“So we’ll kiss now and get it over with, and then we’ll go eat. We’ll digest our food better.”

Dear Uncle Ted,

My name is Angela and I’m in the 4th grade. I think this boy in class likes me but I can’t tell for sure. I was wondering if you can tell me how I can tell if a boy likes me.

Angela Pierce, Rochester, MN

Oh, Angela. Boys your age are just beginning to get interested in girls, and they’re just as nervous about this sort of stuff as you are. You may hear from your friends that the boy or the boy’s friends have been asking about you at school. But don’t listen to them. You wait. You wait and you wait. He may send you emails. He may try to talk to you in a chat room. He may send you notes in class, or slip them into your locker. He may have flowers or large parcels of your favorite candy sent to your house. He may even talk his parents into spending his college fund on getting the Jonas Brothers to sing you a love song on your front lawn.

But until you get three consecutive, unequivocally positive responses from your cootie-catcher, I’d say the private concert and the Nintendo Wii purchased with three years’ worth of lawn-mowing money are just empty gestures.

And don’t just keep picking even numbers. For true love, you’ve gotta be willing to take risks.

– Unk.

I always wanted to be a dairy farmer.

Dear Uncle Ted,

What do you think about the recommendation from PETA to Ben and Jerry that they switch from cows milk to breast milk in the manufacturing of their ice cream?

Breast, I mean, Best,
*Jugs McGee

I’m sorry, Miz McGee – I’m too busy right now to answer your letter with the attention it deserves, what with all the praying that those lobster-huggers get their message through…and the application process for the position of Ben and Jerry’s Director of Procurement.

Please, little baby Jesus. Hear. My. Prayer.

-Unk.

This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. And tort reform.

Dear Uncle Ted:

The last week has sucked.  My bike got stolen, my phone died, someone hit my car and I dropped my ice cream in the midle of the street (mocha java fudge chip!!!!!  ghaaa!)  Someone told me this is because Mercury is in Retrograde.  I want to know – can I sue Mercury?  Or should I just punch the guy who told me so in the nose?

Sincerely,
*Princess Me
Blaming the astrologer is not the way to go here, Princess. He was only doing his job. Unfortunately, bringing a civil suit against a planet is extremely difficult – though not completely unheard of:
  • In George Fredericks vs. Mars, the Red Planet is said to have perniciously dropped out of Leo, thus causing Mr. Fredericks’ budding romance at the time to self-destruct. Mars’ lawyers argued that Mr. Fredericks should have planned the timing of his romantic entanglements better, seeing as Mars’ orbit does not deviate, and can be computed with reasonable accuracy thousands of years into the future. Character witnesses – two ex-girlfriends – testified to Mr. Fredericks’ deficiencies as a lover. The suit was ruled in favor of the defendant.
  • In the events leading up to Angela Trilinikis vs. Jupiter, the plaintiff is said to have based her purchase of a used Chrysler minivan on the gas giant rising into Taurus. When the vehicle broke down a week later, Ms. Trilinikis filed suit. The planet’s lawyers’ motion for a change of venue to Cerus – a dwarf planet within the asteroid belt – was granted. Proceedings are scheduled to begin shortly after human settlement of the Jovian system is established.
  • In a non-astrology related case, Brittany Salerno vs. Saturn, arguments over paternity testing were rendered moot when Ms. Salerno prematurely gave birth to a moon. The two parties currently share custody.

My advice: rabbit’s feet.

– Unk.

You’re an idiot.

Dear Dr. Uncle Ted:

I’ve got a patient who, when unconscious, frenzily produces auto-written short stories in the style of Norman Mailer, while also presenting numbness in the left arm and leg, fever, impending kidney failure, low white cell count and tachycardia. Any thoughts on a diagnosis?

– G.H., Princeton, N.J.

Greg – Come on, now – you’re a world-famous doctor. Isn’t it clear what you’re up against? I would check the patient’s residence for evidence of voodoo rituals, including animal sacrifice. Also, check for bake pans hammered into the shape of the author’s head. If my hunch is correct, the patient is steeping pages from The Naked and the Dead in chicken blood, and then baking that blood into soul-channeling pastries made with extremely fattening butter and shortening. Testing should reveal partially-saddled arterial blockages along with mycotoxicosis probably contracted from avian fecal matter. I would begin a regimen of anti-coagulants and anti-fungals immediately. I’d also call an exorcist. Or an agent, if the patient is channeling from Mailer’s early work.

I’m going home now.

-Dr. Unk.

You’d have to change those reels ALL THE TIME.

Dear Uncle Ted,

Is the video for Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer” a treatise on the difficulty of confronting aging and loss, or a Proustian lament for a distant summer fling?

G.F., Los Angeles, CA

GF – I think Don Henley and director Jean-Baptiste Mondino were trying to tell us several things in 1984, one of which being: installing film projection screens into the walls of your house may seem like a cool idea, but they get boring fast.

Even screens placed serendipitously in alleys aren’t much of a draw. I mean, Don Henley backs away from his own face. Who does that?

Like many videos of the era (such as Young MC’s Bust A Move and Tone Loc’s Wild Thing) Summer bears a moral at its center. And that moral is: You will get tired of looking at a beach.

-Unk.

“You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.”

"Have fun becoming a cultural touchstone!" "Do you think Cary Elwes will ever get out from under this film?" "It would take a miracle."

"Have fun becoming a cultural touchstone!" "Do you think Cary Elwes will ever get out from under this film?" "It would take a miracle."

Dear Uncle Ted,

What’s your favorite line from The Princess Bride?

– I.M., Arabella, Castile-La Mancha

Dear IM – You ask the impossible. People have been arguing this point for the last twenty-one years. This question is old enough to go into a bar and get into a drunken argument about itself. Asking me to choose one great bit out of this movie is like trying to pick a self-righteous jackass out of a Nader rally. I mean, we’ve got:

“She doesn’t get eaten by the eels at this time.”

or

“You can die too for all I care!”

or

Why do you wear a mask? Were you burned by acid, or something like that?’
Oh no, it’s just that they’re terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future.”

or

You just wiggled your finger. That’s wonderful!”
I’ve always been a quick healer.”

I’ve always been a fan of:

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

and

“We are men of action. Lies do not become us.”

and

“Do you want me to send you back to where you were? Unemployed! In Greenland!”

AND

Go away or I’ll call the Brute Squad.”
I’m on the Brute Squad.”
You ARE the Brute Squad.”

But I have to agree with my friend Whiskey Eileen, who puts this up for consideration:

“We face each other as God intended. Sportsmanlike. No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone.”
“You mean, you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword, and we’ll try and kill each other like civilized people?”

And then, of course, immediately afterwards:

“It’s not my fault being the biggest and the strongest. I don’t even exercise.”

and

“Ev-we-body Moooooooooooooooove!”

and

“Your true love lives! And you marry another. True Love saved her in the Fire Swamp, and she treated it like garbage. And that’s what she is, the Queen of Refuse. So bow down to her if you want, bow to her! Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. BOO. BOO. BOO!”

and, of COURSE:

“Drop. Your. Sword.”

But in a way, this argument is beside the point. Because you already know the answer, IM. And so does Whiskey Eileen. The fact is: Mandy Patinkin will die one day, and the first line from his obit will not read “Mandy Patinkin, esteemed film, television and stage actor and performer, succumbed to excessive awesomeness at the age of too soon.”

It will say – well – you don’t need to see it here, do you?

And in a way, I think what comes after Inigo finally gets to say it to the man he’s been meaning to say it to is even better:

“Offer me money.”
“Yes!”
“Power too promise that!”
“All that I have and more. Please.”
“Offer me everything I ask for.”
“Anything you want.”
“I want my father back, you son of a bitch.”

I’m gonna add that to my Netflix queue right now, IM.

-Unk.

P.S. William Goldman is a PIMP. All the President’s Men, Butch Cassidy, Marathon Man AND The Princess Bride. P to the I to the M to the motherf*cking P.

P.P.S. R.I.P., Andre the Giant.

P.P.P.S. Oh, fine.

I can't take credit for this cleverness. Thank you, internet.

I can't take credit for this cleverness. Thank you, internet.

You need a ringer-T with a bacon sandwich and anti-Republican sentiment plastered across the front of it. You know you do.

Dear Uncle Ted,

How long are you keep reminding all nine of your readers that you’re selling cool crap on CafePress?

– Reader No. 5

Until every Democrat and Independent in America is walking around with a BLT on his or her chest, Dr. Kissinger. So start telling your friends.