Dear Old Owl,
I am starting a new job as a stationary assistant in an office. Unfortunately, my male colleagues ridicule and belittle me for being a “beta bitch secretary” with an “Ellen haircut”. How can I prove to them that masculinity stems not from a job title, but from within?
Dear Owlet,
You have to show these ruffians that just because you’re a male secretary doesn’t mean you’re not masculine. In fact, “male secretary” has “male” in the name. I would recommend you keep a variety of knives and guns on you at all times, and frequently mention the bald eagle you shot and stuffed in 2014. You could even bring it to the office as a statement piece for your desk. Talk about things like whiskey and war, and whenever the subject changes you can just scowl into the distance dramatically. . Read a lot of Bukowski, and be sure to occasionally quote Abraham Lincoln. If you are ever prompted to share your feelings, don’t! It’s a trap, and your coworkers will catch you at your most vulnerable, and therefore least masculine. Learn a lot about one of the following topics to deflect: fly fishing, centrism in modern-day America, leather and leather manufacturing, boxers from the early 20th century, or actresses with large breasts. Your macho officemates will see that you are a man, and will respect you for it. Godspeed, beta bitch.
Dear Old Owl,
I think I am having a midlife crisis. I bought a sexy new sports car, I got a hair transplant, and I have started seeing a much younger woman who only loves me because of my money. All this, and I still don’t feel fulfilled. How can I find satisfaction in this empty life?
Dear Owlet,
Hey, we’ve all been there. When I suffered my midlife crisis, I purchased Ernest Hemingway’s family home and burned everything to the ground just to feel something. As I watched the house where this beloved American author wrote To Have and Have Not burst into flames, I shed a single tear. From those ashes, I was reborn. All of a sudden my life was restored. I held my wife close for the first night in months that night as we did ecstasy for the first time. There was some hand stuff, too. Only later was it revealed to me that there were some one-of-a-kind manuscripts that were left inside the home. But even through the arson hearings my mind was set on one thing: you only live once. In saying this, I recognize that it is impossible to recreate my experience of what the Post called “abhorrent behavior resulting in the loss of treasured and irreplaceable writings.” Because I already did that. And there’s nothing left. But, hey, there’s always Vegas.
Dear Old Owl,
I grow weary of this never-ending war. The fighting is tough andhe wind beats heavy upon my face. Gunshots and explosions across the minefield ring hollow through the night, and the day isn’t much different. I look at my brothers, desperately trying to survive this war which plagues our nation. I shed one tear a day for all the great men whose lives have been destroyed by meaningless violence and cruelty, and I keep it in a glass vial marked “Sad Memories”. I later drink the tears, to reinvigorate the memory, and also for sustenance. How can I memorialize these men in a way that is more permanent?
Dear Owlet,
Not to be, like, super ignorant, but… is there a war happening right now? Because if there is, I totally had no clue. Haha, that’s actually so weird. Also, aren’t there women in the military now, too? I remember seeing some hotties in uniform back in the early days of Afghanistan, but that’s beside the point. The best way to memorialize is to drink one shot per dead friend, then just raw dog an absolutely bangin’ eulogy. I would know, a bunch of my friends “drank the Kool-Aid” in ‘78. At the time, I was dieting, so I passed on the Kool-Aid in favor of a refreshing cold water, and ended up being the only one who left Guyana in one piece. I got a standing O at the service. Let ‘er rip. Cry it out. Quote Inglourious Basterds. You’ll be a hit.