Dear Abby

A very nice woman writes me whenever somebody at the paper neglects to run the Dear Abby column in its usual spot. She’s polite and all, but the implied threats are there. Bring back Dear Abby, punk, or I shall snatch you bald and kick you in your soft spots. Since I have no power over such lofty newspaper things, I’ve offered to field the woman’s advice-type questions and respond with the same delicacy and care of Mrs. Abby herself (who happens to be 200 years old this coming Saturday). So far — shockingly — she hasn’t taken me up on it. I’m just going to put my advice out there, anyway: If you value your friendship, you must confess to your sister what you did to her tuna casserole. Also, hand-written notes are a must after the holidays and no, it’s not illegal to do that thing with the garden rake and candle wax. Thank you for writing.

Uninstall! Uninstall!

So with this spiffy new weather app I have on my phone (Weather: tell them “a Google user” sent you) I get big, scary alerts whenever there’s some kind of weather warning in the area. The icons they use for these warnings are humongous. They’re also loud and annoying as can be. So, let’s recap. Annoying, loud, constantly badgering me about the weather. Holy schmoly! I have an editor on my phone!

Royal baby

Since I cry every summer over the crappy baseball team Kansas City puts on the field, I thought I was the royal baby. Plus there’s that unfortunate diaper thing.

Listen to your mom. Or else.

On Wednesday, in the woods along the Androscoggin River, I actually saw a kid running with a sharp stick. I chased him down, of course, to warn him of the danger. The kid busted an ankle and suffered a concussion trying to get away, but by God, I caught up and saved the dude from the agony of putting his eye out. You’re welcome, lad.

Burn, baby burn

I’ve never wished nuclear diarrhea on someone before but, yeah. Here I am. People breaking into homes while the occupants are sleeping in their beds; thieves grabbing greedy fistfuls of loot from locked storage facilities. On the off chance that the bad guys are reading this, I’d like to say this: Get your own stuff, you self-absorbed waste of space. Work for it, like the people you steal from, or do without. Everybody thinks you suck and we hope you suffer burning in your no-nos while you’re playing with your pilfered loot. Get a job, you sticky-fingered sea gherkin.

That’s right

I used an online insult generator to come up with that last bit. There’s some good stuff out there, but 90 percent of it would get me fired. I’ll bet you’d like that, you goatish, knotty-pated maltworm.

mlaflamme@sunjournal.com

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