Grampa

Dear Katy,

Some people would call me a lucky guy. Maybe I am, but I seem to be having a lot of trouble getting lucky these days. The problem is my wife Allison’s mother, or to be more accurate, my mother-in-law. ‘Jean’ is a feisty fifty-three year old widow with a figure that just won’t stop. Hell, I’m willing to bet with a body like hers that she just wore her poor husband plumb out

Allison and I met in the Army when we were pulling a tour in Wiesbaden, Germany. Man, that’s some kinda place. You should go there sometime. There’s this one bar where you can get a bratwurst and a beer for just two American dollars. And that’s not some little sissy sized beer, it’s a great big mug (the Krauts call them Bechers) that weighs so much you need both hands to keep from spilling it. All the walls are painted red and there’s this wild kind of music that we called ‘oompah’. And they’ve got whores. It was great.

Where was I? Oh yeah, so I didn’t meet ‘Jean’ until Allison and I rotated back to the states. Damn, is this woman hot. She’s got legs that go up to the balcony and she’s packin a couple mean 44s if you know what I mean. I can’t stop thinking about her. She likes me too, I can tell it. I’m enclosing a Polaroid of her. What a rack, huh?

The problem is Allison is always getting in the way with her sarcasm whenever we’re at her moms house. She’ll open that smart mouth of hers and say something like “why don’t you get yourself dressed” or “don’t you think that’s a little too revealing for a woman your age?” It’s like she doesn’t have any respect at all for her elders. And she punches me on the shoulder. I’m just looking, Katy. Ain’t no harm in that. Maybe I should divorce Allison and go for the mother, what do you think? Please don’t tell me to have an affair. Some things just ain’t right.

GI Jim

p.s. – this is kind of a man question, so if you want to refer it to that Grampa fellow, he might have some better advice.

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Grampa,

You crazy perverted attention-seeking faux “performer”: I should have had the vet take your testicles while he was in the vicinity last week, fishing around your rectum for my beloved gerbil, Charles Happenstance IX. Some things, alas, neither Medicaid nor pet insurance cover. You’d better THANK GOD Dr. Bob is as big a drunk as you and I are, and believes that you are, indeed, our 9 and a half year old sharpie/Chihuahua mix, you crinkled malodorous curr, or your ass would have ¼ mile of plastic tubing and an exercise wheel coming out of it as you READ THESE WORDS.  Sing a song to THAT, ass whistle.

Fantasticks, my long-running Broadway behind.  The only “play” you’ve got under your belt is what’s staining your drawers.  I looked the other way when you answered that simpering Dear Katy last time, because anyone who uses “doo doo head” and “blow hole” in a sentence, deserves to hear about your masturbatory obsession with Dick Van Patten.  I figured, “What the hell, at least Grampa isn’t shoving rodents up his ass…”

BUT now you’ve gone too far.  Fabricating Dear Katy letters just so you can write about your Hot Grandma sex fantasies, (And don’t think I don’t know that ‘Jean’ is, in fact, that BOWFLEX granny with the bikini…who paid $1500 for a BOWFLEX and yet only about $15 on ill-fitting cheap ceramic donkey-teeth dentures. You’ve been TeeVooing those commercials for months now and the remote control device is sticky with your rancid demon seed).  Next you will ANSWER YOUR OWN LETTER with Sage Advice, somehow bringing Dick Van Patten into it, along with whimsical memories from some other tired old goddamned Broadway musical that you’ve never even seen.  Pretty soon my good name will look like the inside of your saggy pants, post pet-insurance covered colonoscopy.

Take my advice, old man: Stick to what your good at, soft foods and growing veins on your nose, and leave the advice column to me.   

Katy