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Dear Katy,
I
am writing to you about a problem that I sure hope to God you can help
me with. My self-esteem is down the drain, and even though I know that
it’s not right, there are times when I even think about killing myself.
If it wasn’t a sin, I know that I already would have done so.
My
hands are trembling as I write this, but having read your column every
day since I was a youngster, I feel as though I can trust you. My
problem is a small one – my penis. Don’t laugh. Please don’t laugh.
It
is devastating to have such a small thingy. I have tried everything –
penis pills, penis pumps, even the Ronco Penis Stretcher, which left my
poor pecker feeling like it had been run over by a truck. Of course
this could never happen, because it’s way too small to be run over by a
truck. Sigh. Sorry for sighing, I just feel so sorry for myself.
When
I married my wife she was a virgin, but I don’t think she is anymore.
She has taken to calling me Short Stuff, even in front of her friends.
(I don’t have any friends out of fear that I might have to take a
shower with them, thus exposing my tragic shortness). Perhaps you think
that I am exaggerating, but I’m not. Katy, I’m not even a full ten
inches. When I lay my man meat on a ruler, there are still three
fingers of wood left over.
I
am at my wits end. Sigh. Is there any hope that you can offer me? I
don’t want to reveal my real name for fear of ridicule from my
co-workers and my neighbors and my relatives and the congregation at my
church, so just call me Peter the Small.
Peter the Small
Dear Peter Anderson of 1212 Rambling Rose Lane, Huntsville Alabama (zip code omitted for privacy),
Honey,
I get thousands, literally, THOUSANDS of mail each year from desperate
men, such as yourself who have fallen prey to an outrageous and
destructive erroneous notion that leads them down a path of self-doubt
and despair. Let me just say it plainly:
Ronco hasn't made anything worth a shit since, of course, the salad shooter.
(I
have 2 which, we use to reenact the Salad War of 1989 each year at
Thanksgiving. This was the year my Uncle Stubbs choked to death on
lettuce that hadn't been properly dried. When I say death I mean shit
himself . The salad, wet with moisture, shook like an avenging angel as
we scrambled to put a newspaper under Stubbs. My Aunt rose up with a
handful of the soaking leaves and called my Mother a Thoughtless and
Lazy Whore. My mother then produced 2 of the 6 salad spinners she had
received each year for Christmas COD from this sequined-wearing hag and
proceeded to spin the entire meal while drinking directly from everyone
else's wine glasses. Then we had pie. THANK FUCKING GOD it was also the
last year anyone had to say Grace )
Hope this helps,
Love,
Katy
PS:
Suicide is really not a sin. Not if it's done right, then it's
Martyrdom. Presentation is everything. Try to keep your mind on the
prize: 12 virgins (Islam) and a Cadillac (could be, we don t
know)
while you light yourself on fire in front of - oh how about Bon Macys -
the perfume counter. Screaming, CLINIQUE!! AHHH! GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!
'Ask Katy' © 2004, Katy Hipke and Mark Hoback |
