Our dear friend Francesca, a vertiable font of advice, offers you, the Teeming Millions, her uncanny ability to solve your queries and quandries with answers that are less stable than an epileptic mouse on crack riding a unicycle on quicksand.
Bring her your woes! Bring her your troubles! She’ll give you an answer that will truly make you think. Classicly trained in philosophy, her skill is unparalleled.
Fran,
I am unhappy with my job, but it pays the bills much better than things I like to do. What should I do?
If one of our purposes in life is to make others happy, why haven’t I found the ones who make me happy? I’ve made others VERY happy. When is it my turn to be happy?
And what is good, Fran, and what is not good- need we ask anyone to tell us these things?
Instead, Fran, let me ask you: Do you agree with Kant in that “Philosophy stands in need of a Science to determine the Possibility, the Principles, and the Extent of all a priori Knowledge”? Why, or why not? Also, is it possible that this science already exists?
Mr. Jarbaby doesn’t like short hair, so I’m growing my hair out long, and it does look nice, but every time I see a cute, short haircut, I just about weep. Should I murder him?
Fran, I’m in a dilly of a pickle. I got all caught up into a discussion of the nature of man and his role in the universe. My esteemed colleague thinks that life is one unending struggle against the nothingness of nonbeing, that life exists only for struggle, and that only victory in battle is a worthwhile achievement, which he likened to giving the universe the prostate hammer. I contend that the universe is cold and uncaring, and that our lives can only be measured by how we affect others while we’re here, so victory is fleeting at best and triumph over the universe is impossible. I guess what I’m getting at, Fran, is, do you love me now that I can dance?
My dearest Cynical Manservant. What is a job? Lets look at that a little, lets work through this together.
Sit down. What does this inkblot look like to you? A bonobos monkey? Good boy. That means you should work in a zoo. Or perhaps in a jungle. Bonobos monkeys are the kind that like to do the nasty. You’ll be happy there. But they do not give you money. You could try being a monkey pimp. They would worship you like a god.
Tell me how you really feel Cranky. It’s not about the guinea pigs is it? Not really. I feel the subtext of your plea. You want a new couch. With a nice blue throw. Go, run to the couch. Sit on the couch. Feel the love of the couch. Think no more of guinea pigs and babies, for they are false friends.
Screechyhoney, don’t be sad, don’t be mad, don’t be Chad. Chad’s the guy who works at my local bookstore. He’s not special. You are special. Have joy in your bitterness. Lemons are bitter, yet they are joyful. Listen to the lemons – they know happiness. If you can’t hear them, they are dead. Move on quickly.
Chruch groups have never been much good for meeting women. Too much emphasis on the chruching, not enough on the dressing of women in genie pants. Go where there are more genie pants. If you rub them, a genie may appear. Try this as often as you can.
It means “able to turn green”. My font is colour-enabled. You’re jealous aren’t you?
Tripler, it’s Spiderman with his Spidey-sense. He knows all our 7-up secrets, but he needs the money, so he sells his information like the sell-out corporate whore that he is. Superman never did that. I think there’s a lesson there for all of us.
The existance of a priori knowledge would necessitate inductive reasoning in any thought-through analysis of its principles, for which there can be no place in a truly rigourous science. Karl Popper may disagree, but he smells of wee and therefore cannot be taken too seriously
Cut your hair very short and spikey and then impale him upon the spikes, in much the same manner as a straw gets imbedded in a tree during a hurricane. If there are no hurricanes handy, a hairdryer will do in a pinch. Except that with short hair, you will have no need of hairdryers, thus leaving you without a murder weapon. Go free, my short-haired friend, free like the wind. But not a hurricane wind. I told you about that once before. Don’t you listen?
I love you when you dance, I love you when you stare bleakly into the pointlessness of your own existance and discuss prostate hammers intimately with friends. But is this advice? Tell me, light of my life, how can I help you? I so want to help. Unburden yourself onto me, and I will willingly bend my ear to you. I have very flexible ears.
I’ll overlook your omission of the word “over” inbetween “goes” and “50 miles”. That is because I am nice. Nice Fran. Say it with me. Nice Fran. Well done.
First, what you do is shoot Sandra Bullock. She is a spy and wants to kill you. Don’t listen to anyone else about this. I speak only the truth. Would I lie to you hon? Would I? Then, you knit. Knit for your life. You need to knit 10 pairs of bootees. These will be used for the purpose of fooling the evil crime lord who is no doubt watching you via the gift of CCTV. You will then don the booties and he will get all weirded out and think you have all become giant babies and he will go and cry in the corner. This is your chance. The bomb is underneath the bus. He has cunningly used differently coloured wires so that you can tell them apart. But don’t go first. Send the loony from the back of the bus first so that he may perform the ritual of Stupid Person Who Gets Flung Under The Bus. It’s an intricate ritual, but he does it well. Once he has performed said ritual, take off your booties. This is serious work and the wearing of booties will make you less efficient. And you’ll look like a fool.
Lean unnecessarily precariously through the convenient hatch in the floor of the bus, being careful not to catch your underarm hair in the engine. Use your new knitting needles (which, if you’ll remember earlier, you fashioned from splinters of the windscreen wipers. Stop asking questions.) to prise the wires apart. Then, with your teeth, gnaw through the blue wire. It’s always the blue wire. You may feel a little tingle as the electricity shorts through your body, but it’s a small price to pay. An you’ll get a fabulous new hairstyle. It’ll be quite similar to jarbaby’s - you’d like that wouldn’t you?
And lo, you shall be free from the bomb. The Evil Crime Lord, who has by now noticed your non-bootie-clad feet, will be cursing you and banging his fist against his Evil Crime Lord table (they come free with the job). The police will catch him and he will be pulled away, screaming for vengence. But that’s another story.
That wasn’t vague advice. In fact, it was quite specific. But in matters of knitting, one can never be too careful.
Dear Francessca, I am on the horns of a dilemma and in the arms of a quandary.
Should I have a cup of tea or a cup of coffee?
Please help me decide. I’ve boiled the kettle, but it’s gone cold now, and I don’t want to boil it again until I’m sure I know what drink is best for me.
I love the minesweeper game, I absolutely love it!! But it is interfering with my life – I can think of little else. While waiting for the MB to come up, I play it; while waiting for my post to clear, I play it; sometimes when I try to go to sleep I see it in my mind. Can you help me get my score below 100?
