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.

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.

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!

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.

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

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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.

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 #37 by Dr. Perfect

Modern Medicine and Postmodern Problems

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I shut my hand in the dishwasher at work. It really hurts. Might be broken, definitely burned. I can’t file worker’s comp because of a warrant out for my arrest. How do I find affordable medical treatment?

Sincerely,
Not Tom Actro, that is definitely not my name.

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Hey Tom,

I believe you wrote me before after getting your foot caught in one of those big, blue mailboxes.  Then there was the time you got your head stuck in the engine of an ’86 Camaro. That could have been another Tom Actro, but I’m beginning to see a pattern here.

Dishwashers, like many unassuming appliances, can be dangerous. The other day, my toaster oven burnt my bagel to a crisp. This inexcusable act was made even more appalling by the fact that I had it on the normal settings. I chucked it into a river that very morning. There are consequences for screwing up my breakfast.

One time, I nearly tripped over the cord to my “bubble bliss” foot massager. Water spilt everywhere. And don’t get me started on tanning booths. Maintaining a glow doesn’t come easily. You’re better off steering clear of dishwashers.

In fact, I advise you to avoid most things in general.

There was this movie about these kids who survived a terrible incident due to one of them having a premonition of their collective deaths. Fate, however, caught up with them in a series of gruesome, accident-prone killings. I believe it was called Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. You don’t want to end up like one of those kids.

I recommend immediate self-isolation for three weeks, watching reruns of Good Times, and eating sliced pears for nourishment. You’ll be off the smack in no time.

There’s no shame in having a warrant. My perfect endeavors rarely involve run-ins with the law, but I can attest to the occasional slip-up, embezzlement and/or back-alley knife fight to find oneself under the full, suffocating weight of our legal system.

Chin up, friend. Any number of seedy walk-in clinics are available to assist for a relatively nominal fee. You just need to know the right places to look. My own deductibles are through the roof, which has me considering Haitian Vodou priests as an alternative source of medical care. They’ll also conjure you up an impressive love potion guaranteed to end up in tragic irony. Fun times.

It’s time we reclaim our standing amongst the machines. One day, they’re slamming our hands into their doors. Next thing we know, it’s an all-out cyborg apocalypse. Get that hand checked out or get used to doing one armed push-ups. I do about five reps each morning, preparing for the coming robot wars. Humankind will need you then, Tom.

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 # 36 by Dr. Perfect

Dear Doctor,

Girl Scout Cookie season is upon us, but I was recently diagnosed with a severe gluten allergy. Seriously considering taking a week off work and bingeing a box or four of Thin Mints, for old times sake. Talk me off this ledge.

Sincerely,

The Sad Scout

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Dear Sad Scout,

I’m replying between bouts of my own Thin Mints binge. They’re glorious. When asked how many boxes I’d like to purchase by scouts outside the supermarket, my first answer is always, “Yes.”

I don’t mean to be dismissive. I’m practicing material for my set at the Laugh Hole this weekend. Ladies drink free until eleven.

Of course, my state of mind is never in question. I just need to open another fresh box of delicious Caramel deLites. Maybe you caught me at a bad time. Nonetheless, allergies can be a real pain. They prevent us from enjoying the finer things in life, like shrimp and latex rubdowns.

During my college heyday, I developed a rare allergy to silk, which hindered my increasingly swanky lifestyle. My silk robe and various briefs were the first casualties. I was then deemed persona non grata at the national silk convention.

This kind of trauma sticks with you.

A friend of mine once claimed to be allergic to “meanness.”

I told her, “You have to be kidding.”

“No,” she said. “I break out into hives whenever someone is mean to me, honest.”

“There’s no way that’s medically possible,” I said.

“My doctor told me.”

“Well, your doctor’s a quack,” I snapped.

Next thing I knew, hives coated her face.

“See?” she cried. “Thanks a lot.”

For the record, I still don’t believe her.

Considering your current, unfortunate circumstance, I suppose you have no choice but to succumb to your diagnosis and drop the Girl Scout Cookies altogether. Take comfort in the fact that sweets aren’t everything. They are to me, but that’s not important. There are plenty of perfectly reasonable and healthy alternatives out there. You’ll also be pleased to know that the Girl Scouts offer gluten-free options. Of course, this may bring little solace. Their gluten-filled varieties remain a delectable godsend known only to those fortunate enough to indulge in their savory bliss.

You could do worse, though. At least you’re not in some Turkish prison, unlike some members of my family.

My doctor recently recommended that I limit my brandy to once a month. “What about my weekly galas?” I asked, mortified. He wasn’t sympathetic.

Please send whatever leftovers you have at your earliest convenience.

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 #35 by Dr. Perfect

Dr. Perfect,

What kind of doctor are you? Mine keeps trying to put me on antipsychotic meds, but I don’t want them. I’m looking for a second opinion. Do you take United Healthcare?

Yours,
Aaron

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Dear Aaron,

I seldom divulge my professional background, but in your case my PhD in Psychology might come in handy. I also minored in dance, which helps with the ladies.

Women like a man with rhythm, a perfect man, well-spoken and confident. Having a beard apparently helps too, but I reject going through life looking like Jeremiah Johnson. But you didn’t write for dating advice, assuming you’re single or into women or even human. You could be an alien because they’re out there. The Pentagon has confirmed as much, in so many words.

I get letters from people claiming they’re aliens all the time. They always give themselves away with a subtle hint toward the end, like asking for Thai recipes or dog grooming tips. Aliens aren’t interested in any of that stuff. They’ve clearly traveled millions of lightyears to mess with farmers and Air Force pilots here on earth. They just want to linguistically scan my responses to get at my sweet, sweet biorhythms, which they hope to use for their nefarious purposes.

Do you talk to yourself, cut people off in traffic, or finger paint in your own blood? If so, that’s normal behavior nowadays. It’s not like you’re questioning the government or anything.

There are these psychopathy checklists that help professionals narrow down personality traits and make assessments from there. If you were my patient, though, I’d recommend a weekend spa retreat at your own expense. Those kinds of getaways always helped me block out voices.

Feel free to fax me your insurance information at your earliest convenience.

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 #34 by Dr. Perfect

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I suspect my 9-year-old son is watching porn. Can you recommend any porn that would be age appropriate for him? I don’t want him to pick up any bad habits.

Sincerely,
A concerned mom

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Sweet matriarch, lock that child in your house, turn off the electricity, and confiscate the cretin’s phone. Instead of letting him watch porn, buy lots of porn for him to read. This will strengthen his literacy skills and gamify his perversions for SAT success.

I recommend the Marquis DeSade, Anaïs Nin, and Pia Sparks. Never give him Fifty Shades of Grey, which can result in brain damage.

I remember when my own mother gave me my first erotic novel, The Diary of a Young Maid. Technically, the gift tag had my father’s name on it, but I knew that was just my mother’s famous shyness.

With the sexual revolution of the ’60s spearheading a more permissive and decadent culture, she knew that I would be exposed to all sorts of mature content during my formidable formative years. XXX theaters were the norm, divorce rates were skyrocketing, and disco was turning happy homemakers into harlots.

My father, on the other hand, offered his own assessments. “Why settle with one wife, when you can have a dozen?” he said, clearly influenced by the polygamous Mormon family living across the street. He always talked that way just out of an earshot of my mother, careful to never let his envy of our neighbors show.

Back then, my classmates passed around Playboy magazines with fervor, whereas I was steeped in the finer eroticism of the mind. Why gaze upon the torn and tawdry pages of convenience store smut when you could read from the world’s finest literary sexual deviants?

Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer piqued my youthful interest. The novel, published in 1934, was still taboo. We didn’t have a wealth of erotic fiction to choose from. Genres upon dirty sub-genres would have to wait until the Internet. Today, you can download tentacle erotica on your Kindle along with endless books involving inters-pecies dinosaur sex. The abundance of such sleaze makes one yearn for the classics, like Endless Love.

Many writers are as uncomfortable writing about sex as the public is reading it. Sex, for most couples, takes place in the dark. Conventionally speaking, we’re not too keen on things that happen in the dark. I prefer my own lovemaking in the daytime.

Where were we?

If erotic fiction isn’t your son’s thing, mandate more videogames into his routine. There’s a fine line between “carnal” and “carnage,” and he’d be better off shooting bad guys and not thinking about sex until he is thirteen.

Or get him some of those old Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books.

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 #33 by Dr. Perfect

Dumpster Diving for Love

Dear Doctor Perfect,

I can’t find anyone who shares my raccoon kink. And before you get ahead of yourself, no, it’s not bestiality—I like to dress in a raccoon costume and dig through the garbage. It’s harmless. Exploratory. Playful. Everything sex should be! So why haven’t I found a partner yet? How are there over 20,000 Bronies in this world but apparently only one lone, lonely racoon?

I hope that with your wide audience and the power of the internet, you can help me find my people. My ultimate fantasy is group sex, so if you know of any secluded dumpsters, please advise.

____________________________________

Dear Lonesome Raccoon,

I took one glance at this letter and said, “Not another one!” I get a lot of inquiries from the furry and Brony communities as they both navigate through the dizzying minefield of love. Or in most cases that cross my desk, kinky, fetish-driven sex.

I recall my dating years like they were yesterday. Naturally, I was perfect at it, but the entire charade wore thin. Lost in a sea of hapless singles collectively clawing their way to potential companionship was no way to live. I can’t say the times weren’t without their charm. This was the early ‘80s when life was a party. You’d probably fit right in, because everyone was wearing raccoon costumes back then, among the usual drug-fueled kinkiness.

The most important factor in any romantic pursuit is maintaining one’s dignity. This is where you’re “holding all the cards,” as they say. If dumpster-diving raccoon role play/foreplay is your thing, don’t settle for anything less. Once you start compromising, the dream is dead. Next thing you know, you’ll be languishing in the corner of some hipster bar in an ill-fitting cardigan, pretending to text on your phone.

My mother raised me to never give up. In grade school, I went through a typically adolescent nihilist phase after reading copious amounts of Nietzsche. Simple requests to take out the garbage were met with lengthy diatribes from yours truly about the structural fallacy of waste, among other grievances.

She told me to leave and not come back until I was “sane.” For fourteen years, I lived in boxcars and sundry motel rooms, eventually returning home a man. Then, I moved out for real and found success in multiple endeavors. I, too, had felt like a raccoon in a maze. Or was it a rat?

Consider that raccoons are solitary creatures by nature. You’ve set yourself at a disadvantage that could be easily remedied with the right finesse. Ignore the bronies. I know plenty of secluded dumpsters, but they’re usually swarming with Hollywood executives, searching for the next franchise to reboot. Fear not. With Valentine’s Day approaching, there’s bound to be an animal orgy behind the nearest Waffle House.

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