Dear Herr Hitler: My inlaws are ruining my marriage! They didn’t want me to marry my husband in the first place – they were attached to the old frump he divorced for me, I guess – and they’ve never stopped trying to break us up. They spy on me and take pictures of me in compromising positions with other men, then publish them on Facebook. This happened three times last week! My husband used to be so crazy about me, he cut his children out of the will. Now he’s starting to look at me with doubt in his rheumy eyes. It breaks my heart. I don’t want to lose him, Herr Hitler! I’d have to go back to work at the Waffle House. Oh, Hitler, what should I do about those interfering inlaws?
Lost on Lookout Mountain Dear Schlutt: Kill zem.
Lieber Adolph: My son is a very special little boy, the result of a brief but passionate dalliance with the king of Spain. He is handsome, kind and brilliant, just the kind of child any nation would want to rule it by divine right – but oh, Herr Hitler – five or six “legitimate” heirs stand between my little Juan Carlos and the throne. Oh, Adolph, I can’t stand to see old-fashioned prejudices stand between my prince and his rightful destiny. What should I – Dear Schtoopid: Kill zem.
Mein Fuhrer: My co-workers – Kill zem! Kill zem! Kill zem!
What is this? Editor’s Note: Well, readers, I warned you last week I was unfit to write an advice column! But so far I don’t have any other volunteers, so last week I left the job to the one being in the universe I thought might possibly give worse advice than mine, my dog Rosie. Then, days later, I was reading Dear Abby and some man had written in saying that each December his wife filled every square inch of their house with Christmas decorations, to the point he felt claustrophobic. “Divorce her,” I muttered immediately. It was ill-natured, but really in his shoes I might have murdered her. I hate Christmas! Then it struck me how funny it would be if advice columnists gave clipped, autocratic little orders like that, and from there it was but a short step to “Ask Hitler.” Der Fuhrer does fit the criteria for this space: Somebody whose idea of improving quality of life was to invade Poland really might give worse advice than me and Rosie. And if you think it’s a cheat he always says the same thing (“Kill zem”) I would point out that Abby tells everybody to seek counseling. Do you want to liberate Dade from “Ask Hitler”? Send your proposal to write a better advice column yourself to robinfordwallace@tvn.net. I’m getting a little desperate here, and may invade Poland any minute.
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