Dear Cthulhu,

I’m a ninety-four-year old man who’s been adrift since I lost my wife of sixty-five years. “Trudy” didn’t die. She has Alzheimer’s and while we were at the mall I lost her. The police have been looking for her for two weeks. I have an etiquette question. How long does she have to be missing before I can start dating again? There’s a 76 year old across the hall at my retirement community who’s a real hottie and seems interested.

I figure three weeks tops. What do you think?

-Geezer With A Cane He’s Ready To Use

Dear Geezer,

As humans are unable to go without food for three weeks, I would surmise she will have passed by that time which would release you from your marital vows. Cthulhu would recommend putting up flyers with her picture, maybe offer a reward for the last week so you can be sure she will not show up and ruin your new romance, especially if you had your rendezvous in your apartment and she walked in.

Dear Cthulhu,

I am one of the beautiful people. Men want me and women want to be me. Beauty is a burden that I have to bear, but fortunately it’s not that hard. People have always given me stuff and done things for me just because of my looks. It was years before I realized some women actually have to pay for their own drinks in bars. Women are nice to me because they want to be seen with me, especially the less beautiful ones because sometimes a cute guy will pay for their drinks too and sometimes they can pick up my cast off guys.

All I have to do is bat my eyelashes at a guy to get him to pick up and drop off my laundry, and usually even pay for it. It’s a great system except for that one time my silk teddy came back with man goop all over it, but the guy bought me a 54″ flat screen TV to apologize, so it worked out okay.

In short, it’s my right by beauty to get whatever I want and I like it that way. My problem is with my new job. I graduated college without doing much work other than making sure I had only male or lesbian professors. I sat in the front row in sexy, tastefully revealing outfits, making sure to smile and lean forward every time a professor looked at me. I was rewarded with good grades. True, I could have got a 4.0 if I put out, but I’m no slut. Most of them weren’t even worthy to talk to me, let alone touch me. I can’t be held responsible if they took my actions and flirting as some sort of insinuation that I might give them a tumble. I mean, all they’d have to do is look at me and then at themselves in a mirror. No one dates that far down. It’s hardly my fault Dr. Smith left his wife and six kids for me. He claims he asked me if we could be together if he ditched them, but I don’t remember saying yes. True, when people beneath me talk to me and I can’t blow them off because I need something from them, I tend to zone out and just nod a lot and smile. I guess I should have been suspicious when he hugged me and planted a wet one my lips. Not to mention that he rented me an apartment, in which I might add, he thought he was going to live with me after he left his cow of a wife. I told him to get lost and even called the cops, but the apartment was in his name so they said he could stay. I changed the locks when he was out at class and told him to get lost. They evicted me a few weeks later. Turns out the louse only paid the first months rent.

After graduation, I got hired by this company. I’m not really sure what they do or what my job there is, but they offered me forty grand a year. Chump change I know, but I figured it would build character until I hook some billionaire. By the end of the first week, I had my co-workers fighting for the privilege of doing my work. And by fighting, I mean bare-knuckled boxing in the boiler room. So basically I come in, sit at my desk, shop on the internet and text my friends all day. It’s my kind of position.

That is until my department got a new supervisor. I wasn’t worried when I heard his name was Bobby. I figured I’d have him talking me out to lunch by his second day, even if he wasn’t straight. Even gay men want to hang out with me because they want to be me. For the first time ever I was actually wrong.

I knew something was up as soon as I saw “Bobby”. It didn’t take me long to figure out they only hired him because of some stupid quota. I don’t mean he was short or Canadian or something icky like that. It was worse. Bobby was blind. He couldn’t see how beautiful I am so he actually expected me to do my own work and when I didn’t, he wrote me up. I hadn’t finished my probation period, so the company extended it. I hadn’t improved by my next review so he told me if I didn’t shape up in two weeks, I’d be fired. I said fine, the company could just pay me unemployment. Bobby just laughed. Turns out I hadn’t worked there long enough to qualify. So I got a lawyer who told me my employment was at will or something and I told him I hadn’t even met this Will guy, but if he had his number, I was sure I could change his mind. He explained my employer could fire me if they wanted, especially since they were documenting my deficiencies, so I didn’t have a case. Worse, he didn’t tell me until after I slept with him. Twice. I know I said I wasn’t a slut, but I’m not a prude either. This was a partner at one of the biggest law firms in town. The unspoken suggestion that he might get to sleep with me wasn’t enough to bend him to my will. I had to put out and dress up like a rodeo clown. It was either that or fork over a five thousand dollar retainer. Do you know how many designer outfits that is? Four and a pair of shoes. I wasn’t going to let my wardrobe suffer because of Bobby’s issues, so I did what I had to do.

I thought about quitting over the principle of it. I could always go back to modeling, but that involved real work, sometimes ten-hour days posing and doing what the photographer tells you, mostly standing or staying still. Besides I tried it for two whole weeks and I didn’t get one magazine cover, just page 17 in some swimwear catalog, so I quit.

I figured I needed to get rid of Bobby. I offered the winner of the bare-knuckled boxing tournament a chance to take Bobby out of the picture for me, but it turns out he fell in love with some skank and wasn’t interested. He also mentioned something about killing being morally wrong or something. I can quite remember because I had tuned him out after he said no.

I decided to take matters into my own hands and I pushed Bobby down some stairs. He always worked late. I never did, mainly because they wouldn’t pay me for it, but it wasn’t hard to hang around. As soon as the clock strikes five, the office clears out faster than a frat party that ran out of beer. I waited quietly at my desk until Bobby walked by a staircase and I pushed him down. I figured I’d get away with it because we were alone and since he was blind, he couldn’t identify me.

Well, apparently the fall didn’t kill him. Worse, it seems Bobby has a good sniffer because he was able to identify my perfume. I argued that anyone could be wearing the same perfume, but forgot I had bragged how this chemist I flirted with in college custom made it for me. Turns out he got a job for a perfume company and his stuff sells for a couple hundred an ounce, but he makes this scent only for me. Unfortunately, I may have mentioned that as well.

The police started questioning me and didn’t seem to care about how pretty I was. Apparently both the lobby and the outside of the building I work in have video surveillance and they found footage of me leaving about the time Bobby fell down the stairs. They arrested me and my lawyer won’t represent me unless I can come up with the cash since apparently his firm frowns on him sleeping with murder suspects.

Worse, they caught me at the airport and revoked my bail, so I’m stuck in jail. I can’t afford a decent attorney so I’m stuck with a public defender. He’s useless, spending all his time staring at me and trying to look down my blouse.

Isn’t there some sort of legal defense fund for beautiful people or some sort of amendment in the Declaration of Independence or the Bible to get me out of this? I seem to remember something about all men having the right to be free, so that should doubly apply to a beautiful woman. I’m also worried because I heard that justice is blind so she may feel sorry for Bobby and not give me the get out of jail free card that I’m entitled to. Can you help me and make these people see that what they are doing is wrong? I’ve enclosed an 8″ x 10″ glossy of myself, suitable for framing, to help motivate your assistance.

-Beautiful and Entitled In Encino

Dear Entitled,

Very rarely does Cthulhu get a letter from someone that is more narcissistic than Cthulhu himself, but it does happen. Congratulations on that distinction. As for your problem, first Cthulhu must once again state that humans killing, or trying to kill, other humans is wrong. That task is reserved for Cthulhu alone. Amazingly, it does truly sound like you have managed to get through your existence using nothing more than an accident of birth, probably much like how you came to be in the first place.

Even murderous psychopaths learn that there are consequences for their actions and work to avoid them. Somehow you came to believe you were allowed to act without repercussions based solely on your personal aesthetics. After viewing your photo, I must confess that this alleged attraction escapes me, but most female humans look alike as far as I am concerned. Your physical dimensions are pleasing and enough for a one night stand, however that is not enough for me to interfere in these matters. That would require a large amount of cash or an actual relationship with Cthulhu. I do not think we would be compatible. A female must care more about Cthulhu than she does herself as well as enjoy long walks on the beach, love kittens (as an appetizer, not the main course), and be extremely fond of tentacles.

Although Cthulhu is not a lawyer, I recommend trying for a plea bargain. Maybe you will get lucky and the DA will be hard up and go along with what you have to offer. I sense your testifying would alienate the jury and have them not only convict you for trying to kill a blind man but also recommending the maximum sentence to the judge.

I would suggest getting your manipulation skills on females fine-tuned. Perchance you will be able to flirt your way into get free cigs at the prison commissary, but Cthulhu suspects it will take more than batting your eyelashes. Perhaps find the biggest, toughest woman and attach yourself to her. If media is to be believed, this woman is usually named Bertha and will be going out of her way to meet you regardless. Also, take up a trade because by the time you are paroled, your looks will probably not get you a glass of water on the outside.

Have A Dark Day.

Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at DearCthulhu@dearcthulhu.com. All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns.

Dear Cthulhu a work of fiction and satire and is © and ^TM Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved.  Any one foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.