It’s been a few moons since I, Pinky Tourette, ringmaster and stairmaster supreme, have dipped into the voluminous cauldron of mail and responded to any of the increasingly desperate queries from our loyal followers. And so here I dip, randomly extracting like a drunken dentist, sans Novocain, deaf to your screams and pleading, blind to the spray of blood and viscera, ever intent on my dedicated mission to plug the gaping holes in your face with glistening new molars of fact and knowledge. Hey ho, let’s go!
Joe J. asks: Is she really going out with him?
Sadly, Joe, the answer is yes. She met him at the candy store. He turned around and looked at her… you get the picture. We told her repeatedly he comes from the wrong side of town. Even her dad insisted she find somebody new. Under pressure she reluctantly bid him a tearful adieu. Next thing you knew he was gone forever. Only to reappear with an unquenchable hankering for brains. She, having none, was a perfect match, and together they star in the new reality series, “Keeping Up with the Drag Race Wipeout Survivor.”
Ray D. asks: Where have all the good times gone?
The answer may surprise you, Ray. It’s Lake Coppasquat, New Jersey. The good times are being hoarded in the basement of an aging three-bedroom home belonging to Ms. Iris Minge on Maple Street just across from the Owl Creek Bridge. Iris bought two extra-large industrial freezers and is keeping the good times on ice until such time as the world is ready to welcome them back. Current projections call for that to happen around 2037.
Dionne W. asks: Do you know the way to San Jose?
No, but Alexa does. Wait here, I’ll ask.
Marvin G. asks: Can I get a witness?
Try Craigslist, Marv.
Gary N. asks: Are “friends” electric?
That’s rather a personal question, Gary. In the interest of complete honesty and transparency with our fans, I’ll tell you our “friends” are battery-powered. And before you ask, the answer is four D cells, and we replace them about twice a month.
Jimmy R. asks: What becomes of the broken hearted?
They buy battery-powered “friends.”
Barry, Robin & Maurice G. ask: How deep is your love?
Four D cells.
Boy G. asks: Do you really want to hurt me?
All right, enough of that. Next question.
Chicago Rob. L. asks: Does anybody really know what time it is?
Ever hear of a wristwatch, Rob?
Tom J. asks: What’s new pussycat?
Sounds like you’ve been out of touch for a while, baby. Well, things have turned around since your groovadelic day. Those ragged, bearded longhairs are now militant right-wingers who pledge fealty to the most conservative reactionary factions and adorn themselves in Confederate and Nazi leisure wear, while the liberal hippies are buttoned-down old white politicians with names like Sanders and Biden. Far out! Can you dig it?
Patti P. asks: How much is that doggie in the window?
Doggies? Pussycats? Did our email get mixed up with Petland Discounts?
Baha M. asks: Who let the dogs out?
That’s it, I’m outta here. See y’all next time. Don’t forget to brush your ears and wash behind your teeth. Ta.
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