Dear Abby, My Life Is A God Damn Mess

The people who write in to Dear Abby are a mixed bag. Reading through the archives you see a variety of ages and problems, but they all boil down to a few recurring themes:

Dear Abby, I’m A Terrible Person

These people have done awful things, or have awful opinions, and are flabbergasted that they’re being called on their ridiculous bullshit. They write in ostensibly to ask if they’re in the wrong, but they’re really just hoping that Abby will absolve them of their sins. They are always disappointed.

Dear Abby, I Know A Terrible Person

These are otherwise fine people who know someone who’s done something awful to them and, boy, they cannot wait to tell you all about it. The Dear Abby equivalent of Munchausen’s Syndrome, these folks write in mainly to garner some pity and end with a weak attempt at a question like “What should I do?” Abby’s advice usually consists of “Stop talking to them” or “Call the police immediately” depending on the situation.

Dear Abby, Here’s An Urban Legend For You To Print As Fact

Dear Abby is notorious for reprinting “true” cautionary tales that turn out to be easily disproved urban legends. A simple search of Snopes.com shows just how often this occurs. To her credit Abby voluntarily prints retractions every time someone notifies her that the stories are false…then prints the exact same story when someone changes the names and dates and sends it in next year.

Dear Abby, Here’s Some Advice No One Has Ever Asked For

Oh, how the tables have turned! These people write in without even the pretense of a question, instead with a list of their own advice, sometimes numbered, sometimes in bullet points, sometimes simply sprawling aimlessly into oblivion. Usually the advice is somewhat topical, or relates to the writer’s occupation. The insights are rarely what you might call groundbreaking. Abby always responds to these writings with gratitude, but you just know she’s muttering “fucker” every other word as she types.

Dear Abby, I’m Far Too Young To Be Writing You

This category is comprised of college students, teenagers, and unmarried twenty-somethings who should really know better than to write to a 54 year-old legacy newspaper column currently written by a 60+ year old woman for advice on anything related to their lives. Abby tries to help, but you can tell even she realizes she’s in a little over her head and usually pawns them off by suggesting they talk to a parent/teacher/counselor/clergy member.

Dear Abby, I’m So Fucking Old

This is by far my favorite category and the one we’ll be examining closer in just a minute. These people write in with the exact same topics Andy Rooney covers on 60 Minutes, and just like Andy Rooney they have no idea that their advanced age has completely robbed them of their ability to comprehend how incredibly asinine their petty problems and concerns really are.

"Don't make fun of me, this is important shit!"

Now, I normally spend as much time not thinking about Dear Abby as I possibly can. So I didn’t come upon these realizations until recently when I was flipping through the local paper and came across this column wherein a chorus of readers write in to inform Abby and America about just how horribly loud wedding music is these days.

The column that sparked the controversy regards a man who left a wedding reception early because:

It’s not clear from the column what the chronological age of the reader in question is, but his mental age has got to be hovering past 70.

First of all, is this really the biggest problem you’re facing? There’s nothing else more deserving of your time than figuring out if leaving a wedding reception early was a faux pas? How much family drama could this possibly be causing? Don’t you have a gay cousin to absorb this kind of heat?

Second, there are multiple clues that this guy is a curmudgeon, regardless of when he was born. A “long delay” between the reception and dinner is the kind of complaint Morty Seinfeld’s nemesis Jack Klompus would have about a wedding. Describing music as “deafening” is hyperbole reserved exclusively for the tragically out of touch; it allows the rest of us to identify them in order to know to stay off their lawns.

Finally, most people today divide popular music into several sub-genres. Top 40, alt, indie, punk, metal, classic rock, what have you. As such the only people who actually use the term “rock ‘n’ roll music” to describe what kind of music they are hearing are also those who would describe Elvis Presley as “obscene” and the Three Stooges as “cutting edge.”

Ok, so the original complaint is comical, but it doesn’t come near the dispatches-from-the-nursing-home quality of the letters of support to the original complaint. To quote Paul in Chesterfield:

Really, Paul? “Intolerable conditions”? When the CIA uses music as torture they play “Enter Sandman” at full volume over loudspeakers while attack dogs nip at your exposed genitals. I think you can endure having to listen to “Tiny Dancer” before the buffet opens.

“But Handsome Paddy,” you might be saying aloud to yourself right now for some reason, “Weddings are lightening rods for family controversy and infighting, it’s not really fair to judge Dear Abby readers based solely on that discussion.” Well, that’s true. But while weddings certainly generate a lot of Dear Abby mail, the topics covered may vary, but the insanity remains a constant.

Here are some recent highlights:

Uncomfortable In San Francisco writes:

Oh, Jesus. Right off the bat I can tell you that no one under the age of 50 has ever started a letter to a complete stranger by explaining that their office recently moved. This immediately tells us two things. One, this person is crotchety enough that their office moving “a bit farther away” effects them deeply enough they feel the need to mention it.

Two, whatever this person’s problem is, it’s somehow related to this recent move, meaning in six weeks time he/she will probably have forgotten all about it. I tend to worry a lot, and something I do to help is ask myself if what I’m worrying about will matter to anyone in 100 years. It’s corny, but it gives me perspective on the situation. Abby has apparently never given this advice, because doing so would reduce her reader mail drastically.

Anyway, continuing on…

I guarantee you this person’s problem somehow relates to having to deal with everyday human interaction.

Bingo!

Ok, so far so good.

Dear Lord, isn’t that just the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?

Maybe San Francisco’s just not the place for you, dude.

Dammit, this is where we need details. We know that your daily commute requires public transportation AND a shared shuttle (the horror!) but on this you leave us in the dark? “Personal” means different things to different people. Is he telling you what he had for breakfast or is he describing his most recent perineum rash? Given your personal space boundaries I’m guessing it’s closer to the former.

I presume this is because 5:10pm is the exact time the teenagers and negroes begin loitering at the shuttle stop, with the rap music and the baggy pants and all hopped up on the goofballs.

I really, sincerely wish Abby’s advice to Uncomfortable had been that he walk faster, if only for the mental picture of this mopey commuter, barely getting through each miserable day, speed walking to and from the shuttle every morning and evening, “Phil” trailing behind, desperately reaching out in a vain attempt to grasp his coworker’s arm, shouting mildly personal information the whole way.

We’ve covered weddings and coworkers, how about relationship problems?

Shattered Heart writes:

Fair enough, seems pretty normal so far…

…Ok…

Is this what goes on in senior living nowadays? Damn you, Sex and the City!

Suddenly I miss my Grandma.

Wait a minute, since when is “no sleeping with each others’ exes” in the neighbor code of honor? Perhaps you should refer to your apartment complex charter.

Not calling your neighbor a slut in Dear Abby would probably be a good first step.

As I said earlier, Dear Abby is notorious for propagating urban legends, but this might be the first time she’s ever propagated a Mary Worth plotline.

How about an etiquette question ?

Jesus Christ, seriously?

Alright, that’s all I can handle for now, but let’s finish off with this context-free bit of advice from Ms. Van Buren herself:

Thanks, Abby!