Dear Sedaratives,
Does electrolysis really work? I’m not so sure.
Angie Kritenbrink
Federal Way, Wash.
Dear Angie,
First off, what is Federal Way? That sounds like some sort of lie. There is no “way” for our federation. Like the Death Star or Rome, we are hurtling toward an abysmal destination that only the worthless history books and withered poets can encapsulate, wordwise. As for your question about electrolysis, try covering your hirsutitude with a hat, preferably worn faux-haphazardly askew, as is the style these days.
Vernon and John
Dear Sedaratives,
My nine-month-old pug named Fang has recently taken a liking to eating his own poop. When I get the chance to actually spend an entire day with him, I feel like he teaches me a thing or two. My question is, Should I try eating his poop?
Chris Funk
guitarist for the Decemberists
Dear Chris,
Well, yours is an arrestingly unique conundrum, Mr. Funk. And, in fact, you very well may be joking, as is your human right. But we still intend to answer this question for the benefit of those for whom the nightmare of Spastic Fecal Ingestion is very real.SFI has only recently been acknowledged by the U.S. Medicalry Institute, an organization which itself has yet to be recognized by anyone anywhere. It just so happens that our great-aunt Lillia “suffered” your plight, but she was a fighter to the last who could beat anything, and she “passed” her homeliest of home remedies on to us.Use it wisely:take a quarter pinch of raw talcum powder and hold it between your two ring toes, douse your back hair in a blend of rainwater, Cranapple cocktail and Dramamine, pop the ticks on your left arm with a wooden matchstick and as they burst, kiss a jar of our grandmarm’s famous hand-marmed marmalade between each of the crisp crackles, take a deep breath, hold it, and then immediately eat as much of the dog’s rectal output as you can stomach. You should awake the next morning to find your hair has more bounce, more luster, and more sheen than you could have possibly foreseen!
Vernon and John
Dear Sedaratives,
Since arriving in New York about a year ago, I haven’t been motivated to cook. I haven’t had sex, either, and I’m beginning to think the two are somehow related. My friends have suggested the “pity lay” but I feel that’s cheating—sort of the equivalent of a microwave dinner. Any suggestions for turning these two worrying trends around?
Lauren Marks
New York, N.Y.
Dear Lauren,
Manners, Lauren, manners! Never, ever, ever turn down a “pity lay.” It is also considered bad form to reject the offering of a courtesy cuddle, a grievance grope, sorrow sex, a hunger hump, a shame shag, an ennui shower, a gloat scroting, a phantom-limb hand job, an anosognosian booty call (with one’s own booty, no doubt), a gymnophobs dry hump, a rusty-trombone marrow transplant, a free falafel (shoved up your ass), or a sincere, sensual session of meaningful lovemaking.
As for your question: What you feel is natural. Food and sex fit together like a penis made of olives fits into a snug vagina knit from hen cutlets. Our advice is, be careful out there. Don’t want those olives to spoil. Always keep them in chilled brine before serving (penetration).
Vernon and John
Dear Sedaratives,
Why is it that every time my family sits down for a Sunday dinner I simultaneously feel the urge to massacre each one of them with my bare hands, ripping every fiber of their being into obliteration and leaving no shred of evidence except for their as-yet-untouched plates of barbecue chicken and mashed potatoes, which I will surely eat once I wash my hands of the evidence, and want to hug them until they bleed?
Ben Siegel
Williamsville, N.Y.
Dear Ben,
You’ll be happy to know that this is not your fault. The only thing to blame here is that dastardly rascal known as “your emotions.” This horrible fiend has revealed the thin double-edged sword between love and hate. Again, not your fault. And fear not; we have a solution to your woes. But to insure that our advice isn’t bogged down in crass feelings, we have printed it in binary code:
101101001 10101 1010110110, 111 0010 101 0111. 1010 10101 10 01010101 1010 Coca-Cola 1010111 10101 1011 01 0101010 10101… 0101 01.
Vernon and John
Dear Sedaratives,
I am a forty-eight-year-old who has been enjoying the occasional use of cannabis since puberty. Because this is an illegal substance controlled by a mafia of seventeen-year-olds, I find that it has become difficult (if not impossible) for a middle-aged suburbanite to hook up with “the man.” Should I just grow up and go cold turkey, or go back to high school and hope to hang with a cool crowd? Please advise.
Theodore W. Oestendiek
Arizona
Dear Theodore,
It is well known that Rodney Dangerfield went back to school for the same reasons you are thinking, and now he’s dead. Or, let’s put it this way: It’s like my beloved Aunt Clorvis always used to say, “Let me make this very clear: we are not related. Kindly remove your withered bodyclaw from my ladybags.” In other words, follow your heart. But whatever you do, do it au gratin. And just in case you still missed it, let me dumb it down for you a notch: Make like a fig and fuck off, stoner.
Vernon and John
Dear Sedaratives,
How do you suggest one might negotiate a first meeting between an essentially loving but highly dysfunctional family and one’s partner, of whom one is quite fond, and whom one would like to avoid spooking for as long as possible, perhaps forever?
James Bolivar DiGriz
Ottawa, Canada
Dearest, sweet James,
Introducing a lover to others is always stressful, but we’ve dealt with this one before and have the perfect plan. Of course, you have to be willing to let some of those involved die. First off, kill a bunch of Indians. Bury them in the ground. Build a summer cottage on this ground. Invite all the people over for the weekend. The spirits of the Indians, in the form of a hatched-armed spider, will make all your guests forget about discomfort and social awkwardness and all those pretty things, as they run around in tight circles screaming, “Dis here house, it’s hainted! Hainted!” Hell, that might even be a good time to drop this bombshell: You’re gay. Gay as a persimmon nestled atop a scented candle.
Vernon and John
