Monday, March 31, 2014

The Buk Show part one Special Guest -- Auntie Belle!


This interview occurred a few days before Auntie Belle's arrest

Buk- So Belle, BABY, you made it!!!

Auntie Belle- Where, exactly, did I make it?

Buk- To THE BUK SHOW, baby!!
Auntie Belle- It feels very much like I made it from the street into the manhole cover that leads to the sewers of the city.

Buk- Look, belle, my man hole is off limits. But if you have any other kinky ideas, please let me know.

Auntie Belle- I'd rather dry-hump a swingset pole. Now, let's get started. I am here to push my new blob, "Ask Auntie Belle". I am not here to suffer your cheap jokes and numerous foul odors. People need me, Buky boy. They need sound advice from someone who has BEEN there.

Buk- I gotta tell ya Auntie, you look like you've BEEN everywhere, know what I mean?
 
Auntie Belle employs multiple overhand karate chops to Buk's face

Buk- Fushink jamks. at hurshhhshsh!

Auntie Belle- Stay in line, son. I’ve handled tougher men than you, and many of them.



Buk- No shish, you looksh like you ha-

Auntie Belle delivers lightning fast throat punch to Buk's neck, followed by a closed fisted hammer to his balls.
 

Buk- Belleeeeesssssssshhh. Fuggink YOWCHSCH

Auntie Belle- Where were we? Oh yes, my blog. I get all kinds of letters. From Harvard professors to Harlem junkies, they all need what I got: good advice.

Auntie Belle -- The Interview!


Auntie Belle -- The Interview
Happy Hiram, Ask Auntie Belle blog reporter, submitting.
   
The Huffington Post reporter shouting: "Ms. Belle, do you have any comments at this time about the police digging up your patio?" was the start of one of the most remarkable interviews in media history.
   
Belle M., also known as Auntie Belle, Mrs. Slaughterhouse or, some say, Beulah Methuselah, is a well-known fixture around Coshocton County Ohio where she peddles her trade as a masseuse and firing instructor, and she also makes a few bucks writing an advice column for a newspaper in Lake Sprang Wyoming.
   
"Did you really kill Mr. Slaughterhouse, your ex-husband, and is it FIVE others?" the reporter shouted on the TMZ capture video.
   
"Arghh... I've been married seven times, so get your story straight. Get my name right too, it's B E L L E, like the taco place. And I write for the best newspaper in Wyoming, the 'Foetid Sprang Gazette'. What's your name young man? You remind me of my second husband. Do you have a hairy back?"
   
The reporter, obviously surprised at being found out - he was a lapsed member of Hirsute Anonymous, fumbled out the next question, "Are you a killer?"      

"I was in my youth, darling, but that was 49 years ago. Once you get past 100 the only thing killer is your backaches. Next question?"  


Before presenting the rest of this historical, and some say hysterical, interview, a bit of background on Mrs. Slaughterhouse, née Methuselah.   

There are no records for births before 1890 in Buckshot county Kentucky, though we have an eyewitness that Mrs. Craven (as she was called then, during her third marriage) was a mature student at the Morehead Normal school studying Law in 1908. The eyewitness is 109 years old. 
    

When interviewed by the BBC, her editor from the Wyoming newspaper Cletus T. Hiram said, "The only reason I let her have the column is she comes around every October to tug my jerk string and do some breasting out for me during duck season."
    

It took the reporter a few hours to realize there were no obscene references in his remarks, although she was sure he was leering at her when he said it. BBC reporters always thinking everything is about sex.
    

So further inquiry finds that Belle is a registered gun owner and a crack shot with a Mauser C96 sub-machine gun, she owns a small knitted lingerie company for big women and she is the advice columnist on a blog called Ask Auntie Belle. Rumors persist that she was born before the civil war, despite the obvious use of this idea as the tag line of her literary pursuits.

    
“Are you really as old as the hills, Ms. Methuselah,” one of the huddle of reporters shouted.

    
“I don’t know anybody by any such name, boyfriend, I am Auntie Belle. The M. stands for `My place or yours?’ And the hills around here aren’t very old, they are just some landfill shipped off from New York City’s garbage.”

    
Belle removed one elbow-length glove and the circle of usually jaded reporters was mesmerized. Something in the way she carried herself, the air of days gone by, was irresistible.

   
“Is it true you killed Warren G. Harding?”
“That Hiram is such a liar. He just made that up. Warren’s wife killed him to spite me. Next question?” 
    
“Why did you say you buried your ex-husbands under your patio? Is it true?” 
   
“Do any of you remember Mark Twain? Sam was such an ornery fellow. Well, I plan to use the Mark Twain defense. I’m a HUMORIST.”
    
Just as she was taking the next question, the police came out from her back yard with what looked like the pieces of a moon-shine still.
    
“Hey, you have no rights dismantling things on my property! I only use that stuff for medicinal use. I am guaranteed my rights under the Bill of Rights. Do any of you boys remember the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?The policemen and detectives walked right by her pretending she was not even addressing them, as they had been warned not to make any undirected moves on camera. 
   
 “How do you feel having the police coming in and tearing up your property?”
     “Boys, it's Sherman all over again! The boys in blue always come tearing up what is rightfully your’n. Do I look like a criminal to you?”   

As she posed, a tractor behind her on camera dug up what looked to be human remains under the slabs of patio it was tearing up. A detective viewed the evidence, frowned and approached Auntie Belle. She glowered like she was apt to explode at any moment.   
“Mrs. Slaughterhouse, we are going to need you to come with us down to the station and answer a few questions, and possibly identify a body. Can you please step away from then reporters Ma’am?”   

“Well I’ll be durned,” Belle said to herself, as caught on camera. “I guess you cain’t keep a good man down.” She then addressed the reporters.  
“Boys, I’m afraid this old gal might be in a bit of trouble. Stay tuned for the next chapter of this thing.”
 And with that, the police escorted Auntie Belle into a waiting squad car. 
  
The Huffington Post has an exclusive that the remains are identifiable as those of James Alva Slaughterhouse, who went missing several years ago and had already been presumed dead. They claim that Ms. Belle M. has been charged with the murder and detained without bail, because of her long history as a flight risk.The police, at this time, have made no comment.TMZ is showing her interview on heavy rotation and Harvey Levin was quoted as saying “I don’t know, there is something I like about the old bat. I mean if she really IS 150 years old, she’d be the oldest living suspected serial killer in history. Not that they have found the other bodies… yet.”
    
She is however, being allowed to continue her column from jail.

Short Term Relationship Woes


Dear Auntie Belle,
My boyfriend of 27 years said he's still not ready to get married. I was hoping our granddaughter could be the flower girl, but if we wait too much longer, she'll be too old. What do I tell him? Also, he lives in his mom's basement, but I do all his laundry and give him spending money from my assistance checks. Please help.
Desperate Girlfriend

Dear Desperate,
You keep nagging him, and I guarantee you'll lose him. Men like your boyfriend don't grow on trees. And you're fat; don't ask me how I know.
Auntie Belle






His True Love

Dear Auntie Belle,
I've been having an affair with a man, we'll call him George Stephanoupolous who has this… wife he calls, Jillybean. He sleeps on the couch and she doesn't understand him. This is not your ordinary situation like I've seen in letters to you in the past or in our town, Fargo, MN! He loves me! So, what I want to know is this: I want to buy him a new sleep sofa, and I want to have it delivered to his house at 780 N. Maple Street. What color should I buy so it would go with their decor?
Thank you,
His True Love

Dear His,
White. The blood stains will show better in the evidence photos. 
Auntie Belle

Puzzled in Kansas

Dear Auntie Belle,
I was doing laundry and found a condom in my husband's pocket. He said he was keeping it for a friend. I just don't understand why he'd keep a friend's used condom in his pocket. What do you think?
Puzzled in Kansas

Dear Puzzled,
I think I'd wear gloves when I did laundry from now on.
Auntie Belle

Will I Ever


Dear Auntie Belle,

Last month I accidentally lit my asshole on fire in a freak accident involving paint thinner, a book of matches, and my youngest child's birthday party. Long story short, I promised the kids a fireworks display but couldn't afford the good stuff and I had already eaten 3 bratwursts and nearly a quart of pork n' beans.

Will I ever poop normally again?
 
Dear Will,
It depends upon whether you were referring to your anus or that neighbor about whom you continuously complain? Exactly which was set aflame? I do have an antidote that would work for either, I guess. It is somewhat involved and requires you shear the pigtail off an elderly Chinese man. Meanwhile, drink grape Kool-Aid in vast quantities. It isn't lethal but will counteract the abuse you enjoy visiting upon your colon.
Auntie Belle

Riding Three Saddles in Texas

Dear Auntie,
My third wife is in labor again and my second wife has to be kept out of the room (seems she has been swiping the pruning shears with a mind to perform a 42 week abortion again) and I don't know what to do with her.

Why can't a bigamist get a divorce?

Riding Three Saddles in Texas

Dear Riding,
A bigamist CAN get a divorce. The ceremony requires you run naked three times around the county courthouse while screaming, 'I Divorce you, (insert name)' at the top of your lungs. To be legal, the ceremony must be done at exactly 12-noon every day for one year. Let me know how that works out for you.
Auntie Belle

PS I forgot the most important part: The wife must be tied, also naked, to your back while performing the bigamist's divorce.

Back in The Saddle(s) Again

Dear Auntie Belle,
Thank you for your response to my earlier letter. In divorcing my second wife, can I carry a different wife on my back, as the second one is not so -um, petite. 
3 saddles in Texas
Dear 3,
You can not use a surrogate but you can build a light-weight effigy of the fat wife and Velcro it to your back, assuming your back is as hairy as I suspect.
Auntie Belle

Friday, February 28, 2014

One-legged liberal in Louisiana

Dear Auntie Belle,
Last week, I got really really drunk on whiskey and beer and brought out the old hunting rifle. After shooting holes in my walls and blasting my TV set, I ended up shooting myself in the leg and now I have to have surgery.

Why does the N.R.A. refuse to take full responsibility for my actions?

One-legged liberal in Louisiana

Dear One-legged,
I contacted the NRA on your behalf, and they sent the following reply:
Dear Auntie Belle,
We offer our condolences on Mr. One-legged's most recent accident. We ask him to take comfort in the knowledge he is running out of legs to shoot. For compensation, we are also enclosing a life-time job offer for him to gather all unbroken clay pigeons from our vast shooting range. Also, find a free lifetime membership, including rifles and ammunition, at the range for his father-in-law, Gimpy-legged. We believe the matter will draw a natural conclusion in a very short time.
Thank you,
The NRA
I'm so happy the NRA is helping you whilst making the world a safer place.
Auntie Belle

Don Know What To Do

Dear Auntie Belle,

I was chatting up a hottie on Facebook when my GF friended me and I had to block the hottie. In response, she sent me this letter. Does it mean I still have a chance?
           Don Know What To Do
Enclosed letter from Hottie:


Oh Don,
At first, I was discouraging your interest in me, but you wanted to chat anyway, and the volcano started to puff a little smoke… You are so handsome and charming, so pleasant, so smart and talented. I can only imagine what being with you is like.
We found a lot of common interests in our brief conversations; the ground rumbled, and a bit of lava escaped. You found my 'on' switch, Don - a device which was put out of commission almost 13 long years ago. Low and behold, the battery still worked, and my mind went to…squirrels water-skiing, babies skateboarding, beluga whales keeping perfect time with Mariachi bands…and the hundreds of thousands of articles I've read over my years of solitude and celibacy. The ground rumbled harder, the volcano belched cinders, and the villagers ran screaming for their lives.
Ironically, I lost my innocence over those years, learned things on the net about which you can only imagine. I even learned there were...secret ways a man loves being pleased. 'Well, I'll be darned,' I thought. I had no idea. When I started entertaining thoughts of…being with a man again, of being with you, I wondered if I could...try that with you? All I had to do was shop for the range of sizes - you know - small, medium, large and Oh, Mama! More lava. Thatched roof just went up in flames. My heart is racing just thinking about it, and seeing the look of ecstasy on your face. Oh, Don! It's just been so long. I already asked my sis-in-law to babysit for a few days, so we'll be alone. My bed's a king, so we have plenty of playground. Do you like a little bondage, too? My toys are a bit rusty, but with some antibiotics, for you, I'm game for anything. It's like I've been withering in the cold, stark cell of a nunnery.

Your big, manly arms look like I would make such a nice fit inside them. I imagine your lips teasing mine, caressing my neck... Dear God, in Heaven - why are we designed this way? That volcano is about to obliterate the island, and you aren't even here to enjoy it. 

Wait! Why would you block me? I just wanted to look at you and imagine…? Oh, Don! WHY? 

Did you actually think I would not respect your wishes? What sort of women have you dated, anyway? Some Kathy/Sharon/Judy/that waitress in that one café/Marilyn/Janet/Evelyn/etc., etc., etc? The volcano just went dormant, the villagers are saved, the island restored to normal.

Oh, don't be too disappointed; I'm not as easy as I've led you to believe. Sometimes my sense of humor is outrageous.  I really do think you are a nice man, but I recognize that you are a player. This may have been the most ridiculous rejection letter you've ever gotten, but it's unlikely the first. (Nor will it be the last, at the rate you're traveling.)

I wish you well, Don, but don't bother unblocking me. I don't think it's wise for us to even be friends; it could lead to all that…volcanic stuff, and we have to think of those poor villagers.

PS: Nice Valentine pic of you & Cindy. How DO you keep your pants from bursting into flame?  (I won't tell her a thing, so if you're tempted to keep this letter for the excitement value? I'd advise you to just delete before she finds it.) I should have included clichéd words like 'throbbing' or 'warm, wet, silky sheath' but I was laughing too hard while trying to write all that pornography. The first draft was way hotter, but I remembered I still have some class.
Ciao, - Your Hottie -
 
Dear Don,
A lever and a fulcrum can move mountains, but there's not a crow bar in existence that's gonna pry that…volcano open again. The virgin is a crisp. The volcano has turned into Mount Never-Gonna-Be. Oh, I am being too cryptic for you?

Don, so my advice is for you to call Hottie. Yes, Don; call her. Let me know what she says - I care.
Auntie Belle

Crying Girl

Dear Auntie Belle,
I cot my boyfriend masticating to miley cyrus on that recking ball. IDK wat to do butt hes mad at me now to. I really need help PLEEEEEZE bcuz i want to mary him an now he's not sure he wants to mary me. 
 Crying Girl
Dear Crying, 
Never heard of Miley Cyrus, so I emailed my great-great-nephew Rufus for an opinion, and he wrote back:  "If I cud, I'd chewed thet tew." (Whatever the hell that means.) 
Auntie Belle

Sins of Amish'n

Dear Auntie Belle, 
I was severely insulted by an Amish farmhand while on a recent vacation in Ohio. His hurtful words were so distressing, in fact, that I found myself floundering---unable to think of an appropriate riposte.

I have since thought-up a real zinger---one I'm sure would devastate that corn-shucking bastard, but since he's five-hundred miles away and I'll probably never see him again the victory seems hollow.

My predicament:
As luck would have it there is also small Amish community in my home town, and I see their buggies pass my house several times a day. They never used to bother me, but now I sense them laughing and pointing at me. I suspect they may have caught-wind of my humiliation at the hands of one of their own...

Is there some kind of an Amish "grapevine?" Do the Amish use telephones? Could I possibly use my zinger on them? Would it filter back to the guy in Ohio? Should I kill one of their chickens?

Please----any advice will be appreciated.

Sins of Amish'n

Dear Sins,
You say they are driving past your house… It's already too late. Don't contact me again, regarding this matter; I'm afraid the horse is…out of the barn…and its hooves are muffled.


PS to Sins:
Jimmy Hoffa once swore at an Amish man; Amelia Earhart once flew too low over an Amish farm & frightened several horses and 14 children. Agatha Christie personally explained to me all about that time she disappeared. Although I can not divulge the details, it involved a chicken owned by the Abraham Miller Family. I'd advise you to make no farther mention of the Amish, although I fear the contract has already been nailed to the inside wall of numerous barns.
Auntie Belle

Indisposed in Indiana

Dear Auntie Belle,
I was watching Pope Francis wash a man's feet on TV a few months ago and was suddenly beset by impure thoughts. Also, I caught myself wishing the Pope's robe would ride a little higher so I could catch a glimpse of his shiny red bloomers. I got so excited by this thought that I immediately needed to take a cold shower!

Fortunately, I have a Pope on a Rope, and as I curled on the bathtub-floor weeping, getting pelted with an icy torrent, I whispered, and confessed all of my most naughty, delicious secrets to my soapy little Popey.

Question: How do I convince the Pope to come to Muncie and give me a pedicure? And do you think he'd let me shoot some footage of him using a Thigh Master?

Indisposed in Indiana
Dear Indisposed,
I took the liberty of forwarding your letter to my contacts at the Vatican. I'm pleased to inform you the Pope will be making an appearance in Muncie sometime in the Spring. He has agreed, furthermore, to a having private three-minute session with you on condition you do not mention Thigh Master nor clap your legs together as though you are using one. He did not mention the pedicure nor the photo shoot of his briefs, so my guess is there's not a chance. You can't exactly ask the Pope to 'drop trou', without some form of awkwardness...
Auntie Belle

Crazy Mother

Dear Auntie Belle,
My children are driving me mad. The are slaughtering rats in the kitchen, feeding bats in the belfry and putting cats in all the windowsills.

I think they have been possessed by a contingent of former lyricist-demons. Can I hire them out to Broadway or turn them into a family band like the Partridge or the Richie Families?
Crazy Mother
Dear Crazy Mother,
I sense you are holding back on your feelings. Let them out. For fame and fortune, your children could post their lyrics in Yahoo Answers. Shoo the rats, bat the bats, scat the cats, pat the brats.
Auntie Belle

No Sound Sleeper in Iowa

Dear Auntie Belle,
I grew up in the city and now I live in Iowa and the silence is killing me. The crickets are maddening and the sound of the corn in the wind is like forty old broads in crinoline running down a too narrow aisle in a department store.

My boyfriend doesn't even snore!!!
What can I do? I tried playing loud Wagner symphonies all night but the neighbors complained - from four miles away. Cymbals? A barking dog. Something please!

No Sound Sleeper in Iowa


Dear No Sound,
You aren't in Iowa; you're in Arizona. You're not on a farm you're in a cell. How are you getting these letters past the jailor, Jodi?
Auntie Belle 

Note to self: Contact Sheriff Joe; Arias is trying to set up an insanity plea.

Pantsless in Barrow, Alaska

Dear Auntie Belle,
I was thinking of linking your blog to my Facebook page because I think my friends on FB could really benefit from your great advice. Most of them are insane and go out into public without pants on so maybe you could take it easy on them when they ask things like "If I dipped my wiener in red ink, could I use it for a Bingo dobber?" or "I just watched 27 episodes of Saved By The Bell while naked and now my dirty parts are throbbing. Could I be pregnant?"
I know your unmitigated thirst for knowledge and overall compassion for the human race will guide you when giving them the advice they so desperately need.
Pantsless in Barrow, Alaska
Dear Pantsless, 
By all means you may post my blog on your Facebook; it sounds as though some of your friends could benefit from my advice. Please also inform them I would be happy to speak to their group, so I wouldn't have to imagine my audience was naked. My fee includes a per diem and the best suite in the best hotel and more than the usual amenities. Thank you for your interest.

Auntie Belle

Striking Blonde


Dear Auntie Belle,
My bowling partners drink too much beer, belch and scratch their stomachs and end up fighting over how to score multiple strikes. It’s even worse when the husbands come along.


How do I find a higher class of girlfriends who like beer, bowling and Nascar?
Striking Blonde
Dear Striking,
The problem is not your girlfriends; it is that you are one beer behind. Of course somebody has to drive the pickup truck with the monster wheels, the Confederate flag and the gun rack in the back window.
Auntie Belle

Worried Spouse

Dear Auntie Belle,
My husband has changed; he was always a couch potato but now he's joined a gym, lost 20 pounds and is growing a mullet. Now instead of watching television & eating chips & dip & ice cream every night with me, he takes long walks and is gone for hours. Do you think I should make a doctor's appointment for him? 
Worried Spouse

Dear Worried,
You must be suffering a carbohydrate overload which often renders people…stupid. I think you need to hire a barber, a private detective and a lawyer - in that order. And lay off the snacks if you ever want to date again. And you will. Soon.
Auntie Belle

Too Feet Tall


Dear Auntie Belle,
My feet are killing me! They are too long for the bed, smell like the devil and the closet is running out of space for dead girlfriends.

Do they hang feet for murder?
 Too Feet Tall
Dear Two Feet,
I am hoping you meant  that your legs are too long; if it's your feet that are too long, I'd advise you to never go near a wooded area whilst dressed in a big, furry suit. Put a bit of baking soda in your bath water to neutralize your foot odor and invest in a package of charcoal socks. As to the dead girlfriends, I had a similar problem with old husbands. There was nought to be done but dig some holes and bury them. I rewarded myself with a lovely concrete patio after I…you know. And they say you can't keep a good man down…. Of course, you can.
Auntie Belle
PS: Do they hang feet for murder? Not if they're careful and have watched several episodes of CSI. Observe the world, Too Feet; learn from the mistakes of others.

Mr. Wriggly's Believe It Or Not

Dear Auntie Belle,
I don't know if you've ever encountered a problem quite like mine, but I saw the way you helped that guy who set his anus on fire and well, I was so impressed I just HAD to take my chances. Let me start somewhere near the beginning...
My wife's abdomen does tricks. These tricks may seem like slight-of-hand (gut) but I assure you they are all too real. She can roll it like the ocean, inflate it rapidly to five times its normal size and can, when the need arises, hide a six-pack of Michelob in her navel. As if that's not enough, she tattooed some hula girls on it so she could make them dance toFoghat's "Slow Ride." As one might imagine, she makes good money working in the freak show at all the surrounding county fairs.

Now, all of that is fine---she's never been one to stay at home cooking anyway, but recently she hired an Amish manager who follows her everywhere pulling a little red wagon piled-high with what appears to be a wide variety of old, smelly tennis shoes. He's got her performing a new act: she gets in a hot-tub and, in a mere ten minutes, inflates her gut to create what appears to be---to the
delight of the audience---a giant frosted muffin.  But you don't want to be around when the show's over, if you catch my drift.
Listen, I can make my own sandwiches, but I'm afraid she's spending too much time with this new manager. The other day I caught her hiding three bottles of strawberry wine and a pair of plain, brown suspenders in her belly-button.  I'm also finding stray horse-hairs in our bed.
Am I crazy or is she wiggling more than just her abdomen?
How can I save my marriage from the Amish?
Mr. Wriggly's Believe It Or Not

Dear Mr. Wriggly,
Once the Amish get involved, it is a lost cause. I advise you to move as quickly and as far away as you can. Your wife's belly talents are not all that unusual; it is caused by a slight deformity of the 13th chromosome, but I'm waxing scientific. If that's what attracted you to her, you can find other women with the same condition on any Craig's List ad in the state of Missouri. For your edification, you should see another post herein called Sins of the Amish'n'. I can not urge you enough to run, Mr. Wriggley, run.
Auntie Belle

The Dutch Mafia

Ms. Belle,
We of the Dutcha Nostra are concerned that you have repeatedly cast our membership in a bad light in your column. You may ask how we know this without using any electronics or the internet? Well our young men, who spend a year among the English and their foul ways, keep us abreast of how the Brethren are portrayed in the media and on the Whorled Wild Way or whatever you call it these days.

You cannot defame the character of people who cannot read or respond to your blog with impunity. So I have had this message sent by carrier pigeon to a local English high school where it will be transcribed and sent on to you. Do not mock the Amish. We have hit chickens residing in 14 states. They are hungry and anxious to do our bidding. Leave the Pennsylvania and other state affiliated Dutch ALONE!
Yours Sincerely,
The Dutch Mafia
Dear The Dutch,

Your youth on Rumspringa may believe themselves worldly compared to the simple lives they've previously led. They may also indulge in some forms of technology such as computers. That they are trained in the secret Amish Militia almost from birth was something not previously known to the world. Thanks to your threat, I have loosed that secret from my lips. It can never be unsaid nor erased. You are outed!

You think I am not privy to all your other dirty secrets? I know it to be fact that you dress English and pretend to be members of the cast of 'Duck Dynasty' whilst perusing 'appliances' - electric ones. Your excuse is to surreptitiously watch the televisions on display and give a report each Sunday as to which dance mom became most violent and if Chloe finally whipped Maddie's butt at the recital! The public thinks the worst you do is run puppy mills, but that's to defray attention from your real motivation - over-taking the world of fashion.

Consider yourselves on notice; Auntie Belle never backed off a fight in her life, and I am thoroughly prepared to take on the entirety of Lancaster, PA. Bring it!

Auntie Belle

Indelible Dilemma

Dear Auntie Belle,
I started dating a girl with multiple tattoos. That's not a big deal---I myself have a light blue Snuggles, the fabric-softener bear, just below my superfluous nipple. But this girl (let's call her Doris) has one tattoo which I'm finding to be particularly distracting. For starters, it's rather large and colorful, and unfortunately located in an area difficult to ignore during our preferred way of lovemaking. Furthermore, no matter how ornately embellished, it clearly began life as a swastika---a fact I didn't discover as soon as I should have, I'll grant you.


Now, seeing as how both of my parents -- both Gypsies -- barely survived the horrors of Bergen-Belsen, I find I am in need of sound advice from someone who can relate to the various issues mentioned. Should I break-up with her? Should I be offended that she wants to put a tiny Hitler mustache on Snuggles?

If we DO break-up, who will I blow up abortion clinics with? Auntie, please help!
Signed,
Indelible Dilemma

Dear Indelible Dilemma,
In the entire history of successful romances, opposites have always attracted. Jeffery Dahmer would have wed a vegetarian breeder of hairless cats had he simply allowed his fantasies to remain in his head. Eva Braun was nearly a saint, according to those who knew her. Penn and Teller, Ronald and Nancy Reagan are other examples. Go ahead and indulge your sweetheart, overlook her penchant for all things Hitler. And your parents obviously survived, so I see no reason for you or them to be so sensitive about the broken cross of the Third Reich. Lighten up. I think you deserve each other, anyway.

Auntie Belle

Baby E. T.

Dear Auntie Belle,

I am eight years old and I think my parents are aliens from another planet. The other night I had a bad dream and I went to their room and they were in some sort of pose together, that looked like they were maybe trying to be an antenna and hoping to signal a far-away star. I will leave it to your imagination how wild and odd looking their arms and legs were posed to create such a device out of two bodies, because I am only eight and I don't have the words.

In the morning, dad looked exhausted and mom seemed full of energy and -- I don't know, happy? I've never seen them like this before, and I was wondering if this meant the invasion is on the way. I have never seen mom's relatives as she is what they call undocumented.

Is it dangerous having an illegal alien for a parent? Or maybe two? Will I get whisked away by a space craft? Or the INS???

Baby E. T.

Dear Baby E.T.,
Your parents aren't aliens, they are filthy, immoral beasts whom God shall slay with his mighty Sword of Justice when they least expect it. Maybe He will do that for your birthday, and you can find a better set of parents! I'll even pray for that! Meanwhile, there is no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny nor is there a Tooth Fairy! LIES! There IS a God, and He is watching everything you do. And, of course, I am real. Believe in God and in Auntie Belle - we both care about you. But don't make any mistakes, because that could change.
Auntie Belle

Lodging a Complaint


Dear Auntie Belle,
I agreed (reluctantly) to join a group of "poets" (whom I met online)at a picturesque lodge/retreat in Ohio for five fun-filled days of food and conversation. Everything was going quite well until one of the bastards pulled me aside and asked, "Hey buddy, you wanna see where the camel bit me?" I'm afraid I may have reacted badly as he began to drop his pants.
Was I correct to punch him in the throat? He was about to show me his wiener, right?
Signed,
Lodging a Complaint
Dear Lodging,
Right. He was. You missed a great opportunity though; you could have been his fluffer for the 'fun-filled' event. You won't convince anyone that your 'retreat' wasn't an orgy. There was a hot tub, I'd guess - and karaoke? An orgy with internet strangers requires both. I'd guess what there was NOT was poetry reading or writing or innocent games such as Scrabble! And don't you dare say you had a marshmallow roast or made smores! LIAR!
Auntie Belle

A. P. Email

Dear Ms. B. M.,

I am a content executive for the Associated Press Wire Service and we have been monitoring your column for any public interest content that we can troll, I mean share in our newsfeed. 

Unfortunately, the subject matter, style and information shared cannot be put out under the AP name due to certain FCC regulations and such.

So we would appreciate it if you would:
A) Refrain from any negative references to the Amish.
B) Desist from congratulating readers for escaping concentration camps
C) No longer advise readers to roam around the city halls naked with their second wives strapped to their backs (I assume you saw our news report on this from Nephi, Utah the other day.)
D) Do not publish letters from the NRA or any other right wing organizations without our first vetting them for appropriate meanness,
E) Refrain from taking remunerations from naked Facebook users without express permission of the wire services.

If you want to be famous and successful, you really must tone it down quite a bit. And please, leave alone the Amish

Fred Pseudonym
AP Brethren- er, I mean Editor, (whatever that means) 

Dear Fred,
I can smell Amish or their sympathizers a mile away. You have infiltrated the government, the media, Aldi's and Walmart. Just the other day, Amish led police on a slow-speed chase to a barn-raising. Know what they found inside that barn?

The Amish are Anarchists and are planning the destruction of anything colorful in this world. I have enough ammo, food, water and medical supplies to outlast the holocaust you will be visiting upon this nation. I didn't shoot those clay pigeons, win all those contests for fun. Now go deflower a goat, and leave me alone.
Auntie Belle

Addendum to A. P. Email

Dear Fred,
In my youth, I saw a pair of burgundy leather pumps in the shoe store window. I was helping to dig the Ohio-Eerie Canal at the time and noticed the physical labor had caused me to develop the most unseemly man-muscles. I wanted those pumps so I could feel like a girl again, so I could hold my head high, so I could gain the attention of Leonard Magill. He was my first love, you see? 

Once a year, the community held a dance in the township hall, so I saved my every penny I could spare, took in laundry and accepted that on-going offer from Bicycle Pete to…inflate his tire. Finally, I had enough; I hurried into the shoe store, bought those pumps knowing they were meant for me. The dance was only two days away, so I spent that time practicing in front of the mirror, imagining Leonard's hand about my tiny waist as we danced to a romantic tune.
I was bathed, perfumed, coiffed to perfection and wearing my beautiful new pumps as I walked to the town hall that night. I vaguely remember an Amish buggy passing just before I crossed the street, and then I opened the door and walked proudly inside. Though I lacked some inner confidence, I strode across that room to the punch table, put a cup to my lips and turned to face the crowd. 'Why,' I thought, 'Mother was right; act with confidence and everyone notices.' Then I heard them - those wall flowers, Lilly Lou,  Mae-bob, cross-eyed Hazel, fat Fiona and several others. They were looking at me and laughing.
That's when Caroline - my biggest rival for Leonard - approached me, said with a smirk, 'Nice pumps, Belle!' and laughed. I looked down to discover I had impaled a road apple with the heel of my beautiful leather pump. Leonard never asked me to dance, even though I cleaned off the offensive mess. He married Caroline and left me bereft and broken-hearted. I have hated the Amish ever since and have made it my life's passion to put them all into a maximum security prison. WITH electricity. 

Now,  Fred, if you think you or your minions will intimidate me, cause me to change my writing style, you may as well forget it. I am Auntie Belle - and there is no one like me. 
Auntie Belle