Guest Advisor: Nookular Fizzix

Dear Jules,

I am a very dull person. I don't mean dull in the same way that Cornhole is dull. I mean that I am so dull that I can be shot up with enough radiation to turn a topaz amber and I don't glow, I don't shine, I don't turn amber. I just look the same. How dull.

They can stick a needle in me that has to be stored inside a lead vault three feet thick and I still am, well, dull. The needle wasn't dull, though, it was quite sharp. The male nurse that was scooting back and forth in my chair so he could take pictures of my neck and leg, neck and leg, neck and leg wasn't dull, if you catch my drift. I guess after all the scooting he knew I was precious and tender and fragile and that he needed to use, in his words, 'a little tiny baby needle' to deposit the heavy metal into my arm.

I know, this is a dull story, but I can't help it. But that is not why I am writing. One not so dull thing is that I think I have a sharp dog. I think he sensed or smelled or something the radiation because he was very sad yesterday and kind of stayed away from me. Instead of the usual routine of waiting until I was settled in bed and then sitting on top of me, he laid on the floor and wimpered a lot. And he didn't put up a fit when I told him he couldn't come with me today because I had to go "get some more bugs offa momma". It will be interesting to see how he reacts to me this afternoon when I get home.

My question to you is, what size lead jacket do you think my mutt wears?

Signed,

Dull, Dizzy Dame

Dear Dud:

Listen, I don't give a SHIT about nookular fiziks. If I cared about that crap I'd go hang out on South Providence and wait for Kinda Sleezy's mushroom cloud.

I can't figure out why in the hell this asshole with the little prick was taking pictures of your neck and your legs. Jeezus Christ on Corn Flakes, the problem is not your neck or your legs--save for the fact that they aren't as smooth or as nice as your best friend's--the problem
is all the little nail-biters living in your head. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that you're crazier than a shithouse rat and no one is ever going to talk to you. I could've told you that and saved your fucked-up insurance people a whole lot of trouble. But no, you insist you're normal and think you can fool everyone by purchasing a new glowing personality.

A couple of pieces of advice: first, stay on your real meds. You know the ones. You might even think about doubling your dose. Second, the boy knows and he's on to you. Don't try to lure him back in your bed like you do all the other crazy men out there...he's too smart for that. Third and finally, don't EVER write to me about this bullshit again or I will personally see to it that you're refined and turned into enough uranium to blow up a small, middle-eastern country. Pre-emptively of course.

Suck it up, firefly!

Jules