Proverbs 19, Verse 20
"Get all the advice you can and be wise the rest of your life."
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
A long, long time ago, in a galaxy straight up your mom's yea, I had another blog. And, every now and then, I'd take a Dear Abby column and do my own little spin upon it. The letters to Dear Abby were the legit ones that she printed in in her advice column. And the replies were, well, the replies were mine all mine.
So, since it's Monday night at 9:05 and my corduroys are covered in confectioner's sugar that my wife partially licked off (it's pretty sexy being me) I thought I'd resurrect my Dear Abby parodies. Why? Because, as near as I can tell, advice is like that easy girl at the prom: you want to stay away, but you're dying to have her lick your cords. So, with that enticing thought in mind, sit back, unbuckle your trou, and find out why I'm full of CHIP!
DEAR CHIP:
DEAR CHIP:
Christmas is coming, and I dread it. I have only my brother, his wife and their kids. I'm on Social Security disability and I barely make it each month. They buy me gifts, but I feel embarrassed to accept them because I can't buy anything for them. It makes me feel small.
Even though I have nothing to offer my nieces, my brother and sister-in-law persuade me to go anyway. They are financially much better off than I am.
I lost my wife a year ago. I see everyone else having someone in their lives and I feel alone. There's just me and my dog now. The holidays hurt. What can I do? -- MISERABLE IN MASSACHUSETTS
DEAR MISERABLE:
Look, I'm going to level with you. When I solicit letters, I expect people to be fucking straight with me. No bullshit-- tell your story, straight up, and we can talk, okay? But I'm noticing some... let's call them "inconsistencies" in your little narrative.
First of all, you say that "Christmas is coming, and I dread it." Really? Dread? That's kind of, I don't know... extreme?
Dread /dred/ verb 1.) anticipate with great apprehension or fear
People don't dread Christmas, Frankie Angel; they dread meeting their Sarah Lawrence-educated daughter's Jamaican boyfriend. They dread being in the Avis parking lot and finding out they've been assigned a Chevy Aveo. They dread having to spend Christmas dinner with your decrepit fucking jowly ass. Oh, and you thought you were the only one put out by Christmas? Think again, Mort.
Getting back to your pack of fucking lies of a letter-- you next go on to state in false sentence number 2 that "I have only my brother, his wife and their kids." Yeah? Then towards the end of the letter you say, "There's just me and my dog now." WELL WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK WHEN I READ THAT, HUH? I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONNA BE STRAIGHT WITH ME, YOU FUCK! YOU LYING SACK OF DICK GREASE! D'YOU KNOW WHO YOU'RE FUCKIN' WITH?
I swear to Mary's fucking baby-- I will fucking gut you before you can even think to lawyer up, buddy boy, so let's cut the I-have-nobody-oh-yea-but-I-kinda-have-sex-with-my-dog bullshit and fly RIGHT!
By the way, I know you killed your wife, cocksucker. It's written all over that pathetic excuse of an advice-seeking letter of yours, and I'm gonna see that the state lights you up like a goddamn Christmas tree in front of a bunch of reporters with hemorrhoids and pocket dictionaries who don't give a shit about you, your Social Security checks or your goddamn holiday cry-me-a-river pissant little story, so sign that confession or I will shove this Kobayashi coffee cup up your leathery fuckin' cornhole and I won't even bother to leave it out of the report.
DEAR CHIP:
I recently went on a first (and last) date with a "gentleman." He ordered himself a beer and a prime rib dinner. He never asked me if I wanted anything to eat or drink.
As flabbergasted as I was, I have a theory: Men today are different from those of the past, and my guess it's because the pierced and tattooed gals today speak and act like sailors, therefore ruining it for the rest of us. Am I right? -- PUZZLED IN FLORIDA
DEAR PUZZLED:
YES! YOU ARE! Now, you wanna bite of my prime rib, bitch? I saved the best gristle for you.
DEAR CHIP:
After 25 years of marriage, my wife no longer wants to shave her legs. She is starting to look like a gorilla. I think it's a slap in the face. She says it has nothing to do with me. I don't know if I should move to another zoo or buy her some bananas. -- PEEVED IN POUGHKEEPSIE
DEAR PEEVED:
Look, I'm gonna bust your wife for stopping to shave her legs, but I'm gonna NAIL you for pickin' your feet in Poughkeepsie.
DEAR CHIP:
Would it be a breach of etiquette to enclose a self-addressed, stamped (blank) thank-you note with gifts I plan to send to my grandchildren, since they do not respond when I mail them gifts or cards?
-- GRANDMA IN MARSHFIELD, MO.
DEAR GRANDMA:
No, of course that's not a breach of etiquette. It's rather an ingenious solution to the problem of today's kids (what'samatta with kids today anyway?!) and their wayward, ungrateful ways. You must have worked in the non-profit world before you shriveled up into the wasted, withered, sour old burlap sack you are today, didn't you? Where else but the wonderful world of non-profit entities would you have come up with such a great scheme? I'll bet you were the End-of-Year-Appeal Grand Dame, no? In fact, I think your little passive-aggressive idea is SO clever, that I don't particularly see why you should enclose a blank thank-you note-- why not just write it out for them? That way, you can be assured that the note will sound all the proper notes in your own narcissistic gratitude song! It'll be the clarion call of credit you are so selflessly seeking-- because of course, gift giving isn't about making others happy, it's about making YOU feel appreciated!
RIGHT?!
Oh, and don't forget to address the letter to "Grandma(rtyr)" on the return envelope.
DEAR CHIP:
May I share a pet peeve of mine? I wish you'd raise the consciousness of people who write obituaries and fail to mention the musician who provides the music for the funerals and memorials. The musician often does more preparation for the services than the pallbearers. Why are their names omitted? I usually want to know who they are when I attend. -- WONDERING IN GEORGIA
DEAR WONDERING:
May I share a pet peeve of mine? People who go to funerals ostensibly to mourn the passing of the well-dressed crypt-keeper lying in a box in the front of the room and are more interested in which local prostitute is singing "Ave Maria" off-key so she can earn 20 bucks to go score some blow immediately after the service.
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