Tabitha on Febritzing, PTA At The OTB and Snow B/Gyn

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Hey Lady!

I can’t stop spraying Febreze. First it was just around the house; spraying the couch, rugs, clothes, underwear and well whatever needed freshening. I love the smell so much I started spritzing it on myself, first as a deodorant (it actually works really well) then in my hair, on my wrists and neck. Every morning I spray myself head to toe in the luxurious mist – the original scent or “unhampered linen windows” are my favorites. I carry two bottles with me wherever I go plus a back-up rigged to my bra. But now I can’t stop spraying other people; usually strangers or anyone near me. A man in line ahead of me at the grocery store caught me sniffing him after I covered him in a mist of Febreze. I sprayed a group of trees out my car window as I drove through a nature preserve. Yesterday I was spraying a bunch of construction workers and just as I was about to take a whiff of one of the men’s sweaty dirt-covered sweatshirt, I fell forward and landed face first with my nose deeply nestled in his gloriously refreshed back. He threatened to call the police if I didn’t get off of him immediately. I quickly steadied myself, and ran off spraying the sky in one mighty streak of freshener. There are posters up around town warning of an unknown woman armed with bottles of fabric freshener and a phone number to report me. Last night I snuck into the local fire house and sprayed the fire fighters as they slept. Just as I was finishing my final spritz, the siren sounded, waking everyone. Luckily, I dashed across the room in time to fly down the pole and shimmy out the bathroom window. This morning it was in the paper that I had struck again as I left an industrial sized bottle of Febreze next to one of the cots. I can’t leave my house as the neighborhood watch has organized some kind of high alert stake-out around town and I’m running out of things to spray.

Glory Of The Spritz 


Dear Glory Of The Spritz,

How horrible to be confined as you are! This brings me to a bit of a situation I got into not too many years ago. Hendrich, my beloved, may he rest in peace, had an old school chum who later became a business associate. Olaf was often invited over for dinner at our house and soon Hendrich was inviting him along on our kite escapades, picnics, swap meets, you name it, he was there. Olaf had the worst halitosis I’ve ever encountered. His breath was so rank it could fell an elephant. As Olaf was clearly not going anywhere, and I couldn’t break my Hendrich’s heart by telling him of his friend’s offense, I had to find a solution and quick. I went to the store and stocked up on every breath mint and freshener I could find. When Olaf came to dinner I crushed up a box of mints and mixed it into his drink (of course insisting he imbibe before engaging in discussion.) When we were all out and about, the moment Olaf opened his mouth to speak, yawn, eat, really anytime, I would toss in a few tiny yet powerful time release mints prescribed to CPR instructors and garlic enthusiasts. I was so precise with my toss that Olaf never even knew what happened; at the most he thought he had swallowed a gnat or ladybug in which case I assured him he was delusional and that everything was fine. Yet, sometimes both these methods were not enough, so out came my vials of breath spray. These bottles were so tiny I could hold two in the palm of each hand without being seen as well as another 20 in my pockets, hair, and bra. Upon greeting Olaf, I would kiss him on the cheek while using the other hand to fire off a few spritzes in his mouth, then cover it up by laughing and popping a candy in his mouth to distract him. If I couldn’t get up close to him, I would wait until he was looking the other way talking to Hendrich or himself (he really never shut up) and I would use both palms and spray a stream of breath freshener into his mouth. He never noticed this as I added a slight anesthetic to the freshener which wiped out 5 seconds of his memory. I became so used to minting and freshening, that I began to use these practices on others from the grocer to people sitting on benches and, well, everyone I passed while singing “I Feel Minty, Oh So Minty…” to the tune of “I Feel Pretty.” Eventually the spray caught up with me as rumors of minty forgetfulness began to circulate in town. The next thing I knew, I was caught on video running through the pet store, spraying mouth freshener with both palms into the mouths of all the dogs which unfortunately caused them to bark in high pitches at an accelerated speed. I made a deal with the police to surrender all mint related paraphernalia and sit in a room with 15 halitosis test subjects for a week as penance. After that week I think I lost my sense of smell for a year or so, but back to you. You must not let society confine you to a life of shame. Embrace who you are: a Febreze addict! Go forth into the public doused in as much Febreze as you are able. Spray your bottles of freshener from the roof of your house! The hood of your car! The top of each hill! Explain, to them you mean no harm and explain the benefits of using the freshener. (Make sure you do this from a safe distance, ideally a few blocks away with a megaphone.) Once they see that you are simply a bit wacky and not dangerous they will listen, or at least probably not arrest you. Maybe they will even try spraying some Febreze themselves. Though, I wouldn’t hold your breath on that score. Have you thought about a side job at a fabric or carpet store? You would make an excellent stock woman, spritzing and refreshing the inventory all day. Perhaps even a greeter to spritz customers’ wrists with Febreze. You could be a pioneer! The department store perfume sales women are a thing of the past. The future is Febreze!


Hey Lady!

I found my wife’s book of daily goddess affirmations and couldn’t help but take a peek. When I opened the cover, it was a notebook filled with horse racing schedules, bets, wins and losses as well as phone numbers and some notations. From what I could make out, her favorite horse is “Taffeta Trots” but she hasn’t been doing too well. Apparently another horse “Galloping Goiter” got into a bag of sugar and punched “Taffeta Trots” in the face with his hoof, jumped the fence and ran off. “Galloping Goiter was banned from the track but “Taffeta Trots” continued to race although, at a slower speed. There were initials written next to a few races followed by “sell car” and “remortgage house.” Then I noticed our bank’s name and account number with -$75,000 in bold. I called the bank and it turns out the college fund for our two kids had been cleared out. The last check written was to Mrs. Elthaway for $50,000 with “Kid’s Juice Boxes” written in the memo. Mrs. Elthaway is the head of the PTA and our son’s math tutor. Yesterday I followed my wife to the grocery store and ended up at a horse track. She was there with a bunch of other women all furiously filling out betting forms and heckling rival jockeys. It was the entire PTA! Then Mrs. Elthaway showed up, tapping a metal crop at her side as they all handed her envelopes full of cash, checks and, in a few cases, their husbands’ golf clubs. Turns out that Mrs. Elthaway is the bookie and the rest are fellow gamblers. I left before they spotted me and headed home. In the middle of the night my car was repossessed, someone left a lock of horse hair labeled “Taffeta Trots” on our doorstep and my wife disappeared.

All Bets Are Off 


Dear All Bets Are Off,

A fine mess you are in, indeed. Aside from my own bingo gambling problem that you might remember, I went through a similar ordeal with my friend Gemma. Gemma and her husband have three rather sticky and tiresome children in the local elementary school. Several years ago, I must have been about 33, I noticed that every time I visited Gemma she was baking. There would be racks of brownies cooling next to cake upon cake while sheets of cookies sat in the oven. She looked exhausted yet would speak faster than an auctioneer and her eyes were bulging out of her head. On my way out of the house one day, I passed her son Brent who was muttering to himself “never stop baking, must sell out the bake sale, perfect bake sale.” Around that same time, Gemma got a fancy new car, was practically dripping in diamonds and other jewels and told me of plans to move into a bigger house, well, actually a mansion that a few royals had quit. So, I decided to tail Gemma and find out what was going on. After dropping the children at school, she met up with a bunch of women behind the gymnasium. They spoke for a few minutes then all got in their cars. I followed them as they went from school to school holding bake sales almost all day. A tall, frizzy-haired woman, “Harriet,” I think, seemed to be in charge. Every time they left a school, the women gave Harriet a large envelope of cash and then she portioned it out to each of them. Gemma was clearly the top baker as not only did she get a cut in front of the other women, but also another was left in her mailbox at home. After a few days of following the group, I dressed up as an ice cream man, truck and all, so as to not arouse suspicion; I confronted Gemma. She admitted to being part of a bake sale ring with her book club that was made up of the parents of other children in her sons’ classes. Harriet, as I suspected was the head of the book club, the school’s librarian and the don of the baking ring. The baking all started innocently enough but once they saw how much money they were making, they got bigger and stronger. Gemma said that if they didn’t sell a certain amount at each bake sale, Harriet would cite their children for overdue books and throw them in detention. Though I told Gemma she had to get out of the baking ring, she refused saying the money was too good and offered me a cut of the money. The next day I told a bunch of the local bakeries what had been going on and wouldn’t you know it, the bake sales suddenly vanished. Gemma didn’t talk to me for a few months but she finally contacted me after losing her house, car and moving into a boarding house. Our friendship was back to normal again. So my friend, I quite empathize with your predicament. First, you must find your wife. She’s either at the track gambling, (she probably cashed in your life insurance policy) or she’s being held by Mrs. Elthaway. I’d go with the track, given her history and obvious non-existent impulse control. Take away all her money, credit cards and keys then lock her in the bathroom. Find Mrs. Elthaway and tell her one of the women in the “PTA” is an undercover FBI agent and it’s a matter of hours until she’s arrested. Mrs. Elthaway will be too grateful for the heads up so that she can flee the country, she won’t ask who the fed is or how you know. Next, go to the bank and explain that your wife was a victim of identity theft and you want all the funds put back into your accounts. Once you get back home, tell your wife to take up pottery or just stop gambling before you put her on a reality television show.


Hey Lady!

I’m a 22 year old sturdy type man named Cleatus in a bit of a pickle in a jam jar situation, if ya catch my drift. This morning, me and my girlfriend thought it would be fun to make snow angels. Well, one thing led to another and now we think she had frostbite on her lady parts. Bein’ a minister’s daughter and all, Lizbeth’s too embarrassed to write this herself. I tried getting’ her to go to a doctor but the only doctor in town is her aunt who is also the mayor. If her dad finds out, we both will be sent to live on an oil rig or worse – with her sister who is the sheriff. So, I took her to the town veterinarian, who is also the local dairy farmer and sworn to secrecy as I helped him out of a particular cattle stampede last year that destroyed the Annual Grass Whistling Festival and injured a few chickens. The veterinarian took one look at my girlfriend and passed out. My cousin owns a pharmacy which is run by his wife who is also the town’s dentist and notary so she suggested some stuff and can’t say nothing cause o’ that doctor oath. I carried Lizbeth back to my shed and started trying them remedies. First, I put her in a hot bath but she immediately kicked me in the teeth and jumped out yellin’ like a hog at feedin’ time. I gave her some salve used for the cows when them udders get bad; it just made it worse. Nothin’ is workin’, even the ten electric blankets she’s wearing like undergarments. Lizbeth isn’t feelin’ too well and I’m gettin’ real worried.


Dear Frost-Smitten,

Your poor girlfriend! I can’t help but recall a ski trip I went on when I was but 16.  My friends and I decided to go to Switzerland for winter holiday. We met a few local young men who were rather dashing. One, in particular, named Sven who was a 17 and recited poetry like a man speaking backwards during a fit of hiccups. Anxious to capture Sven’s attention, I pretended to be an expert skier. Well, the first day on the slopes, I looked like Julie Christie in “Doctor Zhivago” though slightly shorter and with brown hair. We all took off down one of the most dangerous trails at a lightning pace. Having no experience skiing, I just smiled and hoped for the best. That worked for 2 seconds. Within a few feet I hit a mogul and went flying into a tree, then rolled down the mountain and off a cliff. I was stuck in the snow alone for what seemed like days, but was only a few hours before anyone found me. My hair was the first thing to freeze and broke off in tiny bits which I later ate. Luckily, I managed to make a fire with the lighter and cigarettes in my pocket. By the time Sven and my friends found me I only had hypothermia and 5 of my toes were stubs of ice. The town doctor was able to save them by means of extensive hypnotherapy. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they were really ever frozen. Anyway, Sven took care of me and the two of us did a bit of indoor romping around. (I secured earplugs so as to never hear a word or poem he uttered.) Ah, what a lovely time it was…though I forgot about the earplugs and had to have them surgically removed a few weeks later. But back to you, Cleatus. Given the extremely close-knit nature of your community, your only option is to sneak Lizbeth across to the next town and find a hospital. I suggest wrapping her up in an old burlap sack and throwing her in the back of a truck disguised as some wounded animal. Once you get to a hospital, tell them to try the “anti-gravity whirlpool.” That contraption has saved my life on a few occasions and should heal Lizbeth’s lady parts in no time at all. When you return, if anyone asks where Lizbeth has been, tell them she has whooping cough or typhoid and is trying to avoid exposing others. Everyone will be too scared of infection to question you further and will probably ignore you for a few months as well. Hang a quarantine sign on your door and enjoy some indoor activities with Lizbeth.

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Tabitha on Arm Wrestling For The Elderly, Western Woes & Nicorette Kids

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Hey Lady!

I’m an 85 year old female arm wrestler; they call me “Fiber Plus.” During a weekly match last night, I was taking down “Ham Hocks,” a local truck driver, when my grandson walked into the bar. Before I had time to put out my cigarette on my tongue, Greg spotted me. I got up from the table, told my manager “Poly Grips” that I had to fix my terrycloth jumpsuit and ran out the back door. As I was getting into my car, one of the rollers in my hair got caught in the door yanking me back out into the parking lot where Greg caught up to me. My teammates, “Iron Hip,” “Caltrate Chew,” “Arthritic Wrath” and “Asper Creme” flew to my aid and tackled Greg to the ground. I told them he was cool and to let him go. When Greg stood up I realized I didn’t have the nerve to tell him the truth, so I kicked him in the shins with my custom steel-plated orthotic sneakers and drove off. Since I snuck back into the retirement home, Greg and “Poly Grips” have been calling me non-stop. I’m hiding in the bedpan sterilization room — I figured no one would look for me here. I don’t know what to tell Greg, but I’m not ready to retire from arm wrestling. I’m supposed to have a match with “Lenny The Slug” tonight and the smell in here is really getting to me.

Grappling Granny


Dear Grappling Granny,

You must have quite a grip! Your dilemma brings me right back to my childhood. Growing up, my parents told me my grandmother was dead. One night, I was out at a pub, drowning my sorrows in stale peanut shells after getting fired from a butter churning internship when it happened. I saw my grandmother. She was a professional dart player. The crowd cheered her on as she lined up and took aim at the board. Her gold lame evening gloves, slightly smudged monocle in her left eye and flowing locks of stringy white hair made her the center of everyone’s attention. She was the belle of the ball. Shouts of “Bullseye Babs” filled the smoky room as crowds gathered on either side while she flexed her fingers and did the foxtrot in place. I was blown away by her marksman-like aim and force as she hit the bull’s eye from 10 feet away, while standing backwards. “Bullseye Babs” shattered the board, winning the match and my esteem forever. After watching her for a while, pretending to be an opponent, I approached my rhinestone-studded caped grandmother. When it was my turn to spit in my hand and shake with her, she instantly recognized me. Grandma dropped her custom made platinum dart, piercing my foot, and embraced me. She explained how she had been a professional dart player since I was born, when grandpa took up tennis and mistresses. Apparently my mother found out and was so appalled, she cast out my grandmother and made up a story of her death from an overdose of figgy pudding. I swore to “Bullseye Babs” that I would never tell the family what I had discovered. From that night on, I regularly went to my grandmother’s matches and the two of us became closer than sisters. I even learned a thing or two about darts and occasionally played a round or two with her, of course feigning to be a dimwitted lass with no aim – I stopped after hitting a pub keeper in the cheek with my dart. Anyway, as to you, “Fiber Plus,” you shouldn’t give up your career nor should you deceive your grandson. Tell Greg the truth as it will probably bring the two of you closer. Show him how much you care and invite him to your next game. Call “Poly Grips” and tell her everything will be explained at the match. Make sure to wear your finest jumpsuit, maybe velour for this occasion, and show “Lenny The Slug” who’s boss. If Greg decides that he must tell your family and wants nothing to do with you, have a few teammates talk with him. If that doesn’t work, tell his parents that he is involved in an underground fencing ring and a compulsive liar. They’ll take your word for it, as you are after –all, the grandmother.


Hey Lady!

Sorry this is written on toilet paper and lip gloss, but I’m hiding in the girls’ bathroom. My dance teacher attached spurs on the back of my tap shoes. Well, not just mine, the entire class. The last couple of weeks, she’s been acting kinda weird. First, I caught her behind the studio chewing dip while mumbling something about a person named “Pilgrim.” She switched to gnawing on beef jerky when class started. The next week she came in wearing a ten gallon hat and carrying a lasso. Then she took all our shoes and attached these spurs and insisted we wear them. She shouts “Yee-Haw!” whenever someone does a good job. During warm-up, she plays the harmonica and spins her lasso a little above the floor while we take turns jumping in and out – luckily I’m the Double Dutch champion of my elementary school. We all have kicked ourselves and each other so much our legs are covered in scabs and gauze (we started keeping a first aid kit in our cubbies). Yesterday she announced that the music for our recital is the theme from some movie called “The Magnificent Seven.” I have to do well in the show so I can move on to the advanced class with the rest of the 6th grade but I don’t know if my legs can take it. Now, other kids are pretending to pass out in class just to avoid getting stabbed in the ankles. I’m tired, anemic and I think I just saw my teacher carrying a mechanical bull into the studio.

Tapped Out


Dear Tapped Out,

You must be exhausted! I remember when I was but 19, my friend Penelope and I decided we needed a break from university and penny tossing so we set off to Spain in search of a bit of fun. Though we traveled mainly in the backs of produce trucks, we ran out of money fairly quickly as we had only the contents of the donations to the children’s reading fund to live on. (Our village really wasn’t very enthusiastic about learning or locking up money.) The pet shelter where we were sleeping discovered us one night, eating all the kibble from the dogs’ bowls. We were promptly kicked out. All the hostels were closed due to a bed bug infestation and we had no place to go. Eager to find a way to continue our stay, especially cavorting with the local young men, we answered an advertisement for flamenco dancers at a local theater and were hired on the spot. I suspect they weren’t too particular and perhaps desperate as both of us admitted to knowing nothing about how to dance flamenco nor could we keep time. I believe there was some accident the previous night as our costumes were ripped and tattered, there was also was a gaping hole in the floor of the stage. Nonetheless, Penelope and I practiced as much as we could in the 10 minutes we had before it was show time and hoped for the best.  As soon as the guitars started, the curtain rose and we were on. Everyone in the theater was clapping, some shouting and singing. Penelope and I started stomping away. I began to get the hang of my castanets and clacked along with the guitar as I swirled in circles like a drunk baby. The straps on Penelope’s shoes broke at one point causing her to lunge forward, stepping on another dancer’s foot which then caused a toe stomping fight. I lost control of one of my castanets during a difficult solo and hit an audience member in the head. He was kind enough to give it back to me later after offering me a job in the local circus – I think he really liked me. Penelope and I danced and danced for hours, as the crowd hurled stale bread and wine at us. But none of that would stop us. Attempting a fast pass with vigorous arm flailing, I tripped on my skirt and as my arms swung toward the sky, I hit myself in the face, ending up with a black eye. I would have cried but the dehydration was so severe I couldn’t produce tears, sweat or thoughts. The manager fired us both, throwing us out the back alley refusing to pay anything. I was quite mad at first but then after seeing the angry mob that was charging around looking for us, I decided it was for the best, and we hid in a dumpster for a weeks. But back to you, my dear. What kind of tobacco is she chewing? Sorry, I sometimes indulge in a fine chew myself and am always looking for a new variety. Oh my, “The Magnificent Seven.” I must have seen that movie a thousand times. What a pack of virile studs! Now, I know that this may be hard to hear but you must stop whining and perform like the dazzling tap dancer you are. Though your teacher is clearly going through some identity crisis or developing a serious infatuation with Westerns, or both, you must trudge ahead. You are in the 6th grade, after all, show some gumption. I’m sure if you look in your medicine chest, one of your parents has some prescription pain killers to help you through. If not, I bet you can buy some at school.


Hey Lady!

I’m being blackmailed. My name is [CENSORED] and I’m a 20 year old college student.  A few weeks ago I babysat for a family down the block from my parents’ house. When I wasn’t looking, the kids, Susie, age 9 and Tom, age 7, snuck into my purse and ate all my Nicorette gum. After a few hours of vomiting, they confessed to what they did while begging me for a few pieces more. Susie and Tom looked pretty green and were twitching. I told them how bad the gum was and that they shouldn’t have gone through my things. They kept saying “More gum. Must have more gum. NOW!”  Then they threw their pet fish at me, screaming and ripping the heads off of Tom’s action figures. (I forgot how addictive nicotine is.) Susie said if I didn’t give them more she would tell their parents. So, I caved, mostly because they yanked out a chunk of my hair, and gave them some extra gum I had in my car. Tom and Susie finally calmed down and went to sleep. The next day they were waiting for me outside my sociology class. Tom shouted, “Pay up, we need more gum.” Susie chimed in, “You don’t want to go to jail do you? Leave 10 packs of orange flavor Nicorette gum under the slide at the playground by 5 p.m. today.” They handed me an envelope of pictures in which I’m laughing while force feeding Susie and Tom pieces of Nicorette gum. How young do kids learn Photoshop?  I need to figure something out quickly because this morning I found a note on my car demanding a case of orange gum, attached to an anonymous letter to the police with a poster of me selling Nicorette gum to a bunch of kids behind the ice cream parlor.

Gummed Up


Dear Gummed Up,

Those kids really have it out for you! When I was a child, I used to torment my babysitters. Oh, how much fun it was! Well, for me at least. I remember a sitter that frequently took care of me when I was around 6 or so. I believe her name was Lydia. She was the daughter of my mother’s friend and a junior reporter for the local newspaper. Lydia must have been about 23 at that time. Anyway, no matter how hard Lydia tried I would never listen to her. In fact, I found her telling me what to do rather bothersome. One night, I was in the middle of composing a violin concerto when she told me it was time for bed and hid my bow. Another time she shut down my backyard production of Sophocles’ “Electra” interrupting my most riveting monologue and completely throwing off the Greek chorus (it took weeks to get those kids off book). So, I took matters into my own hands. One night, after Lydia foolishly drifted off reading, I went through her bag and found a story she had written for the paper. I carefully changed only a few words so that she wouldn’t notice before handing it in. The original article was a piece on the mayor, citing his wonderful contributions over the years. The article that was turned in was about the mayor’s terrible habits like gambling, embezzling town funds, cheating on his wife, his secret children in America, and of course his ties to organized crime — you really can pick up quite a bit from your neighbors’ conversations. She was immediately fired and arrested but not before the Mayor’s wife surprised her with a crow bar. Nor before the feuding crime gangs sat her down for a talk to straighten things out. The last I heard of Lydia she had changed her name and moved to another country. Such a shame, really. I managed to contact her years later to apologize but upon hearing my name she apparently went into some sort of cationic state and had to be institutionalized. So you see, I do understand the mess you’re in and what you’re dealing with. You must beat Susie and Tom at their own game. First, there will be no more gum; let these kids take their rage out on strangers like the rest of the world. Second, you must manufacture pictures of Susie and Tom stealing money from you, playing Frisbee with the family china, tripping other children at the playground while wildly giggling…the scenarios are endless. Hand deliver the pictures to their parents so that you can explain how hard it is for you to say anything bad about Susie and Tom but that it was time they as parents knew the truth. Make sure to send back up photos to the police. In no time the children will be sent to reformatory school and you will be free to chew all the Nicorette gum you want. Children are awful creatures.

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A Note From Tabitha

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Dear Cherished Readers,

What I thought was a simple case of food poisoning after eating questionable parsnip and rabbit casserole, turned out to be influenza. I shan’t get into the details of my illness, though I cannot be more thankful to the local orphanage of mice for bringing me their exquisite handmade quilts. Hence, I have been unable to respond to any of your latest queries. I am drinking plenty of hot toddies and expect to be back in full vigor next week.

Yours faithfully,

Tabitha Von Tassel


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Tabitha on Holiday Hijinks

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Hey Lady!

I need to come up with $8,000 bucks fast. I’m Matt, a junior at Selby High School. My English teacher made us all bring in a present for a holiday grab bag.  Well, I thought the whole idea was really stupid, so I grabbed my grandfather’s hearing aid off the counter yesterday and tossed it in the grab bag. Laura Weston reached in and picked up the hearing aid. She screamed so loud the hearing aid started making a high pitched noise and one of the stoner kids jumped out a window. (We’re on the first floor.) Laura was like totally freaking out and threw the hearing aid across the room, ricocheting off Tom, hitting Mrs. Landy in the face, breaking her glasses and causing her to passed out. I ran out of the class but four guys from the wrestling team tackled me to the ground and dragged me back on my face. When Mrs. Landy woke up, she was pretty pissed off or at least looked angry – kinda hard to tell with her squinting and limping on one side. So now I like have to pay for the teacher’s glasses, the cast for Johnny’s leg, a new hearing aid for my grandfather and flowers or some girlie crap for Laura.

Communication Breakdown


Dear Communication Breakdown,

That does seem like a bit of a predicament. When I was 17, my friend Clara and I started are own business. We created edible soaps. Though we really had no idea what we were doing, people loved us and were drawn to our unique pieces like fruit, candies and grilled fish. Unfortunately, the entire business folded as the soap was just soap and made everyone a bit ill.  We actually had to go to jail, pay a few fines and do community service. The jail stay was nothing as we were both strong lasses and looked quite pretty in just about anything, even grey overalls. The other prisoners were a trifle scared of us though I’m not sure why. I think it may have been our mid-day scream release practices and body throwing for exercise. Either way, not so much as one person, even the guards, spoke a word to us. To pay the fines we stole money from patrons at local bars when it was clear they had imbibed a bit too much; one of us would distract them with a lovely song while the other emptied their wallets. As for the community service, that was a different story. Our work detail was to remove all the bits of gum stuck on the sidewalks of our village and then polish them. Well, Clara and I quickly found a system which made this work like brushing the hair of a beautiful pony. As I was the stronger of the two of us, my task was to chisel off the gum with a hammer and shiv, while Clara filed the cement even, spat and rubbed it with two of her powder puffs attached to each hand (she even added Brylcreem to each puff). It took us about a year but we made the sidewalks of our village shine. It was a pity when the following month the pavement was torn up due to a sewage explosion. But we will always remember our fine work. So you see, I do understand your situation. You could try to raise the money by starting a bake sale but those things rarely eke out more than a few dollars. Instead, you should have a fundraiser for a new water fountain. The whole school will back you and be more than happy to shell out their money. By the time they realize there is no new fountain, explain that you come from a broken family and didn’t know what to do. You must cry a great deal. If not, have a fake passport ready and take a job overseas.


Hey Lady!

I’m writing this from the back of a meat freezer truck and I have no idea where we’re going. My name is Gavin and I work at one of Ohio’s top real estate firms. Last night was the office holiday party. From what I remember, most people stood around the bar with their dates or significant others, telling horrible jokes and pretending to laugh, a bunch of others were off in another room playing strip twister, and a group played wiffle ball with urinal cakes outside. I was on my way to join the wiffle ball game when I heard strange noises coming from the conference room. I opened the door to find the two owners of the firm dressed up as Ozzy Osbourne and Lita Ford on the table performing “Close My Eyes Forever.” What was in that punch? And where did they get those spot-on outfits? Did she buy Lita Ford’s studded jacket on eBay? How long did Rick tease his hair to get it as big and fluffy as Ozzy’s? I need to find out what eyeliner they used; my wife would love it. Anyway, even though I ducked out pretty fast, Lisa and Rick must have realized I saw their duet because ten minutes later (and a quick wardrobe change) they insisted on showing me a new property that night. They drove me out to an empty lot next to a huge house off the highway. As soon as we got out of the car, they pointed a taser at me and told me I could never speak of what I saw. Even though I promised to keep their secret, they took my clothes, phone, and money. Then they laughed and said all was forgiven and if I shaved my head, we could go back to the party and have a drink together. The next thing I remember was stumbling down the road covered in bits of hair, trying to flag down help. I woke up a little while ago and found myself here. The name on the box I used to write you says “Canadian Beef” and by my watch we’ve been driving for at least two hours. Before it gets any colder, or I end up in another country, I’m going to hurl myself out the back doors using a side of beef to cushion my landing.

Prime Cut Estate


Dear Prime Cut Estate,

I hope you landed safely. Lita Ford and Ozzy Osbourne — oh how I do love “Close My Eyes Forever” and what a video!! I still watch it! Your unfortunate situation brings to mind the marble competition when I was 9. My parents hired a private coach after noticing how well I played and what skill I had in beating my fellow mates.  For a few painstaking weeks coach Linner trained me. She put me on a strict diet of oats, goat cheese and coffee.  Every morning we would practice balance, strength and aim through ballet, boxing and thumb flicking (thumb wrestling was forbidden as it was too dangerous). I was performing the dance of the four swans without missing a step on and off pointe. My right and left hooks started ripping apart the boxing bag and eventually I was punching through walls. The thumb flicking became a thumb jaunt as the distance and accuracy I achieved with each piece of gravel had me flicking sometimes anywhere between 3 and 20 pebbles at a time, perfectly hitting my marks on rotating mannequins. My game was fierce as I was faster and stronger than any of the other children playing marbles and my aim was impeccable. I was unbeatable. Finally coach Linner felt that I was ready to compete. I made it through the first 5 rounds with ease, knocking out my fellow marble players with a slight flick of the wrist. The next 10 rounds, I continued to knock out player after player, with deft and grace. My marbles shone like bright stars as I shot them across the floor. Coach Linner was so proud, as were my parents, and I felt like Rocky Marciano. There were only 2 competitors left to beat until I would be crowned Grand Marble of England. I dunked my head in a tub of ice, threw back a cup of coffee and was ready.  What happened next, no one foresaw. I was up against Hailey The Hornet, the reigning champion for the past 4 years. We lined up in front of the judges, faced each other and waited for the referee to shout “cast!” Hailey and I must have flung our marbles at the exact same time because they smacked together setting off sparks and proceeded to knock out the head judge and referee. They were both taken to the hospital and though, they only suffered mild concussions; the title of Grand Marble of England went to the kid that I had beat in a previous round and both Hailey and I were banned from marbles for life. We thought this unjust and took the crown anyway, trading it back and forth each year to this very day. But back to you, Gavin. Your bosses have treated you unfairly indeed. Liquored up or not, they should be ashamed of their behavior – especially hiding behind the glory of Lita and Ozzy. You must find an excellent recording of “If I Close My Eyes Forever” teach the entire staff a dance routine to the song and perform the piece for your bosses. Rick and Lisa will be in awe of your skill and audacity and reward you perhaps with a raise. There’s also a good chance they will fire you for exposing them so I would send out your resume to other firms beforehand.


Hey Lady!

Every year my next door neighbor decorates the outside of his house and yard so much that you can see the lights from a mile away. This year, he added extra lawn ornaments, some stationary and some that move. So far, the creepiest one I’ve seen is the Santa in a hot air balloon that rises and lowers all night long. So yesterday, I got a call from UPS that they accidentally delivered an important box of work documents to his back door. I had no choice; I had to run the gauntlet. First I squeezed between the 10ft tall snowmen and thought “This is a breeze! Why was I worried?” That was when I kicked a blow-up igloo sending a dozen penguins directly into a giant Nutcracker which pushed him forward knocking over a long row of gingerbread men which smacked me sideways causing me to trip over the army of elves landing in a giant web of snowflakes made of wire which cut me up pretty bad as I struggled for a few minutes to get free only to smack my head on the reindeer suspended mid-air, then feeling my way with my arms, knocking down 3 angels which shattered on the ground kicking up a flurry of fake snow, blinding me as I stepped on a few singing candy canes, twisted my ankle on the main electrical cord and ripped it out short circuiting the entire display and all the 20 pounds of twinkle lights as I flew toward the hot air balloon basket with Santa, fell in head first and floated away to “Winter Wonderland” setting off a firework display. Is there any way I can blame this on my two year old son?

Human Pinball


Dear Human Pinball,

I hope you’re alright; sounds like you escaped quite the minefield. A very similar thing happened to me when I was but 5 years old. I had a friend named Emily who lived in some forgettable shire or other not far from where I lived. The two of us would play at her home almost every day as she had the most exquisite play house. Emily’s parents had a nasty affair, something to do with her father and his secretary I believe, and so to distract her they built her a place to play. Well, this was no ordinary play house. It was Victorian by design, two stories high, bay windows, long silk drapes, hand carved oak furniture, full kitchen, chandelier, bathroom (she even had a bidet), plush upholstery and a real china tea set. One afternoon while Emily and I were playing hide-and-seek, disaster struck. I was hiding in the bathroom when Emily screamed “found you!” I was so startled I fell backwards into the bidet, hit the handle causing the water to propel me across the room where I stepped on a roller skate, slid a few feet, somersaulted down the stairs into the main room, I clutched onto a curtain to pull myself up but instead fell forward into a table, ripped down all of the curtains, landing with the top of my head on the china, smashing it, rolled over to my side hit the round end of a teaspoon with my hand flung it straight up into the chandelier which, after a few large swings fell down taking down with it the entire house. Emily and I ran out in the nick of time. That light fixture was really attached to the ceiling. We blamed the entire incident on her brother who then got sent to military school. Now, as to you, my dear. You must not blame your son, however tempting for the destruction of that horrid winter spectacle. First knock on your neighbor’s door in search of your delivery, feigning ignorance as to what happened. Be sure to make mention that you noticed him sleepwalking last night, eating a bag of sugar and running around out back. Warn him that walking in one’s sleep can be quite dangerous and that he is lucky indeed that this was all that resulted from his stroll. He will be too embarrassed to question what you’ve told him and send you on your way.  This may sound a bit mean but honestly, decorating the exterior of one’s home like an amusement park on steroids is unacceptable.


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Tabitha on Candy Contraceptives, Nixon and Football in Tutus

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Hey Lady!

My name is Sue and I’m a first grade teacher. Yesterday, one of my students brought in his mother’s birth control pills for show and tell. According to the school snitch, little Timmy, (whose real name shall remain anonymous) handed out the pills to the other students before I began class. By the time I found out what was going on the children had already ingested the contraceptives along with a vat of gummy bears and M&M’s. Panicked, I told them all we were going on a scavenger hunt and rushed them to the emergency room. After having their stomachs pumped, I had a few orderlies carry the drugged kids back to class. While the kids were occupied talking to themselves and staring at light bulbs, I snuck out. I found an old stash of Fen-Phen in the teacher’s lounge and stuck the pills in the birth control compact, slipped back into class and shuffled the kids to the bus home. The principal left a message demanding a meeting with me as he received numerous calls from parents complaining of children strung out and crashing. The woman must have taken some of the Fen-Phen because she’s been pounding on my door like the Hulk for the past two hours and screaming faster than the speed of light.

Schoolyard Pusher


Dear Schoolyard Pusher,

Oh, you poor thing. When Hendrich and I were first married, I couldn’t toast a crumpet. Though I wanted to take cooking lessons, his taxidermy company hadn’t yet taken off and we could scarcely make ends meet. Sick of eating jars of Marmite and tired of naming stuffed Shelties, I set out to find culinary aid. Not a mile away I found a monk passed out under a tree with a bottle of brandy. Just as I was about to pass him, it hit me that the monastery did all of its own cooking. What better place to learn the culinary arts? So I gently removed the monk’s robe and helped him into a passing car. I threw the on robe, tightened the cincture and with the hood drawn slightly over my face no one was the wiser. It was the perfect cover! I found my way up to the monastery and joined a few other Monks in the kitchen to prepare lunch. Using vegetables from their garden I made a few batches of stew. I did my best to copy the other cooks, cutting and measuring very carefully.  Everyone seemed to love my stew, coming back for second and even third helping. I finished cleaning the kitchen and was about to sneak off back home when all the monks burst outside doubled over and ran to the privies. Some couldn’t make it in time and dug a hole in the ground. They were there for some time and I heard a few quietly weeping. On my walk home I realized that I had used castor oil instead of canola oil. An honest mistake really. Now, Sue, tell the principal you needed to use the washroom and left your class with a fellow teacher who, unbeknownst to you, is going through her 3rd divorce and quite distraught. When you returned to your classroom, she was drunk, dancing on your desk and throwing her birth control pills to the students in between Cha-Cha’s. Being the responsible teacher you are, you rushed the children to the hospital, with no time to alert anyone. Safety first! Explain that as this torrid divorce has already ripped apart your fellow coworker, you did not want to get her in trouble and sent the children home per the doctor’s instructions. As to the woman hyped up on Fen-Phen, she will eventually tire herself out and collapse in a long sleep on your doorstep. While she is passed out, take the compact of Fen-Phen and dispose of it. I suggest giving her a healthy dose of Rohypnol; It’s easy to acquire and you never can be too careful when it comes to one’s memory.


Hey Lady!

Wyatt here, writing you from the flat wheated plains of Nebraska. As head farmer of my town I judge an annual scarecrow competition. Well I reckon, this year’s contest is a doozy! I have dozens of scarecrows with yer standard lanky arms, painted faces and flannel dressin’, and one with a face that’s gotta be a near perfect likeness of President Richard Nixon. On my word, I was taken aback lookin’ at good old “Tricky Dick” but almost fainted right on the spot when I seen the contestant responsible was a 10 year old boy. Joshua is the son of a local corn farmer and his momma been home schoolin’ him since he came a hollering out of her womb. When I asked him what he done created he said “Watergate was a setup!” and ran off. Hank and Doris are good hard workin’ people in this town. I took a stroll over to the farm to have a talk with them and wouldn’t ya know it? The entire house is plastered with posters and memorabilia of President Nixon. I returned back to my stables and tried to make a decision. Goin’ by them rules, Joshua’s scarecrow is the best craftsmanship but I don’t feel right about makin’ him the winner. Heck, I wanted to impeach Nixon. I don’t know what I should do and now on account of catchin’ sight of scarecrow Nixon, my cows got spooked and won’t stop screaming.



Dear Scarecrowgate,

What a talented young lot you have there, Wyatt. One summer, when I was but 17, in an attempt to point out the folly of my wanton ways, my parents put me on the board of the Wayward Women’s Auxiliary Jam and Preserves Festival. Mum and Dad felt that helping to salvage these young women and staving off their ruination — at least for another year or so — would frighten me into more virtuous behavior. Not knowing much about jam, preserves or really any kind of jarred fruit I dove in quite blind. I thought I could wing the judging competition as well, everything tastes good on scones.  But from the 15 year old pregnant runaway with red currant jam, to the scantily clad 19 year old prostitute with boysenberry and lemon compote, I was at a loss. They were equally divine. I wanted them both to win the grand prize of £1,000 and sterilization. So, I had to get down to the nitty-gritty and put my feelings aside. I focused solely on the contestants and chose an unwed 20 year old mother of 3 with a terrible tasting rotten orange marmalade that still makes me nauseated just at the thought of it. I haven’t been able to eat an orange since. I think the other two women ended up running a brothel together in London, so you see, it ended up working out for the best…although the winner did invest all the money in a new home which was destroyed by a termite infestation. The poor thing had no insurance. Wyatt, you must do what you believe is right for you. These children won’t remember the contest in a few decades and if they do, hopefully you’ll be dead or they will have been thrown in prison for leading a life of crime. It sounds like young Joshua is already well on his way. Pronounce one of the scary faces the scarecrow winner and send word to your nearest political office that you have a young candidate on your hands.


Hey Lady!

My fiancée is a huge football fan. She belongs to a ten different fantasy football leagues and this year she emptied the savings account for our honeymoon to pay for it! As the New York Giants are her favorite team, she is a season ticket holder at MetLife Stadium and drags me to all the home games. I don’t ask how she got the money for the 50 yardline seats. She even insists on flying around the country to watch them play. Almost every night she has all the girls over to watch the games. I read “Football For Dummies” just so I could keep up with her. I hate football. Just the other evening I had tickets for us to go see Giselle by The American Ballet Theater at Lincoln Center and she blew off the show for the game. She wants me to dress up like a line-backer to get into the mood but I refuse. I love her very much and want to marry her but I can’t seem to find a way to cope with her football obsession.

Engaged To Cleats


Dear Engaged To Cleats,

This is a sorry tale indeed. I can’t help but call to mind an affair when I was but 16. One day I found myself quite bored and set out in the village in search of a bit of fun. The usual lures of sword juggling and fire eating were of no interest to me. Then I happened upon a bunch of sturdy, rather scruffy looking fellows clad in black leather who were laughing and sipping tea. Thetian, the head of the group, could not have been kinder and invited me to join their motorcycle gang. I hitched up my lacy petticoats and climbed on. I’ll never forget the first moment I revved up my hog; the power at my fingertips was exhilarating! It turns out I had quite the knack for riding as I not only sped faster than all the other mates, but was the only one who was able to drive through the ring of death and survive.(It was a shame about Rupert the Club and Tom a.k.a “the punisher.”) When I told my boyfriend Ian of my new passion he was disgusted. He would neither get a motorcycle of his own nor jump on the back of mine.  Well, never being one to bend to a man’s will, I put on my studded vest, hopped on “Bessie” and drove off to meet up with the gang. A few days later, while we all were enjoying a nice bonfire, performing tricks on our bikes and singing folk songs, who should show up but Ian. He drove up on the mightiest motorcycle I’ve yet to see, wearing a black leather jumpsuit with spiked fingerless gloves and steel boots. I threw down my pint of malt, and ran over to Ian engaging in the most passionate of embraces right there on his hog. It was a night every young lass dreams about from infancy. As to you, my friend, you must put aside your love for ballet, purchase a football uniform and get ready for some wild nights with your lady!  In your case, love isn’t about being yourself; it’s about pretending to be the person your fiancée wants you to be. I know, most people disagree with this notion but they’re probably alone. Pretend you are Albrecht chasing Giselle! Prince Désiré kissing Princess Aurora! Romeo ravaging Juliet! Just make sure you don’t actually utter any of those names as she will think you’re cheating on her and leave you in a heartbeat.



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Tabitha on Pigeon Fighting, Girl Scout Rivalry and The Family Jewels

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Hey Lady!

I’m in a pigeon fighting ring and I can’t get out. This all started when I was taking my daily walk with the local pigeons. Usually we sing together as I feed them (only organic seed) and sometimes we even skip. About a month ago we were approached by a man. He turned out to be a Columbidae manager and took a shine to my favorite bird, Elsie. He said he knew of some pigeon activities I might be interested in and handed me an address saying to bring Elsie at 9 pm. I arrived at an alley behind “Our Father’s Holy Moly” where there was a crowd of people shouting and cheering, huddled around a group of pigeons They put one male pigeon in with two females who then tried to psych out each other by cooing, preening and strutting around (showing off their dainty legs and strong claws) to win the mate and round. Everyone places bets and if your bird wins, the pay-out can be huge. Last night I made 500 bucks in one fight as Elsie is fierce in psychological warfare and her plumage is like no other bird. But then catastrophe hit. Elsie has stopped eating, is walking in circles and hissing. The veterinarian said she is having a nervous breakdown. I keep trying to quit but watching her flap her iridescent wings in glory is so wonderful. I’m also a few thousand dollars in the hole.



Dear Pigeon-Holed,

This sounds too familiar. In my early twenties, being quite the social butterfly, I started playing Bingo at the local church. It was tremendously fun and I won almost every game. Oh the anticipation just before the caller shouted out the next number gave me goose bumps. What a rush! I started feeling complacent with the games and the pace was terribly slow, all the players were quite elderly with the exception of a teenage exchange student from Greenland. I needed to find a way to spice up my Bingo. So, following a posting in the paper, I began to frequent a rather unsavory bar which held Bingo.  There was a door fee and many of the other folks were professional Bingo players. We all had bookies and placed bets on who would win — I was set up with decent fellow, or so I thought, named Stumpy. Being fairly out of my depth with these champions, before I knew it, I owed £10,000. I considered changing my name and moving to another country but I knew Stumpy would eventually find me. So, I hired one of the professional players from a pub down the road to coach me. This lovely chap let me pay him in home cooked meals as he was quite the vagabond and a sucker for a good pot roast. Well, after a few sessions I was ready to go back to Bingo. I sold one of my molars to pay my way into the game again (no one really looks at them anyway). In just two weeks I won enough money to pay back Stumpy and buy myself a silk scarf. I don’t think I ever replaced my molar. So, as you can see, I completely understand your situation. If your Elsie is as good as you say you have only one option: put her on antidepressants and whatever other medications necessary to regain her sanity. While you are waiting for the medications to fully kick in, tell everyone that Elsie got pregnant and is benched for a bit. Or she had family visiting and couldn’t let on about her fighting as it would break her mother’s heart. Either way, it will buy you some time. Once she is back to her lustrous and cunning self, get her back in that ring and win your money back. After that, you may want to take a break: gambling is a disgusting habit.


Hey Lady!

This is Mary, Girl Scout Junior, troop 522, age 10. Our troop leader is making us fix her car’s transmission for a merit badge. Normally we’d refuse but it’s the auto maintenance badge which is the only one we don’t have on our sashes to beat out troop 523. They’re such snobs and they sewed their badges on with glitter thread CLEARLY disrespecting the Girl Scout honor. (The National Board Officers only gave them a warning for violating code 7, chapter 2 of the official handbook: sash representation. They should have been suspended.) Anyway, Carrie and I had a hard time getting the car up high enough, we are using 10 jacks. Following the instructions we found online, “Revving Gears: Auto Slashers Ultimate Forum,” we started working. One of the bolts was too tight for us to unscrew so I invited over Jack, Boy Scout, troop 633, age 11. We met at recess on day when he was admiring the crisp press on my Girl Scout regulation uniform. After loosening the bolt, Jack wanted to go play with frogs and left. With my troop working hard we made little progress and can’t get the car running. We are desperate for this badge but I don’t know what to do. I may have just cut the brake line and as of 2200 hours Carrie is stuck under the car.

In the Line of Duty


Dear In the Line of Duty,

When I was around your age I played tuba in a marching band. Oh, the sharp white polyester uniforms with leather tassels and matching boots, the careful counting of marching in step with the entire band and the blissful sounds that came out of my tuba. One spring, our band instructor assigned me a very difficult solo. Up to that point I had basically been winging my playing, getting by on my enthusiasm and excellent marching skills. I had 5 days to learn and perfect this solo to play at the next parade; if I didn’t, Miranda Wickerson would have been moved up to first tuba player, knocking me down a level and back a row in the band. It was do or die time. I took home that sheet music, I believe it was “Dead Flowers” by The Rolling Stones (I think the band instructor was going through some personal difficulties at the time) and practiced round-the-clock till my fingers were sore. The day before the parade, the conductor had me come in and play the piece. I did such a wonderful job I had him dancing and crying as I played and was crowned player of the week. It was one of my proudest achievements, musically at least. I saved all the pictures and newspaper clippings from those marching band days. Unfortunately, the same day as my big victory, Miranda had some kind of accident and was unable to play for the entire year. Rumor had it that she went out for a stroll when someone tripped her, breaking her ankle in 4 different places. She never said what exactly happened and now that I think of it, she transferred schools right after the injury. Anyway, I was in the marching band for years and even now still play on occasion. Now, Mary. I commend your allegiance to the Girl Scouts, they are indeed lucky to have you. Sometimes we all need a bit of help. As it turns out, a friend of mine has a granddaughter who lives a town away from you and is a Girl Scout Senior, her name is Tina and she works part time as a mechanic after school. She will meet you tomorrow at 0700 hours behind the 7-Eleven. She will assist you in fixing the transmission and the badge will be yours. Bound by her code to always help a fellow scout in need and her grandmother’s backing over my Corgi, Tina will never speak a word about her aid. You and your troop shall receive your badge and beat out those snooty girls of 523. Go find Jack and have a nice regulation campfire with s’mores. Have you thought about joining the Royal Service when you are of age?


Hey Lady!

My dead husband is in the garbage disposal. I was washing the dishes when my Cremation Diamond ring slipped off my finger and down the drain. Before I realized what had happened, I turned on the disposal and poor Ethan was ground to smithereens. I crawled under the sink, took apart the pipe and managed to recover some orange peel, sardine bones and dark goo. The diamond must have turned to dust and washed away. (I did put the goo in a jar just in case he’s in there.) The Cremation Diamond was the only thing I had left of my beloved. Sure I have pictures, his clothes, hair from his brush, his last dental x-rays and recordings of our love making but this was him, flesh and bone. When Ethan passed, my stepdaughter sued me in an attempt to stop from having the diamond made as she wanted his ashes buried in their family plot. Luckily the court ruled in my favor and I was free to proceed. The lovely staff at Cremation Diamonds assured me I was making a good decision and required all of his ashes to make the stone. I supposed I could have saved some of the ashes but I really love how a 15 carat ring looks. Jocelyn has regularly scheduled weekly visitation with the ring and when she finds out about this, she will kill me. She once came after me with an andiron for getting her fired from her job. To be on the safe side, I bought a similar looking ring and borrowed a cap gun from a kid down the street.

Pulverized Love


Dear Pulverized Love,

What a tizzy you must be in! I am sorry for the loss of your husband, I do empathize. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss that sexy goof Hendrich. One of the things that brought my husband and me together was a mutual love for skeet shooting. For our second year anniversary we even bought matching double barrel shot guns with gold plated stocks. We would go to the range so frequently that once we bought our country estate, we simply set up a course at home. Sometimes I’d wake at 4 am to find Hendrich out shooting clay discs from the night before. Our neighbors used to phone the police, complaining of the noise but as it turns out the Chief Constable was a huge skeet shooter himself and ended up joining us for several games. When Hendrich was taken from this world, he was cremated and put in a Venetian blown glass urn. As per his request, at a private service at the country estate, my staff rigged the urn on the trap.  I shouted “pull” with all the gusto I could muster and as it flew high into the air, I shot it. The force of the shot was so intense, the urn burst while spinning. The majority of his ashes blew right back on me and I ended up inhaling most of Hendrich. When family asks to see him, they just visit with me. I still have some scars from shards of the glass urn. As to you, my dear, step-daughters can be such a pest, can’t they? To keep Jocelyn from attacking you, a new ring must be worn.  Go to your local crematorium and find unclaimed ashes (there are always a few crates worth).  Buy the ashes from the owner explaining that you misplaced your brother’s remains and are in a pickle. Slip him an extra fifty dollars as you motion to a vase you fancy, any old one will do. Then, telephone Cremation Diamonds asking for another ring to be made and ship off the new ashes. As to not arouse suspicion with Jocelyn, explain that you have been having uncontrollable hand flailing and removed the ring for fear of losing it and you put it in a safety deposit box and can’t find the key. That will provide enough time for the new ring to be made and sent to you. Next thing you know, you will have a brand new ring on your finger, hopefully made of some decent person. (You may want to inquire about the remains when purchasing them at the crematorium.) When you have shown Jocelyn the ring, find someone to fossilize the goo with Ethan’s dusty remnants and see if you can’t have a pendant made.


*Previously posted 10/24/2012 on

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Tabitha on Toddlers & Smoking, Toupees and Opera

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Hey Lady!

This week in nursery school, my daughter made her father and me a ceramic ashtray. Normally we adore Lilly’s crafts but along with the astray she handed us pack of Pall Malls, insisting we smoke them. I’m a little confused as to how my 4 year old bought a pack of cigarettes. Neither of us smokes but do not want to let her down. Every morning she wakes us up by setting down the ashtray and Pall Malls on our bed and saying “Have a puff.”  She follows us around the house and wherever we sit she plops down the ashtray and cigarettes. Yesterday she handed me a lighter! Last night my husband went to take out the trash and on the kitchen counter there was a Polaroid of Lilly holding the ashtray and cigarettes with a note attached saying “Don’t you love me?”and a frowny face. I think that’s what it said; it was hard to read the crayon. If that wasn’t enough, I just found her taking a drag off a cigarette behind her dollhouse muttering “I do it myself.” Luckily I hid the ashtray.

Up In Smoke


Dear Up In Smoke,

What a lovely child you have! I can’t help but recall the bridge I built as a toddler. At that age I was in Brian Babies advanced placement music, dance, math and Latin classes but nothing satiated my curiosity and oomph. So each night I would shimmy down the rails around my bed and head to the local ravine. Using tools I had taken from my dad’s shed and fallen branches from the surrounding forest, I began to build a bridge. Well, it took me a month or so of hard labor and long nights but I created a beautiful path across the ravine. I was so excited and couldn’t wait to show it off to mum and dad! That evening, I got up during dinner and swiftly made my way to the ravine with them running fast behind me. When we got to the bridge, I told them I had made it and mum and dad simply looked shocked. Then they tried to drag me back home but I slipped loose and crawled out to the middle of the bridge. They yelled for me to come back but I stood my ground. I said “NO! You here.” Well after a 10 hour stand-off, the arrival of the fire brigade, Constable and most of the village, my parents gave in and tip-toed across the foot wide bridge (I chose not to put up railings as it ruined the aesthetic) and gave me a giant hug where we met in the middle. After that night, we were never closer. They did put a tracking device on me… But as to your Lilly, she clearly wants to bond with you. Do you love your daughter? If you do you must stop this silly behavior and be a good parent. I’m sure sometime in your life you’ve smoked a cigarette. If not, suck it up. When you are all together I want you and your husband to sit in front of Lilly, place the ashtray in front of you and open that pack of Pall Malls. Both you and your husband are to light a cigarette and smoke away using the ashtray. Lilly will be moved at your efforts and not only bask in the second hand smoke but also be overjoyed.  The more you smoke, the stronger the bond between you and your child. I recommend the entire pack. You will probably cough quite a bit and certainly vomit but the love of your child will comfort you. Have some ginger ale on hand.


Hey Lady!

I’m going to get fired because of my boss’s toupée. Stan is constantly bragging about how great it is to have such naturally lustrous hair when we all know it’s a rug. I mean, it looks like Barbie’s tresses. Whenever he’s out of the office we play Frisbee with the spare he keeps in the freezer. He has it wrapped in foil and marked “Flounder.” Sometimes, in the middle of giving the office a lecture his toupee starts slipping off. We all place bets as to how far “Merlie” will get and how fast; I won 50 bucks this month. The clincher was this morning when I opened up a delivery of what I later realized to be toupees. Thinking it was a posse of wild rats, I threw the box on the floor screaming and ran into a wall. Stan rushed out, wanting to know what was wrong. I managed get up, kick the box under my desk and blame my yelps on a Band-Aid in my sandwich. Convinced, Stan returned to his office.  I took one of the toups out of the box and holding it on my head danced around impersonating Howard Cosell. I resealed the box and my coworkers are sworn to cubicle secrecy (I have a lot of dirt on them). I think Stan saw me because he just scheduled an emergency meeting with me and is wearing a 10 gallon hat.

Flying Carpet


Dear Flying Carpet,

Haven’t we all embarrassed ourselves at one point or another? In high school my friends and I decided to skip off for a bit and travel through France. We back-packed all over the place and oh the adventures we had. Audrey, Shelia and I all met the cutest boys on the rail and we carried on with them for a few days. I grew tired of Jean and decided we needed to change course.  The three of us signed up for a bus tour though The Left Bank. The guide was droll as can be and that’s when it hit me to impersonate her.  First I had to knock her out and swap clothes which was quite easy as I’ve always had a great left hook. I pinned on her name badge and violà, I was Violette. My French was impeccable and even my French accented English was excellent. Though I botched up a few the sights as I was focused more amusing my friends than the actual tour, everyone believed me! I left Violette’s uniform next to her, we slipped into the nearest café jumping on stage and taking turns reciting Allen Ginsberg. We got a huge round of snaps for “Howl.” As to you my dear, we shall hope your boss has a sense of humor. From what you’ve told me the jig is up. When in the meeting with Stan, if he brings up the toupee incident, simply tell him that you’ve been looking for the right wig for yourself and thought you’d try his on. Tell him you admire his collection of hair pieces and would like to take a closer look.  This should flatter him and get you off the hook as he has obviously been mocked for his choice in grooming.  If not, do not apologize. No one likes a weak employee. Stand up and tell him how ridiculous he looks. He may reward you for your honesty and promote you. To be on the safe side, update your resume and find a staffing agency.



Hey Lady!

Yo. If anyone finds out I’m writing this, my reputation is in the gutter and I mean raw sewage gutter. Ok? Call me Joe. I’m a construction worker in Queens, mainly mixing and pouring concrete. My wife, bless her acid-washed denim heart, bought me tickets to the Monster Truck rally this weekend.  The thing is, my boys and me already got reservations to see La Traviata at the Met. Last month we saw La Bohéme and I have to say, Larson really did a decent job of representing Puccini’s work with Rent. Don’t get me wrong, when Rudolpho and Mimi sing “O Soave Fanciulla” my heart soars. Pucccini really nailed it. Don’t get me started on Madama Butterfly. I’m tearing up already.  I don’t want to hurt my wife’s feelings but I’m just not into all that typical guy rough stuff.  For my birthday she took me to WrestleMania and I had to pretend to enjoy it. Those animals. I could barely stand it. All day long I have to act like a beast so when I get to relax I just want to enjoy the finer things of this life, ya know? Anyways, I don’t got a clue as to how to handle this.

Arias of Concrete


Dear Arias of Concrete,

Good sir, you seem rather misunderstood. My Hendrich had many friends who played rugby and were rather taken with the sport. They invited him to play matches with him as well as go to professional rugby games at Twickenham Stadium. A few times they went to the Six Nations and even the Rugby World Cup. From all the bruises and crying I assumed Hendrich was enjoying himself and had become quite the player and fan. That time he came home missing a tooth, I thought he might join the union or even league. Looking back on it now I probably should have noticed something was amiss. All seemed fine until one day I was chasing a rabid squirrel out from my turnip patch in the backyard. I found Hendrich in the empty field behind our estate, playing a game of croquet all by his lonesome. Oh how cute he looked earnestly lining up his mallet and ball to perfect a stroke in his frilled socks! He had set up the all the hoops for a rather difficult game and seemed to have broken a sweat. I said nothing, as he hadn’t seen me and I didn’t want to disturb his game. The next morning I surprised him with a new mallet, his initials engraved at the top. I told him that I knew of his playing and was so proud of him. He confessed that he had made up all the rugby games as he found the sport dull. His real calling was croquet. After that, I helped him find other players around town and occasionally played with him in our yard. Enough of my ramblings. Joe, you must tell your wife. She seems to love you a great deal and wants to see you happy.  Confide in her your distaste for vulgar sports and events and tell her of your passion for Opera.  She will probably be relieved not to have to sit through another cage match or truck smashing event. Get two tickets for the upcoming show, I believe Aida will be playing soon and give them to her that evening.  I bet it will make for a romantic night.  If not, tell her it was a joke and you want to try out for the WWE — she may already have eyes on your friends.


*Previously posted 10/17/2012 on


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Tabitha on Snausages, Gluey Predicaments and CB Radio Love

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Hey Lady!

I’m addicted to Snausages.  This is my freshman year of college and all of this started from a stupid dare. One night my buddies and I were wasted and this dude dared me to eat dog treats. The bodega only had Snausages or wet food so I took the fake hot dog looking things. Well it’s a month later and I can’t stop eating the stuff! The beef and cheese is my favorite. Ooh, the tasty morsels of dried beef and bits of waxy cheese wrapped in a tough layer of dough…just thinking about them makes me drool. I tried eating pigs in a blanket, but it’s not the same. My friends are spreading rumors that I’m half canine and leaving squeaky chew toys everywhere. Now I spend most of my time at the kennel eating Snausages with the dogs and am considering Beggin’ Strips.

Consumed by Snausages


Dear Consumed by Snausages,


Your tale of woe brings me right back to the Rites of Fall when I was 16! My friends and I participated in each activity; gourd smashing, interpretive leaf dancing, poem chanting and cider spitting. I so taken with cider spitting I entered the competitive circuit for a year. Talented as I was, there was never a drop of cider to be found on my white lace frocks. My obsession to perfect my aim, distance and speed led me to spit cider at passersby as I walked through the village. Children, old men passed out on benches, my parents…I couldn’t stop. Eventually I was jailed for spitting cider on the mayor’s wife with such force that she toppled over and gave up the sport. (Though I do still have excellent aim.) Back to this Snausage problem. Why shy away from something you enjoy so much? You’re friends are Neanderthals. Cast them aside. But first, telephone their parents. Have them send you embarrassing pictures of their children when they were growing up. Make plenty of flyers of each and post them around school paying special attention to cover the girls’ bathrooms and dorms — we’ll see how they like a bit of teasing. Now, from what I hear, Snausages are excellent for your teeth, hearing, and give quite a boost of energy. Perhaps they should be consumed by humans. They do sound delicious. I shall pick up a bag for myself. This may not be a popular or even sane idea, but you can change that all. Hide your consumption of these delicious and enriching snacks no longer! Walk proudly around campus with a bag of Snausages. Offer some to others as you chew away. Meanwhile, go on the internet and post that studies have shown eating dog treats makes young men twice as strong and increases their endurance for physical activity ten-fold. Make sure upon completion that the link to this site goes viral. You will have the attention of all the ladies and more new friends than you can imagine.


Hey Lady!

Last week I accidentally Krazy Glued myself to a toilet seat and my baby. I was gluing together a broken toilet seat when I saw my son diving into the bowl. I grabbed him with my glue covered hand, falling back onto the seat. I’m too ashamed to go to the emergency room; as a single mother, I worry that child services would intervene so I’ve had little Timmy and the plastic seat attached to me night and day. People are starting to get suspicious and I have to admit it’s becoming a bit cumbersome. The checkout lady at the grocery store almost had me arrested when I put my Timmy on the conveyor belt with a head of lettuce. I’m out of muumuus. Is there a way I can fix this at home?



Dear Affixed,

Oh my! You must be sore! Years ago, my friend Daphne invited me to visit with her and her new baby. It was a lovely day until she had to run out to fetch some jam, leaving me with young James. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the moment she left, James took to crawling at the pace of an Olympic curler. I could barely keep up. Just as I was about to snatch him up he slid down the stairs. I tried to follow and ended up tumbling to the floor breaking two ribs and twisting my wrist along the way. Now, when Daphne arrived home I could show no sign of what had occurred as she would never have me at her estate again, nor be in the presence of her son. So I put on a brave face and pretended nothing happened. Let me tell you, playing tennis with a few broken bones and aches is not easy! But I managed to play and beat her two sets to one. Just when I thought I could go home and relax, Daphne had us both on a run through the countryside. I made it, albeit hobbling and wincing a bit (only when out of eyesight) and she was never the wiser. We are best friends to this day. But about your situation. I agree. Do not go to the hospital or let on to anyone that something is wrong. You are to be admired for your brazen stubbornness and willingness to be ridiculed! I may have to put you on my wall of “Woman Who Dare” right next to Maggie Thatcher and Mae West. First, find a few gallons of nail polish remover and a crowbar; the acetone can be gathered at various pharmacies as to not arise suspicion buying it in bulk and simply flirt with your nearest parking garage attendant, I bet he’ll be happy to lend you his crowbar if you catch my drift. Once at home, make sure to place a small plush toy in your son’s mouth before you rip him from you as to stifle his sobs. The last thing you need is a nosy neighbor calling the police. Now, stand in the shower, bracing yourself and Timmy, douse your bonded areas with the nail polish remover and pry like the dickens! You should be free in a few hours. As for the ripped flesh, apply plenty of cold cream and take valium as needed.


Hey Lady!

This here is Lorraine, a waitress at a dinette truck stop in Louisville, KY. My boyfriend, Judd, insists on only talking by CB radio. I’ve dated many a trucker, but in all my 45 years on this earth I ain’t never had a problem like this. If havin’ to use them radios weren’t bad enough, in person he uses our handles, (he’s “Big Treaded Bear,” I’m “Sweet Slice”) and only speaks in CB lingo. At home he shouts “what’s your 20” from the next room knowin’ full well where I am. The worst is when we’re gettin our lovin’ on and he says things like “This ‘Bulldog’s’ gonna ‘Dragon Fly!’” I love Judd but need me some normal relations.

10-33 in Derby City



Dear 10-33 in Derby City,

It sounds like you’ve quite a hunk on your hands! My Hendrich had a similar infatuation. For his 40th birthday, I surprised him with a fully-functioning Lionel train set. Oh how he loved to dress up as the conductor and run the train. He would spend hour upon hour in the basement with “Bessie,” his pet name for the train set.  He acted out the role of the head engineer, conductors, coal loaders as well passengers. There was Earl the engineer, William the conductor, Redd the coal loader, the orphans, school master and his pupils, the list goes on and on. My day! I would over hear him shouting “choo-choo!” and “all aboard!” though the heating vents. Hendrich would giggle like a school girl with delight watching that train go ‘round and ‘round. Eventually he took to blurting out “choo-choo!” whenever he was excited, and occasionally had me call him Earl in the boudoir. He would come marching in wearing striped overalls, a bandana around his neck, a cap on his head and even sometimes old tinted goggles! It was such fun I began dressing up as a wanton governess named Jane who was always a bit short on fare for the train. We incorporated this train talk into our love making and what fun it was! I wonder where that train set is? I’m getting carried away. As to you, my love. I think you are looking at all of this from the wrong angle. I understand your need for affection and normalcy but to be frank, normal is boring as daylights! Your Judd appears to be on to something.  Have you spent any time talking on the CB radio with other women? You ought to. You can pick up lots of lingo and learn how to really engage in this truck life or rather, recreate a part of it when the two of you are together. Just think of the wild nights you’d have! Go pick up your CB, find a frequency with lots of chatter and listen for a while. Then when Judd comes over the next time, speak to him only in CB code.  He will be so excited his passion will triple and you will be one happy little lady.


*Previously posted 10/10/2012 on

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Tabitha on Enchanting Tampons, Teen Strife and Swinging Seniors

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Hey Lady!

Today I came home to find my husband shoving my unused tampons up his nose. I have walked in on him several times before with strings hanging from each nostril — often while dancing around to Rick James. We have been married for 12 years, both in our early forties and have a very loving relationship. I don’t know what to think about his behavior or how to handle it. (I just saw him eyeing my red peep-toe Louboutins.)

Barrage of Tampons


Dear Barrage of Tampons,

Husbands can be quite the handful! My deceased love, Hendrich, used to run around the house eating petits fours whilst singing “The Lonely Goatherd” every night on the dot of ten. Leaping and spinning all while bursting out “lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo” in between bites. That man sure could yodel! (And not just at ten, if you catch my meaning.) At first I tried to stop him, as the house was covered in crumbs and the dancing made me quite dizzy. But after a few futile attempts, I found myself singing along as I sashayed beside him through the house and even into the back yard. But let me focus on your dilemma. Are these tampons scented? The intoxicating scent of these cotton wads may be the driving force behind his behavior. Personally, just one whiff and I’m carried away in a delightful daydream. Your husband probably noticed the fragrance upon passing a newly opened box of tampons you left out, and he simply couldn’t contain himself. The more he inhaled these floral whispers, the more he lost his inhibitions and embraced the promise of their delights. I suggest you do not address this situation in a conversation, but rather, join him. Do not fear the enchanting aroma of your tampons and what behavior this may lead to. Let yourself get a bit caught up in frivolity and have some fun. This evening, surprise your husband! Shove two tampons up your hooter, put on some Barry White and enjoy a blissfully naughty evening together. (You may want to set out two pairs of Louboutins.)


Hey Lady!

I’m writing this from underneath the bleachers in my high school gym. Yesterday, this 14 year old nerdy guy, me, was kissing like only the hottest girl in my grade and my braces got caught on her retainer. When we pulled apart, the retainer flew across the cafeteria and hit the school’s quarterback in the face. The girl is like totally embarrassed and won’t talk to me, the football team wants to beat me up and I’m a joke. Bummed, running out of places to hide and now the girl is flirting with the quarterback.

Metal Mouth


Dear Metal Mouth,

My heart goes out to you. I remember my first romantic affair at the tender age of 11. I had a crush on the stable boy in the next village. The thrill of his kiss as I pulled hay from between my teeth makes my heart race even now! The damp smell of horse manure got into my dresses and my parents figured out what was going on. They forbade me to see Johann, and forced me to wear an iron clad chastity belt. Luckily, I picked the lock with a hair pin and ran off with my love. But enough of my escapades. First, grab a pair of needle-nose pliers, take a few big slugs of brandy (I’m sure you’re parents at least one bottle at home) and rip off those braces! Now, I can tell how much you long for this young woman. Do not let the acrobatics of orthodontics or the brawn of the football team stop you! I’m quite certain she’s only toying with the virility of the quarterback to compensate for her embarrassment. But as long as she is, use this as an opportunity to make peace with the man you bashed in the face with her retainer. Use her whorish behavior to become friends with him, telling stories and jokes of her promiscuity. Though false, he will not only forgive you but will also finally see you as a peer he respects and the rest of the school will follow suit. The jokes shall cease and the boys will now come to you for advice. You should also begin inventing stories of your deliciously illicit adventures with at least 15 girls — this WILL come in handy. Now I know this sounds risky as your lady love will be infuriated, but assure her it will boost her popularity. If not, I hear high schools are filled with rather unchaste girls.


Hey Lady!

I’m a fetching woman in her 90s with a bit of a love problem. Irv, the man I’ve been dating in the nursing home where I live, told me he’s also in love with a woman down the hall; Myra. I was shocked and verklempt. Well, if that and breaking my hip with Irv in one of those new-fangled sex swings the kids talk about wasn’t enough, I find out from Myra he’s also sleeping with seven other women. (One of them is a nurse here!) I almost had a heart attack. My heart is palpitating right now. I’m hurt, angry and apparently we all now have syphilis. I ask you, what do I do? That flat tuchas Irv!

 Chutzpah Down The Drain


Dear Chutzpah Down The Drain,

This all reminds me of a glockenspiel festival I went to with my boyfriend when I was 19. It was a week-long outdoor celebration in some glorious shire. There were concerts, dancing, storytelling; oh, it all was so magical. Then one night I awoke to find my boyfriend rolling around with another girl. After gently pushing them down a hill, I spent the rest of the week hopping around with every handsome lad I could find. I never did ring my boyfriend again. My dear woman, I am sorry for what you’ve had to bear and hope you’re on antibiotics —  syphilis is a nasty ailment indeed.  Irv sounds like quite the ass.  To hell with him! But first, you need to take action.  Find the dispensary and jimmy the door open. Grab the following items: fast-acting laxatives and estrogen supplements.  Go to Irv’s room and replace the bottle of “little blue pills” with the laxatives; trust me, when he reaches for them he won’t be paying attention to the color of the pill.  This should prove quite fun for his future romps as he will have explosive diarrhea right about the moment he’s ready to get his rocks off.  Next step, replace his daily multivitamin with the estrogen supplements. In a few days he will start developing breasts, hot flashes, mood swings and crying jags. I assure you, it will take a while for him to figure out what you’ve done. Meanwhile, go find yourself some racy lingerie and see how Irv’s best friend is doing. I bet he could use some female company.


*Previously posted 10/1/2012 on

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