The 2x4

Note: This account of the incident is rather hazy. I will describe what happened, but as a warning, I was quite baked and a bit tipsy from a pitcher and a couple of shots (although not blackout drunk) … I've heard several other competing perceptions of what I'm about to describe, but they were all, to be modest, a little bit more fuckered up than I was at the time.

I was at this bar up the street.

Me and a buddy of mine were playing a bit of pool, shootin' the shit and Doing Whatever for a little while.

Who won, who lost … who knows.

I don't remember. It's only a highly addictive, geometrically played and kinetically paved pointless, yet satisfying, waste of my time and energy … kind of like PCP and AA.

So I walked home after the "fuck you"s and "you still suck, you dumb fucking twatwaffle"s were exchanged and ways parted; a couple of the neighbors were being drunk in their front yard as all of my neighbors do. Coors and Miller should sponsor my neighborhood … we drink enough beer around here nightly to pay every employees' health insurance bill.

Shit, seriously, on the block where I live, if you shot a random neighbor in the liver with an M-4, it would not only stop, but also absorb, the bullet and they would take another shot of Jose while laughing about how your pussy ass didn't have the balls to shoot them in the face.

They were both quite hammered by sledgehammers.

Well, that's a bit of an understatement.

Neighbor1 is stumbling all over the yard. In fact, I have a friend we call Sticks, who has Cerebral Palsy, who can walk better after having his legs run over by a truck than this kid. No lie, he can walk, just severely bowlegged, and he needs support to do so.

Neighbor2 is sitting there laughing at his [arguably] fortunate pal doing the best he can to find what was once his Center Of Gravity.

I say hey, and it begins.

"Hit me," Neighbor1 says, with a slur in his voice that would make Ernest Hemingway tell him to get his ass into rehab.

"No," I said.

"Come on, you some kind of pussy or something?" Neighbor1 says. "Fucking hit me, you fucking pussy."

"I'm not going to hit you," I said.

"Why?" He inquires with a slightly angry tone. "FUCKING HIT ME, YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!"

This went on for a good five or ten minutes. I was quite sober at the time, and, had I not practiced my non-violent tendencies toward interaction with my fellow homo sapiens, I would have seriously hurt this kid.

I am not a fighter. I hate to hurt people [physically]. In fact, I've lost just about every fight I've ever been in, and I really have no muscle.

But had I decided to actually grant his wishes that we get into the Fisticuffs Stage, he'd probably be in the hospital.

He's much smaller than me, and severely disadvantaged by the fact that he's [a] more shitfaced than an Asian hooker doing scat porn and [b] much smaller than me. Yeah, some assholes have Beer Muscles, but having them requires the Superhero Ability of being able to, say, walk in a straight line or stand up for more than 30.14853 seconds independently.

So he decides in his Non-Existent State Of Mind that, since I refuse to put a few nice cracks in his jaw peacefully, he must do something that will piss me off enough to actually hit him.

I have no idea why drunk-ass people get this urge to have possibly life-long debilitating damage done to them for no reason, and not even over no material or pussy-related matter where one party violated the other party, but that urge is unstoppable. Like, Iraqi Insurgent unstoppable.

Think about a fat motherfucker's urge to eat half his weight every day and not even get off his ass to get the newspaper, and I'll bet you know what I mean. Although I don't usually exhibit this class of inebriated behavior after one more than a bunch too many, Some People do.

After all, not everybody sees the same thing off of the same acid.

I guess there's been work done on their house lately, because there's this nice pile of 2x4's within reach of drunk-as-fuck Neighbor1. He picks one up, and he fucking swings it at me.

Although not hard enough.

Being the jumpy, paranoid motherfucker I am, I grabbed it way before it connected.

Now, I wanted to give him a warning. So, with the 2x4 attached to him, and now in my hand, I gave him a nice warning tap.

Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to hopefully deter him from going on further with this silliness.

We talk for a second, and *WHAP!* … he cracks me in the side of the fucking head with it.

I don't really remember what happened next, but apparently we fought over who controlled the 2x4 for a little while, but no real violence ensued.

My head's been throbbing since that happened. I woke up the next day feeling like midgets who were small enough to fit inside of my brain were playing that carnival strength-test where one has a hammer and tries to ring the bell by slamming a lever with said hammer.

The bruise wasn't visible, it was covered by my hair, but every time I felt it I felt like I was pushing down a Battered Flesh Pillow.

He apologized to me the next day, saying "I'm sorry … I was a drunk son of a bitch … I'm the shit and trash of the world now … etc."

And I said, "No worries.

"Just wait, I'm going to get my revenge. You won't know where, you won't know when and you won't know how.

"But it is going to suck," I said. "You hit me in my fucking head with a fucking 2x4, you son of a bitch."

I'm thinking of a little spiking of his beer with some Tobasco Sauce some night.

Or maybe some fiberglass powder on his bed some night he's about to get laid.

/any suggestions?

Dear Abby: You're Obsolete. Part III[d]: FTFY

Originally, I said that there are merely four species of the "Dear Abby" dumbassed letter-writer.

I stand corrected; there are actually five known to modern psychosociological science. I forgot the last category, detailed below.

Anybody in the hard or social sciences knows that many experiments, whether performed Double-Blind, or Controlled, can always be missing some category, detail, option, characteristic or another.

Well, when I first started writing this, I forgot about this one, which may or may not have fucked with my "research."

Just Plain, Diet-Vanilla With White-Milk Sprinkles, Independent Candidate [since we all know by now that smart people have the survival skill of staying far the fuck away from politics] Dumb:

DEAR [CR]ABBY: I have had four years of really bad luck. Is there a proven method to end this streak? How is it that some folks are lucky at almost everything they do, and then there is someone like me who could really use some good luck? Any suggestions? If positive thinking is your answer, please explain that concept. -- CONNIE IN COLORADO SPRINGS

DEAR CONNIE: There is a theory that positive thinking attracts positive results. In other words, if you approach each day with an optimistic attitude, you will become more energetic, clearer in your thought process and nicer to be around. (More people around you creates more opportunities for success.)

Conversely, negative thinking can cause negative results. People who think negatively walk around with a black cloud over their heads, and people tend to avoid them. They can also become so burdened with their depression that they fail to recognize and take advantage of opportunities that come their way.

In this wonderful age of science, if you still believe in superstitions such as "bad luck," Big-Foot, Alien Abduction and Free Speech, I would strongly suggest removing yourself from society via sky-diving without a parachute in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

DEAR [FL]ABBY: I have a 25-year-old sister, "Sheila," who has three beautiful children. The problem is, she does not care about herself, her kids or her family.

My mother has raised Sheila's oldest off and on since he was 8 months old. He is now 9. Sheila constantly yells, "I can't stand him! He makes me sick!" She has even gone so far as telling the boy she hates him. I have tried telling her that he is only a child. I tell her God blessed her with the ability to have children, and she should be thankful she has them. She just tunes me out.

Add to that the fact that Sheila beats our mother at times. Our stepdad died last year, and a week after the funeral my sister came in and beat up Mother.

I don't know what's going on, and the family is scared to confront her anymore because she gets really mean. Any help would be appreciated. -- CONCERNED SISTER IN KENTUCKY

DEAR CONCERNED SISTER: Sheila could be mentally ill, drug-addicted or a rage-a-holic. If she would raise a hand to her mother, what might she be doing to her children? From your description of your sister's state of mind, it is possible that all the children should be removed from the home. Child Protective Services can make a determination. And if she raises a hand to your mother one more time, the police should be summoned immediately.

First of all, there's a wonderful number you can call. It's called 9-1-1. Do I need to repeat that slowly since you obviously are going to fuck up three numbers?

9.

1.

1.

There you go, the solution to all of your problems. Grow some balls, call the police, and then ... when she assaults them and ends up at the business end of a tazer and nightstick, well, problem solved. You sound like your family is fully of defective pussies, by the way, so why don't you just turn off that Carbon Monoxide detector and blow out all of your pilot lights [furnace included].

DEAR [G]ABBY: I am 17 years old and believe I am suffering from chronic depression. I am very emotional and cry a lot. I get good grades, and people say I'm a great baby sitter, but I feel that I'm not good at anything else.

My younger sister, who is 15, is very outgoing and has a lot of friends. I have only a few, so I get jealous.

Now I have started gaining weight to the point that I am no longer "skinny."

About four months ago, my best friend of two years and I stopped getting along, and we haven't spoken since.

I have had counseling for two years. I go every three months, but nothing is changing. Both my parents feel that it is a waste of money. I try to talk to them sometimes, but they just take it as a joke. I am confused about everything, and I am so lonely. Do you have any advice? -- HURTING IN PENNSYLVANIA

DEAR HURTING: Yes, I do. Depression, increasing isolation and low self-esteem are problems that require counseling on a more regular basis than every three months, and possible medication in addition. If the person you are seeing hasn't recognized that the sessions haven't helped you, then it's time for another evaluation with another therapist. Please show this to your parents and tell them the letter was written by you. You need more help than I can give you in a letter.

So you're so freakin' dense that you haven't realized that nobody loves you? And that you have obviously no chance in the world since you're ugly, fat and probably some kind of fairy? And you don't realize that nobody would miss you when you were gone until they used up the life-insurance fund after you painted the den with your gray-matter? Well, I'm happy to inform you that there's a gun store, probably five blocks from your house, and they're fairly lenient on background / mental health checks. I suggest you pay them a visit. Oh yeah, and your friend hates you ... something about being a whiny douche.

p.s., I hear that bulimia is awesome. Why not give it a try and tell all of your friends how cool you are … that will quell any concerns that you might be a douchebag right-quick.

DEAR ABBY: I recently ended a nine-month relationship with a 40-year-old man I'll call Shallow Hal. I was head over heels in love with him. We had a lot in common and our personalities were compatible, but there was one major problem. Hal loved everything about me, but his love for me was contingent upon my losing weight.

Hal told me that when I lost weight, he would treat me better, let me meet his family and introduce me to his friends. Until I did, he denied me all those things, including hugs and kisses. For nine months Hal strung me along, and I believed that losing weight would change everything and we would end up together, happily ever after.

I am currently working on my master's in counseling psychology, and I should have known better. Clearly, Hal did not accept me for who I was, and I should have ended the relationship long ago because he was not into me. Some days he didn't know if he ever wanted to get married and have kids; other days he did. He was definitely unstable.

Why did I put up with this when I was the one who did all the driving to his house and all the courting? And how do I keep all this from replaying in my mind? I hear his weight comments over and over, and it's self-destructive, but I can't seem to let it go. Why do so many women like me waste so much time on men who simply don't care? The worst part is, I still love him. Please advise me. -- HEARTBROKEN IN WEST CHESTER, PA.

DEAR HEARTBROKEN: What you have described sounds more like obsession than love. You, like many other women, could not resist the challenge of "winning" a man who was unwinnable. By remaining one step out of reach, he stays in control. The woman gives and gives and gives, hoping that by giving just a little bit more she can "make" the man love her. It's a mating dance that doesn't end until the woman either wises up or collapses from emotional fatigue.

A way to erase those old tapes from your mind would be to consciously remind yourself why the comments were made. If that doesn't do the trick, then talk to a therapist. What you think of yourself is far more important than what Shallow Hal thought of you.

I hear that people like you find a lot of comfort from the ice-cream isle. I also hear that sumo-whale porn is hot right now among those sexual festishists who are afraid of lipo and people who aren't a major drain on our health-care system. You know what else? I hear that bacon and vanilla ice cream go together very nicely, and that they might induce a heart attack. Why not give it a try? Exercise is overrated. Oh yeah, and if you don't have the balls to off yourself [as you should so society can go on without major pollutants such as yourself and your 16 cats], well, hell, there's always diabetes to look forward to. Your old boyfriend was totally right, you're too fat to live, learn about wonderful inventions called "sit-ups" and a "gym," and you might get laid again.

But I doubt it. You fatass tool. Go choke on a spam sandwich.

/The Aristocrats!

Dear Abby: You're Obsolete. Part III[c]: FTFY

And now, Random Etiquette Non-Issues:

DEAR [SH]ABBY: I work as a hotel clerk. How should I address our guests when they check out? I normally tell them to "have a good day," but when they are here for a funeral I feel uncomfortable saying this. Please advise. -- "SUNNY" IN HILLSDALE, MICH.

DEAR "SUNNY": If someone has been staying in your hotel because of a funeral, say, "Thank you for staying with us. I hope you'll consider staying here again the next time you're in town." It will let the person know you are grateful for the business, and plant a seed that could benefit the hotel at a later date.

I got a few good suggestions here you might enjoy. How about "have a good family brawl over the inheritence." Or maybe, "have a nice not guilty verdict." Oh, here's a good one: "so was it open casket or closed? some corpses look kinda sick even with the mortician make-up." Hmm ... I'm kind of running out of ideas here, but how about telling the bereaved, "hope you paid the insurance so the embalming was rape-free!" Try 'em out and let me know!

DEAR ABBY: I feel sorry for a friend of my husband's. "Joey" is a really nice guy, but his wife is driving him over the edge. She's obsessive-compulsive and, despite their financial problems, refuses to get a job. She says her mother never had to work and she shouldn't either.

They went to three sessions of marriage counseling, and she refused to go back because their therapist told her she had a serious problem. She told her mom what the therapist said, and they agreed he must be a quack.

Joey is so worried about having to pay alimony and child support that he won't leave, but he confided to my husband that he has thought about doing something to himself. Any advice? -- BONNIE IN MICHIGAN

DEAR BONNIE: The economic realities are very different for today's generation of women than they were when Joey's mother-in-law was married. If you and your husband haven't already suggested it, you should urge Joey to seek professional help -- not for his marriage, but for his sanity.

Instead of aiming his frustrations and anger where they belong, he is turning them back on himself and in the form of self-destructive impulses. Counseling will help him regain his perspective. And consulting an attorney will give him a more realistic view of what his responsibilities will be if his marriage cannot be saved. Both will do him a world of good. Please urge him not to wait.

Christ on a stick doing flips and giving tips, some of my readers are retarded (Ed. note: I'm making a half-assed and thinly veiled attempt to act like her; you guys are still assholes though). You need to tell your friend to say, "BITCH! Get a fucking job!" Should this simple request be met with resistence, then tell him to get the following items, which are easily available at any any of the local friendly hardware stores: (1) Finely ground limestone, (2) a shovel and (3) a Roto-Tiller. Hey, no body, no alimony, no child support, no problem. Thanks for helping chlorinate the gene pool!

DEAR ABBY: Like "Fine, Thank You in Gastonia, N.C." (March 23), I, too, was annoyed when people greeted me with the mindless, "How are you?" "How ya doin'?" etc., which required me to respond to someone who clearly had no interest in a real response. (I understand their feigned interest is more automatic than rude.)

So, I make a game of it. Unlike the greeter who blurts out the salutation without thinking, I listen and am prepared with several responses. For "How ya doin'?" I answer, "Not so good. My wife and oldest son and I just got out of three months in rehab for peanut butter addiction. I was a two-jar-a-day man myself. My boy had it even worse -- three jars of the hard stuff, crunchy!"

When asked, "What's up?" I'm inclined to respond, "My blood pressure, cholesterol and body mass index!" -- DAVE IN MARSHALL, WIS.

DEAR DAVE: Many readers who wrote to comment on that letter said they were perplexed at how "How are you?" has essentially replaced the greeting "Hello." And they were eager to share the quips they use to answer that rhetorical question.

LOLOMFGROTF!!11!!one!!six!21THATWASTHEFUNNIESTSHITI'VEEVARREADG!!!!! Just kidding, if that was humor, then I can easily help you make a noose with this nifty picture-book-for-hopefully-suicidal-morons I've been working on in my off-time spent not drinking wine and giving completely obvious, for-Christ's-sake-grow-some-balls advice. Seriously, you're as funny as testicular cancer on an AIDS paitent (although that is kind of funny since everyone knows that every AIDS paitent is a flaming homo, at least according to my non-offensive, Captain Obvious, majoritarian Christian logic).

Please, for the sake of humanity, either get a vasectomy or off yourself.

Read on:

DEAR ABBY: I have an alternative to the answer you gave to "Fine, Thank You" that I often use.

I'm a recovering alcoholic. When someone who knows I'm in AA asks me how I'm doing, my favorite reply is, "I'm walking, breathing and sober -- anything beyond that is gravy."

Another favorite I often use with people who don't know I'm in AA is, "Well, I woke up on this side of the grass, so I must be doing pretty well!" -- SHIRLEY IN PENNSYLVANIA

DEAR SHIRLEY: I just called Coors. They just said that they will give you a lifetime supply of free beer if you promise to never, ever crack a joke again. Or rape the institution of humor before the third coming of Jesus Christ.

DEAR ABBY: I have been having a lot of fun with this response to the "How are you?" question. I say, "I can't answer that." Expecting the worst, most people ask me why. That's when I say, "Because of the Medical Privacy Act!" Everyone has a good laugh and is relieved not to have had to listen to a list of my ailments. -- HAPPY BOB IN KIMBOLTON, OHIO

I hope you get cancer and lose everything you own after your insurance company deems you "high-risk" and cuts off your insurance.

DEAR ABBY: I am driven nuts by know-it-alls who like to correct others. Most often, the detail is small and superfluous. Why do people do this? Is it a matter of control?

I am close to a couple of people who correct me in public on a regular basis. Hey, I'm flawed and I know it -- obviously they are perfect. How does one deal with those who constantly correct others? -- CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE

DEAR CAN'T TAKE IT: People who feel compelled to correct others are practicing a form of one-upmanship. It can also be a reflection of their own social insecurity. The way to deal with it is to first point out to them that correcting others in public is rude, and if they continue, to avoid them whenever possible.

Congradulations, you hypocritical nimrod. Now, the reason that "Know-it-alls" correct you is quite obvious: you're either stupid or a Right-Winger [a slightly more advanced form of stupid, often brought on by either theist delusion or a lack of the balls needed to perform cognitive dissidence]. Now, those of us who operate on such crazy things as "facts," "logic" and "knowing what the fuck we're talking about" despise douchebags such as yourself. Why?

BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT ONLY HELPING TO KEEP THE "STUPID" GENE ALIVE, WHICH SHOULD BE PUNISHABLE BY DEATH, BUT YOU'RE ALSO HELPING TO MAKE IT TABOO TO DISAGREE AND / OR SPREAD KNOWLEDGE!!!!!!

You know how I know you're some kind of dumbass Right-Winger? Because you are using the same basic, alien, totalitarianistic "logic" that fascist assholes began using after Sept. 11 and continue to use since most citizens are basically fearful, ignorant sheep. Here's an example, to refresh your memory:

SomeAssholePunditDisguisedAsAJournalist: We HAVE to invade Iraq to help spread freedom and democracy! Saddam will bomb us with WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION unless we WIPE THAT MOTHERFUCKER OUT!! If we don't intervene, Saddam Hussein will kill his entire country and then rape a baby on international television! Freedom! Freedom! 9/11!

AFreeThinker: But there is no documented evidence of state-sponsored terrorism in Iraq, WMDs, and the only reason I can think of that would make you fuck with random people for no reason is to help out Bush's Oil Buddies and Cheney's former company, Halliburton.

SomeAssholePunditDisguisedAsAJournalist: WHY DO YOU HATE AMERICA, YOU FUCKING TERRORIST!!!!

AFreeThinker: *Wets self, doesn't get another word in.*

People like your dumb-ass automatically bought this shit, without being corrected or second-guessing what the aristocracy was telling us, and now, we have the entire world completely pissed off at us, over 3.5k soldiers six-feet-under instead of contributing to our economy, EVEN HIGHER GAS PRICES (and the corresponding PROFITS!), and over 100k dead, innocent Iraqi citizens who are powerless in being caught up by fat-cat profiteering.

Oh yeah, and our underfunded education system is spawning more dumb motherfuckers like you. Great.

As for hypocritical, this also makes you a turd in the gene pool. So you're correcting them for correcting you. Is that not correction of a behaivor / idea just as much as they're trying to teach you not to be a dumb motherfucker who writes randomly to advice columns as some kind of reassurance that you're not as dumb as you thought? Fuck you.

When I'm in class, most often, pending on the size of the class, I am one or two of about 30 people who will actually either enquire about something I know nothing about or have the balls to argue with the "expert." And it's people like me who are the reason we broke away from England ... we questioned, we smelled the bullshit, and we responded. Jesus-Tap-Dancing-Christ-On-A-Corn-Dog-Stick, WHY DO YOU HATE FREE INQUIRY AND KNOWLEDGE.

Kill yourself. Painfully. And stop polluting my animo acids voting.

/next: the last category and the end.

Dear Abby: You're Obsolete. Part III[b]: FTFY

Now, I hate to punch a below-the-belt point, but, if you're writing some random bitch with totalitarian theistic "if you don't please even the people you want to secretly murder and bury in the backyard don't do it because jesus will get pissed" values for "advice" on how to "raise your kids or grandkids," well, you're merely backing up my theory that we need to neuter everybody until they pass some kind of competency test (now, not equivalent to the ACT; we don't want to go extinct).

What the fuck ever happened to the smack-'n-shut-the-fuck-up?

I got that, and I'm, well, a little less fucked up than most "normal" people. Right?

Right?

DEAR [CR]ABBY: We have a 17-year-old granddaughter who has not spoken to us in six months. We sent "Tiffany" a Christmas card with a $50 check inside and she didn't even call to thank us. (She cashed the check immediately, though.)

We received an invitation to her graduation. It was sent by her mother (I know the handwriting). My husband says we should not go to her graduation because she hasn't called us in six months, even to say hello. He says we should just send a nice card with no money.

Please help me. What should I do? Tiffany is my grand-daughter, and I don't want to do the wrong thing. (She does have an attitude!) -- FAITHFUL READER IN NASHVILLE

DEAR FAITHFUL READER: If you think Tiffany has an attitude now, just wait until she doesn't receive what she thinks is coming to her.

While it is not unusual for many people her age to be centered on themselves and not stay in touch with a visit or a phone call, your granddaughter was rude not to acknowledge the money you sent her for Christmas. What you choose to do about this, in addition to telling her mother, will depend upon how much backbone you have. I'll say this: If you do not attend the graduation, it's a lesson she'll remember for the rest of her life.

First of all, you don't need a hyphen for "granddaughter;" either learn English or get the fuck out. Educated people, even in the 1700's or whatever the fuck time period you came from, learned to actually speak the language before sending bullshit to some random old lady he or she didn't even know.

You know, honestly, the only answer I can think of for you is quit being such a cry-baby little bitch and kill your granddaughter. Like, fuck that little ungrateful bitch; what you need to do is invite her to come to your next barbecue or charity meet or whatever the fuck you rotting baby boomers do.

The next thing you need to do is tell her that you need help lifting that lawnmower out of the shed to (the weak, dependant gene-pool-pollution that you are) mow the lawn. Instruct the little bitch to go in there first. Then, when she least expects it, whip out one of your oversized, "easy-to-open-for-retarded-old-people" prescription bottles, and club the little bitch in the back of the head until she shits all of that vicoden she's been stealing and ingesting, via suppository, for months.

Oh yeah, don't forget to rape her corpse without a condom. Since all you know is that DNA evidence is one o' 'dem "flapper tricks.

Don't worry, no jail will be involved. You're old. And convicted multiple murderers accept old pedo-necrophiliacs in jail like pounded-letters-on-a-license-plate; but, only if your Alzheimer's ass gets allusionary references better than you can remember who your family members are.

DEAR ABBY: My daughter recently had a baby boy. Mother and baby are doing fine, but the problem is the sonogram during pregnancy showed a baby girl, according to the doctor. So now our grandson has a slew of pink blankets, jammies and clothes given by friends before little Jack was born. I say, no big deal.

My wife says it is a big deal. No way a boy should be dressed in pink. She's worried the color will give the wrong message to people, who will then treat our grandson like a girl in a way they won't even be aware of, even though they're told he's a boy. She worries that this will somehow make him a cross-dresser when he's grown up and make him gay.

Our daughter and son-in-law are in a quandary, too, over the pink clothes. What do you think? -- JACK'S GRANDPA IN GUERNEVILLE, CALIF.

DEAR GRANDPA: As long as the baby gifts have not been used, there should be no problem exchanging them for items in the "right" color.

However, please tell your wife that her fears are groundless. Even if her grandson decides to become a cross-dresser later in life -- which, by the way is NOT related to what color clothes a man wore as a baby -- it won't make him gay. The majority of cross-dressers are heterosexual.

Just because you dressed your "son," (if that's what you like to call him ... if I had a gay son, he'd be my "bitch with a dick who sings show-tunes") in pink blankets, sweaters, strollers, cribs, whatever, doesn't mean that he won't grow up to be able to suck the meanest dick in the world.

I mean, I'm talking sucking dick like George Bush can singlehandedly fist-fuck our economy like The Thing. The occupation liberation of Iraq and all of its batshit fucking crazy god Allah-fearing crazies adherents wouldn't have shit on your kid like he can suck dick now, because you're a failure of a parent and allowed him to wear pink.

Kill yourself. Just please. Get. The. Fuck. Out of. My. Gene. Pool.

/or at least stop pissing in it.

DEAR ABBY: I was visiting a local shopping center and was dismayed to notice that the car parked next to mine had a baby seat in the back -- complete with an actual live baby.

My first instinct was to immediately call the police. However, it was a mild day and partially overcast, and the moderate conditions made me hesitate for fear of being a "busybody." A day later, I'm still second-guessing myself. So I ask you, did I do the right thing by not sticking my nose in, or was it my responsibility to have alerted the authorities? -- INDECISIVE IN SAN MATEO

DEAR INDECISIVE: Unless you were prepared to stay by the vehicle until that foolish, neglectful parent returned, you should have called the police. Leaving a baby alone in a parking lot, regardless of how mild the weather was, is against the law. In some states, there are also laws against leaving pets in parked cars.

So, what I'm getting from you're petty, infinitesimal little problem is that you saw a baby in a slowly heating-up car and you felt a little bit of that communistic emotion, commonly referred to by hippies and therapists as "empathy."

Not only that, but you just passed up a perfectly slow-roasted, better-than-Arby's sandwich for free. What the fuck? I mean, if some dumb bitch left her kid in a 120 degree car so she could buy People Magazine and baby-sized plastic bags at Wal-Mart, and you passed up a perfectly good, slow-roasted, infantile meal, YOU HATE AMERICA!

Like the "authorities" were going to do fuck. Where the fuck do you think we live? FantasyLand? Where Cops take the baby precedent over that shifty-looking brown motherfucker who is obviously planning to kill us all with thousands of pounds of C4 and a good dose of Allah?

I repeat. If you care more about a baby in a hot care than every Muslum potential-sucicide-bomber-who-hates-your-freedom-and-invisible-sky-wizard, you are obviously an abortionist and pagan. If you live in America, you are Mexican. Get the fuck out.

Dear Abby: You're Obsolete. Part III[a]: FTFY

There are four distinct species of a “Dear Abby,” letter, at least that I have both identified and care about enough to type up:

Strain A: The cutely yet poorly written letter by an illiterate youth [see also: an obvious product of American public schools], nine times out of ten involving some sort of sexual conduct.

DEAR ABBY: There is a boy I am dating, and I really like him. But I'm scared to kiss him. I'm a person who acts like she knows everything, but the truth is I don't really know how to kiss. Now, I know this sounds weird, but I'm only 12.

I wrote to you 'cause I need to trust someone, and I hope that person is you. Just so you know, so far you are the only 1 I can trust 4 now or 4-ever. Please answer soon! -- "TINA" IN TUCSON

DEAR "TINA": Thank U 4 the compliment. Please try not to obsess about not knowing how to kiss. I promise it will happen naturally, when the time is right. The boy you are dating is probably wondering how to kiss you, so hold off and let him make the first move. Then close your eyes, purse your lips and keep both feet on the ground

First of all, cut out the “only 1 I can trust 4 now or 4-ever” bullshit; it makes you look like every other member of your generation … retarded. Second, you’re fucking 12, so you should be way, WAY past the “kissing” phase of sexual maturity and you should be a full-blown [pun sort of intended] prosti-tot by now; have those Bratz dolls and Lindsay Lohan taught you none of those valuable lessons? You should let this boy you like do the same thing that your Uncle Jimmy does to you every night at 2 a.m. when he stumbles in your room stinking like Schnapps, B.O. and old oregano for his massive Web-cam audience. Oh, shit, now you know about the Web cam … my bad, Jimmy, I guess you’re just going to have to kill her before she gets loose and tries something crazy like call the FBI or castrate you.

Link here.

DEAR ABBY: I am a 14-year-old girl. I have this boyfriend I have been dating for over a month. His name is "Travis," and he is 15 -- about to turn 16. Travis has had other girlfriends before me, but he said that nothing happened between them. He calls me about four times a week, and I talk to him at school daily. He keeps giving me the impression that he wants to move our relationship further.

When I told one of Travis' closest friends, I was informed that he had said that to the last three girls he had. So now I suspect that he has had sexual relationships with all of them. I would do anything for Travis, and he would do the same for me. But I am not sure I want to have sex with him -- at least not yet.

I don't know what to do. My sister, "Tess," who is dating one of my friends, told me to just go along with it. But I don't know if I would be doing the right thing. I want Travis to be happy, but I don't want to get hurt in the process. Please help. -- LOST AND CONFUSED IN LAKE CHARLES

DEAR LOST AND CONFUSED: Travis may be the nicest boy in the world, but look at the last three girls he "had." He's not with any of them, is he? That means your boyfriend has a short attention span, and more than a girlfriend, he wants a challenge.

Please do not listen to your sister's advice and "go along with it" to make him "happy." There are three sad girls standing in the background who tried to make him happy. I predict that trio will soon become a Greek chorus, and you do not want to be part of that crowd. Trust me on that. And strictly limit your "alone time" with him.

Oh, your sister is totally right; in case you’ve been blind, deaf and dumb since the dawn of man, you probably missed that memo about how it is the sole reason for a woman’s existence to make men happy … sometimes more than one at once if you’re efficient enough. Seriously, just run with it and fuck his brains out all over the place until his dick snaps and you’re bleeding from the chafing and internal tearing like a jackrabbit that just got shot at point-blank range with a 30-06. Make sure not to use any form of contraceptive, since that offends Jesus people who think they channel Jesus … also, make sure he blows every load directly into your fallopian tubes. Everyone knows that it’s a good idea to get pregnant at 14, since you get all of those sweet benefits from the government and general admiration from the general public.

Now, here’s the tricky part. You have to make sure to wait until prom night to perform the D.I.Y. Coat-hanger Abortion (TM) in the girls’ bathroom while everyone else grinds on each other to whatever the fuck you dumb genius kids have simulated sex with each other to these days. Now, this is key: MAKE ABSOLUTELY SURE that you [a] don’t tell “Travis [who sounds like some kind of demi-god to me]” that you’re having his abortion, [b] wear a white or close-to-white prom dress so that your sweet bloodstains show unmistakably and [c] wrap the aborted infant in ONLY TWO of those easily shredded paper towels next to the tampon machine and leave its mangled body where NOBODY WILL FIND IT – namely, buried under a couple of candy bar wrappers, tampons and, if there’s a resident bad girl, bottles of vodka and a copy of Tiger Beat or whatever the fuck.

Don’t worry, people will think that you’re awesome after word of this gets out.

Okay, all tasteless and uncalled-for pedophilia, sexism and pro-prom-bathroom-abortion jokes aside, I have to say that this is the worst kind of “Dear Abby” letter. You know, the teen “should I totally bang this dude” letter. You know, to a total stranger, but that’s not weird or anything.

Now, I’d look for examples of this, but I don’t really feel like it. Maybe someday when I read a dumber letter / response than this, but I’ll probably forget. But in all the years I’ve glanced over these petty people and their infinitesimal problems, the “teen wants sex advice from a 50+-year-old stranger” letter always elicits the same response:

RUN! SEX IS SHAMEFUL AND BAD! YOU ARE A MINOR AND UN-CAPABLE OF MAKING YOUR OWN DECISION! IF YOU’RE NOT MARRIED, IT’S LIKE BEING MORALLY RAPED!! THE SKY IS FALLING!!!1on1!!

Now, this sounds strangely like a proven failure and waste of our tax dollars. And I’m not talking about D[onuts]A[re]R[eal]E[xpensive]. Or N[egro]C[hildren]L[eft]B[ehind]. Or the War On [insert some vague political ideology / religion / societal faux pas only offensive to a small minority of dipshits here]. Look, I don’t feel like researching this shit to actually back this up, so …

If you disagree with me that Abstinence-Only Education totally works, you’re a fucking idiot. Plain and simple.

Virulent Strain “B:” The degenerate is too much of a spineless pussy to just tell someone to fuck off, stop being a dick and pay up or because “polite, moral” society doesn’t ever show emotion, much less emotion.

DEAR ABBY: I am a woman with friends of all ages, and I receive lots of phone calls. I like people and enjoy hearing from them. However, several of the "regulars" who call me talk nonstop. As long as I listen, they're fine. But if I try to launch into a subject that interests me, they tell me they're really busy and terminate the call.

How should I interpret this? I have tried laughing it off, but it feels like a put-down. -- FEELING USED IN THE SOUTH

DEAR FEELING USED: It seems you're spending a lot of time on the phone. The people you have described appear to be quite centered on themselves. They appear to be in love with the sound of their own voices, rather than calling to converse -- which implies an exchange of information.

I don't think they are trying to put you down. It's just that in their "universe," listening to someone else is too great an inconvenience. People like this are more interested in an audience than a friendship, so budget your time accordingly.

Why don’t you grow some sort of ovaries and say “hey, shut up for a fucking minute and let me talk for a change … unless you want to pay my phone bill so that I can spend more money on liquor since I obviously live alone with my six cats. Seriously, there’s probably a nice assortment of Clorox, rat poison, ammonia and bleach under your sink; why not make some kind of sweet martini? You know what? To be honest with you, you:

Kill yourself, painfully, and stop pissing in my genetics.

DEAR ABBY: My husband and I are planning to attend my niece's wedding next month and, as usual, the prospect of being with my family has thrown me into a tizzy. We are simple people -- we are both teachers, and we have raised three great children but no superstars.

My sister and brothers are all wealthy. Their children are excellent scholars and/or athletes, including two who play professionally.

I feel fine about our accomplishments and am proud of our children and what they have done -- that is, until I am around my brothers and sister. Then I beat myself up thinking I wasn't as good a mother as I should have been.

I am tempted to skip this wedding because this happens every single time, and I don't enjoy my visits with them. What do I do? -- TEMPTED TO REFUSE IN THE U.S.A.

DEAR TEMPTED TO REFUSE: I see no reason why you should feel "second best" and compare yourself and your family to your siblings. You and your husband chose to go into one of the "helping" professions rather than one that would bring in more money. Many people would consider that a far greater contribution to our society than accumulating a pile of assets.

As to comparing the accomplishments of these "superstar" athletes and scholarly nieces and nephews -- I can't imagine a greater waste of time. If your children are educated, employed and happy with their lives, then dear lady, you have accomplished what is most important.

Skip the wedding if that's what you prefer, but please do not do so because you're ashamed of your life. From my perspective, you and your family are very successful people in your own right.

You should be totally ashamed of your life, you waste of sperm-and-eggs-and-air-and-natural-resources. I mean, seriously. It’s obvious to me that you’re a sorry excuse for a genetic defect if you’re the only one of your siblings to actually score a sweet, comfortable, nested-in, materialistic life. And while we’re on the topic of fucking up, how about those kids you should have drowned in a lake in your [and this is a long shot, given how big of a failure you and your little family are] fully insured car; you should have drowned the little fucks at two-years-old and then blamed it on some illegal immigrant.

Fuck, man, the life insurance policies alone could have gotten you a nice cruise in the Bahamas or a fantastic trip to Amsterdam … plus, you would have saved a few pounds over a fuck-load of money on braces, bicycle repairs, maternity fees [and the ensuing post-natal hospital bills for about 18 years], food, water, shelter, private school, fines after your son got arrested for gay prostitution, $500 for your daughter’s double-abortion [“it was only thirty guys, I SWEAR!”], gas for all of those soccer games you could have avoided, and various hospital bills for jacking off too hard [judging on how genius your kids sound]

Dear Abby: You're Obsolete. Part II: You Cause My Alcoholism

Dear Abby, You’re obsolete. Part II: You Make Me Drink Into A Stupor Every Night.

I decided to be like every other dumb fuck out there who cannot make his or her own

either mundane, inane or completely obvious decisions about some life issue or another without first writing an anonymous letter to some asshole they’ve never met in order to validate an action or decision that many of us with an above zero-degree

It is my humble opinion that you need to just stop. There are many other writers, and
even “advice columnists,” who deserve that space more than you, or your predecessor, ever did. The Victorian Era ended what, like over 125 years ago, which renders you, and your “advice,” as obsolete as organized religion’s role as a primary source of social stability control.
Just shut the fuck up and find more useful things to do [such as making me a delicious plate of brownies and bringing me another beer] … please. --”Living In A Perpetual Rerun” in K-town.

“Dear Abby” is the epitome of sub-average syndicated mass-packaged optical literary pollution that I can’t believe a modern, educated society needs in existence; it wastes so much space that I’d rather stare at a fucking advertisement [remember the comic strip thing] guaranteeing me 40 percent off of my next mattress purchase or car down payment or dildo rental or whatever than read it. But for some reason -- I can’t look away.

I feel compelled … addicted, even.

Dependant on my daily dose of dumbassary, I still read it, day after day; “Abby” has me hooked on her? Captain Obvious responses to form letters.

Seriously, it’s a strong dose.

The speedball [note: that would be cocaine and heroin taken at the same time, for those of you not “hip” to drug slang] has nothing on “Dear Abby.”
Straight-up, mountaineer moonshine?

Nah.

Hmm … how about cocaine?

Not even close.

Methamphetimine and Filipino hookers?

Please.

If Fark.com, Digg.com and Faux News were to combine forces someday in an attempt to create a Dumbass Vortex that would swallow mankind and tear a vortex into the space-time continuum, this column already came, saw and conquered.
I almost question if these are real … they seem to follow an almost exact formula, depending on the “problem.”

It’s almost like we transmit Stupid to each other in the same form, telepathically, without realizing it … as soon as one dumbass “solves” his or her “problem” in one part of the country, some other idiot [who obviously just writes these letters and never actually reads the goddamn column] writes about the exact same fucking letter.
… To Be Continued …

Dear Abby: You're Obsolete. Part I: Syndication Is Bullshit

Dear Abby, You’re obsolete. Part I: Syndication Sucks.
I hate, with every quark, electron, atom, molecule, protein, cell, organ and inch of my body, advice columns. But of all of them, “Dear Abby” is the worst.

I’m sure that, in its hey-day, it was the best EVAR, but it really needs to go.

Since I know none of you assholes read the newspaper, here’s a Wikipedia reference because I’m a lazy alcoholic.

I’m sure a majority of us at least know of her existence in some subconscious plane of memory or another. The column [beginning in 1956] was taken over, when the original vaginal beach author died, by her daughter, and it is a shining example of the many reasons that syndication sucks.
Of course, I probably have to explain syndication, and give some kind of reasoning behind this, huh?



A couple of stellar examples outlining the reasons that syndication sucks total elephant balls for pennies that are cut in half are two comic strips: Peanuts and B.C.

Peanuts, a comic strip by Charles Schultz about a group of kids somewhere in Nostalgic America who repeat the same fate [read: lame jokes] day after year after decade, began in seven newspapers on October 2, 1950. I hear that the strip was actually funny at some point or another in the ancient and savage times of the mid-Twentieth Century, but I’ll have to call “bullshit” on that one [in 1962, it was named Best Humor Strip of the Year by the National Cartoonists Society; this is the same organization that gave Garfield the same award in 1981 and 1985, although it wasn’t at its apex of suckitude yet, but close to the summit], since I really don’t care enough to read the first four decades of strips; my dad had a few of the books, and although I got the occasional laugh out of the old strips, those laughs were few and far between.

Schultz died in 2000, shortly after the 50th anniversary of the strip and his announcement of retirement. By the time he bought the football farm on Feb. 12, 2000, his strip was published “in more than 2,600 newspapers in 75 countries [link]. Yes, it was a very, very popular strip, and yes, it was probably good at some point, hence the wide domestic and international fan-base. It also spawned a few television shows and specials, and a whole shitload of marketing propaganda that haunts us to this day in the form of greeting cards, plush toys, key-chains, 9 mm “Red Baron” semiautomatics and “Peppermint [Ass]Patty Brand Strap-ons.”

OK, you guys got me … I made the first three up.

B.C., a strip that was funny back when it debuted in 1958 up until -- and this is a wild guess -- two weeks later, was written and drawn by Johnny Hart. The strip, which portrayed cavemen who talked a lot about Christianity [since Christianity existed when we were still trying to eat rocks and draw shitty pictures on cave walls with our feces … kind of blows a hole in the “Planet Earth is 5,000 years old flat a product of The Almighty and if you don’t agree with me you’re a heathen and we’ll beat you with rocks and threaten eternal damnation” theory, eh?].

Hart died this past year at the age of 76 “at his storyboard;” at its height, B.C. “appeared in more than 1,300 newspapers with an audience of 100 million.” Link. Despite the fact that the man died, his family will continue producing his strip:

Regarding [B.C. and his other, equally lame strip, The Wizard of Id], nothing will change. The Hart family has been involved for years, and both strips will continue without interruption. link.

Apparently, since dumbass consumers who wouldn’t know art / humor if it bit them on the ass can never let a bad thing die [*cough cough therepublicanparty cough hack Ralph*], his family is going to continue writing the strip using old computer databases of his drawings and an apparently genetic predisposition to having such dry humor that it would make even the sandiest in the land of soccer-mom snatch seem like being pushed into a pool in the middle of the Pacific.

Now, how can I hate both of these strips, besides, of course, the fact that they were shittier than a fat family’s septic tank after taco night? Because both Schultz and Hart are dead, and both of their strips are going to continue to waste all kinds of space on my newspaper pages, thanks to syndicators who are too pussy to take a chance on new cartoonists in fear of pissing off our nostalgic Baby Boomer soon-to-be-overpresent-overlords. B.C.’s continued presence doesn’t even piss me off as much as Peanuts; at least the family is writing “original” strips – even though the strip hadn’t had an original idea in decades … Peanuts is just rerun over and over again, every weekday and Sunday, like That 70s Show on FX. Case in point:



So, much like most television, my comics pages in the newspaper are apt to recycling the same “safe” garbage rather than allowing some new talent to come in and try to make itself a hit. Fuck, man, The Plain Dealer, the paper I torture myself with daily, will carry the same reiterated, reprinted comics day after day, but refuses to carry a comic strip by the very talented Aaron McGruder, The Boondocks because old people don’t get it and are the most apt to have nothing to do all day but bitch over not being able to reread the same comic strip they’ve read for the past fifty years. You want to read old, reiterated garbage? Well then buy one of the fifty million books, have a nice, tall, frosty, refreshing and smooth glass of shut-the-fuck-up, and make some room for the next contender for “longest running and most degenerating comic strip since the Huns finally sacked and destroyed the Roman Empire,” you know, the next Peanuts or

B.C.; one thing that I admire about Bill Watterson, the creator of Calvin and Hobbes, is that he retired before his comic became a source of recycled pollution rather than a source of fresh humor and ideas. I mean, what the hell? Peanuts gets repeated over and over again, and nobody has the decency to rerun even a good strip, like The Far Side? Unreal.

Christ on a cracker, bring in some new talent or plaster in advertisements … at least the ads change at some point in time or another … and at least they save me money.

/sometimes.