No punnery or hair removal. Just kick him in the nuts.

Dear Uncle Ted,

I am not entirely sure if I’ve been dumped, but all evidence seems to be pointing that way: the calls aren’t returned, the emails stopped coming, not to mention that it appears he has a new Facebook Fling.  We shared some great times, and we made plans for the future, and then he took my heart and wound it through a meat grinder and made some pretty typical blood sausage out of the whole ordeal.  So I have one question: what’s the best torture to exact on him: tweezing out every single hair from his body while making him listen to me sing Andrea Bocelli’s classic wailer “Time to Say Goodbye” in the original Italian, or should I rig for his brakes to fail in his godforsaken hometown and he can plunge off a cliff while listening to Tom Petty’s “Free Falling?”

And, what’s the best bottle of wine on the current market for me to drown my sorrows in?

Your sage advice would be most welcome, thanks,

Princess Me.

Sweetie:

Let’s make this simple.

No torture. No lingering. No sentimentality.

Just give me his address.

Gabriel Byrne and I will drive him out to Miller’s Crossing.

"Put one in his BRAIN."

And then, after some kvetching, Gabriel will walk that douchebag out among the trees.

He’ll beg for his life.

"Look in your HEART!"

What little good it would do would prove entertaining.

Actually, thinking about last time, maybe I should walk your ex out myself, the douchenozzle.

-T

P.S. M. Chapoutier Belleruche. It’s cheap and delicious. And guaranteed to produce a headache so prodigious, you will forget all about that dude.

“Michael Chabon” is tough to pronounce around a ball gag.

Dear Uncle Ted -

I’m unsure what to do —  perhaps you can help me.

I love America. I’m maverick-y. I was born with a vagina and I wear lipstick. I firmly believe that Sarah Palin is the right choice for me. However, my husband, per the Bible’s instruction, doesn’t allow me to have opinions. Is it right for me to share my feelings with him, or should I just shut my mouth if I know what’s good for me?

Thank you –

*Subservient in Saginaw

First of all – I’m sad that the first person to write into AFUT calling themselves subservient isn’t the right kind of subservient, Subservient. I thought this was going to be an email about safety words. (I prefer “Portnoy,” though “Michael Chabon” is good also, though tough to pronounce around a ball gag.)

Secondly – You’re making it difficult for me to decide who’s the bigger idiot, SiS. It appears the dynamic you and your husband have could keep a team of psychiatrists, progressive Christian marriage counselors, pollsters and anthropologists flush with cash during these tough times. You owe it to yourself, your husband and the American economy to sit him down and start talking about how you really feel about the Alaskan governor. And pray that the Lord forgives you for your disobedience.

-Unk.

“Luke. I know you like to go down on marsupials. Search your feelings. You know it to be true.”

Dear Uncle Ted:

I have two roommates whom I hate. They’re messy, inconsiderate–basically they have their heads up their asses. I’m leaving the country in a few weeks, but not before I teach them a lesson. Any suggestions?

-Veronica Daindrich*, Wollongong, Australia

Dear Veronica:

Look. You’re better than this. I know it seems like vengeance is the answer, and I’m sure your assessment of them is accurate – but that doesn’t mean you should stoop to their level at this point. Who knows. Your last night out with them in Australia – at a dinner that they will probably be too cheap to chip in for – might lead to some beer-enabled apologies and revelations. And perhaps, even a renewed friendship.

But if they manage to f*ck that up, at least wait until you’re on your way home. I mean, you should definitely wait until you’re at a cash-paid internet kiosk at the airport before hacking their Google email accounts to send Photoshopped pictures of themselves performing fellatio on wallabies with the subject line “Here are the images you requested” to all the elementary school children in your former neighborhood. And you should DEFINITELY wait until you’re state-side before calling an anonymous tip into the Australian Federal Police about how your roommates – your stinky, non-dishwashing, curry-take-out-tray-leaving, drunk-footballer-stealing tw*t roommates – were running a bestiality porno ring in your laundry room, unbeknownst to you until the morning of your departure.

Make sure you call from a public phone. And disguise your voice with one of those Darth Vader voice changer thingies. And make sure to send them some Tim-Tams while they’re doing 10 long in the pokey.

-Unk.

P.S. I’m guessing it won’t be hard to figure out those Gmail passwords. They’ve gotta be something easy for that pair of dingo’s balls to remember. I’d try “fosters” or “crikey” or “paulhogan” or “valtrex.”

“Slartibartfast.” “SLARTIBARTFAST?” “I said it wasn’t important.”

Dear Uncle Ted:

Do you have any advice for Eoin Colfer?

- Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings, Greenbridge, Essex, England

Yes.

Dear Mr. Colfer:

DON’T F*CK IT UP.

Or I will kill you.

And eat your children.

-Unk.

Vrooooooom.

Dear Uncle Ted:

Do you think the Canadian government should change the street-legal status of mobility scooters in our country?

- Elizabeth Cadman, Vancouver, BC

Dear Elizabeth:

No.

Sweet Jesus, no.

Canadians will ride into the next battle for freedom on the back of a horse called Rascal, Elizabeth. Your obvious opposition to them and the patriots that ride them is clearly the result of your inability to see the future – the glorious, seven-and-a-half mile-per-hour future of your country. The sooner you stow your prejudices in the conveniently mounted basket behind your fully adjustable chair, the happier you’ll be.

-Unk.

I know no amount of Burger King gift certificates can ever make up for what I did to your dog.

Dear Uncle Ted,

Is it ever too late to say you’re sorry?

- Grace Simplot, Murfreesboro, Tenn.

Uncle Ted certainly hopes not. The occasional lapse into discussing himself in the third person is just one of the many regret-worthy ignominies Uncle Ted has racked up during his 56 years here on planet Earth. He wishes he could find every mime he’s punched, every ninja assassin he’s double-crossed, every Polynesian princess he’s jilted and beg their forgiveness.

Unfortunately, Grace, sometimes it IS too late. The sister who stole your high school boyfriend? The one who went on to build a perfect life with the perfect guy who should’ve been yours? She could suffer a fatal (albeit, deserved) allergic reaction to Botox before you get a chance to apologize for the laxative brownies you fed her the afternoon before prom.

If you think there are wrongs that you, personally, need to right, my advice is this:

  • Build a list of all the folks you’ve ever screwed over. If you (or most of the people on your list) are about to die, restrict entry to the list to apologies that would be part of a good Lifetime movie denouement. If you’re just bored or have entered a 12-step program, a spreadsheet or database program may be needed to manage the information. I use Excel.
  • Sort the apologees by age, heinousness of acts perpetrated, and length of time from when you last told them or they last told you to go f*ck yourself. (This not only prioritizes your efforts, but will most likely yield one or two initial apologies to a senior, or dementia sufferer. It’s a good way to begin, since, odds are, they’ve forgotten all about it. It’s a good way to ease into your penitence-fest.)
  • Bring the list to a travel agent, who will arrange a cross-country itinerary. (Tip on planning: I wouldn’t try to combine this trip with any family vacations. Explanations to your spouse about why you have to drive three hours out of the way from Disneyland just so you can give an aging prostitute a cash-filled envelope might be awkward, at best.)
  • Take three weeks off of work and get to amends-makin’. Three weeks should be plenty of time for the average 46-year-old American asshole to get the high-priority apologies out of the way. (Uncle Ted plans to take a five-month sabbatical, but only because he has to go to Tibet.)

I hope I’ve been helpful, Grace. I also hope you’ve never stolen any Tibetan religious artifacts. Just because they’re Buddhist doesn’t mean they’re not going to try to kick your ass once they see you again.

-Unk.

P.S. Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé.

37 + 19 = one reason why Uncle Ted likes Google Mail.

Where the hell were you in 1999, Google Mail Goggles? Now I cant go anywhere near Leah Rimini. Or her dog.

Where the hell have you been, Google Mail Goggles? I haven't been able to go anywhere near Leah Rimini or her dog since 2002.

Dear Uncle Ted,

What do you think about the new Mail Goggles feature from Google Mail?

- Norris Chucksworth, Nome-Ridicolo, FL

Norris – This is, without question, the greatest single innovation in email since the emoticon. Who knows how many tears cried, hearts broken, jobs lost and restraining orders issued could have been saved if only it had come along sooner?

For those of you who haven’t heard yet, the premise is simple: during certain hours of the week (oh, say, in the wee hours of Friday and Saturday nights) whenever you, a Mail Goggles-enabled user, tries to send a pig-latin love sonnet to that cute account executive you were flirting with over lemon drop shots at the bar at the Marriott, Gmail responds with this message in a pop-up window:

“It’s that time of day. Gmail aims to help you in many ways. Are you sure you want to send this? Answer some simple math problems to verify.”

A timer begins counting down, and if you don’t take some deep breaths, slap yourself a few times, squint at the screen and do some adding and subtracting – all within 60 seconds – you’re prompted to try again. And, if the account exec was particularly charming, most likely again and again – until you realize the minor indignity of being told by an email program that you’re too f*cked up to type or do simple sums is nothing when compared to your co-workers asking you on Monday if you’re still eeply-day in-way ove-lay.

To be honest – I don’t think the questions are NEARLY hard enough. The really determined, enamored drunk will figure out, after a few tries, that a calculator at the ready is the only thing standing between him or her and truly mortifying embarrassment. Maybe some truly difficult questions are in order, Google Labs developers? Like:

  • Has your whole adult life been a lie?
  • Do you eat like you do because you don’t have anything else good in your life?
  • Do you think God knows what you did to that sheep and is still punishing you for it, all these years later?
  • Are the voices still telling you to kill Mrs. Schwartz?
  • Have you stored the plastic explosive in a cool, dry, non-conductive container?

Sobering questions like these will keep bad poetry out of our outboxes, Google-Peeps. Think about it.

-Unk.