Category Archives: Ask A ________

Ask A Pokemon Go Trainer

Another in an ongoing series of “Ask A” columns that address our readers’ most pressing societal concerns.

Pokemon Go

DEAR POKEMON GO TRAINER:

My ex-boyfriend recently got out of rehab and I’m letting him stay at my apartment while he gets back on his feet. The conditions are we remain entirely platonic, he does his share of the chores, and, of course, a zero tolerance policy if he uses again. Whaddyaknow, last week I caught him with a baggie of heroin that he swears on his life he’s just holding for a “friend.” I know I have to kick him out, that’s the policy, but he has literally nowhere else to go, no family, no other friends. But on the other hand, if I give in to him, what’s to stop him from continuing to abuse my trust like he does the”H”? Do I stay tough and leave a guy basically homeless, or back down and give him another chance?

CONFLICTED IN KANSAS

DEAR CONFLICTED IN KANSAS:

Stop wasting your PokeCoins on items you could easily pick up at a PokeStop! Forget the Poke Balls and Super Potions and focus on Lure Modules and Lucky Eggs and Incubators. You’re probably carrying way too many eggs–god, please tell me you’re hatching your eggs immediately! Don’t waste the CP of your animals waiting to incubate. That is so Level 5. And do NOT tell me you’re walking out there. Charmander and Mr. Mime go to the runners. You’re like an enemy gym to me right now.

DEAR POKEMON GO TRAINER:

I’ve been married to my high school sweetheart for almost 30 years, so you’d think I know everything about her. Imagine my surprise then, when after all these years she brings a dog home, after we’ve always said we weren’t going to have children, pets, or plants in the house. Now we’ve got “Spritzer,” a Jack Russell mix the color of a Guernsey cow, who’s lighting up my wife and taking her away from me. No more morning coffee and finding grammatical errors in the newspaper together, Spritzer has to be walked. No more cuddling up at night, Spritzer’s favorite spot is right between us in bed. I’ve asked my wife again and again what I’ve done to deserve this, and she just says she woke up one day and wanted a dog. I’m at the point I’m either going to leave or Spritzer’s going to have an unfortunate “accident.” I’m at my wit’s end. Help!

THE OTHER BEST FRIEND IN TEXAS

DEAR OTHER BEST FRIEND IN TEXAS:

Hello, you can’t evolve your Pokemon without the right candy! You can’t give Crabby candy to a Pidgey and expect a Pidgeletto. That’s like expecting a Zubat to become a Golbat with just a 1000 Stardust. Like expecting Professor Willow to like make YOU the exception and let YOU go it alone against Mystic, Instinct, and Valor. Yeah, good luck with that. God, I swear, by the legendary bird Zapdos! You’re being a real PsyDuck, you know that, right?

DEAR POKEMON GO TRAI–

Oh who are we kidding, Elizabeth, I know it’s you. You’ve got to come home. Please. I’ve been texting and calling for three days. How was I supposed to know? You said you were going out to capture a Caterpie, or something, like it was bopping down to the store to get a Fanta. That was almost 96 hours ago. I’m worried, and the back-to-school sales are probably cleaned out of their best stuff so don’t cry to me when you can’t—sorry, sorry, I’m not mad, Lizzy, I’m just worried. I ask people if they’ve seen you and if they do look up from their phones their faces are ghost-white and they’re sobbing, Lizzy, crying their eyes out that they have to, HAVE TO, find something called a Mootoo. Meowtoo? I don’t know, I’m just, it’s all just so, this world–please just come home!

YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHO THIS IS YOUNG LADY

Ask A Revolving Door

1 Reply

Photo by Tony the Tiger

Dear Revolving Door:

Imagine my surprise when I logged into Facebook recently and my news feed was chock-a-block with photos from my “friend’s” stomach stapling after-party, and I wasn’t in any of them. And why wasn’t I in any of them? Because I wasn’t even invited! And I’m the one who told her she should have the surgery in the first place!

Of course my “friend” didn’t post the photos herself. It was a few other so-called “mutuals” who got their hands dirty, tagging her and splattering her all over Facebook like all those annoying ads lately for skinny pills.

So should I confront my “friend” and express my feelings of hurt and confusion and basically WTF, or just leave passive-aggressive comments on all the photos? Like, guess I’ll never know what it was like to bitch about the appetizers being liquefied just so Darlene could enjoy them. Or, would I have been so rude to attend with an exposed mid-riff when the guest of honor’s stretch marks are probably visible from outer space?

“Friend”less In Fitchburg

Dear “Friend”less In Fitchburg:

Imagine your surprise when you logged into Facebook recently and your news feed was chock-a-block with photos from your “friend’s” stomach stapling after-party, and you weren’t in any of them. And why weren’t you in any of them? Because you weren’t even invited! And you were the one who told her she should have the surgery in the first place!

Of course your “friend” didn’t post the photos herself. It was a few other so-called “mutuals” who got their hands dirty, tagging her and splattering her all over Facebook like all those annoying ads lately for skinny pills.

So should you confront your “friend” and express your feelings of hurt and confusion and basically WTF, or just leave passive-aggressive comments on all the photos? Like, guess you’ll never know what it was like to bitch about the appetizers being liquefied just so Darlene could enjoy them. Or, would you have been so rude to attend with an exposed mid-riff when the guest of honor’s stretch marks are probably visible from outer space?

Dear Revolving Door:

My boss has this annoying habit of looking past me when I’m talking to him and following up on the stuff he asked for, like the quarterly earnings report for the IceVise and whatever.

My friend Crystal in HR told me he doesn’t have a medical condition or anything and I’ve never seen him do it to anyone else in the office. And it’s not like I’m the one with a medical condition, like elephantitis, or a soul patch. I’m not even a mouth-breather. But something weird’s going on. How do I confront somebody who won’t even look me in the eye?

Invisible Man

Dear Invisible Man:

Your boss has this annoying habit of looking past you when you’re talking to him and following up on the stuff he asked for, like the quarterly earnings report for the IceVise and whatever.

Your friend Crystal in HR told you he doesn’t have a medical condition or anything and you’ve never seen him do it to anyone else in the office. And it’s not like you’re the one with a medical condition, like elephantitis, or a soul patch. You’re not even a mouth-breather. But something weird’s going on. How do you confront somebody who won’t even look you in the eye?

Dear Revolving Door:

My grandkids from my son’s marriage don’t seem to understand it’s the polite thing when someone gives them a gift to send a thank-you card afterwards, even if it’s a month later. I would love a homemade card with their crayon scribbles all over it (as would my husband Jerry if he weren’t deceased), but it’s bad enough that right now I’d settle for their mother writing their names in a store-bought card with a nice sentiment already printed inside.

I’d say something to my daughter-in-law if I knew she wouldn’t take it the wrong way and start “forgetting” to invite me over to Thanksgiving, and my son being so busy lately at the macaroni plant, I’m hesitant to bring it up with him. Should I address it casually in conversation with his wife’s parents, see if they receive thank-you cards?

Gosh, I don’t want you to think I don’t forgive them every time another birthday rolls around and they clear shelf space in the play room for yet another toy from Nanna Beryl, while my sad little mailbox only knows bills, coupons for something called Black Angus, and my Widow’s Digest. I do love my only grandkids to death and squeeze them just so tight tight tight whenever I get to see them!

But I worry about their future if they don’t learn these things now. What should I do?

Grandma In A Pickle

Dear Grandma In A Pickle:

Your grandkids from your son’s marriage don’t seem to understand it’s the polite thing when someone gives them a gift to send a thank-you card afterwards, even if it’s a month later. You would love a homemade card with their crayon scribbles all over it (as would your husband Jerry if he weren’t deceased), but it’s bad enough that right now you’d settle for their mother writing their names in a store-bought card with a nice sentiment already printed inside.

You’d say something to your daughter-in-law if you knew she wouldn’t take it the wrong way and start “forgetting” to invite you over to Thanksgiving, and your son being so busy lately at the macaroni plant, you’re hesitant to bring it up with him. Should you address it casually in conversation with his wife’s parents, see if they receive thank-you cards?

Gosh, you don’t want me to think you don’t forgive them every time another birthday rolls around and they clear shelf space in the play room for yet another toy from Nanna Beryl, while your sad little mailbox only knows bills, coupons for something called Black Angus, and your Widow’s Digest. You do love your only grandkids to death and squeeze them just so tight tight tight whenever you get to see them!

But you worry about their future if they don’t learn these things now. What should you do?

Ask A Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia

9 Replies

Photo by oregonmildep

Dear Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia:

My great aunt recently died and left me her antique armoire, the same armoire that my sister had always commented on and pretty much coveted from the time she was old enough to care about such things. I told her she could have it but no, no, she said, Berta left it to me, all’s fair, right? Wrong. I can’t prove it but I swear the small but deep scratch in the cabinet door wasn’t there before the last time she and her family were over. I’m not saying it was her because she could have bribed one of her ingrate kids to do it. But I don’t know what to do. Should I confront her about it or just pay to have it fixed and never speak to her again?

CONFLICTED

Dear Conflicted:

When the Earth’s core temperature reaches 12,000 degrees Fahrenheit, dismantling the magnetic field and leaving the planet exposed to the Sun’s unfiltered radiation, the oceans will evaporate and the reserves of boiling oil beneath the crust will explode to the surface. Those still alive to see the great lakes of petroleum aflame will sing briefly of their vicious beauty.

Dear Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia:

My mom is soooo annoying!! I just know that when she dies she’s going to hell and somebody’s going to be standing over her shoulder like every second reading her text messages and saying who’s Evan? what’s that mean? why don’t I ever get the emoticon with the winky face?

4COL

Dear 4COL:

For the next century the few scabby but callused survivors and their descendents will tread ground as brittle as the graham cracker pie crust from the days of yore. They will search for a new water source with which to impregnate the stagnant soil. In the meantime they will learn to eat ash and wear clothes made of bone and hope.

Dear Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia:

Apparently it’s not common knowledge in today’s society that you don’t just plop yourself and your g.d. Macy’s bag in the middle of the escalator. If spending the day shopping for a juicer you’ll never use turns you into a mouth-breathing lunk, park it off to the right so the rest of us who aren’t slaves to automation can move past you on the left. Do you think it’s better to start a petition to change state law and require all public escalators have the rules posted, or should I just post them myself and write off the expenses on my taxes?

ESCALATING

Dear Escalating:

1,ooo years after the core and crust fires have erased the old, a new civilization is born. People are divided into colony-pods based on smell and ruled over by a tyrannical elite odorless class. A brighter future soon looms, however, when a headstrong young heroine from Mentholated Lint and a delinquent young buck from Forgotten Broccoli embark on a perilous search of the outer wastelands for the Missing Stink: the one entity that could unite the tribes and lead them in rising up against their scentless masters.