The Perfect Life #48 by Dr. Perfect

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I don’t know how much longer I can remain employable due to the existential terrors of work meetings. 

There I am in a zoom meeting, not doing the work that is stressing me out, me stressing out about waiting to stress out about the stress I will experience once I can focus on the stressors of the work I am paid to do, and we are informed that this meeting won’t last longer than two hours, and then there’s an outline of the topics, including an introduction, but before we get to the introduction, there’s an introduction to the introduction, and the speaker then lets us know that this meeting will relieve us about the concerns we might have about “maximizing our utilization of updated modalities for exploring new technologies in determining the most creative outcomes for production,” and despite having a PhD in this field with 30 years of experience, I have no fucking idea what any of this amorphous discourse is about, and I don’t want to live in this world anymore, and then people in the chat get excited about this meeting.

How can I survive?

Desperately,

Someone who’s had enough 

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Dear Desperately Seeking Something,

I’m not entirely sure what it is that you do, but it seems important. You are having meetings, after all. Zoom meetings. 

Slow down, take a deep breath, and have yourself a nice night tub. That would be a warm bubble bath accompanied by dimmed lights, flickering candles, and Eddie Money playing on your transistor radio.

You could even throw a good book into the mix. Vanquish all thoughts of work meetings and let your mind drift to happier times upon your childhood sled, Rosebud. 

The last time I got so stressed out that I could scream was during the annual National American Advice Columnist Program (NAACP) convention. I had reserved a booth and everything, only to be told at the last moment that they couldn’t accommodate both me and my twenty interns. 

These columns don’t publish themselves. There’re overhead costs to consider, syndicates to deal with, pencils to sharpen, letters to proof, and bottles of Dom Pérignon to fetch. 

I can’t do this without them, which is exactly what I told those jerks at the convention. But the problem extended beyond accommodations. One of my interns just happened to be an escaped convict living under a new identity. Something about him being the Long Island Strangler, when I just knew his hard work was too good to be true. He was an excellent copy editor, whose assumed name, “Bob Newhart,” didn’t ring any alarm bells. How was I supposed to know?

The reasons for the insurmountable pressure gnawing your insides out are obvious. Meetings suck. Some dope asks another one about some report or the status on some nuclear reactor, and before you know it, the spotlight is on you. 

Panic thrusts you into survival mode, where all synapses fire at once, leading to the inevitable agreement with whatever is said on the call. But before you know it, you’ve agreed to write a twenty-page report on your specialized field as an addendum to the company’s quarterly report. Cautiously navigate the waters before diving in. 

The fraudster complex is common in any profession. Naturally, I don’t possess this trait, but I understand its peril. Picture everyone on the call in their underwear. Though, in light of recent stories about one seasoned CNN pundit masturbating during a Zoom call, maybe not. Instead, picture them wearing funny hats.

That turns you on, too?

The meetings have diminished any chances of contacting intelligent life beyond our galaxy. Dan Aykroyd was right, they’ve been listening to our Zoom calls for years now. Those space snobs want nothing to do with us. Can we blame them? 

At most, we get a few low-flying UFOs or UAPs captured on grainy black and white video from an Air Force fighter jet.

Ho-hum. Stop the press.

Meanwhile, Pentagon officials stand there with their dicks in the wind, and… well, let’s talk about something else. They’ve already got a file on me. 

You need to decompress. I suggest a weeklong vacation, hiking the Appalachian Trail. I did it twice, and I felt better about myself afterward. Out there, it’s just you and nature. You don’t know real stress until you’ve run six miles, fleeing a mountain lion after taunting her cubs. That adventure made my soul feel so clean someone-who’s-had-enough!

My harrowing ordeal was nothing that a night tub couldn’t cure. Tchaikovsky played on repeat that evening, I assure you. It’s time we got back to real meetings and drop the Zoom nonsense. I want to see the person, take in their scent, and feel their presence from within. That’s not creepy, it’s human! 

Until then we can only dream, while resisting the urge to punch our computer monitors. Hang in there, and I’ll see you on the Appalachian Trail. Well, I’ll be here basking in my opulent villa, but be sure to send pics!

__________

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #47 by Dr. Perfect

We’re All Mad Here

Dear Dr. Perfect,

Ever since I saw Bedlam (1946) when I was five, I dreamed of being committed to an asylum. A life free from the stress of how to live seemed like a utopian dream. This impression was later cemented when I was 13 and saw the character Samara in a Psychiatric Facility in the film The Ring (2002).

I’ve tried to self-commit many times, but I haven’t been able to get in. The screening process seems rigged. I feel like my luck is running out.  I can’t be happy without this.  What am I doing wrong in my application process?

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Dear Anonymous,

Our current psychiatric facilities, or what’s left of them, are highly exclusive. They used to throw just about anyone into a padded cell and administer electroshock therapy to children, but all of that’s changed. We’re now living in the age of self-medicated safe spaces and hypersensitive silliness. 

The classic 1975 film One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest undoubtedly played a part in influencing public opinion against asylums, as did the Ken Kesey novel it was based on. Audiences wept after witnessing Jack Nicholson’s unjust lobotomy at the hands of the evil Nurse Ratched. Public opinion, lack of funding, and the de-stigmatization of mental illness then led to the closure of psychiatric facilities all around the country. Now we have people joyously defecating on sidewalks with impunity. 

I think we need more of these hospitals than ever. I’ve always found straightjackets to look oddly comforting.

Your dreams of being committed to an asylum are understandable. You’d get free medication, and plenty of time to update your social media.

I could benefit from a stay myself, locked away from society in a white robe and slippers. It would be a unique opportunity to finish my memoir, The Importance of Being Perfect. I also have various self-help books to ghost write.

The screening process is rigged against you. My advice would be to try harder. Garden variety crazy isn’t going to cut it. Have you read the latest American Psychiatric Association Manual of Mental Disorders? According to them, we’re all basket cases. 

Fear not, somewhere there’s a padded cell with your name on it. Try walking backwards wherever you go. Wear the same shirt every day. Shave your head and eyebrows. Make up your own language. Think big.

Don’t bring up politics, though. Give yourself a fighting chance.

__________

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #46 by Dr, Perfect

Dear Dr. Perfect,

There was this Corona Virus TikTok challenge to lick store merchandise items. I thought the trend was foolish, but I soon learned I have this intense curiosity to find out what the items I purchase taste like. At first, I’d purchase things and get home and give them a quick little lick.  But, in licking everything I buy, I have found that sometimes the taste is inferior to a previous product. Now I lick the items discretely before purchase.

To be clear I lick everything. Ice cream containers, Windex, sofas, plungers, etc. If the flavor is acceptable, I go ahead with the purchase and lick it more in depth at home.  I’ve found that black coffee and red wine really cleanse the palate so that I can experience each lick as if it is brand new. True peace.

The problem is that some neighborhood kids have been filming me enjoying licks through my window and have recently tried to get me to pay them not to post it everywhere. I think licking things could change their lives. I am in desperate need of advice on how to convince them to try it.

Sincerely,

A man with great taste

PS If you do not already engage in this practice yourself, I encourage you to liberate yourself and try it. 

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Dear Sir Licks-A-Lot,

TikTok challenges are a hoot. I didn’t think anything could top the sulfuric acid challenge sweeping the nation just last week. But here we are, leaping toward the next trend. Sometimes even I have trouble keeping up with it all. 

When I was a kid, we’d race across the monkey bars or challenge one another to a game of dodge ball. No one ingested laundry detergent pods or fistfuls of cinnamon for attention. It was all good, clean fun. 

There was this one kid who fell down an abandoned mineshaft after a dare, but no one put a gun to his head. He survived the ordeal and came out of it more popular than ever. This taught me an important life lesson, further exemplified by my Uncle Frank, who performed with the traveling circus. 

He had an act where mules kicked him around for about fifteen minutes to thunderous audience applause. You see, no performance is undignified if people are willing to watch it. Uncle Frank soon retired from the circus with a collapsed lung and a slew of health problems. He was tragically hit by a train and killed some years later. Legend has it, he was performing his final act before leaving this world. Godspeed, Frank!

I get dozens of letters about fetishes each week. Your seemingly dog-like obsession with licking everything is as intriguing as it is repulsive. Have you considered “pup play?” Sometimes the latest social media craze takes hold, and before we know it, we’re planking atop milk crates in an alleyway with our pants down, trying to get our next fix. It’s a dangerous road hindered best through the complete dissociation with TikTok and social media alike. 

Last I checked, TikTok surpassed Google as the most popular app, with some 2 billion downloads to date. Their success is largely attributed to mind control and hypnosis. The allure of posting short-form videos is too much to resist in our attention-starved culture. It’s a wonder we’re able to focus on anything else. 

What started out as a COVID TikTok romp has clearly turned into an obsession. Your penchant for licking everything and coating random products with your saliva could very well be a cry for help. I won’t go that far though. This act of “liberation,” as you put it, drives your senses, tantalizes your taste buds, and leaves you wanting more. 

You might reach a day where no lick will compare to the first one. You’ll lick and lick until your tongue falls out, hollow and rotted. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. My Uncle Irwin was also a circus performer, and—let’s not get into that one. 

You face a new dilemma with these neighborhood kids and their subsequent blackmail. Just pay them what they want and hope the matter goes away. Then, when they least expect it, unleash some much-needed payback in the form of timeshare enrollments.

You seem more concerned with shepherding them into the licking life than the damage they could do to your reputation. If it’s influence you seek, you’ll need to utilize TikTok. I don’t know any better way to reach these kids. Express the inherent joys of your favorite pastime and encourage all to partake. Start a commune and extol the virtues of your newfound faith. Anything that keeps you out of the grocery store and tainting products works for me. 

It’s not that I don’t enjoy licking things on occasion. Popsicles, porterhouse steaks, and laminated newspapers are just a few of my guilty pleasures. But you’re taking things to a whole new level. Slow it down, draw a warm bath, and lick a Tootsie Pop until your heart’s content. You may find the center before the next TikTok challenge explodes onto the scene. 

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #45 by Dr. Perfect

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I’m into golden showers, always have been. My new partner was initially nervous, but now he loves giving me a good spray down. However, his urine doesn’t taste as good as my previous partner’s, and I find my appetite waning. How can we reconcile this difference in desire?

Yours truly,

Panicked4Pee

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Dear Mister or Misses “Pee,”

Of all the golden showers quandaries I’ve received, yours might be the most urgent in some time. Your decision to forego the editors of Hustler Magazine and seek out a real advice columnist is commendable. Did I also mention your bravery? Some might misconstrue such compliments as patronizing.

Your concerns are my concerns, and if the taste of someone else’s urine isn’t cutting it anymore, then we have a crisis worth addressing here. I even told my secretary to hold all my calls to give your situation the attention it deserves.

Truth be told, she’s out for the week due to a urinary tract infection. It just popped up in my mind since we’re on the subject. I’m certain she’d be mortified if she knew I was putting her business out there. Just forget I said anything. Sorry, Tracey!

What I meant to say was that I’ve placed my cell phone on silent, turned off my antique phonograph, put away my Tchaikovsky records, and dimmed the lights to better resolve your issue. At the very least, I offer the advice you’ve come to expect from the sympathetic ear of a reputable advice columnist, where no bodily fluid discussion is beyond reproach.

It reminds me of the time I changed restaurants. My weekly ritual usually ends with a fine porterhouse steak at my favorite joint, Fantastic Freddy’s Premium Grill. A few months ago, a friend of mine opened his own restaurant, a classy, upscale steakhouse with velvet drapes hanging everywhere and EDM music playing. It’s not the type of environment I regularly frequent, but he’s a friend. He also repaired my motorized oscillating hammock and helped me get out of a ridiculous timeshare I was ensnared in.

Anyway, his slogan was, “Best steaks in town,” a bold claim to be sure. Spoiler alert: they weren’t, and now he expects me to come in all the time. I practically have to sneak my way into Freddy’s just to get a taste of what once was. I get anxious even thinking about it.

That’s about the closest parallel I can draw between our issues. I did, however, date a woman who insisted that I defecate on her, but that’s a story for another letter. She was a troubled woman but a very good at coding.

Honesty sometimes works. You don’t want to start an unnecessary argument or hurt your partner’s feelings, but there’s also the question of how long you can carry on the charade. Monitor your partner’s diet and see if they can improve the quality of said urine.

Are they regularly hydrating? Are they a heavy drinker? When was their last physical? You could learn a lot by their functionality of their kidneys and bladder alone. One thing is for sure, remedy the issue or be forced to bath in substandard pee for the rest of your days… or at least until you find someone else.

Drop subtle hints wherever they might occur. For instance, mention the scene in that James Franco movie where he’s pinned under a boulder and drinks his own urine. I think it was called 127 Days. Or maybe it was hours. Was it 48 Hours? No, that one starred Eddie Murphy.

Hilarious film.

Mention the urine drinking and remark about how desperate one would have to be to find themselves in that situation. Then follow it with, “Of course, nothing satisfies me more than a good spray down. I just wish I liked the taste a little better.” Game, set, match. You’ve opened the matter for discussion.

Responsibility will fall onto your partner to find ways to improve the taste of his urine without feeling inadequate or spurned. The best part is that you don’t have to dump them! If the problem persists, consider a bondage fetish to change things up. That always works for me.

I should also note that urine sodium levels potentially dictate the taste, so there’s room for improvement. A healthy bladder makes a happy person. That’s what I always say…sometimes. Best of luck with your next pee party.

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #44 by Dr. Perfect

Dear Dr. Perfect,

Every time I turn out the lights, I have a deep fear of decapitation. I always cover my neck with my hands just in case.

Lately, my wife is angry because I make her and the children do it as well. It is just a safety precaution, but she says if I don’t cut it out, she will divorce me. How can I show her that this is for their safety?

Sincerely,

Scared of the Dark

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 Your concerns aren’t unwarranted, Scared of the Dark. There’s a reason I avoid rollercoasters, axe-throwing bars, and guillotine conventions.

I heard in the news recently about this poor woman who was decapitated by her psychotic ex-boyfriend. Really sick stuff. You’d think we were in the middle of the French Revolution. As we arguably became a more humane society, beheadings, as a form of capital punishment went the way of platform shoes. But leave it to degenerate murderers, drug cartels, and some countries to keep the gruesome practice alive.

Noted Renaissance author/philosopher Sir Thomas More said it best before he was executed for treason under Henry VIII’s rule: “I only regret that I have but one head to lose for my country.” I believe that was the quote.

After doing some research, I discovered a condition commonly referred to as Decap-a-phobia, the irrational fear of losing one’s head. In your case, such concerns extend to your wife and children. Subjects have reported frightening premonitions of a helicopter crashing through their bedroom, instantly decapitating them with its blades. Others struggle with the anxiety of their head simply detaching on its own as they sleep.

On the opposite spectrum, some people possess a rare phobia known as double-header syndrome, where they fear waking up with an additional head affixed to their body. That one actually happened to my sister.

There’s also little head syndrome, the fear of a shrunken head voodoo curse. I could go on.

We all have our own unique fears. It’s only human. One of mine involves being torn limb from limb by a mountain lion. I had to cancel an appearance in Colorado Springs because of this. I woke up in cold sweats, just like the night before my annual black-tie gala, where I feared running out of caviar.

The same dream (or nightmare) kept reoccurring in my mind. I was in the middle of delivering an eloquent toast when the head caterer informed me that we were completely out.

“Dip into the cheese and crackers strategic reserve,” I told him.

“There’s nothing left,” he pressed with a tone of finality. “We’re out… of everything.”

I usually wake up screaming by then and must read myself back to sleep. For some strange reason, my boxers are always off.

Your family is naturally skeptical of your nightly routine and insistence that they follow suit. They won’t be convinced of such measures until an axe murderer storms into their bedrooms one fatal night, looking to add some heads to his collection.

Your family might see you as a madman, monster, or tyrant even. It’s best to allow them to place their hands wherever they please. If you convinced them to wear neck braces, for instance, that would at least pave the way toward future indoctrination. These things take time. If you’re dedicated enough to stoking paranoia within your family, you’ll have to think creatively.

I’ve realized that my own fears, from an inexplicable lack of caviar to a mountain lion thrashing, are based in concern for my reputation. Certain expectations follow a name like Dr. Perfect.

The pressure of living up to those ideals can be relentless.

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #43 by Dr. Perfect

Dear Doctor Perfect,

Why does the self-checkout at Walmart ask people to donate money? We’re obviously there because we have no money. Make it make sense!

Poor and Peeved

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 Dear P&P,

Charity solicitations abound. Things started simply enough with Girl Scout Cookies and Salvation Army buckets outside supermarkets. Now, I can’t even get carton of eggs without being pressed to cough up a few bucks for the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

DI donate to select organizations and have the endless junk mail to prove it. But that’s all from the privacy of my own home. I shouldn’t be guilted into donating when stocking up on champagne and caviar for my next orgy.

Speaking of charity, I was in the pet store the other day, buying cat food for my elderly neighbor’s twenty cats.

She can’t move around much, and I gladly help her out with errands when I can. At checkout, I was asked if I wanted to donate a dollar or more to a pet charity. A pet charity! I am already doing that, you swine.

In the 1980s, all you needed was a white blazer, neon T-shirt, and Pontiac Firebird to prove you were a person of worth. Filling up your tank today is akin to Rockefeller status. My American Express card was declined recently, if you can believe it. I was trying to commission an ice sculpture for my annual advice columnist soirée. And I’m expected to give more?

Non-profit charities rely on donations to function, which makes it more difficult for them during times of economic uncertainty. I guess we can’t blame them for trying.

Nor can we blame the Walton family for trolling customers for their corporate tax-deductions. They need to prep for the coming economic apocalypse in which they battle with Amazon for the corporate megastate world order. It’s incumbent upon us to choose sides now.

Consider starting your own charity to counter the heavyweights.

And don’t forget to donate to your favorite podcast’s website.

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #42 by Dr. Perfect

Dear Dr. Perfect,

My foot fetish is in constant battle with my foul odor revulsion. How to reconcile the two?

Scentcerely,

Janice

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Hello, Janice,

I’ll set aside my pastrami on rye to address your concerns. Fetishes are precarious pastimes, filled with strange and new wonders. Some people seek solace through fun runs or consumerism. Others, such as yourself, focus on feet, the only appendage we keep stifled within cotton socks and penny loafers.

The free-spirited among us dismiss such conventions and proudly display bunions and whatnot through flip-flops or other non-shoe related footwear. I can respect their audaciousness, while being simultaneously irritated. I didn’t ask to see your feet, but that’s what passes for normalcy nowadays.

The “free foot” brigade do have a point, however. What about the ground we walk on makes us so adverse to its elements? For instance, we associate “the floor” as a dirty-rotten cesspool of germs, a haven of biological terrors. To drop a corndog and resume eating it often results in sudden dismissal from polite society. Are we being overly sensitive?

Obviously, we need shoes. Even flip-flop types understand this. We can’t all be hippies or Hobbits, and God forbid you walk barefoot in the dog park. Feet can, in fact, be quite tantalizing if you’re weird enough. We’ve all been consigned to the thankless task of performing a foot massage to our significant other and/or shady Hollywood executive.

Sometimes it can be more dignifying than the standard coerced back rub.

On the importance of being a foot-fetish connoisseur, I would refer you to Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. Within this cautionary tale of sensual fulfillment lies all the perspective you need in pursuit of gratification. The foot odor you may or may not experience in your travels remains a constant reminder of the cautionary limitations of hedonism, complicated by our astute sense of smell.

There might be a way to combine foot fetishes and the inevitable odors to follow, but it’s not that simple. Reach a compromise that equates your love of feet with the acceptance of their role as havens for blisters and to jam. I could rest easy never seeing another person’s foot again, but that’s my own hang up. I’m working on it.

Without feet, we’d miss out on crucial recreational activities like dancing, hopscotch, and walking across hot coals. I once had a college roommate with tremendous foot odor. After an entire semester, I learned to look past his anomaly and accept him for the degenerate drunk he was. An array of messy liquor bottles all over the room helped conceal the smell.

Sometimes the best answer is right under our noses. It’s mind over matter. Consider feet as the testament to your lofty desires, smells and all. For further insight, check out Daniel Day-Lewis in the classic feel-good film, My Left Foot.

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #41 by Dr. Perfect

Dr. Perfect,

I’m upset that none of the “Missed Connections” on Craigslist are about me. What’s the point of smiling at every person I see and nod seductively if they’re not even going to reach out?

Signed,

Lonely Online

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 Dear Lonely Online,

I scour Craigslist too, for used furniture.

Though my deluxe domicile is the height of opulence, I’m always on the hunt for a good deal. My father had a nose for it, and I’d like to think he passed it down. He’d haggle with anyone anywhere.

“Half off?” he’d say to the clueless stocker at the A&P. “Is that supposed to tickle my fancy? How about you knock off another seventy-five cents?”

“Sir, are you going to buy those Corn Flakes, or can I put them back on the shelf?”

It was always an adventure with my old man.

If I was slighted in such a way by a “missed connection” forum, I’d first contact my local representative. They work for us, right? Naturally, some low-level staffer would take the reins of the issue, only to quietly drop the matter altogether. Some democracy.

My next step would be to seek the advice from the best columnist in town. What I’m trying to say is that you’ve come to the right place. We empathize with readers here, which is something my editor tells me is required in my field. Some might slander you as a loser. Others would tell you to not dwell over such nonsense and enjoy your life before it inevitably ends one day.

Furthermore, you might recall dreams and aspirations from the starlight of your youth that have yet to materialize. But I won’t dwell on any of that. There will be no denigration of your character in this space, a perfect space, for shunned souls awaiting fulfillment through simple twists of fate.

Just because your perceived connection wasn’t officiated through craigslist, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And you should take comfort in the fact that most supposed “connections” largely go unnoticed and unanswered. It’s a matter of probability. You can’t blame people for trying, though. Odds are, that girl or guy you saw in the Walgreen’s check-out aisle might just follow-up on an anonymous forum the same way I might be given a syndicated talk show.

Most people out and about just want to be left alone, but don’t let that dissuade you. Somewhere, someone is just as desperately lovesick, and those are odds you can bet on, or my name isn’t Dr. Perfect. Coincidentally, I just booked a flight to Vegas. Papa’s gotta buy a new pair of Crocs, about two hundred pairs if I’m lucky.

I’ve always wanted to live in one of those modernist octagon-shaped houses in the California Hills. You’ve seen the in the movies, I’m sure. I’d put an extravagant fish tank in my bedroom right next to the waterbed.

I hope that clarifies your concerns. Now get out there and keep nodding!

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #40 by Dr. Perfect

 Allergic to Love

Hey, doc!

I am a millennial with an avocado allergy. Is natural selection going to use this social defect to end my bloodline?

Literally no asshole will brunch with me, sooooo I’ll probably never get married. It’s not fair.

Cheers,
Forever Alone

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Dear Forever Alone,

Fear not. You’ll eventually find people who accept you for who you are. I don’t know if any of them are willing to have brunch with you, but have you considered taking out a classified ad? I’m not the biggest avocado fan either. I even consider it among the most overrated fruit next to oranges, though it’s often mistaken for a vegetable. It does, however, make an interesting spread.

Coincidentally, I was watching this documentary on Mexican exports and found their avocado segment quite fascinating. The episode was called “From Guac to Eternity.”

The avocado originated from Mexico and other Central American regions before making it to the trendy brunch diners, where it currently resides. The earliest Northern American settlers didn’t have much use for the pear-like oddity until realizing how well it went with possum loaf, a once popular frontier dish.

From there, it really caught with the introduction of nachos and Tex-Mex restaurants throughout the Southwest of the 1950s. Nowadays, avocados are as American as apple pie or pistachio peanut butter. Its fine paste can even be used to fill cracks in the wall!

Avocado allergies are somewhat common, so you’re not completely alone. There are others languishing in the shadows, equally shunned, without an ounce of purpose in their lives. Seek out those poor souls and enjoy a healthy avocado-free brunch free of judgement or derision. I’d join you, but I also write a column for Avocado Monthly and couldn’t put that lucrative gig in jeopardy.

It’s time to find the food you like, and don’t settle for anything else. Brunch doesn’t have to be all about the avocado, even if its inexplicable absence creates moments of awkward silence. Salsa makes an adequate substitute or perhaps a buttery egg salad bagel. I don’t know what I would add, since I don’t care what I eat while I drink bottomless mimosas.

For a memorable brunch, indulge in some golden omelets, a shot of brandy, and a fine, savory cigar for afterwards. Ignore the appalled looks of patrons as you fill the room with delicious second-hand smoke. It might just be your last brunch among the avocado class, but you’ll leave your mark before joining your brethren in solitary brunches at the kitchen table with your cat too embarrassed to glance in your direction.

Things will get better. Go to a coffee bar, and if you don’t like coffee, pretend. The modicum of acceptance will be more than enough to get your through the night, dreaming of a strange, green fruit you can never embrace.

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #38 by Dr. Perfect

The Beasts of Love

Dear Dr. Perfect,

My husband and I have an ongoing argument: dogs in or out of the bedroom while we have sex. I say let them stay. They whine the whole time they’re locked out and I can’t focus on pleasure. However, if my husband locks eyes with one of them, he instantly loses his boner. You see the dilemma.

What can we do?

Signed,
Doglover69

————————–

Dear DL69,

Have you ever considered cats? They pay scant attention to what’s going on in the bedroom or any other room, for that matter.

I hesitate to mention my feline Archibald, as the pain of his loss still weighs heavily. But since we’re talking about dogs here, I’ll try to relate.

You’ve got a ruff situation. Nsexual othing should get in the way of your needs and having them satisfied. A good spouse understands that. A considerate spouse wouldn’t let a couple of gawking, drooling beasts distract him performing his duties. If your spouse can fantasize about other women during the act of lovemaking (which I’m assuming he does), he can ignore family canines.

When your husband’s not fantasizing, his entire attention should be on you. It’s easy to be self-conscious in the presence of animals, but animals will do just about anything in broad view, and they’re supposed to be the lesser species. I rest my case.

Dogs are indifferent to our behavior when it doesn’t involve food or pampering. Most of the time, they couldn’t care less if we walked off a bridge. But miss feeding time, and you’ll never hear the end of it. I’m no expert, but I did once live with a woman who owned several Pomeranians. I barely got out of that situation alive.

Don’t get me wrong. I love all animals, especially the hyper-dependent, slovenly kind that claw at your pant leg and sniff your crotch. They’re quite endearing. One way to turn any rambunctious Rover into a placid pooch would be to get them spayed or neutered. Bob Barker knows best. Just look at that last name.

If castration isn’t the answer, set up a series of diversions that will draw your calamitous canines away from the four minutes of pleasure you so desperately need. Place within another room an array of tempting treats and close the door. Driven by scent, your dogs won’t be able to resist. They’ll whine and claw at the door of said room, but that will be just far enough out of earshot for your husband to maintain an erection.

If not, talk to both your husband and the beasts. Decide which one you could possibly live without. This isn’t the usual domestic dilemma of finances or who has possession of the remote during TV time. This is about sex.

Either your husband takes you on that Paris vacation you’ve wanted or he’s in the doghouse for good.

A wise man once said, hair of the dog that bit you. And on that note, I need another brandy. These cozy new slippers I purchased make walking around the house a real treat. I could recommend some great brands in the interim.

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.