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!