Innocents Abroad

The Great Finknottle (self) and his Very Young Assistant (Scribble) have disembarked at the dusty port city of New Caledonia. Our destination is the old city, where we will meet with a consortiuum of various luminaries I (self) am affiliated with. Although we will be among friends for the first time in months, I fear we will be in more mortal danger than at any point thus far in our travels.

"The Great Finknottle has friends, of course he does. They are hand-picked geniuses. A good group. And not a one of them in jail at the moment, which is not only remarkable, but handy for the Meeting will require as many as can be assembled in one place."

"That is where we are headed? A consortium of geniuses?" asked Scribble.

"Yes, although we must conceal the fact as long as we can. Such a meeting draws attention from the Authorities, especially the Maritime commission on Deadly Ideas and Harmful Matter."

"Will we be skirting the law, assuming false identities and costumes? Having illicit meetings in abandoned buildings and discussing plans for revolution?"

"No. I will be discussing said plans. You will be preparing the tea."

Scribble still looked excited, so I added, "And shovelling out stalls."

He deflated visibly, although not all the way. You'd have thought he was being included in an invitation to meet Barbary Pirates and get their autographs. Perhaps I will let him interview the council and construct Genius Society Trading Cards. I can picture him now, on his hands and knees with all the paraphernalia about, a sheet covered with scraps of photos and gluepot and scissors, happily working away, and out of the direct line of sight of danger.

Yes, that's the best plan for his protection. Lots of false errands that will keep him safe until the Council breaks rank and we are not the target we will be soon.

Scribble seemed to vibrate ever so slightly with happyness as he stared out the rude porthoole in the donkeywagon. My job to keep him alive will not be easy. He's a Secret Agent Boy today. Ahh, well, the folly of youth etc.

"Shut the curtain, lad. We're almost there."

The donkey whined and stuttered as the driver mitigated the speed. We rounded the corner of La Place Del Oro and I could make out the barks of street sellers and so forth. We made our way painstakingly through the garment district, the flatware district, the Lead-and-bols dealerships. Eventually I felt the sounds of capitalism fall away and the air began to thin. We ascended the road uncautiosly labeled "hidden meeting place of foreign geniius" and made our way to the Observatory. No longer a proper observatory of course. The equipment for making calculations would be outclassed by a PalmPilot today, but in it's prime it was a dangerous place.

The funk of patchoiuli began to waft into the mix of donkey odor, and the sound of flutes made an erie effect on me.

"I hate this part," I grumbolled.

"What part is that, sir?"

"This part," I said and handed Scribble his costume. He gamely put it on and watched me out of the corner of his eye as I donned mine.

"Try not to laugh, Scribble, this is serious business." I said. I put on a tri-cornered red and green fool's cap and requisite striped pantaloons. I adjusted my corset and began to apply the white face paint.

The critical mass of braincells in attendance, and our less-than-modest agenda requires the utmost in deceptive skill to conceal. For the past forty years, the Council has chosen to conceal our doings and goings-on in the fantastic cloud of movement providded by a Dionysian fete. A hippie fair. A gathering of the tribes. A communal head-trip. A convergence of like-minded weirdos. The fringe of acceptable and unacceptable mores. Completely unstomachable, naturally, but excellent cover.

"Keep an eye out for our brethren, Scribb. They will be well disguised, naturally, but as an exercise for you my very young apprentice, try to pull them out of the noise and make our arrival known discretely." I nudged the lad towards a small ring of revelers nearest our position.

"What will you be doing, Sir?" he bleated pitifully.

"Watching your progress." I replied.

Scribble turned to the mob and looked uncertainly at this task. He had no way to discern a genius in full idiot garb from an idiot in full genius garb. He turned back to me, but I was gone.

Greetings from the Torrid Zone

Greetings from the Torrid Zone, where the natives cast little or no shadow at noon. (Don't believe me? Look it up!) While in pursuit of our mysterious goals far from the warmth of hearth and home, my Assistant and I have had to overcome many obstacles, not the least of which is the lack of correspondence from my many dependent advice-needing fans. The Tradewindes have made up this deficit, however, and rendered to us a grabbe-bag of noodlings from You the Viewer. Arriveing by the demi-gross fortnightley are glass bottles of every description, with the faithfull's penscratchings and occasionale drawing. I rather much like the version of Self contributed by Billy, aged 10, of Sarasota, Wyoming. The heavily shaded eyebrows give me a commandeering stare, and the fireworks coming from my brain suggest either deep thought, or electrical problems with my hunting wig. Congradulations, Jimmy, and we'll route a commemorative edition of this column to you, suitable for framing, as soon as my Editore discovers I have made this generous offer.

As for the bottles themselves the mails arriv'd in, it's goode to see that Old Overholser is still a viable brand of rye in the provinces.

As to the most freqwently-asked concerns about my existence/non-existence, I am in the peak of the tip-top and I do not intend to die in the South Pacific, but rather in my homely moth-eaten bed at home.

Now, on to the Qwestions!

1)Hey, Finknottle, How do I land a supermodel wife?
Rod Ocasek

A) Dear Rod, the way to land a fish is to gaff 'im and bring 'im over the side of the boat. Gaff work is for the underclass of seamen, and according to rank, even on a small-staffed vessel. The gaff should be of at least ten percent above the weight of the catch i.e. the quarryl, and similarly the strength of the gaffer should exceed the necessary demand of the task, lest you see your prize, gaff, and gaffer go al-together to the sea. (A good surplus of gaffers is wise as well for obvious reasons.)

2)Mr. Finknipple,
Is there no escaping technology? The other night during sex, my girlfriend checked her Blackberry. I was hurt. She says she was just multitasking. What should I do?
Henry Pilot

A) Any girl that would check her 'blackberry' in public... I hesitate to finish the thought.

4)Dear Sir Finknottle,
What is the best cure for a sick little monkey?
Congo Boulonnais

A) The best way to cure a sick monkey of any size is to smoke it on a spit overnight. A dry rub of spices is a good finishing touch.

5)Esteemed Right Honorable Finknettle,
I have a question about party logistics. Let’s say you had the following people at a dinner party:
Mark Twain, Albert Einstein, Madam Curie, Joseph Goebbels, Jackie O, Liberace, Joan of Arc and Mariah Carey.
How would you seat them?
Reservedly,
Antoine Adirondack

A) I have had the above named persons at a gathering, and I seated them thus: Mark Twain is an incorrigivle flirt and has harrassed M. Curie even before her husbands death, so place someone between them. Goebbels will do, as he is unpleasant, smug and bizarre in his speech and will tempt Twain's satirical attention toward himself.
If you have any sense at all, seat Mariah Carey on your lap. Do not allow her to drink.

6)Herr FinkenNottle,
You ignored my last correspondence. Again, I say, the pirate is a penguin.
How do you answer, knave?
Regards,
Arturo Rhodesia

A) The chair is against the door, and the lemon merchant plies his trade on the boulevarde. I repeat: the chair is against the door. Tell Mary the hippo has had kittens, and there is a hole in the roof. I repeat: there is a hole in the roof. End transmission.

8)I've been checking out this site since it has started. You don't seem to spend a whole lot of time helping your readers. How do I know that if I send you a question, it will be addressed in a timely manner?
Bottled up in Rochester,
John

A) How does one know that a bird dressed in cook's twine and baked for three hours in a kiln will not sqwak and fly away after it is removed? How indeed. These are not mysteries we are qwalifi'd to answer, they are in the realm of metaphysikal inquiry and subject to Laws unproveable. Nay, we may stir and fret for lifetimes before the riddles of the Implicit Understanding are unraveled. Did you know, par examplé, that 'unravel' means to destroy a woven cloth, but 'ravel', its opposite cognate, means to weave And unweave?! That will keep you up at night.

That is the first batch of trans-oceanic traffic I have been able to address. My Editore is certainly contemplating replacing me with an Advice-o-matic or the stylish Eurovisor-311i robotic advice generator. Which is as may be, for I now have enough stored up bottled qwestions to start my own franchise and bury his efforts in the deep shade of anonymity. With that happy thought I bid you adieu.

Finknottle, Ambassador without Portfolio

Words From a Life-Rafte

Well, my Gentle Readers and lovers of Reason, I have taken pen in hand today to eke out a response or two to the inter-continental flow of reqwests for aide and consolation. My Assistant and I are on a journey of either plunder or mercy, (depending on how conditions meete us at our destination), but the freqwent lulls of inactivity should allow us time to corespond. The transo-fax/ship-to-shore link has been established, and if the portable word-juicer I have fashion'd from the lifeboat's filteration system works, we will be back in business.

My long-suffering Editore no doubte rekons us in dereliction of duty, but as readers of my autobiography well know, he is "Sharp as a marble", (pp.101-156), and "Worthy of only the rudest effigy, not of paper or straw but lumpen ash or tallow." (pp.238-338).

My Assistant has been reluctant to expound upon my Employere's lack of surplus neurons, inpart because he is drawing a small stipend from him as per the terms of his indentured servitude. I aim to correct this conflicte-of-interest in a future episode by declaring Scribble Derelict Property and assuming charge of his case under the Orphans and Domestic Cats Act of 1744. This will be a surprise for him upon his 16th year, once I have determined what calendar date to set for his birthday.

Now, for the qwestions:

Dear Finkfugger, I am incarcerated in the Tower of London for a crime I didn't commit without a really good reason. I need assistance to get my GED and become a dental technician, which has been my dream since I started this sentence. What tv-advertised courses can you recommend?

I fancy I've seen the late-night adverts you are referring to. By chance have you seen the one for the Sleep Number Mattress System? You can adjust the pressure in the hidden air bladders independently, to accomodate your and your sleepmate's needs.

Next Qwestion:

Darling Son, this is your Mother. Pick up! Are you there? Pick up! Well, I guess you aren't in. Where have you been? All your parole hearing notices are piling up in the hallway. I have sent back the orphans you saw fit to leave with us, we are elderly people, Son, and can't take care of your hobbies for you when you're away. I have talked to Dr. Hippodrome and he insists he'll see you again even disregarding what happened last time.

Dear Mother, I told you never to call me here. I appologize for this laspe in decorum, listeners. Please don't adjust your browser. Read on:

Dear Spinkbottle, I want to find my birth parents who abandoned me here on Earth 17 years ago. What should I do, contact some kind of Galactic Agency or hire a Tracker to find them?
-sincerely, Stranded in the Solar System

Dear Stranded, I have made an extensive search in the local star-cluster for your parents. I also enlisted an expert, Dr. Alfred Albrecht at the University of California, Berkeley, where he is charge of the SETI project (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence). He made the following observation:

"None of my students want to see me after class! Why don't they seek me out for the wisdom I can offer? I even made an office interview a required part of the class, and 93% chose to take a reduced grade instead."

As we can see from this expert testimony, the chances of finding your parentage and alas even your birth-world are slim and none. But Fear Not! Finknottle is here to help. As we speak my lawyers are bribing the appropriate authorities to make way for my Orphanarium. Soon I'll be able to benefit from the relaxed labore standards and also give the galactic homeless a place to receive their welfare checks, which I have generously decided to cash for you. This project is not, as my critics charge, merely a tax dodge, it is also a scheme to produce the finest sweat-shop jute in the tri-country area.

I wish you all good luck, and until next time,
Finknottle, Esq.

Nuts in the Ocean

Finknottle continues the story ~

Well, Dear Figgyies, I am not at the Word juicer to-day, but that will not stay my hand from seeing to your rekwests for inspir'd counsel. My Assistant has filled you in with the detailia of our travelouge, and nicely brought us up-to-date. His narrative had placed us exactly where we need to be, vis., on route to an important errand in the Southern Hemisphere.

We now open the scene with Self collapsed against a large wooden crate, sucking on an opium tab, wet hand-kerchiefe on my face. Also arrayed in formation are My Assistant, to his left the former Captain of the Sassy Wench, and below him, a lifeboat. Below that is the Indian Ocean, a most un-aptly named body of water. I, that is to say, Self, am rummaging in the crate mentioned afore. The Captain was not saying much, having burned his lips on a cigar in an accident unrelated to the Mutiny. And now for the dialoge.

Assitant: "Sir, I don't know how you can be so complacent." he said.

I (Self): "Whatever do you mean, young Scribble?" I replied.

[Notice how the deft hand of the experienced writer has efficiently arranged the scene for readibility and eschewed the vernacular.]

My assistant continued his theme, "We are adrift, the Sassy Wench is no longer even within flare distance, and all you are doing is sitting there abusing the opium!"

I fished a lugnut out of the crate, and tossed it overboard behind me. "I am also throwing lugnuts overboard," I mentioned helpfully.

He failed to see the note of cooperation I had struck. "How will we get to Lima or even survive the night without rations?" he begged.

I threw another rusty lugnut into the Atlantic, checking my watch, and smiled. "I have not the foggiest idea how we'll survive."

Assistant looked petulant and whined," I hate being stranded in the South Pacific with you."

"Then stop doing it," I replied. The water splash'd with the impact of another metal lugnut. The Captain looked up from a water-logged copy of Archie Comics and snorted at Self.

"I don't see why you couldn't use your spacious brain and think up a way to get us along to Lima, Sir" my Assistant said, using his most obsequious pandering tone.

"I am currently using my brain to answer my readers' letters, if you must know. It is my solemn duty, after all." I stared at my watch for a good half-minute and hucked another lugnut to the fish.

My Assistant eyed me warily. "Why are you doing that?" he asked cautiously.

I indicated the side of the crate. "What do you see stencilled just there?" I asked.

"Alamagordo, New Mexico, New America." Scribble replied. "What do they produce in Alamagordo?"

"Lugnuts," I replied.

"I can see that," he retorted haughtily, "but what importance can they possibly have?"

I was aghast. "Without lugnuts, dear boy, the wheels of the car you are motoring around in will displace and leave you high and dry."

Scribble was not in thinking-cap mode, and persisted in being obtuse. "What has that to do with anything?" he yelled.

I grabbed the side of the crate and shook it, the lugnuts jingled inside. "There are a lot of Chevys in Alamagordo that aren't going anywhere..." I trailed off.

"Because they're missing their lugnuts!" Scribble suggested.

"No," I said, "because they've blown up."

"Ahh," said Scribble. "So the opium is past it's expiration date like I told you, and you're babbling again. That's lovely."

The Captain surreptitiously palmed an opium tablet from the open tin nearby and gamely looked it over, presumably looking for it's expiration date.

I launched another lugnut over the bow and narrowly missed a seagull. "Do you know what they make in Alamagordo, Scribble, my very young Assistant?"

He shrugged. "Chevys?" he offered.

"Atomic weapons." I said. He looked nonplussed. "They have to test them of course, to see if they're as frightfully awful as they claim in their brochures. They test them on fake houses, rows of them, fake lampposts and fake mailboxes. And...." I paused, "real cars."

"So the cars are.." Scribble struggled for the next word.

"1957 Chevys." I said.

"And these antique machines are blown up?" he said as if in a dream.

"Smashed to bits." I confirmed.

"And the lugnuts..." he said, beginning to follow along.

"The lugnuts are all that's left," I said. I picked one up and hurled it at the horizon.

"They must be radio-activated!" Scribble said, alarmed.

I picked another one up and licked it thoughtfully. "Yes, I would expect they are." I said. I looked at my watch and, after a tick, nonchalantly let the lugnut fall out of my hand into the deep.

Scribble thought for a bit, then sat down and put his head in his hands. "All is clear to me now. You're placing your hope for rescue in a trail of breadcrums. Genius that you are, you've only missed one detail." He paused, "Metal sinks!" he fumed.

The Captain had finished the Archie Comic by my count at least three times, and was now reading it backwards, in an attempt, I presume, to get Jughead unstuck from the mud his jalopy was in. He'd been unhappy with the plight Jughead ended up in every time he re-read the funnybook, and was now taking matters into his own hands. I was beginning to form a profile of the Captain, vis-a-vis his mental clockwork. By my count he was missing several teeth on the main drive gear, and his flywheel was caught on his winding stem, if you catch my drift. I turned my attention back to my long-suffering Assistant.

"Do know where my Editore is right now?" I asked mildly.

"No." my Assistant sobbed.

"Well at this very moment he is using my blue prybar to loosen the floorboards under my word-juicer." I said, without venom. "I anticipated that his greed would get the better of him, so I bolted the machine to the floor, but that won't stop him, just delay the inevitable."

Scribble said nothing, so I continued. "Do you know what he'll do when he's finished winching my word-juicer into his office?"

"No," said Scrib.

"He'll check his email."

"Aha," said Scribble, "is that a fact."

"Yes it is dear boy." I said. "Poor man is addicted to email. Shame, really. Then he'll while away the hours on the Internets, surfing here and there. He'll make a loop of all the usual places, but he always surfs himself to sleep in the same place, at Google Earth. He scans the globe, zooming in on his enemies houses and so forth, until sleep finally overtakes him. That's when he'll see us."

I finally had Scribble's attention. He began slowly, "So he'll look at the globe, scan the oceans, and see our trail of radio-activated lugnuts that can be seen from space!"

"Indeed, dear boy." I said, pleased.

The Captain was eyeing me carefully.

"And you've spaced out the lugnuts to spell a message in Morse code!" He almost jumped for joy.

"Yes, yes." I said. "Not a hard code to learn, even a simpleton like him will be able to read it, I imagine."

"What does the message say, Sir Finknottle?" asked Scribble.

"Keep your hands off my word-juicer." I said.

The Captain snorted happily at this.

"Oh," said Scribble. "I thought perhaps this was how you'd been submitting our columns. Or sending a s.o.s. to get us some help?" He looked at me hopefully.

"No point in that," I said and he frowned. "That's what the ship-to-shore radio is for." I said, showing him the device.

He looked incredulous. "The crew of the Sassy Wench let you have that?" he asked.

"Of course," I smiled, "They're not cannibals."

Well, Dear Listeners, the time is upon us to confront the most important qwestion of all: where are my glasses? Ah, there we are.

Now I would answere the many requests I get to reveale a little more about myself. Besides my tenure here at the Frontal Lobe, I am quite busy.

I have responsibilites, including aiding the staffe of St. Margaret's Home for Waywarde Girls. I am teaching the male doctors and orderlies to be more lecherous through my negative excample. I show up inebrieat'd and foul-tempered and attempt to glom onto the first available female inmate. The resulting Disgust and ambient fear thus aroused is a helpful teaching tool, according to the Board of Directors there.

"This is what you will face upon youree release from our Care," they say to their charges, and the aghast faces register actual Concern, to be compared with the smug attitudes normally put down in reaction to the staff's pleas for good behavior.

I do this as a free service to the Community, and receive nothing in return, save the frequent love-letters frome the affore-mentioned girls. These delusional missives are highly sexually charged and usually quite explicit. I keep them in a file, and read them on occasion, when the Mood is right.

I have also sent in my Application to be Viceroy of Mexico. My resume is a little thin, but the picture is outstanding. I expect a reply in next month's transo-fax.

Many of you have written in to ask what brand or brands of Snuff I enjoy, and I would direct you to Sgt. Smith's High-Acting Nose Powder. Do not snort too hard, but when you do, do not swallow the inevitable slime that creeps down the back of your throat. But when you do, be sure to expectorate the substance forthwith, and aim carefully. My Editore has seen fit to converge a series of Lexan panels around my work-station, and I have not taken Offence.

Now, on to the Qwestions!:

Dear Funknasty,

My uncle Ned and I have a bet. I say that the phrase is “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.” Uncle Ned says it’s a spoonful of whiskey. Which of us is right?

Sour in Savannah

Dear Sour, the answere to the riddle lies in the make-up of the Medicine in qwestion. There are Tinctures of Opium that are already thoroughly sugared and also completley whiskeyfied to boot. That is no reason not to tamper with the recipie however, and I can attest to the flavor-enhacing qualitites provided by High-Fructose Corn Syruppe, a sqeeze of lime, salt, vinegar, horseradishe, lamb's fat, boiled boot-laces, villifying powdere and Extract of Spleen.

Mix these in a high-ball glass and serve chill'd. There is no way to increase the Opium effectiveness without, you may have surmised, increasing the Opium. Additive tablets are available in any of the top 5 drawers of my desk. Helppe yourself, but do leave a note if you exhaust any one type.

Dear Fangnottle,

My friend Isaiah and I have a bet. I say that if you name your daughter “Savannah”, you’ve destined her to become a stripper. Isaiah says a Mary Kay saleswoman. Which of us is right?

Gambling in Gramblin

Does your friend Isaiah ever speake of what offices a man with his name generally holds? We should ask him what gives him the right to denigrate strippers and saleswomen. Most likely he is merely jealous, as these are professions not open to men. But to be fair, we need more information. Instruct Isaiah to change his name to Savannah. He will need a dress and wig and an interview with Mary Kay or the local burlesque house, whichever comes first.

My hunch is, he will land one or the other job, and his subsequent boost in self-esteem will render the entire argument moot. Plus the qwestion will be answered as to which profession a Savannah may inhabit best. Two with one stone, good odds on any day.

Now I have the great honor to announce the promotion of My Assistant from Claerk Third-Class to Claerk Fourth Class. Oops, this is actually a demotion, probably because of his botched handling of the Maile-Roome staff union dispute. No one thought he could pull it off, and if I'm not mistaken I hear money changing hands right now. Better luck next time, Scribble. I fear I am to blame, as it was I who forced you to negotiate in my place without any preparation. But there is a silver lining, as I am several pounds richer having bet against your success! You will learn to invest with the same verve someday, if you follow my example.

Good Day, and Good Night,
Finknottle

Yes Indeed, dear chums, the days do pass quickly at this Lattitude. We will soon be needing to round up the livestock and prepare them for canning. Remind me to pass on the family recipie for Jugged Goat.

Without further ado, we will retire to the Qwestion-and-Answer phase.

Finknottle, Sir, how do you write your columns?
-Intrigued in Indiana

Dear Indiana, the creative process is the same whethere I am making a mind-shatteringly incisive column or baking a hen. Which is to say I first use the ingredients at hand, measurre them carefully, and cook.

But I suspect you mean the work-intensive process as a whole. Well, first the qwestions are formed in the fore-brain of You the listener. These are transmitted by telepathy to the paper and sent via messenger to the Liverputty receiving rooms. There they are sorted, categorized, shredded and additives poured in and left to sit for 7-10 days.

At the end of this curing step, the resulting slurry is piped into a holding tank on the roof of the Liverputty Eeditorial building. There is a tap above my desk that allows a discrete amount of slurry to be drained into my Wordgrinder. The steam is turned on, and pressure built up, and then I throw the valve that forces the works into motion.

After grinding and concatenation, the column emerges in its pastey, pre-finished form. This ghost of a column is sent to the print-room where it is hardened and trimmed to size. The antique spellings are thrown in, and extra 'e's wedged in anywhere and everywhere. A team of mimetic mice sketches the visage of Self for the portrait, capturing the changes over time that this job inflicts. When the whole is done, it is shipped via courier-camel to the distribution hubs around the world.

Was that too technical?

Yes, but it was worth it!
-Intrigued in Indiana

Dear Mr. Minkthrottle,

I was wowed and impressed by your command of the Subterranean Endeavours of the Badger. This has encouraged me to pose the Question that has plagued me, Lo, these many years. I happen to suffer from a low body temperature(and the naturally concomitant solitude) and was wondering which small mammals I should sew into my clothing for warmth and companionship. Do you have any suggestions? Icneumon Rats? White Footed Ferrets? Help!

Shivering in Sheboygan

Yes, I can plainly see the dilemma. Rats and ferrets are too toothy, I fear, (as are Badgers) to be safe for installation in proximity to the skin. There are warm-blodded worms, heat-generating insects and bacteria which in suitable numbers can raise the air a few degrees. I take it your employer will not see fit to pipe in warmth to your work-arena. Perhaps some subtle method of lowering his temperature would induce him to raise the firm's abient level. Post pictures of the Arctic, or turn the discusison to polar bears and frozen tundra. Put his hat in the crisper drawer of the automatic fridging unit.

Thank you for joining me, that is all for today, dear listeners. Until next time I am Finknottle.

An Appeale to Reason

Welcome once again, dear listeners. We are charged with many divers qwestions and Trubbles todaye, but first I must address a quandrie of my own. I must use my station as a leading member of the Advice Columnist Community to protest an attack on my own kind. I recently reviewed a shrill letter to my compadre Ann Landers. The Authore of this unprovoked attack declared her to be 'The Whore of Babylon' and a shrew. Her advice, given freely and signed with her own name was judged unfairly to be 'useless drivell' and 'Nonsense'. I am here to tell you that despite the uninteresting qwestions her producers drege upp, she is there to help. No matter the tiny minds at work behind the requests for advice, and their senseless arguments. Without regard for her reputation, she humbley dives in to debates about wedding invitations and brides-maid dresses and the coloration said dresses should or should not be!

This is a situation to by pitied, not censured, dear listeners.

And across the Web at the Slate magazine, Cary Tennis makes do with similar chaff in his advice mill. "How do I stop picking my nose?", literally formed the gist of an article entire. He took this foul biskit and ran with it, dear friends, like a man hurying to put out a Judge with a wigg on fire. With no thought of his own sanity, he publishes one drool-worthy answer after another in response to the lower-brain-stem firings of complete wastrels.

Your dutiful Finknottle has of course only the instincts of a surgoene, wishing to excise the lumps of dread in the heads of my poor partners in this business. Would that every columnist had a stable of cool heads and global talent to draw his meat and potatoes from. We can't all pluck the low-hanging fruit. We can't all be Priviledged to address the autonomous Island nation of the Caymans, discourse with super-intelligent dogs, and wrestle with existential searching of the highest level. I am enlifted, embiggened by this flowe of halcyon entreaties, and to perform this Service is an honor.

To the detractores I say, "Leave Ann alone! She writes for the unwashed millions who need to pretend they can read while riding the trains. Take your claws off Cary! He studied at barber college, and can afford no better position in the industry. Take a swipe at Finknottle, foul critics! See what a real columnist is made of, and release the smaller fish back to their brackish ponds."

Finknottle has thrown the gauntlet, and in the interest of full disclosure, Finknottle is running for President of the Advice Columnists Union.

Now, on to the letters:

Hey Finkpoodle - I was watching some humpback whales off the Hawaiian islands the other day and it looked like the markings on one of their tails said, "Bite Me". Do you think this was a hallucination or did I somehow unknowingly piss off a humpback? What should I do? (and please, please let it cost me less than $237 - that's all I have in the world)
Signed-Desperately Humping

Dear Desperately Humping, I have no idea what you are talking about. I literally cannot parse the words. Let us try a substitution code: read the next Ann Landers column you can put your grips on. Insert "Humpback" where it says "Bridesmaid", and "Hallucination" where it reads "Mother-in-Law". Report back what you glean from this exercise.

Next Qwestion:

Finkster,
I have heard that there may still be more works of Shakespeare which are yet undiscovered. I think Shakespeare would have meant to write a play about Mary and Jesus. Would it be worthwhile for me to try to write up a script, and say that I found it under a seat at the Globe Theater? How many farthings shall I demand for it?

Well, as the Authore of several erzatz Shakes plays myself, I can help you along. The nub or crux of the exercise is to borrow as much verbiage, say 70%, from the Bard. This will ensure that the resulting mess will at least scan with some flavor of the right sort. Then, scramble the parts, assigning the mens' roles to women and vice-versa. This will effectively disguise the donor text. For Mary and Jesus I recommend Rosencrans and Guildenstern.

As for the discovery of the manuscript, make it an event. Perhaps during a performance! Bribe the hungriest-looking usher and let him share the limelight, perhaps by helping pry up a flooreboard where you have chanced upon the script. If he plays the foil with gusto, you'll not only have a partner in crime, but a potential Guildenstern.

Finkheimer,
I am wanting to move to a new city. How can I determine which place is best for me?
-anonymous wanderer

There is but one way to find the true home for a wandering soul. First, the soul must be prepared for transport. The host body on the other end of the trip must be likewise assembled and tested. Various tonics are needed to cushion the Phsycik blowes to a soul-in-transit, and these should be administered by a licensed soul-mover. They are in the book. Next, some nice plantings around the base of the host body will dress up the elevation from the street and generate interest in the real-estate community. An open-house may be planned in advance, but buy the flowers the day-of.

Next:

Fink, how can I find a nice girl to marry?
harry (and lonely)

Dear Harry and Lonely, I trust you are looking for one girl each, for a total of twoe girls to be delivered into your matrimonial escrow account. "Nice" is an insufficeint advective to begin a shopping trip with, however, and I would have more specifications to work with.

That is the lot today, faithful Readers, and I thank you for tuning me in. Please do make yourselves heard at the next Advice Columnist Pik-nik and don't forget to Vote for good old Fink in the following categories: "Least Offensive Columnist in their Weight-class", "Best Use of Misinformation", and "Best Dressed".

Yours, Augustus Q. Finknottle