Ask Poochie - 2

If you want more good advice, see Part One. And, if you have a need for similar advice, Poochie will be glad to service you. Send your questions to Suldog@aol.com, with a subject line of "Question For Poochie". No guarantees when the next installment will publish, though, so if you're in a hurry you might be better off asking somebody qualified.

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Dear Poochie:

How did you meet and fall in love with that Saint of a woman, YOUR WIFE?

i beati

Dear i beati:

I met MY WIFE in the usual way. I was hanging out in the stairwell at a parking garage, waiting for a likely victim, when she showed up. Not much else to tell. I clubbed her over the head, threw her in the trunk of my car, and we were married two years later. Very pedestrian stuff.

Oh, OK, I can't pass up the opportunity to send you to another piece. Here's The Shish-Kebob Incident.

Shish-Kebob? Yes. That's what I used for bait.

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Hello Mr Suldog kind sir,

Do you have any suggestions as how to get my sweet hubby interested in trying one of the mystery dates like YOUR WIFE surprises you with occasionally? I have shown him the posts describing all the fun you have on your mystery dates and he says it is a good idea but won't budge when I want to try a mystery destination. He is bipolar and on meds and does not care for stress. He knows I know all this and I would not put either of us in a stressful situation. I just thought I would start out with a simple coffee out and a walk somewhere. Any advice from your overflowing cup of wisdom would be appreciated.

TechnoBabe

Now that's the way to write a letter! Since you know the value of obeisance, I will give you the most heartfelt and excellent advice I have ever given: Shish-Kebob. And a good strong club. Make sure the trunk of your car isn't cluttered!

No, seriously, what meds is he on? More important, is he willing to share? Perhaps he's already on a mystery date with himself, 24/7. If so, what does he have to gain by indulging you? I mean, aside from the obvious?

OK, let's assume that there's room in his head for more fun. As usual, my stock answer applies: lie. Tell him you're going out to eat at whatever place you always do. Then, take him wherever you want. Once you get there and have fun, he'll forgive you (unless he has a psychotic reaction and ends up in a cracker factory for the next year, in which case they'll be giving him his meds and he won't need those he has at home now, so I'll be over to pick them up at 8.)

All right, since you really desire an answer that has little inherent chance of upsetting your man, here's the serious-as-a-heart-attack advice. Have the first mystery date AT HOME. There's no rule that says you have to go someplace far away. Guarantee him that you won't take him any further than one block from home. Then walk him around the block, back to your own house. Beforehand, cook (or order in) something new and interesting. Dress up in something playful, maybe wearing it under your coat when you go out; alternatively, you can change into it when you get home. Decorate a room in your house in a way it's never been before, perhaps creating a theme with all three elements (and, remember, elements never forget!)

MY WIFE once wrapped her boobs in tin foil and pretended they were Hershey's Kisses. That doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the above advice, but I've been trying to work that tidbit into this blog for five years now and could never find the right place for it, not that this is.

Anyway, the idea is to make a night the two of you will never forget. It doesn't matter where you end up, so if he's comfortable at home... And, once you spring this one on him, and he admits to the pleasure of it, you've got him. Can he ever say no after that? No! Next time, when you want to bring him someplace, remind him how much fun he had the last time you had a mystery date. He has to agree to go with you unless he's a total poop. And then, while you have him out of the house, I'll be over to steal those meds. Or, since this was such outstanding advice, you could just send me some out of the goodness of your heart.

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Dear Poochie:

I live with five cats. They insist on sitting on every seat in the house in the daytime. I now have varicose veins and swollen ankles from having to stay on my feet because I cannot sit down. At night, I have severe cramps from having to lie in contortionist positions due to a number of said felines occupying the sleeping area. Once I get into bed, they reposition themselves variously on my head, feet, down the length of my body and under the covers with claws attached to tender areas in readiness for me moving the wrong way.

How can I get a decent night's sleep and find out how it feels to stretch out again? And how can I get a sit down in the day? Please help Poochie, before my ankles burst. And please tell me how I can repair shredded boobs before my husband notices.
Thank you.

Yours purringly,
Thumbelina

Dear Thumbelina:

You are obviously a madwoman. I'd look into getting some of the meds that TechnoBabe's significant other currently takes. Couldn't hurt. However, perhaps your religion forbids the use of such medications? In that case, start your own religion. What the hell; you're obviously bonkers to begin with, so it won't be a stretch.

If you're not willing to medicate or become your own pope, I think the obvious answer is best. Just sit down on a random cat. I can almost guarantee you that after you sit down on the first one, and it gives out with a bloodcurdling scream, the others will think twice before getting in the way of your destructive butt. If they still insist on blocking your access to the La-Z-Boy, just keep sitting on the suckers. Sooner or later, they'll get the message (or be crippled beyond repair, which will also solve the problem.)

As for the bedroom, I must ask a question: Has your husband been petting your pussy in bed? That may be the reason for your pussy being there. So, if you want your pussy out of bed, I think the only thing to do is to tell your husband to stop stroking it. Otherwise, it may never want to leave. I did notice, however, that you seem to have mentioned multiple pussies in the bed. Where is your husband in all this? Is he buried under a mound of pussy? In that case, I wouldn't worry too much about the shredded boobs, as he probably won't notice. If you really must repair them, though, Spackle will do the job nicely. Just be sure to have a pink highlighter handy (or a brown one; I haven't seen them, so it could be) for the parts that may need coloring in.

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Dear Poochie:

My softball team has been real bad and never have won any championships. Our faithful ex-manager is turning 99 and we want to win one before we have to cap him like Old Yeller. Any advice? Also can you get a signed autograph of Cam Zirpolo for our friend Chris Knucklehead?

Signed,

Jennifer Aniston & Jessica Simpson

P.S. Give us that stud Jay Atton's phone number.

Dear Persons Whose Names Suspiciously Begin With Jay:

Where do I even begin?

Let's start with your faithful ex-manager. If he's anything like me (and I bet he is, a lot) then if the team had listened to him more, and not swung at 3 and 0 pitches - and if knuckleball pitchers listened to him and threw only knuckleballs, and didn't try to sneak 45 mph fastballs past batters - and if the outfielders paid attention when he tried to get them to come in so that singles hitters wouldn't drop weak pop-ups in front of them, instead of being scared of one going over their heads and playing someplace in downtown Chelsea - then maybe they would have done better. Instead of capping the manager, maybe the team is lucky he never capped their asses. Excluding you two, of course, as you seem like reasonable types who always takes a strike.

As for an autographed photo of Cam Zirpolo, he'll be at a card show in Woonsocket this weekend. He won't be inside signing autographs, though. He'll just be standing outside the door asking for spare change. I'm sure Knucklehead can strike some sort of reasonable deal, probably get an autographed photo for two bits. Hell, if he's willing to spring for a couple bucks, he can probably get a pint of official Cam Zirpolo blood.

And Big Jay Atton's phone number is 1-800-CALZONE.

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Dear Poochie:

Should I rent my house to my mother?

Here's the background on the story. Two years ago my mother wanted to move from Alabama to Florida. Her proposition? Buy a house and I will rent it from you.

As the good son, wanting to make my mother happy, I went out and bought her a 3 bedroom/2bath BRAND NEW home. She stayed 8 months, decided she hated Florida, and moved to Indiana without even giving me notice she was doing so. During her 8 months in Florida all I heard were complaints about how she hated Florida. To make a long story short, she now hates Indiana and is asking me to rent her the house again in Florida.

What should I do?

Signed,

On The Road Again

Dear OTRA:

I suppose it's too late to get a new mother?

Here are two possible scenarios, both of which I'm glad I'm only giving advice about.

1) Lie. Tell her the house is rented, and the new tenants have an ironclad five-year lease. If she asks you to buy her another house, tell her you're broke and ask her for a loan. Better yet, ask her if you can move in with her. That should shut her up.

2) Let her move back to the house in Florida. This is probably the easiest solution. But get her to sign a lease or pay you rent up-front for a lengthy time period. That should stop her from moving out and leaving you holding the bag. If she refuses to be that reasonable, then you have to stand up to her and tell her, "No."

Good luck!

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Dear Poochie:

A friend of a friend (yeah, you heard me) has agreed to have (an escorted, with her best mate, the one responsible for setting this up) lunch with the cheating ex-fiancee she ditched and hasn't seen in over twenty years, when she is in London (next week). How can she instantly lose all her wrinkly, saggy bits, and guarantee to leave him pining for the rest of his sorry life?

Yours hopefully (on behalf of a friend of a friend),

Shrinky

Dear Shrinky:

Here's the thing you probably haven't thought of: He likely has all sorts of wrinkly saggy bits himself. On top of that - and I do mean on top - he's probably bald.

(Not that there aren't some magnificently sexy bald men. For instance... well, modesty forbids me to mention names. However, his lack of hirsuteness might make you feel better about yourself, that's all I'm saying.)

If the fact that he's aged as much as you, or maybe even more so, doesn't give you confidence, then my next-best advice is to get him drunk. The following formula applies:

Every pint of beer he drinks = you look two years younger and sexier.

In addition, every pint also makes him look fatter as his belly fills up. So, if he has ten pints, you'll look twenty years younger and he'll be grossly obese.

If that doesn't work for you, let's try this: Do you have a daughter who looks like you did twenty years ago? Send her in your place. She probably won't even have to talk, because when she walks into the bar and he sees her, he'll keel over from shock at the fact that you still look magnificent while he's turned into a wrinkly saggy bald git.

But, really, getting him drunk is best. Have your friend fill him up with stout before you arrive. If he can still talk by the time you get there, he'll lavish you with praises concerning how magnificent you look.

(Oh, excuse me. Your friend.)

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Dear Poochie:

I don't normally write to someone who has a dog's name, unless it was an advice column about pets (which I don't own any) but I heard from several unnamed sources that you'll give me the answer you want yet not necessarily how I want it to be while still being the best answer nobody needs. So I figured I would give it a shot.

My problem is two-fold. I tried to make it three, but my origami skills aren't the best and any moron can fold a piece a paper over once even if it is into a tiny little ball. Anyway, this question came to me while surfing the Amazon site for porn movies while realizing they don't sell porn and how unfair to leave perverts out of their shopping needs. What discrimination that is! I say we should boycott! But I'm not sure how serious they'll take someone going by the name Poochie and shows photos of pink dildos on their site. But it would make a good marketing strategy.

However, I digress (which seems all right to do on your site [since it seems you digress a lot and use many unnecessary parentheses to boot {not that I'm complaining about it and hope you don't hold it against me by not answering my question}]).

My problem is: how do I make a bad situation into a good situation while knowing when the good situation comes it will just go unnoticed, turning it into a bad situation?

signed - Partially Persuasive in Pennsylvania

Dear PP in Pennsylvania:

I think you answered your own question. I certainly hope so, anyway, as I can't make head nor tail of it.

One thing caught my eye (ouch) and I must comment. Amazon doesn't sell any porn?!? Why, their name itself conjures up an image of a sexy big-breasted warrior woman (well, one breast, anyway.) I find it rather amazing that they don't have any porn. Did you check between the mattress and box spring? That's where you'll usually find it. If not there, way in the back of the sock drawer.

To answer your actual question, you turn a bad situation into a good situation by throwing money at it. That's what the government says, anyway, and if you can't trust the government, who can you trust? Certainly not me, so what have we learned here? Not a damned thing, and that's what anybody with half a brain had to expect, so the next guy should be satisfied.

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Dear Poochie:

Do you know where I can find Kosher Ham?

Uncle Skip

Sure. It's right next to the Kosher Crab. You can't miss it.

Seriously - and I've used that word far too often here - if you want Kosher Ham, it's possible that the ham made from turkey might actually qualify. For that matter, the crab made from pollock might qualify, too. Neither one is quite as good as the original, though, so I'd suggest that everybody who wants to try real ham or real crab convert to Catholicism. There's almost as much guilt as with Judaism, but you get to eat more stuff.

Speaking of which...

Soon, with better.