Legend of the Winnie

dear peanut guy,

i like to knit but my friends laughing at me and calling me names like a "winnie" and stuff like that...

~billy from israel

dear billy,

in is said amongst the peanut elders that one day the Winnie will come:

soft shall be his rind,
no seeds beneath its sheen;
tender be the glow from his dialysis machine;
strong shall be his heart
thick shall be his belly;
mustachioed like ol' evangelista toricelli.
"winnie" they shall call him,
"winnie is your name!"
though yarn he knits so skillfully, they'll taunt him just the same.
but when the knitting's over
and the sweater has been made,
the sky shall open up and through it ponies shall cascade.
and each shall bring a taco
with a side of texas chili,
for the sweater-weaving king of peanutopolis, the winnie."

so you see, billy, thy friends are but wastrels in the wind. knit away, young winnie. knit for glory, knit for justice; but knit away.

staunchly,
the peanut guy!

la ballata de la freshman senza data

dear peanut guy,

HI! I HAVEN'T HAD A BOYFRIEND FOR ALMOST *8* MONTHS, freshman, AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE GUYS LIKE ME. WHAT MAKES YOU LIKE A GIRL?

~DATELESS

dear DATELESS,

ask the peanut guy what makes him like a girl and you bring a soft, subtle tear to his salty, salty eye. let me count the ways...from the 10 commandments of peanut love! ready, set, feast!:

scrub not thy stalk, for thou art lovely

seek not the salt of the ancients, for its scent is un-savory

what lies beneath the rind?: the innards and thistle

salt thy rind daily

dare to flaunt thy silken stalk

the written word shall haunt thee speak in tongues in tune

applause from your hull rings out with dances in time

bring forth thy bountiful harvest and sing sans tune nor grace

burgle thy peanut kisses, as cookies from the starv-ed child

search beneath the seed coat and ye shall find the brawn of ages

live by these simple rules, DATELESS, and you shall turn *8* MONTHS of loneliness into *8* ETERNITIES of happiness.

feast,
the peanut guy!

i suck at sports...especially running

Hey Peanut Guy,

I'm 13 years old, in 8th grade. Well, since the end of last school yer, I've really liked this guy in my school. I hardly know him, but I just feel that he is right for me. (And I think he's so adorably cute) Also, he is hilarious, which is a good thing. He even danced with me and signed my yearbook. My question is, how do I get to know him? I want to get really close to him. I don't expect a dating relationship becuase I've only had one boyfriend before, and I don't think anyone likes me. I also wanted to ask, what do I do? The same guy that I like is in my gym class, and I SUCK at sports...especially running. When we have to do the mile, I'm going to feel like a complete moron..any suggestions for me?

Thanks!
~Sara

dear sara,

my suggestions are endless as the sands of time. start here: carry one sack of flour in each hand at all times. "who's the girl with the flour sacks?" they'll say. and in time, "why, that's sara the dame!" he'll reply.

know thee, sara, that 8th grade is a vicious time. it's the spanish inquisition of adolescence and few if any escape its malice. the sacks will carry you through, young sara. the sacks will carry you through. consider my story:

t'was 8th grade, 1845. i had the biggest crush on the delectable peanut marie. she asked me for a raisin in home ec, but i just ran out. my heart sank. all the others laughed at peanut guy as his stalk wilted in distress. but then, from the bowels of my being: "a prune, perhaps?" sang i, in glass-shattering tenor, and the skies opened, revealing a neverending prunestorm that swallowed us all.

then, hidden 'neath the prunes, peanut marie came to me and sang sweetly in my rindpipe:

t'was written in the peanut tome
one would call all prunekind home
and at the beckon of marie
would steal a kiss of nougat foam

and here beneath the deep prune sea
i clutch you ever close to me
and at the beckon of marie
i offer you this pocket comb

the comb was all i ever got from marie, dear sara. but the comb secretes pomade in limitless quantities, and can decode animal thoughts.

what's the moral?: carry your sacks the day of the mile, sara. let him come to you. and in time, he will learn to call you master.

der erzherzog der erdnüsse,
the peanut guy!

"stay the hell away from my son"

Dear Peanut Guy,

The other day my coworker told me in confidence that he killed a neighborhood pet while he was busy fixing his hair in the car. What should I do? In addition, my son is allergic to peanuts. So, you know, stay the hell away from my son.

Signed,
~Mr. Wheat

dear mr. wheat,

i am perfectly happy sitting at my laughably tiny desk, quill in hand, for the rest of my days. perhaps you should warn your sickly son with the histamine affliction not to come near me. were he to approach a twelve-mile radius of my well-fortified georgian compound i assure you my crack squad of peanut commandos would put him out of his misery with jaw-dropping precision.

my first suggestion is to listen closely to your soothsaying youth. for the peanut elders teach that the human peanut allergy is but a warning to all humankind that the age of the peanut cometh; and all whose nostrils have been seduced by our carefully salted rinds, our honey-roasted deliciosity, shall perish in the first waves of the great bloody war of legume liberation prophesized in the ancient peanut texts. beware.

as for your murderous coworker, my advice column colleagues would surely suggest you confront your friend about his transgressions and, failing that, report him to the authorities. to do so would be salacious, boobhardy and utterly naive. instead:

offer him an eclair filled with acetone

when he drifts off to sleep, tack a post-it to his forehead scrawled with the words "cat killer"

cut off his hair and fashion a beautiful toupee for peanut guy

verily our new age cometh,
the peanut guy!

"but chester will say he hates fishing"

Dear Peanut Guy,

My name is Hampton. I have a question about my friend. I like to go fishing and I go fishing with my friend who I will call Chester. When Chester and me go fishing we have a good time fishing. But when we get to school Chester will say he hates fishing, and I think its because he wants to be impressed for Dan and Skyler who always get the girls in school. What should I do? Also in your picture your write backwards and you don't even look at the page, how come? Are you stupid?

signed-
~Hampton

dear hampton,

your challenge to my intellect is far beyond laughable. it is risible to the umpteenth degree. it is indeed so exotically outlandish, so deliriously daffy in its whimsical preposterousness, that all the zany, screwy, and waggish elements in my bone-chillingly adroit nut-core now scream your name, "hampton!", "hampton!" in a snowballing crescendo of pure and seemingly endless farcical bliss. we of peanutkind never write directly, prefering instead to write backwards at all times. we never look directly at the page, prefering instead to mesmerize passersby with our disarming charisma rays. for to do either of these things would be to bore our hauntingly powerful brainmatter. our premature legumelings write forwards, you arrogant rube.

on to your question: chester, dear hampton, has discovered that the young women of high school swoon not for fishing. however, he has chosen the simpleton's route to their hearts by decrying rather than eschewing the topic or channeling it into swoonworthy lovespeech. in one fell swoop even you, puerile hampton, can defeat chester, win the hearts of women, and become the envy of dans and skylers everywhere:

bring your fish to school at the end of a long string of barbed wire

drop the fish at the feet of dan, skyler and chester as they mope about, fish hating in the cafeteria.

affix your eyes on the dreamboat of your choice, and when a hush falls over the crowd, fall to one knee and whisper these alkaline words: "walleye, maureen. i bring you walleye. let us dine this night for peace, for justice, and for the bedazzler, whose sparkling emeralds and mesmerizing rubies encrust our denim for all the world to enjoy. with love, with purpose, and as a testament to your everlasting beauty, i bring you walleye. walleye, maureen."

with its last breath, my humor gland shall whisper softly, beautifully, "hampton."

enormously,
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

"when i go to church, my throat will always be stopped up"

Dear Peanut Guy,

I like you. When I go to church, my throat will always be stopped up and I can't sing very well. On the other hand, after I come home from church I can sing very well. What should I do?

Love,
~Tristan, 16

dear tristan,

your voice has been silenced by the lord on account of your ungodly forays into white collar crime. for how can one praise His name on sunday when saturday one worships at the altar of insider trading? oh yes, tristan. your verboten stock ventures may have evaded the lazy eye of that pock-marked boob chris cox, but i assure you they are quite well-known to the peanut clan. our radiant silken vines have crisscrossed beneath the earth undetected for centuries, channeling knowledge from the far reaches of the universe into our subterranean georgian compound. we also know all about your secret case of astigmatism (kendall marie will be so very disapointed!), and that bogus hedge fund run by skyler murphy -- who incidentally is skimming a little off the top to pay for his calf implants in a desperate attempt to steal kendall from your lie-encrusted arms.

face it, tristan: your world is rocked. peanutkind has once again triumphed. not since the ancient times when horses ruled the earth and oats created mankind in their mysterious bog-labs to avoid extinction have elements of the plant kingdom held such a tight grip on the wheels of the world. with this in mind, consider the following excerpt from the holy peanut scriptures:

softly doth the nut descend
for he whose stock is falling
from the ripe and silken vine
when one has lost his calling

swiftly should the nut repent
by singing one great carol
written by all peanut kind
and played by john and darryl

replace the church organist's music with the score to 'rich girl' by hall and oates. you will sing like choirs of angels.

magnanimously,
the peanut guy!

"i really want to go off the high dive"

Dear Peanut Guy,

I really want to go off the high dive, but i am afraid to. I don't know why I'm afraid, because I went off it before. Can you help?

~Brad W.

dear brad,

conquering one's fears is perhaps the noblest endeavor of man and nut alike. when i was your age my greatest fear was a tie between eating feces and cambodia. then, for twelve years i survived off sunlight and feces in the dank cambodian jungle, where i met peanut gal and really learned to love life even at its most feculent.

however, for your particular ailment the peanut elders recommend frightening your parents by wearing ninja tights and reciting haikus. example:

the sky is a rock
the rock looks like a big skull
the skull will eat mom!

after that, diving will be easy as honey baked pie.

adieu sweet brad,
the peanut guy!

"my friend never comes to church anymore"

Dear Peanut Guy,

My friend never comes to church much anymore. Can you help me talk him into coming more often?

~Cory, 8 Texas

dear cory,

you can't be sure until you find the horns, but i'd bet dollars to sweat lodge tickets your friend has discovered the wonderful world of wicca. what does this mean for cory you ask?

few times are more thrilling than seeing your first friend off to hell. i might suggest burning your friend at the stake or tacking her down and leaving her in the desert. this won't save her from an eternity in fiery brimstone, but if you eat a thimbleful of sand, chances are you'll see jesus.

halleluia,
the peanut guy!

peanut guy: delicious fraud?

Dear Peanut Guy,

I sent you a letter many moons ago and you failed to answer me. You are a fraud, a giant delicious shell of a fraud. At this time, I have employed Mr. Planters to come kick your butt. You will soon be the filling in the most delicious PB & J I have ever eaten. Consider yourself warned.

Sincerely,

~Sitting Angrily with Rage Growing Every moment.


dear SARGE,

mention not the whore at planters! for eons has he shamed his noble kin - nuts of glory who polished his stalk since seedlinghood, carved him a cane when he fell ill with polio and equipped him with monocle when he caught pinkeye. how he angers all peanutkind! and how his goons have ravaged myriad peanut armada missions, including one manned by a young and impressionable petty officer peanutguy!

as countless bushels of my comrades lay broken and splintered, there he crouched, sucking the salt from their moribund rinds with crazed cackles of sadistic revelry. then his cell phone rang and he pranced off like a scampering dandy to his fecund bog in Wilkes-Barre.

threaten me not, knave. thou knowest well why thine questions were left to fester like so many larvae in my overflowing inbox. unlike the planters crowd with which you run, this is a classy establishment which prints not those words which are unfit to print. however: so long as you call off the jackal, i shall answer your previous question with sinful parts redacted, in accordance with the doctrine of freshness:

Dear Peanut Guy,
For years now I have loved a young, supple Kentuckian boy who sends me mixed signals. He has allowed me to drink champagne off his hairy, washboard of a chest or massage his *redacted* back. And yet when it comes time to actually *redacted* his *redacted* body, it’s always, “Dude, I’m not *redacted*.” Well, horse-relish to that, I say. I, too, may “*redacted*” *redacted* college girls, but I know love when I see it, and I see it now. “*redacted*,” I scream, “my love for you shall last throughout the ages.” And yet, he still doesn’t even have the courtesy to give me a *redacted*. Peanut Guy, I implore you, tell me how to snare this Jackalope of Love from the Bluegrass State.

well, "SARGE," have you tried treating him like a gentleman? the kentuckians are known romantics, particularly the supple ones. drinking champagne from the chest of a kentuckian is like shaking the hand of a non-kentuckian - a mere friendly greeting. massaging the *redacted* back of a kentuckian is akin to picking the lint off the sweater of a non-kentuckian - a mere thoughtful gesture extended to even the lowliest back-alley leper.

it seems to me your lustful uproars must merely frighten this poor, *redacted* *redacted*-kitten, who likely has nary an inkling of your love for him, for the kentuckian is the modern day siren whose soulful and sensuous snacking pull even the most headstrong captains off course from the gulfstream of life: not even the mightiest peanut armada can save those who fall prey to their cheeto-encrusted whims. besides, he's already *redacted*ing peanut guy.

cruelly,
the peanut guy!