Dec 8, 2009
Dear Abby:
Are you dead? My friend Ashton said that he's pretty sure you've gone to the Big Casino but I said, "No way, her columns still run in the newspaper."
He said, "So what? They are obviously re-running old columns, written before she, ya know, croaked."
Now I'll admit, some of your stuff seems a little, um, dated. Like the lady who wrote about her hippie son and your "Dear Draft Dodger" reply. That was odd. And the advice you gave to the woman who wrote, saying she was obsessed with Barnaby Jones. I told my friend that Nick at Night runs old stuff, like at ass o'clock in the AM but he's still skeptical. By the way, what was that letter about the teenage girl and Bobby Sherman? You better not be dead, Abby, cause if you are, I'll look bad. And- I've got money on you still having a pulse.
ANYWAYS, Abby: (if that's even your real name. I know it's what you answer to- or answered to- when you were drawing breath. Not that I think you're ace-duce, but if you did die, I'll understand, just tell me, okay? Maybe I can call-off the bet with Ashton. I know he's a bookie and stuff, and a bet's a bet, but I do consider him a friend, even though the feeling is unrequited.)*
*A word I learned from my other friend, who is also my shrink.
Here's my problem, and I'm sure you've heard this eleventy billion times already, but here goes anyways:
It's my girlfriend. She gets all weird towards the end of a date, like I'm not gonna pay her. I mean, I think maybe a comp here and there would be cool and shit, but, after I got my ass kicked, I'm not going to broach that subject again. And NO, it WASN'T her pimp who slapped me around, either. Actually, he's pretty cool. In fact, when he knows I'm broke he likes to come over and play Wii and stuff. Which reminds me, Abby- WTF was that letter last week where you suggested a family "game night" and recommended "View-Master" and "Twister?" And, so you'll know, the only thing an Etch-A-Sketch is good for is laying out lines. ANYWAYS, my GF's pimp- his name is Skeeter and he's really nice to me. Really, really nice. Like a little too cuddly even if it isn't a "chilly night" kind of nice. The other morning, after he crashed at my place, I woke up and found Skeeter passed-out on the couch, spooning with me and he was wearing socks. And I mean just socks. And, they were MY socks. And the bong smelled weird, like... well, that's another letter, Abby. My point is my friend Ashton- the bookie- says my girlfriend is a whore and that's messed-up. Maybe you could publish a well written letter explaining the difference between a prostitute and a call girl because my girl is the call kind. And she doesn't always charge me. Okay, she does, she does always charge me but not full price, not anywhere near the price she gets when National Finals Rodeo is in town.
Thanks, Abby, in advance, for not being six feet under and for helping me with my (call)girlfriend.
-Your Friend, CONFUSED
