Q: Dear Max: I just found out my wife is having an affair. What should I do?
A: Kill the bitch. Now.
Q: Dear Max: My cat got killed yesterday. Can you please help me?
A: Um, well actually no I can't. Your cat's dead. What do you want me to do? Bring it back to life? Don't you realize that such a thing is impossible unless you have some really out-there connections, like a 7th dimesional alien friend or maybe you are GOD? That would do it.
Q: Dear Max: I wish I was an inanimate object, like a rock or a piece of monkey dung. What should I do?
A: Obviously, you are dumber than shit. You want to be a piece of monkey dung? Yes, that's my life goal. Let me enlighten you, you weird fucking thing you. You can't be an inamitate object. Why? Because, well geez I don't know, maybe because you're a living organism? Ya think that might be the reason? I suggest you call my friend Freido. His number is 225-555-6226. He'll connect you to Guido, who will take you to a room and make you chant seven times, "I am not a frog butt," and then when you wake up after Guido and Freido smack you into unconsciousness, a white goat will speak to you and lead you to a computer where you will ask Max Poppit what to do because you want to be an inanimate object. I'm so glad I'm not you.
Q:Dear Max: Seventh grade sucks. I have zits and people who say they are my friends don't talk to me at all, and I think they are lying. I'm really sad Max. Can you help me?
Q: Dear Max: Seven days ago, I saw a UFO and it landed on the outskirts of town. I went to the hill where it landed and I swear, now I know this sounds crazy, but I saw a bunch of gray-skinned, big-black-eyed midgets running around poking cattle with long white sticks. I told some close friends about this but they think I'm crazy. I swear it happened Max. What should I do?
A: Wow, what a coincidence. This has happened to me many, many times. To relieve the trauma of such a situation, the only thing to do is to walk off a cliff that is about a thousand feet tall. If the aliens swoop down and take you away before you splatter all over the place, then that means that they hold you in high regard and are willing to consider your life significant in this vast, spasmodic cosmos we live in. If they don't swoop down before you splat and your brains go everywhere, then they will scoop up what's left of you and reconstruct your guts in a petrie dish. I'll be damned if I know what happens after that, but that's what happened to me and look at how good I turned out.
Q: Dear Max: You really think you're cute don't you? I read this shit you post on your web site and I can guarantee you that if I ever find out who you really are, I will draw and quarter you and sell your sliced meat as smoked jerkey to my psychotic, sadistic friends.
A: Well, that certainly wasn't in the form of a question now was it? I specifically need questions here and what was that? A statement, not a question. But your point is well taken, you cannabilistic freak. Let me tell you something: I'm not really human so your line of thinking has to change now doesn't it asshole? My mother was a beaker of shark plasma and my dad happens to own the IRS, so if you think that being threatened by a butfuck like you ruffles my ass well then think again. I hold displaced-psychtoic-moron meetings every other Thursday in my friend Sally's garage and I think you should attend. If we all agree that you're not as worthless as you sound, then I might let you fillete me.
Q: Dear Max: Heaven's just a myth isn't it? I died, came back and what I saw was a bunch of sludge instead of a white light. That means something doesn't it?
A: I do believe that your question deserves extremely serious consideration. However, I'm not going to give it that because obviously you are lying. Nobody sees sludge when they die and if they did, don't you think I'd get more letters like yours? I suggest you go to my friend Jake's website. His web address is http://amnot.coming.to/your/party.duh. I think Jake actually died about three years ago but you know, he may have seen that there sludge thing you're spekaing of so check it out.
Q: Dear Max: I'm going to a party tonight and I don't know what to wear. Got any suggestions?
A: Yes! I suggest you don't wear any clothes at all, but rather, paint your body orange and then paint big black dots on top of that so it'll look like you're wearing that dress you always see Wilma Flinstone in, then shove a dried cod up your ass. That will certainly get you laid.
Q: Dear Max: I went to Tibet in 1993 and spent time with the monks there (Jasnickynung and Bof click-click Amonous in particular) and I learned a lot in the way of spiritual awareness, our place in the universe, and why things are the way they are. When I came back last year to try to deal with society, I realized that I can no longer live this facade. I feel that I will go nuts unless I return to my friends in the beauty of the surreal atmosphere of Katmandu. Should I do that or not?
A: Well of course! In have many monk friends whose heads have exploded at the work place (and I work at a soup plant) because their Dalai-Lama-realize-what-life's-all-about thing disrupted their psyche! For God's sake man, run like hell and chant crap in a cave just as soon as you can or you'll die.
Q: Dear Max: If I poke my finger with a pin, will it bleed?
A: Only if you have been drinking vodka. If you poke your finger and it bleeds when you haven't been drinking vodka, then I suggest you get in your car, drive fast, then slow, then turn around and back up, then speed up again. Wait for the police to arrive then throw up on their shoes. This may not help in any way, but this was the first suggestion that came to my mind and I have found that people prosper when following my gut advice. Don't question it for God's sake, just do it.
Q: Dear Max: I really love that picture of you on the main page of your web site. Is that you or someone else?
A: There is no face on the main page of my web site - what the hell are you talking about? Obviously you've been surfing the net too long and when you came to my web site a mental image was flashed to you from a sick, twisted pornographic wacko that made you see his face the instant you logged on to my site. Give me the addresses of all the sites you have ever visted so I can have my bodyguard, a 400 pound chicken, pay them a visit in person and pluck their fucking eyes out.
Q: Dear Max: What is sixteen divided by two?
A: Sixteen divided by two what? Please people, when sending in questions, make them more specific.
Q: Dear Max: I have a feeling that when I go through a drive-through at one of the local fast-food restaurants, they are laughing at me (along with all the customers and other employees) when they turn the intercom off after I place my order and I can't hear them. Do you think this is true?
A: YES! They are laughing at you! Wouldn't you laugh at people if you were working at the drive-through of a restaurant? I would! Say "yes sir" then click off the mike and flip them an imaginary bird? I suggest that the next time you go through a drive-through that you order more than you or anyone else in the history of mankind will ever eat, then hang them a BA while driving past the pickup window. Make sure, of course, that there is someone in the car to handle the steering wheel while your ass is flopped out the window, because I don't wanna get sued for having suggested this to you and then you go on to wreck your car, and frankly, I have the feeling you'll follow this advice and actually do it. No wonder they're laughing at you.
Q: Dear Max: I was sharpening my knives and cleaning my guns this morning when I stopped to check my e-mail... in it was a link to this "Advice from Max" page. My question for you is this: How long have you had this problem, and would it help you to know that you are most certainly not alone? In fact, I've been watching you. Heh Heh Heh. Signed, Skull Fuck.
A: What a darling name you have! Did your parents name you Skull Fuck or did you make that up all by yourself? Do you have siblings named But and Dumb? To answer your question, I have no idea what you are referring to. How long have I had what problem? You also say that I am not alone? And that you are watching me? Well let me tell you, Mr. Fuck, that I have no windows in my house so you can't be watching me unless, of course, if you are my cat, but he lives in my treehouse and I sealed that up years ago. I recommend that you call the Vagueness hotline at 225-555-6226 and ask for Freido. He and his pet goat will instruct you in the finer arts of asking for advice online. Get back to me then and good luck.
Q: Dear Max: Oh my God I'm so confused! I need some help fast! I was walking down the street yesterday when suddenly 400 pounds of crap fell on my head! As I crawled out, 16 CIA operatives skinned me alive, but then I was abducted by a UFO and the smarty aliens there re-grafted me some new skin lickety-split! But then wouldn't you know it, my dick fell off but the aliens couldn't help me there so they tossed me back to Earth. Well, I landed on some 5-feet-tall jagged shards of glass which went right up my ass, skewering my guts and forcing me to eat through a tube crammed through my spine, which was inserted by a garbage-devouring hobo impersonating a surgeon. However, my head exploded so the pain from that is allowing me to forget my other predicaments. What should I do Max? Signed, Buster Hymen
A: Hey Buster, don't I know you? I stepped in a pile of goo the other day and I could have sworn I heard it moan. If that was you, sorry. At any rate, I suggest you have your spine ripped out by some depressed schmuck so they can cram it up their ass and die from internal hemorrhaging. If that isn't an option then jump out a window and pray someone will scoop you up and invent some kind of new soup with your remains so the world can discover an alternate food source in case everything dies but us. Thanks for the inspiring email and good luck with that exploding-head thing!