Ask LOBO

Predator Press

Blogging from two days in THE FUTURE has it's advantages.

For instance, no longer do readers need risk their deeply intimate details and crazy problems in the mail when seeking my advice and wisdom. What if those humiliating and profoundly entertaining letters fell into the wrong hands?

Now I can answer them in advance.

Behold:

"Dear LOBO,

I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency.

Can you give me some advice that
might spice up our romance?"

Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida
33610

Kelly,

It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other. Worse, it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toes that audibly snag and clicketty-clack on the linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.

First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health, and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance', and fully embrace your hate instead.

Spoil yourself! Go buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering lights as the fading youthful beauty and vitality you might have squandered on that hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck: given enough time he would have left you an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion.

Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates; take all that insurance money and start over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge yourself in a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. Go get so much plastic surgery, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack.

Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.