Oh! Hello, darling(s). How goes it? (Have we addressed how much I love/hate that saying? Probably. Before you judge, please know that I . . . (a) don't give a fuck; and (b) have already done so.) I know this will not come as a surprise to any of you, but I receive so much fan mail -- especially lately. The letters (and/or
collect calls) I choose to entertain touch me so. Really, you all are getting so good with your subject/verb agreements and punctuation. Way to make Mama proud. Anyway, as I was saying . . . the few messages from you all that I decide to skim through (and by that I mean have Neville and/or my sister read to me in an English accent) have, as of late, been filled with inquiries seeking my thoughts, opinions and advice on how one should handle themselves (or someone else, and yes, I do mean that very literally) in different situations. Naturally, I can't think of a better person for you to consult and I've decided that some of them are good enough (by "some of them" I mean the answers I've come up with, let's be honest here) that I should spotlight said plights here, on the blowout. With the increasingly small global community we live in today, it's only fair that I attempt to help as many people as I can (while exerting no effort whatsoever, essentially).
I can't decide how I should do this new series of posts. I've obviously come up with a hundred different clever titles, though. You're welcome in advance. I mean, should I recreate the letter verbatim -- using exact names, places and self-degrading talk? Probably. There's only one way to solve a problem, little ones, and that's facing it head on and plowing through. Keep in mind, we're all in this together. For our premiere in this new segment, keep on . . .
The first installment of our new time together, which I will call RAD-vice (or, if you're one of those glass-half-full types [i.e. conservatives] . . . BAD-vice . . .) comes to us from . . . oh fuck it, its too much to try to protect the innocent and all that bullshit.
I received a letter from a young lady in quite a pickle. Having recently realized and experienced the pain of the recession most of the country faces she was curious as to exactly how she could save on the little things in life . . . she was attempting to cut corners in her everyday expenses to maintain her middle-class standard of living.
First off, what the fuck do I know about that? Not a goddamn thing! Cut expenses? You want me to stop investing in our future don't you? There goes welfare and our source of cheap labor . . . not to mention a nicely manicured lawn.
After my initial aversion, I decided I would, as stated earlier, try to help homegirl and attempted to put myself in her shoes, at least for a few seconds. Three glasses of champagne later, I began to brainstorm. Surely this is a concern for so many people. I started to brainstorm, drew a few Venn diagrams and really got down to it. I mean what do I know about saving? You can't take it with you, right? My first thought was to tell her to buff up a bit and find the number of a good plastic surgeon, because men love paying for the simple pleasures in life, right? Quickly realizing she'd probs already tried her hand at prostitution, I dismissed this. For a moment, in the middle of my fifth "pro/con" chart, I began to wonder if I was equipped to handle such a pressing matter. I mean . . . the last thing I tried to save was my virginity, and I did okay with that, at least until seventh grade. I mean, what could be cut? Birth control? I mean, yeah, just make sure you invest in a good, sturdy pair of steel toed boots and/or an apartment with stairs to hurl yourself down.
I continued to diagram . . . and then, when I turned my cocktail napkin over to continue, it hit me, like a ton of fucking bricks! . . . in 44-cent increments, that is.
Yes. Postage Stamps! Obvi. Allow me to continue. You all remember when I told you about the letter I wrote to then-President Clinton . . . about making sure Snoop Dogg and other cop-killer rappers got locked up and stayed locked up? (I know, but please remember, I was raised in a house to dislike black people, and like the fuzz . . . don't worry, we all grow up, and now I hate the Po-9 as well.) Anyway! I spent so much time up in my room (cue Brandy) crafting this letter to Billy C. It was magnificent. I addressed the envelope -- and keep in mind, we didn't have the "internet" back in those days, so I had to call information to get the correct address . . . a $1.50 charge I was almost certainly beaten for. I had it all ready to do, I just needed a postage stamp. A little 32-cent ticket to take my opinions to the White House. My parents both told me they didn't have any stamps, statements which I immediately verified after a quick search of their wallets (I was Oliver Twist that year for Halloween, I'd picked up some tricks . . . ) so I was stuck! And God knows I couldn't crack into my own collection of stamps -- they were limited edition and from crazy countries where a postal service probably didn't even exist, and, given the importance of the contents of my letter, I knew I couldn't take any chances. But I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? And then, it was so obvious. I didn't need a motherfucking stamp, just a new envelope! Duh. I re-addressed the envelope as follows (again, you're welcome for recreating it for you right here):
You're welcome, homegirl.