Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I hear the State of the Union Address is tonight. Do you think the President will speak about anything important?
A Concerned Citizen
Dear A Concerned Citizen:
No! And I do mean no! What I’ve read is that he will speak about energy. Not the war in Iraq. Not the end of the war in Iraq. Not the fact that soldiers are dying in Iraq for no good reason. Not the fact that he’s got his knickers in a bunch because they aimed a bomb at him (though they didn’t get him). Not the fact that Bush thinks this is some kind of get revenge war to serve his own ego—and that he’s made it almost a religious war against the evil non-Christ believers. If you want to know what his plans are for pimping electricity into gas powered engines (hybrids) maybe you’ll be satisfied—but if you’re like a recent survey—you really want to know about the war. Not the war on gas (which Bush is just making MORE expensive) but the war on war!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I have a hair stylist. I keep going. This woman is Philippino. Every time I go I tell her to cut the back and sides short and LEAVE the front alone--just trim off the edges. I’d rather go to a barber, but I can’t find one where I wouldn‘t have to wait an hour or more. This Philippino lady is always open and I can always get in. Do you think if I learned the words in Philippino she might understand them better? It‘s not like she doesn‘t speak English, but I never get the right hair cut.
Too Many Hair Cuts
Dear Too Many Hair Cuts:
I’d say you’re like Sampson who lost all his strength when his hair was cut. Plus you’re missing a few marbles too! Learning Philippino will NOT help you. This woman obviously only knows how to cut men’s hair one way--BADLY. Let me ask you this, if you went to a doctor to have your gallbladder removed and he removed your bladder (it’s close isn’t it?) would you keep going back? NO! At least I wouldn’t. But in your case, I can’t be so sure. Get a new hair stylist/barber. OR get a Flowbee--they‘re still for sale! Just don‘t write me about your stupid hair trouble again--or I‘ll send you some real advice, and a bill to boot!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How come you always have an opinion on everything? You know what hey say about opinions—like ass*oles, everyone has one.
Not a Fan
Dear Not a Fan:
I know they say you’re a big asshole. That’s what I know. Your opinion doesn’t really count, obviously. You don’t have a column. People don’t read your opinions. And your too stupid to know that in my column, only I swear! If you don’t like what I write—don’t read it. If you must read it, don’t comment on it. And if you feel you must comment on it, write it on a piece of paper and flush it down the toilet—because your opinions are a bunch of shit!
Mr. Man-ners
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (27): State of Union Address, President Bush, Phillippino Hair Stylist, Sampson, Opinions
Monday, January 30, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (26): Cheating Spouse, Lost at Sea, Iraqi War, Death, Christams Dishes, Outlets, Swearing, Winnie The Pooh, Playboy
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My wife and I sleep in separate rooms. It’s been going on for years. Do you think she’s having an affair?
Married & Clueless
Dear Married & Clueless:
You are clueless! Your wife is either a. a man, b. a sex change, c. not interested or d. cheating. None of the above is NOT an option! Do you like sleeping in separate rooms? Does she fart loudly all night? Or do you snore like a locomotive? If it’s not this, then it’s still a-d. None of which are good. My suggestion. Buy two tickets for a cruise. Make sure there is ONLY one room with one bed. If she insists upon sleeping on the couch, or partying all night (so she can sleep during the day)--that’s a clue! Just remember, MANY people get lost at sea--and since there is NO body to find--no one ever wins/loses a lawsuit! It’s international waters--so NO one is at fault. And if you have a LARGE life insurance policy on the cheating bitch (oops, I mean your loving wife)--so much the better!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How many people have to die in Iraq before this war will be over?
A Soldier’s Wife
Dear A Soldier’s Wife:
Let’s see, how many people are there in this world? And how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? And how many hairs are on an average child’s head? And how many edges does a crystal have? And how many times does one pee in their life? And how many lives have been lost due to stupid wars? Multiply all these things…and you’ll probably still not get the right answer. I don’t know. I do care. But I don’t know.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I‘ve got a store near me that‘s a national chain. They claim that they are NOW an outlet. The strange part is, I went in before Christmas and saw a set of dishes I wanted. When I went in after Christmas, they still had the dishes, but they cost more (though they were still discounted, just NOT as much). Is this really an outlet?
A Consumer
Dear A Consumer:
Yes--it‘s an outlet--for chumps! Sure, everybody could call themselves an outlet--it gets more suckers to come and peruse. But a TRUE outlet would have items at lower than any sale. I say don‘t go there anymore. And I mean it. Because I am not going to be YOUR outlet to bitch about this store--even though you‘re the chump who keeps going there (if you keep complaining, you obviously didn‘t take my advice!). Remember: Fool me once, you’re a fool. Fool me twice, I’m a foolish dumbass!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My son reads your column. He’s only 17. He likes it. But I wish you would not swear so often in it. Can you do me a favor?
A Parent
Dear A Parent:
No! You’re not much of a parent if you’re letting your son read my nasty grams. Get a clue—restrict his viewing pleasure! You wouldn’t let him read Playboy would you? If you say yes, you’re not much of a parent. This is an adult column—if you want no swearing—read him Winnie The Pooh. You should anyhow, cause your parenting skills are full of poo!
Mr. Man-ners
My wife and I sleep in separate rooms. It’s been going on for years. Do you think she’s having an affair?
Married & Clueless
Dear Married & Clueless:
You are clueless! Your wife is either a. a man, b. a sex change, c. not interested or d. cheating. None of the above is NOT an option! Do you like sleeping in separate rooms? Does she fart loudly all night? Or do you snore like a locomotive? If it’s not this, then it’s still a-d. None of which are good. My suggestion. Buy two tickets for a cruise. Make sure there is ONLY one room with one bed. If she insists upon sleeping on the couch, or partying all night (so she can sleep during the day)--that’s a clue! Just remember, MANY people get lost at sea--and since there is NO body to find--no one ever wins/loses a lawsuit! It’s international waters--so NO one is at fault. And if you have a LARGE life insurance policy on the cheating bitch (oops, I mean your loving wife)--so much the better!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How many people have to die in Iraq before this war will be over?
A Soldier’s Wife
Dear A Soldier’s Wife:
Let’s see, how many people are there in this world? And how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? And how many hairs are on an average child’s head? And how many edges does a crystal have? And how many times does one pee in their life? And how many lives have been lost due to stupid wars? Multiply all these things…and you’ll probably still not get the right answer. I don’t know. I do care. But I don’t know.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I‘ve got a store near me that‘s a national chain. They claim that they are NOW an outlet. The strange part is, I went in before Christmas and saw a set of dishes I wanted. When I went in after Christmas, they still had the dishes, but they cost more (though they were still discounted, just NOT as much). Is this really an outlet?
A Consumer
Dear A Consumer:
Yes--it‘s an outlet--for chumps! Sure, everybody could call themselves an outlet--it gets more suckers to come and peruse. But a TRUE outlet would have items at lower than any sale. I say don‘t go there anymore. And I mean it. Because I am not going to be YOUR outlet to bitch about this store--even though you‘re the chump who keeps going there (if you keep complaining, you obviously didn‘t take my advice!). Remember: Fool me once, you’re a fool. Fool me twice, I’m a foolish dumbass!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My son reads your column. He’s only 17. He likes it. But I wish you would not swear so often in it. Can you do me a favor?
A Parent
Dear A Parent:
No! You’re not much of a parent if you’re letting your son read my nasty grams. Get a clue—restrict his viewing pleasure! You wouldn’t let him read Playboy would you? If you say yes, you’re not much of a parent. This is an adult column—if you want no swearing—read him Winnie The Pooh. You should anyhow, cause your parenting skills are full of poo!
Mr. Man-ners
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Check Out Ed Gershon's Music!
http://www.myspace.com/edgershon
Chicago-based Singer/Songwriter, Ed Gershon, plays a unique eclectic style of acoustic rock, fusing pop with folk, jazz and blues. His shows provide an intimate musical glimpse into life itself. His worldly amalgamation of musical styles blends high-energy guitar rifts with soulful vocals. For the last 2 years, this locally known singer/songwriter has performed at Chicagoland venues such as the Bird’s Nest, Slice of Chicago, Duke O’Brien’s, Mike’s Ale House, Goose Island (Wrigleyville), and The Tonic Room. Performances of his uniquely original-songs and vocals can be heard weekly at Potbelly’s Sandwich Works, or less frequently at Caribou Coffee (check his website regularly for performance dates). As a student of graphic design at Illinois Institute of Art, he has been a featured performer at the school’s Artimation Festival for the last three years. “Music is a part of me—like breathing,” says Ed. “It’s something I can’t live without. It’s just my way of connecting with the world.” Ed’s love of music is unquestionable; his lyrics are sometimes heartbreakingly honest. He blends the best of jazz influences Miles Davis, John Coltrain, Joe Pass, Wes Montgomery, Grant Green (from the 50’s & 60’s) with the likes of pop artists James Taylor, Elton John, The Beatles, the Black Crowes, while infusing the mellowness found in singer/songwriter’s Dave Mathews, John Mayer and Jeff Buckley, creating his own movingly moody music. Ed performs his brand of rock with the recently reunited band Wampus, but still produces a solo act. His independent performances make listeners think about life, cry about love or just plan feel good about themselves. There’s no doubt that this singer/songwriter has himself experienced life’s emotional roller coaster. Ed’s music resonates with empathy—hitting just the right note with his fans.
Biography written by William Hicks
Photography by Geoff Adler
Chicago-based Singer/Songwriter, Ed Gershon, plays a unique eclectic style of acoustic rock, fusing pop with folk, jazz and blues. His shows provide an intimate musical glimpse into life itself. His worldly amalgamation of musical styles blends high-energy guitar rifts with soulful vocals. For the last 2 years, this locally known singer/songwriter has performed at Chicagoland venues such as the Bird’s Nest, Slice of Chicago, Duke O’Brien’s, Mike’s Ale House, Goose Island (Wrigleyville), and The Tonic Room. Performances of his uniquely original-songs and vocals can be heard weekly at Potbelly’s Sandwich Works, or less frequently at Caribou Coffee (check his website regularly for performance dates). As a student of graphic design at Illinois Institute of Art, he has been a featured performer at the school’s Artimation Festival for the last three years. “Music is a part of me—like breathing,” says Ed. “It’s something I can’t live without. It’s just my way of connecting with the world.” Ed’s love of music is unquestionable; his lyrics are sometimes heartbreakingly honest. He blends the best of jazz influences Miles Davis, John Coltrain, Joe Pass, Wes Montgomery, Grant Green (from the 50’s & 60’s) with the likes of pop artists James Taylor, Elton John, The Beatles, the Black Crowes, while infusing the mellowness found in singer/songwriter’s Dave Mathews, John Mayer and Jeff Buckley, creating his own movingly moody music. Ed performs his brand of rock with the recently reunited band Wampus, but still produces a solo act. His independent performances make listeners think about life, cry about love or just plan feel good about themselves. There’s no doubt that this singer/songwriter has himself experienced life’s emotional roller coaster. Ed’s music resonates with empathy—hitting just the right note with his fans.
Biography written by William Hicks
Photography by Geoff Adler
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (25): Music Student, Poets, Bedroom Lock Out, Writing, Editing, Novels
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My mother claims my music sounds like a cat in heat. But it’s all the rage at the places I’m playing. Now she doesn’t want me practicing at home anymore. I’m only 16, I can’t afford to rent a space to practice. What do I do?
A Student
Dear A Student:
Now you’re a student of life! Not everyone will love your music. Not everyone will understand the path you’ve chosen for yourself. But if you know you’re on the right road, and your parents don’t understand this, I say murder them both and inherit the house! I say, but I don’t mean it. Unless, of course, they are abusing you--then it might be legal in your state--check your local laws to find this out! My point is--if you REALLY love what you’re doing--you’ll find a way. See if you can practice at school, or a church, or maybe at the local brothel (maybe they’ll throw in some fringe benefits if you can “drum” up some business with your music!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How can you be so dumb. Are you numb? You’re a bum, no a bum’s crumb. You treated me like crap, I should give you a slap, for you to get a clue you’d need a map, you’re full of crap.
A Poet
Dear A Poet:
I still say you’re not a poet--and you know it. You’re full of spit and you're full of shit.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My wife says I’m insensitive to her. She claims I always forget anniversaries, birthdays and important dates. Now she’s locked herself in the bedroom and won’t let me sleep with her. What do you stay to this?
Locked Out
Dear Locked Out:
She was right! Did you forget that your wife wrote several months back? Did you forget that I told her to get a divorce? Did you forget that exactly one month ago today, she actually got a divorce? Did you forget that I don’t care if you EVER get sex again? Your loss is my gain friend!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’ve got this great story locked inside of me. It’s a great story. It’s about….. I can’t tell you or I’d have to kill you. First I want to sell it to the movies, then to books, then to the world. My teacher suggested I ask for advice.
A Writing Student
Dear A Writing Student;
For $160 a minute, I MIGHT be able to help you--get your head out of your ass! Obviously, if you had such a great story you would have had it published (or produced) and been on Oprah, so she could hype it (and after it was suggested it was NOT autobiographical, you would have gotten her to SWEAR it was ALL true, hyping it even more). ONLY later to report that well, some of it wasn’t true at all--and having to apologize to Oprah (on HER show)--but again hyping it even more. Remember ALL publicity is good publicity--it sells books. But I doubt you could afford me--and I doubt you could ever write more than a letter to say you have a GREAT idea--when in reality it was writing the letter that was GREAT idea--so leave me the fuck alone you twerp. Those who have a novel in them--write--those who don’t, write letters claiming they do!
Mr. Man-ners
My mother claims my music sounds like a cat in heat. But it’s all the rage at the places I’m playing. Now she doesn’t want me practicing at home anymore. I’m only 16, I can’t afford to rent a space to practice. What do I do?
A Student
Dear A Student:
Now you’re a student of life! Not everyone will love your music. Not everyone will understand the path you’ve chosen for yourself. But if you know you’re on the right road, and your parents don’t understand this, I say murder them both and inherit the house! I say, but I don’t mean it. Unless, of course, they are abusing you--then it might be legal in your state--check your local laws to find this out! My point is--if you REALLY love what you’re doing--you’ll find a way. See if you can practice at school, or a church, or maybe at the local brothel (maybe they’ll throw in some fringe benefits if you can “drum” up some business with your music!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How can you be so dumb. Are you numb? You’re a bum, no a bum’s crumb. You treated me like crap, I should give you a slap, for you to get a clue you’d need a map, you’re full of crap.
A Poet
Dear A Poet:
I still say you’re not a poet--and you know it. You’re full of spit and you're full of shit.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My wife says I’m insensitive to her. She claims I always forget anniversaries, birthdays and important dates. Now she’s locked herself in the bedroom and won’t let me sleep with her. What do you stay to this?
Locked Out
Dear Locked Out:
She was right! Did you forget that your wife wrote several months back? Did you forget that I told her to get a divorce? Did you forget that exactly one month ago today, she actually got a divorce? Did you forget that I don’t care if you EVER get sex again? Your loss is my gain friend!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’ve got this great story locked inside of me. It’s a great story. It’s about….. I can’t tell you or I’d have to kill you. First I want to sell it to the movies, then to books, then to the world. My teacher suggested I ask for advice.
A Writing Student
Dear A Writing Student;
For $160 a minute, I MIGHT be able to help you--get your head out of your ass! Obviously, if you had such a great story you would have had it published (or produced) and been on Oprah, so she could hype it (and after it was suggested it was NOT autobiographical, you would have gotten her to SWEAR it was ALL true, hyping it even more). ONLY later to report that well, some of it wasn’t true at all--and having to apologize to Oprah (on HER show)--but again hyping it even more. Remember ALL publicity is good publicity--it sells books. But I doubt you could afford me--and I doubt you could ever write more than a letter to say you have a GREAT idea--when in reality it was writing the letter that was GREAT idea--so leave me the fuck alone you twerp. Those who have a novel in them--write--those who don’t, write letters claiming they do!
Mr. Man-ners
Friday, January 27, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (24): Pop Tarts, Junk Food Junky, Sex, Sexaholic, Singing, American Idol
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I love Pop Tarts. What can I say, I grew up with them and love their taste. Still, I’ve been good and haven’t hand any in years. Recently, I had some and they tasted wrong! They weren’t stale. They just didn’t have the same flavor or texture. They seemed to all be broken in their foil. And they didn’t stay together as well as they used to. I’m not even sure I could have toasted them if I didn’t have a toaster oven. Bits of one fell off before I toasted it and I ate it. It tasted different than the original. I know they changed the ingredients in Twinkies and Snoballs. Do you know if they’ve changed the ingredients in these wonderful snacks? .
Loves Pop Tarts
Dear Loves Pop Tarts:
No! I do NOT know. But I could guess. You’re a junk food junky. Don’t you eat any regular food? Or have you just eaten too many mad cow burgers? The likelihood is that yes, they changed the ingredients. But I’m not willing to make a long distance--albeit free on my calling plan--phone call. Make it yourself! What, are your fingers broken? If you don’t like them anymore, don’t buy them? If you want your question answered, ask the manufacturer. But do NOT bother me with your trivial--albeit dim-witted questions! Bother someone who cares.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I like to have sex anywhere and everywhere I can. It doesn’t matter with who. Am I a sexaholic? Is there such a thing?
Horny
Dear Horny:
Yes and yes! My sexpert opinion is that if you’re indiscriminate, you’re a sexaholic. If you get urges when you’re around dogs, you’re a sexaholic. If you get urges at the most inappropriate times (a wake), you’re a sexaholic. Is there such a thing? Why not! Sex is like a drug. It actually produces Dopamine (which translated means it can make you a dope and mean!). Now, if you’re just hot to trot and your 15 don’t worry about it--but that doesn’t sound like the case here! Get some help before your get an incurable and easily transmitted disease. The world will be a better place.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m 22. My girlfriend is 23. She can’t sing worth a darn. To be honest, she makes my dog go howling out of the room, it’s so bad. But she doesn’t get it. She thinks she’s a diva. She’s even considering quitting her job so she can get onto American Idol. Suggestions?‘
Need Ear Plugs
Dear Need Ear Plugs:
Have you told her this? Or is she the one wearing ear plugs? Hasn’t she had major headaches and earaches from her own singing--tell her this is a clue. Get a clue! I realize you don’t want to hurt her feelings, but sometimes honesty is painful (think of all those times you had to tell a partner you had crabs!). Tell her. If she doesn’t listen to you, tell her to get an expert opinion. If she doesn’t believe them, suggest she take classes first, before giving up all she has. If she won’t listen, do as the dog does, run from the room! If she still doesn’t have a clue, hump her leg. Oh, sorry, that was advice for the dog. There’s not much you can do if she’s going to be stupid. Stand by her side. Sleep by her side. And when she makes a fool of herself, well, leave her. Or run from the room.
Mr. Man-ners
I love Pop Tarts. What can I say, I grew up with them and love their taste. Still, I’ve been good and haven’t hand any in years. Recently, I had some and they tasted wrong! They weren’t stale. They just didn’t have the same flavor or texture. They seemed to all be broken in their foil. And they didn’t stay together as well as they used to. I’m not even sure I could have toasted them if I didn’t have a toaster oven. Bits of one fell off before I toasted it and I ate it. It tasted different than the original. I know they changed the ingredients in Twinkies and Snoballs. Do you know if they’ve changed the ingredients in these wonderful snacks? .
Loves Pop Tarts
Dear Loves Pop Tarts:
No! I do NOT know. But I could guess. You’re a junk food junky. Don’t you eat any regular food? Or have you just eaten too many mad cow burgers? The likelihood is that yes, they changed the ingredients. But I’m not willing to make a long distance--albeit free on my calling plan--phone call. Make it yourself! What, are your fingers broken? If you don’t like them anymore, don’t buy them? If you want your question answered, ask the manufacturer. But do NOT bother me with your trivial--albeit dim-witted questions! Bother someone who cares.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I like to have sex anywhere and everywhere I can. It doesn’t matter with who. Am I a sexaholic? Is there such a thing?
Horny
Dear Horny:
Yes and yes! My sexpert opinion is that if you’re indiscriminate, you’re a sexaholic. If you get urges when you’re around dogs, you’re a sexaholic. If you get urges at the most inappropriate times (a wake), you’re a sexaholic. Is there such a thing? Why not! Sex is like a drug. It actually produces Dopamine (which translated means it can make you a dope and mean!). Now, if you’re just hot to trot and your 15 don’t worry about it--but that doesn’t sound like the case here! Get some help before your get an incurable and easily transmitted disease. The world will be a better place.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m 22. My girlfriend is 23. She can’t sing worth a darn. To be honest, she makes my dog go howling out of the room, it’s so bad. But she doesn’t get it. She thinks she’s a diva. She’s even considering quitting her job so she can get onto American Idol. Suggestions?‘
Need Ear Plugs
Dear Need Ear Plugs:
Have you told her this? Or is she the one wearing ear plugs? Hasn’t she had major headaches and earaches from her own singing--tell her this is a clue. Get a clue! I realize you don’t want to hurt her feelings, but sometimes honesty is painful (think of all those times you had to tell a partner you had crabs!). Tell her. If she doesn’t listen to you, tell her to get an expert opinion. If she doesn’t believe them, suggest she take classes first, before giving up all she has. If she won’t listen, do as the dog does, run from the room! If she still doesn’t have a clue, hump her leg. Oh, sorry, that was advice for the dog. There’s not much you can do if she’s going to be stupid. Stand by her side. Sleep by her side. And when she makes a fool of herself, well, leave her. Or run from the room.
Mr. Man-ners
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (23): Writers, Crap, Readers, College Students, Ass is Perspiring, Hyphens & Hymens, Pay, Mortgage
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m a writer and I like your stuff. How do I get a column like yours?
A Writer
Dear A Writer:
I don’t mean to be mean, but "f" off. This is my territory. It took me years of writing to get a column—and it will take you years too. Don’t think that after graduating college you will just land a primo gig, I didn’t. I worked in many fields before anyone would allow me to write for them (and that was for free)—so put in your time—say a lot of prayers—and back off!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Manure:
Your advice is a bunch of crap. It’s sh*t. How do you get away with it?
Scr*w You
Dear Scr*w You:
No screw you. You must know that I am the only one who can swear in this column! You idiot. First off, if you don’t like what you read, don’t read it. If you need help with that I can come over and pull out your eyes! Second off, I get away with it, because, well I’m me. You could never do anything people would read, because, well you’re you. So stop reading. Stop writing. And stick that arithmetic book up your butt!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m an aspiring writer. I’m a college student taking classes. Do you have any suggestions about getting into the business?
Aspiring Writer
Dear Aspiring Writer:
You’re either a writer or your ass is perspiring. My suggestion is to tell that damned teacher at the junior college that I don’t give free advice to students. If she wants me to talk about the writing business, she’s going to have to pay my exorbitant consulting fees. Tell her that for me. And tell her to stop having her students write into me. I’m tired of their lame questions. On top of that, don’t you know, teachers teach and writers write. Obviously, she’s not much of a writer is she has to teach!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Why do you have a hymen in your name?
Want to Know
Dear Want to Know:
Why? Because I can! And why do you not know the difference between a hymen and a hyphen? How stupid are you? How can you question how I spell my name when you don’t know how to spell a simple word? What are you the BadSpellCheck Police? Get a life—get a dictionary—and get the hell out of here!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Do you get paid a lot of money for writing your column? I just want to know what bad taste sells for these days.
Yuck
Dear Yuck:
Do I get paid a lot? Every letter I read I get paid. Every time I use the word "every" I get paid. Every time I use the words "You’re an asshole creep" I get paid. Every time I tell someone "It’s none of your business" I get paid. Thanks for paying my mortgage!
Mr. Man-ners
I’m a writer and I like your stuff. How do I get a column like yours?
A Writer
Dear A Writer:
I don’t mean to be mean, but "f" off. This is my territory. It took me years of writing to get a column—and it will take you years too. Don’t think that after graduating college you will just land a primo gig, I didn’t. I worked in many fields before anyone would allow me to write for them (and that was for free)—so put in your time—say a lot of prayers—and back off!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Manure:
Your advice is a bunch of crap. It’s sh*t. How do you get away with it?
Scr*w You
Dear Scr*w You:
No screw you. You must know that I am the only one who can swear in this column! You idiot. First off, if you don’t like what you read, don’t read it. If you need help with that I can come over and pull out your eyes! Second off, I get away with it, because, well I’m me. You could never do anything people would read, because, well you’re you. So stop reading. Stop writing. And stick that arithmetic book up your butt!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m an aspiring writer. I’m a college student taking classes. Do you have any suggestions about getting into the business?
Aspiring Writer
Dear Aspiring Writer:
You’re either a writer or your ass is perspiring. My suggestion is to tell that damned teacher at the junior college that I don’t give free advice to students. If she wants me to talk about the writing business, she’s going to have to pay my exorbitant consulting fees. Tell her that for me. And tell her to stop having her students write into me. I’m tired of their lame questions. On top of that, don’t you know, teachers teach and writers write. Obviously, she’s not much of a writer is she has to teach!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Why do you have a hymen in your name?
Want to Know
Dear Want to Know:
Why? Because I can! And why do you not know the difference between a hymen and a hyphen? How stupid are you? How can you question how I spell my name when you don’t know how to spell a simple word? What are you the BadSpellCheck Police? Get a life—get a dictionary—and get the hell out of here!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Do you get paid a lot of money for writing your column? I just want to know what bad taste sells for these days.
Yuck
Dear Yuck:
Do I get paid a lot? Every letter I read I get paid. Every time I use the word "every" I get paid. Every time I use the words "You’re an asshole creep" I get paid. Every time I tell someone "It’s none of your business" I get paid. Thanks for paying my mortgage!
Mr. Man-ners
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (22): Credit Card Bills, Get Out of Jail Free, Vacation, Smoking, 99 Luf Ballons, Basted Friggin
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My bills are killing me. I’ve got bills for credit cards. Bills for electric. Bills for my mortgage. What can I do?
In Debt Up to My Eyeballs
Dear In Debt Up to My Eyeballs:
There are no Get Out of Jail Free cards in life. Find a way, pay your bills. Stop whining. If you didn’t have bills your probably wouldn’t have any mail at all. At least your know your loved (even if it is for your money!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Help! All I want to do it run away. I don’t like my life. I don’t like my wife. I don’t like my job. What do you suggest?
Lost
Dear Lost:
I suggest you go on vacation. After you see what it costs to “run away” you’ll appreciate everything you currently have. Plus, wives don’t grow on trees (even if you want to string them up on tress from time to time!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I quit smoking for a long time. Seven years to be exact. But then I had one at a party. And I started again. Even while I was quit, I was never one of those “Eww, the smell stinks,” type of people. But I live in Chicago. Now they have this stupid smoking ban in public places. It claims you can’t smoke within 15 feet of a public entrance. I work downtown. 15 feet is in the middle of the street. What do I do?
A Smoker
Dear A Smoker:
You got an itch and you scratched it. Not my fault. Yours! I’m a smoker, so I can say that! Now you must live with the consequences of scratching in public. Chicago is a frigging weird place. 15 feet is so arbitrary. What are you going to do take your tape measure out and make sure you’re not too close to the entrance? Or are they going to install smoke stations on the median lines of the street? How the hell is this dumb city ever going to enforce such a strange law? I’m not sure. But I don’t have to deal with it--you do! Good luck, sucker!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I heard a lyric “Blassad Fliggin” in 99 Luf Ballons, that German song. A friend said it meant “Blessed Friggin”. Is this true?
Perplexed
Dear Perplexed:
No! It means “Blasted Friggin.” It’s blasted because balloons make a sound like that when they pop. I can understand your friend’s confusion though since blessed would be like the air, heaven, etc. Now, would you like to buy the Brooklyn Bridge? I don’t know what the hell the lyrics of a damned German song mean! What kind of a stupid question is that to pose? I’m not German. I’m not a lyricist. Get an interpreter or get a life and stop worrying. It’s NOT like you can’t get the English lyrics, so leave me the hell alone you jerk!
Mr. Man-ners
My bills are killing me. I’ve got bills for credit cards. Bills for electric. Bills for my mortgage. What can I do?
In Debt Up to My Eyeballs
Dear In Debt Up to My Eyeballs:
There are no Get Out of Jail Free cards in life. Find a way, pay your bills. Stop whining. If you didn’t have bills your probably wouldn’t have any mail at all. At least your know your loved (even if it is for your money!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Help! All I want to do it run away. I don’t like my life. I don’t like my wife. I don’t like my job. What do you suggest?
Lost
Dear Lost:
I suggest you go on vacation. After you see what it costs to “run away” you’ll appreciate everything you currently have. Plus, wives don’t grow on trees (even if you want to string them up on tress from time to time!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I quit smoking for a long time. Seven years to be exact. But then I had one at a party. And I started again. Even while I was quit, I was never one of those “Eww, the smell stinks,” type of people. But I live in Chicago. Now they have this stupid smoking ban in public places. It claims you can’t smoke within 15 feet of a public entrance. I work downtown. 15 feet is in the middle of the street. What do I do?
A Smoker
Dear A Smoker:
You got an itch and you scratched it. Not my fault. Yours! I’m a smoker, so I can say that! Now you must live with the consequences of scratching in public. Chicago is a frigging weird place. 15 feet is so arbitrary. What are you going to do take your tape measure out and make sure you’re not too close to the entrance? Or are they going to install smoke stations on the median lines of the street? How the hell is this dumb city ever going to enforce such a strange law? I’m not sure. But I don’t have to deal with it--you do! Good luck, sucker!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I heard a lyric “Blassad Fliggin” in 99 Luf Ballons, that German song. A friend said it meant “Blessed Friggin”. Is this true?
Perplexed
Dear Perplexed:
No! It means “Blasted Friggin.” It’s blasted because balloons make a sound like that when they pop. I can understand your friend’s confusion though since blessed would be like the air, heaven, etc. Now, would you like to buy the Brooklyn Bridge? I don’t know what the hell the lyrics of a damned German song mean! What kind of a stupid question is that to pose? I’m not German. I’m not a lyricist. Get an interpreter or get a life and stop worrying. It’s NOT like you can’t get the English lyrics, so leave me the hell alone you jerk!
Mr. Man-ners
Friday, January 20, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (21): Surfing the Net, Revirginized, Porn, Dreadlocks, Fetish, Breast Cancer, Sexual Abuse
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My husband of 10 year surfs porn all day and night. That's all he does, he doesn't even work. When he is finally finished, he gets into bed with me. He wants to fool around, but I have no desire to even touch him! YUCK!!! Now he's mad! Who is right?
Revirginized in the Virgin Islands
Dear Revirginized in the Virgin Islands:
What the hell are you talking about? You don’t get revirginized after 10 years (only MARY was able to pull off that miracle/myth/lie!). If you’re telling me you haven’t had sex with your husband for ten years and he puts up with that--you’re a frigging liar. If you’re telling me you stayed married to him for ten years and he doesn’t work to support the household--you’re a frigging liar. If you’re telling me he sleeps with these Internet bimbos while you’re out making money to pay the bills--well, whose the dumb one here? I’d say his plan is pretty smart. Remember the mouse plays while the pussy’s away--your hubby probably plays with the porn when you’re home so he doesn’t have to play with you at night. He‘s probably so tired from all he‘s ALREADY getting that he doesn’t want to touch you, since your pasture has gone to seed by now. What, are you dumber than a doornail--even dumber than you sound--is that even possible? Get a clue, he’s been playing you for years. Just remember: porn doesn’t break up marriages, porn stars do!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
There’s this one guy at work with these HUGE dreadlocks. I’m not kidding, they're humongous. I often wonder if he’s got blue birds or bees living in them. Sometimes, I must confess, I want to yank them like I’m milking a cow. I’m a guy. Is this a fetish?
Not a Farm Boy
Dear Not a Farm Boy:
You're not a farm boy, more like the manure! Is it a fetish--depends. Do these dreads look like the Empire State Building or the two US Capitol buildings? Meaning, do you like boys or girls? No matter! It’s just a boyhood thing where we liked to yank on girl's piggy tales (stallions ONLY have one tale! If you know what I mean.). Get over yourself and stop staring. Or pull his dreads and see if he’s into it. I don’t care. Just leave me alone, you fucking weirdo.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My wife’s mother had both breasts removed due to cancer. Now I don’t think this is funny. So PLEASE don’t make fun. But for some reason she always signs her cards from “The mother who lost her udders.” I’ve thought of addressing my cards to her to “The the other mother without udders.” Is this in bad taste? My wife thinks so.
Son-in-Law
Dear Son-in-Law:
You’re a son of something alright! Keep in mind that people who are ill, or black, or gay, or women (REMEMBER this part) can make jokes about themselves--but don’t like it when other people do). My suggestion is that you stop being udderly stupid. How long have you been married? What are you, an idiot? Learn from your mistakes as a husband, only women can joke about themselves. When men start doing it, it’s called sexual abuse. Not fair, but true!
Mr. Man-ners
My husband of 10 year surfs porn all day and night. That's all he does, he doesn't even work. When he is finally finished, he gets into bed with me. He wants to fool around, but I have no desire to even touch him! YUCK!!! Now he's mad! Who is right?
Revirginized in the Virgin Islands
Dear Revirginized in the Virgin Islands:
What the hell are you talking about? You don’t get revirginized after 10 years (only MARY was able to pull off that miracle/myth/lie!). If you’re telling me you haven’t had sex with your husband for ten years and he puts up with that--you’re a frigging liar. If you’re telling me you stayed married to him for ten years and he doesn’t work to support the household--you’re a frigging liar. If you’re telling me he sleeps with these Internet bimbos while you’re out making money to pay the bills--well, whose the dumb one here? I’d say his plan is pretty smart. Remember the mouse plays while the pussy’s away--your hubby probably plays with the porn when you’re home so he doesn’t have to play with you at night. He‘s probably so tired from all he‘s ALREADY getting that he doesn’t want to touch you, since your pasture has gone to seed by now. What, are you dumber than a doornail--even dumber than you sound--is that even possible? Get a clue, he’s been playing you for years. Just remember: porn doesn’t break up marriages, porn stars do!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
There’s this one guy at work with these HUGE dreadlocks. I’m not kidding, they're humongous. I often wonder if he’s got blue birds or bees living in them. Sometimes, I must confess, I want to yank them like I’m milking a cow. I’m a guy. Is this a fetish?
Not a Farm Boy
Dear Not a Farm Boy:
You're not a farm boy, more like the manure! Is it a fetish--depends. Do these dreads look like the Empire State Building or the two US Capitol buildings? Meaning, do you like boys or girls? No matter! It’s just a boyhood thing where we liked to yank on girl's piggy tales (stallions ONLY have one tale! If you know what I mean.). Get over yourself and stop staring. Or pull his dreads and see if he’s into it. I don’t care. Just leave me alone, you fucking weirdo.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My wife’s mother had both breasts removed due to cancer. Now I don’t think this is funny. So PLEASE don’t make fun. But for some reason she always signs her cards from “The mother who lost her udders.” I’ve thought of addressing my cards to her to “The the other mother without udders.” Is this in bad taste? My wife thinks so.
Son-in-Law
Dear Son-in-Law:
You’re a son of something alright! Keep in mind that people who are ill, or black, or gay, or women (REMEMBER this part) can make jokes about themselves--but don’t like it when other people do). My suggestion is that you stop being udderly stupid. How long have you been married? What are you, an idiot? Learn from your mistakes as a husband, only women can joke about themselves. When men start doing it, it’s called sexual abuse. Not fair, but true!
Mr. Man-ners
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (20): Love, God, Halle Berry, Holly Berry, Humans, Xmas Stockings, Sluts, Whores, Prostitutes, Marraige, Molestation
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Who wrote the book of love?
A Singer
Dear A Singer:
I don’t know. Was it God? Isn’t the Bible a book of love? Or was it some famous musician? The real question is: who wrote me such a lame ass question? You did!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Am I stupid or what? I never realized that Halle Berry’s name was supposed to be a reference to Holly Berry. Must be fun around Christmas.
Never Knew
Dear Never Knew:
I agree, you’re stupid. Yes, I’d say it’s fun around Christmas. I’d love that beautiful woman as a gift! Thank God, her parents didn’t name her Bittersweet Cherry. Cause she ain't.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Who are you and what planet do you come from?
A Human
Dear A Human:
I come from the planet of StickThisNewspaperUpYourButt. I’m tired of people thinking I’m not human—I am the most human human. I am the most human, God like, person you’ll ever meet. Though I doubt YOU will ever meet me, because I hate dumb people. And if you can’t tell I’m human—you‘re one of the dumbest!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My parents always give me an Xmas stocking. In the stocking is like seven pounds of chocolate and an apple and an orange. I can never eat all that candy so I end up throwing it out. And the fruit just rots. How do I tell them I don’t want all this stuff, without hurting their feelings?
A Good Son
Dear A Good Son:
You’re not a good son! Step up to the plate--be honest! You could feed half the children in the third world countries with that much chocolate! Suggest they make a donation instead.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I want a woman who takes control. I want her to order me around, make me brush here hair, clean the toilet. Am I strange?
Doesn’t Know
Dear Doesn’t Know:
I know--are you strange? YES! Believe it or not, you’re not alone. You should join the army! Or do what all the other strange, too old and ugly men do, hire a dominatrix! Just remember don’t ask, get told! Get over it wimp, you’re NOT that special!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How many sexual partners makes you a slut? Is there a difference between a slut, a whore and a prostitute?
Wanna Know
Dear Wanna Know:
Learn how to spell--it's "Want to"--"wanna" is so trailer trash! If you don’t know how many licks it takes to get to the middle, you’re not any of the above? But if you can’t count that high, you’re probably all the above. Actually, a prostitute takes money for his/her services--so EVERY married man/woman who takes gifts from their spouses are prostitutes. Hell, all humankind are prostitutes of one kind or another.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I was molested as a child. Now I’m desperately afraid of molesting children. What do you suggest?
Scared
Dear Scared:
I do NOT answer difficult questions. On top of that, how many times do I have to tell my intern assistant that I can NOT give mean advice to really sick people. If I paid that damned intern assistant anything I’d fire her, but I don’t, so I can’t. If you’re a prank writer, get screwed. Otherwise, my advice is to ask Dear Abby, she’s probably got sage advice for your kind of sickness.
Mr. Man-ners
Who wrote the book of love?
A Singer
Dear A Singer:
I don’t know. Was it God? Isn’t the Bible a book of love? Or was it some famous musician? The real question is: who wrote me such a lame ass question? You did!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Am I stupid or what? I never realized that Halle Berry’s name was supposed to be a reference to Holly Berry. Must be fun around Christmas.
Never Knew
Dear Never Knew:
I agree, you’re stupid. Yes, I’d say it’s fun around Christmas. I’d love that beautiful woman as a gift! Thank God, her parents didn’t name her Bittersweet Cherry. Cause she ain't.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Who are you and what planet do you come from?
A Human
Dear A Human:
I come from the planet of StickThisNewspaperUpYourButt. I’m tired of people thinking I’m not human—I am the most human human. I am the most human, God like, person you’ll ever meet. Though I doubt YOU will ever meet me, because I hate dumb people. And if you can’t tell I’m human—you‘re one of the dumbest!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My parents always give me an Xmas stocking. In the stocking is like seven pounds of chocolate and an apple and an orange. I can never eat all that candy so I end up throwing it out. And the fruit just rots. How do I tell them I don’t want all this stuff, without hurting their feelings?
A Good Son
Dear A Good Son:
You’re not a good son! Step up to the plate--be honest! You could feed half the children in the third world countries with that much chocolate! Suggest they make a donation instead.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I want a woman who takes control. I want her to order me around, make me brush here hair, clean the toilet. Am I strange?
Doesn’t Know
Dear Doesn’t Know:
I know--are you strange? YES! Believe it or not, you’re not alone. You should join the army! Or do what all the other strange, too old and ugly men do, hire a dominatrix! Just remember don’t ask, get told! Get over it wimp, you’re NOT that special!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How many sexual partners makes you a slut? Is there a difference between a slut, a whore and a prostitute?
Wanna Know
Dear Wanna Know:
Learn how to spell--it's "Want to"--"wanna" is so trailer trash! If you don’t know how many licks it takes to get to the middle, you’re not any of the above? But if you can’t count that high, you’re probably all the above. Actually, a prostitute takes money for his/her services--so EVERY married man/woman who takes gifts from their spouses are prostitutes. Hell, all humankind are prostitutes of one kind or another.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I was molested as a child. Now I’m desperately afraid of molesting children. What do you suggest?
Scared
Dear Scared:
I do NOT answer difficult questions. On top of that, how many times do I have to tell my intern assistant that I can NOT give mean advice to really sick people. If I paid that damned intern assistant anything I’d fire her, but I don’t, so I can’t. If you’re a prank writer, get screwed. Otherwise, my advice is to ask Dear Abby, she’s probably got sage advice for your kind of sickness.
Mr. Man-ners
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (19): God-Like, Sunglasses, Xmas, Spanish Music, Biggots, Appointments, Prosititutes, Sun, Visine, Sensitive Eyes, Ray Bans
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
If you’re a God like person, then you must be psychic. Where the hell did I put my sunglasses?
Wants to Believe
Dear Wants to Believe:
Believe this—your sunglasses are in a place you’d never expect. Up your ass! I’m not psychic—I’m just God “like” meaning if you don’t stop writing me with stupid questions I’ll send a plague down upon you—and the sun will block out your ability to see it—and you without your sunglasses! Damn. Start sticking something up your ass to find them—like a fist!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My girlfriend recently gave me a pair of speakers for my computer at Xmas. They seemed to work fine. Now, they work, but I also seem to somehow be tuned into a Spanish station. It would be cool if it was rock--but it's not. How do I fix this?
Perplexed
Dear Perplexed:
Why are you perplexed? Don't you like Spanish music? Do you mean to tell me you'd turn Jennifer Lopez away from your bed? Get real! Liar! You're just a bigot. How do you know that some ghost of some poor dead Spaniard (remember the Alamo?) isn't inhabiting your computer or it's speakers? I'm NOT technical assistance here--I don't know! Take it to best buy where they will charge you for an opinion--I'm fresh out of answers!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
If anyone (a hair dresser, doctor, lawyer, candlestick maker, ha!) makes you wait for an appointment--how long is appropriate before you storm off and charge them for wasting your time?
Stick It To Them
Dear Stick It To Them:
You sound like a doctor! Or a male prostitute! Depending on what you're sticking. Anyhow, I like your idea--if these busy professionals who threaten to charge you for missed appointment, are late for theirs--shouldn't there be some remuneration (okay, I know ONE big word--it means MONEY! dumbass). I like that idea. I say if you have to wait more than 15 minutes you have the right to make a huge stink (who cares about charging them if you can take away some business permanently--it's not about the reward--it's about the pain--that's reward in and of itself). Of course, you can only use this course of action if you're through with this service provider--otherwise, be a whimp and wait, like the rest of the turds.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I hate driving during the day. The sun gets in my eyes. It makes it hard to see. What can I do?
Sensitive Eyes
Dear Sensitive Eyes:
Get Visine of course! Other than that, I’d suggest you become a night-crawler instead of day-walker. You sound like a damned vampire. If you have a medical problem with your eyes--see a doctor. Otherwise, just buy a stupid pair of fake Ray Bans like the rest of us? Do you want me to wipe your ass too? Get a clue--if you only had a brain!
Mr. Man-ners
If you’re a God like person, then you must be psychic. Where the hell did I put my sunglasses?
Wants to Believe
Dear Wants to Believe:
Believe this—your sunglasses are in a place you’d never expect. Up your ass! I’m not psychic—I’m just God “like” meaning if you don’t stop writing me with stupid questions I’ll send a plague down upon you—and the sun will block out your ability to see it—and you without your sunglasses! Damn. Start sticking something up your ass to find them—like a fist!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My girlfriend recently gave me a pair of speakers for my computer at Xmas. They seemed to work fine. Now, they work, but I also seem to somehow be tuned into a Spanish station. It would be cool if it was rock--but it's not. How do I fix this?
Perplexed
Dear Perplexed:
Why are you perplexed? Don't you like Spanish music? Do you mean to tell me you'd turn Jennifer Lopez away from your bed? Get real! Liar! You're just a bigot. How do you know that some ghost of some poor dead Spaniard (remember the Alamo?) isn't inhabiting your computer or it's speakers? I'm NOT technical assistance here--I don't know! Take it to best buy where they will charge you for an opinion--I'm fresh out of answers!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
If anyone (a hair dresser, doctor, lawyer, candlestick maker, ha!) makes you wait for an appointment--how long is appropriate before you storm off and charge them for wasting your time?
Stick It To Them
Dear Stick It To Them:
You sound like a doctor! Or a male prostitute! Depending on what you're sticking. Anyhow, I like your idea--if these busy professionals who threaten to charge you for missed appointment, are late for theirs--shouldn't there be some remuneration (okay, I know ONE big word--it means MONEY! dumbass). I like that idea. I say if you have to wait more than 15 minutes you have the right to make a huge stink (who cares about charging them if you can take away some business permanently--it's not about the reward--it's about the pain--that's reward in and of itself). Of course, you can only use this course of action if you're through with this service provider--otherwise, be a whimp and wait, like the rest of the turds.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I hate driving during the day. The sun gets in my eyes. It makes it hard to see. What can I do?
Sensitive Eyes
Dear Sensitive Eyes:
Get Visine of course! Other than that, I’d suggest you become a night-crawler instead of day-walker. You sound like a damned vampire. If you have a medical problem with your eyes--see a doctor. Otherwise, just buy a stupid pair of fake Ray Bans like the rest of us? Do you want me to wipe your ass too? Get a clue--if you only had a brain!
Mr. Man-ners
Friday, January 13, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (18): Advice, God-Like, Quiting Your Job, Periods, Sarcasm, Junk Mail, Bills, Being Human, Misogynist, Lesbians, Artist, Pollution
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How can you give advice on everything?
Want to Know
Dear Want to Know:
Well, because I’m a God-like entity who is omniscient. How come YOU have time to ask me such stupid-ass questions? Get a life! Leave mine alone.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I wrote before and you told me to quit my job. Now the women in my office are worse. I decided to respond back to their negativity with the line “You‘re talking about periods, again? And me without my uterus.” Now they’re threatening to go to personnel and slap me with a sexual harassment charge. What now?
Sole Man
Dear Sole Man:
I guess you do have some soul. A man after my own sarcastic heart! My suggestion. Tape everything they say (use a wire) and threaten that if they go to management, you will also. This should give you enough of an edge to quit and find a new job (LIKE I SUGGESTED TO BEGIN WITH). As an aside, I’ll have to use that “And me without my uterus,” line. It’s a good one!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I just got my mail. How come every day, every month, every year, all I get are bills and junk mail?
Tired of Junk
Dear Tired of Junk:
So am I. In my mail--meaning your lame-ass letter! The reason you get junk and bills is because you are on a list--it’s called the human race! You idiot. What, were you expecting? A love letter from Halle Berry? Dream on! (no wet dreams for God’s sake.) Get real. Get a life. Get out of my hair! And my mail box!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Are you a misogynist?
A Woman
Dear A Woman:
No! I love women. I love the way they cook. I love the way they clean. I love the way they spread their legs for my hard throbbing cock!! I just don’t love the way they harp, gossip, or nag. So, I could never live with one. Been there, done that! Are you a sicko feminist lesbian who hates men? (before you answer, do you, or have you ever, owned a cat?). See--you ARE a lesbian! And I bet you have a toaster oven from your initiation (think Ellen Degeneres).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m an artist. I paint. I sculpt. I draw. So, one day while looking for a job, a prospective employer suggested I pollute my art. He said I could do graphic arts on the computer. It’s not that I couldn’t learn it, but how can I commercialize something that’s part of me?
Artist
Dear Artist:
You’re full of shit--I mean pollution! Art doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t keep you warm at night or keep the raindrops off your head or pay for those condoms you must use with your girlfriend. Get over yourself. Become a prostitute like the rest of us. Sell your wares and accept money for them. You’re not DaVinci! Sell your soul to make a living, like the rest of us schucks out here in the real world (unless your fantasy world pays the bills!).
Mr. Man-ners
How can you give advice on everything?
Want to Know
Dear Want to Know:
Well, because I’m a God-like entity who is omniscient. How come YOU have time to ask me such stupid-ass questions? Get a life! Leave mine alone.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I wrote before and you told me to quit my job. Now the women in my office are worse. I decided to respond back to their negativity with the line “You‘re talking about periods, again? And me without my uterus.” Now they’re threatening to go to personnel and slap me with a sexual harassment charge. What now?
Sole Man
Dear Sole Man:
I guess you do have some soul. A man after my own sarcastic heart! My suggestion. Tape everything they say (use a wire) and threaten that if they go to management, you will also. This should give you enough of an edge to quit and find a new job (LIKE I SUGGESTED TO BEGIN WITH). As an aside, I’ll have to use that “And me without my uterus,” line. It’s a good one!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I just got my mail. How come every day, every month, every year, all I get are bills and junk mail?
Tired of Junk
Dear Tired of Junk:
So am I. In my mail--meaning your lame-ass letter! The reason you get junk and bills is because you are on a list--it’s called the human race! You idiot. What, were you expecting? A love letter from Halle Berry? Dream on! (no wet dreams for God’s sake.) Get real. Get a life. Get out of my hair! And my mail box!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Are you a misogynist?
A Woman
Dear A Woman:
No! I love women. I love the way they cook. I love the way they clean. I love the way they spread their legs for my hard throbbing cock!! I just don’t love the way they harp, gossip, or nag. So, I could never live with one. Been there, done that! Are you a sicko feminist lesbian who hates men? (before you answer, do you, or have you ever, owned a cat?). See--you ARE a lesbian! And I bet you have a toaster oven from your initiation (think Ellen Degeneres).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m an artist. I paint. I sculpt. I draw. So, one day while looking for a job, a prospective employer suggested I pollute my art. He said I could do graphic arts on the computer. It’s not that I couldn’t learn it, but how can I commercialize something that’s part of me?
Artist
Dear Artist:
You’re full of shit--I mean pollution! Art doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t keep you warm at night or keep the raindrops off your head or pay for those condoms you must use with your girlfriend. Get over yourself. Become a prostitute like the rest of us. Sell your wares and accept money for them. You’re not DaVinci! Sell your soul to make a living, like the rest of us schucks out here in the real world (unless your fantasy world pays the bills!).
Mr. Man-ners
- Two short horror stories of mine will be published in
anthologies in February/March 2006. One is a cowritten piece in
DeathGrip: Exit Laughing (hellboundbooks.com/dgrip4.html) and the second
is in Twisted Cat Tales (store.yahoo.com/shocklines/bnewadtoador.html).
PREORDER these books today!
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (17): Man Bashing Day, Sole Man, Going Postal, Hairy, Lesbians, Jobs, Advice, God-Like, Wives, Nuts, Strangers
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I didn’t realize it, but I missed a holiday. It’s Man Bashing Day. At least, that’s what my coworkers (all female) want me to believe. Some days are better than others, but today, they just went off on men. Sometimes they do this. I hate it. How can I get them to stop?
Sole Man
Dear Sole Man:
“I’m a sole man.” I just couldn’t help quote that song! Okay, I’ve worked in places like this before. So, what did I do? I quit! That’s about your only choice. Women “will laugh when they cut you” to quote another song. The only way to stop them Mr. Wimp (if you insist upon staying there as an employee you‘re a dumbass wimp) is by going postal on them! And with some women, they still won’t shut up.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My girlfriend is so picky. She thinks I should shave my underarms and my nose hair and my ear hairs. I refuse. She says I’m just being stubborn. What do you say?
Hairy & Proud
Dear Hairy & Proud:
I say if your girlfriend wanted a hairless man she should be a lesbian! Don’t do it. Next she’ll want you to stop farting and burping. Be a man--just say “no”!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My coworkers gossip all the time. I hate it. What should I do?
Let’s Just Work
Dear Let’s Just Work:
It depends on your corporate environment. I never thought I’d be spewing crap like that, but if the crap fits--it fits. If gossip is how everyone finds out what’s going on in the company--perhaps you should work elsewhere. Or you could just refuse to do it. But, if my guess is correct, you work with women. And women love to gossip. I say refuse to do what is uncomfortable for you--and if this doesn’t work--go to the boss. If the boss is the biggest culprit--get a new job.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How can you give advice on everything?
Want to Know
Dear Want to Know:
Well, because I’m a God-like entity who is omniscient. How come YOU have time to ask me such stupid ass questions? Get a life! Leave mine alone.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My wife complains all the time. I don’t do this. I don’t do that. She’s always complaining I’m a slob. I’ve suggested we get a maid, but she can’t stand the idea of a stranger coming into our house.
Need a Clue
Dear Need a Clue:
Your wife is nuts! Explain to her that you were once a stranger. Plus, all her nagging is not making you work harder or smarter, it’s just making you look outside the marriage for a woman who doesn’t nag. By the way, this type of women does NOT exist. But she doesn’t know that (all women are too afraid of losing what they have to think this one through!). I say, tell her you’re getting a maid--and that you’ll install a nanny-cam so that you can watch this maid and make sure she’s not trying on any of your wife’s intimates (that’s got to be the reason, what else could there be?). Once she sees you’re doing it anyhow, she will go along. What else can she do? Just don’t let her make you clean before the stranger shows up. This is stranger than a stranger cleaning your house (but it’s most women’s modus operandi!).
Mr. Man-ners
I didn’t realize it, but I missed a holiday. It’s Man Bashing Day. At least, that’s what my coworkers (all female) want me to believe. Some days are better than others, but today, they just went off on men. Sometimes they do this. I hate it. How can I get them to stop?
Sole Man
Dear Sole Man:
“I’m a sole man.” I just couldn’t help quote that song! Okay, I’ve worked in places like this before. So, what did I do? I quit! That’s about your only choice. Women “will laugh when they cut you” to quote another song. The only way to stop them Mr. Wimp (if you insist upon staying there as an employee you‘re a dumbass wimp) is by going postal on them! And with some women, they still won’t shut up.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My girlfriend is so picky. She thinks I should shave my underarms and my nose hair and my ear hairs. I refuse. She says I’m just being stubborn. What do you say?
Hairy & Proud
Dear Hairy & Proud:
I say if your girlfriend wanted a hairless man she should be a lesbian! Don’t do it. Next she’ll want you to stop farting and burping. Be a man--just say “no”!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My coworkers gossip all the time. I hate it. What should I do?
Let’s Just Work
Dear Let’s Just Work:
It depends on your corporate environment. I never thought I’d be spewing crap like that, but if the crap fits--it fits. If gossip is how everyone finds out what’s going on in the company--perhaps you should work elsewhere. Or you could just refuse to do it. But, if my guess is correct, you work with women. And women love to gossip. I say refuse to do what is uncomfortable for you--and if this doesn’t work--go to the boss. If the boss is the biggest culprit--get a new job.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How can you give advice on everything?
Want to Know
Dear Want to Know:
Well, because I’m a God-like entity who is omniscient. How come YOU have time to ask me such stupid ass questions? Get a life! Leave mine alone.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My wife complains all the time. I don’t do this. I don’t do that. She’s always complaining I’m a slob. I’ve suggested we get a maid, but she can’t stand the idea of a stranger coming into our house.
Need a Clue
Dear Need a Clue:
Your wife is nuts! Explain to her that you were once a stranger. Plus, all her nagging is not making you work harder or smarter, it’s just making you look outside the marriage for a woman who doesn’t nag. By the way, this type of women does NOT exist. But she doesn’t know that (all women are too afraid of losing what they have to think this one through!). I say, tell her you’re getting a maid--and that you’ll install a nanny-cam so that you can watch this maid and make sure she’s not trying on any of your wife’s intimates (that’s got to be the reason, what else could there be?). Once she sees you’re doing it anyhow, she will go along. What else can she do? Just don’t let her make you clean before the stranger shows up. This is stranger than a stranger cleaning your house (but it’s most women’s modus operandi!).
Mr. Man-ners
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (16): Shoppers, Clothes, Addicts, Fiance', Toenail Clipping, June Cleaver, Psychics
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m a shopper. When I see something I want, I buy it. My real passion is clothes. I’ve have more Prada than the original designer owns. One day, my fiancé’ noticed I bought some more silk sheets (they were so beautiful) and she screamed at me. Well, actually she screamed at me after she saw all the unopened silk sheet sets I had in my linen closet. She said I had a problem. Do you think I have a problem?
Designer Addict
Dear Designer Addict:
Yes. You have a problem. You’re gay! At least it sounds that way to me. While that’s not the problem you’re referring to, it might be a problem for your fiancé. You are a shop-aholic. They have support groups for this addiction--they’re called Credit Card Cutups. Actually, there is no such thing--but there should be! Especially with all the bankruptcies we have in the great USA. Do yourself a favor--buy yourself one good shrink (once you start getting your head shrunk your doctor will never let you go). Plus, well you know what happens once something shrinks, it never really fit’s the same way again--just don’t go shopping for a new head and fall off the wagon (a new head might not help anyway). Do what everyone else with an addiction (clothing, credit cards, alcohol, narcotics, a person, psychoanalysis) does--Deal with it! What an idiot!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My fiancé wants me to do everything. I wash his clothes, make his dinner, darn his socks. Soon, I’m afraid, he’ll even want me to bathe and burp him. He already has me clipping his toenails (he even gave me a gold plated pair of clippers for our anniversary). Do you have any suggestions?
Not June Cleaver
Dear Not June Cleaver:
What is it with all these engaged people? Don’t people just live together in sin anymore! I hope so. My answer to you is that you are INDEED June Cleaver. Your fiancé is obviously a taker. You’re a giver. Not necessarily a bad thing--just the way it is. Still, it sounds like your kissing his ass (are you vying for his forgiveness for some reason?). Soon, you will be wiping his ass. Unless you want to be a mother before you're pregnant, GET THE HELL OUT! While, the getting is good. Don’t waste anymore time with this looser (imagine a letter L made with my middle finger and thumb). If, however, you desire (or need, as in a fetish) to clip a man’s toenails, I’m available--and mine are really long! Hint, hint, wink, wink.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:What do you think of psychic abilities? Are they real?
Unsure
Dear Unsure:
If you’re don‘t know, you sure aren’t psychic! I say believe what you want to believe. We all do. We all want to believe in life after death (because we NEVER finish what we start in life). What is real? My reality is your fantasy! I know, I know, I am a God and everyone wants to be me. Screw off! It’s my party and I’ll lie if I want to.
Mr. Man-ners
I’m a shopper. When I see something I want, I buy it. My real passion is clothes. I’ve have more Prada than the original designer owns. One day, my fiancé’ noticed I bought some more silk sheets (they were so beautiful) and she screamed at me. Well, actually she screamed at me after she saw all the unopened silk sheet sets I had in my linen closet. She said I had a problem. Do you think I have a problem?
Designer Addict
Dear Designer Addict:
Yes. You have a problem. You’re gay! At least it sounds that way to me. While that’s not the problem you’re referring to, it might be a problem for your fiancé. You are a shop-aholic. They have support groups for this addiction--they’re called Credit Card Cutups. Actually, there is no such thing--but there should be! Especially with all the bankruptcies we have in the great USA. Do yourself a favor--buy yourself one good shrink (once you start getting your head shrunk your doctor will never let you go). Plus, well you know what happens once something shrinks, it never really fit’s the same way again--just don’t go shopping for a new head and fall off the wagon (a new head might not help anyway). Do what everyone else with an addiction (clothing, credit cards, alcohol, narcotics, a person, psychoanalysis) does--Deal with it! What an idiot!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My fiancé wants me to do everything. I wash his clothes, make his dinner, darn his socks. Soon, I’m afraid, he’ll even want me to bathe and burp him. He already has me clipping his toenails (he even gave me a gold plated pair of clippers for our anniversary). Do you have any suggestions?
Not June Cleaver
Dear Not June Cleaver:
What is it with all these engaged people? Don’t people just live together in sin anymore! I hope so. My answer to you is that you are INDEED June Cleaver. Your fiancé is obviously a taker. You’re a giver. Not necessarily a bad thing--just the way it is. Still, it sounds like your kissing his ass (are you vying for his forgiveness for some reason?). Soon, you will be wiping his ass. Unless you want to be a mother before you're pregnant, GET THE HELL OUT! While, the getting is good. Don’t waste anymore time with this looser (imagine a letter L made with my middle finger and thumb). If, however, you desire (or need, as in a fetish) to clip a man’s toenails, I’m available--and mine are really long! Hint, hint, wink, wink.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:What do you think of psychic abilities? Are they real?
Unsure
Dear Unsure:
If you’re don‘t know, you sure aren’t psychic! I say believe what you want to believe. We all do. We all want to believe in life after death (because we NEVER finish what we start in life). What is real? My reality is your fantasy! I know, I know, I am a God and everyone wants to be me. Screw off! It’s my party and I’ll lie if I want to.
Mr. Man-ners
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (15): Sex & Whores, Going Postal, Ungay Gay Men, Turds, Barebacking & Horsewhips
Dear Mr. Man-whore:
Every time you write something it has some sexual reference. Do you like whores? Do you love whores? Or are you just a big whore?
Curious Real Man
Dear Curious Real Man:
It takes one to know you. Am I speaking of the man or the whore? Learn how to spell--it’s Man-ners. Something you don’t have any of! You know and I know that all we men ever think about is sex. So, if we could, we would be whores. As it is, all you can ever be is a bastard to your whore mother. Stop writing me or I'll send my reader “Disgruntled (POSTAL) Employee” to deliver a Uni-bomber type gift toyou!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I agree with your previous movie reviews. I haven’t agreed with anyone in a long time. So, I’m asking, really begging, for your opinion. My boyfriend (okay, so I’m gay, but I’m a VERY ungay gay man, I should be called the “unstraight”--I mean how many gay men can’t cook, clean, vogue or decorate?) asked me to go with him to see Brokeback mountain. I thought he said “bareback” mountain. I figured it was some kind of porno, you know. But it wasn’t. It was about two gay (or bi, who knows?) guys who find they love each other in 1963 and can’t be together. So, even after I found out it wasn’t a porno (yes, I’ll admit it, I was disappointed) I agreed to see it. I had my fears. But amazingly, the crowd (and there was one, which pleased me) were not bigots. Still, this movies has gotten all these awards and I just don’t understand why. Not that the love story wasn’t poignant. It was. But the movie felt too long. And some parts didn’t feel like they held together too well (what’s the likelihood a small town woman is going to be okay with her son’s lover coming into her house?). My boyfriend and I had a few fights over this. He claims, if I don’t understand why the movie was so good, then we’re over. What should I do?
No Potshots Please
Dear No Potshots Please:
Just reading your letter broke my…back! Not my heart. Your boyfriend is a turd. I am NOT a movie critic. And I did NOT see this movie. But everyone has the right to an opinion--why do you think there are so many asshole critics? If your not understanding this movie made him that upset and angry, HE has a problem. And NEVER mention that word barebacking in my column again---otherwise I’ll have to horsewhip you (you were talking about riding a horse without a saddle weren’t you?)!
Mr. Man-ners
Every time you write something it has some sexual reference. Do you like whores? Do you love whores? Or are you just a big whore?
Curious Real Man
Dear Curious Real Man:
It takes one to know you. Am I speaking of the man or the whore? Learn how to spell--it’s Man-ners. Something you don’t have any of! You know and I know that all we men ever think about is sex. So, if we could, we would be whores. As it is, all you can ever be is a bastard to your whore mother. Stop writing me or I'll send my reader “Disgruntled (POSTAL) Employee” to deliver a Uni-bomber type gift toyou!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I agree with your previous movie reviews. I haven’t agreed with anyone in a long time. So, I’m asking, really begging, for your opinion. My boyfriend (okay, so I’m gay, but I’m a VERY ungay gay man, I should be called the “unstraight”--I mean how many gay men can’t cook, clean, vogue or decorate?) asked me to go with him to see Brokeback mountain. I thought he said “bareback” mountain. I figured it was some kind of porno, you know. But it wasn’t. It was about two gay (or bi, who knows?) guys who find they love each other in 1963 and can’t be together. So, even after I found out it wasn’t a porno (yes, I’ll admit it, I was disappointed) I agreed to see it. I had my fears. But amazingly, the crowd (and there was one, which pleased me) were not bigots. Still, this movies has gotten all these awards and I just don’t understand why. Not that the love story wasn’t poignant. It was. But the movie felt too long. And some parts didn’t feel like they held together too well (what’s the likelihood a small town woman is going to be okay with her son’s lover coming into her house?). My boyfriend and I had a few fights over this. He claims, if I don’t understand why the movie was so good, then we’re over. What should I do?
No Potshots Please
Dear No Potshots Please:
Just reading your letter broke my…back! Not my heart. Your boyfriend is a turd. I am NOT a movie critic. And I did NOT see this movie. But everyone has the right to an opinion--why do you think there are so many asshole critics? If your not understanding this movie made him that upset and angry, HE has a problem. And NEVER mention that word barebacking in my column again---otherwise I’ll have to horsewhip you (you were talking about riding a horse without a saddle weren’t you?)!
Mr. Man-ners
Monday, January 09, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (14): Fun with Dick and Jane, Enron, God, Charmed, Job Burnout, Quitting
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
What do you think of the movie Fun with Dick and Jane with Jim Carrey? Have you seen it?
Curious Jorge
Dear Curious Jorge:
You're not very original with your moniker! I am NOT, I say NOT a movie critic. Okay, so I have an opinion--but so do all the asshole critics. Let me say--if you don't want to know the plot of this movie--do NOT read any further. Firstly, I would not have seen this movie if it weren't for some kind of weird (albeit profitable for me) glitch at the movie theatre. Thank you Loews--you were more than generous giving me my money back, a free pass to the next movie and allowing me to watch this movie. So, I did see it. And I must admit--the premise fits. A well-to-do newbie VP loses his job and decides to go into crime to support his lifestyle (sounds like most of the profitable politicians I've heard of). Plus, the VP (Carrey) decides to screw over the bosses who raped the company and took all the employees pensions away--I can't tell you if it works or not--but the movie does. Plus, there's a shot at Enron in it--so I liked it.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Who do you think you are giving out movie advice and personal advice in one column?
Dumbfounded
Dear Dumbfounded:
I know you’re dumb, but I bet you haven't figured that out yet. Who do I think I am? God! Get over it DF.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Did you see that Charmed last night—it was awesome.
Thought You’d Want to Know
Dear Thought You’d Want to Know:
I didn’t. I don’t. I was reading your damned letter, you DF! (different context, different meaning)
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m so sick of my job it’s ridiculous. The boss is bossy and the company is only out to make a buck. They don’t even care about their employees. Are all companies like this?
Disgruntled Employee
Dear Disgruntled Employee:
Please don’t go postal. You must work for USPS as the envelope this arrived in had a 37 cent stamp and a 39 cent stamp (this extra money SHOULD go towards on-site psycho-pharmaceutical drugs) is now required! Who cares if you’re sick of your job. How many people do you know who truly love their jobs? How many people are suited for their jobs (definitely not our daft president--who needs to go back to school for English 101). How many companies do you know who truly care about their employees? Name one and I’ll name six that bankrupted their pension funds so all the executives could take their lucrative bankrupt-the-company bonuses! Life is what you make it. You hate your job. Quit. Keep in mind, a company must make money to stay in business. Otherwise, how would those executives get their much deserved annual bonuses the size of some countries adjusted gross income. You want someone who cares, hire a prostitute. At least he/she cares until they get their money.
Mr. Man-ners
What do you think of the movie Fun with Dick and Jane with Jim Carrey? Have you seen it?
Curious Jorge
Dear Curious Jorge:
You're not very original with your moniker! I am NOT, I say NOT a movie critic. Okay, so I have an opinion--but so do all the asshole critics. Let me say--if you don't want to know the plot of this movie--do NOT read any further. Firstly, I would not have seen this movie if it weren't for some kind of weird (albeit profitable for me) glitch at the movie theatre. Thank you Loews--you were more than generous giving me my money back, a free pass to the next movie and allowing me to watch this movie. So, I did see it. And I must admit--the premise fits. A well-to-do newbie VP loses his job and decides to go into crime to support his lifestyle (sounds like most of the profitable politicians I've heard of). Plus, the VP (Carrey) decides to screw over the bosses who raped the company and took all the employees pensions away--I can't tell you if it works or not--but the movie does. Plus, there's a shot at Enron in it--so I liked it.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Who do you think you are giving out movie advice and personal advice in one column?
Dumbfounded
Dear Dumbfounded:
I know you’re dumb, but I bet you haven't figured that out yet. Who do I think I am? God! Get over it DF.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Did you see that Charmed last night—it was awesome.
Thought You’d Want to Know
Dear Thought You’d Want to Know:
I didn’t. I don’t. I was reading your damned letter, you DF! (different context, different meaning)
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m so sick of my job it’s ridiculous. The boss is bossy and the company is only out to make a buck. They don’t even care about their employees. Are all companies like this?
Disgruntled Employee
Dear Disgruntled Employee:
Please don’t go postal. You must work for USPS as the envelope this arrived in had a 37 cent stamp and a 39 cent stamp (this extra money SHOULD go towards on-site psycho-pharmaceutical drugs) is now required! Who cares if you’re sick of your job. How many people do you know who truly love their jobs? How many people are suited for their jobs (definitely not our daft president--who needs to go back to school for English 101). How many companies do you know who truly care about their employees? Name one and I’ll name six that bankrupted their pension funds so all the executives could take their lucrative bankrupt-the-company bonuses! Life is what you make it. You hate your job. Quit. Keep in mind, a company must make money to stay in business. Otherwise, how would those executives get their much deserved annual bonuses the size of some countries adjusted gross income. You want someone who cares, hire a prostitute. At least he/she cares until they get their money.
Mr. Man-ners
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (13): Dead Dads, Lost, DJ, Breast, Marilyn Monroe, Pat Robertson, Ariel Sharon, Devil, Israel, Nielson, ER, Hostel, Rick Steeves, Qentin
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
My dad recently died and I’m lost without him. He was my strength, my hope, my light. How do I go on?
Lost
Dear Lost:
Get lost (on some remote, time-deficient island!). Oops, sorry, you already are. It's called life. We all have to deal with tragedy in one form or another. Think 12 miners died and 1 survived (this after the families were told 13 survived). Now that’s a tragedy of mammoth proportion. You didn’t say much about your father, but it sounds like he gave you lots of memories. Cherish those—and stop whining—at least you had a Dad who was worth having (some children have abusive fathers they have to kill to get away from!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I was listening to a talk show and some DJ was guessing women’s breast sizes? What do you make of that?
Not a Caller
Dear Not a Caller:
It’s called the sexing down of America. It all started with Marilyn Monroe and her push-up bras. I’m just grateful it was just breasts. There would be a problem if they were guessing penis sizes.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
What do you make of that comment that Pat Robertson said that Ariel Sharon had his strokes because he was in league with the devil—or some such thing?
News Watcher
Dear News Watcher:
I heard the comment. It’s Pat’s way of indicating his own allegiance—to the devil! How can he be so callous? I thought Christians were supposed to have a forgiving heart? Isn’t that why Tammy Faye went back to her husband so many years ago (NOT! It was the money for all her makeup). I say let Pat preach in Israel and let’s see if he gets out alive!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Did you watch that TV lineup on Thursday night in Chicago. It’s all comedies?
A Nielson Watcher
Dear A Nielson Watcher:
Don’t you have anything better to do? I do! I was reading a book (still it was cool how Earl found out his brother actually started that barn fire). I was checking my email (still it was sad how difficult it was for Abby to decide to keep the baby on ER). I was paying my bills (still it was weird that The Office was on some kind of boat). Get a life! Watch television in between all the other things you have to do—just like I do!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I went to see Hostel this weekend. What a letdown! I expected to see what it's like to stay in hostels in Europe and get almost a travelogue. The first half was like a slasher movie and the second half was like a revenge flick. Are my standards too high?
Disappointed Fan
Dear Disappointed Fan:
The answer is, Yes your standards are too high! If you want to get a travelogue--watch Rick Steeves! Okay, so I admit--the film doesn't hold together too well. But don't you just love all that sex, nudity and violence? If only there was a plot. But, hey, this was a Quentin Tarrantino movie--did you expect there to be one? Did you really expect a romance? Get real.
Mr. Man-ners
My dad recently died and I’m lost without him. He was my strength, my hope, my light. How do I go on?
Lost
Dear Lost:
Get lost (on some remote, time-deficient island!). Oops, sorry, you already are. It's called life. We all have to deal with tragedy in one form or another. Think 12 miners died and 1 survived (this after the families were told 13 survived). Now that’s a tragedy of mammoth proportion. You didn’t say much about your father, but it sounds like he gave you lots of memories. Cherish those—and stop whining—at least you had a Dad who was worth having (some children have abusive fathers they have to kill to get away from!).
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I was listening to a talk show and some DJ was guessing women’s breast sizes? What do you make of that?
Not a Caller
Dear Not a Caller:
It’s called the sexing down of America. It all started with Marilyn Monroe and her push-up bras. I’m just grateful it was just breasts. There would be a problem if they were guessing penis sizes.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
What do you make of that comment that Pat Robertson said that Ariel Sharon had his strokes because he was in league with the devil—or some such thing?
News Watcher
Dear News Watcher:
I heard the comment. It’s Pat’s way of indicating his own allegiance—to the devil! How can he be so callous? I thought Christians were supposed to have a forgiving heart? Isn’t that why Tammy Faye went back to her husband so many years ago (NOT! It was the money for all her makeup). I say let Pat preach in Israel and let’s see if he gets out alive!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Did you watch that TV lineup on Thursday night in Chicago. It’s all comedies?
A Nielson Watcher
Dear A Nielson Watcher:
Don’t you have anything better to do? I do! I was reading a book (still it was cool how Earl found out his brother actually started that barn fire). I was checking my email (still it was sad how difficult it was for Abby to decide to keep the baby on ER). I was paying my bills (still it was weird that The Office was on some kind of boat). Get a life! Watch television in between all the other things you have to do—just like I do!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I went to see Hostel this weekend. What a letdown! I expected to see what it's like to stay in hostels in Europe and get almost a travelogue. The first half was like a slasher movie and the second half was like a revenge flick. Are my standards too high?
Disappointed Fan
Dear Disappointed Fan:
The answer is, Yes your standards are too high! If you want to get a travelogue--watch Rick Steeves! Okay, so I admit--the film doesn't hold together too well. But don't you just love all that sex, nudity and violence? If only there was a plot. But, hey, this was a Quentin Tarrantino movie--did you expect there to be one? Did you really expect a romance? Get real.
Mr. Man-ners
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (12): Goals, Human Race, Smell the Flowers, GERD, Drugs, Crap, God, NRA, Oprah, Life Sucks, Cinnamon Rolls, Doughnuts, Stupid
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Life hasn’t taken me where I wanted it to. I was supposed to be so much further along with my goals. I’m depressed. What should I do about it?
Down & Out
Dear Down & Out:
Join the proverbial club. It’s called the human race! Not many of us actually get to where we want in life, excluding the mega stars. And they’re so unhappy with where life put them that they do mega drugs! You might also be suffering from SAD (seasonal affective disorder). Get outside more. Smell the flowers (even if it’s just in the flower shop!). This might help—but stop your bitching about life—not many of us are where we “expected” to be. If so, I’d be God.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m on drugs for my GERD. I’m on drugs for my high blood pressure. I’m on drugs to quit smoking. I’m on drugs. Does this mean I’m a drug addict?
Doctors Made Me Do It.
Dear Doctors Made Me Do It:
What a load of crap! Doctors didn’t make you eat poorly, live an unhealthy lifestyle and start smoking. Life did! I say if you’re a drug addict, well then at least 50% of the world is. So what? If you’re not hurting anyone (and if you weren’t on drugs you’d likely have a coronary while driving and kill some innocent people), who cares? Drugs don’t kill people, it’s people who aren’t on drugs who kill people! (I’m taking my lead here from the NRA.)
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Why do you seem to know everything about everything? Yet you don’t say anything about anything?
Annoyed
Dear Annoyed:
Because I’m famous. Ask Oprah, she knows everything about everything also. Okay, so I could be a politician with all I have to say about nothing. So what? I get paid to tell people what to think—and they do as I say (see I’m ALMOST God—at least in my mind). Can you say the same? I think not! Get a life and leave mine alone.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Work sucks. Life sucks. Everything sucks.
Needed to Get That off My Chest
Dear Needed to Get That Off My Chest:
Are you an idiot? There is no swearing in my column, unless I do it, you asshole. Sucking isn’t so bad. Ask any high-priced whore. It only gets bad when you have to swallow!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How do you always have an answer for everything? I mean, I can hardly make a decision about whether to eat a cinnamon roll or a doughnut.
Confused About Life
Dear Confused About Life:
Think of it this way. You’re stupid—I’m not! It’s easy to give people advice, it’s not as easy to follow it. I’ve got some great advice for you: Shove the chocolate doughnut in your mouth and the cinnamon roll up your ass. Life is NOT that hard! It’s worrying about the decisions that’s hard, not the actual decisions themselves.
Mr. Man-ners
Life hasn’t taken me where I wanted it to. I was supposed to be so much further along with my goals. I’m depressed. What should I do about it?
Down & Out
Dear Down & Out:
Join the proverbial club. It’s called the human race! Not many of us actually get to where we want in life, excluding the mega stars. And they’re so unhappy with where life put them that they do mega drugs! You might also be suffering from SAD (seasonal affective disorder). Get outside more. Smell the flowers (even if it’s just in the flower shop!). This might help—but stop your bitching about life—not many of us are where we “expected” to be. If so, I’d be God.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m on drugs for my GERD. I’m on drugs for my high blood pressure. I’m on drugs to quit smoking. I’m on drugs. Does this mean I’m a drug addict?
Doctors Made Me Do It.
Dear Doctors Made Me Do It:
What a load of crap! Doctors didn’t make you eat poorly, live an unhealthy lifestyle and start smoking. Life did! I say if you’re a drug addict, well then at least 50% of the world is. So what? If you’re not hurting anyone (and if you weren’t on drugs you’d likely have a coronary while driving and kill some innocent people), who cares? Drugs don’t kill people, it’s people who aren’t on drugs who kill people! (I’m taking my lead here from the NRA.)
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Why do you seem to know everything about everything? Yet you don’t say anything about anything?
Annoyed
Dear Annoyed:
Because I’m famous. Ask Oprah, she knows everything about everything also. Okay, so I could be a politician with all I have to say about nothing. So what? I get paid to tell people what to think—and they do as I say (see I’m ALMOST God—at least in my mind). Can you say the same? I think not! Get a life and leave mine alone.
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Work sucks. Life sucks. Everything sucks.
Needed to Get That off My Chest
Dear Needed to Get That Off My Chest:
Are you an idiot? There is no swearing in my column, unless I do it, you asshole. Sucking isn’t so bad. Ask any high-priced whore. It only gets bad when you have to swallow!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How do you always have an answer for everything? I mean, I can hardly make a decision about whether to eat a cinnamon roll or a doughnut.
Confused About Life
Dear Confused About Life:
Think of it this way. You’re stupid—I’m not! It’s easy to give people advice, it’s not as easy to follow it. I’ve got some great advice for you: Shove the chocolate doughnut in your mouth and the cinnamon roll up your ass. Life is NOT that hard! It’s worrying about the decisions that’s hard, not the actual decisions themselves.
Mr. Man-ners
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Mr. Man-ners (11): Smokers, Discrimination, Racial Bias, Breasts, HeatersQuestions, Recession, Employees, Hot Dogs, French Fries, Dull Life, Spit
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’m a smoker. I feel like smokers get treated worse than black people used to get treated before civil rights. They take all our rights away. It’s an addiction. Doesn’t everyone know that? It’s like being an alcoholic without all the weird mood swings!
Discriminated Against Smoker
Dear Discriminated Against Smoker:
It’s NOT at all like when black people used to have to deal with racial bias. Has anyone ever tied a noose around your neck for smoking (I’m talking literally here, NOT figuratively!). Are you an idiot or what? I’ll give you this, it’s getting to a point where society does tend to pick on smokers. Okay, I’m a smoker too, but I felt this way even when I was “recovering” (because like an alcoholic you never truly are “former”). I have felt that society (especially big business and government) tend to discriminate. While we smokers keep getting more and more taxes imposed upon us (this money goes to help EVERYONE, not just smokers) we also keep getting our rights taken away (for instance smoking in bars in Illinois will soon be illegal). A woman can breastfeed and expose her breast in a bar, but I can’t smoke? What’s wrong with that? I say if she can expose her breast, and I can’t smoke, I’ll use her nipple to reduce my oral cravings! Sound good to you? It does to me!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’ve worked for my current company for years. They used to have a great outdoor space and provide heaters so employees could sit outdoors during the winter and get some fresh air. But after they moved (they don’t own the building anymore) they don’t give us anything anymore.
Why?
Dear Why?
Why are you asking such a dumbass question? Are you stupid or something? Or is it your ass talking? This is a recession! Right now companies have all the power. But in a few years the workers will once again rise into power. If they don’t, I suggest we all perform a coup d’état (meaning we throw all the pigeons we call politicians out of their nesting places!) and TAKE the power back. The point is that companies feel they can do anything they want to employees, such as taking away benefits, or making them pay more for the same benefits, or not providing the same humanity they once did. But this too shall change. I say stop your bitching or get a new job (if you can! But I doubt it with your attitude). Don’t get me wrong, I hate how big companies are treating employees--I just hate whiners more!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I ate two hot dogs and French fries for lunch today. What did you have?
Full
Dear Full:
You’re full of something and it isn’t food. You must really lead a dull life if you want to know what I ate today. To think ,you wasted a good piece of paper, stamp, envelope and ink to ask me that question. Are you lonely? If so, get a pet--preferably a deadly spider! Unless, of course, you’re talking about some man’s hot dog! If that’s the case--spit it out! He needs it back to pee! And if "hot dog" was a euphemism what body part are the French fries?
Mr. Man-ners
I’m a smoker. I feel like smokers get treated worse than black people used to get treated before civil rights. They take all our rights away. It’s an addiction. Doesn’t everyone know that? It’s like being an alcoholic without all the weird mood swings!
Discriminated Against Smoker
Dear Discriminated Against Smoker:
It’s NOT at all like when black people used to have to deal with racial bias. Has anyone ever tied a noose around your neck for smoking (I’m talking literally here, NOT figuratively!). Are you an idiot or what? I’ll give you this, it’s getting to a point where society does tend to pick on smokers. Okay, I’m a smoker too, but I felt this way even when I was “recovering” (because like an alcoholic you never truly are “former”). I have felt that society (especially big business and government) tend to discriminate. While we smokers keep getting more and more taxes imposed upon us (this money goes to help EVERYONE, not just smokers) we also keep getting our rights taken away (for instance smoking in bars in Illinois will soon be illegal). A woman can breastfeed and expose her breast in a bar, but I can’t smoke? What’s wrong with that? I say if she can expose her breast, and I can’t smoke, I’ll use her nipple to reduce my oral cravings! Sound good to you? It does to me!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I’ve worked for my current company for years. They used to have a great outdoor space and provide heaters so employees could sit outdoors during the winter and get some fresh air. But after they moved (they don’t own the building anymore) they don’t give us anything anymore.
Why?
Dear Why?
Why are you asking such a dumbass question? Are you stupid or something? Or is it your ass talking? This is a recession! Right now companies have all the power. But in a few years the workers will once again rise into power. If they don’t, I suggest we all perform a coup d’état (meaning we throw all the pigeons we call politicians out of their nesting places!) and TAKE the power back. The point is that companies feel they can do anything they want to employees, such as taking away benefits, or making them pay more for the same benefits, or not providing the same humanity they once did. But this too shall change. I say stop your bitching or get a new job (if you can! But I doubt it with your attitude). Don’t get me wrong, I hate how big companies are treating employees--I just hate whiners more!
Mr. Man-ners
Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I ate two hot dogs and French fries for lunch today. What did you have?
Full
Dear Full:
You’re full of something and it isn’t food. You must really lead a dull life if you want to know what I ate today. To think ,you wasted a good piece of paper, stamp, envelope and ink to ask me that question. Are you lonely? If so, get a pet--preferably a deadly spider! Unless, of course, you’re talking about some man’s hot dog! If that’s the case--spit it out! He needs it back to pee! And if "hot dog" was a euphemism what body part are the French fries?
Mr. Man-ners
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