Sex Letters to Mr. Anthony and Breakfast with the Wife Swappers: Breakfast with the Wife Swappers

By Anthony N. Bellon

This book contains 150 letters on practically every conceivable sexual subject
imaginable form marrying a deceased lover to wedding a giant statue in a public
square. Mr. Anthony gives each missive a witty and sarcastic wisecrack response.
Each mailer writes two letters. Some of them are years and situations apart. There
are sex letters from people all over the United States even one from a lowly, asexual
amoeba to the spirit of a horny George Washington.
In reading this hysterical collection, Mr. Anthony asks that you be completely
nonjudgmental and to feel reassured that happiness is knowing that everyone else is
miserable too.
This play is a comedy about the wife swappers the-morning-after-night-before. One
couple is seasoned at switching but it is the virgin experience for the other pair.
Laughter reigns supreme throughout the entire hilarious two acts!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469183961

Anthony N. Bellon

Anthony Bellon taught in the New York City public school system for thirty-four years. He says that he was perfectly sane when he entered teaching but wound up genuinely discombobulated! His hobbies include water color painting, solving The N.Y Times crosswords and following Notre Dame football games. Mr. Anthony lives on Long Island with his Himalayan cat Muffi n. He has three children and two grandchildren.

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Sex Letters to Mr. Anthony  

  and  

 Breakfast with the Wife Swappers

Anthony N. Bellon

Copyright © 2012 by Anthony N. Bellon.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Dedicated to the  

 wonderful three N’s in my life

Sex Letters to Mr. Anthony

subtitled

"Happiness Is Knowing that  

 Everyone Else is Miserable Too"

Anthony N. Bellon

I am working on a retroactive birth control pill. You take one in the morning and all your children disintegrate by the afternoon. Instantly, you’re free again. Suddenly, you can afford to spend summers in the French Riviera and Aprils in Paris.

I thought about the rewards of having children. There are just two. Grandparenthood—that blissful state flaunted on millions of bumper stickers—would be hard to achieve without the benefit of offspring.

The second reward is more ethereal. It concerns Thanksgiving, that great American stuffing feast. For each child you have, you may optimistically expect to be invited over for Thanksgiving dinner once every seven years. That means that if you carelessly overindulged and are blessed with seven sweet S.O.B.’s, you’ll probably be invited to a different child’s home every Thanksgiving. This is indeed a rather skimpy consolation considering the fact that you’ve changed an aggregate of at least 43,637 diapers in your younger days. Not to mention stoically enduring 37,028 sloppy burps and 2,021 sleepless and sexless nights.

Some think that the ideal family consists of 1.5 children. By having 1.5 offspring, you don’t have to worry about true sibling rivalry but you can claim two income tax deductions each year since the Federal government, in its infinite wisdom, considers any fraction of one half or higher to be equivalent to one whole.

I’ve always maintained that the first eighty years of life are the most difficult. After that, human existence is literally a piece of cake. Your dementia makes it impossible for you to give a damn about anyone or anything.

I’m often very confused about sex. First of all, I do not now, nor will I ever know, what sex really is. It certainly must be much more than merely closely combining body parts.

I’ve wondered whether there is sex after death. Morticians will tell you that there seems to be some evidence of sex after death since most stiffs get laid in a coffin. But what the hell do undertakers know about significant afterlife experiences anyway.

It would be a pity if there weren’t sex after death since, most assuredly, there is very little sex before death. And certainly nearly everyone takes for granted that sex, after marriage, is virtually extinct.

It’s a shame that we never get what we truly want out of this life, never. Oh, we get a few minor things—a gold nose ring, an itchy gray flannel suit or a typewriter that can’t spell.

But the really big things, the vitally important things, we never get.

We never get that dream job (directing Hollywood blockbuster epics) or that dream house (with the sunken living room and the sunken kidney shaped heated pool with the swim side piano playing bartender).

Yet we are survivors. We desperately want to live so we can ruminate on how depressed we are about the unfairness of it all.

It goes without saying that no one is properly appreciated. Everyone notices our faults and shortcomings but no one seems to observe our virtues and heroisms. No one notices the time a person helped a sightless man cross the street while dodging hectic vehicular traffic but the whole world watches on the six o’clock news in judgmental horror when that same rescuer very gently robs and subsequently pushes a sickly old broad one lousy inch too far off a subway platform at rush hour.

None of us asked to be here. If we had a choice, I think there would be a world population of minus 32,637,892,001 people.

The trials and tribulations of this life are just too much to take. Take the case of John Lester. His poor mother is slowly dying of inoperable cancer of the toe nails. His father was stepped on by an apolitical elephant at a Republican national convention and consequently he is pancake-flat from the navel down. Life’s simply not democratic, I tell you.

John’s three brothers were all struck dead by lightning while resting together after strenuous activity. Each received the fatal bolt while sitting with a disreputable companion on a swinging love seat beneath a mighty oak in front of Clara’s House of the Evening.

Melody, John’s sister, is a nun in a cloistered convent. She works from 3 a.m. to 2 a.m. each day preparing jellies, changing altar linens, selling relics of the True Cross to the Turks and running after her nine adorable but impossible biological children. Seven are the spitting image of her. Two, for some reason, highly resemble the freckled, redheaded archbishop who is kind enough to make house calls to the faithful.

John’s wife, Miranda, is in a mental institution. She thinks she is Carmen Miranda and walks around the wards wearing piles of fruit on her head. She insisted on fresh fruits in her bonnet including pineapples and kumquats. But the cost of the real fruit became much too prohibitive. Besides it often fell on the other patients causing concussions that aggravated their dementia.

Dr. Natalie Lemon, a prominent psychiatrist, who specializes in patients with fruit obsessions, convinced Miranda that she would be even more ecstatic if she substituted genuine plastic fruit in her chapeau. Miranda agreed provided that her husband bring her only those fake fruits which are currently in season.

Ernie, Lance and Sylvester are the names of John’s identical triplet sons.

Ernie and Lance are in the intensive care division of Community Hospital suffering from acute malnutrition due to John’s confusion. It seems that John keeps feeding Sylvester thinking that he’s either Ernie or Lance. You would think that since Sylvester weighs twenty-five pounds more than his brothers, it would have been a clue to the father about the over-feeding of one to the deprivation of the others. John failed to make the connection.

Now for John’s problems. John is a double transsexual. There is only one other documented double transsexual in the world. He is Sri Illapzpu and he lives in a run-down straw and lava houseboat with many affectionate bivalves in the Black Sea.

John was originally a man. However, during military maneuvers, he became thoroughly disenchanted with the masculine gender and felt he was really a woman trapped by nature’s mistake in a male body. He had a sex change. After the very delicate and painful operation, doctors waved very kindly to Nanette.

Nanette was as happy as a barrel of monkeys. She felt comfortable with herself for the first time in her life. Everything was going fine until Nanette met Miranda one day at a pseudo luxurious suburban shopping mall. They accidentally bumped into each other in the pet department in Woolworth’s. Miranda was looking for a black goldfish and Nanette was searching for a flea collar for her eccentric great aunt who always felt itchy.

Nanette was instantly sexually attracted to Miranda. It was not a lesbian attraction. Nanette had this uncontrollable urge to be a man again so that he could seduce her in a male-female relationship.

Dr. Constant Change, an expert in double transsexualism, was consulted by Nanette.

Fortunately, all of Nanette’s old body parts were preserved on ice. Even some of John’s sperm was frozen. Dr. Change said he could make Nanette back to John again. He warned Nanette, however, that after the second change, no more alterations would be possible for at least ten years.

After suffering much pain, John was happy as a man again. Of course, he could no longer be a father. However, Dr. Change said that if Miranda and John ever wanted children, it might be possible via artificial insemination using John’s frozen specimen. This arrangement led to the birth of the triplets.

John and Miranda got married in a double ring ceremony on a lawn reception. They completely ignored the fact that there was torrential rain along with thunder and lightning.

While they were dancing in the rain to the tune of Waltzing Matilda, Miranda decided that she was going to be a vegetarian teetotaler for the rest of her life. She had no prime rib or creamy wedding cake. She just ate asparagus tips and watermelon hearts. Instead of French champagne, she drank triple filtered virgin mountain water from industrial Pittsburgh.

The asparagus tips proved to be too gassy for Miranda, so she decided to renounce all vegetables from her diet. From then on it was fruit, fruit, fruit. Concord grapes for breakfast, Australian kiwis for lunch, Mauritanian mangoes with afternoon herb tea and Mexican cantaloupes for dinner.

To Miranda, everything in life was reduced to fruit. When she started calling John a fruit, he became overly sensitive. He thought his wife was referring to his transsexualism and so in a wave of mad passion, he had Miranda committed to a state mental institution where she was confined in the fresh produce ward.

So you see no one is really happy in this world. Life is one series of tragedies after another. Happiness is an illusion. Depression and confusion reign supreme.

Even the superrich do not experience happiness. Money cannot buy poverty. Without poverty, you’re nothing but a failure, doomed to a life of plenty and luxury. These worldly goods eventually possess you and then you are totally trapped.

Of course, with poverty, you’re nothing but a failure also. You can’t win. Life is more than food stamps and welfare checks. But what is life essentially?

Some people think life is a magazine or a cereal. Others think there is no purpose to life other than going from one Tupperware party to another ad infinitum.

I think the purpose of life is to enjoy imported spaghetti with homemade meatballs in basil sauce to the fullest. Beyond that, there is very little significance or meaning to life.

When your hemorrhoids don’t flare up, you can enjoy a walk through the park on a cool, crisp April morning. But try to avoid being mugged or bitten by a rabid dog. And don’t forget to avoid poison ivy, poison oak, poison sumac and, in war zones, poison gas.

Life is definitely not a bowl of cherries. Besides when you consider the cost of a pound of Bing cherries these days, who can afford to buy a whole bowlful of them anyway?

Life is a bitch and then you die. Life is a bitch and then you marry one and then you die. Life is a bitch and then you marry one and then you die and then you go to hell.

They say that no one can avoid death and taxes. I would love to escape taxation which still comes without representation. But who, in his right mind, would want to shun death?

Imagine what our existence would be like if we lived indefinitely? People would be married to each other for several centuries. Stationery stores would sell cards wishing happiness on one’s seven hundredth birthday. There would be cards for great, great, great, great, great grandparents. Social Security would go bankrupt and birthday candles would be a bonanza for industrious entrepreneurs.

I rather that we all live healthy and useful lives until we turned eighty. At which time, Pocahontas would escort us, to the beat of syncopated tom-toms, to the happy hunting grounds with reservations. There is only one hitch, I never did, and I never will, like eating venison and creamed Indian corn.

You might think, at this point, that I am a very morbid and depressing person. Nothing can be further from the truth. I have an insatiable thirst for life even though such great imbibing might play permanent havoc on my kidneys.

I love New England sunsets, waterfalls, certain small birds and ripe, succulent apricots. I love fringed area rugs, platinum toothpicks and gold-sprayed macaroni jewelry. I love apple pie with raisins and cinnamon, rodeos and English Ivy growing wildly in the bathroom.

There are many other things that I love and when I think of them, I’ll let you be the first to know.

I don’t like the button that reads, Sex is like snow. You don’t know how many inches you’ll get or how long it’s going to last. It’s incomplete. It should add the fact that it may never snow again for the rest of the year or for the rest of a lifetime.

At a party, it is a wise practice not to discuss sex, politics and religion. Those topics are much too controversial. But by not bringing them up, the party, of course, is doomed to be dull and uneventful.

If I had to refrain from talking about sex, politics or religion at a party, I’d be embarrassingly tongue-tied. I’d rather drink home-brewed hemlock and eat my button-down polyester shirt than talk about safe subjects.

I love to talk about sex because it is such a deeply profound mystery. Everyone talks about it but no one knows what it really is. We do know that it is smaller than a bread box and larger than a crouton. The more you analyze sex, the less you understand about it.

There are some fools who know practically nothing about sex and yet they enjoy it immeasurably.

The Bronx Zoo is the worst place to take children. All the animals there are running around stark naked. They make love in and out of the water in full view of a nonjudgmental captive audience of all ages and sizes.

At the reptile house, I once saw a he alligator doing it in a small pond on top of a she alligator. Or was it a she alligator on top of a he? Or was it a he alligator on top of a he? Or was it a she on top of a she? I certainly wasn’t going to go over to them at point blank range and tell them to turn over so that I could examine their genitals. I could live reasonably well for the rest of my mortal life without knowing the true nature of their sexual preferences.

Since I am a self-proclaimed, international expert on the human condition, I receive letters from people from the far-out corners of the earth. They are the dear Mr. Anthony sex letters.

What follows is a sampling of the type of correspondence I receive. As you read the letters, please judge not and you, in turn, will not be judged.

Sincerely,

Anthony N. Bellon

THE LETTERS

Peru, Indiana

Dear Mr. Anthony,

Is it true that if you have sexual relations with a girl underwater, it is impossible for her to get pregnant? I have tried it so far in seven different pools and in various lakes and rivers and streams with about thirty different women. None of the ladies ever complained about having conceived.

The worse thing to happen so far was that Sally and I were caught in the act by an underwater lifeguard. We are henceforth officially and eternally expelled from further membership in the Brightman Park Pool Complex.

Sincerely,

Randy Rivers

___________________________

Dear Randy,

Since you probably were expelled from the pool complex before your yearly membership expired, I would ask for a partial refund. You should use the money to guy a good waterproof watch so you can better keep in tune with the times.

___________________________

Astoria, New York

Dear Mr. Anthony,

My girlfriend is pregnant by me again and I recently lost my job. I have no education beyond eighth grade. I am a very handsome stud, well-spoken and well-hung.

I’m wondering if I could possibly get my own show on public television in which I’d demonstrate how I romantically love a lady. I think this would be highly educational for everyone and very profitable for me.

Your friend,

Antonio Amore

___________________________

Dear Antonio,

I suggest that you enroll in the ninth grade in September. Go straight home each day after school and tell the mother of your children all you have learned. When the two of you know the Pythagorean theorem backwards and forwards, you’ll both be ready to fill out a job application at Wendy’s.

___________________________

Atlanta, Georgia

Dear Mr. Anthony,

I am looking for Mr. Right. I realize that there is no such thing as the perfect man so I’m willing to tolerate some slight imperfections. However, everyone I meet turns out to be a pathetic creep.

Guys nowadays have no moral values. They want to kiss you on the lips on the very first date. And there’s more. They actually want to hold your bare hands without the benefit of my white kidskin gloves and whisper some sweet-nothings crap in your ears.

The last pervert I dated actually wanted me to squeeze my arms around him while we were riding his Harley-Davidson. Now tell me where are the men of a generation ago who used to come to your parlor for tea and crumpets and for some good old-fashioned but friendly Bible reading?

Disgusted in Dixie,

Prunilda M. Straight

___________________________

Dear Prunilda,

As I was reading your torrid letter, I actually started to like you. Are you doing anything on Friday nights? I hope you won’t object to my bringing over the St. James version of the Bible since that’s all they had at the sleazy motel that I stayed in recently.

___________________________

Seattle, Washington

Dear Mr. Anthony,

I’m writing to sing the glory of our no-sex marriage. My husband and I have been joyously married for twenty-six years. We are so very proud to say that in that time we have never once lowered ourselves to the point where we felt a need to copulate.

Consequently, we have never had to be bothered with rotten, bratty children and endless parental responsibilities.

In the evening, I throw horseshoes with the girls near Alligator Creek. In my absence, my husband works on his original needlepoint design depicting the evolution of the African violet from early Middle Ages to the Industrial Revolution.

We are both still virgins, thank God. And we’re damn proud of it. It goes without saying that we vacation semi-annually in the Bible Belt.

I would like to highly recommend this untampered state to everyone. We each have a part of our body that is totally mysterious to the other.

A testimony to my second greatest accomplishment in life is hanging on the most conspicuous wall in our living room. It is a certificate from the Seattle Chamber of Commerce honoring me for perfect attendance for twenty-five years at all the intercity horseshoe competitions.

My married friends with children must be fervently jealous of this laminated plaque. I try not to rub it under their noses too often.

In closing, I cannot stress enough the unparalleled ecstasy and the rustic pleasures inherent in a truly sexless marriage. The constant withholding is what makes our relationship so idyllic and so utterly open.

Sincerely,

Mary McBride Forever

___________________________

Dear Mary McBride,

Your story is truly remarkable and awe-inspiring. You and your husband most assuredly deserve a privilege which is usually inappropriate for most mere mortal adults. As an undefiled couple, you should both demand to be laid out for eternity in matching snow white mother-of-pearl coffins. Good luck in your self-chastisement. Are you positively certain that you never drifted a mere inch or two?

Weehawken, New Jersey

Dear Mr. Anthony,

My girlfriend is Catholic and thus she will not consent to having sex with me before we get married.

We do, however, swim naked in her swimming pool when her parents are away. We caress and massage each other and naturally I get very aroused. When this happens, sometimes I discharge into the water.

Molly fears that she can become pregnant from this practice since, she feels, sperm can swim from the water right into her body. I told her that her whole notion is absolutely ludicrous and biologically impossible.

I do hope I’m right as I would hate to give up a great underwater sport that really builds muscles painlessly.

Curious to know but not that curious,

Jack Offenbacher

___________________________

Dear Jack,

Unfortunately you neglected to tell me whether your sperm are primarily swimmers, divers or waders.

___________________________

Peoria, Illinois

Dear Mr. Anthony,

I am a 79 year old great-grandmother. My husband of over fifty years died in a canoeing accident last year. I have eighteen grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.

My problem is that, despite my children and their progeny, I am very lonely, When my husband, Harold, was alive things were no better. He never was able to satisfy me.

At my advanced age, I have decided to come out of the closet and tell the world that I have always been attracted to women of high school and college age. I constantly go to gay bars and lesbian gatherings that cater to the young crowd but, strangely enough, none of these very gorgeous women seems to be attracted to me. I know that I am a bit older than them but don’t I get points for life experience and motherhood?

If one of these cute dishes reconsiders, she would have the privilege of being the stepmother and step-grandmother and step-great-grandmother to all the children in my family. She would be surrounded by so much love.

Now that my family finally knows about my sexual preference, I find that they are very supportive. Fifty-eight years of marriage to Harold was sheer unadulterated hell.

Our song over the years was officially Bicycle Built for Two but secretly I’d constantly hum my own favorite ditty around the house—Cole Porter’s immortal I Hate Men, from Kiss Me, Kate.

Thanks for your time,

Leslie Youngblood

___________________________

Dear Leslie,

If you had waited any longer to come out of the closet, you’d have been a skeleton!

Happy Halloween.

___________________________

Kansas City, Missouri

Dear Mr. Anthony,

This is a very unusual letter. I know you have never seen one with a problem similar to mine.

I am desperately in love with a dead man. I want to know if it is against the law to marry him.

I am a thirty-six year old woman. The deceased with whom I am passionately in love would have been my age if he were still alive.

Three years ago, we were vacationing together in New York City. We were engulfed in a sea of love. We were on a cruise ship that took us around Manhattan Island. Suddenly, my blue bonnet was tossed by a ferocious gust of wind into the East River.

My lover, Archimedes, instantly dove into the dirty river to recover my hat. Unfortunately, Archie was a poor swimmer and in the process of trying to keep from drowning, he swallowed almost two gallons of very highly polluted water.

Archimedes was rescued by the Guardian Angels but he died two days later from a typhoid infection sustained from drinking all that noxious river water. I am proud to relate that he managed to retrieve my bonnet. What a hero!

In the three years since Archimedes died, I have never stopped thinking about him. I am so totally obsessed with his being that I despise living men.

I’ve discussed with my parents my desire to wed Archie even though he is no longer with us. They thought I was completely insane and should be committed. I know I am not crazy and that my folks are dead wrong.

If I could marry Archie, I know the benefits would vastly outweigh the disadvantages. Just think—we would never have any arguments, we would never have to worry about birth control and, most importantly, our marriage would last forever since we would never be divorced. Few living marriages would be as stable as ours.

Before I die, I am determined to find a very dishonorable justice of the peace somewhere who would be willing to marry us.

I’m convinced it would be most appropriate for me to wear a white gown under these circumstances, for after all, I am now, and will always be, an undefiled virgin.

Yours truly,

Andrea N. Coffin

___________________________

Dear Andrea,

If you do manage to get married to Archie, I truly think that your recovered blue bonnet should most assuredly be worn as a vital accessory to your white wedding gown. Then all you’ll need is something old, something new and something borrowed.

___________________________

Santé Fe, New Mexico

Dear Mr. Anthony

I am a twenty-two year old blond bombshell. I have a 38 inch bust and I’m damn proud of it.

However, my huge endowment has become a source of great concern to me ever since I heard on a talk show recently what a psychologist had to say about breast size. He claimed that the larger the breast, the smaller the IQ. Just because he wrote several books on the subject, he thinks he’s some kind of an expert.

Well, I think he’s full of crap. Still, I am obsessed with his statement to the point where I’m seriously considering a breast reduction operation.

How dare he make such a claim! Even though I’m of such ample proportions that I can’t see my feet when standing erect, I feel I am extremely bright.

I graduated from high school at twenty and I intend to go to a community college someday. I would like to major in Egyptian costume jewelry and minor in hair coloring and Oriental nail polishing.

I love boys beyond belief. In fact, I usually sleep with about five or six of them a week. My girlfriend, Belladonna, says that I will lose all of them if I have my chest made smaller. But I think that maybe with smaller boobs, men might begin to perceive me to be a more intellectual person.

I want to know something from you very badly. Are teenage boys more interested in colossal breasts or in superior brain power? Your answer will take a really big load off my chest.

Always keeping abreast of the times,

Olivia Brabender

P.S. I really know the answer to my stupid question but I’m wondering if the size of a man’s organ is inversely related to his IQ.

___________________________

Dear Miss Brabender,

You have aroused my curiosity. In the name of research, you can pay a few dozen men who would be willing and able to take an IQ test while maintaining a constant erection. Does that take a load off your mind?

___________________________

New London, Connecticut

Dear Mr. Anthony,

I am a bride of five months who is expecting twins any day now. My husband, Erskine, lost his job three months ago as a substitute Chippendales dancer. It seems his G-string was itchy so he chucked it in the middle of his number.

My father is in the process of being fired from his job as a sewage treatment inspector and my father-in-law has been out of any gainful employment for over a dozen years.

I will not go on public welfare as I have way too much dignity and pride. After the babies are born, I know that I can make some good money by working a few nights a week as a respectable and upright streetwalker. I intend to work only with select johns who have had no previous sexual knowledge.

In the meantime, things are a bit tight for us as you can well imagine. We honestly don’t know where the next hot dog or hamburger will come from. For Christmas Eve, we plan to splurge and go to Wendy’s for a festive yuletide sing-a-long dinner.

Here is my main problem. We are registered with Lord and Taylor for Wedgewood china and Waterford crystal. But for some strange reason, none of our supposed sophisticated friends has given us any of this heavenly tableware. How could I convince them that it’s the only way I’ll entertain?

I’d adore servicing twelve, I mean I’d adore service for twelve on a teakwood dining room table. I intend to buy other fine things just as soon as I’m back on my back once again.

Sincerely,

Louella Q Hookering

___________________________

Dear Miss Hookering,

Your taste in chinaware and glassware is impeccable. But be advised. You’ll be so overworked with the twins that I’d limit your formal home dining to serving finger foods and watermelon Jello.

___________________________

Pensacola, Florida

Dear Mr. Anthony,

I am a senior at our local high school. I am also on the varsity football team.

My problem concerns the senior prom. My date is another guy. But the school administration won’t allow us to attend as a couple.

I feel they are prejudiced against same sex romances. They belong in the Middle Ages!

Jeff and I have loved each other since the sixth grade. It has always been very painful when the other guys harassed us but we have weathered all those storms and our love intensified because of it.

We know we could have saved a lot of heartache by not attempting to go to the prom but we deeply feel that we have every right to enjoy the ceremony that finalizes our high school years.

My lover and I feel that if we win this struggle to go to the senior prom together, we will pave the way for others of the same sexual persuasion to follow suit.

Speaking of suits, Jeff and I intend to wear matching white on white single-breasted silk suits. The jackets will be satin lined with embossed pink triangles. Aside from the earrings in our right ear and our lavender-colored carnations, we will look exactly like every other dude at the dance.

Naturally, our special song is The Man I Love and we’re hoping against hope that they’ll play that number for the last dance.

With earnest appreciation,

Jock Allman

___________________________

Dear Jock,

You might consider a different approach if you are turned down. Jeff and you can bring dates to the prom who are really lesbians. Once inside, you four can pair off on the dance floor in a variety of interesting combinations.

___________________________

Sioux City, Iowa

Dear Mr. Anthony,

I am in my senior year at New York University. I will be entering medical school in the fall.

I know that I will make a great doctor since I am very concerned about helping people and I am also exceedingly bright and perceptive and have illegible handwriting.

My big problem is that I am extremely shy. I frequently stutter when I have to talk to strangers. I have a morbid dread of conversing with patients face to face.

Recently I had a very painful hemorrhoidal condition. I consulted a proctologist and he performed minor surgery right in his office. As he was operating on my rear end, I noticed that I was completely relaxed and composed. I had no trouble communicating with him and I didn’t stutter at all.

I realize now that perhaps I should be a proctologist myself. I could talk easily to patients since they would always be facing away from me. Working on their cheeks would be very calmative for me. I was always a derriere admirer and I would consider it sensational to make a very comfortable living from working behind the scenes, as it were.

Will I be the butt of jokes in medical school when my colleagues learn of my peculiar specialty? So many jokes are made about rectal doctors that I am a little skeptical.

I remember how much people laughed when they heard that President Carter’s proctologist was also a Rear Admiral.

I do know that the elimination of fecal wastes is a very important human function and the awareness that I can somehow make those movements move merrily along is a wonderful feeling of accomplishment in this crappiest of all possible worlds.

Thanks loads,

Toilette Papier

P.S. Do you think it’s foolish for a woman like me to enter this male dominated asinine specialty?

___________________________

Dear Toilette,

I