I get letters...

Today's Horoscope:

Today, if you aren't careful, you may accidentally insult someone by a poor choice of words, and hurt their feelings. In particular, the expression "hideously deformed" may not be as neutral as you might have originally thought.

Alright, let's get started. It seems that yesterday's offering might have been just the tiniest-bit heavy-handed. I should know better than to sit down behind the business end of a keyboard less than two hours after watching CNN. But, those of you who took the time to remind me of my literary shortcomings (and you were monumental in number) can take solace from the knowledge that I am profoundly chastened by your voluminous discordant missals. This morning, I'd like to share some of the mail I've been getting from my readers:


Dear Bubba (if that truly is your name, which I doubt to be the case),

When are you finally going to die? Your column is
easily the worst thing I've ever read. It is neither insightful
nor enjoyable. Do us all a favor and die. Die! Die, die, die,
die, die!

Have a nice day.

Respectfully,
Sister Carmelita Finster, Caramelite Sisters of Carmel

Sister, I'd love to die, actually, if for no other reason, just to make your life complete. Unfortunately, I've been cursed with good genetics and a relatively healthy lifestyle. Therefore (the possibility of a huge meteorite or out-of-control bus notwithstanding), it's likely I'll outlive you by twenty years. Further, I intend to continue writing my column and in spite of your contempt, you will be forced to keep reading it because not even super-human faith can deny the mojo I hold over you. Think of it as penance. In fact, think of everything as penance. Oh, wait-- too late for that one. Never mind.


Dear Bubba,

My husband installed a new fixture in our bathroom.
It sits right next to and resembles the toilet bowl, only
without a seat. When I turn the handle sitting on top,
water jets up in the air! What in the world is it?

Audrey LaDouceur, Parsiphany, New Jersey


Mrs. LaDouceur, it is a toilet, and your husband is an idiot who doesn't know how to hook it up. What other possible explanation could there be? Good grief, woman, use your head! Sheesh... that's what you get for marrying some French guy.


Dear Bubba,

I've always wanted to learn to speak a foreign
language. You've always been so helpful with your
advice, can you tell me where I can purchase
a book on Prussian?

LaMelle Thasquidian, Prince Edward Island

Mr(s). Thasquidian, today is your lucky day. I've just finished my new best-seller, Prussian For Your Shy Sasquatch. It's a step-by-step dual purpose tutorial, combining the newest techniques in language skills and toilet-training for your own urban legend! In the event that you don't have a sasquatch, the same methods apply for a yeti or skunk ape. Just send me a cashier's check (or cash) for only $260, and you'll be soon be snuggling and cooing all those Prussian sweet-nothing's to your favorite sub-human.

Okay, that's enough. Get out of here, you knuckleheads... there's customers to swindle aplenty, and you haven't checked last night's Lotto numbers yet... you could already be a multimillionaire.

Until tomorrow... same bad time, same bad channel.