Tag Archives: advice

Healthy Competition

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Dear Steve Strange,

I have recently lost weight due to some heartbreak, but it really seems to be staying off. When the numbers on the scale started to drop, I anticipated all sorts of happiness. But all I got is that my clothes fit me rather unflatteringly. I am afraid to buy new things for a svelte new me, afraid this is just setting myself up for failure. Where is all the joy I was promised if I would Just. Be. Thin.

love,
Sad in a Sack

Well, helloooo there, Sack, I know you were expecting Steve, but I really think he could use a break, don’t you? The man is looking positively haggard. The bags under his eyes remind me of Canal St. Vuittons. No, Coach. I believe this is where the guttersnipes of today say “Snaps.” Or some other spot of nonsense.

Let’s talk about me, since I am already before you, commanding attention, shirtless, taut and iconic. I like to change my look quite a bit, and I will be the first tell you the answer to “when?” is never! Nothing will ever be good enough, so you might as well enjoy your journey. That’s the point of this little teacup ride, right? Have you considered plastic surgery? You get painkillers with that. The room does spin a bit faster post-op.

So what does it really matter: eat up, or not; actually, I never eat. Eating demeans us all. In these times where even I have had to cut back on my sartorial allowance (I have dispensed with shirts in order to remain abreast of trends in fur), you might consider tailoring, and be sure to advise the tailor that you predictably plan to become fat again at some point so he can leave a seam allowance.

Now cheer up, and put down that sandwich!

Every Day is Halloween

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Trick or Treat with Steve Strange

Battle kittens, we went trick or treating with Steve Strange. Look, that’s yours truly with the little mustache!

We called Steve back from safari only to cause him great psychic trauma when we found the the local politician’s haunted donut cavern was shuttered. Not running for re-election. Oh well. Democrats used to stand for free donuts for all, but what of this year? Are times really that tough? Are we just a bunch of poverty stricken Roombas zooming around, moaning about a little cat shit in our path, while other people flaunt ungrammatical signs about Obama making us MARRY OUR SISTAR? It’s time for a rally, my little wasabi peas.

Dear Steve Strange,

I think I have forgotten the capacity to love another human being after a few emotionally tumultuous years. I don’t know if I’m depressed or if having such a character flaw is depressing! Or are my family and friends just that awful? One of them snores, and another interrupts constantly, and yet another taps his teeth with his fork by accident with each bite he takes. And then there are those people from the tea party railing about. I want to start a new life under a new name, where none of them will ever find me. Is being a hermit a viable option these days? I just don’t care at all, Steve.

-Faded to Grey

Dear Faded:

You know, I try to be rather a kind human being, having experienced some humbling times in my own life, but really, you make me sodding sick. Sicker than cold turkey heroin withdrawal while tied to a bed.

You are speaking with a man who has been in a hot air balloon and spent £100,000 on drugs in under one year. ONE year! Have you ridden an elephant? Bedded Robert Palmer? I thought not. I don’t want to hear one more measly whimper about whether or not your life is dismal. It is. Let’s sally forth operating under that impression.

As for the people in your life, if they are putting up with you, you should assume they are even worse than you, and you should sack them. As for this tea party, well, a party always cheers me up, so why not have at it? Where do you store your doilies and your glitter cannon?

love, Steve Strange

*advice is intended for entertainment purposes only. is there any purpose save entertainment?*

Life is Nothing Much to Lose

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The more I ignore you, the more laborious you get.  In come the botherers, the interrupters and the hecklers to scold us into abundance and industry.

A fanciful head needs neither hat nor occupation.  I require only my wits to accompany me through this doleful semblance of existence.  That leaves the majority of you in the cold.  Well, allow me to suggest an anorak of some type.

And wherefore all this joie de vivre?  Have you all won some kind of lottery in which good looks are dispensed?  Alas, no.  Some English fool wrote “Give the People What They Want”, but I haven’t a bullet or a pill to spare, I have only as many as all of my cares.

So you persist in living, in dragging your pulchritude around like a sack of suet on its way to the butcher.  You may be a freckle on god’s massive scrotum….oh where was I?  You are still here.  You have thoughts and opinions after all.  I have spent my entire career giving you advice, and it has gotten us exactly nowhere.  Well, it has gotten *you* exactly nowhere.  I actually have a rather nice house and some truly exceptional bedding. 

Let my words take over, and remind you of all you should be thinking, and all you should be singing:  Life is a Pigsty!

Dandy in the Underworld

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DIED TOO YOUNG

Wait a tick, let me get this straight: you natterers are complaining about boots and hats? Are you unaware that I DIED TOO YOUNG? That’s right, there are no hats where we’re going, people. No heads, really, either. But let’s not dwell.

Life’s a gas. Bang a gong. Rock on. Roll on. Sedately, ideally under the power of your own two feet.

I’ve had a lot of time to do some studying, and I have learned to use this internets thing from the Beyond. They have free wireless at Bed, Bath and Beyond, you see! There are a lot of facts floating around out there about me:

1) 3 days before his death Marc and David Bowie played together on Marc’s BBC series. During this performance the stage turned out to be too small for the two flamboyant performers. Marc got a little too close to the edge and fell over it, perhaps in a final sign that Bowie was destined to become the full legend in life that Marc would sadly never have the chance to be.

2) David Bowie once went to some sort of palm reading or something along those lines and was told that He, Jimi Hendrix, and Marc Bolan were some sort of mystic phenomenon that was only destined to be here for a few years. At the time it was laughable, as Hendrix was the only one who had passed. After Bolan’s death Bowie was devastated and fairly scared. Luckily whoever the prophetic individual was turned out to be only 2/3 right as Bowie is still alive and performing today, some 25 years after Marc Bolan’s death.

I shall neither confirm nor deny, as I know you cads have nothing better to do than speculate. You’ll have to ask Mr. Bowie as to whether or not he shoved me off a stage.

Supernature

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Oh boys, can’t you see that the people are trying, yet still they fail?  They seek to swim, but can only flail.  You cannot point out the splendour of being, unleashing that inner frabjousness, when most are confounded by the vast number of choices of peanut butter available to them.  (Your mistake was going to the grocery store in the first place.  They have people to do these things!)

So you can barely get your head off the pillow, blighted as it is with thoughts of your insignificance,  as well as combination skin.  I was not born with peacock quills cascading daintily from my bustle to my hustle.  No, no, what is needed here is Structure and Discipline, and the sooner you learn it, the less time we have to waste with this mollycoddling.  You don’t need a mother, she was a useless gin-soaked rag the first time around, tearing up the linoleum and screaming at your uncle.  And your feelings, well those can go by the wayside, too. They have gotten puffed up with far too many trips to the walk-in freezer, from the look of it.

We don’t like the cut of your jib, if you can call that a cut.  It has gone all wobbly.  It is time to wring out the tear stained hanky that is your life and start afresh, with nerves of steel and an unrelenting program of work, fitness, and severely cut trousers.  And for god’s sake, acquire a timepiece.  You are going to need it.

You are a special star/never marry an icon

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Pete Burns

Bonjour, my star babies, I sensed through the ethereal veil that my presence was desperately needed (my call waiting beeped). Yes, you have problems. Your cheekbones are practically nonexistent. Your hair is but a sad opossum sitting on your head. You would have no idea how to apply eyebrow crystals if I left you alone in a Swarovski-studded room full of tweezers and glue and absinthe. Your garments are not made of anything endangered, although your ermine socks are nice on cold mornings, I allow.

I know, it’s all bloody tragic. But take it like a man, tee hee, if you dare! We do not traffic in complaints here. We take action. Lots and lots and lots of action. I don’t want to see you snuffling around, plying Steve Strange with questions in a transparent bid for attention. That’s a cheap thrill, a tiny pellet of cocaine wiggling down the chute because you yanked the lever, then, didn’t you? Did you get a shock, or does wire mother (Steeeeeee-eeeeve) love you today?

You forget that life is a glorious mystery, you sodding twits! Black, white, man, woman, animal, vegetable? Why does it matter? If I can get up and have at the day, so can you!  I have just put out a new single! No lying about all soppy, drowning in a tub of your own tears, waiting for attention to come to you. You shan’t be rescued by a strapping merman. Or even a fireman for that matter. You will have to drive yourself to the ER after your own suicide attempt, and the trauma team will sigh and avert their gaze because your eye makeup is smeared and your patch is flipped round.

So here is the Answer, babies: bootstraps! Preferably from boots with 2-cubit platforms. Come on, they are so shiny and sleek, and they make you look at least a stone lighter. If you wish, you could pull yourself up by someone else’s bootstraps, but you don’t know anyone fabulous enough, to be honest. And that person might consider it sexual harassment, which is sometimes but not always undesirable. You can do this, babies. Tug! Tug!

Ask Steve Strange

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You are ever so fond of that randy pirate, Adam Ant.  What about me, the Peacock Prince?  It’s about time my Visage popped up around here.  I am ready to share with you my fabulous hat-pin pearls of wisdom.  And darling, I have lived.  When I ran the Blitz you could only get in if you had charm beaded on your brow and a copy of Proust in your bedazzled knickers.  I have also promoted parties in Ibiza, done more heroin than you have had hamburgers, and got busted shoplifting a tent.  And I don’t even like to go camping.  So profit from my advice, babies, and remember, the Damned Don’t Cry.

Dear Steve Strange,

A friend of mine was laid off a year ago and she never has any money to go out.  At first, I generously offered to cover her.  A drink here and there, her share of dinner.  Nothing to win me any awards.  She is making a solid effort to find a job but after a year, the “Susan tax” has become burdensome.  I feel bad about cutting her off, leaving her perpetually at home with want ads and eggs for dinner.  But I have my own bills to pay and besides I want to save up to go to the Caribbean this winter.

love, Alex

Dear Alex,

Far be it for me to begrudge anyone their days in the sun.  When I was still riding around London in stretch limos, sharpening my fairy boots on Boy George’s insolent bottom and rinsing the cocaine from my teeth with additional cocaine, I would long for periods of sun and frolic.  F#$% your friend.  Charity begins at home, let it end at foreign shores.  Also, your andogyny is intriguing here. I think my schedule is pretty free in February.

love, Steve Strange

I’ve got your advice right here! Hot, steaming advice!

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Dear Vomitola,

how do I get bloodstains out of my carpet?

Signed, Newly Single

Dear NS,

It is really tacky that you have a bloody carpet. Consider bamboo flooring.

-V

Dear Vomitola,

don’t you have anything better to do?

Signed, Your Conscience

Dear YC,

actually, there are sixteen thousand things I’m supposed to be doing. Other Wife couldn’t handle even one day at my house, so she already left. She let the air out of my tires too! However, I can’t do these sixteen thousand things because I have a child attached to me at this moment. It is a miracle that I cleaned the shower and had a meal.

-V

OK, here’s a real one:

“Ethicist: my coworkers are constantly interrupting me.
If I grunt and look back at my screen, I’m a bitch.
But if I respond and chat, I don’t get anything done.
What shall I do?”

The Ethicist replies: You should wear headphones and sing along to whatever is playing. Smile and nod and make “I can’t hear you” motions. Smiling is cheerful, so you are not a bitch. May I suggest a little Manilow? Or Pitbull.

Today in angry, fabricated letters

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Dear Vomitola:

Didn’t you swear you’d never post again? Why are you still here, annoying us all?

-Irritable Internets

Dear I.I.:

The ombudsman writes: The owner of this website is a filthy, pill-popping slattern. It is all we can do to see that she showers daily. Right now, she is in the corner playing with her toes. When she gets a notion to share, there is just no stopping her. We’ve tried.

-Ombudsman, Vomitola.com

Dear Vomitola:

have you really nothing better to do than write on the internet? Don’t you know people are dying? Also, is the Miele washer really worth the money?

-Holier than YOU

Dear HTY:

The ombudsman writes: The Miele washer looks nice in the stainless finish. There is also a button that one may press which will open the door. One may find this convenient. Also, it purports to handle Heavy Soil, which is a must around here. As far as the ombudsman can discern, no one has died because of this particular brand of washer.

-Ombudsman, Vomitola.com

Any way you reich it

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Aw, you there, you look peaked. Have you tried Emergency Chocolate? Me Time? You might want to light some candles and take a soothing Aromatherapy Bath. I hate to say anything, but your delicate undereye skin is suffering, and, as a friend and good Christian woman, I must. Cortisol: it’s just hell on the complexion.

At least that’s what I’m going to say to Drunk Cheryl the next time I see her. Honestly, all the aromatherapy in the world isn’t going to help. Have you seen her Fame and Popularity corner? So tacky what she did with that. Can we say Hope-less!

Cheryl’s husband is a piano teacher, and he’s deep into Gilbert and Sullivan these days. When he’s not screaming at Cheryl’s child from a former relationship (i.e. the hours before 3PM), I get to hear little ditties like “Three Little Maids from School Are We” tinkling and plonking through the ceiling. And after 3 PM, this is augmented by the stomping of the spraddled hooves of the child (it may actually be a Clydesdale) and the aforementioned screaming.

So I went out to work at a cafe, and whaddya know, in walked Creepy Neighbor. Creepy Neighbor lives on the top floor. He always wears a beige baseball cap and black turtleneck and workout pants. He also bears a strong facial resemblance to this drunk copywriter I used to have the misfortune of seeing at work, except he smiles a lot. This all bothers me. I’m not saying he was following me, but he was following me. I should spray the deck with Gremlin-Proof and Serial Murderer B-Gone.

Clearly I need to get an office, maybe in another country. The thing is, I don’t DO anything anyway. I mean I do this, and I do that, and I get money, but I realize I’ve turned into one of those people where you have no idea what they do for a living. Sometimes I don’t even know. What was I saying? I need some more anti-oxidants. Then I have Yogilates.

God, me boring self. As you may have noticed, Lambchop jumped ship a few months ago, and she was the head of the Vomitola Mania Division. I usually handled Ennui and Existentialism, so I’m just all over the place these days. There’s no way I can fall down a flight of stairs like she could. I may call a temp agency. A floater, that’s what we need. How about this: I’m weaning off my Mother’s Little Helpers, and I predict a 93% increase in bile and desire to hurt others. Can you stand it?