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Dear Katy,
Some people would call me a lucky guy. Maybe I am, but I seem
to be having a lot of trouble getting lucky these days. The problem is my
wife Allison’s mother, or to be more accurate, my mother-in-law. ‘Jean’ is a
feisty fifty-three year old widow with a figure that just won’t stop. Hell,
I’m willing to bet with a body like hers that she just wore her poor husband
plumb out
Allison and I met in the Army when we were pulling a tour in
Wiesbaden, Germany. Man, that’s some kinda place. You should go there
sometime. There’s this one bar where you can get a bratwurst and a beer for
just two American dollars. And that’s not some little sissy sized beer, it’s
a great big mug (the Krauts call them Bechers) that weighs so much you need
both hands to keep from spilling it. All the walls are painted red and
there’s this wild kind of music that we called ‘oompah’. And they’ve got
whores. It was great.
Where was I? Oh yeah, so I didn’t meet ‘Jean’ until Allison
and I rotated back to the states. Damn, is this woman hot. She’s got legs
that go up to the balcony and she’s packing a couple mean 44s if you know
what I mean. I can’t stop thinking about her. She likes me too, I can tell
it. I’m enclosing a Polaroid of her. What a rack, huh?
The problem is Allison is always getting in the way with her
sarcasm whenever we’re at her moms house. She’ll open that smart mouth of
hers and say something like “why don’t you get yourself dressed” or “don’t
you think that’s a little too revealing for a woman your age?” It’s like she
doesn’t have any respect at all for her elders. And she punches me on the
shoulder. I’m just looking, Katy. Ain’t no harm in that. Maybe I should
divorce Allison and go for the mother, what do you think? Please don’t tell
me to have an affair. Some things just ain’t right.
GI Jim
p.s. – this is kind of a man question, so if you want to
refer it to that Grampa fellow, he might have some better advice.
Grampa,
You crazy perverted attention-seeking faux “performer”: I
should have had the vet take your testicles while he was in the vicinity
last week, fishing around your rectum for my beloved gerbil, Charles
Happenstance IX. Some things, alas, neither Medicaid nor pet insurance
cover. You’d better THANK GOD Dr. Bob is as big a drunk as you and I are,
and believes that you are, indeed, our 9 and a half year old
sharpie/Chihuahua mix, you crinkled malodorous curr, or your ass would
have ¼ mile of plastic tubing and an exercise wheel coming out of it as
you READ THESE WORDS. Sing a song to THAT, ass whistle.
Fantasticks, my long-running Broadway behind. The only
“play” you’ve got under your belt is what’s staining your drawers. I
looked the other way
when you
answered that simpering Dear Katy last time, because anyone who uses
“doo doo head” and “blow hole” in a sentence, deserves to hear about your
masturbatory obsession with Dick Van Patten. I figured, “What the hell,
at least Grampa isn’t shoving rodents up his ass…”
BUT now you’ve gone too far. Fabricating Dear Katy letters
just so you can write about your Hot Grandma sex fantasies, (And don’t
think I don’t know that ‘Jean’ is, in fact, that BOWFLEX granny with the
bikini…who paid $1500 for a BOWFLEX and yet only about $15 on ill-fitting
cheap ceramic donkey-teeth dentures. You’ve been TeeVooing those
commercials for months now and the remote control device is sticky with
your rancid demon seed). Next you will ANSWER YOUR OWN LETTER with Sage
Advice, somehow bringing Dick Van Patten into it, along with whimsical
memories from some other tired old goddamned Broadway musical that you’ve
never even seen. Pretty soon my good name will look like the inside of
your saggy pants, post pet-insurance covered colonoscopy.
Take my advice, old man: Stick to what your good at, soft
foods and growing veins on your nose, and leave the advice column to me.
Katy
'Ask Katy' © 2005,
Katy Hipke and Mark Hoback |
