Ask Aunt Betsy: Homo Nuptuals (or, The Coming Armageddon)

Hi-dee-hi-dee-hi-dee-ho! Goodness! Aunt Betsy's just finished hand-feeding Mr. Sillypants, who wounded himself last week during his 15-seconds-in-the-dishwasher punishment for knocking over (and risking damage to) Sambo, my adorable ceramic lawn jockey (Sambo's companion jockey Mr. Bones remains thankfully unscathed). At any rate, Mr. Sillypants now wears one of those hilarious head-cones, and yours truly is temporarily obliged to feed him his Tender Vittles by hand, forcing his mouth to chew a heathly 32 times per morsel, and massaging his throat to induce swallowing. It's thoroughly exhausting, and if it continues much longer I shall resort to forcefeeding the incorrigible feline via funnel, fois gras-style.

In all things Yahtzee, my adoring fans will be thrilled to know that your own Aunt Betsy has advanced to the quarter-finals in our Yahtzee league's semi-annual tournament. Things looked bleak when Alfreda Bodine, the tiresome Lutheran divorcee with irritable bowel syndrome, rolled a game-tying full house. During the ensuing regulation sudden death knife fight, yours truly cut a slice from the wretched woman's cellulite-afflicted upper arm and she took The Lord's name in vain; thus disqualifying her and earning her a tersely-worded censure from the Yahtzee League.

With respect to the escalating tension between Aunt-Betsy-stan and the neighboring Ass-Sex Republic, Lance and Bruce (the sodomites next door whose homosexually landscaped back yard salaciously abuts my own) made the provocative gesture of topping our border-defining fence with razor wire, presumably to hinder yours truly from seeking fresh sausage supplies in the form of their recently adopted (and spectacularly unfortunate) Zimbabwean orphan named Maleka-leka-mow-mow, or some  dreadfully ethnic moniker of analogous savagery. Well, last night the Deuteronomy-contradicting household threw an inpromptu al fresco cocktail party, during which their fellow hellbound fairies gathered to celebrate society's impending doom (aka California's ill-advised legalization of homosexual weddings), by mixing appletinis and playing Petula Clark's hymns to Beelzebub on their hi-fi. Rather than complain, I quite sensibly reacted by yard-a-pulting 10 gallons of lemon scented bleach over the fence as a symbolic suggestion that they'd all do well to sanitize their appalling lives. Their nauseating soiree reached its welcome conclusion shortly thereafter.

So, dear readers, here I sit in my mauve and ecru chintz Barkalounger with magic fingers vibro-massage, a three Exedrin headache tapdancing through my cranium, mulling the Armageddon-inducing legalization of fairy weddings. With that in mind, Aunt Betsy shall address those queries that allow me to vent on this particular issue. Fire away!

Dear Aunt Betsy: Believe me now. I am der vagina-sniffing hetero man. I am also der governor of California king of buttsexburg. While I do da veto on der homosex veddinks, now der court says da girlie-mens can register at der Crate und Barrel und make skippy-skip down da aisle. I am in der traditional marriage vit der skeletal remains of da Kennedy lady. Her vagina spit out der baby-peoples. Und eventhough I vas in der stinky-film about man who grows baby-person in tummy, now da menz can have der baby-persons for reals. If der marriage is about making baby-persons in tummies, and menz can have der baby-persons, why is der homosex veddinks to making baby Jesus make barfy-time?  Signed, Making A New Baby On Other Boy Soon

Dear MANBOOBS: Think back to your childhood. When your Nazi father was giving you yodeling lessons in your lederhosen, do you suppose he dreamt that you'd balloon into a steroid-enhanced gay pin-up, prance about on celluloid in a glute violating loin cloth and usher in an era that condones the Leviticus-defying marriage-consumating butt-bolero? I hardly think so. If he had, he might have sent you to the Dachau boarding school (along with any insufferable von Trapp he might nab whilst they traipse about in curtain clothes, their aggressively effeminate show tunes echoing throughout the Alps). Regarding your union with an anorexic news reader of dubious lineage, if a zygote can find purchase in the rocky crag of her forlorn lady cave, Aunt Betsy supposes a fetus might make do in some plumbers beer belly. Either, to state the obvious, is hardly the Ritz.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Pamela Anderson Bamela Panderson. I live in California and my boobs are enormous (thanks, Dr. Lipshitz! LOL!). Due to my ginormous ta-tas, lots of guys ask me to marry them. Unless I got cramps or my herpes is acting up, I totally say "yes" usually. My marriages totally last almost as long as a season of Baywatch, except if my husband sells sex tapes of me taking it up the poo hole in the back of a chevy malibu. That totally pisses me off! :-( But yesterday on the TV Pat Robertson was all "Gays getting hitched is gonna, like, violate the sank-titty of marriage." My question is if homos get hitched, which of my marriages will get their sank-titties violated? I paid out my ass for these jugs and I totally don't want them all sanked! Signed, Why Have Other Retards Eloped?

Dear WHORE: Just as I was about to wish you bon voyage on your upcoming extended holiday at the lake-o-fire Hilton, it occurred to me you've had carnal interractions with Kid Rock, so Hell would be an upgrade. Speaking of hellbound sex symbols, the author of this profane blog (to which I contribute only as counterpoint to the Whupass Master's daily odes to Beelzebub), has left a comment on the NYTimes online on this very subject. His opinion is vile and flagrantly anti-Jesus. As such, of course, it's been recommended by the editorial staff. As for you, Ms. Panderson, stock up on SPF 30. It's hot where you're headed.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a great fan of yours, and I find that we have a lot in common. When you made Korean sausage out of your neighbors Shih-Tzu, it reminded me of when I adopted a doggy and then lobbed it into my hairdresser's yard when it starting annoying me by acting all "barky" and "panty". And now, with the decision of the California Supreme Court, my sister in sapphic ecstacy and I plan to legitimize our nightly labia-munching double-dong donkey-punching clit-banging scissor-queefing at a tasteful nondenominational ceremony officiated by a differently-sexed wiccan gaya-worshiping zen nun named Rainbow Abramowitz. Would you be my maid of honor? Signed, Egads! Lesbo Ladies Everywhere Now!

Dear ELLEN: Sure, I'd love to fry in Lucifer's scaley embrace for an eternity. What should I wear?

Comments

[Jeffrey Ellis]

Hey, what's wrong with Petula Clark??!?

[Whup-Ass Master]

WAM believes PC is the bomb. Aunt Betsy, for her part, is suspicious of song titles like "I know a place," "downtown" and "don't sleep in the subway," as they seem to promote vagrancy and premarital sex.

xox
WAM