Just Us Nerds

J.C. was kind (merciless?) enough to offer me space as an advice columnist, and I hear writing’s cheaper than therapy. The jury is still out on which causes more longer term detriment to your psyche.

So, having not been blessed with the joy of receiving email other than offers of penis enlargement and small African children, I descended upon the city streets like a vengeful god in search of followers and a halfway decent burrito. BEHOLD, I have given advice!

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Dear Small Girl With the Eyeliner and Baseball Bat,

I have difficulty finding my way around town without wandering into dangerous areas by accident. How can I protect my valuables and my sweet, sweet ass?

Please don’t hit me.

Signed,
Citizen Who Was Probably Dropped As a Child

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Dear Citizen,

What an interesting dillema! I hear talk of such ingenious devices as GPS trackers and nannies with toddler leashes, but these really don’t seem like proper solutions for a discerning individual such as yourself. I suggest taking yourself to the nearest tattoo parlor and investing in a permanent copy of your city’s map – just above the elbow works nicely, as you can see it clearly and it can still be covered with a snazzy business shirt. I’m sure you have many snazzy business shirts.

And if strangely garbed young humans with makeshift weaponry approach you in a menacing manner, whip off your top and show those hooligans you already know how to stick it to the Man, dudes, so they best be steppin’ off.

The tattoo will make it easier to identify your corpse.

All My Love,
Jane.

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Dear Jane,

I’m taking my new girlfriend out on a date tonight, and she said she wanted to do something “creative” and “interesting.” Pottery classes are right out, since last time she lost one of her diamond Tiffany rings in my clay tribute to Jimmy Hoffa. What’s a poor guy with a classy lady to do?

Thanks in Advance,
Entry Level Suitor

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Dear Suitor,

I swear to god, that thing about her losing jewelry in your “clay” better not be a euphemism.

That aside, the key to this evening’s success is going to be costumes. Dig through your closet for the classiest suit you have, or at least a dress shirt that passes the sniff test. Slick back your hair, pencil in a mustache. If you have a mustache already, for the love of cheap tequila shave that disgusting face fungus off your languishing visage. Now, leave a tie loose around your neck, and pack your keys in your jacket’s front pocket so there’s a noticeable change in the line of your suit and a faint metal sound when you walk.

When you arrive at her door, kiss her hand immediately after checking your surroundings for possible threats. Pull her close. Giovanni’s men could be right behind you, and it’s time to take your lady out of here. Run to the car and begin a whirlwhind tour of the city at night – two rides at the carnival, sneak in the back door for twenty minutes of a picture show, grab no more than one shared glass of wine at the swank bar and lounge because you must drive – drive! – to make the night last, because it’s just you and your dame until the sun rises or death stares you down from the barrel of a snub-nose .45

Cheers,
Jane

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Dear Jane,

My parents won’t buy me a car. What am I going to do? I’ll be the only Senior taking the bus! How will I pick up the bitches, Jane? Think of my bitches!

Signed,
Loathsome Fool With His Hat on Backwards.

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Dear Maggot Feeding Upon the Rotting Flesh of Society,

You should count yourself lucky that your parents haven’t killed you. It shows real strength of will for them to live with their decision while so many of us suffer.

I don’t know how you came to believe that you are owed a car, but some of us never got it so good. Some of us were unpopular, even once we discovered makeup.

Some of us loved to play soccer, but were never as good as the other kids and so even 10 years and 2,000 miles after our last season the soft sussurance of a father criticizing his child’s footwork at the local park triggers incoherent rage and the burning desire to melt through the hood of a mini van with homemade blocks of thermite.

Some of us never got a part in the school play, even though we knew all the lines, because the neighbors’ blonde girl bounced so much better and someone wanted us home by eight to work on bringing up our calculus grade so that if we were social failures we could at least get into a “real” school.

DAMMIT, DAD. SOME OF US JUST WANTED TO BE LOVED.

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Dear Angry Looking Punk Girl,

Will you be my girlfriend?

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Unless your name is “Batman”, I’m not interested.

Sweet Christ, where did I leave my mace?

Jane

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Send me your questions, nerds!