Dear Danny
Readers, I’m lazy.
This comes as a shock, I know. But seriously – I make Sleeping Beauty look like Richard Simmons.
This is why I need your help. Coming up with humorous, borderline-offensive, incredibly immature, mindless crap every week is pretty difficult.
So here’s what I want you to do. E-mail me. Facebook me. Pass me a note in my Human Sexuality lecture. Yell at my Watson suite from Ernie Davis.
Send me your questions, concerns, ideas, advice – whatever. If you entertain me more than my roommates’ weekly Tuesday night Cabaret, I will respond. If you’re especially awesome, like these three readers, I will publish my response. The following letters are based on true events:
Dear Danny,
Saturday night I went to my ex-girlfriend’s house. Right as things were getting hot, the phone rings. It’s her grandmother. She was on her way over.
Now, this woman isn’t your average sweet, senile grandma. She weighs about 250 pounds and has a mean streak. If she saw me fooling around with her granddaughter, she would beat my behind to a pulp with her walker. She was suspicious as soon as she walked in.
So, with my ex playing cover-up and Granny tearing the house apart, I hid in a bathtub for THREE HOURS until Biggie Smalls-in-a-dress finally stepped out long enough for me to sneak away.
With my car still in the driveway, I hopped the backyard fence, barefoot, into a nearby park, hoping to lay low until Grandma left for good. Then I heard a growl coming from a set of bright green eyes about 20 feet away. It was a bobcat. It was sprinting right at me.
Obviously I survived, but for a while it was dicey. Anyway, here’s my question to you: Should I call my ex again?
-Lucky Escape
In a word: no. But, since you’ve already got some feline experience with the bobcat, why not try your hand with a cougar?
In my experience, strong, older women are the way to go. Even if they could play nose tackle for the Washington Redskins.
So I say: give Granny a call, tell her you’ve moved on from her precious granddaughter and you’re ready for the real thing. If all goes as planned you’ll be sharing prune juice over a 4:30 p.m. Blue Plate special in no time.
Dear Danny,
I woke up on the floor this morning in someone else’s clothes. My shoes are missing. There is a homeless man asleep on my bed.
I remember heading to South Campus last night for a party. I got there fine, but apparently I rode home with my feet dangling out the back window of a Department of Public Safety patrol car. At least that’s what the photographs suggest.
Anyway, now that my hangover is starting to fade, tell me: how often can you go all-out each weekend without it being overkill?
Also, have you seen my couch?
-Dazed and Crunkfused
Wait, is your couch that lavender sofa with three cushions that goes perfectly with the ‘purple haze’ theme in my common room? Is it perfect for afternoon naps? Yes, you say?
Sorry, haven’t seen it. Also, go easy on the tequila.
Dear Danny,
I normally kick a** in Spanish class. I can roll my r’s, have a perfect accent and last year I got a 96 percent in SPA 201.
This year, my teaching assistant is an Enrique Iglesias look-alike. Every time he calls on me (or even looks at me) I get so nervous that all I can respond with is broken Spanglish.
Can you please help me before my in-class participation grade goes south of the border?
-Be My Hero, Baby
Normally, the best cure for nervous speaking is to picture your audience naked. In your case, that’s probably a bad idea.
So, instead, imagine professor Enrique dressed in a Rosie O’Donnell costume. That’ll kill your libido in no time.
If that fails, pretend he’s Richard Simmons.
Danny Fersh is a sophomore broadcast journalism major and – sorry, Kanye – writes one of the best humor columns of all time. ONE OF THE BEST OF ALL TIME! His columns appear every Wednesday and he can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.
