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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
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.