Dear Aunt Slugger

Houskeeping Tips from Your Aunt Slugger

2012-02-18T04:21:00.000-08:00

Many of you have written to me and said, "Aunt Slugger, your advice column really reminds me of something Martha Stewart would put together, and I am just surprised she hasn't picked you up as a writer for her magazine. It's only a matter of time, though. In the meantime, do you have any housekeeping tips for the public?"

Well, public, I am so glad you asked. In point of fact, yes, I DO happen to have some great housekeeping tips. In fact, just today, I stumbled upon a great way to find the inspiration to clean your apartment! Just follow these easy steps:

Wake up at 6:05a.m. on a Saturday morning to the shrill beeping of your carbon monoxide detector, which is conveniently located twelve feet off the ground, on your ceiling.
Wielding a household broom, which you can buy at any grocery store, stab at the carbon monoxide detector until it stops beeping.
Using the used batteries from your remote control, attempt to change the batteries in the carbon monoxide detector and then notice that it is wired into the electrical system in your apartment, thereby suggesting that dead batteries are not the issue at play here.
Come close to urinating on yourself when the carbon monoxide detector starts beeping again.
Realize that OH MY GOD THERE IS CARBON MONOXIDE IN MY MOTHERFUCKING APARTMENT WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS PLACE THIS FUCKING SECOND.
Put your coat on while screaming, "WHERE IS THAT FUCKING CAT? WHERE IS SHE? SHE'S GOING TO DIE IN HERE THAT LITTLE FUCKING ASSHOLE" to your significant other.
Walk around the apartment holding wet cat food in your bare hand.
Slip on a two-week-old stack of junk mail and stop, suddenly, realizing that you cannot, realistically, call emergency personnel to come to the apartment when it looks like this, a trash heap.
Resign yourself to dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.
Begrudgingly decide you do not want the police to find your lifeless, pajama-clad body face down on the floor in your apartment, still clinging to a glob of salmon and mackerel entree in a savory broth.
Leave the apartment without that dick cat, who is still in hiding, and call the non-emergency number for the fire department and ask for suggestions on what to do.
When the fire department sends a full-size fire truck, with sirens blaring and lights flashing, to your apartment, try not to kill yourself out of sheer embarrassment.
Cringe while one firefighter checks for carbon monoxide with a handheld device and the other firefighter looks at the piles of [circle one or all: Valentine's candy, those goddamn proxy voting statements from your mutual fund company, unwatched Netflix movies, winter boots, cat toys, grocery store receipts, and recipes that you clipped from the side of a Nilla Wafers box].
Feel something between relief and horror when the firefighters tell you there is no carbon monoxide and that you have a faulty alarm. Relief because you are not going to die; horror because this means the alarm will need to be changed out, which means involving building maintenance, which means more people will see all your shit.
Phone your apartment complex's 24-hour crack security force (which interfaces with building maintenance during off-hours). Naturally, you will be sent to voicemail. You instantly feel safer.
Receive a call back from building security. Explain the situation. Experience momentary shock when the security guard's primary concern is the fact that the apartment complex will be charged because the fire department came out for a false alarm. (It should be mentioned here that the firefighters told you that you "did the right thing" by calling.)
Lose your shit. Note that your significant other, who was pouring a glass of water while listening to you on the phone, has been rendered motionless by your unrelenting verbal assault into the phone.
Once the security guard realizes that he has inadvertently released the Kraken, he will retreat. He promises you that maintenance will be there in about fifteen minutes.
Commence a whirlwind clean-up of the apartment.

And that, readers, is how you find the inspiration to clean your house! My patented method is low-budget, non-toxic, and uses items you already have around the house: faulty safety equipment, cat food, and rage. Please be sure to share your success stories in the comments section!

The First Amendment: A Primer

2011-12-08T18:39:00.001-08:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

I am running for President of the United States, and I recently put together this really patriotic video in which I outlined the most important issues facing our country today: gay people and Christmas trees in public schools. You fix those two issues, and other, lesser issues like the economy, the unemployment rate, skyrocketing health insurance costs, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and our abysmal public school system will fix themselves.

So I write to you in the hopes of securing your endorsement in my presidential bid. Please let me know if you can be of assistance in this matter.

Sincerely,
Rick Perry

Sir,

Thank you for your letter. I was really impressed by your video; until I saw it, I couldn't think of an easy, fluid way to simultaneously complain about gay people who have put their lives on the line for you AND claim that Christians are systematically oppressed across the nation. Remarkably well done.

But if I may be frank, Adolf, I won't be able to offer you or your video the Coveted Aunt Slugger Seal of Approval (CASSA) because you are OUT OF YOUR MOTHERFUCKING MIND.

Honestly, I am sick and fucking tired of telling stories about my childhood, but it's ONCE AGAIN time to pull up the old rocking chair and gather 'round the fireplace in your footed pajamas to listen to your Aunt Slugger.

In my last column, I mentioned that I grew up celebrating Christmas, but I also mentioned that the Slugger family is not a religious family. I have never been to church. Contrary to popular opinion, this does NOT mean that we sacrifice animals in our spare time or smear blood on our faces during midnight rituals in which we communicate with warlocks. We are actually just a normal family.

However, not being religious was not common in my Midwestern hometown. It was so uncommon, in fact, that we had religious education in the public schools, in the form of "release time." This meant that you were released from school to go pursue religious education...which was parked in a trailer immediately next to school property. If you think this is a joke, you have obviously not been to the Midwest.

Your parents had to sign a consent form for you to go to religious education, and I was one of two students whose parents did not sign the consent form. So the two of us sat in the classroom, doing nothing, while everyone else went to the trailer.

As an adult, looking back on it, the idea of a bunch of kids being trapped in a cramped trailer with some proselytizing creep sounds worse than prison. But as a youth, I felt isolated, ostracized. My classmates routinely told me I was going to hell and that I was a bad person for not believing in Jesus Christ. Some adults (insane adults, but adults nevertheless) said it, too.

(Note: Before I receive 6,887 emails from people trying to convert me: It won't work. Your emails will make me want to convert even less. So stop it before you start it.)

My point here is that even when the school is TECHNICALLY separating church and state ("release time" is legal), kids in the minority religion (or, in my case, the minority non-religion) still feel like shit. THIS IS WHY WE HAVE A SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE. THIS IS WHY YOUR KID CAN'T SING "O HOLY NIGHT" IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL CONCERT. Your kid CAN pray on his or her own time at school. He or she CAN wear a cross to school. He or she CAN wear a "WWJD" bracelet. It's when the school tries to force ALL STUDENTS to do something that is specific to ONE FAITH that we have a HUGE MOTHERFUCKING PROBLEM.

Do you understand what I'm saying, Rick Perry? No one is telling your kid he or she can't celebrate Christmas. We're telling the SCHOOLS that they can't force all students to celebrate Christmas. Because (newsflash) NOT. EVERYONE. IS. LIKE. YOU. People celebrate different shit.

Granted, I'm sure part of the problem is that you hate people who celebrate different shit. Which is fine, because we hate your bigoted ass, too.

Not at all sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Happy Holidays

2011-11-20T16:34:00.001-08:00

I was hoping to make it to Thanksgiving without having to issue another

CRITICAL PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FROM YOUR AUNT SLUGGER

but it appears that we won't be able to make it that long.

Today, in the baking aisle at Stop & Shop, while I was trying my hardest to find regular gingerbread cake mix instead of that bullshit whole wheat variety, I overheard a man telling a friend that he is going to use the phrase "Merry Christmas" and not this "politically correct 'happy holidays' shit."

That's the spirit.

Now, your Aunt Slugger is not known for being the most sensitive person to grace this mortal coil, but I actually use the phrase "Happy Holidays" in situations where I do not know what a person celebrates. You want to know why? Gather 'round, kids, because Aunt Slugger is going to tell you a story.

The Slugger family is not a religious family, but we are a materialistic family, so we go hard at Christmas. I grew up in a Bible-intensive part of the country, so everyone I knew was also heavy into Christmas.

At age 17, your Aunt Slugger headed to college in a suburb of Boston. Your Aunt Slugger experienced extreme culture shock that year, because the school was 60% Jewish. Even though my paternal grandfather was Jewish, and my father was raised Jewish, the closest I came to experiencing Judaism growing up in my house was sprinkling kosher salt on an Easter ham.

As it turned out, attending a school with so many Jewish students had significant benefits to a non-religious person like myself, including days off for Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Shmini Atzeret, and Passover. (Hannukah, it happens, is not considered a major holiday in the Jewish faith, and the very religious Jews don't give large gifts for Hannukah. You're supposed to give practical gifts, like an umbrella or a protractor. It sounds like a terrible holiday. "Go big or go home" is my motto.)

At this school, non-Jews were in the minority. Not being an especially sensitive person, I didn't really care if someone assumed I was Jewish or assumed I was celebrating a Jewish holiday. Because, well, if you really think about it, we should all just be grateful when a stranger is wishing us well instead of trying to gun us down with an automatic weapon. But the same people who piss and moan about the trend toward saying "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" would probably launch a hand grenade at the first person to wish them a Happy Yom Kippur. (Not that there's anything happy about that morbid fucking holiday.)

So keep that in mind: If you wouldn't want someone to wish you a Happy Sukkot because you are not part of a religion that builds a temporary outdoor hut and eats all your meals in it for a week*, then don't assume people want you to wish them a Merry Christmas. It's that simple.

*This holiday usually falls in mid-October. Your Aunt Slugger tried to reconnect with her latent Judaism by eating in this hut a few times during college. Fuck my latent Judaism; the hut was cold.

Facebook Status Updates

2011-11-07T16:33:00.001-08:00

CRITICAL PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FROM AUNT SLUGGER

I know it's been a while since your Aunt Slugger has posted, and I owe you all an apology for that, but there are more pressing matters at hand. I saw something today that I just couldn't let go.

Today on Facebook, multiple people posted the following status update, word for word:

"If you voted for Obama to prove your not a racist, this time you better vote for someone else to prove your not an idiot!"

I will pause for a moment while you re-read that. Take your time.

Are you done? All right. People, please read this public service announcement VERY, VERY CAREFULLY.

If you are going to call someone an idiot in a Facebook status update, you should be ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT YOU PROOFREAD BEFORE YOU CLICK "POST." Do you get what I'm saying? Because calling someone an idiot while SIMULTANEOUSLY MISSPELLING WORDS is both ironic and tragic. (It's also funny, but not for you. Just for the rest of us.)

And as a side note, did anyone vote for Obama to prove he or she was not a racist? The implication here is that Obama received an absolute boatload of votes from people who were standing alone in a voting booth, overcome with concern about what the voting machine thought about their level of racial tolerance. Is that why he won? Not because he ran a better campaign or because voters liked his platform better? But because American voters, the same American voters who have sustained "The Jersey Shore" through four seasons, were suddenly consumed with appearances? Yes, that explains it.

So please, readers, the next time you call someone an idiot, check you're spelling.

Relocating

2011-08-07T15:34:00.000-07:00

Dear Loyal Aunt Slugger Readers:

As some of you may have already heard, the Dear Aunt Slugger Headquarters will be moving from Cambridge, Massachusetts, to Melrose, Massachusetts, effective August 11, 2011. Please do not be alarmed; this move will not affect your subscription to Dear Aunt Slugger. You will continue to receive the same unpredictable posts and non-existent service that you have come to expect over the past few years.

Your Aunt Slugger has received a number of questions about the move, which I will attempt to answer here, in this Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ). If you have any additional questions, please take them up with your Congressional Representative.

Q: Why is the Dear Aunt Slugger HQ moving?
A: For the same reason that anyone leaves Cambridge: one too many hipster bicyclists stuck in my wheel well.

Q: Where is Melrose?
A: This is a good question; your Aunt Slugger had never heard of Melrose until deciding to move there. Insofar as I can tell, based on the drive there to look at apartments, it is located here:But it could be further out; I am not sure. Also, please adjust your browser settings to receive updates to this website via Morse Code and smoke signals.

Q: Do you have any tips for moving or packing?
A: Yes, only pack what your cat or other domesticated mammal can carry on his or her back. Also, stop decorating your house now in case you have to move someday. It's those decorations that will haunt your dreams at night. Closets seem as though they should be the worst because you realize exactly how many sweaters you own (38) versus how many you wear (7), but clothes are easy to either throw in a box or accidentally leave in the oven at 350 degrees.

It's the knick-knacks, like the plastic vampire chicken McNugget toy that you've been hauling from apartment to apartment since you went away to college and have been carefully putting on a shelf and periodically dusting off and admiring over the years. Like, you don't want to leave that in the oven with your pit-stained L.L. Bean t-shirts, but what do you do with it? So it gets packed. Again. And again. Until you either grow some balls and throw it out or someone firebombs your house.

Q: Are you getting rid of anything that I could have?
A: Two used napkins, a Target receipt from 2009, and an expired can of chick peas. I will be posting them on Craigslist.

This One's For You, Eden

2011-07-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I saw a post on Facebook that the first five friends to randomly appear in your friend list will be on your team in the event of a zombie apocalypse. I looked, and one of my five friends was an old friend of mine, Eden.

This was a reassuring thought to me, because Eden and I had been very good friends back in the day, when we were fellow Pirates at Memorial Park Middle School in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Even more reassuring was the fact that Eden had attended Harvard Law School and passed the Florida Bar Exam, two accomplishments that make a zombie apocalypse look like amateur hour.

At the time, I had this image in my head of pulling my car into Eden's driveway in Florida. She'd answer the door holding a sawed-off shotgun, with a grenade strapped to her chest, give me a hug, and commence a detailed strategy meeting for how we were going to tackle this pesky zombie issue.

Don't judge me; this is why I am an advice columnist and not a novelist.

As it happens, Eden is tackling a different zombie right now, which you can read about here.

Eden Essex Banks, Fellow Pirate, Lead General Counsel of Zombie Apocalypse Team X, Friend:

Fight on, comrade, fight on.

Rahm Emanuel

2011-07-22T11:09:00.000-07:00

Many of you saw this clip from cnn.com in which Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel walked out of an interview after he was asked whether he would send his children to the Chicago public schools. Your Aunt Slugger has decided to weigh in on this topic, since I don't really have anything better to do.

You should watch the clip, but in case you miss it, here are the highlights:

1.) A reporter asks Rahm Emanuel if he will send his kids to the public schools.
2.) His response is something snide like, "Oh [name of reporter]? Let me break the news to you: My children are not in a public position. The mayor is."
3.) He walks out.

Oh, Rahm Emanuel? Let me break the news to you: No one is saying your children are in a public position. But we are saying that your decision about where to send your kids sends a message to your constituents about your confidence (or lack thereof) in the Chicago public school system. So we have a right to know ("we" meaning the citizens of Chicago and me, their unofficial mouthpiece operating out of an apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts).

And furthermore, don't try to twist this into a "the media is attacking my poor, innocent family" situation. Fuck you, Rahm Emanuel. A.) As mentioned above, stop crying wolf, you big sissy, and answer the question. And B.) You're the mayor of Chicago. You brought them into this. Responsible journalists will give them some degree of distance, but you knew when you signed up for this shit that there are all sorts of crazy fucks out there, including (but not limited to) your own big fat fucking mouth, which seems to operate on its own terms.

As an aside, in case anyone is wondering, yes, your Aunt Slugger did attend public school from elementary through high school, and yes, I ate the public school food and wore the public school-provided gym clothes. I still have polyester burns on my thighs, but I'm a better person for it.

Yet Another Important Life Tip from Your Aunt Slugger

2011-05-10T11:46:00.000-07:00

Today's topic is:

Are you fucking kidding me?

It's been a slow day here at Aunt Slugger headquarters, now that I'm done offering advice to that SEAL team in Pakistan, so I've had the chance to catch up on my news. My day started out well with the piece about the baby aardvark in Tampa, but was ruined by this bullshit article.

For those of you who aren't able to access CNN, the article is about a kid in Virginia who organized a massive rock concert in his hometown featuring major names in rock music. Awesome. Nicely done, kid. I love stories like that: Young kid, taking on the world, defying the odds, etc. But then he just goes and fucks it up by saying this:

“I was just so fired up for Christ coming home from that camp I said, ‘All right God, what’s my purpose?'”

And it somehow gets worse.

"He went to a small local Christian rock festival, and then it hit him. He said he felt God’s call to be a rock promoter – right now."

Folks - here's an important life tip. Read this very carefully:

If you believe in a god who wants you to use what are apparently incredible organizational skills to put together a rock concert rather than work toward ending the unfathomable amount of human suffering in this world, then your god is an asshole.

I realize that this is a controversial life tip. I really don't care. I am not saying that putting together a huge rock concert isn't fun, rewarding, or impressive. I am not saying not to do it. I am saying that if there is a god out there, and this is where his/her priorities are, then he can kiss my fucking ass.

On that note, back to the photos of the hairless baby aardvark.

An Open Letter to the United States Congress

2011-04-10T10:42:00.000-07:00

To the Representatives and Senators of the United States Congress:

I am relieved that we have freedom of speech in this country because if we didn't, I would've been hauled in front of the firing squad a long time ago, and because I really need to get this off my chest right now:

You fuckers are a disgrace.

Now, before you get upset, let me just say that I do have a great deal of appreciation for you people. The world would be a tragic and depressing place without the brand of humor that you have provided us for hundreds of years. I mean, the Larry Craig thing happened in 2007, and I am still getting mileage out of it. So I really do cherish your existence.

In fact, it's a little weird that I feel compelled to write to you now, at this point, given that I have become so accustomed to the comedy of errors that occurs in the Capitol each day. And just last weekend I was at a Whole Foods in Cambridge, Massachusetts, so I honestly thought I had seen the depths of human depravity.

But here we are. Somehow, against all odds, you motherfuckers still manage to shock me.

So I am going to provide you with some key points to bear in mind as you continue to fuck around with the budget.

First, stop acting like fucking babies. I realize this is asking a lot, but make the effort.

Second, stop trying to toss unrelated shit into the budget proposals. If you want to make it illegal to eat olive loaf on Wednesdays, THEN BRING IT UP LATER. Write another proposal. Stop trying to sneak it in there with the budget because it's NOT RELATED.

And third, start thinking about someone other than yourselves. Again, I realize this is asking a lot. But perhaps give some thought to the fact that if you can't get your shit together, there are people--real people, not crackpot narcissists like yourselves--who will experience real and painful suffering. People who need their paychecks. People who have devoted themselves to public service or the defense of our nation (which, tragically, includes you). Have some fucking respect for those people.

If you have any questions, I honestly don't give a shit.

Sincerely,

Aunt Slugger

Important Life Tip from Your Aunt Slugger

2011-03-31T12:00:00.001-07:00

Today's topic is: Weird people.

So a few months ago, the following music video was brought to my attention:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atBg9zLI2bA

This song made your Aunt Slugger realize that perhaps organized religion does indeed have something to offer.

Anyway, to make a long story short, a few days ago, I clicked that I "liked" the singer's page on Facebook. This is a stronger gesture than it may seem, since the last band that your Aunt Slugger professed to like enough to see in concert was the BeeGees, most of whom had died by that point anyway.

The singer seems to update his status a lot, which I would complain about, but I can't bitch about his status updates without first devoting an entire column to the people who post their treadmill activity on Facebook. (Yes, I'm coming for you.) So I clicked on one of these status updates today, and I was struck not by the update itself but by the comments. Each update had no fewer than thirty comments, all from women, and all containing either little hearts or phrases like, "Hugs and kisses!"

Take a moment to read that last sentence again.

Folks, here is a tip for you, and I cannot emphasize this enough. Posting little hearts or so-called cute comments on the page of a famous person that you don't know personally is the QUICKEST and MOST EFFICIENT WAY to make yourself look like a deranged stalker. So CUT THAT SHIT OUT.

Thank you.

Aunt Slugger

Delta Airlines

2010-12-29T05:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

I currently suffer from a variety of health problems, including terminal cancer, kidney failure, schizophrenia, mad cow disease, leprosy, and smallpox. Sometimes, these conditions are hard to manage, and I start to feel depressed about my impending death and--

You know what? If I had a dollar for every whiny letter I get from cancer-ridden schizophrenic lepers, I'd be installing a solid gold toilet in my bathroom right now. The world has enough problems without having to deal with some asshole bitching and moaning about being the first case of hemorrhagic smallpox since 1978.

So instead, we're going to talk about something far more important, which is, of course, your Aunt Slugger's recent struggle with a certain mainstream American airline that shall remain nameless in this column, unless of course that name is accidentally featured in large, boldface letters in the column's headline, which would be unfortunate, but also a sad reality of the internet.

As many of my loyal readers are aware, Aunt Slugger's advice column is headquartered in Cambridge, Massachusetts, which, as you may also be aware, was hit with a massive snowstorm over this past weekend. This past weekend also featured the Christmas holiday, which, for my loyal readers in remote areas of the Amazon River Basin, is a major holiday here in the United States. A few facts on the Christmas holiday:

1.) It always falls on December 25th.
2.) There is a high volume of air travel over the Christmas holiday so that people can see their families.
3.) Because of breakthroughs in modern calendar technology, there is a high likelihood of experiencing winter weather on or around December 25th.

So just keep those facts in your back pocket for a moment while your Aunt Slugger explains her specific situation. Your Aunt Slugger flew from Boston Logan International Airport to a mid-sized Midwestern city. On Christmas Eve, I checked the weather report and saw that most of the East Coast was going to be slammed with snow the day after Christmas, which was also the day I was slated to fly back to Boston. Just to reiterate a key point here: Your Aunt Slugger, who is a professional advice columnist with no formal training in meteorology, knew, several days beforehand, that it was going to snow at around the same time she was scheduled to arrive in Boston. Perhaps it's a stretch to assume this, but I tend to think that at least one airline employee would have also been privy to this weather report, which, for the record, is publicly available using newfangled technology like "the internet" and "newspapers."

Fast forward to the day after Christmas. The East Coast is getting slaughtered with snow and high-speed winds. In Massachusetts, houses are literally falling into the ocean. It was the sort of weather that makes a New Englander hunker down in the basement with extra supplies and a Midwesterner like myself draft blueprints for a bitchin' snowman. But it was not the sort of weather you fly a plane in, even if you are from the Midwest. So I was not surprised when my flight was canceled. I was surprised, though, when the flight was rescheduled for the following morning at 5:45a.m., when (again, using the widely available weather report) it was still supposed to be snowing and gusting wind.

So I phoned the airline. I received the following message (not verbatim, but close enough): "Due to extreme weather conditions, we are unavailable to take your call at this time. Please call again later, or use our website."

So I logged onto the website, which provided absolutely no pertinent information. I tried to call again. I got the same message. I went to Target and bought 50% off Christmas wrapping paper. I called again. I ate a donut. I called again. I fought with my brother over which variety of pizza to get for lunch. I called again. I read two chapters in a book. I called again.

Finally, after getting the same pre-recorded message again, I borrowed a car and drove down to the local airport. I found a representative for my specific airline. I explained my situation. I asked if I could be rescheduled for a later flight the next day or the day after because I was concerned that my flight would be canceled because of the snow. "No fucking way" was the response. The "fucking" was silent, but implied via tone and facial expression.

I got home and checked the status of my new 5:45a.m. flight. As you have already guessed because you are not a tub of unsalted butter, my flight was canceled. I called the airline and received the same pre-recorded message. So I borrowed a car AGAIN and drove back to the airport AGAIN, where I pleaded my case to the same employee. After much sighing and eyeball rolls, she put me on an 8am flight back to Boston on Wednesday - three days after my original departure.

Before I get a bunch of angry e-mails from people who work in the customer service industry, let me clarify two things:

1.) I am aware that airplanes should not be expected to fly in the snow.
2.) I am not one of those people who screams at customer service professionals.

So don't send me some typo-ridden letter pissing about how these people are underpaid and overworked and harassed all day and how I should let the occasional eyeball roll slide and so on and so forth. One of my first jobs was as a welfare caseworker, with over 300 cases and a government cubicle in the basement of an old Sears store. I had the monopoly on overworked and underpaid, so don't talk to me about overworked and under-fucking-paid, OK? Thank you.

Where was I? Ah, yes. So I got home and let my new flight details marinate for a little bit. I tried calling the airline several more times, but got the same message. I saw reports of other stranded passengers receiving vouchers for future air travel.

Finally, yesterday (Tuesday), I got through to someone at the airline. I explained my situation. They confirmed my flight details for Wednesday. I explained that as a longtime airline customer (I had in fact used frequent flier miles to pay for the ticket), I found it frustrating that I had to drive out to the airport twice to reschedule my flight because I couldn't get someone on the phone. I asked if I could get a free upgrade or two free bags on my next flight for the inconvenience.

As you already know because you have at least a preschool education, they told me to go fuck myself.

So this morning, I got up and headed to the airport in the frigid, silent, pre-dawn hours of the Midwest. At this point, I have been wearing the same pair of pants for five days. I am tired. But I am eager to get on the plane and get back to my apartment and my rigorous schedule of snacking and drafting advice columns.

Obviously, I did not make it out on this morning's flight. I am still in the Midwest. Still in the same pair of pants. And still five hours of flying away from unloading these half off gift tags into my closet.

However, there is a bright side to all of this, which is that it's refreshing to see that a business model that involves being under-prepared for a known disruption to the core service of your particular industry and then not giving two fucking shits about your customers not only works, but also sets you up to receive federal aid money.

So you see--what was your name again? You, the cancer patient scratching at that smallpox lesion? Well, whatever your name is, let's just see who has it worse off. At least you're not dealing with the airline industry.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Selling a House

2010-11-11T12:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

I come to you seeking advice. We are preparing to sell our house, and we are getting ready to host an open house. Do you have any tips for us? Any pitfalls to avoid?

Regards,
The Sellers

Dear Sellers,

You would never guess it from my lavish advice columnist lifestyle, but your Aunt Slugger has never been a homeowner. I operate out of the Dear Aunt Slugger headquarters, which is inconveniently located in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the average home is divided into seventy-nine tenement apartments that are infested with mice, rats, caterpillars, fleas, roaches, skunks, and sociopaths. The average Cambridge resident rents these tenements for prices equivalent to 150% of his or her gross income before taxes and change collected from the subway tracks. Occasionally, these apartments are available for sale at absolutely obscene prices, in which case they are referred to as "condos," which makes them sound nice but doesn't necessarily mean that all the dead bodies have been cleared from the bathroom.

So I can't necessarily offer advice on the actual act of selling your house, since I am not familiar with home inspections, appraisals, or mortgage brokers with no self-respect. However, given my vast experience dealing with the rental markets, I can offer some tips on what you probably shouldn't do.

First of all, there's truth in advertising. If you are trying to sell a 2,000 square foot four bedroom home with 1.5 baths and an unfinished basement, you should *not* advertise that you have a 4,000 square foot home with six bedrooms, an elevator, and a carriage house. You would think this would be obvious, but apparently, it is not. When your Aunt Slugger moved to Cambridge, I found a listing for a three-bedroom apartment. As I discovered after I toured it (with the landlord, who looked like a cross between Norman Bates and Dracula), it was a one bedroom apartment with a large walk-in closet (i.e. "the second bedroom") and a living room that "converted into a third bedroom." Despite many years of formal education, I was unable to figure out how exactly that worked. So tempting as it may be to advertise that your dilapidated tool shed is actually "separate servants' quarters," you should avoid doing so.

Additionally, you will want to make the house look as spartan as possible. And I'm not just talking about hiding your toaster oven collection to make the space appear less cluttered; that's a well-known real estate trick. I'm talking about not being there when prospective homebuyers are passing through. When your Aunt Slugger was in graduate school, obtaining a degree that was somehow even less academically rigorous than my undergraduate degree in political science, I was moving from one tenement slum to another. I found a fourth-floor walk-up studio apartment that looked like a pretty good deal - all utilities included, a kitchenette, bay windows. When the apartment broker brought me to look at the apartment, I wasn't able to get a really good look at it because there were three people in there, watching television and cooking dinner. This is just a matter of personal opinion, but I find it awkward to ask to look at the kitchenette when someone is marinating chicken thighs on the stovetop.

Other key tips for selling your house include

Removing all visible pet droppings from common areas
Putting organic fruits on display
Sedating your neighbors so that they don't have another fistfight on the front lawn during your open house
Putting all non-essential furniture, books, toys, exercise equipment and children in an offsite storage facility
Displaying the china you received for your wedding but which has heretofore remained in boxes
Not mentioning the demons you exorcised from the attic last year

I hope this helps, Sellers. And remember: It's only insurance fraud if they can prove you set the fire. Keep that in mind.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

'80s Fashion

2010-10-22T13:23:00.000-07:00

Dear Slugger,

Why, in the name of everything holy is fashion in 2010 embracing the 80s and early 90s? Didn't it look bad the first time around? Why plaid? Why now? Should anyone selling, purchasing, browsing, or thinking about browsing stirrup pants be shot on sight?

Thank you,

My Clothes Have Pee and Barf on Them So What do I Care About Fall Fashion

Dear MCHPBTSWDICAFF:

The short answer, MCHPBTSWDICAFF, is that I don't know. I don't know how we, as a people, have become so depraved that we openly tolerate people wearing compression tights in public. And for those of you who are saying, "Compression tights? Who's wearing compression tights?" -- you may already be too far gone. Right now, in a hospital somewhere, there's a nurse squeezing the legs of a lower-body trauma victim into a pair of skinny jeans to prevent blood clots, and no one is the wiser.

There have definitely been instances thoughout the history of mankind where people have tolerated some unimaginable atrocities. But we (or at least most of us) usually learn from our mistakes. Bloodletting, for example. Back in the day, people used to believe that you could bleed disease right out of your veins. Using modern science, we know today that this practice is absolutely preposterous, although your Aunt Slugger would not object to trying it on Glenn Beck. So you don't typically see doctors using bloodletting as a medical technique nowadays, because we've learned from our mistakes. And in fact, most people wouldn't tolerate the procedure if they saw it performed on themselves or another human being. There would be intense media coverage, a public outcry, congressional hearings, a criminal investigation, and the creation of Bloodletting Awareness Month. As a people, we simply wouldn't stand for it.

It was one thing when '80s fashion first came in vogue, back in, well, the '80s. We really didn't know any better. It was the fashion equivalent of bloodletting, and we just carried on the best way we knew how, totally oblivious to the fact that we had other options. Your Aunt Slugger, for example, wore a lot of tapered jeans in her day. Granted, at that time, I was also very focused on playing with my Kenner Ewok Family Hut, which I definitely loved more than my brother and possibly more than my parents. So my judgment wasn't as finely tuned as it is now. But we really couldn't have been expected to know; it's only in hindsight that we can reflect upon this period in history and wonder what it was that was infecting our water that caused us to both wear shoulder pads and elect Ronald Reagan not just once, but twice.

Yet somehow, here we are, ignoring the fact that one of the greatest tragedies in the history of mankind - leggings - is repeating itself before our very eyes, and there is not one single thing we can do about it besides kill ourselves. It's the only way I can think of to stop feeling as though I'm living in a John Hughes movie.

In the interest of avoiding pesky and potentially expensive lawsuits that might arise from advocating the grisly torture of anyone wearing stirrup pants, I will only generally address your last question. Sometimes, MCHPBTSWDICAFF, law and morality are not aligned, and it takes a few brave people to stand up for what they know is right. So if you take it upon yourself to bring a loaded weapon into the J.Crew women's pants department...well, just know that history will eventually judge you a hero.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Travel Funding

2010-09-15T11:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

I was hoping to receive your comments on this situation. What would you say if you found out that a 32-year-old man is going on vacation to DisneyWorld with his parents and an occasional girlfriend? FYI, the parents are funding the entire vacation.

Regards,
Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

This poor man. How very sad. You didn't mention it in your letter, but I can only assume that he has lost his job and is dying of some kind of awful, debilitating terminal illness, because that is the only reason I can think of that a grown man would let his parents pay for him and his pseudo-girlfriend to go to DisneyWorld. It's such a tragedy to see a young man leave this mortal coil so early, before he's had a chance to really -

Dear Aunt Slugger,

Please allow me to clarify. He is not dying of a terminal illness, nor has he lost his job. He actually earns an excellent salary and is in good health.

Regards again,
Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Well, OK, fuck him then.

Folks, as an advice columnist, I am ethically bound to issue the following public service announcement:

If you are a grown adult, and your parents offer to take you and your on-again, off-again girlfriend/boyfriend to DisneyWorld, the polite (and correct) response is as follows:

"Thanks, Mom and Dad. I would enjoy nothing more than to ride Big Thunder Mountain with you and this woman/man that I've been casually sleeping with for the past couple of weeks. That being said, since I am 32 years of age, and since I have a job, and since I am not a big fucking tool, I will pay for my own flight, hotel, tickets, and fried dough."

Your Aunt Slugger is not opposed to DisneyWorld. I'm not even opposed to adults going to DisneyWorld with their parents. I've been to DisneyWorld as an adult, and I will freely admit that I can't get enough of that shit and am always the first person to jump in line to meet Goofy or get Donald Duck's autograph. The takeaway here is not that DisneyWorld is inherently bad, but that letting your senior citizen parents pay for you and the person you just met in a bathroom stall at a truck stop to go to DisneyWorld makes you the world's biggest asshole.

Now, granted, part of the problem is that the type of parents who would fund such a trip are also the type of parents who would produce the type of deadbeat loser that would accept such an offer, so it's definitely a chicken/egg conundrum. Who's at fault more? The kid for accepting the generosity, or the parents for not using a condom back in 1978?

I will leave you to ponder that philosophical question.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

The Gym

2010-09-12T13:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

I've recently become concerned about my cardiovascular health and have decided to join a gym. Do you have any good exercise tips for me?

Sincerely,
Trying Not To Die At Age 41

Dear TNTDAA41,

Actually, no. I don't. I stopped paying attention to wellness advice after I was forced to square dance in the seventh grade. If you take nothing else away from my advice columns, at least remember this: Never, under any circumstances, should you ever take fitness tips from a middle-aged junior high school gym teacher wearing a red and white checkered scarf. Those are words to live by.

That being said, I can offer you a number of tips for surviving in a gym environment. I have been to a number of different gyms over the years (none of which, you will note, have square dancing machines), and there are a few things you should know before you go stroke out on the treadmill.

First--and this is very important--unless your gym is located inside the locker room of a professional football team, you are not the most athletically disinclined person there. You just aren't. You will think you are, but you are not. Your average gym goer likes to appear as though he or she is a walking, talking Michelangelo fresco, so you will see these people wearing top-of-the-line gear, grunting on the weight machines, and drinking protein shakes while sprinting at top speed on the treadmill. You will also note that these same people rarely survive more than five minutes at any given exercise. This is sometimes referred to as "circuit training," or, as advice columnists know it, "weakness." So do not be intimidated.

Second, your gym will usually offer personal trainers. Unless you have very specific fitness needs, such as wanting your left thigh to look like a turkey drumstick, you don't need a personal trainer. These people get paid by the hour to convey the following message: "Burn calories." Since I am an advice columnist, and thereby already independently wealthy, I will offer the same message here, free of charge: "Burn calories." You may print out this column and keep it with you when you go to the gym to remind yourself of that message, in case you somehow forget why you've decided to surround yourself with sweaty assholes in unforgiving moisture-wicking shorts.

Third, you should not worry about your appearance at the gym. Wear the following outfit: t-shirt, shorts, socks, sneakers, and deodorant. (PLEASE wear deodorant, especially you, dude in yellow shirt who uses the rowing machine every morning from 6-6:30). For you women, if you consider putting on makeup before you go the gym, you should also consider checking yourself into a mental facility. For you men, if you consider not wearing a shirt, ask yourself the following question: "Am I a model?" If the answer is no, you can't go without the shirt. If the answer is yes, you still can't go without the shirt, given that the modern male model looks as though he's been eating nothing but cocaine and Tic-Tacs for the past two years.

Finally, you will find that people will spend a great deal of time trying to see how far you've gone on the treadmill, or how many flights of stairs you've climbed on the stair machine, or how many gallons of sweat you have produced. Disregard these people. They are the same people who keep meticulous notes about how long you took for lunch at work last Friday and how many times they saw you check the online weather forecast. They are also sociopaths who keep body parts in their pantries, so pay them no heed (except as required to avoid being alone with them near an electric carving knife).

Well, TNTDAA41, I hope this helps. Good luck at your new gym, and remember: If you eat properly, exercise regularly, get 8 hours sleep a night, and drink 10 cups of water a day, you will still die.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Air Travel

2010-07-28T18:21:00.001-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

This weekend, I am flying to South Dakota to see the famous Mitchell Corn Palace. I have mixed feelings about this trip, because, although seeing the Corn Palace has been a lifelong dream of mine, I have never flown on an airplane before and I am nervous about what to expect. Do you have any tips for me?

Sincerely,
Doug
Brockton, MA

Dear Doug,

Doug, first and foremost, I hope you have a really nice time at the Corn Palace. I hope you are blessed with many happy memories of…of whatever it is that you do at the Corn Palace.

Now, onto the topic at hand. You’ve come to the right place, Doug. Your Aunt Slugger has a great deal of air travel experience – so much air travel experience, in fact, that even the strongest drugs cannot suppress the memories. I’ve tried; nothing has worked.

As your Aunt Slugger sees it, there are a number of problems with air travel, which I will list here:

1.) The airlines. These assholes will rob you blind at every opportunity, and there is not one single thing you can do about it. We had the opportunity to stop them, we did. Back when they started charging baggage fees, we should have made a statement by filling our suitcases with rotting catfish and sweaty compression shorts. But we didn’t. I wanted to, but the rest of you apathetic dicks didn't back me up.

2.) Security. I know that some of you are going to defend airport security as being critical to the safety of airplane passengers. I get what you’re saying, I really do. You’re clinging to this dream of an airport security utopia wherein suspected terrorists are caught, honest people are treated with dignity, and deer eat right out of your hand while you go through the metal detector. But you need to face reality here: Our airports would be just as safe--possibly safer--if we put a common dairy cow at the entrance to each terminal.

For those of you who are busy drafting e-mails to me in which you ardently defend airport security, stop now. Stop it. Put down the pen. You are only deluding yourself. Airport security, as it is currently conceived, is - how do I say this diplomatically? - a circus.

First, there is the random screening process. Now, my grievance with the random screening process is not the randomness. Your average complaint out the TSA screening process always involves someone's 90-year-old grandma getting frisked and run through the x-ray machine. I am automatically voiding these complaints. Which is it? Do you want to risk that your grandma gets randomly selected to be screened, or do you want to engage in racial profiling and thereby end up somewhere between Adolf Hitler and dog shit on the moral decency spectrum? That's what I thought.

No, my grievance with the screening process is the screening process. It's stupid. And pointless. I was once randomly selected to be screened at Midway airport in Chicago. Your Aunt Slugger is not proud to admit this, but at the time, I was an accountant. Please don't judge me; I was young and I was desperate. Anyway, I was traveling for work, and I had in my possession both a staple remover and a pair of scissors. When I was selected to be screened, my bag went through the x-ray machine again, and HOLY FUCKING GOD THERE'S SOMETHING IN THIS BAG! THERE'S SOMETHING IN THIS BAG! It turns out that my staple remover was creating a national emergency. They went through every square inch of my bag. They removed the staple remover and inspected it carefully. After no less than five minutes of thorough investigation (during which time I was patted down), they returned the staple remover to its rightful place and I was able to board the plane.

The scissors - THE SCISSORS - were left in place.

And now, I would like for you to envision a world in which a staple remover is deadlier than a pair of scissors. You can't, can you? Right. The modern human brain is not capable of that kind of absurdity, which is hard to believe when you consider that we spend 80-85% of our days pondering the goings-on of Kate Gosselin and Donald Trump.

To preserve your mental hygiene, I will NOT share with you the details of the time I had a pastry shaped like Oscar the Grouch (fuck you for judging me - you know you would've bought it too) and I put it through the x-ray machine in its own plastic container and the security personnel--there were three of them--kept running it through the machine, backing it up, and running it through again to figure out what it was, rather than just, for example, looking at it with their own eyes. No, I will not share that story with you, because it's so fucking stupid that it will make you suicidal if you think about it for too long.

3.) Other Passengers. This is where the bulk of your trouble is going to occur during the average flight. You can mentally accept the fact that the airlines suck, and you can justify the inanity of airport security as being just another of humanity's great fuck-ups (with germ warfare and skinny jeans being among some of the other greats). But the other passengers...well, if the Oscar the Grouch pastry story didn't make you want to kill yourself, your fellow air travel passengers will. Either way, I am expecting about a 90% mortality rate from reading this column.

You will begin seeing problems at check-in (there's always some asshole who cuts you in line or tries to put a child in his or her checked baggage--which is less of a problem these days because the airlines will let that one go with a higher luggage fee), but your real problems will begin at security (of course). Some of the common offenders include

People who don't have their shit ready to go through the x-ray machine
People who refuse to take off their shoes
People who are afraid of that air puffer machine that checks for weapons (GET YOUR ASS IN THE MACHINE OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL BEAT YOU TO WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR LIFE WITH MY STAPLE REMOVER)
People who become upset when security confiscates a full tube of toothpaste (we won't touch on the liquid restrictions - or else I won't be able to finish this column without setting fire to my eyes)
Women in impractical high-heeled shoes (for no specific reason other than they really bother me. Who wears impractical footwear while traveling? Only an idiot.)

If you make it through security without PTSD from being molested by the TSA employees, your next hurdle will be boarding the plane. Now I--because I am a total dipshit--adhere to the rules and only bring one small carry-on and one personal item. I do not (call me a stupid fuck) try to bring a massive duffel bag (which definitely contains a dead body) on the airplane and then become aggravated with the flight attendant when I am unable to fit it in the overhead bin. I would say that on each flight an average of 78% of the passengers are trying to force something inappropriate into the overhead bin.

Once you finally take off (if you make it off the tarmac...good luck), and after you've dealt with the guy who is sitting in your aisle seat and says, "Oh, it's OK, I don't mind the aisle" and pretends as though his middle seat is more attractive and then sighs audibly when you insist on occupying the aisle seat for which you paid an unreasonable fee, you will also encounter

People who scream every time there is mild turbulence
People who invade your personal space
People who make cellular phone calls despite clear rules prohibiting it
People who recline their seat backs onto your lap during the ascent and descent
People who hit the flight attendant call button instead of the reading light button and don't realize it and then become confused when a flight attendant shows up
People who try to talk to you when you're sleeping
People who try to talk to you when you're reading
People who tell you that they are in the frozen ravioli sales business (really; I wish I were making this up) and then ask what you do and then lecture you on your specific line of work as though they, being in the frozen ravioli business, know more about your line of work (which is not the frozen ravioli business) than you do.

And so on. It really doesn't end until you get home. You will also have problems getting off the plane, going through customs, getting your luggage, and then getting home and realizing that the Hostess pudding pie that you carefully packed in your checked baggage was confiscated by the TSA. I could keep going, but I have given myself an aneurysm.

In conclusion, Doug, Google Maps tells me that it's a quick and painless 27-hour drive to the Mitchell Corn Palace. Have fun.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Bicyclists

2010-06-06T09:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

Hello. My name is Jeff, and I am a resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Now that summer is upon us, I have noticed that the bicyclists -

Say no more, Jeff. I already know what you're going to ask. You want to know whether or not you would be charged with manslaughter or murder if you just rolled your Subaru Outback right over one of those skinny jean-wearing fucknuts. Although I am not, technically, an attorney, and I do not, technically, have a juris doctorate, and I have not, technically, passed the Massachusetts bar exam, I did receive a B- in an undergraduate Constitutional law course and I usually keep Law & Order on in the background when TNT is running a marathon, so I do fancy myself something of an expert on the subject. The correct answer is neither, because a Subaru Outback won't get the job done and you'll just end up with a messenger bag stuck in your wheel well. It's not worth the effort.

Some of you are reading this with horror and shock and are saying to yourselves, "This column is offensive. I ride my bike all over town and you have just referred to all bicyclists as 'fucknuts' and implied that you would run me over if you had access to a steam roller." That's a typical bicyclist response. You read this column just like you go through intersections - without fucking looking. If you READ ON (i.e. STOP AT A FUCKING RED LIGHT), you will find some CLARIFYING STATEMENTS.

So your Aunt Slugger is not opposed to bicycling as a concept. In fact, your Aunt Slugger used to be quite the avid cyclist. Bicycling is an energy efficient, enjoyable, low-impact way to burn off last night's raw cookie dough binge. With proper gear (a helmet, rear and front lights, light or reflective clothing, and glitter tassles on the handlebars), bicycling can even be a good way to get to and from work (so long as your coworkers aren't slipping on the sweat that's dripping off your nose).

The problem, as your Aunt Slugger sees it, is that there appears to be general confusion among bicyclists; they appear to believe that they are neither pedestrians nor moving vehicles. So I will provide the authoritative clarifying declaration: YOU ARE VEHICLES. THIS MEANS YOU CANNOT RIDE THE WRONG WAY DOWN A NARROW ONE-WAY CAMBRIDGE STREET WHEN AN EMERGENCY VEHICLE IS TRYING TO GET BY. This also means that you cannot (for example) ride down the SIDEWALK next to a street where there is a DEDICATED BIKE LANE and then swerve to narrowly avoid hitting your Aunt Slugger as she steps out onto the sidewalk from her apartment building and then SWEAR AUDIBLY as though it was my fault for having the balls to exit my apartment building on foot.

Bicyclists should also be advised that they need to actually adhere to posted traffic signs. So if you are (for example) approaching an intersection with a stop sign and a pedestrian crosswalk that your Aunt Slugger is utilizing to cross the road safely, you ACTUALLY NEED TO COME TO A STOP. I realize that stop signs can be confusing, given their giant octagonal size, red coloring, and bold letters that read "STOP," but when in doubt, err on the side of caution and COME TO A STOP instead of plowing forth at 25 mph and forcing your Aunt Slugger to make a sideways dive out of your path.

A few other points:

1.) If you are wearing all black clothing and do not have a headlight and tail light on your bike in direct violation of Massachusetts state law and you are bicycling against a red light in Central Square at 11pm, you are not, in fact, entitled to make a rude gesture when I almost hit you.

2.) If you decide to bicycle across a major bridge during a snowstorm in February, you do not actually get to scream at a bus that is accidentally blocking the bike lane because the bike lane is not visible due to the fact that the road has not yet been plowed. YOU. ARE. BIKING. IN. A. SNOWSTORM.

3.) We know that you're fashion forward. We can't help but notice your skinny jeans, $87 witty t-shirt from Urban Outfitters, and sneakers without arch support. It's like looking at a train wreck; we want to look away, but we can't. Nevertheless, your thirst for ridiculous and impractical fashion DOES NOT ABSOLVE YOU OF YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO WEAR A HELMET. Given that you roll around town like an infant on roller skates, YOU ARE A CLINICAL IDIOT IF YOU DO NOT WEAR PROTECTIVE HEADGEAR. Of course, maybe you've weighed the risk; maybe you've said to yourself that you are not concerned about protecting your pea-size reptilian brain from injury. And that makes sense from your perspective, but I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE SPLATTERED ALL OVER THE TRADER JOE'S PARKING LOT. Even if YOU don't care about head injury, the REST OF US still have to be able to sleep at night without having nightmares about your headless, skinny-jean clad body.

Before you start drafting hate mail, let me just point out that I am aware that motorists aren't necessarily innocent here, especially the dark blue Dodge Caravan with license plate # W41 PT2 that cut me off in the Target parking lot yesterday. So I don't want to get a bunch of letters pissing and moaning about the time you you were locking up your bike at Whole Foods and got sideswiped by an SUV whose driver was reading a book, eating lunch, and waxing her eyebrows at the wheel, OK?

Jeff, I hope this answered your question, whatever your question was.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Public Transit

2010-02-01T13:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

It is my understanding that you use public transit on a regular basis. Do you have any tips for those of us who are considering making the switch?

Sincerely,
Randolph from Manitoba

Dear Randolph,

Why yes, in point of fact, I do use public transit on a regular basis, and I have the immune system to prove it. Over the years, public transportation has gotten a bad rap because it's never on time and it's dirty and there's crime sometimes and the subway rats will feast on your toes if you stand in one place for more than nineteen seconds (two seconds in New York City). But in reality, people who are afraid of public transit for those reasons are probably the same people who buy organic rutabagas at Whole Foods, and their opinions are automatically void. No, you should be afraid of public transit for the same reason you should be afraid of major sporting events, corporate team-building activities, and PTA meetings: Because these things bring out the worst in humanity, and that reality can be hard to take, especially if you are not medicated properly.

So my job is to prepare you for the kinds of people you will see aboard public transit. Knowing your enemy is half the battle, readers. Below is a list of the most common types of public transit offenders; keep this list on hand at all times.

We will start with

People Who Talk on Their Cell Phones. This group is multiplying at an unprecedented rate, now that cell phone technology has improved and many devices can now receive a signal in an underground train. The human race is capable of a mind-blowing number of inane cell phone conversations, and you will hear most of them on public transit. Most people are oblivious to the fact that they are talking at top volume, but some people will try to keep their voices low, and they think they are being polite. Notice to those people: WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU, and YOU ARE STILL BEING AN ASSHOLE. Some people also believe that they are entitled to take business calls while in an enclosed subway car. If you receive a work-related phone call while you're on a train or a bus, ask yourself this question: "Am I a doctor?" If the answer is "No," then you are not permitted to take the call. There are no exceptions. If you are the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, that $80 trillion unregulated hedge fund will still be collapsing when you get off the train, so you can deal with it then. God gave us overpriced text messaging plans for a reason; use them.

And speaking of things that are overpriced, let's talk about

People Who Wear Large Camping Backpacks. I have no objection if you want to commune with nature; my concern is that I now have two broken ribs from getting a Nalgene directly to the chest. Be aware of your volume, people. If your backpack weighs more than my grandmother, it's time to take a cab, carbon footprint or not.

And on the subject of other people who should take cabs, let's discuss

People Who Have Never Used Public Transit and Have No Common Sense. Now, let me preface this one by noting that your Aunt Slugger grew up in a small Midwestern town that did not have an extensive public transit system, so I never used it until I got to a larger city. So Aunt Slugger is not passing judgment on folks who have never used public transit; their blood pressure is probably lower because of that fact. But Aunt Slugger IS passing judgment on the fucknuts who have never used public transit AND are totally oblivious to their surroundings. If you don't know whether you need to be on a specific train, DO NOT STAND IN THE DOORWAY AND BLOCK THE OTHER PASSENGERS FROM BOARDING THE TRAIN WHILE YOU CONSULT YOUR MAP. Try to have a game plan before you get to the doorway. Ask another passenger. Countless people travel all around the world and are able to board trains and buses in foreign cities without holding up the entire metropolitan transit system. Model this behavior.

These are often the same people who become confused when they have to stand on the train or bus because it is crowded. Now, let me once again preface this by noting that Aunt Slugger has never taken a formal physics class. I was a high school dropout, and a political science major in college, which is essentially the same thing as not having gone to college. So I dodged physics and still don't understand why your face explodes if you go down too far while scuba diving. Yet somehow - against all odds - I figured out that you need to hold onto something while standing on a moving train. And if you make the mistake once, that's fine; train and bus drivers are highly skilled in the art of stopping and starting at random. But if you REPEATEDLY find yourself being thrown eighteen feet and landing in someone's lap every time the train starts moving, it is TIME TO GRAB AHOLD OF SOMETHING. Please. For your own safety. Please.

Moving on, let's not forget

People Who Are Afraid to Touch Anything. I was once on a crowded train with a woman who doused herself with antibacterial hand gel after inadvertently touching a handrail. The key to a successful relationship with public transit is making peace with the fact that you will be exposed, on a daily basis, to some highly toxic shit. If you make it the week without contracting leprosy, you've done well for yourself. The same applies to riding in an airplane, sitting in a doctor's office waiting room, or eating a Filet o' Fish. If you can't come to grips with this reality, you DO NOT BELONG ON PUBLIC TRANSIT.

Finally, we should be sure to talk about

People Who Are Afraid of You. These are people who are riding public transit out of some tragic necessity - like their vehicle was towed because they parked it in front of a fire station - and are clearly VERY AFRAID of you and the rest of the users of public transit. These are the people who say things like, "Don't ride the [name of subway line] because it goes to [name of a neighborhood without Whole Foods]." During rush hour traffic, these people will grip their bags in white-knuckled terror, because in their minds, anyone who rides public transit is desperate and will rob them blind, despite the fact that the average rider is a 30-something disheartened finance professional who is contemplating the cold reality that he or she will spend the next 30 years of his or life reading the Wall Street Journal and looking at Excel spreadsheets. These people are more annoying than any of the aforementioned groups, because they will gasp in terror whenever you open your backpack to dig out your keys, your iPod, or your copy of Betty Crocker's Guide to Bisquick.

So there you have it. These are the folks you need to look out for, readers. I'm not saying there's anything you can DO about them, but at least you won't be surprised when you get hit in the face with a camping backpack, or when your eardrum bursts from listening to someone yell "ARE YOU THERE? HELLO? I THINK I LOST YOU" into his or her cell phone, or when you try to get out some chapstick and someone accuses you of going for your gun.

I hope that helps, Randolph, and that you are able to navigate the complex public transit systems of Manitoba with ease.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Visiting the Dentist

2009-12-10T12:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

I am supposed to go the dentist for a routine cleaning soon, and I understand that you had your teeth cleaned recently. Do you have any tips or suggestions?

Lars from Winston-Salem

Dear Lars,

Well, Lars, I'd like to tell you that it'll be all right. I'd like to tell you not to worry. I'd like to tell you not to lose sleep over it. Yes, Lars, I'd LIKE to tell you all of that, but Aunt Slugger doesn't believe in sugarcoating the truth. It's going to be awful, Lars, and if you have any sort of suicidal tendencies, you may want to pre-medicate.

The first thing you need to know is that brushing three times a day and flossing after you eat a bean burrito from Qdoba is no longer considered proper dental hygiene. And if you use a manual toothbrush, you may as well have someone take a baseball bat to your teeth and just ask for a whole new set when you get to the dentist.

Up until recently, your Aunt Slugger fancied herself something of a model of good oral hygiene. She brushes three times a day, rinses with mouthwash, and flosses occasionally. She has had only one cavity in more than three decades of life, and has never had to wear braces. While she acknowledges her flossing shortcomings, she doesn't necessarily think of herself as a terrible person and until recently did not experience white-knuckled terror at the dentist's office.

WELL. Readers, if you find yourself in Aunt Slugger's camp, you need to know that you are, in the mind of your dental hygienist, a hardened serial killer. It turns out that proper dental hygiene consists of brushing with an electric toothbrush, flossing, rinsing with Listerine, rinsing with anticavity mouthwash, and (get ready for this one) MASSAGING YOUR GUMS. You can imagine how much of an epic asshole your Aunt Slugger felt like when she had to admit that not only is her flossing sporadic, but she also doesn't get around to massaging her gums very often (i.e. never).

So given that engaging in modern dental hygiene would effectively take up about 95% of the average person's day, and given that most people have other obligations - like working, taking care of family members, and sitting on the couch with a bucket of fried chicken while watching Lifetime movies - you might think that your dental hygienist would be used to hearing people say that they don't necessarily find the time to light some candles and massage their gums for twenty minutes. You might also think that your dental hygienist would look at you and say, "You're a grown adult with a full-time job, and while I'd love for you to make time to give your mouth a spa treatment, I understand if you cannot."

And you would be wrong. Your Aunt Slugger was forced to PROVE TO HER DENTAL HYGIENIST THAT SHE KNOWS HOW TO FLOSS AND MASSAGE HER GUMS. She was also told that there is "no excuse for not flossing," which is actually false, because the excuse "I forgot" is more than sufficient.

But being interrogated by the East German Secret Police is not the only thing you have to worry about, Lars. You should also prepare yourself for the "Ultrasonic." After her bug-eyed hygienist made your Aunt Slugger feel like a complete dickhead, she used a high-powered device that operates a bit like a miniature fire hose to allegedly remove Aunt Slugger's plaque (of which there was reportedly a minimal amount, FYI, but this did NOT mean that Aunt Slugger was congratulated for her efforts - she was again reminded of the fact that she should be beaten to death for having small amounts of plaque on her back molars). Aunt Slugger also had to hold the suction thing (presumably because the hygienist's other hand was busy giving Aunt Slugger the middle finger for not flossing regularly), which didn't work, because most of the water from the Ultrasonic splashed onto her face instead of onto her teeth. Let us just say that it would not surprise Aunt Slugger if the Ultrasonic is also marketed as a waterboarding tool.

So there you have it, Lars. Be prepared to say goodbye to your happy childhood memories of receiving a rhubarb fluoride treatment and a smiling tooth sticker from your cheerful neighborhood dentist. Times have changed, Lars. In fact, as we speak, your dentist is probably interviewing former Gitmo interrogators to be your dental hygienist. I wish you all the best, Lars, but you may want to wish your loved ones farewell before you go get those teeth cleaned.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Holidays with the Family

2009-12-05T20:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

What is the best way to survive a holiday meal at your spouse's crazy grandparents' house?

Sincerely,

Pass the Scotch For My Sanity

Readers, the holiday season is upon us! For many of us, this means tons of great opportunities to interact with our beloved family members and add more scars to our livers.

PTSFMS, I am sorry I didn't get to this question in time for Thanksgiving. Assuming you aren't hooked up to a ventilator somewhere after trying to impale yourself repeatedly with a meat thermometer, I hope this advice will at least come in handy for the Christmas season.

In order to properly answer this question, it's important to ascertain exactly how crazy your grandparents-in-law are. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being "they let the cat eat fresh Atlantic salmon at the dining room table," 5 being "there are puddles of urine on the stairs," and 10 being "you aren't sure whether this is a honey-glazed ham or a human thigh," exactly how crazy are we talking here?

For grandparents that register anywhere between a 1 and 4, you are probably fine to rely exclusively on your scotch, though I still recommend a single malt Lowland scotch, served directly out of the bottle. You're also going to want to maintain a cranberry sauce to scotch ratio (CSSR) of 1:12.

In-laws that clock in between a 5 and 8 require more advance preparation. In the days leading up to your visit, you should develop a debilitating addiction to valium or xanax. On the day of the visit, you should pre-medicate by telling your local animal control officer that there is a bear in your backyard, and then stepping in front of the tranquilizer gun at just the right moment. (This may take several tries.) You will also want to wear waterproof hunting boots, and you should only eat foods whose pedigree can be established with certainty (i.e. you opened the can of Beanee Weenies yourself). Your CSSR should be 1:24.

When dealing with relatives that score a 9 or 10 on the scale, you should maintain complete control of your faculties (which unfortunately means no scotch, but feel free to soak up as many shirley temples as you can). Citing allergies to gluten, egg, legumes, turkey, dairy, nuts, and water, you should bring your own food. And if your relatives leave the room, listen through the wall for the words "It puts the lotion in the bucket."

But the best way to survive a holiday meal at your in-laws' house? Don't go. Become a Scientologist, shun your extended relatives, and enjoy some peace and damn quiet with a Hungryman dinner in front of the TV.

Best of luck to you.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Office Dress Codes

2009-12-05T12:35:00.000-08:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

As you know, most offices have some sort of dress code policy. While perusing my office's dress code, I noticed that it addressed short skirts, flip flops, and jeans, but I did not find anything in the policy regarding tight fitting shirts. Is there a polite way to tell someone that his or her shirt is so tight that I am concerned that the buttons may pop off and land in my eye? Also, please confirm whether there is a law against neon-colored shirts in an office environment.

Sincerely,

Go Celtics!

Dear Larry Byrd:

First of all, I'd like to thank you for addressing this matter, because we certainly can't rely on our elected officials to deal with this. While they were sending 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan this week, the rest of us were wondering when someone will send 30,000 troops stop people from buying size XS graphic tees at Urban Outfitters.

Well, don't hold your breath. It's the elephant in the room - literally - and no one wants to deal with it. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that there is at least one United States Senator inside a Washington D.C. Brooks Brothers right now, trying to squeeze into a slim-fit, non-iron tattersall diddy with French cuffs and a 14.5" neck, when in fact we all know that the poor bastard would really just be better off draping a queen size comforter around his body and calling it a day.

So we can't expect legislative action, and ever since that cottage cheese-eating, New Hampshire rock-climbing hippie David Souter retired from the Supreme Court, we can't expect any majority opinions forcing people to buy the correct size, either.

Readers, this issue remains a mystery to me. Except in the case of certain college football sweatshirts, very few articles of clothing actually showcase the size on a visible portion of the garment. Yet people seem ABSOLUTELY INSISTENT on buying the wrong size and thereby drawing attention to any imperfections. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Aunt Slugger hasn't eaten her fair share of Hostess Pudding Pies dipped in Cheez Whiz over the years. What I'm saying is that God gave us fabric stores for a reason, and we should not be afraid to go buy twenty yards of white muslin and fashion ourselves a housedress after a hard night of drinking and dunking fried Clark bars in tubs of butter.

So to get back to the question at hand, the unfortunate answer, Larry B., is that until we see some action at the federal level, your best course of action is to buy a pair of welding goggles and a kevlar vest to protect yourself from projectile buttons.

Oh, and if the culprit is not only wearing tight clothing, but also neon clothing, you should pour hydrochloric acid in your eyes.

Hope this helps.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Hospital Waiting Rooms

2009-10-22T07:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

Recently, my sister and I spent some time in a hospital waiting room with a young man that tried to impress us (and seemingly hit on my sister) by telling us about his collection of 9 millimeter guns and a certain "Desert Storm" weapon and silencer he was hoping to purchase. My sister nodded along and feigned interest while I put on some headphones and pretended not to hear him. Keeping in mind that his uncle was sharing a hospital room with our father, what was the correct way to respond to this situation?

Sincerely,
Dad, We Love You, But This Waiting Room is Really Inconvenient

Dear DWLYBTWRIRI:

First of all, it's important for Aunt Slugger to determine specifically WHICH Desert Storm weapon your waiting room friend was looking to purchase? Was it the Tapeworm, Hopper-9, or LYF-07 Stymie? Because if it was the LYF-07 Stymie, that is a BAD ASS weapon and if this guy really needs to get one, I can certainly put him in touch with--what was that? Oh, fine. Sorry, DWLYBTWRIRI, but the stuffed shirts in our legal department have asked me not to continue on with this paragraph.

Whatever.

Anyway, DWLYBTWRIRI, let's make sure we have all the facts here. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm going to sum up the situation with bullet points (no pun intended):

- You were in a hospital waiting room.
- Your father was hospitalized.
- The gun afficianado's uncle was also hospitalized.
- This guy decided, with emotions running high, that there's no better time to bag a lady than while his uncle is languishing in a hospital bed a few feet away.
- He further decided that he would put on his best game and discuss his gun collection.

Quite frankly, you have nothing to complain about. Your hospital waiting room experience is only atypical in the sense that you were not in the presence of at least nineteen other psychotic whackjobs. I include the emergency room doctors in this statement as well, all of whom have been awake since 1973 and all of whom believe that the single greatest medical threat facing our nation is earwax. I have never been to a doctor's office or hospital and NOT had my ears drained, cleaned, and buffed. You can go into an emergency room HOLDING YOUR LIVER IN YOUR HAND, and you will be told that you have a serious earwax situation. And for those of you who think that the cure for earwax doesn't involve strapping you down and putting a hot pink liquid laxative in your ear, you obviously have never lived.

So you do not have my sympathy, DWLYBTWRIRI. Not at all. The fact that you only had one conversation about silencers during the course of your wait means that you got off lucky.

Your earwax problem, on the other hand, is out of control, but we'll save that for another column.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Car Buying Tips

2009-10-07T09:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

I am in the market for a new car. Do you have any car-buying tips you can share?

Sincerely,
Ted of North Dakota

Dear Ted,

Ted, I'm glad you came to me with this important question. Buying a car can be a painful, labor-intensive process that can leave you financially and emotionally drained. Many people--like your dear Aunt Slugger, for example--have had such bad experiences buying cars that they have plans to either never buy another car, or commit suicide when it becomes manifest that buying another car is necessary. But hopefully, with my tips, you will be able to drive off the lot with your new car while whistling "The Next Episode" by Dr. Dre, featuring Snoop Dogg.

To begin, it's important to understand that there are four steps to buying a car. These are

1.) Browsing.
2.) Selecting.
3.) Negotiating.
4.) Death.

No! Sorry! The fourth step is actually "Purchasing." My mistake. In this column, I will provide you with detailed guidance for each step of the process. Each section is formatted to print on a 4"x6" notecard for you to use as a reference while you're huddled inside a bathroom stall, trying to get some time away from your car salesperson.

STEP 1, BROWSING:
The first thing you will need to do is decide what type of car you're interested in, and you can do this by browsing the lots at car dealerships. The ideal time to browse car lots is at 3:30a.m. on Christmas Day, because you can be reasonably certain that you will be left alone, but this is not always practical, and you might have to browse during normal daylight hours.

If you do decide to browse during daylight hours, you should plan which day you intend to go browsing, and then spend a few months before that training with an Olympic sprinter. This will give you a fighting chance of outrunning the salespeople that see you browsing. Although the cheetah has long been considered the fastest land animal, recent studies have suggested that a car salesman traveling at top speed toward a potential Honda buyer might actually be faster. Don't be deceived by appearances, either: Even a rotund car salesperson can go from donut to 60mph in less than two seconds.

STEP 2, SELECTING:
Once you have browsed the full range of vehicle options, you should narrow your choice down to a Toyota, because that is what Aunt Slugger drives. You should decide whether you want cloth interior or leather interior, manual transmission or automatic transmission, four-door or two-door, etc. You should write your selection down on a piece of paper and hand this to the car salesman, who will say, "You know, we have something like that in stock," and then he will take you out to look at something completely different. Keep referring to your piece of paper, and eventually, you might get something resembling what you originally requested. Keep in mind that you will never get the color you want, and you will always have to pay for some kind of embellishment that you don't want, like a sun roof or an espresso maker in the glove compartment.

STEP 3, NEGOTIATING:
There are a number of online research tools that will provide statistics on the amount of money that you should pay for a particular vehicle. No two tools will show the same amount, and it doesn't matter, anyway, because your car salesman will dismiss any pricing literature as being biased because it is sponsored by [name one--another car company, OPEC, Michael Moore, the French government, Charles Manson, etc]. To determine how much you want to pay, you should look at the sticker price, lob 20% off of that, and come to terms with the fact that you're going to get fucked no matter what you do.

STEP 4, PURCHASING:
Once you are done negotiating, you will meet with a financing expert, who will promptly change the price upon which you have just agreed. This is because your financing expert will start tossing in extras without your knowledge. Watch your financing expert closely, because if you're not careful, you'll drive off the lot with a fifteen-year limited warranty on your cup holders.

Your financing expert will also try to steal your trade-in. He or she will say things like, "Well, I mean, your antique 1948 Rolls Royce isn't even LISTED in the Kelley Blue Book, so you're lucky we're giving you 87 cents for it." This is why you are better off trying to sell your car to a strung-out college student on Craigslist.

Well, Ted, I hope this helps! Remember, buying a new vehicle doesn't have to be a terrible experience. With my tips, Ted, your car-buying experience should be an easy and painless--oh, who am I kidding? It's going to be fucking awful. You'd better get started on a bottle of valium now.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Fashion

2009-10-06T06:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

Not only is October the time to brush up on Holiday baking and other various domestic duties, it is also the time to brush up on Fall Fashion and look forward to Spring 2010 trends. I have come across several new "trends" and I need your opinion. Sometimes (especially in the case of the sequined forehead heart) it is tough to differentiate the outrageously awful from the outrageously fabulous fashion idea:

1.) Sequin Heart on forehead? Lindsey Lohan was the artistic advisor for Ungaro's collection--made its debut in Paris this past week. Sexy? Office appropriate?

2.) "Mantyhose"---by lingerie designer Unconditional. Should I buy these for my (somewhere out there) boyfriend??

3.) "Tufted" fur jackets? Will PETA allow this? I do live in the Northeast, tough territory.
4.) "Baby Bump Pad" by Jean Paul Gaultier - I'm not pregnant, but isn't this the sexiest???!!!

Thanks for all your advice.
Sincerely,
Is the Baby Bump a Good Way to Get a Date?

Dear ITBBAGWTGAD,

I'd like to begin this column by thanking ITBBAGWTGAD for addressing this critical topic. Although recent data suggest that the world financial markets are on the road to recovery, we are still plagued by news of lay-offs around the country, which means that you, readers, need to act swiftly and shrewdly when it comes to making your spring fashion choices. Appearance is everything, and you wouldn't want to find out that you ended up on the chopping block because you wore the wrong shoes with your mantyhose.

First of all, let's be very clear on something: We here in the general populace cannot be relied upon to make avant-garde and fashion-forward decisions about our clothing. This is why we have fashion designers. Were it not for fashion designers, people would wear pajamas to work, high heels wouldn't exist, and President Barack Obama would give his state of the union address wearing nothing more than a fleece bathrobe and a shower cap, and we as a society wouldn't think anything of it. The only thing saving us from sinking to such depravity and comfort is the fashion community, and we should always defer to their judgment. If they send a woman down the runway wearing a hunting vest and a box of fish sticks, you should grab your rifle and tartar sauce and walk with confidence.

Unfortunately, due to strict, unwritten social guidelines, some items are not appropriate for some situations. So, while a giant sequin forehead heart might be considered acceptable or even desirable in a private equity firm, a rheumatologist's office might frown upon it, or at least only allow it on Fridays. The same goes for the tufted fur jacket. Many clubs and bars will ONLY allow you onto the premises if your clothing appears to serve no function whatsoever and is made from sloth carcasses, whereas other establishments have standing orders to club you to death if you wear anything other than a garment made entirely from recycled flaxseed. In these situations, you should use your best judgment, or ask a friend who might be familiar with the scene. If you can't gauge the dress code, it is ALWAYS best to err on the side of caution and wear your mantyhose.

As for the cutting-edge maternity shirt from Jean Paul Gaultier, I can think of no other single piece of maternity attire that says, "I am a classy, confident pregnant woman, and I shall wear this beautiful shirt that resembles--in both style and comfort level--a gladiator breastplate." You should wear this top regardless of your pregnancy status, as I can say with total confidence that this garment will net you a lot of attention from 19-year-old drunk college students, people who like to re-enact ancient battle scenes, and men who are legally blind.

Good luck navigating the fashion waters, readers!

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

(Photos courtesy www.nymag.com)

Baking FAQ

2009-10-05T11:14:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

Well, it's October already, and you know what that means! It means that the inspection sticker on my car is expired. But it also means that the holiday season is fast approaching, which means that you're going to be spending a lot of time in the kitchen--making cookies for your kids' teachers, roasting turkeys, baking pumpkin bread, and trying to get the cranberry sauce to come out of the can in one piece. So it is time for my annual holiday baking FAQ!!! The list below contains the questions I receive the most from you, my dear readers.

Happy baking!

Q: My pregnant wife thinks its okay to wear (and get dirty) my hooded sweatshirts and other clothes, but then she gets all up in my face when she doesn't have any clean panties because I've worn them and--
A: READERS, this is a FAMILY-ORIENTED BAKING FAQ. Please save this for another FAQ.

Q: I can't get my pie crust to turn out right. It's always soggy in the middle. Do you have any suggestions?
A: Common baking mishap. As it turns out, many pie crust recipes are lacking a critical ingredient called "pre-made pie crusts from the refrigerated dinner roll section." Add this ingredient to the pie pan first, and then mix your other ingredients and leave them on the counter.

Q: I would really like a 9-inch round springform pan, but it's expensive. Are there any substitutes?
A: Yes, a 9x13 casserole dish is actually the same thing. It's a marketing gimmick.

Q: Can I use butter to grease a baking sheet instead of cooking spray?
A: If you're trying to kill your family with saturated fat, then yes, by all means, use the butter, and see if you can look at yourself in the mirror the next morning, you selfish pig.

Q: Last weekend, I was making foie gras souffle with a duck confit, and I was whisking the egg whites when--
A: WOW, Julia Child, whenever you're done bragging--we can wait.

Q: No, I was just wondering whether--
A: We're still waiting.

Q: But...never mind.
A: Right.

Q: I am having a fondue party, and I am wondering what kind of cheese you'd recommend I use?
A: There are only two types of cheese, actually, that should be used for melting, cooking or baking, and these are plain Velveeta and pepperjack Velveeta. I'd recommend pepperjack for your fondue party, since plain Velveeta might seem a bit too pedestrian.

Q: I've heard that you can use applesauce in place of oil in brownies. Is this true?
A: If you would like tasteless, flavorless brownies that you can also use to scour your kitchen counter, then yes, applesauce is a great substitute.

Q: I mean, there's nothing wrong with wearing my wife's underwear--
A: You again--GET OFF THIS FAQ, DAMMIT.

Office microwaves

2009-10-02T06:58:00.001-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger:

I work in a small office where there is a communal microwave. On occasion, my coworkers like to reheat fish in this microwave, and it smells like a rotting orca corpse on a hot summer's day. What should I do?

Signed,
If I Wanted to Work in a Seaworld Graveyard I Would At Least Be Living Someplace Sunny

Dear IIWTWIASGIWALBLSS:

This question comes to us from Cambridge, Massachusetts, home of the world's most prestigious universities, top-notch scientific research firms, and an unsurpassed number of self-centered motherfuckers. What surprises me more than the fact that anyone would deem it appropriate to reheat fish in a communal microwave is the fact that IIWTWIASGIWALBLSS seems genuinely shocked by this behavior.

Cambridge is the same town where bicyclists regularly speed the wrong way down narrow one-way streets and then demand the Congressional Medal of Honor after transit buses accidentally plow them down like common roadkill. So we should not be surprised when a Cambridge resident throws some haddock with onion-n-garlic sauce on a paper towel, sets the microwave on high for eight minutes, and then walks away to post an angry blog entry complaining about how an ambulance sped through a green light and almost ran him over while he was running a red light on his bicycle in a pedestrian crosswalk.

But I digress. This is a particularly difficult situation because people who microwave fish are several levels removed from other, lesser offenders, like people who leave their egg salad sandwiches in the fridge for two weeks. Your basic egg salad offender will eventually respond to subtle comments like, "Is there a dead body in this fridge?" People who microwave fish, on the other hand, will never, ever take the hint.

You could try retaliating in kind by putting something equally horrific in the microwave, like a forty-pound bag of rancid clams marinating in venison broth, but this could only serve to encourage the offender, and before you know it, he or she will be preparing raw catfish on the office fax machine.

The real solution, IIWTWIASGIWALBLSS, is to change the offender's fundamental attitude toward microwaving fish. I'm not talking about sitting him down and politely telling him that he almost put two people in a coma the last time he had leftover swordfish; that will never work. The key is to get him to believe that he doesn't really want to microwave fish.

Fortunately, since you are located in Cambridge, this should be relatively easy. The average Cantabridgian (so called because "resident of Cambridge" is not considered pretentious enough) is extremely impressionable when it comes to health and health food. Work that angle. The next time you see the offender heading for the microwave, you should casually say, "I'm surprised you're microwaving that; I thought raw [whatever it is--salmon, crab legs, shark] was better for you because it has more [pick a scientific word--antioxidants, Omega-3s, botulism] than when you microwave it." NOTE: This won't work if the fish is part of one of those frozen meals that you see at the grocery store. In this case, you would be advised to just suck it up and take the destruction of property charge after you take a baseball bat to the microwave.

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

New home

2009-10-01T06:08:00.001-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

At the age of 33, I have just moved into what is essentially a single study dorm room. I share a bathroom with three complete strangers, although a short, excitable, Singaporean guy introduced himself and was very nice. Apparently, one of the other residents is 'an old lady - don't touch her boxes* - she'll know'.

How should I make this more of a home away from home?

Signed,
V of London

* these boxes are stacked on the couch in the communal lounge area

Dear V of London,

Normally, I would suggest that you hang up posters of majestic underwater scenes or kittens playing with yarn, even if you hate dolphins and cats. I would also suggest that you plug in one of those cookie-scented oil devices and crochet a doily that reads "Home is where the heart is." These suggestions would have the dual effect of making you feel more at home and boosting my popularity among middle-aged women in Kansas.

But your situation seems a bit more extreme, and the solution is much more complex than simply mounting a dead sea bass to your wall and waiting for your neighbors to turn up and ask if you'd like to go fishing with them.

You will need to establish your authority immediately, like in prison. Get a conspicuous tattoo, like a full-back portrait of a skeleton holding a sawed-off shotgun and riding a motorcycle. Make references to "heading upstate" on a "manslaughter beef" in the '90s. Be vague if you're asked whether you use heroin, and "inadvertently" leave a belt tied around your bicep while you're making pasta in the kitchen. Leave a ski mask and crowbar next to those boxes on the couch. Keep a box of hollow-point bullets in the silverware drawer. Mindlessly sharpen knives while you watch television. Maintain a cage of subway rats in your bedroom.

Use the Singaporean to your advantage. He could be a potential ally, or he could just mysteriously disappear if you need to send a stronger message to your housemates.

Once you are firmly established as the alpha roommate, you should feel free to settle in and make yourself at home by baking pies, curling up on the couch with a good book, and forcing your housemates to buff your feet and clip your toenails.

Good luck making your house a home!

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Pants

2009-09-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger,

What is a polite way to tell the undergraduate man in the coffee shop that while it's great that he's wearing silky black boxers today, I don't need to see 4 inches of them before I even get my coffee.

Signed,
PullYourPantsUpSlim

Dear PYPUS:

First and foremost, it is important for you to realize that you are not the only person on our mortal coil grappling with this profound question. People tend to ask this question right after they ask, "Aunt Slugger, does God really exist?" because it's hard to believe in a benevolent deity when you involuntarily spend 85% of your day looking at other people's undergarments.

And I'm afraid I don't have a good answer for you, PYPUS. Lesser advice columnists will suggest that you tug at the individual's pant leg so that his pants fall off and he is so embarrassed that he will begin wearing his pants at his natural waistline. But this is flawed logic for a couple of reasons:

First of all, anyone who has seen young men wear their pants around their mid-thigh will automatically wonder how the pants stay in place. Even with a belt, the pants still appear to be defying gravity. Therefore, we can only assume that these young men have developed a highly sophisticated pulley system under their nine-sizes-too-large shirts to keep their pants firmly in place. So tugging at the pants would probably not accomplish much besides landing you in the county lockup on an assault charge.

Second, and more important, it is a common misconception that college students are embarrassed to be seen wearing only their underwear. Most college students, if given the choice, would stroll around campus wearing nothing more than a Q-tip and Birkenstocks. This is because the brain of a college student is not fully developed like yours or mine; in fact, recent studies have shown that undergraduates are clinically incapable of thinking about anything else besides naked people and grade inflation. The result is that most college students are looking for any excuse--any excuse at all--to remove their clothing. So by tugging at the pant leg of an offender, you would only be doing him a favor.

I hate to say this, PYPUS, but your best bet is either to make your coffee at home using one of many inexpensive, mass-produced coffee makers, or to gouge your eyes out.

Hope this helps.
Aunt Slugger

Cell Phone Etiquette

2009-09-30T14:08:00.001-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger: What is a polite way to tell the woman that I see on the train EVERYDAY to stop talking so damn loudly about effing nothing for the ENTIRE hour journey? Signed, Ready to Kill

Readers, this letter comes to us all the way from the United Kingdom! So you can sleep soundly tonight knowing that you're getting top-notch advice from a column with an international following. And as the Church of Scientology and Paris Hilton prove, anything with an international following must be worth its salt.

Ready to Kill, you've posed an interesting question here. A lot of this depends on the laws of your particular state/region/municipality/country. A person residing in a lawless society--like Somalia, certain areas of Brazil, or the Wellesley Township Whole Foods--should feel comfortable taking the phone and using it as a makeshift toilet without fear of punishment by the authorities.

But this gets a bit trickier in more civilized society, where it is unfortunately still considered a bit gauche to publicly flay individuals who just can't seem to shut the fuck up and turn off their phones.

Some suggested approaches:

STRATEGY # 1.) Politely remind the offender that, while her best friend might want to know whether her increased consumption of grapefruit juice is helping with her cirrhosis, the rest of the train car isn't quite so interested. Offer to lend her a copy of "Bon Appetit" or "The Economist" for the remainder of the ride if she agrees to turn off her cell phone.

HAHA! Aunt Slugger is just joking about #1. Grapefruit juice can't cure cirrhosis, and "The Economist" can't cure an asshole. Strategy #1 will definitely not work and could potentially result in an awkward social interaction or a week in the intensive care unit. Definitely do not try Strategy #1. You're better off with...

STRATEGY # 2.) Attempt to incite a riot and then "inadvertently" throw this individual from the moving train car. You will know the riot is starting when the offender begins to narrate the situation into her cell phone. "OMG, there are a couple dudes running around with pitchforks and torches" and "No, seriously, what did you say? I can't hear you over all this screaming and breaking glass" are telltale comments, and you will know that your plan is beginning to work. Wait until the level of mayhem has reached a critical mass, and then make your move. Admit nothing to the police.

Hope this helps, RTK! Enjoy some clotted cream and scones for the rest of us!

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger

Baking Tips

2009-09-30T14:06:00.001-07:00

Dear Aunt Slugger:

I'd like to make malted milk ball cookies, and I understand that you just made these cookies this evening. Do you have any tips for us?

Signed,
Dwayne in Colorado

Hi Dwayne,

I sure do! The key, in my opinion, is to have a small and cramped kitchen in an apartment complex in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Ideally, you will also have most of your kitchen utensils packed away in boxes from when you moved into your apartment on August 15th, and you will rely exclusively on a plastic measuring spoon for all of your stirring, mixing, sampling, and tenderizing needs.

If you don't meet these initial requirements--don't worry! That's what dreams are for. And the cookies aren't out of your reach. Just follow my step-by-step instructions below.

1.) Soften your butter by neglecting it on top of the pre-heating oven for approximately thirty minutes.
2.) Once you've replaced your burners, cream the butter and sugar with an electric beater.
3.) Leave the beater on the edge of the counter in staunch defiance of the laws of physics.
4.) Retrieve the beater from the floor.
5.) Frantically locate your Swiffer Wet Jet and matching Swiffer Wet Jet pads.
6.) Slip on the batter.
7.) Notice that the batter has splattered into your pet cat's food and water dishes.
8.) Pretend you didn't notice.
9.) Swiffer the hell out of the floor, over and over again, even though the Swiffer Wet Jet pad appears not to absorb the lipids from the butter.
10.) Act confused when your significant other asks if the floor seems "slippery." Arrogantly suggest he get different footwear.
11.) Place the malted milk balls in a plastic bag and crush them using a granite mortar and pestle.
12.) Carry the bag across the room without realizing that there's a hole in it.
13.) Note that the Swiffer definitely doesn't pick up malted milk balls.
14.) Roll the dough into 1.5 inch balls, per the recipe. NOTE: Mathematically speaking, there is no difference between a dough ball with a diameter of 1.5 inches and a dough ball with a diameter of 4 inches, but recipe books will not mention this. Feel free to use either measurement.
15.) Bake for ten minutes, or until you remember that the cookies are in the oven.
16.) Peel excess dough off the bottom of the oven.
17.) Congratulate yourself! You're a gourmet chef!

Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger