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How can I professionally tell someone they can’t be part of every decision?

Full Question: I need a professional way of telling someone, “Sack up, you whiney bitch. Sometimes decisions are made without you.”

When you’re forced to acknowledge ass-dangling balls of filth like this, just say, “I recognize that you disagree with this decision, so to be fair, let’s revisit it. Would you like some coffee that costs seven dollars?” When he says yes, because who the hell wouldn’t take free seven dollar coffee, push it across the table and accidentally spill it on his crotch. Then say, “Oh hell, I’m sorry. But I guess that does show that you didn’t like that coffee after all, despite your previous opinion, all due to the law of gravity. In fact, it shows that the universe does not give a single, infinitesimal, rose-colored fuck about your opinion on any subject whatsoever. It’ll let scalding fluids fall on your happy parts no matter what you think. If the universe doesn’t give a shit about what you think, why the hell would we listen to your mewling opinions about every damned decision that affects you? So shut up about it, do what you’re told, and try not to have an epileptic fit while you’re doing it. And change your fucking trousers.” That should take care of your problem, and if you don’t want to say “fuck” quite so much you can substitute “dang” or “gee willickers Bob.”

The universe busy not giving a shit what any of us thinks.

Photo by The High Fin Sperm Whale, via Wikimedia Commons.

This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic.



Why do we think vampires are cool?

It’s because of the coats. If a vampire didn’t wear a tuxedo, or a swinging black leather duster, or some frilly velvet jacket to show how sensitive he is before he shreds your god damned jugular, we wouldn’t give a shit about him. I don’t care if he turns into a bat, or flying mist, or a demon giraffe with overwhelming testicles, without the coat he might as well be the laddie that sells that shitty ice cream of the future at the mall. He’d flash his horrifying fangs at you, and all you’d say was, “No thanks, not today,” while you looked away to pretend he didn’t exist and kept looking for your fuck-all expensive jeans made in Sichuan province. And you may think that women vampires are cool because of their dresses or pants suits or some crap like that, but you’d be wrong—it’s all about the coat for them too! They may wear some blood-red slinky frock with an acre of cleavage and lace and straps made of leather from extinct animals, and we may think they’re sexy as hell. But are they cool? Hell no! Now, slap a black Victorian tailcoat on that bitch and people will ask for her autograph while she sucks their soul out through their carotid god damned artery. We let people in amazing clothes do damned near anything to us. That explains a hell of a fucking lot, doesn’t it?

See what I mean? Cool.

Photo from


Is there life on other planets?

I expect that when you say life, you mean something bigger than a wee fragment you could blow out your nose when some nasty, perfume-drenched tart gets on the elevator and makes you sneeze so hard you see the Archangel Michael. If that’s right, then of course there’s life on other planets. They might be those skinny bastards, or they might have man parts along with woman parts, or they might have knees where their tits should be, but they’re out there. Hell, we’ve got more galaxies crashing around in the universe than we have brain cells killed by you and me together. If god damn Gene “Fire the Photon Torpedoes” Roddenberry can think up aliens like slithering silicone boulders, and blue bastards with crap sticking all out of their heads, and monsters that look like Ronny Howard’s little brother with a turnip-skull, then don’t you think the universe can come up with some kind of life form that’s at least as smart as a high school freshman? Of course it can. And maybe they’re on their way to Earth right now, and maybe they’re not, but if they show up you can bet that Jeff Goldblum won’t wipe out the lot of them with a fucking computer virus. They’ll have stuff that will kick the shit out of Norton and McAfee put together, I’ll tell you that for damn sure. I don’t know about you, but I plan to just say fuck all to interplanetary war, bake the aliens a cake and ask them in to watch Ghostbusters.

Samantha knows how to show alien life forms some proper hospitality.

Publicity photo from Bewitched. Pictured are Samantha (Elizabeth Montgomery) and Steve Franken.
Aunt Clara attempts to conjure a toy space ship, but the spell backfires and conjures real space aliens instead. Hijinks ensue. Aired April 18, 1968.

Why was there a giant inflatable octopus onstage at the Olympics Closing Ceremonies?

The real question is, why weren’t there more of them? And a Styrofoam flounder as big as a damn steam engine, and a few ambulance-sized squirrels and pigeons? That would have been a brilliant fucking masterpiece of artistic metaphor to close these Olympics with. The octopus represents the idea that a six hour chunk of Olympic programming should have 30 minutes of little girls twirling ribbons, two and a half hours of commercials for expensive cars and cheap chicken sandwiches, a 30 minute documentary about how to eat fish and chips out of a filthy newspaper, a 20 minute Michael Phelps interview, 10 minutes of hurdles, pole vault, high jump, wrestling, weight lifting, decathlon, and all that other bullshit the Greeks used to waste their time on, and two hours of god damned beach volleyball. A gargantuan, unexplained octopus made of Saran Wrap unfolding in the middle of the stage is the perfect symbol for these Olympics. The man who thought of it was a damned creative genius. And when a gnarled, crusty-looking fellow named Fatboy Slim jumped out of the octopus’s skull I damn well cheered, even though I’d never heard of him, and he looked like he ought to be out drinking a pint with Darby O’Gill and Sean Connery. And when Eric Idle started whistling blasphemy standing  between some nuns, Indians doing Hindu River Dance, and the Highland Regiment pipers, I thought we might see a god damn religious war right there. So my question for you, laddie, is with everything else going on, how did you even notice the fucking octopus?

This thing would have dominated the crap out of the US beach volleyball team.

Photo from


Why does time seem to pass faster as you get older?

Because we get bored so god damn easy. I mean, when you were a baby you could spend half a day amazed by the fact that you could fart. Now you’re not even aware of your own farts, although you notice that your spouse’s farts are like mustard gas. The world is full of astounding shit, but when you get bored with a thing, then that’s one less thing in the world to pay attention to. Just think back to the first time you used Velcro. Hell, you could spend an hour a day just mashing the fucker closed and ripping it open again. But later on you got bored and didn’t even think about Velcro anymore, and that hour a day went tits up. Where did that hour a day go? Into god damn nowhere! You lost it, because what’s as much fun as Velcro? Not a fucking thing, that’s what! Every day there’s less and less shit in the world that we’re not already bored with. So the day may seem like 24 hours when we’re babies enthralled with puking and sucking on toy giraffes. But by the time we’re old sons of bitches like me, the day seems like 30 minutes of trying to stand up straight in the morning and choosing food that won’t give us the runs.

Once we forsake the slobbery toy giraffe, can death be far behind?

Photo by Pieter Schepens

Dougal takes on the tough, philosophical questions, and not every answer involves quite so many bodily functions as this one. Send him any questions in a comment if you please.


Why Can’t We Have Universal Peace?

Because we don’t like people eating our damned berries. A long time ago you only survived because of some berry bushes and a few anemic rats you could stab with a sharp stick. If some ass-dragging strangers traipsed in from the grassland and started eating your berries, you’d starve to death pretty quick, along with your kids, and your friends, and your granny, who you wouldn’t miss much because she was as vicious as an iron boot to the crotch, but what the hell, she’s still family. You’d throw rocks and dirt and scorpions at the berry thieves, and maybe attack them with your half-tame killer wolves if you had any, because if you just watched your berries get stolen you’d starve while the berry snatchers laughed and threw turds at you. So people who fought for their berries survived and built pyramids and invented books about the best ways to fuck up people who want to steal their berries. It’s all about “us” surviving by keeping “them” from murdering us through berry-deprivation. We’ve built it into ourselves, and now instead of berries we have Fritos, and 5 hour energy drinks, and electricity to run kitchen mixers the size of raccoons. It’s the same damned thing, and it’s not changing as long as some son of a bitch shows up to eat your berries. Oh, I know that some future society may fix all this shit, and get rid of money, and have steaks that pop out of the damned walls like in Star Trek. Maybe that’ll happen hundreds of years from now, and we’ll all share and hug each other, and nobody will fight. If that’s so, then why does Star Trek have a Neutral Zone? If you’ve built a perfect god damn society, then why do you need a fucking Neutral Zone? Because the Romulans want to eat your berries, that’s why! I don’t think anybody can brag about universal peace as long as they’re just waiting to blow off somebody’s face with a photon torpedo.

The genesis of so much death and injustice.

If you’d like me to answer a question, just pop it into a comment. A suggestion or two about good anniversary presents would be nice, too.


What’s up with carrying small, yappy dogs in purses?

Full Question: Why do some women want to carry small, yappy dogs in their purses and why do dogs allow it?

Because they want to do evil. Think about it, if Satan carried a yelping Pekingese in his Bank of America messenger bag, no one would notice him corrupting souls and wrecking the institutions of God and man. We’d all be thinking about hurling that yipping little son of a bitch under a monster truck, or distracting him with a nice blood pudding, or at least teaching him to stop barking, and to growl or fart instead whenever he sees another life form bigger than bacteria. Meanwhile, Satan would be making the rest of the fucking politicians go insane and creating American Idol spin-offs, and we wouldn’t notice that any more than we’d notice some magician make the Rocky Mountains disappear, just because his pants were so tight we could see the wrinkles in his junk, and we were staring at his assistant with her tits hanging out. So when you see a yippy dog woman, watch out she doesn’t steal your shit, or put porn on your computer, or make you talk about politics on god damned Facebook like she did me. And the dogs don’t give a fuck because they’re just mean enough to like taking a crap in a purse.

“Yap! Yap! Yap! Yap!” (Pay no attention to the woman behind me…)

Join the elite few, most likely drunk, readers who have submitted questions by commenting. I really do answer them.

Does the Loch Ness Monster Really Exist?

Of course Nessie exists! What a question. Real people have seen her, and some of them have been sober. They even shot a movie of her, although I guess that doesn’t mean shit since that Kiwi bastard made Middle Earth look as real as downtown Edinburgh. So what if some scientists in their wee piss ant boats with surplus sonar that Jaques Cousteau pitched in the rubbish bin along with his three-day-old foie gras couldn’t find her? Loch Ness is the biggest damned loch in Scotland, and Nessie could fit in the bloody thing more than 400 million times over. Hell, if you’re like me, you can’t even find your glasses when you know damned well the fuckers are somewhere in the kitchen. Go to Loch Ness and see for yourself. And buy a t-shirt while you’re there, my niece is saving money for university.

Nessie: she cruises and looks damned posh doing it, therefore she is.

Comment to submit a question for me to answer if you like. This one came from a charming reader, so you can see that I answer them when nothing good is on the telly and the topless bars are closed.

How do you make your dog stop barking?

Quit playing video games. More properly, you should get off the fucking sofa instead of slouching there like a squid playing Wii with one hand, drinking Mountain Dew with the other, and holding a sack of Fritos in your crotch. All that time your dog is racing around the back yard barking like a rabid jackal and chewing your rose bushes down to the ground, so bored that he’d drown himself if the pool didn’t smell like blimp crashed into a Clorox factory. Look out the window. There’s a dog out there, so go outside and fucking play with him! And I don’t mean for just three minutes before you go back inside and watch some damn TV show where a slope-browed bachelor treats a bunch of women like shit and they just take it. If you just have to watch that crap, bring your dog in with you and rot the shit out of his brain at the same time. Then whenever the dog barks, you look away from those tits on the TV for five seconds, hold his muzzle closed, and say, “Shh.” Do that every time he barks for a couple of days. Then he’ll stop barking because he’s smart and he loves you, instead of shitting in your bed because you’re a dick.

Bark! Bark bark bark! (Dude, get up and walk around. That couch looks like it’s sucking your ass off.)

Why do I only get crumbs in potato chip bags?

Full question: If they put so much air in my potato chip bag to keep them from breaking, why do I get a bag full of crumbs?

You’re missing the point because you’re not a screwed up, grasping, jackal who makes potato chips. They don’t care if you get crumbs. They don’t care if you get a billion god damn potato chip fragments in a bag the size of your pancreas. In fact, the sons of bitches hire old sumo wrestlers with blown out knees to stomp the chips until they break the molecular bonds of the genetically inferior Ukranian potatoes and the black market goat lard. Then they bag up the damned things and sell them to blind school children and nuns. They know that normally a few potato chips will shatter no matter what you do, so why let poor, hungry people expect anything better—just smash the fuck out of every one of them. Then they slam the bags full of air to make you think there might be actual chips in the next one you buy, because you can’t really feel anything in that bag that’s inflated as tight as a plastic porpoise at the beach. But you’re disappointed every time, because the bags are like piñatas full of powdered sugar instead of candy, so unless you want to make brownies dusted with potato powder, you’re pretty much fucked.

Potato chips in Thailand. They come in exotic flavors like “Snortable Eel” and “Kelp You Can Absorb Through Your Pores.”

A reader sent me this question, so you can see that I do answer them. Please send me one in a comment. I’d enjoy it more than a Christmas puppy that shits diamonds.

Did you get my email? (And how does that relate to promiscuous women?)

Full Question: Did you get my email?

What the hell do you think? In fact, let’s think about it together. You wouldn’t be bothering me with this pain in the ass question if I’d answered your email, right? So either I never saw it, I saw it and didn’t give enough of a shit to read it, I read it and thought it was too stupid to answer, or I figured I might answer later after taking care of crap more important than your gingerbread recipe or your picture of a cat riding a fucking unicycle. If I saw it, I didn’t care, and if I never saw it then my life was peachy without it. I sure as hell wasn’t sitting here thinking that my existence would be nothing but ice cream and horny girls if only I could get your god damned email. So if you really think your email is that important, send the son of a bitch again. Maybe you’ll get lucky this time.

This is where I was when I got your damned email, so bugger off about it.

If you’d like to send me a question to answer, I’d enjoy that more than popcorn and a box of Junior Mints, so send it in a comment, if you please.

What’s the secret of a happy marriage?

Doing shit that doesn’t need to be done, and telling your spouse to kiss your ass. Nobody gets credit for doing stuff that needs to be done. It’s the minimum. Buying an anniversary card gets you zero points, but if you don’t buy one then you’re fucked. It’s like when you to go out to dinner and the restaurant rapes you over a $70 steak that tastes like a basketball sneaker, you’re expected to dress up, right? You don’t get extra credit just for putting on your damned trousers, but you certainly get an eternity of shit if you forget them. The secret is doing crap for your spouse that you don’t have to do, especially if you hate it like scorpions nailed to your god damn eyes. Do you know she wants a scratchy throw pillow the color of a wino’s vomit? Get her one, even if you have to pound an orphan right in the crotch in a gutter in Mumbai. You say you don’t know what she wants? Pay attention, fucker! You’re around her all the time, for god’s sake. On the other side, don’t just fold up and let your spouse tell you what to do all the time. She might be a nice, charming lassie and refrain from pushing you around with one finger like a grocery cart full of tissue paper and tampons. But that’s not the same as telling her to kiss your ass when you need to. And expect the same from her. Your spouse can treat you like gold and still be a titanium son of a bitch who demands respect, all at the same time, and that goes for you too. It’s better than being a cheap, thoughtless asshole and a spineless turd, right?

Do you promise to love, honor, and kick my ass when I’m an ovebearing jerk?

Send me a question in a comment, and I’ll add it to the queue. It’s more fun than a bucket of puppies.

Why do our knees work this way?

To get the attention of stupid people. I tore the shit out of my knee by acting like a spastic, brain dead howler monkey, and every person I’ve ever met who obliterated their knee also did it by behaving like a damned idiot. No smart person would smash into other people, fling themselves off stuff, let other people throw them around, anger mammals larger than themselves, or try to kick somebody in the head. The universe gave us fucked up knees because it didn’t want to waste fabric on “I’m a dumbass” t-shirts, and it figured that not being able to walk anymore coupled with nipple-puckering agony would get the attention of even really, really stupid people. Hell, I’m shocked that the universe didn’t put our genitals in our knees to keep us stupid sons of bitches from reproducing.

Either her knee is torn to hell, or she’s giving perverted gang signs.

Leave any questions in a comment. I’ll answer them later on. I may send a homeless boy to wax your car too.

Why is the sky blue? (And what does booze have to do with it?)

Because five-year-old girls hate us. Most of us have no god damn idea why the sky is blue, other than something called “refraction.” We might as well say the sky is blue because of “demodulation” or “hyperconjugation,” because we don’t know what the hell those are either. When you tell a little girl the sky is blue because of “refraction,” you might as well give her a bottle of Jim Beam and tell her to figure it out herself. Little girls know we’re full of crap, and they want to make sure we know it too. So they ask us about the blue sky, and when we babble about refraction, or clouds leaking, or angels freezing their blue asses off in Heaven, they nod with big eyes and grin inside knowing that someday they’ll be voting on whether or not we get Social Security. And why do these girls hate us? Because the universe loves to see us scramble like a hamster in a toilet while we try to come up with some answer that doesn’t make us look like the biggest god damn moron that ever lived.

The sky is blue to give me something to do with my camera that cost more than a colonoscopy.

Give me something to do other than clean the garage, listen to bagpipes and eat Fig Newtons. Send me a question in a comment. For the good people who’ve submitted a question already, they’re in the queue, and I’ll get to them when I’ve finished this bottle of Dalwhinnie.

Is there just one right person for me?

Full Question: Is there just one right person for each of us to fall in love with?

Damn right there is. You may not have met yours because she lives in a village in Mongolia that you’d never be able to find, even using MapQuest, a spy satellite, and Shirley McLaine’s diamond-crusted Ouija board, even if you searched until every tooth fell out of your head and your face was as wrinkled as a Shar Pei’s ass. And by the way, she died last year when a camel fell on her yurt, so you spent too long eating pie and downloading Smokey Robinson on iTunes before you started looking. So like pretty much the rest of humanity, you’ll have to get by with somebody who picks her toes, hates your damned singing, and is willing to bang you once a month even though you’re an oozing idiot who thinks there’s just one right person to fall in love with.

“My one true love. I met her at the watering hole. At Fuxing Park in Shanghai.”

Leave a comment to submit any relatively clean question you want me to answer. You won’t get a prize or anything, but I bet nobody says anything bad about you, either. Thanks!