Hey guys, just wanted to let everyone know that Mary is home, which means her recovery is excellent or her insurance is lousy. Anyway, we have Oreo-flavored pudding and Oxycontin, plus a marmalade cat who has been plucked from the gibbering mouth of madness, so all things considered, it's a good day.
I haven't been near the computer much, so there's been no time to go wingnut scouting, but our old friend "Wally" has kindly offered to step in while we are indisposed and offer up a third helping of his unique, Miss Manners meets Nathaniel West-style advice column. And not just your garden variety home truths traded over the back fence, but the kind of bitter, hard-won wisdom that only comes from growing up on television with Wolverine hair. (For those who may not remember, Wally made his first appearance here, in a column which attempted to reconcile the ways of Ted Nugent, to Man, then launched his Miss Lonelyhearts franchise here, followed by a second installment here.)
Take it away, Wally...
I'm 19 and a Rutgers freshman – and now finally out of the closet.
During orientation week I met a really cool guy, Sam, who lives off-campus and we hang out a lot besides sharing the same major (engineering).
This weekend Sam invited me over to his crib but I met his older brother Todd there instead.
In a nutshell, Todd lured me into helping with bathroom renovation, then compromised me. All afternoon. I still have rope burns around wrists and ankles and other stuff.
I don't know how to tell Sam about this but feel I should if we want to continue our relationship.
Nervous in Newark.
Send more photos.
Your rope-a-dope pal,
I'm discouraged by recent news of terrorist activities, emerging viruses and the general sense that the geo-political situation is way outta control.
I'm under-employed and have a family. Should we just be quiet and build a fortified underground bunker in the back yard or do we acquire enough narcotics and drink the Kool-Aid while watching reruns of LITB?
Cowering in Cincinnati
If you go the bunker route for heaven's sake don't spend all day watching reruns of Beaver. Recent research has proven its potential to induce tardive dyskinesia after about a dozen episodes. Or mount your TV hanging from the ceiling facing down. Either way.
Took my '98 Acura sedan down to Maaco (Bronx) and waited two weeks for a simple repair and paint job. I picked up the car this morning. It's not my car. Its a '81 Honda Civic hatchback. Pizza car. Refused to take delivery.
Piqued in Poughkeepsie
The odds of you getting your original Acura back are about as low as getting a good blow job from Jay North, aka Little Miss Blue Balls.
Normally our readers ask if Wally might assist them somehow in the day-to-day.
Wally has a fleeting suspicion that as an Acura owner you are nothing more than a white man enjoying white privilege in your every endeavor, whether waiting in line at Whole Foods or perhaps just picking your nose whilst navigating from point A to B.
In other words, Piqued, Wally is telling you as politely as Wally can that you are a significant, if not complete, douche-bag.