More Completely Useless Advice from Morticia (with apologies to sane people everywhere)

MORTICIA'S MASSAGE PARLOUR AND ADVICE ACADEMY
(reprinted with permission)

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Dear Morticia,

I’m a motion picture producer from Hollywood and I’m really impressed by your profile.  Have you ever considered acting for a living?

Signed Steamy B. Demille

Dear Steamy,

While I’m dying to make your acquaintance, I’m a little uneasy about earning a living.  (What would I do with it?)

Dear Morticia,

I’ve just found out that the guy I’ve been dating is a real snake.  What should I do?

Signed, Livid

Dear Livid,

Belt him.  (Act fast: this relationship is bound to be constricting.)

Dear Morticia,

I just got an invitation to a ritzy wedding, and wouldn’t you know, I’m supposed to bring an escort.  What should I do?  I’m between men right now.

Signed, Forlorn

Dear For,

Bring both.  (I never mind being between men, honey.)

Dear Morticia,

I am a born again Christian and now have a totally different perception of the afterlife.  I urge you to give up your misguided ways and find the true meaning of life.

Signed, Second Chance

Dear Second,

No thanks.  I wanted to be born again, but Mom said No.

Confidential to Won’t Leave Me Alone in Wellington: I know it’s hard, but you just gotta be firm, honey.  I had the same problem with a very nice ghost once.  Finally, I had to tell him I just couldn’t see him.

Morticia will be back, unless someone pays her author a thousand bucks.

ROAD WARRIOR! reprinted with permission

This post was my single most popular humour column/stand-up routine (with appropriate gestures) back in the days when I wrote under Funny Girl.

(With apologies to gorillas.)

Who needs a telephone booth?  My guy can step into any car and become:  ROAD WARRIOR!

There must be a primitive instinct that overcomes a male each time he gets behind the wheel of a car, and which also makes him forget that he actually got beyond the evolutionary stage of the giant African gorilla. 

Because every day, millions of men the world over climb into their twenty-first century chariots of steel to hear a voice from the heavens proclaim, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”  At which point all lads who possess a scrap of testosterone drop into first, stomp on the gas and lay a trail of smoking rubber in an attempt to beat the other blokes away from the lights.

I can remember traveling in my guy’s car down Gerrard street one day, when a red Camaro, which was traveling about two miles an hour faster than we were, pulled up beside us and tried to pass.  Whereupon, the man I promised to love and honour until death do us part – or at least until the next tax year – stepped on the gas and roared up the street doing a wheelie, in case, of course, the Camaro might just DARE to cut in front. 

The driver of the red Camaro, not wishing to appear shortchanged on his giant gorilla genes, immediately dashed up alongside, and proceeded to make extremely rude hand gestures while shifting gears and controlling a skid, all at the same time.

The two cars jerked their way down Gerrard, both drivers screaming at each other through closed windows, until my own true love slammed on the brakes, effectively blocking two lanes of traffic and the entire Jarvis Street intersection.  He then got out of the car.

Now the occupants of the Camaro were the sort of people one would expect to see driving a red Camaro down Gerrard: guys with names like Carlos and Guido, whose idea of a fun Saturday night is counting the notches on their machine guns.  And if I hadn’t started screaming and fainting in the manner of Fay Wray with King Kong (another gorilla) we would probably all still be there; my guy standing out in the middle of the intersection flailing his arms, ready to “teach them a lesson.”

What was he going to do? Kick their tires?

Of course, we females don’t participate in ridiculous behavior like this. We’re far too busy shopping for things we don’t need.

Back by popular demand (Thanks, Alison!) MORTICIA’S MASSAGE PARLOUR AND ADVICE ACADEMY

Reprinted with Permission

NOTICE:  THIS COLUMN CONTAINS NO SEX OR VIOLENCE.  Please read it anyway.

Dear Morticia;

I’ve been courting you for ten years.  In that time, I’ve taken you out for countless dinners and bought you lots of expensive gifts.  I think it’s time you told me how you really feel.

Signed: Losing Hope

Dear Loser;

I feel fine, thanks.

Dear Morticia;

My wife just ran away with the milkman.  I’m lost and confused – help me, Morticia.  This is a matter of LIFE OR DEATH!

Signed, Wreck

Dear Wreck;

Don’t panic – of course I’ll help.  The simplest way to tell is this:  if you’re breathing, it’s life.  If you’re not, it’s death.  (honestly, some people…)

Dear Morticia;

Can you believe it?  I just bought one of those cardboard sunscreens for my car windshield, and it came with the instructions, “Do Not Drive With Shield In Place”.  Who writes these things??

Signed Baffled in Burlington

Dear Baff;

I don’t know but I did see a sign in a jewelry shop recently:  “Ears Pierced While You Wait”  (The alternative just boggles the imagination.)

Dear Morticia;

My birthday was on Saturday night, and you didn’t come!

Signed, Sorely Disappointed

Dear Sorely;

Wow!  I was disappointed too, but HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?

 

Confidential to Car-lover in Caledonia:

You have a valid complaint, and now is the time to assert yourself. NO woman should have to do that in the front seat of a car!  Get in the back…

Morticia will return when the author is sick of her other personality.

A Guy and his Stuff

Something went very wrong in my life several years ago:  I married a hoarder.

Our basement is a serious hazard.  Experienced tracking dogs could get lost in there.  Entire families have been known to disappear down the stairs without a trace, only to reappear days later with enough furnishings to equip a three-bedroom townhouse.

I think there should be a law that prevents hoarders from setting up house with purgers, and in fact, I would suggest the following revision to the standard wedding vows:  “Do you promise to love, honour and refrain from filling the basement with 22 years worth of junk…”

Now lest you think I ruthlessly discard priceless family heirlooms, let me give you an abridged – VERY abridged - list of the contents of our basement:

A complete set of Road and Track magazines dating back to 1978, augmented by Car and Driver, Hot Rod, and Popular Mechanics;

The left mirror from a 1969 bronze Firebird (nothing else, just the mirror; the rest of the car died in 1977);

Sections of an electric slot car racing track dating back to 1960;

Nine defunct cameras;

Unknown fabric objects that might at one time have passed for clothing;

Assorted pieces of wood, wire and metal tubing;

Various and sundry car parts, fan belts, mats and cigarette lighters from Triumph Spitfires, Lotus Europas, Pontiac TransAms, all of which are no longer made, no longer running, and no longer owned, but the parts “might come in handy some day.”

I suggested a garage sale once.  This went over with the kind of enthusiasm that might be associated with a mass accident on the Gardiner Expressway.  Conversation went something like this:

Wife:  “We need to have a garage sale.”

Husband (aghast):  “What are you talking about?  We don’t have anything to sell!”

Wife:  “What about those ‘Welcome to the Slag Pits of Ontario' TV tables over there?”

Husband (clutching said items to chest):  “You gotta be kidding!  They don’t make ‘em like this anymore!”

As for the last twenty years, I only have myself to blame. Love is blind. Instead of gazing into his eyes, I should have looked in his room

Do you live with a hoarder?  Please comment to tell us the treasures you have in your basement…