If I Were Dear Abby...

I admit that one of my favourite brainless pleasures - among the countless other brainless pleasures that I try to indulge in regularly - is reading advice columns. Dear Abby, in particular. I love the fact that I feel either fortunate or plain-ass superior over the battalion of hurtin' units that send in their daily cries for help. I'm a sick fuck that way. However, occasionally I will read one of Abigail Van Buren's missives and think: Abbs, you really drop the ball on that one, you boring douchette! Naturally, I think I can do better. Not do better in helping people, because helping people is for human shields, losers and marks. I just think I can do better at making MYSELF feel better. And that's always important, bitches.

DEAR ABBY: My son is 11 and, for the first time, he has a "girlfriend." I have always discouraged the children from saying they have girlfriends and boyfriends, so he has always referred to her as his "friend." Well, the other night, I heard him say, "I love you," and there were text messages on his phone from her saying it, too.

I tried to talk to him about it and explain that this is not appropriate because he's too young to really understand what love is, and he should not say it until he is older and knows what love is. He didn't respond very well and was embarrassed. I don't think I was very effective. Do you have any recommendations on how to handle this? -- SHANNON IN HOUSTON

DEAR SHANNON: You didn't think you were very effective? Good call. You deserve a prize for pointing out the goddamn obvious. Name me one man/boy who welcomes emasculation. From his mom. I would say the number would round down to lowest single digit. So knock off that mommy-knows-best shit, when it is clear that you know ONLY! SHIT! I will be looking forward to your next tear-stained and drug-addled letter, when your life has hit the skids and your son is stacked up in the shithouse for possession, joyriding and assault. You are a BAD mom, Shan. AHAHAHAhaaaaa...

A League of Extraordinary Dipshits

I have been thinking about passive-aggressive people today. I also have been thinking how they totally deserve a hard punch in the fucking mouth. Of course, that's just me being all, you know, aggressive-aggressive I guess. Anyhow, I had this really interesting (read: fucking retarded) conversation with someone who asked me what I did for a living. There is nothing wrong with this question per se. And just to keep everyone up to speed: I am a crack-whore. Now that I have gotten that issue out of the way, I want to address the question that was asked. As i have stated, there is nothing wrong with the question. Except that it opens a floodgate of needless cruelty. I responded by saying that I was a returning student (to keep my crack addiction under wraps). The PA agent pushes the interrogation along and asks what exactly is my field of study. Now, I won't exactly reveal what that is, except to say, that it is something that inhabits inside the academic realm and rhymes with SCHMIBERAL FARTS. This is where it gets so delightfully obscene. 'Well, what kind of job are you expecting to get with that?' the PA asked. Gah. I gotsta say that under no circumstance is that ever an appropriate question to ask. Ever. Just look at the question. Repeat it to yourself. It's a fucking terrible question! And if you ask it, it's because you're a drippy douchebag who has a neck-stabbing booked sometime in the near-future. Cos clearly, you deserve it.

I think I met a whole platoon of these fuckers who really felt they were on a roll in a single weekend. Here are my top 3:

1. The Eyeroller - I hafta say: I love this kind of fucker. Sorry. Let me be a little more succinct. I WOULD love this kind of fucker TO BE BURNED TO DEATH IN FRONT OF HIS/HER MOTHER. I met this individual once before, and upon meeting with him again, I had remarked that he had cut his hair and looked good. He responded by ROLLING HIS FUCKING EYES and stating that hair has a tendency to grow. Is that right, Mr. Wizard? Hair GROWS! Guess what? So does my homicidal rage, ya worthless bag o' shit.
2. The Chuckler - They laugh at something you think is funny. But, it isn't one of those REAL laughs, you dig? It's the over-the-top breathy ahHAhaa type of laugh. I hate those. Cos it's needless. And mortifying. You know? Just. Fucking. Bad. Worthy of a swift kick in the head.
   
3. The Smirker - Which describes the person in the introduction. Muh. They ask questions that seem genuine, but can't help giving away the fact that they are TOTALLY fucking mocking you. I would have more respect for them if they would just come out right and say it. Just tell you that you blow, and your current choice of employment is an indication of that very painful fact. But they don't. Instead, they feign hostile delight. They need to have their brakes cut. And their cars dumped off a cliff. Pronto.

People ought to knock this shit off. If you don't have the fucking balls to just say 'fuck off' or any other diplomatic statements to that effect, then fucking suffer. After all, I hardly think it is at all fair that I cannot legally stab you in response.

Crosstown Snapshot an' Shit

A Hankering for a Homo in the Plural

This is a partial shot of a storefront window belonging to a Lebanese bakery located near the Catholic highschool I once attended. Happy to report that the window sign has not changed since I - as a depressed chain-smoking teen - first laid eyes on it a dozen or so ice ages ago. It made us shit ourselves laughing. But, we were also fourteen.

Actually, it still totally slays me today.

Open Letter Vol. 2

Dear Public Transport Services:

It has come to my attention that I am at the mercy of your diabolically shitty service. Actually, this realization has been pretty goddamn apparent since I first capitulated and rode with you fuckers back in the Fall of 1990. I remember how the Cult, Nirvana and Alice and Chains were big back then. I also remember how fucking late you assmunches were every single goddamn morning. You know, I think I am a pretty patient motherfucker myself. I can put up with the endless parade of cast-offs, criminally insane and mentally incapacitated who occasionally threaten to kill me. Or simply masturbate in front of me. Or both. At the back of the bus. I can endure the rickety, shrieky battalion of elderly people who insist that the stop is really THERE and not HERE, because it was THERE twenty-odd years ago, thereby concurrently robbing me of twenty-odd years of my life. Ah, yes. My dear sweet PTS. How I long to connect with you again, like we did in the good old days. The endless nerve-shattering minutes of needless delay. The borderline hostile phone service that routinely misdirects me. Without fail, of course. The emotionally-crippling moments at the ticket booth, all because of a fucking bandana or the fact that I cannot declare that I am a full-time student. Oh, waitafuckinminnit! I still go through this high-speed byzantine rollercoaster ride into madness with you EVERY! FUCKING! DAY! Thank you for your ceaseless and tireless effort in thwarting my day, one fucking way or another.

Hugs,

The World's Motherfuckingly Happiest Commuter