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.