Hi-dee-die-dee-dipsy-doodly-rama-lama-ding-dong! It's May Day, dear readers! The day when those eccentric Europeans prance around flag poles, clutching ribbons and eating cheese. As if that wasn't enough to eye them suspiciously, on the first of May protests erupt like boils all over the fanny of Europe, wherein folks make signs in unintelligible foreign languages; honestly, don't these people want anyone to understand what they're protesting? The gibberish, translated into American, advocates for the the proletariat. "Proletariat," for those not in the know, is Russian for "Satanist" (I believe the American translation is "Episcopalean"). Aunt Betsy is enjoying a Raspberry Pop Tart and a demitasse of instant hazlenut Folgers, lounging on my avacado-and-mauve House Beautiful chintz settee whilst on the television Meredith Viera (a woman whose refusal to age gracefully is exponentially aggravated by her foreign-sounding surname) flirts shamelessly with Matt Lauer as they interview a mentally disabled child from the Ozarks who won a pig calling contest. The inbred savant just demonstrated his blue-ribbon sow-beckoning skills when who appears but Al Roker sniffing for truffles and joking about a flash flood that swept a Kentucky brownie troupe to its watery grave.
To inform my adoring readership what shenanigans Aunt Betsy's been up to, let me first address my ongoing legal inconveniences. First, a nosy PETA canvasser ran a DNA analysis on Aunt Betsy's homemade Korean sausage, rudely linking the savory meat products to Charo, Lance and Bruce's deceased missing Shih-Tzu. Bruce and Lance, whose Deuteronomy-defying lifestyle in neighboring Buttsex-burgh violates the sanctity of my marriage to my late husband Cecil (more on him later), have attained a restraining order against yours truly. Indeed! As if I needed legal incentive to avoid that loathsome disco gommorah! Additionally, I've been questioned by a local investigator regarding onerous suggestions that my late husband's fatal injuries were inconsistent with a bath-time slip-n-fall mishap (in fact, the bizarre involvement of a lobster mallet and toaster oven set to "broil" seem the likelier culprits). Fret not though, my gorgeous fans; Aunt Betsy wisely had her one-time spouse cremated, after which she committed the poor sot to the municipal water treatment system during a tearful flushing ceremony in my tastefully appointed guest bath. But I digress. Where were we? May Day!
Today is also, Lord help us, a day wherein spring awakens within the loins of our young people. That being the case, I've decided to devote this column to the alarming rate at which today's youth are descending into sin, debauchery, sassy back-talk and negro rap-hop (read: eternal damnation).
Dear Aunt Betsy: I got me a daughter who's pertier than a prize winnin' hog. She loves her daddy, so she's followed in my footsteps by headin out to Hollerwood and becomin a big ol' star. While back, she posed for a communist lesbo photographer who made her look like a cheap honkey tonk strumpet. In one picture she all nekkid and wrapped in a sheet, lookin like she just bumped uglies with a rodeo clown in a motel six. In another picture, me an her is posin for a daddy-daughter shot, but it shows me accidentally feelin up her boob. Now everyone's callin her a harlot, and she might lose her fans who used to like watchin her wholesome concerts where she gyrates on stage like a Memphis pole dancer on crack. My heart is feelin all achy-breaky, and my mullet's fallin out in clumps. What should a daddy do? Signed, Young-n-Old, Knockin Evil Lechery
Dear YOKEL: While Aunt Betsy doesn't find much to recommend about the profoundly unpleasant customs of Africa, their quaint practice of hacking off oopsie-doodles makes a good deal of common sense. When a young lady's shame-hole grows a beard, the townsfolk drag the nubile whore-in-training to the public square, where a near-sighted elder hacks off her oopsie-doodle with a muddy rhino horn. Then they trade her to a toothless decrepit dirt farmer for a goat. Done and done. Today's kids, with their MySpace and their iPods and their anal orgies, are far too cheeky (what's more, they display a profound lack of interest — nay, I daresay a contempt — for all things Yahtzee). Teaching them at an early age that genitals are a source of unbearable agony and shame is precisely the sort of tough love they are so desperately lacking. I have a cousin-by-marriage named Fingers Romano who's an amature oopsie-doodle hacker-offer and provides this invaluable service for free, in exchange for exclusive rights to the photographs he takes of the procedure. His number's enclosed. You're welcome in advance.
Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Priya Venkatesan Krishna Vindaloo, and I teach classes at Dartmouth so I'm right about everything. One day a student asked an impertinent question that cast my theories in doubt, and the other students clapped (which made me feel bad and triggered feelings of body shame; I weigh 750 pounds). I was so upset that I dashed home and prayed to a cow. After much thought I decided to send grammatically challenged e-mails to my students, telling of my intent to sue their pants off for hurting my feelings. They responded by posting these emails on the blogosphere and exposing me to ridicule. It made me so mad I've grown despondent. I don't get out of bed. My unibrow has grown over my dot. When will children learn that if I'm older and have a PhD that makes me right, so they need to shut up and agree with the stuff I say? Signed, Distraught Educator Sues Ingrates
Dear DESI: My dear, it sounds to me as if you've gotten your sari in a twist over jack-squat. Unless I'm mistaken, your people believe in reinkharma-nation. With that in mind, it's quite apparent the ghastly elephant headed God in charge of your miserable soul has condemned you to be a universally loathed professor (perhaps in retaliation for your unsanitary bovine-worshiping proclivities). If I were you (and thank God I'm not; Tandoori gives Aunt Betsy the trots), I'd fall on my knees and moo a prayer of thanks to bossie for making you an ivy league professor for a bunch of snotty trustafarians. If it were my call (and I rather think it should have been) you would have been a professor of marksmanship at a hillbilly college in Virginia, if you get my drift.
Dear Aunt Betsy: Last month, my 67 sister wives and I decided that daughter number 418B (a strong willed eight-year-old also known as Mary Kate Ashley Marie Osmond Tabernacle Smith), was due to perform the sacred "baby-begating-shame-bolero" ritual with a 58-year old man named Caleb. Instead, she ran away and tattled on us to the police. What, in the name of Moroni, has gotten into our children? In my day I'd never think to act sassy. The good book says to honor thy parents; all 748 of them! Signed, Vexed Over Tattler! Egad, Ma'am, I'm Truly Taxed!
Dear VOTEMITT: Yes, our children do enjoy defying our wishes. For instance, young folks flirt with eternal damnation by experimenting with drugs and sex. In short, they are Democrats. My guess is that daughter number 418B (although she certainly seems to be begging for a spanking) is a blessing in disguise. I say this because quite frankly, Beelzebub will be adding you and your 67 sister wives to his ass-sex harem in due time. And although I don't personally know Mr. Bub, I rather suspect him capable of administering a good sassing. Best get used to it now, dear.
Dear Fraulein Betsy: Ja. Hello from der Austria. I be good Fadder. I make daughter-girlie live in das basement since Wham had a hit, und all doze years I share der bratwurst und give her lots of living dollies for to play vit. Now she make all escape-y time und tell her fadder he no get necktie for Fadder's Day dis year. Signed Sad Time And Lost A Girl
Dear STALAG: Mein Herr, I've recently seen a horrifying movie wherein a demented nun unleashes a brood of chintz-clad Austrian children on the terrified citizens of Salzburg, and leads them in a demonic (and rather homosexual) dance routine up and down the Alps all while gleefully singing a perverse ode to mental retardation. If that film is in any way a fair representation of Austrian youth, I believe you should be commended for locking them in the cellar. If that nightmare-inducing film is any indication, your kids have the wherewithal to traipse over the snowcapped mountains into neighboring countries and beyond. Aunt Betsy thanks you for your pro-active quarantine.