Dear Uncle Howie:

I have a great new boyfriend. He's hilarious--got a crazy sense of humor and keeps me laughing all the time. I laugh until I can't see through all the tears. Sounds like the perfect guy, right? Not so fast. There's this crazy chick with about a gazillion cats who keeps claiming to be married to my boyfriend. Of course, he denies having anything to do with the crazy cat lady, but she parks her car across the driveway and glares at my trailer sometimes when he's there. I haven't seen her lately, and the neighbor women said she got hauled to the nuthatch. What do you think?

Stalker Bait

Dear Stalker Bait:

Hey, I know you! You're that hot chick who lives in space #50.

I've got good news and bad news for you. First the good news: the crazy cat lady is harmless. Now the bad news: the crazy cat lady got hauled to the nuthatch because your boyfriend dumped her. Now for some more good news: a locked-up stalker can't do jackshit to you. And more bad news: your boyfriend is a thieving motherfucking parasite.

Everyone in the whole trailer park knows Willy uses women and steals money from their purse. Ask Dot the crazy cat lady and Beulah and Ma Feral if you don't believe it.

Dear Uncle Howie:

The other day I was at the duckpond, feeding the ducks, when it suddenly occurred to me that ducks are birds. Can ducks get bird flu? And if they can, how can you tell a clean duck from a infected one?

Wondering

Dear Wondering:

Holy shit, it never occurred to me that you can get bird flu from ducks. I think the only logical, sane thing to do is head to the duckpond right now and kill all the ducks. Instead of shooting the ducks, we could do like the Injuns used to back before us paleface assholes showed up armed to the teeth.

Injuns used to chase herds of bison and whatnot off of cliffs, then run down to the bottom and butcher the meat. We could get everyone in the whole trailer park to surround the duckpond and herd the ducks out of the pond and up the mountain and off a cliff.

Dear Uncle Howie:

Hey you miserable redheaded bed-hopping motherfucker. Did you knock up my daughter?

Grumpy Grampa-to-be

Dear Grumpy Gramps:

No.

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