is evil and unwholesome and fucked up and stupid and ill-bred and insane and putrid about this world.

Showers are pretty high on my list, too. Glamorous events, blown so goddamn far out of proportion they currently serve the single purpose of getting everything you can get while the getting is good.

There was a traditional gift I heard about when someone moves into a new house: you bring a broom, a loaf of bread, and salt. Dunno where I heard that, seems kind of old-school charming and there's a saying went with it: “A broom to sweep away your troubles, bread that you will never be hungry, and salt to give spice to your life.”

Awwww. What a nice little tradition.

A toddler bed on a baby registry? Gimme a fucking break.

I remember registering for shit at Babies R Us before my daughter was born and discovering what “layette” was. Also, I remember discovering that “layette” was more expensive than “newborn” stuff, and wondering if Carter's was going to make a clothing line for babies still in the goddamn uterus and charge even more. Newer-than-newborn stuff? What a racket.

But I also remember someone telling me “hey, that $750 European convertible car seat/stroller thing? Just put it on the register! You never know, right? Some rich uncle, maybe...” Right-o. I put it on, felt like a slimeball, and we didn't get it. I am very glad we didn't. What the fuck did I need that for?

The answer is, I didn't, but someone might have, just to grin proudly during the shower, gloating over their award for “most ridiculously expensive gift.”

And THAT is what a shower is for.

Tell Little Sissy that you'll get her the receiving blankets and a nice diaper bag. End of story. If she needed you to teach her about the rights and wrongs of life, she's have come out of your vagina instead of your mother's. Let it go.

***

Finishing up my post on a Friday morning isn't what I had in mind for this week's column, but what the hell – I have a great lame excuse, don't I?

Tomorrow is my wife's birthday. The big 50. I started planning a nice party, and asked a neighbor to attend to it (she's taken classes doing event catering and hospitality stuff), offered to pay, but then her 8 year old son stole a Silly Band from my daughter. My wife caught him doing it, and we said he wasn't welcome here for a little while, until we could believe he was trustworthy.

Like the great neighbor she was (meaning she was already on her third glass of cheap wine by then, 11:30 in the morning) she banished us from her life and un-friended my wife on Facebook. Seems it's not right to catch kids stealing shit, I dunno. When I stole my friend Brian's matchbox cars I got yelled at, dragged to the door by the ear, and told never to come back. My parents were called and I was grounded, this after having to apologize in public to Brian (who was trying not to laugh just as hard as I was). This might make a great DP letter, if it wasn't so terribly obvious the mama bird ex-event planner is little more than a stupid drunk bitch and her son – generally a nice boy, if a little indulged – is in for a fucked life when he realizes mommy can't fix it when he's 18.

So, the party never got planned, and a big milestone birthday is now relegated to dinner for she and I at a place I haven't even selected yet.

Sigh.

She'll get lotsa neat presents, though – exactly what she wants – and I think I have dinner figured out. Hopefully she won't ready this column today or tomorrow, though...Sunday's good.

And so: cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

"And they will know us by that trail of leaking putrefied brain fluid..."

2010-07-01T12:56:00.000-07:00

Men think epilepsy divine, merely because they do not understand it. We will one day understand what causes it, and then we will cease to call it divine. And so it is with everything in the universe.
- Hipporactes.

Now, I dunno if Hippocrates really said that or not, but I sure like it, and thugh it has nothing at all to do with this weeks; letter writers I thought I'd share.

In other news, I got good feedback from people regarding my questions of the “forensic loan audit” process for people in foreclosure. I also got some good feedback from several folks who tried to do it.

It's mostly bullshit.

So, back to square one, or better yet, plan B: I have a legal team representing me and protecting my interests. It's affordable, comparatively, anyway, and these guys have real people who recommend them.

And so, here we go: time to dip on my house. First we try to do a “mortgage modification”, a little tap dance co-sponsored by the current administration which, turns out, is so easy to punch legal holes in it is only successful one time in a thousand or so, and frequently turns into a massive fuckover of the homeowner. Thanks, Bambam. That's why we voted for you, pal.

Incidentally, my odds are equally low, yes indeed.

After that, it's time for a “short sale”. Doable, readily presentable, and gets me out of the heat without getting my ass nailed to years of legal bullshit and inflated fees.

All this might take 6 months, so I remain here meantime. I can deal with that.

I'll report later.

And off we go to Prudieville, where they have hot and cold running idiots on tap for us in remarkable quantity today.

Originals can be had here.

***

Dear Prudence,
I'm dating an incredible woman. I'm thinking about our long-term future together. I'm torn as to whether I should tell my girlfriend I became a sperm donor. Is this something I should tell my girlfriend about and, if so, when?

Donor With a Guilty Conscience – Please allow me to start off by stating unequivocally that your incredible stupidity is probably immeasurable using modern-day methodologies. You should not think about your “long-term future” with this woman, because it is possible you could pollute the human species further with your sperm, causing countless more idiot offspring and destroying the entire planet in a violently horrible tsunami of goddamn fucking stupid people.

The idea that this information – you jerked a hot load of your elephantine idiocy into a cup for college beer money a couple times – is so pedestrian and uninteresting I can't seem to find anything to say about it at all. This is the black hole of non-issues, and you have managed to make an issue of it. Congratulations, Mr. Gump. “Mamma always said 'jerk it into the Dixie Cup, Forrest'.”

In short, it doesn't matter if you tell her or not. She will soon enough discover you are a profoundly stupid slice of dickcheese and split shortly thereafter, unless she's as dumb as you, in which case any offspring you produce would create a critical mass which could realign the course of human evolution and the whole entire universe will implode in a fiery, bloody ball of fucking lameness.

Outside that, you should get a vasectomy and count your lucky stars you haven't been naturally selected for extinction in some way. Go back to the TV, dipshit. Maybe Spongebob is on.

***

Dear Prudence,
I just started a new job as a partner with a great law firm. The problem is the clients' comments on my appearance. I'm a petite, feminine-looking woman. Male clients frequently make comments like, "You don't look mean" and "You look too nice to be a litigator." I want to convey that I'm a fighter in court and that they shouldn't be making inane comments on my appearance in the first place.

Feisty Female – Are you related to Mr. Gump up north, there? It always tickles me when lawyers write letters to DP, because although they are grammatically well done and the punctuation is generally good, they questions read like this:

“Dear Prudence,
I stuck my penis in a light socket and nothing happened. This became my main sexual activity until one day my jealous wife turned the switch on to punish me. What kind of conditioner should I try on my hair to make this frizz go away?
- Frizzy, Dizzy, and Holy Cow My Dick Sure Hurts Like Crazy.”

It strikes me that if you look to “nice” right now, you may have looked too “nice” before. Nobody ever said anything? Really? And you went to law school?

Never mind, here's the solution: if a litigator wants to convey the fact they are a fighter in the courtroom they might want to get into the courtroom and fight. Pee Wee fucking Herman doesn't look like much, but he can jerk off with the best in public and I don't hear him whining about it. He just did it.

So get a case assigned, pull the Ali in the courtroom, and shut the fuck up. You're a lawyer, for fuck's sake. Act like one.

***

Dear Prudence,
My eldest daughter “Susie” is turning 10, and her father and I are allowing her to get her ears pierced. Her 6-year-old sister asked, "Can I come watch?" Susie responded, "No! I don't want you there!" I want to teach Susie that even though it's her birthday, she needs to think of other people besides herself. What should I do?

Sibling Rivalry – The fate of the world hinges upon the answer to this highly relevant and imposing moral dilemma: Can Jasmine watch Susie get her ears pierced, or is she really icky and a booger-eater who always get what she wants?

On one hand, Susie's dilemma seems a natural example of Edgar Friedenberg's statement, “Juvenile appraisals of other juveniles make up in clarity what they lack in charity,” and sets a tone for her personality which may serve her well later in life, although her relationships may falter as suitors bristle over her natural desire to be both free-spirited and in a leadership position. I am more concerned, however, about the outcome in Muslim nations where the veil is Sharia law: Susie could completely upend a thousand years of attempts to strengthen Islamification in the middle East, resulting in a surge of reactionary and revolutionary extremism.

Jasmine, on the other hand, seems to better represent the growing pall which overshadows today's youth, a peer-enforced miasma of ennui which threatens to tear into the very fabric of American family ideals and create a newer – and greater – subculture of disaffected youth which could rival Britain's Chavs, resulting in a like-for-like performance culture which would lead to a lifelong history of failure to win a World Cup by America.

In the end, I suggest you pull your fucking head out of your ass and let Susie do as she wishes – they're her ears, I might say, and if you let her pierce them you might let her make greater choices about the whole thing, such as if she wants her fucking sister to be there or not. This is called “sibling rivalry” you vapid nitwit, and it'll pass with or without you sticking your tepid ideals into the mix.

The end of the world is near, remember. You must choose wisely, you fucking moron.

***

Dear Prudence,
My cousin "Bill" is getting married next month to his fiancee, "Jane." Most of my family hasn't met Jane. After they set their wedding date, my older sister "Tammy" sent Jane a message on Facebook introducing herself and asking Jane to change her wedding date. Jane declined. This has caused a problem. Can you please help my sister understand why what she did was unacceptable and that Jane's response is not crazy?

In the Middle – I swear by all the is goddamn holy I am going to start a one-man campaign to eradicate the whole fucking idea of weddings, completely and forever. There is no occurrence anywhere that is stupider than a wedding, unless Palin's in town speaking again. People getting married are sickeningly overwrought with puerile delusions of grandeur, visions of totally overblown pomp and circumstance, and putrid, vomit-inducing entitlement which most people think only exists on “The Real Housewives Of...” shows. It's a massive perversion of an otherwise simple event, it's fucking horrid, and it must end.

Families of people getting married are sometimes worse, though this seems to be the case where the Bride and the family are both suffering some manner of spongiform encephalopathy issues causing them to be utterly and equally stupid assholes.

Want my advice? Call your cousin and say “congrats, dude! I sent a gift card for 'Babeland Sex Toys.' Get yourselves a big dildo. Sounds like she needs it.” Get a nice card for her, and write “Congratulations on your marriage! Stay the fuck away from me and my family. We already hate you, or so I am told!”

Then on the blessed day, go to a pub and have a couple beers. At some point just yell “Mazeltov!” even if you aren't Jewish.

Viola. They're married. Done.

***

It strikes me that one day my daughter and I will have a conversation about issues surrounding that last letter, and I have a sneaking suspicion I will not exit that conversation a happy man. Sigh.

My son will understand.

And so I bid my Flysters good day – have a great remainder of Canada day today (Messy!) and have a great Fouth of July on Sunday. Cheers!

STC =^oo^=

Dance, little sister, dance. And then shut up.

2010-06-24T08:26:00.000-07:00

You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of horny clues if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance.
- Edward Flaherty

One general down and few left to run the dysfunctional fracas that is Afghanistan; BP is fixing it's odds in the gulf by cheerfully kicking off new drilling operations in the Beaufort Sea, Al Gore allegedly played with his masseuse's girl-parts without her express permission; Joe Barton got exactly what he deserved for fellating Tony Hayward in public, which is to say he gets to keep his job and make more money shilling oil; Mark Kirk remains at large and free to lie about everything he's ever done from teaching to military service; and life goes on here in America, the land of the free, where free is only a relative term: Amazon dropped the price of the Kindle to $189 and I still can't have one, Goddammit.

Hmm. They don't call me “King of the Run-on Sentence” for nuthin'.“

To top it off, it's been freaking hot here. 93 – 97 degrees every single day, and my air conditioning is running 24/7, all the better to drive that electric bill up to astronomical heights I can scarcely afford. My lawn is a delightful shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, but on a good note I looked it over this morning as I took out the garbage and found it is an even shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, not all blotchy, so it's all good.

Meanwhile, I spoke to a lawyer yesterday. I make no secret that I have plans to dip on my mortgage, but this attorney, a canny young man with more dollar signs in his voice than Ke$ha can dance to has...a plan. It is not terribly crafty, nor is it sneaky, but it is, I hear, very effective. It is called “The Forensic Loan Audit.”

To wit: these guys place a restraining order on my loan servicer, inspect the loan documentation and process for flaws (which, I understand, all loans have), then they offer a court date to discuss the flaws...or a settlement for “fair market value“ and a good interest rate. I use quotations on “fair market value” because, let's face it, not many people who bought when I did can claim to be within 30% or so loan balance to value ratio.

Will this save my house? Mebbe. Mebbe no. Dunno, but the money I pay the lawyers, if it doesn't save the house, pays for then performing the paperwork for a deed in lieu of foreclosure service, or a short sale.

It's five grand, folks. I do not have five grand. Plus I have found some evidence that this is sometimes fraudulent activity.

I may do a Deceptively Simpleminded writeup on this, but I might ask anyone who happens by my blog today: what do you know of this practice I am considering? Know anyone who did it? Heard anything negative, positive, neutral? Nice to hear from people before I commit five large to a law firm I know little about except they have an “A” rating at the Better Business Bureau.

And with that, we will get all Dear Prudie up in that bitch.

Originals are here.

***

1.) At my company, when a colleague does something great everyone is called into the lobby. The person's supervisor announces what she did, and she has to dance in front of everyone. How can I let the company know that public humiliation is not a valid form of employee recognition?
- Ballerina Not in Job Description.

This letter has some of the hallmarks of the best DP letters plus the absence of any importance or gravity whatsoever.

Having said that, I will not approach this as if I were your HR director, a position I have never held, but one which I have been face to face with far too many times in my life to possess anything but a curious blend of jejune pity and unrestrained loathing for the poor fuckers faced with making that dour career choice.

First – do you work for Sesame Street? What are these people, nine, ten years old? Who else would dance in the middle of the goddamn lobby when someone does something good? Does Big Bird sign your paycheck? Fuuuuck! Snufflupagus, get off my fucking toe, dickhead. I have a two O'Clock!

Then again, there is one thing the people of Sesame Street have on you that you may find enviable: jobs. Endless jobs. The same people have been there so long they've grown old and gray and the producers had to create goodbye shows after they die, for Christ's sake. There are children of characters on that show who have children of their own. Built-in lifetime employment, and it's a good thing: what the hell else could they do for a living but count to four in song and dance?

Get this: they probably don't have to dance when something good happens, but I'll bet they just do anyway, 'cause hey – it's Sesame Goddamn Street.

You do not work for Sesame Street.

So here's the deal. Go to your boss and say “boss, I will not dance in the lobby when someone makes a sale because I get all embarrassed and shit and it's degrading and you can't make me.” Your boss will give you “the look”, and the conversation will end. You will find yourself sitting alone at lunchtime, and former friends of yours (likely already doubtful about you, from the sound of things) will cease dropping by. You'll be assigned to a few shitty tasks, menial and beneath your already dubious abilities, and suddenly realize that this company has little care for you, given prima ballerinas are pretty damned easy to find out there among the ranks of the unemployed these days.

You'll go job hunting, might finds something, might not. They will not care. Stay or go, you will become “that snotty bitch who thinks she's better than us”, and that, my dear, is evidently what it really is.

Moral? It does not matter that you are right about dancing in the goddamn lobby. It matters that you are about the become despised by many of those you work with, so go look for another job.

***

2.) I could not be happier with my boyfriend. He has an outrageous temper—but only toward inanimate objects. I would never fear for my physical safety, but his venting really scares me sometimes. I have asked him to tone it down, but he can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment. Should I just let this anger-toward-inanimate-objects issue go?
- Rage at the Machine

I will have to assume you are young and know absolutely nobody who has ever been in an abusive relationship. You'd have to be, what, about fourteen years old, perhaps twelve, to not hear about it. Maybe eight. Six. But that's not the issue.

Little Freddy Flawless, your beloved perfect man, has what are called “anger problems.” Anyone can get angry. I have punched a wall or a door in my life, no doubt, but I have always remembered it later because 1.) I typically take note of blood dripping from my knuckles when I strike something hard in anger and b.) wait: did you say he “can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment?” Did you really say that?

Oy fucking vey.

Oh, now what am I saying, I sound like such a worry wart. Don't fret, sweetums! Everything's fine! He's just blowing off a little steam – you know, people get a little upset and the destroy shit all the time with absolutely no memory whatsoever, it's completely normal! Why, a whole country invaded another country and blew all kinds of shit up and killed everyone the saw and completely forgot about it to the degree they put a “Mission Accomplished” banner up for all to see, even though they forgot why they were there and what happened! And that was a whole country!

I think you should just sweep this little thing under the rug like a good little girl, attend church and make certain you come to know Jesus in your heart, get married and have as many children as possible, and just don't fret about silly things like his temper. It's really no big deal, you incredibly stupid brainless fucking idiot.

Really? Can any one be as fantastically stupid as this? You think this is what “perfect” is? This is the one little problem amid a sea of perfection this guy swims in, you anencephalous dingleshit?

Truth: therapy might help him, if he's willing. Without it, if you stay, you get what you ask for. You leave, you get an opportunity to go through life without being beaten senseless every night. Make a choice, Ms. Gump. Sooner is better, and this world is never short on statistics for spousal abuse. Just look at South Carolina.

***

3.) My dad had a stroke last summer and now requires 24-hour care. My mother died very unexpectedly. After reviewing her medical records, my siblings and I discovered that her physician ignored test results and treated her for an illness she did not have. We don't intend to sue. We have yet to share this devastating news with my father. Two siblings want to tell my dad, and two don't. What to do?
- Distressed

You know, my wife is Canadian. She says “you want the best, you gotta import”, and she was right. She's baffled by the lack of healthcare here, but the more she hears Sarah Palin spout her teabagger idiocy the better she understand where the failure comes from.

Having said that, why is it that you make an admirable choice not to sue the doctor and cannot make any choice whatsoever to tell your dad what happened? Seriously: brother Billy says “it'll kill him!” and sister Sally says “he has the right to know” and this is the end of the conversation?

And then you go to Prudie and ask her to arbitrate? How embarrassing.

Look, Americans will forgive Canada for that comically bizarre closing ceremony at the Winter Olympics, all those giant inflatable beavers and mounties and shit. It was oddly cute, in a Timothy Leary sort of way.

But this childishness must stop. Draw straws and go with it. Flip a coin. Best two out of three. Play checkers, winner makes the choice. Whatever.

Quit fucking around, do something, then go have a Kokanee and relax.

***

4.) My boyfriend and I hosted a small get-together, which our friend "John" attended. The next day, we discovered that John had scabies! I am outraged that John came over knowing he had this parasitic infestation. Should I confront John about what I feel is completely unacceptable behavior, or am I overreacting?
- Skeeved out by Scabies

Cooties? Ah, for fuck's sake.

Coincidentally, my daughter brought scabies home a few months ago. Pretty nasty rash, very uncomfortable for her, poor thing. The pediatrician gave us a prescription for cream and bathing/application instructions which we followed. A week later, it's as if she never had scabies. Nobody else got them. Case closed. Bonus: we still love her.

Your case is evidently more serious. To you, at least.

Here's what you have to do:

First, you have to burn all your furniture. Every stick of it, no matter what; for Sarcoptes scabiei, the Scabies Mite, is an intelligent, ferocious, and relentless predator which typically creates protective fortifications among the sofa cushions using dead skin flakes shed by humans. These epidermal ramparts can withstand almost any direct attack but the cleansing of flame. Tear out the carpet, any rugs, blankets, and any wall-mounted textiles as well, and burn them immediately, before they start to build their cities and develop technology. If they have already built their vile scabies bordellos, you're screwed.

Remove all food from the house: this is the target of these fierce creatures. If they get your food, they will be able to summon the intelligence to develop weapons and vehicles, so work quickly. Best to burn it all in a bonfire. WARNING: Do not be comforted by the canned goods. Scabies have pincers on their front appendages which can open a can of peaches in seconds, and they love peaches best of all. Burn those too, but watch yourself. The cans may explode and spray flaming hot matter for hundreds of feet. It really hurts. I know.

Next, you have to shave yourself completely hairless: head, eyebrows, body, pubic hair – every hair must go. The pets as well, and if you have fish you must scale them.

Afterward, everything and everyone must be scrubbed using copious amounts of cleansing fluids. You will start with rubbing alcohol. It's a little uncomfortable, especially on freshly-shaved balls and eyelids, but scrub every inch of your body, then the floors walls and ceilings, the cat, the fish, and you have to do the lawn, too: scabies are tricky, and will build revetments amid the fescue from which they will launch serial attacks upon your home if you let them get away with it.

Finally, slather yourself and everything on your property with maple syrup, marmalade, and Johnny Walker. Allow it to dry, then wash off with cold water and a Brillo pad.

Are your floors oak or pine? Rip it all out. The Scabies mite uses the wood to build weapons, vehicles, cities, military installations, missile bases, aircraft, and roller skating rinks. Replace it with Pergo later.

Best at this point to stay in seclusion for about a week. Have Dominoes deliver pizza and Pepsi for food, and make certain you spray the delivery boy liberally with Johnny Walker before he leaves, or any surviving mites could infect him. I mean, what if he delivers pizza to the Pentagon or something?

Check yourself vigilantly. At any symptoms of reemergence of scabies, immediately bathe in a poultice of salt, Quaker State (or any well known brand) 10W40 motor oil, and goat's milk. Remain submerged for at least ten minutes, only surfacing to breathe. Any mites which remain on your face can be removed with packing tape. Apply firmly, then rip off in a rapid motion and immediately burn the leavings. The sticky tape stuff left on your face can then be removed with either naptha or acetone (nail polish remover works) and coarse steel wool.

Shave your entire body every day. Dogs and cats too. This fish are likely to die the first day or so – you can eat them if you get too hungry, after Dominoes refuses to deliver to you.

After a week if you have not shown any symptoms you may go outdoors for short periods of time, but do not wear any clothes for at least three months.

Note: “John”, and all the people who have even been in your home need to do the same things immediately. After you all have recovered, you can sue him for his actions, or maybe shoot him, although I might warn you it's illegal and I do not condone that course of action.

Oh, be sure to warn them all about the exploding cans of food.

Or...

Tell John to go to the doctor, get a prescription of an approved scabicide such as “Premithrin”, follow the directions, and five days later it's as if it never happened. Vacuum everything in your house. If you get a rash, go to the doctor, get the cream and do it. Gone.

Also: go to a shrink and deal with your fucking OCD-based germaphobia, you panicky little twat.

***

Long Winded today, huh?

Remember – please update me on that whole forensic loan audit thingie if you know anything, and we'll see you all next week.

Cheers, my beloved Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

A Desperate Dose of Dads, or; Papa Loves Mambo.

2010-06-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

When one has not had a good father, one must create one.
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Damn, but I thought it was going to be spring for longer than this. As a transplant to the American Southeast (colloquially called “The Say-outh” by the locals) I was thrilled to experience some of the weather it had to offer – autumns effused with gold and red and yellow of turning leaves; winters graced with just enough snow and ice for the kids to have fun but not enough to keep us from a drive to our favorite beer joint; and springs that start dreary and suddenly assault the senses with so much greenery one seeks out large parking lots to catch a glimpse of asphalt, all the better to keep from overdosing on the green-ness of the place.

Then summer comes. Does for us all, I guess, and I suspect I will not be the only one complaining of the 95 degree temperatures and 90% humidity for days and weeks on end. Still, I am already pining for September, they way my Canadian wife says she used to pine for May when she lived up north, but for different temperature related reasons.

All that poetic nonsense I was spewing a few short weeks ago about the lusty burgeoning of spring is well and truly (and suddenly – came on fast) over with, and here's my most poetic statement of late: fuck this place in summer, it's too goddamn hot and sticky and nasty.

I am taking a new tack with DP letters – I will paraphrase the actual letters rather than recap, because I've noticed my recaps can suck a lot. And so, without further commercial interruption...

Originals are HERE.

***

1.) I married my high-school sweetheart. I had an affair with a colleague. My husband found out, and we decided to work things out, then I found out I was pregnant. Do we ever tell our son that my husband isn't his biological father?

Always Worried – Among the joyful things about youth are the alternatives in how you live your life without cognizance of responsibility. Spilling sperm all over the landscape is, apparently, a requirement of being a stupid young male, and receiving said sperm in unprotected sex is a similar requirement of the young female. The cheating part comes with youth as well, and most don't survive it – good on you two.

Ah, la. Youth! Huzzah!

Um, do you really need to write a letter to someone asking if you need to tell your three year old offspring who his father is? How fucking old are you? Did you make it all the way through high school? Did you ride the special bus there? Geez.

Go get your Magic 8-Ball, you cheesebrained dummy, and see what it says, because whether you tell him or not he's got a long row to hoe with a stupid parent like you to follow. This poor kid already has your genetic material in him, and I simply have to assume that means he's fucked regardless what you do. Maybe his real dad had a goddamn brain and he'll be lucky. Proof once again that natural selection has it's flaws: the particularly stupid ones seem more prone to successfully mate. Sad thing.

My take? Let the natural father make the choice. You can't handle it.

***

2.) Our kids are in summer sports. I coach my son's baseball team, and my daughter plays softball. I'll attend one of my daughter's games each week. But I don't want to be heaped with guilt by my loving spouse if I don't attend every one of her games. My wife thinks I'm cheating our daughter. When I was a kid, I was lucky if my dad came to any of my games.

Ballpark Bum – let's start with this: “I don't want to be heaped with guilt by my loving spouse.” Really? Is that was loving spouses do, dickless? Heap guilt on you? Better revisit that.

Let's move on to this: “When I was a kid, I was lucky if my dad came to any of my games.” Boo fucking hoo for you, but it gives you a tidy, if completely lame, excuse. Is that what you need in lieu of paternal skill and instinct?

You mentioned also that coaching is stressful. Really? At least parenting isn't, right?

You should go put on a dress and do your hair, Nancy.

Look, you goddamn pussy – man up and make a fucking schedule. Baseball, softball, whatever: sit down with your “loving” spouse and sort it the fuck out and shut the hell up and go do it. Prudie isn't going to solve your problems or stop your whining for you, you weak-ass milquetoast pansy, and if you can't handle it you should just let your “loving spouse” continue to use the testicles you obviously gave her at marriage and do the sports planning.

***

3.) I'm a single mom of three teenagers. I divorced when they were little. Their father dropped his involvement when he remarried. He's divorced again, and my kids hate going to his house; they say my house is their real home. I need some down time from chauffeuring, solving problems, and providing meals. My sister said I'm destroying my kids by forcing them to go to their father's.

Protecting My Sanity – Oh, joy. Another one of ”those” letters. Yippee. Stifling a yawn, I say: um, what's the problem? Oh, I see: you're a single mom, seeking a day or two off.

Let me start by saying it is my belief that one single mother is worth twenty of me. This world still has the fucked-up biblical-paternal stupid way of thinking that once the seed is sown the woman is thence on call 24-7 for everything and the sperm donor is effectively off the hook and retired from service.

It don't work that way, sis, but you are probably screwed.

Here's a mechanical fact, and it is an unfortunate one: one day, years ago, a boy and a girl ended up in a place he was compelled to insert his erect penis into the girl, who was compelled to received it into her vagina. With me? Sperm came out, traveled through the vaginal canal, past the cervix, and onward whereupon it met an egg, and one of those sperm penetrated that egg, and viola! Baby!

You know this story – you were there. And from that very moment you became 100% responsible for those children. One. Hundred. Percent.

What's that, you say? That's not fair! What about him?

Get this: he also became 100% responsible.

Before you start making mewling noises and spewing that stupid goddamn imbecilic mathematical argument, listen up: you both have exactly that percentage of responsibility to those children, or you are each only 50% a parent. Furthermore, this isn't a goddamn math problem, princess: it's children, and life. Your lives belonged to them from the moment you had sex. You didn't “start” it, and neither did he. It's not your “fault” these children were born, nor is it his.

It is simply both of your responsibility. There's the truth. Anything else is sloppy parenting.

Now, he's not quite taking this task on, is he? I mean, you aren't the “bad” parent, if there's any truth to this letter; he is. You just want a break, and with 5 kids and a grandchild of my own, God knows I understand that, as does my wife.

So take your break, but you better start having a few conversations with Daddy Dearest regarding his responsibilities, because he's not doing them any favors, teaching them everything he shouldn't by example, and let's face it – you may have to pull the plug on him entirely to protect them.

And if you do, you will never have a break.

And that's life. Sorry.

***

4.) My dad asked that I write a testimonial for him an online dating service. I have no desire to be involved in his dating life, and can't honestly give him a glowing recommendation. Let's just say that there's a reason he's single. I'm afraid if I decline to write the testimonial, he will feel offended. What should I do?

On-the-Market Dad – Nothing like unresolved childhood issues and resentments to fuck up the lives of otherwise normal people in the digital age.

BTW – Read this for a little perspective.

Seems this letter is properly placed: he's not the one with the problem, you are, and that's where we're going, chum. See, in people without pages of unresolved bullshit with their parents, the solution to this is to write a testimonial and be done with it.

You can't because you're evolved enough to know it's a bunch of bullshit and he's not worth it...but you're not evolved enough to be anything but stumped for a solution. Let's fix that, Darwin:

“Dear Dad,

I cannot write a testimonial for you, because I think you have emotional problems and frankly I still harbor resentment for the way you've treated me.

Respectfully,
Your Child.”

See what I did there? I did something magical, amazing, unimaginable: I wrote a letter for you that tells the truth about how you feel! Aint' that grand?

Send it. Don't send it. Your call, Darwin, but I might suggest you get this fucking bullshit over with and move along, because until he dies you're on some a hook that you can't seem to wiggle free of. Yeah, I know you think he put you there. That's irrelevant. It is your job to get free. Grownup stuff, you know.

Happy wiggling!

***

This Sunday I will have two kids climbing on me like little monkeys, then I shall enjoy my Father's Day by loafing like a clod, sipping (like I ever sip) beer, watching something on the tube, and generally screwing off all day.

To all fathers out there worth their salt and title: happy day, and after it's over remember you have 364 days to prove you're worth it again. And happy birthday, Igor

Cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

You wanna piece a me? Come and git some.

2010-06-03T12:51:00.000-07:00

As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.
- Clarence Darrow

I am an outlaw.

Dark and mysterious, a questionable past and some bad choices made which shape who – and what – I am today, jaded and bitter, yearning for something better but no recourse for me: I must face my destiny as it comes to me, and suffer for it.

My story, you ask? You probably can't handle it, punk. See, I got a ticket for failing to renew my registration, and I forgot to pay it. Now there's a warrant out for my arrest.

I'll never stop fighting those bastards, and I'll never top running until the fight is done. I'll pay the ticket, I guess – my fault, pretty damn stupid. Until then I am an outcast, spurned by society. A vile darkling not made of the kind of stuff that needs the light of day cast upon it, the better to veil my shame in the shadows of my bleak sorrow; this fate, thrust upon me, become me.

You know. An idiot. I may be an dipshit, but I sure am stupid.

Like these idiots.

Originals here.

***

Yuck – I like your thinking! Recap – you caught a senior guy milking man mustard from his meat machine, flogging the dolphin for salty seafood yogurt, slapping the spicy salami seeking a spurt of sticky seed. Oh, this while in the office.

At first blush this is not terribly interesting, and my stupid alliterations don't help much, but your inclusion of the line “...it is not as though I can leverage this in any lucrative way” gives me shivers goosebumps and takes this post to the level of bloody goddamn epic. You fiery little minx, you! You're thinking the right (read: lawyer-ly) way!

Meanwhile, I am appalled you didn't offer to go in and finish him off first. Seriously. You should have swayed in the door, a hungry look in your eyes, hit your knees, and done him right there...and tape it with your cell phone camera, then blackmail the shit out of little Mister Jimmy Jerkoff! Profits, lawyer-lady: it's about profits. You don't make the big bucks in the legal space until someone blows someone.

I mean, wait, you are a lawyer, right? I though that meant you are both smart and unscrupulous? Sigh.

Maybe next time, kitten. Meanwhile, start staking out the other bigwigs, because this one won't likely make that mistake again. There's a pony in there somewhere.

***

Mad – boy, nothing says “I love you” like being an idiot married to an idiot. Recap – your ex said bad shit about you and you seem to be formerly unaware that sort of thing sucks. Side note: your son was who he said it to, and now the boy thinks you're a whoring slimeball.

Listen, witless: you were fighting about child support? Not any more you're not. You now have the means to bring those little money wars into your side of the ring and gain the upper hand. What I am suggesting may seem slimy. Well, it kinda is, but it kinda isn't.

First: you could be the grimiest whore ever to step on this Earth, I don't know, but moms and dads need to learn to shut the fuck up about this stuff around their children. Kids don't need to know what kind of dickheads parents are about relationships until later in life, and even then a father who slimes mom without taking a little heat for himself is both a liar and a fucking moron, and he's creating another one from scratch.

So...

Start snatching this data from the boy's computer – you are his mother, and you should have the right (slimy of you, but there it is) to go look (ask the lawyer-lady above – she'll know). Save it to a thumb drive or something. Over time you might drop hints to him about his emotional distance and see what he writes further, and later you can outright confront him and ask why he's being so mean, and if daddy dearest said anything vicious. Keep at it – he'll write something...incriminating, eventually.

Copy everything he wrote and save it. Then give it to your attorney.

Shortly after, you might just let your ex know there will be one last little fight about child support. And keeping his fucking mouth shut. And attempting, somehow, to quit being a fucking and giving his son such shitty examples. It's not about the child support; it's about the boy.

This is only the start, of course – your son will need to know about everything after all. The end of the rainbow is the truth in this case, and even if he hates you for it now, I strongly suspect he'll understand it better later, and that's when he might learn the real lesson: don't be a fucking douche, like dad.

PS. I hope you know that goes for you, too.

***

I Lost Someone, Too – I doubt this is weird. Recap: you and best friend were in a crash, and she didn't make it. You want some of the stuff you gave her back for mementos.

Can we assume if you were really best friends that her folks were close to you too? And can we assume the lot of you have had some unfortunate but needed quality time together since the wreck?

Get your balls out, sister. Sad or not, quit quibbling: just go ask for the stuff. You know how to do it (gently, duh) so just go. Be prepared for some confusing answers, but hope for the best. You should be fine.

***

Didn't Lose a Leg in Iraq – well, you both lost your fucking brains, that's for certain. Recap: people ask about hubby's lost leg and assume it got itself blowed off in the war, but it didn't. You are such a dipshit-licking dullard you have no idea how to discuss it when they get all Toby Keith “Proud to be an American” on him over the non-war-wound missing leg.

Listen, you cretinous, yak-witted, nipple-brained moron: this ranks way up there among the stupidest question ever asked in the history of asking stupid fucking questions, and I am stunned that you can operate and manipulate a machine like a computer (or a pencil...or fucking Crayolas) well enough to put this dunderheaded, galactarded insipidity to words.

Sigh. Deep breath.

You dumbass fucking cheese head – here is a sample conversation between people with an intelligence quotient numbers assumed to be roughly about the same as, or slightly higher than, the nearest speed limit sign:

“Hi, we're Bob and Mary!”
“Hi, we're Dick and Jane!”
“Gee, were you in the service, Dick?”
“Yes, I was.”
“What a great sacrifice, you fighting and losing your leg for this great country! This goes to show that Americans, no matter who they are, are brave and true, and stand up for what is right and just! I do believe I am starting to shed many tears of pride right now.”
“I didn't lose my leg in the service, Bob. I drove a desk in Washington.”
“Oh. Really? So, you hear about Ken Griffey, Junior? Whoda thought he'd ever be old?”

Yadda yadda yadda.

Unlike the people in this example, you are too goddamn stupid to figure this tactic of “tell them” out on your own. Glad I could be there for you. Idiot.

I might add that doing this will not discourage people from giving thanks to vets in the future. I will assure you people will be likely to do so regardless the fact you two are so fucking flagrantly and profoundly stupid. Just so you know.

***

I hear Bon Jovi...”Wanted, Dead or Alive...” Of course, some might say it makes perfect sense a fucking weasel like me would have his first arrest warrant made out to the tune of a goddamn unpaid expired registration ticket, but pay those jokers no mind: it's all about the danger, all the time, every day, that's what I am made of, and just you watch yourself: I get a hold of your license plate, you could be right up the shitter and on your way to the big house.

Like me.

I am a very bad and dangerous man.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go feed my kitties.

Cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

Never rely on the glory of the morning nor the smiles of your mother-in-law.

2010-05-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

Pre-Prudie rant.

The nerve and/or common sense of people waxes and wanes like the seasons. Still, an open statement by a newly elected government official in Kentucky implying a business owner has the right to refuse service to a black person are troubling to me.

Why? I mean, really: Kentucky? Figures, right?

One, the sentence is basically true. I did not say it is legal, nor do I mean it was right and just, nor do I imply it is acceptable. It is simply true, in the human scheme of things, and specifically when uttered from a brainless hillbilly teabagger like Rand Paul.

Two, it's a bit like Lars Vilks and his brilliant move to prove the basic human right of free speech by painting Mohammed's head on a dog. He got slapped around by a few Muslims last week for it, inevitably. He was perfectly free to do what he did, and the result, I would say, was a rather robust act of free speech in rebuttal. I think maybe drawing Mohammed is fine. Drawing Mohammed as a dog and flaunting it is a crude and stupid bitch slap, intended to inflame the non-issue of free speech, which is only free in both directions. See here.

Three, take both of the above and call it what it is: baiting, thinly veiled as a political mating call. What, you're telling me the comment needed to be made? Why? We did not understand it? We need to know it? Was it educational at all? Did he seek to show us all the way of truth?

Nah. It was a moment of loud-mouthed political imbecility, more and more common of late, wrapped in a tea-stained flag and spat out offhandedly by a cheesy, well-used politician who needs a platform and, by God, will make one out of something noisy for expediency. Never mind I remain convinced that he believes every word he said.

This is in contrast to that brainless poop-licker John Boehner, who a while back was paid well enough by the healthcare lobby to actually state in public that American healthcare is the best in the world and needs no change, despite obvious facts to the contrary. That's just good old politics, and my using Boehner as an example was a simple-minded act on my part: one can only assume our current president is deeply funded enough by BP to sweep their recent oily assholery under the White House rug.

This thing is different. This is an old Southern precept, reforged again as a firm and solid stance, fueled by ignorance and hate and blind stupidity and a political machine driven most recently by the dollars spent by a goddamn Australian national who needs to protect his American tax write-offs and assets through media manipulation. Just sayin'.

Paul needed a result, and he'll get one soon enough. And when it raises it's awful head it'll show itself in many ways, including outrage and indignation from all quarters, and probably some vicious senselessness, like the comment itself. And when that happens Rand Paul will hitch up his putrid little redneck self and shriek in indignation “see? I told you they were animals!” It'll get tossed about on one side: Beck and Hannity and O'Reilley will call it much ado; on the other side, Olbermann will pop a blood vessel during his diatribe and Maddow will simply do what she does (which is always a wonder to behold, to me) and then it'll become yesterday's old story. Yet the nail will still have been driven into the word “freedom” far enough to prove, yet again, that nailing a word to a wall means you can charge admission and call it what you want, and someone will buy a ticket to see. What they see is a greasy little Kentucky fuckhead, spewing the same asinine hate we've all heard of, but never grows old for some.

I need to stick to the simpler things in life. Here's Prudies latest batch of imbeciles. Read the letters here.

***

Stuck Mother – Oi vey, woman, You mentioned you're “a young mother”, but this? Really? Recap: You are remarried, first husband is a sex offender, new hubby seems of good stock and wants to adopt your son – the progeny of the sex offender, who incidentally wants back in the boy's life.

Yeah, yeah; I understand that there are all kinds of really creepy, shitty things orbiting this little story, but there are too many black and white things that should (but apparently didn't) simplify this matter for you. Allow me.

Thing one: you are your child's mother. Do you get that? This child is yours to do with as you please, literally. From the tone of your letter I have to assume you don't want to do abusive things, which is heartening, but why the fuck are you even asking about this? You have one job – and only one job – to do, as relates to this child, and that is to be his mother. That includes feeding, caring, nurturing; all manner of subtasks that mothers sometimes understand innately. Sometimes they don't. Sounds like you are in the latter category about your status and role. Glad I could clear it up, genius.

Thing two: this deck of cards may or may not have been dealt without your permission, input, or your bet on the table. Having said that you better suck it the hell up, because these are the still the goddamn cards. Your son will have some things to learn someday, get it? If you can't look him in the eye and tell him (Now, later – your call) truthfully and straight-up, then you really suck ass as a mother, and should surrender him.

In short: the real dad needs to be told to fuck himself (if that's your choice) and the boy needs to be adopted (if that's your choice) and you need to grow the fuck up meantime. The consequences of your actions today do not trump the shitty situation, but today your responsibility as a mother trumps everything, no matter what anyone says.

Note: you don't sound like you completely lack instincts here. Listen to them and start trusting them some day soon. He'll grow up with or without your instincts present.

***

Not Happy About It – Did I write this letter in my sleep and send it to Slate? Recap: you can't find a job and it bothers you when recruiters notice this fact.

Really? Gosh. How...unusual. Not.

I went jobless 18 months. It bothered the shit out of me the whole time. When I finally realized I'd better just get some money in the bank and turn my back on a 17 year career, it was both liberating and humiliating. Turns out I needed the former as much as I needed the latter.

Let me tell you about recruiters for a moment: you are not a flesh and blood human being with skills and feelings and a strong will and desire to achieve greatness. You are a limp tool they use mercilessly to make their money. You bill for hours, they get paid. You are the whore, they are the pimp. You please the client, they keep you, and everyone continues to make money.

There is no argument about what you are. You are just haggling over the price, Xaviera.

In the end, you are about as valuable to a recruiter and the hiring company as a filing cabinet, a desk, a wastepaper basket.

Fuck the recruiter, and fuck what they think, and besides, how hard is it to say “this market has been particularly hard on me for some reason”?

Here's my little story, which might seem similar yours: One day I was the co-owner of a lovely and robust consulting startup making $300K a year; some crazy religious zealots flew some big airplanes into some big buildings in New York and 18 months later I finally got a job selling computers at Circuit City for seven bucks an hour. In the interim, $65,000 worth of cars were repossessed, and I found myself driving a 9 year old Windstar my mother bought for me. I owned a pretty pink stucco home in Southern California which I had to dump at a loss to avoid foreclosing, then I was living at my folks house with my 4 kids, then we stayed at my sister's house, then we rented a double wide after I started at CC.

Everything was gone, including my dignity.

Slow and steady. Eventually I got my career rebuilt, and though things are tight in this market we're holding our own while my wife finishes school.

Just go make money, now. Get some time under your belt. You don't need to put McDonald's or Best Buy or whatever on your resume later. When people ask about that employment gap in your resume tell them “I was doing some interesting post-education study, like a sabbatical” but putting “fry cook at Hardee's” on the rez is just stupid.

Get out there and put a little money in the bank, even if it's ten bucks an hour setting tile. Note: get knee pads and good boots if you do the tile thing. I still have scars on my palms and knees from it.

You don't need to take over the world today. You can do that later.

And for God's sake don't stop looking for the right gig, and don't give up. Your attitude will be whatever it is – just move forward and use the recruiters to your advantage, as they do to you.

***

Almost Fed Up – I know EXACTLY what you're saying! Recap: your daughter is being screwed out of her rightful place as sole salutatorian because some little brainless tramp pulled a good grade in some remedial course. Schools these days pull this shit all the time, giving credit to stupid children while the brighter (and MUCH harder-working) ones are lumped into the same level as the lazy, lower class kids. Oh, and there's a boy there too who was made co-valedictorian even though he...

Huh? Oh. This isn't your daughter. It's your sister in law. Ah. I see.

Lemme circle back: I know EXACLTY what you're saying! You are a shit-picking nagging twat-headed intrusive manipulative snot, and there's an injustice afoot that has nothing to do with you, and you feel compelled to snuff it out in order to achieve a sense of smug self superiority over members of your family who you find unsavory. I should mention that you probably have a history of doing this sort of thing.

My advice: you don't need anyone's advice, do you? You have probably already fired a few salvos of snippy invective at your mother in law, and there will be no stopping you. Fuck advice: off you go. Tear them apart. I mean, they're only family. Make the world better, Supergirl. Show us all, by example.

To anyone reading this: aren't you glad this fucking bitch isn't in your family? Some example, huh?

***

Not Willing To Share – This is the funniest letter I have read in quite a while. Here goes: your boyfriend thinks it's okay to share a hotel room with an old friend – a woman – while out of town, and you don't. Somewhere in there I thought I read “I trust them both,” but I was laughing so hard by that time I might be wrong.

First – this room-sharing thing is neither right nor wrong. Seriously. He shares the room, he doesn't – who cares? How can there be any question about this?

(Ah, lemme tell you.)

Second – you trust them both. This is good news.

(However...)

Third – You said “I do feel a little guilty asking the friend, who was recently laid off, to get her own room, but I am not running a charity.” What, you're paying for the room? You have a control issue here, bred of jealousy I think, but that's STILL not the point.

(The point is...)

Fourth – this issue is only an issue because you have no idea what he's thinking, nor he what you're thinking. This is likely because you and he are entirely too young and too stupid to have a fucking clue what is right or wrong in this case, four years together be damned. You still don't know him well enough to trust him. If you knew each other at all, this would never have come up.

Finally – I won't make any comment on this sentence: “He has made plans to meet up with a female college friend who lives in that area.” Wait. Yes I will: if she lives in the area, why does she need a hotel room? Ah, no matter. You trust her, right? Just let it happen. Really.

Trust me.

***

A weekend in the woods with my wife, gallons of beer and adequate fishing gear and good food in attendance, was just the right thing. Didn't want to come home. Sorry I did, actually.

But only a dreary job and a couple spins of the hour hand and the weekend is upon me, with lawns to be mowed and kids to play with and preparations for the Indy 500. Funny - I won't watch the race being help not more than 8 miles from my home at Lowes Motor Speedway, as I gave up watching the endless circles of NASCAR when I was about 15, but the Indy 500 (itself endless circles, yes, I know) pops up and I get all excited. More beer, home made salsa fresca, wings. The race isn't until the following weekend, but preparations are in order.

Until next time, Flysters!

Cheers,
STC =^oo^=

What we have here is a failure to communicate. Or maybe you're just stupid.

2010-05-13T08:34:00.000-07:00

I've long wondered about meteorology. I strongly suspect weather forecasting is a matter of twisting up a big fat joint, smoking it, walking outside in whatever city you're in – say Tulsa - to get a look at the skies and saying “dude, that cloud totally looks like your old Camaro!”, then just making shit up and posting it as the weekly weather outlook for Rochester.

Weather is a thing I can't get used to. Southern California, where I'm from, is a place which is not in the company of real weather. Forecasting is easy: it'll be kinda cool, or kinda warm, or kinda overcast in June, or kinda windy, but, you know, mostly nice, or maybe just sort of nice, but still nice.

Here in Charlotte we reside under the end of the jet stream, which whips about like the the goddamn tail of a puppy chasing a bug. Yesterday we were told to expect a week of warm weather, partly cloudy, nice. Today we are slated for thunderstorms for ten days straight. Tomorrow? Who the hell knows? Snow, maybe?

One thing for certain here – an umbrella should always be at hand.

On to the tempestuous and perilous issues wrought by the staff at Slate under the guise of letters to Dear Prudence. I am feeling a little peckish at the moment, and have less patience than usual for this unimaginative drivel. I need my therapy though, and so I shall carry on.

Originals can be had here.

And we're away...

***

Truly Torn – Why, oh why does Slate need to complicate things so much, and so poorly as well? These little notes they invent for our amusement are hysterically trite enough without making massively stupid mountains out of silly molehills. Recap: one of your coworkers (married) is fucking another coworker (not his wife) and you're thinking about turning him in (nobody likes a tattletale). Oh, and he's slacking at work, which is very bad and sets a dark tone to the letter. Oh, and he's fucking her right there in the office in the middle of the work day, which is really just a not-too inventive device Slate inserted to pep up an otherwise bland story. Oh, and your mommy and daddy divorced under remarkably, amazingly, unbelievably, coincidentally similar circumstances, which sets the hook, sort of.

I'll play along.

This idiotic bullshit must end. Not just his, moron – yours too. Here's how: notify the sexmaster and his little sex kitten that the news is out, you are sick of the public fuck-fest and you're going to turn them in. Wait three days. If they persist in banging each other in the office, follow through.

Was that so goddamn hard? You need a Paxil? Any questions? Gawd.

***

Overshadowed or Overly Sensitive – Godamighty, I hate working with people like you. Recap: post-promotion, you and your more adroit coworker performed parallel work and she presented before you. Bonus – she's a pal.

She's not a “pal”, Mary. She's a coworker. Unless you two are pulling a LW1 and banging each other in an empty office during the day, she's doing her job and that means, evidently, she's making you look like what you are: less experienced. This is the nature of a workplace. This troubles you? Go be a cashier or a florist. Offices are places where some people get shit done, some people fuck around all day (literally, see above), and some people provide fodder for more ambitious and experienced coworkers, but if they have a shred of cerebral material available in their thick skulls they learn from this.

Where do you figure you are in that food chain? If you need a hint then you're just scary dumb.

Tell her? Don't tell her? Please. You both wasted many hours – hours you were paid for – performing the same task, and even though she did it better there is a measurable waste of time in there somewhere. There must be better words than that, but I'm sure you can find a way to let her know this fact and move along.

***

Neglected (Almost) Newlywed – Welcome to Schuyler The Cat's World of the Flagrantly Obvious Answer. Ready? Recap: you want more sex, he doesn't, and you aren't even married yet. This vexes you, apparently.

Feels like you may as well be married, huh?

Well, you'd better do a little soul searching, sweetums. All that self help bullshit about careers and stress and life intruding to the point that your sex life dies before you were married is a lot of bullshit – the laws of attraction work your entire life, Plain Jane, and I'd bet something about this relationship is amiss. Are you ugly? Are you stupid? Are you boring? Are you whiny? Are you smelly? Are you just completely normal with no issues, no baggage, no bullshit?

Whatever, the spigot is on full blast in the beginning of most relationships and it tapers off as time goes by, sure, but you're not even forty yet and the tap is closed? Something is either amiss, or (as I suspect) you've finally met your REAL fiancee. Laughing at you when you try to entice him with lingerie? That's not only fucking rude, but it's indicative of something: lingerie isn't funny, you know. There are entire populations of fans of the Vicky's Catalog who fight over who gets the next look at Adriana Lima in $95 panties and a $180 bra. A woman in her late 20's who poses for her man in his early 30's in something skimpy who gets laughed at has a little problem on her hands.

What's it all mean? Is this a habit that needs to be broken? Seems the habit IS broken, sister, and as you aren't at the top of his menu any more, you might start thinking of chopped liver. I bet nothing feels better than realizing a toss with you is less important than football, sleep, surfing the internet, or changing the oil.

You'd better have this out. Talk. Argue. Threaten. Get your goddamn mouth open and let him know – you will be miserable and unhappy the rest of your goddamn life if you don't.

***

B.A. Who Wants Out – Congratulations on that whole college graduation thing – always an impressive achievement. It is evident, however, that you didn't major in communications because a fucking third grader can communicate better than you have in this case. Recap: You are graduating, lotsa relatives are coming to see it, your mom can't afford to take them in, and your gramma's a manipulative fucking hag who likes to call you a fatty. Stress is the byproduct.

Graduating college is, I think, one of the rights of passage that sends kids hurtling into adulthood, even if they are ill prepared to go there. You are an example. See, I am going to give you some very grown-up advice, and unfortunately from the tone of your letter you seem to be unprepared to carry out this simple, adult task. No matter. Here it comes, Pinkie:

1 – Guests overtaking your mother? That's her problem, not yours. You might talk to her (that's one) about it, but she's got her own brain and her own way about her, and that's the end of that. Let's move on.

2 – Mean relatives coming? That IS your problem, and there's only one way to cope: Talk to them (that's two) and let them know how you feel about their attendance and attitudes. Better: find one you like and talk to that person about it. There's got to be one, and as word gets around it might grease the skids if you end up dropping the hammer on them all. Failure to do this means a. you aren't ready for the world or b. they really aren't that bad. Your call there.

3 – Gramma's a bitch. Yeah, I said it. There's an old saying – “you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family.” Well, I have a new saying – “assholes are assholes, just so, and need to be clearly informed of this fact sometimes.” When gramma sees you and says “well, well, if it isn't fat old fat ass. I see you're still a big fat fatty, you fat old fatso” you just might need to have a little talk with her (that's three). Indeed, you might reply by saying “I see you're still an croggled-up old loudmouth bitch, and given my girth which you seem to hate so much you might want to know that if I sit on you I'll crush your creaky, rusty old goddamn bones like twigs, but at least then you'll shut the fuck up about my weight you grimy, wrinkled old wad of overcooked haggis.” Or, you know, something along those lines.

We all tolerate a lot from our families, but that's no excuse for shitty behavior, and you – a college grad any day now – need to know this fact. You have exactly one hour to grow the fuck up. Then: Go git 'em.

***

Not much happening in my weather-challenged life, these days. Interviews for jobs still go on, but I am beginning to feel the effects of NOT graduating from college like LW4 up there. I can tout 27 years of experience, but the only thing I majored in was falling asleep during Accounting 101. I slept very studiously, though.

Vacation this weekend, for me – a little trip to the nearby mountains and a small cabin with a stream full of trout. We have poles and some tackle and not a single goddamn clue how to catch trout from a stream, but as there will be much very cold cheap beer in attendance, my wife and I shall throw our lines in the water and hope for the best. We will watch our backlog of unwatched DVDs (Corpse Bride, Hurt Locker, The Fountain, Pan's Labyrinth, Kill Bill 1 and 2, No Country for Old Men, Avatar, Burn After Reading, District 9) and eat and lay about like lazy people and forget that there's a mortgage restructure, two kids, a shitty job, a Persian cat who is evidently allergic to cats, and a lawn to mow. And a 40% possibility of thunderstorms.

Cheers!

STC =^oo^=

into each life a little mother must fall...

2010-05-06T08:46:00.000-07:00

“Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way...”
- Pink Floyd, Time, 1973.

Yeah, ticktock and around the hands go. I am a little melancholy, and a little tired, but although I seem to look for something to whine about I can't really do it. I think that means I'm happy and taking that fact for granted. Harrumph. Mid life crisis? Gas?

Among the good things now are finals: my wife, bless her perfectionist heart, is finishing up the second to last day of finals, and I suspect this will be a not too bad day. Then comes Monday. Then it's summer and we do it for one more year. Here come the barbecues, though, and sitting on the patio sipping hefeweizen (or bock or IPA or porter or Belgian or stout or pale ale or a good lager or...) and hoping there's enough clouds to keep the sun at bay long enough to prevent me being grizzled into a raspy little raisin.

BTW - when she sees what I got her for mother's day she's gonna freak. I cannot imagine a gift less romantic or motherly, but she wants one really bad. I'll let you know how it goes.

After she's done with school, by the way, she'll get a great job and support me and I'll sit around the house eating bonbons and watching soaps. That never happens though. I've been a stay at home dad. Not quite like it was in “Mr. Mom” but it wasn't a picnic.

Need to be careful here. Looking for excitement can typically land the seeker in the middle of exactly that, and sometimes that is not really what one needs.

I probably just need to play with my kids more.

Letter writers – original can be had HERE. Dive on in.

***

Not Star Struck – Um, hello. Nice to meet you. You have some kind of, uh, problem? Let's see – recap: You, recently an adult, just found out mom was a porn star when she was younger. This troubles you.

So...okay then! There it is!

Huh? Was there a problem? Not to say this isn't an issue, or you aren't a little weirded out – hell, I'd freak my shit everywhere – but what more do you need? If it's weird, then let it be weird and get over it or don't. Move on. Sally forth. Eyes front. Just...go live you life. Uh...wait.

Hmm.

No, don't wait. Get the fuck over it. Any real questions? I mean, did you lock your keys in your car or break a shoelace? Something important?

P.S. - I have been remiss here. There are those who know me wh wonder if I have taken ill, or maybe if I'm stoned, and I myself wonder why I left this out: blackmail the fucking shit out of her, make some dough, move to Paris! Just sayin'.

* * *

Guilt Ridden – are you the same letter writer as number 1 above? Recap: you are in school, ready to graduate, career in view, and just discovered mom has breast cancer. You want to know if you should move away and have a life or stay close to mom. Also, for whatever reason you found the need to ask this question via Dear Prudence.

Ah, we are in a world of choices, aren't we? Wasn't that long ago I was regretting my decision to move from Southern California, a shithole of overpriced little stucco homes, bad traffic, polluted beaches, and the horrid attitudes of SoCal locals; to Charlotte, North Carolina. Three years and my dad was diagnosed with a big fat tumor “the size of a lemon” in his lung. I needed to stay here to feed my family, but I needed to be with my dad. Life happened. He died, and I got the phone call here, in my home in Charlotte. I regret not being there every day of my life since.

Meanwhile, I do not regret staying here with my wife and children, sticking it out, making our life here work.

Was I torn? Ayup. Miss him every day. But he and I talked every day, too, when he could anyway. Stayed with him for a week when it got bad in April, 2006, but he improved. The next time I saw him was August, at the mortuary, helping my mother carry his urn to the car. Heavier than I thought it would be.

You got a tough call here, sport. You have no wife and kids, so there's that, but you and your mom had better have the same talk my father and I had. We knew what I had to do at the time, and that's exactly what I ended up doing. It wasn't perfect, but it was the only way to go.

Talk to her. You'll know what to do.

* * *

Tired – Kids these days! Damn, they are a pain in the ass, aren't they? Recap: your child is a big fat lazybones and you are tired of supporting her, but your sister isn't, and you are at odds about it. Bonus: your child is your mother.

Letter 1 was an example of childish indecision and cowardice, and letter 2 represents a rather more finite choice in tough times. This represents an invitation into dysfunction, and you are a key player.

Time to play.

Mommy dearest is a lazybones, all right, although there is likely some serious psychofuckedness (ooh, new favorite word) happening here. Mommy needs help, but you evidently aren't built for that. Don't sweat it – that wasn't a dis, so long as you truly feel you've done all you can, and that continuing to “help” will cause nothing to change.

I need to remember that you aren't upset about not helping mommy; you're upset that sis is going to disown you for it, and I suppose that's understandable.

Here's you choices, as I see them:

One, you can stay the course and pull that tough love thing on mommy, telling her, essentially, that she can go fuck up her own life herself because you aren't willing to abet that activity, and lose your sister (probably for a while, anyway) or...

Two: abet the activity, sparing the sister relationship up front, but defying your own views which, I remind you and by the way, aren't wrong or bad, or...

Three: try to play the middle of these roads, which is an action destined to meet with unbefuckinglievably abysmal failure of truly epic style and proportion.

So really, you get 1 or 2, I say.

I am going to flip a coin. Heads = one, tails = two. Just a sec.

Heads. Viola!

Note: feel free to flip your own fucking coin. It's your life, chum. Gotta choose, like it or not.

* * *

Disappointed Mother – you should not be disappointed, mother. You should be punched in your fat fucking face. Just sayin'. Recap: you have maligned, pushed, controlled, manipulated, berated, humiliated, and hounded your kids to be completely nonjudgmental, something you believe is great, and they aren't. Now you are baffled how to pick up the maligning, pushing, controlling, manipulating, berating, humiliating, and hounding so as to feel in your own nonjudgmental way that your kids are good enough for you, even though you want them to not feel others aren't good enough for them. TL;DR – you're a fucking idiot, and want to come up with a lesson to teach your kids to be fucking idiots who are just like you.

You know, you can lead a horse to water but you still gotta shoot the sick ones in the fucking head. I say this for you, not your girls.

First – ever hear the phrase “kids will be kids?” I bet you think that doesn't apply to you, huh? Well, surprise, dipshit: it applies to everyone. Your daughters are not locked in the closet, or chained up in the basement, or squirreled away in the highest fucking room of the tallest fucking tower. They are out among other children, many of whom (unlike your daughters) have normal, potentially even smart, parents. Guess what happens when you insert kids into the intra-personal spaces of other kids? They experience real life, not mommy's Disney version of what is right, wrong, good, bad, and otherwise stupidly unrealistic.

Do I really need to tell you this? Do you not realize you are treating them exactly the way you do not want them to treat others? Are you one of those asinine “do as I say, not as I do” retards who never understood that when your fucking asshole parents said that to you it made no goddamn difference, except now you are the fucking asshole parent?

Want to know the lesson plan I have for you? No, you don't. Here it is anyway. I have readers. They like this shit.

First – can you offer them up for adoption? You haven't got the sense God gave an old lunch pail full of maggots, and you are going to fuck up these kids something terrible.

Second – commit yourself to at least two years of mental evaluation and counseling to get to the root of your issues before you see them again.

Third – if all else fails, change your name and get a job as a server in a diner somewhere in New Jersey. You can handle that, I suspect.

In short, let these girls grow up, you vapid, vicarious wad of reeking crotch cheese. They deserve better.

Oh, and the lesson? They probably already learned it: you're a fucking idiot.

***

Amid my earlier bellyaching about my life, it should be noted that all my interviewing has landed me precisely nothing – no call backs, no feedback, no job. Not such a bad thing, as I have a job. A bad thing 'cause I hate my job. Practice makes perfect, though, and there are more interviews to come. I'll get out of here eventually.

Cheers, Flysters!

STC =^oo^=

In which we depart from reality land with a sick little whimper. Oooeeewwwieeee...

2010-04-16T06:32:00.000-07:00

If you're in a war, instead of throwing a hand grenade at the enemy, throw one of those small pumpkins. Maybe it'll make everyone think how stupid war is, and while they are thinking, you can throw a real grenade at them.
- Jack Handey

Having been reminded that I am not particularly funny on more than one occasion in my life, and again, last week, being reminded that I am rather pathetic, this was the first time I was specifically instructed to go buy a gun. Thing is, I already have one. Now what, troll?

Fans. Goofy, silly oddballs.

Note, Flysters: I. Have. A. Job. Interview. Very excited, although I wonder a little about the place. I have worked there before, and it's a company which is locally famous for it's nickname: Dysfunction Junction. Seems they need a guy with my skills, though, and let's hope they admire my not-very-funny-patheticfulness and gun ownership to boot. I have friends who work there too – that'll be a nice bonus. Interview is next Monday. Panel style interview, 6 people in a room for an hour with questions like “what's your greatest attribute?” and “have you ever killed anyone?” and “what's that smell?”

Nice to be looking for a job while I still have one, is all. I might ask one and all to cross a couple fingers and toes if you have a moment.

It all leaves me with a semi-hopeful feeling – while the realm of Charlotte, North Carolina isn't and never has been the employment hot spot of the nation, it's a good barometer of things, given the horsepower expended by banking here. If the fat cats who fucked everything up are hiring, you know the bonuses were paid and appreciated and the wheels are ready to turn again. This bodes well for us all I trust, working or not.

For me, personally, it means the house is probably saved and I have to buy a car (there's a story in itself) and maybe, just maybe, I can get myself a Kindle, although that's still a little frilly around these parts. Sigh.

Dear Prudence is the vapid black hole of Cheez-whiz trepidity it's always been, with the added bonus of the hysterically idiotic tale of ESP-laced intrigue. Slate fed it's editors a little psilocybin this week I fear, and they invented a whole hash of entertaining dickheadery aimed straight to the soul of the heartiest bong-wielding stoner. Amazing.

So. Read HERE. And then read on.

***

The Grim Dreamer – This turgid little fabrication is about as idiotic as it is mundane, and I salute Slate for dropping it on us like a perky little turd in a bowl in their weekly dipshit-fest. Recap: you are Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, and every twerpish little fuck that ever “saw” things on the midnight TLC and A&E lineup. You dreamed that the (oh, gawd) ex-love of your life went all “Scanners” style head blowed up scene while in Iraq, and (cue scary music) it happened! I mean, it didn't happen, but he got work in Iraq after much unemployment, and he will certainly, positively, absolutely, without a doubt be blown to little gobbets of gloopy ex-boyfriend meat if he goes.

Also: you, and only you, can save him.

Also: you are pretty fucked up, know that?

Ah, la-di-da. What's a prophet to do? Oh – by the way, I have a job interview next Monday. How's that gonna go for me? Or is my head gonna get blowed up if I go? Huh? Emotions always, the future.

I recommend before you take any significant action on this matter that you revisit your medications – dosages can be tricky and it can take years for your shrink to find the right cocktail of drugs to reacquaint your obviously deluded brain with a version of reality, or at least something close to it.

OHH! Wait – I'm a big Indycar fan: who's going to win the 500? I got a little stash of cash and need to get my money on a sure thing.

Meanwhile, go back to your room, Jean Dixon. Lockdown's at 8:00.

***

Confused – another case of bad naming conventions for Prudie letters. You are not just confused. You are ignorant. Recap: you dislike your boyfriend's son. Blah blah blah.

Ignorance is a word that evokes strong reactions in people – it sounds like I am saying “stupid” and “unteachable” in one word that really means neither. Ignorance simply denotes a lack of knowledge. That's you. Let me help there.

You mentioned he won't speak to you when his dad's not there. Now, why would that be? He's not confused and lost, is he? He's wouldn't be a little nervous around a woman who isn't his mom, and at all of age 6 it couldn't be that he cannot quite get comfortable with the breakup of his parents? Any of this sound about right? Have you spent your entire life locked in a pretty pink room with your dollies?

I mean, at six, the bastard should have a fucking job, get out of the house more, get a goddamn girlfriend. Shouldn't be loitering, eating your food, messing with your life, right? Loser.

Listen up, Mommie Dearest: he's six fucking years old, and you intimidate him. He's unwired from a family that he used to have and cannot be expected to plug into a new family without some emotional rewiring. It is stunning to me that you do not know this.

In short: he's six, you idiot. He doesn't need you, he needs to be six. He doesn't need to be liked by you, he needs to feel safe around grownups. He would be neither happy nor sad if you got hit by a fucking bus, because (you guessed it!) he's six, and you aren't his mother.

He's not the interloper, asshole. You are.

So I will turn the tables a bit: you say you don't know if you want to get married to his dad since you feel this way? I say that unless you grow a brain and become the grown up, the best thing that could happen to this kid is for you NOT to marry his dad, 'Cause frankly speaking, you aren't good enough.

***

Not a Model – Not a rocket scientist either, are you? I have to assume the executives were typical corporate suits, and you rabble are all minimum wage trolls. Recap: management, in a stroke of brilliance, took the shop floor staff to a seminar for wealthy tie-wearing people and a fun time was not had by all.

Lets put something to bed here first: anyone around you whining that “you don't have a nice complexion” means “you are dark skinned and we'll be at your house with a cross to burn next Tuesday” is just looking for a frivolous suit and something to bitch about. Just tell them to shut the fuck up. Jesus.

Next: management is famous for doing a lot of very, very stupid things in the business space, including sending high school dropouts who hired on for the summer to leadership seminars intended for the country club set. Now, while good personal hygiene is a fairly accepted best practice for the workplace, I think we can assume there is at least one exec (there always is) who forgets to shower or has nose hair long enough to braid, and I have good money here says there are any number of less-than-slender managers at your little start up, so let's all quit whining about the weight thing.

And you ask if there is anything you can do about it? Like what, sue them for being typical executives? Beat them up in the parking lot after work? What the hell do you think you're going to do?

Look, if you accidentally wander into a Scientology event and get preached to, are you instantly a Scientologist? If you attend a seminar on bass fishing with a friend, do you have to go out and buy a rod and reel after? Seminars, see, are informational only. Frequently the information garnered at them is pedantic drivel couched in excitable tones and disguised as useful information. Regardless, what you hear at a seminar can all be ignored safely – you know how to shower and brush your teeth, so fucking deal with it.

***

Unemployed Bridesmaid – Schuyler The Cat has a belief, and it is a belief he holds sacred, regarding weddings: the moment – the absolute moment – a couple announces they are going to marry, every human being within earshot becomes a full-fledged fucking retard of the worst imaginable type. Recap: you are a reluctant and penniless bridezmaid, chained to a tearful bridezilla, and you can't escape the madness (or cost).

I just might rant a bit.

Weddings are sickeningly stupid, overblown, haughty affairs that should be banned. Brides are whimpering, demanding, vicious taskmasters on a good day, and God forbid you meet one on a bad day. Grooms are oafish, grinning tag-alongs who serve no particular purpose other than to act cordially to those he bumbles into and eventually pose as a typically incapable dance partner. Mothers and fathers of the bride and groom are puffy, brutally obnoxious tear-stricken dolts with little to do other than foot the various bills and try to out-joke each other about the costs.

Guests are frequently no better – the Drunk Dancing Guy who everyone pretends to like but calls a “fucking jerk” when the videos play later, in private. There is always The Hot Chick – always – and she's, you know, Hot, and that's all she is. Sometimes there are several Hot Chicks, and they smarmily act out scenes from ”Mean Girls” while making certain their cleavage is low enough to gain attention without being “slutty,” all the while acting slutty. There will be two little kids dancing at some point, cute little boppers between two and five, and they will possibly kiss and giggle for the cameras and then fall over, and the entire room full of people will simultaneously melt and say “aaaawww.” Video magic.

The Bridal Party, the modern equivalent of indentured servants in formal wear, like to wear cowboy boots or Converse Hi-tops or argyle socks to be hip, but offer no particular support other than additional roving color swatches to enhance the mood and provide a ridiculous cost model for the liquor they consume.

Somewhere in there is a wedding coordinator. This individual should be shot between the eyes and buried in a shallow, unmarked grave. I will add, though, for the record: this is the only person at a wedding with any intact brain matter whatsoever.

Eventually someone with a video camera will saunter up to everyone in attendance and say “what do you have to tell the newlyweds?” Roughly eighty percent of the people will choke back the urge to say “this is the tackiest goddamn wedding I have ever been to – I mean, really, Dusty Rose Taffeta bridesmaid dresses? And who the fuck serves potstickers at a wedding? Look there, get a shot of Beth. She's at the Hot Girls table arranging her tits again. Oh, and look at Buffy with her pockmarked fat ass hanging far enough out of that $7500 wedding dress to knock over the gift table! Her ankles hang over the straps of those Jimmy Chu's like a hairnet full of cottage cheese, don't they? I bet she rented them. Did you catch a shot of Jimmy drooling all over Beth's cleavage? Some groom you are, Jimmy - what a fucking pig!”

Then everyone goes home and says “that was an okay wedding.” A week later it is forgotten.

Six months on begin the divorce proceedings, and wedding coordinators everywhere feel it happen, like Obi-Wan felt the destruction of Alderaan (“...there was a disturbance in The Force”), and subconsciously they begin rubbing their hands together like Scrooge goddamn McDuck in preparation for the follow-up event.

So there's that.

Anyway, tell her she has to pay for everything or she can fuck off.

***

Off I go, Flysters, to research the more recent nature of the company I am interviewing at, all the better not to look like a complete moron when they pin me down and grill me. I want to walk out of that conference room with people saying “there's much power in this one, he is the one! Hire him now, and reward him richly!”

And may you all enjoy a beautiful weekend replete with...you know, lots of, um, beautiful...stuff and all that.

Kisses,
STC =^oo^=

Just can't stay gone for long...

2010-04-08T13:46:00.000-07:00

Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn't.

- Erica Jong

According to a few fans who sent curious emails (“didja die or something?” “What gives?” “You sick?” “Where the fuck have you been?” So sweet, my fans. Just the way I like 'em) I am due to get back in the goldurn saddle to craft a post here. Hard to do lately, between general busy-ness and a huge case of torpor bordering on syncope brought on by the absolutely bottomless banality of the recent letters at Slate. The “Who-Gives-A-Shit-O-Meter” just got itself pegged for me, and I blacked out, only to awaken to this week's predigested dreck.

Still, a guy' got to keep his chops up, even if it's on this manner of mouth-breathing, low hanging dipshit-fodder.

Originals here.

***

Not Her Mother – I shall file this letter under the “who gives a Fat Flying Fuckload of Fermented Frog Feces” tab. Recap, and making a long story short: you have a preggo roomie who smokes, and you are conflicted. Actually, there are four roomies, all young and hot, living together, probably hanging out in your underwear all sweaty and hot looking during the blazing summer days, reclining on the sofa and dripping the cool water from ices cubes onto each other's flexing, moist bodies. Except the preggo one, that is. She's having a smoke.

My solution is...wait – I got lost at the dripping water all over flexing bodies part. What was your issue? Whatever. Who gives a shit. Do what you want. I need some lunch. Brb.

***

Protective of Her Cub – now, for a change, we have an appropriately named letter writer. Recap: your daughter has Asperger's. She was not invited to her buddy's d'day party, even though the buddy was invited to hers. You now ask “what's wrong with people?”

Listen up: I have a 6 year old son, “C”, who is all over the Autistic spectrum, including total immersion in Asperger's. People are scared shitless of him because, despite the fact it's becoming more and more prevalent these days, people don't know fuck-all about it. Get your hackles up all you want – this child will never, ever be completely accepted by neurotypical children or their parents unless ABA or other therapies can release the diagnosis. I'd think you would have known after 7 years, indicating this was written by some cheese-dick wonk at Slate. You might take this opportunity to inform these parents of the issue raised by dissing your daughter, but I got a million bucks says it's a waste of time for you: I bet could freak your too-tight pansy-ass shit by introducing you to my 21 year old, a recovering doper. The shaved head, piercings, and tattoos would likely make you run and hide. He's a great kid, you know. Works a charity where he lives, generous as the day is long. Believe me?

Didn't think so. Look at you, running in disgust. Such ignorance. So much to teach everyone, you.

Wake up, dickless – people are people everywhere, and that includes you and your family. Take care of them and learn.

***

Tangled – Hoo, boy, this little cutie of a tale will twist the nipples of all those non-public-breastfeeding, tight-assed, straight and narrow Frayster people on Slate, won't it? Recap: you, married, get a big drippy-wet girl hard-on every time you see “that guy” at the office. You wonder: flee or fuck?

Oh, and you are “not bad looking and not a bimbo.” Seriously, your words.

Cue theme from “As the World Turns.”

Aaaaaaand welcome, everyone to the Schuyler The Cat Tells Stupid People What To Do Show! The show where Schuyler The Cat tells...um, stupid people what to do! And now, here's our host...Schuyler the Cat!

Hello everyone, and welcome to this week's show. Today we have a married, not very attractive Bimbo from Hoboken who's got a serious vajayjay groan-monster happening in her silky boyshorts for some interoffice man-meat Popsicle! Her husband, a fairly disaffected and uninteresting insurance salesman, doesn't give her the sweet and spicy sausage the way Bimbo fantasizes the studly office guy can! It's another example of really stupid made up letters from Slate!

Okay, Bimbo – step up the the Wheel of Circumstance. Here's how to play: spin the wheel, and do what it says. Even a brain-dead Slimfast drinking skank-ola shag-pie like you can do that!

“Clicketyclackety clicketyclackety clicketyclackety clickety.. clackety... clickety.... clackety....... click!”

And there we go! What does the wheel say? It says “You are so fucking stupid your mere presence sucks the entire intelligence quotient out of the room the moment you walk in like a cerebral black hole made out of pure Megan Fox, except she's kinda pretty!”

What's that mean? Hell if I know! Go home, loser! And take our consolation prize, a 10-½” purple natural latex dildo, Bimbo! Go fuck yourself!

Oh, and flip a coin about the guy. Fuck him, don't fuck him, who the hell cares? Quit wasting everyone's time. What do you think this is, a game?

***

Sugar Sugar – Oh, lord, these are tiring. Goddammit Slate, where are your normal shitty writers? This batch is way worse than usual. Recap: your pal (in jail! How spicy and edgy!) left sugar gliders (ooooh, exotic and unusual) in your (obviously inexperienced) care and one died. You don't know if you need to tell her because (wait for it...) she's prone to (what the fuck?) depression. That's the end of the letter, because nobody could think of anything more interesting to add which could drag this turd-scented junk heap of a jerkoff letter out of the abyss of imbecility it's mired in.

Well you know, here in reality land we tell it like it is. When my wife asks “does my ass look big in this?” I say “you kidding? Yeah! oney, that thing looks like the biggest, fattest, stretch mark and cellulite riddled ass ever, it's freaking ginormous! Like sixty pounds of rancid cottage cheese in a saggy old burlap sack!” When she asks “what do you think of my recipe for liver and onions?” I say “I think I am actually eating buffalo shit – not something that tastes like buffalo shit, mind you, but some real, actual buffalo shit! I fucking hate it!” She, in return, just loves my honesty. We hug often.

Really. True story.

The only way this letter could be any goddamn stupider would be if you added something like:

1.) “She's a pregnant smoker...”
2.) “She's got a child with Asperger's that no one invites to do fun shit...”
3.) “She's a stupid horny bored wife with a burning need to jungle-fuck some handsome office help...”

Take your pick. Oh, and flip a coin about telling her, or just go get a fucking replacement animal. Like she'd know?

***

Tra la la, and to hell with all of them anyway...

So how are my fine fellow Flysters? Been gone a spell – it'd be nice to hear from everyone.

Time to start supper. Cheers!

STC=^oo^=

Into each life a little Spring must sproing...sprang...sprungen? Nice out, eh?

2010-03-20T07:19:00.000-07:00

Most of us can read the writing on the wall; we just assume it's addressed to someone else.
- Ivern Ball

Unlike certain dear friend of mine who dwells in the rather more northerly realm of Chicago, here in Charlotte, North Carolina spring has spranged. Somewhat.

The snow is gone (all 1.4 inches of it for the whole season) and the trees are taking that end-of-the-jetstream risk of sending buds to their tips: dogwoods have big white puffs on them, my parson's pear didn't die last year and has plenty of evidence of bloom to come, my fruitless plum is littered with dozens of cheerful pink flowers, and my Japanese maple – almost killed three years ago in the blast of an April ice storm – grew a whopping foot and a half of new branches, all of which are budding.

And now I gotta mow the fucking lawn.

The kids and I will head to the park today, for a few hours of the big plastic play contraption and a walk through the trail along the Frisbee golf course in the woods. I may wear shorts.

Even the cats are with this Spring thing. Jeffrey, our chickenshit orange tiger tabby who believes sitting humans are safe humans from a distance, but standing humans are evil and horrible creatures who want to eat him, hopped into my lap recently, made biscuits on my thighs, and curled up just long enough for my foot to fall asleep. Living your whole life in a cage does that to one.

And get this: I've yet to get my taxes off to Mr. tax man. What kind of idiot doesn't send off his taxes? Don't I need the money? Am I just rolling in dough?

An idiot, yes, and no. But the tax money was spent a long time ago, surviving a bout of unemployment between contracts which exhausted our savings and sent many thousands of dollars onto the credit cards...which will be partly paid off when the tax return gets here. Ever dime of our return is spent already, on debt.

That's good news, though - we have that debt covered (many don't), and my shitty-paying contract is keeping us in food and garbage pickup and shortly enough gasoline to fill the mower and get the outside of this house looking respectable (many can't) and spring has sprung.

So I will smile.

DP was a tiring, bitter jerk-off this week, but suitable for therapeutic reasons. Please read the originals here.

***

Suffering With Skeletons – Your name is your answer. Recap: you met the offspring of the offspring of your abuser years after it was over. This individual is a good guy, but you need to ask questions.

You won't be any fun for me at all – I can't beat on you for this one 'cause it just ain't right.

I'll tell you something simple and definite, though: even though you say “legal action was taken, and I thought I was over” it you need to get the fuck over it right quick, 'cause if you do nothing this is like herpes. Every so often you'll have a flareup because of it, and it's life altering, and it's fucked up, and everlasting. And pills can hide the symptoms for a while but not cure the disease.

Unlike herpes, you can actually get over this. Gotta do it, and sooner is better. You're young yet – imagine a life where this shit isn't clattering around in your head every time you see someone that looks like “him.”

You owe it to yourself to take this to the curb. You will thank me, and everyone else who tells you to do this (and the people who love you will tell you to do it) later on. Just go.

This person you met, regardless his pedigree, isn't an issue. You are. Go. See a shrink. Go.

Go on. Git.

***

Afraid of Oedipal – cereal? Really? Recap: your tot saw you and hubby fucking like wild animals. The young 'un is a true-blue genius who knows everything there is to know about Captain goddam Crunch, and you suspect that he may have been so deep in thought about the inclusion of niacinimide in the crunch-berries and how it may prohibit the absorbency of pyridoxine hydrochloride that he might not have noticed you were wearing a leather cup-less bra and riding his daddy reverse cowboy and screaming “yeah, pound it, buckaroo, pound it!” As usual, you don't know what to do. Bada boom. The world ceased spinning and Jesus wept.

Number one, Supermom: lock the fucking door. Are you stupid? Are you sick? Did you suffer a massive brain injury as a youth from a blow to the head or oxygen starvation? Did you take too much goddamn acid and fry the circuits? Are there toothless, grinning family members in your past who married as siblings? What are you, some kind of fucking asshole witless empty-headed astrotarded moron?

Here's why this is a good idea: If the door is locked, little Billy doesn't have to watch you and daddy fuck each other with “acrobatic” flair and gusto. Get it? Jesus Christ. His 2:00 AM visits are typical, you say, yet you were surprised to find him standing in your open doorway, staring at you, post coital? Dipshit.

Number two, genius: you don't know what to tell him? Good lord.
Here.
We.
Go.

It's time to go to the “Schuyler The Cat Tells You What the Fuck to Say O-Matic!” Here's how you play: I will give you three things you can say to your little brain-surgeon-cereal-genius child, and you pick one. Pick any one. Then say it. It's that simple. You could fuck it up, but most couldn't and that's what make my show worth watching, you Hoover-headed butthole.

Ready?

1.) “Billy, see, when mommies and daddies love each other very much, sometimes their feelings are so strong they go farther than just kissing and hugging – you know how mommy and daddy kiss and hug a lot, it's just icky, huh? – and that's when mommy and daddy wait until they think you're asleep, then mommy and daddy take off their clothes, and daddy puts his erect penis into mommy's vagina. He kind of pushes it in and out, because that feels good for daddy. Then he grabs my hair and says “take it, take it bitch.” Mommy likes to make daddy feel good, so I say “god I need that big cock so bad.” Sometimes, daddy spanks me. Well, anyway, it's a very grown up thing, and you shouldn't worry about it. Want some Count Chocula?”

2.) Billy, mommy and daddy were playing and wrestling last night. Hope we didn't wake you. Great idea, all that, the less milk on your cereal thing. Want some more Fruity Pebbles?

3.) “What do you mean, 'what were you and daddy doing last night?' Mind your own business, you filthy little pervert! What mommy and daddy do are grown-up things! You better talk to Pastor Bob this Sunday and make sure he gets those filthy-naughty thoughts out of your young head, you monster! Oh, let's all pray, hurry, let's pray!” Oh, after, you can have some Lucky Charms!

Okay. Pick one, stay with it. I recommend 2, but 1 is fine, given he's a cereal genius.

And please don't have more kids. Fucking hell, please don't. You have enough of a mess on your hands trying to comprehend one child.

***

Frustrated Fiancee – how many times is Slate going to dust off this asinine fucking letter? This is what, the tenth time I've seen it over the years? Interestingly, it gets stupider with time – they must be letting their more clever editorial staff go for budget cuts. Recap: this is the fake letter about the chick who's fiancee's mother treats him like a baby. You know the story.

One difference: your letter said “insert mother-in-law joke here.” Fair game!

Didja hear the one about the mother-in-law with the fucking vapid asshole dinglepuss of a daughter-in-law? Yeah, she killed her with a goddamn fire ax and hacked her up and buried all the chunky bloody gobbets and pieces around her rose garden and saved the whole world from the horror of the potential offspring of another really stupid person! Then she made her 25 year old son some Ovaltine and combed his hair real nice and said “go find us another stupid one, Earl, but get a rich one next time goddammit!”

Hah! Ah, yes, that one gets me every time!

Anyway, this is a stupid letter and the answer is “get a different guy and by the way grow the hell up, you fucking dumbass.” Yadda yadda yadda.

***

RSVPut Out – Oh, hell.

Weddings.

It is my assertion that weddings are the only naturally occurring event in the universe that can cause the IQ's of entire populations to plummet to Kate Moss' belt size. What's the deal?

Recap: You got a save the date for a wedding for someone you do not know. You actually have to ask “should I get a gift?” In other news, recent evidence has shown that people can survive indefinitely without any brain matter at all in their hollow little skulls. You are the third known living example. George W. Bush was the first. Glenn Beck and Michelle Bachmann are fighting for the right to broadcast a temper tantrum proving they were second.

This is the matrimonial equivalent of getting one of those Nigerian scam letters where the late dictator and grand Poo-Bah of Nigeria, General Sonni Ben Dofhuur, has died and now his widow wants your help in getting his $80 million out of the country. I can only assume you've fallen for that bullshit at one time or another as well.

You feel indebted to buy something? Go ahead. By the way – what's your address? I have a daughter, she's of marrying age (she's 8 actually, but I want to get a head start on both your generosity and your idiocy) and she'd (meaning: I'd) love a Kindle.

Come to think of it, I have a couple of daughters! Yeah, three, maybe four! Four! And uh, they're all princesses (my late father was King Lee Kmabals of Gumbabwe), and they could use a new digital camera (Canon G11, please) and a car (I'm...I mean, she's rather partial to the new BMW M3) and a trip to Vegas (a suite at Venetian would be a fine wedding gift) and a...

In other words, no, you don't have to buy her a wrinkly old dry lump of cow shit from the fields, you bloody idiot. Jeez. I'll still take that Kindle, though. Small payment for having to answer such a stupid question.

***

As I have the kids all to myself today (my wife is studying) we shall proceed forthwith to the park (after chores are done, of course) and then to the store for orange juice, eggs, a few extra bottles of beer for me, and a few packages of pasta, upon which later a hearty amount of clams and garlic and finely diced tomatoes and olive oil (mixed in proper proportion by yours truly, the occasionally chef of the household until graduation in April 2011) will be dumped later.

Bien à toi, grosses bise.

STC =^oo^=

STD...as easy as 123...or simple as do re mi, STD, 123 baby you and me, girl!!!

2010-03-12T12:21:00.000-08:00

Come on come on come on let me show you what it's all about...

***

We should not only use the brains we have, but all that we can borrow.
- Woodrow Wilson

Having said that, I may not have much gray matter to lend, but bloody hell, these lot this week are a buncha goddamn neanderthals, eh? Sigh.

The original letters can be found HERE.

Away we go!

***

Shaken – This letter is an abysmal exercise in wordsmithing. Recap: You're Islamic (irrelevant) and suffered an arranged marriage (irrelevant) and have a son you “adore” (like you'd say you don't adore him?). Next: your wife has an STD, and you wonder if it's just a “D” with no “ST”. You have doubts.

Sounds like another poorly constructed and fake DP letter to me. Jeez.

Anyway, have no doubts, my friend: HPV is not transmitted from the toilet seat or trying on bikinis previously tried by an infected woman. Her naughty parts got it through contact with either your naughty parts or someone else's naughty parts. Are you sure your naughty parts are clean? And by the way, I do not mean that in some Islamic “I'm male therefore I can fuck whatever walks and Allah says “kewl” but women who have extramarital sex are wicked whores to be flogged and passed around like sexual party favors among their male family members before they are beaten to death and buried in a shallow grave in a display of honorable behavior” sort of way. Sorry. I'm American. I wouldn't kill my wife or daughter for having a shag with a Protestant.

So you really really didn't dip your colossal kebab into some other girl's glorious gaping gahnoush? Reeeally?

Regardless, you have some thinking to do, doncha? Bummer to go through this, but be real about it. She's human, you're human, something happened, and the truth won't stay hidden forever. Welcome to the real world – this is why I don't espouse virginity before marriage: stupid religious practice that should be banned.

***

Ringless – Brainless is more like it. So:

Dear Brainless – this letter represents a bizarre and elliptical journey through that viscous, opaque insipidity that is your infantile and worthless mind. Recap: Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl wants a big fucking rock to flaunt to her horrorshow ptitsas or else there will be no nuptials. Boy says “um, wtf?” and somehow still believes girl isn't “overly superficial.” Boy then actually writes a letter to Dear Prudence, simultaneously airing this idiocy and asking “um, huh?”

Cue the cheesy game show music...

“Coming to you live, from his studio office in Charlotte, North Carolina; it's time for The Schuyler The Cat Tells You What The Fuck To Do Show!!! (applause). And here's our host: Schuyler The Cat!” (applause).

“Hi everyone – I'm Schuyler The Cat and welcome to my show (applause)! Today's contestant is a semi-brain damaged, dickless twatrocket from Somewhere, USA (applause)! His issue: his girlfriend, a super-duperficial debutante Jersey Shore reject, wants a big fat diamond ring or she won't marry him! He wonders: wait, fall for it, or leave the bitch!

Today's prop du jour: the decision wheel (applause)!

Step on up, Brainless, and spin the wheel!!!”

Clicketyclacketyclicketyclacketyclicketyclacketydingdingdingding!!!

“Oooooooh, no! I'm sorry Brainless, the wheel landed on 'who gives a flying goddamn frog fuck?' Nobody cares about your stupid ass problem! You're outta here (applause)!!!”

“And that's it for today's The Schuyler The Cat Tells You What The Fuck To Do Show!!! Come back tomorrow to see the crack addict who stole his dad's credit cards! Dad sez: turn him in, or just forgive him?”

(applause) (fade to black)

***

Juris Doctorate Who Would Rather Be a Doctor – holy crap, girl: how the fuck did you get through school with that complete goddamn vacuum amidst your cranial cavity? Juris Jiminy Jumpin' Jesus Christ, you're a fucking lawyer? We should all weep for mankind. Mesothelioma was invented for dingleshit morons like you.

Recap: you went to law school. You wish you'd gone to med school. You don't wanna be a lawyer. You wanna be a doctor. I got this. Ready?

Go to fucking medical school.

Yeah, you're welcome, dipshit. I should charge what YOU charge. Then I could go buy me a new goddamn Mercedes, you witless wonder.

***

Oscar Shark – and I thought the previous letter was horrifyingly stupid. Recap: you had a wager at your party. Your wife won, you came in second. You wonder if this is a problem, or a social faux pas.

Hey! Ever seen a placenta? Odd question, I know, but stay with me here.

I delivered my son myself, and I looked the placenta over pretty carefully. Goopy and bloody and pretty dang gross – looks like a cross between the face-hugging things from “Alien” and a bad cut of beef. They do not smell good. They are generally considered nonessential after a baby is born.

Here's a reason for this discourse: In your case, I suspect the placenta was probably the most intelligent thing your mother expelled from her vagina on the day of your birth.

Listen carefully...I'll go real slow-like: Betting and gambling and wagering and that sort of activity produces two things. Winners and losers. Every fucking time, this is the case. Get that?

Your wife won. You won, too. Whoopie fucking do. Your friends don't fucking care. You are a dipshit. Go blow the goddamn money on some brains or something, because you're scary stupid. Yeah, I know you only got like eighty bucks, but maybe your wife can loan you some of her winnings, and let's face it: anything you add to your intellectual capacity is a major increase, for you.

***

Rain rain rain. Not that big self-important rain that shakes the house in fat fury, just a sniveling drizzle that keeps everything wet and dull and gray. Icky weather we may be having here, but spring has started to make itself known nonetheless, with buds on the trees and temps in the high 60's around these parts, the weather lifting it's skirts like a flirting girl promising something far, far better. I won't miss winter much. Come August I'll miss winter, but that's another story.

Be well, my beloved Flysters. May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand, if you believe in God and all that kinda stuff.

Salud. STC =^oo^=

Why have those awesome claws if you can't sharpen them yourself?

2010-03-06T05:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Flysters,

I am a forty-something male with a job and a mortgage and two kids and a wife. My wife is in school full time, my kids are easy-peasy (including my son, who is mildly autistic but we work on that every available minute and he's coming back to us, which is awesome enough to bring tears to my eyes) and the mortgage is in jeopardy and my job...

It's my job, see.

I am a 26 year veteran of various technologies, with a background primarily in telecommunications, but for the last ten years I have been a project manager, technology agnostic, and it's served me well, especially since Bernie Ebbers fucked up telecom for everybody.

Now I have this job. It's...boring. Here's the good/bad:

Good – work from home. This is critical – with my wife in school, I have pickup and drop off duties for my kids. I cannot commute to work like real people, because they need to get to and from the bus.
Bad – I am so goddamn bored I cannot stand it. The contract I am on has me listed as a “Senior Technology Project Manager.” I should have 3-5 projects with $30-50 million in value, a lot of stress, milestones missed and deadlines looming. I am, at this moment, performing “communication coordination”, meaning I call people and tell them what's happening in the project. Seriously. It's like giving a race car driver a go kart and saying “yeah, you drive, right?” Fuck.
Good – the people I work with are splendid. Really, the salt of the Earth, kindhearted, generous, funny, and thoroughly enjoyable.
Bad – I am used to people like this working FOR me, not WITH me. No challenge, none, and I need some challenge.
Good – I have a job when many don't. Enough said there.
Bad – I will make, if all goes well, $40,000 less this year than I did last year.

You've already heard me whine about the mortgage. No need to go there.

Now I, The vile giver of advice, am not seeking advice. It's obvious what I can and cannot do. I'm not a twenty-something early in my career seeking feedback to grow my future path into something better.

I'm just bored and stuck. Sigh. And whining. Again. Sigh-sigh. Did I mention the low paying aspect of this gig?

If I was seeking advice it would (and should) sound like this: “suck it up, goddammit, and stop your fucking whining. Need a Kleenex? Get your fucking game on and seek other employment that fits the niche you're in, and if it doesn't come...keep fucking looking. And shut the hell up.”

Which I am doing, see. Every day. Except the shut up part. Hard enough to find a job at all, and if I want a better one I'd best keep my nose clean, stay frosty and ready, and keep the current (boring, low-paying) fires burning well enough to keep the place warm, even if I can't pay the rent. I have time.

Meanwhile, I have had a few emails from Flysters stating they are worried about me. Imagine! The foul-mouthed, snide and cruel STC gets love letters of support from people! Hooray! They like me!

And to those few but incredibly appreciated fans who have said nice stuff to me, I need to say this to you: My little situation will either pass or not, but I am a crafty old cat, and while I may not have strong, sinewy paws like the young 'uns any more, and my fur may be going gray (well, mostly it already is, but...), I have far sharper claws than many, and two and a half decades of experience making blubbery ribbons of the flesh of those who vex me.

Cats always land on their feet, you know.

So bless all your big bouncy beautiful hearts for all the nice things you've said, and thanks for thinking of a loudmouthed old guy who has made a big deal out of what is really a little problem.

On to Dear Prudence. I might have something to say to them this week.

The originals can be found HERE.

***

Lonely Dad – Ay caramba, motherfucker. I mean, really. Recap: your wife died, three years go by, you work it alone with your child, until you hire a babysitter, and she's sizzling hot beyond all imaginable reason and let on she wants to spit-polish your prodigious perky pepperoni with her tonsils. And you are worried about this, 'cause, you know, she's a babysitter and you might have to rehire her if you break up. Right. Oh, actual bad news: She's got a boyfriend. Good news: She's said she's unhappy with him.

Goddammit, listen up: sorry abut your wife (I'd be a fucking wreck), but if you're writing this you're maybe mostly ready to move on. Problem is, you're a fucking retard and time is possibly short. Lemme un-retard-ify you:

Go get a quarter. Flip it. FLIP IT, GODDAMMIT.

There.

Heads: Go fuck the ever-loving freaky hell right out of that girl. Do not stop until your junk is so swollen and red and sore you have to put goddamn Band-Aids on it. Up, down, sideways, backwards, in every orifice and on every reachable horizontal surface within a short walking distance, plus in the car, on the bus, in the grocery store, during the movies, and in the middle of the goddamn street - twice. After, you might want to rest for a bit, then go do it all over again until you end up hospitalized in ecstasy. Later, ask if she's leaving her boyfriend.

Regardless the answer, slam her backside into the mattress, put her ankles behind her head, and do it all over again and again and again and...

Tails? Go fuck the ever-loving freaky hell right out of that girl. Do not stop until your junk is so swollen and red and sore you have to put goddamn Band-Aids on it. Up, down, sideways, backwards, in every orifice and on every reachable horizontal surface within a short walking distance, plus in the car, on the bus, in the grocery store, during the movies, and in the middle of the goddamn street - twice. After, you might want to rest for a bit, then go do it all over again until you end up hospitalized in ecstasy . Later, ask if she's leaving her boyfriend.

If she answers “yes”, slam her backside into the mattress, put her ankles behind her head, and do it all over again and again and again. If she answers “no”...who fucking cares? Woo hoo! Flip that quarter again, baby!

And if you needed me to tell you that..oh, hell. It's Time to come back to life, dude. You need the practice. Meanwhile, we've all been out here waiting for you, wondering where you've been...

***

Frustrated – Once again, we encounter a misnomer. You should not think of yourself as “Frustrated”. That's the wrong name. Your name, from now on, is “Fucking Stupid Bitch.”

Dear Fucking Stupid Bitch - Recap.

You are preggo, which means all is right and aligned and perfect and pink and pretty in the universe. Your MIL is likewise preggo, with apparently means the rusty, squealing gates of flaming hell hath split asunder, loosing upon this very Earth the most ungodly and hellish scourge and sickness imaginable: a pregnant 44 year old. The beatific and incredible glory that is you and your unborn child – intended to light the way for the universe for a thousand generations – will be forever defiled by the presence of the spawn of bilious, vile Satan herself! To wit: this foul Horror will be unleashed upon your fair and glorious noble-born offspring at the same time!!!

Listen, Fucking Stupid Bitch - everything you know, and I mean all 7 or 8 things, could fit with room to spare inside the nucleus of a cell of some starch in a gobbet undigested kibble awash in the rectal mucous and bile amid a steaming pile of fetid dogshit. Nothing in this world gives you the right to claim honors over a goddamn pregnancy, regardless the “other” pregnant person's relation to you and despite your distaste for her. The very fact you mentioned you are “upset that she wants to have children now” is a prime and fine example of your incredibly vapid, senseless, brainless stupidity, and frankly, Fucking Stupid Bitch, I recommend that you get your fucking tubes tied after this baby, because there's a good chance your children will be every bit as stupid, senseless, and vapid as you, and we need fewer of those, not more.

BTW – My son turns 6 in a couple weeks, Fucking Stupid Bitch. And my beautiful, sexy, incredibly talented, outrageously funny, scary-smart wife turns 50 this July. Do the math, you mouth-breathing, uneducated, imbecilic, fuck-witted, Forrest Gump-ish, lame brained cretin. You are probably the same age as my oldest son, but if you were my daughter I'd call CPS and have the kids taken from you and force a court case to ensure the above mentioned sterilization procedure on you to protect the planet from infestation.

***

Thinking Globally, Acting Personally – wait just one second, Mr. Olbermann. I need to get my dictionary.

Recap: you are an English major – likely a fairly recent graduate – and you have a supernaturally massive ego that prevents you from understanding anything that cannot be argued over a tepid latte at a goddamn Starbucks. Also, you're a polished-crystal asshole. So, your pal got a job in a shitty country somewhere, and you believe the basis of global individual freedom and the very foundations of human rights and dignity are now suspect because you read somewhere that this is “a real bad thing.”

Bonus: you used the words “sterling” and “phalanx” and “kleptocracy” in generally correct context and in fine proportion to the tone of your letter. Very nice!

Now go fuck yourself. You aren't special, Peter Mark Roget. You're an inexperienced, over-educated fucking windbag with the lofty-but-asswipe ambitions of becoming something you can easily spell but cannot possibly ever grasp in human terms. Leave your goddamn friend alone – jobs are hard enough to find these days.

Idiot.

BTW – When you mentioned this other country's “kleptocracy and human rights abuses,” were you talking about the Bush administration? Just asking, because...oh, never mind.

You wouldn't understand.

***

Outwardly Normal – MONSTERS!!! YOU WANT TO MAKE MONSTERS!!! THEY'LL BREAK FREE OF THEIR BONDS WHEN THEY GET BIG ENOUGH, AND THEY'LL EAT EVERYTHING THAT MOVES!!!

Uh, no, not really, but please. Recap: you are polydactyl (a little nod to the previous LW who loves his thesaurus as much as I do!), meaning you had a few extra toes and an eleventh little finger-ette. Your excess phalangeal accoutrements were removed when you were but a year old. Now you want kids. They will likely also be born with polydactyly. You're worried about something...whatever, who knows. I don't know, what was that you're worried about?

Oh – right-o-licious. You're fine now, but your kids? They will BE FUCKING HORRIBLE MONSTERS THAT SUCK THE BRAINS OUT OF THE STEAMING CPORPSES OF THEIR RECENT KILL THROUGH THE EYE SOCKETS!!! Or something.

Not so fast there, Fists Full of Fingers.

Dude: I know this might be hard to grasp (you have enough fingers left to do it, though! Hehehe) but if you have a baby, and it has something, then...you have a baby with something. Fr'instance: If you have a baby with Downs Syndrome, you have...um, a baby with Downs Syndrome. Happens every day. So if you have a baby with two-eleventeen and a six-half extra little toesies and pinky fingers? Well? Fuck, man, there it is. Shouldn't be hard to find a doctor in your part of town who has some sharp clippers and suitable local or general anesthetic.

But to your point, what if you HAVE BABIES WITH TWELVE INCH, RAZOR-SHARP FANGS THAT CAN TEAR THROUGH HUMAN FLESH LIKE BUTTER!!! OH MY GOD, AND THEY LOVE THE TASTE OF THE BRAINS AND ENTRAILS THEY SLASH AND RIP FROM THEIR VICTIMS' STILL QUIVERING BODIES!!! AND...

Monsters. Hmm. Wait. Nah. Can't happen, dude. Too. Much. Stephen. King.

Go have babies. Good luck with that whole extra digits thing. And hey! When they're seven or so? Go get them a thesaurus!

***

What a mouthful. I'm at the bottom of page 5. I think Fox has it right with TL;DR.

Wonders await this weekend. Off I go. Cheers Flysters!

STC =^oo^=

Psychos, psychos everywhere, and not a drop of common sense to drink.

2010-02-26T15:02:00.000-08:00

“If you love somebody, set them free. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were. If they consulted Dear Prudence while you were split up, hunt them down like a goddamn animal.”
- Various

Ah, the mortgage company. Not the kind of folks who like to call nad have a pleasant chat, these guys. No, rather, an email with big red print with rowds on it that include “foreclosure” and “remit” and “you fucking loser” (not really, but...).

Been a while since I wrote in my Deceptively Simpleminded blog. Time for a little missive on my charitable and kind view of the mortgage banking industry, which will include words like “liars” and “scum-sucking assholes” and “What the hell was I thinking?”

Almost time to dip.

Consequently, I am ready for it.

Here today we have another batch of shit-picking ninnies to slice and cie into little gobbets of idiot-flesh. Something a little disturbing about this week's batch of Dear Prudence losers. Way more fucked up than usual.

Go here to read the originals.

One for the money...two for the...aw, shit. I don't have any money!

***

Hand in Glove – This letter was the most inspired bit of post-digestive idiocy I can recall ever coming from Dear Prudence. Recap: your flawless, amazing 13 year old boy has a thing about latex gloves, goes to “latex glove porn sites”, has piles of them in his room, and begs for more. You, a stupid, insipid, vapid asshole of magnificent proportions are wondering “is this okay?”

First, I had to do a little research. After googling “latex glove porn” I was (not surprisingly) assaulted by video after video of fat, ugly nurses wearing purple medical gloves, thrusting them mightily into any number of over-oiled orifices whilst moaning loudly about “take that rubber fist up your (_fill in the blank_) you fucking (_fill in the blank_)!” It was about as erotic as watching “midget toaster porn” or “mowing the lawn in a tutu porn” or “clean white socks on Vulcan slave girls porn.” Well. Except for that one with the two pretty nurses and the guy was pretending to have this big heart attack – they were wearing those little white outfits and doing this little dance thing, and out came the gloves and some sesame oil, and then he took out his...

Never mind. You'd have to be there.

Anyway, I'd feel a lot better about all this if your boy was just sneaking views of men and woman cheerfully humping each other, but porn these days is about violence and fetishism and humiliation, and not quite the thing I would recommend for a 13 year old, much less a 25 year old, 'cause it's bloody awful and unbelievably un-erotic and, frankly, shameful. Also: porn filtering software is a great way to make certain he's able to access more porn than ever before – it's crap. Just me sayin'.

Didja think about maybe sitting down in a face to face grown-up way to have a face to face grown-up talk about this rather grown-up subject? Didja ever stop to think that there are counseling services available on pretty much every goddamn street corner in every goddamn town from Hilo to fucking Key West? Didja stop to think that a healthy boy of 13 can masturbate 12-15 times a day until it bleeds but still come back for more? Didja ever, I dunno, form an entire brain structure anywhere in your goddamn stupid fucking asshole skull?

No. I thought as much.

In the end I have decided that your erstwhile perfect 13 year old is monstrously fucked up. I have also decided that you are, at the very best, the most dangerous parent in creation for him if you have to ask about this.

So my take? All is lost. Sorry. No worries – hey, Jeffrey Dahmer had a mamma too, you know. Don't you fret, Little Miss Brilliance. Just let it go. The smell of the bodies washes out of the paint and carpet eventually, with a little Lysol.

***

Tired of Dealing With Two-Face – Christ Almighty, where do you people come from? Recap: your wonderful BFF is a fucking asshole. To put it another way, a fucking asshole is your wonderful BFF. Meanwhile, you are a fucking idiot. The clincher: this asshole/wonderful BFF is your boss.

So jobs are hard to find, and you want to spare your best friend (Dr. Jeckyl) but lose the horrible boss (Mr. Hyde) and...wait, what?

Listen up, shit for brains: there is a fairly simple black-and-white way to see this. Ready? Hey! Get your goddamn finger out of your nose and look at me while I'm talking to you, Rain Man. Here we go:

Friends are people you trust, love, care about. Some are better than others. Those who are “bad” are not friends. They are, instead, liabilities we hold onto for no reasonable cause whatsoever. They should be let go.

Bosses are people who tell you what to do and how to do it. Some are better than others. Those who are “bad” are not worth keeping. They are, unfortunately, liabilities we hold onto because jobs are hard to find.

Thus: Friends who are bosses are like crocodiles who are pets. Lovers who are eunuchs. Wheels that are square.

Scientists who are like you.

They do not go together.

You actually wrote the words “...we share the same sense of humor and have always been comfortable in each other's company.”

I think maybe not so much. “Always comfortable in each other's company” except for most of the time, when this person is a fucked up jackass of a stupid fucking asshole boss who you love and share good times with and...wait, what again?

There is nothing wrong with your friend/boss. You are a fucking imbecile, though. In short: get rid of one or the other. Flip a coin.

Was that so fucking hard? Yeah, I thought so. Get back to work, idiot. Those french fries aren't going to make themselves.

***

Confused and Abused – This is almost cute, it's so cloyingly fucked up and vacuous. Recap: you have a cute little doggy. You have a roommate. Your roommate talks sweetly to doggy but uses mean words. You wonder...

Wait for it...

Wait...!

...If the roommate saying insulting things nicely to a dog (a dog!) is an issue.

You really do. You wonder that.

Good Lord God in Heaven Above, please help us all.

There are things on this planet that cause me to have distasteful moments of searing hate deep in my heart. For instance, hearing of “honor killings” does that to me – seems arcanely dishonorable, doesn't it? Frivolous lawsuits get my hackles up too, like that stupid million-willion dollar dry cleaner/ruined pants lawsuit a few years ago. And PETA's mere existence throws me into a thermonuclear tizzy the likes of which make Nagasaki on August 10, 1945 look like a copping a feel at a fucking high school prom. Sea Kittens, for fuck sake? Bah, them.

Having said that, abusing animals pisses me off too. Really I'm saying I like steak, and I also like my cats a lot.

Now: ascribing human traits to animals then calling what your roommate does abuse? Wow. I just discovered something more assiduously stupid than PETA.

I discovered you!

Right now, this minute: Please take the dog to a no-kill shelter so a person with more than a tenth of a gram of functioning fucking brain material can adopt it and give it a good life far, far away from you. You are dangerously stupid, emotionally deranged, and not good for much more than providing a skeletal shape and mass capable of holding up the skin that covers your completely fucking worthless corpus and keeps your entrails from spilling onto the goddamn rug.

After rescuing that poor animal, please find a hole somewhere large enough to fit in and hop into it. Wait long enough, and if there's any mercy in the celestial heavens someone will come along and cover you up and plant a fucking shrub on you and spare this universe from suffering the potentially infectious idiocy coursing through your entire being.

Buh bye, idiot.

***

A Shy Person With Shy Friends – oh, you must be yummy! I bet you are a firecracker in bed! Great! Just fucking great! Now I can't get this out of my head:

“Oh yeah, baby! That's it! Oooh, yeah...um, I'd like to request that you alter the vector of the forceful – yet loving – thrusts of your near-average-sized (which is not important, so they say) erect phallus in such a fashion and corrected configuration such that it interacts with my vaginal cavity by an additional minute of angle toward east by southeast, and thus might better contact sensitive areas of my pubis with a more pleasurable angle of attack! Oh baby, if you would find that this alteration of our current sexual position is acceptable I suspect I might achieve orgasm, but must offer a cautious warning that this outcome is not tested, certain, or verifiable until additional and sufficient time has passed to summon a conclusive amount of empirical evidence: however, having said that I'd like to add for the record this is, for the most part and despite your slightly offensive body odor, a somewhat pleasurable activity we are currently engaged in, and...Honey? Honey?! Wake up!!!”

Follow up to LW1 above: here we have an example of “mathematical pedagogy porn.” I am so aroused right now I might just go have a salad or something.

Recap: you are a socially inept, probably Asperger's affected hyper-intellectual who is scary-smart and utterly unversed in the most basic aspects of common human interaction and devoid of the most simple conversational skills. Danger: you're having a party!

Solution: go to the party, Roberta Oppenheimer. Make certain there's some liquor. Beer, wine, maybe some Grey Goose. Aunt Messy and I can recommend a really delicious Bourbon if you want to live a little.

When these 9 guests (victims) arrive, get them a drink. Maybe another, after a bit. Wait about forty minutes.

They'll tell you what to do from there. Happy Birthday!

****

Nothing but love from me. I know, I'm just a big goddamn softie.

Into the weekend go I, wherein my delicious and beautiful wife and I will be looking into new neighborhoods for acceptable and affordable rental properties. Three months, I am hoping, and better if it's five, before we go. These foreclosures take a bit of time.

Into the breach, us all!

Prosit. STC =^oo^=

A family affair, so like watching apes clean each other.

2010-02-19T19:19:00.000-08:00

A word to the wise ain't necessary - it's the stupid ones that need the advice.
- Bill Cosby

The Winter Olympics, being up in Canada (my wife's homeland), has captivated us as much as it can – the three Canadian golds are a bonus, and for my money the women's downhill and the men's half pipe have been worth the time spent watching. Missed men's figure skating, 'cause I thought that funny looking Russian kid was gonna do it again, but that's another story now, isn't it?

Into curling we go, and that's one we hate to miss any single part of. Why? Who the fuck knows. It's curling. Don't ask.

Today we lovingly pay our disrespects to another batch of brainless nitwits of the worst order, Dear Prudence letter writers who have clawed their way bravely from the dismal depths to the brightness of the light, only to ask dumbass questions about unimportant dogshit.

I guess I love this after all, tiring as it is.

Go here for the originals.

***

Dear Not in the Family Way – when I was growing up, my parents showered me with gifts every morning, typically all stuff I always wanted. Breakfast consisted of sunshine and ice cream, and I was told every seventeen and a half seconds that I was loved, worthwhile, beautiful, and the most special child in the entire known world. I got a new bike every month too, and never wore dirty or out-of-fashion clothing. Supper was what I wanted, when I wanted, and I never had to go to bed.

Not really, but it wasn't bad, like yours was. Wait. Didn't you say you were “at peace?”

Lets recap.

Life growing up was your own personal Treblinka, with Mommy Dearest fulfilling the role of Franz Stangl. Sibs were all angels treated like porcelain dolls; you were the only real identified victim, or so you think. Many years pass, you've undergone “therapy”, sibs appear back into your life via Facebook and every word they say makes you feel like a big fat ickypoo losersaurus, and despite the fact you repeatedly shooed your half-sis off she continues to call, seeking family ties you think are better left severed. Bonus: Kommandant Mommy is out there lurking.

I have really, really bad news for you, sis: you haven't but barely started to recover form your childhood. Hey, don't look at me like that: I didn't do it. Mommy did. And mommy, bless her vicious, bloodthirsty, harridan's heart is right there, waiting for...something. From you.

You need to go after her. I mean it. You don't have to be the fucking Von Trapps and sing freakishly stupid songs together whilst wearing Johnny Weir-inspired lederhosen made of gawdawful green curtains to know what's good and what's evil. You also have a responsibility to bear here. Not to your half sister, and not to Mommy Dearest. To you.

Listen – there are two issues, and we'll deal with the easy one: first of all, if you want the half sister to go away then really tell her. Everything. Unload the history and stick it in her face, then grow a pair and tell her to fuck off completely, forever. You aren't being assertive enough, methinks. People who don't go away simply haven't been asked to leave in the right spirit. Meanwhile, visit your motives. It might just be that you have a good ally in her, she just doesn't know how to work it. Your call, and evidently no loss for you if she goes away, which raises some flags, but it's your life, yeah?

Next, Mommy Dearest deserves special attention. Very, very special attention.

That nauseating itch you feel on the back of your head, the one that comes up every time you get set off: you might smell cut grass, or hear glass breaking, or see a child crying, or whatever, is wrong. It doesn't belong there.

You know what I'm talking about. The “worthless loop” you speak of is a powerful symptom, and Mommy Dearest is the disease. Age and time and therapy are not an issue, nor a cure, in this case. She lives on in your head, calling you out, berating you, slapping your face and chipping away at what few little fragments of your life that remain (those few she didn't already shit all over) and she's never really stopped no matter how much distance you placed between the two of you, or how much peace you think you feel today.

Mommy needs some quality face time with the creature she created, little Ms. Frankenstein. She needs to know, and in no uncertain terms, too: the full, unequivocal unleashing of everything you've ever feared, suffered, and run screaming away from that she created needs to leave your soul through your mouth in full-tilt coloratura clarity and bash it's way into her evil fucking ears like the thunder of a thousand furious Gods, ho holds barred, every little bit of it, in a torrent of whatever you think needs to be said in whatever way you feel it needs to be said. It doesn't matter if she listens. Fuck her. This is for you. You need this. Go do it. Then maybe call your sister.

And then, Mary Shelly, you might find yourself at peace.

***

Left Out – I'm just...well, baffled. I can't quite get your point. Recap: Hubby is an old fucker who robbed the cradle. You both have “friends” who are his age. Your young-ness is apparently at issue and there's...something wrong with the wives...

...so he says his friends think you're hot and “attracted to you” and this means their wives...are...wait.

...so the wives are cold and detached toward, because you have young tender flesh and their husbands...think...wait.

Did you know that husbands tend to think their wives are hot sometimes? Especially in your case – he's headed to Viagra Central, and you have all your hair and teeth. So this little lunatic stroll down “I married a fucking corpse and hate old people” lane has me at a loss. You heard something every woman hears, and it's made you paranoid.

Listen up, Lolita: when you're 30, they'll be 50. When you're 40 they'll be 60. You will be healthy and young when you attend their funerals. Try to remember that.

Just live your goddamn life, ignore what worries you, and for fuck's sake: grow the hell up. Just because you're not yet 30 isn't a reason to act like a fucking ten year old.

***

Dear Stewed, Screwed, and Tattooed – Yes, indeedy, I have to rename a letter writer again. Your name is no longer “Stewed, Screwed, and Tattooed.” Your new name is “Fucking Stupid, Beyond All Reason, and Holy Shit Besides.”

Dear Fucking Stupid, Beyond All Reason, and Holy Shit Besides – let's recap: Your hubby, a military man clearly not cut of officer-quality cloth, got a profoundly stupid tattoo on his back as a youth, depicting a scene both mundane and unctuously asinine at the same time. The subject matter is irrelevant. You now have kids who glow and fly about like angels sent straight from heaven itself to illuminate the Earth. You want to lie to them about your past to make yourselves seem like better parents, and this means hiding the stupid tattoo. Also, you are pretty stupid.

Please surrender your children to family members who are in possession of both a pulse and an intelligence quotient exceeding freezer burn temperatures. The tattoo isn't a problem. The truth isn't a problem. Your parenting skills, however, are nowhere in evidence, or you'd know that the kids are only going to be a stupid as you behave in this particular instance.

Do they have an aunt or uncle who has gainful employment and at least a partially functioning cerebral cortex? Take them, drop them off, and go on back to the trailer and your six pack of lukewarm Schaefer. Maybe “Real Housewives of Jersey Shore” is on. Yeah, a hoot.

Do it now. Please. We don't want more stupid people like you.

***

Dear Zip Your Fly, or Zip My Lip? - Holy mother of God, you've written the letter – the one letter – which can split the highest mountains in its splendor, empty the very seas of every drop with its magnificence, scald the eyes of all humankind blind with its devilish audacity and mammoth importance to the continuing balance to the very universe itself and depth of consequence for all generations to come!

Recap: tell people their fly is down or not?

That's it. Really. Jesus wept.

I shall return to the Mary Shelly “Frankenstein “ references from letter writer 1 above: at the end of this outstanding book – a saddening and tragic story by any means – Victor's creation drifts into the snowy darkness of the ocean on an arctic night, away to be alone with his monstrous hideousness forever, away from the dalliances and beauty of normal life, and away to be apart from that what he wishes for so terribly but can never have.

Yeah, go do that, asswipe. Take your stupid fucking husband with you.

***

A quiet weekend again, hauling the kids somewhere interesting to allow my wife time to study her cardiovascular stuff. Someone around here needs a steady job, you know.

And next week I shall return, fresh spittle in mouth, fresh new bad attitude in mind, and a fresh batch of cast-iron imbeciles to revile in my own special way.

Cheers, Flysters!

STC =^oo^=

Cupid should have used a damn gun on these guys.

2010-02-12T08:11:00.000-08:00

"Love is being stupid together."
- Paul Valery

Hello Flysters. Me again, still loitering lazily about in Dear Prudence territory, evidently too committed to this stuff to leave. Ah, so. Life goes on.

And here comes Valentine's day – my favorite made up holiday. I like valentines day for the chocolate best, but sometimes I get some, and that's not bad either.

Off to Prudieland, where the idiots are cultivated like turnips, which isn't a terrible allegory when I think about it. I have searched for another source of idiocy, but I cannot find quite the stupidly vapid pukefest one can get from Thursdays at Slate. They have a knack, I think.

Letters can be found here.

And so it begins.

***

Dear Puzzled – You are not puzzled, my friend. Nor baffled, nor bewildered, nor perplexed. You are just plain stupid. Lemme start over now.

Dear Stupid – man, are you stupid. Recap: you and your “female friend” want to grind out a sweaty wet sticky one, but she's married. To an Alzheimer's patient. Who knows no better, and never will, ever. Ever.

You want to know if this is okay.

Stoo. Pid.

Now, from your letter I can assume you two are not in your twenties (so there's no wild visual for me, which sucks) so you know the drill: life happens. Alzheimer's happens. Death happens. Meanwhile, what the hell is wrong with you, nitwit? Helllooo? Anyone hoooooome?

Assuming you can achieve a viable and useful erection, go achieve one and use it, goddammit! Missionary!!! Doggie style!!! Sixty-nine, it's divine!!! Once, twice, three times a day, motherfucker!!! Oral, anal, role playing, bondage, Wesson oil, S&M, outdoors, back seat, on the goddamn stairs. Go go go!!! Slam the and slalom that stiff slick slippery spicy salami into her receptive girly parts as hard and as often as your system can continue to tolerate it, then do it some more!!! Then...do it more!

Did you really need someone to tell you that?

Now: feel guilty? Well...uh...er...I dunno. I might if I were you. I mean, he's not dead (he's pining for the fjords!), and she's duty bound to take care of him, and that's not a big warm-fuzzy-maker in my book. “Can't go down on you right now, hon. I have to go wipe Bob's ass or he gets a bad rash. Back in a jiff.” She loves him too, you know. This is complicated and there's a serious need for reflection and respect in the situation. And you didn't mention kids – you have to consider the fallout from that very, very carefully, if any are about.

If they find a cure for Alzheimer's you've got a hell of a story to tell too, dude. Ew.

But meanwhile, stick that thang a yours into that thang a hers and do the wild thango-tango!

Oh, and you're still stupid, but you'll be stupid with a big fat stupid smile on your stupid face, for certain.

***

Dear Secret Admirer – A very famous person once said “dude, you may be stupid, but you sure are creepy.” I don't know if that was it exactly. Maybe I said that. Wait. Yes, I did!

I mean it. Seriously? Are you old enough to get a fucking erection, much less have a neato coolio crush on little Buffy McSlickinside? You really have to ask this question?

Recap: You have then hots for a girl and are seriously, completely, unequivocally a total fucking chicken shit and can't approach her and say “uh, so...hi” and you ask PRUDIE what to do about it? Bonus: you've got stalking in the works, under the guise of the old “Secret Admirer (Who Owns An Ax and Duct Tape and Hefty Bags and Rope and Shit) Ploy”

Dood – I have friends here at The Fly. They are tired of my schtick. They hear this crap from me all...the...time...

But I can't...help...myself...

Schuyler The Cat welcomes you to Testicles-R-Us, the complete balls superstore! We've got 'em all - we have big balls, small feisty balls, low-swingin' experienced balls: you need balls, we got BALLS!

Today's special: The latest “Guy Who's Not Scared Of Girls” model. These balls are a medium size for dependable performance and good reaction time, coupled with with higher youthful density, resulting in controlled by fast release and 150% increase in testosterone which can make a blubbering little hairless Nancy-boy like you able to actually talk to a real living girl as if you weren't the frequently masturbating cheese dick chicken shit of the worst wimpy sort that you actually are.

Unfortunately for you, the alternative is waiting about 20 years until you cease to have little boy balls and are able to look a woman in the eye and ask her a simple question, such as “would you like to have dinner sometime?” without wetting your fucking training pants like a goddamn punk-ass.

My advice? Until you grow the hell up, leave her the fuck alone, stalker. Jeez.

***

Googling Daughter – well my goodness, a Sherlock-lette with HSD! You did the science and the investigation and now you got the goods on a very, very bad man, yes you do! Recap: Mom's friend is engaged to a guy who might not be what he says he is, 'cause you can't find him on Google. You think you know what he is. Danger, Will Robinson.

Uh, ok. Here's the doo doo. One question. only one question: are you sure, Sherlock?

Reeeeally? Irrefutable proof? Red-handed evidence discovery? Okay then. Off you go! Do the throwawy email account and nail him. Then hope you are right. Hope he doesn't find you later, too. Have fun! Other than that, this little letter was so fucking boring and droll I can't believe I finished it. Nighty night. Fade to black.

***

Toning It Down – This is another misnomer. You are not toning it down. You are just plain fucked up. Recap: You and boy hipster-fuck whatever walks by that looks nice but are committed only to each other emotionally. You want to be a one-guy girl, and see this as a possible problem for him.

See? You are NOT toning it down. You are turning it up. He will hate it. Here's the conversation:

YOU: “Honey, we've been nonmanogamous like, forever, which is, like, totally cool because that word has, like, five syllables in it and stuff, and plus we are totally in possession of a college education. So, like, I want to begin a monogamous relationship with you now, since we have completed college and are becoming, like, serious.”

HIM: “As if. Fuck that. Bye!”

You are not concerned about the guilt thing. You are not worried about the way he will react. You now realize that you want him to be your one-girl guy and he never, ever will, and that means you have to go find another guy to treat you like a girl Friday so he can fuck whoever he wants while you and he profess undying love and emotional strength through intellectual superiority. You get to feel very metropolitan meanwhile by saying you too have this nonmanogamous thing, which makes you publicly cool enough to overcome whatever emo shit you can't cut deep enough to break.

Note: I know that you want to believe there is a separation of emotions and sex, but the sad truth for you is this: normal people do not experience this separation. You are either a.) faking all this shit or b.) not normal.

I also want to ask “where the hell were you when I was in college?” but it probably doesn't matter – I have to assume you are completely not hot because if you were he'd never catch up with you in the first place. Sorry. Just sayin'.

So here's what you do: Just break up with him and go find a nerdy guy that doesn't mind you too much. Buy him a lot of beer, tolerate his porn, use a lot of big words you got from your freshman sociology class, swallow it every night to get him addicted to the sex, and then lead him around by the balls forever. Easy-peasy. You're all set.

***

There we have it. Another week goes by and I got my jollies out by slapping away at the flies that are Prudie Letter Writers. The weekend beckons, the symphony is tomorrow night (bunch of Russian composers, my favorite) and maybe the kids will sleep in Sunday so I can get some on Valentines day. Hit or miss around here.

Cheers all, until next time.

STC =^oo^=

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times? Time's up.

2010-02-06T07:30:00.000-08:00

If there are no stupid questions, then what kind of questions do stupid people ask? Do they get smart just in time to ask questions?
- Scott Adams

I always liked this quote, but somehow cannot make it fit Dear Prudence anymore, if I ever could. Realizing I expend an enormous amount of energy at this humble site to dis that particular column, I also realize that I am getting pretty tired of the same old Slate jerk-off fare, and that I have become a slave to the imbecility they feed us. It's been tiresome. Now it's just fucking stupid, and I hate knowing that I am being stupid along for the ride.

I am seeking alternatives – rather than dance the the beat of songs I learned to hate long ago, and failing to heed my own oft-flung advice on deserting idiocy in search of something more substantial, I will seek a new source of banality upon which to focus my furies.

For now, I'm stuck with Slate's ever popular but unfortunately stale-to-the-point-of-death Dear Prudence offering. Look here, if you still can.

***

Deeply Hurt and Confused – There are deep holes in your sad, sad tale of woe, my friend. Reeks of fakery. Let's recap: you and wifey dearest had a spat, and she told you that prior to your nuptials she had a poke and tickle with your brother, for whom you have little respect because you think he's an idiot (which overlooks the fact you are an idiot, by the way) and now you're just all fucked up about it, as if it matters or something.

Lemme visit your exact words about this little sexual indiscretion: “They both kept this from me; it wasn't revealed until I asked my wife point blank.”

Reeeeally? so...what did you ask, point blank? “didja have sex with my brother?” Did you already know? How could you if they kept it from you? Did you suspect, perhaps? Did you use your sooper-dooper mind reading powers to unlock the very secrets of her soul and then confront her? Why did she tell you? How the hell did this happen? Are you Marty Mc-Goddamn-Fly and did you get the fucking DeLorean up to 88 goddamn miles an hour in the mall parking lot to go way-back and watch them rub out a nasty?

Not a terribly crafty letter, especially that part. Meanwhile there is nothing interesting to see here. An artless tale of three bland people fucking each other and revealing deepest and darkest secrets that possess all the intrigue of the first three minutes of an episode of fucking Jimmy Neutron, and the “sham” you speak of is both the imbecilic dysfunction of your story and your idiotic reaction to the mundane activities you whine about.

Grow up and get a life. Oh, strangle the brother. Very biblical, that solution.

***

Truth Shall Set You Free – Oh, my goodness gracious! We have woven a dilly of a tangled web, haven't we? Recap: while dating your (where are typical Prudie-esque supplemental intensifiers? Isn't he “fabulous,” and “wonderful,” and “awesome?”) husband, thus before you married, you fucked someone and feel bad about it and suspect coming clean might make the universe a better place for everyone.

It will! It really will! It will set you freeeeee!

Tell him immediately, especially since he sounds like a very understanding man who will dump your cheap slut ass the moment he finds out! Go on, do it! Let us all know how that turns out. And after, when he's knocked out a few of your teeth and left you bleeding and wondering about all the times you failed to sing his praises, you might reconsider the idea of setting yourself free through indiscriminate use of the truth, and maybe you could have just calmly divorced instead, because there's not a lot to this story. After the bruises fade, though, maybe you can then go find a guy that you feel compelled to use better adjectives to describe. Try a better plot device, too. The theme of getting a splinter in your ass and leaving it to fester for years until the putrefaction and gangrene threaten your life is getting pretty fucking tired.

***

Tired Wife – oh, hell. Recap: hubby had a stroke, he's not the man he used to be, and you fancy yourself Superwoman. He's bummed because he lost everything, and you (completely unaware that you are feeding his state of mind by being, you know, Superwoman) are sick of his depressing shit.

The point here, though, is that you end your letter by asking “Is this the way it's going to be forever?”

Ah, the world is rife with these tales of injustice! Pluto, long regarded as a planet, is now considered a somewhat interesting asteroid instead! After thousands of hours of work, a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars, and a massive advertising campaign, the Edsel wasn't quite as popular as Henry would have liked! After months of infighting, politicking, and partisan bickering we got a Republican candidate in John McCain that was comparatively believable and acceptable, and they hooked him up with the stupidest, most hideously asinine, banal, brainless putrid fucking twat of a VP candidate ever and threw away a presidency!

Life sure sucks, don't it?

To answer your question: are you completely fucking stupid? What kind of a question is that anyway? And what kind of massively brain dead ignoramus would ask it? You're all like:

“Dear Prudie: will the sun burn bright in the sky for all eternity?”

“Dear Prudie: will the Cowboys ever win another Superbowl?”

“Dear Prudie: will aliens land on the earth and take over our minds using a special machine which causes us to become zombie-slaves who worship their leader Glorpphlaex and spend their withering days feeding them roasted toads and marshmallows?”

And I'm all like “huh?”

I know we all think Prudie can answer questions related to the formation of the universe and the deepest inner workings of our frail and fragile minds, but really?

Well, what the hell. I will answer it: Yes. It is gong to be like that forever. Your life now sucks ass always and eternally. Happy now, Superwoman?

***

The Reluctant Philanthropist's Wife – This letter is so completely and obviously contrived I had to read it twice to see if it was me who was stoned. Alas, I was NOT stoned, it was Prudie's team again.

Recap? Best we do a breakdown of a classic Prudie-style letter.

First, the victim: Your hubby is a mechanic with a new job.
Next, the bait: his boss gives away auto repair work all the time, for which your husband is not paid.
Next, the hook: disgusting fucking worthless people thrown into the mix who benefit from this free auto repair work, described using insulting terms.
Next, the escape route: a manager in the mix who can save the world from the horrors of free auto repair.
Finally, the catch: The boss' job could be lost.

Yawn. The plot of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” is more compelling, taut, and interesting than this shit.

Solution: let's write a better story!

'Dear Prudie,

My affordable, delicious, refreshing husband of many many years was placed on this earth by The Good Lord God himself to fix broken cars. He has a job making eight dollars an hour with a sleazy chain, and the manager of the chain, it turns out, is Satan – that's right, the very fallen one one himself! Satan, you may know, is a bad, bad ex-angel from a fairy tale. He's of the worst sort, the kind who sexually exploits animals during work hours and charges too much for stuff like spark plugs and oil changes, and my husband thinks he smokes marijuana and possibly abuses oxycontin, although we can't be certain because, you know, The Dark One is, well, pretty dark, and Limbaugh doesn't share with others.

Anyways, the district manager says holy water would reduce Satan to a bloody pile of bubbly gobbets of scorched devil-flesh in an instant and restore peace and balance to the Earth, but the Pope don't exactly give that shit away. It's, like, a thousand dollars an ounce, and he'd need a few gallons of it. In order to get the money he'd have to prostitute his one-eyed rabid special needs donkey to the local outlaw biker community at discounted prices. Meanwhile, my husband, a mannered, felicitous and not entirely obsequious man of mostly unquestionable pedigree has stopped going down on me after breakfast, and I'm so bummed and horny I just spend all day in bed with my rabbit, and we're just about going bankrupt buying batteries.

So I took out my frustration once by kicking our dog Ed, and my son saw me do it and told his teacher. She's called the SPCA and they're going to take Ed away unless I can get a character witness to say I am kind to animals, and I always eat the ones I kill. Meanwhile a few weeks ago Satan sneaked into my bedroom and buggered me like a rotten dirty little whore in my sleep. I got it all on hidden camera, and I threatened to blackmail him if he didn't tell the SPCA that I am really a good person at heart, and a vegetarian too. Oh, and I like have a totally hot crush on him – he's awesome, and man has he got stamina! Woof!

Prudie, should we get a bigger TV?

- Sore Ass But In Remote Control”

Dear Sore Ass but In Remote Control...

What was your stupid question? Oh, right. Tell your fucking husband to throw the boss into the fire or go get another job. Really, how hard was that, you idiot?

***

Well, there it was, and I just don't feel any better. Advice, Flysters? You all know better than I that there are plenty of sources of idiocy to be reviled. Send me to another land of opportunity, a place that offers new fodder for my vents. Where do I go now?

I need advice. It's like this:

“Dear Prudie,

You have sucked for a long time, but now I finally realize the depths and breadth of your suckage. Sorry I didn't catch it earlier – I am not very bright. Thing is, even though you suck I still need a place to fire my not-entirely erudite salvos of spittle and spite. Who else is out there doing advice columns who doesn't suck quite as much as you do?

- Once a Fan, Never a Believer.”

Cheers all!
STC =^oo^=

It's a bloody CONSPIRACY I tell you! CONSPIRACY!!!

2010-01-30T12:12:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have one of those days when you think Lee Harvey Oswald was really a patsy? That Dubya hisself orchestrated the whole 9-11 planes-crashing-into-buildings thing? Moonwalks were done on a soundstage in Burbank?

And Dear Prudie is written by real people and not Slate's own staffers?

Naaaaah! I bite my own tongue! How could I THINK such a thing? Conspiracy!

Well, just you go one now and read THIS fucking crap. You'll see.

For this week, I am rewriting all the letters back to what I believe is their original form, prior to editing by other Slate staffers...

***

Scared – Your new letter.

“Dear Prudie,

I am a minor stipendiary semi-literate functional worker in Admin at Slate.com making $8.50 an hour, and I was asked to write a letter supposedly from a 20-something year old collegiate male, brimming with angst, fear, emotion, and something like an attempt at self-knowledge while actually from the standpoint of a fucking psycopath who should be killed by being thrown into a vat of scorpions which spit flaming naplam.”

Dear Scared: I gotta tell you, a little more time hitting the books and actually graduating from high school could have netted you a better job. Not a bad letter though. Fairly typical for the genre. Nice touch, the bit about therapy. Still, fucking pointless, and I will forever miss the time I wasted reading it.

***

Don't Know What To Do – Here we go.

“Dear Prudie,

All these years sucking down shit wages working with the firewall team here at Slate.com has made my brain soft like goddamn fluffy pink cotton candy, and then they ask me to write THIS shit. Figures they'd publish it, too, fucking embarrassing because I told me friends about the letter thinking they'd never publish it, and now they DID publish it, so it'll get Facebooked from here to fucking Pluto. I mean, who gives a flying frog fuck about a shitty little $20,000 policy? I mean, My mom took out, like, a million bucks, and it paid for me to go to DeVry, and that's how I got THIS shitty job. Anyway...wait. What was I saying?”

Dear Don't Know What To Do: I understand you're upset that you have to do this sometimes, but hey, it's a job, right? Besides, your letter was totally better written than the first one, so there's that. As for the Facebook thing, no worries – at least they don't have a picture of you getting teabagged by Roger “Hung Like A Horse” Jorgenson back at that three-day summer blowout party in Pismo Beach, right?

...Right?

***

I Just Want To Be Left Alone – Here's yours.

“Dear Prudie,

Well, goodness, you'd think that only young kids would work at this place, all the pop culture and high tech whiz-bang goings on around here, but indeed, I got hired, and at age 62 too, doing accounting! Just three years before I retire, and now what do they spring on me? They say I have to write this silly 'Dear Abby' letter, only to someone named 'Prudie', which is odd because the pretty young lady who writes the responses to these letters is named Emily. I think she's a lesbian, but I can't be sure, because she has a husband, and these things confuse me, being so old fashioned and all. She dressed as a man once, though: I saw pictures!

That's a pretty name you know, Emily. I remember back in 1958, I was in the fifth or sixth grade, I don't know, but I had a best friend named Eleanor. The school was a one room school house – YES! They really had those! - and I would be asked at least twice a week to stoke the fires in the morning, mostly because I was a Girl Guide and knew how to build a proper fire, unlike that little nasty boy Thomas McStickley, who just made all smoke and sparks and a big mess. He was a handsome boy, though, and tall too! I dated him in high school, and alas, he wasn't a clever boy, was he? Surprised he graduated at all.

You know who's clever? Oh, that Glenn Beck, that's who! Why he was just as silly and funny as ever when he interviewed that nasty Sarah Palin, and he asked about whether she liked her father, and she said she liked ALL of them! I laughed and laughed, almost as much as when I saw that movie The Exorcist...or was it Big Trouble in Little China? My dear departed husband Reginald and I went to China once – horrible place, polluted, but what can you do?”

Dear I Just Want To Be Left Alone: This sounds like a realistic letter, written from your own personal experience. My advice is for you to please find a younger person who can download Notorious B.I.G.'s “Big Poppa.” Get an iPod, and have a younger person put the song on it and show you how to use it.

Whenever your neighbor drives by with her arms waving out the window, play it loudly to yourself: “I love it when you call me big pop-pa, throw your hands in the air, if youse a true player...”

You will laugh and laugh every time! So will I!

***

So Over This – this is too easy:

“Dear Prudie,

This totally fucking sucks my ass, being a fucking intern at a totally kul (fuckin' rockit!) place like Slate, where, like, Christopher Hitchens (fuckin' rocks, I read about him on Reddit) writes som a his stuff and, you know, all dat shit. Then I fucking get this whole buttlick, 'dood you gotta write a dear Prudie letter, nyah nyah, we all haf to do it'n shit,' and it's like, I'm like 'the fuck?'”

Dear So Over This: Totally fuckin' hear you, man. Grow the fuck up, meantime.

***

There endeth the week, and a good one it was. Got an interview, but it didn't come together...but I already have a job so there you go. Keep a-shoppin', I will.

We are ready for what Southern States call a 'Wintry Mix” tonight and tomorrow. That means traffic fatalities will octuple and they'll interview an old guy in a John Deere cap named Chester Hunnicutt, Jr., and he'll say “dang roads is slippery, ayeah. Dang kids aughtta slooow down some. Goan git kilt.”

Ayeah.

Cheers Flysters!
STC =^oo^=

Hello. Meet my new wife!

2010-01-22T08:24:00.000-08:00

In the wake of the results of the special election in Massachusetts that oddly leaves me feeling completely unmoved, an earthquake in Haiti which brings the true colors of the Right and it's associated religious moneymakers into stark view (if not relief...pun!), and the shocking (!!!) admission that John Edwards, the golden boy himself, has a “Love Child” (who the fuck made up THAT buzzword? Was it Diana Ross?), which was even less interesting than hearing Bill Clinton got a “Blow Job” or Rush Limbaugh is a “Drug Addict” or Glenn Beck is a “Asswipe Clown Whore”, I wallow in the political morass that has become America and I now state, for the record:

England – I am sorry for every time I said “what the fuck is wrong with those people in England?” In the end, it isn't just the dentists: it's the politicians, and the party doesn't matter any more.

Shame. I thought changing from Red to Blue would be a lot more fun, given my mild leftist-hippie attitude with the bonus of gun ownership. Not so. It's no fun at all saying “my fucked up, paid-off, suckhole, fuckburger political party and associated pundits are ever-so-slightly less deplorable and disgusting and putrid and dysfunctional than your fucked up, paid-off, suckhole, fuckburger political party and associated pundits.”

In times like these we turn to the comfortable; the known, and heretofore go I headlong among what I find comforting: throwing down spittle-laced invective upon Dear Prudence letter writers. Obama never reads my letters anyway, you see. Neither would you.

Off again we go, and the originals can be found here.

***

Ambivalent – Only one question: are you hot? If so, that's it. I am leaving my wife. I need a woman like you. Why? Recap: you, hubby, and your bestest buddies and friends forever and ever hit a beach house for vacation, and your hubby banged the other women with you right there sleeping. You say “tra la la” to him, but her not so much, not even a “tra.” Bonus: none, but seriously are you hot?

'Cause I think all men dream of a woman like you. Nothing like a “Get Out of Jail Free” card from a forgiving, apparently low-self-esteemed woman to make getting a tug and a rub (in the next fucking room, no less) more palatable, especially when all the currency it takes to take this move into next-room Nirvana is this:

“I love you, and I have no intentions of repeating what happened.”

Hell, I can say that.

Hoo, yes! I need one like you. Don't we all? I mean, unless you're not hot, and then, well, you know. Meh.

Oh, I might mention: cheating on a spouse carries with it a powerful and wretched responsibility, this residing in the hands and on the heads of both the cheater and the cheated upon. Dr. Phil says this is surmountable, as I suspect most shrinks do. What they don't advertise ('cause it's not good for shrink business to advertise it) is the fact that this responsibility is accompanied by a stigma that doesn't wash off with a little Ivory soap. It is permanent. It is this: “you inserted your penis into her...parts – whichever parts you stuck it in, I dunno – and now you wish to insert it into my...parts. Meanwhile I just had coffee and a crumpet with her this morning, and we talked about yeast infections. And now you are waving that damn thing in my face, expecting me to do what? You want me to do what? Ew. Just fucking ew.”

Enjoy the party, sister. Not meaning to be cruel (believe it or not!) but even though he's the one that fucked your best buddy, and you're the one that got fucked over, from now on everything that is bouncing gaily away in your court – from that day until this and forevermore – is totally and completely in your hands. And possibly in your moist and wet parts, if you get my drift. I wouldn't worry so much about damaging this four-way friendship: I'd worry about regaining what little dignity you seem to have left, if any.

Still, I gotta ask: are you hot?

***

Pepto Tussin, Esq. – You fucking lawyers. What is it about you? DP gets letters from you idiots fairly often (lots of law students as well, I admit, but still ...) and the questions are so burblingly and grossly vapid that I wonder how the fried fucking hell you made it through all that school you supposedly attended. Do you guys let your five year old kids submit these goddamn questions?

Recap: Wifey cooks like Satan's own goddamn sous chef, and you can't handle it to the point you actually crap all fucking day. You want to know what to do about it.

Re-recap: You. Actually. Want. To. Know. What. To. Do. About. It.

Fucking overpaid glory-seeking slimy cock sucking assholes like you can blithely say things in public like “...my client, John Gotti, was a kind and generous man, a captain of his city and neighborhoods, a leader who cared for the people who lived around him; and would never cause, knowingly or unknowingly, harm to another human being.” You are trained to speak like this. You are trained to be vicious truth-twisting scumbag poop-licking spin masters. You are continuously educated and reeducated to be high-paid prostitutes to the court system, spreading your mouth open wide instead of your legs, but still getting a big bonus if you make a little extra whining noises while you get your client off. You are “supposed” to be good at it.

And you cannot tell your fucking wife her cooking sucks?

Really?

I rest my case, you fucking moron. By the way, that will be fifty thousand dollars. Man, I'm good.

***

Perplexed – Um, dang. This is actually a good question. I read your letter twice and tried to imagine myself in your place for a moment, and damn if I can't feel for you. It's not a big-big deal, really. This won't depart the Earth from it's intended orbit, but...hmm.

Recap: kid crashes into your tree and dies in front of you. Family has enshrined your yard with stuff that's getting moldy. You don't know when to get rid of it without hurting feelings.

Aside: You had a bad night too, didn't you? I had a similar experience a long time ago. Stays with you. Shiver.

And having said that, I just realized an answer to the question: the “protocol” for this is entirely, completely up to you. Think a moment: if you went out there right now and threw all that stuff away, would it bother you? And what if the idea doesn't bother you, but you get pangs when you actually start taking it down?

If bothered, leave it and circle back. If not, reclaim your yard. You'll know.

***

Please Stop the MLM Madness – Man, have I got a deal for you! No, really. You're going to love this. It can change your life!

Wait. Recap: you awake to realize The Reagan Dream has come true, and money is trickling down on you so fast and plentiful you cannot keep your head above the tsunami-like waves of dollars you find yourself awash in!

Not. Not at all. You are as fucked as everyone else that isn't in healthcare or banking and sucking some senator's dick daily to gain political purchase in the judicial space. Sigh. I always thought “Trickle Down” was a bad turn of phrase anyway, notwithstanding the failure of it all.

Now, your friends and relatives – in a similar financial boat – got “in on a deal” to overcome the fiscal insensibility of our political fathers. They are now asking you to invest in their “really great opportunity” to get stuff, and you are (scantly) bright enough to realize this stuff is unadulterated dog shit. Meanwhile, you are also a coward of monumental capacity, and are having trouble understanding and using the word “no.”

By the way – I'll insert here that it's very, very funny to me that you mentioned concern that some people won't buy your shit from you any more unless you buy their shit from them. Just funny, I guess. Ha ha. No? Well, to me it is. Ha ha. Fuck.

Anyway, listen up Billy Mays:

Worry no more! Are you tired of the endless offers, the poorly-worded and awkward pitches, the ill-timed approaches from people you know who are trying to feed their kids and pay their medical bills by selling you the fucking equivalent of a Sham-Wow? Do you wake up in the night, fearful and shaking after remembering that time earlier in the day when your college buddy called and told you he had “the best ever deal on acai berry juice, just $39.99 for a case (of six 2 ounce bottles) plus shipping and handling and insurance and fees and, you know, a little extra for me and the wife and my dyslexic son who needs special treatment at the Sarah Palin (and God) “Why Read Anyway” Institute of Abstinence-Only Education for Dyslexic Children and you just...felt...awful?

Well it's time to face it! You're a chicken shit! Yes, you are a plaid-wearing, lollipop-licking chicken shit of the worst kind

Fortunately for you, I, Schuyler the Cat, have the solution to all your problems!

It's balls! Yes, testicles for everyone, the husband, the wife, and even the kiddies! Come on in to Testicles-R-Us, and pick out a pair in the size, shape, color, and configuration which best suits you!

- Do you live in Jersey, are you scared of girls, and can't ask them out? Piece of cake! Get the “Extra Testosterone” Douchebag model (comes in fluorescent orange spray-on-tan colors), pop all five of your collars and get out there and punch those bitches in the face! They love it!

- Just looking for extra cash and attention? Try out our “Big Stupid Balls!” With these you could, say, pretend your son is in a weather balloon and freak everyone's shit for a day or two, and you'll get attention galore!

(Note: the above example is not recommended by STC's Testicles-R-Us, but if you do it, keep the kid off TV later, 'cause he'll fuck everything up)

- Need a raise, and your boss terrifies you? No problem! Get the low-rider sagging “Experienced and Wizened Older Professional Gentleman” model! Barge into that cheap fucker's office and demand that raise! He's sure to fall all over himself shoveling cash into your pockets!

But wait! Act now and you'll received a second, spare pair of balls absolutely free! Great for travel and sharing with friends, especially on those nights when you've left your balls at home and that stupid fucker at the bar looks at you one...last...time and you've had enough! No more Mister Nice Guy – strap on your new balls and kick his fucking ass, and (Bonus! Call Now!) a friend can help! They come in handy later too, when you're in local lockup and that rather large weightlifter gentleman from Pittsburgh lets you know you have a “pretty little smile!”

All our balls come in this attractive and convenient flesh-colored carrying case which you can meekly give to your wife whenever she tells you to!

So why wait! Order your balls today!!!

Offer not good in New York City and prohibited in California, because let's face it, they need more than balls to fix THAT silly-ass fucking mess. Side effects include itching, scratching, discomfort, disagreeable behavior, temper tantrums, and hirsutism. In some cases pregnancy after intercourse has occurred in men who have previously had a vasectomy. Balls are not for everyone – consult your doctor, but mostly consult you wife and make sure she'll let you use them.

***

Heading into the weekend I have to say this: I got a nibble for a new job. Means little, as I already have a job (which I both love and hate: love the people and place, hate the money and the tasks), so I am not falling all over myself, no sir, not in this market. Still, its what I do best, I'm a good fit, the money is WAAAY better, and I'll get a blow job every day!

Not true that last, just spicing things up. I'm not president, after all. Seems nobody is sometimes.

This might save the house, too. Imagine that.

Back to work now – be well my Flysters, and be careful out there!

Salud,
STC =^oo^=

If all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops, these people would still be idiots.

2010-01-17T10:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you just get a present and it's perfect.

My wife, for instance, got me that vintage turntable for Christmas, and it was (and still is) perfect. Got a bike for my birthday once, when I was eleven or so. Big wow factor on that one, too.

And a certain someone (who shall remain nameless) sent me a bottle of bourbon, just 'cause she's the fucking awesomest awesome person ever. Really, really good bourbon, too. Called Noah's Mill, made (as it must be) in Bourbon County, hill country, in Kentucky. It's even better than Old Pogue, my previous favorite. I am sipping my way through it slowly, not overindulging. The day I got it in the mail I put on a John Coltrane record to listen to while I sipped, and the result was heavenly. The next night it was Pink Floyd, which worked just as well for me.

Tonight I think we'll go with Stravinsky, something a little bombastic. Rite of Spring. Yeah.

Meanwhile, after reading the crap over on Slate's Dear Prudence I think I'll need it. I would suspect the neurology unit at Johns Hopkins and all of NASA are understaffed right now, because all the rocket scientists and brain surgeons appear to be busy writing letters to Prudence. I haven't seen a foursome of letters so insidiously vapid since I first saw DP.

These incredibly stupid letters can be found here.

***

In the Window – Holy crap, man, what the fuck is wrong with you? Recap: you get a free hot chick twofer peepshow right out your goddamn apartment window, but now you're starting to watch “Twilight” a lot and you get all syrupy-sad about “cheating on the wife” and shit. Just because naked chicks parade around outside your window and you look. Oh, you're in your twenties, too.

Do you really believe Prudie needs to tell you what to do? Really? Bloody fucking hell, just move out, asswipe. What's the rent? I might need a new place soon, and you are too stupid to deserve the bonus you get for living there. It's obvious you don't have a brain. Do you have a vagina? Shit.

***

Troubled – what an asshole you are. Recap: your wife's sister, your coworker, told her something in secrecy, which your wife told you, and you repeated it to the sister, who got pissed off. Then you bought her some fucking flowers and proceeded to blame them both for being as stupid as you are.

And now you are asking Prudie how to make it better? Is that right? You want them to get along like they used to? You have any fucking brains at all, twatwad?

Listen up, you witless fucking dribbling dickburger: this is your fault, entirely your fault, and completely your fault, and nobody else's fault. If being at fault can be rated as epic, then you are the epically epic of anyone who's ever been epically at fault ever.

Suck it up, cheese brain. Your wife shouldn't trust your stupid worthless ass any more than her sister should trust her, all thanks to you. If I were her I'd start shopping for a real man with a real brain as soon as you fall asleep every night, then leave your worthless mouthy fucking carcass at the first opportunity. The word “astrotarded” was coined just for you, you idiot.

***

Arachnophobic – I just...oh, hell, I don't know what to say. Recap: You, an arachnophobe, as well as a total fucking idiot, bought your husband a tarantula. You regret it. Yup.

THE LATEST STUPIDEST PERSON EVER, SAYING THE STUPIDEST THING EVER AWARD GOES TO:

Glenn Beck, to Sarah Palin: “Who is your favorite founding father?”
Sarah Palin, our winner, at her very best: “All of them!”
All people with IQ's higher than 50 or so: “Please God, take her soon.”

THE SECOND STUPIDEST PERSON EVER, SAYING THE SECOND STUPIDEST THING EVER AWARD GOES TO:

You, the arachnophobe: “Here honey! I got you a hairy fist-sized fucking tarantula!”

You are in exalted company, you brain dead idiotic waste of skin and bones.

***

Not Interested – Jesus. And I was so totally certain anencephaly left people unable to operate whatever mechanical devices one might use to send letters to Prudie, like a computer, or maybe a pencil. Until today.

Recap: You (a law student) went out to do a temp gig and the guy who hired you got drool on your panties, and he's still trying to get you in his office to go through his briefs. Reminder: you are (a law student).

You will never, ever, pass a bar exam. It's not possible. You are entirely too stupid. I mean, If the bar exam was just the question “how many toes do you have?” you'd still fail, unless you took a lucky goddamn guess, and even if you counted on your fingers, which is actually kind of funny when I think about it.

HEY!

I have invented a NEW GAME!!! It's called Throw the Dart, You Fucking Moron!

Here's how we play TTDYFM: I give you three things to write on a piece of paper. Fold thm in half, then tape them to the wall. Throw a dart at them. Whichever one you hit will be the answer to your questions! You cannot lose!!! Unless you miss, then you have to throw again, but that's obvious. Well, maybe not to you.

Let's start:

On the first piece of paper, write: Send him a fucking email saying “stop it, you're fucking gross.”

On the second piece of paper, write: Go back to work, and do it with him: in the conference room, in his office, and in the break room – fuck the living hell out of him until he begs you to stop. Make certain you video tape the entire series, and then blackmail the shit out of him. Then go on Dr. Phil and tell the whole story.

And on the third piece of paper, write: Join a goddamn nunnery (or move to Wasilla, Alaska), because I am totally unequipped to be allowed to run free in society with normal people.

Now get your dart. Ready? Aim...

***

Goddammit – this has been quite a day.

I am late this week with my Prudieness, and for that I apologize. I will try harder next week.

And so tonight it's a few more fingers of yummy Noah's Mill over ice, and some quality time with Igor, and all will be right with the world for just a little while.

Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^0o^=

Sweaty Teen Boy Balls! Plastered Daddys! Perturbed Pianists! Dateless Luddite Looneys! Are these band names?

2010-01-07T13:16:00.000-08:00

Helllooooo my lovely flysters. Here I am, coming to you live from my office, with a cup of yummy steaming coffee and a list of a hundred things to do on my desk, and I will probably write my bit like I always do: between the times I am on conference calls, soothing users' nerves in the field, or eating lunch.

Makes my day go better, see.

As always, originals are to be found HERE.

And a one...and a two...and...

***

Desperate for a Public Service Announcement to Teenage Boys – I need to stop laughing. Seriously – I farted 'cause I am laughing so fucking hard.

Wait. Just wait. Oh, my.

Recap: icky young boys scratch their balls in front of you while you are teaching class.

I am reminded of the John Hughes movie “The Breakfast Club.” Loved that movie. There's a scene where the kids on detention are having lunch, and the lunches, in classic Hughes fashion, reflected the kids' personalities. Molly Ringwald's character – little miss rich prissy girl – breaks out Sushi and chopsticks. The others look at her askance, and Judd Nelson makes mention to her “you won't accept a guy's tongue in your mouth and you're going to eat that?”

This is how I will picture you during this little tete-a-tete. A prissy little germaphobic dowdy schlump of a librarian, wringing her nervous hands at the very thought of icky boy-parts within a fifty-foot vicinity of her very person.

Um, have ever encountered those parts, by the way? Ever...uh...touched them? These various dangly wrinkly boy-parts aren't poisonous, you know. They do not cause you to burst into flame upon sight or contact. They can be played with, tug on, and even (gasp) accepted into various body cavities on a regular basis without ill effects, although we won't get into that whole chlamydia or AIDS thing here – we'll talk later. Anyway, my point is: some people do all that stuff on purpose and frequently.

Now we get to the reality of the situation: goddamn teen boys, I tell you. I have been through three, and I have one to go through yet. They will grab their balls in the middle of a wedding if notion or need strikes them, then extend that very same hand to the pastor for a handshake after. Mindless activity, the impulsive scratching of balls to guys, and it's common as dirt. I made mention to my boys that they might not want do that in the middle of the goddamn grocery store, or perhaps on a date, and occasionally they may have refrained. Occasionally not, presumably.

As you do not possess a scrotum (definition of scrotum: “an article of skin, to the anterior of the penis which serves the multiple purposes of enclosing, supporting and warming the testes while providing a flexible yet inconvenient focal area of ungodly irritation at hysterically inopportune times.”) you don't get this, any more than I can understand how a woman – the sex which menstruates on a known and regular schedule – can run out of tampons. I mean, really? I guess menstruation really is that weird. So are balls, lady.

In the end, while I picked on you for your fussy/prissy/huffiness, I have to say that you did indeed handle it in an appropriate manner, and yes you are correct: teenage boys are socially retarded creatures of abominable manner regardless of breeding; thus while they are aware this is inappropriate, they are constitutionally incapable of overcoming this behavior and scratch their balls in public. I say you should go right ahead and start a one-woman campaign to abolish public teenage ball scratching.

Lemme know how that goes for you.

Now get along and wash your hands again.

P.S. - are you hot? This ball-scratching behavior may not be what you think. Send me a nude picture, and I'll let you know.

***

A Dutiful Daughter? - This would be sadder if two things were present: first, if it weren't so common. Second, if you didn't sound a little sad about it. The cold inevitability of alcoholism is an odd thing on those left in the cold.

Recap: dad hasn't managed to drink himself to death just yet, but it's only Thursday. After, mom wants you to eulogize him.

Mum is trying to foist a task on you she'd rather not do herself, I fear, and if that's not the case, she's still fucking crazy.

And finally, you.

I have no coarse words available to deride your mental and intellectual state, no foul tirades against your weaknesses. Just a simple bottom line: you have, as I see it, three choices, with minor variations.

One. Write the eulogy and lie your fucking ass off. Just write whatever. People expect it, don't they?

Two. Write the eulogy and tell the truth. “We are here today to celebrate the drunken, wasted, worthless life of my drunk-ass father. He died a pathetic, remorseless, putrid alcoholic, and I wish I could say I will miss him, but frankly I am relieved to not have to watch him lay snorting and whimpering in his own vomit on the sofa. Some of you will miss him, and some won't. Me, I'm like 'meh', you know? Thanks for coming, there's little bacon wrapped weenies in the hall after, if you'd like. In Jesus' name, amen. Or something.”

Three. Call mum. Say “no.” I like this one.

Take your pick. Good luck.

***

Keyed Up – Ah, everybody uses the word “Friend” as if Courtney fucking Cox was going to walk in any moment and give out all kinds of huggies and kissies and warm thoughts, saving the day yet again. That wouldn't suck, living in a sitcom where I could bang Monica like an animal without having to fear kicking Ross' ass later.

Recap: you and your piano teacher are now buddies. You suspected your buddy sucked at teaching piano, took a lesson with a different teacher, and found your hunch was correct. Bonus: he's cheaper.

Your “friend” there is no longer your piano teacher, by the way. She may not be much of a friend either.

“Nay,” you say? “Don't talk about my friend like that?” Well let's take a look some clues: you said your new teacher is totally awesome and teaches piano incredibly well, yes? And you said your friend...not so much on the whole piano teaching thing?

You “Friend” charges more?

And best of all...you sneaked out without “friend” noticing to take a lesson elsewhere? Whydja do that? Did you already know the answer?

Is it hard to reach the black keys with your head that far up your ass, moron?

Hoo, doggies; you are a budding artiste, I do think so. Listen: here's the fix: start a torrid sexual relationship with the friend. Make like it's the best sex you ever had, and get her totally addicted to it. Shower her with gifts. Get an erotic portrait done of the both of you. Call her for quiet phone sex six nights a week, even if she's in bed with you. Do this whether you are male, female, married, single – just do it (I wanted to assume you are make from the wallet comment, but that means nothing really).

After a few weeks, act like you've totally lost interest halfway into you sexual sessions, and start talking about Mediterranean cuisine and bullfighting. Stop calling except to ring at about 3:00 AM and say “did I leave that big red dildo over at your place?” When she asks “what dildo” just say “oh, right. Never mind.” and hang up. When in the car together, play Miley Cyrus and Hillary Duff music full blast, and keep saying “oh, they are, like, you know, so TOTALLY awesome!” In bed, fart and hold her head under the blanket. Stop shaving anything you would normally shave (except a 4” diameter circle on the very top of your head, and you can use a magic marker to draw a picture of a cannabis leaf) and when she asks about it say “I have decided be become one with the druid, and bathe in the very blood of the mighty magnolia, and the evening sky has become my God,” then shit your pants and start singing “Wango Tango” by Ted Nugent in a high falsetto.

If after this she still wants to be your “friend”, fire the other piano teacher, and start blackmailing her with pictures you've taken of her and the giant red dildo while she was sleeping. If she takes off, propose marriage to the other piano teacher, but start stalking her.

I mean, you gotta use those pictures for something. Dickhead.

***

Tired of Texting – y r u so fckd up about this?

Recap: Men find you impossible to approach, and will only ask you out via text message. In other words, the whole goddamn world learned to text in the short span of two and three quarters of a year while you were dating and off the market, and you missed it, and now you feel like an anachronism but a.) don't know what a fucking anachronism is and b.) suck ass at texting.

Well, here's the truth: while you were dating that other guy, there was this massive movement on the internet, started by members of a web hangout called 4chan, which launched distance, personal, and virtual attacks on The Church of Scientology. Then there was also an entire electronic revolution which was focused upon you and your shit-picking asshole attitude toward men. Every man on the face of the planet who wasn't donning a Guy Fawkes mask decided that if they were going to live with themselves after actually having to be stuck in your meaningless, horrible company while asking you out they'd use this ultra-new never-before-used technology, and spare themselves the pain of having to actually be in your vicious, vapid presence.

Really! It happened, just like that!!! I mean it!

No, not really, but the Anonymous movement started, for reals, and as far as you and this texting thing goes: who the fuck cares?

As for me, I think it's chicken shit to text a date proposal, and think men who do it are lazy, rude idiots. If I HAD to ask you out on a date (with a gun to my head, I think), though, I'd probably text it. I mean. Ew.

L8r.

***

Ah, have to finish up my day and get my work done. Bloody damn cold is North Carolina, though I suspect Messy would laugh that off, being in Chicago and all. See here, Messy dearest? Thumbing my nose at you, I am! I can go outside in a barn coat with no gloves! Nyah nyah nyah!

Sorry. That was mean, sweetie. Have some cocoa. I just had a moment.

As for all my favorite flysters – bundle up and enjoy the day!

Ciao. STC =^OQ^= (cat with monocle!)

Should these acquaintances be forgot? Oh, yes.

2009-12-31T08:17:00.000-08:00

And did Schuyler The Cat have a very merry Christmas? Oh yes, he did. The kids were awash in wrapping paper and packing peanuts and wonderfully fun and exciting – albeit affordable – gifts that continue to entertain them for hours. Mrs. Schuyler The Cat – otherwise known to you as “Schuylers Kitten”, got a shopping spree – although not a high-dollar shopping spree – at a local department store which she favors, which she then employed to buy a pair of riding slacks which tuck neatly into brown boots and a sweater of just-so cut and fit. The resulting effect of this outfit causes Schuyler The Cat to get watery eyes and have to sit down rapidly.

And I spent the day listening to records.

Pink Floyd (DSOTM), Miles Davis (Sketches of Spain, Kind of Blue), Stravinsky (Firebird, 1911 version, Cleveland Symphony, 1979), Frank Sinatra (In the Wee Small Hours), Kiss (Destroyer). Records. LP's Talking Machine Plates. If you don't remember or never experienced these curiosities: they are just like CD's, only bigger, black in color, look funny when they spin around on a turntable, and they sound delicious.

My wife found a very clean 1972 vintage Thorens TD-160 turntable on Ebay, snatched it up, wrapped it, and stuffed it under the tree. I have never in my life been so completely pleased by a Christmas gift, ever. Thank you, Mrs. Schuyler The Cat, my little kitten.

I trust and hope all Flysters had as fulfilling a Christmas as I. And it is in that spirit that I booted up this day, and remembered “oh, yes: it is Thursday, and shipments, entire warehouses full of morons have plied Prudence for advice this day. I shall see to them.”

Bloody hell. I have.

The originals can be found HERE.

***

Job-Stealing Friend – Are you male or female? Can't tell from your letter. No matter, in the end: you're still a shitheaded fucking asshole of elephantine proportions. If I was your “friend” I'd go after you with a goddamn baseball bat and slowly beat your sorry ass to death. And then I would spit on you.

Meanwhile, I hope you get the job, and this situation haunts you for all eternity. I hope you wake up in the middle of the night every night you work there in a cold sweat, screaming, after another dream of her creeping into your room with a syringe full of battery acid which she plunges into your brain, causing it to slowly expand until your head explodes in a bloody gush of gooey, bloody lather and pus.

Oh: By the way, first round interviews are tricky. I have found relaxation techniques such as meditation and yoga are very helpful when performed prior to interviews, like many other stressful events - you may want to look into those methodologies. There are a lot of helpful web sites with job interview advice available as well – since you are soon to be a “fresh out of school” graduate I have to assume your interview experience is limited, so be careful and patient, get that good advice rolling, and most of all: relax! Even though this is an important event, you need to find a way to get yourself calm and confident. When you set out to totally fuck up another persons' life with malice aforethought, it pays to be confident and calm, especially in the middle of that tricky interview (about the time the “tell me a little about yourself” questions go off) when drops of sweat run down your sternum and spine and you realize that she's probably waiting in the closet at your home, poised to leap upon you and cut your throat and stuff your worthless bloody fucking corpse in a freezer, you cheese dick.

Anyway, best of luck in your new career!

***

Accepting My Loss – Losing a parent sucks ass – so sorry to hear about your mother. And besides, it's a bloody shame you are such an idiot.

Now don't get all huffy – I don't mean that in a mean, nasty, way. I mean it in a...well, I guess I mean it in a mean nasty way after all. You carry the cards, bonehead. You are the dealer in these conversations. You are the one claiming to be comfortable while everyone you talk to is not quite aware how you are handling this thing, and even though you can just skim the deck and hand over the aces and kings, you keep giving everyone deuces and fours.

Too metaphorical? I go like that sometimes. Here: people think you're submerged in grief, you goddamn dolt. They don't understand you are moving on. You need to clue them to it. Hell, maybe you are still deep in grief, but I will assume you are stupid instead, because it's easier, and besides, it's fun for me.

So! We turn to the tried and true “Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Say O-Matic!” Please note that this is not to be confused with the ever popular “Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Do O-Matic.” Your results may vary. Not to be used in conjunction with prescription medication or during sexual intercourse. Do not operate heavy machinery while using the Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Say/Do O-Matic. Side effects include headache, nausea, revelation, and sudden uncontrollable bowel movements. You must be at least this tall to ride the ride. All rights reserved. Patents pending.

Disclaimers aside, here's how it works: I give you three optional things to say to the idiots you hang out with, and you pick one, even at random, then use it during conversations. Ready? Great! Let's fire this beyotch up!!!

1.) “Gee, Virgil (or “Pliny the Younger”, or “Tiger”, or whatever your fucking stupid hipster friend's name is), I feel that I am dealing with my mother's death pretty well, so please don't worry about hurting my feelings when we talk about my mom. It's okay, really.” (This is what a smart person would say, so I have to give more examples in your case, because...well...there you go.)

2.) “Listen asshole, I'm not six fucking years old any more, and I can deal with the fact my mom shuffled loose this mortal coil and all that, but what I absolutely cannot fucking stand is your kid glove, pedantic, asinine treatment of me, like I'm going to fucking break into shards and chunks just because we talked about her, so knock it the fuck off or I'll pin you to the street and double-fist your ass until you scream and beg me to kill you. You got that, dad?”

3.) “Oh look! A unicorn! I just love unicorns!”

And I'm spent! Ah, another day steering and guiding the lives of ginormously and profoundly lost people...ahh. Bliss.

***

Doting Dad – Jesus, the noise! What the hell is that noise? It seems to be coming from you...a massive cacophony of sound, like a thirty foot tall wall of...

...Whining! Yeah, that's it! Whining.

Go here. This is for you. It's something I wish I had invented, but I didn't. It's called the Give-A-Fuck-O-Meter. See the needle, all the way at the bottom? Get it? I thought. Let's move on.

A digression is in order: when I win the lottery, or inherit millions, or encounter whatever method I do when I find myself rich beyond the very brightest dreams of the greedy and the avaricious, I am going to go to every major city in America (for starters, anyway – I'll work up a deployment for Pac Rim and EMEA after a few stock splits) and open a store in each. It'll be a fairly small footprint retail establishment, since it will only have one product: testicles. Yes, I, Schuyler The Cat, am gong to open an entire chain of Testicles-R-Us stores coast to coast.

And when I do, you get your flailing whiny fucking ass in there and buy some, you simpering little butt-rubbing, nose picking, semi-pubescent blobbet of crotch cheese. May I recommend the “A-Cup” model for starters, because balls, you see, sometimes have a little horsepower to them. I fear you wouldn't be able to handle B's or bigger. You can grow into them later, after you learn to handle the power, the force, the sheer outrageous awesomeness that is testicles.

And check it, Sonny Jim: This is not a dis on your wife. Not at all. This is a dis on you and you alone. Yeah, I think her fears are unfounded and a little superior-sounding, but this is her child and that's how parents roll. They worry needlessly sometimes. We're good at it.

And here you are, and you said something intelligent. Fuck me! Intelligent? In a Dear Prudence letter? The walls they will come a-tumbling down, O Lord, for I fear the universe cannot abide this news! It's like a goddamn black hole or something, rolling through the milky way, eating everything in it's path and converting the matter it encounters into a misty spatter of subatomic particles! It's the end, the end I tell you!!!

What? Oh right, sorry – you said “If he ever wants to find out things about his biological family, I think it would be helpful for us to have had at least limited contact with them throughout the years.”

You said that. And all the while you are completely unaware that you answered your own goddamn questions weeks before you ever wrote this infantile goddamn letter in the first place.

What a fucking rube.

Oh! I forgot: Testicles-R-Us is a strong supporter (pun!!!) of “reduce, reuse, and recycle.” Since your wife obviously has some balls – probably the only ones in your household – maybe you should ask her to borrow them for a little while? They can be tricky, but she can teach you to use them, I suspect. Idiot.

***

Flowerless – Oh, la la la. I picture, in my head, scenes from movies that feature a moment in time when someone makes a mental connection, and comes to a remarkable realization. The actors seem to begin to glow – I'm thinking of Tom Hanks in “Forrest Gump,” and Alistair Sim in the old version of “A Christmas Carol.” Very different movies, but what Hanks' character realizes he can walk to Jenny's apartment – rather than wait for the bus – he seems to levitate, and the look of marvel and joy on his face is absolutely beatific. Same with Sim, when he awakens after the spirits have left him cowering and clutching the bedpost. An amazing awareness, it seems, comes over him, and he is transformed.

You sound so astonishingly and extraordinarily stupid that I suspect you have never looked like this, ever, in your entire life.

When I have rolled out all my Testicles-R-Us stores, and after I have made a million-willion dollars, I think I will create a series of facilities for people like you. They will be indoors, with lots of windows to see out (and for curious onlookers to see in), bright and cheerfully painted, furnished in soft, comfortable things like pillows and bean bag chairs. I will offer low-cost access to the families of people like you, and they can just drop you off for a few hours, like the ball pit in Ikea. Once there, you can just dodder around and look at the pretty things, safe and blithely happy amid the broad, cushioned spaces. There will be televisions which loop “My Little Pony” commercials endlessly in the background. Big stuffed teddy bears to cuddle and nap with. You can waddle to and fro, free and without a care, unless you have to make doody, and don't you worry about making doody, sweetheart: I'll have trained staff there to wipe your stupid fucking ass for you, brainless.

Sorry about all that nonsense above – it's how I deal with life. You make a good, unwitting source too, because you only understand about a third of it.

Listen up, now – eyes front, sit criss-cross-applesauce, and no giggles. Stop picking your nose. Listening? Got your thinking cap on?

Okay. Here we go!

He doesn't buy you flowers because he's just using you for sex.

Okay then!

Now you go on back to your Spongebob show, and the rest of the world will continue on it's course, racing around the sun and revolving away without a worry for you, as it is completely unaware that somewhere here in America, an unimaginably intellect-deficient 32 year old mother of a teenager has, for the first time in her entire life, come to an amazing and bona fide realization, and has perhaps gotten “that” look on her heretofore slack-jawed face.

Cheerio!

***

I dunno about New Year's. It's not my favorite “holiday”, if one can call it that.

This year was a high-low affair for many: Bambam got the nod for the White House, and immediately set about disappointing everyone on the planet (I say he's coming on stronger for round 2, but I am an optimist who prefers this disappointment to any single day of the previous 8 years of mis-administration under The Psychotic Savant from Crawford, Texas), financially everyone took it in the shorts (except bank executives) and H1N1 got me and a few people I know, though none of us died. It's one of those New Years when all I can say is “hell, it HAS to be better than 2009. Right? I mean...right?”

I will ring in the new year by digging deeper into my freshly unpacked records collection and finding the gems I have waiting roughly 20-odd years to listen to. Dire Straits. Julie London. Count Basie. Jimmy Lunceford. Ambrosia. More Pink Floyd. Maybe Led Zeppelin, but I think I gave all those away in 1989. Jaco Pastoruis. I have about 400 or so, and I've yet to inventory them.

One last “huzzah” to a foul-weather year that can't end soon enough; me, Schuyler's Kittens, my talking machine plates and a bottle of Korbel or two, waiting for the fireworks and a cheerful – if not entirely understandable – Dick Clark to say “Happy New Year” for the 46th time in my life.

And so, in the spirit of the season: Happy Fucking New Year, Flysters!

May your worst day of 2010 be better than your best day of 2009!

May your paychecks all cash out as fortunes!

May the work you do be an adventure!

Don't catch your weenie in your zipper!

Salud,
STC =^oo^=

A case of the "ho ho ho" to you, ho; or, the Xmas-Files.

2009-12-24T08:42:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of the season, given that I have watched three or four different versions of “A Christmas Carol” (curious, they all end the same, except the musical) I have, for whatever reason, softened a bit toward this week's letter writers, rather than bristled. It's a cold place here in the Northeast, snowbound hearts are as frozen as the streets, and a good dose of charity and kindness is in order.

With that, I present a New and Improved Schuyler the Cat: Nice Guy Holiday Edition, V2.0.

And God Bless us, every one.

Original Dear Prudence letters can be found HERE.

***

Waiting in the Cold – Sisterly differences are a thing to behold, I say: I have 3 older sisters, and there was always a missing sweater that was “borrowed” or a boyfriend that was less than accepted around the house, and good lord above there was always a period happening – every day of every month – if my mother was thrown in the female fray that was my childhood. It was like living in a horror movie where all the women threatened to kill me every day of my life until I was 16, and then the threats slowed, yet never completely stopped...

My dad and I became professional ninjas – we could disappear swiftly and silently into the shadows and ride out these 28 day storms with skillz madder than the best TF2 team leader on a sniper mission.

Anyway, your problem here is a silly one, to outsiders anyway; a snippy spat of minor magnitude, although I understand you emit rising fumes over it, because I am fully aware that sisterz can do that to a person. Just as you, possibly unaware, are doing it to her.

I say you have a case of big-sister-itis.

Solutions are as simple as the diagnosis here, and revolve primarily around communication, a tool missing from many a sister's toolbox out there. In your case, a simple chat could solve it all, but beware – this little tiff could erupt into something bigger if you force your view. To her point, shipping was the alternative to a visit anyway, and let's face it: it sounds like you and hubby can afford the cost of freight.

I think you should let this little fire burn itself out like a well-used yule log and enjoy the spirit of the holidays, then do as she asks and ship the gifts after. It helps, I have found, to make part of the gift selection criteria include “small” and “shippable” as well as affordable and appropriate to the recipient: my grandson lives 3000 miles away in Canada, and shipping is a premium. No big heavy presents for him.

So de-Scrooge yourself, shrug it off, and enjoy the splendor and happiness of holidays, silly! Never mind you're a self-indulgent nit-picking fucking bitch of the worst goddamn kind. “Wah, my sister's a big lazy weenie and I can't take the fucking precious time to ship a gift to her!” my ass, you egotistical froth-spewing goddamn hag. If you were my sister I'd duct-tape you to your bed in your sleep and Nair your hair right off your empty fucking head. Run out of Pamprin, Princess Menses? What a snotty twatburger.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

***

Nix the Gift – Hmm, this has peril written all over it. Secrets and “don't tell this person that thing happened” are not good ways to begin a relationship. I wonder about the intentions of the gentleman involved, and more deeply wonder about the intentions of your woman friend.

Mostly, though, I wonder about your place in the scheme of things. It seems, my friend, that you have a few things of import to say that may not be any of your business, regardless your relationship with this woman. Even gently suggesting returning the gifts, or donating them to charity: these suggestions presume an awful lot about her relationship with this married man who may simply be a gift-giving type, and you making them states clearly to me that you are skirting the issue, which, I am afraid to tell you, is possibly jealousy.

Not that jealousy is a horrible thing: it's a natural response to humankind's possessive nature, and it frequently tells us there is something unsafe about a position we find ourselves in, and in your case I think you are receiving a very important message about the nature of this woman and any potential relationship you may have with her.

I mentioned the “gift giving type” above – we both know that's not what you are concerned about, don't we? I fear so.

So you find yourself here, but the situation is of your own making, believe it or not: your conversations with her have not been related to the right or wrong thing to do. Rather, you are suggesting actions based upon conjecture, which she could only interpret as negative insinuation, and there is no trust, no good basis for a new relationship, and this cannot proceed or end well.

Just tell that sleazy fucking whore to fuck off, and go find a new girlfriend. What, are you completely stupid? Guys like you make the rest of us look like fucking idiots: you get involved with a manipulative bitch with an agenda that likely includes sucking off married men in the church parking lot after services, then you act all wounded and weepy later and try to control the situation through manipulation of your own. like taking in a rabid dog then kicking it in the head when it bites you on your lazy stupid ass, Doofus McDickless. What a moron. Thanks for fucking things up for the rest of us, too.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

***

Appropriate Christmas Cards Only, Please – Oh, bother. This is just plain silly and an exercise in bee-in-a-bonnet poofery.

There is a focus in your letter upon two things: politics and appropriateness.

First, politically, the rift in stance between you and your wife's aunt in not only predictable, it is a statistical inevitability. If we take an example of a single nuclear family consisting of a mother, father, son, and daughter, we can likely find that together they present a somewhat singular front in Politics – that is, until the kids grow up and realize there are choices, and later in life you can have that same family presenting four discrete, separate, differing views on not only politics but each and every single itty-bitty issue politics reportedly represents. Makes for thrilling Thanksgiving dinners, yes it does!

So it may be obvious, but you will always have aunts and uncles and in-laws and cousins and whatnot who are “that” party, while you are “this” party.

Some people, methinks, carry it juuust a little too far.

Adding a line like that to a Christmas card is, indeed, inappropriate. Especially so amid a family where political beliefs are usually understood and out there for all to see – that makes it a bit of a jab at you in this case.

But – and there's always a “but” in politics – this is also a time of charity, and kindness, and forgiveness. The holidays are such a fine time for families to set aside their differences – even if some family members cannot do so. You and your new wife should simply smile and face the Christmas tree together and toast the good health and hopeful future the season holds, let this issue go, and have a safe and happy Christmas together, awash in the warmth of knowing you, at least, have done a kind thing.

Your New Year's resolution could be to send them a letter, stating:

“Dearest Aunt Edna and Uncle Charley,

You stupid fucking neocon poop-lickers: private healthcare is the most profound failure of human service in the history of homo sapiens. “Private” obviously translates to ”for profit,” you goddamn retarded fuck-knuckles, and “healthcare” cannot succeed when profit is the primary motivating factor: it's like paying someone in water for supporting a fire in the hearth: you get one or the other, you jerkoff dinglepuss asswipes. It sickens me to have you in my family, and speaking of sick: I hope you get truly sick and spend a little quality time enjoying your “healthcare”, while they deny your claim because hey: lung cancer isn't covered, loser, because you had lungs before you got sick, obviously a preexisting condition. Then you can pay the bills yourself – along with your continued insurance premiums – and then you have the privilege of losing your retirement and your house and everything you worked hard for. Total financial fuckholery, and the more stupid people on the planet – like you fucking monkeys – have bought into it while the rest of the country suffers. What a bunch of inbred, toothless imbeciles you are. Go shove Sarah Palin up your ass, you dickweedeaters, but do it gently, 'cause if you push too hard you're going to cause a rectal tear and have to go to the doctor, and your insurance company will deny you because let's face it: Sarah Palin is a preexisting up-the-ass condition on a good day, to be sure.

And don't ever come within a thousand yards of my home, or I will set my dogs after you, you goddamn fucking morons.

Love and kisses,
Bill and Betty.”

Merry Fucking Christmas.

***

Loki – you are a mischievous devil, you certainly are! This year my daughter will be getting the nesting “box in a box in a box” treatment: I wrapped and tagged and put bows on eight different sized boxes that she has to open to get to her big gift. Taped the heck out of them too. I cannot wait for her to open it! I a very silly daddy.

This, however, is my daughter I'm talking about. She's eight, and for the moment she's crazy about me (we'll see what 12 to 14 brings, won't we?). Your girlfriend's mother – a possible future mother IN LAW, I might add – is already disapproving, and you tread very deep and dangerous waters here, my friend. All that huff-puffery about financial standing and whatnot is just sauce for the goose she may be cooking for you, as well.

I certainly have to see your issue in a broader sense, too: early into a relationship may not be a good time to be a prankster, yes? But if you don't prank her, she may feel slighted by that, and there is your Catch-22: damned if you do, and damned if you don't.

This is a lighthearted thing, this goofy pranksterism, but you must read the terrain carefully before you forge ahead, you nutty little joker, you. Follow your girlfriend's advice on it, and move cautiously.

And may I ask: did you put a big greasy pile of fresh dogshit in the box you welded shut for her? I mean, it's a mother's prerogative to take exception to a boyfriend, but come on already: tell that fucking battle-axe to lighten the hell up or fuck herself. You say she cannot stand you: that implies she's completely in denial that her daughter, only hours before a visit, may have been straddling you cowgirl fashion wearing a latex and stainless steel bondage rig and screaming “yeah, baby! Twist my nipples like radio dials! Spank me!” Who does Mommy Dearest actually dis when she gives you the cold shoulder but her own daughter?

What a hideous slimy witch you have on your hands there, lucky boy. To think she may attend your kid's christening some day, as well. I'd rather shove bamboo barbecue skewers through my scrotum than spend a minute with a future Mother in Law like that...yet despite the fact she's your own personal future Marybeth Tinning-in-law, you do persist, don't you? What an idiot. Shake this bitch up or walk away a free man, lover boy, 'cause she ain't singing hymns of praise about you any time soon., regardless how you wrap her stupid fucking Christmas present. Idiot.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

***

Funny thing: speaking of Sarah Palin, I was just ruffling my son's hair on the way to get a cup of coffee, and noticed he was watching a cartoon about dinosaurs who were celebrating Christmas.

Dinosaurs. Christmas. Dichotomy? Hehehehe. Makes you want to go rogue, huh? And whatever happened to Road Runner?

Today is Thursday, the 24th of December, and I am expecting a house full of guests tonight: a simple little cocktail party, short lived, with snifters of cognac and Grand Marnier, a decent red wine, beer for me (Dogfish Head 90 minute IPA, or perhaps Stone Brewery Oaked Arrogant Bastard Ale), treats for the kids like popcorn balls and yummy lemon muffins, and simple little gifts to exchange. Then we open our traditional Christmas eve presents: we all get new pajamas for Christmas morning.

And then tomorrow morning the kids will be screaming at 6:00 to get up, get up, Santa was here! The carrot sticks and grape juice we left out is gone! He left this note, too:

“Dear R and C,

Thanks so very much for the carrot sticks and grape juice – that rascal Dasher got to the carrots before I could stop him and ate them all, but it's just as well, since he's out front with Rudolph and works hard. The grape juice was much appreciated – all that milk gives me indigestion.

I hope you like your presents this year, 'cause you've been VERY good!

Merry Christmas!

Love,
Santa Claus”

My wife got me something special this year, too. I suspect a Kindle, wrapped in a big box with a bunch of books and stuff in there for extra weight to trick me. I'm on to her.

Just so: Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Good Kwanzaa, and great happy days and nights to all of you and yours, from Schuyler the Cat to all of you.

Everyone, with me: “Merry Fucking Christmas!!!”

Toodles.

STC =^oo^=