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.

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.

"Amy, am I a cunt?"

I found a column I've never heard of before called Ask Amy. I think I'll answer one of her questions for her.

Dear Amy:

I am a 14-year-old girl.

A boy in my class recently called me a word that is apparently the "worst word a guy can call a girl." I had not heard it before, but my friend told me what it meant.

It all started when he "accidentally" threw a soft object at my head. In response, I threw it back, but he turned at the wrong moment and it hit him in the eye. I apologized and said it was an innocent mistake.

There was no damage besides the natural stinging an eye would have if hit by something. He stopped talking to me because of it. I thought it was sort of funny that he got so worked up.

I started teasing him about not talking to me by having imaginary "conversations" in front of him. Then I said something along the lines of, "I could insult you and you wouldn't do anything about it." Then I said (not seriously), "Look at your shoes—they have holes in them, they look all old." He responded by calling me the bad word.

How should I react? I don't want him to go around thinking he could get away calling girls this, although it is a word that I don't think he uses regularly. We have always had a love/hate relationship. I am a naturally friendly, funny, happy person—but not a pushover.

Dear Tormenting Hussy:
Yeah, he shouldn't have called you a cunt because it's such a taboo word. But you'll find if you go through life acting like a complete and total cunt, from time to time someone might call you one. Occupational hazard, if you will.

This "love/hate" relationship between you and the boy is obviously barely-contained lust. I'm guessing he'll knock you up before junior prom and you'll pay the "older guy who still hangs out with high school kids" to drive you to Mexico for a quickie abortion so your parents don't find out. The boy will tell everyone at school and you'll have to start hanging out with the goth kids. They'll ask a lot of really invasive questions about the abortion procedure and you'll feel very uncomfortable.

If you want to avoid that future, start throwing things at the eyes of guys who are needy and will put up with your annoying behavior. Guys who'll let a woman walk all over them are a dime a dozen. Happy hunting.

The real truth? You're an idiot.

When Ann Landers died, they changed her column to Annie's Mailbox, and now two busy-bodies write the crap instead of just one. Neither of these "experts" are named Annie, so I'm assuming there are a lot of stupid people who still think Ann Landers is alive.

Dear Annie: I've been married to "Nancy" for 18 years. Two years ago, we became involved in youth programs in our community as we have three children. This gave us opportunities to meet new people.

During this time, I noticed Nancy changing. After one meeting, I caught her in a truck with another man. She claimed they were just talking, but I didn't believe her. She consented to a polygraph, which she failed. I then asked her to submit to another with a different tester, and she failed that, too. These examiners have been doing this for over 20 years and both said she is lying.

Nancy maintains her innocence and I'm confused. We attended counseling and got some things worked out, but I simply don't trust her. What is your advice? — Don't Believe Her

Dear Husband of a come-bucket:
Welcome to the wonderful world of being married to a slut, dude. By the way, what kind of youth program is this? Please tell the world so everyone can steer their children clear of this strumpet haven.

You seem like an uninteresting dullard, so your first mistake was letting your wife meet people who aren't as boring as you. But you did, and she most likely at least blew one of them.

Let me tell you something, friend (and by "friend" I mean "dickwad"): No one has a conversation in a truck unless the truck is moving. If the truck is stationary, someone is having an orgasm, probably all over your wife's face. You talk standing outside of the truck. You go inside to get freaky.

The next time your wife shares a small space with another man and emerges smelling like Axe body spray and sperm, send me the money you would have spent to hire two more polygraph examiners. Then have sex with someone she knows.

Farm-grown stupidity

DEAR ABBY: My mother is a hardworking farm woman in her early 60s who never bothered to take care of her skin. She recently went through menopause, and now her face looks much older than her years.

Mom is a good person. Every wrinkle and laugh line has been well-earned. However, several people have made comments to her like, "What happened to you? You look terrible!"

How should Mom respond to this? I suggested she say with smile, "I'm getting old, and I look it!" She feels that would be too harsh. Do you have a more subtle answer for these insensitive people? -- PROUDLY AGING, READING, MINN.

Dear Woman whose mom's face looks like Yoda's ballbag:
Are you profoundly retarded? "I'm getting old, and I look it!"? That's the best you can do, Phineas J. Snappycomeback? If someone called a large relative of yours "Lard-ass" would you have him say "I'm getting fat, and I look it!"? Oh, you probably would, because you're a fucking simpleton.

For starters, do these people expect a farm gal in her sixties to look like Eva Mendes? These folks are addle-brained from getting up at 4am all their lives and subtlety is NOT the answer. There are a few options your mother the saddlebag can choose from:

Make 'em feel guilty: "What happened to me? A maniac attacked me with a box cutter. I'm lucky to be alive."

Pretend to be hard of hearing: "Excuse me? Did you just say you fucked a pizza?"

Rip out their heart: "Well at least I lived long enough to get wrinkles, unlike your sister."

Get angry: "If you ever say anything like that to me again I swear, as God is my witness, I'll kill you and every member of your family. I'll kill people who LOOK like you."

Your mother should fight back or take to wearing a burlap sack over her head. Either way.

I answer a letter written to Dear Abby

DEAR ABBY: Last year I commissioned a friend to make a one-of-a-kind model lighthouse for my brother. When my brother saw it, he thought it was hideous. I suppose I could sell it, but how should I handle the situation when I see my friend again and he asks how my brother liked the lighthouse he made? I don't want to cause hurt feelings, but I'm a terrible liar. Any suggestions? -- PATTY IN PORTLAND

Dear Clueless:
Wow, there is so much fucked up shit here it's hard to decide where to start, so let's begin with your inability to handle the smallest of problems without resorting to soliciting a stranger for advice. God forbid you ever have a real dilemma, you worm.

A lighthouse? Really? A fucking model lighthouse? What, a Target gift card isn't good enough; it doesn't express who you are as an individual? You smugly carry around one of those canvas shopping bags when you go to Whole Foods, don't you? It takes several minutes for you to verbalize your order at Starbucks, doesn't it? Everyone who knows you smiles to your face but secretly wants you dead, don't they?

However, despite the soul-draining dreadfulness of that gift, fuck your spoiled brat brother for expressing his hatred of it. I'll bet he smokes a pipe and wears wool during the summertime. It doesn't take a lot of effort to say "Hey, thanks. What a thoughtful gift." He should practice saying it in the mirror so the next time you give him something useless he doesn't act like the Queen of Motherfucking England and turn his nose up at it.

And last but certainly not least, fuck your friend the delicate genius lighthouse maker. I'm guessing he owns more than one beret and showers infrequently, and if you tell him the truth he'll start reading really bad poetry at open-mic night at the coffeehouse. Heaven forbid, he might even start an emo band. Tell him your brother liked the piece of shit for god's sake. Jesus, what is it with your family and always telling the truth? Lie like the time you were a teenager and your mom caught you blowing the neighborhood kid down in your basement and you told her you were just tying his shoes.

What should you do with the lighthouse? How about whittling it down to a dildo and fucking yourself with it.

Hello and welcome to Unsolicited Advice. A couple of times a week I'll answer questions sent to real advice columnists. Today's letter was sent to Miss Manners. Let's have a look-see.

Dear Miss Manners: My wife is training for a marathon. She's very athletic, a beautiful woman and a mother of five who keeps herself fit through running. She is planning on competing in a marathon out of town, and going with her sister and her sister's two adult children. Our children will still be in school, so I will be staying home.

What my wife has proposed is that to save money, she would share a hotel room with her sister and her sister's two children.

My concern is that one of these grown children is a 22-year-old male. I wouldn't call myself a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but I believe that it is improper for my wife to share a hotel room with an adult male, even if he is her nephew. My wife tells me that if she can't share the cost of the hotel, she won't be able to live her dream of running a marathon. "And besides," she says, "he's my nephew."

My argument is that he may be her nephew, but he's still a grown man.

Dear Fuck-for-brains:
The other day I was at Wal-Mart. I saw a woman with five children who had to weigh six bills if she weighed an ounce. Instead of a running marathon, she was training for an Everybody Loves Raymond marathon on TBS by buying a metric ton of salted lard nuggets. You should be married to her, Potsie, because you don't deserve the wife you have.

You say "I wouldn't call myself a prude by any stretch of the imagination..." Well, your imagination doesn't stretch very far! You want to shit on your wife's dreams because one of the four people in the hotel room is her 22-year-old nephew? Do you think he's just going to walk around swinging-dick naked in front of a sibling, an aunt, and his mother?!

My advice to you is to take out a large insurance policy, then kill yourself in a way that looks like an accident. Your wife will be able to use the money to buy each family member their own hotel room and everyone will be happy, including the demon who'll be sodomizing you in hell.