If there's one goofy old white woman who's most famous than any other for giving unneccessary, inaccurate, and downright toxically retarded advice, it's Abby, the advice lady in the paper. Now, I know she's probably got a last name, but I don't care enough to look it up so let's guess that her name is Abby Yaknostrils, and assume that I got it right.

What's wrong with Abby Yaknostrils, you ask? Well, it doesn't begin with her, but with those innumerable legions of pitiably lost souls who ever turn to her for guidance. Let's start with one of the worst and most common offenders, the reprint junkie: At least a couple of times a week, Ol' Abby gets a letter than goes like this,

"Dear Abby,
Fifteen years ago you printed the poem "I'm a teenager who got drunk a lot and died, isn't that sad?" It totally changed my life and taught me that rather than being a smear on the guardrail, I should drive safely and further pollute the human genepool by living long enough to reproduce. Now my kids are getting to the age where they've finally figured out which end of a bootle you actually drink out of and I don't want them to make the same mistakes I did. Alas, my copy of your poem finally disintegrated and because I live on a planted without photocopiers, my only hope is that you'll avoid having to write anything new by running it again.
Dumb as a Bag of Hammers, Ontario"

Abby of course invariably grants these requests, gleefully reprinting some peice of mindless drivel that never ought to have seen the light of day back in 1978, much less today, and one can only hope that this time noone bothers to care. Next up is the clueless ninny:

"Dear Abby,
My boyfriend, "Zolnar" and I have been having some troubles lately; he keeps punching me in the face, setting my hair on fire and breaking my Hanson CDs. He's really a very gentle man though, and he said that as soon as his divorce comes through, he'll marry me and my three teacup bichon frises. I don't know what to do, all my friends say he's evil, but I love him anyway because I'm that stupid. What should I do, all powerful Abby woman?
Pathetic Simpleton in New Brunswick"

To such letters as these, Abby just about always mentions slef esteem and recommends counseling to both parties concerned, along with everybody else that they've ever known since third grade. Seriously, you want to know why there's some many psychoanalysts these days? It's because Abby is a big ol' shill for the entire "you're too weak-minded to help yourself industry". Finally, let's look at one I like to call the Blindingly Obvious Epihpany Dweeb:

"Dear Abby,
Last year I took a bath with my chainsaw. Imagine my surprise when I woke up in a hospital in a separate room from most of my extremities! There was no warning label or anything on the chainsaw and while I expect to win an outrageous sum of money from the lawsuit, I was hoping that you, Abby, could use your bully pulpit to make all the other people out there aware of this danger that could strike anyone at any time. Please, warn the good people of this planet that chainsaws and bathtubs don't mix!
Torso Boy in Quebec"

Abby, like Mr. T, always pitys the fool and takes this ludicrous request at face value. "I would tell people," she says, "but your letter is already a better testament than I could ever write." Abigail Nostilpants, you are seriously the laziest woman on the facce of the Earth. Honestly, all her job consists of is taking the words of fools at face value and eating up space in the paper that could better be devoted to a new strip I just imagined in which Mark Trail hits Ziggy in the face with a flaming sledgehammer while singing showtunes.

Here endeth the lesson

(By the by, I'm not really that creative after all, it would appear, so if you'd like me to mock someone or something, jut give me a holler and I'll see to it that your own private hatreds are splashed across the internet on a baby-blue background for the eyes of all seven of my regular readers to behold, foo')