Tag Archives: Mr. Know-It-All

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.

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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.

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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.

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The Real Radio Know-It-All

20 Jul

July 20, 2010

It seems like everyone wants their kid to be a doctor when he grows up. (Or she, but from here on I’m sticking with “he.” I’m not sexist, just lazy. I want to avoid some typing.) Not me. That is a whole lot of responsibility.

Think about it. You are an ER doctor and an ambulance rolls in. The paramedics jump out and start shouting “car vs. clown car, BP 130 over 85, pulse neg, blood ox 32, high contusion on the thoraxial shmasical clavicle,” and other things they yell on TV. After the shouting dies down you realize that they left the patient in the ambulance and they go back for him.

Anyway, his life is in YOUR hands. That is a lot of pressure. His life is in YOUR hands. Yes, I am repeating myself and using Motivational Caps©- it is THAT much pressure. What if you do something wrong? What if he becomes brain dead? What if he dies?????

Frankly that’s not important. Death is a part of life. You know what worries me? What if he LIVES?

So I saved this kid and now I have to spend every single day of my life wondering if I did the right thing. What if the kid grows up to be a serial killer? What if the kid grows up to be the next Ugandan dictator? What if I just saved the life of the next Hitler? That’s all on me. I can’t take that kind of strain and stress.

Better I stay out of it entirely.

However, what I would like to be is a fake doctor. like Bernard Meltzer.

If you lived in New York and you are older than 35 the odds are you heard “Uncle Bernie” Bernard Meltzer on the radio. Broadcasting from roughly the Stone Age until 1995, Meltzer hosted the popular “What’s your Problem?” advice show. (This was the show’s second name, replacing the unpopular “Who are you looking at?”)

Bernard was popularly known as “Doctor Acula,” um, excuse me, it’s late, I mean “Doctor Meltzer.” Callers greeted him with “Hello Doctor Meltzer.” Guests said “Thanks for having me on, Doctor Meltzer.” He himself said to callers “You’re on with Doctor Meltzer.” Despite this, he was not a doctor. Of any type. No degree.

His show began with a disclaimer that clearly said “Bernard Meltzer is not a doctor.” Coming out of commercials, bumpers reminded listeners that “Bernard Meltzer is not a doctor.” Bernard Meltzer told his listeners “Bernard Meltzer is not a doctor.” And the first call? “Hello Doctor Meltzer.”

Anyway, this was an advice show, and what did he give advice on? What didn’t he?

A typical show began with a question about a failing romance, followed by a question about fixing a house’s foundation, followed by someone asking about where to put their 401(K) and then a caller asking about his heart arrhythmia.

And you know what? He had an answer for all of those questions. No, not a BS answer like I like to give, but actual, real, good answers. He may not have been a doctor, but he seemed to know everything. And he had a folksy way of saying it. Here are a few of his well-known quotes.

  • A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.
  • Success is getting and achieving what you want. Happiness is wanting and being content with what you get.
  • We may give without loving, but we cannot love without giving.
  • You can make more friends in two months by becoming really interested in other people, than you can in two years by trying to get other people interested in you.

I am not sure, but he may have simply watched one too many old Charlie Chan films.   He also often asked “What shall we do with grandma, now that she’s old and gray?” and annoyingly never gave an answer.

Honestly, he was amazing. People called about electrical repair, which car to buy, liver ailments, pre-nuptial agreements, horse anatomy, you name it, and he had an answer. Strangely, WOR-AM’s “history” page simply describes him as “financial advisor,” which is a very poor job by WOR.

His show aired on WOR AM 710, once the home of the Mutual Network and the broadcast studio of The Shadow. Lately, it has become the home of The Pet Show, a call-in show about sneezing dogs.

Later in life, perhaps worried about the FCC, or simply afraid of being sued, he actually earned a degree, but it was through a correspondence course from an unaccredited university, the Triple-A High School Diploma Company of Delevan, Indiana. Radar on M*A*S*H got the same degree in the season one episode “Dear Dad- Again.” (This may not be true.)

If there was a caller he particularly liked, he would send them a t-shirt. It was a plain white tee with something to the effect of “Bernard Meltzer answered my question on WOR” written across it. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to who got the shirt, but usually anyone who asked for it got one. And take it from me, everyone asked for one.  His callers were a bunch of schnoorers. He would also send listeners helpful pamphlets (for free) full of his advice on model rocketry, quantum physics, auto-erotic asphyxiation, or whatever obscure topic the caller asked about.

One of the sad facets of his show was that, as he got older and sicker (he continued to broadcast well into his late seventies) he would never take a day off. His voice got weaker and weaker to the point that he would often pause long enough in mid-sentence for callers to ask “are you still there?” His producer would often introduce the calls in order to lighten the vocal burden. It was often a wonder that he made it through the show, as sometimes you were positive he was not making it back from the commercial break.

There has not been a show like his before or since.  And that is the type of doctor I wish to be- beloved by all, yet with no malpractice insurance.

Rest In Peace, Mr. Know-It-All. I would have published this on the anniversary of your death, March 25th, but on that day I was busy blogging about pro-wrestler Akeem and his manager, Slick.

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