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!

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