The Worst of 'Morticia's Massage Parlour and Advice Academy'

You asked for it - now live with it!  More from Morticia (reprinted with permission)

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Dear Morticia;
My wife can't go a day without playing bingo.  What's your impression of a woman like that?
Signed Fed Up

Dear Fed;
Sorry, I don't do impressions.  This is an advice column.

Dear Morticia;
My husband works shifts and comes home so tired he can barely carry on a conversation.  How can I keep him from falling asleep on me?
Signed, Frustrated

Dear Frust;
Push him off.  Next...

Dear Morticia;
Are you busy this weekend?  Party at my house - I finally got rid of my parents!
Signed, Home Alone

Dear Home;
That's nice.  Did you manage to make it look like an accident?

Dear Morticia;
My mother and I read your advice column every month and we are appalled by the ridiculous advice you give.  In fact, we can't believe you actually get paid to produce this kind of trashy garbage on a regular basis.
Signed Disgusted in Durham

Dear Gus;
Wait a sec...you mean they're supposed to pay ME?

Morticia will return to these pages if somebody doesn't kill her off first.

Melodie Campbell writes funny books. Please buy them, so she can spend her time writing more silly comedy.

Tales from North of Fifty by Bad Girl

We tried to have a dinner party a while back.  Years ago, this wouldn’t have been a big thing.  I love cooking. (I love eating even more, which should be obvious.)  We have a decent size dining room with enough chairs.  And we actually like the people we were going to invite (itself, a great

accomplishment.)

So we went ahead and invited the people (step 1.)  Next we had to come up with a menu (step 2.)  And that’s when the trouble started.

If you are not over 50, perhaps you haven’t experienced this yet (she chortled fiendishly.)

“We have a few culinary restrictions from our guests,” I said to DH.  “I hope we can serve more than water and a toothpick.”

“What requests?” said DH.

I looked down at the list. “Nothing with gluten or beans.”

“Beans?”

“Cathy requested that.  Because of Phil and his proximity to the other guests.”

“Gotcha.” DH shivered.

“No cilantro, peppers or fresh garlic.  Nancy is sensitive,” I said.

“How about your famous lasagne?” said DH, with hunger in his eyes.

“No good.  Both Lainy and Bob are lactose intolerant.”

“Rib eye steaks?” he said.  “I can do them on the barbie.”

“Tim has to watch his cholesterol.  So do you,” I reminded.

“BBQ chicken then.  With a nice bourbon sauce.”

“Tiffany is a vegetarian,” I reminded.

“We can throw some shrimp on the barbie for her,” said DH, in a generous mood.

“Vern is allergic to seafood.  It couldn’t be the same barbeque.”

 “Running out of ideas, Babe,” said DH. 

A pause.  “Peanut butter?”

I shook my head.  “Marilyn.  Allergic.”

“Oatmeal!  We could have Haggis.”

“Not in my lifetime.”

Silence.  We stared at each other.

“Pea soup?” he said, in desperation.

The phone rang.  I ran to get it.

I came back to the kitchen.  “Barb just phoned.  Phil has a colonoscopy scheduled for Monday, so he can only have clear liquids.”

“Back to water and a toothpick,” I said.

“That’s pretty cheap,” said my Scottish husband, gleefully.

ROAD WARRIOR! (probably my most popular stand-up routine from the early days)

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.

Bad Girl's 'What Not To Wear' (and what's left)

I just emptied my closet of everything that doesn’t fit.  Hoo boy.  Have I been living in a dream world.  On the other hand, I can find all four remaining items quickly now.  (okay, six.)

Three sizes of clothes were in that closet. Three.  Sizes one and two (not their real names) were obviously made in China, where voluptuous is a concept rarely understood. 

Itemized list of remaining items:

1.      One sapphire blue chiffon evening gown, cut to there.  Yup, requires a special bra, one of those ‘plunge’ bras (and I don’t mean push up.)  I call this dress “my last hurrah.” See, my theory is, people are so mesmerized watching to see if the girls are going to fall out, that they don’t notice the rest of the bod.  (Don’t knock it – works for me.)

2.       One not horrible silk kimono tunic top.  Cost the earth (meaning more than 50 bucks.)  The current ‘go-to’ favourite for book signings.  (Now, the only choice for book signings.)  Also blue.  Seeing a trend here.

3.       One pair of boring black pants.  The ones with the adjustable waistline, and by that I mean a choice of two buttons.  (I tried elastic once.  Not on my A list.  I don’t contract well under pressure.  Remember those dolls little girls used to play with that were made to resemble a real baby? (Pee hole and all.) You squeezed them and…nuff said.)

4.       My funeral dress.  Black. Shapeless.  I was hoping it didn’t fit.  Wish it were blue.

5.       One navy and emerald green Nygard designer jacket that goes with nothing.  (Of course, there’s nothing left in the closet for it to go with.  I’ve just given it all away.)

6.      A blouse I hate.  But it fits.  (That’s why I hate it.)

It looks lonely in there.  Think I better empty the dresser drawers and hang up some sweaters.  And maybe a yoga pant or two.  Bras?  They hang them up in stores, don’t they?  Do cotton nightgowns count? 

Of course, clearing out a closet after nine years (the last time we moved) is a lot of work.  Some might say, it is more work than losing a few pounds to get back into some of these clothes.  (Okay, so I’m going to hell for that lie.  Humour me.)

But I have a theory about that.   Everybody knows if you want to get pregnant, forget about taking your temperature and all that crap; the quickest way to get pregnant it is to give away your maternity clothes.  So I figure…give away my thin clothes, and I’m BOUND to lose weight.

 Me, wearing my winter coat.  It's blue (big surprise).  And it still fits.  So it's going everywhere.  Thank gawd for air conditioning in summer.

My Short Conversation with God re Ascending into Middle Age - comedy reprinted from the places that pay me

Okay, I admit it.  I’m middle-aged.  Such a nice, bland term for reaching the middle years of your lifespan. 

   

But it’s a lie. Because that would assume that I am going to live to be over 100...well over 100...

But grant me the illusion.  Middle-aged.  Middle-income.  Middle-expanding….

It’s time I had a talk with the Big Boss.  A very short conversation, as it happened.

Me:  God Sir, I have a complaint.  I’m over 50 now, and while it’s really nice not to have to deal with all that baby-making crap, what the hell is happening to my body? These weren’t the boobs I came in on.  What’s that all about?

Voiceover:  My child, I needed to invent gravity to keep you all on earth and not floating up to heaven before your time.  What starts UP must come down.  So I give you this – gravity isn’t a law in heaven.  You get the originals back when you pass through the pearly gates.

Me:  Oh dear.  You haven’t been paying very close attention to my life lately, have you… So here’s the thing.  Do I get them back if I go the other way?  

Voiceover:  My child, how can you even think of asking such a thing?

Me: It’s all those college science classes.  If gravity pulls things DOWN on earth, does it pull things UP from Hell?  Just so I know my options, you see…

Voiceover:  I’m thinking your options are closing down quickly.

Me:  I’m thinking I’m talking to the wrong Big Guy.

And just because this is an equal opportunity column, I’m suggesting that all you guys out there might want to go to Hell.  Not just because I’ll probably be there.  But if gravity indeed pulls UP…

Midsummer Midwestern - will it be another zany novel? Readers can decide...

MIDSUMMER MIDWESTERN

by Bad Girl

Chapter 1

(Definitely not a western/vampire/zombie romance, but might possibly be a spoof.)

The stage coach came to a full stop, but not before it pitched to and fro, throwing me into the seat opposite.  Which was fully occupied. 

“Damnation,” said the Duchess.  No, that was me, actually.  I’ve always wanted to start a book with that line.  Too bad I’m really just a temporal law enforcement officer in deep cover.

The man I had the misfortune to be sprawled across appeared to be shocked.  Well, blow my cover and a whole lot of other things.  If he wasn’t the sexiest thing I’d seen in a mule’s age, whatever that was.

I looked right into his baby-poop brown eyes.  “I am so sorry,” I said with a drawl newly acquired. “I am truly embarrassed.  Help me up, will you?”  I shoved my hand against the back seat beside him and tried to push back.  Not good.  My cleavage got stuck under his chin.

With a smooth move, he grasped my upper arms with his hands and fair lifted me off.  I was plunked back down on the seat opposite.

“Thank you,” I said.

“No, thank you.”  He tipped his ten litre hat.  “That’s as close as I’ve got to a woman in a mule’s age.”

That settled it.  I simply had to find out how long mules lived.

to be continued, unless someone pays me enough to stop.

Christmas with Morticia! (Morticia's Massage Parlour and Vice Academy - Santa Issue)

Dear Morticia,

Do you get into the Spirit of Christmas?

Signed, Curious

Dear Cur,

I’m not interest in the Spirit of Christmas and I’ve told him that a hundred times!  (Honestly…it’s these office Christmas parties.  Everyone gets embalmed.)

Dear Morticia,

Can I interest you in custom-designed fruit baskets for your dearest friends.

Signed, The Custom Grocer

Dear Cus,

No thanks.  I gave a Christmas food basket to Thing last year and it bombed horribly.  He just didn’t have the stomach for it.

Dear Morticia,

I’m quitting smoking starting Jan. 1.  Are you making any New Years resolutions this year?

Signed Sincere

Dear Sin,

Yup.  As soon as the vulture dinner is over, I’m becoming a vegetarian.  (At least when you carve a pumpkin, it doesn’t try to eat you back.)

Private to Shocked and Appalled:  Yes, I actually got paid to write this advice column, back in my early Bad Girl days.  What can I say?  Even when I was a naughty girl, Santa came.

More Completely Useless Advice from Morticia (With apologies to sane folk everywhere)

Back from Bouchercon, with a Derringer in my Pocket!  (Okay, a Derringer Award...close enough.)

Here's some more Morticia, to tide this website over until the jet lag clears...

Read the National Expirer

…for the best in Graveyard Journalism

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,

Help!  All these chores need to be done and I’m exhausted.  What can I do?  The baby was sick again and kept me up all night.

Signed Tired

Dear Tired,

Sorry honey, but you married him.

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 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 Offended in Oakville: You are absolutely right, and a girl has a right to pick and choose.  I would never agree to try that position with a man I wasn’t married to.  I mean, what would your husband say?

More from Morticia's Massage Parlour and Advice Academy

Many thanks to those demented people who asked for more of Morticia.  (reprinted with Permission)

Brought to you by:  MORTICIA & CO., Distributors of Aftermarket Body Parts.

Dear Morticia;
My husband was married once before.  When he passes on, would it be appropriate to bury him beside his first wife?
Signed Planning Ahead

Dear Head;
Only if she's dead first.

Dear Morticia;
I keep asking my boss for a raise, but he keeps saying no.  As a last resort, I'm thinking of offering him my body.  Think it will work?
Signed Blondie in Bowmanville

Dear Blondie;
Gee, I don't know.  Chances are he has a perfectly good body of his own.

Dear Morticia;
My boyfriend and I won five hundred thousand dollars in a lottery.  I want to buy a house and he wants to buy a 427 AC Cobra four speed.  What should we do?
Signed Homeless

Dear Less;
Recent reports suggest that it is very difficult if not impossible to prepare a proper meal on a 427 engine block.  On the other hand, most houses built today can't travel at more than 2 miles per hours.  Tell you what.  Forward the winnings to my address and I'll do a test run for ya.

Dear Morticia;
What is the quickest way to a woman's heart?
No Don Juan

Dear No Don;
Zippered sweaters, although wrap-around blouses run a close second.


(Postscript from author:  in case you are wondering, question 3 today is the author's personal favorite of the many dozen Q&As created for this column over the years. We never claimed to be sane.) 

Morticia's Massage Parlour and Free Advice Academy

Back in the bad ole days, I had a gig writing a wacky advice column for a resto/bar trade mag.  On the urging of a few friends who have absolutely no taste, I am bringing Morticia back to life <sic> on these pages.  Reprinted with permission...

Dear Morticia:
This guy I really like has finally asked me out.  Thing is, I met him at a beach and he doesn't know I wear glasses.  Should I wear them on our first date?
Signed:  Short sighted

Dear Short:
That depends.  What does he look like?


Dear Morticia:
I've been sleeping with a piece of wedding cake under my pillow since last April and it isn't doing a thing.  What do you suggest?
Signed:  Always a Bridesmaid

Dear Always:
Personally, I've never seen the point of sharing your pillow with wedding cake.  Why don't your try a man instead?  Lots more fun and not near as messy.

Dear Morticia:
All I want is a man who doesn't play golf all weekend long.  Is that too much to ask?
Signed Weekend Widow

Dear Weak:
Really?  That's ALL you want from a man?  Must get pretty boring at night....

Dear Morticia:
I like your style.  How about a date, Sugar?
Signed: Swinger

Dear Swing:
Sure!  January 27th?  August 18th?  11/04/21?  MCXXII?

To be continued....