Good morning and good morning! Cousin Jackal has taken a brief respite from her travels by stopping off in Arkham, Massachusetts for a visit at her alma mater, Miskatonic University. I've been whiling away a few hours in the vast library, poring over a copy of The Necronomicon and inhaling the intoxicating aroma of old leather-bound books underlain by a hint of brimstone. But speaking of unspeakable smells, I've caught a whiff of something else, and it smells like bullshit. That must mean it's Prudie Day!
These three long years my wife has lain in her sepulchre; in her absence I have retired to the garret (where I listen to the rats scratch in the walls, and grow more eldritch and squamous by the hour) and hired a governess for my son. The governess, aware of my prolonged celibacy and lack of social life, has made intimations that she and I should skip off into the woods and get it on like a couple of Cthulu cultists. And hot damn, I could use some of that swamp-orgy action, but I'm hesitant. Should I forget my life of solitude? My sorrow? The garret? The rats? Should I?
Dear Black Goat of the Shoulds,
Whoa, there, dude, I realize you've gone without for a pretty long time, but rein in the horny goat for a moment and think about this. How well do you know this woman? Sure she's probably a good nanny. But do you know anything else about her? For instance, do you know why she's "restless" in her current relationship? Do you know why this 24-year-old woman would choose to seek employment caring for a widower's only son? When Cousin Jackal was 24 she had a J-O-B, a real career-type job. Granted, what with layoffs people have to make ends meet, or perhaps this job gives her time to study or whatnot, but you'll forgive me for wondering whether Miss Poppins is simply "restless" that her boyfriend hasn't popped the question yet and so she's made the brilliantly Machiavellian move to worm her way into someone's (yours--and your son's) good graces, your home, and, she hopes, your bed and your life. Additionally, were you to have a simple fling with this woman, do you know her well enough to be sure she wouldn't take her wounded feelings out on your son if things don't work out the way she wants? How about this: Go out with her first, on a non-sex date. Find out how she thinks. Proceed accordingly.
My hairstylist possesses scissors wrested from the star-spawn of the Old Ones by Mad Abdul Alhazred; consequently, her cuts are awesome and I love my hair. Unfortunately, she charges an arm and a leg (and occasionally a virgin ram and a firstborn child). How do I tell her I'm breaking up with her?
Dear At The Mountains of Shear Madness,
Cousin Jackal sympathizes mightily with your plight; a good hairstylist is worth his/her weight in bacon-wrapped diamonds. However, without seeing your hair, I fail to understand the problem--is it that her rates are so much higher than other stylists', or that you have less money available to spend on your coiffure? If the former, you may have to give up your access to the magic shears, because just as it isn't fair to ask an artist for a reduced price on a painting, it's not fair to ask your stylist to give you a discount; you'll have to let your feet do the talking and go somewhere else. (I could be wrong here, but I've never met a stylist who didn't consider him/herself to be an artiste deserving of every drop of virgin ram's blood--err, penny. Occasionally it's even true.) If the latter, if you normally have to spend a lot to maintain your hair--Cousin Jackal's hair has been every color under the sun, and that shit ain't cheap--you should find a color you can stretch for a while with box root touch-ups and a style that you can manage going a couple of months between trims.
I'm gravid with our family's second noisome spawn. My mother-in-law had the audacity not only to be over forty, but also to get pregnant. I don't know what's worse, her age or the fact that she clearly was so jealous of my gestative powers that she decided to give it a go herself. How dare she try to stop me from being the center of the universe!
Dear DumbWitch Horror,
Dear sweet Elder Gods, please tell me this letter was a joke. You could not possibly be this immature and have reached (much less passed) pubescence. You know what, dearie, I'm going to lay this all at your mother-in-law's feet. Yep. That's right. It's her fault. She raised a sad sack of a man who apparently believed the best he could do in life was to breed with you. I pity her, her son, her spawn, and both of your spawns.
That noise? Oh that's nothing, just the Perverse Glee Club summoning Azathoth the Blind Idiot God out on the quadrant. That, or LW2 just had her baby. Moving on...
I have a friend who has sterling, platinum, gilded, jellied, sauteed, and pan-fried credentials. But without even consulting me, she has taken a job in R'yleh, where *gasp!* there's a different system of government than the one I know! And the Internet tells me that all sorts of nasty things go on there, things that never ever ever in a million years could happen here, no sirree! I mean, if my friend only stayed away, the poor mutant underlings of that country would surely rise up and revolt against their overlords, bringing about peace and harmony and sparkle-farting unicorn circuses in a bloodless coup, but nooooo, she has to be selfish prat and go be Cthulu's tech support girl. Am I justified in shunning her? I mean, think of the human rights horrors perpetrated in R'yleh--they don't even have a Volvo dealership!
Dear Pickman's Model of Human Decency,
Ever shopped at WalMart? Guess what, you've supported an oppressive regime. (Cousin Jackal is referring to purveyors of sweatshop labor, not WalMart itself--although it certainly applies.) Unless your friend is being employed to shoot inconvenient protesters, steal food and medicine provided by aid groups, or torture prisoners, I'm afraid that you'll just have to shut the fuck up. Or better yet, go ahead and drop your friend; with friends like you, who needs oppressive regimes? How's that mountain of morality you're trying to play king of, is it getting lonely yet?
I was born with vestigial wings, a tail, and tentacles. Because my parents did not want me to grow up to be a hentai art model, these extra appendages were removed. Now I've met my mate and want to breed! Should I tell my future spawn-mother about the genetic quirks awaiting our offspring, or should I just bring a camera to the maternity ward to capture the look on her face when she sees the horror she has birthed? (And can I put the result up on FailBlog?)
Dear Cthulu Ftagn,
Gesundheit. What's a few extra fingers and toes (or vestigial wings and tentacles) between lovers? Yes, in the interest of full disclosure go ahead and bring it up when the subject of either your scars or breeding arises. And please note that nobody has perfect genetics, no matter what you may think by looking in the Victoria's Secret catalog. So you do your thing, you mutant you, and let modern technology do its thing if it comes to that.
And now I'm off to find some lunch; I hear the dining hall is serving calamari. Have a lovely week! Cthulu ftagn!