Archive | history RSS feed for this section

The Best of Mr. Know-It-All: The Return.

4 Apr

April 4, 2011

Yes, he’s back.

In the early days of this blog, beginning in 2006, The Editors and Staff of Mr. Blog’s Tepid Ride would occasionally turn over the reins of the website to an advice columnist. Mr. Know-It-All was the pseudonym of a certain writer of ill-fame who shall still remain nameless under the threat of legal action.

The concept was glaringly simple. Mr. Know-It-All would scour the newspapers, magazines, and internet for advice columns and then take some of their letters and answer them himself. Entertaining if hardly original, Mr. Know-It-All’s byline appeared no less than 13 times between 2006 and 2008 dispensing advice on topics as varied as teen sex, car repair, and Jewish religious rites.

Unfortunately, Mr. Know-It-All was not in a position to give anyone advice. Frequently hungover if not outright drunk or stoned, his advice invariably involved sex, drugs, or alcohol. Teens were often counseled based on bra size, and even letters to Santa were not exempt from his skewed and borderline illegal advice. Strange elements of his personal life crept in as along with the advice, readers were often informed of threats from his ex-wife and appeals to anyone who may have found his pants.

I warn you in advance, there is likely to be objectionable language and concepts in these excerpts. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Adjust your disgust accordingly.

Here, reprinted for the first time, are some of Mr. Know-It-All’s best letters.

———————————————-

from August 21, 2006

Dear Harriette: I’ve been married for more than 32 years. About two months ago, my husband took me on what was supposed to be a romantic evening out. Instead, he broke up with me in front of the entire restaurant. Although I was totally devastated, I allowed him to stay in the apartment until he found a new place. I thought the transition would be hard for both of us, but he immediately started dating, even bringing women to the apartment. With no sign of reconciliation in sight, I want him out! Although I have asked him to move out several times, he says he will leave only when he is ready and not when it is convenient for me. How do I get him out? Carmen from the Bronx

Step off Harriet, I’ll handle this.
First of all, that is a real man! This guy dumped you in public, then stayed in the house, brought women home, and totally disrespected you. You want him out? Obviously, there is something wrong with you. He dumped you after 32 years of marriage. You must have really let yourself go. I bet you’re old, fat, and ugly. Obviously you have no self-esteem. Take a good look in the mirror. You have no shot at getting a man now. My advice to you- go on a diet, get a face-lift and new boobs. Beg him to take you back and give him oral whenever and wherever he wants it. Face it- he is your only hope.

from September 16, 2006

Dear Harriette:I go to lunch with a business friend every month or so, and we always swap who pays. The next lunch will be my turn, but I’m really tight on cash right now. I’m not sure what to do. On the one hand, I feel awkward admitting I can’t afford to pay for lunch, even though we do have a friendly professional relationship. On the other, it feels weird to cancel lunch. How should I handle this?Laurianne, Denver, Colo.

Blow job, Laurianne. Blow job.

from September 16, 2006

My great grandmother died. Everyone knew it was coming and I had prepared myself for her passing. My mom did not tell my 5 yr old brother about her death. The other day, he overheard me talking to my mom about the funeral and he starting asking questions. Now my mom is mad at me because she didn’t want him to know. And i’m mad at her for not telling me that he wasn’t supposed to know. Personally i think he should have known so we can all deal with this together. Should I say something to my mom or just let it go?

Is your mother an idiot? How is she going to answer all those questions? “Mommy, when’s grandma coming over?” “Mommy, who’s ashes are those in that little vase?” “Mommy, why is Grandpa so sad all the time?” “Mommy, why are you wearing all of Grandma’s jewelry?” He’s a little kid, not a potato. He’ll figure it out when you all go to the cemetery and leave him in the car. Death is a part of life. Start small. Does he have a small pet, maybe a turtle? Something he loves. Take your brother aside and tell him all about life and death. Then take out the beloved pet and kill it. It will be an abject lesson. He will learn about the unpredictability of life, the fragility of our own being. He’ll learn that life can be cruel, but he’ll also learn about death and that was the point, wasn’t it? Kids have to grow up sometime, and Mr. Know-It-All has never met this cute little tyke but he feels that he knows enough about this kid from your letter to make an informed judgment. Take it from your trusted advisor, kill the kid’s pet.

from September 16, 2006

PLEASE KEEP AN OPEN MIND WHILE READING THIS!!! I am a straight up racist. Here is the problem…I want to join the KKK but since i’m only 15 1/2 I can’t unless I have parental consent which is completely understandable. My parents dont know that I am racist and I recently asked them what they would do if I ever did join the KKK and they said that they would literally disown me. See… If i did join the KKK i would feel guilty for betraying my parents but if I didn’t join then i would feel guilty for not joining. I just dont know what to do because my heart is set on joining the KKK once I’m 18 but I don’t want to upset my parents…What do I do????

Wait- the KKK requires parental consent? Like a field trip?

Listen punk- if I ever catch you you’ll wish you never met Mr. Know-It-All. I’ll stuff your head so far up your ass you’ll be wearing your own sphincter as a party hat.

from January 8, 2007

We have a new baby boy and I heard something about having to “buy him back from a kohen.” What do I have to do – and how much is this going to cost?

I know this from experience. I once had to buy a child back from a coven. It was 1978 and my family and I were driving across the desert. In the middle of nowhere, we were surrounded by a gang of satanic bikers, Hell’s Hellions, and they tied up my wife and forced my infant child into a side-car. I tried to stop them, but- what? You asked me about a coven. “Kohen?” What the fuck is a “kohen”? OK, the best I can do is that, right now, in Cambodia, babies go for about $3 a pound. Hope that helps.

from March 5, 2007

Wow, it has really been a while since Mr. Know-It-All has been sober enough to type. Man, my life sucks. I mean, how many times can you wake up in a puddle of assorted bodily fluids next to a hooker going through your wallet and her pimp doing blow before you decide to sober up? For me it’s 182 and counting.

Dear Harriette: I work with five men and four women in an office with one unisex restroom. Whenever a man leaves the toilet seat up, he is made to assume some actual law has been transgressed.

I think these women need to realize the female method of urination is, at best, equal to the male method, but not superior to it. It’s as much of a nuisance for me to put the seat up as it is for some women to put it down. In fact, I rarely ever need the seat down at work, but I am forced to put it up all through the day.

I have the impression a couple of women here connect the toilet-seat issue to women’s rights. What a mockery. Women act as if they have some type of entitlement in the restroom, but unless they have broken arms, they could carry on as men have and prepare the seat to their own liking without the absurdity of complaint.Jack, New York

Oh man where to start? First of all, a unisex bathroom is great! If I had one around here I could take down all of my hidden web cams in the women’s john.

Next, the old question, up or down? Well Mr. Know-It-All may buck the trend around here, but the answer is down, at all times. Let me explain. I take more depressants, anti-depressants, psychedelics, and just plain booze than the average army. I don’t know how many times I’ve stumbled to the bathroom, using my last erg of strength, bleary-eyed and strung out, and just made it to the toilet. I plopped down, only to fall into the bowl because the seat was up. If the seat was down I wouldn’t have gotten a goddam wet ass for like the bamillionth time. It’s one thing if I get blasted and wet myself, I don’t need a stupid seat left up to do it for me. But I got to tell you, nothing will wake you up like a splash of cold water on your nads. I learned that in ‘Nam. And it’s not like I need the seat up anyway. I haven’t taken a piss like a man since I came down with my fourth case of syphilis.

And what’s with these women anyway? “Women act as if they have some type of entitlement in the restroom,”  Jack writes. What the hell is that all about? Women’s rights? Get back in the kitchen and bake me a pie. And don’t even think about voting. Who do think you are, Susan B. Anthony? Get out of the bathroom and back in the kitchen. (And if my mother is reading this, I blame it all on you.)

from November 14, 2006

Every morning, I come into work and the woman in the next office says “Good morning,” and I say “Good morning” back. Actually, I’m just not in the mood for good mornings in the morning, but I don’t want to be rude. So, okay, I’m not a very friendly person first thing in the morning. I admit it. Does this ever reach a point where this woman risks being just a tad rude, or at least passive-aggressive, by continuing to say “Good morning”? I never say “Good morning” first and she must have noticed that.

Mr. Know-It-All has often wondered the same thing. Many’s the time when Mr. K would stumble into the office, half-baked after an evening of peyote and Cleveland Steamers, when some tool would have the nerve to come up to him and say “Good  morning.” This aggressive and obnoxious behavior has, more than once, given Mr. Know-It-All pause. “Should I just kill this turd now, or save it for later, when I can put on a mask and possibly get away with it?” Inevitably, Mr. Know-It-All stumbles to his office, falls asleep behind the bookcase, and awakes long after dark when the offender has already left. One must wonder- who actually pays Mr. Know-it-All for that?

from November 5, 2007

“My very first sexual experience was a wet-dream. I was 11 years old and I awakened to find something wet in my pajamas. I was sure I was sick, maybe even had cancer. Is this normal?”
-from a 12 year old boy

Way to go kid! Mazel Tov! Wet dreams are the orgasm’s kid brother: You get all of the mess but none of the fun. Sure, you wake up with your crotch full of the sticky juice, but look on the bright side, at least you’re sure it’s yours. Wet dreams are your body’s way of saying “Kid, time to masturbate.” You’re a man now. Stick with it and soon you’ll be more familiar with the back of your hand than with any actual girls because, let’s face it, you are a loser.

And yeah, I think you have cancer. Sorry kid, them’s the breaks. But enjoy your new hobby!

from December 8, 2007

I love Christmas. For a long time they called me Mr. Mistletoe Pants. (The trick is to hang it off your belt right above your crotch.)

So here is letter numero uno:

Dear Santa,
This is from Marisa, Victoria and Katie.
Please bring us something nice for Christmas. Please bring Mommy and Daddy something nice too!!
Have a safe trip and a Merry Christmas.
We love you,
The Wager’s Girls

Hey girls, no problem. Tell Daddy those divorce papers went through and tell Mommy that her test was positive for Chlamydia. And write back when you grow up to be the Wager’s Women. 36D and above, please.

from May 10, 2008

Dear Tom and Ray:
What are shop supplies? I always thought it was old rags and sprays to clean or lube. My recent visit to a dealer’s garage cost me $22.56 for shop supplies. My total bill was $297.81. If I take my car to the dealer for repairs three times in a month, that will cost me a lot for supplies. Do I have to pay it? Is it a tip? – Carol

Hey dickstream, you’ve been ripped off. “Shop supplies.” You fell for that? You paid that? Listen Carol, you’re a woman so I’ll go easy on you. Come over and slip into something leather and pointy and I’ll explain. When a mechanic charges you for shop supplies, he’s really laughing in your face. It’s his way of charging you for booze, or maybe hookers, or whatever else he’s got going on in the shop. If he needs some fast cash to pay his pimp or his bookie, he just puts “shop supplies” on his bill and slips it to silly broads like you. “Shop supplies” is like when the government taxes you and on your paycheck it just says “misc.” and there’s like $55 taken out of your check for no good reason. Where does it go? Probably in the pants of some Senator’s young trick.

But I guess I should talk a little bit about cars, this being a car column and all. Well, cars need gas, so put gas in the tank. Filling it with beans doesn’t work. You need three or four tires and if you don’t have a windshield you’ll have to do some pretty dirty stuff to a cop behind a rosebush to keep from getting a fat ticket.

And remember teens, Mr. Know-It-All never drinks and drives. He drinks, snorts, injects, rubs, vomits and drives. A DUI? Mr. Know-It-All invented the DUIBBAKLP.

——————————————–

If you’ve read all of that and still want more Mr. Know-It-All, what is wrong with you? But if you insist, look in the index or search for “Mr. Know-It-All.” But be warned, he’s coming back to work.

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Mr. Blog Goes to the Movies: Ratatouille

2 Apr

April 2, 2011

from July 29, 2007

Disney’s Ratatouille is an animated film about disease carrying vermin that prepare some of the finest food in France. Which is about right.

What is ratatouille, the food? I don’t know. My grandmother used to love ratatouille. It looked like a mess with tomatoes and I wouldn’t touch it. She also loved heavenly hash ice cream and I don’t even know if they make it anymore. I was convinced that heavenly hash was the stuff they scraped out of the bottoms of the vats of other ice cream flavors. Maybe one day it had pecans. Another day it was mostly strawberry. It was just a scam to sell their leftover ice cream. Grandma also made us eat her meatballs. Whenever the family got together for a holiday dinner she would, no matter what else she made, make us meatballs. They were, I think, some sort of Swedish meatballs. They were small gray things in a thin gray sauce. I assume it was beef, but it didn’t look appetizing like, say, a Kobe steak. If gray has a taste, this was it. I don’t want to give the impression that grandma was a bad cook, but it was what it was. When he was very young my brother, in a fit of love, or politeness, or maybe out of a mental disorder brought on by gastric distress from gray meatballs, declared, right at the dinner table in full earshot of all his horrified relatives, that he loved the meatballs. You could have heard a pin drop. We hated them! Grandma beamed. And from that day forward we were forced to forever eat her meatballs. What usually happened was that Dave would eat most of the meatballs and everyone else would make some excuse like “I filled up on rice,” or “I had meatballs for lunch” or “I ate three when you were in the kitchen.” I’d force down one or two because as the years went by, although the meatballs didn’t get better, I built up a tolerance for them, like you would if you took a small amount of arsenic every day. The meatball recipe died with my grandmother, immediately making her death look like a suspicious homicide.

So Disney made a film out of what was to me a weird and obscure food, and a rat,  and put Patton Oswalt in the starring role. It is a dream match because Patton Oswalt is a weird and obscure actor who, coincidentally, looks like a rat, thus making him a perfect, PETA-friendly choice for this film. It was also a cost-saving move for Disney: they didn’t have to animate him. That’s him on the screen!

Disney has an affinity for rodents. Mickey Mouse has been long been a hero to laboratory test mice everywhere. Poor little furry fellers. Every day they scamper around their cages, just waiting for their casting agents to call, maybe they got the gig in Disneyland, but no. Those anti-animal scientists scoop them out and perform their evil and unethical experiments on them, like trying to cure cancer or find an AIDS vaccine, and all the while their casting agents can’t get them on the phone because all the animal rights activists are clogging the lines to yell about animal cruelty. Cruelty? They’re the ones keeping those little guys out of Hollywood!

Rats are not nearly as cute as mice, but Disney sort of glossed over all the bad stuff, like carrying the bubonic plague and wiping out half of Europe, in order to make this movie. (In all fairness, I should point out that Disney had nothing whatsoever to do with this film. It is a Pixar release. But I like to make fun of Disney and so I’ll keep on incorrectly calling it a Disney film. Trust me- this way I can do a joke about Walt Disney’s frozen head a little later on.)

Patton Oswalt plays a rat named Frenchie Bordot, or maybe Robespierre J. Rat, I think. I didn’t quite catch it, I was munching on popcorn and trying not to think of all the rats who were really running around the theater and might have been traipsing through the popcorn popper. Unlike every other single rat in existence, Frenchie Bordot didn’t like to eat trash. He didn’t run around in tenements. He was even fussier than that rat in Charlotte’s Web, voiced by Paul “Center Square” Lynde. Frenchie Bordot had fallen in love with a television chef hawking his own brand of steak knives on an infomercial and would only eat food smothered in fatty French sauces.

The chef died and appeared as a ghost only Frenchie could see. It was kind of like the Ghost and Mrs. Muir if the ghost was an obese guy with a cholesterol count of 1650 and Mrs. Muir was a member of the genus rattus.  Frenchie would scamper into the home of a very unclean woman and eat her food, watch the chef on her television, and, disgustingly, lick her face just for laughs. The woman eventually realized that it was a rat kissing her and not her lover from World War One finally come back and she took out a handy shotgun and killed Frenchie. Well, it was a close thing. After Frenchie had a near-death experience and didn’t go toward the light, the ghost of Chef Tony brought him back to fulfil his destiny- living in the sewers of Paris as a Phantom of the Opera impersonator.

For a while it was a great life. Frenchie Bordot wore a cape and played the piano below the Paris opera house. He laughed maniacally and scampered up the aisles in his mask, scaring the patrons until the management brought in a cat and Frenchie fled. Tired and hungry, the ghost of Chef Tony led Frenchie to the restaurant he used to own, now run by a tiny little Hitler-type.

Short Hitler was planning to stick Chef Tony’s face on everything and market the hell out him. (Clearly, this was a Disney metaphor.) Chef Tony fish sticks. Chef Tony curry balls. Chef Tony finger-lickin’ good not copyright infringed fried chicken. Even Chef Tony laxative was ready to run, so to speak. The little nasty guy was about to become filthy rich. Or maybe just filthier. He already looked a little greasy.

Well, out of the blue came cliché plot device number 79: Chef Tony’s illegitimate son who was the real heir to the Chef Tony fortune. It turned out that Chef Tony had gone to a culinary convention in Detroit some years ago. He got drunk one night with some Omaha Steak salesmen and woke up to find himself in bed with a German sous chef named Olga. Since France and Germany haven’t gotten along so well since WWII, Chef Tony, being a patriot, split, leaving only a ten-spot on the nightstand. He had no idea he had a son. All that he knew he got out of the one night stand was a strange rash, but a son he had indeed.

Of course, the son had no idea he was Chef Tony’s son. He thought Walter Cronkite was his father and, trying to impress Dad, blundered into the kitchen one night with the intention of getting a job and uncovering the unfair labor practices of hiring illegal Mexican immigrants in the kitchen. In fact, the only people who knew about his real paternity were: A- short greasy Hitler, B- the rat who could somehow read English despite being a French mouse, and C- the whole audience, who figured out the whole plot and saw the resolution coming a mile away about fifteen minutes back.

Chef Tony Jr. totally screwed up everything. He wrung out his mop in the soup. He mixed up carrots and sausages. He sneezed in the hollandaise sauce. Worst of all, he served red wine with fish. (Hey, this is France, they take that stuff seriously!) Frenchie Bordot watched all of this in disgust. Egged on by the ghost of his dead gay crush, Frenchie jumped on Junior’s head and tried to kill him by gnawing his brain out. Strangely, this didn’t work. Rather, it seemed that Frenchie had gnawed his way through a few synapses and made the son easily susceptible to hypnotic suggestion. Frenchie learned that if he tugged on the son’s hair just the right way, he could make him do whatever he wanted. In one hilarious scene, Frenchie Bordot made the son drop his pants and moon a group of British tourists.

Soon, Frenchie and Junior had become an unbeatable culinary team. Together, they served a new kind of soup flambé that turned the food world on its ear. Within minutes, word spread and every rich snob wanted reservations. Paris Hilton had reserved a table for two but was arrested just before she ordered hors devours.

While the little greasy Hitler guy worried that the son would discover “who’s your daddy?”, the restaurant had attracted the attention of the most influential food critic in France, played by Emperor Palpatine of Star Wars fame. Tall, bony, cloaked in pure evil (and a black cloak), the Emperor was determined to use his Dark Side journalism to ruin the restaurant and make Chef Tony his new Dark Lord of the French Cuisine Sith. This was perfect casting.

Sort of lost in the shuffle was the tough as nails lesbian assistant chef whom Tony Junior fell in love with. Despite the fact that she did little but belittle and hurt him, (or maybe because of that) Tony Junior was wowed by her. She responded by pulling some of the clever pranks that professional chefs often do in the kitchen, like throwing a meat clever at him, spiking his Beef Bolognese with ex-lax and, just for laughs, locking him overnight in the meat-locker with Walt Disney’s frozen head.

Well, the lines of dramatic tension were perfectly set. Would Frenchie Bordot become a famous chef, with Tony Junior as his puppet? Would little tiny greasy short Hitler steal the restaurant from Chef Tony Junior? Would Tony Junior find love with the lesbian? Would Frenchie Bordot find real love with the ghost of the dead Chef Tony? Would Emperor Palpatine turn Tony Junior to the Dark Side and open up that rotating Death Star Café he’s been planning? And what about Frenchie Bordot’s family, whom I haven’t mentioned yet but were a big part of the movie all along?

Shockingly, everything happened just as you might have expected it. Chef Tony Junior and Frenchie Bordot fell in love and ran away to Canada, where it is legal to marry a rodent. Olga, Chef Tony’s one night stand, returned and fell in love with the lesbian, being a little bit of a lesbian herself. Little tiny etc etc Hitler got the restaurant, but died in the kitchen when he ironically fell into an oven. Emperor Palpatine did not manage to convert Chef Tony Junior to the Dark Side, but he found a new apprentice when Chef Gordon Ramsey from FOX TV’s Hells’ Kitchen joined him. Together they opened the rotating Death Star Café, but it was closed shortly thereafter when rebellion health inspectors found evidence of Tatooine sand weevils in the salad.

So there you have it. Ratatouille exceeded my expectations, which were quite low to begin with. It really opened my eyes to the fascinating world of food all around me. For example, were the rats running around that Taco Bell they closed in the city really vermin, or were they also genius chefs? Is it possible that the board of health is wrong and I don’t have to wash my hands after going to the bathroom and before handling food? Could it be that Patton Oswalt is going to get an Oscar for his tender and touching portrayal? The answers are all no.

Tags: , , , , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →