Deer Cardinal,
My uncle Joe has a lot of health problems. Thing is, I bet that if he watched his diet a little bit more closely he could extend his life expectancy for at least another six months.
For example, I saw him last about a week ago at a family reunion dinner held at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. He was sitting about two feet back from his plate due to his enormous shelf-like paunch. On that plate he had the Porterhouse for Two, but the only two involved were my uncle and that slab of beef.
Within close reach (aka about two inches away due to uncle Joe's lack of arm mobility) he had a dirty martini with about five stuffed olives floating in it.
I don't care how you feel about drinking, Deer Cardinal, but I don't believe a man who relies on an oxygen line hooked up to his nose yet can't manage to carry the tank himself should be allowed to have that martini on top of about two pounds of pure cholesterol and fat. How can I help him understand he needs to drink some water and eat some lightly-salted broccoli every now and then?
—Alexandra M.
Monamaloola A.M.,
Well, since your uncle doesn't sound like the kind of man who can be force-fed brussels sprouts no matter how nicely they are seasoned, you must take a different approach. Here's a three-step-program I specifically formulated for your uncle Joe using my exceptionally small brain:
1) Next time you head to Ruth's Chris interrupt him while he's ordering that behemoth of a beefsteak and tell the waiter, ""He'll have the Lettuce Wedge please, hold the bacon and only vinegar for dressing.""
2) Instead of letting him get that over-olived martini, give uncle Joe a blast from the past and order him a ""Shirley Temple, with a single drop of vodka, forget those maraschino cherries."" He's going to need to cut down on the alcohol intake, not eliminate it all together.
3) Strap that oxygen tank to his back and let ‘er rip! Hold his hand and steady the tank while he slowly waddles to the bar to try and order a double martini to make up for that emasculating Shirley Temple. Of course, once he gets about three feet away, turn him right back around. Without discipline he is doomed.
Deer Cardinal,
My dad came down for homecoming last week and as usual, embarrassed the shit out of me. That time in high school when he forced me to go to the county fair with him even though he was wearing a train conductor-esque striped hat was bad enough. Back then I didn't think it could get any worse, but I hadn't endured the mid-life style crisis yet.
He walked into my apartment wearing a pair of jorts, calf highs and black New Balance tennis shoes. I thought no one else would see. Too bad he was hungry and paraded me down State Street to get Ian's pizza. What can I tell my dad so he understands how his clothes make me feel?
—Patty Markus
Monamaloola P. M.,
You can tell him nothing. Sounds to me like you don't need any help, you just want someone to listen to you bitch. Those black sneakers are tame child's play compared to a conductor hat.
Plus, I bet he paid for your slices of pizza, huh? Your ""poorly dressed"" father just put booze money in your pocket. You should be thankful he doesn't give a fuck about spending money on clothes, otherwise you might have had to pay for your own mac n' cheese pizza AND your dad's steak n' fry, to boot.
