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!

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!

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!

"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