Sorry, this column actually has nothing to do with Tiger Woods but I wanted the opportunity to lead off with the oft-repeated headline by every hack journalist in the country anytime he wins in the last 3-years, which I root for, by the way.

Moving on, with all of the Stan/Manti/Lance hot buttons of late, I somehow missed the passing of newspaper advice legend, Abigail Van Buren. I’m here to fix that.

The last box of letters:

Dear Abby,
It has been nearly 2-weeks now since your death and I am at a complete loss. How do I drive a car, choose a boyfriend or even bake a fucking cake without having mailed you for guidance on all of these things, and then waited patiently for your response, in print, 2 – 3 weeks later?

I haven’t left the bed since your passing and just sit here staring at 4-empty walls because I can’t possibly choose a television show or even the most apt depression music for these circumstances all alone.

The most horrible irony (I looked that word up after you used it once) is that I’d end this madness if only I had your knowledgeable words to lead me through the process, including most effective methods and proper penning of the note that would be left.

Dear Abby,
It’s your sister. I’m already up hear – looks like I win this time…whore.

Dear Abby,
Listen, bitch – I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but if you keep ignoring my shit, I may just go haywire on your old ass. I’ve now sent 113-letters and haven’t seen a goddamned inkling of a response…and I don’t even know what that fucking word means. You best be dead or in motherfucking jail or I’ll be finding the door to this dark basement, and you DON’T want me coming the fuck up outta’ here, BITCH!

Dear Abby,
You were always the hot one.

Dear Abby,
I “evolved” to message boards, the back room of game stores and Craigslist “personal” and “discussion forums” years ago (hello – computers, people!) but still felt obliged to wish you the best of luck dishing tips to the inhabitants of Heaven, most of which could use A LOT, if that place contains half the folks who brag about heading there.

Anyhow, I thank you for steering me through puberty, masturbation and mastering a multitude of Atari games. I do hope to get laid one day, like we talked about, but between Yahoo Answers and screen name “ImYourShrink57” (that dude is wise), I really believe that’s coming soon…and me too – GET IT!?

Dear Abby,
My husband has been making whoopee with the neighbor, my sister, the high school cheerleading squad, guys included, and the entire staff of the Chili’s down the street. He also beats the children, walks me around with a leash, urinates on my back and killed my parents 13-year ago, burying them under our basement floor.

I’m SO torn, should I leave him? He really is a good man at heart.

Conflicted in Cincinnati

(I had to throw that last one in there because it thoroughly sums up her career and her customers)

The last response:

Dear Followers,
Your loyal readership and solicitation of my knowledge, despite professional credentials or having any clue of why I would be any more beneficial to listen to than those bickering bitches at your hair salon has been…well…FUCKING LAUGHABLE!

Jesus Horatio Christ, you really are a bunch of pathetic goddamned sheep, aren’t you? I think my sister and I could’ve made Hitler’s work on Earth’s population look like a small, contained brush fire had they simply euthanized the majority of you losers in lieu of actually responding to your letters.

The truth is that we got off on it. We’d get together with a couple of fifths of vodka, a bag of weed and a 2-way dildo, get 7-shades of “fucked the hell up” and see which one of us could send you reeling off in the most ridiculous path of life imaginable. You play drinking games with “Friends” reruns, we play with you – sue us.

We’d occasionally hit that phase in our high where we felt sorry for some of you (you know the phase) now and then, but that quickly passed after reminding ourselves that you were literally writing tear-stained letters to women you’d never met, in order to make crucial life decisions, simply because a newspaper section said you could “ask” us.

Do you not see how fucking ludicrous this all is? Anyway, thanks for filling the years, thanks for a shit-ton of money and thanks for making it possible that I never get a “real job”. Holy shit, this country really was the land of opportunity, and I will miss that.

Oh, one more thing. With my sad passing, please continue to utilize my daughter to help you through the twisted roads that life may put in fro…OH SHIT; I can’t even keep a straight face in death. Keep sending your shit to my daughter so the next 8-generations of Van Buren’s won’t have to work either, you gullible assholes.

Peace out – Abby

Seriously though, uhm, rest in peace, Abigail…KMFP-out!

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