Dear Captain Obvious: I should’ve known better than to allow the word “forever” to pass my lips. Everyone knows it doesn’t exist in this town and yet I said it to my pregnant girlfriend last week. Guess what happened? The doctor told her that she had a moronic pregnancy (or did she say, embryonic? I can’t remember). Anyhoo, as you may imagine my girlfriend has fallen under the influence of stupefying wretchedness; pretending everything is fine while choosing to eat nothing more than leaves (she’s a model). How can I fix this?
Dear Mr. Fix This: I doubt you can. You’ll just have be content to watch her drift farther away from you as the days drag on and on and on. When weeks turn into months you’ll discover that, inevitably, she’ll tell you that she needs time apart to “think”. Feel free to sleep with another woman during the interim (someone close to your girlfriend would be ideal). Then, when she’s enfeebled by hunger and thus no longer strong enough to think, she’ll take you back. So, don’t worry—there’ll be plenty of time to have more little morons down the road.
Dear Captain Obvious: My husband and I just moved back into his ancestral home after some drama with his former stepmother. You would think this would be a happy time for us, but my husband’s perpetual mourning over his dead father, who, by the way, has been taking a dirt nap for almost two years now, is really grating on my last nerve. He seems to think of little else, and it’s boring me to tears. Why, my own wheelchair-bound mother has been missing for ages, and do you think I give any thought as to what she’s up to? Nope. How can I get my hubby to see the light? Heart of glass.
Dear H.O.G.: When I read your letter I felt chills going down my spine, which I haven’t felt since the time I discovered a treasure chest of human remains at Dead Man’s Cove. Now that I think about it, that may have been YOUR poor invalid mother, who probably gave you everything you desired before you pushed her out into the world and slammed the door behind her.
Dear Captain Obvious: There isn’t a bigger dip shit in this town than myself and, I take pride in that, I really do. I’m brilliant, graduated second in my class at Harvard; I’m smart, I can tell when colors don’t “pop” enough for advertisements; I’m passionate, I like to push up on married broads; I’m a hard worker, I don’t sleep, eat or take vacations. Problem is, I grew up on a pig farm in Kansas while my half-brother and half-sister got everything, and I had nothing. That’s why I take savage pleasure in stinging them with my petty personality whenever I get the chance. Am I wrong?
Dear Nothing: Peer into the empty chasm where your soul ought to be and accept the fact that you’ll always be a pig farmer’s boy and no highfalutin, rootin’-tootin’ degree and flashy suit will ever change that. You think your brother and sister give a damn about your country bumpkin-ass? Trust fund babies rarely are able to see beyond their own immediate needs and desires. So bring home the bacon and shut the hell up.
Dear Captain Obvious: I’ve been working at a magazine start-up for about a month now. I get paid well to be an editorial assistant who plays solitaire on the computer all day. I’ve managed to improve my score significantly which is miracle in and of itself, what with the constant distractions of the phones ringing off the hook; my boss’s ass in the air whenever she ducks under a table to give her husband a kiss; the receptionist screaming at the photographer that she shouldn’t have had sex with him, and some hot European chick always stopping by to drop off misdirected mail. How can I bring my A Game when I can’t even hear myself think?
Dear A Game: A magazine start-up where no one does any real work sounds just like the kind of company that might fold after the first issue tanks on the newsstands, so don’t worry about the noise, it should be quiet real soon.
Dear Captain Obvious: That’s it! I’m done suckling at the teat of Newman enterprises. If my father can’t stop boning my best friend long enough to see what an asset I am to the company, then so be it. I’m movin’ on…from the company at least. I’m still going to need to squat on my father’s estate and have important functions for my son at his house. I could never be too pissed to walk away from that. Mama didn’t raise no fool.
Dear Fool: Apparently mama didn’t raise someone to be an independent thinker and make her own way on her own terms either.
Dear Captain Obvious: Should I be bothered by the fact that for nearly thirty years my employer still insists on referring to me as a “maid” when in actuality I am a household manager? Never mind that the only thing I manage are dust balls under the couch and leaving the front door unlocked so that angry wives are free to walk in on their husbands giving my boss a foot rub in the living room. I deserve some r-e-s-p-e-c-t.
Dear Respect: When my garbage man told me that he was a sanitation engineer I gave a hearty laugh. I told him that whether he engineered my trash or not he’s still just the guy that moves the crap from my sidewalk to the landfill. Everyone is bawling for respect these days, but few seem to understand that respect is earned, which leads me to surmise that you’re not getting paid enough.
Dear Captain Obvious: The other day my co-worker tried to get me to weigh in on what I thought of her half-brother, whom we both work with, but I didn’t fall for it. Oh, no sirreee Bob. I knew better than to run my mouth about someone who could very well be my boss next week. I saw that coming a mile away, thanks to my brown nose’s keen sense of smell. These playa haters always want to keep a good Yes Man down.
Dear Yes Man: Congrats on sniffing out danger. In today’s precarious economy one can’t be too fastidious about navigating the channels of employment, and even though you wait for a day that will never come (i.e. when your boss actually values and listens to your educated opinion), take comfort in the fact that you’ll always be there, carefully sowing the seeds that you will never get credit for. Ahh, it must be great being you.
Dear Captain Obvious: What the hell is wrong with my mother? The other day I asked her if I had to finish my homework and she told me, yes. Huh?! Didn’t she get the memo? My grandpa’s a billionaire and my Dad’s never had a real job in his entire life. I’m rich, bitch!
Dear Rich: Nothing in this life is guaranteed, son, except death, taxes, being blackmailed, being shot and having your sperm stolen to make babies you didn’t authorize. So indulge your mother and at least master how to read and write.
Originally published: May-3-2008
