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!