America, in a strange turn of events, someone has been harassing me for advice. This is funny in and of itself, seeing as how my life is always in something of a mess, but even funnier because this person wants interpersonal relationship advice.
Let that sink in.
Relationship advice from the girl whose idea of the best way to start a relationship is to get really drunk and flash her tits at her desired beloved? The girl for whom that has never worked, and yet, she still does it?
Oh, America, this is too strange and funny.
But here, approximately, is the question:
Dear Aunt B.,
I am single and not often lonely. But when I am, Jesus Christ, it comes on like a bad cold, lingering and making my eyes water and my nose run. I long for the healing power of the human touch. In those instances, masturbation is not enough.
What should I do?
Here’s my answer:
Dear Anonymous Questioner,
I am from the rural midwest. We do not touch, even to have sex, unless someone loses their balance and falls into the other person. These fleeting seconds are a mixture of both pleasure and terror. It feels great, but the invasion of our personal space is so alarming we almost immediately flee from each other. We have our friends deliver a note to their friends that says, simply, “Chop!”* and the relationship is over.
When we are feeling especially lonely, we either get drunk until the feeling goes away or we go shoot coydogs. Of course, it’s easier to shoot coydogs when you’re drunk, as well. Your conscience is much less likely to bother you. So, either way, you have a course of action.
And, I kind of** received a response:
Dear Aunt B.
When I drink, I crave the desire for human contact even more. Perhaps my friend and I could come over and show you what I have in mind?
To which I say:
Dear Anonymous Questioner,
I take it from your reply and the sloppy hand in which it was written that you have taken me up on my advice. Good job.
As for your current question, you can see that I might be a tad suspicious that it was your goal all along to try to get me into bed. I am deeply flattered, but uncertain as to the taboos surrounding intimate contact with one’s literary relatives.
In response to your efforts to get closer to me, I am already drinking away my discomfort.
America, you would be far better off asking for relationship advice from this guy than from me. Seriously. He’s eloquent and he’s in the midst of a letter-writing campaign.
* I don’t know why, but in grade school, in order to break up our playground marriages, we used to run over to the soon-to-be dumpee and thrust the side of one hand into the palm of the other and yell, “Chop!” in order to signal the end of the relationship.
** It should be apparent to anyone who reads me that no one I know is this straightforward. I’ve taken some liberties in order to condense the questions down to manageable portions.
wow, it sounds like me on BOTH ends of that conversation!
So it’s still a little unclear to me whether or not I am allowed to come get in your bed. As long as you are uncertain about taboos, is it a go?
i promise that wasn’t me who just posted.
Neither Ann Landers or Dear Abby was ever this damned funny.
If you can get past the dog, come on in.
Dear Aunt B.,
I feel sorry for Anonymous Questioner. If he/she happens to earn a living by hearding sheep in Burnt Scrotum, Wyoming, heart as impassive as the windswept plains, then your advice is dead on. If not, it’s way off the mark, and your Anonymous Questioner is feeling more lonely now than she was when she penned the question. Anonymous Questioner, if you’re reading this, I know what you need, honey. You need to wrap your lips around a pretty dick. But my guess is you’re asking for a deeper answer, and I’m afraid I don’t know where to find one. Try repeating the following mantra: Pretty dicks.
Hey, here at Tiny Cat Pants, you get what you pay for.
And anonymous definitely got what s/he paid for.