subterranean plumes of widget-lust

Dear Peanut Guy,

I am obsessed with widgets, does my obsession have anything to do with midgets?

Yours,
~May and Marvellous

dear MAM,

your obsession with widgets has nothing to do with midgets. it has everything to do with digits, fidgeting, and gidget, "the little girl with big ideas."

far below the earth's crust lies a patch of steamy gold reachable only by the mighty rhizome tendrils of the peanut clan. there, miniature anthropomorphic peanuts with unthinkable quantities of digits on each laughably tiny fist slave away over heaping, stenchy cauldrons of malodorous mood-altering ooze, which is incrementally secreted by any number of viscous ooze-glands located between those very same innumerable digits. also, they love surfing and keep their cranial stalks tied back in adorable pigtails.

there in their subterranean keep, violent fidgeting the likes of which humankind has never seen takes place as they anxiously await the holy gestation of the ooze. then, the ooze spores are sent up to georgia, where they are distributed clandestinely in the domiciles of computer users and practitioners of elementary microeconomics. at length, the spores burst forth and a plume of virile gas is released, infecting the victim with an insatiable widget-lust.

but in the sense that they're small, and that gidget is a mere contraction of the words "girl" and "midget", yes.

aloofly,
the peanut guy!

dispensing of the tyrant boss

Dear Peanut Guy,

I have a tyrant of a boss who insists on talking about himself endlessly. He knows nothing about how to do his job and instead of allowing employees to work independently, he constructs ridiculous tasks for us to complete to prove he is in charge. Beyond that, he is a creep. How should i handle this situation?

signed,
~kantaylo

dear kantaylo,

does your tyrant-boss slither about alone, barking orders to the cards on computer solitaire when neither you nor your compatriots are present? is he seemingly incapable of performing basic office functions, such as utilizing a printer or peeing alone? does he insist that staff install a night-light beneath his desk in the event that the threat of nuclear war forces him to take cover? does he reek of ruinous flab-sweat that oozes from each chapped pore like sputtering sulphuric geysers on some lard-encrusted geothermal plane? if so, he is one of peanutfolk's greatest enemies, "the crotchbat": most hated of all creepy bosses.

alas! such a loathsome creature cannot be reasoned with, dear kantaylo. if centuries of peanut lore tell us anything, dealing with the crotchbat requires no less than the signature three-pronged "crotchbat assault" patented in the seventeenth century by the heralded peanut commandos of old.

you and your comrades must prepare at once:

prong 1: the ficus of doom. replace the crotchbat's computer with a potted ficus surrounded by a large picture frame, and reroute the mouse and keyboard cords into its fertile topsoil. this will confuse the crotchbat. when he complains, feign ignorance. the crotchbat's superiority complex will sate him, but the seed of doom, dear kantaylo, has been planted.

prong 2: the buttering up. during one of his three-hour lunch breaks, cover the crotchbat's desk completely with well-glued and bogus "while you were out" notes. for instance: "david bowie called. wants to do lunch in space." or "1961 audrey hepburn rang, called you 'virile adonis'." or "abraham lincoln stopped by to give you leadership award, golden suitcase filled with technology stocks, beard." so on. the crotchbat will, for these fleeting moments, live his hitherto imagined world of make-believe. enjoy it while it lasts, rube.

prong 3: the syrup train to haiti. drizzle a fine stream of maple syrup from the crotchbat's desk to an airline ticket counter where a one-way ticket to port-au-prince awaits. at intervals of 1,000 feet, drizzle the maple syrup into ever-more-impressive job titles. for instance, if the crotchbat's name is, say, "len the crotchbat", you could drizzle "len the crotchbat: emperor of freedom" somewhere in there.

this will obviously be irresistible. with the crotchbat full of maple syrup and safely in haiti, the mutiny shall be complete. follow these steps and kantaylo will reign o'er a thousand centuries of bone-crunching office supremacy.

robustly,
the peanut guy!

holiday tips for the halloween neophyte

Dear Peanut Guy,

I am having a really hard time deciding what to be for halloween this year. Any suggestions?

Sincerely,
~Confused about Costumes

dear confused,

ah, halloween! when deep from within autumn's bosom burst forth countless frothing children, like so many squealing piglets at the seemingly-endless neighborhood trough of sugar-gruel!

indeed, confused, how does one choose amongst infinite possible wardrobes to wear while knocking on the unsuspecting doors of innocent, taxpaying strangers and savagely blackmailing them for mind-boggling quantities of sucrose, else they succumb to any number of your sinister, feculent tricks?

how, a better question might begin, would angelic, cherubic peanut guy begin to advise such a deviant? for isn't it the case, dear confused, that to do so would be to enter that sordid, criminal netherworld preferred by you and your baleful, candy-worshipping ilk? surely such a move would cut peanut guy to his very core! his celestial edifice of glory would but crumble into an abyss of syrupy disrepute! his once stalwart rind would but wither to a rickety, pock-marked husk! his lordly, gallant stalk would but combust in a thick, brackish mushroom cloud of noxious hate-stench!

ah, but fear not, dear readers. as high oracle of the hallowed peanut clan i am sworn to produce infallible advice for all advice-seekers, from the most heavenly (peanut gal) to the most pernicious (confused). as part of my bygone holy oracle-coronation i received a secret rite performed by the highest, most bodacious peanut elders, whose soul-crushing charisma rays could turn the haughtiest candy-monger into the lowliest beet-fancier. they imbued my rind with the salt of the ancients; i assure you i am resilient in the face of such treachery.

as such, confused, here is your costume: all you need is an old pair of lederhosen, a sack full of oats, and a tin foil hat to avoid unwanted horse-calls on the brain-phone. for when the horses arrive, you'll be an irresistible feedbag full of rich, juicy oats. if that doesn't work out, might i suggest you trick-or-treat as that dashing salt-encrusted oracle, peanut guy?

freshly,
the peanut guy!

rise of the phoethanix

Dear Peanut Guy,

I am the youngest of five kids. Am I doomed to be the typical spoiled baby of the family? Do you have any advice to help me survive the teasing of three older brothers and the babying my sister gives me? Seriously, she thinks I am a big dress up doll to play with. Help!

~Ethan, age 3 (asked via his mother)

dear ethan,

ah, the dismal existence of the dress-up toddler-puppet. not only must you succumb to the treacherous whims of your siblings; your very own tyrant of a mother now commands thy voice like some depraved, sadistic ventriloquist. has she but placed a spell on you, ethan? or does she even now rule your thoughts with sinewy brain-strings wrought from her psychotic puppeteer-gland, thus commandeering the Brainship Ethan in malevolent contempt of all things righteous? has she become the heinous inquisitor-czar of the fruit of her own loins?

free ethan!

i assure you, ethan: peanut guy can relate. as a soft-rinded legumeling in the sweet georgian nutpatch of my birth, i too was dressed up by my larger, if imbecilic peanut kin. oh how ken kenningken would squeal in bestial mirth when he affixed the miniature oil funnel to my dome, placed a wee buttercup inside, and pronounced me "johnny buttercup" to the savage delight of all but peanut guy!

and how my wrathful might rained down on ken and his sect of villainous kudzu-worshipping miscreants years later when the Peanut Armada paid a little visit to kenningken island.

thus, ethan: to break the shackles of your wretched siblings; to free yourself from the vile charisma rays of your marauding mother; i urge you to leave your nutpatch and set sail for a life on the open sea, where the salt is neverending and the stalks ever-quenched. there shall you find the strength and the seafood to rise up like some haunting, ungodly union of man and phoenix (phoethanix?) and dress your siblings in car parts and flora for millennia to come.

enormously,
johnny buttercup!

the ballad of sassy and romeo

Dear Peanut Guy,

if i could ask one Question i would ask: is my dog sassy my old dog romeo?

~Kara, age 11

dear kara,

thank you for your spirited, if dumb, question. due to my long streaks of absence, it's no wonder my inbox is privy to such drivel. as my scores of dedicated readers know, 2007 is the sesquicentennial "année d'irresponsabilité" for all elder legumes of the peanut clan. once every 150 years we ritually forsake our duties in solemn praise to the lordly peanut slackers of old, without whose surly, unyielding apathy we would surely not rule mankind with a salty fist. hence the current whimsy with which i approach my letter-answering.

[you, dear reader, have no such excuse. email me your questions posthaste : the peanut guy at gmail dot com, or we shall all be forced to infinitely revisit karaesque blathering fortnightly].

now then, kara. regarding sweet, palsied sassy and your beloved, toothless romeo. lucky for you, the peanut scriptures have scrawled unfathomable quantities of scholarly text on the subject of canine reincarnation. each singular word would shake you to your pitiful core, young kara. to breathe but a syllable of these spiritual wonders would set thy tongue aflame with infinite dancing peanut devils programmed in ancient times to spring to life in the fiery mouths of the unworthy and feed upon their fierce dog-love until naught but a withered shell remains.

thankfully, peanut guy is totally effing worthy. i shall translate from ancient peanutese:

• in the afterlife, dog-souls are swept into a great, pearl vat and seasoned with rose petals and thyme over a slow boil for maximum corporeal rejuvenation. they remain in this "gestation period" for two-to-three afterlife weeks, which is roughly one to two weeks here on earth.


• one by one they are extracted by an enchanted williams & sonoma turkey baster and deposited into one of many earth-bound dog-tubes.


• these tubes project the soul-zygote at speeds of up to five seconds per hour into the womb of any presently active dog-wombs.


• in dogs, the soul rests in wombs, whereas in cats the soul rests in sperms. this is why cats can't reincarnate.


• dogs named "scruffy", "stormy," and "romeo" are immediately dispatched to vat B upon death, where they are withheld seasoning and primed for dead-end clerical positions in accounting at dog-pergatory headquarters.

so, in short, no.

with love,
the peanut guy!

jay of the wretched birthdays

Dear Peanut Guy,

My friends both had birthday parties and my friend gets a lot of presents and I don't get any. Do you have any advice?

~Jay, 6

dear jay,

i recall an oft-quoted proverb of the wise and benevolent peanut ancients:

who longeth not for the rind most salty?
who craveth not the sliken stalk?
who coveteth not manure sweet as mother's tangy butter crock?

what tears are shed for the rind less sturdy?
what songs are sung for the withered stalk?
who wants manure old and dry like rotten corpse of J.S. bach?

as peanut gal so often spoke to our teeming mass of ruthless offspring: "when you visit graceland, don't shit in the jungle room." that is to say, only elvis gets to shit in the jungle room in graceland, and only your far-more-popular friends get presents on their own damn birthdays.

life, as they say, is fair only on our own birthdays: and even then, not really. i guarantee you'll see a far more feculent haul on the bittersweet anniversary of your thus-far unfortunate birth. my prediction: a tin of cured jerky, an emery board, and century-old popcorn packed into flimsy dollar store plastic bags. such is life, young jay.

therefore, allow me to propose a solution: rather than bitch and moan, why not mooch mooch mooch? arrive at charles' place promptly after kindergarten and challenge him to any number of festive competitions on the nintendo wii. if and when he declines your offer, "persuade" him with the sharp end of your freshly-whittled emery-shiv.

now whose wii?
the peanut guy!

return of the peanut guy

dear reader,

the peanut guy extends most heartfelt, saltiest apologies to his leviathan readership for his extended absence in recent weeks. the vacation in aruba was truly magnificent - peanut gal sparkled in the waning dusklight of the sandy beach where we renewed our ancient nut-tials and we returned to georgia recently with bronzed rinds and an awe-inspiring ability to transmute heavy quantities of various poisons. enemies of peanutkind: be forewarned.

trevor's band of awestruck milquetoasts

Dear Peanut Guy

Are you real or made up because I think you must be made up.

Signed,
~Trevor

dear trevor

it is with furious venom and unrivaled pomposity that i decry thine impish attempts at blaspheming that benevolent oracle, peanut guy.

from whence cometh thou, o trevor? surely not the kudzu farm, where all vile elements of peanut wrath coagulate. as trevor knows quite well, there beneath the seemingly benign earth lie rhizomes of malice and stolons of peanut-hate, which lash out viciously when peanutkind frolics elsewhere, but which quiver like so many blanched, awestruck milquetoasts when even the slightest newborn legumeling wanders by.

oh yes, trevor. i assure you i am very real. i am the tumor of righteousness that has lodged itself firmly betwixt thy tissues of treachery. for though thine banal and hollow chicanery is at present so easily disarmed, should our myriad spies detect the hint of a threat from you or your sordid ilk, you will spend the rest of your shameful days stricken with a most gnarly case of aspergillus flavus.

let it be known, dear readers: there are traitors in your midst. trust in the peanut and protection is guaranteed.

frankly,
the peanut guy!

Beatrice Hates Glasses

Dear Peanut Guy,

My doctor said I have to get glasses but I don't want glasses. Boys at school aren't going to like me anymore if they already do, especially Geoff who I have a crush on. My mom says I have to but today I took them off when I got on the bus. What should I do.

Signed
~Beatrice Hates Glasses

dear beatrice,

tragic indeed is the swan song sung too soon. the peanut ancients have a proverb for times such as these:

what stalk, young nut, deserves thy scrub?
the stalk of radiant shimmer?
or stalks who linger hidden like a walled-in east Berliner?

to which i would add the useful corollary: "knock not that which thou hast rocked not."

don thy frames with purpose, with vigor. if that fails to catch the lustful eye of geoff, simply strut into the schoolyard with a burlap sack filled with perfect brazilian mangoes for each desirable male in the sixth and-or-seventh grades. for indeed, who is this geoff? geoff the knave? geoff the charlatan? would geoff prefer his lady-in-waiting blind as a moor shrew rather than radiantly bespectacled like the glorious dandies of old?

a curse on geoff's house! may he suffer from astigmatism and rot beneath a thousand layers of kudzu!

long live beatrice the pure, beatrice the lovely, beatrice of the perfectly-aligned retina! ruler of a thousand mango-enslaved schoolyard manservants!

dare to flaunt thy silken stalk.
the peanut guy!

the steve-encrusted soulcore

Dear Peanut Guy,

Say you told this girl that you were skydyving over the summer to impress her even though you were really at your Nanna's house in the outer banks and that your really afraid of heights but you still want to impress the girl. how do you do it?

~Friend of A Wimpy Steve

P.S. this happened to my friend STEVE not me.


dear FAWS,

deep within thy conscious being lives a creature much like steve. there is in fact a steve in all of us - all seedlings beneath the rind-charring sun. for only underground will the steves of the world perish, like so many past-due discount half & halves in the Albertson's Dairy Aisle of life. as you read my lordly response, meditate on thine own inner-steve and apply the requisite "steve salve" henceforth daily upon thine tender, steve-encrusted soulcore.

first, know this: engaging in the pedomorphic act of sky diving is roughly as impressive as mastering the cheat code to contra: everybody knows how to do it and you were probably physically strapped to some burly, mephitic expert while doing so. lying about such things is fathomless indeed. the dame of steve's desires likely requires a more subtle, seasoned approach. might i suggest steve take the following steps:

purchase and wear a top hat, monocle, ascot, and kilt, posthaste.

approach the mademoiselle at dawn from the east, such that a halo of dewlight frames thy majestic figure

offer her a single, perfect cactus.

speak the following words: "my lady, i have wronged thee. i lied to win thy heart. i now grovel, pantsless before thee. and if thou should see it fit not to toss me aside like an old bag of moldy tangerines, i would honor thee forever amidst an ever-growing pile of cold, hard cash."

commence frenching.

a steven lurks in all of us,
the peanut guy!

of drymouth and the admiral

Dear Peanut Guy,

Sometimes I sleep with my mouth open and my tounge is dry when i wake up how do i keep this from happening?

~Phil

dear phil,

t'was mid-november but forty years ago when a young senior petty officer peanut guy was promoted chief petty officer aboard the s.s. silkenstalk -- the peanut armada's flagship flagship. a fete of ages was had that eve amidst the rollicking gales of the salton sea. at 2200 hours, vice admiral petticoat nuttingschmitt boarded our ship with a mighty flagon of booze. the rest of the evening was a salty blur, and as i woke my tongue was dry as moonsand.

in a panic, i emerged from my quarters and the vice admiral was there, clad in naught but a wrestling singlet, a velvet ascot and a hideous toupee. in an instant my rind quivered and time disappeared. there was only the vice admiral and his mesmerizing two-step; the dazzling golden sequins of his skin-tight singlet; the haunting wave-like ripples of his ascot; the hypnotic bobbing of his soul-shattering hairpiece. for what seemed like millennia he danced, melting away my dry mouth like ice before a top of the line conair hairdryer until only sweet moisture remained.

following the vice admiral's trance, my tongue achieved level nine moisture clearance - a state from which it has never receded. have your friend or neighor perform this majestic dance - avec singlet, ascot et toupee - and thy tongue shall be forever wet.

moistly,
the peanut guy!

Legend of the Winnie

dear peanut guy,

i like to knit but my friends laughing at me and calling me names like a "winnie" and stuff like that...

~billy from israel

dear billy,

in is said amongst the peanut elders that one day the Winnie will come:

soft shall be his rind,
no seeds beneath its sheen;
tender be the glow from his dialysis machine;
strong shall be his heart
thick shall be his belly;
mustachioed like ol' evangelista toricelli.
"winnie" they shall call him,
"winnie is your name!"
though yarn he knits so skillfully, they'll taunt him just the same.
but when the knitting's over
and the sweater has been made,
the sky shall open up and through it ponies shall cascade.
and each shall bring a taco
with a side of texas chili,
for the sweater-weaving king of peanutopolis, the winnie."

so you see, billy, thy friends are but wastrels in the wind. knit away, young winnie. knit for glory, knit for justice; but knit away.

staunchly,
the peanut guy!

la ballata de la freshman senza data

dear peanut guy,

HI! I HAVEN'T HAD A BOYFRIEND FOR ALMOST *8* MONTHS, freshman, AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE GUYS LIKE ME. WHAT MAKES YOU LIKE A GIRL?

~DATELESS

dear DATELESS,

ask the peanut guy what makes him like a girl and you bring a soft, subtle tear to his salty, salty eye. let me count the ways...from the 10 commandments of peanut love! ready, set, feast!:

scrub not thy stalk, for thou art lovely

seek not the salt of the ancients, for its scent is un-savory

what lies beneath the rind?: the innards and thistle

salt thy rind daily

dare to flaunt thy silken stalk

the written word shall haunt thee speak in tongues in tune

applause from your hull rings out with dances in time

bring forth thy bountiful harvest and sing sans tune nor grace

burgle thy peanut kisses, as cookies from the starv-ed child

search beneath the seed coat and ye shall find the brawn of ages

live by these simple rules, DATELESS, and you shall turn *8* MONTHS of loneliness into *8* ETERNITIES of happiness.

feast,
the peanut guy!

i suck at sports...especially running

Hey Peanut Guy,

I'm 13 years old, in 8th grade. Well, since the end of last school yer, I've really liked this guy in my school. I hardly know him, but I just feel that he is right for me. (And I think he's so adorably cute) Also, he is hilarious, which is a good thing. He even danced with me and signed my yearbook. My question is, how do I get to know him? I want to get really close to him. I don't expect a dating relationship becuase I've only had one boyfriend before, and I don't think anyone likes me. I also wanted to ask, what do I do? The same guy that I like is in my gym class, and I SUCK at sports...especially running. When we have to do the mile, I'm going to feel like a complete moron..any suggestions for me?

Thanks!
~Sara

dear sara,

my suggestions are endless as the sands of time. start here: carry one sack of flour in each hand at all times. "who's the girl with the flour sacks?" they'll say. and in time, "why, that's sara the dame!" he'll reply.

know thee, sara, that 8th grade is a vicious time. it's the spanish inquisition of adolescence and few if any escape its malice. the sacks will carry you through, young sara. the sacks will carry you through. consider my story:

t'was 8th grade, 1845. i had the biggest crush on the delectable peanut marie. she asked me for a raisin in home ec, but i just ran out. my heart sank. all the others laughed at peanut guy as his stalk wilted in distress. but then, from the bowels of my being: "a prune, perhaps?" sang i, in glass-shattering tenor, and the skies opened, revealing a neverending prunestorm that swallowed us all.

then, hidden 'neath the prunes, peanut marie came to me and sang sweetly in my rindpipe:

t'was written in the peanut tome
one would call all prunekind home
and at the beckon of marie
would steal a kiss of nougat foam

and here beneath the deep prune sea
i clutch you ever close to me
and at the beckon of marie
i offer you this pocket comb

the comb was all i ever got from marie, dear sara. but the comb secretes pomade in limitless quantities, and can decode animal thoughts.

what's the moral?: carry your sacks the day of the mile, sara. let him come to you. and in time, he will learn to call you master.

der erzherzog der erdnüsse,
the peanut guy!

"stay the hell away from my son"

Dear Peanut Guy,

The other day my coworker told me in confidence that he killed a neighborhood pet while he was busy fixing his hair in the car. What should I do? In addition, my son is allergic to peanuts. So, you know, stay the hell away from my son.

Signed,
~Mr. Wheat

dear mr. wheat,

i am perfectly happy sitting at my laughably tiny desk, quill in hand, for the rest of my days. perhaps you should warn your sickly son with the histamine affliction not to come near me. were he to approach a twelve-mile radius of my well-fortified georgian compound i assure you my crack squad of peanut commandos would put him out of his misery with jaw-dropping precision.

my first suggestion is to listen closely to your soothsaying youth. for the peanut elders teach that the human peanut allergy is but a warning to all humankind that the age of the peanut cometh; and all whose nostrils have been seduced by our carefully salted rinds, our honey-roasted deliciosity, shall perish in the first waves of the great bloody war of legume liberation prophesized in the ancient peanut texts. beware.

as for your murderous coworker, my advice column colleagues would surely suggest you confront your friend about his transgressions and, failing that, report him to the authorities. to do so would be salacious, boobhardy and utterly naive. instead:

offer him an eclair filled with acetone

when he drifts off to sleep, tack a post-it to his forehead scrawled with the words "cat killer"

cut off his hair and fashion a beautiful toupee for peanut guy

verily our new age cometh,
the peanut guy!

"but chester will say he hates fishing"

Dear Peanut Guy,

My name is Hampton. I have a question about my friend. I like to go fishing and I go fishing with my friend who I will call Chester. When Chester and me go fishing we have a good time fishing. But when we get to school Chester will say he hates fishing, and I think its because he wants to be impressed for Dan and Skyler who always get the girls in school. What should I do? Also in your picture your write backwards and you don't even look at the page, how come? Are you stupid?

signed-
~Hampton

dear hampton,

your challenge to my intellect is far beyond laughable. it is risible to the umpteenth degree. it is indeed so exotically outlandish, so deliriously daffy in its whimsical preposterousness, that all the zany, screwy, and waggish elements in my bone-chillingly adroit nut-core now scream your name, "hampton!", "hampton!" in a snowballing crescendo of pure and seemingly endless farcical bliss. we of peanutkind never write directly, prefering instead to write backwards at all times. we never look directly at the page, prefering instead to mesmerize passersby with our disarming charisma rays. for to do either of these things would be to bore our hauntingly powerful brainmatter. our premature legumelings write forwards, you arrogant rube.

on to your question: chester, dear hampton, has discovered that the young women of high school swoon not for fishing. however, he has chosen the simpleton's route to their hearts by decrying rather than eschewing the topic or channeling it into swoonworthy lovespeech. in one fell swoop even you, puerile hampton, can defeat chester, win the hearts of women, and become the envy of dans and skylers everywhere:

bring your fish to school at the end of a long string of barbed wire

drop the fish at the feet of dan, skyler and chester as they mope about, fish hating in the cafeteria.

affix your eyes on the dreamboat of your choice, and when a hush falls over the crowd, fall to one knee and whisper these alkaline words: "walleye, maureen. i bring you walleye. let us dine this night for peace, for justice, and for the bedazzler, whose sparkling emeralds and mesmerizing rubies encrust our denim for all the world to enjoy. with love, with purpose, and as a testament to your everlasting beauty, i bring you walleye. walleye, maureen."

with its last breath, my humor gland shall whisper softly, beautifully, "hampton."

enormously,
the peanut guy!

"he would never call my name when he was joking"

Hi Peanut Guy,

How can you tell if a boy likes you? and when a boy dos'nt like you how can you make them like you .. see i have this boy i had my eyes on, but he moved and before he moved he would never call my name when he was joking. right now i just wanna know how to get the guy i want.

~patient in south carolina

dear patient,

many skulls have been cracked, many snacks have been snacked, in the age-old effort to determine whether the object of one's desires reciprocates. the ancient peanut scriptures suggest staging a series of screaming scenarios to gauge his reaction:

place a honey baked ham in his locker, but not before decorating it with hot tamales in the unmistakable face of vincent price. rig the ceiling tiles above his locker to spill millions of tiny skull-confetti when he opens it. also, put a tape recorder in there to play "greensleeves" sung by vincent price. as soon as he opens the locker, jump out covered in syrup, wallow at his feet and scream frantically like you're being eaten alive by horde of milk vipers. if he gives you a dollar, it was meant to be. if not...

place a note in his locker explaining you'd like to make it up to him at 8pm in the teacher's lounge. turn the lights down low and leave a xia dynasty vase filled with three perfect tulips on the coffee table. at length, emerge from behind the coffee table wearing your wedding dress and commence screaming as if death was upon you. if a single tear falls from his chiseled cheek onto the petals of the perfect tulips, it was meant to be. if not, you're going to have to move to plan B: make him like you.

use fairy dust to haunt his dreams with visions of walking the plank. only this: the plank is made of roast beef, and the pirates all have the face of alexander hamilton.

enter the dream as aaron burr, eat the roast beef with your mighty republican jaw, and save him from the federalists, who are jerks.

when he wakes he shall always call your name when he is joking, and he shall move no more forever.

boldly,
the peanut guy

"when i go to church, my throat will always be stopped up"

Dear Peanut Guy,

I like you. When I go to church, my throat will always be stopped up and I can't sing very well. On the other hand, after I come home from church I can sing very well. What should I do?

Love,
~Tristan, 16

dear tristan,

your voice has been silenced by the lord on account of your ungodly forays into white collar crime. for how can one praise His name on sunday when saturday one worships at the altar of insider trading? oh yes, tristan. your verboten stock ventures may have evaded the lazy eye of that pock-marked boob chris cox, but i assure you they are quite well-known to the peanut clan. our radiant silken vines have crisscrossed beneath the earth undetected for centuries, channeling knowledge from the far reaches of the universe into our subterranean georgian compound. we also know all about your secret case of astigmatism (kendall marie will be so very disapointed!), and that bogus hedge fund run by skyler murphy -- who incidentally is skimming a little off the top to pay for his calf implants in a desperate attempt to steal kendall from your lie-encrusted arms.

face it, tristan: your world is rocked. peanutkind has once again triumphed. not since the ancient times when horses ruled the earth and oats created mankind in their mysterious bog-labs to avoid extinction have elements of the plant kingdom held such a tight grip on the wheels of the world. with this in mind, consider the following excerpt from the holy peanut scriptures:

softly doth the nut descend
for he whose stock is falling
from the ripe and silken vine
when one has lost his calling

swiftly should the nut repent
by singing one great carol
written by all peanut kind
and played by john and darryl

replace the church organist's music with the score to 'rich girl' by hall and oates. you will sing like choirs of angels.

magnanimously,
the peanut guy!

"i really want to go off the high dive"

Dear Peanut Guy,

I really want to go off the high dive, but i am afraid to. I don't know why I'm afraid, because I went off it before. Can you help?

~Brad W.

dear brad,

conquering one's fears is perhaps the noblest endeavor of man and nut alike. when i was your age my greatest fear was a tie between eating feces and cambodia. then, for twelve years i survived off sunlight and feces in the dank cambodian jungle, where i met peanut gal and really learned to love life even at its most feculent.

however, for your particular ailment the peanut elders recommend frightening your parents by wearing ninja tights and reciting haikus. example:

the sky is a rock
the rock looks like a big skull
the skull will eat mom!

after that, diving will be easy as honey baked pie.

adieu sweet brad,
the peanut guy!

"my friend never comes to church anymore"

Dear Peanut Guy,

My friend never comes to church much anymore. Can you help me talk him into coming more often?

~Cory, 8 Texas

dear cory,

you can't be sure until you find the horns, but i'd bet dollars to sweat lodge tickets your friend has discovered the wonderful world of wicca. what does this mean for cory you ask?

few times are more thrilling than seeing your first friend off to hell. i might suggest burning your friend at the stake or tacking her down and leaving her in the desert. this won't save her from an eternity in fiery brimstone, but if you eat a thimbleful of sand, chances are you'll see jesus.

halleluia,
the peanut guy!

peanut guy: delicious fraud?

Dear Peanut Guy,

I sent you a letter many moons ago and you failed to answer me. You are a fraud, a giant delicious shell of a fraud. At this time, I have employed Mr. Planters to come kick your butt. You will soon be the filling in the most delicious PB & J I have ever eaten. Consider yourself warned.

Sincerely,

~Sitting Angrily with Rage Growing Every moment.


dear SARGE,

mention not the whore at planters! for eons has he shamed his noble kin - nuts of glory who polished his stalk since seedlinghood, carved him a cane when he fell ill with polio and equipped him with monocle when he caught pinkeye. how he angers all peanutkind! and how his goons have ravaged myriad peanut armada missions, including one manned by a young and impressionable petty officer peanutguy!

as countless bushels of my comrades lay broken and splintered, there he crouched, sucking the salt from their moribund rinds with crazed cackles of sadistic revelry. then his cell phone rang and he pranced off like a scampering dandy to his fecund bog in Wilkes-Barre.

threaten me not, knave. thou knowest well why thine questions were left to fester like so many larvae in my overflowing inbox. unlike the planters crowd with which you run, this is a classy establishment which prints not those words which are unfit to print. however: so long as you call off the jackal, i shall answer your previous question with sinful parts redacted, in accordance with the doctrine of freshness:

Dear Peanut Guy,
For years now I have loved a young, supple Kentuckian boy who sends me mixed signals. He has allowed me to drink champagne off his hairy, washboard of a chest or massage his *redacted* back. And yet when it comes time to actually *redacted* his *redacted* body, it’s always, “Dude, I’m not *redacted*.” Well, horse-relish to that, I say. I, too, may “*redacted*” *redacted* college girls, but I know love when I see it, and I see it now. “*redacted*,” I scream, “my love for you shall last throughout the ages.” And yet, he still doesn’t even have the courtesy to give me a *redacted*. Peanut Guy, I implore you, tell me how to snare this Jackalope of Love from the Bluegrass State.

well, "SARGE," have you tried treating him like a gentleman? the kentuckians are known romantics, particularly the supple ones. drinking champagne from the chest of a kentuckian is like shaking the hand of a non-kentuckian - a mere friendly greeting. massaging the *redacted* back of a kentuckian is akin to picking the lint off the sweater of a non-kentuckian - a mere thoughtful gesture extended to even the lowliest back-alley leper.

it seems to me your lustful uproars must merely frighten this poor, *redacted* *redacted*-kitten, who likely has nary an inkling of your love for him, for the kentuckian is the modern day siren whose soulful and sensuous snacking pull even the most headstrong captains off course from the gulfstream of life: not even the mightiest peanut armada can save those who fall prey to their cheeto-encrusted whims. besides, he's already *redacted*ing peanut guy.

cruelly,
the peanut guy!

sorority function : earth

dear peanut guy,

ok i have a sorority function on friday and want to ask this guy to go. the problem is i don't really know him i have just seen him around and am interested in him and think he may be fun to go with and meet someone new. so i was wondering how i should approach him and ask with out soudning stupid b/c i don't know him. the thing is this friday and i wanted to ask him by wednesdaty at the latest. so thanks for helping me out!

~sincerely, stressed sorority girl

dear stressed sorority girl,

in an instant my skull was filled with light and sound. from overhead, the cawing of carrion birds sifted through my cloudy earbones and the answer came to me from afar. i saw you tiptoeing through the dormitory, with functions on the horizon; functions galore. 'who shall take me to the functions?' you called out in vain. would it be peanut guy?...

the gods got together to plan their own function and called it earth. said one to the other, "would but i had a date to the function!" replied the other, "ah, and how to ask without soudning stupid! for i wanted to ask jerry by 'wednesdaty', but 'thursdaty' it is, and jerry prances about in the rocky, violent terrain of this freshly born world looking cavalier as ever!" at this point, jerry stops by and bows gracefully. "why meet someone new when the peanut guy is right o'er yonder?"

a ray of light appeared in the distance and the earth shook. it was a man made of peanut, in all of his handsome majesty. soon jerry meant nothing, and the gods all took peanut guy to the prom and bathed him in candy while jerry sat about twiddling his thumbs and was promptly consumed in volcanic ash.

now i ask you...dream or destiny?!
the peanut guy!

gary: enemy of peanutkind

dear peanut guy,

can you tell me how a roasted peanut becomes a salted peanut. i am
looking for the exact procedures.

much appreciated,
~gary

dear gary,

why don't we come clean, pal? we're both adults here. so let's have it out: you're in cahoots with james, aren't you "gary"? say, "gary," why don't we settle this like gentlemen, in an old-fashioned match of food? if you're truly mature, as i am, then we should have no problem going toe to toe in a food match. incidentally, the peanut clan elders have informed me i have unbridled access to a most cruel iron maiden built to your exact proportions. now, you know the rules:

first, you collect 75kg of food.

then, we both say our battle chants.

finally, the one with the most food wins.

but here's the catch: was it food or was it only a mystic illusion created by means unknown to you--a secret of the peanut clan???

beware,
the peanut guy!

james: enemy of peanutkind

dear peanut guy,

i was wondering what the name of the skin on the peanut is called.
not the shell, the stuff that gets stuck in your teeth.

thanks,
~james

dear james,

i am seething. thy long-winded and offensive monologues shall be tolerated no longer, nor shall thy provincial slang and mockingly civil ways. as i sit at my laughably tiny desk, quill in hand, i can think of no greater medicine for my rage than to crouch over thine shrunken head, wedging myself between thy teeth until thine agony matches that of my fallen brothers and sisters. yet i was raised, as are all civilized nuts, by the doctrine of freshness, and thy large and tender rind shall not hinder the noble standards of my upbringing.

i recall the fateful words of peanut gal as she lay on her festering cot, seconds before the kudzu ripped apart the foundation:

let not the tooth,
with wholesome bite,
distract me from my pants;
my pants are large,
my buttons bright,
they beckon me to dance.

let this be a lesson to you,
the peanut guy!

"every day at school something has to bother me"

Dear Peanut Guy,

Hi, I'm Tracy and I have a problem. Every day at school something has to bother me. One day, I wanted to play with my friend Ashley, but my other friend Kelly wanted to play with me too. I don't know who to play with. I like both of my friends very much, but when I play with one of my friends, my other friend gets mad at me. I even tried playing with both of them and asking them what they both like to do, but it never works. I don't know what to do!!

Please Help!
~Tracy

dear tracy,

like a squid trying to play the accordion, it's clear you're out of your league and really pissing everyone off at the coral reef. ashley and kelly obviously admire your sleek, rubbery body and your seemingly endless ink sac. but what can they offer you?

as usual, the peanut elders have addressed your problem in their oft-cited 1664 treatise "seduced by the salt: the secret curse of the magnetically radiant rind":

...for she of the stalk most silken hath plentiful nuts, and naught but a handful crave friendship, but rather to see their rinds' reflection in the glistening sheen of her radiant stalkfeathers...

the scarlet women ashley and kelly are of the latter ilk, dear tracy.

ashley is like the snake - she is conniving, and her teeth are pointy and filled with venom which must be sucked out immediately by the nearest ranch hand. kelly is like the locust - harmless when alone, but a most cruel leviathan when accompanied by her three trillion clones whose deafening onslaught rape the earth and blacken the sky, causing unspeakable suffering until the next rainy season.

for this reason, i suggest swift, clandestine action against ashley and an immediate playground alliance with kelly. she is hideous and malevolent, but her powers will prove invaluable when you rise to power and reign for a thousand years as the cruel dark princess of garfield middle school.

mercilessly,
the peanut guy!

holy undergarments gets pantsed

dear peanutguy,

yesterday at work we were all standing around the water cooler and i was trying to talk to the cute new guy when stoopid stacy pantsed me in front of everybody! now everyone knows my mum embroiders portraits of saints on my underwear. what revenge should i take? and how do i ask that hot guy out?

~holy undergarments

dear holy undergarments

i will humor your wolf-pack of dog-lies with a gentleman's response, for integrity is the way of the peanut clan.

first, no god-fearing man-child would ever dare violate thy sanctified naughties. You should dash the sacred underpants just as the harlot stacy dashed your dreams.

as henry david thoreau once said, "vengeance is a dish best served cold." the peanut clan scriptures provide us with a useful corollary: "when in doubt, make it stinky."

place upon her desk a gift-wrapped gazpacho with a tag reading "to stacy. from: antonio banderas." only this: put a tiny bit of poop in there (!)

then, stage another pants-dropping scenario revealing a new pair of enchanting underthings embroidered with a signed portrait iron-on patch of famed occultist aleister crowley! your muscle-bound hero will be putty in your fiendish clutches.

saltily thine,
the peanut guy!

to french or not to french

Dear Peanut Guy,

I can’t get myself to French Kiss this guy I like a lot! I have never done it and I can’t get myself to do it. How do you do it? What else could we do to stay intimate other than sex?

Signed,
~ Never Been Kissed

dear never been kissed,

if love were a meat, it would be beef tenderloin - cut from the juiciest, most tender middle of the cow of life. the key to happiness, NBK, is to season the love with onions, seasonings, and sometimes raw eggs. only thusly can we blend the perfect steak tartare of happiness.

sadly, "frenching" your man is the only way to stay intimate other than sex, known amongst the peanut folk as the sashimi of intimacy - the first course of food-love. you are ordered to french him. here's how:

discretely cover his eyelids in yuba

powder your lips delicately with horseflesh

carefully place the LP "private eyes" by hall & oates on your turntable

recite the pledge of allegiance

open mouth

commence frenching

adieu,
the peanut guy!

arrivederci, giliann

dear peanut guy,

Good day, my dear friend

I still live with my parents under the same roof and I am sorry to say this, but I am already tired to see how they rule over my life. I work hard and I make enough to have a good life, but I give a lot to my parents. My friends ask why don't I just rent an apartment and leave: I just think that I will be sorry all my life for leaving them: Maybe you can give me an advice? Is there a way to get "divorced" with my parents and build my life with a man who will love me. I am looking for a life partner and friend, for lover and gentleman in my future husband. I hope all these features are combined in you. Your answer should wait for me and I am thankful to my destiny that I have a chance to get to know you better:

A rivederci,
~Giliann D.

dear giliann,

you are not the first vertebrate maiden to swoon over peanut guy's perfectly salted rind, his glistening protein-rich stalk which feeds upon the roaring firelight in the legume-hungry eyes of all the female phyla of italy.

but alas, sweet giliann d., i have sworn but one true love and peanut gal is she. however, no known by-laws of the peanut code preclude me from helping defenseless italians, so long as they swear allegiance to the peanut guy and join his royal peanut armada as as a junior midshipman every other new moon. have you sworn yet? then:

first, quit your job in the sugar mines. if your parents protest, simply recite the peanut oath of cyclical responsibility: "i, peanut giliann swear upon the seeds of mine fathers thou hast approved of mine actions whilst intoxicated beyond the legal limit."

next, you must immediately ask the following of each eligible bachelor you meet: "stilgar, do we have wormsign?" to which your lover of destiny will surely reply, "usal, we have wormsign the likes of which even peanut guy has never seen."

the rest, as they say, is foodsandwich.

lasciarme passeggia quell'asino,
the peanut guy!

le hotel d'earwax

(originally answered 7/31/1998)

Dear Peanut Guy,

I've been wondering, about this riddle. This guy goes in to town on Friday, and stays three days in the very cheesy hotel, and leaves on Friday. How did he do it? I have another question, too, what do I do about the ever present problem of EAR WAX?? I thought maybe you could help!

Thanks, Peanut Guy!
~Amanda

P.S. Here's one for you to ponder: Why did the chicken cross the road?

dear amanda,

the answer is: the hotel is made of cave aged emmentaler, which as we all know can stop time for up to twelve moon cycles when properly hexed by an ancient avatar of the peanut clan. as for earwax, send it airmail to me:

PEANUT GUY
beverly hills, ca

i shall bury the wax in my garden where the wee billygoats feed.

princely and yours,
the peanut guy!

p.s. it was merely a mop made of feathers.

steevie's good nighte kiss

Dear Nut man,

My name is steevie. I have two questions for you. MY first quesiton is how can you have a website you're apeanut?!

MY second question is a bout girls. I know this girl, A, who wants to date but I don't know where to take her or what do to odo for a date. What should i do to really WOW her for the date? CAn i kiss her at the end of the nighte???

LEt me know if you can help me.

Signed,
~ Steevie the Man

dear steevie "the man",

although you are clearly a drooling, pantsless philistine unworthy of my georgian quill, i shall answer thine appeals pursuant to clause five, section ten of the peanut clan scriptures:

"whosoever tosseth the drooling and pantsless a bone shall receive a heavenly spiced rind massage from the nitrate-rich angels fortnightly."

i am a saint.

now then, steevie. brace yourself: it is said amongst the peanut elders: rinds of a kind crave similar salt. being a dunce, i can only assume your pastimes include horticulture and loin-soiling. if you should perchance to notice a pungent urine-musk cloud billowing forth from the crotch of your beloved - or a bonsai tree in her locker - then you need only follow these simple steps:

purchase a pair of filthy dungarees

fasten them about you, one greasy tentacle at a time

ask your lover-to-be if she has been recently flagellated by any members of phylum heterokontophyta, for her sheen is rosy and pure

when she swoons, offer her a moldy asparagus and have her meet you behind the laundromat in her aforementioned "nighte"

when she arrives, sing "come sail away" by styx, shirtless

kissing the end of her nighte will be difficult, but you will find oil-encrusted, serpentine lips there if you look closely. these lips bear the secrets of the multiverse and untold pleasures of the rind.

i'm ready for my enspicening,
the peanut guy!

"my name is chad. i have a sirius prolbem."

(originally answered 2/18/2006)

Dear Peanut Guy,

my name is Chad. i have a sirius prolbem. theirs this HOTT chick in my algebra class and instead of doing work i usually just flirt with her all class period, like passing her notes and touching her leg and stuff and just you nkow trying to get with her. shes into it 2 and she flirts back, feeling my bicep sometimes or like licking her lipps and shit.

anyway, sometimes because of this i pop a boner and it hits the bottom on my desk. its totally embarrassing and also im worried that i'll be called up to the board to do a equation on the board.

what shoudl i do????
~ Boner Always Deeply Affecting Social Situations

dear "chad" or "BADASS",

every day before class, simply repeat the following ritual:

close your eyes for a moment and imagine a cool mountain spring percolating up through the tender, mossy soil of the old growth forest bed. inhale. follow the crisp, crystaline waters down the emerald hillock and into the deep, calm alpine resevoir.

now you are floating over the center of the translucent lake. you see a giant horsehead deep below, rising slowly to the surface and growing larger with each molecule of mountain air you helplessly inhale until its leviathan nostrils hover one centimeter below the lake's veneer, its hideous, beady eyes piercing you, haunting you. forever.

this, chad, is the horse of shame. at its command, you shall henceforth wear mascara and only black. that, or try peanut gal's suggestion: hold a large textbook over the affected region.

fondly,
the peanut guy!