Whose idea was it to give this “Abby” woman an advice column? Why the hell is she so high-and-mighty that she can just sit behind her little typewriter or whatever it is and give out advice like it’s corn at Hunter’s Farm on the fourth of July? She’s got no right, and she’s got goddamned terrible advice anyway. Feast your peepers on THIS.
Before my husband died, we used to enjoy visiting with “Frank” and his wife, “Julie.” They were happy get-togethers between couples.
After my husband’s death, Frank said he wanted to stay in touch. As time went on, we’d meet for holidays and home visits, which were as pleasant as before. But as time passed, Julie became bored and the visits became awkward.
Frank and I had a lot in common. I enjoyed his company more and more. Anyone who has lost the love of his/her life knows it’s a gift to take a break from the heartache once in a while. Frank and I have done nothing wrong. If he were a woman there would be no question of impropriety.
I haven’t heard from Frank in a while, and I suspect it’s because Julie has requested he not spend so much time with me. I don’t blame her. I’d feel the same if it were my husband. But would it be OK for me to call him? Until recently we talked regularly. I know he’d be happy to hear my voice. Our visits were full of life and innocent conversation, and I miss them. Should I leave well enough alone, or enjoy the only peace I have had after such a great loss?
— ANONYMOUS IN COLORADO
From “Dear Abby”:
Please accept my deepest sympathy for the loss of your husband. My advice is to leave well enough alone and look for “peace” with someone who is available and will be able to provide more than good conversation.
While your intentions may be innocent, your growing friendship with Frank may have begun to make his wife uncomfortable. It appears she picked up on the fact that you have grown emotionally dependent on her husband and viewed it as a threat. Alternatively, when you were all together she may have felt like a third wheel, and that’s why she became bored. So please take what I have said to heart and back off.
From HENRY STOCKTON:
Come on, Anonymous. Why don’t we all just operate on the level here? You know you’re boning old “Frank.” Abby knows it, I know it, and “Julie” sure as a cow udder knows it. Let’s just stop kidding ourselves and get down to business.
First of all, don’t write to a goddamn advice columnist and then LIE. Because then she’s just gonna lie right back. She can’t just be all “excuse me, hussie, but you need to quit rubbin’ your Mason on that gentleman’s Dixon.” Because it’s a family column, after all. It’s right next to Garfield in the paper, and you know everyone reads her because Garfield is TERRIBLE.
And you’re bullshitting her. You’re bullshitting her worse than the time Timbo Flannery told Father Jacobson that it was a deer that jumped through the stained glass window.
I can tell you right now, it wasn’t a deer that jumped ANYWHERE. That freaking maniacal Timbo sonofabitch hit a goddamned golden retriever with his dad’s Ford pickup and then THREW it through the window. And then that crazy beatnik ran in there and buried it in the woods.
I’ll never understand that Timbo Flannery.
But really. Quit throwing dogs into churches and come clean — once you admit you’ve got a powerful hankering for big “Frank” you can get to stealing him from “Julie,” which shouldn’t be that hard. Any couple-a people who spell their names with quotation marks probably aren’t that quick on the uptake anyway.
So pretty much, you just have to kill “Julie.” Do it however you want, but make sure she’s good and dead. The worst thing in the world is to get caught in bed with somebody by their spouse, especially when the spouse has a GODDAMNED SHOVEL WOUND TO THE FACE. So kill her good. Then maybe throw her through a stained glass window. That dog was dead as SHIT, let me tell you. I saw it. Ok, I didn’t see it, but Timbo told me about it on the bus, I remember right clear. And the way he told it, I just KNEW that dog was deader than a pig at a bacon contest. Also I’m pretty sure Father Jacobson is dead, and NOBODY is going to give you as hard a time as he would have. Now that I think about it, that sonofabitch is probably still puttering around, 140 years old and mean as a wet cat in a carpet factory. So watch out for that.
So once you get that out of the way, you have to convince “Frank” it wasn’t your fault. Maybe tell him a deer jumped through a window. That worked last time. If that doesn’t seem to fit, call him up a few times before you do the deed, tell him his crazy quotation-using wife is calling you talking about how depressed she is or something. That way he’ll think she beat herself to death in a back alley.
Then he’ll be just as emotionally barren as you, and you two can do whatever kind of gross, weepy business you guys want.
Also, it could have been way worse. Some people died in Vietnam. Some people get eaten by golden retrievers while they’re shopping for bran flakes. Your husband died in the bathtub with his rubber ducky. And that’s true about the bran flakes — happened to my good friend Mel, rest his soul. Eaten to pieces at a Wegman’s in New Jersey.
They found the dog a week later — some crazy bastard threw it through a stained-glass window.