the proverbial five months chat

Dear Peanut Guy,

My online boyfriend disappeared after five months chat? Everything was ok till the last day we talked.What should I do?
Should I email him again?

worried,
~Julija H

dear julija,

my rind buckles beneath the incalculable prescience contained in the following peanut proverb-of-old:

those who dismember rhizobia tendrils
are the same who plug blowholes of whales;
when they're not leaving poop in the doorways of sages,
they're sending mom farts in the mail.

the last day you talked he was preening his stalk
for a night of weird digital passion
but the gods guarantee, to the umpteenth degree
that his rind is now saltless and ashen.

this plebe shall remember the ides of november,
now he roams the bleak plane of mistakes.
and if it be your will, then the ancients shall fill
his canteen up with infinite snakes.

for east europeans are very well seasoned--
they're the boston baked beans of the sentient;
and to be done with that after five months of chat
is the ultimate zenith of deviance.

merely say the word, sweet julija.
sweet julija; let us be friends.

brazenly,
the peanut guy!

pennyfarthing for your thoughts

2008 was a long, lonesome year for peanut guy, and void of all but one smidgen of advice (below). in 2009, the rind returns. send your questions to:

thepeanutguy at gmail dot com

let's do this thing.

the ralph macchio of the '00s

Dear Peanut Guy,

There's this guy I've been just hooking-up with. I would see him once a week for a simple roll in the hay, and i'd sleep over. I wont call him or text or anything because i don't want him to think i expect this whole FWB thing we have going on to turn into anything. Normally when we're hanging out i wont touch him, i wont care if he's talking to a girl on the phone, or even making plans with another girl. I wont hang on him, or flirt, NOTHING! Within the past week he has invited me over 5 times,he's always flirting, and i've caught him looking in my eyes alot lately. He ims me everyday even if its just to say hi and see how im doing.

He got mad when we were watching 8 mile and i said Eminem was hott! He playfully hit me in the stomach, and then randomly said that he wanted to have sex with this girl i knew one more time! i was like what? why? So i hit him back. and just smirked. Do you think that he's trying to make me jealous, and that he wants to take what we have to the next level?

I'm so confused!

~Please Help!!!!

dear please,

ah, to be young! for long and fair were the halcyon days of my youth, and more than a few "fabaceae with benefits" did i encounter upon the way:

there was fair Stilgar, that salty pre-med wonder with ears like moonlit silt on a frosted treefern; to look into her coal-black eyebuds was to gaze upon the very core of earthen harlotry!

there was Throgmart, beloved princess of syrupy creamed yogurt, heir to the gilded tiara of St. Radagast, and the world's preeminent catheter scholar (among soda jerks)!

and at last there was the silken, magnificent Horndurf; that fabled dreamboat whose eyes were a billion screaming stars braying like charged lepers in the rich, cosmic dust of some planetary afterbirth. to consider for one fleeting second the intricate details of her perfectly salted posterior was to dive headlong into the beating heart of universal rindlust. how her root nodules teemed with nitrogen-rich rhizobia! how her radiant calyx glistened beneath sepals of infinite delight! for her i would have slogged a thousand rods through the inkblack depths of the Sub-Georgian Horror Plains. and but for her unhealthy preoccupation with Ralph Macchio, "the Eminiem of the 1980s," i may have had the chance. from me she was spirited away in some Macchiovian sports car, gone forever.

FWB, sweet PH, are like farts in the wind. beautiful? without compare. sweet? beyond earthly measure. pleasing to the ear? like a thousand interwoven symphonies written and performed by choirs of Juliard-trained angels. but fleeting, PH. ever fleeting.

i counsel thee to trust not the clutches of thy barnyard companion of the hour, but to prepare thy hay for a romp with the apple of thine eyes: jimmy "b-rabbit" smith!

aim for the heavens, dear PH. FWB are fleeting, but Eminem is forever.

with pomp,
the peanut guy!

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.