March 16, 2007
Periodically, as their busy spa and Spider Club schedules allow, celebrity experts will join us to answer your questions about how to fug up your life as thoroughly as they do theirs. This week's expert has an advanced degree in psychotic behavior with a minor in alienating one's family, and is fresh from a spiritual experience in the slammer that has resulted in him pursuing a career as a minister.
Dear Aunt Fugly,
I have this great wife -- she's smart, she's exotic, she likes to talk about really obscure books while walking around the house naked, and she enjoys traveling and drinking beer. All my friends think she sounds fantastic but because she lives in a different part of the state for work, they haven't met her. But they're doubling the pressure lately for me to introduce them. There's just one problem: She doesn't exist. I totally made her up and it's been three years now, including a successful stint in couples counseling that I couldn't stop talking about, and I'm worried it might be a little bit too late to confess to my friends that she's fake. Apparently I am kind of a douchebag. What should I do? Should I admit to my friends that I lied? ... No, really, give me an actual good idea.
Screwed By My Fake Wife
I don't see why this is such a big deal. The solution is so obvious: Hire a hooker to impersonate your wife, introduce her to all your friends, and then "divorce" her. Or kill her off. And then you can just murder the hooker if you need to produce a body.
Wait. No, don't do that. If there's anything I learned in the joint -- other than how to be a better father to my daughter -- it is that killing someone will earn you some hard time and while I emerge from prison a better man, fully qualified to resume managing my child star's finances, I can not recommend you doing anything that might land you in the Big House. Also, maybe it will turn out that the hooker you hire will be awesome and hot and freaky and you can really marry her and I will be happy to broker the deal you make when you sell the rights to that major feature film for a low, low percentage of your gross. Say, 65%.
Dear Aunt Fugly,
My parents SUCK. I know all young girls say that, but seriously, mine REALLY DO. My mother thinks she's 19 and hangs around a bunch of nightclubs getting messed up -- and she's, like, the world's most annoying person when she's buzzed -- and she won't stop wearing my clothes and trying to sleep with all the guys I'm trying to sleep with, and it doesn't make sense because she TOTALLY has crow's feet and I can see it and I don't know why they would want to NAIL a woman who could HIDE THEM in her WRINKLES. And my father's, like, totally an ex-con and I hate him for ruining my childhood. Except my mother is ruining my adulthood -- should I hate her more? Seriously, HAS NO ONE NOTICED that I am celebrating being out of rehab by hanging out at a bunch of clubs? And that I was IN rehab before I was the legal drinking age? And that I keep changing my hair color and losing weight? ME! Pay attention to ME! Stop shooting your stupid "I'm out of prison and I want to help children BLAH BLAH BLAH" reality show and stop nailing people who are younger than me and START FIXING MY PROBLEMS.
So my question is, should I stop wearing slouchy boots?
With ANGER IN MY TRAGIC HEART,
Red Brown Blonde
Your mom sounds hot. Why don't you give me her number, so I can talk to her directly about how to be a better parent to you -- maybe over a couple of ice-cold Buds?
Dearest Aunt Fugly,
I am the victim of a sad misunderstanding. Recently, I was having an intimate chat with a dear friend of mine -- we'll call her Foolia --in front of some TV cameras (I know, I know, but it was a favor to another friend of mine; let's call her Doprah). Anyway, in the course of this verbal embrace, which was otherwise laden with warm personal truths, I made a joke about getting plastic surgery done on my eyes. See, Aunt Fugly, my wit is dry. It's arid as the desert but thrice as jolly. And unfortunately, now everyone thinks I was serious. Nobody can stop teasing me about my eye job. My friend Bark Smallberg called me up and was all, "Yo, I hear you got jobbed," and then started cackling. Even my bosses, two of the fairest souls you ever see across a crowded room and long to cuddle their worry-lines away, can't resist poking fun at me (although they can't resist poking at me in general; I'm a ticklish and highly touchable piece of man flesh). What should I do? I crave a hug of reassurance. If you could even donate one arm of your time to a half-squeeze, I would be forever in your debt.
While I would love to hug it out with you, I am trying to teach my daughter how to be a better person and part of that includes not throwing her limbs around men she hardly knows. Instead, I suggest you consult my forthcoming self-help book, Turning It All Around, which will help you learn how better to own up to your mistakes, whether your mistake is: getting an eye job, joking about something as serious as an eye job, not getting an eye job when you need one, securities fraud, being a terrible parent to impressionable teens, inspiring a really crappy pop song, aggravated unlicensed driving and attempted assault, or Solaris. I wish you luck, my good man, and suggest you practice patience. Surely someone will do something scandalous eventually, like run over a paparazzo with her car, and that will draw the attention away from your plastic surgery imbroglio.