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!

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!

holy undergarments gets pantsed

dear peanutguy,

yesterday at work we were all standing around the water cooler and i was trying to talk to the cute new guy when stoopid stacy pantsed me in front of everybody! now everyone knows my mum embroiders portraits of saints on my underwear. what revenge should i take? and how do i ask that hot guy out?

~holy undergarments

dear holy undergarments

i will humor your wolf-pack of dog-lies with a gentleman's response, for integrity is the way of the peanut clan.

first, no god-fearing man-child would ever dare violate thy sanctified naughties. You should dash the sacred underpants just as the harlot stacy dashed your dreams.

as henry david thoreau once said, "vengeance is a dish best served cold." the peanut clan scriptures provide us with a useful corollary: "when in doubt, make it stinky."

place upon her desk a gift-wrapped gazpacho with a tag reading "to stacy. from: antonio banderas." only this: put a tiny bit of poop in there (!)

then, stage another pants-dropping scenario revealing a new pair of enchanting underthings embroidered with a signed portrait iron-on patch of famed occultist aleister crowley! your muscle-bound hero will be putty in your fiendish clutches.

saltily thine,
the peanut guy!