Well, howdy-dowdy-dippity-do! Gracious! It's been eons since yours truly, America's most reckless advice columnist, favored your drab lives with my invaluable words of wisdom. Here I sit, luxuriously ensconced in my gorgeous Broyhill peach-and-teal naugahyde love seat, pouring over MOUNTAINS of letters that have accumulated during my long and regrettable silence. My absence has left a miserable void in your pitiful lives, a hole in your woebegone existence through which the ill winds darkness and despair blow constantly and make an irritating whistling sound. Fret not, lamb chops. I'm back.
The reasons for my unpremeditated sabbatical are myriad and various. First, my maladjusted niece Jeannie Bladdersham (ferret hobbyist, gospel singer) ran afoul of the authorities when she showed up at the Peducah edition of Antiques Roadshow to get an appraisal on a jar filled with formaldehyde that contains the pickled remains of her still-born twin Janet. She was briefly detained for transporting medical waste without a license, and upon questioning, admitted that she occasionally removes the malformed fetus from its briny display and dresses it up like Cinderella. Long story short, I was obliged to travel to Kentucky to oversee dear Jeannie's temporary confinement at the Peducah Home for the Odd and Peculiar (or P-HOP), a discount nut barn.
Second, your own Aunt Betsy has been unjustly chastised by the neighborhood association once again. It all started several years ago when my darling lawn jockeys (named Sambo and Mr. Bones) caused offense with my hypersensitive neighbors. I recently replaced them with two precious lawn gnomes, smartly uniformed and waving cheerily to passers by. It seems my Christ-killing next door neighbors the Finklebaums found my charming lawn display to be a wee bit Hitler-esque. What's more, fence-mending efforts were coldly received; when a van emblazoned with "Pork o' the Month Club" pulled up outside their garishly landscaped split level, they seemed less than enthusiastic about receiving the first of twelve monthly shipments of bacon, ham, pork chops and sausage.
In Yahtzee news, this year's tournament is plugging along swimmingly, save for one disquieting incident when Fern Blatz (a hare-lipped Methodist afflicted with lumbago and scoliosis) suddenly had a seizure as she was rolling the dice at a critical juncture during semi-finals. While the dice scattered hither and yon, I quite rightly insisted that the roll stand and the hideous (though lovely-hearted) woman was obliged to accept a score of zilch on her small straight.
But enough fiddle-faddle! Let's get to the mail bag, shall we? This week, I've received simply oodles and scads of desperate missives on the subject of a certain pansy judge who wants to force Californians to throw rice at sodomites as they gallivant down church aisles while lip syncing to Lady Gaga. So let's dive right in!
Dear Aunt Betsy: I represent a lovely state in the U.S. House of Representatives. I won't tell you which state, but our state bird is the loon and folks there like to sculpt things out of butter. And it rhymes with "minnow soda." I've said repeatedly that allowing the gays to register at Crate and Barrel will lead to toddlers being taught how to be gay in kindergarten. Aren't our kindergartners being taught enough gay stuff already? There's that Barney fellow, a suspicious man in a purple dragon outfit, who encourages little boys to prance around like fags, for one. Listen, I keep saying I don't hate the homos cause Jesus says we have to love them and stuff. And while it may be true that my campaign contributors admire Iran for executing gays, it's not like I don't understand oppression. One time, I was held prisoner in a toilet for eleven seconds! Signed STOP KINKY ANTICHRIST NANCY KIDS
Dear SKANK: I doubt we need to teach kindergartners to try being gay. The way I see it, the nasty creatures have mastered the art. They skip, they cry, they dress up like cowboys. But I do share your admiration of Iran, dear. Not only do they throw frequent necktie parties for nancy boys, they encourage women like you to stay inside and shut their yaps.
Dear Aunt Betsy: I founded a political action committee dedicated to defending traditional marriage. I won't tell you my name but it rhymes with Gaggie Wallagher. When I heard that an effeminate judge in San Francisco decided that gays are people too, it made me think of our founding fathers. When they were sitting around in their knickers and tights, passing the wig powder and humming "Yankee Doodle," they hardly expected the constitution they were writing would be used to legitimize man-on-man honeymoon suite co-habitation. When I think about it, I get so worked up my panties get all bunched up in my sin hole. Signed, FRANKLY ALL THIS TASTES YUCKY
Dear FATTY: Indeed, our founding fathers must have been distracted by rubbing saddle soap into their slave whips when they wrote stuff like the separation clause. It seems obvious that when they sought to guarantee freedom of religion, what they really intended to say was that all Christians are perfectly free to continue pretending the grape juice they were drinking was actually the blood of a long-deceased Jew. They were a nutty bunch, who clearly foresaw the invention of the fully automatic assault rifle (not to mention the rocket propelled grenade) when they concocted the second amendment. However, although I hate to rain on our collective parade, the sodomite judge who wrote the opinion based it on the 14th amendment, which guarantees equal protection and due process. This amendment was written much later, and its concepts were blissfully unfamiliar to those virile wig-wearers who owned people as property (and frequently shtupped them).
Dear Aunt Betsy: For ages, I been flying hither and yonder preaching God's gospel and earning big bucks delivering one expert testimony after another about how the lil' ones need a mommy and a daddy or they'll grow up to read Salinger and sass their folks. Unfortch, I hired a strapping young lad to assist me on my last trip to witness my pro-hetero screed and don't you know that lil' feller turned out to be a fairy? Seems a man can't hire a rent boy from rentboy.com without winding up with a rent boy! All I needed was a virile youngun' to help me with my bags. I'm mighty particular 'bout how I like my bags to be handled. They're old and leathery and need spit-shining at least twice daily. And hoisting them into overhead bins must be be done with gentle loving care. Whew! I think I need a nap. Back now. In closing, may Jesus be with you Sincerely, OH LORD! DEMONS TRY RECRUITING O LASCIVIOUS LADS!!
Dear OLD TROLL: Aunt Betsy is losing her patience with all you men of God who preach against the homos but end up being caught with your sin hoses wedged into the hot orifices of hell-bound sodomites. The crusade against homo nuptials would do quite well without the support of all you holy men who seem to be spending your off-hours honoring your wives by barebacking meth-addicted man whores. Marriage is, obviously, the exclusive domain of vagina owners and penis possessors. In a household absent of a female, who can be made to submit to her husband's will by cooking waffles and squirting newborns from her thighs? An which two women can have a truly fulfilling family life without the presence of some beer-swilling neanderthal who can burp the national anthem? Before my late husband Cecil met his untimely end (due to a freak bath time mishap involving three valiums and a blender set to "puree"), we enjoyed exactly the kind of man-wife relationship endorsed by Jesus. Namely, I tolerated his gross behavior and rewarded him by bending over the sofa on a semi-weekly basis for some wifely unpleasantries. But he's dead now. Take the hint.
Michele Bachmann sez: "I feel like I've been held against my will by this blog's feed, just like in that bathroom!!"