Dear Captain Obvious: I could really use your help in hiring an assassin to kill my mother. This woman has made my life a living hell for as long as I can remember. If she’s not getting herself into trouble with the law and making my brother, my wife and myself accessories in her hair-brained schemes, then she keeps busy providing fodder for us to laugh at. Picture the three stooges, Moe, Curly and Larry all rolled into one, berserk and hellish package and you’ve met my mother; driving me to distraction and, I regret to add, an early grave. Son Needs a Gun.
Dear Son Needs a Gun: As parents age it’s perfectly natural to wish we could fold them away for easy storage when they inevitably begin to take up too much room in our busy lives. So I can relate when desperate times call for desperate measures. If you must have her killed make sure that there is no way the hit can be traced back to you. Since she has an affinity for physical slapstick comedy set a trap that’s sure to ensnare her, using a Rube Goldberg machine. Given her history, the authorities will think nothing is out of the ordinary when they discover her charred remains. They’ll rule the case as open and shut and you and your family can go on with your lives pretending as though she never existed.
Dear Captain Obvious: I just don’t understand it. In 1981, when I was 53 years old, I had a vasectomy. Subsequent tests proved that the procedure was 100% effective yet I have managed to father two children since then! Well, I suppose one doesn’t count since the mother stole my stored sperm and impregnated herself with it while on vacation. Now my fiancée has announced that she’s pregnant! I know that I am a great man, but a vasectomy is supposed to be 99.85% effective, how in God’s name did I manage to sire two children naturally with a 0.15% success rate? Old Baby Daddy.
Dear Old Baby Daddy: I don’t know what impresses me more, the fact that your sperm refuses to stop impregnating the women you sleep with or that at the ripe age of 80 you’re still making babies (you sly old dog you). Obviously you have extremely potent sperm. With gas prices the way they are and companies scrambling to find alternative sources of energy you’re one of the lucky few who may have the answer to today’s energy crisis down the front of your pants. I strongly urge you to pursue this further. Call up your local energy provider and have yourself tested as a potential renewable energy source.
Dear Captain Obvious: I’m a sourpuss. I hate everything and everyone around me except for my sister, my dad and my girlfriend. I can’t take joy in anything not even a sexy, albeit annoying, woman kissing me. Instead of thanking her for the only action I’ve received in months I complained about it. Now the girl, who’s been crashing at my pad while her apartment underwent repairs, is moving out so guess what I did? I smiled. I haven’t smiled in months, my mouth hurt for days afterward. How can I turn this frown upside down so that it comes more naturally to me? Life Sucks.
Dear Life Sucks: You’ve got a girlfriend, right? Try getting laid every once in a while. You may not enjoy it, but at least you’ll have to remove that stick up your butt before you get started.
Dear Captain Obvious: This guy that I’m feeding and housing has an ex-wife he can’t get off his mind and, quite frankly, neither can I. I am just consumed with everything she does and it absolutely makes my day to rub my relationship with her ex-husband in her face. Sure I’ve paid the price for my gloating by having my coffee laced with hot sauce, having my breasts scalded with a hot beverage, and business disrupted when the she-devil set a store in my company’s building lobby on fire. I know I should quit while I’m still in one piece, but I’m convinced this woman has a secret and I must find out what it is even though it could mean putting myself in harms way. Am I glutton for punishment? Unshakable.
Dear Unshakable: Not only are you a glutton for punishment but you might also be gay. You could also be suffering from very low self-esteem and a complete lack of self-worth. Then again it is entirely possible that your life is a hollowed out husk, merely a shadow of your former, more relevant self. Maybe you’re all of the above, so basically you’re a wretched excuse for a woman. There I said it. Happy now?
Dear Captain Obvious: I love my life! I get to go to summer camp three weeks before school lets out thanks to my parent’s utter lack of regard of the value of a good education. I swear if I could stay away forever I would. Living It Up.
Dear Living It Up: Sweet! Now all you have to do is get sunburn, contract malaria, almost drown from a canoeing accident, have your summer crush humiliate you in front of the entire cafeteria when she yells that your breath smells like kitty litter and have Jason chase you through the woods when you get lost sneaking away from the camp fire. Sounds like good times ahead.
Dear Captain Obvious: Are there any support groups out there for retail CEOs that are extremely wealthy but pretend as if one tiny boutique store is the one and only source of their income? I never open my bank statements because I hate seeing all those millions in my account. I make house calls for customers who are too lazy to shop in person at my stores. I ran into the CEO of Nordstrom at the airport the other day and he laughed at me when I told him I fly coach and live in a three bedroom apartment in Wisconsin. My friend says that I probably suffer from moneyphobia (i.e. acute fear of money and enjoying wealth). Can I get help for that? Poor Rich Girl.
Dear Poor Rich Girl: Clearly something is very wrong with you. I have an account at Genoa Republic, my account number is 999-980-660555. Please feel free to make a wire transfer any time, night or day.
Dear Captain Obvious: Lately I can’t resist the urge to wear sweater and dress shirt ensembles to work, even though outside the thermostat is set to Africa, this particular outfit choice makes me feel really smart and equipped to make half-cocked business decisions on a whim. I’m the co-CEO of an über-trendy fashion magazine so I have a reputation to uphold. Fashion Plate.
Dear Fashion Plate: Perhaps you should have resisted the urge to type this letter, you buffoon. I hope your sweater ignites on your way to your next business meeting.
Originally published: Jun-18-2008
