The Perfect Life #20

Maintaining Privacy in Our Thing

Dear Dr. Perfect,

My granddaughter, who works for me in my business, has sanctimoniously informed me that she (as a millennial) greatly prefers to communicate by text rather than telephone calls, which she deems intrusive, and that her feelings need to be considered by the entire organization.

She has communicated these sentiments via misspelled texts reeking of emojis.

The larger problem, however, is that the sector of our family business happens to be organized crime. She just doesn’t seem to understand that not only are texts not to be sent, but she needs to call from a payphone, or (worst-case scenario) a burner flip-phone.

Can you think of ways I can explain to her the urgency of this situation? Or should I just, you know…

Signed,

Someone-who-definitely-doesn’t-work-for-the-mafia-because-the-mafia-does-not-exist

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Dear Legitimate Waste Management Personnel,

I seldom cast aspersions, but your granddaughter’s EQ might be low, and she may score low in any relevant personality type in the Briggs-Meyers test. Part advocate, part consul, all fool.

What about your feelings, especially your feelings about not becoming incarcerated for all the entirely legal activities you and your civic minded organization undertake? You might just have to walk her down the Appalachian Trail, if you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean? I apologize if my mafia innuendos aren’t landing. I’m not privy to that world, and, of course, neither are you.

I don’t know if anyone likes phone calls these days. You would think text messaging would be the height of convenience, but even that’s too much effort for some brats. They’d rather communicate in a series of haphazard emojis, like some bastardized 21^stcentury hieroglyphics. Steering your granddaughter away from her tech preferences could prove tricky. Electro-shock therapy? Breaking her thumbs?

Naturally, she’s sanctimonious toward your seemingly antiquated methods. Today’s youth know everything and more. The world revolves around them alone.

I especially enjoy being lectured to by Swedish teenage girls about how I’m destroying the planet. Imagine yours truly, a simple advice columnist, having the power to wipe out life on Earth from leaving my phone charger plugged in. Convince your granddaughter that text messaging is bad for the environment and see if she buys it.

Recall the scene in Full Metal Jacket where the ruthless Drill Instructor tells his recruits that one of their own hasn’t received the proper motivation, thus punishing the entire platoon for the failures of one. I’m not suggesting that you club your granddaughter with soap-filled towels to get her in line, but Gunnery Sergeant Hartman would. Any problem can be solved with the right motivation. A stern talking to, for starters. If she awakes with a decapitated pony head under blood-soaked sheets, she can’t say she wasn’t warned. Although with her EQ, she probably will.

Try more positive incentives. Everyone likes positive reinforcement. We’re all just sitting around waiting for it.  I regularly say, “Good job!” to random people on the street all the time. They stare back, startled, and then go about their business. I get a lot of anxious looks, but I know it’s appreciated even if they cannot show it.

It’s time to throw a little scratch your granddaughter’s way to ween her from texting. Perhaps she’ll consider this patronizing, even offensive. That’s when you remind her that the family business is too important to be compromised by her texting. Then take away her phone. And her dog. And her boyfriend.

Maybe it’s time for an “Ask Me About My Granddaughter” T-shirt if you don’t have one already. They’re adorable.

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 #19

Breaking up with Friends During a Crack Up

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I have a morose friend who overshares his grief and constantly texts me and leaves me feeling like a harried tourist in my own life. Is it okay to break up with him, as if he was a lover in a relationship that just isn’t working out? His wife died six years ago, and he is seeing a gestalt therapist who is, I suspect, very hard of hearing.

Signed,

Beyond-listening-to-any-more-of-this-shit

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Dear unfortunate shoulder to cry on,

Your friend has you boxed in like a lab rat. It’s best to extinguish this thankless affair before you find yourself in therapy, talking only of him and the increasing baggage he’s dumped on you. If you’re a people pleaser, like myself, you may find this difficult to achieve. There’s not a single online customer service survey that I’ve been able to resist. What are we supposed to do with these things?

I give most businesses an eight or nine. As consumers, we’re just happy to not get ravished. Do I expect more than adequate service? It’s hard to believe that my responses have any real effect, especially when they spell my name wrong in the email. The “P” in Dr. Perfect is capitalized, thank you.

When they ask if there was anything they could have done better or differently, my answer remains the same: more strippers.

No matter what mindless responses I deliver, these surveys flood my inbox. Why doesn’t our government engage in this kind of relentless customer service? Because the lifelong career politicians who make our laws and spend all our money don’t give a shit, that’s why. We’d have better luck if five-year-olds ran the country, which I either saw in a movie or just made up.

Disregard my political cynicism. I just assume that you’re a good listener. You’ve been putting up with this louse long enough. Maybe you should trade up for a seemingly more balanced individual like myself. I have all the usual hang-ups of middle-aged professionals on their third marriage, but perhaps we could reach an agreement. I haven’t even looked into gestalt therapy. Multistability tests in the nude? Yes, please.

Therapy is a tough racket. This miracle act involves honesty, because if a person can’t be honest with themselves and their issues, there’s not much you can do. I’ve heard from therapists who will simply agree with their patient’s delusions to run out the clock. They’ve lost their passion, but not me. I give each letter I receive one hundred and ten percent, sometimes even more. I’m the hardest working advice columnist I know, and I know at least five of them, degenerates and perverts all.

Your friend is desperately seeking to maintain the very negative energy that keeps him going throughout his miserable day. People like him would spoil a perfect sunset with groans of boredom.

If you don’t have the nerve to break off this unfulfilling arrangement, you can always hire someone to pretend to be his friend and take the heat off you. I know a guy who can arrange it. Feel free to send me your email and enter to win a $500 TJ Max gift card by filing out an online customer survey. Even we at The Drunken Odyssey have to do these things to keep the lights on. I wish I had never brought it up.

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 #18 by Dr. Perfect

All Twerk and No Play Makes for a Dull Retirement

Dear Dr. Perfect,

How can I persuade my grandfather to stop twerking? He has deep-vein thrombosis, and I am afraid that he’s going to kill himself dancing to Ghostface Killa’s Bulletproof Wallets on repeat all day long.

Signed,
Worried-in-Peoria

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Dear Worried-in-Peoria,

How do you discourage anyelderly person from twerking? My own TikTok feed was inundated with this shameless display of girls, both young and old and of all proportions, engaging in such odd behavior. The fall of Rome looked more graceful in comparison. Twerking soon ran its course only to be embraced by elderly men like your grandfather.

For the sake of his health, explain to your grandfather that we’ve moved on to bigger and better things like the Charleston and the funky chicken. Our seniors need to feel recognized and appreciated. If not, they might just lash out. Some rob banks to get attention, others take up twerking. My advice is to commit him to a retirement community. Have him take up writing or painting and ensure that he’s heavily sedated. A sedated mind is a happy one, especially in Peoria.

I was at Walmart the other day bemoaning the absence of VHS movies. In 1980, Ronald Reagan was elected President at 69 years old. The media focused a lot on his age back then, citing it as a reason for concern. Today, we currently have the oldest man to ever serve as President with Joe Biden at 78. He’s nonetheless surprised naysayers with his ability to read speeches and seemingly function. He also regularly engages with various social media personalities he’s never heard ofin YouTube White House video chats. I’ve never heard of these people either.

The most viewed video on YouTube is something called the “Baby Shark Dance,” a nursery rhyme with nearly ten-billion views. That b wasn’t a typo.

I can’t fathom ten billion of anything.

I also can’t fathom seniors all across the country injuring themselves while twerking. The madness must end. We’ve ignored them and made fun of their clothes and slow driving for far too long. A reckoning is coming, my friend. Be ready.

One day we’ll gaze into the mirror and behold their final act of vengeance. We’ll be old, too. Then we’ll also twerk against the wishes of our physicians, until our bodies or your spirit breaks.

Or both.

I hope the drugs will be pretty great then.

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 #17 by Dr. Perfect

Family Affairs

Dear Dr. Perfect,

My wife works out of town with her brother, who is married. My wife has disclosed to me that my sister-in-law’s brother, who we summer with together in Nantucket, cheats on his wife, who thinks they are in a monogamous relationship. My sister-in-law’s brother is not discreet, and texts me and our grandmother obscene images of his exploits, which are apparently all with ugly women, which is apparently his fetish.

Should I forward these grotesqueries to my brother-in-law’s wife, or should I burn down our summer house to collect the insurance, and then never see my brother-in-law again?

Sincerely,
Desperately Seeking to De-assholify my life

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Dear Desperately Seeking,

Your family sound more dysfunctional than Hamlet or the Royal Tenenbaums, though not as tragic or witty. I haven’t beheld such hedonist debauchery since the time I wandered behind a Newark Macaroni Grill at four in the morning, shocked to find the place still open.

Your brother-in-law doesn’t appear to be a particularly modest fellow. His lack of shame, decency, and/or personal ethics could become a problem. He’d make a prime candidate for any sleazy basic cable reality show. In fact, daytime television was invented for shameless louses of similar stature to eagerly divulge their exploits amid jeers from an inebriated crowd.

Despite my own erudite lineage, I am no more immune from the occasional boorish half-wit in the family than many of our US Presidents. My cousin Seymore (once- removed) ran an illegal cockfighting ring in El Paso in the 1990s. He approached me during a family reunion sometime after and asked if I wanted to place any wagers. He then asked if I was wearing a wire, despite clearly wearing a wire himself. I could see the bulge in his breast pocket and the sweat pouring down his face. The FBI apparently had a lot of time on their hands. Nonetheless, he’s not a relative I regularly engage with.

Your brother-in-law bears little relation to you beyond a simple title. He would most likely protest his well-deserved exposure by telling you to mind your own business. It would make no difference that he freely shared such incriminating behavior to anyone who would listen, including your grandmother. But I must also give him credit for thinking of her. When was the last time you or your wife reached out?

If someone sent me unsolicited pictures of their trysts, that would be grounds for harsh retribution, especially if it involved ugly people. But there is another way, a much healthier and fun alternative. I propose a macabre dinner party at the mansion of a wealthy sadist who forces guests to debase themselves for his personal amusement. We’ve seen this scenario play out in countless horror films, dating back to the 1924 short story “The Most Dangerous Game” and its film adaptation in 1932.

Since then, unwitting participants in these stories always get duped into an elaborate scheme, where they’re hunted, tortured, or forced to participate in some sinister elimination ritual. What motivates these evil rich tyrants in the first place? Is it sexual in nature? Can I participate in this? These are the questions I’ve asked myself, determining that the “evil rich man” trope is lazy storytelling, even if The Bachelor is fun to watch.

A trial run of my solution will commence this Saturday evening at 8:00 p.m. sharp. Your brother-in-law and guests will arrive at my private villa for a black tie event. Guests will mingle in the parlor and be treated to the finest hors d’oeuvres and champagne a $50 Publix gift card can buy. All the while, I will be sizing them up, concealed behind a velvet portrait above the mantle of the Marquis de Sade.

The engagement will unfold with talks of my alleged philanthropy and rumors of a great reward to one lucky winner of my choosing by evening’s end. Naturally, your brother-in-law will believe it to be him by sheer arrogance. Dinner will follow at 8:30, with prime rib, asparagus, and crab cakes displayed on both sides of my long dining table. After copious amounts of food and wine, the games will begin.

I will first call on every guest to reveal an act of deception they’re currently engaged in. The greater the deception, the bigger the win. Each contestant will submit their answer on an index card and place their cards inside a human skull in the middle of the table. The winner will swiftly proceed to the next round, while the losers get rusty nails hammered into their hands or feet. The choice is theirs.

Virulent objections are sure to follow until all guests realize the hopelessness of their situation. My security personnel will enforce the rules as we go along. Your sister-in-law’s brother will be in attendance, possibly restrained in stocks for insolence. This will provide the perfect opportunity for him to come clean. It may be unnecessarily elaborate and cruel, but there is a method behind the madness: I’ve always wanted to throw a dinner party for strangers.

See you there.

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 #16 by Dr. Perfect

Rockford Filing

Dear Dr. Perfect,

What is your favorite episode of “The Rockford Files?” I need to know for my dissertation in American Studies.

Gratefully,

Dissertating from the Midwest

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Dear Dissertator,

I’m surprised that I don’t get more letters about The Rockford Files. My favorite episode would have to be when Rockford was hot on the case of the Grim Reaper, a slasher terrorizing the streets of NYC.

Sorry, that’s the wrong 70’s detective drama. I was thinking of “Kojak.” I meant to reference the thrilling caper involving the disappearance of a wealthy socialite on the eve of her wedding. In “Lover’s Beware,” all signs point to a jealous ex who also happens to be the Governor’s son. No, that was an episode of Columbo!

Understand that I was raised on so many of these shows, they sometimes overlap. In addition to The Rockford Files, Kojak, and Columbo, we had Hawaii Five-O, Cagney and Lacey, Remington Steele, Magnum P.I., Murder She Wrote, and several others. Who can forget the disheveled Peter Falk, or the thickness of Tom Selleck’s mustache? The seventies and eighties were classic television. Back then, we had one TV, three networks, and lots of crack cocaine.

My grandmother was a big fan of Murder She Wrote and would often have it on when family visited. She even wrote her own fan fiction teleplays and asked for my feedback. In reading them, I think she missed the point of the show. Angela Lansbury’s character, mystery writer and amateur detective Jessica Fletcher, doesn’t actually commit the murders herself; she solves them. My grandmother’s stories always centered around the Fletcher character killing all of those who wronged her and then writing about it. There was the landlord, the loud neighbor, the rude parking attendant, and even her coach potato husband before Fletcher was “widowed.” My grandmother described her reimagining as intentional and said that the series would fare much better if Fletcher was revealed to be the murderer at the end of each episode.

Maybe she was right.

Robert Urich himself came to me in a dream, fresh from his success as the titular P.I. in Spenser: For Hire, and told me that no detective show was better than Mannix. I told him that I must have missed that show because it didn’t ring a bell. Urich then said, “Well, what about Charlie’s Angels?” I asked, “Are they detectives or what?” I always thought they were secret agents. That’s when his alpaca took out a chainsaw.

Thanks to your letter, I’m now consumed with TV detective nostalgia. All the various theme songs, old hair styles, plaid suits, and freeze frame credits are coming back to me. I’ll need to walk this off. The answer to your questions lies somewhere between the episode about the jewel thief or the one about the insurance fraudster. Did Rockford ride a horse, or am I thinking of Maverick?

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 #15 by Dr. Perfect

The Snyder-verse and Virility

Dear Dr. Perfect,

Why won’t more people realize that Zack Snyder’s vision was vindicated with the Snyder cut of Justice League? Has there ever been a better 4-hour movie? When will Kevin Feige hire Snyder to direct all the new Avengers films? And when will Snyder be given his own Star Wars trilogy? When will Hollywood realize that every movie would be better if directed by Zack Snyder? And when will my erection go down.

Sincerely,

Someone who is not Zack Snyder, I promise

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Dear Anonymous,

I think we both know that you are probably Zack Snyder. I don’t have the energy to argue with Hollywood directors. You have unleashed a litany of questions as seemingly indulgent and overblown as any of Snyder’s forays into comic book moviemaking. I’m no movie critic, but enough is enough.

When I first heard people reference MCU or DCEU, I had no idea what the hell they were talking about. My ten-year-old nephew then informed me that it stands for Marvel Cinematic Universe and DC Extended Universe. This allows for an unending assembly line of big-budget superhero franchises for generations to come. We could all be so lucky. They’re never going to stop making these movies. The nerds have taken over. They run our social media big tech monopolies and just about every facet of entertainment left out there. They’ve been waiting for this moment since their first middle school wedgie, and now we’re all going to pay.

 The last movie I saw in theaters was 2019’s Cats. I confused Andrew Lloyd Webber with Steven Sondheim, costing me two and a half hours I’ll never get back. This so-called musical was one purrfect steaming turd that should have been buried in its own litter box for good. Take that, Cats.

We grow older, time moves faster, and before we know it, we’re elderly and infirm. Most of us become wiser, and it’s never too late to reach for our dreams. The baby boomers, of which I am a part of, have taught this lesson, along with how to destroy society over a matter of decades. We’ve come a long way since the roaring fifties, screeching sixties, and sloppy seventies, and it’ll soon be time to pass the torch onto the next schlubs we’ve saddled with massive national debt.

Zack Snyder’s Justice League makes Sergio Leone’s extended cut of “Once Upon a Time in America” seem about the length of a Seinfeld episode. Fortunately, I was able to stream Justice League in the comfort of my own bomb shelter using my Mom’s HBO Max account. She doesn’t have an issue with it, and neither should you. It took me nearly a millennium to finish, given my busy schedule of life advice and general heroism, but I finally saw every actor working in Hollywood today in the same movie. This speaks to Snyder’s innate ability to stuff a flick with more plot, CGI, and slow-motion overkill than necessary.

For instance, in 2009, I caught a matinee showing of Watchmen, half expecting a lighthearted action romp. The biggest gripe I have with Snyder’s pretentious pseudo-intellectual movie is the use of the most clichéd classic rock songs in the most clichéd manner possible. Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changing” coupled over a time montage? Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sounds of Silence” played over a funeral procession scene? Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” playing during a sex scene? And let us not forget the gratuitous use of Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower” cover for a loose connection to men who watch or something. New rule for filmmakers: you’re not permitted to use any song that was already played in Forrest Gump.

300 wasn’t worth all the hype, either.

For these reasons and more, Zack Snyder is the perfect choice to direct all the new Avengers films. He’d make a wonderful addition to the next Star Wars Trilogy as well, because frankly, I’ve had enough of J.J. Spielberg’s feverish hackery. Marvel and DC should combine as one under the watchful eye of our Disney overlords, fresh from purchasing Warner Bros. Only then can we start getting the Snyder films we deserve.

Most multimillion-dollar Hollywood films these days are the result of committees. These suits know the score and how to mine the well of nostalgic fanfare for audiences young and old, except that they mostly don’t. Snyder has a bright future ahead. I’d compliment him more if only he’d considered the spec script I tossed over the gate of his Pasadena mansion three years ago. I was optimistic. My story was about a time-traveling advice columnist superhero assassin on assignment in Russia during the Cold War. I have yet to hear back from him, and until I do, Snyder is dead to me.

And go to the ER, Anonymous.

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 #14 by Dr. Perfect

Seize the Day-drinking

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I like drinking. I drink every day. My favorite drink is Fireball, because shouldn’t everyday feel like a party? How long should I wait to start drinking? My boss said that I should wait until at least 4 PM, and that maybe I should drink something with less aroma, since my breath is apparently scaring the clients I represent in court. Who could complain about cinnamon? What is happening in this country?

Sincerely,

A patriot

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Dear Patriot,

There’s nothing wrong with a little Fireball to get the senses going. Its sweet cinnamon aftertaste makes it one of the more ideal drinks for functioning alcoholics.

Your dilemma is one of excess. The old adage about having too much of a good thing comes to mind, but I’m not here to preach, condemn, or even condone. I instead wish to offer my ever-insightful secrets for the perfect life.

The demands of the legal world can ravage anyone with drink. I don’t care much for lawyers myself, but I’m not whispering into your ear to lay off the sauce. I’m also not suggesting that you can drink every day without eventual consequences. Find a realistic balance between your daily party of one and your responsibilities as a seemingly good standing member of society.

An old friend of mine started his morning off with vodka. It was the cheap stuff, too. I said, “Sam, you’re not a Russian peasant, at least drink with some class,” but he really enjoyed it. He was a mechanic. In fact, he was my mechanic, and I’d always find little airplane bottles littered under the seat. I searched in vain for a respectable whisky or spiced rum amongst the mess, but it was always low-grade vodka. I was appalled.

I stopped taking my car to him after he passed out and urinated in the backseat. I said, “Sam, this is a new low, even for you.” He denied it, even after being caught. He was just resting his eyes, he said, despite leaving me waiting in the lobby for two hours. The smell of urine was just my imagination, and the stain on his pants was spilled coffee. He always had an answer for everything. Last I heard, he was spinning signs for those places that do your taxes and has since quick drinking. And while I was happy for him, I felt it best to give us some space.

Your boss seems like a fair-minded human who could be looking out for your well-being. But I’d also be wary of workplace dictates, they’re very stifling. I could drink all I want and still answer up to five letters a day, if needed, but I usually just stick to my glass of white wine with dinner and bottle of Bushmill’s before bed. Your drinking is your business and no one else’s.

As for someone who once had a normal job with normal hours (sales and marketing), the most appropriate time to start drinking is after 4:00 p.m. Alas, your overbearing boss is right.

Your insistence on bypassing the norms has made you righteously indignant. Fireball, as your drink of choice, has created a rift between a career and your favorite pastime. You must be smart, though. Most people look at day-drinkers with suspicion and near contempt. Employers outright prohibit such behavior. But, as we know, every big shot executive portrayed in movies has a fully stocked bar in their office. That’s perfectly acceptable and not at all strange. If you ever have the time, model your office in such a manner and join the club. Your crippling dependence on alcohol won’t seem nearly as strange.

Reevaluate your priorities. Try relegating boozing to the weekend. Your liver might thank you, as a friend and vital organ. If that proves to be a burden or a lifeless pursuit, think of the children. I’m not referring to any children in particular, but that phrase seems to guilt certain people into action. I’m not sure if you have a spouse or significant other or if that’s even possible given your routine, but they should be able to guide you in the right direction too. Unless they’re an alcoholic as well, which generally creates a co-dependent, destructive relationship, which can also be fun.

My parting advice is as follows: Wear a vintage velvet blazer and brandish a martini in the courtroom, as though you’re at the top of your game. Balance an unlit cigarette holder in your free hand and engage the judge and jury in witty banter with the charm of a slurring Dean Martin. You know how these things go. Going to court would be a lot more fun if they’d booze the place up a little.

Lay off the Fireball until the workday ends, or at least chew some gum to conceal the fumes. Wear extra cologne to musk the liquor aroma you exude, scaring off clients and such.

The beauty of life is our opportunity to start each day fresh to make new and wiser decisions.

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 #13 by Dr. Perfect

Reality Training

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I don’t know how to deal with my sister-in-law, who is suffering from delusions. She insists that Joe Biden is the President and that COVID-19 is a legitimate disease and not simply a hoax. When I call her out on such dangerous beliefs, she enumerates evidence, as if evidence can be anything other than a smokescreen generated by the illuminati to distract the rubes. She refuses to let my nephew join me in militia training. I am so worried about his future. What can I do?

Sincerely,

Armed and concerned

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Dear Armed & concerned,

Your sister-in-law is in tuned to the alternative facts we’ve heard so much about. I admire her tenacity. Anyone can cite unsubstantiated reports on who’s president and for how long. Open up any newspaper and you’ll find the same lies smeared across the pages in fresh ink.  And if you don’t like the outcome of something, just wish it away like a distant dream. We’re living in the age of relativity, my friend. If something isn’t to your liking, just say that it isn’t so.

Just the other day, I heard some crackpot on the Internet say that time travel was indeed possible through wormholes or something. Another claimed that dinosaurs never really existed. I dismissed them outright, walked away from my laptop, and then sat within my Zen garden, doubting my once grounded beliefs. All it takes is a little crack at the foundation to throw everything into question.

There’s no future in joining a militia, frankly. They’re not quite the résumé enhancer your nephew may be looking for. Are you really prepared to fight the federal government, or is this just a ploy to meet girls? I’m not certain if either would work due to the bad rep militias have gotten in the press over the years. I’m sure that your grizzly gang of rebels pack a punch, but you’re not going to get very far without the support of boorish late-night comics and pampered, prime-time pundits. You must reform and strategize. Decide if there are better, less antiquated ways to defend freedom.

You could support a bald eagle sanctuary or sweep the floors at the local VFW. And there’s no time like the present to take up model building, taxidermy, or a variety of activities less provocative than your average militia duties. I always recommend model building to my readers. It just tends to put me at ease. And once those paint fumes kick in after a few shots of Irish whisky, you’re in a deeply patriotic place.

I’m guessing that your sister got her COVID-19 vaccine and proudly posted about it on social media. I can see the pictures of her freckled arm and band-aid closeup followed by her vaccination record. Good for her. While she’s basking in “likes” for her heroic duty, you’re languishing in the shadows, unvaccinated and perplexed. Perhaps the pandemic is real to a certain extent, as real as the biased news media wants us to believe. They’re certainly no strangers to sensationalism.

Try a fun exercise. For the next week, pretend that everything you see on the news is real. Whisk yourself away to the paragon of propaganda that is your local newspaper from the local grocer and give it a read. Watch the evening news with a big smile on your face, taking in everything they say at face value. Forage through NPR articles online for the “right” way to think. You must be smiling for this experiment to work. You’ll also begin to understand the very lies you’re trying to suppress with the nuanced understanding of Alexis de Tocqueville, the famous French philosopher and historian.

Like you, he was trying to make sense of things, most notably, the madness of the French Revolution. He traveled to America in its infancy to write about the New World from a first-hand perspective. A hundred and some odd years, we’re on the cusp of about a dozen mini revolutions from all political factions, including your own lofty pursuits. You see, Armed & Dangerous, the times never really change, and neither do we. And I address you as such to call-back to one of my favorite John Candy films of the 1980s. Wait a minute, I was thinking of Uncle Buck!

Last I checked, Joe Biden was sworn in, and while he remains the oldest of the exceedingly decrepit Washington politicians, he is the president. I can understand your befuddlement when you were told there was a plan or that Trump would implement martial law or that the pope was under house arrest or whatever fantastical scenario you’ve heard. Most of these conspiracy types are just messing with you for their own amusement, much in the way the national news media enjoys tweaking you with comments about “the fairest election in modern history.” They know it drives you and your militia friends crazy. Be smart, take refuge in your bunker, and don’t emerge until all is right in the world. I’ll send for you once it’s safe.

We’re expected to put aside our differences for the greater good and get along with one another, respecting different viewpoints and ultimately moving things along. The problem is that we’re not robots, and even if we were robots, we’d still find something to argue about. I have a few robot designs in mind far more energy efficient than what’s currently on the horizon. My robots are powered by the complete and innate satisfaction of serving their human masters.

I might have left you in a higher state of confusion than before. The truth we’re all just pawns for the elite. Aliens have been studying us for decades. The Pentagon confirmed as much.

These aliens are going to wait a little while longer.

Just you see.

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 #12 by Dr. Perfect

The Rage of Chinguardians

Dear Dr. Perfect

I am afraid to go outside in the time of COVID-19 since people are so stupid. How hard is it to socially distance and wear a mask over one’s nose and mouth? Every time I see a nose sticking out over a mask, I feel like I have witnessed a sex crime. Is our country doomed to such stupidity?

Sincerely,

Incensed and afraid

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Dear Incensed and afraid,

I too ponder the intricacies of wearing a face mask under one’s nose. Some intrepid mask wearers believe that their nostrils are an adequate filter on their own, which they are in a very general sense, having a forest of nostril hair between them and your lungs. Or perhaps the mask wearer is content at displaying the most minimal effort possible to simply say, “At least I tried.” This occurs when such precautions take the form of image over a real emphasis on public health.

Such half-assed approaches can be found in other instances, like wearing a pair of pants without a belt or conjuring up a dissertation off the top of your head, using index cards. My pergola porch is a perfect example. The contractors I hired did a subpar job. I knew something was off when the contractors initially estimated seven weeks for completion. It actually took fifteen, and their shoddy craftsmanship wasn’t worth the already low amount I had haggled them to. Come to think of it, I’m even not sure if they were real carpenters. They looked awfully young in their matching jumpsuits.

Texting and driving puts everyone around you at risk, but we do it anyway. We sometimes shift lanes without signaling, or stir our fresh margaritas from behind the wheel. Complacency begets carelessness, which naturally leads to stupidity. You’ve probably seen brazen pedestrians dart across a busy crosswalk, staring into their cell phones without pause or concern. They don’t stop to think that the driver barreling toward them could be just as lost in their phone as well. In the words of the immortal Stephen Tyler, we’re all just living on the edge, in one giant self-centered petri dish with more creature comforts than we know what to do with.

The simplest solution in dealing with mask posers is to report them to the nearest authorities. If that sounds too harsh, grab your cell phone and proceed to berate them in a hysterical fashion while live streaming the public shaming ritual for all to see. Those types of videos usually come off pretty well.

Are mask sizing issues worthy of exploration? Is it possible to consciously purchase an ill-fitting mask and wear it anyway? I’d like to see a study on this. It could bring us closer to understanding the droopy mask phenomenon before us. I can’t justify the actions of these mask offenders, Incensed and Afraid. Perhaps we are doomed to a thousand years of addled grievances throughout the dark winter of our souls. My advice is to wear three to four masks just to make a statement.

I’m no economist, but something irks me about profligate spending. Our government spends money at an astronomical rate, printing and borrowing us into oblivion. Some might call this careless act of governance risky in itself. The devaluing of our dollar eventually renders those stimulus pity checks meaningless. Speaking of money, I’m getting into this corporate cultural censorship action like there’s no tomorrow. My vintage copies of yanked Dr. Seuss books are selling like crazy on eBay. Add this to my Special Freedom Edition Pepe Le Pew Looney Tunes DVDs and expired boxes of hydroxychloroquine, and I’ll have plenty of scratch. I can finally retire and move to Antarctica like I had always planned. Sure, it’s cold there, but I’ll make it work. Don’t try to find me.

Don’t lose hope though. For every mask-dangling dolt, there’re people writing symphonies or engineering the latest Mars rover. And what of Mars? Can we move there yet? Would we want to move there?

The lack of an atmosphere might be a problem. The sloven masses would probably just follow us there anyway, and we’d be right back to a planet teetering on the brink in no time. If you’re anything like me, you’ve tired of hearing wealthy celebrities and politicians tell us to “do our part” to achieve x, y, or z. By answering these advice letters, I am doing my part, thank you, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.

At fifteen, I was raiding my mother’s pantry for Little Debbie’s and sneaking peeks at Miss July in father’s Playboy magazine. I’ve come a lot further since then. I can buy my own Little Debbie snacks now and watch all the free porn I want. But I chose to do neither. What kind of perfect life would that be? You mustn’t live your life in fear, regardless of others flagrantly disregarding COVID etiquette.

Step outside and breathe in the fresh air. Despite the endless apocalyptic rhetoric, the birds are still flying, the bees are still pollinating, and those neighborhood cats are still going through your trashcan. Hiding under your bed with desert goggles and a face scarf might seem appealing at first, but it gets old after the first few months of lockdowns. I know this from experience. You have nothing to fear but fear itself and the likelihood of contracting COVID.

It’s a tough call.

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