Sweaty Teen Boy Balls! Plastered Daddys! Perturbed Pianists! Dateless Luddite Looneys! Are these band names?

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...

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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!)