Archive - November 2005
There are things I know for certain in life. The classics – death and taxes, but aren’t they boring. Besides, I could stop paying taxes if I really wanted to. Oh sure, there’d be some incarceration, but I could, technically speaking, stop paying taxes. Plus, there would be the delicious irony of being in prison for not paying the taxes that will have to be used to pay for your imprisonment. The downside is that said irony will be of little comfort when you’re being sodomized by a triple murderer whom you will believe whole-heartedly when he swears those people kept running into his knife.
And death? Sure, that’s certain. For now anyway. But certainty of your own mortality lacks something. I can do you one better. Not only have I always been certain of my death, but I’ve known for a long time how I’m going to die. That’s right.
While the minutia may change as the years pass, the idea behind it remains steadfast and unwavering. I am destined to die from doing something stupid.
The only change is what that something stupid will be.
When I was eight, hurtling down the hill in my backyard on my bike, convinced that I could jump off and grab the swing set a split second before I crashed head-first into the tree, I remember thinking (too late to do anything about it) “This is how I’m going to die.”
At seventeen, I was certain my death would be behind the wheel, particularly as I wound my ’76 Camaro through country roads to see how fast I could get her going (104). Also, the thought crossed my mind on several occasions as I tried to finish off the two liter bottle of Bartles and James. Imagine my post-mortem embarrassment in line for the Pearly Gates when word got out that my expiration was “wine cooler related.”
In college, the reaper looked my way on numerous occasions. Most of them shortly after the purchase of Tequila. Tequila-inspired questions unwaveringly brought me face-to-face with my impending death. Questions like: How much Tequila can I really drink? (Over a fifth. I also discovered that I can, somehow, vomit nearly twice that much.) How many frat boys does it take to shut my Tequila-laden ass up? (Two. Though I readily admit two was probably overkill.) Can you really climb a water tower after nineteen Margaritas? (Yes, but only if a girl named Rachel is prodding you into action.)
As surprised as I was when I not only survived college, but got a degree (I said A degree, not a USEFUL degree), I was equally surprised when the reality that I was going to die doing something stupid was still with me. Only now that something stupid was work. Jiffy Lube, junkyard, warehouse. All phenomenally stupid ways to meet your end. My motorcycle might also get me. I can see myself shaking my head (though I’ll probably only have enough time to shake it once) as that Ford Explorer pulls out in front of me and I going sailing over it into oncoming traffic. Stupid, I’ll think just before the impact.
But it’ll probably be mowing the grass. A stupid way to die because there are kids in the neighborhood who will do it for ten bucks. I can just see myself collapsing in the backyard, lawn mower still churning the air of an oppressive North Carolina summer until it runs of gas. I’ll lay there for five days until my wife gets curious about the profound lack pornographic pop-ups on our computer.
All of this leads me to wonder if there’s a good way to die. There are normal ways – heart attack at age 97. Spectacular ways – a hail of bullets. Stupid ways – see my obituary. But what about fun ways? Well, I’ve given this some thought, and here’s what I’ve got for you.
There’ll be no need to question the witnesses. I can assure you, that if I am ever able to put myself in position to be involved in a Blonde-alanche, there will be camera. Probably seven.
Well hello there my Furry Friend! (sadly this applies to many people I know)
I was really shocked to hear you only got one letter last month. This wrong must be righted. Or lefted if you’re in Australia.
I just read your advice to Anger concerning the hand jobs and all that good stuff. This brings me to my question. Well my advise-asking-inquiry-thingamajigga really. I was once a man with wife and girlfriend. Actually that’s still the case, you know how it is - any excuse will do to bring that up!
Here’s my moral dilemma. I may not buy condoms, but my virility is good I’ll tell ya!
- That’s not my dilemma…
I apologize for sheer incomprehensibility of this letter. Work is doing nasty things with my head. But back to the point.
A good friend of mine suggested going to Holland to go to a whorehouse. Now apparently they have the most attractive whores. I mentioned to him that I am currently more than satisfied and don’t really feel like travelling to Holland just for sex. But after supplying me with a perfectly plausible explanation that basically summed up to state “all the cool kids do hookers”, I decided to give in.
This is still not something you can advise me about, you think? Be patient young Furwalker!
It basically boiled down to a compromise. I would go, as long as we find a local place and not Holland. So we’ve been looking for some local amusement possibilities and I admit we checked out a few. The women were not as skinny and shaky with needles sticking out of their arm as I expected, but there was still something I couldn’t put at ease in my mind. And I don’t know what to do. This is where you come in…
- Dirty llama! Shoo!
You see, I love my wife. I really do. And I enjoy the company of the “almost-wife” as she calls herself – “talking-right-hand” as I call her. But to take this next step to ultimate manhood and big steaks (I heard you get big steaks after you do it. Is that true?) means I’ll have to make a decision right now that will affect me throughout the rest of my life: blonde or brunette?
Your (whatever I called myself last time… I think it was hormones… not sure…)
Dear Hopeless in Hormones (I looked it up for you, no charge),
First of all, let me say I do not approve of people writing in just to brag and thinly disguising their bragging (such as multiple partners) as real life problems.
Secondly, let me say - Kudos!
As far as your problem goes, the problem is you. Blonde or brunette? That's what you write to me with? Have I taught you nothing? You can't appreciate what it is you've been given, that's your real problem, sir. And what you've been given, is opportunity. What comes next, Hopeless, is a lesson in grammar.
It's not - Blonde OR brunette. It's - Blonde AND brunette. Do you see what I did there? And you may as well throw in an Asian chick while you're at it.
And yes, you do get steaks. And what I know about whore house steaks is this - never order it less than medium well. Trust me.
Hope that helps,
Dear Mr. Llama,
This is "Hopeless and in love", I'm probably correct in guessing that you do not remember me, which I do not care. I still have a crush on my close friend, I'm almost through with getting over him and I even found a new guy that I like. Problem is that this is a friend of my close friend. To catch you up I'm going to the homecoming dance with my close friend, but I am worried what might happen if his friend asks me out on a date. I mean of course I'd say yes, but I'm worried what my friend would do to this guy if he found out (which won't be difficult because we're all in the same band together). I mean I know guys are a lot less complex and bitchy than girls (that's why I hang out with them) but I'm just worried that my friend will kick his friend's ass since I'm pretty sure they both like me; another problem is my friend could take his friend because the guy is like a twig...
What should I do?
Thanks for all the help,
Hopeless and in love
Of course I remembered you as soon as I flipped back through and re-read your letter and my ensuing and blisteringly on target advice. Which included, by the way dating someone else and buying a vibrator. I'm glad you seem to be embracing the former. Of course, embracing isn't exactly what you do with the latter, at least not according to the diagram my friend Benny drew. (Thanks Benny, but you misspelled 'vulva.')
First off, fuck your friend. He had his chance. Don't start that crap. Go out with the other guy, if he asks.
Not much you can do as regards the possible fisticuffs. If you step in, the new guy will be pissed at you for insulting his manhood. If not, it seems he gets his ass kicked. But, hey, that's life. I've gotten my ass kicked for a lot less. The bad news for you if he gets his ass kicked is the requisite increase in expectations. It's not unlike when a guy takes you out to a nice dinner, and he expects certain, uh, favors. You can imagine what he'll expect if loses three teeth over you. (And if he really is like a twig, especially 'down there,' you'll probably just want the vibrator anyway. That's right. Men are stupid, but nobody believes that 'size doesn't matter' shit.)
Good luck, and let me know how it goes.
Hope that helps,
I'd correct your spelling there, but on the off chance the Thorazine wears off and you Google me (not as fun as it sounds, even with a feather duster), I don't want your crazy ass coming after me. (Sorry. Was that condescending?)
"Two choices here, Pumpkin." I say in a low, soothing tone with my hands by my side in a non-threatening manner while that large man with the stun gun creeps up behind you.
One. Show ANGER (emphasis his) your letter. If he continues to touch someone so clearly and utterly psychotic, it serves his stupid ass right for getting hurt.
Two. Buy really dark glasses, and run back to the ward. (The first part's for you. The second part is really a benefit to mankind.
Hope that helps,
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