Dear Dr. Down-Down,
I’m disappointed with how the Ellen thing is working out. At first I thought it’d be a real shot in the arm for the gay community, her coming out, but here it is months later and the only homosexual behavior being shown on TV is lesbian behavior. Where’s OUR show? Why can’t GUYS kiss and feel each other up on prime time TV? Why is it okay for girls to be queer but not guys? Should I hold congressional hearings?
Barney Frank (D-Mass)
House of Representatives, Washington DC
I’ve been working with Stephen Hawking on a new unified field theory to explain everything in the universe. Our working premise (which was my original thought, by the way) is that there are two versions of everything – the Chicago Hope version and the ER version. Dante’s Peak is Chicago Hope. Volcano is ER. Flu is Chicago Hope. Ebola is ER. The Maryland Dirt Road Hash is Chicago Hope. The Pattaya Dirt Road Hash is ER. Ellen is Chicago Hope. A sitcom about a guy boning another guy up the pooper would definitely be ER. Doesn’t it all make sense to you now? Well, hey, it’s been fun talking to you, but you know what they say – “With correspondents like you, who needs enemas?”
Dear Dr. Down-Down,
My name is Edna, and I hope you can help me. I’m looking for an old “friend” of mine. His real name is Steve, but he now goes by some weird call sign, Burnt Frank, or something along those lines. I last saw him in the bloom of my youth. The year was 1979. I was 12, he was a worldy 14. I was nearsighted, and refused to get glasses in my vanity, but I’m sure he was handsome. Trouble is, I couldn’t identify him on the street, unless . . . and this is the weird thing . . . I smelled his breath. It was unforgettable: rank and vile, something between a camel with halitosis and a rotting aardvark. The only time I ever smelled anything like it again was at a party, when some moron tried to dry out his wet socks in my oven. At any rate, I really need to find “Steve.” I’ve been able to track down his phone number, social security number, birth certificate and places of residence and work, but he always seems to be one step ahead of me. I stand there, panting on the doorstep, smelling the faint stench of his passing and wondering if I will ever again find this man. I have some important papers to deliver. Thanks for all your help.
Dear Dr. Down-Down,
I was several hours late for work this morning when the phone rang. It was Edna, a girl I had last seen when I kissed her goodbye at a summer camp I attended in 1979, when I was 14 (she was 12, and that was the last time I’ve had my way with a minor). She called to say that she has thought of me often during the years and that she wonders how her life would be different had she ended up with me. As I remember, she was not a looker at all (hey, with the name Edna, whaddaya expect?), but I was able to kiss her without beer goggles (then again, I’m not that all that much sober, either). Needless to say, I’m worried about this. How did she find me? Will she show up in person? Is she an axe-murderer? Do you think she’s learned other oral tricks since summer camp? Did I father her child in my careless, adolescent, french-kissing days? Any advice would be appreciated. I’m not answering my phone or my door again until I hear from you.
Burnt “Memories” Sox
Dear Edna & Burnt Sox,
Please forgive the late reply. Right after the doctor answered Representative Frank’s letter (above), Nurse Wretched and I sent him to market to sell the clinic’s lab cow, but on the way he met an itinerate tinker named Bill Gates, to whom he traded the cow for some “magic software.” Doctor Down-Down may know a good bit about pathology and abnormal psychology, but I swear, he shouldn’t be allowed outdoors without adult supervision. The magic software turned out to be Windows 95, and as soon as we loaded it the dish ran away with the spoon and the clinic computer quit speaking to the modem. It took us three days and a trip to the neighborhood computer store to fix the computer, and we’re only now downloading the clinic mail. The dish and spoon are still missing.
Burnt Sox, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll board the next Soyuz mission to the Mir Space Station, there to hide from Edna. But is the Mir safe, you ask? Sure it is – NASA says so. They do, however, recommend that visitors furnish themselves with some emergency tools – you’ll need a hammer, a crowbar, a pair of Vise Grips, a tube of Epoxy, and some Three-in-One Oil.
Edna, if the doctor were here he’d doubtless ask to examine your feet, but alas he is not, and I’m an ass man myself. Since you know “Steve’s” address, and since he apparently won’t take your calls or come to the door, I’m not sure I can contribute any useful advice, although next time you knock you might try disguising your voice and telling him you’re from the Russian Space Agency. Good luck.
Flying Booger, Piss Boy
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