Tuesday, June 1, 2010

                                        Ask Miss Advice
                                        By Addie Advice

Dear Ms. Advice,

     Three years ago I contracted an incurable disease. It’s not life threatening, it’s not even painful in a physical sense, but every inch of my body is covered in oozing sores.

     I’m 23 years old and I used to be considered an attractive young woman, but now I never go outside if I don’t have to. People can’t stand to look at me. I make a very good living selling phone sex, but I have no friends, and not even my family will visit me. Jehovah’s Witnesses just tell me that they got the wrong house and leave without giving me a pamphlet. What can I do?

Please help, Miserable in Milwaukee.

Dear Miserable in Milwaukee,

     Your letter depresses me. Have you considered recreational drugs? Cocaine produces euphoria, or so I’ve heard. And what about suicide? Maybe combine the two. Inject a mother lode into your temple. I’d like to say I’ll write back if I have any better ideas, but your situation depresses me just to think about it.

Dear Ms. Advice,

     I’m a 79 year old retired lady. I don’t get around well, and pee on myself a lot, but I’m blessed to live in my own home with my darling only child Arnold who has a good job and takes wonderful care of me.

     So what’s the problem? The problem is Arnold is a serial killer. I can’t make any new friends because when I do, he kills them. Our back yard is one big mass grave.

     I don’t know what to do. Turning him into the police is not an option because he’s my baby and if he were gone they’d put me in a home. Every time he kills another one I feel more and more guilty. What do I do?

Wit’s End in Wisconsin

Dear Wit’s End in Wisconsin,

     I hate to sound like a one-note Addie, but have you considered suicide? If you’re not up to that, I know a phone sex operator in Milwaukee who’d love for you to move in with her.

Dear Addie,

     I’m an attractive 35 year old bookkeeper for a small Midwestern farm implement company. The pay is lousy but I manage to embezzle enough every month to live well beyond my means. My boss, we’ll call him Darrell, is so stupid he’ll never catch me as long as I’m the bookkeeper.

     So what’s not to like you ask? Well, my problem is that every time Darrell comes in my office he grabs my crotch and won’t let go until I recite all of Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees,” and yeah, that’s a small price to pay for regular Caribbean Cruises. But Addie, the man’s breath smells like a sewer. I’m always gagging before I get to the “only God can make a tree” part. Obviously I can’t quit or file a law suit. I can’t even tell anyone, I’d go to prison. Please help,

Desperate in the Heartland

Dear Desperate in the Heartland,

     Have we met? Where do you get off calling me by my first name, bitch?

     And, you don’t even tell me your name. No, wait. You put a return address on the envelope, Ms. Courtney McClellan of 124 Pine Street, Fairfax, Minnesota.

No comments:

Post a Comment