For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Today's Guest Columnist: Daniel Wallace

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

Sometimes, though, I need help that my friends just aren’t able to provide. Whether because of my friends’ character flaws, limitations in knowledge or just because they’re tired of me asking them for advice all the time, I am forced to look elsewhere for guidance. Luckily, that’s why God gave us Famous People.

Daniel Wallace, for example, wrote a book that contains cover-to-cover home spun wisdom nestled within tall tales and fanciful fatherly fantasies. The book, “Big Fish: A Novel of Mystic Proportions,” is the basis for Tim Burton’s 2003 film of the same name. Like the film, Wallace’s novel is chock-full of solid advice and sound philosophy. 

Because words in a book do not materialize out of thin air but are instead plucked meticiously (and often painfully) from a writer’s mind, it’s no surprise that I’d want to read an advice column written by Daniel Wallace. Unfortunately, Daniel’s rather extensive criminal background he gained while operating as an unauthorized masked vigilante in the streets of Gotham City prevents him from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit his responses for:

Dear Daniel,

I really enjoy football games. Unfortunately, whenever I put on my maroon and white body paint, I end up experiencing an allergic reaction. This semester my friends are obsessed about the idea of spelling “Aggies Rule” with body paint on our chests. They say they need me to be the letter “L” because I’m so tall. I don’t want to let my friends down, but I also don’t want to suffer a horrible reaction. Can I still be a highly spirited, brightly colored letter “L” without being in god-awful pain? 

— Tormented at Texas A&M

Dear Tormented,

It sounds as if the letter ‘L’ applies to you in more than one way, because you’re clearly a loser. Without you, your friends would be left spelling AGGIES RUE, and that’s surely bound to raise a number of questions, a question which will demand many more painted students to answer it. AGGIES RUE . . . what? Perhaps they rue the day you decided to become an Aggie instead of a Longhorn. So the answer to your question is no. Not only should you suffer, you should be willing to die for your team; the football players are willing to — why not you? Or do you need your mommy? Bottom line: There’s no place for you here.  Go home. 

— Daniel Wallace

Dear Daniel,

I’m having a problem finding a date to this week’s Midnight Yell. I don’t know what the problem is. I always wear a really wacky outfit designed to pump my fellow students up, and yet all women seem to do is point and laugh. I don’t want to compromise the integrity of my school spirit, but at the same time I would really like to have a date. 

— Dateless in Dorm

Dear Dateless,

There is someone out there for you. You just have to be creative. First of all, why limit yourself to girls? Surely there are other men who  might find you attractive? And don’t stop there. Team mascots — “furries” — are always looking for companionship. You may roll that way without even knowing it. Also, paying for a date “in advance” helps as well. I’m sure many, if not most, of the students in your section go out after the game, together, to one huge bar, where they talk and have fun. Were you not invited? How sad is that? Write a novel.  The women will go crazy for you then.

— Daniel Wallace

Dear Daniel,

I have school spirit, yes I do. I have school spirit, how ’bout you?

— Containing Spirit in College Station

Dear Containing,

The truth is, I do not have school spirit, especially as it applies to sports. I feel that it’s become a business — the players aren’t here to learn, and many of them can’t read or write. They’re given a latitude that the regular student can only dream of and are idolized for their single-minded and idiotic way of life . . . Hey — just kidding! I have a ton of school spirit! Want some?

— Daniel Wallace

Daniel Wallace wrote this column in 2006. It originally ran in The Battalion, Texas A&M’s student newspaper.

A celebrated novelist, Wallace is best known for his novel “Big Fish: A Novel of Mystic Proportions.” He has also written the books “Mr. Sebastian and the Negro Magician,” “Ray in Reverse,” and “The Watermelon King.” Wallace is also a professor and lecturer at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Visit Daniel Wallace on the web at www.danielwallace.org.

For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

My friend Andrew, for example, has been a runny faucet of wisdom since I met him five years ago. Andrew’s generous supply of advice is not just limited to my personal life either — the guy can (and will) go on for hours unchecked about every single aspect of life. He has an opinion about literally everything. Unlike most of the people I know, though, Andrew’s opinions are more often then not both insightful and interesting. Whether I have a question about a personal problem I’m wrestling with or just want to hear a dissertation about the the state of the national public transportation system, I know I can always turn to Andrew.

It’s no surprise, then, that I would want to read an advice column written by him. Unfortunately, Andrew’s rather extensive criminal background he gained while pretending to be a Nigerian prince in internet scams prevents him from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit his responses for:

Dear Andrew,

I was riding the subway to work the other day and I suddenly came face to face with an etiquette question I’m afraid I did not know the answer to.

As I was sitting on the bench and reading my newspaper, a homeless man approached me and demanded I pass him the Turkey King of Sudan.

Since I did not have any Turkey Kings, from Sudan or otherwise, I figured this man was obviously crazed and should be dealt with deftly.

I politely informed him that I did not possess any Turkey Kings of Sudan and sent him on his way to continue his search.

Well, much to my surprise, as the train arrived at my stop and I sat down my paper and stood up from the bench, I found that, sitting at my feet, was a Turkey King of Sudan.

I did not know what the proper protocol for this type of situation was. Should I have admitted my mistake, tracked down the homeless man and offered him the Turkey King as a form of apology?

I hate to deprive a man of the item he is looking for but I also have an equal dislike of being stabbed by crazy homeless people. What is the proper solution for this type of problem?

— Proven Wrong in Philadelphia

Proven,

First, I have a question: How was the Turkey King? I’ve always wished to see one!

As for your situation, my advice would have been to leave the Turkey King as you found it. After all, you weren’t knowingly in possession of said King. If you leave it be, the man may still find it.

If you happen to encounter the same man again, you can always politely inform him that while you did not have a Turkey King of Sudan the last time he asked, you did see one on the train, and that since the rest of the universe is unable to see figments of his imagination, it is most likely still there.

— Andrew

Dear Andrew,

I am getting fed up with my carpool buddies. Every morning, I make the extra effort to drive out of my way to their neighborhoods, pick them up from their houses and take them to work with me. I’m a staunch believer in doing what I can to protect the environment and if it means having to be inconvenienced a bit so that I can cut down on some car emissions, I have no problem doing it.

Is it too much to ask, though, that the guys I take to work with me get dressed before they get in the car?

Every morning it’s the same routine. I pick these guys up and their still dressed in their pajamas. I then have to spend the next 20 minutes driving to work while three guys strip down to their underwear and dress themselves in the backseat of my car. Last week, one of them even started taking a sponge bath in the passenger seat. That is totally distracting, totally inappropriate and totally unhygienic.

How can I convince my co-workers that I have no problem sharing my car for a trip to the office but I draw the line at using it as a communal changing room?

— Driven Mad in Des Moines

Driven,

I can’t tell you how much I sympathize with your efforts to save the environment. Why, just last week I was feverishly working to demolish the Houston Freeway system and replace it with a maglev train network. Not only did no one offer to help, but my hands were severely blistered by the jackhammer I was operating, and I was nearly run over a dozen or so times before I was arrested. People can be truly unbelievable.

Here’s my advice. Next time, as your friends are beginning to strip down, take a detour to the nearest drive-thru. With any luck you’ll be ordering your breakfast before they’re able to react, and they’ll most likely see the benefits of arriving at the carpool fully dressed when the server is mocking their “diminutive stature.” If not, just be sure and order extra syrup packets, and squirt a little in their direction any time you see skin in your rear view. There are few things less pleasant than sitting in a starched shirt all day with syrup on your chest. I’m sure they’ll get the message.

-Andrew

Dear Andrew,

I am writing you to solicit some legal advice. Throughout the last couple years I have sat silently but enough is enough. I am seriously considering suing the Obama political campaign for copyright infringement.

I may just be a little engine that thought he could, but I think I could very well have been pushed past the breaking point with this blatant rip-off of my catchphrase.

For years, I have lived by a very simple motto: “I-think-I-can.” It’s become something of a mantra for my entire life. Now, everywhere I look I see the new president talking about “Yes we can” do this or that.

If he keeps it up, “I-think-I-can-sue-his-ass.”

Do you think I have a case?

— Chugging away in Conneticut

Chugging,

I can appreciate feeling that you’ve had an idea spirited away by the powers that be. In this case, however, I urge you to consider not suing the president. After all, even Rush Limbaugh has recognized him to be “the messi-uh,” and it’s probably not worth facing eternal damnation just to have your catchphrase back for the short blip of your remaining years here on this Earth.

— Andrew

Andrew lives and works in Houston, Texas.  When not working as a professional urban land developer, Andrew enjoys spending time with his wife Pam and working on his blog NeoHouston, an online journal dedicated to current events and ideas about the city of Houston.

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For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

My sister Amy, for example, has been there my entire life to guide me through any problem I may be experiencing. With her scathing wit, freakishly large reservoir of trivial knowledge and her ability to empathize with most anybody, she has been a guiding resource in my life.

It’s no surprise, then, that I would want to read an advice column written by her. Unfortunately, Amy’s rather extensive criminal background as a horse rustler in the state of Montana prevents her from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit her responses for:

Dear Amy,

I am starting to get the impression that my cat does not respect me.

Every day I feed him his favorite food (lasagna), fill him in on all the humorous anecdotes that occur during my dates with his veterinarian and, most importantly, provide him with constant companionship.

Despite all of this, it seems the only things my cat has to offer me are pithy putdowns and a constant sarcastic smirk across his smug little furry face.

I’m getting sick and tired of being my pet’s personal jester. I’m a human being! I have a larger brain then that fleabag! I own him! Why, then, does he seem to think he’s so much better then me? Sure I have a tendency to get into wacky and zany misadventures that often end with me in some various form of pain. Is that any excuse, though, to loose my cat’s respect?

How can I reassert my dominance over my pet and show him that I am the alpha male of this relationship? I swear I’m one sarcastic eye roll from taking him to the vet for the final time.

— Unappreciated in Muncie

Dear Unappreciated in Muncie,

I think that you are investing way too much time on the wrong type of pussy. Spend more time with his veterinarian, and then he’ll have to work for your affection. You are the alpha, get his lazy ass up and tell him that he needs to play fetch with the dog. Let him cause misery on someone who will be willing to take the abuse and come back for more; and I don’t mean you. You need to show him that you are the alpha. If he questions it, compare and see who has the bigger balls. If you lose that contest, than it’s time for your cat to take a trip to the vet. There is a surgical procedure that will secure your ability to win the challenge from now on.

Good luck, and grow a pair!

Amy

Dear Amy,

I’m starting to get the impression that my owner is suffering from severe depression.

I’m just a cat who loves lasagna but even I can spot the signs of severe clinical melancholy. Last week, I walked in on him with a gun in his mouth mumbling something about what a sad, lonely parody of a life he led. He then proceeded to stare listlessly at a picture of the farmhouse he grew up in as a child and mutter soft apologies to his brother, Doc Boy.

Even though I’m a cat who is physically incapable of conversing with humans, he insists on having conversations with me. I mean, I’m a cat! I can only respond with a purr and, quite frankly, it’s hard to muster a purr when your owner is acting like a complete spaz.

It’s not like he can chat with his girlfriend. Every woman he asks out has turned down the poor guy down — often in highly humorous and cartoonishly comic ways.

I’m really worried about the guy and when I get worried I have a tendency to overeat — even resorting to stealing the hamburger off of my owner’s plate; which, of course, makes him sad. It’s a vicious cycle and I need your help to break it.

How can I cheer my owner up — I’ve tried giving him sympathetic eye rolls but it doesn’t seem to be working.

— Worried in Muncie

Dear Worried in Muncie,

Are you really worried? Or are you some sick and twisted f**k who likes to toy with people? So all you can do is purr, I call “Bullshit!” How are you writing this letter? You may have everyone else convinced that you are a just the poor concerned pet of a depressed man, but I see through your cover. By the way, you are not the only purring companion available to your owner. Have you ever realized that you could be replaced? I hope for your benefit that there aren’t any other pets in the house. If there are, you should make sure that they are on your side. I suggest you seek some professional medical attention and start learning how to do some tricks. The next time he tries talking to you, you better do a really cool backflip or meow out, “I love you.” Otherwise you might be facing a life on the street where a big hairy Persian is tricking you out for a cheap price. Remember, you have a nice home and don’t want to lose it to any cuter kitten that happens to come along.

Good luck,

Amy

Dear Amy,

Me Odie. Me like ball. You throw ball? You throw ball, me like you. Lick.

— Me in Muncie

Dear Odie,

I like you because you are nice and simple. You are straight forward and know how to convey what you want. I suggest you bring a ball to anyone you see and wait for them to throw it. The fatter the person, the better — think of yourself as their personal trainer. You are getting to play ball and they are getting a little execise too. I know that I probably lost your attention right after you heard your name so I will end with this:

Who’s a good boy? You are! Go get the ball. Good boy!

Amy

Amy is a lifelong proud resident of the state of Texas. When not picking on her little brother, she enjoys movies, live music concerts and beating everybody on Guitar Hero. She is currently working on her first comic strip based on the adventures of her chihuahua, Chula.

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