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

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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 Ti,

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 Liv,

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? 

Gone With The WHAT? or REALITY BY BORIS - Zany Comedy reprinted by request (heh, it's still rerun season!)

I got one of those self-help books for Christmas, and I’m beginning to realize why I’m not getting very rich.  (For one thing, I’m not writing self-help books.)  It is patently obvious that nobody is going to get wealthy writing humor for newspapers unless they roll up the paper and whack somebody over the head with it during the course of a bank robbery.

So I’ve decided to switch media here and become a screenwriter.  I’m a natural.  I can sit in those funny collapsible canvas chairs just as well as the next guy, and besides, I know hundreds of unbelievable plots: I follow Washington politics.

So here goes: for my first screamplay <sic> I’m going to do something made for TV; specifically one of those romance-suspense-action-thriller-northern-southern-civil war epic-type things, maybe a miniseries.  It would have everything – sex, violence, sex, betrayal, sex, revenge, sex - and maybe even some dialogue.  It would star a ravishing but thoroughly spoiled female lead, maybe called Sapphire.  Here’s a preview:

Sapphire flings herself up the sweeping staircase, catching bottom of skirt on knob of banister.

Sapphire (yanking at fabric):  Go away, Rot!  Just go away!

Rot:  I’m going, I’m going.  But one last thing, Sapphire honey, I’ve got to know.  How do you manage to go to the bathroom with that bloody hoola- hoop attached to your skirt?

Sapphire (rolling downstairs on her side):  Don’t go, Rot!  Please don’t go.

Rot (doffing hat):  Frankly Sapphire, I don’t give a hoot.

(From outside, several barn owls hoot.)

I predict a blockbuster.  But just in case, I have a second one planned.  It’s a 1960s historical spy flick, based on the true-to-life adventures of very bad people who might possibly be Russian.

First Spy (possibly named Boris):  Gee comrade, do you theenk perhaps we are raising peeples suspicions speeeking English with Russian accent?

Second Spy (also named Boris):  Especially seence it is very BAD Russian accent, comrade?

Okay, so it needs a bit of work, and maybe some more sex.  I’m thinking of calling it Czech-mate. And if we bring it forward to modern times, the possibilities are endless.  What about a ‘Spy of the Month’ reality series?  Boris could live in an LA frat house with nine other comrades named Boris, and the survivor…

Or I could go back to writing for newspapers.