NEWSFLASH!

Dame Wotta back from an Intergalactic Mission

Workers Compensation Board Entering Black Hole Soon

Some of my devoted readers will have noticed that I have not been present to dispense advice. This was not my wish, but was entirely unavoidable.

I was asked to temporarily join a secret unit, a special Intergalactic team of freedom-fighters who support the liberty and dignity of all life everywhere, even if it’s small, beige, wriggly and leaves faint stains behind it as it moves. The time for personal prejudice is long over.

It had come to the attention of certain beings that have the best interests of human people at heart that injured workers everywhere were being denied compensation that by rights were legitimately theirs, and that entire families were being consigned to the garbage can of life arbitrarily and corruptly. Of course, people are always treated unfairly everywhere and in every way on Earth, and this is to be expected under the present planetary regime.

Nevertheless, as most damage is actually administered bureaucratically, and Worker’s Compensation Boards everywhere have re-written the law to protect themselves, it was decided to make an example of them.

Nobody working for this outrageous outfit (which is ultimately controlled by an incredibly loathsome demon) is yet aware of their fate, and the beauty of the plan is that the staff, all brainwashed lackey’s selected for their lack of compassion and scruples, wouldn’t believe it anyway.

Just as nobody remotely believes anything WCB the not for profit organization concocts in order that they may retain all the lovely dosh they have collected that doesn't really belong to them.

The job at hand was first to select the correct suitable black hole and then funnel the entire combined Workers Compensation Boards of North America into it. This was accomplished, and the whole incredibly delicate operation was coordinated from the complete safety of an Intergalactic Starship, where the procedure was instigated and the opening stages were put into motion. If it proves successful we shall later repeat the exercise around the Globe.

Although the results will not be made apparent for several years (approximately 3), WCB have already been consigned to a black hole of suitable proportions and are as we speak on the very edges of its outer limits.

The black hole finally selected had to be of a massive size to successfully subsume the intense density of both the combined digital and paper files, the ridiculously massive and expensive buildings, equipment, parking lots, and, sadly, the pathetic ‘staff’ of the entire shebang, along with their ego’s, which apparently turned out upon analysis to be made up almost entirely of Heavy Water.

This was an unprecedented decision made at great personal cost to all members of the team, and certainly not to be taken lightly. We knew these Borg souls would most likely be atomized meeting themselves coming in on the way back out.

The law of cause and effect operating across the Multiverse will allow them another opportunity for soul advancement, but not for several thousand years in Earth-time, and not until they have each personally eaten the equivalent weight in paper of the entire WCB case-files of North America collected since its inception.

I myself did not come out of this unscathed. On July 31st, I received a death-threat via my computer screen (shown above). My computer immediately crashed following this event.

A psionic attack was then launched upon my home leaving the occupants, including myself, severely injured. While I was being rushed to a secret hospital, perpetrators entered my home, stealing the hard drive, which was then transported to a Transylvanian restaurant in Vancouver to be worked on.

This website was then attacked and completely flooded and ruined by the ensuing water damage, being almost entirely melted during the invasion. This was yet another cowardly assault designed to end my humanitarian work. I spent a considerable sum of money on the services of an excellent restoration company to try and repair this site.

Digital Damage Dudes did a brilliant job and I don’t believe you can even see where the destruction was. I would recommend them anytime and space.

Suffice it to say after a long struggle I recovered my health and completed my assignment. I also recovered my hard drive and the vital information on it. I have Friends in Sideways Places. People have been suitably cosmically spanked. We will leave it at that for now.

Dame Wotta Tripp is back in your service.

Liquored-Up Beasts

Dear Wotta,
I felt I had to write to you, I feel so spiritually close to you.

My pastor actually believes that animals have souls. This thrills me, as I love animals and my previous pastor thought they were soulless and unimportant, much as goths and the like.

My dog, G. Campbell, was given some beer while I wasn’t present by a rather bad person. He got horribly drunk and I don’t wish to go into the details of what he did here. Now he gets terribly excited by the slightest whiff of alcohol, leading to loss of bladder control and indoor accidents.

Now my joy has turned to grief as I am constantly worried that my dog will end up in hell. Could this be possible? Please help.

Thanking you in advance,
Wanda Campbell


Dear Wanda,
I absolutely disagree with giving any animal or creature mind-altering substances. And of course animals have souls, also Goths, but I’m not sure about your pastor(s).

Animals inhabit the many Heavenworlds and interior plains peacefully and prolifically, thank you very much.

Hell is a state of mind. It’s cold, not hot. Hell is often experienced right here on planet Earth. There is no eternal Hell – it’s a very obvious lie, designed to keep you in place.

As far as your dog Campbell is concerned, although many people don’t realize this, it’s a fact that imbibing alcoholic beverages and partaking of drugs is seasonally prolific among diverse species, voluntarily.

Many birds get deliberately and completely hammered when fermentation takes place naturally.

Hummingbirds spar angrily with each other at neglected feeders full of perilous red nectar, making them extremely dangerous to humans in the vicinity.
If you were to visit the homes of the sort of people who are featured in Harrowsmith Magazine, you would see that a substantial amount of them wear eye patches. The connection should be obvious.

Although I’m sure that glass artist Dale Chihuly lost his eye in a car accident as reported, it’s not beyond the bounds of reason that he was momentarily but hypnotically attracted to the sun blazing through the glorious crimson glass of a humming bird feeder. He may have wandered closer only to become the victim of a vicious attack received from one of these extremely territorial creatures, enraged by fermented syrup and by now totally bladdered (the humming bird, that is), and intent on protecting it’s stash.

I wouldn’t wish to advertise an incident like that either, especially with a rapidly rising career.

For instance, in the correct season the African veld is teeming with a wide selection of inebriated creatures, many of whom will have accidents attempting to navigate in the usual manner. They will literally injure themselves falling from trees while blotto, slipping sideways into bodies of water and dropping heavily to the ground, unconscious. The elegance of nature is noticeably absent on these occasions. Ripped, animals and birds attempt to walk with their legs crossed, like humans. Flying and swimming are out of the question for creatures that are three sheets to the wind.

We all know people that are permanently ploughed, even if they’re incapable of standing up to be counted.

There may in fact be an excellent reason for this. The brains of both humans and animals contain protein-based receptors that allow for response to drugs of various types, as keys fit into locks.

I have a lot of difficulties like this when dealing with the problems of some of the more evangelistic Christian humans who write to me for advice. I do keep trying to explain, but it’s almost impossible to tunnel through the multiple layers of brainwashing to any good effect. Please try to comprehend: evolution as you perceive it to be was not responsible for these receptors. No, not at all!

They were inserted in the long-ago time when your present prototype was created in what was a huge genetic experiment. One of the main reasons for this was to create a living genetic library and spiritual evolutionary opportunity on one of the most beautiful planets anywhere, and we did try very hard.

These receptors were originally designed as interfaces with various substances so all life could still commune and communicate interdimensionally, but they are now used to control you all.

This was an extremely long time ago, and many things have unfortunately changed since the beginning, and not by design, as the original plan was in line with the Creative Principle. For instance, you are all now slaves and yet most of you have not yet worked it out. You may write to me if this bothers you, but in my experience until the beer runs out, all balls (mainly of the sporting variety) deflate and the doors of the religious institutions of the world close permanently, you will not grasp even the basic concept that you are utterly controlled.

After you realize this and you have dealt with the trauma, there is a way to become free and evolve. That’s another story entirely.

Tut! Wotta Tripp is ashamed of you all! Yes, all of you who are still asleep!! Yes, you!!

I personally know a lady with an amazingly large set of frilly pink narcotic receptors, by the way. You can’t really talk to her much, but it seems this is a natural condition for some after all, so there it is.

I hope this helps your confused mind-set.

Regards,
Dame Wotta Tripp

Free Kentucky Press

I must pass on to you all a newspaper article sent to me by little Leroy Bliss, aged 8, from Kentucky. He wrote me a private letter describing his fear of going out to play alone in the evening and I felt I should share the article with you. For shame!

FREE KENTUCKY PRESS - DAILY MINTO - September 16 2008
Man Killed by Enraged Cabbage Whites

An almost upright, white, right, middle aged Kentucky man was killed yesterday evening in yet another of the growing number of attacks recently perpetrated by Cabbage White butterflies.

This hard-line species are extremely clannish, and few humans have ever penetrated their enclave, but they are known to be white extremists and many of the recent attacks were carried out against people of color. This is the first confirmed death associated with the Cabbage Whites, who are becoming more militant and violent in Kentucky, and it was also surprising because the victim was a person of rather pallid color, indeed none, to speak of.

Billy Joe Bob Willy Joe Brown died of his injuries shortly after being left on the side of the road when the ambulance attendants discovered he had let his insurance lapse through lack of funds.

Brown's widow, May, allowed us to interview her. Talking through her tears, she described the terrible last moments of her husband’s life. "I was feeding our only chicken when they played their evil trick!"

According to Brown’s widow, Brown had been cycling home from choir practice when it happened. Using the little known 'white rope' trick, which involves dozens of Whites linking legs across the road, they awaited their opportunity. The trick resembles a rope strung across the road at dusk, and naturally Brown braked hard when it appeared, tumbling off his bike to the ground.

"They were on him in a second, he didn't stand a chance. They stomped on him all over so hard, he looked like a close-up of newsprint!" sobbed the anguished widow. "They killed him because his new friend was black, well, technically, but to me he seemed rather a light brown, and I thought no-one would notice. Of course, we knew they (Whites) were racist so we always left them well alone, and anyway they always smell so strongly of cabbage and old family Bibles, but I never expected this! It's just me and Betty the chicken now!"

Police will be looking into Brown’s death in the next week or so.

Ostrich Leather

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
On my seventh birthday, now many years ago, I was given my first ostrich. A few weeks earlier, when at a zoo, I had evinced great interest (in the enthusiasm of the moment) when I saw a group of them in a pen. From then on it just grew.
I became known as Ostrich Olga, the girl who loved ostriches. By the time Christmas arrived my interest in the bird had begun to diminish, but nevertheless a well-intentioned relative presented me with a second ostrich and I was too shy to tell everyone that I was now not so interested in them.
We lived on a farm in the Transvaal, so accommodating the ostriches was no problem, but by the time I had been given a third bird for my eighth birthday the first two ostriches had produced offspring. I never gained sufficient courage to confess that my interest in ostriches had ended, and now, at age seventy- three, I have one thousand, seven hundred and ninety-three of these amazing birds.
People from all over the world visit the farm and their donations, together with the sale of ostrich feathers, has provided a good income, but I have begun to resent the birds and am considering changing the operation to ostrich-meat production, since there is now a considerable demand for their flesh. I feel there is a moral dilemma here, and am not entirely comfortable with this idea. May I ask you to allow your readers, through your platform, to add their advice to yours, to enable me to reach a sound decision on this envisaged change?
Sincerely,
Olga Van Maas


Dear Olga,
What a bottomless pit of regret you must be feeling if you have spent you life caring for creatures you have little emotional feeling for. Poor birds!

This is what occurs when a person has insufficient self-esteem to be honest, for fear of letting down the people who care for them. Such is the destiny of one brought up to please those around them, a common fate for a girl, especially almost three-quarters of a century ago.

You and the ostriches probably never stood a chance.

I’d lay odds that you have never had any of the children you once dreamed of, what with managing irrigation and all the other countless chores.

If you do farm them for meat, remember that the leather is also becoming very popular now due to its unique texture and it can be made available in any color or shade.
Ostrich leather undergarments, perhaps feathered for special occasions, might be one option.

May I also suggest hernia support items, waistcoats, hats, golf wear and ball-gags?

Personally I do not condone using animals in this way, but I must remain impartial.

Naturally I see your dilemma and will be happy to ask my readers for their input. I think a poll will be in order here. Please go to the bottom of the page and give Olga your opinion. Thank You!

Help is on the way –
Wotta Tripp

Shadow Play

Dear Dame Wotta,
I'm writing for your valuable advice because I have become convinced that you are the only person who can help and understand me.

The trouble I'm having is with my shadow. Over the years it seems to have gathered more and more intelligence until finally, it has a will of its own.

It started one fine evening as I was walking home from a night with my friends at the local watering hole. As I was lurching down the street I noticed out of my peripheral vision that my shadow wasn’t 'in sync' with me any more. I stopped dead in my tracks and noticed a definite lag with my shadow stopping, as if it was taken by surprise. I put it through some tests, running, stopping abruptly, darting backwards, leaping forwards, until people started crossing the road to get away from me. I must admit smelling of booze, I could see their point.

Anyway I digress. The point is my shadow wasn’t up to the task, it just didn’t keep up. Finally completely tiring of the game it stopped trying to humor me and shot me the finger and went and sat down on a park bench, casually crossing its legs as it did so. I sallied forth and joined it where we sat in uncomfortable silence for some time, neither of us wanting to break the ice.

After about an hour of this the beer I'd drank began to take its toll and nature beckoned. There was a wooded area close by and I got up and wandered into the bush to answer the call. I dropped to a crouch as I lowered my undies, and just as I was about to experience relief, I saw my shadow mockingly crouching nearby, and I swear it was shaking with silent laughter.

That did it; I leaped on it and tussled with it, which was somewhat difficult because it had no substance. I dived after it as it turned to flee, completely forgetting that I had my unmentionables around my ankles, and went head first into a bed of nettles knocking myself out cold on a large hidden tree stump.

This was how the authorities found me later on, my underwear around my ankles, my head and face swollen to twice its normal size, stinking of booze. Sadly they had spoken to some passerby’s who had described my leaping backwards and forwards and yelling the occasional triumphant shout (as the shadow failed to match my move) for no apparent reason that they were aware of, and I had been designated lunatic status.

I tried to explain about my shadow but somehow that seemed to make things worse.

I had never been in a paddy wagon before. They’re not very comfy and on the way we stopped to pick up some female, who unlike myself was truly a lunatic, as big as a Mac truck and twice as dangerous looking. Apparently it had been involved in some bar brawl.

As we sat in the lurching wagon opposite each other on benches, my shadow put in an appearance, it was sitting next to the bar brawler thumbing its nose at me. “You asshole!” I yelled through my swollen lips. The Mac trucks gaze focused on me.

I don’t remember landing on the floor, but the rest of the night was an incredibly painful blur with needles, antiseptic smells and being wheeled around a lot.

Dame Wotta, this was the first of many difficult evenings, as my shadow is a complete and utter shit! It delights in getting me in terrible trouble and I have already done a couple of stints in the ‘funny farm’ because of it. Nobody believes me, and I can’t seem to stop reacting to it and letting it goad me into the most terrible situations.

How do I get rid of it, what must I do, please, I beg of you, advise me?

Ms Dowash
Sunnyvale Rest Home


My Dear Ms Dowash,
I certainly do believe you. Your shadow can only be behaving independently for a very few reasons, none of them good.

Your shadow may have become loosened after a severe shock. This does not entirely excuse its crude hand signals, however. Have you done anything to harm, scare or shock it, even if advertently? A shadow with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is not a pretty sight.

Worse still, it may have been bribed or coerced by an undesirable spirit, in which case you may suffer a partial soul loss. To get it back, you will have to prepare an acceptable offer, a counter-bribe of magnificent proportions. In other words, you will have to trick it. Write to me privately and I will send you a list of my prices for tricks.

I recall a case where a man in Ireland was out walking in lonely hill country. He sat against a rock and rested for a while. After a few minutes he began to hear haunting music so he got up and looked around for the source. Finding nothing he stood uncertainly looking at the view, half in a trance, the music faint but audible still. Suddenly a movement on the ground beneath him caught his eye. Looking down, he saw to his horror a little man playing music on the pipes while an equally vertically challenged lady was carefully cutting around his shadow with a tiny pair of golden scissors. Yelling with shock and fear he leaped around, scaring the two shadow-thieves’s who ran away leaving the evil deed unfinished. Although this man was very ill and weak for some months he eventually recovered completely. My point is that shadows are far more vulnerable, and sometimes more dangerous, than most humans realize.

Some shadows are just plain bloody evil and need a good kick up the arse. If this is the case with yours, I advise you to stop drinking alcohol, as this will irritate and inflame the shadow, causing its behavior to worsen. It will need obedience lessons.

In the scatological literary masterpiece ‘Winnie The Pooh’, Piglet, a poorly adapted young swine, becomes friendly with his shadow while feeling neglected by his own pals. After his friends take notice of him once more, this quisling porker immediately and callously drops his shadow-self, which promptly leaves him. His sterling friends unwisely offer their own shadows as replacements, but after all it’s not necessary as he is happily reunited with his own, although not before the end of the chapter, if I recall.

The worse-case scenario, of course, is that you are of the type of Vampyre strain that acts most physically in this world. If this is the case then there is little hope for you. Once the double is awakened there will be no way to stop it without the intervention of One Who Walks Two or Three Worlds. I may be able to put you in contact with someone, but there are no guarantees. It’s possible that your shadow will escalate from taunting you to committing heinous crimes, such as the ritual strangulation of victims. Take heart, though! Your shadow will never cause you yourself any real danger. Its influence will end at your own life’s ending, as it relies totally on you for its ability to act independently. It will never risk your life, and it may yet be useful in alerting you to feeding opportunities should this prove to be the case and your Vampyre genetics begin to kick in as they so often do in these sad cases.

I myself rarely cast a shadow, but the Tarot often. If you find you need specialized assistance please write to me privately as I can help unravel the cause for you. I must say I admire your courage under such difficult circumstances!

Best of Fortune,
Dame Wotta Tripp

Amazing Fortune At Bus Stop!

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
For quite some time I have been the subject of alien abduction. Usually it takes place while I am waiting at the bus stop.

A Turkish man with a big walrus mustache draws up on a green tandem racing bicycle, places me on the rear saddle, and pedals off at tremendous speed out of the town and into the countryside, and down a long trail into the heart of the forest, where he carries me into a tiny cottage with diamond windows and a thatched roof.

I am placed on a chair at the table where I am forced to eat delicious sandwiches with the crusts removed, pastries, jellies, trifle, seasonal fresh fruit, and am made to drink at least two cups of five-minute tea out of fine china. Then I remember nothing more until I find myself back at the bus stop, without any apparent time lapse.

What can all this mean? I can't take it much longer.
Marina.


Dear Marina,
I do not wish to upset you further than my minimum requirements, you foolish child, but it should be obvious even to one of average stunted intelligence exactly what is occurring here.
I find it difficult to believe the young lady who wrote the coherent letter above could also be so poorly educated in such very basic ways. Did you perhaps grow up in a secluded institution? I sincerely hope you haven’t been indoctrinated into the decadent ways of religion. It takes some people years to undo the damage and learn to think for themselves once more.

My job, however, is not to criticize overly, but to enlighten where appropriate.

You have received a genuine proposal of marriage from the world of Faery. This would necessarily include induction into a breeding program, not as a common human wet-nurse, understand, but as a wife.

This is a permanent position that I would advise any mortal to take, if only for the experience, and if you follow the simple rules you will not only survive but prosper, and your offspring after you.

Although I would advise you to accept this offer anyhow, in your case you have no decision left to make as you have accepted food and eaten it whilst visiting.

To accept food in the Otherworld usually results in a binding contract in which you have no longer any choice. You have not only accepted food but apparently been gorging down huge binful’s of the stuff indiscriminately. They must be amazed at your capacity for rapaciously putting away the comestibles. It is alarming.

The following list represents just a few of the benefits a marriage of this type brings:

• Secure position (* as long as no taboos are broken)
• Prime real estate in enchanted situations (*)
• An inordinately long life (*)
• Perfect health (*)
• Riches, luxuries and fantastic apparel (*)
• Amusements of every conceivable sort (*)
• Good music, all the time (*)
• Excellent catering, as you have described (*)
• Unusual animal companions and cats with six to eight toes on each foot (*)
• Celebrations and feasting with seasonal moves to new quarters (*)
• Excitement and unusual hunting opportunities (*)
• A fascinating partner (*)
• The opportunity to forge better relations between humans and faeries (*)

What more could a girl want? These terms seem very reasonable to me, and as in your particular case you have little choice.
I suggest you say goodbye to your family (that includes any husbands you may have as all contracts made with other mortals are now null and void) and prepare to enjoy! You very lucky girl!
You don’t need to pack, everything will be provided, and you may occasionally catch glimpses of your previous family and friends through the apparatus provided. That can be quite amusing as you watch them searching high and low for you from your new exalted position. If only they knew!

Please let me know how you are getting on. You may deliver your message to me in a variety of manners, including via wild honey bee, nightjar or blackbird.

Next time you visit, simply look up at the Faery Lord who has selected you (possibly in indiscriminate haste and without checking your background thoroughly) while having tea, thank him for his overwhelmingly kind attention, and ask him for the privilege of baring his Faery children. You will not have to return home again, as long as no taboos are broken. If this does occur, you will find yourself back home. You will barely have time to recognize how unfamiliar the surroundings are ( several hundred years may have passed) before you crumble to dust. Not a bad way to go, altogether.

Good Fortune,
Wotta Tripp!

Very Poorly, But I Can Help!

Dear Readers,
It’s been brought to my attention that someone you may be familiar with is very poorly and in special need of my assistance. He has in fact called for it, and I am more than happy to oblige. I have discussed with his highly specialized team of psychotherapists at length his shaky mental grip on reality and we have between us come to a decision that will have far-reaching effects.

I will not name him here (it's a few lines down), but have assured him I will immediately book a hefty portion of the next 5 years off to help him, as he so obviously needs it, and I can’t bear to think of all that talent going to waste, what with the chemical sniffing, and all.

I’ve worked out a three-step-program that will improve his attitude (he’ll tell you after reading this that his name is Ethan, but he’s hiding someone) and keep him happy, especially through those difficult first weeks. Just a very little surgery combined with the correct healthful diet and exercise regime, early nights and limited access to contraband should do the trick and return him to some semblance of health. I don’t want anyone to worry, for I believe he’ll be similar to good as new in no time.

The word trepan has it’s origins in the Greek word, trupanon, meaning ‘borer’.

Now most people who hear this imagine this word has to do with the boring of a hole in the skull, but in actuality it refers to the nick-name given to people who had undergone the trepanning procedure, survived, and lived to tell about it at fashionable Greek parties. It was in fact all they could talk about, as surgery was frequently the last and only thing they remembered at all.

It seems that he almost certainly needs immediate emergency surgery to release the pressure from the brain and let out the demons and other possessing entities. Things have changed since the brave days of Ancient Greece. I now provide ear-muffs and nearly always use local anesthetic instead of Magical Passes and hypnosis alone. Also, this time he may remember a bit.

This will also serve to stop him from being funny, but that’s something that cannot at this point be helped. I can hardly allow it to limit or in any way interfere with my own rising star, can I? One has to remain focused. Of course, that’s not why I’m offering to help him anyway. I care, I really do. He’ll still be able to draw some amusement at parties, I’m sure (his name is really Lobo, and that’s the one we’re actually going to be operating on), but he may be a bit wobbly with the pen for quite some time. It’s my wish that everyone will carry on reading his blogs, even as they continue to deteriorate, to affirm your ongoing support and hope for the future.

I would also like all of you who know him to shave your heads as a show of solidarity, and email him photo’s of your new look. It’s a small thing to ask, isn’t it? I believe it will cheer him in his hour of need.

I will inform all his fans and well-wishers of the time and date of the surgery. They will be given an option to join a very special prayer list, protected by a unique password and giving access to an extremely precise set of words that must be repeated aloud rhythmically and over and over exactly when and as I instruct. Write to me privately, darlings.

You can read this person’s crazed ranting by clicking the creepy orange link below, but I advise extreme caution. If you must, get it now, while it lasts, before I put a stop to it for ever!

Predator Press

Co-Respondent In Detroit

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
I'm a small man, only 5'3" and my wife is above average at 5'9". What makes things worse is that I am a short order chef and experience a lot of ridicule.

Worst thing of all, every garbage day my wife puts me in a garbage bag, ties string around the neck of the bag and under my chin, and wheels me to the top of the drive. The garbage man is used to it, and I think he feels sorry for me. He just lifts me out of the bin, cuts the string, and helps me out of the bag.

I’ve tried wearing elevated shoes, but it doesn’t seem to make a lot of difference. I think my wife is sorry that she married me and is trying to show me that things are pretty much over between us. Do you think I could salvage this relationship, or should I start looking for a tiny wife?

‘Despondent in Detroit’

Dear Des,
You’re in a tight spot there, no doubt about it, as you very almost fall into a certain category as it were, but not quite. Of course, the fact we all shrink somewhat as we age is not going to help your particular, and I must say this, rather peculiar case.

‘Unreasonable Behavior’, which your wife definitely understands the finer points of, will qualify you for a swift divorce, but you will look like a little idiot, which you can’t at your height afford.

If you conduct an affair and then contrive to let the wronged partners know of it, you are almost certain to become involved in their messy and public divorce proceedings. This is how you do it:

Join one of the internet dating services that caters exclusively to the bored spouse and request to meet only ladies 5’4” tall or less. There are many lonely and petite women out there in Detroit. Some of them are even smaller than they once were, due to accidents.

Once you have lured your philandering partner in grime, you must cement the contract with the normal offerings. You want this to be average; it’s the only way it will work. A few dinners, flowers delivered to the office, a small gift – soon revenge will be yours, as this case clearly requires.

Arrange a rendezvous about a week after you have agreed to take your budding relationship one step further. This will give you time to find a good private detective to follow yourself and record your infidelity with dates, times, places and photographic evidence. As soon as the evidence becomes available pay for it. Contact your petite friend’s legal partner anonymously and offer the iniquitous evidence, preferably for a similar price to the one you were forced to part with. Make copies first however, and mail one to your wife, also anonymously.

At this point you will probably be close to gaining your freedom. Do not mourn your tall, willowy, graceful wife. She will soon lose shape when she doesn’t have you to work out with.

Anyway, I fully expect that if you were to stay with her, her behavior would escalate. I’ve seen this type of thing before. All it would take really is one lean Christmas coming up for the waste-disposal person and a hefty tip from your wife. You would be whisked away as quickly as was decent under the circumstances, and you might not get free in time to save yourself. No small loss. Well, not in that way.

If you do it my way you can become ‘Co-Respondent in Detroit’ instead, and that will make you feel, and look, a lot better, and a little bigger also by the warped standards which in this day and age society clutches fiercely to it’s nether regions.

This would be a good time to change your job. Here is what I think you should do. If you became a Head Chef people would only take note of you from the shoulders up. Problem solved. You would also make more money. Have some ambition!

Good Luck, Wotta Tripp!

PS: Are the garbage bags your lady wife is using extra large or just normal? I believe it will help my compassionate readers to come to terms with your plight a little better if they know a few details. For instance, does your wife purchase special decorative garbage bags for Hallowe’en and Christmas? They can be purchased cheaply in bulk from a nasty sounding place named Wal-Mart, if she is interested.

A Sad Case Of Mistaken Identity

My Dear Readers,
A sadder case I have rarely seen:

Dear Dame Wotta,
I have a big problem, I can tell you!

The trouble is I have a sister (one of two) who has set up an 'advice column' on the internet and is now dispensing said advice in a way that is quite likely going to be the death of someone. I am terribly worried about her getting sued.

Let me give you a little bit of background on her. She was born a poor gypsy child on a warm day in August (she was later forced to became middle-class) to extremely normal English parents with average views.

Right from the start it was apparent that she was not normal. She would sit singing little songs to entities in the garden that only she could see. She also became very good friends with a hamster called Sally. This in itself was not so unusual, but our Father later shot Sally while she was innocently exploring the chimney. He was worried she might starve to death if she couldn’t find her own way down. I believe they call it a preemptive strike. This changed her in deep and unusual ways.

On the weekends our Father would take her striding across the fields with his air gun, shooting cow dung for the sheer joy and satisfaction of seeing it splatter. Our Mother would smile patiently, understanding the need for men to have hobbies. My sister treasured these times and held them dear to her heart. Later, when they returned, our Father would often round off the day by gassing a few butterflies so he could stick pins in them and mount them as she looked on.

The point is, even with normal parents, somehow she slid so desperately off track that by the time I came along when she was two and a half years old she was well on her way.

Now I’m not saying I saw her head twist around on her neck to an impossible angle or anything like that (although I did see that later when she was drinking a yard of ale with a rather undesirable Irishman one extremely unpleasant night that no one in the family ever mentions, EVER), that is to say, her head didn’t spin around on her neck, so we, possibly unwisely, ruled out demonic possession and put her oddities down mainly to high spirits. This was a colossal mistake on our part, and we ended up with a conundrum of mighty proportions.

As she grew into adulthood she just grew more peculiar. She developed exotic tastes for the occult and hallucinogens. She also seemed to enjoy discoursing with foul mouthed sailors in questionable public houses, and our parents’ worried night and some of the afternoon too. Luckily we were a fair way from the sea.

The more she drank the more she studied tree sprites and woodland nymphs; she was often seen roaming the village late at night conversing with them. After a while the villagers stopped shrinking into the hedgerows and crossing the road when they saw her. In fact, they just stopped leaving their homes all together after dark, as that made things a lot easier for them.

Later, as she got older, she started getting taken by aliens on a regular basis. She would collapse into bed after a night at the local boozer and then she would be whisked off by those little gray buggers. She never complained once, though. Secretly I think she simply enjoyed all that probing and experimental carry on. She always did like attention.

As she shuffled into womanhood she married and had children. They all turned out to be very peculiar, especially the boys. Soon they too were being taken by aliens for experimental purposes. They too were seen happily conversing with entities! It was just like a re-occurring nightmare!

Having given you some pertinent background detail, I humbly ask you, Dame Wotta, is this the kind of woman who should be carelessly dispensing advice to all and sundry? Do you think she’s stable and grounded enough to direct people to make sensible choices?

Yours sincerely
Your Worried ‘er Reader

Dear Worried’er,
How quaint, I love Irish names!

You will be relieved to find that I understand your conundrum, and I believe I can help you reach some kind of closure. I sense here a kindred spirit to the wandering wind.

Split personality is becoming more common in today’s society and has been doing so for over a century. Now known as Dissociative Identity Disorder, it is a psychiatric diagnosis that describes a condition in which a single person exhibits multiple distinct personalities, such as you seem to be doing.

Identifying with this strange personality will obviously be difficult for you – I certainly wouldn’t want to attempt it myself without serious and possibly illegal medication – but it’s very important that you attempt to integrate this extra identity.

Your Father has much to answer for! Hamsters are very special and pure desert creatures that are privy to many of life’s most haunting esoteric secrets. I am left in no doubt that when Sally was ripped from your bosom and so foully executed a part of your heart went with her. This led to a lull in your true spiritual education and also caused a soul-fragment to flee to the dark and nameless wood where they all do tend to end up.

A soul-retrieval will be necessary, and possibly an exorcism also. I can save you. Write to me privately and I will arrange a special night visitation from one of my omnipresent selves. This special healing modality was taught to me by extraterrestrials very long ago. It will integrate all of the ‘you’s’ and render your problem down to a small stain on the memory. This can later be removed with oxygen products.

The personality in question sounds quite disturbed and I agree should not be dispensing advice to all and sundry. Do not under any circumstances allow this entity to give advice again. I repeat, NO ADVICE, it could be very dangerous for all concerned. I think that when you are better the urge to tell others what to do will vanish and you will be normal, like myself.

I implore you, instead of worrying about money and the possibility of being sued, please write to me before it’s too late!

Your Concerned Adviser,
Dame Wotta Tripp

PS: I’ve never heard of a grown person mounting a butterfly before. How exactly is this achieved?

PPS: I myself have also frequently been taken by aliens and have so far found the experience to be extremely gratifying.

Delirious Fetish Dressing For Wedding Salads

Hello, Dame Wotta.
I would like to know your opinion on one thing:

What kind of salad dressing should I throw at my wedding guests that will not leave stains?

Let me cut to the chase. I have a fetish. It involves salad dressing.

I just don't think I can truly love my fiancé until she accepts this fetish and/or develops a similar or even more exciting one. She's 39 and I'm 42. We're a good looking couple and we have been together for 3 years. What more could I want, right? Wrong. I need to cover people in salad dressing, and I thought that if she and I could do this together, at our wedding, then she would learn to love it (i.e. Exposure therapy for a fear of snakes involving holding and eating raw snakes).

Whenever I ask her to wear the dressing it upsets her. She's a bit of a selfish cow in that way, but I thought that maybe if I can convince her that I'm right and that she's wrong during the wedding it'll be worth it. (It has to be during the wedding because I've dreamed of my honeymoon being a certain way for three years. Whenever I smell that vinaigrette, I just tingle inside.) The thing is, I have to get enough dressing on her and everyone else so that she can see how lovely it truly is. (I tried this surprise conversion method at home once and it did not go well. She thinks that she didn't like it. I assume that if I had more dressing that she would have realized that she liked it a lot.)

I don't mind if her wedding dress gets stained (that would be kind of nice) but I don't want to stain my favorite orange tie. What brand of dressing would you recommend?

Your admirer, Nigel

PS If you could send me a proper photo of yourself without the hat I could Photoshop it and show you what you would look like in ‘thousand islands’, if this interests you?

Dear Nigel,
Well, you are a special boy, aren’t you?

Unlike your average person, I’m not interested in dressing without salad, but only for dinner, so I find myself unable to grant your request.

The more practical solution to your problem I may be able to help you deal with.

Any obsessive preoccupation can swiftly become abnormal if you cannot allow yourself to have a fulfilling relationship with one who does not share your (in this case, excessively messy) compulsion.

It may make more sense to cut your losses and save her from future heartbreak by admitting to your fiancée the full extent of your grossly distorted desires, and honestly telling her that it would be easier for you to live without her than without salad dressing.

If she still wants your worthless and oily hide after this, there is nothing further I can do. At this point it might make more sense to have a themed wedding, beginning your new life as you mean to go on, with every single relative and guest associated with both families hating you utterly and in unison. You may also have to sell all your wedding gifts to cover dry-cleaning bills.

If you must continue up this slippery slope then nothing can alter the fact that it will be a long slide downhill from the top, with a bumpy but squishy landing. Some will wash their hands of you, and rightly so, because the marks, scuffs and fingerprints persons such as yourself leave behind are nothing short of criminal. You are an expensive nuisance!

Having said that, if you are determined to go ahead, below is my recipe for Delirious Fetish Dressing, especially designed for your adult-only wedding reception to set those lovely tingles going. If the wedding is called off, this recipe can be used for those yummy ‘dressing-down everyone’ parties.

Delirious Fetish Dressing (or Serious S*lad Semen), bulk serving:

48 cups white wine vinegar
96 cups liquid virgin coconut oil
96 cups virgin olive oil
3 oz fresh dill weed
6 oz fresh weed
6 oz organic honey
Lemon, orange and grapefruit zest to taste
Dash of Tabasco only (careful of all those precious eyes!)
Sea salt and ground black pepper to taste

Blend until the consistency appears correct – do not over-homogenize. Best refrigerated for 48 hours. Allow 2 hours at room temperature before use.

Reserve a portion for hurling at party guests. May I suggest one and a half cups per person. Afterwards you will need the recipe below for removing the stains and, possibly, a solicitor.

Serious S*lad Semen Removal (works well for fabric and skin):

This is the only chance you will have to remove the stains. Blot the areas by stroking gently with a dampened sponge. Apply Stubben Saddle Soap and scrub vigorously with a stiff-bristled brush. This works for asphalt stains too. Now mix a lot of dish-washing liquid with equal parts of glycerine and a lot more water. Load into high-powered water pistols and arm all your guests. Fight until everyone comes clean.

I wish you all the best,
Wotta Tripp

PS: About your orange tie, if you don’t want to get dressing on it, try encasing it in a long plastic bag before you don it for your special day!

Dear Mrs. Tripp Lady

Dear Mrs Tripp Lady
I have the Honour to undress you from my little home in Mbasa Sind Leoto. Your humble serpent and his seventin bothers all march eight miles every day to a small wood mud internest cafe ten miles afar were we spend a days half wages to watch your writhings through a small magicl widow to your distinct land. Your magnifisent verbage astounds us all and we expect more astonishment when we learn to stand under it. We all search the hevens daily for the gentileman in the balloon. One thing we cannot believe. Do some parsons peel the eggs before consume them? They must have money to set fire to. Our chickhens are trained from birth to seek out and consume all chalkie stuff which our wise men say keeps our bonus at attention. The World is repeatedly increasing to a smaller place so you may soon learn also the wisedom of our wise and medicl men. My bothers and your humble serpent have observed that the porpoise of your widow is sister to an oracle and demands that an enquirie must be maid before your spirit ansers. We have disgust for two days and have agreed on our enquirie :- How are you doing?

Please to unveil your goodself of an exellent day

Nedal Nib Amaso. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dear Mr. Nib Amaso,
I am delighted that someone can finally see me in the way in which they were meant to! Very well done! Did you know I could also see you, once the smoke cleared? So there you are, you naughty boy, hiding in South Africa!

If you are referring in your letter to my advice regarding the noise made when masticating egg shells (When It Comes To The Crunch), then yes, eggs within my culture are peeled anywhere that people in confined quarters who are not yet deaf are forced to live together in groups of more than one. A lack of organic calcium is ultimately seen as more desirable than a lack of self-control which could conceivably result in manslaughter, or worse.

The oracle to which you refer is set in place to facilitate communications between myself and the Otherworld (with which your Sangoma’s must be quite familiar) in order to correctly accomplish my task here on Earth. As you probably are aware, I am advisor to both the living and the dead, and I feel I must state here, the living are very much more trouble.

After carefully considering your question and going into meditation I achieved the following result:

Before me lay a clear and limpid pool with a bit of mist, surrounded by ferns. Behind me lay burning veldt. Before me again, but after the limpid pool part, dark forests sweep ever upwards towards frozen Northern wastelands where howling winds scream for evermore over icy tundra. Bugger that for a lark!

Now the moment of truth has come, and I lean down towards the pool, searching its sparkling depths for coins people have chucked in during petitions to the local goddess of the spring (who is no better than she should be), as I have to get something out of this, you will agree. The mist that’s clinging still to the waters surface finally disperses so I can get a good look. There am I, surrounded by the usual golden sparkles! This always makes me a little emotional, as I’m not visible in an ordinary mirror. I look, I must say, remarkably vibrant and robust, so thank you, gentlemen, I am doing very well!

As I have not yet answered the letter regarding the gentleman in the balloon I acknowledge fully the prowess of your wise men. If you spot him, please let me know soonest. Losing people was never good for business, as you know. Greetings to the entire 18 of you!

Most sincerely,
Dame Wotta Tripp X

Dear Readers: Above you is a photograph of the charming 'Internest Cafe'

In And Out

An update from Phillip in Australia!
His problems are at an end!

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
Ever since I read your letter my life has been like a Renaissance!

Because I’ve had to do me own chores the old ‘bitters bundle’ has gone for a Burton.

The other day as I was filling up me utility a really nice bloke from Perth stopped to admire me shiny collector’s edition ’65 Holden.

We got on like a house on fire. He’s moved in and I’ve come out! Thank you, Dame Wotta!

Toorah!
Phillip Bruce Nugent VII

Dear Phillip,
I’m always so glad to be able to help my fellow persons. My heart warmed and my eyes filled with tears of joy as I read your letter. I always enjoy a good laugh.

I did tell you your Sheila would not return, and that not even a 'roo would answer any attempt you made to find another partner, but this seems to have worked to your advantage this once. I do hope for both your sakes that Perth does dishes as well as you.

Don’t hesitate to write again if you need my sterling assistance, but for now your life seems to be one gay whirl!

Cheers,
Wotta Tripp!

When It Comes To The Crunch

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
My Uncle Charlie believes there is a lot of good in egg-shells and when he has a boiled egg for lunch the noise is awful. We can't stand the grating crunching noise. We can hear it all over the house.

We've all complained but he says his health comes first. Can you suggest a solution?

A Niece in Distress

Dear Niece,
I fully sympathize and a hundred years ago there were many cruel but simple and powerful techniques you could have used as a family to bring this terrible and anti-social behavior to a halt.

Now, however, Social Services and other such bureaucratic nosy parkers cannot wait to become involved. I believe they utilize an MLM plan that enables interference through a practically infinite number of levels whilst offering numerous affiliate programs for ambitious do-gooders.

My considered and expert opinion has provided two possible solutions:

• If you are not averse to publicity, punish Uncle Charlie in the way you all must wish to, and then report yourselves to the appropriate government agency. Uncle Charlie will be removed from your home permanently. There may be a future literary opportunity writing how-to-cope articles for family magazines, etc. Many people have relatives that are extremely difficult to subdue, and selling information can be very lucrative.

• Do you remember that product that children had painted on their finger and toenails to stop them biting them to the quick? It tastes very bitter and I understand it is an acquired taste. I believe it’s called Stop’n’Grow. Paint this all over the bastard’s egg!

Dame Wotta Tripp

Fowl Play

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
We have all heard the old canard about “Why did the chicken cross the road?

I have researched this matter comprehensively, questioned many witnesses, and delved right to the root of this age-old question.

I have been unable to uncover any definitive proof that the chicken did actually cross the road.

There were many reports of the chicken walking along the side of the road (indeed , one staggering along the side of the road, probably due to the ingestion of fermenting grain ); dozens of accounts of the chicken walking away from the road, and just one case where the chicken was observed sitting in the middle of the road. In the latter incident the witness did not actually see the bird proceeding from the side of the road to the centre, therefore any subsequent movement of the bird to the side of the road could constitute a return rather than the completion of a traverse.

This being so, I believe I can fairly state that this old canard is "out for a duck".

For the purposes of this exercise I have defined “road" as being any designated route with common access to the public and so used.

If any of your readers wish further debate on this subject doubtless you will allow them access to your excellent site.

Stephen F*wler

Dear Stephen,
I myself censored your name. It may be your real name, in which case I apologize, but judging from the puns I detected in your letter it could just be an ill-justified grab for attention which I won’t tolerate in my column.

Although I agree that my site is excellent, thank you, I am left wondering what it is you want advice with. I fail to detect a problem concerning chickens, although I am not so sure about your self.

As far as chickens traversing roads, I feel you may have been double-crossed. Have you considered the chicken’s reality? Does any chicken in actuality cross a road, is it aware of a road, and might the road in fact cross the chicken? Does the chicken even really exist at the level we believe we may perceive it at?

A particular friend of mine is Mother Goose. She is a fount of cryptic wisdom and if anyone knows, it will be her. Next time I take chocolate with her I shall ask her.

On the one hand I do not wish my advice column, which was created to aid the desperately and pitifully inept, to become a forum for the discussion of poultry. I am as I write to you also struggling with my answer to an elderly lady who failed to say no to a small flood of ostriches in her youth and is now burdened with thousands of the birds, resenting them so thoroughly in light of her wasted life that she is at this moment considering how she may bring about their demise.

On the other hand, I do detect a keen scientific interest in certain esoteric subjects and encourage you to explore this unusual and slightly dangerous fetish elsewhere.

Ask and the internet shall provide: A kind soul pointed out to me only recently that there are at least two online groups whose only purpose is to collect audio recordings of human hiccups. You may do well to curb your roadside explorations and curtail your appetite for tales of poultry traveling and instead join a secure group of online poultry fanciers. There are probably hundreds of them, with ratings from general to adult. Who knows where this may lead?.

I am also worried that your letter and invitation for input will prompt a flood of mischievous letters and comments regarding birds, and then I may have to deal with people harshly. Readers, be warned! I don’t always like being forced to punish people, but I will if it becomes necessary.

Regards
Dame Wotta Tripp.

I Know Where You Live

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
Are parallel universes subject to the law of perspective?

Peggy

Dear Peggy,
Yes, providing the universes they are parallel to also have perspective.
I know where you live. Email me.

Wotta Tripp

Suspicious Minds

Hey,
i was wondering what can u do if your boyfriend thinks you cheated on him, because he heard something from another person and he will not talk to you?

my friend was hanging out with me and now her boyfriend thinks that i helped her cheat on him with one of my best friends. She loves her boyfriend but he won’t even listen to her, any advice?

From Samantha

Dear Samantha,
What kind of man is prepared to believe another persons spiteful gossip and hearsay without being at least also prepared to listen and talk it over with his girlfriend?

Even in the court systems of the world, which are considered the ‘lowest of the low’ amongst extraterrestrials from other systems, the defendant is usually allowed to present their case before being found guilty. Your unfortunate friend has been ‘presumed guilty’.

This man is a dinosaur, an anomaly trapped like a small, wriggly, sticky, struggling thing in amber.

If I had my way he would be soundly punished, and I have many, many ideas (write me privately, dear), but alas I may not give advice of this nature publicly.

I would council you to invite this irritating bloke to an informal meeting. At it should be gathered yourself, your friend’s self, and the self of the erstwhile ‘boyfriend’. Also, the other selves involved, being the gossip(s), the best friend she was supposed to have cheated with and any other guilty or innocent bystanders who need to be called as witnesses. By carefully questioning these gathered people the truth shall be revealed. Have you ever read or watched a ‘Miss Marple’ mystery? Like that.

Of course, no-one might co-operate.

And then, it might end in a fight, leading to an unseemly fracas and one of those large industrial-sized police vehicles coming to take you all in.

It happened once long ago at a party a friend of mine held. It was at a nice house with a hedged garden. A few people tried to escape through the back of the house when the police came, but unfortunately alcohol is a wicked trap, and several people were discovered struggling weakly in the hedges, snared by the foliage and unable to escape. You need to watch for things like that.

Sometimes people are nasty and use excuses such as this to finish a relationship. Cowards such as these are best forgotten, or there’ll be tears before bedtime! After having said all that, whatever the outcome, don’t any of you girls and boys stay with people who don’t respect you. You deserve better – I know I do!

Best – Wotta Tripp

PS. Did she cheat? You can email me privately, then I’ll do a poll and we’ll see if our readers can get it right!

PPS. I had another friend once who told me “If you love someone, let them go. If they are yours they will come back to you. If they don’t, hunt them down and kill them”. Mind you, I always felt that was a little extreme, and I don’t advise it unless you are over 93 and have not much left to lose.

What The Dickens?

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
I am writing to ask for your support.

I am working on a breeding experiment with birds. It is my purpose to cross chickens with ducks. It is possible that the resulting hybrid bird would be designated either a chuck or a dicken; at this stage it is immaterial.

The advantages to the chicken would be manifold. It would be able to:

• Swim to safety if it fell into a large body of water.

• Fly away in order to escape from a particularly bossy or otherwise obnoxious cockerel.

• Emigrate without having to wait at border crossings.

• More readily escape from forest fires.

• Go for a walk if it so desired.

I am sure your fertile mind can envisage many other benefits.

So far as the duck is concerned, it would be able to:

• Roost in trees to avoid night prowlers;

• Walk with less of a waddle, thereby avoiding possible coarse comments.

• Lay smaller eggs, making parturition less uncomfortable.

• Avoid prickly undergrowth and dirt, as its belly would be further from the ground.

• Be permanently dissociated from that dreadful Disney character.

I am not soliciting financial assistance. I would just like you to broadcast this idea so that the world may be prepared to welcome this new and improved creature.

Yours truly,
Norman Tailor (PhD)

Dear Norman,
I can see that you’ve put a lot of thought into this, and I can also see the advantages of your project.

My personal fascination with genetic engineering goes back to the long-lost days of Atlantis where for a while a lot of fun was had by all. How clever of you to know!

If I were to again take an interest in a program such as this I must make it clear that my primary concern would be in the return of winged cats with opposable thumbs. Having legions of such creatures in my armies has in the past proved indispensable, but the glory days are long gone, and it is pointless to dwell upon them.

Although your breeding program is doubtless fascinating, I can see no commercial value for anyone, as your concern is all for the comfort and well being of your chucks or whatever the dickens you call them.

This is diametrically opposed to the industrial and marketing techniques of the planet at the present time, but how gratifying to hear from one so spiritually advanced! This unfettered freedom is not permitted for any flocks at present, including but certainly not limited to, poultry, humans and cattle.

A head for science is not a head for business.

If you can design a cow that gives ale then you have it made. That’s good marketing.

Perhaps if you crossed a duck with a fork tailed drongo you would have a practical bird. These African birds are very hardy and aggressive, protecting their nests from all comers. As they also nest high in the forks of trees the eggs tend to remain safe.

By crossing these species you may take advantage of several benefits. Your new egg-layers can safely nest in already established orchards. This will also create employment for transients who wish to make a bit of money climbing for the eggs, thus benefiting mankind a little.

These new birds will also keep harmful insects down, thus bettering the orchard crop. Now that’s maximizing your assets! Perhaps a slight change of focus is needed for your all-round success.

I can’t at present think what you might call it, but let us ask our esteemed readers for ideas.
What do you think one should call a fork tailed drongo crossed with a duck?

Please email Dame Wotta, dear ones, to submit your ideas and help Mr. Norman Tailor.

Thank You!
Dame Wotta Tripp

Swarming With Dwarfs At The Ferret's Revenge

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
I’m writing this in the vain hope it will be published. My desire is to expose those responsible, but the best I can hope for at this point is compassion.

I’m a single man living in an English village which is picture-perfect. Unfortunately, like most things, it is not as it seems, and I know this to my cost.
Like many British men, I value my pint. I’ve drank locally at ‘The Ferrets Revenge’ all my life, and most of my world seemed pretty OK until about a week ago.

Recently my local changed hands, and it was bought by Bert and Dolly Crawford, a couple from London, outsiders. Both hard as brass, and she no better than she should be. Once a right scrubber, I should say. Everything changed for the worse, including the service.

It was a fine summer night that gave no forewarning of what was to occur. I not only ate at the Revenge that awful night, I also drank a fair amount, which was unusual for me.

Just after last call I was suddenly seized with violent stomach cramps and had to use the WC. I was dreadfully ill and couldn’t leave the toilet. I heard people coming and going loudly, flushing and chattering over my low groans. I must have sat there, back and arse aching, for about an hour.

It finally became quiet in the toilet but I could dimly hear noise flaring and dying away again as people went home for the night, and afterwards the clinking noises of bar clean-up in the distance. Finally all fell silent, and I was beginning to worry about how I would get out of the pub and manage to also lock the outside door without having to explain my embarrassing predicament. Naturally, I felt a right pillock. I didn’t mean to harp on about toilets, but they figure in the story.

At last I felt recovered enough to venture forth. I was just about to exit the bathroom when I heard noises. A door opened and then shut and voices and footsteps could be heard in the distance. At first I was mortified and almost decided to stay in the toilet ‘til morning, but suddenly I heard a pitiful sobbing begin, followed by shouting and scuffling. Then I heard Dolly’s voice, raised in anger: “You three little bleeders will dance if I tell you to!”

Timidly I pushed the door open an inch and peered out into the dimly lit corridor. I simply could not believe what I saw! Huddled together in the corridor were three male dwarfs dressed only in spangled loincloths.

Standing over them in a towering rage was Dolly, and one of the dwarfs was nursing the side of his head and whimpering. Bert and two other men stood further back in the shadows. One of them held what to my horror appeared to be a cattle prod.

It was clear to me that what was occurring wasn’t normal. These dwarfs were in thrall to these people, probably owned outright with money having changed hands.

I listened in shocked disbelief as the evildoers discussed plans to exploit these three small and currently defenseless men (three out of an apparent stable of twenty-seven) in a cruel betting ring that traveled on a revolving after-hours pub circuit. This resulted in them being forced to wrestle each other, sometimes in an oiled pit filled with writhing grass snakes, while heavy betting took place on all sides. Afterwards, while everybody relaxed with a cigarette and a drink, they would be tossed from person to person round a table of drunken revelers.

I felt a fierce licking of rage begin somewhere inside me and slowly grow.

I am not a brave man, Dame Wotta, but unable to stand listening to this violation of all that is good and true a moment longer, I rushed screaming out into the corridor, fists up and ready.

When I had been picked up, hit again, and once more dragged upright, I hung limply between two large and burly men while Dolly told me what they were going to do to me. I do remember begging while she ordered Bert to fetch the small funnel and a warm brandy and Rohypnol.

The last thing I remembered was thinking I might possibly choke as warm liquid was poured down my throat through the promised funnel.

When I came to I was lying on the village green fully clothed. Even though I was confused and groggy I knew I had been ill-used.
It was about six am and fully light, but no-one was around. I managed to get on my feet and stagger back to my home.

In the bathroom I needed two mirrors to view the lewd graffiti that covered my entire body, apparently perpetrated with a cheap red marker pen by some illiterate yob.

None of the crude statements were remotely true, at least not until last night.

I stood under the shower, letting the hot cleansing water flow over my battered, now fully shaved and abused body. Nothing in my social education had ever prepared me to deal with anything of this nature.

I knew I had to go to the police for the sake of the poor enslaved men I had witnessed at the Ferret, yet it was the last thing I felt like doing. Hurling my bruised body onto my lonely single bed, I allowed myself the luxury of a good roaring sob. An hour or so later I felt recovered enough to make my way to the kitchen. Swallowing down some Paracetamol with whiskey laced coffee, I also ate two chocolate bars and some cereal with milk to fortify myself.

Soon I was dressed and ready to go to the police station, finally willing to tell my story. As I was combing my hair there came the familiar sound of something being posted through the mailbox. It thudded heavily onto the mat.

On the hall floor lay a large yellow envelope. I picked it up, puzzled. There was no address, stamp or postmark on it. I returned to the kitchen and opened it.

Dame Wotta, I cannot describe the feeling that gripped me as I viewed the awful contents. Photograph after photograph of myself in every conceivable state of degradation and vileness lay before me on my scrubbed pine kitchen table. I would never be able to eat here again.

Turning from the terrible sight of myself being ravished while wearing a pale orange taffeta gown (with a beautiful matching underslip), and then again, in pink, well actually in an entire rainbow of stylish clothing, I fell to the floor in a fit of pique.

It was the most agonizing shock to see myself swarming with dwarfs in this unseemly and terribly mischievous way.

I know they couldn’t help it, I know they were forced, but I could never go to the police after seeing those dreadful images. I could never hold my head up again.

I know I will not be allowed to ever live this down. That evening when I went for my pint at the Revenge, I don’t think I imagined Bert and Dolly were sneering and whispering about me behind the bar, nor that their repeated references to my ‘little problems’ were a coincidence.

Only the final photograph is fit to be viewed, and I send this to you, Dame Wotta, so you can see where I was left in the morning. Please include it as a warning to your viewers!

What do I do now?

Sincerely,
David Onderdonk

Dear David,
What a to-do!

As I see it you don’t have a lot of options. You can either risk the ridicule of the entire village or you can come to terms with a simple fact of life. By the way, where is the village that you live in? A village green is always a nice feature, I think.

Dwarf Tossing and other similar extreme sports have been outlawed in most countries, and the UK is no exception. Despite this fact, it continues unabated nearly everywhere, as it has done for many thousands of years.

Why human beings wish to exploit each other like that is beyond me, but then, I am not human.

Stumbling upon this ring of slave-keeping tossers while indisposed was not a wise movement, but I fully expect the food was to blame. The kitchen standards in an establishment of this nature are likely to be lax at best.

I expect your new friends were made to behave in this manner by the perverted owners of The Ferret’s Revenge. I do understand a man’s loyalty to his local, but I believe it might be wise to drink elsewhere just for a couple of weeks until the fuss has died down, and then don’t stay until closing time again.

Do not judge too harshly, allow people time to change, for sometimes they do.

Life is awesome, strange and wonderful; I know I thought so while reading your letter!

I do not expect this will happen to you again – simply a one-off due to the circumstances you found yourself in.

I believe you must attempt to forgive and forget for the common good.

There are still plenty of places to get nice frocks, by the way.

I expect in a better world we would all be very good friends.

Best of luck to you,
Dame Wotta Tripp

Me sheila's Missing

Dear Dame Wotta,
Me sheila’s gone missin’. She won a trip to Sydney on a ‘shopping spree’ scratch and win card three weeks ago.
The sink’s full, the truck needs a wash and I’ve had to milk the cows every day, and also I can’t get me head down that far, if you know what I mean.
What do I do now?

Phillip Bruce Nugent VII

P.S. The cat misses her too.

Dear Phillip,
I’m so cross with you, but I’ll try to be patient. Don’t you understand out there in the out there, that when referring to your lady wife, you must say ‘my Sheila’, the s in Sheila always being upper-case, out of respect for womyn’s issues, which after all are often yourselves.

The state your letter was in when I received it was nothing less than disgraceful. Your handwriting is appalling, which matched your attitude, and the letter was actually still damp after traveling all that way. But then it was nestled in some beer-sodden paper toweling, and I also found a piece of bacon-rind and a toenail clipping. I had to put on gloves to deal with your problem. I almost photographed the contents of the envelope to show my dear readers, but didn’t think it appropriate at this time of the day.

I fully suspect the cat hasn’t had a decent meal in three weeks, like yourself. I can’t describe how annoying I find you.

I’d keep your head down if I were you, for I’ll be watching for more nonsense from you, and will gladly send neck stretching advice if you need it!

Dame Wotta Tripp

P.S. You do know she’s never coming back, don’t you? You’ll have more luck finding a mail-order kangaroo than you will another Sheila.

Talk Backwards To Me

Dame Wotta-Tripp,
Does it ever occur to you that you are influenced by Satan and that the prurient rubbish that spews from your mouth onto an unsuspecting world will eventually return to bite you on the leg, or preferably a little higher? Have a good day!

Scornfully not yours,
Demetrius Fotheringay.

ppirT attoW emaD

!suirtemeD ,noitcelloc evisnetxe rehtar ym ot luos ruoy fo drahs a dda dna uoy hpargotohp lliw I spahreP .daeha og ,ekil uoy erehwyna ,em etib ot yrt uoy epoh od I .egnellahc a ekil od I erom s’tahw dna ,em ot derrucco sah tI

Help From Zimbabwe Too Late For Charles

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
Even when quite a boy I was intrigued by aviation and hoped eventually to become an airline pilot.

I had a troubled childhood and when a teen had an encounter with the law. I was run over by a police car and required years of medical treatment and rehabilitation. This precluded any formal training as a pilot so I avidly devoured all written material on the subject that I could find. Now I feel reasonably fit, and at lunch time the other day, while working as a night-watchman, I read an advertisement for an intensive mail-order tutorial which, if successfully completed, would result in the granting of a diploma as a pilot, complete with frame and wall-hook.

Although not a rich man, the fee was within my grasp, since it could be paid in installments which had to be sent to a P.O. Box number in Zimbabwe. My aunt, who is actually my mother, but does not wish to claim that distinction, believes the course is not genuine, but I have checked the atlas and confirmed that Zimbabwe does actually exist, so I cannot understand her opposition to my advancement. Don’t you agree that a young man's wings should not be clipped?

Onwards and Upwards,
Charles Skye.

Dear Charles,
I have a message of hope for you. I'm sorry, but Zimbabwe is in crisis right now and could not respond and send you your course. I have found a friend, Nigeria, who will help you. Also, Nigeria is by the seaside, well some of it, which I think is nice, and there's probably a breeze too, and safety as long as you're away from petroleum facilities. Anyway, see what you think, Charles, it was the best I could do on short notice. Email me, sweetie, if you want to make arrangements. I'm on your side here, and your Mummy doesn't seem to know what she's talking about. You're grown up now, spread those wings!

LAGOS, NIGERIA.

ATTENTION: THE PRESIDENT/CEO

DEAREST CHARLES SKYE,

CONFIDENTIAL BUSINESS PROPOSAL

HAVING CONSULTED WITH MY COLLEAGUES AND BASED ON THE INFORMATION GATHERED FROM THE NIGERIAN CHAMBERS OF COMMERCE AND INDUSTRY, I HAVE THE PRIVILEGE TO REQUEST FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE TO TRANSFER THE SUM OF $47,500,000.00 (FORTY SEVEN MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS) INTO YOUR ACCOUNTS. THE ABOVE SUM RESULTED FROM AN OVER-INVOICED CONTRACT, EXECUTED COMMISSIONED AND PAID FOR ABOUT FIVE YEARS (5) AGO BY A FOREIGN CONTRACTOR. THIS ACTION WAS HOWEVER INTENTIONAL AND SINCE THEN THE FUND HAS BEEN IN A SUSPENSE ACCOUNT AT THE CENTRAL BANK OF NIGERIA APEX BANK.

WE ARE NOW READY TO TRANSFER THE FUND OVERSEAS AND THAT IS WHERE YOU COME IN. IT IS IMPORTANT TO INFORM YOU THAT AS CIVIL SERVANTS, WE ARE FORBIDDEN TO OPERATE A FOREIGN ACCOUNT; THAT IS WHY WE REQUIRE YOUR ASSISTANCE. THE TOTAL SUM WILL BE SHARED AS FOLLOWS: 70% FOR US, 25% FOR YOU AND 5% FOR LOCAL AND INTERNATIONAL EXPENSES INCIDENT TO THE TRANSFER.

THE TRANSFER IS RISK FREE ON BOTH SIDES. I AM AN ACCOUNTANT WITH THE NIGERIAN NATIONAL PETROLEUM CORPORATION (NNPC). IF YOU FIND THIS PROPOSAL ACCEPTABLE, WE SHALL REQUIRE THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENTS:

(A) YOUR BANKER'S NAME, TELEPHONE, ACCOUNT AND FAX NUMBERS.

(B) YOUR PRIVATE TELEPHONE AND FAX NUMBERS -- FOR CONFIDENTIALITY AND EASY COMMUNICATION.

(C) YOUR LETTER-HEADED PAPER STAMPED AND SIGNED.

ALTERNATIVELY WE WILL FURNISH YOU WITH THE TEXT OF WHAT TO TYPE INTO YOUR LETTER-HEADED PAPER, ALONG WITH A BREAKDOWN EXPLAINING, COMPREHENSIVELY WHAT WE REQUIRE OF YOU. THE BUSINESS WILL TAKE US THIRTY (30) WORKING DAYS TO ACCOMPLISH.

PLEASE REPLY URGENTLY.

BEST REGARDS

WOTTA JUMAI FA’IQAH TRIPP

Dame Wotta Tripp Is Too Late!

To My Dear Readers:
Wotta Tripp is too late!

Alas, as happens from time to time, I was unable to help a poor soul who turned to me! How I struggle with my regrets! How I hope you will all forgive me!
About ten days ago I received a most bewildering letter. I usually answer my cries for succor in the order I receive them. The letter was puzzling but did not at the time seem urgent. I present it to you below unchanged, exactly as I received it so you may consider it:

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
I am an old man now, and all my life I have been looking for Artur Strump, but without success. I suppose it has been a bit of an odd session, or whatever they call it, but I knew my life would not be complete until I had met him. I don't know anything about him. I never heard about him, or anything like that, but his name came into my mind when I was a wee lad and I knew I had to meet him to make my life complete. I have searched all over the country, covering it bit by bit and will be setting out searching again on Tuesday. If I find anything I will let you know.

Henry Hatter.

My usual procedure each day is to put out the letters I intend to answer and today was no different. Amongst the day’s good deeds I had to attend to was the letter from Henry Hatter which I had already pondered considerably. Before answering the selected letters I read the new mail of the day.

My powers did indeed fail me (just this once), and I am bowed down with guilt.
Imagine my shock when I then received the following letter:

Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
I felt I should let you know about my Dad, Henry, as I know he wrote to you about his problem.
He went away for a few days last Tuesday and on Wednesday a police officer called to say he was sorry, but my Dad was no more. I was surprised and asked him, “no more what”? Then he explained that Dad was walking along a country road when he was struck and killed by a hearse driven by a Mr. Artur Strump. Mr. Strump was very upset, but has promised to give dad a free funeral. It's a funny old world, isn't it?
Yours ever,
Alice Osborne

My sympathy and deep regrets go out to this shattered family!
All donations for the family can be sent to the ‘HATTER FUND’ c/o Dame Wotta Tripp. Thank You.

Shaven Cats In Wide-Brimmed Hats

Dear Dame Wotta,
Before I tell you what’s wrong I want to make sure you know that I love cats, I love all animals, but I adore cats.

That’s what makes my problem so hard to bear. I never hurt anything, not so much as a Giraffe Weevil or an Asian Longhorned Beetle - never.

I adore cats, all of them, but when I’m near to them a strange compulsion often steals very slowly and silkily over me. It tickles, and then the ideas begin. I’m quite creative, well people have said so, my teacher even did, so the ideas come one after the other. I think I’m an artist at heart, really.

I see cats kind of like a blank page, and I have a secret language I call ‘Kittenwritten’ (DO NOT STEAL THIS NAME, Dame, as I am copyrighting it VERY soon) that tells me the best idea I could have for each kitty.

When my cat Candyfloss Stickums (I've included a photo) went to the vet (PRIVATE, I won’t post a defenseless animals medical records, don’t ask me to) a few years ago she had to have a good shaving, and that’s really what started it all. When I got home I stroked her velvety skin and noticed the cutest wrinkles ever! I confess I was soon addicted to this soothing stroking, (as I already had been for a long time to feeling all around and in between cat toes) and the bubbling feeling of happiness that it makes happen.

Eventually her fur grew back, but ever since then I have had to stop myself from shaving Candyfloss. I’ve thought of many patterns to shave, checks, wavy lines, or even all of it off. Then I could get some of those tattoo pens (non-toxic, I’m not that stupid) and decorate her properly. And for different special times of family closeness, like Xmas, I have many, many ideas (I keep a notebook with a lock = PRIVATE – don’t ask me!!).

Best of all would be summer, when I could rub coconut oil all over my cat and into the wrinkles also every day and very best (get this!!) – they get FRECKLES in the sun!

I know deep down inside that I shouldn’t do any of this, and that I need help, but I’m scared one day I’ll break down and do all this at my cat.
I could never afford therapy. Please help me!

Candyfloss Stickums Angeltoes’ Mommy

My dear girl,

There’s no need to feel shame for a moment longer, there are many ways in which we can turn your negatives into positives!

Many, many people feel as you do (my sister Jane, for one), and I feel this impulse lies deep within the human race memory.
People have decorated their animal companions for thousands of years, everywhere. In ancient times cats were beautifully decorated in many countries.
The Celts decorated their pets and today camels and elephants (who also are prone to freckles) are painted with vivid colors. It makes them all very happy.

Be careful if you use coconut oil in the sun, as you might fry your little Candyfloss (I've included her photo above, but I think you'll find you've made a small mistake, and that she may be a little boy!), and although the wicked and desperate are rumored to do this with Mars Bars I think that is the only type of confectionery suitable.
You are supposed to use sunscreen to prevent the possibility of skin cancer, but sunscreen causes skin cancer.
I would try a little bonnet with an extensive brim. She will probably be nice and cool.

But I have a nice surprise for you! Some kitties come ready made with no fur. They have no fur software. They are called Sphynx cats, and this is what I think you need. Candyfloss would like a companion, I’m sure, and then you can leave her fur intact. You could continue to play with her toes and possibly still decorate her anyway: Go to the library and look at the book ‘Why Paint Cats?’ by Burton Silver and Heather Busch.
I have a feeling that if you are truly creative you will see a powerful career opportunity unfurl before you.

If you earn enough for a Sphynx, please call your new feline Dame Wotta, in honor of one who truly yearns to help all who cast their heartaches before her!

A kiss on the nose to Candyfloss -
Wotta Tripp!