A monthly advice column

This month: guest columnist “Jerri Blank”

Dear Sedaratives,

I have this friend; we will just call her “Dani,” for the purpose of this letter. She tends to smell quite awful, and I just can’t stand it any more. How can I ask her to improve her smell without hurting her feelings?

Camille L.
Eureka, Calif.

Dear Camille,

Do you own a hose? The best delousings I’ve ever received were when I was gettin’ hosed down in the joint. You’d be surprised at the places that water can reach, especially if it’s coming at you with the brutal force of a typhoon. Sometimes I’d get in line for second helpings. So I suggest that you hose her down. Or, better yet, plant some screamers on her and then drop a dime. Let the state take care of your stinky problem for you. By the time your friend hits the street, the state will have eliminated your smell-problem. Of course, the down side is she will have permanent physical and emotional scarring. That is a down side, right?



Dear Sedaratives,

I have an unspecial birthday: New Year’s Day. Because my birthday is so close to this dreadful “official” holiday, I suffer the terrible setback of receiving dual-purpose gifts. What should I do, save finding new friends and family?

Fred Dobson
Portland, Maine

Dear Fred,

You sound like a real crybaby. You are what we in the slammer call a pussy. You know what, Fred? Even outside the slammer you’re a pussy. “I suffer the terrible setback of receiving dual-purpose gifts.” Boo-hoo. Let me tell you about terrible setbacks, Fred. I like to gamble. I also enjoy bloodshed, which is why more often than not you’ll find me in the front row of a cockfight. So, this one night after a hilariously brutal match, some words were exchanged between me and a wily one-legged Mexican named Vásquez. I don’t want to go into the gruesome details but let’s just say I soon found myself with a corpse. Nobody’s fault; these things happen.

Anywhosil, I was thinkin’ I could just drag the carcass over to that abandoned lot across the alley, dig a shallow grave, cover it with some debris and “hasta mañana.” But get this: before I could get los muertos mexicanos out the door, a sleet storm hit, covering the ground with ice and making it harder than a Chinaman’s skull. Eventually I had to drag him about twelve blocks so I could dump him in an incinerator. So my advice to you, Fred, is to save those tears for a real problem.

Sincerely yours,

We hope you enjoy this excerpt.

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