Deary Abby Game

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

I do not usually confide in those who participate in such worldly indulgences as a newspaper, but you seem to have an otherwise uncorrupted soul, thus, I will make this one exception.

I’ve only recently arrived in my present place of domicile, a small fishing village on the rocky coast of New England. I was invited to come here by one of this community’s most upstanding citizens, who had sent word to me of her concern for Satan and his minions taking hold. She was most wise to consult me in this matter, as a pestilence such as this can spread like wildfire. I specialize in finding the servants of the Devil, and in driving them out. I am God’s direct representative in this world.

Not everyone appreciates me, nor do they appreciate my work. I became available to respond to the aforementioned citizen’s summons, only because I’d been unappreciated by some… alright, by many in my previous field of mission. Godless heathens! In their ignorance, they could not accept that just because I had been technically refused an actual ordination by the church, did not mean I wasn’t doing God’s work. They refused to believe that those three (alright, four or five) young girls to whom I’d been privately ministering, had each come to be with child only because an incubus had been sent by Satan to visit upon them by night in order to discredit me. The heathen fools! This same incubus also broke into local business establishments on moonless nights, stealing large sums of money from the proprietors. Of course the incubus left behind evidence somewhat implicating me; that was the whole purpose of the evil deeds. Stupid heathen idiots are so ignorant of the devious ways of Satan!

Be that as it may, methinks this new community will be more understanding of what must be done. Already I’ve been ministering to several of the unfortunate women who frequent the local tavern, trying to lead them to a closer intimacy with the Lord. Some of the young sailors who pass through port have also been receptive to my counseling. But that is not why I have come here. There is a witch who has insinuated herself into a local estate. I will find her, and she will know the full wrath of God.

Now, I’m sure there are those who may object to certain of my methods. Although they themselves may thus be aligned with Satan, I’m willing to perhaps, for a nominal contribution to my ministry, give them the benefit of a doubt. Hey, Abby, I try to be a nice guy.

Signed,

God’s loving servant

PS: Any idea as to why I would be feeling such a burning sensation whenever I use the outhouse? This yellowish green discharge seems rather unearthly as well. Could this be Satan attempting to exact revenge upon the Lord’s loyal instrument of righteousness?

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

I congratulate you for being one of, if not the, most eminent practitioners in your distinguished field of expertise. Likewise, I too am considered to be an expert in a vast array of interests. If only, in my case, it was actually true. I am a total fraud - a very knowledgeable and well-rehearsed fraud – but, a fraud nonetheless.

For a few years, I assumed the identity of a dear departed friend. After this friend of mine passed on, I became him and carried on his important work as a lecturing Forest Ranger named Barney R. I traveled the country, speaking to garden clubs, boy scouts and general interest groups. Of course, all this travel costs money, so I helped myself to some of my benefactors’ cash, credit cards and vehicles. The end of that run came in Los Angeles when a couple of smart detectives caught me in their dragnet, figured out I wasn’t really Barney R., and had me sent to a State Hospital for a couple of years.

Upon my release, I returned back East. I settled in coastal New England, and tried to make an honest living. That lasted about three weeks, until one day, I went to a local thrift shop. In the thrift shop I found a sophisticated suit of clothes, some books on the occult and an eye monocle. My career in academia was reborn. Armed with some forged letters of reference, a phony diploma and my gift-of-gab, I was quickly given a full-professorship at a local college. You’d be surprised how many otherwise intelligent people will fall hook-line-and-sinker for the most insipid crock of meaningless fluff if one consistently uses multisyllabic words while wearing an eye monocle. The best part is, I get paid for much of it.

There is, however, one problem. There is one person here whom I fear may know my secret, or at least may be wise enough to suspect it. He’s very sharp. He always speaks with eloquence, carries an ornate cane and wears a cape. It’s this caped crusader I fear.

Abby, might this caped man somehow suspect me? What should I do?

Signed,

Living a lie

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

You, no doubt, think yourself so smart. Do you have a degree in Chemical Engineering from Stanford or MIT? No. Actually, neither do I, but I could have if I’d wanted to. I’m better than any of those stuff shirts anyway. I make compounds they haven’t even imagined… because I’m not constrained by silly shackles such as rules, ethics and morals. Oh, but I’m not just a man of great intellect; I used to be a GQ model. All was well until an unfortunate incident while working as a fishing guide to supplement my income between photo shoots. I guess I never should have agreed to attempt to teach hook baiting to a group of Turrets patients. But, that is the past.

As of late, I’ve been commissioned to create a rather… shall we say, ‘unusual’ compound for a local scientist. He told me his purpose was to induce a state of amnesia; I think otherwise. In fact, I know otherwise. I’ve been watching him closely, and he’s up to much more than a simple research study on amnesia.

Be that as it may, I’m going to make even more money than just that which this fancy scientist has already paid me. In addition to selling custom-made chemical compounds, I’m also in the business of selling my silence. I’ve made my demand of ten thousand dollars, and am to meet him on the local docks this evening. But, Abby, I’ve been thinking… This is worth so much more than that trifling sum. I think I must reach for everything I so richly deserve. Don’t you think so? Of course, I realize that by the time you publish this letter I will have already received my just reward, so, your reply is neither here nor there. I’m sure I can read your response after the fact while I’m counting my money.

Signed,

Got It All Figured Out

Deary Abby still work here?

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

I previously wrote to you regarding my younger cousin, and now I have another problem with which I need your advice.

Over three years ago, my mother took in as a houseguest an eccentric middle-aged woman claiming to be an expert genealogist. This woman promised to write a complete set of volumes for our family's history. Although I understand that such privately commissioned written histories are not so unusual for wealthy New England families like ours, it is the manner in which this woman has conducted herself that is very troubling to me.

As I've stated, she has been here for over three years, yet we've seen not one page of completed work. Anytime she is alone with our family governess, or any other young woman, she attempts hypnotism and tries to ply them with sedatives. I'd heard of such people, but am shocked that one of them could be here in our midst.

Today, my curiosity got the best of me, and I just had to find out for myself just what she's been up to. She was away for the day, so I searched her room. In the typewriter on her desk was an unfinished page that read as follows:

C...... Family History

Page 13,763

All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work and no play makes J.... a dull girl. All work an

Next Letter:

Deary Abby:

Consider yourself privileged to receive this letter. I don't usually communicate openly with those who can't begin to imagine the depth of my greatness, but I just have to let someone in on what myself and my BFF are doing.

When I was a child, I spent a few years in a small fishing community on the coast of Maine. My official biography will not list this, but trust me, it's so. Anyway, the people of this little town were very fond of the family after which the town was named. This family was quite wealthy, and owned the local fishing fleet and cannery. Well, to be frank... despite my current public statements to the contrary, I loathed them. This made me immensely unpopular with the other kids, who would all run home from school to catch up on whatever the family was doing. As I stated, my refusal to share their adoration made me unpopular. I was, in fact, beaten up on at least a weekly basis.

I left that town, grew up, and became a big film star. My BFF happens to be the Director of many of my films. He never lived in that little New England town, contrary to his statements, but has believed everything I've told him about it. Anyhow, we decided to get even. We spent five years and over $100 million of other peoples' money making what we told the residents of that town would be a faithful story of the lives of the town's prominent family. We lied.

First, we hired the world's absolute worst excuse for a script writer. If Charles Foster Kane's detractors were to review this guys work, they'd surely be certain to refer to him as a "writer" only in quotation marks. We then fed him our own utterly insipid suggestions for the script, making it even more putrid. Next, we even went so far as to con several of the members of the family to appear in the film. They did... for three point two seconds. This film had zero plot, no character development, nauseatingly unfunny jokes, tired and redundant period clichés, moronic commercial brand placements and... you get the picture.

The result? I'm no longer afraid of my own shadow, and haven't wet the bed in nearly a year. Okay, so I do still have to stand on a box for many of my scenes, but no one is perfect. I usually don't even look at a film when I'm done; I just show up, bleat my lines and cash a check. This one, however, is special.

My next project will be a filmed-on-location version of the adventures of a Chicago investigative newspaper reporter who once dissed me. I'll show him. Coincidently, many of my childhood tormenters were also fans of this guy's work, so this will be double gratifying.

Signed,

Big Shot Movie Star

PS,

Any idea where in the Chicago area one could buy a cheap suit, straw hat, a stuffed dead pigeon, super glue, and several fifty-five gallon drums of white face paint?

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

You were of useful assistance to me once before; perhaps you can again be. Although your worldliness is still at issue, I feel I can extend to you another opportunity to earn my trust insofar as it may in turn prove of use to the Lord.

The current problem is this - The person calling himself "Santa Claus" keeps returning my letters. I thought perhaps if you were to enclose my letter with your own as a cover letter, mine might get through. My thanks to you in advance, and here is my letter:

Mr. Claus,

This will be most unlike the insipid letters you are used to reading from school children and housewives, begging for worldly trinkets and bobbles. No, far from that, I know who you are, what you are, and the depths of your depravity in the service of evil.

How clever of you to change your name around to deceive the servants of the Lord God into following you. Think you not that none of us would figure out that "Santa" is really SATAN! Or, do you prefer "St. Nicholas"... as in Old Nick? The red suit... Ha! All that is missing is the tail! And, the reindeer? You fly about by night with your familiars, imploring them "On" while reciting their demonic names in your service. I, God's direct representative of righteousness on Earth, am fooled by none of this. Before my wife insisted that I stay home more, I would privately minister to numerous young women whom you had led astray. I suspect that many of those for whose being with child was falsely blamed on me, were actually visited by night by none other than Satan himself. Am I right, Mister "Santa"?

By the way, please refrain from placing any more coal in my stockings as it may cause commoners of the community to think less highly of me.

Signed,

Not fooled at all

Next Letter:

Deary Abby,

If you can’t help me, I don’t know what I will do. This is a rather unusual situation, so please bear with me while I describe it to you.

I am part of a wealthy New England family, and as such, I have the means to travel about the world, having done so extensively. About one year ago, I embarked on my latest journey around the globe. At the same time, my cousin also left for an adventure aboard a cargo ship. Upon my recent return, about ten days ago, I was informed that my cousin (let’s just call him Channing) had been lost during a violent storm at sea, and was presumed to be dead. Day before yesterday, Channing miraculously returned to our ancestral home on the rocky coast of Maine. He had apparently been rescued by another ship, without anyone from his ship ever seeing him. That’s all great, and I am so thankful to God that he is alive and well.

While I was on my trip, I picked up some rare and unusual items to be given as gifts to members of my family upon my return. For my cousin, Channing, I brought back the most unusual item of all: a petrified severed head in a glass display case. I found this item in the Far East, and legend has it that it is the head of a seventeenth century warlock. Upon Channing’s surprise return, I told him that I had a special gift for him, and that he could come over to my cottage today and I would present it to him. Abby, I just couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been right.

For the past two days this thing has been staring at me. Not when anyone else is around, so no one else has seen it happen. Also, he keeps telling these really stupid dirty jokes, and in a voice not unlike that of Betty Rubble, if she were to have drank about six or seven long island iced teas. I was just too embarrassed to give it to Channing, and gave him some collectable Chick Bible Tracts instead. He loves to laugh at them, especially the one titled Dark Shadows is Satan’s favorite TV show. He thanked me for the tracts, and went happily back to the main house on the estate.

Abby, my problem is this: Chatty Chester No Body never shuts up. I want to send him back to where I bought him; the trouble is I didn’t save the receipt, and am afraid the postal service might consider him to be livestock, and therefore illegal to ship in the mail. Do you think that I could ship it anyway, seeing as how, technically, he isn’t really alive? Further, how does one wrap and package a disembodied warlock head so as not to incur damages during shipment? This is a real doozy, I know, but please help.

Signed,

Creeped Out and Freakin’ Out

PS,

Now, the head keeps imploring “You will help me.” Is he just thirsty, or is there somethin’ else I need to worry about?