It's time to take a wee break from the multi-part journey of self-discovery, humilation and hairstyle traumas. Because today? Is the second installment of the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! (And tomorrow? I'll be hosting the Thursday Haiku Smackdown right heah! At this rate, I'll have some kind of Smackdown going on every damn day of the week by Christmas. And the joke will have worn very, very thin.)
If you missed last week's column, the Advice Smackdown works like this: You send all your problems, questions and general bitchery to amy[at]amalah.com with the subject line: "I'm a big four-eyed lame-o and I wear the same stupid sweater everyday." (And bonus points if you have a clue where that quote came from, including who said it in what context and can also recite my OTHER favorite quote from the same episode...er, I mean source.)
And then on Wednesdays I answer your questions with my unique brand of life-affirming, problem-solving, self-exhalting wisdom. And I will link to you and you will be all famous and your existence will be justified. Unless you don't have a site, which in that case, I'm not sure you even technically exist, but I'll still answer your question.
So on with the advice-column-type thing!
I tried out your advice. And now? She has sent out the following e-mail to her list:
I have a friend who has a serious problem. See, she believes that Aspartame is responsible for every illness known to mankind as part of a worldwide conspiracy between the Monsanto Corp. and the American Heart Association.
We need to send out as many e-mails as possible to warn people of my friend's craziness. Please forward this to 743 people, as that's how many times my loony friend sent it to me.
Also, she is possibly a lesbian.
See everybody? Living proof that my advice will solve all your problems. Thanks for writing back, Lauren, and I’m glad everything worked out so well. La la la.
Every time I meet a beautiful woman to whom I am attracted, I open the conversation by saying something like, "Hey, gorgeous bitch, wanna fuck?" Inevitably, the woman responds with some lame rejection, usually along the lines of "No, thank you so much, I'm a lesbian." In fact, I attended the only Big Ten University at which every coed was allegedly gay during my entire four years. This apparently changed after my graduation. My friends say my approach may be a bit crude. Do you think I need help?
Lonely in D.C.
Dude, seriously. And I mean, seriously, dude. Have you ever gotten laid in your life? I bet you haven’t, because if you had, you’d understand the many awesome and exciting possibilities that lesbians have to offer.
A Big Ten University where all the girls are gay? Hell, even I’d sell my soul to SallieMae for a semester or two there.
But anyway. Lesbians require a gentler approach. Ask them if they’d like a date for next year’s Earth Day. Call them “Sister” instead of bitch. Think granola and earth mothers and the Indigo Girls. (Which, by sheer coincidence, I currently have every CD of currently in my car, including the newer stuff which I never liked but now I do and I would really like to make out with a girl now because we? Are so empoweringly awesome. Tampon power!)
Oh right. Unless they’re lipstick lesbians, then everything you need to know about having sex with them you can learn from porn. Have fun.
Dear Wise and Wonderful Amy, Queen of Everything and My Personal Hero,
I've got this co-worker that really just chaps my hide, and he needs to go. What's the best way to, ah, Get Rid of Him? And where can I hide the body afterwards? Should I take care of it myself, or would you recommend outsourcing in this situation?
My lawyers have advised me to have absolutely nothing to do with this question, you crazy, crazy bitch.
(Although my advice would have been to frame him for embezzlement or something. Or put lots and lots of porn on his computer. Or if all else fails: two concrete blocks and the Schuylkill River.)
Doxie and I were just talking about JournalCon. Will you (and your crew) be going? My main sentiment is that I would be so terrified (also known as gutless) that I would be the one in the back of the room, hiding behind a plant and chewing on my own face.
Is this paralyzing shyness typical? And...can it be overcome with awards tickets from Southwest airlines and a truckload of Stoli?
The New Girl
Hell yeah me and my posse will be kickin’ it at JCon! We be all registered and reserved and shit.
And you know what? We’re all super nice. And we love and we accept and we drink. Except for Chris, because he’s our dad.
And we won’t let you hide in the shrubbery chewing on your own face (which, by the way? Sounds like an awesome party trick. I have double-jointed fingers and can bend them in ways your fingers shouldn’t bend. Together, we shall be a HUGE hit.). You will hang with us. And no one else. The Queen has spoken. Mwa.
(Although if anybody, ANYBODY, tries to make me do karaoke? I will kill you.)
And I’ll be checking behind all the plants for YOU, missy.
My moron ex-boyfriend (we dated for a little over a year) keeps calling me. Now, I don't answer the phone, but every once in a while he catches me. Last night was one of those occasions. This fool wants us to go to couples counseling! Don't we sort of have to be a couple for that to work? He actually said that he LIKES it when we fight! What the fuck does that even mean?
My question (well, my main question) is this. Short of employing the whole fire-ants-to-the-penis routine, how do I get him to understand that not only do I not love him anymore, I actually sort of hate him? (Yes, I have told him that. It does not sink in.)
(Well, you’ve already learned the soothing power of an evil JLB chat room and snarky sidebar quotes that mock him AND his gay ass rickets AND his dickweed manpurse. Also: inside jokes! Haaaa!)
But seriously. This guy is a tool. He is the tooliest tool that ever tooled. The fool tool wants to go to couples counseling, even though you are 1) not a couple, and 2) the toolbelt still has an ONLINE DATING PROFILE up. In which he is CARRYING A PURSE and makes MULTIPLE REFERENCES to his MOTHER. Toooool!!!!!!!
So what to do about this jackhammer? Well, I could get all Dear Abby (who is not now and will never be Ann Landers, sniff) on you and say “clip this column out and show it to him, dear.” But since this is 1) the internet, and 2) something that would probably only encourage the screwdriver, maybe that’s not such a great idea.
So I guess I’d say that if the drillbit calls you again, let him know that it’s officially past desperate and annoying and is now in criminal harassment land. Start recording his messages and get a restraining order. Because you? Do not need this staple gun hex key circular saw kind of crap.
Also maybe get some of your friends to start writing mean things about him on the Internet. That’s always cool.
I have a broken foot, and I did almost exactly what the doctor said to do. Now he says it is STILL BROKE. And I have to stay off it for another six weeks. If it's still broken after that, can I beat him with my crutches?
Yes. For he is stupid and how dare he and etc. etc. What kind of doctor can’t heal a broken foot? And who makes you wear a fugly cast shoe for weeks and weeks? And who didn’t tell you the Vicodin + Advil = Triple Painkiller Fun Happy Surprise Trick?
A crap doctor, that’s what kind. And I don’t mean a gastroenterologist or whatever. (I totally spelled gastroenterologist right on the very first try.) (But I had to retype spelled three times and then again just now.)
I would seriously consider a malpractice suit. Get Miss Doxie to help you sue his ass for gross negligence and interfering with The Hotness.
And for heaven’s sake, really stay off it this time! No foot surgery pre-JCon. And drink a lot of White Russians for calcium power.
My three year old son has a speech delay. While his speech therapist insists on working with him on things like numbers, colors, letters, and names, I think that it is critically important to teach him phrases and sayings that will prove meaningful in everyday life. Just this week, my husband and I have taught him to say, "Pull my finger!" "You know what? Chicken butt!" "That's whack!" and "Don't play me for a fool!" Do you have any advice or suggestions as to other things I should be working to get him to say so that he doesn't fall behind the other kids in his age group?
Also, do you consider it appropriate for me to send my baby son to daycare wearing this shirt that says "Daddy drinks because I cry?" I say yes, but my husband says no. Then again, he never has had any fashion sense.
First of all, let’s all give Martha and her husband a big round of applause, because they? Sound awesome.
Second of all, here are my suggestions for building your son’s vocabulary. I would also be willing to write these up on flash cards for you.
I do not hold truck with clowns.
Don’t kick the baby.
Let your booty glow.
I pity the fool.
Oh my god, they killed Kenny!
Crack is whack.
Step off, bitch.
Bring dessert and a waterproof camera.
Third of all, I think you better let us all where exactly you got that there shirt, because we all need to be buying several hundred of those. For now I shall put mine on the cat, which is really hilarious if you think about it, but not too hard because then Daddy will drink because his wife is crying because her uterus is a fucking barren piece of crap and oh good gravy, she’s putting baby clothes on the cat again.
My wife has gained a substantial amount of weight over the last nine months or so. She’s gained so much that she now wears my clothes. She complains that her hips hurt and her boobs are always sore (duh, they’ve grown four sizes!). She eats at odd hours of the night and pees more frequently than a male dog at a fire hydrant manufacturing facility. I’ve tried to hint nicely that she may need to exercise more and not eat portions equivalent to what a college football team would consume, but my comments appear to go unnoticed. Should I just let this go and hope it works out?
Excellent question. Let me begin by telling a little story:
Jason and I still do the grocery shopping together. Not because we want to be all squooshy and adorable, but because we both distrust the other’s shopping abilities intensely. Jason is slow and deliberate. He will stand in the soup aisle and stare at soup for 20 minutes. He’ll ponder the 99% fat free yogurt vs. 100% fat free yogurt until all the damn yogurt is expired.
I am neither slow nor deliberate. I take that cart and hightail it through the aisles at a breakneck pace. Broccoli! That one looks green! Tomatoes! Eh, they all suck. Look! Grayish chicken!
I’ll be four aisles down getting soda while Jason is still deliberating over marinara sauce, even though I know for a fact that we have seven jars of marinara sauce already at home. Jason’s considered going low-carb about four times before we hit the bread aisle and I’ve already filled the cart with the wrong kind of butter, maraschino cherries for some reason I’ve already forgotten, 200-watt light bulbs, cracked eggs and maybe some expired sausage.
If the store doesn’t have the kind of cheddar cheese crackers I like best? I’ll grab whatever box nearby that sort of uses the same color scheme. Jason will root through the store’s entire inventory of paper towels looking for a specific brand of double-quilted towel in PLAIN WHITE, no PRISSY DESIGNS, thank you very much, and even after a 15-minute search? He’s willing to walk away with NO paper towels and make a special trip to the Giant down the street for them.
And yet he’ll always pick up whatever kind of laundry detergent happens to be on sale, IRREGARDLESS of whether or not it gives me hives, as just about every detergent does except for some allergen-free kind from All. So I point out that the Tide Spring Breeze he’s selected will have me in a hellish itchy agony after two loads, and he sighs, rolls his eyes and goes back to get my All.
And that’s our marriage. It’s great.
Oh! Right. Your question. Well. Perhaps you and Lonely in D.C. should get together and cruise for skinny lesbians.