From a Submariner's Perspective is a weekly column, written in response to the letters sent in to advice columnist "Prudie" at Each week, The Submariner responds to the letter writers in a way that author, Emily Yoffe, probably can't (but perhaps would like to...). Each entry is headed with a link to the orginal questions and Yoffe's answers. Enjoy!

Also, if you have questions that you'd like answered by The Submariner, or anyone here at "The Fly", just write to me at and I'll forward to the appropriate party/parties for an answer (or you can write to them directly via the e-mail addresses on their pages)! Once the answers are published, I'll drop you a note letting you know.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

...on the Non-Hereditary Nature of Alzheimer's...  (03/25/10) <--- Original Prudie Letters Can Be Found There

Hey there Shippers! And happy Prudie Day to you, one and all! How in the hell are ya today? Is spring springing for you, or are you still in the throes of winter’s frost and cheerless gray gloom? Here, the sun is shining. There may be clouds straggling around, sometimes even harsh ones with rain, but, still, the days are growing brighter and longer with each new dawn. The early morning’s tranquility at the office is now once again accented by Jody Calls, some quite elaborate, belted out at top decibel as company after company jogs by under my office windows. Some are so well conceived, in fact, and so well structured (many with two and three part harmony and dual-simultaneous melodies) that they’re worthy of being recorded (in my humble opinion, anyway). They almost make me want to go back to my days aboard the boat...almost. But, enough of my ramblings! It’s a fine, fine Prudie Day and we’ve got letters to get to, Shippers! So let’s get to ‘em, shall we?

LW#1: Dear Prudie, I recently learned from my grandmother, who is the primary caretaker of my grandfather (who has Alzheimer’s), that though my uncles may need to worry about Alzheimer’s in their futures, my father does not. “Shhh!” she added, with a twinkle in her eyes, you know, to make sure I actually got the full salaciousness of her barely-veiled innuendo. Aside from being bummed that I’m no longer my grandfather’s grandchild, I’m wondering if my dad would be bummed, too, to find out that he’s not actually his dad’s son? So, I’m thinking of telling him. You know, for purely altruistic reasons. I mean, my dad’s health might not be at risk after all! And just think of all the things he could do with that knowledge now that he doesn’t have to worry about Alzheimer’s! What do you think about this plan? Well, first off Sherlock, I think you should get your facts straight. Alzheimer’s is only known to be inherited in one very rare form of the disease (FAD (Familial Alzheimer’s Disease) which affects less than 10% of patients), and, even then, it can be inherited through either parent’s gene mutations. Grandpa’s disease, then, is likely entirely irrelevant to your father’s potential health whether he’s your dad’s biological father or not. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. I know that what you really want is some drama (will your eyes twinkle as you tell him?)! You want excitement! You want to see pain and hurt and destruction! But, instead of fucking up your dad’s life, why don’t you, instead, go rent a chick flick or two? Find one rife with cancer and death and divorce and strong-willed, defiant victims who overcome early life adversity to walk into the sunset of their lives smiling. And hey, while looking, see if you can’t find one that includes a female character who’s certain that a particular child of hers belongs to one man, only to find out later, through a dramatic and touching DNA test sequence scene, that, holy-shit-surprise-ending, she was mistaken and that the father her child had grown up with was, in fact, the “real” father all along. Also, ruminate on what the definition of “father” is and see if you can glean how important actually providing sperm is to fulfilling that role. You know, for altruistic reasons.

LW#2: Dear Prudie, I was married to a truly horrific, mentally-unstable, abusive woman. During our divorce, she abused me, broke windows out of my apartment in a drunken rage, and honestly concerned me enough for my safety that I had a restraining order taken out. Well she broke the order multiple times and was jailed for four months! Seriously. I wish that I was kidding, Prudie. Finally, after a long healing period, I’ve begun to get my life together and am even dating a woman from the same small neighborhood where I live. Well, my ex found out that I’m dating and sent letters to all of our neighbors, stating that my new girlfriend was the reason for our divorce. Now the neighbors seem to be eyeing us, and, sadly, according to my lawyer, my ex’s letter writing to the neighbors isn’t covered under the restraining order. What should we do? My girlfriend is uncomfortable, too, and it’s causing a lot of stress? So, the restraining order doesn’t work, eh? And your lawyer verified that? Did he get his law degree from a fucking Cracker Jack box? Ever heard of libel? All you need is one copy of the letter, Skippy. You need to quit being a fucking pansy and pull up your big boy panties and either, a) move away and not let your ex know where you are (which is actually a fine option in this case because I don't care how reasonable you are, you can't reason with the irrational or the insane. But this solution will only work if you can stand being without the drama), or, b) get enough self confidence in you so that you can ignore any neighbors who are so fucking dumb-assed stupid as to judge you based on the ravings of a clearly unstable twit, or, c) fuck you ex so far up her asshole with the legal system that she’ll burp litigation and hear banging gavels in her sleep (from inside her skull). If someone libeled my girlfriend, I know what I’d do (after I fired my dumbass lawyer, of course).

LW#3: Dear Prudie, my sister “Whorebitchica McEvil” just had a baby. She’s going to be out of town for an event and has asked our mutual sister, “Sweet Caroline L’Perfection”, if she, her husband and their evil mutant devil spawn infant may stay the night with Caroline after the event, as Caroline’s house is halfway to their home from the event. Sweet Caroline is understandably distraught over such a rude, heartless, selfish, cheap, horrid request and definitely and understandably doesn’t want her or her husband’s sleep disturbed by the evil mutant hell spawn child of Whorebitchica, and, all of the inconveniences that go along with having one of them in the house in the first place. Caroline asked me what to do and now I’m asking you, because, to me, Sweet Caroline ought to tell Whorebitchica to quit being rude and to rent a hotel room. I mean, the nerve! What say you, Prudie? I say that it’s not even worth my time to explain to you what a contemptuous waste of loose skin and air you and your “sweet” sister are, because the explanation would be so lost on you that the effort would be an exercise in complete and utter futility. I agree that anyone has a right to host or refuse to host anyone they choose. But I would also suggest that using an innocent baby, an infant, as an excuse not to host for a single night is not only immature and virulent, it smacks of a jealousy and bitchiness and pettiness that you ought to have outgrown in, say, the 8th grade or so? And finally, just so you know, I’d like to share what I took away from your letter. You know how when you’re wiping your ass and how one in a million times you slip or the toilet paper slips, or whatever, and you directly touch your ass, I mean, you know, right there? To where you just know that you got some shit on your finger, and probably even under your fingernail? You know how, even though it's your own  body and you know it's entirely irrational, you can’t wait to not only wipe the finger with toilet paper, but how you feel an almost compulsive need to immediately get to the sink and scrub the hell out of your finger, maybe even with something stronger than soap and a washcloth? You know how, even afterwards, the idea of the dirtiness sort of clings to you for minutes or even hours? Well, for me, that’s you and your sweet sister Caroline. You guys are like errant shit, stuck under the fingernail of my soul. May you live a life free of noise and clutter and unexpected guests, and may I never, ever, ever cross paths with you, even by accident.

LW#4: Dear Prudie, I’m the youngest person in my office by over ten years. I have two questions. The first is that I don’t know what to say when my co-workers point out their gray hair, wrinkles or expanding waistlines and say, “this is what happens when you get older!” I don’t want to offend them, but I don’t know what to say in response. Also, because my mom works here (although in a different department), a number of people have asked me if my mom got me my job. What should I say to that? I’m a young, educated, hard-charging careerist and am offended by the implication that I was nepotised into my job. I earned my spot here! Okay, youngin’, the first question is easy. Recognize this self-deprecating humor for the compliment that it is. You are young and beautiful. Your co-workers are sort of gently envious. Lost youth is something many people lament and it’s easy to do when the eyesight starts going and the hair starts growing in places it shouldn’t and then a young, vibrant, attractive person comes into view. It can be a wistful, melancholy time. There are so many things you could say to these statements, though! From, “Oh, no, I think you look great” (if you really thinks so, and surely not all of your coworkers are flabby, graying blobs), to “Well, you know, everyone ages differently. I mean, Chuck Norris just turned 70 years old and I hear that he’s still so fast that he rubs ice cubes together to start a campfire! So, you know, there’s hope for us all!” As for the questions about your mom, you have to look at the questioner in a way that almost signifies pained regret, as if you sincerely didn’t know that was even possible, and say, “Was that even an option?! She never even offered me. (sad pause) Did she get other people jobs here?!” Or, just come with a stern look and say, “No, I got my job here based on my skills and merits.” I would only use the latter on those who truly deserve it, though, because it can be seen as, rawr, catty! Most of all, though, just recognize that, as you get entrenched there and your work is what you become known for, there will be fewer and fewer comments about your mom and your rockin’ bod (by comparison), and they’ll be replaced by other, often equally as uncomfortable ones about your work, or who you’re sleeping with to get where you are, etc. Welcome to the fun! Yay!

Well, Shippers, that’s it for another fine, fine Prudie Day! I was going along the other day, minding my own business, when, out of the corner of my ears, I heard someone say “frozen jalapeno poppers”. Now, I was pretty sure that I’d actually fainted and was just imagining it, but, nope! They actually exist! And, while they’ll surely never be a replacement for the real thing, they might just hold you over in one of those moments of quiet desperation when you really want to be hangin’ around the Lagoon, grilling jalapenos with the gang, but just can’t make it. I hope everyone has had and will have a wonderful week! Fair winds and following seas to you all, Shippers!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

...on SmagBoy Shamelessly Angling for New Sweaters (03/18/2010) <---Original Prudie Letters Can Be Found There

Hey Hidey Ho, Shippers! How in the hell are ya on this fine, fine Prudie Day? It’s a wonderful day, isn’t it? Hopefully you’re getting past the weird effects of the clocks jumping an hour ahead and you’re now fully ready for the weekend? I know that I am! I’m really looking forward to Saturday, specifically, though. Did you know that Mr. Rogers (he of outside sweater, inside sweater fame) was born on the 20th of March?! I used to think that Bret Michaels (he of the outside venereal disease, inside venereal disease fame) was also born on the 20th. He’s a guilty favorite of mine from back in the hair metal days. But, alas, the perfect convergence of a Michaels/Rogers birthday weekend is not to be, as Bret was actually born into this world, fully-formed and rockin (and yes, probably already sporting a cold sore), on the 15th of March, not the 20th. Still, pretty good week for births, eh? And, oh, Kathy Ireland is on Saturday, too. So that’s a freakin’ trifecta of awesomeness for Saturday! But, anyway, let’s move past my weird fixation with birth dates and on to the letters, shall we?

LW#1: Dear Prudie, I’m a university student enrolled in a class that meets several hours per week...I say that in order to differentiate it from those that don’t. You know, those 10-minute-per-week classes that the rest of you took back in the old days before real schools were invented and we GEN-Y kids started college. You know, back when things were easy. Anyway, there was this hot dude in class that was, like, totally making my juices flow and so I finally screwed up the courage to ask him where I knew him from. Well, it turns out that he’s the grandson of the woman whose husband molested me as a child when I was in the care of his (this fellow-student’s) grandmother. I now hate this fellow student and can’t stand coming to class anymore. And who could blame me? It has nothing to do with the class being difficult and meeting for several hours per week. Honest. It’s just that I’m now pretty sure that at any moment he’s going to molest me, or invite his family in to molest me. In front of the whole class! What should I do? Look, your problem is more serious than I made it sound in the rewording of your question, but, it’s not one for the Internet Lady to answer. Nor is it one for me to answer. The truth is, this issue is about you, not your classmate. You have to work through this. Perhaps that’s with a counselor. Perhaps that’s through self help books. Perhaps via meditation while smoking pot with the Maharishi? I can’t know. But what I do know is that what happened to you is not the fault of this classmate. His presence in the same class with you is simply a fluke of the Universe. What you’ve got to do is figure out how to deal with that fluke without causing this innocent bystander to be damaged in the process. There’s been enough damage already, wouldn’t you agree?

LW#2: Dear Prudie, I fear that my four-year-old may have heard and/or seen my husband and me during our “private time”. We were being terrifically acrobatic and I’m afraid it’s going to cause him to be in therapy in 20 years, probably live a life of crime, and then die from a combination of AIDS and herpes that he contracted from Bret Michaels. He has such a brilliant mind (my son, not Bret, who is, after all, brilliant in his own way), staying up late at night working on process management for cereal crunch enhancement (you know, a non-nutritive cereal varnish, semi-permeable, non-osmotic, coats and seals the flake...) and I don’t want that beautiful mind damaged, Prudie! What should I do? Holy fucking batshit, woman?! Are you fucking kidding me? Do you honestly think that you and/or your husband are so fucking impressive, so fucking mind-bending in your playing of hide the kielbasa that you can compete with Dora the Explorer and Wishbone the reading dog in this child’s mind?! Well, okay, fine, perhaps with a mother like you, he will end up in therapy in 20 years. How could he not if every single hang up that you have in your life you transfer onto him?! What if next he accidentally sees a tiny byproduct of your monthly cycle? Will he worry about your death and need counseling? What if he sees you kissing Santa Claus? You know, underneath the mistletoe? What you need to do is quit projecting and actually, you know, pay attention to your child. Is he now acting out sex scenes with the family pet and a Vienna sausage (or toothpick?)? Is he ordering latex gloves off the Internet? Those are things worthy of addressing. Non-nutritive cereal varnish, though? Not so much. Oh, and, one last thing. When you have “private time”, why not, a) learn to call it “sex” or even “making love” (which is bad enough), but, mystifying it by calling it stupid shit like “private time (tee-hee)” only makes it that much more of a potential hang up that you’re transferring directly to your child, and, b), close your fucking door, dumbass.

LW#3: Dear Prudie, I’m a 22 year old woman engaged to a 25 year old man. His mom takes care of everything for him. She makes his appointments and goes with him to them, she does his laundry, and she even comes over and takes care of him when he’s sick. Fact is, I think the bitch needs to keep her mitts off my man! I can take care of his needs just fine. He’s all grown up now and needs a wife to do that stuff for him, not a mommy. How can I get her to step back and let me take over? Oh my god, if irony was a nickel, you’d be so rich that you could buy the country out of debt and pay for our healthcare, too. Listen here, you terrible fucking ignorant enabling idiot! You think it’s a good idea to replace mommy with your own brand of being mommy? If this dumbassed, lazy, fucktarded piece of shit of yours hasn’t stopped mom from taking care of him already, and, you know, managed to become a fully autonomous adult, your offer to “take over” from mom surely is no problem to him. Fuck, why should he even bother getting up in the morning? Would you wipe his ass and clean the sheets if he decided to just take a shit right there in the bed? You think you’re doing him a favor getting his mom out of his life, only to then take over her “duties”? You are in a sick, twisted, co-dependent relationship that you need to extricate yourself from. Further, dumbass, if you were with a real man, you wouldn’t have to worry about mommy, because he would have taken care of that years ago. Instead, you’re with a momma’s boy, Mrs. Mom.

LW#4: Dear Prudie, I recently received a “save the date” card for a wedding in which the bride is the daughter of someone with whom I barely have a speaking relationship. Someone with whom I sometimes discuss the weather in the elevator! I mean, I didn’t even know his name prior to the receiving the “save the date” card! I’m really conflicted because I just can’t know what to do?! Do I give a gift? I sort of feel obligated because I got a card. But I have no intention of attending the wedding. What should I do? I know that math is hard. I get that. But, in this case, are you really asking this question? I mean, seriously-really? A save the date card? And not only do you not know the bride, you barely know the father of the bride?! And further, your fucking employer gave this guy your address?! What sort of fucked-up building do you work in, anyway?! And how presumptuous of this fucking couple?! Sounds to me like another couple of “adults” needing to cut the apron strings. By the way, I’ve just dropped 365 party invitations in the mail to you (one for each day for the next year). I know that you don’t know me, and I don’t really expect you to attend these parties, but, I sure as fuck expect a gift for every single invitation. In case you were wondering, I really like shawl collar men’s cardigans. Wool. Don’t be sending me any of that cheap synthetic shit! Dark colors only please, but a nice dark green would do nicely, too. Oh, maybe even that earthy olive green that professors and old war heroes like to wear? That’s nice, as well. They make me look sophisticated. If you’d like, you can just give me coupons for services like doing my laundry or cleaning my house. That’s fine, too. Got it? Good.

Well, Shippers, that’s about it. I’d like to think that we’ve made a difference this week, but, in case we didn’t that’s okay, too. It’s still fun anyway, yes? Until next week, I wish you the best of days. May the wind be fair and the seas be following. And may your surface-to-dive ratio always be one-to-one. Until next week, then, Shippers...

Thursday, March 11, 2010

...on Trusting One's Wife (03/11/2010) <---Original Prudie Letters Can Be Found There

Hey there shippers! How in the hell are ya on this fine, fine Prudie Day? It’s a strange day here at the Lagoon. The weather is starting to get a little warmer, but the sun is hiding from me, behind the clouds. And though shade is sometimes nice, I suppose, it’s so early in the spring that I really miss it! However as you may know, I’m an optimist. So, here’s hoping that tomorrow is warm and brighter! My weekly weather report aside, though, let’s looks at these letters! What do we have today, eh?

LW#1: Dear Prudie, I’ve got a problem. See, though I like to sound all progressive and enlightened and forward thinking, I’m really just a Neanderthal asswipe fucktard chump, with a Ph.D. vocabulary and a knack for mimicry. In truth, I don’t much care for the thoughts or opinions of the women in my life. They serve a purpose, sure, but as for value? Not so much. And so it is with my wife (function: life support system for a vagina, personal value:  zero). We have a baby together, which is okay. And, she cooks really well (my wife). But, like all women, she’s a cheating whore. How do I know? Well, she got HPV and yet claimed she was a virgin when we met. Seeing as she's never had it before this check up, the cause is obvious.  And, since I know good and damned well that it wasn’t me, because I’m a fucking bastion of morality and my penis has touched no one but her, ever, I know it’s because she’s a lying whore, and likely balled about 500 men at once, probably over the course of a single day when I wasn’t looking. What should I do? P.S. Oh yeah, for the sake of this letter, let’s pretend that I really trust her and that I’m all torn up about this issue and don’t know who to believe, okay? Listen you fucking unparalleled, inimitable, peerless twattling turd-breath-having mother fucker. You don’t deserve a wife. Go buy yourself a Ronco Pocket Pussy (®2010 SmagBoy Industries) and carry it with you wherever you go. My bet is that you will find that, after a little bit, it’ll have HPV, too, but, holy fuck, don’t let that deter you, mother fucker, throw that piece of shit away and go get another. How hard is it to google ‘HPV transmission’ and glean how many ways this could have happened without your wife cheating? I don’t even have anything more to say to you, you stupid fucking idiot.

LW#2: Dear Prudie, for some reason I haven’t figured out that my betrothed is a materialistic bitch. I mean, I should have figured it out by now. We’ve been going out for four years and I’m totally and completely devoted to her in every way and I want to marry her (after I service her, of course, work eight hours, pick up her dry cleaning, ride the bus home--because she needs the car to tool around town while she's home all day--cook dinner and clean house), but, she says that I’d better not even think of having the engagement talk with her until I’m ready to produce a “sizable” ring. I hate to admit that that requirement bothers me just a little, Prudie. I’d never tell her that, though. I can’t afford a ring right now and though I will be able to soon, I’m just having a hard time with the whole "sizable" ring thing. What should I do? Run! Run like the wind. I’m serious, dude. I’m known for telling people, right up to the very moment of saying “I do”, that if they have any doubts, DON’T.GET.MARRIED! You sent out the invitations? So what! But, you’ve already put a deposit on the catering? Who gives a shit! Dude, I can’t stress to you enough how wrong your “wonderful” girl’s thinking is. If she loves you, a fucking twist tie would do for a ring. A rubber band would do. A bubble gum machine ring would do, and would mean more to her than anything you could possibly buy on soul-crushing credit from a jewelry store. Those feelings you’re having? They’re called red flag warnings. You don’t want to marry someone who’s going to suck the account dry every time you put anything in there, and then complain because it’s empty. Let her take her vacuous, materialistic, selfish, boorish, sorry ass elsewhere and you go find someone with whom your values are more aligned and for whom you don’t feel as if you’re serving with every fiber of your being.

LW#3: Dear Prudie, I’m a successful lawyer, married to a wonderful, supportive man. We have a lovely child together and a happy life. My problem? I don’t want to be a lawyer. I want to be a doctor. However, when I was in school, my mom told me I’d never be one. That I wasn’t good enough or smart enough. That if I didn't listen to her, I'd amount to nothing.  My fiancĂ© at the time, too, told me I was incapable of being a doctor. So, I never pursued it, even though I really wanted to. My grades in the few science classes that I took as electives indicated a true aptitude, but, even though I have a loving, supportive family now, I feel like pursuing this course of action would be selfish on my part and hurtful to my family. What should I do? First off, go to a counselor. I'm serious.  Your mom put such a fuck job on You that You seem to think that no one else in this world can love You or support You without wanting something in return. Your Bitch of a mom made You see Yourself as a burden and convinced You that others would, too. She was a fucking nut job and You were an innocent child and need help getting past her fuckery. And that’s okay! Your fiancĂ© at the time was just a manifestation of her control. Now that you have people around you who Love You and want to help, you have a hard time believing that doing anything for yourself is allowable or worthwhile. You’ve been programmed to think of others and defer your own wants. Your desire to be a doctor is not unreasonable (it’s simply a desire to be happy). Get the counseling, talk it over with your family (but not your fucking terrible cretinous bitch of a mom), and if it can work out, go for it! You deserve happiness as much as anyone. And far more than a number of assholes out there. And no matter what, you always have your law degree. It’s not like that’ll go away. Good luck! :-)

LW#4: Dear Prudie, I had a party for Oscar night and asked everyone to put in $20 toward an Oscar betting pool. There was a prize for first and second place, and no house cut. Well, my wife and I won the entire thing and now I feel supremely guilty. What should I do? First off, never ask people at a party that you’re hosting to enter a betting pool at your house. They’ll feel obligated and then you’ll feel guilty if you win. Know what I mean? You can tell people ahead of time that you’re having a betting pool and the price and that, if they’re interested, they can buy squares at the party. That’s it.  That's all you can do.  Then, divide the money collected by the number of sqaures in the pool and go from there). Simple. That solved, let's talk about the issue at hand.  How guilty do you feel? A lot? Give the money back. I mean, Jesus, how hard is that? Say it seemed unfair and felt weird and you hope everyone can get together for a dink sometime.  Only a little guilty? Just host another party with the same friends, make it a nice one, and call it your “Holy Shit, We Won the Oscar Betting Pool” party! But don’t have a betting pool at that party, okay? Because, buddy, you don’t have the balls for it. And at next year’s Oscar clusterfuck party? No betting pool, and wear some inflatable floaties on your arms. Don’t worry, everyone will understand.

Well shippers, that’s it! Another wonderful week in the Lagoon. I hope that everyone has headed over to Beckaroo’s Blog to look at her incredible BBQ pics and read about the yummy cooking she did! And, too, all, has anyone seen Bella?  fanshawe?  Nagatuki? NachtMusik? I miss them! Please come back, guys! That's not a criticism of anyone here!  I would miss you all, too, if you went away!  This is just an search signal for them is all.  :-)  Have a wonderful week, Shippers. Fair winds and following seas to you all, and to all, a good night!

Thursday, March 4, 2010

...on Penthouse Forum Letters and Other Silliness  (03/04/2010) <---Original Prudie Letters Can Be Found There

Hey there, Shippers! How in the hell are ya today? It’s a fine, fine Prudie Day, to be sure, but I find myself in a most foul mood. Why? I’m not sure. Could be work and school combining to frazzle my brain and piss me off. Could just be the weather. Who knows? But, regardless, it’s okay because, right here before us, laid out like a buffet of melty Velveeta cheese on a mermaid’s titties (with nice crispy dippin’ chips and Cheetos on the side), are some Letter Writers so inane, so clueless, so in need of a beat down that I’m pretty sure it’s all going to be okay once we’re done. With that in mind, and because I can’t wait to get to the Velveeta, let’s get to these letters!

LW#1: Dear Prudie, I’m 38 and a widower of three years. Since my wife died, I’ve been all about my son and my job. Before that, I was all about my wife. See, I get really fixated on stuff and then focus my entire life on it, Prudie. So, after my wife (the focus of my life and apple of my eye at the time) died, I turned that life focus and ocular fruit analogies toward my son. And that’s been fine for three years, but, I’ve recently hired a 24 year old baby sitter and, like a scene straight out of Penthouse Forums, she wants me! She’s wants all of my 38-year-old manhood, Prudie! Hot damn! Jackpot! So now, naturally, I’m all fixated on her and she’s become the all-encompassing focus of my life (did I mention that I’ve been completely sexless for the last three years while focusing everything on my son and on my job?). However, she’s got a boyfriend and I don’t want to get in the way of that. Plus, if we hit it off, great, we can get married, but, if we don’t, and we break up, my son would lose a great babysitter! What should I do? Holy shit, I can’t even count the ways in which you’re fucking up because you’re doing it in so many directions and with such aplomb that it’s like you’re striving for a Ph.D. in Fuckedupedness here! First off, you need to slow the fuck down. You haven’t even had a date with this lady and you’re planning for either, a) marriage, or, b) an ugly breakup in which your son is going to suffer. How about, say, if you really like her and think she’s just amazing, that you tell her that you aren’t going to even think about dating anyone who’s with someone else, but, too, in the same breath, warn that even if she does break up with her boyfriend, the two of you might have a single date and decide things aren’t meant to be. My guess is that will happen right about the moment you want to discuss Lynyrd Skynyrd or Pink Floyd and she says, “Whoa! Your friends have such weird names!” Sure, you’ll still have sex that night, but will it be worth it? And even if it is worth it, you’ll still be out a baby sitter because you know you won’t be able to have a second date after that shit (okay, maybe you will, it has been a long time, but surely not a third). Truth is, Prudie’s right. Relax, slow down, put out the word amongst your friends that you’re now ready to start looking. Hell, you’ve already got a great baby sitter (whom you really should keep at arm’s length, by the way)! That’s Step One already solved. Then, go slow and actually date. And, don’t go proposing marriage to the first date you have after just one date, okay? I swear to God, if we get a letter that starts, “Dear Prudie, I’ve just come home from a fantastic first date and I was wondering what type of engagement ring to buy for when I pop the question on our next date...”, I’m going to kick you in the jimmy. Hard. Got it? Good.

LW#2: (Smag Note: normally I rewrite the letters for the LWs in order to demonstrate what I believe to be their true inner voice. For this letter, no such rewriting is necessary. At all. So, I’m simply going to attempt to peel away any tiny social grace the LW might have included, since the original letter is already very clear about the LW’s motivations and personality--a sterling example of someone who knows themselves and isn’t afraid to let their freak flag fly!) Dear Prudie, I’m a fucking ratty-assed, skanky, shitty, selfish, lowlife, conceited Bitch. I’m pregnant, and, as such, I don’t believe that anyone else should be allowed to be pregnant as that would steal the spotlight from me (this goes double for any marriages occurring within three months of any of my many eventual marriages, too, by the way). Since the world revolves around my vagina and me, anyone else daring to get pregnant when I am, even if I haven’t told anyone that I’m pregnant, is an affront to me, and I believe that those persons should be killed. Not tortured, killed. The worst offender of all would be if my MIL who, as you well know, Prudie, being over 25, has a dried up cooter box and is now only good for being a grandmother to my beautiful babies. Well, you guessed it, she has the gall to get knocked up, Prudie! At the same time as me! What do I say when my MIL steals my baby announcement spotlight by announcing that she, too, is pregnant? Well, since I’m pretty sure that she was thinking of you as she had sex and got pregnant, seeing as we all think of you, all the time, every moment of every day, you needn’t say a thing. She already knows how wonderful and incredible you are and upon hearing your good news she will likely spontaneously abort her fetus and not say a word, thus allowing you full spotlight time, or perhaps, if she’s extra strong and can prevent the abortion, she’ll later (after your time in the sun, and in front of no one else, lest it take attention away from you) suggest having her fetus transplanted into your superior womb to be raised as your child because she knows full well that she’s a dried up prune whose only worth in life is to serve you. So don’t worry. You’re fine, and your husband is the luckiest bastard in the entire world! No, really.

LW#3: Dear Prudie, one of my friends recently got a great job with a multinational company. The problem is that the company is located in an authoritarian country where the ruling family welcomes out-of-country talent because that arrangement creates wealth for the family (somehow) while preventing the empowerment of locals who would, once empowered, rise up and overthrow the ruling family and then install a beautiful democracy that would cause flowers to bloom and angels to sing in three part harmony. As such, I see my friend having taken this job as an impediment to democracy for millions of people and I now think of her as essentially in league with despots the world over. I'm thinking of dropping my friend because of her incredible evilness. Am I being too judgmental? To answer your question, no, you’re not. Actually, you’re being a fucking asshole prick of the 99th order (you would have made the 100th order, but, sadly for you, you seem to have a jealously thing for your friend, so I’m going to allow that that ugly emotion might be ever so slightly affecting your judgyness of your friend). But, as to what to do, you can drop her over this, which is fine, or don’t drop her. Simple. But if you pick the latter, then shut the fuck up over her job choice. Times are tough. She’s not doing shit to the people of that country. Further, living there and spending her money there might actually help the locals in some small way--at least there’s a chance. You, though? What are you doing for them? I can tell you this much, bitching and whining and moaning and groaning to your friend isn’t doing anything to help those people. Put that in your smug little asspipe and smoke on it for a while, you fucker. God damn, I hate judgmental pricks like you, sitting there on the same stool that you sit on every day, likely drinking high dollar coffee from a non-fair trade seller, judging your friend who’s actually out in the world doing something, because you read an article on-line about some company in some country and now think that you know all about the plight of the poor locals there. Why don’t you get off your ass and try to do some real good somewhere in the world, eh?

LW#4: Dear Prudie, I was born with six toes and six fingers on each foot and hand. Surgery at age one removed the extra appendages and other than fucking up my ability to reproduce without emotional heartache and spontaneously producing inane letters to the Internet Lady, I’m now fine. Before I get ready to settle down and have a family, though, I’m wondering when I should talk to my girlfriend about the fact that our future kids will likely be gigantic-headed mutant babies with fingers and toes sticking out all over the place, causing the medical staff and any other adults in the area to run in fear? Well, first off, did you read my advice to LW#1? Why don’t you slow the fuck down and find someone who’s actually ready to have kids with you. That’s always a good first step. Why don’t you then go on ahead and plan for children (I’m not saying you have to get married, but actually prepare yourselves financially and emotionally for parenthood). As you’re doing this, you know, figuring out all of that adult stuff that wise and prepared people do in order to become parents (some of us prior to actual pregnancy, some of us, much, much later, but it usually does work out, trust me), talk with your girlfriend about the fact that your kids will most likely require minor surgery after birth, and figure out what you’ll need to do financially and emotionally to deal with that fact. Holy fuck, man. I mean, if that’s the kind of shit bothering you about having kids, you either have no problems in your life--at all--or you haven’t thought very hard about this, because there’s just sooooooo much more to worry about than a minor physical anomaly. Slow down, Speed Racer, slow down.

Well Shippers, that’s about it, I guess. Do you feel any better? I’m not sure if I do or not? I mean I vented some. And it was fun and all, but I wonder if I was heard? Should I write to Prudie to find out how I should feel about this? ;-) Nah! I’ll admit it, it was fun. :-) I hope you guys are having a great day and a great week and that all is going wonderfully well with you in your own Lagoon, and, too, when you’re here in Ours! Fair winds and following seas to you all, Shippers!