Well hi-dee-di-dee-deedle-diddle-dum! Spring has sprung, the grass has riz, I wonder where the flowers is! Aunt Betsy's simply overcome with spring fever as I sit at my glorious butterscotch naugahyde breakfast nook with a salmon and mint green floral formica table top. Sipping a cup of instant decaf Chock-Full-o-Nuts French Freedom Roast as I gaze through a freshly windexed picture window at my impeccably manicured front lawn. It's perfect in every way. The daffodils in Aunt Betsy-stan are vastly superior to the homosexual tulips on flamboyant display in the neighboring Butt-sex Emirates, and my expertly trimmed crucifix topiary puts the zionist rose bushes next door to shame (those scrawny things have been a chronic eyesore since someone put bleach in their mulcher, the results of which far exceeded the perpetrator's wildest expectations). In fact, I daresay my landscaping is perfect, except for the sadly vacant spots flanking my driveway that used to be occupied by my adorable lawn jockeys Mr. Bones and Sambo, before they were cruelly exiled by those uppity Cathy-licks on the board of the neighborhood association (Sambo and Mr. B. now proudly act as bathroom attendants, flanking the commode in my tastefully appointed guest bath).
Indeed, dear readers, a bacchanalian renewal flutters about in Aunt Betsy's loins, just like those baby robins chirp-chirp-chirping in the nest outside my bedroom window (that is, until I emptied a can of Raid on the thing so yours truly could get a decent night's sleep). I'm in such a cheery mood I shan't even go into the unfortunate incident when I accidentally doused and set alight that dreadful rainbow flag that used to fly contemptuously from the second floor bay window of Bruce and Lance's Leviticus-defying colonial next door. When the fire department arrived, I had to explain repeatedly that I had merely used an excessive amount of charcoal starter as I was attempting to barbecue some savory Shih-Tzu sausage (see previous Aunt Betsy posts for the hilarious history of how I became adept at transforming spoiled lap dogs to delectably finger-licking meat products). As if that wasn't enough to cramp my style, my twin sister Levitica was my weekend house-guest (her third graders organized a murderous revolt, leaving the poor dear traumatized). Well, all was hunky-dory until she embarrassed me during Yahtzee league. We had just commenced the quarter-final round (and that dreary Wanda Buttz had just rolled a suspiciously high-scoring four-of-a-kind) when Levitica, drunk as a skunk, put my "South Pacific" LP on the hi-fi and executed a rather ill-conceived strip tease to "Happy Talk." I promptly sedated her and paid a taxi to drop her off at city limits along with her tacky violet-colored pleatherette Wal-mart luggage set.
Dear me, there I go again; burdening my beloved readership with my trivial (though soul-deadening) problems! Time to answer some mail! Seeing as how I just received notice from the Wrinkle Barn (the discount retirement community to which I've confined my dottie mother) that the woman who conceived me is being kept in restraints on account of her newfound habit of finger-painting with her feces (the most nauseating news since the Today Show went on a distressing spelunking expedition up Katie Couric's poo-hole), I thought I'd devote today's column to addressing concerns related to those dear, fonts of wisdom; our nation's oldsters.
Dear Aunt Betsy: A while back, my life partner jammed a sperm-filled turkey baster up her muff and nine months later squirted forth the only penis-owning male ever to come into close contact with her hair pie. In the year since, we've both been consumed by the miracle of motherhood, and have devoted our lives to raising our son in the vagina-centric ways of Gaya the Earth Goddess. He has learned, for example, that when my partner and I do our double-donged scissor-queefing labia punching womyn-sex with a two-and-a-half gainor dismount, we're really worshiping the sacred menstrual tide of the moon cycle. However, my father (a withered old coot with the soul of a jackal and the personality of a rabid wombat) insists on taking time off from his daily duties as a revered public servant to bounce his grandson on his withered, brittle knee. This is always traumatic for my son, who reacts to his grandfather's presence in much the same way the baboons react to Damien in The Omen. How do I tell my decrepit father to stop terrorizing my little boy? I'm afraid his ancient, microscopic ticker might fart to a stop; it's kept beating only through enough pacemaker jolts to reanimate Frankenstein's monster. Signed Might A Really Young Child Endure Near-dead Evil Yahoo?
Dear MARYCHENEY: Although it required three excedrins and a double shot of Jim Beam to finish your ghastly letter, Aunt Betsy does sympathize. Old people have a constant boner for toddlers. They like to hold them and pinch their cheeks and give them candy. But the feeling is never mutual. Lil' tykes don't like oldsters. They smell like pee-pee and geritol. This is all quite natural. Why? Because old folks suck the life-force out of young folks in much the same way Whitney sucks crack smoke from a crack pipe full of crack. If your father is feeble in mind as he is in body, either tell him he dreamt he had a grandson, or that the cute dickens was kidnapped by a pedophile party clown. Or (and I suspect this would be more effective), simply clothe the little homo in "Hillary for Prez" underoos (a little garlic and holy water might do the trick too).
Dear Aunt Betsy: I've enjoyed the holy bonds of matrimony with my beloved wife Beverly for the last 87 years. She's a good, godly woman (she throws fetuses at whores who approach the local Planned Parenthood, firebombs gay bars, and makes lime jello marshmallow cottage cheese surprise for the monthly Baptist potluck/Klan rally). But lately, I've begun to suspect Lord Jesus done blew out her pilot light. She put on an Easter show for the neighborhood kids, who started crying when she ended the show by crucifying our kitty cat Lil' Miss Prettypaws to a "Die Homos Die" rally sign. She's taken to sleeping on the toilet and pooping in bed. She's convinced the Holy Spirit communicates through the waffle iron, which has instructed her to assassinate Bonnie Franklin. What should I do? Signed, Loving A Horribly Addled Yo-yo, Egad!
Dear LAHAYE: It sounds like you're making a big hoop-de-do out of diddly-squat. Who doesn't crucify a kitty cat now and then? However, I'd be loathe to take my waffle iron at its word (I find it much more likely that Beelzebub would contact me through a common appliance DISGUISED as the Holy Spirit). Then again, assassinating Bonnie Franklin sounds perfectly rational to my ears. But let's just say the old broad's popped a gasket, just for sh*ts and giggles. I can't recommend Wrinkle Barn enough (and that negligible stipend they pay me to mention them has very little to do with my endorsement). The caring staff at Wrinkle Barn do not take one iota of crapola, no ma'am. They hot wire grandma's depends and shock 'em if they get to acting all uppity-like. If grandpa don't finish his peas, it's an hour on the ouchy-stool. Sassing earns and hour of waterboarding hydro-therapy. And if you can't pay your bill, they thoughtfully erase your burden by taking them on a rickety staircase wheelchair ride. Done and done. You're welcome in advance.
Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a very famous woman and I'm kind of a big deal. I used to be America's girl next door. If someone was producing a chick flick about a plucky blond reciting retarded dialogue by Nora Ephron, was the go-to gal. A while back, after I plucked a gray hair from my left nipple, I started getting obsessed with cosmetic surgery. It became an addiction. Now, I cry urine tears and my knee caps are on my cheeks. My boobs are on my shoulders, my eyes look like they belong to a terrified Chinese bitch with Down's Syndrome and I've started pooping out of my ears. Although I still have the ass of a 17-year-old (who died at 15), somehow I've got the nagging feeling that maybe I should, like, grow old gracefully like Katherine Hepburn or Susan Sarandon or Punky Brewster. What do yo think? Signed, Maybe Everyone's Grim Reaper Yearns All Night
Dear MEGRYAN: My dear, asking if you should grow old gracefully is like Paris Hilton crossing her legs; that horse wandered out of the barn AGES ago. Perhaps you, Joan Rivers, LaToya Jackson and Mickey Rourk should pitch a sitcom about zany family of clowns who run Volkswagen dealership.
Fresh from her "I feel Silda Spitzer's pain" book tour and press junket, professionally outraged victim (and erstwhile Brokeback wife) Dina Matos-McGreevey is currently battling to keep her former marital aid/boy toy from giving rude testimony in her upcoming divorce procedings. Teddy Pederson, apparently, was frequently the meat in a coital McGreevey sandwich back in the day. Dina doth protest he's a dirty fibby-pants, while her ex-husbosexual Jim, er, backs up Teddy's claim.
