Advice for the Weary from the Helpful One

Dear Helpful One:

I haven’t written for advice to anyone before, so this is all new to me. Forgive me if I ramble. When I read your response to Wicked in Kansas, I just knew I had to write to you. (Readers, our writer is referring to this, “Dear Wicked, strenuous filing and an acid bath just can’t guaranty the complete removal of a serial number from a gun. You need to buy a clean weapon that can’t be traced to you. The difference is a bucket load of insurance money versus a pant load of bodily fluids from a sexually confused and dangerous cellmate. Spend the money and get the clean gun. Happy shooting! Aim true and smile when you pull the trigger, Helpful One”),

I have been living with this lard ass for 23 years. He wakes up and stumbles around the house like a blind three-toed sloth. His coffee has to be room temperature or he reacts like a deranged child with a finger slammed in a door. Although he works in a true sweat shop as the maintenance guy, he bathes only twice a month – the day before payday. That way he can look “appropriate if’n the bossman needs to discuss a wage adjustment wit me.”

The raise never comes and he drowns his pathetic status in the cheapest beer known to human history. Thereafter, his bowel movements increase in both frequency and stench. I usually visit with my sister Gloria for a few days. I can tell the coast is clear when the flies are airborne again.

One day, I finally got fed up with his sexual urges. When he did his slovenly excuse for foreplay and then crawled on top, I slipped him into a wet sock instead of me. It worked. He’s been banging Spalding sweat socks for eight years now.

If he were just an unfortunate slob with an insensitive penis, Helpful One, I wouldn’t be writing for your advice. But now he is an unfortunate slob with an insensitive penis AND a large life insurance policy. You see, I play the scratch-offs and actually won $7,000. I debated what to do with it, and then realized that I could parlay the money upward. I bought a $2,000,000 life insurance policy almost ten months ago. I got 60 days left to kill him.

I tried messing with his car. I cut his brakes lines but some dufus tow truck just so happened to be there and helped him safely pull over to the side. I but a bomb under it but connected it to the wrong wire, so it just sat there attached for a week. I had even taken my best colored-sand-filled coke bottles off the window ledge so they wouldn’t get damaged in the explosion. But wouldn’t you know it, the damn thing just fell off and was run over by a beer truck. My gum-head husband sees it in his rearview mirror and goes back – not to help, but to fill his trunk with beer. Poison just caused rancid farts. Loose stairs just twisted my ankle and almost killed me!

I can’t do this anymore, Helpful One. Time is running short. I am starting to bathe 20 times a day like I did in the bad days. I talk to the dishes when I wash them and they tell me what it felt like to hold his food. I’ve let the dirty socks build up and I hold back vomit whenever I picture them under the bed. HELP!!! Signed, 60 days and counting.

Dear 60,

On my, you are in quite a pickle! You’ve come to the right place, though, so relax. Take a couple of deep breathes (make sure you go outside first!) and let calm enter your body.

OK. Let’s assess the situation. His body seems to be rotten to the core. He absorbs and processes poison. That is probably from the years of drinking rock-gut beer, which destroyed him from the inside out, and not bathing, which allowed heavy metals pushed out through sweat to be reabsorbed by the body. In a medical sense, your pudding head is probably closer to a Superfund-listed toxic waste site than a human. He has probably been this way for years – that would explain why the wet sock trick works. (BTW, we had our intern, Brad, go humpity-hump with one of the general manager’s socks. No sparks. Unless you count the GM’s wife that walked in and was very curious as to what her husband’s custom embroidered sock was doing wet and wrapped around Brad’s ying-yang.) Pudding Head is also exceptionally lucky (tow truck, car bomb).

There seems to be nothing left but the unconventional. I’ve got two options for you.

First, one that’s been used by a lot of readers over the year (and you may be familiar with this) is the razor-blade coated concrete bucket. Refer to earlier columns for the construction tips and tricks. I suggest you go down to his place of employment and try to find a likely crime scene. Maintenance guys usually have small, cramped offices. All you need is four lineal feet for gravity to do its thing and wonk! right to the back of the head and you’ve got $2,000,000!

The second approach is a bit more unconventional. Think of physics for a moment. You know the whole matter-antimatter argument? They meet and poof! there goes the universe? Then they find out that anti-this and anti-that are colliding with this and that all over the place and the universe is still here. So – follow me, 60 – it turns out that the only thing going poof! is on an atomic level. Now, I suggest that Pudding Head is like one big walking anti-health-proton-neuron thingey just looking for its counterpart in the universe.

Break out the wok and stir fry some veges with a little organic tamari. Add in some line-caught wild salmon and a handful of tofu cubes. A little glass of red wine on the side. Get him to eat seconds. Blow him if you have to, girl, just keep him eating (think of it as a $2,000,000 green lollipop)! Then take him for a leisurely walk full of fresh air. I guaranty, my dear 60, that the walk will end soon enough in a cataclysmic event. Bring your rain slicker! You don’t want Pudding Head all over you!

Now get shopping, and remember our motto: You ain’t got nuttin’, copper!

Helpful One