Dear Captain Obvious: Well that does it. I’ve managed to scare off the woman I love because I refuse to accept the fact that she’s married and committed to her wretch of a husband. I didn’t mean to come on so strong it’s just—well, it’s just hard, you know? I hate being told I can’t have something. Anyway I’ve decided to move on but truthfully I’m waiting for the right moment to strike again. We belong together. I just have to wait for her to come around, right? Preying.
Dear Preying: I think you’re confusing stalking and obsession for love. Further on in your letter (which I didn’t re-print due to the explicit recount of what you planned to do next when you got her alone) I got the impression that the two of you are working colleagues. Whoever this woman is I hope she reads this and has you arrested, you sick, sick bastard.
Dear Captain Obvious: Systematic bleaching of my hair has caused the peroxide to seep into my scalp and set my brains on fire. Now I don’t have any common sense left—or dignity for that matter. Case in point: my most recent endeavor to make my, kind of, ex-husband fall in love with me again. I dressed like a washed-up trollop (much like the way I usually dress but with a really bad wig) and pretended to be someone else. My ruse was a success—in humiliation AND hilarity. My self-esteem is on “E”, any suggestions for an encore? Needy.
Dear Needy: Got any kidneys to spare? It’s a little known fact in this town that when those who know you loath you their feelings can quickly change when they’ve fallen ill and are badly in need of some used organ that only you can provide. Just think: you’ll always be a part of him whether he likes it or not. Go get ‘em, trollop, er, I mean, tiger.
Dear Captain Obvious: Ay Dios Mio! My employer called me the other night, right in the middle of my favorite telenovela, to tell me to pack up his wife’s shit, again! I spent two hours just folding her panties! Then, to add insult to injury, I had to haul suitcase after suitcase stuffed to the brim of old dusty-ass feather boas, sequined ball gowns—clothes she’ll probably never wear again—and drop them off to another house on the compound. As if I didn’t already have enough to do, what with cleaning up after his flea-bitten mongrel and spit-shining his comatose daughter’s bed pans. Does anyone care that the poor manservant who’s on call day and night might actually want a little rest too? Going postal.
Dear Postal: It indeed appears that you are standing at a crossroads in your life. When was the last time you took a vacation? I hear that Australia is lovely this time of year. Ever been? If you decide to go, make sure to steer clear of dingoes—they eat babies you know and you have got to be the biggest baby that has ever written to me since 2008 has started. Aren’t you being paid for these degrading chores? You are? All right then. Get over yourself!
Dear Captain Obvious: After what seemed like endless months of placating, kowtowing and self-deprecation, I finally got the keys and an offer to leave “a few things” at my boyfriend’s apartment. This would be an otherwise great opportunity were it not for the fact that his dead wife still lives there, in spirit at least. Let’s just say this makes me a little less then comfortable. Everything I say or do always reminds him of something his wife liked or did. Two weeks ago, after sex, I sat on the edge of the bed he and his dead wife used to sleep in, clipping my hangnails when he blurted out that his wife used to do the very same thing post-coital. God! Is it just me, or is it crowded in here? Three’s Company.
Dear Three’s: A seemingly dead wife can be a pesky thing when dealing with a new relationship; you want some time alone with your new beau but can’t seem to shake the feeling that someone’s peering over your shoulder with a disapproving glare. This guy must really be something for you to endure the ghost of marriage past hovering over you 24/7. Having said that it’s time to set a few things straight with your man before taking him up on his offer. Firstly, tell him to call 1-800-Mattress and place an order. Second, find a way to get your hands on some holy water and keep a small bottle of it nearby at all times. Last but not least, say your prayers. You’re going to need it.
Dear Captain Obvious: I’m a real estate agent that’s had it up to here with the rich idiots in this town. Turns out billionaires and millionaires in Genoa City enjoy living well below their means. I’ve been trying to get the son of a very wealthy business man to move out of the horse’s stable of his father’s ranch into better digs for years to no avail. A rich widow would rather sleep on the couch in her son’s apartment than buy a home worthy of her wealth. I barely get by on the commissions I make. Should I move out of this hellhole? Struggling.
Dear Struggling: Boy, I know what you mean. Well, actually I don’t. Please don’t write with this sort of asinine question again.
Dear Captain Obvious: I must have a note stuck on my back that says, ‘Blackmail Me”. I just can’t seem to escape these grasping men that crop up in my life. Help. I need a way out. Sitting duck.
Dear Duck: I bet you’re the sort of person that schemes a great deal and is too dumb to know how and when to cover up their tracks. I hope they fry you for what you’ve done.
Originally published: Jan-26-2008
