Dear Uncle Hank,
I'm a starving artist living the gig life. I've recently been fired from my under the table cabinet installation job by my swinger boss because I didn't want to compliment the ass of AND cuckhold his albino German wife. He also wanted to pick up hookers on jobs we had to stay "over night" in hotels. He said I make HIM uncomfortable during the work day. What's my next course of action?
Dear “Limp in Protest,”
I’d like to start by commending you on demanding fair compensation for your cockery (I'm reading between the lines, as any good journalist should) and upholding the sacred oath that cuckolding is an act of dissent and should only be strategically applied in cases where it bridges cultural AND economic chasms perpetuated by the ruling class and their bourgeois dogs. What your former boss failed to realize is that as an ambassador for the “International Fraternity of Conscientious Cocksmen” you take your responsibilities very seriously. Far too seriously to irresponsibly spill your seed on his yellowed and cigaret charred Ikea shag carpeting. While the back of a custom designed 1987 Ford Econoline may very well be one of the most romantic settings on earth, it certainly is no place for the level of martyrdom your heroic appendage would be involved in.
His predilection for the Prostitutic school of political protest can only mean that he has allowed himself to lapse in his personal journey of evolution as a “Woke AF” individual. Had he kept up with his peers he would’ve known that that by the year 2015, that particular school of thought had already been denounced by snapchat committee as too focused on others.
His discomfort around you most certainly stems from his embarrassment, jealousy, and feelings of inadequacy. He is now forced to re-evaluate his own standing in the community of custom sex craftsmen and vintage van aficionados. Is he truly woke? Can he ever again claim that he “cant even” or has he fallen so far behind his peers that he can in fact “even?” Is the van he invested so many Marlboro miles into still the political showpiece he once thought it was? Crushing answers for difficult questions, I’m sure.
My advice for you is simple. In the immortal words of Nora Ephron, “ Everything is copy.” Write a novel, title it “What the Cuck! My Journey As a Political Dissident.” After it makes the best sellers list sell the movie rights to Disney where it will be reimagined into a new trilogy in the Star Wars universe staring Donald Glover as yourself and Eddie Murphy playing the dual parts of your boss and his German wife.
Hope this helps Limp, let the readers know how this works out for you.
- Uncle H
Dear Uncle Hank,
I live in a great city, have awesome friends, get to do some really amazing things in the creative world and am generally happy with life. There is one small problem though, I live on the first floor of a triple decker, above me lives the landlord, and all day everyday I can clearly and loudly hear him fucking himself. I understand your readers may want to think that I mean he simply masturbates loudly but I assure you all, I mean he actually fucks himself all day. I suppose this wouldn’t be such a huge issue if it didn’t also hinder his interest in being an effective and reliable landlord.
The apartment is plagued with problems. A flea infestation left over from the previous tenant, holes in the ceiling and walls that haven’t been addressed since moving in 5 months ago, mold issues stemming from water damage, and peeling wallpaper are just a few of the issues that his constant and brutal self fucking have kept him from attending to. Whenever I have been able to get his attention away from brutalizing himself sexually long enough to ask him to fix the problems he seems to always have a reason why next week will be a better time to look into it. Our conversations always seem to end in the same way; a vague unbinding commitment to look into it later from him, a few minutes of relative silence from his apartment above, followed by what sounds like a level of animalistic brutality in self love that I feel fortunate to never have experienced.personally.
Beyond the health risk and inconvenience it is to me I find that as a compassionate human being I cannot completely turn my heart off to his predicament. I hear the deep painful sobbing through the ceiling, I see the constant stream of oversized packages from The Amazing Store (amazing.net quick shout out!) left on the front porch for him, I feel the apartment shuddering whenever he (presumably) leaps down onto some device from the top of his youth sized bunk bed. I cant help but worry that by fucking himself so mercilessly for so long that he is doing irreparable damage to his organs.
Should I attempt to intervene? Do I have a responsibility to inform the authorities that someone may be engaging in activity that may lead to great bodily harm or even death?
Move out immediatly.
This piece dedicated to Nora Ephron and Jane Jacobs.