Category Archives: REAL Advice

REAL Advice: It’s killin’ time

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?


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.



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.




A few days ago I wrote a letter to a woman that asked Dear Abby for advice about her husband doing computer programming while he talked to her on the phone at work. Well, I think we finally figured out what he was programming. It was obviously a program for stock traders working for Citigroup.


What the hell were you thinking, hiring a lunatic like the husband of “ANNOYED IN IMPERIAL BEACH, CA” to do your programming? The stock market literally exploded today, like physically went BOOM and killed people, and it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.

I honestly didn’t care when I heard news about the Dow Jones on the TV while I was eating my reuben at the deli, mostly because I don’t know what that is.

But then I started seeing crazy shit like the Accenture stock going from $40 per share to ONE PENNY. I don’t know anything about the stock market. I’ve kept all my savings in the form of silver dollars under my mattress since you punks wrecked everything in 1929. But even I know that a graph of a stock price IS NOT SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE THIS:

And everybody was running around like an 8-year-old in an air raid drill trying to figure out what happened. And it turns out, Citigroup, OR SHOULD I SAY SHITTYGROUP, that it was ALL YOUR FAULT.

Why is it all your fault? Well, turns out this whole thing started when one of your over-paid coke-fiend traders typed “BILLION” instead of “MILLION” when he (or she. Whatever.) was selling shares of some drug company. First of all, how do you hire someone that will make that mistake. That’s like me going to the store to buy two pounds of roast beef and COMING HOME WITH A METRIC TON OF IT.

Do you realize how much roast beef is in a metric ton? Neither do I, but your dumbass trader just killed a lot of cows to make it.

Also, what the hell kind of horse’s ass computer program do you have over there that makes your traders SPELL OUT HOW MUCH THEY WANT TO SELL? We’re not ringing up groceries by hand on the side of the paper bag, idiots. We’re selling billions of dollars worth of imaginary shits somehow connected to the reason that handsome devil Warren Buffett has so much money. I always thought it was because he sang that Cheeseburger in Paradise song.

So it’s really a simple fix, Citigroup. Hire some people who won’t type with their stupid fingers in their butt, and get a new computer program that doesn’t make you SPELL OUT HUGE FREAKING NUMBERS IN ENGLISH. And if there’s some fancy-schmancy reason it has to be that way, maybe put in a little extra box that pops up when you try shit like that. Like maybe something that says REALLY, JOE? THAT IS A SHIT-TON OF STOCKS TO BE JUST SELLING WILLY-NILLY LIKE THAT. ARE YOU REALLY FREAKING SURE? Like that. Just one. For situations like this. Please? Also, SHUT UP.


Warren Buffett: the original pimp daddy.

Warren Buffett: Original Gangster

REAL Advice: Oil people are so stupid. So is the Gulf of Mexico.

Dear BP:

I hear one of your oil rigs tipped over and is dumping a bunch of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. I also hear it could cost $8 billion to clean up. EIGHT BILLION DOLLARS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? How do you make a mess so big that it takes the U.S. Navy and 8 billion dollars to clean up? The only time I’ve ever seen anything close to that was the time Mickey Smith barfed on the way to school back in 1930 and it got it all in his shoes and he wouldn’t stop walking.

I gave you the benefit of the doubt — people died. That’s heavy stuff, people dying. But you still, a week later, HAVEN’T TURNED OFF THE OIL PIPE. Are you serious? That’s like me pissing in the woods and a three-year-old walking into my stream, and me TAKING MORE THAN SEVEN FREAKING DAYS to decide to stop peeing on him. DO YOU LIKE PEEING ON TODDLERS, BP? DO YOU? Also, what the hell does BP even stand for? Nothing? Oh. That’s dandy. SHUT UP.

I couldn’t believe the shit I was hearing about this “yeah there’s still oil pouring out” thing, so I went over to Ask Jeeves, and I asked that butler-ass guy what the word was.

Turns out, you guys are saying that you can’t turn it off because it’s as hard as “performing open-heart surgery at 5,000 feet in the dark with robot-controlled submarines.”


That’s like Winchester making a rifle that, when you pull the trigger, shoots FOR A WEEK whether you want to or not. Seriously? This is probably the worst idea ever. And now TURTLES ARE DYING. What the hell did turtles do to you? My cousin Nicky was raised by turtles since he was born in 1912. Where would he have been if you bastards killed those turtles with your magical, unclosable oil pipe? He’d be a goddamn orphan, that’s what. It’s a good thing you guys weren’t around back then. He’s dead now. Stone dead. So whatever.

Also, why does the U.S. Navy have to clean up the GULF OF MEXICO? It’s not the Gulf of Louisiana. It’s not even the Gulf of America. Maybe we have to because it’s your stupid American asses that made the mess. If we have to clean it up, we should get to name it. I propose the “Gulf of Freedom.” But why do we have to call it a gulf? The hell is a gulf anyway? Why not “Liberty Lake”?

Wait, WHAT? You’re a British company? Oh. That’s amazing. That’s so great. So a bunch of tie-wearing, tea-sipping dumbasses from BRITAIN, pollute the Gulf of MEXICO, and all of the sudden everyone is like HEY AMERICA, WHERE’S YOUR SWIFFER?



[You can e-mail Henry letters or general questions at i.hate.whippersnappers AT]

Probably the worst computer programmer ever. Grace Kelly was hot.

My husband is a computer programmer. When he calls me from work I can hear him typing on his keyboard. I find this as rude as people texting while they’re in the company of others. My husband thinks it is just fine and becomes angry if I mention it. What do you think?


From “Abby”:
I think that when your husband is working, he should devote his full attention to the job he’s being paid to do. And as accomplished as your husband may think he is at multitasking, it is unfair to his boss to chat you up on company time. He should be making his personal calls during his breaks — away from his computer.

I don’t know if you have ever tried computer programming before, but I haven’t. Because it’s harder than the Sunday crossword upside-down and in another language. If your husband is yappin’ away at you and typing on the keyboard, he’s not doing any goddamn programming, he’s probably doing the same thing I do on the internet — root around for saucy pictures of Grace Kelly. And if he is programming, it’s gotta be the shittiest programming stuff ever. Worse than the time Bobby Turner crashed his bicycle and a spoke from his wheel went through his calf. AND THAT WAS TERRIBLE.

I hope he doesn’t work anywhere important because he’s obviously not paying attention to what the hell he’s doing. This is probably why the stock market crashed. Your dumbass husband talking to you about the grocery list and little Suzie’s diarrhea instead of writing that one line of computer-mumbo that says “oh yeah and don’t let the backs fuck everyone.” THANKS A LOT, “ANNOYED.” YOU WRECKED THE WORLD ECONOMY. SHUT UP.



[You can e-mail Henry letters or general questions at i.hate.whippersnappers AT]

REAL Advice: Stupid idiot sisters need to shut up right now

This is the first in what might eventually be probably a series of columns. Whatever.

All right, readers, welcome to my sweet new advice column. Today I’m gonna give that “Dear Abby” floozy a run for her money — she got a letter from some woman, in MARYLAND, no less, that just drove me up a goddamned wall and I can’t believe there are like 495,000,000 newspapers carrying this woman’s dumb advice. So I wrote my own letter.

From the stupid idiot sister:

My brother is a lifelong drug addict who has spent the last two decades in and out of jail. He rarely works and has no permanent residence, finding shelter instead with various friends, girlfriends and sometimes sleeping in his broken-down vehicle. When he calls me, it’s always with some creative story and a request to send him money. The money I have sent over the years has gone to pay for his new drug fix, not to resolve whatever problem his sob story was about.

Recently, our grandmother died and she left each of us some money. As her executor, I am responsible for making sure my brother gets his share. While I want him to benefit from this modest inheritance, I’m afraid he will use it to buy drugs — possibly enough drugs to harm himself, if unintentionally. Obviously, this is not what our grandmother would have wanted. How can I make sure this money goes to help, and not further enable, my drug-addicted sibling?


From “Dear Abby”:

Consult an attorney, preferably one who has experience with wills and trusts, and see if some arrangement can be made that ensures your brother has a roof over his head and won’t starve. It may be possible that something can be worked out so his necessities would be paid for him, without his actually getting his hands on the money.

Who the shit do you think you are? Your grandmother is dead, and I can see how that might make you act like a heinous, meddling wench, but you need to check your self-centered, never-pooping ass before somebody kills you. Your grandma knew your lousy monkey-shit brother was on drugs. She didn’t care, and she STILL DOESN’T CARE. Partially because she was probably too old to care about stupid 30-year-olds and what they’re smoking, and partially because she’s DEAD. So you can’t argue with her. SHE IS A CORPSE. But before she was a corpse she told you to give your brother some of her money.

If you were in charge of my estate and tried to pull this back-handed, attorney-bringin’ bullpucky, I WOULD HAUNT THE BALLS OFF OF YOU. Worse than Old Lady Peckingham haunted that nice boy down the street from me when I was a kid. Because it’s not your goddamned business, woman. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but that’s not your job. You’re the executor of the will. You EXECUTE what it says in the WILL. If clause 2 says to give your heroin-face brother some money, unless clause 3 says “but before you do any of that, mess with all my business and pass hoity-toity moral judgement on my grandchildren,” you BETTER GODDAMN DO IT. Because that is your JOB. SHUT UP.