Dear Rudence: Invisible Salami Edition

A parody of Dear Prudence by Emily Yoffe, a weekly column at Slate Magazine. Original post found here.

Well kids, it's time once again for another installment of Dear Rudence, or as Rudie has come to know it privately: "That thing he does for no fathomable or easily explained reason." It's like a calling, of sorts, except without the possibility of canonization. This week's installment of chuckleheads brought to you in the form of several examples of brazen asshattery, opulent cementheadedness, and epic displays of serial fuckwitry. Our weekly gaggle of dullards reminds me of the Island of Misfit Toys, only without the forlorn charm and possibility of a happy ending. Charlie in the Box has nothing on Balding Troglodyte who Can't Get Laid, and the Train with Square Wheels on the Caboose has given way to Mommy with Daddy's Phallus in her Caboose. Now all we need is a nerdy elf who desires a career as an orthodontist, a wishy-washy reindeer with a million candlepower schnoz, and a prospector who can't stop fellating his pick-axe.

It's mucho peligro from here on out, ladies and gentlemen, and I advise you to keep an eye out for the Bumble.

Dear Rudie,
Our 15-year-old daughter walked into our bedroom the other evening while we were having sex. She wasn't being nosy; she was just in a bit of a panic about a homework project due the next day. It was late, all the lights were out, but it was light enough for her to clearly see what was going on. Our daughter got quite an eye- and earful. We stopped immediately, of course, and my wife and daughter exchanged a few words about the project before our daughter left the room in a hurry. Since then, our daughter has acted as if nothing happened. Should we, as well? Or should my wife broach the subject with her? Our daughter does not date yet, but she is not innocent about the facts of life.

—Embarrassed Around My Daughter

Dear Ass-in-the-Air-Head-in-the-Sand,

If Rudie had his way, parental coitus when there is a child in the house, near the house, on the same street as the house... well, when there is a dwelling of any sort that could possibly house such an abomination of physical ardor... would be punishable by forcing the violators to go outside and parade in front of the neighbors. Talk about a deterrent.

There are fewer things more horrifying than married couples who've squeezed out one grotesque little shit machine, let themselves go to pot, and proceed to mash their cellulite and atrophied musculature together like something out of a B-grade horror flick or a documentary about the life and times of slime molds.

If anything, you've put this poor girl off of sex for life, forcing her to remain best friends with her teenage companions, Ms. Digit the Randy Spelunker and her trusty sidekick, Vibrotron the Magic Happy Robot... That is, if she can put the mindsearing sight of two vile lumps of flesh sweating all over each other out of her mind long enough to achieve climax.

Of course she hasn't said anything to you since... the horror of watching two walruses hump each other in a spray of baby oil, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and rancid milk, and braying like a pair of Kodiak bears with their limbs caught in a woodchipper has made her mute. Just be thankful she still has her eyesight. The vision of two flabby hairless apes with cottage-cheese filled, enwarted asses in the air and cankles akimbo would make Medusa go back to her day job.

Rudie would let this sleeping gorgon lie and proceed from the assumption that years of therapy costing tens of thousands of dollars might just be enough to help her lead a normal life... well as normal as you can expect from a person who's watched Jello have sex.

—Rudie, see-it-wiggle-ly

Dear Rudence,
After last evening's latest installment of my dating reality show, I'm quite ready to go write manuscripts in a monastery. The woman in question and I met through an online dating site. We spent the last week connecting quite nicely via phone and e-mail. When she got off the train, she was looking around for me. I could tell that the minute she turned and saw me, it was over. As we sat down to dinner, she apologized and said, "I'm sorry. We can't go on. You are the best guy I've met, but ..." To paraphrase her, I have intellect, emotion, and love to give. However, I don't have it in the physical-attraction department. I'm short (so was she), but she said she always dated football-player types, even though she added that they've always been wrong for her. So, she decided to do the "George Costanza opposite" with me, but it didn't work. I thanked her for her honesty, enjoyed a strained dinner, and got her back on the train to go home. I'm 42 years old, and have lost my patience with hearing how nice I am, that I'm loved like a brother, will make someone very happy someday, and so forth. Despite the above, I am quite happy with who I am and am not willing to change (nor can I) who I am, which is, well, a nice guy. So, is it true? Do nice guys finish last?

—End of the Rope Approaching Fast

Dear Rope-a-Dope,
Nice guys don't finish last... they don't even finish. Since when has proficiency at getting laid ever been enhanced by nice-guy-hood?

Rudie will wait for a few seconds as you ponder this...

Very well, let's proceed. Rudie is picturing you as middle-aged, with male-pattern baldness, a physique inaccurately described as 'pear-shaped' and much more accurately described as 'oblate spheroid', and having an abiding knowledge that this sort of physical appearance is not going to win you any beauty contests. As far as your own personal self-image is concerned: you envision yourself at a bar, you're talking up some girl, and you think you seem to be getting on pretty well, even though she's looked at her watch twice and eyed up the knife they use to cut up the limes a few more. Just then, a guy walks in who could be the spitting image of a child of a union between Rowan Atkinson, The Elephant Man, and a 200-pound tumor. The woman, comparatively enthralled by this somewhat lessened display of physical atrocity, starts chatting up this missing link while you stand there with your dick in your hand.

Does that sum up your personal perspective with reasonable accuracy?

You know you aren't gifted with a squared-jaw, a six-pack, and a flawless smile. You're more gifted with a recessive chin, a one-pack, and a flawless smile... if you don't count the one rotted molar and the haphazard arrangement of cuspids, bicuspids, and incisors which bears a striking resemblance to a pongi stick trap, only much less inviting.

This is not your problem.

She had you zeroed the second she stepped off the train, and you know it. You knew it was over before it began, and you were nice about it. This, my troglodyte friend, is your problem. She was totally gettable, and you let cordiality, understanding, and good manners ruin it for you.

Let me explain, oh, milquetoast one.

When you saw that expression, you knew she was repulsed, but here's the full text of what she was thinking on a subconscious level:

"I am a woman, and as such know what men are all about. When it comes to the relationships, we rule, they drool. I know I'm hot shit, inside and out, and they'd better respect that. Furthermore, I... (glances over your way) ...holy cats, it's an Oompa Loompa with glandular issues. Shit, I can't even begin to imagine how I'd have sex with that. Besides, I'm way too attractive for the likes of him. Lessee... (flips through mental Rolodex)...ah, here it is, Gentle Rejection with A Side of Harsh Truth About Your Looks... good old #23. Look at how forlorn he is... he knows its coming. No sense putting it off."

What you should have done was Interception Attack #5: Beat Her to the Bad News Punch. Before she even got a word out, you should have been saying something along the lines of: "Hi, um, before we go any further, I should tell you that when you got off the train, I was... well, I was expecting someone... you know... prettier... and taller... Nothing against you, you are such a lovely person but you're just not my physical type. I'm sorry you had to come all the way out here... tell you what, let's go have dinner, I do enjoy talking to you... as a friend."

What, too forward? Haven't got the chops for a frontal assault?

Well then, let her get her spiel out first and go for Mental Jujitsu Hold #3: Start chuckling, then let out a breath of relief, wipe your forehead as though you're cleaning up some sweat if you can pull it off without it looking too fake, and say: "Whoa. Talk about a load off my mind! I'm so glad to hear you say that! I was wondering how I was going to break the same thing to you. Seriously, I had you pictured so... differently... well, no matter, we can still go have dinner... as friends."

If you've pulled either of them off correctly, you should see a look on her face which may be either her lips pulled into a near horizontal line with widened eyes or a slightly... drugged... look. You should also hear, if you listen very carefully, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. This is her subconscious driving into her ego. You see, up to that point, she had convinced herself that she was in charge of the situation. You wanted her, she didn't want you, ergo she's in control. Now, you've turned the tables, and Rudie has yet to meet the woman who can stand the thought of being rejected physically by any man, let alone by someone who they consider their physical inferior.

Congratulations, you now simultaneously frustrate her and anger her, but more importantly, you intrigue her. You may even represent a challenge to her. She may spend the rest of the evening trying to get your pants off, just to prove to you that you are powerless against her feminine charms. Don't make it too obvious, but the right move here is to let her win.

-Rudie, lots-of-luck-ly

Dear Rudie,
I have been with my boyfriend for about four years, and we've talked about getting married in a couple of years. However, I have one dilemma—his family. They're all really nice people and I appreciate their tendency to be themselves and act comfortable around each other. However, I come from a family/culture that is big on being polite and formal, and therefore am not used to all the sex talk (even as jokes) and other super-informal discussions, especially at events like holiday dinners. In addition, I can be a bit shy around people who make me uncomfortable. It doesn't help that they know this about me and constantly bring it up and joke about my properness/shyness. My boyfriend and I do actually share a lot of common goals and dreams, and we're able to have tons of fun when hanging out alone. Is our relationship doomed, since we come from such different backgrounds? I am so frustrated about facing the same problem every time we go to one of his family gatherings.

—Family Issues

Dear Prim-and-Proper,

May the maker forbid any conversation at the dinner table that doesn't involve please, thank you, and insipid comments about the weather and tea cozies. May the holiest of holies strike down anyone with the temerity to say what they really think around people they should feel most comfortable around. And dare the topic of fornication rear its blasphemous head up above the same table you have thanked your maker for the bountiful feast you receive, verily smote shall the violators be.

Get thee away from this den of turpitude and seek out the gentle embrace of smooth words and conversation of level suitable for high society. Go forth, with thine broomstick lodged firmly within thine hairy backside, to a world of sun, bunnies, dancing flowers, and dainty manners. For these, and only these, will sate the brewing disgust you feel at being privy to such... such... commonness and familiarity. Banish the thought of further contact with these wretched vermin, lest thou come away with the stink of impropriety and infested with the fleas common to such serfs and peons.

Or...

Maybe you could just unlodge that broom handle from your browneye, join your boyfriend's wonderously profane and vulgar family at the dinner table, and start singing The Penis Song with the rest of them. Get shitfaced first. It usually helps.

-Rudie, sing-along-if-you-know-the-words-otherwise-just-hum-ly

Rudence,
My roommate and friend is a nursery-school teacher and is constantly exposed to every germ and bug that goes around. She has brought home three viruses since the school year began just two months ago, and she's passed on every single illness to me. I have asthma, so a three-day cold for her can turn into a two-week ordeal for me. She isn't doing this on purpose—obviously, she doesn't want to get sick either—but at the same time, I can't help feeling resentful that she keeps making me ill. Short of breaking my lease, is there anything I can do to keep myself healthy? And how do I handle my anger when she comes home with yet another cold?

—Sniffly

What?! Not Dear Rudence? Why if Rudie didn't know better, he'd swear you had an attitude problem.

Clearly, you are a victim here, though, so Rudie will put aside the rather... imperative... manner in which you have addressed him, and address your anger before he starts indulging his own.

I mean really, how dare your roommate do her job when in the course of so doing, she's giving you a case of the sniffles. You have every right to be pissed off at her. I mean, you have asthma for chrissake, and you know what she does for a living and moved in with her anyway, but still, what a heartless wench for subjecting you to such misery and agony. And those kids... lordy, lordy, lordy, don't get me started on those abominable little germ symbiotes for one second. Don't they know not to wipe their nasal discharge on every available surface?! Haven't they the common sense not to use their clothing as Kleenex? Clearly, you knew in the womb that you were not supposed to do this, so what's wrong with these intellectually underdeveloped snot factories?! Seems that the educational system is failing them, so what good is your friend really doing to advance the intellects of these remedial, hopeless dimwits? Why waste the time?

You know what you should do? You should demand that she quit because it's putting you out, and Rudie'll be the first to agree with you that your comfort and freedom from rhinovirus should come before paying the rent or molding young minds. What's the point of living if you can't bend people's will to accommodate your own pursuit of pleasure.

I mean, really, where the fuck does she get off?

-Rudie, nasally

Well folks, the time has come to say farewell once again, and remember, a stitch in time saves nine, but Rudie hears torn clothing's probably coming back in style soon, so fuck it.