Belly Billboard

What What? On My Gut!

Come for the Belly, stay for the Stupid!

Dear Gutmeister – Incest is Best!

dearabby1 Dear Gutmeister   Incest is Best!

If she ain't good enough for her own family, she ain't good enough for ours!

In yet another installment of my wildly successful, insanely popular (only in my mind) series, I offer you:  Dear Gutmeister, the Holiday Incest Edition!

Abby has received this letter from someone who only identifies himself as Bubba Running From the Holidays.  Now, if it were a letter about irritable bowel syndrome, I think it would be clever to sign it as “Runs from the Holidays”, but I digress.

Seems our boy, Running, had the hots for his step-sister.  And boy oh boy has it confuddled his little brain, read on.

 

 

 

 

DEAR ABBY: I’m a 25-year-old guy with a unique problem. My father has been dating a woman since I was 16 who has a daughter my age named “Emma.” Over the years Emma and I became good friends — then more than that. We hooked up a few times. About a year ago, I told her I had developed feelings for her, which drove her off pretty fast. We haven’t talked since. She now lives in another state with her boyfriend, and I’m happy for her.

With the holidays here, Dad expects me to go to all of the events and get-togethers. I made up excuses last year to avoid them, but don’t think I can do that again. I want to escape the awkward interaction with Emma and her boyfriend because I still have feelings for her. I don’t want to disappoint Dad, but I don’t know how to handle this. Help, please. — RUNNING FROM THE HOLIDAYS

Dude, you’re writing to a 95-year-old advice columnist, and you use the colloquialism “hooked up a few times”?  Shouldn’t you put it in terms she’d understand?  ”She showed me her ankles, and set my heart all a-flutter.  I dared to steal a glance at Cupid’s Drum Kettles and she began to massage ever so gently, my tally-whacker.  We began intimate relations, and I slid old  Nebuchadnezzar inside of her crinkum crankum.”  Abby would have a better point of reference this way.

Anyhow, so you had the hots for your step sister back when you were teens, you did the horizontal honey bee and now she’s creeped out by the idea of having slept with her brother and wants nothing more to do with you?  No.  No no no.  It’s not that she’s got an issue with the brother/sister aspect, for 16 years you two weren’t even aware the other one existed.  You’re not related, and that’s not what the problem is here.  But let’s see how Abby handles things first:

DEAR RUNNING: You don’t have to attend “all” the events and get-togethers, but you should attend a few. When you do, consider bringing a friend with you and minimizing the contact you have with Emma and her boyfriend. Observe the social amenities, keep the conversation brief and casual, and concentrate on the rest of the family.

While the initial contact may be painful, this is no different than any other romance that didn’t work out. The awkwardness will pass if you concentrate on something else.

So Abs is gonna just gloss over the whole creepy “I schtupped my step-sister” issue and get right to the heart of the matter.  That’s really not all that surprising, as I’m sure she’s woefully unaware what “hooked up” means.  She’s probably assuming you installed that new fangled Cable Telly-vision in her room or something.

She advises that you should attend a few events, but bring a friend and stay the hell away from Emma and her presumably ass-kicking ninja boyfriend.  Observe the social amenities.  Observe. the. social. amenities.  What the hell does that even mean?  Are you to simply look around and notice that a.) you’re in a social environment and b.) there’s a toilet ?  I don’t even….gah!

Further she suggests that if you just concentrate on something else, you can last longer in this situation than you ever thought possible.  Yeah, think about baseball, Grandma, a really sad movie, anything to help prolong this experience.  Sounds like some really nice advice for staying power.  (note:  I had to check to insure that Dr. Ruth didn’t guest post on Abby’s behalf, after reading this advice.  It’s what you do when you want to last another 30 seconds in bed)

 

So here’s my advice.  Man the f*ck up!  You made it clear that you “hooked up” back when you were teens.  Teenagers always do stupid shit, that’s what the word teenager translates to in Latin.  It’s expected.  If you’re uncomfortable because of it, I suggest you get blind drunk, hire a hooker and give her the business during the soup course at Christmas Dinner.  This will accomplish two things:

1.  You will no longer be considered weird for boning’ your sister, that’s going to be old news fast.
2.  You’ll absolutely make good use of Abby’s advice to “concentrate on something else”.

Merry Christmas!

 

Dear Gutmeister – Facebook Intervention

dearabby Dear Gutmeister   Facebook Intervention

Seriously, Who Farted?

So, it’s been a while since I’ve done a Dear Gutmeister, and I felt that I was cheating the two people who stumble by this site every other week.  Now I intend to rectify the situation.

You see, I love Dear Abby.  Not because I find valuable advice and insight into the human condition, but because it’s usually so utterly stupid I can’t help but scream vulgarities at the screen while I’m reading it.  Either her readers are the dumbest collection of human waste ever assembled, or she has a team of 2,000 monkeys sitting at typewriters and just takes whatever they come up with to meet her deadlines.  At any rate, I know I can help these poor people out.

As such, I’ve found the following gem from “Fully Present in Arizona” and I’d like to share with you the conundrum that caused someone to contact Dear Abby for advice.

DEAR ABBY: I have heard of interventions for drug and alcohol addicts. Could I stage one for my daughter “Aileen’s” addiction to texting on her cellphone and Facebook?

She and our grandson live with us because her marriage broke up. I am becoming the boy’s default mother because Aileen is constantly texting or spending hours on Facebook. She’ll say, “I have to send a quick message,” then reappear an hour later. By then, we have fed our grandson and changed his diaper.

When I try to discuss this with her, she says her work requires this constant communication, but I know it doesn’t. There have been times when Aileen’s feelings have been hurt because her son doesn’t want to go someplace with her and prefers to stay with us instead. I suspect that he feels ignored when he’s with her because her thumb is constantly flying across her phone. How can we get her to understand how this might be making her child feel? — FULLY PRESENT IN ARIZONA

First off, anyone who spells Eileen as Aileen has an alien fetish and it confuses me when I’m trying to read.  Spell shit right, people, it’s not that hard.  Everytime I read this name in the letter, I’m automatically thinking about Reeses Pieces and a pre-pubescent and not-quite-alcoholic-yet Drew Barrymore.  So, to keep my sanity, my copy of this letter has changed every instance of “Aileen” to “Chauncey”.

Anyhow, the problem seems to be that the daughter has moved back home to live with Mom and Dad.  This is a too common occurrence in our society and is largely the fault of the parents in the first place.  You never allowed these kids to deal with failure, rejection, hurt feelings, etc.  You always made them think they were a special little snowflake, who was always a winner because they “tried”.  Now that they’ve become (legally) adults, they don’t know what to do when the real-world pisses on their dreams and basically couldn’t care less about them if they were on fire.  If you hadn’t set her up to think the world was a magical fairy land where everyone gets a trophy and nothing bad ever happens to you, she’d probably be working a job, with the kid in daycare, at her OWN GODDAMN HOUSE.  But I digress, on to your “problem”.

Apparently your daughter is taking full advantage of the built in babysitting service so she can continue to be self-indulgingly selfish at all costs.  Why be responsible for yourself when someone else can do it?  That’s the new Amurrikan way isn’t it?  The world owes these kids a living, and dammit, affordable data plans on their iPhones.  That’s a God-Given RIGHT and you’re the Anti-Christ if you plan to take that away from them.

You want to stage an intervention?  Cut off the money supply, cut off the free baby-sitting service, the free room and board and kick her in the ass, while simultaneously shoving her data device cross-ways into her rectum.  That’s all you really need to do “Fully Present”.  But let’s see what Abby had to say:

DEAR FULLY PRESENT: You could and should stage an intervention with your daughter. Aileen is neglecting her son. It’s a shame that before couples are allowed to conceive that they aren’t forced to take parenting classes. The time she spends on Facebook and texting is time she should be interacting with him.

Because she is so easily distracted, you and her father should declare your home to be a digital-free zone unless your grandson is napping or in bed for the night. Consider making discussions with the boy’s pediatrician — and perhaps parenting classes — a condition of her staying in your home. She won’t like it, but it would be in your grandson’s best interests.

Hmmm…yeah.  The problem is her distractibility.  It’s so painfully obvious now.  Here I thought it was a total lack of responsibility and that she was so wrapped up in what made her personally happy that she no longer gave a damn about her child or anything else.  As long as Chauncey’s happy, Chauncey sees no problems here.

It’s a shame people don’t have to take parenting classes before they’re allowed to conceive?  Really Abby?  That makes perfect sense, and would be a great way to control the population explosion.  But honestly, how do you plan to enforce this rule?  ”Oh, you’re pregnant?  Let me see your certificate of parenting. Don’t have one?  Well, we’ll have to kill you now.”  Yeah, this is a bang up idea, Abs.  Did you, by chance, take any classes on giving advice?

A digital free zone?  Well, if you had done some of this parenting shit back when she was younger, you wouldn’t be in the position you’re in right now.  It’s too late to make up for lack of good parenting.  The best you can hope for now is that a magical fairy comes flying out of the neighbor’s cat’s anus and imbues her with a sense of empathy for others, a sense of responsibility and pride in herself.  Perhaps she can learn to WORK for things she wants and deal with unpleasantness in her life.

Or, you know, maybe not.  Seems like you’ve got a wonderful daughter there.  Let her go, maybe the iPhone people will develop an app for being a responsible human being and a good parent.  Sounds like you both could use that one.

Dear Gutmeister

dearabby Dear Gutmeister Once again, I delve into other people’s business along side America’s favorite advice columnist, (and closet puppy kicker), Dear Abby.  What really intrigues me is how this woman can stay gainfully employed giving out advice that wasn’t relevant in the 1950′s, let alone in today’s world.  I know it’s not the original Abby behind the scenes, but her daughter who is proudly carrying on the tradition of giving out advice to those in need while looking down her nose at their petty real world problems.  Further, why can’t I get paid to do this shit?

 

What’s she got in store for us this time?

 

Tongue Tied in Florida has this quandry:

DEAR ABBY: What do you say if someone who is overweight says she’s fat or asks you if she’s fat? It’s always such an awkward situation, and I usually end up saying, “Of course you’re not fat!” I’d like to know if there’s a better way of handling this. You always know what to say. — TONGUE-TIED IN FLORIDA

And Abby, good ol’ Abby, ever the diplomat and enabler, fires back with this sage wisdom:

DEAR TONGUE-TIED: If someone who was obese stated that she (or he) was fat, I would either let the comment hang there in silence or I’d say, “What do you intend to do about it?” And if someone with a weight problem asked me if he or she was fat, instead of denying the obvious, I would respond, “What I think isn’t nearly as important as what you think about that.”

Let me preface the correct response, (i.e.: my response) by saying that I think there’s a fine line between brutal honesty and being an asshole.  That being said, I have bad vision and must have missed the line on my way here today.

Dear Tongue Tied in Florida,

For someone who claims to have their Tongue Tied, you speak perfectly clear English.  One day, you’ll have to show me how that works.  Can you also tie cherry stems in knots with just your tongue?  I would imagine someone with such a nimble tongue would be invaluable in the sex-for-money industry.  Frankly, I’m mesmerized by the idea of seeing you tie your tongue, then untie it, over and over again.  It would be fascinating.

But back to your question about your fat friends.  If the fatty says “Wow, I’m fat huh?”  You have to, wait a second here.  How long is your tongue anyways?  I mean, I’ve seen Gene Simmons tongue and as freakishly long as that thing is, I have my doubts that he could actually tie it in a square knot.  Do you have video or photos or something?  I really would like to see you in action.

Oh, right, sorry.  So, if Fatty McCholesterol says “Wow, I’m fat huh?”, it’s your civic duty to reply as honestly as possible.  Let me explain this a bit.  You hanging around the Cinnabon stand at the mall, minding your own business, grooming your eyebrows with your tongue, trying to pick up some random dude who might enjoy a good licking for about 3 solid hours, when Two-Ton Tina comes rumblin’ and bumblin’ up to you.  Well, not to you, to the Cinnabon stand, because they just pulled a fresh tray out of the oven and that shit’s like musk to a deer in rut when it comes to fatties.

As she orders her dozen for here and a dozen to go, she looks at you and your hot, tight little self, tongue slung over your shoulder, rockin’ your best 1980′s tube top and Mom jeans (acid washed, of course) and in between shovels-full of Cinnabon icing, she looks you over and then self-consciously, through cinnamon speckled teeth asks you if “I look fat.”

She knows damn well she’s fat, she just cleaned out Cinnabon for chrissakes.  Her thighs threaten to start a friction fire everytime she dares to wear pants and her chins are stacked up like the grand slam breakfast plate at Denny’s.  You have two options.  1.) You can say, “Nah, you’re not that big at all” and risk being used as a human toothpick because she knows you’re lying your skinny little ass off, or 2.) you can be honest.  ”Fat?  You?  Yeah, you’re a goddamn human moon bounce.”

Abby, if you ask a fatty “What do you intend to do about it?”, you’re risking becoming an appetizer, or getting sat on.  That doesn’t lead to constructive dialog in my experience.  Make sure you have a few feet of separation when you tell Fatty that, yes, she’s fat as hell, and then walk away fast.  You won’t have to run, she can’t keep up with you for long.

I say be honest when they already know the answer to their questions.  And really, call me about that tongue.

Dear Abby, Gutmeister Style

dearabby Dear Abby, Gutmeister StyleSo ok, I admit it, I read Dear Abby.  But not because I’m secretly longing for some overpaid, anonymous stranger behind a fictitious pen name to help me right the wrongs in my life.  Not at all.  I read it because it’s usually some of the most entertaining stuff you can find for free.

I’m going to dress up some of her stuff, and give some real advice that people can truly benefit from.  I give you the first edition of Dear Gutmeister.

Here’s the first installment.  A man in Midland Texas writes to Abby about a sleeping arrangement conundrum he’s facing:

DEAR ABBY: I recently bought a small travel trailer that I use for weekend fishing trips. My dog, “Goldie,” accompanies me on these short trips and sleeps with me on the only bed in the trailer.

My wife, “Shirley,” is now expecting to go on some of my fishing trips with Goldie and me. The problem is, Goldie is used to sleeping with me, and I believe she should have first dibs on the bed since she was there first.

When I informed Shirley that she’d be sleeping in the back of the truck, she came unglued. Now, Shirley and I are hardly speaking. Goldie is a young Lab pup who is my very best friend, constant companion and never nags. I think my wife is being selfish and inconsiderate, but I’d like your opinion. Am I out of line here? — GOIN’ FISHIN’ IN MIDLAND, TEXAS

Well, sure.  Here’s a guy who bought a small travel trailer to go fishing with, presumably to get away from his pain in the ass, farting in her sleep wife.  His dog loves him, never nags him to fix the sink or clean the garage, just an all around good companion who doesn’t judge.  So what did Abby have to say?

DEAR GOIN’ FISHIN’: If you’re expecting sympathy from me, you’re barking up the wrong tree. You are not only out of line, but it appears you’re also in the doghouse. A real Texas gentleman would let Shirley and Goldie share the bed while he slept in the truck, and that’s what I’m urging you to do.

Soooo, Abby thinks that not only should he allow his wife to sleep in the bed, but he should also let the dog have his spot and he can sleep in the truck all by himself.  WTF?  This is HIS trailer, HIS dog and HIS bed.  I can all but guarantee that when he bought the trailer his wife gave him constant loads of shit for it.  ”Why the hell did you buy that thing?  We need new drapes in the living room and a Roomba, but no, Mr. I Want Some Me Time gets a damned trailer?  Well you can just take your smelly ass dog and live in that thing, I’m never stepping foot in it!!!”

Now, this poor guy has the guilt trip going, and he’s living in his camper with his dog.  All of a sudden, the nagging wife realizes he’s finally happy for the first time in their three decades of marriage and has to shit all over his Twinkie the only way she knows how.

And what about the dog’s feelings?  Maybe Goldie hates this bitch.  Why should she have to share the bed with the old crow?

Abby, you swung and missed.  Best advice?  This guy should change his name to Salvadore Sanchez, load his dog into his truck with the camper on the back, and head for the hills.  Never returning, and let that old goat of a wife rot in her misery.

Got a problem you need help with?  Write to Dear Gutmeister and if I’m not too busy drinking cheap beer, I’ll see what I can do to straighten out your life.