Do I have to keep contributing?

Dear Agony Aunt,

With all these natural disasters of late, including the millions of fish dying en-mass and hundreds of thousands of birds falling from the sky at once, do you think it’s the end of the world?  If so, do I really need to keep contributing to my superannuation?

Well, well, well.  When they were giving out compassion and sensitivity, I bet you were in the back of the line painting your toenails.  Natural disasters are more than birds and fish.  Real people died.  So before I get into it, I’m pressing my index fingers to my temple, closing my eyes really tight and wishing you some kind of karma payback tomorrow.  I hope your boss gives you the sack.  Then you’ll really have to worry about superannuation.  But if by some karma miscarriage of justice, you make it through the work day, this is your answer.

Superannuation is the worst form of gambling.  It's betting you’ll make it to your wrinkly gold watch.  What’s worse is that it isn’t called gambling, it’s called ‘saving’.  And not your traditional piggy bank saving where you can listen to your money clink and grow.  No.  This 'saving' is where some stranger holds your ‘invisible’ money and every year apologises for 'losing' some of it.  They call it ‘market losses’ and ‘administrative fees’.  What a scam.

But it doesn’t end there.  Not only are you losing money, but you’re forced to bet on your actual life end date.  You see, if you don’t save enough, you’ll only be able to go to the hairdresser once every six months for your blue dye.  However, if you save too much, you’re ugly, greedy and ungrateful kids will get all the money.  This is probably worse of the two scenarios because with all that excess money, you could’ve bought a motorbike and/or had a high-class hooker for a week.

So my advice to you is that you should pick a number and stick to it.  The current world average for life expectancy is 67.2.  This is actually a good number for you as it’s same as your IQ.  So do the maths and say goodbye to your money.  But having said all that, there are always unforseen variables.  Watch out for flying mackerels.

Should I date Charlie Sheen?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

I recently did a celebrity internet quiz on Valentines Day and found out my ideal partner is Charlie Sheen.  This is great but I worry about his crazy behaviour.  Do you think he’ll be able to commit to me without the pain of associated addiction?  His track record hasn’t been the greatest and I wonder if we could see it through thick and thin.

Oh my god.  My life just got that little bit worse.  Birds stopped chirping, thunderstorms have started crackling in the distance and I think there’s a little vomit in my mouth.

Are you serious?  Charlie’s got enough problems to deal with.  I’m guessing that putting up with you - even being introduced to you will send him over the edge.  He’s a talent - a drunk guy, playing a drunk guy and that kind of talent is rare.  Being anywhere near you would be the end of his sparkling career and I won’t have any part of it.

What you need to do is stay away from the internet.  If you can’t do that, then stay away from any kind of quizzes.  This includes surveys, IQ tests and internet banking.  Society can’t afford to have the internet break down because of one stupid person.  And while you’re at it, maybe it might also be a good idea to stay away from people.  Oh my god - I just got a shiver.  Maybe you’re family/friends just cheered.  I can’t be sure.

But what I can be sure of is that you’re an idiot.  It’s a guess - an educated guess - but I’m guessing Charlie Sheen doesn’t date girls who surf the net and do quizzes on Valentines Day.  I’m guessing he only dates girls who are already on the internet.  And do you know what, good luck to him.

For all the problems he has, his problems are okay.  They only involve a 90 day stint at Betty Ford and a lot of hugs and support.  Your problems on the other hand are much harder to deal with.  And you’re not paying me by the hour but should be seeing someone who does.  If it's good enough for Charlie, it's good enough for you.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

What happens after 'hello'?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

A co-worker said hello and I said hello back.  Then a couple of seconds of silence passed and they said a sarcastic ‘good thanks’.  My problem is that, I don’t remember asking them how they were because I distinctly remember not caring.  Do I have to ask EVERYONE how they are when I see them?

This is why you should never date your co-workers.  After the initial burst of effervescent bubbly love has turned into a murky, icky and sticky, stinky bog, you both still have to occasionally talk to each other.  This is where passive aggressive conversations reign supreme and sarcasm lifts its skirt to show a bit of leg.  

You see, sarcasm is the ‘smart’ of dumb people.  Sarcasm has a little bit of wit but it’s so lacking, it needs to be served with a side dish of tone.  And you need tone when you’re trying to make a sad and pathetic point.  Sarcasm gives you the 'snippy' without the ‘snappy’.  So if that’s the kind of relationship you want, my advice is - ‘Snip, snap, front and back’. 

However, if you’re after the fool proof stuff, I’ve got that for you as well.  This is becuase you sound like a real fool.  So here we go.  If you want to stop having to ask people how they are, you need to tell everyone you love them.  Yes, you read right, tell everyone you love them. 

Tell Dickie from the Mailroom you love him.  Tell Vaz in Accounting you love her.  Tell your boss, your boss’ boss, the guy that delivers the milk and the massage man that visits once a month.  I'm serious. Everyone.  Don’t discriminate.  Practice your heart felt, ‘I love you’ in the mirror, then let loose.  Be consistent and don't miss a single person.  Be brave.  Be bold.  Squeeze into that lunch line and tell EVERYONE you’re life is that more colourful with them in it and gosh damn, you just love them for it. 

Once you do this, all you need to do is walk around and smile.  Why?  Because you're happy.  This is because after a short period of time, EVERYONE will stop saying hello and you’ll already know how they’re feeling.  Frightened.  Very, very frightened.

Can a friend copy your child's name?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

My sister-in-law recently had a baby girl and called her ‘Eden’.  Her pregnant friend visited them in hospital and a couple of weeks later had a baby boy.  She called her baby boy, Eden.  Can a friend copy or steal your child's name?  I mean, most of us only have a couple of children, out of the thousands of baby names out there, shouldn’t they just back off?

If nothing else, life is a race to see who can get through the birth canal first.  In most cases, head first.  But in some, bum first.  And that explains a lot about a lot of people.  Especially those people who give their children unrealistic and un-subbed first names.

You know what I’m talking about.  Jack with two kay’s.  Jakk.  Peter with a silent eff.  Pfeter.   A first name merger.  Joyanne.  Phonetic name spelling.  Aalivyah.  Rebellion for the sake of rebellion.  Kymberleigh.  Then there’s just the random pot-pourri names. Charismatage.  Q’Dell.  Sham.  Torianna-Sharisse.  The parents responsible for this crime against humanity argue ‘individuality’.  I just argue ‘breech birth’.

So let me tell you what should happen.  Every hospital should have a fat and cranky matron heading the registry department who knows how to wield a red nikko pen.  She’ll be expertly trained to give any new parent a spectacular death stare through her judgemental glasses and give a squeaky red cross when you put a vowel or a consentient in the wrong place.  That’ll stop all your ZowiMitchyl’s, Quintynn’s, Maddisyn’s and Jaeson’s.  

But back to your question about name copyright.  This is a prime example as to why you should never share things with your friends.  Skirts never get returned.  Cars come back with bumper dings.  Boyfriends never look the same.  And the same goes with baby names.  Your sister-in-law should’ve either lied about her child’s name or put an embargo on the name.  In layman’s terms, she should’ve called ‘dibs’.  So really in this case, she’s only got herself to blame.

Having said that, your sister’s friend seems like she was born breech and would still do something stupid by having twin girls and calling them Jasmine and Jasmine - then wonder why Centrelink will only pay her for one child. 

Can You Babysit My Kids?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

My husband and I are going away for the weekend and our babysitter has cancelled.  Can you look after the kids for a couple of days?  Kelly is four and Richard is two and a half.

Sure thing.  Maybe Richard could teach me how to use my mobile phone and Kelly could help me install a firewall. 

We could play games like, why loud banging is important, where to safely hide the mushy and smelly banana and ‘Hot And Cold’ - The Kitchen version.  I’ll also introduce them to a new game  called the ‘No’ game.  It’s where every answer is no but you have to work from a yell to a shrill.  Your kids sound smart; I’m confident they’ll catch on.

I’m happy to hold Q&A sessions from everything ranging from - ‘Why You Look Like Mummy’s Boss’ to ‘Tattoo’s: Short term pain, long term gain’.  We can debate issues like whether it’s better to have a sharp wit or a sharp knife and if we have time we’ll have a good hearty discussion about God verses Science.

But don’t worry, there’ll be heaps of educational stuff as well.  I’ll hold three but invaluable seminars.  ‘How To Help Daddy Fix His Car When He’s Not Looking’, ‘How Your Attitude Is Your Weapon; The Pre-teen Version’ and ‘How To Learn Numbers’.  I just need your credit card for that class.  At night, I’ll read them bedside stories like, ‘The Princess and the Non-committal Prince’, ‘Why Addiction Is Bad But Inevitable’ and ‘Sleep Is For Losers, Volumes 7 - 11’.

I’m ready to go.  Just let me know what time you want me there.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

How Do I Make Him Go To School?

Dear Agony Aunt

My seven year old kid won’t go to school.  I’ve tried everything.  Pleading, negotiation, bribes, reverse psychology and force.  On the mornings I take time off work to drag him kicking and screaming to school, he gets there and runs away to the Nurse’s office citing a made up disease.  Other than tie him to chair, I don’t know what else to do.  I’m at my wits end.

Tie him to a chair?  That’s some good parenting there.  But why stop there?  Tie him to a chair, give him eleven years worth of Big Mac’s, a bed pan and wish him all the best...  Tie him to a chair?  It just goes to show you don't need to have brains or common sense to have children.

You’re son however, he sounds like a hoot.  And he’s already a lot smarter than you.  Let’s look at three important facts.  He doesn’t listen to you.  Tick.  He visits the hot nurse in sick bay.  Tick.  He’s creative enough to come up with never heard before ailments.  Tick.  Your son is an entrepreneurial genius of his time; a young mix of Donald Trump, Richard Branson and Dr Oz.

His gift needs to be nurtured, not stifled by unimportant things like English, math and social studies.  While all the other kids are agonising over bell curves, fumbling around with Bunsen burners and hating every single word of that idiot, Shakespeare, you’re youngin’ is just biding his time until he can bust out of there, start a chain of strip-joint convenience stores and become a multi-billionaire.

You’re the luckiest chick to have opened her legs.  If nurtured and supported, your son will buy you a duplex in Parramatta with his first million.  Then with his first billion, he might even buy you a motorised scooter.  You never know, it might even come with a full tank of petrol. 

However, if suppressed and restrained, you can forget your Parramatta dreams because all you’ll get will be paternity divorce papers.  These papers will be served by your son’s busty second wife, Brandy-Ann who’ll you’ll later find out - via your son’s memoirs - she does indeed tie him to chair.  But that’s for completely different reasons.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

Should I have corrected him?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I was in a car accident and survived with agonising whiplash.  But what distressed me more was the policeman’s final report of the incident.  The report says I was in the right but it was littered with so many spelling and grammatical errors, the sentence structure made me sound like I was drunk.  However, fearing he’d arrest me for ‘obstruction of justice’ I signed the statement without saying anything.  Should I have corrected him?

I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but, I think you’re my soul mate.  I had exactly the same experience.  This is an excerpt from my latest police statement as presented to the Magistrate.  The author of this sparkling document was Senior Constable Perry McWhirter.

“…It took twelve minutes for the subject to accept the power pole on the corner of Pitt and

Market Street wasn’t her next husband.  After I demanded she stop kissing the pole, she loudly commented on my above average weight and accused me of being the son of an unmarried mother.  At this time, I advised her that I was going to handcuff and restrain her.  She responded by saying she wanted to ‘see the cash upfront’ because it was unlikely I was in a financial position to afford it...’

Now, this makes me sound like I was drunk doesn’t it?  I feel your pain. 

So, the next day, I confronted Constable Perry and demanded he retract it.  He must’ve misunderstood and started humping a power pole.  I said that I wanted him to retract it, not re-enact it.  He told me he was not going to change his statement and that I needed to remember that he was a Policeman.  He said ‘Policemen are like drunk spinsters at a B&S ball, we’re ugly, we do a lot of shouting and you’ll always regret running into us the previous night’.

So after my painful ‘run in’ with Constable Perry, all I can say to you is that you need to get a grip.  You did the right thing to shut your gob.  After all, we’re only talking about a concrete, water tight, iron clad police statement.  It’s not something important, say, like a blog.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

Should I tell my friends I've won Lotto?

Hi Angry Agony Aunt

I’ve just won First Division in Lotto.  Should I tell my friends?

Ra-rah-rah Rich

Dear Richie Rich

Let me start off by saying you’re the best looking reader I’ve ever had.  However, your looks pale in to insignificance when it comes to your brains and brawn.  I hope I’m not stating the obvious when I say that you’re a rare specimen.  When it comes to having a balance of good looks, good personality and good fortune, you’re right up there with your Peter Andre.  So, now that’s out of the way, let me give you a guiding hand and I’ll do my best to give you the best advice possible.

Look, you’re a total jerk.  You’re a jerk with or without money.  I’m guessing the ‘friends’ you talk about are probably a few old high school frenemies, a few ex-boyfriends and a lot of co-workers that really can’t stand you microwaving your curry lunch in the office.

These are the same people that never have and never will invite you to workplace farewell party, unless of course, it’s yours.  This is where they’ll spare no expense to ensure your building security pass is returned and destroyed.  Or to steal a phrase - until the security pass is ‘buried and cremated’.

But unfortunately for you, it’s too late.  They already know.  They got your subtle hints.  Their first clue was when you employed The Wiggles to record your voicemail singing ‘I’m in the money’.  The second was on casual Friday when you wore that dress made of hundred dollar notes.  The last clue is that big novelty cheque you got framed and hung above your desk.  You really are a jerk.

But believe it or not, you’re co-workers are actually quite happy for you.  This is their time to shine.  I heard a couple of them on the blower to Nigeria interviewing a few spam agents.  Shortly, you'll be receiving an email from Amadi telling you that he needs to offload twenty billion dollars and just needs your bank account to do so.  And believe me, it’s in your best interests to tell him.  This is the quickest way to turn your small win into a big billion dollar win.  Boy, you're on a roll.  Good luck to you.  He, he.

 

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

What font should I use?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I’m trying to write a novel but can’t decide on a font. My problem is that I can't start to write until I find a font I like.  What should I do?  

Wow.  Your problems are huge.  How you’ve managed to stay upright this long and haven’t topped yourself is truly a miracle.  And not one of those ‘oh, my baby is a miracle’ miracles.  I’m talking about a real stumper that not even the Pope can explain.  But I’ll give it a go.  With or without my Pastoral Staff.

Here’s a fun fact for you.  Did you know the first ever font invented was Wingdings?  You didn’t know that?  True.  But back in the day, cavemen didn’t have Apple Mac’s and it took them forever to carve out a sentence.  Can you imagine how long it’d take to write out - Buffalo, spear, bird, bird, spear, lizard, spear, crescent moon, fish, arrow head, tree, arrow head just to spell out ‘Macca was here’.  I’m guessing at least three hibernation seasons.

Then after a period of time, pictures where replaced with letters.  But if you’re Chinese, pictures were replaced with a random smatter of ‘slashes’.  Ironically, these slashes actually look like things - like houses, stick men hugging each other and office buildings.  So really, the Chinese written word hasn’t evolved that much.

And then there’s the Germans.  Don’t get me started on the Germans.  With their umlaut’s, eszett’s and lack of dental fricatives.  Those German’s are always trying to show off.  But I must say that probably the most interesting language in the world is that of those crazy residents of Lesbos.  They speak Lesbian.  And you can bet that come class time, those crazy Lesbos teenage boys turn up on time, sit up straight and ask for homework. 

I haven’t researched the Lesbian font but I’m guessing you’re downloading it now for your novel writing.  You're a dirty bastard.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

Should I return the book?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I bought my friend a book direct from a publisher and after a long process of them ‘losing’ the delivery, I ended up with two books.  Should I send the other one back?

Life is nothing but karma points and a points system more confusing than the Westminster preferential voting system.  It can only be explained by a ven diagram, powerpoint presentation and someone from Generation X.

For example, setting off a false school fire alarm is negative ten, negative fifteen if you do it on test day and negative twenty-five if you do it on a hot day on a test day.  But if the Principal sets the alarm off just at that crucial moment before Andrew Rosetti is about to tell you he likes you, the stupid Principal actually gets positive three points for doing it as a ‘drill’.

Karma also has a long list of rules and regulations more ambiguous and contradictory than the Bible.  You get three points for telling your partner their bum does look big but the ensuing argument will in fact see you end up negative seven.  Smacking your child in a supermarket, negative one - smacking someone else’s child, negative twenty.  Go figure.

So, with all these confusing cosmic positives and negatives karma tallies silently ticking away, it’s really hard to know where you’re at in life.  All I can say is that if you’ve slept with your best friend’s boyfriend, told a child there’s no Santa or posted a significantly younger photo of yourself on an internet dating web site, I insist - no, I beg of you to return the book.  Send it by courier and with a heartfelt, handwritten thank you note.  And if you’re really points poor, enclose another cheque for good measure.  Unfortunately, you still won’t be in the black, but at least you’re only a couple of hours of community service away from turning your life around.  And it all starts with that book.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

Am I being a Bridezilla?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

My fiancé and I are struggling with our guest list which is already 12 people over budget.  A number of our guests have partners we’ve never met.  We’re okay with long term relationships however there are a few that have only been dating a year.  Do we have to invite them?  I really don't want to pay $150 ahead for someone I’ve never met, nor do I want them in our pictures.  Am I being a Bridezilla?

Regards

Plus one quandary

Dear Plus one

Yes, you’re being a Bridezilla.  I mean, passively aggressively abusing the bonbonniere lady?  She’s eighty-five years old and she’s making this stuff by hand.  Think about it.  Your daily emails actually slow her down, not speed her up.  And that poor florist - she can’t change the tulip season - so stop asking.  And while you’re at it, tell your bridesmaids to stop writing to me.  I don’t have enough answers to their questions and I’m not qualified to prescribe Prozac.  And no, I don’t recommend they crush Prozac into your weight loss tea. 

What Bridesmaids keep forgetting is that only have two jobs.  One.  To paint on a wide and permanent smile on their face and look truly happy for you.  Especially anywhere in the vicinity of a camera.  Two.  At no moment during the day are they to be better looking than you.  Not even for a second.  Two jobs, that’s it.  Easy as.  And honestly, it's not unreasonable for you to ask them to pash a teenager a couple of days before the big day.  Where else are they going to get a good case of ache from?

However, when it comes to your guest list, I must confess, you’re rather calm about the whole thing.  If it was me, I’d be having a conniption about having booty call girlfriends at my wedding.   I mean, they’ll be there in their short skirts and fascinators eating your salmon canapé's and drinking your middle shelf champagne.  They’ll be swapping their T-bone for the fish and getting so sloshed all men in suits will look available, including the groom.

My advice to you is to be ruthless and cruel.  You know how to do that don’t you?  So, explain to your audience, oh sorry, your guests, they have a choice.  Sure, they’re welcome to bring a guest, however both of them will unfortunately be subject to a three drink maximum.  So sure, bring a 'friend'.  However, if they decide to come alone, they’ll be welcomed with an unlimited bar.  You’ll be surprised as to how ruthless and cruel your friends are as well.

Failing that, set a dress code where everyone dresses as a waiter.  Come bill time, the Venue Manager won't have a leg to stand on.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com

Am I Arthur or Martha?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I don’t know whether I’m Arthur or Martha.  Can you help me out?

Knowing your gender is a tricky business.  One minute you’re mowing the lawn and waxing your Holden but end up waxing your bits and crying when watching ‘Ghost’.  Boy, wasn’t that a confusing movie?  One minute Whoopi’s playing Whoopi, then she’s playing Patrick Swayze, touches up Demi Moore then turns back to being Whoopi.  That’s an Arthur/Martha is a real confusing and creepy way.  But not as confusing as Victor/Victoria - a woman, dressing as a man, dressing as a female impersonator.  The only way I can explain this to regular people, is that Victor is a superfluous middle man.  Much like literary agents.

But back to you.  The easy way to find out if you’re an Arthur or a Martha is to ask someone.  But it doesn’t sound like you’ve got any friends or co-workers that actively talk to you, so we’re going to have to go to Plan B.  I must confess, Plan B is simple but painful.  So, like all of my ex-boyfriends, all care is taken but no responsibility is accepted.

Okay.  Go to a day care centre and sneak into the kids sick bay.  Sit on the floor, colour in if you like but make sure you breathe in that germy goodness.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Breathe in, breathe out.  But whatever you do, don’t get within smacking distance of the kids.  The aim of Plan B is to only get a tiny, tiny, little cold.  This is because if you have an itsy bitsy tiny little cold and find yourself heavily complaining about it, you know you’re a man.

However, if you’re unable to get into a childcare centre, for your obvious anti-social behaviour, visit a ladies toilet area.  If the ladies scream, you’ve just found out you’re a man.  That, or a very, very, very ugly woman.

Send your questions to me - angryauntis@gmail.com