I have a great idea for this post. Today I am going to copy over some questions that have appeared in the Ann Landers (among others) columns in newspapers around this pathetic world. Then I am going to answer them. These poor people have no bloody idea what they are asking.
Thus, I give you, Ask Someone Who Cares.
[Sir or Madam], my husband does nothing around the house. I get up at 4:30 every morning and don’t get home until 5:30 p.m. I thought when he retired he would at least help do the grocery shopping, but he won’t. I even have to take out the garbage.
My husband has ulcers, high blood pressure and high cholesterol, and I’m sure drinking all that beer isn’t helping. He used to be such a wonderful man, but he’s turned into a jerk who thinks he only has 10 more years of life left — and he’s trying to cram in 20. He refuses to go for counseling, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t live like this anymore. Please help me.
Well, I have a two part answer for you. The first is, you’re making this up. You live alone and have your whole life. You can’t hold a job and your idea of grocery shopping is picking the dumpster outside of Taco John’s or McDonald’s. Me? I’m a Burger King fan.
The real truth is that you could never get a husband because of how utterly stupid you are. And if they could ever get over your obvious “special” status, then they’d have to deal with the whole “ugly like buddah” face you’ve got sporting. For you it’s Halloween everyday, isn’t it?
Part two, just in case you’re not a pathetic loser/liar, is that maybe the problem is you. When he had a job was it long? Was he out of the house a lot? Did he have very attractive secretaries who’d come over to the house for “business purposes”? Ladies and Gentlemen, I think we have a winner.
My solution is to buy a shotgun and do him in. He’s worthless, like you said, and the long list of health problems will not get shorter before it gets longer. Illness = $$$$. I suggest using one barrel on your hubby (get him while he’s intoxicated and lying down) and using the second on yourself. This way you won’t go to jail. And, if you are pathetic and a loser/liar, this way you end your misery.
My brother completed all the necessary legal requirements for the adoption, not to mention he helped out financially. We were overjoyed when Jane announced in her fourth month that she was having twins! As her due date drew closer, she seemed more and more remote. In her ninth month, she “disappeared” for several days. We finally found her hiding in a closet in her apartment. She was upset and asked that we leave her alone.
After she was forced to get medical attention, we learned that Jane was never pregnant and that she had been stuffing pillows under her clothes. Later, we found out she had had a hysterectomy 10 years ago.
The emotional damage she has caused is indescribable. Although this has not soured my brother and his wife on adoption, I feel something needs to be done about the adoption laws so this type of fraud can be avoided. Perhaps the adoptive parents or the adoption agency should have direct contact with the obstetrician. What do you say, [Sir or Madam]?
Holy crap. Your sister is a nutcase. What the hell is going on in that family? Did you guys all make fun of her or something? Did you hit her with things and say “You can never get pregnant! You’ll always be alone without children or a husband (but especially children)?” If you did, well, looks like she got you back.
Now, I’m not a photography expert, but how hard can it be to tell if someone has pillows stuffed up her shirt and not a baby stuffed up her … you know – baby place. I would think that when you saw feathers that would be a tip off. Or how about the unusual square shape of the stomach? Or the fact that she had the pillow case sitting on the couch in the picture.
I can see that no one came to see her 9 months. Come on – 9 months? No one visited her once? You didn’t have a baby shower or a belly warming party or whatever you women do to celebrate the labour you’re about to go through. You didn’t send her a card, pop by for tea, or any of that?
Maybe the problem isn’t a psychotic who pretends she’s pregnant. Maybe the real problem is called bonding. And the problem is that you don’t have enough of it. Am I right?
We are both retired, professional people, and frankly, opening my mail is one of the few pleasures I enjoy these days. I have told my husband that I prefer to open the mail addressed to me, but if I am not at home when the postman comes, he proceeds to open all the mail regardless. I need to know if I am overreacting, as my husband says.
What is with the elderly writing in all these questions? Oh wait, it’s because they have no jobs and so they have nothing better to do than to bother me. Well… okay not me, but someone like me. That is someone who writes words.
I was taught that it is okay to open other people’s mail until they learn that you are doing it. Then you have to figure another way to do it. My dad taught me that. He also taught me how to cure a hangover and how to make a shiv out of a bedpost. He was a handy guy when he wasn’t beating us.
The point is you have to physically hurt your husband to get him to listen to you. Or use your feminine wiles on him. Either way, you have to break him. Try seducing the mailman to get him to give you your mail later in the day, away from your husband. Or mail yourself a letter bomb and make sure you’re far away from the house when mailman gets there.
If this is really one of the “few pleasures” (wink wink) you get, then maybe you need a hobby. Maybe you should go looking for whiner number one’s hubby in one of the many bars in the area, no doubt complaining about his life/wife to whoever can stomach him. Or you could find complainer number two’s crackpot sister and get her drunk enough to pretend to have triplets.
I guess what I’m really saying is that there is no way you can solve this problem that doesn’t involve ending your short, pityful, meaningless life. Do you understand me? You don’t care about the mail.
You don’t, really. Just get out – and start opening your death.