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.

The Perfect Life #10

Dear Dr. Perfect,

I love my fiancée, but I am beginning to be alarmed by our love life. He is sensitive and thoughtful, and even writes his own feminist blog. Plus, he loves to cuddle. But we make love only 2-3 times a month.

He claims he is too tired from his internship and that he has carpal tunnel from playing videogames (even though he doesn’t stop playing video games). On the rare occasion we do make love, he insists on playing the soundtrack to My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. He claims that the music and MLPFIM make him feel more spiritual, and that he wants lovemaking with me to be special. He wants to get MLPFIM matching tattoos for our wedding.

How can I discuss with him how much this behavior creeps me out without being insensitive to his needs?

Sincerely,

The Woman Who Doesn’t Want to be a Unicorn

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Dear Not a Unicorn,

I can’t tell you how many letters I get from dissatisfied couples about their love lives. You’d think I was Dr. Ruth. But no, I’m Dr. Perfect. I’ve evaluated your case, and I can definitely see why you’d want to reach out.

The engagement period is often the time for couples to work out the kinks before walking down the aisle. You want to make sure all the pistons are firing and that neither of you are psychotic mass murderers, My Little Pony notwithstanding. I could be blunt and say that such dwindling intimacy before marriage is a red flag and could lead to further problems down the road. Nonetheless, couples experience this all the time.

Sometimes partners really are too tired. Sometimes carpal tunnel can be an issue. And who among us hasn’t made love to MLPFIM? Well, I haven’t. I prefer the delicate sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach to accompany me in the bedroom, but that’s all I’m willing to disclose. What you’re experiencing is a tale as old as time. The lack of intimacy in any relationship could mean any of the following:

1. Your partner is having an affair
2. Your partner takes you for granted
3. Your relationship is doomed
4. Your partner might just be in a funk
5. You’re going to have to spice things up

I’ll spare you F – L, which are pretty much just cooking recipes. The problem with relationships is that we’re not mind readers. We can’t tell sometimes what is going on with someone who gets carpal tunnel from video games. You have to be upfront and honest with him but not enough to make him cry. You describe your love making as “rare,” and that to me sounds like someone on the cusp of a tawdry affair as well. Perhaps we could exchange numbers. Only kidding. I am a professional advice columnist.

Here’s some things you should ask yourself. Does it really matter what music your weirdo fiancé plays? Perhaps you can suggest some of your own. If no children’s show themes come to mind, go for something else. For instance, one reader revealed his own penchant for Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” during the naked tango. Don’t give your fiancé all the power. Tell him that he needs to spend less time writing blogs, playing video games, and attending furry parties and more time fulfilling your needs.

If none of that works, I have some surefire ways to bring him around. Slip arsenic into his meals and render him entirely dependent as you nurse him back to health. I saw that in a movie once with Daniel Day Lewis, and I think everything turned out okay in the end. Troll his blog posts with negative comments, thus fracturing his fragile ego and sending him into your arms. Stage an elaborate kidnapping hoax of yourself and demand ransom. I saw that in a movie too, but it didn’t work out so well.

I’d like to offer more advice, but I’m too distracted by the mental image of matching MLPFIM tattoos.

Perhaps we could exchange numbers.

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 #8

Dear Dr. Perfect,

My free-spirited girlfriend wants us to attend a nude beach. I’m not comfortable walking nude around other people. It took me a while to even be nude around her. I’m afraid if I say no, she won’t consider me as adventurous as she used to. She’s big on that kind of thing. I certainly don’t want her going without me. She’s already put it on our social calendar for next weekend, without my approval. I can feel the walls closing in. Help!

Sincerely,

The Reluctant Nudist in Florida

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Dear Reluctant Nudist,

I’ve studied your letter and even shared it with my circle of advice columnists, hoping to get to the bottom of your quandary. My columnist friends and I have concluded that you’re in one hell of a predicament. Nudity is about being comfortable with our bodies, when many of us aren’t. Those brightly lit store dressing rooms with their big mirrors are terrifying.

But if you’ve been to a public beach in general, you’ll notice plenty of shameless peoplel. No matter how big and/or hairy one might be, they have no issue parading around in their swim trunks with their grossly utilitarian bodies on display. If you haven’t been to a nude beach before, you’re in for a shock. Fear not, most nude beaches don’t have signs that read, “Models Only.” There’s no arbiter of attraction at the gate, dismissing people by age or physical inadequacy. You’ll most likely be disgusted by what you see and therefore less self-conscious in the end.

As a straight male, I believe that women can pull off nakedness better than men. That flaccid thing flopping between our legs with its buddies isn’t eye candy, in my humble opinion. And the last thing you probably want to endure is other men comparing their endowments to yours with nonchalant glances after eying your girlfriend. It could be a nightmare, but end up becoming something you can tell your grandchildren about. You can entice them with tales of how you braved the nude beach to please your partner and protect the rights of all Americans to be nude when they’re crazy enough to flaunt it in public.

Nude beaches are an entirely different world, but it isn’t a contest. Most nudists are just trying to get a good tan. Our pasty, sagging, freckled skin isn’t going to glow on its own. There’re always a few creeps in the mix, but that goes with the territory. Just ignore them, and don’t get caught leering, staring, or drooling at others, which is clearly marked on the signs. This shouldn’t be a problem, as you’ll most likely be surrounded by middle-aged nudes and the elderly. Perhaps you’re of the same age group. If that’s the case, jump in! Some beaches mandate nudity, whereas others are optional.

In my free-wheeling youth, I journeyed to a nude beach in San Diego with friends. I saw too many naked men, drank too much wine, and got stung by a jellyfish. My hazy memories of the experience weren’t fond, but we had a wild time.

You girlfriend’s brazen imposition has understandably left you shell-shocked and seeking answers. I suppose if you were to placate her, tango lessons would follow. Then she’d have you rock climbing the next week and attending the ballet the week after. There’s no telling how far she’ll go once given free rein. It’s time to put your foot down. March naked into your bedroom and tell her that you’re uncomfortable with the idea. After she’s done laughing, you’ll realize how ridiculous it all is. You were naked and didn’t even care. If you can maintain such confidence, you’ll have no problem being nude around other weirdos.

If you still have objections, try my patently childish reverse psychology method that I’ve advised before. Flaunt yourself throughout the house in her presence. Watch TV in the nude. Eat, sleep, and dance nude without a hint of inhibition. File your taxes bare as they day you came into the world. Frighten her with some naked pushups. If she hasn’t left you by then, she might just be wondering what the hell’s going on. Confess that you’re merely preparing for the big event. She could decide that you’re not nude beach material and cancel plans altogether or be further encouraged by it.

Both scenarios are a gamble.

I promise nothing.

My fellow columnists and I have an office pool going on you. Roughly half think that you should go to the nude beach, a fourth say you shouldn’t, and the rest are undecided. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.

What does it mean to be naked? Philosophers have pondered this existential question. A civil society is one where its citizens are clothed, and the amount of clothes and types and brands of clothing often dictate social status. I own over twenty suits and detest them all. I’ll pull out an old, ill-fitting T-shirt from the corner of my closet, lament its short length and tight sleeves, and simply place it back on the hanger. Why do we put ourselves through this charade?

If there’s no way out, ensure that alcohol is readily available. Booze is never a wrong answer.

Crawl out of your shell and join the rest of us. The water’s warm.

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

Dear Dr. Perfect,

What is the appropriate way to eat a baked potato? The answer has begun to plague my marriage in ways I had never imagined. My wife outright delivered an ultimatum during dinner the other night. She said that she’ll leave me if I don’t start eating mine “the correct way.” I asked her what way that would be, and she refused to say. She could just be looking for an excuse, but up until now, our marriage was the picture of happiness. Where do we go from here? I slice mine in half, then apply butter and bacon bits. I don’t even like baked potatoes, but everything is riding on this. Please help solve this crisis before it ends my marriage for good.

With gratitude,

Shuddering and Spuddering

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Dear S & S,

This question has plagued civilization since Roman times. Well, for all I know, they weren’t eating potatoes back then. I do believe it was a subject of intellectual discussion during the Renaissance, a real “hot potato,” if you will. Leonardo Da Vinci was rumored to have thrown a fully loaded baked potato at an early Mona Lisa sketch he couldn’t get right. Fast forward to the nineteenth century, to Ireland’s Great Potato Famine, and you’ll find varying degrees of records on this greatly contested issue.

Let’s begin with how I eat my baked potato. There’s really nothing to it. I boil mine in a Terra cotta pot over an open fire for about three and a half hours. That’s about thirty minutes a pound, if you’re counting. Prior to this routine, I usually invite guests over for a night of casual banter and wine, where we drink and exchange high society gossip while indulging in the finest appetizers. One evening, I panicked upon realizing I was all out of blini for the caviar and used a box of Triscuits instead. The discreet switch turned out to be a hit, with many guests none the wiser. Our entree consisted of pepper steak stir fry, Borscht, and baked potato. I can tell you, as someone who runs in fairly sophisticated social circles, that there is only one proper way to eat a baked potato. Perhaps your wife is privy to this insight, and I can save you a lot of trouble by just telling you now.

Your first obvious blunder involves the initial urge to cut the potato in half. You might as well just beat the poor thing with a club like some neanderthal. You must roll the potato, preferably on small plate of simmering butter. Gently turn the potato until it’s relatively marinated. Next, cut an impeccably shaped opening about two inches in diameter and a half inch wide in the center of the potato. Add approximately four spoonfuls of sour cream, one ounce of butter, two tablespoons of chives, five ounces of shredded cheddar, half a cup of bacon bits, four diced tomatoes, and two ounces of tequila. This should be about as right as you can possibly be.

You might also consider that your wife may have ulterior motives. We advice columnists often refer to this as spousal entrapment. She could just as easily lament your postures or critique the placement garbage cans within the proper distance from the curb. While her admonishment of your pedestrian mastery of potato-eating is understandable, she could be deliberating upon your marriage’s end altogether. You’re right to suspect that she’s searching for an excuse. Offer to make dinner one night. Keep it simple with steak and potatoes. Serve the food and excuse yourself to the lavatory.

As you take in inordinate amount of time in the lavatory, take comfort in the private investigator you’ve hired to snap pictures of her from the patio. She’ll naturally prepare her potato and even have a few bites as she waits. You’ll have all the evidence you need of her preferred method. This plan is not foolproof, however. She might wait for you to return just to wait and see how you do it first. The proper way to eat a potato is an entirely different story. You might be tempted to use a fork and knife, cutting and pulling the potato apart as steam rises. This again is incorrect.

You must gently scoop the insides with a potato spoon. Not a soup spoon, dessert spoon or, God forbid, cereal spoon, this has to be an officially-designated potato spoon. You can find one at any high-end cutlery center. You hold the potato spoon in one hand and your dinner fork in the other, prodding and mashing and picking delicate bites until only the skin remains. Then cut the skin into equally proportional bites and consume.

If you don’t have a glass of red wine on hand, then you’ve already failed the next test. I prefer white myself, but those are the rules. Like you, I don’t much care for potatoes in general, but go through the motions to remain a good standing member of society.

The potato might just be a symbol of your crumbling marriage. In 1992, Vice President Dan Quayle faced ridicule during a spelling bee competition, where he altered a young student’s correct spelling of the word to “potatoe.” In an obvious setup, the card he used had the wrong spelling, and he didn’t trust his own judgement. He was, like you, another victim of circumstance. There’s still hope though. Potato sliders in any case are known to quell differences, and you can just as easily eat those with your hands.

If you want my real advice, be prepared. Serve potatoes with every meal until she grows tired of the charade. Eat potatoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Slip potato wedges into your sandwiches. Make potato soup. Purchase Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head accessories from the local market. If she gets on your case about your strange potato obsession, remind her about what an important food source it is. After a few weeks of this, she most likely will never bring up potatoes again, and you can drop the matter, continuing the blissful marriage you once had.

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 #5

Dear Dr. Perfect.

I am having no luck attracting a woman enough to even go on a date with me. I have a decent job, I live in my own apartment, and I am not overweight. Should I start a podcast?

Sincerely, Mr. Lonelyheart

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Dear Lonleyheart,

If you’re searching for lessons on the laws of attraction, you’ve come to the right place. Women often seek two things in a compatible mate: confidence and security. Well, there’s also status, money, prowess, drive, ambition, sense of humor, trust, and, of course, charisma. Those could be my own preferences or something I heard a woman say. I’m certain that your issues extend beyond podcast aspirations. Best not to broadcast your insecurities.

Dating has changed since I was a young stallion. We met people at luncheons, car shows, and discotheques. We had speed dating, blind dates, meeting through friends, blackout drinking, and dumpster diving. Today, we’re swiping left, right, up, and down with no rhyme or reason.

Once, I escorted a lady friend to Medieval Times. Caught up in the moment, she insisted that I joust with one of the knights to prove my fealty. I explained the stupidity of her whim. She said that if I had any inkling of sleeping with her, I would joust the knight like my life depended on it. I clarified that I had no such intentions on a first date. She guzzled wine from her goblet and called me a peasant. By then, we had missed most of the show. Sometime after our disastrous feast, we went out for coffee and got along just fine.

The point, Loneleyheart, is that you needn’t worry. You have a job, a decent apartment, and you’re not overweight. The long road toward companionship is rife with trial and error. Try on a variety of suits, each more daring than the next. Avoid the sociopathic urge to lie about everything and stay honest with yourself and what you’re looking for. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with embellishment with a persona. Just because you’re not actually an airline pilot or a doctor doesn’t mean you can’t think like one. We’ve all been to hospitals and on airplanes. How hard can it be?

I once went hang-gliding on a date with a skilled pilot. Prior to our adventure, I had assured her of my piloting skills despite having never done it before. We took off from the top of a cliff. I never admitted my embellishment, even when she visited me in the hospital. She was a tender person, full of life, but I squandered our relationship during the Advice Columnist Convention (ACC) of ’96. There was a woman there who—well, maybe that’s not relevant here.

If I’ve learned anything from women, it’s that they also like a guy who can cook. I once dated this chef who reviled in our competing soufflés. We were so crazy about food that we introduced it into the bedroom like some cheap rehash of 9 1/2 Weeks.

As far as your issues, attraction isn’t impossible. Approach the nearest catch who’s caught your eye and simply say hello. They could roll their eyes and ignore you, or they could answer you back. If they’re receptive, you’ll have the opportunity to recite some Walt Whitman or Edgar Alan Poe, two titans of the Romantic Age. Either way, you’ve got their attention, and it’s go time. If none of this works and all the conventional means have failed, it’s time to get serious.

Start that podcast.

And never forget, when the going gets tough, lower your standards.

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 #4

Dear Dr. Perfect.

I am struggling to be fully supportive of my sister’s lifestyle. She’s a dominatrix, and is very public about that, as she wears scarlet latex everywhere. Her bond with her current slave is strong. At family gatherings, he must eat his meal from a dog-bowl on the floor at her side as the rest of us sit at the table. The concern is that he is a large man—about six foot eight inches, though he seldom stands fully upright. His back strains against the underside of the dining table, which is admittedly short. The slave is agitated constantly via an egg in his rectum, his skull and spine take a beating. The dining table came over from Prussia when our family emigrated in the early 19^thcentury. My sister insists we get a new table, but the old-world craftsmanship is priceless, and has our family crest emblazoned upon its top. Must we ditch this heirloom in the name of family?

Sincerely, A Woman Who Loves Her Family

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 Dear WWLHF,

Every family has one. My own brother does cosplay, and I still don’t get it. We often drift apart from our siblings at some point and go our separate ways. I’d like to think that familial bonds travel to adulthood, even when overshadowed by dominatrix slaves. What you’re describing could be a point of contention if not handled with the right amount of finesse. That’s what I’m here for.

You’ll have to look past your sister’s attire for the time being and focus on the slave. It’s only natural that you’d want to make him feel comfortable during family gatherings despite his unfortunate proximity to the dining table. There are a few ways to remedy the situation.

Someone of his height will always face the uncomfortable confines of any area when on all fours. He probably can’t take more than a few steps without hitting a wall. Perhaps such discomfort is a facet of his submissiveness. He might even feel a little left out. Here, your sister dons her glossy latex with her pale face, deep mascara, and piercings for all to see. Meanwhile, her slave is reduced to eating out of his bowl, which he should, with not so much as a pat on the head. Imagine how he feels, being pulled back by his leash to the car at the end of the night. For all I know, he loves it, but we’ve got to probe deeper here, much like the unfortunate placement of the egg.

No one in their right mind would get rid of a Prussian dining table, especially with an emblazoned family crest. Have you gone mad, Ma’am? I trust that you haven’t. You could purchase another table of the appropriate height or you could stand up to your domineering sister for once and suggest an alternative placement of the dog bowl, one that isn’t directly under the table. Another suggestion is to visit the nearest underground dominatrix club and recruit your own slave in response. With two slaves on hand, she’ll have no choice but to accept an entirely different area for them to eat, where her slave’s rectum is at least a few feet away the looming Prussian antique.

If this scenario fails to quell tensions, talk with your sister, sibling to sibling, and explain where you’re coming from. You love the table and your new slave, and she’s just going to have to accept it. She might not appreciate the insolence and the interference into her lifestyle, but that’s when you bring out the big guns with a large bottle of wine and The Rocky Horror Picture Show to put everyone at ease. The slaves will sleep in the corner as you two drunkenly reconcile. That’s usually how these things go. Someday you’ll both be too old to don tight leather and chains, assuming you’ve embraced the lifestyle too, and all you’ll have are the memories. If you do decide to get rid of the table, let me know. I’ll make you an offer.

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