Wednesday, March 25, 2009

A letter to the "Sex Professor"

Dear Sex Professor: My girlfriend has extremely hot friends, and we're going on a beach trip. I'm worried about getting an erection. Is there anything I can do to control it?

Dear Boner Boy:

Don't think of it as an inappropriate erection; think of it as an opportunity to advertise.

Odds are, you aren't going to marry your current girlfriend, so why not let her hot friends know that you're ready for some serious fucking at a moment's notice? If you're lucky, one of them is an unconscionable whore who'll attack you while your girlfriend is in the shower tending to her sandy vagina.

This conversation or a variant thereof should happen at least twice:

Girlfriend's hot, bikini-clad companion: "Ohmygod, do you have a hard-on?"

You: "Why yes. Yes I do. Gaze upon it in all its glory!"

Even if none of these ladies are impressed enough by your renob to betray their friend, I seriously doubt any of them will be offended. After all, they aren't wearing bikinis to make your junk recede into your body cavity like a turtle's head. And if your girlfriend calls you out, tell her she's the one who got you all excited. Thanks to our old pal Cognitive Dissonance, she'll believe you.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

DEAR ABBY: I consider myself to be a "free spirit." I bike and hike to get around, do not own a car and pretty much try to live "off the grid."

My recently married sister and new in-laws are my favorite people in the world. But they constantly arrange weekend events -- movie nights, shopping trips and coffee bar-hopping. The objective, of course, is the joy of sharing good company.

As a vehement anti-consumerist and anti-materialist, I find it deeply upsetting to be asked to spend money on things I consider to be exploitive industries and endeavors. On the other hand, there's nothing I enjoy more than being in the presence of these kind, loving, nurturing people.

So, just as I can't stand the way they spend their money, I don't want to spoil their good time by being some kind of "psycho naturalist in-law." What can I do? -- PRINCIPLED BROTHER-IN-LAW

Dear Granola-eating pusbag:

How hard it must be to be you, oh tortured naturalist. Ooh, the evil people are seeing movies and drinking coffee...heaven forbid! Now we know how the German Resistance must have felt during the rise of the Nazis.

God obviously dropped the ball in your case. Instead of living in the richest country in the world and viewing your many privileges with self-righteous disdain, you deserve to be dying of malaria in the squalor of a third world shanty town.

I have no advice to give you, because you are too self-important to listen to me. After all, I have a car and enjoy coffee; I might as well be a rapist. I will offer advice to your sister and in-laws, though: RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH SUCH A KILLJOY. MOVE FAR FAR AWAY FROM HIM AND GET ON WITH YOUR LIVES.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

More pointless bickering!

DEAR ABBY: Would you mind settling a debate? My friend Tony was born in New York. His parents moved the family to Florida when he was 6.

Tony's wife was born and raised in New York, and he says he is "from New York." She disagrees and tells him he is from Florida because he was raised there.

When someone asks, "Where are you from?" (geographically), what is the correct response? -- BORN IN JERSEY, RAISED IN FLORIDA

Dear Jersey:

Obviously Tony's wife is from New York, because only a New Yorker would make such a big deal of something so insignificant. Tony's wife is the Seinfeld of nagging.

Tony, on the other hand, is an insecure fleeb who thinks being "from New York" makes him cool. Unless he was a founding member of the Velvet Underground, it does not.

So what is the correct response? Who cares? Who gives a fly-buzzed fuck-cubby? You need to stop engaging in "debates" with fucking neurotics and concentrate on more important matters, which in your case probably includes remembering to wipe your ass. The orginal Dear Abby should come back from the dead and haunt your stupid ass for asking such a question. I sincerely hope you awaken one night to find Abby spectre-fucking you with a dildo molded from disgraced televangelist Ted Haggard's penis.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

I don't know who "Mrs. Web" is, but I'm answering her mail anyway

Dear Mrs. Web,

I have been dating a guy over the net. We are close and even told each other that we loved each other and we both really mean it. I am almost 16 and he is 18.

Now he won't email me back or even try to find me on the net. I know he has a steady job but shouldn't he make time for his girlfriend? Please tell me what to do.

Dear Jailbait:

Sorry, I'm stuck on the line "told each other that we loved each other and we both really mean it." Since he is making no effort to contact you, he probably didn't "mean it" at all. In all likelihood he found another girl to IM while feverishly masturbating and eating fried dough.

A lot of people will tell you "Hey, you're only sixteen; you'll have lots of chances to find love." Well, DON'T YOU BELIEVE 'EM, SISTER! You seem particularly needy and delusional; this may have been your one chance. And you blew it. How could you have been so stupid?

Okay, in all fairness, there are a few other possible reasons for his internet absence:

-He's really forty-seven and got scared off watching an episode of To Catch a Predator.

-He killed himself.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Ab Asshole

DEAR ABBY: My 19-year-old grandson, "Fletcher," an average boy with good looks, is becoming as exhibitionist. He flaunts his body on almost every occasion. When people are around, he goes into his room and emerges minutes later without his shirt, naked to the waist, with his pants dropping down almost showing places we do not wish to see. He struts around, going from room to room, all the while his pants slipping even lower. Fletcher then usually changes into shorts, which also slide down and reveal more than the public should be viewing.

Fletcher does this whether it's hot or cold, in the house or outside. His behavior is not normal. He seems to be doing this stripping thing more and more, regardless of where he is. At our house over the holidays, he found an excuse to remove his shirt to show his abs. He's constantly exercising and working out and is always ready to pull open his shirt to show the results.

I don't know where exhibitionism at this age leads, but I'm sure the road is not a healthy trail to travel. Does all of this seem normal to you, Abby, and could you comment on it? -- CONCERNED IN BUCKS COUNTY, PA.

Dear Bucks:

"Fletcher"? More like "Felcher".

Your grandson is what modern society would call a douchebag. I know in your day a douchebag was called a "hot water bottle", was kept under your bathroom sink, and was used to unfunktify your coot in lieu of bathing, but this is very different.

Your douchebag grandson is a preening ass. In your youth, your male friends would have called him "fop" or "popinjay". Also, since he's most likely a prolific steroid user, the effeminate vanity masks a raging anger that dwells inside him. One day he will push his common-law wife down a flight of stairs. Disown him immediately.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Ask Amy a stupid question

Oh, the lady from Ask Amy is earning her large paycheck, let me tell you.

Dear Amy: My son went to a birthday party for a boy he knows from school.

He asked the boy what he liked and was told certain types of toys. We bought one for him, and when my son got to the party his was the only "real" present.

All the other children gave the birthday boy gift cards!

How disappointing. Half the fun of presents is seeing the wrapped packages and wondering what is in them.

Some of the givers didn't wrap the gift cards, or even put them in an envelope!

Dear Martyr:
Let me get this straight...You're seeking advice because your bratty kid didn't get to watch some other bratty kid rip open a bunch of cheap toys? How's the brave little soldier holding up? I hope, after suffering such a trama, you have him on constant suicide watch. Maybe the Pope can say a prayer for him and all the other victims of gift card-mania!

Little kids don't care about "seeing the wrapped packages and wondering what is in them" unless said kid is a complete tool. Regular kids, the ones who don't poop their pants when they sneeze, only care about the loot.

You know, the more I think about this stupid letter the angrier I become. The best thing you can do for this boy is stuff him into the trunk of your car and drive into a large body of water, because with you as his parent he's better off dead.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

This is one fucked up situation

My friend Brooke introduced me to Margo, another advice slinger. This letter is a hoot.

DEAR MARGO: I was divorced and unattached for 10 years before meeting and eventually marrying a wonderful woman I thought I knew quite well. We happily dated for 18 months prior to marriage, with no problems in the all-important area of compatibility, emotional or otherwise. She meshed easily with my friends and immediate family, as well as with my 18-year-old son, whom I had raised on my own. Moving forward one year, I come home early from work one day and catch my wife in bed with my 19-year-old son. Needless to say, my jaw dropped so fast you could hear it crack. It was an immediate and emotionally charged situation that ended with them both being told to get out, which they did. The following morning, after a wretched night full of agony beyond description, I received a call from my son, who told me the two of them would be leaving town the following day to start a new life together. He told me they were in love but neither knew how to break the news to me. It had been going on for -- you guessed it -- one year. I was absolutely speechless. The following day, they packed their things while I was away from the house and left. It's been a month now and I haven't heard a word. I don't even know where they went. As for the soon-to-be ex-wife, good riddance. She'll reap what she's sown somewhere down the line. But my son is a different story. I am his dad and I love him. The horror of our relationship being destroyed this way is almost more than I can bear. I want there to be some way we can reconcile. In the meantime, I am left in anguish as I suffer through the pain of having two people I loved brutally ripped from my life. I am in need of discerning words of wisdom her -- LOST IN SPACE

Dear Chump:
Wow, you really know how to pick 'em, bud. Let's gloss over the fact that knowing your wife started getting plowed by your son the day he turned eighteen has to emasculate you in the worst way; instead, let's focus on your misguided love of your son.

Your son is so emotionally and spiritually crippled that he has to fuck his dad's wife? He can't find some nubile eighteen-year-old girl to bang? Forget he was ever born. "Oh, but he's my son, and I love him." Fuck that, and fuck you for thinking it. So fucking what if he's your son? You bail your son out of jail for getting in a bar fight; you don't forgive him for giving your wife the ol' deep-dickin'.

Hey, some people have assholes for sons. Hitler was someone's son; John Wayne Gacy was someone's son; Ann Coulter is someone's son; they were/are beyond redemption. So forget the both of them and wait around for the next person to come along and rip your heart out.

You'll have a burning desire to hire a private detective to find them, then exact your bitter revenge. You'll want to dip your son's cock in liquid nitrogen and hit it with a hamer, then pour fast-drying cement down your ex-wife's vagina. Don't do it, as fun as it may sound. The expense and resulting prison sentence won't be worth it. If you think it's bad finding your wife in bed with your son, wait until you're anally entered by a cellmate who used to "stunt dick" for Lexington Steele.