If they were beer, I'd gratefully teetotal.

Okay already!

I got letters for the last two weeks, berating me for not publishing Room to Swing a Cat.

Wow: I apologize to those who actually read my stuff and had to wait, and frankly, I am humbled and honored that a few of you wrote to tell me to get off my ass and get something written. They like me! They really like me!

And off I go into Prudieland. Ready? Set? As Peter Pan said...”C'mon everybody! Here we goooooo...”

Original letters found HERE.

***

A Loyal Friend? – Watch soap operas much? Crap, dude, you need to take a quick trip out to Lifes-R-Us and pick out something a little less daytime dramatic in your size. Recap: your very good pal is a pukey fucking skankaraptor who is blithely banging the bejeezus out of his ex-squeezola while his poor unknowing wifey is home, barefoot in the kitchen, with two suckling children working her breasts, and he threw you into a big bonfire by using you as a fake alibi without asking so he could play a little slap and tickle on the side. To top things off, you are a profoundly cowardly wonderwuss of the worst magnitude. I just guessed that part, because you didn't bother to include it. I like to keep it real.

Well, Professor Pussy, you have some thinking to do. It'll be hard 'cause it means you have to attempt the use of what appears to be a puny fragment of atrophied marmot brain. Frankly I cannot imagine someone as stupid as you actually capable of scratching your own ass without a Boy Scout around to show you how, but we gotta try. I'll make it simple:

One, carry the lie forever and continue to do so for his future trysts. Sure, this is a viable option. Go for it. Seriously. Or don't. I don't know.

Two, you could buy, rent, or maybe grow your very own pair of fully functional big-boy testicles and tell him that next time he throws you to the goddamn wolves you're going to break your foot off in his ass right after you tell his wife the whole story. Note that with this option you could give the asshole a freebie for the lie he already force fed you...or maybe not. Your call. Which makes me think...

Three, and this is the best option: blackmail the bloody hell out of him. Follow him around a few times when he's off getting the strange and get some pictures, keep details and notes, and present it to him in a big manilla envelope with a threat: ask for some awesome sum of money “...or all this goes to Wifey Dearest, beyotch! Sweet ownage, fucker!”

Oh, and whatever you decide to do, please, please do not forget that you're an idiot. Good lord, man. Seriously.

***

Two Dads, Two Kids, One Problem – Congratulations to you! Buuut... Recap: you and your partner are adopting twins, and you want to raise the children in medieval fashion, rolling in their own urine and fecal emmissions and smelling like a pair of oily desiccating two-week dead-yaks, the precious little darlings. You also want to save the planet one little child at a time by using organic clothing made courtesy slave labor in Honduras, and, oddly enough, you want only real wood toys, as you are completely unaware that this wonderfully counterintuitive idea contributes to deforestation. Buy offsets, fast, or you might burn in hell with LW1's boy.

These issues are not the actual problem, either. The problem is you do not know how to use The King's own English to perform basic communication, or at least do anything but write to Dear Prudence. It appears you cannot get across, in some known human language, to your shower guests that gifts containing plastic, non-organic materials, diapers, or anything that was invented after 1647 is unwelcome and will be discarded posthaste. Or possibly traded for air freshener, because you will need lots and lots of goddamn air freshener, asswipe. Hey! “asswipe!” That's a pun! I so the funny, I is, truly truly. Asswipe. Huh.

Well, I'll fix it for you. Cut and paste this into your shower invites:

“Hi, everyone. Gerald and I, apart from possessing IQ's half a tick under arctic temperatures, were somehow left un-screened and thus are celebrating the impending adoption of formerly normal and healthy twin children, which we will immediately proceed to destroy with every action we take and word we speak, no matter what that action or word is, and no matter how we try, because we have “ideas”. Hoo, yes, we so totally do have ideas. We know fuck-all about kids, though. Anyway we are simply in heaven. Bring on the poop!

Meanwhile we need you to understand that we will throw or give your stupid fucking gifts in a dumpster if they do not meet the following criteria:

1 – NO FUCKING DIAPERS! THEY ARE EVIL, THE DEVIL'S WORK! BRING OF THE POOP!
2 – NO PLASTIC TOYS, GODDAMNIT! ONLY WODD TOYS! WHAT, YOU THINK WE NEED THOSE STUPID TREES? TREES SUCK ASS!
3 – NO ITEMS THAT DO NOT HAVE THE “CERTIFIED 100% ORGANIC” LABEL. BRING SOMETHING THAT IS NOT ORGANIC AND WE'LL STICK IT RIGHT UP YOUR ASS.

Thanks in advance, and we really look forward to spending a fun and exciting time together opening the gifts you bring us!

With much love,
Bob and Gerald, the two most fucked up parents-to-be ever!”

Poor kids. Better keep sharp or projectile-firing things away from them later in life. These kids will definitely go Menendez on your stupid freaky goddamn ass when they grow up, and no court will convict them.

***

Disappointed – I just. Well. Uh. Shit.

Good God, people! What, did a buncha big giant fucking UFO's invade Earth and drop off big millions of fucking crates full of goddamn retarded people all over the place? Geebus wept!

Oh, sorry about your mom.

All right, witless, here's the story: Mom died, you had foot all the bills, your favorite Aunt, Ms. Greedy McSteal, got lotsa donations but didn't share the booty. You want to know what to do.

You. Want. To. Know. What. To. Do. Ooooooo-key dokey.

Um, this might be hard, but I have to ask: what the bloody fucking hell do you WANT to do? I mean, does anything come to mind? Anything at all? You know, you need a mind for anything to come to in the first goddamn place. I'm having a yiddish moment. Oy fucking goddamn vey. I'm almost verklempt. Gimme a sec.

(heavy sigh, and a 1, and a 2, and a...)

Listen up – I have fired up the Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Do-O-Matic, just for you. Yee haw! Let's see what happens.

ONE: Call her and bust her ass on it.
TWO: let it go.

There it is! And I'm spent! I should get paid for this shit, really.

***

Christmas Dilemma – This is not a dilemma. A dilemma would be, like, you know, something meaningful, like running out of toilet paper after the effects of a big beefy-bean burrito with extra salsa and sour cream on it. Or realizing, just as you make out the words “Ford” on the grille of the car two feet from your head and closing, that you just ran a red light and you have no insurance. Or maybe waking up in an alien spacecraft with cold medical instruments stuffed into all your orifices and a little greenish-grey guy giggling at you every time you scream.

This? A dilemma? Recap: your parents have purchased a wonderful Jesus and are preparing to celebrate that misidentified pagan December holiday to honor his birth, even though theologians assure us all he wasn't really a Capricorn. You yourself have a somewhat less feature-rich Jesus but he's certainly good enough to meet mom and dad's standards for a Jesus, and your brand is easier on your budget and sex life. You also have a major tweak happening for that hunky, super-duper guy who you plan to wed someday, but he has no make or model of Jesus in his possession, because he is very odd and doesn't believe in Jesus, and probably not the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or any of the other fairy tales he's been told, but he can afford to put gas in the car because he's not beholden to tithe away his earnings. Weird guy, huh?

Root problem? He won't go to church this Christmas with you and your parents, and they will be likely to un-friend him for that, 'casue he's going to roast, screaming in eternal agony and damnation of the unforgiven, deep in the sulphury screaming bowels of fiery and furious hell itself. Or some sorta shit like that.

Solution? Dump him and get a new guy who has some kind of Jesus or other. You have little choice. Mom and Dad are going to condemn and banish any Jesus-less guys, so bite the bullet and go find yourself a good 'thumper, girlfriend. Besides, sounds like your Jesus is low maintenance and high forgiveness, and you can get a new guy – with some decent Jesus happening – for show, and do the wang-bang-zola with the atheist guy on the side whenever you feel the need for the good stuff.

And if you get caught, you can get all Edwards/Sanford and announce God will forgive you. Total bonus, Christian babe! So lucky.

And you know what? I am so glad I don't know you.

***

And it is here, my friends, that I leave you. Thanks all for reading, and thanks especially for those who gave me the massively so awesome ego stroke by writing to me to ask me to get back to work. Awesome, indeed.

Ciao Bellos and Bellas.