It's a bloody CONSPIRACY I tell you! CONSPIRACY!!!

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^=