Dear Uncle Howie:

Our next-door neighbor has his guitar hooked up to an amp, and he plays loud Elvis music at all hours of the day and night. All that racket robs me of sleep, and my husband, too.

Today, my husband asked if he could use my sewing machine. He cut the butt out of a pair of denim shorts, then used the scissors to cut a motorcycle innertube into two pieces. Two minutes on the sewing machine later, and the innertube was sewed back together with a denim pouch in the middle.

Next, my husband got a screwdriver and two great-big screws and screwed that thing into the wall around our kitchen window, the one facing the guy who plays loud Elvis music all the time. He wants to use this gizmo to launch pudding-filled water balloons and rotted melons and fruit and whatnot at the next-door neighbor's trailer.

I say my husband is begging for a ride to the nuthatch. What do you think?

Wondering

Dear Wondering:

Hey, I know you! You're that middle-aged chick I see outside space #56 in her curlers and bathrobe sometimes.

What do I think, huh? I think your husband Harold is begging for a ride to the nuthatch, in the backseat cage of a police cruiser, with a brief stop at the county jail on the way there. Tell him vandalizing Elvis' trailer won't make the racket stop.

All Harold has to do is beat on the side of Elvis' trailer all the way up to the door. When the music stops and the door flies open, tell Elvis to shut the fuck up.

Dear Uncle Howie:

I really have a problem. Sometimes when my ma ain't home, I get a pair of her panties and put 'em on and do aerobics in front of the TV set.

I probably look stupid as shit, because my ma weighs about 400 pounds and I have to drape the waistband of her panties over my shoulders to get the crotch to fit right. Sometimes I trip on the leg elastic and fall down on the livingroom floor of the trailer during the really boisterous aerobic leaps.

Am I total freakazoid, or what?

Freakazoid

Dear Freak:

Nah, you'll be all right, and you're not alone in that boat. Lots of guys wear ladies' underpants because they're soft and silky and comfy, especially if they're made outta this shit called Microfiber.

Dear Uncle Howie:

Hey you miserable redheaded gender-bending motherfucker. Did you tell my son it's okay to leap around the trailer in a topless lacy pink leotard?

Peeved Pop

Dear Pop:

Fuck no.

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