"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!