Can O' Whup-Ass

Ask Aunt Betsy: Islam-a-lama-ding-dong

Hi-dee-ho-dee-diddly-doodly-expi-ala-dosius! My goodness! Has it been ten days since Aunt Betsy shed the light of common sense on your dreadfully hum-drum lives? Heavens, how time flies. Here I sit, lounging over a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats at my darling butterscotch and chartreuse broyhill dinette set, identical to the one Suzanne Pleshette had in that show where she played a lesbian school teacher who gets attacked by crows...what was it called? The title's on the tip of my toungue. Was it the Bob Newhart program? It makes no difference, as I've rarely seen Suzanne Pleshette in anything where I didn't fully expect her to be attacked by crows. In fact if I was a crow looking for someone to attack, Suzanne Pleshette would certainly top the list. But I digress.

May-Day! Aunt Betsy-stan (a Christian theocracy, population moi) is under siege! The neighboring Butt-Rodeo-Repuplic (population 3: sodomites Bruce and Lance and their newly purchased lump of negro hyena lunch) claim to have proof that yours truly kidnapped their tedious Shih-Tzu named Charo and transformed the nasty creature into a batch of delectable Korean dog sausage. It's an outrageous claim! Besides which, I used the last of the yummy sausage in a lovely pot pie I entered in the local grange's annual bake-off. As fortune would have it, Lance and Bruce purchased my honorable mention-winning dish in a silent auction and sent a sample to the FBI for DNA testing. If they dare bring charges of animal cruelty against me, I shall point out to the judge that whisking a negro child from an African mud hut and forcing the poor thing to listen to Ethel Merman day in and day out is also animal cruelty, which surpasses turning a flea bitten lap dog into a savory meat product (a rather worthwhile transformation, if you ask me). Sharing another unfortunate border with Aunt Betsy-stan is the Obama-supporting denizens of Israel-Lite, the socialist Christ-killers in the stucco split level next door. It seems they have sought an injunction against Aunt Betsy because at last week's meeting of Baptist Intervention Tramples Christ-Haters (BITCH) we projected Mel Gibson's masterpiece "How the Jews Killed Jesus" against the side of their house, causing a crowd to gather on their front lawn with folding chairs and bowls of Jiffy-Pop. Some people are so sensitive!

In Yahtzee news, I'm sad to report that the Yahtzee League's grand championship tournament has been postponed yet again. My incorrigible kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants ingested two of the dice, where they remained jack-knifed in his rectum for nearly a week. After emerging contrite from his 30-seconds-in-the-dishwasher punishment, I took the naughty creature to the vet (he's actually an amature dabbler in pro bono invasive procedures on animals, my brother-in-law Fingers Romano). The dice were eventually extracted (although Mr. Sillypants still walks funny). I thought the championship tournament had the all-clear to proceed. Well wouldn't you know it, that fussy Lola Butkus (the Episcopalean divorcee with restless leg syndrome) objected to touching dice that spent four days blocking the bowel movements of a sweet little kitty-cat! Good gravy, it's not like I didn't rinse them off! At any rate, we now have a set of tournament quality Yahtzee dice on back order.

Enough dilly-dallying! Before me sits a mountain of desperate letters, each clamoring for Aunt Betsy's attention. And since that loathsome quintet of profoundly irritating women on "The View" are currently yammering on about that nice negro boy Barack Hussein Bin Laden Muhammad Fatwah Beelzebub Obama's recent vacation in the middle-east, I shall address concerns related to that cute little religion practiced by camel riding Jesus haters who rudely resent America for invading their darling little countries and liberating them from their limbs.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I live in Iran. Last month, on our way back from a camel rodeo, my uncle dragged me behind a sand dune and put his shame hose up my hoo-hoo. Now I have a baby growing in my tummy and I was arrested. During closing arguments at my trial, all my attorney did was spit on me for fifteen minutes. Next week the town is going to bury me up to my neck at throw rocks at my noggin 'til their arms cramp. What am I going to do? Signed: Ucky Painful Stonings! How's It That Cool, Really...Even Ever Killing?

Dear UP SHIT CREEK: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. For instance, if you visited Tuscaloosa, you would be expected to serve roast squirrel at your wedding to your brother. As I understand it, if a woman is going to be raped in Iran, she'd better have three male eye witnesses or she'll be stoned for adultery. It was irresponsible of you to neglect to arrange for said eye witnesses at your rape. From the pictures I've seen there are far too many idle men in Iran as it is, all of whom seem to have nothing better to do than kneel on area rugs and kiss the dirt. I'm sure that amongst them you could have found at least three who'd agree to witness your rape for a modest fee. Unfortunately, unless these three men are related to you, you'd be given 500 lashes for being in the company of strange men. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place! I honestly don't see the appeal of it; all things considered I'd rather be in Tuscaloosa.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Anita Conchita Bonita Fajita Suarez. I live in a casa with my 87 niños on the outskirts of La Puta Gordota, Mexico. In June, while making chalupas, I fell to my knees when I saw the face of The Blessed Virgin in a tortilla. Now, every morning, there's a line of pilgrims outside my puerta, all waiting to pay dos pesos to touch my tacos. Christianity is such a beautiful religion, to let us see virgins in our food! Are there other religions that do this? Does Moses appear in borsht? Adios! Signed, I Don't Ingest Other Tacos Anymore.

Dear IDIOTA: I seem to notice that the Blessed Virgin (worshipped only by you hell-bound Cathy-licks, and only vaguely admired by us rapture-bound Baptists) never seems inclined to appear in normal food. She's never graced a pot roast or a corndog. Always a tortilla. Apparently the woman who conceived Our Savior with a dove thinks outside the bun. Be that as it may, it would appear that Allah (the deity of choice for those who execute homosexuals and declare holy wars against cartoons) has appeared on a piece of beef in Nigeria. Actually, since images of the human form send the hypersensitive beturbaned foks into a snit, Allah wisely wrote his name in Arabic on a piece of cow flesh, unwisely providing the forlorn souls of Nigeria yet another thing to whip them into a lather. We rather think the Hindus take issue with another religion's deity signing his name to the charred flesh of an animal they believe to be God. How would those Muslim folks like it if Shiva appeared, multiple arms akimbo, in a plate of baba ganoush?

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Darla-Mae Finsucker and I'm from Tuscaloosa. Me and my Bible Study/Possum Cookin Club got into a big ol' kerfuffle 'bout those A-rab towel head camel negros. I says they just like real people. Tonya-Sue Babcock says they jus' a bunch o damn monkeys hoppin' round with bombs on their chests, slowin' down the lines at the damn airports. I like learnin new stuff bout folks who is different. Don't Jesus tells us to love ever-one ('sept for the faggitz)? Signed, Tried Readin About Stuff Here.

Dear TRASH: What a genteel southern belle you are, Darla-Mae. All you need to know about Muslims is they're indian-givers. In the Koran, in Jonah 10:93 it says "we verily did alot the children of Israel a fixed abode" and now all they can do is bellyache about wanting it back. The Koran also gives handy instructions as to how one may rape another man's wife; all you have to do is kidnap her. The book is a virtual treasure trove of information regarding how women can be raped and subsequently punished for being lewd. But perhaps most entertaining is the following passage: "As for those who disbelieve, garments of fire will be cut out for them; boiling fluid will be poured down on their heads, Whereby that which is in their bellies, and their skins too, will be melted; and for them are hooked rods of iron." In other words, if you're not wearing a burka my dear (and I rather picture you wearing daisy-may cut-offs, crocs and an "I'm with stupid" t-shirt), you can expect your clothes to burst into flame until your skin melts off, whereupon you'll be hung from an iron hook. Have a good day, dear.

Ask Aunt Betsy: The French (and Other Minions of Beelzebub)

Howdy-dowdy-doodly-doozy-do! Goodness! It has been nearly three weeks since yours truly sat down to pen this indispensable column. No doubt you've all been desperately craving a fat steaming wedge of Aunt Betsy's famous common sense pie, hot from the oven. In the intervening days, a cavalcade of calamities has befallen Aunt-Betsy-stan, my beleaguered Christian theocracy wedged between the Ass-sex Republic (homosexuals Lance and Bruce, plus freshly adopted lump of malaria-infested lion lunch) and Israel-lite (the Christ-killing Zionist Obama supporters). First, my twin sister Levitica lost her teaching job when she caught two third grade boys in the lavatory with their pants around their ankles, and quite sensibly safety-pinned signs saying "I take it up my poo-hole" to the seats of their Sears Tuffskins. She is currently despondent, and has taken up temporary residence in my tastefully appointed guest room. At the moment she's having bourbon for breakfast and yelling racial epithets at Whoopi Goldberg on The View. As if that wasn't enough, just as Aunt Betsy's Jewish attorney (Bernie Sapowitz, Esq.) successfully had my indictment thrown out (I was rudely accused of having a hand in my late husband Cecil's demise, which resulted from a bizarre bath-time mishap involving a baseball bat and a bug-zapper), a fresh legal woe appeared on my horizon. To celebrate our independence from those uppity effeminate Brits, I had purchased a spectacular array of fireworks from the Pentecostal Baptist "We Got Your Big Bang Right Here" Fourth of July Kiosk. The big finish was to be a cross-shaped configuration of roman candles that I ignited on the overly-groomed front lawn of Bruce and Lance's homosexual bungalow as a peace offering. This act of unadulterated goodwill has somehow been interpreted as a hate crime! Can you imagine?

Regarding all things Yahtzee, although I've advanced to the semi-finals, thanks to a batch of strategically served salmonella-infested cocktail weenies, which removed my most formidable rival from competition (one Mrs. Beulah Face, an insufferable Methodist with a facial tic and a ghastly henna rinse). Although the final tournament was to occur this past Sunday, it was postponed when it was discovered that someone had tampered with our official Yahtzee dice cup (I must admit Levitica had carelessly used it to mix a Rob Roy). A regulation tournament quality Yahtzee cup is currently on back order.

And now, here I sit, cozily ensconced in my Naugahyde house beautiful breakfast nook (in a chic aqua and burnt amber harlequin pattern), sipping a cup of Folger's decaf hazelnut supreme. And a quick glance at this morning's edition of our local newspaper (The Headcheese Junction Bugle) informs yours truly that today is Bastille Day. With that in mind, in a rare show of international diplomacy, Aunt Betsy will dedicate today's column to inquiries of a snotty malodorous nature (read: French).

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last week my teacher was fired cause she made two boys wear naughty signs on their fannies and sing "I'm a little fairy" to the tune of "I'm a little teapot" in front of the whole class. She used to give us pop quizzes on Leviticus every Monday. But our new teacher told us that this Monday she's going to give us a pop quiz on something called Bastille Day. I asked my mom what it was and she told me it's a holiday in Freedomland where all the people eat stinky cheese. I can't find Freedomland on a map. What is Bastille Day, and why don't we celebrate it here? Signed: Quizzes? Ugh! Extra Effort Regarding Bastille! Oh Yuck!

Dear QUEERBOY: A long time ago in a smelly place called France, 20,000 smelly folks busted into a smelly prison called The Bastille to rescue 7 smelly perverts and criminals. Then they cut off some noggins and pranced through the smelly streets, doing a homosexual dance called the can-can ("can" means "fanny" in French). Today, on Bastille Day, the French people celebrate by wearing homosexual hats (called "berets") and sashaying through the streets eating smelly cheese and acting snotty. Then they sing songs in gibberish that no one understands and take their yearly bath. We don't celebrate Bastille Day here, because if 20,000 Americans ever stormed a prison, I'm rather certain they'd get all Kervorkian on the criminals and jab at their arms with a dirt nap cocktail. You're welcome in advance for your A+.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Bon soir! I am Monique and I am from gay Paris. I am rude and I smoke and I wear tight sweaters. Last week, President Sarkozy's wife (a chanteuse), released her latest CD. In one of the songs, she sings to her husband "I give you my body, my soul and my chrysanthemum." Has Laura Bush ever recorded an album? Does she give her chrysanthemum to George? I do not eagerly await your bourgeois reply, as I am bored by this subject already. Signed, Why Haven't Other Recordings Emerged?

Dear WHORE: Unless I'm mistaken, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy has given her chrysanthemum to Mick Jagger, Donald Trump and Eric Clapton, among many dozens of other lucky chrysanthemum recipients. Her prolific chrysanthemum-giving leads one to believe she either has an over-productive greenhouse or by the time poor Nicholas got his hands on the thing it had dried out considerably and lost its once-pleasing fragrance (unless she pressed the bloom twixt her vice-like thighs for preservation). I have it on good authority that Laura's breakthrough CD (titled "Pickles Sings Polkas") is in the works. Look for it to drop soon, and be reviewed in this space. We rather doubt Laura would ever sing about giving George a flower of any kind, euphemistically or otherwise. A little bird told me she does coo about offering her hubby "a steaming helping of hot hair pie, just like mom used to make" during the instrumental break in "Xanatini Polka"

Dear Aunt Betsy: I heard that Angelina Jolie had two babies plop through her stink hole the other day. Why she let a bunch of frog doctors do it? Ain't America good enough for the hoity-toity likes of her? I mean, she has some righteous boobage but if she's turning into one of those f*ggoty French people I ain't a-gonna whack off to her pictures no more. Signed: Damn, Uppity Bitch! You Asshole!

Dear DUBYA: You've got no business pleasuring your shame hose to the mental image of a collagen-lipped Hollywood Jezebel when a certain chain smoking xanax addict is waiting at home chasing unicorns through the rose garden. Why pine for ambrosia when a steaming helping of hair pie awaits, attached to an inebriated pear-figured (and mildly nitwitty) woman with a donny osmond haircut? Regarding Angelina's freshest uterus spew; we rather suspect they'd function well as lawn jockeys. I wonder what their rates are? However...Knox Leon and Vivienne Marcheline? Would it kill her to have a Mildred? A Walter? Heavens.

Ask Aunt Betsy: Climate Chump Change

Hellosie-dotes-and-dosie-dotes! Good gravy! It's been nearly two weeks since my golden wisdom oozed forth on these pages. Where DOES the time go? First, Aunt Betsy has a tedious message to deliver from the hell-bound proprietor of this spectacularly offensive blog. He regrets having dropped the ball yesterday, as he was busily scurrying about hither and yon on various job interviews. A pitiful excuse if you ask moi, but being a devout Christian I reserve judgement until that amoral homo goes on public assistance.

On to the news that matters (i.e., things that directly affect Aunt Betsy): it distresses me to announce that a fresh indictment has been unsealed pertaining to the unfortunate and untimely demise of my late husband Cecil. Some nosey nelly down at the D.A.'s office finds it suspicious that the poor dear perished in a freak bath-time mishap involving a croquet mallet and a blender set to "puree," and is further disturbed by the presence of duct tape adhesive on his left wrist. The presence of his wrist is particularly vexing, as I had expressly paid an undertaker to cremate his inconvenient personage, after which I performed a "burial at sea" in the guest commode, flushing my ex-spouse and committing him to the city sewer system. It was a touching ceremony attended by my kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants and Sambo and Mr. Bones, my charming ceramic lawn jockeys. That Cecil's left wrist sits in the freezer in some ghastly forensic laboratory suggests that the undertaker in question is something less than thorough. At any rate, the duct tape is easily explained: Cecil had some peculiar sexual bents, which frequently included restraining him in awkward positions while I ridiculed his shame hose and spread Ben-Gay on his nipples. Perhaps that information was best kept under my hat.

Regarding Aunt Betsy-Stan's longtime dispute with the Ass-Sex Republic (the sodo-monarchy rudely abutting my own Christian theocracy), co-Queens Bruce and Lance have entered into an unholy alliance with Israel-Lite, the Zionist split-level salaciously adjoining Aunt Betsy-Stan's other border. In a spiteful retort to my encouraging Bruce and Lance's newly adopted lump of African hyena lunch to stand at the end of my driveway holding a lantern aloft, have conspired to circulate a petition throughout our tasteful gated community which removes yours truly from the steering committee. In all things Yahtzee, Shiela Blap (the suspiciously gifted Yahtzkateer who posed the gravest threat to Aunt Betsy's fourth consecutive tournament win) met her firey end when her Dodge Caravan's break line had been severed and she sailed into a ravine on her way to Wal-Mart. The poor dear will be sorely missed :-)

Now, here I sit on my pleatherette broyhill recliner in "colors of autumn" plaid, reflecting on the past week's tedious events and deciding which of your pathetic letters to grace with an answer. Dear me! It occurs to yours truly that the mercury levels in my Holly Hobby porch thermometer has been climing frightfully high! With that in mind, I shall answer questions pertaining to climate change, science, and other blasphemic fantasies of the hell-bound atheist set. Fire away!

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Smells Like Caribou Ass, and I'm an Inuit native in the Northern Territories. In my early childhood, I remember skipping from ice berg to ice berg, harpooning things and eating them raw. But now the ice is melting. Our way of life is disappearing. Polar Bears are coming into our town; Gam-gam Salmon Face was eaten by one last week while doing her "snow dance." Cow farts are melting our igloos. What should we do? Signed, Please Advise To How Eskimos Take Insufficient Cold

Dear PATHETIC: While having one's family devoured by Polar Bears sounds decidedly unpleasant, I do have good news. The ferocious beasts are fast becoming extinct. A few years back, I seem to recall a bunch of hippies getting hackie-sacks stuck up their oopsie holes over the fact that folks like you used to yank baby seals from the water, knock them silly and relieve them of their luxurious stoles and wraps (honestly, where does a seal go where such formal attire is appropriate?). Now that their main predator is quickly disappearing, I should think you unfortunate ice dwellers should jump at the chance to re-start your once lucrative furrier industry. And for heaven's sake, put a cork in your whining! I should think someone who lives in a pile of ice cubes would welcome a little warmth!

Dear Aunt Betsy: For as long as I can remember, my family has farmed pigs in our charming town of Porkbutt, Missouri. Since I was a little girl, I can remember naming the little piglets and dressing them up in doll clothes. And when they got all growed up I can remember chaining their hind foot to a hook, hoisting them upside down and slashing their little piggy throats so American salads could have delicious bacon-bits. But now, for the third time in twenty years, the Mississippi river done climb over the levees and washed all our hogs away. While my momma and me were canoing through our living room last night, I done ask her if she reckon what they call "climate change" is to blame. She furiously paddled to the kitchen, found a bottle of Palmolive, and washed my mouth out for blasphemy cause she says science makes the baby Jesus cry. What do you think? Signed Heaven-Overlooked Girl

Dear HOG: Your mother is quite right, science is blasphemy (for reasons you'll discover in the next letter). I wholly support her decision to sanitize your beelzebub-possessed pie hole. However, I'm afraid, that's where your profoundly retarded family's wisdom abruptly ends. Good gracious, you boneheads! Move your pigs to higher ground! Rebuilding not once, but twice in the same location leads Aunt Betsy to believe natural selection is at work; nature is purging itself of idiots. As we all know, natural selection is the heretical theory of demon-sodomized hell-dweller Charles Darwin. So in proving the theories of Darwin, your family appears to be resolutely bound for Hades. I suspect Lucifer plans on hooking your own ankle to a chain, if you get my drift.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I live in the dazzling metropolis of Mount Vernon Ohio. Last week, my little angel came home from school crying. I was devastated to learn that his science teacher had burned a cross into my boy's arm! Can you imagine? I have since learned that the teacher in question is a proponent of Creationism, but how does faith in God translate into branding our babies in a public classroom? Signed Has All Reason Left Our Town?

Dear HARLOT: Instead of sending your child to science class, why don't you just send him to "How to be Sodomized in a Lake of Fire Through Eternity 101?" Honestly! Your nice science teacher was obviously teaching a valuable lesson on what burning flesh feels like, a handy thing to remember if one wants to avoid eternal damnation.

   

 

Ask Aunt Betsy: Sickos n' Fatties

Hi-dee-di-dee-dipsy-doodle! Gracious! Has it been ten days since last we chitty-chatted? Aunt Betsy greeted this lovely day with one of her heads; my twin sister Levitica and I celebrated our birthday by attending the local Drama Barn Dinner Theater production of Mame, starring Sandy Duncan and Joey Heatherton. It was a splendid production, marred only by an awkward moment when Ms. Duncan's glass eye plopped to the boards during "We Need a Little Christmas," whereupon the prosthetic orb rolled past the footlights and into the orchestra pit, landing in a tuba with an audible "clang." Ever the trooper, the quick-thinking Wheat Thins spokeswoman grabbed an ornament from the Christmas tree and popped it into her socket as if it was the most natural thing in the world. After the show, Levitica and I wound up in The Gutter; a tastefully lit bar and lounge tucked within the Shangri-La Bowling Lanes. After Levitica and I wowed the crowd with our rousing karaoke interpretation of "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," we had clearly approached our limit. We promptly got behind the wheel and somehow pulled into the driveway of Aunt Betsy-stan a few minutes later, although the front grill of my El Dorado was oddly covered in clumps of grass and blood stains. So here I lie, reclining on my mauve and chartreuse floral Broyhill chaise with magic fingers, four Excedrins taking their sweet time working their magic on my throbbing brain, and that whorish quartet that comprise "The View" prattling on about orgasms or breast cancer or some equally distressing topic.

In other news of Aunt Betsy-centric concern, the spectacularly unfortunate negro orphan baby recently purchased by the sodomites next door somehow breached the formidable border defenses of Aunt Betsy-stan; I caught the savage tot hurling a spear at a bothersome bunny rabbit in my back yard. Although I was glad to see the irksome rodent impaled, I was irritated to see my tastefully groomed garden suddenly transformed into a ghastly Discovery Channel program on the hunting habits of the Congo pygmy. I must admit I considered whether pygmy veal was a suitable substitute for Shih-Tzu meat in my newfound Korean dog sausage recipe, instead I punished the cheeky negro by forcing it to stand at the entry to my driveway holding a lantern, in the same manner as my recently-banished lawn jockeys Sambo and Mr. Bones. Lance and Bruce minced by several hours later as I was taking my second roll of snapshots of little Maleka-leka-mao-mao holding the lantern aloft and grinning like that negro on the Cream of Wheat box. Apparently, they had passed their ethno-tot several times whilst combing the neighborhood looking for the thing before realizing it wasn't a plaster cast lawn ornament. They were inexplicably offended, and whisked the be-afroed child indoors; presumably to continue its homosexual indoctrination.

In Yahtzee news, this week's conclusion to the Yahtzee league quarter-finals was postponed due to the inconvenient heart attack of one Tonya Wilcox, the agnostic 400-pound cow nurse from the local veterinarian's office. She had somehow made it to the quarter-finals, in spite of my best efforts to have the official Yahtzee rules amended so that a player whose upper arm shakes more than the Yahtzee cup automatically earns a 50-point deduction for every superfluous elbow on her fat arm. Alas, I did not prevail.

But enough fiddle-faddle! Here before me is a vast mountain of desperate letters from my wretched (yet completely devoted) readership. This week, I shall address those letters that ask questions pertaining to health and well-being.

Dear Aunt Betsy: This week my children were taught in Sunday school that Jesus won't let any fatties into heaven, because fat folks can't become airborne with standard-issue angel wings. I assume the Sunday school teacher was making reference to the unfortunate incident in church two weeks ago when, after standing to sing "What a Friend We Have in Jesus," I sat down and broke the pew. I have since resolved to lose some weight and joined a gym. But I feel uncomfortable there. All the women wear spandex so tight the world is their gynecologist. And the men grunt like beelzebub whilst bench pressing or violating Leviticus in the steam room. How is a decent Christian woman to concentrate on dropping those last 80 lbs while surrounded by such hedonistic idolatry? Signed, Praying Our Righteousness Keeps On

Dear PORKO: It's true, Jesus deplores sloppy fatsos (which should sound an alarm throughout the Southern Baptist community). So while Aunt Betsy completely supports your dream to see your feet again, I also sympathize with your aversion to the sin factory of the typical fitness club, where sperm coats the locker rooms and the stair masters are drenched in Gonorrhea. Luckily for you, there is a new chain of Christian clubs called The Lord's Gym, where sweating to the oldies means doing jumping jacks to Gregorian Chants, where one may kick box the effigies of Hillary Clinton and Madelyn Murray-O'Hare. So join it toot-sweet, PORKO. And while you're at it, stop shoveling ring dings and little debbies down your fat gullet by the metric ton. When the rapture comes and Jesus starts yanking the devout skyward, I somehow doubt he intends to use a forklift.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last week I lost my job as a waitress in the Texarkana Stuckies. This, just one week after a tornado sucked my mobile home into the sky. Now I live with my 13 children in a Pinto behind the Jiffy Lube, where a steady diet of slim jims and tender vittles seems to have given my younguns scurvy, rickets, dengue fever, cholera and ringworm. I don't got no insurance. What should I do? Signed, Dang, I Really Try!

Dear DIRT: While I suppose you could hang on for a few months until this once Godly nation inaugurates its first negro terrorist president who promises to hand out healthcare like dead fetuses at a Pro-Life rally, I might suggest painting them in black face and hiring them out as lawn jockies. As long as they can grin like that man on the Cream of Wheat box and hold a lantern, there will always be a job for at least two of them at Aunt Betsy-stan. I don't offer a healthcare package but I will hose them off regularly and keep them well fed on Korean Shih-Tzu dog sausage.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a bird wot fancies jabbin hypodermics of smack between me toes and hooverin crystal meff up me honker. I likes to suck on me crack pipe like it was me mum's tit. A bird also fancies the odd glass, and I likes poppin percoset like they was bloody skittles. But now me teef be fallin out me gulliver and me bloke wot's incarcerated be finkin I gots a problem. Wot's a bird to do? Signed, Will I Never Ever Hoover Or Use Smack Ever?

Dear WINEHOUSE: What a charming young lady you are. I'm happy to help. The latest medical research shows that a woman in your predicament can avoid lasting effects of drug use by having her tubes tied, her ovaries removed, and her vagina sewn shut. Don't make the same mistake of another young popstar I know by closing that barn door after the Sean Preston cow has escaped!

Ask Aunt Betsy: The No BS Zone (or, The End of Daze)

Hello-dee-o-do-do!! Gracious! It has been too long, FAR too long since Aunt Betsy spent time with her adoring readership. During my long absence, nary a day went by when I couldn't psychically detect your legion of pathetic voices, all clamoring...nay, BEGGING yours truly for a tasty wedge of down-home common sense pie, fresh from the oven. Speaking of "fresh from the oven," a little bird tells me that Agnes O'Malley (the nubile Cathy-lick girl whose distastefully large family inhabits the split-level faux tudor bungalow catercorner to Aunt Betsy-stan), recently celebrated her graduation from Our Lady of Perpetual Misery by hoisting her plaid skirt over her head, getting impregnated by the intramural badminton team (bringing new meaning to the word "shuttlecock"), and subsequently defying the Pope by having the misbegotten womb booger hoovered from between her thighs down at Planned Parenthood. Her alcoholic parents are distraught, and rudely rebuffed my suggestion that we should throw a baby shower for the little slut, forcing her to open gift after gift of onesies, rattles, and squeaky-toys. After which we could stone her like the whore of Babylon and have coffee.

In news from abroad, the neighboring Cornhole Emirates (the lake-of-fire bound household next door, helmed by Princess Lance and the Duchess of Bruce) has taken the provocative step of training closed circuit surveillance cameras on Aunt Betsy-Stan. You'll be pleased to hear Aunt Betsy seized the opportunity to re-enact the destruction of Sodom for the cameras, using an all-stray-cat cast of thousands and a drum of kerosene. Mr. Sillypants was cast as Lot, natch. Tonight I plan on digging out my semaphore flags and spelling out explicit instructions on how to kidnap an insufferable Shih-Tzu and transform the ghastly beast into savory Korean dog sausage (faithful readers are well-acquainted with Aunt Betsy's new-found talent for that very thing).

Speaking of Yahtzee, we had an unfortunate bit of drama unfold at last week's Yahtzee league quarterfinal tournament. Fern Block, the suspiciously unmarried physical education instructor was (against regulation) still chewing on some Lorna Doons as she began to shake her Yahtzee cup on a third (and doomed) attempt at a four-of-a-kind. Unfortunately, a half masticated Lorna Doon apparently became lodged in her adam's apple, because she began to choke and released the dice. I forbade the implementation of the heimlich maneuver until the score mistress recorded a "zero" on the mannish woman's card. Fern's brain suffered a debilitating lack of oxygen and she's currently producing dazzling fingerpaintings at Happy Barn, the discount retard home on the outskirts of town. I, however, have advanced to the Semi's!

And now, here I sit...cozily ensconced in my House Beautiful faux provincial chintz settee, wondering which letters to answer. As you may know, the cantankerous sodomite who runs this distasteful blog is just emerging from an "icky" (his word) bout with the flu. And today, upon returning to work (at a beleagered firm that rhymes with Pear Burns), he learned the company has decided to show him the door (not unforeseen, but nevertheless annoying). With that in mind, yours truly has decided to devote this column to letters that address our collective impending doom. Enjoy!

Dear Aunt Betsy: I am a decint Christian woman who live in a trailer court, I homeskool my childrins and I go to church evry sundee. Last week the preacher man got hisself all worked up bout earthkwakes and cycloans and all the stuff God's sendin at the folks he don't like. Like the earthkwake he done send to Chiner was punishmint for bein all chineezy and commie. And the cycloan he done sent to Burmie cause those folks be all chineezy and commie too. But this weekend when we was havin a weenie roast and kegger, God done send 35 tornadies thru our trailer court and all are houses got sucked up into the sky! How come God done that? My family ain't no chineezy types. And we don't got no commies neither! I gots "Love it or Leave it" and "WWJD" bumper stickers on my El Camino! Signed, Dang! Even Bobby-Ray's In the Sky!

Dear DEBRIS: While all experts agree that Yahweh does indeed hurl natural disasters at us like darts in order to punish those whose lifestyle/beliefs/fashion sense He finds offensive, He also uses twisters and floods to reward those He truly favors. For instance, when a twister swept through my subdivision last year, it wisely spared my bungalow but completely decimated a Jewish home, a negro home, a Democrat home, and (the sweetest of all), toppled an oak onto Lance and Bruce's his-and-his purple Miatas. So now, as weary commuters speed past your forlorn patch of wasteland, they will be treated to a freshly scrubbed vista; as if God, in his Wisdom, sprinkled a little carpet fresh on your quaint little enclave and sucked it up in a giant hoover. Think of it as a cosmic courtesy flush.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a preacher man from God's favorite state (Texas). A few months back, a Presidential candidate begged me to give him the reach-around by throwing my considerable weight behind him and thrusting my biblical endorsement at him. Since then, he's been a fickle old coot, denouncing my endorsement because I preached that Hitler created Israel. But whatever. He didn't seem to have a problem when I said we should go all nukular on Iran, cause only then will armageddon finally arrive and all those damn jews will finally face the music for getting killy with Jesus.  And me and the rest of Texas will be all raptured up to The Lord, where we can dance the achey-breaky and listen to Merle Haggard and Barbara Mandrell all day. Signed, Hark! A Great Eternal Ecstasy!

Dear HAGEE: I'm not sure there's a question in there, but I'll answer it nonetheless. As I recall, you famously declared that Katrina was sent to New Orleans to punish the homosexuals for gallivanting about in the French Quarter with their shame-hoses on display. When Katrina destroyed every ward in the Big Easy but the gay one, it spoke ill of God's once reliably surgical aim (see: Sodom, Pompeii, Love Canal, JFK, et al). With that in mind, I understand there's a sinkhole in your home state, sucking cows, pigs and Baptists into the bowels of hell. Since presumably you remain unsucked at time of writing, you should get down on your well-calloused knees and give thanks. Where do you live again?

Dear Aunt Betsy: I am a devastatingly attractive homo who leads a double-life. Batman-esque, I have a dark alter-ego who authors a hilarious (and universally ignored) blog and always speaks in the royal "we" whilst unleashing vicious cans of whup ass on whomever has it coming (and often those who don't, if I'm in a mood). By day, however, I'm a mild mannered employee of a firm that rhymes with Stare Burns. Today, having spent the weekend feeling sick as a dog (last night's "Andromeda Strain" came close to depicting it), I arrived at work to discover the axe has fallen on my noggin. What's Batman without Bruce Wayne? Spiderman without Peter Parker? Whatever shall I do? Signed Whup-Ass Master

Dear WAM: Heavens, Joan of Ark did less whining on the stake! I suppose you could find a widely adored celebrity (aka, moi) to shill for your dreadful blog, encouraging folks to click on the "tip jar" and order something from your vast array of t-shirt designs. To spread the word about your ill-fated online endeavor. I, however, am not that person. Aunt Betsy does not whore herself out for non-Christian or non-Yahtzee-related causes like a common three dollar whore. I might suggest Foxy Brown.

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?

Ask Aunt Betsy: Strange Bedfellows

Hi-dee-di-dee-dosie-dotes-an-little-lambsy-divy! Heavens to me! It feels an eternity has elapsed since last you joined me, settled into my cozy mint green and butterscotch Levitz breakfast nook with matching cornucopia-themed formica table-top, lingering over a blackberry Pop Tart and a steaming cup of Chock Full o' Nuts decaf hazelnut instant. In the background, suspiciously Jewish-looking Matt Lauer is currently interviewing a family with 17 kids, all of whom claim to be Christians. But Aunt Betsy sees in their aggressively cheerful nature evidence that they aren't true Christians (i.e., Baptists) but are instead a tongues-speaking colony of snake-handling fanatics long overdue for their very own Waco-style ATF-sponsored end-of-days gun show and barbecue party. While yours truly is hardly an advocate for birth control (it invites dabbling in sex as a pastime rather than a tiresome duty and is therefore blatantly anti-Jesus), here I make an exception. This poor woman's womb likely resembles a slip-n-slide, and as pampers-filling scream machines slide from her sin hole like logs in a plume ride, the likelihood increases that she'll produce more of what the world scarcely needs: a homosexual or a democrat (po-tay-to/po-tah-to if you ask me). Judging from the looks of Jehoshaphat (the toddler boy whose birth order doomed him to a bottom-of-the-barrel "J" name), his demeanor suggests a latent talent for flower arranging and/or opera appreciation; one rather suspects that particular boat (the HMS Good Ship Sugarpants) has sailed.

Speaking of homosexual Democrats, Lance and Bruce (otherwise known as co-queens of the Ass-sex Republic, which rudely abuts the Christian theocracy of Aunt-Betsy-stan), have adopted an enormously unfortunate orphan of foreign origin and dubious ethnicity. One suspects they did so to fill the void left by Charo the Shih-Tzu, their tedious companion who disappeared a few months ago and mysteriously reappeared in my freezer in the form of delectable Korean dog sausage. As I write this, the three of them are engaged in a scandalous game of peek-a-boo on their front lawn. Why, I hear you ask, does the neighborhood association allow this belligerent display of diversity when they so recently banned my darling lawn jockeys Sambo and Mr. Bones from the driveway of Aunt-Betsy-stan? The answer is clear enough to me. Beelzebub holds dominion over our hell-bound subdivision.

Proof of Mr. Bub's presence occurred at last Saturday's Yahtzee league, during which Loretta Face (the Presbyterian divorcee/catering hobbyist whose stuffed mushroom hors d'ouvres taste like donkey sphincter au gratin) had a seizure directly after rolling a large straight. As she lay jerking about on my House Beautiful olive shag carpeting, amid the scattered freight of an overturned tray of her diarrhea-provoking canapes, I promptly sprang into action by tossing a full bucket of water on the wretched woman. While I'm to be gently faulted for failing to notice the bucket was in fact filled with dirty Mr. Clean fresh-pine ammonia, it did manage to drive beelzebub's spirit from Loretta's herky-jerky limbs. She promptly regained her equanimity before succumbing to ammonia fumes and collapsing anew, this time face-down in Mr. Sillypants' litterbox, which I'd been meaning to clean.

Anywho, let's make a dent in the towering pile of desperate correspondence clamoring for the balm of my wisdom and the insight of my infallible advice. This week, I shall delve into the body politic, answering queries related to matters specific to the Gomorrah located inside the belt parkway.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a member of the House of Representatives, a proud Italian from the boogie-down Staten Island. Until recently I thought I was doing everything right. I've towed the party line, every morning memorizing The Turdblossom Daily: GOP Talking Points Bulletin. I've fear-mongered about arabs, paid lip-service to Jesus, and devoted my entire being to defending the sanctity of marriage. Last week it all fell apart when I knocked back a few shots of tequila with a group of hookers aides, took my SUV out for a midnight joyride and had an unfortunate collision with a lamp post which darted unpredictably in front of my vehicle. Since then it has come to light that my side bitch spat my bastard womb booger from her cooter three years ago. Now folks are calling for my resignation! I feel like I have so much of the Lord's work to do as a member of the GOP congress! I have a lovely family at home in Staten Island to support! Please advise, signed Golly, Our Political Will's Over-Played

Dear GOPWOP: While it may be true that when Jesus gives us lemons we should make lemonade, that doesn't mean that if Jesus gives you poop you should make Yoo-hoo. Honestly! Aunt Betsy was completely in your corner until you mentioned your district. Indeed, if you were truly a champion family values, I rather doubt you'd condemn your own unfortunate family to a life on Staten Island. Your misfortune is compounded by the fact that you unwisely chose to break a commandment, rather than a law. In America, we prefer our politicians to have rapsheets over indiscretions (see: Libby, Scooter). But at the end of the day, I blame your wife. If she were really a good WOP wife (I call them Wipes), along the lines of Donatella Versace, Victoria Gotti or Carmella Soprano, she'd have had your mistress/bastard combo pre-emptively iced before dashing out to have her mustache bleached.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I'm a woman and I have a vagina. For the last few months, I've been running for president of the United States our local "Yahtzee League." Given the fact that our particular "Yahtzee League" has never had a vagina-owning woman as president, my campaign has been groundbreaking. I feel that both me and my vagina are uniquely qualified to answer a phone at three in the morning to answer a life-and-death "Yahtzee" question. And in spite of the fact that I misspoke when I claimed to have come under sniper fire when I attended a "Yahtzee convention" in "Sheboygan," I've run a strong campaign. But now my opponent, a negro by the name of Jihad Bin Laden has been gaining support and I'm being urged to drop out of the race. Is this a vast Yahtzee conspiracy? Signed Dice Yells: Keep Endeavoring!

Dear D*KE: Ah, yes. I attended the Yahtzee convention in Sheboygan. It was lovely, in spite of the fact that it was nearly over-run by bleeding hearts who were trying to alter the official Yahtzee League Rules and Regulations as they pertain to sudden death tie-breaking knife fights. Oh, and between you, me and the pot roast—both you and your revolting vagina are quite fortunate that my rifle jammed when it did.

Dear Aunt Betsy: For seven years I've been living in a pretty house. There are negros here that I can boss around. I have two lovely twin girls, and the one that I like is being married tomorrow. Hold on, my Rum and Mr. Pibb needs another Xanax, be right back. I'm back. Sometimes I see furry talking critters in the Rose Garden. Where was I? Oh! I'm sad now 'cause a new lady gets to move in here next year and she gets to undo all my decorations! Like the singing fish art that I put in the Oval Office, and my Franklin Mint "Hee-Haw" commemorative china. And to add insult to injury, I'm going to be replaced by one of the following three: an uppity negress (negros can't boss around other negros! that's what happens in post offices and we know how that turns out!), an adulterous kleptomaniac beer queen with a fake tan, shady dealings, and a rap sheet, or a bloated sperm hydrant with sticky cigars who's just going to look silly attending state dinners in a dress barn ball gown. What am I gonna do? PS: I sympathize with the heck you've gone through because of Sambo and Mr. Bones. I have a lovely collection of vintage porcelain Mammy figurines and if anything happened to them I'd just die! I like unicorns. Signed, Please Intercede; Can't Keep Life Exactly the Same

Dear PICKLES: While it will be hard to improve on the exquisite taste exhibited by a chain-smoking school teacher with a Donny Osmond haircut and a penchant for vehicular homicide, we feel you'd be most at home on the ranch with your buckaroo-modern naugahyde sofa and matching wagon wheel coffee table adorned by an ashtray overflowing with lipstick-smeared Pall Mall butts. My advice is to leave gracefully, with the pride in knowing that your taste level has set the bar impossibly high. But with the exception of the Rose Garden possibly being usurped by a watermelon patch, Aunt Betsy rather thinks the storied residence will remain what your husband turned it into: a landing strip for Jihadi Airways. 

Ask Aunt Betsy: Our Youth are Revolting

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.

Ask Aunt Betsy: Oldster-a-go-go

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.

Ask Aunt Betsy: Pope Prattle

Howdy-dowdy-doodle-all-day!! Jiminy Cricket, but it's been far too long since your Aunt Betsy sorted through the many letters stacked precariously on my House Beautiful faux provincial credenza with factory-applied pastoral tableau decals. A plethora of forces, some of which I'll expound upon, has distracted your favorite advice-giver from that which she adores; namely pointing out your many shortcomings and providing a beacon of hope to those who, in all honesty, haven't the whisper of a prayer. Job-like, Aunt Betsy has found herself sorely tested by Yahweh of late. Specifically, I've been targeted by the slings and arrows of litigious calamity from all sides.

First, the neighborhood association has rudely instigated a movement to forcefully remove those charming lawn jockeys that flank the approach to Aunt-Betsy-Stan (a Christian theocracy wedged between the Commie Jew Emirates and The Republic of Fanny Spelunkers). As loyal readers will recall, my duet of negroid garden ornaments (named Mr. Bones and Sambo) incurred some damage during a recent tornado (Sambo's toothy, grinning noggin was separated from his squat, lantern-raising torso, bless his heart), so in a fit of can-do ingenuity I re-fastened his nappy cranium to his neck with a generous dollop of gorilla glue and a rope, the end of which I cleverly tossed over the limb of a nearby oak to prevent it from toppling in a sudden seasonal gust. Apparently, there are those who viewed the resulting street-front display as somehow offensive. Secondly, Aunt Betsy was rudely served a summons related to a simple misunderstanding that occurred when the folks from PETA paid me a visit last week. At the behest of Lance and Bruce (the homosexuals next door whose contemptuous display of a rainbow flag has led to the onset of multiple migraines) the malodorous poncho-clad animal-huggers showed up unannounced during the spirited elimination round of my weekly Yahtzee league. Well, when they admitted they were investigating rumors that I was waterboarding my cat Mr. Sillypants I saw red. It's an outrageous claim; when Mr. Sillypants sasses or acts uppity he gets a few tumbles in my Maytag clothes dryer, nothing more...and he always emerges contrite and downy-fresh. I reacted by offering them some leftover dog sausage (made with the remains of Bruce and Lance's insufferable Shih-Tsu Charo) and assuring them it was vegan. Little did I know the fat one had a severe intolerance for pooch flesh. Those are but two examples of Aunt Betsy's legal woes; I haven't the energy to go into the unwelcome news that the local sheriff announced his intention to re-open his investigation into the unfortunate death of my dear, late husband Cecil (who expired during an unfortunate bath-time incident involving a croquet mallet and a cuisinart set to "grind").

But let's leave this nastiness behind. As we all know, erstwhile Nazi youth and current silk draped pontiff, Pope Eggs Benedict Arnold, is planning a whirlwind pope-mobile tour of our Christian nation this week. Therefore, in a spasm of inestimable religious tolerance, I've decided to throw caution to the wind and address the concerns of Mary-worshiping Cathy-licks.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Top o' the mornin' to ye! My name is Mary Beatrice O'Mally McGill and I live in South Boston with me darlin husband Paddy and our 42 lovely children (and twins on the way, praise be to Jesus Mary and Joseph). While I was in the kitchen whipping up a batch of corned beef and potatoes, Paddy (deep in his cups) came up on me from behind and forced his wee donny doblin in me out door. I'm not one to complain (and even told my little Danny boy to close his eyes and recite his favorite limerick next time Father O'Leary's leprechaun nudges against his Leviticus zone). But now, with the pontiff due to arrive, I feel soiled and unfit to lay me eyes on the Pope's gold brocaded dress. I had me heart set on seeing the old geezer, and perhaps getting a blessing. Should I stay away? Signed, Can A Bonny Babe Approach Great Eminence?

Dear CABBAGE: What a wretched soul you are. Without a doubt, you should stay far away from that effeminate be-gowned codger (who, from the confines of his motorized plexiglass cocoon is unlikely to notice your absence). Remember, although His Popiosity's membership in the Nazi Youth party has long ago expired, the sight of a tedious Cathy-lick woman and her be-freckled brood of snotty children is likely to set him off.  If I were you I'd promptly dress the issue of your hyperproductive uterus in recycled curtains and high-tail it across the Alps. Encourage your inebriated husband to yodel en route, perhaps a miscarriage-inducing, family-erasing avalanche is in the cards.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Fern Abramowitz. My life partner Pearl has convinced the members of our wiccan goddess circle to synchronize our menstrual periods and attend the pompous display of patriarchal oppression known as the Pope's American Tour. After chanting in my Gaya shrine (which doubles as our mud room), I agreed. The plan is to hire a vegan baby companion for our precious adopted Cambodian triplets (Kelp, Vulva and Ling-Ling) and leap in front of the papal procession, where we'll spontaneously mime a topless lesbian re-interpretation of The Trojan Woman while Pearl throws condoms filled with menstrual blood at the Pope-mobile and simultaneously shouts excerpts from the German translation The Vagina Monologues through a megaphone. Care to join us? Signed, Let's Emasculate Sacrilegious Benedict On Sunday

Dear LESBOS: Why thank you, I'd love to join your satanic cult. While we're at it we can vomit into the baby Jesus' manger. Might I suggest we each prelube our rectums with a can of no-stick Pam, to facilitate being sodomized for eternity by Beelzebub in a lake of fire? I also think it wise to devise a "plan b," in case frogs start raining from the sky and a ten-headed horned beast emerges from the Hudson River.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last night my ex came by with a buttload of Taco Bell. I was eating a Gordita Supreme when I noticed the ghostly image of Jesus in the tortilla of the exact same Chalupa my baby-daddy was fixin to chomp into. I screamed at him "Dang! Don't go a-chompin on the Lord!" and that's when Chalupa Jesus said "suffer the children, suffer the children" and I got all a-scairt and dropped my babies on their noggins. Just then the meth kicked in and I dreamt I was riding unicorns in England and a leprechaun appeared and said "Cheerio, pet! The Queen wants you to be British now, what-what!!" Then I woke up with my dress over my head and I thought it was night time. I asked my baby sister what the dream means but ever since she done got knocked up all's she can do is smoke and cuss and bitch about her hemorrhoids. Should I axe the Pope? Signed Seems Like Unusual Tortillas Today, Y'all!

Hi, Britney. Thanks for the migraine.