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ASK MAX

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Archive for February, 2011

February 6, 2011 Edition

Sunday, February 6th, 2011

Dear Max:

Maybe it’s my low self-esteem talking too loud, but I think my girlfriend wants to break up with me. But I might be overanalyzing, too. Or I might not be paying attention; she says I’ve done that. But it’s not like she’s said, “it’s over.” So, how do I know if she’s really trying to end the relationship?

Searching For a Clue

Dear Searching:

It sounds to me like you’ve already gotten a clue, and I should know, because I can hear things you’ll never hear and pitches Mariah Carey will never reach.

This has the smell of a passive-aggressive breakup, and I should know, because I can identify the last 17 people to sit on your couch just with my nose. (BTW, your buddy Dave? He’s going commando.)

From the looks of things, you’re screwed, and I should know because… um… I’m not sure. Do we have particularly powerful eyesight? (I’m talking dogs in general; Shih Tzus in particular. I really have to look that up.)

It’s probably inappropriate to diagnose the future of your relationship based on a single paragraph, but that’s never stopped me before. It looks bad. She said you’re not exactly on top of how she’s feeling in the relationship, just one indication she’s as good as told you it’s over.

The females of the species rarely tell you what’s on their minds by saying it explicitly, and if this is really the first time you’ve heard of this, no wonder she’s giving you the boot. You don’t have to be Miss Cleo to see this relationship mitosis on the horizon.

See, no bitch has ever explicitly told me “It’s over,” because 1) why would they—I’m adorable, and B) dogs don’t talk. In your case, though, it’s because she’s handing you the passive-aggressive pink slip.

It looks grim, but you might still survive. Do what you should have been doing all this time: Ask how she’s feeling, and really listen this time. Ask if she’ll let you try to do better and if she says yes? Try to do better! That tastes like the perfect recipe for success. And if she actually keeps your mangy ass around after you’ve been dogging it all this time? I’d appreciate remuneration in the form of something delicious. Bacon or cheese comes to mind.

And if your self-esteem’s too low, try the solution that works for me: Look in the mirror, preferably while wearing your kickass bow tie. Handsome devil, huh? Works every time.

Dear Max:

Why do you dogs always bark at me when I put out my recycling on Thursday nights? What did I do? Don’t you guys like me? Is it the recycling?

Also, I like your snazzy bow tie.

StereoForBrains

Dear StereoForBrains:

Recycling, huh? I can tell you’re quite the environmentalist by the way you’re trying to squeeze as many resources out of this inquiry as possible. You’re sneaking three words into one name, and you’re trying to get me to answer four questions—four questions—for the price of one!

Do you know how little Mommy pays me for this column? Half a hot dog and a three-minute ear scratch! It’s indentured servitude, I tell you. And you think you can get away with this just by paying me an offhand compliment on my bow tie? You think I’m so easily flattered?

Well, you’re right. I do look debonair, don’t I? Not bad for a clip-on. (Hey, you try tying a tie without opposable thumbs. Or, for that matter, any thumbs.)

So here are your answers:

1) Why do you dogs always bark at me when I put out my recycling on Thursday nights?

A: Because your neighborhood’s recycling day is Tuesday, and for three years now, we’ve been frigging trying to tell you that!

2) What did I do?

A: We know what you did last summer. Actually, we don’t know, but gauging by your insatiable passion for recycling, we’re guessing it involved a Jack Johnson concert preceded by a stop to pick up organic flatbread at Fresh Market.

3 ) Don’t you guys like me?

A: We like you, Stereo, we really like you! And you like us, because you live and breathe recycling, and we recycle jokes about Oscar acceptance speeches from a quarter-century ago.

Is it the recycling?

A: Yes. You caught us. We hate recycling. As a canine lobby, we had to take a stand against something, and recycling is it. Actually, we really could care less, but we knew this would drive you crazy while you take the Pruis on over to the farmer’s market while wearing your It Ain’t Easy Being Green T-shirt and listening to The Inconvenient Truth on audiobook because you wouldn’t buy it on paper and contribute to the murder of one more living creature.

Hippie.

Yo Max:

Super Bowl Sunday…Who ya got?

John C

Dear John C:

We’ll get to that in a minute, but it’s not hard to guess where you’re putting your money. Not only are you the first reader to hit with me with a “Yo Max,” but you also worked in a “Who ya got?”

It’s my sad duty to inform you that your beloved New York Jets fell short of the Super Bowl this year. I realize this won’t keep most Jets fans from rooting for their team on Sunday, and many of you will even bet on the Jets to win… a game between the Green Bay Packers and the Pittsburgh Steelers.

I don’t feel like breaking down the contest, mostly because I’ve already used every Ben Roethlisberger joke that exists (not that peeing on that particular leg ever gets old). Ultimately, my money’s on the team that wears yellow pants. I’ll put a grand on that franchise right now.

And really, isn’t the game just the sideshow? We watch for the commercials. You know, like the one where they use special effects to glue Betty White’s head onto Optimus Prime from the Transformers. Or the one where they glue Betty White’s head onto Gabourey Sidibe. Or the one where they glue Betty White’s head onto Betty White.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Betty White. If she’s managed to become overexposed at age 89, good for her. I hope she lives to 189. Just don’t blame me when the annual faux-risqué GoDaddy Super Bowl commercial teases Betty White unzipping her jumpsuit.

Dear Max:

I have been going bald since my early 20s. I’m 39 now, and still self-conscious about it. I’m tired of waiting for a cure. What should I do? Rogaine? Hairpiece? Hair transplants?

Hairless in Los Angeles

Dear Hairless:

Welcome to the club! I too started losing my fur back in my 20s, or as I call them, my three-and-a-halves. I was able to finance a complete hair transplant, all thanks to donations from fans, royalties from my Big Trailer Putty-Tat merchandising, and a little business partnership I worked out with my buddy Bernie Madoff. Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank Robin Williams for donating all the hair I needed by shaving his elbow.

You have a few options for replacing your hair, of course. The three most popular are:

1.     Hair Club for Men and Women and Dogs (recommended)

2.     Bosley Hair Restoration, which I believe was founded by Richie Cunningham’s dad or the guy who wasn’t on the speakerphone on Charlie’s Angels (also recommended)

3.     Justin Bieber (not recommended)

Or you could realize I’m just kidding. (Me? Never.)

Bald is beautiful. Bodies change. It’s normal, so own it. If Jason Statham had decided to try to glue fake hair on his head instead of shaving down to stubble, he’d look ridiculous. Well, ripped and ridiculous. Ripped and square-jawed and ridiculous. Ripped and square-jawed and British and ridiculous. But ridiculous all the same.

Dude, love the head you have. Be at home in your body. Just look at Sean Connery. After he went bald, he became a massive worldwide celebrity, starring in huge films like The Untouchables, The Hunt for Red October, and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade or at Least You’ll Have Wished It Was the Last Crusade When You See the Fourth One.

Back when he had hair, no one knew who Sean Connery was! He was a nobody! He was grata non persona! He was…um, hang on a second… what’s that, Mommy?

Okay, Mommy claims that back when Sean Connery had hair, he was James Bond. Which is ridiculous. Everyone knows there’s only one James Bond who’s ever mattered to anyone.

And that’s Timothy Dalton.

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