By Mary Tompsett — Welcome, all ye who belly up to the trough for advice from a total stranger, one who worries that our democracy is undercut by the archaic electrical college. Damn electrons, knockin’ about all higgledy-piggledy. But you’re here for some funny and I’m angling to set the hook and keep you in the saddle. As my toothless Feng Shui consultant says, “Better a mixed metaphor than one left to curdle in the back of the fridge.” Anyway, I call this advice column DILLIGS, an acronym for “Does it look like I give a shi*t?!” However, as I meditated on the pattern made by quinoa grains floating in last night’s scummy dishwater, the letters offered a second meaning with a little less eyeroll: DILLIGS = “Daily I let loose idiotic gabbles.” Others cure cancer, I gabble. It’s a divine calling.
QUESTION: My partner is unwilling to commit to our relationship. What to do? DILLIGS: To quote an orange celebrity, “SO SAD!!!!” Seriously, abandonment sucks. We’re soaring through rainbows together and then suddenly the bottom drops out. (Again, the metaphor curdling.) Humans can be fickle, but beware: the biggest bastards are skin tone and hair follicles. With them, it’s just one long honeyfuggle! (Great word, nothing to do with sex. Okay, sometimes.) One morning we find they’ve either moved to a new, horrifying location on our body or they’ve vanished into Witness Protection. When that happens, dry your tears and remove all mirrors, then install dimmer switches throughout the house. Denial rocks!! Please, no applause. I remain your humble, unwashed servant.
QUESTION: I’d like to donate my body to science. How does this work? DILLINGS: Be careful, my little piglet, and do not rush into this. Your noble intention will in reality lose its sparkle, so before your next of kin calls UPS, always always plan to be dead. That said, you could ship your carcass to a “body farm” where you will sprawl in a field or woods like a final camping trip minus the tent and S’mores. You’ll be a 24/7 diner for hordes of customers to breed, hatch and swarm the buffet. News of the food orgy will quickly spread via word of mouth, mandibles…sucking apparatus…whatever. Forensics students study how you rot and, yeah, some doofus might make jokes. But hey, it’s no skin off your nose, sweetie, ’cause there ain’t none left! The other donation option is to ship out to a medical college, where a fresh-faced student will meet you, run to toss their cookies, and slink back to take a stab, so to speak, at carving the new turkey. For that scenario, now’s the time to get a fun tattoo, such as (1) a zipper from neck to groin; or (2) “While you’re in there, scoop out some fat”; or (3) “If I flinch, call 911.”
QUESTION: What’s up with Toronto considering a sex doll brothel? DILLIGS: Hmm…silicone sex nudges the popular sin of houghmagandy. Could be a whopping honeyfuggle! But I hear there’s a place already open, located in—oops!! So sorry, our time is up. Stay tuned.