Ask Mrs. Linklater "Cheating Bastards" Edition

Can't sleep? This book is better than Ambien.

Mrs. Linklater thinks there should be new categories created for the Big Book of Clever Names Psychiatrists Like to Call Your Crazy Uncle Bob, more formally known as the DSM [Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders].  Why not get rid of arcane multi-syllabic descriptors like "schizophrenogenic" and use more familiar, family friendly terms? How about categories like Dicks, Schmucks and Mofos? With subheads that could include Cheating Bastards, Lying Bastards, Thieving Bastards, and in the Quentin Tarantino edition -- wait for it -- Inglourious Basterds. What? I can't make jokes? 

Today's advice abomination, which will be hosed down soon, is about a classic case of liar liar pants on fire.  Mrs. Linklater found it languishing at Dear Margo.  Margo, in case you don't know, is Ann Landers' daughter. She's also Dear Abby's niece. [Mrs. L is referring to the original Dear Abby, not the current Dear Abby, because the current Dear Abby is the former Dear Abby's daughter, which makes her Margo's cousin].
     Abby and Ann were sisters, identical twins, in fact, until Ann went and got a nosejob. Anyhoo, Margo has been married four times, maybe five, but who's counting? Mrs. Linklater likes to mention these things so you can estimate within a couple of inches the quality of expertise you're getting. But what the heck. It's free.

DEAR MARGO: I’ll bet you’ve heard this before, but it’s a first for me. While putting away my husband’s laundry, I came across a packet of letters shoved into the back corner of his drawer. They were in a rubber band, without envelopes. These were definitely love letters — some with lipstick kiss prints at the bottom, but not signed with a name. Because of a few references, I know they are relatively recent. None of them, however, referred to my husband by name, merely as "Darling" or "Babycakes." I decided against pretending I had not discovered them and handed the packet to my husband when he came home from work. He seemed quite nonplussed, then said they had nothing to do with him … that he was merely "keeping them for a friend." And I told him I was Marie of Rumania. I need to get to the bottom of this and would like your opinion as to whether I am jumping to conclusions. — HOPPING MAD

DEAR HOP: It would be a safe bet with a bookie that the conclusions you are jumping to are the correct ones. His excuse is on par with trying to convince you that a dinosaur died, standing up, in the museum of natural history. I would love to help your husband out and spare you some grief, but to quote Thoreau, "Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk." What you don’t know is whether there is a flirt going on or a full-fledged affair. I suggest you invite him to reconsider his explanation, cough up the truth and then decide, together, what this means for your marriage. You may find that a professional, neutral third party should be the "referee." Good luck. — MARGO, PERSUASIVELY

Mrs. Linklater, cleverly, points out to Margo that once you find a trout in the milk, size doesn't matter. It all smells fishy. 
     "Honey, I found a pile of love letters in your drawer all covered with lip prints. Is she a pen-pal or are you slipping your tubesocks into some hi-de-ho's groove thang?"
     "What do you mean by 'groove'?"
Margo, any guy stupid enough to think he can hide stuff in his sock drawer and then lie about it needs a major dose of Tough Love, Mrs. Linklater style.  Here it is:
     Divorce his sorry butt. 
     "Babycakes" has violated Mrs. Linklater's three strike rule. 
     Strike One: He cheated. Strike Two: He lied about it. Strike Three: He's so arrogant he couldn't be bothered to hide the evidence in a place where you would never find it.    
     The marriage is over. No matter how many fess ups, meaningful talks and neutral third parties you hire. 
     UNLESS. . .

     Unless he can actually return the love letters to the 'friend' he claimed he was keeping them for. Hand them over in your presence. In front of witnesses. Preferably at your attorney's office. On videotape [for the reality show].
     In an attempt to appear fair and balanced, Mrs. Linklater has learned there might be a chance of that happening.  But it's in small type and she can't read it. Something about Donald Trump's hair. 

Ask Mrs. Linklater "DR. PHIL" Edition

Fasten your seat belts, this one is the motherlode. 
     Mrs. Linklater is loathe to admit this publicly, but, uh, she likes all things Dr. Phil. Mrs. L likes his show, his kids, his wife, the whole nine yards. Even after he came clean about his alcoholic dad and his early marriage. All good. Except for one thing. That lame mustache. How's it working for you, big guy? Yeah, that's what YOU think. Not working for me. AT ALL. Never has, never will. [Especially after a picture of Dr. Phil's bare-naked face appeared on national television and it was obvious that he looks 100 percent better without it.] 
     Mrs. Linklater thinks he should also shave off what little hair is left on his chrome dome, but she has learned to fight one battle at a time. Or at least wait until she has better ammo. And air support. 
     Despite her prejudice against Dr. Phil's continued pursuit of things hirsute, Mrs. L doesn't think his advice stinks. And she's been trying to find something stupid he said for years. Really and truly. But so far, nothing. 
     Until now. For the first time EVER, Mrs. Linklater has found a chink in the good doctor's armor. You may not be aware, but besides his show, Dr. Phil is a regular contributor to O Magazine, i.e., the world according to Oprah. 
     At the end of each article, Mrs. Linklater discovered that the Philmeister writes something called "The Script of the Month." This is a speech he constructs for the terminally tongue-tied to say to an asshole who is making life a living hell. 
      That's when Mrs. Linklater realized she'd found Dr. Phil's Achilles' heel. In fact, as she was getting out of bed that morning, she stood up and said -- while smiling like Jack Nicholson that time he stuck his head through the door in The Shining --"Ahaaaaaa! Gotcha!" [Actually, he said "Here's Johnny!" But you get the idea.]
     Ever the polite adversary, Mrs. Linklater lets Dr. Phil go first [as if he had a choice]. In the November, 2009 issue of O, he attempts to help someone "Confronting A Rude Friend." A distressed reader writes:
     "I have a friend who often makes cutting remarks to me. Our husbands and children are friends, so avoiding her would likely just alienate me. For a while I thought she was jealous because I have a successful career and she didn't have a job. But she has worked for the past year, and her treatment toward me has worsened. The arrogant things that come out of her mouth leave me at a loss for words, but then later I fixate on what my reply should have been. I spend sleepless nights obsessing over my inability to tell her off. Please help." 
     
Here's Dr. Phil's Script of the Month about dealing with bullies:
     I have something to talk to you about, and I want you to hear me out before you respond. For some reason, you have given yourself permission to act rude, crude, and condescending toward me, and I don't know why. 
     What I do know is that I will not accept it from you for one more day. I can't expect you to change if I don't tell you how I feel, so that's what I'm doing now. You may disagree, and that's okay. But you need to understand that you are going to treat me with dignity or you're not going to treat me any way at all.
     I believe that when people show your kind of behavior, it's really based on pain and fear. If that's the case with you, I'm willing to talk to you about the underlying issue or to support you in anyway I can. But I am not willing to allow you to continue to abuse me. If you want to think about what I'm saying and respond when you're comfortable, that is fine with me. If you want to respond now -- without being abusive, then I'm happy to listen. And if you'd just like to declare this the end of our friendship, then so be it. If that's the case, I recognize it will also affect the relationship between our families, and I'm sorry for that. But our relationship as we have known it is over. My hope is that we can define a new one, but that's up to you. I await your response. 
     
Mrs. Linklater is sure everybody thinks that's got to be one helluva good script because Dr. Phil wrote it. Sorry, tongue-tied breath. First, it's too damned long. Second, it misses the point. Third, it's -- well, you get the idea. See what you think after Mrs. Linklater's has HER way with that freaking bully:
     Here's Mrs. L's first suggestion: WRITE AN EMAIL OR A LETTER. Think about it -- if you get tongue-tied, why are you TALKING to a bully when you're just going to freeze up again? Duh. TALK. LATER. With a letter/email you can put down the words exactly the way you want them. TALK. LATER. With a letter/email, there's no time wasted dealing with blowback. And you can both read what you wrote over and over again because it's all down in black and white.
      Something like this for instance: 
Dear Pusface Annoying Bully,
Our husbands are good friends. Our children are good friends. But I will no longer consider you a friend until the following changes in your unacceptable behavior toward me have been made: 
From now on, listen to yourself. Listen to what you say to me the moment it comes out of your mouth.
I'm tired of your insults, arrogance, and abuse.
I do not want to hear anything negative. 
I do not want to be ridiculed, belittled or made the butt of your jokes.
I do not want to listen to any more snide remarks about my career, my family, my clothes, my car, my house, my education, my cooking -- anything.
If there is nothing nice to say to me or about me, keep your mouth shut.
On the other hand, I do want and need your support and encouragement. I like compliments as much as the next person. 
If you can do this, I can consider friendship with you again. 
But if the cruel and unnecessary comments do not stop, I will not speak to you anymore.
Have a nice day.
     
Dr. Phil keeps missing the point in his script. He talks about expressing feelings, but then he doesn't. Instead he makes whiny accusations: ". . .you are going to treat me with dignity or you are not going to treat me at all, blah blah blah, rinse and repeat."
     Come on, Dr. Phil, psychology 101 -- YOU messages just make a bully defensive, "Huh? Whaddya mean? I do so treat you with with dignity, just like I treat all the other bitches around here." "No you don't." "Yes I do."
     He also wastes a bunch of time with psychobabble stuff like  "I believe that when people show your kind of behavior, it's really based on pain and fear." Seriously, Dr. Phil, the time for empathy is over. Who gives a crap WHY these people are acting like jerks?  The idea is to stop them once and for all. And the way to do that is to TELL them SPECIFICALLY what they're doing wrong. Most bullies are so emotionally clueless they often don't realize what they've done, until you lay it out one point at a time, the way the lovely Mrs. Linklater does in her far more useful script, which she summarizes this way: 
     "Say one more obnoxious thing to me and you die." 
     So, GAME OVER. This one goes to the charming and intelligent Mrs. Linklater. FINAL SCORE: Mrs. L, 1. Dr. Phil, O. Except for one thing. 
     Mrs. Linklater also realizes that both she and Dr. Phil are just kidding themselves with their attempts to change behavior using a cockamammy script. Because here's how the actual conversation would take place:
     *ring* *ring*
Bully: Hello.
Victim: Hello, Bully.
Bully: Oh, it's my favorite victim. What do you want? I'm too busy for one of your boring conversations.
Victim: I'm not boring. I'd like to talk about how you treat me.
Bully: Oh, please, I treat you like you deserve to be treated, loser.
Victim: I'm not a loser and I don't like being treated like one.
Bully: Loser, loser, loser.
Victim: Dammit, stop calling me names.
Bully: Like that's going to happen anytime soon.
Victim: Please, don't say mean things to me any more.
Bully: You're ugly and your mother dresses you funny.
Victim: Please don't do that.
Bully: Who's going to stop me. You?  Haaaaaa.
Victim: [STARTS TO CRY}
Bully: Oh boo hoo, you crybaby. 
Victim: [SOBBING]
Bully: Seriously. You are such a waste of time.
[HANGS UP]
Victim: [SNIFFLING, WIPES TEARS, SCREAMS INTO THE PHONE]: ASSHOLE!!!! Hah. So there.


And so it goes. Another day. Another interpersonal triumph. A world without Mrs. Linklater is like a world without those colored sprinkles on your donuts.  

Ask Mrs. Linklater "DON'T TREAT ME LIKE AN 8-YEAR-OLD" Edition

From time to time even Mrs. Linklater becomes overwhelmed by the EEEEEWWWWWW Factor. Occasionally she discovers an advice column travesty that is so out of whack, so blatantly inappropriate, or just so gross that even she refuses to touch it with a stick. This, however, is not one of those times. Nope. This is just another day at Dear Abby, now written by her daughter, Dear Blabby.  To clean up the mess, Mrs. L slips on a pair of latex gloves, steps into her freshly pressed Hazmat suit and wades into the middle of this flaming pile of shinola, but only after the Blabmeister has had her chance to muck up everything first. You go girl!!!   


DEAR ABBY: I'm a 15-year-old girl whose parents treat me like an 8-year-old. They not only refuse to let me see any movie that isn't G-rated, but they still cut my meat for me! Once a week we go to the park, and they still push me on the swings.
     I don't want to tell them it's embarrassing because I'm afraid I'll hurt their feelings. Please tell me how to convey to my parents that I'm not a child anymore. -- OLD ENOUGH IN VIRGINIA


DEAR OLD ENOUGH: Your parents mean well, but children who are overprotected to the extent you have been often become stunted in their development. Teens do not learn social skills and how to make appropriate choices when they are "supervised" to the extent you are.
     Tell your parents that you love them, but in three years you will be 18 and an adult. Explain that you know they love you, but if you are not allowed some freedom now, then you will be behind your peers because of your inexperience when you have reached an age when you'll be expected to make wise choices. Remind them that even children half your age are sufficiently coordinated that they can cut the food on their plates, and you would appreciate their allowing you to get some practice.
     If this doesn't help them let go, then ask another adult to help you deliver the message.


* THWACK * Mrs. Linklater slaps Dear Flabbablabba upside the back of her head like Leroy Jethro Gibbs smacks DiNozzo on NCIS.  Helloo-o-o-o-o?!?  She's FIF-FREAKING-TEEN and her parents STILL cut her meat into little pieces?  And what's with swinging her on the swings? Do they make her wear diapers and Winnie the Pooh jammies, too? I smell Children and Family Services. All of which begs the question -- do her parents treat her like an eight year old because she's the SIZE of an eight year old? Regardless, even if she's tiny, she's got fifteen years of vocabulary. "Mom, I realize that my knife and fork skills may not be up to your exacting standards, but touch my meat one more time and I will stab you." [Mrs. Linklater says you can interpret "meat" any way you want.]

    Frankly, whether this young woman is full-sized or pint-sized, Mrs. Linklater hasn't been this creeped out since that whole Pee Wee's Playhouse debacle. In fact, if her rapidly diminishing memory serves, Mrs. L was almost six feet tall when she herself was fifteen -- taller than her mother AND her father. What is it about NO, I'd rather do it myself that these people don't understand?
     On the chance that this girl looks remotely like an average fifteen year old female [if you catch Mrs. Linklater's thinly veiled reference to her nobbulas], she shouldn't be asking for more freedom, please, the way Abbablabba naively suggests.  As if parents who slice your meat when you're fifteen might actually be considered within the normal limits of ANYTHING. 
     This girl should be demanding barbed wire boundaries between herself and those truly icky people. Ptui.   
     AND -- in Mrs. Linklater's humble opinion, the only adults she should be going to for help ought to be locked and loaded. 
     Boy, it sure feels good when Mrs. L can bring loved ones together.   

Ask Mrs. Linklater "HOT OR NOT" Edition

Apparently, Mrs. Linklater took 2009 off. 
Seeking truth, justice, and a place to lie down for the night, Mrs. Linklater searches the internet for advice column train wrecks she can fix. Today she practically drove into one on her first try. And it's about everyone's favorite topic: the ridiculously high price of milk. Kidding. Today's entry is about the only topic that needs no translation into or out of another language, the universal joint of all earthly communication -- SEX. The fuel that keeps relationships on the road. Or off the road, depending on how tanked you are.

Ripped from the headlines at TALES FROM THE FRONT

Dear Cheryl,

When my fiance and I first began dating, we were hot for one another. I'm still hot for him, but he's turning cold. I hate to jump the gun and assume he's playing around, but he's so disinterested in sex. I'm no nympho, but ...

I'm 30; he's 27. You'd think he'd be at the peak of his prime, but he acts like an old man! I understand he has to wake up at 4 a.m. for work, but he can stay out until midnight with his buddies. That doesn't make sense to me! When I confront him, he says I'm "starting" with him on purpose! What could be his problem? Help me before I do something rash. — STILL HOT HE'S NOT

Dear STILL HOT HE'S NOT,

Do something rash. Give him back his ring. If you're sexually incompatible now, it's not going to get better. If you're not happy now, you'll be miserable later. Consider yourself lucky that you found out before you married him.

Mrs. Linklater jumps up, knocking over that thing you dry your underwear on. Stop the presses!! Or whatever they stop these days, now that no one reads the papers. Mrs. L is trying to get a grip. She's laughing at Cheryl's answer -- in that fake, over the top, exaggerated way you laugh when you think something is so ignorant, you can't believe anybody said it. Hardy har har har. Uh-oh, careful not to soil yourself, Mrs. L.

Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl!!! You are SOOOOOOOO old school. Whadya mean, "Do something rash. . .Give him back his ring"? What planet have you been living on? Do you really think that because this young woman claims to be some bozo's "fiance" that she is in actual possession of a ring? Mrs. Linklater is referring to the kind you put on a finger, as opposed to say, the kind you have to wash out of a bathrub.

These days the best way a guy can get some babe to live with him is to let her pretend they're engaged. Here's how the conversation goes: "I'll only live with you if we're engaged." "Yeah, okay, sure." 

She gets to play house, even have babies. He gets regular noogie and hot meals. Plus nights out with the guys. There's no ring involved. Seriously. Even rich guys don't have to fork out the bling to get thirty something females, whose eggs are closing in on their freshness date, to buy into this little arrangement. And you can rest assured that a 27-year-old mope who has to get up at 4:00 AM for work sure isn't making the kind of money that can purchase his bitch sweetums poopsie a valuable token of his love and affection.   

So, NO, Cheryl, there won't be a ring to throw at his sorry ass. Pans maybe. A Dutch oven, even better. Unfortunately, if she's still HOT for him but he's NOT for her anymore, the best these diva moments can lead to is makeup sex. Mrs. L likes to call these ONE OFFS. One time and off. He knows it'll shut her up for a few more days. Even weeks. "Maybe he still cares for me after all."  

This guy's biggest problem is that he is spoiled. She's made his life easy. If she wants to make a statement, Mrs. Linklater suggests she announce, "I'm moving out tomorrow." She may even get some break up sex before heading out the door. But she can't just move down the street, she has to move out of town. 

Amazing what a wake up call "hasta la bye bye" can be. You can thank me later. Ooops, gotta go, there's a can of tuna with Mrs. Linklater's name on it.

Ask Mrs. Linklater "CHARLTON HESTON" Edition

Mrs. Linklater makes her usual apology for taking her slow, sweet time getting back here to napalm the wing-dings who call themselves advice columnists. But lately she's been on a personal crusade to rid the world of dryer lint and she just got back from the landfill. 

Needless to say, the more things change, the more things stay the same. Usually it's the answers that drive Mrs. L to run screaming from the room. This time it was the world's stupidest QUESTION that caused Mrs. Linklater to spew milk through her nose and accidentally fart when she burped afterward. Not pretty. 

To make matters worse, Abba Dabba's reply was almost as lame as the questions. So sit back, relax, and watch Ms. Cranky Pants work her magic at no cost to you. 

DEAR ABBY: For most of my life I have parted my hair on the right. I am now being told that men should part their hair on the left. Is there are correct side for men?

HARRY W., MORRO BAY, CALIF.

DEAR HARRY: I relayed your question to my hair design consultant, Bob Cox. According to Bob, people naturally have a cowlick [or "whorl"] on one side of their scalp from which the hair growth pattern emerges. [Some people have two, although one is usually stronger than the other.] This is what determines which way the hair will naturally fall when it is parted. 

Bob went on to relate the story of a client who had recently been referred to him. The gentleman had been going to his former barber for 15 years, and for 15 years his h air had never been easy to manage. Over the last couple of years, the problem had become so bad that his wife had to help him part his hair in the morning. 

Bob took one look and realized the former barber had been parting the man's hair on the wrong side, which had been causing it to stick up.  The problem was resolved with one appointment. 

Abby

Mrs. Linklater pulls the lever on her polyester plaid LA Z BOY and launches herself into the upright and locked position.  That's so she can take a deep breath of air before she shouts:

You've got to be sheeting me!!!

Someone has actually asked an advice maven what side of his hair he should part it on? What's next? Which finger should he use to find boogers? Which hand should hold the tissue that wipes his butt? Which armpit should he check for B.O.?

No doubt, in an attempt to prevent lawsuits, Abby can't just ignore Harry, who was dumb enough to sign his name and the town where he lives. She calls in a hair design consultant named Bob. Bob, in case you were wondering, is not a person who styles hair for a living. That would be a hair stylist. Bob is the person who stands behind the hair stylists and advises them where to put a part. Imagine, a person who gets to spend his entire professional career giving advice about which side of your head is the best side for splitting hairs. 

Excuse me, is the Apocalypse here or is this just a rehearsal?

Whatever happened to parting your hair on the left if you're lefthanded? And parting your hair on the right if you're righthanded? Or, if you've got a cowlick, you can just comb your hair straight back and it will make its own part for you.

Sheesh, next time could you people wait until Mrs. Linklater is done napping before you insist on annoying her with this stuff

Ask Mrs. Linklater "YOU'RE GROUNDED" Edition

Refreshed and relaxed after her recent stint in lockdown, the cloying and annoying beyotch makes one of her rare and scary public appearances. Wait, here she comes now. . .

Mrs. Linklater gets off the sofa to microwave a slice of last night's pizza and spill YooHoo on Dear Abby's column. This one in today's Chicago Tribune is a beaut:

Dear Abby: I am a 14-year-old girl. I have this boyfriend I have been dating for a month. His name is "Travis," and he is 15 -- almost 16. Travis has had other girlfriends before me, but he said that nothing happened between them. He calls me about four times a week, and I talk to him at school daily. He keeps giving me the impression that he wants to move our relationship further.

When I told one of Travis' closest friends, I was informed that he had said that to the last three girls he had. So now I suspect that he has had sexual relationships with all of them. I would do anything for Travis, and he would do the same for me. But I am not sure I want to have sex with him -- at least not yet.

My sister, "Tess," who is dating one of my friends, told me to just go along with it. But I don't know if I would be doing the right thing. I want Travis to be happy, but I don't want to get hurt in the process. Please help.

-- Lost and Confused in Lake Charles

Dear Lost And Confused: Travis may be the nicest boy in the world, but look at the last three girls he "had." He's not with any of them, is he? That means your boyfriend has a short attention span, and more than a girlfriend, he wants a challenge.

Please do not listen to your sister's advice and "go along with it" to make him "happy." There are three sad girls standing in the background who tried to make him happy. I predict that trio will soon become a Greek chorus, and you do not want to be part of that crowd. Strictly limit your "alone time" with him.

Dear Lost and Confused:

Mrs. Linklater hates to say this, but the Ab-meister has a point -- "Please do not listen to your sister's advice." No shit. Your sister Tess sounds like she's just three condoms short of a gang bang. By the way, do you girls have PARENTS? You know, the people who give you direction and warn you about the lies lies and more lies that teen aged boys and the men they become will fabricate to get you to make them feel "happy." Or should I say, make "Mr. Happy" feel happy?

Mrs. Linklater predicts that Travis picked your sorry ass out of the lineup because nobody's home after school. An empty house is as good as the back seat of a 1967 Buick Riviera parked in the woods. While we're at it, if Travis the wonder boy ever looks at you with his baby blues and actually has the balls to say that those other girls meant nothing to him, listen carefully -- because he's saying you mean nothing to him either. Now go to your room, you're grounded for life.

Note to ABBY -- "Greek chorus"? Oblique references to 2000 year old plays is just confusing to hormone poisoned teenagers.

Ask Mrs. Linklater "TACKY TACKY TACKY" Edition

Mrs. Linklater hasn't ridiculed any advice ladies over here at her warm and cozy second home on Blogspot since September or so. Is she sick? Dead? Out of town? No, I'm still here.

So, in an attempt to shake her out of her doldrums, a concerned relative sent this Dear Abby advice travesty to Mrs. L., hoping to get her back into the fray. Or at least the mud wrestling.

As usual she graciously lets her readers digest this abomination for themselves before the outspoken Mrs. Linklater gets to take a crack at Flabby Abby herself. Feel free to leave your own opinions regarding Abby's shocking suggestion for retaliation.

September 13, 2006

Dear Abby: There's a man in our community I'll call "Uncle Harry." Uncle Harry is in his mid-70s and considers himself one of the finest Christians in the area. Many of us, however, know this to be an exaggeration.

The main problem with Uncle Harry is his insistence on hugging almost all the women he comes in contact with. These "hugs" are not chaste, loose hugs about the shoulders. Uncle Harry insists on bear hugs, where he puts both arms around the woman and presses her breasts against his chest. Occasionally, his hands will also drift to the area of the buttocks.

Several women have complained, and family members have cautioned Uncle Harry about his behavior. He will stop temporarily, and then start up again in a few days. He has convinced himself that all these women want to hug him, but I have seen the expressions on the faces of some of his hug victims, and most are not at all happy. The women are hesitant to complain because Uncle Harry's wife IS one of the finest Christians in the area.

What can be done about Uncle Harry? I see him as a sexual predator, but he insists his hugs are just an example of his fine Christian fellowship. — No Hugs, Please, in Alabama

Dear No Hugs, Please: Because the complaints have been ignored, a dose of aversion therapy might dampen the ardor of lecherous Uncle Harry. I recommend that the ladies who are offended by his behavior form a "united front." By this I mean, agree to put thumb tacks in your brassieres (facing outward, of course) when you know you'll be seeing him. I predict that if you do, he will hug you less enthusiastically from then on.

[REDNESS caused by Mrs. L's blood pressure rising]

Seriously, any woman who objects to Uncle Harry's "hugs" needs to open her mouth and tell him so in no uncertain terms. Enough is enough.

Mrs. Linklater locks and loads her cannon:

Dear Abby, titular tacks? Oh, you were just kidding? Tsk tsk, Ab, you shouldn't make jokes about that kind of retaliation, because there are women out there who will take your suggestion and try it at home.

By the way, tacks aren't nearly as effective as nine inch nails.

Abby says to "tell him. . .in no uncertain terms."

Tell him what, Abby? "No, thanks, I don't want a hug"? Harry's the kind of guy who'll just grab your ass anyway. Clearly he's not responding to the subtle hints of pure disgust and utter revulsion these women are sending out.

Mrs. Linklater doesn't usually advocate physical violence, but some guys need more encouragement than others.

Her personal choice for keeping away men who think they have an inalienable right to hug you, is one she recommends only if you have the courage to raise your voice. But be careful, since "GET THE F**K AWAY FROM ME!!" can empty a stadium if not modulated properly.

On the other hand, if your voice lacks volume, you can whisper into his ear, "TOUCH ME AND YOU DIE!"

Hallelujah! Mrs. Linklater positively rejoices when she can help rid the world of one more sexual predator in clergyman clothes.